JOURNEY TO HONOR (II)
Ten barechested men on shore pulled a sixty-foot keelboat on the Fever River. A line passed through
their hands to the bow where it was attached to a longer line running up to the top of an eighteen-foot-
high mast near the boat’s center.
The crew heaved on the cordelle in a rhythm synchronized with the bars of a work ditty sung by the
French Creoles from Louisiana and Canada on the expedition of eight boats. Sprays of fresh river water
washed away the salty sweat rolling down their faces, arms and legs in time with the rise and fall of the
“Dans mon chemin j’ai recontre
Trois cavalieres bien montees
L’on, ton, laridon danee
L’on, ton, laridon, dai
Trois cavalieres bien montees
L’une a cheval, l’autre a pied
L’on, ton, laridon danee
L’on, ton, laridon, dai.”
The song ran through Jim’s head while the work taxed the muscles in his thighs. He felt nothing his first
day on the journey but today, the upper part of his legs hurt, especially, when he stopped and moved
forward again. Yet even the trodden pain could not deter his heart from soaring. The total surrender of
his body to this exhausting travail freed him from the worries of St. Louis. He pulled with a zest deep
within. He was happy on stolen time. The country and its unexplored neighboring regions lay at his
feet. He had accepted the challenge of leaving home and seeing the world. He was proud.
While Jim was still a secret guest in his bedroom, John had visited Colonel Hiram Johnson at Le Barras’
Hotel. The colonel, an Army career officer, had come from back East on this official mission of his
government. He had never traveled west of Chicago and he looked sedentary. Johnson was a middle-
aged man who carried a distinct paunch on a lanky body. He smoked a pipe as an affectation of a
cultured city man when he was really a country gentleman with much compassion and no formal
education. John managed to convey to the colonel, without revealing the details, that Jim was in
trouble. Johnson did not care to hear the intricacies of Jim’s personal story. He needed men. He knew
that many of those who had come forward were running from something. “It is a peculiar sort who goes
out exploring,” Johnson had said. “Yes, it is,” John had agreed. John arranged for Jim to meet the
colonel and the others at the boat’s dock rather than in town.
Yesterday, Jim had crept through St. Louis while it slept before the sun came up. Jim asked John to wait
a few days before explaining his sudden disappearance to his father and Eliza. Jim had answered to
Casner for so long that he thought it unnatural that John could not also report to the blacksmith.
Casner did not need a messenger. Whatever Casner’s feelings toward Jim, he knew him well. For four
years, he worked side by side the boy, directing him in ways to hone his craft and live his life. When
Jim first came to Casner, the boy confided in the man. Casner listened. When Jim had problems with
friends or girls, Casner offered sensible advice. Practical advice. He suggested caution in every
situation. The master attained an intimate knowledge of the student and the student of the master. As
Jim gained more of a sense of himself, however, the blacksmith perceived a waning of his blind loyalty.
Jim stopped talking with him about his life. Casner sensed Jim’s discontent with blacksmithing. He
knew of his desire to travel. He observed his charge’s determined character.
Casner loved Jim. He had no children of his own and had never married. Teaching Jim offered Casner
the pride of fatherhood without complete responsibility. Jim looked up to him as the person who knew
everything and had all the answers. Casner had grown accustomed to that relationship. Change terrified
the man. He did not know how to change. His work tools were a hammer and an anvil. He forced
things into shape. It was the only way he knew.
A few days after Jim vanished from town, Casner figured he knew how to track him down. He spotted
Johnson’s advertisement in the Missouri Gazette, made some inquiries and then hired a small crew to
advance on the expedition which had left yesterday. The blacksmith and his crew had only been on the
river a few hours but the speed of the thirty-foot-long bullboat surpassed that of the larger keelboat
which at its fastest accomplished eighteen miles a day. The second vessel veritably skimmed the water.
No one sang on this boat that traveled under a cloud.
Casner pursued his obsession with single-minded vengeance. He spoke little but frequently spat out
curses under his breath. The other men on board would steal glances at him, look at each other and
shrug their shoulders. His antics stupefied them. What did he plan to do when they caught up with the
expedition? Why hadn’t he alerted the authorities to his hunch? Why, on his own, chase someone down
who might hurt him?
Casner’s crew did not know what to expect from him when they pulled their boat up behind the lead
“Careful, sir,” they warned Casner, as he received permission to board the larger vessel.
