In The Face Of Death (22 page)

When he was once again deeply lost in sleep, she left the way she had come, satisfied but unfulfilled.

With the Choctaw, 7 July, 1858

Two letters today, and another three chests of my native earth.

Saint-Germain has written to me from Bavaria to tell me that he is going to London again, to settle business there. It is wonderful to know what he is doing; I miss him with all the strength of my love for him. . . . He tells me that copies of my second monograph have been well-received and he is eager to see the next; he is proud of what I have done. . . . He went to the premiere of a new opera by Verdi at La Fenice in Venice, a work called
Simon Boccanegra
which he says was not much applauded. How strange it seems to me, attending opera premieres and going to museums, though I enjoy such things. Now I think it must have been a lifetime ago that I did such things, though it is less than a decade. In time I will want to do these things again, but at present they seem an encumbrance, an obstacle to learning. . . .

The second letter brings me the funds I have requested, and the news that Tecumseh is no longer in San Francisco, that he has left the bank for other work. I wonder what has become of him? I can sense discontentment in him, but that has always been with him, as have his dark moods. It is not surprising that his restlessness finally prevailed. . . .

Simon Wright has agreed to review all my notes on the Choctaw, and if he is satisfied, he will permit me to contact some of the small communities of his people still living in Louisiana, Alabama, Mississippi and Georgia, so that I may see how they keep to the old ways. That would be an accomplishment.

Sarah Greentree looked up from her weaving and nodded to Madelaine. That done, she resumed her task as if nothing had passed between them. It was a mild autumn day, with enough of a chill in the air that both women wore jackets, Madelaine’s in wool, Sarah’s in antelope hide.

“Sarah,” Madelaine said, coming nearer to her, yet not so near that it would insult the woman; she spoke in Choctaw, “I know you have been told not to speak with me. I know the leaders have insisted on it. I wish you would tell me why, because it baffles me that I should learn from the men and not the women.”

“It is not the wish of my husband,” said Sarah quietly in English, her eyes fixed on her work.

“But why is that?” Madelaine persisted.

“You must ask him,” said Sarah, her English becoming more accented than when she first spoke.

“I have, and he will explain nothing,” Madelaine said, not liking to admit she was troubled by this refusal.

“Your ways are strange to us,” said Sarah, clearly determined to end the conversation.

Madelaine moved nearer, looking at how quickly and expertly Sarah worked her loom. “But yours are strange to me, and I want to learn from you, so that the strangeness will lessen, and our understanding grow.”

“It is not the wish of my husband,” Sarah insisted a second time. “I will obey him.”

“Yes, I know that,” said Madelaine with asperity. “But why does he refuse to permit me to learn from you?”

“If he will not tell you, I will say nothing.” She stared once at Madelaine. “Some of the old women on the old lands might talk to you, those whose husbands have died. But no woman here will.” With that she resumed her weaving with silent determination.

“I will speak with your husband,” said Madelaine, and expected no response.

“He will not tell you,” said Sarah unexpectedly. “It is not advisable to ask.”

“Perhaps not,” Madelaine responded to lessen Sarah’s discomfort, “but I will speak with him nonetheless.”

With the Choctaw, 5 March, 1859

It is growing more difficult to remain here, for there is burgeoning tension within the Nation concerning affairs in the United States. Some of the Choctaw fear that the opportunity for the Nation to become the Choctaw State rather than a portion of Indian Territory is slipping away from them as debate in the United States over States’ rights becomes increasingly heated, though Minnesota has been admitted to the union and I am told Oregon is about to be, in fact, may have been by now and word of it has not reached us. . . .

Joseph Greentree has advised me to take the offer Simon Wright has made and go to the communities of Choctaw in the United States, to Louisiana and Mississippi, perhaps. From any of those States it would be possible for me to depart for Europe, which Joseph Greentree recommends I do, for he fears that war is coming, though the others disagree. . . . While I do not wish to leave with so much more to learn, I know that it would not be wise to remain much longer, not only for my own sake, but for the sake of these good people, who have got a rift in their Nation now that seems insurmountable, separating those who support the union from those who support the rights of States over those of the union. If the debate among the Americans is half as intense as it is here with the Choctaw, it could prove more difficult to resolve than most hope it will be.

