The Hunger(13)

Help me, Lydia. He turned back to his campsite, to the fire leaching smoke. Help me see the monsters this time.





CHAPTER FIVE




Fort Laramie, Indian Territory


My dear Margie,

At last, we have reached Fort Laramie, deep in the Indian Territory. After living out of my saddlebags for six weeks, I was more excited than I thought possible, both because of the promise of a shave and hot bath in an honest-to-goodness tub and because of the possibility that there might be a letter from you waiting for me.

You may be gratified to learn that I spent the entire first week after leaving Independence wondering if I’d just made the biggest mistake of my life. After waiting forty-two years to marry, how could I willingly ride away from the woman with whom I’d decided to spend the rest of my life? Once the shock had worn off, however, I made it a point to get acquainted with a party that joined the wagon train outside Independence. The newcomers, about six families in all, several of them quite well off (to judge by their wagonloads of furniture, servants, and even rumors of fortunes in silver and gold coin) came from Springfield, Illinois. We were also joined by a handful of single men looking to make their fortune in the West.

The most prominent member of the party is, undoubtedly, George Donner. He heads the entire Donner clan, which is composed of not only his family but also that of his younger brother Jacob. They appear to be simple men but they must be shrewder than they look, for people say they had owned a considerable amount of property in Illinois. The elder Donner is fond of quoting from the Bible but routinely mixes up the passages. I question whether he’s wise enough to lead, but then again, he is roundly trusted by all, precisely because he knows how to offend none. The most notable thing about him, besides his size (portly), is his wife, Tamsen. Most of the men in the party have fallen in love with her; nonetheless, I have observed in her a certain hardness that edges close to cruelty. I have seen her make servants cry, and act coldly to children other than her own. She shuns women who are not as pretty as she, and has a reputation for dabbling in witchcraft—likely a rumor born of the other women’s jealousy.

Then we have James Reed, the owner of a large furniture business in Springfield. Physically, he is the opposite of George Donner: shorter and slight with a narrow, drawn face. He frequently worries at his hands with his handkerchief, which cannot help but make me think of Lady Macbeth (Out, out, damned spot). But, disagreeable and argumentative as he can be, he seems a model citizen, as he himself never misses the opportunity to point out. He is married to an older woman, a widow with a number of children by her late husband. Those from Springfield say that the marriage was the salvation of Margaret Reed, who is thin and sickly and honestly could be taken for Reed’s mother. The Reed party resembles nothing so much as a traveling circus, with their three large wagons loaded up with fancy furniture (his company’s handiwork, one imagines) and all manner of creature comforts. There are servants, including a young woman to do the cooking and wash, and even ponies for the children.

I’ve saved my favorite new acquaintance from the Springfield contingent for last. Charles Stanton, a bachelor traveling alone in his own Conestoga wagon, is unlike most all the other single men in the party—either hired hands or near-penniless drifters—and I think for this reason we quickly became friends. We were both raised by ministers (though unlike my county preacher father, his grandfather is a prominent Anglican minister, so famous that even I’ve heard of him) and bear similar scars to prove it. I was flattered when he told me that he’d read the articles I wrote for the Washington Globe on that revivalist fraud Uriah Putney.

For a quiet man he has lived a life of extreme color: He was born in Massachusetts and apprenticed to a lawyer in Virginia before running off to fight under General Sam Houston in the battle of San Jacinto. Seeing that he fought in the war for Texas independence even though he has no ties to that territory, he might be either a romantic or idealist. From what I saw of him, I’d say he’s a little of both—which means he’s doomed to an unhappy life, I’m afraid. He has hinted at some terrible event that drove him from Massachusetts but refuses to speak of it. He isn’t sure what he would do once he reaches California, another sign of the restless spirit that keeps him on the move.

A strange mix of souls and, despite the sometimes politicking and intrigues, I will be reluctant to leave them all when I separate from the wagon train tomorrow morning. I decided to commit to that scheme I wrote to you about, joining a small party of men without families on mule and horseback to make better time. I could not convince Stanton to leave with me and I suspect it’s because he feels he can be helpful to the larger party, which can be fractious. I am in some ways relieved—at least they’ll have one sensible man in the group—and in other ways anxious to leave the group before they have successfully decided on a leader.

Fort Laramie is an honest-to-goodness frontier fort, just as the newspapers describe them. You get the sense of being at the very edge of civilization, that beyond the fort’s adobe walls is a land nearly untouched by the white man, where nature reigns. I’ve been told that this year alone, several thousand wagons rolled through this checkpoint, and by all estimates that number will soar next year, barring war with Mexico or hostilities with the Indians. The fort shows all the signs of prosperity: In addition to the small garrison stationed here, there is a good-sized trading post, blacksmith’s shop, livery stable, and a bakery. There are several two-story houses inside the adobe walls, presumably for the fort’s owners, families, and staff.