Sacajawea

by Anna Lee Waldo

  It was early January when the Charbonneau family returned to Saint Louis. The first big snow of winter held them in the snug cabin for several days before Charbonneau could get out to sell his pelts to Chouteau. Otter Woman’s cough had become worse.

  Sacajawea hunted barks and dug roots, which she boiled together in a small iron pot for Otter Woman. The potion was black and extremely bitter. Otter Woman complained as Sacajawea squatted on her haunches to see that she drank it. The herb mixture sent a warm glow of relaxation and sleepiness through Otter Woman, so she slept the night away despite chilling winds, sleet, or snow. The boys went on short hunting excursions with their father. Sacajawea stayed behind to care for Otter Woman, who breathed hard at the slightest exertion.

  In the spring, Sacajawea coaxed Charbonneau to see General Clark about some land. She hoped Charbonneau would try his hand at farming. She thought that way he would be back at the cabin more often and wouldsee that Otter Woman needed the help of a white medicine man — maybe even the famed Dr. Saugrain.

  “If we were back in the village of Metaharta, the Medicine Man would know what to do. I would not have this cough,” said Otter Woman. “I wish Charbonneau would take us back up the Big Muddy.”

  “You are not fit for travel,” chided Sacajawea.

  During the summer, Otter Woman gained little strength. Her back and legs were weak, and when she struggled to her feet, she walked with much difficulty.

  When fall came, Charbonneau said, “Femme, if it is land you want, I’ll get what is coming to me from Générale Clark. Then we’ll see if we can make it at farming. Maybe the boys will be in school, and I ought to stick around here some.”

  This should have made Sacajawea happy, yet she was still worried about Otter Woman’s health. Miss Judy had sent Dr. Saugrain twice, but he only shook his gray head, mumbling something about Indian squaws not being cut out to live as whites and breathe the germs for which they had no ready-made immunity. Sacajawea could not understand him. He was brusque and did not wish to visit or drink the tea she offered. He did leave a medicine that quieted Otter Woman nearly as well as the black bitter-herb potion. Sacajawea thought it was made from laudanum because it was so similar to the sleeping medicine Clark had used on the trail west. When Sacajawea asked about it, Dr. Saugrain squinted his beady eyes and puffed out his cheeks, mumbling again about dumb, half-educated squaws.

  On October 30, 1810, Toussaint Charbonneau purchased a tract of land on the Missouri in Saint Ferdinand Township from Clark. Charbonneau tried to build himself a cabin on this land with the help of his two women. But summer had passed, and the chilled air made work go slowly. Wild geese winged south in crying wedges. The nights when the ducks clattered in the river, and the dawns when the whooping cranes rose in clouds from their feeding in the lowlands, had passed. Fires swept across the prairies, transforming the dun color of autumn into a black waste.

  Now the prairie was covered with a thin layer ofwhite snow. The Charbonneau family found itself in a leather tepee the whole winter. The boys were unruly and fought together. Otter Woman complained of smoke and drafts. She wanted to move back to the trappers’ cabin at the edge of Clark’s property in Saint Louis. She seemed discontented and at the same time uncomfortable, like a sick person who cannot find an easy way to rest. She played the plum-pit game with the boys to keep them from squabbling. Sacajawea noticed that she tired quickly and seemed to forget what she was saying. She seemed to be moving into the spirit world.

  One day Otter Woman said abruptly to Little Tess, “You’ll like the people in Metaharta. Aren’t you going to learn to hunt for the village?”

  “Ai” said Little Tess, thinking that he must be crazy to answer such a ridiculous question. He wasn’t going to hunt for any Indian village. He was going to learn the trapping trade.

  “How much can you bring in before the snow closes in on the entire village?”

  “Umbea, Mother,” Little Tess said, exasperated, “you can see I’m not a hunter yet. We do not live in any Indian village. You said yourself, earlier this morning, that I was going to school in the white man’s village. What is the matter with you?”

  “I remember your father years ago. He didn’t always want to hunt for our lodge either.” Otter Woman stared straight ahead and breathed through her mouth.

  “Those were the old days,” he said looking at Pomp, who made the hand sign to indicate that Otter Woman was tired and needed to rest.

