CHAPTER XII
WHAT VOICE HAD CALLED?
They lay in camp far down the river whose flood had borne them on sorapidly. They had passed through the last of the dangerous country ofthe Sioux, defying the wild bands whose gantlet they had to run, butwhich they had run in safety. Ahead was only what might be called apleasure journey, to the end of the river trail.
The men were happy as they lay about their fires, which glowed dullyin the dusk. Each was telling what he presently was going to do, whenhe got his pay at old St. Louis, not far below.
William Clark, weary with the day's labor, had excused himself andgone to his blankets. Lewis, the responsible head of the expedition,alone, aloof, silent, sat moodily looking into his fire, the victim ofone of his recurring moods of melancholy.
He stirred at length and raised himself restlessly. It was not unusualfor him to be sleepless, and always, while awake, he had with him theproblems of his many duties; but at this hour something unwontedlydisturbing had come to Meriwether Lewis.
He turned once more and bent down, as if figuring out some puzzle ofa baffling trail. Picking up a bit of stick, he traced here and there,in the ashes at his feet, points and lines, as if it were some problemin geometry. Uneasy, strange of look, now and again he muttered tohimself.
"Hoh!" he exclaimed at length, almost like an Indian, as if in somedefinite conclusion.
He had run his trail to the end, had finished the problem in theashes.
"Hoh!" his voice again rumbled in his chest.
And now he threw his tracing-stick away. He sat, his head on one side,as if looking at some distant star. It seemed that he heard a voicecalling to him in the night, so faintly that he could not be sure. Hisface, thin, gaunt, looked set and hard in the light of his littlefire. Something stern, something wistful, too, showed in his eyes,frowning under the deep brows. Was Meriwether Lewis indeed gone mad?Had the hardships of the wilderness at last taken their toll ofhim--as had sometimes happened to other men?
He rose, limping a little, for he still was weak and stiff from hiswound, though disdaining staff or crotched bough to lean upon. Helooked about him cautiously.
The camp was slumbering. Here and there, stirred by the passingbreeze, the embers of a little fire glowed like an eye in the dark.The men slept, some under their rude shelters, others in the openunder the stars, each rolled in his robe, his rifle under the flap tokeep it from the dew.
Meriwether Lewis knew the place of every man in the encampment.Ordway, Pryor, Gass--each of the three sergeants slept by his own messfire, his squad around him. McNeal, Bratton, Shields, Cruzatte, ReubenFields, Goodrich, Whitehouse, Coalter, Shannon--the captain knew whereeach lay, rolled up like a mummy. He had marked each when he threwdown his bed-roll that night; for Meriwether Lewis was a leader ofmen, and no detail escaped him.
He passed now, stealthy as an Indian, along the rows of sleepingforms. His moccasined foot made no sound. Save for his uniform coat,he was clad as a savage himself; and his alert eye, his noiselessfoot, might have marked him one. He sought some one of these--and heknew where lay the man he wished to find.
He stood beside him silently at last, looking down at the sleepingfigure. The man lay a little apart from the others, for he was tostand second watch that night, and the second guard usually sleptwhere he would not disturb the others when awakened for his turn ofduty.
This man--he was long and straight in his blankets, and filled themwell--suddenly awoke, and lay staring up. He had not been called, nohand had touched him, it was not yet time for guard relief; but he hadfelt a presence, even as he slept.
He stared up at a tall and motionless figure looking down. With aswift movement he reached for his rifle; but the next instant, even ashe lay, his hand went to his forehead in salute. He was looking upinto the face of his commander!
"Shannon!" He heard a hoarse voice command him. "Get up!"
George Shannon, the youngest of the party, sprang out of his bed halfclad.
"Captain!" He saluted again. "What is it, sir?" he half whispered, asif in apprehension.
"Put on your jacket, Shannon. Come with me!"
Shannon obeyed hurriedly. Half stripped, he stood a fine figure ofyoung manhood himself, lithe, supple, yet developed into ruggedstrength by his years of labor on the trail.
"What is it, Captain?" he inquired once more.
They were apart from the others now, in the shadows beyond Lewis'sfire. Shannon had caught sight of his leader's countenance, noting thewildness of its look, its drawn and haggard lines.
His commander's hand thrust in his face a clutch of papers,folded--letters, they seemed to be. Shannon could see the trembling ofthe hand that held them.
"You know what I want, Shannon! I want the rest of these--I want thelast one of them! Give it to me now!"
The youth felt on his shoulder the grip of a hand hard as steel. Hedid not make any answer, but stood dumb, wondering what might be thenext act of this man, who seemed half a madman.
"Five of them!" he heard the same hoarse voice go on. "There must beanother--there must be one more, at least. You have done this--youbrought these letters. Give me the last one of them! Why don't youanswer?" With sudden and violent strength Lewis shook the boy as a dogmight a rat. "Answer me!"
