Across the Endless River

by Thad Carhart

  Later that week, Picard and Paul inspected the frescoes in the castle’s elaborately decorated chapel. A student of Baroque architecture, Picard had long wanted to see the renowned interior. They looked overhead to the painted ceiling, a monumental trompe-l’oeil sky with an army of saints and faithful ascending into heaven.

  “Very sensitively done,” Picard said. “But I am reminded of something Baptiste asked when I first met him. ‘Why do you paint the ceilings of your churches and palaces to look like the sky when you can just walk outside?’ ” Both men laughed. “He tells me he is ready to return to America,” Picard added.

  “He says so, yes. But I think he still has much to learn here.”

  “Paul, I must object in the most strenuous terms.”

  “But he has been indispensable to me in the laboratory,” Paul countered.

  “Come, come, Paul. You must look at this from Baptiste’s point of view.” Picard’s tone was clipped. “What Europe offers him cannot approach the fulfillment of life on the frontier. It is his home. You should know that better than anyone. Don’t condemn him to being a specimen in your collection. Let him go!”

  Picard’s words resonated beneath the illusion of the soaring heavens, filling the tall space until they died in the abiding stillness.

  FORTY-ONE

  DUKE PAUL, FROM HIS PRIVATE JOURNAL

  FEBRUARY 10, 1829

  BAD MERGENTHEIM

  It is finally over: Sophie and I were separated last week by formal decree. The negotiations have been so lengthy and rancorous that the only emotion I feel is a deep sense of relief. Since my book appeared in November, she has insisted that I give up my research and, as she put it in one of our many violent exchanges, “clear this house of the stinking animal corpses and Indian trinkets.” When before Christmas I announced my intention to return to North America to continue my research, she laid down an ultimatum: my marriage or my travels. So began the vengeful discussions that led us to separate.

  Although we will remain married, there will be no contact or obligation between us. I shall keep her dowry as well as a sizeable payment in gold. She will raise Max at Regensburg, and I shall have the right to see him once a year. I can now proceed with my work, unimpeded by domestic duties.

  I will return to the Missouri River this spring. This time I hope to travel far above Fort Recovery, where the Arikara forced me to turn back five years ago. Baptiste has agreed to act as my guide and interpreter, after which he will remain in America. Though he is keener than ever to return, he agreed to put off our departure until the dissolution of my marriage was settled. Now that he is to leave Europe, I think again of the ways in which Baptiste sees his surroundings differently from us.

  I recall when Picard visited in October how we examined together a splendid specimen of Ardea cayennensis, a night heron I had collected on the Mississippi. After looking over my notes listing the bird’s dimensions, weight, color of plumage, wing beats, and observed behavior, he said in his matter-of-fact way, “You and I closely record every material element but miss the animal’s essence. To know that, you must become the bird: live, hunt, eat, even fly with every part of your self that can follow the heron. That, my friend, is simply not a path available to us. Don’t you agree?”

  Yes and no. There is most certainly a gut instinct for the ways of animals possessed by the likes of Baptiste, and every tribal hunter I have come across, that defies reason or even clear description. But the accretion of detail from close observation, both in nature and in the laboratory, can yield insights that surprise us, and from those insights come ideas about the underlying order of things. That is our path, but I see no reason why it should be separated from the ways of the true hunter. Picard is, after all, something of a sentimentalist. Perhaps it is fairer to say that Baptiste is in many ways an amalgam of the two ways of seeing things. What amazes us Europeans is that he possesses the one skill that cannot be bought, traded for, quickly learned, or otherwise acquired by force of will: know-how in the wilderness.

  Only a tiny number of white men are able to penetrate the barrier separating European from Indian ways and live by their wits from the bounty of a seemingly endless expanse. Baptiste has a network of contacts and friends, based on bonds of trust, which allows him to enter this world where the ancient and shifting claims of aboriginal peoples to hunt and to live off the land’s fruits still prevail. This capability and the freedom it affords are, it seems to me, fast going out of the world. After the ordeal of these past several months, I look forward to being on the river, the plains, in the mountains, far from the constraints of society and the judgment of others.

