Snowbound and Eclipse (63 page)

Pernia emerged from the gloom.

“He's indisposed, General,” the servant said.

“I've seen him in that estate before,” I said, overcoming the servant's reluctance. I pressed past the man and pushed through the door into Meriwether's bedchamber. A rancid odor smacked me, along with a fetid closeness. The governor lay abed, his face flushed. A nearly empty whiskey bottle stood at his nightstand, and I wondered if the governor's indisposition was nothing more than his occasional indulgence.

“Meriwether,” I said.

He peered up at me from a flushed face, the red barely covering an underlying grayness of his flesh. “I'm fevered. Can't leave yet,” he whispered.

“Have you seen a doctor?”

He shook his head.

“Should I fetch one?”

He shook his head again. “Nothing to be done. Fetch my mother.”

“Your mother? Lucy Marks?”

He nodded.

“Meriwether, you are in St. Louis.”

“Oh,” he said. “Tell her to come.”

Lucy Marks was in Ivy, Virginia, on the family estate. I pressed a hand to Meriwether's forehead. It was hot and moist.

“Close in here,” I said. “I'll open a window.”

“No! No, don't let them in!”

I paused. “Let who in?”

“I am indisposed,” he said. “The fevers. Don't let any more in.”

“Fresh air will do you good. Let me air the room.”

“No, I beg of you, don't let them in.”

I paused at the shuttered window. “Let who in?” I asked.

He stared at me from dull eyes, and said nothing.

The room oppressed me and I sensed that it was oppressing him, too, so I threw open the shutter and opened the casement. A breath of clean air filtered in.

He closed his eyes.

“You can close it in a moment,” I said.

“Don't let Maria see me,” he said. “Don't let her in.”

“Maria? Maria who?”

“Wood,” he said. “Pure and fair.”

Maria Wood. He seemed to think he was back at Ivy, in his parental home. I wondered whether he was fit to travel at all.

I studied the array of medicines at hand. Dover's powder, calomel, Rush's purgatives, whiskey, wine, belladonna, ipecac, extract of cinchona, brown liquids I couldn't identify.

“Light hurts my eyes,” he said.

That would be the Dover's powder, I thought.

“Meriwether, has a doctor prescribed all this?”

He didn't reply, but I knew the answer.

“I'll ask your man to apply cold compresses,” I said. “Bring down the fever.”

He nodded, and I bade him goodbye. I intended to check up on him daily. I had treated him many times on the expedition; now I would keep an eye on him.

In the parlor I braced Pernia. “He needs cold compresses. And less medicine. It's quite like him to think that if a little
is good, more is better. He lays siege to his own body, with all this stuff. Mr. Pernia, please keep me informed. If the governor's not better tomorrow, I'll see to fetching a doctor. Who is it, Saugrain?”

“Yes, General.”

“And take those blasted bottles and boxes away from him. Take everything away but the cinchona.”

He hesitated, not wanting to offend the governor.

“For the governor's own good, Mr. Pernia.”

Plainly I was intruding. My command had disturbed the man, so I clapped him on the back. “No man ever served better,” I said. “A good man looks after his master just as you do.”

“He desires me to go east, sir, but I'm not sure I should continue …”

“Continue?”

He looked trapped. “Without salary, sir?”

I chose my words carefully. “You are a good and loyal man. I am certain that the governor intends that you receive every penny owed you as soon as he reaches Virginia. His mother will see to it.”

He nodded. Again I felt I was intruding in the private life of this old comrade of the wilds. But he lay ill and out of his head, and I was his friend, and no family but my own was there to look after him in St. Louis. Reuben was upstream with the fur company. So friends step in, without a thought, and Meriwether was as fine and noble a friend as I ever had.

“Mr. Pernia, your service to him as he heads to Washington would be invaluable. I can only say, sir, that without you he might not succeed. If you should run into any difficulties, contact me and I will do what I can.”

I clapped his shoulder. “You've helped me, and helped him. I need to know how the governor's faring, and you can
count on me as the governor's friend. It is not something to share with anyone else.”

