Froelich's Ladder (7 page)

Taking a deep breath, she resolved herself to act in good faith. “Yeah,” she said. “That ain’t salmon jerky, it’s deer. And you’re right—the way Ma cooks, it’s like she’s mad at the food. S
t
ill, I hope you eat it, and I hope it tastes like s—t.”

Th
e crashing of the waves was faint from Josie’s tower, though the odor of seaweed was rank. Assuming that first light wouldn’t be long, she swung her legs off the bed and blindly felt for her shoes. She was still wearing her clothes from the night before, saving her the effort of dressing in the dark. She even had an extra shawl, which she now deemed unnecessary. There were no provisions to pack, no correspondence to be made. As soon as her laces were tied, she proceeded with resolve.

She accessed the stairwell quickly and quietly. Feeling her way along the rough-hewn wall, Josie descended the irregular turret steps. If pitch darkness could be improved upon, here it was utterly black, save for the faint outline of a doorway below her. On the other side of that border Lieutenant Harrison would be standing sentry. If Josie were lucky, he’d be sleeping at his post; if not, she was duly prepared to charm him.

Upon stepping outside, she was able to distinguish her arms and legs—and there too was Lieutenant Harrison, leaning against the wall with a woolen blanket around his shoulders. If he hadn’t been asleep, he wasn’t fully awake either, coquettishly blinking his eyes.

“Good morning, Miss Josephine,” he yawned. “You’re up early.”

Josie smiled at his obtuseness. A quick look around confirmed there was no one else present; the parade ground was empty, and the postern gate closed.

“Yes,” she said, “I was hoping for a short walk.”

Like a dog catching a scent, the lieutenant was immediately keen to her, rousing himself to a more attentive posture.

“A walk, you said? I’m not so sure about that. Did you ask Mr. Myers? Maybe if we tell the Sergeant Major first—”

“Harrison,” Josie cut him off, “what age are you?”

Having already conceived of such a moment, she now placed her hand on his chest. Not on his face, which would’ve been too intimate, but not his shoulder, either, which could’ve been dismissive. His chest, Josie had decided, would strike the perfect balance between familiar and flirtatious.

Her touch achieved the desired effect. Blanching, he stuttered, “What age? Seventeen.”

“Seventeen,” Josie repeated. “I am nineteen. Doesn’t that strike you as rather old for a nanny?”

When she gave him her most winning smile, the young lieutenant returned the favor—possibly blushing, even, though it was difficult to say in the feeble light. With gray dawn fast approaching, it wouldn’t be long before the whole of Fort Brogue started to wake. The smile sagged a little on Josie’s face, but she kept her eyes trained on his.

“It’s just a walk,” she murmured, removing her hand from Harrison’s chest. “I shouldn’t think I require anyone’s permission—certainly not at this hour.”

“Maybe I can come with you?” he hopefully suggested.

“And leave your post? I wouldn’t want you to be derelict. You stay here—I won’t be gone for long.”

Turning toward the postern gate, Josie assumed a pace of casual self-assurance. One more guard stood between her and freedom. For obvious reasons, the fort was kept secured during the night; the gate would have to be opened manually. But much could be accomplished on the suggestion of authority. It was amazing how the dynamics of momentum applied to a body even so large as the Army.

“Where are you going?”

It was Harrison again. Freezing in her tracks, Josie’s mind raced. She couldn’t tell him the truth: he’d never let her go if she answered him honestly. And what if he were interrogated in her absence? She wouldn’t put it past her Uncle Francis. Whatever her answer, the young lieutenant was all but certain to repeat it.

“I’m going for a lunt,” she said, delivering the words nonchalantly.

“A what?”

“Gone lunting. Don’t you say that in America? Walking while smoking a pipe. But you mustn’t tell—my uncle would never let me hear the end of it.”

Had Harrison asked her any more questions, or made further excuse to tarry, she might as well have crawled back to bed. The fort would’ve awoken; she would’ve been foiled. But instead he replied with characteristic insight, “I thought you said hunting! It rhymes.”

With a grin, Josie replied, “Yes, it does, doesn’t it?” And that was the end of that. Striding with newfound purpose, she found it twice as easy to convince the next guard.

