That summer there had been heat and no rain. Now there were grass fires burning in the Grande Prairie beyond the bluff; small orange tongues licked at the yellowed grass, and smoke rose above the land diffusing the strength of the sun and forecasting an ominous end to summer.
Sacajawea looked about, feeling small and frightened. She searched through the crowds that milled about the pier. Could that be Broken Tooth, Jussome’s woman, there, sweltering in a dirty cerise blanket, speaking sharply to the children beside her? And was that Sheheke dressed in the blue coat with gold braid and the eagle feather worn proudly in his hair? She was not sure who these people were, and her head swam with so many unfamiliar things in view.
“Well, bless my soul,” said a voice at her elbow, “it is the little dancing boy. I thought my eyes played tricks.” It was big, grinning Ben York.
“York! York!” Sacajawea was overcome with joy to find a familiar face. She pushed Pomp toward him, but the child was shy.
“How do? You all remember me? You were only a papoose when we left you standing on that Mandan beach. I’se your old nursemaid. I taught you to dance.
See?” York took a couple of quick jog steps despite the rocky ground.
Pomp slowly imitated him, then smiled up at York, who picked him up in his big black arms. Tears streamed down his face. Pomp put his cheek against York’s. “I looked for you,” the child said softly.
“I would have come back looking for you, but I’se a slow walker,” said York. Then, pointing, he said, “Who’s that?”
‘Tess, my brother. His umbea, Otter Woman—see? There.”
“How do?” said York, remembering now that Charbonneau did have more than one woman. “Your man, that rascally Charb, come with you ladies?”
“Ai,” said Sacajawea, shading her eyes with a hand because she thought she recognized someone else. “Pryor! It is you!”
“Certainly, it’s me,” said Nat Pryor, laughing. “I see York found you first.”
Pryor was the official escort for Sheheke and his family and now took the job of being escort for the Charbonneau family. Charbonneau came trotting into sight, and Pryor took them by horse and buggy to the barracks of Saint Louis. They were housed with Sheheke’s family under the protection of the militia.
Sheheke did not have on a blue coat, but a black cutaway.
“This lodge is so large I could be lost in it,” said Otter Woman.
Sheheke laughed, amused that once he had felt the same way. “You will not get lost if you sit in one corner and do not move.”
“Master Clark will be along soon,” said York, finding a lump of sugar somewhere in the depths of his pocket for Pomp, and one for little Tess. Then, suddenly, he had an ear-to-ear grin on his perspiring, shining face. “I think Master Clark like me to fetch you all to his house. Come, you hear? You young’uns, too.”
Charbonneau followed him down the long steps, and Sacajawea, with her hand tight on Pomp’s, came close behind. Otter Woman held Little Tess by one arm, stating flatly she preferred to stay behind listening to the tales Sheheke’s squaw, Yellow Corn, was telling aboutthe white man’s food. She was really afraid to go out into this unfamiliar, noisy village.
Sacajawea’s shoulders jerked slightly under her loose deerskin tunic. “We will go without you.”
Otter Woman had turned her back.
Outwardly, Sacajawea was composed, almost stoic, but inwardly her heart throbbed violently. York turned and picked up Pomp so he could ride on his wide shoulders. Sacajawea looked first at York, then at Pryor. She could scarcely keep up with them on the hilly street to Main and Pine. Charbonneau paused frequently to peer into doorways, speak with Canadians, and observe the gamblers knotted about buffalo robes on the dirt floors of bars. York led them to a small wooden building adjoining a shining white one-story house. They were inside the stuffy Council Hall—General Clark’s Indian museum.
Clark came in. He was clean, shaven, beautiful — more beautiful than Sacajawea had remembered. In the warmth of the summer afternoon, he had opened the chest flap of his blue cotton shirt. The wrappings of his moccasins held brown homespun breeches snugly about his ankles. Under his reddish brows his eyes remained a cool blue. His hair, a red-orange shade the sun might have created in its burnings, was thick and long against his neck and tied with a leather thong.
“Janey!” Clark gasped. “This is the best surprise I’ve ever had. Why didn’t you tell me you were on your way downriver?” he said, turning to Charbonneau. Then: “Pryor, did you know they were coming?”
