Cover
Title Page
Louisiana Territory 1804
May 20, 1804, St. Charles, Louisiana Territory, Missouri River, north bank
May 21, 1804
May 22, 1804
May 23, 1804
May 26, 1804, North side of river, near La Charrette
June 1, 1804
June 2, 1804
June 4, 1804
June 6, 1804
June 9, 1804, Prairie of Arrows
June 12, 1804
June 13, 1804
June 14, 1804
June 17, 1804
June 20, 1804
June 22, 1804
June 23, 1804
June 24, 1804
June 25, 1804
June 27, 1804, At the juncture of the Kansas and Missouri Rivers
June 29, 1804
June 30, 1804, longitude 94.58 degrees west, latitude 39.55 degrees north, Missouri River, north bank
July 1, 1804
July 2, 1804
July 3, 1804
July 4, 1804
July 5, 1804
July 8, 1804
July 10, 1804
July 11, 1804
July 13, 1804
July 14, 1804
July 15, 1804
July 16, 1804
July 19, 1804
July 22, 1804
July 23, 1804
July 25, 1804
July 26, 1804
July 27, 1804
July 28, 1804, Sioux Indian country
July 29, 1804
July 30, 1804
August 1, 1804
August 2, 1804
August 3, 1804
August 4, 1804
August 5, 1804
August 7, 1804
August 8, 1804
August 13, 1804
August 17, 1804
August 18, 1804
August 19, 1804
August 20, 1804
August 21, 1804
August 22, 1804
August 23, 1804
August 26, 1804
August 27, 1804
August 28, 1804
August 31, 1804
September 8, 1804
September 9, 1804
September 11, 1804
September 17, 1804
September 23, 1804
September 25, 1804
October 5, 1804
October 7, 1804
October 8, 1804
October 9, 1804
October 10, 1804
October 11, 1804
October 13, 1804
October 16, 1804
October 23, 1804
October 24, 1804, Mandan country
October 25, 1804
November 1, 1804
November 4, 1804
November 5, 1804
November 6, 1804
November 7, 1804
November 9, 1804
November 10, 1804
November 12, 1805
November 13, 1804
November 18, 1804
November 21, 1804
November 27, 1804
November 30, 1804
December 7, 1804
December 9, 1804
December 10, 1804
December 15, 1804
December 30, 1804
December 31, 1804
January 1, 1805
January 5, 1805
January 10, 1804
January 16, 1805
January 20, 1805
January 21, 1805
January 26, 1805
February 4, 1805
February 6, 1805
February 11, 1805
February 12, 1805
February 17, 1805
February 18, 1805
February 25, 1805
March 3, 1805
March 4, 1805
March 6, 1805
March 7, 1805
March 8, 1805
March 9, 1805
March 10, 1805
March 11, 1805
March 15, 1805
March 17, 1805
March 25, 1805
March 27, 1805
April 5, 1805
April 6, 1805
April 8, 1805
April 9, 1805
April 11, 1805
April 13, 1805
April 17, 1805
April 18, 1805
April 19, 1805
April 20, 1805
April 25, 1805
April 26, 1805
May 8, 1805
May 9, 1805
May 11, 1805
May 13, 1805
May 14, 1805
May 15, 1805
May 16, 1805
May 19, 1805
May 20, 1805
May 23, 1805
May 24, 1805
May 25, 1805
May 29, 1805
May 30, 1805
May 31, 1805
June 1, 1805
June 3, 1805
June 4, 1805
June 7, 1805
June 9, 1805
June 11, 1805
June 13, 1805
June 14, 1805
June 16, 1805
June 17, 1805
June 21, 1805
June 25, 1805
June 28, 1805
June 29, 1805
July 1, 1805
July 2, 1805
July 3, 1805
July 4, 1805
July 6, 1805
July 9, 1805
July 15, 1805
July 17, 1805
July 19, 1805
July 20, 1805
July 22, 1805, Shoshoni country
July 28, 1805
August 1, 1805
August 3, 1805
August 8, 1805
August 10, 1805
August 12, 1805, The Great Divide
August 13, 1805
August 14, 1805
August 16, 1805
August 17, 1805
August 18, 1805
August 22, 1805
August 25, 1805
August 26, 1805
August 27, 1805
August 29, 1805
September 3, 1805
September 5, 1805
September 11, 1805
September 13, 1805
September 14, 1805
September 16, 1805
September 17, 1805
September 19, 1805
September 21, 1805
September 23, 1805
September 24, 1805
September 25, 1805
September 26, 1805
October 2, 1805
October 5, 1805
October 7, 1805
October 9, 1805
October 10, 1805
October 14, 1805
October 15, 1805
October 16, 18
05, Columbia River
October 17, 1805
October 23, 1805
October 24, 1805
October 25, 1805
November 3, 1805
November 4, 1805
November 7, 1805
November 8, 1805
November 10, 1805
November 13, 1805
November 14, 1805
Epilogue
Life in America in 1804
Historical Note
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Copyright
May 20, 1804
St. Charles, Louisiana Territory,
Missouri River, north bank
You ever see ink mixed up with blood? That’s what’s getting set down on this paper. It’s my blood, too. No one else’s. Came spouting out of my ear when Mingo pretty near sliced it off with his fish knife. I didn’t cry then, and I didn’t cry when I stitched it up myself tonight with the gut from the wildcat Mingo done shot. He’ll probably try to cut my other ear off when he finds out I took that cat’s gut. But he won’t have a chance. I’ll be gone. I decided tonight. I’m leaving.
