June 24
Today ended up being a small and unexpected gift. Afternoon tea started out very predictably, but pleasantly enough. I brought Charlotte’s lemon meringues, which everyone enjoyed. Mrs Bailey told us all about the elegant dinner a la Russe she attended in Portland last week, and I asked after Sarah Whithers’ attempt to learn the flute. (She said she enjoys it very much, has learned to play “Greensleeves,” but that her husband finds it vulgar and wishes she would study piano instead. I was sorry Evelyn was not in attendance, for I am sure she would have had something amusing to contribute on the matter.)
Mrs Connor was true to form. She inquired about Charlotte’s work at my house, wondering that the girl has enough to occupy her time since I have no family to tend. I replied that Charlotte is of great assistance to me in my photography, that I have come to think of her more as an assistant than a housemaid.
“Perhaps if the girl isn’t needed for common household chores, she might return to my house. I find I am short staffed.”
I was politely but firmly insisting that the girl remain with me, when I realized a separate conversation was occurring around us.
“We are all interested to know if you have any pictures yet?” Sarah Whithers asked over the din.
“Yes, but they aren’t exactly . . .”
“Oh how we would love see them! Wouldn’t we?”
“Well maybe some time . . .”
The women, however, were already on their feet.
Do you know where I’ve placed my cane? I wish I had more suitable shoes — it’s a bit of a stroll down to her house. Will you hand me my coat, Mrs Connor? Should we send for a carriage? No, no you’re right. It would take much longer to wait. Oh this is all rather exciting, like a church outing!
On the walk to our house, I tried to remember if I had put away the ironing, and if there were very many dirty dishes in the kitchen. As we approached the yard, I saw Charlotte peer out a window and then dart away. Please let her be straightening the mess, I thought. I tried to detain the women for a moment by the honeysuckle, to ask them about what other flowering shrubs thrive here, but they were impatient to get indoors.
I was much relieved to see the house was not in too appalling a state, and then Charlotte whispered to me, “I saw you all coming down the lane. Did my best to tidy.” “Bless you,” I whispered in return.
It was overwhelming, having so many eyes suddenly upon my photographs, yet I must say the women were kind and enthusiastic. The picture of the apple tree in bloom, with the parade ground in the distance, was a favorite. They also liked the one of Charlotte on our front porch, and Mrs Bailey asked if I might take such a photograph of herself and her family. I answered that portraiture was not my particular interest, but maybe later in the fall when I will not be so occupied with seasonal birds.
It surprised me that Sarah Whithers should be so smitten with the blurred photograph of the pine siskins in flight. “What is it?” she asked in wonder, and when I explained, she said that it was a most beautiful picture. I told her to take the print as a gift, if she truly enjoyed it. “Are you sure? It is much too precious!” but I could tell she was pleased and so I insisted. She studied it for a time, and then looked up from the photograph, as if taking in the house and myself for the first time. “But what of your husband? What on earth will he think of all of this?”
It seemed to me a very intimate question, but for once, I knew exactly what to say: “I think he will like it very much.”
The talk in the room quieted, and the women eyed each other as if unconvinced, but as I think back on my declaration, I am all the more confident. I cannot predict all of Allen’s sentiments, yet I am certain of this: he would be pleased to know of my photography, he would say he never doubted me, and he would disdain the notion that my time would have been better spent keeping the house neat in his absence.
June 25
I cannot take it as a good sign. Quite early this morning, a servant from the Haywood house came to our door, asking if Miss Evelyn was in our company. I replied that we had not seen her yet today.
“Or last night?” the woman asked, to which I said no. The line of inquiry concerned me, and I asked if Miss Evelyn was well. The servant only said that we should send word directly to Mrs Haywood if we hear anything of her whereabouts.
I did not encourage it, but neither did I dissuade her when Charlotte suggested she should seek out her mother, who does the laundry for the General and his wife, to find out any more information.
By this afternoon, we learned that Evelyn had in fact been missing since yesterday morning and was discovered to have spent the night at the Quimby House in Portland. She reportedly pleads all innocence and says that she decided to go shopping with a friend in the city and was too tired to return the same day, yet I cannot help but have my suspicions that Lieutenant Harvey is in part to blame. They are too much alike, pursuing happiness in dangerous quarters.
And now I wish I had written none of this. Even within one’s own diary, there is thin difference between expressing genuine concern and gossiping, and I do not wish to fall off into that more mean temptation. It is only that Evelyn is the most difficult of any friend I have ever had, for she has so much potential for good and intelligence, yet so infrequently chooses such paths.
June 26
This morning a large raven landed near the privy while I was throwing out some dirty water, and with its appearance, all my will toward composure and rationality dissipated. I must have seemed a lunatic when I ran toward it and cried for it to go away and leave me alone. It shook its wings, and I thought then of Allen in the Alaska wilderness, and how a bird might fly and carry its curses with it. I threw my empty pail with hopes of striking it. The pail rolled harmlessly across the yard, the bird hopped back several feet, and I saw then that it was just a common raven, with no crippled leg or distorted eyes.
It has occurred to me more than once that I might seek out the raven in order to photograph it. What would I find if I peered into those eyes a second time?
