Clark’s Journal:
October 10th Wednesday (Thursday)
all the Party have greatly the advantage of me, in as much as they all relish the flesh of the dogs, Several of which we purchased of the nativs for to add to our store of fish and roots etc.
BERNARD DEVOTO, ed., The Journals of Lewis and Clark. New York: Houghton Mifflin Co., 1953, p. 246.
In a large meadow, called the Weippe, which was watered by streams from the snowcapped mountains, Nez Percé women dug the camass root with bone hooks. The root was round, like an onion. Little heaps of them lay here and there on the ground where the expedition hunted a suitable place for a campsite one late afternoon. Whenever one of the explorers wandered over the meadow or went close to the hills, the Nez Percé women would scream and run to hide in the brush. Little girls hid behind baby brothers and sisters and then peeked out to get a sight of these strange palefaces who had come to camp on their land.1
Early the next morning, the chief of the village, who was also a medicine man and called Twisted Hair, came to visit. Captain Clark smoked a pipe with him and told him of the Great White Father in Washington who had sent the white men to visit the people of the Far West. He said, “After a few days we will move on to visit other river camps.”
Twisted Hair then spoke with hand signs, and a halting translation through Old Toby and Sacajawea again took place. “We have no Great White Father in the East, but we will be friends.” His face was square with sharp features as if pinched out of clay. Shining brass rings decorated his ears, and brass wire was twisted around the end of a braid of hair that hung down the side of his face. Twisted Hair pointed to the many horses around the Nez Percé camp, saying, “Our horses are far sleeker and stronger than the ones you ride. I recognize yours come from our friends the Snakes on the other side of the mountains.”2
Late in the afternoon, Chief Twisted Hair drew on a white elk skin a chart of the rivers to the west for Captain Clark. Clark stroked his beard. According to this chart the Clearwater joined another river a few miles from the camp the expedition now occupied. Further study showed that two days by canoe toward the south the river joined with another, larger than the first.
“The Nez Percés fish on this second river. It is called the Snake,” indicated Twisted Hair.
Clark saw that five days’ journey by canoe on the Snake was a very large river into which the Snake emptied itself, and from the mouth of that river to a great waterfall was a journey of five more days.
Twisted Hair blinked and moved his hands. “On all the joining rivers, as well as the main river, are many Nez Percé villages.”
Then Clark gave Twisted Hair an American flag and a handkerchief in payment for the map and information. Clark made a sign for the chief to wait. He rummaged around in several wooden crates and came up with a steel knife, another handkerchief, and some twists of tobacco. “I want to trade for some dried salmon and skins suitable for clothing.”
Twisted Hair rolled sidewise on the ground, showing that he would bring the trade items immediately. He returned with a dozen baskets of salmon, some elk skins, and ibex, or goat, skins. Again he rolled on the ground in a paroxysm of almost inaudible laughter.
“No, no,” corrected Clark. “I am not going to cook and sew. Sacajawea and Old Toby will sew. York will do the cooking.”
Twisted Hair rested his chin in his hand. “That would have been something to see. A white man doing a squaw’s work.” His belly shook with laughter.
During this time Captain Lewis was in the center of the village buying up the fattest dogs he could find. He traded an ax to one man for several dogs. The man was so pleased that he buried the ax at once for safekeeping. Another man exchanged a dog for a flint and steel, and he was so delighted with his trade that he completely wore out the flint that same evening with repeated demonstrations.
Lewis brought the dogs back to camp on leather leashes and ordered them killed, skinned, and roasted. He was certain the meat would not only taste better than the constant diet of rotten fish they were having, but be necessary to ensure the men’s health.
Captain Clark felt a bit squeamish about eating the dog meat. He talked to Shannon. “I got Lewis’s thinking; I understand him. But I can’t help thinking about a retriever bitch I once had. The best hunting dog I ever knew, and together we had some great times in the hills. She could track a beast all day, and minded a blizzard no more than a spring shower. Well, she got something mortally wrong with her innards and was dying. One morning I missed her from her bed beside the stove, and my brother, George, told me he’d seen her dragging herself up through the woods in the snow. I followed her trail and found her dead in a little laurel grove, the place she’d been happiest when she was well. She wanted to die on her feet. I reckon that’s the best way for men and hounds.”
“Sure,” said Shannon, “maybe Captain Lewis feels he’s right—but how many of these here codgers would give up their lives for a dog?”
That evening, the mealtime was very quiet. One by one the men gingerly nibbled, then succumbed to the dog meat. Charbonneau thought it was the finest meat he had tasted. This truly disgusted Sacajawea. She begged Captain Lewis not to butcher any more dogs. Her people would eat horses in desperation, but never dogs, no matter how hungry they became. She also remembered her friend Dog from the big Hidatsa village, and her throat constricted. She could eat no more. “You would eat your dog, Scannon?” she asked Captain Lewis.
“Of course not!” he exclaimed. He was not looking at her; he just kept his head down and was quiet. Finally he looked up, explaining, “This is not breaking any law nor a sin with these Nez Percés. My sensation of right and wrong is my conscience. The men in this outfit need red meat. If we don’t find it hunting, but find it in the village in the form of a dog, then we’ll eat the dog. I am bound to build the health of the men in my charge, so I am forced to give them something that is not considered fit for eating by some, but a delicacy by others.” Lewis nodded his head toward Charbonneau. “You know, some people eat those bitterroots, boiled until they are mush and still too bitter for my taste—besides that, they give a man so much gas he can scarcely breathe. And there are some who eat crickets and ants. This does not make them sick; it keeps them from starving and actually keeps them fit. This fat dog meat will keep our men well. You can understand that, can’t you, Janey?”
