Widow Walk

by Gar LaSalle

  She firmed up, seeing he was also surveying her wherewithal and resources. She still did not have the comfort of any official connection with the local British authorities or military and had no knowledge of the area beyond what she had learned from Edween.

  “Yes. We have a quest. And yes, I need more time. I am waiting for Colonel Pardeen to return from Vancouver.”

  She saw Marté’s expression change, a slight narrowing of his eyes and another quick look to the door.

  “I am told the madame wishes to be guided upriver,” he said, glancing at Cull. “It is hard travel now. But we know this country well. The Tsimshian will be in a place called Three Spirits until the spring. You know they will host a potlatch, for the marriage of the tyee Ksi Amawaal’s son. It will be very big. We will go because some of the gifts will become trade items for sale.”

  He watched for Emmy’s reaction. Reading none, he went on, attempting to lure her in.

  “Many tribes will come. Many stories.” His eyes narrowed into two slits. “There may be things of interest for you there, I am feeling . . . the madame may come with us, yes?”

  Emmy listened and confirmed in his expression a deep danger. She had enough information.

  “I will wait for the colonel.”

  Marté smiled and rose, sensing she was attempting to throw him off her intentions.

  “Madame may lose her one chance. The potlatch is in a fortnight. The river may be frozen, and it is a good long journey even in the summer.”

  He looked over Emmy and then at Sarah, then smiled again at some private thought.

  “Bon soir, madame.” He left.

  As he and Cull departed, Emmy saw DeSetre in the corner watching her.

  He shook his head and continued reading his missal.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊

  MaNuitu’sta

  It took five days for the message to reach him, but he departed immediately to meet Emmy and Sarah. MaNuitu’sta, also known simply as “Patient River,” was a tyee of the Nuxalk Bella Coola Valley clan, who, like many of the tribes along the coast, had been subjected to a swindle attempt by the Brit territorial government.

  Unlike most of the other leaders, however, he had not signed the treaty, and thus, he had retained his stature among tribes in the region.

  But it did not matter, because the whites had come anyway, swarming in from the depleted gold fields in San Francisco to make another attempt at riches in gold and coal. The resulting land disputes and differences mediated by the territorial government invariably resulted in judgments in favor of the settlers.

  Even then, MaNuitu’sta had always counseled that a careful, quiet negotiation with any enemy, either the British or other tribes, brought his people better results than did angry confrontation.

  That moderation came as a result of learning about others and noting that a gentler approach, mastering the paths but staying out of the way of raging, intemperate actions, always seemed to win in the long life of a survivor.

  The Brits were here to stay, he reasoned, so it was smarter to preserve relationships and keep enemies at an observable distance rather than provoke and then justify hostile maneuvers. Early in his life, after observing the communication abilities of some of the pioneer black-robe missionaries, he realized the value of assimilating languages and became conversant with all the dialects along the coast.

  He learned English, as well as some Russian and Spanish, and applied them to protect and enrich his clan.

  Of all the tyees who had participated in the signing ceremonies, he alone had realized the discrepancies between what was being read aloud and what Antoine Bill, the Brit’s hired Metís interpreter, had conveyed to the assembled tyees.

  He already had a suspicion of Antoine Bill because of the Suquamish’s guidance of a large contingent of bounty hunters out of Vancouver two years before that had resulted in wanton killing during a brutal takeover of Nisqually lands by coal-mining settlers. But not really knowing the details of that business, MaNuitu’sta had suspended judgment.

  Antoine Bill’s dishonest actions during the signing ceremonies had confirmed his concerns, and he withdrew from the agreement, after unsuccessfully attempting to convince other tyees about the British deception.

  The Brit gifts of blankets and copper and iron utensils were enough to persuade the other elders to ignore him, with some reasoning out loud that they could always take back what they had given. A few hollered him down, embarrassing him. So he simply withdrew from the discussions.

  Despite that, however, he watched the ceremony, learning from it just how foolish his compatriots were.

  Remaining in that encampment resulted in another event, when his youngest daughter became entranced with an American soldier, Captain George Pickett. MaNuitu ’sta had allowed his third daughter, Morning Mist, to be courted by the American, whom they all called “Pickett George.”

  He had carefully observed Pickett and concluded, by his polite and respectful demeanor, that he was not like the others. He also knew that Morning Mist would never be dissuaded, as stubborn as she tended to be, so he simply consented.

  He also presciently understood how rapidly the ways were changing, and also that Morning Mist likely would fare better in a community of whites protected by a white tyee.

  Pickett George had proven to be reliable and fair, and he regularly sent supplies up to MaNuitu’sta’s clan. He also had travelled up north to personally deliver to MaNuitu’sta the news of Morning Mist’s death.

  Thus, when a message arrived with Pickett’s markings asking the Bella Coola to help a woman stranger, MaNuitu’sta did not hesitate. He was old now and needed warmth in this time of his life, so he brought one of his sons, Napen ’tjo, his youngest and brightest, to act as a guide if that became necessary.

