The Magnificent Adventure

by Emerson Hough

  CHAPTER V

  THE APPEAL

  "Well done, Will Clark!" said Meriwether Lewis, when, at length, onecold winter morning, they stood within the walls of the completedfortress. "Now we can have our own fireplace and go on with our workin comfort. The collection is growing splendidly!"

  "Yes, Mr. Jefferson will find that we have been busy," rejoined Clark."The barge will go down well loaded in the spring. They'll have thebest of it--downhill, and over country they have crossed."

  "True," mused Lewis. "We are at a blank wall here. We lack a guidenow, that is sure. Two interpreters we have, who may or may not be ofuse, but no one knows the country. But now--you know our other newinterpreter, the sullen chap, Charbonneau--that polygamous scamp withtwo or three Indian wives?"

  "Yes, and a surly brute he is!"

  "Well, it seems that last summer Charbonneau married still anotherwife, a girl not over sixteen years of age, I should judge. He boughther--she was a slave, a captive brought down from somewhere up theriver by a war-party. She is a pleasant girl, and always smiles. Sheseems friendly to us--see the moccasins she made for me but now. And Ionly had to knock her husband down once for beating her!"

  "Lucky man!" grinned William Clark. "I have knocked him down half adozen times, and she has made me no moccasins at all. But what then?"

  "So far as I can learn, that Indian girl is the only human being herewho has ever seen the Stony Mountains. The girl says that she wastaken captive years ago somewhere near the summit of the StonyMountains. Above here a great river comes in, which they call theYellow Rock River--the 'Ro'jaune,' Jussaume calls it. Very well. Manydays' or weeks' journey toward the west, this river comes again withina half-day's march of the Missouri. That is near the summit of themountains; and this girl's people live there."

  "By the Lord, Merne, you're a genius for getting over new country!"

  "Wait. I find the child very bright--very clear of mind. And listen,Will--the mind of a woman is better for small things than that of aman. They pick up trifles and hang on to them. I'd as soon trust thatgirl for a guide out yonder as any horse-stealing warrior in a hurryto get into a country and in a hurry to get out of it again. Raidingparties cling to the river-courses, which they know; but she and herpeople must have been far to the west of any place these adventurersof the Minnetarees ever saw. Sacajawea she calls herself--the 'BirdWoman.' I swear I look upon that name itself as a good omen! She hascome back like a dove to the ark, this Bird Woman. William Clark, weshall reach the sea--or, at least, you will do so, Will," heconcluded.

  "What do you mean, Merne? Surely, if I do, you will also!"

  "I cannot be sure."

  The florid face of William Clark showed a frown of displeasure.

  "You are not as well as you should be--you work too much. That is notjust to Mr. Jefferson, Merne, nor to our men, nor to me."

  "It was for that reason I took you on. Doesn't a man have two lungs,two arms, two limbs, two eyes? We are those for Mr. Jefferson--evencrippled, the expedition will live. You are as my own other hand. Iexult to see you every morning smiling out of your blankets, hopefuland hungry!"

  Meriwether Lewis turned to his colleague with the sweet smile whichsometimes his friends saw.

  "You see, I am a fatalist," he went on. "Ah, you laugh at me! Mypeople must have been owners of the second sight, I have often toldyou. Humor me, Will, bear with me. Don't question me too deep. Yourflag, Will, I know will be planted on the last parapet of life--youwere born to succeed. For myself, I still must remember what my mothertold me--something about the burden which would be too heavy, thetrail which would be long. At times I doubt."

  "Confound it, Merne, you have not been yourself since you got thataccursed letter in the night last summer!"

  "It was unsettling, I don't deny."

  "I pray Heaven you'll never get another!" said William Clark. "From amarried woman, too! Thank God I've no such affair on my mind!"

  "It is taboo, Will--that one thing!"

  And Clark, growling anathemas on all women, stalked away to find hisaxmen.

  The snows had come soft and deep, blown on the icy winds. The horsesof the Mandans were housed in the lodges, and lived on cottonwoodinstead of grass. When the vast herds of buffalo came down from thebroken hills into the shelter of the flats, the men returnedfrostbitten with their loads of meat. The sky was dark. The days wereshort.

