Chapter 12
Chapter
Twelve
…he had often heard that white people hung their criminals by the neck…
he had learned that they shut each other up in prisons, where they keep them a great part of their lives because they can’t pay money…
he had seen them whip their little children—a thing that is very cruel…
their continual corruption of the morals of their women—and digging open the Indians’ graves to get their bones…
that these and a hundred other vices belong to the civilized world, and are practiced upon (but certainly, in no instance, reciprocated by) the “cruel and relentless savage.”
— GEORGE CATLIN, LETTERS AND NOTES ON THE MANNERS, CUSTOMS, AND CONDITIONS OF NORTH AMERICAN INDIANS
“Catch up! Catch up!” came the cry that echoed throughout the dew-covered hills and dales that surrounded Fort Leavenworth. At its call, a flurry of activity, and one of much confusion, resulted. It was time to leave.
At last, hearts that had been listless with inactivity came alive. A clamorous joy filled the air as the wagoners and merchants bustled about, preparing to depart.
“Catch up! Catch up!”
The outcry could be heard from every quarter. Only the clanking of the harness and yoke, the clamor of bells, the exclamations of teamsters pursuing their animals, the tinkling of chains and the stubborn heehawing of the mules could compete with the echoing refrain, “Catch up, catch up!”
Then, “All’s set!” came the shout from the first teamster.
“All’s set!” from another driver, and then another and another.
“Hep! Hep! Hep!” The wagoners’ voices could be heard throughout the valley, along with the cracking of whips, the creaking of wheels and the squeaking sways of the wagons.
“Fall in! Fall in!” At last came the order from the wagon master, and at its utterance, the entire assemblage of wagons commenced to pull away from Fort Leavenworth, kicking up dust and heading south and west, the wagons themselves strung out four abreast over the prairie.
Council Grove was their destination, for it was there they would meet up with other wagons coming from Independence. Also, it was there that the wagoners hoped to be joined by government wagons, those making the same trek to Santa Fe.
“Hep! Hep! Hep!”
The early morning was cool, and Angelia pulled her shawl closer to her as her driver—a Frenchman by the name of Pierre—cracked the whip over the heads of their four mules.
The covered wagon, as well as the mules—or outfit, as it was called—were hers and Julian’s, they having combined their resources to buy it.
After it had become apparent to Angelia that Julian would not be able to drive the wagon—because he would be riding with the trail guides and outriders—Angelia had made arrangements with Pierre Noel, a man who had been highly recommended to her by an official at Fort Leavenworth.
Pierre had been watching for a means of transport for his merchandise to Santa Fe, and so it had been easy to strike up a bargain.
She would loan Pierre the use of her wagon, and he, in turn, would be in charge of driving it.
Thus, he was to take care of the mules, keep the wagon in repair, etc.
Meanwhile, Angelia would be free to sew, to prepare meals and to draft her evening lessons for Swift Hawk.
At present, Pierre sat next to her on the wagon’s spring seat, with feet dangling from the dashboard. His attention was centered on the mules.
She could hardly ignore him. He reeked of body odor, and every now and again Angelia fanned the air in front of her. Discreetly, she spared him a quick glance, wondering how he could be oblivious to the stench.
He wore a black hat turned up completely in front, a red and white polka-dotted shirt and red-checked breeches held up at his waist by suspenders. Perhaps those breeches were the culprits, since they were filthy with grime and sweat.
But that wasn’t all. Pierre had cultivated a heavy, white mustache and beard, the same color as his hair.
It gave him a wild sort of appearance. Moreover, there were things, particles or foodstuff, in his facial hair, which made it difficult for Angelia to look at him, for she found her attention centering on that, not on him.
Pierre’s hands were calloused, his nails long and dirty, and when he spoke, his breath would have wilted the most hearty of roses. His voice was gruff, his teeth yellow, with several of them missing.
But Pierre’s was a gentle heart, Angelia had come to discover, for he was often to be found with the children, giving out toys to them. Perhaps the man had simply lived alone for far too long.
“Pierre,” she began, hoping against hope that she might communicate sensibly to a man who spoke little English.
“Oui, mademoiselle?”
“Pierre, don’t you think it would be better if you were walking alongside the mules? Like those men over there—” She pointed.
