It has been six months since I wrote in this, my dear little diary. And as there are few blank pages left, I fear my entries will be even sparser in future.
As to what has happened since I last wrote, I will endeavor to fill the gap with words.
It took us several weeks to reach the white man’s settlement called Fort Nez Percés. It is operated by the famous Hudson’s Bay Company, and is a bustling center for fur trade here in Oregon Territory, along the Columbia River.
On our arrival, I recall whispering, “So this is the land of milk and honey so many people yearn to see.” I find my taste for milk and honey has soured.
I waved to the Indians as they left later the same day we arrived. At the last moment, Kind Eyes turned and nodded once, smiling with his eyes as he had before. It was enough. I will never forget him.
Shortly after my arrival I was taken in by a widow with three children. Mrs. Albemarle is a forthright woman who proposed an agreement with me. Once I regained good health she wished to hire me to assist in educating her offspring and keeping them out of mischief (largely the latter, I soon found). In exchange I would receive room and board. I agreed and it has been an amicable arrangement. The children are a challenge and remind me of Thomas. Needless to say I am busy.
I am told the Indians who found me are of the Salish tribe, though I do not know if my spelling is correct. I also learned they found me at the end of the month of April. That made seven months I was alone. I find it curious that I prefer to keep company with my own thoughts these days, though I have had no urge to write in a diary. I also have not gained much in the way of weight. I eat enough to function, and leave the table thinking I could do with more. I do not care to dwell on the reason behind it.
All in all, I am as I once was, though I do walk with a limp, much as I try otherwise. It seems frost damaged two toes on my right foot such that I cannot feel them. It is the same with my dead finger. I massage it and no matter my efforts, it will not revive.
A doctor who passed through on a wagon train in June examined my hand, my leg, and my feet and told me I should count myself lucky, for any worse and the finger and those toes would have required amputation. I cannot abide that thought. I did lose part of my left ear to the cold, though as I can still hear out of it, it is of little consequence.
I will turn sixteen years of age in ten days. I do not know how I feel about that. I should consider it a boon, given that I never imagined surviving to see another birthday.
The summer and autumn have been busy here at the fort, with increasing numbers of travelers passing through, their countenances weary but relieved to have come this far. I cannot help but regard each person’s face, listen in on every bit of conversation I am able, knowing it is a fool’s errand. My family is gone and will not come back to me.
These fresh faces have largely blurred together in my mind. They roll in, resupply to suit their needs, then venture onward once more to lives of promise and hope in the land they longed to see, the unseen place of their heart’s desire.
Not but a month ago, in early October, two ragged, late-season wagons arrived, all the way from Ohio. Among the company was a young man named Johan Sorenson. He was taken in as an orphan and raised as a farmhand. As soon as he was of age, he bid goodbye to all he knew and joined a wagon train bound for the west.
He is tall and strong, with messy hair the color of sun on ripe wheat in a field. His blue eyes spark and dance when he speaks of his future.
We have talked and walked for weeks now. In truth, Johan does most of the talking. In spring, he will settle a claim for 160 acres of good land. His conviction is hypnotizing and I find myself nodding and nearly smiling, so excited does he become about his plans.
Then he will stop so suddenly I have to look at him to make sure he has not bitten off his tongue. He reddens, and asks me some polite question about myself. I wish he would not.
I find it difficult to go on at length about much of anything. But I have begun to talk, to tell him of Mama, Papa, William, and Thomas. Yesterday I told him I lost them on our trip out here. Johan did not seem surprised. I suspect some chatty soul at the fort told him my story, what little they know of it, anyway.
I chanced a look at him, and he at me. Then he gripped my hand in his, gave it a squeeze, and did not let go.