Most of the men were people either he or Captain Clark had known from their army days, though a few had been recommended by Benjamin Franklin himself. And though this was not a military expedition, most of the men had a fine military bearing and military discipline.
There were men that Captain Clark had recommended, having esteemed them much in the war, Sergeants Nathaniel Pryor and his cousin Charles Floyd, who was so excited by the expedition as to have volunteered to keep “a very precise journal of all occurrences.” Having been privileged to see Sergeant Floyd’s prose, Meriwether was somewhat amused by the enthusiasm and the care with which the young man had brought a bundle of bound journals, ready to receive his writing. But then, despite his peculiar spelling and sometimes enthusiastic phrasing, the young man was, after all, another set of eyes, another set of observations to complement those that Meriwether himself intended to make. They were going into the unknown, after all, and who was to say which of them would survive, or which set of diaries would come through intact?
Another of the men from Kentucky was John Ordway, also a sergeant, whom Clark had recommended for his close knowledge of native ways. While growing up, he had consorted much with native tribes and learned ways of survival that would help should all their supplies fail.
Clark had also recommended Patrick Gass, a carpenter, who had served in the war and who Clark thought would be able to contrive repairs to the boats, should such become needed, but they’d run into a snag, as the young man’s present patron—a wealthy landowner—didn’t wish to dispense with Gass’s services. Meriwether had thought to leave the man where he was, until he’d received a pleading letter from the man himself, begging for the opportunity to come on the expedition.
Perhaps it wasn’t old Franklin’s imagination that they were in fact sore confined, great though this land was, and in much need of a place to explore and expand.
In the end it had taken an appeal to Franklin and a letter from Franklin himself to free Gass to join. He now wore brand new buckskins, and was stowing his tools with some care, his face shining with excitement at the upcoming expedition.
William Bratton, one of the best young woodsmen in this part of the country and a gunsmith besides, was carefully stowing away various guns. Meriwether hadn’t yet seen the one he had, himself, ordered. He waited its delivery in some excitement.
Another young man, John Collins, known as a skillful hunter even if on recommending him, Franklin had said he might be overmuch fond of spirits, and perhaps Meriwether should take care to keep him from temptation, was helping William with the guns.
John Colter, five foot ten, with piercing blue eyes, stood a little apart. He’d been recruited by Meriwether himself, on account of his hunting prowess. Since he was also an excellent woodsman, Meriwether had been surprised to find him disablingly shy, except of course that he was familiar with his own patron, Benjamin Franklin, who often became mute in company.
Pierre Cruzatte, taller than Colter and very dark, had turned up with his own bedroll and supply of dried meat. Half native, half French, he’d made his living from the fur trade in and around the uncharted territories. Meriwether regarded him with some doubt, as the man seemed to stand apart from the other men in the expedition, whether by choice or because he looked so different. But he spoke the Omaha language and was skilled in sign language. The expedition could not spare him.
Joseph Field and his brother Reubin Field, from Culpeper, Virginia, and known to Meriwether from childhood, had eagerly answered Meriwether’s letter of summons, as had Robert Frazer from Virginia, a solid and resourceful man, never daunted or afraid.
George Gibson, also from Kentucky, had won a marksmanship contest Meriwether had set up the week before. Silas Goodrich had made his way into the expedition with certified letters from many notables calling him an outstanding fisherman. Since they’d be following the river for much of the expedition, if not all of it, his skill would come in handy. Hugh Hall, though accounted a fine hunter, was one of the men that Meriwether was none too sure about, as already, in the week he’d been in St. Louis, he had twice got in trouble with the local authorities for drunken and disorderly behavior. Another such was Thomas Proctor Howard of whom the men had started saying “Thomas never drinks…water.” If they became a disciplinary problem in the expedition, Meriwether would certainly have to send them back. They’d promised not to let their fondness of liquor impair the expedition.
Hugh McNeal, John Shields, John B. Thompson, Peter M. Weiser, William Werner, John Whitehouse, Alexander Hamilton Willard and Richard Windsor, were all known to Lewis and Clark from the war, and had been picked as men who would both embrace the trek into the wilderness and be of aid in charting the arcane territories. So too had John Potts, a German giant who spoke with a strong accent.
Meriwether had just made a note about the various weapons, when he heard Bill Bratton call, “Captain, Captain!”
Looking up, Meriwether saw the man approaching, running, evading the others in the crowded staging area, carrying a very beautiful polished wood gun case in his hands.
He deposited it on the stand, atop the ledger book, and looked up at Meriwether, “It’s here, Captain. It’s arrived.”
The rifle that had Bratton in such excitement was called a Girandoni rifle, designed by an Italian called Girandoni. His design had somehow made it across the ocean before the Sundering and now the weapon was made by Isaiah Lukens, horologist and gunsmith of Philadelphia.
It had been recommended by Franklin, always an admirer of exquisite instruments. Meriwether had heard much of it, and now removed the detachable stock to examine every part. The rifle was supposed to work by air pressure, and when fully pumped it held air at a pressure of eight hundred pounds per square inch, which meant it fired its .46 caliber round balls with as much force as any powder weapons, but did so silently and could fire twenty-two times before needing to be reloaded and forty times before it lost any muzzle velocity.
Meriwether simply had to try it, and started pumping up the air pressure, which he knew to take quite a few pumps—fifteen hundred strokes in all—before it achieved maximum force. He started upon it, while Bratton hovered nearby, visibly impatient, barely restraining himself from seizing the pump. Meriwether smiled at the man, understanding his impatience and said, “Easy.”
He was almost done fully pumping the air rifle when he heard loud, piercing shrieks from a dog, coming from somewhere beyond the staging area of the expedition.
Meriwether liked dogs. He’d always had dogs, who often accompanied him on his expeditions into the wild. He knew that in these frontier towns the men were rough, and often abused animals and women. But he could not resist the appeal of the cry of a dog who sounded little more than a puppy.
Meriwether detached the pump, attached the stock, and ran towards the sound of the cries.
It was worse than he expected. There was a large, shaggy puppy, tied, and a band of young men—boys, really—scruffy and unkempt, setting up to stone him.
Meriwether barely stopped running just short of the dog, who must have cried at being tied, as only one stone had landed nearby and not on the animal.
He brandished the rifle. “Stop!”
A big man came from behind the scruffy boys, “Who are you, sir,” he said, “to interrupt our amusement?”
He was a large man, well dressed and wearing a new hat with a rather tall crown. He had a kerchief held up against his right index finger, and there was some red on the fabric.
“Fine entertainment,” Meriwether said. He levelled the rifle at the large man, aware but not turning to look at Bratton who had come up behind him. “Why do you abuse this poor animal?”