by Thad Carhart
It might be anything, Baptiste knew: a hunting party attacked by another tribe; a dispute between white trappers and their Indian suppliers; a confrontation at one of the trading posts or forts along the river involving women, whiskey, or guns. Until he learned the details, though, and what the Omahas’ stake in it might be, it was best to withdraw. He was familiar enough with the shapeless dangers that came down the river in the form of rumors, as if the current itself carried news of violence.
Over the next few days the facts became known as groups of voyageurs, traders, and Indians made their way down the Missouri with the news. In the first days of June, a large party of fur traders led by William Ashley had clashed with some six hundred Arikara outside their villages in the far northern reaches of the Missouri. A dozen or more white men had been killed and the Arikara vowed war on any others who came up the river into their lands. The survivors of Ashley’s party had arrived with their wounded at Fort Atkinson and demanded that the army mount a campaign of reprisal. Bands of the Lakota Sioux, ancestral enemies of the Arikara, were reportedly being recruited for an attack in force. The situation was explosive, and the jittery menace of the Omahas had, in fact, been dangerous. Ashley, the new lieutenant governor, had occasionally appeared at William Clark’s door in years past astride a prancing white stallion, a pack of baying hounds in tow, bellowing that it was a good day for a hunt. Such arrogance, Baptiste knew, could well have led to misunderstandings with the Arikara.
“Word is that Colonel Leavenworth is taking more than two hundred troops up the river, along with a couple of six-pound cannon,” Andrew Woods told him a few days later as they tied pelts into bundles in the main warehouse. “And Pilcher is riling up the Oglala, the Sans Arcs, the Brulés, and any other Sioux he lays eyes on. Mark my words,” he said with an air of resignation, “this will be a dirty season.” He reached across the table for one of the cigars he favored, a signal that they would take a pause in their work. Baptiste sat down, and Woods continued as he lighted his cigar.
“You sure impressed those two Germans the other day. The one that calls himself Paul Wilhelm thinks you walk on water. He couldn’t stop talking about how you handled that band of Omaha, asked me how many languages you spoke, and wanted to know about what you do here.”
Baptiste laughed. He knew the old trapper had guided a fair number of rich visitors from the East bent on seeing real Indians, and these two were as ignorant of the ways of the frontier as the rest.
“You know why he’s got two first names, that Paul Wilhelm?” Woods drew on his cigar, aware that Baptiste was curious to know but unwilling to acknowledge his interest. He raised his chin and blew out the smoke in a thin trail, then contemplated the cloud above his head as if it held the secret to a mystery. “He’s a duke, that’s why,” he said in a near whisper. “His brother or uncle is the king of a place between France and Russia called Wittenberg or Wootenburg or some such.” Woods added, “Mr. Chouteau sent word to keep him happy.”
“That explains why he doesn’t know a paddle from a pitchfork,” Baptiste commented. “On the other hand, I’ve never seen a better shot at a hundred yards, or a fancier rifle.”
“He wants you to take him after buffalo next month,” Woods said; “then he’s going with Schlape to visit the Arikara. He may not be coming down the river again in one piece.”
The two Europeans had spent three days as guests of Wakanzere, chief of the Kansa, at his encampment to the north along the river, then returned to the trading post later that afternoon. They arrived with three heavily laden canoes, filled with goods they had bought in the Kansa villages. The duke, as Baptiste now thought of him, called the goods his “Indian treasures,” and Baptiste saw that weapons, tools, ornaments, and articles of clothing had been acquired in quantity. Paul Wilhelm immediately set about having the goods unloaded by their boatmen. Shields, leggings, awls, headdresses, blankets, and parfleches were piled near the river’s edge. He prevailed upon Woods to have it all boxed and carried down the river to New Orleans, where it could be loaded on a boat to Europe. Schlape was made to produce several gold coins to show good faith, and the process of crating began at once.
