Off the Map: The Unbelievable Story of the Journey of Lewis and Clark and the Corps of Discovery

By Rick Granger and Mike Hoornstra

When President Thomas Jefferson purchased the Louisiana Territory from France in 1803, nobody could have guessed exactly what he had bought. Jefferson sent several small scouting expeditions across the continent to explore. Every single group met with failure except one – Lewis and Clark and the Corps of Discovery. Theirs is a story filled with thrills, suspicions of espionage, death threats, factions and rivalry from within, near-fatal accidents, natural disasters, extreme temperatures, near starvation, mutiny, desertion, and occasionally a bit of comedy. More than anything else, Lewis and Clark’s expedition is a story about friendship and overcoming the odds. Experience one of the greatest adventures in American history. Journey along with Lewis and Clark and the Corps of Discovery as they go Off the Map.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: May 12, 2018
• ISBN: 9781387808687

Book preview

Off the Map: The Unbelievable Story of the Journey of Lewis and Clark and the Corps of Discovery

Off the Map

The Unbelievable Story of the Journey of Lewis and Clark and the Corps of Discovery

Mike Hoorstra & Rick Granger

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First Edition 2018

Copyright © 2018 by Griffin River Publishing

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Cover design by the authors

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ISBN:  978-1-387-80868-7

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http://www.lulu.com

Other Books by Mike Hoornstra:

Fiction

The Last Days of Diaxophas

The Legend of the Nysterion

Parallax

The Lost Treasure of Trankora

Dead Whisperings

The Last Conqueror

Descent into the Maelstrom

Other Books by Rick Granger:

Non-Fiction

Why Travel When You Can Live There?

Why Travel When You Can Live There?  USA

Why Travel When You Can Live There?  Thailand

Why Travel When You Can Live There?  Hong Kong

Why Travel When You Can Live There?  Cayman Islands

Someday We Should Go Back

Theology is Not a Four-Letter Word

The Artwork of Rick Granger

Fiction

Given Up For Lost and Other Stories

ca.1640

Introduction

When President Thomas Jefferson purchased the Louisiana Territory from France in 1803, nobody could have guessed exactly what he had bought.  Jefferson sent several small scouting expeditions across the continent to explore.  Every single group met with failure except one – Lewis and Clark and the Corps of Discovery. 

When they embarked upon their journey across the continent, nobody knew what they would discover or what dangers they might encounter.  Many thought they would perish in their attempt.  The story of their triumphant journey has become one of the greatest action-adventure stories in all of American history. 

Theirs is a story filled with thrills, suspicions of espionage, death threats, factions and rivalry from within, near-fatal accidents, natural disasters, extreme temperatures, near starvation, mutiny, desertion, and occasionally a bit of comedy.  More than anything else, Lewis and Clark’s expedition is a story about friendship and overcoming the odds.  Experience one of the greatest adventures in American history.  Journey along with Lewis and Clark and the Corps of Discovery as they go Off the Map..

1

1861…

Stuck in a border-town recruiting office in a town with a stagnant population of just over thirteen-hundred, First Lieutenant Charles Capehart sat in his small, rented, ramshackle office examining the roster of new recruits, lost in thought about the nation’s delicate situation.  Lincoln’s election had caused southern states to secede.  Fort Sumter had been fired upon.  The nation was now at war with itself.  It was almost too much to take in. 

However, the western counties in Virginia had refused to secede along with the rest of the state.  The army had sent him and countless other recruiting officers to these counties to drum up support for Lincoln’s cause – reuniting the country.  This would be hard to do considering that even the western counties were divided over what to do.  Many were hesitant to take up arms against their fellow Virginians.  Others were petitioning to become a state. 

Hemmed in by natural boundaries, Wellsburg had nowhere to go.  Lieutenant Capehart felt that natural pressure in his day-to-day life.  The river on the west — the nation’s most important north-south artery for transport of goods out of the Ohio River Valley — and the mountains on the east were a metaphor for his sense of imprisonment and his lack of hope for any possibility for growth or change.  Wellsburg had been around for almost a hundred years — ninety years this month, in fact — and had changed very little in that time.  The only thing going for it was the flow of things through it; things coming in and leaving just as soon as they’d arrived.  Nothing of value stayed put.

On a small sliver of level ground just a square mile or so, the town was precariously perched between the mighty and untamable Ohio River on the west and the mountains to the east; the earth lay pleasantly wrinkled like a sheet cast off on a warm night.  At its widest point, the entire town was no more than two-thousand feet from the river.  In flood years, those building nearest the banks were inundated.  The town soldiered on.  Mud had to be shoveled out from store rooms, streets unearthed like ancient tombs, but the town had gotten back to business.  Meanwhile, the town’s very heart and most important feature, Prather’s Ferry, went on unimpeded.  What was a little more water to a waterborne operation?

So, here the lieutenant sat, in his rented office, day in and day out, trying to sign up soldiers willing to fight the treacherous secessionists, and not doing a very successful job of it.  Progress had been slow.

Suddenly, there was the familiar rattle of a door handle.  Lieutenant Capehart had sought a business rental with a glass-paned door for a reason.  He could see who was calling. 

A stout, middle-aged captain with a dark mustache and beard swept the door open briskly.  He looked older than the lieutenant and cut a rugged figure.  Lieutenant Capehart suspected that this captain could break a man in half if he wanted.  As he stepped over the threshold, his boots trod a rhythmic stomping, making obvious his annoyance over being here.   

On hollow floors, the lieutenant stood erect and saluted, palm out.  The captain returned the salute. 

I am Captain Long from the main recruiting office in the Wheeling branch, The captain explained, as he silently sized up the lieutenant.  I am here to resolve reports about a troublesome recruit. 

