ralestone luck by andrÉ norton _author of_ the prince commands illustrated by james reid d. appleton-century company incorporated new york london copyright, , by d. appleton-century company, inc. all rights reserved. this book, or parts thereof, must not be reproduced in any form without permission of the publisher. printed in the united states of america to d. b. n. _in return for many miles of proof so diligently read_ [illustration: _"how hold ye lorne?" rupert's softly spoken question brought the well-remembered answer to val's lips: "by the oak leaf, by the sea wave, by the broadsword blade, thus hold we lorne!"_] contents i. the ralestones come home ii. the luck of the lords of lorne iii. the ralestones entertain an unobtrusive visitor iv. pistols for two--coffee for one v. their tenant discovers the ralestones vi. satan goes a-hunting and finds work for idle hands vii. by our luck! viii. great-uncle rick walks the hall ix. portrait of a lady and a gentleman x. into the swamp xi. ralestones to the rescue! xii. the ralestones bring home a reluctant guest xiii. on such a night as this-- xiv. pirate ways are hidden ways xv. pieces of eight--ralestones' fate! xvi. ralestones stand together xvii. the return of rick ralestone xviii. rupert brings home his marchioness illustrations "how hold ye lorne?" rupert's softly spoken question brought the well-remembered answer to val's lips: "by the oak leaf, by the sea wave, by the broadsword blade, thus hold we lorne!" "i'se lucy," she stated, thoroughly at her ease. "an' dis is letty-lou" ricky lifted off the cover. val stared at the canvas "it's a genuine audubon," charity said _zzzzzrupp_! satan was industriously ripping the remnants of lining from its interior the canoe floated almost of its own volition into a dead and distorted strip of country at the bayou at last, they wriggled jeems awkwardly into the boat then came a tree burdened with a small 'coon which stared at the boy piteously, its eyes green in the light ricky held aloft a great war sword. there could be no doubt in any of them--the luck of lorne had returned ralestone luck _how hold ye lorne?_ by the oak leaf, by the sea wave, by the broadsword blade, thus hold we lorne! _the oak leaf is dust, the sea wave is gone, the broadsword is rust, how now hold ye lorne?_ by our luck, thus hold we lorne! chapter i the ralestones come home "once upon a time two brave princes and a beautiful princess set out to make their fortunes--" began the dark-haired, dark-eyed boy by the roadster. "royalty is out of fashion," corrected ricky ralestone somewhat indifferently. "can't you do better than that?" she gave her small, pert hat an exasperated tweak which brought the unoffending bowl-shaped bit of white felt into its proper position over her right eyebrow. "how long does it take rupert to ask a single simple question?" her brother val watched the gas gage on the instrument board of the roadster fluctuate wildly as the attendant of the station shook the hose to speed the flow of the last few drops. five gallons--a dollar ten. did he have that much? he began to assemble various small hoards of change from different pockets. "do you think we're going to like this?" ricky waved her hand vaguely in a gesture which included a dilapidated hot-dog stand and a stretch of road white-hot under the steady baking of the sun. "well, i think that pirate's haven is slightly different from our present surroundings. where's your proper pride? not everyone can be classed among the new poor," val observed judiciously. "nobility in the bread line." his sister sniffed with what she fondly believed was the air of a van astor dowager. "nobility?" "we never relinquished the title, did we? rupert's still the marquess of lorne." "after some two hundred years in america i am afraid that we would find ourselves strangers in england. and lorne crumbled to dust long ago." "but he's still marquess of lorne," she persisted. "all right. and what does that make you?" "lady richanda, of course, silly. can't you remember the wording of the old charter? and you're viscount--" "wrong there," val corrected her. "i'm only a lord, by courtesy, unless we can bash rupert on the head some dark night and chuck him into the bayou." "lord valerius." she rolled it upon her tongue. "marquess, lady, and lord val, out to seek their fortunes. pity we can't do it in the traditional family way." "but we can't, you know," he protested laughingly. "i believe that piracy is no longer looked upon with favor by the more solid members of any community. though plank-walking is an idea to keep in mind when the bill collectors start to draw in upon us." "here comes rupert at last. rupert," she raised her voice as their elder brother opened the door by the driver's seat, "shall we all go and be pirates? val has some lovely gory ideas." "not just yet anyway--we still have a roof over our heads," he answered as he slid in behind the wheel. "we should have taken the right turn a mile back." "bother!" ricky surveyed as much of her face as she could see in the postage-stamp mirror of her compact. "i don't think i'm going to like louisiana." "maybe louisiana won't care for you either," val offered slyly. "after all, we dyed-in-the-wool yanks coming to live in the deep south--" "speak for yourself, val ralestone." she applied a puff carefully to the tip of her upturned nose. "since we've got this barn of a place on our hands, we might as well live in it. too bad you couldn't have persuaded our artist tenant to sign another lease, rupert." "he's gone to spend a year in italy. the place is in fairly good condition though. lefleur said that as long as we don't use the left wing and close off the state bedrooms, we can manage nicely." "state bedrooms--" val drew a deep breath which was meant to be one of reverence but which turned into a sneeze as the roadster's wheels raised the dust. "how does it feel to own such magnificence, rupert?" "not so good," he replied honestly. "a house as big as pirate's haven is a burden if you don't have the cash to keep it up properly. though this artist chap did make a lot of improvements on his own." "but think of the long hall--" began ricky, rolling her eyes heavenward. "and just what do you know about the long hall?" demanded rupert. "why, that's where dear great-great-uncle rick's ghost is supposed to walk, isn't it?" she asked innocently. "i hope that our late tenant didn't scare him away. it gives one such a blue-blooded feeling to think of having an active ghost on the premises. a member of one's own family, too!" "sure. teach him--or it--some parlor tricks and we'll show it--or him--off every afternoon between three and four. we might even be able to charge admission and recoup the family fortune," val suggested brightly. "have you no reverence?" demanded his sister. "and besides, ghosts only walk at night." "now that's something we'll have to investigate," val interrupted her. "do ghosts have union rules? i mean, i wouldn't want great-great-uncle rick to march up and down the carriage drive with a sign reading, 'the ralestones are unfair to ghosts,' or anything like that." "we'll have to use the long hall, of course," cut in rupert, as usual ignoring their nonsense. "and the old summer drawing-room. but we can shut up the dining-room and the ball-room. we'll eat in the kitchen, and that and a bedroom apiece--" "i suppose there are bathrooms, or at least a bathroom," his brother interrupted. "because i don't care to rush down to the bayou for a good brisk plunge every time i get my face dirty." "harrison put in a bathroom at his own expense last fall." "for which blessed be the name of harrison. if he hadn't gone to italy, he would have rebuilt the house. how soon do we get there? this touring is not what i thought it might be--" the crease which had appeared so recently between rupert's eyes deepened. "leg hurt, val?" he asked quietly, glancing at the slim figure sharing his seat. "no. i'm expressing curiosity this time, old man, not just a whine. but if we're going to be this far off the main highway--" "oh, it's not far from the city road. we ought to be seeing the gate-posts any moment now." "prophet!" ricky leaned forward between them. "see there!" two gray stone posts, as firmly planted by time as the avenue of live-oaks they headed, showed clearly in the afternoon light. and from the nearest, deep carven in the stone, a jagged-toothed skull, crowned and grinning, stared blankly at the three in the shabby car. beneath it ran the insolent motto of an ancient and disreputable clan, "what i want--i take!" "this is the place all right--i recognize joe there." val pointed to the crest. "good old joe, always laughing." ricky made a face. "horrid old thing. i don't see why we couldn't have had a swan or something nice to swank about." "but then the lords of lorne were hardly a nice lot in their prime," val reminded her. "well, rupert, let's see the rest." the car followed a graveled drive between tall bushes which would have been the better for a pruning. then the road made a sudden curve and they came out upon a crescent of lawn bordering upon a stone-paved terrace three steps above. and on the terrace stood the home a ralestone had not set foot in for over fifty years--pirate's haven. "it looks--" ricky stared up, "why, it looks just like the picture mr. harrison painted!" "which proves why he is now in italy," val returned. "but he did capture it on canvas." "gray stone--and those diamond-paned windows--and that squatty tower. but it isn't like a southern home at all! it's some old, old place out of england." "because it was built by an exile," said rupert softly. "an exile who loved his home so well that he labored five years in the wilderness to build its duplicate. those little diamond-paned windows were once protected with shutters an inch thick, and the place was a fort in indian times. but it is strange to this country. that's why it's one of the show places. lefleur asked me if we would be willing to keep up the custom of throwing the state rooms open to the public one day a month." "and shall we?" asked ricky. "we'll see. well, don't you want to see the inside as well as the out?" "of course! val, you lazy thing, get out!" "certainly, m'lady." he swung open the door and climbed out stiffly. although he wouldn't have confessed it for any reason, his leg had been aching dully for hours. "do you know," ricky hesitated on the first terrace step, bending down to put aside a trail of morning-glory vine which clutched at her ankle, "i've just remembered!" "what?" rupert looked up from the grid where he was unstrapping their luggage. "that we are the very first ralestones to--to come home since grandfather miles rode away in ." "and why the sudden dip into ancient history?" val inquired as he limped around to help rupert. "i don't know," her eyes were fast upon moss-greened wall and ponderous door hewn of a single slab of oak, "except--well, we are coming home at last. i wonder if--if they know. all those others. rick and miles, the first rupert and richard and--" "that spitfire, the lady richanda?" rupert smiled. "perhaps they do. no, leave the bags here, val. let's see the house first." together the ralestones crossed the terrace and came to stand by the front door which still bore faint scars left by indian hatchets. but rupert stooped to insert a very modern key into a very modern lock. there was a click and the door swung inward before his push. "the long hall!" they stood in something of a hesitant huddle at the end of a long stone-floored room. half-way down its length a wooden staircase led up to the second floor, and directly opposite that a great fireplace yawned mightily, black and bare. a leather-covered lounge was directly before this, flanked by two square chairs. and by the stairs was an oaken marriage chest. save for two skin rugs, these were all the furnishings. but ricky had crossed hesitatingly to that cavernous fireplace and was standing there looking up as her brothers joined her. "there's where it was," she said softly and pointed to a deep niche cut into the surface of the stone overmantel. that niche was empty and had been so for more than a hundred years--to their hurt. "that was where the luck--" "how hold ye lorne?" rupert's softly spoken question brought the well-remembered answer to val's lips: "by the oak leaf, by the sea wave, by the broadsword blade, thus hold we lorne!" "the oak leaf is dust," murmured ricky, "the sea wave is gone, the broadsword is rust, how now hold ye lorne?" her brothers answered her together: "by our luck, thus hold we lorne!" "and we've got to get it back," she said. "we've just got to! when the luck hangs there again, we--" "won't have anything left to worry about," val finished for her. "but that's a very big order, m'lady. short of catching rick's ghost and forcing him to disclose the place where he hid it, i don't see how we're going to do it." "but we are going to," she answered confidently. "i know we are!" "a good thing," rupert broke in, a hint of soberness beneath the lightness of his tone as he looked about the almost bare room and then at the strained pallor of val's thin face. "the ralestones have been luckless too long. and now suppose we take possession of this commodious mansion. i suggest that we get settled as soon as possible. i don't like the looks of the western sky. we're probably going to have a storm." "what about the car?" val asked as his brother turned to go. "harrison used the old carriage house as a garage. i'll run it in there. you and ricky better do a spot of exploring and see about beds and food. i don't know how you feel," he went on grimly, "but after last night i want something softer than a dozen rocks to sleep on." "i told you not to stop at that tourist place," began ricky smugly. "i said--" "you said that a house painted that shade of green made you slightly ill. but you didn't say anything about beds," val reminded her as he shed his coat and hung it on the newel-post. "and since the ralestone family have definitely gone off the gold or any other monetary standard, it's tourist rests or the poorhouse for us." "probably the poorhouse." rupert sounded resigned. "now upstairs with you and get out some bedding. lefleur said in his letter that the place was all ready for occupancy. and he stocked up with canned stuff." "i know--beans! just too, too divine. well, let's know the worst." ricky started up the stairs. "i suppose there are electric lights?" "got to throw the main switch first, and i haven't time to do that now. here, val." rupert tossed him his tiny pocket torch as he turned to go. the door closed behind him and ricky looked over her shoulder. "this--this is rather a darkish place, isn't it?" "not so bad." val considered the hall below, which seemed suddenly peopled by an overabundance of oddly shaped shadows. "no," her voice grew stronger, "not so bad. we're together anyway, val. last year i thought i'd die, shut up in that awful school, and then coming home to hear--" "about me making my first and last flight. yes, not exactly a rest cure for any of us, was it? but it's all over now. the ralestones may be down but they're not out, yet, in spite of mosile oil and those coal-mines. d'you know, we might use some of that nice gilt-edged stock for wall-paper. there's enough to cover a closet at least. here we are, rupert from beating about the globe trying to be a newspaper man, you straight from n'york's finest finishing-school, and me--well, out of the plainest hospital bed i ever saw. we've got this house and what rupert managed to clear from the wreck. something will turn up. in the meantime--" "yes?" she prompted. "in the meantime," he went on, leaning against the banister for a moment's rest, "we can be looking for the luck. as rupert says, we need it badly enough. here's the upper hall. which way now?" "over to the left wing. these in front are what rupert refers to as 'state bedrooms.'" "yes?" he opened the nearest door and whistled softly. "not so bad. about the size of a small union station and provided with all the comforts of a tomb. decidedly not what we want." "wait, here's a plaque set in the wall. look!" she ran her finger over a glass-covered square. "regulations for guests, or a floor plan to show how to reach the dining-room in the quickest way," her brother suggested. "no." she read aloud slowly: "'this room was occupied by general andrew jackson, the victor of the battle of new orleans, upon the tenth day after the battle.'" "whew! 'old hickory' here! but i thought that the ralestones were more or less under a cloud at that time," commented val. "history--" "in the making. quite so. now may i suggest that we find some slumber rooms slightly more modern? rupert is apt to become annoyed at undue delay in such matters." they went down the hall and turned into a short cross corridor. from a round window at the far end a ray of sun still swept in, but it was a sickly, faded ray. the storm rupert had spoken of could not be far off. "this is the right way. mr. harrison had these little numbers put on the doors for his guests," ricky pointed out. "i'll take 'three'; that was marked on the plan he sent us as a lady's room. you take that one across the hall and let rupert have the one next to you." the rooms they explored were not as imposing as the one which had sheltered andrew jackson for a night. furnished with chintz-covered chairs, solid mahogany bedsteads and highboys, they were pleasant enough even if they weren't chambers to make an antique dealer "oh!" and "ah!" val discovered with approval some stiff prints of mathematically correct clippers hung in exact patterns on his walls, while ricky's room held one treasure, a dainty dressing-table. a small door near the end of the hall gave upon a linen closet. and ricky, throwing her short white jacket and hat upon the chair in her room, set about making beds, having given val strict orders to return to the lower hall and sort out the luggage before bringing it up. as he reached the wide landing he stopped a moment. since that winter night, almost a year in the past, when a passenger plane had decided--in spite of its pilot--to make a landing on a mountainside, he had learned to hobble where he had once run. the accident having made his right leg a rather accurate barometer, that crooked bone was announcing the arrival of the coming storm with a sharp pain or two which shot unexpectedly from knee to ankle. one such caught him as he was about to take a step and threw him suddenly off balance. he clutched at a dim tapestry which hung across the wall and tumbled through a slit in the fabric--which smelled of dust and moth balls--into a tiny alcove flanking a broad, well-cushioned window-seat under tall windows. below him in a riot of bushes and hedges run wild, lay the garden. somewhere beyond must lie bayou mercier leading directly to lake borgne and so to the sea, the thoroughfare used by their pirate ancestors when they brought home their spoil. the green of the rank growth below, thought val, seemed intensified by the strange yellowish light. a moss-grown path led straight into the heart of a jungle where sweet olive, banana trees, and palms grew in a matted mass. harrison might have done wonders for the house but he had allowed the garden to lapse into a wilderness. "val!" "coming!" he shouted and pushed back through the curtain. he could hear rupert moving about the lower hall. "just made it in time," he said as the younger ralestone limped down to join him. "hear that?" a steady pattering outside was growing into a wild dash of wind-driven rain. it was dark and rupert himself was but a blur moving across the hall. "do you still have the flash? might as well descend into the lower regions and put on the lights." they crossed the long hall, passing through another large chamber where furniture huddled under dust covers, and then into a small cupboard-lined passage. this gave upon a dark cavern where val's hand scraped a table top only too painfully as he went. then rupert found the door leading to the cellar, and they went down and down into inky blackness upon which their thread of torch-light made little impression. the damp, unpleasant scent of mold and wet grew stronger as they descended, and their fingers brushed slime-touched walls. "phew! not very comfy down here," val protested as rupert threw the torch beam along the nearest wall. with a grunt of relief he stepped forward to pull open the door of a small black box. "that does it," he said as he threw the switch. "now for the topside again and some supper." they negotiated the steps and found the button which controlled the kitchen lights. the glare showed them a room on the mammoth scale suggested by the long hall. a giant fireplace still equipped with three-legged pots, toasting irons, and spits was at one side, its brick oven beside it. but a very modern range and sink faced it. in the center of the room was a large table, while along the far wall were closed cupboards. save for its size and the novelty of the fireplace, it was an ordinary kitchen, complete to red-checked curtains at the windows. pleasant and homey, val thought rather wistfully. but that was before the coming of that night when ricky walked in the garden and he heard something stir in the long hall--which should have been empty-- "val! rupert!" a cry which started valiantly became a wail as it echoed through empty rooms. "where are yo-o-ou!" "here, in the kitchen," val shouted back. a moment later ricky stood in the doorway, her face flushed and her usually correct curls all on end. "mean, selfish, utterly selfish pigs!" she burst out. "leaving me all alone in the dark! and it's so dark!" "we just went down to turn on the lights," val began. "so i see." with a sniff she looked about her. "it took two of you to do that. but it only required one of me to make three beds. well, this is a warning to me. next time--" she did not finish her threat. "i suppose you want some supper?" rupert was already at the cupboards. "that," he agreed, "is the general idea." "beans or--" ricky's hand closed upon val's arm with a nipper-like grip. "what," her voice was a thin thread of sound, "was that?" above the steady beat of the rain they heard a noise which was half scratch, half thud. under rupert's hand the latch of the cupboard clicked. "back door," he said laconically. "well, why don't you open it?" ricky's fingers bit tighter so that val longed to twist out of her grip. the key grated in the lock and then rupert shot back the accompanying bolt. "something's there," breathed ricky. "probably nothing but a branch blown against the door by the wind," val assured her, remembering the tangled state of the garden. the door came back, letting in a douche of cold rain and a black shadow which leaped for the security of the center of the room. "look!" ricky laughed unsteadily and released val's arm. in the center of the neat kitchen, spitting angrily at the wet, stood a ruffled and oversized black tom-cat. chapter ii the luck of the lords of lorne "nice of you to drop in, old man," commented rupert dryly as he shut the door. "but didn't anyone ever mention to you that gentlemen wipe their feet before entering strange houses?" he surveyed a line of wet paw prints across the brick floor. "did he get all wet, the poor little--" ricky was on her knees, stretching out her hand and positively cooing. the cat put down the paw he had been licking and regarded her calmly out of round, yellow eyes. then he returned to his washing. val laughed. "evidently he is used to the strong, silent type of human, ricky. i wonder where he belongs." "he belongs to us now. yes him does, doesn't him?" she attempted to touch the visitor's head. his ears went back and he showed sharp teeth in no uncertain manner. "better let him alone," advised rupert. "he doesn't seem to be the kind you can cuddle." "so i see." ricky arose to her feet with an offended air. "one would think that i resembled the more repulsive members of my race." "in the meantime," rupert again sought the cupboard, "let's eat." half an hour later, fed and well content (even satan, as the ralestones had named their visitor because of his temperament, having condescended to accept some of the better-done bits of bacon), they sat about the table staring at the dishes. now it is a very well-known fact that dishes do _not_ obligingly leap from a table into a pan of well-soaped water, slosh themselves around a few times, and jump out to do a spot of brisk rubbing down. but how nice it would be if they did, thought val. "the dishes--" began ricky in a faint sort of way. "must be done. we gather that. how utterly nasty bacon grease looks when it's congealed." her younger brother surveyed the platter before him with mournful interest. "and the question before the house is, i presume, who's going to wash them?" rupert grinned. "this seems to be as good a time as any to put some sort of a working plan in force. there is a certain amount of so-called housework which has to be done. and there are three of us to do it. it's up to us to apportion it fairly. shall we say, let everyone care for his or her own room--" "there are also the little matters of washing, and ironing, and cleaning," ricky broke in to remind him. "and we're down to fifty a month in hard cash. but the tenant farmer on the other side of the bayou is to supply us with fresh fruit and vegetables. and our wardrobes are fairly intact. so i think that we can afford to hire the washing done. we'll take turns cooking--" "who's elected to do the poisoning first?" val inquired with interest. "i trust we possess a good cook-book?" "well, i'll take breakfast tomorrow morning," rupert volunteered. "anyone can boil coffee and toast bread. as for dishes, we'll all pitch in together. and suppose we start right now." when the dishes were back again in their neat piles on the cupboard shelves, ricky vanished upstairs, to come trailing down again in a house-coat which she fondly imagined made her look like one of the better-known screen sirens. the family gathered in an aimless way before the empty fireplace of the long hall. rupert was filling a black pipe which allowed him to resemble--in very slight degree, decided val--an explorer in an english tobacco advertisement. val himself was stretched full length on the couch with about ten pounds of cat attempting to rest on his center section in spite of his firm refusal to allow the same. "br-r-r!" ricky shivered. "it's cold in here." "probably just uncle rick passing through--not the weather. no, cat, you may not sit on that stomach. it's just as full of bacon as yours is and it wants a nice long rest." val swept satan off to the floor and he resignedly went to roost by the boy's feet in spite of the beguiling noises ricky made to attract his attention. "these stone houses are cold." rupert scratched a match on the sole of his shoe. "we ought to have flooring put down over this stone paving. i saw some wood stacked up in an outhouse when i put the car away. we'll have it in tomorrow and see what we can do about a fire in the evening." "and i thought the south was always warm." ricky examined her hands. "whoever," she remarked pleasantly, "took my hand lotion better return it. the consequences might not be very attractive." "are you sure you packed it this morning?" val asked. "but of--" her fingers went to her mouth. "i wonder if i did? i've just got to have some. we'll drive to town tomorrow and get a bottle." "thirty miles or so for a ten-cent bottle of gooey stuff," val protested. "good idea." rupert stood with his back to the fireplace as if there really were a flame or two within its black emptiness. "i've some papers that lefleur wants to see. then there're our boxes at the freight station to arrange transportation for, and we'll have to see about getting a newspaper and--" "make a list," murmured his brother. rupert dropped down upon the wide arm of ricky's chair and with her only too willing aid set to work. val eyed them drowsily. rupert and ricky--or to give her her very formal name in full--richanda anne, were "red" ralestones, possessing the thin, three-cornered faces, the dark mahogany hair, the sharply defined cheek-bones which had been the mark of the family as far back in history as portraits or written descriptions existed. the "red" ralestones were marked also by height and a suppleness of body and movement. the men had been fine swordsmen, the ladies noted beauties. but they were also cursed, val remembered vividly, with uncertain tempers. rupert had schooled himself to the point where his emotions were mastered by his will. but val had seen ricky enjoy full tantrums, and the last occasion was not so long ago that the scene had become misty in his memory. generous to the point of self-beggary, loyal to a fault, and incurably romantic, that was a "red" ralestone. val himself was a "black" ralestone, which was a very different thing. they were a new growth on the family tree, a growth which appeared after the ralestones had been exiled to colonial america. his black hair, his long, dark face of no particular beauty marked with straight, black brows set in a perpetual frown--that was the sign of a "black" ralestone. they were as strong-willed as the "reds," but their anger could be controlled to icy rage. "now that you have spent the monthly income," val suggested as rupert added up a long column of minute figures scrawled across the first page of his pocket note-book, "let's really get away from economics for one evening. the surroundings suggest something more romantic than dollars and cents. after all, when did a pirate ever show a saving disposition? would the first roderick--" "the roderick who brought home the luck?" ricky laughed. "but he brought home a fortune, too, didn't he, rupert?" her brother relit his pipe. "yes, but a great many lords came home from the crusades with their pockets filled. sir roderick de la stone thought the luck worth his entire estate even after he was made baron ralestone." ricky shivered delicately. "not altogether nice people, those ancestors of ours," she observed. "no," val grinned. "by rights this room should be full of ghosts instead of the beat of just one. how many ralestones died violently? seven or eight, wasn't it?" "but the ones who died in england should haunt lorne," argued ricky, half seriously. "well then, that sort of confines us to the crews of the ships our great-great-great-grandfather scuttled," her brother replied. "rupert," ricky turned and asked impulsively, "do you really believe in the luck?" rupert looked up at the empty niche. "i don't know--no, i don't. not the way that roderick and richard and all the rest did. but something that has seven hundred years of history behind it--that means a lot." "'then did he take up ye sword fashioned by ye devilish art of ye east from two fine blades found in ye tomb,'" val quoted from the record of brother anselm, the friar who had accompanied sir roderick on his crusading. "do you suppose that that part's true? could the luck have been made from two other swords found in an old tomb?" "not impossible. the saracens were master metal workers. look at the damascus blades." "it all sounds like a fairy-tale," commented ricky. "a sword with magic powers beaten out of two other swords found in a tomb. and the whole thing done under the direction of an arab astrologer." "you've got to admit," broke in val, "that sir roderick had luck after it was given to him. he came home a wealthy man and he died a baron. and his descendants even survived the wars of the roses when four-fifths of the great english families were wiped out." "'and fortune continued to smile,'" rupert took up the story, "'until a certain wild miles ralestone staked the luck of his house on the turn of a card--and lost.'" "o-o-oh!" ricky squirmed forward in her chair. "now comes the pirate. tell us that, rupert." "you know the story by heart now," he objected. "we never heard it here, where some of it really happened. tell it, please, rupert!" "in your second childhood?" he asked. "not out of my first yet," she answered promptly. "pretty please, rupert." "miles ralestone, marquess of lorne," he began, "rode with prince rupert of the rhine. he was a notorious gambler, a loose liver, and a cynic. and he even threw the family luck across the gaming table." "'the luck went from him who did it no honor,'" val repeated slowly. "i read that in that old letter among your papers, rupert." "yes, the luck went from him. he survived marston moor; he survived the death of his royal master, charles the first, on the scaffold. he lived long enough to witness the return of the stuarts to england. but the luck was gone, and with it the good fortune of his line. rupert, his son, was but a penniless hanger-on at the royal court; the manor of lorne a fire-gutted wreckage. "rupert followed james stuart from england when that monarch became a fugitive to escape the wrath of his subjects. and the marquess of lorne sank to the role of pot-house bully in the back lanes of paris." "and then?" prompted val. "and then a miracle occurred. rupert was employed by his master on a secret mission to london, and there the luck came again into his hands. perhaps by murder. but he died miserably enough of a heavy cold got by lying in a ditch to escape dutch william's soldiers." "'so is this perilous luck come again into our hands. then did i persevere to mend the fortunes of my house.' that's what rupert's son richard wrote about the luck," ricky recalled. "richard, the first pirate." "he did a good job of fortune mending," commented val dryly. "married one of the wealthiest of the french king's wards and sailed for the french west indies all in a fortnight. turned pirate with the approval of the french and took to lifting the cargoes of other pirates." "i'll bet that most of his success was due to the lady richanda," observed ricky. "she sailed with him dressed in man's clothes. remember that miniature of her that we saw in new york, the one in the museum? all the 'black' ralestones are supposed to look like her. hear that, val?" "at least it was the lady richanda who persuaded her husband to settle ashore," said rupert. "she was personally acquainted with bienville and iberville who were proposing to rule the mississippi valley for france by building a city near the mouth of the river. and 'black dick,' the pirate, obtained a grant of land lying along lake borgne and this bayou. although the city was not begun until , this house was started in by workmen imported from england. "the house of an exile," rupert continued slowly. "richard ralestone was born in england, but he left there in his tenth year. in spite of the price on his head, he crept back to devon in to see lorne for the last time. and it was from the rude sketches he made of ruined lorne that pirate's haven was planned." "why, we saw those sketches!" ricky's eyes shone with excitement. "do you remember, val?" her brother nodded. "must have cost him plenty to do it," he replied. "richard had an immense personal fortune of his own gained from piracy, and he spared no expense in building. the larger part of the stone in these walls was brought straight from europe, just as they later brought the paving blocks for the streets of new orleans. when he had done--and the place was five years a-building because of indian troubles and other disturbances--he settled down to live in feudal state. some of his former seamen rallied around him as a guard, and he imported blacks from the islands to work his indigo fields. "the family continued to prosper through both french and spanish domination until the time of american rule." "now for uncle rick." ricky settled herself with a wriggle. "this is even more exciting than pirate dick." "in the year , the time of the great fire which destroyed over half of new orleans, twin boys were born at pirate's haven. they came into their heritage early, for their parents died of yellow fever when the twins were still small children. "those were restless times. new orleans was full of refugees. from haiti, where the revolting blacks were holding a reign of terror, and from france, where to be a noble was to be a dead one, came hundreds. even members of the royal house, the duc d'orleans and his brother, the duc de montpensier, came for a space in . "the city had always been more or less lawless and intolerant of control. like the new englanders of the eighteenth century, many respected merchants were also smugglers." "and pirates," suggested val. "the king of smugglers was jean lafitte. his forge--where his slaves shaped the wrought-iron which was one of the wonders of the city--was a fashionable meeting-place for the young bloods. he was the height of wit and fashion--daring openly to placard the walls of the town with his notices of smugglers' sales. "and roderick ralestone, the younger of the twins, became one of lafitte's men. in spite of the remonstrances of his brother richard, young rick withdrew to barataria with dominque you and the rest of the outlawed captains. "in the winter of matters came to a head. richard wanted to marry an american girl, the daughter of one of governor claiborne's friends. her father told him very pointedly that since the owners of pirate's haven seemed to be indulging in law breaking, such a marriage was out of the question. aroused, richard made a secret inspection of certain underground storehouses which had been built by his pirate great-grandfather and discovered that rick had put them in use again for the very same purpose for which they had been first intended--the storing of loot. "he waited there for his brother, determined to have it decided once and for all. they quarreled bitterly. both were young, both had bad tempers, and each saw his side as the right of the matter--" "regular ralestones, weren't they?" commented val slyly. "undoubtedly," agreed rupert. "well, at last richard started for the house, his brother in pursuit. "then they fought, here in this very hall. and not with words this time, but with the rapiers richard had brought back from france. a slave named falesse, who had been the twins' childhood nurse, was the only witness to the end of that duel. richard lay face down across the hearth-stone as she came screaming down the stairs." ricky was studying the gray stone. "by rights," val agreed with her unspoken thought, "there ought to be a stain there. unfortunately for romance, there isn't." "rick was standing by the door," rupert continued. "when falesse reached his brother, he laughed unsteadily and half raised his sword in a duelist's salute. then he was gone. but there were two swords on the floor. and that niche was empty. "when he fled into the night storm with his brother's blood staining his hands, rick ralestone took the luck of his house with him. "after almost a year of invalidism, richard recovered. he never married his american beauty. but in he took a wife, a young creole lady widowed by the battle of new orleans. of rick nothing was heard again, although his brother searched diligently for more than thirty years." "how," val grinned at his brother, "did richard explain the little matter of the ghost which is supposed to walk at night?" "i don't know. but when the civil war broke out, richard's son miles was the master of pirate's haven. the once-great fortune of the family had shrunk. business losses in the city, floods, a disaster at sea, had emptied the family purse--" "the luck getting in its dirty work by remote control," supplied the irrepressible val. "perhaps. young miles had married in his teens, and the call to the confederate colors brought both his twin sons under arms as well as their father. "miles, the father, fell in the first battle of bull run. but miles, the son and elder of the twins, a lieutenant of cavalry, came out of the war the only surviving male of his family. "his brother richard had been wounded and was home on sick leave when the northerners occupied new orleans. betrayed by one of his former slaves, a mulatto who bore a grudge against the family, he was murdered by a gang of bullies and cutthroats who had followed the invading army. "richard had been warned of their raid and had managed to hide the family valuables in a secret place--somewhere within this very hall, according to tradition." val and ricky sat up and looked about with wondering interest. "but richard was shot down in cold blood when he refused to reveal the hiding-place. his brother and some scouts, operating south without orders, arrived just in time to witness the last act. miles ralestone and his men summarily shot the murderers. but where richard had so carefully concealed the last of the family treasure was never discovered. "the war beggared the ralestones. miles went north in search of better luck, and this place was allowed to molder until it was leased in to a sugar baron. in it was turned over to a family distantly connected with ours. and since then it has been leased. we have had in all four tenants." "but," ricky broke in, "since the luck went we have not prospered. and until it returns--" rupert tapped out his pipe against one of the fire irons. "it's nothing but a folk-tale," he told her. "it isn't!" ricky contradicted him vehemently. "and we've made a good beginning anyway. we've come back." "if rick took the luck with him, i don't see how we have an earthly chance of finding it again," val commented. "it came back once before after it had gone from us," reminded his sister. "and i think that it will again. at least i'll hope so." "outside of the superstition, it would be well worth having. the names of the heads and heirs of the house are all engraved along the blade, from sir roderick on down. seven hundred years of history scratched on steel." rupert stretched and then glanced at his wrist-watch. "ten to ten, and we've had a long day. who's for bed?" "i am, for one." val swung his feet down from the couch, disturbing satan who opened one yellow eye lazily. ricky stood by the fireplace fingering the wreath of stiff flowers carved in the stone. val took her by the arm. "no use wondering which one you push to reveal the treasure," he told her. she looked up startled. "how did you know what i was thinking about?" she demanded. "my lady, your thoughts, like little white birds--" "oh, go to bed, val. when you get poetical i know you need sleep. just the same," she hesitated with one foot on the first tread of the stair, "i wonder." chapter iii the ralestones entertain an unobtrusive visitor val lay trapped in an underground cavern, chained to the floor. an unseen monster was creeping up his prostrate body. he could feel its hot breath on his cheek. with a mighty effort he broke his bonds and threw out his arms in an attempt to fight off his tormentor. the morning sun was warm across his pillow, making him blink. on his chest stood satan, kneading the bedclothes with his front paws and purring gently. from the open window came a fresh, rain-washed breeze. having aroused the sleeper, satan deserted his post to hang half-way out the window, intent upon the housekeeping arrangements of several birds who had built in the hedges below. a moment later val elbowed him aside to look out upon the morning. it was a fine one. wisps of mist from the bayou still hung about the lower garden, but the sun had already dried the brick-paved paths. a bee blundered past val's nose, and he realized that it might be well to close the screen hanging shutter-like outside. from the direction of the hidden water came the faint _putt-putt_ of a motor-boat, but inside pirate's haven there was utter silence. as yet the rest of the family were not abroad. val dropped his pajamas in a huddle by the bed and dressed leisurely, feeling very much at peace with this new world. perhaps that was the last time he was to feel so for many days to come. he stole cautiously out of his room and tiptoed down halls and dark stairs, wanting to be alone while he discovered pirate's haven for himself. the long hall looked chilly and bleak, even though patches of sunlight were fighting the usual gloom. on the hearth-stone lay a scrap of white, doubtless ricky's handkerchief. val flung open the front door and stepped out on the terrace, drawing deep lungfuls of the morning air. the blossoms on the morning-glory vines which wreathed the edge of the terrace were open to the sun, and the birds sang in the bushes below. satan streaked by and disappeared into the tangle. it was suddenly very good to be alive. the boy stretched luxuriously and started to explore, choosing the nearest of the crazy, wandering paths which began at the circle of the old carriage drive. here was evidence of last night's storm. wisps of spanish moss, torn from the great live-oaks of the avenue and looking like tufts of coarse gray horsehair, lay in water-logged mats here and there. and in the open places, the grass, beaten flat, was just beginning to rise again. a rabbit scuttled across the path as it went down four steps of broken stone into a sort of glen. here some early owner of the plantation had made an irregular pool of stone to be fed by the trickle of a tiny spring. frogs the size of postage-stamps leaped panic-stricken for the water when val's shadow fell across its rim. a leaden statue of the boy pan danced joyously on a pedestal above. ricky would love this, thought her brother as he dabbled his fingers in the chill water trying to catch the stem of the single lily bud. out of nowhere came a turtle to slide into the depths of the pool. the sun was very warm across val's bowed shoulders. he liked the garden, liked the plantation, even liked the circumstances which had brought them there. lazily he arose and turned. by the steps down which he had come stood a slight figure in a faded flannel shirt and mud-streaked overalls. his bare brown feet gripped the stones as if to get purchase for instant flight. "hello," val said questioningly. the new-comer eyed young ralestone warily and then his gaze shifted to the bushes beyond. "i'm val ralestone." val held out his hand. to his astonishment the stranger's mobile lips twisted in a snarl and he edged crabwise toward the bushes bordering the glen. "who are you?" val demanded sharply. "ah has got as much right heah as yo' all," the boy answered angrily. and with that he turned and slipped into a path at the far end of the glen. aroused, val hurried after him to reach the bayou levee. the quarry was already in midstream, wielding an efficient canoe paddle. on impulse val shouted after him, but he never turned. a rifle lay across his knees and there were some rusty traps in the bottom of the flimsy canoe. then val remembered that pirate's haven lay upon the fringe of the muskrat swamps where cajun and american squatters still carried on the fur trade of their ancestors. but as val stood speeding the departure of the uninvited guest, another canoe put off from the opposite shore of the bayou and came swinging across toward the rough wooden landing which served the plantation. a round brown face grinned up at val as a powerful negro clambered ashore. "is dey up at de big house now?" he asked cheerily as he came up. "if you mean the ralestones, why, we got here last night," val answered. "yo'all is mistuh ralestone, suh?" he took off his wide-brimmed straw hat and twisted it in his oversized hands. "i'm valerius ralestone. my brother rupert is the owner." "well, mistuh ralestone, suh, i'se yo'all's fahmah from 'cross wata. mistuh lefleah, he says dat yo'all is come to live heah agin. so mah woman, she says dat ah should see if yo'all is heah yet and does yo'all want anythin'. lucy, she's bin a-livin' heah, dat is, her mammy and pappy and her pappy's mammy and pappy has bin heah since befo' old massa ralestone done gone 'way. so lucy, she jest nachely am oneasy 'bout yo'all not gettin' things comfo'ble." "that is kind of her," val answered heartily. "my brother said something last night about wanting to see you today, so if you'll come up to the house--" "i'se sam, mistuh ralestone, suh. ah done work heah quite a spell now." "by the way," val asked as they went up toward the house, "did you see that boy in the canoe going downstream as you crossed? i found him in the garden and the only answer he would give to my questions was that he had as much right there as i had. who is he?" the wide smile faded from sam's face. "mistuh ralestone, suh, effen dat no-'count trash comes 'round heah agin, yo'all bettah jest call de policemans. dey's nothin' but poah white trash livin' down in de swamp places an' dey steals whatevah dey kin lay han' on. was dis boy big like yo'all, wi' black hair an' a thin face?" "yes." "dat's de jeems boy. he ain't got no mammy nor pappy. he lives jest like de wil' man wi' a li'l huntin' an' a big lot stealin'. he talk big. say he belongs in de big house, not wi' swamp folks. but jest yo'all pay no 'tenshun to him nohow." "val! val ralestone! where are you?" ricky's voice sounded clear through the morning air. "coming!" he shouted back. "well, make it snappy!" she shrilled. "the toast has been burnt twice and--" but what further catastrophe had occurred her brother could not hear. "yo'all wants to git to de back do', mistuh ralestone, suh? dere's a sho't-cut 'cross dis-a-way." sam turned into a side path and val followed. ricky was at the stove gingerly shifting a coffee-pot as her brother stepped into the kitchen. "well," she snapped as he entered, "it's about time you were showing up. i've simply cracked my voice trying to call you, and rupert's been talking about having the bayou dragged or something of the kind. where have you been, anyway?" "getting acquainted with our neighbors. ricky," he called her attention to the smiling face just outside the door, "this is sam. he runs the home farm for us. and his wife is a descendant of the ralestone house folks." "yassuh, dat's right. we's ralestone folks, miss 'chanda. mah lucy done sen' me ovah to fin' out what yo'all is a-needin' done 'bout de place. she was in yisteday afo' yo'all come an' seed to de dustin' an' sich--" "so that's why everything was so clean! that was nice of her--" "yo'all is ralestones, miss 'chanda. an' lucy say dat de ralestones am a-goin' to fin' dis place jest ready for dem when dey come." he beamed upon them proudly. "lucy, she am a-goin' be heah jest as soon as she gits de chillens set for de day. i'se come fust so's ah kin see wat mistuh ralestone done wan' done wi dem rivah fiel's--" "where is rupert?" val broke in. "went out to see about the car. the storm last night wrecked the door of the carriage house--" "zat so?" sam's eyes went round. "den ah bettah be a-gittin' out an' see 'bout it. 'scuse me, suh. 'scuse me, miss 'chanda." with a jerk of his head he left them. val turned to ricky. "we seem to have fallen into good hands." "it's my guess that his lucy is a manager. he just does what she tells him to. i wonder how he knew my name?" "lefleur probably told them all about us." "isn't it odd--" she turned off the gas, "'ralestone folks.'" "loyalty to the big house," her brother answered slowly. "i never thought that it really existed out of books." "it makes me feel positively feudal. val, i was born about a hundred years too late. i'd like to have been the mistress here when i could have ridden out in a victoria behind two matched bays, with a coachman and a footman up in front and my maid on the little seat facing me." "and with a dalmatian coach-hound running behind and at least three-fourths of the young bloods of the neighborhood as a mounted escort. i know. but those days are gone forever. which leads me to another subject. what are we going to do today?" "the dishes, for one thing," ricky began ticking the items off on her fingers, "and then the beds. this afternoon rupert wants us--that is, you and me--to drive to town and do some errands." "oh, yes, the list you two made out last night. well, now that that's all settled, suppose we have some breakfast. has rupert been fed or is he thinking of going on a diet?" "he'll be in--" "said she with perfect faith. all of which does not satisfy the pangs of hunger." "where's lovey?" "if you are using that sickening name to refer to satan--he's out--hunting, probably. the last i saw of him he was shooting head first for a sort of bird apartment house over to the left of the front door. here's rupert. now maybe we may eat." "i've got something to tell you," hissed ricky as the missing member of the clan banged the screen door behind him. having so aroused val's curiosity, she demurely went around the table to pour the coffee. "how's the carriage house?" val asked. "sam thinks he can fix it with some of that lumber piled out back of the old smoke-house." rupert reached for a piece of toast. "what do you think of our family retainer?" "seems a good chap." "lefleur says one of the best. possesses a spark of ambition and is really trying to make a go of the farm, which is more than most of them do around here. his wife, by all accounts, is a wonder. used to be the cook-housekeeper here when the rafaels had the place. lefleur still talks about the two meals he ate here then. sam tells me that she is planning to take us in hand." "but we can't afford--" began ricky. "i gathered that money does not come into the question. the lady is rather strong-willed. so, ricky," he laughed, "we'll leave you two to fight it out. but lucy may be able to find us a laundress." "which reminds me," ricky took a crumpled piece of white cloth from her pocket, "if this is yours, rupert, you deserve to do your own washing. i don't know what you've got on it; looks like oil." he took it from her and straightened out a handkerchief. "not guilty this time. ask little brother here." he passed over the dirty linen square. it was plain white--or it had been white before three large black splotches had colored it--without an initial or colored edge. "i think he's prevaricating, ricky," val protested. "this isn't mine. i'm down to one thin dozen and those are the ones you gave me last christmas. they have my initials on." ricky took back the disputed square. "that's funny. it certainly isn't mine. i'm sure one of you must be mistaken." "why?" asked rupert. "because i found it on the hearth-stone in the hall this morning. it wasn't there last night or one of us would have seen it and picked it up, 'cause it was right there in plain sight." "sure it isn't yours, val?" he shook his head. "positive." "queer," murmured rupert and reached for it again. "it's a good quality of linen and it's almost new." he held it to his nose. "that's oil on it. but how--?" "i wonder--" val mused. "what do you know?" asked ricky. "well--oh, it isn't possible. he wouldn't carry a handkerchief," her brother said half to himself. "who wouldn't?" asked rupert. then val told them of his meeting with the boy jeems and what sam had had to say of him. "don't know whether i exactly like this." rupert folded the mysterious square of stained linen. "as you say, val, a boy like that would hardly carry a handkerchief. also, you met him in the garden, while--" "the person who left that was in this house last night!" finished ricky. "and i don't like that!" "the door was locked and bolted when i came down this morning," val observed. rupert nodded. "yes, i distinctly remember doing that before i went up to bed last night. but when i was going around the house this morning i discovered that there are french doors opening from the old ball-room to the terrace, and i didn't inspect their fastening last night." "but who would want to come in here? there are no valuables left except furniture. and it would take three or four men and a truck to collect that. i don't see what he was after," puzzled ricky. rupert arose from the table. "we have, it seems, a mystery on our hands. if you want to amuse yourselves, my children, here's the first clue. i've got to get back to the carriage house and my labors there." he dropped the handkerchief on the table and left. ricky reached for the "clue." "awfully casual about it, isn't he?" she said. "just the same, i believe that this is a clue and i know what our visitor was after, too," she finished triumphantly. "what?" "the treasure richard ralestone hid when the yankee raiders came." "well, if our unknown visitor has as little in the way of clues as we have, he'll be a long time finding it." "and we're going to beat him to it! it's somewhere in the hall, and the secret--" "see here," val interrupted her, "what were you about to tell me when rupert came in?" she put the handkerchief in the breast pocket of her sport dress, buttoning the flap over it. "rupert's got a secret." "what kind?" "it has to do with those two brief-cases of his. you know, the ones he was so particular about all the way down here?" val nodded. those bulging brief-cases had apparently contained the dearest of his roving brother's possessions, judging from the way rupert had fussed if they were a second out of his sight. "this morning when i came downstairs," ricky continued, "he was sneaking them into that little side room off the dining-room corridor, the one which used to be the old plantation office. and when he came out and saw me standing there, he deliberately turned around and locked the door!" "whew!" val commented. "yes, i felt that way too. so i simply asked him what he was doing and he made some silly remark about bluebeard's chamber. he means to keep his old secret, too, 'cause he put the key on his key-ring when he didn't know i was watching him." "this is not the place for a rest cure," her brother observed as he started to scrape and stack the dishes. "first someone unknown leaves his handkerchief for a calling card and then rupert goes fu manchu on us. to say nothing of the rugged and unfriendly son of the soil whom i found bumping around the garden where he had no business to be." "what was he like anyway?" asked his sister as she dipped soap flakes into the dish-water with a liberal hand. "oh, thin, and awfully brown. but not bad looking if it weren't for his mouth and that scowl of his. and he very distinctly doesn't like us. about my build, but quicker on his feet, tough looking. i wouldn't care to try to stop him doing anything he wanted to do." "my dear, are you describing clark gable or someone you met in our garden this morning?" she demanded sweetly. "very well," val retorted huffily into the depths of the oatmeal pan he was wiping, "you catch him next time." "i will," was her serene answer as she wrung out the dish-cloth. they went on to the upstairs work and val received his first lesson in the art of bed-making under his sister's extremely critical tuition. it seemed that corners must be square and that dreadful things were likely to happen when wrinkles were not smoothed out. this exercise led them naturally to unpacking the remainder of the hand baggage and putting things away. it was after ten before val came downstairs crab-fashion, wiping off each step behind him as he came with one of ricky's three dust-cloths. he paused on the landing to pull back the tapestry curtain and open the windows above the alcove seat, letting in the freshness of the morning to rout some of the dank chill of the hall. kneeling there, he watched rupert come around the house. rupert had shed his coat and his sleeves were rolled up almost to his shoulders. there was a streak of black across his cheek and a large rip almost separated the collar from his shirt. although he looked hot, cross, and tired, more like a day-laborer than a gentleman plantation owner whose ancestors had always "planted from the saddle," his stride had a certain buoyancy which it had lacked the day before. with an idea of escaping ricky by joining his brother, val hurried downstairs and headed kitchenward. but his sister was there before him looking over a collection of knives of various lengths. "preparing for a little murder or two?" val asked casually. she jumped and dropped a paring knife. "val, don't do that! i wish you'd whistle or something while you're walking around in those tennis shoes. i can't hear you move. i'm looking for something to cut flowers with. there don't seem to be any scissors except mine and i'm not going to use those." "take dat, miss 'chanda." a fat black hand motioned toward the paring knife. just within the kitchen door stood a wide, a very wide, negro woman. her neat print dress was stiff with starch from a recent washing, and round gold hoops swung proudly from her ears. her black hair, straightened by main force of arm, had been set again in stiff, corrugated waves of extreme fashion, but her broad placid face was both kind and serene. "i'se lucy," she stated, thoroughly at her ease. "an' dis," she reached an arm behind her, pulling forth a girl at least ten shades lighter and thirty-five shades thinner, "is mah sistah's onliest gal-chil', letty-lou. mak' yo' mannahs, letty. does yo' wan' miss 'chanda to think yo' is a know-nothin' outa de swamp?" [illustration: "_i'se lucy," she stated, thoroughly at her ease. "an' dis is letty-lou._"] thus sternly admonished, letty-lou ducked her head shyly and murmured something in a die-away voice. "letty-lou," announced her aunt, "is com' to do fo' yo'all, miss 'chanda. i'se larn'd her good how to do fo' ladies. she is good at scrubbin' an' cleanin' an sich. ah done train'd her mahse'f." letty-lou looked at the floor and twisted her thin hands behind her back. "but," protested ricky, "we're not planning to have anyone do for us, lucy." "dat's all right, miss 'chanda. yo'all's not gittin' a know-nothin'. letty-lou, she knows her work. she kin cook right good." "we can't take her," val backed up ricky. "you must understand, lucy, that we don't have much money and we can't pay for--" "pay fo'!" lucy's indignant sniff reduced him to his extremely unimportant place. "we's not talkin' 'bout pay workin', mistuh ralestone. letty-lou don' git no pay but her eatments. 'co'se, effen miss 'chanda wanna give her some ole clo's now an' den, she kin tak' dem. letty-lou, she don' hav' to git her a pay-work job, her pappy mak's him a good livin'. but miss 'chanda ain' a-goin' to tak' keer dis big hous' all by herself wit' her lil' han's dere. we's ralestone folks. letty-lou, yo' gits on youah ap'on an' gits to work." "but we can't let her," ricky raised her last protest. "miss 'chanda, we's ralestone folks. mah gran' pappy bob was own man to massa miles ralestone. he fit in de wah longside o' massa miles. an' wen de wah was done finish'd, dem two com' home to-gethah. den massa miles, he call mah gran'pappy in an' say, 'bob, yo'all is free an' i'se a ruinated man. heah is fiv' dollahs gol' money an' yo' kin hav' youah hoss.' an' bob, he say, 'cap'n miles, dese heah yankees done said i'se free but dey ain't done said dat i ain't a ralestone man. w'at time does yo'all wan' breakfas' in de mornin'?' an' wen massa miles wen' no'th to mak' his fo'tune, he told bob, 'bob, i'se leavin' dis heah hous' in youah keer.' an', miss 'chanda, we done look aftah pirate's haven evah since, mah gran'pappy, mah pappy, sam an' me." ricky held out her hand. "i'm sorry, lucy. you see, we don't understand very well, we've been away so long." lucy touched ricky's hand and then, for all her weight, bobbed a curtsy. "dat's all right, miss 'chanda, yo' is ouah folks." letty-lou stayed. chapter iv pistols for two--coffee for one val braced himself against the back of the roadster's seat and struggled to hold the car to a road which was hardly more than a cart track. twice since ricky and he had left pirate's haven they had narrowly escaped being bogged in the mud which had worked up through the thin crust of gravel on the surface. to the south lay the old cypress swamps, dark glens of rotting wood and sprawling vines. a spur of this unsavory no-man's land ran close along the road, and looking into it one could almost believe, fancied val, in the legends told by the early french explorers concerning the giant monsters who were supposed to haunt the swamps and wild lands at the mouth of the mississippi. he would not have been surprised to see a brontosaurus peeking coyly down at him from twenty feet or so of neck. it was just the sort of place any self-respecting brontosaurus would have wallowed in. but at last they won free from that place of cold and dank odors. passing through chalmette, they struck the main highway. from then on it was simple enough. st. bernard highway led into st. claude avenue and that melted into north rampart street, one of the boundaries of the old french city. "can't we go slower?" complained ricky. "i'd like to see some of the city without getting a crick in my neck from looking over my shoulder. watch out for st. anne street. that's one corner of beauregarde square, the old congo square--" "where the slaves used to dance on sundays before the war. i know; i've read just as many guide-books as you have. but there is such a thing as obstructing traffic. also we have about a million and one things to do this afternoon. we can explore later. here we are; bienville avenue. no, i will _not_ stop so that you can see that antique store. six blocks to the right," val reminded himself. "val, that was the absinthe house we just passed!" "yes? well, it would have been better for a certain ancestor of ours if he had passed it, too. that was jean lafitte's headquarters at one time. exchange street--the next is ours." they turned into chartres street and pulled up in the next block at the corner of iberville. a four-story house coated with grayish plaster, its windows framed with faded green shutters and its door painted the same misty color, confronted them. there was a tiny shop on the first floor. a weathered sign over the door announced that bonfils et cie. did business within, behind the streaked and bluish glass of the small curved window-panes. but what business bonfils and company conducted was left entirely to the imagination of the passer-by. val locked the roadster and took from ricky the long legal-looking envelope which rupert had given them to deliver to mr. lefleur. ricky was staring in a puzzled manner at the shop when her brother took her by the arm. "are you sure that you have the right place? this doesn't look like an office to me." "we have to go around to the courtyard entrance. lefleur occupies the second floor." a small wooden door, reinforced with hinges of hand-wrought iron, opened before them, making them free of a courtyard paved with flagstones. in the center a tall tree shaded the flower bed at its foot and threw shadows upon the first of the steps leading to the upper floors. the ralestones frankly stared about them. this was the first house of the french quarter they had seen, although their name might have admitted them to several closely guarded creole strongholds. lefleur's house followed a pattern common to the old city. the lower floor fronting on the street was in use only as a shop or store-room. in the early days each shopkeeper lived above his place of business and rented the third and fourth floors to aristocrats in from their plantations for the fashionable season. a long, narrow ell ran back from the main part of the house to form one side of the courtyard. the ground floor of this contained the old slave quarters and kitchens, while the second was cut into bedrooms which had housed the young men of the family so that they could come and go at will without disturbing the more sedate members of the household. these small rooms were now in use as the offices of mr. lefleur. from the balcony, running along the ell, onto which each room opened, one could look down into the courtyard. it was on this balcony that the lawyer met them with outstretched hands after they had given their names to his dark, languid young clerk. "but this is good of you!" rené lefleur beamed on them impartially. he was a small, plumpish, round-faced man in his early forties, who spoke in perpetual italics. his eyebrows, arched over-generously by nature, gave him a look of never-ending astonishment at the world and all its works. but his genial smile was kindness itself. unaccustomed as val was to sudden enthusiasms, he found himself liking rené lefleur almost before his hand gripped val's. "miss ralestone, it is a pleasure, a very great pleasure, to see you here! and this," he turned to val, "this must be that brother valerius both you and mr. ralestone spoke so much of during our meeting in new york. you have safely recovered from that most unfortunate accident, mr. ralestone? but of course, your presence here is my answer. and how do you like louisiana, miss ralestone?" his eyes behind his gold-rimmed eyeglasses sparkled as he tilted his head a fraction toward ricky as if to hear the clearer. "well enough. though we've seen very little of it yet, mr. lefleur." "when you have seen pirate's haven," he replied, "you have seen much of louisiana." "but we're forgetting our manners!" exclaimed the girl. "we want to thank you for everything you've done for us. rupert said to tell you that while he doesn't care for beans as a rule, the beans we found in our cupboard were very superior beans." mr. lefleur hooted with laughter like a small boy. "he is droll, is that brother of yours. and has sam been to see you?" "sam and--lucy," answered ricky with emphasis. "lucy has decided to take us in hand. she has installed letty-lou over our protests." the little lawyer nodded complacently. "yes, lucy will take care of you. she is a master housekeeper and cook--ah!" his eyes rolled upward. "and mr. ralestone, how is he?" "all right. he's going over the farm with sam this afternoon. we were sent in his place to give you the papers he spoke to you about." at ricky's answer, val held out the envelope he had carried. to their joint surprise, lefleur pounced upon it and withdrew to the window of the room into which he had conducted them. there he spread out the four sheets of yellowed paper which the envelope had contained. "what were we carrying?" whispered ricky. "part of rupert's deep, dark secret?" "no," her brother hissed back, "those are the plans of the patagonian fort which were stolen from the russian embassy last thursday by the beautiful woman spy disguised with a long green beard. you know, the proper first chapter of an international espionage thriller. you are the dumb but beautiful newspaper reporter on the scent, and i--" "the even dumber g-man who spends most of his time running three steps ahead of fu chew chow and his gang of oriental demons. in the second chapter--" but a glance at mr. lefleur's face as he turned away from the window put an end to their nonsense. gone was his smile, his beaming good-will toward the world. he seemed a little tired, a trifle stooped. "not here then," he said slowly to himself as he slipped the papers back into the envelope. "mr. valerius," he looked up at the boy very seriously, "the lefleurs have served the ralestones, acting as their men of business, for over a hundred years. we owe your family a great debt. when young denys lefleur was shipped over here to new orleans under false accusation of his enemies, the first richard ralestone became his patron. he helped the boy salvage something from the wreck of the lefleur fortunes in france to start anew in a decent profession under tolerable surroundings, when others of his kind died miserably as beggars on the mud flats. twice before have we been forced to be the bearers of ill news, but--" he shrugged, "that was in the past. this lies in the future." "what does?" asked ricky. "it is such a tangle," he said, running his hand through his short, gray-streaked hair. "a tangle such as lawyers are supposed to delight in. but they don't, i assure you that they don't, miss ralestone. not if they have their client's interest at heart. you know, of course, of the missing ralestone--roderick?" ricky and val both nodded. mr. lefleur spread out his plump hands in a queer little gesture as if he were pushing something away. "this whole unfortunate business begins with him. as far as we know today, he and his brother were co-owners of pirate's haven. when young roderick disappeared, he was still part owner. although he was presumed dead, he was never lawfully declared so. pirate's haven was simply assumed to be the property of your branch of the family." "our branch of the family?" val echoed him. "do you mean that some descendant of roderick has appeared to put in a claim?" "that is the problem. three days ago a man came to my office. he said that he is the direct descendant of roderick ralestone and that he can produce proof of that fact." "and he wants his share of the estate?" asked ricky shrewdly. "yes." "he can keep on wanting," val said shortly. "we've nothing to give." "there's pirate's haven," pointed out mr. lefleur. "but he can't--" ricky's hand closed about her brother's wrist. "naturally he can't take it," val assured her hotly. "pirate's haven is ours. this looks to me like blackmail. he'll threaten to stir up a lot of trouble unless we buy him off." mr. lefleur nodded. "that is perhaps the motive behind it all." "well," val forced a laugh, "then he loses. we haven't the money to buy him off." "neither have you the money to fight a case through the courts, mr. valerius," answered the lawyer soberly. "but there is some chance, there must be!" urged ricky. "i submitted the full case to mr. john stanton yesterday--mr. stanton is our local authority on cases of this type. he has informed me that there is a single ray of hope. frankly, i find this claimant a dubious person, but a shrewd one. he knows that he has the advantage now, but should we gain the upper hand, we could, i believe, rid ourselves of him. our chance lies in the past. this was first a french and then a spanish colony. under both rules the law of primogeniture sometimes held force. that is, an estate passed to the eldest son of a family. your estate was such a one. in fact, we possess in this very office old charters and papers which state that the property was entailed after the european custom. if that were so, the courts might declare that the elder of the twins born in was the sole owner of pirate's haven. "but which of the twin brothers was the elder? you will say at once, richard. but your rival will say roderick. and there is no proof. for in the spring, two months after the birth of the boys, most of the family papers were destroyed in the great fire which almost wiped out the city and burned the ralestone town house. there is no birth record in existence. i appealed to your brother to return to me these papers which miles ralestone took north with him after the war. you returned them today but there was nothing in them of any value to this case. "however, if you can find such proof, that richard ralestone was the elder and thus the legal heir under the laws of spain, then we shall have a solid fact upon which to base our fight." "there is such a proof," began ricky slowly. "what? where?" demanded mr. lefleur. "don't you remember, val," she turned to him, "what rupert said about the luck last night--that the names of the heirs were engraved upon its blade? we'll have to find the luck! we'll just have to!" "but roderick took the luck with him. and if it's still in existence, this rival will have it now," her brother reminded her. "yes, of course, i was forgetting--" her voice trailed off into silence and val stared at her with a dropped jaw. such a quick change of manner was totally unlike ricky. "yes," she repeated slowly and distinctly, "i guess we're the losers--" "for pete's sake--" he began hotly and then he saw her hand making furious motions in his direction from behind the screen of her large purse. "well, i suppose we are in a hole." he managed to mend his tone a fraction. "rupert will probably be in to see you tomorrow, mr. lefleur." "it would be well for him to become acquainted with the whole matter as quickly as possible," agreed the unhappy creole. "you may tell mr. ralestone that i am, of course, having this claimant thoroughly investigated. we shall have to wait and see. time is a big factor," he murmured as if to himself. ricky smiled brightly. there was a sort of eagerness about her, as if she were wild to be off. "then we'll say good-bye for the present, mr. lefleur. and may i mention again how much we have appreciated your thoughtfulness?" rené lefleur aroused himself. "but it was a pleasure, a very great pleasure, miss ralestone. you are returning to pirate's haven now?" "well--" she hesitated. mystified at what lay behind her unexplainable actions, val could only stand and listen. "we did have some errands. of course, this news--" lefleur gestured widely. "but it will come all right. it must. there are papers somewhere." firmly ricky broke away from more protracted farewells. as the ralestones turned out of the courtyard into which their host had conducted them, val matched his step with hers. "well? what's the matter?" he demanded. "we had an eavesdropper." val stopped short. "what do you mean?" "i was facing the door to the balcony. there was the shadow of a head on the floor. when you spoke about rick having the sword, it went away--the shadow, i mean. but someone had been listening and now he knows about the luck and what it means to us." aiming a kick at the nearest tire of the roadster, val regarded the mud-stained rubber moodily. "fine mess!" "yes, isn't it? and there seems to be no loose end to the thing," ricky protested. "it's like holding a big tangle of wool and being told to have it all straightened out before night--the plot of a fairy-tale. we have so many odd sections but no ends. there's that boy in the garden this morning who said that he has as much right at pirate's haven as we have, and then there's that handkerchief, and now this man who claims half the estate--" "and our mysterious listener," finished her brother. "what shall we do now? go home?" "no. we might as well do the errands." she seated herself in the car. "val--" "yes?" "i know one thing." she leaned toward him and her eyes shone green as they did when she was excited or greatly troubled. "we aren't going to let go of our tangle until we do find an end. we _are_ the ralestones of pirate's haven and we are going to continue to be the ralestones of pirate's haven." "in spite of the enemy? i agree." val stepped on the starter. "you know, a hundred years ago there would have been a very simple remedy for this rival-claimant business." "what?" "pistols for two--coffee for one. rupert or i would have met him out at the dueling oaks and that would have been the end of him." "or you. but dueling--here!" "very common. the finest fencing masters on the north american continent plied their trade here. why, one, pepe llula, the most famous duelist of his time, became the guardian of a cemetery just so, as gossip rumored, he could have some place to bury his opponents. "then on the other hand, if dueling were too risky, we might have had him voodooed, had we lived back in the good old days. paid that voodoo queen--what was her name? marie something or other--to put a curse on him so he'd just wither away." "and serve him right, too." ricky stared straight before her. "i don't know how you feel about it, but i'm not going to give up pirate's haven without a fight. it's--it's the first real home we've ever had. rupert's older; he's spent his time traveling and seeing the world; it may not mean so much to him. but you and i, val--you know what it's been like! schools, and spending the holidays with aunts or in those frightful camps, never getting a chance to be together. we can't--we just can't have this only to lose it again. we can't!" her voice broke. "so we won't." "val, when you say things like that, i can almost believe them. if--if we do lose, let's stick together this time. promise?" her voice lifted in an effort toward lightness. "i promise. after this it will be the two of us together. do you know, i've never really had a chance to get acquainted with my very good-looking sister." she laughed. "i can't very well curtsy while sitting down in here, but 'thank yuh for them purty words, stranger.' and now for the express station. then you are to stop at the southeastern news association headquarters for something of rupert's and--" the afternoon went quickly enough. they despatched the rest of their possessions from the express station to pirate's haven, went on a round of miscellaneous shopping, picked up a weighty box at the news association, and ended up at five o'clock by visiting that institution of new orleans, a coffee-house. ricky was earnestly peeking into one of her ten or so small bags. they had parked the car and val complained that he had become a sort of packhorse, and anything but patient one. "what if your feet do hurt," his sister said wearily as she closed the bag and reached for another. "so do mine. these sidewalks feel like red-hot iron. i'll bet i could do one of those fakir tricks where you're supposed to walk over red-hot plowshares." "not only my feet but also my backbone is protesting. whether you have reached the end of that _anthony adverse_ of a shopping list or not, we're going home! and what _are_ you looking for? you've opened all those bags at least twice and dropped no less than three on the floor each time," he snapped irritably. "my pralines. i'm sure i gave them to you to carry. i've heard of new orleans pralines all my life, so i got some today and now they've disappeared." "they were probably included in that last arm-load of parcels i stowed in the car. are you through?" ricky looked into her coffee-cup. "it's empty, so i guess i am. where is the car? i'm so lost i don't know where we are now." "we left it about three blocks away on the sunny side of the street," val informed her with the relish of one who is thoroughly tired of his present existence. "if this is your usual behavior on a shopping trip, rupert may bring you in the next time. half an hour to choose a toothbrush-mug in the ten-cent store!" "for a person who spends a good fifteen minutes matching a tie and a handkerchief," sniffed ricky as she rose, "you're in a hurry to criticize others." "come _on_!" her brother almost howled as he scooped up the packages. "anyway, we won't have to get supper or wash the dishes or anything." she pulled off her hat as she settled herself in the car. "it's so beastly hot, but it'll be cooler at home. do you suppose we could go swimming in the bayou?" "i don't see why not." val guided the roadster into a side street. "where's that map of the city? we've got to see how to get back on to north rampart from here." "i'll look." ricky bent her head and so she did not see the two figures walking close together and so rapt in conversation that the one on the curb side brushed against a lamp-post. now just what, considered val, was the slim young clerk from mr. lefleur's office telling that red-faced man in the too-snug suit? he would have liked to have overheard a word or two. perhaps he had become unduly suspicious but--he had his doubts. "we turn left at the next corner," said ricky. val changed gears and drove on. chapter v their tenant discovers the ralestones val stood on the small ornamental bridge pitching twigs down into the tiny garden brook. a moody frown creased his forehead. under his feet lay a pair of pruning-shears he had borrowed from sam with the intention of doing something about the jungle which surrounded pirate's haven on three sides. that is, he had intended doing something, but now-- "penny for your thoughts." "lady," he answered dismally without turning around, "you can have a bushel of them for less than that." "there is a neat expression which describes you beautifully at this moment," commented ricky as she came up beside her brother. "have you ever heard of a 'sour puss?" "several times. oh, what's the use!" val kicked at a long twig. a warm wind brought in its hold the heavy scent of flowering bushes and trees. his shirt clung to his shoulders damply. it was hot even in the shade of the oaks. rupert had gone to town to see lefleur and hear the worst, so that pirate's haven, save for themselves and letty-lou, was deserted. "come on," ricky's arm slid through his, "let's explore. think of it--we've been here two whole days and we don't know yet what our back yard looks like. rupert says that our land runs clear down into the swamp. let's go see." "but i was going to--" he made a feeble beginning toward stooping for the pruning-shears. "val ralestone, nobody can work outdoors in this heat, and you know it. now come on. bring those with you and we'll leave them in the carriage house as we pass it. you know," she continued as they went along the path, "the trouble with us is that we haven't enough to do. what we need is a good old-fashioned job." "i thought we were going to be treasure hunters," he protested laughingly. "that's merely a side-line. i'm talking about the real thing, something which will pay us cash money on saturday nights or thereabout." "well, we can both use a typewriter fairly satisfactorily," val offered. "but as you are the world's worst speller and i am apt to become entangled in my commas, i can't see us the shining lights of any efficient office. and while we've had expensive educations, we haven't had practical ones. so what do we do now?" "we sit down and think of one thing we're really good at doing and then--val, what is that?" she pointed dramatically at a mound of brick overgrown with vines. to their right and left stretched a row of tumble-down cabins, some with the roofs totally gone and the doors fallen from the hinges. "the old plantation bake oven, i should say. this must be what's left of the slave quarters. but where's the carriage house?" "it must be around the other side of the big house. let's try that direction anyway. but i think you'd better go first and do some chopping. this dress may be a poor thing but it's my own and likely to be for some time to come. and short of doing a sort of snake act, i don't see how we're going to get through there." val applied the shears ruthlessly to vine and bush alike, glad to find something to attack. the weight of his depression was still upon him. it was all very well for ricky to talk so lightly of getting a job, but talk would never put butter on their bread--if they could afford bread. "you certainly have done a fine job of ruining that!" val surpassed ricky's jump by a good inch. by the old bake oven stood a woman. a disreputable straw hat with a raveled brim was pulled down over her untidy honey-colored hair and she was rolling up the sleeves of a stained smock to bare round brown arms. "it's very plain to the eye that you're no gardener," she continued pleasantly. "and may i ask who you are and what you are doing here? this place is not open to trespassers, you know." "we did think we would explore," answered ricky meekly. "you see, this all belongs to my brother." she swept her hand about in a wide circle. "and just who is he?" "rupert ralestone of pirate's haven." "good--!" their questioner's hand flew to cover her mouth, and at the comic look of dismay which appeared on her face, ricky's laugh sounded. a moment later the stranger joined in her mirth. "and here i thought that i was being oh so helpful to an absent landlord," she chuckled. "and this brother of yours is _my_ landlord!" "how--? why, we didn't know that." "i've rented your old overseer's house and am using it for my studio. by the way, introductions are in order, i believe. i am charity biglow, from boston as you might guess. only beans and the bunker hill monument are more boston than the biglows." "i'm richanda ralestone and this is my brother valerius." miss biglow grinned cheerfully at val. "that won't do, you know; too romantic by far. i once read a sword-and-cloak romance in which the hero answered to the name of valerius." "i haven't a cloak nor a sword and my friends generally call me val, so i hope i'm acceptable," he grinned back at her. "indeed you are--both of you. and what are you doing now?" "trying to find a building known as the carriage house. i'm beginning to believe that its existence is wholly mythical," val replied. "it's over there, simply yards from the direction in which you're heading. but suppose you come and visit me instead. really, as part landlords, you should be looking into the condition of your rentable property." she turned briskly to the left down the lane on which were located the slave cabins and guided the ralestones along a brick-paved path into a clearing where stood a small house of typical plantation style. the lower story was of stone with steep steps leading to a balcony which ran completely around the second floor of the house. as they reached the balcony she pulled off her hat and threw it in the general direction of a cane settee. without that wreck of a hat, with the curls of her long bob flowing free, she looked years younger. "make yourselves thoroughly at home. after all, this is your house, you know." "but we didn't," protested ricky. "mr. lefleur didn't tell us a thing about you." "perhaps he didn't know." charity biglow was pinning back her curls. "i rented from harrison." "like the bathroom," val murmured and looked up to find them staring at him. "oh, i just meant that you were another improvement that he had installed," he stammered. miss biglow nodded in a satisfied sort of way. "spoken like a true southern gentleman, though i don't think in the old days that bathrooms would have crept into a compliment paid to a lady. now i did have some lemonade--if you will excuse me," and she was gone into the house. ricky smiled. "i like our tenant," she said softly. "you don't expect me to disagree with that, do you?" her brother had just time enough to ask before their hostess appeared again complete with tray, glasses, and a filled pitcher which gave forth the refreshing sound of clinking ice. and after her paraded an old friend of theirs, tail proudly erect. "there's our cat!" cried ricky. val snapped his fingers. "here, satan." after staring round-eyed at both of them, the cat crossed casually to the settee and proceeded to sharpen his claws. "well, i like that! after i shared my bed with the brute, even though i didn't know it until the next morning," val exploded. "why, where did you meet cinders?" asked miss biglow as she put down the tray. "he came to us the first night we were at pirate's haven," explained ricky. "i thought he was a ghost or something when he scratched at the back door." "so that's where he was. he used to go over to the harrisons' for meals a lot. when i'm working i don't keep very regular hours and he doesn't like to be neglected. come here, cinders, and make your manners." replying to her invitation with an insolent flirt of his tail, cinders, whom val continued obstinately to regard as "satan," disappeared around the corner of the balcony. charity biglow looked at them solemnly. "so obedient," she observed; "just like a child." "are you an artist, too?" ricky asked as she put down her glass. miss biglow's face wrinkled into a grimace. "my critics say not. i manage to provide daily bread and sometimes a slice of cake by doing illustrations for action stories. and then once in a while i labor for the good of my soul and try to produce something my more charitable friends advise me to send to a show." "may--may we see some of them--the pictures, i mean?" inquired ricky timidly. "if you can bear it. i use the side balcony for a workshop in this kind of weather. i'm working on a picture now, something more ambitious than i usually attempt in heat of this sort. but my model didn't show up this morning so i'm at a loose end." she led them around the corner where satan had disappeared and pointed to a table with a sketching board at one end, several canvases leaning face against the house, and an easel covered with a clean strip of linen. "my workshop. a trifle untidy, but then i am an untidy person. i'm expecting an order so i'm just whiling away my time working on an idea of my own until it comes." ricky touched the strip of covering across the canvas on the easel. "may i?" she asked. "yes. it might be a help, getting some other person's reaction to the thing. i had a clear idea of what i wanted to do when i started but i don't think it's turning out to be what i planned." ricky lifted off the cover. val stared at the canvas. [illustration: _ricky lifted off the cover. val stared at the canvas._] "but that is he!" he exclaimed. charity biglow turned to the boy. "and what do you mean--" "that's the boy i found in the garden, ricky!" "is it?" she stared, fascinated, at the lean brown face, the untidy black hair, the bitter mouth, which their hostess had so skilfully caught in her unfinished drawing. "so you've met jeems." miss biglow looked at val thoughtfully. "and what did you think of him?" "it's rather--what did he think of me. he seemed to hate me. i don't know why. all i ever said to him was 'hello.'" "jeems is a queer person--" "sam says that he is none too honest," observed ricky, her attention still held by the picture. miss biglow shook her head. "there is a sort of feud between the swamp people and the farmers around here. and neither side is wholly to be believed in their estimation of the other. jeems isn't dishonest, and neither are a great many of the muskrat hunters. in the early days all kinds of outlaws and wanted men fled into the swamps and lived there with the hunters. one or two desperate men gave the whole of the swamp people a bad name and it has stuck. they are a strange folk back there in the fur country. "some are cajuns, descendants of exiles from evangeline's country; some are creoles who took to that way of life after the civil war ruined them. there's many a barefooted boy or girl of the swamps who bears a name that was once honored at the court of france or spain. and there are americans of the old frontier stock who came down river with andrew jackson's army from the wilds of tennessee and the indian country. it's a strange mixture, and once in a while you find a person like jeems. he speaks the uneducated jargon of his people but he reads and writes french and english perfectly. he has studied under père armand until he has a classical education such as was popular for creole boys of good family some fifty years ago. père armand is an old man now, but he is as good an instructor as he is a priest. "jeems wants to make something of himself. he argues logically that the swamp has undeveloped resources which might save its inhabitants from the grinding poverty which is slowly destroying them. and it is jeems' hope that he can discover some of the swamp secrets when he is fitted by training to do so." "who is he?" val asked. "is jeems his first or last name?" "his last. i have never heard his given name. he is very reticent about his past, though i do know that he is an orphan. but he is of creole descent and he does have breeding as well as ambition. unfortunately he had quite an unpleasant experience with a boy who was visiting the harrisons last summer. the visitor accused jeems of taking a fine rifle which was later discovered right where the boy had left it in his own canoe. jeems has a certain pride and he was turned against all the plantation people. his attitude is unfortunate because he longs so for a different sort of life and yet has no contact with young people except those of the swamp. i think he is beginning to trust me, for he will come in the mornings to pose for my picture of the swamp hunter. do you know," she hesitated, "i think that you would find a real friend in jeems if you could overcome his hatred of plantation people. you would gain as much as he from such an association. he can tell you things about the swamp--stories which go back to the old pirate days. perhaps--" ricky looked up from the uncompleted picture. "i think he'd be nice to know. but why does he look so--so sort of starved?" "probably because the bill of fare in a swamp cabin is not as varied as it might be," answered charity biglow. "but you can't offer him anything, of course. i don't even know where he lives. and now, tell me about yourselves. are you planning to live here?" her frank interest seemed perfectly natural. one simply couldn't resent charity biglow. "well," ricky laughed ruefully, "we can't very well live anywhere else. i think rupert still has ten dollars--" "after his expedition this morning, i would have my doubts of that," val cut in. "you see, miss biglow, we are back to the soil now." "charity is the name," she corrected him. "so you're down--" "but not out!" ricky hastened to assure her. "but we might be that." and then and there she told their tenant of the rival claimant. charity listened closely, absent-mindedly sucking the wooden shaft of one of her brushes. when ricky had done, she nodded. "nice mess you've dropped into. but i think that your lawyer has the right idea. this is a neat piece of blackmail and your claimant will disappear into thin air if you have a few concrete facts to face him down with. are you sure you've looked through all the family papers? no hiding-places or safes--" "one," said ricky calmly, "but we don't know where that is. in the civil war days, after general butler took over new orleans, some family possessions were hidden somewhere in the long hall, but we don't know where. the secret was lost when richard ralestone was shot by yankee raiders." "is he the ghost?" asked charity. "no. you ask that as if you know something," val observed. "nothing but talk. there have been lights seen, white ones. and a while back my maid rose left because she saw something in the garden one night." "jeems, probably," the boy commented. "he seems to like the place." "no, not jeems. he was sitting right on that railing when we both heard rose scream." "val, the handkerchief!" ricky's hand arose to her buttoned pocket. "then there _was_ someone inside the house that night. but why--unless they were after the treasure!" "the quickest way to find out," her brother got up from the edge of the table where he had perched, "is to go and do a little probing of our own. we have a good two hours until lunch. will you join us?" he asked charity. "you tempt me, but i've got to get in as much work on this as i can," she indicated her canvas. "and jeems may show up even if it is late. so my conscience says 'no.' unfortunately i do possess a regular rock-ribbed new england conscience." "rupert will be back by four," said ricky. "will your conscience let you come over for coffee with us then? you see how quickly we have adopted the native customs--coffee at four." "ricky," her brother explained, "desires to become that figure of romance--the southern belle." "then we must do what we can to help her create the proper atmosphere," urged charity solemnly. "even to the victoria and the coach-hound?" val demanded in dismay. "well, perhaps not that far," she laughed. "anyway, i accept your kind invitation with pleasure. i shall be there at four--if i can find a presentable dress. now clear out, you two, and see what secrets of the past you can uncover before lunch time." but their explorations resulted in nothing except slightly frayed tempers. val had sounded what paneling there was, but as he had no idea what a hollow panel should sound like if rapped, he inwardly decided that he was not exactly fitted for such investigations. ricky broke two fingernails pressing the carving about the fireplace and sat down on the couch to state in no uncertain terms what she thought of the house, and of their ancestor who had been so misguided as to get himself shot after hiding the stuff. she ended with a brilliant but short description of val's present habits and vices--which she added because he happened to have said meekly enough that if she would only trim her nails to a reasonable length, such accidents could be avoided. when she had done, her brother sat back on the lowest step of the stairs and wiped his hands on his handkerchief. "seeing that i have been crawling about on my hands and knees inspecting cracks in the floor, i think i have as much right to lose my temper as you have. short of tearing the house down, i don't see how we are going to find anything without directions. and i am _not_ in favor of taking such a drastic step as yet." "it's around here somewhere, i know it!" she kicked petulantly at the hearth-stone. "that statement is certainly a big help," val commented. "several yards across and i don't know how many up and down--and you just know it's there somewhere. well, you can keep on pressing until you wear your fingers out, but i'm calling it a day right now." she did not answer, and he got stiffly to his feet. he was hot and more tired than he had been since he had left the hospital. because he was just as sure as ricky that the key to their riddle must be directly before them at that moment, he was thoroughly disgusted. a strange sound from his sister brought him around. ricky was not pretty when she cried. no pearly drops slipped down white cheeks. her nose shone red and she sniffed. but ricky did not cry often. only when she was discouraged, or when she was really hurt. "why, ricky--" val began uncertainly. "go 'way," she hiccupped. "you don't care--you don't care 'bout anything. if we have to lose this--" "we won't! we'll find a way!" he assured her hurriedly. "i'm sorry i snapped at you. i'm just tired and hot, and so are you. let's go upstairs and freshen up. lunch will be ready--" "i kno-o-ow--" her sob deepened into a wail. "then rupert will laugh at us and--" "ricky! for goodness sake, pull yourself together!" she looked up at him, round-mouthed in surprise at his sharpness. and then to his amazement she began to giggle, her giggles mixed with her sobs. "you do look so funny," she gasped, "like the stern father of a family. why don't you fight back always when i get mean, val?" he grinned back at her. "i don't know. shall i, next time?" she rubbed her face with a businesslike air and tucked her handkerchief away. "there isn't going to be any next time," she announced briskly. "if there is--well--" "yes?" val prompted. "then you can just spank me or something drastic. come on, i must look a sight. and goodness knows, you're no beauty with that black mark across your chin and your slacks all grimy at the knees. we've got to clean up before lunch or letty-lou will think we're some sort of heathen." with that she turned and led the way upstairs, totally recovered and herself again in spite of a red nose and suspiciously moist eyelashes. chapter vi satan goes a-hunting and finds work for idle hands "val, did that cat go upstairs?" ricky stood at the foot of the hall staircase frowning crossly. "if he did, you'll just have to go up and get him. i will not have him walking on the beds with muddy feet. there's enough to do here without cleaning up after a lazy cat. where's rupert?" her brother put aside his note-book and got up from the couch with a lazy stretch. ricky's early-morning energy was apt to be a little irksome and val had not had a good night. when one lies and stares up at a ceiling, one sometimes hears strange noises which cannot be accounted for by wind or creaking boards. "he retired into bluebeard's den right after breakfast and he hasn't appeared since." "i should think that after what he heard yesterday he'd be doing something," she protested. "and what is there for him to do? you know just how far we got with our investigations yesterday. go rap on his door if you like and stir him up. but i don't think his welcome will be a cordial one." ricky sat down on the bottom step and pushed the hair back from her forehead. suddenly she looked very small and faintly forlorn with all that expanse of age-blackened wood behind her. "i can't understand you two at all. one would think you would be just as well pleased if that beezel the rival walked off with this place. you aren't even trying to fight!" "listen, ricky, how can we fight when we have nothing solid to fight with? lefleur is doing all he can, we have explored every possibility here--" "val, don't you _want_ to stay here?" she interrupted him. he looked around at stone and wood. did he really want to? his instant hot anger at the thought of another owner there was his answer. why, this house was a part of them, as much as if they had laid its foundation stones with their own hands. they had been brought up on its blood-stained legends, and on the one or two happier tales which had been lived within its walls. if they had to leave, they would regret it all their lives. and yet--rupert seemed to take no interest in the claims of the rival, and only ricky wanted to fight. ricky got up from the stairs. "we might as well go up and catch that cat," she said. at the top of the stairs satan sat, his eyes