She opened her eyes when he felt her forehead. “It’s just me,” he said. “I must go to Black Eagle’s funeral.”
He could tell from her eyes that she understood him, but she made no attempt to speak.
He lowered himself down into the chair beside her bed, where he spent so many of his empty hours now, and closed his eyes, fought against the hot flush of emotion. Why, oh Lord, why? He had asked that question a thousand times, but there was never an answer. She was dying, just as his friend Black Eagle had died—and John Julius before him, and a decade ago his dear Julia, and poor young Mary Margaret, and baby Edmund—and there was nothing he could do about it. He opened his eyes, saw that she had closed hers. It was his fault, his alone. He should never have brought sick Indians to his spare rooms, much less invited them into his house for meals. But how could he have failed to match the hospitality they had shown him and the corps? How could he not do everything in his power to cure Black Eagle?
He heard a light knock behind him. He ignored it, did not move. The door squeaked, then a voice sounded, softly: “Time to go, suh. The wagon is ready.”
Clark barely moved, just a quick nod of the head. He heard the door close behind him.
He reached out, took his wife’s warm hand. Was there nothing he could do for her? “I’ll be back after the funeral,” he whispered.
When he reached the front door the wagon was in the street, Nathaniel waiting on the buckboard. But Clark could not face the idea of being with anyone else just now. He made a quick motion, dismissed the slave: “I’ve decided to walk.” He turned south along Main. The damp cold of a Saint Louis November greeted him, driven by a wind that blew down off the plains. He shuddered, pulled his dark wool cloak closer. Black clouds scudded low against a slate-gray sky.
The river’s muddy waters were choppy and white capped in the wind. Tangles of logs and trees floated in the murk, each one pushing a dirty muddle of branches, garbage, and foam slowly past Bloody Island. Steamboats lay docked three deep along the quay, whose surface was half covered with huge piles of bulging burlap sacks, along with the ever-present bundles of beaver and buffalo pelts.
The cobblestone lanes along the waterfront were narrow and without sidewalks. Buildings crowded against one another in a senseless jumble. He could hear the soft sounds of a violin coming from a tavern, amid the rising voices of fur trappers who began their drinking at noon. A Frenchman drove two oxen hitched to a wagon loaded with bundles of beaver pelt; the docile beasts strained against the broad wooden stake that lay strapped to their horns, pulling with their great heads.
The scent of wood smoke filled the air. Fifteen thousand souls huddled around those fires to stay warm—Frenchmen, Spaniards, Creoles, Americans, Indians, Negro slaves. At least the wind dispersed the smoke today, blew it across the Mississippi. On a windless winter day it got so dark people lit candles at noon, and the town smelled like a cross between a campfire and a latrine.
A dilapidated ferry, once white but now darkened by grime and soot, lay at the bottom of Pine Street. Clark stopped and watched as several hundred Indians shuffled off the boat. This was the first boatload of Choctaws, who were being moved west of the Mississippi. They held blankets close around them against the cold. The women carried small children on their backs and their worldly goods in hide parfleches; the men carried nothing but their weapons: old flintlock muskets with long barrels, longbows and quivers on their backs, tomahawks and lances. The elderly came last, their ancient feet moving slowly, carefully, grandchildren holding their hands to guide them. One tiny woman wore nothing but a blanket so riddled with holes he could see her emaciated body in virtually all its parts; she looked to be a century old, and she was so thin it was a wonder she still walked. How they would survive the winter—if they would survive the winter—he was not certain. He would have had them taken to his country estate, had it not already been full of Senecas.
He had watched a steady stream of natives move through Saint Louis since Andrew Jackson pushed through his Indian Removal Act. Between starvation, consumption, and the pox, they were collapsing by the thousands. He had appealed to Washington for more money, repeatedly, but instead he was told to cut his expenses. He had done what he could out of his own income, but there was only so much one man could provide when tens of thousands struggled across the river. When they got to their new homes game was scarce, winters bitter, their new neighbors hostile. Reports from his subagents in the field were gruesome. Paul Chouteau had requested permission to move his Osage Agency further from the Indian villages, owing to the wails of mourning that kept his family up day and night.
