The Snake River

by Win Blevins

  The food was splendid. For meat, great slabs of beef, mutton, goat meat, and pork, all from stock raised by the fort, and geese brought down by fowlers. Potatoes, peas, and other vegetables grown in fort gardens. Fresh fruit—apples, grapes, peaches, strawberries, praise Godawmighty even figs and oranges, a tribute to the emp’s enterprise and ingenuity, as he never tired of telling them. Pies. All sorts of breads, since the fort had a flour mill. Flare noticed that Sima’s favorite was the hot buns with raisins and a sugar paste on top.

  The missionaries, he saw, had no favorites. They treated all the foods circumspectly, as though McLoughlin’s papism were dietary. And they answered Mac’s polite conviviality with coolness. Well, they were God-ridden, even Miss Jewel.

  Flare whispered to Sima to ignore the wines as they were served. It was tempting to irk Dr. Full by encouraging the lad to imbibe, but Sima wouldn’t be able to keep pace with old sots like the emp and Skye. Dr. Full, his wife, Annie Lee, and Miss Jewel made rather a point of refusing the liquors.

  Skye, of course, was drunk. The man never drank without getting drunk, and always relished the prospect. Huge in body, in his cups the man seemed to grow enormous in spirit; his appetites, enthusiasms, and energies became incredible. Flare felt that his friend became the full-scale Mr. Skye only when inebriated. He had seen the drunken Skye wrestle a buffalo bull, grab hold of its horns, and throw the critter. Then the bull got mad, and Skye jumped and rode it. Flare had never seen the like.

  Unfortunately, Skye drunk soon became Skye helpless. It was Skye’s habit to drink and drink and drink until even he couldn’t stand up, then to drink lying down for a couple of days, until he was physically incapable of lifting cup to lip, and finally to sleep it off for half a week. In these states Skye needed nursing.

  Occasionally, Skye asked Flare if he should marry. It would help during his drunks, he said. Flare answered that men of spirit should never marry. Marriage penned a hoss in a tiny pasture. What Skye needed was not a wife but a slave. When Skye started railing about freedom—he knew what it meant to be enslaved—Flare replied firmly that the alternative was to learn to drink like a civilized fellow instead of a beast.

  Nevertheless, the men cared for each other. They’d helped each other escape from being subjects of the crown, and become subjects of nothing but their own wills. Which was bad enough, Flare often reflected.

  Maybe, with Skye in his cups, and Dr. Full-of-Himself, there would be some amusement tonight yet.

  After the dessert and tea and coffee—dessert and coffee were wonderful—Dr. McLoughlin’s huge frame led the men to another room for brandy and cigars.

  Sima thought the hardest thing about white people was their many little ceremonies, like this one. And their rigid distinctions of higher and lower among each other. The two men called “doctor,” for instance, demanded and got deferential treatment. If they didn’t demand it, as Dr. McLoughlin didn’t, it was because they were sure of getting it anyway. Mr. Skye was demanding it by insisting on Mr. in front of his name. Which was odd, because like Flare he seemed not to need it. Among whites, some people were treated respectfully simply because of their personal qualities, like Flare.

  Among the Shoshones, everyone got more respect than these whites offered each other. Everyone was thought to be on a journey of spirit, following his medicine, and so deserving of respect. Except, of course, half-breeds, who were despised.

  Among whites, on the other hand, women were always treated as unimportant, even very smart women, like Miss Jewel. It was like both sexes were needed, but one came first and the other second, like parent and child. But Miss Jewel was always getting even with little words and gestures. Sima liked that. Now the women were sent to another room while the men talked about what was important. Which was typical.

  Since Sima’s English had gotten good, he could keep track of most of these things. It you were a white man, you wouldn’t talk to someone else, in effect, unless he bent his knees to you a little first. Even the expression “bending the knee” was white-man talk. It was very peculiar.

  Now Dr. McLoughlin made a small ceremony of lighting his cigar. (Was the cigar a little like the medicine pipe? Did you speak only truth when you held it? Dr. McLoughlin didn’t pass the cigar, but offered each man his own. Sima declined because he didn’t know how to treat the cigar ceremonially. Dr. Full also refused. Did that mean Dr. Full wasn’t going to tell the truth?) “Dr. Full, may the Honorable Company be of service to you in any way?”

