Sign-Talker

by JAMES ALEXANDER Thom

  Drouillard watched the two officers murmur close to each other. Clark’s left eye was twitching. The afternoon sun was low and the flag was fluttering hard in the evening breeze, a breeze that promised an evening without mosquitoes. The bottomland was broad and grassy; the sun blazed off the river. The chiefs and warriors sat watching everything while Faufon tried to tell them what was happening.

  Captain Clark stood and said, “The prisoner will step forward. Private Moses B. Reed, by the articles of war the crime of desertion is punishable by death. Since you have straightly confessed to the charge against you, and since we need a man on every oar, you are to be spared that severest penalty. The court sentences you to pass through the gauntlet four times, each man holding nine switches. Thereafter you will no longer be considered a member of this body of men and you will not be permitted to bear arms.”

  Drouillard was looking at Reed and saw him become No Man, an outcast, just as a Shawnee in disgrace used to be put out. Reed shrank before his eyes and went pale. Sergeant Ordway removed Reed’s coat and shirt to prepare him for the whipping.

  Better if I’d given him a chance to run, Drouillard thought. He’d probably rather be dead than this.

  The Otoes and Missourias were becoming agitated as they began to understand what was about to happen. Faufon came over to the captains. “Messieurs, my Indians beg you to pardon that man. They cannot understand men whipping their brother!”

  “Well, then let’s go and explain it to them so they can,” Lewis replied.

  Drouillard decided it was time to make himself invisible.

  He slipped behind the canvas of the captains’ shelter. York was there tending the cookfires, where army pork boiled in kettles, and cleaning fish. There were mounds of grapes and berries on a ground cloth. York was singing under his breath, absorbed in his work and thoughts, and didn’t see Drouillard. He was shirtless in the cooking heat, the late sunlight gleaming on his sweaty torso. Three strenuous months on the river had melted the fat off him and his musculature was impressive. When he turned and reached, Drouillard saw the old whipping scars all over his back. Suddenly the slave saw Drouillard and was startled. Then he smiled.

  “Hey, Mas’ Droor! Heard you was back! Now we can eat somp’n ’sides fish an’ pork!” He explained that Captain Clark and the troops had made a brush net and seined up nearly a thousand fish in a beaver creek and he was sick of cleaning fish. Aside from one elk Collins had shot about ten days ago, the corps had been living on fish, turkey, and beaver in Drouillard’s absence.

  Out in the camp now the sounds of the punishment began: the slash and crackle of the switches splintering on Reed’s back, grunts and curses, gasps of agony, and the shrilling laments of the horrified Indians, who apparently were not much convinced by Captain Lewis’s explanation of army discipline. York’s face twitched as he heard the sounds.

  “They just made another slave there,” Drouillard said. “Maybe you could ask out of the job now.”

  York dropped his gaze and knelt back down with his fish knife, of which he was a master; he gutted, split, and scaled two bass and a pike before he said anything. Finally he glanced up, and there was just a trace of a smile on him. “I been pesterin’.”

  “Good! What’s he say?”

  “’At he too busy t’ talk about it.”

  “Reckon he can always say that.”

  “Maybe ’e won’ be too busy t’ whip me if I don’t shut up.” York laughed. “We see.”

  Only their first glimpse of York got the Otoes’ minds off the distress of Reed’s whipping. York was still bareheaded and shirtless. For a moment they were dumbstruck, but soon were exclaiming a word over and over, which Faufon explained was their word for Buffalo Standing on Back Feet. With his tight-curled poll, glittering black eyes, beard, and huge chest and shoulders, that perception made sense. Hospitality had told them the soldiers had a black man, so he was not a total surprise. At the serving of supper he had dressed and put on a headkerchief, and the Indians jovially called him Buffalo in Clothes Standing.

  Drouillard sat near the captains to assist by hand language or French while Faufon did most of the translating. First the officers had to apologize for a big disappointment; the Omaha towns had been found empty, the people apparently still out hunting. So their promise of negotiating peace between the Otoes and Omahas, the main reason that the Otoes had come up all this way, was empty, unless the Omahas came back to investigate smoke from grass fires the soldiers had set north of the camp. The main council would be held tomorrow, with that hope in mind.

