by Thad Carhart
Here the situation is not much different, though it takes other forms. I have seen African servants here in Europe. In some ways they seem to me even more miserable than the slaves of America, since they are so few and regarded as if they were exotic animals. When I arrived in Europe, I was an object of wonder and fascination. Only gradually did I come to realize that this sort of curiosity is rarely accompanied by respect. You will laugh when you read that, but please remember that I was nineteen years old when “civilization” opened its door to me, and now I have reached the ripe and cynical age of twenty-three. I tell myself that if I stay in Europe, I will end up like them, cut off from those who know who I am.
I am beginning to understand the sense of your father’s remark that for those of us who live on the edges of different worlds, history has wounded us and love must save us. He was thinking of the Irish, but there are many of us who have more than one home. You and I both know what it is to pass from one world to another, and back again.
Captain Clark tells me that there are more visitors than ever going up the river, and I could find work guiding Europeans on their expeditions. It will be good for me to use my know-how on the frontier, where it is valued. I long for a companion who could make her way there. Will you consider it? You see, Maura, when I am with you, I forget that I am of mixed blood or an American or a Mandan or from the frontier. I am Baptiste, and it is enough.
I have written more a book than a letter, but I hope you will indulge me. I cannot hide my thoughts from you. When I write to you, I think of your voice, your laugh, your eyes, your strong opinions. You are more present in my mind than ever. What would Maura think of this? I ask myself many times each day.
Together we will find a way if you are willing. Until then, I am your most affectionate,
Baptiste
P.S. I must add one detail that I know will make you laugh. This Schloss is now to be called “Bad” Mergentheim, since “curative springs” have been found in the environs. A local shepherd found two of his sheep in a swampy area containing a salt lick and a few small sulfur pools—the sort of place you see a dozen times in a week in the land I grew up on. The “discovery” has excited Paul. He has taken samples of the water to analyze its mineral content, and has great plans to exploit the healing waters of “Bad Mergentheim” in the name of science.
THIRTY-SIX
DUKE PAUL, FROM HIS PRIVATE JOURNAL
MAY 20, 1828
BAD MERGENTHEIM
This should be a happy time, and yet I find myself in a dark mood day after day. The elation I felt over Sophie’s pregnancy has transformed into foreboding. Daily my wife is full of demands on my time, each more pressing and each justified by the approaching birth of our child. I cannot imagine putting up with Sophie’s growing needs until October, when the child will come. She talks of going to Regensburg to visit her mother; the day of her departure cannot come soon enough. I suppose her behavior is typical of the caprices of an expectant mother, but she becomes more insistent, more irascible, and more shrill as the weeks pass.
Before now, I have known Sophie to be sweet, a little dull, and inclined to be accommodating toward others. Prospective motherhood has unleashed a dragon whose fiery blasts are directed at me. Increasingly I see that in her mind this baby will turn us into a family with shared responsibilities, ambitions, and activities. I must participate in the deliberations of the Chamber of Nobles in Stuttgart on a regular basis, I must hold a weekly audience for the good citizens of Mergentheim, I must draw closer to my dear cousin the king, I must put away my silly specimens and transform Castle Mergentheim into a home worthy of children: the list is an endless catalog of all the things I am not.
Theresa warned me that Sophie would overlook all that came before the marriage but would see it as her duty to reform my ways. If Theresa is right—and I fear that she is—this ship is headed for a rocky shore.
The prospect of my book’s publication fills me with more joyful anticipation than does the birth of my child. Sophie does not yet suspect that Baptiste and I will have to spend even longer hours on it now. How she will complain! But there is nothing for it but to lower my head and attend to my real work.
The thread of my narrative has brought me to my adventure in the wilderness separating the Ponca tribe from the White River. Last night as I fashioned my account of the difficulties on this part of the expedition, I was nevertheless overcome by the strongest sense of longing for those days of discovery, daring, and unsurpassed beauty. Today, Baptiste and I examined Tetrao phasianellus, a native grouse that I collected in that region, and its distinctive tail feathers again surprised me.
