The Magnificent Adventure by Emerson Hough (best ereader under 100 txt) đź“•
"You give me no long shrift, mother?" said the youth, with a twinkle in his eye.
"How can I? I can only tell you what is in the book of life. Do I not know? A mother always loves her son; so it takes all her courage to face what she knows will be his lot. Any mother can read her son's future--if she dares to read it. She knows--she knows!"
There was a long silence; then the widow continued.
"Listen, Merne," she said. "You call me a prophetess of evil. I am not that. Do you think I speak only in despair, my boy? No, there is something larger than mere happiness. Listen, and believe me, for now I could n
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She rose now, calm before the imperious quality of his nature, so unlike his former gentleness.
“You refuse, then, Mr. Jefferson? You will not reopen this case?”
“I refuse nothing to you gladly, my dear lady. But you have seen him—you have tested him. Did he turn back? Shall I, his friend and his chief, halt him at such a time? Now that were the worst kindness to him in the world. And I am convinced that you and I both plan only kindness for him.”
Suddenly he saw the tears in her eyes. At once he was back again, the courteous gentleman.
“Do not weep, Theodosia, my child,” said he. “Let me kiss you, as your father or your grandfather would—one who holds you tenderly in his heart. Forgive me that I pass sentence on you both, but you must part—you must not ask him back. There now, my dear, do not weep, or you will make me weep. Let me kiss you for him—and let us all go on about our duties in the world. My dear, good-by! You must go.”
CHAPTER X THE THRESHOLD OF THE WESTMeriwether Lewis, having put behind him one set of duties, now addressed himself to another, and did so with care and thoroughness. A few of his men, a part of his outfitting, he found already assembled at Harper’s Ferry, up the Potomac. Before sunset of the first day the little band knew they had a leader.
There was not a knife or a tomahawk of the entire equipment which he himself did not examine—not a rifle which he himself did not personally test. He went over the boxes and bales which had been gathered here, and saw to their arrangement in the transport-wagons. He did all this without bluster or officiousness, but with the quiet care and thoroughness of the natural leader of men.
In two days they were on their way across the Alleghanies. A few days more of steady travel sufficed to bring them to Pittsburgh, the head of navigation on the Ohio River, and at that time the American capital in the upper valley of the West. At Pittsburgh Captain Lewis was to build his boats, to complete the details of his equipment, to take on additional men for his party—now to be officially styled the Volunteers for the Discovery of the West. He lost no time in urging forward the necessary work.
The young adventurer found this inland town half maritime in its look. Its shores were lined with commerce suited to a seaport. Schooners of considerable tonnage lay at the wharfs, others were building in the busy shipyards. The destination of these craft obviously was down the Mississippi, to the sea. Here were vessels bound for the West Indies, bound for Philadelphia, for New York, for Boston—carrying the products of this distant and little-known interior.
As he looked at this commerce of the great West, pondered its limitations, saw its trend with the down-slant of the perpetual roadway to the sea, there came to the young officer’s mind with greater force certain arguments that had been advanced to him.
He saw that here was the heart of America, realized how natural was the insistence of all these hardy Western men upon the free use of the Mississippi and its tributaries. He easily could agree with Aaron Burr that, had the fleet of Napoleon ever sailed from Haiti—had Napoleon ever done otherwise than to cede Louisiana to us—then these boats from the Ohio and the Mississippi would at this very moment, perhaps, be carrying armed men down to take New Orleans, as so often they had threatened.
There came, however, to his mind not the slightest thought of alteration in his own plans. With him it was no question of what might have been, but of what actually was. The cession by Napoleon had been made, and Louisiana was ours. It was time to plot for expeditions, not down the great river, but across it, beyond it, into that great and unknown country that lay toward the farther sea.
The keen zest of this vast enterprise came to him as a stimulus—the feel of the new country was as the breath of his nostrils. His bosom swelled with joy as he looked out toward that West which had so long allured him—that West of which he was to be the discoverer. The carousing riffraff of the wharfs, the flotsam and jetsam of the river trade, were to him but passing phenomena. He shouldered his way among them indifferently. He walked with a larger vision before his eyes.
Now, too, he had news—good news, fortunate news, joyous news—none less than the long-delayed answer of his friend, Captain William Clark, to his proposal that he should associate himself with the Volunteers for the Discovery of the West. Misspelled, scrawled, done in the hieroglyphics which marked that remarkable gentleman, William Clark’s letter carried joy to the heart of Meriwether Lewis. It cemented one of the most astonishing partnerships ever known among men, one of the most beautiful friendships of which history leaves note. Let us give the strange epistle in Clark’s own spelling:
Dear Merne:
Yours to hand touching uppon the Expedishon into the Missourie Country, & I send this by special bote up the river to mete you at Pts’brgh, at the Foarks. You convey a moast welcome and appreciated invitation to join you in an Enterprise conjenial to my Every thought and Desire. It will in all likelyhood require at least a year to make the journey out and Return, but although that means certain Sacrifises of a personal sort, I hold such far less than the pleasure to enlist with you, wh. indeed I hold to be my duty allso.
