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It was an unusual summer for wolves. In the dark, quiet hours of the night, they crept into the streets of St. Louis and scavenged for garbage in the gutters, driving the pigs away. Padding on silent paws, they slipped into yards and gardens, and the bolder ones even ventured up onto front porches. In the morning, women and slaves woke to find pens broken into and rabbits and chickens snatched away, with scraps of fur and feathers in their place. As the summer wore on, men coming home late from the riverfront or the tavern began to carry walking sticks to defend themselves, just in case.
Later in July, it rained. That discouraged the wolves somehow. They disappeared from the steaming backstreets and alleys of town and slithered back into the vast wilderness. People began to breathe a little easier at night. The pigs reclaimed the gutters, and men lingered longer at the taverns. Women relaxed. Their chickens were safe.
But in the vast, dark, wild land beyond the feeble lamps and sputtering torches of town, the wolves waited. Travelers saw them skulking about on back roads and Indian trails. At night, the air was full of yearning howls. The people of St. Louis shut their doors against the noise and shivered in their beds, praying for more rain.
Chapter 1: Lewis
Cahokia, Illinois Territory
July 29, 1809
Meriwether Lewis buried his face deeper into the pillow, his tongue furred with rum and sleep. He felt easy and content. Soon, it would be time to get up, get the pirogues loaded, get on the river. That endless ribbon of shimmering water, under a deep blue sky. He would walk on the bluffs today, with his spyglass and his notebook. Take the dog. Don't forget to borrow the good compass from Clark--
Soft fingers traced a trail down his back. Lewis started awake. Slowly, the room resolved itself into a collection of familiar objects. A curtained window, washbasin, chair. Oh, yes, Pinsoneau's Inn. He always roomed here when he came across the river to do business.
"Gov'ner? Didn't ye say ye needed to be somewhere at eight o'clock?"
Lewis raised up on his elbow and turned to look at the girl lying beside him. Blonde, big gray eyes, a riot of curly hair.
"Yes," he said thickly. "So I did." He glanced at the window and saw that the afternoon had come and gone, and the sky was already darkening into night. "Lord, have I been out all this time?"
The girl giggled and traced small circles on his forearm with her finger. "You were tired." Memories came back to him of soft white thighs, and heels digging into the back of his legs. For the kind of girl she was, she was really rather good-looking. But God help him, he couldn't remember her name.
Lewis shook off her hand and sat up, trying to hold back an avalanche of shame. He'd sworn to himself he would hold his liquor this time, and stay away from the waterfront tarts. Swinging his legs off the bed, he got up and started hunting for his clothes. Damned if I don't break my own promises, he thought. Mr. Jefferson was right. I'll make a politician yet.
"Are you goin' to meet another trader, love?" The girl's pale eyes followed him around the room.
"No. That's all done." He found his shirt on the floor and pulled it on over his head, then yanked on his breeches. At least that was one aspect of the trip he didn't have to feel guilty about. Cahokia was the jumping-off point for shipping goods from the West down the Mississippi River and up the Ohio, for delivery to the big eastern merchant houses. The St. Louis Missouri River Fur Company was counting on him to negotiate a good deal. A couple of months ago, the newly minted company had sent a flotilla of flatboats up the Missouri River, supposedly on an official military expedition. Secretly, the company partners were praying that the flatboats would return in the fall with a cargo of animal pelts, which the Cahokia traders would transform into cash.
As usual, he played his part to perfection. A little grin and gab, and the traders fell right into his hands. Smiling, nodding, fawning. Everybody wanted to do a favor for the young hero governor. In his heart, he knew they only showed him respect because they thought he could make them a lot of money.
He fastened his waistcoat, then wrapped his neck cloth around his neck, snugging it nice and tight in the latest fashion. His stomach tightened along with the necktie. If the fur company didn't succeed, he'd have nothing to his name but acres of worthless wilderness land and a mountain of debt. Fur was the only way to make money in this miserable hole--
But he mustn't think about it right now. He had a friend to meet. He plucked his crisp blue coat off the back of the chair, dug in the pocket, and pulled out the crumpled note. He'd found it stuck in his door when he returned to his room that afternoon with...the unnamed woman who was now occupying his bed.
