The Navigator Read Online Free PDF Page A
Author: Clive Cussler
had been emptied. The captain handed Jefferson some mud-smeared papers, explaining that they had been found on the riverbank.
Jefferson stared at the wet wad in his hand.
Barely able to get the words out, he said, “Nothing else stolen?”
“No, sir.” The captain brightened at the opportunity to point out the silver lining. “Only the one trunk.”
Only the one trunk.
The words echoed in Jefferson’s ears as if they were being spoken in a cave.
“Tell me where you found this,” he demanded.
Moments later, Jefferson and his friends galloped off, and rode until they came to the river, then fanned out along both sides. After an intensive search, they fished out some papers that had floated ashore. Except for a few sheets, the mud-caked specimens of Indian vocabularies were water-damaged beyond use.
Later that summer, a petty thief and drunk was arrested and charged with the crime. The man claimed he had been hired by a stranger to steal the papers and pretend they were destroyed.
Jefferson was glad the culprit had been caught and might be hanged. He took no interest in the man’s fate. The scoundrel had caused him an irreparable loss. Jefferson had more pressing problems, such as tending his long-neglected fields and trying to figure out how to pay his mounting debts.
That was all changed months later when a letter arrived in the mail.
Jefferson had received several replies from the notes he had mailed from the White House to members of the Philosophical Society. All expressed their puzzlement at the word lists Jefferson had transcribed from the vellum. Except for one.
Professor Holmberg was a linguist at Oxford University. He apologized for not answering Jefferson sooner but he had been traveling in North Africa. He knew exactly what language the words were written in and enclosed translations.
Jefferson’s eyes widened as he read Holmberg’s findings. With the letter in hand, he roamed his library and plucked volume after volume from his bookshelves. History. Language. Religion.
He spent the next several hours reading and making notes. When he had pushed away the last book, he sat back in his chair, tented his fingers, and stared into space. After a moment lost in thought, Jefferson silently mouthed a familar name.
Meriwether Lewis.
FATE HAD NOT dealt kindly with the man who had led the expedition that opened the floodgates of the American West to United States expansion.
Lewis was a man of extraordinary talents. Jefferson had been aware of his fellow Virginian’s qualities when he’d asked Lewis to lead the exploratory expedition to the Pacific Coast in 1803.
Educated, intrepid, versed in the sciences, tough physically, Lewis was an outdoorsman familiar with Indian customs, and possessed of a sterling character. He’d been a well-respected army captain before he had come to work for Jefferson in the White House, where he added diplomacy, statesmanship, and politics to his quiver of talents.
The expedition had been successful beyond belief. After Lewis returned to Washington in 1806 with William Clark, the expedition’s coleader, Jefferson appointed him as governor of the Louisiana Territory.
Lewis had reason to wonder, however, whether the appointment was a reward or a punishment. Even with all his talents and energy, Lewis had a hard time trying to tame the wild frontier. The explorer’s political enemies were relentless.
One night, after Lewis had spent another wearying day dealing with charges that he’d spent government money on a fur company in which he had an interest, he saw a sealed packet on his desk and immediately recognized Jefferson’s handwriting. Lewis had a smile on his hawk-nosed face as he slid a knife blade under the seal and carefully unwrapped the stiff paper that enclosed a stack of documents. The note inside said:
My Dear Mr. Lewis. Your gardens might benefit from the information contained within. TJ
The next page was entitled “The
Jefferson stared at the wet wad in his hand.
Barely able to get the words out, he said, “Nothing else stolen?”
“No, sir.” The captain brightened at the opportunity to point out the silver lining. “Only the one trunk.”
Only the one trunk.
The words echoed in Jefferson’s ears as if they were being spoken in a cave.
“Tell me where you found this,” he demanded.
Moments later, Jefferson and his friends galloped off, and rode until they came to the river, then fanned out along both sides. After an intensive search, they fished out some papers that had floated ashore. Except for a few sheets, the mud-caked specimens of Indian vocabularies were water-damaged beyond use.
Later that summer, a petty thief and drunk was arrested and charged with the crime. The man claimed he had been hired by a stranger to steal the papers and pretend they were destroyed.
Jefferson was glad the culprit had been caught and might be hanged. He took no interest in the man’s fate. The scoundrel had caused him an irreparable loss. Jefferson had more pressing problems, such as tending his long-neglected fields and trying to figure out how to pay his mounting debts.
That was all changed months later when a letter arrived in the mail.
Jefferson had received several replies from the notes he had mailed from the White House to members of the Philosophical Society. All expressed their puzzlement at the word lists Jefferson had transcribed from the vellum. Except for one.
Professor Holmberg was a linguist at Oxford University. He apologized for not answering Jefferson sooner but he had been traveling in North Africa. He knew exactly what language the words were written in and enclosed translations.
Jefferson’s eyes widened as he read Holmberg’s findings. With the letter in hand, he roamed his library and plucked volume after volume from his bookshelves. History. Language. Religion.
He spent the next several hours reading and making notes. When he had pushed away the last book, he sat back in his chair, tented his fingers, and stared into space. After a moment lost in thought, Jefferson silently mouthed a familar name.
Meriwether Lewis.
FATE HAD NOT dealt kindly with the man who had led the expedition that opened the floodgates of the American West to United States expansion.
Lewis was a man of extraordinary talents. Jefferson had been aware of his fellow Virginian’s qualities when he’d asked Lewis to lead the exploratory expedition to the Pacific Coast in 1803.
Educated, intrepid, versed in the sciences, tough physically, Lewis was an outdoorsman familiar with Indian customs, and possessed of a sterling character. He’d been a well-respected army captain before he had come to work for Jefferson in the White House, where he added diplomacy, statesmanship, and politics to his quiver of talents.
The expedition had been successful beyond belief. After Lewis returned to Washington in 1806 with William Clark, the expedition’s coleader, Jefferson appointed him as governor of the Louisiana Territory.
Lewis had reason to wonder, however, whether the appointment was a reward or a punishment. Even with all his talents and energy, Lewis had a hard time trying to tame the wild frontier. The explorer’s political enemies were relentless.
One night, after Lewis had spent another wearying day dealing with charges that he’d spent government money on a fur company in which he had an interest, he saw a sealed packet on his desk and immediately recognized Jefferson’s handwriting. Lewis had a smile on his hawk-nosed face as he slid a knife blade under the seal and carefully unwrapped the stiff paper that enclosed a stack of documents. The note inside said:
My Dear Mr. Lewis. Your gardens might benefit from the information contained within. TJ
The next page was entitled “The
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