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now, out of Fort Kearny. We are an interesting mix of people at this end of the train. Our guide, Keats, insists our contingent refer to itself as the ‘Keats Party’ since he has been employed as our trail captain. Rather than antagonise a man I fancy could skin and fillet me with one flick of his large ‘Bowie’ knife, I’m more than happy to go along with that.
    Amongst our group I’ve found the most fascinating diversity of people you could ever hope to travel with. Our contribution to the long train of carts is just five wagons long, with myself, Keats and his Indian partner Broken Wing as the only members travelling without the encumbrance of one.
    We have the McIntyres, a family of four whose journey west, so they tell me, started in New York, and before that, Cork in Ireland. Their tales of squalor, the overcrowded tenement buildings in New York, the desperate gang fights amongst groups of immigrants, sound quite grim.
    Then we have another family, the Bowens, who hail from my home city; more specifically, from the East End. Just as grim a place as any I’ve seen in the Five Points.
    The other two wagons are occupied by a dark-skinned family. I have spoken with the only one of them who knows enough English to manage a conversation: Mr Hussein, the head of the family. His oldest son, Omar, pilots the second wagon and also speaks a little English.
    Finally, there’s Mr Weyland from Virginia, who has only a two-wheeled cart, few possessions, and a Negro woman with him. I don’t know if she is his property. I would prefer to think not. It is an uncomfortable feeling to witness one soul owned, like a shoe or a brush, by another. But, I have seen him be both respectful and tender with her. Perhaps, she is not his property.
    Perhaps I’ll ask . . .
     
    Ben sat back, resting his aching spine against the soothing cool oak lid of his medicine chest. He leaned all the way back and looked up at the star-spotted sky. Night-time in this wilderness was the sort of absolute darkness that he was still finding quite novel. The streets and terraced houses of London maintained an ever-present amber twilight of flickering gas and oil-fed lamps.
    The wagons of their parties were drawn close together in a circular cluster, the oxen corralled securely in the centre. The Preston party wagons were drawn together in their own cluster thirty or forty yards away; not a huge distance, but far enough to clearly make the point that they wished not to interact any more than was absolutely necessary.
    Keats was holding court around their campfire. Ben could feel the heat from where he sat, warming one side of him while the other side gathered goose bumps from the fresh night air.
    ‘. . . seen all kinds right across from Independence to Oregon, ’ Keats replied in answer to a question from Mrs Bowen. ‘The trick of it, ma’am, is to know your tribes, and know ’em well. You got some that are so goddamned friendly you wonder how they managed to survive so long. The other tribes? Well . . .’ Keats’s voice trailed off and he shook his head.
    After a moment of silence, Mrs Bowen leaned forward. ‘Mr Keats?’
    Intrigued, Ben carefully packed away his journal, pen and inkpot into his chest and joined the huddle of people around the glowing, warming flames.
    ‘Mr Keats, you can’t just say that and then leave us ’angin’ about,’ Mrs Bowen persisted and looked at the others gathered nearby, ‘can ’e now?’
    He shrugged. ‘If it weren’t for it being mixed company, ma’am . . .’
    Ben cleared his throat. ‘I think I’d like to know what we stand to face along the way, Mr Keats. Will it be friendly Indians or not?’
    Keats’s hand cupped his bristly chin. ‘Well now, see that’s why you got me showin’ you the way through to the other side. Ain’t it? We’ll be passin’ through lands of maybe a dozen different tribes; Pawnee, Lakota, Cheyenne, Arapaho, Ute, Shoshone, Paiute, to name just a few.’ Keats looked at