An old friend wishes to see you--at Brady's tonight--8 o'clock.
Lewis sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled on his shiny black hussar's boots. He stood up and eased into the blue coat, feeling it slide snugly over his shoulders. His fingers flew down the two rows of brass buttons on the front. He ran a tortoiseshell comb through his hair and picked up his beaver hat: shiny, blue-black, brim perfectly rolled. When donned at a rakish angle, the hat created just the right effect.
He checked his appearance in a small silvered looking-glass hanging on the wall. His Excellency, Meriwether Lewis, Governor of the Territory of Upper Louisiana. At least he looked the part. It occurred to him that a man's clothes were like a suit of armor: a better, stronger image of yourself that stood between you and the world. Of course, the theory fell apart when you considered that Mr. Jefferson went around in an old corduroy vest and house slippers. Mr. Jefferson didn't need armor.
The girl lay on the bed, watching him. "Do you want me to wait for you, Gov'ner?"
Mary? Sally? Sarah? "No. That won't be necessary. I'll be out late."
She smiled and smoothed the bedsheets around herself. "I don't mind."
"No, you'd better run along. No rush. Just take your leave whenever you're ready." He had the impulse to lean over and kiss her, but he pushed it away. Instead, he grabbed his walking stick, hurried to the door, and stepped out into the muddy street.
#
The evening air smelled fresh from the summer rain, and the riverfront was cooler and less stifling than before. Unfortunately, the improvement didn't reach beneath the surface. The brief shower had turned the dusty streets of Cahokia into an ankle-deep soup of rotting garbage and animal filth. Lewis walked nimbly, taking care not to lose his footing in the foul-smelling sludge.
In the fading light to the west, he noticed the sudden illumination of lamps on the opposite side of the river. The sight made a dull pain start behind his eyes. St. Louis was the seat of government of the Territory of Upper Louisiana. According to Mr. Jefferson, the governorship was his reward for successfully leading the Corps of Discovery to the Pacific Ocean and back.
Lewis snorted. Who in his right mind would want the job? The United States had gained control of the vast territory just a few years before, but it was in name only. He'd arrived there last spring to assume his post and found the citizens in a virtual civil war over land grants and Indian trading rights.
But he had to give himself credit for one thing. His attempts to set things right--you can trade here, you can't trap there--had succeeded admirably in uniting a divided populace. They all agreed to a man that their new governor was an ignorant ass.
The trouble, Lewis reflected, was that in his mind he was still a soldier. Though he had resigned his captain's commission when he accepted the governorship, it wasn't easy to give up his military habits. He still kept his hair in the close-cropped style prescribed by military regulations, and his posture was still ramrod straight. And when he gave orders, he still expected them to be obeyed.
He was not a soldier anymore.
Lewis sighed. Maybe it would help if he got a wife. Clark said it did wonders for a man's morale, and God knew, he could use a little encouragement. He couldn't help thinking that a couple of years ago, his hair had been dark and curly. Now it was going gray, though he was not yet thirty-five. He sometimes wondered if it would be white by the time he left the governor's post.
Approaching Brady's tavern, Lewis stopped for a moment and turned the walking stick in his hands. The incidents of the dinner hour must not be repeated. His meeting with the traders had gone so well that conviviality reigned, and the wine and rum flowed as free as the wide Missouri. He'd ended up thoroughly soused. The next thing he knew, he'd woken up in bed with...
"Elizabeth," he whispered.
He put his shoulders back. The unpleasantness of this afternoon was behind him. He would not get drunk again tonight. He paused at the door to stomp mud off his boots.
"'Oy! Gov'ner!"
"Evening, Tom." Lewis took off his black beaver hat, ducked his head, and stepped through the narrow doorway into the cool darkness of the tavern. The place reeked of the comforting smells of hard liquor, tobacco smoke, and men's sweat. Tom Brady rushed up to him, his florid face beaming.
