CHAPTER XVIII
THE WILDERNESS
The Governor's barge swept down the rolling flood of the Mississippi,impelled by the blades of ten sturdy oarsmen. Little by little theblue smoke of St. Louis town faded beyond the level of the forest. Thestone tower of the old Spanish stockade, where floated the Americanflag, disappeared finally.
Meriwether Lewis sat staring back, but seeming not to note whatpassed. He did not even notice a long bateau which left the wharf justbefore his own and preceded him down the river, now loafing alongaimlessly, sometimes ahead, sometimes behind that of the Governor andhis party. In time he turned to his lap-desk and began his endlesstask of writing, examining, revising. Now and again he muttered tohimself. The fever was indeed in his blood!
They proceeded thus, after the usual fashion of boat travel in thosedays, down the great river, until they had passed the mouth of theOhio and reached what was known as the Chickasaw Bluffs, below theconfluence of the two streams. Here was a little post of the army,arranged for the commander, Major Neely, Indian agent at that point.
As was the custom, all barges tied up here; and the Governor's craftmoored at the foot of the bluff. Its chief passenger was so weak thathe hardly could walk up the steep steps cut in the muddy front of thebank.
"Governor Lewis!" exclaimed Major Neely, as he met him. "You are ill!You are in an ague!"
"Perhaps, perhaps. Give me rest here for a day or two, if you please.Then I fancy I shall be strong enough to travel East. See if you canget horses for myself and my party--I am resolved not to go by sea. Ihave not time."
The Governor of Louisiana, haggard, flushed with fever, staggered ashe followed his friend into the apartment assigned to him in one ofthe cabins of the little post. He wore his usual traveling-garb; butnow, for some strange reason he seemed to lack his usual immaculateneatness. Instead of the formal dress of his office, he wore an old,stained, faded uniform coat, its pocket bulging with papers. This hekept at the head of his bed when at length he flung himself down,almost in the delirium of fever.
He lay here for two days, restless, sleepless. But at length, havingin the mean time scarcely tasted food, he rose and declared that hemust go on.
"Major," said he, "I can ride now. Have you horses for the journey?"
"Are you sure, Governor, that your strength is sufficient?" Neelyhesitated as he looked at the wasted form before him, at the holloweye, the fevered face.
"It is not a question of my personal convenience, Major," saidMeriwether Lewis. "Time presses for me. I must go on!"
"At least you shall not go alone," said Major Neely. "You should havesome escort. Doubtless you have important papers?"
Meriwether Lewis nodded.
"My servant has arranged everything, I fancy. Can you get an extra manor two? The Natchez Trace is none too safe."
That military road, as they both knew, was indeed no more than a horsepath cut through the trackless forest which lay across the States ofMississippi, Tennessee and Kentucky. Its reputation was not good. Manya trader passing north from New Orleans with coin, many a settlerpassing west with packhorses and household effects, had disappeared onthis wilderness road, and left no sign. It was customary for partiesof any consequence to ride in companies of some force.
It was a considerable cavalcade, therefore, which presently set forthfrom Chickasaw Bluffs on the long ride eastward to cross theAlleghanies, which meant some days or weeks spent in the saddle.Apprehension sat upon all, even as they started out. Their eyes restedupon the wasted form of their leader, the delirium of whose feverseemed still to hold him. He muttered to himself as he rode, resentedthe near approach of any traveling companion, demanded to be alone.They looked at him in silence.
"He talks to himself all the time," said one of the party--a new man,hired by Neely at the army post. He rode with Peria now; and none butPeria knew that he had come from the long barge which had clung to theGovernor's craft all the way down the river--and which, unknown toLewis himself, had tied up and waited at Chickasaw Bluffs. He was astranger to Neely and to all the others, but seemed ready enough totake pay for service along the Trace, declaring that he himself wasintending to go that way. He was a man well dressed, apparently ofeducation and of some means. He rode armed.
"What is wrong with the Governor, think you?" inquired this man oncemore of Peria, Lewis's servant.
"It is his way," shrugged Peria. "We leave him alone. His hand isheavy when he is angry."
"He rides always with his rifle across his saddle?"
"Always, on the trail."
"Loaded, I presume--and his pistols?"
"You may well suppose that," said Peria.
"Oh, well," said the new member of the party, "'tis just as well to besafe. I lifted his saddlebags and the desk, or trunk, whatever youcall it, that is on the pack horse yonder. Heavy, eh?"
"Naturally," grinned Peria.
They looked at one another. And thereafter the two, as was well noted,conversed often and more intimately together as the journeyprogressed.