upon the landing windows. val reached out his hands for him, but in that single instant satan was gone. a black tail disappeared around the door of the jackson room. "oh, dear, i hope he isn't going to get on that bed." ricky opened the door wider. "no, there he goes under instead of on it. can you see him, val?" her brother crouched and lifted the edge of the brocaded cover which swept to the floor. to val's surprise a thin line of light showed along the wall at the head of the bed. "ricky, look behind the head of the bed! is it fast against the wall?" she started to the tall canopied head and pulled the faded fabrics away from the paneling. "no, there's about two feet here at the bottom. it doesn't show because the canopy covers it. and, val, there's an opening here! satan's trying to get through!" "we need a flashlight." "i'll get rupert's. val, promise not to go in--if it _is_ a door--until i come back!" "of course; but hurry." the flashlight revealed a wide panel which slid upward. time and damp had warped the wood so that it no longer fitted snugly to the floor as the builder had intended. but the same warping made the door defy their efforts to raise it any higher. at last, by prying and pounding, they got it up perhaps a yard from the floor. satan slipped through and they followed on hands and knees. they crawled into a small room lighted by two round windows set like eyes in the side wall. more than three-quarters of the space was filled with furniture and boxes wrapped in tarred canvas. the choking dust and general mustiness of the long-closed apartment drove val to investigate the window fastenings and throw them open to the morning air. "there must be another door somewhere," he said, calling ricky away from a box where she was picking at the knotted rope which bound it. "all these things couldn't have been brought through that hole behind the bed." "here it is," she said a moment later, pointing to an oblong set flush with the wall. "it's bolted on this side." "let me open it and see where we are." val fumbled at the rusty latch, but he had to use an iron poker from a discarded fire stand in the corner before he could hammer it back. again the door resisted their efforts to push it open until val flung his full weight against it. with a snapping report it swung open and he sprawled forward into the short hall which had once led into the garden wing, an ell of the house destroyed by roving british raiders during the days of . the only wholly wooden portion of the house, it had been burnt and never rebuilt. "come on," ricky pulled at val's sleeve, "let's explore." he looked at his black hands. "i would suggest some soap and water, several brooms, and some dusting cloths if we're going to do it right. better make a regular house-cleaning party of it." "goodness, what have i strayed into?" charity biglow stood in the lower hall staring at the younger ralestones as they came through from the kitchen. they had both changed into their oldest and least respectable clothes. ricky, in fact, was wearing a pair of val's slacks and one of rupert's shirts, and they were burdened with a broom which was long past its youth, several smaller brushes, and a great bundle of floor-cloths. "we've found a secret room--" began ricky. "as one door has been in plain sight since the building of this house, it could hardly be called a secret room," val objected. "well, we didn't know it was there until satan found the back entrance for us. and now we're going to clean it out. it's full of furniture and boxes and things." "don't!" charity held up a paint-streaked hand. "you will have me drooling in a moment. i don't suppose you could use another assistant? after all, it was my cat who found it for you. if you can provide me with a set of those weird coverings which seem to be your house-cleaning uniforms, i would just love to wield a broom in your company." "the more the merrier," laughed ricky. "i think val has another pair of slacks--" "that's right, dispose of my wardrobe before my face," he commented, balancing his load more carefully in preparation for climbing the stairs. "only spare my white flannels, please. i'm saving those for the occasion when i can play the country gentleman in style." upstairs he braced open the hall door of the storage-room. the open windows had cleared the air within but they were too high and too small to admit enough light to reach the far corners. it would be best, they decided, to carry each box and piece of furniture to the hall for examination. with the zeal of treasure hunters they set to work. some time later, when val was coaxing the second box through the door, they were interrupted. "and just what is going on here?" rupert stood at the end of the hall. "oh," ricky smiled sweetly, "did we really disturb you?" "well, i did think that there was a troop of elephants doing tap dancing up here. but that isn't the point--just _what_ are you doing?" "cleaning house." ricky flicked a gray rag in his direction freeing a cloud of dust. "don't you think it needs it?" rupert sneezed. "it seems so. but why--? miss biglow!" charity, extremely dirty--she had apparently run dusty hands across her forehead several times--had come to the door of the storage-room. at the sight of rupert she flushed and made a hurried attempt at smoothing her hair. "i--" she began, when ricky interrupted her. "charity is helping us, which is more than we can say of you. go back to your old den and hibernate. and then you can't look down that long nose of yours when we turn up the papers that'll save us from the poorhouse." "that's telling him," val murmured approvingly as he fanned himself with one of the cleaner cloths. "but perhaps we had better explain. you see, satan went hunting and found work for idle hands," and he told the tale of the sliding panel behind the bed. when he had finished, rupert laughed. "so you are still determined on treasure hunting, are you? well, if it will keep you out of mischief, go to it." "rupert," ricky faced him squarely, "don't be utterly insufferable. if you had one drop of hot blood in you, you'd be just as thrilled as we are. just because you've been around and around the world until you got dizzy or something, you needn't stand there with that 'see-the-little-children-play' smirk on your face. you don't really care whether we lose pirate's haven or not, do you?" rupert straightened and the color crept up across his high cheek-bones. his mouth opened and then he closed it again without speaking the words he had intended, closed with a firmness which tightened his lips into a straight line. "don't stand there and glower at me," ricky went on. "why don't you say what you were going to? i'm just about tired of this world-weary attitude--" "ricky!" val clapped his black hand over her mouth and turned to charity. "please excuse the fireworks. they are not usual, i assure you." "let me go!" ricky twisted out of his grip. "i don't care if charity does hear. she ought to know what we're really like!" "speak for yourself, my pet." the red had faded from rupert's face. "you do have a nice little habit of speaking your mind, don't you? but on this occasion i believe you're at least eight-tenths right. i have been neglecting my opportunities. suppose you let me get at that box, val. and look here, if you are going to unpack these, why not move them down to the end of the hall and turn them out on a sheet?" charity and ricky suddenly disappeared back into the room and were very busy whenever rupert crossed their line of vision, but val was heartily glad of his brother's help in lifting and pulling. "better not try to take this bedstead and stuff out," rupert advised when they had the three boxes out in the hall. "we have no need for it now, anyway." "i believe--yes, it is! a real sergnoret piece!" charity was industriously rubbing away at the head of the bed. rupert knelt down beside her. "and just what is a sergnoret piece?" "a collector's item nowadays. françois sergnoret was one of the greatest cabinet-makers of new orleans. see that 's'--that's the way he always signed his work." "treasure trove!" cried ricky. "i wonder how much it's worth?" "exactly nothing to us." rupert was running his hands across the mahogany. "we couldn't sell anything from this house until the title is cleared." as val moved around to the opposite side to see better, his foot struck against something on the floor. he stooped and picked up a box with a slanting cover, the whole black and smooth with age and the rubbing of countless hands. "what's this?" he had crossed to the door and was examining his find in the light. rupert's hand fell upon his shoulder. "val, be careful of that. charity, he's got something here!" he pulled her up beside him, not noting in his excitement that he had broken out of the formal shell which seemed to wall him in whenever she was around. "a bible box! and an authentic one, too!" she drew her fingers down the slope of the lid. "and just what is it?" val asked for the second time. "these boxes were used in the seventeenth century for writing-desks and later to keep the large family bibles in. but this is the first one i've ever seen outside of a museum. what's this on the lid?" she traced a worn outline. val studied the design. "why, it's joe! you know, that grinning skull we have stuck up all over the place to bolster up our superiority complex. that proves that this is ours, all right." "perhaps--" ricky's eyes were round with excitement, "perhaps it belonged to pirate dick himself!" "perhaps it did," her younger brother agreed. "lift the lid." she was almost hopping on one foot in her impatience. "let's see what's inside." "no gold or jewels, i'll wager. how do you get the thing undone?" "here, let me try." rupert took it from val's hands and put it down on one of the chests, squatting on the floor before it. with the smallest blade of his penknife he delicately probed the fastening sunken in the wood. "i could do a faster job," he remarked, "if you didn't all breathe down the back of my neck." they retreated two inches or so and waited impatiently. with a satisfied grunt he dropped his knife and pulled the lid up. "why, there's nothing in it!" ricky's cry of disappointment was almost a wail. "nothing but that old torn lining." val was as disgusted as she. rupert closed it again. "i'll rub this up some and put in another lining. this is too good a piece to hide away up here," and he put it carefully aside at the end of the hall. their investigations yielded nothing more except great quantities of dust, a mummified rat which even satan refused to sniff at, and a large collection of spider webs. having swept out the room, they went to wash their hands before unpacking the well-wrapped boxes. when their swathing canvas and sacking was thrown aside, the boxes stood revealed as stout chests banded with iron. charity paused before one. "this is a marriage chest, late seventeenth century, i would judge. look there, under that carved leaf--isn't that a date?" "sixteen hundred ninety-three," rupert deciphered. "that crest above it looks familiar. i know, it belonged to that french lady who married our pirate ancestor." "the first lady richanda!" ricky touched the chest lovingly. "then this is mine, rupert. can't it be mine?" she coaxed. "of course. but it's locked, and as we don't have any keys which would fit the lock, you'll have to wait until we can get a locksmith out to work on it before you will know what's inside." "i don't care. no," she corrected herself, "that's wrong; i do care. but anyway its mine!" she caressed the stiff carving with her fingers. "what's this one?" val turned to the second box. it, too, was fashioned of wood, but it was plain where the other was carved, and the iron bands across it were pitted with rust. "a sea chest, i would say." rupert touched the top gingerly. "by the feel, it's locked too. and i don't care to play around with it. the men who made things like these were too fond of having little poisoned fangs run into your hand when you tried to force the chest without knowing the trick. we'll have to leave this for an expert, too." "what about the third?" charity laughed. "after your two treasures i'm afraid that this will be a disappointment." she indicated a small humpbacked trunk covered with moth-eaten horsehair. "no romance here. but the key is tied to the clasp beside the lock." "then open it before i expire of pure unsatisfied curiosity," ricky begged. "go on, rupert. hurry." "oh," she said a moment later, "it's full of nothing but a lot of books." "what did you expect," val asked her, "a skeleton? do you know, i think that rick's ghost, or whatever influence presides over this house, has a sense of humor. you find a room, or a trunk, or something which makes you feel that you are on the verge of getting what you want, and then it all fades into just nothing again. now, by rights, that writing-desk should have contained the secret message which would have told us where to find a hidden passage or something. but what is in it? a couple of pieces of lining almost completely torn from the bottom. i'll wager that when you open those chests you'll find nothing but a brick or 'april fool' scrawled across the inside. this isn't true to any fiction i ever read," he ended plaintively. "good heavens!" charity was staring down at what lay within a portfolio she had opened. "don't tell me you have really found something!" val exclaimed. "it can't be true!" she still stared at what she held. ricky looked over her shoulder. "why, it's nothing but a picture of a bird," she observed. "it's a genuine audubon," charity corrected her. [illustration: _"it's a genuine audubon," charity said._] "what!" with little regard for manners, rupert snatched the portfolio from her hands. "are you sure?" "yes. but you must take it in to the museum and get an expert opinion. it's wonderful!" "here's another." reverently rupert raised the first sketch and then the second. "three, four, five, six," he counted. "was audubon ever here?" charity looked about the hall, a sort of awe coloring her voice. "he might easily have been when he lived in new orleans. though we have no record of it," answered rupert. "but these," he closed the portfolio carefully and knotted its strings, "speak for themselves. i'll take them to lefleur tomorrow. we can't allow them to lie about here." "i should hope not!" charity eyed the portfolio wistfully. "imagine actually owning six of those--" "they won't pay our bills," said ricky, practical for once in her life. treasure to ricky was not half a dozen sketches on yellowed paper but good old-fashioned gold with a few jewels thrown in for her own private satisfaction. the portfolio and its contents left her unmoved. val admitted to himself that he, too, was disappointed. after all--well, treasure should be treasure. rupert carried the portfolio into his bedroom and locked it in one of his mysterious brief-cases which had somehow found its way upstairs. the two chests they moved out farther into the hall and the trunk was placed back against the wall, ready for further investigation. "mistuh ralestone, suh," letty-lou, standing half-way up the back stairs, addressed rupert, "lunch am on de table. effen yo'all doan come now, de eatments will be spiled." "all right," he answered. "letty-lou," called ricky, "put on another plate. miss charity is staying to lunch." "dat's all ri', miss 'chanda. i'se done done dat. yo'all comin' now?" "you see how we are bullied," ricky appealed to charity. "of course you're going to stay," she swept aside the other's protests. "what's food for, if not to feed your friends? val, go wash up; your hands are frightful. i don't care if you did wash once; go and--" "this is her little-mother-of-the-family mood," her younger brother explained to charity. "it wears off after a while if you just don't notice it. but i will wash though," he looked at his hands, "i seem to need it." "and don't use the guest towels," ricky called after him. "you know that they're only to look at." when val emerged from the bathroom he found the hall deserted. sounds from below suggested that his family had basely left him for food. he started along the passage. not far from the stairs was the writing-desk where rupert had left it. val picked it up, thinking that he might as well take it along down with him. chapter vii by our luck! depositing the desk on the seat of one of the hall chairs, val started toward the dining-room, a grim hole which lucy had calmly forced the family to use but which they all cordially disliked. its paneled walls, crystal-hung chandelier, marble-fronted fireplace, and inlaid floor gave it the appearance of one of the less cozy rooms in a small palace. there were also two tasteful portraits of dead ducks which had been added as a finishing touch by some tenant during the eighties and which still remained upon the walls to ricky's unholy joy. but the long table, the high-backed chairs, the side serving-table, and the two tall cabinets of china were fine enough pieces if one cared for the massive. ricky's table-cloth of violent-hued peasant linen was not in keeping with the china and glassware letty-lou had set out upon it. charity was commenting upon this ensemble as val entered. "doesn't this red and green plaid seem a bit--well, bright?" the corners of her mouth twitched betrayingly. "no," ricky returned firmly. "this cloth matches the ducks." "oh, yes, the ducks," charity eyed them. "so you consider that the ducks are the note you wish to emphasize?" "certainly." ricky surveyed the picture hanging opposite her. "i consider them unique. not everyone can have ducks in the dining-room nowadays." "for which they should be eternally thankful," observed rupert. "they are rather gaudy, aren't they?" "oh, but i like the expression in this one's glassy eye," ricky pointed out. "you might call this study 'gone but not forgotten.'" "corn-bread, please," val asked, thus attempting to put an end to the art-appreciation class. "i think," continued ricky, undisturbed as she passed him the plate heaped with golden squares, "that they are slightly surrealist. they distinctly resemble the sort of things one is often pursued by in one's brighter nightmares." "do you have any really good pictures?" asked charity, resolutely averting her gaze from the ducks. "three, but they've been loaned to the museum," answered rupert. "not by well-known painters, but they're historically interesting. there's one of the first lady richanda, and one of the missing rick. that's the best of the lot, according to lefleur. i saw a photograph of it once. come to think about it, val looks a lot like the boy in the picture. he might have sat for it." they all turned to eye val. he arose and bowed. "i find these compliments too overwhelming," he murmured. rupert grinned. "and how do you know that that remark was intended as a compliment?" "naturally i assumed so," his brother retorted with a dignity which disappeared as the piece of corn-bread in his hand broke in two, the larger and more liberally buttered portion falling butter side down on the table. ricky smiled in a pained sort of way as she attempted to judge from her side of the table just how much damage val's awkwardness had done. "if you were the graceful hostess," he informed her severely, "you would now throw your piece in the middle to show that anyone could suffer a like mishap." ricky changed the subject hurriedly by passing beans to charity. "so val looks like the ghost," charity said a moment later. "now i will have to go to town and see that portrait. just where is it?" rupert shook his head. "i don't know. but it's listed in the catalogue as 'portrait of roderick ralestone, aged eighteen.'" "just val's age, then." ricky spooned some watermelon pickles onto her plate. "but he was older than that when he left here." "let's see. he was born in february, , which would make him fourteen when his parents died in . then he disappeared in , twelve years later. just twenty-six when he went," computed rupert. "a year younger than you are now," observed ricky. "and nine years older than yourself at this present date," val added pleasantly. "why this sudden interest in mathematics?" "oh, i don't know. only somehow i always thought rick was younger when he went away. i've always felt sorry for him. wonder what happened to him afterwards?" "according to our rival," rupert pulled his coffee-cup before him as letty-lou took away their plates, "he just went quietly away, married, lived soberly, and brought up a son, who in turn fathered a son, and so on to the present day. a tame enough ending for our wild privateersman." "i'll bet it isn't true. rick wouldn't end like that. he probably went off down south and got mixed up in some of the revolutions they were having at the time," suggested ricky. "he couldn't just settle down and die in bed. i could imagine him scuttling a ship but not being a quiet business man." "he was one of lafitte's men, wasn't he?" asked charity. at their answering nods, she went on: "lafitte was a business man, you know. oh, i don't mean that forge he ran in town, but his establishment at grande terre. he was more smuggler than pirate, that's why he lasted so long. even the most respected tradesmen had dealings with him. why, he used to post notices right in town when he held auctions at barataria, listing what he had to sell, mostly smuggled negroes and a few cargoes of luxuries from europe. he was a privateer under the rules of war, but he was never a real pirate. at least, that's the belief held nowadays." "we can't turn up our noses at pirates," laughed ricky. "this house was built by pirate gold. we only wish--" from the hall came a dull thump. ricky's napkin dropped from her hand into her coffee-cup. rupert laid down his spoon deliberately enough, but there was a certain tension in his movements. val felt a sudden chill. for letty-lou was in the kitchen, the family were in the dining-room. there should be no one in the hall. rupert pushed back his chair. but val was already half-way to the door when his brother joined him. and ricky, suddenly sober, was at their heels. _zzzzzrupp!_ the slitting sound was clear as they burst into the hall. on the fur rug by the couch lay the writing-desk. its lid was thrown back and by it crouched satan industriously ripping the remnants of lining from its interior. as rupert came up, the cat drew back, his ears flattened and his lips a-snarl. [illustration: zzzzzrupp! _satan was industriously ripping the remnants of lining from its interior._] "cinders! what has he done?" demanded charity, swooping down upon her pet. at her coming, he fled under the couch out of reach. rupert picked up the desk. "nothing much," he laughed. "just torn all that lining loose, as i had planned to do." "what is this?" ricky disentangled a small slip of white from the torn and musty velvet. "why, it's a piece of paper," she answered her own question. "it must have been under the lining and satan pulled it out with the cloth." "here," rupert took it from her, "let me see it." he scanned the faded lines of writing. "val! ricky!" he looked up, his face flushed with excitement. "listen!" "gatty has returned from the city. the raiders calling themselves the 'buck boys' are headed this way. gatty tells me that alexander is with them, having deserted the plantation a week ago. since his malice towards us is well known, it is easy to believe that he means us open harm. i am making my preparations accordingly. the valuables now under this roof, together with the proceeds from the last voyage of the blockade runner, _red bird_, i am putting in that safe place discovered by me in childhood, of which i have sometimes spoken. remember the hint i once gave you--by our luck. having written this in haste, i shall intrust it to gatty--" "that's the end; the rest is gone." rupert stared down at the scrap of paper in his hand as if he simply could not believe in its reality. "richard wrote that." ricky touched the note in awe. "but why didn't gatty give it to miles when he came?" "gatty was probably a slave who ran when the raiders appeared," suggested rupert. "he or she must have hidden this in here before leaving. we'll never know." "but we've got our clue!" cried ricky. "we knew that the hiding-place was in this hall, and now we have the clue." "'by our luck.'" rupert looked about him thoughtfully. "that's not the most helpful--" "rupert!" ricky seized him by the arm. "there's only one thing in this room that will answer that. can't you see? the niche of the luck!" their gaze followed her pointing finger to the mantel above their heads. "i believe she's right! wait until i get the step-ladder from the kitchen." rupert was gone almost before he had finished speaking. "oh, if it's only true!" ricky stared up like one hypnotized. "then we'll be rich and--" "don't count your chickens before they're hatched," val reminded her, but he didn't think that she heard him. then rupert was back with the ladder. he climbed up, leaving the three of them clustered about its foot. "nothing here but two stone studs to hold the luck in place," he said a moment later. "why not try pressing those?" suggested charity. "all right, here goes." he placed his thumbs in the corners of the niche and threw his weight upon them. "nothing happened." ricky's voice was deep with disappointment. "look!" val pointed over her shoulder. to the left of the fireplace were five panels of oak, to balance those on the other side about the door of the unused drawing-room. the center one of these now gaped open, showing a dark cavity. "it worked!" ricky was already heading for the opening. there behind the paneling was a shallow closet which ran the full length of the five panels. it was filled with a collection of bags and small chests, a collection which appeared much larger when it lay in the gloom within than when they dragged it out. then, when they had time to examine it carefully, they discovered that their booty consisted of two small wooden boxes or chests, one fancifully carved and evidently intended for jewels, the other plain but locked; a felt bag and another of canvas, and a package hurriedly done up in cloth. rupert spread it all out on the floor. "well," he hesitated, "where shall we begin?" "charity thought about how to open it, and it was her cat that found us the clue--let her choose," val suggested. "good," agreed rupert. "and what's your choice, m'lady?" "what woman could resist this?" she laid her hand upon the jewel box. "then that it is." he reached for it. it opened readily enough to show a shallow tray divided into compartments, all of them empty. "sold again," val commented dryly. carefully rupert lifted out the top tray to disclose another on which rested three small leather bags. he loosened the draw-string of the nearest and shook out into his palm a pair of earrings of a quaint pattern in twisted gold set with dull red stones. charity pronounced them garnets. though they were not of great value, they were precious in ricky's eyes, and even charity exclaimed over them. the second bag yielded a carnelian seal on a wide chain of gold mesh, the sort of ornament a dandy wore dangling from his watch pocket in the days of the regency. and the third bag contained a cross of silver, blackened by time, set with amethysts. this was accompanied by a chain of the same dull metal. putting these into the girls' hands, rupert lifted the second tray to lay bare the bottom of the chest. here again were several small bags. there was another cross, this time of jet inlaid with gold and attached to a short necklace of jet beads; a wide bracelet of coral and turquoise which was crudely made and might have been native work of some sort. then there was a tiny jewel-set bottle, about which, ricky declared, there still lingered some faint trace of the fragrance it had once held. and most interesting to charity was a fan, the sticks carved of ivory so intricately that they resembled lacework stiffened into slender ribs. the covering between them was fashioned of layers of silk painted with a scene of the bayou country, with the moss-grown oaks and encroaching swamp all carefully depicted. charity declared that she had never seen its equal and that some great artist must have decorated the dainty trifle. she closed it carefully and slipped it back into its covering, and rupert took out the last of the bags. from its depths rolled a ring. it was plain enough, a simple band of gold so deep in shade as to be almost red. nearly an inch in width, there was no ornamentation of any sort on its broad, smooth surface. "do you know what this is?" rupert turned the circlet around in his fingers. "no." ricky was still dangling the earrings before her eyes. "it is the wedding-ring of the bride of the luck." "what!" val leaned forward to look down at the plain circle of gold. even ricky gave her brother her full attention now. rupert turned to charity. "you probably know the story of our luck?" he asked. she nodded. "when the luck was brought from palestine, it was decided that it must be given into the hands of a guardian who would be responsible for it with his or her life. because the men of the house were always at war during those troublesome times, the guardianship went to the eldest daughter if she were a maiden. by high and solemn ceremony she was married to the luck in the chapel of lorne. and she was the bride of the luck until death or a unanimous consent from the family released her. nor could she marry a mortal husband during the time she wore this." he touched the ring he held. "this must be very old. it's the red gold which came into ireland and england before the romans conquered the land. perhaps this was found in some old barrow on lorne lands. but it no longer means anything without the luck." he held it out to ricky. "by tradition this is yours." she shook her head. "i don't think i want that, rupert. it's too old--too strange. now these," she held up the earrings, "you can understand. the girls who wore them were like me, and they wore them because they were pretty. but that--" she looked at the bride's ring with distaste--"that must have been a burden to its wearer. didn't you tell us once of the lady iseult, who killed herself when they would not release her from her vows to the luck? i don't want to wear that, ever." "very well." he dropped it back into its bag. "we'll send it to lefleur for safe-keeping. any scruples about the rest of this stuff?" "of course not! and none of it is worth much. may i keep it?" "if you wish. now let's see what is in here." he drew the second box toward him and forced it open. "money!" charity was staring at it with wide eyes. within, in neat bundles, lay packages of paper notes. even rupert was shaken from his calm as he reached for one. outside of a bank none of them had ever seen such a display of wealth. but after he studied the top note, the master of pirate's haven laughed thinly. "this may be worth ten cents to some collector if we're lucky--" "rupert! that's real money," began ricky. but val, too, had seen the print. "confederate money, child. as useless now as our pretty oil stock. i told you that things always turn out wrong in this house. if we do find treasure, it's worthless. how much is there, anyway?" rupert picked up a slip of paper tucked under the tape fastening the first bundle. "this says thirty-five thousand--profit from a blockade runner's trip." "thirty-five thousand! well, i think that that is just too much," ricky said defiantly. "why didn't they get paid in real money?" "being loyal to the south, the ralestones probably would not take what you call 'real money,'" replied charity. "it's nice to know how wealthy we once were," val observed. "what are you going to do with that wall-paper, rupert?" "oh, chuck it in my desk. i'll get someone to look it over; there might be a collector's item among these bills. now let's have the joker out of _this_ bundle." he plucked at the fastenings of the felt bag. when he had pulled off its wrappings, a silver tray with coffee- and chocolate-pot, cream pitcher and sugar bowl stood, tarnished and dingy, on the floor. "that's more like it." ricky picked up the chocolate-pot. "do you suppose it will ever be possible to get these clean again?" "with a lot of will power and some good hard rubbing it can be done," val assured her. "well, i'll supply the will power and you may do the rubbing," she announced pleasantly. rupert had opened the remaining packages to display a set of twelve silver goblets, one with a dented edge, and a queerly shaped vessel not unlike an old-fashioned gravy-boat. charity picked this up and examined it gravely. "i'm afraid that this is pirate loot." she tapped the lip of the piece she held. the metal gave off a clear ringing sound. "if i'm not mistaken, this was stolen from a church. yes, i'm right; see this cross under the leaves?" she pointed out the bit of engraving. "black dick's work," agreed ricky complacently. "but after almost three hundred years i'm afraid we can't return it. especially since we don't know where it came from in the first place." val looked about at what they had uncovered. "if you are going to take all of this in to lefleur, you'll have to get a truck. d'you know, i think this place might turn out to be a gold-mine if one knew just where to dig." "we haven't found the luck yet," reminded ricky. val got clumsily to his feet and then gave charity a hand up, beating rupert to it by about three seconds. "as we don't even know whether it is still in existence, there's no use in hunting for it," val retorted. ricky smiled, that set little smile which usually meant that she neither agreed with nor approved of the speaker. she got up from the floor and shook out her skirt purposefully. "i'll remind you of that some day," she promised. "i suppose," rupert glanced at the silver, "this ought to be taken to town as soon as possible. this house is too isolated to harbor both us and the silverware at the same time. what do you think?" ignoring both ricky and val, he turned to charity. "you are right. but it seems a pity to send it all away before we have a chance to rub it up and see what it really looks like!" "by all means, take it at once!" val urged promptly. "we can always clean it later." rupert grinned. "now that might be a protest against the suggestion ricky made a few minutes ago. but i'll save you some honest labor this time, val; i'll take it to town this afternoon." ricky laughed softly. "and why the merriment?" her younger brother inquired suspiciously. "i was just thinking what a surprise the visitor who dropped his handkerchief here is going to get when he finds the cupboard bare," she explained. rupert rubbed his palm across his chin. "of course. i had almost forgotten that." "well, i haven't! and i wonder if we have found what he--or they--were hunting," val mused as he helped rupert wrap up the spoil again. chapter viii great-uncle rick walks the hall sam had produced a horse complete with saddle and a reputed skittishness. that horse was the pride of sam's big heart. it had once won a small purse at some country fair or something of the sort, and since then it had been kept only to wear the saddle at rare intervals. not that sam ever rode. he drove a spring-board behind a thin, sorrowful mule called "suggah." but the saddle horse was rented at times to white folk of whom sam approved. soon after the arrival of the ralestones at pirate's haven, sam had brought this four-footed prodigy to their attention. but claiming that the family were his "folks," he indignantly refused to accept hire and was hurt if one of them did not ride at least once a day. ricky had developed an interest in the garden and had accepted the loan of sam's eldest son, an earth-brown child about as tall as the spade, to help her mess about. rupert spent the largest part of his days shut up in bluebeard's chamber. which of course left the horse to val. and val was becoming slightly bored with louisiana, at least with that portion of it which immediately surrounded them. charity was hard at work on her picture of the swamp hunter, for jeems had come back without warning from his mysterious concerns in the swamp. there was no one to talk to and nowhere to go. lefleur had notified them that he believed he was on the track of some discreditable incident in the past of their rival which would banish him from their path. and no more handkerchiefs had been found, ownerless, in their hall. it was a serene morning. but, val thought long afterwards, he should have been warned by that very serenity and remembered the old saying, that it was always calmest before a storm. on the contrary, he was riding sam's horse along the edge of that swamp, wondering what lay hidden back in that dark jungle. some day, he determined, he would do a little exploring in that direction. a heron arose from the bayou and streaked across the metallic blue of the sky. another was wading along, intent upon its fishing. sam's yellow dog, which had followed horse and rider, set up a barking, annoyed at the haughty carriage of the bird. he scrambled down the steep bank, drove it into flight after its fellow. val pulled his shirt away from his sticky skin and wondered if he would ever feel really cool again. there was something about this damp heat which seemed to remove all ambition. he marveled how ricky could even think of trimming roses that morning. sam's dog began to bark deafeningly again, and val looked around for the heron which must have aroused his displeasure. there was none. but across the swamp crawled an ungainly monster. four great rubber-tired wheels, ten feet high, as he later learned, supported a metal framework upon which squatted two men and the driver of the monstrosity. with the ponderous solemnity of a tank it came on to the bayou. val's mount snorted and his ears pricked back. he began to have very definite ideas about what he saw. the thing slipped down the marshy bank and took to the water with ease, turning its square nose downstream and sending waves shoreward. "ride 'em, cowboy!" yelled one of the men derisively as sam's horse decided to stand on his hind legs and wave at the strange apparition as it went by. val brought him down upon four feet again, and he stood sweating, his ears still back. "what do you call that?" the boy shouted back. "prospecting engine for swamp use," answered the driver. "don't you swampers ever get the news?" the car, or whatever it was, moved on downstream and so out of sight. "now i wonder what that was," val said aloud as his mount sidled toward the center of the road. the hound-dog came up and sat down to kick a patch of flea-invaded territory which lay behind his left ear. again the morning was quiet. but not for long. a mud-spattered car came around the bend in the road and headed at val, going a good pace for the dirt surfacing. before it quite reached him it stopped and the driver stuck his head out of the window. "hey, you, move over! whatya tryin' to do--break somebody's neck?" val surveyed him with interest. the man was, perhaps, rupert's age, a small, thin fellow with thick black hair and the white seam of an old scar beneath his left eye. "this is," the boy replied, "a private road." "yeah," he snarled, "i know. and i'm the owner. so get your hobby-horse going and beat it, kid." val shifted in the saddle and stared down at him. "and what might your name be?" he asked softly. "what d'yuh think it is? hitler? i'm ralestone, the owner of this place. on your way, kid, on your way." "so? well, good morning, cousin." val tightened rein. the invader eyed him cautiously. "what d'yuh mean--cousin?" "i happen to be a ralestone also," the boy answered grimly. "huh? you the guy who thinks he owns this?" he asked aggressively. "my brother is the present master of pirate's haven--" "that's what _he_ thinks," replied the rival with a relish. "well, he isn't. that is, not until he pays me for my half. and if he wants to get tough, i'll take it all," he ended, and withdrew into the car like a lizard into its rock den. val sat by the side of the road and watched the car slide along toward the plantation. as it passed him he caught a glimpse of a second passenger in the back seat. it was the red-faced man he had seen with lefleur's clerk on the street in new orleans. resolutely val turned back and started for the house in the wake of the rival. by making use of a short-cut, he reached the front of the house almost as soon as the car. ricky had been working with the morning-glory vines about the terrace steps, young sam standing attendance with a rusty trowel and one of the kitchen forks. at the sound of the car she stood up and tried to brush a smear of sticky earth from the front of her checked-gingham dress. when the rival got out she smiled at him. "hello, sister," he smirked. she stood still for a moment and her smile faded. when she answered, her voice was chill. "you wished to see mr. ralestone?" she asked distantly. "sure. but not just yet, sister. you better be pleasant, you know. i'm the new owner here--" val rode out of the bushes and swung out of the saddle, coming up behind him. although the boy was one of the smaller "black" ralestones, he topped the invader by a good two inches, and he noted this with delight as he came up to him. "ricky," he said briefly, "go in. and send sam for rupert." she nodded and was gone. the man turned to face val. "you again, huh?" he demanded. "yes. and ralestone or no ralestone, i would advise you to keep a civil tongue in your head," he began hotly, when rupert appeared at the door. "well, val," he asked, a frown creasing his forehead, "what is it?" the rival advanced a short step and looked up. "so this is the guy who's trying to do me out of my rights?" rupert reached behind him and closed the screen before coming to the head of the terrace steps. "i presume that you are mr. ralestone?" he asked quietly. "'course i'm ralestone," asserted the other. "and i'm part owner of this place." "that has not yet been decided," answered rupert calmly. "but suppose you tell me to what we owe the honor of this visit?" now, however, the passenger took a hand in the game. he crawled out of the car, taking off his soiled panama to wipe his bald head with a gaudy silk handkerchief. "here, here, mr. ralestone," he addressed his companion, "let us have no unpleasantness. we have merely come here today, sir," he explained to rupert, "to see if matters could not be settled amicably without having to take recourse to a court of law. your mr. lefleur will give us very little satisfaction, you see. i am a plain and honest man, sir, and i believe an affair of this kind may be best agreed upon between principals. my client, mr. ralestone, is a reasonable man; he will be moderate in his demands. it will be to your advantage to listen to our proposal. after all, you cannot contest his rights--" "but that is just what i am going to do." rupert smiled down at them, if a slight twist of the lips may be called a smile. "have you ever heard that old saying that 'possession is nine points of the law'? i am the ralestone in residence, and i shall continue to be the ralestone in residence until after this case is heard. now, as i am a busy man and this is the middle of the morning, i shall have to say good-bye--" "so that's the way you're going to take it?" the visiting ralestone glared at rupert. "all right. play it that way and you won't be here a month from now. nor," he turned on val, "this kid brother of yours, either. you can't pull this lord-of-the-land stuff on me and get away with it. i'll--" but he did not finish his threat. instead, his jaws clamped shut on mid-word. in silence he turned and got into the car to which his counselor had already withdrawn. the car leaped forward into a rose bush. with a savage twist of the wheel the driver brought it back to the drive, leaving deep prints in the front lawn. then it was gone, down the drive, as they stood staring after it. "so that's that," val commented. "well, all i've got to say is that rick's branch of the family has sadly gone to seed--" "being a southern gentleman has made you slightly snobbish." ricky came out from her lurking place behind the door. "snobbish!" her brother choked at the injustice. "i suppose that that is your idea of a perfect gentleman, a diamond in the rough--" he pointed down the drive. ricky laughed. "it's so easy to tease you, val. of course he is a--a wart of the first class. but rupert will fix him--won't you?" her older brother grinned. "after that example of your trust in me, i'll have to. i agree, he is not the sort you would care to introduce to your more particular friends. but this visit seems to suggest something--" "that he has the wind up?" val asked. "there are indications of that, i think. something lefleur has done has stirred our friends into direct action. we shall probably have more of it within the immediate future. so i want you, ricky, to go to town. madame lefleur has very kindly offered to put you up--" each tiny curl on ricky's head seemed to bristle with indignation. "oh, no you don't, rupert ralestone! you don't get me away from here when there are exciting things going on. i hardly think that our friend with the slimy manner will use machine-guns to blast us out. and if he does--well, it wouldn't be the first time that this house was used as a fortress. i'm not going one step out of here unless you two come with me." rupert shrugged. "as i can't very well hog-tie you to get you to town, i suppose you will have to stay. but i _am_ going to send for lucy." with that parting shot he turned and went in. lucy arrived shortly before noon. she was accompanied by a portion of her large family--four, val counted, including that sam who had become ricky's faithful shadow. "what's all dis ah heah 'bout some mans sayin' he am de ralestone?" she demanded of ricky. "de policemans oughta lock him up. effen he comes botherin' 'roun' heah agin i'll ten' to him!" with that she marched majestically into the kitchen, elbowed letty-lou out of her way, and proceeded to stir up a batch of brown molasses cookies. "'cause dey is fillin' fo' boys. an' mistuh val, heah, he needs some moah fat 'crost dose skinny ribs. letty-lou, yo'all ain't feedin' dese men-folks ri'. now yo' chillens," she swooped down upon her own family, "yo'all gits outa heah an' don't fuss me." "they can come with me," offered ricky. "i'm trying to find that maze which is marked on the garden plans." "miss 'chanda, yo'all ain't a'goin' 'way 'afo' yoah brothah gits through his wo'k. he done tol' me to keep an eye on yo'all. why don't yo'all go visit wi' miss charity?" ricky looked at her watch. "all right. she'll be through her morning work by now. i'll take the children, lucy." to val's open surprise, she obeyed lucy, meekly moving off without a single protest. one of the boys remained behind and offered shyly to take the horse back to sam's place. when lucy agreed that it would be all right, val boosted him into the saddle where he clung like a jockey. "an' wheah is yo'all goin', mistuh val?" asked lucy, cutting out round cookies with a downward stroke of the drinking glass she had pressed into service. the regular cutter was, in her opinion, too small. "down toward the bayou. i'll be back before lunch," he said, and hurried out before she could as definitely dispose of him as she had of ricky. val struck off into the bushes until he came to one of the paths that crossed the wilderness. as it ran in the direction of the bayou, he turned into it. then for the second time he came into the glen of the pool and passed along the path jeems had known. so somehow val was not surprised, when he came out upon the edge of the bayou levee, to see jeems sitting there. "hello!" the swamper looked up at val's hail but this time he did not leave. "hullo," he answered sullenly. val stood there, ill at ease, while the swamper eyed him composedly. what could he say now? val's embarrassment must have been very apparent, for after a long moment jeems smiled derisively. "yo' goin' ridin' in them funny pants?" he asked, pointing to the other's breeches. "well, that's what they are intended for," val replied. "wheah's youah hoss?" "i sent him back to sam's." val was beginning to feel slightly warm. he decided that jeems' manners were not all that they might be. "sam!" the swamp boy spat into the water. "he's a--" but what sam was, in the opinion of the swamper, val never learned, for at that moment ricky burst from between two bushes. "well, at last," she panted, "i've gotten rid of my army. val, do you think that lucy is going to be like this all the time--order us about, i mean?" "who's that?" jeems was on his feet looking at ricky. "ricky," her brother said, "this is jeems. my sister richanda." "yo' one of the folks up at the big house?" he asked her directly. "why, yes," she answered simply. "yo' don' act like yo' was." he stabbed his finger at both of them. "yo' don't walk with youah noses in the air looking down at us--" "of course we don't!" interrupted ricky. "why should we, when you know more about this place than we do?" "what do yo' mean by that?" he flashed out at her, his sullen face suddenly dark. "why--why--" ricky faltered, "charity biglow said that you knew all about the swamp--" his tense position relaxed a fraction. "oh, yo' know miss charity?" "yes. she showed us the picture she is painting, the one you are posing for," ricky went on. "miss charity is a fine lady," he returned with conviction. he shifted from one bare foot to the other. "ah'll be goin' now." with no other farewell he slipped over the side of the levee into his canoe and headed out into midstream. nor did he look back. lucy departed after dinner that evening to bed down her family before returning with letty-lou to occupy one of the servant's rooms over the side wing. rupert had gone with her to interview sam. val gathered that sam had some notion of trying to reintroduce the growing of indigo, a crop which had been forsaken for sugar-cane at the beginning of the nineteenth century when a pest had destroyed the entire indigo crop of that year all over louisiana. "let's go out in the garden," suggested ricky. "what for?" asked her brother. "to provide a free banquet for mosquitoes? no, thank you, let's stay here." "you're lazy," she countered. "you may call it laziness; i call it prudence," he answered. "well, i'm going anyway," she made a decision which brought val reluctantly to his feet. for mosquitoes or no mosquitoes, he was not going to allow ricky to be outside alone. they followed the path which led around the side of the house until it neared the kitchen door. when they reached that point ricky halted. "listen!" a plaintive miaow sounded from the kitchen. "oh, bother! satan's been left inside. go and let him out." "will you stay right here?" val asked. "of course. though i don't see why you and rupert have taken to acting as if fu manchu were loose in our yard. now hurry up before he claws the screen to pieces. satan, i mean, not the worthy chinese gentleman." but satan did not meet val at the door. apparently, having received no immediate answer to his plea, he had withdrawn into the bulk of the house. speaking unkind things about him under his breath, val started across the dark kitchen. suddenly he stopped. he felt the solid edge of the table against his thigh. when he put out his hand he touched the reassuring everyday form of lucy's stone cooky jar. he was in their own pleasant everyday kitchen. but-- he was not alone in that house! there had been the faintest of sounds from the forepart of the main section, a sound such as satan might have caused. but val knew--knew positively--that satan was guiltless. someone or something was in the long hall. he crept by the table, hoping that he could find his way without running into anything. his hand closed upon the knob of the door opening upon the back stairs used by letty-lou. if he could get up them and across the upper hall, he could come down the front stairs and catch the intruder. it took val perhaps two minutes to reach the head of the front stairs, and each minute seemed a half-hour in length. from below he could hear a regular _pad, pad_, as if from stocking feet on the stone floor. he drew a deep breath and started down. when he reached the landing he looked over the rail. upright before the fireplace was a dim white blur. as he watched, it moved forward. there was something uncanny about that almost noiseless movement. the blur became a thin figure clad in baggy white breeches and loose shirt. below the knees the legs seemed to fade into the darkness of the hall and there was something strange about the outlines of the head. again the thing resumed its padding and val saw now that it was pacing the hall in a regular pattern. which suggested that it was human and was there with a very definite purpose. he edged farther down the stairs. "and just what are you doing?" if his voice quavered upon the last word, it was hardly his fault. for when the thing turned, val saw-- it had no face! with a startled cry he lunged forward, clutching at the banister to steady his blundering descent. the thing backed away; already it was fading into the darkness beside the stairs. as val's feet touched the floor of the hall he caught his last glimpse of it, a thin white patch against the solid paneling of the stairway's broad side. then it was gone. when rupert and ricky came in a few minutes later and turned on the lights, val was still staring at that blank wall, with satan rubbing against his ankles. chapter ix portrait of a lady and a gentleman rupert had dismissed val's story of what he had seen in the hall in a very lofty manner. when his brother had persisted in it, rupert suggested that val had better keep out of the sun in the morning. for no trace of the thing which had troubled the house remained. ricky hesitated between believing wholly in val's tale or just in his powers of imagination. and between them his family drove him sulky to bed. he was still frowning, or maybe it was a new frown, when he looked into the bathroom mirror the next morning as he dressed. for val knew that he _had_ seen something in the hall, something monstrous which had no right to be there. what had their rival said before he left? "play it that way and you won't be here a month from now." it was just possible--val paused, half in, half out of, his shirt. could last night's adventure have had anything to do with that threat? two or three episodes of that sort might unsettle the strongest nerves and drive the occupants from a house where such a shadow walked. something else nagged at the boy's memory. slowly he traced back over the events of the day before, from the moment when he had watched that queer swamp car crawl downstream. after the visit of the rival, lucy had come to stay. and then ricky had started for charity's while he had gone down to the bayou where he met jeems. that was it. jeems! when ricky had hinted that he knew more of the swamp than the ralestones did, why had he been so quick to resent that remark? could it be because he understood her to mean that he knew more of pirate's haven than they did? and the thing in the long hall last night had known of some exit in the wall that the ralestones did not know of. it had faded into the base of the staircase. and yet, when val had gone over the paneling there inch by inch, he had gained nothing but sore finger tips. he tucked his shirt under his belt and looked down to see if sam junior had polished his boots as lucy had ordered her son to do. save for a trace of mud by the right heel, they had the proper mirror-like surface. "mistuh val," lucy's penetrating voice made him start guiltily, "is yo' or is yo' not comin' to brekfas'?" "i am," he answered and started downstairs at his swiftest pace. the new ruler of their household was standing at the foot of the stairs, her knuckles resting on her broad hips. she eyed the boy sternly. lucy eyed one, val thought, much as a scotch nurse ricky and he had once had. they had never dared question any of annie's decrees, and one look from her had been enough to reduce them to instant order. lucy's eye had the same power. and now as she herded val into the dining-room he felt like a six-year-old with an uneasy conscience. rupert and ricky were already seated and eating. that is, ricky was eating, but rupert was reading his morning mail. "yo'all sits down," said lucy firmly, "an' yo'all eats what's on youah plate. yo'all ain' much fattah nor a jay-bird." "i don't see why she keeps comparing me to a living skeleton all the time," val complained as she departed kitchenward. "she told letty-lou yesterday," supplied ricky through a mouthful of popover, "that you are 'peaked lookin'." "why doesn't she start in on rupert? he needs another ten pounds or so." val reached for the butter. "and he hasn't got a very good color, either." val surveyed his brother professionally. "doesn't get outdoors enough." "no," ricky's voice sounded aggrieved, "he's too busy having secrets--" "hmm," rupert murmured, more interested in his letter than in the conversation. "the trouble is that we are not chinese bandits, malay pirates, or arab freebooters. we don't possess color, life, enough--enough--" "sugar," rupert interrupted val, pushing his coffee-cup in the general direction of ricky without raising his eyes from the page in his hand. she giggled. "so that's what we lack. well, now we know. how much sugar should we have, rupert? rupert--mr. rupert ralestone--mr. rupert ralestone of pirate's haven!" her voice grew louder and shriller until he did lay down his reading matter and really looked at them for the first time. "what do you want?" "a little attention," answered ricky sweetly. "we aren't chinese, arabs, or malays, but we are kind of nice to know, aren't we, val? if you'd only come out of your subconscious, or wherever you are most of the time, you'd find that out without being told." rupert laughed and pushed away his letters. "sorry. i picked up the bad habit of reading at breakfast when i didn't have my table brightened by your presence. i know," he became serious, "that i haven't been much of a family man. but there are reasons--" "which, of course, you can not tell _us_," flashed ricky. his face lengthened ruefully. he pulled at his tie with an embarrassed frown. "not yet, anyway. i--" he fumbled with his napkin. "oh, well, let me see how it comes out first." ricky opened her eyes to their widest extent and leaned forward, every inch of her expressing awe. "rupert, don't tell me that you are an _inventor_!" she cried. "now i know that we'll end in the poorhouse," val observed. rupert had recovered his composure. "'i yam what i yam,'" he quoted. "very well. keep it to yourself then," pouted ricky. "we can have secrets too." "i don't doubt it." he glanced at val. "unfortunately you always tell them. see any more bogies last night, val? did a big, black, formless something reach out from under the bed and clutch at you?" but his brother refused to be drawn. "no, but when it does i'll sic it onto you. a big, black, formless something is just what you need. and i'll--" "am i interrupting?" charity stood in the door. "goodness! haven't you finished breakfast yet? do you people know that it is almost ten?" "madam, we have banished time." rupert drew out the chair at his left. "will you favor us with your company?" "i thought you were going to be busy today," said ricky as she rang for letty-lou and a fresh cup of coffee for their guest. "so did i," sighed charity. "and i should be. i've got this order, you know, and now i can't get any models. why there should be a sudden dearth of them right now, i can't imagine. i thought i could use jeems again, but somehow he isn't the type." she raised her cup to her lips. "are you doing story illustrations?" asked rupert, more alive now than he had been all morning. "yes. a historical thriller for a magazine. they want a full-page cut for the first chapter and a half-page to illustrate the most exciting scene. then there're innumerable smaller ones. but the two large ones are what i'm worrying about. i like to get the important stuff finished first, and now i simply can't get models who are the right types." "what's the story about?" demanded ricky. "it's laid in haiti during the french invasion led by napoleon's brother-in-law, the one who married pauline. all voodoo and aristocratic young hero and beautiful maiden pursued by an officer of the black rebels. and," she almost wailed, "here i am with the clothes spread all over my bed--the right costumes, you know--with no one to wear them. i went over to the corners this morning and called johnson--he runs a registration office for models--but he couldn't promise me anyone." she bit absent-mindedly into a round spiced roll ricky had placed before her. "wait!" she laid down the roll in a preoccupied fashion and stared across the table. "val, stand up." wondering, he pushed back his chair and arose obediently. "turn your head a little more to the right," charity ordered. "there, that's it! now try to look as if there were something all ready to spring at you from that corner over there." for one angry moment he thought that she had been told of what had happened the night before and was baiting him, as the others had done. but a sidewise glance showed him that her interest lay elsewhere. so he screwed up his features into what he fondly hoped was a grim and deadly smile. "for goodness sake, don't look as if you had eaten green apples," ricky shot at him. "just put on that face you wear when i show you a new hat. no, not that sneering one; the other." rupert threw back his head and laughed heartily. "better let him alone, ricky. after all, it's _his_ face." "i'm glad that someone has pointed out that fact," val said stiffly, "because--" "oh, be quiet!" charity leaned forward across the table. "yes," she nodded, "you'll do." "for what?" val asked, slightly apprehensive. "for my hero. of course your hair is too short and you are rather too youthful, but i can disguise those points. and," she turned upon ricky, "you can be the lady in distress. which gives me another idea. do you suppose that i might use your terrace for a background and have that big chair, the one with the high back?" she asked rupert. "you may have anything you want within these walls," he answered lightly enough, but it was clear that he really meant it. "what am i supposed to do?" val asked. charity considered. "i think i'll try the action one first," she said half to herself. "that's going to be the most difficult. ricky, will you send one of lucy's children over with me to help carry back the costumes and my material--" she was already at the door. "val and i will go instead," ricky replied. some twenty minutes later val was handed a suitcase and told to use the contents to cover his back. having doubts of the wisdom of the whole affair, he went reluctantly upstairs to obey. but the result was not so bad. the broad-shouldered, narrow-waisted coat did not fit him ill, though the shiny boots were at least a size too large. timidly he went down. ricky was the first to see him. "val! you look like something out of _lloyds of london_. rupert, look at val. doesn't he look wonderful?" having thus made public his embarrassment, she ran to the mirror to finish her own prinking. the high-waisted empire gown of soft green voile made her appear taller than usual. but she walked with a little shuffle which suggested that her ribbon-strapped slippers fitted her no better than val's boots did him. charity was coaxing ricky's tight fashionable curls into a looser arrangement and tying a green ribbon about them. this done, she turned to survey val. "i thought so," she said with satisfaction. "you are just what i want. but," the tiny lines about her eyes crinkled in amusement, "at present you are just a little too perfect. do you realize that you have just fought off an attack, led by a witch doctor, in which you were wounded; that you have struggled through a jungle for seven hours in order to reach your betrothed; and that you are now facing death by torture? i hardly think that you should look as if you had just stepped out of the tailor's--" "i've done all that?" val demanded, somewhat staggered. "well, the author says you have, so you've got to look it. we'd better muss you up a bit. let's see." she tapped her fingernail against her teeth as she looked him up and down. "off with that coat first." he wriggled out of the coat and stood with the glories of his ruffled shirt fully displayed. "now what?" he asked. "this," she reached forward and ripped his left sleeve to the shoulder. "untie that cravat and take it off. roll up your other sleeve above the elbow. that's right. ricky, you muss up his hair. let a lock of it fall across his forehead. no, not there--there. good. now he's ready for the final touches." she went to the table where her paints had been left. "let's see--carmine, that ought to be right. this is water-color, val, it'll all wash off in a minute." across his smooth tanned cheek she dribbled a jagged line of scarlet. then instructing ricky to bind the torn edge of his sleeve above his elbow, she also stained the bandage. "well?" she turned to rupert. "he looks as though he had been through the wars all right," he agreed. "but what about the costume?" "oh, we needn't worry about that. they knew i'd have to do this, so they duplicated everything. now for you, ricky. pull your sleeve down off your shoulder and see if you can tear the skirt up from the hem on that side--about as far as your knee. yes, that's fine. you're ready now." rupert picked up from the table a sword and a long-barrelled dueling pistol and led the way out onto the terrace. charity pointed to the big chair in the sunlight. "this will probably be hard for you two," she warned them frankly. "if you get tired, don't hesitate to tell me. i'll give you a rest every ten minutes. val, you sit down in the chair. slump over toward that arm as if you were about finished. no, more limp than that. now look straight ahead. you are on the terrace of beauvallet. beside you is the girl you love. you are all that stands between her and the black rebels. now take this sword in your right hand and the pistol in your left. lean forward a little. there! now don't move; you've got just the pose i want. ricky, crouch down by the side of his chair with your arm up so that you can touch his hand. you're terrified. there's death, horrible death, before you!" val could feel ricky's hand quiver against his. charity had made them both see and feel what she wanted them to. they weren't in the peaceful sunlight on the terrace of pirate's haven; they were miles farther south in the dark land of haiti, the haiti of more than a hundred years ago. before them was a semitropical forest from which at any moment might crawl--death. val's hand tightened on the sword hilt; the pistol butt was clammy in his grip. rupert had put up the easel and laid out the paints. and now, taking up her charcoal, charity began to sketch with clear, clean strokes. her models' unaccustomed muscles cramped so that when they shifted during their rest periods they grimaced with pain. ricky whispered that she did not wonder models were hard to get. after a while rupert went away without charity noticing his leaving. the sun burned val's cheek where the paint had dried and he felt a trickle of moisture edge down his spine. but charity worked on, thoroughly intent upon what was growing under her brushes. it must have been close to noon when she was at last interrupted. "hello there, miss biglow!" two men stood below the terrace on a garden path. one of them waved his hat as charity looked around. and behind them stood jeems. "go away," said the worker, "go away, judson holmes. i haven't any time for you today." "not after i've come all the way from new york to see you?" he asked reproachfully. "why, charity!" he had the reddest hair val had ever seen--and the homeliest face--but his small-boy grin was friendliness itself. "go away," she repeated stubbornly. "nope!" he shook his head firmly. "i'm staying right here until you forget that for at least a minute." he motioned toward the picture. with a sigh she put down her brush. "i suppose i'll have to humor you." "miss charity," jeems had not taken his eyes from the two models since he had arrived and he did not move them now, "what're they all fixed up like that fur?" "it's a picture for a story," she explained. "a story about haiti in the old days--" "ah reckon ah know," he nodded eagerly, his face suddenly alight. "that's wheah th' blacks kilt th' french back in history times. ah got me a book 'bout it. a book in handwritin', not printin'. père armand larned me to read it." judson holmes' companion moved forward. "a book in handwriting," he said slowly. "could that possibly mean a diary?" charity was wiping her hands on a paint rag. "it might. new orleans was a port of refuge for a great many of the french who fled the island during the slave uprising. it is not impossible." "i've got to see it! here, boy, what's your name?" he pounced upon jeems. "can you get that book here this afternoon?" jeems drew back. "ah ain't gonna bring no book heah. that's mine an' you ain't gonna set eye on it!" with that parting shot he was gone. "but--but--" protested the other, "i've got to see it. why, such a find might be priceless." mr. holmes laughed. "curb your hunting instincts for once, creighton. you can't handle a swamper that way. let's go and see charity's masterpiece instead." "i don't remember having asked you to," she observed. "oh, see here now, wasn't i the one who got you this commission? and creighton here is that strange animal known as a publisher's scout. and publishers sometimes desire the services of illustrators, so you had better impress creighton as soon as possible. well," he looked at the picture, "you have done it!" even creighton, who had been inclined to stare back over his shoulder at the point where jeems disappeared, now gave it more than half his attention. "is that for _drums of doom_?" he asked becoming suddenly crisp and professional. "yes." "might do for the jacket of the book. have mr. richards see this. marvelous types, where did you get them?" he continued, looking from the canvas to ricky and val. "oh, i am sorry. miss ralestone, may i present mr. creighton, and mr. holmes, both of new york. and this," she smiled at val, "is mr. valerius ralestone, the brother of the owner of this plantation. the family, i believe, has lived here for about two hundred and fifty years." creighton's manner became a shade less brusque as he took the hand ricky held out to him. "i might have known that no professional could get that look," he said. "then this isn't your place?" mr. holmes said to charity after he had greeted the ralestones. "mine? goodness no! i rent the old overseer's house. pirate's haven is ralestone property." "pirate's haven." judson holmes' infectious grin reappeared. "a rather suggestive name." "the builder intended to name it 'king's acres' because it was a royal grant," val informed him. "but he was a pirate, so the other name was given it by the country folk and he adopted it. and he was right in doing so because there were other freebooters in the family after his time." "yes, we are even equipped with a pirate ghost," contributed ricky with a mischievous glance in her brother's direction. holmes fanned himself with his hat. "so romance isn't dead after all. well, charity, shall we stay--in town i mean?" "why?" a thin line appeared between her eyes as if she had little liking for such a plan. "well, creighton is here on the track of a mysterious new writer who is threatening to produce a second _gone with the wind_. and i--well, i like the climate." "we'll see," muttered charity. chapter x into the swamp in spite of the fact that they received but lukewarm encouragement from charity, both holmes and creighton lingered on in new orleans. mr. creighton made several attempts to get in touch with jeems, whom he seemed to suspect of concealing vast literary treasures. and he spent one hot morning going through the trunk of papers which the ralestones had found in the storage-room. ricky commented upon the fact that being a publisher's scout was almost like being an antique buyer. holmes was a perfect foil for his laboring friend. he lounged away his days draped across the settee on charity's gallery or sitting down on the bayou levee--after she had chased him away--pitching pebbles into the water. he told all of them that it was his vacation, the first one he had had in five years, and that he was going to make the most of it. companioned by creighton, he usually enlarged the family circle in the evenings. and the tales he could tell about the far corners of the earth were as wildly romantic as rupert's--though he did assure his listeners that even tibet was very tame and well behaved nowadays. charity had finished the first illustration and had started another. this time ricky and val appeared polished and combed as if they had just stepped out of a ball-room of a governor's palace--which they had, according to the story. it was during her second morning's work upon this that she threw down her brush with a snort of disgust. "it's no use," she told her models, "i simply can't work on this now. all i can see is that scene where the hero's mulatto half-brother watches the ball from the underbrush. i've got to do that one first." "why don't you then?" ricky stretched to relieve cramped muscles. "i would if i could get jeems. he's my model for the brother. he's enough like you, val, for the resemblance, and his darker tan is just right for color. but he won't come back while creighton's here. i could wring that man's neck!" "but creighton left for milneburg this morning," val reminded her. "rupert told him about the old voodoo rites which used to be celebrated there on june th, st. john's eve, and he wanted to see if there were any records--" "yes. but jeems doesn't know he's gone. if we could only get in touch with him--jeems, i mean." "miss 'chanda!" sam two, as they had come to call sam's eldest son and heir, was standing on the lowest step of the terrace, holding a small covered basket in his hands. "yes?" "letty-lou done say dis am fo' yo'all, miss 'chanda." "for me?" ricky looked at the offering in surprise. "but what in the world--bring it here, sam." "yas'm." he laid the basket in ricky's outstretched hands. "i've never seen anything like this before." she turned it around. "it seems to be woven of some awfully fine grass--" "that's swamp work." charity was peering over ricky's shoulder. "open it." inside on a nest of raw wild cotton lay a bracelet of polished wood carved with an odd design of curling lines which reminded val of spanish moss. and with the circlet was a small purse of scaled hide. "swamp oak and baby alligator," burst out charity. "aren't they beauties?" "but who--" began ricky. val picked up a scrap of paper which had fluttered to the floor. it was cheap stuff, ruled with faint blue lines, but the writing was bold and clear: "miss richanda ralestone." "it's yours all right." he handed her the paper. "i know." she tucked the note away with the gifts. "it was jeems." "jeems? but why?" her brother protested. "well, yesterday when i was down by the levee he was coming in and i knew that mr. creighton was here and i told him. so," she colored faintly, "then he took me across the bayou and i got some of those big swamp lilies that i've always wanted. and we had a long talk. val, jeems knows the most wonderful things about the swamps. do you know that they still have voodoo meetings sometimes--way back in there," she swept her hand southward. "and the fur trappers live on house-boats, renting their hunting rights. but jeems owns his own land. now some northerners are prospecting for oil. they have a queer sort of car which can travel either on land or water. and père armand has church records that date back to the middle of the eighteenth century. and--" "so that's where you were from four until almost six," val laughed. "i don't know that i approve of this riotous living. will jeems take me to pick the lilies too?" "maybe. he wanted to know why you always moved so carefully. and i told him about the accident. then he said the oddest thing--" she was staring past val at the oaks. "he said that to fly was worth being smashed up for and that he envied you." "then he's a fool!" her brother said promptly. "nothing is worth--" val stopped abruptly. five months before he had made a bargain with himself; he was not going to break it now. "do you know," ricky said to charity, "if you really need jeems this morning, i think i can get him for you. he told me yesterday how to find his cabin." "but why--" the objection came almost at once from charity. val thought she was more than a little surprised that jeems, who had steadfastly refused to give her the same information, had supplied it so readily to ricky whom he hardly knew at all. "i don't know," answered ricky frankly. "he was rather queer about it. kept saying that the time might come when i would need help, and things like that." "charity," val was putting her brushes straight, "i learned long ago that nothing can be kept from ricky. sooner or later one spills out his secrets." "except rupert!" ricky aired her old grievance. "perhaps rupert," her brother agreed. "anyway, i do know where jeems lives. do you want me to get him for you, charity?" "certainly not, child! do you think that i'd let you go into the swamp? why, even men who know something of woodcraft think twice before attempting such a trip without a guide. of course you're not going! i think," she put her paint-stained hand to her head, "that i'm going to have one of my sick headaches. i'll have to go home and lie down for an hour or two." "i'm sorry." ricky's sympathy was quick and warm. "is there anything i can do?" charity shook her head with a rueful smile. "time is the only medicine for one of these. i'll see you later." "just the same," ricky stood looking after her, "i'd like to know just what is going on in the swamp right now." "why?" val asked lightly. "because--well, just because," was her provoking answer. "jeems was so odd yesterday. he talked as if--as if there were some threat to us or him. i wonder if there is something wrong." she frowned. "of course not!" her brother made prompt answer. "he's merely gone off on one of those mysterious trips of his." "just the same, what if there were something wrong? we might go and see." "nonsense!" val snapped. "you heard what charity said about going into the swamp alone. and there is nothing to worry about anyway. come on, let's change. and then i have something to show you." "what?" she demanded. "wait and see." his ruse had succeeded. she was no longer looking swampward with that gleam of purpose in her eye. "come on then," she said, prodding him into action. val changed slowly. if one didn't care about mucking around in the garden, as ricky seemed to delight in doing, there was so little in the way of occupation. he thought of the days as they spread before him. a little riding, a great amount of casual reading and--what else? was the south "getting" him as the tropics are supposed to "get" the northerners? that unlucky meeting with a mountaintop had effectively despoiled him of his one ambition. soldiers with game legs are not wanted. he couldn't paint like charity, he couldn't spin yarns like rupert, he possessed a mind too inaccurate to cope with the intricacies of any science. and as a business man he would probably be a good street cleaner. what was left? well, the surprise he had promised ricky might cover the problem. as he reached for a certain black note-book, someone knocked on his door. "mistuh val, wheah's miss 'chanda? she ain't up heah an' ah wan's to--" lucy stood in the hall. the light from the round window was reflected from every corrugated wave of her painfully marcelled hair. her vast flowered dress had been thriftily covered with a dull-green bib-apron and she had changed her smart slippers for the shapeless gray relics she wore indoors. just now she looked warm and tired. after all, running two households was something of a task even for lucy. "why, she should be in her room. we came up to change. miss charity's gone home with a headache. what was it you wanted her for?" "dese heah cu'ta'ns, mistuh val"--she thrust a mound of snowy and beruffled white stuff at him--"dey has got to be hung. an' does miss 'chanda wan' dem in her room or does she not?" "better put them up. i'll tell her about it. here wait, let me open that door." val looked into ricky's room. as usual, it appeared as though a whirlwind, a small whirlwind but a thorough one, had passed through it. her discarded costume lay tumbled across the bed and her slippers lay on the floor, one upside down. he stooped to set them straight. "it do beat all," lucy said frankly as she put her burden down on a chair, "how dat chile do mak' a mess. now yo', mistuh val, jest put eberythin' jest so. but miss 'chanda leave eberythin' which way afore sunday! looka dat now." she pointed to the half-open door of the closet. a slip lay on the floor. ricky must have been in a hurry; that was a little too untidy even for her. a sudden suspicion sent val into the closet to investigate. ricky's wardrobe was not so extensive that he did not know every dress and article in it very well. it did not take him more than a moment to see what was missing. "did ricky go riding?" val asked. "her habit is gone." "she ain' gone 'cross de bayo' fo' de hoss," answered lucy, reaching for the curtain rod. "an' anyway, sam done took dat critter down de road fo' to be shoed." "then where--" but val knew his ricky only too well. she had a certain stubborn will of her own. sometimes opposition merely drove her into doing the forbidden thing. and the swamp had been forbidden. but could even ricky be such a fool? certain memories of the past testified that she could. but how? unless she had taken sam's boat-- without a word of explanation to lucy, he dashed out of the room and downstairs at his best pace. as he left the house val broke into a stumbling run. there was just a chance that she had not yet left the plantation. but the bayou levee was deserted. and the post where sam's boat was usually moored was bare of rope; the boat was gone. of course sam two might have taken it across the stream to the farm. that hope was extinguished as the small brown boy came out of the bushes along the stream side. "sam, have you seen miss 'chanda?" val demanded. "yessuh." "where?" carrying on a conversation with sam two was like prying diamonds out of a rock. he possessed a rooted distaste for talking. "heah, suh." "when?" "jest a li'l bitty 'go." "where did she go?" sam pointed downstream. "did she take the boat?" "yessuh." and then for the first time since val had known him sam volunteered a piece of information. "she done say she a-goin' in de swamp." val leaned back against the hole of one of the willows. then she had done it! and what could he do? if he had any idea of her path, he could follow her while sam aroused rupert and the house. "if i only knew where--" he mused aloud. "she a-goin' to see dat swamper jeems," sam continued. "heh, heh," a sudden cackle of laughter rippled across his lips. "dat ole swamper think he so sma't. think no one fin' he house--" "sam!" val rounded upon him. "do you know where jeems lives?" "yessuh." he twisted the one shoulder-strap of his overalls and val guessed that his knowledge was something he was either ashamed of or afraid to tell. "can you take me there?" he shook his head. "ah ain' a-goin' in dere, ah ain'!" "but, sam, you've got to! miss 'chanda is in there. she may be lost. we've got to find her!" val insisted. sam's thin shoulders shook and he slid backward as if to avoid the white boy's reach. "ah ain' a-goin' in dere," he repeated stubbornly. "effen yo'all wants to go in dere--looky, mistuh val, ah tells yo'all de way an' yo'all goes." he brightened at this solution. "yo'all kin take pappy's othah boat; it am downstream dere, behin' dem willows. den yo'all goes down to de secon' big pile o' willows. behin' dem is a li'l bitty bayo' goin' back. yo'all goes up dat 'til yo'all comes to a fur rack. den dat jeems got de way marked on de trees." with that he turned and ran as if all the terrors of the night were on his trail. there was nothing for val to do but to follow his directions. and the longer he lingered before setting out the bigger lead ricky was getting. he found the canoe behind the willows as sam had said. awkwardly he pushed off, hoping that lucy would pry the whole story out of her son and put rupert on their track as soon as possible. the second clump of willows was something of a landmark, a huge matted mass of sucker and branch, the lower tips of the long, frond-like twigs sweeping the murky water. a snake swimming with its head just above the surface wriggled to the bank as val cut into the small hidden stream sam had told him of. vines and water plants had almost choked this, but there was a passage through the center. and one tough spike of vegetation which snapped back into his face bore a deep cut from which the sap was still oozing. the small stinging flies and mosquitoes followed and hung over him like a fog of discomfort. his skin was swollen and rough, irritated and itching. and in this green-covered way the heat seemed almost solid. drops of moisture dripped from forehead and chin, and his hair was plastered tight to his skull. frogs leaped from the bank into the water at the sound of his coming. in the shallows near the bank, crawfish scuttled under water-logged leaves and stones at this disturbance of their world. twice the bayou widened out into a sort of pool where the trees grew out of the muddy water and all sorts of lilies and bulb plants blossomed in riotous confusion. once a muskrat waddled into the protection of the bushes. and val saw something like a small cat drinking at a pool. but that faint shadow disappeared noiselessly almost before the water trickled from his upraised paddle. clumps of wild rice were the meeting grounds for flocks of screaming birds. a snow-white egret waded solemnly across a mud-rimmed pocket. and once a snake, more dangerous than the swimmer val had first encountered, betrayed its presence by the flicker of its tongue. the smell of the steaming mud, the decaying vegetation, and the nameless evils hidden deeper in this water-rotted land was an added torment. the boy shook a large red ant from its grip in the flesh of his hand and wiped the streaming perspiration from his face. it was then that the canoe floated almost of its own volition into a dead and distorted strip of country. black water which gave off an evil odor covered almost half an acre of ground. from this arose the twisted, gaunt gray skeletons of dead oaks. to complete the drear picture a row of rusty-black vultures sat along the broad naked limb of the nearest of these hulks, their red-raw heads upraised as they croaked and sidled up and down. [illustration: _the canoe floated almost of its own volition into a dead and distorted strip of country._] but the bayou val was following merely skirted this region, and in a few moments he was again within the shelter of flower-grown banks. then he came upon a structure which must have been the fur rack sam two had alluded to, for here was their other boat moored to a convenient willow. val fastened the canoe beside it. the turf seemed springy, though here and there it gave way to patches of dark mud. it was on one of these that ricky had left her mark in the clean-cut outline of the sole of her riding-boot. with a last desperate slap at a mosquito val headed inland, following with ease that trail of footprints. ricky was suffering, too, for her rashness he noted with satisfaction when he discovered a long curly hair fast in the grip of a thorny branch he scraped under. but the path was not a bad one. and the farther he went the more solid and the dryer it became. once he passed through a small clearing, man-made, where three or four cotton bushes huddled together forlornly in company with a luxuriant melon patch. and the melon patch was separated by only a few feet of underbrush from jeems' domain. in the middle of a clearing was a sturdy platform, reinforced with upright posts and standing about four feet from the surface of the ground. on this was a small cabin constructed of slabs of bark-covered wood. as a dwelling it might be crude, but it had an air of scrupulous neatness. a short distance to one side of the platform was a well-built chicken-run, now inhabited by five hens and a ragged-tailed cock. the door of the cabin was shut and there were no signs of life save the chickens. but as val lowered himself painfully onto the second step of the ladder-like stairs leading up to the cabin, he thought he heard someone moving around. glancing up, he saw ricky staring down at him, open-mouthed. "hello," she called, for one of the few times in her life really astounded. "hello," val answered shortly and shifted his weight to try to relieve the ache in his knee. "nice day, isn't it?" chapter xi ralestones to the rescue! "val! what are you doing here?" she demanded. "following you. good grief, girl," he exploded, "haven't you any better sense than to come into the swamp this way?" ricky's mouth lost its laughing curve and her eyes seemed to narrow. she was, by all the signs, distinctly annoyed. "it's perfectly safe. i knew what i was doing." "yes? well, i will enjoy hearing rupert's remarks on that subject when he catches up with us," snapped her brother. "val!" she lost something of her defiant attitude. he guessed that for all her boasted independence his sister was slightly afraid of mr. rupert ralestone. "val, he isn't coming, too, is he?" "he is if he got my message." val stretched his leg cautiously. the cramp was slowly leaving the muscles and he felt as if he could stand the remaining ache without wincing. "i sent sam two back to tell rupert where his family had eloped to. frankly, ricky, this wasn't such a smart trick. you know what charity said about the swamps. even the little i've seen of them has given me ideas." "but there was nothing to it at all," she protested. "jeems told me just how to get here and i only followed directions." val chose to ignore this, being hot, tired, and in no mood for one of those long arguments such as ricky enjoyed. "by the way, where is jeems?" he looked about him as if he expected the swamper to materialize out of thin air. ricky sat down on the edge of the platform and dangled her booted feet. "don't know. but he'll be here sooner or later. and i don't feel like going back through the swamp just yet. the flies are awful. and did you see those dreadful vultures on that dead tree? what a place! but the flowers are wonderful and i saw a real live alligator, even if it was a small one." she rubbed her scarf across her forehead. "whew! it seems hotter here than it does at home." "this outing was all your idea," val reminded her. "and we'd better be getting back before rupert calls out the marines or the state troopers or something to track us down." ricky pouted. "not going until i'm ready. and you can't drag me if i dig my heels in." "i have no desire to be embroiled in such an undignified struggle as you suggest," he told her loftily. "but neither do i yearn to spend the day here. i'm hungry. i wonder if our absent host possesses a larder?" "if he does, you can't raid it," ricky answered. "the door's locked, and that lock," she pointed to the bright disk of brass on the solid cabin door, "is a good one. i've already tried a hairpin on it," she added shamelessly. they sat awhile in silence. a wandering breeze had found its way into the clearing, and with it came the fragrance of flowers blossoming under the sun. the chicken family were pursuing a worm with more energy than val decided he would have cared to expend in that heat, and a heavily laden bee rested on the lip of a sunflower to brush its legs. val's eyelids drooped and he found himself thinking dreamily of a hammock under the trees, a pillow, and long hours of lazy dozing. at the same time a corner of his brain was sending forth nagging messages that they should be up and off, back to their own proper world. but he simply did not have the will power to get up and go. "nice place," he murmured, looking about with more approbation than he would have granted the clearing some ten minutes earlier. "yes," answered ricky. "it would be nice to live here." val was beginning to say something about "no bathtubs" when a sound aroused them from their lethargy. someone was coming down the path. ricky's hand fell upon her brother's shoulder. "quick! up here and behind the house," she urged him. not knowing just why he obeyed, val scrambled up on the tiny platform and scuttled around behind the cabin. why they should hide thus from jeems who had given ricky directions for reaching the place and had asked her to come, was more than he could understand. but he had a faint, uneasy feeling of mistrust, as if they had been caught off guard at a critical moment. "this the place, red?" the clipped words sounded clear above the murmurs of life from swamp and woods. "yeah. bum-lookin' joint, ain't it? these guys ain't got no brains; they like to live like this." the contempt of the second speaker was only surpassed by the stridency of his voice. "what about this boy?" asked the first. "dumb kid. don't know yet who his friends is." there was a satisfied grunt as the speaker sat down on the step val had so lately vacated. ricky pressed closer to her brother. "what about the cabin?" "he ain't here. and it's locked, see? yuh'd think he kept the crown jewels there." the tickling scent of a cigarette drifted back to the two in hiding. "beats me how he slipped away this morning without pitts catching on. for two cents i'd spring that lock of his--" "isn't worth the trouble," replied the other decisively. "these trappers have no money except at the end of the fur season, and then most of them are in debt to the storekeepers." "then why--" "i sometimes wonder," the voice was coldly cutting, "why i continue to employ you, red. what profit would i find in a cabin like this? i want what he knows, not what he has." having thus reduced his henchman to silence, the speaker went on smoothly, as if he were thinking aloud. "with simpson doing so well in town, we're close to the finish. this swamper must tell us--" his voice trailed away. except for the creaking of wood when the sitter shifted his position, there was no other sound. then red must have grown restless, for someone stamped up to the platform and rattled the chain on the cabin door aggressively. val flattened back against the wall. what if the fellow took it into his head to walk around? "gonna wait here all day?" demanded red. "as it is necessary for me to have a word with him, we will. this waste of time is the product of pitts' stupidity. i shall remember that. it is entirely needless to use force except as a last resource. now that this swamper's suspicions are aroused, we may have trouble." "yeah? well, we can handle that. but how do yuh know that this guy has the stuff?" "i can at least believe the evidence of my own eyes," the other replied with bored contempt. "i came down river alone the night of the storm and saw him on the levee. he has a way of getting into the house all right. i saw him in there. and he doesn't go through any of the doors, either. i must know how he does it." "all right, boss. and what if you do get in? what are we supposed to be lookin' for?" "what those bright boys up there found a few days ago. that clerk told us that they'd discovered whatever the girl was talking about in the office that day. and we've got to get that before simpson comes into court with his suit. i'm not going to lose fifty grand." the last sentence ended abruptly as if the speaker had snapped his teeth shut upon a word like a dog upon its quarry. "what does this guy jeems go to the house for?" asked red. "who knows? he seems to be hunting something too. but that's not our worry. if it's necessary, we can play ghost also. i've got to get into that house. if i can do it the way this jeems does, without having to break in--so much the better. we don't want the police ambling around here just now." val stiffened. it didn't require a sherlock holmes to get the kernel of truth out of the conversation he had overheard. "night of the storm," "play ghost," were enough. so jeems had been the ghost. and the swamper knew a secret way into the house! "wait," ricky's lips formed the words by his ear as val stirred restlessly. "someone else is coming." "i don't like the set-up in town," red was saying peevishly. "that smooth mouthpiece is asking too darn many questions. he's always asking simpson about things in the past. if you hadn't got sim that family history to study, he'd been behind bars a dozen times by now." "and he had better study it," commented the other dryly, "because he is going to be word perfect before the case comes to court, if it ever does. there are not going to be any slip-ups in this deal." "'nother thing i don't like," broke in the other, "is this waverly guy. i don't like his face." "no? well, doubtless he would change it if you asked him to. and i do not think it is wise of you to be too critical of plans which were made by deeper thinkers than yourself. sometimes, red, you weary me." there was no reply to that harsh judgment. and now val could hear what ricky had heard earlier--a faint swish as of a paddle through water. again ricky's lips shaped words he could barely hear. "spur of bayou runs along here in back. someone coming up from there." "jeems?" "maybe." "we'd better--" val motioned toward the front of the cabin. ricky shook her head. jeems was to be allowed to meet the intruders unwarned. "this swamper may be tough," ventured red. "we've met hard cases before," answered the other significantly. red moved again, as if flexing his muscles. "one boy, and a small one at that, shouldn't force you to undergo all that preparation," goaded the boss. ricky must get away at once, her brother decided. stubbornness or no stubbornness, she must go this time. why he didn't think of going himself val never afterwards knew. perhaps he possessed a spark of the family love of danger, after all, but mostly he clung to his perch because of that last threat. whoever jeems was or whatever he had done, he was one and alone. and he might relish another player on his side. but ricky must go. he said as much in a fierce whisper, only to have her grin recklessly back at him. in pantomime she gestured that he might try to make her. val decided that he should have known the result of his efforts. ricky was a ralestone, too. and short of throwing her off the platform and so unmasking themselves completely, he could not move her against her will. "no," she whispered. "they're planning trouble for jeems. he'll probably need us." "well," val cautioned her, "if it gets too rough, you've got to promise to cut downstream for help. we'll be able to use it." she nodded. "it's a promise. but we've got to stand by jeems if he needs us." "if he does--" val was still suspicious. "he may fall in with their suggestions." ricky shook her head. "he isn't that kind. i don't care if he _has_ been playing ghost." someone was walking along the path among the bushes bordering the back of the clearing. although they could hear no sound, they could mark the passing of a body by the swish of the foliage. val lay, face down, on the platform and reached for a stick of wood lying on the ground below. somehow he did not like to think of being caught empty-handed when the excitement began. "hello." it was red, suddenly genial. the ralestones could almost feel the radiance of the smile which must have split his face. "whatta yo' doin' heah?" that was jeems, and his demand was sharply hostile. "now, bub, don't get us wrong." that was red, still genial. "i know my pal sorta flew off his base this mornin'. but it was all in fun, see? so we kinda wanted yuh to stick around till he came and not do the run-out on us. and now the boss has come down here so we can talk business all friendly like." "shut up, red!" having so bottled his companion's flow of words, the other spoke directly to jeems. "my men made a mistake. all right. that's over and done with; they'll get theirs. now let's get down to business. what do you know about that big plantation up river, the one called 'pirate's haven'?" "nothin'." jeems' answer was clear. the hostility was gone from his voice; nothing remained but an even tonelessness. "come now, i know you have reason to be hot. but this is business. i'll make it worth your while--" "nothin'," answered jeems as concisely as before. "you can't expect us to believe that. i followed you one night." "yo' did?" the challenge was unmistakable. "i did. so you see i know something of you. something which even the present owner does not. say the ghost in the hall, for example." there was the sound of a deeply drawn breath. "so you see it is to your advantage to listen to us," continued the boss smoothly. "what do you want?" val knew disappointment at that question. would jeems surrender as easily as that? "just an explanation of how you get into the house unseen." "yo'll nevah know!" the swamper's reply came swift and clear. "no? well, i'd think twice before i held to that answer if i were you," purred the other softly. "a word to the ralestones about those nightly walks of yours--" "won't give yo' what yo' want," replied jeems shrewdly. "i see. perhaps i have been using the wrong approach," observed the boss composedly. "you work for a living, don't you?" "yes." "then you know the value of money. what is your price? come on, we won't haggle." the boss' impatience colored his tone. "how much do you want for this information?" "nothin'!" "nothing?" "ah ain't said nothin' an' ah ain't a-goin' to say nothin'. an' yo' bettah be a-gittin' offen this heah land of mine afo'--" "before what, swamper?" red was taking a hand in the game. "yo' can't fright'n me with that gun," came calmly enough from jeems. "yo' ain't a-goin' to risk shootin'--" "there ain't no witnesses here, kid. and there ain't no law back in these swamps. yuh're gonna tell the boss what he wants to know an' yuh're gonna spill it quick, see? i know some ways of making guys squeal--" at that suggestion val's fingers tightened on his club and ricky choked back a cry as her brother crept toward the corner of the cabin. their melodrama was fast taking on the color of tragedy. "so yuh better speak up." red was still encouraging jeems. there was no immediate answer from the swamper, but ricky touched val's arm and nodded toward the bushes. she had decided that it was time for her to leave. he agreed eagerly. she dropped lightly to the ground and he watched her crawl away unnoticed by those in front who were so intent upon the baiting of their quarry. "three minutes, swamper!" ricky was gone, free from whatever might develop. val edged forward and for the first time peered around the corner of the cabin. the two assailants were still only voices, but he could see jeems. the swamper's face was bruised and there was a smear of dried blood across one cheek as if he had already been roughly handled. but he stood at ease, facing the cabin. his hands were hanging loosely at his sides and he was seemingly unconcerned by what confronted him. suddenly his eyes flickered to the bushes at one side. had ricky betrayed herself, val wondered breathlessly. clear now of the cabin, val wriggled his way around the platform. in a minute he would be able to see the boss and red. he gripped the club. then jeems stared straight into his face. but the swamper gave no sign of seeing val. and that, to the boy's mind, was the greatest feat of all that afternoon. for val knew that if he had been in jeems' place he would have betrayed them both in his surprise. the others were at last visible, their backs to val. nervously he sized them up. the boss was tall and thin, but his movements suggested possession of wiry strength. red, his brick-colored hair making him easy to identify, was shorter and thick across the shoulders, but his waistline was also thick and the boy thought that his wind was bad. of the two, the boss was the more dangerous. red might lose his head in a sudden attack, but not the boss. val decided to tackle the latter. slowly he got from his knees to his feet. after the first quick glance, jeems hadn't looked at him, but val knew