In his bunk Peter was roused with a jump, amidst the grayness, by a thunderous noise. He sprawled to the floor—he heard a voice giving sharp orders, and before he could reach the door there was another thunder. Had the Sioux come? No! It was Christmas, and the celebration had begun. He opened the door—powder smoke wafted into his nostrils, the men had formed two lines down the middle of the street, their rifles were leveled, and “Whang!” they all spoke together.
“Hooray!” now the men cheered.
“Christmas Day in the mornin’!” shouted Pat, waving his cap. The door of the captains’ cabin opened and the captains stood gazing out; York’s black face peering over their shoulders. “Merry Christmas to yez, sorrs,” welcomed Pat, with a bow and a scrape. “It’s only welcomin’ the day, we are, an’ christenin’ the flag with a bit o’ powder.” For from the flag-staff in the street floated the United States flag.
“Very good,” approved Captain Lewis. “Merry Christmas to each of you. You may dismiss the men for the day, Sergeant.”
What a jolly day this day of Christmas proved to be. Nobody worked, everybody was merry. After breakfast in the mess hall, which was a cabin with a table down the centre seating twenty on a side, and a huge fireplace at one end, and a loft for the cooks and their supplies, the table was moved, One-eyed Cruzatte and George Gibson tuned their fiddles, and the men danced and capered.
There was a big dinner, of juicy meats, stewed corn, stewed dried pumpkin, with plum pudding at the close. The captains were present, in uniform. There was more dancing, and story-telling; not until late at night was the fort quiet. All the Indians had kept away.
Thus was passed Christmas Day, 1804, at this first United States fort west of St. Louis, 1600 miles up the River Missouri, in the centre of a North Dakota yet to be named.
“When do we have another Christmas, George?” asked Peter, eagerly.
“Not for a long time, Peter,” laughed George. “Christmas comes only once a year.”
For, you see, Peter had a great deal to learn.