“
Well done, Will Clark!” said Meriwether Lewis, when, at length, one cold winter morning, they stood within the walls of the completed fortress1. “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 barge2 will go down well loaded in the spring. They’ll have the best of it—downhill, and over country they have crossed.”
“True,” mused3 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 sullen4 chap, Charbonneau—that polygamous scamp with two or three Indian wives?”
“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 [Pg 209]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 Stony6 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 warrior7 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 omen8! She [Pg 210]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 exult9 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!”
[Pg 211]
“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!”
The snows had come soft and deep, blown on the icy winds. The horses of the Mandans were housed in the lodges13, and lived on cottonwood instead of grass. When the vast herds14 of buffalo15 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 morale16 of their men, the leaders now planned certain festivities for them. On Christmas Eve each man had his stocking well stuffed with such delicacies17 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 fiddle18. 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 tunics19 belted close to their lean waists, the white men danced to the tunes20 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.
[Pg 212]
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 deity21. When her husband thrashed her, always he thrashed her husband.
In her simple child’s soul she consecrated22 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 hewing23 with the broadax at one of the canoes, he had had the misfortune to slash24 his foot, so must lie in his bunk25 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 Providence26 alone knows when they may be despatched or received!”
He returned to his own quarters, where he had erected27 a little desk at which he sometimes worked, [Pg 213]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 portfolio28, the product of his daily labors29.
Searching for fair white paper, his eye caught sight of a sealed and folded letter, apparently30 long unnoticed here among the written and unwritten sheets. In a flash he knew what it was! Once more the blood in his veins31 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?
[Pg 214]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!”
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 condemn33 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 withdrawn34 or the gap must be mended by war. You see, then, one of the sure results of this mad folly35 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 [Pg 215]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 assails36 a citadel37. 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 generosity38 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 [Pg 216]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 exquisite39 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 distress40 upon his countenance41.
“Merne, it’s another letter from that woman! I wish I had her here, that I might wring42 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 spoke43 in doubt.”
“Listen, Merne!” replied William Clark. “There [Pg 217]is no woman in the world worth the misery44 this one has put on you. It is a thing execrable, unspeakable!”
“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 forfeited46, Will,” went on the same even, dull voice, which Clark could scarcely recognize; “but I have decided47 to go on through with you.”
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1
fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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2
barge
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| n.平底载货船，驳船 | |
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3
mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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4
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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6
stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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7
warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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8
omen
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| n.征兆，预兆；vt.预示 | |
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9
exult
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| v.狂喜，欢腾；欢欣鼓舞 | |
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10
taboo
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| n.禁忌，禁止接近，禁止使用；adj.禁忌的；v.禁忌，禁制，禁止 | |
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11
growling
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| n.吠声, 咆哮声 v.怒吠, 咆哮, 吼 | |
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12
anathemas
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| n.（天主教的）革出教门( anathema的名词复数 )；诅咒；令人极其讨厌的事；被基督教诅咒的人或事 | |
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13
lodges
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| v.存放( lodge的第三人称单数 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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14
herds
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| 兽群( herd的名词复数 )； 牧群； 人群； 群众 | |
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15
buffalo
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| n.(北美)野牛；(亚洲)水牛 | |
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16
morale
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| n.道德准则，士气，斗志 | |
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delicacies
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| n.棘手( delicacy的名词复数 )；精致；精美的食物；周到 | |
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18
fiddle
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| n.小提琴；vi.拉提琴；不停拨弄，乱动 | |
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tunics
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| n.（动植物的）膜皮( tunic的名词复数 )；束腰宽松外衣；一套制服的短上衣；（天主教主教等穿的）短祭袍 | |
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tunes
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| n.曲调，曲子( tune的名词复数 )v.调音( tune的第三人称单数 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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deity
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| n.神，神性；被奉若神明的人(或物) | |
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consecrated
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| adj.神圣的，被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 )；奉献 | |
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23
hewing
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| v.（用斧、刀等）砍、劈( hew的现在分词 )；砍成；劈出；开辟 | |
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24
slash
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| vi.大幅度削减；vt.猛砍，尖锐抨击，大幅减少；n.猛砍，斜线，长切口，衣衩 | |
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25
bunk
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| n.(车、船等倚壁而设的)铺位；废话 | |
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26
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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27
ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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portfolio
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| n.公事包；文件夹；大臣及部长职位 | |
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29
labors
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| v.努力争取(for)( labor的第三人称单数 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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31
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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32
stoutly
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| adv.牢固地，粗壮的 | |
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33
condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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34
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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35
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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36
assails
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| v.攻击( assail的第三人称单数 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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37
citadel
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| n.城堡；堡垒；避难所 | |
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38
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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39
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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40
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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41
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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42
wring
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| n.扭绞；v.拧，绞出，扭 | |
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43
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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44
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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45
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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46
forfeited
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| （因违反协议、犯规、受罚等）丧失，失去( forfeit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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47
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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