28

Swan Returns

c. 1890

 

 

Springtime on the Olympic Peninsula gusts like winter. At least once a day, the windows are shrouded from the outside by sheets of rain. When the clouds part and the sun breaks, the sudden heat pops the poppies and glazes the salmonberry. I, Millie Langlie, a housemaid, rarely had time to experience the healing, harmonizing care of the sun.

I went to church and market, through the drizzle the parted ferns, doubling in width and breadth overnight, unfurling in the morning. In Dungeness the shifting of the seasons inspired a calm feeling of pleasant anticipation. In the wilderness, the seasons blended. Here, in the city, the seasonal change, although pleasant, felt more jarring, like the curtain rising on the next act in an unknown drama; I wasn’t sure what to expect or even what to feel.

During the day Edith trained me in the household arts, and in French literature and art. At night, Chris tutored me in history, the physical sciences, and math. Of these, history interested me the most.

Like all history lessons, Christopher’s were biased. Blatantly so. As we studied the “unfolding drama of the American experiment,” Chris insisted, those who occupied the land before the explorers arrived had no alternative but to assimilate. Land-owning Natives ought to settle down and till the land. Perhaps one day they would even be granted citizenship. Those who resisted would die.

“What if—?”

“What if—nothing. History is a river to the sea.”

I asked him, “To me, it’s more like a spreading estuary. If we could open up our minds.”

“Wrong,” Christopher interrupted. “Once you have been properly schooled, you will see that I am right. Progress is progress. No one can stop it and nothing can alter it.”

Over time I learned to question Christopher’s ideas. He maintained an unshakable faith in the Trinity: money, power, and war. I argued for the capacity of everyday people, with their everyday stories, to revise our understanding of the past and remake the future. Rejecting his theories helped me to clarify my own. For this, I owe him a debt.

His math lessons, due to no fault of his, made less of an impression. One evening in spring, as I labored over a simple geometric proof, Christopher happened to remark to Edith, who was mending his stockings, “Who do you think came into Rothschild’s? Lieutenant Smyth, that ne’er-do-well. The one that nearly tossed me in a jail cell when I was just a child of seven.”

I looked up from my slate.

Edith remarked, “After so many years, I’m surprised that you recognized him, the rogue.”

“Though he’s no longer an officer, he was still wearing his uniform. I wonder, is that permitted? The dirty fellow looked as if he hadn’t washed or slept for three days. Longer than his cheap bottle will last.”

This chapter from Chris’ boyhood had more to offer me than the equal acute angles of a triangle. “You nearly went to jail? What happened?”

Seya used to say: the storyteller owns the story. Each detail in the story is like a jigsaw puzzle piece stamped out of his or her soul. I fully expected my tutor, who took his role far too seriously, would refuse to share his. To my surprise, he folded his arms, gazed at me, unfixed the phlegm in his throat, and began. I think he was even smiling a little.

Imagine: a hot day in summer. Chris, and his schoolmate, Mack, two years older, came upon a washed-up dory. The craft had seen better days. Next to it, buried in the sand, a damp, shiny sack. Inside, a small round tin. Together, they pried open the lid and found a tar-like substance. Just the right stuff for sealing up a leak in a boat.

At that moment a petty officer appeared.

Smyth, and three soldiers, had been sent out that day to put down a pack of wild dogs, a few of them diseased. While his men took on the snarling pack, Smyth wandered down the beach to investigate the truants.

When Lieutenant Smyth happened along, the two boys were busy working the goo into the gaps. He seized the tin, unfolded the blade of his pocketknife, and dipped it in. Smyth pondered, and then demanded, “Does this belong to you? If so, you had better produce a stamped receipt from the customs house, or it’s my duty to arrest you.”

The baffled boys shook their heads.

“This time, I choose to believe you. Next time, I won’t. So take heed and mend your ways.” He pocketed the tin. “You can keep the skiff.”

The officer hurried off. How could he know that the contraband he had remanded would lead to his unraveling?

Chris concluded, “I could never understand why he traded a jar of glue for a boat. It took me a whole year to figure it out.”

Opium! The local market for the Chinese import was too lucrative for the drug to be outlawed; instead, it was heavily taxed. Those who failed to pay the bill of lading could end up in jail. If they were lucky, corrupt officials would seize their precious cargo. That afternoon, as Christopher relived an adventure of his boyhood, I began to feel a very real affection.

I had now served the Mathieson family for nearly six months. On that first day I accepted Edith as my sister; I believe she felt the same toward me. The Reverend, though not always sensitive to the demands of our daily existence, was nevertheless a genial gentleman, and likeable. His son Christopher, less so.

It’s true, he fretted over Edith and the household finances. He dedicated generous amounts of time to my education. Yet, his arrogant manner, combined with his relentless anxiety and lack of humor, put me off. Besides, though his manner was always correct, he seemed to derive a certain satisfaction from needling me. Edith nurtured the hope that one day I might learn to love him. For now, I aimed to feel something more positive than an active dislike.