Paul Wilhelm was full of enthusiasm for the sights and sounds of his previous three days. He said that Wakanzere was what he called “a natural aristocrat” who led his people with “subtlety, intelligence, and dignity.” Woods and Baptiste exchanged a look but remained silent as they organized the goods that the young duke had assembled. This acquisition of so many tribal goods was new to Baptiste and Woods. William Clark had a large collection of Indian objects that he displayed in the Council Room in St. Louis, but each one had been the fruit of long years of contact with the tribes and had most often been presented to Clark as a gift. Others who visited the tribes along the river, whether they were merchants, confidence men, government agents, or voyageurs, sought pelts, not tribal objects—principally beaver, the standard of a tribe’s wealth throughout the region. This newcomer was not interested in furs. But he asked incessant questions about plants, animals, the river, weather patterns, and tribal relations as they packed his prizes. Woods soon tired of the questions and feigned ignorance, but Paul Wilhelm’s insatiable curiosity sparked Baptiste’s interest. He wants to see, know, and study everything, Baptiste thought.
The visitor was extremely attentive to what Baptiste had to say and often stopped to write in his notebooks as they worked. Paul Wilhelm was also interested in Baptiste’s mixed blood. The fact that he was the son of a French voyageur and an Indian, far from being a liability, seemed to increase his stature in the eyes of this observer from Europe.
After dinner at Woods’s house that night, they sat around the fire and drank whiskey, talking over the rumors that continued to filter down the Missouri about the extent of the fight. Cyrus Curtis had returned in the late afternoon, and the two fur traders dominated the conversation. Baptiste took the opportunity to observe the European visitor closely. From where he sat on a low stool by the hearth, Baptiste could see the finely etched lips normally hidden under the full moustache, and the muttonchop whiskers extending in russet profusion from the darker brown of his curly hair. Paul parted his hair well to one side, which had the effect of exaggerating his already-wide forehead; together with his full cheeks, rounded nose, and muscular neck, it gave his whole head, not only his face, a look of great strength and dignity. His eyes were much lighter than Baptiste’s, and Baptiste knew their extraordinary hue would fascinate the Indians along the Missouri, who were unused to the gray-blue pearlescence that nearly matched the shell fragments they highly prized. The silvery irises gave his regard, when attentive or concentrated, the steely focus of a bird of prey.
Paul Wilhelm’s upper body was like a barrel, considerable girth in the shoulders extending to a broad belly. His bulging stomach and ample chin, so visible in repose, suggested that fat might eventually prevail, though now the overall impression was one of strength and stature.
The following day a keelboat belonging to Pierre Chouteau arrived in the early morning. It was fitted out with a crew and supplies to facilitate the upriver voyage of the two visitors. As their belongings were being loaded, Paul Wilhelm said to Baptiste, “I trust that we shall see each other again in the next few months if the buffalo hunt Mr. Chouteau is organizing for me comes to pass.”
“It will depend on the location of the herds,” Baptiste responded. Chouteau’s men had brought a message that he was to accompany the duke if the herds were nearby.
“Of course,” Paul Wilhelm replied, inclining his head. He had something else on his mind, Baptiste could see; he leaned in close as he continued, and fixed Baptiste with a penetrating stare. “If we can find common ground on such an expedition, as I suspect we will, I have a proposal to make. I should like you to consider accompanying me back to Württemberg this fall. Your services would be priceless in helping me to organize my collection and prepare my notes for publication. You know the flora and fauna of this entire region as only a natural hunt
er can, which will be of inestimable value in helping me to make sense of everything that is being sent back to my homeland for study. Your guardian, General Clark, tells me that you converse fluently in French and Spanish, as well as in three different Indian languages.”
Baptiste was dumbfounded. Before he could respond, Paul Wilhelm continued, his voice full of the will to persuade. “I can assure you that you will have all your material needs taken care of as a full member of my household. In addition, I am prepared to pay you one hundred pieces of gold per annum for the time you spend in Württemberg, and I shall undertake to secure safe passage for you and your goods back to St. Louis once our work is completed.”
