Sacajawea (107 page)

“He’ll always stand if you do that,” Pomp reminded him. “See how that horse stays quiet over there?”

Little Tess would not answer. He watched his small brother’s tiger-limberness, and his force that lurked beneath the surface, and his dislike for him grew. Little Tess found the company of his half brother more and more disagreeable.

One afternoon, the boys went duck-hunting. They found several in a beaver dam, and Little Tess had sent his arrows through two as they sat close together, but they floated against the dam, out into the stream, some three and a half feet deep, where the current was about to carry them downstream.

Little Tess’s anxiety over the ducks caused him to pitch into the water; he crawled out slippery but triumphant. Pomp’s serious eyes rested upon his brother, a spectacle of mud-caked leather shirt and leggings, and he said nothing, except “Won’t be hardly enough for this night’s meal.” Pomp tied the birds to the saddle.

“I’ll get more,” said Little Tess, his face strangely pinched. His eyes were inky slits.

“I reckon you won’t be so lucky and stay undrowned next time,” said Pomp, handing him his bow, which he was about to leave deserted on the ground behind him. They rode to camp together in their usual silence. The inky slits fastened on Pomp.

Charbonneau looked at his mud-covered son. “Looks like the cap on your head was the one mark showed you were not a snapping-turtle.” Little Tess’s eyes, still narrow slashes, turned with his body, and he did not come into camp for supper.

“It is not right to tease the boy so much,” said Otter Woman.

“Anyone could fall into the creek. It is just good that Pomp was there to help him out,” said Sacajawea.

Charbonneau was not exempt from the mountain man’s occupational disease, rheumatism. His joints creaked, and before dawn he was up limbering his legs and arms at the fire. Every year when winter was near, he believed the water got colder.

The days shortened, and the blue of the canyon shadows deepened. They discovered a dust of snow in the meadow one morning. Another morning, ice had formedalong the edges of a stream when they checked the trap lines.

“Time to think of wintering beside the roaring fire,” said Charbonneau, sending the women back to camp with the pelts and letting the boys stay to collect the traps in preparation for heading back to Saint Louis.

Coming over a rise where the knoll was covered with fallen sycamore logs and low-bush sage, they saw a cow elk standing alongside a log with her back to them.

“If we brought her into camp, our man would have no trouble finding something for supper,” said Otter Woman.

The cow was as big as a young steer and quite awkward-looking. Her hams were patched with a thin yellow color. Sacajawea thought, if she runs, I will laugh because those patches will jerk back and forth so stiff and idiotic-looking. Maybe she was put here for some joke, because there is nothing so funny about an elk’s ability to cover ground. The cow took one squint over her shoulder at the two women and, without any backing for a start or other preparation of any kind, jumped over the log sideways, came down facing them, and hightailed it off into the brush with her hindquarters working like pale yellow streamers in a fast wind. Sacajawea and Otter Woman laughed until Otter Woman began coughing and had to sit down before she could stop.

“A person has to be badly crippled to starve in this place,” said Sacajawea, still laughing.

“Or own a couple of foolish women,” grumbled Charbonneau, who had come along beside them with his rifle loaded.

The women packed the beaver skins and the tepee and strapped them on the back of the packhorse. It was their job to keep the pelts dry in case of rain, to dry them if they got wet, and to safeguard them on the trail. They would stop at the post again and press the packs into compact bales of about a hundred pounds apiece with a machine. Some small posts rigged up contraptions of logs and stones to compress the packs.

While Charbonneau went back to help the boys find the traps, Sacajawea picked up the French harp andplayed; Otter Woman laughed and danced until again she began coughing.

Sacajawea played and danced. Otter Woman doubled over, trying to catch her breath, not knowing whether to laugh or cough. Just at that moment Charbonneau came into camp, sooner than the women had expected him. He threw down the two clanking traps he carried.

“Squaw, give me that!” He wiped the mouth organ off on his trousers and swung Sacajawea around by one of her braids. “No
femme
of mine is touching my harp. Stay out of my gear!” He pushed her against a tree and swung his big moccasined foot at her. He missed and swore in French.

“But—I have done nothing, really. Nothing to hurt you.” Sacajawea could see that his blood was up.

