“Oui, I call him Jean Baptiste,” said Charbonneau, looking up and grinning so that his yellow teeth caught the firelight. “That is a good French name. My brother and LePage, they have this name. My squaw will like him. She will like the name I give papoose. Mon dieu!” He slapped his knee, and the tiredness seemed to drain away. “Jean Baptiste Charbonneau! Yiii! I can see this enfant refused his milk before his eyes were open, and called out for the bottle of red-eye! That’s my papoose! Talk about grinning the bark off a tree—that ain’t nothing! One squint of mine at a buffalo bull’s heel right now would blister it!”
CHAPTER
13
Farewell
Clark’s Journal:
March 12th 1805
Our Interpeter Shabonah, deturmins on not proceeding with us as an interpeter under the terms mentioned yesterday, he will not agree to work let our Situation be what it may nor Stand a guard, and if miffed with any man he wishes to return when he pleases, also have the disposal of as much provisions as he Chuses to Carry in admissable and we Suffer him to be off the engagement which was only virbal
1805, 17th of March Sunday—
Mr. Charbonah Sent a frenchman of our party [to say] that he was Sorry for the foolish part he had acted and if we pleased he would accompany us agreeabley to the terms we had perposed and doe every thing we wished him to doe etc. etc. he had requested me Some thro our French inturpeter two days ago to excuse his Simplicity and take him into the cirvice, after he had taken his things across the River we called him in and Spoke to him on the Subject, he agreed to our tirms and we agreed that he might go on with us etc. etc.
BERNARD DEVOTO, ed., The Journals of Lewis and Clark. New York: Houghton Mifflin Co., 1953, p. 85.
Capitaine,” said Charbonneau. “You are a man in authority, and there can be no scalping between us. So tell me, will that man-child I begot turn into a log-leg or leather-breeches like me? Will he be a green-shirt or blanket-coat, land-trotter or river-roller, or a man for a massacre?” Then, giving himself a twirl on his foot, he proceeded to other antic demonstrations of joy. “Ain’t he a ring-tailed squealer?”
Clark had come with Charbonneau to have a look at Sacajawea‘s papoose. “I’ll just have to see for myself,” he said.
The door to the cabin had been left ajar. Probably York had forgotten to pull it tight. It was still not light, but the sky was graying near the horizon. Scannon plodded up and, ignoring the two men, sniffed at the door. Just inside the threshold he halted. Up went his splendid head.
“Shhhh,” said Clark. “That old dog wants to have a look at your papoose. See there, how he goes gently?”
“Oui—that femme, she like dogs to keep her feet warm when the nights get cold, but I don’t like dogs—small dogs or large dogs.” Charbonneau stopped at the door and watched with Captain Clark to see what the big Newfoundland would do.
Scannon’s eyes sought out the sleeping figures before the dim fireplace. For a second or more, Scannon stood. Then he began to creep toward Sacajawea—hesitantly, one slow step at a time. The cold air blew from the opened door, and Sacajawea was roused from her sleep enough to pull the robes more tightly about herself and her papoose.
Clark stepped quietly inside. Charbonneau motioned frantically at the huge dog. He did not want the dog sniffing at his newborn child. “Shhh!” said Clark. “He will not harm either mother or child—watch.”
The dog was large inside the small room, with his black coat shining in the firelight. His deep-set dark eyes seemed to have a soul behind them. The tip of his tail twitched uncontrollably. Then all at once he began to lick the outstretched hand of Sacajawea. He lay down beside her pallet and put his huge head beside her hand. Half-asleep, she stroked his head and called him Dog in the Hidatsa tongue.
Charbonneau moved, but Clark pushed him back against the wall. Sacajawea rose up on her elbow, but she saw only the dog. Her eyes took in the whole color and shape and hide of the dog; she studied his massive shoulders and powerful legs, his drooping ears and intense eyes. The dog sneezed. She looked at him with curiosity and slowly crawled from the robes to close the door, stepping across Scannon’s legs and waving tail. Her hair was neatly plaited, and her tight braids hung over her shoulders. The linsey nightgown she was bundled in would have held two of her. It was the one nightshirt Lewis had brought. He had insisted she wear it. She was lost in the fullness of the floor-length garment. It fit her like a circus tent; she could hardly walk without stepping on the hem. A second step checked her so quickly that she fell head first on the hard dirt floor.