“No, sir. It was a complete surprise to see Charb, here, in the middle of the cigar store, Le Bureau de Tabac. Then I found Janey, here, and Pomp talking with York.”
“No time; we get ready; we leave.” Charbonneau shrugged his shoulders under his sweat-stained buckskin shirt. The shirt was fringed at the shoulders and embroidered with strands that once had been brightly painted, but now were stained and blackened.
“Well, I’m glad you are here. Welcome to Saint Louis!” Clark shook Charbonneau’s hand as if he could not let go.
Sacajawea controlled herself, although she wantedto run beside Clark, throw her robe about his shoulders, and weep for joy. But seeing him here, in his own lodge, made him seem different, larger. He was shining, clean. She glanced at her tunic and robe. She was embarrassed and wished she had changed to clean ones, and fresh moccasins.
“My little dancing boy, Pomp, come here.” Clark stooped to pick up the child. “Come, let me see how you’ve grown.”
The child drew shyly away.
Clark was visibly disappointed. Sacajawea bent to whisper to her child; he looked into her face for an instant, then, reassured, stepped out into the center of the room.
“Watch, Chief Red Hair,” the child said in a soft voice. Then he began to dance with his tiny knees bent, moccasins barely touching the floor, in perfect rhythm to his mother’s clapping hands.
“Wonderful!” said Clark, now satisfied and pleased. The child went to him and was pulled onto Clark’s lap.
Sacajawea had never seen chairs with arms and a back like the ones York brought in. “Sit here, Janey,” said York. “It’s better than the floor.”
She sat, but she felt stiff and uncomfortable. Soon she was on the floor, Indian-fashion, listening as the men spoke of getting in touch with the fur companies so that Charbonneau would get an interpreting job.
“You did get my letter, then?”
Charbonneau grinned, nodded, and reached into the bag hanging from his belt. He drew out the paper that had sung to Sacajawea. “I keep it safe, with me.”
“Let me have it, will you?” asked Clark. “I’d like to keep it in my files.” Clark took the letter, smoothed it flat, and slipped it into the back of his desk drawer at the far side of the room. Had he known it would turn up a century later to be studied and his intense interest in the Charbonneaus debated, perhaps he would not have preserved it so carefully.
Coming back to his chair, Clark said, “You should not have stayed behind so long, Charb. You and Janey should have gone with us to see President Jefferson last year when I took Sheheke.”
Clark explained to Charbonneau that each of theenlisted men of the expedition was entitled to three hundred and twenty acres of land, and that included Charbonneau. “And there has been talk of giving each man double pay. Lewis was given sixteen hundred acres of land; and I, one thousand. Can’t you just see Lewis when he heard about it? He wrote to the powers in Washington, and you’re right, I was given sixteen hundred acres also. That’s really more than I can use. Charb, if you want to buy some from me with your extra pay, you are welcome to do it.”
Charbonneau muttered something and blew on his mustache.
Nat Pryor scratched his head and spoke. “I know that Ordway bought the claims of LePage, Werner, and Goodrich, paying two hundred dollars for the first two and two-fifty for Si’s. So he got himself nine hundred and sixty acres.”
“Yes,” said Clark. “Yo
ung Shannon also bought extra, snapping up Tom Howard’s claim. Say, did you know Lewis was made governor of Louisiana, and he resigned his commission in the Regular Army a year ago last spring?” He did not wait for anyone to answer. “I was made brigadier general of the Louisiana Militia. That could mean some work if war breaks out. We all know the British will attack.” He slapped his knee. “I don’t think Lewis cares for those Britishers much, either. A more interesting job was also given me. I am agent for the Indians—Pryor works for me.”
Clark immediately saw the question in Sacajawea’s eyes. “I am a go-between for the Indians and whites. I help them with their problems. And they both have problems.”
On impulse, Sacajawea spoke up, clasping the sky blue stone that hung around her neck for courage. “Will you help the People? The Agaidükas need guns to hunt food and to keep away the Blackfeet. They have promised to trade well for guns and ammunition.”
“Femme, shut that mouth. The men are talking now. What’s the matter with you?” said Charbonneau, getting his blood up.