"Now it's an odd thing about his coat," volunteered the stranger laterin that same day. "He always keeps it on--that ragged old uniform. Wasit a uniform, do you believe? Can't the Governor of the new Territorywear a coat that shows his own quality? This one's a dozen years old,you might say."
"He always wears it on the trail," said Peria. "At home he watches itas if it held some treasure."
"Treasure?" The shifty eyes of the new man flashed in sudden interest."What treasure? Papers, perhaps--bills--documents--money? His pocketbulges at the side. Something there--yes, eh?"
"Hush!" said Peria. "You do not know that man, the Governor. He hasthe eye of a hawk, the ear of a fox--you can keep nothing from him. Hefears nothing in the world, and in his moods--you'd best leave himalone. Don't let him suspect, or----" And Peria shook his head.
The cavalcade was well out into the wilderness east of the Mississippion that afternoon of October 8, in the year 1809. Stopping at thewayside taverns which now and then were found, they had progressedperhaps a hundred miles to the eastward. The day was drawing towardits close when Peria rode up and announced that one or two of thehorses had strayed from the trail.
"I have told you to be more careful, Peria," expostulated GovernorLewis. "There are articles on the packhorse which I need at night. Whois this new man that is so careless? Why do you not keep the horsesup? Go, then, and get them. Major Neely, would you be so kind as tojoin the men and assure them of bringing on the horses?"
"And what of you, Governor?"
"I shall go on ahead, if you please. Is there no house near by? Youknow the trail. Perhaps we can get lodgings not far on."
"The first white man's house beyond here," answered Neely, "belongs toan old man named Grinder. 'Tis no more than a few miles ahead. Supposewe join you there?"
"Agreed," said Lewis, and setting spurs to his horse, he left them.
It was late in the evening when at length Meriwether Lewis reined upin front of the somewhat unattractive Grinder homestead cabin,squatted down alongside the Natchez Trace; a place where sometimeshospitality of a sort was dispensed. It was an ordinary double cabinthat he saw, two cob-house apartments with a covered space betweensuch as might have been found anywhere for hundreds of miles on eitherside of the Alleghanies at that time. At his call there appeared awoman--Mrs. Grinder, she announced herself.
"Madam," he inquired, "could you entertain me and my party for thenight? I am alone at present, but my servants will soon be up. Theyare on the trail in search of some horses which have strayed."
"My husband is not here," said the woman. "We are not well fixed, butI reckon if we can stand it all the time, you can for a night. Howmany air there in your party?"
"A half-dozen, with an extra horse or two."
"I reckon we can fix ye up. Light down and come in."
She was noting well her guest, and her shrewd eyes determined him tobe no common man. He had the bearing of a gentleman, the carriage of ama
n used to command. Certain of his garments seemed to show wealth,although she noted, when he stripped off his traveling-smock, that hewore not a new coat, but an old one--very old, she would have said,soiled, stained, faded. It looked as if it had once been part of auniform.
Her guest, whoever he was--and she neither knew nor asked, for thewilderness tavern held no register, and few questions were asked oranswered--paid small attention to the woman. He carried his saddlebagsinto the room pointed out to him, flung them down, and began to paceup and down, sometimes talking to himself. The woman eyed him fromtime to time as she went about her duties.
"Set up and eat," she said at last. "I reckon your men are notcoming."
"I thank you, Madam," said the stranger, with gentle courtesy. "Do notlet me trouble you too much. I have been ill of late, and do not asyet experience much hunger."
Indeed, he scarcely tasted the food. He sat, as she noted, a longtime, gazing fixedly out of the door, over the forest, toward theWest.
"Is it not a beautiful world, Madam?" said he, after a time, in avoice of great gentleness and charm. "I have seen the forest oftenthus in the West in the evening, when the day was done. It iswonderful!"
"Yes. Some of my folks is thinking of going out further into theWest."
He turned to her abstractedly, yet endeavoring to be courteous.
"A wonderful country, Madam!" said he; and so he fell again into hismoody staring out beyond the door.
After a time the hostess of the backwoods cabin sought to make up abed for him, but he motioned to her to desist.
"It is not necessary," said he. "I have slept so much in the open that'tis rarely I use a bed at all. I see now that my servant has come up,and is in the yard yonder. Tell him to bring my robes and blankets andspread them here on the floor, as I always have them. That will answerquite well enough, thank you."
Peria, it seemed, had by this time found his way to the cabin alongthe trail. He was alone.
"Come, man!" said Lewis. "Make down my bed for me--I am ill. And tellme, where is my powder? Where are the bullets for my pistols? I findthem empty. Haven't I told you to be more careful about these things?And where is my rifle-powder? The canister is here, but 'tis empty.Come, come, I must have better service than this!"