"Captain, I cannot!" broke out Shannon.
"What? Then there is another?"
"I'll not answer! I'll stand my trial before court martial, if youplease."
Again the heavy hand on his shoulder.
"There will be no trial!" he heard the hoarse voice of his commandersaying. "I cannot sleep. I must have the last one. There is another!"
Shannon laid a hand on the iron wrist.
"How do you know?" he faltered. "Why do you think----"
"Am I not your leader? Is it not my business to know? I am a woodsman.You thought you had covered your trail, but it was plain. I know youare the messenger who has been bringing these letters to me from her.I need not name her, and you shall not! For what reason you didthis--by what plan--I do not know, but I know you did it. You wereabsent each time that I found one of these letters. That was toocunning to be cunning! You are young, Shannon, you have something tolearn. You sing songs--love songs--you write letters--love letters,perhaps! You are Irish--you have sentiment. There is romance aboutyou--_you_ are the man she would choose to do what you have done.Being a woman, she knew, she chose well; but it is my business to readall these signs.
"Give me that letter! I am your officer."
"Captain, I will not!"
"I tell you I cannot sleep! Give it to me, boy, or, by Heaven, youyourself shall sleep the long sleep here and now! What? You stillrefuse?"
"Yes, I'll not be driven to it. You say I'm Irish. I am--I'll not giveup a woman's secret--it's a question of honor, Captain. There is awoman concerned, as you know."
"Yes!"
"And I promised her, too. I swear I never planned any wrong to eitherof you. I would die at your order now, as you know; but you have noright to order this, and I'll not answer!"
The hand closed at his throat. The boy could not speak, but stillMeriwether Lewis growled on at him.
"Shannon! Speak! Why have you kept secrets from your commandingofficer? You have begun to tell me--tell me all!"
The boy's hand clutched at his leader's wrists. At length Lewis loosedhim.
"Captain," began the victim, "what do you mean? What can I do?"
"I will tell you what I mean, Shannon. I promised to care for you andbring you back safe to your parents. You'll never see your parentsagain, save on one condition. I trusted you, thought you had specialloyalty for me. Was I wrong?"
"On my honor, Captain," the boy broke out, "I'd have died for you anytime, and I'd do it now! I've worked my very best. You're my officer,my chief!"
With one movement, Meriwether Lewis flung off the uniform coat thathe wore. They stood now, man to man, stripped, and neither gave backfrom the other.
"Shannon," said Lewis, "I'm not your
officer now. I'm going to chokethe truth out of you. Will you fight me, or are you afraid?"
The last cruelty was too much. The boy began to gulp.
"I'm not afraid to fight, sir. I'd fight any man, but you--no, I'llnot do it! Even stripped, you're my commander still."
"Is that the reason?"
"Not all of it. You're weak, Captain, your wound has you in a fever.'Twould not be fair--I could do as I liked with you now. I'll notfight you. I couldn't!"
"What? You will not obey me as your officer, and will not fight me asa man? Do you want to be whipped? Do you want to be shot? Do you wantto be drummed out of camp tomorrow morning? By Heaven, PrivateShannon, one of these choices will be yours!"
But something of the icy silence of the youth who heard these terriblewords gave pause even to the madman that was Meriwether Lewis now. Hehalted, his hooked hands extended for the spring upon his opponent.
"What is it, boy?" he whispered at last. "What have I done? What did Isay?"
Shannon was sobbing now.
"Captain," he said, and thrust a hand into the bosom of histunic--"Captain, for Heaven's sake, don't do that! Don't apologize tome. I understand. Leave me alone. Here's the letter. There weresix--this is the last."
Lewis's strained muscles relaxed, his blazing eyes softened.
"Shannon!" he whispered once more. "What have I done?"
He took the letter in his hand, but did not look at it, although hisfingers could feel the seal unbroken.
"Why do you give it to me now, boy?" he asked at length. "What changedyou?"
"Because it's orders, sir. She ordered me--that is, she asked me--togive you these letters at times when you seemed to need themmost--when you were sick or in trouble, when anything had gone wrong.We couldn't figure so far on ahead when I ought to give you each one.I had to do my best. I didn't know at first, but now I see that you'resick. You're not yourself--you're in trouble. She told me not to letyou know who carried them," he added rather inconsequently. "She saidthat that might end it all. She thought that you might come back."
"Come back--when?"
"She didn't know--we couldn't any of us tell--it was all a guess. Allthis about the letters was left to me, to do my best. I couldn't askyou, Captain, or any one. I don't know what was in the letters, sir,and I don't ask you, for that's not my business; but I promised her."
"What did she promise you?"