I have not seen that particular bird again since I lost the baby, yet even if it were to return, I do not think I would attempt to focus my lens upon it.
Father always said an artist must be at least half in love with his subject. I do not doubt a beauty of some sort can be found in the capriciousness and hunger of a wild scavenger, but it does not hold my desire. I am in love with the promise of something else.
The Undiscovered Country
— Edmund Stedman, 1878
COULD we but know
The land that ends our dark, uncertain travel,
Where lie those happier hills and meadows low, —
Ah, if beyond the spirit’s inmost cavil,
Aught of that country could we surely know,5
Who would not go?
Might we but hear
The hovering angels’ high imagined chorus,
Or catch, betimes, with wakeful eyes and clear,
One radiant vista of the realm before us, —10
With one rapt moment given to see and hear,
Ah, who would fear?
Were we quite sure
To find the peerless friend who left us lonely,
Or there, by some celestial stream as pure,15
To gaze in eyes that here were lovelit only, —
This weary mortal coil, were we quite sure,
Who would endure?
(Typewritten paper, folded, & inserted into Lieut. Col. Allen Forrester’s diary of 1885. With handwritten note along bottom: Dear Walt — save this one for me. It made me think of the Colonel’s trip into the mountains. I’m planning a May visit. With love from your sister, Ruth )
Lieut. Col. Allen Forrester
June 25, 1885
We have stopped to rest from the afternoon sun. If we set out again once evening comes, we will make it through the pass by morning.
Tillman protested the plan. I pointed ou
t that it will be cooler come evening, but with the clear skies, it will remain light enough to see. This artic sun skirts below the northern horizon for only a few hours each night, so a kind of twilight remains even after sunset.
Tillman was unconvinced.
— Don’t you understand, Colonel? Those wolverines, they live off the flesh of the dead. We’re getting close to that other world the Indians talk about. We shouldn’t be wandering up there at night. If there are ghosts nearby, they’ll be haunting the hills.
I have no use for the occult. I said as much. To which Tillman said that while I might not have much use for spirits, they might have some unpleasant use for me.
This caused an unexpected chuckle from Pruitt. Soon he & I were both laughing outright. Nat’aaggi was perplexed at our humor.
Tillman said with some indignation that it was nothing to joke about, that the only way we’d be safe is if we could throw salt over our shoulders to chase off the spirits.
— Not that I’m a superstitious fellow, Tillman gravely added.
This only provoked a new round of laughter from us.
Pruitt said that if anyone had salt to throw over a shoulder, he would follow along on hands & knees to lick up every grain.
— Yeah, boy, Tillman agreed. — What I wouldn’t do for a lick of salt & a splash of whiskey to wash it down.
Just as the Indians warned, we find no firewood, no food or shelter. Only sleet & a beating wind. We hoped to outrun the storm before setting camp. None of us want to remain here, yet we have no choice. We hunker down with sleeping bags pulled up over our heads. Nat’aaggi wraps herself in a skin tunic. Tillman offered his coat, which she refused. We are wedged best we can against the rocks. Hard to see to write in this sleeping bag. There is nothing else to do. We wait.
Pruitt keeps shouting above the storm — Do you feel that? Can’t you feel that?
What he says makes no sense. He says there are hands on him. Something pulls at him. He says he has to run. I have warned him to stay put.
(undated entry)
My dearest Sophie. I pray you will read this. You are first & last to me.
I do not know if we will survive this night. They are all around us. They scream & cry so that it is hard to think to put these words on the page.
You must know that I love you.
I am not afraid of death but instead of the passage from here to oblivion, of being aware of its coming. I would rather have been run through with a spear than to face this long dread.
373. After retreat (or the hour appointed by the commanding officer), until broad daylight, a sentinel challenges every person who approaches him, taking, at the same time, the position of charge bayonet. He will suffer no person to come nearer than within reach of his bayonet, until the person has given the countersign, or is passed by an officer or non-commissioned officer of the guard.
— From The Soldier’s Hand-Book, for the Use of the
Enlisted Men of the Army, 1881
Lieut. Col. Allen Forrester
June 26
We have woken on a floating mountain. Overhead is sunlit blue sky. The storm that surrounded us last night has settled as white clouds below us in the Wolverine Valley. We see nothing of river or forest below. The view is groundless, only vapor & rock & sky. The mountains on either side are white with new snow. The sun brightly glints off rocks & heather leaves still wet from the melted snow.
Nat’aaggi found a clump of small bushes with twigs to start a fire. It’s just enough to give us small warmth until the sun heats up the land.
— I’m aching like we spent the night three sheets to the wind, Tillman said.
All of us are the same. We blink against the brightness of the day, our heads & muscles beaten. I attribute our symptoms to the long, sleepless night & near hypothermia.
As we sit beside the fire, which produces more smoke than heat, we have tried to set straight our recollections of last night’s occurrences.
So much is unexplained. What is it that we witnessed? The terror, absurd as it seems, has not entirely left us.