that the swamper was ready and waiting to take advantage of any diversion he might make. "three minutes are up, swamper. so yuh've decided to be tough, eh?" "whatta yo' wanna know?" jeems' question was silly but it held their attention. "we have told you several times," answered the boss, his temper beginning to fray visibly. "what is the trick of getting into that house?" "well," jeems raised his hand to rub his ear, "yo' turn to the left--" so he agreed with the listener. val was to take the boss on his left. he gathered his feet under him for the leap which he hoped would land him full upon the invader. "yes?" prompted the man impatiently as jeems hesitated. at that moment val sprang. but his game leg betrayed him again. instead of landing cleanly upon the other, he came down draggingly across the boss' shoulders. the gun roared and then the attacked man lashed back a vicious blow which split the skin over val's cheek-bone. for the next three minutes val was more than occupied. his opponent was a dirty fighter, and when he had recovered from his surprise he was more than the boy could handle. val's club was twisted out of his hands, and he found himself fighting wildly to keep the man's clawing fingers from his eyes. they were both rolling on the ground, flailing out at each other. twice val tasted his own blood when one of the enemy's vicious jabs glanced along his face. either blow would have finished val had it landed clean. then in a sudden turn the boss caught him in a deadly body-lock which left him half-stunned and panting, at his mercy. and there was no mercy in the man. when val looked up into that flushed, snarling face, he knew that he was as hopeless as a trapped animal. the man could--and would--finish him at his leisure. "this way, rupert! sam!" the cry reached even val's dulled ears. the man above him stirred. the boy saw the blood-lust fade from his eyes and apprehension take its place. he got to his feet, launching a last bruising kick at val's ribs before he limped across the clearing. on his way he hauled red to his feet. they were going, not toward the path from the bayou, but around the house on the trail that jeems had followed. val struggled up and looked around. the turf was torn and gouged. in the dust lay his club and red's revolver. and by the steps lay something else, a slight brown figure. painfully the boy got to his feet and lurched across to jeems. chapter xii the ralestones bring home a reluctant guest the swamper was lying on his back, his eyes closed. from a great purple welt across his forehead the blood oozed sluggishly. when val touched him he moaned faintly. "val! are you hurt? what's the matter?" ricky was upon them like a whirlwind out of the bush. "jeems stopped a nasty one," her brother panted. "is he--" she dropped down in the dust beside them. "he's knocked out, and he'll have a bad headache for some time, but i don't think it's any worse than that." ricky had pulled out a microscopic bit of handkerchief and was dabbing at the blood in an amateurish way. jeems moaned and turned his head as if to get away from her ministrations. "where's rupert--and sam?" val looked toward the path. "they were with you, weren't they?" ricky shook her head. "no. that was just what you call creating a diversion. for all i know, they're busy at home." her brother straightened. "then we've got to get out of here--fast. those two left because they were rattled, but when they have had a chance to cool off they'll be back." "what about jeems?" "take him with us, of course. we won't be able to manage the canoe. but you brought the outboard, so we'll go in that and tow the canoe. we ought to have something to cover his head." val regarded the bleeding wound doubtfully. without answering, ricky leaned forward and began systematically going through jeems' pockets. in the second she found a key. val took it from her and hobbled up the cabin steps. for a wonder, he thought thankfully, the key was the right one. the lock clicked and he went in. like the clearing, the interior of the one-room shack was neat, a place for everything and everything in its place. under the window in the far wall was a small chest of some dark polished wood. save for its size, it was not unlike the chests the ralestones had found in their store-room. opposite it was a wooden cot, the covers smoothly spread. a stool, a blackened cook stove, and a solid table with an oil lamp were the extent of the furnishings. lines of traps hung on the walls, along with the wooden boards for the stretching of drying skins, and there was a half-finished grass basket lying on top of the chest. val hefted a stoneware jug. they had no time to hunt for a spring. and if this contained water, they would need it. at the resulting gurgle from within, he set it by the door and returned to rob the cot of pillow and the single coarse but clean sheet. ricky tore the sheet and made a creditable job of washing and bandaging the ugly bruise. jeems drank greedily when they offered him water but he did not seem to recognize them. in answer to ricky's question of how he felt, he muttered something in the swamp french of the cajuns. but he was uneasy until val locked the cabin door and put the key in his hand. "how are we going to get him to the boat?" asked ricky suddenly. "carry him." "but, val--" for the first time she looked at her brother as if she really saw him--"val, you're hurt!" "just a little stiff," he hastened to assure her. "our late visitors play rather rough. we'll manage all right. i'll take his shoulders and you his feet." they wavered drunkenly along the path. twice val stumbled and regained his balance just in time. ricky had laid the pillow across their burden's feet, declaring that she would need it when they got to the boat. val passed the point of aching misery--when he thought that he could not shuffle forward another step--and now he came into what he had heard called "second wind." by fixing his eyes on a tree or a bush a step or two ahead and concentrating only upon passing that one, and then that, and that, he got through without disgracing himself. at the bayou at last, they wriggled jeems awkwardly into the boat. val had no doubt that a woodsman might have done the whole job better in much less time and without a tenth of the effort they had expended. but all he ever wondered afterward was how they ever did it at all. [illustration: _at the bayou at last, they wriggled jeems awkwardly into the boat._] it was when ricky had made their passenger as comfortable as she could in the bottom of the boat, steadying his head across her knees, that her brother partially relaxed. "val, you run the engine," she said without looking up. he dragged himself toward the stern of the boat, remembering too late, when he had cast off, that he had not taken the canoe in tow. the engine coughed, sputtered, and then settled down to a steady _putt-putt_. they were off. "val, do you--do you think he is badly hurt?" he dared not look down; it required all his powers of concentration on what lay before them to keep his hand steady. "no. we'll get a doctor when we get back. he'll come around again in no time--jeems, i mean." but would he? head injuries were sometimes more serious than they seemed, val remembered dismally. it was not until they came out into the main bayou that jeems roused again. he looked up at ricky in a sort of dull surprise, and then his gaze shifted to val. "what--" "we won the war," val tried to grin, an operation which tore his mask of dried blood, "thanks to ricky. and now we're going home." at that, jeems made a violent effort to sit up. "_non_!" his english deserted him and he broke into impassioned french. "yes," val replied firmly as ricky pushed the swamper down. "of course you're coming with us. you've had a nasty knock on the head that needs attention." "ah'm not a-goin' to no hospital!" his eyes burned into val's. "certainly not!" cried ricky. "you're bound for our guest-room. now keep quiet. we'll be there soon." "ah ain't a-goin'," he declared mutinously. "don't be silly," ricky scolded him; "we're taking you. does val have to come and hold you down?" "ah can't!" his eyes flickered from val's face to hers. there was something more than independence behind that firm refusal. "ah ain't a-goin' theah." "why not?" he seemed to shrink from her. "it ain't fitten," he murmured. "how perfectly silly," laughed ricky. but val thought that he understood. "because of the secret you know?" he asked quietly. the pallor beneath jeems' heavy tan vanished in a flush of slow-burning red. "ah reckon so," he muttered, but he met val's eyes squarely. "let's leave all explanations until later," val suggested. "ah played haunt!" the confession came out of the swamper in a rush. "then you _were_ my faceless ghost?" jeems tried to nod and the action printed a frown of pain between his eyes. "why? didn't you want us to live there?" asked ricky gently. "ah was huntin'--" "what for?" the frown became one of puzzlement. "ah don't know--" his voice trailed off into a thin whisper as his eyes closed wearily. val signaled ricky to keep quiet. "ahoy there!" along the bank toward them came rupert and after him sam. beyond them lay the ralestone landing. val headed inshore. "just what does this mean--val! has there been an accident?" the irritation in rupert's voice became hot concern. "an intended one," his brother replied. "we've got the real victim here with us." they tied up to the landing and sam came down to hand out jeems who apparently had lapsed into unconsciousness again. "you'd better call a doctor," val told rupert. "jeems has a head wound." but rupert had already taken charge of affairs with an efficiency which left val humbly grateful. the boy didn't even move to leave the boat. it was better just to sit and watch other people scurry about. sam had started for the house, carrying jeems as if the long-legged swamper was the same age and size as his own small son. ricky dashed on ahead to warn lucy. rupert had sam two by the collar and was giving him instructions for catching dr. lefrode, who was probably making his morning rounds and might be found at the sugar-mill where one of the feeders had injured his hand. sam two's sister had seen the doctor on his way there a scant ten minutes earlier. val watched all this activity dreamily. everything would be all right now that rupert was in charge. he could relax-- "now," his brother turned upon val, "just what did--what's the matter with you?" "tired, i guess," val said ruefully. but rupert was already in the boat, getting the younger boy to his unsteady feet. "can you make it to the house?" he asked anxiously. "sure. just give me an arm till i get on the landing." but when val had crawled up on the levee he did not feel at all like walking to the house. then rupert's arm was about his thin shoulders and he thought that he could make it if he really tried. the garden path seemed miles long, and it was not until val had the soft cushions of the hall couch under him that he felt able to tell his story. but at that moment the short, stout doctor came through the door in a rush. sam two had led him to believe that half the household had been murdered. at first dr. lefrode started toward val, until in alarm the boy swung his feet to the floor and sat up, waving the man to the stairway where ricky hovered to act as guide. then val was alone, even sam two having edged upstairs to share in the excitement. the boy sank back on his pillows and wondered where their late assailants were now, and why they had been so determined to learn jeems' secret. as ricky had said once before, the ralestones seemed to have been handed a gigantic tangle without ends, only middle sections, and had been told to unravel it. boot heels clicked on the stone flooring. val turned his head cautiously and tried not to wince. rupert was coming in with a bowl of water, from which steam still arose. across his arm lay a towel and in his other hand was their small first-aid kit. "suppose we do a little patching," he suggested. "your face at present is not all it might be. what did you and your swamp friend do--run into a mowing machine?" he swabbed delicately at the cut the boss had opened across val's cheek-bone, and at another by his mouth. "i thought it might be that for a moment--a mowing machine, i mean. no, we just met a couple of gentlemen--enterprising fellows who wanted to see more of this commodious mansion of ours--" val's words faded into a sharp hiss as rupert applied iodine with a liberal hand. "they seemed to think that jeems knew a lot about pirate's haven and they were going to persuade him to tell all. only it didn't turn out the way they had planned." "due to you?" rupert eyed his brother intently. the boy's face was swollen almost out of recognition and he didn't like this sudden talkativeness. "due partly to me, but mostly to ricky. she--ah--created the necessary diversion. i had sort of lost interest at the time. i know so little about gouging and biting in clinches." "dirty fighters?" "well, soiled anyway. but if the boss isn't nursing a cracked wrist, it isn't my fault. i don't know what jeems did to red, but he, too, departed in a damaged condition. do you have to do that?" val demanded testily, squirming as rupert ran his hands lightly over the boy's shoulders and down his ribs, touching every bruise to tingling life. "just seeing the extent of the damage," he explained. "you don't have to see, i can feel!" val snapped pettishly. rupert got to his feet. "come on." "where?" "oh, a hot bath and then bed. you'll be taking an interest in life again about this time tomorrow. i think lefrode had better see you too." "no," val objected. "i'm not a child." rupert grinned. "if you'd rather i carried you--" there was no opposing rupert when he was in that mood, as his brother well knew. val got up slowly. the program that rupert had outlined was faithfully carried out. half an hour later val found himself between sheets, blinking at the ceiling drowsily. when two cracks overhead wavered together of their own accord, his eyes closed. "--still sleeping?" whispered someone at his side much later. "yes, best thing for him." "was he badly hurt?" "no, just banged around more than was good for him." val opened his eyes. it must have been close to dusk, for the sunlight was red across the bedclothes. rupert stood by the window and ricky was in the doorway, a tray of covered dishes in her hands. "hello!" val sat up, grimacing at the twinge of pain across his back. "what day is this?" rupert laughed. "still tuesday." "how's jeems?" "doing very well. i've had to have rupert in to frighten him into staying in bed," ricky said. "the doctor thinks he ought to be there a couple of days at least. but jeems doesn't agree with him. between keeping jeems in bed and keeping rupert out of the swamp i've had a full day." rupert sat down on the foot of the bed. "you'd know this boss and red again, wouldn't you?" "of course." "then you'll probably have a chance to identify them." there was a grim look about rupert's jaw. "ricky's told me all that you overheard. i don't know what it means but i've heard enough for me to get in touch with lefleur. he'll be out tomorrow morning. and once we get something to work on--" "i'm beginning to feel sorry for our swamp visitors," val interrupted. "they'll be sorry," hinted rupert darkly. "how about you, val, beginning to feel hungry?" "now that you mention it, i _am_ discovering a rather hollow ache in my center section. supper ready?" "half an hour. i'll bring you up a tray--" began ricky. but val had thrown back the sheet and was sitting on the side of the bed. "oh, no, you don't! i'm not an invalid yet." ricky glanced at rupert and then left. val reached for his shirt defiantly. but his brother raised no objection. the painful stiffness val had felt at first wore off and he was able to move without feeling as if each muscle were tied in cramping knots. "may i pay jeems a visit?" he asked as they went out into the hall. rupert nodded toward a door across the corridor. "in there. he's a stubborn piece of goods. reminds me of you at times. if he'd ever get rid of that scowl of his, he'd be even more like you. he warms to ricky, but you'd think i was a chinese torturer the way he acts when i go in." there was a shade of irritation in rupert's voice. "maybe he's afraid of you." "but what for?" rupert stared at the boy in open surprise. "well, you do have rather a commanding air at times," val countered. if ricky had told rupert nothing of jeems' confession, he wasn't going to. "so that's what you really think of me!" observed rupert. "go reason with that wildcat of yours if you want to. i'm beginning to believe that you are two of a kind." he turned abruptly down the hall. val opened the door of the bedroom. the sunlight was fading fast and already the corners of the large room were filled with the gray of dusk. but light from the windows swept full across the bed and its occupant. val hobbled stiffly toward it. "hello." the brown face on the pillow did not change expression as val greeted the swamper. "how do you feel now?" "bettah," jeems answered shortly. "ah'm good but they won't le' me up." "the doc says you're in for a couple of days," val told him. somehow jeems looked smaller, shrunken, as he lay in that oversized bed. and he had lost that air of indolent arrogance which had made him seem so independent in their swamp and garden meetings. it was as if val were looking down upon a younger and less confident edition of the swamper he had known. "what does he think?" there was urgency in that question. "who's he?" "yo' brothah." "rupert? why, he's glad to have you here," val answered. "does he know 'bout--" val shook his head. "tell him!" ordered the swamper. "ah ain't a-goin' to stay undah his ruff lessen he knows. 'tain't fitten." at this clean-cut statement of the laws of hospitality, val nodded. "all right. i'll tell him. but what were you after here, jeems? i'll have to tell him that, too, you know. was it the civil war treasure?" jeems turned his head slowly. "no." again the puzzled frown twisted his straight, finely marked brows. "what do ah want wi' treasure? ah don't know what ah was lookin' fo'. mah grandpappy--" "val, supper's ready," came rupert's voice from the hall. val half turned to go. "i've got to go now. but i'll be back later," he promised. "yo'll tell him?" jeems stabbed a finger at the door. "yes; after supper. i promise." with a little sigh jeems relaxed and burrowed down into the softness of the pillow. "ah'll be awaitin'," he said. chapter xiii on such a night as this-- it had been on of those dull, weepy days when a sullen drizzle clouded sky and earth. in consequence, the walls and floors of pirate's haven seemed to exude chill. rupert built a fire in the hall fireplace, but none of the family could say that it was a successful one. it made a nice show of leaping flame accompanied by fancy lighting effects but gave forth absolutely no heat. "val?" the boy started guiltily and thrust his note-book under the couch cushion as charity came in. tiny drops of rain were strung along the hairs which had blown free of her rain-cape hood like steel beads along a golden wire. "yes? don't come here expecting to get warm," he warned her bitterly. "we are very willing but the fire is weak. looks pretty, doesn't it?" he kicked at a charred end on the hearth. "well, that's all it's good for!" "val, what sort of a mess have you and jeems jumped into?" she asked as she handed him her dripping cape. "oh, just a general sort of mess," he answered lightly. "jeems had callers who forgot their manners. so ricky and i breezed in and brought the party to a sudden end--" "as i can see by your black eye," she commented. "but what has jeems been up to?" val was suddenly very busy holding her cape before that mockery of a blaze. "why don't you ask him that?" "because i'm asking you. rupert came over last night and sat on my gallery making very roundabout inquiries concerning jeems. i pried out of him the details of your swamp battle. but i want to know now just what jeems has been doing. your brother is so vague--" "rupert has the gift of being exasperatingly uncommunicative," his brother told her. "the story, so far as i know, is short and simple. jeems knows a secret way into this house. in addition, his grandfather told him that the fortune of the house of jeems is concealed here--having been very hazy in his description of the nature of said fortune. consequently, grandson has been playing haunt up and down our halls trying to find it. "his story is as full of holes as a sieve but somehow one can't help believing it. he has explained that he has the secret of the outside entrance only, and not the one opening from the inside. in the meantime he is in bed--guarded from intrusion by ricky and lucy with the same care as if he were the crown jewels. so matters rest at present." "neatly put." she dropped down on the couch. "by the way, do you realize that you have ruined your face for my uses?" val fingered the crisscrossing tape on his cheek. "this is only temporary." "i certainly hope so. that must have been some battle." "one of our better efforts." he coughed in mock modesty. "ricky saved the day with alarms and excursions without. rupert probably told you that." "yes, he can be persuaded to talk at times. is he always so silent?" "nowadays, yes," he answered slowly. "but when we were younger--you know," val turned toward her suddenly, his brown face serious to a degree, "it isn't fair to separate the members of a family. to put one here and one there and the third somewhere else. i was twelve when father died, and ricky was eleven. they sent her off to great-aunt rogers because uncle fleming, who took me, didn't care for a girl--" "and rupert?" "rupert--well, he was grown, he could arrange his own life; so he just went away. we got a letter now and then, or a post-card. there was money enough to send us to expensive schools and dress us well. it was two years before i really saw ricky again. you can't call short visits on sunday afternoons seeing anyone. "then uncle fleming died and i was simply parked at great-aunt rogers'. she"--val was remembering things, a bitter look about his mouth--"didn't care for boys. in september i was sent to a military academy. i needed discipline, it seemed. and ricky was sent to miss somebody's-on-the-hudson. rupert was in china then. i got a letter from him that fall. he was about to join some expedition heading into the gobi. "ricky came down to the christmas hop at the academy, then aunt rogers took her abroad. she went to school in switzerland a year. i passed from school to summer camp and then back to school. ricky sent me some carvings for christmas--they arrived three days late." he stared up at the stone mantel. "kids feel things a lot more than they're given credit for. ricky sent me a letter with some tear stains between the lines when aunt rogers decided to stay another year. and that was the year i earned the reputation of being a 'hard case.' "then ricky cabled me that she was coming home. i walked out of school the same morning. i didn't even tell anyone where i was going. because i had money enough, i thought i would fly. and that, dear lady, is the end of this very sad tale." he grinned one-sidedly down at her. "it was then that--that--" "i was smashed up? yes. and rupert came home without warning to find things very messy. i was in the hospital when i should have been in some corrective institution, as aunt rogers so often told me during those days. ricky was also in disgrace for speaking her mind, as she does now and then. to make it even more interesting, our guardian had been amusing himself by buying oil stock with our capital. unfortunately, oil did not exist in the wells we owned. yes, rupert had every right to be anything but pleased with the affairs of the ralestones. "he swept us off here where we are still under observation, i believe." "then you don't like it here?" "like it? madam, 'like' is a very pallid word. what if you were offered everything you ever wished for, all tied up in pink ribbons and laid on your door-step? what would your reaction be?" "so," she was staring into the fire, "that's the way of it?" "yes. or it would be if--" he stooped to reach for another piece of wood. the fire was threatening to die again. "what is the flaw in the masterpiece?" she asked quietly. "rupert. he's changed. in the old days he was one of us; now he's a stranger. we're amusing to have around, someone to look after, but i have a feeling that to him we don't really exist. we aren't real--" val floundered trying to express that strange, walled-off emotion which so often held him in this grown-up brother's presence. "things like this 'bluebeard's chamber' of his--that isn't like the rupert we knew." "did you ever think that he might be shy, too?" she asked. "he left two children and came home to find two distrustful adults. give him his chance--" "charity!" ricky ran lightly downstairs. "why didn't val tell me you had come?" "i just dropped in to inquire concerning your patient." "he's better-tempered than val," declared ricky shamelessly. "you'll stay to dinner of course. we're having some sort of crab dish that lucy seems to think her best effort. rupert will be back by then, i'm sure; he's out somewhere with sam. there's been some trouble about trespassers on the swamp lands. goodness, won't this rain ever stop?" as if in answer to her question, there came a great gust of wind and rain against the door, a blast which shook the oak, thick and solid as it was. and then came the thunder of the knocker which letty-lou had polished into shining life only the day before. val opened the door to find mr. creighton and mr. holmes huddled on the mat. they came in with an eagerness which was only surpassed by satan, wet and displaying cold anger towards his mistress, whom he passed with a disdainful flirt of his tail as he headed for that deceptive fire. "you, again," observed charity resignedly as sam two was summoned and sent away again draped with wet coats and drenched hats. "man"--holmes argued with satan for the possession of the hearth-stone--"when it rains in this country, it rains. a branch of your creek down there is almost over the road--" "bayou, not creek," corrected charity acidly. lately she had shown a marked preference for holmes' absence rather than his company. "i stand corrected," he laughed; "a branch of your bayou." "if you found it so unpleasant, why did you--" began charity, and then she flushed as if she had suddenly realized that that speech was too rude even for her recent attitude. "why did we come?" holmes' crooked eyebrow slid upward as his face registered mock reproof. "my, my, what a warm welcome, my dear." he shook his head and charity laughed in spite of herself. "don't mind my bearishness," she made half apology. "you know what pleasant moods i fall into while working. and this rain is depressing." "but miss biglow is right." creighton smiled his rare, shy smile. brusque and impatient as he was when on business bent, he was awkwardly uncomfortable in ordinary company. the man, val sometimes thought privately, lived, ate, slept books. save when they were the subject of conversation, he was as out of his element as a coal-miner at the ballet. "we should explain the reason for this--this rather abrupt call." he fingered his brief-case, which he still clutched, nervously. "down to business already." holmes seated himself on the arm of ricky's chair. "very well, out with it." creighton smiled again, laid the case across his knees, and looked straight at ricky. for some reason he talked to her, as if she above all others must be firmly convinced of the importance of his mission. "it is a very queer story, miss ralestone, a very queer--" "said the mariner to the wedding guest." holmes snapped his fingers at satan, who contemptuously ignored him. "or am i thinking of the whiting who talked to the snail?" "perhaps i had better begin at the beginning," continued creighton, frowning at holmes who refused to be so suppressed. "why be so dramatic about it, old man? it's very simple, miss ricky. creighton has lost an author and he wants you to help find him." when ricky's eyes involuntarily swept about the room, val joined in the laughter. "no, it isn't as easy as all that, i'm afraid." creighton had lost his nervous shyness. "but what holmes says is true. i have lost an author and do hope that you can help me locate the missing gentleman--or lady. two months ago an agent sent a manuscript to our office for reading. it wasn't complete, but he thought it was well worth our attention. it was. "although there were only five chapters finished, the rest being but synopsis and elaborated scenes, we knew that we had something--something big. we delayed reporting upon it until mr. brewster--our senior partner--returned from europe. mr. brewster has the final decision on all manuscripts; he was as well pleased with this offering as we were. frankly, we saw possibilities of another great success such as those two long historical novels which have been so popular during the past few years. "queerly enough, the author's name was not upon the papers sent us by the agent--that is, his proper name; there was a pen-name. and when we applied to mr. lever, the agent, we received a most unpleasant shock. the author's real name, which had been given in the covering letter mailed with the manuscript to mr. lever, had most strangely disappeared, due to some carelessness in his office. "now we have an extremely promising book and no author--" "what i can't understand," cut in holmes, "is the modesty of the author. why hasn't he written to lever?" "that is the most unfortunate part of the whole affair." mr. creighton shook his head. "lever recalled that the chap had said in the letter that if lever found the manuscript unsalable he should destroy it, as the writer was moving about and had no permanent address. the fellow added that if he didn't hear from lever he would assume that it was not acceptable. lever wrote to the address given in the letter to acknowledge receipt, but that was all." "mysterious," val commented, interested in spite of himself. "just so. lever deduced from the tone of the letter that the writer was very uncertain of his own powers and hesitated to submit his manuscript. and yet, what we have is a very fine piece of work, far beyond the ability of the average beginner. the author must have written other things. "the novel is historical, with a new orleans setting. its treatment is so detailed that only one who had lived here or had close connections with this country could have produced it. mr. brewster, knowing that i was about to travel south, asked me to see if i could discover our missing author through his material. so far i have failed; our man is unknown to any of the writers of the city or to any of those interested in literary matters. "yet he knows new orleans and its history as few do today except those of old family who have been born and bred here. dr. hanly richardson of tulane university has assured me that much of the material used is authentic--historically correct to the last detail. and it was dr. richardson who suggested that several of the scenes must have actually occurred, becoming with the passing of time part of the tradition of some aristocratic family. "the period of the story is that time of transition when louisiana passed from spain to france and then under the control of the united states. it covers the years immediately preceding the battle of new orleans. unfortunately, those were years of disturbance and change. events which might have been the talk of the town, and so have found description in gossipy memoirs, were swallowed by happenings of national importance. it is, i believe, in intimate family records only that i can find the clue i seek." "which scenes"--ricky's eyes shone in the firelight--"are those dr. richardson believes real?" "well, he was very certain that the duel of the twin brothers must have occurred--why, mr. ralestone," he interrupted himself as the stick val was about to place on the fire fell from his hands and rolled across the floor. "mr. ralestone, what is the matter?" across his shoulder ricky signaled her brother. and above her head val saw holmes' eyes narrow shrewdly. "nothing. i'm sorry i was so clumsy." val stooped hurriedly to hide his confusion. "a duel between twin brothers." ricky twisted one of the buttons which marched down the front of her sport dress. "that sounds exciting." "they fought at midnight"--creighton was enthralled by the story he was telling--"and one was left for dead. the scene is handled with restraint and yet you'd think that the writer had been an eye-witness. now if such a thing ever did happen, there would have been a certain amount of talk afterwards--" charity nodded. "the slaves would have spread the news," she agreed, "and the person who found the wounded twin." val kept his eyes upon the hearth-stone. there was no stain there, but his vivid imagination painted the gray as red as it had been that cold night when the slave woman had come to find her master lying there, his brother's sword across his body. someone had used the story of the missing ralestone. but who today knew that story except themselves, charity, lefleur, and some of the negroes? "and you think that some mention of such an event might be found in the papers of the family concerned?" asked ricky. she was leaning forward in her chair, her lips parted eagerly. "or in those of some other family covering the same period," creighton added. "i realize that this is an impertinence on my part, but i wonder if such mention might not be found among the records of your own house. from what i have seen and heard, your family was very prominent in the city affairs of that time--" ricky stood up. "there is no need to ask, mr. creighton. my brother and i will be most willing to help you. unfortunately, rupert is very much immersed in a business matter just now, but val and i will go through the papers we have." val choked down the protest that was on his lips just in time to nod agreement. for some reason ricky wanted to keep the secret. very well, he would play her game. at least he would until he knew what lay behind her desire for silence. "that is most kind." creighton was beaming upon both of them. "i cannot tell you how much i appreciate your coöperation in this matter--" "not at all," answered ricky with that deceptive softness in her voice which masked her rising temper. "we are only too grateful to be allowed to share a secret." and then her brother guessed that she did not mean creighton's secret but some other. she crossed the room and rang the bell for letty-lou to bring coffee. something triumphant in her step added to val's suspicion. like the englishman of kipling's poem, ricky was most to be feared when she grew polite. he turned in time to see her wink at charity. rupert came in just then, wet and thoroughly out of sorts, full of the evidences he had discovered on ralestone lands bordering the swamp that strangers had been camping there. their guests all stayed to supper, lingering long about the table to discuss rupert's find, so that val did not get a chance to be alone with ricky to demand an explanation. and for some reason she seemed to be adroitly avoiding him. he did have her almost cornered in the upper hall when letty-lou came up behind him and plucked at his sleeve. "mistuh val," she said, "dat jeems boy done wan' to see yo'all." "bother jeems!" val exploded, his eyes on ricky's back. but he stepped into the bedroom where the swamper was still imprisoned by lucy's orders. the boy was propped up on his pillows, looking out of the window. his body was tense. at the sound of val's step he turned his bandaged head. "can't yo' git me outa heah?" he demanded. "why?" "the watah's up!" his eyes were upon the water-filled darkness of the garden. "but that's all right," the other assured him. "sam says that it won't reach the top of the levee. at the worst, only the lower part of the garden will be flooded." jeems glanced at val over his shoulder and then without a word he edged toward the side of the bed and tried to stand. but with a muffled gasp he sank back again, pale and weak. awkwardly val forced him back against his pillows. "it's all right," he assured him again. but in answer the swamper shook his head violently, "it ain't all right in the swamp." in a flash val caught his meaning. swampers lived on house-boats for the most part, and the boats will outride all but unusual floods. but jeems' cabin was built on land, land none too stable even in dry weather. the swamp boy touched val's hand. "it ain't safe. two of them piles is rotted. if the watah gits that far, they'll go." "you mean the piles holding up your cabin platform?" val asked. he nodded. for a second val caught a glimpse of forlorn loneliness beneath the sullen mask jeems habitually wore. "but there's nothing you can do now--" "it ain't the cabin. ah gotta git the chest--" "the one in the cabin?" his black eyes were fixed upon val's, and then they swerved and rested upon the wall behind the young ralestone. "ah gotta git the chest," he repeated simply. and val knew that he would. he would get out of bed and go into the swamp after that treasure of his. which left only one thing for val to do. "i'll get the chest, jeems. let me have your key to the cabin. i'll take the outboard motor and be back before i'm missed." "yo' don't know the swamp--" "i know how to find the cabin. where's the key?" "in theah," he pointed to the highboy. val's fingers closed about the bit of metal. "mistuh," jeems straightened, "ah won't forgit this." val glanced toward the downpour without. "neither will i, in all probability," he said dryly as he went out. it had been on just such a night as this that the missing ralestone had gone out into the gloom. but he was coming back again, val reminded himself hurriedly. of course he was. with a shake he pulled on his trench-coat and slipped out the front door unseen. chapter xiv pirate ways are hidden ways the rain, fine and needle-like, stung val's face. there were ominous pools of water gathering in the garden depressions. even the small stream which bisected their land had grown from a shallow trickle into a thick, mud-streaked roll crowned with foam. but the bayou was the worst. it had put off its everyday sleepiness with a roar. a chicken coop wallowed by as the boy struggled with the knot of the painter which held the outboard. and after the coop traveled a dead tree, its topmost branches bringing up against the plantation landing with a crack. val waited for it to whirl on before he got on board his craft. the adventure was more serious than he had thought. it might not be a case of merely going downstream and into the swamp to the cabin; it might be a case of fighting the rising water in grim battle. why he did not turn back to the house then and there he never knew. what would have happened if he had? he sometimes speculated afterward. if ricky had not come into the garden to hunt him? if together they had not-- while val went with the current, his voyage was ease itself. but when he strove to cut across and so reach the mouth of the hidden swamp-stream, he narrowly escaped upsetting. as it was, he fended off some dark blot bobbing through the water, his palm meeting it with a force that jarred his bones. but he did make the mouth of the swamp-stream. switching on the strong search-light in the bow, he headed on. and because he was moving now against the current, it seemed that he lost two feet for every one that he advanced. the muddy water was whipped into foam where it tore around shrub and willow. there were no longer any confining banks, only a waste of water glittering through the dark foliage. the drear habitat of the vultures was being swept bare by the scouring of the incoming streams, but its moldy stench still arose stronger than ever, as if some foulness were being stirred up from its ancient bed. it was only by chance that val found the drying rack which marked the boundary of jeems' property. here the land was higher than the flood, which had not yet spread inland. he tied the boat to a willow and splashed ashore. in the lower portions of the path his feet sank into patches of wet. something which might have been--and probably was--a snake oozed away from the beam of his pocket torch. the clearing was much as it had been, save that the door of the chicken-run stood ajar and its feathered population was gone. but under the cabin val saw the betraying sparkle of water. the bayou in the rear must have topped flood level. someone had been there before him. the lock was battered and there had been an attempt to pry loose its staples, an attempt which had left betraying gouges on the door frame. but misused as it had been, the lock yielded to the key and val went in. warned by a lapping sound from beneath, it did not take him long to get the chest, relock the door, and head back to the boat. he was none too soon. already, in the few moments of his absence, there were rills cutting across the mud, rills which were growing in strength and size. and the flood around the drying rack was up a good three inches. val dumped the chest into the bow with little ceremony and climbed in after it, his wet trousers clinging damply to his legs. something plate-armored and possessing wicked yellow eyes swam effortlessly through the light beam--a 'gator bound for the gulf, whether he would or no. the return as far as the bayou was easy enough, for again the boat was borne on the current. but when val faced the torn waters of the river he experienced a certain tightness of throat and chill of blood. what might have been the roof of a small shed was passing lumpily as he hesitated. then came a tree burdened with a small 'coon which stared at the boy piteously, its eyes green in the light. an eddy sent its ship close to the boat; the top branches clung a moment to the bow. and to val's surprise, the 'coon roused itself to a mighty effort and crossed into the egg-shell safety the boat offered. once in the outboard, it retreated to the bow where it crouched beside the chest and kept a wary eye on val's every movement. [illustration: _then came a tree burdened with a small 'coon which stared at the boy piteously, its eyes green in the light._] but he could not rescue the wildcat which swept by spitting at the water from a log, nor the shivering doe which awaited the coming of death, marooned on an islet which was fast being cut away by the hungry waters. and all the time the stinging rain fed the flood. val gripped the rudder until the bar was printed deep across his palm. soon it would be too late. he must cross now, heading diagonally downstream to escape the full fury of the current. with a deep breath he turned out into the bayou. it was like fighting some vast animated feather-bed. his greatest efforts were as nothing against the overpowering sweep seaward. and there was constant danger from the floating booty of the storm. the muddy spray lashed his body, filling the bottom of his craft as if it were a tea-cup. and once the boat was whirled almost around. val was beginning to wonder just how long a swimmer might last in that black fog of rain, wind, and water when his bow eased into comparatively quiet water. he had crossed the main current; now was the time to head upstream. grimly he did, to begin a struggle which was to take on all the more horrible properties of a nightmare. for this was many times worse than his fight against the swamp-stream. twice the engine sputtered protestingly and val thought of trying to leap ashore. but stubbornly the outboard fought on. if there ever were a sturdy ship, fit to be named with columbus' gallant craft or hudson's vessel, it was that frail outboard which buffeted the rising waters of a louisiana bayou gone flood mad. it achieved the impossible; it crept upstream inch by inch, escaping disaster after disaster by the thinness of a dime. since he had apparently not been born to drown, val thought as he saw his headlight touch the tip of the landing, he would doubtless depart this life by hanging. then his light picked out something else which lay between him and the landing. the sleek, knife-bowed cruiser certainly did not belong to pirate's haven. and what neighbor would come calling by water on such a night? it was moored by two thick ropes to a sunken post, and already the mooring was dragging the bow down. val headed in toward it, running the outboard between the stranger and the landing. out of the blackness ashore a shadow arose and waved at him frenziedly. then he saw ricky's white face above her long oil-silk cape. her hair was plastered tight to her skull and she was protecting her eyes from the fury of the rain with her hands. val sent the boat inshore until it bit into the crumbling surface of the levee with a shock which threatened his balance. ricky snatched at the painter and held steady while he jumped. they made the boat fast and val landed the chest. the passenger did his own disembarking, making his way into the garden without a backward look. then val demanded an explanation. "what are you doing here?" he tried to out-screech the wind. in answer she clapped her wet, muddy hand across his mouth and pulled him back from the levee. they reached the semi-shelter of a rotting summer-house where he put down the chest. ricky pushed her wet hair out of her eyes. it was impossible for them to hear each other without screaming madly. "jeems told me--after you left--val! how could you be so mad!" "i made it." he touched the chest with his toe. "after we had practically kidnapped him, we couldn't let his belongings just float away. but why are you out here? and where did that boat come from?" "i came out here after jeems told me. i'm all right." she laughed shakily. "i've got my oldest clothes on--and this," she touched her cape. "i couldn't stay in there--waiting--after i knew. and i didn't want rupert to ask questions. so i said that i was going to bed with a headache. then i slipped out here to the levee. and i hadn't been here two minutes before that boat came downstream. there were four men in it and they got out and went into the bushes over there. and, val, rupert is down at the other end of the garden where they are having trouble with the levee. holmes and creighton went down to see if they could help, too, just after you left. there's nobody but charity up at the house with lucy and letty-lou. val, what are we going to do?" she appealed to him. "first i'll investigate these visitors," he said easily, though he felt far from easy within. "me too," she said firmly if ungrammatically, and since val could not wait to argue, she went along. they took the route she had watched the invaders follow, wriggling through wet bushes and around trees. "val, look out!" she grabbed his arm and so saved him from tumbling headlong into a black hole in the ground. vines and a small shrub or two had been ruthlessly torn out to bare the opening. it was here that the visitors must have gone to earth. and then val had a glimmering of the truth; the "boss" and his friends had at last found jeems' private door. prudence urged that they return to the house and send sam two or some other messenger down to the cross-roads store to summon the police by phone. prudence however had never successfully advised any ralestone. they had a decided taste for fighting their own battles. so, torch in hand, val dropped into the hole. and a moment later ricky slid down to join him. they stood in a rough passage. stout timbers banked its sides and guarded the roof. there was a damp underground smell such as val had noted in the cellar of the house, but the air was fresh enough. after the first hasty survey, the boy held his fingers over the bulb of the flashlight so that only the faintest glimmer escaped to light their path. the passage was short, ending abruptly in a low bricked room. save for themselves, a tangle of rotting rope in a far corner, and two lively black beetles, it was empty. "val," ricky's throaty whisper reached him, "can't you guess what this is? the first pirate ralestone's storage-house!" it was a likely enough explanation--though nothing could have been stored there very long; the place was too damp. beads of slimy moisture from the walls dripped slowly down, shining like silver in the light. at the other side of the room was a corridor branching away. but this they barely glanced into, little knowing how that neglect was to prove disastrous in the end. it was the main door to their right which interested them most, for that led, so far as val could determine, toward the house. and that must have been the one the mysterious visitors had followed. thus they came into the second of their pirate ancestor's store-rooms. this one was long and narrow. three wooden casks eaten with decay and spotted with fungus stood against the wall, testifying to the use to which this chamber had been put, though the all-pervading damp could not have been good for the wine. again a dark archway tempted them on, and the third room into which they came had a more grim reminder of the scarlet past of the house. for ricky stumbled over something which clinked dully. and when val used the flash they looked down upon a telltale length of chain ending in an iron ring, its other end soldered into the wall. "val," ricky's voice quavered, "did--did they keep people here?" "slaves, perhaps," her brother answered soberly and shoved the rusting metal aside with his foot. but there were two other chains hanging from the wall, speaking of past horrors of which he did not care to think. and then as their light picked out these damning testimonials, val thought that the ralestones, for all their pride and fine, brave airs, had been only pirates after all, akin to those whom they were now hunting through the dark. there was a low arched doorway of brick on the right side of the room, and this they passed through. beyond were three broad stone steps, worn a little on the treads, one cracked clear across. these led to a wide landing paved with brick. here the walls were brick as well. ricky touched one involuntarily and drew back her hand with a little exclamation of disgust. she wiped her palm vigorously on the wet surface of her cape. everywhere was the smell of rot and slow, vile decay. in spite of its historical associations, decided val, this vault should be sealed forever from the daylight and left to the sole occupancy of those nameless things which creep in its dark. the very air, in spite of its freshness, seemed tainted. another flight of stairs was before them, the treads fashioned of stone but equipped with a rotted wooden hand-rail. and above was the faint reflection of light and the sound of voices. val hesitated and realized for the first time how foolhardy their expedition was. those above would be prepared to handle interruptions. val was determined to keep ricky out of trouble, and to go on alone was the rankest folly. but, as he hesitated, the decision was taken out of his hands, for the light above suddenly became brighter. grabbing at ricky's arm, he stumbled back into the shelter of the archway, pulling her after him. a round circle of light shone plainly at the top of the stairs. someone was coming down. ricky's breath was warm on val's cheek and she moved with a faint crackling of her cape which sounded as loud as a thunderclap in his ears. "how're we gonna do it without bustin' the wall down?" demanded an aggrieved voice from the top of the stairs. "there ain't no knob, no handle, no nothin' to work it from this side. and these guys what stored their stuff here in the boot-leggin' days never got into the house." "the boy got through, didn't he?" val knew that voice, the boss of the swamp meeting. "well, if he did, we can." "lissen, boss, it's a secret, ain't it? an' we gotta know how it works before we can work it. an' lissen here, you swamp bum, you keep outta my way--see? i don't care if you were one of mike flanigan's boys; that don't cut no ice with me." this truculent warning must have been addressed to an unseen companion on the same stair level. the listeners below heard a faint sound which might have marked a collision and then the hiss of swamp french spoken hurriedly and angrily. "what're you gonna do now, boss?" the light half-way down the stairs paused. "there is some way of opening that panel--" "an' we gotta find it. all right, all right. but tell me how." "i don't know whether it will be necessary to open it--from this side." "what d'ya mean?" "use that thick skull of yours, red. doors swing two ways, don't they? they can be used either to go in or to go out." "got it!" the thick voice was oily with flattering approval. "we can get out this way--" "smart work, red. did you think that out all by yourself?" asked the other contemptuously. "yes, we can come out this way when"--his voice was sharp with purpose--"we are finished. send one of these swampers down to the levee where the men are working. as long as this flood keeps rising we're safe. then the other three of us will go for the house. we may be seen that way, but there's no use spending any more time here playing tick-tack-toe on that wood up there. we locate what we want, and if we're cornered we can come out through here to the bayou. slick enough." "great stuff, boss--" red began. but the rest was muffled, for ricky and val drew back into the room of the chains. there was only one thing to do now--reach rupert and the others and prepare to meet these skulkers in the open. but before they had quite crossed the room ricky came to grief. she caught her foot in one of those gruesome chains and stumbled forward, falling on her hands and knee. the noise of her fall echoed around the low chamber with betraying clamor. a white light beat upon them as val stooped to aid ricky. "stop!" came the shout, but val had only one thought, to dim that light. he swung back his arm and flung his own flash straight at the other. there was a grunt of pain and the light fell to the floor. with the tinkle of breaking glass it went out. val pulled ricky to her feet and threw her toward the door, forgetting everything but the wild panic which urged him out of that place of foul darkness. they bruised their hands against the brick as they felt for the opening, and then they were out in the other chamber. "val," ricky clung to him, "i've got that little flash i keep under my pillow at night. wait a minute until i get it out of my pocket. we can't find our way out of here without a light." muffled sounds from behind them suggested that their pursuers were on the trail even without light. after all, given time enough, it would be easy for them to feel their way out of the vaults. val hustled ricky on, taking his direction from one of the wine-casks he had bumped into. and before he allowed her to hunt for her torch they stood in the first of the chambers. the light she produced was poor and it flickered warningly. but it was good enough for them to see the dark opening which led to the outer world. they ducked into this just as the first of the other party came cursing into the open. at val's orders, ricky switched off the light and they crept along by the wall, one hand on its guiding surface. but the way seemed longer than it had upon their entering. surely they should have reached the garden entrance by now. and the surface underfoot remained level instead of slanting upward. suddenly ricky gave a little cry. "we've taken the wrong passage! there's only a blank wall in front of us!" she was right. the torch showed a brick surface across their path, and val remembered too late the second passage out of the first chamber. they must go back and hope to elude the others in the dark. "they may have all gone out, thinking we were still ahead of them," he mused aloud. "well, it's got to be done," ricky observed, "so we might as well do it." back they went along the unknown passage. this appeared to run straight out from the first chamber. but why it had been fashioned and then walled up they had no way of knowing. ricky's torch picked out the entrance at last. "wait," val cautioned her, "we had better see how the land lies before we go out in the open." they stood listening. save for the constant drip, drip of water, there was no sound. "i guess it's clear," he said. "wonder where all the water is coming from?" ricky shivered. "down from the garden. come on, i think it's safe to have a light now." ricky must have been holding the torch upward when she pressed the button, for the round circle of light appeared on the supporting timbers above the door. they both looked up, fascinated for a moment. the old oak had been laid in a crisscross pattern, the best support possible in the days when the vaults had been made. "how wet--" began ricky. val cried out suddenly and struck at her. the blow sent her sprawling some three or four feet back in the passage. there might be time yet to cover her body with his own, he planned desperately, before-- the sound of slipping earth was all about them as val flung himself toward ricky. as he thrust blindly at her body, rolling her back farther into the tunnel, he felt the first clod strike full upon his shoulder. ricky's complaining whimper was the last thing he heard clearly. for in the dark was the crash of breaking timber. he was felled by a stroke across the upper arm, and then came a chill darkness in which he was utterly swallowed up. chapter xv pieces of eight--ralestones' fate! through the dull roaring which filled his ears val heard a sharp call: "val! val, where are you? val!" he stared up into utter blackness. "val!" "here, ricky!" but that thin thread of a whisper surely didn't belong to him. he tried again and achieved a sort of croak. something moved behind him and there was an answering rattle of falling clods. "val, i'm afraid to move," her voice wavered unsteadily. "it seems to be falling yet. where are you?" the boy tried to investigate, only to find himself more securely fastened than if he had been scientifically bound. and now that the mists had cleared from him, his spine and back felt a sharp pain to which he was no stranger. from his breast-bone down he was held as if in a vise. "are you hurt, ricky?" he formed the words slowly. every breath he drew thrust a red-hot knife between his ribs. he turned his head toward her, pillowing his cheek on the gritty clay. "no. but where are you, val? can't you come to me?" "sorry. un--unavoidably detained," he gasped. "don't try any crawling or the rest may come down on us." "val! what's the matter? are you hurt?" her questions cut sharply through the darkness. "banged up a little. no"--he heard the rustle which betrayed her movements--"don't try to come to me--please, ricky!" but with infinite caution she came, until her brother felt the edge of her cape against his face. then her questing hand touched his throat and slid downward to his shoulders. "val!" he knew what horror colored that cry as she came upon what imprisoned him. "it's all right, ricky. i'm just pinned in. if i don't try to move i'm safe." quickly he tried to reassure her. "val, don't lie to me now--you're hurt!" "it's not bad, really, ricky--" "oh!" there was a single small cry and a moment of utter silence and then a hurried rustling. "here." her hand groped for his head. "i've wadded up my cape. can i slip it under your head?" "better not try just yet. anything might send off the landslide again. just--just give me a minute or two to--to sort of catch my breath." catch his breath, when every sobbing gasp he drew was a stab! "can't we--can't i lift some of the stuff off?" she asked. "no. too risky." "but--but we can't stay here--" her voice trailed off and it was then that she must have realized for the first time just what had happened to them. "i'm afraid we'll have to, ricky," said her brother quietly. "but, val--val, what if--if--" "if we aren't found?" he put her fear into words. "but we will be. rupert is doubtless moving a large amount of earth right now to accomplish that." "rupert doesn't know where we are." she had regained control of both voice and spirit. "we--we may never be found, val." "i was a fool," he stated plainly a fact which he now knew to be only too true. "i would have come even if you hadn't, val," she answered generously and untruthfully. it was perhaps the kindest thing she had ever said. now that the noise of the catastrophe had died away they could hear again the drip of water. and that sound tortured val's dry throat. a glass of cool water--he turned his head restlessly. "if we only had a light," came ricky's wish. "the flash is probably buried." "val, will--will it be fun?" "what?" he demanded, suddenly alert at her tone. had the dark and their trouble made her light-headed? "being a ghost. we--we could walk the hall with great-uncle rick; he wouldn't begrudge us that." "ricky! stop it!" her answering laugh, though shaky, was sane enough. "i do pick the wrong times to display my sense of humor, don't i? val, is it so very bad?" something within him crumbled at that question. "not so good, lady," he replied in spite of the resolutions he had made. she brushed back the hair glued by perspiration to his forehead. ricky was not gold, he thought, for gold is a rather dirty thing. but she was all steel, as clean and shining as a blade fresh from the hands of a master armorer. he made a great effort and found that he could move his right arm an inch or two. concentrating all his strength there, he wriggled it back and forth until he could draw it free from the wreckage. but his left shoulder and side were numb save for the pain which came and went. "got my arm free," val told her exultantly and reached up to feel for her in the dark. his fingers closed upon coarse cloth. he pulled feebly and something rolled toward him. "what's this?" ricky's hands slid along his arm to the thing he had found. he could hear her exploring movements. "it's some sort of a bundle. i wonder where it came from." "some more remains of the jolly pirate days, i suppose." "here's something else. a bag, i think. ugh! it smells nasty! there's a hole in it--oh, here's a piece of money. at least it feels like money. there's more in the bag." she pressed a disk about as large as a half-dollar into val's palm. "pirate loot--" he began. anything that would keep them from thinking of where they were and what had happened was to be welcomed. "val"--he could hear her move uneasily--"remember that old saying: 'pieces of eight--ralestones' fate?" "all good families have curses," he reminded her. "and good families can have--can have accidents, too." there could be no answer to that. nor did val feel like answering. the savage pain in his legs and back had given way to a kind of numbness. a chill not caused by the dank air crawled up his body. what--what if his injuries were worse than he had thought? what if--if-- the dripping of the water seemed louder, and it no longer fell with the same rhythm. ricky must be counting money from the bag. he could hear the clink of metal against stone as she dropped a piece. "don't lose it," he muttered foggily. "lose what?" "your pieces of eight." "what do you mean?" "you just dropped a piece." "i haven't touched--val, do--do you feel worse?" but he had no thought now for his body. if ricky had not dropped the money, then what had caused the clink? he ground his cheek against the clay. _thud, thud, clink, thud._ that was not water dripping nor coin rattling. that was the sound of digging. and digging meant-- "ricky! they're digging! i can hear them!" her fingers closed about his free hand until the nails dug into the flesh. "where?" "i don't know. listen!" the sound had grown in strength until now, though muffled, it sounded through that part of the passage still remaining open. "it comes from this end. from behind that wall. but why should it come from there?" "does it matter? val, do you suppose they could hear me if i pounded on the wall at this side?" "you haven't anything heavy enough to pound with." "yes, i have. this package thing that you found. it's quite heavy. val, we've got to let them know we're here!" she crawled away, moving with caution lest she bring on another slide. that reassuring _thud, thud_ still sounded. then, after long minutes, val heard the answering blow from their side. three times ricky struck before the rhythm of the digging was broken. then there was silence followed by three sharp blows. they had heard! ricky beat a perfect tattoo in joy and was quickly answered. then the _thud, thud_ began again, but this time the pace was quickened. "they've heard! they're coming!" ricky's voice shrilled until it became a scream. "val, we're found!" a clod was loosened somewhere above them and crashed upon the wreckage. would the efforts of their rescuers bring on another slide? "be quiet, ricky," val croaked a warning, "it's still moving." then there came the sharp clink of metal against stone. "val," called ricky, "they're right against the wall now!" "come back here, away from it. we--we don't want you caught, too," he answered her. obediently she crawled back to him and again he felt her hand close about his. the sound of metal grating against stubborn brick filled their pocket of safety. but as an ominous accompaniment came the soft hiss of earth sliding onto the wreckage. which would win to them first, the rescuers or the second slide? there was a vicious grinding noise from the walled end of the passage. a moment later a blinding ray of light swung in, to focus upon them. "ricky! val!" val was blinking stupidly at the light, but ricky had presence of mind enough to answer. "here we are!" "look out," val roused enough to warn, "the walls are unsafe!" "we're coming through," rang the answer out of the dark. "stand away!" now that they could see, val realized for the first time the danger of their position. a jagged, water-rotted beam half covered with clay and sand lay across him, and beyond that was a mass of splintered wood and wet earth. a little sick, he looked up at ricky. she was staring at the wreckage. her eyes were black in a white, mud-smeared face. "val--val!" his name came as the thinnest of whispers. "it isn't as bad as it looks," he said hurriedly. "something underneath must be supporting most of the weight or--or i wouldn't be here at all." "val," she repeated, and then, paying no heed to his frantic injunctions to keep away, she dug at earth and rotten wood with her hands. using the long bundle clumsily wrapped in stained canvas, she levered a piece of beam out of the way so that she might get down on her knees and scoop up the sand and clay. "ricky! val!" the light swung ahead as someone scrambled through the hole in the barrier wall. then, when the ray held firm upon them, the headlong rush was checked for a long instant. "val!" "get her--away," he begged. "another--slip--" but before he had done, a long arm gathered ricky up as if she had been a child. "right," came the firm answer. "sam, take miss 'chanda back. then--" val was watching the reflection of the flash on the broken roof above him. sand slid in tiny streams down the wall, mingling with the greenish trickles of water. there were queer blue and green arcs painted on the brick which had something to do with the hot pain behind his eyes. the blue turned to orange--to scarlet-- "careful! right here in the hall, holmes--" the broken earth above him had somehow been changed to a high ceiling, the chill darkness to blazing light and warmth. "ricky?" he asked. "here, val." her face was very close to his. "you--are--all--right?" "'course!" but she was crying. "don't try to talk, val. you must be quiet." he heard someone moving toward them but he kept his eyes on ricky's face. "we did it!" "yes," she answered slowly, "we did it." "val, don't try to talk." rupert's face showed above ricky's hunched shoulder. there was an odd, strained look about his mouth, a smear of mud across his cheek. but the harsh tone of his voice struck his brother as dumb as if he had slapped him. "sorry," val shaped the words stiffly, "all my fault." "nothing's your fault," ricky's indignant answer cut in. "but--but just be quiet, val, until the doctor comes." he turned his head slowly. on the hearth-stone stood charity talking quietly to holmes. just within the circle of the firelight lay a bundle which he had seen before. but of course, that was the thing they had found in the passage, which ricky had used to pound out their answer to rupert. "ricky--" val always believed that it was some instinct out of the past which forced that whisper out of him--"ricky, open that package." "why--" she began, but then she got to her feet and went to the bundle, twisting the tarred rope that fastened it in a vain attempt to undo the intricate knots. it was holmes who produced a knife and sawed through the tough cord. and it was holmes who unrolled the strips of canvas, oil-silk, and greasy skins. but it was ricky who took up what lay within and held it out so that it reflected both red firelight and golden room light. her brother's sigh was one of satisfaction. for ricky held aloft by its ponderous hilt a great war sword. there could be no doubt in any of them--the luck of lorne had returned. [illustration: _ricky held aloft a great war sword. there could be no doubt in any of them--the luck of lorne had returned._] "we found it!" breathed ricky. "put it in its place," val ordered. without a word, rupert drew out a chair and scrambled up. taking from ricky's hands the ancient weapon, he slipped it into the niche their pirate ancestor had made for it. in spite of the years underground, the metal of hilt and blade was clear. seven hundred years of history--their luck! "everything will come right again," val repeated as ricky came back to him. "you'll see. everything--will--be--all--right." his eyes closed in spite of his efforts. he was back in the darkness where he could only feel the warmth of ricky's hands clasped about his. chapter xvi ralestones stand together "i like louisiana," drawled holmes lazily from his perch on the window-seat. "the most improbable things happen here. one finds secret passages under houses and medieval war swords stuck in drains. then there are 'things that go boomp in the night,' too. it might be worth settling down here--" "not for you," cut in charity briskly. "too far from the bright lights for you, my man." "just for that," he triumphed, "i shall not return this lost property found under a cushion of the couch in the hall." at the sight of that familiar black note-book, val shifted uneasily on his pillows. rupert got up. "tired, old man?" he asked and reached to straighten one of his brother's feather-stuffed supports. val shook his head. being bandaged like a mummy was wearying, but one had to humor two broken ribs and a fractured collar-bone. "sometimes," replied charity, "you are just too clever, mr. judson holmes. that does not happen to be my property." "no?" he flipped it open and held it up so that she might see what lay within. "i'll admit that it isn't your usual sort of stuff, but--" she was staring at the drawings. "no, that isn't mine. but who--" ricky got up from the end of val's cot and went to look. then she turned, her eyes shining with excitement. "you're trying them again! but, val, you said you never would." "give me that book!" he ordered grimly. but rupert had calmly collected the trophy and was turning over the pages one by one. val made a horrible face at ricky and resigned himself to the inevitable. "how long have you been doing this sort of thing?" his brother asked as he turned the last page. "ever so long," ricky answered for val brightly. "he used to draw whole letters of them when we were at school. there were two sets, one for good days and the other for bad." "and now," val cut in, "suppose we just forget the whole matter. will you please let me have that!" "rupert, don't let him go all modest on us now," urged the demon sister. "one retiring violet in the family is enough." "and who is the violet? your charming self?" inquired holmes. "no." ricky smiled pleasantly. "only mr. creighton might be interested in the contents of bluebeard's chamber. what do you think, rupert?" at that audacious hint, val remembered the night of the storm and ricky's strange attitude then. "so rupert's the missing author," he commented lightly. "well, well, well." charity's indulgent smile faded, and holmes, suddenly alert, leaned forward. rupert stared at val for a long moment, his face blank. was he going to retire behind his wall of reserve from which their venture underground had routed him? or was he going to remain the very human person who had spent eight hours of every day at his brother's beck and call for the past few weeks? "regular charlie chan, aren't you?" he asked mildly. val's sigh of relief was echoed by ricky. "thanks--so much," val replied humbly in the well-known manner of the famous detective rupert had likened him to. "then we are right?" asked ricky. rupert's eyebrows slid upward. "you seemed too sure to be in doubt," he commented. "well, i was sure at times. but then no one can ever be really sure of anything about you," she admitted frankly. "but why--" protested charity. "why didn't i spread the glad tidings that i was turning out the great american novel?" he asked. "i don't know. perhaps i am a violet--no?" he looked pained at ricky's snort of dissent. "or perhaps i just don't like to talk about things which may never come true. when i didn't hear from lever, i thought that my worst forebodings were realized and that my scribbling was worthless. but you know," he paused to fill his pipe, "writing is more or less like the drug habit. i've told stories all my life, and i found myself tied to my typewriter in spite of my disappointment. as for talking about it--well, how much has val ever said about these?" he ruffled the pages of the note-book provokingly. "nothing. and you would never have seen those if i could have prevented it," his brother replied. "those are for my private satisfaction only." "two geniuses in one family." ricky rolled her eyes heavenward. "this is almost too, too much!" "jeems," val ordered, "you're the nearest. can't you make her shut up?" "just let him try," said his sister sweetly. the swamper grinned but made no move to stir from his chair. jeems had become as much a part of pirate's haven as the luck, which val could see from his cot glimmering dully in its niche in the long hall. the swamper's confinement in the sick-room had paled his heavy tan and he had lost the sullen frown which had made him appear so old and bitter. now, dressed in a pair of val's white slacks and a shirt from his wardrobe, jeems was as much at ease in his surroundings as rupert or holmes. it had been jeems who had saved ricky and val on that night of terror when they had been trapped in the secret ways of their pirate ancestors. sam two had trailed ricky to the garden and had witnessed their entering the tunnel. but his racial fear of the dark unknown had kept him from venturing in after them. so he had lingered there long enough to see the invaders come out and take to the river. catching some words of theirs about a cave-in, he had gone pelting off to rupert with the story. the investigating party from the levee had discovered, to their horror, the passage choked for half its length. they were making a futile and dangerous attempt to clear it when jeems appeared on the scene. letty-lou having given him a garbled account of events, he had staggered from his bed in an effort to reach rupert. he alone knew the underground ways as well as he knew the garden. and so once getting rupert's attention, he had set them to work in the cellar cutting through to the one passage which paralleled the foundation walls. in the weeks which followed their emergence from the threatened tomb, the swamper had unobtrusively slipped into a place in the household. while val was frightening his family by indulging in a bout of fever to complicate his injuries, jeems was proving himself a tower of strength and a person to be relied upon. even lucy had once asked his opinion on the importance of a fire in the hall, and with that his position was assured. of the invaders they had heard or seen no more, although the police had visited pirate's haven on two separate occasions, interviewing each and every member of the household. they had also made a half-hearted attempt to search the swamp. but for all the evidence they found, ricky and val might have been merely indulging in an over-vivid dream. save that the luck hung again in the long hall. "seriously, though," holmes drew val's thoughts out of the past, "these are worth-while. would you mind if i showed them to a friend of mine who might be interested?" since rupert had already nodded and charity had handed him the note-book, val decided that he could hardly raise a protest. "rupert," charity glanced at him, "are you going to see creighton?" "since all has been discovered," he misquoted, "i suppose that that is all there is left for me to do." "then you had better do it today; he's planning to leave for the north tonight," she informed him. rupert came to life. for all his pose of unconcern, he was excited. in the long days val had been tied to the cot hurriedly set up in a corner of the drawing-room on the night of the rescue--it had been thought wiser to move him no farther than necessary--he had found again the real rupert they had known of old. there was little he could conceal from his younger brother now--or so val thought. "sam has the roadster," rupert said. "there's something wrong with the brakes and i told him to take it to town and have it looked over. goodness only knows what time he'll be back." "see here, ralestone," holmes looked at his wrist-watch, "i've the car i hired here with me. let me drive you in. charity has to go, anyway, and see about sending off those sketches of hers." "oh, but we were going together," protested ricky. "i have some shopping to do." "very simple," val suggested. "why don't you all go?" "but that would leave you alone." rupert shook his head. "no. there's jeems." "i don't know," rupert hesitated doubtfully. "it doesn't require more than one person to wait on me at present," val said firmly. "now all of you go. but remember, i shall expect the greeks to return bearing gifts." holmes saluted. "right you are, my hearty. well, ladies, the chariot awaits without." in spite of their protests, val at last got rid of them. since he had a project of his own, he was only too glad to see the last of his oversolicitous family for awhile. val had never been able to understand why broken ribs or a fractured collar-bone should chain one to the bed. and since he had recovered from his wrenched back he was eager to be up and around. in private, with the protesting assistance of sam two, he had made a pilgrimage across the room and back. and now it was his full intention to be seated on the terrace when the family came home. it was lucy of all people who aided fortune to give him his opportunity. "mistuh val," she announced from the doorway as the sound of the car pulling out of the drive signaled the departure of the city-bound party, "dem lights is out agin." "another fuse gone? that's the second this week. who's been playing games?" he asked. "dis heah no-'count!" she dragged out of hiding from behind her voluminous skirts her second son, a chocolate-brown infant who rejoiced in the name of gustavus adolphus and was generally called "doff." at that moment he was sobbing noisily and eyeing val as if the boy were the grand high executioner of tartary. "yo'all tell mistuh val whats yo' bin a-doin'!" commanded his mother, emphasizing her order with a shake. "ain't done nothin'," wailed doff. "sam, he give me de penny an' say, 'le's hab fun.' den ah puts de penny in de lil' hole an' den mammy cotch me." "doff seems to be the victim, lucy," val observed. "where's sam?" "ah don' know. but i'se a-goin' to fin' out!" she stated with ominous determination. "how's ah a-goin' to git mah ironin' done when dere ain't no heat fo' de iron? ah asks yo' dat!" "there are some fuses in the pantry and jeems will put one in for you," val promised. with a sniff lucy withdrew, her fingers still hooked in the collar of her tearful son. jeems glanced at val as he went by the boy's cot. and val didn't care for what he read into that glance. had the swamper by any foul chance come to suspect val's little plan? but it all turned out just as he had hoped. val made that most momentous trip in four easy stages, resting on the big chair where rupert had spent so many hours, on the bench by the window, in the first of the deck-chairs by the side of the french doors leading to the terrace, and then he reached the haven of the last deck-chair and settled down just where he had intended. and when jeems returned there was nothing he could do but accept the fact that val had fled the cot. "miss ricky won't like this," he prophesied darkly. "nor mr. rupert neither. yo' wouldn't've tried it if they'd been heah." "oh, stop worrying. if you'd been tied to that cot the way i've been, you'd be glad to get out here, too. it's great!" the sun was warm but the afternoon shadow of an oak overhung his seat so that val escaped the direct force of the rays. a few feet away satan sprawled full length, giving a fine imitation of a cat that had rid himself of all nine lives, or at least of eight and a half. never had the garden shown so rich a green. ricky's care had sharpened the lines of the flower-beds and had set shrubs in their proper places. and the plants had repaid her with a riot of blossoms. a breeze set the gray moss to swaying from the branches of the oak. and a green grasshopper crossed the terrace in four great leaps, almost scraping satan's ear in a fashion which might easily have been fatal to the insect. val sighed and slipped down lower in his chair. "it's great," he murmured again. "sure is," jeems echoed. he dropped down cross-legged beside val, disdaining the other chair. satan stretched without opening his eyes and yawned, gaping to the fullest extent of his jaws and curling his tongue upward so that it seemed pointed like a snake's. then he rolled over on his other side and curled up with his paws under his chin. a bumblebee blundered by val's head on its way to visit the morning-glories. he suddenly discovered it difficult to keep his eyes open. "someone's comin'," observed jeems. "ah just heard a car turn in from the road." "but the folks have been gone such a short time," val protested. however, the car which came almost noiselessly down the drive was not the one in which the family had departed. it had the shape of a sleek gray beetle, rounded so that it was difficult to tell at first glance the hood from the rear. it glided to a stop before the steps and after a moment four passengers disembarked. val simply stared, but jeems got to his feet in one swift movement. for, coming purposefully up the terrace steps, were four men they had seen before and had very good cause to remember for the rest of their lives. in the lead strutted the rival, a tight smile rendering his unlovely features yet more disagreeable. behind him trotted the red-faced counselor who had accompanied him on his first visit. but matching the rival step for step was the "boss," while "red" brought up the rear in a tidy fashion. "swell place, ain't it?" demanded the rival, taking no notice of val or jeems. "make yourselves to home, boys; the place is yours." val gripped the arm of his chair. sam, rupert, holmes--they were all beyond call. it was left to him to meet this unbelievable invasion alone. there was a stir beside him. val glanced up to meet the slightest of reassuring nods from the swamper. jeems was with him. "whatcha gonna do with the joint, brick?" asked red, tossing his cigarette down on the flagstones and grinding it to powder with his heel. "i dunno yet." the rival strode importantly toward the front door. "you might tell us when you find out," val suggested quietly. with an exaggerated start of surprise the rival turned toward the boy. "oh, so it's you, kid?" "perhaps," val said softly, "you had better introduce your friends. after all, i like to know the names of my guests." the boss smiled sardonically and red grinned. only the red-faced lawyer shuffled his feet uneasily and looked from one to another of his companions with an expression of pleading. but the rival came directly to the point. "where's that high and mighty brother of yours?" he demanded. "mr. ralestone will doubtless be very glad to see you," val evaded, having no desire for the visitors to discover just how slender his resources were. "jeems, you might go and tell him that we have visitors. go through the long hall, it's nearer that way." he dug the fingernails of his sound hand into the soft wood of the chair arm. could jeems interpret that hint? someone must remove and hide the luck before these men saw it. "right." the swamper turned on his heel and padded toward the french windows. "no, you don't!" the rival snarled as he moved into line between jeems and his objective. "when we want that guy, we'll hunt him out ourselves. when we're good and ready!" "if you don't wish to see my brother, just why did you come?" val asked feverishly. he must keep them talking there until he had time to think of some way of getting that slender blade of steel into hiding. "we're movin' in," red answered casually for them all. "how interesting. i think that the police will enjoy hearing that," val commented. "it's perfectly legal," bleated the lawyer. "we possess a court order to view the place with the purpose of appraising it for sale." he drew a stiff paper from the inside pocket of his coat and waved it toward the boy. "bunk! i don't know much about the law but i do know that you could have obtained nothing of the kind without our being notified. and just which one of you has been selected to do the appraising?" "him," answered red laconically and jerked his thumb at the boss. "so," jeems stared at him, "since yo' couldn't git what yo' want by thievin' at night, yo're goin' to try and git it by day." "but what are you really after? i'm curious to know. you certainly don't want a sugar plantation which hasn't been paying its way since the civil war. that just isn't reasonable. and you ought to know that we can't afford to buy you off. we must be living over a gold-mine that we haven't discovered. come on, tell us where it is," val prodded. "cut the cackle," advised red, "an' le's git down to it." "i would advise you to get back in your car and drive out." val wondered if his face looked as stiff as it felt. "this visit isn't going to get you anywhere." "we ain't goin' any place, kid," remarked the rival. "you don't seem to understand. we're stayin' right here. i got rights and the judge has recognized them. i'm top guy here now." "yeah. yuh ain't so smart as yuh think yuh are," contributed red, scowling at val. "we ain't gonna leave." it wasn't red's speech, however, that straightened the boy's back and made jeems shift his position an inch or two. there was another car coming up the drive. and since their enemies were all gathered before them, they could only be receiving friends, or at the worst neutrals. but the car which came from between the live-oaks to park behind the first contained only two passengers. lefleur and creighton got out, stopped in surprise to view the party on the terrace, and then came up, shoving by red. "quite a party," val observed. "but how did you manage to arrive so opportunely?" "we have made a discovery," panted the creole lawyer; "a very important discovery. what are these men doing here?" "we got a court order to view this house for sale." the rival was truculent. "an' it's all legal. the mouthpiece says so," he indicated his counselor. "perhaps," creighton's cool tones cut through, "you had better introduce us." there was a decided change in his manner. gone was his shy nervousness, his slightly hesitant reserve. it was a keen business man who stood there now. val grinned. "you see before you the family skeleton. may i introduce mr. ralestone, who firmly believes that he is the ralestone of pirate's haven? and three other--shall we say gentlemen--whom i myself have never met formally. though i did have the pleasure, i believe," he addressed the boss directly, "of blackening your eye." "yeah, i'm ralestone, and i'm gonna have my rights," stated the rival briskly. "you are a descendant of roderick ralestone?" asked lefleur. "yuh know i am. i got proofs!" "the man is a liar," creighton said calmly. as they stared at him, lefleur nodded. val saw an ugly grin begin to curve red's thick lips. "yeah? an how do yuh know that, wise guy?" he asked. "because there is only one roderick ralestone in this generation and he is standing right there. permit me to introduce roderick st. jean ralestone!" the person he turned to was jeems! chapter xvii the return of rick ralestone val ventured to break the sudden silence which resulted from creighton's astonishing statement. "but how--why--" "yeah," the rival had collected a measure of his scattered wits, "whatta yuh mean, wise guy?" "just this--" lefleur drew himself up and faced the invaders sternly--"i have only this very morning deposited with the probate court certain documents making very plain the identity of this young man. without the shadow of a doubt he is the only living descendant of roderick ralestone and his wife, valerie st. jean de roche. i have also sworn out a complaint--" then the boss took a hand in the game. "the boy's a minor," he observed. "through me," lefleur returned, "mr. rupert ralestone as nearest of kin has applied for guardianship and there will be no difficulty in the settlement of that matter." "yeah!" the rival threw his gloves on the terrace and glared not at lefleur but at his own backing. having stared at the lawyer of his party until that unfortunate man lost all assurance, he attacked the boss. "so, wise guy, what now? we ain't got such a snap as yuh said we were gonna have. we were gonna move right in and take over the joint, were we? we didn't have anything to worry about. for once we was playin' with the law. yeah, we were. we are nothin' but a gang of mugs. whatta we gonna do now, huh? you oughta know. ain't yuh been doin' our thinkin' for us all along? we can't grab the land and run. we gotta camp right here if we're gonna git anything. and how are we gonna--" "simpson!" the boss's voice was sharp. "be quiet! you are becoming wearisome. gentlemen," he bowed slightly toward lefleur and creighton, "one cannot fight bad luck, and this time fate smiles upon you. it was a good idea if it had worked," he added musingly. "young ralestone seems to have gathered all the aces into his hand. even," the drawl became a sneer, "even the guardianship of the missing heir, which will mean a nice sum in the bank for the happy guardian, if all reports are true." "what _did_ you want here?" val asked for the last time. the boss smiled. "i shall leave that mystery for you to unravel, my wounded hero. it should occupy an idle moment or two. doubtless all will be made clear in the fullness of time. as for you," he turned upon lefleur, "there is no use in your entertaining any foolish idea of calling the police. for our invasion today we have a court order; unhappily it is no longer of use. but we did come here in good faith, as we are prepared to prove. and all other evidence of any lawbreaking upon our part rests, i believe, upon the word of two boys, evidence which might be twisted by a clever lawyer. you may prosecute simpson for perjury, of course. but i think that simpson will not be in this part of the country long. yes," he looked about him once more at garden and house, "it was a very good idea. a pity it did not work. well, i must be going before i begin to curse my luck. when a man does that, he sometimes loses it. you must have found yours, i think." "we did," val answered, but the boss did not hear him, for he had turned on his heel and was striding down the terrace. for a moment his followers hesitated uncertainly and then they were after him. back into their sinister beetle-car went the invaders and then they were gone down the drive, leaving the ralestones in possession of the victorious field. "now," val said plaintively, "will somebody please tell me just what this is all about? who is jeems, really?" "just who i said," answered creighton promptly. "roderick st. jean ralestone, the only descendant of your pirate ancestor." "bettah tell us the story," suggested the swamper quietly. "yo' ain't foolin', are yo', mistuh creighton?" the new yorker shook his head. "no, i'm not fooling. but you are not the first one to question my story." he smiled reminiscently. "judge henry lane had to see every line of written proof this morning before he would admit that the tale might be true." "but where did you find this 'proof'?" val demanded as jeems pulled up chairs for the lawyer and creighton. "in that chest of jeems' which you brought out of the swamp on the night of the storm," he replied promptly. "and, young man," he said to jeems indignantly, "if you had let me see those papers of yours a month ago, instead of waiting until last week, we would have had this matter cleared up then--" "but then we might never have found the luck!" val protested. "humph, that piece of steel is historically interesting, no doubt," conceded creighton, "but hardly worth risking your life for." "no? well, you heard what that man said just now--that we had found our luck. it's so; we have had good luck since. but i'm sorry; do get on with the story of jeems' box." "ah gave it to him monday," said the swamper slowly. "but, mistuh creighton, there weren't nothin' in that chest but some books full of handwritin'--most in some funny foreign stuff--an' a french prayer-book." "plenty to establish your right to the name and a quarter interest in the estate," snapped lefleur. val thought the lawyer rather resented the fact that it was creighton and not he who had found the way out of their difficulties. "two of those books were ships' logs, kept in the fashion of diaries, partly in latin," explained the new yorker. "the log of the ship _annette marie_ for the years and gave us what we wanted. the master was captain roderick ralestone, although he concealed his name in a sort of an anagram. after his quarrel with his brother he apparently went to lafitte and purchased the ship which he had once commanded for the smuggler. then he sailed off into the gulf to become a free-trader, with his headquarters first in georgetown, british guiana, then in dutch curaçao, and finally at port-au-prince, haiti. it was there that he met and fell in love with valerie st. jean de roche, the only living child and heir of the comte de roche, who had survived the terror of the french revolution only to fall victim to the rebel slaves on his haitian estates. "horribly injured, the comte de roche had been saved from death by the devotion of his daughter and her nurse, a free woman of color. these two women not only saved his life, but managed to keep him and themselves alive through the dark years which followed the horrors of the black uprising and the overthrow of the french rule. the courage of that lady of france must have been very great. but she was near to the end of her strength when she met roderick ralestone. "against the direct orders of the black despots in the land, young ralestone got de roche and his daughter away on his ship. her maid chose to remain among her people. ralestone hints that she was a sort of priestess of voodoo and that it had been her dark powers which had protected the lives of those she loved. "ralestone took the refugees to curaçao, but de roche did not survive. he lived only long enough to see his daughter married to her rescuer and to persuade his son-in-law to legally adopt the name of st. jean de roche, that an old and honored family might not be forgotten. the comte's only son had been killed by the blacks. "so it was as roderick st. jean--he dropped the 'de roche' in time--that he returned here in . his wife was dead, worn out while yet in her youth by the horrors of her girlhood. but roderick brought with him a ten-year-old boy who had the right to both the name of ralestone and that of de roche. "roderick himself was greatly changed. years of free-trading, both in the gulf and in the south seas, had made him wholly sailor. a cutlass cut disfigured his face and altered the line of his mouth. anyone who had known roderick ralestone would have little interest in captain st. jean, the merchant adventurer. he discusses this point at some length in his log, always concealing his real name. "for the space of a year or two he was content to live quietly. he even opened a small shop and dealt in luxuries from the south. then the desire to wander, which must have been the key-note of his life, drove him out into the world again. he placed his son in the care of a certain priest, whom he trusted, and went south to become one of the visionary revolutionists who were fighting their way back and across south and central america. in one bloody engagement he fell, as his son notes in the old logs which he was now using to record his own daily experiences." "ricky said," val mused, "that roderick ralestone never died in his bed. what became of the son?" "father justinian wanted him to enter the church, but in spite of his strict training he had no vocation. the money his father had left with the priest was enough to establish him in a small coastwise trading venture, and later he developed a flatboat freight service running upriver to nashville." "but didn't he ever try to get in touch with the ralestones?" val asked. "no. when roderick ralestone sailed from new orleans he seems to have determined to cut himself off from the past entirely. as i said, he used an anagram to hide his name all the way through the log, and doubtless his son never knew that there was anything strange about his father's past. laurent st. jean, the son, prospered. just before the outbreak of the civil war he was reckoned one of the ten wealthiest men of his native city. "but that wealth vanished in the war when shipping no longer went forth from the port. i did come across one interesting fact in laurent's notes covering those years. in laurent st. jean built a blockade-runner called the _red bird_. his backer in the venture was a mr. ralestone of pirate's haven. so once ralestone did meet ralestone without being aware of the fact. "laurent st. jean was imprisoned by 'beast' butler, along with other prominent men of the city, when the yankees captured new orleans. and he died in from a lingering illness contracted during his imprisonment. his son, rené st. jean, came home from war to find himself ruined. his father's shipping business existed on paper only. having the grit and determination of his grandfather, he struggled along for almost ten years trying to get back on his feet. but those were dark years for the whole country. "in st. jean gave up the struggle. with his creole wife and their two sons he moved into the swamps. working first as a guide and trapper and then as a hunter of birds, he managed to make a sparse living. his eldest son followed in his footsteps, but the younger took to the sea. roderick st. jean, the eldest son, died of yellow fever in . he left one son to the guardianship of his brother who had come home from the sea. that son came to look upon his uncle as his father and the real relationship between them was half forgotten. "but rené st. jean the second was curious. he knew something of the world and he was interested in the past. it was his custom to do a great amount of reading, especially reading which concerned the history of his own state and city. and once he was inclined to get out the old sea chest which had been moved with the family for so many years. then he must have discovered his relationship to the ralestones; perhaps he solved the anagram or found the pasted pages in the prayer-book-- "he was not ambitious for himself, but he wanted a better chance for his foster-son and nephew than the one he had had. so he endeavored to prove his claim to this property. unfortunately, the lawyer he trusted was a shyster of the worst sort. he himself had no belief in his client's story and merely bled him for small sums each month without ever really looking into the matter." "gran'pappy said he was tryin' to git his rights," broke in jeems. "he nevah tol' mah pappy what he knowed. an' he wouldn't let anyone see into that chest--he kep' it undah his bed. then aftah pappy died of the fever--'long with mah mothah--gran'pappy cotched it too. an' the doctah said that was what made him so fo'getful aftahwards. he stopped goin' in town; but he came heah--'huntin' his rights,' he said. an' he tol' me that our fortune was hidden heah. 