With a bit of loathing, the captain couldn’t help noticing how different he was from this lieutenant, who was a young spindly man with soft, unworked hands.  The lieutenant looked book educated and probably hadn’t looked down the barrel of a rifle since his initial entry training years earlier.  Potentially, this lieutenant’s worst crisis might be running out of paper or spilling ink.  Captain Long had opinions about such men, but he buried them deep down and kept his mouth shut.  He had a job to do and he meant to do it.

Thank you for coming, sir, said Lieutenant Capehart. 

The lieutenant deferred and the captain sat down behind his desk.  He sat upright, and then leaned a ways back in his chair.  The curved wooden arms beneath his wrists creaked.  With his fingers, he caressed the nicked chair arm tips and mindlessly looked at the desk for matching marks. 

What exactly is the trouble with this potential recruit? Captain Long asked. 

We politely denied his request to serve, but he is persistent, Lieutenant Capehart said.  He keeps returning.  And he berates the other recruits.

Considering our current shortage of soldiers, what’s the problem with an able-bodied man wanting to serve his country? Captain Long asked.

Captain Long, perhaps you had better meet the man and judge for yourself, Lieutenant Capehart said.

Bring the man in, Captain Long said.

The lieutenant turned to the face the door, heal and toe spinning smartly beneath him.  Through the hand-floated window panes, he could see his charge waiting patiently at the position of parade rest on the porch outside.  He shot a glance back at the captain.  He was met with a knowing glance in return.  He grasped the door handle and depressed the spoon to lift the latch.  He paused a moment, holding the door firmly shut before he opened it again.

Sergeant.

The old man came to attention with dignity and pivoted on his heal and toe as smartly as his executive officer had a moment earlier.  The sound of his feet on the fresh porch wood outside was gruff as he turned to enter the doorway.  Footsteps on hollow floors betrayed the rhythm of a limp as he stepped into the captain’s office.  Behind him, the lieutenant closed the door; the click of the falling door latch caused the old man to turn around sharply and cast a suspicious eye on the officer.  For the smallest fraction of a second, the lieutenant thought the old man was about to lunge at him.  He wondered what the old man had seen in his lifetime to give him such reflexes. 

The old man would have been no taller than five feet six if he could have stood completely upright.  As it was, he walked with a slight stoop.  He wore a plain black suit and bow tie that had seen too many uses and looked a little dated.  He had the look of a child playing in his grandfather’s clothing.

He was cleanshaven and his receding white hair hung in a curtain around the back of his head down to the base of his neck all around, covering his ears.  His eyebrows were sharply angled inward and his mouth was turned down, giving him a scornful appearance.  He had a slightly lazy eye which seemed to gaze straight ahead.  Perhaps it was the weight of living so many decades, or perhaps it was just the way his face was shaped.  Captain Long wasn’t sure, but he favored the former. 

The captain stood out of deference to the man’s age and gestured to a chair.

Have a seat, sir, Captain Long said. 

The old man nodded and sat, his scowl never relenting.  The captain sat, himself, his chair squeaking as hit had before.

I’m just going to come out and say it.  We’ve had some complaints about you, the Captain began undiplomatically.  Would you care to comment?

The old man neither flinched a muscle nor flushed with embarrassment.   He merely issued the captain a defiant, steely glance and sat quietly.  Captain Long’s frown deepened.

Sir, you have been harassing and badgering potential recruits, Captain Long accused bluntly.  Do you deny it?

Vazey foozlers and pigeon-livered mealers, the entire lot of them, the old man spat. 

From behind him, the lieutenant’s face screwed up into a mask of confusion, and for a moment he wondered if the old man had spoken another language.  Captain Long suppressed a laugh at the lieutenant’s befuddlement.

"Lieutenant, I believe he just called our potential recruits stupid bunglers and frightened cowards.  Antiquated colloquialisms," the captain explained.  The lieutenant gave a curt nod.

The old man leaned slightly forward and measured up the captain with his one good eye – the other was a glass eye that he had gotten in the Second War for Independence against Great Britain. 

Antiquated, eh? the old man said, in a voice that was far more firm and confident than it should have been at his age.  Is that what you see before you, lad?  A relic?

Sir, it is my understanding that you served as a sergeant in the Second War for Independence, Captain Long recited, looking at the old man’s application for service.  Very impressive.  But that was a long time ago.

I’m as fit and spry as any of these boys, the old man said.  I’ve got a lifetime of experience to draw upon.  My experience could save a man’s life.

Sir, we have been asked to help recruit soldiers on behalf of our good President, Abraham Lincoln, the captain reminded him.  Our service does not allow us the time to contend with respected, albeit quarrelsome veterans who cast judgement upon the character of the young men of our nation.

Or lack of character, the old man retorted.  Those boys have fear behind their eyes.

As well they should, the captain said, pointedly.  Rebels have fired upon Fort Sumter.   They have shed their brothers’ blood.  Recompense is required.  Justice.  This could get bloody.  Death awaits many of those boys.

There’s more to be feared than death, the old man said slowly, in a gravelly voice, his eye still measuring the captain. 

The local young men find you disagreeable and condescending, Captain Long said.  Your continued presence in and around our recruiting office is turning away good men.

Vazey foozlers and pigeon-livered mealers, the old man reasserted, correcting the Captain.  Men like that would only freeze up under pressure.  A lot of boys could be killed needlessly.  I ought to know.

You ought to know, huh? Captain Long said, skeptically, perhaps sounding a little condescending, himself.

Aye, the old man said.

Seen a lot in your day, have you? the captain trod a line indelicately.

Aye, the old man said, not catching the captain’s sarcasm.

I am told that after harassing our recruits and calling them names, you have insisted upon picking up a gun and fighting with the Union, the captain pointed out. 

So I have, the old man crowed, head held high and chest puffed out.  And so I shall if you give me a chance.

How old are you, sir? Captain Long asked.

Ninety-one years old, the old man said with pride.  But with the energy of a man one-third my age.

Captain Long nodded.  Considering the bizarre nature of the situation, he was inclined to believe the man.