This afternoon we also visited Herr Kreis, the local taxidermist, to whom I consigned nine of the larger animals I collected. We inspected his handiwork with the wolves and coyotes I had entrusted to his care. The results were superb: Their bared fangs looked truly menacing, and the raised hackles of one specimen gave the impression of imminent attack. While Baptiste is untroubled by the flat pelts of trapped animals, so familiar to him from his work on the frontier, he does not appreciate the illusion of life restored by the taxidermist with the animals’ bodies stuffed and their heads still attached.
Baptiste is tiring of the scientific component of our work. He eagerly learned the Linnaean system, always looking for differences that separate one specimen from its apparent twin. But increasingly he questions this process and points out common traits. His own considerable expertise derives, of course, from the close observation of animals in the wild. It is natural that the structural distinctions, not necessarily apparent in an animal’s appearance or behavior, should cease to satisfy him after a time. Too, it may be an expression of the degree to which he misses the direct experience of nature that is his birthright. For different reasons, we share a longing to return to the American frontier.
He is traveling on his own to Vienna at month’s end, with my knowledge if not my blessing. Theresa is expected there next week at the Palace of Württemberg, and she plans to travel in the environs with friends until July. The rest is easy enough to imagine. If she influences Baptiste to remain with me, how can I object to his absence of two weeks?
Theresa seems to understand Baptiste, while I often have to guess his thoughts. Yet we are not so very different from any two men between whom words are sparse. Still, we share something that only the two of us have experienced. No one else here has been on the frontier, and no one can understand the sacred bond that unites us. In these past several months, that bond has deepened as we have revisited the trip in minute detail. The specimens are a constant reminder of a wild world that stretches beyond the fringes of civilization to the far horizon. General Clark told me he felt the same way in the company of the other members of his Corps of Discovery, who occasionally visited him. “Others think they understand what you have seen when you return,” he said, “but they do not; they cannot. Only your fellow expedition member knows what you have experienced.” Here at home, I feel that incomprehension keenly.
How am I to describe the solitude and silence of the prairie just before sunrise to someone who has never been there? The horizon appears as a series of feathery lines, defined by the tops of grassy stalks higher than a man’s head, stretching in waves to the far distance with the same undulating infinity that one observes at sea. A grouse calls from somewhere in the endless grass, then it is quiet, and then the call is repeated as the stars gradually lose their luster. A long, slow rhythm of awakening ensues as the sun rises above the horizon, first lightening the underside of clouds and finally bursting forth on the living, rolling plain. Accuracy requires that I also mention the hellish swarms of mosquitoes that accompany such visions of heaven on earth, but even they now seem like welcome tokens of a world that I long for.
Among the Indian tribes of the plains, there exists a way of looking at these things that is entirely at odds with our own. I have to thank Baptiste, in these months spent together in the laboratory, for reminding me how ever
ything looks different to a Mandan. More than once he has corrected me when I referred to a distinction between Man and Nature to tell me there is no such separation. To a Mandan, Nature is the world, seamless and true.
One signal example is the Mandan’s way of describing things around him from a point of reference that strikes me as demonstrably useful and profound. Mountains are big brothers, nearby hills their little cousins; the Missouri and the Mississippi are great patriarchs of water, their tributary streams lesser kin. Mature trees and saplings, huge granite outcroppings and the scree covering an adjacent hillside, towering thunderclouds and small puffs of cumulus—all are ranked in a cycle of growth, maturity, and death. It has a logic that I find comforting, but I am incapable of applying it to the landscape I encounter in Europe. I need to return to that world to feel the sense of life that resides in things themselves and connects them in mysterious ways.
A letter from Professor Picard tells me that he will visit this fall. How long it seems since I first introduced Baptiste to Picard in Paris and together we examined the first boxload of my treasures from North America. I will present him with a copy of my book, and expect to hear his wisdom on many matters that concern me.
