Heroes Assemble
Meriwether Lewis had stripped to his shirtsleeves—and the shirt a humble homespun one bought recently—as he supervised the assembling of men and supplies, ready to go into the wild. By supervising, mostly it meant waiting around till Clark should arrive.
For weeks, as the men trickled in by one and by two, Meriwether had found them lodging and franked their expenses, both in daily living and in materials for the expedition, from the largesse dispensed to him by Benjamin Franklin.
Each of the men had suggested additions to the expedition and things they should take, from well crafted, watertight wooden boxes to oilcloth, from dried meat to trading goods.
Meriwether now walked between the boats, where these various goods were being stowed and a stand, upon which he kept his ledger, which had become blotted from many a hasty note made with an ill-trimmed quill.
In fact, Meriwether realized his hands too had become blue with ink.
Most of the men were people either he or Captain Clark had known from their army days, though a few had been recommended by Benjamin Franklin himself. And though this was not a military expedition, most of the men had a fine military bearing and military discipline.
There were men that Captain Clark had recommended, having esteemed them much in the war, Sergeants Nathaniel Pryor and his cousin Charles Floyd, who was so excited by the expedition as to have volunteered to keep “a very precise journal of all occurrences.” Having been privileged to see Sergeant Floyd’s prose, Meriwether was somewhat amused by the enthusiasm and the care with which the young man had brought a bundle of bound journals, ready to receive his writing. But then, despite his peculiar spelling and sometimes enthusiastic phrasing, the young man was, after all, another set of eyes, another set of observations to complement those that Meriwether himself intended to make. They were going into the unknown, after all, and who was to say which of them would survive, or which set of diaries would come through intact?
Another of the men from Kentucky was John Ordway, also a sergeant, whom Clark had recommended for his close knowledge of native ways. While growing up, he had consorted much with native tribes and learned ways of survival that would help should all their supplies fail.
Clark had also recommended Patrick Gass, a carpenter, who had served in the war and who Clark thought would be able to contrive repairs to the boats, should such become needed, but they’d run into a snag, as the young man’s present patron—a wealthy landowner—didn’t wish to dispense with Gass’s services. Meriwether had thought to leave the man where he was, until he’d received a pleading letter from the man himself, begging for the opportunity to come on the expedition.
Perhaps it wasn’t old Franklin’s imagination that they were in fact sore confined, great though this land was, and in much need of a place to explore and expand.
In the end it had taken an appeal to Franklin and a letter from Franklin himself to free Gass to join. He now wore brand new buckskins, and was stowing his tools with some care, his face shining with excitement at the upcoming expedition.
William Bratton, one of the best young woodsmen in this part of the country and a gunsmith besides, was carefully stowing away various guns. Meriwether hadn’t yet seen the one he had, himself, ordered. He waited its delivery in some excitement.
Another young man, John Collins, known as a skillful hunter even if on recommending him, Franklin had said he might be overmuch fond of spirits, and perhaps Meriwether should take care to keep him from temptation, was helping William with the guns.
John Colter, five foot ten, with piercing blue eyes, stood a little apart. He’d been recruited by Meriwether himself, on account of his hunting prowess. Since he was also an excellent woodsman, Meriwether had been surprised to find him disablingly shy, except of course that he was familiar with his own patron, Benjamin Franklin, who often became mute in company.
Pierre Cruzatte, taller than Colter and very dark, had turned up with his own bedroll and supply of dried meat. Half native, half French, he’d made his living from the fur trade in and around the uncharted territories. Meriwether regarded him with some doubt, as the man seemed to stand apart from the other men in the expedition, whether by choice or because he looked so different. But he spoke the Omaha language and was skilled in sign language. The expedition could not spare him.
Joseph Field and his brother Reubin Field, from Culpeper, Virginia, and known to Meriwether from childhood, had eagerly answered Meriwether’s letter of summons, as had Robert Frazer from Virginia, a solid and resourceful man, never daunted or afraid.
George Gibson, also from Kentucky, had won a marksmanship contest Meriwether had set up the week before. Silas Goodrich had made his way into the expedition with certified letters from many notables calling him an outstanding fisherman. Since they’d be following the river for much of the expedition, if not all of it, his skill would come in handy. Hugh Hall, though accounted a fine hunter, was one of the men that Meriwether was none too sure about, as already, in the week he’d been in St. Louis, he had twice got in trouble with the local authorities for drunken and disorderly behavior. Another such was Thomas Proctor Howard of whom the men had started saying “Thomas never drinks…water.” If they became a disciplinary problem in the expedition, Meriwether would certainly have to send them back. They’d promised not to let their fondness of liquor impair the expedition.
