Sign-Talker (6 page)

“To be early in a place is a great advantage,” Lorimier said. “If you go and learn that country, we will all profit by it.”

“I came for your counsel about it,
mon oncle
. Thank you.”

“Then you will be going with them?”

“I still need counsel from others,” he said.

“Eh bien
. Will you stay for supper with our family?”

“I have some soldiers to take care of. And before I go, I must counsel with
ni geah.”

Lorimier raised his eyebrows and said,
“Ah. Mais oui.”

He walked out of Lorimier’s compound and climbed the small hillock where the Indian graves were, enclosed by a fence of cedar slats. The graves were little mounds with wooden markers, some grayed by years of weathering. Under a huge, fan-shaped elm he stopped, and gazed down at a plain cedar slab. Into it was carved the name
ASOONDEQUIS
. He leaned his rifle against the elm and crossed himself as the Black Robes had taught him. Though he had come to hate them and all they had taught him and done to him, his mother had cautioned him that they might be right about their god, and it was good to honor all gods, so while he was here with her he would make the gesture.

He stood with his eyes closed and remembered his mother’s
face, the steady, bold eyes, the vermilion dot on each cheekbone. Then he opened his eyes, loosened the drawstring of his tobacco bag and picked out some flaked leaf. He walked around the grave, crumbling tobacco at the head, sides, and foot. Then he stood in the cold by the marker for a long while, remembering, sometimes looking east toward the Mississippi and into the sky beyond, back toward their Ohio homeland.

Because she was an Indian, her marriage to his father had not meant anything in the eyes of the Christians, and after the drunkard abandoned her to go and marry a respectable Catholic Frenchwoman in Ontario, Asoondequis had stayed with her relatives in Kishkalwa’s band near Lorimier’s store. They had helped her raise her son, first in Ohio, then here in the West. Here she had lived out the rest of her life on the fringe of the Indian trade, and had let Lorimier send him to the mission where he was forbidden to speak Shawnee. Then something had happened at the school, something Drouillard remembered only in dark images, in a room like a box, the murmuring voice of the man in black cloth, some caresses that had seemed comforting at first. Then being held and struggling, and pain and shame. He ran away, and his mother hid him and refused to let Lorimier send him back to the school. From then on it had been all Shawnee teaching, the prayer smoke, the Spirit Helper quest, the eagle leading him even into the sky, the strawberries in spring, the Green Corn ceremony with a drum beating and a cedar wood fire in the center. Twice she had taken him on journeys back to the Ohio country to visit relatives who had not come with Kishkalwa and Lorimier to the Mississippi. On those journeys, she had taken him still farther, to Ontario, where he had been allowed to stay awhile with his father’s new French family. The children had doted on him, their Indian brother. His father as usual had smelled of liquor, but was respectable and made a good living, and was good to his Indian son. Then Asoondequis had brought him back here where Lorimier’s children were his family. His mother had not married again. She had not been dead long; her grave marker was hardly turning gray yet from weather. She
had not been gone long when he got the letter that his father was dead.

“Eh, ni geah,”
he murmured.
“Ma mère forte et triste.”

He picked up his rifle and walked down out of the graveyard. He had no idea whether he would ever be able to come back here. Her counsel to him was not apparent yet.

Drouillard led the column of soldiers and packhorses up the east bank of the Mississippi in a lashing sleet storm to Captain Clark’s winter camp, here opposite the Missouri’s mouth. The camp was a cluster of half-finished log huts. On the bank of the Riviere à Dubois, the big keelboat sat propped on wedges, two smaller boats nearby.

Captain Clark’s cabin was smoky inside, with tangy smells of new-hewn oak. The rafters were roofed over with canvas. The captain’s clothes were muddy and he looked very tired. He sent Corporal Warfington out with the first sergeant, Charles Floyd, to assign the arrivals to shelter and give them coffee, and said he would come and inspect them within an hour. He coughed often into a handkerchief. He invited Drouillard to have a dram, which the black servant poured for him. The servant especially seemed pleased to see him; the man hummed and smiled and draped Drouillard’s damp blanket on a chair near the fire. Captain Clark looked at some mail that Drouillard had handed him from inside his tunic. The letters were limp with dampness.