“I see how you feel about the men, but I do not have to eat dog meat, and neither does Pomp.” Her mouth was drawn down so that she could keep it firm.
Captain Lewis now looked directly at her. “It doesn’t make any difference. You don’t have to eat that meat if it bothers you, so long as you stay well. But if you get sick on rotten salmon or too many damn roots, I’ll hold your nose and make you drink dog-tail soup!”
She looked at him in alarm, her eyes wide. Captain Lewis thought her eyes looked like a doe’s. In fact, she sort of makes me think of one when she walks, he thought to himself. Quick and light, and she always seems to be watching out, curious, as if she saw something waving in the grass ahead and she would go to find out what it was. Lord, like a little animal.
By October 5, everyone was feeling well and preparing to move on toward the Pacific. The expedition now had a total of thirty-eight horses. Captain Lewis gave the pack mule Charbonneau bought from the Shoshonis to Old Toby and his son. Lewis and a couple of the men heated up the iron and branded the horses that had been purchased since leaving the Shoshonis. Then they cut off the foretop hair of all the remaining horses, thus marking them twice for easy identification. Three Nez Percés, two brothers and the son of Chief Twisted Hair, had agreed to take care of these horses until the expedition returned the next year. Clark and some of the men built caches near where five ponderosa pines had been cut to make new dugout canoes. They buried the saddles, some canisters of powder and balls, and the branding iron in the caches during the night and carefully laid the turf back in place, hoping no one would detect these freshly cut holes in the ground. The five huge pines were trimmed, then hollowed out, first by burning and then by scraping, to make seaworthy canoes.
Word traveled fast by the wearkkoompt, the Nez Percés’ grapevine, that five dugouts were coming downriver filled with white men who traveled with a squaw and a papoose. At the last minute, Chief Twisted Hair and his subchief, Tetoharsky, wearing long leggings of goat hide, decided to accompany the party to the Columbia River. Both men had beaver pelts tied around them, going over a shoulder, with the hair next to the skin. Their arms were bare; chest and back showed nakedly between the loops of pelts. Each wore a gut belt, and each looked about with an agreeable unconcern about time. They squatted in the dugout with Old Toby and Cutworm, a picture of contentment, oblivious to the shifting of the cargo to make room for them, and not seeming to care one way or another what the next step would be.
The men of the expedition noted happily that this part of their travels would be entirely downstream. This meant no paddling, no poling, no labor at the tow rope, and hopefully no portages. But their dreams of floating down a broad and pleasant stream were soon rudely destroyed. On the second day out, Sergeant Gass’s canoe hit a rock and swung in the current; hitting another rock, it split, filled, and sank. As usual, the men who could not swim were in the canoe that had the accident. The water was no more than waist-deep, but the danger in rapids is not depth. The capsizing canoeist is more likely to die by being swept underwater and being held against a rock by the force of the current, if he is not brained against a rock. There was nothing to be done but land, dry out the baggage, and repair the damaged canoe with plenty of pine pitch, elk hide, and strips of pine.
By noon the canoes were moving fast through some turbulent water in a deep canyon. Suddenly Nat Pryor’s canoe grounded and its cargo was thoroughly drenched. The men were stranded midstream where the water was only thigh-deep, but on either side the swirling, gray-green water was over a man’s head. Charbonneau had a hard time keeping his feet on the bottom of the river. The water was moving fast enough to push him over. “Jèsus!” he yelled, holding on to his felt hat. “Save me! Allez! Get a rope!”
“Don’t get excited, Frenchy,” said Pryor, doing some swearing himself.
“Hurry!” cried Charbonneau. “My feet are slipping. I’ll be a goner! Holy Mother!”
“You ain’t no goner,” growled Pryor. “It’s against nature. Hang on.”
“L’aide!”
“Keep your shirt on!” called York. “I’se throwing out the rope.” He first grinned at Charbonneau, who was kind of simpering in his beard, then stabilized his own feet and threw a rope to the closest man stranded mid-river. He worked quietly, easing each man out, and he smiled, pleased with himself, in the way of a man doing something for friends.
“Thank you, sir,” said Pryor, shaking York’s hand and slapping him across the back.
“Merci,” Labiche said, smiling.
“Zut! That water, she is like ice. My feet are blue,” said Charbonneau, pumping York’s arm emphatically up and down.
“Bonjour,” answered York, grinning broadly.
Again that day there was baggage to dry out and the damaged canoe to repair with braces of pine wood.
That evening, Cruzatte had his fiddle out, ready for songs and dancing with the Nez Percés who lived nearby and had come to see these strange pale ones. He offered the violin to Sacajawea, saying, “I made a promise to you a long time ago. Before this trip is over, you’ll be able to play a tune on this old fiddle. Hold the bow straight and curl your fingers this way.” She tried; and the more she tried, the more the Nez Percés mimicked the screech owl. The air was filled with screeching and laughter until Cruzatte, sides aching from his own laughing, took the fiddle back. “Janey, all you need is more practice.”
“Ai, this box lacks something from me,” she agreed.
Looking around the next morning, Sacajawea could see nothing but stones, sand, and a wide sagebrush plain. She could smell nothing but the stink of drying salmon. It seemed as though the entire Nez Percé nation lived on the riverbanks, and all they did involved salmon in some way. They ate salmon, slept on salmon, burned dried salmon, and traded with salmon.
