From Sea to Shining Sea

by JAMES ALEXANDER Thom

  He came unrested out of a short, deep snooze just at dawn, rising to find the chiefs already up and the riverbanks as usual lined with spectators. The Corps of Discovery was beginning to seem like a traveling circus among these gawking Indians, and it was difficult to keep smiling. Captain Lewis, never a jolly sort to begin with, was having difficulty staying civil in the face of the Sioux chiefs’ tireless demands, entreaties, and dubious declarations of friendship.

  Now the chiefs were pleading with Lewis to lay over yet another day, as a large part of their nation was coming in from another village to see the Americans and get to know them. Lewis and William conferred on this. The greater the numbers of Sioux warriors, Lewis noted, the more willing the chiefs might be to storm the Corps and massacre them all. And yet, the two captains agreed, there were still so many of President Jefferson’s wishes that could be carried out. If the Sioux’s trading ties could be swung away from the British-Canadian companies and into the American sphere, it would be worth a week of such exhausting diplomacy. So they agreed to stay over another day, even though their sense of security was screaming against it.

  With three sleepless nights now behind him, William went through the obligations of the day almost in a trance. He visited a succession of big lodges belonging to principal men of the village, including Partizan, talking with them on all the matters of importance to the expedition, describing the size and power of the United States, giving presents, and declining their offers of feminine companionship. In late afternoon he visited the lodge of Black Buffalo, giving some gifts to the chief’s wife, and there was informed that another banquet and dance was planned for the evening. The Sioux from the other village had not yet arrived, the chief apologized. William, sure that he and Lewis were being duped again, gritted his teeth and replied with all the tact he could muster that he was looking forward to another such wonderful ceremony.

  During his tour of the village, he saw several sights that impressed upon him the severity of Sioux life. He saw a brave who sat with arrows stuck through his biceps and forearms, his face expressionless. A good friend of this brave had died, it was explained, and the arrows were testimony to his grief.

  There were several men who bore deep, puckered scars on their chests, near their nipples. These, he learned, were the results of a self-torture practiced when a warrior was initiated into a special society. Wooden skewers were stuck through the flesh above the nipples. These skewers were tied to long ropes attached to the tops of saplings. The brave then would pull backward against those ropes until the saplings were bent toward him or the skewers were torn out of his flesh. The members of this special society, William learned, were the bodyguards to the chiefs, and also acted as village police. William saw one of these warriors strip and whip two squaws who had been quarreling with each other, and he noticed that women and children always cringed at the warriors’ approach.

  Another duty of the village police sept, William learned, was to walk through the village at night like town criers, singing the occurrences of the evening—in particular, who had been punished and for what. By heaven, he thought, what a myth is that of the freedom of savage life! No privacy, and they’re controlled as strict as the ants in an ant hill.

  THE BANQUET AND DANCE WERE SO EXACT A REPETITION OF those of the night before that William now and then was not sure which day he was in. Everything he heard had already been said, and everything he said the Indians had already heard. Time here did not seem to move forward with the hands of a watch, but stayed still, everything repeating and repeating itself. Even without the kinnickinnick, he felt, Indian village life must have this sameness. He almost thought “roundness.” Aye, he thought: the round of horizons, the round of days and nights, the round of seasons, the round of generations; even their symbols and their lodges are round. No corners, no straight lines, no lines leading beyond horizons; nothing pulling them in a direction like the pull on a compass needle, nothing like this westward pull on my people.

  Aye, round, he thought. For them even time is round.

  AND NOW HERE THEY WERE AGAIN, JUST LIKE LAST NIGHT, returning to the keelboat, having ended the festivities earlier than the chiefs would have done, and again the chiefs had invited themselves aboard to spend the night. The only difference was that this time the grand chief was staying in his village and Partizan was coming to stay on the boat. The pirogue moved across the dark fast water toward the speck of torchlight that marked the location of the Discovery, lying at anchor a hundred yards offshore. The oars groaned and bumped and dribbled. The rowers breathed hard. Partizan and Buffalo Medicine sat forward in the boat, the dim glow of the pirogue’s lantern lighting their ruddy faces from below. Captain Lewis and his guards were still on shore, waiting for the pirogue to return and ferry them out. Suddenly William sat up straight.

