Shannon Farrington - Frontier Agreement

“Thank you, child, but do not fret,” her mother said.

“I cannot help but fret over you,” Claire replied. “I love you.”

Evening Sky offered her a smile. “And I you...but trust.”

The last word seemed to carry more meaning than just an assurance of her mother’s health, and Claire’s conscience was pricked. When Mr. Lafayette knocked upon the door a few moments later, a crate of supplies in hand, Claire did her best to walk the fine line between cordiality and guardedness, to be shrewd as a serpent but harmless as a dove.

While her mother watched silently from the corner of the room, beadwork in hand, Claire took her place at a rough-hewn desk and began poring over the lists the Frenchmen presented her.

“These are the words Charbonneau and Sacagawea compiled with Mr. Jessaume,” he said. “They say you call yourselves the ‘people of the pheasants.’” He tried to pronounce what had been written. “See-pohs-ka-na—”

“See-pohs-ka-nu-mah-kah-kee,” Claire corrected him.

He struggled to repeat the phrase. “And is Sacagawea ‘of the pheasant people’?”

“No,” Claire explained. “She is of the west. Across the great mountains. She and Otter Woman were captives of war.”

“War seems to be a way of life in this land,” he said.

A land of less than proper society, you mean. “Is it not a way of life in all lands?” she replied. “Those who do not fight for territory or hunting rights fight for gold or covet their neighbor’s possessions.”

She could hear the terseness in her voice and a touch of self-righteousness, too. Again her conscience was pricked. What am I doing? Why do I seek to provoke him? Will it not undermine the purpose for which I have come? Am I not here to foster peace?

She was just about to apologize, but Mr. Lafayette had already moved on. “Captain Lewis also wishes to compile a history of your people,” he said. “Charbonneau has already told us of the early history, how the tribe migrated to this land. He’s told us as well of your relations with neighboring peoples, the wars and the sicknesses that have greatly reduced your numbers.”

“Yes,” Claire acknowledged quietly, her heart squeezing. Her people had been dying for centuries. Dying without the truth. What am I doing to change that?

“What about family life?” he then asked. “Marriage. Children.”

His question touched upon another set of emotions, ones she was determined to keep hidden. She gave Mr. Lafayette only a minimal explanation of marital arrangements. “Marriages are most often arranged by the members of a young woman’s family.” In my case, my uncle. If I do not find a proper husband before the end of spring, Running Wolf will choose one for me. “If a man wishes to accept the prospective bride, he brings her family a gift.”

“Is that part of the formal marriage ceremony?”

“There really isn’t a formal ceremony. At least not in any way to which you would be accustomed. On a certain day, a bride is simply presented to a warrior, and t-they b-begin their life together.” She stammered slightly over that last phrase, unable to keep from wondering just when that certain day would come for her.

“I see,” he said. “And if a man is not pleased with his wife?”

She swallowed back the lump growing in her throat. “A divorce can be easily obtained.” And then he seeks another wife, and if not pleased with her, then another. And even if she does please him, she can be bartered away, or he can take a second wife. She swallowed again. Is this to be my lot in life? Is this to be the continued way of life for the women of my tribe?

There 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.