Other men from the camp rushed to the place, crowding at the foot of the little shelter of branches. Sacagawea stood there, pale and shaking, holding her child. “Pompy was crying. My husband turned without noticing, and—”
Even by the scant light of the fires and the distant moon, Meriwether could see the imprint of a palm upon her face. He did not like it. The dazed, miserable Charbonneau had slapped her? Was this no-account bigamist trapper also a wife-beater? He stepped forward, indignant. Why should such a remarkable woman endure such a relationship?
The befuddled, haunted Charbonneau seemed annoyed that he had caused such a fuss, and he crawled back under the meager shelter of branches. After a moment, head down, Sacagawea joined him.
Meriwether watched, but there was nothing he could do. The other men shook their heads, smiling and relieved that the matter was such a minor one. They drifted back to their sleeping places. Those men might all be the same, he thought. More than once, he and Clark had been forced to break up domestic disputes, especially early in the trip, when the interpreters and trappers had brought more wives or lovers along. Such offhand violence might be the common thing of men who lived at the frontier and close to the land.
Back in the big tent, he slept little and badly, worried about the woman and her child as much as he feared the enemy dragon and the great evil magic. He still sensed something deeply wrong about Toussaint Charbonneau. And he was sure that others could see it, too. Even the baby Pompy, who was used to the company of rough men, objected to being too close to his father.
Several times during the night, when Meriwether peered through the tent flap, he saw Sacagawea pacing or sitting by the light of their small fire, rather than beside her husband.
What did she sense? And why did she not do something about it?
My Dearest Julia,
I write with no hope that you will receive this until our expedition is concluded and we are all safely back home, but still these letters make me feel closer to you. Perhaps it is my way of assessing our adventures and ordeals.
I do not wish to engage in melancholy thought, but as our travails grow more and more extreme, it is all too possible that the times ahead may hold death for me. We continue to run across unforeseen and magical perils, and should I die, at least these letters will make their way back to you.
When the natives told us we could cross the continental divide in less than a day, they were either lying or they naively misled us. Great, craggy mountains loom up before us now, and it is clear that it will be at least the work of several days to cross them and reach more hospitable lands beyond. Some of the peaks are so high they retain a blanket of snow, even after the long, warm months of spring.
After the river monster overturned our embarkations, we delayed long enough in our sheltered camp to dry everything and to take inventory of what we had lost. Fortunately, a good portion of our provisions and supplies came through unscathed, though Captain Lewis says we lost much of his stock of medicinal plants. He and the Indian woman Sacagawea hope to find replacement magical herbs as we continue our journey.
Captain Lewis is also very worried about Toussaint Charbonneau, the recovered husband of Sacagawea, and on that account I must agree with his concerns. Having spoken to some of our other interpreters, I know that the man was always considered a lout. He is a mongrel, partly English, partly French, with some measure of native blood too. He has made his living as a trapper and as guide to the occasional party of travelers. Charbonneau seems to have ill-defined morals and few limits to what he will do if he believes it suits him. I gather that he’s honest within the bounds of not stealing, and truthful within the bounds of not getting caught, but he is not a pleasant man. He treats the natives poorly, or any man who has no power over him. He also mistreats his wife, the mother of his child.
But perhaps there is a reason. Since his escape from the terrible ordeal of the dark evil force, he seems deeply affected, perhaps damaged. If he has his full wits about him, he conceals them remarkably well. Though he reappeared among us some days ago, he has yet to provide an account of his captivity, or explain how he came to be on the riverbank when the monster serpent perished. In fact, he has yet to speak comprehensible words at all. His own dear infant son will not bear his company for any length of time without venting the most pitiful wails.
Sacagawea, who is also not fond of describing her captivity in the lair of the evil force, explains that Charbonneau is still afflicted by the terror of what he’s witnessed. I’m am not so certain. Perhaps she is making excuses? But who am I to say? I do not know enough about the magic in these arcane territories to say what could be affecting him, or how it could affect us.
I will watch Charbonneau and keep the little boy safe while we direct this expedition farther westward across the formidable, rocky range of mountains before us. Yes, it will take more than half a day to cross this bulwark that rises before us.
One last point of concern: we have encountered many remnants of native camps where almost everything has been burnt to cinders. We don’t understand what might have caused such a disaster, but we fear magic is the culprit.
I will endeavor to remain alert and unscathed so that I return to you, my dearest Julia.
—Letter from William Clark to Julia Hancock,
May 5, 1805
On the Trail
“These were not my people,” Sacagawea said. Her obvious relief made her voice tremble a little. “Though there is not much left.”
They stood in the midst of a burned-out expanse, littered with charred scraps of what had once been fifty or so buffalo-hide tents, much like the one the expedition carried with them. One set of poles still stood, blackened and hollow. Meriwether guessed it would crumble to black dust at a touch. The furious heat had swept through so swiftly, even the burned ghost structures retained their shape. Bits of twisted, charred leather clung to skeletal frameworks, and in other places whole tents had been engulfed in fire, leaving only a black circle of destruction.
“But no skeletons,” Meriwether said. “No blackened bones, either of people or horses. For that we can be grateful. They must have survived the conflagration.” Then he swallowed hard. “Survived, or been taken.”
Clark paced around the camp, crunching ash with his boots. He kicked at the soot-covered rocks laid out in a fire circle, but now the entire village had burned. “Might it not be a natural phenomenon? A blaze sparked by lightning?”
Both Meriwether and his friend knew he spoke nonsense. “We have found more than a dozen villages in the same condition. What kind of lightning deigns to strike only settlements, and burns everything entire?”
Clark kicked another rock.
Sacagawea picked up a moccasin that looked to have been flung down in great haste, then glanced over at Meriwether. Her deep brown eyes met his. “The great dragon can spit fire. The enemy could burn any village it finds.”
Meriwether felt his skin crawl. “That explanation would fit what we see.” He shook his head, unable to tear his eyes from the destruction. Had the villagers fled the approach of the fiery beast, or had it captured them, placed them in thrall as it had done to Sacagawea? “What would the evil force have to gain by burning native encampments? To inspire terror? Purely for the joy of causing destruction?”
“Some magical creatures draw power from fear,” Sacagawea said. She sniffed the ash, moved lightly through the scorched remnants of the village. “It doesn’t seem right. I don’t think this was a dragon attack, but I don’t know what it could have been.”