  Sima had to be careful. Sometimes offers of generosity were genuine, sometimes merely ritual. This one seemed genuine.

  “I think not,” replied Dr. Full stiffly.

  Sima’s translation: I not only refuse your kindness, I am offended by it.

  “I beg you to speak freely to me,” said Dr. McLoughlin. “You at the mission are our friends, and in times past we’ve been glad to lend a helping hand.”

  Sima had heard Flare tell Dr. Full what had happened. Flare had been at pains to point out that McLoughlin had given Full’s predecessors seed when otherwise they would have had no crops, and would have faced starvation. He had outfitted some families for the winter and never called for repayment. He had provided guides and equipment at no charge. He even answered insults with kindness. He had gone far beyond what his own masters required of him. It seemed that all this was generosity.

  “Instead of a request for you,” said Full, “I have questions.” His eyes gleamed with a white-man madness.

  Sima’s translation: I intend to challenge you.

  McLoughlin spread his huge arms wide and smiled. Apparently he had nothing to hide.

  “You are a Scot and a Catholic, Dr. McLoughlin. Why do you not oppose those who come to claim the country for the United States and for the true Christ Jesus?” Glint of superiority.

  This was getting hard for Sima. There were nations of white people, just as there were nations of Indians, but these were of one nation—they spoke the same language. And Flare had explained that there were two kinds of Christians. Catholics and Protestants, and they spoke the same language and read the same Bible, but they fought with each other. Sima didn’t get it. Didn’t they all see the same Spirit? Were they enemies because they had ceremonies that were a little different?

  “We are a few white men in a sea of red men, Dr. Full. It seems to me that we ought to help each other. No more than that.”

  That made sense, Sima thought. He must remember that the white men stuck together against the red men, which might mean against him. Or might not.

  “Unless you oppose us secretly, sir.”

  Sir—one of those little words whites constantly used to show rank. But Dr. Full seemed to use it mockingly. After all, he was a sir, too.

  Sima saw the anger rise in Dr. McLoughlin’s voice. The doctor sat still, evidently gaining control of himself. Sima admired him for that. “I am kindly disposed to you,” he said simply. The anger was really gone—this McLoughlin was a man. “And we have business to discuss.”

  Flare put in, “I wish to leave your employ here, Dr. Full. Dr. McLoughlin has consented to provide you an escort upriver to the mission. The escort knows the way well, and will provide more security than I can.”

  “We hired you, Mr. O’Flaherty.” Sima saw Dr. Full was uncertain what to make of this, but inclined to see enemies everywhere.

  “So you did. Dr. McLoughlin requires my services urgently.”

  “To reimburse you for the loss of Mr. O’Flaherty,” Dr. McLoughlin put in, “the Honorable Company is prepared not only to provide you with an escort, but also to pay you one quarter of Mr. O’Flaherty’s fee.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  White people again. Dr. Full understood. He was looking for trouble.

  “It’s a right bargain, Dr. Full,” boomed Mr. Skye. “You’re paying Flare a thousand dollars for four months of his time. For passing by one week of that, you get two hundred and fifty dollars back. Ought to please a skinflint like y
ourself.”

  Mr. Skye didn’t like Dr. Full. What did “skinflint” mean?

  “Two hundred and fifty dollars is a lot of money to your mission, Dr. Full. For giving up nothing, in truth.”

  Dr. McLoughlin disliked Dr. Full, but he concealed it well.

  “How about it, sir?” roared Skye.

  “I would like to be free,” said Flare.

  Dr. Full shrugged. “What do you want O’Flaherty to do?” His eyes went from man to man, ravenous, wanting to know. But the money meant a great deal to him—he was a white man. What would he want more? “What exactly?”

  “Mr. O’Flaherty and Mr. Skye will go to the Puget Sound,” Dr. McLoughlin said, “to recover furs from a wrecked Russian ship. Indians have taken the furs. They may also have killed some sailors. It may be necessary to punish them. The company requires experienced men for such work.”