Sir, on behalf of President Lincoln, and on behalf of the Wheeling branch office, I would like to thank you for your past services to our country, Captain Long said in an emotionless cadence.  But I’m afraid that your service to our country ended long ago.  Furthermore, your continued presence in our office is a detriment to our recruiting cause.  Please cease and desist your beratement of our fine, young men or else legal actions will be required. 

The meeting was over in his mind.  He turned his attention away from the old man and back to his paperwork. 

The old man sneered at him. 

So that’s it, eh? the old man barked.  He held his tongue, dignity and military bearing winning out above all.

The lieutenant will see you out, Captain Long said, never looking up. 

The old man stood up, bumping the chair out from beneath himself with his squat muscular calves.  He leaned forward.  I’m sure President Lincoln requires more of a soldier than to be a warm body for target practice.  It won’t take thousands of men to put down the rebels, Captain – not if you pick the right men.

You ought to know, eh? Captain Long said sarcastically, still not looking up from his paperwork.  All he wanted was the old man to leave.

Aye, lad, the old man said in a hushed tone.  I ought to know.  The meeting was now over in the old man’s mind.

Thank you for your service.  Good day, sir, said the captain, never looking up from his paperwork.  The old man shook his head, knowing that he had been dismissed.  He walked out of the recruitment center.  He limped down the sidewalk, his back stooped slightly.  Despite his visible signs of age, he was not a man to be pitied.  He carried himself with a quiet dignity and pride that was noticeable to passersby. 

The old man walked down Charles Street, left on 11th, past the First Methodist Church, and sat on a rugged bench along the river.  All his life he had loved gazing at the river.  Its waters flowed on with unmitigated power.  It was reliable and unchanging.  Long trains of coal barges piloted by a single steamboat, barges filled to the gills with sacks of milled flour, glass products, paper products — even whiskey — all slid by in near silence.  The loud clanging of the steam engine rhythmically called out their cadence in a slow measure.  Skilled river pilots plied their craft in a fast-paced game of cool, calm, small adjustments and flashing seconds of sheer terror.  Mostly, they just passed through.

He let the calm scene soothe his temper, as he had always done.  A single steamboat chugged briskly upstream, headed for Cincinnati, obviously empty.  Off to his right, he heard the whistle of a train approaching the station.  The sound echoed off the mountain behind him and circled around to LaGrange across the river and to his left.  Soothing, familiar sounds. 

There was a slight chill in the air and he let the changing leaves capture his attention for the moment.  Autumn was coming.  Change was in the air.  Virginia was changing.  The country had fractured.  Virginia had split.  Day to day life was increasingly tumultuous in these parts.  He never thought he would live to see such a day.  But the old man was not one to discourage easily.

Lost in the moment, the sound of footsteps on cold stone caught the man’s attention.  Coming down 11th street behind him was the lieutenant. 

Come to kick me off the bench, lad? the old man sneered. 

No, sir, answered Lieutenant Capehart with a chuckle.  Captain Long is returning to Wheeling, and I have closed the office for the day.

The old man stared straight ahead and said nothing.

May I sit down? asked Lieutenant Capehart.

Suit yourself, the old man mumbled. 

A cool gust ruffled the lieutenant’s collar and flopped it back down.  Are you really ninety-one years old? The lieutenant asked.  A moment passed before the old man nodded silently, never looking away from the landscape before him. 

You said some things that caught my attention, said the lieutenant.  You seem to be under the impression that fewer men would be better to engage the rebels.

Depends on the men, said the old man, looking straight ahead.  With a couple dozen good men, you could conquer a continent.  He looked briefly into the lieutenant’s eyes.  Again, the train’s arrival was announced around behind them and across to LaGrange.  What of it?

"You also said that there is more to be feared than death," the lieutenant said. 

Do you have a point? asked the old man.

You struck me as an interesting person, that’s all.  The lieutenant mirrored the old man’s posture and gazed across the river in silence for a moment.  Anyone willing to pick up a weapon at your age… a gust blew his collar up again.  He patted it back down.

He shook his head, unable to describe his admiration.  Well… he stammered.  I’ll bet you have a fascinating story.  I’d like to know who you are.

The old man looked again at the lieutenant.

Everybody has a story, lad, and if you live long enough, you learn to read people like a book, the old man instructed. I can take one look at you and tell that you don’t want to recruit – you want to fight.  I can see it in your eyes.  What’s a warrior like you doing working as a desk monkey when your heart lies on the battlefield?

The lieutenant stared back at the river again.

Yeah, I’ve seen a bit of combat, he said.  But I’m a bit of a screw up.  What did you call some of those boys?  A fazey… a vazey…

A vazey foozler, the old man corrected.  A stupid bungler.

Yeah, a stupid bungler.  That’s me, the lieutenant reflected.  The army doesn’t want me anymore.  This is as good as it gets for me.

The old man nodded.  He had suspected as much.

Forgive me, Sergeant, Capehart said.  But what is your name?

The old man stared at the young man. 

The name is Sergeant Patrick Gass, said the old man, still staring at the river.  Antiquated relic whose service in battle seems laughable, and whose judgement in soldiers is antiquated.

He was wondering what this young officer was fishing for, and frankly, now he was hoping the lad would just go away.  He glanced curiously at the lieutenant, whose face was twisted into a look of concentration.

"Did you say Patrick Gass? the lieutenant asked, finally looking at him.  Gass nodded.  I know that name.  Why do I know that name?"

Gass sat silently, watching the young man’s brain recall the people he’d met, people he’d served with, people he’d grown up with, books he’d read…

Suddenly, the man’s face lit up. 

"As in the Corps of Discovery? Lieutenant Capehart asked.  That Patrick Gass?  Lewis and Clark?"

The old man smiled for the first time, shooting the lieutenant a mischievous glance. 

