The Floor of Heaven by Howard Blum Page B

routine that, with few deviations and certainly no debate, had been part of the daily rhythm of life in Sitka for more than seventy-five years.
    Only now George decided to break it. He went through the wicker gate, and walked into the Indian camp.
    THE FIRST thing that struck him was the smell. The air was thick with the acrid odor of smoke, cooking whale blubber, and dried salmon. His nostrils felt as if they were on fire. It was such a high, foul odor that for a moment he decided he’d made a colossal mistake. He did not belong on this side of the fence. But he reminded himself of what was at stake, of what he was trying to accomplish, and then he continued on into the heart of the camp.
    The Indians lived in small cabins made from cedar logs, and the homes seemed to have been placed about the camp on whim; he could not detect any logic or art in their arrangement. Some were almost touching each other; others were remote, as isolated as if they were foreign countries. As he got farther into the encampment, word must have spread about the stranger because Indians emerged from the cabins and began to surround him. They looked at him quizzically and, he realized, with suspicion.
    He was soon standing in the center of a haphazard circle. He stared back at their brown faces with their flat noses and deep-set dark eyes and did his best to offer up a reassuring smile. There was a long, tense moment when no one moved. The Tlingits studied the intruder. George, feeling more ridiculous than frightened, stood at rigid attention with a happy grin fixed on his face.
    At last, when he thought the moment was right, he reached into the pockets of his heavy blue marine coat. With each hand he extracted a bottle of whiskey. It was strictly forbidden to sell whiskey to the Indians; the punishment was a month in the stockade. And George had no idea what sentence would be doled out to the marine who, asking nothing in return, freely gave liquor to the Indians. He doubted, in fact, that his superiors had even contemplated such an unlikely situation. But with gestures and his nonsensical smile, George made it clear to the Indians that he was doing just that. Here was whiskey, yours for the taking.
    It took several moments before the Indians were convinced this was not a white man’s trick of some kind. But once the first brave took a long swig from the bottle and there were no unexpected consequences, they all stepped forward. Soon the bottles were drained dry.
    During that unexpectedly warm summer, George made many trips through the wicker gate and on into the Indian compound. He never appeared without a bottle or two. And in return, he began his education.
    It was a more difficult process than he’d previously imagined. Before he could acquire any valuable knowledge or learn the Tlingits’ ways, he realized, he had to learn their language. In this he was methodical. And, he discovered to his delight, he had a genuine gift. He would leave the compound and hurry back to the barracks to transcribe what he’d learned that day. His Chinook—as the white men offhandedly lumped together the many dialects spoken by the hundreds of Indian clans—kept growing.
    He was proud of this accomplishment, and he could not wait to share his newfound knowledge with the person who mattered most to him. In a letter to his sister, Rose, he was careful not to reveal his ultimate plan, but he did not hesitate to give her a feel of all that he was learning. In two neat columns on a single piece of white paper he created a practical dictionary:
    CHINOOK ENGLISH
    Nika sick tumtum nik tika nanitch mika. I am lonesome for I want to see you.
    Spoke nika iskum Nika illahee nanitch Mika. If some money I will go home to see you.
    Spose mika tika Cultus coolie klosh Mika chako kopa Juneau nanitch nika. I want to go on a pleasure trip you come to Juneau to see me.
    It was just a small glossary of phrases, but it was a revealing one. I am lonesome … a pleasure trip. In his