The Magnificent Adventure - Emerson Hough (fiction books to read .txt) 📗

and I’d do it now! I’ve worked my very best. You’re my officer, my chief!”

With one movement, Meriwether Lewis flung off the uniform coat that he wore. They stood now, man to man, stripped, and neither gave back from the other.

“Shannon,” said Lewis, “I’m not your officer now. I’m going to choke the truth out of you. Will you fight me, or are you afraid?”

The last cruelty was too much. The boy began to gulp.

“I’m not afraid to fight, sir. I’d fight any man, but you—no, I’ll not do it! Even stripped, you’re my commander still.”

“Is that the reason?”

“Not all of it. You’re weak, Captain, your wound has you in a fever. ’Twould not be fair—I could do as I liked with you now. I’ll not fight you. I couldn’t!”

“What? You will not obey me as your officer, and will not fight me as a man? Do you want to be whipped? Do you want to be shot? Do you want to be drummed out of camp tomorrow morning? By Heaven, Private Shannon, one of these choices will be yours!”

But something of the icy silence of the youth who heard these terrible words gave pause even to the madman that was Meriwether Lewis now. He halted, his hooked hands extended for the spring upon his opponent.

“What is it, boy?” he whispered at last. “What have I done? What did I say?”

Shannon was sobbing now.

“Captain,” he said, and thrust a hand into the bosom of his tunic—“Captain, for Heaven’s sake, don’t do that! Don’t apologize to me. I understand. Leave me alone. Here’s the letter. There were six—this is the last.”

Lewis’s strained muscles relaxed, his blazing eyes softened.

“Shannon!” he whispered once more. “What have I done?”

He took the letter in his hand, but did not look at it, although his fingers could feel the seal unbroken.

“Why do you give it to me now, boy?” he asked at length. “What changed you?”

“Because it’s orders, sir. She ordered me—that is, she asked me—to give you these letters at times when you seemed to need them most—when you were sick or in trouble, when anything had gone wrong. We couldn’t figure so far on ahead when I ought to give you each one. I had to do my best. I didn’t know at first, but now I see that you’re sick. You’re not yourself—you’re in trouble. She told me not to let you know who carried them,” he added rather inconsequently. “She said that that might end it all. She thought that you might come back.”

“Come back—when?”

“She didn’t know—we couldn’t any of us tell—it was all a guess. All this about the letters was left to me, to do my best. I couldn’t ask you, Captain, or any one. I don’t know what was in the letters, sir, and I don’t ask you, for that’s not my business; but I promised her.”

“What did she promise you?”

“Nothing. She didn’t promise me pay, because she knew I wouldn’t have done it for pay. She only looked at me, and she seemed sad, I don’t know why. I couldn’t help but promise her. I gave her my word of honor, because she said her letters might be of use to you, but that no one else must know that she had written them.”

“When was all this?”

“At St. Louis, just before we started. I reckon she picked me out because she thought I was especially close to you. You know I have been so.”

“Yes, I know, Shannon.”

“I thought I was doing something for you. You see, she told me that her name must not be mentioned, that no one must know about this, because it would hurt a woman’s reputation. She thought the men might talk, and that would be bad for you. I could not refuse her. Do you blame me now?”

“No, Shannon. No! In all this there is but one to blame, and that is your officer, myself!”

“I did not think there was any harm in my getting the letters to you, Captain. I knew that lady was your friend. I know who she is. She was more beautiful than any woman in St. Louis when we were there—more a lady, somehow. Of course, I’m not an officer or a gentleman—I’m only a boy from the backwoods, and only a private soldier. I couldn’t break my promise to her, and I couldn’t very well obey your orders unless I did. If I’ve broken any of the regulations you can punish me. You see, I held back this letter—I gave it to you now because I had the feeling that I ought to—that she would want me to. It is the fever, sir!”

“Aye, the fever!”

Silence fell as they stood there in the night. The boy went on, half tremblingly:

“Please, please, Captain Lewis, don’t call me a coward! I don’t believe I am. I was trying to do something for you—for both of you. It was always on my mind about these letters. I did my best and now——”

And now it was the eye of Meriwether Lewis that suddenly was wet; it was his voice that trembled.

“Boy,” said he, “I am your officer. Your officer asks your pardon. I have tried myself. I was guilty. Will you forget this?”

“Not a word to a soul in the world, Captain!” broke out Shannon. “About a woman, you see, we do not talk.”

“No, Mr. Shannon, about a woman we gentlemen do not talk. But now tell me, boy, what can I do for you—what can I ever do for you?”

“Nothing in the world, Captain—but just one thing.”

“What is it?”

“Please, sir, tell me that you don’t think me a coward!”

“A coward? No, Shannon, you are the bravest fellow I ever met!”

The hand on the boy’s shoulder was kindly now. The right hand of Captain Meriwether Lewis sought that of Private George Shannon. The madness of the trail, of the wilderness—the madness of absence and of remorse—had swept by, so that Lewis once more was officer, gentleman, just and generous man.

Shannon stooped and picked up the coat that his captain had cast from him. He held it up, and aided his commander again to don it. Then, saluting, he marched off to his bivouac bed.

From that day to the end of his life, no one ever heard George Shannon mention a word of this episode. Beyond the two leaders of the party, none of the expedition ever knew who had played the part of the mysterious messenger. Nor did any one know, later, whence came the funds which eventually carried George Shannon through his schooling in the East, through his studies for the bar, and into the successful practise which he later built up in Kentucky’s largest city.

Meriwether Lewis, limp and lax now, shivering in the chill under the reaction from his excitement, turned away, stepped back to his own lodge, and contrived a little light, after the frontier fashion—a rag wick in a shallow vessel of grease. With this uncertain aid he bent down closer to read the finely written lines, which ran: