From Sea to Shining Sea

by JAMES ALEXANDER Thom

  “What?”

  “That Ma was still here, so we could walk in and tell ’er.”

  “Aye, Brother,” William said. “Wouldn’t ye love to see her face!”

  “Ha, ha! She’d probably have some proverb on the proper way to greet a Megalonyx!”

  Fanny smiled and put her hand over her mouth, but her eyes were suddenly abrim with tears at the thought of her mother.

  “Here’s to Ma,” said George, hoisting his glass, “who gave us the red in our hair and the flint in our soul.”

  The brothers clicked their glasses and drank, then William hoisted his again. Fanny’s children, wearied by their play, were coming up the meadow toward the porch, likely thinking of supper. A smell of roast meat was wafting from the kitchen house.

  “And here’s to Pa, who gave us kind hearts and steel in our sinew,” said William.

  “Aye. To Pa.”

  “To them both. May they rest in peace together.”

  Fanny rose from her chair, her lip between her teeth, touched each brother on the shoulder, and then moved across the porch to meet her sons and steer them into the house. In this family, it seemed to her, no matter what might have befallen any old dream, there was always a new dream.

  George and William sat in the light of the descending sun, drinking, mellow, looking westward, making hmmms in their throats, thinking of rivers. “Tell me,” George asked eventually, “just how drunk might ye be willin’ to get?”

  “Hard to say, Brother, hard to say. But before we find out, let’s us go eat, and tell those boys o’ Fanny’s some tall tales.” Once again, subtly, William was steering George from the bottle.

  “By damn, that’s a good idea,” said George. “They could stand to hear about how I first met Logan the Mingo, couldn’t they?”

  “And I’ll do y’ one better,” William replied. “I’ll tell ’em how I met Indians I’ve not even met yet!”

  “Capital!” George gripped his chair arms to hoist his stiff frame. He grunted. He swayed a little, then limped toward the door. “I think you should tell ’em about the giant Sioux chief who rides to church on a wild mammoth.”

  William rubbed his eyes and followed George in, chuckling. “To church? A Sioux?”

  “Well, then, make him a Delaware. It doesn’t matter, as long as it’s the truth. Hey, I’m going to miss you, Billy. I wish I could be along.”

  “Hey, George. One thing’s sure: with me, you’re always along.”

  31

  FALLS OF THE OHIO

  October, 1803

  EVERYONE STOOD STILL AND WATCHED AS GENERAL GEORGE Rogers Clark clumped stiffly back and forth with his cane and old army boots across the deck and in and out of the cabin of the keelboat that Captain Lewis had had built at Pittsburgh. George would tap the new, fragrant, yellow-gray oaken deck planks and gunwales with his hickory walking-stick and listen to the clack, clack with a tilted ear as if he were a musician tuning a fine instrument. The men on deck watched him and said nothing; the only other sounds were the burble of the sparkling Ohio around the hull, the steady rush of the Falls a few hundred yards upstream, the rustle of golden autumn foliage in a cool breeze, and the murmuring voices of the crowd of soldiers and townspeople on the wharf and the shore. Meriwether Lewis, dressed for this occasion in his full army uniform of the new style with parallel rows of buttonhole braid, a cocked bicorn hat on his head, stood with his thick bowlegs wide apart and his hands clasped behind his back, waiting patiently and glancing from one to another of the Clark brothers as the old warrior, in his obsolete, swallow-tailed, buff-and-blue Revolutionary War uniform, appraised the vessel. General Clark’s coat was creased and linty and smelled of camphor from its long hibernation in a chest, but he looked grand and grave and dignified. He reminded Lewis of Washington.

  William Clark, in a new captain’s uniform, hat in hand, strolled alongside his brother, pink-cheeked with pride, merry eyes glinting like new blue buttons through his red lashes, his copper-red forelock now and then stirred by the breeze, and he turned once or twice to wink at young Lewis. Two other Clark brothers stood on the deck, likewise tall and solid. There was Edmund, with his thick red hair, fortyish, a little jowly now; and Jonathan, prosperous-looking, with graying sidewhiskers. Jonathan was thinking that poor Captain Lewis had inherited his father’s looks instead of his mother’s.