Strong arms reached out to help hoist him on board while Casner’s men steadied their boat. Casner
presented himself to Johnson as Jim Beckwourth’s former employer who had some unfinished business
with him. He asked for a word with him. Johnson assumed that money was at issue. The colonel had
no objection to a few minutes of Jim’s time.
Ice flowed through Jim’s veins when he saw Casner on the bullboat. He had underestimated his
teacher’s stubbornness. He despised Casner and the feeling that this man inspired in him of being a
small child caught and reprimanded. Casner’s actions seemed so unjust and irrational to Jim that the
young man construed them as racist. What other explanation could there be? However, Jim in his
typical manner of avoidance did not voice this assumption. Jim hated to be reminded of who he was. In
not airing his accusation, he gave it credence and power and made it real.
“Jim Beckwourth,” shouted Johnson, after talking with Casner. “Come forward.”
Jim climbed on deck thinking that the drama of the past few days had not yet ended.
“This man claims that you worked for him,” Johnson said. “Is that true?”
“Yes, sir,” Jim said.
“He says that he has business with you and would like a few minutes with you. What do you say to
“That’s fine, sir. I’ll talk with him.”
“Make it brief. We’ve got a lot of miles to cover today.”
“You can talk over there, starboard, with some privacy,” Johnson pointed to the other side of the boat.
The two men walked over. The crews on both boats pretended to work but all eyes and ears were on
Casner and Jim.
“How did you find me,” Jim asked.
“It wasn’t hard. I’ve been seeing the way your eyes glaze over when you talk with mountain men and
people who have been out. This was the only expedition leaving town now.”
“Why did you follow me out?”
“To bring you back home,” Casner said.
“Who appointed you the warden with the key,” Jim asked. “You’ll go to any length, won’t you, to
punish me. For what? What have I done wrong?”
“Dream,” was the answer, but neither said nor thought this.
Casner took in a long breath. The fury of the mood broke.
“You shouldn’t have run away, Jim,” he said.
“Shouldn’t have run away? Should I have stayed in St. Louis and face a charge of assault?”
“I only accused you of trying to kill me because I thought it would bring you to your senses. Make you
see that your confusion about your trade is unwarranted. I wanted you to realize that abandoning it
would snuff out any hope of a normal, stable life.”
“Trying to kill you,” Jim repeated slowly, as though he had imagined hearing the words. “What are you
saying? Did you file such a charge against me, one of attempted murder?”
“My God, man,” Jim said, quickly. “What would you have the authorities do to me! Hang me by my
“You’re young. You’re impetuous. You think now that blacksmithing bores you. But not too far away
is a time you’ll be thankful you stuck with it.”
“Mr. Casner. I don’t understand how sending a constable after me was to have brought me to my
senses. More likely, it would have brought me to a premature death.”
“Jim, no. I would never have let the charge stay. I would have dropped it.”
“Yes,” said Casner, reclaiming his angry posture while remembering the pain of Jim’s rejection of him.
“I’m crazy for trying to reason with you.” Enough of it. Get into the boat. We’re going to see your
“My father? What does he know about this? What have you told him?”
“He knows everything. He wants to speak with you.”
Johnson cleared his throat on the other side of the boat. He began to pace back and forth with his hands
clapped behind his back. Jim could see that Casner’s time was up. Jim had to decide whether or not to
return with Casner. How did he know that Casner was telling the truth about his father and about
dropping the charge. Jim was scared of Jennings, but he also wanted his approval.
“All right. I’ll go,” he said.
The boatswain cleared the way for them. The two walked through the parted crowd of men who had
kept a respectable distance while they talked. It was apparent to all that this was a family dispute.
“Everything all right,” one man called out. Others joined in the question.
“Yes, yes,” Jim answered. “I’ll be back pulling this barge – if you’ll have me,” Jim said to Johnson.
“Sure, Jim. Sure. We’ve got some more time on this river. Time enough for you to catch up and take
your place on the line.”
“Thank you, sir,” Jim said.
“Come on, Jim,” said Casner, as he nudged Jim forward.
They left side by side, a chasm between them. Casner had, long ago, lost Jim. Both men adopted a stoic
attitude on the interminable river journey back to town. Jim hated him. They rode together in the night
to Beckwourth’s Settlement where Casner deposited Jim at home to explain the last few days to his
father. The blacksmith wanted to humiliate his student. Casner immediately headed back to St. Louis.