'course," jeems looked at them apologetically, "it soun's sorta silly, but when gran'pappy tol' yo' things yo' kinda believed 'em. so aftah he died ah usta come huntin' heah too. an' then when ah opened the chest and foun' these--" from his breast pocket he drew a wash-leather bag and opened it. he held out to val a chain of gold mesh ending in a carnelian carved into a seal. "this is youah crest," he pointed to the seal. "ah took it in town an' a man at the museum tol' me about it. an' this heah is ralestone, too," he indicated a small miniature painted on a slip of yellowed ivory. val was looking at the face of the ralestone rebel, as near like the water-color copy charity had made of the museum portrait as one pea is to its pod-mate. creighton took up the small painting. "hm-m," he looked from the ivory to jeems and then to val, "this is the final proof. either one of you might have sat for this. you have the same coloring and features. if it were not for a slight difference of expression you might pass for twins. at any rate, there is no denying that you are both ralestones." "i don't think that we'll ever attempt to deny it," val laughed. "but you were right, jeems--i mean roderick," he said to his newly discovered cousin, "you do have as much right here as we do." jeems colored. "ah'm sorry for sayin' that," he confessed. "ah thought yo' were right smart and too good for us. an' ah'm sorry ah played ha'nt. but ah didn't expec' yo' would evah see me, only the niggahs, an' i didn't care 'bout them. ah always came when yo' were 'way or in bed." "well, you've explained your interest in the place," val assented, "but what about the rival? why did he appear?" "it started in a blackmail plot. your family have been wealthy, you know," explained lefleur. "but then the scheme became more serious when the oil prospectors aroused interest in the swamp. already several men whose property bounds yours have been approached by the central american oil company with an offer for their land. it would not at all surprise me if you were asked to dispose of your swamp wasteland for a good price. and the rumor of oil is what made the rival, as you call him, try to press his false claim instead of merely holding it over you as a threat." "the luck is certainly doing its stuff," val observed. "here's the lost heir found, oil-wells bubbling at our back door--" "i would hardly say that, mr. valerius," remonstrated lefleur. "they may bubble yet," the boy assured him airily. "i wouldn't put it beyond the power of that length of damascus steel to make wells bubble. oil-wells bubbling," val continued from the point where the lawyer had interrupted him, "rupert turning out to be the missing author--" "what was that?" demanded creighton sharply. he was on the point of handing a small book to jeems. "we just discovered that rupert is your missing author," val explained. "didn't you guess when you heard the story of the missing ralestone? the family went into town to tell you all about it; that's why we were alone when the invaders arrived." "mr. ralestone my missing author! no, i didn't guess. i was too interested in the story--but i should have! how stupid!" he looked down at the book he still held and then put it into the swamper's hand. "between the pages of the prayer-book, covering the offices for st. louis' day, you'll find the birth certificate for laurent st. jean with his right name," he said. "that's a very important paper to keep, young man. mr. ralestone my author." he wiped his forehead with the handkerchief from his breast-pocket. "how stupid of me not to have seen at once. but why--" "he had some idea that his stuff was no good when he didn't hear from that agent," val explained, "so he just tried to forget the whole matter." "but i have to see him, i have to see him at once." the new yorker looked about him as if by will-power alone he could summon rupert to stand before him on the terrace. "stay to supper and you will," val invited. "ricky and i discovered him for you just as we promised we would. but then you've given us rod in return. i am not," val told his cousin, "going to call you rick even though there is a tradition for it. there are too many 'ricks' complicating the family history now. i think you had better be 'rod'." "anythin' yo' say," he grinned. for the third time that afternoon val heard a car coming up the drive. "if this should turn out to be the grand chan of tartary or the lama of peru i shall not be one iota surprised," he announced. "after what i've been through this afternoon, nothing, absolutely nothing, would surprise me. oh, it's only the family." with the impatience of one who has a good earth-shaking shock ready to administer, he watched his wandering relatives disembark. charity and holmes were still with them and a sort of aura of disappointment hung over the group. then ricky looked up and with a cry of joy came up the terrace steps in what seemed like a single leap. "oh, mr. creighton," she began when val lifted his hand. "let me tell it," he begged, "i've been waiting for a chance like this for years." ricky was obediently silent, thinking that he wished to break the mystery of the author. but jeems and lefleur understood that it was to them val appealed. "val, what are you doing out of bed?" was rupert's first question. "saving the old homestead while you went joy-riding. we had visitors this afternoon." "visitors? who?" he began when his brother silenced him with a frown. "oh, let's not go into that now," val said hurriedly. "there is something more important to be discussed. since you left this afternoon we have had an addition to the family." "an addition to the family," puzzled ricky. "what do you mean?" "rick ralestone has come back," val announced. "val, hadn't you better go back to bed?" suggested his sister. "not now," he grinned at her. "i haven't lost my mind yet, nor am i raving. ladies and gentlemen," val prepared to echo creighton's speech of an hour before, "permit me to introduce roderick st. jean de roche ralestone, the missing heir!" with an impish grin val had never seen on his face before, jeems clicked his heels in a creditable imitation of a court bow. chapter xviii rupert brings home his marchioness "such a nice domestic scene," val observed. ricky looked up from the bowl into which she was shelling peas. "now just what do you mean by that?" she asked suspiciously. "nothing, nothing at all. it's getting so i can't say a word around here without you suspecting some sort of a catch in it," her brother complained. he shifted the drawing-board rod had fixed up for him an inch or two. although val's arm was at last out of the sling, he was not supposed to use it unless absolutely necessary. "well, after that afternoon when you made the missing heir appear like a rabbit out of a hat--" began his sister. "rod," val called down to where their cousin was busied over the stretching of the new badminton net, "did you hear that? she referred to you as a rabbit--deliberately." "hm-m," rod answered in absent-minded fashion. "that cat of miss charity's just walked away with one of those feathered things yo' bat 'round." "let us hope that he returns it in time," val said; "otherwise i can prophesy that you are going to spend the rest of the morning crawling around under hedges and things hunting for him and it. ricky will not be balked. if she says that we are going to play badminton--well, we are going to play badminton." "i think that you might help too." ricky attacked a fresh pod viciously as their cousin came up on the terrace. he stopped for a moment by ricky's chair, long enough to gather the pods together on the paper she had put down for them, piling them up in a more orderly fashion than she was capable of. "doing what?" val inquired. "you know that lucy has chased everyone out of the house. and now that rod has finished setting out the lawn sports, what is there left to do? by the way, did sam mend that croquet mallet, the one with the loose head?" "the one that you broke hitting the stone with when you aimed at your ball yesterday?" she asked sweetly. "yes, i saw to that this morning." "then what more is there to worry about? let the party begin." val reached for his box of pencils. that afternoon promptly at three-thirty the ralestones of pirate's haven were going to give their first party. they had lived, eaten, and slept with the idea of a party for the past week until rupert rebelled and disappeared for the morning, taking charity with him. he declared before he left that the house was no longer habitable for anyone above the mental level of a party-mad monomaniac, a statement with which val privately agreed. but ricky did trap him before he got the roadster out and made him promise to bring home two pounds of salted nuts and some more ice, because she simply knew that they wouldn't have enough. ricky dropped the last of the peas into the bowl and leaned back in her canvas deck-chair. "i'm going to wear green," she murmured dreamily, "with that leaf thing in my hair. and charity's going to wear her rose, the one that swishes when she walks." "i think i'll appear in saffron," val announced firmly. "somehow i feel like saffron. how about you, rod?" the thin, efficient, brown-faced person who was roderick st. jean de roche ralestone, to grant him his full name, stretched lazily and transferred a fistful of ricky's peas to his mouth, a mouth which was no longer sullen. at val's question he raised his shoulders in one of his french shrugs and considered. "yellow, with lilies behind mah ears," he grinned at ricky. "bettah give them somethin' to stare at; they'll all be powerful interested, anyway." "yes, the lost viscount," val agreed. "of course, you're really only a lord like me, but it sounds better to say 'the lost viscount.' you'll share the limelight with rupert and the luck, so you'd better take that pair of my flannels which haven't turned quite yellow yet." rod shook his head. "this time ah have mah own. ah went in town shoppin' yesterday. it's mah turn to share clothes. youah brothah told me to get yo' some shirts. so ah did. lucy put them in the top drawer." "don't tell me," val begged, aroused by this news, "that we are actually able to afford some new clothes again?" rod nodded and ricky sat up. "don't be silly," she said, "we're comfortably well off. with rupert writing books, and a lot of oil or something in the swamp, why, what have we got to worry about? and next fall rod's going to college and i'm taking that course in dress designing and rupert's going to write another book and--and--" her inventive powers failed as holmes came out on the terrace. "hello there." val glanced at his watch. "i don't want to seem inhospitable, but you're about four hours too early. we haven't even crawled into our party duds." "so i see. but this isn't a social call. by the way, where's charity?" "oh, she went off with rupert this morning," answered ricky. "and i think it was mean of them, running out on us that way, when there was so much to do." it seemed to val that there was a faint shadow of irritation across the open good nature of holmes' smile when he heard her answer. "that damsel is becoming very elusive nowadays," he observed as he sat down. "but now for business." "more business? not another oil-well!" ricky expressed her surprise vividly with upflung hands. "not an oil-well, no. just this--" he pulled val's black note-book from his pocket. "now i am not going to tell you that i have shown them to a publisher and that he wants fifty thousand or so at five dollars apiece. but i did show them to that friend i spoke of. he isn't very well known at present but he will be some day. his name is fenly moss and he is interested in animated cartoons. he has some ideas that sound rather big to me. "fen says that these animal drawings of yours show promise and he wants to know whether you ever thought of trying something along his line?" val shook his head, impatient to hear the rest. "well, he's in town right now on his vacation and he's coming out to see you tomorrow. i advise you, ralestone, that if fen makes you the proposition i think he's going to, to grab it. it'll mean hard work for you and plenty of it, but there is a future to it." "i don't know how to thank you," the boy began when holmes frowned at him half-seriously. "none of that. i was really doing fen a favor, but you needn't tell him that. do you know how long charity and your brother are going to be gone?" "no. but they'll be back for lunch," ricky said. "if they remember lunch--they're getting so vague lately. val went out to call them to dinner last night and it took him a good five minutes to get them out of the garden." "five? nearer ten," scoffed her brother. holmes got up abruptly. "well, i'll be drifting. when is this binge of yours?" "three-thirty, which really means four," answered ricky. "aren't you going to stay to lunch?" the new yorker shook his head. "sorry, i've another engagement. thanks just the same." "thank _you_!" val waved the note-book as he vanished. "wonder why he hurried off that way?" "mad to think that miss charity was gone," answered rod shrewdly. "yo've had that board long enough." he calmly possessed himself of val's drawing equipment. "time to rest." "yes, grandfather," his cousin assented meekly. ricky slapped at a fly. "it seems to get hotter and hotter," she said. from the breast pocket of her sport dress she produced a handkerchief and mopped her face. then she looked at the handkerchief in surprise. "what's the matter? some face come off along with the paint?" asked val. "no. but i just remembered what this is--our clue!" "you mean the handkerchief we found in the hall? i wonder who--" rod reached up and took it out of her hand. "mine. miss charity gave me a dozen last christmas." "then you left it there," ricky laughed. "well, that solves the last of our mysteries." "all present or accounted for," val agreed as around the house came rupert and their tenant. "so there you are," began ricky. "and i'd like to know what you've been doing all morning--" "would you really?" asked rupert. ricky stared at him for a long moment and then she arose before transferring her gaze to charity. it might have been sunburn or the heat ricky had complained of which colored the cheeks of the boston biglow. "rod! val!" cried ricky. "where are your manners?" as she sank forward in a deep and graceful curtsy she added, "can't you see that rupert has brought home his marchioness?" "now that," said val, as he held out his hand to the new mistress of pirate's haven, "is what i call 'ralestone luck.'" transcriber's note inconsistencies in language and dialect found in the original book have been retained. minor punctuation errors have been changed without notice. printer errors have been changed and are listed at the end. [illustration: solomon crow's christmas pockets ruth mcenery stuart] [illustration: [_see page _ "'dis heah's a fus-class thing ter work off bad tempers wid'"] solomon crow's christmas pockets and other tales by ruth mcenery stuart author of "a golden wedding" "the story of babette" "carlotta's intended" etc. illustrated new york harper & brothers publishers by the same author. carlotta's intended, and other tales. illustrated. post vo, cloth, $ . the golden wedding, and other tales. illustrated. post vo, cloth, $ . the story of babette. illustrated. post vo, cloth, $ . published by harper & brothers, new york. copyright, , by harper & brothers. _all rights reserved._ to my dear niece little miss lea callaway contents page solomon crow's christmas pockets the two tims the freys' christmas party little mother quackalina old easter saint idyl's light "blink" duke's christmas uncle ephe's advice to brer rabbit may be so illustrations "'dis heah's a fus-class thing ter work off bad tempers wid'" _frontispiece_ "'she ought to eat canary-seed and fish-bone'" _facing p._ the italian organ-grinder " "the professor not only sang, but danced" " "the farmer's boy was a hunter" " "sir sooty himself actually waddled into the farm-yard" " "'i'm goin' to swap 'em'" " "made her put out her tongue" " "her own ten beautiful ducks were close about her" " old easter " "'yas, missy, i was twenty-fo' hond'ed years ole, las' easter sunday'" " "'de cats? why, honey, dey welcome to come an' go'" " "'keep step, rabbit, man!'" " "'well, one mo' rabbit fur de pot'" " solomon crow's christmas pockets solomon crow's christmas pockets his mother named him solomon because, when he was a baby, he looked so wise; and then she called him crow because he was so black. true, she got angry when the boys caught it up, but then it was too late. they knew more about crows than they did about solomon, and the name suited. his twin-brother, who died when he was a day old, his mother had called grundy--just because, as she said, "solomon an' grundy b'longs together in de books." when the wee black boy began to talk, he knew himself equally as solomon or crow, and so, when asked his name, he would answer: "sol'mon crow," and solomon crow he thenceforth became. crow was ten years old now, and he was so very black and polished and thin, and had so peaked and bright a face, that no one who had any sense of humor could hear him called crow without smiling. crow's mother, tempest, had been a worker in her better days, but she had grown fatter and fatter until now she was so lazy and broad that her chief pleasure seemed to be sitting in her front door and gossiping with her neighbors over the fence, or in abusing or praising little solomon, according to her mood. tempest had never been very honest. when, in the old days, she had hired out as cook and carried "her dinner" home at night, the basket on her arm had usually held enough for herself and crow and a pig and the chickens--with some to give away. she had not meant crow to understand, but the little fellow was wide awake, and his mother was his pattern. but this is the boy's story. it seemed best to tell a little about his mother, so that, if he should some time do wrong things, we might all, writer and readers, be patient with him. he had been poorly taught. if we could not trace our honesty back to our mothers, how many of us would love the truth? crow's mother loved him very much--she thought. she would knock down any one who even blamed him for anything. indeed, when things went well, she would sometimes go sound asleep in the door with her fat arm around him--very much as the mother-cat beside her lay half dozing while she licked her baby kitten. but if crow was awkward or forgot anything--or didn't bring home money enough--her abuse was worse than any mother-cat's claws. one of her worst taunts on such occasions was about like this: "well, you is a low-down nigger, i must say. nobody, to look at you, would b'lieve you was twin to a angel!" or, "how you reckon yo' angel-twin feels ef he's a-lookin' at you now?" crow had great reverence for his little lost mate. indeed, he feared the displeasure of this other self, who, he believed, watched him from the skies, quite as much as the anger of god. sad to say, the good lord, whom most children love as a kind, heavenly father, was to poor little solomon crow only a terrible, terrible punisher of wrong, and the little boy trembled at his very name. he seemed to hear god's anger in the thunder or the wind; but in the blue sky, the faithful stars, the opening flowers and singing birds--in all loving-kindness and friendship--he never saw a heavenly father's love. he knew that some things were right and others wrong. he knew that it was right to go out and earn dimes to buy the things needed in the cabin, but he equally knew it was wrong to get this money dishonestly. crow was a very shrewd little boy, and he made money honestly in a number of ways that only a wide-awake boy would think about. when fig season came, in hot summer-time, he happened to notice that beautiful ripe figs were drying up on the tip-tops of some great trees in a neighboring yard, where a stout old gentleman and his old wife lived alone, and he began to reflect. "if i could des git a-holt o' some o' dem fine sugar figs dat's a-swivelin' up every day on top o' dem trees, i'd meck a heap o' money peddlin' 'em on de street." and even while he thought this thought he licked his lips. there were, no doubt, other attractions about the figs for a very small boy with a very sweet tooth. on the next morning after this, crow rang the front gate-bell of the yard where the figs were growing. "want a boy to pick figs on sheers?" that was all he said to the fat old gentleman who had stepped around the house in answer to his ring. crow's offer was timely. old mr. cary was red in the face and panting even yet from reaching up into the mouldy, damp lower limbs of his fig-trees, trying to gather a dishful for breakfast. "come in," he said, mopping his forehead as he spoke. "pick on shares, will you?" "yassir." "even?" "yassir." "promise never to pick any but the very ripe figs?" "yassir." "honest boy?" "yassir." "turn in, then; but wait a minute." he stepped aside into the house, returning presently with two baskets. "here," he said, presenting them both. "these are pretty nearly of a size. go ahead, now, and let's see what you can do." needless to say, crow proved a great success as fig-picker. the very sugary figs that old mr. cary had panted for and reached for in vain lay bursting with sweetness on top of both baskets. the old gentleman and his wife were delighted, and the boy was quickly engaged to come every morning. and this was how crow went into the fig business. crow was a likable boy--"so bright and handy and nimble"--and the old people soon became fond of him. they noticed that he always handed in the larger of the two baskets, keeping the smaller for himself. this seemed not only honest, but generous. and generosity is a winning virtue in the very needy--as winning as it is common. the very poor are often great of heart. but this is not a safe fact upon which to found axioms. all god's poor are not educated up to the point of even small, fine honesties, and the so-called "generous" are not always "just" or honest. and-- poor little solomon crow! it is a pity to have to write it, but his weak point was exactly that he was not quite honest. he wanted to be, just because his angel-twin might be watching him, and he was afraid of thunder. but crow was so anxious to be "smart" that he had long ago begun doing "tricky" things. even the men working the roads had discovered this. in eating crow's "fresh-boiled crawfish" or "shrimps," they would often come across one of the left-overs of yesterday's supply, mixed in with the others; and a yesterday's shrimp is full of stomach-ache and indigestion. so that business suffered. in the fig business the ripe ones sold well; but when one of crow's customers offered to buy all he would bring of green ones for preserving, crow began filling his basket with them and distributing a top layer of ripe ones carefully over them. his lawful share of the very ripe he also carried away--in his little bread-basket. this was all very dishonest, and crow knew it. still he did it many times. and then--and this shows how one sin leads to another--and then, one day--oh, solomon crow, i'm ashamed to tell it on you!--one day he noticed that there were fresh eggs in the hen-house nests, quite near the fig-trees. now, if there was anything crow liked, it was a fried egg--two fried eggs. he always said he wanted two on his plate at once, looking at him like a pair of round eyes, "an' when dey reco'nizes me," he would say, "den i eats 'em up." why not slip a few of these tempting eggs into the bottom of the basket and cover them up with ripe figs? and so--, one day, he did it. he had stopped at the dining-room door that day and was handing in the larger basket, as usual, when old mr. cary, who stood there, said, smiling: "no, give us the smaller basket to-day, my boy. it's our turn to be generous." he extended his hand as he spoke. crow tried to answer, but he could not. his mouth felt as dry and stiff and hard as a chip, and he suddenly began to open it wide and shut it slowly, like a chicken with the gapes. mr. cary kept his hand out waiting, but still crow stood as if paralyzed, gaping and swallowing. finally, he began to blink. and then he stammered: "i ain't p-p-p-ertic'lar b-b-bout de big basket. d-d-d-de best figs is in y'all's pickin'--in dis, de big basket." crow's appearance was conviction itself. without more ado, mr. cary grasped his arm firmly and fairly lifted him into the room. "now, set those baskets down." he spoke sharply. the boy obeyed. "here! empty the larger one on this tray. that's it. all fine, ripe figs. you've picked well for us. now turn the other one out." at this poor crow had a sudden relapse of the dry gapes. his arm fell limp and he looked as if he might tumble over. "turn 'em out!" the old gentleman shrieked in so thunderous a tone that crow jumped off his feet, and, seizing the other basket with his little shaking paws, he emptied it upon the heap of figs. old mrs. cary had come in just in time to see the eggs roll out of the basket, and for a moment she and her husband looked at each other. and then they turned to the boy. when she spoke her voice was so gentle that crow, not understanding, looked quickly into her face: "let me take him into the library, william. come, my boy." her tone was so soft, so sorrowful and sympathetic, that crow felt as he followed her as if, in the hour of his deepest disgrace, he had found a friend; and when presently he stood in a great square room before a high arm-chair, in which a white-haired old lady sat looking at him over her gold-rimmed spectacles and talking to him as he had never been spoken to in all his life before, he felt as if he were in a great court before a judge who didn't understand half how very bad little boys were. she asked him a good many questions--some very searching ones, too--all of which crow answered as best he could, with his very short breath. his first feeling had been of pure fright. but when he found he was not to be abused, not beaten or sent to jail, he began to wonder. little solomon crow, ten years old, in a christian land, was hearing for the first time in his life that god loved him--loved him even now in his sin and disgrace, and wanted him to be good. he listened with wandering eyes at first, half expecting the old gentleman, mr. cary, to appear suddenly at the door with a whip or a policeman with a club. but after a while he kept his eyes steadily upon the lady's face. "has no one ever told you, solomon"--she had always called him solomon, declaring that crow was not a fit name for a boy who looked as he did--it was altogether "too personal"--"has no one ever told you, solomon," she said, "that god loves all his little children, and that you are one of these children?" "no, ma'am," he answered, with difficulty. and then, as if catching at something that might give him a little standing, he added, quickly--so quickly that he stammered again: "b-b-b-but i knowed i was twin to a angel. i know dat. an' i knows ef my angel twin seen me steal dem aigs he'll be mightly ap' to tell gord to strike me down daid." of course he had to explain then about the "angel twin," and the old lady talked to him for a long time. and then together they knelt down. when at last they came out of the library she held the boy's hand and led him to her husband. "are you willing to try him again, william?" she asked. "he has promised to do better." old mr. cary cleared his throat and laid down his paper. "don't deserve it," he began; "dirty little thief." and then he turned to the boy: "what have you got on, sir?" his voice was really quite terrible. "n-n-n-nothin'; only but des my b-b-b-briches an' jacket, an'--an'--an' skin," crow replied, between gasps. "how many pockets?" "two," said crow. "turn 'em out!" crow drew out his little rust-stained pockets, dropping a few old nails and bits of twine upon the floor as he did so. "um--h'm! well, now, i'll tell you. _you're a dirty little thief_, as i said before. and i'm going to treat you as one. if you wear those pockets hanging out, or rip 'em out, and come in here before you leave every day dressed just as you are--pants and jacket and skin--and empty out your basket for us before you go, until i'm satisfied you'll do better, you can come." the old lady looked at her husband as if she thought him pretty hard on a very small boy. but she said nothing. crow glanced appealingly at her before answering. and then he said, seizing his pocket: "is you got air pair o' scissors, lady?" mrs. cary wished her husband would relent even while she brought the scissors, but he only cried: "out with 'em!" "suppose you cut them out yourself, solomon," she interposed, kindly, handing him the scissors. "you'll have all this work to do yourself. we can't make you good." when, after several awkward efforts, crow finally put the coarse little pockets in her hands, there were tears in her eyes, and she tried to hide them as she leaned over and gathered up his treasures--three nails, a string, a broken top, and a half-eaten chunk of cold corn-bread. as she handed them to him she said: "and i'll lay the pockets away for you, solomon, and when we see that you are an honest boy i'll sew them back for you myself." as she spoke she rose, divided the figs evenly between the two baskets, and handed one to crow. if there ever was a serious little black boy on god's beautiful earth it was little solomon crow as he balanced his basket of figs on his head that day and went slowly down the garden walk and out the great front gate. the next few weeks were not without trial to the boy. old mr. cary continued very stern, even following him daily to the _banquette_, as if he dare not trust him to go out alone. and when he closed the iron gate after him he would say in a tone that was awfully solemn: "good-mornin', sir!" that was all. little crow dreaded that walk to the gate more than all the rest of the ordeal. and yet, in a way, it gave him courage. he was at least worth while, and with time and patience he would win back the lost faith of the friends who were kind to him even while they could not trust him. they were, indeed, kind and generous in many ways, both to him and his unworthy mother. fig-time was soon nearly over, and, of course, crow expected a dismissal; but it was mr. cary himself who set these fears at rest by proposing to him to come daily to blacken his boots and to keep the garden-walk in order for regular wages. "but," he warned him, in closing, "don't you show your face here with a pocket on you. if your heavy pants have any in 'em, rip 'em out." and then he added, severely: "you've been a very bad boy." "yassir," answered crow, "i know i is. i been a heap wusser boy'n you knowed i was, too." "what's that you say, sir?" crow repeated it. and then he added, for full confession: "i picked green figs heap o' days, and kivered 'em up wid ripe ones, an' sol' 'em to a white 'oman fur perserves." there was something desperate in the way he blurted it all out. "the dickens you did! and what are you telling me for?" he eyed the boy keenly as he put the question. at this crow fairly wailed aloud: "'caze i ain't gwine do it no mo'." and throwing his arms against the door-frame he buried his face in them, and he sobbed as if his little heart would break. for a moment old mr. cary seemed to have lost his voice, and then he said, in a voice quite new to crow: "i don't believe you will, sir--i don't believe you will." and in a minute he said, still speaking gently: "come here, boy." still weeping aloud, crow obeyed. "tut, tut! no crying!" he began. "be a man--be a man. and if you stick to it, before christmas comes, we'll see about those pockets, and you can walk into the new year with your head up. but look sharp! good-bye, now!" for the first time since the boy's fall mr. cary did not follow him to the gate. maybe this was the beginning of trust. slight a thing as it was, the boy took comfort in it. at last it was christmas eve. crow was on the back "gallery" putting a final polish on a pair of boots. he was nearly done, and his heart was beginning to sink, when the old lady came and stood near him. there was a very hopeful twinkle in her eye as she said, presently: "i wonder what our little shoeblack, who has been trying so hard to be good, would like to have for his christmas gift?" but crow only blinked while he polished the faster. "tell me, solomon," she insisted. "if you had one wish to-day, what would it be?" the boy wriggled nervously. and then he said: "you knows, lady. needle--an' thrade--an'--an'--you knows, lady. pockets." "well, pockets it shall be. come into my room when you get through." old mrs. cary sat beside the fire reading as he went in. seeing him, she nodded, smiling, towards the bed, upon which crow saw a brand-new suit of clothes--coat, vest, and breeches--all spread out in a row. "there, my boy," she said; "there are your pockets." crow had never in all his life owned a full new suit of clothes. all his "new" things had been second-hand, and for a moment he could not quite believe his eyes; but he went quickly to the bed and began passing his hands over the clothes. then he ventured to take up the vest--and to turn it over. and now he began to find pockets. "three pockets in de ves'--two in de pants--an'--an' fo', no five, no six--six pockets in de coat!" he giggled nervously as he thrust his little black fingers into one and then another. and then, suddenly overcome with a sense of the situation, he turned to mrs. cary, and, in a voice that trembled a little, said: "is you sho' you ain't 'feerd to trus' me wid all deze pockets, lady?" it doesn't take a small boy long to slip into a new suit of clothes. and when a ragged urchin disappeared behind the head of the great old "four-poster" to-day, it seemed scarcely a minute before a trig, "tailor-made boy" strutted out from the opposite side, hands deep in pockets--breathing hard. as solomon crow strode up and down the room, radiant with joy, he seemed for the moment quite unconscious of any one's presence. but presently he stopped, looked involuntarily upward a minute, as if he felt himself observed from above. then, turning to the old people, who stood together before the mantel, delightedly watching him, he said: "bet you my angel twin ain't ashamed, ef he's a-lookin' down on me to-day." the two tims the two tims as the moon sent a white beam through the little square window of old uncle tim's cabin, it formed a long panel of light upon its smoke-stained wall, bringing into clear view an old banjo hanging upon a rusty nail. nothing else in the small room was clearly visible. although it was christmas eve, there was no fire upon the broad hearth, and from the open door came the odor of honeysuckles and of violets. winter is often in louisiana only a name given by courtesy to the months coming between autumn and spring, out of respect to the calendar; and so it was this year. sitting in the open doorway, his outline lost in the deep shadows of the vine, was old uncle tim, while, upon the floor at his side lay little tim, his grandson. the boy lay so still that in the dim half-light he seemed a part of the floor furnishings, which were, in fact, an old cot, two crippled stools, a saddle, and odds and ends of broken harness, and bits of rope. neither the old man nor the boy had spoken for a long time, and while they gazed intently at the old banjo hanging in the panel of light, the thoughts of both were tinged with sadness. the grandfather was nearly seventy years old, and little tim was but ten; but they were great chums. the little boy's father had died while he was too young to remember, leaving little tim to a step-mother, who brought him to his grandfather's home, where he had been ever since, and the attachment quickly formed between the two had grown and strengthened with the years. old uncle tim was very poor, and his little cabin was small and shabby; and yet neither hunger nor cold had ever come in an unfriendly way to visit it. the tall plantation smoke-house threw a friendly shadow over the tiny hut every evening just before the sun went down--a shadow that seemed a promise at close of each day that the poor home should not be forgotten. nor was it. some days the old man was able to limp into the field and cut a load of cabbages for the hands, or to prepare seed potatoes for planting, so that, as he expressed it, "each piece 'll have one eye ter grow wid an' another ter look on an' see dat everything goes right." and then uncle tim was brimful of a good many valuable things with which he was very generous--_advice_, for instance. he could advise with wisdom upon any number of subjects, such as just at what time of the moon to make soap so that it would "set" well, how to find a missing shoat, or the right spot to dig for water. these were all valuable services; yet cabbages were not always ready to be cut, potato-planting was not always in season. often for weeks not a hog would stray off. only once in a decade a new well was wanted; and as to soap-making, it could occur only once during each moon at most. it is true that between times uncle tim gave copious warnings _not_ to make soap, which was quite a saving of effort and good material. but whether he was cutting seed potatoes, or advising, or only playing on his banjo, as he did incessantly between times, his rations came to the little cabin with clock-like regularity. they came just as regularly as old tim _had worked_ when he was young, as regularly as little tim _would_ when he should grow up, as it is a pity daily rations cannot always come to such feeble ones as, whether in their first or second childhood, are able to render only the service of willingness. and so we see that the two tims, as they were often called, had no great anxieties as to their living, although they were very poor. the only thing in the world that the old man held as a personal possession was his old banjo. it was the one thing the little boy counted on as a precious future property. often, at all hours of the day or evening, old tim could be seen sitting before the cabin, his arms around the boy, who stood between his knees, while, with eyes closed, he ran his withered fingers over the strings, picking out the tunes that best recalled the stories of olden days that he loved to tell into the little fellow's ear. and sometimes, holding the banjo steady, he would invite little tim to try his tiny hands at picking the strings. "look out how you snap 'er too sudden!" he would exclaim if the little fingers moved too freely. "look out, i say! dis ain't none o' yo' pick-me-up-hit-an'-miss banjos, she ain't! an' you mus' learn ter treat 'er wid rispec', caze, when yo' ole gran'dad dies, she gwine be yo' banjo, an' stan' in his place ter yer!" and then little tim, confronted with the awful prospect of death and inheritance, would take a long breath, and, blinking his eyes, drop his hands at his side, saying, "you play 'er gran'dad." but having once started to speak, the old man was seldom brief, and so he would continue: "it's true dis ole banjo she's livin' in a po' nigger cabin wid a ole black marster an' a new one comin' on blacker yit. (you taken dat arter yo' gran'mammy, honey. she warn't dis heah muddy-brown color like i is. she was a heap purtier and clairer black.) well, i say, if dis ole banjo _is_ livin' wid po' ignunt black folks, i wants you ter know she was _born white_. "don't look at me so cuyus, honey. i know what i say. i say she was _born white._ dat is, she _de_scended ter me _f'om_ white folks. my marster bought 'er ter learn on when we was boys together. an' he took _book lessons_ on 'er too, an' dat's how come i say she ain't none o' yo' common pick-up-my-strings-any-which-er-way banjos. she's been played by note music in her day, she is, an' she can answer a book note des as true as any _pi_anner a pusson ever listened at--ef anybody know how ter tackle 'er. of co'se, ef you des tackle 'er p'omiskyus she ain't gwine bother 'erse'f ter play 'cordin' ter rule; but-- "why, boy, dis heah banjo she's done serenaded all de a'stocercy on dis river 'twix' here an' de english turn in her day. yas, she is. an' all dat expeunce is in 'er breast now; she 'ain't forgot it, an' ef air pusson dat know all dem ole book chunes was ter take 'er up an' call fur 'em, she'd give 'em eve'y one des as true as ever yit. "an' yer know, baby, i'm a-tellin' you all dis," he would say, in closing--"i'm a-tellin' you all dis caze arter while, when i die, she gwine be _yo'_ banjo, 'n' i wants you ter know all 'er ins an' outs." and as he stopped, the little boy would ask, timidly, "please, sir, gran'dad, lemme tote 'er an' hang 'er up. i'll step keerful." and taking each step with the utmost precision, and holding the long banjo aloft in his arms as if it were made of egg-shells, little tim would climb the stool and hang the precious thing in its place against the cabin wall. such a conversation had occurred to-day, and as the lad had taken the banjo from him the old man had added: "i wouldn't be s'prised, baby, ef 'fo' another year passes dat'll be _yo' banjo_, caze i feels mighty weak an' painful some days." this was in the early evening, several hours before the scene with which this little story opens. as night came on and the old man sat in the doorway, he did not notice that little tim, in stretching himself upon the floor, as was his habit, came nearer than usual--so near, indeed, that, extending his little foot, he rested it against his grandfather's body, too lightly to be felt, and yet sensibly enough to satisfy his own affectionate impulse. and so he was lying when the moon rose and covered the old banjo with its light. he felt very serious as he gazed upon it, standing out so distinctly in the dark room. some day it would be his; but the dear old grandfather would not be there, his chair would be always empty. there would be nobody in the little cabin but just little tim and the banjo. he was too young to think of other changes. the ownership of the coveted treasure promised only death and utter loneliness. but presently the light passed off the wall on to the floor. it was creeping over to where little tim lay, but he did not know it, and after blinking awhile at long intervals, and moving his foot occasionally to reassure himself of his grandfather's presence, he fell suddenly sound asleep. while these painful thoughts were filling little tim's mind the old man had studied the bright panel on the wall with equal interest--and pain. by the very nature of things he could not leave the banjo to the boy and witness his pleasure in the possession. "she's de onlies' thing i got ter leave 'im, but i does wush't i could see him git 'er an' be at his little elbow ter show 'im all 'er ways," he said, half audibly. "dis heah way o' leavin' things ter folks when you die, it sounds awful high an' mighty, but look ter me like hit's po' satisfaction some ways. po' little tim! now what he gwine do anyhow when i draps off?--nothin' but step-folks ter take keer of 'im--step-mammy an' step-daddy an' 'bout a dozen step brothers an' sisters, an' not even me heah ter show 'im how ter conduc' 'is banjo. de ve'y time he need me de mos' ter show 'im her ins an' outs i won't be nowhars about, an' yit--" as the old man's thoughts reached this point a sudden flare of light across the campus showed that the first bonfire was lighted. there was to be a big dance to-night in the open space in front of the sugar-house, and the lighting of the bonfires surrounding the spot was the announcement that it was time for everybody to come. it was uncle tim's signal to take down the banjo and tune up, for there was no more important instrument in the plantation string-band than this same old banjo. as he turned backward to wake little tim he hesitated a moment, looking lovingly upon the little sleeping figure, which the moon now covered with a white rectangle of light. as his eyes rested upon the boy's face something, a confused memory of his last waking anxiety perhaps, brought a slight quiver to his lips, as if he might cry in his sleep, while he muttered the word "gran'dad." old uncle tim had been trying to get himself to the point of doing something which it was somehow hard to do, but this tremulous lisping of his own name settled the question. hobbling to his feet, he wended his way as noiselessly as possible to where the banjo hung, and, carrying it to the sleeping boy, laid it gently, with trembling fingers, upon his arm. then, first silently regarding him a moment, he called out, "weck up, tim, my man! weck up!" as he spoke, a loud and continuous explosion of fire-crackers--the opening of active festivities in the campus--startled the boy quite out of his nap. he was frightened and dazed for a minute, and then, seeing the banjo beside him and his grandfather's face so near, he exclaimed: "what's all dis, gran'dad? whar me?" the old man's voice was pretty husky as he answered: "you right heah wid me, boy, an' dat banjo, hit's yo' christmas gif', honey." little tim cast an agonized look upon the old man's face, and threw himself into his arms. "is you gwine die now, gran'dad?" he sobbed, burying his face upon his bosom. old tim could not find voice at once, but presently he chuckled, nervously: "humh! humh! no, boy, i ain't gwine die yit--not till my time comes, please gord. but dis heah's christmas, honey, an' i thought i'd gi'e you de ole banjo whiles i was living so's i could--so's you could--so's we could have pleasure out'n 'er bofe together, yer know, honey. dat is, f'om dis time on she's _yo' banjo_, an' when i wants ter play on 'er, you _can loan 'er ter me_." "an'--an' you--you _sho'_ you ain't gwine die, gran'dad?" "i ain't sho' o' nothin', honey, but i 'ain't got no _notion_ o' dyin'--not to-night. we gwine ter de dance now, you an' me, an' i gwine play de banjo--_dat is ef you'll loan 'er ter me, baby_." tim wanted to laugh, and it seemed sheer contrariness for him to cry, but somehow the tears would come, and the lump in his throat, and try hard as he might, he couldn't get his head higher than his grandfather's coat-sleeve or his arms from around his waist. he hardly knew why he still wept, and yet when presently he sobbed, "but, gran'dad, i'm 'feered you _mought_ die," the old man understood. certainly, even if he were not going to die now, giving away the old banjo seemed like a preparation for death. was it not, in fact, a formal confession that he was nearing the end of his days? had not this very feeling made it hard for him to part with it? the boy's grief at the thought touched him deeply, and lifting the little fellow upon his knee, he said, fondly: "_don't_ fret, honey. _don't_ let christmas find yon cryin'. i tell you what i say let's do. i ain't gwine gi'e you de banjo, not yit, caze, des as you say, i _mought_ die; but i tell you what i gwine do. i gwine take you in pardners in it wid me. she ain't _mine_ an' she ain't _yoze_, and yit she's _bofe of us's_. you see, boy? _she's ourn!_ an' when i wants ter play on 'er _i'll play_, an' when you wants 'er, why, you teck 'er--on'y be a _leetle_ bit keerful at fust, honey." "an' kin i ca'y 'er behine de cabin, whar you can't see how i'm a-holdin' 'er, an' play anyway i choose?" old tim winced a little at this, but he had not given grudgingly. "cert'n'y," he answered. "why not? git up an' play 'er in de middle o' de night ef you want ter, on'y, of co'se, be keerful how you reach 'er down, so's you won't jolt 'er too sudden. an' now, boy, hand 'er heah an' lemme talk to yer a little bit." when little tim lifted the banjo from the floor his face fairly beamed with joy, although in the darkness no one saw it, for the shaft of light had passed beyond him now. handing the banjo to his grandfather, he slipped naturally back of it into his accustomed place in his arms. "dis heah's a fus'-class thing ter work off bad tempers wid," the old man began, tightening the strings as he spoke. "now ef one o' deze mule tempers ever take a-holt of yer in de foot, dat foot 'll be mighty ap' ter do some kickin'; an' ef it seizes a-holt o' yo' han', dat little fis' 'll be purty sho ter strike out an' do some damage; an' ef it jump onter yo' tongue, hit 'll mighty soon twis' it into sayin' bad language. but ef you'll teck hol' o' dis ole banjo des as quick as you feel de badness rise up in you, _an' play_, you'll scare de evil temper away so bad it _daresn't come back_. ef it done settled _too strong_ in yo' tongue, run it off wid a song; an' ef yo' feet's git a kickin' spell on 'em, _dance it off_; an' ef you feel it in yo' han', des run fur de banjo an' play de sweetes' chune you know, an' fus' thing you know all yo' madness 'll be gone. "she 'ain't got no mouf, but she can talk ter you, all de same; an' she 'ain't got no head, but she can reason wid you. an' while ter look at 'er she's purty nigh all belly, she don't eat a crumb. dey ain't a greedy bone in 'er. "an' i wants you ter ricollec' dat i done guv 'er to you--dat is, _yo' sheer_ [share] _in 'er_, caze she's _mine_ too, you know. i done guv you a even sheer in 'er, des _caze you an' me is gran'daddy an' gran'son_. "dis heah way o' dyin' an' _leavin'_ prop'ty, hit mought suit white folks, but it don't become our complexioms, some way; an' de mo' i thought about havin' to die ter give de onlies' gran'son i got de onlies' _prop'ty_ i got, de _miser'bler i got_, tell i couldn't stan' it no mo'." little tim's throat choked up again, and he rolled his eyes around and swallowed twice before he answered: "an' i--i was miser'ble too, gran'dad. i used ter des look at 'er hangin' 'g'inst de wall, an' think about me maybe playin' 'er, an' you--you not--not nowhar in sight--an'--an' some days seem like _i--i des hated 'er_." "yas, baby, i know. but now you won't hate 'er no mo', boy; an' ef you die fus'--some time, you know, baby, little boys _does die_--an' ef you go fus', i'll teck good keer o' yo' sheer in 'er; an' ef i go, you mus' look out fur my sheer. an' long as we bofe live--well, i'll look out fur 'er voice--keep 'er th'oat strings in order; an' you see dat she don't git ketched out in bad comp'ny, or in de rain, an' take cold. "come on now. wash yo' little face, and let's go ter de dance. gee-man! lis'n at de fire-crackers callin' us. come on. dat's right. pack 'er on yo' shoulder like a man." and so the two tims start off to the christmas festival, young tim bearing his precious burden proudly ahead, while the old man follows slowly behind, chuckling softly. "des think how much time i done los', not takin' 'im in pardners befo', an' he de onlies' gran'son i got!" while little tim, walking cautiously so as not to trip in the uneven path, turns presently and calls back: "gran'dad, i reckon we done walked half de way, now. i done toted 'er _my_ sheer. don't you want me ter tote 'er _yo' sheer_?" and the old man answers, with another chuckle, "go on, honey." the freys' christmas party the freys' christmas party there was a great sensation in the old coppenole house three days before christmas. the freys, who lived on the third floor, were going to give a christmas dinner party, and all the other tenants were invited. such a thing had never happened before, and, as miss penny told her canary-birds while she filled their seed-cups, it was "like a clap of thunder out of a clear sky." the frey family, consisting of a widow and her brood of half a dozen children, were as poor as any of the tenants in the old building, for wasn't the mother earning a scant living as a beginner in newspaper work? didn't the frey children do every bit of the house-work, not to mention little outside industries by which the older ones earned small incomes? didn't meg send soft gingerbread to the christian woman's exchange for sale twice a week, and ethel find time, with all her studies, to paint butterflies on swiss aprons for fairs or fêtes? didn't everybody know that conrad, now but thirteen, was a regular solicitor for orders for christmas-trees, palmetto palms, and gray moss from the woods for decorative uses on holiday occasions? the idea of people in such circumstances as these giving dinner parties! it was almost incredible; but it was true, for tiny notes of invitation tied with rose-colored ribbons had been flying over the building all the afternoon. the frey twins, felix and félicie, both barefoot, had carried one to each door. they were written with gold ink on pink paper. a water-colored butterfly was poised in midair somewhere on each one, and at the left lower end were the mysterious letters "r.s.v.p." the old professor who lived in the room next the frey kitchen got one, and miss penny, who occupied the room beyond. so did mademoiselle guyosa, who made paper flowers, and the mysterious little woman of the last, worst room in the house--a tiny figure whose face none of her neighbors had ever seen, but who had given her name to the baker and milkman as "mamzelle st. john." and there were others. madame coraline, the fortune-teller, who rented the hall room on the second floor, was perhaps more surprised at her invitation than any of the rest. no one ever asked her anywhere. even the veiled ladies who sometimes visited her darkened chamber always tiptoed up the steps as if they were half ashamed of going there. the twins had a time getting her to come to the door to receive the invitation, and after vainly rapping several times, they had finally brought a parasol and hammered upon the horseshoe tacked upon the door, until at last it opened just about an inch. and then she was invited. but, indeed, it is time to be telling how the party originated. it had been the habit of the frey children, since they could remember, to save up spare coins all the year for a special fund which they called "christmas money." the old fashion of spending these small amounts in presents for one another had long ago given place to the better one--more in the christmas spirit--of using it to brighten the day for some one less blessed than themselves. it is true that on the christmas before the one of this story they had broken the rule, or only strained it, perhaps, to buy a little stove for their mother's room. but a rule that would not stretch enough to take in such a home need would be a poor one indeed. this year they had had numerous schemes, but somehow none had seemed to appeal to the stockholders in the christmas firm, and so they had finally called a meeting on the subject. it was at this meeting that meg, fourteen years old, having taken the floor, said: "well, it seems to _me_ that the _worst_ kind of a christmas must be a lonely one. just think how nearly all the roomers in this house spent last christmas--most of 'em sittin' by their lone selves in their rooms, and some of 'em just eatin' every-day things! the professor hadn't a thing but bologna-sausage and crackers. _i know--'cause i peeped._ an' now, whatever you all are goin' to do with _your_ money, _mine's_ goin' right into this house, to the roomers--_some way_." "if we knew what we could do, meg?" said ethel. "if we knew what we could do or _how we could do it_," interrupted conrad, "why, i'd give my eighty-five cents in a minute. i'd give it to the old professor to have his curls cut." conrad was a true-hearted fellow, but he was full of mischief. "shame on you, buddy!" said meg, who was thoroughly serious. "can't you be in earnest for just a minute?" "i am in earnest, meg. i think your scheme is bully--if it could be worked; but the professor wouldn't take our money any more'n we'd take his." "neither would any of them." this was ethel's first real objection. "who's goin' to offer 'em money?" rejoined meg. "i tell you what we _might_ do, maybe," conrad suggested, dubiously. "we _might_ buy a lot of fine grub, an' send it in to 'em sort o' mysteriously. how'd that do?" "'twouldn't do at all," meg replied. "the idea! who'd enjoy the finest christmas dinner in the world by his lone self, with nothin' but a lookin'-glass to look into and holler 'merry christmas' to?" conrad laughed. "well, the professor's little cracked glass wouldn't be much of a comfort to a hungry fellow. it gives you two mouths." conrad was nothing if not facetious. "there you are again, buddy! _do_ be serious for once." and then she added, desperately, "the thing _i_ want to do is to _invite_ 'em." "invite!" "who?" "what?" "when?" "how?" "where?" such was the chorus that greeted meg's astounding proposition. "why, i say," she explained, nothing daunted, "let's put all our christmas money together and get the very best dinner we can, and invite all the roomers to come and eat it with us. _now i've said it!_ and i ain't foolin', either." "and we haven't a whole table-cloth to our names, meg frey, and you know it!" it was ethel who spoke again. "and what's that got to do with it, sisty? we ain't goin' to eat the cloth. besides, can't we set the dish-mats over the holes? 'twouldn't be the first time." "but, meg, dearie, you surely are not proposing to invite company to dine in the kitchen, are you? and who'd cook the dinner, not to mention buying it?" "well, now, listen, sisty, dear. the dinner that's in my mind isn't a society-column dinner like those momsy writes about, and those we are going to invite don't wear out much table-linen at home. and they cook their own dinners, too, most of 'em--exceptin' when they eat 'em in the french market, with a chinaman on one side of 'em and an indian on the other. "_i'm_ goin' to cook _ours_, and as for eatin' in the kitchen, why, we don't need to. just see how warm it is! the frost hasn't even nipped the banana leaves over there in the square. and buddy can pull the table out on the big back gallery, an' we'll hang papa's old gray soldier blanket for a portière to keep the quinettes from lookin' in; and, sisty, you can write the invitations an' paint butterflies on 'em." ethel's eyes for the first time sparkled with interest, but she kept silent, and meg continued: "an' buddy'll bring in a lot of gray moss and _latanier_ to dec'rate with, an'--" "an' us'll wait on the table!" "yes, us'll wait on the table!" cried the twins. "but," added felix in a moment, "you mus'n't invite miss penny, meg, 'cause if you do f'lissy an' me 'll be thest shore to disgrace the party a-laughin'. she looks thest ezzac'ly like a canary-bird, an' buddy has tooken her off till we thest die a-laughin' every time we see her. i think she's raised canaries till she's a sort o' half-canary herself. don't let's invite her, sisty." "and don't you think miss penny would enjoy a slice of christmas turkey as well as the rest of us, felix?" "no; i fink she ought to eat canary-seed and fish-bone," chirped in dorothea. dorothea was only five, and this from her was so funny that even meg laughed. "an' buddy says he knows she sleeps perched on the towel-rack, 'cause they ain't a sign of a bed in her room." the three youngest were fairly choking with laughter now. but the older ones had soon grown quite serious in consulting about all the details of the matter, and even making out a conditional list of guests. when they came to the fortune-teller, both ethel and conrad hesitated, but meg, true to her first impulse, had soon put down opposition by a single argument. "it seems to me she's the special one _to_ invite to a christmas party like ours," she pleaded. "the lonesomer an' horrider they are, the more they belong, an' the more they'll enjoy it, too." "accordin' to that," said conrad, "the whole crowd ought to have a dizzy good time, for they're about as fine a job lot of lonesomes as i ever struck. and as for beauty! 'vell, my y'ung vriends, how you was to-morrow?'" he continued, thrusting his thumbs into his armholes and strutting in imitation of the old professor. [illustration: "'she ought to eat canary-seed and fish-bone'"] meg was almost out of patience. "do hush, buddy, an' let's talk business. first of all, we have to put it to vote to see whether we _want_ to have the party or not." "i ain't a-goin' to give my money to no such a ugly ol' party," cried felix. "i want pretty little girls with curls an' wreafs on to my party." "an' me, too. i want a heap o' pretty little girls with curls an' wreafs on--_to my party_," echoed félicie. "an' i want a organ-grinder to the party that gets my half o' our picayunes," insisted felix. "yas, us wants a organ-grinder--an' a monkey, too--hey, f'lix?" "yes, an' a monkey, too. heap o' monkeys!" meg was indeed having a hard time of it. "you see, conrad"--the use of that name meant reproof from meg--"you see, conrad, this all comes from your makin' fun of everybody. but of course we can get an organ-grinder if the little ones want him." ethel still seemed somewhat doubtful about the whole affair. ethel was in the high-school. she had a lofty bridge to her nose. she was fifteen, and she never left off her final g's as the others did. these are, no doubt, some of the reasons why she was regarded as a sort of superior person in the family. if it had not been for the prospect of painting the cards, and a certain feeling of benevolence in the matter, it would have been hard for her to agree to the party at all. as it was, her voice had a note of mild protest as she said: "it's going to cost a good deal, meg. how much money have we? let's count up. i have a dollar and eighty-five cents." "and i've got two dollars," said meg. "how is it you always save the most? i haven't saved but ninety cents." conrad spoke with a little real embarrassment as he laid his little pile of coins upon the table. "i reckon it's 'cause i've got a regular plan, buddy. i save a dime out of every dollar i get all through the year. it's the best way. and how much have you ponies got?" "we've got seventy cents together, an' we've been a-whiskerin' in our ears about it, too. we don't want our money put-ed in the dinner with the rest. we want to see what we are givin'." "well, suppose you buy the fruit. seventy cents 'll get bananas and oranges enough for the whole party." "an' us wants to buy 'em ourselfs, too--hey, f'lix?" "yes, us wants to buy 'm ourselfs, too." "and so you shall. and now all in favor of the party hold up their right hands." all hands went up. "contr'ry, no!" meg continued. "contr'ry, no!" echoed the twins. "hush! you mus'n't say that. that's just what they say at votin's." "gee-man-tally! but you girls 're awfully mixed," conrad howled, with laughter. "they don't have any 'contr'ry no's' when they vote by holdin' up right hands. besides, dorothea held up her left hand, for i saw her." "which is quite correct, mr. smartie, since we all know that dolly is left-handed. you meant to vote for the party, didn't you, dearie?" meg added, turning to dorothea. for answer the little maid only bobbed her head, thrusting both hands behind her, as if afraid to trust them again. "but i haven't got but thest a nickel," she ventured, presently. "f'lix says it'll buy salt." "salt!" said conrad. "well, i should smile! it would buy salt enough to pickle the whole party. why, that little st. johns woman goes out with a nickel an' lays in provisions. i've seen her do it." "shame on you, buddy!" "i'm not jokin', meg. at least, i saw her buy a _quartie's_ worth o' coffee and a _quartie's_ worth o' sugar, an' then ask for _lagniappe_ o' salt. ain't that layin' in provisions? she uses a cigar-box for her pantry, too." "well," she protested, seriously, "what of it, conrad? it doesn't take much for one very little person. now, then, the party is voted for; but there's one more thing to be done before it can be really decided. we must ask momsy's permission, of course. and that is goin' to be hard, because i don't want her to know about it. she has to be out reportin' festivals for the paper clear up to christmas mornin', and if she knows about it, she'll worry over it. so i propose to ask her to let us give her a christmas surprise, and not tell her what it is." "and we know just what she'll say," conrad interrupted; "she'll say, 'if you older children all agree upon anything, i'm sure it can't be very far wrong or foolish'--just as she did time we put up the stove in her room." "yes, i can hear her now," said ethel. "but still we must _let_ her say it before we do a single thing, because, you know, _she mightn't_. an' then where'd the party be?" "it would be scattered around where it was last christmas--where all the parties are that don't be," said conrad. "they must be the ones we are always put down for, an' that's how we get left; eh, sisty?" "never mind, buddy; we won't get left, as you call it, this time, anyway--unless, of course, momsy vetoes it." "vetoes what, children?" they had been so noisy that they had not heard their mother's step on the creaking stairs. mrs. frey carried her pencil and notes, and she looked tired, but she smiled indulgently as she repeated, "what am i to veto, dearies--or to approve?" "it's a sequet! a trismas sequet!" "yes, an' it's got owanges in it--" "--an' bananas!" "hush, you ponies! and, dolly, not another word!" meg had resolutely taken the floor again. "momsy, we've been consulting about our christmas money, and we've voted to ask you to let us do something with it, and not to tell you a thing about it, only "--and here she glanced for approval at ethel and conrad--"only we _ought_ to tell you, momsy, dear, that the surprise isn't for you this time." and then mrs. frey, sweet mother that she was, made just the little speech they thought she would make, and when they had kissed her, and all, even to ethel, who seemed now as enthusiastic as the others, caught hands and danced around the dinner table, she was glad she had consented. it was such a delight to be able to supplement their scant christmas prospects with an indulgence giving such pleasure. "and i'm glad it isn't for me, children," she added, as soon as the hubbub gave her a hearing. "i'm very glad. you know you strained a point last year, and i'm sure you did right. my little stove has been a great comfort. but i am always certain of just as many home-made presents as i have children, and they are the ones i value. dolly's lamp-lighters are not all used up yet, and if she _were_ to give me another bundle this christmas i shouldn't feel sorry. but our little christmas _money_ we want to send out on some loving mission. and, by-the-way, i have two dollars which may go with yours if you need it--if it will make some poor body's bed softer or his dinner better." "momsy's guessed!" felix clapped his hands with delight. "'sh! hush, felix! yes, momsy, it 'll do one of those things exactly," said meg. "and now _i_ say we'd better break up this meeting before the ponies tell the whole business." "f'lix never telled a thing," chirped félicie, always ready to defend her mate. "did you, f'lixy? momsy said 'dinner' herself." "so i did, dear; but who is to get the dinner and why you are going to send it are things mother doesn't wish to know. and here are my two dollars. now off to bed, the whole trundle-bed crowd, for i have a lot of copy to write to-night. ethel may bring me a bite, and then sit beside me and write while i sip my tea and dictate and meg puts the chickens to roost. and conrad will keep quiet over his books. just one kiss apiece and a hug for dolly. shoo now!" so the party was decided. * * * * * the frey home, although one of the poorest, was one of the happiest in new orleans, for it was made up of cheery workers, even little dorothea having her daily self-assumed tasks. miss dorothea, if you please, dusted the banisters round the porch every day, straightened the rows of shoes in mother's closet, folded the daily papers in the rack, and kept the one rug quite even with the front of the hearth. and this young lady had, furthermore, her regular income of five cents a week. of course her one nickel contributed to the party had been saved only a few hours, but dorothea was only five, and the old yellow _praline_ woman knew about her income, and came trudging all the way up the stairs each week on "pay-day." even after the invitations were sent it seemed to dolly that the "party-day" would never come, for there were to be "three sleeps" before it should arrive. it was ethel's idea to send the cards early, so as to forestall any home preparation among the guests. but all things come to him who waits--even christmas. and so at last the great day arrived. nearly all the invited had accepted, and everything was very exciting; but the situation was not without its difficulties. even though she was out every day, it had been so hard to keep every tell-tale preparation out of mrs. frey's sight. but when she had found a pan of crullers on the top pantry shelf, or heard the muffled "gobble-gobble" of the turkey shut up in the old flour-barrel, or smelt invisible bananas and apples, she had been truly none the wiser, but had only said, "bless their generous hearts! they are getting up a fine dinner to send to somebody." indeed, mrs. frey never got an inkling of the whole truth until she tripped up the stairs a half-hour before dinner on christmas day to find the feast all spread. the old mahogany table, extended to its full length, stood gorgeous in decorations of palmetto, moss, and flowers out upon the deep back porch, which was converted into a very pretty chamber by the hanging curtain of gray. if she had any misgivings about it, she betrayed them by no single word or look, but there were bright red spots upon her usually pale cheeks as she passed, smiling, into her room to dash into the dinner dress ethel had laid out for her. to have her poverty-stricken home invaded by a host of strangers was striking a blow at the most sensitive weakness of this proud woman. and yet the loving motive which was so plain through it all, showing the very spirit in her dear children for which she had prayed, was too sacred a thing to be chilled by even a half-shade of disapproval. "and who are coming, dear?" she asked of meg, as soon as she could trust her voice. "all the roomers, momsy, excepting the little hunchback lady and madame coraline." "madame coraline!" mrs. frey could not help exclaiming. "yes, momsy. she accepted, and she _even came_, but she went back just now. she was dressed terribly fine--gold lace and green silk, but it was old and dowdy; and, momsy, her cheeks were just as red! i was on the stepladder tackin' up the bethlehem picture, sisty was standin' on the high-chair hanging up the star, and buddy's arms were full of gray moss that he was wrappin' round your chair. but we were just as polite to her as we could be, and asked her to take a seat. and we all thought she sat down; but she went, momsy, and no one saw her go. buddy says she's a witch. she left that flower-pot of sweet-basil on the table. i s'pose she brought it for a present. do you think that we'd better send for her to come back, momsy?" "no, daughter, i think not. no doubt she had her own reasons for going, and she may come back. and are the rest all coming?" "yes'm; but we had a time gettin' miss guyosa to come. she says she's a first family, an' she never mixes. but i told her so were we, and we mixed. and then i said that if she'd come she could sit at one end o' the table and carve the ham, while you'd do the turkey. but she says buddy ought to do the turkey. but she's comin'. and, momsy, the turkey is a perfect beauty. we put pecans in him. miss guyosa gave us the receipt and the nuts, too. her cousin sent 'em to her from his plantation. and did you notice the paper roses in the moss festoons, momsy? she made those. she has helped us fix up _a lot_. she made all the easter flowers on st. joseph's altar at the cathedral, too, and--" a rap at the door announcing a first guest sent the little cook bounding to the kitchen, while ethel rushed into her mother's room, her mouth full of pins and her sash on her arm. she had dressed the three little ones a half-hour ago; and conrad, who had also made an early toilet, declared that they had all three walked round the dinner table thirty-nine times since their appearance in the "dining-room." when he advanced to do the honors, the small procession toddling single file behind him, somehow it had not occurred to him that he might encounter miss penny, the canary lady, standing in a dainty old dress of yellow silk just outside the door, nor, worse still, that she should bear in her hands a tiny cage containing a pair of young canaries. he said afterwards that "everything would have passed off all right if it hadn't been for the twins." of course he had forgotten that he had himself been the first one to compare miss penny to a canary. by the time the little black-eyed woman had flitted into the door, and in a chirpy, bird-like voice wished them a merry christmas, felix had stuffed his entire handkerchief into his mouth. was it any wonder that félicie and dorothea, seeing this, did actually disgrace the whole party by convulsions of laughter? they were soon restored to order, though, by the little yellow-gowned lady herself, for it took but half a minute to say that the birds were a present for the twins--"the two little ones who brought me the invitation." such a present as this is no laughing matter, and, besides, the little frey children were at heart polite. and so they had soon forgotten their mirth in their new joy. and then other guests were presently coming in, and mrs. frey, looking startlingly fine and pretty in her fresh ruches and new tie, was saying pleasant things to everybody, while ethel and meg, tripping lightly in and out, brought in the dishes. as there was no parlor, guests were received in the curtained end of the gallery. no one was disposed to be formal, and when the old professor entered with a little brown-paper parcel, which he declared, after his greetings, to contain his dinner, everybody felt that the etiquette of the occasion was not to be very strict or in the least embarrassing. of course mrs. frey, as hostess, "hoped the professor would reconsider, and have a slice of the christmas turkey"; but when they had presently all taken their seats at the table, and the eccentric guest had actually opened his roll of bread and cheese upon his empty plate, over which he began to pass savory dishes to his neighbors, she politely let him have his way. indeed, there was nothing else to do, as he declared--declining the first course with a wave of his hand--that he had come "yust for de sake of sociapility." "i haf seen efery day doze children work und sing so nize togedder yust like leetle mans und ladies, so i come yust to eggsbress my t'anks for de compliment, und to make de acquaintance off doze nize y'ung neighbors." this with a courtly bow to each one of the children separately. and he added in a moment: "de dinner iss very fine, but for me one dinner iss yust like anudder. doze are all externals." to which measured and kindly speech conrad could not help replying, "it won't be an external to us, professor, by the time we get through." "oho!" exclaimed the old man, delighted with the boy's ready wit. "dot's a wery schmart boy you got dhere, mrs. vrey." at this exhibition of broken english the twins, who were waiting on the table, thought it safe to rush to the kitchen on pretence of changing plates, while dorothea, seated at the professor's left, found it necessary to bite both lips and to stare hard at the vinegar-cruet for fully a second to keep from laughing. then, to make sure of her self-possession, she artfully changed the subject, remarking, dryly, "my nickel buyed the ice." this was much funnier than the professor's speech, judging from the laughter that followed it. and miss dorothea frey's manners were saved, which was the important thing. it would be impossible in this short space to give a full account of this novel and interesting dinner party, but if any one supposes that there was a dull moment in it, he is altogether mistaken. mrs. frey and ethel saw to it that no one was neglected in conversation; meg and conrad looked after the prompt replenishing of plates, though the alert little waiters, felix and félicie, anticipated every want, and were as sprightly as two crickets, while dorothea provoked frequent laughter by a random fire of unexpected remarks, never failing, for instance, to offer ice-water during every "still minute"; and, indeed, once that young lady did a thing that might have proved quite terrible had the old lady saxony, who sat opposite, been disagreeable or sensitive. what dorothea said was innocent enough--only a single word of two letters, to begin with. she had been looking blankly at her opposite neighbor for a full minute, when she suddenly exclaimed, "oh!" that was all, but it made everybody look, first at dolly and then across the table. whereupon the little maid, seeing her blunder, hastened to add: "that's nothin'. my grandma's come out too." and then, of course, every one noticed that old lady saxony held her dainty hemstitched handkerchief quite over her mouth. fortunately mrs. saxony's good sense was as great as her appreciation of humor, and, as she shook her finger threateningly at dorothea, her twinkling eyes gave everybody leave to laugh. so "dolly's terrible break," as conrad called it, really went far to making the dinner a success--that is, if story-telling and laughter and the merry clamor such as distinguish the gayest of dinner parties the world over count as success. it was while the professor was telling a funny story of his boy life in germany that there came a rap at the door, and the children, thinking only of madame coraline, turned their eyes towards the door, only to see the italian organ-grinder, whom, in the excitement of the dinner party, they had forgotten to expect. he was to play for the children to dance after dinner, and had come a little early--or perhaps dinner was late. seeing the situation, the old man began bowing himself out, when the professor, winking mysteriously at mrs. frey and gesticulating animatedly, pointed first to the old italian and then to madame coraline's vacant chair. everybody understood, and smiling faces had already shown approval when mrs. frey said, quietly, "let's put it to vote. all in favor raise glasses." every glass went up. the old italian understood little english, but the offer of a seat is a simple pantomime, and he was presently declining again and again, bowing lower each time, until before he knew it--all the time refusing--he was in the chair, his plate was filled, and dolly was asking him to have ice-water. no guest of the day was more welcome. none enjoyed his dinner more, judging from the indications. and as to meg, the moving spirit in the whole party, she was beside herself with delight over the unexpected guest. [illustration: the italian organ-grinder] the dinner all through was what conrad called a "rattlin' success," and the evening afterwards, during which nearly every guest contributed some entertainment, was one long to be remembered. the professor not only sang, but danced. miss penny whistled so like a canary that one could really believe her when she said she always trained her young birds' voices. miss guyosa told charming folk-lore anecdotes, handed down in her family since the old spanish days in louisiana. the smiling organ-grinder played his engaged twenty-five cents' worth of tunes over and over again, and when the evening was done, persistently refused to take the money until felix slipped it into his pocket. the frey party will long be remembered in the coppenole house, and beyond it, too, for some very pleasant friendships date from this christmas dinner. the old professor was just the man to help conrad with his german lessons. it was so easy for meg to send him a cup of hot coffee on cold mornings. mrs. frey and miss guyosa soon found many ties in common friends of their youth. indeed, the twins had gotten their french names from a remote creole cousin, who proved to be also a kinswoman to miss guyosa. it was such a comfort, when mrs. frey was kept out late at the office, for the children to have miss guyosa come and sit with them, telling stories or reading aloud; and they brought much brightness into her life too. madame coraline soon moved away, and, indeed, before another christmas the freys had moved too--to a small cottage all their own, sitting in the midst of a pretty rose-garden. here often come miss guyosa and the professor, both welcome guests, and conrad says the professor makes love to miss guyosa, but it is hard to tell. one cannot keep up with two people who can tell jokes in four languages, but the professor has a way of dropping in as if by accident on the evenings miss guyosa is visiting the freys, and they do read the same books--in four languages. there's really no telling. when the frey children are playing on the _banquette_ at their front gate on sunny afternoons, the old organ-grinder often stops, plays a free tune or two for them to dance by, smilingly doffs his hat to the open window above, and passes on. [illustration: "the professor not only sang, but danced"] little mother quackalina little mother quackalina story of a duck farm chapter i the black duck had a hard time of it from the beginning--that is, from the beginning of her life on the farm. she had been a free wild bird up to that time, swimming in the bay, playing hide-and-seek with her brothers and sisters and cousins among the marsh reeds along the bank, and coquettishly diving for "mummies" and catching them "on the swim" whenever she craved a fishy morsel. this put a fresh perfume on her breath, and made her utterly charming to her seventh cousin, sir sooty drake, who always kept himself actually fragrant with the aroma of raw fish, and was in all respects a dashing beau. indeed, she was behaving most coyly, daintily swimming in graceful curves around sir sooty among the marsh-mallow clumps at the mouth of "tarrup crik," when the shot was fired that changed all her prospects in life. the farmer's boy was a hunter, and so had been his grandfather, and his grandfather's gun did its work with a terrific old-fashioned explosion. when it shot into the great clump of pink mallows everything trembled. the air was full of smoke, and for a distance of a quarter of a mile away the toads crept out of their hiding and looked up and down the road. the chickens picking at the late raspberry bushes in the farmer's yard craned their necks, blinked, and didn't swallow another berry for fully ten seconds. and a beautiful green caterpillar, that had seen the great red rooster mark him with his evil eye, and expected to be gobbled up in a twinkling, had time to "hump himself" and crawl under a leaf before the astonished rooster recovered from the noise. this is a case where the firing of a gun saved at least one life. i wonder how many butterflies owe their lives to that gun? as to the ducks in the clump of mallows that caught the volley, they simply tumbled over and gave themselves up for dead. [illustration: "the farmer's boy was a hunter"] the heroine of our little story, lady quackalina blackwing, stayed in a dead faint for fully seventeen seconds, and the first thing she knew when she "came to" was that she was lying under the farmer boy's coat in an old basket, and that there was a terrific rumbling in her ears and a sharp pain in one wing, that something was sticking her, that sir sooty was nowhere in sight, and that she wanted her mother and all her relations. indeed, as she began to collect her senses, while she lay on top of the live crab that pinched her chest with his claw, she realized that there was not a cousin in the world, even to some she had rather disliked, that she would not have been most happy to greet at this trying moment. the crab probably had no unfriendly intention. he was only putting up the best hand he had, trying to find some of his own kindred. he had himself been lying in a hole in shallow water when the farmer's boy raked him in and changed the whole course of his existence. he and the duck knew each other by sight, but though they were both "in the swim," they belonged to different sets, and so were small comfort to one another on this journey to the farm. they both knew some english, and as the farmer's boy spoke part english and part "farm," they understood him fairly well when he was telling the man digging potatoes in the field that he was going to "bile" the crab in a tomato can and to make a "decoy" out of the duck. "bile" and "decoy" were new words to the listeners in the basket, but they both knew about tomato cans. the bay and "tarrup crik" were strewn with them, and the crab had once hidden in one, half imbedded in the sand, when he was a "soft-shell." he knew their names, because he had studied them before their labels soaked off, and he knew there was no malice in them for him, though the young fishes who have soft outsides dreaded their sharp edges very much. there is sometimes some advantage in having one's skeleton on the surface, like a coat of mail. and so the crab was rather pleased at the prospect of the tomato can. he thought the cans grew in the bay, and so he expected presently to be "biled" in his own home waters. the word "biled" probably meant _dropped in_. ignorance is sometimes bliss, indeed. poor little quackalina, however, was getting less comfort out of her ignorance. she thought "decoy" had a foreign sound, as if it might mean a french stew. she had had relations who had departed life by way of a _purée_, while others had gone into a _sauté_ or _pâté_. perhaps a "decoy" was a _pâté_ with gravy or a _purée_ with a crust on it. if worse came to the worst, she would prefer the _purée_ with a crust. it would be more like decent burial. of course she thought these things in duck language, which is not put in here, because it is not generally understood. it is quite a different thing from pidgin-english, and it isn't all "quack" any more than french is all "au revoir," or turkey all "gobble, gobble," or goose only a string of "s's," or darkey all "howdy." the crab's thoughts were expressed in his eyes, that began coming out like little telescopes until they stood quite over his cheeks. maybe some people think crabs have no cheeks, but that isn't so. they have them, but they keep them inside, where they blush unseen, if they blush at all. but this is the story of the black duck. however, perhaps some one who reads it will be pleased to know that the crab got away. he sidled up--sidled is a regular word in crab language--until his left eye could see straight into the boy's face, and then he waited. he had long ago found that there was nothing to be gained by pinching the duck. it only made a row in the basket and got him upset. but, by keeping very still and watching his chance, he managed to climb so near the top that when the basket gave a lurch he simply vaulted overboard and dropped in the field. then he hid between three mushrooms and a stick until the boy's footsteps were out of hearing and he had time to draw in his eyes and start for the bay. he had lost his left claw some time before, and the new one he was growing was not yet very strong. still, let us hope that he reached there in safety. the duck knew when he had been trying to get out, but she didn't tell. she wanted him to go, for she didn't like his ways. still, when he had gone, she felt lonely. misery loves company--even though it be very poor company. but quackalina had not long to feel lonely. almost any boy who has shot a duck walks home with it pretty fast, and this boy nearly ran. he would have run if his legs hadn't been so fat. the first sound that quackalina heard when they reached the gate was the quacking of a thousand ducks, and it frightened her so that she forgot all about the crab and her aching wing and even the decoy. the boy lived on a duck farm, and it was here that he had brought her. this would seem to be a most happy thing--but there are ducks and ducks. poor little quackalina knew the haughty quawk of the proud white ducks of pekin. she knew that she would be only a poor colored person among them, and that she, whose mother and grandmother had lived in the swim of best beach circles and had looked down upon these incubator whitings, who were grown by the pound and had no relations whatever, would now have to suffer their scorn. even their distant quawk made her quake, though she feared her end was near. there are some trivial things that are irritating even in the presence of death. but quackalina was not soon to die. she did suffer some humiliations, and her wing was very painful, but a great discovery soon filled her with such joy that nothing else seemed worth thinking about. there were three other black ducks on the farm, and they hastened to tell her that they were already decoys, and that the one pleasant thing in being a decoy was that it was _not_ to be killed or cooked or eaten. this was good news. the life of a decoy-duck was hard enough; but when one got accustomed to have its foot tied to the shore, and shots fired all around it, one grew almost to enjoy it. it was so exciting. but to the timid young duck who had never been through it it was a terrible prospect. and so, for a long time, little quackalina was a very sad duck. she loved her cousin, sir sooty, and she loved pink mallow blossoms. she liked to eat the "mummy" fish alive, and not cooked with sea-weed, as the farmer fed them to her. but most of all she missed sir sooty. and so, two weeks later, when her wing was nearly well, in its new, drooping shape, what was her joy when he himself actually waddled into the farm-yard--into her very presence--without a single quack of warning. the feathers of one of his beautiful wings were clipped, but he was otherwise looking quite well, and he hastened to tell her that he was happy, even in exile, to be with her again. and she believed him. he had been captured in a very humiliating way, and this he made her promise never to tell. he had swum so near the decoy-duck that his foot had caught in its string, and before he could get away the farmer had him fast. "and now," he quacked, "i'm glad i did it," and quackalina quacked, "so am i." and they were very happy. [illustration: "sir sooty himself actually waddled into the farm-yard"] indeed, they grew so blissful after a while that they decided to try to make the best of farm life and to settle down. so they began meandering about on long waddles--or waddling about on long meanders--all over the place, hunting for a cozy hiding-place for a nest. for five whole days they hunted before quackalina finally settled down into the hollow that she declared was "just a fit" for her, under the edge of the old shanty where the pekin feathers were stored. white, fluffy feathers are very beautiful things, and they are soft and pleasant to our touch, but they are sad sights to ducks and geese, and quackalina selected a place for her nest where she could never see the door open into this dread storehouse. it was, indeed, very well hidden, and, as if to make it still more secure, a friendly golden-rod sprang up quite in front of it, and a growth of pepper-grass kindly closed in one side. quackalina had never been sent out on decoy duty, and after a time she ceased to fear it, but sometimes sir sooty had to go, and his little wife would feel very anxious until he came back. there are some very sad parts in this little story, and we are coming to one of them now. the home-nest had been made. there were ten beautiful eggs in it--all polished and shining like opals. and the early golden-rod that stood on guard before it was sending out a first yellow spray when troubles began to come. chapter ii quackalina thought she had laid twice as many as ten eggs in the nest, but she could not be quite sure, and neither could sir sooty, though he thought so, too. very few poetic people are good at arithmetic, and even fine mathematicians are said to forget how to count when they are in love. certain it is, however, that when quackalina finally decided to be satisfied to begin sitting, there were exactly ten eggs in the nest--just enough for her to cover well with her warm down and feathers. "sitting-time" may seem stupid to those who are not sitting; but quackalina's breast was filled with a gentle content as she sat, day by day, behind the golden-rod, and blinked and reflected and listened for the dear "paddle, paddle" of sir sooty's feet, and his loving "qua', qua'"--a sort of caressing baby-talk that he had adopted in speaking to her ever since she had begun her long sitting. [illustration: "'i'm goin' to swap 'em'"] quackalina was a patient little creature, and seldom left her nest, so that when she did so for a short walk in the glaring sun, she was apt to be dizzy and to see strange spots before her eyes. but this would all pass away when she got back to her cozy nest in the cool shade. but one day it did not pass away--it got worse, or, at least, she thought it did. instead of ten eggs in the nest she seemed to see twenty, and they were of a strange, dull color, and their shape seemed all wrong. she blinked her eyes nineteen times, and even rubbed them with her web-feet, so that she might not see double, but it was all in vain. before her dazzled eyes twenty little pointed eggs lay, and when she sat upon them they felt strange to her breast. and then she grew faint and was too weak even to call sir sooty, but when he came waddling along presently, he found her so pale around the bill that he made her put out her tongue, and examined her symptoms generally. sir sooty was not a regular doctor, but he was a very good quack, and she believed in him, which, in many cases, is the main thing. so when he grew so tender that his words were almost like "qu, qu," and told her that she had been confined too closely and was threatened with _foie gras_, she only sighed and closed her eyes, and, keeping her fears to herself, hoped that the trouble was all in her eyes indeed--or her liver. now the sad part of this tale is that the trouble was not with poor little quackalina's eyes at all. it was in the nest. the same farmer's boy who had kept her sitting of eggs down to ten by taking out one every day until poor quackalina's patience was worn out--the same boy who had not used her as a decoy only because he wanted her to stay at home and raise little decoy-ducks--this boy it was who had now chosen to take her ten beautiful eggs and put them under a guinea-hen, and to fetch the setting of twenty guinea eggs for quackalina to hatch out. he did this just because, as he said, "that old black duck 'll hatch out as many eggs again as a guinea-hen will, an' the guinea 'll cover her ten eggs _easy_. i'm goin' to swap 'em." and "swap 'em" he did. nobody knows how the guinea-hen liked her sitting, for none but herself and the boy knew where her nest was hidden in a pile of old rubbish down by the cow-pond. [illustration: "made her put out her tongue"] when a night had passed, and a new day showed poor quackalina the twenty little eggs actually under her breast--eggs so little that she could roll two at once under her foot--she did not know what to think. but like many patient people when great sorrows come, she kept very still and never told her fears. she had never seen a guinea egg before in all her life. there were birds' nests in some of the reeds along shore, and she knew their little toy eggs. she knew the eggs of snakes, too, and of terrapins, or "tarrups," as they are called by the farmer folk along the bay. when first she discovered the trouble in the nest she thought of these, and the very idea of a great procession of little turtles starting out from under her some fine morning startled her so that her head lay limp against the golden-rod for fully thirteen seconds. then she got better, but it was not until she had taken a nip at the pepper-grass that she was sufficiently warmed up to hold up her head and think. and when she thought, she was comforted. these dainty pointed eggs were not in the least like the soft clumsy "double-enders" that the turtles lay in the sand. besides, how could turtle-eggs have gotten there anyway? how much easier for one head to go wrong than twenty eggs. she chuckled at the very folly of her fears, and nestling down into the place, she soon began to nod. and presently she had a funny, funny dream, which is much too long to go into this story, which is a great pity, for her dream is quite as interesting as the real story, although it is not half so true. sitting-time, after this, seemed very long to quackalina, but after a while she began to know by various little stirrings under her downy breast that it was almost over. at the first real movement against her wing she felt as if everything about her was singing and saying, "mother! mother!" and bowing to her. even the pepper-grass nodded and the golden-rod, and careless roosters as they passed _seemed_ to lower their combs to her and to forget themselves, just for a minute. and a great song was in her own bosom--a great song of joy--and although the sound that came from her beautiful coral bill was only a soft "qua', qua'," to common ears, to those who have the finest hearing it was full of a heavenly tenderness. but there was a tremor in it, too--a tremor of fear; and the fear was so terrible that it kept her from looking down even when she knew a little head was thrusting itself up through her great warm wing. she drew the wing as a caressing arm lovingly about it though, and saying to herself, "i must wait till they are all come; then i'll look," she gazed upward at the moon that was just showing a rim of gold over the hay-stack--and closed her eyes. there was no sleep that long night for little mother quackalina. it was a great, great night. under her breast, wonderful happenings every minute; outside, the white moonlight; and always in sight across the yard, just a dark object against the ground--sir sooty, sound asleep, like a philosopher! oh yes, it was a great, great night. its last hours before day were very dark and sorrowful, and by the time a golden gleam shot out of the east quackalina knew that her first glance into the nest must bring her grief. the tiny restless things beneath her brooding wings were chirping in an unknown tongue. but their wiry japanesy voices, that clinked together like little copper kettles, were very young and helpless, and quackalina was a true mother-duck, and her heart went out to them. when the fatal moment came and she really looked down into the nest, her relief in seeing beautiful feathered things, at least, was greater than any other feeling. it was something not to have to mother a lot of "tarrups," certainly. little guineas are very beautiful, and when presently quackalina found herself crossing the yard with her twenty dainty red-booted hatchlings, although she longed for her own dear, ugly, smoky, "beautiful" ducklings, she could not help feeling pleasure and pride in the exquisite little creatures that had stepped so briskly into life from beneath her own breast. it was natural that she should have hurried to the pond with her brood. wouldn't she have taken her own ducklings there? if these were only little "step-ducks," she was resolved that, in the language of step-mothers, "they should never know the difference." she would begin by taking them in swimming. besides, she longed for the pond herself. it was the place where she could best think quietly and get things straightened in her mind. sir sooty had not seen her start off with her new family. he had said to himself that he had lost so much rest all night that he must have a good breakfast, and so, at the moment when quackalina and the guineas slipped around the stable to the cow-pond, he was actually floundering in the very centre of one of the feed-troughs in the yard, and letting the farmer turn the great mass of cooked "feed" all over him. greedy ducks often act that way. even the snow-white pekins do it. it is bad enough any time, but on the great morning when one becomes a papa-duck he ought to try to be dignified, and sir sooty knew it. and he knew full well that events had been happening all night in the nest, and that was why he said he had lost rest. but he hadn't. a great many people are like sir sooty. they say they lose sleep when they don't. but listen to what was taking place at the cow-pond, for it is this that made this story seem worth the telling. when quackalina reached the pond, she flapped her tired wings three times from pure gladness at the sight of the beautiful water. and then, plunging in, she took one delightful dive before she turned to the shore, and in the sweetest tones invited the little ones to follow her. but they-- well, they just looked down at their red satin boots and shook their heads. and then it was that quackalina noticed their feet, and saw that they would never swim. it was a great shock to her. she paddled along shore quite near them for a while, trying to be resigned to it. and then she waddled out on the grassy bank, and fed them with some newts, and a tadpole, and a few blue-bottle flies, and a snail, and several other delicacies, which they seemed to enjoy quite as much as if they had been young ducks. and then quackalina, seeing them quite happy, struck out for the very middle of the pond. she would have one glorious outing, at least. oh, how sweet the water was! how it soothed the tender spots under her weary wings! how it cooled her ears and her tired eyelids! and now--and now--and now--as she dived and dipped and plunged--how it cheered and comforted her heart! how faithfully it bore her on its cool bosom! for a few minutes, in the simple joy of her bath, she even forgot to be sorrowful. and now comes the dear part of the troublous tale of this little black mother-duck--the part that is so pleasant to write--the part that it will be good to read. when at last quackalina, turning, said to herself, "i must go ashore now and look after my little steppies," she raised her eyes and looked before her to see just where she was. and then the vision she seemed to see was so strange and so beautiful that--well, she said afterwards that she never knew just how she bore it. just before her, on the water, swimming easily on its trusty surface, were ten little ugly, smoky, "beautiful" ducks! ten little ducks that looked precisely like every one of quackalina's relations! and now they saw her and began swimming towards her. before she knew it, quackalina had flapped her great wings and quacked aloud three times, and three times again! and she didn't know she was doing it, either. she did know, though, that in less time than it has taken to tell it, her own ten beautiful ducks were close about her, and that she was kissing each one somewhere with her great red bill. and then she saw that upon the bank a nervous, hysterical guinea-hen was tearing along, and in a voice like a carving-knife screeching aloud with terror. it went through quackalina's bosom like a neuralgia, but she didn't mind it very much. indeed, she forgot it instantly when she looked down upon her ducklings again, and she even forgot to think about it any more. and so it was that the beautiful thing that was happening on the bank, under her very eyes almost, never came to quackalina's knowledge at all. when her own bosom was as full of joy as it could be, why should she have turned at the sound of the carving-knife voice to look ashore, and to notice that at its first note there were twenty little pocket-knife answers from over the pond, and that in a twinkling twenty pairs of red satin boots were running as fast as they could go to meet the great speckled mother-hen, whose blady voice was the sweetest music in all the world to them? when, after quite a long time, quackalina began to realize things, and thought of the little guineas, and said to herself, "goodness gracious me!" she looked anxiously ashore for them, but not a red boot could she see. the whole delighted guinea family were at that moment having a happy time away off in the cornfield out of sight and hearing. this was very startling, and quackalina grieved a little because she couldn't grieve more. she didn't understand it at all, and it made her almost afraid to go ashore, so she kept her ten little ducklings out upon the water nearly all day. and now comes a very amusing thing in this story. when this great, eventful day was passed, and quackalina was sitting happily among the reeds with her dear ones under her wings, while sir sooty waddled proudly around her with the waddle that quackalina thought the most graceful walk in the world, she began to tell him what had happened, beginning at the time when she noticed that the eggs were wrong. sir sooty listened very indulgently for a while, and then--it is a pity to tell it on him, but he actually burst out laughing, and told her, with the most patronizing quack in the world, that it was "all imagination." [illustration: "her own ten beautiful ducks were close about her"] and when quackalina insisted with tears and even a sob or two that it was every word true, he quietly looked at her tongue again, and then he said a very long word for a quack doctor. it sounded like 'lucination. and he told quackalina never, on any account, to tell any one else so absurd a tale, and that it was only a canard--which was very flippant and unkind, in several ways. there are times when even good jokes are out of place. at this, quackalina said that she would take him to the nest and show him the little pointed egg-shells. and she did take him there, too. late at night, when all honest ducks, excepting somnambulists and such as have vindications on hand, are asleep, quackalina led the way back to the old nest. but when she got there, although the clear, white moonlight lay upon everything and revealed every blade of grass, not a vestige of nest or straw or shell remained in sight. the farmer's boy had cleared them all away. by this time quackalina began to be mystified herself, and after a while, seeing only her own ten ducks always near, and never sighting such a thing as little, flecked, red-booted guineas, she really came to doubt whether it had all happened or not. and even to this day she is not quite sure. how she and all her family finally got away and became happy wild birds again is another story. but while quackalina sits and blinks upon the bank among the mallows, with all her ugly "beautiful" children around her, she sometimes even yet wonders if the whole thing could have been a nightmare, after all. but it was no nightmare. it was every word true. if anybody doesn't believe it, let him ask the guineas. old easter old easter nearly everybody in new orleans knew old easter, the candy-woman. she was very black, very wrinkled, and very thin, and she spoke with a wiry, cracked voice that would have been pitiful to hear had it not been so merry and so constantly heard in the funny high laughter that often announced her before she turned a street corner, as she hobbled along by herself with her old candy-basket balanced on her head. people who had known her for years said that she had carried her basket in this way for so long that she could walk more comfortably with it than without it. certainly her head and its burden seemed to give her less trouble than her feet, as she picked her way along the uneven _banquettes_ with her stick. but then her feet were tied up in so many rags that even if they had been young and strong it would have been hard for her to walk well with them. sometimes the rags were worn inside her shoes and sometimes outside, according to the shoes she wore. all of these were begged or picked out of trash heaps, and she was not at all particular about them, just so they were big enough to hold her old rheumatic feet--though she showed a special liking for men's boots. when asked why she preferred to wear boots she would always answer, promptly, "ter keep off snake bites"; and then she would almost certainly, if there were listeners enough, continue in this fashion: "you all young trash forgits dat i dates back ter de snake days in dis town. why, when i was a li'l' gal, about _so_ high, i was walkin' along canal street one day, barefeeted, an' not lookin' down, an' terrectly i feel some'h'n' nip me '_snip!