Sacajawea

by Anna Lee Waldo

  “Use the mud to make the markings of our band on the chosen horse.”

  “This would be a good joke on them. One of their own horses wandering back with the markings of the

  Shoshonis on it,” laughed the scout. “Porivo gives the best advice!”

  Their compassionate effort was brutally rewarded. The Arapahos spotted the two scouts leading the painted horse and met them with gunfire, even though the Shoshonis made signs of friendship. Soon one scout lay dead. The Arapahos stripped his body and cut off his arms and feet. They took his horse and the one he led. The other scout could hardly tell the rest of the story. They killed the painted horse and roasted some of its flesh before leaving southward. Most of the horsemeat was left to rot.

  Now the Shoshoni warriors were enraged. No Arapaho anywhere, it seemed, could ever be trusted. Shoshoni hearts would be set against all Arapahos from this time on.

  The band crowded together in a canyon. It was decided that six men should pursue the Arapahos while the rest waited one night for them. The next day, the six men came back panting; they had traveled all night. There were many Arapahos in a place half a day’s ride away. The Shoshonis now crowded together. The last thing they wanted was a fight in which they were outnumbered. So the band of Shoshonis now traveled day and night, pressing hard, at times covering up to fifty miles in twenty-four hours. When they came to the place where the Salmon River branched, they stopped for a day’s rest. Then they traveled down the river’s branch until they were in a warm valley at the base of the mountains. There they could not believe their eyes. The white men had built some wooden houses, log cabins. There were tepees of a band of Bannocks nearby.

  “At,” said Washakie, “this is where we will spend the winter. Here we will be safe.”

  While Washakie and his subchiefs met with the important men of the Bannock tribe, Sacajawea introduced herself to the Bannock women, and asked about the white people who had moved onto this land.

  “Oh, these are called the Saints,” said one of the women, Black Hair. “They teach us to grow squash and beans and to make bread. You go to them and they give you bread each time.” Black Hair’s eyes sparkled as sheshowed Sacajawea a part-eaten loaf of salt-rising bread. She gave Sacajawea a green squash for her kettle.

  During that winter, Chief Washakie thought a great deal about the white men who had pushed Bridger out of his fort and the Arapahos who had pushed him up the Salmon River to live beside the Mormom missionaries at their Salmon River Mission. We all seem to be running from enemies and seeking friends, he thought. That is a race that should be stopped. It is best if we are at peace with whites, at least. He thought perhaps if the Shoshonis did some trading with the Mormons they could better understand one another.

  In the spring, Nowroyawn and several others tried raising a small garden of beans, squash, and wheat. When the crops were prospering, they were invited by the Mormon missionaries to be baptized into the Mormon faith. Nowroyawn was baptized and named Snag. Nannaggai was given the name of Elijah.

  Sacajawea attended all the important festivals and prayer days of the missionaries and each time came back with a fresh loaf of salt-rising bread, and a broad smile on her face.

  The Mormon missionaries named the branch of the Salmon River on which they had built their fort the Lemhi, after a neophyte king (Limhi) in the Book of Mormon. They also began calling the Agaidüka Shoshonis the Lemhi Shoshonis because their camp was on the banks of the newly named river. The name of Lemhi Shoshonis is even now used by historians for that band to distinguish them from other Shoshoni bands.

  In the fall, the Mormons decided to tighten the ties of the Lemhi band to themselves and asked several of the important people to participate in their Pioneer Day celebration. At this celebration Shoogan made this speech:

  “I feel well to see grain growing on the Shoshoni land, for our children can get bread to eat, also milk. Before you came here, our children were often hungry; now they can get bread and vegetables when not fortunate in hunting meat.”

  Sacajawea noticed that the Mormons received Shoogan’s talk well and distributed loaves of bread to the Lemhi families that were there. Secretly she hoped theywould not give out any more cow’s milk. It was sickeningly sweet to her taste, and she knew Crying Basket would throw it all out behind the tepee. Sacajawea was convinced that it was not all bad to learn farming, for she had seen other nations do this to supplement their meat supply. And she had noticed over the last several years a scarcity of buffalo, antelope, and deer. She knew the Shoshoni men did not really care for the farming, but maybe she could convince some of the women to work in the fields in order to put food in the bellies of their hungry children.

