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FOR VERNON CARSTENSEN
Who Saw The Patterns On The Land
Scotchmen and coyotes was the only ones
that could live in the Basin,
and pretty damn soon the coyotes starved out.
—CHARLES CAMPBELL DOIG (1901–71)
SCOTLAND AND HELENA
* * *
Harbour Mishap at Greenock. Yesterday morning, while a horse and cart were conveying a thousand-weight of sugar on the quay at Albert Harbour, one of the cartwheels caught a mooring stanchion, which caused the laden conveyance and its draft animal to fall over into the water. The poor creature made desperate efforts to free itself and was successful in casting off all the harness except the collar, which, being attached to the shafts of the sunken cart, held its head under water until it was drowned. The dead animal and the cart were raised during the forenoon by the Greenock harbour diver.
—GLASGOW CALEDONIAN, OCTOBER 23, 1889
TO SAY the truth, it was not how I expected—stepping off toward America past a drowned horse.
You would remember too well, Rob, that I already was of more than one mind about the Atlantic Ocean. And here we were, not even within eyeshot of the big water, not even out onto the slow-flowing River Clyde yet, and here this heap of creature that would make, what, four times the sum total of Rob Barclay and Angus McCaskill, here on the Greenock dock it lay gawping up at us with a wild dead eye. Strider of the earth not an hour ago, wet rack of carcass now. An affidavit such as that says a lot to a man who cannot swim. Or at least who never has.
But depend on you, Rob. In those times you could make light of whatever. There was that red shine on you, your cheeks and jawline always as ruddy and smooth as if you had just put down the shaving razor, and on this largest day of our young lives you were aglow like a hot coal. A stance like a lord and a hue like a lady. You cocked your head in that way of yours and came right out with:
“See now, McAngus. So long as we don’t let them hitch a cart to us we’ll be safe as saints.”
“A good enough theory,” I had to agree, “as far as it goes.”
Then came commotion, the grieved sugar carter bursting out, “Oh Ginger dear, why did ye have to tumble?” and dockmen shouting around him and a blinkered team of horses being driven up at full clatter to drag their dead ilk away. Hastily some whiskered geezer from the Cumbrae Steamship Line was waving the rest of us along: “Dead’s dead, people, and standing looking at it has never been known to help. Now then, whoever of you are for the James Watt, straight on to the queue there, New York at its other end, step to it please, thank you.” And so we let ourselves be shooed from the sight of poor old horsemeat Ginger and went and stepped onto line with our fellow steerage ticketholders beside the bulk of the steamship. Our fellow Scotland-leavers, half a thousand at once, each and every of us now staring sidelong at this black iron island that was to carry us to America. One of the creels which had held the sugar was bobbing against the ship’s side, while over our heads deckhands were going through the motions of some groaning chore I couldn’t begin to figure.
“Now if this was fresh water, like,” sang out one above the dirge of their task, “I’d wager ye a guinea this harbor’d right now taste sweet as treacle.”
“But it’s not, ye bleedin’ daftie. The bleedin’ Clyde is tide salt from the Tail of the Bank the full way up to bleedin’ Glasgow, now en’t it? And what to hell kind of concoction are ye going to get when ye mix sugar and salt?”
“Ask our bedamned cook,” put in a third. “All the time he must be doing it, else why’s our mess taste like what the China dog walked away from?” As emphasis he spat a throat gob over the side into the harbor water, and my stomach joined my other constituent parts in trepidation about this world-crossing journey of ours. A week and a half of the Atlantic and dubious food besides?
That steerage queue seemed eternal. Seagulls mocked the line of us with sharp cries. A mist verging on rain dimmed out the Renfrewshire hills beyond Greenock’s uncountable roofs. Even you appeared a least little bit ill at ease with this wait, Rob, squinting now and again at the steamship as if calculating how it was that so much metal was able to float. And then the cocked head once more, as if pleased with your result. I started to say aloud that if Noah had taken this much time to load the ark, only the giraffes would have lasted through the deluge, but that was remindful of the waiting water and its fate for cart horses and others not amphibious.