The dark colors of the interior of the house at Beckwourth’s Settlement produced a heaviness that
suffocated Jim. The velvet maroon drapes at the windows blocked out any moonlight in the drawing
room where Jim waited for his father. His feet rested on a handwoven Persian rug whose flowers
appeared blood red because of the absence of light. One candle burned in the room, near Jim on a small
table. He sat on a long divan upholstered in the same fabric as the drapes. The wood beams in the high-
ceilinged room and the corner tables and desk seemed black in the house’s somber tones.
It had been two years since Winifred Beckwourth’s death. Jennings grieved silently. He withdrew into
himself, avoiding his children and visiting her grave every Sunday afternoon with a fresh bouquet of red
roses and purple violets from her garden. It was as though he was still courting her, still trying to win
her complete love. Life lost its spontaneity for him. He was waiting to die and be buried beside her.
Jennings handed over the business of running the estate to his eldest son, Randolph, and James Teasdale,
a hired manager. Teasdale had been at Beckwourth’s Settlement since its founding. He acted as
Jim was the only son of the six who had asked for a higher formal education. The others were
complacent. Matilda, the second eldest of the thirteen children, begged to be sent to a finishing school.
Her brow often knitted together as she contemplated a provoking subject in her active mind. She craved
learning for its own sake unlike Jim who enjoyed it, foremost, as a way out of his precarious
predicament. But Jennings refused to send his daughter to school because she was a girl. She had had
enough school. More of a book education, he felt, would be wasted on her. And after Winifred died, he
needed her to run the house and care for the children as a surrogate mother. The levelheaded Matilda
shouldered the responsibility as a matter of course. However, after everyone retired and the house
quieted, Matilda would light a candle and happily read the books that Jim smuggled home for her on his
vacations. Matilda had become Jim’s confidante. She had inherited her mother’s empathy and
Jim thought back to when the house was light and airy. He remembered his mother and then, as quickly,
remembered the newfound exhilaration he felt when the river water splashed on his body. Oh, how he
wished he were there! His freedom had been snatched from him so suddenly! He vowed that he would
get back to the river.
Legally, there was nothing to keep Jim in St. Louis unless his father demanded that his son, his property,
not leave. Casner had rescinded his charge against Jim before pursuing him. Jennings had talked the
one-armed constable out of pressing charges against his son. He would have done the same for any of
his sons. But especially for Jim who was his favoured son. He reminded him of himself; he went after
what he wanted regardless of the consequences. Jennings admired this quality but also feared that it
would cause Jim’s downfall. After all, Jim was not a white man. What would be applauded as
aggressive for one race would be criticised as impudent for another. Perhaps his son was too much like
him for his own good. Jennings was never sure how Jim should act. Though he had married and lived
with a woman of mixed race for years, he had not lived as a black man. Neither had Jim.
Jennings felt remiss in educating his son on the question of race. He did not know how to teach his son
shrewdness in dealing with people who could not see past his color. Jennings usually avoided
discussion of racism. He was overwhelmed by it. He wished it did not exist. But then, Jennings did not
consider his children wholly a part of the race issue. Their mother, after all, had a white father. His
children were almost white. The problem laid with outsiders who did not respect that. When he
received word that Jim was wanted by the law, he agonized that it might have been the ignorance of
outsiders that led to his fugitive status. And he feared that Jim’s troubles resulted from his failure as a
father. A surge of gladness shot through Jennings’ body when a servant ran upstairs with news of Jim’s
return home. He bounded downstairs with an energy that had been untapped since his wife’s laughter
rang through the house. But when he reached the door to the drawing room, he stopped short, took a
breath and slowly opened it.
Jennings held out his hands to Jim.
“Welcome home, son,” he said.
Jim rose and took his hands.
“I’m happy to see you,” he said.
They stood like this for a minute. Then Jennings shocked his son. He took him into his arms and
rocked him back and forth with unbridled joy.
“Son, son, son,” he said. “Thank God you’re home.”
They both sat down and in Jennings’ typical roundabout fashion discoursed a few minutes about town
politics, memorable meals Jim had relished at the homes of friends, and his father’s loss of appetite. Jim
chided his father for neglecting, what he called, “one of life’s finest pleasures.”