“Oh, never, General!”

“Good. You probably know what Doctor Saugrain prescribes and also prohibits?”

Pernia seemed to shrink into himself again. “Yes, but if I keep spirits from the governor, like the doctor wants, the governor, he gets upset and then I hear about it.”

I nodded. A servant could no more keep spirits and powders from Meriwether than I could.

They fished me out of the river with their grappling hooks. They glowered at me, so I explained I had fallen in because I am not steady on my feet. The chill of the Mississippi shocked me back to my senses after my tumble overboard. I don't remember what happened before that. I must have been wandering the plank floorboards of this flatboat while the river boiled by.

The Creole boatmen began to examine me sharply as I dripped water, but I ignored them. I did not change into new clothing, but let the water cool my fevered flesh. The river is tepid anyway. I wrung the moisture from my pantaloons and settled within the cabin, on a crude bench that serves me for a bunk.

Pernia doesn't approve, and rummaged through my trunks to find a change of clothing. But I ignored him. I asked him for my pills but he is reluctant, and finally I rose and found the Dover's powder myself. I asked him to uncork
a jug of whiskey because I am shaking, but he seems almost truculent today, and glares at me. I am finding him more and more disobedient.

We traveled but little this Monday, September 4. The sun is so oppressive that the boatmen paused during the midday heat, unable to pole and row and steer the flatboat without wilting.

I am fevered as usual, and spend the lazy hours lying abed in the rude cabin. Pernia roams the deck the way a prisoner walks in the prison yard. He did not want to come. I do not want to make this trip.

In New Orleans I will board the next coaster heading east, and will round Spanish Florida and sail up the Atlantic coast, and in a month or six weeks, depending on the winds, I will enter the Chesapeake and be deposited in Washington, all by sea. That is, if the prowling British warships don't stop us. In my condition, that is the only way I can travel. My exertions are limited to walking the fortyfoot flatboat for exercise, but the dazzle off the water is too fierce to permit it, so I huddle in the gloom of the cabin. Outside of this small sanctuary, I lose my balance and need support lest I topple again into the murky river that is carrying me on its shoulders to my destiny. I say destiny, rather than destination, knowingly.

I intended to start for Washington a fortnight ago, but fever stayed me, and also the wall of debt that rises higher and darker than the walls of a prison. I could not raise cash to travel. When I was feeling a little better, Will helped me organize my debt. We found that I owe, apart from my land payments, twenty-nine hundred dollars, of which I could readily cover only part by auctioning off my federal land warrant in New Orleans.

This oppresses me. I have subsequently enlarged my debt to purchase passage for myself and Pernia, and to buy the
necessary medicines without which I could not hope to arrive in Washington.

The Creole boatmen have tied up here at Ste. Genevieve for the night, and gone ashore, leaving me to fend for myself. Pernia stays on, and has somehow commandeered a cold meal for me, though I am not a bit hungry. I can scarcely swallow the spirits and pills I require to allay my pain.

But there is so much worse afoot in my poor body: I am confused, and while I usually recover my senses, I remember my confusion and my hallucination, and it is as if I have returned from some distant and bumbling journey. I gazed backward this day, watching the bubbling wake of the flatboat as it rocked slowly along the turbid waters, knowing I cannot return to St. Louis. I did not say goodbye.

My last true friend, Doctor Saugrain, visited me several times those final days. He is humble and discreet, and reluctant to tell me how grave my condition now is. But he shakes his head slowly, and I did get out of him that it can no longer be concealed. If I arrive in the city named for our first president in this condition, I shall be found out. When I ask the little physician how long I might last, he shrugs gallantly. “Who knows?” he asks. “One year, ten years, yes?”

I could retreat to Ivy and become that legendary uncle in the attic, and wobble through a few more years hidden from a sharp-eyed world. I wonder what Maria Wood would think of me, could she but see me now.

Doctor Saugrain was firm the last time I saw him. “Have faith. Do not surrender to it. Do not, my friend, imbibe spirits, or swallow more mercury, or numb your soul with the Dover's powder. Stay yourself, my magnificent friend, and endure.”