Lad, not only was I a member of the Corps of Discovery, said Sergeant Gass, I’m pretty sure it was me who came up with that name in the first place.  I’m also pretty sure I’m the last surviving member.  Except maybe Willard and little Pompy.  All the rest have died.

The lieutenant was only halfway listening. 

You’re Patrick Gass, the lieutenant said, in a reverent tone and a bit of a chuckle.  Now I understand.  Your desire to pick up a gun and fight.  Your words and behavior toward all those potential recruits.  It all makes sense to me now.  I’ve read your published journals.  I read Lewis and Clark’s too.  My grandfather read them and passed them along to my father, who passed them along to me.

Grandfather? Gass whispered, raising his eyebrows.  I’m that old?

All this time I was in the presence of greatness and didn’t even know it, Capehart said.  My father won’t believe this.

Gass’ features softened.  He appreciated the lad’s recognition.  His own kids had grown up and moved away and his wife had died.  These days, being recognized… well, it didn’t happen anymore.  Being admired… had that ever happened?  The young man’s gesture meant a lot – especially at that age where all he could do was view life backwards.

In the presence of greatness, huh?  Well, I wouldn’t phrase it that way, Gass said, deflecting the comment.  "Sergeants merely do their duty.  Now the captains – Captain Lewis and Captain Clark – if anyone deserved to be called great, it was them.  Those two were quite the pair."

The lieutenant and the old man sat quietly.  They stared at the river as if it would eventually give up its secrets and reveal the truths of the universe.  Gass’ gaze grew distant as fading memories came rushing in like a sudden torrent.

I helped Captain Lewis bring the keelboat up this river from Pittsburgh prior to the journey’s beginning, Gass recalled, pointing.  Wellsburg wasn’t the large town that it is now.  Back then it was barely a distant outpost.  There was no train station, no Miller’s Tavern, no steamboats, and no wharf.  Just forest, mainly.   

Your journals and the captains’… Capehart said.  Best action stories I read as a boy.  How much was true and how much was embellished?

True stories, the lot of ‘em, Gass said.  Funny.  Nobody talks about us anymore.  We’ve been forgotten.

Maybe people have gotten comfortable with how easy it is to go west, Capehart suggested.

Gass chuckled. 

Easy, you say? he said, shaking his head.  "Never thought I’d live long enough to hear it described that way – easy.  Not at first it wasn’t.  You’ve read the journals."

Yes, sir, I understand how hard it was, Capehart said.  I’ve read that many thought it was an impossible task.  They thought you’d all die out there.

Aye, Gass said, with a chuckle.  "We thought we’d die out there.  Many times over, we thought it."

I’ve always wanted to ask someone on the Corps of Discovery, the lieutenant said.  How did you succeed at doing what everyone else thought was impossible?

You’ve read the journals, Gass said.  What do you think?

The journals give the day to day details, but neither you nor the captains attempt to draw conclusions from them, the lieutenant correctly observed.  I want to know.  What was the secret of the success of the Corps of Discovery?

The secret of our success, eh? Gass repeated.  He looked out at the river.  Memories came flooding back.  Danger.  Humor.  Triumph.  Old friends, long gone, but not forgotten.  But more than anything, he remembered Captains Lewis and Clark.  Finally, he looked at Capehart.

You’d have to have known the captains, lad, Gass said, a broad smile spreading out across his face.

2

1776…

Gathered around their large hand-made oak dinner table, the Clark family members were all dressed in their best, the men in tailored suits and the women in fastidiously detailed, hand-made dresses.  The excitement in the air was tangible as only holiday excitement can be; hopes of things to come and contentment of things gone by.  House servants — slaves reserved for indoor duties only — were laying the holiday feast on the table, a feast, really:  turnip greens, sweet potato casserole, green beans with bacon, conch peas, and a game cassoulet of turkey, pheasant, and duck all in a broth in a single massive pot with a pastry top.  Six rabbits were arranged on a platter with cranberry and cloves in a consume drizzled overtop. 

The sturdy table family table was built by John Clark himself when the family arrived a decade earlier to establish their plantation.  Constructed of inch-thick planed wide-boards, its length was equal to four times its width, and its thick legs were each made of a quarter of the length of a single small tree trunk, beveled at the corners and straight at all edges, top to bottom.   The construction was all done without nails using handcrafted wooden pegs, as John preferred to do.  Even so proudly constructed, the meal looked too heavy for the table to bear for very long. 

Beneath the table, the legs at each end were connected by a crossmember two-thirds the thickness of the legs.  These were connected at their centers with a single beam running the length of the table.  It was this beam where adults could comfortably rest their feet, and where children could disappear to play at being sailors on a great raucous ship, diner’s legs alternating as pirates and naval commanders, and table linens serving as great flowing sails.  Running the length of the support beam was a great swirl in the woodgrain that made the imaginary ship seem as real as the wood it was made of.  The underside of the table awash with secret carvings where young William and his brothers had counted their prisoners and tallied Spanish gold.  John was unaware of the Royal Navy record-keeping hidden in plain sight just above his own lap, but he would have approved had he known it was there.  Boys in a man’s world.

As dinner preparations were coming to an end and the activity in their home was closing in on the table, William hid mischievously beneath with his faithful playmate and personal slave Ben York, whom everyone simply called York.  This time it was marbles, though marbles make great miniature pirate cannonballs. 

Lifting the linen table cloth and peering inside the imaginary world, Lucy Clark, age eleven, sought to get her brother’s attention.

Pst.  Will.  PST!  WILLY! 

He looked up at her, disappointed to be called away from his adventure.  He looked York in the eye for a brief moment and the two shrugged their shoulders.  Out they came from under the billowing sails of their ship.  Lucy dusted Will’s knees off as York scurried by to disappear into the corner of the room – nearby, but not in the way.  Other children were being herded in from adjoining rooms to join the mix, each craning their necks to see what was on the table already, their hands shooed away from the platters by smiling servants still setting the feast.

