Woof! Rrraawwfff!
And Seaman, Lewis’s big black shaggy Newfoundland dog, is smelling as many of the supplies as he can. That is, when he’s not adding his own: sometimes he shows up with a couple squirrels in his mouth, which the men then fry up to eat.
Yuck. I wonder if there’s some real food?
“Try the pirogue, lad. The red one. You can help me row.”
I look, and recognize the grinning man in the wet, smelly leather. He seems to have a lot more whiskers on his face than last time, though it’s only been a day or two since I’ve seen him.
“Charles Floyd,” he says, sticking out his hand. “I’m one of the sergeants. But you can just call me Kentuck. That’s a nickname.”
I shake his hand. Although his skin is wet, I can feel the hard blisters on it. The shake is friendly. “You ain’t from Kentucky, too, by any chance?”
I can see, behind the whiskers and the grime on his face, that he’s actually kinda young. I mean, he’s older than me — he’s not a kid — but he’s one of those young grownups, the kind who don’t have kids of their own yet, or who are still in college, or in a band, or in a comedy show on one of the vidnets.
“No, I’m from—” I stop. I better not keep saying “Valley of the Moon,” or they won’t let me go on this expedition at all.
Lewis and Clark’s expedition.
Woof!
I’m going with Lewis and Clark.
Rrwwooof!
“I’m from New Jersey.”
“Well met, then. I am from Pennsylvania.” I turn, and there’s another young grownup, but with clothes a little fancier than Floyd’s — even though they’re getting wet, like everyone else’s — and a clean-shaven face. “Patrick Gass, at your service.”
“Gassy’s gonna write about us. He’s keepin’ a journal,” Floyd says. “Told him I was gonna keep one, too. Just to spite him.”
Rrrraawwf!
Seaman’s jumping around near Floyd, clearly excited about something. Maybe there’s some leftover squirrel meat?
“’Scuse me a minute,” Floyd says. “Even in the rain, he wants to play.” He takes a really scruffy round — well, sort of round — leather ball from somewhere inside his jacket, and throws it for Seaman, who scampers off, and goes sniffing for it in the mud by the riverbank.
Gass takes out a thick, compact leather book with heavy paper bound in the middle. “Many of us are keeping journals, including Captain Lewis. The difference between mine and Kentuck’s is that mine will actually be readable.” He stuffs the journal back into his coat, to keep it as dry as possible.
I guess there’s no point telling them to wait a couple hundred years, then they won’t have to write at all — they can just talk out loud and have their thoughts recorded by a combination of digits and liquid memory chips.
“So are you joining us in the pirogue?”
“Well, sure.” I look from Floyd — Kentuck — back to Gassy. “Which one’s the pirogue?”
Floyd points. It’s one of the canoes.
At least, they’re canoe-shaped. But each one seems to be dug out of a single tree trunk. Like some kind of project in woodshop that got way out of control.
“Don’t let him ride in there if he’s going to fall out! The president says to be careful!”
It’s Mr. Howard. Even with the rain, you can still tell he’s sweaty — you can see the difference between what he’s putting out and what the clouds are dropping.
“Yes sir,” Floyd agrees, with a smile.
Seaman scampers back up, drops the ball from his mouth, then shakes out his fur, spraying us all with more water.
Mr. Howard looks completely unamused.
“The boy is to return in the spring, with the artifacts you send back down river. He is to come back with the lizard man!”
“Yes, sir,” Floyd nods. A kind of nod where you can tell he doesn’t really think there is a “lizard man.”
“And you!” Howard has turned away and found Lewis, dragging him away from a conversation he was having with Clark and York. “The president says you are to keep special watch over this boy! You, and not your men!”
And wiping his face, he adds, “And mind that dog of yours, too.”
Lewis doesn’t wipe his face at all, letting the water run down his nose and over his mouth as he speaks. “Mr. Howard. May I remind you that my orders are to explore a continent, not act as nursemaid to some runaway squire.”
“His safety is in your hands!”
