THE APPEAL
"Well done, Will Clark!" said Meriwether Lewis, when, at length, one
cold winter morning, they stood within the walls of the completed
fortress. "Now we can have our own fireplace and go on with our work
in 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 the
best of it--downhill, and over country they have crossed."
"True," mused Lewis. "We are at a blank wall here. We lack a guide
now, that is sure. Two interpreters we have, who may or may not be of
use, but no one knows the country. But now--you know our other new
interpreter, the sullen chap, Charbonneau--that polygamous scamp with
two or three Indian wives?"
"Yes, and a surly brute he is!"
"Well, it seems that last summer Charbonneau married still another
wife, a girl not over sixteen years of age, I should judge. He bought
her--she was a slave, a captive brought down from somewhere up the
river by a war-party. She is a pleasant girl, and always smiles. She
seems friendly to us--see the moccasins she made for me but now. And I
only had to knock her husband down once for beating her!"
"Lucky man!" grinned William Clark. "I have knocked him down half a
dozen 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 here
who has ever seen the Stony Mountains. The girl says that she was
taken captive years ago somewhere near the summit of the Stony
Mountains. Above here a great river comes in, which they call the
Yellow Rock River--the 'Ro'jaune,' Jussaume calls it. Very well. Many
days' or weeks' journey toward the west, this river comes again within
a half-day's march of the Missouri. That is near the summit of the
mountains; 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 a
man. They pick up trifles and hang on to them. I'd as soon trust that
girl for a guide out yonder as any horse-stealing warrior in a hurry
to get into a country and in a hurry to get out of it again. Raiding
parties cling to the river-courses, which they know; but she and her
people must have been far to the west of any place these adventurers
of the Minnetarees ever saw. Sacajawea she calls herself--the 'Bird
Woman.' I swear I look upon that name itself as a good omen! She has
come back like a dove to the ark, this Bird Woman. William Clark, we
shall reach the sea--or, at least, you will do so, Will," he
concluded.
"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 not
just 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--even
crippled, the expedition will live. You are as my own other hand. I
exult to see you every morning smiling out of your blankets, hopeful
and hungry!"
Meriwether Lewis turned to his colleague with the sweet smile which
sometimes his friends saw.
"You see, I am a fatalist," he went on. "Ah, you laugh at me! My
people must have been owners of the second sight, I have often told
you. Humor me, Will, bear with me. Don't question me too deep. Your
flag, Will, I know will be planted on the last parapet of life--you
were born to succeed. For myself, I still must remember what my mother
told me--something about the burden which would be too heavy, the
trail which would be long. At times I doubt."
"Confound it, Merne, you have not been yourself since you got that
accursed 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 a
married 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 his
axmen.
The snows had come soft and deep, blown on the icy winds. The horses
of the Mandans were housed in the lodges, and lived on cottonwood
instead of grass. When the vast herds of buffalo came down from the
broken hills into the shelter of the flats, the men returned
frostbitten with their loads of meat. The sky was dark. The days were
short.
To improve the morale of their men, the leaders now planned certain
festivities for them. On Christmas Eve each man had his stocking well
stuffed with such delicacies as the company stores afforded--pepper,
salt, dried fruits long cherished in the commissary, such other
knickknacks 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. In
moccasins and leggings, with hair long and tunics belted close to
their lean waists, the white men danced to the tunes of their own
land--the reels and hoedowns of old Virginia and Kentucky.
The sounds of revelry were heard by the Mandans who came up to the
gate.
"White men make a medicine dance," they said, and knocked for
entrance.
Two women only were present--the wife of Jussaume, the squaw man, and
Sacajawea, the girl wife of Charbonneau, the interpreter of the
Mandans. These two had many presents.
The face of Sacajawea was wreathed in smiles. Always her eyes followed
the tall form of Meriwether Lewis wherever he went. Her own husband
was but her husband, and already she had elected Meriwether Lewis as
her deity. When her husband thrashed her, always he thrashed her
husband.
In her simple child's soul she consecrated herself to the task which
he had assigned her. Yes, when the grass came she would take these
white men to her own people. If they wanted to see the salt waters far
to the west--her people had heard of that--then they should go there
also. The Bird Woman was very happy that Christmas Day. The chief had
thrashed Charbonneau and had given her wonderful presents!
All the men danced but one--the youth Shannon, who once more had met
misfortune. While hewing with the broadax at one of the canoes, he had
had the misfortune to slash his foot, so must lie in his bunk and
watch the others.
"Keep the men going, Will," said Meriwether Lewis. "I'll go to my room
and get forward some letters which I want to write--to my mother and
to Mr. Jefferson. At least I can date them Christmas Day, although
Providence alone knows when they may be despatched or received!"
He returned to his own quarters, where he had erected a little desk at
which he sometimes worked, and sat down. For a moment he remained in
thought, as the sound of the dancing still came to him, glad to find
his men so happy. At length he spread open the back of his little
leather writing-case, unscrewed his ink-horn and set it safe, drew his
keen hunting-knife, and put a point upon a goose-quill pen. Then he
put away the many written pages which still lay in the portfolio, the
product of his daily labors.
Searching for fair white paper, his eye caught sight of a sealed and
folded letter, apparently long unnoticed here among the written and
unwritten sheets. In a flash he knew what it was! Once more the blood
in 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 had
a mad impulse to cast the letter into the fire. Then there came over
him once more the feeling which oppressed him all his life--that he
was a helpless instrument in the hands of fate. He broke the seal--not
noticing as he did so that it had a number scratched into the wax--and
read 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 what
he saw. Should he go on, or should he hand over all to William Clark
and return--return to keep his promise--return to comfort, as best he
might, with the gift of all his life, that face which indeed he had
left in tears by an unpardonable act of his own?
He owed her everything she could ask of him. What must she think of
him now--that he was not only a dishonorable man, but also a coward
running away from the responsibility of what he had done? No blow from
the 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 the
door of the dancing-room.
"Will!" he called to his companion.
When William Clark joined his friend in the outer air, he saw the open
letter 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. "Who
brought it?"
"I don't know."
Meriwether Lewis was folding up the letter. He placed it in the pocket
of his coat with its fellow, received months ago.
"Will," said he at length, "don't you recall what I was telling you
this very morning? I felt something coming--I felt that fate had
something more for me. You know I spoke in doubt."
"Listen, Merne!" replied William Clark. "There is no woman in the
world worth the misery this one has put on you. It is a thing
execrable, unspeakable!"
His friend looked him steadily in the eyes.
"Rebuke not her, but me!" he said. "This letter asks me to come back
to kiss away a woman's tears. Will, I was the cause of those tears. I
can 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 on
through with you."