by Karen Kay
George Catlin
Letters and Notes on the Manners, Customs, and Conditions of North American Indians
“Catch up! Catch up!” came the cry that echoed throughout the dew-covered hills and dales that surrounded Fort Leavenworth. At its call, a flurry of activity, and one of much confusion, resulted. It was time to leave.
At last, hearts that had been listless with inactivity came alive. A clamorous joy filled the air as the wagoners and merchants bustled about, preparing to depart.
“Catch up! Catch up!”
The outcry could be heard from every quarter. Only the clanking of the harness and yoke, the clamor of bells, the exclamations of teamsters pursuing their animals, the tinkling of chains and the stubborn heehaaing of the mules could compete with the echoing refrain, “Catch up, catch up!”
Then, “All’s set!” came the shout from the first teamster.
“All’s set!” from another driver, and then another and another.
“Hep! Hep! Hep!” The wagoners’ voices could be heard throughout the valley, along with the cracking of whips, the creaking of wheels and the squeaking sways of the wagons.
“Fall in! Fall in!” At last came the order from the wagon master, and at its utterance, the entire assemblage of wagons commenced to pull away from Fort Leavenworth, kicking up dust and heading south and west, the wagons themselves strung out four abreast over the prairie.
Council Grove was their destination, for it was there they would meet up with other wagons coming from Independence. Also, it was there that the wagoners hoped to be joined by government wagons, those making the same trek to Santa Fe.
“Hep! Hep! Hep!”
The early morning was cool, and Angelia pulled her shawl closer to her as her driver—a Frenchman by the name of Pierre—cracked the whip over the heads of their four mules. The covered wagon, as well as the mules—or outfit, as it was called—were hers and Julian’s, they having combined their resources to buy it.
After it had become apparent to Angelia that Julian would not be able to drive the wagon—because he would be riding with the trail guides and outriders—Angelia had made arrangements with Pierre Noel, a man who had been highly recommended to her by an official at Fort Leavenworth.
Pierre had been watching for a means of transport for his merchandise to Santa Fe, and so it had been easy to strike up a bargain. She would loan Pierre the use of her wagon, and he, in turn, would be in charge of driving it. Thus, he was to take care of the mules, keep the wagon in repair, etc. Meanwhile, Angelia would be free to sew, to prepare meals and to draft her evening lessons for Swift Hawk.
At present, Pierre sat next to her on the wagon’s spring seat, with feet dangling from the dashboard. His attention was centered on the mules.
She could hardly ignore him. He reeked of body odor, and every now and again Angelia fanned the air in front of her. Discreetly, she spared him a quick glance, wondering how he could be oblivious to the stench.
He wore a black hat turned up completely in front, a red and white polka-dotted shirt and red-checked breeches held up at his waist by suspenders. Perhaps those breeches were the culprits, since they were filthy with grime and sweat.
But that wasn’t all. Pierre had cultivated a heavy, white mustache and beard, the same color as his hair. It gave him a wild sort of appearance. Moreover, there were things, particles or foodstuff, in his facial hair, which made it difficult for Angelia to look at him, for she found her attention centering on that, not on him.
Pierre’s hands were calloused, his nails long and dirty, and when he spoke, his breath would have wilted the most hearty of roses. His voice was gruff, his teeth yellow, with several of them missing.
But Pierre’s was a gentle heart, Angelia had come to discover, for he was often to be found with the children, giving out toys to them. Perhaps the man had simply lived alone for far too long.
“Pierre,” she began, hoping against hope that she might communicate sensibly to a man who spoke little English.
“Oui, mademoiselle?”
“Pierre, don’t you think it would be better if you were walking alongside the mules? Like those men over there—” She pointed.
“Oui, mademoiselle, oui.”
He didn’t move.
She tapped him on the shoulder, and using a sweeping motion, showed him the other men walking beside the wagon. Then she directed her gesture toward her own mules, and finally back to him. “Do you see? I think you should be walking alongside the mules.” She made her fingers mimic the act of walking, then indicated him.
