White Hail stifled a growl and shifted again. "You twist words around, did you know that?"
"Do I?"
"All right, the Pa'kiani have guns that they trade for with the British. I must have a gun to fight them. How do I get a gun if I don't travel across the Plains to where the traders are?"
"Ah! A gun!" She clasped her hands in excitement. "And then you must trade for powder and bullets. After a season, you must trade for more powder and bullets. And then the little iron spring breaks inside the gun—and you have nothing more than wood and metal. It's awkward to swing it, so you can't even use it to club mountain sheep to death in a trap."
White Hail glared at her. "You try a man's peace."
"And you would marry me?" She cocked her head slightly. "Besides, I thought I heard Red Calf shout just before you came here. I think she called me a witch?"
"She needs time to think this through."
Willow gave him a level stare. "I see. White Hail, I meant what I said. My eyes will always shine with love for you, but only as your friend, and sister by marriage. I ask you, stop risking yourself to provide Red Calf with White man trinkets."
He paused thoughtfully. His puha had been with him on each of the dangerous trips to the Mandan country. As long as he listened to Power, remained pious, it would protect him. "Death is part of life. All things die. And the things the White man brings upriver . . . well, they're magical."
"Such magic, like their guns, comes at a cost, teci"
He fingered his chin thoughtfully. "I was only a boy when the Astor men came into our camp. I'd lived barely five summers then. I see it as if it were yesterday. They were headed west, across the mountains. I remember the story they told. A canoe, so big it carried more men than could be counted, with white wings that the wind blew. They were to meet this magical canoe. I followed the White men everywhere they went about our camp. I jumped at the thunder sound of their guns, and touched their colored cloth. I decided then that I wanted to be like them."
"You will remember," she countered, "that the Astor men got to the mouth of the Western River, found that their magical canoe had sunk, and most of them starved their way back through our country a year later."
"They are still magical."
"We would be wise to stick to our own magic. I've heard of their medicine water, how it makes warriors lose their souls and go crazy like mad buffalo."
White Hail spread his hands wide. "I've tasted their medicine water. I never thought anything could taste more vile than phlox tea, but after it hits your stomach, it makes up for the horrible burning taste. It sets your soul free."
She seemed unimpressed. "Seek the high places to free your soul, my brother."
"For someone who's never met a White man, you don't seem to like them very much."
"I don't think they're good for us. I've heard that horses were brought to our world by White men. I don't think that was good for us either."
"You've got funny notions, my sister. I think I love you all the more for them. I only wish you would reconsider and move into my lodge."
"You would live to regret the day I entered your lodge. It wouldn't be good for any of us. Not for you, or Red Calf, or me."
He looked awkwardly down at his hands. "I have always loved you. Therefore, it would be good for me to have you as a wife. You will make me think of many things, as you made my brother think. As to Red Calf, she will adapt, or I will move her things outside the lodge. As for you, you will have my love and protection. I will cherish you, provide for you, and give you my souls. Wouldn't that be good for you?''
Her dark eyes never wavered as she said, "I could never lie with you, my brother."
White Hail managed to keep from squirming under her gaze. He'd dreamed of her full breasts pressed against his chest. Of the warmth of her skin against his as her legs locked around him. "After a period of time to—"
"I'd always be with him, White Hail. No matter how much you think you love me, it would slowly drive you crazy to know that when we lay together under the robes, I would be coupling with your brother—no matter how many years dead."
February 30, 1825
Mississippi River north of Kaskaskia, Illinois
Dear Laura:
Tomorrow I will finally land in Saint Louis and discharge my final duty to my father. Immediately thereafter, I shall set forth upon my return voyage to Boston. It is possible that I shall arrive at your door before this post. After my task is completed, I shall have no more to do with my father, or his business. And what good riddance it is.