  Then Lewis asked about the causes of the troubles, assessing the intertribal political balance throughout the new country as Jefferson had requested.

  The response was a bewildering recital of petty spites and getting even, ranging from horse thievery to theft of corn, and involving the Pawnees as well as the Omahas. It went on and on, until the officers’ eyes were glazed and they were squirming with the uncomfortable realization that these complaints were like old family squabbles and grudges that they couldn’t follow, let alone mediate, and couldn’t have done even if the Omahas had been here to give their side. Drouillard could see that Lewis was sorry he had asked, and it was hard to keep from laughing.

  Captain Lewis’s birthday was a good excuse for a double whiskey ration, and the cool breeze had swept away the mosquitoes, so the supper was followed by a celebration around the fires. By the time the stars were shining in the vast, clear dome of the sky, Cruzatte’s fiddle was whining and squeaking, tambourines were jingling in time, a Jew’s harp was twanging, soldiers with linked arms were capering and stomping around the bonfire, Rivet was dancing on his hands with his heels behind his head, and young Oto warriors were prancing glassy-eyed and yipping like coyotes. Drouillard had winds and voices whirling in his head, and the images of warriors dancing around the war post in the towns near Lorimier’s old store, in the war days, when his own people were still warriors. Captain Lewis, pointing to the fiddler, was telling everyone that President Jefferson was an accomplished player of the violin, which was like a fiddle but, of course, finer, and that people sat and listened respectfully instead of dancing.

  Of course. But in Drouillard’s spirit was not violin or fiddle, but the old voices, the faint, ancient songs.

  Sunday, August 19, 1804

  Little Thief came to breakfast wearing nothing but feathers, moccasins, and a loincloth. “What the devil?” Captain Lewis exclaimed. “I would expect a little more decorum for an important council.”

  Drouillard already suspected what the Oto chief meant by his nakedness, and it came out in council under the awning at mid-morning, after Lewis had made his speech on peace and trade under the new Great Father. Little Thief stood and began his reply.

  “I heard your message and returned from hunting the buffalo, to speak with you of peace. Peace would be good. My people have always been at peace with white traders, English, French, Spanish. You are traders and you carry many goods in your big boat. I come naked. I am poor. I must return naked. But if you can give me something very fine to take my young men, they will be satisfied to stay home and not go to war. I would like to have for myself a sun glass to make fire, as was shown to me by your great hunter, Followed by Buzzards.” Drouillard hid a smile behind his hand. That damned Hospitality had told them that was his name!

  Faufon said then that the Missouria chief Big Horse wanted to speak next.

  The little man stood up, looking severe. He complained that the whitemen did not understand about the leaders of the Oto and Missouria people, who lived together. They had sent him a smaller medal than the one they had sent to Little Thief, even though he was of equal importance in his tribe. Then he gave the same speech Little Thief had given about peace with the traders, but added that in order to keep the young men quiet, he needed to take home “a spoonful of your milk.” He hoped for enough whiskey to satisfy the young men. He also hoped to take home some of the best articles from the boat to show his p
eople what the traders under this new flag had to offer.

  The captains looked at each other, frowning and baffled. Drouillard leaned close and explained: “All the whitemen they ever knew were traders. To them you are traders because you are whitemen. They don’t care what your flag is, they are only interested in what you offer to trade, and your prices. They know they have to be at peace with you to get your trade. That’s all.”

  “No, damn it,” said Lewis. “They have to be at peace with each other to trade with us! That’s what we’re trying to tell them!”

  “They’re pretending that makes sense to them. To keep you happy. So you’ll give them samples.”

  “No. They’ve got to understand the rules. Peace with each other, and no trading with anyone but the United States.”

  “They heard you tell ’em that, sir.” Drouillard shrugged and sat back. He was enjoying this.

