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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Back on the river, forward into the howl of the unknown, for three days Sergeant Floyd has been crippled by excruciating pain in his abdomen, as the only man here trained in internal medical matters it is incumbent on me to treat him, Doctor Rush's "Thunderbolt" pills are failing to alleviate the malady and the ground Peruvian bark hardly sedates Flyod, his agony is bleeding into the eyes, for 48 hours the rains have been rampant making the river sizzle in cool agitation the mosquitos are swarming like whispers in a brothel they are the devil's needles, we resort to spreading lard on ourselves as a repellent, ironically, despite the downpours the wind is high at our backs so the sails are up and we are moving swift as a curse off a witch's lips, Sergeant Pryor woke on the boat this morning with news of death his voice didn't wait for breath, the steps of his boots broke open my irritation after informing me that Charles had recently died, I believe he expired from a ruptured appendix which we had no remedy for, he had the soul of a lion, Godspeed to him, while I slept my spittle smeared the ink in my journal forming a pictorial omen of a tombstone on the page, the only question is whom be it for, Clark has identified a suitable burial place for Flyod on a large hill, no one speaks, its just the slurp of the paddled water and a handful of gold finch birds that seem determined to skip on the wind reminding us that there is always a place for a soul to go, coming up on the riverbend we are accosted by an armada of geese so plenty that the trees wish they had that number in leaves, my Lord, the ruckus these creatures are generating in honking indignance as they lift into flight is nerve pinching, its like an army of imbecilic people shouting in panic all at once yet these geese are noble in their beauty and militant natures and I see this moment as a sign that no Indians will interdict our passage, J.A.B.
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