The weather has been terribly dreary, and I reluctantly admit, my spirits have been flagging. I have had enough of gray clouds and endless rain. The ceiling leaks here and there, and you should hear the jokes that pass back and forth about our leaky ark. Please excuse the spots where the ink ran. A new leak has sprung overhead, and I have had to relocate to a drier table.
I have been thinking a great deal about you, and about the possibility of our future together. Since it was Will who first broached the subject—and since he favors such a union—I hope these words are not too forward. I want to let you know that you have changed my life. For the first time, I have envisioned the future with clear eyes. As a professor of philosophy, I won't be a rich man, but I will be able to provide you with a warm hearth, cherished love, and a respectable future. If I win your hand, you will have made me the happiest man in all of America.
I will seal this now, and post it upon arrival at the Le Barras Hotel. Know that I send you my fondest regards and brightest hopes. Give your wonderful brother my regards—and, of course, your parents as well.
Your Obedient Servant, Richard Hamilton
Richard sat at the table nearest the wet window in the main cabin, a blanket wrapped tightly around him. He thoughtfully turned the pages of his copy of Kant, squinting in the leaden light. Beyond the plank walls, the patter of cold rain shifted with each gust of wind. Wood creaked in complaint as the Virgil rattled and churned her way upriver against the roiling current.
The monotonous drone of conversation within the cabin had faded into the background, no more annoying than the coffee-shop babble or tavern talk where Richard had done most of his studying. Every now and then, cries of "Full house!" were followed by groans, hands slapping the table, and the clatter of pasteboards at the card game.
Ah, Laura, what can I tell you about these barbarians? How I wish I could see you again. Your smile would soothe the depths of my soul.
If nothing else, this terrible journey had brought home an understanding of how lucky he was to have Boston to return to. Boston . . . and Laura.
He closed his eyes, imagining her as she sat beside a warm fire, needlework in her hand. He'd do nothing but study her by the hour, and count himself the luckiest man alive. She'd look up, meet his eyes, and they'd share that singular intimacy of a man and his wife.
He'd rise, take her hand, and together they'd walk through the Commons, planning their future together. When he tried hard enough, he could imagine her hand in his.
With irritation, then, Richard looked up as the Virginian, Eckhart, stopped beside his table. He wore a charcoal gray coat over a frilled white shirt.
"Still reading, I see. May I?" Eckhart pointed to the chair. "It appears, sir, to be the only seat left."
Richard hesitated, remembering Eckhart's parting words. "Of course."
Richard resumed his study as Eckhart sat and pulled one of the inevitable cigars from his frock coat. Kant's pedantic language was difficult enough without blue plumes of pungent smoke drifting in front of his face.
In defeat, Richard closed his book and lifted an eyebrow at the planter.
"What is that?" Eckhart indicated the book with his cigar. "Must be engrossing, sir. You're the only man I know who could cross half the continent and see nothing but words."
"Immanuel Kant. A German philosopher. This book is his Groundwork of the Metaphysic of Morals. ''
Eckhart waved his cigar
. "Groundwork for the Meta . . . I see. Indeed. And, what, pray tell, does your Mr. Can't say?"
"Kant, sir. K-A-N-T." Think of it as a challenge of rationality. "Kant wrote his Groundwork of the Metaphysic of Morals to elaborate on the ideas introduced in his Critique of Pure Reason. I refer, of course, to the second edition, the 1788 revision."
Eckhart blinked and cocked his head.
Richard steepled his fingers. "Kant makes the following assumptions: He observes that man has two conflicting states. The first is the sensual, or, if you will, the emotional aspect. In opposition is the rational element of our being. Our sensuous nature provides the basis for most of our actions. For instance, the thought of revolution may indeed be a rational course of action—but only when passion is stirred do we find the will to act. Rational action is generally, therefore, the slave of our emotional nature. However, when we rise beyond our natures, moral decisions can be ipso facto the reason for undertaking actions. From reading Kant, it is my personal opinion that, as men, it is our duty to act from moral principle rather than emotion. Only when we reach that state will we improve the human condition."
