Make Me a City Page 3
Pointe de Sable doted on the boy not, as some might assume, because he was his only male grandchild. He doted on him out of shame. To explain: Wabaunsee was the illegitimate child of Pointe de Sable’s son Jean Jacques and a Potawatomie woman to whom Pointe de Sable had never been introduced. Maybe that would not have mattered overmuch, had Jean Jacques been a responsible father. But he was unreliable, lazy and frequently drunken. Pointe de Sable tried to shoulder as much as he could of his son’s neglected parental responsibility. That was why he wanted his estate to bypass Jean Jacques in favor of Wabaunsee, and that was why the boy would always be his blind spot.
* * *
Maybe it happened that evening. Maybe the next. She could not be certain. In later life, when she had frequent nightmares, Eulalie would look back with disbelief at how deeply she had been able to sleep as a child, before, that is, the arrival of Mr. Kinzie. It was as though she were someone else in those days, a fairy-tale girl with fancy clothes who lived in the magic world of her grandparents with its comforting smells of baking, of newly split timber and cedar-scented soap.
She could tell, before opening her eyes, that it was still dark outside. Even so, she woke up instantly. She reckoned it must have been the perfume that jolted her into consciousness—the sharp mix of bitter oranges and the bite of salt and the flash of lightning. The door was closing, softly, to the room she shared with her mother at the far end of the house’s long corridor. Only a moonlit gleam came in through the shutter, enough to illuminate Mr. Kinzie’s shape curving away into the darkness, like one of those trees on the riverbank bent over by a big wind. Her mother was sitting upright, holding the blanket to her chin. She was whispering questions: why are you here, what do you want? “Please go away, Mr. Kinzie. You’ll wake Eulalie.” He was kneeling in front of her mother’s low bed.
She could not hear or understand everything Mr. Kinzie said but, despite her tender age, she knew he was trying to persuade her mother to do something she did not want to do. There was nothing normal about the way he spoke. Sometimes he sounded too kind, sometimes he seemed to be threatening her. Over the last few days, Mr. Kinzie had paid a lot of attention to her mother. Eulalie hated Mr. Kinzie for that.
The tone of his voice changed again. He was lonely. He had feelings for her. If she let him come underneath that blanket, he promised all Pointe de Sable’s problems would disappear and nobody would take his property away from him. Mr. Kinzie would return to St. Joseph and never come back. St. Joseph was a fine town, and he wanted her mother to go there with him. “I like you very much, Susannah. Fate has brought us together. I will change your life.” Her mother interrupted, pushing his hand away, telling him to stop this silly talk. He would wake the child. Eulalie shut her eyes tight and held her breath. There was a rustle of cloth and she smelled his grunty breath. A finger touched her lips, and stayed there. It was terribly cold, like a piece of ice.
“Out like a log,” Mr. Kinzie informed her mother.
As if they were communicating in the same unspoken language, she understood that the freezing finger was an order to stay silent. After what seemed like ages, the finger withdrew.
Her mother asked him to leave.
“Send me away, Susannah, and your lives here are finished. Your father will lose everything. It’s an easy decision, ain’t it?”
There was another burst of the bitter perfume as Mr. Kinzie rose from his knees. He was trying to get into the bed. Her mother was holding the blanket tight, pushing him away. Where Eulalie’s strength came from, she had no idea. Her fear seemed to evaporate. She threw herself at Mr. Kinzie’s back. She bit through his shirt and scratched at him and maybe she would have screamed except that his hand was pressed down on her mouth and he was throttling her with the other, and his face was against hers, full of stinky breath. Her mother was begging him to let her go. “She’s only a child.”
Mr. Kinzie hissed instructions at Eulalie. She was to wait in the corridor, “in silence, not a squeak out of you. Understand?” If she did that for him, he promised she would be safe and her mother would be safe. “But if not…” He squeezed her throat until she was choking again and there were tears in her eyes. Her mother was begging Mr. Kinzie to leave her be. At last, he released her.
“Do what he says,” whispered her mother in a halting voice. “Everything here is fine.”
“That’s better,” said Mr. Kinzie. “Much better.”
He opened the door, pushed Eulalie outside and pressed his finger once more against her lips. As soon as the door closed behind him, she ran.