I still have not been given a reason why it is wrong for me to speak to the women, only that the traditions will not allow it. Joseph has repeated what Sarah told me, that perhaps one of the widows in the old land will be minded to break with tradition and discuss the women’s lore with me. It would be more easily done here, where I am known and trusted to a point, but it may not be possible. I want to respect the traditions, but I also want to have the information. Thus the dilemma of the scholar. . . .

Now that Allan Riverman has taken a wife once more, I do not visit him at night. And while I am saddened that our meetings are ended, I hope that the time will come when I will again meet a man who is willing to know my true nature and love me without the aid of dreams. . . .

“Your notification to your bank will be sent with the next courier, along with your instructions for shipping your goods back to France.” said Joseph Greentree as he helped Madelaine finish the last of her packing. “This is not man’s work,” he remarked for the third time.

“But you offered to do it,” Madelaine reminded him. “And I thank you for it.”

“You will not tell anyone I have done it, will you?” His eyes smiled, though his mouth remained stern. “Especially not Sarah.”

“She would not believe me if I did,” said Madelaine seriously, and saw his slight, single nod of agreement.

A short while later, Joseph Greentree said, “My brother Luke will take good care of you. He is an experienced guide, and he knows where all our people are who remain in the old lands. He goes there often and knows which ways are the most safe. You may trust him with your life, for he would not dishonor our hospitality by taking you into danger.” He allowed her to pour him a cup of coffee, the last gesture of friendship she would make in this house. “I have to admit it will be odd to have you gone. Many of us have grown used to you being with us, asking questions. You have made us think of things we might not otherwise have considered.” He put his hands around the mug she offered, and looked down into the hot, dark liquid. “There are few things the white men have brought us that are as pleasant as coffee.”

“To the white man’s shame,” said Madelaine with feeling.

“No; it is not for shame, it is for ignorance, which they will not admit. White men are quick to feel shame and to be angered because of it. That is one of the reasons many of our leaders do not trust them.” He patted the table left in the main room.

“How strange that you should call white men
them
to me,” Madelaine said with a rush of pride. She had succeeded as she had hoped she would, after all.

“Well, it is not wrong, is it?” He cocked his head as he waited for her answer.

“How do you mean?” she asked, realizing that he intended more than he told her. “What is it, Joseph?”

He did not respond directly. “There are sometimes animals born white, when all the rest are the color of earth. They are noted for this, and we do not hunt them, for fear of bringing too much of their medicine upon us, for they are sent to make the spirit known. It is not fitting that such creatures should die.” He took a long sip of coffee. “Some similar things happen with men, from time to time. Or so the old tales teach us.”

“Yes,” Madelaine agreed carefully.

“And those who are born white like the animals are more comfortable in the night, under the stars, whose color they share.” He patted one of the chests that contained her native earth. “And they are often more closely held by the land, are they not? They are part of it and not part of it, of it and beyond it. And it is the same with certain people, as well.”

Madelaine could think of nothing to say. She nodded once, slowly, wondering what Joseph Greentree would add, if anything.

Eventually he finished his coffee and put it aside, and then he indicated the door. “Come. It is time you were leaving.”

Leaving the Choctaw Nation, Indian Territory, 14 October, 1859

I am beginning to appreciate how kind Joseph Greentree was in sending his younger brother Luke to serve as my principal escort and guide, though there are three other men accompanying us. It is enough of an escort to convince the Choctaw that I will not be dishonored or come to harm. My first traveling with these men has gone well, I think. Luke Greentree has a remarkably detailed memory, and his ability to find our way through what appears to me to be trackless countryside is astonishing. Like many of the Choctaw Luke Greentree is a man of few words, and I suspect he does not approve of what I have been doing among his people, for I assume he is afraid that I will show no lasting respect for the traditions of his people. However, he is more suspicious of Reverend Sampson, which gives me hope. . . .

My single regret is that I was not able to learn from the Choctaw women directly, so that all the information I have on them has come second-hand. The decision to keep me from speaking directly with the women has remained firm against all persuasion. I will hope to have another opportunity to learn of them before all the old knowledge is subsumed by the teachings of missionaries, so that all the traditions are shifted and altered to fit the demands of the preachers.

