Rendezvous

by Richard S. Wheeler

He nodded, but then he said, “Teach me the finger signs. I want to learn to talk with my hands.”

  That sounded like a good project to her, so she thought up signs to show him. She smiled, her face aglow.

  She brought two fingers of her right hand to the right side of her mouth. Her fingers pointed left. Then she moved her hand leftward across her mouth. “Lies,” she said.

  “Lies?”

  “Lies, two tongues.”

  He nodded and tried it. She laughed.

  She clasped her hands in front of her with her left hand facing down and her right in the palm of her left. “Peace.”

  “That’s good,” he said. “Peace.”

  She held up all five fingers of one hand in front of her chest. “People,” she said.

  “Oh, that’s easy,” he replied. “People.”

  She eyed him mischievously, and crossed her wrists in front of her heart, her right hand nearer her body. She closed her hands, with their backs upward. Then she pressed her right forearm against herself and her left wrist against the right. “Love,” she said solemnly, her eyes dancing.

  He had trouble with that one, and she finally guided his hands until he could do it. “I’m not much good at love,” he said.

  She put the tips of her right fingers over her lips and inclined her head forward. “Be quiet,” she said. “Now, Goddamn, this for you.”

  She closed her right hand and brought it to her forehead, thumb up, and then rotated her hand in a small horizontal circle, turning it up to the sun and then left. “Crazy,” she said, her eyes alive with mirth again.

  He imitated her. “I suppose I am,” he said.

  She pointed one finger of her right hand at him. “You,” she said.

  “That’s easy.” He pointed a finger at her. “You.”

  She touched the center of her chest with her extended thumb. “Me,” she said.

  “That’s easy, too. Is there a sign for hunger?”

  She held the little finger of her right hand alongside her stomach, and then moved the finger left and right. “Much hunger,” she said solemnly.

  “Show me yes and no.”

  She lifted her right hand in front of her to shoulder height, its fingers pointing up, her thumb on her second finger. Then she moved her hand down and left, closing her index finger over her thumb. “Yes,” she said, and waited for him to do it, too. Then she extended her right hand in front of her, palm upward, and swung her hand to the right while turning it, putting her thumb up. “No,” she said.

  He wrestled with that a few times. “How do I say thank you, Victoria?”

  She extended both of her hands outward, the backs up, and swept them outward and downward toward him. “Thank you,” she said.

  He did that. “I like you, Victoria. I hope you will give me many more lessons.”

  “Skye, you old coon, I show you how the stick floats.”

  He stared blankly and she laughed. Pretty soon he would have the signs, and pretty soon she would have Skye.

  They strolled back to the encampment through a brassy afternoon, with the heat thick in her nostrils. She tried to teach him Absaroka words. There were so many, and she wanted him to master every one so they could talk and she could plumb his secrets.

  She spotted an eagle soaring above and gave him the word, mai shu’. She named the wild rose, mit ska’ pa. She named the squirrels and the ravens and the hawks. She named their clothing, and then she named their body parts, eyes, ears, nose, chest, fingers, toes. She named the earth and sky and sun and stars.

  All these he repeated, but she knew he was being dutiful rather than trying to learn them. He really wasn’t interested in the Absaroka words, unlike the finger signs, which he made an effort to master. The signs he could use; her tongue he could not. She sighed. Maybe her inner vision had been flawed or she had not fathomed what she had seen. Maybe he would drift away with the rest of the Goddamns when this was over.

  “You don’t care about Absaroka words.”

  He didn’t deny it, but gazed at her directly in a manner very impolite. “I need the sign language,” he said. “You are a good teacher. The signs will help me when I go east.”

  “East?”

  “Yes. I will not be here long.”

  She absorbed that, her confidence suddenly frayed. “Where are you going?”

  He tried to frame a reply and couldn’t, and finally shrugged. “I don’t know how to tell you. But I have a long way to go.”

  She squinted. “And never come back to here?”

  “No. I won’t be back.”

  “You don’t like it here? You don’t like Absaroka? You don’t like me?”