But even as he chided the remissness of his servant, he seemed toforget the matter in his mind. Presently he was again pacing apart,stopping now and then to stare out over the forest.
"I must have a place to write," said he at length. "I shall be awakefor a time tonight, occupied with business matters of importance.Where is Major Neely? Where are the other men? Why have they not comeup?"
Peria could not or did not answer these questions, but sullenly wentabout the business of making his master as comfortable as he might,and then departed to his own quarters, down the hill, in anotherbuilding. The old backwoods woman herself withdrew to the otherapartment, beyond the open space of the double cabin.
The soft, velvet darkness of night in the forest now came on apace--anight of silence. There was not even the call of a tree toad. Thevoice of the whippoorwill was stilled at that season of the year. Ifthere were human beings awake, alert, at that time, they made nosound. Meriwether Lewis was alone--alone in the wilderness again. Itssilences, its mysteries, drew about him.
But now he stood, not enjoying in his usual fashion the familiarfeeling of the night in the forest, the calm, the repose itcustomarily brought to him. He stood looking intently, as if heexpected some one--nay, indeed, as if he saw some one--as if he saw aface! What face was it?
At last he made his way across the room to the heavy saddle-case whichhad been placed there. He flung the lid open, and felt among thecontents. It seemed to him there was not so much within the case asthere should have been. He missed certain papers, and resolved to askPeria about them. He could not find the little bags of coin which heexpected; but he found the watch, lying covered in a corner of thecase. He drew it out and, stepping toward the flickering candle,opened it, gazing fixedly at the little silhouette cut round to fit inthe back of the case.
It was a face that he had seen before--a hundred times he had gazedthus at it on the far Western trails.
He brought the little portrait close up to his eyes--but not close tohis lips. No, he did not kiss the face of the woman who once hadwritten to him:
You must not kiss my picture, because I am in your power.
Meriwether Lewis had won his long fight! He had mastered the humanemotions of his soul at last. The battle had been such that he sathere now, weak and spent. He sat looking at the face which had meantso much to him all these years.
There came into his mind some recollection of words that she hadwritten to him once--something about the sound of water. He lifted hishead and listened. Yes, there was a sound coming faintly through thenight--the trickle of a little brook in the ravine below the window.
Always, he recalled, she had spoken of the sound of water, saying thatthat music would blot out memory--saying that water would wash outsecrets, would wash out sins. What was it she had said? What was itshe had written to him long ago? What did it mean--about the water?
The sound of the little brook came to his ears again in some shift ofthe wind. He rose and stumbled toward the window, carrying the candlein his hand. His haggard face was lighted by its flare as he stoodthere, leaning out, listening.
It was then that his doom came to him.
There came the sound of a shot; a second; and yet another.
The woman in the cabin near by heard them clearly enough. She rose andlistened. There was no sound from the other cabins. The servants paidno attention to the shots, if they had heard them--and why should theynot have heard them? No one called out, no one came running.
Frightened, the woman rose, and after a time stepped timidly acrossthe covered space between the two rooms, toward the light which shesaw shining faintly through the cracks of the door. She heard groanswithin.
A tall and ghastly figure met her as she approached the door. She sawhis face, white and haggard and stained. From a wound in the foreheada broad band of something dark fell across his cheek. From his throatsomething dark was welling. He clutched a hand on his breast--and hisfingers were dark.
He was bleeding from three wounds; but still he stood and spoke toher.
"In God's name, Madam," said he, "bring me water! I am killed!"
She ran away, she knew not where, calling to the others to come; butthey did not come. She was alone. Once more, forgetful of her errand,incapable of rendering aid, she went back to the door.
She heard no sound. She flung open the door and peered into the room.The candle was standing, broken and guttering, on the floor. She couldsee the scattered belongings of the traveling-cases, empty now. Theoccupant of the room was gone! In terror she fled once more, back toher own room, and cowered in her bed.
Staggering, groping, his hands strained to him to hold in the lifethat was passing, Meriwether Lewis had left the room where he hadreceived his wounds, and had stepped out into the air, into the night.All the resolution of his soul was bent upon one purpose. Hestaggered, but still stumbled onward.
It seemed to him that he heard the sound of water, and blindly,unconsciously, he headed that way. He entered the shadow of the woodsand passed down the little slope of the hill. He fell, rather thanseated himself, at the side of the brook whose voice he had heard inthe night. He was alone. The wilderness was all about him--thewilderness which had always called to him, and which now was to claimhim.
He sat, gasping, almost blind, feeling at his pockets. At last hefound it--one of the sulphur matches made for him by good old Dr.Saugrain. Tremblingly he essayed to light it, and at last he saw theflare.