“Next you’ll be scolding me for not paying enough attention to the opposite sex, also one of life’s finest
pleasures that I hear you’ve been enjoying. How is Eliza Shepheard these days?”
“Well, Father. She’s doing quite well.”
“And how does she feel about your recent escapade?”
“I haven’t spoken with her about it.”
“I’ve heard several different reports about what led up to your disappearance. Why don’t you tell me
what happened,” said Jennings, in a no-nonsense voice.
“First of all, Father, I would never try to kill someone unless my life was in danger. I don’t know what
came over Mr. Casner. I was a few minutes late last Wednesday. He threw out some unsavory
accusations and physically attacked me. Why, he hurled a hammer at me. I fought him in self-defense.
Fortunately, we were interrupted by a customer. I walked home to the boardinghouse. Mr. Casner had
told me to leave and never come back. Which was just as well, Father. He had no reason to do those
things. He –“
“Then what happened,” Jennings asked.
“Then Mr. Casner had the gall to follow me to Mrs. Jacobo’s place and try to get me kicked out. I didn’t
even know what I was going to do yet. It was like Mr. Casner was trying to knock everything out from
under me. And I couldn’t understand why. I worked so hard for him. He tried –“
“And then what happened,” Jennings cut in a second time.
“I challenged his attempt to get me thrown out. I told him I didn’t need his money; I had plenty of my
own and I was going to stay put. My remark enraged him, Father. He completely lost control and
lunged for me again. I thought it most unseemly to fight like that in the parlor of the house. But what
could I do? He acted like an unleashed mad dog.
“Finally, when I was able to safely do so, I stepped aside and apologized profusely to Mrs. Jacobo who
witnessed the entire nasty incident. Mr. Casner followed my example and left.”
“And then,” said Jennings, sensing that his son was about to attempt another diatribe.
“And then I went upstairs and started to pack, not knowing where I was going or what I was going to
do. I was apprehensive that Mr. Casner would come back. I don’t know, Father. I was confused. While
I was upstairs in my room, a constable came to take me away on a charge of assault. Assault. And he
wasn’t even telling the truth. It was a charge of attempted murder. Father, they would never release me
if I had turned myself in. Mr. Casner’s charge would stick because of who he is and who I am.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“I mean that Mr. Casner is a well-known, successful man who happens to be white. And I am…I am
who I am.”
“That’s right, Jim. You are who you are. A Beckwourth. Don’t try to weasel out of any deserved guilt
here because you’re not one hundred percent white. I won’t allow it. I will not tolerate any
“Yes, Father,” said Jim, who did not dare disagree with him.
“So then, what happened when the constable arrived?”
Jim paused and looked away from Jennings as if to recall the events. Then he looked him square in the
face and said:
“I thought I spotted a bulge on his left side and took it to be a weapon,” Jim lied. “I ran inside my room
and got my revolver, then kept him at bay at the bottom of the stairs. I told him not to come up or I
“Jim, he was a man of law,” Jennings said. “As a man of law, he might very well carry a gun.”
“Well, was it?”
“Was it what,” Jim asked.
His father stared at him stone-faced.
“Yes, it was, Father,” Jim lied again. “He drew his gun. I did not shoot. We held each other off with
our weapons. He left shortly thereafter.”
“Well, son. What then?”
“I hid out at John Hierophant’s for a few days and joined Colonel Johnson’s expedition on the Fever River to Sac Indian country.”
“Is that it? Anything else?”
In an uncharacteristically small voice, Jennings asked:
“Jim, why didn’t you come home?”
Jim’s face flushed with remorse. He had hurt his father deeply. He had not expected this. He did not
know how to say he thought his father helpless in this situation. So he apologized instead.
Jennings wanted his son to stay. He wanted to protect him from the world. He urged him to apologize
to Casner. When Jim refused, He offered to set him up in his own blacksmithing business on
“You’ll be assured customers,” Jennings said. “Owning your own business might give you the passion
that you haven’t found in the trade itself. Please, Jim, give it a chance.”
Jennings was pleading for himself, not blacksmithing. “Give me a chance, Jim.” This is what he was
saying. He was doing what he knew well: making enslaved life so comfortable that it would be difficult
Jim thanked his father but insisted on going. His time had come. He knew that he had to go. Jennings
recognized that there was no talking him out of it. Jim then announced that he should rejoin the Johnson
expedition. It had started out depending on him being a part of it. He had been hired as a hunter.