Drouillard sat forward, rubbing his cold hands before the fire. The fireplace was so new its clay was still damp. His hands stung and prickled in the fire heat. Captain Clark brought a cup of whiskey to his table, sat down and said, “Welcome to Camp Wood, and thank you for a hard task done well. No troubles along the way, I take it?”

“No, sir. Hard weather. A little trouble finding out where you and Cap’n Lewis went from Massac.”

“You had time to get acquainted with the Tennessee soldiers. What d’ye make of them?”

He had expected that. Captain Lewis had asked him the same question, and had gotten the same answer: “Sir, I only delivered them. I would not judge people for you.”

“Let me put it this way: Would you want to have to count on ’em?”

“Not to feed me, Cap’n. They’re no hunters. Some of ’em do talk amusing. They have many words for misery. And for
merde.”

“Meaning, ah, shit?”

“Yes, sir.”

The captain half smiled and shook his head slowly. “Well, since you don’t care to speak bad of folks, tell me what’s good about ’em.”

The black servant emitted a short, deep laugh from the other side of the room, where he was working grease into a pair of boots.

“What, York?” the captain said, turning to him, fists on thighs.

“Oh, Mast’ William, ain’t I heard
them
words in that Clark family all my days!”

“Aye, y’ have. Get better answers thataway.” He turned back to Drouillard. “Any praise for those men? And let’s have a smoke on it.” He was filling a handsome brass pipe-tomahawk he had picked up from his table, and Drouillard guessed that the captain understood the old ritual about smoke and truth-telling. So they turned the pipe and smoked.

Drouillard said: “The corporal you can count on, but he says he has a short enlistment left. One named Potts, not a complainer. The ones named Howard and Hall don’t tire easy. They might do you well if there’s not too much whiskey around. It’s the main thing they talk of.” He didn’t mention Reed’s fear of Indians.

The captain nodded. “We have several already who are way too fond of whiskey. And all the bootleggers in the neighborhood have already found us.”

“Corporal says one of the others is a carpenter, I don’t know which one. He might help you finish this camp, anyway. That is all I can say, Cap’n Clark. I’ve run out of good words about them.” He was not comfortable. This was like spying. But if that task had been his test, he had passed it.

The captain leaned back. “Thankee, Drouillard. Cap’n Lewis was disappointed with ’em too. But maybe some will prove out.”

“Don’t ask me to take back the castoffs, Cap’n. I’ve about had my fill of escorting.”

Clark laughed. “No, we’ll just give ’em to Cap’n Bissell. We took some o’his. Now, you, Drouillard: Going with us?”

“I’ll tell you what I told Cap’n Lewis yesterday: I can’t say yet. I need council time, without any soldiers around.” He needed something he did not want to have to explain. He had his own way of seeking answers. Talking to his uncle was a part of it, but only a part of it.

“Well, if there is anything I can do that will help you decide, ask me.”

Eh bien alors
, Drouillard thought, there won’t be a better time to ask this. “I have one need, sir. I need to get money before I can
go away. Not just a little. For some needful relatives. To help them until I return.”

Clark drew his fingers down his chin, and just a hint of a cautious look passed in his eyes. “What? Wages ahead? I’ll have to ask Cap’n Lewis whether he has authority to do that. He’s in charge of all the accounts. He has understandings with the government that I don’t. Maybe a loan? Would any of those St. Louis people take a signed note? Or how about your kin, Mr. Lorimier? Could you make a note with him?”

Drouillard knew his uncle was strict against lending to relatives. He had done it too many times, and his policy now was an adamant no. He was profusely generous in other ways. He would rather give it than lend it. But not as much as he needed. “I will ask him,” Drouillard said.

Clark said, “Cap’n Lewis visited your uncle. He was
very
favorably impressed. Talked on and on about him. About the whole family. Enchanted with the girls. He did carry on.”

“Yes. I am blessed in my uncle and aunt, and my cousins.”

“Well. Please keep thinking of us. I’ll ask Lewis about the pay in advance, or loan, or whatever can be done. Might just write him about it now. Sergeant Floyd carries so many messages back and forth he sometimes meets himself. Go ask Floyd where he wants you to berth.”

“No need for that, Cap’n. I’ll sleep out. I’m not much for walls.”

“Even in this weather? Are you serious?”

