Sacajawea

by Anna Lee Waldo

  “What are you? Big lazy turtle? She is cold in here. Add more sticks to the fire. She day of medicine for Americans. She Christmas. Holy Mother! I want to see how they celebrate day of Holy Infant’s birth.” Charbonneau crossed himself and spat toward the smoldering fire.

  Now the three women dressed quickly, chattering softly. Otter Woman dressed Tess in his best leggings and shirt. They, too, were eager to see a white man’s celebration. This was something new.

  Charbonneau was one of the first in line for his ration of brandy, with Jussome following close behind. Broken Tooth did not show herself. Captain Clark had stopped her from soliciting gifts from his men in return for favors from some Mandan squaws she had recruited, and he had threatened her. She did not want another scolding.

  Some of the men cleared the mess room and began dancing to a tune Cruzatte was playing on his violin. Pierre Cruzatte, a private, was chief waterman. He was a wiry, one-eyed Creole whom the irreverent soldiers of the expedition had nicknamed Saint Peter. An extrader with the Chouteaus, he spoke the Omaha language and was well liked by the detachment, particularly for his fiddling. With only one eye—and that one nearsighted—he could guide boats through the worst rapids or shoals better than many watermen blessed with two eyes.

  Some of the men tooted on the trumpets, or tin horns, Lewis had bought in Saint Louis. Warmed by the brandy, Charbonneau played a French horn, or mouth organ; then Jussome joined him in singing “Mon Canot d’E-corce.” The voyageurs then sang something of their own composition, “La Sauvagesse.”

  When Ben York came in, the audience gasped. On his back, bare to the waist, the image of the sun gleamed in white paint. His kinky hair was brushed out like a wild man’s, and around the eyes that he rolled from side to side were huge circles of grayish white clay. White also circled his red lips.

  “Good Lord!” exclaimed Captain Lewis.

  “Is that a necessity on Christmas?” asked Captain Clark, astounded.

  “Ai, the Devil of the Mandan celebration, the Okeeheede,” cried Corn Woman gleefully, giving Sacajawea a poke in the side. The Indian women doubled over with laughter.

  Dinner was a feast of roast turkey, deer, elk, and buffalo. There was flour thickening in the dried apples, which were baked with cinnamon. The corn had been seasoned with salt and pepper, making it taste like some rare dish. And there was hot tea with plenty of sugar.

  Sacajawea casually rubbed some buffalo fat from her dinner into her braids to make them shine in the firelight, and thought how wonderful it was to have plenty to eat.

  Shortly after Christmas, just days before the thermometer at the fort fell to thirty-eight degrees below zero, the weather-wise buffalos sought the Upper Missouri, where the snow blew off the rises and there were bluffs to protect them. Many of the men, unused to the deceptively dry cold, were frostbitten, York among them. It became a great joke, particularly when the news spread to the Indians. A Sioux, a recent captive of the Mandans, called this year the Winter the Black Man Froze His Man Part.

  New Year’s Day was as festive as Christmas. Sacajawea wrapped herself in a gray wool Army blanket given her by the captains. She sat against the wall of the mess hall. Otter Woman paraded in her new blanket before Madame Jussome. Little Tess paraded with his father. Two shots were fired from the swivel, and a round of small arms was shot off early in the morning, followed by a round of rum. Cruzatte brought out his violin again, and George Shannon appeared with a tambourine. About midmorning, half the men left, saying they had invitations to the Mandan village “to dance.” Cruzatte, Shannon, and George Drouillard (with a tin trumpet) went with the men.

  Drouillard had responsibility second only to that shared by the commanders. He was Lewis’s scout, interpreter, and chief hunter. His mother was a Shawnee; his father, Pierre, a friend of Clark’s brother. Lewis exempted him from guard duty, promised him extra pay upon the completion of the expedition — and got it for him. His accuracy with a rifle was uncanny. He was tall and ramrod-straight. He had inherited his mother’s stoicism and reserve as well as her jet black hair and dark brown eyes. He was second only to Reuben Fields as a strong, fast runner, and his proficiency at woodcraft, or plainscraft, made even such men as Colter and the Fields brothers look like rank amateurs. Unlike many of his full-blooded French colleagues, Drouillard could write tolerably well, and he was fluent in Indian sign language, which Lewis knew was the lingua franca of the plains and Rockies. To Lewis, obtaining the services of Drouillard as nimrod, dragoman, and dactylologist at twenty-five dollars per month was just about the best bargain he had ever made.

