In the rare moments when conversation lagged, someone would break out in zestful song, an instant cue for the others to join in. What they lacked in musical ability, they compensated in unbridled enthusiasm. All in all, thought Glass, an agreeable way of life.
During this break, Langevin interrupted their brief rest with a rare moment of seriousness. “We need to start setting a sentry at night,” he said. “Two men each night, half shifts.”
Charbonneau blew a long stream of smoke from his lungs. “I told you at Fort Brazeau—I translate. I don’t stand watch.”
“Well, I’m not pulling extra watch so he can sleep,” stated La Vierge flatly.
“Me either,” said Dominique.
Even Professeur looked distressed.
They all looked to Langevin expectantly, but he refused to allow the dispute to intrude on his enjoyment of the pipe. When he finished, he simply stood and said, “Allons-y. We’re wasting daylight.”
* * *
Five days later they arrived at the confluence of the river and a small creek. The crystal water of the stream discolored quickly when it mixed with the muddy flow of the Missouri. Langevin stared at the stream, wondering what to do.
“Let’s camp, Langevin,” said Charbonneau. “I’m sick of drinking mud.”
“I hate to agree with him,” said La Vierge, “but Charbonneau’s right. All this bad water is giving me the shits.”
Langevin too liked the prospect of clear drinking water. What bothered him was the location of the stream—on the western bank of the Missouri. He assumed that Elk Tongue’s band was west of the river. Since Glass found the recent Indian campsite, the deputation had hung scrupulously to the eastern bank, especially when deciding where to stop for the night. Langevin looked west, where the horizon swallowed the last crimson sliver of sun. He looked east, but there were no landings before the next bend in the river. “Okay. We don’t have much choice.”
They paddled to the bank. Professeur and La Vierge unloaded the packs, and with the canoe empty, the voyageurs carried it ashore. There they flipped the boat on its side, creating a rough shelter that opened toward the river.
Glass waded ashore, nervously scanning the landing. The sandbar ran a hundred yards downstream to natural jetty-mounded boulders overgrown with thick willows and brush. Driftwood and other debris caught behind the jetty, obstructing the river and forcing it away from the gentle bank. Beyond the sandbar, more willows led to a stand of cottonwoods, increasingly rare as they paddled north.
“I’m hungry,” said Charbonneau. “Get us some good supper, Mr. Hunter.”
Geet US some goood suPEUR, MeeSTER HunTEUR.
“No hunting tonight,” said Glass. Charbonneau started to object, but Glass cut him off. “We’ve got plenty of jerky. You can go a night without fresh meat, Charbonneau.”
“He’s right,” agreed Langevin.
So they ate jerky along with fried mush, cooked in an iron skillet over a low fire. The fire drew them close. A bitter wind had diminished with the setting sun, but they could see their breath. The clear sky meant a cold night and a hard frost by morning.
Langevin, Dominique, and La Vierge lit their clay pipes and sat back to enjoy a smoke. Glass had not smoked since the grizzly attack; the burning sensation hurt his throat. Professeur scraped mush from the skillet. Charbonneau had walked away from the camp a half hour before.
Dominique sang quietly to himself, as if daydreaming out loud:
I have culled that lovely rosebud,
I have culled that lovely rosebud,
I have culled petal by petal,
Filled my apron with its scent …
“It’s a good thing you can sing about it, brother,” remarked La Vierge. “I bet you haven’t culled any rosebuds for a year. They ought to call you the Virgin.”
“Better to go thirsty than to drink out of every mud hole on the Missouri.”
“Such a man of standards. So discriminating.”
“I don’t see a need to apologize for having standards. Unlike you, for example, I am quite fond of women with teeth.”
“I’m not asking them to chew my food.”
“You’d lay down with a pig if it wore a calico skirt.”
“Well, I guess that makes you the pride of the Cattoire family. I’m sure Maman would be very proud to know that you only sleep with the fancy whores in St. Louis.”
“Maman, no. Papa—maybe.” They both laughed loudly, then solemnly crossed themselves.
“Keep your voices down,” hissed Langevin. “You know how sound carries on the water.”
“Why are you so cross tonight, Langevin?” asked La Vierge. “It’s bad enough putting up with Charbonneau. I’ve had more fun at funerals.”
“We’ll be having a funeral if you two keep yelling.”
La Vierge refused to let Langevin spoil a good conversation. “Do you know that squaw back at Fort Kiowa had three nipples.”
“What good are three nipples?” asked Dominique.
“Your problem is that you lack imagination.”
“Imagination, eh? If you had a little bit less imagination maybe it wouldn’t hurt so bad when you piss.”
La Vierge pondered a reply, but in truth, he had grown weary of conversation with his brother. Langevin clearly was not in a talking mood. Charbonneau was off in the woods. He looked at Professeur, with whom he’d never known anyone to have a conversation.
Finally La Vierge looked at Glass. It occurred to him suddenly that they had not really spoken with Glass since leaving Fort Kiowa. There had been scattered exchanges, most concerning Glass’s success in putting fresh game in their pot. But no real conversation, certainly none of the ambling forays on which La Vierge liked to embark.
La Vierge felt suddenly guilty for his lack of social graces. He knew little about Glass beyond the fact that he had come up short in a scrape with a bear. More importantly, thought La Vierge, Glass knew little about him—and he must certainly want to know more. Besides, it was a good opportunity to practice his English, a language in which La Vierge considered himself an accomplished speaker.
“Hey, Pork Eater.” When Glass looked up he asked, “From where do you come?”
The question—and the sudden use of English—took Glass by surprise.
He cleared his throat. “Philadelphia.”
La Vierge nodded his head, waiting for a reciprocal inquiry from Glass.
None came.
Finally La Vierge said, “My brother and I, we are from Contrecoeur.” Glass nodded his head, but said nothing. Clearly, decided La Vierge, this American would need to be coaxed along.