Sacajawea (67 page)

Chief Twisted Hair and Tetoharsky laughed, making suggestive finger signs and urging the chief to accept York’s proposal. Soon all the villagers understood what York had suggested. It appealed to them. This was much better than giving the white men something—they would have something to keep and show off. They knew the principles of eugenics; they practiced it with fine horse breeding. York was tall, broad shouldered, thick chested, and his arm and leg muscles were hard as cedar wood. His offspring, either male or female, would improve the tribe. Any eligible woman would be honored and proud to have a child by this magnificent, healthy specimen.

The chief finally leaped beside the dancing York. He shouted a kind of rhythmic chant and moved with wild gyrations, and slapped his thighs and rubbed York’s arms to show his tribesmen that the black did not come off.

The women formed a circle behind the men and danced heel, toe, heel, toe. A few threw their heads back and moaned, low and guttural.

York continued his dance, moving his hips in a manner Lewis thought risqué. He smiled and showed his even, white teeth. He flashed his eyes daringly. He looked at the undulating circle of women and wondered which ones belonged to the chief. A couple of men sat in the sand close to Sacajawea and other members of the expedition and pounded on skin drums held between their legs. Their moving hands and fingers were a blur to York, who was now fearful he would choose a woman not belonging to the head chief, and that this whole scheme would blow up into a fighting riot. York’s mouth felt dry. He glanced at the chief who grinned and bounced his hands off his thighs. York shrugged his shoulders and pointed to the women’s circle, meaning, “Which woman would you have me take?”

The chief was not stupid. He pointed to his middle woman, who up until now had given him no children. All the women were pleased and there could be no jealousy or bickering over the chiefs choice. York jogged toward the woman, put his big hands on her bared shoulders, and led her to the center of the circle. He pulled her close to him and the Nez Percé moaned in unison. He pushed her away at arm’s length and did a little jig. The Nez Percé groaned together again. After a short time the drums increased the tempo. York felt the perspiration run in streams down his back; his breath came in short gasps. Suddenly he picked up the woman and cradled her in his arms like a small child. He walked around the inside of the ring of brown, laughing faces, then he broke through and walked around the outside of the ring. All the time he grinned. The woman’s arm was tight around his neck and he felt her fingers in his hair. She gave a sharp tug to the right. Baby, he thought, now that I’m worked up for it, you’ve just shown me the way to your lodge.

The circle of women broke with squeals of delight as York carried the woman through the skin covering of the reed and brush shelter. Captain Clark sighed with relief, glad to have his nose left unpierced. Drouillard, his hands sweaty, said he was grateful to York for volunteering for this act of bravery. Gibson gave out a low, wolfs call. The other men began to relax and rub their unmarked noses in thankful relief. Several older women stood in front of the lodge where York and the woman had disappeared, shouting words of encouragement and making jokes of the coarsest kind: “Is the penis black?” “Is it too large for the hole?” “Move slowly!” The villagers roared with laughter.

Drouillard tried to translate, but his neck turned crimson and he tended to stutter. The more clinical the advice and joking became, the more hilarious it seemed to the Nez Percé. They rolled in the sand with gales of laughter. Embarrassed, Drouillard gave up, saying, “You know, the drift is all sex.”

The Medicine Man in goat skins made hand signs to tell the two captains he wanted them to eat with him. Lewis had noticed some women bring bark platters of food and reed mats from the lodges, placing them in the center of the dance area. They were standing back, waiting for the men to eat first. When the men sat in the sand beside the mats, more platters of freshly roasted salmon and boiled dog meat garnished with wild onion were brought out.

The men began to transfer their animal excitement to the eating of meat. Only Charbonneau mumbled that he wished he were in York’s shoes.

“Why?” asked Pat Gass. “His shoes are there in the sand. I bet they’re too big.”

Charbonneau pushed his bottom lip out. “I mean …”

“Sure, we know what you meant,” said Gass, laughing. “But, man, you got yourself a woman. That’s more than York or any of us on this here trip.”