  Lewis and Clark watched the men leave, then returned to their cabin.

  “Good Lord,” Lewis said as he was going through the storeroom, “they’ve been in here. A marvel that Indians just being in a room should leave so strong a smell.”

  “It’s the bear grease they use.” Clark groped in after Lewis and closed the door. He felt his way along the piles of goods, took a candle from the shelf, and lighted it from one of Dr. Saugrain’s matches on the shelf alongside the candles. These matches were phosphorous sealed in glass tubes. The phosphorus was ignited by breaking off the end of the tube. As he straightened, he heard Lewis gasp. He spun around, holding up the candle. Motionless as a statue against the wall, his eyes catching and reflecting the dim glow of the candle, was the dark, bulky, fur-shrouded figure of an Indian.

  “Who is on guard?” Lewis asked, taking care to keep his voice steady and calm.

  “I don’t know,” Clark said.

  “Fran’,” said the Indian. He tapped his chest and grinned. His face was not painted, and he was not armed with bow and arrows. Lewis glanced down, and only then did he notice that the Indian had his fingers tightly closed over the snout of the dog Scannon, to keep him from barking. “Fran’—Fran’,” the Indian was chanting loudly while pointing in vigorous and alternate succession at Lewis and Clark.

  “Friend,” agreed Lewis.

  The Indian snatched a pipe tomahawk from a shelf beside him and extended the hand that still held closed the snout of Lewis’s dog. The dog shuffled and tried to pry loose. “Swap? Swap?”

  Lewis looked around, giving himself time to think, apprehensive lest he make some useless but provocative gesture of belligerence. He should not have feared. Clark, his arms laden with calico shirts, shoved them under the Indian’s nose. Scannon was released and began to bark loudly. Clark opened the door and feigned smoking on the pipe. The Indian laughed merrily and by cheerful gestures indicated that he still had something to give the captains, as was right and proper among such good friends. Behind him, out of range of the candlelight, stood a woman dressed in a fresh white deerskin tunic decorated with blue beads and held around her waist by a belt of blue beads. She had on leggings and white moccasins decorated with the same kind of blue beads. Her head was bowed, but every now and again her eyes looked up to see the wonders on the shelves. Obviously this was the Indian’s most favored woman.

  “He wants you to have his woman, I think,” said Clark with an amused look.

  “Oh, Lordamercy, we’d better straighten this out in an amicable way,” said Lewis. He sent York for an interpreter. While they waited, the Indian petted and patted Scannon and offered him a bit of jerky, which he pulled from somewhere in the folds of his fur robe. Scannon lay contentedly at the Indian’s feet.

  Unexpectedly, York returned with Sacajawea and Otter Woman. Both Jussome and Charbonneau had left the fort, probably on a hunting trip, he explained. Otter Woman now knew a good many English words taught to her by Shannon, but she would not come to the officers’ quarters alone.

  The Indian took one look at the two women who were to interpret his hand signs and refused to talk. But then Captain Clark asked a question and Sacajawea pointed a slim brown finger toward the Indian. “Le Loup,” she said softly, imitating her man’s French.

  The Wolf Chief nodded and emitted a guttural laugh, recognizing Sacajawea. This was not squaws’ business, but if
the white men let squaws repeat their words, then he would do the same.

  The captains felt the charge in the air. “You two know each other?” asked Clark, looking from Sacajawea to the Wolf Chief.

  “Ai,” indicated Otter Woman shyly, trying hard to be helpful but feeling much out of place, still not sure how she had come to be here telling the white chiefs that the Wolf Chief was head of all the Mandans. Too much had happened too suddenly for her.

  Sacajawea, by far the more intelligent, talked to her, making signs and clucking noises.

  After Otter Woman’s first panic had subsided, she began to speak slowly. Sacajawea helped with the important hand signs. “This Wolf Chief played in the game of hands with Charbonneau when Sacajawea became Charbonneau’s squaw. Sacajawea sat upon the blanket,” added Otter Woman slowly, her face flushed.