  “Oh, oh, helmsman,” he said as they drew near the keelboat. “Y’re too far up. Hey, watch—” His blood rushed.

  The strong current was bearing the pirogue broadside toward the looming dark bow of the Discovery. Suddenly the pirogue lurched and tilted for an instant as it skidded against the keelboat’s anchor cable. The cable, taut as a bowstring because of the strong current, parted with a thunk.

  “Hey, on board!” he yelled, so suddenly and loudly that the two chiefs nearly fell off their seat, “y’re adrift! Man the oars!” From the deck above came a sudden scurry and bustle and bumping and shouting as the soldiers comprehended the warning and rushed for their places.

  The two chiefs in the pirogue, meantime, not understanding a word of the shouting, and probably thinking all manner of terrorized thoughts, began bellowing alarms. Onshore, then, other Indian voices took up the alarm, and William could hear them relaying the panic toward the village, shout after shout echoing off into the night.

  “Calm down, God damn ye,” William snapped to Partizan, and of course the chief did not understand. The next few minutes were blind chaos. William was shouting to Ordway, Ordway to the rowers; from shore came the querying voice of Lewis, the shouting of countless unseen Indians, the running of feet and rattling of weapons. It sounded as if the whole Sioux nation were charging toward the river. Partizan continued to yell at the top of his lungs, and Cruzatte was trying in a high, fast voice to explain something to him.

  “Mon capitaine,” Cruzatte cried, “he tells them the Omahas are attacking him!” William saw red, and felt like throwing Partizan into the river, but he was too busy. He had taken the tiller from the unlucky helmsman and was steering toward the drifting keelboat.

  Ordway had the Discovery under control in two minutes, and William directed him to head for the starboard bank and find a mooring place.

  Within a half an hour the Discovery was tied to willow trees on the east side of the river, under a high and badly undermined bank, and Lewis and his guards had been ferried over. Lewis was ashen-faced with cold anger, his eyes shooting darts at Partizan. “The minute that villain yelled, Black Buffalo was at the river with two hundred warriors fully armed,” he hissed to William. “If that doesn’t prove me their rascally intentions, I’m a dunce! By God, my friend, come daylight we’re going on up the river if we have to cut through a thousand black-hearted Sioux to do it!” Scannon, unsettled by his master’s fury, whimpered for attention.

  They lay tied under the riverbank the rest of the night, half the troops on guard in a defensive perimeter, expecting the shore to cave in, expecting the Sioux to cross to this side of the river and attack, expecting anything. Partizan and Buffalo Medicine were afraid to talk to the infuriated captains, and got into their blankets.

  THE CAPTAINS STAYED UP. IT WAS THEIR FOURTH SLEEPLESS night.

  William got crews out in the pirogues at dawn to search the river bottom for the lost anchor, under the eyes of some two hundred Sioux warriors on the banks armed with guns, spears, bows and metal-tipped arrows. The pirogues were rowed up to the place where the Discovery had been anchored, then passed back and forth over the spot for an hour. The men probe
d the bottom with boat hooks and long poles. When that failed, they devised a rope drag, weighted with rocks, suspended it between the two pirogues, and dragged the bottom for another three hours as the sun mounted the sky, flashing blindingly off the river surface, and grew fiercely hot. Sand blew in clouds off the sandbar. William watched the keelboat apprehensively, expecting the horde of warriors to start descending on it at any moment. Even at this distance he could see that Captain Lewis was all but ignoring the chiefs on board.

  “Let’s go back,” he said at about midmorning. “That anchor’s sure buried under a ton of ooze.”

  Soon the pirogues were manned by their regular crews, and the Discovery was ready to be untied and cast off.

  “Now,” Lewis said, turning to face the chiefs directly for the first time all morning, “we’re done with you. Are you going to get off my ship?”

