Elk gulped back a sudden rising in his throat as he remembered the first three sleeps out of New York. The fire boat had crashed up and down and rolled from side to side and he had become sick almost instantly after losing sight of the big town. The farther away from land they went, the rougher the ride. The Indians shared rooms down in the bottom of the boat and they could hear the creaking and groaning and crashing as they lay in their swaying rope beds. There were many Indians in each room and they swung and wept and vomited and sang their death songs. Charging Elk, when he thought back on it, had never seen and heard such fear in his life—not at the fight on the Greasy Grass, not at the surrender at Fort Robinson.
But then the big water calmed down, and the people, exhausted and weak, had come out in the open air and they saw nothing but water and sky forever. At that point they thought they would never see their mother earth again and were frightened all over—but they were alive. And in five more sleeps, the ship was moving slowly along the coast of France to the big port in the north. And the people gave a thanks-giving song to Wakan Tanka and once again were excited by the adventure that lay ahead. They had performed in New York and had liked it and were excited to perform for these new people. But when they set foot on the stone quai, their legs felt strange and they became dizzy and had to stand or sit for some time before maka ina forgave them for leaving her bosom.
Charging Elk now thought that he could take a few sleeps of near-death if it meant that he would be on the home side of the big water. If he didn’t cross over, he would never get home, and that was the truth of it. It would be a hard thing, but if he found an iron boat that flew the flag of America and if he could find some more of the francs for meatsticks and bread, he could do it.
The rain was no longer ticking on the umbrella that Charging Elk held over his head, so he closed it and hung it on his arm. His feet were wet inside the fuzzy slippers and his toes were numb with the cold. But he had made it to the harbor and there were more lights here, tall lights on big poles, and a few humans. Most of them were men and they walked in groups, talking loudly and laughing and striking each other on the back and head. They were drunk and happy, but Charging Elk stayed away from them, sometimes crossing the street to stand in a dark arcade as they passed.
At first, he had been dismayed to see hundreds of boats in the small harbor. Most of them were sailing boats, some small, some large. Their tall sail poles looked like a thick forest of slender skinned trees. Not even in Paha Sapa had he seen such a strange forest. The boats were tied to each other, so that some of the men that Charging Elk watched had to climb over two or three boats before they could disappear below the deck of their own.
As he looked at the harbor full of so many boats, he began to feel confused and he felt the old familiar hopelessness begin to set in. He didn’t see a single iron boat among them, much less one that flew the right flag. The only encouraging thing he noticed was the ease with which one could get on one of these boats.
He started to walk farther along the stone quai, out toward a large tower on a promontory. To his left were a series of restaurants, some with tables and chairs stacked outside under canvas awnings. Of the several that he passed only two were lit up. One of them was empty and the chairs rested upside down on the tables while a solitary wasichu swept the floor. But the other held a large round table just inside the window. Many people, men and women, even a few children, were crowded around the table. Charging Elk saw a big chunk of cooked beef being carved by a waiter in a white shirt and black vest. Bowls of potatoes and other things were being passed around, and Charging Elk felt his mouth water. He watched them all raise their glasses toward the center of the table, then gently strike their glasses with their neighbors. It was for a good wish. Sometimes in Paris, the Indians had gone to big houses with their bosses and had learned that it was necessary to make wishes with the glasses. Now Charging Elk became thirsty for the mnisha. The Indians weren’t supposed to drink it—just as they weren’t supposed to make friends with the French women—but they sometimes managed to sneak a few bottles back to camp. At first, Broncho Billy, their interpreter, would buy it for them for a few centimes that he would put in his pocket, but after a while Charging Elk and his friends realized that they could walk into a wineshop and pick out some bottles by themselves. The shopowners didn’t know that Buffalo Bill frowned on the Indians who drank. He had even sent two of the Oglalas and one Brule back to America for drinking too much.
Charging Elk smiled as he remembered the first time he had tried to pull the cork out of a bottle with the piece of curly iron. Somehow only the top half of the cork came out, and when he tried to capture the rest with the iron screw, he pushed it down into the bottle. And when he tipped it up, the half cork plugged up the neck. It caused great laughter among his friends, as each time he tipped the bottle nothing came out. Featherman solved the problem by pushing the cork into the bottle with the stiletto knife he had bought in Paris and pouring the wine into a tin cup.
Charging Elk stood in the shadows outside the window and watched the platter of meat being passed around. He imagined that he could smell it and that he could taste it. He had gorged on meat the size of the roast by himself, when he and Strikes Plenty killed an elk in Paha Sapa. But mostly they lived on rabbits and porcupines and sage hens; sometimes deer. The big animals had become increasingly scarce in the years he lived at the Stronghold. Many times in winter he had been as hungry as he was just before he stole the iron road policeman’s bread and cheese. Strikes Plenty was right. Their friendship probably couldn’t have survived another winter of near starvation at the Stronghold.
Although the rain had stopped, a wind had come up from the northwest and now Charging Elk could hear the harsh snapping of pieces of cloth tied to the tall poles of the big boats. Strings of white lights slung from the tops of the poles to the ends of many of the boats swayed and cast moving shadows on the water. The wind was fresh, but because of the clouds, Charging Elk wasn’t as cold as he had been during the earlier starlit nights when he would awake with white frost on the papers he would drape over himself.
Charging Elk had torn himself away from the family of eaters and was now walking farther along the quai, away from the big street he had followed from Rond Point du Prado. He would keep that street in mind as a landmark, but now he wanted to make sure there were no fire boats tied to the wooden ones. He prayed to Wakan Tanka to give him a sign, to show him the flag of America. Or the name of the fire boat that had brought him to this land. The Persian Monarch. Before they left New York, before they boarded the giant boat, Broncho Billy had pointed out the name on the front. He had said Persia was way to the east even of the land they were going to. People there wore shiny clothes and the monarch—some kind of king that the people didn’t hate—kept large flocks of comely women for his pleasure. They just lay about and waited until he called on one or two of them. The Indians were used to Broncho Billy’s lies and they didn’t believe this idea; still, some of the Indians, like the Blackfeet, were said to have as many as four or five wives if they could afford them. The Lakota men could rarely afford two wives. Maybe a king, who commanded many people, could have as many of the women as he wanted. Featherman joked that he would stay on the boat when it got to their destination and see if it would take him to these women. That was before the near death of seasickness.
As Charging Elk walked along the quai, he idly looked up a street that led away from the port. He stopped and looked again. In the distance of two street corners, he could see soft but bright yellow light. And he saw small figures, many of them, all walking one way. The yellow light seemed warm at this distance, warmer than the white lights of the port. By now, the wind had begun to bite through Charging Elk’s coat, and his feet tingled in the now-soaked fuzzy slippers. He had become increasingly preoccupied with his health the past few sleeps. He knew if he had to go back to the house of sickness he would lose this opportunity to find his way home. And he had the gnawing feeling that he would just become sicker there. Death visited that house too often, and he felt certain it would take him away next time.
Charging Elk passed