Jennings argued futilely that its leaders probably did not expect him to return; they usually planned on
losing some men, there would be other expeditions. But Jim would hear none of it. Jennings would not
even have time to fantasize that his son was settling home. Jim asked him to explain matters to Eliza.
He loved her; he would be back, but he had to go now. Jim did not want to dilute the freedom he had
tasted by listening to her arguments. And he did not want to risk her breaking up with him,
He could not, however, escape Matilda’s watchful eyes and relieved heart because her brother was safe.
She waltzed her six-foot-tall frame into the room and held Jim close to her breasts in much the way his
mother had held him. Jennings left them to chat. He went back upstairs to be alone with his Winifred.
Matilda rejoiced in the news that Jim was on his way to pursuing his life. She longed to do the same.
They sat down together on the divan.
“You know what I would love to do. I’d go to Paris where I would write stories of love and romance
and dreams all day. Then, in the evening, I’d dine with friends and talk about my work and their work.
They would be artists, too. Other writers, painters, actors, dancers. What an exciting milieu! There
would be parties where guests would come from artistic and aristocratic circles. Imagine how grand that
would be! And they would throw masked balls where people would spend the first hours guessing
identities until they became enraptured with the sound of romantic waltzes, the mixed scents of ladies’
perfumes and the tingly taste of ice cold champagne bubbles. Then no one would care who was who!”
Mattie’s eyes were glassy like a drunken person’s. She had transported herself to the French capital that
also reigned as the capital of Western culture. Select Parisian salons showcased the most brilliant and
creative minds of the continent in vivacious conversation.
Matilda was not trying to steal Jim’s moment. It was just that she never got to talk about her dreams
with anyone but him. Now that he was going, those talks would come to an end. His departure,
however, also excited her because it meant that there was hope for her dream. Jim understood. He let
“I can’t wait ‘til I meet Madame Germaine de Stael! She is so talented and fiery. She is Napoleon’s
nemesis, can you imagine! Her novels, Delphine and Corinne are so beautiful and sad.
“The social climate is much freer in Paris than here. Who knows what Madame de Stael would be doing
if she lived here. In Europe, she is a real woman of the world – thinking, writing and loving freely –
except when Napoleon banishes her, of course. I know that there are political problems there. But there
are those problems here, too. Everywhere there are problems. I would be legally free there. I have no
allegiance to a country that allows me to be owned like a horse. Did you ask Father for your freedom?”
“No. It wouldn’t have worked today. I’m relieved he didn’t put up a fight about my decision to leave.”
“I suppose you’re right. Father has been even more emphatic about keeping us since Mother died. He is
so strange these days. Father is in his own world. Maybe you will have had enough of the West after
this journey and you’ll decide to come to Paris with me. Then we can both live happy and free lives.”
“As much as I’d like to be with you, I doubt I’ll spend my fascination with the West on just one
expedition. If I visit Paris, I will be a free man when I set foot on foreign soil. I won’t relent on that.”
“All right, little brother. I will be waiting.”
“The grandfather clock in the corner struck twelve o’clock midnight. It was quite late. Jim and Mattie
kissed goodnight. Jim went upstairs to his room where Randolph snored loudly. Tonight, Jim did not
mind. The sound lulled him to sleep.
The next morning at breakfast, Jim saw all his brothers and sisters assembled to wish him well. He was
the first of them to leave home. Though they already saw less and less of him after he went away to
boarding school, they felt they would miss him. Jocelyn, Evangeline, Abigail, Ellen, Amy and Louise
gave him kisses. Matilda offered a delicate filigree square locket that she had designed for her
eighteenth birthday four years ago. At the table, Jennings announced that one of the family’s hardest
riding horses, Diablo, would carry Jim to the boat. Then he passed a maroon money bag tied with gold
string from his head of the oaken table to Jim at the other end. Randolph, Caswell, Benjamin, Peter and
Raymond stood after breakfast and took turns shaking Jim’s hand and hugging him.
Later, Jim counted five hundred dollars in the money bag, enough to run a business for a year, enough to
support himself on the Grand Tour of Europe, enough to start a family. He put the bag back into his
breast pocket and turned back to the business of pulling the keelboat’s cordelle.
