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Captain Lewis suppressed a smile as Pierre tried unsuccessfully to will the color from his face. She’s French for certain, he thought, for she has no trouble speaking her mind.
* * *
Claire resisted the urge to clamp her hand over her mouth as the two men stared at her. The dark-haired Frenchman was embarrassed, the American captain somewhat bemused. Apparently the scent of smoke-saturated wool, the writing desk and small raised bed had made her forget where she was.
She had been born in a room not unlike this one, in a small cabin in Illinois. There her father used to tell her she was passionate to a fault where truth was concerned. But he always said it with a smile, Claire mused, and he said he believed the quality would serve me well.
So far it had not. Such plainspokenness did not sit well in a village where women were treated little better than pack animals. She loved her Mandan family, her mother’s people, her people, but after six months among them, six hard months trying to assimilate into the culture, she still was not fully accepted. She was Mandan, but she was also white, and she had taken up the white man’s religion.
Yet from the looks of the two men before me, I am not quite white enough, she thought. I’m a curious creature, and no doubt they think me gullible and naive.
She wasn’t either of those things, and she wouldn’t be taken advantage of by any white man, be he dressed in decorated uniform or common buckskin. She had learned that lesson the hard way. She was, however, intelligent enough to recognize God’s provision when she saw it. Spotted Eagle was on the verge of becoming very ill. She needed the captain’s help.
Claire quickly explained her presence. The Frenchman was still staring at her, but at least he had the decency to translate her words. Thankfully, the American captain wasted no time. He examined Spotted Eagle personally.
“What have you applied as poultice?” he asked her.
“Comfrey and calendula to ease the pain,” she said. “Also yarrow.”
The American nodded his approval. “The yarrow has kept it from festering, but it has not treated the cause.” He probed the boy’s back more closely. Spotted Eagle winced.
“It will be over soon,” the captain promised him with a smile.
Claire appreciated the man’s attempt to comfort her cousin’s young son. So far, relations between the natives and the white men had been cordial. Captains Lewis and Clark had insisted the government that had sent them wished to promote peace and trade. From what Claire had observed, the trade had been fair. She hoped it would remain that way. The white man’s presence could be an opportunity to reflect the light of God’s love.
Or it could detract from it, she thought, for Claire had met men before who claimed to love God but did not extend the same care to His people.
The Frenchman was still staring.
What are you looking at, sir? she wanted to say, but she already knew the answer.
Feeling more uncomfortable by the moment, Claire returned her gaze to the captain. Her eyes followed his every move. He applied a poultice, then gave Spotted Eagle a pill to swallow. After several repeated sips of water, the very large object finally went down.
“Keep on with the poultices for a few more days,” the captain told Claire.
The doctoring now finished, Little Flower presented her sack of corn to him. Claire was pleasantly surprised that he took only half.
“Please tell her that her payment is more than adequate,” he said.
Claire nodded, then delivered the message in Mandan. Little Flower was most pleased. After reclaiming her sack, she bowed several times to the captain. Then she did the same to the Frenchman beside him. The men bowed formally in return.
Claire curtsied. “Merci,” she said.
Eager to be on her way, she then reached for Spotted Eagle’s hand. The Frenchman opened the door.
A cold blast of wind stung her face. Stepping outside, Claire could feel the eyes of the men around her. One particular soldier grinned. Little Flower returned his look, but Claire, drawing her buffalo robe closer, kept her eyes down as she tramped steadily back toward the village. The snow crunched beneath her moccasins. Already it was deep, and there was much more winter still to come.
Spotted Eagle trudged along quietly, but Little Flower chatted excitedly. She seemed confident the excursion to the fort had proven worth their effort. “White men have great power,” she proclaimed. “Strong medicine.”
“The power does not come from white men,” Claire corrected her gently. “If the American captain’s medicine heals Spotted Eagle, it will be because the God of Heaven, the true Great Spirit, ordains it so.”
To that, Little Flower said nothing.
Open their eyes, Lord, please.
It was a prayer Claire had offered numerous times as she and her mother labored to be a light for the Lord in this village. More than anything she wished for the salvation of her cousins, her uncle Running Wolf and the rest of the Mandan people. But were their efforts really accomplishing anything, or were their “curious ways,” as her uncle put it, their refusal to participate in certain tribal customs, only further alienating the kinsmen they so desperately wished to see come to Christ?
Running Wolf had taken them in because Claire’s mother was his own flesh and blood and because her husband had been a friend to the Mandan people, but more than once he had stated he would not worship François Manette’s supposed all-powerful God or His son, Jesus. “I will not become like white men.”
Neither Claire nor her mother wished their Mandan family to forget their heritage. All they wanted was for their tribe to know the true creator, to experience His life, the life He intended, free from superstitious fear, free from disease propagated by sin.
