- hold your left hand ahead of you, fingers together, right hand against your chest.
Strike your left palm with the edge of your right.
Christmas Eve, 1805
Sleet pierced the air like volleys of arrows. Having already eaten their horses and with packs nearly slack, the party looked like Romani in their rags as they stumbled up the crooked mountain trail. The little one, strapped to his mother's back, nestled his head into the curve of her neck. Needles of ice stung his cheeks, and the salty tang of the yet-unseen ocean that his mother called Paakate tickled his nose.
But Baptiste was not to giggle or cry, his mother, Sacagawea, whispered. He was to keep silent, be invisible - a lucky, if forgettable, witness to the great expedition to the Pacific.
He squeezed his eyes shut to hold his tears. The ground began to shake with the drum of approaching hooves. Suddenly his mother stopped short, and Baptiste opened one eye to see Captain William Clark hold up his hand.
"Keep back," Clark ordered. "Leave this to me."
The explorers stood and watched a hunting party of thirty Chinooks arrive. Their leader slid gracefully from his horse. Baptiste could tell that the young numah standing at the head of his men was a threat. With a deliberate grin the brave displayed his teeth, carefully filed to resemble the bone points used to spear salmon and hares.
Baptiste watched Clark's Adam's apple rise and fall as he took a dry swallow and stepped toward his interlocutor.
Clutching his spyglass as if the lens could still keep his guests at a distance, Meriwether Lewis slunk into the shadows behind Clark and the interpreter Toussaint Charbonneau.
"I figure we can get away with half a dozen of those gewgaws," Clark said and bit his bottom lip, as was his habit. From a leather satchel his sergeant pulled six strands of the blown-glass Venetian beads they'd been issued by the Department of War to dazzle the savages.
"Yes, sir," Sergeant Gass said. "That's a pretty impressive knife he has."
It was a fishing knife, big enough to make short work of a halibut.
Clark's lower lip was bright red now, an oddity, in this thin air almost a sexual accoutrement.
"Watch his face, not his knife," Clark said.
But Sacagawea watched only Clark, with deep admiration. Her husband, the drunken Charbonneau, waited with stark raving disinterest. York, Clark's manservant, held his breath so his neck swelled like a tree toad's. Lewis took a second imperceptible step backward.
"Don't anyone move," Clark said. "Just let him walk around us for a while. He has to sniff us like a cur. See how his warriors are tense but he is relaxed?"
The Chinook glided within three inches of the six-foot, red-headed Clark. Though he stood half a foot shorter, the brave's conical grass hat made him seem nearly as tall. The blue clay smudged on his high cheekbones was much like the a vee Sacagawea had seen her father and uncles wear. A silver British dragoon's gorget swung from his neck on a strand of white shells. At the ready on his fur vest was a string of large, bone fishhooks. In spite of the cold, he wore nothing below his thigh.
"What could he want?" Captain Lewis, behind Baptiste now, whispered.
"Tell him we have brought things of great value for him," Clark said firmly, keeping an eye on the Chinook but nodding to Private Labiche, who translated in French to Charbonneau. Receiving the message in Hidatsa, Charbonneau's wife relayed it in Shoshone to the young brave, who made her repeat it three times before he shook his head and spat.
"Just give him something, quick," said Lewis in a bleating voice that did him and the party no credit.
Excerpted from Museum of Human Beings by Colin Sargent. Copyright © 2008 by Colin Sargent. Excerpted by permission of McBooks Press. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Blood at the Root
"A gripping, timely, and important examination of American racism."
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