Lewis and Clark Revisited

By Kelly Jones

This is my second true attempt at historical fiction - enjoy!

Merriweather Lewis attempted to keep himself from falling, but in vain. With a dizzied lurch, his legs gave out and he drove face-first into the icy snow. The man he traveled with, and his most trusted human companion, quickly turned him on his back. “Merri,” he cried frantically. “Merri, can you hear me? Open your eyes.”

“Stop shouting,” the other replied. “Of course I can hear you. My ears haven’t shriveled off yet.” Even in the perils of the Bitterroot Mountains and the blistering cold, Merriweather still maintained his dry wit and humor. William Clark sat back on his heels with relief. The men had stopped walking and now huddled around the scene of their fallen captain. Will waved his hand in a circle and told them to give the poor man some breathing room.

Seaman managed to squeeze through the group and nestled by his master’s side. The large Newfoundland dog never strayed far from Merriweather. Old Toby also found a place beside Will and spoke softly, “We are all growing weak from hunger. Maybe we should set up camp for the night.”

“Agreed,” Will nodded, helping his friend to rise. Merriweather leaned heavily on the co-captain and shook as he tried using his unsteady legs.

Within the hour, a fine camp was pitched, and a fire roared in the center. The men gathered close to the blaze and warmed their hands. They were approaching on day ten of their painful trek through the Bitterroot Mountains. Old Toby continued to insist that he knew exactly where they were headed, and that his Shoshone blood could sense that the mountains neared an end. This wasn’t good enough for William, who had made sure Merriweather gained a choice spot by the fire. Every single one of them suffered in their own way from either hunger, fatigue, or illness. So far, no one was in serious jeopardy of losing their lives.

As the group migrated from the fire and into their beddings, Will and Merriweather remained in place. The brilliant flickers of light illuminated their cheeks and brows and reached with snapping arms toward the star-filled heavens. Seaman lay with his monstrous head in Merriweather’s lap. All in all, the two men felt a sense of peace that they had not experienced for some time.

“Do you think,” Merriweather prompted, “that we’ll ever see the west ocean?”

Will stayed silent for some time, thinking the question over. It seemed entirely possible, and yet, he knew, there was always that chance of sudden failure. Perhaps they would reach the end of these mountains, only to be faced with more. Perhaps hostile Indians waited for trespassers at the bottom. He shook his head lightly and cleared his thoughts. It was best to think rationally.

“I believe so, yes,” he replied. “Don’t you?”

“As things stand now? No. Look at us, Will. We’ve only enough soup and firewood to barely last a day or two more. After that, we would either have to eat tree bark, the candles, or the horses,” Merriweather drawled. “And considering we’d have no firewood, the horse meat would be raw. We’d all fall ill and die.”

“I trust that Old Toby has yet a few magic tricks up his sleeve,” Will reasoned. “He was born in this sort of territory. I’m sure he knows what to do.”

Merriweather gave a soft cough and rested his head on the co-captain’s shoulder. The young man was most definitely sick. The pallor of his face had only lessened since he fainted, and he appeared to be feverish. Will feared he would be worse in the morning.

=+=

The sun rose, but no one could feel its elusive warmth. William woke to the sounds of Seaman barking at a bear. That dog would stand up to any new wildlife the party discovered without a thought in the world. If it so desired, the bear could simply charge, kill Seaman, and then ravage the camp. Will grinned under his thick blankets made of deer and buffalo hides. The barking dog was not so much an annoyance as it was an alarm. He heard the bear growl, a few lumbering strides, and then the yapping stopped.

At this point, he rose from his skins and crawled from the makeshift tent. There sat Seaman, a perfectly accomplished look upon his doggish features. “Scared away another bear, did you?” Will called to him. A pleasant woof caused a faint bubble of laughter to burst from his mouth. That silly dog could cure even the worst of moods.

