“Our man with some trappers, I expect,” said Sacajawea, braiding a bridle for one of the horses.
“No. Strangers. Several of them. Walking.”
Sacajawea put down the horsehair rope and rose quickly to join Eagle outside the tepee. “Coming from the river?”
“Ai.”
They watched as the small group of men made their way, slipping and sloshing, heads down, across to the post. Sacajawea counted them. “Two—three—four.” As they watched, the men reached the end of the street, and Eagle chuckled as they sank over their boot tops in the deep mud and floundered, heaving to lift themselves step by step through the muck.
“Hey, we should have laid some planks down for these gentlemen,” said Baptiste.
“Not me,” called Tess. “It is plumb funny to see them, mired, not able to hardly move. If someone shot a rifle above their heads, they’d make that mud splatter.”
The four strangers had beached their pirogue at the mouth of the muddy Kaw. Now they looked about curiously, noticing the naked children on the ponies, the unkempt squaws carrying wood in their arms, the bleak-looking log houses. The lead man waved a hand that took in the street, the children, the squaws—the whole settlement—and said something to his companions in a voice too low to hear.
“He’s telling ‘em to leave this squaw village at once,” Tess said.
“Shhh,” Baptiste warned, and began unloading his gear and traps and pelts from his horse so that he could meander closer to the four newcomers.
The strangers made their way through the mud to the wooden porch of Woods’s house. There they scraped off as much of the slick clay as they could before the tall one knocked.
Rita Woods stood at the door. She was a woman in her early thirties, beginning to carry a little extra weight, to broaden in the hips and thicken at the waist. She was dark-skinned, almost swarthy, and her hair, which had been as black as a moonless night when she was younger, had gray wings along the temples now. She was a handsome woman, but not really pretty. The stranger spoke in halting English.
“Shhh,” Baptiste warned again as Tess pressed in close behind him, moving closer to the side of Woods’s house so they could see and hear better.
“Is this the home of Mr. Woods?”
“Si. He is not here, but running his own trap lines to the south.”
“I spent a night with a Seńor Chauvin in Saint Charles. I promised him I’d stop to see his son-in-law.”
The woman smiled, showing flashing white teeth. “That Seńor Chauvin is my padre. I am the wife of Mr.
Woods,” she explained. The men had difficulty understanding her Creole Spanish. Finally, she called a small, nearly naked child to her, and gave him some instructions in Spanish. She smiled at the four men and sat quietly to wait. The men—one named Caillou, another Louis, and an elderly Canadian called Roudeau—sat timidly on chairs while the fourth man sat back and relaxed, perfectly at ease, waiting for what would come next.3
The child ran straight to Baptiste and Tess and explained that his mother wanted them to come at once. “You know Spanish,” said the child. “You learned it at a school?”
“Yes,” said Baptiste, sensing something urgent about the child. “Then, come, you help Mama talk to the men.”
“Maybe we can earn us a gold piece,” said Tess. “What’s your name?”
“I am called Juan,” said the child, running back toward the house.
Tess and Baptiste stood on the porch a moment so the mud and water would run off their boots. Baptiste knocked. The child, Juan, answered and brought them into the sitting room.
“I beg your pardon, Juan would not even let me take my muddy boots off first,” Baptiste apologized. “He said it was urgent that I come in.” He spoke to the woman in Spanish.
She smiled and indicated the four men with her outstretched hand. Baptiste understood at once. “She wants us to interpret for her,” he said in English.
Tess stood behind his brother, looking from one man to another.
“Ja, go slow so that I understand all she says,” said the tall relaxed man, who had a German accent.
“Do you speak German, sir?” asked Baptiste.
The man was surprised and said quickly, “Ja, ich bin Deutsch.” He took Baptiste’s hand and shook it, then spoke in a deep, rich voice, using his native tongue. “We have been as near drowned as men can be and still breathe. The water has been overhead and underfoot. Oh, Caillou, Louis, and Roudeau here are gentlemen of my party. I am Paul Wilhelm. At home I am Duke of Württemberg.”