In the late afternoon each day, Old Toby and his son wandered among the small thickets of sage that stood out like black islands in a tan sea of sand. They found no game and came back to a supper of cold, dried fish or, if the expedition were fortunate enough to find fuel for a fire, fish soup and boiled roots.
“This is not food,” Old Toby exclaimed one day when York handed him a plate of steamed salmon. “We sleep on the bare ground, where it is wet and cold, so we need more fat or all of us will have the belly cramps and die doubled over in pain.”
Twisted Hair and Tetoharsky shook their heads and picked at their salmon, eating every morsel they could put in their mouths.
Old Toby motioned toward the river. “A roast duck. Watch for the ducks on the river; then, when it is roasted, eat every last drop of grease.” He picked at the fat lying along the back of his salmon. “This is not the best grease,” he complained.
Captain Lewis, feeling a touch of the cramps and diarrhea again, tried a few agonizing swallows of more fish, then decided he wasn’t hungry. He moved away from the eaters and dozed with Scannon pressed against his legs in the sand. Before breaking camp in the morning, he said to Drouillard, “We need more meat. See if you can’t find some river tribe that will trade us a few fat dogs in the next couple of days.”
For the next two days the canoes tossed in the wind from storms that hovered on the hills or swept over the chasm of the river. Thunder roared in the distance, and lightning struck on the hilltops, twice starting landslides.
Once they approached an island and were almost upon it when Sacajawea saw the dark mass heave. What had seemed a sandy shoreline was the yellow foam around an enormous raft of drifting sagebrush, jammed together by a combination of wind and fast water. Branches and roots were scattered through the mass and waved like ponderous monsters as they rose and fell in turn with the rapids.
Old Toby and Cutworm stopped paddling to watch the drifting sagebrush, and they talked in low tones with Twisted Hair and Tetoharsky.
Charbonneau’s mouth was open. He said, “What are they saying?”
Sacajawea turned her head to answer, “Something about evil spirits living in the river that do not want men in their river.”
“By gar, they are superstitious,” mumbled Charbonneau. “I’d almost rather be sitting in Pryor’s canoe than hear them make up such stories and complain about the fast water we have to go through. Those savages have lived in this country all their lives. Why should the river frighten them? But I’ve never seen such swirling white water since the Missouri’s Great Falls.”
Toward the end of the fourth day, the hills receded, the banks leveled into sandy beaches, and the slopes became covered with blue-green clay. The wind died altogether, and the waves quieted. As the unexpected silence deepened, the crashing of water on the shore became the only sound, and a sense of apprehension grew in Sacajawea’s mind. She watched Old Toby and Cutworm. They seemed to take surviving too easily. There were no more complaints or retelling of Shoshoni superstitions. They seemed as calm as Twisted Hair and Tetoharsky. All four now seemed relaxed and indolent, expressing nothing but lazy curiosity. Something was up, but what?
“What is it?” she asked. Her voice seemed startlingly loud without the wind to snatch it away.
A violent, unexpected gust of wind hit the canoes like a padded blow, and Sacajawea gasped at its heat.
“What?” hollered Charbonneau on the crest of another gust, which bent the grasses on shore, flattened the water, and swung the dugouts sideways.
“Sit back!” Captain Clark gasped. “You’re upsetting—us!”
Charbonneau gripped the thwart. At each stroke the dugout lunged forward, settled, seemed to coast an instant of its own accord, and then, just on the verge of balancing to the motion, it snapped his head again. There was only a second between strokes. Charbonneau’s paddle trailed in the wake of the others. Sweat smarted in his eyes as he balanced on sore knees and bruised toes, groaning aloud. Culminating all his misery was the large felt hat that he had to keep from slipping about on his greasy hair.
“We are going to get the storm now,” Sacajawea yelled above the wind, pointing to the solid black mass of clouds racing over the sun, breathing dull flashes of lightning.
Drouillard, their bow man, hesitated, looking toward the nearest land.
Now Sacajawea was apprehensive, and she agreed with Drouillard that this was no place to be fooling around in a canoe; they should head for shore. The canoes swept around a point into a long bay that widened at its end where the Snake met the Clearwater. Rain streamed in dark, alternating streaks with the direction of the wind gusts. Sacajawea could see it was not just a matter of heading for shore, because when the canoe was headed to run downriver, it was not controlled and tended to surf, ending up beam-on to the river, and then it could turn over. She could see Drouillard trying to ease off the wind and work his way at an angle to the shore, sidling in toward land.
Old Toby gave a shriek, and Charbonneau blurted, “Rocks!”
Petrified, Sacajawea watched rocks rush at them, then fall out of the way by inches. When they reached the mouth of the Snake, big, heavy rollers came.
Captain Clark must be frightened, too, thought Sacajawea. But he didn’t show his worry, and to steady the crew and perhaps himself, he said, “It’s all right. Head for deeper water—there will be long, easy swells.” He handed Sacajawea a section of the battered tepee skin Charbonneau had brought from the Mandan camp. The river was running whitecaps now, and every time it broke over the canoe, a mass of frothing white water deluged them. It was like having a great bucket of cold water constantly dashed in their faces.
She finally stuck her head under the tepee skin, mumbling that her face was clean enough and she didn’t need it washed anymore, and she didn’t really enjoy looking at those waves. She kept down under the skin and bailed with a canister until she was exhausted. Suddenly Charbonneau announced that he needed to take a leak. Twisted Hair and Tetoharsky proposed to join him. They laughed. Captain Clark yelled, “Hold it!” Old Toby and his son gave them sidelong glances of disgust. Finally they just remained kneeling in the canoe and added to the river in the bottom. Old Toby shoved the bailing canister into Sacajawea’s hands, grabbed Charbonneau’s felt hat, and bailed with it as fast as he could, grunting pointedly in the direction of Charbonneau and the two Nez Percés.