  “Is it dangerous?”

  And why did Dr. Full ask? He would not go far to protect Flare. His eyes hopped rapidly from McLoughlin to Flare to Skye, probing.

  Dr. McLoughlin shook his head no. “We will send an overwhelming force.” The man told simple truth—he was a good man.

  “What’s missing here?” Even the question was a difficult admission for Dr. Full. The man was sure he was being taken advantage of. Such a man would always be sure of that.

  Flare said quietly, “Sima goes with us.”

  Flare and Dr. Full looked at each other hard, warring. What was going on? Sima saw for the first time something new, a fresh opposition between them. And it centered on him.

  “The devil he will,” said Dr. Full. Flat, like that.

  “We talked to him,” said Flare. “He wants to see the big water. And what else is to be seen.”

  Skye put a huge arm around Sima’s shoulders. Sima would always feel safe around this big man.

  Dr. Full spoke to Sima directly, intimately, as though no one else existed. “You would pass up the chance to come to know your heavenly father.”

  What was it Dr. Full really wanted? Sima wondered. Why did the man want Sima to arrive at the mission with him?

  Sima decided he couldn’t figure that out now. “I will come to the mission at the beginning of winter,” Sima said softly. He meant it. Like a white man repeating a promise foolishly, he said, “I give my word.”

  “My son…” began Dr. Full.

  “I will come to the mission in the winter,” Sima said again. Even he could hear in his voice a new quality, a new authority, a refusal to be denied.

  Flare and Dr. Full glared at each other, neither giving in. What are they fighting over? Sima wondered. Dr. Full couldn’t win—Sima would do what he wanted.

  “It’s settled then,” Dr. McLoughlin said. “I propose a toast to a safe journey and return.” He raised his brandy glass high. So did Skye. Sima raised his—his brandy was untouched. At last Dr. Full raised his glass in agreement, but set it back on the table without drinking. Dr. Full did not approve of spirits.

  Sima took the tiniest taste of his brandy. Harsh. With a hint of sweetness, but harsh. White men were strange to drink such stuff.

  “Our escort will be ready at your earliest convenience,” Dr. McLoughlin said to Dr. Full. “I’ve taken the liberty of drawing up this note of credit on the Hudson’s Bay Company for two hundred and fifty dollars American.”

  Sima studied Flare. His face was triumph, Full’s defeat. White men were strange.

  He sipped his brandy again. He didn’t know everything yet. But he was getting skilled in reading white people. You had to read them, for they seldom said what they meant. There were rules that interpreted from what was said to what was meant. He didn’t know why they had this slant way of doing things. But he was getting so he understood them. Soon he would understand them better than they understood themselves.

  Peculiar people.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The moment Flare came into the room, he could see the old tricks still were being worked. McLoughlin was not only big but imposing, a figure of weight and authority. The room—large desk, shelves of books, flag of the Hudson’s Bay Company, weapons on the wall—conspired to make the chief factor intimidating. As a younger man, Flare had resented this posturing, this assumption of greatness by the emperor of Oregon. Come to the New World as a free man, Flare despised such arrogance. Though Skye said the man was a mere piker beside any sea captain you could name.

  It caused their troubles. McLoughlin always said Flare was looking for ways to undermine his authority, and thousands of miles from the seat of power, such authority must be absolute. So the emp looked for ways to make Mr. O’Flaherty bend the knee. Flare scoffed. Their strife chafed. And when Mr. Skye suggested he and Flare go over to the Americans, Flare said sure—at least Americans didn’t have emperors.

  Flare studied McLoughlin while the big man went through the little ceremony of pouring brandy. The Frenchies said he’d changed, become almost generous, was even capable of gentleness. Flare didn’t know. He’d been genial last night at dinner, but he was showing off for the missionaries. He was perfectly capable of taking revenge on Flare now. Revenge for years of back talk and insubordination, if not for taking the furs to the Americans.

  They toasted each other’s health, exchanged pleasantries.

  Flare had come on a strategy. You always needed a strategy to deal with McLoughlin.

  He had decided to throw himself on McLoughlin’s mercy. Which was damned scary.