“Yes, well, given the high odds against the entire party returning in one piece, you may want to consider other hands. Mine are full. Though the boy is welcome.” Lewis looks at me, and through the gray dampness, I can see that he’s almost smiling. Which for him is like breaking into a full grin. “After all, if the boy is an omen or portent of some sort, we might as well have him working for us instead of against us. Assure the president that he will be every bit as safe as any member of the Corps of Discovery.”
Rrrrooowf!
“Including Seaman.”
This answer doesn’t quite satisfy Mr. Howard, and he turns to make a beeline for Clark, who sees him coming, and, along with York, suddenly gets busy loading more crates into the keelboats.
It’s Jefferson’s fault — from Mr. Howard’s perspective — that I am here, being sent along with the Corps. Or at least, it can be blamed on Jefferson’s permission.
I took a chance with him during our conversation in the tent. He seemed pretty reasonable, for a president. “I know who that terrible, orange-eating lizard is,” I said, after Mr. Howard brought him the news from Banglees, the fur trapper. My voice was only a little shaky.
“How? Have you met him? Tracked him, perhaps? Are you in fact a young fur trapper then, come down from Canada? Perhaps that is why you referred to your hat as a ‘Seals’ cap.”
“I have… journeyed with him. The lizard.”
“In the unexplored lands? So the stories are true? These bones we’re finding, the bones of giant creatures — huge elephants and tigers. They still live? In the wilds? I knew my studies of them would not be in vain!” Jefferson was getting excited and began pacing. “I believe many kinds of giants once lived in America, and many more may yet roam the West!” He spun and faced me. “Are you a Welsh Indian?”
“A what? Sir?”
Turned out he was referring to a legend about a tribe of “white Indians” that were supposed to be descended from some Welsh prince, or something, though no one’s ever seen them. But I guess a lot of people back then believed funny things. They didn’t have the Comnet — not even radio or TV — to help them figure things out.
“I’m not a Welsh Indian, Mr. President,” I told him. “But the lizard and I do come from… a distant land.”
“Earlier, you talked about the moon.”
“Closer than the moon, sir.” I decided not to complicate things by telling him about Saurius Prime, or the Fifth Dimension. “We came in a ship.”
“Then you have discovered a northwest passage? A direct water route to the Pacific from the inland rivers?”
“It was a different kind of ship, sir. It doesn’t go on water.”
“A land ship, then? May I see it?”
“Well, we’ve lost it.” That was when I saw my opening. “But the lizard man may know where to find it. That is, if he’s not harmed.”
“I will give them the sternest instructions, Master Sands, to bring this creature back alive.”
“But he knows me, Mr. Jefferson. He trusts me.”
“But I cannot let you go. Aside from possibly being an abolitionist, you are somewhat of a specimen yourself.”
“But, sir, I believe I offer the best hope of actually bringing the lizard man back alive. Imagine the scientific bonanza if you could talk to him yourself.”
Jefferson looked at me with surprise and suspicion. He shook his head, looked at the whiskey in his hand, and set it down. “No, I really must stick with French wine. My time in Par
is spoiled me.” Then he turned back to me. “Perhaps that seal-fur hat of yours has addled your brains, as well. Even if this lizard talks, as the French trapper, and now you, claim, and even if I let you go — how do I know you’ll return and not try to escape with him? Or harm the expedition?”
“That’s simple.” I decided to take another chance. “I’m coming back for…Brassy. But you have to protect her. You can’t turn her in.”
That was all I could do to help Thea right then. I hoped it was enough.
Now the look on the president’s face was only surprise. “I suppose I can let her join my household staff. Sally will see to her.” He looked at me, sighed, then nodded. “I will have Mr. Howard ride with you into St. Louis, and remand you to the care of Captains Clark and Lewis. I will instruct them to send you back downriver next spring, after you reach the Mandan people.”
“Can I see Brassy, sir? Before I go?”
