THE BEE
"Captain, dear," said honest Patrick Gass, putting an arm under his
wounded commander's shoulders as he eased his position in the boat,
"ye are not the man ye was when ye hit me that punch back yonder on
the Ohio, three years ago. Since ye're so weak now, I have a good mind
to return it to ye, with me compliments. 'Tis safer now!"
Gass chuckled at his own jest as his leader looked up at him.
The boiling current of the great Missouri, bend after bend, vista
after vista, had carried them down until at length they had reached
the mouth of the Yellowstone, and had seen on ahead the curl of blue
smoke on the beach--the encampment of their companions, who were
waiting for them here. These wonderful young men, these extraordinary
wilderness travelers, had performed one more miracle. Separated by
leagues of wild and unknown land, they met now casually, as though it
were only what should be expected. Their feat would be difficult even
today.
William Clark, walking up and down along the bank, looking ever
upstream for some sign of his friend, hurried down to meet the boats,
and gazed anxiously at the figure lifted in the arms of the men.
"What's wrong, Merne?" he exclaimed. "Tell me!"
Lewis waved a hand at him in reassurance, and smiled as his friend
bent above him.
"Nothing at all, Will," said he. "Nothing at all--I was playing elk,
and Cruzatte thought it very lifelike! It is just a bullet through the
thigh; the bone is safe, and the wound will soon heal. It is lucky
that we are not on horseback now."
By marvel, by miracle, the two friends were reunited once more; and
surely around the camp fires there were stories for all to tell.
Sacajawea, the Indian girl, sat listening but briefly to all these
tales of adventure--tales not new to one of her birth and education.
Silently and without question, she took the place of nurse to the
wounded commander. She had herbs of her own choosing, simple remedies
which her people had found good for the treatment of wounds. As if the
captain were her child--rather than the forsaken infant who lustily
bemoaned his mother's absence from his tripod in the lodge--she took
charge of the injured man, until at length he made protest that he was
as well as ever, and that they must go on.
Again the paddles plied, again the bows of the canoes turned
downstream. It seemed but a short distance thence to the Mandan
villages, and once among the Mandans they felt almost as if they were
at home.
The Mandans received them as beings back from the grave. The drums
sounded, the feast-fires were lighted, and for a time the natives and
their guests joined in rejoicing. But still Lewis's restless soul was
dissatisfied with delay. He would not wait.
"We must get on!" said he. "We cannot delay."
The boats must start down the last stretch of the great river. Would
any of the tribesmen like to go to the far East, to see the Great
Father? Big White, chief of the Mandans, said his savage prayers.
"I will go," said he. "I will go and tell him of my people. We are
poor and weak. I will ask him to take pity on us and protect us
against the Sioux."
So it was arranged that Big White and his women, with Jussaume, his
wife, and one or two others, should accompany the brigade down the
river. Loud lamentations mingled with the preparations for the
departure.
Sacajawea, what of her? Her husband lived among the Mandans. This was
the end of the trail for her, and not the rudest man but was sad at
the thought of going on without her. They knew well enough that in all
likelihood, but for her, their expedition could never have attained
success. Beyond that, each man of them held memory of some personal
kindness received at her hands. She had been the life and comfort of
the party, as well as its guide and inspiration.
"Sacajawea," said Meriwether Lewis, when the hour for departure came,
"I am now going to finish my trail. Do you want to go part way with
us? I can take you to the village where we started up this river--St.
Louis. You can stay there for one snow, until Big White comes back
from seeing the Great Father. We can take the baby, too, if you like."
Her face lighted up with a strange wistfulness.
"Yes, Capt'in," said she, "I go with Big White--and you."
He smiled as he shook his head.
"We go farther than that, many sleeps farther."
"Who shall make the fire? Who shall mend your moccasins? See, there is
no other woman in your party. Who shall make tea? Who shall spread
down the robes? Me--Mrs. Charbonneau!"
She drew herself up proudly with this title; but still Meriwether
Lewis looked at her sadly, as he stood, lean, gaunt, full-bearded,
clad in his leather costume of the plains, supporting himself on his
crutch.
"Sacajawea," said he, "I cannot take your husband with me. All my
goods are gone--I cannot pay him; and now we do not need him to teach
us the language of other peoples. From here we can go alone."
"Aw right!" said Sacajawea, in paleface idiom. "Him stay--me go!"
Meriwether Lewis pondered for a time on what fashion of speech he must
employ to make her understand.
