Smoke mixed bear grease into his vermillion, then carefully drew a bright red line down the part in the center of his hair. Using two fingers, he painted his forehead red as well. “Darting Swallow and I want to visit my father,” he announced.
The others stared at him in surprise. “She has agreed?” his uncle asked.
“Of course. She is ready for anything. You saw her this morning.”
There is great danger, Bridger signed. You should travel with the supply caravan, after the rendezvous. Sioux don’t dare attack big parties.
Smoke nodded. That would please me.
“I will go with you,” Black Eagle said, while signing. “Bring my wife and children.”
Bridger grinned and reached out to shake their hands while Craig thrust the bottle at Smoke. He held it up to toast the Soyappos, then tipped it back as they laughed.
When the drums sounded and the others entered the longhouse, Smoke went to find Darting Swallow, to tell her the news. She was in their lodge, one of her eyes swollen shut, the skin around it a dark blue. But when she smiled at him the other eye shone like a quarter moon in the night sky, and he felt almost bewildered at his luck in marrying her. “Black Eagle and his family will come with us to visit my father,” he announced. “The Soyappos say we can travel with their people, after the gathering next summer.”
She went to him, put her arms around his neck, and kissed him. “I too have important news,” she whispered in his ear.
He pulled back, eyebrows arched in surprise.
“You are going to be a father.”
Smoke’s mouth fell open: “You are carrying a child?”
She nodded, her smile spreading.
“You are sure?”
“Yes.”
He hugged her to him, tears of happiness in his eyes.
She let him hold her for a time, then drew back and gazed into his eyes, as if waiting for him to understand something. But his mind was so full of whiskey it was difficult for him to think. Finally she broke the silence: “I want to be with our own people when I have this child.”
“Of course. When?”
“When Chinook salmon reach our canyons.”
Slowly it dawned on him: “So we cannot travel to my father’s village.”
“No.”
He looked down at his feet, felt the disappointment wash through him. Then he looked back up at Darting Swallow and the reality of what she had told him sunk in. “We will wait for another summer,” he said.
“I’m sorry.”
“No. I am happy we will have a child.”
“I know you are sacrificing an important dream, so I will make a sacrifice as well. We will live with your family, in your village.”
He gazed at her: “You would do that for me?”
“Yes. I want you to be happy.”
SEVENTEEN
May 1830
Smoke found Bat That Flies in Daytime outside his lodge, seated by his fire. He had returned yesterday from Kettle Falls, where Red Grizzly Bear had sent him to hear the message of a young Spokan who had spent four snows with King George men, far toward the rising sun. “Come, sit with us,” Bat said. “My wife will make tea.”
He was older than Smoke, small and thin, with an oval face and narrow, slanted eyes. A tiny smile often played in the corners of his mouth, as if he were amused by something he kept private. Smoke and Bat and their families had spent several years together, traveling with the Soyappos, helping them find beaver. Bat loved the Soyappos almost as much as Smoke did. A son of Twisted Hair, he had spent time with Smoke’s father and his men as a child, and he had told Smoke everything he could remember about them.
They sat side by side on the grass, gazing out at the small lake at Ewatam, which shimmered in the morning breeze. “I am eager to hear the words of this Spokan,” Smoke said.
Yesterday, Bat had told them there were Steelheads, Flatheads, Water People, Pointed Hearts, Colvilles, and Kalispel men at the gathering. The Spokan had learned the Soyappo tongue, cut his hair like a Soyappo, begun to dress like a Soyappo. He had even taken a Soyappo name, Garry. Soyappo medicine men in black robes had taught him to decipher the markings they made for their words, and he now understood their Book of Heaven. He was going to take more Spokan boys back to the King George men, and the Water People had decided to send a boy, too.
“He spoke of a Soyappo Creator, and his son, and his Sacred Spirit, who touches people and brings them power,” Bat said. “Long ago, Creator’s son came to Earth, walked among Soyappos, taught them how to live. His teachings are in their Book of Heaven. It has ten commandments that tell people how to live a correct life, bring them power, and help them get to their Land Above.”
“Did you see a Book of Heaven?”
Bat nodded. “They use it in their ceremonies. Every seven days, they do not work but hold a ceremony to worship Creator, his son, and Sacred Spirit.”
“We need a Book of Heaven,” Smoke said.
“And we need to learn how to decipher its words,” Bat replied. “Our Spokan friends will now have great power. King George men have offered to teach more boys, and other nations are choosing who will go. We must send someone or fall behind.”
“Some fur hunters do not believe there is a Creator,” Smoke said.
Bat looked amused. “Old Pierre, who hunts with them, told me never to believe their teachers who wear black robes and use Books of Heaven. They say one thing, but their people do another. But even if Pierre speaks straight, we must send someone. We need people who understand Soyappo ways and tongue. If Pierre’s words prove true, we will need this more than if they prove false.”
Bat That Flies was right, Smoke realized. His intelligence was striking—he saw farther than other Nimíipuu. “Black Eagle and I have been planning for many moons to visit my father,” he said. “He would speak truth. And we could get a Book of Heaven.”
Bat That Flies tilted his head, as if appraising his young friend anew. “That is an interesting idea.”
Swan Lighting squatted on her knees on a buffalo robe and rubbed white clay into her son’s shirt. She could smell something cool and damp on the wind. She looked to the west, at the Butte Where Morning Is Seen. A gray cloud lay above it, like a flat, round cap. It would rain tomorrow.
When Daytime Smoke returned from the council, he went first to his daughter, Little Fire Traveling in Mountains. “Tota,” she squealed, reaching for him. He lifted her cradleboard, careful not to rip the small, beaded bundle tied near the lacing, which held her umbilical cord. If they ever lost that, it would bring the family bad luck. He undid the laces, lifted her out, and set her down. She toddled over to Swan Lighting.
“Grandmother is cleaning my best shirt,” Smoke told her. “Don’t get in the way.” She smiled and kept going, then tripped and fell in the grass. Smoke picked her up and brushed her off.
Swan hung the shirt on the drying rack, then put a hand to her lower back. She had seen 50 springs, and though she was still tall, her figure had thickened over the years. But her long braids were still black, and of that she was proud.
“So,” she said, shaking off the buffalo robe and laying it flat again, to sit down cross-legged, “tell me what was decided in council.”
“We will send two boys to black robe teachers in King George Land, Sparkling Horn and Sloping Earth.”
She held her hands out to Little Fire, who was trying to cross to her again. “And your father’s village?”
Smoke’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “You knew Black Eagle would suggest this?”
“He said you wanted to go, so he asked my permission to raise it in council.”
“Ah,” he said, nodding. “There was much talk. Black Eagle wants to lead, and I want to go. Others volunteered as well.”
For two days, she had thought of nothing else.
“Will you go, Mother?”
She took the child in her lap. “I am too old. My back is too painful, and the trip is too long.”
“You’re not so old. We would ride.”
She stared into the distance, across the rolling prairie.
“Mother, come with us.”
She shook her head, sadly.
“Fitzpatrick does it every year,” Smoke said. “There is no danger.”
“It is not the danger.”
“Darting Swallow and Little Fire would come. We could learn to speak Soyappo.”
She fixed her dark eyes on his: “With your father there was a mixed blood. He told me why your father did not offer to take me with him.”
Smoke’s face fell.
“Where your father lives, many despise those with dark skins.” Drouillard had explained it to her one night by the campfire. “If your father had brought me back as his wife, many in his village would have shunned him. You would have been scorned, mistreated.”
“Surely it has changed.”
“Your father has a wife and children. They would not be happy to learn that he had a Nimíipuu son.”
“But many of our Soyappo friends have Nimíipuu wives and children.”
“And they never take them back to Soyappo villages.”
“But—”
“Fitzpatrick told me not to let you visit your father.”
Smoke stared at her in shock. “Fitzpatrick?”
She could see the pain in his face. She sighed and rocked the child against her breast. Better her son experience this small hurt than the deeper pain of face-to-face rejection. “Let Black Eagle go without you,” she said. “He and your father were good friends.”
EIGHTEEN
October 1831
Clark splashed cold water on his face, wiped off the last of the shaving soap, and dried himself with a towel. When he stared into the mirror, the blue eyes that gazed back at him looked old. There was a wariness in them, a skepticism born of his 61 years. His long hair, combed straight back, had gone white. His skin was still ruddy, but there was no youth left in those eyes.
He left the bathroom, pulled a white, starched shirt out of the drawer, put it on, and buttoned it up. Next he lifted his tie and put it around his neck, his hands fumbling at the black silk. When he had managed to tie it, he walked to the wardrobe for his vest and coat.
Today, for the first time in 25 years, he would see Chopunnish Indians. Nez Percé, the trappers called them—“Pierced Nose” in French. His mind seldom dwelled on those long-ago days. Occasionally he would be stopped in his tracks by some squaw who reminded him of Swan Lighting, but for the most part he tried to shut those memories away. Lewis had been so eager to get back to Saint Louis, to a hero’s reception—dinners and balls in every town they visited, a trip to the White House, all the leading citizens fawning on them, the women coiffed and elegant. The glory had been transitory, and Lewis had paid a terrible price. And what price had Clark paid?
As he descended the stairs, he gazed around him at the well-appointed rooms of his brick town house. Was this what he had returned for—the life of a Superintendent of Indian Affairs in a frontier town? To sit at a desk and listen to politicians defend greedy settlers who overran Indian lands? He pushed the question away, could not face it, not today. He lifted his cloak off a hook in the front hall, reached for his top hat, and walked back through the long hallway.
The Indian Council Room where he met visiting delegations sat just behind his home. As he walked its 100-foot length, he gazed at the mementos that hung from the walls. There was the tunic Swan Lighting had made for him. And here was the bow, fashioned from the horns of a mountain sheep, that Black Eagle had given him the day they parted. He ran a hand along its elegant curves, remembering their last conversation. Black Eagle had not understood why Clark was leaving Swan Lighting behind, and he himself could not explain it—not in any way that made sense to her brother.
A knock at the door stirred him out of his reverie. He opened it to find Lucien Fontenelle, the bourgeois from Astor’s American Fur Company, clean-shaven and beaming in his black suit. The Frenchman beckoned his Indian friends forward with a flourish. Clark recognized Black Eagle instantly—middle-aged now, thicker in the chest and torso, but with the same crooked smile. In halting English Black Eagle said, “It pleases my heart to see my friend.”
Clark clasped the Indian’s hand in both of his. “I am filled with joy to see you, my brother.” He was embarrassed by the emotion that welled up in his eyes.
Fontenelle introduced Clark to the other three visitors. Man of the Dawn was close to Black Eagle’s age, short and barrel chested. The two others, No Horns and Rabbit Skin Leggings, were much younger, perhaps only 20.
Clark led them through the council room and unlocked his office door, at the back. “Please, sit,” he said, motioning to the chairs.
Black Eagle signed to him, but Clark missed it. His sign language was rusty—he had become too reliant on translators. Fontenelle interpreted: “Mon général, he says they have traveled for four moons to visit you. He says he often had doubts on the long voyage, but he knew the Creator wanted him to see Chief Red Hair again before he died. His heart sings to see you.”
“You tell him my heart sings harmony with his,” Clark said with a smile.
My father sends you warm greetings, Black Eagle signed.
He lives?
A nod.
And the other chiefs?
Broken Arm is dead, and Five Big Hearts. But Cut Nose lives.
Clark gazed at him, waiting, but Black Eagle said nothing more. He did not want to have to ask in front of Fontenelle, but he had to know. And your sister? She has remarried?