"Gov'ner Lewis! An honor, sar! Yer looking fine, ye are!" The big Irishman grabbed his hand and wrung it heartily.
"Easy, Brady, you'll have it off." Lewis smiled and extricated his hand from Brady's powerful grip. "How have you been? Business is good, I see."
Brady nodded and grinned at the dozen or so men who crowded around crude wooden tables in the sputtering light of oil lamps, drinking and laughing over their card games. "Always good in the summer, sar. A stiff drink makes ye immune from the muskeetors."
"I'll remember that, Brady." Lewis handed Brady his hat and walking stick and shrugged out of his coat. His white linen shirt stuck to his body in the humid air. "I'm supposed to meet a fellow here, but I don't think he's arrived."
"The gen'lman's here, sar." Brady thumbed toward the back room. "He wanted to speak to yeh in private."
"Oh. All right." The smell of the liquor and the sight of so many men drinking made his throat ache. Lewis swallowed. "Why don't you give me a yard of flannel, Brady?"
To his chagrin, Brady's smile faded a bit. The way people talked around here, it was obvious Brady had already heard about what happened this afternoon. There was nothing to do but brazen it out. "Just one. What the hell. It's a special occasion."
"Very good, sar."
"Don't forget the egg." His stomach clenching, Lewis stood drumming his fingers while Brady prepared the concoction of beer, sugar, molasses, dried pumpkin, and rum. After what seemed like an eternity of stirring, Brady cracked in an egg, finished it off with a hot iron, and handed him the still-steaming tankard.
"Thank you, Tom." He took a sip and let the warm sweet liquid burn a trickle down his throat. Just one, he thought. So help me God.
Lewis paid Brady for the drink and moved away, eager to avoid the concern in the man's eyes. He slipped through the dark passageway to the room where his visitor was waiting.
In the dim light, a man sat at a table, reading by the light of a small lamp he was pushing around the table to illuminate different parts of his text. Across the back of his chair hung the greatcoat of a general of the army. When the man raised his eyes to acknowledge Lewis's presence, his identity was unmistakable.
Lewis drew in a breath. He heard his own voice blurt in amazement, "General Wilkinson."
#
Rolling up his papers, Wilkinson leapt to his feet and strode across the room, his arms outstretched.
Governor!" He clasped Lewis's hand. "It's a great honor to see you, sir!"
"To see me?" Lewis said, stunned. The last person he'd expected to find here tonight was James Wilkinson, the commanding general of the United States Army. "General, I must admit I'm surprised."
"Don't be," Wilkinson said. "When I heard you were also in Cahokia, I thought, what serendipity! It's rare that I get the chance to sit down and talk with a young man of such promise."
"Your opinion is in the minority these days, General. I'm afraid I'm not the most popular politician in the territory right now."
"No?" Wilkinson raised his eyebrows. "Well, I can't imagine why not. You'd think these bumpkins would appreciate a man of your rugged qualities. Scientist--explorer--bona fide hero of the West--"
"You flatter me, General."
"Well, perhaps." Wilkinson chuckled as if they had just shared a very funny joke. "Come sit down, Lewis, and indulge an old man in conversation."
Lewis hesitated. He well remembered the last time he had seen James Wilkinson. It was two years ago in a Virginia courtroom, where the general had been in the witness box, stammering and sweating as the chief witness in the trial of Aaron Burr. Lewis had attended the trial for Mr. Jefferson, and he remembered every implausible detail that he'd reported back to the president. Wilkinson had seemed to know an awful lot about Burr's mad plan to attack Mexico and form a new fiefdom out of Spanish territory and the states west of the Alleghenies.
Like most people, Lewis came away believing that, far from being a disinterested witness, Wilkinson was one of Burr's fellow conspirators. The jury thought so too, for they acquitted Burr of treason and left him to live out his life in exile. Wilkinson, on the other hand, went back to his command--with Mr. Jefferson's blessing, of course. Politics was indeed a strange business.