_' in de big toe, an' lookin' quick i see a grea' big rattlesnake--" as she said "snip," the street children who were gathered around her would start and look about them, half expecting to see a great snake suddenly appear upon the flag-stones of the pavement. [illustration: old easter] at this the old woman would scream with laughter as she assured them that there were thousands of serpents there now that they couldn't see, because they had only "single sight," and that many times when they thought mosquitoes were biting them they were being "'tackted by deze heah onvisible snakes." it is easy to see why the children would gather about her to listen to her talk. nobody knew how old easter was. indeed, she did not know herself, and when any one asked her, she would say, "i 'spec' i mus' be 'long about twenty-fo'," or, "don't you reckon i mus' be purty nigh on to nineteen?" and then, when she saw from her questioner's face that she had made a mistake, she would add, quickly: "i means twenty-fo' _hund'ed_, honey," or, "i means a _hund'ed_ an' nineteen," which latter amendment no doubt came nearer the truth. having arrived at a figure that seemed to be acceptable, she would generally repeat it, in this way: "yas, missy; i was twenty-fo' hund'ed years ole las' easter sunday." the old woman had never forgotten that she had been named easter because she was born on that day, and so she always claimed easter sunday as her birthday, and no amount of explanation would convince her that this was not always true. "what diff'ence do it make ter me ef it comes soon or late, i like ter know?" she would argue. "ef it comes soon, i gits my birfday presents dat much quicker; an' ef it comes late, you all got dat much mo' time ter buy me some mo'. 'tain't fur me ter deny my birfday caze it moves round." and then she would add, with a peal of her high, cracked laughter: "seem ter me, de way i keeps a-livin' on--an' a-livin' on--_an' a-livin' on_--maybe deze heah slip-aroun' birfdays don't pin a pusson down ter ole age so close't as de clock-work reg'lars does." and then, if she were in the mood for it, she would set her basket down, and, without lifting her feet from the ground, go through a number of quick and comical movements, posing with her arms and body in a way that was absurdly like dancing. old easter had been a very clever woman in her day, and many an extra picayune had been dropped into her wrinkled palm--nobody remembered the time when it wasn't wrinkled--in the old days, just because of some witty answer she had given while she untied the corner of her handkerchief for the coins to make change in selling her candy. [illustration: "'yas, missy, i was twenty fo' hond'ed years ole, las' easter sunday'"] one of the very interesting things about the old woman was her memory. it was really very pleasant to talk with a person who could distinctly recall general jackson and governor claiborne, who would tell blood-curdling tales of lafitte the pirate and of her own wonderful experiences when as a young girl she had served his table at barataria. if, as her memory failed her, the old creature was tempted into making up stories to supply the growing demand, it would not be fair to blame her too severely. indeed, it is not at all certain that, as the years passed, she herself knew which of the marvellous tales she related were true and which made to order. "yas, sir," she would say, "i ricollec' when all dis heah town wasn't nothin' but a alligator swamp--no houses--no fences--no streets--no gas-postes--no 'lection lights--no--_no river_--_no nothin'_!" if she had only stopped before she got to the river, she would have kept the faith of her hearers better, but it wouldn't have been half so funny. "there wasn't anything here then but you and the snakes, i suppose?" so a boy answered her one day, thinking to tease her a little. "yas, me an' de snakes an' alligators an' gineral jackson an' my ole marster's gran'daddy an'--" "and adam?" added the mischievous fellow, still determined to worry her if possible. "yas, marse adam an' ole mistus, mis' eve, an' de great big p'isonous fork-tailed snake wha' snatch de apple dat marse adam an' mis' eve was squabblin' over--an' et it up!" when she had gotten this far, while the children chuckled, she began reaching for her basket, that she had set down upon the _banquette_. lifting it to her head, now, she walled her eyes around mysteriously as she added: "yas, an' you better look out fur dat p'isonous fork-tailed snake, caze he's agoin' roun' hear right now; an' de favoristest dinner dat he craves ter eat is des sech no-'count, sassy, questionin' street-boys like you is." and with a toss of her head that set her candy-basket swaying and a peal of saw-teeth laughter, she started off, while her would-be teaser found that the laugh was turned on himself. it was sometimes hard to know when easter was serious or when she was amusing herself--when she was sensible or when she wandered in her mind. and to the thoughtless it was always hard to take her seriously. only those who, through all her miserable rags and absurdities, saw the very poor and pitiful old, old woman, who seemed always to be companionless and alone, would sometimes wonder about her, and, saying a kind and encouraging word, drop a few coins in her slim, black hand without making her lower her basket. or they would invite her to "call at the house" for some old worn flannels or odds and ends of cold victuals. and there were a few who never forgot her in their easter offerings, for which, as for all other gifts, she was requested to "call at the back gate." this seemed, indeed, the only way of reaching the weird old creature, who had for so many years appeared daily upon the streets, nobody seemed to know from where, disappearing with the going down of the sun as mysteriously as the golden disk itself. of course, if any one had cared to insist upon knowing how she lived or where she stayed at nights, he might have followed her at a distance. but it is sometimes very easy for a very insignificant and needy person to rebuff those who honestly believe themselves eager to help. and so, when old easter, the candy-woman, would say, in answer to inquiries about her life, "i sleeps at night 'way out by de metarie ridge cemetery, an' gets up in de mornin' up at de red church. i combs my ha'r wid de _latanier_, an' washes my face in de ole basin," it was so easy for those who wanted to help her to say to their consciences, "she doesn't want us to know where she lives," and, after a few simple kindnesses, to let the matter drop. the above ready reply to what she would have called their "searchin' question" proved her a woman of quick wit and fine imagination. anybody who knows new orleans at all well knows that metarie ridge cemetery, situated out of town in the direction of the lake shore, and the old red church, by the riverside above carrollton, are several miles apart. people know this as well as they know that the _latanier_ is the palmetto palm of the southern wood, with its comb-like, many-toothed leaves, and that the old basin is a great pool of scum-covered, murky water, lying in a thickly-settled part of the french town, where numbers of small sailboats, coming in through the bayou with their cargoes of lumber from the coast of the sound, lie against one another as they discharge and receive their freight. if all the good people who knew her in her grotesque and pitiful street character had been asked suddenly to name the very poorest and most miserable person in new orleans, they would almost without doubt have immediately replied, "why, old aunt easter, the candy-woman. who could be poorer than she?" to be old and black and withered and a beggar, with nothing to recommend her but herself--her poor, insignificant, ragged self--who knew nobody and whom nobody knew--that was to be poor, indeed. of course, old easter was not a professional beggar, but it was well known that before she disappeared from the streets every evening one end of her long candy-basket was generally pretty well filled with loose paper parcels of cold victuals, which she was always sure to get at certain kitchen doors from kindly people who didn't care for her poor brown twists. there had been days in the past when easter peddled light, porous sticks of snow-white taffy, cakes of toothsome sugar-candy filled with fresh orange-blossoms, and pralines of pecans or cocoa-nut. but one cannot do everything. one cannot be expected to remember general jackson, spin long, imaginative yarns of forgotten days, and make up-to-date pralines at the same time. if the people who had ears to listen had known the thing to value, this old, old woman could have sold her memories, her wit, and even her imagination better than she had ever sold her old-fashioned sweets. but the world likes molasses candy. and so old easter, whose meagre confections grew poorer as her stories waxed in richness, walked the streets in rags and dirt and absolute obscurity. an old lame dog, seeming instinctively to know her as his companion in misery, one day was observed to crouch beside her, and, seeing him, she took down her basket and entertained him from her loose paper parcels. and once--but this was many years ago, and the incident was quite forgotten now--when a crowd of street fellows began pelting crazy jake, a foolish, half-paralyzed black boy, who begged along the streets, easter had stepped before him, and, after receiving a few of their clods in her face, had struck out into the gang of his tormenters, grabbed two of its principal leaders by the seats of their trousers, spanked them until they begged for mercy, and let them go. nobody knew what had become of crazy jake after that. nobody cared. the poor human creature who is not due at any particular place at any particular time can hardly be missed, even when the time comes when he himself misses the _here_ and the _there_ where he has been wont to spend his miserable days, even when he, perhaps having no one else, it is possible that he misses his tormenters. it was a little school-girl who saw the old woman lower her basket to share her scraps with the street dog. it seemed to her a pretty act, and so she told it when she went home. and she told it again at the next meeting of the particular "ten" of the king's daughters of which she was a member. and this was how the name of easter, the old black candy-woman, came to be written upon their little book as their chosen object of charity for the coming year. the name was not written, however, without some opposition, some discussion, and considerable argument. there were several of the ten who could not easily consent to give up the idea of sending their little moneys to an indian or a chinaman--or to a naked black fellow in his native africa. there is something attractive in the savage who sticks bright feathers in his hair, carries a tomahawk, and wears moccasins upon his nimble feet. most young people take readily to the idea of educating a picturesque savage and teaching him that the cast-off clothes they send him are better than his beads and feathers. the picturesque quality is very winning, find it where we may. people at a distance may see how very much more interesting and picturesque the old black woman, easter, was than any of these, but she did not seem so to the ten good little maidens who finally agreed to adopt her for their own--to find her out in her home life, and to help her. with them it was an act of simple pity--an act so pure in its motive that it became in itself beautiful. perhaps the idea gained a little following from the fact that easter sunday was approaching, and there was a pleasing fitness in the old woman's name when it was proposed as an object for their easter offerings. but this is a slight consideration. certainly when three certain very pious little maidens started out on the following saturday morning to find the old woman, easter, they were full of interest in their new object, and chattered like magpies, all three together, about the beautiful things they were going to do for her. somehow, it never occurred to them that they might not find her either at the jackson street and st. charles avenue corner, or down near lee circle, or at the door of the southern athletic club, at the corner of washington and prytania streets. but they found her at none of the familiar haunts; they did not discover any trace of her all that day, or for quite a week afterward. they had inquired of the grocery-man at the corner where she often rested--of the portresses of several schools where she sometimes peddled her candy at recess-time, and at the bakery where she occasionally bought a loaf of yesterday's bread. but nobody remembered having seen her recently. several people knew and were pleased to tell how she always started out in the direction of the swamp every evening when the gas was lit in the city, and that she turned out over the bridge along melpomene street, stopping to collect stray bits of cabbage leaves and refuse vegetables where the bridgeway leads through dryades market. some said that she had a friend there, who hid such things for her to find, under one of the stalls, but this may not have been true. it was on the saturday morning after their first search that three little "daughters of the king" started out a second time, determined if possible to trace old easter to her hiding-place. it was a shabby, ugly, and crowded part of town in which, following the bridged road, and inquiring as they went, they soon found themselves. for a long time it seemed a fruitless search, and they were almost discouraged when across a field, limping along before a half-shabby, fallen gate, they saw an old, lame, yellow dog. it was the story of her sharing her dinner with the dog on the street that had won these eager friends for the old woman, and so, perhaps, from an association of ideas, they crossed the field, timidly, half afraid of the poor miserable beast that at once attracted and repelled them. but they need not have feared. as soon as he knew they were visitors, the social fellow began wagging his little stump of a tail, and with a sort of coaxing half-bark asked them to come in and make themselves at home. not so cordial, however, was the shy and reluctant greeting of the old woman, easter, who, after trying in vain to rise from her chair as they entered her little room, motioned to them to be seated on her bed. there was no other seat vacant, the second chair of the house being in use by a crippled black man, who sat out upon the back porch, nodding. as they took their seats, the yellow dog, who had acted as usher, squatted serenely in their midst, with what seemed a broad grin upon his face, and then it was that the little maid who had seen the incident recognized him as the poor old street dog who had shared old easter's dinner. two other dogs, poor, ugly, common fellows, had strolled out as they came in, and there were several cats lying huddled together in the sun beside the chair of the sleeping figure on the back porch. it was a poor little home--as poor as any imagination could picture it. there were holes in the floor--holes in the roof--cracks everywhere. it was, indeed, not considered, to use a technical word, "tenable," and there was no rent to pay for living in it. but, considering things, it was pretty clean. and when its mistress presently recovered from her surprise at her unexpected visitors, she began to explain that "ef she'd 'a' knowed dey was comin' to call, she would 'a' scoured up a little." her chief apologies, however, were for the house itself and its location, "away outside o' quality neighborhoods in de swampy fields." "i des camps out here, missy," she finally explained, "bec'ase dey's mo' room an' space fur my family." and here she laughed--a high, cracked peal of laughter--as she waved her hand in the direction of the back porch. "dey ain't nobody ter pleg crazy jake out here, an' him an' me, wid deze here lame an' crippled cats an' dogs--why, we sets out yonder an' talks together in de evenin's after de 'lection lights is lit in de tower market and de moon is lit in de sky. an' crazy jake--why, when de moon's on de full, crazy jake he can talk knowledge good ez you kin. i fetched him out here about a million years ago, time dey was puttin' him in de streets, caze dey was gwine hurt him. an' he knows mighty smart, git him ter talkin' right time o' de moon! but mos' gin'ally he forgits. "ef i hadn't 'a' fell an' sprained my leg las' week, de bread it wouldn't 'a' 'mos' give out, like it is, but i done melt down de insides o' some ole condense'-milk cans, an' soak de dry bread in it for him, an' to-morrer i'm gwine out ag'in. yas, to-morrer i'm bleeged to go, caze you know to-morrer dats my birfday, an' all my family dey looks for a party on my birfday--don't you, you yaller, stub-tail feller you! ef e warn't sort o' hongry, i'd make him talk fur yer; but i 'ain't learnt him much yit. he's my new-comer!" this last was addressed to the yellow dog. [illustration: "'de cats? why, honey, dey welcome to come an' go'"] "i had blin' pete out here till 'istiddy. i done 'dopted him las' year, but he struck out ag'in beggin', 'caze he say he can't stand dis heah soaked victuals. but pete, he ain't rale blin', nohow. he's des got a sinkin' sperit, an' he can't work, an' i keeps him caze a sinkin' sperit what ain't got no git-up to it hit's a heap wuss 'n blin'ness. he's got deze heah yaller-whited eyes, an' when he draps his leds over 'em an' trimbles 'em, you'd swear he was stone-blin', an' dat stuff wha' he rubs on 'em it's inju'ious to de sight, so i keeps him and takes keer of him now so i won't have a blin' man on my hands--an' to save him f'om sin, too. "ma'am? what you say, missy? de cats? why, honey, dey welcome to come an' go. i des picked 'em up here an' dar 'caze dey was whinin'. any breathin' thing dat i sees dat's poorer 'n what i is, why, i fetches 'em out once-t, an' dey mos' gin'ally stays. "but if you yo'ng ladies 'll come out d'reckly after easter sunday, when i got my pervisions in, why i'll show you how de ladies intertain dey company in de old days when gin'ral jackson used ter po' de wine." needless to say, there was such a birthday party as had never before been known in the little shanty on the easter following the visit of the three little maids of the king's daughters. when old easter had finished her duties as hostess, sharing her good things equally with those who sat at her little table and those who squatted in an outer circle on the floor, she remarked that it carried her away back to old times when she stood behind the governor's chair "while he h'isted his wineglass an' drink ter de ladies' side curls." and crazy jake said yes, he remembered, too. and then he began to nod, while blind pete remarked, "to my eyes de purtiest thing about de whole birfday party is de bo'quet o' easter lilies in de middle o' de table." saint idyl's light saint idyl's light you would never have guessed that her name was idyl--the slender, angular little girl of thirteen years who stood in her faded gown of checkered homespun on the brow of the mississippi river. and fancy a saint balancing a bucket of water on top of her head! yet, as she puts the pail down beside her, the evening sun gleaming through her fair hair seems to transform it into a halo, as some one speaks her name, "saint idyl." her thin, little ears, sun-filled as she stands, are crimson disks; and the outlines of her upper arms, dimly seen through the flimsy sleeves, are as meagre as are the ankles above her bare, slim feet. the appellation "saint idyl," given first in playful derision, might have been long ago forgotten but for the incident which this story records. it was three years before, when the plantation children, colored and white together, had been saying, as is a fashion with them, what they would like to be. one had chosen a "blue-eyed lady wid flounces and a pink fan," another a "fine white 'oman wid long black curls an' ear-rings," and a third would have been "a hoop-skirted lady wid a tall hat." it was then that idyl, the only white child of the group--the adopted orphan of the overseer's family--had said: "i'd choose to be a saint, like the one in the glass winder in the church, with light shinin' from my head. i'd walk all night up and down the 'road bend,' so travellers could see the way and wagons wouldn't get stallded." the children had shuddered and felt half afraid at this. "but you'd git stallded yo'se'f in dat black mud--" "an' de runaways in de canebrake 'd ketch yer--" "an' de paterole'd shoot yer--" "an' eve'body'd think you was a walkin' sperit, an' run away f'om yer." so the protests had come in, though the gleaming eyes of the little negroes had shown their delight in the fantastic idea. "but i'd walk on a cloud, like the saint in the picture," idyl had insisted. "and my feet wouldn't touch the mud, and when the runaways looked into my face, they'd try to be good and go back to their masters. nobody would hurt me. tired horses would be glad to see my light, and everybody would love me." so, first laughingly, and then as a matter of habit, she had come to be known as "saint idyl." as she stands quite still, with face uplifted, out on the levee this evening, one is reminded in looking at her of the "maid of domremi" listening to the voices. idyl was in truth listening to voices--voices new, strange, and solemn--voices of heavy, distant cannon. it was the d of april, . a few miles below bijou plantation farragut's fleet was storming the blockade at fort jackson. all along the lower mississippi it was a time of dread and terror. the negroes, for the most part awed and terror-stricken, muttered prayers as they went about, and all night long sang mournfully and shouted and prayed in the churches or in groups in their cabins, or even in the road. the war had come at last. its glare was upon the sky at night, and all day long reiterated its persistent staccato menace: "boom-m-m! gloom-m-m! tomb-b-b! doom-m-m!" the air had never seemed to lose the vibratory tremor, "m-m-m!" since the first gun, nearly six days ago. it was as if the lips of the land were trembling. and the trembling lips of the black mothers, as they pressed their babes to their bosoms, echoed the wordless terror. death was in the air. had they doubted it? in a field near by a shell had fallen, burying itself in the earth, and, exploding, had sent two men into the air, killing one and returning the other unhurt. now the survivor, saved as by a miracle, was preaching "the wrath to come." to quote from himself, he had "been up to heaven long enough to get 'ligion." he had "gone up a lost sinner and come down a saved soul. bless gord!" regarding his life as charmed, the blacks followed him in crowds, while he descanted upon the text: "then two shall be in the field. one shall be taken and the other left." a great revival was in progress. but this afternoon the levee at bijou had been the scene of a new panic. rumor said that the blockade chain had been cut. farragut's war monsters might any moment come snorting up the river. nor was this all. the only local defence here was a volunteer artillery company of "exempts." old "captain doc," their leader, also local druggist and postmaster (doctor and minister only in emergency), was a unique and picturesque figure. full of bombast as of ultimate kindness of feeling, he was equally happy in all of his four offices. the "rev. capt. doc, m.d.," as he was wont, on occasion, to call himself--why drag in a personal name among titles in themselves sufficiently distinguishing?--was by common consent the leading man with a certain under-population along the coast. and when, three months before, he had harangued them as to the patriot's duty of home defence, there was not a worthy incapable present but enthusiastically enlisted. the tension of the times forbade perception of the ludicrous. for three months the "riffraffs"--so they proudly called themselves--rheumatic, deaf, palsied, halt, lame, and one or two nearly blind, had represented "the cause," "the standing army," "le grand militaire," to the inflammable imaginations of this handful of simple rural people of the lower coast. of the nine "odds and ends of old cannon" which captain doc had been able to collect, it was said that but one would carry a ball. certainly, of the remaining seven, one was of wood, an ancient gunsmith's sign, and another a gilded papier-mâché affair of a former mystick krewe. still, these answered for drill purposes, and would be replaced by genuine guns when possible. they were quite as good for everything excepting a battle, and in that case, of course, it would be a simple thing "to seize the enemy's guns" and use them. when the riffraffs had paraded up and down the river road no one had smiled, and if anybody realized that their captain wore the gorgeous pompon of a drum-major, its fitness was not questioned. it was becoming to him. it corresponded to his lordly strut, and was in keeping with the stentorian tones that shouted "halt!" or "avance!" captain doc appealed to americans and creoles alike, and the riffraffs marched quite as often to the stirring measures of "la marseillaise" as to "the bonny blue flag." ever since the first guns at the forts, the good captain had been disporting himself in full feather. he was "ready for the enemy." his was a pleasing figure, and even inspiring as a picturesque embodiment of patriotic zeal; but when this afternoon the riffraffs had planted their artillery along the levee front, while the little captain rallied them to "prepare to die by their guns," it was a different matter. the company, loyal to a man, had responded with a shout, the blacksmith, to whose deaf ears his anvil had been silent for twenty years, throwing up his hat with the rest, while the epileptic who manned the papier-mâché gun was observed to scream the loudest. suddenly a woman, catching the peril of the situation, shrieked: "they're going to fire on the gunboats! we'll all be killed." another caught the cry, and another. a mad panic ensued; women with babies in their arms gathered about captain doc, entreating him, with tears and cries, to desist. but for once the tender old man, whose old boast had been that one tear from a woman's eyes "tore his heart open," was deaf to all entreaty. the riffraffs represented an injured faction. they had not been asked to enlist with the "coast defenders"--since gone into active service--and they seemed intoxicated by the present opportunity to "show the stuff they were made of." at nearly nightfall the women, despairing and wailing, had gone home. amid all the excitement the little girl idyl had stood apart, silent. no one had noticed her, nor that, when all the others had gone, she still lingered. even mrs. magwire, the overseer's wife, with whom she lived, had forgotten to hurry or to scold her. what emotions were surging in her young bosom no one could know. there was something in the cannon's roar that charmed her ear--something suggestive of strength and courage. within her memory she had known only weakness and fear. after the yellow scourge of ' , when she was but four years old, she had realized vaguely that strange people with loud voices and red faces had come to be to her in the place of father and mother, that the magwire babies were heavy to carry, and that their mother had but a poor opinion of a "lazy hulk av a girrl that could not heft a washtub without panting." idyl had tried hard to be strong and to please her foster-mother, but there was, somehow, in her life at the magwires' something that made her great far-away eyes grow larger and her poor little wrists more weak and slender. she envied the magwire twins--with all their prickly heat and their calico-blue eyes--when their mother pressed them lovingly to her bosom. she even envied the black babies when their great black mammies crooned them to sleep. what does it matter, black or white or red, if one is loved? an embroidered "darling" upon an old crib-blanket, and a daguerreotype--a slender youth beside a pale, girlish woman, who clasped a big-eyed babe--these were her only tokens of past affection. there was something within her that responded to the daintiness of the loving stitches in the old blanket--and to a something in the refined faces in the picture. and they had called their wee daughter "idyl"--a little poem. yet she, not understanding, hated this name because of mrs. magwire, whose most merciless taunt was, "sure ye're well named, ye idle dthreamer." mrs. magwire, a well-meaning woman withal, measured her maternal kindnesses to the hungry-hearted orphan beneath her roof in generous bowls of milk and hunks of corn-bread. idyl's dreams of propitiating her were all of abstractions--self-sacrifice, patience, gratitude. and she was as unconscious as was her material benefactress that she was an idealist, and why the combination resulted in inharmony. this evening, as she stood alone upon the levee, listening to the cannon, a sudden sense of utter desolation and loneliness came to her. she only of all the plantation was unloved--forgotten--in this hour of danger. a desperate longing seized her as she turned and looked back upon the nest of cabins. if she could only save the plantation! for love, no sacrifice could be too great. with the thought came an inspiration. there was reason in the women's fears. should the riffraffs fire upon the fleet, surely guns would answer, else what was war? she glanced at her full pail, and then at the row of cannon beside her. if she could pour water into them! it was too light yet, but to-night-- how great and daring a deed to come to tempt the mind of a timid, delicate child who had never dared anything--even mrs. magwire's displeasure! all during the evening, while mother magwire rocked the babies, moaning and weeping, idyl, wiping her dishes in the little kitchen, would step to the door and peer out at the levee where the guns were. every distant cannon's roar seemed to challenge her to the deed. when finally her work was done, she slipped noiselessly out and started towards the levee, pail in hand; but as she approached it she saw moving shadows. the riffraffs were working at the guns. seeing her project impossible, she sat down in a dark shadow by the roadside--studied the moving figures--listened to the guns which came nearer as the hours passed. it was long after midnight; accelerated firing was proclaiming a crisis in the battle, when, suddenly, there came the rattle of approaching wheels accompanied by a noisy rabble. then a woman screamed. captain doc was coming with a wagon-load of ammunition. the guns were to be loaded. the moon, a faint waning crescent, faded to a filmy line as a pillar of fire, rising against the sky northward towards the city, exceeded the glare of the battle below. the darkness was quite lifted now, up and down the levee, and idyl, standing in the shadow, could see groups of people weeping, wringing their hands, as captain doc, pompon triumphant, came in sight galloping down the road. in a second more he would pass the spot where she stood--stood unseen, seeing the sorrow of the people, heeding the challenge of the guns. the wagon was at hand. with a faint, childish scream, raising her thin arms heavenward, she plunged forward and fell headlong in its path. the victory was hers. the tinselled captain was now tender surgeon, doctor, friend. in his own arms he raised the limp little form from beneath the wheel, while the shabby gray coats of a dozen "riffraffs," laid over the cannon-balls in the wagon, made her a hero's bed; and captain doc, seizing the reins, turned the horses cautiously, and drove in haste back to his drug-store. farragut's fleet and "the honor of the riffraffs" were forgotten in the presence of this frail embodiment of death. upon his own bed beside an open window he laid her, and while his eager company became surgeon's assistants, he tenderly bound her wounds. for several hours she lay in a stupor, and when she opened her eyes the captain knelt beside her. mrs. magwire stood near, noisily weeping. "is it saved?" she asked, when at length she opened her eyes. captain doc, thinking her mind was wandering, raised her head, and pointed to the river, now ablaze with light. "see," said he. "see the steamboats loaded with burning cotton, and the great ship meeting them; that is a yankee gunboat! see, it is passing." "and you didn't shoot? and are the people glad?" "no, we didn't shoot. you fell and got hurt at the dark turn by the acacia bushes, where you hang your little lantern on dark nights. some one ought to have hung one for you to-night. how did it happen, child?" "it didn't happen. i did it on purpose. i knew if i got hurt you would stop and cure me, and not fire at the boats. i wanted to save--to save the plan--" while the little old man raised a glass to the child's lips his hand shook, and something like a sob escaped him. "listen, little one," he whispered, while his lips quivered. "i am an old fool, but not a fiend--not a devil. not a gun would have fired. i wet all the powder. i didn't want anybody to say the riffraffs flinched at the last minute. but you--oh, my god!" his voice sank even lower. "you have given your young life for my folly." she understood. "i haven't got any pain--only--i can't move. i thought i'd get hurt worse than i am--and not so much. i feel as if i were going up--and up--through the red--into the blue. and the moon is coming sideways to me. and her face--it is in it--just like the picture." she cast her eyes about the room as if half conscious of her surroundings. "will they--will they love me now?" mrs. magwire, sobbing aloud, fell upon her knees beside the bed. "god love her, the heavenly child!" she wailed. "she was niver intinded for this worrld. sure, an' i love ye, darlint, jist the same as mary ann an' kitty--an' betther, too, to make up the loss of yer own mother, god rest her." great tears rolled down the cheeks of the dying child, and that heavenly light which seems a forecast of things unseen shone from her brilliant eyes. she laid her thin hand upon mrs. magwire's head, buried now upon the bed beside her. "lay the little blanket on me, please--when i go--" she turned her eyes upon the sky. "she worked it for me--the 'darling' on it. the moon is coming again--sideways. it is her face." so, through the red of the fiery sky, up into the blue, passed the pure spirit of little saint idyl. * * * * * the river seemed afire now with floating chariots of flame. slowly, majestically, upward into this fiery sea rode the fleet. although many of the negroes had run frightened into the woods, the conflagration revealed an almost unbroken line on either side of the river, watching the spectacular pageant with awe-stricken, ashy faces. at bijou a line of men--not the riffraffs--sat astride the cannon, over the mouths of which they hung their hats or coats. "i tell yer deze heah yankees mus' be monst'ous-sized men. look at de big eye-holes 'longside o' de ship," said one--a young black fellow. "eye-holes!" retorted an old man sitting apart; "dem ain't no eye-holes, chillen. dey gun-holes! dat what dey is! an' ef you don't keep yo' faces straight dey'll 'splode out on you 'fo' you know it." the first speaker rolled backward down the levee, half a dozen following. the old man sat unmoved. presently a little woolly head peered over the bank. "what de name o' dat fust man-o'-war, gran'dad?" "name _freedom_." the old man answered without moving. "freedom comin' wid guns in 'er mouf, ready to spit fire, i tell yer!" "jeems, heah, say all de no-'count niggers is gwine be sol' over ag'in--is dat so, gran'dad?" "yas; every feller gwine be sol' ter 'isself. an' a mighty onery, low-down marster heap ob 'em 'll git, too." * * * * * it was nearly day when captain doc, pale and haggard, joined the crowd upon the levee. as he stepped upon its brow, a woman, fearing the provocation of his military hat, begged him to remove it. it might provoke a volley. raising the hat, the captain turned and solemnly addressed the crowd: "my countrymen," he began, and his voice trembled, "the riffraffs are disbanded. see!" he threw the red-plumed thing far out upon the water. and then he turned to them. "i have just seen an angel pass--to enter--yonder." a sob closed his throat as he pointed to the sky. "her pure blood is on my hands--and, by the help of god, they will shed no more. "these old guns are playthings--we are broken old men. "let us pray." and there, out in the glare of the awful fiery spectacle, grown weird in the faint white light of a rising sun, arose the voice of prayer--prayer first for forgiveness of false pride and folly--for the women and children--- for the end of the war--for lasting peace. it was a scene to be remembered. had anything been lacking in its awful solemnity, it was supplied with a tender potency reaching all hearts, in the knowledge of the dead child, who lay in the little cottage near. from up and down the levee, as far as the voice had reached, came fervent responses, "amen!" and "amen!" late in the morning the riffraffs' artillery, all but their largest gun, was, by the captain's command, dumped into the river. this reserved cannon they planted, mouth upwards, by the roadside on the site of the tragedy--a fitting memorial of the child-martyr. it was mrs. magwire, who, remembering how idyl had often stolen out and hung a lantern at this dark turn of the "road bend," began thrusting a pine torch into the cannon's mouth on dark nights as a slight memorial of her. and those who noticed said she took her rosary there and said her beads. but captain doc had soon made the light his own special care, and until his death, ten years later, the old man never failed to supply this beacon to belated travellers on moonless nights. after a time a large square lantern took the place of the torch of pine, and grateful wayfarers alongshore, by rein or oar, guided or steered by the glimmer of saint idyl's light. last year the caving bank carried the rusty gun into the water. it is well that time and its sweet symbol, the peace-loving river, should bury forever from sight all record of a family feud half forgotten. and yet, is it not meet that when the glorious tale of farragut's victory is told, the simple story of little saint idyl should sometimes follow, as the tender benediction follows the triumphant chant? "blink" "blink" i it was nearly midnight of christmas eve on oakland plantation. in the library of the great house a dim lamp burned, and here, in a big arm-chair before a waning fire, evelyn bruce, a fair young girl, sat earnestly talking to a withered old black woman, who sat on the rug at her feet. "an' yer say de plantatiom done sol', baby, an' we boun' ter move?" "yes, mammy, the old place must go." "an' is de 'onerble mr. citified buyed it, baby? i know he an' ole marster sot up all endurin' las' night a-talkin' and a-figgurin'." "yes. mr. jacobs has closed the mortgage, and owns the place now." "an' when is we gwine, baby?" "the sooner the better. i wish the going were over." "an' whar'bouts is we gwine, honey?" "we will go to the city, mammy--to new orleans. something tells me that father will never be able to attend to business again, and i am going to work--to make money." mammy fell backward. "w-w-w-work! y-y-you w-w-work! wh-wh-why, baby, what sort o' funny, cuyus way is you a-talkin', anyhow?" "many refined women are earning their living in the city, mammy." "is you a-talkin' sense, baby, ur is yer des a-bluffin'? is yer axed yo' pa yit?" "i don't think father is well, mammy. he says that whatever i suggest we will do, and i am _sure_ it is best. we will take a cheap little house, father and i--" "y-y-you an' yo' pa! an' wh-wh-what 'bout me, baby?" mammy would stammer when she was excited. "and you, mammy, of course." "umh! umh! umh! an' so we gwine ter trabble! an' de' onerble mr. citified done closed de morgans on us! ef-ef i'd 'a' knowed it dis mornin' when he was a-quizzifyin' me so sergacious, i b'lieve i'd o' upped an' sassed 'im, i des couldn't 'a' helt in. i 'lowed he was teckin' a mighty frien'ly intruss, axin' me do we-all's _puck_on-trees bear big _puck_ons, an'--an' ef de well keep cool all summer, an'--an' he ax me--he ax me--" "what else did he ask you, mammy?" "scuze me namin' it ter yer, baby, but he ax me who was buried in we's graves--he did fur a fac'. yer reckon dee gwine claim de graves in de morgans, baby?" mammy had crouched again at evelyn's feet, and her eager brown face was now almost against her knee. "all the land is mortgaged, mammy." "don't yer reck'n he mought des nachelly scuze de graves out'n de morgans, baby, ef yer ax 'im mannerly?" "i'm afraid not, mammy, but after a while we may have them moved." the old bronze clock on the mantel struck twelve. "des listen. de ole clock a-strikin' chris'mas-gif now. come 'long, go ter bed, honey. you needs a res', but i ain' gwine sleep none, 'caze all dis heah news what you been a-tellin' me, hit's gwine ter run roun' in my head all night, same as a buzz-saw." and so they passed out, mammy to her pallet in evelyn's room, while the sleepless girl stepped to her father's chamber. entering on tiptoe, she stood and looked upon his face. he slept as peacefully as a babe. the anxious look of care which he had worn for years had passed away, and the flickering fire revealed the ghost of a smile upon his placid face. in this it was that evelyn read the truth. the crisis of effort for him was past. he might follow, but he would lead no more. since the beginning of the war colonel brace's history had been the oft-told tale of loss and disaster, and at the opening of each year since there had been a flaring up of hope and expenditure, then a long summer of wavering promise, followed by an inevitable winter of disappointment. the old colonel was, both by inheritance and the habit of many successful years, a man of great affairs, and when the crash came he was too old to change. when he bought, he bought heavily. he planted for large results. there was nothing petty about him, not even his debts. and now the end had come. as evelyn stood gazing upon his handsome, placid face her eyes were blinded with tears. falling upon her knees at his side, she engaged for a moment in silent prayer, consecrating herself in love to the life which lay before her, and as she rose she kissed his forehead gently, and passed to her own room. on the table at her bedside lay several piles of manuscript, and as these attracted her, she turned her chair, and fell to work sorting them into packages, which she laid carefully away. evelyn had always loved to scribble, but only within the last few years had she thought of writing for money that she should need. she had already sent several manuscripts to editors of magazines; but somehow, like birds too young to leave the nest, they all found their way back to her. with each failure, however, she had become more determined to succeed, but in the meantime--_now_--she must earn a living. this was not practicable here. in the city all things were possible, and to the city she would go. she would at first accept one of the tempting situations offered in the daily papers, improving her leisure by attending lectures, studying, observing, cultivating herself in every possible way, and after a time she would try her hand again at writing. it was nearly day when she finally went to bed, but she was up early next morning. there was much to be considered. many things were to be done. at first she consulted her father about everything, but his invariable answer, "just as you say, daughter," transferred all responsibility to her. a letter to her mother's old new orleans friend, madame le duc, briefly set forth the circumstances, and asked madame's aid in securing a small house. other letters sent in other directions arranged various matters, and evelyn soon found herself in the vortex of a move. she had a wise, clear head and a steady, resolute hand, and in old mammy a most capable servant. the old woman seemed, indeed, to forget nothing, as she bustled about, packing, suggesting, and, spite of herself, frequently protesting; for, if the truth must be spoken, this move to the city was violating all the traditions of mammy's life. "wh-wh-wh-why, baby! not teck de grime-stone!" she exclaimed one day, in reply to evelyn's protest against her packing that ponderous article. "how is we gwine sharpen de spade an' de grubbin'-hoe ter work in the gyard'n?" "we sha'n't have a garden, mammy." "no gyard'n!" mammy sat down upon the grindstone in disgust. "wh-wh-wh-what sort o' a fureign no-groun' place is we gwine ter, anyhow, baby? honey," she continued, in a troubled voice, "co'se you know i ain't got educatiom, an' i ain't claim knowledge; b-b-b-but ain't you better study on it good 'fo' we goes ter dis heah new country? dee tells me de cidy's a owdacious place. i been heern a heap o' tales, but i 'ain't say nothin' is yer done prayed over it good, baby?" "yes, dear. i have prayed that we should do only right. what have you heard, mammy?" "d-d-d-de way folks talks, look like death an' terror is des a-layin' roun' loose in de cidy. dee tell _me_ dat ef yer des nachelly blows out yer light ter go ter bed, dat dis heah some'h'n' what stan' fur wick, hit 'll des keep a-sizzin' an' a-sizzin' out, des like sperityal steam; _an' hit's clair pizen_!" "that is true, mammy. but, you see, we won't blow it out. we'll know better." "does yer snuff it out wid snuffers, baby, ur des fling it on de flo' an' tromp yer foots on it?" "neither, mammy. the gas comes in through pipes built into the houses, and is turned on and off with a valve, somewhat as we let water out of the refrigerator." "um-hm! well done! of co'se! on'y, in place o' water what _put out_ de light, hit's in'ardly filled wid some'h'n' what _favor_ a blaze." "exactly." mammy reflected a moment. "but de grime-stone gotter stay berhime, is she? an' is we gwine leave all de gyard'n tools an' implemers ter de 'onerble mr. citified?" "no, mammy; none of the appurtenances of the homestead are mortgaged. we must sell them. we need money, you know." "what is de impertinences o' de homestid, baby? you forgits i ain't on'erstan' book words." "those things intended for family use, mammy. there are the carriage-horses, the cows, the chickens--" "bless goodness fur dat! an' who gwine drive 'em inter de cidy fur us, honey?" "oh, mammy, we must sell them all." mammy was almost crying. "an' what sort o' entry is we gwine meck inter de cidy, honey--empty-handed, same as po' white trash? d-d-d-don't yer reck'n we b-b-better teck de chickens, baby? yo' ma thunk a heap o' dem brahma hens an' dem clymoth rockers--dee looks so courageous." it was hard for evelyn to refuse. mammy loved everything on the old place. "let us give up all these things now, mammy; and after a while, when i grow rich and famous, i'll buy you all the chickens you want." at last preparations were over. they were to start on the morrow. mammy had just returned from a last tour through out-buildings and gardens, and was evidently disturbed. "honey," she began, throwing herself on the step at evelyn's feet, "what yer reck'n? ole muffly is a-sett'n' on fo'teen eggs, down in de cotton-seed. w-w-we can't g'way f'm heah an' leave muffly a-sett'n', hit des nachelly can't be did. d-d-don't yer reck'n dee'd hol' back de morgans a little, till muffly git done sett'n'?" it was the same old story. mammy would never be ready to go. "but our tickets are bought, mammy." "an' like as not de 'onerble mr. citified 'll shoo ole muffly orf de nes' an' spile de whole sett'n'. tut! tut! tut!" and, groaning in spirit, mammy walked off. evelyn had feared, for her father, the actual moment of leaving, and was much relieved when, with his now habitual tranquillity, he smilingly assisted both her and mammy into the sleeper. instead of entering himself, however, he hesitated. "isn't your mother coming, daughter?" he asked, looking backward. "or--oh, i forgot," he added, quickly. "she has gone on before, hasn't she?" "yes, dear, she has gone before," evelyn answered, hardly knowing what she said, the chill of a new terror upon her. what did this mean? was it possible that she had read but half the truth? was her father's mind not only enfeebled, but going? mammy had not heard the question, and so evelyn bore her anxiety alone, and during the day her anxious eyes were often upon her father's face, but he only smiled and kept silent. they had been travelling all day, when suddenly, above the rumbling of the train, a weak, bird-like chirp was heard, faint but distinct; and presently it came again, a prolonged "p-e-e-p!" heads went up, inquiring faces peered up and down the coach, and fell again to paper or book, when the cry came a third time, and again. mammy's face was a study. "'sh--'sh--'sh! don' say nothin', baby," she whispered, in evelyn's ear; "but dis heah chicken in my bosom is a-ticklin' me so i can't hardly set still." evelyn was absolutely speechless with surprise, as mammy continued by snatches her whispered explanation: "des 'fo' we lef' i went 'n' lif' up ole muffly ter see how de eggs was comin' orn, an' dis heah egg was pipped out, an' de little risindenter look like he eyed me so berseechin' i des nachelly couldn't leave 'im. look like he knowed he warn't righteously in de morgans, an' 'e crave ter clair out an' trabble. i did hope speech wouldn't come ter 'im tell we got off'n deze heah train kyars." a halt at a station brought a momentary silence, and right here arose again, clear and shrill, the chicken's cry. mammy was equal to the emergency. after glancing inquiringly up and down the coach, she exclaimed, aloud, "some'h'n' in dis heah kyar soun' des like a vintrilloquer." "that's just what it is," said an old gentleman opposite, peering around over his spectacles. "and whoever you are, sir, you've been amusing yourself for an hour." mammy's ruse had succeeded, and during the rest of the journey, although the chicken developed duly as to vocal powers, the only question asked by the curious was, "who can the ventriloquist be?" evelyn could hardly maintain her self-control, the situation was so utterly absurd. "i does hope it's a pullet," mammy confided later; "but i doubts it. hit done struck out wid a mannish movemint a'ready. muffly's eggs allus hatches out sech invig'rous chickens. i gwine in the dressin'-room, baby, an' wrop 'im up ag'in. feel like he done kicked 'isse'f loose." though she made several trips to the dressing-room in the interest of her hatchling, mammy's serene face held no betrayal of the disturbing secret of her bosom. at last the journey was over. the train crept with a tired motion into the noisy depot. then came a rattling ride over cobble-stones, granite, and unpaved streets; a sudden halt before a low-browed cottage; a smiling old lady stepping out to meet them; a slam of the front door--they were at home in new orleans. madame le duc seemed to have forgotten nothing that their comfort required, and in many ways that the creole gentlewoman understands so well she was affectionately and unobtrusively kind. and yet, in the life evelyn was seeking to enter, madame could give her no aid. about all these new ideas of women--ladies--going out as bread-winners, madame knew nothing. for twenty years she had gone only to the cathedral, the french market, the cemetery, and the chapel of st. roche. as to all this unconventional american city above canal street, it was there and spreading (like the measles and other evils); everybody said so; even her paper, _l'abeille_, referred to it in french--resentfully. she believed in it historically; but for herself, she "_never travelled_," _excepting_, as she quaintly put it, in her "_acquaintances_"--the french streets with which she was familiar. the house she had selected was a typical old-fashioned french cottage, venerable in scaling plaster and fern-tufted tile roof, but cool and roomy within as uninviting without. a small inland garden surprised the eye as one entered the battened gate at its side, and a dormer-window in the roof looked out upon the rigging of ships at anchor but a stone's-throw away. here, to the chamber above, evelyn led her father. furnishing this large upper room with familiar objects, and pointing out the novelties of the view from its window, she tried to interpret his new life happily for him, and he smiled, and seemed content. it was surprising to see how soon mammy fell into line with the changed order of things. the french market, with its "cuyus fureign folks an' mixed talk," was a panorama of daily unfolding wonders to her. "but huccome dee calls it french?" she exclaimed, one day. "i been listenin' good, an' i hear 'em jabber, jabber, jabber all dey fanciful lingoes, but i 'ain't heern nair one say _polly fronsay_, an' yit i know dats de riverend book french." the indian squaws in the market, sitting flat on the ground, surrounded by their wares, she held in special contempt. "i holds myse'f _clair_ 'bove a injun," she boasted. "dee ain't look jinnywine ter me. dee ain't nuther white folks nur niggers, nair one. sett'n' deeselves up fur go-betweens, an' sellin' sech grass-greens as we lef' berhindt us growin' in de wilderness!" but one unfailing source of pleasure to mammy was the little chicken, "blink," who, she declared, "named 'isse'f blink de day he blinked at me so cunnin' out'n de shell. blink 'ain't said nothin' wid 'is mouf," she continued, eying him proudly, "'caze he know eye-speech set on a chicken a heap better'n human words, mo' inspecial on a yo'ng half-hatched chicken like blink was dat day, cramped wid de egg-shell behime an' de morgans starin' 'im in de face befo', an' not knowin' how he gwine come out'n his trouble. he des kep' silence, an' wink all 'is argimints, an' 'e wink to the p'int, too!" in spite of his unique entrance into the world and his precarious journey, blink was a vigorous young chicken, with what mammy was pleased to call "a good proud step an' knowin' eyes." three months passed. the long, dull summer was approaching, and yet evelyn had found no regular employment. she had not been idle. sewing for the market folk, decorating palmetto fans and easter eggs, which mammy peddled in the big houses, she had earned small sums of money from time to time. in her enforced leisure she found opportunity for study, and her picturesque surroundings were as an open book. impressions of the quaint old french and spanish city, with its motley population, were carefully jotted down in her note-book. these first descriptions she afterwards rewrote, discarding weakening detail, elaborating the occasional triviality which seemed to reflect the true local tint--a nice distinction, involving conscientious hard work. how she longed for criticism and advice! a year ago her father, now usually dozing in his chair while she worked, would have been a most able and affectionate critic; but now--she rejoiced when a day passed without his asking for her mother, and wondering why she did not come. and so it was that in her need of sympathy evelyn began to read her writings, some of which had grown into stories, to mammy. the very exercise of reading aloud--the sound of it--was helpful. that mammy's criticisms should have proven valuable in themselves was a surprise, but it was even so. ii "a pusson would know dat was fanciful de way hit reads orf, des like a pusson 'magine some'h'n' what ain't so." such was mammy's first criticism of a story which had just come back, returned from an editor. evelyn had been trying to discover wherein its weakness lay. mammy had caught the truth. the story was unreal. the english seemed good, the construction fair, but--it was "_fanciful_." the criticism set evelyn to thinking. she laid aside this, and read another manuscript aloud. "i tell yer, honey, a-a-a pusson 'd know you had educatiom, de way you c'n fetch in de dictionary words." "don't you understand them, mammy?" she asked, quickly, catching another idea. "who, me? law, baby, i don't crave ter on'erstan' all dat granjer. i des ketches de chune, an' hit sho is got a glorified ring." here was a valuable hint. she must simplify her style. the tide of popular writing was, she knew, in the other direction, but the _best_ writing was _simple_. the suggestion sent her back to study. and now for her own improvement she rewrote the "story of big words" in the simplest english she could command, bidding mammy tell her if there was one word she could not understand. in the transition the spirit of the story was necessarily changed, but the exercise was good. mammy understood every word. "but, baby," she protested, with a troubled face, "look like _hit don't stan' no mo'_; all its granjer done gone. you better fix it up des like it was befo', honey. hit 'minds me o' some o' deze heah fine folks what walks de streets. you know _folks what 'ain't got nothin' else_, dee des nachelly _'bleege_ ter put on finery." how clever mammy was! how wholesome the unconscious satire of her criticism! this story, shorn of its grandeur, could not stand indeed. it was weak and affected. "you dear old mammy," exclaimed evelyn, "you don't know how you are helping me." "gord knows i wushes i could holp you, honey. i 'ain't nuver is craved educatiom befo', but now, look like i'd like ter be king of all de smartness, an' know all dey is in de books. i wouldn't hol' back _noth'n_ f'om yer, baby." and evelyn knew it was true. "look ter me, baby," mammy suggested, another night, after listening to a highly imaginative story--"look ter me like ef--ef--ef you'd des write down some _truly truth_ what is _ac-chilly happened_, an' glorify it wid educatiom, hit 'd des nachelly stan' in a book." "i've been thinking of that," said evelyn, reflectively, laying aside her manuscript. * * * * * "how does this sound, mammy?" she asked, a week later, when, taking up an unfinished tale, she began to read. it was the story of their own lives, dating from the sale of the plantation. the names, of course, were changed, excepting blink's, and, indeed, until he appeared upon the scene, although mammy listened breathless, she did not recognize the characters. blink, however, was unmistakable, and when he announced himself from the old woman's bosom his identity flashed upon mammy, and she tumbled over on the floor, laughing and crying alternately. evelyn had written from her heart, and the story, simply told, held all the wrench of parting with old associations, while the spirit of courage and hope, which animated her, breathed in every line as she described their entrance upon their new life. "my heart was teched f'om de fus't, baby," said mammy, presently, wiping her eyes; "b-b-b-but look heah, honey, i'd--i'd be wuss'n a hycoprite ef i let dat noble ole black 'oman, de way you done specified 'er, stan' fur me. y-y-yer got ter change all dat, honey. dey warn't nothin' on top o' dis roun' worl' what fetched me 'long wid y' all but 'cep' 'caze i des _nachelly love yer_, an' all dat book granjer what you done laid on me i _don' know nothin' 't all about it_, an' yer got ter _teck it orf_, an' write me down like i is, des a po' ole nigger wha' done fell in wid de gord-blessedes' white folks wha' ever lived on dis earth, an'--an' wha' gwine _foller_ 'em an' _stay by 'em_, don' keer which-a-way dee go, so long as 'er ole han's is able ter holp 'em. yer got ter change all dat, honey. "but blink! de laws-o'-mussy! maybe hit's 'caze i been hatched 'im an' raised 'im, but look ter me like he ain't no _dis_grace ter de story, no way. seem like he sets orf de book. yer ain't gwine say nothin' 'bout blink bein' a frizzly, is yer? 'twouldn't do no good ter tell it on 'im." "i didn't know it, mammy." "yas, indeedy. po' blink's feathers done taken on a secon' twis'." she spoke, with maternal solicitude. "i d'know huccome he come dat-a-way, 'caze we 'ain't nuver is had no frizzly stock 'mongs' our chickens. sometimes i b'lieve blink tumbled 'isse'f up dat-a-way tryin' ter wriggle 'isse'f outn de morgans. i hates it mightily. look like a frizzly can't put on grandeur no way, don' keer how mannerly 'e hol' 'isse'f." the progress of the new story, which mammy considered under her especial supervision, was now her engrossing thought. "yer better walk straight, blink," she would exclaim--"yer better walk straight an' step high, 'caze yer gwine in a book, honey, 'long wid de aristokercy!" one day blink walked leisurely in from the street, returning, happily for mammy's peace of mind, before he had been missed. he raised his wings a moment as he entered, as if pleased to get home, and mammy exclaimed, as she burst out laughing: "don't you come in heah shruggin' yo' shoulders at me, blink, an' puttin' on no french airs. i believe blink been out teckin' french lessons." she took her pet into her arms. "is you crave ter learn fureign speech, blinky, like de res' o' dis mixed-talkin' settle_mint_? is you 'shamed o' yo' country voice, honey, an' tryin' ter ketch a french crow? no, he ain't," she added, putting him down at last, but watching him fondly. "blink know he's a bruce. an' he know he's folks is in tribulatiom, an' hilarity ain't become 'im--dat's huccome blink 'ain't crowed none--_ain't it, blink_?" and blink wisely winked his knowing eyes. that he had, indeed, never proclaimed his roosterhood by crowing was a source of some anxiety to mammy. "maybe blink don't know he's a rooster," she confided to evelyn one day. "sho 'nough, honey, he nuver is seen none! de neares' ter 'isse'f what he knows is dat ole green polly what set in de fig-tree nex' do', an' talk gascon. i seed blink 'is_tid_day stan' an' look at' im, an' den look down at 'isse'f, same as ter say, 'is i a polly, or what?' an' den 'e open an' shet 'is mouf, like 'e tryin' ter twis' it, polly fashion, an' hit won't twis', an' den 'e des shaken 'is head, an' walk orf, like 'e heavy-hearted an' mixed in 'is mind. blink don't know what 'spornsibility lay on 'im ter keep our courage up. you heah me, blink! open yo' mouf, an' crow out, like a man!" but blink was biding his time. during this time, in spite of strictest economy, money was going out faster than it came in. "i tell yer what i been thinkin', baby," said mammy, as she and evelyn discussed the situation. "i think de bes' thing you can do is ter hire me out. i can cook you alls breckfus' soon, an' go out an' make day's work, an' come home plenty o' time ter cook de little speck o' dinner you an' ole boss needs." "oh no, no! you mustn't think of it, mammy." "but what we gwine do, baby? we des _can't_ get out'n _money_. hit _won't do_!" "maybe i should have taken that position as lady's companion, mammy." "an' stay 'way all nights f'om yo' pa, when you de onlies' light ter 'is eyes? no, no, honey!" "but it has been my only offer, and sometimes i think--" "hush talkin' dat-a-way, baby. don't yer pray? an' don't yer trus' gord? an' ain't yer done walked de streets tell you mos' drapped down, lookin' fur work? an' can't yer teck de hint dat de lord done laid off yo' work _right heah in the house_? you go 'long now, an' cheer up yo' pa, des like you been doin', an' study yo' books, an' write down true joy an' true sorrer in yo' stories, an' glorify gord wid yo' sense, an' don't pester yo'se'f 'bout to-day an' to-morrer, an'--an'--an' ef de gorspil is de trufe, an'--an' ef a po' ole nigger's prayers mounts ter heaven on de wings o' faith, gord ain't gwine let a hair o' yo' head perish." but mammy pondered in her heart much concerning the financial outlook, and it was on the day after this conversation that she dressed herself with unusual care, and, without announcing her errand, started out. her return soon brought its own explanation, however, for upon her old head she bore a huge bundle of unlaundered clothing. "what in the world!" exclaimed evelyn; but before she could voice a protest, mammy interrupted her. "nuver you mind, baby! i des waked up," she exclaimed, throwing her bundle at the kitchen door. "i been preachin' ter you 'bout teckin' hints, an' 'ain't been readin' my own lesson. huccome we got dis heah nice sunny back yard, an' dis bustin' cisternful o' rain-water? huccome de boa'din'-house folks at de corner keeps a-passin' an' a-passin' by dis gate wid all dey fluted finery on, ef 'twarn't ter gimme a hint dat dey's wealth a-layin' at de do', an' me, bline as a bat, 'ain't seen it?" "oh, but, mammy, you can't take in washing. you are too old; it is too hard. you _mustn't_--" "ef-ef-ef-ef you gits obstropulous, i-i-i gwine whup yer, sho. y-y-yer know how much money's a-comin' out'n dat bundle, baby? _five dollars!_" this in a stage-whisper. "an' not a speck o' dirt on nothin'; des baby caps an' lace doin's rumpled up." "how did you manage it, mammy?" "well, baby, i des put on my fluted ap'on--an' you know it's ironed purty--an' my clair-starched neck-hankcher, an'--an' _my business face_, an' i helt up my head an' walked in, an' axed good prices, an' de ladies, dee des tooken took one good look at me, an' gimme all i'd carry. you know washin' an' ironin' is my pleasure, baby." it was useless to protest, and so, after a moment, evelyn began rolling up her sleeves. "i am going to help you, mammy," she said, quietly but firmly; but before she could protest, mammy had gathered her into her arms, and carried her into her own room. setting her down at her desk, she exclaimed: "now, ef _you_ goes ter de wash-tub, dey ain't nothin' lef fur _me_ ter do but 'cep'n' ter _set down an' write de story_, an' you know i can't do it." "but, mammy, i _must_ help you." "is you gwine _meck_ me whup yer, whe'r ur no, baby? now i gwine meck a bargain wid yer. _you_ set down an' write, an' _i_ gwine play de pianner on de washboa'd, an' to-night you can read off what yer done put down, an' ef yer done written it purty an' sweet, you can come an' turn de flutin'-machine fur me ter-morrer. yer gwine meck de bargain wid me, baby?" evelyn was so touched that she had not voice to answer. rising from her seat, she put her arms around mammy's neck and kissed her old face, and as she turned away a tear rolled down her cheek. and so the "bargain" was sealed. before going to her desk evelyn went to her father, to see that he wanted nothing. he sat, as usual, gazing silently out of the window. "daughter," said he, as she entered, "are we in france?" "no, dear," she answered, startled at the question. "but the language i hear in the street is french; and see the ship-masts--french flags flying. but there is the german too, and english, and last week there was a scandinavian. where are we truly, daughter? my surroundings confuse me." "we are in new orleans, father--in the french quarter. ships from almost everywhere come to this port, you know. let us walk out to the levee this morning, and see the men-of-war in the river. the air will revive you." "well, if your mother comes. she might come while we were away." and so it was always. with her heart trembling within her, evelyn went to her desk. "surely," she thought, "there is much need that i shall do my best." almost reverentially she took her pen, as she proceeded with the true story she had begun. * * * * * "i done changed my min' 'bout dat ole 'oman wha' stan' fur me, baby," said mammy that night. "you leave 'er des like she is. she glorifies de story a heap better'n my nachel self could do it. i been a-thinkin' 'bout it, an' _de finer that ole 'oman ac', an' de mo' granjer yer lay on 'er, de better yer gwine meck de book_, 'caze de ole gemplum wha' stan' fur ole marster, his times an' seasons is done past, an' he can't do nothin' but set still an' wait, an'--an' de yo'ng missus, she ain't fitten ter wrastle on de outskirts; she ain't nothin' but 'cep' des a lovin' sweet saint, wid 'er face set ter a high, far mark--" "hush, mammy!" "_i'm a-talkin' 'bout de book, baby, an' don't you interrup' me no mo'!_ an' _i say ef dis ole 'oman wha' stan' fur me, ef-ef-ef she got a weak spot in 'er, dey won't be no story to it_. she de one wha' got ter _stan' by de battlemints an' hol' de fort_." "that's just what you are doing, mammy. there isn't a grain in her that is finer than you." "'sh! dis ain't no time fur foolishness, baby. yer 'ain't said nothin' 'bout yo' ma an' de ole black 'oman's baby bein' borned de same day, is yer? an' how de ole 'oman nussed 'em bofe des like twins? an'--an' how folks 'cused 'er o' starvin' 'er own baby on de 'count o' yo' ma bein' puny? (_but dat warn't true._) maybe yer better leave all dat out, 'caze hit mought spile de story." "how could it spoil it, mammy?" "don't yer see, ef folks knowed dat dem white folks an' dat ole black 'oman was _dat close-t_, dey wouldn't be no principle in it. dey ain't nothin' but _love_ in _dat_, an' de ole 'oman _couldn't he'p 'erse'f, no mo'n i could he'p it_! no right-minded pusson is gwine ter deny dey own heart. yer better leave all dat out, honey. b-b-but deys some'h'n' else wha' been lef out, wha' b'long in de book. yer 'ain't named de way de little mistus sot up all nights an' nussed de ole 'oman time she was sick, an'--an'--an' de way she sew all de ole 'oman's cloze; an'--an'--an' yer done lef' out a heap o' de purtiness an' de sweetness o' de yo'ng mistus! dis is a book, baby, an'--an'--yer boun' ter do jestice!" in this fashion the story was written. "and what do you think i am going to do with it, mammy?" said evelyn, when finally, having done her very best, she was willing to call it finished. "yer know some'h'n' baby? ef-ef-ef i had de money, look like i'd buy that story myse'f. seem some way like i loves it. co'se i couldn't read it; but my min' been on it so long, seem like, ef i'd study de pages good dee'd open up ter me. what yer gwine do wid it, baby?" "oh, mammy, i can hardly tell you! my heart seems in my throat when i dare to think of it; but _i'm going to try it_. a new york magazine has offered five hundred dollars for a best story--_five hundred dollars_! think, mammy, what it would do for us!" "dat wouldn't buy de plantatiom back, would it, baby?" mammy had no conception of large sums. "we don't want it back, mammy. it would pay for moving our dear ones to graves of their own; we should put a nice sum in bank; you shouldn't do any more washing; and if we can write one good story, you know we can write more. it will be only a beginning." "an' i tell yer what i gwine do. i gwine pray over it good, des like i been doin' f'om de start, an' ef hit's gord's will, dem folks 'll be moved in de sperit ter sen' 'long de money." and so the story was sent. after it was gone the atmosphere seemed brighter. the pending decision was now a fixed point to which all their hopes were directed. the very audacity of the effort seemed inspiration to more ambitious work; and during the long summer, while in her busy hands the fluting-machine went round and round, evelyn's mind was full of plans for the future. finally, december, with its promise of the momentous decision, was come, and evelyn found herself full of anxious misgivings. what merit entitling it to special consideration had the little story? did it bear the impress of self-forgetful, conscientious purpose, or was this a thing only feebly struggling into life within herself--not yet the compelling force that indelibly stamps itself upon the earnest labor of consecrated hands? how often in the silent hours of night did she ask herself questions like these! at last it was christmas eve again, and saturday night. when the days are dark, what is so depressing as an anniversary--an anniversary joyous in its very essence? how one christmas brings in its train memory-pictures of those gone before! this had been a hard day for evelyn. her heart felt weak within her, and yet, realizing that she alone represented youth and hope in the little household, and feeling need that her own courage should be sustained, she had been more than usually merry all day. she had clandestinely prepared little surprises for her father and mammy, and was both amused and touched to discover the old woman secreting mysterious little parcels which she knew were to come to her in the morning. "wouldn't it be funny if, after all, i should turn out to be only a good washerwoman, mammy?" she said, laughing, as she assisted the old woman in pinning up a basket of laundered clothing. "hit'd be funnier yit ef _i'd_ turn out inter one o' deze heah book-writers, wouldn't it?" and mammy laughed heartily at her own joke. "look like i better study my a-b abs fus', let 'lone puttin' 'em back on paper wid a pen. i tell you educatiom's a-spreadin' in dis fam'ly, sho. time blink run over de sheet out a-bleachin' 'is_tid_dy, he written a chinese letter all over it. didn't you, blink? what de matter wid blink anyhow, to-day?" she added, taking the last pin from her head-kerchief. "blink look like he nervous some way dis evenin'. he keep a-walkin' roun', an' winkin' so slow, an' retchin' his neck out de back-do' so cuyus. stop a-battin' yo' eyes at me, blink! ef yo' got some'h'n' ter say, _say it_!" * * * * * a sudden noisy rattle of the iron door-knocker--mammy trotting to the door--the postman--a letter! it all happened in a minute. how evelyn's heart throbbed and her hand trembled as she opened the envelope! "oh, mammy!" she cried, trembling now like an aspen leaf. "_thank god!_" "is dee d-d-d-done sont de money, baby?" her old face was twitching too. but evelyn could not answer. nodding her head, she fell sobbing on mammy's shoulder. mammy raised her apron to her eyes, and there's no telling what "foolishness" she might have committed had it not been that suddenly, right at her side, arose a most jubilant screech. blink, perched on the handle of the clothes-basket, was crowing with all his might. evelyn, startled, raised her head, and laughed through her tears, while mammy threw herself at full length upon the floor, shouting aloud. "tell me chickens 'ain't got secon'-sight! blink see'd--he see'd--laws-o'-mussy, baby, look yonder at dat little yaller rooster stan'in' on de fence. _dat_ what blink see. co'se it is!" duke's christmas duke's christmas "you des gimme de white folks's christmas-dinner plates, time they git thoo eatin', an' lemme scrape 'em in a pan, an' set dat pan in my lap, an' blow out de light, an' _go it bline_! hush, honey, hush, while i shet my eyes now an' tas'e all de samples what'd come out'n dat pan--cramberries, an' tukkey-stuffin' wid _puck_ons in it, an' ham an' fried oyscher an'--an' minch-meat, an' chow-chow pickle an'--an' jelly! umh! don' keer which-a-one i strack fust--dey all got de christmas seasonin'!" old uncle mose closed his eyes and smiled, even smacked his lips in contemplation of the imaginary feast which he summoned at will from his early memories. little duke, his grandchild, sitting beside him on the floor, rolled his big eyes and looked troubled. black as a raven, nine years old and small of his age, but agile and shrewd as a little fox, he was at present the practical head of this family of two. this state of affairs had existed for more than two months, ever since a last attack of rheumatism had lifted his grandfather's leg upon the chair before him and held it there. duke's success as a provider was somewhat remarkable, considering his size, color, and limited education. true, he had no rent to pay, for their one-roomed cabin, standing on uncertain stilts outside the old levee, had been deserted during the last high-water, when uncle mose had "tooken de chances" and moved in. but then mose had been able to earn his seventy-five cents a day at wood-sawing; and besides, by keeping his fishing-lines baited and set out the back and front doors--there were no windows--he had often drawn in a catfish, or his shrimp-bag had yielded breakfast for two. duke's responsibilities had come with the winter and its greater needs, when the receding waters had withdrawn even the small chance of landing a dinner with hook and line. true, it had been done on several occasions, when duke had come home to find fricasseed chickens for dinner; but somehow the neighbors' chickens had grown wary, and refused to be enticed by the corn that lay under mose's cabin. the few occasions when one of their number, swallowing an innocent-looking grain, had been suddenly lifted up into space, disappearing through the floor above, seemed to have impressed the survivors. mose was a church-member, and would have scorned to rob a hen-roost, but he declared "when strange chickens come a-foolin' roun' bitin' on my fish-lines, i des twisses dey necks ter put 'em out'n dey misery." it had been a long time since he had met with any success at this poultry-fishing, and yet he always kept a few lines out. he _professed_ to be fishing for crawfish--as if crawfish ever bit on a hook or ate corn! still, it eased his conscience, for he did try to set his grandson a christian example consistent with his precepts. it was christmas eve, and the boy felt a sort of moral responsibility in the matter of providing a suitable christmas dinner for the morrow. his question as to what the old man would like to have had elicited the enthusiastic bit of reminiscence with which this story opens. here was a poser! his grandfather had described just the identical kind of dinner which he felt powerless to procure. if he had said oysters, or chicken, or even turkey, duke thought he could have managed it; but a pan of rich fragments was simply out of the question. "wouldn't you des as lief have a pone o' hot egg-bread, gran'dad, an'--an'--an' maybe a nice baked chicken--ur--ur a--" "ur a nothin', boy! don't talk to me! i'd a heap'd ruther have a secon'-han' white christmas dinner 'n de bes' fus'-han' nigger one you ever seed, an' i ain't no spring-chicken, nuther. i done had 'spe'unce o' christmas dinners. an' what you talkin' 'bout, anyhow? whar you gwine git roas' chicken, nigger?" "i don' know, less'n i'd meck a heap o' money to-day; but i could sho' git a whole chicken ter roas' easier'n i could git dat pan full o' goodies _you's_ a-talkin' 'bout. "is you gwine crawfishin' to-day, gran'daddy?" he continued, cautiously, rolling his eyes. "'caze when i cross de road, terreckly, i gwine shoo off some o' dem big fat hens dat scratches up so much dus'. dey des a puffec' nuisance, scratchin' dus' clean inter my eyes ev'y time i go down de road." "dey is, is dey? de nasty, impident things! you better not shoo none of 'em over heah, less'n you want me ter wring dey necks--which i boun' ter do ef dey pester my crawfish-lines." "well, i'm gwine now, gran'dad. ev'ything is done did an' set whar you kin reach--i gwine down de road an' shoo dem sassy chickens away. dis here bucket o' brick-dus' sho' is heavy," he added, as he lifted to his head a huge pail. starting out, he gathered up a few grains of corn, dropping them along in his wake until he reached the open where the chickens were; when, making a circuit round them, he drove them slowly until he saw them begin to pick up the corn. then he turned, whistling as he went, into a side street, and proceeded on his way. old mose chuckled audibly as duke passed out, and, baiting his lines with corn and scraps of meat, he lifted the bit of broken plank from the floor, and set about his day's sport. "now, mr. chicken, i'm settin' deze heah lines fur crawfish, an' ef you smarties come a-foolin' round 'em, i gwine punish you 'cordin' ter de law. you heah me!" he chuckled as he thus presented his defence anew before the bar of his own conscience. but the chickens did not bite to-day--not a mother's son or daughter of them--though they ventured cautiously to the very edge of the cabin. it was a discouraging business, and the day seemed very long. it was nearly nightfall when mose recognized duke's familiar whistle from the levee. and when he heard the little bare feet pattering on the single plank that led from the brow of the bank to the cabin-door, he coughed and chuckled as if to disguise a certain eager agitation that always seized him when the little boy came home at night. "here me," duke called, still outside the door; adding as he entered, while he set his pail beside the old man, "how you is to-night, gran'dad?" "des po'ly, thank gord. how you yo'se'f, my man?" there was a note of affection in the old man's voice as he addressed the little pickaninny, who seemed in the twilight a mere midget. "an' what you got dyah?" he continued, turning to the pail, beside which duke knelt, lighting a candle. "_picayune_ o' light bread an' _lagniappe_[a] o' salt," duke began, lifting out the parcels, "an' _picayune_ o' molasses an' _lagniappe_ o' coal-ile, ter rub yo' leg wid--heah hit in de tin can--an' _picayune_ o' coffee an' _lagniappe_ o' matches--heah dey is, fo'teen an' a half, but de half ain't got no fizz on it. an' deze heah in de bottom, dey des chips i picked up 'long de road." "an' you ain't axed fur no _lagniappe_ fo' yo'self, juke. whyn't you ax fur des one _lagniappe_ o' sugar-plums, baby, bein's it's christmas? yo' ole gran'dad 'ain't got nothin' fur you, an' you know to-morrer is sho 'nough christmas, boy. i 'ain't got even ter say a crawfish bite on my lines to-day, much less'n some'h'n' fittin' fur a christmas-gif'. i did set heah an' whittle you a little whistle, but some'h'n' went wrong wid it. hit won't blow. but tell me, how's business to-day, boy? i see you done sol' yo' brick-dus'?" "yas, sir, but i toted it purty nigh all day 'fo' i _is_ sold it. de folks wharever i went dey say nobody don't want to scour on christmas eve. an' one time i set it down an' made three nickels cuttin' grass an' holdin' a white man's horse, an' dat gimme a res'. an' i started out ag'in, an' i walked inter a big house an' ax de lady ain't she want ter buy some pounded brick. an', gran'dad, you know what meck she buy it? 'caze she say my bucket is mos' as big as i is, an' ef i had de grit ter tote it clean ter her house on christmas eve, she say i sha'n't pack it back--an' she gimme a dime fur it, too, stid a nickel. an' she gimme two hole-in-de-middle cakes, wid sugar on 'em. heah dey is." duke took two sorry-lookin' rings from his hat and presented them to the old man. "i done et de sugar off 'em," he continued. "'caze i knowed it'd give you de toofache in yo' gums. an' i tol' 'er what you say, gran'dad!" mose turned quickly. "what you tol' dat white lady i say, nigger?" "i des tol' 'er what you say 'bout scrapin' de plates into a pan." mose grinned broadly. "is you had de face ter tell dat strange white 'oman sech talk as dat? an' what she say?" "she des looked at me up an' down fur a minute, an' den she broke out in a laugh, an' she say: 'you sho' is de littles' coon i ever seen out foragin'!' an' wid dat she say: 'ef you'll come roun' to-morrer night, 'bout dark, i'll give you as big a pan o' scraps as you kin tote.'" there were tears in the old man's eyes, and he actually giggled. "is she? well done! but ain't you 'feerd you'll los' yo'self, gwine 'way down town at night?" "los' who, gran'dad? you can't los' me in dis city, so long as de red-light pertania cars is runnin'. i kin ketch on berhine tell dey fling me off, den teck de nex' one tell dey fling me off ag'in--an' hit ain't so fur dat-a-way." "does dey fling yer off rough, boy? look out dey don't bre'k yo' bones!" "dey ain't gwine crack none o' my bones. sometimes de drivers kicks me off, an' sometimes dey cusses me off, tell i lets go des ter save gord's name--dat's a fac'." "dat's right. save it when you kin, boy. so she gwine scrape de christmas plates fur me, is she? i wonder what sort o' white folks dis here tar-baby o' mine done strucken in wid, anyhow? you sho' dey reel quality white folks, is yer, juke? 'caze i ain't gwine sile my mouf on no po' white-trash scraps." "i ain't no sho'er'n des what i tell yer, gran'dad. ef dey ain't quality, i don' know nothin' 't all 'bout it. i tell yer when i walked roun' dat yard clean ter de kitchen on dem flag-stones wid dat bucket o' brick on my hade, i had ter stop an' ketch my bref fo' i could talk, an' de cook, a sassy, fat, black lady, she would o' sont me out, but de madam, she seed me 'erse'f, an' she tooken took notice ter me, an' tell me set my bucket down, an' de yo'ng ladies, beatin' eggs in de kitchen, dey was makin' sport o' me, too--ax' me is i weaned yit, an' one ob 'em ax me is my nuss los' me! den dey gimme deze heah hole-in-de-middle cakes, an' some reesons. i des fotched you a few reesons, but i done et de mos' ob em--i ain't gwine tell you no lie about it." "dat's right, baby. i'm glad you is et 'em--des so dey don't cramp yer up--an' come 'long now an' eat yo' dinner. i saved you a good pan o' greens an' meat. what else is you et to-day, boy?" "de ladies in de kitchen dey gimme two burnt cakes, an' i swapped half o' my reesons wid a white boy for a biscuit--but i sho is hongry." "yas, an' you sleepy, too--i know you is." "but i gwine git up soon, gran'dad. one market-lady she seh ef i come early in de mornin' an' tote baskits home, she gwine gimme some'h'n' good; an' i'm gwine ketch all dem butchers and fish-ladies in dat mag'zine markit 'christmas-gif'!' an' i bet yer dey'll gimme some'h'n' ter fetch home. las' christmas i got seven nickels an' a whole passel o' marketin' des a-ketchin' 'em christmas-gif'. deze heah black molasses i brung yer home to-night--how yer like 'em, gran'dad?" "fust-rate, boy. don't yer see me eatin' 'em? say yo' pra'rs now, juke, an' lay down, 'caze i gwine weck you up by sun-up." it was not long before little duke was snoring on his pallet, when old mose, reaching behind the mantel, produced a finely braided leather whip, which he laid beside the sleeping boy. "wush't i had a apple ur orwange ur stick o' candy ur some'h'n' sweet ter lay by 'im fur christmas," he said, fondly, as he looked upon the little sleeping figure. "reck'n i mought bile dem molasses down inter a little candy--seem lak hit's de onlies' chance dey is." and turning back to the low fire, mose stirred the coals a little, poured the remains of duke's "_picayune_ o' molasses" into a tomato-can, and began his labor of love. like much of such service, it was for a long time simply a question of waiting; and mose found it no simple task, even when it had reached the desired point, to pull the hot candy to a fairness of complexion approaching whiteness. when, however, he was able at last to lay a heavy, copper-colored twist with the whip beside the sleeping boy, he counted the trouble as nothing; and hobbling over to his own cot, he was soon also sleeping. * * * * * the sun was showing in a gleam on the river next morning when mose called, lustily, "weck up, juke, weck up! christmas-gif', boy, christmas-gif'!" duke turned heavily once; then, catching the words, he sprang up with a bound. "christmas-gif', gran'dad!" he returned, rubbing his eyes; then fully waking, he cried, "look onder de chips in de bucket, gran'dad." and the old man choked up again as he produced the bag of tobacco, over which he had actually cried a little last night when he had found it hidden beneath the chips with which he had cooked duke's candy. "i 'clare, juke, i 'clare you is a caution," was all he could say. "an' who gimme all deze?" duke exclaimed, suddenly seeing his own gifts. "i don' know nothin' 't all 'bout it, less'n ole santa claus mought o' tooken a rest in our mud chimbley las' night," said the old man, between laughter and tears. and duke, the knowing little scamp, cracking his whip, munching his candy and grinning, replied: "i s'pec' he is, gran'dad; an' i s'pec' he come down an' b'iled up yo' nickel o' molasses, too, ter meck me dis candy. tell yer, dis whup, she's got a daisy snapper on 'er, gran'dad! she's wuth a dozen o' deze heah white-boy _w'ips_, she is!" the last thing mose heard as duke descended the levee that morning was the crack of the new whip; and he said, as he filled his pipe, "de idee o' dat little tar-baby o' mine fetchin' me a christmas-gif'!" it was past noon when duke got home again, bearing upon his shoulder, like a veritable little santa claus himself, a half-filled coffee-sack, the joint results of his service in the market and of the generosity of its autocrats. the latter had evidently measured their gratuities by the size of their beneficiary, as their gifts were very small. still, as the little fellow emptied the sack upon the floor, they made quite a tempting display. there were oranges, apples, bananas, several of each; a bunch of soup-greens, scraps of fresh meat--evidently butchers' "trimmings"--odds and ends of vegetables; while in the midst of the melee three live crabs struck out in as many directions for freedom. they were soon landed in a pot; while mose, who was really no mean cook, was preparing what seemed a sumptuous mid-day meal. late in the afternoon, while mose nodded in his chair, duke sat in the open doorway, stuffing the last banana into his little stomach, which was already as tight as a kettle-drum. he had cracked his whip until he was tired, but he still kept cracking it. he cracked it at every fly that lit on the floor, at the motes that floated into the shaft of sunlight before him, at special knots in the door-sill, or at nothing, as the spirit moved him. a sort of holiday feeling, such as he felt on sundays, had kept him at home this afternoon. if he had known that to be a little too full of good things and a little tired of cracking whips or tooting horns or drumming was the happy condition of most of the rich boys of the land at that identical moment, he could not have been more content than he was. if his stomach ached just a little, he thought of all the good things in it, and was rather pleased to have it ache--just this little. it emphasized his realization of christmas. as the evening wore on, and the crabs and bananas and molasses-candy stopped arguing with one another down in his little stomach, he found himself thinking, with some pleasure, of the pan of scraps he was to get for his grandfather, and he wished for the hour when he should go. he was glad when at last the old man waked with a start and began talking to him. "i been wushin' you'd weck up an' talk, gran'dad," he said, "caze i wants ter ax yer what's all dis here dey say 'bout christmas? when i was comin' 'long to-day i stopped in a big chu'ch, an' dey was a preacher-man standin' up wid a white night-gown on, an' he say dis here's our lord's birfday. i heerd 'im say it myse'f. is dat so?" "co'se it is, juke. huccome you ax me sech ignunt questioms? gimme dat bible, boy, an' lemme read you some 'ligion." mose had been a sort of lay-preacher in his day, and really could read a little, spelling or stumbling over the long words. taking the book reverently, he leaned forward until the shaft of sunlight fell upon the open page, when with halting speech he read to the little boy, who listened with open-mouthed attention, the story of the birth at bethlehem. "an' look heah, juke, my boy," he said, finally, closing the book, "hit's been on my min' all day ter tell yer i ain't gwine fishin' no mo' tell de high-water come back--you heah? 'caze yer know somebody's chickens _mought_ come an' pick up de bait, an' i'd be bleeged ter kill 'em ter save 'em, an' we ain' gwine do dat no mo', me an' you. you heah, juke?" duke rolled his eyes around and looked pretty serious. "yas, sir, i heah," he said. "an' me an' you, we done made dis bargain on de lord's birfday--yer heah, boy?--wid gord's sunshine kiverin' us all over, an' my han' layin' on de page. heah, lay yo' little han' on top o' mine, juke, an' promise me you gwine be a _square man_, so he'p yer. dat's it. say it out loud, an' yo' ole gran'dad he done said it, too. wrop up dem fishin'-lines now, an' th'ow 'em up on de rafters. now come set down heah, an' lemme tell yer 'bout christmas on de ole plantation. look out how you pop dat whup 'crost my laig! dat's a reg'lar horse-fly killer, wid a coal of fire on 'er tip." duke laughed. "now han' me a live coal fur my pipe. dis here terbacca you brung me, hit smokes sweet as sugar, boy. set down, now, close by me--so." duke never tired of his grandfather's reminiscences, and he crept up close to the old man's knee as the story began. "when de big plantation-bell used ter ring on christmas mornin', all de darkies had to march up ter de great house fur dey christmas-gif's; an' us what worked _at_ de house, we had ter stan' in front o' de fiel' han's. an' after ole marster axed a blessin', an' de string-ban' play, an' we all sing a song--air one we choose--boss, he'd call out de names, an' we'd step up, one by one, ter git our presents; an' ef we'd walk too shamefaced ur too 'boveish, he'd pass a joke on us, ter set ev'ybody laughin'. "i ricollec' one christmas-time i was co'tin' yo' gran'ma. i done had been co'tin' 'er two years, an' she helt 'er head so high i was 'feerd ter speak. an' when christmas come, an' i marched up ter git my present, ole marster gimme my bundle, an' i started back, grinnin' lak a chessy-cat, an' he calt me back, an' he say: 'hol' on, moses,' he say, 'i got 'nother present fur you ter-day. heah's a finger-ring i got fur you, an' ef it don't fit you, i reckon hit'll fit zephyr--you know yo' gran'ma she was name zephyr. an' wid dat he ran his thumb in 'is pocket an' fotch me out a little gal's ring--" "a gol' ring, gran'dad?" "no, boy, but a silver ring--ginniwine german silver. well, i wush't you could o' heard them darkies holler an' laugh! an' zephyr, ef she hadn't o' been so yaller, she'd o' been red as dat sky yonder, de way she did blush buff." "an' what did you do, gran'dad?" "who, me? dey warn't but des one thing _fur_ me to do. i des gi'n zephyr de ring, an' she ax me is i mean it, an'--an' i ax her is _she_ mean it, an'--an' we bofe say--none o' yo' business what we say! what you lookin' at me so quizzical fur, juke? ef yer wants ter know, we des had a weddin' dat christmas night--dat what we done--an' dat's huccome you got yo' gran'ma. "but i'm talkin' 'bout christmas now. when we'd all go home, we'd open our bundles, an' of all de purty things, _an'_ funny things, _an'_ jokes you ever heerd of, dey'd be in dem christmas bundles--some'h'n' ter suit ev'y one, and hit 'im square on his funny-bone ev'y time. an' all de little bundles o' buckwheat ur flour 'd have _picayunes_ an' dimes in 'em! we used ter reg'lar sif' 'em out wid a sifter. dat was des _our_ white folks's way. none o' de yether fam'lies 'long de coas' done it. you see, all de diffe'nt fam'lies had diffe'nt ways. but ole marster an' ole miss dey'd think up some new foolishness ev'y year. we nuver knowed what was gwine to be did nex'--on'y one thing. _dey allus put money in de buckwheat-bag_--an' you know we nuver tas'e no buckwheat 'cep'n' on'y christmas. oh, boy, ef we could des meet wid some o' we's white folks ag'in!" "how is we got los' f'om 'em, gran'dad?" so duke invited a hundredth repetition of the story he knew so well. "how did we git los' f'om we's white folks? dat's a sad story fur christmas, juke, but ef you sesso-- "hit all happened in one night, time o' de big break in de levee, seven years gone by. we was lookin' fur de bank ter crack crost de river f'om us, an' so boss done had tooken all han's over, cep'n us ole folks an' chillen, ter he'p work an' watch de yether side. 'bout midnight, whiles we was all sleepin', come a roa'in' soun', an' fus' thing we knowed, all in de pitchy darkness, we was floatin' away--nobody cep'n des you an' me an' yo' mammy in de cabin--floatin' an' bumpin' an' rockin,' _an' all de time dark as pitch_. so we kep' on--one minute stiddy, nex' minute _cher-plunk_ gins' a tree ur some'h'n' nother--_all in de dark_--an' one minute you'd cry--you was des a weanin' baby den--an' nex' minute i'd heah de bed you an' yo' ma was in bump gins' de wall, an' you'd laugh out loud, an' yo' mammy she'd holler--_all in de dark_. an' so we travelled, up an' down, bunkety-bunk, seem lak a honderd hours; tell treckly a _termenjus_ wave come, an' i had sca'cely felt it boomin' onder me when i pitched, an' ev'ything went travellin'. an' when i put out my han', i felt you by me--but yo' mammy, she warn't nowhar. "hol' up yo' face an' don't cry, boy. i been a mighty poor mammy ter yer, but i blesses gord to-night fur savin' dat little black baby ter me--_all in de win' an' de storm an' de dark dat night_. "you see, yo' daddy, he was out wid de gang wuckin' de levee crost de river--an' dat's huccome yo' ma was 'feerd ter stay by 'erse'f an' sont fur me. "well, baby, when i knowed yo' mammy was gone, i helt you tight an' prayed. an' after a while--seem lak a million hours--come a pale streak o' day, an' 'fo' de sun was up, heah come a steamboat puffin' down de river, an' treckly hit blowed a whistle an' ringed a bell an' stop an' took us on boa'd, an' brung us on down heah ter de city." "an' you never seed my mammy no mo', gran'dad?" little duke's lips quivered just a little. "yo' mammy was safe at home in de golden city, juke, long 'fore we teched even de low lan' o' dis yearth. "an' dat's how we got los' f'om we's white folks. "an' time we struck de city i was so twis' up wid rheumatiz i lay fur six munts in de cha'ity hospit'l; an' you bein' so puny, cuttin' yo' toofs, dey kep' you right along in de baby-ward tell i was able to start out. an' sence i stepped out o' dat hospit'l do' wid yo' little bow-legs trottin' by me, so i been goin' ever sence. days i'd go out sawin' wood, i'd set you on de wood-pile by me; an' when de cook 'd slip me out a plate o' soup, i'd ax fur two spoons. an' so you an' me, we been pardners right along, an' _i wouldn't swap pardners wid nobody_--you heah, juke? dis here's christmas, an' i'm talkin' ter yer." duke looked so serious that a feather's weight would have tipped the balance and made him cry; but he only blinked. "an' it's gittin' late now, pardner," the old man continued, "an' you better be gwine--less'n you 'feerd? ef you is, des sesso now, an' we'll meck out wid de col' victuals in de press." "who's afeerd, gran'dad?" duke's face had broken into a broad grin now, and he was cracking his whip again. "don't eat no supper tell i come," he added, as he started out into the night. but as he turned down the street he muttered to himself: "i wouldn't keer, ef all dem sassy boys didn't pleg me--say i ain't got no mammy--ur daddy--ur nothin'. but dey won't say it ter me ag'in, not whiles i got dis whup in my han'! she sting lak a rattlesnake, she do! she's a daisy an' a half! cher-whack! you gwine sass me any mo', you grea' big over-my-size coward, you? take dat! an' dat! _an' dat!_ now run! whoop! heah come de red light!" so, in fancy avenging his little wrongs, duke recovered his spirits and proceeded to catch on behind the prytania car, that was to help him on his way to get his second-hand christmas dinner. his benefactress had not forgotten her promise; and, in addition to a heavy pan of scraps, duke took home, almost staggering beneath its weight, a huge, compact bundle. old mose was snoring vociferously when he reached the cabin. depositing his parcel, the little fellow lit a candle, which he placed beside the sleeper; then uncovering the pan, he laid it gently upon his lap. and now, seizing a spoon and tin cup, he banged it with all his might. "heah de plantation-bell! come git yo' christmas-gif's!" and when his grandfather sprang up, nearly upsetting the pan in his fright, duke rolled backward on the floor, screaming with laughter. "i 'clare, juke, boy," said mose, when he found voice, "i wouldn't 'a' jumped so, but yo' foolishness des fitted inter my dream. i was dreamin' o' ole times, an' des when i come ter de ringin' o' de plantation-bell, i heerd _cherplang_! an' it nachelly riz me off'n my foots. what's dis heah? did you git de dinner, sho' 'nough?" the pan of scraps quite equalled that of the old man's memory, every familiar fragment evoking a reminiscence. "you is sho' struck quality white folks dis time, juke," he said, finally, as he pushed back the pan--duke had long ago finished--"but dis here tukkey-stuffin'--i don't say 'tain' good, but _hit don't quite come up ter de mark o' ole miss's puckon stuffin'_!" duke was nodding in his chair, when presently the old man, turning to go to bed, spied the unopened parcel, which, in his excitement, duke had forgotten. placing it upon the table before him, mose began to open it. it was a package worth getting--just such a generous christmas bundle as he had described to duke this afternoon. perhaps it was some vague impression of this sort that made his old fingers tremble as he untied the strings, peeping or sniffing into the little parcels of tea and coffee and flour. suddenly something happened. out of a little sack of buckwheat, accidentally upset, rolled a ten-cent piece. the old man threw up his arms, fell forward over the table, and in a moment was sobbing aloud. it was some time before he could make duke comprehend the situation, but presently, pointing to the coin lying before him, he cried: "look, boy, look! wharbouts is you got dat bundle? open yo' mouf, boy! look at de money in de buckwheat-bag! oh, my ole mistuss! nobody but you is tied up dat bundle! praise gord, i say!" there was no sleep for either mose or duke now; and, late as it was, they soon started out, the old man steadying himself on duke's shoulder, to find their people. * * * * * it was hard for the little boy to believe, even after they had hugged all 'round and laughed and cried, that the stylish black gentleman who answered the door-bell, silver tray in hand, was his own father! he had often longed for a regular blue-shirted plantation "daddy," but never, in his most ambitious moments, had he aspired to filial relations with so august a personage as this! but while duke was swelling up, rolling his eyes, and wondering, mose stood in the centre of a crowd of his white people, while a gray-haired old lady, holding his trembling hand in both of hers, was saying, as the tears trickled down her cheeks: "but why didn't you get some one to write to us for you, moses?" then mose, sniffling still, told of his long illness in the hospital, and of his having afterwards met a man from the coast who told the story of the sale of the plantation, but did not know where the family had gone. "when i fixed up that bundle," the old lady resumed, "i was thinking of you, moses. every year we have sent out such little packages to any needy colored people of whom we knew, as a sort of memorial to our lost ones, always half-hoping that they might actually reach some of them. and i thought of you specially, moses," she continued, mischievously, "when i put in all that turkey-stuffing. do you remember how greedy you always were about pecan-stuffing? it wasn't quite as good as usual this year." "no'm; dat what i say," said mose. "i tol' juke dat stuffin' warn't quite up ter de mark--ain't i, juke? fur gracious sake, look at juke, settin' on his daddy's shoulder, with a face on him ole as a man! put dat boy down, pete! dat's a business-man you foolin' wid!" whereupon little duke--man of affairs, forager, financier--overcome at last with the fulness of the situation, made a really babyish square mouth, and threw himself sobbing upon his father's bosom. footnote: [footnote a: pronounced lan-yap. _lagniappe_ is a small gratuity which new orleans children always expect and usually get with a purchase. retail druggists keep jars of candy, licorice, or other small confections for that purpose.] uncle ephe's advice to brer rabbit [illustration: "'keep step, rabbit, man!'"] uncle ephe's advice to brer rabbit keep step, rabbit, man! hunter comin' quick's he can! h'ist yo'se'f! _don't_ cross de road, less 'n he'll hit you fur a toad! up an' skip it, 'fo' t's too late! hoppit--lippit! bull-frog gait! hoppit--lippit--lippit--hoppit! goodness me, why don't you stop it? shame on you, mr. ge'man rabbit, ter limp along wid sech a habit! 'f you'd balumps on yo' hime-legs straight, an' hurry wid a mannish gait, an' tie yo' ears down onder yo' th'oat, an' kivir yo' tail wid a cut-away coat, rabbit-hunters by de dozen would shek yo' han' an' call you cousin, an' like as not, you onery sinner, dey'd ax' you home ter eat yo' dinner! but _don't you go_, 'caze ef you do, dey'll set you down to rabbit-stew. an' de shape o' dem bones an' de smell o' dat meal 'll meck you wish you was back in de fiel'. an' ef you'd stretch yo' mouf too wide, you know yo' ears mought come ontied; an' when you'd jump, you couldn't fail to show yo' little cotton tail, an' den, 'fo' you could twis' yo' phiz, dey'd _reconnize_ you _who you is_; an' fo' you'd sca'cely bat yo' eye, dey'd have you skun an' in a pie, or maybe roasted on a coal, widout one thought about yo' soul. so better teck ole ephe's advice, des rig yo'se'f out slick an' nice, an' tie yo' ears down, like i said, an' hide yo' tail an' lif' yo' head. [illustration: "'well, one mo' rabbit fur de pot'"] an' when you balumps on yo' foots, it wouldn't hurt ter put on boots. den walk _straight up_, like mr. man, an' when he offer you 'is han', des smile, an' gi'e yo' hat a tip; but _don't you show yo' rabbit lip_. an' don't you have a word ter say, no mo'n ter pass de time o' day. an' ef he ax 'bout yo' affairs, des 'low you gwine ter hunt some hares, an' ax 'im is he seen a jack-- an' dat 'll put 'im off de track. now, ef you'll foller dis advice, instid o' bein' et wid rice, ur baked in pie, ur stuffed wid sage, you'll live ter die of nachel age. 