  “You will have to look for your helper among the animals. Some animal that you can call on when you need help in a good hunt.” Otter Woman clumsily shook the plum pits in her hands. She then held them and seemed to forget she was playing a game with the boys.

  “Where do I look for a helper?”

  “It’s up to you. You have to seek it. It’s there and you have to know which animal it is that wants to help you. That is only natural. It’s up to you.”

  “I’m not sure I’d know what to do to find the right animal. Maybe I should ask someone else if it is important.”

  Otter Woman gasped for air as she spoke. “That’s the trouble. You don’t know what is important. There is no one here. You have to grow up in the village. There’s understanding!”

  “But, Umbea, is this important?”

  “Important? Of course. You are mixed up now, but when the time comes—you’ll see. You have to have an animal helper in order to live. That’s your power—it’s you!”

  “I want to be like Papa. He doesn’t have a helper. He doesn’t talk about it.”

  “He’s more white—so he does not believe.” Otter Woman coughed. Her hands balled into fists, and her body shook. She could not seem to catch her breath. There was a rattle in her throat as though she could not cough. Then her face turned red and she fainted. Her breathing eased and her face became calm. It was no longer red.

  “Umbea, come back from the spirit world,” Pomp cried over her.

  “She’s coming back,” said Little Tess, relieved.

  Sacajawea was on her knees bathing Otter Woman’s face with water. Pomp was beside her, holding one of Otter Woman’s hands.

  “She didn’t even remember we are going to school. I think she lives in the past. She’s getting old.” Little Tess went outside.

  “Is she getting old?” asked Pomp.

  “She is sick,” Sacajawea answered.

  For the next couple of days, Sacajawea kept Otter Woman in bed so that the coughing would not become worse. Charbonneau sulked around the house because it was too cold to fish, and too cold to hunt, and the meat supply was low. Finally he snowshoed into Saint Louis to sell a meager supply of furs to a British trader, Charboillez. Then he agreed to act as the trader’s interpreter among the Pawnees at a small wage for the remainder of the winter.

  By early spring, he was back at the tepee. Otter Woman was no better; in fact, her coughing spells seemed as severe as before and closer together. She wasunable to do many heavy household chores without having a coughing fit.

  By midspring Charbonneau was tired of hearing his boys arguing, and Otter Woman coughing, and looking out of his tepee flap at some land that belonged to him, but which seemed far too vast to plow and seed. He decided to move out and sell the land. He took his family back to the trappers’ cabin near Clark’s place and sold his tract of land back to General Clark for one hundred dollars.1

  “Now my man can take me back to the Metaharta village,” sighed Otter Woman, holding her hands to her chest as she coughed. The stews no longer fattened her, so that she was pale and thin. “Sacajawea, look after the boys while I am visiting the Metahartas. I’ll have lots to tell when I come back.”

  Charbonneau looked wearily from one woman to the other, then stomped from the cabin, mounted his horse, and headed for the city.

  “Maybe he goes for Dr. Saugrain once more,” suggested Sacajawea.

  She was out digging sassafras roots to store with the dried fruit in order to keep bugs out when Charbonneau came riding back. He pu
lled a fifty-pound pack of hard biscuits from his saddle pack and handed her the reins, then lurched toward the cabin. “Hey!” he called, “there’s a party going up the Missouri tomorrow morning with Monsieur Lisa. I’ve entered his service as interpreter.”

  Sacajawea hurried with the watering of the horse, tethered him, and ran back to the cabin. “I can take care of Otter Woman while you are gone. I will have Miss Judy bring Dr. Saugrain.”

  “Non. First you pack Otter Woman’s things. She is going with me. Next you make certain that General Clark gets the two boys in school. You know I am sick of hearing about the Metaharta village and how good it is. I am going to take that squaw back there, and we are going to see if it is all that good. And she can see the Medicine Man there. Maybe that is what a squaw needs.”

  Sacajawea’s mouth fell open. Surely he knew that Otter Woman was too ill to travel. If there was badweather, Otter Woman might not make it upriver to the Minnetarees. “She is very ill,” she whispered.