Curious, Lewis took the chair across from Wilkinson and placed his tankard on the table, careful not to make a ring on the general's papers. Wilkinson smiled at him. "So, how are you finding the governorship?"
"A challenge." Lewis sighed. "There are many competing interests, and it's impossible to please them all--well, I daresay you know all about it. You held the job before I did."
"Indeed." Wilkinson leaned forward with a wink. "Tell me--is official Washington as helpful as ever?"
"If by helpful you mean not at all, I suppose so," Lewis said. "Frankly, General, I don't think President Madison knows a thing about what I'm facing out here. The traders fight with the trappers, the trappers fight with the Indians...and they expect me to get things under control, without money or authority."
"A familiar tale." Wilkinson's brow furrowed with concern. "To be honest, I'm in the same boat in my position. The British are knocking at the door, and here I am--the commanding general of the Army, for God's sake!--valiantly trying to defend the West, and all I get from Washington are silly instructions and insane demands." He cleared his throat. "And truly, how soon they forget. It's tragic the way your countrymen have treated you. A man such as yourself, mistreated and abused...your exploits forgotten, your immense contribution ignored--"
"General, please." If there was anything Lewis hated being reminded of, it was his own apparent fall from grace. "Why dwell on things you can do nothing about?"
"Well, if you are not angry about it, then I am, sir!" Wilkinson smacked the table with his hand. "President Madison cares nothing for your fame. To him, your entire expedition--what do you call it, you're so clever with names--the Corps of Volunteers for Northwestern Discovery? Only the greatest feat of exploration ever attempted on this continent--" He paused in mid-sentence and fixed Lewis with a disconcerting look. "Well, in Madison's petty mind, it was a colossal waste of money."
"That's because he doesn't understand what we discovered. When the expedition journals are published, he'll see that it wasn't a waste--"
"But that's not the point!" Wilkinson cut him off. "The point is, Madison has no vision for what this country could be! But you do, Lewis, and so do I."
Lewis looked at him in wonderment. Wilkinson never changed, either in appearance or in his fanciful ideas. Though past fifty, the general resembled an overgrown elf, his face naturally merry, his white hair frizzed, his nose reddened from claret. But Wilkinson was anything but harmless. Just ask Aaron Burr. Under the lilting brows and broad, open forehead were the small black eyes of a snake.
"This country is in a pickle, Lewis." Wilkinson's breath came faster. "Our beloved president, the esteemed Jefferson, is retired and forgotten now. You no longer have your patron, and I no longer have my mainstay." A glow of rage returned to his cheeks. "And in his place is that pygmy, Madison, who is intent on speeding the country to ruin."
"Well, there's little to be done about that, either," Lewis said. "He was fairly elected, and we must represent the interests of the West to his administration as best we can."
"Oh, Governor," Wilkinson said. "Surely you don't think that's all that can be done."
Lewis lifted a corner of his mouth. Whatever Wilkinson was up to, it was bound to be amusing. "So what are you proposing?"
"An empire," Wilkinson whispered.
Lewis's eyes widened, and he swallowed hard. He suddenly realized that this was no idle conversation--it was the beginning of a conspiracy. "My God, is this how it started with Aaron Burr?"
Wilkinson's eyes gleamed. "Aaron Burr, that aspiring Caesar? Not in your league, Governor. Burr was merely a pretender. You are the real thing, sir."
Lewis's heart began to hammer in his chest. "Wilkinson, what in God's name are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about...an empire." Wilkinson's breath wheezed as he grappled with his papers and unrolled a map onto the grease-stained table. Lewis recognized it immediately as a copy of one drawn by William Clark during the expedition, outlining the various rivers and landforms of the West. The map was as familiar to him as the back of his own hand. He looked at it numbly as Wilkinson said: "You and William Clark know this land better than any white men alive, because you traveled through it, didn't you? The British aren't a factor out there yet, except on the Pacific Coast. And the Spanish? Well, God knows I can take care of them."