“Oui, mademoiselle, de mules… Pierre.” He made the same finger signs, then laughed.
“No, no, no. You.” She touched him on the shoulder. “You go there.” She directed her fingers to the spot, then made a walking gesture. “And walk.”
“Ah-h-h-h. De mules…walk.” Once more he laughed but remained firmly seated.
Angelia gave up, deciding that it would be best if she jumped down and strolled beside the wagon, if only for a breath of fresh air.
Leaning toward Pierre, she muttered, “I’ll walk,” at which point she climbed down and jumped easily to the ground.
Perhaps that was all it took to spur Pierre into action, for he immediately swung down, and following her, he gained her attention, then lifted an arm back toward the wagon, using his arm to point.
“Yes, yes, Pierre. I will. As soon as I stretch my legs.” She nodded at him, and he returned the movement. However, he had no more than turned his head when she tripped over a vine and, gasping, fell face first into the grass-covered mud.
Righting herself, Angelia dusted herself off, cleaned the mud from her hands and quickly decided that riding in the wagon wasn’t such a bad idea. Wiping her boots on the moist grass, she took the few necessary steps back to the wagon and climbed up onto the spring seat.
A deep sigh escaped her throat as she glanced forward, out over the mules, watching as Pierre led them. He carried a stick in his hand, as though it were a weapon to wield on the animals, but he didn’t use it. That reminded Angelia again that Pierre’s was a kind heart.
Silently, she set her sights on the environment around her. It was a glorious day. The sun was peeking up over the clouds behind them, there in the east, and it threw a delicate pinkish haze over the landscape. Dew and moisture caught the sky’s tint, magnifying it, causing the grass to look as though it sported tiny, sparkling jewels.
Contented for the moment, Angelia let her thoughts drift to other things—to the events of the past few days. As always, her thoughts riveted onto Swift Hawk.
Odd, how a few short hours could change one’s viewpoint on life. Yet this was exactly what had happened to Angelia.
Since that morning with Swift Hawk—three or four days previous—she’d felt happy, carefree and lighthearted. Swift Hawk had been in her mind almost constantly, and truth be told, she had not been able to take her attention off him. Indeed, every time she thought of him, every moment she recalled the look in his eyes that day, the touch of his hands, she felt warm—so warm she was certain she glowed.
Unquestionably, she had begun to think of that particular morning as being…magical. After all, wasn’t it like a bit of magic to be that close to another human being? To be so close that at times, she could have sworn she knew Swift Hawk’s mind?
So this was what it felt like to be in love.
Thinking about it now, it seemed to her as though they had ferreted out a bit of heaven. Indeed, a paradise. She only hoped it wasn’t a forbidden delight.
Especially since, happy though she was, Angelia was not unaware that she had crossed a line. Being a minister’s daughter, she was aware that what had happened between herself and Swift Hawk was an act that was best carried on between a husband and a wife. And she and Swift Hawk were hardly that.
However, she was convinced that it was in Swift Hawk’s mind to woo her. She couldn’t have been as close as she had been to him without coming to this conclusion.<
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He meant for them to marry, and she wondered how he would court her. It brought several interesting speculations to mind. Did Indians court their women the same as the white man? Would he bring her things? Ask her brother for her hand? Dreamily, she grinned.
“Howdy, miss.”
Roused out of her imaginings, Angelia glanced down to her right to see who had come upon her.
“Oh, hello, Mr. Russell,” she said, recognizing the wagon master, Kit Russell, a gentleman perhaps in his late thirties. He had recently been elected to the position of man-in-charge of this caravan, or wagon master.
“Howdy,” he said again, tipping his hat. He was silent for a minute or two, and then, “You’re the sister of one of our scouts, ain’t ye, Miss Angelia?”
“Yes,” she responded. “Yes, I am.”
“The sister of Julian Honeywell?”
“Yes,” she replied again, daintily shrugging.