  Word arrived today through a courtier that His Majesty is very unhappy with his cousin’s disgraceful separation from his wife. Wilhelm can go to the devil, for all I care.

  A peculiar local matter came my way last week. The chamberlain informed me that the daughter of the garrison’s sergeant major is pregnant and claims Baptiste is the father. She has made a nuisance of herself, carrying on at the guard post and insisting on seeing Baptiste. At the chamberlain’s suggestion, I dealt with the situation in the usual way: ten pieces of gold to the girl’s father and a clear message that any further complication would imperil his position. I see no reason to tell Baptiste, since it is likely a fabrication. Even if true, it is the only peccadillo that has landed on my account in the five years he has been in Europe. Soon I shall be far away from these hopelessly petty concerns.

  I had a most welcome letter from Theresa, who is in Berlin and plans on staying there for some time. She is in the company of the banker, Jacob Warburg, whose family has provided funds for many of the new industrial schemes on the Ruhr. She is happy to be away from court life, and enthuses about the excitement of men who, to read her account, are changing the world, financing huge projects, and building on a scale never before seen. Is this the future?

  She sends her most tender greetings to Baptiste, and reproves me for keeping him in Europe. Truly, I believe she loves him and knows she will never see him again, something that cannot be easy for either of them. I see now that both she and Picard are concerned for his well-being.

  FORTY-TWO

  FEBRUARY 16, 1829

  BAD MERGENTHEIM

  Dear Captain Clark,

  I am coming home. Duke Paul has decided to make another trip up the Missouri, and he wants me to accompany him. He is determined to meet the Arikara and the Sioux this time. We sail to New Orleans in the next month or two, so you can expect to see us by midsummer if all goes well.

  I cannot rightly tell you just how happy I am to be returning to St. Louis. I have known for some months that it was time, but an enormous sense of relief came over me once the plans were made. Each time it enters my mind that I will soon see the people I have missed for these five years, I grin like a schoolboy. After all my adventures over here, it is strange to think about going back on the river. I know much will be different, but it feels right to be headed to the place I know best.

  I celebrated my twenty-fourth birthday last week. As always, I think of you at Fort Mandan with my parents, helping my mother bring me into the world. This year was noteworthy, since I realize I will see you before I turn twenty-five. I have changed quite a bit, but you will know me. This has been my own Corps of Discovery, and the expedition is headed home! I know you understand what that means, and it makes me look forward even more to seeing you again.

  Today I watched a hawk work the winds above the hills outside of Mergentheim. He circled and floated, descended and rose. It took him a long while to get above the ridgeline, but when he got there, the updrafts held him steady. I feel like that bird as I look back at the five years I have been here, taking time to get up high enough to have a look at things and know what I am seeing on both sides of the ridgeline.

  I was sorry to hear that Mr. Chouteau is so frail. I would like to see my godfather again before he dies and hear him swear at some of my adventures here. Remember me, please, to my fath
er when you see him next, and to your entire family.

  Your affectionate,

  Pomp

  FORTY-THREE

  FEBRUARY 1829

  The winter sun shone bright upon Paris, bringing no warmth but flooding the streets with a light that gave the gray stone a golden crispness in the clear morning air. Maura had written to Baptiste to ask him to meet her in Paris, saying it was urgent but giving no details save the essentials. He understood that an element of danger was involved. Without revealing her whereabouts, she told him to ask for a message at the Collège des Irlandais.

  He inquired at the small grille in the door for a letter for Monsieur Charbonneau, and the same old man passed the envelope through.

  Baptiste recognized Maura’s hand. He mounted his horse and threaded his way through the streets behind the Collège until he was sure no one was following. He stopped at a tavern close to the little church of Saint-Médard, called for a pitcher of cider, and read Maura’s note. He was to meet her the next afternoon at the side entrance to Saint-Sulpice. “Tell no one I am in Paris,” he read. “I shall explain when we meet.”