“That femme don’t much like a night-dress on,” Charbonneau told Clark.
He did not have to point that out, because Sacajawea had slipped her arms out of the wide flapping sleeves and pulled the fluttering material up over her head. Her head was out of sight. The more she pushed and pulled upward, the faster she kicked her slim, brown legs. She twisted from side to side in the manner of a squiggling, hatching butterfly shedding its soft, fibrous case. Getting on hands and knees, she wiggled away from the yards of flannel, at the same time muttering some incomprehensible Minnetaree gutturals.
Charbonneau said, “If that ain’t a tent-moth hatching out a cocoon, I ain’t a proud papa.” Charbonneau began to titter. Clark chuckled. Then the two men broke out in loud guffaws, clutched each other, and laughed until their sides ached. Charbonneau pulled away and put his hands on his belly as if to save the lacing on his shirt. He moaned and tears ran down his cheeks. Clark wiped his eyes.
The young mother sat on the voluminous nightshirt contentiously, as if to prevent it from engulfing her or smothering her in its wide folds. She clamped her lips together, sat up straight, and shook both her fists at the laughing men.
The door banged open, and Ben York peered into the dim room. “Hey, Master Clark, you got here before you have breakfas’!” Then he looked at Sacajawea, and his eyes moved from the heap of linsey to the two men. They shook. Their laughter would not stop. Charbonneau’s hands slipped helplessly to his thighs and beat upon them.
The young mother turned to the new voice. With a small, scurrying rush, she flung herself upon York’s leg and clung to it. With a wide sweep he scooped up the nightgown and dropped it over her head.
York scowled at the two men. “She’s not used to wearing clothes in bed.”
The men sobered and nodded.
“Lend me your whittle, Charb,” York said.
Charbonneau’s forehead puckered as he drew his knife.
“You can trust me,” said York. He thrust the blade into the twisted thong that held up his trousers. “Got more here than I needs,” he said as he hacked off a strip of the leather and held it up. “We’ll make a sash of this.” He pulled it around Sacajawea’s waist and tied it in back as he turned her around. “There, it’ll be comfortable and warm and let you walk. Go on back to bed.”
Her black eyes glittered. She tucked herself among the robes, letting Scannon smell at her and nose gently at her papoose. She was upset by the laughter.
“That papoose, he has hands and feet in the right place. ‘Magine me playing nursemaid to an Injun and her papoose,” laughed York, shooing the two men off toward the door. ‘Too many in here. Let the little mother rest.”
“You’re enjoying your nursemaid role,” Clark joked as Lewis unexpectedly pushed open the door, letting in another draft of cold air. The morning sky was now light gray.
“Oh, Lord, that damn dog is here!” whispered Lewis rather loudly. “Scannon, you have no good business here. Lord, who let him in?” The other three men stared blankly at one another as Lewis sent the dog bounding out the cabin door. “Now there is more room to admire that papoose,” he said, kneeling beside the pallet of furs and hides. “So now, little mother, may we see your fine son?” His hands moved as he explained to her that he wanted to admire her child.
Soon Clark was bent on the other side of the pallet, his big, rawboned hand feeling the smooth skin on the face of the papoose
.
Sacajawea tried to scowl fiercely; she did not like to be laughed at. But she knew she had been a funny sight squirming out of a tunic as large as a tepee. She continued to frown as she gathered the wide open neck of the nightshirt close around her neck. She was cold. She looked from Charbonneau to Clark. Calmer now, she realized they were not ridiculing her, but were interested in her welfare and the newborn child. She smiled and handed the tiny papoose to Clark for inspection. The papoose was swaddled in a soft white doeskin with much absorbent cattail fluff stuffed in the bottom half of the wrapping cover.
“Pompy,” she said.
“What? Is that his name?” asked Clark, taking the swaddled baby like a rare porcelain doll and holding him to the firelight. Clark sat on his haunches and looked at the tiny brown hands and long, silky black hair. “Perfect,” he said, then asked again, “What name did you give him?”