“Lie down,” he ordered. “Or I will shoot you.” He pulled his rifle from where it stood against the tree and drew it to his shoulder. Sacajawea obeyed and crawled to the ground. Charbonneau dropped the rifle and grabbed some rawhide thongs used for tying the packs. He tied her hands. He then tied a long thong to the saddle on his horse. He pulled up the reins so that the horse might walk or run, whichever he fancied. All the while, Otter Woman stared as Charbonneau swore he would shoot if Sacajawea moved. He groped for his rifle, shouldered it, and watched the horse begin to graze. Sacajawea was dragged behind in the fashion of a travois. Charbonneau seemed to enjoy that as fun. Sacajawea stood it as long as she could; but soon it became unbearable, and she screamed for Otter Woman to untie her. Otter Woman stood as if frozen, looking from Sacajawea to Charbonneau, unable to say anything.

Sacajawea was immediately ashamed of her cry. She knew that it would only goad her man to leave her tied longer behind the horse.

Otter Woman was stiff with fright. If she helped Sacajawea, Charbonneau might make her lie down and be tied to the horse, too, or he might whip her with leather thongs for interfering. He was the master. He did what he wanted, and the women obeyed. She had learned to submit, to be a slave. It was better to watch in fear and horror than to be tortured. It was better tomuffle a cry, than to be beaten by the hands of this man.

Ancient memories seeped into Sacajawea’s brain and shielded her flesh from pain. In her mind she saw a young brave with a quiet face. His hands were tied to a high stake where he was swung around and around, his feet not able to touch the ground. He spoke of good hunting while heavy weights were tied to his feet, his face always calm.

Sacajawea did not permit herself to ask when her man would free her. No tears came to her eyes, no other sound from her lips. Then she heard another command.

“Umbea,
Mother, get up.”

She pulled up her hands slowly and felt they were free. She pulled herself up; she did not cry or limp as she walked. Needles were in her flesh, which screamed to her silently. Her brain was numbed, but it woke and she could hear the words of Chief Red Hair speaking to Charbonneau, “If you mistreat Janey, I’ll see she leaves you.” She smiled inside herself; she had a friend.

“Come here, Mother.” Pomp and Otter Woman rubbed her with bear’s oil. Her raw flesh burned. She tasted blood in her mouth, where she had bitten the tongue that made an outcry—a hateful tongue that would try to dishonor her.

“Mother, it is good Little Tess and I came into camp right away.”

Now she stood still, savoring a feeling of bravery, feeling the pain absorbed into a deep, dark sense of well-being. The small boys had not seen her flinch nor heard her cry out. Pomp had cut her hand bonds. Little Tess shrugged and sauntered off.

Pomp’s short legs leaped after him in one noiseless bound, like a mountain cat’s. He spoke quickly in Shoshoni. His hard
k
sounds drummed like hail on a tin roof. “I say my mother must never be treated like that again. You are a coward if you walk away from her.”

“Ai”
replied Little Tess thoughtfully, speaking in English now. Then with one strong brown hand he reached out swiftly and gave Pomp’s yellow shell necklace a fast, strong jerk and a twist. The gesture was at once an insult and a threat. “I say—” Suddenly Little

Tess stopped. He opened his mouth, and there issued from it a sound so unearthly as to freeze the blood of anyone within hearing. It was a sound between the crazy laugh of a loon and the howl of a wolf. It was the death howl of the Shoshonis, taught him by Sacajawea, who had said that when a brave howled in that manner it meant destruction to anyone in his path.

Pomp’s face turned a dough gray, and he stepped away from his brother, who ran like a streak of brown buckskin behind the nearest clump of trees and vanished.

“Parbleu!
That’ll learn you not to be blowing in my harp when I’m not around.” Charbonneau spat at the ground, his face dark.

They had an evening meal of boiled beaver tail and tea. Darkness circled the trees and grew up over them. The distant hills slipped away. The fire of green Cottonwood burned slow. Charbonneau tossed under his blanket. Little Tess reappeared with light steps and lay at the edge of the campfire, his eyes dull, dead black. Soon he was sleeping.

It was early January when the Charbonneau family returned to Saint Louis. The first big snow of winter held them in the snug cabin for several days before Charbonneau could get out to sell his pelts to Chouteau. Otter Woman’s cough had become worse.