The timbers pounded beneath her feet, and in no time at all she was past the bedroom doors of that long dark corridor and inside the keeping room where the night air was still heavy with smoke and whiskey, damp and warm against her cheeks, with no thoughts inside her head except that she must stop Mr. Kinzie and save her mother and save Gray Curls and if she did that she would save everything and nothing would have to change, and they could stay there for ever and ever.
She must have picked up a wooden bowl because that was what she used, with both hands, to pound the nearest, shiniest object she could see, which was her grandmother’s favorite copper kettle, the biggest of all her kettles, the one displayed on its own small stool, the one Eulalie had never seen her use. It sounded like a gong, then a bell, then a drum, and then—as it toppled to the floor—like all three of them together.
The house awoke. It exploded with shouts and people and lamps, and there was running and guns and fear, and someone must have taken away the wooden bowl because the next thing Eulalie remembered was finding herself hidden in the folds of her grandmother’s nightdress.
That old copper kettle would survive both the Great Chicago Fire of 1871 and a subsequent fire in 1874 at the home of lawyer J. Young Scammon where it was being held in temporary storage, along with other items of interest to the Chicago Historical Society. You can still see the dents made on its surface, all those years ago, by the four-year-old granddaughter of Mr. Pointe de Sable.
Everyone assumed that Eulalie’s outburst was caused by a nightmare. And she, poor girl, whose utterances had gone no further yet than “snag,” was able neither to explain nor to understand what she had witnessed. When she grew older, though, she would be under no illusions about what had almost happened that night.
The copper kettle was placed back on its stand and calm restored. Everyone returned to bed. Everyone, that is, except Wabaunsee. He waited until all were fast asleep again before stealing into the room where the guests, Uncle Jean and Mr. Kinzie (now back in his allotted bed), were lodged. As Pointe de Sable put it in his journal, Wabaunsee “fans the bag of Kinzie man, finds a perfum in a silvry pot engravd with flowres and lettrs, and empties it over the visitrs face. Kinzie man wakns, cryin out that his eyes be on fire, and that probly not far from the truth neither because next day they be glowin red and streamin like a tragdy.”
Pointe de Sable was a man whose behavior was guided by an innate sense of right and wrong. In his journals, he refers more than once to his belief that “there is indeed justice in the world,” as if he imagines the existence of heavenly scales in which all our deeds on earth will one day be weighed. Those scales, he thinks, will ultimately favor right over wrong, truth over falsehood, honesty over deceit, and the triumph of reason over force. It is an inspiring, optimistic doctrine that history has all too often proven to be misplaced. But it was presumably this conviction that persuaded Pointe de Sable to concede that the visitor be permitted to punish Wabaunsee. For however rude Mr. Kinzie might be, however sinister his intentions, however wrongful his killing of the “cyotie cat,” he was still a guest of the household. Wabaunsee had acted toward their visitor in a way that could not be condoned.
Pointe de Sable left the house with Mr. Lalime early the next morning to work on a new storehouse he was building. This was a terrible miscalculation. A distraught Eulalie appeared some time later and tugged frantically at his sleeve, while pointing toward the h
ouse. Though he dropped everything and ran as fast as he could, he arrived too late to stop the worst of the beating. Mr. Kinzie, instead of waiting for Pointe de Sable to bear witness to the punishment, had chosen to exact his revenge at once in an empty household. He was still crouching over Wabaunsee, who lay prone on the puncheon floor, limp and defenseless. Blood wept out of purple welts (“big like wagon weels”) across his back. As yet another blow rained down, the boy neither flinched nor uttered a sound. Pointe de Sable hurled himself at Mr. Kinzie, who was now in the process of taking a knife to Wabaunsee’s cheek. “The wild beest wants to be an Indjun savidge, says Kinzie man, then by damnashun he can look like one.” Before it could be stopped, the boy’s cheek had been slashed. He would be scarred for life.
Pointe de Sable ordered Mr. Kinzie to leave his house at once, or he would personally take the whip on him. “You try to whup me, ole mulatto man, says Kinzie man, and I brake your legs. He swallws anuther horn of mine whiskey, and then he leeves.”