“I had to ask,” she said softly.
“Now, now,” said Clark. “I want to talk to all of you. Charb, leave her be. And if I ever hear of you mistreating Janey, I’ll see that she leaves you, and I’ll have her well provided for.”
Charbonneau flushed. “She’ll be spoiled worse than a dead horse on the prairie.”
“I’ve not forgotten the promise we made to your brother, the chief. Manuel Lisa—he lives here, on Second Street—tried to reach your people, but he was sent back by angry Yanktons. Then Colter went. He was met by the Blackfeet. And Jefferson sent some men last year, under a Lieutenant Pinch, to build a trading post at the junction of the Lewis1 and Salmon rivers. Some of those men talked to me before leaving, and they were going to try to protect the tribes who are without arms against those who have been given British flintlocks.”
Sacajawea sighed, relieved. Chief Red Hair never broke a promise. Her people would be reached and strengthened.
“Charb, there are men in this town organizing the Missouri Fur Company. They will build a number of trading posts, just as we planned a couple of years back.”
Charbonneau nodded to Clark, understanding.
“The largest post is to be at the Three Forks of the Missouri.”
Sacajawea drew in her breath.
Charbonneau scowled at her.
A soft, musical voice called from an inner doorway, “Will, may I come in?”
“Yes, do.”
Sacajawea looked up from her seat on the floor. Her eyes met the face of a smiling young woman with brown, curly hair framing her pink-and-white face. Her mouth was large, with thin lips over white even teeth, and her dark eyes were set wide apart. Sacajawea’s brown eyes bored deep into the white woman’s, which danced and fluttered at the Indian girl’s sudden, keen interest.
The young woman’s eyes rested on Sacajawea’s face, seeing her skin, ruddy from sun and wind, her straight nose with wide nostrils, her white, unbroken teeth showing but little when she smiled. Sacajawea’s face was a trifle gaunt, her cheekbones high, and there was a deep purplish hint to her raven black hair.
Clark stood with his arms outstretched to meet the young woman. “Please, come in, Judy. Janey is here, and her son, and Monsieur Toussaint Charbonneau. I want you to meet them, especially Janey. You’ve heard me say she was worth more to us on that trip than some of the men who were along.”
Pryor stood and bowed toward Judy Clark.
Charbonneau let out a burst of air. “Nom du bon dieu! My squaw already got the big head and thinks she was guide for all those men. Soon she will have nothing to do with us at all. She be too good. All the fat will be in her goddamn head.” Charbonneau’s face reddened as he looked at Clark’s wife. “Excuse.”
Judy Clark smiled and extended her hand to Charbonneau and then to Sacajawea. who had risen and still stared at the beautiful dress—light, fluffy, yellow, flowing to the floor.
“Janey, this is my wife, Miss Judy. She is my woman,” said Clark proudly.
Suddenly Sacajawea was making the past come alive again. She saw ropes and towlines and thongs of tough leather weave through swirling brown waters; then she felt the almost invisible shimmers of fine mist that joined her and Chief Red Hair and this young woman. Sacajawea extended her brown hand as Charbonneau had done. Hers was roughened by work, and she tried to smile, but civilization had not yet taught her to look pleased when in truth she was far from it.
And so—my belt of blue beads traded for an otter robe to give to this woman. And so—this is the squaw Chief Red Hair named the clear, sparkling river after. The honeysuckles smelled sweet, and violets nodded on its banks, she thought.
Again Clark read Sacajawea’s thoughts. “Remember the river I named Judith?”
“If that name stands, Will,” Miss Judy said with a teasing in her voice, “it will show you that you didn’t know me any too well.”
“So,” admitted Clark, taking her hand, “so I named it the Judith River, instead of Julia. It was your nickname, Judy, that confused me.”
“There’s no harm in it—you were thinking of me,” she said, laughing.
“We’ve got to find a lodge for Janey and her son and man.”
“Will, I know just the place,” Miss Judy said quickly. “The cabin you let traders and hunters use. It’s vacant. They’ll have a roof over their head—I can help Janey fix it up.”
“W-w-what!” stuttered Clark, unable to hide his surprise. “That is just the place. I wouldn’t have thought of it. And will you show Janey how to make curtains and things?”