Clark turned west, away from the river, and climbed the incline toward the square where the church had stood. Bishop Rosati had ordered the old log church demolished last summer. In August he had laid the cornerstone for a new cathedral, Greek revival style, to be built out of limestone from the quarry at Joliet. Workers had been digging the foundation for two months. They were at it again today, a small army of them, covered with dirt.
The cemetery lay just to the south. A knot of men huddled before a wooden casket and a small, sad hole in the ground: Lucien Fontenelle, Tom Fitzpatrick, Bill Sublette, Rabbit Skin Leggings, No Horns. Beyond them stood Nathaniel Paschall, the balding editor of the Missouri Republican, working hard to look as dignified as the Indians. God only knew what he hoped to pry out of them.
The men accepted Clark’s handshakes with silent nods. They exchanged small talk as they waited, arms clutched tightly to their sides, trying to fend off the damp wind. In the foundation hole, the workers stacked their shovels in one corner, dusted themselves off, and headed for home. Clark reached inside his cloak and pulled his gold watch from the pocket of his vest. It was pressing on four; if the bishop didn’t hurry they’d be shoveling in the dark.
It was another quarter hour before he appeared, his long black robe showing under a brown wool greatcoat. Never one for flourishes, he nodded to the group, bowed ever so slightly to Clark, and opened his prayer book. He droned on in Latin while the rest of them shivered and stared at the casket. Clark listened to the familiar cadences with one ear and gazed at the cemetery. Prairie grass sprouted between gravestones, bent, yellowed almost to white, dead but not yet covered by snow. It was a desolate landscape, almost as desolate as his heart. He owed Black Eagle so much, had been able to do so little for him.
Did it really make sense to send missionaries? Would not contact with whites just bring more disease and death? He wouldn’t send Roman Catholics, that he knew. It was bad enough that Black Eagle was buried by a Catholic. Fontenelle had arranged that, before Clark had thought to do otherwise. He had gone along, too worn by all these deaths to protest. But he would not send papists to teach Swan Lighting’s people their perverted ideas about God.
At last Rosati stopped talking and nodded to the small group. Clark, Fontenelle, No Horns, and Rabbit Skin Leggings moved to the casket, picked it up by the ropes that lay underneath, and lowered it into the ground. No Horns and Rabbit Skin Leggings threw Black Eagle’s possessions in after it: his rifle, his powder horn, his bullet pouch, his bow, his quiver of arrows, his war club.
Clark waited until they were finished, then threw in the first shovel of dirt, recoiling at the heavy thump as it hit the casket. Fontenelle took the shovel from Clark and did the same, then handed it to No Horns. When all had thrown in their shovelful, they stood and watched as two ragged Pawnees who worked for the church shoveled more dirt into the grave.
Bishop Rosati waited until the casket could no longer be seen, then nodded to each of the attendees, shook their hands, expressed his condolences. When Clark turned to go, Paschall blocked his path. “A few words, Governor?”
Clark stared at him.
“We were wonderin’ how he came to be sick.”
“The same way we all do, Paschall, the same way we all do.”
“Did they take rooms?”
“At Le Barras’s.”
“Ah,” P
aschall nodded. Fontenelle put a hand on his elbow and gently pulled him away, speaking French in his ear. Clark nodded and bowed slightly to the two young Indians, who followed Fontenelle. He suspected Paschall would try to use Fontenelle to get to them, make them talk about Black Eagle, twist it so he could blame Clark for his death. His paper had been taking shots at Clark since 1817, when he withdrew their monopoly on publishing territorial announcements. In 1820 they’d tried to deny him a fourth term as governor. Clark wasn’t bloodthirsty enough—hadn’t stolen enough Indian land, fast enough.
But Fontenelle would protect him. Clark could ruin him, and he knew it. All he had to do was deny him a permit to take whiskey up the Missouri to the rendezvous.
Tom Fitzpatrick now stood in his path, clutching a heavy buffalo coat to his gaunt frame. For an Irishman Fitzpatrick was of a serious mien: dark eyebrows, stern, intelligent eyes, ruddy cheeks. He was not one to waste words. “General,” he said, tipping his hat.