  But Sima had just now brought it up, and Flare was out of cards to play. He smiled grimly at himself. And why are you trembling like a quaking asp, my mate?

  He made himself begin. “Dr. McLoughlin, the Shoshone lad Sima will be here in a few minutes. He wants to speak to you. I invented an errand for him first.”

  Flare swore he could see a look of sneaky glee flit across McLoughlin’s countenance. Maybe the bastard would turn out to need killing yet.

  Now Flare spoke one word at a time. “I ask you not to tell him the truth.”

  McLoughlin gave a theatrical shrug. “The company believes in truth. What does the lad want to know?”

  Flare put it carefully. “It’s personal. He will ask the full name of a company trader who spent the winter with his tribe. When you work it out, the winter will have been 1818. The records will show he was from McKenzie’s brigade. Sima believes the man’s first name to have been Harry.”

  The doctor nodded, bring the year and the events to mind. Flare was sure McLoughlin had grasped all by now. “And why should the company withhold that name? Did the man commit a crime?”

  Flare said simply, “He fathered a son.” Time passed. “Sima.”

  McLoughlin studied Flare. At length. “And who was this man?”

  “Me, sir.”

  McLoughlin simply waited. It was one of his tactics, to ask nothing, but use his eyes to demand more, and see what came forth. Flare decided to give in. “I spent that winter among them, Dr. McLoughlin, in a lodge with Sima’s mother. And left in the spring. My name among them was Hairy, sir. H-a-i-r-y, not H-a-r-r-y.”

  Dr. McLoughlin just kept waiting. Irksome, how well it worked. Flare gave his own elaborate shrug. He could not meet McLoughlin’s eyes. “Later, me mother died in childbirth. The lad has been an orphan. And a half-breed. Which among Shoshones is a terrible tiring.”

  Flare stopped himself. There was no need to run on. McLoughlin had heard this sort of story often enough.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, sir. You know my duck-webbed feet.”

  Flare had the pleasure of taking the chief factor by surprise. McLoughlin barked a laugh. “Pass on your best qualities, eh?”

  Flare ignored it.

  The doctor rose, paced, turned the force of his personality on Flare. “The lad needs a father. Why should he not find you?”

  “He must find me, Dr. McLoughlin. But not yet.” Flare didn’t know how to explain this. “He hates me. Hates his father,” he corrected. “He thinks his father
didn’t give a damn about him.”

  “That appears true enough.”

  This was lawyer stuff. McLoughlin knew very well how this happened, and why. But Flare restrained himself. “I didn’t know she was with child, sir.”

  “And you assumed she’d marry within the tribe and any child would be well enough taken care of,” McLoughlin said bluntly.

  “Yes, sir.” No sense pretending.

  “Do you care, Mr. O’Flaherty? Do you really?”

  Time for nakedness. “Yes, sir.”

  “Why? You’ve done this a hundred times. You’ve avoided responsibilities. You’ve been vocal about your pleasures and your freedom. Something about the nature of a bull and its urges, as I recall.”

  Flare eyed the doctor with wry amusement. Aye. The bull must be a bull, he always said, when it is time. Implied was, The devil take all else.

  “I can’t explain it, sir. Sima came to me eighteen years late…somehow. He calls it a miracle. He is in midstride, sir, becoming…something else. A white man? A man. I want to be there, sir.”

  “To set him on the right path?” McLoughlin queried.

  “Yes. He needs that.” Flare hesitated. “And just to see.” He didn’t know if the words were enough for McLoughlin. Or for himself.

  McLoughlin spoke intimately. “And six months from now?”

  Flare squirmed, closed his eyes, finally looked McLoughlin full in the face. “He’ll have naught to do with me if he finds out now. In a few months I’ll tell him, come what may.”

  “What could come, Mr. O’Flaherty?” Flare thought the words were sharp.

  “He’ll go over to the missionaries.”

  “Aye?”

  “He’s smart, so Dr. Full wants to make him a model convert. Tells him to seek his heavenly father instead of his earthly father.”

  Dr. McLoughlin took a pace, turned back, pulled at his beard. “What are you not telling me?”