“I am Baptiste Charbonneau. And this is my brother, Toussaint.”
“It is my pleasure to find you in this wild country,” said Duke Paul. “I have sailed from Hamburg to New Orleans and was granted permission by Mr. Adams, your Secretary of State, to enter and travel at will through the United States. See, here is the note he has signed.”
Baptiste took it and, after reading it, translated for Rita Woods. “John Quincy Adams writes that the federal authorities of the west are to provide this man and his party with every means in their power to further and safeguard his movements and to furnish him military escort when it should be necessary. He’s someone fairly important.”
Rita Woods nodded her head. “Si, he stayed with my father downriver.”
Baptiste gave out a long, low whistle. “Did you meet with Governor Clark in Saint Louis?” He winked at Tess, never figuring that Duke Paul had even heard of Governor Clark.
“Ja, he gave me a passport from the Secretary of War to travel up the Missouri. I wish to explore for my own instruction. To learn the natural science of the country and to hunt.”4
Baptiste and Tess were stunned. Clark had talked with this duke. The country was getting smaller.
The duke was a young man in his mid-twenties, of medium height, rather slender, passionately fond of his pipe, unostentatious, and he spoke very broken English. He wore a white slouch hat, a black-velvet coat, and probably the greasiest pair of leggings Baptiste had ever seen. He had long black sideburns, curving forward to his pursing mouth, and hot brown eyes showing intense, fanatic concentration. Baptiste counted fifteen buttons on each side of the greasy leggings. He wondered where the party was going.
“I have a keelboat on the Missouri. It is waiting there for me to explore this Kaw River. Then I’ll travel up the Missouri to visit various Indians along the way.”
Rita Woods suggested that the men all stay for supper and dry out their boots by the fire. She pulled up a bench, and the men took off their soggy boots, outercoats, and hats, and held their chilled hands toward the fireplace.
Caillou was a man of medium height, thin, slope-shouldered, narrow-faced. Louis was a small-featured man, with a large nose and cleft chin. The elderly Roudeau was stocky, with swarthy skin and a shock of dark hair that was graying at the hairline.
That afternoon, Baptiste learned that Duke Paul had received military training in Germany, but not caring for military life, he had chosen to study botany and zoology. The King of England was his uncle, and he had suggested that the duke search for material in the New World. Duke Paul was fascinated by the life of an explorer. He confided that he had talked at great length with Clark about the famous western expedition.
“Herr Clark told me that he had educated the baby that was carried halfway across the continent during that trip. He said the boy was out on a trapping expedition with his father. How I would like to meet that young man.”
Tess coughed and nearly choked.
Baptiste drew in his breath quickly. Then he made his face bland and innocent-looking. He studied a thorn scratch on his thumb, rubbed it thoughtfully, and took his time about speaking. “I am the papoose of the expedition,” he said finally. “My mother is in our camp. She can tell you much about that long trail.” His eyelids were heavy over his narrowed eyes, only an edge of white showing beneath them. “My father is still with his trap line. He was interpreter and cook with the expedition.” Baptiste contin
ued to examine the scratched thumb.
Tess squirmed in his seat, wondering what he could say about himself that would attract the attention of these important men.
“Do I understand you, sir?” asked Duke Paul. “You are the baby of the expedition?”
Baptiste looked into his face. “Yes, sir, I am that baby.”
Duke Paul inclined his head and studied Baptiste. Then he slapped his right leg, shouting, “Merkwürdig!”
“My mother is a full-blooded Shoshoni. I expect you know.”
“Ja. Well, I should have a talk with her before I go to the river again. Incredible. I still cannot believe my good fortune.”
Rita Woods was impressed with her dinner guests, but Sacajawea was not impressed with the strangers. There were many travelers going through Saint Louis, she said, and they were all much alike. But when Baptiste explained to her and Eagle that the duke had also crossed the Great Eastern Waters to get here, they were amazed.
