Mr. Sloan,
I don’t have an email. Or a computer for that matter. I’m not too fond of chatting on the telephone either. I’m afraid we will have to rely on the United States Postal Service.
I am glad to know it all arrived safe and sound. Those pages have meant a great deal to me. I used to hide away in the attic when I was a boy and read through the letters and journals. It took me some time to make out the Colonel’s writing, what with his shorthand, but I felt like I was breaking a secret code and it only added to my fun.
You’ll see I took care in how I packed them all inside grocery bags, then wrapped them in newspaper, taped them all up, and packed them in the boxes with old magazines. I wanted to be sure that they’d arrive up there in one piece, and I sure wasn’t going to give my right arm so the shippers could do their ridiculous work. Nothing I hate worse than those foam peanuts. I had 70 years of National Geographics and Billings Gazettes around the house here. Seems they finally proved useful.
Now to your first point?—?I thought about getting hold of a university or the history museum there in Anchorage. It seems to me, though, that the closest these papers have to a home, outside of the Forrester family, is the Wolverine River. I did my research. The woman down at the library looked it up on her computer for me. She said your museum and your town of Alpine are located on the banks of the Wolverine and that you curate collections about everything from Native people to mining history in that area. Now that I know you have your own deep roots in the place, I’m all the more sure about my decision.
Now to the other matter. Pansy politicians. They have no trouble filling up their jet planes or writing checks for their own salaries, do they? But they can’t see fit to care for our very history. It’s a shame.
All that said, it can’t cost much to find a place to store these boxes. Put them on your lists or whatever you’ve got there, so people know you have them. Keep them safe. I can’t tell you how many times I read over these papers, first as a small boy stirred up by the adventure, then as a man trying to understand a man’s concerns. Of course I never did meet the Colonel and Sophie, but I feel like I know them all the same.
I always thought I’d come up your way and see Alaska for myself. A lot of shoulda, woulda, couldas. When a man gets to be 70-some years old, there is no time left for sniveling. But I do have a favor to ask of you. Do you think you could send me a photograph or two, just stick a camera out your window there at the museum, so I can have a look at the river? Maybe a few words, so I can picture it all.
Much appreciated,
Walt
Lieut. Col. Allen Forrester
April 7, 1885
Like a salve to me, her letter. I waited as long as I might, but after this hard day of travel, I needed the comfort of her words.
For two long months, I have carried this letter unopened in my breast pocket, yet I swear the pages are still touched by her fragrance. To read those words, written in her hand. ‘Our child.’
I have aimed not to think on it. A commander will make poor decisions when hampered by thoughts of home. Yet now, with it fresh in mind, I think of nothing else. If I had been alone, I would have danced around camp like a fool & celebrated anew. Instead I fold the letter, unfold it, read the words again & again.
?—?What is it? Tillman asked.
He had put a hand to my shoulder. Perhaps he thought the news was bad.
I saw no harm in telling him. She is far into her maternity now. Likely the child will be born, half-grown even, before we return home.
?—?My wife will have a baby, I announced.
Tillman whooped, boxed me in the ribs, nearly sent me sprawling into the flames.
?—?A papa! Our Colonel is to be a papa! We need a toast.
He took a flask from his coat pocket. The men had been told to leave the liquor at home, especially in light of the sergeant’s reputation for violent intemperance, but I was not surprised to see it. We each swigged. Tillman cuffed me in the shoulder. He called out for Pruitt, but he had gone for firewood. This didn’t stop Tillman, for he again raised the flask, drank on his behalf.
When Pruitt returned with his armload of driftwood, Tillman told him my news. He gave a polite nod, but not as joyous as Tillman. They are two very different men. The sergeant boisterous, strong tempered. Pruitt brooding, thoughtful, quick to retire to his tent. The Indians went to their lean-tos, paired up as they do. Just Tillman & I remained by the fire.
?—?This’ll be your first, then? he asked.
I nodded. I asked if he has any children.
?—?Probably left a few here & there, but none that’ve owned up to me yet. Probably for the best. My bent doesn’t fit much with a family. It’d put a damper on my spirit, knowing others needed me, even time to time.