Centennial

by James A. Michener

  “One of them gougin’ fights you read about in the papers.”

  “You tried to tell us that in St. Joe,” Lykes protested.

  “Fact is, I was sleepin’ with the wife of a river captain and he come home unexpected and found me where he ought to be, and without wakin’ me or in any way inconveniencin’ me, he leaned down and bit off my nose.”

  “You’re a horrible man,” Mrs. Fisher said, and Purchas nodded in her direction, saying, “Most people in Natchez-under-the-Hill are that way. Know what happened to my river captain? He tried to bite off the nose of a Creole gentleman from New Orleans and was shot through the heart.”

  In such reminiscences the night was spent, but early next morning things grew more serious when word was shouted from the watchtower: “Pasquinel brothers bringing an Indian war party. Arapaho and Cheyenne.”

  Everyone scrambled to the towers to watch the Indians arrive. Out of respect for a grave occasion, the older chiefs had donned ceremonial headdress, and since they were coming from the east, the sun framed the eagle feathers in silhouette. It was summer, and the younger braves wore only loincloths, their faces hidden in shadow, their bodies glowing bronze in the morning sunlight.

  They sat astride their horses as if they had always lived thus, as if the pintos were a part of them. Sometimes a horse would become skittish and move sideways for a distance, shifting its hoofs in the dust, and then the rider would move easily with it, not endeavoring to check his animal, for he could be confident that the horse would correct itself and resume its place in line.

  How handsome these Indians were that morning, how confident and self-assured. It was the year in which the two races approached a state of equilibrium: the Indians still owned the land and still controlled it, the buffalo were plentiful, and white soldiers had not yet begun to shoot at Indians they were fearful of, and peace was still possible.

  Slowly the chiefs cantered up to the fortress gates, and Elly whispered to Levi, “They’re so much taller than the Pawnee and the Sioux,” and Levi replied, “They sure look better than those Sac and Fox who tried to sell us moccasins.”

  Oliver Seccombe was delighted. “These are the Indians I’ve been looking for,” he shouted, climbing down the ladder and running forward to greet them. The first brave he encountered stared down from his horse in amazement. What was the silly fellow trying to do? The Indian was Lost Eagle, grandson of the warrior who had counted so many coups. He was then thirty-four years old, with broad forehead, deep-set eyes and very high cheekbones. His coloring was somewhat darker than that of the average Arapaho, so that he looked intensely Indian.

  Now he edged his horse past Seccombe, noting with pleasure that his aunt, Clay Basket, was inside the fort. Dismounting, he moved like a stately automaton to where she stood, extending his hands in greeting and saying to her husband in Arapaho, “McKeag, we come to talk peace, but we are confused about what the army wants.”

  Mercy, indicating all the chiefs, said simply, “I bring you many presents from our Great Father in Washington.”

  “Why have we been summoned to a meeting?” Lost Eagle asked, and when Jake Pasquinel finished interpreting, Mercy said, “The Great Father in Washington requires a fort, somewhere here in the west.”

  “You have a fort,” Lost Eagle said, pointing to the adobe within which they had taken seats.

  “But the Great Father does not own this fort. Mr. Bordeaux owns it, and the army must have one of its own.”

  “Why the army?” Lost Eagle asked, and when Jake Pasquinel translated this, Captain Mercy said gravely, “Not to shoot. Not to kill. Only to protect.”

  “We, too, want to protect,” Lost Eagle said. “We do not want our squaws killed. Nor our buffalo driven off the range.” He paused, then added significantly, “Nor do we want our men, like Jake here, shot in the back.”

  “I saved Jake’s life,” Captain Mercy said solemnly.

  “We know you did. Why?”

  “Because he is my brother.”

  The chiefs accepted this as a form of felicitous address and nodded approvingly. “We are all your brothers,” Lost Eagle said.

  Captain Mercy walked to where Jake Pasquinel stood and took him by the hand. “But Pasquinel is my real brother. I am married to his sister.” This information caused a storm of discussion among the Indians, and among the whites, too, and in the end Jacques Pasquinel and his brother Marcel detached themselves from their companions and asked if what Mercy had just said was true, and he replied, “Yes, my wife is Lisette Pasquinel,” and he produced the miniature, and it passed among all the chiefs, Arapaho and Cheyenne alike, and they marveled both at the girl’s beauty and at the fact that she was half sister to their Pasquinels.

  That evening the various Pasquinels convened: Jake and Mike and their sister Lucinda McKeag and Clay Basket, and Captain Mercy of the St. Louis branch. There was considerable laughter and Jake conceded that the chiefs ought to allocate some of the Arapaho land to Captain Mercy and the Great Father in Washington for a fort. Oliver Seccombe arrived to ask unsuccessfully if he could take Lucinda away for a dance, and there was much frivolity.