  Crying Basket was not interested in field work; she was making calf eyes at the young braves. Sacajawea knew that soon she would be alone in her tepee unless she could talk Crying Basket into following the old way and bring her man to live with her mother. But the old way was not so popular. The older ones believed that those who rode and hunted were stronger than those who planted corn and beans. The younger ones were breaking the rules and learning things from the whites. They learned to carry heavy loads with wheels instead of the old travois. Even Chief Washakie was learning new rules. He learned to capture water and spill it slowly on the dry lands when there were no rains so that the crops of the Shoshonis would grow tall and green. He accepted a Book of Mormon from the missionaries during a ceremony at their Salmon River Mission. In accepting the gift graciously, even though he could not read, he caused the Saints to say that he, Chief Washakie, and his Lemhi band were noble, hospitable, and honorable.

  When Washakie came to the tepee of Shoogan to show off his black book, Sacajawea could not contain herself. She shook his hand in the manner of congratulating on receipt of such a fine thing, then said with a smile, “This book is of no real value to you. If the Mormon had nothing better to give, he should have cut out the paper and thrown it away, then sewn up the ends and put a leather strap on it. You can see it would make a fine bag to carry the white man’s money in. But then you have no use for that, for there is no money in your pocket to put in it.”

  Dancing Leaf snickered behind her hand.

  Chief Washakie pointed to the far side of the tepee, indicating that Sacajawea should sit there for the remainder of his visit. “Porivo has made a little joke about my gift,” he said. “But if the white man can make this”— he held up a pocket watch—“a little thing he carries in his pocket so that he can tell where the sun is on a dark day—and when it is night he can tell when it will come daylight—his mind is strong. If we learn enough of the white man’s ways, we will be able to make astonishing things. Do not anger the white men. Do not raid their farms and pull plants to put into your own gardens.”

  Sacajawea hung her head. She was truly sorry she had made fun of such a thing as a gift belonging to the chief. She wished there was some way she could make up for her quick tongue.

  “I used to think that a few white men in our land would make no difference at all,” Washakie confessed. “But look, I was wrong; it has made so much difference that some of my subchiefs and braves are raising crops instead of hunting for meat. That is not a sign they are weak squaws; it is a sign that they understand the shortage of meat in our mountains better than I.”

  With the first chill of winter in 1858, the Mormons and U.S. Army troops were engaged in rebellion. There was an uneasiness in the air once again. The winter was hard on the Shoshoni band. The Mormons no longer gave handouts each time one of the Lemhi women went to the missions. In fact, much of the time the mission was closed to all Shoshonis and Bannocks. The Lemhis were weakened by illness, cold weather, and little food. Eventually they wore out with time and the elements, and surrendered to move southward in early spring.

  Before the move, Crying Basket brought her man to live in the tepee of Sacajawea. He was Nowroyawn’s son, Pina Quanah, or Smell of Sugar. Sacajawea gave her daughter the pearl earrings, which had been a gift
from Judy Clark, as a wedding present.

  “We will go back to Fort Hall,” announced Washakie. “It is better to live near the white man’s forts than be raided and shot up by our enemies.”

  This announcement gladdened the heart of Sacajawea. She would now have time to visit with Suzanneand hold her grandson before he became too old for hugging. She sniffed the air. If it snowed, the horses would slip on the rocks they must travel over. She checked the packs on her horses and thought the damp leather had a good, rich smell. The haze darkened; if it snowed, the men would hunt deer. The women would wait in a temporary camp, their feet near a fire. She saw streams winding dark and unfrozen between white banks, then piñons too closely matted to be penetrated, and open meadows where one could walk freely. She was ready to move out.

  The day darkened. Wet scented the earth. The snow fell, but melted. The streams were full. Sacajawea shook her head to get rid of a vague anxiety. She feared no beasts; nor, exactly, did she fear men. But it was true she did not trust the Arapahos. She rode her horse a little to one side of the rest, listening. She laughed to herself, knowing full well that scouts were sent well ahead of the rest of the band. If there were any danger, they would come back to report. She took a bit of brittle jerky from a bag at her waistband and bit into it, then cocked her head, holding the mouthful without chewing.