Hugh McNeal, John Shields, John B. Thompson, Peter M. Weiser, William Werner, John Whitehouse, Alexander Hamilton Willard and Richard Windsor, were all known to Lewis and Clark from the war, and had been picked as men who would both embrace the trek into the wilderness and be of aid in charting the arcane territories. So too had John Potts, a German giant who spoke with a strong accent.
Meriwether had just made a note about the various weapons, when he heard Bill Bratton call, “Captain, Captain!”
Looking up, Meriwether saw the man approaching, running, evading the others in the crowded staging area, carrying a very beautiful polished wood gun case in his hands.
He deposited it on the stand, atop the ledger book, and looked up at Meriwether, “It’s here, Captain. It’s arrived.”
The rifle that had Bratton in such excitement was called a Girandoni rifle, designed by an Italian called Girandoni. His design had somehow made it across the ocean before the Sundering and now the weapon was made by Isaiah Lukens, horologist and gunsmith of Philadelphia.
It had been recommended by Franklin, always an admirer of exquisite instruments. Meriwether had heard much of it, and now removed the detachable stock to examine every part. The rifle was supposed to work by air pressure, and when fully pumped it held air at a pressure of eight hundred pounds per square inch, which meant it fired its .46 caliber round balls with as much force as any powder weapons, but did so silently and could fire twenty-two times before needing to be reloaded and forty times before it lost any muzzle velocity.
Meriwether simply had to try it, and started pumping up the air pressure, which he knew to take quite a few pumps—fifteen hundred strokes in all—before it achieved maximum force. He started upon it, while Bratton hovered nearby, visibly impatient, barely restraining himself from seizing the pump. Meriwether smiled at the man, understanding his impatience and said, “Easy.”
He was almost done fully pumping the air rifle when he heard loud, piercing shrieks from a dog, coming from somewhere beyond the staging area of the expedition.
Meriwether liked dogs. He’d always had dogs, who often accompanied him on his expeditions into the wild. He knew that in these frontier towns the men were rough, and often abused animals and women. But he could not resist the appeal of the cry of a dog who sounded little more than a puppy.
Meriwether detached the pump, attached the stock, and ran towards the sound of the cries.
It was worse than he expected. There was a large, shaggy puppy, tied, and a band of young men—boys, really—scruffy and unkempt, setting up to stone him.
Meriwether barely stopped running just short of the dog, who must have cried at being tied, as only one stone had landed nearby and not on the animal.
He brandished the rifle. “Stop!”
A big man came from behind the scruffy boys, “Who are you, sir,” he said, “to interrupt our amusement?”
He was a large man, well dressed and wearing a new hat with a rather tall crown. He had a kerchief held up against his right index finger, and there was some red on the fabric.
“Fine entertainment,” Meriwether said. He levelled the rifle at the large man, aware but not turning to look at Bratton who had come up behind him. “Why do you abuse this poor animal?”
“That poor animal, sir, is an untrainable beast. A Newfoundland puppy I myself had brought from the east at great expense, who straight out of his crate, made to bite me.” He lifted his index finger and pulled away his handkerchief, to reveal a tiny little nip.
“You mean to say that the puppy, confused by travel and strange noises and stranger smells, nipped you when you, doubtless, tried to force him from his crate?” Meriwether asked, irate. One of the things he detested and had always loathed were people who abused animals. Dumb brutes the creatures might be, but they didn’t mean to offend. Dogs, in particular, were always eager to please those who treated them with kindness.
Though he brandished the rifle, Meriwether had not indeed had any intention of using it. But then the man said, “Well, I will have no unruly beast under my care. He shall be stoned to death for his impudence, and I shall find another and more obedient dog.” He then ordered, “Carry on with stoning, boys!”
Meriwether circled the rifle around and threatened, “The one who throws a stone shall be shot.”
“Oh, ignore him and throw the stones already. What can he do when I own the dog?”
That was enough. A demon of rage possessed Meriwether, who—had he not had a rifle to hand—might very well have punched the man. But he had a rifle, and as the man had retreated to a distance, he ventured to aim at the man’s hat and shoot it. Not only did he shoot the hat, but he shot it five more times before it fell.
