The Governor’s barge swept down the rolling flood of the Mississippi, impelled by the blades of ten sturdy oarsmen. Little by little the blue smoke of St. Louis town faded beyond the level of the forest. The stone tower of the old Spanish stockade, where floated the American flag, disappeared finally.

Meriwether Lewis sat staring back, but seeming not to note what passed. He did not even notice a long bateau which left the wharf just before his own and preceded him down the river, now loafing along aimlessly, sometimes ahead, sometimes behind that of the Governor and his party. In time he turned to his lap-desk and began his endless task of writing, examining, revising. Now and again he muttered to himself. The fever was indeed in his blood!

They proceeded thus, after the usual fashion of boat travel in those days, down the great river, until they had passed the mouth of the Ohio and reached what was known as the Chickasaw Bluffs, below the confluence of the two streams. Here was a little post of the army, arranged for the commander, Major Neely, Indian agent at that point.

As was the custom, all barges tied up here; and the Governor’s craft moored at the foot of the bluff. Its chief passenger was so weak that he hardly could walk up the steep steps cut in the muddy front of the bank.

“Governor Lewis!” exclaimed Major Neely, as he met him. “You are ill! You are in an ague!”

“Perhaps, perhaps. Give me rest here for a day or two, if you please. Then I fancy I shall be strong enough to travel East. See if you can get horses for myself and my party—I am resolved not to go by sea. I have not time.”

The Governor of Louisiana, haggard, flushed with fever, staggered as he followed his friend into the apartment assigned to him in one of the cabins of the little post. He wore his usual traveling-garb; but now, for some strange reason he seemed to lack his usual immaculate neatness. Instead of the formal dress of his office, he wore an old, stained, faded uniform coat, its pocket bulging with papers. This he kept at the head of his bed when at length he flung himself down, almost in the delirium of fever.

He lay here for two days, restless, sleepless. But at length, having in the mean time scarcely tasted food, he rose and declared that he must go on.

“Major,” said he, “I can ride now. Have you horses for the journey?”

“Are you sure, Governor, that your strength is sufficient?” Neely hesitated as he looked at the wasted form before him, at the hollow eye, the fevered face.

“It is not a question of my personal convenience, Major,” said Meriwether Lewis. “Time presses for me. I must go on!”

“At least you shall not go alone,” said Major Neely. “You should have some escort. Doubtless you have important papers?”

Meriwether Lewis nodded.

“My servant has arranged everything, I fancy. Can you get an extra man or two? The Natchez Trace is none too safe.”

That military road, as they both knew, was indeed no more than a horse path cut through the trackless forest which lay across the States of Mississippi, Tennessee and Kentucky. Its reputation was not good. Many a trader passing north from New Orleans with coin, many a settler passing west with packhorses and household effects, had disappeared on this wilderness road, and left no sign. It was customary for parties of any consequence to ride in companies of some force.

It was a considerable cavalcade, therefore, which presently set forth from Chickasaw Bluffs on the long ride eastward to cross the Alleghanies, which meant some days or weeks spent in the saddle. Apprehension sat upon all, even as they started out. Their eyes rested upon the wasted form of their leader, the delirium of whose fever seemed still to hold him. He muttered to himself as he rode, resented the near approach of any traveling companion, demanded to be alone. They looked at him in silence.

“He talks to himself all the time,” said one of the party—a new man, hired by Neely at the army post. He rode with Peria now; and none but Peria knew that he had come from the long barge which had clung to the Governor’s craft all the way down the river—and which, unknown to Lewis himself, had tied up and waited at Chickasaw Bluffs. He was a stranger to Neely and to all the others, but seemed ready enough to take pay for service along the Trace, declaring that he himself was intending to go that way. He was a man well dressed, apparently of education and of some means. He rode armed.

“What is wrong with the Governor, think you?” inquired this man once more of Peria, Lewis’s servant.

“It is his way,” shrugged Peria. “We leave him alone. His hand is heavy when he is angry.”

“He rides always with his rifle across his saddle?”

“Always, on the trail.”

“Loaded, I presume—and his pistols?”

“You may well suppose that,” said Peria.

“Oh, well,” said the new member of the party, “’tis just as well to be safe. I lifted his saddlebags and the desk, or trunk, whatever you call it, that is on the pack horse yonder. Heavy, eh?”

“Naturally,” grinned Peria.

They looked at one another. And thereafter the two, as was well noted, conversed often and more intimately together as the journey progressed.

“Now it’s an odd thing about his coat,” volunteered the stranger later in that same day. “He always keeps it on—that ragged old uniform. Was it a uniform, do you believe? Can’t the Governor of the new Territory wear a coat that shows his own quality? This one’s a dozen years old, you might say.”

“He always wears it on the trail,” said Peria. “At home he watches it as if it held some treasure.”

“Treasure?” The shifty eyes of the new man flashed in sudden interest. “What treasure? Papers, perhaps—bills—documents—money? His pocket bulges at the side. Something there—yes, eh?”

“Hush!” said Peria. “You do not know that man, the Governor. He has the eye of a hawk, the ear of a fox—you can keep nothing from him. He fears nothing in the world, and in his moods—you’d best leave him alone. Don’t let him suspect, or——” And Peria shook his head.

The cavalcade was well out into the wilderness east of the Mississippi on that afternoon of October 8, in the year 1809. Stopping at the wayside taverns which now and then were found, they had progressed perhaps a hundred miles to the eastward. The day was drawing toward its close when Peria rode up and announced that one or two of the horses had strayed from the trail.

