The Magnificent Adventure Part 37

CHAPTER XII

WHAT VOICE HAD CALLED?

They lay in camp far down the river whose flood had borne them on so rapidly. They had pa.s.sed through the last of the dangerous country of the Sioux, defying the wild bands whose gantlet they had to run, but which they had run in safety. Ahead was only what might be called a pleasure journey, to the end of the river trail.

The men were happy as they lay about their fires, which glowed dully in the dusk. Each was telling what he presently was going to do, when he got his pay at old St. Louis, not far below.

William Clark, weary with the day's labor, had excused himself and gone to his blankets. Lewis, the responsible head of the expedition, alone, aloof, silent, sat moodily looking into his fire, the victim of one of his recurring moods of melancholy.

He stirred at length and raised himself restlessly. It was not unusual for him to be sleepless, and always, while awake, he had with him the problems of his many duties; but at this hour something unwontedly disturbing had come to Meriwether Lewis.

He turned once more and bent down, as if figuring out some puzzle of a 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 problem in geometry. Uneasy, strange of look, now and again he muttered to himself.

"Hoh!" he exclaimed at length, almost like an Indian, as if in some definite conclusion.

He had run his trail to the end, had finished the problem in the ashes.

"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 voice calling to him in the night, so faintly that he could not be sure. His face, thin, gaunt, looked set and hard in the light of his little fire. Something stern, something wistful, too, showed in his eyes, frowning under the deep brows. Was Meriwether Lewis indeed gone mad?

Had the hards.h.i.+ps of the wilderness at last taken their toll of him--as had sometimes happened to other men?

He rose, limping a little, for he still was weak and stiff from his wound, though disdaining staff or crotched bough to lean upon. He looked about him cautiously.

The camp was slumbering. Here and there, stirred by the pa.s.sing breeze, the embers of a little fire glowed like an eye in the dark.

The men slept, some under their rude shelters, others in the open under the stars, each rolled in his robe, his rifle under the flap to keep it from the dew.

Meriwether Lewis knew the place of every man in the encampment.

Ordway, Pryor, Ga.s.s--each of the three sergeants slept by his own mess fire, his squad around him. McNeal, Bratton, s.h.i.+elds, Cruzatte, Reuben Fields, Goodrich, Whitehouse, Coalter, Shannon--the captain knew where each lay, rolled up like a mummy. He had marked each when he threw down his bed-roll that night; for Meriwether Lewis was a leader of men, and no detail escaped him.

He pa.s.sed now, stealthy as an Indian, along the rows of sleeping forms. His moccasined foot made no sound. Save for his uniform coat, he was clad as a savage himself; and his alert eye, his noiseless foot, might have marked him one. He sought some one of these--and he knew where lay the man he wished to find.

He stood beside him silently at last, looking down at the sleeping figure. The man lay a little apart from the others, for he was to stand second watch that night, and the second guard usually slept where he would not disturb the others when awakened for his turn of duty.

This man--he was long and straight in his blankets, and filled them well--suddenly awoke, and lay staring up. He had not been called, no hand had touched him, it was not yet time for guard relief; but he had felt a presence, even as he slept.

He stared up at a tall and motionless figure looking down. With a swift movement he reached for his rifle; but the next instant, even as he lay, his hand went to his forehead in salute. He was looking up into the face of his commander!

"Shannon!" He heard a hoa.r.s.e voice command him. "Get up!"

George Shannon, the youngest of the party, sprang out of his bed half clad.

"Captain!" He saluted again. "What is it, sir?" he half whispered, as if in apprehension.

"Put on your jacket, Shannon. Come with me!"

Shannon obeyed hurriedly. Half stripped, he stood a fine figure of young manhood himself, lithe, supple, yet developed into rugged strength 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's fire. Shannon had caught sight of his leader's countenance, noting the wildness 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 of the hand that held them.

"You know what I want, Shannon! I want the rest of these--I want the last one of them! Give it to me now!"

The youth felt on his shoulder the grip of a hand hard as steel. He did not make any answer, but stood dumb, wondering what might be the next act of this man, who seemed half a madman.

"Five of them!" he heard the same hoa.r.s.e voice go on. "There must be another--there must be one more, at least. You have done this--you brought these letters. Give me the last one of them! Why don't you answer?" With sudden and violent strength Lewis shook the boy as a dog might 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 you please."

Again the heavy hand on his shoulder.

"There will be no trial!" he heard the hoa.r.s.e voice of his commander saying. "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 you are 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 did this--by what plan--I do not know, but I know you did it. You were absent each time that I found one of these letters. That was too cunning to be cunning! You are young, Shannon, you have something to learn. You sing songs--love songs--you write letters--love letters, perhaps! You are Irish--you have sentiment. There is romance about you--_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 read all 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, you yourself shall sleep the long sleep here and now! What? You still refuse?"

"Yes, I'll not be driven to it. You say I'm Irish. I am--I'll not give up a woman's secret--it's a question of honor, Captain. There is a woman concerned, as you know."

"Yes!"

"And I promised her, too. I swear I never planned any wrong to either of you. I would die at your order now, as you know; but you have no right to order this, and I'll not answer!"

The hand closed at his throat. The boy could not speak, but still Meriwether Lewis growled on at him.

"Shannon! Speak! Why have you kept secrets from your commanding officer? You have begun to tell me--tell me all!"