  “Fool!” she said. “There’s no one about.”

  Sacajawea took another bite of dried meat. She chewed this mouthful, but did not swallow. She had not dreamed the harsh sounds—men were talking angrily. Their fast pace showed they must be walking in a trail. They passed, but did not go out of hearing. If they had been Arapahos, she would have announced their presence to the others, but these were Sioux. She dropped back from the others, going more slowly.

  The hoarse voices grew louder. A faint glow appeared under the trees beyond a thicket. There, close to the stream, stood several conical tepees. The Sioux were squaws, she thought; they couldn’t hunt without a rifle these days. They had forgotten how to use their bows. Nevertheless, it was wise to know what they were up to. She tethered her horse and crept backward. The fire leaped; she could see many Sioux. Meat was cooking; she smelled also the odor of whiskey. Fifty Sioux at least had gathered, and there was one who looked like the headman reeling as he walked and talked.

  Dangerous though it was, Sacajawea crept on and lay on her belly, her head in a bush. The Sioux sat in a semicircle near the fire. One spoke whiningly; the chief spoke angrily. Another leaped up shouting. His features were not altogether Sioux features; his face was rounder than that of any Sioux, and his thick black hair was long. His language was that of a white man who had lived with the Indians, who was perhaps part French. He used hand signs. The mannerisms of the man reminded Sacajawea of Charbonneau.

  “I am your friend. Didn’t I give you plenty of the crazy-water and never asked anything in return? I’ll help you get back your land. The white men from the east took your land and made you women; now even the tribes you call friends drive you from that land on which you lived before the recollection of the oldest man. They believe you are women. They’d let any tribe chop you into fine pieces. It’s dog against dog.” His lips were thick, and his mouth drew downward.

  Fierce shouts replied.

  “Arm yourselves. First lend me one horse to scout ahead. You can see the horse on which I came to you is played out. He hasn’t moved yet. Maybe he’ll never stand on his feet again. I give him to you for your stew. I rode him fast to give you this news.”

  A young Sioux began to leap around the fire. Others followed, lifting their knees high, screaming and whirling tomahawks. Sacajawea slid backward. When the Sioux shouted, she moved; when they were silent, she lay motionless. Protected by a loud outburst, she rose and began to walk slowly and carefully. A little farther and she would catch her horse and hurry on to her people. She would warn them to sit in a bushy hollow and wait for moonrise, then go through the valley to the Snake River and not stop until they saw Fort Hall before them.

  That evening, Washakie sent a man out for the scouts. They shook their heads. Ai, they had known about the Sioux camp, but they had also known that the stranger who was in the camp had given them crazy-water and so none of the Sioux would move out for a raid or attack—in fact, they couldn’t even see well. They had not noticed a whole band of Shoshonis pass. And oneof the Shoshoni women had sat close to their fire and listened to them talk. Ha-ha, he-he, that was certainly funny. That Porivo had a lot of courage. The Sioux must be completely blind by now. He-he, ha-ha.

  The remainder of the journey was uneventful. At Fort Hall the Lemhi band learned that their good friend the Blanket Chief, Jim Bridger, was in full possession of his fort once again. This caused some shouting and dancing in the evening. Many of the Lemhis wanted to go back to Fort Bridger for the summer.

  Sacajawea showed Suzanne a pair of tiny moccasins and a carrying frame, together with a beautifully embroidered band to support the frame from her shoulders.

  “Joe is too old for that now!” cried Suzanne, putting her arms around Sacajawea. “See, he walks.”

  “Ai, for the new one,” Sacajawea said, smiling. She looked Suzanne up and down. She counted six months on her fingers. “I know this time.”

  “Girl, maybe,” said Suzanne.

  “Boy,” said Sacajawea.

  Before summer barely began, the Lemhi band was back on the old ground at Fort Bridger. And what a reunion that was. Even Bridger and Rutta, dressed in bright calicos, came to the feasting in camp that evening. Bridger was in one of his storytelling moods, and the morning stars were in the sky before he went back into the fort.