John approached and set his hands on the chair back at the head of the table.  A hush began to descend on the room as people instinctively made their way to their seats.  Like any great family gathering, there was a moment of who sits where as the older ones placed themselves between the younger ones.  Voices fell silent as everyone started pulling out their chairs and situating themselves for the meal.  The older children reminded the younger ones to put their napkins properly over their right thigh – tucked in like this so it doesn’t fall off.

At the head of the table, John pulled his chair out and sat almost ceremoniously.  This was his favorite part of any family gathering.  Ann sat next to him, just off his right side.  The two grasped each other’s nearest hand on top of the table as they smiled into each other’s eyes.  John’s hands were calloused but well cared for, largely because Ann insisted he keep them soft with a moisturizing cream of oil, lavender, and mint before bedtime each night.  Hers hands were thin and soft, beginning to show years of care and worry – as a mother’s hand do.  John paused as the activity died down and everyone turned their attention to him, joining hands, and knowingly awaited the blessing.  A lifetime Anglican, his words began a choral prayer which everyone joined in saying, Bless, O Father, Thy gifts to our use and us to Thy service; for Christ’s sake. Amen.  Before continuing, John looked up and took in the moment.  Some began to peek to see if there was more to the prayer. 

Ann looked up at him and he smiled at her.  She was wearing a new dress for this holiday season, one she’d designed herself and had helped make.  A pale green tight-woven linen three-quarter-length jacket covered her shoulders to her midriff and her arms to her forearms.  A single-piece tan collar wrapped around the back of her neck and extended into a lapel on each side that ended at the base of the jacket.  Ruffled tan fabric was gathered at her forearms to ring her arm as a cuff.  The same pale green fabric hung to floor length beneath, fringed with the tan fabric across her breast and around the hem.  She looked radiant to John.

We wish to thank Thee, O Lord, for Thy continued blessings upon our family.  We thank Thee for our good health as well as the health and hard work of our slaves.  We thank Thee for the bounty that Thou hast bestowed upon our plantations.

He paused again, but did not look up.  He and Ann had troubled thoughts lately.  Into Thy capable hands we lift up the good people of Virginia, as well as those in our sister colonies, John petitioned.  Bless General Washington and bestow upon him and Virginia’s leaders Thy wisdom and favor.  Keep us safe in the coming war and bring us peace.  It is in Thy majestic name we pray…

The entire family chorused a cheerful Amen and let go of one another’s hands.  The older children began right away to help fix the plates of the younger ones and for a time the Clark dinner table was a cacophony of joyful chatter, laughter, and good cheer.  The family favorite was the cassoulet of game birds.  William liked the pastry top the best, using it sop up the broth on his plate.  The rabbits disappeared quickly too. 

Conversation wandered, but it was mostly focused around the adventures of the youngest children around the plantation, or the prospects of the older ones in making their choice of mates – of course, with much laughter and a little tittering. 

As had always been universally the case, dinner was over far too quickly given how long it took to prepare.  Ann insisted that conversation be drawn out with their routine family question and answer time.  What are you thankful for this year?  Everyone had a chance to go once before the conversation circled around again, and laughter and giggling resumed once more.  Compliments to the chef.  Compliments to the hunters.  Compliments to the servants.  And then the dessert!

As the house servants began clearing dinner plates in preparation for dessert, John’s face betrayed a seriousness that had settled upon his heart.  He looked at each of his sons, and looked back again at twenty-six-year-old Jonathan, the eldest.  What is your decision? he asked.

I’m joining, he said.  John knew the answer, but he wasn’t prepared to hear it spoken.  Ann looked up abruptly, first at her son and then at her husband.

John’s eyes looked to his son George, age twenty-four.  George nodded.  Me too, Father.

Ann looked at George and back at her husband again.  She was hearing the words spoken, but wished she could unhear them.  She looked into John’s eyes as if to plead with him to make it stop.

Me too, John III said.

And me, sixteen-year-old Richard affirmed, nodding. 

John looked to Edmund, aged fourteen.  Me too.

The table grew quiet.  Ann looked back into John’s eyes wishing he would forbid her boys – all of them – from going off to join the militia.  This was no longer a peace time duty for good measure.  War was upon them.  She knew John would not forbid them.  She knew him well enough to know that.

John folded his hands and nodded slowly.  He had anticipated this.  He was gathering his words when a small voice chimed in.  I’m going to join the militia, too, said young William.  Much needed laughter erupted from the table, breaking the tension for the moment.  William watched them laugh, wondering what he had said that was so funny. 

I’m afraid you are too young, my Baby Boy, said Ann, with a nervous giggle, stroking William’s red hair affectionately.  Her voice began to shake.  You’ll have to stay here and take charge of me and the girls.

William folded his arms and scowled indignantly.  Why do they get to do all the fun stuff? William protested.  I know how to shoot a gun.

Oh, son.  The boys aren’t going squirrel hunting. said their father, with a deep confident baritone voice. 

I know that.  Militiamen go off to shoot the French, William said. 

John looked at Ann, wondering exactly how to explain the situation to a six-year old.  These were no Frenchmen they’d be facing.  The Clark boys would be squaring off against none other than the King’s finest. 

Oh, William, he said with a calming lilt, disarming the situation, The boys are going off to protect Virginia from some bad people,

The British lobster-backs? William asked, innocently bringing a wave of hushed guilty chuckling to the table.

William, that’s an unkind thing to say and our family doesn’t use language like that, Ann said, shooting the older boys an accusing glance.  The older boys all sat up straighter in their chairs and suppressed guilty grins as they suddenly grew very interested in looking at the contours of the table and wiping off crumbs.

Yes, William, our mother country continues to send the military to punish us, John said. 

Why? William asked.

Oh, it’s a tangled mess, Willy.  There’s been some here who have broken the rules.  The king sends more rules to punish those rule breakers.  Then there’s more rule breaking. John explained in simple terms.  It’s getting so folks are starting to feel more like prisoners rather than trusted citizens.