“Oui, mademoiselle, oui.”
He didn’t move.
She tapped him on the shoulder, and using a sweeping motion, showed him the other men walking beside the wagon.
Then she directed her gesture toward her own mules, and finally back to him.
“Do you see? I think you should be walking alongside the mules.” She made her fingers mimic the act of walking, then indicated him.
“Oui, mademoiselle, de mules… Pierre.” He made the same finger signs, then laughed.
“No, no, no. You.” She touched him on the shoulder. “You go there.” She directed her fingers to the spot, then made a walking gesture. “And walk.”
“Ah-h-h-h. De mules…walk.” Once more he laughed but remained firmly seated.
Angelia gave up, deciding that it would be best if she jumped down and strolled beside the wagon, if only for a breath of fresh air.
Leaning toward Pierre, she muttered, “I’ll walk,” at which point she climbed down and jumped easily to the ground.
Perhaps that was all it took to spur Pierre into action, for he immediately swung down, and following her, he gained her attention, then lifted an arm back toward the wagon, using his arm to point.
“Yes, yes, Pierre. I will. As soon as I stretch my legs.” She nodded at him, and he returned the movement. However, he had no more than turned his head when she tripped over a vine and, gasping, fell face first into the grass-covered mud.
Righting herself, Angelia dusted herself off, cleaned the mud from her hands and quickly decided that riding in the wagon wasn’t such a bad idea. Wiping her boots on the moist grass, she took the few necessary steps back to the wagon and climbed up onto the spring seat.
A deep sigh escaped her throat as she glanced forward, out over the mules, watching as Pierre led them. He carried a stick in his hand, as though it were a weapon to wield on the animals, but he didn’t use it. That reminded Angelia again that Pierre’s was a kind heart.
Silently, she set her sights on the environment around her.
It was a glorious day. The sun was peeking up over the clouds behind them, there in the east, and it threw a delicate pinkish haze over the landscape.
Dew and moisture caught the sky’s tint, magnifying it, causing the grass to look as though it sported tiny, sparkling jewels.
Contented for the moment, Angelia let her thoughts drift to other things—to the events of the past few days. As always, her thoughts riveted onto Swift Hawk.
Odd, how a few short hours could change one’s viewpoint on life. Yet this was exactly what had happened to Angelia.
Since that morning with Swift Hawk—three or four days previous—she’d felt happy, carefree and lighthearted.
Swift Hawk had been in her mind almost constantly, and truth be told, she had not been able to take her attention off him.
Indeed, every time she thought of him, every moment she recalled the look in his eyes that day, the touch of his hands, she felt warm—so warm she was certain she glowed.
Unquestionably, she had begun to think of that particular morning as being…magical. After all, wasn’t it like a bit of magic to be that close to another human being? To be so close that at times, she could have sworn she knew Swift Hawk’s mind?
So this was what it felt like to be in love.
Thinking about it now, it seemed to her as though they had ferreted out a bit of heaven. Indeed, a paradise. She only hoped it wasn’t a forbidden delight.
Especially since, happy though she was, Angelia was not unaware that she had crossed a line. Being a minister’s daughter, she was aware that what had happened between herself and Swift Hawk was an act that was best carried on between a husband and a wife. And she and Swift Hawk were hardly that.
However, she was convinced that it was in Swift Hawk’s mind to woo her. She couldn’t have been as close as she had been to him without coming to this conclusion.
He meant for them to marry, and she wondered how he would court her. It brought several interesting speculations to mind. Did Indians court their women the same as the white man? Would he bring her things? Ask her brother for her hand? Dreamily, she grinned.
“Howdy, miss.”
Roused out of her imaginings, Angelia glanced down to her right to see who had come upon her.
“Oh, hello, Mr. Russell,” she said, recognizing the wagon master, Kit Russell, a gentleman perhaps in his late thirties. He had recently been elected to the position of man-in-charge of this caravan, or wagon master.
“Howdy,” he said again, tipping his hat. He was silent for a minute or two, and then, “You’re the sister of one of our scouts, ain’t ye, Miss Angelia?”
“Yes,” she responded. “Yes, I am.”
“The sister of Julian Honeywell?”
“Yes,” she replied again, daintily shrugging.