Wabaunsee, despite his fragile state, remained impassive as his wounds were tended by the ladies of the house. Pointe de Sable sat by his side for the rest of the afternoon. At some point, he removed the copper necklace he wore and placed it around the boy’s neck, telling him to wear it always for protection. It would keep him safe in the future, he said, in times of danger and misfortune. He does not mention in his journal whether, as he handed it over, he also told Wabaunsee the Potawatomie story about Nambi-Za, to explain the necklace’s significance; probably, though, he would have recounted that tale often enough before. Nor does he record his own feelings at surrendering the necklace to his grandson. There is little doubt, given his belief in the power of the talisman, that he would have been only too aware of how vulnerable its loss rendered him. As to whether Wabaunsee was a worthy recipient of that precious gift, only time would tell.
One can assume that his brutal treatment at the hands of Mr. Kinzie did much to harden the boy’s immature heart against white men. A few days later, when a group of Potawatomies passed through Echicagou, Wabaunsee asked his grandfather whether he could travel with them to visit his mother. This was not an unusual occurrence, so Pointe de Sable saw no reason to object. Although he had never met the boy’s mother, he suspected she was a kindly influence on Wabaunsee, and that after such an ordeal it was a good idea for the boy to seek her support.
The decision to allow him to leave was one he would revisit time and time again. Wabaunsee departed with that group of Potawatomies, never to return. The loss of his grandson would break Pointe de Sable’s heart, and trouble his conscience for the rest of his life.
* * *
Mr. Kinzie did not leave the house that afternoon, as had been demanded of him. When at last he rose from Wabaunsee’s bedside in the early evening, Pointe de Sable found the visitor making a list of his household possessions. “I sees the list. 1 coper kettle 10 gal (damagd), 1 coper kettle 7 gal, 1 coper kettle 3½ gal.” And so on. He called Jean Lalime aside and insisted that Mr. Kinzie leave at once and never come back, only to be reminded that the visitor was backed by powerful men in St. Joseph. Despite his abhorrent cruelty toward Wabaunsee, said Lalime, nothing would be achieved by sending Mr. Kinzie away. He would only return with reinforcements. These men wanted Pointe de Sable’s house, his land and outbuildings and trading post, and, one way or another, they would have it. One must wonder, given this response, whether Lalime was merely being realistic, whether he was utterly spineless, or—worst of all—whether he was in league with those “powerful men” himself. Pointe de Sable never seems to doubt his friend, despite the fact that Lalime had acted as the conduit for Mr. Kinzie in the first place.
Despite this warning from Lalime, Pointe de Sable refused to capitulate. “Then we must be findin’ a way,” he said, “to stop them wantin’ it.” Mr. Kinzie, he told Lalime, had to be persuaded to return to St. Joseph and tell those “powerful men” they were wasting their time, that the Pointe de Sable house had no value, that the land was a swamp, and that the trading post did no business worth the name. But why on earth, asked Lalime, would Mr. Kinzie do that?
Pointe de Sable drew him close and revealed an ingenious, madcap plan. Mr. Kinzie was one of the best chess players in St. Joseph? Very well. Lalime should tell Mr. Kinzie that Pointe de Sable was willing to wager his entire estate on the outcome of a game of chess. Not only that, but Pointe de Sable would offer to play the game blindfolded. Lalime was alarmed by the idea. And, anyway, what would happen if there was no winner? “Then we goe play till there be one. Dont be worryin, Jean, I seen this kinda man afore. He cant say no to a challinge from an ‘ole mulatto man.’ He nevr dream he could be losin. Beleeve me, he will.”
Lalime tried to persuade him it was a foolish idea, that Pointe de Sable could never win, not even with his eyes wide open, because Kinzie was a brilliant player. Pointe de Sable, though, simply repeated his proposal and set conditions. First, Lalime would referee the game; second, Kinzie would sign an agreement strong enough to put before an attorney in Washington that, if he lost the game, he would report back to those “powerful men” in St. Joseph that the Pointe de Sable land, property, possessions and trading post were worthless. And if Mr. Kinzie won the game? “Then I sell ever’thing to you, Jean.” But why would he sell it to him? “’Cause if I have to sell to someone, I bettr sell to a frend than a nogood. But dont be worryin. This nevr gonna happn, Jean. Nevr.”
The entry in Pointe de Sable’s journal that describes the chess contest is touching, and it is worth repeating here, but I must warn my readers that the account breaks off shortly after the game itself begins. Only many years after the event took place, did Eulalie reveal to me how that evening ended.