William gave a quizzical look and then suddenly projected complete understanding.  That’s why we want to leave the Empire, right?

That’s why we declared our independence, John corrected.  Yes.  They have taken away our rights.  They make us do their bidding, rather than allowing us to live our own lives as we see fit.  We haven’t actually been successful in separating from England yet.  That’s why the boys are going to join the militia.

"Give me liberty or give me death, said George, smiling confidently at William. That’s what Patrick Henry said.  He’s a Virginian like us!" 

Okay, George, Ann gave him a look of high disapproval, Let’s talk more of liberty than we talk of death, okay?  On this blessed day?

Yes, ma’am.  My apologies, Mother, George said, not sounding very sorry.  But you’ll not need to worry about any of the Clark boys.  We’re the best shots in the county.  It’s the lobst…

John casually shot George a scornful glance as he quickly amended what he was about to say.  It’s those interloping redcoats you should pity, Mother, George said.  May God help them when they meet the Clark boys!  And under the command of His Excellency, General Washington?  We Virginians will show them how to fight – right, boys?

All five boys pounded the table with their fists and raised up a chorus of huzzahs.  Ann looked at her husband, John, her eyes pleading with him to take control of this situation and stifle such a dreadful topic of conversation.  His eyes conveyed that he understood. 

Our forefathers came to this land to worship freely.  God protected us and caused us to multiply, John said.  As we have sought to spread God’s word to the savages, God has also seen fit to increase our land.  We now find ourselves unjustly oppressed.  We know that God always defends the oppressed.  God will protect us once again.

Ann’s eyes widened.  This is not what she had expected John to say. 

God will protect our family, John said firmly, nodding confidently, looking again into Ann’s eyes.  If she had a different viewpoint, she kept her thoughts to herself.  The patriarch of the family had spoken and no one would share an unsolicited opinion at this point.  Father had spoken.  The conversation had been punctuated.  In the Clark family, when their father had closed a conversation, it was like a priest saying Amen.  It was over. 

God will protect our boys, John reassured everyone.  And God will give us victory over tyranny.

The five boys greeted this announcement with another round of huzzahs and by pounding the table again.  John looked at William, whose eyes were filled with awe and envy as he raised his arm with his brothers in shouting their affirmation.  In his little heart, he could see himself going off to face the enemy with the big boys.

When will I get to go, father?

John smiled at William for his pluck.  There will always be bad guys to go after, son, John said.  You’ll get your chance soon enough.

But I wanna tame the redcoats like the older boys, William huffed, I wanna fight to make Virginia safe from the bad guys.

John reached past Anna’s arm and grasped William’s wrist and gave it a quick squeeze.  He smiled and winked at him, thinking of how he’d only been born six years ago.  He could see the tiny baby in the eyes of the boy in front of him.  When they’d come those years ago, the land had been unimproved, laying fallow since God’s creation, unused by the inhabitants for any fruitful purpose.  He himself had claimed the land and added it to the colony.  He himself had expanded the very borders of the King’s growing influence in North America.

After a pause, he smiled again and squeezed Willy’s wrist a second time.  Maybe God doesn’t intend you to tame those redcoats, John suggested.  Maybe you’ll do something different from your brothers. 

John wondered how much land would be inherited from England, France, and Spain if the Thirteen Colonies triumphed in this war.  He thought of how William and York spent hours on end exploring the nearby woods and creeks.  It was possible that little William would one day be a soldier like his brothers.  But, maybe he would do something more.

One day we’ll have more land in our country than we’ll know how to handle.  He smiled a deep grin, Maybe you’ll tame the land instead. 

3

1783...

Meriwether Lewis sat on the tiny front porch of his one-room home on Locust Hill.  Locust trees surrounded the family home as far as the eye could see – which wasn’t very far.  The locust grew thick on the hillside.  Sloping gently away from the porch, a small grassy yard was all that lay between him and his heart’s true home, the Georgia hills covered in Georgia forest.

A little longer than he should have been able to handle, the smoothbore hunting rifle he carried lay across his lap as he caressed the dirt beneath his feet.  This was his father’s old army weapon, and he knew the flintlock well.  The walnut stock was smooth and shiny, not because it had been cared for, but because it had not.  Twenty years of hard use and marginal maintenance had left it smoothed and worn.  But he knew how to use it.  It connected him to a father whose name was the only thing he truly remembered about his dad.

He knew enough to carry .71 caliber shot for the .75 caliber bore.  He’d learned some tricks along the way.  This allowed excess unburned powder to ignite and discharge with every shot.  He carried an old belly cartridge box that was his father’s.  This helped him reload quickly, keeping his ammunition within easy reach.

Sitting on the porch next to him without a care in the world, his hound dog, Scout, showed interest in nothing.  As only a dog can do, Scout looked completely at rest – and yet, was ready to spring.  He knew what was coming.

Meriwether’s brown hair stuck out in tangled tufts that looked like they hadn’t been washed or combed in a week.  That sort of thing concerned his mother, but not him.  His shirt was matted and spotted with bits of the countryside.  It was a simple linen construction, a single piece of fabric, folded over the shoulder, hemmed along the sides with a simple hemmed slit for the head and neck.  He drew a belt around the waist of the shirt to keep it tucked in so it wouldn’t snag in the forest, where he liked to spend most of his time.

His pants were worn paper thin at the knees.  This, like his hair, was a worry of his mother’s, but not of his.  He was happy to have clothes of any kind. 

His step-father, Captain John Marks, had always made sure Meriwether had adequate clothing.  He’d always cared for all the basic needs of the family.  He was a good man.  He’d taught Meriwether a lot.  Night hunting, for example.  Marks had taught Meriwether how to navigate the forest at night, and how to track game in the dark, a skill that seemed to have absolutely no practical application beyond the hunt.  In time, it would come in handy.