  His people, the Nuxalk Bella Coola, being more of an inland clan, had worked the rivers to the interior of the region as their transportation pathways and, because they were superb hunters and trappers, were intimately familiar with the lands as far north as the Stikene River. As a result, they became indispensable companions for many of the trappers who supplied the Hudson’s Bay Company with furs.

  Over the years, they had escaped much of the internecine predation that beset peoples who lived on coastal shores. Yet, they, too, knew about Anah and other terrors from the north.

  Although the Russians and many other northern raiding tribes, decimated by a series of diseases, had not waged war for over a decade, Anah had kept the fear of sudden invasions fresh enough.

  MaNuit’sta was well known and was held in high regard throughout the region by whites as well as aborigines.

  But he was not allowed to enter the fort.

  So, Emmy, escorted by Edween and two soldiers dispatched by the officer of the day, travelled out to meet him on a clear, flat river beach a few hundred yards beyond the front gate.

  “Why did they make him wait outside the fort?” Emmy asked Edween, while walking towards the old tyee.

  “Well, ‘es a heathen, after all,” said the innkeeper, who did not notice Emmy and Sarah’s reaction to that statement. “But ‘e came as soon as he received yer message, e’ did. Long trek for the old man in this weather, but I’m thinkin’ it was because his daughter was the wife of Pickett George, who wrote the note I delivered for you, Mu’m.”

  Emmy, irritated realizing that Edween must have opened the letter she had asked him to deliver, responded

  “Pickett George? You mean Captain George Pickett?”

  “That’s what the Bella Coola call ‘im.”

  “His wife?”

  “Yes’m. Before she up and died, she did.”

  Emmy did not say anything more as they neared the waiting chieftain.

  As he waited, watching the white party approach, MaNuitu ’sta wondered what would compel P
ickett George to make such a request. He had not asked for favors in the past. However, when he saw this Emmy, he understood—it was in her posture and in the intensity of her eyes, a way of looking that reminded him of Morning Mist—that Pickett George likely loved her and wanted to see her protected. That, he knew immediately, he could not guarantee, because from Pickett George’s letter, he learned she was asking to go into the dark mouth of death.

  He watched the party approach, and when Emmy was ten yards away and had lifted her right hand, he extended his in the French manner and gently touched the top of her fingers, sensing, as he intended, that Emmy immediately felt a calming reassurance.

  He saw the young girl with her watching him and his son, Napen ’tjo, closely. She was a younger version of Emmy and had the same demeanor, although less reserved, but seemed just as determined as her mother.

  “Pickett George is a good friend, so I came,” he said to Emmy.

  “Thank you,” Emmy said. Then after a pause, continued, “The captain told me I could rely on your help and that of the Bella Coola. You have heard of the tragedy that has befallen my family?”

  The sadness in his eyes told her he had heard and that he had empathy for her plight.

  “I need to get upriver before it freezes over, up to the Tsimshian trading winter camp, where I am told there will be a big potlatch. I believe there may be a chance to find my son there before he is traded or given as a gift. That is what I am told,” said Emmy.

  MaNuitu ’sta nodded and then sighed. He knew about the potlatch because word of it had spread all throughout the Tsimshian and Bella Coola regions. It would be a big event because Ksi Amawaal was very wealthy and had much pride. It might go on for ten days. He expected that several different peoples of the Qualicum, Bella Bella, Bella Coola and possibly even the Kwakiutl had been sent Tsimshian message sticks and would find their way there as a welcome break from the winter’s tedium.

  The gossip from the ceremonies and feasts was as important as the gifts that would be given out to guests by the wealthy tyee Ksi Amawaal. He understood that many slaves likely would be present, and many would be exchanged.

  Were she to be so foolish as to make this journey, Emmy’s appearance would need to be brief, if at all. He knew that Ksi Amawaal, a shrewd and careful negotiator who had grown fat on trading with the Bostons and Brits, would extend a mantle of protection to her while she was in his winter camp.

  But the presence of an unattached white woman, no matter how well protected, would disquiet the festivities and put all the peoples into a state of curiosity and agitation. And if any of the Northerners were to show up in the neutral encampment, he could not predict their actions.

  He tried to dissuade Emmy.

  She persisted.

  “I will find a way to get there,” she said finally.

  He knew he had no choice in the matter.

  “Napen ’tjo, my son, will guide you.”

  He saw Emmy look at the young man with some concern.

  “He is a good young man and has travelled with me.”

  He had his own concerns, but not because he doubted his son’s abilities.

  “In return, I will ask a favor from you” he said to Emmy. ” . . . that you teach him to read from this book.”

  It was an English primer.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊

  Napen ‘tjo

  His sisters and playmates called him Jojo, and he preferred that.

  He was born during the confused loud moments immediately after a fierce thunderstorm had torn the roof off their long house. In the discomfited hollering of all the clan members who were trying to secure shelter during the downpour, his cries stood out, and, because they sounded like shrill laughter, his brothers and mother also called him “Blue Jay.”

  Although his mischievous and sometimes loud antics seemed to confirm that handle, he was intelligent and sensitive, and as he grew, he learned to adapt to situations with a discerning alacrity, repressing his innate impulse to play and jest. For he had witnessed grief.