  Standing near Lewis’s feet was a huge, black, broad-skulled Newfoundland dog, panting with the tip of a pink tongue hanging from his grinning mouth, watching the old general tap about. At length the quiet intensity of the scene made the dog look up at Lewis with quizzical eyes, and a long, squeaking whimper from his throat intruded on the stillness. “Hush, Scannon,” Captain Lewis whispered, and the dog flopped down with his chin on his forepaws to continue watching the man with the cane tap on his master’s boat.

  Finally, George whacked the mast once with his cane and turned to Lewis.

  “Well, Captain, she’s snug and sturdy enough for your purpose, I’d reckon. And roomy in th’ hold. Shows care and skill. Not bad. As I told William, it’s a bigger scow than I’d ever want to haul so far up the Missouri. But not bad. Do what I said, like I did on the Willing. Have your carpenters make hinged lockers along here, that can be put up as breastwork. M, hm. She’s fifty-five feet, y’ say? And draws how much?”

  “Three feet unloaded,” said Lewis. “About four loaded.”

  “Not bad. The shallower the better, from what I’ve seen o’ the Missouri.”

  “I’m glad you think she was worth waitin’ for,” Lewis said, a bit surly. “Those scoundrelly boatwrights took twice as long and charged me twice as much as I expected. Lazy louts, drunkards! They’d get a skinful when ye’d think—” He stopped suddenly, his eyes darting with embarrassment, apparently just remembering General Clark’s reputation as a sot.

  “Well,” George said with a wry smile, “I’ve noticed that among boatwrights myself.”

  William looked ashore at the crowd. There was a colorful mob of rivermen, citizens, Negroes, and even Indians on the bank and the wharf, talking in groups and admiring the vessel. Among the onlookers were his sisters Fanny, Ann, and Lucy, with a horde of their children. Sitting on the dock atop William’s field desk and trunk was York, red bandanna on his head and a gold ring in his right ear, beaming and nodding importantly, talking to a cluster of river folk and slaves. Since learning that he would be a member of this portentous and mysterious journey for the Government, York had become something of a star in his own eyes and had been making the most of his newfound eminence. Right now he was rubbing his great paunch with his palm and telling his listeners:

  “Mast’ Billy say he cou’n’ go lest I go ’long.”

  “York.” William spoke to him over the side.

  “Jessaminit,” York advised his audience, then rolled his eyes up and said, “Yes, Mast’ Billy?”

  “I thought ye had my gear on board long ago.”

  “Oh, why, no, sir, I surely don’t yet.”

  “Well, then, by heaven, if it won’t impose on ye too much, maybe y’ could bestir that great bulk o’ yours and do it, ere we cast off. What sayee, my man?”

  “Why, surely could, surely could, sir,” York replied cheerfully, smiling large, and with an apologetic nod to his listeners, he began thrashing like a beached whale to rise.

  Jonathan grinned. “There, I think,” he said to William, “might prove to be your chiefest load to pull up the Missouri.”

  “He’ll work out,” William said. “York, what did I promise I’d do if ye prove dead weight?”

  York, standing now and reaching down for the chest, straightened up and rolled his eyes. “Feed me to the Mammus,” he said in what may have been either real or mock fright.

  “Aye. So now shake a leg there. Mammoths,” William explained to Jonathan.

  York reached down and grasped one handle of the heavy chest, snatched it up as easily as if it were empty, and guided it onto his shoulder. Then, with his other han
d, he hoisted the field desk and held it aloft as if he were bearing a tea service. He started up the gangplank.

  “See?” William said to Jonathan. “Even loafin’, he can do three men’s work. I think we’ll be glad we brought ’im.”