Wilkinson chuckled and continued, "So how about a little 'expedition', so to speak? You and Clark together again, leading a handpicked force of your own men! You'd have the full backing of the army, of course. Imagine it--hundreds of miles of beautiful, rich land, yours for the taking! Why, after you'd taken what you wanted of Upper Louisiana, you could go all the way to Santa Fe. Or even Mexico! And there would be nothing Madison could do to stop you."
His eyes danced as he stared down at the map. "Think of it, Lewis. You shouldn't have to spend your life begging for the allegiance of smelly Frenchmen in tawdry riverfront towns! For God's sake, if there were any justice in this world, you'd have riches and glory already. Join me, and you'll be a king--El Jefe of your own domain! You and your best friend Clark, on the golden throne of the Montezumas!" He panted, struggling for breath. "It's what you've always wanted. It's what you deserve. And it's what you will get--with my help, naturally."
Lewis's tongue felt wooden in his mouth. This conversation, this very meeting, was a disaster. He willed himself to be calm. "Very generous. But pray, General...what do you expect to get out of all this?"
"Besides the money?" Wilkinson blinked in confusion. "Why, I will head up the army, of course."
Lewis gripped the edge of the table. By God, in his mind he was still a soldier. "And which army were you intending to use, General?" He leaned forward, his voice growing heated. "We hear things up here too, sir. Tell me, will we march with the poor sick fellows at Terre aux Boeufs? Those self-same troops you have quartered in the meanest poverty? Your army that is now starving to death at New Orleans, under your watch?"
"You shouldn't believe everything you hear, Governor."
Lewis got to his feet. "General, you are insane."
"I hardly think so." Wilkinson shrugged. "See here, Lewis, all I want is for you to have the wealth and recognition that your ungrateful country has denied you. You must admit it's a tempting offer! Why don't you at least discuss it with your friend Clark? That's how you make all your decisions, isn't it? By putting your heads together?"
"Clark!" Lewis exclaimed. "Frankly, General, I'm amazed at your gall. Why, if William Clark knew I was even in the same room with you, there'd be the devil to pay. After what you did to his brother--"
"What I did? For God's sake, is he still mad about that?" Wilkinson fumed. "That was years ago! What happened to that idiot was unavoidable! He assumed the risks--"
"You destroyed George Rogers Clark." Lewis said, his voice shaking. "The man was a hero. He had nothing left when you got through with him--"
"George Rogers Clark was a fool," Wilkinson snapped. "He was eternally drunk, and full of design. Little better than a barbarian, really. He couldn't understand the first thing about confidentiality. I do hope his brother's a little smarter."
"And Aaron Burr? He had trouble with confidentiality, too, I suppose! That's why you sold him out on the witness stand! I was there, remember? I saw it! You branded him a traitor in front of the whole country--"
"Well, Burr was a traitor," Wilkinson said. "All I did was tell the truth."
"The truth?" Lewis laughed. "Your testimony in the Burr trial was the most preposterous thing I ever heard. You were in on the goddamn conspiracy! You ought to be in exile right next to him--or the insane asylum, I can't decide which."
"There's not a shred of evidence connecting me with the incidents you describe," Wilkinson said, glaring. "Spare me the righteous indignation, Governor, and let's talk business. You told me yourself, the government of the United States has denied you both money and authority. I'm offering you both. This little expedition promises to be very rewarding--for all of us."
Lewis stared. His heart was pounding so hard he was afraid it would burst out of his chest. "Why me, General?" he asked. "Why in God's name would you think I would act against the United States?"
"Don't you see?" Wilkinson's expression softened. "You'd be doing the United States a favor. They bought the Louisiana Territory, but you know as well as I do they'll never be able to hold it, at least not with an imbecile like Madison in charge. Better to have you on their western border than the Spanish, or God forbid, the British, eh? As a patriot, I would think you'd jump at the chance to do well by your country, while doing well by yourself." He smiled. "Have I misjudged you, then?"