  He was there early, waiting for the bells to ring five o’clock in the evening. When the carillon finally sounded, Baptiste approached the door on the south side of the church, the entrance that Maura had indicated. An old widow, heavily veiled in black, approached the entrance from the opposite direction, but otherwise no one was there. Baptiste wondered if he had misunderstood the instructions, when the widow spoke to him.

  “Give me your arm and let us go for a walk, Baptiste.”

  Baptiste saw Maura’s unmistakable features through the thick layer of tulle as she shook her head quickly to silence his questions. She hunched like an elderly woman and shrilly whined, “Can you not carry your old mother’s bag?”

  She was laughing now, and from beneath the folds of her black cape she produced a large cloth bag. He took it and was surprised at its weight. He wondered how far Maura had walked with her burden. She was fearful of being followed, so they took a circuitous route toward the river while Baptiste kept an eye out for anyone behind. Once they had made their way along the embankment for some distance and only boatmen and freight handlers were in view, she straightened and pulled back the veil. Her face was a mask of worry. Maura explained that she was in Paris to secure certain family valuables they had been forced to leave behind.

  “Does your father know you are here?” Baptiste asked.

  “No, he does not. But the things I am taking to Ireland are vital to his future and I am the only one who could pass undetected.”

  “Is that what is in this bag?”

  “Yes. Documents, and a quantity of gold and jewels.” Maura told him that the letters of some of her father’s clients might prove to be extremely compromising when the political climate changed. Very few were willing to be associated with his business in guns, or with his support for political change. To have such evidence in his possession would strengthen his position considerably. “He says the king won’t last the year.”

  They sat on a stone ledge that protruded from the embankment. Maura explained that her situation in Paris was desperate, doubtless because of an informer. The police had searched her aunt’s apartment that morning. She had to leave Paris this very night.

  “Can I help in any way?” Baptiste asked, concerned.

  “Oh, yes, dear Baptiste. That is why I asked you to come.”

  She asked Baptiste to meet her at a small street near Saint-Sulpice at ten o’clock that night with two of Prince Franz’s horses, and travel with her to Honfleur on the Normandy coast. Before then, he had to secure a Württemberg passport that indicated that the two of them were married.

  “It’s the only way we can travel together without raising suspicion. But hurry. Prince Franz’s secretary will know what is called for. He has done this for my father before.”

  “What will happen then?”

  “We have a house outside the town where we will be safe. My father’s boats use a cove nearby. One of them will take me across to Ireland.”

  “It is getting late. Can you not go with me to Prince Franz’s?”

  “It is too dangerous. Someone is certainly watching the embassy at all times. Don’t leave with a riderless horse. Have a servant ride him to our rendezvous.” Maura’s manner was serious, then her features softened. “I am sorry for all this, Baptiste. I am afraid it has turned into a bit of an intrigue.”

  “I like intrigue,” he responded, bending down to kiss her. “Be careful.”

  As he turned to go, she added, “We will talk in Honfleur.”

  That night they rode out of Paris together. At the city wall they were asked for their papers. The sergeant in the guardhouse, unshaven and smelling of wine, looked at them skeptically.

  “Württemberg, eh? Where’s that?”

  “To the east of France,” Maura replied in her flawless French. “My uncle is the ambassador.”

  “Is that where you’re both from?” The soldier eyed Baptiste suspiciously.

  “My husband is originally from Andalusia, but he is a citizen of Württemberg.”

  Baptiste inclined his head, saying a few words in Spanish as if to illustrate the truth of her words.

  “Why are you traveling so late at night, and by horseback?”

  “My mother is very ill, Monsieur. This is much the quickest way to be at her side.” Maura stared him down, appearing indignant before his questioning and anxious to be with her sick parent.

  “Very well,” the sergeant said at last, and stamped the papers. “Keep an eye open for highwaymen two hours north.”