Through the postern gate, Josie followed a steep a
nd narrow path between the scrub grass and succulent plants, zigzagging her way down the bluff until she’d finally reached the beach below. Here, the smell of brine became practically overwhelming. Hugging her arms across her chest, she turned her face to the breeze. With her eyes closed, the Pacific Ocean sounded like … like the intersection of Bridge and High Streets on a winter’s eve, distempered draft animals and even more distempered cabbies. Long ago, her friend Mae had taught her how to spot a tourist. Somebody from Edinburgh would stand off the curb, Mae had said, while the tourists would abide by the rules. Peeking one eye open, Josie found the actual view to be less inspiring. Nothing to evoke home, save for the palette: gray dunes and gray sky. Gray America.

Ahead, she spotted a piece of driftwood. Gnarled and half-buried, it looked to be the size of a settee. Fixing that landmark as her intended destination, Josie teeter-tottered across the uneven dunes until she was able to sit down and remove her shoes and stockings. It was no warmer now than it had been before, even as the dawn heralded a new day. The sand was unpleasant to the touch—the landscape, now that the fort was safely behind her, not so vastly improved.

Who
wouldn’t
want to visit this land of splendor, this veritable Garden of Eden? Where the possibilities were only limited by one’s own imagination? That’s what Josie had told herself, anyway. Like a girl who’d been conspicuously absent for nine months, she’d excised herself from her previous life. But that wasn’t her, a girl to inspire rumors. What could be further from the truth? Still, her da had assured her when she’d left, “Stay here, and you’ll become your mum—not that we don’t give thanks every day. Even so, nothing can change without change.” Truly, standing on the quay, it had been difficult to say who was convincing whom.

Mae might’ve affected Josie’s decision to emigrate, had she been present—but, of course, Mae had stayed away. Even Josie’s da might’ve had a change of heart, had it not been his own brother taking receipt of her. Recalling this arrangement, Josie looked back the way she’d come. She’d always feared her mum’s temper, and with good reason, but she’d not yet tested Uncle Francis’s. It was best to keep moving.

The previous night’s encounter with her uncle continued to vex her. Indeed, here she was, marching into the wilderness with only half a notion of where she was going! If she hadn’t been expecting Uncle Francis at that late hour, it wasn’t because the two of them were estranged. In fact, they spent the majority of their days together—visiting far-flung locations of his Myers & Co. stores, discussing the strengths and weaknesses of his distributors, anything that might broaden Josie’s understanding of the business. It had been clear to her for some time that she was being groomed for management, an offer that she was slow to accept. But if she’d already been pining for home, his handling of the promotion had hastened her decision.

Uncle Francis had knocked shortly after dinner—a quick, decisive rap, impossible to mistake for anyone else. When she’d called her assent through the heavy wood door, he’d entered with his eyes downcast, lest he intrude on an intimate moment.

“Good evening, Josie,” he’d said, not looking up. “Is this a good time?”

She’d been reading her Virgil—in particular, the third book of the
Aeneid
. “I suppose it depends,” she’d remarked, saving her place with her thumb. “A good time for what?”

He’d smiled, braving a glance. Fully entering the room, he’d crossed to the end table that substituted for a writing desk.

“Tomorrow I’ll be meeting with the circuit judge. Harper is his name, an insufferable prig. You have to wonder whether it’s the chicken or egg with these people—whether they become arseholes after taking power, or if being an arsehole had everything to do with it.”

“Funny observation, coming from you,” Josie had commented. She’d flashed a grin to soften the blow, but caught a flicker of something in Uncle Francis’s eyes. It was the same look he’d give when assessing a potential rival. In the future, she’d thought, it might be wise to hold her tongue.

“Yes, I suppose so,” he’d allowed. “Anyhow, talking to Harper is only a formality. My lawyer assures me we’re in the right. The Naturalization Act gives the rights of citizenship to children, and all the legal protections afforded therein.”

A gust of damp air had blown up the stairway and through the cell, causing Josie to shiver under her blanket.

“That’s good news,” she’d said while covering her shoulders. “Only, I didn’t know you were expecting?”

She’d watched the corners of his lips twitch, that malevolent flicker animating his eyes. “Oh, aye,” he’d grunted, steering past her joke to arrive at one of his own. “A nine-stone, bouncing baby girl.”