There was a rocky reef halfway between the canoe and the shore. The canoe shot right over that rocky reef, and Sacajawea, head out of the tepee skin, could see it inches beneath the canoe. She drew in her breath. She could hear Old Toby grunt and Captain Clark’s breath whistling on her neck.
The canoe raced toward the shore, where Sacajawea could see waving and leaping forms where a crowd of river natives had gathered. Hands seized the gunwales and stopped it with a sudden shock. The other four canoes were stopped in similar fashion along the shoreline.
Lewis called loudly to Clark, who was trying to shake off a native who had lifted him bodily up out of the canoe. “They’re going to carry us all out!”
Sacajawea gasped as she felt arms circle her shoulders and legs and swing her out over the water, then set her down safely on the shore. The canoes were beached by another wave of naked chests and shoulders that swept on toward the shore.
Above the shoreline, women, wearing long leather skirts trimmed with shells and pieces of bone, were looking for dry sticks or dry pieces of salmon to start their fires. Some were grinning and shaking their fists in the direction of the departing storm clouds, and others were hunting belongings from the debris strewn through the sand and setting up the windblown scaffolds that were used to dry the split salmon. The village was thirty or forty yards from the shoreline. The three dozen tepees were made without skins, but of large grass mats, woven together in blocks, then put together like a patchwork quilt. The lodges were rectangular, supported by poles on the inner side. The tops were also covered with mats, leaving a hole in the center to admit light and let the smoke pass out.
“I have never been so relieved in all my life,” said Captain Lewis. “I think we were all close to drowning in that storm.”
The men were running up and down the beach to warm up. They were a bedraggled, wet sight as they hugged each other, glad to be out of the canoes. Old Toby kiyi-ed with his son and vowed that he would never leave land again, and never go anywhere in a canoe again. The men stomped up and down until they were warm, then unloaded the gear and spread out the blankets. They were tired, and it seemed like the perfect campsite, right beside the confluence of the Snake and Clearwater, a pebbly beach protected from the wind by a stony bluff.
Sacajawea relaxed and noticed that she had been holding one arm behind her back across the legs of Pomp, who was asleep. The men hardly had time to lay out the baggage to dry and reclean and oil the guns before this village of Nez Percés were upon them again. A Nez Percé lifted each member of the expedition up and through the wet sand to the center of their village. There a fire was roaring and the familiar smell of roasting salmon was in the air, overpowering any other smell.
The chief talked to Captain Clark through Drouillard and Chief Twisted Hair. Clark suggested York bring up a box of trinkets for the chief and the important men of the tribe. York turned to leave and was bodily carried by two Nez Percés to the stores lined up on shore in front of the canoes. “Hey, men, I’se too tired to mess around,” complained York. “I’m too pooped to argue, but I’d rather walk on my own feet.” The men smiled and hitched York up for a better grip on his wide shoulders and legs.
Drouillard pushed his fatigue to one side and used his knowledge of Chinook jargon3 on these Nez Percés, with good results. He explained to the Nez Percés that the expedition would build their own camp rather than stay in the lodges as they suggested. In the morning when the expedition was rested, they would come to the village and powwow with the chief and his subchiefs. The chief was called Live Well. Drouillard could not interpret the meaning of the subchiefs’ names. “Too complicated,” he said, shrugging his shoulders.
Chief Live Well lifted his eyebrows, and his lean forefinger pointed toward the soggy gear on the beach. He took a flag handed him by Captain Clark and wrapped it around his shoulders. Clark gave him a small season medal and a string of red beads. The chief held out his hands for more. Captain Lewis shook his head, but Clark rummaged around and brought up a pewter mirror from the pack York had brought back.
Drouillard could hardly control his laughter as he interpreted Chief Live Well’s next words. “He believes that the storm brought us to their shore as a kind of unexpected gift. He thinks the river gave us to his village. That’s why they carry us all around. We belong to them, so they will take care of us.”
“We are something to be prized and treated with care,” agreed Captain Clark.
“But not carried around. Not worshiped like something rare and exalted,” added Captain Lewis.
“They want us to eat with them, and I think we’d better,” said Drouillard.
York groaned, “More parboiled fish. Wagh!” He kicked up two mats made of reeds, half-buried in the sand. A young, clean-looking squaw ran in and grabbed them up, running back to repair her lodge with them.
York watched her go, his nostrils wide to recover that fleeting fragrance of sage and wet rushes. “I’se like talking with her. Can’t you teach me this jargon? What kind of talk is it, anyway?”
Captain Clark made hand signs signifying that the expedition would be glad to have their evening meal with the villagers.
Drouillard turned to York. “I learned that talk years ago and was assured that all Northwest Indians understood it as easy as most understand the universal hand signs. That old codger who spent a winter teaching me was right as rain. You’ve noticed that a thirty-mile trip runs us through six or seven changes of natives, all Nez Percés according to Twisted Hair, but they have different ways of speaking, sort of like the British, the Northwesters, and you. I’ve been trying out this Chinook jargon on Twisted Hair and Tetoharsky, and I decided to try it tonight on these Nez Percés. They understand a lot, and I get about half what they say.”
The sun was below the horizon, and the river was now flat and calm. Sacajawea sat next to Charbonneau and nursed Pomp. She was so tired she could eat only a few mouthfuls of the boiled fish that was served on large platters of rushes. Charbonneau complained that the fish was gritty with sand. “I think my piece was dropped before it was put on the platter,” he said, pulling the bones out of his mouth and dropping them at his feet.