  They rode for hours on the road to Le Havre and Honfleur, never far from the Seine. The moon was a slender crescent and waning. They had divided the contents of Maura’s bag between them. She carried the jewels in a chambered belt beneath her dress, and two large bags of gold pieces were in her saddlebags. Baptiste had divided the sheaf of documents into two and they rode across his saddle in leather game pouches, together with more of the gold.

  After four hours of hard riding, they and the horses needed a rest. They chose a town small enough that no garrison would be nearby, then found an inn with an adjacent stable yard. Baptiste pounded insistently on the bolted wooden door until an old man appeared with a lantern, his face fatigued and irritable. Before he had a chance to complain, Baptiste whispered, “There has been a death in my wife’s family.” He placed two gold coins in the man’s hand. “Please make us as comfortable as possible.”

  The innkeeper became acquiescent and led them to a room at the back of the ground floor.

  Baptiste brought in the saddlebags, carrying them past the dying embers of the inn’s main hearth. The ample room had two beds pushed together. They put their cloaks over the valuables, then Baptiste looked around uncertainly.

  “Maura, if you would rather, I could . . .”

  Her eyes were half-shut with tiredness. “We should do our best to sleep.”

  Fatigue was in his bones. Maura kissed him lightly. “Good night, now. Let us start before midmorning.”

  She blew out the candle and, a moment later, pulled the covers close. Baptiste undressed in the dark and lay down beside Maura. He pulled her arm close to his chest and listened briefly to her deep, regular breathing before he, too, fell asleep.

  On the outskirts of Honfleur the following evening, Maura indicated a road that led southward from the town. After a few miles they took a narrower track that veered away from the coast. Soon they arrived at a large half-timbered house flanked by a small group of farm buildings. The main house was dark, but across the gravel courtyard stood a cottage whose windows showed light. A thick stream of smoke issued from the chimney and gave the still air the smell of apple wood.

  “Wait here,” Maura said. “I’ll make sure there are no visitors.”

  Baptiste watched from a stand of leafless trees at the edge of the clearing as Maura was welcomed into the cottage. A few minutes later, w
hen he was becoming alarmed, the door swung open and Maura signaled for him to approach. He was introduced to a stocky older man with a bandage wrapped around his head that covered his left ear, and a young woman who was tending a large iron pot over a well-stoked fire. Michel worked for her father, Maura explained, and Lisette was his niece. Michel invited them to share their supper. When they had all eaten a thick fish stew, the girl excused herself.

  “I’ll see that the house is ready for you,” she said, and left.

  Maura described the situation to Michel and he rose to leave.

  “I will find Ludovic. He will know what boat is available and arrange a rendezvous.” He put on his coat and put a revolver in an inside pocket. “I’ll be back by morning. Stay here,” he said. “As long as you’re not seen on the road, you will be safe.”

  Lisette had prepared two rooms in the house. After Baptiste had put his things in the second bedroom, Maura called him in to where she lay in a large canopied bed. “I am more tired than last night, if that is possible.” She sighed. “But I would like it if you slept beside me again.”

  Baptiste leaned over and placed his arms on either side of Maura’s head so that he seemed to float directly above her as he looked into her eyes. “It feels as if we are safe here,” he said gently. He bent down and touched his lips lightly to hers. “Try to put Paris behind you.”

  “We are safe,” Maura said, her eyes never wavering from his. “And once we’ve rested, we’ll have time for each other.” She drew Baptiste’s face to hers and kissed him deeply.

  In the morning, Michel told Maura that a boat would meet her on a nearby beach at the high tide after midnight in four days. It would be a moonless night. “If a storm comes up, then two nights later,” he explained, “but Ludo thinks it will hold fair.”

  The certainty of Maura’s safe departure changed the mood. Lisette brought them fresh eggs, fish, and cream to add to the house’s provisions, which included an abundant supply of Jean-François Hennesy’s wine. Maura and Baptiste had only to wait, and make the most of their brief time together.