Sacajawea (65 page)

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-e
d 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 jargon
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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.