  “I like you all. But this is not what I will do with my life.”

  “Sonofabitch, what you gonna do?”

  He seemed helpless to explain. “Go to the big villages of the Americans.”

  “What there?”

  “Go to college if I can. Someway, somehow.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I can’t explain it.” But then he tried. “Did your mother teach you how to sew a dress or tan a hide? Did she teach you how to cook? A college is where I will go to learn.”

  “You don’t need college. I teach you everything. I teach you many words and signs.”

  “Yes, and thank you, Victoria.”

  He smiled. He hadn’t smiled all the way back to the encampment and his mind was drifting elsewhere, to some shores of memory where she could never walk. She wondered about him, about the sadness written on his big, creased face, and radiating from his eyes. This Skye was a sad man.

  “How come you ain’t happy?” she asked, a little cross.

  “I am happy. I have not been so happy since I was younger than you.”

  “What take your happiness away?”

  “I was in a boat that sailed the water, and I could not escape.”

  “I would be unhappy, too,” she said. “We live in a good land, the center of the world. There is no better place. Chief Arapooish has said it. To the north it is too cold, and to the south too hot and dry, and to the east too wet and flat and unpleasing to the eye. But here are mountains and forests and creeks to please the eye, and everything is just right for the Absaroka people. We love our land, which is just beyond the mountains on the Elk River, and we will never let others take it from us. We will die before we will surrender it.”

  “I understand. I would die rather than surrender my freedom. That is because it means more to me than life.”

  “Ah, Mister Skye, you are a man of much medicine,” she said.

  “Medicine?”

  “Power. You could be a holy man. You maybe have the medicine of the hawks.”

  Skye laughed. She stared, amazed. He had been distant all the while they strolled back, but now his gaze met hers, and fires lit between them.

  Chapter 25

  Skye hunted for General Ashley. The time had come to make arrangements to go to St. Louis. He intended to work his way east in whatever capacity Ashley might use him. He’d heard that this rendezvous would wind up shortly, and Ashley was eager to get back. He had a fortune in beaver pelts that he would haul to St. Louis on the packhorses that had brought out the year’s provisions.

  He found the general at his tent, near his trading store, sitting on a stump and bent over a ledger. The man radiated a certain august presence that impressed Skye. The man’s demeanor had helped him both as a politician and as an officer in the militia. He had a noble profile, and used it to advantage, often facing sideways from whoever he was addressing.

  “A word if I may, sir,” Skye said, his topper in hand.

  “Yes, yes, let me add up this column,” the general said, a bit testily.

  Skye waited until the man finished and stared up at his visitor, his gaze assessive and neutral.

  “I’m looking for a position—service to you on your trip east,” Skye began.

  “Who are you?”

  “Barnaby Skye, sir.”

&
nbsp; “Oh, the deserter Diah Smith told me about.”

  “Pressed seaman, sir.”

  “It doesn’t matter what your story is. The fact is, you deserted your post, failed your superior officers, your nation, and your shipmates.”

  “I served Great Britain for seven years, sir.”

  “Not voluntarily, so it’s no sign of virtue in you.”

  “I fought for the Crown in the Kaffir wars and once in Burma, and was blooded in Africa.”

  “What you say doesn’t matter. You deserted your post.”

  “General, how much does a man owe his government?”

  “Whatever it asks.”

  “Seven years, sir?”

  “More if required.”

  “If your government bound you to service for seven years, with no recourse, would you serve gladly—your life disrupted?”

  “That’s hypothetical. Your desertion is real.”

  “My question, sir—”

  Ashley paused, softening slightly. “I would not serve gladly and I would seek avenues of redress. But desertion? Never.”

  “What if there’s no redress?”

  “There’s always redress.”

  “Do you know that for a fact—about the Royal Navy?”

  “Britain’s a great nation—”

  “That’s not my question, general.”

  “No, I don’t, but I can’t imagine there’s any truth in your cock-and-bull story.”