In two weeks we will cross the Father of Waters to Memphis, in Tennessee, which I do not look forward to. They would have chosen a less obvious place, but they have agreed to do this for my benefit. I have asked that I be allowed to lie down while we are on the water, and said that arrangements must be made for this, though I gather it is inconvenient. I have claimed that the motion of the current makes me ill, which is not as far from the truth as I would like. . . . Luke and his three companions regard this as ludicrous, but as I am a European woman, they will do what they can to indulge me in my caprice, which is something. . . .

THE TENNESSEE RIVER

AND CUMBERLAND PLATEAU

Memphis, Tennessee, 23 November, 1859

Today I purchased three more horses to replace those we left on the western bank of the Mississippi; the breed is called Foxtrotters and they are valued for their stamina and the rapid gait which gives them their name. I also bought two large mules with tack, to augment those we have already for our journey eastward along the Tennessee River; I was warned that it might be difficult to buy more of this or any mount but a plow-horse in a month or so, not only because winter is coming but because there are many Southerners who do not want to sell anything to foreigners for fear it will aid the Yankees. There is much speculation about the Yankees, and consensus is that they are not to be trusted, for they are sly and clever and they are said to want to ruin the South. I am at a loss to know how the purchase of two or three animals would make any significant difference in this dispute, but I will take the warning to heart. . . .

Luke Greentree wants to be away the day after tomorrow, once we have finished restocking our provisions. This evening he warned me against wearing my trousers here, telling me I will give the white settlers offence if I do not wear skirts, no matter how much of an encumbrance they may be. I know of these biases, but I find it difficult to take them seriously. Nevertheless I suppose I must put on petticoats once again, little as I wish to, and climb back onto a sidesaddle.

This town is all caught up in reports of a tragic incident at Harper’s Ferry in Virginia: it appears that an abolitionist named John Brown, with a small company of followers, took over an armory there to protest the continued legality of slavery. They held the place for three or four days, to the anger of the townspeople. He and his followers were captured after a company of U. S. Marines under a Colonel Lee overpowered them a few days later. As I understand it, they are now to stand trial for treason against the State of Virginia. Sentiments here are for hanging, though apparently many abolitionists feel Brown should be released, and a few regard him as a martyr to the abolitionist cause. . . .

I have received a letter of credit from Lucas and Turner, brought very quickly from St. Louis, telling me the current state of my account and providing such traveling funds as I may need. They tell me they are shifting my funds to another bank in Brooklyn, New York, in case there should be war; apparently they are doing this service for many of their larger depositors. While I doubt it will come to open hostilities, I can see it would be sensible to transfer the account, and have sent the necessary authorizations.

My new dresses will be delivered tomorrow, since fashions have changed while I have been with the Choctaw. The skirts are now more voluminous than two years ago, and the waists more tightly nipped with corsets; sleeves are often tiered, which is most impractical for my endeavors, but I have seen women at all sorts of tasks in these new fashions, so I suppose I will learn in time. Day dresses show less shoulder and bosom, but the evening gowns are nearly as revealing as those of eight years ago, and done in opulent fabrics. I will not have any ball gowns, of course, but there are three riding habits and two day dresses and a dinner gown with a second crinoline for special occasions. These clothes are not as heavy as I would like for winter, but when summer comes, I doubt I will complain. I do not relish having to accustom myself to these changes, but I suppose I must, at least to some extent. . . .

Rain whipped the trees to bending submission as the little party wound their way along the slope above the small river Luke Greentree called the Daughter of Rainbows; it was no more than mid-afternoon but the day was already darkening as the clouds massed over the vault of the sky, jostled along by the wind. Madelaine and her escort had left Memphis behind two days ago, but their progress had been slowed as the weather worsened, and now, with a storm driving up from the southeast, they were still barely twenty miles from the city, near the little lumber town of Gazette.

“Madame,” Luke Greentree called back to her through the rain, “I think it would be best to take shelter for the night. It will only get worse as the day fades, and we might not reach Bradley’s Station before nightfall.”