'sh! hush! what's dat? was dat a gun? _don't_ trimble so. an' _don't you run_! come, set heah on de lorg wid me-- hol' down yo' ears an' cross yo' knee. _don't_ run, _i say_. tut--tut! he's gorn. _right 'cross de road_, as sho's you born! slam bang! i know'd he'd ketch a shot! well, one mo' rabbit fur de pot! may be so may be so september butterflies flew thick o'er flower-bed and clover-rick, when little miss penelope, who watched them from grandfather's knee, said, "grandpa, what's a butterfly?" and, "where do flowers go to when they die?" for questions hard as hard can be i recommend penelope. but grandpa had a playful way of dodging things too hard to say, by giving fantasies instead of serious answers, so he said, "whenever a tired old flower must die, its soul mounts in a butterfly; just now a dozen snow-wings sped from out that white petunia bed; "and if you'll search, you'll find, i'm sure, a dozen shrivelled cups or more; each pansy folds her purple cloth, and soars aloft in velvet moth. "so when tired sunflower doffs her cap of yellow frills to take a nap, 'tis but that this surrender brings her soul's release on golden wings." "but _is this so_? it ought to be," said little miss penelope; "because i'm _sure_, dear grandpa, _you_ would only tell the thing that's _true_. "are all the butterflies that fly real angels of the flowers that die?" grandfather's eyes looked far away, as if he scarce knew what to say. "dear little blossom," stroking now the golden hair upon her brow, "i can't--exactly--say--i--know--it; i only heard it from a poet. "and poets' eyes see wondrous things. great mysteries of flowers and wings, and marvels of the earth and sea and sky, they tell us constantly. "but we can never prove them right, because we lack their finer sight; and they, lest we should think them wrong, weave their strange stories into song "_so beautiful_, so _seeming-true_, so confidently stated too, that we, not knowing yes or no, can only _hope they may be so_." "but, grandpapa, no tale should close with _ifs_ or _buts_ or _may-be-sos_; so let us play we're poets, too, and then we'll _know_ that this is true." the end the works of william dean howells impressions and experiences. mo, cloth, uncut edges and gilt top, $ . my literary passions. mo, cloth, $ . stops of various quills. poems. illustrated by howard pyle. to, cloth, ornamental, uncut edges and gilt top, $ . the day of their wedding. a story. illustrated by t. de thulstrup. mo, cloth, $ . a traveler from altruria. a romance. mo, cloth, $ ; paper, cents. the coast of bohemia. a novel. illustrated. mo, cloth, $ . the world of chance. a novel. mo, cloth, $ ; paper, cents. the quality of mercy. a novel. mo, cloth, $ ; paper, cents. an imperative duty. a novel. mo, cloth, $ ; paper, cents. a hazard of new fortunes. a novel. two volumes. mo, cloth, $ ; illustrated, mo, paper, $ . a parting and a meeting. illustrated. square mo, cloth, $ . the shadow of a dream. a story. mo, cloth, $ ; paper, cents. annie kilburn. a novel. mo, cloth, $ ; paper, cents. april hopes. a novel. mo, cloth, $ ; paper, cents. christmas every day, and other stories. illustrated. post vo, cloth, $ . a boy's town. described for harper's young people. illustrated. post vo, cloth, $ . criticism and fiction. with portrait. mo, cloth, $ . 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[illustration: left index]_the above works are for sale by all booksellers, or will be mailed by the publishers, postage prepaid, on receipt of the price._ * * * * * transcriber's note the following changes have been made to the text: page : "whem he was young" changed to "when he was young". page : "félice" changed to "félicie". the quadroon, by captain mayne reid. chapter one. the father of waters. father of waters! i worship thy mighty stream! as the hindoo by the shores of his sacred river, i kneel upon thy banks, and pour forth my soul in wild adoration! far different are the springs of our devotion. to him, the waters of his yellow ganges are the symbols of a superstitious awe, commingled with dark fears for the mystic future; to me, thy golden wares are the souvenirs of joy, binding the present to the known and happy past. yes, mighty river! i worship thee in the past. my heart fills with joy at the very mention of thy name! ------------------------------------------------------------------------ father of waters! i know thee well. in the land of a thousand lakes, on the summit of the "_hauteur de terre_," i have leaped thy tiny stream. upon the bosom of the blue lakelet, the fountain of thy life, i have launched my birchen boat; and yielding to thy current, have floated softly southward. i have passed the meadows where the wild rice ripens on thy banks, where the white birch mirrors its silvery stem, and tall _coniferae_ fling their pyramid shapes, on thy surface. i have seen the red chippewa cleave thy crystal waters in his bark canoe--the giant moose lave his flanks in thy cooling flood--and the stately wapiti bound gracefully along thy banks. i have listened to the music of thy shores--the call of the cacawee, the laugh of the wa-wa goose, and the trumpet-note of the great northern swan. yes, mighty river! even in that far northern land, thy wilderness home, have i worshipped thee! ------------------------------------------------------------------------ onward through many parallels of latitude--through many degrees of the thermal line! i stand upon thy banks where thou leapest the rocks of saint antoine, and with bold frothing current cleavest thy way to the south. already i note a change in the aspect of thy shores. the _coniferae_ have disappeared, and thou art draped with a deciduous foliage of livelier hue. oaks, elms, and maples, mingle their frondage, and stretch their broad arms over thee. though i still look upon woods that seem illimitable, i feel that the wilderness is past. my eyes are greeted by the signs of civilisation--its sounds fall upon my ear. the hewn cabin--picturesque in its rudeness--stands among prostrate trunks; and the ring of the lumberer's axe is heard in the far depths of the forest. the silken blades of the maize wave in triumph over fallen trees, its golden tassels giving promise of a rich return. the spire of the church peers above the green spray of the woods, and the prayer of the christian ascends to heaven sublimely mingling with the roar of thy waters! ------------------------------------------------------------------------ i launch my boat once more on thy buoyant wave; and, with heart as buoyant, glide onward and southward. i pass between bold bluffs that hem thy surging waves, and trace with pleasant wonder their singular and varied outlines--now soaring abruptly upward, now carried in gentle undulations along the blue horizon. i behold the towering form of that noted landmark "_la montaigne qui trempe a l'eau_," and the swelling cone on whose summit the soldier-traveller pitched his tent. i glide over the mirrored bosom of pepin's lake, regarding with admiration its turreted shores. i gaze with deeper interest upon that precipitous escarpment, the "lover's leap," whose rocky wall has oft echoed back the joyous chaunt of the light-hearted voyageur, and once a sadder strain-- the death-song of wanona--beautiful wanona, who sacrificed life to love! ------------------------------------------------------------------------ onward i glide, where the boundless prairies of the west impinge upon thy stream; and my eye wanders with delight over their fadeless green. i linger a moment to gaze upon the painted warrior spurring his wild steed along thy banks--to gaze upon the dacotah girls bathing their lithe limbs in thy crystal wave--then on again past the "cornice rocks"--the metalliferous shores of galena and dubuque--the aerial tomb of the adventurous miner. i reach the point where the turbid missouri rushes rudely upon thee, as though he would force thee from thy onward course. poised in my light canoe, i watch the struggle. fierce but short it is, for thou triumphest, and thy conquered rival is compelled to pay his golden tribute to thy flood that rolls majestically onward! ------------------------------------------------------------------------ upon thy victorious wave i am borne still southward. i behold huge green mounds--the sole monuments of an ancient people--who once trod thy shores. near at hand i look upon the dwellings of a far different race. i behold tall spires soaring to the sky; domes, and cupolas glittering in the sun; palaces standing upon thy banks, and palaces floating upon thy wave. i behold a great city--a metropolis! i linger not here. i long for the sunny south; and trusting myself once more to thy current i glide onward. i pass the sea-like estuary of the ohio, and the embouchure of another of thy mightiest tributaries, the famed river of the plains. how changed the aspect of thy shores! i no longer look upon bold bluffs and beetling cliffs. thou hast broken from the hills that enchained thee, and now rollest far and free, cleaving a wide way through thine own alluvion. thy very banks are the creation of thine own fancy--the slime thou hast flung from thee in thy moments of wanton play--and thou canst break through their barriers at will. forests again fringe thee-- forests of giant trees--the spreading _platanus_, the tall tulip-tree, and the yellow-green cotton-wood rising in terraced groves from the margin of thy waters. forests stand upon thy banks, and the wreck of forests is borne upon thy bubbling bosom! ------------------------------------------------------------------------ i pass thy last great affluent, whose crimson flood just tinges the hue of thy waters. down thy delta i glide, amid scenes rendered classic by the sufferings of de soto--by the adventurous daring of iberville and la salle. and here my soul reaches the acme of its admiration. dead to beauty must be heart and eye that could behold thee here, in this thy southern land, without a thrill of sublimest emotion! i gaze upon lovely landscapes ever changing, like scenes of enchantment, or the pictures of a panorama. they are the loveliest upon earth--for where are views to compare with thine? not upon the rhine, with its castled rocks--not upon the shores of that ancient inland sea--not among the isles of the ind. no. in no part of the world are scenes like these; nowhere is soft beauty blended so harmoniously with wild picturesqueness. and yet not a mountain meets the eye--not even a hill--but the dark _cyprieres_, draped with the silvery _tillandsia_, form a background to the picture with all the grandeur of the pyrogenous granite! the forest no longer fringes thee here. it has long since fallen before the planter's axe; and the golden sugar-cane, the silvery rice, and the snowy cotton-plant, flourish in its stead. forest enough has been left to adorn the picture. i behold vegetable forms of tropic aspect, with broad shining foliage--the _sabal_ palm, the anona, the water-loving tupelo, the catalpa with its large trumpet flowers, the melting _liquidambar_, and the wax-leaved mangolia. blending their foliage with these fair _indigenes_ are an hundred lovely exotics--the orange, lemon, and fig; the indian-lilac and tamarind; olives, myrtles, and bromelias; while the babylonian willow contrasts its drooping fronds with the erect reeds of the giant cane, or the lance-like blades of the _yucca gloriosa_. embowered amidst these beautiful forms i behold villas and mansions; of grand and varied aspect--varied as the races of men who dwell beneath their roofs. and varied are they; for the nations of the world dwell together upon thy banks--each having sent its tribute to adorn thee with the emblems of a glorious and universal civilisation. father of waters, farewell! ------------------------------------------------------------------------ though not born in this fair southern land, i have long lingered there; and i love it _even better than the land of my birth_. i have there spent the hours of bright youth, of adventurous manhood; and the retrospect of these hours is fraught with a thousand memories tinged with a romance that can never die. there my young heart yielded to the influence of love--a first and virgin love. no wonder the spot should be to me the most hallowed on earth! reader! listen to the story of that love! chapter two. six months in the crescent city. like other striplings escaped from college, i was no longer happy _at home_. the yearning for travel was upon me; and i longed to make acquaintance with that world, as yet only known to me through the medium of books. my longing was soon to be gratified; and without a sigh i beheld the hills of my native land sink behind the black waves--not much caring whether i should ever see them again. though emerging from the walls of a classic college, i was far from being tinctured with classic sympathies. ten years spent in pondering over the wild hyperbole of homer, the mechanical verse-work of virgil, and the dry indelicacies of horatius flaccus, had failed to imbue me with a perception of that classic beauty felt, or pretended to be felt, by the spectacled _savant_. my mind was not formed to live on the ideal, or dream over the past. i delight rather in the real, the positive, and the present. don quixotes may play the troubadour among ruined castles, and mincing misses cover the ground of the guide-books. for my part i have no belief in the romance of old-world life. in the modern tell i behold a hireling, ready to barter his brawny limbs to the use of whatever tyrant; and the picturesque mazzaroni, upon closer acquaintance, dwindles down to the standard of a hen-roost thief. amid the crumbling walls of athens and the ruins of rome i encounter inhospitality and hunger. i am not a believer in the picturesqueness of poverty. i have no relish for the romance of rags. and yet it was a yearning for the romantic that called me from home. i longed for the poetic and picturesque, for i was just at that age when the mind is imbued with its strongest faith in their reality. ha! mine is not yet disabused of this belief. i am older now, but the hour of disenchantment has not yet come upon me--nor ever will. there is a romance in life, that is no illusion. it lives not in the effete forms and childish ceremonies of the fashionable drawing-room--it has no illustration in the tinsel trappings and gaudy puerilities of a court. stars, garters, and titles are its antidotes; red cloth and plush the upas-trees of its existence. its home is elsewhere, amid the grand and sublime scenes of nature-- though these are not necessary accompaniments. it is no more incidental to field and forest, rock, river, and mountain, than to the well-trodden ways of the trading-town. its home is in human hearts--hearts that throb with high aspirations--bosoms that burn with the noble passions of liberty and love! my steps then were not directed towards classic shores, but to lands of newer and more vigorous life. westward went i in search of romance. i found it in its most attractive form under the glowing skies of louisiana. in the month of january, --, i set foot upon the soil of the new-world--upon a spot stained with english blood. the polite skipper, who had carried me across the atlantic, landed me in his gig. i was curious to examine the field of this decisive action; for at that period of my life i had an inclination for martial affairs. but something more than mere curiosity prompted me to visit the battle-ground of new orleans. i then held an opinion deemed heterodox--namely, that the _improvised_ soldier is under certain circumstances quite equal to the professional hireling, and that long military drill is not essential to victory. the story of war, superficially studied, would seem to antagonise this theory, which conflicts also with the testimony of all military men. but the testimony of mere military men on such a matter is without value. who ever heard of a military man who did not desire to have his art considered as mythical as possible? moreover, the rulers of the world have spared no pains to imbue their people with false ideas upon this point. it is necessary to put forward some excuse for that terrible incubus upon the nations, the "standing army." my desire to view the battle-ground upon the banks of the mississippi had chiefly reference to this question. the action itself had been one of my strong arguments in favour of my belief; for upon this spot some six thousand men--who had never heard the absurd command, "eyes right!"--out-generalled, "whipped," in fact nearly annihilated, a well-equipped and veteran army of twice their number! since standing upon that battle-ground i have carried a sword in more than one field of action. what i then held only as a theory, i have since proved as an experience. the "drill" is a delusion. the standing army a cheat. in another hour i was wandering through the streets of the crescent city, no longer thinking of military affairs. my reflections were turned into a far different channel. the social life of the new-world, with all its freshness and vigour, was moving before my eyes, like a panorama; and despite of my assumption of the _nil admirari_, i could not help _wondering as i went_. and one of my earliest surprises--one that met me on the very threshold of transatlantic existence--was the discovery of my own utter uselessness. i could point to my desk and say, "there lie the proofs of my erudition--the highest prizes of my college class." but of what use they? the dry theories i had been taught had no application to the purposes of real life. my logic was the prattle of the parrot. my classic lore lay upon my mind like lumber; and i was altogether about as well prepared to struggle with life--to benefit either my fellow-man or myself--as if i had graduated in chinese mnemonics. and oh! ye pale professors, who drilled me in syntax and scansion, ye would deem me ungrateful indeed were i to give utterance to the contempt and indignation which i then felt for ye--then, when i looked back upon ten years of wasted existence spent under your tutelage--then, when, after believing myself an educated man, the illusion vanished, and i awoke to the knowledge that i _knew nothing_! with some money in my purse, and very little knowledge in my head, i wandered through the streets of new orleans, wondering as i went. six months later, and i was traversing the same streets, with very little money in my purse, but with my stock of knowledge vastly augmented. during this six months i had acquired an experience of the world more extensive, than in any six years of my previous life. i had paid somewhat dearly for this experience. my travelling fund had melted away in the alembic of cafes, theatres, masquerades, and "quadroon" balls. some of it had been deposited in that bank (faro) which returns neither principal nor interest! i was almost afraid to "take stock" of my affairs. at length with an effort i did so; and found, after paying my hotel bills, a balance in my favour of exactly twenty-five dollars! twenty-five dollars to live upon until i could write home, and receive an answer--a period of three months at the least--for i am talking of a time antecedent to the introduction of atlantic steamers. for six months i had been sinning bravely. i was now all repentance, and desirous of making amends. i was even willing to engage in some employment. but my cold classic training, that had not enabled me to protect my purse, was not likely to aid me in replenishing it; and in all that busy city i could find no office that i was fitted to fill! friendless--dispirited--a little disgusted--not a little anxious in regard to my immediate future, i sauntered about the streets. my acquaintances were becoming scarcer every day. i missed them from their usual haunts--the haunts of pleasure. "whither had they gone?" there was no mystery in their disappearance. it was now mid-june. the weather had become intensely hot, and every day the mercury mounted higher upon the scale. it was already dancing in the neighbourhood of degrees of fahrenheit. in a week or two might be expected that annual but unwelcome visitor known by the soubriquet of "yellow jack," whose presence is alike dreaded by young and old; and it was the terror inspired by him that was driving the fashionable world of new orleans, like birds of passage, to a northern clime. i am not more courageous than the rest of mankind. i had no inclination to make the acquaintance of this dreaded demon of the swamps; and it occurred to me, that i, too, had better get out of his way. to do this, it was only necessary to step on board a steamboat, and be carried to one of the up-river towns, beyond the reach of that tropical malaria in which the _vomito_ delights to dwell. saint louis was at this time the place of most attractive name; and i resolved to go thither; though how i was to live there i could not tell--since my funds would just avail to land me on the spot. upon reflection, it could scarce be "out of the frying-pan into the fire," and my resolution to go to saint louis became fixed. so, packing up my _impedimenta_, i stepped on board the steamboat "belle of the west," bound for the far "city of the mounds." chapter three. the "belle of the west." i was on board at the advertised time; but punctuality on a mississippi steamboat must not be expected; and i found myself too early, by a couple of hours at least. the time was not thrown away. i spent it to some profit in examining the peculiar craft in which i had embarked. i say, _peculiar_; for the steamers employed upon the mississippi and its tributary waters are unlike those of any other country--even unlike those in use in the atlantic or eastern states. they are strictly "river-boats," and could not live in anything like a rough sea; though the reckless owners of some of them have occasionally risked them along the coast from mobile to galveston, texas! the hull is built like that of a sea boat, but differs materially from the latter in depth of hold. so shallow is it, that there is but little stowage-room allowed; and the surface of the main deck is but a few inches above the water-line. indeed, when the boat is heavily laden, the waves lip over the gunwales. upon the deck is placed the machinery; and there rest the huge cast-iron boilers, and the grates or "furnaces," necessarily large, because the propelling power is produced from logs of wood. there, also, most of the freight is stowed, on account of the light capacity of the hold; and on every part, not occupied by the machinery and boilers, may be seen piles of cotton-bales, hogsheads of tobacco, or bags of corn, rising to the height of many feet. this is the freight of a down-river-boat. on the return trip, of course, the commodities are of a different character, and consist of boxes of yankee furniture, farming implements, and "notions," brought round by ship from boston; coffee in bags from the west indies, rice, sugar, oranges, and other products of the tropical south. on the after-part of this deck is a space allotted to the humbler class of travellers known as "deck passengers." these are never americans. some are labouring irish--some poor german emigrants on their way to the far north-west; the rest are negroes--free, or more generally slaves. i dismiss the hull by observing that there is a good reason why it is built with so little depth of hold. it is to allow the boats to pass the shoal water in many parts of the river, and particularly during the season of drought. for such purpose the lighter the draught, the greater the advantage; and a mississippi captain, boasting of the capacity of his boat in this respect, declared, that all he wanted was _a heavy dew upon, the grass, to enable him to propel her across the prairies_! if there is but little of a mississippi steamboat under the water, the reverse is true of what may be seen above its surface. fancy a two-story house some two hundred feet in length, built of plank, and painted to the whiteness of snow; fancy along the upper story a row of green-latticed windows, or rather doors, thickly set, and opening out upon a narrow balcony; fancy a flattish or slightly rounded roof covered with tarred canvas, and in the centre a range of sky-lights like glass forcing-pits; fancy, towering above all, two enormous black cylinders of sheet-iron, each ten feet in diameter, and nearly ten times as high, the "funnels" of the boat; a smaller cylinder to one side, the "'scape-pipe;" a tall flag-staff standing up from the extreme end of the bow, with the "star-spangled banner" flying from its peak;--fancy all these, and you may form some idea of the characteristic features of a steamboat on the mississippi. enter the cabin, and for the first time you will be struck with the novelty of the scene. you will there observe a splendid saloon, perhaps a hundred feet in length, richly carpeted and adorned throughout. you will note the elegance of the furniture,--costly chairs, sofas, tables, and lounges; you will note the walls, richly gilded and adorned with appropriate designs; the crystal chandeliers suspended from the ceiling; the hundred doors that lead to the "state-rooms" on each side, and the immense folding-door of stained or ornamental glass, which shuts in the sacred precinct of the "ladies' saloon." in short, you will note all around you a style and luxuriance to which you, as a european traveller, have not been accustomed. you have only read of such a scene in some oriental tale--in mary montagu, or the "arabian nights." and yet all this magnificence is sometimes sadly at variance with the style of the company that occupies it--for this splendid saloon is as much the property of the coarse "rowdy" as of the refined gentleman. you are startled by the apparition of a rough horse-skin boot elevated along the edge of the shining mahogany; and a dash of brown nicotian juice may have somewhat altered the pattern of the carpet! but these things are exceptional--more exceptional now than in the times of which i write. having satisfied myself with examining the interior structure of the "belle of the west," i sauntered out in front of the cabin. here a large open space, usually known as the "awning," forms an excellent lounging-place for the male passengers. it is simply the continuation of the "cabin-deck," projected forward and supported by pillars that rest upon the main deck below. the roof, or "hurricane-deck," also carried forward to the same point, and resting on slight wooden props, screens this part from sun or rain, and a low guard-rail running around it renders it safe. being open in front and at both sides, it affords the best view; and having the advantage of a cool breeze, brought about by the motion of the boat, is usually a favourite resort. a number of chairs are here placed to accommodate the passengers, and smoking is permitted. he must take very little interest in the movements of human life, who cannot kill an hour by observing it upon the "levee" of new orleans; and having seated myself and lighted my cigar, i proceeded to spend an hour in that interesting occupation. chapter four. the rival boats. the part of the "levee" under my eyes was that known as the "steamboat landing." some twenty or thirty boats lay along a series of wooden wharves that projected slightly into the river. some had just arrived from up-river towns, and were discharging their freight and passengers, at this season a scanty list. others, surrounded by a bustling swarm, were getting up steam; while still others appeared to be abandoned by both officers and crew--who were no doubt at the time enjoying themselves in the brilliant cafes and restaurants. occasionally might be seen a jauntily-dressed clerk, with blue cottonade trowsers, white linen coat, costly panama hat, shirt with cambric ruffles, and diamond studs. this stylish gentleman would appear for a few minutes by one of the deserted boats--perhaps transact a little business with some one-- and then hurry off again to his more pleasant haunts in the city. there were two points upon the levee where the bustle of active life was more especially observable. these were the spaces in front of two large boats. one was that on which i had taken passage. the other, as i could read upon her wheel-house, was the "magnolia." the latter was also upon the eve of starting, as i could tell by the movements of her people, by the red fires seen in her furnaces, and the hissing of steam, that every now and then screamed sharply from the direction of her boilers. on the levee directly in front of her "drays" were depositing their last loads, passengers were hurrying forward hat-box in hand, in fear they might be too late; trunks, boxes, bags, and barrels were being rudely pushed or rolled over the staging-planks; the gaily-dressed clerks, armed with book and pencil, were checking them off; and everything denoted the intention of a speedy departure. a scene exactly similar was being enacted in front of the "belle of the west." i had not been regarding these movements very long, before i observed that there was something unusual "in the wind." the boats lay at no great distance from each other, and their crews, by a slight elevation of voice, could converse. this they were freely doing; and from some expressions that reached me, coupled with a certain tone of defiance in which they were uttered, i could perceive that the "magnolia" and the "belle of the west" were "rival boats." i soon gathered the further information, that they were about to start at the same time, and that a "race" was in contemplation! i knew that this was no unusual occurrence among what are termed "crack" boats, and both the "belle" and her rival came under that category. both were of the first-class in size and magnificence of fitting; both ran in the same "trade," that is, from new orleans to saint louis; and both were commanded by well-known and popular river "captains." they could not be otherwise than rivals; and this feeling was shared in by the crews of both, from captain to cabin-slave. as regards the owners and officers in such cases, there is a substantial _money motive_ at the bottom of this rivalry. the boat that "whips" in one of these races, wins also the future patronage of the public. the "fast boat" becomes the fashionable boat, and is ever afterwards sure of a strong list of passengers at a high rate of fare--for there is this peculiarity among americans: many of them will spend their last dollar to be able to say at the end of his journey that he came upon the fashionable boat, just as in england you find many people desirous of making it known that they travelled "first-class." snobbery is peculiar to no country--it appears to be universal. with regard to the contemplated trial of speed between the "belle of the west" and the "magnolia," the feeling of rivalry pervaded not only the crews of both boats, but i soon discovered that the passengers were affected with it. most of these seemed as eager for the race as an english blackleg for the derby. some no doubt looked forward to the sport and excitement, but i soon perceived that the greater number were betting upon the result! "the belle's boun' to win!" cried a gold-studded vulgar-looking fellow at my shoulder. "i'll go twenty dollars on the belle. will you bet, stranger?" "no," i replied, somewhat angrily, as the fellow had taken a liberty by laying his hand on my shoulder. "well," retorted he, "jest as you like 'bout that;" and addressing himself to some one else he continued, "the belle's the conquering boat for twenty dollars! twenty dollars on the belle!" i confess i had no very pleasant reflections at that moment. it was my first trip upon an american steamboat, and my memory was brimful of stories of "boiler burstings", "snaggings", "blowings up," and boats on fire. i had heard that these races not infrequently resulted in one or other of the above-named catastrophes, and i had reason to know that my information was correct. many of the passengers--the more sober and respectable ones--shared my feelings; and some talked of appealing to the captain not to allow the race. but they knew they were in the minority, and held their peace. i had made up my mind at least to ask the captain "his intentions." i was prompted rather by curiosity than by any other motive. i left my seat, therefore, and having crossed the staging, walked toward the top of the wharf, where this gentleman was standing. chapter five. a desirable fellow-passenger. before i had entered into conversation with the captain, i saw a barouche approaching on the opposite side, apparently coming from the french quarter of the city. it was a handsome equipage, driven by a well-clad and evidently well-fed black, and as it drew near, i could perceive that it was occupied by a young and elegantly-attired lady. i cannot say why, but i felt a presentiment, accompanied perhaps by a silent wish, that the occupant of the barouche was about to be a fellow-passenger. it was not long before i learnt that such was her intention. the barouche drew up on the crest of the levee, and i saw the lady directing some inquiry to a bystander, who immediately pointed to our captain. the latter, perceiving that he was the object inquired after, stepped up to the side of the carriage, and bowed to the lady. i was close to the spot, and every word reached me. "monsieur! are you the captain of the belle of the west?" the lady spoke in french, a smattering of which the captain in his intercourse with the creoles had picked up. "yes, madame," was the reply. "i wish to take passage with you." "i shall be most happy to accommodate you, madame. there is still one state-room disengaged, i believe, mr shirley?" here the captain appealed to the clerk, in order to ascertain if such was the case. "never mind!" said the lady, interrupting him, "for the matter of a state-room it is of no importance! you will reach my plantation before midnight, and therefore i shall not require to sleep aboard." the phrase, "my plantation," evidently had an effect upon the captain. naturally not a rude man, it seemed to render him still more attentive and polite. the proprietor of a louisiana plantation is a somebody not to be treated with nonchalance; but, when that proprietor chances to be a young and charming lady, who could be otherwise than amiable? not captain b., commander of the "belle of the west!" the very name of his boat negatived the presumption! smiling blandly, he inquired where he was to land his fair charge. "at bringiers," replied the lady. "my residence is a little below, but our landing is not a good one; besides, there is some freight which it would be better to put ashore at bringiers." here the occupant of the barouche pointed to a train of drays, loaded with barrels and boxes, that had just driven up, and halted in the rear of the carriage. the sight of the freight had a still further pleasant effect on the captain, who was himself _part owner_ of his boat. he became profuse in offers of service, and expressed his willingness to accommodate his new passenger in every way she might desire. "monsieur capitaine," continued this handsome lady, still remaining seated in her carriage, and speaking in a tone of good-natured seriousness, "i must make one condition with you." "please to name it, madame." "well then! it is reported that your boat is likely to have a race with some other one. if that be so, i cannot become your passenger." the captain looked somewhat disconcerted. "the fact is," continued she, "i had a narrow escape once before, and i am determined to run no such risk in future." "madame--," stammered the captain--then hesitating-- "oh, then!" interrupted the lady, "if you cannot give me the assurance that you will not race, i must wait for some other boat." the captain hung his head for some seconds. he was evidently reflecting upon his answer. to be thus denied the anticipated excitement and pleasure of the race--the victory which he confidently expected, and its grand consequences; to appear, as it were, afraid of trying the speed of his boat; afraid that she would be beaten; would give his rival a large opportunity for future bragging, and would place himself in no enviable light in the eyes of his crew and passengers--all of whom had already made up their minds for a race. on the other hand, to refuse the request of the lady--not very unreasonable when properly viewed--and still more reasonable when it was considered that that lady was the proprietress of several dray-loads of freight, and when still further considered that that lady was a rich _plantress_ of the "french coast," and might see fit next fall to send several hundred casks of sugar and as many hogsheads of tobacco down on his (the captain's) boat;--these considerations, i say, made the request quite reasonable. and so we suppose, upon reflection, it must have appeared to captain b--, for after a little hesitation he granted it. not with the best grace, however. it evidently cost him a struggle; but interest prevailed, and he granted it. "i accept your conditions, madame. the boat shall _not_ run. i give you my promise to that effect." "_assez_! thanks! monsieur le capitaine; i am greatly obliged to you. if you will be so good as to have my freight taken aboard. the carriage goes along. this gentleman is my steward. here, antoine! he will look to everything. and now pray, capitaine, when do you contemplate starting?" "in fifteen minutes, madame, at the latest." "are you sure of that, mon capitaine?" she inquired, with a significant laugh, which told she was no stranger to the want of punctuality of the boats. "quite sure, madame," replied the captain; "you may depend on the time." "ah! then, i shall go aboard at once!" and, so saying, she lightly tripped down the steps of the barouche, and giving her arm to the captain, who had gallantly proffered himself, was conducted to the ladies' cabin, and of course for a time lost to the admiring eyes, not only of myself, but of a goodly number of others who had already been attracted to gaze upon this beautiful apparition. chapter six. antoine the steward. i had been very much struck by the appearance of this dame. not so much on account of her physical beauty--though that was of a rare kind--as by the air that characterised her. i should feel a difficulty in describing this, which consisted in a certain _braverie_ that bespoke courage and self-possession. there was no coarseness of manner--only the levity of a heart gay as summer, and light as gossamer, but capable, when occasion required, of exhibiting a wonderful boldness and strength. she was a woman that would be termed beautiful in any country; but with her beauty there was combined elegance, both in dress and manner, that told you at once she was a lady accustomed to society and the world. and this, although still young--she certainly could not have been much over twenty. louisiana has a precocious climate, however; and a creole of twenty will count for an englishwoman of ten years older. was she married? i could not bring myself to think so; besides the expressions, "my plantation" and "my steward," would scarcely have been used by a lady who had "somebody" at home, unless, indeed, that somebody were held in very low estimation--in short, considered a "nobody." a widow she might be--a very young widow--but even that did not seem to me probable. she had not the "cut" of a widow in my eyes, and there was not the semblance of a "weed" either about her dress or her looks. the captain had styled her _madame_, but he was evidently unacquainted with her, and also with the french idiom. in a doubtful case such as this, it should have been "mademoiselle." inexperienced as i was at the time--"green," as the americans have it--i was not without some curiosity in regard to women, especially when these chanced to be beautiful. my curiosity in the present case had been stimulated by several circumstances. first, by the attractive loveliness of the lady herself; second, by the style of her conversation and the facts it had revealed; third, by the circumstance that the lady was, or i fancied her to be, a "creole." i had as yet had but little intercourse with people of this peculiar race, and was somewhat curious to know more about them. i had found them by no means ready to open their doors to the saxon stranger-- especially the old "creole _noblesse_," who even to this hour regard their anglo-american fellow-citizens somewhat in the light of invaders and usurpers! this feeling was at one time deeply rooted. with time, however, it is dying out. a fourth spur to my curiosity was found in the fact, that the lady in passing had eyed me with a glance of more than ordinary inquisitiveness. do not be too hasty in blaming me for this declaration. hear me first. i did not for a moment fancy that that glance was one of admiration. i had no such thoughts. i was too young at the time to flatter myself with such fancies. besides, at that precise moment i was far from being "in my zenith." with scarce five dollars in my purse, i felt rather forlorn; and how could i have fancied that a brilliant beauty such as she--a star of first magnitude--a rich proprietress--the owner of a plantation, a steward, and a host of slaves--would condescend to look admiringly on such a friendless wretch as i? in truth, i did not flatter myself with such thoughts. i supposed that it was simple curiosity on her part--and no more. she saw that i was not of her own race. my complexion--the colour of my eyes--the cut of my garments--perhaps something _gauche_ in my manner--told her i was a stranger to the soil, and that had excited her interest for a passing moment. a mere ethnological reflection--nothing more. the act, however, had helped to pique my curiosity; and i felt desirous of knowing at least the name of this distinguished creature. the "steward," thought i, may serve my purpose, and i turned towards that individual. he was a tall, grey-haired, lathy, old frenchman, well-dressed, and sufficiently respectable-looking to have passed for the lady's father. his aspect, too, was quite venerable, giving you the idea of long service and a very old family. i saw, as i approached him, that my chances were but indifferent. i found him as "close as a clam." our conversation was very brief; his answers laconic. "monsieur, may i ask who is your mistress?" "a lady." "true: any one may tell that who has the good fortune of looking at her. it was her name i asked for." "it does not concern you to know it." "not if it be of so much importance to keep it a secret!" "_sacr-r-re_!" this exclamation, muttered, rather than spoken aloud, ended the dialogue; and the old fellow turned away on giving expression to it--no doubt cursing me in his heart as a meddling yankee. i applied myself to the sable jehu of the barouche, but with no better success. he was getting his horses aboard, and not liking to give direct answers to my questions, he "dodged" them by dodging around his horses, and appearing to be very busy on the offside. even the _name_ i was unable to get out of him, and i also gave _him_ up in despair. the name, however, was furnished me shortly after from an unexpected source. i had returned to the boat, and had seated myself once more under the awning, watching the boatmen, with rolled-up red shirts, use their brawny arms in getting their freight aboard. i saw it was the same which had been delivered from the drays--the property of the lady. it consisted, for the most part, of barrels of pork and flour, with a quantity of dried hams, and some bags of coffee. "provisions for her large establishment," soliloquised i. just then some packages of a different character were pushed upon the staging. these were leathern trunks, travelling bags, rosewood cases, bonnet-boxes, and the like. "ha! her personal luggage," i again reflected, and continued to puff my cigar. regarding the transfer of the trunks, my eye was suddenly attracted to some lettering that appeared upon one of the packages--a leathern portmanteau. i sprang from my seat, and as the article was carried up the gangway stair i met it halfway. i glanced my eye over the lettering, and read-- "_mademoiselle eugenie besancon_." chapter seven. the starting. the last bell rings--the "can't-get-away" folks rush ashore--the staging-plank is drawn in--some heedless wight has to jump for it--the cable is pulled aboard and coiled--the engineer's bell tinkles--the great wheels revolve, lashing the brown water into foam--the steam "whistles" and screams at the boilers, and booms from the 'scape-pipe in regular repetitions--neighbouring boats are pressed out of their places--their planks cringe and crackle--guards are broken, or the slight timbers of wheel-houses, causing a cross-fire of curses between the crews--and after some minutes of this pandemoniac confusion, the huge craft clears herself, and rides out upon the broad bosom of the river. she heads up-stream; a few strokes of the revolving paddles and the current is mastered; and the noble boat yielding to the mighty propulsion, cleaves her liquid way, "walking the water like a thing of life!" perchance the boom of a cannon announces her departure; perchance it is animated by the harmonious swell of brazen instruments; or still more appropriate, some old "boatman's song," with its lively chorus, is heard issuing from the rude, though not unmusical throats of the "hands" below. lafayette and carrolton are soon passed; the humbler roofs of stores and dwellings sink out of sight; and the noble dome of saint charles, the spires of churches, and the towers of the great cathedral, are all of the crescent city that remain above the horizon. these, at length, go down; and the "floating palace" moves on in stately grandeur between the picturesque shores of the mississippi. i have said "picturesque." this word does not satisfy me, nor can i think of one that will delineate my idea. i must make use of a phrase, "picturesquely beautiful," to express my admiration of the scenery of those shores. i have no hesitation in pronouncing it the finest in the world. i am not gazing upon it with a mere cold eye-glance. i cannot separate scenery from its associations--not its associations of the past, but with the present. i look upon the ruined castles of the rhine, and their story impresses me with a feeling of disgust for what _has been_. i look upon its modern homes and their dwellers; i am equally filled with disgust for what _is_. in the bay of naples i experience a similar feeling, and roaming "around" the lordly parks of england, i see them through an enclosure of wretchedness and rags, till their loveliness seems an illusion! here alone, upon the banks of this majestic river, do i behold wealth widely diffused, intelligence broadcast, and comfort for all. here, in almost every house, do i meet the refined taste of high civilisation-- the hospitality of generous hearts combined with the power to dispense it. here can i converse with men by thousands, whose souls are free-- not politically alone, but free from vulgar error and fanatic superstition; here, in short, have i witnessed, not the perfectedness-- for that belongs to a far future time--but the most advanced stage of civilisation yet reached upon the globe. a dark shadow crosses my eye-glance, and my heart is stung with sudden pain. it is the shadow of a human being with a black skin. _he is a slave_! for a moment or two the scene looks black! what is there to admire here--in these fields of golden sugar-cane, of waving maize, of snow-white cotton? what to admire in those grand mansions, with their orangeries, their flowery gardens, their drooping shade-trees, and their soft arbours? all this is but the sweat of the slave! for a while i behold without admiring. the scene has lost its _couleur de rose_; and a gloomy wilderness is before me! i reflect. slowly and gradually the cloud passes away, and the brightness returns. i reflect and compare. true, he with the black skin is a slave--but not a _voluntary_ slave. that is a difference in his favour at least. in other lands--mine own among them--i see around me slaves as well, and far more numerous. not the slaves of an individual, but of an association of individuals--a class--an oligarchy. not slaves of the corvee--serfs of the feud--but victims of its modern representative the tax, which is simply its commutation, and equally baneful in its effects. on my soul, i hold that the slavery of the louisiana black is less degrading than that of the white pleb of england. the poor, woolly-headed helot is the victim of conquest, and may claim to place himself in the honourable category of a prisoner of war. he has not willed his own bondage; while you, my grocer, and butcher, and baker-- ay, and you, my fine city merchant, who fondly fancy yourself a freeman--ye are voluntary in your serfdom; ye are loyal to a political juggle that annually robs ye of half your year's industry; that annually requires some hundred thousands of your class to be sloughed off into exile, lest your whole body should gangrene and die. and all this without even a protest. nay, worse--you are ever ready to cry "crucify" to him who would attempt to counteract this condition--ever ready to glorify the man and the motion that would fix another rivet in your fetters! even while i write, the man who loves you least; he who for forty years--for all his life, in fact--has been your systematic enemy, is the most popular of your rulers! even while i write the roman wheel is revolving before your eyes, squibs and crackers sound sweetly in your ears, and you are screaming forth your rejoicings over the acts of a convention that had for its sole object the strengthening of your chains! but a short twelve months ago, you were just as enthusiastic for a war that was equally antagonistic to your interests, equally hostile to the liberties of your kind! miserable delusion! i repeat what i have uttered with a feeling of solemnity. on my soul, i hold that the slavery of the louisiana black is less degrading than that of the white pleb of england. true, this black man is a _slave_, and there are three millions of his race in the same condition. painful thought! but less painful when accompanied by the reflection that the same broad land is trodden by _twenty millions of free and sovereign men_. three millions of slaves to twenty millions of masters! in mine own land the proportion is exactly reversed! the truth may be obscure. for all that, i dare say there are some who will understand it. ah! how pleasant to turn from these heart-stirring but painful thoughts to the calmer contemplation of themes furnished by science and nature. how sweet was it to study the many novel forms that presented themselves to my eyes on the shores of that magnificent stream! there is a pleasaunce even in the retrospect; and as i now sit dreaming over them far away--perhaps never more to behold them with mortal eye--i am consoled by a fond and faithful memory, whose magic power enables me to recall them before the eye of my mind in all their vivid colouring of green and gold! chapter eight. the "coast" of the mississippi. as soon as we had fairly started, i ascended to the "hurricane-deck," in order to obtain a better view of the scenery through which we were passing. in this place i was alone; for the silent pilot, boxed up in his little tower of glass, could hardly be called a companion. i make the following observations: the breadth of the mississippi river has been much exaggerated. it is here about half a mile wide. sometimes more, occasionally less. (this average width it preserves for more than a thousand miles from its mouth.) its waters run at the rate of three or four miles to the hour, and are of a yellowish cast, with a slight tincture of "red." the yellow colour it derives from the missouri, while the deeper tint is obtained by the influx of the "red." driftwood floats thickly upon its surface; here in single logs, there in raft-like clusters. to run a boat against one of these is attended with danger, and the pilot avoids them. sometimes one swimming below the surface escapes his eye; and then a heavy bumping against the bows shakes the boat, and startles the equanimity of the less experienced passengers. the "snag" is most dreaded. that is a dead tree with heavy roots still adhering. these, from their weight, have settled upon the bottom, and the _debris_ gathering around holds them firmly imbedded. the lighter top, riven of its branches, rises towards the surface; but the pressure of the current prevents it from attaining to the perpendicular, and it is held in a slanting position. when its top rises above the water, the danger is but trifling--unless in a very dark night--it is when the top is hidden a foot or two below the surface that the snag is feared. then a boat running upon it up-stream, is lost to a certainty. the roots firmly imbedded in the bottom mud, prevent the pile from yielding; and the top, usually a spiky one, penetrates the bow timbers of the boat, sinking her almost instantly. a boat properly "snagged" will go down in a few minutes. the "sawyer" is a log fixed in the water similarly to the snag, but kept bobbing up and down by the current, thus suggesting the idea of a sawyer engaged at his work--hence the name. a boat getting aground upon a sunken log _crosswise_, is sometimes snagged upon its branches, and sometimes broken into two pieces by the pressure of her own weight. among the drift, i notice odd matters that interest me. stalks of sugar-cane that have been crushed in the press-mill (a hundred miles farther up i should not meet these), leaves and stems of the maize plant, corn-cobs, pieces of broken gourd-shell, tufts of raw cotton, split fence-rails, now and then the carcase of some animal, with a buzzard or black vulture (_cathartes aura_ and _atratus_) perched upon it, or hovering above. i am within the geographical range of the alligator but here the great saurian is seldom seen. he prefers the more sluggish _bayous_, or the streams whose shores are still wild. in the rapid current of the mississippi, and along its well-cultivated banks, he is but rarely observed by the passing traveller. alternately the boat approaches both shores of the river ("coasts" they are called). the land is an alluvion of no very ancient formation. it is a mere strip of _terra firma_, varying in breadth from a few hundred yards to several miles, and gradually declining from the banks, so that the river is actually running along the top of a ridge! beyond this strip commences the "swamp," a tract that is annually inundated, and consists of a series of lagoons and marshes covered with coarse grass and reeds. this extends in some places for a score of miles, or even farther--a complete wilderness of morass. some portions of this--where the inundation is only annual--are covered with dark and almost impenetrable forests. between the cultivated strip on the immediate bank of the river, and the "swamp" in the rear, runs a belt of this forest, which forms a kind of background to the picture, answering to the mountain-ranges in other lands. it is a high, dark forest, principally composed of cypress-trees (_cupressus disticka_). but there are other kinds peculiar to this soil, such as the sweet-gum (_liquidambar styraciflua_), the live-oak (_quercus vivens_), the tupelo (_nyssa aquatica_), the water-locust (_gleditschia aquatica_), the cotton-wood (_populus angulata_), with _carya, celtis_, and various species of _acer, cornus, juglans, magnolia_, and oaks. here an underwood of palmettoes (_sabal_ palms), _smilax, llianes_, and various species of _vitis_; there thick brakes of cane (_arundo gigantea_), grow among the trees; while from their branches is suspended in long festoons that singular parasite, the "spanish moss" (_tillandsia usneoides_), imparting a sombre character to the forest. between this dank forest and the river-banks lie the cultivated fields. the river current is often several feet above their level; but they are protected by the "levee," an artificial embankment which has been formed on both sides of the river, to a distance of several hundred miles from its mouth. in these fields i observe the culture of the sugar-cane, of the rice-plant, of tobacco and cotton, of indigo and maize. i see the "gangs" of black slaves at their work, in their cotton dresses of striped and gaudy colours, in which sky-blue predominates. i see huge waggons drawn by mules or oxen returning from the cane-fields, or slowly toiling along the banks. i see the light-bodied creole, in "cottonade" jacket and trousers of bright blue, mounted upon his small spanish horse, and galloping along the levee road. i see the grand mansion of the planter, with its orange-groves and gardens, its green venetians, cool verandahs, and pretty palings. i see the huge sugar-house, or tobacco-shed, or cotton "pickery;" and there, too, are the neat "cabins," clustering together or running in a row, like the bathing-boxes at a fashionable watering-place. now we are passing a plantation where they are making merry--a _fete champetre_. many horses stand under the trees, "hitched" in the shade with saddles on, not a few of which are "ladies' saddles." in the verandah, the lawn, and through the orange shrubbery, may be seen moving about gentlemen and ladies richly attired. music is heard, and there is dancing in the open air. one cannot help envying these happy creoles the enjoyment of their arcadian life. scenes varied and lovely were passing panorama-like before my eyes. lost in admiration of them, i had for the moment forgotten _eugenie besancon_. chapter nine. eugenie besancon. no, eugenie besancon was not forgotten. every now and then her sylph-like form flitted before my imagination, and i could not help associating it with the scenery through which we were passing, and amidst which, no doubt, she was born and nurtured--its fair _indigene_. the glimpse of the _fete champetre_, where several creole-like girls were conspicuous, brought her more forcibly into my thoughts; and, descending from the hurricane-deck, i entered the cabin with some curiosity, once more to look upon this interesting lady. for some time i dreaded disappointment. the great glass folding-door of the ladies' cabin was closed; and although there were several ladies outside in the main saloon, the creole was not among the number. the ladies' cabin, which occupies the after-part of the boat, is a sacred precinct, into which bachelors are admitted only when they enjoy the privilege of having a friend inside--then only at certain hours. i was not one of the privileged. out of the hundred and odd passengers on board, i did not know a soul, male or female; and i had the happiness or misfortune of being equally unknown to them. under these circumstances my entry into the ladies' cabin would have been deemed an intrusion; and i sat down in the main saloon, and occupied myself in studying the physiognomy and noting the movements of my fellow-passengers. they were a mixed throng. some were wealthy merchants, bankers, money or commission brokers from new orleans, with their wives and daughters, on their annual migration to the north, to escape from the yellow fever, and indulge in the more pleasant epidemic of life at a fashionable watering-place. there were corn and cotton-planters from the up-country, on their return home, and storekeepers from the up-river towns; boatmen who, in jean trousers and red flannel shirts, had pushed a "flat" two thousand miles down stream, and who were now making the back trip in shining broadcloth and snow-white linen. what "lions" would these be on getting back to their homes about the sources of salt river, the cumberland, the licking, or the miami! there were creoles, too--old wine-merchants of the french quarter--and their families; the men distinguished by a superabundance of ruffles, plaited pantaloons, shining jewellery, and light-coloured cloth boots. there was a sprinkling of jauntily-dressed clerks, privileged to leave new orleans in the dull season; and there were some still more richly-dressed gentlemen, with the finest of cloth in their coats, the whitest of linen and raffles, the brightest of diamonds in their studs, and the most massive of finger-rings. these last were "sportsmen." they had already fathered around a table in the "smoking-saloon," and were fingering a span new pack of cards--the implements of their peculiar industry. among these i observed the fellow who had so loudly challenged me to bet upon the boat-race. he had passed me several times, regarding me with a glance that appeared anything but friendly. our close friend the steward was seated in the saloon. you must not suppose that his holding the office of steward, or overseer, disentitled him to the privileges of the first-class cabin. there is no "second saloon" on board an american steamer. such a distinction is not known so far west as the mississippi. the overseers of plantations are usually men of rude and brutal dispositions. the very nature of their calling makes them so. this frenchman, however, seemed to be an exception. he appeared a most respectable old gentleman. i rather liked his looks, and began to feel quite an interest in him, though he by no means appeared to reciprocate the feeling. some one complained of the mosquitoes, and suggested the opening of the folding-doors of the ladies' cabin. this suggestion was backed up by several others--ladies and gentlemen. the clerk of the boat is the man charged with such responsibilities. he was at length appealed to. the appeal was reasonable--it was successful; and the great gates of the steamboat paradise were thrown open. the result was a current of air which swept through the long saloon from stem to stern; and in less than five minutes not a mosquito remained on board, except such as had escaped the blast by taking shelter in the state-rooms. this was certainly a great relief. the folding-doors were permitted to remain open--an arrangement quite satisfactory to all, but particularly to a number of the gaily-dressed young clerks, who could now command a full view of the interior of the harem. several of them might be observed taking advantage of the new arrangement--not staring broadly, as that would be accounted rude and noted against them. they only appealed to the sacred shrine by side-glances, or over books which they pretended to read, or pacing up and down approached the favoured limit, glancing in at intervals, as if undesignedly. some appeared to have acquaintances inside, though not upon terms of sufficient familiarity to give them the right of entry. others were in hopes of making acquaintances, should opportunity offer. i could detect expressive looks, and occasionally a smile that seemed to denote a mutual intelligence. many a pleasant thought is conveyed without words. the tongue is often a sad disenchanter. i have known it to spoil many a nice love-plot silently conceived, and almost ripe for being carried out. i was amused at this speechless pantomime, and sat for some minutes regarding it. my eyes wandered at intervals towards the interior of the ladies' saloon, guided thither partly by a common curiosity. i have an observant habit. anything new interests me, and this cabin-life on an american steamboat was entirely new, and not a little _piquante_. i desired to study it. perhaps i was somewhat interested in another way-- desirous of having one more look at the young creole, besancon. my desire, then, was gratified. i saw the lady at last. she had come out of her state-room, and was moving around the saloon, graceful and gay. she was now unbonneted, and her rich golden tresses were arranged _a la chinoise_--a creole fashion as well. the thick masses, coiled into a large "club" at the back of the head, denoted the luxuriance of her hair: and the style of coiffure, displaying her noble forehead and finely-formed neck, became her well. fair hair with blonde complexion, although rare among the creoles, is sometimes met with. dark hair with a brunette skin is the rule, to which eugenie besancon was a remarkable exception. her features expressed gaiety, approaching to volatility; yet one could not help feeling that there was firmness of character _en perdu_. her figure was beyond criticism; and the face, if not strikingly beautiful was one that you could not look upon without emotions of pleasure. she appeared to know some of her fellow-passengers--at least she was conversing with them in a style of easy freedom. women, however, rarely exhibit embarrassment among themselves; women of french race, never. one thing i observed--her cabin companions appeared to regard her with deference. perhaps they had already learnt that the handsome carriage and horses belonged to her. that was very, very likely! i continued to gaze upon this interesting lady. girl i cannot call her, for although young enough, she had the air of a woman--a woman of experience. she appeared quite at ease; seemed mistress of herself, and indeed of everything else. "what an air of _insouciance_," thought i. "that woman is not in love!" i cannot tell why i should have made these reflections, or why the thought pleased me; but certainly it did. why? she was nothing to me-- she was far above me. i dared scarce look upon her. i regarded her as some superior being, and with timid stolen glances, as i would regard beauty in a church. ho! she was nothing to me. in another hour it would be night, and she was to land in the night; i should never see her again! i should think of her though for an hour or two, perhaps for a day--the longer that was now foolish enough to sit gazing upon her! i was weaving a net for myself--a little agony that might last for some time after she was gone. i had formed a resolution to withdraw from the fascinating influence, and return to my meditation on the hurricane-deck. a last look at the fair creole, and i should depart. just at that moment she flung herself into a chair. it was of the kind known as a "rocking-chair," and its motions displayed the fine proportion and outlines of her form. as she now sat she was facing the door, and her eye for the first time rested upon me. by heavens! she was gazing on me just as before! what meant that strange glance? those burning eyes? stedfast and fixed, they remained bent upon mine--and mine trembled to answer them! thus for some moments her eyes dwelt upon me, without motion or change of direction. i was too young at that time to understand the expression that was in them. i could translate such an one afterwards, but not then. at length she rose from her seat with an air of uneasiness, as if displeased either with herself or me; and, turning away her head, she opened the latticed door and passed into her state-room. had i done anything to give offence? no! not by word, nor look, nor gesture. i had not spoken--i had not moved, and my timid glance could not have been construed into one of rudeness. i was somewhat bewildered by the conduct of mademoiselle besancon; and, in the full belief that i should never see her again, i hurried away from the saloon, and once more climbed up to the hurricane-deck. chapter ten. a new mode of raising the steam. it was near sunset--the fiery disc was going down behind the dark outline of cypress forest that belted the western horizon, and a yellow light fell upon the river. promenading back and forward upon the canvas-covered roof, i was gazing upon the scene, wrapt in admiration of its glowing beauty. my reverie was interrupted. on looking down the river i saw that a large boat was in our wake, and coming rapidly after us. the volume of smoke rolling up out of her tall funnels, and the red glowing of her fires, showed that she was moving under a full head of steam. her size, as well as the loud reports of her 'scape-pipe, told that she was a boat of the first-class. she was the "magnolia." she was moving with great velocity, and i had not watched her long, before i perceived that she was fast gaining upon us. at this moment my ears were assailed by a variety of sounds coming from below. loud voices in earnest tones, the stamping and pattering of feet, as of men rushing over the wooden decks and along the guard-ways. the voices of women, too, were mingled in the medley. i surmised what all this meant. the approach of the rival boat was the cause of the excitement. up to this time the boat-race seemed to have been nearly forgotten. it had got abroad among both "hands" and passengers that the captain did not intend to "run;" and although this backing-out had been loudly censured at first, the feeling of disappointment had partially subsided. the crew had been busy at their work of stowage--the firemen with their huge billets of cord-wood--the gamblers with their cards--and the passengers, in general, with their portmanteaus, or the journal of the day. the other boat not starting at the same time, had been out of sight until now, and the feeling of rivalry almost "out of mind." the appearance of the rival produced a sudden change. the gamblers flung down the half-dealt pack, in hopes of having something more exciting to bet upon; the readers hastily closed their books, and tossed aside their newspapers; the rummagers of trunks banged down the lids; the fair occupants of rocking-chairs suddenly sprang to their feet; and all ran out of the cabins, and pressed towards the after-part of the boat. my position on the hurricane-deck was the best possible for a good view of the rival boat, and i was soon joined by a number of my fellow-passengers. i wished, however, to witness the scene on the cabin-deck, and went below. on reaching the main saloon, i found it quite forsaken. all the passengers, both male and female, had gone out upon the guard-way; and leaning against the guards were anxiously watching the approach of the magnolia. i found the captain under the front-cabin awning. he was surrounded by a crowd of gentlemen-passengers, all of whom appeared to be in a high state of excitement. one after the other was proffering speech to him. they were urging him to "raise the steam." the captain, evidently wishing to escape from these importunities, kept passing from place to place. it was to no purpose. wherever he went he was met or followed by a knot of individuals, all with the same request in their mouths--some even begging him for "god's sake" not to let the magnolia pass him! "wal, cap!" cried one, "if the belle don't run, i guess she'll never be heerd of on these waters agin, she won't." "you're right!" added another. "for my part the next trip i make i'll try the magnolia." "she's a fast boat that 'ere magnolia!" remarked a third. "she ain't anything else," rejoined the first speaker: "she's got her steam on a few, i reckon." i walked out on the guard-way in the direction of the ladies' cabin. the inmates of the latter were clustered along the guards, and seemingly as much interested in the boat-race as the men. i could hear several of them expressing their wishes aloud that the boats would run. all idea of risk or fear of consequences had departed; and i believe that if the company had been "polled" at the moment in favour of the race, there would not have been three dissentient voices. i confess that i, myself, would have voted for running,--i had caught the infection, and no longer thought of "snags", "sawyers," or bursting boilers. as the magnolia drew near the excitement increased. it was evident that in a few minutes more she would be alongside, and then pass us. the idea was unsupportable to some of the passengers; and loud words could be heard, now and then interspersed with an angry oath. the poor captain had to bear all this--for it was known that the rest of the officers were well disposed for a trial of speed. it was the captain only who "showed the white feather." the magnolia was close in our wake; her head bearing a little to one side. she was evidently preparing to pass us! her officers and crew were moving actively about; both pilots were seen above at the wheel-house; the firemen were all at work upon the deck; the furnace-doors were glowing red-hot; and the bright blaze stood several feet above the tops of her tall funnels! one might have fancied she was on fire! "they are burning bacon hams!" shouted a voice. "they are by--!" exclaimed another. "see, yonder's a pile of them in front of the furnace!" i turned my eyes in that direction. it was quite true. a pyramidal-shaped mass of dark-brown objects lay upon the deck in front of the fires. their size, shape, and colour told what they were--dried hams of bacon. the firemen were seen taking them from the pile, and thrusting them one after another up the red tunnels of the furnace! the magnolia was still gaining upon us. already her head was even with the wheel-house of the belle. on the latter boat the excitement increased, and the noise along with it. an occasional taunt from the passengers of the rival boat added fuel to the flame; and the captain was once more abjured to run. men almost threatened him with violence! the magnolia continued to advance. she was now head for head with us. another minute passed--a minute of deep silence--the crews and passengers of both boats watched their progress with hearts too full for utterance. another minute, and the magnolia had shot ahead! a triumphant cheer rang along her decks, mingled with taunting shouts and expressions of insult. "throw us a line, and we'll tow you!" cried one. "whar's yer old ark now?" shouted another. "hurraw for the magnolia! three groans for the belle of the west! three groans for the old dugout!" vociferated a third, amidst jeers and shouts of laughter. i can hardly describe the mortification felt by those on board the belle. it was not confined to the officers and crew. the passengers, one and all, seemed to partake of the feeling. i shared it myself, more than i could have believed to be possible. one dislikes to be among the conquered, even on any terms of association. besides, one involuntarily catches the impulse of the moment. the sentiment that surrounds you--perhaps by physical laws which you cannot resist--for the moment becomes your own; and even when you know the object of exultation to be worthless or absurd, you are controlled by the electric current to join in the enthusiasm. i remember once being thus carried away, and mingled my voice with the rude throats that cheered the passing cortege of royalty. the moment it was past, however, my heart fell, abashed at its own meanness and wickedness. both his crew and passengers seemed to think our captain imprudent in his prudence: and a general clamour, mingled with cries of "shame!" was heard all over the boat. the poor captain! i had my eyes upon him all this while. i really pitied him. i was perhaps the only passenger on board, beside the fair creole, who knew his secret; and i could not help admiring the chivalric fortitude with which he kept it to himself. i saw his cheek glow, and his eye sparkle with vexation; and i felt satisfied, that had he been called upon to make that promise then, he would not have done so for the privilege of carrying all the freight upon the river. just then, as if to escape the importunities that beset him, i saw him steal back and pass through the ladies' cabin. there he was at once recognised, and a general onset was made upon him by his fair passengers, who were almost as noisy in their petitions as the men. several threatened him, laughingly, that they would never travel by his boat again; while others accused him of a want of gallantry. surely it was impossible to resist such banterings; and i watched the captain closely, expecting a crisis one way or the other. the crisis was at hand. drawing himself up in the midst of a knot of these importunates, he thus addressed them:-- "ladies! nothing would give me more pleasure than to gratify you, but before leaving new orleans i gave my promise--in fact, passed my word of honour to a lady--" here the gallant speech was interrupted by a young lady, who, rushing up from another part of the boat, cried out-- "oh, capitaine! cher capitaine! do not let that wicked boat get ahead of us! do put on more steam, and pass her--that is a dear captain!" "why, mademoiselle!" replied the captain, in astonishment, "it was to you i gave the promise not to run--it was--" "pardieu!" exclaimed mademoiselle besancon, for it was she. "so you did. i had quite forgotten it. oh, cher capitaine, i release you from that promise. _helas_! i hope it is not too late. for heaven's sake, try to pass her! _ecoutez! les polissons_! how they taunt us!" the captain's face brightened up for a moment, and then suddenly resumed its vexed expression. he replied-- "mademoiselle, although grateful to you, i regret to say that under the circumstances i cannot hope to run successfully against the magnolia. we are not on equal terms. _she is burning bacon hams_, of which she has a large supply. i should have had the same, but after promising you not to run, i, of course, did not take any on board. it would be useless to attempt a race with only common cord-wood--unless indeed the belle be much the faster boat, which we do not yet know, as we have never tried her speed." here appeared to be a dilemma, and some of the ladies regarded mademoiselle besancon with looks of displeasure. "bacon hams!" she exclaimed; "bacon hams did you say, cher capitaine? how many would be enough? would two hundred be enough?" "oh! less than that," replied the captain. "here! antoine! antoine!" continued she, calling to the old steward. "how many bacon hams have you on board?" "ten barrels of them, mademoiselle," answered the steward, bowing respectfully. "ten barrels! that will do, i suppose? cher capitaine, they are at your service!" "mademoiselle, i shall pay you for them," said the captain, brightening up, and becoming imbued with the general enthusiasm. "no--no--no! let the expense be mine. i have hindered you. they were for my plantation people, but they are not in want. we shall send down for more. go, antoine! go to the firemen. knock in the heads of the barrels! use them as you please, but do not let us be beaten by that wicked magnolia! hark! how they cheer! ha! we shall pass them yet." so saying, the fiery creole rushed back to the guard-way, followed by a group of admirers. the captain's "dander" was now fairly up; and the story of the bacon hams soon spreading over the boat, still further heightened the enthusiasm of both passengers and crew. three loud cheers were given for the young lady, which seemed to mystify the magnolians, who had now been for some time in the enjoyment of their triumph, and had forged a considerable distance ahead. all hands went to work with a will--the barrels were rolled-up, their heads knocked in, and part of their contents "chucked" up the blazing furnace. the iron walls soon grew red--the steam rose--the boat trembled under the increased action of the engine--the bells of the engineers tinkled their signals--the wheels revolved more rapidly, and an increase of velocity was soon perceptible. hope had stifled clamour--comparative silence was restored. there was heard only an occasional utterance--the expression of an opinion upon the speed of the rival boats--the fixing the conditions of a bet--and now and then some allusion to the story of the bacon hams. at intervals, all eyes were bent upon the water eagerly glancing along the line that separated the rival steamers. chapter eleven. a boat-race upon the mississippi. it had now become quite dark. there was no moon in the sky--not a speck of a star. a clear heaven over the lower region of the mississippi, at night, is rather rare than otherwise. the film of the swamp too often obscures it. there was light enough for the race. the yellow water shone clear. it was easily distinguishable from the land. the track was a wide one; and the pilots of both boats--old hands--knew every "shute" and sand-bar of the river. the rival steamers were quite visible to one another. no lamps needed to be hung out, although the gaff over the bow of each boat carried its coloured signal. the cabin windows of both were full of light, and the blaze of the bacon fires flung a vermilion glare far over the water. upon each boat the spectators could be seen from the other in their state-room windows, or leaning against the guards, in attitudes that betokened their interest. by the time the belle had fairly got up steam, the magnolia was a full half-mile in advance of her. this distance, though nothing where there is a large difference of speed, is not so easily overtaken where the swiftness of the boats approximates to anything like an equality. it was a long while, therefore, before the people of the belle could be certain as to whether she was gaining upon her rival; for it is somewhat difficult to tell this when one vessel is running in the wake of the other. questions were put by passengers to the various officials and to one another, and "guesses" were continually being made on this interesting point. at length an assurance was derived from the captain, that several hundred yards had been already taken up. this produced general joy, though not _universal_; for there were some "unpatriotic" individuals on board the belle who had risked their dollars on the magnolia. in another hour, however, it was clear to all that our boat was fast gaining upon the magnolia, as she was now within less than a quarter of a mile of her. a quarter of a mile on smooth water appears but a short distance, and the people of the two boats could hold converse at will. the opportunity was not neglected by those of the belle to pay back the boasts of the magnolians. shouts of banter reached their ears, and their former taunts were now returned with interest. "have you any message for saint louis? we're going up there, and will be happy to carry it for you," shouted one from the belle. "hurraw for the bully-boat belle!" vociferated another. "how are you off for bacon hams?" asked a third. "we can lend you a few, if you're out." "where shall we say we left you?" inquired a fourth. "in shirt-tail bend?" and loud peals of laughter followed this joking allusion to a point in the river well-known to the boatmen. it had now approached the hour of midnight, and not a soul on either boat had thought of retiring to rest. the interest in the race precluded the idea of sleep, and both men and women stood outside the cabins, or glided out and in at short intervals to note the progress. the excitement had led to drinking, and i noticed that several of the passengers were already half intoxicated. the officers, too, led on by those, were indulging too freely, and even the captain showed symptoms of a similar condition. no one thought of censure--prudence had fled from the boat. it is near midnight, and amidst the growling and grinding of the machinery, the boats are moving on! there is deep darkness upon the water, but this is no impediment. the red fires glow; the blaze stands high above the tall funnels; steam booms from the iron pipes; the huge paddles lash the water into foam; the timbers creak and tremble under the fierce pressure, and the boats move on! it is near midnight. a space of two hundred yards alone separates the steamers--the belle is bounding upon the waves of the magnolia. in less than ten minutes her head will overlap the stern of her rival. in less than twenty, and the cheer of victory rising from her deck will peal from shore to shore! i was standing by the captain of our boat, regarding him not without a feeling of solicitude. i regretted to see him pass so often to the "bar." he was drinking deeply. he had returned to his station by the wheel-house, and was gazing ahead. some straggling lights were gleaming on the right bank of the river, a mile farther up. the sight of these caused him to start, and utter a wild exclamation:-- "by heavens! it is _bringiers_!" "ye-e-s," drawled the pilot at his elbow. "we've reached it in quick time, i reckon." "great god! i must lose the race!" "how?" said the other, not comprehending him; "what has that got to do with it?" "i must land there. i must--i must--the lady who gave us the hams--i must land her!" "oh! _that_," replied the phlegmatic pilot; "a darned pity it is," he added; "but if you must, you must. darn the luck! we'd a-beat them into shucks in another quarter, i reckon. darn the luck!" "we must give it up," said the captain. "turn her head in." saying this, he hurried below; and, observing his excited manner, i followed him. a group of ladies stood upon the guard-way where the captain descended over the wheel-house. the creole was among them. "mademoiselle," said the captain, addressing himself to this lady, "we must lose the race after all." "why?" asked she in surprise; "are there not enough? antoine! have you delivered them all?" "no, mademoiselle," replied the captain, "it is not that, thanks to your generosity. you see those lights?" "yes--well?" "that is _bringiers_." "oh! it is, is it?" "yes;--and of course you must be landed there." "and that would lose you the race?" "certainly." "then, of course, i must _not_ be landed there. what care i for a day? i am not so old but that i can spare one. ha! ha! ha! you shall not lose your race, and the reputation of your fine boat, on my account. think not of landing, cher capitaine! take me on to baton rouge. i can get back in the morning!" a cheer rose from the auditory; and the captain, rushing back to the pilot, countermanded his late order. the belle again stands in the wake of the magnolia, and again scarce two hundred yards of the river lie between. the rumbling of their machinery--the booming of their steam--the plashing of their paddles-- the creaking of their planks--the shouts of those on board, mingle in rude concert. up forges the belle--up--up--gaining in spite of the throes of her antagonist. up, nearer still--nearer, till her head laps upon the stern, then the wheel-house, then the foredeck of the magnolia! now the lights of both cross each other--their fires glow together upon the water--they are head and head! another foot is gained--the captain waves his hat--and the cheer of triumph peals forth! that cheer was never finished. its first notes had scarce broke upon the midnight air, when it was interrupted by an explosion like the bursting of some vast magazine--an explosion that shook the air, the earth, and the water! timbers crashed and flew upward--men shouted as their bodies were projected to the heavens--smoke and vapour filled the air--and one wild cry of agony arose upon the night! chapter twelve. the life-preserver. the concussion, unlike anything i had ever heard, was, nevertheless, significant of the nature of the catastrophe. i felt an instantaneous conviction that the boilers had burst, and such in reality was the fact. at the moment, i chanced to be on the balcony in rear of my state-room. i was holding by the guard-rail,--else the shock and the sudden lurch of the boat would have flung me headlong. scarce knowing what i did, i staggered into my state-room, and through the opposite door into the main saloon. here i paused and looked around me. the whole forward part of the boat was shrouded in steam and smoke, and already a portion of the hot scalding vapour floated through the cabin. dreading the contact of this, i rushed aft; but by a fortunate chance the lurch of the boat had brought her stern to windward, and the breeze blew the dangerous element away. the engine was now silent--the wheels had ceased to move--the 'scape-pipe no longer gave out its booming notes; but instead of these sounds, others of terrible import fell upon the ear. the shouts of men, mingled with oaths--wild, awful imprecations--the more shrill piercing shrieks of women--the groans of rounded from the deck below--the agonised cry of those blown into the water and drowning--all rang upon the ear with terrible emphasis! how changed the tones from those that, but a moment before, pealed from the self-same lips! the smoky vapour was soon partially blown off, and i could catch a glimpse of the forward part of the boat. there a complete chaos met the eye. the smoking-saloon, the bar with its contents, the front awning, and part of the starboard wheel-house, were completely carried away-- blown up as if a mine had been sprung beneath them--and the huge sheet-iron funnels had fallen forward upon the deck! at a glance i was convinced that captain, pilots, all who had been upon that part of the boat, must have perished! of course such reflections passed with the rapidity of thought itself, and occupied me not a moment of time. i felt that _i_ was still unhurt, and my first natural thought was that of preserving my life. i had sufficient presence of mind to know there was no danger of a second explosion; but i perceived that the boat was badly injured, and already leaning to one side. how long would she swim? i had hardly asked myself the question when it was answered by a voice that, in terrified accents, shouted out:-- "good god! she is sinking! she is sinking!" this announcement was almost simultaneous with the cry of "fire!" and at the same moment flames were seen bursting forth and shooting up to the height of the hurricane-deck! whether by burning up or going down, it was evident the wreck would afford us but short refuge. the thoughts of the survivors were now turned to the magnolia. i looked in the direction of that boat. i perceived that she was doing her best to back, and put round toward us; but she was still several hundred yards off! in consequence of the belle having steered a while towards the bringiers landing, the boats no longer ran in the same track; and, although they were head and head at the moment of the explosion, they were separated from each other by a wide stretch of the river. a full quarter of a mile distant appeared the magnolia; and it was evident that a considerable time must elapse before she could get alongside. would the wreck of the belle keep afloat so long? at a glance i was convinced it would not. i felt it settling down under my feet inch by inch; and the blaze already threatened the after-part of the boat, licking the light wood-work of the gaudy saloon as if it had been flax! not a moment was to be lost: we must take voluntarily to the water, be drawn in by the sinking wreck, or driven to it by the fire. one of the three was inevitable! you will fancy me to have been in a state of extreme terror at this moment. such, however, was not the case. i had not the slightest fear for my own safety: not that i was redeemed from the common lot by any superior courage, but simply that i had confidence _in my resources_. though sufficiently reckless in my temperament, i have never been a fatalist. i have saved my life more than once by acts of volition--by presence of mind and adroitness. the knowledge of this has freed me from the superstitions of fore-ordination and fatalism; and therefore, when not too indolent, i take precautions against danger. i had done so on the occasion of which i am writing. in my portmanteau i carried--i do so habitually--a very simple contrivance, a life-preserver. i always carry it in such a position as to be ready to the hand. it is but the work of a moment to adjust this, and with it around my body i feel no fear of being plunged into the broadest river, or even a channel of the sea. it was the knowledge of this, and not any superior courage, that supported me. i ran back to my state-room--the portmanteau was open--and in another moment i held the piece of quilted cork in my hands. in a few seconds its strap was over my head, and the strings securely knotted around my waist. thus accoutred, i stood _inside_ the state-room, intending to remain there till the wreck should sink nearer the surface of the water. settling rapidly as it was, i was convinced i should not have long to wait. i closed the inner door of the room, and turned the bolt. the outer one i held slightly ajar, my hand firmly clutching the handle. i had my object in thus shutting myself up. i should be less exposed to the view of the terror-stricken wretches that ran to and fro like spectres--for any fear i now had was of _them_--not of the water. i knew that, should the life-preserver be discovered, i should have a crowd around me in a moment--in fact, that escape by such means would be hopeless. dozens would follow me into the water--would cling to my limbs--would drag me, in their despairing grasp, to the bottom! i knew this; and, clutching the venetian door with firmer grasp, i stood peering through the apertures in stealthy silence. chapter thirteen. "blesse." i had not been in this position more than a few seconds, when some figures appeared in front of the door, and voices fell upon my ear that i thought i recognised. another glance revealed the speakers. they were the young creole and her steward. the conversation passing between them was not a dialogue, but a series of exclamations--the hurried language of terror. the old man had got together a few cabin chairs; and with trembling hands was endeavouring to bind them together, with the design of forming a raft. he had no other cord than a handkerchief, and some strips of silk, which his young mistress was tearing from her dress! it would have been but a feeble raft, had it been completed--not fit to have floated a cat. it was but the effort of the drowning man "catching at straws." i saw at a glance that it would afford to neither of them the respite of a minute's life. the chairs were of heavy rosewood; and, perchance, would have gone to the bottom of themselves! the scene produced upon me an impression indescribably strange. i felt myself standing upon a crisis. i felt called upon to choose between self and self-sacrifice. had the choice left no chance of saving my own life, i fear i should have obeyed the "first law of nature;" but, as already stated, of my own life i felt secure; the question was, whether it would be possible for me also to save the lady? i reasoned rapidly, and as follows;--the life-preserver--a very small one--will not sustain us both! what if i fasten it upon her, and swim alongside? a little help from it now and then will be sufficient to keep me afloat. i am a good swimmer. how far is it to the shore? i looked in that direction. the glare of the blazing boat lit up the water to a wide circumference. i could see the brown bank distinctly. it was full a quarter of a mile distant, with a sharp cross-current running between it and the wreck. "surely i can swim it?" thought i: "sink or swim, i shall make the attempt to save her!" i will not deny that other reflections passed through my mind as i was forming this resolve. i will not deny that there was a little _french_ gallantry mixed up with better motives. instead of being young and lovely, had mademoiselle besancon been old and plain, i think--that is-- i--i fear--she would have been left to antoine and his raft of chairs! as it was, my resolve was made; and i had no time to reflect upon motives. "mademoiselle besancon!" i called out of the door. "ha! some one calls me;" said she, turning suddenly. "mon dieu! who is there?" "one who, mademoiselle--" "_peste_!" muttered the old steward, angrily, as his eyes fell upon my face. he was under the belief that i wished to share his raft. "_peste_!" he repeated; "'twill not carry two, monsieur." "nor one," i replied. "mademoiselle," i continued, addressing myself to the lady; "those chairs will not serve,--they will rather be the means of drowning you,--here--take this! it will save your life." as i spoke i had pulled off the preserver, and held it towards her. "what is this?" she inquired hastily; and then, comprehending all, she continued, "no--no--no, monsieur! yourself--yourself!" "i believe i can swim ashore without it. take it, mademoiselle! quick! quick! there is no time to be lost. in three minutes the boat will go down. the other is not near yet: besides, she may fear to approach the fire! see the flames! they come this way! quick! permit me to fasten it for you?" "my god!--my god! generous stranger--!" "no words; now--now it is on! now to the water! have no fear! plunge in, and strike out from the wreck! fear not! i shall follow and guide you! away!" the girl, partly influenced by terror, and partly yielding to my remonstrances, sprang off into the water; and the next moment i saw her body afloat, distinguishable by the whitish drapery of her dress, that still kept above the surface. at that instant i felt some one grasping me by the hand. i turned round. it was antoine. "forgive me, noble youth! forgive me!" he cried, while the tears ran down his cheeks. i would have replied, but at the moment i perceived a man rush forward to the guards, over which the girl had just passed. i could see that his eye was fixed upon her, and that he had marked the life-preserver! his intention was evident--he had mounted the guard-rail, and was just springing off as i reached the spot. i caught him by the collar, and drew him back. as i did so his face came under the blaze, and i recognised my betting bully. "not so fast, sir!" said i, still holding him. he uttered but one word in reply--and that was a fearful oath--but at the moment i saw in his uplifted hand the shining blade of a bowie-knife! so unexpectedly did this weapon appear, that i had no chance of evading the blow; and the next moment i felt the cold steel passing through my arm. it was not a fatal stab, however; and before the brute could repeat it, i had, in the phraseology of the ring, "planted" a blow upon his chin, that sent him sprawling over the chairs, while at the same time the knife flew out of his grasp. this i caught up, and hesitated for a moment whether to use it upon the ruffian; but my better feelings overcame my passion, and i flung the weapon into the river. almost instantaneously i plunged after. i had no time to tarry. the blaze had reached the wheel-house, close to which we were, and the heat was no longer to be borne. my last glance at the spot showed me antoine and my antagonist struggling among the chairs! the white drapery served me for a beacon, and i swam after it. the current had already carried it some distance from the boat, and directly down stream. i had hurriedly divested myself of coat and boots, and as my other garments were of light material they did not impede me. after a few strokes i swam perfectly free; and, keeping the white dress before my eyes, i continued on down the river. now and then i raised my head above the surface and looked back. i still had fears that the ruffian might follow; and i had nerved myself for a struggle in the water! in a few minutes i was alongside my _protegee_; and, after half-a-dozen hurried words of encouragement, i laid hold of her with one hand, and with the other endeavoured to direct our course towards the shore. in this way the current carried us in a diagonal line, but we still floated down stream at a rapid rate. a long and weary swim it seemed to me. had it been much longer i never should have reached the end of it. at length we appeared to be near the bank; but as we approached it my strokes became feebler, and my left hand grasped my companion with a sort of convulsive effort. i remember reaching land, however; i remember crawling up the bank with great difficulty, my companion assisting me! i remember seeing a large house directly in front of where we had come ashore; i remember hearing the words-- "_c'est drole! c'est ma maison_--_ma maison veritable_!" i remember staggering across a road, led by a soft hand, and entering a gate, and a garden where there were benches, and statues, and sweet-smelling flowers--i remember seeing servants come from the house with lights, and that my arms were red, and my sleeves dripping with blood! i remember from a female voice the cry-- "_blesse_!" followed by a wild shriek; and of that scene i remember no more! chapter fourteen. where am i? when i awoke to consciousness, it was day. a bright sun was pouring his yellow light across the floor of my chamber; and from the diagonal slanting of the beam, i could perceive that it was either very early in the morning, or near sunset. but birds were singing without. it must be morning, reasoned i. i perceived that i was upon a low couch of elegant construction--without curtains--but in their stead a mosquito-netting spread its gauzy meshes above and around me. the snow-white colour and fineness of the linen, the silken gloss of the counterpane, and the soft yielding mattress beneath, imparted to me the knowledge that i lay upon a luxurious bed. but for its extreme elegance and fineness, i might not have noticed this; for i awoke to a sense of severe bodily pain. the incidents of the preceding night soon came into my memory, and passed rapidly one by one as they had occurred. up to our reaching the bank of the river, and climbing out of the water, they were all clear enough. beyond that time i could recall nothing distinctly. a house, a large gateway, a garden, trees, flowers, statues, lights, black servants, were all jumbled together on my memory. there was an impression on my mind of having beheld amid this confusion a face of extraordinary beauty--the face of a lovely girl! something angelic it seemed; but whether it had been a real face that i had seen, or only the vision of a dream, i could not now tell. and yet its lineaments were still before me, so plainly visible to the eye of my mind, so clearly outlined, that, had i been an artist, i could have portrayed them! the face alone i could remember nothing else. i remembered it as the opium-eater his dream, or as one remembers a beautiful face seen during an hour of intoxication, when all else is forgotten! strange to say, i did not associate this face with my companion of the night; and my remembrance painted it not at all like that of eugenie besancon! was there any one besides--any one on board the boat that my dream resembled? no, not one--i could not think of one. there was none in whom i had taken even a momentary interest--with the exception of the creole--but the lineaments my fancy, or memory, now conjured up were entirely unlike to hers: in fact, of quite an opposite character! before my mind's eye hung masses of glossy black hair, waving along the brows and falling over the shoulders in curling clusters. within this ebon framework were features to mock the sculptor's chisel. the mouth, with its delicate rose-coloured ellipse; the nose, with smooth straight outline, and small recurvant nostril; the arching brows of jet; the long fringes upon the eyelids; all were vividly before me, and all unlike the features of eugenie besancon. the colour of the skin, too--even that was different. it was not that circassian white that characterised the complexion of the creole, but a colour equally clear, though tinged with a blending of brown and olive, which gave to the red upon the cheeks a tint of crimson. the eye i fancied, or remembered well--better than aught else. it was large, rounded, and of dark-brown colour; but its peculiarity consisted in a certain expression, strange but lovely. its brilliance was extreme, but it neither flashed nor sparkled. it was more like a gorgeous gem viewed by the spectator while at rest. its light did not blaze--it seemed rather to burn. despite some pain which i felt, i lay for many minutes pondering over this lovely portrait, and wondering whether it was a memory or a dream. a singular reflection crossed my mind. i could not help thinking, that if such a face were real, i could forget mademoiselle besancon, despite the romantic incident that had attended our introduction! the pain of my arm at length dissipated the beautiful vision, and recalled me to my present situation. on throwing back the counterpane, i observed with surprise that the wound had been dressed, and evidently by a surgeon! satisfied on this head, i cast my eye abroad to make a reconnoissance of my quarters. the room i occupied was small, but notwithstanding the obstruction of the mosquito bar, i could see that it was furnished with taste and elegance. the furniture was light--mostly cane-work--and the floor was covered with a matting of sea-grass finely woven, and stained into various colours. the windows were garnished with curtains of silk damask and muslin, corresponding to the colour of the wood-work. a table richly inlaid was near the centre of the floor, another, with _portefeuille_, pens, and ornamental ink stand, stood by the wall, and over this last was a collection of books ranged upon shelves of red cedar-wood. a handsome clock adorned the mantelpiece; and in the open fireplace was a pair of small "andirons," with silver knobs, cast after a fanciful device, and richly chased. of course, there was no fire at that season of the year. even the heat caused by the mosquito bar would have been annoying, but that the large glass-door on one side, and the window on the other, both standing open, gave passage to the breeze that penetrated through the nettings of my couch. along with this breeze came the most delicious fragrance--the essence of flowers. through both door and window i could see their thousand clustering corollas--roses, red, pink, and white--the rare camelia-- azaleas, and jessamines--the sweet-scented china-tree--and farther off a little i could distinguish the waxen leaves and huge lily-like blossoms of the great american laurel--the _magnolia grandiflora_. i could hear the voices of many singing-birds, and a low monotonous hum that i supposed to be the noise of falling water. these were the only sounds that reached my ears. was i alone? i looked inquiringly around the chamber. it appeared so-- no living thing met my glance. i was struck with a peculiarity in the apartment i occupied. it appeared to stand by itself, and did not communicate with any other! the only door i could see, opened directly to the outside. so did the window, reaching door-like to the ground. both appeared to lead into a garden filled with shrubs and flowers. excepting the chimney, i could perceive no other inlet or outlet to the apartment! this at first seemed odd; but a moment's reflection explained it. it is not uncommon upon american plantations to have a kind of office or summer-house apart from the main building, and often fitted up in a style of comfort and luxuriance. this becomes upon occasions the "stranger's room." perhaps i was in such an apartment. at all events, i was under an hospitable roof, and in good hands; that was evident. the manner in which i was encouched, along with certain preparations,--the signs of a projected _dejeuner_ that appeared upon the table, attested this. but who was my host? or was it a hostess? was it eugenie besancon? did she not say something of her house--"_ma maison_?" or did i only dream it? i lay guessing and reflecting over a mass of confused memories; but i could not from these arrive at any knowledge of whose guest i was. nevertheless, i had a sort of belief that i was in the house of my last night's companion. i became anxious, and in my weakness perhaps felt a little vexed at being left alone. i would have rung, but no bell was within reach. at that moment, however, i heard the sound of approaching footsteps. romantic miss! you will fancy that those footsteps were light and soft, made by a small satin slipper, scarcely discomposing the loosest, tiniest pebble--stealthily drawing near lest their sound might awake the sleeping invalid--and then, in the midst of bird-music, and humming waters, and the sweet perfume of flowers, a fair form appeared in the doorway, and i saw a gentle face, with a pair of soft, lovely eyes, in a timid inquiring glance, gazing upon me. you will fancy all this, no doubt; but your fancy is entirely at fault, and not at all like the reality. the footsteps i heard were made by a pair of thick "brogans" of alligator leather, and full thirteen inches in length; which brogans the next moment rested upon the sill of the door directly before my eyes. on raising my glance a little higher, i perceived a pair of legs, in wide copper-coloured "jeans," pantaloons; and carrying my eye still higher, i perceived a broad, heavy chest, covered with a striped cotton shirt; a pair of massive arms and huge shoulders, surmounted by the shining face and woolly head of a jet black negro! the face and head came under my observation last; but on these my eyes dwelt longest, scanning them over and over, until i at length, despite the pain i was suffering, burst out into a sonorous laugh! if i had been dying, i could not have helped it; there was something so comic, so irresistibly ludicrous, in the physiognomy of this sable intruder. he was a full-grown and rather large negro, as black as charcoal, with a splendid tier of "ivories;" and with eyeballs, pupil and irides excepted, as white as his teeth. but it was not these that had tickled my fancy. it was the peculiar contour of his head, and the set and size of his ears. the former was as round as a globe, and thickly covered with small kinky curlets of black wool, so closely set that they seemed to root at both ends, and form a "nap!" from the sides of this sable sphere stood out a pair of enormous ears, suggesting the idea of wings, and giving to the head a singularly ludicrous appearance. it was this peculiarity that had set me laughing; and, indecorous though it was, for the life of me i could not help it. my visitor, however, did not seem to take it amiss. on the contrary, he at once opened his thick lips, and displaying the splendid armature of his mouth in a broad and good-natured grin, began laughing as loudly as myself! good-natured was he. his bat-like ears had infused nothing of the vampire into his character. no--the very type of jollity and fun was the broad black face of "scipio besancon," for such was the cognomen of my visitor. chapter fifteen. "ole zip." scipio opened the dialogue:-- "gollies, young mass'r! ole zip 'joiced to see um well 'gain--daat he be." "scipio is it?" "ye', mass'r--daat same ole nigger. doctor told um to nuss de white genl'um. won't young missa be glad haself!