Extract from the Journal of Jean Baptiste Pointe de Sable
Its a prettie sumer evenin. I sit with mine eyes tite shut for that I figgerin if I done rite or wrong. I dont touch mine pipe nor whiskey but start thinkin on the bord, on evry peece waitin in its place to play, for to make the pikter strongr in mine mind. Lalime comes out. He tells me Kinzie man he made the consent and signalized the agreement, and it can be brung afore all the attrneys in St Josef and Detroit and Washingtn and nobodie nevr find no leak. And he garanty it all writ down lawful with warranty deeds. I thank my frend from mine hart. You, I say, you be a trustin kind of man. But tell me this, Jean, why you sweatin so bad? He tells me mebbe he comin down with the agues or fevers, it that time of year. Then he looks away. I know it aint no fever. Hes skeered bout wot happns. Thats cause hes afeard for me and I thinkin mebbe I should tell the truth how that my father lernt me chess with the blindfold, the bettr to see the storie on the bord in the darknss of mine mind. Mebbe I should tell him it was no surprse I win guvner Sinclare with mine eyes blinded cause thats how I play the best. Mebbe I should tell that the guvner be so impressd he set me free and give me the walrus ivry chessbord for a gift. Mebbe I should tell that for a Englsh, the guvner was a trusting kind of man, the same as you, Jean Lalime. Mebbe I should tell mine frend these things, but I nevr do for that we go inside straitways to play the game.
Cathrin and Susanna are lookin afeard as deer by the door, and My littel Euladie tugs at mine cote, pointin at Kinzie man. I run mine fingers thro her goldish curls, and wisper that I hope them curls never go gray like mine. She repeatin to me the word she lernt, the first word she ever talkd, wich word be SNAG. I unnerstan. She tellin me go carefull of Kinzie man, that he like to a snag hiddn up ahead in the great rivr of life.
Lalime brung out the set of walrus ivry and counts evry peece and puts them in the propper place. And afore Kinzie put the blak stockin on me so tite my eyes cant take breth I lookin at that bord close for the last time and I see it in mine mind like a gloryous pikter, evry peece in its place and ready to move. And I smile for that in front of all the roylty and nobilty, the pawns awready skrapin there hoofs on the bord, ready to surprse that paleface Kinzie man like the pawns in the world, they always do brung surprse. For its the pawns of the 3rd rank
that do the winnin, not the bishps or nites or castls, and they be the soul of chess, like we pawns be the soul of the world too, also.
Mine eyes go into the blakness. Lalime says that Kinzie’s made an Englsh open, wite pawn E4, so I tell him to move the blak pawn E6 wich is the French defense I use gainst guvner Sinclare and thats how we start, and this is a good sign because I know if there be any justce in the world, I wont nevr lose to Kinzie man.
1812
PROMISES
August 14, 1812
It is hot and humid with only the faintest breeze, so slight Eulalie cannot see a single ripple break the surface of the wide, slow river. The water reflects the harshness of the midday sun in a shiny pewter glow. Mosquitoes flit above the surface. She digs in one heel to gain a better purchase in the mud as they scrub and beat the last sheet against the flatness of the scalding rock, working from one end each. Cicely begins to sing in her lilting, tuneful voice. “Walkin’ All the Way to Heav’n” is one of Eulalie’s favorites. She hums along to the chorus line.
After the sheet is washed and wrung, they lay it alongside the others, flattening the spiky grass as they do so, weighing down each corner with a stone. They shake out the sodden bottoms of their skirts and retreat to the shade of a cluster of scrub oaks. While Cicely checks on Juba, her sleeping baby, Eulalie sits with her back to a tree trunk and dabs her neck with a pocket handkerchief, warning herself not to scratch the bites. She will treat them later with the lotion Isaac has given her, made from wild garlic, witch hazel and cedar oil. She is hot and tired from the morning’s work. But she is also excited and cannot stop herself from glancing again toward the path that leads to the Fort.
She inspects her chafed, puffy hands. The soap they used was poor, more gritty ash than grease. Removing her hat, she adjusts the earlock curl. That’s the problem with doing the laundry. You end up looking disheveled, and she hates that feeling, just as she hates wearing the same patched, threadbare skirt day after day. Isaac has promised to buy her new cloth as soon as they reach St. Joseph. And if there’s none to be had there, they will buy it in St. Charles. For a few moments, Eulalie thinks wistfully of St. Charles and its fine streets and shops, and how thrilling it will be to present Isaac to her grandfather.