Centennial

by James A. Michener

  Levi looked at Elly as if to ask whether she wished to see these wonders; she shrugged her shoulders, and they were about to pass on, when the owner of the museum came into the street and cajoled them with promises of delights they could not even imagine: “You may never have a chance to see the mighty elephant, because next month we must send it to Europe.”

  Since neither Levi nor Elly had ever seen an elephant, except in books, they diffidently allowed the man to sell them tickets, and in they went. It was, as Levi had expected, mostly a theater, with chairs and a stage onto which came a juggler and two pretty girls. Then Mr. Reed appeared; he was worth the whole admission, because standing alone with no equipment of any kind, he could make almost any sound you might care to hear: a roaring alligator, a train falling off a trestle, a trumpeter playing an aria from Donizetti, the explosion of a volcano.

  The Zendts were quite captivated by Mr. Reed, and Elly was convinced he must have little bugles and things hidden in his mouth, but Levi asked, “How could he?” They were about to leave when the manager reminded them, “You haven’t seen the elephant,” and they passed behind a curtain expecting to see a live elephant. Instead, they saw something they would never forget: a truly massive skeleton of a gigantic mastodon that had lived along the riverbank thousands of years ago. They were so astonished that they barely heard the monologue: “... ate a ton of hay each day ... each mighty tusk twenty-two feet long ... the mother carried the baby in her womb for four years, seven months and nineteen days ... I want this young lady to lie down beside the foot ... it could crush her entire body with one savage blow ... the tail was nine feet long ... huge, huge, huge.”

  The Zendts remained staring at the giant skeleton long after the other spectators had left, Levi in particular being captivated by it. “How could he find enough to eat?” he kept asking.

  “You heard the man. A ton of hay every day.”

  “But where would he find it?”

  “If he had a trunk to match the rest of him,” Elly reasoned, “he could stand in one spot and sweep in a ton of grass.”

  When they reached the streets they found themselves in a veritable flood, and Levi pondered how he might get Elly back to the boat without being drenched, but she said, “I’m not afraid of a little rain.” They were about to set forth when they heard themselves being hailed. “You there! From Pennsylvania! Want a ride back? This is going to get worse.” It was Captain Mercy heading for his nightly intelligence regarding the Fell.

  When they were inside his carriage he told them, “I’m being sent west by the army. To select a site for a new fort. Sergeant Lykes, eight mules and me.”

  At the Fell, Captain Frake warned Mercy, “We sail tomorrow at twelve sharp. And you better have them mules aboard, because this boat never waits a minute.”

  So the Zendts went up the gangplank, and for some time they lingered on deck, staring at the lights of a city which had been hospitable, and Elly saw principally the dark river which was beginning to rise because of the excessive rains, but Levi saw only the elephant, massive and plodding and filling the sky with its premonitory form.

  On Saturday, May 4, to everyone’s amazement, Captain Frake finally ordered his crew to fire up the boilers, bring in the gangplanks and cast off from the iron rings. At twelve sharp, as he had predicted, the Robert Q. Fell, with as full a load as the craft could carry, set out for the middle of the Mississippi and turned its bow upstream.

  It was to be a difficult and ugly day, for whereas the steamboat did well in the slow-moving Mississippi, when it reached the mouth of the Missouri, that river was throwing so much water into the main stream and so much mud, that for some hours the Robert Q. Fell seemed to be standing still. Captain Frake grew plainly worried, allowed his craft to slip backward some distance, then headed for the Illinois shore. Ordering a major head of steam, he tried again, but his engine could deliver only six knots forward while the river was flowing four knots in the opposite direction.

  Cursing the Missouri, he edged closer to the northern bank of the muddy river and fortunately caught a reverse current which helped him enter the main channel. With a final burst of speed he brought his boat into calmer water, and just as darkness fell he pushed ahead to safety—and a sandbank.

  They stayed caught on the bar throughout the night, and in the morning all able-bodied passengers were rowed ashore and given heavy ropes to pull. By exerting almost superhuman strength, they edged the boat off the bank and with a cheer returned on board. Elly said, “It must have taken all the strength you had,” and Sergeant Lykes, in charge of the army mules, said, “Ma’am, you could hear the muscles poppin’.”

  To go up the Missouri was of itself a notable adventure, with sandbars and jagged tree trunks which could rip out the bottom of a boat, and sudden turns and high romantic cliffs on alternate sides. It bore no comparison with the tame Ohio; this was a wild, undisciplined river, with each curve bringing its peculiar problems.

  On the fourth day they reached the remarkable twin cities of the lower Missouri, and in accordance with the rule, “Franklin up, Boonville down,” they stopped at the former city to allow the horses and mules to forage for the afternoon, while the passengers walked inland to the new town which had replaced the old one that had fallen into the river when the land on which it was sitting was undercut by currents. Franklin was a beautiful town of five or six thousand population, with a newspaper, lawyers, good schools and a lively concern for all that happened in the west. From here caravans had formerly set forth for Santa Fe, and the returning freight wagons were often driven by Mexicans who spoke no English. From here, too, men headed for the Yellowstone and the distant forts at the head of the Missouri. Indians of all tribes were common in Franklin; they would stand solemnly at the back of public meetings when local dignitaries discussed Socrates and the philosophy of Edmund Burke.