  The chiefs seemed incredulous, unable to believe the last minute actually had come. Partizan began issuing statements through Cruzatte: “You are welcome to stay with the Sioux. Or you may go back to the Father of Waters from which you came. But you may not continue up this river.”

  Lewis stepped past him, lips bitten white. “Every man to your place. Collins, go ashore and untie us.”

  William felt a chill at this moment. He saw that all the warriors were moving down the shore, closing in on the keelboat. He saw Partizan twitch his eyes toward someone on shore, and saw four of the bodyguard warriors move quickly to the tree where the mooring line was tied. Collins was off the gangplank by now and on the beach, and he saw the warriors at the tree. He glanced back with a question in his eyes.

  “Go ahead,” William said. “Untie us.” Collins squeezed between two of the warriors and untied the rope. Suddenly one of the warriors snatched the end of the rope from his hand and retied it. Collins stood there, his fists balling in anger, his breathing heavy.

  “By God, that does it,” Lewis hissed, and spun on Partizan. “Get off. Now! Help ’em off, boys.”

  Before the chiefs could move, they found themselves gripped on the arms by half a dozen soldiers and thrust out onto the gangplank.

  Unwilling to stand on that precarious place and argue, they sidestepped down and stood on the beach. Now Black Buffalo came down near them and said, “We are sorry to see you go. But give us one piece of tobacco and we will not stop you from going.” Lewis stepped to a keg, got out a twist of tobacco, and threw it at the grand chief. It fell at his feet, and a warrior picked it up. Collins still stood on the beach among Indians, and William nodded to him. Collins started for the willow tree again, but the warriors got another signal from Partizan and closed against him. Lewis’s eyes were blazing. He drew his sword and stepped to the gunwale, apparently meaning to cut the cable. But the grand chief was speaking again. Cruzatte interpreted.

  “He say t’ose men are warrieurs, and you must give them tobacco or t’ey will not release.”

  “Tell him,” William said through clenched teeth, “we’ll not be trifled with anymore.” He glanced up and saw that most of the two hundred braves were within spitting distance of the boat, all their weapons at the ready. “Give me that,” he said to the gunner, and took from him the buckshot-loaded blunderbuss. He raised it and pointed it at the grand chief. All the warriors at once seemed to take a breath and tense up like snakes. William spoke directly to the chief.

  “You have told us you’re a great man with power. Show us your power by making those men untie that rope. I mean it. I’m damn mad!”

  This was translated, and the chief replied: “Black Buffalo is mad, too, to see the Red Hair Chief be so hard over one piece of tobacco.”

  William put his thumb over the hammer of the blunderbuss and when he cocked it in the silence, everyone could hear it.

  Black Buffalo, looking stricken, whether with shame or fright or regret, moved down to the willow tree. He handed the warriors his own twist of tobacco and untied the rope. He took the rope from the braves and handed it to Collins, who came up the gangplank with it. The gangplank was pulled in, the oars dipped, and the Discovery moved out from under the guns and arrows of the Sioux army, the pirogues following nearby like goslings swimming after a goose. Sails were unfurled.

  William eased down the hammer of the blunderbuss and handed it back to the gunner. The eyes of all the rowers moved back and forth between him and the Sioux, who stood unmoving, their faces grim with disappointment and uncertainty, growing smaller and smaller. The breeze was favorable, so the vessel could move at a stately pace away from them. William wanted to sit down.

  THEY GATHERED LARGE STONES FROM THE SHORE A LEAGUE farther up, fashioned a makeshift anchor from them, and anchored off a sand bar in midstream early in the afternoon, determined not to camp ashore until they were well past the Sioux nation. William and Lewis wrote in their journals for a while as meals were cooked. William, his hands now shaking, concluded the day’s account:

  I am verry unwell for want of Sleep

  Deturmined to Sleep to night if possible

  He looked up and saw Collins sitting amidships on a locker, eating stew from a bowl, and nodded at him. Collins nodded back. William thought:

  I’ll never doubt him again.

  And Collins after a while said to someone beside him:

  “I don’t care how drunk I git. I’ll never trouble Mister Clark again.”