  Captain Lewis impatiently repeated the requirements. Then he had Captain Clark pass out written certificates and explained that when American traders came along later, they would see those papers and know the Indians had agreed to the rules, and would trade fairly with them. Most of the Indians acted happy to receive a piece of paper, but one proud Oto warrior, Eyes Big as the Sky, thrust his certificate back with a frown. When he saw the indignation in the captains’ faces, he probably realized that they might give him nothing for his insolence; he apologized and asked for his piece of paper. But the act had given Lewis a high place to scold from, and he barked at them so vehemently about valuing goods over peace that Faufon the interpreter could hardly keep up. It was getting hot under the awning and the mood was bad.

  Little Thief rose then and said that Eyes Big as the Sky had misunderstood something and wished to be forgiven, and really did want his piece of paper.

  Drouillard said, “Just give it to ’im and they’ll forget this.”

  Instead Lewis told Clark, “Give the certificate to the chief and tell him to award it to somebody worthy of it.” Drouillard could see that all the warriors were insulted by that. Little Thief, scowling, took the certificate from Clark and handed it straight back to Eyes Big as the Sky, thus insulting Lewis in equal measure. Lewis might have exploded then, but Sergeant Ordway slipped in under the edge of the awning, stooped and told the captains, “Sergeant Floyd’s really taken bad. Real bad.”

  The captains tried to end the council in a little better mood, by giving the Indians a few more gifts, some whiskey, and a show of the air gun. It didn’t help much.

  York and Captain Clark hovered over Sergeant Floyd back in the camp. The Indians wandered around the camp, gazing at York, and at the great black dog, asking for whiskey and more presents in sign language, which the soldiers didn’t understand, and everyone grew exasperated. The soldiers were afraid the warriors would carry off things, and grew grim and touchy. Captain Lewis spent a while trying to talk Little Thief and Big Horse into making a trip to see their new Great Father in the East, and invited the Indians to camp close by another night.

  Little Thief made one final request. He asked to take Private Labiche back to his town to help the Otoes talk peace with the Pawnees. Had not the captain wanted all the Indians to make peace?

  Lewis did not see this as the reasonable request Little Thief thought it was, and replied that he could not let any of his soldiers go. Drouillard saw a shadow of distrust and disappointment slide like a cloud over Little Thief’s eyes. That night the Indians didn’t hang around for fiddling and dancing.

  20th August Monday 1804

  we Set out under a gentle breeze from the S.E—Serjeant Floyd as bad as he can be no pulse & nothing will stay a moment on his Stomach—Passed two Islands and at first Bluff on the S. S. Sergt. Floyd died with a great deal of Composure. Before his death he Said to me. “I am going away I want you to write me a letter”—We buried him on the top of the bluff ½ Miles below a small river to which we Gave his name, we Camped in the mouth of floyds river …

  William Clark, Journals

  Chapter 8

  Dakota Country

  August 22, 1804

  Drouillard sat by the captains’ tent, cleaning and oiling the flintlock of his rifle, and now and then he glanced over at the new sergeant, who was being briefed on his responsibilities by Captain Clark. Captain Lewis was lying down in the tent, coughing and hacking, too sick to talk.

  The new sergeant, elected by the soldiers to take Charles Floyd’s place, was a sturdy, box-jawed Irishman named Patrick Gass. Drouillard didn’t know him well because Gass seldom was sent out to hunt. Gass was a prodigiously strong oarsman, and the best carpenter in the unit. He spent much of his time repairing the boats and making oars and masts and tillers, fixing cracked gun stocks, or converting emptied crates and barrels into any other wooden item the corps needed. His skill with sharp tools was a pleasure to behold, but his language was a disgrace. He drove his tools with the force of profanity. He called his tools and his materials sons of bitches and sluts, buggers and turds. He had been a soldier for about five years, and his vocabulary included vile words Drouillard had never heard even rivermen use. And yet, he was educated well enough to be one of the journal-keepers. He was funny and popular, so he had received nineteen of the soldiers’ votes, winning the sergeancy over two other good men, Bratton and Gibson.

  Captain Lewis erupted into another coughing fit, which grew deeper into gut sounds, nearly like vomiting. Clark turned an anxious eye toward the tent, waited for a lull in the retching and hacking, and called, “Can I do something for ye?”

  “No, I’ll get rid of this.”