“Yes, yes. I want to,” Miss Judy said, kissing Clark over his left ear, after pulling him down to her height.
“Diable!” blurted Charbonneau.
“Then I’ll make arrangements for your boy to go to school, as soon—”
“But, Will,” interrupted Miss Judy, “this child is no more than three; four at the most. He’s just a baby.”
“Three and a half. But time takes care of everything. You know what I have told you. No matter what I did for Janey, I couldn’t do too much. I actually owe my position to Janey.”
Charbonneau squirmed. “No squaw’s worth that much,” he said more to himself or the floor.
Miss Judy said, “Of course, Will, you told me. I have not forgotten.”
Sacajawea felt a mixture of embarrassment, shame, and fear.
Miss Judy saw the uncertainty in Sacajawea’s face and said, “I offer my hand in friendship. I shall do all I can to make you acquainted with Saint Louis and get you settled in your cabin.” Then she did a quickstep and two swift turns, bowed low before each of the adults, and patted the top of Pomp’s head.
“You have gone daft,” said Clark, chuckling to himself. “There may be a spell on you.”
“Let’s all go and look at the cabin,” said Miss Judy, twirling once and standing at her husband’s left shoulder.
“Eh, bien!” Charbonneau stood up, charmed by the antics of Clark’s beautiful wife. “Magnifique!” He made a round circle with thumb and forefinger and blew threw it. “My Otter Woman and Tess, my other son, they are here also.”
“Where are they?” asked Clark. “You didn’t leave them outside?”
“Non, they are with Sheheke, where our baggage is.”
“You old rogue,” said Clark, not at all fooled, but much amused by the trick the métis had played on him. “We’ll get them and put them up in the cabin, too. You fox, I will educate your boy Tess. Now what do you think of that?”
“Merci, mais oui. That is nice,” said Charbonneau, feeling very cagey.
Miss Judy led the way, skipping, her body drawn fully erect and her lips parted.
The log cabin had two new windows, and the thick waxed tarp that had covered them still lay at the side. The windows were the six-pane kind, with the unpainted wood still bright against the weathered gray of adjacent split logs. Inside the door the whole place looked neat. Shelves of
new wood on the wall near the stone fireplace held dishes, and on a wider, low shelf stood buckets for water. There was a battered kitchen table and a single straight-backed chair made of birch. There was nothing else to sit on except boxes, or the hand-hewn bed, which was fastened head and side to the walls, the only post standing at the outer corner. A curtain of thin old blankets strung on wire partitioned the cabin and left about eighty percent of the space for the kitchen-living room. A wooden crate had been nailed to the wall over the table, and it contained grayish white flannel sheets and a heavy, folded fourpoint Hudson’s Bay blanket, dark blue with a black stripe at either end. Beside this box hung a huge calendar, in both French and English, showing the Saint Lawrence Valley divided into two provinces, Lower Canada (Quebec) and Upper Canada (Ontario). Over the head of the bed hung a watercolor sketch of the bleeding heart of Jesus. This lodge will take some getting use to, thought Sacajawea.
“There is plenty of wood out back,” said Clark.
Charbonneau touched the glass in a window and then went out to examine the wood ricks. “I’ll send over some buffalo meat. Be a good idea to have your women dry some so they’ll have supplies when you go trapping,” Clark said to Charbonneau. “I’d like to see you settle down and get a little patch of land. You could raisemost of your own food and maybe some sheep or cows. Be good for you. You’re not getting younger, you know.”
“I first would like to be an interpreter for some trader around here. I need to get used to this country.” Charbonneau had his head down as though he were thinking. “This is much farther south than I’m used to. I might take some land, but I don’t think I’d like raising potatoes, string beans, or les oignons.”
“Then you could try cotton,” suggested Clark, “or tobacco.”
Inside, the women were chattering about where to make sleeping pallets for the children. “The bed is fine for a man, but I would fall to the floor and so would Otter Woman,” giggled Sacajawea, who had never seen a sleeping couch so high off the floor before.
“The boys should sleep there,” suggested Miss Judy. “They ought to learn to sleep in a bed if they are going to school.”