Meriwether caressed the trigger guard with his straight trigger finger – staying clear of the trigger.  With his left hand, he reached out and patted Scout’s boney forehead. The dog pushed into his palm with simple pleasure, never opening his eyes.  With his bare feet, he kicked dust into a little cloud.  He preferred to hunt in his bare feet.  This, too, was a concern of his mother’s.  She was convinced he’d puncture his foot in the forest and become ill with an infection.  Too many good people fell victim to simple sickness — like Meriwether’s father.

I’m going hunting, Mother, he called out, scooting his bottom off the porch and standing in the dirt.  Scout bounced up from his slumber, leapt from the porch, and paced eagerly around Meriwether’s feet.  On the porch and off the porch again, the hound was clearly up for the hunt.

Just hold on one second, Meri, his mother, Lucy, called from the loft inside.  She scurried down from the overhead all-purpose space where she’d been stowing sleeping linens and grabbed his boots from the doorsill before sticking her head outside.  She tossed his boots down onto the porch and gave him a scornful smirk.  You aren’t going anywhere in your bare feet.  She wiped a bead of sweat from her forehead.

Meriwether rolled his eyes in exasperation.  He had gone bare-footed for so long that the soles of his feet were tough and thick like leather.  Many were the times that he had stepped on briars and sand spurs and didn’t even realize it.  But it was no use arguing with his mother.  She’d seen her share of hardship and he knew she’d not back down in the face of his objections to anything.  Dutifully, Meriwether pulled his boots on and tucked his fraying pant legs down into the floppy leather uppers. 

Be careful out there, she cautioned.

Meriwether was fairly certain that this was something mothers said when they couldn’t think of anything else to say.  When mothers ran out of anything to talk about, they sat around worrying for their children.  Eventually, out of their mouths would come a be careful.  That’s when you knew their fear was about to boil over.  Meriwether decided to say something soothing.

The war is over, Mother, he said, clumsily.

I’m not worried about the British, she mumbled.  And I’m not worried about your feet – as long as you wear your boots.  It’s the Creek Indians that worry me.

What’s to worry about? Meriwether asked, sure of himself.  This isn’t their land anymore.  America bought it from them.  He understood as best a young man could.  He couldn’t imagine the endless possibilities that his mother could.

Yeah, she said, skeptically, looking at the horizon as if searching for Indians.  They’re out there.  They know our every move.  They wouldn’t think twice about throwing the treaties in the fire, if given reason enough.  She looked down at her own bare feet and kicked a leaf off the small carpet at the door step.  She didn’t want to let on more to Meri than necessary, but the dangers were real. 

You be careful.

The Creeks aren’t that bad, Meriwether sheepishly asserted.  They know more about medicine and herbs than we do.

She narrowed her eyes at him, wondering how he would know.  She thought of asking, but thought better of it.  She imagined he probably learned from firsthand experience in the forest with the Cherokee or, God forbid, the Creek.  She shuddered to think of it.  It was probably better for her if she didn’t know how he arrived at so much of his knowledge. 

The boy had never been properly educated, but that hadn’t hurt his appetite for knowledge.  Not one bit.  What he lacked in book learning he more than made up for in practical outdoor frontier skills.  He absorbed the natural world around him and learned everything it would teach him.  He listened to the wind and to the trees.  He could read the terrain.  Plants and animals were more than part of the landscape to him.  He understood nature. 

He applied the same skills to civilization as well.  A quiet lad, he had always had an ear turned toward the adults in his life.  If he listened long enough, he figured, he would know how to read the landscape of relationships and of the things that matter to the world around him.  He held dear to an axiom he’d learned as a child – even a fool can be thought wise if he only held his tongue.   It had served him well.  Meanwhile, nature was both classroom and pastime.  Every day was a new lesson to be learned, with new sights to behold and experienced.

I love you, ma.  He smiled and turned to cross the yard.

Be back by dinner, she instructed, as if it needed to be said at all.  A young man such as himself wouldn’t miss a meal, even for the fun of hunting.  Lucy’s thoughts turned to another occasion that she had seen that same sure smile flash across Meri’s face.  It had been a harrowing experience. 

On a recent journey east to the coast, their party had nearly panicked because a small band of Creek Indians had been spotted in their area.  Night had been falling and the adults in the group had scurried about collecting children and glancing at one another in a moment of terror, unsure of what the best course of action was. 

With that same smile of self-assurance, Meri had stood calmly and doused the fire – something no one else had thought to do.  Nothing further had come of the encounter, but that smile stayed with Lucy — that confident, caretaker’s smile.  He was growing up. 

I’ll be careful, and I’ll be back at dinner.  Maybe I’ll get a raccoon and make you a hat!

Just what I need, she chuckled, shaking her head and smiling at his cheeky sense of humor. 

Meriwether and Scout walked off toward the trees.  Lucy watched him go.  Her heart ached with worry for Meriwether, but not about things like war, foot injuries, or even the presence of Indians.  There was something else that she worried about that she had never shared with her son.  All the Lewis men suffered from occasional spells of deep sadness and depression.  Nobody really understood what caused the dark moods, and simply telling them to be of good cheer did nothing.  Reading inspirational scriptures did nothing.  Good fellowship didn’t lift their spirits any more than reminding them of all their blessings to be counted.  Without rhyme or reason, these periods of depression came and went as they pleased.  They appeared to be caused by something deeper than the day’s circumstances – nobody could say what caused them; nobody could say how to alleviate them.  With a mother’s keen intuition, she foresaw this as part of Meri’s future. 

It wasn’t just the death of his father, though Lucy missed him so.  Her second husband, John Marks, had been a good male influence for Meri, so it wasn’t that.  There was something, though, that she couldn’t put her finger on.  She knew that his depression would never leave him.  She hoped it would remain a small part of his life. 

She knew one thing for certain, though.  Being outdoors healed the boy’s spirits like a salve.  She prayed that this would always soothe his soul.  There was certainly enough wilderness across the continent to keep him busy for a lifetime.