THIRTY-SEVEN
MAY 1828
All morning Baptiste’s mind was on Maura. He rode out to the mineral springs just after dawn to look at the work Paul had initiated, and to clear his head. He wondered what her reaction would be to his letter. He mused about the future as he let the dappled gray stallion retrace his steps at a brisk walk along the forest’s edge. Would she go with him when he returned to St. Louis? He realized how much depended on her answer, but all he could do was wait.
In the late morning, Baptiste was in a storeroom at Castle Mergentheim with yet another list of objects Paul intended to catalog when he returned from Stuttgart later that day. Baptiste was to search the storerooms for the pieces on the list. “Kriegsschild mit Hülle, Osagen,” he read: a war shield with feathers from the Osage tribe. He found it in a corner with the next item on the list, “Bisonfell mit Quill, Mandan,” a painted Mandan buffalo robe with quillwork that Paul had acquired from one of the lesser chiefs at Robidoux’s Post. The last item he did not recall: “Puppe mit Menschenhaar,” a doll with human hair, though they were fashioned by all the Dakota peoples. He set shield and robe aside and began opening the boxes near at hand.
The first contained only pipes, twenty of the long, slender calumets so common along the river and across the plains. Some had beadwork on the bowl, some were carved or inset with shells or lead, others bore feathers and tassels that dangled from the stem. He recognized many of the tribal markings—Crow, Sioux, Oto—though others were unfamiliar to him, and he wondered again at Paul’s desire to have so many examples of each tribal piece. Baptiste recalled the gleam he had sometimes seen in fur traders’ eyes when they stepped into Mr. Woods’s storehouse. After a minute, when their gaze settled on the neat stacks of pelts—beaver, otter, wolf, bear, buffalo—they would nod once with a satisfied look and murmur, “I’ll buy everything you’ve got.”
From the next box he removed a pair of fringed leggings, a beaded shirt of yellow-hued antelope, four pairs of moccasins, and four painted parfleches. Finding an item folded separately in its own cloth cover at the bottom of the box, he lifted a woman’s buckskin dress with an elaborately beaded top of blue-and-red designs and a skirt with rows of rawhide strips applied with fancy stitching. It was the ceremonial dress of a Sioux woman, doubtless of some status, given the extent and fineness of the handiwork. He let the dress hang full at arm’s length, looking at it for a long while as he considered the lives connected to the personal things he was unpacking. As he set them carefully aside, his stomach tightened. They were like the creatures that floated in jars of foul-smelling liquid.
Baptiste shook the image from his head and turned to the last of the small boxes. When he lifted the top, a familiar and pleasing odor rose from it. It carried him to the interior of his parents’ lodge in the Mandan village of his earliest memories. It was the smell of buckskin, sweat, and the smoke of endless fires. He carefully lifted the cloth wrapping that concealed the box’s contents. A tiny figure stared up at him: two beads for eyes, arms and legs covered by a miniature buckskin dress with beadwork decoration, the feet sheathed in intricately embroidered moccasins, and a lock of human hair attached to the head and draped on either side like a Mandan girl’s long tresses. The doll resembled one his mother had made for him. His was a boy; it was one of the few things he still had from his mother. He had left it in the care of Captain Clark.
He held it to his face and inhaled deeply, just as he had done as a child, hoping that the boy spirit of the doll would become his spirit. He breathed in the smell of the lodge that clung to the doll in his urgent need to be there. Tears wetted his cheeks, and he nodded once at the power of the spirit that had been reawakened. He gently placed the doll on a table. A note in Paul’s hand was in the box: “A doll with human hair—Dakota Sioux? Collected north of Fort Atkinson—September 11, 1823.” A flush of blood rose to his face and he left the room.
Paul returned in the late afternoon in high spirits and full of news from his friends at court and in the city. Paul had visited his mistress, as well. His wife was spending time with her mother in Regensburg, which lightened the mood further. He washed up, changed coats, and went to find Baptiste.
