CHAPTER XIV
THE RENT IN THE ARMOR
Aaron Burr came to St. Louis in the spring of 1804 as much indesperation as with definite plans. Matters were going none too wellfor him. All the time he was getting advices from the lower country,where lay the center of his own audacious plans; but the thought ofthe people was directed westward, up the Missouri.
The fame of the Lewis and Clark expedition now had gathered volume.Constitution or no Constitution, the purchase of Louisiana had beencompleted, the transfer had been formally made. The American wedge wasdriving on through. If ever he was to do anything for his ownenterprise, it was now high time.
Burr's was a mind to see to the core of any problem in statecraft. Heknew what this sudden access of interest in the West indicated, so faras his plans were concerned. It must be stopped--else it would be toolate for any dream of Aaron Burr for an empire of his own.
His resources were dwindling. He needed funds for the many secretagents in his employ--needed yet more funds for the purchase andsupport of his lands in the South. And the minister of Great Britainhad given plain warning that unless this expedition up the Missouricould be stopped, no further aid need be expected from him.
Little by little Burr saw hope slip away from him. True, Captain Lewiswas still detained by his duties among the Osage Indians, a little wayout from the city; but the main expedition had actually started.
William Clark, occupied with the final details, did not finally gethis party under way until five days after the formal transfer of thenew territory of Louisiana to our flag, and three days after Burr'sarrival. At last, however, on the 14th of May, the three boats hadleft St. Louis wharf, with their full complement of men and the lastof the supplies aboard for the great voyage. Captain Clark, everlight-hearted and careless of his spelling-book, if not of his rifle,says it was "a jentle brease" which aided the oars and the square-sailas they started up the river.
Assuredly the bark of Aaron Burr was sailing under no propitiousfollowing wind. Distracted, he paced up and down his apartment in thehome where he was a guest, preoccupied, absorbed, almost ready todespair. He spoke but little, but time and again he cast an estimatingeye upon the young woman who accompanied him.
"You are ill, Theodosia!" he exclaimed at last "Come, come, mydaughter, this will not do! Have you no arts of the toilet that canovercome the story of your megrims? Shall I get you some sort ofbitter herbs? You need your brightest face, your best apparel now.These folk of St. Louis must see us at our best, my dear, our verybest. Besides----"
He needed not to complete the sentence. Theodosia Alston knew wellenough what was in her father's mind--knew well enough why they bothwere here. It was because she would not have come alone. And she knewthat the burden of the work they had at heart must once more lie uponher shoulders. She once more must see Captain Meriwether Lewis--and itmust be soon, if ever. He was reported as being ready to leave town atonce upon his return from the Osage Indians.
But courtesy did not fail the young Virginian, and at last--althoughwith dread in his own heart--within an hour of his actual departure,he called to pay his compliments to guests so distinguished as these,to a man so high in rank under the government which he himself served.He found it necessary to apologize for his garb, suited rather to thetrail than to the drawing-room. He stood in the hall of the Chouteauhome, a picture of the soldier of the frontier rather than thecourtier of the capital.
His three-cornered military hat, his blue uniform coat--these made thesole formality of his attire, for his feet were moccasined, his limbswere clad in tight-fitting buckskins, and his shirt was of roughlinsey, suitable for the work ahead.
"I ask your pardon, Colonel Burr," said he, "for coming to you as Iam, but the moment for my start is now directly at hand. I could notleave without coming to present my duties to you and Mrs. Alston.Indeed, I have done so at once upon my return to town. I pray youcarry back to Mr. Jefferson my sincerest compliments. Say to him, ifyou will, that we are setting forth with high hopes of success."
Formal, cold, polite--it was the one wish of Captain Lewis to end thisinterview as soon as he might, and to leave all sleeping dogs lying asthey were.
But Aaron Burr planned otherwise. His low, deep voice was never morepersuasive, his dark eye never more compelling--nor was his bold heartever more in trepidation than now, as he made excuse fordelay--delay--delay.