  To improve the morale of their men, the leaders now planned certainfestivities for them. On Christmas Eve each man had his stocking wellstuffed with such delicacies as the company stores afforded--pepper,salt, dried fruits long cherished in the commissary, such otherknickknacks as might be spared.

  On Christmas Day Drouillard brought out a fiddle. A dance was ordered,and went on all day long on the puncheon floor of the main cabin. Inmoccasins and leggings, with hair long and tunics belted close totheir lean waists, the white men danced to the tunes of their ownland--the reels and hoedowns of old Virginia and Kentucky.

  The sounds of revelry were heard by the Mandans who came up to thegate.

  "White men make a medicine dance," they said, and knocked forentrance.

  Two women only were present--the wife of Jussaume, the squaw man, andSacajawea, the girl wife of Charbonneau, the interpreter of theMandans. These two had many presents.

  The face of Sacajawea was wreathed in smiles. Always her eyes followedthe tall form of Meriwether Lewis wherever he went. Her own husbandwas but her husband, and already she had elected Meriwether Lewis asher deity. When her husband thrashed her, always he thrashed herhusband.

  In her simple child's soul she consecrated herself to the task whichhe had assigned her. Yes, when the grass came she would take thesewhite men to her own people. If they wanted to see the salt waters farto the west--her people had heard of that--then they should go therealso. The Bird Woman was very happy that Christmas Day. The chief hadthrashed Charbonneau and had given her wonderful presents!

  All the men danced but one--the youth Shannon, who once more had metmisfortune. While hewing with the broadax at one of the canoes, he hadhad the misfortune to slash his foot, so must lie in his bunk andwatch the others.

  "Keep the men going, Will," said Meriwether Lewis. "I'll go to my roomand get forward some letters which I want to write--to my mother andto Mr. Jefferson. At least I can date them Christmas Day, althoughProvidence alone knows when they may be despatched or received!"

  He returned to his own quarters, where he had erected a little desk atwhich he sometimes worked, and sat down. For a moment he remained inthought, as the sound of the dancing still came to him, glad to findhis men so happy. At length he spread open the back of his littleleather writing-case, unscrewed his ink-horn and set it safe, drew hiskeen hunting-knife, and put a point upon a goose-quill pen. Then heput away the many written pages which still lay in the portfolio, theproduct of his daily labors.

  Searching for fair white paper, his eye caught sight of a sealed andfolded letter, apparently long unnoticed here among the written andunwritten sheets. In a flash he knew what it was! Once more the bloodin his veins seemed to stop short.

  TO CAPTAIN MERIWETHER LEWIS, IN CHARGE OF THE VOLUNTEERS FOR THE DISCOVERY OF THE WEST.--ON THE TRAIL.

  He knew what hand had written the words. For one short instant he hada mad impulse to cast the letter into the fire. Then there came overhim once more the feeling which oppressed him all his life--that hewas a helpless instrument in the hands of fate. He broke the seal--notnoticing as he did so that it had a number scratched into the wax--andread the letter, which ran thus:

  SIR AND FRIEND:

  I know not where these presents may find you, or in what case. Once more I keep my promise not to let you go. Once more you shall see my face--see, it is looking up at you from the page! Tell me, do you see me now before you?

  Are other faces of women in your mind? Have they lost themselves as women's faces so often--so soon--are lost from a man's mind? Can you see
me, Meriwether Lewis, your childhood friend?

  Do you remember the time you saved me from the cows in the lane at your father's farm, when I was but a child, on my first visit to far-off Virginia? You kissed me then, to dry my tears. You were a boy; I was a child yet younger. Can you forget that time--can you forget what you said?

  "I will always be there, Theodosia," you said, "when you are in trouble!"

  You said it stoutly, and I believed it, as a child.

  I believed you then--I believe you now. I still have the same child's faith in you. My mother died while I was young; my father has always been so busy--I scarcely have been a girl, as you say you never were a boy. You know my husband--he has his own affairs. But you always were my friend, in so many ways!

  It is true that I am laying a secret on your heart--one which you must observe all your life. My letter is for you, and for no other eyes. But now I come once more to you to hold you to your promise.