Charbonneau picked a string of meat from between two molars and leaned over to say confidentially, “Might as well have no
femme.
Shoshoni squaws stay away from connection until the papoose he is one year or stops nursing. Which comes first?” He paused and noticed that not only Gass was listening, but also Gibson and Drouillard, so he continued, “Holy Mother, Nez Percé
femme
are appetizing when one has big hunger.” He licked the grease on his mouth.

“Hey, control yourself,” said Gass, slapping Charbonneau on the back. “Do you want little Canucks scattered all along these river villages? What would your woman think? You got Pomp, and he’s the handsomest papoose I ever saw.”

“Zut!”
answered Charbonneau, reaching for a leftover piece of salmon and stuffing it in his mouth, then wiping his hands in his hair, Indian-fashion. “Look at me! I am a man.
J’ai besoin de plaisir.”

By the next morning, Captain Lewis was feeling nearly back to normal, and the expedition left the river village early in their five canoes. The morning was still dark, and the stars were bright. The village came to say their farewells. Some of the villagers held torches made of dried salmon. This made the shadows monstrous. Dogs whimpered and yelped occasionally, and Scannon growled. The men with the torches looked for York, then bent to look at his reflection in the inky mirror of water, their bodies luminous with fish oil. They murmured their approval when they saw his reflection as clearly as their own. He was surely one of them. They patted and rubbed his arms and back. He was something great.

Other men dashed into the water and lifted the loaded canoes, heading them downriver with a mighty push. The people on the bank shouted as the canoes shot past the village. To Sacajawea the dugout again leaped ahead with some mysterious life just as she was adjusting her sitting position with Pomp on her back. She was flung backward into Charbonneau’s lap. Charbonneau’s short arms, like the whipping branches of a tree, pushed her forward into York’s back, who turned around and gave a triumphant, challenging laugh. Sacajawea caught the gunwales as, once again, the canoe seemed to tear itself from the water with the force of the paddles.

Another cry from the men in the canoes behind, and York turned and shouted back. York’s neck swelled, and the veins stood out in his temple as he opened his mouth and roared excitedly.

On the beach the crowd waved, and up on the bluff four torches smoked in silent circles. The sky was brightening. The Snake River, a sheet of silver behind, swept at right angles, curved, and was lost to view in the gloom. Then they entered a series of canyons and gorges. The towering mountains closed in, and at their stony feet the water was black. The water had seemed calm in the little bay. As they went downriver, the waves became heavy under a wind that was blowing along with them.
⁴

Charbonneau could not wait to talk to York. “How was she?” he asked. “Was she good? Did she bounce up and down or did she just lie there?”

“She was good,” York replied. “Her man was at the foot of the robe with us, and her mother and sister were in the lodge. They all laid down and pretended to be asleep, but all ears were wide open. I’se can’t say it really helped my performance. On the other hand, it didn’t stop me.”

“Oooh,” Charbonneau said, rolling his eyes,
“plaisant.”

Captain Clark attributed the friendliness of the river tribes to the presence of Sacajawea. He wrote in his journal:
“We
find she reconciles all the Indians as to our friendly intentions, a woman with a party of men is a token of peace.”

Excerpt from p. 273 in
Lewis and Clark: Partners in Discovery
by John Bakeless. Copyright 1947 by John Bakeless. By permission of William Morrow and Company.

E
ach day the group of Nez Percés that followed along the riverbanks changed. These groups helped pilot the canoes through rapids and rocks. The canoe in which Sacajawea rode, with Drouillard as bow man, struck a large rock and overturned. Some of the trade goods were lost. The water was waist-deep, and they walked the canoe to the shore and picked up the baggage to dry out. After that, the canisters with gunpowder, food, and gear were tied in the canoes, along with the rifles and blanket rolls.

All the Nez Percés remained friendly, always ready to make gifts of their dried salmon and talk with the captains through Drouillard. The men found no game on the shore. The terrain was mostly sand, with a few sagebrush growing here and there, which was not good firewood. The expedition often traded with the Nez Percés for a few dry sticks or bought dried salmon for their cook fires. Soon they came to country that was even more open, with no hills or obstruction to an equally featureless horizon that was hazy now with fog. Chief Twisted Hair pointed out that soon the land would become dense with trees and river travel would become more difficult because of large rocks and fast water.