“I thought so, and forgive me, ma’am, but I need to talk to ye.” Russell hesitated in his speech, as though he might be choosing his words carefully. “It’s like this. Being a scout’s sister and all, we, that is, myself ’n’ the rest of the people on the caravan, can understand how ye don’t rightly see any difference ’tween us and them Injuns.”
Oh no. What was this? Chastisement? Had she and Swift Hawk been seen? There, by the river? Angelia’s stomach plummeted, and she swallowed hard. With her voice steady, she said, “Us and the Indians? Difference?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Jerking off his hat, the wagon master rubbed his head on the back of his forearm. After shaking out his hat, he slammed it on his head and looked up at her. “There’s some folks in the wagon train that have asked me to talk to ye about your being close with them Injuns and all.”
“Close?”
“Yes, ma’am. Now the way they see it, they don’t rightly feel safe with them Injuns, though they understand the Injuns is necessary, since they’s scouts, and we need their experience and their ability to smooth our way through the hostile territory. They’re valuable, ’cause no white man can talk to them quarrelsome tribes. But the teaching you’re doing at your fireside at night, and to a savage…it…well, it causes you to have to talk to ’em and be close to ’em, and…it’s…well, it’s…it’s not done.”
“Oh, I see, you’re talking about the lessons I’m giving to Swift Hawk in the evening. People are finding that objectionable?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Russell touched his hat, while Angelia closed her eyes and breathed out a sigh of relief. But it was short-lived, for Russell was continuing. “I guess I’ve been sent here to find out whose side you’re on.”
“Side? Are there sides?”
“Yes, there are, miss. They’s Injuns, after all, and your teachin’ ’em makes it look like you’re one of ’em.”
“Surely not. They’re lessons I’m giving, like any schoolchild would receive.”
“With all due respect, ma’am, I realize that. It’s just that…the way it looks…”
“But the Indians are here to help you, and the train.”
“Don’t matter. Not out here. An Injun, though he’s necessary, has to be constantly watched. No one trusts ’em.”
What an odd viewpoint to have in a country where one had to rely on Indians. “But these are friendly Indians. They’re helping you.”
“Don’t matter.”
She shook her head. “I see.”
“That’s good. That’s good.” Russell exhaled deeply, as though this conversation had been more of an ordeal than confronting the devil himself. “It’s understandable, your confusion and all. You probably reason that them Injuns think just like us. But they don’t. Truth is, me and the others, we fear for ye. And as wagon master, I gotta see to your safety.”
“I understand,” she said. “Tell me, Mr. Russell, do you and the others fear for me, or are you upset with me?”
“Pshaw.” He looked puzzled. “Both?”
“Ah, both.”
“Beggin’ pardon, ma’am, but yes. Now the way me and the others see it, them Injuns is all alike, even the friendly ones. And we all knows any Injun ain’t a compassionate soul. Naw, they’s all bloodthirsty savages, who’d sooner kill ye than parley with ye. And it just ain’t safe.” He inhaled deeply. “It just ain’t safe.”
“Exactly what isn’t safe?”
“Talkin’ to ’em. Keepin’ company with ’em.”
“Well, this is news. Talking to Indians isn’t safe?”
“No, ma’am. Leastwise, not like ye have…talkin’ to ’em, teachin’ ’em. Why, if ye keep that up, they might think you’re wantin’ more than a conversation, and afore ye knows it, they’s gone an stolt you away. Then me and the others’ll have to come and rescue you, I reckon. Risk our lives to do it too.”
His expression was so theatrical and so downcast, Angelia almost smiled. Realizing that Mr. Russell considered this subject to be a deadly serious one, she turned her head away instead. Composing herself, she glanced back at the man. “Mr. Russell, I think your worry might be misplaced. However, if this is a worry to you and the others, what do you suggest? That I cease my lessons?”