Sacajawea had always thought that the Great Waters would stop the white men, as they had stopped the expedition. Hadn’t they camped the winter beside the Great Western Waters, then turned around and come back? But this man had come from the east! Now nothing could stop the white men. Her interest in this stranger grew. She began to ask him questions. “Did you walk overland from the Great Eastern Waters?”
“Nein, we traveled around the continent to the Mississippi Delta. We traveled up the river from New Orleans. Ja, we had to change to a smaller boat.”
Tess eyed the strangers suspiciously and felt a pang of jealousy as Sacajawea offered them food and hot tea with plenty of sugar to drink. Baptiste asked many questions about the homeland called Germany.
Eagle crept back inside the skin tepee. She could not understand the words of these strangers, and she could stare at them better through the front flap without seeming so discourteous. Her wonder at Sacajawea grew as she watched her talk with hand signs and English words slowly with the four men. The men seemed to enjoy their visit with her. Sacajawea wore her soft buckskin gown loosely belted at the waist, beaded moccasins, and a narrow band of beadwork across her forehead. Her long black hair was parted in the middle, oiled back in smooth wings, and hung nearly to her waist in two long braids. Her smile was like a flash of lightning across a cloudy sky.
Eagle’s face was somber and passive as she watched Sacajawea shuffle around the cooking kettle. The men were offered portions of tender meat from the kettle.
The duke shook his head and held his belly. “Nein, danke.” He had eaten much not long ago at the table of Rita Woods.
Never before had Eagle heard a guest refuse food. This rude refusal did not seem to disturb Sacajawea. She ignored it and went on making hand signs and talking with the men. Eagle watched, her face lowered, wondering what it was in the eating courtesy she had missed. Then she saw with her own eyes Sacajawea take up the horn spoon and dip into the kettle for a large piece of meat. She held the meat so that it cooled, then slowly picked off strings of it and ate as she talked with the men. Baptiste did the same, which was acceptable. But a woman talking and eating with guests—with strangers!—with men! Eagle shook her head, thinking, I have come to live with a family that is half-savage, with no manners—brazen. What if our man should hear of this?
Tess pushed aside the tepee flap and stepped inside. A thin blanket was wrapped around his middle. Eagle drew back. Tess’s gaze was silent and fixed. Eagle spoke. It was true that his mother did not observe the proper courtesies expected of women.
“So—you would have me speak to my mother about being corrupted with evil white ways?”
Eagle stretched her stiff, bent legs, and straightened her back. “I would have you speak to your own father.”
Tess had a fine beaver pelt in his hand, which he wanted to show off to the visitors. He stood in the doorway scratching his dirty red-wool shirt. “What the hell!” he said. “You trying to start something?” Then he was outside explaining how easy it was to trap such fine specimens to the man called Caillou.
The duke was still talking with Sacajawea. “I would like to make a request,” he said. “I ask your permission to take your son as an interpreter for me.”
She looked swiftly into his face.
“We are going up the Missouri. He will be well fed and paid for his efforts. He is the first young man I’ve found who can translate so that I fully know what he is talking about. His mind is most agile.”
Baptiste blushed as he translated for his mother. Sacajawea drew a deep breath and puffed it out slowly, with silent thanks. She smiled and nodded her consent.
“Ai. He will go. His papa will like it. He thinks the boy should have a job.”
The duke gave her a straight look. “We start in the morning to catch the rest of our party. Have him meet with us down at our pirogue.” He shook the boy’s hand, nodded his thanks, and filed down the trail, through the mud, to his pirogue and camp on the Kaw. Not one of the other men said a word until they were halfway to the pirogue; then Caillou, Louis, and Roudeau began to talk at once. “A boy for an interpreter,” they laughed.
Charbonneau came in telling how the Kaw had overflowed the bottoms until it was several miles wide, three or four miles above the mouth. It was a sea of water; the banks were gone; only the slow eddies down the middle showed where the main channel was. Traveling was difficult, even by horse, and he was glad to be home. His horse was loaded with beaver pelts. Charbonneau ate his supper in silence; then he began to storm. “The boy is too young! That is a job for me! Is it true that a German duke was here who speaks French?” He faced Baptiste.