  Some of the soldiers Lewis had drafted on the way down the river were in their shirt sleeves, at work putting aboard kegs and crates. Standing at ease on the shore was a squad of young soldiers whom William had hand-picked from among the Kentucky army posts. Most of them he had known for years. Each private soldier attached to the expedition would get ten dollars a month and food and clothing, and as added inducement had been promised a piece of land. Several sons of local gentry had applied to William for berths in the westerly venture, hoping to achieve some personal glory, but William had discouraged those who were unaccustomed to labor or hardship. He had selected men not only for their qualities of character, but for their skills. Private William Bratton, now standing solemn and thoughtful on the riverbank, a twenty-five-year-old Virginia-born Irishman, taller than six feet and erect as a post, was a superb hunter, blacksmith, and gunsmith, and professed to be “likely the world’s only all-sober Irishman.” John Shields, at thirty-five the oldest member of the party, was a blacksmith and gunsmith, and also had spent years as a boatbuilder. Even the expedition’s youngest member, tall, gray-eyed, eighteen-year-old Private George Shannon, was an accomplished carpenter, as well as a fine hunter and horseman; he also brought to the party a pure tenor voice and a repertory of almost all the songs anyone had ever heard. John Colter, going on thirty, was a tall, blue-eyed, quick-minded huntsman who had already compiled an adventuresome history as a scout and ranger. Sergeants Nathaniel Hale Pryor and Charles Floyd, who were cousins, were both masters of virtually every known skill, from surveying to hide-curing, and were judicious leaders of men besides. William had rounded up a commendable squad of Kentuckians indeed to add to the crew Lewis had been recruiting on his way down the Ohio to Clarksville. And he was getting leads on others. “Remember, now,” George was telling him, “at Massac, don’t fail to interview George Drouillard and take ’im on for an interpreter if he’ll go. He knows the Indian hand-talk and all the foreign tongues as well, and ye’ll need ’im, or someone like ’im. He’s got a steel nerve, too, just like his pa.” Young Drouillard was a son of one of George’s old interpreters, Pierre Drouillard.

  William nodded. “I’ll do it.” He had already enlisted as Indian interpreter a private named George Gibson, who was a hunter and fiddle-player as well. But, keeping in mind his mother’s old admonition never to put all the eggs in the same basket, William had resolved to have at least two good Indian interpreters before starting up the Missouri, in case something might happen to one of them.

  “Gentlemen,” Lewis interrupted them now, “while there’s fair daylight, we should be taking our leave. General,” he said, extending his hand to George and squinting up at him into the afternoon sun, “we’re indebted to you for your good counsel. And o’ course for all your early deeds that enabled this venture. I pray you’ll enjoy some civil justice while we’re gone, and I promise I’ll watch over your brother—though he’s probably a better hand at watching over me. Shall we get the men aboard, Cap’n Clark?”

  “Godspeed, then,” George said, releasing Lewis’s small but iron hand. “Do your best for your country, and I pray she’ll reward ye better than she’s done me. Youngster,” he said now to William, “step ashore ’fore ye cast off, I’ve something for ye that might be useful. Jonathan, fare thee well and I’ll see you soon.” Jonathan was going downriver a few miles to visit his daughter Eleanor and her husband Reverend Temple, and see his first granddaughter. He was going to ride down that far on the Discovery. He put an arm over George’s shoulders, and another over Edmund’s, and hugged them firmly in an unusually open display of affection; it was obvious that Jonathan was emotionally stirred by the portents of this day, though he had said little. Then Edmund steadied George down the gangplank to the wharf. William followed them off, and ordered his recruits aboard. Ann and Lucy came forward and hugged him, faces stoical but wet-eyed, and wished him success and safety. Then Fanny gave him a kiss on the cheek and a tearful Godspeed.

  The crowd was growing excited now as the departure neared. Several citizens began checking the priming in their pistols and rifles, women began fidgeting and getting their handkerchiefs ready; musicians on shore shifted their drums and fifes and fiddles. Sergeant Floyd ran out the little American flag on the Discovery’s stern standard, and crewmen stood to the mooring ropes, others to the oars.

  George nodded toward Cupid, who came forward and handed him a long, cloth-wrapped object. Cupid murmured, “Godspeed, Mast’ Billy,” and then receded into the crowd.

  “Here y’are, youngster,” George said, handing the object to William.

  “Thankee, George,” William said, holding the thing and looking at it. “And what might it be?”

  “A shade umbrella,” George said. “Maybe prevent you from fryin’ your brains someday. This opens it. But y’ll notice it’s also a smoking-pipe tomahawk.”

  William held the contraption across his chest. “That’ll keep me busy,” he smiled. “I thankee, George.”