Awful, what a person lets himself do to himself. There I stood on that Greenock dock, wanting more than anything else in this life not to put foot aboard that iron ship; and wanting just as desperately to do so and do it that instant. Oh, I knew what was wrestling in me. We had a book—Crofutt’s Trans-Atlantic Emigrants’ Guide—and my malady was right there in it, page one. Crofutt performed as our tutor that a shilling was worth 24 American cents, and how much postal stamps cost there in the big country, and that when it came midnight in old Scotland the clocks of Montana were striking just five of the afternoon. Crofutt told this, too, I can recite it yet today: Do not emigrate in a fever, but consider the question in each and every aspect. The mother country must be left behind, the family ties, all old associations, broken. Be sure that you look at the dark side of the picture: the broad Atlantic, the dusty ride to the great West of America, the scorching sun, the cold winter—coldest ever you experienced!—and the hard work of the homestead. But if you finally, with your eyes open, decide to emigrate, do it nobly. Do it with no divided heart.
Right advice, to keep your heart in one pure piece. But easier seen than followed.
I knew I oughtn’t, but I turned and looked up the river, east up the great broad trough of the Clyde. East into yesterday. For it had been only the day before when the pair of us were hurled almost all the way across Scotland by train from Nethermuir into clamorsome Glasgow. A further train across the Clyde bridge and westward alongside mile upon brown mile of the river’s tideflats and their smell. Then here came Greenock to us, Watt’s city of steam, all its shipyards and docks, the chimney stalks of its sugar refineries, its sharp church spires and high, high above all its municipal tower of crisp new stone the color of pie crust. A more going town than our old Nethermuir could be in ten centuries, it took just that first look to tell us of Greenock. For night we bedded where the emigration agent had advised, the Model Lodging House, which may have been a model of something but lodging wasn’t it; when morning at last came, off we set to ask our way to the Cumbrae Line’s moorage, to the James Watt, and to be told in a Clydeside gabble it took the both of us to understand:
“The Jemmy, lads? Ye wan’ tae gi doon tae the fit of Pa’rick.”
And there at the foot of Patrick Street was the Albert Harbor, there was the green-funneled steam swimmer to America, there were the two of us.
For I can’t but think of you then, Rob. The Rob you were. In all that we said to each other, before and thereafter, this step from our old land to our new was flat fact with you. The Atlantic Ocean and the continent America all the way across to Montana stood as but the width of a cottage threshold, so far as you ever let on. No second guess, never a might-have-done-instead out of you, none. A silence too total, I realize at last. You had family and a trade to scan back at and I had none of either, yet I was the one tossing puppy looks up the Clyde to yesterday. Man, man, what I would give to know. Under the stream of
words by which you talked the two of us into our long step to America, what were your deep reasons? I am late about asking, yes. Years and years and years late. But when was such asking ever not? And by the time I learned there was so much within you that I did not know and you were learning the same of me, we had greater questions for each other.
A soft push on my shoulder. When I turned to your touch you were smiling hard, that Barclay special mix of entertainment and estimation. We had reached the head of the queue, another whiskery geezer in Cumbrae green uniform was trumpeting at us to find Steerage Number One, go forward toward the bow, descend those stairs the full way down, mind our footing and our heads . . .
You stayed where you stood, though, facing me instead of the steamship. You still had the smile on, but your voice was as serious as I ever had heard it.
“Truth now, Angus. Are we both for it?”
Standing looking at it has never been known to help. I filled myself with breath, the last I intended to draw of the air of the pinched old earth called Scotland. With no divided heart.
“Both,” I made myself say. And up the Jemmy’s gangplank we started.