“I can’t eat another mouthful of fish,” Captain Lewis said. “Every village we pass has only this maggot-infested food. I can’t swallow another bite. I’ll go to our camp and relieve Goodrich on guard duty. Maybe he’ll enjoy some of this.”
“You don’t look well,” said Captain Clark.
“I’m not. My insides are on fire. I think I ate some salmon that was really rotten.”
“There’s some physic in the medical stores that might help.”
“I’m running every few minutes now. It’s mighty weakening. Humiliating, too, with those fellows carrying me every time I have to go. Can’t we stop this nonsense?”
“Let them carry you back to camp. I’ll have Drouillard trade for some dogs, and I’ll try convincing them we can walk, but if I’m not successful, watch for them carrying York and Drouillard back to camp to fix you a bite of stew.”
Two grinning Nez Percés carried Captain Lewis back to his camp. Lewis immediately rolled up in his damp blankets and tried to sleep. It seemed only seconds before Drouillard tapped his shoulder.
“We have some stew for you.”
“I feel terrible,” Lewis said. He sounded querulous to himself. “I think I’m hungry. Did you bring the stew with you?”
Drouillard handed him the tin cup, and he curled his lips on the smooth tin and sipped loudly, pressing to tilt it more, inhaling the vapor as he drank. When the cup was empty, he looked up questioningly.
“There’s more. And more meat.”
He drank a second cupful, then chewed the meat from small bones that Drouillard gave him one by one. When he lay back with his eyes closed, he felt much better.
“Thank you, Drouillard,” he murmured.
“York is cooking seven dogs in all. No one liked that gritty salmon, and everyone is tired and out of sorts. Captain Clark thought it would help the men sleep better this night. As far as I know, only the Shoshoni guides, Janey, and Clark himself have turned down the roast dog meat.”
Captain Lewis was surprised and opened his eyes. “So—those four would starve themselves amid plenty?”
“They’ll eat the camass root Janey dug a couple days ago and some kind of greens Old Toby found to counteract the gas those roots give a person. Old Toby would like to go out looking for a deer or elk in the morning. But I don’t want to stay long enough for hunting. I don’t like being carried around by these Nez Percés.”
Captain Lewis, even through his low-grade nausea, was laughing at the situation. “Everyone is a little snappish from being cramped together in the canoes today and from constantly eating and breathing salmon. But have you noticed Twisted Hair and Tetoharsky? They put fish away like they haven’t eaten in a week. That also turns my stomach.”
“Mine, too. I don’t think they take time to chew. And Captain Clark hasn’t talked himself into eating dog yet. You should have seen Charbonneau eat dog meat under the nose of Janey. You know how she hates him showing off. When he passed a tender morsel to Pomp, she eyed him fiercely and said, ‘You, you dog-eater!’ Then she pushed Pomp into York’s lap so the child would be out of Charbonneau’s reach.” Drouillard chuckled and went to his blankets.
The only light in camp was from the roasting fire. The whole expedition was worn out. They rolled up in their blankets with their feet toward the fire. There was no singing or dancing this night. Reuben Fields, known for his teasing, was lying next to Charbonneau. “You’re a regular dog-eater, ain’t you? I bet if I shook out your blankets I’d find a big piece of dried dog meat.”
“Oui, I do like it,” admitted Charbonneau, turning over, “but don’t talk so loud. There are them that don’t favor it.”
Fields looked sideways. “Like your little woman?” he whispered. “And Captain Clark?”
“Shut your damn mouth,” Charbonneau told him quietly. Charbonneau’s wide, thick-lipped mouth was tight at the corners. He spoke in a husky voice. “Don’t tease me about my likes and dislikes and the behavior of my femme. Tu comprends?” He reached a hand out and punched Fields in the belly.
Fields looked bewildered. “Sure, I’ll forget it. I was only teasing a bit for fun. What else is there to do for a laugh? Aw, come on, Frenchy, I didn’t mean nothing.”
“I got a different notion,” Charbonneau said.
“But why?” asked Fields, sitting up and beginning to chatter. “What have I done? I haven’t done anything. I was just funning, friendly-like. No offense.” Then he got hold of himself and said more slowly, “Aren’t you going to forget it?”
“Non, I don’t forget.”
“Not just some fun?” Fields asked foolishly. He put a hand behind himself for a brace and ran his tongue back and forth along his lips a couple of times, as if his throat and mouth were all dried out. He looked around, and it was not encouraging to him. There was a solid ring of faces, and they were not serious, but smiling, waiting expectantly for someone to punch someone else in the nose.
Fields said, “You don’t want a fight, now, do you?”
Nobody replied. Then Captain Clark came out of the tall grasses, being carried by two Nez Percés. “I understand what Lewis feels—this is so ridiculous,” he said, waving the two men off toward their own village. “I don’t like being lifted here and there and watched over as I take a leak. Whatever brought us to this village was a mistake.”
“No mistake,” whined Charbonneau. “This here man makes smart remarks to me. No man is going to call me yellow, if that’s what it means by calling me a dog-eater. And no man is going to imply that my femme and you are in cahoots.”
Captain Clark sighed, not knowing what the men were arguing about, but knowing that Reuben Fields was just a harmless tease. “Of course not,” he said smoothly. “You know we have a number of men here only too willing to eat dog instead of that gritty, greasy salmon—Captain Lewis for one. And as for Janey and me, we only agree that dog meat does not suit our taste. You know Fields—he teases constantly; it even becomes tiresome. So—no more fuss. Go to sleep. You’ll feel all right in the morning.”