  _Meriwether Lewis, come back to us!_ By this time the trail surely is long enough! We are counting absolutely on your return. I heard Mr. Merry tell my father--and I may tell it to you--that on your recall rested all hope of the success of our own cause on the lower Mississippi--for ourselves and for you. If you do not come back to us, as early as you can, you condemn us to failure--myself--my life--that of my father--yourself also.

  Perhaps your delay may mean even more, Meriwether Lewis. I have to tell you that times are threatening for this republic. Relations between our country and Great Britain are strained to the breaking-point. Mr. Merry says that if our cause on the lower Mississippi shall not prevail, his own country, as soon as it can finish with Napoleon, will come against this republic once more--both on the Great Lakes and at the mouth of the Mississippi. He says that your expedition into the West will split the country, if it goes on. It must be withdrawn or the gap must be mended by war. You see, then, one of the sure results of this mad folly of Thomas Jefferson.

  Go on, therefore, if you would ruin me, my father--your own future; but will you go on if you face possible ruin _for your own country_ by so doing? This I leave for you to say.

  Surely by now the main object of your expedition will have been accomplished--surely you may return with all practical results of your labors in your hands. Were that not a wiser thing? Does not your duty lie toward the east, and not further toward the west? There is a limit beyond which not even a forlorn hope is asked to go when it assails a citadel. Not every general is dishonored, though he does not complete the campaign laid out for him. Expeditions have failed, and will fail, with honor. Leaders of men have failed, will fail, with honor. I do not call it failure for you to return to us and let the expedition go on. There is a limit to what may be asked of a man. There are two of you for Mr. Jefferson; but for us there is only one--it is Captain Lewis. And--how shall I say it and not be misunderstood?--there is but one for her whose face you see, I hope, on this page.

  What limit is there to the generosity of a man like you--what limit to his desire to pay each duty, to keep each promise that he has made in all his life? Will such a man forget his promise always to kiss away the tears of that companion to whom he has come in rescue? I am in trouble. Tears are in my eyes as I write. Do you forget that promise? Do you wish to make yet happier the woman whom you have so many times made happy--who has cherished so much ambition for you?

  Meriwether Lewis, my friend--you who would have been my lover--for whom there is no hope, since fate has been so unkind--come back to us in your generosity! Come back to me, even in your hopelessness! Will you always see me with tears in my eyes? Do you see me now? I swear tears fall even as I write. And you promised always to kiss my tears away!

  Farewell until I see you again. May good fortune attend you always, wherever you go--in whatever direction you may travel--from us or toward us--from me or with me!

  Meriwether Lewis sat, his face between his hands, staring down at whathe saw. Should he go on, or should he hand over all to William Clarkand return--return to keep his promise--return to comfort, as best hemight, with the gift of all his life, that face which indeed he hadleft in tears by an unpardonable act of his own?

  He owed her everything she could ask of him. What must she think ofhim now--that he was not only a dishonorable man, but also a cowardrunning away from the responsibility of what he had done? No blow fromthe hands of fate could have given him more exquisite agony than this.

  For a long time--he never knew how long--he sat thus, staring,pondering, but at length with sudden energy he rose and flung open thedoor of the dancing-room.

  "Will!" he called to his companion.

  When William Clark joined his friend in the outer air, he saw the openletter in Lewis's hand--saw also the distress upon his countenance.

  "Merne, it's another letter from that woman! I wish I had her here,that I might wring her neck!" said William Clark viciously. "Whobrought it?"

  "I don't know."

  Meriwether Lewis was folding up the letter. He placed it in the pocketof his coat with its fellow, received months ago.

  "Will," said he at length, "don't you recall what I was telling youthis very morning? I felt something coming--I felt that fate hadsomething more for me. You know I spoke in doubt."

  "Listen, Merne!" replied William Clark. "There is no woman in theworld worth the misery this one has put on you. It is a thingexecrable, unspeakable!"

  His friend looked him steadily in the eyes.

  "Rebuke not her, but me!" he said. "This letter asks me to come backto kiss away a woman's tears. Will, I was the cause of those tears. Ican tell you no more. What _I_ did was a thing execrable,unspeakable--I, your friend, did that!"

  William Clark, more genuinely troubled than ever in his life before,was dumb.

  "My future is forfeited, Will," went on the same even, dull voice,which Clark could scarcely recognize; "but I have decided to go onthrough with you."