• • •
Robert Burns Barclay, single man, apprentice wheelwright, of Nethermuir, Forfarshire. That was Rob on the passenger list of the James Watt, 22nd of October of the year 1889. Angus Alexander McCaskill, single man, wheelworks clerk, of Nethermuir, Forfarshire, myself. Both of us nineteen and green as the cheese of the moon and trying our double damnedest not to show it.
Not that we were alone in tint. Our steerage compartment within the Jemmy proved to be the forward one for single men—immediately the report went around that the single women were quartered farthest aft, and between them and us stood the married couples and a terrific populace of children—and while not everyone was young, our shipmates were all as new as we to voyaging. Berths loomed in unfamiliar tiers with a passageway not a yard wide between them, and the twenty of us bumped and backed and swirled like a herd of colts trying to establish ourselves.
I am tall, and the inside of the ship was not. Twice in those first minutes of steerage life I cracked myself.
“You’ll be hammered down to my size by the time we reach the other shore,” Rob came out with, and those around us hoohawed. I grinned the matter away but I did not like it, either the prospect of a hunched journey to America or the public comment about my altitude. But that was Rob for you.
Less did I like the location of Steerage Number One. So far below the open deck, down steep stair after stair into the iron gut of the ship. When you thought about it, and I did, this was like being a kitten in the bottom of a rainbarrel.
“Here I am, mates,” recited a fresh voice, that of the steward. “Your shepherd while at sea. First business is three shillings from you each. That’s for mattress to keep you company and tin to eat with and the finest saltwater soap you’ve ever scraped yourself with.” Ocean soap and straw bed Rob and I had to buy along with everyone else, but on Crofutt’s advice we’d brought our own trustworthy tinware. “Meals are served at midship next deck up, toilets you’ll find in the deckhouses, and that’s the circle of life at sea, mates,” the steward rattled at us, and then he was gone.
As to our compartment companions, a bit of listening told that some were of a fifty embarking to settle in Manitoba, others of a fifty fixed upon Alberta for a future. The two heavenly climes were argued back and forth by their factions, with recitations of rainfall and crop yields and salubrious health effects and imminence of railroads, but no minds were changed, these being Scottish minds.
Eventually someone deigned to ask us neutral pair what our destination might be.
“Montana,” Rob enlightened them as if it was Eden’s best neighborhood. “I’ve an uncle there these seven years.”
“What does the man do there,” sang out an Alberta adherent, “besides boast of you as a nephew? Montana is nothing but mountains, like the name of it.”
“He’s the owner of a mine,” Rob reported with casual grandness, and this drew us new looks from the compartment citizenry. Rob, though, was not one to quit just because he was ahead. “A silver mine at Helena, called the Great Maybe.”
All of steerage except the two of us thought that deserved the biggest laugh there was, and for the next days we were known as the Maybe Miners. Well, they could laugh like parrots at a bagpiper. It was worth that and more, to have Lucas Barclay there in Montana ahead of us.
“Up?” offered Rob to me now, with a sympathetic toss of his head. Back to deck we climbed, to see how the Jemmy’s departure was done.
As I look on it from now, I suppose the others aboard cannot but have wondered about the larky companion beside me at the deck rail, dispensing his presiding smile around the ship as if he had invented oceangoing. The bearing of a bank heir, but in a flat cap and rough clothes? A mien of careless independence, but with those workworn wheelwright’s hands at the ends of his young arms? And ever, ever, that unmatchable even-toothed smile, as though he was about to say something bright even when he wasn’t; Rob could hold that smile effortlessly the way a horse holds the bit between his teeth. You could be fooled in a hurry about Rob, though. It maybe can be said my mind lacks clench. Rob had a fist there in his head. The smile gave way to it here when he spotted a full family, tykes to grandfolks, among us America-goers.
“They all ought’ve come, Angus. By damn, but they ought’ve. Am I right?” He meant all the rest of his own family, his father and mother and three older brothers and young sister; and he meant it hotly. Rob had argued for America until the air of the Barclay household was blue with it, but there are times when not even a Barclay can budge Barclays. Just thinking about it still made him tense as a harp. “They ought’ve let the damned ’wright shop go, let old Nethermuir doze itself to death. They can never say I didn’t tell them. You heard.”
