Part One Chapter 11 The Taming of Patrick Gass

"Shannon, go get the men!"

It was midnight. For more than an hour Meriwether Lewis had sat, his head drooped, in silence.

"We are going to start?" Shannon's face lightened eagerly. "We'll be off at sunup?"

"Before that. Get the men--we'll start now! I'll meet you at the wharf."

Eager enough, Shannon hastened away on his midnight errand. Within an hour every man of the little party was at the water front, ready for departure. They found their leader walking up and down, his head bent, his hands behind him.

It was short work enough, the completion of such plans as remained unfinished. The great keel-boat lay completed and equipped at the wharf. The men lost little time in stowing such casks and bales as remained unshipped. Shannon stepped to his chief.

"All's aboard, sir," said he. "Shall we cast off?"

Without a word Lewis nodded and made his way to his place in the boat. In the darkness, without a shout or a cheer to mark its passing, the expedition was launched on its long journey.

Slowly the boat passed along the waterfront of Pittsburgh town. Here rose gauntly, in the glare of torch or camp fire, the mast of some half-built schooner. Houseboats were drawn up or anchored alongshore, long pirogues lay moored or beached, or now and again a giant broadhorn, already partially loaded with household goods, common carrier for that human flood passing down the great waterway, stood out blacker than the shadows in which it lay.