I don’t give a hoot what Captain Lewis and Captain Clark say. I don’t care what my cousin Francis Labiche says — he’s done been hired by them ’cause he speaks Omaha and is good with sign language. Well, I’m not half bad. Francis says I’m too scrawny, says “Hey, you don’t weigh much more than a feed bag.” I don’t think size matters. Mama always said it didn’t, not if you’re a stand-up sort of fellow. Those were Mama’s words for a right-doing man like my father. Stand up. Age shouldn’t matter either. Still, Francis says I’m too young at fourteen. But one thing, I am unmarried. You can’t be married to be part of the Corps of Discovery. That’s what they call this outfit that’s going up the Missouri all the way to the other sea at the very edge of this continent.
They are going at the special request of President Thomas Jefferson. And I’m going, too, whether they, or President Jefferson, want me or not. They’re going in their big keelboat and two big flat-bottomed canoes, or pirogues, one white, one red. I’ll be going on my own two blessed feet. I got my feet. Got almost two ears. Got my eyes. Got my sniffer. I can track anything. I’m just going to follow along the banks, through the woods, right out into the tall prairie grass. Sooner or later they’re going to want me. And I ain’t just running away from Mingo, although my stepfather be reason enough. I want to go. I want to know the hugeness of this land. I want to see the Big Water, the one they call the Shining Sea.
Later same night: My ear’s hurting something fierce and I can’t fall asleep. I don’t worry none about Mingo coming back tonight. When he gets as drunk as he was tonight, he usually goes off for two, three days. So I thought I’d just sit up and write. Another hour it’ll be dawn and I’ll set out. I don’t plan to go down to the landing. There’ll be hundreds there to watch them set off. No, I’ll get upstream a mile or so. Suddenly I see that I forgot to introduce myself. My name’s Gus. Gus Pelletier. I’m half French, half Omaha Indian. My father, my real father, the one who helped birth me, was a trapper. He died before I could walk. My mother, Silverwing Woman, she was Omaha. She died last year. Mingo married her two years before. He came in full of promises and fancy talk. Soon as he got a woman to cook for him and a son to beat up he never worked another day so far as I could tell, or just enough to get his whiskey. I don’t like to think too much about my mama.
This journal I’m writing in, my mother sewed it for me. Cut the covers from elk skin she had cured and worked. Got some paper from the priest here in St. Charles, Father Dumaine. Father Dumaine is the one who taught me how to read and write. St. Charles is a funny place, I guess. It’s not more than twenty miles from St. Louis, but we don’t have one-tenth the people. About four hundred of us all told. Mess of Indians. Mess of half-breeds like me, lots of French Canadians like Mingo and my father. A priest and a chapel. That’s about it. So now you know me. Augustus Pelletier — half-breed, full-blooded American. Ready to go!
May 21, 1804
Oh, Lordy, I’m going to be able to run to the Shining Sea and back before this Corps gets off its lardy old butt and moves. I’d been waiting three miles upstream the whole day with no sign of them. Around four in the afternoon I ran practically all the way back to St. Charles and caught sight of them just a half mile out of the village. They must have started real late. Finally they made camp an hour ago just four miles up from where they began, on an island on the north side of the river. My mama and I had a name for this island. We called it Setting Down Goose Island. Those big old black and white geese used to set down and never move from it. It was like shooting fish in a barrel to get one for dinner, which we often did.
I got myself tucked in all cozy behind a willow break. They don’t see me at all. I can see them. I can see their fires and smell their meat roasting. I’m not setting a fire. I took a big old hunk of venison from our larder. Got some jerky, too, and I done coal-baked half a dozen potatoes before I left. When that runs out I’ve got my fishing gear, and my father’s old flintlock single-action rifle. Mingo will really pitch a fit when he finds it’s gone. Come to think of it I’m in fine shape except for my ear. Doesn’t hurt as much, but I’m scared to think what it’s going to look like when I take the strapping rags off. I poured half a bottle of Mingo’s whiskey on it, too. Mama told me that was the only good thing about whiskey — it could clean a cut. Mingo’s really going to bust a gut when he sobers up and sees all I’ve taken. Of course, he’s got part of my ear. But if I get to the Shining Sea I think it’ll be a good trade.