“You may be right,” said Madelaine, her face all but aching from the pounding of the rain. “Is there a place in that town below where one may rent a room for the night, do you know?”

“There is an inn, for those traveling to and from Memphis; it has ten rooms, as I remember,” said Luke Greentree, pulling his horse to a halt and motioning to the rest to stop. “You could stay there, though they do not like catering to women alone. It is a dangerous thing for women to do, traveling alone. We will find a place at the livery stable.”

Madelaine shook her head and the water from her hood ran down her neck and into the high collar of her riding habit, making her shiver. “I don’t understand why it is that such restrictions are placed upon you,” she said, although it was not wholly true, for she had seen enough of white contempt for Indians that she felt embarrassed for her race.

“I do not like inns. They are too closed in,” said Luke Greentree. “It is better that we sleep in stalls tonight.”

“With your horses?” said Madelaine, though she already knew the answer.

“Yes. So they will be there in the morning, and no questions asked.” He spoke without inflection, but it was apparent that he knew of old the practice some stable-keepers made of taking Indian horses and claiming them as their own, since the Indians did not brand their mounts. “These are white horses, and they might leave them alone.” He did not sound very confident.

“If you think it best,” said Madelaine, her dismay concealed unsuccessfully. “I will abide by your choice.”

“It is not you who would take our horses. You bought them; they would not sell us such mounts as these if you had not paid for them,” said Luke Greentree, knowing what bothered her.

“And I have the bill-of-sale along with a record of their brands, not that these men would pay much attention to a woman, if they were determined to steal the horses,” said Madelaine with a trace of bitterness. She let her own argument convince her. “Very well, I will take your advice and do as you suggest, for all our protection. Lead the way.” She thought that it would not be easy to get down the slope in the wet. “At the walk.”

“Yes,” agreed Luke Greentree, with a glance at Madelaine’s sidesaddle. “It would not be safe for you to go faster.”

“It
is
a ridiculous thing,” Madelaine agreed. “But if we are to go among white people, it is necessary.” She disliked the way she sounded, too proper and stuffy, so she added, “Another foolishness.”

“That it is,” agreed Luke Greentree, and started his strong clay-bank chestnut Foxtrotter down the shoulder of the hill, zig-zagging to keep from sliding into the trees.

It was not easy for Madelaine to keep up with him; her balance in her sidesaddle was more precarious for her and her mahogany-chestnut Foxtrotter, and the constant shifting made her legs ache. She longed to be back in trousers, with legs on both sides of her horse and a good strong hold with her lower legs. But that would not be acceptable to the good people of Tennessee, and she knew it. She resigned herself to the discomfort of her ride, and struggled to keep up with the Choctaws.

As they reached the outskirts of the little town, an old man with a forty-year-old Pauly double-barreled sporting-gun came out of the nearest building, ordering them to halt. “Or I’ll shoot you all, like the varmints you are. Don’t come no nearer, any of you redskins.” He wore a wide-brimmed hat that shed rain over his shoulders. He hoisted his sporting-gun to his shoulder and made a show of sighting down the double-barrel.

“We’re looking for a place to stay the night, a safe place out of the rain, so the horses can dry off,” said Luke Greentree, one hand up, the other controlling his mount.

“Not here you’re not,” the old man insisted, seeming to be about to fire. “Move along, all of you.”

Madelaine pushed her horse to the front of the group. “It would be a kindness,” she said as if there were no danger from the old man. “We have been traveling all day.”

The old man stared. “What in tarnation?” He lowered his sporting-gun and peered at Madelaine as if he did not trust what he saw. “Come nearer. Let me have a look at you.”

Obediently Madelaine nudged her gelding ahead and stopped him less than six feet from the old man. “I am Madelaine de Montalia, from France,” she said as cordially as she could. “These good Choctaw are my escort. They have brought me safely all the way from Indian Territory, and will guide me to Charleston, where I intend to take ship for Amsterdam.”

“You said yourself you’re no Dutch woman.” He hefted his sporting-gun once again. “And what’s a white woman doing in the company of redskins, anyway?”

“I am French, as I told you. But my blood relatives are in Holland, where they went during the Revolution, and I will return there to join them once again.” It was near enough to the truth that Madelaine knew it was a plausible tale; many French had fled their country during the Terror seventy years before.

