was little regard for the sacredness of marriage here, and certainly no concept of what it was meant to reflect—a partnership, mutual affection and joy, such as the love Christ had for his bride, the church. Nothing like what my mother and father had.
“I see,” he said once again. “We’d also like to learn more of your religious beliefs.”
“I worship God the Father and His son, Jesus, as does my mother,” Claire said without hesitation, “but my Mandan people do not.”
“I suspected you did. I saw you bow your head to give thanks for the meat. I, too, am a Christian.”
To that, Claire said nothing. She’d seen men claim the name of Christ before, then do the very opposite of what His holy words commanded. She cast a glance at her mother. She had seen it, as well.
Evening Sky eyed her silently, but there was no hint of anger or resentment on her face.
The Frenchman then pointed to the parchment in front of her. “In your opinion, are the vocabulary lists accurate?”
Claire perused what had been compiled so far. “With the exception of one or two minor discrepancies.”
“Would you be kind enough to correct them?” He dipped the quill in the ink well, then handed it to her.
The feel of the feather, the scratch of the nub against the parchment, brought back a host of childhood memories. There had been no other children in her little Illinois community and therefore no school, but a visiting French priest had taught her the basics of reading and writing one autumn when her father was away.
Leaning closer, Mr. Lafayette perused the corrections she was making. Claire couldn’t help but notice the broadness of his shoulders, the firmness of his jaw. He smelled of leather, gunpowder and coffee—strong, pleasing scents.
She shook off the thoughts as the bugle sounded. He abruptly stepped back.
“That’s the call for supper,” he explained.
Good, Claire thought. Then you can be on your way.
He rolled up the parchments, tied them with sinew. Looking then to her mother, he said, “Captain Lewis asks that you join us for the meal.”
Evening Sky understood enough of his request to know hospitality had been extended. Such was commended among not only Christians but also Mandans. The older woman smiled appreciatively and nodded.
Claire, however, was not so eager.
Mr. Lafayette bowed to her mother. “Then I’ll see you both at the campfire,” he said, and with that, he left the room.
“You do not like him,” her mother said matter-of-factly after Claire had shut the door behind him.
“No. I do not,” she admitted.
“And why is that?”
Though a thousand thoughts and fears marched through her mind, the only coherent objection Claire could voice was the comment he’d made about proper society.
“Perhaps he did not mean it the way it sounded,” Evening Sky said. “Grant him grace, child, and take heed that you do not harbor unforgiveness in your heart. It is like a weed. It will strangle any good fruit you wish to cultivate.”
The unforgiveness Evening Sky warned against was prompted by the memory of Phillip Granger, the man who had stolen away what rightfully belonged to her and her mother. Claire drew in a breath. She had tried to forgive the man but couldn’t quite bring herself to do so, at least not with any lasting effect.
Bitterness and suspicion still darkened her heart. Which is why I do not trust Mr. Lafayette or his captains...and it is likely the very reason I have seen no progress with my family. I am hindering the spread of the gospel.
Her mother smiled at her tenderly. “You are a brave and conscientious daughter,” she said, “and I am honored to have given birth to you and to have raised you, but you are not the Great Father. You cannot govern how others seek to treat you any more than you can restrain the rain clouds. All that you can control is your response.”
And my response is crucial to peace—peace not only now but also in eternity. She wanted to be a light, but she knew she could not be one if she did not remain humble before God, if she did not walk in His ways. There was no room for suspicion, for haughtiness or hardness of heart along His path.
God, forgive me. Help me...
Evening Sky kissed her daughter’s forehead. “Come,” she said. “We mustn’t keep our hosts waiting.”
With an uneasy sigh and the whisper of another prayer, Claire assisted her mother to the door.
Claire silently ate the meat that had been doled out to her. Once again she was under the scrutiny of those around her. She could feel their stares. But for the two American captains who approached her to test a few of their newly acquired words, welcome, thank you, eat, peace, Claire spoke to no one.
Mr. Lafayette watched her from across the cooking fire but did not venture any conversation. Claire’s mother, however, having noticed a torn seam in his coat, got up from her place and made signs to the Frenchman. With quicker understanding this time than he had shown during Black Cat’s offer of assistance, he shrugged off his coat. With a grateful smile and a merci, he handed it to Claire’s mother.
Returning to her place beside her daughter, Evening Sky drew out a needle and a length of sinew from her deerskin pouch. At once she began mending the torn seam. The men crowded around the fire continued to stare. Claire marveled once again at her mother’s quiet grace. Her words repeated through her mind. “You cannot govern how others seek to treat you any more than you can restrain the rain clouds. All that you can control is your response.”
And these men have souls, Claire thought, like my Mandan family. If they do not know Christ...then perhaps she had been placed at this fort for higher purpose than vocabulary. After all, peace between the neighboring tribes and with the white men could be achieved only if true peace came to each heart.
She wanted to walk God’s path. If His path meant assisting a fort full of soldiers, responding kindly to their curious stares and ignorant remarks, then so be it.
Charity slowly slaked her fear. Looking to Mr. Lafayette, she said, “Please tell your men if they have clothing that needs to be repaired, we will gladly see to it.”
He relayed the message. At once the soldiers scurried to their quarters, returning with shirts, stockings and various items of buckskin and broadcloth. As the articles piled at her feet, Claire silently withdrew her own needle from her pouch and set to work. Curiosity soon waned. The men stopped staring. The gentle hum of conversation drifted about, some of it French, some of it English. Most of it centered on hunting elk, buffalo and the prize they all seemed to want most—the great brown bear.
Claire couldn’t help but remember her father’s stories of the beast. He’d been eager to track one as well, until the day came when one tracked him.
“I