  Skye saw the way it was heading and abandoned that tack. “I’m looking for passage east. I’ll work my way there in your service. I have a horse, and that would help you.”

  Ashley gazed sourly at Skye. “I can always use men. I have twenty-five, and three times that many packhorses, and there’s always the threat of Indians or stampedes or trouble. I never have enough horses and men. But Skye, I expect honorable conduct from men in my service. If trouble comes, will you desert?”

  “I fought the bloody Kaffirs side by side with the rest, sir.”

  Ashley stared coldly at him. “I’ll think about it, Skye. I’ll be leaving within the week.”

  “It’s Mister Skye, sir.”

  “Mister Skye, is it?”

  “In England, it’s a courtesy not given ordinary men. This is a new world. As long as we’re meeting as equals and freemen, you may call me mister, and I’ll call you the same, or by your title.”

  Ashley smiled slightly. “And what would you do in St. Louis? Patronize the grog shops?”

  “I’ll work my way east, sir. I wish to go to Boston.”

  “Ah, and become a merchant seaman. New Orleans would be easier.”

  “No, sir, go to college.”

  “College? College?” Ashley was taken aback.

  “You have a good one near Boston, and I’ll find a way to get in and start my life again. Before the press-gang snatched me, I was headed for Cambridge, Jesus College, like my father before me, and his father before him. He’s a London merchant, sir.”

  Ashley snickered nasally, apparently too astonished to offer a rejoinder. Skye waited for an answer. If he should go with Ashley, it would be a long, brutal trip, not much different from his imprisonment in a royal man o’ war. But it would take him east.

  “Smith tells me you’re a not a mountaineer,” Ashley said.

  “I made my way from Fort Vancouver, sir. I improved my lot the entire time, starting with little more than the clothes on my back, a flint and striker, and a few small items.”

  “Every bit of it Royal Navy property.”

  “Mostly mine. The rest back pay for seven years, sir.”

  “Theft.”

  “I never received a pence in the navy, sir.”

  “I don’t believe you. You’re a thief as well as a deserter.”

  “I was fined my entire pay and more, sir.”

  “For what?”

  “Trying to secure my freedom.”

  “Diah says he’s advanced you credit. I suppose you’re going to run out on him.”

  “No, sir. Pay him out of service—to you, or to him, or however I can.”

  Ashley laughed, baring yellow teeth. “You’re a rogue, Skye. You’re planning to stick Smith with the debt.”

  “It’s Mister Skye, sir. And unless you know a man’s lying, you ought not to accuse. And unless you know a man’s planning to steal from his benefactor, you shouldn’t make that accusation either.”

  Ashley reddened. “I’m done with you, Skye. If I decide to take you—and I may be forced to because I’m shorthanded—believe me, you’ll be watched day and night.”

  “It’s Mister Skye, sir. I’ll report to you daily until you decide.”

  Skye left Ashley’s tent in a bilious mood. He hadn’t expected that sort of treatment. He had heard the man was affable, a natural politician with an eye for a profit and plenty of daring when it came to taking a risk.

  He stormed over to the headquarters lodge of Smith, Jackson, and Sublette, and barged in, finding Smith and Sublette.

  “How much do I owe, and what can I do to pay it?” he barked.

  “Well, it’s Mister Skye.”

  Jedediah Smith retreated into silence a moment, and then showed those qualities that made him a leader of men. “Bill and I were just mapping out our brigades. We’ll have three this year. How may I help you, Mister Skye?”

  Skye felt the heat slide out of him and rotated his topper in his hands a moment while he collected himself. “I’ve come from an interview with General Ashley, sir. He’s not inclined to employ me for—reasons of character. Very well. I have my own standards. You’ve fed me for several days and advanced me seventeen dollars of goods. What is the value of my horse, sir? Would that pay my debt?”

  Smith eyed Skye contemplatively. “A good horse’s worth a hundred to a hundred fifty in the mountains. They’re so scarce it’s a bargain. But I’m not inclined to put you on foot.”

  “I’m starting east in the morning and I’m going with a clear slate. I’ll trade the horse for my debt and a good kit, including a rifle.”