Meriwether entered the forest and paused just inside the trees.  He looked back to see if his mother was still at the door of their tiny house.  She had gone back inside.  Using the scuffed toe of his right foot, he kicked the heel of his left boot off and pulled his foot out.  He did the same with his bare left foot and pulled off his right boot.  The pair lay flopped on top of one another in the leaves.

Mother acts as if death is always stalking me, he thought, appreciating the cool breeze and the smell of the cedars around him.  Death had found his father, he mused.  Death finds everyone… eventually.  Perhaps his mother was right.  Perhaps death was all around him — waiting by the bedside of someone stricken with smallpox, or beneath the skin of a severe injury, or in the midst of the Indian territory.  Maybe death is always and forever stalking.  

He stepped off into the forest.  He loved the feeling of grass beneath his feet. Scout sniffed the ground ahead and continued on.  He paused and thought of his mother’s words.  Death would not find him, not today, he thought.

He set off into the forest at a leisurely pace.  His goal was not to kill, but to spend the day hunting.  He was happy to come back empty-handed.  The weapon he carried fired true.  If he came back empty-handed it would be because he saw nothing, not because he hadn’t gotten off a good shot.  He was an excellent marksman for his age.  He knew his way around the weapon he carried.  He knew there wouldn’t be much out and about in the broad daylight, but he didn’t care.  Scout tracked along ahead of him and would occasionally take a wide arc around him as they moved through the woods together, always circling him like the pack animals he’d descended from. 

As the afternoon wore on, the two came to a clearing they’d been to a hundred times, south of their tiny house not more than couple miles.  Cleared ages ago by Cherokee who had long ago lived in the area, the field was growing thick with tall grasses now.  It had lay unused for thirty years, since the days of the Indian Wars, and the war against their French allies.  Small saplings were starting to overtake the open space, growing rounder each year – sassafras, first, as was always the case.  They grew like weeds in light and open spaces.  Their mitten-shaped leaves were easy to spot.

Loblolly pine trees stood sentry overhead with their characteristic naked trunks high up into the canopy where their branches spread suddenly and densely to offer the rarest but most welcome shade. 

Meri was startled by a grunting noise off to his left.  Across the clearing stood a large bull presenting its tallest silhouette, a challenge of power and territorial dominance.  It wasn’t one of his bulls, nor did it look like the ones owned by his nearest neighbors, the McGeoughs.

The bull looked at Meriwether and bobbed its head up and down.  His presence was clearly agitating it and he knew it.  He hadn’t come across an unpenned bull in the forest before.  He wondered for a split second where it had come from.  It was curious that it would be out here, south of the settlement, so far from people.  He looked at the animal for a moment, assuming it would go about its business and he would be about his. 

It was a good-sized animal, and though most adults would have been intimidated, he simply set to walk a wide berth around the animal and continue on his way.  The scene suddenly changed as the bull took a noisy step forward through the low brush, breaking small branches as it pushed past tiny trees.  He knew it was about to charge.  There was a chance that this bull had not belonged to anyone and had been out here for some time on its own.  A moment of satisfaction came upon him as he froze.  He was reading the bulls movements.  Something was about to happen.

He pulled his weapon from the upright position to the horizontal, trigger finger straight over the trigger guard in anticipation.  The bull made a false charge of about twenty feet and stopped.  Meriwether didn’t back down.  Set to meet the challenge, the bull lunged forward at full tilt.  Scout began barking and howling madly.  That certainly wasn’t helping matters.  Without a moment’s pause for thought, he drew the tip of his weapon up to cover the bull’s head in his line of sight and pulled the trigger. 

A flash of exploding powder spat sideways from the pan as the hammer clanked against the steel and the powder inside the barrel exploded.  Accurate up to seventy-five yards with smaller caliber shot, his weapon provided him with an easy shot.  The animal dropped unceremoniously, head first and bumped awkwardly into itself, coming to a lifeless halt mere yards away from Meri’s feet. 

Not today, he told himself, with that same satisfied grin.

Scout looked at him with a dog’s smile and came for a pat on the head, convinced he had saved the day himself.

Now what?  Meri said to Scout, wondering what to do with the large animal.  His mother wouldn’t like to hear this story one bit.  His step-father, John, would investigate to find out who’s animal it had been. They may find out that he had indeed just killed a neighbor’s bull.  That wouldn’t be great.  It was an utter shame to leave it sitting there.  It would go to waste.   

Largest thing I’ve ever shot, he thought, shaking his head in frustration, and I can’t even get it back home.  Nor can I tell anyone.

He reloaded his weapon, instinctually.

Evening was upon him.  Two miles was a significant distance to cover, and so he started back for home leaving the bull where it lay. 

In the sudden mix of fury and fire he hadn’t noticed that he was surrounded by footprints.  He stared at the indentations in the ground.  There were quite a few.  He examined their shape.  Moccasins, not boots.  Indians, not whites.  A war party? 

He looked around him.  His home and his neighbors’ homes were through the woods several miles away in Goose Pond.  The footprints didn’t appear to be going anywhere toward the white settlements.  He knelt down and looked closer.  He put his foot next to one.  They were made by feet that were larger than his – but barely.  Older kids?  Perhaps women?  Definitely not a war party. 

Ever curious, Meriwether wanted to know if he could piece together what had brought these footprints to rest right there.  He wanted to see if he could follow the clues to their logical conclusion.  Why were these people here?  He was determined to uncover the answers.

He followed the footprints into the woods, carefully following where they led.  He noticed every plant, every twig, every bush, and every noise.  Everything might be a clue. 

Something caught his attention.  He knelt down in front of a bush.  The bush was no more than knee high.  Its tightly curled leaves reminded him of mustard greens.  The leaves were light green and had a silvery tint when the sunlight shone directly on them.  The bush had been largely denuded of its leaves. 

He split open a tiny branch