"Bird Woman," said he at length, "you are a good girl. It would pain
my heart to see you unhappy. But if you came with me to my villages,
women would say, 'Who is that woman there? She has no lodge; she does
not belong to any man.' They must not say that of Sacajawea--she is a
good woman. Those are not the things your ears should hear. Now I
shall tell the Great Father that, but for Sacajawea we should all have
been lost; that we should never have come back again. His heart will
be open to those words. He will send gifts to you. Sometime, I
believe, the Great Father's sons will build a picture of you in iron,
out yonder at the parting of the rivers. It will show you pointing on
ahead to show the way to the white men. Sacajawea must never die--she
has done too much to be forgotten. Some day the children of the Great
Father will take your baby, if you wish, and bring him up in the way
of the white men. What we can do for you we will do. Are my words good
in your ears?"
"Your words are good," said Sacajawea. "But I go, too! No want to stay
here now. No can stay!"
"But here is your village, Sacajawea--this is your home, where you
must live. You will be happier here. See now, when I sleep safe at
night, I shall say, 'It was Sacajawea showed me the way. We did not go
astray--we went straight.' We will not forget who led us."
"But," she still expostulated, looking up at him, "how can you cook?
How can you make the lodge? One woman--she must help all time."
A spasm of pain crossed Lewis's face.
"Sacajawea," said he, "I told you that I had made medicine--that I had
promised my dream never to have a lodge of my own. Always I shall live
upon the trail--no lodge fire in any village shall be the place for
me. And I told you I had made a vow to my dream that no woman should
light the lodge fire for me. You are a princess--the daughter of a
chief, the sister of a chief, a great person; you know about a
warrior's medicine. Surely, then, you know that no one is allowed to
ask about the vows of a chief!
"By and by," he added gently, "a great many white men will come here,
Sacajawea. They will find you here. They will bring you gifts. You
will live here long, and your baby will grow to be a man, and his
children will live here long. But now I must go to my people."
The unwonted tears of an Indian woman were in the eyes which looked up
at him.
"Ah!" said she, in reproach. "I went with you. I cooked in the lodges.
I showed the way. I was as one of your people. Now I say I go to your
people, and you say no. You need me once--you no need me now! You say
to me, your people are not my people--you not need Sacajawea any
more!"
The Indian has no word for good-by. The faithful--nay, loving--girl
simply turned away and passed from him; nor did he ever see her more.
Alone, apart from her people, she seated herself on the brink of the
bluff, below which lay the boats, ready to depart. She drew her
blanket over her head. When at length the voyage had begun, she did
not look out once to watch them pass. They saw her motionless figure
high on the bank above them. The Bird Woman was mourning.
The little Indian dog, Meriwether Lewis's constant companion, now,
like Sacajawea, mercifully banished, sat at her side, as motionless
as she. Both of them, mute and resigned, accepted their fate.
But as for those others, those hardy men, now homeward bound, they
were rejoicing. Speed was the cry of all the lusty paddlers, who, hour
after hour, kept the boats hurrying down, aided by the current and
sometimes pushed forward by favorable winds. They were upon the last
stretch of their wonderful journey. Speed, early and late, was all
they asked. They were going home--back over the trail they had blazed
for their fellows!
"_Capitaine, Capitaine_, look what I'll found!"
They were halting at noonday, far down the Missouri, for the boiling
of the kettles. Lewis lay on his robes, still too lame to walk,
watching his men as they scattered here and there after their fashion.
It was Cruzatte who approached him, looking at something which the
voyager held in his hand.
"What is it, Cruzatte?" smiled Lewis.
He was anxious always to be as kindly as possible to this unlucky
follower, whose terrible mistake had well-nigh resulted in the death
of the leader.
"Ouch, by gar! She'll bite me with his tail. She's hot!"
Cruzatte held out in his fingers a small but fateful object. It was a
bee, an ordinary honey-bee. East of the Mississippi, in Illinois,
Kentucky, the Virginias, it would have meant nothing. Here on the
great plains it meant much.
Meriwether Lewis held the tiny creature in the palm of his hand.
"Why did you kill it, Cruzatte?" he asked. "It was on its errand."
He turned to his friend who sat near, at the other side.
"Will," he said, "our expedition has succeeded. Here is the proof of
it. The bee is following our path. They are coming!"
Clark nodded. Woodsmen as they both were, they knew well enough the
Indian tradition that the bee is the harbinger of the coming of the
white man. When he comes, the plow soon follows, and weeds grow where
lately have been the flowers of the forest or the prairie.
They sat for a time looking at the little insect, which bore so
fateful a message into the West. Reverently Lewis placed it in his
collector's case--the first bee of the plains.
"They are coming!" said he again to his friend.