--white folks, black folks-- all be glad, wugh!" the finishing exclamation was one of those thoracic efforts peculiar to the american negro, and bearing a strong resemblance to the snort of a hippopotamus. its utterance signified that my companion had finished his sentence, and waited for me to speak. "and who is `young missa'?" i inquired. "gorramighty! don't mass'r know? why, de young lady you fotch from de boat, when twar all ober a blaze. lor! what a swum you make--half cross de riber! wugh!" "and am i in her house?" "ob sartin, mass'r--daat ar in de summer-house--for de big house am on oder side ob de garden--all de same, mass'r." "and how did i get here?" "golly! don't mass'r 'member how? why, ole zip carried 'im in yar in dese berry arms. mass'r an young missa come 'shore on de lebee, down dar jes by de gate. missa shout--black folks come out an find um--white genl'um all blood--he faint, an missa have him carried in yar." "and after?" "zip he mount fastest hoss--ole white fox--an gallop for de doctor-- gallop like de debil, too. ob course de doctor he come back along and dress up mass'r's arm. "but," continued scipio, turning upon me an inquiring look, "how'd young mass'r come by de big ugly cut? dat's jes wha de doc wanted to know, an dat's jes wha young missa didn't know nuffin 'tall 'bout." for certain reasons i forbore satisfying the curiosity of my sable nurse, but lay for a moment reflecting. true, the lady knew nothing of my encounter with the bully. ha! antoine--then. had he not come ashore? was he--? scipio anticipated the question i was about to put. his face became sad as he recommenced speaking. "ah! young mass'r, mamselle 'genie be in great 'stress dis mornin--all de folks be in great 'stress. mass'r toney! poor mass'r toney." "the steward, antoine? what of him? tell me, has he not come home?" "no, mass'r--i'se afeerd he nebber, nebber will--ebberybody 'feerd he be drownded--folks a been to de village--up an down de lebee--ebery wha. no toney. captain ob de boat blowed clar into de sky, an fifty passengers gone to de bottom. oder boat save some; some, like young mass'r, swam 'shore: but no toney--no mass'r toney!" "do you know if he could swim?" i asked. "no, mass'r, ne'er a stroke. i knows daat, 'kase he once falled into de bayou, and ole zip pull 'im out. no--he nebber swim--nebber." "then i fear he is lost indeed." i remembered that the wreck went down before the magnolia had got close alongside. i had noticed this on looking around. those who could not swim, therefore, must have perished. "poor pierre, too. we hab lost pierre." "pierre? who was he?" "de coachman, mass'r, he war." "oh! i remember. you think he is drowned, also?" "i'se afeerd so, mass'r. ole zip sorry, too, for pierre. a good nigger war daat pierre. but, mass'r toney, mass'r toney, ebberybody sorry for mass'r toney." "he was a favourite among you?" "ebberybody like 'im--black folks, white folks, all lub 'im. missa 'genie lub 'im. he live wi' ole mass'r sancon all him life. i believe war one ob missy 'genie gardiums, or whatever you call 'em. gorramighty! what will young missa do now? she hab no friends leff; and daat ole fox gayarre--he no good--" here the speaker suddenly interrupted himself, as if he feared that his tongue was going too freely. the name he had pronounced and the expression by which it was qualified, at once awakened my curiosity--the name more than the qualification. "if it be the same," thought i, "scipio has characterised him not otherwise than justly. can it be the same?" "you mean monsieur dominique gayarre, the _avocat_?" i asked, after a pause. scipio's great white eyeballs rolled about with an expression of mingled surprise and apprehension, and rather stammeringly he replied:-- "daat am de genl'um's name. know 'im, young mass'r?" "only very slightly," i answered, and this answer seemed to set my companion at his ease again. the truth is, i had no _personal_ acquaintance with the individual mentioned; but during my stay in new orleans, accident had brought me in contact with the name. a little adventure had befallen me, in which the bearer of it figured--not to advantage. on the contrary, i had conceived a strong dislike for the man, who, as already stated, was a lawyer, or _avocat_ of the new orleans bar. scipio's man was no doubt the same. the name was too rare a one to be borne by two individuals; besides, i had heard that he was owner of a plantation somewhere up the coast--at bringiers, i remembered. the probabilities were it was he. if so, and mademoiselle besancon had no other friend, then, indeed, had scipio spoken truly when he said, "she hab no friends leff." scipio's observation had not only roused my curiosity, but had imparted to me a vague feeling of uneasiness. it is needless to say that i was now deeply interested in this young creole. a man who has saved a life--the life of a beautiful woman--and under such peculiar circumstances, could not well be indifferent to the after-fate of her he has rescued. was it a lover's interest that had been awakened within me? my heart answered, no! to my own astonishment, it gave this answer. on the boat i had fancied myself half in love with this young lady; and now, after a romantic incident--one that might appear a very provocative to the sublime passion--i lay on my couch contemplating the whole affair with a coolness that surprised even myself! i felt that i had lost much blood--had my incipient passion flowed out of my veins at the same time? i endeavoured to find some explanation for this rare psychological fact; but at that time i was but an indifferent student of the mind. the land of love was to me a _terre inconnue_. one thing was odd enough. whenever i essayed to recall the features of the creole, the dream-face rose up before me more palpable than ever! "strange!" thought i, "this lovely vision! this dream of my diseased brain! oh! what would i not give to embody this fair spectral form!" i had no longer a doubt about it. i was certain i did not love mademoiselle besancon, and yet i was far from feeling indifferent towards her. friendship was the feeling that now actuated me. the interest, i felt for her was that of a friend. strong enough was it to render me anxious on her account--to make me desirous of knowing more both of herself and her affairs. scipio was not of secretive habit; and in less than half an hour i was the confidant of all he knew. eugenie besancon was the daughter and only child of a creole planter, who had died some two years before, as some thought wealthy, while others believed that his affairs were embarrassed. monsieur dominique gayarre had been left joint-administrator of the estate with the steward antoine, both being "guardiums" (sic scipio) of the young lady. gayarre had been the lawyer of besancon, and antoine his faithful servitor. hence the trust reposed in the old steward, who in latter years stood in the relation of friend and companion rather than of servant to besancon himself. in a few months mademoiselle would be of age; but whether her inheritance was large, scipio could not tell. he only knew that since her father's death, monsieur dominique, the principal executor, had furnished her with ample funds whenever called upon; that she had not been restricted in any way; that she was generous; that she was profuse in her expenditure, or, as scipio described it, "berry wasteful, an flung about de shinin dollars as ef dey war _donicks_!" the black gave some glowing details of many a grand ball and _fete champetre_ that had taken place on the plantation, and hinted at the expensive life which "young missa" led while in the city, where she usually resided during most part of the winter. all this i could easily credit. from what had occurred on the boat, and other circumstances, i was impressed with the belief that eugenie besancon was just the person to answer to the description of scipio. ardent of soul--full of warm impulses--generous to a fault--reckless in expenditure--living altogether in the present--and not caring to make any calculation for the future. just such an heiress as would exactly suit the purposes of an unprincipled administrator. i could see that poor scipio had a great regard for his young mistress; but, even ignorant as he was, he had some suspicion that all this profuse outlay boded no good. he shook his head as he talked of these matters, adding-- "i'se afeerd, young mass'r, it'll nebber, nebber last. de planters' bank hisseff would be broke by such a constant drawin ob money." when scipio came to speak of gayarre he shook his head still more significantly. he had evidently some strange suspicions about this individual, though he was unwilling, just then, to declare them. i learnt enough to identify monsieur dominique gayarre with my _avocat_ of the rue --, new orleans. no doubt remained on my mind that it was the same. a lawyer by profession, but more of a speculator in stocks--a money-lender, in other words, usurer. in the country a planter, owning the plantation adjoining that of besancon, with more than a hundred slaves, whom he treats with the utmost severity. all this is in correspondence with the calling and character of my monsieur dominique. they are the same. scipio gives me some additional details of him. he was the law adviser and the companion of monsieur besancon--scipio says, "too often for ole mass'r's good," and believes that the latter suffered much from his acquaintance: or, as scipio phrases it, "mass'r gayarre humbug ole mass'r; he cheat 'im many an many a time, i'se certain." furthermore, i learn from my attendant, that gayarre resides upon his plantation during the summer months; that he is a daily visitor at the "big house"--the residence of mademoiselle besancon--where he makes himself quite at home; acting, says scipio, "as ef de place 'longed to him, and he war de boss ob de plantation." i fancied scipio knew something more about this man--some definite matter that he did not like to talk about. it was natural enough, considering our recent acquaintance. i could see that he had a strong dislike towards gayarre. did he found it on some actual knowledge of the latter, or was it instinct--a principle strongly developed in these poor slaves, who are not permitted to _reason_? his information, however, comprised too many facts to be the product of mere instinct: it savoured of actual knowledge. he must have learnt these things from some quarter. where could he have gathered them? "who told you all this, scipio?" "aurore, mass'r." "aurore!" chapter sixteen. monsieur dominique gayarre. i felt a sudden desire, amounting almost to anxiety, to learn who was "aurore." why? was it the singularity and beauty of the name,--for novel and beautiful it sounded in my saxon ears? no. was it the mere euphony of the word; its mythic associations; its less ideal application to the rosy hours of the orient, or the shining phosphorescence of the north? was it any of these associate thoughts that awoke within me this mysterious interest in the name "aurore?" i was not allowed time to reflect, or question scipio farther. at that moment the door was darkened by the entrance of two men; who, without saying a word, stepped inside the apartment. "da doctor, mass'r," whispered scipio, falling back, and permitting the gentlemen to approach. of the two it was not difficult to tell which was the "doctor." the professional face was unmistakeable: and i knew that the tall pale man, who regarded me with interrogative glance, was a disciple of esculapius, as certainly as if he had carried his diploma in one hand and his door-plate in the other. he was a man of forty, not ill-featured, though the face was not one that would be termed handsome. it was, however, interesting, from a quiet intellectuality that characterised it, as well as an habitual expression of kind feeling. it had been a german face some two or three generations before, but an american climate,--political, i mean,--had tamed down the rude lines produced by ages of european despotism, and had almost restored it to its primitive nobility of feature. afterwards, when better acquainted with american types, i should have known it as a pennsylvanian face, and such in reality it was. i saw before me a graduate of one of the great medical schools of philadelphia, dr edward reigart. the name confirmed my suspicion of german origin. altogether my medical attendant made a pleasing impression upon me at first sight. how different was that i received on glancing toward his companion-- antagonism, hatred, contempt, disgust! a face purely french;--not that noble french face we see in the duguesclins, the jean barts, and among many of the old huguenot heroes; and in modern days in a rollin, a hugo, an arago, or a pyat;--but such an one as you may see any day by hundreds sneaking around the bourse or the _coulisses_ of the opera, or in thousands scowling from under a shako in the ranks of a ruffian soldiery. a countenance that i cannot describe better than by saying that its features forcibly reminded me of those of a fox. i am not in jest. i observed this resemblance plainly. i observed the same obliquity of eyes, the same sharp quick glance that betokened the presence of deep dissimulation, of utter selfishness, of cruel inhumanity. in the doctor's companion i beheld a type of this face,--the fox in human form, and with all the attributes of this animal highly developed. my instincts chimed with scipio's, for i had not the slightest doubt that before me stood monsieur dominique gayarre. it was he. a man of small stature he was, and thinly built, but evidently one who could endure a great deal before parting with life. he had all the subtle wiry look of the _carnivora_, as well as their disposition. the eyes, as already observed, obliqued strongly downwards. the balls were not globe-shaped, but rather obtuse cones, of which the pupil was the apex. both pupils and irides were black, and glistened like the eyes of a weasel. they seemed to sparkle in a sort of habitual smile; but this smile was purely cynical and deceptive. if any one knew themselves guilty of a weakness or a crime they felt certain that dominique gayarre knew it, and it was at this he was laughing. when a case of misfortune did really present itself to his knowledge, his smile became more intensely satirical, and his small prominent eyes sparkled with evident delight. he was a lover of himself and a hater of his kind. for the rest, he had black hair, thin and limp--shaggy dark brows, set obliquely--face without beard, of pale cadaverous hue, and surmounted by a parrot-beak nose of large dimensions. his dress had somewhat of a professional cut, and consisted of dark broadcloth, with vest of black satin; and around his neck, instead of cravat, he wore a broad black ribbon. in age he looked fifty. the doctor felt my pulse, asked me how i had slept, looked at my tongue, felt my pulse a second time, and then in a kindly way desired me to keep myself "as quiet as possible." as an inducement to do so he told me i was still very weak, that i had lost a good deal of blood, but hoped that a few days would restore me to my strength. scipio was charged with my diet, and was ordered to prepare tea, toast, and broiled chicken, for my breakfast. the doctor did not inquire how i came by my wound. this i thought somewhat strange, but ascribed it to his desire that i should remain quiet. he fancied, no doubt, that any allusion to the circumstances of the preceding night might cause me unnecessary excitement. i was too anxious about antoine to remain silent, and inquired the news. nothing more had been heard of him. he was certainly lost. i recounted the circumstances under which i had parted with him, and of course described my encounter with the bully, and how i had received the wound. i could not help remarking a strange expression that marked the features of gayarre as i spoke. he was all attention, and when i told of the raft of chairs, and expressed my conviction that they would not support the steward a single moment, i fancied i saw the dark eyes of the _avocat_ flashing with delight! there certainly was an expression in them of ill-concealed satisfaction that was hideous to behold. i might not have noticed this, or at all events not have understood it, but for what scipio had already told me. now its meaning was unmistakeable, and notwithstanding the "poor monsieur antoine!" to which the hypocrite repeatedly gave utterance, i saw plainly that he was secretly delighted at the idea of the old steward's having gone to the bottom! when i had finished my narrative, gayarre drew the doctor aside; and the two conversed for some moments in a low tone. i could hear part of what passed between them. the doctor seemed not to care whether i overheard him, while the other appeared equally anxious that their conversation should not reach me. from the replies of the doctor i could make out that the wily lawyer wished to have me removed from my present quarters, and taken to an hotel in the village. he urged the peculiar position in which the young lady (mademoiselle besancon) would be placed--alone in her house with a stranger--a young man, etcetera, etcetera. the doctor did not see the necessity of my removal on such grounds. the lady herself did not wish it--in fact, would not hear of it; he pooh-poohed the "peculiarity" of the "situation," good doctor reigart!-- the accommodation of the hotel was none of the best; besides, it was already crowded with other sufferers; and here the speaker's voice sank so low i could only catch odd phrases, as "stranger,", "not an american", "lost everything", "friends far away", "the hotel no place for a man without money." gayarre's reply to this last objection was that _he_ would be responsible for my hotel bill. this was intentionally spoken loud enough for me to hear it; and i should have felt grateful for such an offer, had i not suspected some sinister motive for the lawyer's generosity. the doctor met the proposal with still further objections. "impossible," said he; "bring on fever", "great risk", "would not take the responsibility", "bad wound", "much loss of blood", "must remain where he is for the present at least", "might be taken to the hotel in a day or two when stronger." the promise of my removal in a day or two appeared to satisfy the weasel gayarre, or rather he became satisfied that such was the only course that could be taken with me, and the consultation ended. gayarre now approached the bed to take leave, and i could trace that ironical expression playing in the pupils of his little eyes as he pronounced some pretended phrases of consolation. he little knew to whom he was speaking. had i uttered my name it would perhaps have brought the colour to his pale cheek, and caused him to make an abrupt exit. prudence prevented me from declaring it; and when the doctor requested to know upon whom he had the honour of attending, i adopted the pardonable strategy, in use among distinguished travellers, of giving a _nom du voyage_. i assumed my maternal patronymic of rutherford,--edward rutherford. recommending me to keep myself quiet, not to attempt leaving my bed, to take certain prescriptions at certain hours, etcetera, etcetera, the doctor took his leave; gayarre having already gone out before him. chapter seventeen. "aurore." i was for the moment alone, scipio having betaken himself to the kitchen in search of the tea, toast, and chicken "fixings." i lay reflecting upon the interview just ended, and especially upon the conversation between the doctor and gayarre, in which had occurred several points that suggested singular ideas. the conduct of the doctor was natural enough, indeed betokened the true gentleman; but for the other there was a sinister design--i could not doubt it. why the desire--an anxiety, in fact--to have me removed to the hotel? evidently there was some strong motive, since he proposed to pay the expenses; for from my slight knowledge of the man i knew him to be the very opposite to generous! "what can be his motive for my removal?" i asked myself. "ha! i have it--i have the explanation! i see through his designs clearly! this fox, this cunning _avocat_, this guardian, is no doubt in love with his own ward! she is young, rich, beautiful, a belle, and he old, ugly, mean, and contemptible; but what of that? he does not think himself either one or the other; and she--bah!--he may even hope: far less reasonable hopes have been crowned with success. he knows the world; he is a lawyer; he knows at least her world. he is her solicitor; holds her affairs entirely in his hands; he is guardian, executor, agent--all; has perfect and complete control. with such advantages, what can he not effect? all that he may desire--her marriage, or her ruin. poor lady! i pity her!" strange to say, it was only _pity_. that it was not another feeling was a mystery i could not comprehend. the entrance of scipio interrupted my reflections. a young girl assisted him with the plates and dishes. this was "chloe," his daughter, a child of thirteen, or thereabouts, but not black like the father! she was a "yellow girl," with rather handsome features. scipio explained this. the mother of his "leettle chlo," as he called her, was a mulatta, and "`chlo' hab taken arter de ole 'oman. hya! hya!" the tone of scipio's laugh showed that he was more than satisfied-- proud, in fact--of being the father of so light-skinned and pretty a little creature as chloe! chloe, like all her kind, was brimful of curiosity, and in rolling about the whites of her eyes to get a peep at the buckra stranger who had saved her mistress' life, she came near breaking cups, plates, and dishes; for which negligence scipio would have boxed her ears, but for my intercession. the odd expressions and gestures, the novel behaviour of both father and daughter, the peculiarity of this slave-life, interested me. i had a keen appetite, notwithstanding my weakness. i had eaten nothing on the boat; in the excitement of the race, supper had been forgotten by most of the passengers, myself among the number. scipio's preparations now put my palate in tune, and i did ample justice to the skill of chloe's mother, who, as scipio informed me, was "de boss in de kitchen." the tea strengthened me; the chicken, delicately fricasseed and garnished upon rice, seemed to refill my veins with fresh blood. with the exception of the slight pain of my wound, i already felt quite restored. my attendants removed the breakfast things, and after a while scipio returned to remain in the room with me, for such were his orders. "and now, scipio," i said, as soon as we were alone, "tell me of aurore!" "'rore, mass'r!" "yes--who is aurore?" "poor slave, mass'r; jes like ole zip heamseff." the vague interest i had begun to feel in "aurore" vanished at once. "a slave!" repeated i, involuntarily, and in a tone of disappointment. "she missa 'genie's maid," continued scipio; "dress missa's hair--wait on her--sit wi' her--read to her--do ebbery ting--" "read to her! what!--a slave?" my interest in aurore began to return. "ye, mass'r--daat do 'rore. but i 'splain to you. ole mass'r 'sancon berry good to de coloured people--teach many ob um read de books--'specially 'rore. 'rore he 'struckt read, write, many, many tings, and young missa 'genie she teach her de music. 'rore she 'complish gal--berry 'complish gal. know many ting; jes like de white folks. plays on de peany--plays on de guitar--guitar jes like banjo, an ole zip play on daat heamseff--he do. wugh!" "and withal, aurore is a poor slave just like the rest of you, scipio?" "oh! no, mass'r; she be berry different from de rest. she lib different life from de other nigga--she no hard work--she berry vallyble--she fetch two thousand dollar!" "fetch two thousand dollars!" "ye, mass'r, ebbery cent--ebbery cent ob daat." "how know you?" "'case daat much war bid for her. mass'r marigny want buy 'rore, an mass'r crozat, and de american colonel on de oder side ob ribber--dey all bid two thousand dollar--ole mass'r he only larf at um, and say he won't sell de gal for no money." "this was in old master's time?" "ye--ye--but one bid since--one boss ob ribber-boat--he say he want 'rore for de lady cabin. he talk rough to her. missa she angry--tell 'im go. mass'r toney he angry, tell 'im go; and de boat captain he go angry like de rest. hya! hya! hya!" "and why should aurore command such a price?" "oh! she berry good gal--berry good gal--but--" scipio hesitated a moment--"but--" "well?" "i don't b'lieve, mass'r, daat's de reason." "what, then?" "why, mass'r, to tell de troof, i b'lieve dar all bad men daat wanted to buy de gal." delicately as it was conveyed, i understood the insinuation. "ho! aurore must be beautiful, then? is it so, friend scipio?" "mass'r, 'taint for dis ole nigger to judge 'bout daat; but folks dey say--bof white folks an black folks--daat she am de best-lookin' an hansomest quaderoom in all loozyanna." "ha! a _quadroon_?" "daat are a fact, mass'r, daat same--she be a gal ob colour--nebber mind--she white as young missa herseff. missa larf and say so many, many time, but fr'all daat dar am great difference--one rich lady-- t'other poor slave--jes like ole zip--ay, jes like ole zip--buy 'em, sell 'em, all de same." "could you describe aurore, scipio?" it was not idle curiosity that prompted me to put this question. a stronger motive impelled me. the dream-face still haunted me--those features of strange type--its strangely-beautiful expression, not caucasian, not indian, not asiatic. was it possible--probable-- "could you describe her, scipio?" i repeated. "'scribe her, mass'r; daat what you mean? ye--yes." i had no hope of a very lucid painting, but perhaps a few "points" would serve to identify the likeness of my vision. in my mind the portrait was as plainly drawn as if the real face were before my eyes. i should easily tell if aurore and my dream were one. i began to think it was no dream, but a reality. "well, mass'r, some folks says she am proud, case de common niggers envy ob her--daat's de troof. she nebber proud to ole zip, daat i knows--she talk to 'im, an tell 'im many tings--she help teach ole zip read, and de ole chloe, and de leettle chloe, an she--" "it is a description of her person i ask for, scipio." "oh! a 'scription ob her person--ye--daat is, what am she like?" "so. what sort of hair, for instance? what colour is it?" "brack, mass'r; brack as a boot." "is it straight hair?" "no, mass'r--ob course not--aurore am a quaderoom." "it curls?" "well, not dzactly like this hyar;" here scipio pointed to his own kinky head-covering; "but for all daat, mass'r, it curls--what folks call de wave." "i understand; it falls down to her shoulders?" "daat it do, mass'r, down to de berry small ob her back." "luxuriant?" "what am dat, mass'r?" "thick--bushy." "golly! it am as bushy as de ole coon's tail." "now the eyes?" scipio's description of the quadroon's eyes was rather a confused one. he was happy in a simile, however, which i felt satisfied with: "dey am big an round--dey shine like de eyes of a deer." the nose puzzled him, but after some elaborate questioning, i could make out that it was straight and small. the eyebrows--the teeth--the complexion--were all faithfully pictured--that of the cheeks by a simile, "like de red ob a georgium peach." comic as was the description given, i had no inclination to be amused with it. i was too much interested in the result, and listened to every detail with an anxiety i could not account for. the portrait was finished at length, and i felt certain it must be that of the lovely apparition. when scipio had ended speaking, i lay upon my couch burning with an intense desire to see this fair--this priceless quadroon. just then a bell rang from the house. "scipio wanted, mass'r--daat him bell--be back, 'gain in a minute, mass'r." so saying, the negro left me, and ran towards the house. i lay reflecting on the singular--somewhat romantic--situation in which circumstances had suddenly placed me. but yesterday--but the night before--a traveller, without a dollar in my purse, and not knowing what roof would next shelter me--to-day the guest of a lady, young, rich, unmarried--the invalid guest--laid up for an indefinite period; well cared for and well attended. these thoughts soon gave way to others. the dream-face drove them out of my mind, and i found myself comparing it with scipio's picture of the quadroon. the more i did so, the more i was struck with their correspondence. how could i have dreamt a thing so palpable? scarce probable. surely i must have seen it? why not? forms and faces were around me when i fainted and was carried in; why not hers among the rest? this was, indeed, probable, and would explain all. but was she among them? i should ask scipio on his return. the long conversation i had held with my attendant had wearied me, weak and exhausted as i was. the bright sun shining across my chamber did not prevent me from feeling drowsy; and after a few minutes i sank back upon my pillow, and fell asleep. chapter eighteen. the creole and quadroon. i slept for perhaps an hour soundly. then something awoke me, and i lay for some moments only half sensible to outward impressions. pleasant impressions they were. sweet perfumes floated around me; and i could distinguish a soft, silky rustling, such as betokens the presence of well-dressed women. "he wakes, ma'amselle!" half whispered a sweet voice. my eyes, now open, rested upon the speaker. for some moments i thought it was but the continuation of my dream. there was the dream-face, the black profuse hair, the brilliant orbs, the arching brows, the small, curving lips, the damask cheek--all before me! "is it a dream? no--she breathes; she moves; she speaks!" "see! ma'amselle--he looks at us! surely he is awake!" "it is no dream, then--no vision; it is she--it is aurore!" up to this moment i was still but half conscious. the thought had passed from my lips; but, perhaps, only the last phrase was uttered loud enough to be heard. an ejaculation that followed fully awoke me, and i now saw two female forms close by the side of my couch. they stood regarding each other with looks of surprise. one was eugenie; beyond doubt the other was aurore! "your name!" said the astonished mistress. "my name!" repeated the equally astonished slave. "but how?--he knows your name--how?" "i cannot tell, ma'amselle." "have you been here before?" "no; not till this moment." "'tis very strange!" said the young lady, turning towards me with an inquiring glance. i was now awake, and in full possession of my senses--enough to perceive that i had been talking too loud. my knowledge of the quadroon's name would require an explanation, and for the life of me i knew not what to say. to tell what i had been thinking--to account for the expressions i had uttered--would have placed me in a very absurd position; and yet to maintain silence might leave ma'amselle besancon busy with some strange thoughts. something must be said--a little deceit was absolutely necessary. in hopes she would speak first, and, perchance, give me a key to what i should say, i remained for some moments without opening my lips. i pretended to feel pain from my wound, and turned uneasily on the bed. she seemed not to notice this, but remained in her attitude of surprise, simply repeating the words-- "'tis very strange he should know your name!" my imprudent speech had made an impression. i could remain silent no longer; and, turning my face once more, i pretended now for the first time to be aware of mademoiselle's presence, at the same time offering my congratulations, and expressing my joy at seeing her. after one or two anxious inquiries in relation to my wound, she asked-- "but how came you to name aurore?" "aurore!" i replied. "oh! you think it strange that i should know her name? thanks to scipio's faithful portraiture, i knew at the first glance that this was aurore." i pointed to the quadroon, who had retired a pace or two, and stood silent and evidently astonished. "oh! scipio has been speaking of her?" "yes, ma'amselle. he and i have had a busy morning of it. i have drawn largely on scipio's knowledge of plantation affairs. i am already acquainted with aunt chloe, and little chloe, and a whole host of your people. these things interest me who am strange to your louisiana life." "monsieur," replied the lady, seemingly satisfied with my explanation, "i am glad you are so well. the doctor has given me the assurance you will soon recover. noble stranger! i have heard how you received your wound. for me it was--in my defence. oh! how shall i ever repay you?-- how thank you for my life?" "no thanks, ma'amselle, are necessary. it was the fulfilment of a simple duty on my part. i ran no great risk in saving you." "no risk, monsieur! every risk--from the knife of an assassin--from the waves. no risk! but, monsieur, i can assure you my gratitude shall be in proportion to your generous gallantry. my heart tells me so;--alas, poor heart! it is filled at once with gratitude and grief." "yes, ma'amselle, i understand you have much to lament, in the loss of a faithful servant." "faithful servant, monsieur, say, rather, friend. faithful, indeed! since my poor father's death, he has been my father. all my cares were his; all my affairs in his hands. i knew not trouble. but now, alas! i know not what is before me." suddenly changing her manner, she eagerly inquired-- "when you last saw him, monsieur, you say he was struggling with the ruffian who wounded you?" "he was.--it was the last i saw of either. there is no hope--none--the boat went down a few moments after. poor antoine! poor antoine!" again she burst into tears, for she had evidently been weeping before. i could offer no consolation. i did not attempt it. it was better she should weep. tears alone could relieve her. "the coachman, pierre, too--one of the most devoted of my people--he, too, is lost. i grieve for him as well; but antoine was my father's friend--he was mine--oh! the loss--the loss;--friendless; and yet, perhaps, i _may soon need friends. pauvre antoine_!" she wept as she uttered these phrases. aurore was also in tears. i could not restrain myself--the eyes of childhood returned, and i too wept. this solemn scene was at length brought to a termination by eugenie, who appearing suddenly to gain the mastery over her grief, approached the bedside. "monsieur," said she, "i fear for some time you will find in me a sad host. i cannot easily forget my friend, but i know you will pardon me for thus indulging in a moment of sorrow. for the present, adieu! i shall return soon, and see that you are properly waited upon. i have lodged you in this little place, that you might be out of reach of noises that would disturb you. indeed i am to blame for this present intrusion. the doctor has ordered you not to be visited, but--i--i could not rest till i had seen the preserver of my life, and offered him my thanks. adieu, adieu! come, aurore!" i was left alone, and lay reflecting upon the interview. it had impressed me with a profound feeling of friendship for eugenie besancon;--more than friendship--sympathy: for i could not resist the belief that, somehow or other, she was in peril--that over that young heart, late so light and gay, a cloud was gathering. i felt for her regard, friendship, sympathy,--nothing more. and why nothing more? why did i not love her, young, rich, beautiful? why? because i loved another--_i loved aurore_! chapter nineteen. a louisian landscape. life in the chamber of an invalid--who cares to listen to its details? they can interest no one--scarce the invalid himself. mine was a daily routine of trifling acts, and consequent reflections--a monotony, broken, however, at intervals, by the life-giving presence of the being i loved. at such moments i was no longer _ennuye_; my spirit escaped from its death-like lassitude; and the sick chamber for the time seemed an elysium. alas! these scenes were but of a few minutes' duration, while the intervals between them were hours--long hours--so long, i fancied them days. twice every day i was visited by my fair host and her companion. neither ever came alone! there was constraint on my part, often bordering upon perplexity. my conversation was with the _creole_, my thoughts dwelt upon the _quadroon_. with the latter i dare but exchange glances. etiquette restrained the tongue, though all the conventionalities of the world could not hinder the eyes from speaking in their own silent but expressive language. even in this there was constraint. my love-glances were given by stealth. they were guided by a double dread. on one hand, the fear that their expression should not be understood and reciprocated by the quadroon. on the other, that they might be too well understood by the creole, who would regard me with scorn and contempt. i never dreamt that they might awaken jealousy--i thought not of such a thing. eugenie was sad, grateful, and friendly, but in her calm demeanour and firm tone of voice there was no sign of love. indeed the terrible shock occasioned by the tragic occurrence, appeared to have produced a complete change in her character. the sylph-like elasticity of her mind, formerly a characteristic, seemed to have quite forsaken her. from a gay girl she had all at once become a serious woman. she was not the less beautiful, but her beauty impressed me only as that of the statue. it failed to enter my heart, already filled with beauty of a still rarer and more glowing kind. the creole loved me not; and, strange to say, the reflection, instead of piquing my vanity, rather gratified me! how different when my thoughts dwelt upon the quadroon! did _she_ love me? this was the question, for whose answer my heart yearned with fond eagerness. she always attended upon mademoiselle during her visits; but not a word dare i exchange with _her_, although my heart was longing to yield up its secret. i even feared that my burning glances might betray me. oh! if mademoiselle but knew of my love, she would scorn and despise me. what! in love with a slave! her slave! i understood this feeling well--this black crime of her nation. what was it to me? why should i care for customs and conventionalities which i at heart despised, even outside the levelling influence of love? but under that influence, less did i care to respect them. in the eyes of love, rank loses its fictitious charm--titles seem trivial things. for me, beauty wears the crown. so far as regarded my feelings, i would not have cared a straw if the whole world had known of my love--not a straw for its scorn. but there were other considerations--the courtesy due to hospitality--to friendship; and there were considerations of a less delicate but still graver nature--the promptings of _prudence_. the situation in which i was placed was most peculiar, and i knew it. i knew that my passion, even if reciprocated, must be secret and silent. talk of making love to a young miss closely watched by governess or guardian--a ward in chancery--an heiress of expectant thousands! it is but "child's play" to break through the _entourage_ that surrounds one of such. to scribble sonnets and scale walls is but an easy task, compared with the bold effrontery that challenges the passions and prejudices of a people! my wooing promised to be anything but easy; my love-path was likely to be a rugged one. notwithstanding the monotony of confinement to my chamber, the hours of my convalescence passed pleasantly enough. everything was furnished me that could contribute to my comfort or recovery. ices, delicious drinks, flowers, rare and costly fruits, were constantly supplied to me. for my dishes i was indebted to the skill of scipio's helpmate, chloe, and through her i became acquainted with the creole delicacies of "gumbo", "fish chowder," fricasseed frogs, hot "waffles," stewed tomatoes, and many other dainties of the louisiana _cuisine_. from the hands of scipio himself i did not refuse a slice of "roasted 'possum," and went even so far as to taste a "'coon steak,"--but only once, and i regarded it as once too often. scipio, however, had no scruples about eating this fox-like creature, and could demolish the greater part of one at a single sitting! by degrees i became initiated into the little habitudes and customs of life upon a louisiana plantation. "ole zip" was my instructor, as he continued to be my constant attendant. when scipio's talk tired me, i had recourse to books, of which a good stock (mostly french authors,) filled the little book-case in my apartment. i found among them nearly every work that related to louisiana--a proof of rare judgment on the part of whoever had made the collection. among others, i read the graceful romance of chateaubriand, and the history of du pratz. in the former i could not help remarking that want of _vraisemblance_ which, in my opinion, forms the great charm of a novel; and which must ever be absent where an author attempts the painting of scenes or costumes not known to him by actual observation. with regard to the historian, he indulges largely in those childish exaggerations so characteristic of the writers of the time. this remark applies, without exception, to all the old writers on american subjects--whether english, spanish, or french--the chroniclers of two-headed snakes, crocodiles twenty yards long, and was big enough to swallow both horse and rider! indeed, it is difficult to conceive how these old authors gained credence for their incongruous stories; but it must be remembered that science was not then sufficiently advanced "to audit their accounts." more than in anything else was i interested in the adventures and melancholy fate of la salle; and i could not help wondering that american writers have done so little to illustrate the life of the brave chevalier--surely the most picturesque passage in their early history-- the story and the scene equally inviting. "the scene! ah! lovely indeed!" with such an exclamation did i hail it, when, for the first time, i sat at my window and gazed out upon a louisiana landscape. the windows, as in all creole houses, reached down to the floor; and seated in my lounge-chair, with the sashes wide open, with the beautiful french curtains thrown back, i commanded an extended view of the country. a gorgeous picture it presented. the pencil of the painter could scarcely exaggerate its vivid colouring. my window faces westward, and the great river rolls its yellow flood before my face, its ripples glittering like gold. on its farther shore i can see cultivated fields, where wave the tall graceful culms of the sugar-cane, easily distinguished from the tobacco-plant, of darker hue. upon the bank of the river, and nearly opposite, stands a noble mansion, something in the style of an italian villa, with green venetians and verandah. it is embowered in groves of orange and lemon-trees, whose frondage of yellowish green glistens gaily in the distance. no mountains meet the view--there is not a mountain in all louisiana; but the tall dark wall of cypress, rising against the western rim of the sky, produces an effect very similar to a mountain background. on my own side of the river the view is more gardenesque, as it consists principally of the enclosed pleasure-ground of the plantation besancon. here i study objects more in detail, and am able to note the species of trees that form the shrubbery. i observe the _magnolia_, with large white wax-like flowers, somewhat resembling the giant _nympha_ of guiana. some of these have already disappeared, and in their stead are seen the coral-red seed-cones, scarce less ornamental than the flowers themselves. side by side with this western-forest queen, almost rivalling her in beauty and fragrance, and almost rivalling her in fame, is a lovely exotic, a native of orient climes--though here long naturalised. its large doubly-pinnate leaves of dark and lighter green,--for both shades are observed on the same tree; its lavender-coloured flowers hanging in axillary clusters from the extremities of the shoots; its yellow cherry-like fruits--some of which are already formed,--all point out its species. it is one of the _meliaceae_, or honey-trees,--the "indian-lilac," or "pride of china" (_melia azedarach_). the nomenclature bestowed upon this fine tree by different nations indicates the estimation in which it is held. "tree of pre-eminence," lays the poetic persian, of whose land it is a native; "tree of paradise" (_arbor de paraiso_), echoes the spaniard, of whose land it is an exotic. such are its titles. many other trees, both natives and exotics, meet my gaze. among the former i behold the "catalpa," with its silvery bark and trumpet-shaped blossoms; the "osage orange," with its dark shining leaves; and the red mulberry, with thick shady foliage, and long crimson calkin-like fruits. of exotics i note the orange, the lime, the west indian guava (_psidium pyriferum_), and the guava of florida, with its boxwood leaves; the tamarisk, with its spreading minute foliage, and splendid panicles of pale rose-coloured flowers; the pomegranate, symbol of democracy--"the queen who carries her crown upon her bosom"--and the legendary but flowerless fig-tree, here not supported against the wall, but rising as a standard to the height of thirty feet. scarcely exotic are the _yuccas_, with their spherical heads of sharp radiating blades; scarcely exotic the _cactacea_, of varied forms--for species of both are indigenous to the soil, and both are found among the flora of a not far-distant region. the scene before my window is not one of still life. over the shrubbery i can see the white-painted gates leading to the mansion, and outside of these runs the levee road. although the foliage hinders me from a full view of the road itself, i see at intervals the people passing along it. in the dress of the creoles the sky-blue colour predominates, and the hats are usually palmetto, or "grass," or the costlier panama, with broad sun-protecting brims. now and then a negro gallops past, turbaned like a turk; for the chequered madras "toque" has much the appearance of the turkish head-dress, but is lighter and even more picturesque. now and then an open carriage rolls by, and i catch a glimpse of ladies in their gossamer summer-dresses. i hear their clear ringing laughter; and i know they are on their way to some gay festive scene. the travellers upon the road--the labourers in the distant cane-field, chanting their chorus songs--occasionally a boat booming past on the river--more frequently a flat silently floating downward--a "keel," or a raft with its red-shirted crew--are all before my eyes, emblems of active life. nearer still are the winged creatures that live and move around my window. the mock-bird (_turdus polyglotta_) pipes from the top of the tallest magnolia; and his cousin, the red-breast (_turdus migratorius_), half intoxicated with the berries of the _melia_, rivals him in his sweet song. the oriole hops among the orange-trees, and the bold red cardinal spreads his scarlet wings amidst the spray of the lower shrubbery. now and then i catch a glimpse of the "ruby-throat," coming and going like the sparkle of a gem. its favourite haunt is among the red and scentless flowers of the buck-eye, or the large trumpet-shaped blossoms of the _bignonia_. such was the view from the window of my chamber. i thought i never beheld so fair a scene. perhaps i was not looking upon it with an impartial eye. the love-light was in my glance, and that may have imparted to it a portion of its _couleur de rose_. i could not look upon the scene without thinking of that fair being, whose presence alone was wanted to make the picture perfect. chapter twenty. my journal. i varied the monotony of my invalid existence by keeping a journal. the journal of a sick chamber must naturally be barren of incident. mine was a diary of reflections rather than acts. i transcribe a few passages from it--not on account of any remarkable interest which they possess--but because, dotted down at the time, they represent more faithfully some of the thoughts and incidents that occurred to me during the remainder of my stay on the plantation besancon. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ _july th_.--to-day i am able to sit up and write a little. the weather is intensely hot. it would be intolerable were it not for the breeze which sweeps across my apartment, charged with the delicious perfume of the flowers. this breeze blows from the gulf of mexico, by lakes borgne, pontchartrain, and maauepas. i am more than one hundred miles from the gulf itself--that is, following the direction of the river--but these great inland seas deeply penetrate the delta of the mississippi, and through them the tidal wave approaches within a few miles of new orleans, and still farther to the north. sea-water might be reached through the swamps at a short distance to the rear of bringiers. this sea-breeze is a great benefit to the inhabitants of lower louisiana. without its cooling influence new orleans during the summer months would hardly be habitable. scipio tells me that a new "overseer" has arrived on the plantation, and thinks that he has been appointed through the agency of mass'r dominick. he brought a letter from the _avocat_. it is therefore probable enough. my attendant does not seem very favourably impressed with the new comer, whom he represents as a "poor white man from de norf, an a yankee at daat." among the blacks i find existing an antipathy towards what they are pleased to call "poor white men"--individuals who do not possess slave or landed property. the phrase itself expresses this antipathy; and when applied by a negro to a white man is regarded by the latter as a dire insult, and usually procures for the imprudent black a scoring with the "cowskin," or a slight "rubbing down" with the "oil of hickory." among the slaves there is a general impression that their most tyrannical "overseers" are from the new england states, or "yankees," as they are called in the south. this term, which foreigners apply contemptuously to all americans, in the united states has a restricted meaning; and when used reproachfully it is only applied to natives of new england. at other times it is used jocularly in a patriotic spirit; and in this sense every american is proud to call himself a yankee. among the southern blacks, "yankee" is a term of reproach, associated in their minds with poverty of fortune, meanness of spirit, wooden nutmegs, cypress hams, and such-like chicanes. sad and strange to say, it is also associated with the whip, the shackle, and the cowhide. strange, because these men are the natives of a land peculiarly distinguished for its puritanism! a land where the purest religion and strictest morality are professed. this would seem an anomaly, and yet perhaps it is not so much an anomaly after all. i had it explained to me by a southerner, who spoke thus:-- "the countries where puritan principles prevail are those which produce vice, and particularly the smaller vices, in greatest abundance. the villages of new england--the foci of blue laws and puritanism.--furnish the greatest number of the _nymphes du pave_ of new york, philadelphia, baltimore, and new orleans; and even furnish a large export of them to the catholic capital of cuba! from the same prolific soil spring most of the sharpers, quacks, and cheating traders, who disgrace the american name. this is not an anomaly. it is but the inexorable result of a pseudo-religion. outward observance, worship, sabbath-keeping, and the various forms, are engrafted in the mind; and thus, by complicating the true duties which man owes to his fellow-man, obscure or take precedence of them. the latter grow to be esteemed as only of secondary importance, and are consequently neglected." the explanation was at least ingenious. _july th_.--to-day, twice visited by mademoiselle; who, as usual, was accompanied by aurore. our conversation does not flow easily or freely, nor is it of long continuance. she (mademoiselle) is still evidently suffering, and there is a tone of sadness in everything she says. at first i attributed this to her sorrow for antoine, but it has now continued too long to be thus explained. some other grief presses upon her spirit. i suffer from restraint. the presence of aurore restrains me; and i can ill give utterance to those common-places required in an ordinary conversation. she (aurore) takes no part in the dialogue; but lingers by the door, or stands behind her mistress, respectfully listening. when i regard her steadfastly, her fringed eyelids droop, and shut out all communion with her soul. _oh that i could make her understand me_! _july th_.--scipio is confirmed in his dislike for the new overseer. his first impressions were correct. from two or three little matters which i have heard about this gentleman, i am satisfied that he is a bad successor to the good antoine. _a propos_ of poor antoine, it was reported that his body had been washed up among some drift-timber below the plantation; but the report proved incorrect. a body _was_ found, but not that of the steward. some other unfortunate, who had met with a similar fate. i wonder if the wretch who wounded me is yet above water! there are still many of the sufferers at bringiers. some have died of the injuries they received on board the boat. a terrible death is this scalding by steam. many who fancied themselves scarce injured, are now in their last agonies. the doctor has given me some details that are horrifying. one of the men, a "fireman," whose nose is nearly gone, and who is conscious that he has but a short while to live, requested to see his face in a looking-glass. upon the request being granted, he broke into a diabolical laugh, crying out at the same time, in a loud voice, "what a damned ugly corpse i'll make." this reckless indifference to life is a characteristic of these wild boatmen. the race of "mike fink" is not extinct: many true representatives of this demi-savage still navigate the great rivers of the west. _july th_. much better to-day. the doctor tells me that in a week i may leave my room. this is cheering; and yet a week seems a long while to one not used to being caged in this way. the books enable me to kill time famously. all honour to the men who make books! _july st_.--scipio's opinion of the new overseer is not improved. his name is "larkin." scipio says that he is well-known in the village as "bully bill larkin"--a soubriquet which may serve as a key to his character. several of the "field-hands" complain (to scipio) of his severity, which they say is daily on the increase. he goes about constantly armed with a "cowhide," and has already, once or twice, made use of it in a barbarous manner. to-day is sunday, and i can tell from the "hum" that reaches me from the negro "quarters," that it is a day of rejoicing. i can see the blacks passing the levee road, dressed in their gayest attire--the men in white _beaver_ hats, blue long-tailed coats, and shirts with enormous ruffles; the women in gaudy patterns of cotton, and not a few in silks brilliant enough for a ball-room! many carry silk parasols, of course of the brightest colours. one would almost be tempted to believe that in this slave-life there was no great hardship, after all; but the sight of mr larkin's cowhide must produce a very opposite impression. _july th_.--i noticed to-day more than ever the melancholy that seems to press upon the spirit of mademoiselle. i am now convinced that antoine's death is not the cause of it. there is some _present_ source of distraction, which renders her ill at ease. i have again observed that singular glance with which she at first regarded me; but it was so transitory, i could not read its meaning, and my heart and eyes were searching elsewhere. aurore gazes upon me less timidly, and seems to be interested in my conversation, though it is not addressed to her. would that it were! converse with her would perhaps relieve my heart, which burns all the more fiercely under the restraint of silence. _july th_.--several of the "field-hands" indulged too freely on yesternight. they had "passes" to the town, and came back late. "bully bill" has flogged them all this morning, and very severely--so as to draw the blood from their backs. this is rough enough for a _new_ overseer; but scipio learns that he is an "old hand" at the business. surely mademoiselle does not know of these barbarities! _july th_.--the doctor promises to let me out in three days. i have grown to esteem this man--particularly since i made the discovery that he is _not_ a friend of gayarre. he is not his medical attendant either. there is another _medico_ in the village, who has charge of monsieur dominique and his blacks, as also the slaves of the besancon plantation. the latter chanced to be out of the way, and so reigart was called to me. professional etiquette partly, and partly my own interference, forbade any change in this arrangement; and the latter continued to attend me. i have seen the other gentleman, who came once in reigart's company, and he appears much more suited to be the friend of the _avocat_. reigart is a stranger in bringiers, but seems to be rapidly rising in the esteem of the neighbouring planters. indeed, many of these--the "grandees" among them--keep physicians of their own, and pay them handsomely, too! it would be an unprofitable speculation to neglect the health of the slave; and on this account it is better looked after than that of the "poor white folks" in many a european state. i have endeavoured to draw from the doctor some facts, regarding the connexion existing between gayarre and the family of besancon. i could only make distant allusion to such a subject. i obtained no very satisfactory information. the doctor is what might be termed a "close man," and too much talking would not make one of his profession very popular in louisiana. he either knows but little of their affairs, or affects not to know; and yet, from some expressions that dropped from him, i suspect the latter to be the more probable. "poor young lady!" said he; "quite alone in the world. i believe there is an aunt, or something of the kind, who lives in new orleans, but she has no male relation to look after her affairs. gayarre seems to have everything in his hands." i gathered from the doctor that eugenie's father had been much richer at one period--one of the most extensive planters on the coast; that he had kept a sort of "open house," and dispensed hospitality in princely style. "fetes" on a grand scale had been given, and this more particularly of late years. even since his death profuse hospitality has been carried on, and mademoiselle continues to receive her father's guests after her father's fashion. suitors she has in plenty, but the doctor has heard of no one who is regarded in the light of a "lover." gayarre had been the intimate friend of besancon. why, no one could tell; for their natures were as opposite as the poles. it was thought by some that their friendship had a little of the character of that which usually exists between _debtor_ and _creditor_. the information thus imparted by the doctor confirms what scipio has already told me. it confirms, too, my suspicions in regard to the young creole, that there is a cloud upon the horizon of her future, darker than any that has shadowed her past--darker even than that produced by the memory of antoine! _july th_.--gayarre has been here to-day--at the house, i mean. in fact, he visits mademoiselle nearly every day; but scipio tells me something new and strange. it appears that some of the slaves who had been flogged, complained of the overseer to their young mistress; and she in her turn spoke to gayarre on the subject. his reply was that the "black rascals deserved all they had got, and more," and somewhat rudely upheld the ruffian larkin, who is beyond a doubt his _protege_. the lady was silent. scipio learns these facts from aurore. there is something ominous in all this. poor scipio has made me the confidant of another, and a private grief. he suspects that the overseer is looking too kindly upon "him kettle chloe." the brute! if this be so!--my blood boils at the thought--oh! slavery! ------------------------------------------------------------------------ _august nd_.--i hear of gayarre again. he has been to the house, and made a longer stay with mademoiselle than usual. what can he have to do with her? can his society be agreeable to her? surely that is impossible! and yet such frequent visits--such long conferences! if she marry such a man as this i pity her, poor victim!--for victim will she be. he must have some power over her to act as he is doing. he seems master of the plantation, says scipio, and issues his orders to every one with the air of its owner. all fear him and his "nigger-driver," as the ruffian larkin is called. the latter is more feared by scipio, who has noticed some further rude conduct on the part of the overseer towards "him leettle chloe." poor fellow! he is greatly distressed; and no wonder, when even the law does not allow him to protect the honour of his own child! i have promised to speak to mademoiselle about the affair; but i fear, from what reaches my ears, that she is almost as powerless as scipio himself! ------------------------------------------------------------------------ _august rd_.--to-day, for the first time, i am able to go out of my room. i have taken a walk through the shrubbery and garden. i encountered aurore among the orange-trees, gathering the golden fruit; but she was accompanied by little chloe, who held the basket. what would i not have given to have found her alone! a word or two only was i able to exchange with her, and she was gone. she expressed her pleasure at seeing me able to be abroad. she _seemed_ pleased; i fancied she felt so, i never saw her look so lovely. the exercise of shaking down the oranges had brought out the rich crimson bloom upon her cheeks, and her large brown eyes were shining like sapphires. her full bosom rose and fell with her excited breathing, and the light wrapper she wore enabled me to trace the noble outlines of her form. i was struck with the gracefulness of her gait as she walked away. it exhibited an undulating motion, produced by a peculiarity of figure--a certain _embonpoint_ characteristic of her race. she was large and womanly, yet of perfect proportion and fine delicate outlines. her hands were small and slender, and her little feet seemed hardly to press upon the pebbles. my eyes followed her in a delirium of admiration. the fire in my heart burned fiercer as i returned to my solitary chamber. chapter twenty one. a change of quarters. i was thinking over my short interview with aurore--congratulating myself upon some expressions she had dropped--happy in the anticipation that such encounters would recur frequently, now that i was able to be abroad--when in the midst of my pleasant reverie the door of my apartment became darkened. i looked up, and beheld the hated face of monsieur dominique gayarre. it was his first visit since the morning after my arrival upon the plantation. what could _he_ want with _me_? i was not kept long in suspense, for my visitor, without even apologising for his intrusion, opened his business abruptly and at once. "monsieur," began he, "i have made arrangements for your removal to the hotel at bringiers." "you have?" said i, interrupting him in a tone as abrupt and something more indignant than his own. "and who, sir, may i ask, has commissioned _you_ to take this trouble?" "ah--oh!" stammered he, somewhat tamed down by his brusque reception, "i beg pardon, monsieur. perhaps you are not aware that i am the agent-- the friend--in fact, the guardian of mademoiselle besancon--and--and--" "is it mademoiselle besancon's wish that i go to bringiers?" "well--the truth is--not exactly her wish; but you see, my dear sir, it is a delicate affair--your remaining here, now that you are almost quite recovered, upon which i congratulate you--and--and--" "go on, sir!" "your remaining here any longer--under the circumstances--would be--you can judge for yourself, sir--would be, in fact, a thing that would be talked about in the neighbourhood--in fact, considered highly improper." "hold, monsieur gayarre! i am old enough not to require lessons in etiquette from you, sir." "i beg pardon, sir. i do not mean that but--i--you will observe--i, as the lawful guardian of the young lady--" "enough, sir. i understand you perfectly. for _your purposes, whatever they be_, you do not wish me to remain any longer on this plantation. your desire shall be gratified. i shall leave the place, though certainly not with any intention of accommodating you. i shall go hence this very evening." the words upon which i had placed emphasis, startled the coward like a galvanic shock. i saw him turn pale as they were uttered, and the wrinkles deepened about his eyes. i had touched a chord, which he deemed a secret one, and its music sounded harsh to him. lawyer-like, however, he commanded himself, and without taking notice of my insinuation, replied in a tone of whining hypocrisy-- "my dear monsieur! i regret this necessity; but the fact is, you see-- the world--the busy, meddling world--" "spare your homilies, sir! your business, i fancy, is ended; at all events your company is no longer desired." "humph!" muttered he. "i regret you should take it in this way--i am sorry--" and with a string of similar incoherent phrases he made his exit. i stepped up to the door and looked after, to see which way he would take. he walked direct to the house! i saw him go in! this visit and its object had taken me by surprise, though i had not been without some anticipation of such an event. the conversation i had overheard between him and the doctor rendered it probable that such would be the result; though i hardly expected being obliged to change my quarters so soon. for another week or two i had intended to stay where i was. when quite recovered, i should have moved to the hotel of my own accord. i felt vexed, and for several reasons. it chagrined me to think that this wretch possessed such a controlling influence; for i did not believe that mademoiselle besancon had anything to do with my removal. quite the contrary. she had visited me but a few hours before, and not a word had been said of the matter. perhaps she might have thought of it, and did not desire to mention it? but no. this could hardly be. i noticed no change in her manner during the interview. the same kindness--the same interest in my recovery--the same solicitude about the little arrangements of my food and attendance, were shown by her up to the last moment. she evidently contemplated no change so sudden as that proposed by gayarre. reflection convinced me that the proposal had been made without any previous communication with _her_. what must be the influence of this man, that he dare thus step between her and the rites of hospitality? it was a painful thought to me, to see this fair creature in the power of such a villain. but another thought was still more painful--the thought of parting with aurore. though i did not fancy that parting was to be for ever. no! had i believed that, i should not have yielded so easily. i should have put monsieur dominique to the necessity of a positive expulsion. of course, i had no apprehension that by removing to the village i should be debarred from visiting the plantation as often as i felt inclined. had that been the condition, my reflections would have been painful indeed. after all, the change would signify little. i should return as a visitor, and in that character be more independent than as a guest--more free, perhaps, to approach the object of my love! i could come as often as i pleased. the same opportunities of seeing her would still be open to me. i wanted but one--one moment alone with aurore--and then bliss or blighted hopes! but there were other considerations that troubled me at this moment. how was i to live at the hotel? would the proprietor believe in promises, and wait until my letters, already sent off, could be answered? already i had been provided with suitable apparel, mysteriously indeed. i awoke one morning and found it by my bedside. i made no inquiry as to how it came there. that would be an after-consideration; but with regard to money, how was that to be obtained? must i become _her_ debtor? or am i to be under obligations to gayarre? cruel dilemma! at this juncture i thought of reigart. his calm, kind face came up before me. "an alternative!" soliloquised i; "he will help me!" the thought seemed to have summoned him; for at that moment the good doctor entered the room, and became the confidant of my wishes. i had not misjudged him. his purse lay open upon the table; and i became his debtor for as much of its contents as i stood in need of. "very strange!" said he, "this desire of hurrying you off on the part of monsieur gayarre. there is something more in it than solicitude for the character of the lady. something more: what can it all mean?" the doctor said this partly in soliloquy, and as if searching his own thoughts for an answer. "i am almost a stranger to mademoiselle besancon," he continued, "else i should deem it my duty to know more of this matter. but monsieur gayarre is her guardian; and if he desire you to leave, it will perhaps be wiser to do so. _she may not be her own mistress entirely_. poor thing! i fear there is debt at the bottom of the mystery; and if so, she will be more a slave than any of her own people. poor young lady!" reigart was right. my remaining longer might add to her embarrassments. i felt satisfied of this. "i am desirous to go at once, doctor." "my barouche is at the gate, then. you can have a seat in it. i can set you down at the hotel." "thanks, thanks! the very thing i should have asked of you, and i accept your offer. i have but few preparations to make, and will be ready for you in a moment." "shall i step over to the house, and prepare mademoiselle for your departure?" "be so kind. i believe gayarre is now there?" "no. i met him near the gate of his own plantation, returning home. i think she is alone. i shall see her and return for you." the doctor left me, and walked over to the house. he was absent but a few minutes, when he returned to make his report. he was still further perplexed at what he had learnt. mademoiselle had heard from gayarre, just an hour before, that _i had expressed my intention_ of removing to the hotel! she had been surprised at this, as i had said nothing about it at our late interview. she would not hear of it at first, but gayarre had used _arguments_ to convince her of the policy of such a step; and the doctor, on my part, had also urged it. she had at length, though reluctantly, consented. such was the report of the doctor, who further informed me that she was waiting to receive me. guided by scipio, i made my way to the drawing-room. i found her seated; but upon my entrance she rose, and came forward to meet me with both hands extended. i saw that _she was in tears_! "is it true you intend leaving us, monsieur?" "yes, mademoiselle; i am now quite strong again. i have come to thank you for your kind hospitality, and say adieu." "hospitality!--ah, monsieur, you have reason to think it cold hospitality since i permit you to leave us so soon. i would you had remained; but--" here she became embarrassed: "but--you are not to be a stranger, although you go to the hotel. bringiers is near; promise that you will visit us often--in fact, every day?" i need not say that the promise was freely and joyfully given. "now," said she, "since you have given that promise, with less regret i can say adieu!" she extended her hand for a parting salute. i took her fingers in mine, and respectfully kissed them. i saw the tears freshly filling in her eyes, as she turned away to conceal them. i was convinced she was acting under constraint, and against her inclination, else i should not have been allowed to depart. hers was not the spirit to fear gossip or scandal. some other _pressure_ was upon her. i was passing out through the hall, my eyes eagerly turning in every direction. where was _she_? was i not to have _even a parting word_! at that moment a side-door was gently opened. my heart beat wildly as it turned upon its hinge. aurore! i dare not trust myself to speak aloud. it would have been overheard in the drawing-room. a look, a whisper, a silent pressure of the hand, and i hurried away; but the return of that pressure, slight and almost imperceptible as it was, fired my veins with delight; and i walked on towards the gate with the proud step of a conqueror. chapter twenty two. aurore loves me. "_aurore loves me_!" the thought thus expressed was of younger date than the day of my removing to bringiers from the plantation. a month had elapsed since that day. the details of my life during that month would possess but little interest for you, reader; though to me every hour was fraught with hopes or fears that still hold a vivid place in my memory. when the heart is charged with love, every trifle connected with that love assumes the magnitude of an important matter; and thoughts or incidents that otherwise would soon be forgotten, hold a firm place in the memory. i could write a volume about my affairs of that month, every line of which would be deeply interesting to _me_, but not to _you_. therefore i write it not; i shall not even present you with the journal that holds its history. i continued to live in the hotel at bringiers. i grew rapidly stronger. i spent most of my time in rambling through the fields and along the levee--boating upon the river--fishing in the bayous--hunting through the cane-breaks and cypress-swamps, and occasionally killing time at a game of billiards, for every louisiana village has its billiard salon. the society of reigart, whom i now called friend, i enjoyed--when his professional engagements permitted. his books, too, were my friends; and from these i drew my first lessons in botany. i studied the _sylva_ of the surrounding woods, till at a glance i could distinguish every tree and its kind--the giant cypress, emblem of sorrow, with tall shaft shooting out of the apex of its pyramidal base, and crowned with its full head of sad dark foliage,-- sadder from its drapery of _tillandsia_; the "tupelo" (_nyssa aquatica_), that nymph that loves the water, with long delicate leaves and olive-like fruit--the "persimmon," or "american lotus" (_diospyros virginiana_), with its beautiful green foliage and red date-plums--the gorgeous magnolia grandiflora, and its congener, the tall tulip-tree (_liriodendron tulipifera_)--the water-locust (_gleditschia monosperma_); and, of the same genus, the three-thorned honey-locust (_triacanthos_), whose light pinnated leaves scarce veil the sun--the sycamore (_platanus_), with its smooth trunk and wide-reaching limbs of silvery hue--the sweet-gum (_liquidambar styraciflua_), exuding its golden drops--the aromatic but sanitary "sassafras" (_laurus sassafras_)--the "red-bay" (_laurus caroliniensis_), of cinnamon-like aroma--the oaks of many species, at the head of which might be placed that majestic evergreen of the southern forests, the "live-oak" (_quercus virens_)--the "red ash," with its hanging bunches of _samarce_--the shady nettle-tree (_celtis crassifolia_), with its large cordate leaves and black drupes--and last, though not least interesting, the water-loving cotton-wood (_populus angulata_). such is the sylva that covers the alluvion of louisiana. it is a region beyond the limits of the true palm-tree; but this has its representative in the palmetto--"latanier" of the french--the _sabal_ palm of the botanist, of more than one species, forming in many places the underwood, and giving a tropical character to the forest. i studied the parasites--the huge llianas, with branches like tree-trunks, black and gnarled; the cane-vines, with pretty star-like flowers; the muscadine grape-vines, with their dark purple clusters; the _bignonias_, with trumpet-shaped corollas; the _smilacae_, among which are conspicuous the _smilax rotundifolia_, the thick bamboo-briar, and the balsamic sarsaparilla. not less interesting were the vegetable forms of cultivation--the "staples" from which are drawn the wealth of the land. these were the sugar-cane, the rice-reed, the maize and tobacco-plants, the cotton shrub, and the indigo. all were new to me, and i studied their propagation and culture with interest. though a month apparently passed in idleness, it was, perhaps, one of the most profitably employed of my life. in that short month i acquired more real knowledge than i had done during years of classic study. but i had learnt one fact that i prized above all, and that was, that _i was beloved by aurore_! i learnt it not from her lips--no words had given me the assurance--and yet i was certain that it _was_ so; certain as that i lived. not all the knowledge in the world could have given me the pleasure of that one thought! ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "_aurora loves me_!" this was my exclamation, as one morning i emerged from the village upon the road leading to the plantation. three times a week--sometimes even more frequently--i had made this journey. sometimes i encountered strangers at the house--friends of mademoiselle. sometimes i found her alone, or in company with aurore. the latter i could never find alone! oh! how i longed for that opportunity! my visits, of course, were ostensibly to mademoiselle. i dared not seek an interflow with the slave. eugenie still preserved the air of melancholy, that now appeared to have settled upon her. sometimes she was even sad,--at no time cheerful. as i was not made the confidant of her sorrows, i could only guess at the cause. gayarre, of course, i believed to be the fiend. of him i had learnt little. he shunned me on the road, or in the fields; and upon _his_ grounds i never trespassed. i found that he was held in but little respect, except among those who worshipped his wealth. how he was prospering in his suit with eugenie i knew not. the world talked of such a thing as among the "probabilities"--though one of the strange ones, it was deemed. i had sympathy for the young creole, but i might have felt it more profoundly under other circumstances. as it was, my whole soul was under the influence of a stronger passion--my love for aurore. "yes--aurore loves me!" i repeated to myself as i passed out from the village, and faced down the levee road. i was mounted. reigart, in his generous hospitality, had even made me master of a horse--a fine animal that rose buoyantly under me, as though he was also imbued by some noble passion. my well-trained steed followed the path without need of guidance, and dropping the bridle upon his neck, i left him to go at will, and pursued the train of my reflections. i loved this young girl--passionately and devotedly i loved her. she loved me. she had not declared it in words, but her looks; and now and then a slight incident--scarce more than a fleeting glance or gesture-- had convinced me that it was so. love taught me its own language. i needed no interpreter--no tongue to tell i was beloved. these reflections were pleasant, far more than pleasant; but others followed them of a very different nature. with whom was i in love? a slave! true, a beautiful slave--but still a slave! how the world would laugh! how louisiana would laugh--nay, scorn and persecute! the very proposal to make her my wife would subject me to derision and abuse. "what! marry a slave! 'tis contrary to the laws of the land!" dared i to marry her--even were she free?--she, a _quadroon_!--i should be hunted from the land, or shut up in one of its prisons! all this i knew, but not one straw cared i for it. the world's obloquy in one scale, my love for aurore in the other--the former weighed but a feather. true, i had deep regret that aurore was a slave, but it sprang not from that consideration. far different was the reason of my regret. _how was i to obtain her freedom_? that was the question that troubled me. up to this time i had made light of the matter. before i knew that i was beloved it seemed a sequence very remote. but it was now brought nearer, and all the faculties of my mind became concentrated on that one thought--"how was i to obtain her freedom?" had she been an ordinary slave, the answer would have been easy enough; for though not rich, my fortune was still equal to the _price of a human being_! in my eyes aurore was priceless. would she also appear so in the eyes of her young mistress? was my bride for sale on any terms? but even if money should be deemed an equivalent, would mademoiselle _sell_ her to _me_? an odd proposal, that of buying _her_ slave for my wife! what would eugenie besancon think of it? the very idea of this proposal awed me; but the time to make it had not yet arrived. i must first have an interview with aurore, demand a confession of her love, and then, if she consent to become mine,--_my wife_,--the rest may be arranged. i see not clearly the way, but a love like mine will triumph over everything. my passion nerves me with power, with courage, with energy. obstacles must yield; opposing wills be coaxed or crushed; everything must give way that stands between myself and my love! "aurore! i come! i come!" chapter twenty three. a surprise. my reflections were interrupted by the neighing of my horse. i glanced forward to ascertain the cause. i was opposite the plantation besancon. a carriage was just wheeling out from the gate. the horses were headed down the levee road, and going off at a trot, were soon lost behind the cloud of dust raised by the hoofs and wheels. i recognised the carriage. it was the barouche of mademoiselle besancon. i could not tell who were its occupants, though, from the slight glimpse i had got of them, i saw there were ladies in it. "mademoiselle herself, accompanied by aurore, no doubt." i believed that they had not observed me, as the high fence concealed all but my head, and the carriage had turned abruptly on passing out of the gate. i felt disappointed. i had had my ride for nothing, and might now ride back again to bringiers. i had drawn bridle with this intent, when it occurred to me i could still overtake the carriage and change words with its occupants. with _her_, even the interchange of a glance was worth such a gallop. i laid the spur to the ribs of my horse and sprang him forward. as i came opposite the house i saw scipio by the gate. he was just closing it after the carriage. "oh!" thought i, "i may as well be sure as to whom i am galloping after." with this idea i inclined my horse's head a little, and drew up in front of scipio. "gollies! how young mass'r ride! ef he don't do daat business jes up to de hub! daat 'im do. wugh!" without taking notice of his complimentary speech, i inquired hastily if mademoiselle was at home. "no, mass'r, she jes dis moment gone out--she drive to mass'r marigny." "alone?" "ye, mass'r." "of course aurore is with her?" "no, mass'r; she gone out by harseff. 'rore, she 'tay at home." if the negro had been observant he might have noticed the effect of this announcement upon me, for i am sure it must have been sufficiently apparent. i felt it in the instant upheaving of my heart, and the flushing that suddenly fevered my cheeks. "aurore at home, and alone!" it was the first time during all the course of my wooing that such a "chance" had offered; and i almost gave expression to my agreeable surprise. fortunately i did not; for even the faithful scipio was not to be trusted with such a secret. with an effort i collected myself, and tamed down my horse, now chafing to continue his gallop. in doing so his head was turned in the direction of the village. scipio thought i was going to ride back. "sure mass'r not go till he rest a bit? missa 'genie not home, but dar am 'rore. 'rore get mass'r glass ob claret; ole zip make um sangaree. day berry, berry hot. wugh!" "you are about right, scipio," i replied, pretending to yield to his persuasion. "take my horse round to the stable. i shall rest a few minutes." i dismounted, and, passing the bridle to scipio, stepped inside the gate. it was about a hundred paces to the house, by the direct walk that led from the gate to the front door. but there were two other paths, that wound around the sides of the shrubbery, through copses of low trees-- laurels, myrtles, and oranges. a person approaching by either of these could not be seen from the house until close to the very windows. from each of these paths the low verandah could be reached without going by the front. there were steps leading into it--into the interior of the house as well--for the windows that fronted upon the verandah were, after the creole fashion, glass folding-doors, that opened to the bottom, so that the floors of the rooms and verandah-platform were upon the same level. on passing through the gate, i turned into one of these side-paths (for certain reasons giving it the preference), and walked silently on towards the house. i had taken the longer way, and advanced slowly for the purpose of composing myself. i could hear the beating of my own heart, and feel its quick nervous throbs, quicker than my steps, as i approached the long-desired interview. i believe i should have been more collected in going up to the muzzle of an antagonist's pistol! the long yearning for such an opportunity--the well-known difficulty of obtaining it--the anticipation of that sweetest pleasure on earth--the pleasure of being alone with her i loved--all blended in my thoughts. no wonder they were wild and somewhat bewildered. i should now meet aurore face to face alone, with but love's god as a witness. i should speak unrestrainedly and free. i should hear _her_ voice, listen to the soft confession that she loved me. i should fold her in my arms--against my bosom! i should drink love from her swimming eyes, taste it on her crimson cheek, her coral lips! oh, i should speak love, and hear it spoken! i should listen to its delirious ravings! a heaven of happiness was before me. no wonder my thoughts were wild-- no wonder i vainly strove to calm them. i reached the house, and mounted the two or three steps that led up into the verandah. the latter was carpeted with a mat of sea-grass, and my _chaussure_ was light, so that my tread was as silent as that of a girl. it could scarce have been heard within the chamber whose windows i was passing. i proceeded on toward the drawing-room, which opened to the front by two of the large door-windows already mentioned. i turned the angle, and the next moment would have passed the first of these windows, had a sound not reached me that caused me to arrest my steps. the sound was a voice that came from the drawing-room, whose windows stood open. i listened--it was the voice of aurore! "in conversation with some one! with whom? perhaps little chloe? her mother? some one of the domestics?" i listened. "by heaven! it is the voice of a man! who can he be? scipio? no; scipio cannot yet have left the stable. it cannot be he. some other of the plantation people? jules, the wood-chopper? the errand-boy, baptiste? ha! it is not a negro's voice. no, it is the voice of a white man! the overseer?" as this idea came into my head, a pang at the same time shot through my heart--a pang, not of jealousy, but something like it. i was angry at _him_ rather than jealous with _her_. as yet i had heard nothing to make me jealous. his being present with her, and in conversation, was no cause. "so, my bold nigger-driver," thought i, "you have got over your predilection for the little chloe. not to be wondered at! who would waste time gazing at stars when there is such a moon in the sky? brute that you are, you are not blind. i see you, too, have an eye to opportunities, and know when to enter the drawing-room." "hush!" again i listened. when i had first halted, it was through motives of delicacy. i did not wish to appear too suddenly before the open window, which would have given me a full view of the interior of the apartment. i had paused, intending to herald my approach by some noise--a feigned cough, or a stroke of my foot against the floor. my motives had undergone a change. i now listened with a design. i could not help it. aurore was speaking. i bent my ear close to the window. the voice was at too great a distance, or uttered too low, for me to hear what was said. i could hear the silvery tones, but could not distinguish the words. she must be at the further end of the room, thought i. _perhaps, upon the sofa_. this conjecture led me to painful imaginings, till the throbbings of my heart drowned the murmur that was causing them. at length aurore's speech was ended. i waited for the reply. perhaps i might gather from that what _she_ had said. the tones of the male voice would be loud enough to enable me-- hush! hark! i listened--i caught the sound of a voice, but not the words. the sound was enough. it caused me to start as if stung by an adder. _it was the voice of monsieur dominique gayarre_! chapter twenty four. a rival. i cannot describe the effect produced upon me by this discovery. it was like a shock of paralysis. it nailed me to the spot, and for some moments i felt as rigid as a statue, and almost as senseless. even had the words uttered by gayarre been loud enough to reach me, i should scarce have heard them. my surprise for the moment had rendered me deaf. the antagonism i had conceived towards the speaker, so long as i believed it to be the brute larkin, was of a gentle character compared with that which agitated me now. larkin might be young and handsome; by scipio's account, the latter he certainly was _not_: but even so, i had little fear of _his_ rivalry. i felt confident that i held the heart of aurore, and i knew that the overseer had no power over _her person_. he was overseer of the field-hands, and other slaves of the plantation-- their master, with full licence of tongue and lash; but with all that, i knew that he had no authority over aurore. for reasons i could not fathom, the treatment of the quadroon was, and had always been, different from the other slaves of the plantation. it was not the whiteness of her skin--her beauty neither--that had gained her this distinction. these, it is true, often modify the hard lot of the female slave, sometimes detailing upon her a still more cruel fate; but in the case of aurore, there was some very different reason for the kindness shown her, though _i_ could only _guess_ at it. she had been tenderly reared alongside her young mistress, had received almost as good an education, and, in fact, was treated rather as a _sister_ than a _slave_. except from mademoiselle, she received no commands. the "nigger-driver" had nothing to do with her. i had therefore no dread of any unlawful influence on his part. far different were my suspicions when i found the voice belonged to gayarre. _he_ had power not only over the slave, but the mistress as well. though suitor,--as i still believed him,--of mademoiselle, he could not be blind to the superior charms of aurore. hideous wretch as i thought him, he might for all be sensible to love. the plainest may have a passion for the fairest. the beast loved beauty. the hour he had chosen for his visit, too! that was suspicious of itself. just as mademoiselle had driven out! had he been there before she went out and been left by her in the house? not likely. scipio know nothing of his being there, else he would have told me. the black was aware of my antipathy to gayarre, and that i did not desire to meet him. he would certainly have told me. "no doubt," thought i, "the visit is a stolen one--the lawyer has come the back way from his own plantation, has watched till the carriage drove off, and then skulked in for the very purpose of finding the quadroon alone!" all this flashed upon my mind with the force of conviction, i no longer doubted that his presence there was the result of design, and not a mere accident. he was _after_ aurore. my thoughts took this homely shape. when the first shock of my surprise had passed away, my senses returned, fuller and more vigorous than ever. my nerves seemed freshly strung, and my ears new set. i placed them as close to the open window as prudence would allow, and listened. it was not _honourable_, i own, but in dealing with this wretch i seemed to lose all sense of honour. by the peculiar circumstances of that moment i was tempted from the strict path, but it was the "eavesdropping" of a jealous lover, and i cry you mercy for the act. i listened. with an effort i stifled the feverish throbbings of my heart, and listened. and i heard every word that from that moment was said. the voices had become louder, or rather the speakers had approached nearer. they were but a few feet from the window! gayarre was speaking. "and does this young fellow dare to make love to your mistress?" "monsieur dominique, how should i know? i am sure i never saw aught of the kind. he is very modest, and so mademoiselle thinks him. i never knew him to speak one word of love,--not he." i fancied i heard a sigh. "if he dare," rejoined gayarre in a tone of bravado; "if he dare hint at such a thing to mademoiselle--ay, or _even to you_, aurore--i shall make the place too hot for him. he shall visit here no more, the naked adventurer! on that i am resolved." "oh, monsieur gayarre! i'm sure that would vex mademoiselle very much. remember! he saved her life. she is full of gratitude to him. she continually talks of it, and it would grieve her if monsieur edouard was to come no more. i am sure it would grieve her." there was an earnestness, a half-entreaty, in the tone of the speaker that sounded pleasant to my ears. it suggested the idea that _she, too, might be grieved_ if monsieur edouard were to come no more. a like thought seemed to occur to gayarre, upon whom, however, it made a very different sort of impression. there was irony mixed with anger in his reply, which was half interrogative. "perhaps it would grieve _some one else_? perhaps you? all, indeed! is it so? you love him? _sacr-r-r-r_!" there was a hissing emphasis upon the concluding word, that expressed anger and pain,--the pain of bitter jealousy. "oh monsieur!" replied the quadroon, "how can you speak thus? _i_ love! i,--a poor slave! alas! alas!" neither the tone nor substance of this speech exactly pleased me. i felt a hope, however, that it was but one of the little stratagems of love: a species of deceit i could easily pardon. it seemed to produce a pleasant effect on gayarre, for all at once his voice changed to a lighter and gayer tone. "you a _slave_, beautiful aurore! no, in my eyes you are a _queen_, aurore. slave! it is your fault if you remain so. you know who has the power to make you free: ay, and the will too,--the will,--aurore!" "please not to talk thus, monsieur dominique! i have said before i cannot listen to such speech. i repeat i cannot, and _will_ not!" the firm tone was grateful to my ears. "nay, lovely aurore!" replied gayarre, entreatingly, "don't be angry with me! i cannot help it. i cannot help thinking of your welfare. you _shall_ be free;--no longer the slave of a capricious mistress--" "monsieur gayarre!" exclaimed the quadroon, interrupting him, "speak not so of mademoiselle! you wrong her, monsieur. she is not capricious. what if she heard--" "_peste_!" cried gayarre, interrupting in his turn, and again assuming his tone of bravado. "what care i if she did? think you i trouble my head about her? the world thinks so! ha! ha! ha! let them!--the fools! ha! ha! one day they may find it different! ha! ha! they think my visits here are on _her_ account! ha! ha! ha! no, aurore,--lovely aurore! it is not mademoiselle i come to see, but _you_,--you, aurore,-- whom i _love_,--ay, love with all--" "monsieur dominique! i repeat--" "dearest aurore! say you will but love me; say but the word! oh, speak it! you shall be no longer a slave,--you shall be free as your mistress is;--you shall have everything,--every pleasure,--dresses, jewels, at will; my house shall be under your control,--you shall command in it, _as if you were my wife_." "enough, monsieur! enough! your insult--i hear no more!" the voice was firm and indignant. hurrah! "nay, dearest, loveliest aurore! do not go yet,--hear me--" "i hear no more, sir,--mademoiselle shall know--" "a word, a word! one kiss, aurore! on my knees, i beg--" i heard the knocking of a pair of knees on the floor, followed by a struggling sound, and loud angry exclamations on the part of aurore. this i considered to be my cue, and three steps brought me within the room, and within as many feet of the kneeling gallant. the wretch was actually on his "marrow-bones," holding the girl by the wrist, and endeavouring to draw her towards him. she, on the contrary, was exerting all her women's strength to get away; which, not being so inconsiderable, resulted in the ludicrous spectacle of the kneeling suitor being dragged somewhat rapidly across the carpet! his back was toward me as i entered, and the first intimation he had of my presence was a boisterous laugh, which for the life of me i could not restrain. it lasted until long after he had released his captive, and gathered his limbs into an upright position; and, indeed, so loud did it sound in my own ears, that i did not hear the threats of vengeance he was muttering in return. "what business have _you_ here, sir?" was his first intelligible question. "i need not ask the same of you, monsieur dominique gayarre. _your_ business i can tell well enough ha! ha! ha!" "i ask you, sir," he repeated, in a still angrier tone, "what's your business here?" "i did not come here on _business_, monsieur," said i, still keeping up the tone of levity. "i did not come here on business, _any more than yourself_." the emphasis on the last words seemed to render him furious. "the sooner you go the better, then," he shouted, with a bullying frown. "for whom?" i inquired. "for yourself, sir," was the reply. i had now also lost temper, though not altogether command of myself. "monsieur," said i, advancing and confronting him, "i have yet to learn that the house of mademoiselle besancon is the property of monsieur dominique gayarre. if it were so, i would be less disposed to respect the sanctity of its roof. you, sir, have not respected it. you have acted infamously towards this young girl--this young _lady_, for she merits the title as much as the best blood in your land. i have witnessed your dastardly conduct, and heard your insulting proposals--" here gayarre started, but said nothing. i continued-- "you are not a gentleman, sir; and therefore not worthy to stand before my pistol. the owner of this house is not at home. at present it is as much mine as yours; and i promise you, that if you are not out of it in ten seconds you shall have my whip laid with severity upon your shoulders." i said all this in a tone sufficiently moderate, and in cool blood. gayarre must have seen that i meant it, for i _did_ mean it. "you shall pay dearly for this," he hissed out. "you shall find that this is not the country for a _spy_." "go, sir!" "and you, my fine pattern of quadroon virtue," he added, bending a malicious glance upon aurore, "there may come a day when you'll be less prudish: a day when you'll not find such a gallant protector." "another word, and--" the uplifted whip would have fallen on his shoulders. he did not wait for that, but gliding through the door, shuffled off over the verandah. i stopped outside to make sure that he was gone. advancing to the end of the platform i looked over the paling. the chattering of the birds told me that some one was passing through the shrubbery. i watched till i saw the gate open. i could just distinguish a head above the palings moving along the road. i easily recognised it as that of the disappointed seducer. as i turned back, towards the drawing-room i forgot that such a creature existed! chapter twenty five. an hour of bliss. sweet is gratitude under any circumstances; how much sweeter when expressed in the eyes and uttered by the lips of those we love! i re-entered the room, my heart swelling with delightful emotions. gratitude was poured forth in, lavish yet graceful expressions. before i could utter a word, or stretch out a hand to hinder, the beautiful girl had glided across the room, and fallen into a kneeling posture at my feet! her thanks came from her heart. "rise, lovely aurore!" said i, taking her unresisting hand, and leading her to a seat. "what i have done is scarce worth thanks like thine. who would have acted otherwise?" "ah, monsieur!