Sacajawea hunted barks and dug roots, which she boiled together in a small iron pot for Otter Woman. The potion was black and extremely bitter. Otter Woman complained as Sacajawea squatted on her haunches to see that she drank it. The herb mixture sent a warm glow of relaxation and sleepiness through Otter Woman, so she slept the night away despite chilling winds, sleet, or snow. The boys went on short hunting excursions with their father. Sacajawea stayed behind to care for Otter Woman, who breathed hard at the slightest exertion.

In the spring, Sacajawea coaxed Charbonneau to see General Clark about some land. She hoped Charbonneau would try his hand at farming. She thought that way he would be back at the cabin more often and wouldsee that Otter Woman needed the help of a white medicine man — maybe even the famed Dr. Saugrain.

“If we were back in the village of Metaharta, the Medicine Man would know what to do. I would not have this cough,” said Otter Woman. “I wish Charbonneau would take us back up the Big Muddy.”

“You are not fit for travel,” chided Sacajawea.

During the summer, Otter Woman gained little strength. Her back and legs were weak, and when she struggled to her feet, she walked with much difficulty.

When fall came, Charbonneau said,
“Femme,
if it is land you want, I’ll get what is coming to me from Générale Clark. Then we’ll see if we can make it at farming. Maybe the boys will be in school, and I ought to stick around here some.”

This should have made Sacajawea happy, yet she was still worried about Otter Woman’s health. Miss Judy had sent Dr. Saugrain twice, but he only shook his gray head, mumbling something about Indian squaws not being cut out to live as whites and breathe the germs for which they had no ready-made immunity. Sacajawea could not understand him. He was brusque and did not wish to visit or drink the tea she offered. He did leave a medicine that quieted Otter Woman nearly as well as the black bitter-herb potion. Sacajawea thought it was made from laudanum because it was so similar to the sleeping medicine Clark had used on the trail west. When Sacajawea asked about it, Dr. Saugrain squinted his beady eyes and puffed out his cheeks, mumbling again about dumb, half-educated squaws.

On October 30, 1810, Toussaint Charbonneau purchased a tract of land on the Missouri in Saint Ferdinand Township from Clark. Charbonneau tried to build himself a cabin on this land with the help of his two women. But summer had passed, and the chilled air made work go slowly. Wild geese winged south in crying wedges. The nights when the ducks clattered in the river, and the dawns when the whooping cranes rose in clouds from their feeding in the lowlands, had passed. Fires swept across the prairies, transforming the dun color of autumn into a black waste.

Now the prairie was covered with a thin layer ofwhite snow. The Charbonneau family found itself in a leather tepee the whole winter. The boys were unruly and fought together. Otter Woman complained of smoke and drafts. She wanted to move back to the trappers’ cabin at the edge of Clark’s property in Saint Louis. She seemed discontented and at the same time uncomfortable, like a sick person who cannot find an easy way to rest. She played the plum-pit game with the boys to keep them from squabbling. Sacajawea noticed that she tired quickly and seemed to forget what she was saying. She seemed to be moving into the spirit world.

One day Otter Woman said abruptly to Little Tess, “You’ll like the people in Metaharta. Aren’t you going to learn to hunt for the village?”

“Ai”
said Little Tess, thinking that he must be crazy to answer such a ridiculous question. He wasn’t going to hunt for any Indian village. He was going to learn the trapping trade.

“How much can you bring in before the snow closes in on the entire village?”

“Umbea,
Mother,” Little Tess said, exasperated, “you can see I’m not a hunter yet. We do not live in any Indian village. You said yourself, earlier this morning, that I was going to school in the white man’s village. What is the matter with you?”

“I remember your father years ago. He didn’t always want to hunt for our lodge either.” Otter Woman stared straight ahead and breathed through her mouth.

“Those were the old days,” he said looking at Pomp, who made the hand sign to indicate that Otter Woman was tired and needed to rest.

“You will have to look for your helper among the animals. Some animal that you can call on when you need help in a good hunt.” Otter Woman clumsily shook the plum pits in her hands. She then held them and seemed to forget she was playing a game with the boys.

“Where do I look for a helper?”

“It’s up to you. You have to seek it. It’s there and you have to know which animal it is that wants to help you. That is only natural. It’s up to you.”