  “It’s precious little compared with what y’ve given me. But what else I have for you will be more useful,” George said, looking deep into William’s eyes. “It’s advice. Here’s a thing y’ might need to know, with so far to go. Your friend Lewis is a somber, brainy sort and he might not know this, but listen: men can go ten times farther than they think they can—if ye give ’em three things along the way:

  “Songs. Jokes. And a dream o’ glory.” He paused, and William knew he was remembering Vincennes. George concluded:

  “I know it, youngster. Those three things will do sometimes in the place o’ food and comfort, where the leading o’ men is concerned.”

  LINES WERE CAST OFF A FEW MINUTES LATER AND THE MUSICIANS struck up a squeaky, squawky “Johnny Has Gone for a Soldier,” as the Discovery moved out into the current, heavily stern-laden, gunwales less than two feet above the water, the troops standing at attention with their rifles at Present Arms, Sergeant Floyd atop the poop deck leaning on the tiller. There was a rising buzz of voices on shore as the vessel moved away; then, when she was twenty yards out, three cheers went up from the crowd, punctuated by a staccato of skyward gunshots and shouts of “Godspeed! Lord love ye, lads! Hiyo! Hiyo!” At a command from Captain Lewis, a salute was fired into the air by the riflemen aboard the keelboat, and the shots echoed back and forth across the river. York and Cupid gazed at each other across the widening water with tears streaming down their black cheeks, and waved slowly. And likewise, George Rogers Clark and William Clark gazed at each other, each with a hand to his forehead in a soldier’s salute, not looking away till distance and the blur of tears had melted their blue-coated images away. The odds were strong, they knew though they never had discussed it, that they would never see each other again.

  George watched the Discovery grow smaller and smaller on the breast of the Ohio, and his heart felt so swollen that he could not turn away from it and let anyone see his face. He watched it go and remembered that June day almost a quarter of a century ago when he with his own high-spirited boys had set out from this same place under an ominous eclipse of the sun, bound for the Mississippi Country.

  Thank God anyway he’s going in peace and not to war, he thought. Because he’s the best of us all.

  William had been the best friend and champion George had ever had, and George had long been aware of that, but within the last month William had done something so generous that George could not even think of it without feeling humbled. As his last piece of business before departing for the West, William had sold his whole inheritance, the Mulberry Hill estate, to Jonathan for ten thousand dollars.

  And then he had applied the entire sum toward paying off a few more of George’s creditors.

  “So BILLY’S GONE WEST,” GEORGE MURMURED,
GAZING into the blazing hickory-log fire in the fireplace and sipping on some persimmon brandy that one of his old troopers had created and brought to him. “Gone West to get some glory.”

  “As he well deserves,” Fanny added.

  “Leaves me to do my own beggin’ again, though, it does.” George sighed and reached to the table for his letter-box. Begging. He was going to try it once more. It had long been plain that his country was never going to appropriate any money to reimburse him for those old war expenses. “One thing these United States has a-plenty: land. I know because I got it for them.”

  He set out ink bottle and paper, took a sip of brandy, and rubbed his forehead while pondering on the words he was going to write. He could hear Venus and Cupid talking low in the kitchen as they worked, knocking bowls, making dough for tomorrow’s bread.

  Fanny, darning one of Ben’s stockings, watched George prepare to write. She knew it was odious to him, this begging for what he thought was his rightful reward, but she was glad to see him turn to the task again, after having given it up for so long. William’s departure for the Far West evidently had inspired George to try once again. Fanny’s own soul was expanding with hope again, with the bittersweet faith that good things could yet happen.

  She had even begun to believe that she might marry again, something she had vowed never even to think of. Today at the wharf, in the holiday excitement of the expedition’s departure, Fanny had become aware of the attention of several fine-looking young gentlemen in the crowd. She had realized that she still was, despite her misfortunes, as pretty and well-born and accomplished as any of Louisville’s younger belles, and certainly not so silly. And so her heart was rich with empathy for George, and with an optimism for renewed efforts. She said, “You’re going to ask for land?”

  He stirred, and turned toward her, his expression earnest. He was pleased to answer her question; he was glad of any excuse to put off such writing.