“Impossible. She’s with Sally, and were you to visit her so openly, we’d just stir the pot and get everyone upset. I shall keep her safe at Monticello until you return. We can then work out the riddle of this escaped slave. Meanwhile, see that you return, Master Sands. I could use a bona fide scientific discovery to justify all this expense to Congress.”
President Jefferson offered his hand. “Welcome to America, lad.”
“Biscuit barrel!” The words are screamed at me, and I barely have time to get out of the way before the rolling barrel would have knocked me into the river. It still catches my leg with a sharp thump, and sends me sprawling on the wet pier.
The rain is coming down much harder now.
There are a whole bunch of us going — I’ve counted forty in all. Plus Seaman. And I don’t know how they plan to feed us: I’ve seen those “biscuits” and they’re like hard, flat, stale crackers — pre-stale, really, so they can’t get in any worse shape during a long journey. Besides the biscuits, they’re also taking molasses, flour, a bunch of dried meat, whiskey, and brandy. No juice boxes, no rice milk, no boxes of cereal— nothing for me.
Maybe I’ll be able to pick apples along the way.
There’s also something Lewis calls “portable soup,” which is kind of thick and oozy and looks like it might belong in a tar pit. I wonder if Lewis was in one of his gloomy moods when he made it.
As for drinking water, I guess the plan is to actually drink the river water during the voyage. It’s kind of amazing that there was ever a time you could just drink straight from a river. I bet Lewis would get even gloomier if I told him about all the pollution that was coming in the future.
There are also lots of guns — the long, Nutcrackery old-fashioned ones. No beam or particle weapons of any kind. These are gunpowder guns, where you have to stuff the barrel with shot and powder and can only get off one blast at a time.
I wonder if people feel safer in this period, when even the deadliest weapons move so slowly?
I bet a lot of animals won’t feel so safe, though, and I’m not talking about Seaman’s squirrels. Part of the food plan, I’m pretty sure, is to do some hunting along the way. I’m guessing there won’t be any veggie burgers.
“Let me help you with that.” I turn, and it’s York. He’s the only black man on the whole expedition. He’s supposed to be Clark’s “slave,” but to look at someone, and have to think that — to have to attach that word to them — makes me feel small.
“Bringin’ lots of stuff, ain’t they?” York asks, as he offers me a hand. I hold on — nearly slipping out of his grasp — but manage to get back on my feet. My leg is still sore, but I don’t let on as I move to help him with the barrel.
“Is it all just food?” I ask. “What are they going to explore with?”
“They got the usual stuff. Guns. Some tools to fix things. Compasses to figure out where we’re goin’ and where we just been. Books to write stuff down in. And lots of things to trade with the Indians. Look.”
York shows me a small gold coin with Thomas Jefferson’s head on it. “This is supposed to be a peace offerin’, to let ‘em know who the big white chief in Washington is.”
“Why would they care about that?” I ask. “Don’t they have their own chiefs?”
York laughs. “I guess we all get chiefs we don’t necessarily choose.”
We set the barrel in the keelboat, and go to lift another of the wooden crates. I want to keep talking, in order to take my mind off how cold and damp I am.
“What are you bringing, Mr. York?”
“Aw, you ain’t really ought to call me Mister. I am bringin’ my own rifle, though, which we ain’t supposed to have as slaves. But out here, Mr. Clark allows it. Mostly, I’m just glad to be goin’ someplace where nobody will know who’s a slave and who ain’t.”
“York, you’re talkin’ that young fella’s ear off, and he’s liable to melt clean away afore your eyes in this rain!”
“Kentuck!”
It’s Floyd, with a big grin on his face, holding up a buckskin jacket and one of those wide floppy hats. “You’ll need these to keep dry.”
“Dry” is more of an idea than an actual possibility at this point, since the jacket and hat are dripping water. But I take them, and put them on. Besides blending in better, I am a lot warmer.
And I probably look like Huck Finn or Tom Sawyer.
“So which of you layabouts is ready to get going?”