  The Wolf Chief threw the women a haughty look.

  Half a lifetime of cowering before men had taught Sacajawea that there was no more certain road to approval than obedience. She sat on the floor and bowed her head.

  “Now what is the matter?” asked Lewis. “I thought this was the young woman who had all the spunk. Just look at her now!”

  Otter Woman, finished with her story, squatted in a corner, her arms wrapped around her knees. No thoughts showed on her face.

  Clark surveyed the situation, then with a slow movement of his hands turned from Otter Woman to Sacajawea. “Why does this man cause you to bow your head? Did you not want to become Charbonneau’s squaw?”

  Sacajawea could not answer. For her there was no question of wanting or not wanting, one only did as one was told. She could not understand that she could have had a choice. For captured Indian women, there was never a choice. She looked into the face of Clark. His blue eyes were searching for something in her face. She wanted to say something, to tell him anything to make him happy. Her mind stirred. “You healed the frostbitten fingers of Le Loup’s first born son. He is so grateful that he has brought his most beautiful pale-skinned woman so that both American chiefs can use her for the night as a gift from him.” Her hands rested limply in her lap, her eyes still on the captain’s face. She waited patiently for his answer. If he refused, he would offend the Wolf Chief, and that would be a rude thing.

  Otter Woman, in the meantime, had grown inquisitive about the pretty clothes on the young squaw and was fingering the beads and looking at her moccasins and beautifully worked leggings. The tenseness in the small room grew. Otter Woman could not be enticed or cajoled to come back to talk with the American chiefs. She was completely preoccupied with the garments on the prized squaw. Sacajawea watched the room with bright, sharp eyes. Suddenly she felt something new to her; she did not want Chief Red Hair to accept the offer of the Wolf Chief’s young squaw for the night.

  Lewis began to talk softly to Clark. The Indians listened quietly as if they understood, but the Americans knew that they did not comprehend one word, and if Otter Woman heard a familiar word or two, she did not indicate it.

  “Don’t fool yourself that Indians aren’t smart. They play every angle. You saw how he grabbed Scannon and used him as hostage to get the pipe tomahawk?” Clark nodded, sucking intently on his own pipe. “We know Indians are natural traders. All they have ever had in their existence is what they’ve traded for. Now”— Lewis pointed the stem of his pipe at Clark to emphasize what he was saying—“here’s the thinking of an Indian in a trade. You’ll never get the better of him. Here’s his logic.” He paused for a puff or two, then went on. “He’ll never give up anything he wants or for which he has the slightest use. He wants something you have. So he’ll give you something that is worthless to him in trade for something he wants. So you’re getting nothing for something. So, you see, he’s always got you beat.”

  “It looks that way,” said Clark thoughtfully, making little sucking sounds on the stem of his pipe.

  Finally he turned to Sacajawea, his hands still moving slowly, and at the same time using English words. “Say to the chief we thank him very much for this great honor. His young woman is very attractive.” Sacajawea had him repeat the words so she could get the thought across to the Wolf Chief. “Tell him he would please us more by giving us information in regard to the westward country and the mountains. Is there a water passage through those mountains?”

  Sacajawea stared at Captain Clark. Didn’t he already know there was no water passage? Her mind moved swiftly. She thought Chief Red Hair asked questions only to divert the Wolf Chief and make him feel important.

  She pulled up a box in front of the Wolf Chief and talked to him in his language, elaborating on the beauty of the young woman and on his fine judgment of women. The captains watched, seeing the brightness of Sacajawea’s eyes as she talked with the Wolf Chief, and noting that Otter Woman, who knew more English words, was not much interested in using them, but interested only in clothing and trinkets. Sacajawea sat on a box in the manner of the white men, not on the floor as Otter Woman continued to do.

  “Fran’,” the Wolf Chief repeated, almost genial again. He patted the tomahawk and settled it more snugly under his arm. He motioned that he was willing to tell what he knew of the west. He slipped the fur robe to the floor and then took his deerskin shirt off and smoothed it down in front of the fireplace.

  Captain Clark understood. He brought out an elk hide and a piece of white chalky stone. “I want him to make the best picture he can of the Big Muddy,” he said.