  It was still early summer when a Lemhi scout rode into the camp, followed by another man on horseback. The other man was tense, looking here and there. His face was dark and round, and his thick black hair long. He wore a red neckcloth and seemed to be a man of middle years who had seen much of life. His mouth was drawn down at the corners, and his lips were thick. His shirt was blue cotton, and his trousers were made like the white man’s, from black wool. The scout went directly to Sacajawea’s tepee, calling softly, “Porivo, Chief Woman, come on out.”

  As usual when anyone came into the camp, a crowd gathered. The leading men of the band were nearest; others stayed farther back. The stranger was greeted by Washakie, and noticed in turn by several of thesubchiefs. Shoogan looked strangely at the man, as if trying to recognize him from some other place.

  “Is this the lodge of my umbea, Sacajawea?” the stranger asked.

  ‘There is no woman by that name here,” said Shoogan curtly. “Porivo lives here with her daughter and son-in-law.”

  Sacajawea came out of her tepee and stared at the scout, who seemed to have a hard time explaining that the man he was leading seemed to believe she was his mother. The scout was apologetic and turned to leave.

  “Wait,” she said, holding up her hand. “What did the man say? Whom did he ask for?”

  Shoogan laughed. “Chief Woman, this man asked for some stranger called Sacajawea.”

  “What?” Sacajawea asked. “Explain yourself. What is his name?”

  “He says only that he heard you were looking for your son and that he is your son,” the scout said.

  She looked hard at the heavyset man. “What is your name?” she asked.

  “Baptiste Charbonneau,” the stranger said, drawing his eyes down to a fine line, so that only black shone through the slits.

  A variety of shouts rose from the nearby men. “What’s he say?” “Is he her son?” “It can’t be true!” “He’s crazy!”

  “I was called Sacajawea,” she said firmly.

  “My umbea!” called the man, and dismounted from his spotted horse, whose tail was tied in the Sioux fashion, with wide leather strips. He embraced her.

  “It’s impossible to believe,” Shoogan said.

  “She’s my mother,” the stranger said. He spoke in a low voice, so they found it necessary to be quiet t
o hear him. “I have searched long for her.”

  All around in the crowd people were asking, “Is she happy?”

  Sacajawea’s eyes were filled with tears, so great was her joy. She could not see the face of this man who called her mother. She held his head close to hers, feeling his hair and face, his strong back and neck, the back of his head, under his ears.

  “Umbea,” he said again.

  Slowly, numbed, she pulled away and blinked thetears back. It was like an apparition. This man resembled Toussaint Charbonneau so completely.

  Shoogan watched the scene as Sacajawea dried her eyes with the back of her hand. The others were still talking, “See, he wears white man’s clothing—a cloth shirt and trousers and a big black hat.”

  “I thought her son was a tall man,” said someone. “This man is short and runty.”

  “Maybe he is a good warrior and a fine hunter, though,” said someone else.

  With dry eyes Sacajawea again searched the round face of the man before her. She put her hand on his shoulder, searching for some familiar pattern. She moved her hand slowly behind his left ear, against the hard bone. It was smooth and warm from his ride to the camp. She closed her eyes to better feel any possible ridge or small bit of scar tissue. Nothing.

  He grabbed her hands and murmured, “Umbea, it has been long since I saw you leave our cabin in Saint Louis. I would know you anywhere. You have not changed. The same snapping eyes and firm mouth, the same beautiful black hair. Belle. You are beautiful.”

  Dancing Leaf, Shoogan’s woman, took his horse and hobbled it behind Sacajawea’s tepee. Crying Basket brought him a horn of cool water.

  “My son,” Sacajawea said, louder than she had intended, “you must be tired from riding, and hungry. You will eat; then you will tell of your life.” She motioned him toward her tepee. Shoogan’s family followed after him—after all, if he was a relative of Sacajawea, he was a relative of theirs as well.

  Sitting across from this man, Sacajawea looked intently at his face. It was so familiar—an exact copy of his father’s. She was surprised now that she had not recognized him and cried out loud that day she had spied on the Sioux encampment.