May 22, 1804
They set off this morning at six o’clock sharp. I am most definitely faster than that big old keelboat and the pirogues, especially with the wind coming out of the west and hard on their nose. But it’s not just the wind that’s coming down on them. Bucketloads of junk are floating downstream — whole trees — cottonwoods, maples all uprooted from bank cave-ins — and when there’s not a tree there are sandbars. Sometimes they get all snagged up. Then they have to break out the iron-spiked setting poles and pole their way around the tree or pry themselves off the sandbar.
Francis might think scrawny is bad, but I’m here to tell you that it’s good. Darned if Francis didn’t come within twelve feet of me on shore after they made camp and he was out shooting rabbits. I just slid myself behind a skinny cottonwood and he never even saw me. I’m just going to shadow this whole dang Corps all the way to the Big Water if I have to. I’ll be the slimmest shadow that ever slipped through the grass. High noon when shadows are shortest they won’t ever see me. Late afternoon when shadows are long I’ll look like one more blade of prairie grass. Morning, I’ll blend into the river mist. Night, I’ll just plain old melt away, not even caught by the silver of a full moon.
May 23, 1804
Today I nearly stepped out of my life as a shadow, though I’m not sure what I could have done to help. Captain Lewis almost got himself killed! Captain Lewis likes to get out of the boat and walk along through the country. He carries a notebook with him and stops and writes and looks at plants and birds. I can’t get close enough to see, but I think he draws pictures of some of the things. Today he was hiking through high country that was needled with ragged points that stuck out over the river. He had climbed one and I was way back on lower ground when suddenly I heard him yell. I looked up, and dang if he wasn’t hanging off below one of those points, blowing in the breeze like a rag. I started running toward him, but there was no straight line between me and where the Captain hung. Wasn’t more than ten minutes had passed when I saw he had done wrenched himself out of this terrible situation and was up on top of the point and walking like nothing had happened. Not even a wobble in his stride. He saved his own hide and I guess I saved my shadow.
May 26, 1804
North side of river, near La Charrette
I was so
darn tired tonight that I dumped myself close to camp, though I usually try to sleep a mile or so ahead. There was a good pile of river junk — old uprooted trees, brush, and what-have-you. It makes for a pretty good hide for me. Last night we were in the last settlement, La Charrette, a small French village. I managed to sneak into the village after they had made camp and trade some of my jerky for some headcheese. Then I scuttled through someone’s garden at the edge of the village and pulled myself some of their carrots. I know it’s stealing. If I were back in St. Charles I’d have to go to confession and tell Father Dumaine. But I just ate the carrots in the moonlight. They tasted so dang good that I can’t believe it was a sin. Guess that’s how every sinner feels. Mingo probably feels the same way when he drinks whiskey.
Later: Darned if Captain Lewis’s dog Seaman didn’t discover me in this pile of brush. Two o’clock in the morning and the moon hanging up there like a sliver of a fingernail with clouds scudding over suddenly I felt something warm and wet, kind of rough but nice on my cheek. I thought I was dreaming. Oh! I thought I was being kissed by some beautiful young lady. Then I smelled dog breath. I opened my eyes and if it wasn’t that drooling dog of Captain Lewis’s, a big old Newfoundland who thought I was just tasty. I’m good with dogs. I didn’t startle him or cuss him out or anything. I just scratched his ears. Talked gentle. Actually complimented him for finding me. Then told him to get on his way. He did, real polite-like. Most creatures are polite. You be polite to them, they polite you right back.
June 1, 1804
I’m getting a bit tired of being a shadow. It’s getting harder. Drouillard, the Corps’ chief scout, and usually two or three men go out every day and hunt. I got to be careful. Drouillard is a crack tracker, so I don’t want him fetching up on my prints. Pierre Cruzatte is a good tracker, too. I knew him back in St. Charles. He was a good buddy of François’s. They are voyageurs, travelers of the river as the French call boatmen. Half-breed, too. Pierre’s got one eye. Other one got clawed out by a wildcat. Imagine those two half-breeds Pierre and Francis getting themselves sworn in as honest-to-gosh privates in the United States Army. Other men in the Corps hired along the way before they reached St. Charles were not made privates. The Captain must have thought highly of these two half-breeds. They call Pierre “Pete” for short.
Tell you what else is hard about being a shadow. When Francis and Pierre and Drouillard bring back meat, as they did last night when they brought down a deer, and once before that a bear, I can smell it cooking. Makes me hungry. On nights when they don’t catch meat they just eat hominy and lard. That don’t set my mouth juices buzzing none. Those nights are easier. It’s lonely, too. Sometimes I can creep up pretty close. I hear them talking, and Francis and Pierre, they sing some French songs they learned at their papas’ knees. Guess I was too young when my papa went. Didn’t learn any. Got to stop this slobbering here. I ain’t no crybaby. Corps of Discovery doesn’t want a slobbering fool. Sort of wish Seaman would come visit me tonight. He’s done it twice since that first time.