Chapter 10
Chapter
Ten
Old Antony told us that the cottonwood trees that grew along the river had a spirit that was a bit like a ghost and that Will and I must learn to respect that spirit.
The ghost of the cottonwood tree had helped the voyageurs in all of their undertakings.
When the Mississippi, swollen by spring rains, carried away part of its bank and a tall tree fell into the current, the spirit of the tree could be heard crying while its roots clung to the soil and its trunk lay down in the water.
— MARIAN RUSSELL, LAND OF ENCHANTMENT: MEMOIRS OF MARIAN RUSSELL ALONG THE SANTA FE TRAIL
Grabbing hold of her shotgun and a change of clothing, Angelia hurried toward the river.
Surely she could have a leisurely bath this morning without the worry of being seen.
From what she recalled, having been awakened by uproarious laughter in the middle of the night, it would be a miracle if any of the wagoners were up any earlier than sunrise.
Which gave her a bit of time. Why, it was still dark outside, and the sun was not due to make an appearance for at least another hour.
Angelia was not afraid of walking in the dark, her eyesight, as well as her nerves, having become accustomed to its shadowy light and silhouettes. Besides, the moon was only now setting, its brightness lighting her way to the water.
There was always the danger from a wild animal, of course. But Angelia held no fear this morning, knowing that most of the night-faring animals would be abed at this hour. And if there were any trouble, she always had her gun.
She was happy, and no amount of hostility could have tainted her good humor. Indeed, had it not been for the fear of awakening someone, she might have hummed.
True to his word, Swift Hawk had taken Julian under his wing.
Nowadays he, Julian and another Indian—a man called Red Fox—were often seen together.
Certainly, though only a few weeks had passed since Swift Hawk’s return, Julian was already showing signs of taking on the responsibilities of his position. It was, indeed, a good start.
Angelia hiccupped and stumbled over a rut in her path. Recovering her feet, she moved a little slower, noticing there was much mud on the trail. Glancing down at her leather boots, she grimaced. They were covered with the stuff.
Darn, she’d had no intention of soiling either her shoes or this dress, and hiking her skirts up toward her ankles, she paced her way through the well-trod path to the river. She breathed in the warm scent of the grass-fragrant morning air. Ah, it feels good on the lungs, this fresh, clean air.
Keeping to the path, she fell into step as the trail wound through the tall grasses that swayed in the prairie wind.
Before the path reached the Missouri River, Angelia veered off at a left angle, wading through the tall greenery that reached well to her shoulders.
The extra trouble was worth it, however, for she had found her own private nook—a small inlet that branched off the Missouri.
Nestled amongst the trees, the spot had quickly become her special place.
Here, the water ran a little cleaner, a little clearer.
Here, too, were strands of plum trees, berry bushes and wild strawberry patches, their branches laden with green, yet plump fruit.
But most important, here stood a huge cottonwood tree, one that towered over all the others.
Almost from the start, Angelia had felt a kinship with the tree, as though it were a kindly, wise, old person.
Maybe that’s why she felt safe here, for the tree appeared to stand sentinel over her. In truth, the tree seemed to her like an ally and, reaching out, she leaned against its grand old trunk.
“Hello, my fine friend,” she whispered to the tree. “Hope you don’t mind if I steal an early morning bath in your pool.”
The tree swayed its branches in the warm wind, seeming to Angelia as if it answered.
“I hope that’s a yes.” She laughed. “Here, hold on to me for a moment,” she instructed, as she removed her boots and hose, wiggling her toes with glee. Lifting her skirts, she tiptoed to the muddy bank of the creek, where she slipped an exposed toe into the water.
“Hmmm, it’s deliciously cool,” she remarked to herself. “Not too cold, not brisk. Rather inviting actually.” Gazing back, she smiled at the tree. “A swim would be nice.” She thought better of it, however, when the old tree swayed as if in caution.
“You’re right, old friend,” said Angelia. “There are swift undercurrents and tows out in those muddied waters. Better if I keep to the shallower part of the river, especially at this hour of the morning, when help might not be available.”
