His companion frowned, then answered, “I don’t hear anything. Perhaps it’s the current against the shore? And what is that song?”
“‘Anacreon in Heaven’? It’s a tune they used to sing in the tavern near my house when I was growing up,” he said, half absently. While it seemed unlikely that the river would echo the melody of an old drinking song, Meriwether had no other explanation.
The two men returned to the camp. Now impressed with the idea that they were under attack by a malevolent force, they knew to set several sentinels, not just around the perimeter, but ranging as far out as possible as they prepared for the day’s movement.
The following night in camp, Meriwether had a disturbed dream in which someone sang “To Anacreon in Heaven” with odd lyrics, but he did not understand them.
My Dearest Julia,
Previously, I described the horrific invasion of our camp by a legion of dead-alive natives. Fortunately, in the days since, we have encountered nothing as alarming. Yet this uncharted land remains a cipher, and the mystery builds. We still have not come across more tribes of Indians, although surely the wilderness is not empty. Our expedition has been calm and quiet—too quiet, I fear. Our far-flung sentinels have told us only one odd encounter, that one of them found himself watched, from a safe distance, all night long by a large wolflike creature. The hairy predator neither moved nor took his eyes from our sentinel. It made no threatening approach, but simply stared.
As we proceeded, mile after mile up the Missouri River, we did come across the sites of abandoned villages or towns. We found remnants of old fires, stripped poles from lodges, bits and pieces of equipment, frayed baskets, horse’s harnesses, as though the inhabitants had left in a great hurry. Considering the nomadic nature of many of these peoples, however, it’s possible they are always in a great hurry. Perhaps there is no menace in what we found.
We expect to run into the Yankton Sioux before long, unless their villages have been abandoned as well.
The only other matter of concern is a report—which many dispute—from two different sentinels claiming they have seen the men we lost at the “Whiskey incident”—Hall, Collins, and Willard. Surely, this is just a matter of overactive imagination and too many chilling stories whispered over the fires in camp, but the men insist they have seen their three former comrades proceeding over valley and dale on a route parallel to ours. Of course, they never come close enough to attack, nor even to be seen clearly.
Normally, I would doubt such tales, but we know there is magic afoot in these arcane territories, and we cannot deny some dark force that seems to have taken an interest in our expedition.
And Captain Lewis insists that he hears eerie snatches of a drinking song, “To Anacreon in Heaven,” which I can never distinguish. What could that be about?
If it’s true that our reanimated dead are following our route, to what possible purpose? Have they been made to spy on us? If so, for whom?
As a postscript to the Whiskey incident, I regret to report that Charles Floyd has sickened and complains of a bilious malady. Our good Captain Lewis, who is well versed in all medical arts and herbal magic, cannot treat or cure him, even with his strongest tinctures and brews. We are forced to assume the malady is of magical origin, perhaps contracted during his close encounter with the rotting revenants.
I know it is difficult not to worry about me when you hear of such dire doings, but most of our days are quite peaceful, and the untamed scenery adds color to my soul. For instance, in the prairies, we found a small animal that looks like a toy dog, and which lives underground in a network of burrows. We’ve managed to capture a specimen to be sent back alive to Wizard Franklin for his studies. We have found numerous antelope, and we have dispatched hides and horns for Franklin. The animals also provide very good sustenance for our party.
I will include these letters to you with every set of specimens we dispatch home. Until then, my dear one, I will subscribe myself,
Captain William Clark
—Letter from William Clark to Julia Hancock,
August 15, 1804
Antediluvian
Sgt. Floyd died with a great deal of composure. Before his death, he said to me, “I am going away. I want you to write me a letter.” We buried him on the top of the bluff a half mile below a small river to which we gave his name. He was buried with the honors of war, much lamented. A cedar post engraved with “Sgt. C. Floyd died here 20th of August 1804” was fixed at the head of his grave. This man at all times gave us proof of his firmness and determined resolution to do service to his country and to honor himself.
The funeral was conducted by Capt. Lewis. I worry that we could not learn what ailed poor Floyd, nor how to cure it, even with all of Lewis’s herbal magic. I fear that our expedition will perish like this from things unknown. I do wish we’d brought with us a competent wizard. It is surely better than a large party of people who know nothing about magic.
—Diary of William Clark, August 20, 1804
The Sioux were better dressed than the Kickapoos. They wore full coats and pantaloons of buckskin, the whole worked over with quill embroidery. On their heads were cockades made of ranged feathers, all neat and proper.
Now, Meriwether called for Francois LaBiche, the trapper who had joined the group for a time as their boats moved upriver, to act as an interpreter. In appearance, LaBiche was an indecipherable mix of native and white European, and he claimed that this wilderness was his home, much as the woods of Virginia were to Meriwether. While the Sioux waited, LaBiche smiled ingratiatingly both to Meriwether and to the visitors, and plunged into animated discussion with the natives in their language. Captain Clark also came up to listen.
After a while, LaBiche turned back to Meriwether and Clark. “Let me introduce these men.” He pointed at one of around thirty years, whose nose made him look like a bird of prey. “This is Chaytan, whose name means hawk, Enapay, whose name means laughs in the face of danger.” The second Sioux was a dour gentleman, whom Meriwether couldn’t imagine laughing at all. “And this is Mato, whose name means fierce bear.” The third native was a scrawny man who looked neither fierce nor bearlike.
The interpreter continued with expansive gestures. “These men heard of our expedition, and they came to see us. Previously, they also witnessed the evil revenants, undead warriors walking through the forests. Although the revenants left their village alone last time, the Sioux warriors have repelled other such attacks, as well as very odd emissaries.”
“What sort of emissaries?” Meriwether asked.