Suddenly reminded of Merriweather, he slunk back into the tent to see his friend. Merriweather remained asleep, despite the earlier barking. His charcoal bangs lay plastered to his forehead with sweat. Will sighed happily. The fever broke during the night, thank goodness. He might even be well enough to travel once they got going.

Merriweather tossed onto his side.

“Sir,” came a voice from outside the flap of the tent. Will stuck his head out, only to be greeted by the dark face of York, his slave.

“Yes, York?”

“All da men ah up on accounna da dog, sir. Shoul’ we geh ready ta leave?”

William gave the go-ahead and got to waking Merriweather. When he turned, however, he discovered that Merriweather was already awake. His eyes were fixed directly above him and he blinked languidly. “Are we going now?” he asked.

“Yes,” Will said. “You’re fit for travel?”

“Mm.”

The strapping Merriweather seemed to have a sort of knack for enduring every hardship that had come his way thusfar. On the second day of the voyage, he had been on a rocky ledge studying and sketching the wildflowers. When he shifted his weight, the dusty gravel beneath his feet gave way and he nearly plummeted to the ground three hundred-odd feet below. Luckily, he unsheathed his knife in time and dug it sharply into the rock. He hung on for dear life until Will could climb up there and bring him to safety.

Now, Merriweather looked tired and doubtful, but not defeated. William knew that, even if he was still ill, he would insist on continuing.

“Help me up,” the young man requested. As soon as he was successfully on his feet, he left the tent and fetched his rifle. Will watched him intently. “I’m going to scout ahead and take Seaman with me. I want to make sure this isn’t a lost cause.”

“You’re not going off on your own.”

“Of course not. I just said, I’m taking Seaman.”

Will folded his arms across his broad chest. “That’s not a very wise decision,” he snorted, but the dog was already at Merriweather’s heels, wagging its tail. “What happens when you don’t come back? What happens when we wait for you, and we run out of supplies?”

Merriweather fought hard to straddle one of the smaller horses, and finally grunted with strain as he flopped onto the animal’s back. “I’ll be back soon enough, no worries.” He didn’t appear all that convincing. As he rose lustrously off down the snow-laden path, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something terrible was going to happen.

=+=

Seaman lay in the snow as his dedicated master stopped to sketch a leafy plant popping through the white powder. He leaned over it and brought the quill to the paper, creating a rough outline, and then filling in the details. That done, he stood, stumbled backwards, and landed on his back. Seaman came to lick his face. Merriweather carefully pushed himself up to his feet, and then braved the horse and saddle again. A cry escaped his lips at the effort. His body felt weak and worthless.

Moments later, he gave up and resorted to leading the horse by its reigns. It didn’t take him very long to, at last, collapse from exhaustion. Free from its human restrainer, the wild Indian horse took off and disappeared in an instant. Seaman barked after it, but refused to stray from his master’s fallen form. Merriweather made no attempt to right himself.

A pair of eyes watched him from the thick nearby trees. They roamed over his frail body, and the horse track, and the dog. There was something very familiar about him, but the eyes couldn’t place this feeling. The eyes blinked curiously and squinted against the cold. A figure emerged, clad in skins and beads. Seaman held back his barks of warning; he realized that this person was dressed as an Indian, but didn’t have the face of one.

“Hello, puppy,” her voice cooed. “You’re such a cute puppy. Hold still, okay? Don’t bite me.” She approached Merriweather and flipped him over. She paused and blinked once again. Tears stung in her eyes, but she brushed them away before they had the opportunity of freezing. He looked like her; he had the same color skin, the same wide eye sockets, and the same long, pointed nose.

When Merriweather came to and failed to recognize the face hovering about him, he instinctively lunged forward and pushed this person deep into the snow before realizing it was a woman. She wasn’t an Indian, though. It was strange.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” she reassured him. Merriweather leapt backwards in astonishment.

“Egad!” he croaked. “You’re British!”

“American!” the woman yelped in surprise. “What are you doing up here?”

Merriweather thought about answering, but his stomach upturned and he vomited into the snow. Trembling and coughing, he shoveled a handful of clean snow into his mouth to neutralize the horrid taste. He was feeling worse than he had the previous day, even though he realized his fever had broke at some point. The woman scurried to his side and lifted him easily out of the snow. She brushed him off with a gloved hand and looked him over.

“Why are you here?” she repeated.

“I’m scouting ahead for my party. How much farther until we’re out of the mountains?”

“A day and a half, but it depends on how large of a group you have, and how slow they’re moving.”

Merriweather cursed lightly. “We need provisions, and food. Don’t suppose there’s a British settlement nearby where we could stop and restock?” he asked, swallowing painfully. He was starting to get a headache, and was already shaking from the chill. His fever was resurfacing.

“A British settlement?” the woman scoffed. “You must be mistaken; the British left this area four or five years ago. There was nothing left to trap at that point, and the winters were killing them off. I’m actually surprised you’re still alive. You look terribly sick.”

“I am,” Merriweather confirmed. “But if there’s not a British settlement, why are you here?”

Seaman rubbed affectionately against his calf, as if he could tell his master’s health was declining. “I live with a tribe of Nez Perce,” the woman explained. “I’m sure that if your party means to do them no harm, they would be glad to offer food in exchange for gifts.”

Merriweather stepped forward unexpectedly and gripped her shoulder to steady himself. She held him out at arm’s length. “I’m dizzy,” he mumbled through quivering lips.

“I’ll take you to the village,” the woman said, helping him off the path. Seaman followed them, whimpering with caution. Merriweather dropped his hand against his leg and grinned as the dog nipped at his fingers. “My name is Catrice Lanagan. You are?”

“Merriweather,” the young man heaved, taking a deep breathed before finishing, “Lewis.”

“Merriweather Lewis. You’re most definitely American. You all have such bizarre names,” Catrice laughed, but the American didn’t answer. His dark eyes were hazy and half-lidded. “In any case,” she continued, “the medicine man should be able to help heal you. How long have you been sick?”

“Perhaps three...four days,” he sighed. “The soup tastes horrible.”

“What soup?”

Merriweather’s legs buckled and he soon found himself in the snow once more. Catrice slung one of his arms over her shoulders and maintained her steady trudge to the camp. Seaman trotted warily after his master. After fifteen hellish minutes for both parties, the settlement came into full view.

Everyone appeared to be in their tents with their own fires, except for a small boy carrying a bucket of vegetables. As the two approached the tents, the boy looked up at them and smiled. Catrice said something to the boy that Merriweather was unable to decipher.

“What are you saying?” he asked, his words beginning to slur. The child bolted into a nearby tent.

“I told him you were sick, and that you needed to see the medicine man,” Catrice replied. “So he went to fetch him.”

Merriweather, with a free hand, shakily rubbed at his aching temples. There was a horrible pain behind his eyes that made him want to vomit again. The bitter cold had taken hold of the poor man’s flesh and was refusing to let go. He felt terribly hollow with chill.

Catrice led him to the tent where the boy had disappeared into. There, seated on a blanket on the dirt floor, was an aged man adorned with tattoos, piercings, beads, and possibly every other sort of decorative thing. The boy stared attentively up at Merriweather.

The medicine man stood and looked towards Catrice. He spoke strange words to her, and she replied in kind. Her arm was still protectively holding the ill American at her side. The man placed his leather-smooth hands against Merriweather’s ashen cheeks and muttered more incoherent sounds. And then, without warning, Catrice let go and Merriweather sunk to his knees. The medicine man kept his hold and his mutterings intensified.

A blinding heat grew in the center of Merriweather’s brain. It seemed to take over his entire body, and he was soon convulsing and seizing up in the medicine man’s grip. His very center shook. A sense of dreadful euphoria hit him straight on and caused a shriek to escape his lips.

Catrice watched with knowing eyes as Merriweather sunk deeply into unconsciousness.

To be continued…