“That would be fine. But if ye don’t see fit to it, there’s a widower on the wagon train, a Mr. Hudson. Now, he’s traveling with his two children and his mother all the way to Californ-ee. Ever since he and his mother arrived, she has been under the weather and in need of Mr. Hudson’s care. Now, it’s mostly merchants that make this run into Santa Fe, and they’s gotta stay with their wagons. Mr. Hudson has said he would be most happy to ensure your safety when them Injuns is around, that is, he will if’n you might be of a mind to include himself and his family in your meals.”
Angelia cocked up an eyebrow. “Would he, now? How…nice of him.”
“Yes, ma’am. He’s the one alongside ye, over there—” Mr. Russell pointed at the wagon directly to Angelia’s right. Angelia gazed that way and nodded at the gentleman who sat atop his wagon not more than fifty feet away. Seeing her look, the man tipped his hat.
Though she smiled at him, Angelia grimaced. From her view of the man, he appeared to be lean to a fault, balding, and was perhaps twice her age. There was also something about him that made her want to shudder, even at this distance. Worse was the realization that these people had been gossiping about her behind her back. In fact, enough talking had been done that all this had been arranged for her, and about her, yet without her knowledge of it.
Anger welled up within her. She could understand Mr. Russell’s and the others’ concern, but really, this seemed to go a little far, considering that none of these people had even dared to consult her before making these arrangements. Perhaps unwisely, she found herself observing, “Does Mr. Hudson want a cook, I wonder, or a surrogate mother for his children and a nurse for his mother?”
Mr. Russell coughed. Out of guilt?
She asked, “How old are these children?”
“The boy is ten, the girl is eight.”
Angelia sent a pointed look at the wagon master. “And their grandmother?”
“Somewhere in her seventies, maybe?”
“Ah. Let me ensure I understand this. I would be required to take on this responsibility for no more in return than his…protection?”
“Well, miss, the way we see it, it’s for the protection of us all.”
“Yes.” Angelia’s voice was sarcastic. “Lest we forget it is for the protection of us all.”
Again Mr. Russell coughed.
“Tell me, Mr. Russell…” there was a glint in her eye, “…you and the others talk to the Indians, don’t you?”
“But that’s different.”
“Is it?”
“We’re men, ma’am. We’re expected to parley with them savages, to keep the womenfolk safe from ’em. But you, you’re…you’re…”
Angelia glanced down at the man and smiled, though her grin bordered on the sarcastic.
“Well, you’re female. And females ain’t
supposed to talk to Injuns. Least not on this caravan.”
“Oh? Because I’m a woman, I have fewer rights than you men do?”
“Ah…”
“Let me make absolutely certain now that I comprehend you thoroughly. I’m not allowed to communicate to whomever I want? Is that right?”
“Guess not, if’n they be Injuns. Now, fact is, the Vigilance Committee says that if ye dunna want Mr. Hudson’s protection, yet ye keep talkin’ to them Injuns and get yerself stolt, I’m supposed to tell ye that we ain’t comin’ after ye. But with Mr. Hudson’s—”
“The what committee?”
“The Vigilance Committee.”
“Oh, yes, the Vigilance Committee.” Angelia frowned, pausing for a moment. And then, innocently, “And who or what is that, may I ask?”
“The Vigilance Committee? Aw, it’s some of the men on the caravan—we’s made ourselves into the law here, since there ain’t none but us.”
“Oh. Interesting. And are you elected officials?”
“I am.”
“But only you?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I see how it is then.” She cleared her throat. “Now, Mr. Russell, is this order in writing? That all females traveling on wagon trains are not allowed to talk to Indians?”
“Well, no, ma’am, it ain’t. But the way we sees it—”
“Ah. If it’s not written, then…it’s not some law of the land?”
He shook his head.
“Well, I don’t know why I should follow it then. The good Lord knows there is no such commandment in the Bible.”
“The Bible? But—”
“Now, my father is a minister,” she interrupted to say, “and I was always taught that we are all God’s children. Color of skin, culture doesn’t matter. And that is written. Besides, educating the Indians might bring about better understanding between us, and that would be advantageous to us all, don’t you agree?” She smiled amicably.