  “All year I have heard nothing but crying for the old village. Shut up and get her things ready!” He reached into a sack for his bottle of brandy. “Don’t say nothing to me. Pack!” He put the bottle to his lips and gulped two or three times. Then he threw the empty bottle, hitting Sacajawea on the shoulder. It spun her around so that she lost her balance and fell to the floor. She lay there a few moments, stunned. “Get up!” He had a rawhide whip in his hand.

  She rose to her knees and grabbed her shoulder; the pain was great. Finally she was on her feet helping Otter Woman gather her things.

  “Oh, I can show off my beautiful white-lady dresses,” Otter Woman said with a smile, feeling a small surge of strength from the anticipation. “Broken Tooth is back at the village with her man, Jussome. I heard they got back before Big White and his family. I’ll make that woman jealous with the nice things I have. Hers are probably worn out by now. It will be so good to see the old village.” She bent double with coughing.

  “Rest all you can on the boat,” said Sacajawea.

  On her pallet that night, Sacajawea could not sleep. Her own thoughts flew back to the Mandan corn festivals, to Sun Woman and Chief Four Bears, to Grasshopper, to Antelope and Catches Two and the ugly, one-eyed Chief Kakoakis, and to the Five Villages where Otter Woman was going.

  The Charbonneaus were riding their horses across the fields at dawn. Already there were farm women digging with sharp paring knives, gathering feathery greens—dandelions, lamb’s quarter, violet leaves, tender blackberry sprouts, wild turnip, and lettuce. The clouds were tossed about the sky, and they had to lean hard into the wind. The day was warm, and the song of the peepers came sweetly over the hills from the ponds. The starlike flowers of the spring beauty, the hepaticas, blue violets, and fuzzy mullein leaves were in their path. The redbuds splashed their color on the hillsides. In the deep mulch laid down by eons of past vegetation Johnny-jump-ups blossomed so thick that they made a petaled carpet. Buttercups glistened likejewels in the warm morning sun, while over all were the wings of butterflies.

  “I will never forget this land,” whispered Otter Woman, riding behind Sacajawea. Sacajawea could not answer, for the lump in her throat was large. She would miss Otter Woman.

  Even Otter Woman had some doubts about leaving now. Her cough made her chest ache, and she was afraid to think of her illness. Deep inside, the fear penetrated her every bone that she would never return to see her son, Little Tess. This was the last time for seeing these beloved people. She was overcome by the sadness of departing. At the riverbank she turned her pale face toward Sacajawea and whispered hoarsely, “Take care of Little Tess.”

  “Ai,” promised Sacajawea, tears behind her eyes.

  Little Tess reminded his father to return soon so they might hunt bear up north. He did not look at his mother, Otter Woman. He disliked sniveling women.

  Pomp clung to Otter Woman’s hand a moment, then let her go. He waved and shouted his good-byes.

  Charbonneau stood in the prow of the keelboat and waved both hands dramatically. He looked sideways. Beside him, Otter Woman stood, her face calm, stoic, with no trace of emotion. Her eyes were wide, as if in fear, but tearless.

  She’s rather pretty, keeps her mouth shut, serves only me, Charbonneau thought. She is really my favorite; she has surprisingly long, arched brows. Then Charbonneau’s waving ceased because he had recognized his old friend Jussome on the deck. “Zut! You dog-faced rascal!” he shouted. Jussome slapped Charbonneau’s back in greeting.

  This was April 2, 1811. Charbonneau was in the service of Manuel Lisa, going up the Missouri. Otter Woman stood on the deck in her red calico dress waving a yellow handkerchief as she had seen white ladies do.

  When the keelboat was out of sight, Sacajawea led the horses back to the trappers’ cabin. She was content that summer just knowing she was near friends and taking care of the two boys who called her mother.

  Judy Clark often came to visit, telling about important people in the city. Most often, Sacajawea asked about school. She could not picture the nature of such a thing for learning.

  “The man who founded Saint Louis, Pierre Laclede, went to school at the University of Toulouse. He brought most of his books to his home here,” said Miss Judy.

  Sacajawea understood the talking books, but the university was an enigma. She smiled and shook her head. She listened and tried to understand.