  Little by little, amid much groaning and clucking, the Wolf Chief made the marks of the western course of the Missouri, showing the Little Missouri and the river called Rochejaune by the French, coming in from the south. Sacajawea did her best to interpret his motioned words. He drew a big stream and made it very white—the Milk River, which emptied into the Missouri from the north. Then, smiling, pleased that he could draw so well, he showed where the Missouri dipped to the south and then cascaded into a series of large falls: “a creation of the Great Spirit!” Sacajawea pointed to parts of the picture and spoke with the Wolf Chief, who shook his head yes.

  Captain Clark was excited with his good fortune this night. “You know some of this trail?”

  “Ai.” Sacajawea looked up at him. “I was a child, but I can remember the way to the People. With no enemies on the trail, I could go back. It is not an unheard-of thing to the People.”

  Sacajawea’s eyes flashed as the Wolf Chief spoke rapidly. She moved from one moccasin to the other.

  Surprised at her agitation, Clark asked, “What did he say?”

  Slowly, with trembling hands, she replied, “He will make war on the Shoshonis when the snow goes. He likes their horses and women.”

  “Tell him it is wrong to make war.” Captain Clark spoke in a very stern voice. “He must keep peace with his neighbors. He can get horses in peaceful trading.”

  “Peace.” The Wolf Chief shook his head doubtfully, and Sacajawea emphasized the hand signs he made. “The braves who steal a horse count coup, take a prisoner and be a hero, kill an enemy and not only count coup but rise toward the high office of chief. War is the measure of tribal valor. White chiefs would make sons soft with this strange talk.”

  Sacajawea shifted her weight; this philosophy was difficult to put across in hand signs.

  Captain Clark said, “The tribes and nations who do not keep peace and do not open their ears to the counsel of the white men will lose the protection of the Great White Father. Sooner or later you will have to listen. War cannot continue.”

  “I will wait,” promised the Wolf Chief, “but if other nations do not keep peace, aaahoooooooo!” He let out a bloodcurdling war whoop.

  While the Wolf Chief was smoking with Clark, Lewis rummaged around on a shelf and found tortoiseshell combs for the women. Then he went outside and motioned for the guard to let them out. He was surprised at the depth of emotion he felt toward Sacajawea. Clark was absolutely right; she was very intelligent.

  When the Wolf Chief left, Clark stared at the ma
p so long that when he finally spoke, Lewis was startled.

  “A mother with a child climbing the warm foothills with a handful of grasses and flowers,” mused Captain Clark. “It might work in a wonderful way to appease the Indians. When spring comes and we can smell the tree buds, and we count heads for our journey west, I believe a woman of the Shoshoni Nation ought to be included.”

  Lewis looked at Clark with amazement and disbelief in his deep-set blue eyes. “Clark, is this meant to be a joke? A woman and a baby—on a military expedition?”

  “Well, I was thinking along those lines,” said Clark, taking a deep draw on his pipe. “It might not be as silly as it sounds at first. I’m trying to think like the Indians we’ll meet. They resent being called Indians, you know. That is a paleface name to them. They want to be known by the name of their particular tribe. They have a pride in the nation they belong to and want to be known as an individual from a certain group. I guess we have pride like that, too—we want to be known as men from the United States, representatives of the American government. We are proud to be from the state of Virginia or Missouri or Kentucky. If you saw a contingent of Sioux with a woman and child, would you think that they were on a raiding mission or some war party?”

  “No, I’d like to believe they were maybe hunting or looking for a new spot for a camp,” said Lewis, glaring at Clark. “Why do you ask this non-sequitur question?”

  “Oh, but it does follow logically. If we take a squaw with a child, no Sioux, Blackfoot, or Crow will figure we are at war, but they will immediately know we are peaceable. And if the squaw is a Shoshoni, then that tribe will welcome us as friends.”

  “So, we can be friends with the Shoshonis. That’s fine, but I can’t see what that has to do with us getting on to the west.”

  “The Shoshonis have horses. What if they are willing to trade for some of our trinkets or ground corn? Wouldn’t that help get us west?”

  “But we are going to go by water all the way to the Pacific! This is a northwest waterway we are going to explore.” Lewis shook his head as he looked at Clark.