The duke added with a reassuring smile, “Your uncle is a chief, from what your father told me. You are almost a duke yourself!” Paul Wilhelm noticed the look of surprise that crossed Baptiste’s features and said, “You will be accorded all the rights of a gentleman at court, and we will work as equals.”
Some response was called for, Baptiste knew, and he murmured the formula he had heard William Clark use countless times in negotiations with tribes or traders when he wanted to buy time. “Thank you for your offer. I shall consider it very carefully.”
“I can ask for nothing more,” the duke responded. With that, he shook Baptiste’s hand firmly, then turned and boarded the keelboat.
Within a short while the boat was lost to sight around a bend in the river, and Baptiste was left to make sense of the offer. The likeliest prospect, he told himself, was that nothing would come of it. The duke might be just another fast-talking visitor with big ideas, or he might change his mind and never think of Baptiste again. It was even possible, as Woods thought, that the Arikara would hack him to pieces, yet another white intruder on their sacred lands. But his fervor was genuine.
Baptiste wrote to his guardian that night, out of courtesy and to see what his reaction to such a plan would be. He entrusted his letter to traders going downriver, and within three weeks he had a detailed, reasoned, and encouraging reply. Clark had a high opinion of Paul Wilhelm, who had been present at a grand council at which Clark received the chiefs of the Potawatomi and the Osage. He had impressed the Indians. Baptiste had much to gain and little to lose by going to Europe as the duke’s protégé, Clark assured him. “You will have nothing to regret for the experience so long as the terms you agree to are clear and honorable.”
His father would have heard by now, and would likely make some noise about it when next they met on the river. But his chronic drunkenness lessened the import of anything he said, and Baptiste had felt independent of him for many years. At eighteen, the decision was his.
FIVE
AUGUST 1823
The herds had descended to the Platte River earlier that summer, then headed northeast. Word came down the river in early August that Baptiste should join the Europeans at Cabanné’s trading post on the Missouri for the buffalo hunt. Two weeks later, they rode out together in the company of two Pawnee scouts the duke had paid to lead them to their band, which was following the herd. Now he was “Paul” to Baptiste, having insisted on the single name. They joined the herd on their fourth day out. Baptiste was impressed with Paul’s respect for Indian ways. He was infinitely adaptable: he slept in the open, ate what the others ate, never complained about the withering heat or the plagues of insects. He had an air of authority and dignity, which counted for much among the braves: his great height was an advantage, as was the rumor of his stature as a chief among his own people. Nor did Schlape’s constant presence go unnoticed. But the duke was principally respected for his own considerable qualities. He never made himself ridiculous by acting like an Indian or by drawing back when faced with the unknown. For a newcomer on the frontier, that was truly unusual.
The duke mentioned his offer to travel to Württemberg only once during their time together, and Baptiste acknowledged that the prospect interested him.
“Splendid! Then I shall count on it. You should plan to join us when we descend the Missouri this autumn. Please organize your affairs so that you can leave with us. We will continue to St. Louis and then go on to New Orleans.”
Baptiste was surprised that his expression of interest was taken as an acceptance, but he quickly found that he was excited. The voyage to Europe now assumed an air of reality where before he had dismissed it as a daydream. He had not dared to allow himself to believe that such changes could come to pass overnight. He knew that his future was about to change in ways he could not imagine. Instead of making his way up the river as a trapper and trader in Mr. Chouteau’s empire, as he had always figured it, he would be crossing the ocean.
Europe was too great an abstraction for him to consider, and Württemberg itself was entirely unknown to him, so he focused on the voyage. He tried to imagine what he would see on the passage and returned again and again to something Paul had said. Standing together on a rise and looking across a limitless expanse of undulating hills covered with head-high grass, Paul told him that the prairie looked like the ocean. What does that mean? Baptiste asked himself. He had been on huge lakes where the water stretched to a distant horizon, but the duke had said that on the ocean, the hills, too, were made of water. What did that look like?