Charbonneau answered eagerly, “He is called Jean Baptiste.”
“No, I mean what the little mother calls him. Maybe some nickname.”
Charbonneau spoke a few phrases in Hidatsa.
Reluctantly, Sacajawea took her eyes from the child. “Pompy,” she said with a hint of pride. She lay back to rest a moment.
“That Pompy is firstborn in the tongue of her people, I think,” explained Charbonneau. “He’s known by me as Jean Baptiste. A good French name.” He crossed himself and spit into the fire, making it hiss. “That’s same name as LePage. And it is my brother’s name, and my papa’s name, also.”
“LePage will be pleased to have a namesake,” said Clark, his hands under the baby’s head and back as he pushed him under the robes toward his mother. Sacajawea pulled down the top of the nightgown and put the baby to her breast before he began to whimper.
“I like that Pomp name best.” York grinned.
“Looks like the papa, eh?” asked Charbonneau, coming over to the pallet.
“I had thought he looked like his mother, sweet and innocent,” said Clark, laughing.
Sacajawea began to crawl out of the robes, her feeling of being laughed at making her uncomfortable.
“I’m not making fun of you,” said Clark anxiously. “I’m not laughing at you. Please.” His blue eyes pleaded with her to understand that he had not meant to torment her. He could never hurt any living thing.
It was curious how his look affected her. She gazed into his eyes and saw at the same time the yellow glints of firelight dancing off his shock of red hair. Her mind began to rest easy, and she knew she could trust him. She had learned politeness from Grasshopper, and it tied her tongue. She could not hurt Chief Red Hair’s feelings.
“You, mama, stay put. I’se going to make hot tea for you. And you men want some?” York asked as he watched Sacajawea crawl back into the fur robes.
The men nodded.
“With sugar,” added Charbonneau, tugging at his capote.
It was comforting to lie there with the soft robes around and the fire warming her side. It reminded Sacajawea of nights when she’d slept on a pile of robes with Grasshopper crooning nearby. She thought how comforting Grasshopper had been. That had been the best time she could remember in her whole life. York had the same comforting qualities. He had the same wise mixing of authority and tenderness so that she had not been frightened to have her papoose among the paleface men. She was relaxed with York around. She did not understand how he managed to give her peace of mind, but she trusted him completely. Now she sat up and drank the hot, sweet tea, enjoying the hushed tones of the men as they talked of the day’s work ahead of them. She had a drowsy sense that the whole world was filled with blue sky and sunshine, and York merged with the big black Newfoundland dog, Scannon, who had sneaked back inside the cabin to sleep at her side.
When she woke up, she was cold. The men had gone, and the fire was low. It was daylight, and the camp was in a hubbub, like a village on trading fair day, with moccasined feet pounding on the hard-packed dirt and people calling out names and men bawling back at them.
Then she noticed that the room had been put in order, and a handsome carved and woven cradleboard stood at one side of the fireplace so that she could easily see it. The weaving was familiar to her, and she knew at once that her adopted Metaharta mother, Grasshopper, had done the work.
The Minnetaree grapevine had worked quickly to bring news of Sacajawea’s firstborn to Grasshopper. She wondered if Charbonneau had spread the news or if Otter Woman had gone to visit Grasshopper.
She lay on her back and looked at the split cotton-wood log ceiling. She felt good. She stretched herself lazily, her arms flat against the hides and all her fingers spraddled. She curled one arm around the sleeping baby, scratching her belly with the other and, at the same time, pulling up the linsey nightgown that was itself scratchy. It was then she noticed that she wore a woman’s belt packed thickly with cattail down. She remembered a pile of it heaped in one corner of the cabin. Not since being with Grasshopper had she been treated with such consideration. York came in with more sweetened tea. “You better get between them covers. Gather your strength afore you gad about, little mama,” he scolded gently. Noticing her wistful expression, he whistled softly. Scannon padded in, right to the edge of her pallet, sniffing, then curling himself as small as possible between her and the fire. York nodded in approval, knowing he was taken by this guileless little squaw.
“Dog,” she said in English, surprising York. “Nice dog, nice York.”