  This morning Captain Lewis had found a cliff composed of sandstone and some glassy-looking mineral. In pounding it, heating it, and tasting it to determine what it was, he had poisoned himself either by ingesting the stuff or breathing its fumes. Drouillard shook his head and went back to work on his rifle, thinking whitemen would kill themselves before they’d leave anything be. Lewis had taken a dose of salts, in which he had great faith for ridding him of the poison.

  Patrick Gass had brought his journal notebook, and he and Captain Clark began comparing their notes for the last few days. “My writin’s so goddamn messy,” Gass growled. “Three or four days in the pot my ink clots up like cunt’s blood and gets too thick for the pen.”

  Captain Clark had been depressed since Charles Floyd’s death, and evidently didn’t deem the uncouth Gass a worthy replacement for him. He looked at Gass as if he were a dumb animal. “Well, man, add water and stir when it gets that way. It’s like this Missouri River. If it doesn’t get rain, it’s all sandbars and mud. Or just make less ink at a time, so it doesn’t sit so long. An ink pot’s really pretty simple. Not worth cussin’ over.”

  After Gass left, Captain Lewis came out of the tent, pale, breathing through his open mouth. “Call of nature,” he said, and ambled off toward the latrine with his peculiar bow-legged walk. He stopped and turned. “We should reach that haunted hill Dorion told us about in two or three days. I’m sure eager to go up there and see what all that superstition is about.”

  Clark raised his eyebrows. “He said it’s ten miles or so from the river. You sure you’ll be up to that?”

  “Well, I sure aim to be better right away.” He turned and went on.

  “You can’t keep a good man down,” Clark said, shaking his head.

  “Not when nature calls, anyway,” Drouillard replied. Clark laughed. To himself, Drouillard damned Dorion for having mentioned that hill. The old Frenchman had proved himself an invaluable guide along the Missouri, knowing much about distances, tribes, and the traders’ names of rivers, and would surely be a most useful interpreter when the corps reached the Sioux. But it was a shame he had mentioned the Bad Spirit hill with its little devils. It was said to be guarded by knee-high demons with big heads who tormented and sacrificed anyone who came near. Dorion said the people of all tribes avoided the terrible place, that birds hovered over the hill like dark smoke, and that the birds were the spirits of tho
se who had been killed by the demons’ sharp arrows. Whatever the truth of it was, such a place was a sacred place. There were good sacred places and there were bad ones, some good to some tribes and bad to others, but in any case, it was better for whitemen not to know about them. In particular, people like these captains, Drouillard thought, who cut apart snakes and birds and tested the rocks of the earth and then wrote everything down, were much too intrusive and irreverent and should not go to spirit places. And they would, of course, want him, their own Indian, to go with them.

  He did not want to go near some other nation’s Bad Spirit place, not even alone and with the protection of reverence. He really did not want to go there in the company of white soldiers who were explaining everything to their Great Father back east. He said to Captain Clark, “I doubt if the cap’n can make it that far on foot. And the horses are out.” Hunters were out on the plains with the horses and there was no sign of them.

  “Well,” Clark replied, “he’ll make that choice. If he feels up to it, we’ll go. Probably have horses up by then anyway. I sure hope so.”

  Drouillard tried another ploy. “I’ve sure seen elk sign aplenty. When we get the horses, I’d like to go get enough elk to feed us awhile. I’d like to scout us up some Sioux while I’m out. From what Mr. Dorion says, we should meet them any time now.”

  “All that in its due time,” Clark said, spreading paper and uncorking his ink pot. “Meantime, we do want to see that haunted hill.”

  August 23, 1804

  “Yeaw-hooo! Yeeeaw-hooo!” It was Joe Field running down the high north bank toward the boats, thrusting his rifle overhead and capering with every few steps. The soldiers, who were tediously poling the big boat into a powerful headwind, through low water channels among sandbars, had to squint into fine, stinging sand even to see where the voice was coming from, and then they made out what he was shouting: “Got me a buffalo! Yeaw-hooo! I got our first buffalo, by God!” He cavorted on the bank, holding his hat high with one hand and pointing with his rifle upstream. “Big son of a bitch! Way past that high land! Goin’ to need a pack o’ help to haul ’im down!”