This year the herd had come close to the Pawnee villages and the tribe’s hunters had been taking animals for three days. Baptiste and the four others crossed the high plain in the early morning, riding in single file on sturdy hunting ponies. They had passed returning groups, their packhorses heavily laden with meat from their hunt. One large band of hunters remained with the herd, they were told, and were preparing a final assault that very day, before turning back.
One of the Pawnees suddenly slid from the back of his mount, his right arm raised in a silent halt. With infinite grace he crouched on one knee, his forearm in the fine dust of the plain, then slowly lowered his head to the ground until his ear touched the powdery red dirt. The horses stiffened, eyes wide and muscles shuddering. The fierce alertness of the crouching warrior descended upon them like the stillness before a storm. He rose slowly. “Buffalo.”
They rode north at a brisk pace for another hour, the wind rising from the west, not quite full in their faces. The warrior dismounted several times to confirm what he already knew. By now the horses had picked up the scent and felt the vibrations in their hooves, and they stamped and pranced, straining against the reins, as they made their way to the river. Paul was a seasoned horseman, but this was unlike any riding he had done before. The Indian ponies were half-wild now that they sensed the presence of the herd, and he was grateful for the bridles and thin cavalry saddles that Baptiste had procured.
The land ahead changed gradually from a limitless expanse of dried grassland to a stretch of rolling hills with brush and low pine defining the edges of a valley. The river made a deep cut in the high, flat plain. It lay half a mile distant, below limestone bluffs and long stretches of rocky outcroppings. Stands of trees along the rim of the valley hid from their view the broad expanse of water and most of the opposite bank.
The bluffs descended to the water’s edge a mile or so upstream, but in that direction, too, brush and trees blocked their view of the river. The Pawnees headed for the high ground to reconnoiter the herd from a vantage point that gave the best chance of remaining undetected. As they approached the trees, the strong smell of the animals reached them on the wind, different entirely from the scent of sage and sunbaked grasses that lightly perfumed the air.
They dismounted at the edge of the trees, hobbled all five horses with leather thongs, and went forward on foot, eager to see what lay below and beyond. They made their way deliberately through the remaining hundred yards of undergrowth to the edge of the escarpment. Now they heard the constant lowing of buffalo and felt the ground vibrate. Pushing through a final thicket of scrub oak, they stood side by side on a small rocky ledge at the top of a sheer cliff that descended a hundred feet to the water.
The opposite bank was covered with b
uffalo to the far horizon. The animals trailed down to the river through a wide break in the cliffs that followed a stream; the small valley broadened and flattened as it neared the water’s edge. The landscape was alive with the shaggy brown bodies of bison. Several hundred stood in the water drinking while hundreds more rolled in the shallows of mud and reeds that flanked the tributary stream.
Up the valley and on the heights above, the terrain was dark with their forms; the contours of the land a mile away undulated with their movements. They looked like bees swarming on the distant hillside. Only the steepest hills and the sheer faces of distant buttes were not covered by the thousands of buffalo, and the trees that flanked the stream and parts of the river’s edge looked like islands floating above the churning sea of dusty fur. On a sand bar upstream on the other side of the river, a small herd of elk, mostly cows, with a mammoth stag standing alongside, watched the buffalo as the hunters watched from above.
For the Indians there was game and, soon enough, there would be food. But for Paul the immense herd was an awesome spectacle. High, thin clouds brushed the deep blue overhead with white streaks, and on the far horizon fat, hazy columns of white, gray, and black presaged a storm.
They moved back slowly from the ledge to a small clearing. The two Pawnees and Baptiste conversed in sign language and Paul talked excitedly to Schlape in German, unaware of the mystical code of silence that descended when a herd had been sighted. Paul’s chatter stood out against the utter quiet, and he realized that something was amiss. Schlape sensed the ire of the others and signaled to Paul with his eyes. Paul confronted the steely gaze of the older Pawnee, whose look held contempt, disbelief, and a magisterial authority that cut off Paul’s talk like a bolt of lightning. He held Paul’s stare for a soundless second, then turned and continued his exchange in signs, the three of them making occasional soft grunts of agreement that sounded more animal than human.