Shortly after, Chris noticed me by the fireside, sketching a plan for a proper English garden, like those I was studying with Edith. It was just an idea; our yard was small and we didn’t have the means. He stole up behind me. Teasingly, he snatched the pencil right out of my hand. When I reached for it, his fist disappeared behind his waistcoat. Though I was a bit miffed, I tried not to show it. An overreaction would have pleased him.

A few minutes later, bored with his jest, he gave me back my pencil.

His tone turned serious. He took a long look at the overworked page of my notebook. On it, out of my imagination, a drawing of a fountain with a female nude entwined in a flowing veil that covered her exactly where it should, two cupids at her feet blowing on shells, to the entertainment of two gold carp frolicking in the suds. Frivolity. (Little did either of us know this idle sketch was a future premonition of the Haller Fountain, a Port Townsend landmark.) Blushing, Chris reminded me that the hour had arrived for me to prepare our evening meal. No doubt, I had sufficient chores to fill up the time to overflowing. Chris, recalling this fact, admonished, “Too much studying can be unhealthy for a girl.”

After six months in Port Townsend, Christopher had no reason to fear I’d destroy myself with too much education. In the well-ordered house of the Reverend, I was perpetually exhausted. Each night I went to bed with Edith but awakened hours before her to light the stove, empty the chamber pots, and prepare porridge from the cast iron kettle for the two men before they set off. The rest of my day, until nighttime, I labored.

My goal was to spare Edith so that she might recover her health. Though she improved, her progress came in fits and starts. Even when her blue eyes brightened, and her lips and cheeks blushed pink, the shattering cough never quite left her.

The following autumn, a little less than a year after I had entered the household, Swan called. Since that first night in the city I had glimpsed him once or twice. His scholarly work kept him occupied. In addition to other enterprises, Swan had been busy negotiating with the Smithsonian for a major display of Northwest artifacts at the Chicago World’s Fair, still two to three years away. He was also working hard to attract new support for an old idea, Port Townsend as the proposed terminus of the cross-continental railroad. Also, he still believed that Port Angeles could revive the whaling industry. With all of this, in addition to his posts as judge and Hawaiian Consul to the United States in Port Townsend, it had been some time since he had stopped by. He said he was sorry; he hoped that I would forgive him.

Instead of a reply, I curtsied.

Swan, who had been acquainted with me for all of my life, seemed astonished at the change in me, though not pleased. Without one word to anyone, I served a hearty meal and cleared away the dishes, with a neat little bow every now and again. I was proud to exhibit my self-improvement. Little did I know how foolish I must have appeared.

After supper Swan and the Reverend retired to the dining room. The gentlemen reclined in facing armchairs mixing up the smoke from their cigars. Edith, a parakeet, perched on a tiny three-legged stool. Chris warmed his long legs by the fire. I re-entered with a tray of shortbread stars with marmalade. I was about to withdraw when Swan stopped me. He offered me his own chair. I declined, so he stood up.

Tapping his cane, back to the hot fire, he addressed me thus: “You have not asked about your home in Dungeness. I’m sad to say we’ve had a rough time. I waited to come until I had good news.

“After you left, Annie disappeared. Carl tried to find her, but his efforts failed. What’s more, he had Charley and Julia to look after. Jake Cook offered to find out. He learned that a family of Northern Indians had camped overnight halfway to the point. Apparently, Annie paid the paddlers three dollars to carry her to Cormorant Island on Alert Bay up in Canada. She wanted her unborn baby to receive his Indian name in the Winter Ceremony.”

This was the first I’d heard of my mother’s disappearance, as well as her fourth pregnancy, yet all I could blurt, “That’s illegal!”

“The practice has been discouraged by the Canadian government. Still, there are tribes who refuse to give in.”

My mind raced to multiple places simultaneously. If I traveled north, might I discover my spirit power? I could not ask, not in front of the Mathiesons. Fearful for my mother, I stored the information for later.

Swan went on. “As soon as he heard this news, Carl told Jake to go after her. George, too. At the last moment, Miss Bright added herself to the search party. She argued a woman would know what to say to convince the distraught mother to come home, though Miss Bright is not an Indian, a wife, or a mother. As soon as they landed on Cormorant Island, the three were directed to a cedar-plank house, which they entered through a round opening, the giant eye of a whale. Inside, Annie greeted them. They dined on cubes of toasted halibut dipped in fish oil. When they had finished and washed their hands, Annie said, ‘I’m ready to go now.’ And that was that.”

“So, the incident concludes happily and without cost to anyone.”