“Hunting camp. I’ll bring meat.” And he had other plans once away from these soldiers.

“Yes, meat. But I’m afraid this place is hunted out. Our boys bag a few turkeys and grouse, that’s about it. Good luck. Oh, and aren’t you due another month pay?”

“Cap’n Lewis took care of that yesterday at Cahokia.”

“Good. Well, I’m going for a look at those men from Tennessee y’ brought me. Rest here and warm up, if you like. York’ll get you some bread and preserves, or another dram, if y’ like.” He slung a cloak over his shoulders, put a black
chapeau
on over
his thick, copper-colored hair, and shook Drouillard’s hand with a warm, strong grip, then went out into the drizzle.

Drouillard picked up his whiskey and drained the rest, head back, looking up at the peeled pole rafters and the canvas, which diffused the dim daylight into the smoky room and hissed with the drizzle.

“’At’s the boat sail,” the black man said. “’Nother whiskey, s’?”

“What? Sail? They plan to
sail
up that river?” He handed him the empty glass and York poured in a deep shot.

“Mast’ Billy’s a good river man.”

“Soldier and sailor both, is he?” Drouillard took a long sip.

“Heh heh! He do jus’ ’bout anything real good.”

Drouillard wondered how a slave could admire his master so much. He said, “Such as what, does he do so good?”

The slave put his palms together and looked at the ceiling. “Well, s’. Planter. Wagoneer. Surveyor. Hunter. Talks law. Build houses, forts, anything. Boats. Maps too, real good at maps. An’ can he fight!”

Drouillard was feeling mirthful and mocking as the whiskey stirred his brain, and it was odd to be talking to a Negro. It had been a long time since he had done that. He remembered a girl who had been Lorimier’s servant in the war times, and a black man, a former slave, who had lived among the Shawnees.

“You’ve
seen
him do all those things? Or he just tells you he’s good at ’em?”

York laughed deep. “I seen. Been with ’im all his life.”

“All his life?”

“Yes, s’. His daddy own my daddy. Gi’ me to Mast’ Billy when we’s both pickaninnies.” York put his head back and roared with laughter, ending up bent over, slapping his knee. He wiped his eyes with the back of his wrist. “I jus’
love
t’ say that to ’im!”

Drouillard blinked and wondered what was funny. It had sounded like he said Pickawillany, the name of a Shawnee town not far from Lorimier’s store back in Ohio, in the war times. He said, “Cap’n
owns
you! How d’ you feel about that?”

York was still chuckling. He said, “Feel? I guess I feel well ’nough. He real kindly.”

Drouillard wondered if this man pretended good feelings and ignorance because that’s what whitemen wanted. Drouillard himself as a half-breed among whitemen had learned to pretend in similar ways and keep his resentments and understandings to himself. Looking at York’s broad black face, he felt both an affinity and a revulsion for him. He said:

“I’ve been thinking. Everybody going on that voyage out West is a whiteman, except you. And me, if I choose to go. Any good comes of it, all goes to them. Not to you, not to any Indians. Whatever profit, and
la gloire
, it will all be theirs. That’s how it is.” He shook his head and looked down into his whiskey glass.

“What’s ‘lugwah’?” York asked.

“Glory.” He thought of eagle feathers, which had been the tokens of glory when his people had been free in their own land, warriors. “I remember a man, a slave, that got some glory. Looking at you reminds me. Let me tell you about him.”

York sat down, his face eager and intent. The promise of a story made people look like that.

“When I was a boy, where my people used to live, there was a man looked just like you. Name was Caesar. Been a slave. Sometimes slaves ran off and came to hide with my people. They made that Caesar a Shawnee, adopted him into a family. He went out with warriors. He was happy shooting white folk. He got glory. Earned eagle feathers. Think how you’d look with your head all shaved except a scalplock in back with feathers in it. Big silver ear bobs. One side of your face painted red. Wouldn’t you be pretty!” York had drawn back and was looking at him, eyes big with amazement, or horror. “Eh!” Drouillard went on. “Grand man, that Caesar! Had a beautiful Shawnee wife. Happy man, all his own, no one owned him. See, I wonder how a man strong enough and brave enough to be a warrior, would stay and let a whiteman
own
him.” He fixed on York’s eyes that hunter gaze that he knew agitated people.