Clark nodded.
“I wanted to inquire about Mrs. Clark. I hear she’s taken ill.”
Clark looked away, fought to contain his grief. “She’s doing poorly, Tom.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, General.”
Clark stared down Market Street, toward the Mississippi. On the quay, he could see the Choctaws still huddled against the wind, sitting cross-legged beneath their flimsy blankets, waiting for God knew what. “It’s consumption, Tom.”
“I hear the French whores brought it up from New Orleans.”
“Sometimes I wish the Almighty would take me instead, so I could be spared of watching the ones I love die.”
“Now General, surely you don’t mean that.”
Clark gazed at him. The dizzy spells were a daily occurrence now, and there were times when he truly wished he would succumb to them. But he knew Fitzpatrick was right; he couldn’t die yet. Too many people depended on him.
“Stay out on your farm until the consumption passes, General. There’s too much death in this town.”
“Indeed.”
Fitzpatrick gazed at the grave, which the Pawnees had almost filled. “This poor world’s gone stark ravin’ mad since Old Hickory got himself elected. On my way downriver I heard o’ Sauk graves being raided, corpses burned. White men shootin’ Indians as they crossed the Mississippi, just to steal their canoes.”
“And I voted for the son of a bitch.” For years Clark had advocated moving the tribes across the Mississippi, and his treaties had extinguished millions of square miles of land title. But it had all gone wrong. Old Hickory hated Indians too much to let them leave with dignity. And now God was wreaking his vengeance on Clark, killing his children, his wife, his Indian friends.
Clark gestured toward the grave: “You knew him?”
“Aye, they been comin’ to the rendezvous for three or four years. A lot of the Nez Percé come now.”
Clark said nothing while they watched the Pawnees shovel dirt. Then he looked up at Fitzpatrick: “Black Eagle told me I had a son among them.”
Fitzpatrick’s eyes betrayed his surprise. “That’s right.”
“You’ve met him?”
“Know him well, General. He’s a popular lad with the trappers, bein’ your son.”
Clark absorbed this slowly, his eyes on the cold ground. “So everyone out there knows.”
“Aye, sir, if they come to the rendezvous.” Fitzpatrick hesitated. “And most everybody who traps does.”
“None have ever mentioned it.”
“Ah, General, there’s an unwritten rule, now. We don’t talk about our Indian women back here. Too many o’ the men’ve got wives at home, or relatives that wouldn’t take kindly to havin’ an Injun in the family.” Fitzpatrick shrugged. “We figured it should be the same for you.”
Clark glanced up at him. “Much obliged.”
“No need to mention it, sir.”
“Tell me about him.”
“A fine young man, General. Tall, strappin’ fella, has your height and colorin’. His mother’s a fine woman, too.”
Clark found his mouth open. “You’ve met her?”
“At the rendezvous. A few years back.” Fitzpatrick put a hand on his arm: “Not to worry, General. All the men admired her. She conducts herself with dignity.”
Clark stared down the hill at the poor Choctaws and wondered why he had left her behind. At the time it was easy; she hadn’t wanted to come. And the truth was, he’d lacked the courage to bring an Indian home and ruin his career. But they could have lived a quiet, decent life on the frontier, like Fontenelle and his Omaha wife. Then this godawful Indian removal would not weigh on his conscience.
He reached out for Fitzpatrick’s hand, shook it. “Good day, Tom.”
“Good day, General. Good luck to Mrs. Clark.”
Clark walked downhill, toward the river. Was he really going to loose missionaries on Swan Lighting’s people? Look where it had got the Choctaw and the Cherokee. No, he had done enough damage to the natives of this world already.
He reached the quay, where the Choctaw still huddled against the wind. They couldn’t sleep there tonight, he realized, not in those thin blankets. No, he’d have to take them to his Council House, get them out of the cold, feed them. It was the least he could do.
He pulled the letter out of his vest pocket, stared at it in the gathering gloom. He ripped the envelope in half, then in half again, and tossed the pieces up into the wind, watched them sail into the murky chop and float away.