“I have told you to be more careful, Peria,” expostulated Governor Lewis. “There are articles on the packhorse which I need at night. Who is this new man that is so careless? Why do you not keep the horses up? Go, then, and get them. Major Neely, would you be so kind as to join the men and assure them of bringing on the horses?”

“And what of you, Governor?”

“I shall go on ahead, if you please. Is there no house near by? You know the trail. Perhaps we can get lodgings not far on.”

“The first white man’s house beyond here,” answered Neely, “belongs to an old man named Grinder. ’Tis no more than a few miles ahead. Suppose we join you there?”

“Agreed,” said Lewis, and setting spurs to his horse, he left them.

It was late in the evening when at length Meriwether Lewis reined up in front of the somewhat unattractive Grinder homestead cabin, squatted down alongside the Natchez Trace; a place where sometimes hospitality of a sort was dispensed. It was an ordinary double cabin that he saw, two cob-house apartments with a covered space between such as might have been found anywhere for hundreds of miles on either side of the Alleghanies at that time. At his call there appeared a woman—Mrs. Grinder, she announced herself.

“Madam,” he inquired, “could you entertain me and my party for the night? I am alone at present, but my servants will soon be up. They are on the trail in search of some horses which have strayed.”

“My husband is not here,” said the woman. “We are not well fixed, but I reckon if we can stand it all the time, you can for a night. How many air there in your party?”

“A half-dozen, with an extra horse or two.”

“I reckon we can fix ye up. Light down and come in.”

She was noting well her guest, and her shrewd eyes determined him to be no common man. He had the bearing of a gentleman, the carriage of a man used to command. Certain of his garments seemed to show wealth, although she noted, when he stripped off his traveling-smock, that he wore not a new coat, but an old one—very old, she would have said, soiled, stained, faded. It looked as if it had once been part of a uniform.

Her guest, whoever he was—and she neither knew nor asked, for the wilderness tavern held no register, and few questions were asked or answered—paid small attention to the woman. He carried his saddlebags into the room pointed out to him, flung them down, and began to pace up and down, sometimes talking to himself. The woman eyed him from time to time as she went about her duties.

“Set up and eat,” she said at last. “I reckon your men are not coming.”

“I thank you, Madam,” said the stranger, with gentle courtesy. “Do not let me trouble you too much. I have been ill of late, and do not as yet experience much hunger.”

Indeed, he scarcely tasted the food. He sat, as she noted, a long time, gazing fixedly out of the door, over the forest, toward the West.

“Is it not a beautiful world, Madam?” said he, after a time, in a voice of great gentleness and charm. “I have seen the forest often thus in the West in the evening, when the day was done. It is wonderful!”

“Yes. Some of my folks is thinking of going out further into the West.”

He turned to her abstractedly, yet endeavoring to be courteous.

“A wonderful country, Madam!” said he; and so he fell again into his moody staring out beyond the door.

After a time the hostess of the backwoods cabin sought to make up a bed for him, but he motioned to her to desist.

“It is not necessary,” said he. “I have slept so much in the open that ’tis rarely I use a bed at all. I see now that my servant has come up, and is in the yard yonder. Tell him to bring my robes and blankets and spread them here on the floor, as I always have them. That will answer quite well enough, thank you.”

Peria, it seemed, had by this time found his way to the cabin along the trail. He was alone.

“Come, man!” said Lewis. “Make down my bed for me—I am ill. And tell me, where is my powder? Where are the bullets for my pistols? I find them empty. Haven’t I told you to be more careful about these things? And where is my rifle-powder? The canister is here, but ’tis empty. Come, come, I must have better service than this!”

But even as he chided the remissness of his servant, he seemed to forget the matter in his mind. Presently he was again pacing apart, stopping now and then to stare out over the forest.

“I must have a place to write,” said he at length. “I shall be awake for a time tonight, occupied with business matters of importance. Where is Major Neely? Where are the other men? Why have they not come up?”

Peria could not or did not answer these questions, but sullenly went about the business of making his master as comfortable as he might, and then departed to his own quarters, down the hill, in another building. The old backwoods woman herself withdrew to the other apartment, beyond the open space of the double cabin.

The soft, velvet darkness of night in the forest now came on apace—a night of silence. There was not even the call of a tree toad. The voice of the whippoorwill was stilled at that season of the year. If there were human beings awake, alert, at that time, they made no sound. Meriwether Lewis was alone—alone in the wilderness again. Its silences, its mysteries, drew about him.

But now he stood, not enjoying in his usual fashion the familiar feeling of the night in the forest, the calm, the repose it customarily brought to him. He stood looking intently, as if he expected some one—nay, indeed, as if he saw some one—as if he saw a face! What face was it?

At last he made his way across the room to the heavy saddle-case which had been placed there. He flung the lid open, and felt among the contents. It seemed to him there was not so much within the case as there should have been. He missed certain papers, and resolved to ask Peria about them. He could not find the little bags of coin which he expected; but he found the watch, lying covered in a corner of the case. He drew it out and, stepping toward the flickering candle, opened it, gazing fixedly at the little silhouette cut round to fit in the back of the case.

It was a face that he had seen before—a hundred times he had gazed thus at it on the far Western trails.

He brought the little portrait close up to his eyes—but not close to his lips. No, he did not kiss the face of the woman who once had written to him:

You must not kiss my picture, because I am in your power.