"Kee-o-kuk, The Watchful Fox", Chief of the tribe of Sac and Fox (1835) by George Caitlin
(From the Smithsonian American Art Museum in Washington, D.C.)
Jim scratched his head in disbelief. Free!
This journey marked the beginning of the making of his life as James Pierson Beckwourth.
Explorer! His myth began to spin itself.
Jim stretched his legs out on his hard-bottomed berth and clasped his hands behind his head. The boat
rolled forward at its barely perceptible pace. A ray of rose and orange sunlight streamed through a chink
above Jim’s head. The work had exhausted him on the lead mining expedition’s nineteenth day. It was
the last day before reaching its destination. However, he had become accustomed to the feeling. The
achiness in his legs disappeared a few days after he returned to the boat. He developed new muscles and
The chunky beef, carrot and potato dinner stew drained him of the tiny reserve of energy he had when he
left the line. His eyelids grew heavier than his desire to think. But his mind disagreed. He dreamed of
Eliza. Her eyes shined with lust for their home. She looked past Jim into their future. She smiled
Eliza had never known loss, heartache, misery. Nor did she expect to. She thought that she would not
know despair because her wishes were calculatingly attainable. She played at life carefully expecting to
get what she wanted from it. She imagined herself and Jim posed, the top of their heads touching, in a
perfectly round, smooth bubble. Perfect. Absolutely perfect. Jim experienced the buoyancy in his
sleep. A soft sky blue color enshrouded him.
The nights flooded blue during the twenty-day journey to Galena, which was named for the primary ore
of lead, or lead sulfide. Ancient peoples, such as the native Americans, Egyptians, Romans and
Phoenicians had mined lead. Now, the Americans also mined it for use in ammunition, paint and pipes,
leaded glass, pewter and ceramic glazes.
Early the next morning before the keelboat’s arrival and the sun came up, Chief Lots of Stars combed
his lustrous, blue-black, waistlength hair. He oiled it with castoreum and scented it with sweet herbs.
He primped in preparation for the visit of the men from St. Louis. They came on a peaceful mission.
His runners had notified him of it days ago. He checked himself in a hand-held enamelled mirror
decorated with blue roses and pink camellias. The head chief of the Sacs adorned himself in the fifteen-
foot high, dome-shaped tepee lodge where he lived with one of his wives. His children dressed for their
guests in the lodge of his other wife who was their mother. His two wives and many other women
busily smoked succulent deer and boiled buffalo meat for the welcoming feast. They also boiled and
roasted several varieties of squash, beans and corn. Blue corn, rabbit-soft corn and corn-white and bean-
red, bean-navel-black and bean-white and pumpkin-black, soft-buttock squash and squash-white.
The aroma wafted on gentle May breezes into Chief Lots of Stars' nostrils. He smiled to himself. A
jutting chin and prominent cheekbones graced his face, which was the color of the earth. His eyes, the
color and hardness of obsidian, sparkled with the vitality that exuded from his whole person. His body,
long and muscular, looked years younger than its thirty-eight. A necklace of elongated horizontal cow-
bone beads tapped softly against his hairless, developed chest. He moved like the aristocracy he had
earned and been born into, not in a hurry but purposefully. He set aside the ceremonial tanned skin robe
whose hem depicted pictures of multicolored birds, fruit and flowers. These were the incarnations of
nature which Chief Lots of Stars resembled. He embodied brightness and good fortune.
Chief Lots of Stars felt things that were about to happen. He knew what others were thinking before
they spoke. At night before he retired with one of his two wives, he took time alone in the lodge. No
one was permitted to enter. His people believe that he offered gifts to the gods then. He did pray. He
meditated. He thought. Chief Lots of Stars, who was also called Black Thunder, was a gifted man, a
good man. He wanted a good life for the Sacs. His people planted and harvested. They ate and used
what they hunted and killed. They held ceremonies at the appropriate times.
The Sacs kept the universal order. They broke no sacred codes. Chief Lots of Stars ruled by consensus.
He imposed no orders. His people were like-minded and independent-minded. They wanted what he
wanted. He was a powerful man who gained his stature by keeping his people happy.
An impressive entourage of more than one hundred Sac men, on horseback, accompanied Chief Lots of
Stars to the edge of the Fever River. There they met Chief Bank of the neighboring Fox tribe and his
party of the same size. They assembled in rows of ten to twenty across. The two chiefs waited, side by
side, for Johnson’s tiny flotilla.
Comforted by Eliza’s illusion, Jim awoke from another night to the sound of Jean Louis on night watch
shouting the sighting of the end of the river journey. Jim and the others jumped up, pulled on their
trousers and washed best as they could with a dwindling ration of water. Their clothes looked rumpled;
their hair had grown over their ears; and their hands had lost their softness. They let out sporadic
whoops of joy as they prepared for their last day on the river.
Jim did not know what to expect once they went ashore. His adult encounters with native Americans
had been restricted to observation on the streets of St. Louis.
His childhood contacts, however, were many. When the family first moved to Beckwourth’s Settlement,
the region’s inhabitants regularly attacked the new settlers. Volunteers kept constant watch over the
land. They staked out at a blockhouse in the center of four neighboring houses. Nearly every day, the
settlers took refuge there. Many times, they sought protection needlessly. No one was willing to take a
chance on trust. Fear permeated the air. In the blockhouse, even more so. Mothers shushed their
babies. Fathers wielded weapons. Everyone alerted their senses to danger.
Once, a sparrow flew into the side of the house triggering the shots of many guns through the oblong
wall openings on the second floor. Silence followed the round of fire. A contingent of men left and
skulked about the house. Soon they returned. Hank Latham, the leader of the party, cradled the baby
bird in his palms, its right wing crushed from the impact. They fashioned a wooden splint for it. No one
attacked that day. The settlers returned to their homes, tired and worn. The sparrow took flight a week
later. The newcomers continued to live under siege.
One nightmarish incident, however, Jim could not forget. As a boy of nine, he had discovered the
butchered bodies of eight of his friends and their parents strewn about their house. The Atkins children,
aged one to fourteen, lay in contorted positions of pain in the front yard, their throats slit and their scalps
ripped off. Parents Richard and Virginia lay in the doorway in similar condition. Mrs. Atkins’s open
eyes stared at terror. The blood oozed from the family’s fresh wounds into pools of warm liquid. A doll
that belonged to four-year-old Aggie floated in the puddle beside her little mistress.
Little Jim fell into a daze. He galloped home a mile away. He did not know what happened to the sack
of corn that he had carried halfway to the mill. He ran into his house babbling the gory news to his
father. Jennings sounded the alarm in the settlement. He took up arms and recruited ten of his own
men. Stoked by revenge, the band of fifty stormed out. Two days later, the avengers returned with
eighteen Fox scalps. Nearly two for one.
“Why are you dawdling,” asked Pierre Charbonneau, who slept on the bunk under Jim.
Young Beckwourth shook himself out of the past. He threw water on his face. He joined the others on
deck for a breakfast of porridge. They ate as they worked. Frank, the boatswain, estimated an hour
before their arrival.
The depth of the quirky Fever River had changed overnight. It was too deep for the cordelle. They
pulled out ten oars from the cargo box on deck next to the cramped stateroom where Colonel Johnson,
his son, Darwin Johnson, and mining company officials Marcel February, David Simon and George
Five crew members positioned themselves on either side of the boat. Jim rowed starboard through the
deep. No time seemed to have passed before he spotted a colourful blur ahead. It came into focus as the
boat approached it. The Sac and Fox parties, in their paints and feathers and bones and skins, aroused
Jim’s suspicion and his curiosity.
Everyone carried a rifle. The Sacs, the Foxes and the miners.
Mining officials Kenneth, February and Simon jumped off the boat when it touched land while Colonel
Johnson’s men secured it. They spoke to chiefs Lots of Stars and Bank as men who had come in peace.
They wanted to ensure continued peaceful relations. They had journeyed to request permission to
exploit the lead mines in the area. The two men listened. They offered no thoughts on the matter. They
invited the St. Louis men to the Sac village for an official welcome and feast.
A motley parade of visitors and hosts proceeded on the march. They hiked and rode through practically
indiscernible forest paths and trampled through tangled ravines. When they passed through an open
spot, the leaves of oak and maple and other deciduous trees shook from an occasional breeze and
shimmered a light green. A respectful quiet overtook the group.
While walking through a wooded cavern of darkened images, a rustle startled Jim on his left. An
antelope hid in the bushes waiting for the human cavalcade to go by. Jim cocked his rifle. He prepared
to lift it to eye level when Pierre clamped his hand on Jim’s.