  But when the time came actually to pin down the land that would be given, Captain Mercy and his aide Sergeant Lykes found themselves negotiating not with Lost Eagle, who had already agreed in principle, but with Broken Thumb, young chief of the Cheyenne, who proved himself to be a man filled with hate engendered by the thoughtless depredations of certain emigrants: “They kill our buffalo and do not eat them. They cut our trees but bring no presents.” When he spoke, he spoke of war, and Mercy noted that when Jacques Pasquinel interpreted his speeches, an added fury was injected. In his report to Fort Leavenworth, Mercy wrote: “One Cheyenne who will bear watching is Broken Thumb, his right hand deformed from having been run over years ago by a fur trapper’s wagon.”

  It was now time for the emigrants continuing to Oregon to move on, and with regret they bade goodbye to Captain Mercy and Sergeant Lykes. Of the departure Elly wrote:

  August 1, Thursday ... At the fort we saw our first Cheyenne Indians and the first Arapaho. They were tall, handsome men, and Oliver Seccombe said, “I told you that in his natural state the Indian was a noble figure,” but he changed his tune when he found that while he was dancing with Miss McKeag they had stolen most of his gear. He explained that it was contact with the white man and the influence of half-breeds like Jake and Mike that had corrupted them. With what sadness we bade farewell to Captain Mercy, Sergeant Lykes and their mules. I better than most realized what a fine man Mercy was, for at the flood he risked his life for me. He showed me a portrait of his wife in St. Louis and I was startled at how beautiful she was. I felt the same way about the half-Indian girl at the store. I sometimes think we plain women appreciate beauty even more than men do. I always considered you a real charmer, Laura Lou, and I suspect that you will grow prettier as you age, but as for me ...

  It was now that the elephant began to swish his tail and to threaten with his trunk. To the dismay of everyone, the mended rear wheel quickly showed signs of weakening and on the fourth day west of Fort John it collapsed completely. Sam Purchas and Mr. Frazier studied the wreck and told Levi, “No hope. Only thing you can do is find a tree trunk and work it as a travois.”

  But where to find a tree? They had now left the Platte and were lost in the middle of an endless plain, with never a tree in sight. So Levi and Elly, with two axes, started walking south to where the river ran, and they walked for eleven miles before they found a cotton wood. Levi chopped it down and rested while Elly hacked off the branches. Then they bound the heavy end with rope and proceeded to drag the tree back to the wagon. This expedition required two days, and as they labored their way back Elly asked, “What if they have gone on without us?” and Levi snapped, “How can you think such a thing?” and Elly said, “Sam Purchas would do anything.”

  She had proof of this next night. Because there was no wood, the women of the caravan took it as their job to
scour the plains for buffalo chips, those circular flat dried remnants of manure which burned so steadily and gave so good a fire for cooking. Wearing aprons, which they held gathered before them as they walked, they went ahead of the wagons, fanning far out and conducting friendly contests to see who could chuck into her apron the most chips, and sometimes they would run from opposite directions at the same chip, shouting, “I saw it first!”

  Tempers had not been good this day. The men had lashed the tree trunk in such a way that it took the place of the missing wheel, but progress was slowed, and the Fishers even suggested that they and the Fraziers go ahead at their own speed, but Purchas talked them out of this.

  Elly Zendt, off by herself and behind a hill in her search for chips, became aware that someone had come up behind her. It was Sam Purchas, grabbing at her and pulling her down. She fought him and scratched at his slashed nose, but he whipped out a knife and grunted, “You make a sound and I’ll kill you.”

  He tore at her clothes, and when she was nearly naked he held the knife against the skin below her chin, but when he was about to mount her she uttered a wild scream and tried to kick him away. A bruising fight ensued, with Purchas trying to knock her unconscious. But Levi heard the screaming, rushed over the hill and grabbed her assailant by the throat. If Elly had not interceded, Levi would have killed him.

  Before the sun had set the Fishers and Fraziers had insisted upon moving on. “We wish to have no further part of this sorry outfit,” they said, and their wagons traveled all that night.

  Only the lively spirits of Oliver Seccombe made it possible for the remaining four to operate. “We must all forget that it happened,” he said airily. “I assure you that it won’t happen again, because if it does, I will personally shoot Mr. Purchas between the eyes. That understood, Sam?”

  “Lots of young men have tried to do that, sonny,” Purchas replied.

  An abiding tenseness now settled over the diminished camp, but next morning, when the right rear wheel collapsed, their energies had to be united on a common problem. Elly was convinced that Purchas had tampered with it, but she had no proof; besides, the trail had grown so rough that normal wear could have accounted for it.

  What to do? After exhausting all reasonable alternatives, Seccombe pointed out that the only way to keep going would be to saw the Conestoga in half, throw away most of the baggage and forge ahead with a two-wheeled cart. Levi was so distraught at losing first his fine horses and now most of his wagon that he could not bear to do the sawing, so Seccombe and Purchas cut the rear half off the wagon.

  Now came the difficult part. Elly and Levi had to decide what to throw away, what to keep. The extra barrel of bacon—out! The pans bought with her wedding gift at Cincinnati—out! The extra bolts of cloth—out! The guns and bullets—forward! The flour—forward! The tools and the spare rim—out! With what pain the Zendts watched their treasures discarded—how wretched it was to have dragged these goods two-thirds of the way across a continent and now to toss them aside. Of these decisions Elly wrote:

  August 6, Tuesday ... When we had finished I was in tears but I did not want that animal Sam Purchas to see me crying, so I went to the great rock that rises up from the plains where names are written and sometimes carved, and I took a piece of stone and scratched on this desert newspaper this message: “On this day Levi and Elly Zendt cut their Conestoga in half and threw away most of their goods. May the bacon be found by Indians or those in need.” And I signed my name.