NINETEEN
July 1836
Eliza Spalding watched the last wagon disappear over the rise. She knew she should spur her horse on, try to catch up, but she had neither the will nor the energy. She felt stifled by the heat in her black dress, and her head ached under her straw sunbonnet. Her throat felt so parched she feared the tissues might crack apart. Captain Fitzpatrick had warned them they would find no water until evening, because they would cross the Divide today. How fitting, she had thought: they would depart American soil on Independence Day. She had expected a mountain range, but ahead lay only gently rising hills of hard soil—dry, rocky, and covered with sage, prickly pear, and greasewood.
She had put her trust in God these many months, through every hardship. But as she felt the horse slowing, she wondered if the naysayers had been right. Mr. Catlin, the painter they had encountered in Pittsburgh, had told her husband he would not attempt to take a white woman across the Divide for all the tea in China. Even William Sublette, who knew the West as well as any white man alive, had warned them not to take women through Indian country.
She had persevered when the American Fur Company steamboat refused to stop because it was full and they were forced to travel overland to Bellevue, where the Platte met the Missouri, with no tent, through rain and windstorms that left them drenched and shivering half the night. She had persevered when her husband was kicked in the chest by a mule and disabled, then pitched off a ferry and chilled so badly he succumbed to illness. She had persevered when her face so swelled from the mosquitoes and gnats she could scarcely see. And she had persevered through the forced march to catch up with the fur caravan. They had broken the Sabbath, traveled until one in the morning—and finally caught them less than a day short of the first Pawnee village. Had they not reached the caravan and its protection when they did, Dr. Whitman said, they would have been forced to turn around.
God had surely been with them. They had caught the caravan only because the fur men had forgotten to bring axle grease for their wagons and had to stop for three days to slay two oxen and produce sufficient grease. Indeed, the Lord was their shepherd, and if they could but repose their whole trust in Him they should have nothing to fear.
The horse had stopped walking; she clung to her sidesaddle, her head woozy. Ever since their stock of food ran out they had survived on milk and buffalo meat, cooked over dried buffalo droppings. Her debilitated frame had become weaker and weaker, diarrhea reducing her strength to almost nothing. She felt
herself slip off the horse and plunge to the ground.
Her husband’s gaunt face peered down into hers, his great, black beard hovering over her. “Wife, do you hear me?”
She tried to nod but could not move. She could hear cicadas in chorus, a horse ripping up scrub grass. He reached down and put a hand beneath her, lifted her to a sitting position. Dr. Whitman handed him a tin cup, told her to drink.
Her husband put the cup to her lips, and she tried to open her mouth. She could feel some of the water run down her chin, but some entered her parched throat. It felt like salvation, cool and wet, and silently she thanked the Lord.
“What happened?” Henry asked.
She ignored his question, drank again. When the cup was dry Dr. Whitman refilled it, and she drank once more.
“Don’t put me back on that horse,” she whispered.
She could see the fear in Henry’s eyes. “Leave me here, husband. Leave me here to die.”
He stared at her in confusion, his black eyebrows knit together. “Don’t talk nonsense.”
“Tell my mother not to mourn; tell her I am glad I came. God wanted me here—his will be done.” She closed her eyes, ready to sleep or die, whichever God ordained.
A gunshot awoke her. She sat up and stared out the opening of the wagon’s canvas cover, past her husband, who had stopped the team. The sun was now directly ahead of them, sinking in a cloudless sky of washed-out blue. Over the crest of a small hill rode a dozen Indians, straight for them, dodging the sage and whooping insanely. Small birds fled upward and away, in flocks. Then more gunshots.
“Henry!” she cried, her heart beating wildly in her chest. “We are being attacked!”
Her husband said nothing, just watched Dr. Whitman gallop back toward the wagon. Behind him rode Mr. Fitzpatrick, who led the caravan. Whitman rode on by, but Fitzpatrick reined in when he reached them: “Don’t trouble yourselves, folks. Just a prairie greeting.”
The Coming Page 13
