Read Online The Devil's Paintbox by Victoria McKernan - Free Book Online
Authors: Victoria McKernan
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questions.”
Aiden had somehow expected to wake up one day and just see the mountains there, tall and snowy and stabbing at the sky like the picture of the Alps in the
Atlas of the World.
But the horizon crept up so slowly that they appeared at first only as a faint rise on the far edge of the earth, like a line ofbaby teeth. A week later and he could make out some edges and peaks. But they were still at least a hundred miles away.
As the wagon train dragged on across the plains, they began to see the toll the journey had taken on others before them. Broken wagon wheels stuck up from ruts in the ground, their spokes bleached and spiky as fish bones. As the reality of the mountains loomed closer, the group often came upon whole loads of belongings that had been jettisoned as emigrants ahead of them realized the impossibility of hauling heavy loads over the peaks. There were little furniture graveyards full of mahogany chifforobes, oak desks and ornate bedsteads. The wood made for nice campfires.
Jefferson J. Jackson had made it very clear that no one in his wagon train carried more than the absolute necessities. There was barely a blanket chest or a trunk to be found, even among the prosperous families. One day they came across a great load of abandoned furniture. A small piano was set carefully on a smooth bit of ground. Inside was a hopeful note written in elegant script:
Property of Mrs. Richard D. Wain-wright, moving to Portland, Oregon. I will pay $100 for safe delivery.
“Don't nobody even think about it,” Jackson said when Maddy read him the note. “I'd sooner tote along a dead elephant. At least you could eat it if you had to.”
The piano had ivory keys and intricate pearl inlays that gleamed in the sun. The varnish was starting to crackle from exposure, but the piano was still playable, though a bit out of tune. Even though no one thought to cross Jackson in the matter of transporting the thing, there was a near unanimous rebellion against moving on, despite three or four more hours of good travel time left in the day. People were hungryfor music. The furniture would make nice fires too. They would camp right there, they declared, and Mr. Jefferson J. Jackson could very well just accept it. He did. It had been seven weeks since the party in Sweetwater. They were making good distance, and it wasn't a bad idea to store up a few hours of fun against the trials that lay ahead.
While they made camp, everyone who could play took a turn at the piano. Some of the mildest women jostled each other and argued to go next. War nearly erupted among the ten Thompson children. Back home they had fussed through years of piano lessons, sullenly pounding their way through practice, but out here the little instrument was exotic and exciting. Polly and Annie could play all the popular songs: “Beautiful Dreamer,” “When Johnny Comes Marching Home” and “Oh Where, Oh Where Has My Little Dog Gone?” Gabriel True gamely thumped out a few marches, but Marguerite didn't play a note.
“A preacher's wife and she doesn't play?” Mrs. Holling-ford was scandalized. “Have you ever heard of such a thing? Not a single hymn!” She fluffed her skirts, sat down herself and pounded out a good twenty minutes of dreary church music before someone else managed to take control of the keyboard.
“Isn't it all just too beautiful?” Maddy clutched her arms around her knees and rocked with happiness. She hadn't heard a piano since she was five years old.
“It's not even a real piano,” Polly sniped as she sat down beside them. “It's just a little parlor spinet. We had a baby grand piano in Charleston. Stephen Foster himself played it once.”
Polly babbled on about all the concerts and recitals shehad been to and the famous singers she had heard. Maddy and Aiden had never heard of any of them, except of course Stephen Foster, who had written every popular song anybody ever sang.
“Look at Doc Carlos,” Maddy whispered to her
Aiden had somehow expected to wake up one day and just see the mountains there, tall and snowy and stabbing at the sky like the picture of the Alps in the
Atlas of the World.
But the horizon crept up so slowly that they appeared at first only as a faint rise on the far edge of the earth, like a line ofbaby teeth. A week later and he could make out some edges and peaks. But they were still at least a hundred miles away.
As the wagon train dragged on across the plains, they began to see the toll the journey had taken on others before them. Broken wagon wheels stuck up from ruts in the ground, their spokes bleached and spiky as fish bones. As the reality of the mountains loomed closer, the group often came upon whole loads of belongings that had been jettisoned as emigrants ahead of them realized the impossibility of hauling heavy loads over the peaks. There were little furniture graveyards full of mahogany chifforobes, oak desks and ornate bedsteads. The wood made for nice campfires.
Jefferson J. Jackson had made it very clear that no one in his wagon train carried more than the absolute necessities. There was barely a blanket chest or a trunk to be found, even among the prosperous families. One day they came across a great load of abandoned furniture. A small piano was set carefully on a smooth bit of ground. Inside was a hopeful note written in elegant script:
Property of Mrs. Richard D. Wain-wright, moving to Portland, Oregon. I will pay $100 for safe delivery.
“Don't nobody even think about it,” Jackson said when Maddy read him the note. “I'd sooner tote along a dead elephant. At least you could eat it if you had to.”
The piano had ivory keys and intricate pearl inlays that gleamed in the sun. The varnish was starting to crackle from exposure, but the piano was still playable, though a bit out of tune. Even though no one thought to cross Jackson in the matter of transporting the thing, there was a near unanimous rebellion against moving on, despite three or four more hours of good travel time left in the day. People were hungryfor music. The furniture would make nice fires too. They would camp right there, they declared, and Mr. Jefferson J. Jackson could very well just accept it. He did. It had been seven weeks since the party in Sweetwater. They were making good distance, and it wasn't a bad idea to store up a few hours of fun against the trials that lay ahead.
While they made camp, everyone who could play took a turn at the piano. Some of the mildest women jostled each other and argued to go next. War nearly erupted among the ten Thompson children. Back home they had fussed through years of piano lessons, sullenly pounding their way through practice, but out here the little instrument was exotic and exciting. Polly and Annie could play all the popular songs: “Beautiful Dreamer,” “When Johnny Comes Marching Home” and “Oh Where, Oh Where Has My Little Dog Gone?” Gabriel True gamely thumped out a few marches, but Marguerite didn't play a note.
“A preacher's wife and she doesn't play?” Mrs. Holling-ford was scandalized. “Have you ever heard of such a thing? Not a single hymn!” She fluffed her skirts, sat down herself and pounded out a good twenty minutes of dreary church music before someone else managed to take control of the keyboard.
“Isn't it all just too beautiful?” Maddy clutched her arms around her knees and rocked with happiness. She hadn't heard a piano since she was five years old.
“It's not even a real piano,” Polly sniped as she sat down beside them. “It's just a little parlor spinet. We had a baby grand piano in Charleston. Stephen Foster himself played it once.”
Polly babbled on about all the concerts and recitals shehad been to and the famous singers she had heard. Maddy and Aiden had never heard of any of them, except of course Stephen Foster, who had written every popular song anybody ever sang.
“Look at Doc Carlos,” Maddy whispered to her
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