It was a parson's adieu, not a physician's. Live quietly apart, indulge in nothing, endure the pain of body and soul,
and veil myself; let no mortal see the fumbling presence, the darkness of my vision, the lumpy thickenings that twist the flesh of my face, the mad eye, the hulk of a man. Conceal what is left of Meriwether Lewis, hide the pathetic ruins from the world, place myself in the care of my suffering mother, and then die and be furtively buried in the family plot, well forgotten.

Doctor Saugrain told me months ago that I would know when I was losing my mind. The disorder is so slow and subtle that its victim can observe the murderous progress of his own unraveling. Now that time is upon me, and yet I retain hope. Maybe my gifted mother, Lucy Marks, can brew the simples that might heal me. Ah, God!

Here I am, the governor of Upper Louisiana, on a trip east to talk to the president and secretary of war. The world knows it; I wrote letters and announced my intent, and they are expecting me. But what if I cannot talk? What if I am mad of eye? What if every word they say to me doesn't register, and every utterance of mine is incoherent to them? I don't want them to see me, nor my mother to see me.

It would be good to fall again off this flatboat. I am
no longer Meriwether Lewis,
and that answers all questions. If we were to travel at night, I could design it. By day, with their alert eyes following me, I cannot. But I might catch them unawares.

It is dusk and the river men are in town after a miserable day under the hammering sun. They deserve their pints in the local taverns. Only Pernia lingers here. The flatboat bobs next to the levee, fastened by hawsers to pilings set in the muddy shore. A thick plank bridges the gunnel and the grassy bank. We are carrying a cargo of stiff buffalo hides that release sharp odors.

“Pernia, go enjoy yourself,” I said.

He shook his head.

“I will be all right.”

“No, sir, you won't be all right.”

“If you lack money for a glass of porter, I have a little.”

“No, Governor.”

“I will need something to help me sleep.”

He looked torn again, wanting to heed my every wish. “Maybe you should not,” he said. “I will fetch you some dry clothes. And a sheet will help. And I will hang up the netting.”

Mosquitoes
were
whining everywhere; I was ignoring them, but Pernia was not.

He was being, as always, a faithful servant of his governor, and I forgave him his disobedience.

“I'm sorry to cause you such care,” I said penitentially.

He gave me a hard look. “Maybe you try praying. God make the fever go, maybe.”

“I have no such beliefs. God is a Creator. He has put the universe in motion. That is all there is. I do not accept the idea of miracles.”

“You a Christian, maybe?”

“Superstition.”

Pernia made the sign of the cross. He was half Creole, and the French had given him what little he possessed of religious understanding.

I lay back on my plank bench, feeling blood throb in my head. I would soon have a splitting headache unless I took some Dover's powder again.

“Why won't you give me my medicines?” I asked.

“They're bad.”

“You go to town and enjoy yourself.”

He shook his head doggedly. It was going to be another miserable night.

I lay on the hard plank, listening to the whine of mosquitoes, slapping at them, peering into the moist gloom as night things fluttered. I knew a lamp would attract moths.

I closed my eyes, knowing that John Pernia's devotion was good and important to me.

“John, if anything should happen, if I should take sick and perish at sea, what will you do?”

“Master Lewis, I will guard your trunks with my life. I will deliver them to Mr. Jefferson. I will do that, master, no matter what; for that is required of me.”

“Only the journals need go to him, Pernia. The rest to my mother and brother in Ivy.”

He nodded.

“But the journals go to Monticello, and I know you will guard them with your life. I am my journals. All that I was, all that I will be remembered for, are there on those pages.”

He bustled in the gloom and I heard him opening and closing my several trunks until he found what he wanted, some mosquito drapery. He tied this awkwardly to various items, but it did hang over my pallet and did hold the whining mosquitoes at bay. A misty moon gave soft light, enough for me to follow his movements. He found my coat, rolled it up, and offered it as a pillow. I didn't want a pillow; I wanted the powder. I lurched up in my pallet, ripped aside the netting, and grasped the heavy jug, drawing it tightly to my belly.