Josie had failed to understand, staring at him with flagging patience. Finally, Uncle Francis had rolled his eyes. “You!” he’d practically shouted. “You, you daft girl—I’m adopting
you
!”

Wherever this idea had originated, that Uncle Francis was going to adopt her, it had been news to Josie. Had her parents been informed? Had it been their idea—a way to divest themselves of her, once and for all? And didn’t she have a say in the matter? One didn’t choose one’s own parents, or so they said, but there came an age when that no longer applied.

Josie had possessed so many questions, it had been impossible to speak. Who knew what Uncle Francis had read into her silence? Most likely, a validation. Nodding his head once, he’d wordlessly adjusted some pages on her desk, arranging them into a neat little pile. Then he’d strolled toward the door, contemplatively tucking his chin toward his chest.

“You know,” he’d said, standing at the top of the stairs, “I always imagined myself having a son—someone to manage the business, when I tire of chasing every last cent. But you can do well, Josie, of that I have no doubt. If I must have a daughter, I’d want it to be you.”

And thus the final indignity. Not long after Uncle Francis had left, shutting the turret door behind him, Josie had made up her mind to return to Scotland. She didn’t know how such a feat could be accomplished, especially without her uncle’s help; he controlled the military, and anyone else she’d encounter in town. But one thing had been abundantly clear: time was of the essence. In the morning, she’d resolved, she would search for assistance, and may fortune smile on the woman who helps herself.

The tide was now fully out. At least the beach seemed broader than it had before. Walking with her shoes and stockings in hand, Josie tried her best to ignore the continent to her left. To her right, massive boulders littered the shallows, as grand and arresting as any Gothic cathedral. While there was no one to disturb her, and with Fort Brogue only a distant concern, she was better able to appreciate the scenery: the wending arc of the coastline, crudely formed by time and erosion. Not so when she ventured into town, where everything was so garishly new, like the glue hadn’t dried yet.

Somebody else might’ve found Oregon appealing; to Josie, it was depressing. What else could she call it? No building was taller than a single story, or more durable than plywood. Most homes didn’t even have a cellar, either for lack of foresight, or not enough people to dig a proper hole. Towns were named according to whimsy (Cake, Rainbow, Merlin) or, worse yet, borrowed their identities from existing locales (Glasgow, Denmark, Rome). Finally, and most irksome, there wasn’t any
money
. A person was as likely to pay in Confederate dollars as he was to offer an I.O.U. It only confirmed the dogma, which they flouted at every opportunity:
If it doesn’t exist, we shall create it; if it isn’t real, we will pretend
.

Of course Uncle Francis would thrive in this environment. What might’ve slowed his ascent in Edinburgh (unorthodox work habits and an aversion to hierarchy), here were genuine assets. Recognizing a commercial void, he’d been quick to fill it—because what was the true nature of America, if not a great, sucking hole? The people of Oregon required lumber that Myers & Co. was able to provide. From the timberline to the sawmill, from transportation to distribution, Francis hadn’t left a red cent on the table. In Scotland, his business acumen might’ve been dismissed as greedy. Here, it was industry, plain and simple.

Consequently, who but Uncle Francis would build
a fort, then invite the United States Army to live in it? (Indeed, who could conceive of a cheekier name than Fort Brogue?) By refusing to accept rent, he’d earned the military’s fealty, thereby ensuring his own safety in the event that the Coast Reservation overflowed or that the Logging Camp erupted with violence. Most days, one couldn’t distinguish the Army from his own private militia … especially if one happened to be a young woman, gone for a lunt, absent the approval of her legal guardian
.

Looking back, she couldn’t even see Fort Brogue, just an impenetrable bank of fog where her window used to be. When Uncle Francis had designed the fortifications, he’d drawn inspiration from Edinburgh Castle, incorporating a barracks, great hall, and infirmary, with parade grounds protected by a high wall. Unlike its predecessor, though, Fort Brogue had been made entirely from wood. The smell of pine, while lovely, pervaded everything. Josie couldn’t go to sleep at night without imagining herself on a pile of tinder.

Eager to dispel the notion, she shook her head—freeing her long, red curls, made more irascible by the bawdy sea air. With a bark of laughter, Josie twirled. But there was no one to laugh with her, and the wind whisked her exaltation down the beach.