The branches of the tree rubbed against each other in the wind, as if whispering yes to her.
Again she smiled, and hurrying back to the tree, she scanned her environment one last time, if only to be certain that she remained alone.
When she saw nothing, heard nothing, she set her gun next to the tree, untied her bonnet and hung it over the barrel, along with her paisley shawl.
Next she untied her white apron from around her waist and placed it neatly over a long tree branch.
Her homespun wrapper, which was red-and-white checked, came off next, a garment that was made necessary simply for its comfort, since it needed no corset or bustles.
“Umph!” she muttered, as she struggled with her petticoats, for they were large and voluminous.
But at last she had removed each one, as well as her drawers, and set them next to a tree root, close to where she had placed her hose and shoes.
The procedure left her standing in no more than her linen chemise, which hung well below her knees.
“One would think we women would wear less clothing since getting undressed is such a long activity,” she muttered to the tree.
“But then, perhaps I shouldn’t complain.
As it is, I wear pantalettes when others around me have already shunned them.
Perhaps, too, I don’t really need so many petticoats.
But it is a difficult thing to dismiss a lifetime habit of attending to the proper form of dress.
As it is I feel positively scandalous going corset-less. ”
Perhaps it was her imagination, but it seemed to her as if the tree shared her laughter.
“Watch over my clothes while I bathe, will you, my friend?” Leaving her petticoats and wrapper in neat piles, she stepped down into the water, its liquid coolness slipping easily over her exposed flesh.
“Oh, it’s delightful,” she murmured. And it was.
Although the Missouri River usually resembled the color of a cup of coffee with cream, in this particular nook, she could see straight to the bottom.
Bending down to pick up a handful of sand, she began to hum a tune while she scrubbed herself, rubbing the sand not only over her body, but over her chemise as well.
Briefly, she ducked her head under the water and came up sputtering. That’s when she heard it.
Singing.
She stopped and listened. There it was, a melody, easily distinguished over the gurgle of the stream.
“My goodness,” Angelia said. “Is that a man’s voice? Oddly I don’t recognize the words or the melody.” She frowned. “Tell me, old tree, is that the song of an Indian? Do Indians sing?”
What a silly thing to wonder. Of course Indians sang. Despite the merchants’ and the wagoners’ rumors to the contrary, Indians were human.
“What a haunting melody,” she whispered to herself. “But perhaps that’s only because it’s in a minor key. Yet…”
She glanced right and left. Where was this vocalist?
Was she safe here in her little spot? Or was the originator of the song within staring distance of her?
Had he seen her? Surely not, she decided, or he would have given warning, since the Indians that resided around Fort Leavenworth were known to be friendly to whites.
Regardless, she decided that she had best leave her bath as quickly as possible, and she started to wade to shore.
Even as she took a step forward, another melodic refrain sounded, and something about it kept her still.
It was a high-pitched melody, especially for a man’s voice, yet the voice did not strain.
Well, she supposed it was the strangeness of it all that stopped her, and squatting onto her knees—that she might submerge her shoulders in the water—she listened to the song for the longest time. Odd, with each word she became more and more curious about it, and its origin.
Enough. She should wade to shore, dress, get back to camp.
But she didn’t.
When she started for shore, tree branches bent down, this time making sweeping motions toward the river. It was as though the old tree were pointing her in the direction of the song.
Hands on hips, Angelia frowned up at the tree. “You want me to go there, don’t you?”
The tree swayed gently.
“Do you know something that I don’t?”
Again, the tree answered in its own way, rocking back and forth.
“Very well,” said Angelia. “I will go and see who this is, since I’m very curious about it myself. But if there be any trouble, I will expect you to intervene on my behalf. Do we agree?”
Gently, branches intermingled, creating a whooshing sound, and Angelia was certain she heard the tree answer.
Within moments, Angelia found herself paddling toward the Missouri River proper, and keeping to its grassy shoreline, she floated downriver, toward that voice.
It was not the smartest thing she had ever done.
Yet something drove her onward, and she smiled, thinking that she felt as enchanted as a princess in some far-off land.