Charbonneau pulled his dirty blue capote over himself. “Well, I am not one to make a mountain from a molehill, but I still say I don’t like to be made fun of.”
A few of the men looked hard at Charbonneau, but most pretended that they had not heard him and rolled over to sleep. Captain Clark said quietly, “Tomorrow after supper I’ll keep time by beating on a pot with a dog bone while you dance with York for some other group of natives down this river. They’ll think you’re a big man.”
Sacajawea could not sleep. She was curled up off to one side with Pomp, and she watched the bluff above the camp, but it was all blackness now. All the time Charbonneau was fussing with Fields she wondered how she could get to Captain Lewis without being noticed. Now she wrapped the blankets around Pomp and inched her way to Lewis, who was slumped against a low rock, snoring.
“I have to talk,” she said, pulling on his sleeve.
“It’s the middle of the night!” he said in surprise.
“I had to wake you. Something is going on with Old Toby and Cutworm. I thought you would like to know right away. You told me, ‘Anything you hear or see that affects the expedition.’”
“Janey, what’s going on?”
“This afternoon, when it was yet daylight, when we were at the village, they built a signal fire on the stony brow of the bluff.”
“Why the signal?” Lewis asked uneasily, wondering fleetingly if there were hostile bands watching. What would it be like to be struck with terror instead of delight over the fact that unknown human beings were moving about in this country? He put the thought away and waited for an answer, balancing on an elbow.
“Old Toby signals the tribe we left a day ago. He advises them that he is returning.”
This made Lewis sit up. “They are not staying with us to the Pacific Ocean?” He shifted irritably. “Why?”
“Mostly,” Sacajawea said, looking directly at Lewis, “because they see no reason for making the rest of the trip. They do not like river travel, or the food. They see you have no need for more interpreters, with Drouillard talking to the river people now and the two Nez Percé guides.”
“Oh, they’re just a little jealous. I think they’ll get over that. I have to be sympathetic,” said Lewis.
“But you do not agree?” Sacajawea asked quietly. “The Shoshonis never do anything that seems useless or without any pleasure attached to it.”
“Can’t you persuade them to stay? They have been of great service to us. I will repay them well.”
“I don’t think I can do anything, but I’ll try because you are a friend and I am on this journey with you.”
“Janey, this journey is precariously balanced between acute misery and bearable hardship. I should not ask you for help, but I am pleased that you feel you owe it to me. I am grateful for the information, and we’ll settle this in the morning.”
Sacajawea sat hunched over for a few moments thinking she ought to leave. Then she said, “When I think of the times to come, the frightening river travel, the constant stink of fish, and the freezing nights, I could go crazy. But I don’t think of just that, and the time goes smoothly enough. There is pleasure for me being here with you white men. One day follows the last without much trouble. I see land that Shoshonis have never seen and meet tribes not known to them. It is a satisfaction more than a pleasure. When I wander away and come back into camp, it is inviting, and I find companionship here, strange and indescribable, but satisfying—something I could never have dreamed when I was a child or when I was with the Mandans.”
Lewis propped himself on an elbow as Scannon came crawling toward him, fawning with ears laid back and mouth wrinkled over white fangs.
“Even this dog gives me pleasure.”
“Of course,” Lewis said. “He is a loyal friend to all of us.” Lewis lay back.
“It is time for sleeping,” said Sacajawea, and she crawled back to her blankets.
Lewis could not go back to sleep. This was rare for him because normally he could defer a pressing problem until the next day, knowing that a night’s sleep would help him solve it to the best of his ability the next morning.
But tonight there was the perplexing question of the two Shoshoni guides. How to repay these men?
He became introspective. Curious how they had come and helped the expedition through the pass, knowing how to fashion the snowshoes at the right time, to use the sheep’s wool and add fat to the diet, even how to cut and sew clothing. Then the two Nez Percés came as the Shoshonis were leaving. It was fate. Stranger still was the presence of Janey. He could not have imagined her while they made preparations and wintered at Wood River almost two years before. Life hides many things until the time is right, he thought.
Before Captain Lewis was awake to settle the situation next morning, Old Toby and Cutworm had had enough of useless canoe-riding. Without a word to anyone, they packed their few belongings and left on foot.
Sacajawea thought she had seen them for a brief instant at a distance, running up the river’s edge, shortly before the morning meal.
“They didn’t say a word of farewell,” said Captain Lewis.
“C’est extraordinaire,” Charbonneau said.
“Maybe it was the dogs I bought for breakfast,” suggested Drouillard. “They eyed them while I skinned them out and sputtered some Shoshoni vituperations before sunup.”
Twisted Hair made hand signs and with his jargon to Drouillard said he knew they had made up their minds to leave when they had seen the drifting sagebrush the day before. Then, after riding through the rain and rough water, flopping around like soggy brown bears, they knew the river spirits were angry. So—they weren’t going to leave land again, not even to fish from a canoe.
“They didn’t even wait for their pay,” said Captain Clark. Then he asked Twisted Hair if a Nez Percé could ride a fast horse out to bring them back so that they could receive their pay, at least. The chief nodded his head from side to side.
“No, no, if the white men gave the Shoshoni guides goods for payment, the Nez Percés would only rob them on their way home. If they think they need payment, they will take something from the cache you white men left by the five big pine stumps, or they might take a couple of your horses along with their mule back over the mountains with them.”
There was regret in everyone’s voice, and disappointment. Old Toby and Cutworm had been useful guides and good friends.