Baptiste was leaning over one of the dissecting tables. “Hard at work, I see!” Paul said as he entered the laboratory. “Professor Tredup feels there may well be a new species among the duck specimens I showed him!” Baptiste turned as Paul’s eyes settled on the three long dissecting tables. His features clouded and his smile faded. “What is this?” he asked in a near whisper. The objects were arrayed in neat rows: a tall black boot, an embroidered silk purse, a cavalry saber, a tortoiseshell comb, a set of women’s underclothes, various kitchen utensils. On the longest table was displayed a series of children’s dolls fashioned after Napoleonic soldiers. Paul was trying to regain his carefree air of moments before, his features a combat between humor and doubt. Looking askance at Baptiste, he thought for an instant he had the key: “Have you been drinking?”
“These are my specimens,” Baptiste replied.
“What is the meaning of this?” Paul asked indignantly.
Baptiste responded, “If a natural philosopher from a faraway land, like myself, arrived at Castle Mergentheim, these are the things he might gather for his collection. Isn’t that so?” He gestured to the objects. “Tell me,” Baptiste continued heatedly, “would you sell your favorite English rifle or the hand-tooled saddle Prince Franz gave you as a wedding present if the price was high enough?”
The two men glared at each other. “Of course not! But that is hardly the point when—”
Baptiste cut him off. “Your idea of success was to collect as many objects as possible, no matter what the cost, no matter what the pieces meant to the people who used them.”
Paul was dismissive. “But we can only comprehend the unknown by studying it with scientific rigor,” he said.
“Do you care that the beadwork on each pair of moccasins tells a story about its owner, about his tribe and his clan and his life? Do you understand what the pipes and the dolls and the shields and the bows meant to those who used them?”
“Comparing and contrasting similar objects is how we must proceed,” Paul said loudly, “assembling facts so that we can think clearly.” Then he added with a righteous air, “Even von Humboldt, returning from South America, did not have the range of specimens I have assembled.”
“Of course, Paul. You must have more than anyone else.” Baptiste’s tone was bitter.
“You cannot possibly believe that is the purpose of my collection, you who know it more intimately than anyone but myself,” Paul responded. He was growing impatient. “One of the chief reasons for collecting these objects is to preserve a record for posterity.”
“They are not dead!” Bapt
iste shouted.
“Baptiste, your own General Clark told me he is powerless to stop the human tide coming up the river and flowing out onto the prairies. Eventually there will remain little of the Indians’ life. Would you rather that I not save the things by which we can know how they lived?”
Baptiste understood Paul’s reasoning, but he felt deeply hurt. “You can’t understand an entire people, no matter how big your collection, by buying and displaying the things they use.”
“That is one thing that you and I can agree on.” Paul picked up the cavalry saber from the nearby table, withdrew it from its scabbard, and sighted down the blade before raising his eyes to meet Baptiste’s gaze. “This weapon cannot teach you what it is like to be in the army of Württemberg, any more than those cooking implements can tell you how to prepare the food that is consumed here. But they are a start. Can you not see that? The things I have brought back from America are the physical evidence of a way of life that is bound to vanish. They are likely to be all that is left to us eventually.”
Baptiste turned away. The truth of Paul’s words came to him in a wave. The fur trappers were just the edge of the blade that opens the wound. Already many of the tribes he knew along the lower river had been decimated by the white man’s diseases and had bargained away their land. Now, with the army, steamboats, and sheer numbers, white settlers would keep pushing the tribes back until they had nowhere to go. Paul’s ignorance of the pieces he collected was painful to consider, but it changed nothing overall. Baptiste looked out the window to the gently swaying branches in the main courtyard, trying to compose himself.
Paul continued in a softer voice. “I beg you to consider how vital it is to educate Europeans about the true nature of the Indian. Europeans describe Indians as violent savages so that they can take advantage of them. Think of the attitudes toward Africans and the endless misery of slavery to see what can befall a race that lies in the path of progress. But progress, alas, is its own sovereign, whose path is strewn with those who profit and those who suffer.”