"My daughter, Mrs. Alston, will join us presently," he said. "So youare ready, Captain Lewis?"
"We are quite prepared, Colonel Burr. My men are on ahead two days'journey, camped at St. Charles, and waiting for me to overtake them.Dr. Saugrain, Mr. Chouteau, Mr. Labadie--one or two others of thegentlemen in the city--are so kind as to offer me a convoy of honor sofar as St. Charles. We are quite flattered. So now we start--they arewaiting for me at the wharf now, and I must go. All bridges are burnedbehind me!"
"_All bridges burned?_"
The deep voice of Aaron Burr almost trembled. His keen eye searchedthe face of the young man before him.
"Every one," replied the young Virginian. "I do not know how or when Imay return. Perhaps Mr. Clark or myself may come back by sea--shouldwe ever reach the sea. We can only trust to Providence."
He was bowing and extending his own hand in farewell, with politeexcuses as to his haste--relieved that his last ordeal had been sparedhim. He turned, as he felt rather than heard the approach of another,whose coming caused his heart almost to stop beating--the womandreaded and demanded by every fiber of his being.
"Oh, not so fast, not so fast!" laughed Theodosia Alston as she cameinto the room, offering her hand. "I heard you talking, and have beenhurrying to pretty myself up for Captain Lewis. What? Were you tryingto run away without ever saying good-by to me? And how you areprettied up!"
Her gaze, following her light speech, resolved itself into one ofadmiration. Theodosia Alston, as she looked, found him a goodlypicture as he stood ready for the trail.
"I was just going, yes," stammered Meriwether Lewis. "I had hoped----"But what he had hoped he did not say.
"Why might we not walk down with you to the wharf, if you are so soonto go?" she demanded--her own self-control concealing anydisappointment she may have felt at her cavalier reception.
"An excellent idea!" said Aaron Burr, backing his daughter's hand, andtrusting to her to have some plan. "A warrior must spend his last wordwith some woman, captain! Go you on ahead--I surrender my daughter toyou, and I shall follow presently to bid you a last Godspeed. You saidthose other gentlemen were to join you there?"
Meriwether Lewis found himself walking down the narrow street of thefrontier settlement between the lines of hollyhocks and budding roseswhich fronted many of the little residences. It was spring, the airwas soft. He was young. The woman at his side was very beautiful. Sofar as he could see they were alone.
They passed along the street, turned, made their way down therock-faced bluff to the water front; but still they were alone. AllSt. Louis was at the farther end of the wharf, waiting for a last lookat the idol of the town.
Theodosia sighed.
"And so Captain Lewis is going to have his way as usual? And he wasgoing--in spite of all--even without saying good-by to me!"
"Yes, I would have preferred that."
"Captain Lewis is mad. Look at that river! They say that when the boatstarted last week it took them an hour to make a quarter of a mile,when they struck into the Missouri. How many thousands of hours willit take to ascend to the mountains? How will you get your boats acrossthe mountains? What cascades and rapids lie on ahead? Your men willmutiny and destroy you. You cannot succeed--you will fail!"
"I thank you, madam!"
"Oh, you must start now, I presume--in fact, you have started; but Iwant you to come back before your obstinacy has driven you too far."
"Just what do you mean?"
"Listen. You have given me no time, unkind as you are--not amoment--at an hour like this! In these unsettled times, who knows whatmay happ
en? In that very unsettlement lies the probable success of theplan which my father and I have put before you so often. We need youto help us. When are you going to come back to us, Merne?"
As she spoke, they were approaching the long wharf along the waterfront, lined with rude craft which plied the rivers at thattime--flatboats, keel-boats, pirogues, canoes--and, far off at theextremity of the line, the boat which Lewis and his friends were totake. A party of idlers and observers stood about it even now. Thegaze of the young leader was fixed in that direction. He did not makeany immediate sign that he had heard her speech.
"I told Shannon, my aide, to meet me here," he said at last. "He wasto fetch my long spyglass. There are certain little articles of myequipment over yonder in the wharf shed. Would you excuse me for justa moment?"