The expedition began packing their gear in order to leave before the village became wide-awake. But Goodrich, on guard, alerted the captains that there seemed to be a babel of voices coming toward camp. Clark looked up, and his first startled impression was that the whole tribe had moved into their camp, but when he counted there were only twenty-four. These men were dressed in skins and had decorations of shells tied in their hair and at their ankles and wrists. Each had a thin bone pierced through his nose. Chief Live Well made signs that they wanted the expedition to come to their camp for some kind of ceremony.
“Tell them we’ll come if they don’t carry us,” said Lewis, who was still feeling a bit weak.
Drouillard and Twisted Hair spoke with the men. Drouillard told Captain Clark they wanted everyone in the camp to go with them. Clark thought if they spent the morning keeping these Nez Percés happy, Lewis would be that much stronger when they were ready to go downriver in the canoes.
Sacajawea permitted herself to be shuffled along as the Nez Percé surrounded them and led them to the center of their village, where most of the villagers were already assembled and dressed in good skins, with their faces decorated with white, blue, and greenish paints.
As the pipe was being passed around, she tried to assimilate the feeling of sadness she experienced with the absence of Old Toby. It had been a kind of link with her relatives; now it was broken. She felt as though her heart lay on the ground.
Captain Clark gave the chief a handkerchief and a small hatchet. The four drummers sat at the four compass points and beat a one-two tattoo. A Medicine Man dressed in goat skins stepped into the circle and placed a tray made of woven grasses on the ground by the small fire. Beyond the ceremonial circle was a corner where many women were cooking over several larger fires. They were roasting meat over a scaffolding.
Suddenly Drouillard turned to the captains, his face white.
“I can’t believe this!” he cried. “They can’t be serious!”
“Tell us,” urged Captain Clark, quickly indicating that Twisted Hair and Tetoharsky could help Drouillard in the translations.
“They want us to become members of their village.”
“No problem with that,” said Clark. “If that makes them happy, let’s get on with it.”
“Look at the pile of pointy bones on the grass mat. They will put every last one of them through our noses so we will be true Pierced Noses.”
“Not through my baby’s nose,” said Sacajawea, pulling out of her sadness right away and tugging on Charbonneau’s sleeve. “And not through mine. I want to breathe.”
“They have counted us and have the exact number—one for each,” said Drouillard.
“Pierce our noses!” exclaimed Shannon. “No, by God, not mine!”
“I’ll not stand still for that treatment!” shouted Gass.
Charbonneau shook his head as if he had just tumbled to the situation. “And not me—allons!”
“Wait!” shouted Captain Clark. “There must be a way out of this. Think, all of you. I’ll talk with the chief as long as I dare.”
Captain Lewis scratched his head and wondered if more trade beads would satisfy them. He had Drouillard ask. The chief’s face lit up; he would take the beads, then go on with the ceremony. The drummers beat faster.
“Fire the shooting-stick in the air,” suggested Sacajawea.
“Start a fire with the phosphorus matches,” suggested Cruzatte.
“I don’t want to start a war,” said Clark between his teeth.
Chief Live Well began lining up the people of the expedition. First York, because he was the only black white man with the group. Then Sacajawea, because she was the only squaw, and then her child. The chiefs of the group next, Lewis and Clark, and then the rest of the men. This was to be a big celebration. It would take a long time to pierce so many noses. But when such a fine adornment was to be added to the gift the wind had brought them, time was nothing. ”Huru!” Chief Live Well shouted, bending over the thirty-two bone pieces, honed needle-thin on either end.
York was lifted by two men with large bones in their noses and greenish stripes along their arms. The Medicine Man was carefully selecting the correct bone. Suddenly York jumped about in a jog. This delighted the villagers, and they rocked back and forth in a shuffle, grinning.
York was talking to Drouillard in a singsong voice. “I have an idea, and it might save us from this nose-piercing. I might have done it anyway, so it’s nothing to be excited about. Remember that pretty Nez Percé gal we saw yesterday who took the mats for her lodge? You tell that chief to get me something like that and I’ll give these people something they can keep to remember us by. By and by that gal will have a little baby.” He kept on dancing, moving his hips in front of the women and rolling his eyes at the men.
Drouillard’s mouth dropped. Captain Clark took over as he read Twisted Hair’s hand signs. “Sounds daft. But we don’t have many other ideas.”
Chief Twisted Hair and Tetoharsky laughed, making suggestive finger signs and urging the chief to accept York’s proposal. Soon all the villagers understood what York had suggested. It appealed to them. This was much better than giving the white men something—they would have something to keep and show off. They knew the principles of eugenics; they practiced it with fine horse breeding. York was tall, broad shouldered, thick chested, and his arm and leg muscles were hard as cedar wood. His offspring, either male or female, would improve the tribe. Any eligible woman would be honored and proud to have a child by this magnificent, healthy specimen.
The chief finally leaped beside the dancing York. He shouted a kind of rhythmic chant and moved with wild gyrations, and slapped his thighs and rubbed York’s arms to show his tribesmen that the black did not come off.
The women formed a circle behind the men and danced heel, toe, heel, toe. A few threw their heads back and moaned, low and guttural.
York continued his dance, moving his hips in a manner Lewis thought risqué. He smiled and showed his even, white teeth. He flashed his eyes daringly. He looked at the undulating circle of women and wondered which ones belonged to the chief. A couple of men sat in the sand close to Sacajawea and other members of the expedition and pounded on skin drums held between their legs. Their moving hands and fingers were a blur to York, who was now fearful he would choose a woman not belonging to the head chief, and that this whole scheme would blow up into a fighting riot. York’s mouth felt dry. He glanced at the chief who grinned and bounced his hands off his thighs. York shrugged his shoulders and pointed to the women’s circle, meaning, “Which woman would you have me take?”