“I heard.”
“Lucas is the only one of the bunch who’s ever looked ahead beyond his nose. See now, Angus, I almost wish we’d been in America as long as Lucas. Think of all he must’ve seen and done, these years.”
“You’d have toddled off there when you were the age of Adair, would you?” Adair was Rob’s sister, just twelve or so, and a little replica of Rob or at least close enough; tease her as I did by greeting her in gruff hard-man style Hello you, Dair Barclay, and she always gave me right back, snappy as beans, Hello yourself, old Angus McCaskill.
“Adair’s the one in the bunch who most ought’ve come,” Rob persisted. “Just look around you, this ship is thick with children not a minute older than Adair.” He had a point there. “She’d positively be thriving here. And she’d be on her way to the kind of life she deserves instead of that”—Rob pointed his chin up the Clyde, to the horizon we had come from—“back there. I tried for her.”
“Your parents would be the first to say so.”
“Parents are the world’s strangest commodity, haven’t you ever noticed—Angus, forgive that. My tongue got ahead of itself.”
“It went right past my ears. What about a walk around deck, shall we?”
At high tide on the Clyde, when the steam tug arrived to tow this behemoth ship of ours to deep water at the Tail of the Bank, Rob turned to me and lifted his cap in mock congratulation.
“We’re halfway there,” he assured me.
“Only the wet part left, you’re telling me.”
He gave my shoulder a push. “McAngus, about this old water. You’ll grow used to it, man. Half of Scotland has made this voyage by now.”
I started to retort that I seemed to belong to the half without webfeet, but I was touched by this, Rob’s concern for me, even though I’d hoped I was keeping my Atlantic apprehensions within me. The way they resounded around in there—Are we both for it? Both—I suppose it was a wonder the entire ship wasn’t hearing them like the thump of a drum.
We watched Greenock vanish behind the turn of the Firth. “Poor old River Carrou,” from Rob now. “This Clyde makes it
look like a piddle, doesn’t it?”
Littler than that, actually. We from an inland eastern town such as Nethermuir with its sea-seeking stream Carrou were born thinking that the fishing ports of our counties of Fife and Forfar and Kincardine and Aberdeen must be the rightful entrances to the ocean, so Rob and I came with the natural attitude that these emigration steamships of Greenock and Glasgow pittered out the back door of Scotland. The Firth of Clyde was showing us otherwise. Everywhere around us the water was wider than wide, arms of it delving constantly between the hills of the shore, abundant islands were stood here and there on the great gray breadth as casually as haycocks. Out and out the Jemmy steamed, past the last of the beetle-busy packet boats, and still the Clyde went on carving hilly shores. Ayr. Argyll. Arran. This west of Scotland perhaps all sounded like gargle, but it was as handsome a coast as could be fashioned. Moor and cliff and one entire ragged horizon of the Highlands mountains for emphasis, shore-tucked villages and the green exactness of fields for trim.
And each last inch of it everlastingly owned by those higher than Angus McCaskill and Rob Barclay, I reminded myself. Those whose names began with Lord. Those who had the banks and mills. Those whitehanded men of money. Those who watched from their fat fields as the emigrant ships steamed past with us.
Daylight lingered along with the shore. Rain came and went at edges of the Firth. You saw a far summit, its rock brows, and then didn’t.
“Just damp underfoot, try to think of the old ocean as,” Rob put in on me.
“I am trying, man. And I’d still just as soon walk to America.”
“Or we could ride on each other’s shoulders, what if?” Rob swept on. “No, McAngus, this steam yacht is the way to travel.” Like the duke of dukes, he patted the deck rail of the Jemmy and proclaimed: “See now, this is proper style for going to America and Montana.”