Eckhart drew on his cigar and muttered, "I see," in the thick cloud of exhaled smoke.
"The problem becomes more distinct when placed in context with Newton's discoveries in physics." Richard flexed his fingers. "Kant is the first man to realize the importance of Newton's work vis-a-vis philosophy. Newton believes the universe to be predetermined, functioning just as reliably as a clock. And if this is the case, what role will autonomous play? As men, we must define the nature of moral decision on its own merit, and not just in relation to the attainment of a certain goal. Otherwise, we become as mechanical as the clock."
Eckhart nodded politely, his eyes oddly unfocused.
"Science, passion, and morality must all be brought into focus in our modern world. Thus, if you remember my reference to revolution, we must ask ourselves: Are we engaging in this action to attain something, for our own gain"— as my father would do —"or for a grander moral purpose?"
Eckhart sniffed. "Revolution, sir, is for freedom from tyranny."
"Indeed, sir? And do the slaves working in your fields feel free from tyranny?"
Eckhart stiffened. "I have heard, sir, that such notions were gaining popularity in Boston. Am I to understand that you, Mr. Hamilton, are an abolitionist?"
"One need but read Epictetus to question the very nature of slavery, sir. And Rousseau indirectly brings the entire debate into focus in his Discourse on Inequality, but lest you should become offended, I might add that my father, a Bostonian of no little influence, keeps slaves in his house." And if you knew how offensive that was to me, you would no doubt demand satisfaction on the field of honor, or something equally . . . Virginian.
At Eckhart's relaxation, Richard experienced an unexplained relief. But why did I back down?
The cigar stabbed in Richard's direction. "Then, sir, I take it that you have no objections to the institution of slavery?"
"I do—but within the groundwork I have just outlined. In Kantian terms, I believe it is morally improper. One human being should not dominate another."
"You are assuming, sir, that the Negro is as much a human being as we are. I find your words curious, however." Eckhart pointed at the rain-slick window. "I have noted, Mr. Hamilton, that you have similar reservations about many of your fellow passengers, white though they might be. I refer to the ones huddled under their tarps on the main deck. From your own lips, I have heard you call them animals. To the contrary, I do not believe my slaves to be animals, though I think we can agree to accept that their race is not equal to ours in intelligence, ability, or nature."
"Well done, sir," Richard said softly. At the hard look in Eckhart's eyes, his nerves had begun to prickle. Somewhat uncertainly, he continued: "I must argue, however, that the human condition which I abhor is an artificial one. The ignorant and unwashed masses have been created by the very nature of our civilization. I think we can agree that the institution of slavery is also an artifact of social, religious, and commercial aspirations. The question remains: What is the state of man in nature? To find truly free men, we must go beyond the frontier, beyond the reach of the slavers, and find the pure man in his unspoiled state. If Rousseau is right—and I believe he is—only there will you find man living in a truly free and egalitarian condition."
For a long moment, Eckhart stared thoughtfully at the ash on his cigar. "I think, Mr. Hamilton, that you've been too long in your books. If I follow the current of your conversation, you think that all the things that make us great, our institutions, our industry and independence, are, at their core, evil."
Richard tapped the heavy pages of his book. "It is only after you begin to examine the nature of civilization that you begin to understand; but to do so, you must uproot the entire thing. Look beneath the very foundations. Civilization, by nature of its very existence, must exploit the many for the advantage of the few. It finds itself, therefore, in constant opposition to the moral progress of humanity."
Eckhart watched Richard through thoughtfully lidded eyes. "You have the most interesting ideas, Mr. Hamilton. However, were I you, I would consider this: It's this same civilization that you so decry, along with its institutions, that allows you to ride up here in warmth and comfort while your rabble down there on the deck are wet, miserable, and shivering. Civilization, sir, keeps the savages from dragging you out of your door at night and using your books for firewood. You may talk philosophy all you want, but without civilization, you'd be out in the forest as we speak, and I dare say, fairly unwashed yourself."