“It is not necessary,” he whispered.
That was all he said. Jim did not argue though he had been hired as a hunter.
Pierre, a solidly built man in his late twenties, hailed from the clingy, moist air of the backwoods of
Louisiana. For a dozen years, he had hunted, trapped and mined in the wilderness. For about as long,
he had been married to a prairie woman twenty years his senior. But on his last journey to the top of the
Illinois, he was told by her people that Sweet Water had vanished.
Some said that enemies of the Illinois people had kidnapped her. Another story was that a grizzly bear
had eaten her. Another claimed that she had lost her way back to the village and starved to death. Pierre
did not know what to believe. Once a lighthearted man, his brown eyes now contained sadness. Some
nights, Jim had heard him cry. He did not know why.
"Two little braves: Sac and Fox" (1898) by Frank A. Rinehart
(From the New York Public Library)
When Jim stepped out of the forest into the Sac village, it was like falling into another world. Seventy
huge lodges dominated the scene. The village buzzed with activity. People moved definitively.
Jim was uneasy. He did not know what they were doing. He did not know these people. He was an
unaware outsider. Young Jim felt his first twinge of homesickness. But it disappeared as he feasted on
the food and then, the newness of the smells, sights and sounds. The welcome lasted into the night.
Negotiations began the next day. Colonel Clayton Morgan, the United States commander of troops
stationed in that region, represented the young government along with Colonel Johnson. Native
American officials Black Thunder, or Chief Lots of Stars, Yellow, Bank and Keokuk removed
themselves completely from daily routine to represent their peoples. The three company officials
attended as spectators. Two translators, one from each side, kept participants clear on whom was saying
what. The white Americans hammered away; the native Americans said little. They trusted the British
The War of 1812 had raged for three years between the British and the young Americans. Both sides
smeared the other among the many western tribes. The Sacs had received many guns, gifts and lessons
from the British. The Johnson talks were the first formal ones between the Sacs and the revolutionaries
since the war’s end five years ago.
All emerged for recesses with frozen faces and unfocused eyes. The Sacs and the Foxes feared that
granting the white Americans permission to mine on their grounds would breed too much fraternization
among their peoples. They thought the new Americans brash, too direct and disrespectful and that
interaction should be limited to business. The newcomers thought the native Americans mysterious,
stoic and superstitious and that they would have to change to accommodate the times. But these
thoughts were not the issues on the floor. They were not voiced but were reflected in the length of time
over which negotiations lasted – nine days. Nine days of wrangling, smoking and pondering.
Finally, they signed a treaty in the spirit of necessity. The visitors bestowed presents on the Sacs and
Foxes as a show of good faith. They gave them what the natives had grown to want – the lethal mix of
whiskey, guns and gunpowder. Knives of different sizes, blankets of various textures, black coffee and
strong tobacco – the contents of a small general store – were presented one by one in a makeshift
The liquor did not keep long. The negotiators immediately shared it with their people. Most everyone
had a taste before it finished. Most got drunk, sloppy, fall-down drunk at the full-blown celebration.
Chief Lots of Stars did not drink. Once, when a previous treaty was signed with the white Americans,
he had tasted whiskey. The caramel colored liquid slid down his throat. It warmed him. He felt
exulted. Then his stomach retched. His head spun around. It only got worse when he shut his eyes.
Finally, he was able to go back to sleep. He stared into the beady, black eyes of a huge buffalo in his
dream. The shaggy animal ran toward its herd numbering in the hundreds. The herd raced toward the
sound of rifles. The buffaloes could not see or smell the men with the guns. They did not sense the
danger. Chief Lots of Stars did.
He woke up sober. He was not tempted to indulge again. But his people did drink. And some craved
Jim and Pierre drank together. They and the other men had stood sentry at their nearby camp throughout
the treaty talks. Their superiors permitted them to drink at the feast but warned them to be cautious.
The travelers welcomed the taste of whiskey and forgot to stay on guard. They had been twenty days on
the river and nine on their feet. They were exhausted. One drink was all they needed to forget
"Dance to the berdache" by Geoge Caitlin (1796-1872) depicts a ceremonial dance to celebrate the two-spirit person among the Sac and Fox Indians. Two-spirit is a modern term used by some native Americans to describe gender-variant individuals.