“I will always be there, Theodosia,” you said, “when you are in trouble!”
You said it stoutly, and I believed it, as a child.
I believed you then—I believe you now. I still have the same child’s faith in you. My mother died while I was young; my father has always been so busy—I scarcely have been a girl, as you say you never were a boy. You know my husband—he has his own affairs. But you always were my friend, in so many ways!
It is true that I am laying a secret on your heart—one which you must observe all your life. My letter is for you, and for no other eyes. But now I come once more to you to hold you to your promise.
Meriwether Lewis, come back to us! By this time the trail surely is long enough! We are counting absolutely on your return. I heard Mr. Merry tell my father—and I may tell it to you—that on your recall rested all hope of the success of our own cause on the lower Mississippi—for ourselves and for you. If you do not come back to us, as early as you can, you condemn us to failure—myself—my life—that of my father—yourself also.
Perhaps your delay may mean even more, Meriwether Lewis. I have to tell you that times are threatening for this republic. Relations between our country and Great Britain are strained to the breaking-point. Mr. Merry says that if our cause on the lower Mississippi shall not prevail, his own country, as soon as it can finish with Napoleon, will come against this republic once more—both on the Great Lakes and at the mouth of the Mississippi. He says that your expedition into the West will split the country, if it goes on. It must be withdrawn or the gap must be mended by war. You see, then, one of the sure results of this mad folly of Thomas Jefferson.
Go on, therefore, if you would ruin me, my father—your own future; but will you go on if you face possible ruin for your own country by so doing? This I leave for you to say.
Surely by now the main object of your expedition will have been accomplished—surely you may return with all practical results of your labors in your hands. Were that not a wiser thing? Does not your duty lie toward the east, and not further toward the west? There is a limit beyond which not even a forlorn hope is asked to go when it assails a citadel. Not every general is dishonored, though he does not complete the campaign laid out for him. Expeditions have failed, and will fail, with honor. Leaders of men have failed, will fail, with honor. I do not call it failure for you to return to us and let the expedition go on. There is a limit to what may be asked of a man. There are two of you for Mr. Jefferson; but for us there is only one—it is Captain Lewis. And—how shall I say it and not be misunderstood?—there is but one for her whose face you see, I hope, on this page.
What limit is there to the generosity of a man like you—what limit to his desire to pay each duty, to keep each promise that he has made in all his life? Will such a man forget his promise always to kiss away the tears of that companion to whom he has come in rescue? I am in trouble. Tears are in my eyes as I write. Do you forget that promise? Do you wish to make yet happier the woman whom you have so many times made happy—who has cherished so much ambition for you?
Meriwether Lewis, my friend—you who would have been my lover—for whom there is no hope, since fate has been so unkind—come back to us in your generosity! Come back to me, even in your hopelessness! Will you always see me with tears in my eyes? Do you see me now? I swear tears fall even as I write. And you promised always to kiss my tears away!