  The two-wheeled wagon enabled them to move faster, and on the next day they made twenty-two miles, but on August 8, as they were approaching the Continental Divide and the easier downhill portion of the trip, one of the oxen died. This patient animal had exhausted itself at the crossing of the Platte and had managed to survive only by the fierce courage that kept his breed alive. Elly Zendt wept as they lifted the harness from him. To her he was more than friend and loyal servant; he was the stubborn, solemn creature she had grown to love.

  On the next day another died, and they felt the heavy burden of travel. “Now, by God,” Purchas gloated, “I’ll bet you wish you had them two you gave away.”

  “You bastard!” Levi yelled. Immediately he was ashamed of himself and walked away. His nerves were in sad shape and not even Elly’s attempt at consolation quieted them, but that night Oliver Seccombe came to the half-wagon and said, “Levi, that man is a bastard. Don’t let him rile you.” And Zendt felt reassured to know that Seccombe agreed with him.

  On the next day came a moment of triumph, for the small caravan passed over the Continental Divide, and Purchas shouted, “From here on, downhill all the way!” Elly reflected the reaction of many emigrants when she wrote:

  August 9, Friday ... I cannot believe it. All my senses rebel at the idea, but it seems true without challenge. From Pittsburgh, which cannot be much above sea level, we have never once climbed a mountain nor even a hill, so far as I remember. The path has been absolutely level, yet now we find ourselves across the Rockies and at the top of a rise more than eight thousand feet high. I wonder if life is not much like that. We go along unmindful and all the while we are climbing a very steep mountain of insight and understanding. Remember how we used to guess about men and marriage. It was so much simpler than we thought ...

  And then, as if Elly Zendt had been guilty of the sin of hubris, on the night of August 10, when the road lay clear and easy to Oregon, her husband Levi went into the darkness to check his four remaining oxen, and out of the shadows rose the elephant. It was gigantic, thirty or forty feet tall, with wild, curving tusks and beady eyes that glowed. It seemed to Levi to represent all the terror they had experienced and all that might lie ahead on the way to Oregon. It was overwhelming—the menace of that towering creature, and Levi knew that he was destined to turn back.

  He returned to the camp, wakened Elly and said, “I saw the elephant.”

  “Where?”

  “Out there. We’re turnin’ back.”

  She made no attempt to dissuade him, and before dawn he wakened the other two and told them, “We’re turnin’ back.”

  “Why?” Seccombe asked.

  “I saw the elephant.” That was enough. On this trail, when a man saw the elephant, clear and overwhelming, rising out of the darkness with those beady, flaming eyes, he must heed its warning.

  “So you’re a turnaround?” Purchas asked contemptuously.

  “I saw the elephant,” Levi said, “and he showed me you with your head hangin’ to one side, because in Oregon sure as hell they’re gonna hang you.”

  For some minutes he lost sight of Purchas, for he was saying farewell to Seccombe. Despite their partnership in a perilous venture, the Englishman showed no regret at their forced parting. “We’ll meet somewhere,” he said nonchalantly. And as if he had no care in the world, this young man started to whistle as he and Sam Purchas headed west for Oregon. Levi thought they were moving with unusual speed, but it was not till some hours later, when he and Elly were well started on their long retreat, that he discovered what Purchas had been up to and why he had left so swiftly.

  “The bastard stole my rifle,” he said, and Elly searched the wagon and the beautiful curly-eyed-maple Melchior Fordney was gone. So was her knitted cash bag and her good scissors. They were about to rain curses on the old trapper, but the bitterness of this final indignity was so great that instead of reviling him, they burst into laughter at his pitiful bravado: his constant drawing of knives, his tobacco-stained beard, his bit-off nose, the futility of the man—and as they drove east they laughed, but that night Elly wrote the long letter which one scholar has called “The Litany of the Loser”:

  August 11, Sunday ... We have devised many names for what we are doing in turning back, but the real name is one we have not used. The word is defeat, the defeat of all we had hoped for. The horses we loved are lost. The wonderful oxen who were so good to us are dying, and those that live break my heart with their loyal plodding. They can’t last lo
ng. We have thrown away most of the things we were going to use in Oregon for our new life and even our wagon is a poor thing, cut in half, with only two wheels that cannot continue turning much longer. We have nothing, and now we have lost hope ...

  On August 19 they arrived at Fort John again, this time from the west, and they were relieved to see it, for with only a half-wagon, they had begun to run short of supplies. They headed directly for the store, where McKeag said, “I never figured you for a turnaround,” and Levi said, “I saw the elephant.” They talked for a long time, and finally Levi asked, “That place to the south. Rattlesnake Buttes you called it. You ever think of goin’ back down there?”

  “Every day of my life,” McKeag said without emotion. “But I never found a partner.”