With skill of custom, though now almost unconsciously, his fingersfelt for dry bits of bark and leaves, little twigs. Yes, the matchserved its purpose. A tiny flame flickered between his feet as he sat.
Did any eye see Meriwether Lewis as he sat there in the dark at hislast camp f
ire? Did any guilty eye look on him making his last fight?
He sat alone by the little fire. His hand, dropping sometimes,responsive only to the supreme effort of his will, fumbled in thebosom of his old coat. There were some papers there--some things whichno other eyes than his must ever see! Here was a secret--it mustalways be a secret--her secret and his! He would hide forever from theworld what had been theirs in common.
The tiny flame rose up more strongly, twice, thrice, five times--sixtimes in all! One by one he had placed them on the flames--theseletters that he had carried on his heart for years--the six lettersthat she had written him when he was far away in the unknown. He heldthe last one long, trying to see the words. He groaned. He was almostblind. His trembling finger found the last word of the last letter. Itrose before him in tall characters now, all done in flame and not inblock--_Theodosia!_
Now they were gone! No one could ever see them. No one could know howhe had treasured them all these years. She was safe!
Before his soul, in the time of his great accounting, there rose thepassing picture of the years. Free from suffering, now absolved,resigned, he was a boy once more, and all the world was young. He sawagain the slopes of old Albemarle, beautiful in the green and gold ofan early autumn day in old Virginia. He heard again his mother'svoice. What was it that she said? He bent his head as if to listen.
"Your wish--your great desire--your hope--your dream--all these shallbe yours at last, even though the trail be long, even though theburden be too heavy to carry farther."
So then she had known--she had spoken the truth in her soothsayingthat day so long ago! Now his fading eye looked about him, and henodded his head weakly, as if to assent to something he had heard.
He had so earnestly longed--he had so greatly desired--to be anhonorable man! He had so longed and desired to do somewhat for othersthan himself! And here was peace, here indeed was conquest. His greatdesire was won!
His lax hands dropped between his knees as he sat. A little gust ofwind sweeping down the gully caught up some of the whiteashes--stained as they were with blood that dropped from his veins ashe bent above them--carried them down upon the tiny thread of thelittle brook. It carried them away toward the sea--his blood, theashes, the secret which they hid.
At length he rose once more, his splendid will still forcing hisbroken body to do its bidding. Half crawling up the bank, once more hestood erect and staggered back across the yard, into the room. Thewoman heard him there again. Pity arose in her breast; once more shemastered her terror and approached the door.
"In God's name, Madam," said he, "bring me water--wine! I am sostrong, I am hard to die! Bind up my wounds--I have work to do! Healme these wounds!"
But not her power nor any power could heal such wounds as his. Oncemore she called out for aid, and none came.
The night wore away. The dying man lay on his bearskin pallet on thefloor, motionless now and silent, but still breathing, and calm atlast. It was dawn when the recreant servant found him there.
"Peria," said Meriwether Lewis, turning his fading eye on the man, "donot fear me. I will not hurt you. But my watch--I cannot find it--itseems gone. I am hard to die, it seems. But the little watch--ithad--a--picture--Ah!"
CHAPTER XIX
DOWN TO THE SEA
Many days later the French servant, Peria, rode up to the gate, to thedoor, of Locust Hall, the Lewis homestead in old Virginia. The news hebore had preceded him. He met a stern-faced, dark-browed woman, whoregarded him coldly when he announced his name, regarded him insilence. The servant found himself able to make but small speech.
"Your son was a brave man--he lived long," said Peria, haltingly, atthe close of his story.
"Yes," said the mother of Meriwether Lewis. "He was a brave man. Hewas strong!"
"He was unhappy; but why he should have killed himself----"
"Stop!" The dark eyes blazed upon him. "What are you saying? My sonkill himself? It is an outrage to his memory to suggest it. He was thevictim of some enemy. As for you, begone!"
So Peria passed from sight and view, and almost from memory, notaccused, not acquitted. Long afterward a brother of Meriwether Lewismet him, and found that he was carrying the old rifle and the littlewatch which every member of the family knew so well. These things hadbeen missing from the effects of Meriwether Lewis in theinventory--indeed, little remained in the traveling-cases save a fewscattered papers and the old spyglass. There was no gold. There wereno letters of any kind.
Soon there came down from Monticello to Locust Hall the coach ofThomas Jefferson.
"Madam," said he, when finally he stood at the side of the mistress ofLocust Hall, "it is heavy news I thought to bring--I see that you haveheard it. What shall I say--what can we say to each other? I mourn himas if he were my own son."