“Yes, quite well,” answered Baptiste, stiff-lipped. “Some English, mostly German, and he does not know Spanish. I had to translate to Mrs. Woods for him.”
Charbonneau eyed Tess. “You said you translated for the Woods woman.”
“We both did,” said Baptiste quickly, gently.
Charbonneau’s dark, wrinkled face remained a rusty iron mask. “I will speak to this man.”
“Speak to your older squaw first,” suggested Tess. “She is the one who made the arrangements and ate, like one of the men, with the strangers.”
“My woman?”
Tess closed his eyes and stalked peevishly back and forth. “That there duke,” he said, “is an idiot.”
“The man,” Charbonneau said bluntly, “he is a damned fool.” Then he added, “He is a fool who can’t see beyond his own nose that there are older, more experienced men around who make excellent interpreters.”
“Tell him I should be the one to go.” Tess opened hiseyes petulantly. “I can speak French and a little German.”
“But you don’t know Spanish,” said Baptiste.
“Pah! You make me want to puke!” said Tess.
Charbonneau hesitated. He had the feeling that this matter was the beginning of something larger. Abruptly he caught Sacajawea’s wrist and twisted her around to face him. His whiskers had grown, making his face look shaggy and dark. The rusty mask was broken. His mouth was half-open, and his breath came in small gasps. “I should beat you.” He picked up a long leather thong and wound it around his wrist to lash against her. She sank to the ground and covered her head with her arms. She kept silent and bit her upper lip so as not to cry out.
Eagle watched from one side. She was truly half-sorry to see her friend treated so roughly—and half-sorry that Charbonneau did not lash out harder. After all, Sacajawea had entertained four men and had eaten with them. That was wrong. Yet Eagle also knew that Sacajawea seemed to do things easily, with no conscious thought of Indian etiquette. She used either the white man’s or the Indian’s manners whenever it suited her purpose.
Charbonneau lashed out with a loud snap of the whip. It caught at the back of Sacajawea’s tunic.
Eagle also knew that she wished she had the easygoing ability to talk with strangers that Sacajawea had. She watched their man puffing, his whiskers moving in and out as his cheeks moved with his breathing. His
forehead was red and perspiring. She dared not interfere or she would also be whipped.
Both boys shouted for Charbonneau to stop. Baptiste tried to grab at Charbonneau’s hands, but he was pushed away.
Sacajawea seemed to crouch lower, but still no sound escaped her lips. She endured five strong, deliberate lashes. Her dark eyes gleamed.
In a burst of courage Baptiste dragged his mother out of the whip’s reach. Charbonneau let the leather thong fall to the ground. He spat and walked over the black string of leather, leaving Sacajawea to her shame.
Sacajawea stood up. Deliberately, before all of them, she spat toward Charbonneau, then walked slowly, contemptuously away.
Away from the camp, she threw herself on the wet ground and opened her proud and stubborn Shoshoni shell and wept. She lay facedown, her arms outstretched above her head, her fists clenched.
“A man has to keep his woman in line,” sniffed Tess. “I would never have a woman who speaks up the way our mother does. She matches wits with anyone, man or woman. That is not proper for a squaw. She acts as though she has been to the white man’s school herself.”
“She thinks and can express her thoughts,” said Baptiste.
“Would you like your mother to speak up to your schoolmaster? To Mr. Welch?”
“Well—”
“See—that would be an embarrassment. If she went to my school and spoke up to Father Neil, he would soon have her muzzled. No one speaks up to him. Our father is master of this camp, and he knows how to run it. His blood boils fast, and this is good. I will be like him.”
“What a temper you’ll have!” sighed Baptiste.
Near dawn, Sacajawea rewrapped her braids with thick grass stems, brushed off her skirt, and strode back into camp.
Eagle bathed the long red welts on Sacajawea’s back and arms, making guttural sounds in her throat the whole time. Charbonneau left the tepee but soon came inside and took a bowl of water from the water bucket and rummaged around in his roll of clothing for a straight razor.
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