But truth be told, there was another reason Claire was desperate for the conversion of her family. She was of marriageable age—well beyond it, in fact, by tribal standards. Upon her arrival in the village, her uncle had given her one year to mourn her father. “After that, you will be given to a husband.”
Claire inwardly sighed. She, like any young woman her age, wanted a home and a family of her own. But how am I to wed a man who does not share my faith? Without such, there can be no true union of heart or mind or spirit. Her parents had shared such a love. She wanted the same.
If Running Wolf were to come to faith in Christ, he would understand that. Then he would not insist I wed an unbeliever.
“Perhaps, Bright Star,” Little Flower said, referring to Claire by her Mandan name, “you will find a husband among the white men of the fort.”
Claire felt herself flush in spite of the cold. Little Flower hadn’t known Claire’s thoughts, but the subject of her eligibility was obviously on her cousin’s mind. Had Running Wolf enlisted her for help? Was that why she had smiled at so many of the men at the fort?
Little Flower then giggled. “You must admit, they are handsome. Especially the one who speaks in your tongue.”
Claire flushed even further. She was thankful for the harsh wind. Its sting concealed the true reason for the fire in her face. Yes, she had noticed the Frenchman and yes, he was handsome. Broad shoulders, raven-black hair, eyes the color of charcoal. He had noticed her, as well, and had apparently liked what he saw. Which is all the more reason to avoid him.
“I do not seek a handsome man alone, Little Flower, but one who worships my God.”
“Perhaps he does, Bright Star.”
As intriguing as the possibility of that thought was, Claire quickly dismissed it. Even if Mr. Lafayette was a Christian, even if he did take an honorable interest in her, what good could possibly come of it? Marriage still wouldn’t be possible between them since the expedition would be leaving in the spring.
The best Claire could hope for was that his conduct, and that of his comrades, would not snuff out any light she and her mother were trying to kindle.
* * *
Two days later, having just returned from Captain Clark’s hunting excursion, Pierre stepped into the fort. He arrived just in time to see Toussaint Charbonneau storming out of it. The Frenchman was clearly angry about something, angry enough to ignore Pierre’s greeting, angry enough to outpace his heavily pregnant teenage wife.
Sacagawea struggled to catch him. Pierre couldn’t help but feel sorry for her. He doffed his cap at her. She offered him a sweet smile and hurried on.
Captain Lewis was standing at the entrance to his quarters, arms folded across his chest, looking rather miffed himself. He and the trapper must have quarreled over something, Pierre thought. Again.
As Pierre approached, the obvious frown on the captain’s face shifted to its customary stoic expression.
“I see Captain Clark’s party has returned,” Lewis said. “Was the hunt successful?”
“Indeed, sir. Ten buffalo. They are being brought in by sled as we speak.”
Lewis nodded pensively. “Has the captain determined what is to be done with them?”
“Yes, sir. He thought it best to take them to the main Mandan village first since it was a joint hunting party.”
Lewis nodded again. “Tell Captain Clark that the men should return when the delivery of meat is complete.”
“Yes, sir,” Pierre replied. He started to turn.
“The woman,” Lewis then said, “the one who came in search of medical assistance. What is she called?”
“Claire Manette, sir.”
“She is fluent in French?” Captain Lewis asked.
“I believe so, sir.”
“When you go to the village, see if she would be kind enough to assist us with our vocabulary, since Charbonneau is unable to cooperate or agree with anyone.”
So that was the cause of the argument. The captains had eagerly accepted Charbonneau as an interpreter because Sacagawea could speak not only the local language but also that of the mountain tribe where the expedition was headed in the spring. She dictated vocabulary to her husband, and he translated her language into French. Then, with the help of Pierre or one of the other Frenchmen, his words were translated into English for the captains.
It was a tedious process, and Charbonneau had a tendency to argue pronunciation and the nuance of every French word rather than convey the basic messages necessary for maintaining friendly relations with the current tribe. Evidently Captain Lewis’s patience was wearing thin, and he was prepared to replace the disagreeable Frenchman if he could.
“Ask Miss Manette to come to the fort,” Lewis told Pierre.
The memory of her sharply spoken insistence that she could indeed understand English crossed his mind. For one split second, he grinned.
“You find that assignment agreeable, Mr. Lafayette?” Captain Lewis said.
“No, sir,” Pierre said quickly, feeling himself redden. What exactly had made him grin? “That is, yes, sir. At your command, sir.”
Dismissed, Pierre instantly turned for the front gate. Make a fool of yourself, why don’t you, Lafayette?
Trekking across the snow-covered ground, Pierre recalled the adventure from which he had just returned. They had been hunting buffalo—huge, hot-breathing, massive, hairy beasts—and he had been the one to fire the shots that had brought not one but two of the animals to their knees. Pierre clutched his musket. A feeling of pride, of accomplishment surged through him. God had blessed him with a hunter’s prowess, and he was making the most of it.