"It has come at last," said the mother of Meriwether Lewis. "Thewilderness has him, as I knew it would! I told him, here at thisplace, when he was a boy, that at last the load would weigh him down."
"The rumor is that he died by his own hand. I find it difficult tobelieve. It is far more likely that some enemy or robber was guilty ofthe deed."
"Whom had he ever harmed?" she demanded of Jefferson.
"None in the world, with intent; but he had enemies. Whether by hisown hand or that of another, he died a gallant gentleman. He would notthink of himself alone. But listen--bear with me if I tell you thatcould your son send out the news himself, perhaps he might say 'twasby his own hand he perished, and not by that of another!"
"Never, Mr. Jefferson, never will I believe that! It was not in hisnature!"
"I agree with you. But when we take the last wishes of the dead, wetake what is the law for us. And the law of your son was the law ofhonor. Suppose, my dear madam, there were a woman concerned in thismatter?"
"He never wronged a woman in his life----"
"Precisely, nor in his death would he wrong one! Do you begin to see?"
"Did he ever speak to you of her?"
"It was impossible that he should; but I knew them both. I knew theirsecret. Were it in his power to do so, I am sure that he carried hissecret with him, so that it might never be shared by any. That secrethe has guarded in death as in life."
"But shall I let that stain rest on his name?" The dark eye of the oldwoman gleamed upon her son's friend.
"Do not I love him also? I am speaking now only of his own wish--notours. I know that he would shield her at any cost--nay, I know he didshield her at any cost. May not we shield him--and her--no matter whatthe cost to us? If he laid that wish on us, ought we not to respectit? Madam, I shall frame a letter which will serve to appease thecriticism of the public in regard to your son. If it be not the exacttruth--and who shall tell the exact truth?--it will at least beaccepted as truth, and it will forever silence any talk. What shouldthe public know of a life such as his? There are some lives which aretragically large, and such was his. He lived with honor, and he couldnot die without it. What was in his heart we shall not ask to know.If ever he sinned, he is purged of any sin."
Jefferson was silent for a moment, holding the bereaved mother's handin his own.
"He shall have a monument, madam," he went on. "It shall mark hisgrave in yonder wilderness. They shall name at least a county for him,and hold it his sacred grave-place--there in Tennessee, by the oldIndian road. Let him lie there under the trees--that is as he wouldwish. He shall have some monument--yes, but how futile is all that!His greatest monument will be in the vast new country which he hasbrought to us. He was a man of a natural greatness not surpassed byany of his time."
* * * * *
What of Theodosia Alston, loyal and lofty soul, blameless wife,devoted and pathetic adherent to the fallen fortunes of herill-starred father?
Three years after Meriwether Lewis laid him down to sleep in theforest, a ship put out from Charleston wharf. It was bound for thecity of New York, where at that time there was living a broken,homeless, forsaken man named Aa
ron Burr--a man execrated at home,discredited abroad, but who now, after years of exile, had crept hometo the country which had cast him out.
A passenger on that ship was Theodosia Alston, the daughter of AaronBurr. That much is known. The ship sailed. It never came to port. Nomore is known.
To this day none knows what was the fate of Aaron Burr's daughter,one of the most appealing figures of her day, a woman made forhappiness, but continually in close touch with tragedy. Wherever herbody may lie, she has her wish. The sound of the eternal waters is thecontinuous requiem in her ears. Her secret, if she had one, is washedaway long ere this, and is one with the eternal secrets of the sea. Asto her sin, she had none. Above her memory, since she has no grave,there might best be inscribed the words she wrote at a time of her owndespair:
"I hope to be happy in the next world, for I have not been bad in this."
Did the little brook in Tennessee ever find its way down to the sea?Did it carry a scattered drop of a man's lifeblood, little by littlethinning, thinning on its long journey? Did ever a wandering flake ofashes, melting, rest on its bosom for so great a journey as thattoward the sea?
Did the sound of a voice in the wilderness, passing across the unknownleagues, ever reach an ear that heard? Who can tell? Perhaps in thegreat ten thousand years such things may be--perhaps deep calls todeep, and there are no longer sins nor tears.
A million hearth-fires mark the camp-fire trail of Meriwether Lewis.We own the country which he found, and for which he paid. He sleeps.Above him stands the monument which his chief assigned to him--hiscountry. It rises now in glory and splendor, the perfected visionwhich he saw.
That is the happy ending of his story--his country! It is ours. As itstitle came to us in honor, it is for us to love it honorably, to useit honorably, and to defend it honorably. None may withstand us whilewe hold to his ambitions--while our sons measure to the stature ofsuch a man.
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