  Elly said, “It’s like Lancaster with common sense,” and if anyone had at that moment made the Zendts a worthwhile proposition, they would have been willing to keep their horses ashore, unload the Conestoga, and let Captain Frake have their passage money. They would remember Franklin as the best of the west, the kind of community they hoped to build in Oregon.

  Nine days out, on Sunday, May 12, they passed under the cliff once dominated by Fort Osage and looked up to see the rusted cannon pointing harmlessly down the river they had so long guarded. That afternoon they were, in Independence, rowdiest town in the west, and they had been ashore only a few minutes when an ornery Pawnee Indian, liquored up by fur traders, tried to take a pistol from a riverman, who shot him dead. The body was kicked to one side and no law officer made any pretense of arresting the murderer, or even investigating “the accident.” Three hours later the corpse was still beside the river.

  When Captain Frake decided to lay over several days to see if he could pick up Mexican goods for the trip north, it gave Levi a chance to exercise his horses, and when he led the six grays down the gangplank they excited a storm of interest. Many offers were made, for the men of this region appreciated good horseflesh.

  “I’ll give you three hundred dollars a horse,” one prosperous merchant proposed, but Levi said they were not for sale, not under any circumstances.

  He was then approached by a slim, handsome young fellow in his mid-twenties who said with an unusual accent, “I’ve just come in from Santa Fe, and believe me, you’d be a fool to take those valuable beasts onto the prairie. They simply will not last.”

  “I don’t want to sell them,” Levi snapped.

  “I don’t want to buy them,” the young stranger replied. “I am speaking as a friend.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Oliver Seccombe, Santa Fe, Boston, London, Oxford.”

  “What’re you doin’ here?” Levi asked suspiciously.

  “Exploring. Seeing the world before I settle down. Are you by chance headed up the Missouri?”

  “I am.”

  “To the forts?”

  “Oregon.
”

  “Well met! I’m for Oregon too. Are you by chance a passenger on that disgraceful old tub?” And he pointed with his wrist toward the Robert Q. Fell.

  “I am.”

  “Fellow passenger!” he cried, embracing Levi. “And is this your good wife?”

  “It’s Elly.”

  “We shall celebrate!” And he led the Zendts to a mangy saloon which sold everything from Taos Lightning to lemon soda. Rapping on the unwashed bar, he cried, “My good man! Drinks, if you please.”

  A thin, sad-faced man who had watched hundreds pass through this room on their way to hopeful adventure came unhappily to stand before the Englishman. “Whaddle ya have?”

  “Whadda ya got?” Seccombe answered, imitating the man.

  “For you, horsepiss. For the lady, if she is a lady, lemonade.”

  “Excellent!” Seccombe cried. “In mine a little ginger, and for the lady’s husband what do you propose?”

  “Him?” The jaundiced bartender studied Levi and said, “Sarsaparilla.”

  “Three whiskeys,” Seccombe said quietly, and with a quick movement he produced a pistol.

  Grudgingly the man brought three whiskeys, sloshed them on the bar and said, “I’m about to throw you out of here.”

  Seccombe caught him by the arm and said, “Before I tried that little trick, my good friend, I would consult with counsel.” He pushed the arm away and added, “Because otherwise you would find yourself flat on your ass.” When the bartender left, Seccombe told the Zendts, “When you’re an Englishman in the west, you have to establish your reputation fast, otherwise ...”

  “I don’t drink whiskey,” Elly said.

  “My good man!” Seccombe called. When the bartender appeared, the Englishman laughed disarmingly and said, “You were right all along. She does want lemonade.”

  As they drank he told them of his trip to Santa Fe, the dust, the Comanche, the good times along the road, the great money to be made in western trade. “But I’m for Oregon,” he said brightly. “Catch a ship home and write my book, Travels in the Great West, with slaughter on every page. How do you spell your names?”

  He was an exhausting young man, two years older than Levi but a whole world brighter. When he inspected the gear Levi had assembled for the trip west, he was shocked. “You’ve overlooked the one thing you need most,” he said.

  “Another gun?”

  “Fie on guns. Everyone carries too many. But the hat. The hat!” He said that the one thing the traveler needed was a broad-brimmed hat so wide that the sun could not reach his lips. “You walk on those prairies for five months, with the sun beating down every day, and your lips burn right off. Madame, you simply must get yourself two sunbonnets, because if you lose one and allow the sun to strike those beautiful lips ...”

  His manner irritated Levi, because he well knew that Elly’s lips were not beautiful. In fact, there was little about his wife that anyone in his right mind could call beautiful, and he was perplexed by Seccombe’s obvious insincerity. However, the man did appreciate horses, and recognized that the grays were superior. “Hold out, Zendt,” he counseled. “In this town you can get four hundred apiece for that group. But I would sell the Conestoga, if anyone makes an offer. Too heavy.”