  35

  AN ARIKARA TOWN, 1600 MILES UP THE MISSOURI

  October 15, 1804

  YORK STOOD LIKE A COAL-BLACK COLOSSUS IN THE CENTER OF the main lodge of the Arikara village, stripped to the waist, feet wide apart. On each side of him stood an Arikara brave. York’s arms were outstretched, and each brave was gripping one of York’s fists in both hands.

  “Now,” York said to himself.

  His huge biceps and chest and shoulder muscles swelled and rippled in the ray of skylight from the smokehole above. A murmur of astonishment ran among the crowd of warriors and chiefs in the lodge as the braves were raised from the floor and hung there at the end of his upraised arms, their feet dangling above the dirt floor.

  He stood there holding up the braves, whose combined weights totaled more than three hundred pounds, until the murmurs of admiration had risen to a loud babble, then his scowl suddenly melted into a grin, and he set them down.

  William smiled at Lewis, and Lewis shook his head and smiled back. York was turning out to be an even greater showpiece than the air gun, the compass, and the corn mill combined. He was getting to be known along the Missouri as great medicine, and he missed no opportunity to exhibit himself and be the center of attention. In each village he would stand in the council lodge with his shirt off, while the Indians examined him from top to toe, exclaiming over the thick, tightly curled hair, trying to rub his blackness off with moistened fingers or even lick it off with their tongues. In some of the exhibitions, the Indians would remain unconvinced unless they could see him fully naked. York had no false modesty, and he would oblige. In those gatherings where squaws were permitted, his awareness of their scrutiny sometimes would cause his great purple pendulum of a sex organ to raise its head, at which sight the squaws would coo and giggle behind their hands and stare in frank admiration, while the men would joke in the ribald way of the social Indian and josh the women about their carryings-on.

  Most often, York’s exhibitions were for the chiefs and men only. For them he would dance to Cruzatte’s fiddle, and they would be astonished that a man so large could be so agile; or he would demonstrate his muscular strength in one way or another. Once he had taken a whole buffalo carcass, put its forelegs over his shoulders, and raised himself by the strength of his oak-trunk thighs to stand with its full weight of some nine hundred pounds supported on his back. Egod, William had thought that time, to imagine I used to trounce him in rassling.

  Something seemed to be happening to York lately. He had little by little become less a lazy oaf and more a man aware of his own worth. The rigors of the 1600-mile struggle up the Missouri
had melted away that great laughable paunch of his, and he looked like a statue of Hercules carved in ebony. Collins and all the others had treated him like a full comrade since that day in the Devil’s Raceground, and he was learning to live up to their respect. The impossible seemed to be happening: York, once the whining, indolent buffoon, was achieving dignity.

  But not entirely. He was still a natural show-off. He sensed his peculiar value to the expedition, and enjoyed being Great Medicine. Each time the convoy hove to near another riparian Indian village, it found that the legend of the Black Giant had preceded it, and the shores would be lined with anxious spectators, waiting for a sight of this dark monster.

  But York was not the only legend. Other news had raced up the Missouri ahead of the vessels, and this was news of what the Teton Sioux had learned: that here on this great lodge-canoe was a red-haired chief who could not be trifled with or bullied. All the Indians they had met since that confrontation had been friendly and respectful. Even these Arikaras, who had their own reputation as river pirates, had shown the explorers only hospitality and generosity.

  Now it was time for more pipe-smoking and serious speeches in the Arikara lodge, so York dressed and went out, followed by the wondering gaze of the Indians. As soon as he stepped out into the cold October air, there arose outside the lodge an uproar of women’s and children’s voices, all overridden by York’s own booming laughter and his imitation of a roaring monster, and then more childish screams.

  “I’m a turrible robustious bad devil-man,” he was bellowing. “Befo’ the Red Hair Chief ketch me and tame me, I used to eat a dozen child’n for breakfast! Rowr! An’ two dozen at supper! Rowr! ROWWWRR!” And the screams grew louder. The braves and chiefs in the lodge were beginning to look alarmed by all the commotion. William rose to his feet.