York’s smile spread across his face. “Thank you, little mama.” York stepped forward. “Captain Clark, he told me to tell you about this here Injun squaw that came early this afternoon. She was decked out in some fine garb—yes, ma’am! Her hair was daubed with mud and wound around her head like a crown, and her ears was red painted inside. She made Captain Clark promise you got the papoose board. She was all for coming in to see you, but the captain, he made her understand you need rest. That there lady waddled off singing to herself. She was that happy you had a buck papoose. You know anybody like that?” His hands worked as he talked so that Sacajawea could read his hand signs.
“Ai, Grasshopper!” she cried, sitting among the robes. “She did come!”
That afternoon, Charbonneau brought in the large hind quarter of an antelope and some of its entrails. He lounged around, smoking and talking and broiling the meat. He said that Otter Woman and Corn Woman had the rest of the animal. He wrapped a long piece of the small gut, which contained the marrow, around a stick and tied it. Then he held it to the fire until it sputtered and browned and the juice dripped. He ate it as he talked with Sacajawea and York about hunting with the Americans.
The weather became warm in the middle of the month, but by the end of February the men were again wearing their fur robes and Mackinaw coats. Sacajawea had moved back to the skin tent with Charbonneau. She sliced the meat he brought in and spread it out on drying racks in the sun—it froze before the moisture evaporated. But the meat dried because the water seemed to sublime rather than evaporate out in the subzero weather. She scraped the hides inside the tent where the center fire was warm.
One morning Charbonneau was called inside the fort because the Mandan subchiefs, Sheheke, the Coyote, and Kagohami, Little Raven, had come to see Captain Clark. Charbonneau took his older son, Little Tess, with him. The two chiefs shuffled their moccasins in a dance when they saw the three-year-old son of Charbonneau. Little Tess walked behind them, imitating their dancing. This made Sheheke laugh, and he pulled the child up on his shoulders while he danced. After their frolicking they motioned for Charbonneau to come sit with them on the floor of the officers’ cabin. Sheheke produced a pipe, and they smoked. Clark waited patiently for Charbonneau to translate why these subchiefs had come.
They wished to consult their Medicine Stone, about three days’ march to the southwest, and wanted Clark to go with them. Each spring, and sometimes in the summer, they visited the stone. They built a fire and let the smoke roll across the porous face of the rock, which was a
bout twenty feet in circumference. Then they slept. In the morning the stone had certain shiny white markings that represented peace or war for their village. Sometimes other things could be read from the markings as well.
“Tell them,” said Clark, “that I would like very much to go with them, but I have promised my men working on the canoes that I would bring them more scraping knives for hollowing out the insides of the dugouts. I cannot go back on my word to my men.”
Sheheke smiled. “Chief Red Hair speaks true. He is a man to be trusted. He will not wage war with us unless he tells us first. Some other day he will come to our Medicine Stone.”
When they left, Charbonneau became owlish and rude. “They asked a favor. To them the Medicine Stone is great. They think you are impolite.”
Clark looked at Charbonneau. “I could see by Little Raven’s smile and the handshake that the Coyote gave that they thought I was right in keeping a promise I made first to my men. They are leaders and they understand that one’s own men must come first. That will hold for you, also, on our trip. You will follow orders, as the others do.”
Not looking Clark in the face, Charbonneau said, “By Jésus, on that trip I will not stand guard. I am an interpreter. I am not a soldier. I will go maybe as far as the big falls the Indians talk about. Then I wish to return here. This place, she is not so bad when I work for the Northwesters and Hudson’s Bay. I join hands with them. If I join with you, I want my share of rations—as much as I can carry. My squaw, she is sickly, see? She need plenty of good food, and sugar in her tea.” Charbonneau straightened Little Tess’s shirt, then drew himself up importantly. “I am interpreter for many years, I am somebody important here. I think I am important man, and I do not have to do the same things your soldiers do. I would not have to do that if I continued to work for the Northwesters.”
Clark was at a loss to know what to say in response to Charbonneau’s arrogance. After a long silence he answered, “Think it over for a couple of days. If the weather clears, we’ll be pulling out in three or four weeks. Maybe we can make an agreement so that you’ll take the responsibility we first spoke of. If not, I promise we’ll see if Monsieur Jussome will go with us.”