  Seccombe was captivated by Levi’s Melchior Fordney rifle, and arranged a test-firing with Captain Mercy and Sergeant Lykes. The men set up targets and fired each other’s rifles. Mercy had an expensive Boston weapon, Lykes a standard issue from the Harper’s Ferry arsenal, and Seccombe a good English gun; but all agreed that Zendt’s Lancaster rifle was the easiest handling of the lot. “When you decide to sell it, I’m your man,” Seccombe said, balancing the beautiful weapon.

  “I’m keeping it,” Levi said.

  “On the plains you’ll find your Hawken to be the better rifle,” Captain Mercy said. “I carry two of them.”

  “He’s right,” Seccombe agreed. “On the Santa Fe trip I used my English gun for antelope, my Hawken for trouble. You’ll do the same.”

  From his previous stay in Independence, Oliver Seccombe knew everyone and helped the Zendts purchase their last-minute needs: baking powder, the extra lead for bullets, the dried beef. “You’ll get damned tired of bacon,” he predicted. And when all was in readiness he took them aside and said, “I’ve studied you two. You’re fine people. Why don’t we make it a team to Oregon?”

  “We’ll need more,” Levi said, so they approached Captain Mercy.

  “We’d like to join up with you and Lykes, if we may,” Seccombe said.

  “I’d be honored,” Mercy said. “But I’m not going all the way to Oregon.”

  “You could help us get started right,” Seccombe said, “and at Blacksnake Hills we’ll see who else is preparing to go. We’ll form a tight party.”

  “I don’t want to travel with the Vermont people,” Levi said. “Too churchy.”

  “I prefer to give the Psalm-singers a wide berth myself,” Mercy agreed.

  So on the five-day trip north to Blacksnake Hills, these five formed a solid team: an army officer on an important commission his knowledgeable sergeant; Oliver Seccombe, who had already crossed the prairies twice; the patient, hard-working Zendts.

  The boat stopped at Fort Leavenworth, where officers boarded to give Captain Mercy last-minute instructions: “The Arapaho and Cheyenne are peaceful, but watch out for those Oglala Sioux.” A young officer said, “The Pasquinel brothers are riding with them, and they’ve caused a lot of trouble.”

  Zendt had never heard of the Pasquinel brothers, but he noticed that when the name was mentioned, Captain Mercy firmed his mouth. “We’ll take precautions,” he said.

  “Who are the Pasquinels?” Levi asked when the soldiers departed.

  “Rough,” Seccombe broke in. “Half-breeds who lead the Indians on war parties. Last August they cut the Santa Fe trail for three days. Burned some wagons.”

  When the boat resumed its tortuous journey to Blacksnake Hills, Levi heard again of the Pasquinel brothers, for a trader who had come aboard at Independence told Elly, “White men on the prairies can be animals, and Indians can be terrifying, but the half-breed is the worst of both. When those brothers get the tribes roiled up, there’s hell to pay.”

  “Who are they?” Elly asked.

  “Who knows? A French trapper named Pasquinel, I suppose—took himself a squaw, and now we have his bastards to contend with.”

  “You ever see them?” Levi asked.

  “That I did. Came downriver in 18 and 39 with three bales of buffalo robes, and they led a bunch of Cheyenne who cleaned me out.”

  “Why didn’t they kill you?” Elly asked.

  “Sometimes they kill, sometimes they don’t. But if I ever see them again, they won’t have the option.” The other trappers who had moved in to listen agreed that on next meeting, the whites would fire first and there’d be two dead half-breed troublemakers.

  On reaching Blacksnake Hills, the passengers found that the well-known store run by French trapper Joseph Robidoux had been closed. The proprietor had moved to a new riverfront settlement where he was selling plots for the establishment of a town to be called, after his patron, St. Joseph. He had chosen his site well; it encompassed a projection made by a bend in the river and was protected to the rear by bluffs.

  “Capital of the river!” said Robidoux. “No need to travel any further west.” He told the Zendts, “Stay here and grow up with a great city.” As soon as he saw the gray horses he said. “Don’t take them beasts onto the prairie. They won’t last a month.” He offered to buy the grays it four hundred dollars each and to sell them six oxen to take their place at twenty dollars a head. Levi refused, but that night Oliver Seccombe appeared with a grizzled old man who changed everything.

  “This is Sam Purchas,” the Englishman said, pushing forward a wizened man of forty-nine who looked seventy-nine. He dressed like an Indian, except for a huge slouch hat whose brim nearly covered his face, which was notable for a toba
cco-stained beard, broken teeth and a nose whose tip had been sliced off by either a rusty knife or the jagged end of a broken bottle. “He calls himself King of the Mountain Men, and I’ve hired him to lead us to Oregon.”

  “Has he ever been there?” Captain Mercy asked.

  “Been there?” the guide snorted. “Sonny, I been acrost these prairies with all the great ones. Sublette, Kit Carson, Fitzpatrick, the Bents—I’ve knowed ’em all.”