Four days after Drouillard’s canoe capsized, another canoe was driven crosswise by the current and hit a rock. Waves dashed over the canoe and it was filled. The crew held the sinking canoe until another was unloaded on shore and sent to pick up the men and drag the heavy, waterfilled canoe ashore. Despite the careful lashing down of the gear, some shot pouches and tomahawks were lost. One of the Nez Percés from the nearby tribe swam out and rescued two floating paddles.

Nat Pryor and Si Goodrich found some split timber, parts of some old Nez Percé Council House, buried under large rocks. There was no more wood in sight. Captain Clark argued with himself for a time before using the timber for firewood, because he had always made it a point not to take anything belonging to any tribe, not even their wood. This time, however, he violated that rule in order to warm the men and dry their goods, as well as to cook the evening meal. Fortunately, this once, there were no Nez Percé camped nearby. While checking the canisters of powder and food, the men found everything dry and well preserved except for one large container that held some camass-root bread. Nat Pryor tasted the bread, made a face, and spit it out. The taste was moldy, sharp, and sour. The Indian bread, soggy and yellowed, lay in a solution full of tiny bubbles. “If you eat this and burp, the aftertaste will be like fish coming back over the riffles.”

John Collins came by, picked up the discarded canister, smelled cautiously, and put his finger in the juice and tasted. He paused a moment or two before he set it back on the ground. York was slicing dried salmon and Collins wandered over to talk to him about the fermenting bread. York told him the mess was to be thrown out; the can could be used for something else. Finally Collins talked York into tasting the soggy bread. He ate a little piece and wrinkled his face. “It will never amount to much,” he said, “but if you want to give it a try, go to it. Add sugar and water. I won’t interfere with any more noise than an oyster.”

Collins added a full two cups of sugar and carried the canister to a sandbar by the river. He removed the tight-fitting lid and added water by dipping it up into the lid. He took the mixture back to the cooking fire, stirred it with a thin piece of driftwood, and placed it on the ground where it would stay warm, but not boil.

No one asked about the bread until the following day. The men were packing the gear to move on when someone noticed the lid had popped off and that a nauseous odor filled the air. Collins replaced the lid and gingerly pulled the stinking mess away from the morning fire. He wrapped it in a woolen blanket, being careful to keep it upright, and placed it in the bottom of the canoe he would be in that day. Several men asked what was in the blanket, but Collins only smiled. That evening it was unwrapped and again placed near the cooking fire. The lid was not tight. Sacajawea held her nose and said to York, “Something died there.”

York seemed to know what was in the canister, but his lips were sealed. Charbonneau volunteered for guard duty, though. He seemed to understand there was something important in the vile-smelling container.

In the morning the captains were busy trading for some twenty pounds of dried, fat, horse meat with important men of a nearby Nez Percé camp, and Drouillard and Twisted Hair had gone along for the translating and bargaining, so that Sacajawea could not ask them about the importance of the mysterious can. She looked for Shannon and found him with York. She showed them the canister, which was now close to the river cooling in wet sand. The lid was half-off and foam dribbled down the side. York found a tin cup and scooped out some of the foamy juice. He sniffed and then laughed. He called Collins, who took a taste from the cup. His mouth puckered and his eyes closed. “Damn good!” he said.

Sacajawea said she did not know how it could be so good when it smelled so bad and made his mouth bunch together.

Collins handed the cup to Shannon, who tasted a sip of the liquid, made a face, and coughed. Then he smiled, saying, “I might learn to like it.”

Sacajawea pulled at Shannon’s sleeve. “Let me try.”

The men standing around the bubbling vessel grinned as Shannon passed the tin cup to her. She held her breath, then she sputtered and wiped her eyes. “It makes the warmth inside same as rum, but the smell is not good. It is some kind of poison.” She left the men standing around, laughing. Collins put the lid back on and placed it back near the live coals of the morning fire.