Sacajawea (78 page)

Clark’s Journal:

Wednesday 8th January 1806

we arrived on a butifull Sand Shore, found only the Skelleton of this Monster on the Sand; the Whale was already pillaged of very Valuable part by the Kilamox Inds. in the Vecinity of whose village’s it lay on the Strand where the waves and tide had driven up and left it. the Skeleton measured one hundred and five fee…. The Kilamox although they possessed large quantities of this blubber and oil were so prenurious that they disposed of it with great reluctiance and in small quantities only; insomuch that my utmost exertion aided by the party with the Small Stock of merchindize I had taken with me were not able to precure more blubber than about three hundred lb, and a fiew gallons of oil; Small as this stock is I prize it highly; and thank providence for directing the whale to us; and think him much more kind to us than he was to jonah, having Sent this Monster to be
Swallowed by us
in Sted of
Swallowing of us
as jonah’s did.

BERNARD DEVOTO
, ed.,
The Journals of Lewis and Clark.
New York: Houghton Mifflin Co., 1953, p. 306.

M
ost of that winter the firm stump in the center of the captains’ cabin was spread with maps and papers. Books were written and records were made of plants and trees, birds, fishes, and animals. The men named rivers and measured mountains. They prepared a geography of this new land to carry back to the States. Lewis was busy with Indian vocabularies, learning the Chinook jargon and setting it all down carefully in a journal. Clark busied himself with maps and the drawing of plants, animals, and the natives.
¹

The saltmakers’ product was not so coarse as the rock salt the expedition had obtained in Saint Louis, or that which they had made in Kentucky. Soon all of the fresh game was salted and mealtime became more interesting. Charbonneau was back making
boudins,
his sausage, in which the large intestine of an animal was stuffed with heart, liver, lungs, kidneys, and fillet steak, minced with suet, onions, sage, and then boiled.

York was not ill for long and teased Sacajawea most every chance he had all winter long. “I’ll have sweet potatoes for supper today,” he’d say, holding up a fistful of rush roots.

This was the happiest winter Sacajawea had ever known, with her baby toddling around her, pulling her robe around his chubby face, or tumbling over his pine cradle. She could not really understand how the presence of her child and herself gave a touch of domesticity to that Oregon winter. Once in a while the Clatsop women, dressed in woven cedar skirts, came to see her. They sat with their backs against the wall without saying a word, watching her every motion. They always left colored shells and shiny seeds so that she could use them on moccasins and shirts. Sometimes she helped Charbonneau with his spits turning slowly over the cooking fire outside, or with the roasting of elk tongues, or his boiled sausage. She became good at making trapper’s butter, boiling up the marrow of a shank bone with a pinch of salt. She learned to make candles from elk tallow, which were used in the short days of winter.when darkness came on in midafternoon. No one suggested they try the black, dried candle-smelt.

Early in January the Clatsops gave the saltmakers some blubber from a whale stranded on the sandy shore. It was palatable and tender, tasting much like the fat from beaver or pork. Bill Bratton left the salt camp, taking some of the blubber to the men at the main camp. Clark was so enthusiastic about it that he planned to go back the next day with Bratton, two canoes, and ten of the men to look for the whale.

When Sacajawea heard about the enormous fish, her eyes burned to see it. She spoke first to Charbonneau about it. “I can go. York will watch Pomp for me.”

He told her definitely,
“Non!
You can’t go off leaving your papoose like that. Besides, I am going and you will have to watch the roasting meats.” That evening he spoke to Captain Clark about his
femme.
“That ornery
femme
wants to see the whale, but I told her she couldn’t take
I’enfant,
so she must stay in camp with him.”

Clark was busy with his preparations and only half listened to Charbonneau, finally agreeing with him just to get him out of the way. “She can look after the cooking pots here. That is woman’s work, anyway.”

Charbonneau grunted his satisfaction and hurried back to Sacajawea.
“Les capitaines
say you cannot go. You have to stay with the cooking.”

Sacajawea struck her hands together. “You’ll have sand in your meat!”

Charbonneau just smiled smugly. “I am sleepy,” he said, going to his quarters to lie down.