I need not say how content I am to be associated with the man moast of all my acquaintance apt to achieve Success in an undertaking of so difficult and perlous nature. As you know, it is in the wilderness men are moast sevearly tried, and there we know a man. I have seen you so tried, and I Know what you are. I am proud that you apeare to hold me and my own qualities in like confident trust and belief, and I shall hope to merit no alteration in your Judgment.
There is no other man I would go with on such an undertaking, nor consider it seriously, although the concern of my family largely has been with things military and adventurous, and we are not new to life among Savidges. Too well I know the dangers of bad leadership in such affairs, yes and my brother, the General, also, as the story of Detroit and the upper Ohio country could prove. All of that country should have been ours from the first, and only lack of courage lost it so long to us.
You are so kind as to offer me a place equal in command with you—I accept not because of the Rank, which is no moving consideration, eather for you or for me—but because I see in the jenerosity of the man proposing such a division of his own Honors, the best assurance of success.
You will find me at or near the Falls of the Ohio awaiting the arrival of your party, which I taik it will be in early August or the Midel of that month.
Pray convey to Mr. Jefferson my humble and obedient respects, and thanks for this honor wh. I shall endeavor to merit as best lies within my powers.
With all affec’n, I remain,
Your friend,
Wm. Clark.
P. S.—God alone knows how mutch this all may mean to You and me, Merne—Will.
Clark, then, was to meet him at the Falls of the Ohio, and he, too, counseled haste. Lewis drove his drunken, lazy workmen in the shipyards as hard as he might, week after week, yet found six weeks elapsed before at last he was in any wise fitted to set forth. The delay fretted him, even though he received word from his chief bidding him not to grieve over the possible loss of a season in his start, but to do what he might and to possess his soul in patience and in confidence.
Recruits of proper sort for his purposes did not grow on trees, he found, but he added a few men to his party now and then, picking them slowly, carefully. One morning, while engaged in his duties of supervising the work in progress at the shipyards, he had his attention attracted to a youth of some seventeen or eighteen years, who stood, cap in hand, at a little distance, apparently too timid to accost him.
“What is it, my son?” said he. “Did you wish to see me?”
The boy advanced, smiling.
“You do not know me, sir. My name is Shannon—George Shannon. I used to know you when you were stationed here with the army. I was a boy then.”
“You are right—I remember you perfectly. So you are grown into a strapping young man, I see!”
The boy twirled his cap in his hands.
“I want to go along with you, Captain,” said he shyly.
“What? You would go with me—do you know what is our journey?”
“No. I only hear that you are going up the Missouri, beyond St. Louis, into new country. They say there are buffalo there, and Indians. ’Tis too quiet here for me—I want to see the world with you.”
The young leader, after his fashion, stood silently regarding the other for a time. An instant served him.
“Very well, George,” said he. “If your parents consent, you shall go with me. Your pay will be such that you can save somewhat, and I trust you will use it to complete your schooling after your return. There will be adventure and a certain honor in our undertaking. If we come back successful, I am persuaded that our country will not forget us.”
And so that matter was completed. Strangely enough, as the future proved, were the fortunes of these two to intermingle. From the first, Shannon attached himself to his captain almost in the capacity of personal attendant.
At last the great bateau lay ready, launched from the docks and moored alongside the wharf. Fifty feet long it was, with mast, tholes and walking-boards for the arduous upstream work. It had received a part of its cargo, and soon all was in readiness to start.
On the evening of that day Lewis sat down to pen a last letter to his chief. He wrote in the little office-room of the inn where he was stopping, and for a time he did not note the presence of young Shannon, who stood, as usual, silent until his leader might address him.
“What, is it, George?” he asked at length, looking up.
“Someone waiting to see you, sir—they are in the parlor. They sent me——”
“They? Who are they?”
“I don’t know, sir. She asked me to come for you.”
“She. Who is she?”
“I don’t know, sir. She spoke to her father. They are in the room just across the hall, sir.”
The face of Meriwether Lewis was pale when presently he opened the door leading to the apartment which had been indicated. He knew, or thought he knew, who this must be. But why—why?
The interior was dim. A single lamp of the inefficient sort then in use served only
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