Richard chuckled. "Indeed I might, Mr. Eckhart. Assuming, that is, that my mind was less keen than it is. However, it is an incontrovertible fact that I have the knowledge that I have. Fait accompli. No matter what the circumstances, I will always remain a moral man dedicated to the study of philosophy."
"Sir, I don't believe you heard a single word I said to you on the deck the other day." Eckhart paused. "For your sake, I hope you can always hide your true self behind your books and speeches. My father once told me that a man's values had to be lived, and not talked. If you will excuse me, I see a chair has opened up at the card table." Eckhart stood, tapping the brim of his hat. "A most refreshing conversation, sir. Good day."
Richard wet his lips as he resettled his book. I do live them, you oafish Virginian baboon! Did I not, I’d most assuredly be anywhere but here, consorting with the likes of you.
The Virgil huffed and rattled, and no one seemed to pay any heed to the rain that dripped through the plank ceiling. Tomorrow they would arrive at Saint Louis.
And then, Father, I shall deliver your money, spend a night in Saint Louis, and rebook passage on Virgil 's return voyage to Pittsburgh.
He gave the grip a reassuring nudge with the tip of his toe as he stared out at the stormy dusk. Slanting rain marred the river with patterns of rings. The forest dripped with cold water, shadowed and ominous. How perfectly dismal. He shook himself, throwing off the dark sense of despair. By June he would be back at Harvard and his father would have been defeated. The old man hadn't understood just how easy it was to travel to Saint Louis these days.
And I've been able to continue my studies the entire time. Richard forced his attention to the page, only to have Eckhart's words creep into his thoughts.
Richard rubbed mist from the glass and gazed uneasily at the thick forest. In the twilight, his imagination conjured faces out of the interwoven trees. They mocked him like the masks from a Greek tragedy.
He retired late that night, jumpy and irritable, not even bothering to light his lamp. He discounted the smell of rot as something coming from below decks. Thus it was that he didn't discover the package until the following morning.
Only after he splashed icy water onto his face and blinked in the gray morning light did he perceive that his trunk wasn't quite closed. He made a quick check, ascertaining that while someone had been through his cl
othing, nothing was missing. His satchel of books had been searched. And then he saw the bundle of cloth.
When he lifted it to the small washstand, the noxious odor filled his nostrils. The cloth was filthy with dirt, dried mud, and grease stains. The whole had been tied up with twine.
Throw it out?
Some perversity made Richard untie the string. The cloth stuck to the heavy bundle, and had to be tugged away. For a moment, Richard stared, seeking to identify . . .
He gasped, backing away until he came up against his cabin door. A panicked scream stuck soundlessly in his throat. He'd seen it once before, being savaged by hogs.
There, on his washstand, rested the grisly, rotting remains of a human head.
Heals Like A Willow exhaled slowly to watch her breath rise, delicate, in the lavender morning air. Then she followed the trail worn through the crusted snow. The way led down among the winter-nude cottonwoods to the ice-cloaked banks of the river. Frosted grass crunched under Willow's moccasins, and the dank odor of brown leaves and last year's vegetation filled her nose with pungency. She carried an extra blanket and a section of dried buffalo gut.
To the east, pink tipped the high clouds that huddled just above the silhouetted horizon. Morning would break soon, and with it the chore of moving camp. In the stillness, she could hear people already calling to each other in the village behind her. The horses had eaten all of the grass within a half-day's ride. Despite the time of year—raiders seldom traveled in winter—it was too dangerous to pasture the herds beyond the camp's protective warriors.
Horses, always horses. Willow shook her head as she reached the edge of the river. People had already broken the thin film of ice that had formed during the night. This place had been chosen because the water ran fast beside the bank, so the ice didn't thicken.
The Morning River Page 10