Sacajawea sat down, disappointed, hugging her knees and bending her head back, watching the gray clouds as they swirled in and out of view and wondering how she could see that huge fish. She had learned to figure logically that one or two favors can bring a corresponding favor. And so, with a plan in mind, she left a handful of seashells and colored stones for Pomp to amuse himself with and went to see Chief Red Hair. She knocked on the half-opened door.

“Yes, what is it, Janey?” said Clark, pushing the door open wider so he could see her.

“Remember when we came to the river that broke into two arms and you did not know which one to follow?

I showed you the one. I helped you say words to the Shoshonis. I made a good bargain and found chief’s weasel tails for your Christmas.”

Clark nodded, but his eyebrows pushed together in a frown. He sensed she was trying to tell him something else.

“I traveled a long way to see the Stinking Waters. I climbed mountains and kept my papoose out of the way of the working men. I did not let him cry at night, even when he was hungry. Now—I want to go to see this unbelievable fish.”

Clark watched her face with the large, pleading black eyes and knew she was going to see that whale. She had not come this distance to be stopped by a little cold wind and someone suggesting she stay behind and cook, when something so fascinating lay so near. He was not surprised at her determination to see beyond the next hilltop, and the next. This was the very thing he longed to nourish in that quick mind of hers. Her logic amused him.

“But now I have to go back on my word with Charbonneau. I told him you would look after the cooking pots.”

“No, not back on your word—I will look after the cooking pots, on the trail to and from the giant fish.”

“And if Charbonneau wants to come along, he will have to carry that little dancing boy, Pomp.”

Lewis came in just as Sacajawea impulsively ran over and pumped Clark’s hand up and down in gratitude. Together they watched her run to her quarters, and both hoped that Charbonneau would take the news like a gentleman.

“I think you let that squaw wrap you around her little finger,” said Lewis. “I’m inclined to agree with old Charbonneau. Staying in camp, tending the cooking is woman’s work. What good will it do her to see a stranded whale? Lord and glory”—he cleared his throat several times—“you’re a little soft in the head when that squaw is around.”

The next morning, twelve men, Sacajawea, and Pomp breakfasted by candlelight. “Best eat a bite and get moving,” York whispered to Sacajawea. It was gray dawn and cool with the night’s frost on the grasses when

Sacajawea stepped out ahead of all the men, following the trail Clark and the saltworkers had blazed weeks ago. Charbonneau looked at her back, shifted the baby from one arm to the other, but said nothing; he only breathed loudly through his open mouth. Clark found two of their canoes where he’d put them, safely hidden in the brush near the Netual River. As they climbed into the canoes, Sacajawea took Pomp from the relieved Charbonneau.

“It is better I put him in a blanket on my back. I am used to him there, and to me he is no trouble,” she said.

“This boy no trouble?” muttered Charbonneau. “He moves all the time. My arms are black and blue from the pounding of his legs. He is like a fish—I almost lost him because he wiggled so much. Whew! I’m glad your back is strong.” Charbonneau lay back against the side of the canoe with his head propped on his arms. Someone handed him a canoe paddle. He shook his head and put his hand on his stomach gravely. “I am hungry.”

“Everyone pushes a paddle,” said Clark, “and eats later.”

Charbonneau groaned. “Christ’s blood, my hands will be one big blister. I was meant for better things.”

“We all have to paddle. Even Janey will have her turn,” said Clark quietly. He wanted to shout, How dare you be so lazy and act so moronic? You’ve been a free trapper and worked twice as hard as this on your own many times. Why do you act this way in front of people? You make a fuss over all the small things. You upset me and upset Janey. I want to tell you that I despise you.

Charbonneau began to sing in his French-Canadian patois, keeping time with the men’s paddles. Some of the men hummed along.

At once Clark’s anger began to fade. How can any man be angry for long with a fellow who is so changeable in his moods? “We’ll eat when we leave the canoes and begin hiking.”

