The irascible Charles Preuss

AN EXTRACT FROM SOLLY”S JOURNEY

 Charles Preuss stood at the folding table he used as his office. The various papers spread across it had strategically placed rocks as paperweights. At one end was a map. It showed their progress so far in great detail and, westwards, all the way to the west coast, it was blank, an artist’s canvas awaiting Charlie Preuss’s arrival. Preuss was direct and to the point.

‘Herr Fremont says you are not French,’ the Prussian said, making it almost seem like an accusation. ‘Is so?’ he demanded. Solomon simply shook his head, guessing that saying he was English probably wouldn’t be all that helpful. Charlie shrugged. ‘Anyvay, you vill be the carrying person. I hope you are better than that last gallic tauschen. You must be careful with the equipment, you understand,’ Charles Preuss said morosely. ‘You are young and strong and mein gut is aching from this rotten food. Oh what I would give for good sauerkraut and potatoes with some decent weizenbock to wash it down. But ach, I must concentrate on the surveying. I vill the map be making. You vill the equipment be carrying.’

‘Yes Sir,’

‘Herr Fremont says a sailor you be and you vill know how to use the sextant.’

‘Yes Sir.’

‘Goot mien leibchen. Ve vill start right here. First we measure the height of this big rock.

For all his complaining, once he found that his pupil was interested and quick to learn, Charlie Preuss was quite willing to teach Solomon how to use the surveying instruments. Charlie wasn’t one to suffer fools gladly and the slightest transgression would invite a German epithet or a guttural string of complaint. Solomon could understand why many of the men weren’t keen to be appointed mapmaker’s assistant, but he’d decided that he wasn’t going to let Charlie’s gruff ways put him off. He soon found that if he showed keenness to learn a bit of the mapmaker’s profession, Charlie’s bark was worse than his bite.

‘Ninety one meters,’ Charlie said, looking up from his calculations. ‘Ninety one meters to the top.’ Solomon couldn’t readily work in meters, but Charlie went on. ‘Two hundred and ninety five feet above us.’ He pointed to a polished wooden box that he had placed on the folding table he used for his map making. ‘Open that up and tell me the reading on it,’ he ordered.

Solly opened the box and inside, he recognized a barometer, nestled in a bed of cotton wool. He read the measurement off to Charlie, who did a few quick calculations. ‘That makes it four thousand two hundred and twenty six feet above sea level.’

‘How did you work that out Charlie?’ Solly asked, expecting the surveyor to brush his question off. Charlie seemed to enjoy airing his knowledge to the younger man. Solly’s knowledge of triangulation, learned from his navigation, helped him to understand Charlie’s explanation and Charlie warmed gradually to his keen student. The surveyor took copious notes and told Solomon he would be needed again the following day. Solly thought that was probably some sort of endorsement. Any task he could do that others eschewed meant he would be needed by the expedition.

The following morning, when Solomon looked at the map, he could see that Charlie had added Chimney Rock and the information they had determined the previous day.

‘Ve vill today be climbing.’ Charlie said. ‘Up there.’ He pointed to the top of the scree slope around the base of the Chimney Rock spire and a sly smile came over his face. ‘Ant you vill be ubertrager. Carrier. Today you vill earn your pay.’ Solomon had never previously noticed any hint of humour from the Prussian, but he smiled back anyway. He was confident that even carrying the equipment, he could climb with the stout surveyor.

And so it proved. Solomon carried the theodolite on its folded tripod on one shoulder, using his hand to steady it, and the box carrying the anemometer in the other hand. On his back, he wore a pack containing food and water, while Charles struggled with only a slim brief case containing his papers.

When they reached their destination at the base of the vertical needle in the late morning Charlie was red-faced and weary, and he was forced to sit for a while. The view was breathtaking. The disparate pair sat at the top of the slope that surrounded the needle, looking back across the wide prairie at the way they had come. Above their heads, the chimney seemed to penetrate the sky itself and seemed higher than the scudding white clouds passing overhead in the deep eternal blue. Solomon stood up and stared up at the needle.

‘How old do you reckon it is Charlie?’ he asked suddenly.

Charlie looked directly at him, as though assessing whether to tell a truth. ‘I vould say about ten million years,’ he said at last. Solomon pushed his hat back and scratched his head.

‘The bible says the earth was created about six thousand years ago. At least that’s what I was taught as a boy,’ he said quizzically.

Charlie shrugged. ‘You can believe the old stories. I believe the story of these stones.’

‘What do you mean?’

 ‘Vell, my leibchen. I suppose you are believing that the vorld vas somehow created in just seven days by some black magic?’ Charlie asked rhetorically.

‘That’s what the bible says.’ Solomon asked.

‘If you believe that, you vould believe anything. And your archbishop has somehow calculated that this all happened on some Sunday evenink in 4004BC. Gott im Himmel! Some calculation! Look around you.’ Solomon followed the sweep of Charlie’s arm as he waved it across the vast sweep of the Great Plains and then pointed to the great spire of sandstone that towered above.

‘Unt how do you think the archbishop would explain this? All these slopes around us are made of little bits that have fallen down from that!’ He pointed dramatically up at the spire. He picked up a small handful of coarse sand and allowed it to run from his palm onto the ground, allowing it to form into a pile that looked remarkably like the great cone of debris they were standing on. ‘Unt do you think this great pile was built in seven days? Nien. Nicht auf Ihr Leben!’ Then he realised Solly didn’t understand.

‘Not on your life! Never!’ he shouted. ‘This pile was all eroded from that great berg!’

Solomon, who had been taught of the creation as a boy, and who had inherited the sailor’s faith that the hand of God was the guiding force that would bring each voyage home, was finding Charles Preuss’ explanation a revelation.

‘Open your eyes, Solomon unt you vill see vot I am meaning. Or close your eyes to everything but an old book unt you vont. I don’t care. But now ve must set up the instrument.’