“Not quite. Miss Bright was fired. Really, she brought it on herself. Jake tried to warn her. Of course,” Swan grinned, “once she’s made up her mind, nothing can stop Delia Bright, from paddling a canoe, peeling the shell off the back of a live crab, or sniping at a wildcat with her rifle.”

“Is she sorry?”

Swan replied, “I doubt it. Whatever she was looking for in Dungeness, I hope she found it. Now she’s off to sketch in Paris, skirt bulls in Pamplona, purchase cloth and art in a marketplace in Morocco, and navigate the Nile. After that, who knows? She’s quite a remarkable woman.”

I drew in a quick breath. “And the new baby?”

“In English, he’s called James, after me. In the S’Klallam dialect, Ste-tee-thlum, after a legendary chief. Since her return, Annie seems peaceful. More willing to compromise. Less restless. Almost happy.”

I had one final question, but I was afraid to ask. For months, I had been waiting for my father to visit me, or at least send word. Why did he choose to stay away? With so many tumbling offspring to care for, perhaps Carl had no time or energy for me. Or perhaps he felt that any contact would create pain for both of us.

I ventured, “And Carl?”

“He’s an old man, like me, and easily distracted. The harder he works, the smaller his catch of fish.” He chuckled. “And you, Millie? How is school? Top of the heap, or under-water?”

The Reverend fiddled with the brass key to the Waterbury clock. He was about to reply, when Christopher blurted, “Millie doesn’t go to school. I tutor her, right here in this parlor. Edith has taught her how to keep house. See how she has improved.”

“Yes, I see.”

Swan’s ironic tone could not be missed.

I dropped a second curtsey and rushed to tell him of my improvements.

“Judge Swan, look at me. I can keep the house free of dust, maintain the oil lamps and hearth, rub down the woodwork till it gleams, remove smudges and prints from nineteen windows—that’s over a hundred panes—and untold mirrors, and fix a decent meal in under an hour. When the Waterbury strikes four times, tea is on the sideboard. How the herbs in my kitchen garden thrive. Edith revealed to me the beliefs and the habits of a pastry pin, yet my crust is flakier. The linen that I unfurl is brighter. Every Sunday I go to church to listen to the Reverend’s sermon. So far I am not converted but perhaps one day the spirit of Christ will enter me. Why do you frown?” 

“Millie, tell me the truth. Are you happy here?”

I turned to Edith. She remained silent. The question was for me, and me alone. Defiantly I declared, “I think so. Yes.”

Swan did not seem persuaded.

To the Reverend he said, “I will report back to Carl. Meanwhile, she can remain, with one condition. Once a week you lend her to me to sort the collection. I’m hoping that the task will revive her curious mind.”

The Reverend, relieved, chirped, “Of course. I agree to everything.”

Christopher interjected, “Father, take a minute to think it through. Edith is still not well. What if she takes a turn for the worse?” He glanced quickly at the Judge. “Consider Millie’s reputation. Who will escort her? And, how will it look, hour upon hour alone with him in his quarters?”

Swan chuckled as he twirled his cigar. “You ninny. She’ll visit me in my office, not in my boudoir. Gad. What are you thinking? I could be her grandfather.”

Christopher remarked, “I’ve heard that one before. About Dolly Roberts.”

The Reverend startled, spilling his port, exclaimed, “Christopher! That will be enough,” in sharp rebuke.  

Later, Edith explained. Amelia Roberts, fondly known as Dolly, was the daughter of the founding pioneer FW Pettygrove. Several years earlier, when Dolly was a cheerful, spry girl of sixteen, Swan at fifty-seven had courted her assiduously. Dolly rejected Swan to marry his old friend, a gentleman of some means. Though all this had transpired long ago, it was cruel of Christopher to mention it now.

“You arrogant seal pup,” Swan said seething.

He was like a teakettle left on the top of a stove to cool; he whistled long and low. No doubt it crossed his mind to depart for the last time, slamming the door. Despite the affront, out of loyalty to the Reverend and his deceased wife Adele, no offense could provoke him to reject the son or daughter—or me, though what had forged this iron link, I never thought to ask.

Calmer now, Swan inquired, “Son, do you remember how Dolly and Adele formed the whole of the church choir? Those Sunday sessions were a delight during my most desperate hour; when I’d recall my son and daughter back in Boston. When a parent and child go their separate ways, that gaping hole is hard to fill.”

He frowned, and then went on, speaking directly, and pointedly, to Christopher. “Often those who mature too fast are hard on themselves, and hard on others. Allow yourself to be a child, for a bit longer. I haven’t quit; though, as you mentioned before, I’m too old to dally with girls.”

Christopher turned away, not in anger, but to smear away a tear. Though he deserved the chiding, I could not help but pity him.

In the days after the Judge’s reprimand—or perhaps because of it—Christopher changed for the better. He became less critical and began to act more spontaneous and open.

I began to feel something very like affection for my adopted brother.