The rapid-fire shots, with no relief, made the boys who’d been poised to throw the rocks stop, hands in the air, as though they’d become frozen statues. As for the well-dressed gentleman, he gaped at Meriwether for a solid count of ten, until Meriwether took it upon himself to shoot balls at the dirt at his feet.
The impacts and fountaining dirt made the man jump backwards, and finally run.
As a cheer went up, Meriwether realized the men from the expedition had gathered around and seen his exhibition.
“Is it not a marvelous rifle?” Bratton said. “It fires so many times without reloading and has no smoke or sound. I’m quite convinced the natives will think it magical.”
“Quite likely,” Meriwether said, but as the puppy was crying most piteously, he handed the gun over to Bratton and stooped to cut the ties cruelly binding the poor animal so he could not even stand. He cut carefully, as he’d not have been surprised if the animal had nipped at him. Not because he was an ungovernable beast, but because he was scared and had been hurt.
But as soon as he unbound the creature enough—and though a puppy, he was the size of a normal adult dog, being of a very large breed—the puppy leapt into his arms, licking his face.
Meriwether laughed and called to one of the men nearby to bring water for the beast, then noted a tag on the creature’s collar, identifying him as Seaman. He smiled. “An odd name, my friend, since I’ll take you with me into the wilderness, but maybe you’ll justify your name by helping us reach the Pacific.”
Which is how Captain Clark came to find Meriwether Lewis, when he arrived a scant half hour later. Meriwether was squatting near Seaman and petting the strong head of the sturdy puppy.
“I thought I’d find you so,” the redheaded captain said, smiling, as Meriwether stood to shake his hand. “Petting some stray dog as usual, Lewis?”
“I am so glad you’ve arrived, my friend,” Meriwether said. “There is no one else I’d trust to lead this expedition!”
“Lead? But I thought you’d lead it?”
“Well, you were my captain in the war, sir, and I was at your command. I thought I’d turn over the ledgers and command to you, and you’d make all the hard decisions from here on.”
“Not I! It wasn’t I that Ben Franklin trusted with his precious expedition. It was your idea to send for me, but he wanted you to organize and lead this expedition.”
Meriwether hesitated. On the one hand he had assumed that Clark would be in command, simply because Clark had always been in command when they’d done anything. On the other hand, he had to confess he felt odd relinquishing control over this group of men he’d watched assemble, and over these supplies he’d gathered so carefully. And Franklin had told him he should lead the expedition. “Well,” he said. “What say you, then, to our being co-captains, equal in command?”
“That pleases me very well,” Captain Clark said, offering him his hand. “And if we should find we do not agree we’ll ask your little beasty to decide.” He gestured towards Seaman. “From the size of those paws, he’ll soon outweigh us both and likely become the real captain of this expedition.”
They were both laughing when Pierre Cruzatte approached, “Captain, there are two men here I’ve known a long time who I think can be useful to your expedition.”
As two swarthy men wearing buckskins approached, smiling, Cruzatte introduced them as Francois LaBiche and Jean Baptiste LePage. “They are hunters and fur traders,” Cruzatte said, “and have much knowledge of the tribes we’ll encounter, and their languages.”
They were also, as Meriwether apprised at a glance, of the same undefinable mixture of Indian and French as Cruzatte himself. But that was of little consideration. They would need people to bridge the gap between themselves and the peoples they might meet.
Meriwether was about to give consent, when he realized he’d just given half of his command to Clark. Looking over at his co-captain he said, “Well?”
“I like the idea very well indeed,” Clark said, his gaze consulting his friend, who smiled.
“It seems we are in perfect accord,” Meriwether said. “Cruzatte, see that they gather all they need before we set off, and to send the reckoning to me.”
“I’ve also brought York,” Captain Clark said, gesturing to his freedman, who had accompanied him in the war. “He said he’d never forgive me if I left him behind on such an expedition and I refuse to anger someone who knows where I sleep.”
Meriwether always felt awkward around York. He’d grown up around freed slaves, and of course there were plenty of them at Monticello. But York was more like a brother to Captain Clark, the two of them having been raised together. So he was neither just a freedman nor a comrade, and Meriwether didn’t know how to treat him. He smiled tentatively at York, who gave him as refined and elegant a bow as if they were I some salon back east, before turning around to see to the stowing of Clark’s baggage.
“I believe,” Captain Clark said, “That we are about to embark on the adventure of the century, my friend.”