No. But I have done as you asked and hunted for her.
A stab of guilt pierced Clark.
“We have come to ask your help,” Man of the Dawn said in English. “Spokans and Water People have sent boys to King George school, far toward rising sun. They have learned white man’s powers. We have come to ask about these things. We want Book of Heaven.”
Clark stared at him, dumbfounded. He glanced at Fontenelle, who shrugged. But Man of the Dawn was clearly serious. Clark looked at Black Eagle, then signed: This is why you have come all this way?
Black Eagle coughed, a nasty, deep cough, then signed a simple yes.
“I will try to help you,” Clark said. He looked more closely as Black Eagle coughed again. “Are you sick, my friend?”
“Ah-heh,” Black Eagle said, then signed: I have white man disease.
Clark stood up and put his hand on the Indian’s forehead, felt the heat. Alarmed, he looked at the others. “Are the others sick?”
“Only Man of the Dawn,” Fontenelle answered.
“Where are they staying?”
“L’hôtel le Barras.”
Clark closed his eyes. Le Barras’s was part hotel, part saloon, part brothel. “These two can stay here,” he said. “I’ll have my doctor look at them.”
“As you wish, mon général.”
Two days later Clark sat down next to Black Eagle’s bed and handed him a large volume bound in thick brown leather.
Black Eagle looked at him, confused. He took the book in both hands and stared at it, trying to penetrate the feverish daze that gripped him.
“A Bible,” Clark said.
Black Eagle opened it and turned the pages, gazed at the small print. Clark reached behind him for a glass of water. “Drink.”
Black Eagle raised his head, and Clark stuffed another pillow beneath it. Black Eagle leaned forward so he could sip the water. Clark’s doctor had bled him twice, but still he remained weak and hot.
Black Eagle lay back and held the Bible to his chest in one hand, his medicine bundle in the other.
This book will only help your people if they can decipher its words, Clark signed. He knew how Indians usually regarded Bibles.
Black Eagle looked puzzled. Book of Heaven is source of power, he signed. Like sacred medicine bag.
Power is not in book, Clark signed. It is in message inside book.
Black Eagle looked confused
.
This book is filled with stories, which tell people about Creator and Creator’s son.
These stories hold strong medicine?
Yes. They tell people how to live.
Black Eagle’s brow furrowed again.
Do your tribal elders tell young people stories about how to live?
Black Eagle nodded.
Our stories are in this book. We read them to learn these things.
But it has strong medicine.
Clark wondered why this was so hard for Indians to understand. Perhaps because they lacked written languages and books? It is not medicine, he signed. If someone knows words from this book they can speak them, help your people understand them. Your people need someone who knows words, can read words.
Who?
Our holy men know them best. They read us words, tell us stories, remind us what Creator wants from us, how we must live.
Can you send holy men to us?
Clark gazed at his friend for a long time, surprised by this request. Perhaps I can, he finally signed.
Black Eagle lay back; the effort had bathed him in sweat. This is what we need, he signed. Then he coughed long and hard, his eyes closed. Finally he opened his eyes: You have a son.
Yes—I have four sons.
Black Eagle shook his head. Swan Lighting on Water is mother.
Clark’s eyes grew wide.
Black Eagle pointed at him: “Looks like you.” He touched his hair: “Red hair.” He held his hand up over his head: “Big.”
Five days later Clark dipped his quill pen in the ink pot and signed his name. He blew on the ink, held the letter up, waved it carefully to speed its drying. Then he addressed an envelope, folded the letter, and slid it inside. It was to the offices of the Episcopal Church, in New York, asking that they send missionaries to Black Eagle’s people.
He stood up, slid the envelope into the inner pocket of his suit coat. He glanced at his watch: it was almost three thirty. Well, he had a few minutes to look in on Harriet before he left.
She was asleep. He gazed at his wife’s pale face, once so lovely, now lined and emaciated. Her breathing was labored; he could hear the congestion in her chest.
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