The storm came upon us swiftly. The dark clouds streamed across the mountaintop & moved amongst us, the air turned icy & wet, so our clothes were soaked through, our faces damp. The midnight sun was blotted out.
They walked out of the fog. Yet how can I say they walked? They were only shadows in the windblown mist. Arms, hands, howling mouths. Bitter cold, their touch. Some were of human form, while others were great lumbering beasts.
Confusion swept through us. We were all out of our sleeping bags. Boyo barked madly in all directions as if birds threatened him from above. Nat’aaggi drew her bow, then knelt & wept. Tillman called for his mother. I heard Pruitt scream from far away.
I do not know how I was so fortunate as to find Pruitt without being lost myself. I stumbled through the dark & gray landscape, followed the sound of his cries. The voices moved, circled me & turned me around, until I could not recall which way I had come. I could not find Pruitt or our camp or anyone else. I thought I heard Boyo whining nearby, then came a muffled yelp, as if the dog had been kicked hard in the side.
I walked on blindly. I called for Pruitt. Without warning I was at the edge of a sheer precipice. I could see nothing beyond my feet but blackness. Far below there was the sound of water flowing over rocks.
At this moment there was a hand at the back of my neck. There was no movement or breath behind me. Only a heavy, cold weight that seemed to reach through my skin & flesh & bone, until long cold fingers tightened like a cinch around my windpipe.
What disturbs me most is my impulse. I stepped forward. Rock crumbled from beneath me, fell silently into the black. I would follow it.
Never before had I considered such an act. Yet it was a thirst; I longed for death as one might long for water. To be swallowed by dark & cold & ice & rock. I strained against it, as one pulls against heavy sleep. I reached for my holster.
I was rescued by a sound. It was not Pruitt’s voice, that much I am certain. Nor was it the shriek of those banshees.
It was the cry of an infant. It came out of the fog: the bleating, pleading, cadenced wail of a newborn. Conjured by my own brain, I was sure, to remind me of Sophie & our child & all that draws me home.
The cold fingers at my throat withdrew. I turned to face my enemy, but there were only clouds coursing by.
It was if I had nearly drowned in icy water, my body ached so, my head numb. I walked as if half-dead back towards camp. Not far from the gorge, I came to Pruitt where he scrambled up the rocks. I shouted to him, but he did not see or hear me.
It was a terrifying & sorrowful madness that clutched him. At the highest point that he could reach upon the rocks, he stood with his arms outspread, his face turned up to the dark sky.
— Take me now! You coward. What is this? My God the Father will not have me, you who have made me all that I am.
He clapped his palms hard against the sides of his head, against his chest. — Here & here & here, he shouted — You have made this! You are the devil, if you would make such a man as this.
He folded to the ground like a man who has taken ill. When at last I made my way across the rocks to where he huddled & moaned, I touched his shoulder. He faced me, then, with such wildness in his eyes.
— Did you hear it? he asked. — The baby crying in the fog? It’s my doing. A suffering ghost.
He reached for my pistol, but I overpowered him.
— Shoot me. I am begging you, Colonel. He has forsaken me. You must do it for me.
It took all my might to subdue him & bring him back to the others. All the way, his speech was muddled & incoherent.
Upon our return, Tillman shouted for us to identify ourselves or he would shoot. He could see our faces, hear our voices, yet I was hard pressed to convince him. At long last, he pointed his rifle away from us, began firing in all directions. The end of his barrel flared brightly in the dark f
og, the shots echoed along the rock faces. I ordered for him to stop.
— You’re right, you’re right, he said. — No bullet is going to stop what’s out there.
We spent the rest of the storm huddled together, our backs to the rocks. Throughout the night, the torment continued, so that we heard screams & cries & arrows flying past, all seemingly within a stone’s throw of us. More than once the ground shook beneath us as if giants thundered past. Pruitt sobbed. Nat’aaggi sat with her knees pulled up in front of her, her knife in hand. Boyo crouched in front of her, a low growl in his throat, ears twitching in all directions. I kept my rifle at the ready, though I knew it could do no good.
At some dark hour, snow began to fall.
How can I describe the eerie silence that greeted us this morning? The storm faded, the visions fled, just as daylight broke through the dissipating clouds. We stood, shook the snow from our clothing. As far as we could see in any direction, the landscape was covered in a thin layer of white. Not a single track or footprint in the snow. Not a whisper of sound. Where just moments before we could hear a riot of suffering & struggle, now there was nothing.
We gathered what we could find of our possessions, sought a more sheltered camp to rest, for we are all of us too fatigued to travel far. Not far away, we passed by the gorge where I had nearly fallen during the night. Tillman whistled in appreciation.
— Jesus, Colonel. That would have been a long tumble.
Straight down, perhaps half a mile, a small creek trickled through the jagged rocks.
June 27
The good weather holds so we continue to make our way through the mountain pass. We rested little today, only during the hottest hours of the afternoon. We are all of us anxious to be out of the mountains before another storm develops.
We did stop for a time where an engorged creek had eroded a bank of mud. Protruding from the half-frozen mud were a pair of tusks like those of an elephant, each near to three feet long & of a tawny color. While the rest of us were admiring the strange sight, Tillman cursed.