Lewis pointed his finger in the pink, amiable face. It was all he could do to keep from trembling. "Wilkinson," he said, "you are a liar, a traitor and a maniac. And you have misjudged me badly, if you think I would join you on the path of treason."
"Easy," Wilkinson warned. "You're letting your temper get the better of you."
"I would never betray my country, General."
"Oh?" Wilkinson said, still smiling. "But you would betray the public trust, I suppose."
Lewis gulped. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"Tut, Lewis! You've been in the wilderness too long. Be civilized," Wilkinson said. "I know all about the new venture--what's it called? The St. Louis Missouri River Fur Company? Rather a grandiose name--did you think of it?"
Lewis's jaw worked. "How do you know about that?"
"Oh, I still have a few friends in St. Louis," Wilkinson said. "You're very clever, Governor. A silent partner in what could be the biggest fur trading operation in history! I understand you've already sent an expedition up the Missouri River to get things started. If all goes well, the profits to you and your friends will be--well, beyond imagination, really." His eyes sparkled as he raised his hands off the table and waved them in dramatic fashion. "Flatboats coming down the river, piled to the sky with the most valuable pelts--"
"You don't know what you're talking about."
"Oh please, it's a little late to play the outraged maiden, don't you think?" Wilkinson laughed scornfully. "I know, I know, you're a government official. And it would be a conflict of interest, wouldn't it? You'd never use your position to enrich yourself--oh heavens, no." He smirked at Lewis across the table. "So what are you doing here in Cahokia? Surely not meeting with the big trading companies--working out the details to turn all those pelts into a pot of gold in the eastern markets?"
Wilkinson leaned back in his chair and folded his hands across his portly belly. "My, my, Lewis. How sneaky you are! Using your official position for personal gain! Now what do you suppose our dear Mr. Madison and the good old War Department would have to say about that?"
Lewis took a swallow from his tankard, feeling the burning warmth and the bitter aftertaste on his tongue. Fury and fear battled inside him. The general's sources were good, all right, but what a scoundrel like Wilkinson could never understand was that he wasn't in it for the money. God knew he needed the cash. But what he really cared about was the future of his country, the opening of the West, the building of a new American--
Empire.
He clenched his fists. On a tide of rage, he said, "I don't know what kind of game you think you're playing, General, but I'm not interested. The President and the War Department will hear about a lot of things--including the conversation we've had here tonight."
For the first time, a hint of fear darted through Wilkinson's eyes. "You are famed for your keen intelligence, Governor. I trust you will use it and keep your mouth shut."
"I will not." Lewis leaned across the table and stared into Wilkinson's small black eyes. "General, you have cut your own throat. At last, the government in Washington is going to see you for what you really are. And I assure you, it will give me the greatest pleasure of my life to be the one to bring you down."
Wilkinson's face was no longer affable and smiling. "You disappoint me, sir. But then, you always were an incomparable rascal." Then his eyes narrowed, and his gaze turned venomous. "You have no proof of this conversation. It will be your word against mine. If you go to the administration with a story like this, they'll all think you're mad."
When Lewis didn't look away, Wilkinson added: "If you act against me, you will wish you had never been born."
"So be it then." Lewis downed the last of his drink and slammed the tankard down on the table. "The next time I see you, sir, I trust you'll be in irons. Good night." He turned and walked out.
#
In the crowded outer room of the tavern, Lewis motioned Brady for his hat and coat. His shirt was soaked with sweat. His legs were shaking so badly he was afraid they wouldn't hold him up.
He held onto Brady's shoulder to steady himself as the Irishman helped him on with his coat. Brady gave him a crosswise look and said softly, "Gov'ner, some men ought not to drink."
He was anything but drunk, but Lewis didn't bother to correct Brady's false impression. He had to get out, to get home, right away.
"Wait, Gov'ner!" Brady caught him at the door and handed him his walking stick. "For the wolves, sar."
Lewis looked at the stick, looked at Brady, and laughed. It was going to take
more than a stick to defend himself against the black beasts skulking about
in this long night.