“Oh. One of
them.”
He made a point of mulling over what she had told him.
“Well, it’s right peculiar, you coming here with Indians and all, but I suppose, you being French
. . . .”
He trailed off.

“Thank you,” said Madelaine and taking advantage of his confusion, said, “I understand there’s an inn here.”

The old man hitched one thumb to indicate the main street. “Fifth house along on the right after the lumber mill, two stories. You can’t miss it—has a sign with a rooster on it.” He regarded the Indians suspiciously, his gunbarrels angling upward. “Four all there are?”

“Four men and four mules,” said Madelaine, indicating the pack animals they led. “I own the mules and the horses.” She said this last, recalling Luke Greentree’s warning.

The old man showed his opinion by hawking and spitting. “They won’t take savages at the inn.”

“We will stay with our animals,” said Luke Greentree with an irony the old man did not appreciate.

“Well, see that you do,” he said, and retreated back into the plain storefront building he had emerged from.

“They were more reasonable in Memphis,” said Madelaine as she put her horse to the walk again. “If you will stop at the inn first, I will make arrangements for a room, and for a meal to be provided to you.” With the amount of money she now carried in the lining of her corset, she supposed she could buy the inn, and the livery stable as well, without putting herself at a disadvantage; meals and shelter should be no trouble to purchase.

Luke Greentree said nothing, but his bearing became straighter. “You are good to us. My brother said you would be.”

“That is high praise, indeed,” said Madelaine with great sincerity as she watched for the inn with its sign of a cock. Little as she wanted to admit it, she was looking forward to resting, somewhere dry and warm.

Moulton, Alabama, 7 January, 1860

We arrived at this place on Big Nance Creek, which flows north to the Tennessee River, two nights ago, amid the worst sleet I can remember in decades, though I am told it is not uncommon in this part of the State. We found a family here who were willing to take us in for a reasonable fee. They have even allowed the Choctaw to stay in the house, albeit in the slaves’ quarters, where there is room for six and they have but two; the quarters have a stove in one room only.

The family is named Montgomery; there are seven of them: Lamont and Auralene, with his spinster sister Mary Anne living with them, and the four children: Bethune, 11; Russell, 8; Pansy
7;
and Clifford, 3. Mary Anne has been serving the town as schoolteacher and librarian, tasks which are not entirely to her liking but she says that in Alabama, a woman without a fortune and having a prominent facial birthmark such as she has must make her way as best she can without a husband.

This house is one of the three fanciest in this little town, which is not saying a great deal, and the Montgomerys are one of the most important families in the town, and have been here for more than forty years. Mary Anne said that the only reason we were given shelter in this town is because Lamont feels a debt of gratitude to the Choctaw for saving his father’s life, thirty years ago. Most people in Moulton and the towns in this region do not like or tolerate Indians and would refuse to house them no matter what the weather, but the Montgomerys are not so unkind, which is why Luke Greentree brought us here, or so I suppose.

On another front, Luke Greentree informs me that we will not be able to reach a small group of Choctaw living deep in the hills to the south of here until the weather improves, which may mean spending the winter here. It is unfortunate that we cannot continue on at once, but I know that the next six to eight weeks are apt to be hard. I will try to contain my restlessness and turn the time to good purpose.

Though the fire was roaring in the little Franklin stove, the schoolhouse was unpleasantly chilly; it was the first time it had been opened in more than two weeks. Now that the storm was over and the roads marginally passable, class would be resumed. Mary Anne put her books on her desk and pointed to the chalkboard behind her. “My brother bought this for the school. He had to go all the way to Chattanooga to get it.” She turned her face away so that her smile would not be marred by the strawberry mark the size of her palm that dominated most of the right side of her face. “I can’t tell you how grateful I am to you for agreeing to talk to my students. They have so little opportunity to expand their knowledge beyond these mountains.”

“It is my pleasure,” said Madelaine.

“France is exciting enough for me,” said Mary Anne. “But to think that you have been to Egypt, and you so young. What that must have been like.” There was a wistful expression in her eyes, and another, less generous emotion.