I turn to see Clark, standing up in a pirogue. He smiles, too, like Kentuck, but more with his eyes. Maybe that’s why Jefferson matched him up with Lewis — like being a team manager in Barnstormers and picking a line-up — they each have opposite strengths, like the moon and the sun: One keeps things in shadows, so you can’t tell how they’ll turn out, the other warms you up and tells you everything will be all right.
“I’m with you, sir!” Floyd says.
“You actually askin’ me for an opinion, Mr. Clark?” York means it as a joke, but it runs a little deeper than that.
“I’m actually telling you men that someone else will beat us to the Pacific unless we get going!” Clark means it as a joke, too, but it also helps him avoid an answer.
Floyd and York and I load the last of the crates into the keelboat. I look around through the gray sleet and notice we’re the last three men on the docks.
York helps me into the square boat. The man paddling Clark’s pirogue pulls it alongside.
“Ride with me, Master Sands,” Clark says. “It would be my privilege.”
I look around. I’m not sure what I’m waiting for, maybe someone to nod that it’s okay, as I try to step carefully from the keelboat — which is still tied up to the dock — into the dugout canoe. I slip on the wet wood again and fall in, landing by Clark’s boots and banging my head.
“You must be careful with that boy!”
It’s Howard. He’s reemerged from the mist and stands there, the same mixture of sweat and rain covering his body. He should be shivering. He should be really cold. But it just looks like he’s on fire.
“You must keep him alive!”
Howard is pointing and hopping around on the small dock. He’s going to fall in the river if he’s not careful.
“Are you all right?” Clark asks.
I rub my forehead. There’s a bump already forming. But I’ll be okay.
“I think so. I’ve had worse.” I don’t want to get left behind now.
“Welcome to the Corps of Discovery.” Clark has his hand out and I take it.
The keelboat with York, Floyd, and Lewis has shoved off, and the oarsman in our pirogue begins paddling, taking us into the river.
We’re moving.
“Remember! The president has ordered you to come back alive!” Howard is shouting as we leave, like he can change the will of the universe all by himself.
Meanwhile, I’m rubbing my head, and trying to remember enough of my history to know whether any of us actually make it back— or not.
Rrrooowwwf.
Chapter Six
The
a: East
May 1804
“He won’t beat you. He won’t whip you. I’ll tell him to keep you in the house with me. He’s tolerable, for a master. He even took me to Paris once.”
“Paris? Is where?”
Sally and I are shouting out words to each other because we are riding on top of the carriage taking Mr. Thomas President Jefferson back to his palace. Or wherever it is he dwells. He calls it Monticello.
Perhaps I should refer to him as Mr. Jefferson President, instead. I am still not sure of the correct way to arrange the title, though I know this does seem to be an early form of the same government Eli lived under, much like the Romans had during their republic phase.
Jefferson is a leader here, a kind of regent — and a man of import. Sally is his slave. And now, apparently, I am too. Or rather, I am in his custody until I can be “returned.” Where? To whom?
And how much farther from Eli will I be taken?
I helped minister to him when he was still gripped by fever. Perhaps our displacement in time has a cumulative effect, becoming harder and harder on us each time.
I wasn’t able to question Eli when his fever broke. I was already back in the slave tent. And then Eli was gone, dispatched on some kind of mission by this same Jefferson President.
History and chance are ever interfering with a growing friendship.
At the moment, the peculiarities of this juncture in history — everyone’s reaction to skin pigment and heritage—force me to be counted a slave. And so I must remain until I can plan an escape.
According to Sally, she is lent a certain dignity not given to others forced into servitude. Jefferson even invited her to ride inside the wagon with him, but she declined, preferring to stay outside, on the bench, with Mr. Howard. She makes him uncomfortable. Occasionally she even takes the reins of the horses from him, holding them like she did when I first laid eyes on her.
“Paris?” I repeat. I am still wearing K’lion’s lingo-spot. Indeed, it seems to be changing into a permanent feature of my physiology. I still rely on it here, in spite of my worries that when I hear a word a split second before it’s spoken or thought of, the lingo-spot may be exerting a mind of its own.
Trail of Bones Page 4