  Early on he discerned the pain that came to his family and village from the bloody disputes that sometimes erupted between clans and peoples, and, observing his father’s calmer demeanor, he came to appreciate quieter solutions to disagreement rather than carrying out vendettas.

  Like his father, Jojo also had a keen ear for languages and could converse in many coastal dialects. But he had never learned to read the written words of any of the white languages, and thus, as competent as he knew he was in the world, he felt incomplete and disadvantaged.

  It was his request — that he be taught to read — that MaNuitu ’sta had conveyed to Emmy. As dangerous as he knew the journey with Emmy was likely to be, it was a fair exchange. By the time the journey was over, he intended to be able to read aloud the entire primary school book to his father and family.

  By carrying and reading such little books, which he had been told contained the wisdom of many men, Jojo was convinced he could do anything, even sail a mighty Brit ship to the lands beyond his tribal shores.

  As a little boy, Jojo had learned to imitate by watching and listening closely. When elders spoke in important gatherings, he always found a way to bring himself within hearing distance of the conversation, and afterwards he delighted his sisters and brothers by repeating phrases by the various leaders with an exacting nuance and inflection.

  As he grew older, he learned what the words meant and understood the significance of phrases, he found ways to repeat sentences out of context, frequently with hilarious applications. Thus his playmates always sought him out and begged to hear his running, imaginary dialogues between disparately motivated participants such as naïve British missionaries attempting to convert oversexed Kwakiutl squaws, or between starving hapless French trappers negotiating for dog meat with Tsimshian, who always were fat from the success of their fall hunting.

  Because he was always discreet with his humor, this banter was tolerated by the adults. And when he was twelve, in his father’s absence, after he successfully translated a negotiation between Russian fur traders and his tribe, the tribe’s elders truly came to appreciate his gifts.

  Over time, he was given more tasks. His confidence grew, as did his curiosity and enthusiasm for newness.

  Jojo wanted to see the world because, he knew, it was a wonder of delight.

  They were to set out in the early morning of January 20th, three days after Emmy received word that the colonel and the rest of his senior officers would not return to Fort Simpson for yet another fortnight.

  Jojo agreed with MaNuitu ’sta that the potlatch could likely be over if they waited for Colonel Pardeen to return and again attempt to secure military assistance, so Emmy decided she could delay no longer. Whitefall again refused to offer any contingent to accompany Emmy and vigorously argued for her to stay, assuring her there would be no rescue should she persist in her hard-headedness.

  She sent out word to acquire the services of another packer-guide and quickly arranged with Edween to outfit three sturdy canoes, one for provisions and the trading goods and two to transport her small company.

  She told Jojo she would bring Sarah, as well, because she knew she could not convince her daughter to stay behind, and Emmy sensed there was as much danger leaving Sarah behind in Fort Simpson as there would be to bring her along. There were very few women at the fort, and none appeared reputable, in her estimate. And René Marté’s behavior had frightened her. How many other men were like him up here? She wondered.

  Jojo argued vehemently against this, noting that the girl would be a serious encumbrance and an additional temptation for slavers should they encounter them.

  But Emmy, thinking of Marté’s leer, refused to reconsider.

  The evening before they were to depart, Edween brought her three men who came forward to a
pply for the expedition.

  “I’m sorry Ma’m,” Edween said apologetically, “…sent out the word a few days ago, just like you asked. Only three souls responded to the job offer, as generous as it was. Yes’m. It’s just too cold out there now and no one wants to go up into Tsimshian territory, no matter. They value their hides too much, they do.”

  Edween looked at Jojo for affirmation. “Not the Tsimshian, exactly. It’s well...sometimes these potlatches get a bit carried away, and all.”

  Emmy did not seem deterred by the innkeeper’s comments.

  Edween went on. “First one, e’s a handy one. Not much woods experience but he says he needs the money. Second one’s pretty experienced on expeditions and such. He’s my bet. Third one knows the woods pretty well too, and he’s known by the natives ‘cause he’s traveled into their territory. But,” he paused, smirking at Jojo, “well, you’ll see.”

  In the near vacant tavern mess hall, Jojo and Edween watched Emmy assess the first man, a huge slovenly lout with a protuberant, hanging belly. He professed he was skilled as a carpenter.

  “You, sir, are dismissed,” she said quietly to the man, without hesitation after speaking with him for only a few minutes.

  The second man said he had some experience as a guide, but Emmy noted that he carried the external characteristics of a chronic alcoholic—a flushed red face, withered limbs, firm protuberant belly, and a constant fine tremor.

  “You, sir, are dismissed,” Emmy said, again politely but firmly after a few minutes of conversation.

  The third volunteer for hire was Marano Levi, the disheveled man she had seen a few nights previously, still wearing a torn black cassock, under a tattered fur coat that had been sewn together with the pelts of different animals.

  “You, sir...do you know the Tsimshian people?” She asked. “Can you speak Chinook?”

  “Si, Senora,” Levi said, eyeing Jojo and Edween as he responded. “I have baptized a few of the people up there. Yes, I can speak Chinook.”