He stooped at the low door and entered. But she followed him--followedafter him unconsciously, without plan, feeling only that he must notgo, that she could not let him away from her.
She saw the light floating through the door fall on his dense hair,long, loosely bagged in its cue. She saw the quality of his strongfigure, in all the fittings of a frontiersman, saw his stern face, histroubled eye, saw the unconscious strength which marked his everymovement as he strode about, eager, as it seemed to her, only to bedone with his last errands, and away on that trail which so long hadbeckoned to him.
The strength of the man, the strength of his purpose--the sudden andfull realization of both--this caught her like a tangible thing, andleft her no more than the old, blind, unformed protest. He must notgo! She could not let him go!
But the words she had spoken had caught him, after all. He had beenpondering--had been trying to set them aside as if unheard.
"Coming back?" he began, and stopped short once more. They were nowboth within the shelter of the old building.
"Yes, Merne!" she broke out suddenly. "When are you coming back to me,Merne?"
He stood icy silent, motionless, for just a moment. It seemed to heras if he was made of stone. Then he spoke very slowly, deliberately.
"Coming back to _you_? And you call me by that name? Only my mother,Mr. Jefferson and Will Clark ever did so."
"Oh, stiff-necked man! It is so hard to be kind with you! And all Ihave ever done--every time I have followed you in this way, each timeI have humiliated myself thus--it always was only in kindness foryou!"
He made no reply.
"Fate ran against us, Merne," she went on tremblingly. "We have bothaccepted fate. But in a woman's heart are many mansions. Is there nonein a man's--in yours--for me? Can't I ask a place in a good man'sheart--an innocent, clean place? Oh, think not you have had all theunhappiness in your own heart! Is all the world's misery yours? Idon't want you to go away, Merne, but if you do--if you must--won'tyou come back? Oh, won't you, Merne?"
Her voice was trembling, her hand half raised, her eyes sought afterhim. She stood partly in shadow, the flare of light from the open doorfalling over her face. She might have been some saint of old inpictured guise; but she was a woman, alive, beautiful, delectable,alluring--especially now, with this tone in her voice, this strangelybeseeching look in her eyes.
Her hands were almost lifted to be held out to him. She stood almostinclined to him, wholly unconscious of her attitude, forgetting thather words were imploring, remembering only that he was going.
He seemed not to hear her voice as he stood there, but somewhere as ifout of some savage past, a voice did speak to him, saying that when aman is sore athirst, then a man may drink--that the well-spring wouldnot miss the draft, and would tell no tale of it!
He stood, as many another man has stood, and fought the fight manyanother man has fought--the fight between man the primitive and manthe gentleman, chivalry contending with impulse, blood warring withbreeding.
"'Oh, Theo, what have I done?'"]
"Yes!" so said the voice in his ear. "Why should the spring grudge adraft to a soul aflame with an undying thirst? Vows? What have vows todo with this? Duty? What is duty to a man perishing?--I know not whatit was. I heard it. I felt it. Forgive me, it was not I myself! Oh,Theo, what have I done?"
She could not speak, could not even sob. Neither horror nor resentmentwas possible for her, nor any protest, save the tears which welledsilently, terribly.
Unable longer to endure this, Meriwether Lewis turned to leave behindhim his last hope of happiness, and to face alone what he now felt tobe the impenetrable night of his own destiny. He never knew when hishands fell from Theodosia Alston's face, or when he turned away; butat last he felt himself walking, forcing his head upright, his faceforward.
He passed, a tall, proud man in his half-savage trappings--a man infull ownership of splendid physical powers; but as he walked his feetwere lead, his heart was worse than lead. And though his face wasturned away from her, he knew that always he would see what he hadleft--this picture of Theodosia weeping--this picture of a saintmocked, of an altar desecrated. She wept, and it was because of him!
The dumb cry of his remorse, his despair, must have struck back towhere she still stood, her hands on her bosom, staring at him as hepassed:
"Theo! Theo! What have I done? What have I done?"
PART II