And I am determined to continue to do so. Of all the animals he had hunted thus far, there was one he wanted above all others—the great brown bear.
The Indians insisted the creature was like no other, a massive grizzly beast with claws strong enough to mortally wound a man in one swipe, or break him in half with a single bite. Yet as dangerous as the bear seemed, every man on the expedition wanted to see one. Pierre was determined to be the first man to bring one down.
And then, when I return from doing so with a deed for a land grant in hand, property of my own and plenty of stories of grand accomplishments to share, my father won’t think my adventures a waste of time.
At the riverbank, Pierre climbed into a waiting pirogue. The small boat carried him toward the opposite shore. He navigated the water carefully, for the Missouri was teeming with floating chunks of ice. Soon it would close completely, and he’d be able to walk across the frozen water.
The smell of cooking fires and sound of excitement was discernible as he neared the main Mandan village. A ditch and a walled embankment of clay surrounded the Indian dwellings. Pierre had never seen anything quite like them before. The lodges, made of timber, were partly sunk into the ground and then covered with a thick layer of earth. He imagined they were quite warm inside.
They’d have to be, he thought. For who could survive winter after winter in this harsh landscape if not? That was one thing to which he had not yet become accustomed. Upper Louisiana was much colder than Lower Louisiana.
Following the sounds of chatter, he walked toward the center of the village, to a plaza of sorts. There, beneath a large tree, stood Captain Clark and Chief Black Cat. The ten slain buffalo lay before them. The remainder of the hunting party and the rest of the village were there, as well.
Chief Black Cat was waving his arms toward the sky while speaking loudly in Mandan. Pierre had no idea what was being said, but he guessed that the chief was thanking the spirits for a good hunt. Pierre glanced about the crowd. Someone else was giving thanks, as well. Amid a cluster of females, two women had bowed their heads and folded their hands.
Are there Christians in this village? he wondered. Pierre watched for a moment. When the women raised their heads, he recognized one of them. Mademoiselle Manette. The woman beside her was older but of similar features. That must be her mother.
Pierre lingered for a moment where he stood, watching the pair of them. Then, thinking better of what he was doing, he moved toward Captain Clark.
“Ah, young Lafayette,” the buckskin-clad American said. “I presume you have a message.”
“Yes, sir. Captain Lewis wishes for our men to return to the fort.”
Clark nodded.
Chief Black Cat’s ceremony now finished, the women of the tribe came forward to carve the buffalo. Miss Manette and her mother were among them.
Captain Clark instructed his men to take their five buffalo back to the fort. Yet the moment the soldiers moved to do so, Chief Black Cat waved his arm in a sign of obvious disagreement. He gestured toward the women, then the buffalo, then back to Captain Clark. The American did not understand.
Neither did Pierre. Was the Mandan chief insisting all ten buffalo remain in the village? Pierre felt his muscles tense. He saw Captain Clark’s jaw tighten as well, apparently reaching the same conclusion—and no happier with it than Pierre was. They were hungry. It had been a joint hunting party. They would stand for no less than an equal share of the meat.
The chief continued gesturing toward his women, speaking louder, more emphatically. Noting the suspicious gazes of the surrounding warriors, Pierre gripped his musket tighter. Something lightly touched his arm. Jerking to the side, he found Miss Manette before him.
“Chief Black Cat is offering you assistance,” she said.
“What type of assistance?” Pierre asked warily.
“He says the women will prepare your share of the buffalo for you.”
“Our share?”
“Yes.”
So the chief hadn’t intended to claim the entire kill. Pierre quickly relayed the message to Captain Clark. The American’s face softened immediately. He bowed respectfully to the chief, then looked back at Pierre. “Please tell Black Cat that while his offer is greatly appreciated, it is Captain Lewis’s wish for the men to return at once to the fort. We will butcher the animals there.”
Pierre relayed the instructions to Miss Manette, but she cut him off mid-message with a perturbed look. Then, turning, she spoke most respectfully to her chief.
Pierre remembered her words. “Understand English? Oui. Speak? No.”
Black Cat forthwith dismissed the women surrounding the soldiers’ portion of the kill, and the men carried off the animals. Before turning to go, Chief Black Cat made one final remark to the American captain. Clark nodded and smiled. Miss Manette chuckled softly.
“What did he say?” Pierre asked,
She suddenly looked very uncomfortable, and Pierre couldn’t resist teasing her just a bit.
“Go on,” he nudged. “I know it was more than a wish for pleasant dreams.”
A hint of a smile tugged at her mouth, one she looked like she was trying desperately to keep hidden. Does she think I am amusing? he wondered.
“The chief said the white men are powerful hunters—”
“Thank you,” Pierre replied, his chest swelling just a bit.
“—but that you insist on doing women’s work.”
So much for his pride. Irritation took its place, for the look in her eyes seemed to say that she enjoyed taking him down a peg. “I see,” he said, curtly. “Thank you for relaying the message.”