"Nothing. She didn't promise me pay, because she knew I wouldn't havedone it for pay. She only looked at me, and she seemed sad, I don'tknow why. I couldn't help but promise her. I gave her my word ofhonor, because she said her letters might be of use to you, but thatno one else must know that she had written them."
"When was all this?"
"At St. Louis, just before we started. I reckon she picked me outbecause she thought I was especially close to you. You know I havebeen so."
"Yes, I know, Shannon."
"I thought I was doing something for you. You see, she told me thather name must not be mentioned, that no one must know about this,because it would hurt a woman's reputation. She thought the men mighttalk, and that would be bad for you. I could not refuse her. Do youblame me now?"
"No, Shannon. No! In all this there is but one to blame, and that isyour officer, myself!"
"I did not think there was any harm in my getting the letters to you,Captain. I knew that lady was your friend. I know who she is. She wasmore beautiful than any woman in St. Louis when we were there--more alady, somehow. Of course, I'm not an officer or a gentleman--I'm onlya boy from the backwoods, and only a private soldier. I couldn't breakmy promise to her, and I couldn't very well obey your orders unless Idid. If I've broken any of the regulations you can punish me. You see,I held back this letter--I gave it to you now because I had thefeeling that I ought to--that she would want me to. It is the fever,sir!"
"Aye, the fever!"
Silence fell as they stood there in the night. The boy went on, halftremblingly:
"Please, please, Captain Lewis, don't call me a coward! I don'tbelieve I am. I was trying to do something for you--for both of you.It was always on my mind about these letters. I did my best andnow----"
And now it was the eye of Meriwether Lewis that suddenly was wet; itwas his voice that trembled.
"Boy," said he, "I am your officer. Your officer asks your pardon. Ihave tried myself. I was guilty. Will you forget this?"
"Not a word to a soul in the world, Captain!" broke out Shannon."About a woman, you see, we do not talk."
"No, Mr. Shannon, about a woman we gentlemen do not talk. But now tellme, boy, what can I do for you--what can I ever do for you?"
"Nothing in the world, Captain--but just one thing."
"What is it?"
"Please, sir, tell me that you don't think me a coward!"
"A coward? No, Shannon, you are the bravest fellow I ever met!"
The hand on the boy's shoulder was kindly now. The right hand ofCaptain Meriwether Lewis sought that of Private George Shannon. Themadness of the trail, of the wilderness--the madness of absence andof remorse--had swept by, so that Lewis once more was officer,gentleman, just and generous man.
Shannon stooped and picked up the coat that his captain had cast fromhim. He held it up, and aided his commander again to don it. Then,saluting, he marched off to his bivouac bed.
From that day to the end of his life, no one ever heard George Shannonmention a word of this episode. Beyond the two leaders of the party,none of the expedition ever knew who had played the part of themysterious messenger. Nor did any one know, later, whence came thefunds which eventually carried George Shannon through his schooling inthe East, through his studies for the bar, and into the successfulpractise which he later built up in Kentucky's largest city.
Meriwether Lewis, limp and lax now, shivering in the chill under thereaction from his excitement, turned away, stepped back to his ownlodge, and contrived a little light, after the frontier fashion--a ragwick in a shallow vessel of grease. With this uncertain aid he bentdown closer to read the finely written lines, which ran:
MY FRIEND:
This is my last letter to you. This is the one I have marked Number Six--the last one for my messenger.
Yes, since you have not returned, now I know you never can. Rest well, then, sir, and let me be strong to bear the news when at length it comes, if it ever shall come. Let the winds and the waters sound your requiem in that wilderness which you loved more than me--which you loved more than fame or fortune, honor or glory for yourself. The wilderness! It holds you. And for me--when at last I come to lay me down, I hope, too, some wilderness of wood or waters will be around me with its vast silences.
After all, what is life? Such a brief thing! Little in it but duty done well and faithfully. I know you did yours while you lived. I have tried to do mine. It has been hard for me to see what was duty. If I knew as absolute truth that conviction now in my heart--that you never can come back--how then could I go on?
Meriwether--Merne--Merne--I have been calling to you! Have you not heard me? Can you not hear me now, calling to you across all the distances to come back to me? I cannot give you up to the world, because I have loved you so much for myself. It was a cruel fate that parted us--more and more I know that, even as more and more I resolve to do what is my duty. But, oh, I miss you! Come back to me--to one who never was and never can be, but _is_----
Yours,
THEODOSIA.
It took him long to read this letter. At last his trembling handdropped the creased and broken sheets. The guttering light went out.The men were silent, sleeping near their fires. The peace of the greatplains lay all about.
She had said it--had said that last fated word. Now indeed he knewwhat voice had called to him across the deeps!
He reflected now that all these messages had been written to himbefore he left her; and that wh
en he saw her last she was standing,tears in her eyes, outraged by the act of the man whom she hadtrusted--nay, whom she had loved!