  “You’ll need your horse.” He eyed Skye mildly. “I’ll talk to Ashley. In the mountains these things have to be dealt with. Half his pack crew he recruited out of the grog shops of St. Louis. I don’t know what’s in his craw.”

  “Thank you, sir. I’d rather not travel with him.”

  Smith grinned. “Mister Skye, you’ve all the makings of a good free trapper, including the temperament.”

  “All I want, sir, is to resume my life. And I’ll find the way, and do it honorably, no matter how long it takes. If that means paying you back when I get to where I’m going and find a means to survive, then I’ll do it. But one way or another, sir, you’ll be paid.”

  “You’re not enjoying it here.”

  Skye shrugged. “There’s nothing for me here. But yes, I’m enjoying it. I’ve never seen such sights. I have ambition, Mr. Smith, and this isn’t the place for it. A university might be.”

  “I’ll talk to Ashley. He’s not being reasonable. He’s leaving in a few days, mostly hanging around for any last pelts. Some trappers are still drifting in.”

  “He’ll find me a faithful and hard-working man, sir.”

  “Mister Skye, you’re a lot more than that, I’d wager. You think about staying in the mountains with my company. We need men. One can be a free trapper, or a camp tender, or a clerk. Camp tenders and clerks are salaried; free trappers sell us what they catch. They’re independent businessmen. Davey Jackson’s leading a brigade into the Snake country. Bill here’s going over the Stony Mountains to the Crow and Blackfoot country, the Three Forks area—dangerous but untrapped. Virgin beaver country, but full of Bug’s Boys.

  “I’m fitting out a party to find a way to Mexican California. There’s a river, the Buenaventura. No one’s found it, but we know it’s out there, other side of the Salt Lake. I mean to find it and take it west to the California mountains. The Sierra’s full of beaver. I’m a man with big ideas, Mister Skye. If Ashley
won’t have you, we’d be more than glad to take you on.”

  It was opportunity—if Skye wanted to abandon a dream.

  Chapter 26

  The rendezvous was drawing to a close, but Skye hadn’t an inkling about his fate. General Ashley put him off each day. If worse came to worse, he intended simply to start east on his own, hazarding whatever fate had in store for a solitary traveler walking across the continent. By all accounts, he could reach St. Louis, on the western edge of the United States, before cold weather set in. After that he could work his way east.

  He found himself an outsider at the rendezvous. He didn’t play euchre or Spanish monte because he had nothing to wager. His one encounter with the fiery trade whiskey made him chary of sipping any more of it. Sometimes he sat quietly among the trappers, listening to that awesome braggart Beckwourth spin his tales in a patois Skye could barely fathom, or Bridger tell comic yarns that usually ended up in raucous laughter.

  But Skye didn’t fit in. He had an innate reserve, bred into him from childhood, unlike these wild, exuberant, cocky Yanks. His was the lexicon of the sea, and theirs the lexicon of frontiersmen cut loose from all their moorings. He came to enjoy the hairy breed who combed the mountains, but he could never imitate them. He admired their vast confidence, their fierce loyalties—but he didn’t admire their inflammatory ways, with emotions seething uncontrolled just below the surface. Twice during the rendevous he had seen knife fights, men threatening each other with death.

  He made friends with them all, but knew he would be leaving soon for the states and would never see them again. As the rendezvous wore on, they welcomed him to their campfires, and he put names to a hundred faces, and found them a varied lot from all over the continent, bonded only by a ferocity and courage he had rarely seen in others.

  He didn’t participate in the endless contests because he couldn’t begin to match the skills of these mountaineers. How could he compete against men who could throw a heavy knife squarely into a knot on a distant tree trunk, or fire their heavy rifles so accurately they could split the ball on the cutting edge of a distant ax set up as a target? How could he toss a tomahawk so well that it would bury itself in a stump fifty feet away? He marveled at these things, watched endlessly, learned a lot—and quietly practiced with his knife and bow and arrows.