The sun rose clear, burning through the morning haze that hung over the two canoes as they floated smoothly over the Netual into Meriwether Bay, heading southward along various creeks and streams until they had to abandon the canoes, eat, and move overland. They stopped once near a herd of fat elk in the midst of a violent thunderstorm; barely a drop of rain fell, and soon the sun was shining through the clouds again. Bratton shot one of the elk, and they all helped cut the carcass and pack the fresh meat in the hide so it could be easily swung between four men. They made night camp underneath enormous cedars and looked across the water to see the tall, clean-trunked white pines, each as round and straight as a cannon, and each with a little tuft of foliage at the very tiptop. They were surrounded by tall, coneless Sitka spruce, mountain hemlock, honeysuckle, and low-bush huckleberry. The party moved on across the small inlet, fording the warm shallow water.

By noon of the second day, they had reached the salt camp. They examined the kettles of Jo Fields, George Gibson, Bill Bratton, and a couple of others that were under a rock arch. Pat Gass and Bill Werner had their brass kettles on two huge stones with a hot fire between, boiling seawater into a gallon of salt per day. This salt camp was close to four cedar houses belonging to some Clatsop families. These people fed the visitors dried fish and thick thistle root dipped in whale oil. While the men were still eating, Clark went to one of the houses and talked with a squat young man who was wearing a rolled Navy neckerchief as a belt for his breechclout. Clark hired the young man, called Twiltch, for the price of a steel file, to guide the party to the whale. Sacajawea talked in hand signs with some of the women, who were curious and had formed a ring around her. They asked why she and her child traveled with many men. Sacajawea explained that she was the woman of the party. The Clatsop women put their hands to their mouths and cackled loudly.

“Imagine,” said one round-faced squaw, “having so many men. Hee-hee-hee! There must be no time for sleep at night. Hee-hee-hee!” Sacajawea turned red beneath her brown skin, but she did not attempt to explain that she was the actual woman of only one of the men. These women enjoyed this joke so much that they could not help but carry on with it.

“Twiltch will lead you to the great fish, but do not make soft eyes with him. He has two women who donot wish to have him shared by another—especially one with so many men to entertain.” They fell into a fit of laughing again.

Finally, recovering herself, an ugly squaw with ears pierced so that links of rusty chain hung from them asked, “You have some big medicine you use on men? I would buy some of it for this.” She held out a beaver hat and a flag of China. “If I had the big medicine, I could get a man. Couldn’t you share a small part with me?”

Sacajawea smiled and held out her hands to show she had no big medicine. The women grabbed at her hands and tunic.

“Come on, we’re busting away!” shouted Pryor as the men began to follow Twiltch.

Thinking fast, Sacajawea bent close to the homely woman, held her breath, and pressed her lips against the cheek of the astounded Clatsop squaw, who immediately let her go. The other squaws let go, and Sacajawea hurried to catch up with the men headed south, forgetting to collect her payment of hat and flag.

“Oooo, big medicine!” murmured the squaws, all smacking their lips.

Twiltch led the party to Tillamook Head, about thirty miles south of Cape Disappointment. Bill Bratton had been given permission to leave his saltmaking awhile longer and travel with them to see the whale. They paused on a hillside, named it Clark’s Point of View, and looked out over the boisterous Pacific.

This was the first warm day of that year. A warm Chinook wind eased in from the direction of China, and the high tide built glossy ridges of green water into draft-horse waves that smoked spray into the sun and collapsed booming among the dozing sea gulls on the hard sand. The beach at high tide was not a good place to walk because every inch of sand above the high-water mark was piled with mountains of driftwood—stumps as big as tepees, dead trees, sprawling roots and branches overhead and underfoot, beams and old timbers, broken lumber from wrecked ships, even trimmed logs from Tillamook tribes’ dugouts that had gone loose from their towlines.

Sacajawea smelled the sea, the wet kelp, and the saltair, and looked a long way out over the water. She saw, riding big combers behind the surge, a great flight of white gulls diving for fish. The comber broke and the birds flew back with it, then drew back into the surf and came in again, looking for more fish. She could see one side of the Columbia where it widened into bays that were dotted on the shore with the lodges of various Chinook tribes—Clatsop, Tillamook, Cathlamet, and Cayuse. On the other side of the river were white-barked quaking aspen, bracken fern, and young Douglas firs.