The chief was not stupid. He pointed to his middle woman, who up until now had given him no children. All the women were pleased and there could be no jealousy or bickering over the chiefs choice. York jogged toward the woman, put his big hands on her bared shoulders, and led her to the center of the circle. He pulled her close to him and the Nez Percé moaned in unison. He pushed her away at arm’s length and did a little jig. The Nez Percé groaned together again. After a short time the drums increased the tempo. York felt the perspiration run in streams down his back; his breath came in short gasps. Suddenly he picked up the woman and cradled her in his arms like a small child. He walked around the inside of the ring of brown, laughing faces, then he broke through and walked around the outside of the ring. All the time he grinned. The woman’s arm was tight around his neck and he felt her fingers in his hair. She gave a sharp tug to the right. Baby, he thought, now that I’m worked up for it, you’ve just shown me the way to your lodge.
The circle of women broke with squeals of delight as York carried the woman through the skin covering of the reed and brush shelter. Captain Clark sighed with relief, glad to have his nose left unpierced. Drouillard, his hands sweaty, said he was grateful to York for volunteering for this act of bravery. Gibson gave out a low, wolfs call. The other men began to relax and rub their unmarked noses in thankful relief. Several older women stood in front of the lodge where York and the woman had disappeared, shouting words of encouragement and making jokes of the coarsest kind: “Is the penis black?” “Is it too large for the hole?” “Move slowly!” The villagers roared with laughter.
Drouillard tried to translate, but his neck turned crimson and he tended to stutter. The more clinical the advice and joking became, the more hilarious it seemed to the Nez Percé. They rolled in the sand with gales of laughter. Embarrassed, Drouillard gave up, saying, “You know, the drift is all sex.”
The Medicine Man in goat skins made hand signs to tell the two captains he wanted them to eat with him. Lewis had noticed some women bring bark platters of food and reed mats from the lodges, placing them in the center of the dance area. They were standing back, waiting for the men to eat first. When the men sat in the sand beside the mats, more platters of freshly roasted salmon and boiled dog meat garnished with wild onion were brought out.
The men began to transfer their animal excitement to the eating of meat. Only Charbonneau mumbled that he wished he were in York’s shoes.
“Why?” asked Pat Gass. “His shoes are there in the sand. I bet they’re too big.”
Charbonneau pushed his bottom lip out. “I mean …”
“Sure, we know what you meant,” said Gass, laughing. “But, man, you got yourself a woman. That’s more than York or any of us on this here trip.”
Charbonneau picked a string of meat from between two molars and leaned over to say confidentially, “Might as well have no femme. Shoshoni squaws stay away from connection until the papoose he is one year or stops nursing. Which comes first?” He paused and noticed that not only Gass was listening, but also Gibson and Drouillard, so he continued, “Holy Mother, Nez Percé femme are appetizing when one has big hunger.” He licked the grease on his mouth.
“Hey, control yourself,” said Gass, slapping Charbonneau on the back. “Do you want little Canucks scattered all along these river villages? What would your woman think? You got Pomp, and he’s the handsomest papoose I ever saw.”
“Zut!” answered Charbonneau, reaching for a leftover piece of salmon and stuffing it in his mouth, then wiping his hands in his hair, Indian-fashion. “Look at me! I am a man. J’ai besoin de plaisir.”
By the next morning, Captain Lewis was feeling nearly back to normal, and the expedition left the river village early in their five canoes. The morning was still dark, and the stars were bright. The village came to say their farewells. Some of the villagers held torches made of dried salmon. This made the shadows monstrous. Dogs whimpered and yelped occasionally, and Scannon growled. The men with the torches looked for York, then bent to look at his reflection in the inky mirror of water, their bodies luminous with fish oil. They murmured their approval when they saw his reflection as clearly as their own. He was surely one of them. They patted and rubbed his arms and back. He was something great.
Other men dashed into the water and lifted the loaded canoes, heading them downriver with a mighty push. The people on the bank shouted as the canoes shot past the village. To Sacajawea the dugout again leaped ahead with some mysterious life just as she was adjusting her sitting position with Pomp on her back. She was flung backward into Charbonneau’s lap. Charbonneau’s short arms, like the whipping branches of a tree, pushed her forward into York’s back, who turned around and gave a triumphant, challenging laugh. Sacajawea caught the gunwales as, once again, the canoe seemed to tear itself from the water with the force of the paddles.
Another cry from the men in the canoes behind, and York turned and shouted back. York’s neck swelled, and the veins stood out in his temple as he opened his mouth and roared excitedly.
On the beach the crowd waved, and up on the bluff four torches smoked in silent circles. The sky was brightening. The Snake River, a sheet of silver behind, swept at right angles, curved, and was lost to view in the gloom. Then they entered a series of canyons and gorges. The towering mountains closed in, and at their stony feet the water was black. The water had seemed calm in the little bay. As they went downriver, the waves became heavy under a wind that was blowing along with them.4
Charbonneau could not wait to talk to York. “How was she?” he asked. “Was she good? Did she bounce up and down or did she just lie there?”
“She was good,” York replied. “Her man was at the foot of the robe with us, and her mother and sister were in the lodge. They all laid down and pretended to be asleep, but all ears were wide open. I’se can’t say it really helped my performance. On the other hand, it didn’t stop me.”
“Oooh,” Charbonneau said, rolling his eyes, “plaisant.”