  “Father François Neil and half a dozen cathedral priests have opened an academy for boys. They call it the Catholic Academy.2 This is the school where Will has decided to send Little Tess. I heard him say that Father Neil emphasizes that students of all faiths are welcome and that ‘no undue influence will be exercised in matters of religion.’”

  “Ai, there is much to learn. Isn’t Pomp going at the same time? I thought—”

  “Oh, Janey, of course your Pomp is going. But Will has decided to send him to a different school. He thinks it would be good for the boys to be apart, so that they don’t always have to compete with each other. Pomp is going to the school run by the Baptist minister, Mr. Welch.3 Don’t look so forlorn. Both boys will be back with you on holidays. You could even go to visit them once in a while. I’m sure Father Neil or Mr. Welch would understand.”

  “Our life has changed,” said Sacajawea.

  CHAPTER

  39

  New Madrid Earthquake

  The weather had been unseasonably warm. For several weeks a comet had been visible. Superstitious Missourians predicted the end of the world. Indians left the territory. This was the fall of 1811.

  When the calamitous phenomenon appeared, it was in the form of an earthquake—one of the greatest earthquakes ever known on the North American continent. This tremendous disturbance continued through December to March, 1812. Two thousand shocks were reported. Cracks opened through forests and fields; landslides swept down hillsides. Rivers changed courses, wiping out sand bars and islands that had been landmarks. During a hard tremor the Mississippi receded from its banks, arching to a great mountain in the center. Suddenly, with a frightful roar, the water pounded back toward the banks, but surging and reversing, so that the water swept upstream rather than downstream. Thousands of trees were mowed down and cemeteries were turned upright so that rows of coffins were exposed in the village of New Madrid.

  Teacups rattled in Philadelphia, clocks stopped in Boston and church bells rang in Virginia, as the tremors were felt over one million square miles. Moderate to heavy damage was reported in St. Louis, Cincinnati, and

  Louisville, and minor damage occurred as far away as Columbia, South Carolina, and Savannah, Georgia. Later geologists found that some 30,000 square miles had been lowered from six to twenty-five feet, while other areas had been raised a similar amount.

  MYRON L. FULLER, The New Madrid Earthquake. Washington, D.C.: U.S. Geological Survey, Bulletin 494, 1912.

  Sacajawea was up before dawn, mostly because it was too cold to sleep. The fire had gone out, and the horses were stamping arou
nd, noisy and restless. There had been a bear in the woods during the night, and the horses had not settled down. She studied the tracks around the tethered horses, knowing full well that bears attack a horse only if they are feeling ornery enough. She patted the four horses Charbonneau had left behind, saying to them, “Shhh, brighten up, a bear’s natural outlook is a grouchy humor.” The horses were ready to move. She moved the first three farther out into a clearing where they would have grass to munch, and then she put a woolen blanket on the fourth, and a buffalo robe over that, and tied it all down with leather straps.

  She took her calico dress off the hook where she had hung it the night before after ironing it smooth with the flatiron Miss Judy had given her. She changed her leather tunic for it. She took up the fawnskin pack, which held moccasins and beaded shirts, and thought about Chouteau’s store, where she would exchange the pack for dried beans, bacon, tea, and hard candy. She could not make up her mind which thing was the greater wonder—the bacon or the hard candy.

  It was something to find meat so fat and salty and ready to boil. The hard candy was something to taste and savor a long time.

  Everything that happened to a person, it seemed, was hooked up to something else that had already happened to that person, or was going to happen. Nearly six summers ago, her brother, Chief Black Gun, had sat on a stone in the Agaidüka camp and told how he thought sugar lumps were the finest things he had ever tasted. Now she was going to trade for some for herself. She could trade for her own!

  She rode past a farmer running his horse around a freshly plowed field. Presently she was riding past a noisy bar where the street was full of traders, rivermen, and a handful of Indians. Then she rode through the French quarter. She passed rainbows of people—Parisians, Spaniards, Africans, Austrians, Germans, Scots, British, U.S. military men, a Shawnee chief, dark-suited preachers, white women dressed in pink and blue. This was the United States drained prismatically through Saint Louis. Sacajawea looked among the men, bearded and tobacco-chewing, ganged around the broad store building, until she noticed one who was familiar coming around the corner of the warehouse.