--many, many. you know not this land. there are few to protect the poor slave. the chivalry, so much boasted here, extends not to _us_. we, in whose veins runs the accursed blood, are beyond the pale both of honour and protection. ah me, noble stranger! you know not for how much i am your debtor!" "call me not _stranger_, aurore. it is true we have had but slight opportunity of conversing, but our acquaintance is old enough to render that title no longer applicable. i would you would speak to me by one more _endearing_." "endearing! monsieur, i do not understand you!" her large brown eyes were fixed upon me in a gaze of wonder, but they also interrogated me. "yes, endearing--i mean, aurore--that you will not shun me--that you will give me your confidence--that you will regard me as a friend--a-- a--brother." "you, monsieur! you as my brother--a white--a gentleman, high-born and educated! i--i--oh heavens! what am i? a slave--a slave--whom men love only to _ruin_. o god!--why is my destiny so hard? o god!" "aurore!" i cried, gathering courage from her agony, "aurore, listen to me! to me, your friend, your--" she removed her hands that had been clasped across her face, and looked up. her swimming eyes were bent steadfastly upon mine, and regarded me with a look of interrogation. at that moment a train of thought crossed my mind. in words it was thus: "how long may we be alone? we may be interrupted? so fair an opportunity may not offer again. there is no time to waste in idle converse. i must at once to the object of my visit." "aurore!" i said, "it is the first time we have met alone. i have longed for this interview. i have a word that can only be spoken to you alone." "to me alone, monsieur! what is it?" "_aurore, i love you_!" "love _me_! oh, monsieur, it is not possible!" "ah! more than possible--it is _true_. listen, aurore! from the first hour i beheld you--i might almost say before that hour, for you were in my heart before i was conscious of having seen you--from, that first hour i loved you--not with a villain's love, such as you have this moment spurned, but with a pure and honest passion. and passion i may well call it, for it absorbs every other feeling of my soul. morning and night, aurore, i think but of you. you are in my dreams, and equally the companion of my waking hours. do not fancy my love so calm, because i am now speaking so calmly about it. circumstances render me so. i have approached you with a determined purpose--one long resolved upon--and that, perhaps, gives me this firmness in declaring my love. i have said, aurore, that i love you. i repeat it again--_with my heart and soul, i love you_!" "love _me_! poor girl!" there was something so ambiguous in the utterance of the last phrase, that i paused a moment in my reply. it seemed as though the sympathetic interjection had been meant for some third person rather than herself! "aurore," i continued, after a pause, "i have told you all. i have been candid. i only ask equal candour in return. _do you love me_?" i should have put this question less calmly, but that i felt already half-assured of the answer. we were seated on the sofa, and near each other. before i had finished speaking, i felt her soft fingers touch mine--close upon them, and press them gently together. when the question was delivered, her head fell forward on my breast, and i heard murmuring from her lips the simple words--"_i too from the first hour_!" my arms, hitherto restrained, were now twined around the yielding form, and for some moments neither uttered a word. love's paroxysm is best enjoyed in silence. the wild intoxicating kiss, the deep mutual glance, the pressure of hands and arms and burning lips, all these need no tongue to make them intelligible. for long moments ejaculations of delight, phrases of tender endearment, were the only words that escaped us. we were too happy to converse. our lips paid respect to the solemnity of our hearts. it was neither the place nor time for love to go blind, and prudence soon recalled me to myself. there was still much to be said, and many plans to be discussed before our new-sprung happiness should be secured to us. both were aware of the abyss that still yawned between us. both were aware that a thorny path must be trodden before we could reach the elysium of our hopes. notwithstanding our present bliss, the future was dark and dangerous; and the thought of this soon startled us from our short sweet dream. aurora had no longer any _fear_ of my love. she did not even wrong me with suspicion. she doubted not my purpose to make her my _wife_. love and gratitude stifled every doubt, and we now conversed with a mutual confidence which years of friendship could scarce have established. but we talked with hurried words. we knew not the moment we might be interrupted. we knew not when again we might meet alone. we had need to be brief. i explained to her my circumstances--that in a few days i expected a sum of money--enough, i believed, for the purpose. what purpose? _the purchase of my bride_! "then," added i, "nothing remains but to get married, aurore!" "alas!" replied she with a sigh, "even were i free, we could not be married _here_. is it not a wicked law that persecutes us even when pretending to give us freedom?" i assented. "we could not get married," she continued, evidently suffering under painful emotion, "we could not unless you could swear there was african blood in your veins! only think of such a law in a christian land!" "think _not_ of it, aurore," said i, wishing to cheer her. "there shall be no difficulty about swearing that. i shall take this gold pin from your hair, open this beautiful blue vein in your arm, drink from it, and take the oath!" the quadroon smiled, but the moment after her look of sadness returned. "come, dearest aurore! chase away such thoughts! what care we to be married here? we shall go elsewhere. there are lands as fair as louisiana, and churches as fine as saint gabriel to be married in. we shall go northward--to england--to france--anywhere. let not that grieve you!" "it is not that which grieves me." "what then, dearest?" "oh! it is--i fear--" "tear not to tell me." "that you will not be able--" "declare it, aurore." "to become _my master_--_to_--_to buy me_!" here the poor girl hung her head, as if ashamed to speak of such conditions. i saw the hot tears springing from her eyes. "and why do you fear." i inquired. "others have tried. large sums they offered--larger even than that you have named, and they could not. they failed in their intentions, and oh! how grateful was i to mademoiselle! that was my only protection. she would not part with me. how glad was i then! but now--now how different!--the very opposite!" "but i shall give more--my whole fortune. surely that will suffice. the offers you speak of were infamous proposals, like that of monsieur gayarre. mademoiselle knew it; she was too good to accept them." "that is true, but she will equally refuse yours. i fear it, alas! alas!" "nay, i shall confess all to mademoiselle. i shall declare to her my honourable design. i shall implore her consent. surely she will not refuse. surely she feels gratitude--" "oh, monsieur!" cried aurore, interrupting me, "she _is_ grateful--you know not how grateful; but never, never will she--you know not all-- alas! alas!" with a fresh burst of tears filling her eyes, the beautiful girl sank down on the sofa, hiding her face under the folds of her luxuriant hair. i was puzzled by these expressions, and about to ask for an explanation, when the noise of carriage-wheels fell upon my ear. i sprang forward to the open window, and looked over the tops of the orange-trees. i could just see the head of a man, whom i recognised as the coachman of mademoiselle besancon. the carriage was approaching the gate. in the then tumult of my feelings i could not trust myself to meet the lady, and, bidding a hurried adieu to aurore, i rushed from the apartment. when outside i saw that, if i went by the front gate i should risk an encounter. i knew there was a small side-wicket that led to the stables, and a road ran thence to the woods. this would carry me to bringiers by a back way, and stepping off from the verandah, i passed through the wicket, and directed myself towards the stables in the rear. chapter twenty six. the "nigger quarter." i soon reached the stables, where i was welcomed by a low whimper from my horse. scipio was not there. "he is gone upon some other business," thought i; "perhaps to meet the carriage. no matter, i shall not summon him. the saddle is on, and i can bridle the steed myself--only poor scipio loses his quarter-dollar." i soon had my steed bitted and bridled; and, leading the animal outside, i sprang into the saddle, and rode off. the path i was taking led past the "negro quarters," and then through some fields to the dark cypress and tupelo woods in the rear. from these led a cross-way that would bring me out again upon the levee road. i had travelled this path many a time, and knew it well enough. the "nigger quarter" was distant some two hundred yards from the "grande maison," or "big house," of the plantation. it consisted of some fifty or sixty little "cabins," neatly built, and standing in a double row, with a broad way between. each cabin was a facsimile of its neighbour, and in front of each grew a magnolia or a beautiful china-tree, under the shade of whose green leaves and sweet-scented flowers little negroes might be seen all the livelong day, disporting their bodies in the dust. these, of all sizes, from the "piccaninny" to the "good-sized chunk of a boy," and of every shade of slave-colour, from the fair-skinned quadroon to the black bambarra, on whom, by an american witticism of doubtful truthfulness; "charcoal would make a white mark!" divesting them of dust, you would have no difficulty in determining their complexion. their little plump bodies were nude, from the top of their woolly heads to their long projecting heels. there roll they, black and yellow urchins, all the day, playing with pieces of sugar-cane, or melon-rind, or corn-cobs--cheerful and happy as any little lords could be in their well-carpeted nurseries in the midst of the costliest toys of the german bazaar! on entering the negro quarter, you cannot fail to observe tall papaw poles or cane-reeds stuck up in front of many of the cabins, and carrying upon their tops large, yellow gourd-shells, each perforated with a hole in the side. these are the dwellings of the purple martin, (_hirundo purpurea_)--the most beautiful of american swallows, and a great favourite among the simple negroes, as it had been, long before their time, among the red aborigines of the soil. you will notice, too, hanging in festoons along the walls of the cabins, strings of red and green pepper-pods (species of capsicum); and here and there a bunch of some dried herb of medicinal virtue, belonging to the negro _pharmacopoeia_. all these are the property of "aunt phoebe," or "aunty cleopatra," or "ole aunt phillis;" and the delicious "pepper pot" that any one of those "aunts" can make out of the aforesaid green and red capsicums, assisted by a few other ingredients from the little garden "patch" in the rear of the cabin, would bring water to the teeth of an epicure. perhaps on the cabin walls you will see suspended representatives of the animal kingdom--perhaps the skin of a rabbit, a raccoon, an opossum, or the grey fox--perhaps also that of the musk-rat (_fiber zibethicus_), or, rarer still, the swamp wild-cat (bay lynx--_lynx rufus_). the owner of the cabin upon which hangs the lynx-skin will be the nimrod of the hour, for the cat is among the rarest and noblest game of the mississippi _fauna_. the skin of the panther (_cougar_) or deer you will not see, for although both inhabit the neighbouring forest, they are too high game for the negro hunter, who is not permitted the use of a gun. the smaller "varmints" already enumerated can be captured without such aid, and the pelts you see hanging upon the cabins are the produce of many a moonlight hunt undertaken by "caesar," or "scipio," or "hannibal," or "pompey." judging by the nomenclature of the negro quarter, you might fancy yourself in ancient rome or carthage! the great men above-named, however, are never trusted with such a dangerous weapon as a rifle. to their _skill_ alone do they owe their success in the chase; and their weapons are only a stick, an axe, and a "'coon-dog" of mongrel race. several of these last you may see rolling about in the dust among the "piccaninnies," and apparently as happy as they. but the hunting trophies that adorn the walls do not hang there as mere ornaments. no, they are spread out to dry, and will soon give place to others--for there is a constant export going on. when uncle ceez, or zip, or hanny, or pomp, get on their sunday finery, and repair to the village, each carries with him his stock of small pelts. there the storekeeper has a talk with them, and a "pic" (picayune) for the "mussrat," a "bit" (spanish real) for the "'coon," and a "quarter" for the fox or "cat," enable these four avuncular hunters to lay in a great variety of small luxuries for the four "aunties" at home; which little comforts are most likely excluded from the regular rice-and-pork rations of the plantation. so much is a little bit of the domestic economy of the negro quarter. on entering the little village,--for the negro quarter of a grand plantation merits the title,--you cannot fail to observe all of these little matters. they are the salient points of the picture. you will observe, too, the house of the "overseer" standing apart; or, as in the case of the plantation besancon, at the end of the double row, and fronting the main avenue. this, of course, is of a more pretentious style of architecture; can boast of venetian blinds to the windows, two stories of height, and a "porch." it is enclosed with a paling to keep off the intrusion of the children, but the dread of the painted cowhide renders the paling almost superfluous. as i approached the "quarter," i was struck with the peculiar character of the picture it presented,--the overseer's house towering above the humbler cabins, seeming to protect and watch over them, suggesting the similarity of a hen with her brood of chickens. here and there the great purple swallows boldly cleft the air, or, poised on wing by the entrance of their gourd-shell dwellings, uttered their cheerful "tweet--tweet--tweet;" while the fragrant odour of the china-trees and magnolias scented the atmosphere to a long distance around. when nearer still, i could distinguish the hum of human voices--of men, women, and children--in that peculiar tone which characterises the voice of the african. i fancied the little community as i had before seen it--the men and women engaged in various occupations--some resting from their labour, (for it was now after field hours,) seated in front of their tent-like cabins, under the shade-tree, or standing in little groups gaily chatting with each other--some by the door mending their fishing-nets and tackle, by which they intended to capture the great "cat" and "buffalo fish" of the bayous--some "chopping" firewood at the common "wood-pile," which half-grown urchins were "toating," to the cabins, so that "aunty" might prepare the evening-meal. i was musing on the patriarchal character of such a picture, half-inclined towards the "one-man power"--if not in the shape of a slaveholder, yet something after the style of rapp and his "social economists." "what a saving of state machinery," soliloquised i, "in this patriarchal form! how charmingly simple! and yet how complete and efficient!" just so, but i had overlooked one thing, and that was the imperfectness of human nature--the possibility--the probability--nay, the almost certainty, that the _patriarch_ will pass into the _tyrant_. hark! a voice louder than common! it is a cry! of cheerful import? no--on the contrary, it sounds like the utterance of some one in pain. it is a cry of agony! the murmur of other voices, too, heard at short intervals, carries to my ear that deep portentous sound which accompanies some unnatural occurrence. again i hear the cry of agony--deeper and louder than before! it comes from the direction of the negro quarter. what is causing it? i gave the spur to my horse, and galloped in the direction of the cabins. chapter twenty seven. the devil's douche. in a few seconds i entered the wide avenue between the cabins, and drawing bridle, sat glancing around me. my patriarchal dreams vanished at the sight that met my eyes. before me was a scene of tyranny, of torture--a scene from the tragedy of slave-life! at the upper end of the quarter, and on one side of the overseer's house, was an enclosure. it was the enclosure of the sugar-mill--a large building which stood a little further back. inside the fence was a tall pump, rising full ten feet in height, with the spout near its top. the purpose of this pump was to yield a stream of water, which was conducted to the sugar-house by means of a slender trough, that served as an aqueduct. a platform was raised a few feet above the ground, so as to enable the person working the pump to reach its handle. to this spot my attention was directed by seeing that the negroes of the quarter were grouped around it, while the women and children, clinging along the fence, had their eyes bent in the same direction. the faces of all--men, women, and children--wore an ominous and gloomy expression; and the attitudes in which they stood betokened terror and alarm. murmurs i could hear--now and then ejaculations--and sobs that bespoke sympathy with some one who suffered. i saw scowling brows, as if knit by thoughts of vengeance. but these last were few--the more general expression was one of terror and submission. it was not difficult to tell that the cry i had heard proceeded from the neighbourhood of the pump, and a glance unfolded the cause. some poor slave was undergoing punishment! a group of negroes hid the unfortunate from my view, but over their heads i could see the slave gabriel, his body naked to the breech, mounted upon the platform and working the pump with all his might. this gabriel was a bambarra negro, of huge size and strength, branded on both shoulders with the _fleur-de-lis_. he was a man of fierce aspect, and, as i had heard, of fierce and brutal habit--feared not only by the other negroes, but by the whites with whom he came in contact. it was not he that was undergoing punishment. on the contrary, he was the instrument of torture. and torture it was--i knew the punishment well. the trough or aqueduct had been removed; and the victim was placed at the bottom of the pump, directly under the spout. he was fast bound in a species of stocks; and in such a position that he could not move his head, which _received the continuous jet in the very centre of the crown_! torture? no doubt, you are incredulous? you fancy there can be no great torture in that. a simple shock--a shower-bath--nothing more! you are right. for the first half-minute or so it is but a shock, a shower-bath, but then-- believe me when i declare to you--that a stream of molten lead--an axe continually crashing through the skull--would not be more painful than the falling of this cold-water jet! it is torture beyond endurance-- agony indescribable. well may it be called the "devil's douche." again the agonised cry came from the pump, almost curdling my blood. as i have said, i could not see the sufferer at first. a row of bodies was interposed between him and me. the negroes, however, seeing me ride up, eagerly opened their ranks and fell back a pace, as if desiring i should be a witness to what was going forward. they all knew me, and all had some impression that i _sympathised_ with their unfortunate race. this opening gave me a full view of the horrid spectacle, disclosing a group that made me start in the saddle. under the torture was the victim--a man of sable hue. close by him, a large mulatto woman and a young girl of the same complexion--mother and daughter--stood folded in each other's arms, both weeping bitterly. i could hear their sobs and ejaculations, even at the distance of a score of yards, and above the plashing sound of the falling water. i recognised at a glance who these were--they were the little chloe and her mother! quick as lightning my eyes were directed towards the sufferer. the water, as it bounded from his crown, spread into a glassy sheet, that completely concealed his head, but the huge, fin-like, projecting ears told me who was the victim. it was scipio! again his cry of agony pealed upon my ears, deep and prolonged, as though it issued from the innermost recesses of his soul! i did not wait till that cry was ended. a fence of six rails separated me from the sufferer; but what of that? i did not hesitate a moment, but winding my horse round to give him the run, i headed him at the leap, and with a touch of the spur lifted him into the inclosure. i did not even stay to dismount, but galloping up to the platform, laid my whip across the naked shoulders of the bambarra with all the force that lay in my arm. the astonished savage dropped the pump-handle as if it had been iron at a white heat; and leaping from the platform, ran off howling to his cabin! exclamations and loud murmurings of applause followed; but my horse, brought so suddenly to this exciting work, snorted and plunged, and it was some time before i could quiet him. while thus engaged, i observed that the exclamations were suddenly discontinued; and the murmurs of applause were succeeded by a dead, ominous silence! i could hear several of the negroes nearest me muttering some words of caution, as though meant for me; among others the cry of-- "de oberseer! de oberseer! look out, mass'r! dar he kum!" at that moment an abominable oath, uttered in a loud voice, reached my ears. i looked in the direction whence it came. as i anticipated, it was the overseer. he was just issuing from the back-door of his house, from a window of which he had been all the while a spectator of scipio's torture! i had not come in contact with this person before; and i now saw approaching a man of fierce and brutal aspect, somewhat flashily dressed, and carrying in his hand a thick waggon-whip. i could see that his face was livid with rage, and that he was directing himself to attack me. i had no weapon but my riding-whip, and with this i prepared to receive his assault. he came on at a run, all the while venting the most diabolical curses. when he had got nearly up to my horse's head, he stopped a moment, and thundered out-- "who the hell are you, meddling with my affairs? who the damn are--" he suddenly paused in his speech, and stood staring in astonishment. i reciprocated that astonishment, for i had now recognised in the brutal overseer my antagonist of the boat! the hero of the bowie-knife! at the same instant he recognised me. the pause which was the result of our mutual surprise, lasted but a moment. "hell and furies!" cried the ruffian, changing his former tone only into one more horribly furious-- "it's _you_, is it? whip be damned! i've something else for _you_." and as he said this he drew a pistol from his coat, and hastily cocking it, aimed it at my breast. i was still on horseback and in motion, else he would no doubt have delivered his fire at once; but my horse reared up at the gleam of the pistol, and his body was thus interposed between mine and its muzzle. as i have said, i had no weapon but the whip. fortunately it was a stout hunting-whip, with loaded butt. i hastily turned it in my hand, and just as the hoofs of my horse came back to the earth, i drove the spur so deeply into his ribs that he sprang forward more than his own length. this placed me in the very spot i wanted to be--alongside my ruffian antagonist, who, taken aback by my sudden change of position, hesitated a moment before taking fresh aim. before he could pull trigger, the butt of my whip descended upon his skull, and doubled him up in the dust! his pistol went off as he fell, and the bullet ploughed up the ground between my horse's hoofs, but fortunately hit no one. the weapon itself new out of his hand, and lay beside him where he had fallen. it was a mere lucky hit--all owing to the spur being touched, and my horse having sprung forward in good time. had i missed the blow, i should not likely have had a second chance. the pistol was double-barrelled, and on examination i found he carried another of a similar kind. he was now lying as still as if asleep, and i began to fear i had killed him. this would have been a serious matter. although perfectly justifiable in me to have done so, who was to show that? the evidence of those around me--the whole of them together--was not worth the asseveration of one white man; and under the circumstances not worth a straw. indeed, considering what had immediately led to the rencontre, such testimony would have been more likely to _damage_ my case than otherwise! i felt myself in an awkward situation. i now dismounted, and approached the prostrate form, around which the blacks were congregating. they made way for me. i knelt down and examined the head. it was cut and bleeding, but the skull was still sound! the knowledge of this fact set my mind at rest, and before i rose to my feet i had the satisfaction to see that the fellow was coming to his senses, under the influence of a douche of cold-water. the butt of the second pistol came under my eye, as it stuck out from the breast of his coat. i drew it forth, and along with its fellow took them into my own keeping. "tell him," said i, "as soon as he comes to himself, that when he next attacks me, i shall have pistols as well as he!" having ordered him to be carried into the house, i now turned my attention to his victim. poor scipio! he had been most cruelly tortured, and it was some time before he recovered his faculties, so as to be able to tell me why he had been thus punished. the relation he at length gave, and it made the blood boil afresh within my veins. he had surprised the overseer in some of the outbuildings with little chloe in his arms, the child crying out and struggling to get free. natural indignation on the part of the father led to a blow-- an offence for which scipio might have lost an arm; but the white wretch, knowing that he dare not, for his own sake, expose the motive, had commuted scipio's legal punishment to a little private torture under the pump! my first impulse on hearing this sad story was to return to the house, report what had occurred to mademoiselle, and urge upon her the necessity of getting rid of this savage overseer at all risk. after a little reflection i changed my mind. i purposed to return upon the morrow, on business of--to me--much greater importance. to-morrow it was my intention to _bid for aurore_! "i can then," thought i, "introduce the case of poor scipio. perhaps it may be an introduction to the `graver theme?'" having promised this much to my old attendant, i mounted my horse, and rode off, amidst a shower of blessings. as i passed through the avenue at a walk, women and half-grown girls hurried from their doors, and kissed my feet as they hung in the stirrups! the burning love which so late filled my heart was for a moment unfelt. its place was occupied by a calm, sweet happiness--the happiness that springs from benefaction! chapter twenty eight. gayarre and "bully bill." on riding out from the quarter i changed my intention of taking the back road. my visit would no doubt become known to mademoiselle, and it differed not if i should now be seen from the house. my blood was up-- so was that of my horse. a rail-fence was nothing to either of us now; so heading round, i cleared a couple of palings; and then striking across a cotton-field arrived once more on the levee road. after a while, as soon as i had cooled down my horse, i rode slowly, reflecting upon what had just happened. it was evident that this ruffian had been put upon the plantation by gayarre for some secret purpose. whether he and the lawyer had had previous acquaintance i could not guess; but such men have a sort of instinctive knowledge of one another, and he might be only a waif that the latter had picked up since the night of the wreck. on the boat i had supposed him to be some rough gambler, by the propensity he exhibited for betting; and possibly he might have been playing that _role_ of late. it was evident, however, that "negro-driving" was his trade; at all events it was not new to him. strange that he had been all this time on the plantation without knowing of me! but that could be easily accounted for. he had never seen me during my stay at the house. moreover, he may have been ignorant that mademoiselle was the lady with whom he intended to have shared the life-preserver. this last hypothesis was probable enough, for there were other ladies who escaped by means of rafts, and sofas, and life-preservers. i fancied he had not seen mademoiselle until she was springing over the guards, and would therefore scarce recognise her again. the cause of my being an invalid was only known to mademoiselle, aurore, and scipio; and the latter had been charged not to carry this knowledge to the negro quarter. then the fellow was but new on the plantation, and had but little intercourse with its mistress, as he received most of his orders from gayarre; besides, he was but a dull brute after all. it was just like enough that, up to the moment of our late encounter, he had no suspicion either that i was his former antagonist on the boat, or eugenie besancon the lady who had escaped him. he must have known of my presence on the plantation, but only as one of the survivors of the wreck, badly wounded,--scalded, perhaps,--but there had been a number of others, picked up,--scarce a house for some distance along the coast but had given shelter to some wounded or half-drowned unfortunate. he had been busy with his own affairs; or rather, perhaps, those of gayarre: for i had no doubt there was some conspiracy between them in which this fellow was to play a part. dull as he was, he had something which his employer might regard of more value than intellect; something, too, which the latter himself lacked,--brute strength and brute courage. gayarre no doubt had a use for him, else he would not have been there. he knew me now, and was not likely soon to forget me. would he seek revenge? beyond doubt he would, but i fancied it would be by some base underhand means. i had no fear that he would again attack me openly, at least by himself. i felt quite sure that i had conquered, and encowardiced him. i had encountered his like before. i know that his courage was not of that character to outlive defeat. it was the courage of the bravo. i had no fear of an open attack. all i had to apprehend was some, secret revenge, or perhaps the law! you will wonder that any thought or dread of the latter should have occurred to me: but it did; and i had my reasons. the knowledge of gayarre's designs, the detection of his villainous purpose with aurore, and my rencontre with larkin, had brought matters to a crisis. i was filled with anxiety, and convinced of the necessity of a speedy interview with mademoiselle, in relation to what was nearest to my heart, _the purchase of the quadroon_. there was no reason why a single hour should be wasted, now that aurore and i understood each other, and had, in fact, _betrothed_ ourselves. i even thought of riding back at once, and had turned my horse for the purpose. i hesitated. my resolution wavered. i wheeled round again, and kept on to bringiers, with the determination to return to the plantation at an early hour in the morning. i entered the village and proceeded straight to the hotel. on my table i found a letter containing a cheque for two hundred pounds on the bringiers bank. it was from my banking agent in new orleans, who had received it from england. the letter also contained the information that five hundred more would reach me in a few days. the sum received was a pleasant relief, and would enable me to discharge my pecuniary obligations to reigart; which in the next hour i had the pleasure of doing. i passed a night of great anxiety,--almost a sleepless night. no wonder. to-morrow was to be a crisis. for me, happiness or misery was in the womb of to-morrow. a thousand hopes and fears hung suspended on the result of my interview with eugenie besancon. i actually looked forward to this interview with more anxiety than i had done but a few hours ago to that with aurore! perhaps, because i had less confidence in a favourable result. as early as etiquette would allow of a morning visit, i was in the saddle, and heading towards the plantation besancon. as i rode out of the village i noticed that men regarded me with glances that bespoke an unusual interest. "my affair with the overseer is already known," thought i. "no doubt the negroes have spread the report of it. such matters soon become public." i was unpleasantly impressed with an idea that the expression on people's faces was anything but a friendly one. had i committed an unpopular act in protecting myself? usually the conqueror in such an encounter is rather popular than otherwise, in the chivalric land of louisiana. why, then, did men look scowling upon me? what had i done to merit reproach? i had "whipped" a rude fellow, whom men esteemed a "bully;" and in self-defence had i acted. the act should have gained me applause, according to the code of the country. why then,--ha! stay! i had interfered between _white_ and _black_. i had _protected a slave from punishment_. perhaps that might account for the disagreeable expression i had observed! i could just guess at another cause, of a very different and somewhat ludicrous character. it had got rumoured abroad that i "was upon good terms with mademoiselle besancon," and that it was not unlikely that one of these fine days the adventurer, whom nobody knew anything about, would carry off the rich plantress! there is no part of the world where such a _bonne fortune_ is not regarded with envy. the united states is no exception to the rule; and i had reason to know that on account of this absurd rumour i was not very favourably regarded by some of the young planters and dandy storekeepers who loitered about the streets of bringiers. i rode on without heeding the "black looks" that were cast upon me, and indeed soon ceased thinking of them. my mind was too full of anxiety about the approaching interview to be impressed with minor cares. of course eugenie would have heard all about the affair of yesterday. what would be her feelings in relation to it? i felt certain that this ruffian was forced upon, her by gayarre. she would have no sympathy with _him_. the question was, would she have the courage--nay, the _power_ to discharge him from her service? even on hearing _who_ he was? it was doubtful enough! i was overwhelmed with sympathy for this poor girl. i felt satisfied that gayarre must be her creditor to a large amount, and in that way had her in his power. what he had said to aurore convinced me that such was the case. indeed, reigart had heard some whisper that his debt had already been proved before the courts in new orleans; that no opposition had been made; that he had obtained a verdict, and could seize upon her property, or as much of it as would satisfy his demands, at any moment! it was only the night before reigart had told me this, and the information had rendered me all the more anxious to hasten my business in relation to aurore. i spurred into a gallop, and soon came in sight of the plantation. having arrived at the gate, i dismounted. there was no one to hold my horse, but that is a slight matter in america, where a gate-post or a branch of a tree often serves as a groom. bethinking me of this ready expedient i tossed my rein over one of the palings, and walked toward the house. chapter twenty nine. "elle t'aime!" it was natural i should have thoughts about my yesterday's antagonist. would i encounter him? not likely. the butt of my whip had no doubt given him a headache that would confine him for some days to his quarters. but i was prepared for any event. under my waistcoat were his own double-barrelled pistols, which i intended to use, if attacked. it was my first essay at carrying "concealed weapons," but it was the fashion of the country at the time--a fashion followed by nineteen out of every twenty persons you met--by planters, merchants, lawyers, doctors, and even divines! so prepared, i had no fear of an encounter with "bully bill." if my pulse beat quick and my step was nervous, it was on account of the anticipated interview with his mistress. with all the coolness i could command, i entered the house. i found mademoiselle in the drawing-room. she received me without reserve or embarrassment. to my surprise as well as gratification she appeared more cheerful than usual. i could even detect a significant smile! i fancied she was pleased at what had occurred; for of course she was aware of it all. i could understand this well enough. aurore was not present. i was glad she was not. i hoped she would not come into the room--_at least for a time_. i was embarrassed. i scarce knew how to open the conversation, much less to break to mademoiselle the matter that was nearest my heart. a few ordinary phrases passed between us, and then our conversation turned upon the affair of yesterday. i told her all--everything--except the scene with aurore. that was omitted. i hesitated for some time whether i should let her know _who_ her overseer was. when she should ascertain that he was the fellow who had wounded me on the boat, and who but for me would have taken away her chances of safety, i felt certain she would insist upon getting rid of him at all risks. for a moment i reflected upon the consequences. "she will never be safe," thought i, "with such a ruffian at her side. better for her to make stand at once." under this belief i boldly came out with the information. she seemed astounded, and clasping her hands, remained for some moments in an attitude of mute agony. at length she cried out-- "gayarre--gayarre! it is you, monsieur gayarre! oh! _mon dieu! mon dieu_! where is my father? where is antoine? god have mercy upon me!" the expression of grief upon her lovely countenance went to my heart. she looked an angel of sorrow, sad but beautiful. i interrupted her with consolatory phrases of the ordinary kind. though i could only guess the nature of her sorrow, she listened to me patiently, and i fancied that what i said gave her pleasure. taking courage from this, i proceeded to inquire more particularly the cause of her grief. "mademoiselle," said i, "you will pardon the liberty i am taking; but for some time i have observed, or fancied, that you have a cause of--of--unhappiness--" she fixed her eyes upon me in a gaze of silent wonder. i hesitated a moment under this strange regard, and then continued-- "pardon me, mademoiselle, if i speak too boldly; i assure you my motive--" "speak on, monsieur!" she said, in a calm sad voice. "i noticed this the more, because when i first had the pleasure of seeing you, your manner was so very different--in fact, quite the reverse--" a sigh and a sad smile were the only reply. these interrupted me for but a moment, and i proceeded:-- "when first observing this change, mademoiselle, i attributed it to grief for the loss of your faithful servitor and friend." another melancholy smile. "but the period of sorrowing for such a cause is surely past, and yet--" "and yet you observe that i am still sad?" "just so, mademoiselle." "true, monsieur; it is even so." "i have ceased therefore to regard that as the cause of your melancholy; and have been forced to think of some other--" the gaze of half surprise, half interrogation, that now met mine, caused me for a moment to suspend my speech. after a pause, i resumed it, determined to come at once to the point, "you will pardon me, mademoiselle, for this free interest in your affairs--you will pardon me for asking. do i not recognise in monsieur gayarre the cause of your unhappiness?" she started at the question, and turned visibly paler. in a moment, however, she seemed to recover herself, and replied calmly, but with a look of strange significance:-- "helas! monsieur, your suspicions are but _partially_ correct. helas! oh! god, support me!" she added, in a tone that sounded like despair. then, as if by an effort, her manner seemed to undergo a sudden alteration, and she continued:-- "please, monsieur, let us change the subject? i owe you life and gratitude. would i knew how to repay you for your generous gallantry-- your--your--_friendship_. perhaps some day you may know all. i would tell you now, but--but--monsieur--there are--i cannot--" "mademoiselle besancon, i entreat you, do not for a moment let the questions i have asked have any consideration. they were not put from idle curiosity. i need not tell you, mademoiselle, that my motive was of a higher kind--" "i know it, monsieur--i know it; but no more of it now, i pray you--let us speak on some other subject." some other subject! i had no longer the choice of one. i had no longer control of my tongue. the subject which was nearest my heart sprang spontaneously to my lips; and in hurried words i declared my love for aurore. i detailed the whole course of my passion, from the hour of my dreamlike vision up to that when we had plighted our mutual troth. my listener was seated upon the low ottoman directly before me; but from motives of bashfulness i had kept my eyes averted during the time i was speaking. she heard me without interruption, and i augured well from this silence. i concluded at length, and with trembling heart was awaiting her reply; when a deep sigh, followed by a rustling sound, caused me suddenly to turn. _eugenie had fallen upon the floor_! with a glance i saw she had fainted. i flung my arms around her, and carried her to the sofa. i was about to call for assistance when the door opened, and a form glided into the room. _it was aurore_! "_mon dieu_!" exclaimed the latter; "_vous l'avez faire mourir! elle t'aime--elle t'aime_!" chapter thirty. thoughts. that night i passed without repose. how was it with eugenie? how with aurore? mine was a night of reflections, in which pleasure and pain were singularly blended. the love of the quadroon was my source of pleasure; but, alas! pain predominated as my thoughts dwelt upon the creole! that the latter loved me i no longer doubted; and this assurance, so far from giving me joy, filled me with keen regret. accursed vanity, that can enjoy such a triumph,--vile heart, that can revel in a love it is unable to return! mine did not: it grieved instead. in thought i reviewed the short hours of intercourse that had passed between us--eugenie besancon and myself. i communed with my conscience, asking myself the question, was i innocent? had i done aught, either by word, or look, or gesture, to occasion this love?--to produce the first delicate impression, that upon a heart susceptible as hers soon becomes a fixed and vivid picture? upon the boat? or afterwards? i remembered that at first sight i had gazed upon her with admiring eyes. i remembered that in hers i had beheld that strange expression of interest which i had attributed to curiosity or some other cause--i knew not what. vanity, of which no doubt i possess my share, had not interpreted those tender glances aright--had not even whispered me they were the flowers of love, easily ripened to its fruits. had i been instrumental in nurturing those flowers of the heart?--had i done aught to beguile them to their fatal blooming? i examined the whole course of my conduct, and pondered over all that had passed between us. i thought of all that had occurred during our passage upon the boat--during the tragic scene that followed. i could not remember aught, either of word, look, or gesture, by which i might condemn myself. i gave full play to my conscience, and it declared me innocent. afterwards--after that terrible night--after those burning eyes and that strange face had passed dreamlike before my disordered senses--after that moment i could not have been guilty of aught that was trivial. during the hours of my convalescence--during the whole period of my stay upon the plantation--i could remember nothing in my intercourse with eugenie besancon to give me cause for regret. towards her i had observed a studied respect--nothing more. secretly i felt friendship and sympathy; more especially after i had noted the change in her manner, and feared that some cloud was shadowing her fortune. alas, poor eugenie! little did i guess the nature of that cloud! little did i dream how dark it was! notwithstanding my self-exculpation, i still felt pain. had eugenie besancon been a woman of ordinary character i might have borne my reflections more lightly. but to a heart so highly attuned, so noble, so passionate, what would be the shock of an unrequited love? terrible it must be; perhaps the more so at thus finding her rival in her own slave! strange confidante had i chosen for my secret! strange ear into which i had poured the tale of my love! oh that i had not made my confession! what suffering had i caused this fair, this unfortunate lady! such painful reflections coursed through my mind; but there were others equally bitter, and with bitterness springing from a far different source. what would be the effect of the disclosure? how would it affect our future--the future of myself and aurore? how would eugenie act? towards me? towards aurore--_her slave_? my confession had received no response. the mute lips murmured neither reply nor adieu. i had gazed but a moment on the insensible form. aurore had beckoned me away, and i had left the room in a state of embarrassment and confusion--i scarce remembered how. what would be the result? i trembled to think. bitterness, hostility, revenge? surely a soul so pure, so noble, could not harbour such passions as these? "no," thought i; "eugenie besancon is too gentle, too womanly, to give way to them. is there a hope that she may have pity on _me_, as i pity _her_? or is there not? she is a creole--she inherits the fiery passions of her race. should these be aroused to jealousy, to revenge, her gratitude will soon pass away--her love be changed to scorn. _her own slave_!" ah! i well understood the meaning of this relationship, though i cannot make it plain to you. you can ill comprehend the horrid feeling. talk of a _mesalliance_ of the aristocratic lord with the daughter of his peasant retainer, of the high-born dame with her plebeian groom--talk of the scandal and scorn to which such rare events give rise! all this is little--is mild, when compared with the positive disgust and horror felt for the "white" who would ally himself _in marriage_ with a _slave_! no matter how white _she_ be, no matter how beautiful--even lovely as aurore--he who would make her his _wife_ must bear her away from her native land, far from the scenes where she has hitherto been known! his _mistress_--all! that is another affair. an alliance of this nature is pardonable. the "society" of the south is satisfied with the _slave-mistress_; but the _slave-wife_--that is an impossibility, an incongruity not to be borne! i knew that the gifted eugenie was above the common prejudices of her class; but i should have expected too much to suppose that she was above this one. no; noble, indeed, must be the soul that could have thrown off this chain, coiled around it by education, by habit, by example, by every form of social life. notwithstanding all--notwithstanding the relations that existed between herself and aurore, i could not expect this much. aurore was her companion, her friend; but still aurore was _her slave_! i trembled for the result. i trembled for our next interview. in the future i saw darkness and danger. i had but one hope, one joy--the love of aurore! ------------------------------------------------------------------------ i rose from my sleepless couch. i dressed and ate my breakfast hurriedly, mechanically. that finished, i was at a loss what to do next. should i return to the plantation, and seek another interview with eugenie. no--not then. i had not the courage. it would be better, i reflected, to permit some time to pass--a day or two--before going back. perhaps mademoiselle would send for me? perhaps--at all events, it would be better to allow some days to elapse. long days they would be to me! i could not bear the society of any one. i shunned conversation; although i observed, as on the preceding day, that i was the object of scrutiny--the subject of comment among the loungers of the "bar," and my acquaintances of the billiard-room. to avoid them, i remained inside my room, and endeavoured to kill time by reading. i soon grew tired of this chamber-life; and upon the third morning i seized my gun, and plunged into the depth of the forest. i moved amidst the huge pyramidal trunks of the cypresses, whose thick umbellated foliage, meeting overhead, shut out both sun and sky. the very gloom occasioned by their shade was congenial to my thoughts; and i wandered on, my steps guided rather by accident than design. i did not search for game. i was not thinking of sport. my gun rested idly in the hollow of my arm. the raccoon, which in the more open woods is nocturnal, is here abroad by day. i saw the creature plunging his food into the waters of the bayou, and skulking around the trunks of the cypresses. i saw the opossum gliding along the fallen log, and the red squirrel, like a stream of fire, brushing up the bark of the tall tulip-tree. i saw the large "swamp-hare" leap from her form by the selvage of the cane-brake; and, still more tempting game, the fallow-deer twice bounded before me, roused from its covert in the shady thickets of the pawpaw-trees. the wild turkey, too, in all the glitter of his metallic plumage, crossed my path; and upon the bayou, whose bank i for some time followed, i had ample opportunity of discharging my piece at the blue heron or the egret, the summer duck or the snake-bird, the slender ibis or the stately crane. even the king of winged creatures, the white-headed eagle, was more than once within range of my gun, screaming his maniac note among the tops of the tall taxodiums. and still the brown tubes rested idly across my arm; nor did i once think of casting my eye along their sights. no ordinary game could have tempted me to interrupt the current, of my thoughts, that were dwelling upon a theme to me the most interesting in the world--aurore the quadroon! chapter thirty one. dreams. yielding up my soul to its sweet love-dream, i wandered on--where and how long i cannot tell, for i had taken no note either of distance or direction. i was roused from my reverie by observing a brighter light gleaming before me; and soon after i emerged from the darker shadow of the forest. my steps, chance-directed, had guided me into a pretty glade, where the sun shone warmly, and the ground was gay with flowers. it was a little wild garden, enamelled by blossoms of many colours, among which, bignonias and the showy corollas of the cotton-rose were conspicuous. even the forest that bordered and enclosed this little parterre was a forest of flowering-trees. they were magnolias of several kinds; on some of which the large liliaceous blossoms had given place to the scarcely less conspicuous seed-cones of glowing red, whose powerful but pleasant odour filled the atmosphere around. other beautiful trees grew alongside, mingling their perfume with that of the magnolias. scarce less interesting were the "honey-locusts" (_gleditschias_), with their pretty pinnate leaves, and long purple-brown legumes; the virginian lotus, with its oval amber-coloured drupes, and the singular bow-wood tree (_madura_), with its large orange-like pericarps, reminding one of the _flora_ of the tropics. the autumn was just beginning to paint the forest, and already some touches from his glowing palette appeared among the leaves of the sassafras laurel, the sumach (_rhus_), the persimmon (_diospyros_), the nymph-named tupelo, and those other species of the american _sylva_ that love to array themselves so gorgeously before parting with their deciduous foliage. yellow, orange, scarlet, crimson, with many an intermediate tint, met the eye; and all these colours, flashing under the brilliant beams of a noonday sun, produced an indescribable _coup-d'oeil_. the scene resembled the gaudy picture-work of a theatre, more than the sober reality of a natural landscape. i stood for some minutes wrapt in admiration. the dream of love in which i had been indulging became heightened in its effect; and i could not help thinking that if aurore were but present to enjoy that lovely scene--to wander with me over that flowery glade--to sit by my side under the shade of the magnolia laurel--then, indeed, would my happiness be complete. earth itself had no fairer scene than this. a very love-bower it appeared! nor was it unoccupied by lovers; for two pretty doves--birds emblematic of the tender passion--sat side by side upon the bough of a tulip-tree, their bronzed throats swelling at intervals with soft amorous notes. oh, how i envied those little creatures! how i should have rejoiced in a destiny like theirs! thus mated and happy--amidst bright flowers and sweet perfumes, loving the livelong day--loving through all their lives! they deemed me an intruder, and rose on whirring wing at my approach. perchance they feared my glittering gun. they had not need. i had no intention of harming them. far was it from my heart to spoil their perfect bliss. but no--they feared me not--else their flight would have been more distant. they only flitted to the next tree; and there again, seated side by side, resumed their love-converse. absorbed in mutual fondness, they had already forgotten my presence! i followed to watch these pretty creatures--the types of gentleness and love. i flung me on the grass, and gazed upon thorn, tenderly kissing and cooing. i envied their delight. my nerves, that for days had been dancing with more than ordinary excitement, were now experiencing the natural reaction, and i felt weary. there was a drowsiness in the air--a narcotic influence produced by the combined action of the sun's rays and the perfume of the flowers. it acted upon my spirit, and i fell asleep. i slept only about an hour, but it was a sleep of dreams; and during that short period i passed through many scenes. many a visionary tableau appeared before the eye of my slumbering soul, and then melted away. there were more or less characters in each; but in all of them two were constant, both well defined in form and features. they were eugenie and aurore. gayarre, too, was in my dreams; and the ruffian overseer, and scipio, and the mild face of reigart, and what i could remember of the good antoine. even the unfortunate captain of the boat, the boat herself, the magnolia, and the scene of the wreck--all were reproduced with a painful distinctness! but my visions were not all of a painful character. some were the very opposite--scenes of bliss. in company with aurore, i was wandering through flowery glades, and exchanging the sweet converse of mutual love. the very spot where i lay--the scene around me--was pictured in the dream. strangest of all, i thought that eugenie was with us, and that she, too, was happy; that she had consented to my marrying aurore, and had even assisted us in bringing about this happy consummation! in this vision gayarre was the fiend; and i thought that after a while he endeavoured to drag aurore from me. a struggle followed, and then the scene ended with confused abruptness. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ a new tableau arose--a new vision. in this _eugenie_ played the part of the evil genius. i thought she had refused my requests--refused to _sell aurore_. i fancied her jealous, hostile, vengeful. i thought she was loading me with imprecations, my betrothed with threats. aurore was weeping. it was a painful vision. the scene changed again. aurore and i were happy--she was free--she was now mine, and we were married. but there was a cloud upon our happiness. _eugenie was dead_. yes, dead. i thought i was bending over her, and had taken her hand. suddenly her fingers closed upon mine, and held them with a firm pressure. i thought that the contact was disagreeable; and i endeavoured to withdraw my hand, but could not. my fingers remained bound within that cold clammy grasp; and with all my strength i was unable to release them! suddenly i was stung; and at the same instant the chill hand relaxed its grasp, and set me free. the stinging sensation, however, awoke me; and my eyes mechanically turned towards the hand, where i still felt pain. sure enough my wrist was punctured and bleeding! a feeling of horror ran through my veins, as the "sker-r-rr" of the _crotalus_ sounded in my ear; and, looking around, i saw the glittering body of the reptile extended along the grass, and gliding rapidly away! chapter thirty two. stung by a snake. the pain was not a dream; the blood upon my wrist was no illusion. both were real. i was bitten by a _rattlesnake_! terror-stricken i sprang to my feet; and, with an action altogether mechanical, passed my hand over the wound, and wiped away the blood. it was but a trifling puncture, such as might have been made by the point of a lancet, and only a few drops of blood oozed from it. such a wound need not have terrified a child, so far as appearance went; but i, a man, _was_ terrified, for i knew that that little incision had been made by a dread instrument--by the envenomed fang of a serpent--and _in one hour i might be dead_! my first impulse was to pursue the snake and destroy it; but before i could act upon that impulse the reptile had escaped beyond my reach. a hollow log lay near--the trunk of a large tulip-tree, with the heart-wood decayed and gone. the snake had made for this--no doubt its haunt--and before i could come up with it, i saw the long slimy body, with its rhomboid spots, disappear within the dark cavity. another "sker-r-rr" reached my ears as it glided out of sight. it seemed a note of triumph, as if uttered to tantalise me! the reptile was now beyond my reach, but its destruction would not have availed me. its death could not counteract the effect of its poison already in my veins. i knew that well enough, but for all i would have killed it, had it been in my power to do so. i felt angry and vengeful. this was but my first impulse. it suddenly became changed to a feeling of terror. there was something so weird in the look of the reptile, something so strange in the manner of its attack and subsequent escape, that, on losing sight of it, i became suddenly impressed with a sort of supernatural awe--a belief that the creature was possessed of a fiendish intelligence! under this impression i remained for some moments in a state of bewilderment. the sight of the blood, and the stinging sensation of the wound, soon brought me to my senses again, and admonished me of the necessity of taking immediate steps to procure an antidote to the poison. but what antidote? what knew i of such things? i was but a classical scholar. true, i had lately given some attention to botanical studies; but my new knowledge extended only to the _trees_ of the forest, and none of these with which i was acquainted possessed alexipharmic virtues. i knew nothing of the herbaceous plants, the milk-worts, and _aristolochias_, that would now have served me. the woods might have been filled with antidotal remedies, and i have died in their midst. yes, i might have lain down upon a bed of seneca root, and, amidst terrible convulsions, have breathed my last breath, without knowing that the rhizome of the humble plant crushed beneath my body would, in a few short hours, have expelled the venom from my veins, and given me life and health. i lost no time in speculating upon such a means of safety. i had but one thought--and that was to reach bringiers at the earliest possible moment. my hopes rested upon reigart. i hastily took up my gun; and, plunging once more under the dark shadows of the cypress-trees, i hurried on with nervous strides. i ran as fast as my limbs would carry me; but the shock of terror i had experienced seemed to have enfeebled my whole frame, and my knees knocked against each other as i went. on i struggled, regardless of my weakness, regardless of everything but the thought of reaching bringiers and reigart. over fallen trees, through dense cane-brakes, through clumps of palmettoes and pawpaw thickets, i passed, dashing the branches from my path, and lacerating my skin at every step. onward, through sluggish rivulets of water, through tough miry mud, through slimy pools, filled with horrid newts, and the spawn of the huge _rana pipiens_, whose hoarse loud croak at every step sounded ominous in my ear. onward! "ho! whither am i going? where is the path? where the tracks of my former footsteps? not here--not there. good god! i have lost them!-- lost! lost!" quick as lightning came these thoughts. i looked around with eager glances. on every side i scanned the ground. i saw no path, no tracks, but those i had just made. i saw no marks that i could remember. i had lost my way. beyond a doubt i was lost! a thrill of despair ran through me--the blood curdled cold in my veins at the thought of my peril. no wonder. if lost in the forest, then was i lost indeed. a single hour might be enough. in that time the poison would do its work. i should be found only by the wolves and vultures. o god! as if to make my horrid fate appear more certain, i now remembered to have heard that it was the very season of the year--the hot autumn--when the venom of the _crotalus_ is most virulent, and does its work in the shortest period of time. cases are recorded where in a single hour its bite has proved fatal. "merciful heaven!" thought i, "in another hour i shall be no more!" and the thought was followed by a groan. the danger nerved me to renewed efforts. i turned back on my tracks. it seemed the best thing i could do; for in the gloomy circle around, there was no point that indicated my approach to the open ground of the plantations. not a bit of sky could i discover,--that welcome beacon to the wood-ranger, denoting the proximity of the clearings. even the heaven above was curtained from my view; and when i appealed to it in prayer, my eyes rested only upon the thick black foliage of the cypress-trees, with their mournful drapery of _tillandsia_. i had no choice but to go back, and endeavour to find the path i had lost, or wander on trusting to mere chance. i chose the former alternative. again i broke through the cane-brakes and palmetto-thickets--again i forded sluggish bayous, and waded across muddy pools. i had not proceeded more than a hundred yards on the back track, when that also became doubtful. i had passed over a reach of ground higher and drier than the rest. here no footprints appeared, and i knew not which way i had taken. i tried in several directions, but could not discover my way. i became confused, and at length completely bewildered. again was i lost! to have been lost in the forest under ordinary circumstances would have mattered little,--an hour or two of wandering--perhaps a night spent under the shade of some tree, with the slight inconvenience of a hungry stomach. but how very different was my prospect then, with the fearful thoughts that were pressing upon me! the poison was fast inoculating my blood. i fancied i already felt it crawling through my veins! one more struggle to find the clearings! i rushed on, now guided by chance. i endeavoured to keep in a straight line, but to no purpose. the huge pyramidal buttresses of the trees, so characteristic of these _coniferae_, barred my way; and, in passing around them, i soon lost all knowledge of my direction. i wandered on, now dragging wearily across the dull ditches, now floundering through tracts of swamp, or climbing over huge prostrate logs. in my passage i startled the thousand denizens of the dank forest, who greeted me with their cries. the qua-bird screamed; the swamp-owl hooted; the bullfrog uttered his trumpet-note; and the hideous alligator, horribly bellowing from his gaunt jaws, crawled sulkily out of my way, at times appearing as if he would turn and assail me! "ho! yonder is light!--the sky!" it was but a small patch of the blue heaven--a disc, not larger than a dining-plate. but, oh! you cannot understand with what joy i greeted that bright spot. it was the lighthouse to the lost mariner. it must be the clearings? yes, i could see the sun shining through the trees, and the horizon open as i advanced. no doubt the plantations were before me. once there i should soon cross the fields, and reach the town. i should yet be safe. reigart would surely know how to extract the poison, or apply some antidote? i kept on with bounding heart and straining eyes--on, for the bright meteor before me. the blue spot grew larger--other pieces of sky appeared--the forest grew thinner as i advanced--i was drawing nearer to its verge. the ground became firmer and drier at every step, and the timber of a lighter growth. the shapeless cypress "knees" no longer impeded my progress. i now passed among tulip-trees, dogwoods, and magnolias. less densely grew the trunks, lighter and less shadowy became the foliage above; until at length i pushed through the last selvage of the underwood, and stood in the open sunshine. a cry of agony rose upon my lips. it was wrung from me by despair. i had arrived at my point of starting--i was once more within the glade! i sought not to go farther. fatigue, disappointment, and chagrin, had for the moment paralysed my strength. i staggered forward to a prostrate trunk,--the very one which sheltered my reptile assassin!--and sat down in a state of irresolution and bewilderment. it seemed as though i were destined to die in that lovely glade--amidst those bright flowers--in the midst of that scene i had so lately admired, and upon the very spot where i had received my fatal wound! chapter thirty three. the runaway. man rarely yields up his life without an extreme effort to preserve it. despair is a strong feeling, but there are those whose spirit it cannot prostrate. in later life mine own would not have given way to such circumstances as surrounded me at that time; but i was then young, and little experienced in peril. the paralysis of my thoughts did not continue long. my senses returned again; and i resolved to make a new effort for the salvation of my life. i had conceived no plan, further than to endeavour once more to escape out of the labyrinth of woods and morass in which i had become entangled, and make as before for the village. i thought i knew the direction in which it lay, by observing the side at which i had first entered the glade. but, after all, there was no certainty in this. it was mere conjecture. i had entered the glade with negligent steps. i had strayed all around it before lying down to sleep. perhaps i had gone around its sides before entering it--for i had been wandering all the morning. while these reflections were passing rapidly through my mind, and despair once more taking possession of my spirits, i all at once remembered having heard that tobacco is a powerful antidote to snake-poison. strange the idea had not occurred to me before. but, indeed, there was nothing wonderful that it did not, as up to that moment i had only thought of making my way to bringiers. with no reliance upon my own knowledge, i had thought only of a doctor. it was only when i became apprehensive of not being able to get to _him_, that i began to think of what resources lay within my reach. i now remembered the tobacco. quick as the thought my cigar-case was in my fingers. to my joy one cigar still remained, and drawing it out i proceeded to macerate the tobacco by chewing. this i had heard was the mode of applying it to the snakebite. dry as was my mouth at first, the bitter weed soon supplied me with saliva, and in a few moments i had reduced the leaves to a pulp, though nauseated--almost poisoned by the powerful _nicotine_. i laid the moistened mass upon my wrist, and at the same time rubbed it forcibly into the wound. i now perceived that my arm was sensibly swollen--even up to the elbow--and a singular pain began to be felt throughout its whole length! o god! the poison was spreading, surely and rapidly spreading! i fancied i could feel it like liquid fire crawling and filtering through my veins! though i had made application of the nicotine, i had but little faith in it. i had only heard it casually talked of as a remedy. it might, thought i, be one of the thousand fancies that people love to indulge in; and i had only used it as a "forlorn hope." i bound the mass to my wrist--a torn sleeve serving for lint; and then, turning my face in the direction i intended to take, i started off afresh. i had scarce made three strides when my steps were suddenly arrested. i stopped on observing a man on the edge of the glade, and directly in front of me. he had just come out of the underwood, towards which i was advancing, and, on perceiving me, had suddenly halted--perhaps surprised at the sight of one of his own kind in such a wild place. i hailed his appearance with a shout of joy. "a guide!--a deliverer!" thought i. what was my astonishment--my chagrin--my indignation--when the man suddenly turned his back upon me; and, plunging into the bushes, disappeared from my sight! i was astounded at this strange conduct. i had just caught a glimpse of the man's face as he turned away. i had seen that he was a negro, and i had noticed that he appeared to be frightened. but what was there about me to terrify him? i called out to him to stop--to come back. i shouted in tones of entreaty--of command--of menace. in vain. he made neither stop nor stay. i heard the branches crackle as he broke through the thicket-- each moment the noise appearing more distant. it was my only chance for a guide. i must not lose it; and, bracing myself for a run, i started after him. if i possess any physical accomplishment in which i have confidence it is my fleetness of foot. at that time an indian runner could not have escaped me, much less a clumsy, long-heeled negro. i knew that if i could once more got my eyes upon the black, i would soon overhaul him; but therein lay the difficulty. in my hesitation i had given him a long start; and he was now out of sight in the depth of the thicket. but i could hear him breaking through the bushes like a hog; and, guiding myself by the sound, i kept up the pursuit. i was already somewhat jaded by my previous exertions; but the conviction that _my life depended on overtaking the negro_ kindled my energies afresh, and i ran like a greyhound. unfortunately it was not a question of simple speed, else the chase would soon have been brought to an end. it was in getting through the bushes, and dodging round the trunks of the trees, that the hindrance lay; and i had many a struggle among the branches, and many a zigzag turn to make, before i could get my eyes upon the object i was in pursuit of. however, i at length succeeded in doing so. the underwood came to an end. the misshapen cypress trunks alone stood up out of the miry, black soil; and far off, down one of their dark aisles, i caught sight of the negro, still running at the top of his speed. fortunately his garments were light-coloured, else under the sombre shadow i could not have made him out. as it was, i had only a glimpse of him, and at a good distance off. but i had cleared the thicket, and could run freely. swiftness had now everything to do with the race; and in less than five minutes after i was close upon the heels of the black, and calling to him to halt. "stop!" i shouted. "for god's sake, stop!" no notice was taken of my appeals. the negro did not even turn his head, but ran on, floundering through the mud. "stop!" i repeated, as loudly as my exhausted breath would permit. "stop, man! why do you run from me? i mean you no harm." neither did this speech produce any effect. no reply was given. if anything, i fancied that he increased his speed; or rather, perhaps, he had got through the quagmire, and was running upon firm ground while i was just entering upon the former. i fancied that the distance between us was again widening; and began to fear he might still elude me. i felt that my life was on the result. without him to guide me from the forest, i would miserably perish. he _must_ guide me. willing or unwilling, i should force him to the office. "stop," i again cried out; "halt, or i fire!" i had raised my gun. both barrels were loaded. i had spoken in all seriousness. i should in reality have fired--not to kill, but to detain him. the shot might injure him, but i could not help it. i had no choice--no other means of saving my own life. i repeated the awful summons:-- "stop--or i fire!" this time my tone was earnest. it left no doubt of my intention; and this seemed to be the impression it produced upon the black; for, suddenly halting in his tracks, he wheeled about, and stood facing me. "fire! and be dam!" cried he; "have a care, white man--don't you miss. by gor-amighty! if ya do, your life's mine. see dis knife! fire now and be dam!" as he spoke he stood full fronting me, his broad chest thrown out as if courageously to receive the shot, and in his uplifted hand i saw the shining blade of a knife! a few steps brought me close up; and in the man that stood before me i recognised the form, and ferocious aspect of _gabriel the bambarra_! chapter thirty four. gabriel the bambarra. the huge stature of the black--his determined attitude--the sullen glare of his lurid bloodshot eyes, set in a look of desperate resolve--the white gleaming file-pointed teeth--rendered him a terrible object to behold. under other circumstances i might have dreaded an encounter with such a hideous-looking adversary--for an _adversary_ i deemed him. i remembered the flogging i had given him with my whip, and i had no doubt that _he_ remembered it too. i had no doubt that he was now upon his errand of revenge instigated partly by the insult i had put upon him, and partly set on by his cowardly master. he had been dogging me through the forest--all the day, perhaps--waiting for an opportunity to execute his purpose. but why had he run away from me? was it because he feared to attack me openly. certainly it was--he feared my double-barrelled gun! but i had been asleep. he might have approached me then--he might have--ha! this ejaculation escaped my lips, as a singular thought flashed into my mind. the bambarra was a "snake-charmer"--i had heard so--could handle the most venomous serpents at rail--could guide and direct them! was it not he who had guided the _crotalus_ to where i lay--who had caused me to be bitten? strange as it may appear, this supposition at that moment crossed my mind, and seemed probable; nay, more--i actually _believed it_. i remembered that i had been struck with a peculiarity about the reptile-- its weird look--the superior cunning exhibited in its mode of escape-- and not less peculiar the fact of its having stung me unprovoked--a rare thing for the rattlesnake to do! all these points rushing simultaneously into my mind, produced the conviction that for the fatal wound on my wrist i was indebted, not to chance, but to gabriel the snake-charmer! not half the time i have been telling you of it--not the tenth nor the hundredth part of the time, was i in forming this horrid conviction. it was done with the rapidity of thought--the more rapid that every circumstance guiding to such a conclusion was fresh in my memory. in fact the black had not changed his attitude of menace, nor i mine of surprise at recognising him, until all these thoughts had passed through my mind! almost with equal rapidity was i disabused of the singular delusion. in another minute i became aware that my suspicions were unjust. i had been wronging the man who stood before me. all at once his attitude changed. his uplifted arm fell by his side; the expression of fierce menace disappeared; and in as mild a tone as his rough voice was capable of giving utterance to, he said-- "oh! you mass'--brack man's friend! dam! thought 'twar da cussed yankee driber!" "and was that why you ran from me?" "ye, mass'; ob course it war." "then you are--" "am runaway; ye, mass', jes so--runaway. don't mind tell you. gabr'el truss you--he know you am poor nigga's friend. look-ee-dar." as he uttered this last phrase, he pulled off the scanty copper-coloured rag of a shirt that covered his shoulders, and bared his back before my eyes! a horrid sight it was. besides the _fleur-de-lis_ and many other old brands, there were sears of more recent date. long wales, purple-red and swollen, traversed the brown skin in every direction, forming perfect network. here they were traceable by the darker colour of the extravasatod blood, while there the flesh itself lay bare, where it had been exposed to some prominent fold of the spirally-twisted cowskin. the old shirt itself was stained with black blotches that had once been red--the blood that had oozed out during the infliction! the sight sickened me, and called forth the involuntary utterance-- "poor fellow!" this expression of sympathy evidently touched the rude heart of the bambarra. "ah, mass'!" he continued, "you flog me with hoss-whip--dat nuff'n! gabr'l bress you for dat. he pump water on ole zip _'gainst him will_-- glad when young mass' druv im way from de pump." "ha! you were forced to it, then?" "ye, mass', forced by da yankee driber. try make me do so odder time. i 'fuse punish zip odder time--dat's why you see dis yeer--dam!" "you were flogged for refusing to punish scipio?" "jes so, mass' edwad; 'bused, as you see; but--" here the speaker hesitated, while his face resumed its fierce expression; "but," continued he, "i'se had rebenge on de yankee--dam!" "what?--revenge? what have you done to him?" "oh, not much, mass'. knock im down; he drop like a beef to de axe. dat's some rebenge to poor nigga. beside, i'se a runaway, _an' dat's rebenge_! ha! ha! dey lose good nigga--good hand in de cotton-feel-- good hand among de cane. ha! ha!" the hoarse laugh with which the "runaway" expressed his satisfaction sounded strangely on my ear. "and you have run away from the plantation?" "jes so, mass' edward--nebber go back." after a pause, he added, with increased emphasis, "_nebber go back 'live_!" as he uttered these words he raised his hand to his broad chest, at the same time throwing his body into an attitude of earnest determination. i saw at once that i had mistaken the character of this man. i had had it from his enemies, the whites, who feared him. with all the ferocity of expression that characterised his features, there was evidently something noble in his heart. he had been flogged for refusing to flog a fellow-slave. he had resented the punishment, and struck down his brutal oppressor. by so doing he had risked a far more terrible punishment--even life itself! it required courage to do all this. a spirit of liberty alone could have inspired him with that courage--the same spirit which impelled the swiss patriot to strike down the cap of gessler. as the negro stood with his thick muscular fingers spread over his brawny chest, with form erect, with head thrown back, and eyes fixed in stern resolve, i was impressed with an air of grandeur about him, and could not help thinking that in the black form before me, scantily clad in coarse cotton, there was the soul and spirit of a man! chapter thirty five. the snake-doctor. with admiring eyes i looked for some moments on this bold black man-- this slave-hero. i might have gazed longer, but the burning sensation in my arm reminded me of my perilous situation. "you will guide me to bringiers?" was my hurried interrogatory. "daren't, mass'." "daren't! why?" "mass' forgot i'se a runaway. white folk cotch gabr'l--cut off him arm." "what? cut off your arm?" "saten sure, mass'--dats da law of loozyaney. white man strike nigga, folk laugh, folk cry out, `lap de dam nigga! lap him!' nigga strike white man, cut off nigga's arm. like berry much to 'bleege mass' edwad, but daren't go to de clearins. white men after gabr'l last two days. cuss'd blood-dogs and nigga-hunters out on im track. thought young mass' war one o' dem folks; dat's why um run." "if you do not guide me, then i must die." "die!--die! why for mass' say dat?" "because i am lost. i cannot find my way out of the forest. if i do not reach the doctor in less than twenty minutes, there is no hope. o god!" "doctor!--mass' edwad sick? what ail um? tell gabr'l. if dat's da case, him guide de brack man's friend at risk ob life. what young mass' ail?" "see! i have been bitten by a rattlesnake." i bared my arm, and showed the wound and the swelling. "ho! dat indeed! sure 'nuff--it are da bite ob de rattlesnake. doctor no good for dat. tobacc'-juice no good. gabr'l best doctor for de rattlesnake. come 'long, young mass'!" "what! you are going to guide me, then?" "i'se a gwine to _cure_ you, mass'." "you?" "ye, mass'! tell you doctor no good--know nuffin' 't all 'bout it--he kill you--truss ole gabe--he cure you. come 'long, mass', no time t' be loss." i had for the moment forgotten the peculiar reputation which the black enjoyed--that of a snake-charmer and snake-doctor as well, although i had so late been thinking of it. the remembrance of this fact now returned, accompanied by a very different train of reflections. "no doubt," thought i, "he possesses the requisite knowledge--knows the antidote, and how to apply it. no doubt he is the very man. the doctor, as he says, may not understand how to treat me." i had no very great confidence that the doctor could cure me. i was only running to him as a sort of _dernier ressort_. "this gabriel--this snake-charmer, is the very man. how fortunate i should have met with him!" after a moment's hesitation--during the time these reflections were passing through my mind--i called out to the black-- "lead on! i follow you!" whither did he intend to guide me? what was he going to do? where was _he_ to find an antidote? how was he to cure me? to these questions, hurriedly put, i received no reply. "you truss me, mass' edward; you foller me!" were all the words the black would utter as he strode off among the trees. i had no choice but to follow him. after proceeding several hundred yards through the cypress swamp, i saw some spots of sky in front of us. this indicated an opening in the woods, and for that i saw my guide was heading. i was not surprised on reaching this opening to find that it was the glade--again the fatal glade! to my eyes how changed its aspect! i could not bear the bright sun that gleamed into it. the sheen of its flowers wearied my sight--their perfume made me sick! maybe i only fancied this. i was sick, but from a very different cause. the poison was mingling with my blood. it was setting my veins on fire. i was tortured by a choking sensation of thirst, and already felt that spasmodic compression of the chest, and difficulty of breathing-- the well-known symptoms experienced by the victims of snake-poison. it may be that i only fancied most of this. i knew that a venomous serpent had bitten me; and that knowledge may have excited my imagination to an extreme susceptibility. whether the symptoms did in reality exist, i suffered them all the same. my fancy had all the painfulness of reality! my companion directed me to be seated. moving about, he said, was not good. he desired me to be calm and patient, once more begging me to "truss gabr'l." i resolved to be quiet, though patient i could not be. my peril was too great. physically i obeyed him. i sat down upon a log--that same log of the liriodendron--and under the shade of a spreading dogwood-tree. with all the patience i could command, i sat awaiting the orders of the snake-doctor. he had gone off a little way, and was now wandering around the glade with eyes bent upon the ground. he appeared to be searching for something. "some plant," thought i, "he expects to find growing there." i watched his movements with more than ordinary interest. i need hardly have said this. it would have been sufficient to say that i felt my life depended on the result of his search. his success or his failure were life or death to me. how my heart leaped when i saw him bend forward, and then stoop still lower, as if clutching something upon the ground! an exclamation of joy that escaped his lips was echoed in a louder key from my own; and, forgetting his directions to remain quiet, i sprang up from the log, and ran towards him. as i approached he was upon his knees, and with his knife-blade was digging around a plant, as if to raise it by the roots. it was a small herbaceous plant, with erect simple stem, oblong lanceolate leaves, and a terminal spike of not very conspicuous white flowers. though i knew it not then, it was the famed "snake-root" (_polygala senega_). in a few moments he had removed the earth, and then, drawing out the plant, shook its roots free of the mould. i noticed that a mass of woody contorted rhizomes, somewhat thicker than those of the sarsaparilla briar, adhered to the stem. they were covered with ash-coloured bark, and quite inodorous. amid the fibres of these roots lay the antidote to the snake-poison--in their sap was the saviour of my rife! not a moment was lost in preparing them. there were no hieroglyphics nor latinic phraseology employed in the prescription of the snake-charmer. it was comprised in the phrase, "_chaw it_!" and, along with this simple direction, a piece of the root scraped clear of the bark was put into my hand. i did as i was desired, and in a moment i had reduced the root to a pulp, and was swallowing its sanitary juices. the taste was at first rather sweetish, and engendered a slight feeling of nausea; but, as i continued to chew, it became hot and pungent, producing a peculiar tingling sensation in the fauces and throat. the black now ran to the nearest brook, filled one of his "brogans" with water, and, returning, washed my wrist until the tobacco juice was all removed from the wound. having himself chewed a number of the leaves of the plant into a pulpy mass, he placed it directly upon the bitten part, and then bound up the wound as before. everything was now done that could be done. i was instructed to abide the result patiently and without fear. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ in a very short time a profuse perspiration broke out over my whole body, and i began to expectorate freely. i felt, moreover, a strong inclination to vomit--which i should have done had i swallowed any more of the juice, for, taken in large doses, the seneca root is a powerful emetic. but of the feelings i experienced at that moment, the most agreeable was the belief that _i was cured_! strange to say, this belief almost at once impressed my mind with the force of a conviction. i no longer doubted the skill of the snake-doctor. chapter thirty six. charming the crotalus. i was destined to witness still further proofs of the wonderful capabilities of my new acquaintance. i felt the natural joy of one whose life has been, saved from destruction--singularly, almost miraculously saved. like one who has escaped from drowning, from the field of slaughter, from the very jaws of death. the reaction was delightful. i felt gratitude, too, for him who had saved me. i could have embraced my sable companion, black and fierce as he was, like a brother. we sat side by side upon the log, and chatted gaily;--gaily as men may whose future is dark and unsettled. alas! it was so with both of us. mine had been dark for days past; and his--what was his, poor helot? but even in the gloom of sadness the mind has its moments of joy. nature has not allowed that grief may be continuous, and at intervals the spirit must soar above its sorrows. such an interval was upon me then. joy and gratitude were in my heart. i had grown fond of this slave,--this runaway slave,--and was for the moment happy in his companionship. it was natural our conversation should be of snakes and snake-roots, and many a strange fact he imparted to me relating to reptile life. a herpetologist might have envied me the hour i spent upon that log in the company of gabriel the bambarra. in the midst of our conversation my companion abruptly asked the question, whether i had killed the snake that had bitten me. "no," i replied. "it escaped." "'scaped, mass'! whar did um go?" "it took shelter in a hollow log,--the very one on which we are seated." the eyes of the negro sparkled with delight. "dam!" exclaimed he, starting to his feet; "mass' say snake in dis yeer log? dam!" he repeated, "if do varmint yeer in dis log, gabr'l soon fetch 'im out." "what! you have no axe?" "dis nigga axe no want for dat." "how, then, can you get at the snake? do you intend to set fire to the log?" "ho! fire no good. dat log burn whole month. fire no good: smoke white men see,--b'lieve 'im runaway,--den come de blood-dogs. dis nigga daren't make no fire." "how, then?" "wait a bit, mass' edwad, you see. dis nigga fetch de rattlesnake right out ob 'im boots. please, young mass', keep still; don't speak 'bove de breff: ole varmint, he hear ebbery word." the black now talked in whispers, as he glided stealthily around the log. i followed his directions, and remained perfectly "still," watching every movement of my singular companion. some young reeds of the american bamboo (_arundo gigantea_) were growing near. a number of these he cut down with his knife; and then, sharpening their lower ends, stuck them into the ground, near the end of the log. he arranged the reeds in such a manner that they stood side by side, like the strings of a harp, only closer together. he next chose a small sapling from the thicket, and trimmed it so that nothing remained but a straight wand with a forked end. with this in one hand, and a piece of split cane in the other, he placed himself flat along the log, in such a position that his face was directly over the entrance to the cavity. he was also close to the row of canes, so that with his outstretched hand he could conveniently reach them. his arrangements were now completed, and the "charm" commenced. laying aside the forked sapling ready to his hand, he took the piece of split reed, and drew it backward and forward across the row of upright canes. this produced a sound which was an exact imitation of the "skerr" of the rattlesnake; go like, that a person hearing it, without knowing what caused it, would undoubtedly have mistaken it for the latter; so like, that the black knew the reptile itself would be deceived by it! he did not, however, trust to this alone to allure his victim. aided by an instrument which he had hastily constructed out of the lanceolate leaves of the cane, he at the same time imitated the scream and chatter of the red cardinal (_loxia cardinalis_), just as when that bird is engaged in battle, either with a serpent, an opossum, or some other of its habitual enemies. the sounds produced were exactly similar to those often heard in the depths of the american forest, when the dread _crotalus_ plunders the nest of the virginian nightingale. the stratagem proved successful. in a few moments the lozenge-shaped head of the reptile appeared outside the cavity. its forking tongue was protruded at short intervals, and its small dark eyes glittered with rage. its rattle could be heard, announcing its determination to take part in the fray--which it supposed was going on outside. it had glided out nearly the full length of its body, and seemed to have discovered the deception, for it was turning round to retreat. but the _crotalus_ is one of the most sluggish of snakes; and, before it could get back within the log, the forked sapling descended upon its neck, and pinned it fast to the ground! its body now writhed over the grass in helpless contortions--a formidable creature to behold. it was a snake of the largest size for its species, being nearly eight feet in length, and as thick as the wrist of the bambarra himself. even he was astonished at its proportions; and assured me it was the largest of its kind he had ever encountered. i expected to see the black put an end to its struggles at once by killing it; and i essayed to help him with my gun. "no, mass'," cried he, in a tone of entreaty, "for luv ob de ormighty! don't fire de gun. mass' forget dat dis poor nigga am runaway." i understood his meaning, and lowered the piece. "b'side," continued he, "i'se got somethin' show mass' yet--he like see curious thing--he like see de big snake trick?" i replied in the affirmative. "well, den, please, mass', hold dis stick. i for something go. jes now berry curious plant i see--berry curious--berry scace dat plant. i seed it in de cane-brake. catch 'old, mass', while i go get um." i took hold of the sapling, and held it as desired, though not without some apprehension of the hideous reptile that curled and writhed at my feet. i had no need to fear, however. the fork was exactly across the small of the creature's neck, and it could not raise its head to strike me. large as it was, there was no danger from anything but its fangs; for the _crotalus_, unlike serpents of the genus _constrictor_, possesses but a very feeble power of compression. gabriel had gone off among the bushes, and in a few minutes i saw him returning. he carried in his hand a plant which, as before, he had pulled up by the roots. like the former, it was a herbaceous plant, but of a very different appearance. the leaves of this one were heart-shaped and acuminate, its stem sinuous, and its flowers of a dark purple colour. as the black approached, i saw that he was chewing some parts both of the leaves and root. what did he mean to do? i was not left long in suspense. as soon as he had arrived upon the ground, he stooped down, and spat a quantity of the juice over the head of the snake. then, taking the sapling out of my hand, he plucked it up and flung it away. to my dismay, the snake was now set free; and i lost no time in springing backward, and mounting upon the log. not so my companion, who once more stooped down, caught hold of the hideous reptile, fearlessly raised it from the ground, and flung it around his neck as coolly as if it had been a piece of rope! the snake made no effort to bite him. neither did it seem desirous of escaping from his grasp. it appeared rather to be stupefied, and without the power of doing injury! after playing with it for some moments, the bambarra threw it back to the ground. even there it made no effort to escape! the charmer now turned to me, and said, in a tone of triumph, "now, mass' edward, you shall hab rebenge. look at dis!" as he spoke he pressed his thumb against the fauces of the serpent, until its mouth stood wide open. i could plainly see its terrible fangs and poison glands. then, holding its head close up to his lips, he injected the dark saliva into its throat, and once more flung it to the ground. up to this time he had used no violence--nothing that would have killed a creature so retentive of life as a snake; and i still expected to see the reptile make its escape. not so, however. it made no effort to move from the spot, but lay stretched out in loose irregular folds, without any perceptible motion beyond a slight quivering of the body. in less than two minutes after, this motion ceased and the snake had all the appearance of being dead! "it am dead, mass'," replied the black to my inquiring glance, "dead as julium caesar." "and what is this plant, gabriel?" "ah, dat is a great yerb, mass'; dat is a scace plant--a berry scace plant. eat some ob dat--no snake bite you, as you jes seed. dat is de plant ob de _snake-charmer_." the botanical knowledge of my sable companion went no farther. in after years, however, i was enabled to classify his "charm," which was no other than the _aristolochia serpentaria_--a species closely allied to the "bejuco de guaco," that alexipharmic rendered so celebrated by the pens of mutis and humboldt. my companion now desired me to chew some of the roots; for though he had every confidence in the other remedy, he deemed it no harm to make assurance doubly sure. he extolled the virtues of the new-found plant, and told me he should have administered it instead of the seneca root, but he had despaired of finding it--as it was of much more rare occurrence in that part of the country. i eagerly complied with his request, and swallowed some of the juice. like the seneca root, it tasted hot and pungent, with something of the flavour of spirits of camphor. but the polygala is quite inodorous, while the guaco gives forth a strong aromatic smell, resembling valerian. i had already experienced relief--this would have given it to me almost instantaneously. in a very short time time the swelling completely subsided; and had it not been for the binding around my wrist, i should have forgotten that i had been wounded. chapter thirty seven. killing a trail. an hour or more we had spent since entering the glade--now no longer terrible. once more its flowers looked bright, and their perfume had recovered its sweetness. once more the singing of the birds and the hum of the insect-world fell soothingly upon my ears; and there, as before, sat the pretty doves, still repeating their soft "co-co-a"--the endearing expression of their loves. i could have lingered long in the midst of this fair scene--long have enjoyed its sylvan beauty; but the intellectual must over yield to the physical. i felt sensations of hunger, and soon the appetite began to distress me. where was i to obtain relief from this pain--where obtain food? i could not ask my companion to guide me to the plantations, now that i knew the risk he would run in so doing. i knew that it really was as he had stated--_the loss of an arm, perhaps of life, should he be caught_. there was but little hope of mercy for him--the less so as he had no master with power to protect him, and who might be _interested_ in his not being thus crippled! by approaching the open country on the edge of the clearings, he would not only run the hazard of being seen, but, what he feared still more, being _tracked by hounds_! this mode of searching for "runaways" was not uncommon, and there were even white men base enough to follow it as a calling! so learnt i from my companion. his information was afterwards confirmed _by my own experience_! i was hungry--what was to be done? i could not find my way alone. i might again get lost, and have to spend the night in the swamp. what had i best do? i appealed to my companion. he had been silent for some time--busy with his thoughts. they were running on the same subject as my own. the brave fellow had not forgotten me. "jes what dis nigga am thinkin' 'bout," replied he. "well, mass'," he continued, "when sun go down, den i guide you safe--no fear den. gabr'l take you close to de lebee road. mass' must wait till sun go down." "but--" "mass' hungry?" inquired he, interrupting me. i assented. "jes thot so. dar's nuffin' yeer to eat 'cept dis ole snake. mass' no care to eat snake: dis nigga eat 'im. cook 'im at night, when smoke ob de fire not seen ober de woods. got place to cook 'im, mass' see. gabr'l truss mass' edwad. he take him to caboose ob de runaway." he had already cut off the head of the reptile while he was talking; and having pinned neck and tail together with a sharp stick, he lifted the glittering body, and flinging it over his shoulders, stood ready to depart. "come, now, mass'," continued he, "come 'long wi' ole gabe; he find you somethin' to eat." so saying, he turned round and walked off into the bushes. i took up my gun and followed. i could not do better. to have attempted to find my own way back to the clearings might again have resulted in failure, since i had twice failed. i had nothing to hurry me back. it would be quite as well if i returned to the village after night--the more prudent course, in fact--as then my mud-bedaubed and blood-stained habiliments would be less likely to attract attention; and this i desired to avoid. i was contented, therefore, to follow the runaway to his "lair," and share it with him till after sunset. for some hundred yards he led on in silence. his eyes wandered around the forest, as though he was seeking for something. they were not directed upon the ground, but upward to the trees; and, therefore, i know it was not the path he was in search of. a slight exclamation escaped him, and, suddenly turning in his tracks, he struck off in a direction different to that we had been following. i walked after; and now saw that he had halted by a tall tree, and was looking up among its branches. the tree was the frankincense, or loblolly pine (_pinus toeda_). that much of botany i knew. i could tell the species by the large spinous cones and light-green needles. why had he stopped there? "mass' edwad soon see," he said, in answer to my interrogatory. "please, mass'," he continued, "hold de snake a bit--don't let um touch de groun'--dam dogs dey smell um!" i relieved him of his burden; and, holding it as he desired, stood watching him in silence. the loblolly pine grows with a straight, naked shaft and pyramidal head, often without branches, to the height of fifty feet. in this case, however, several fronds stood out from the trunk, at less than twenty feet from the ground. these were loaded with large green cones, full five inches in length; and it appeared to be these that my companion desired to obtain--though for what purpose i had not the remotest idea. after a while he procured a long pole; and with the end of this knocked down several of the cones, along with pieces of the branchlets to which they adhered. as soon as he believed he had a sufficient quantity for his purpose, he desisted, and flung the pole away. what next? i watched with increasing interest. he now gathered up both the cones and the adhering spray; but to my surprise he flung the former away. it was not the cones, then, he wanted, but the young shoots that grew on the very tops of the branches. these were of a brownish-red colour, and thickly coated with resin--for the _pinus taeda_ is more resinous than any tree of its kind--emitting a strong aromatic odour, which has given to it one of its trivial names. having collected the shoots until he had both hands full, my guide now bent down, and rubbed the resin over both the soles and upper surface of his coarse brogans. he then advanced to where i stood, stooped down again, and treated my boots to a similar polishing! "now, mass', all right--de dam, blood-dogs no scent ole gabe now--dat _hill de trail_. come, mass' edwad, come 'long." saying this, he again shouldered the snake and started off, leaving me to follow in his tracks. chapter thirty eight. the pirogue. we soon after entered the _cypriere_. there the surface was mostly without underwood. the black taxodiums, standing thickly, usurped the ground, their umbellated crowns covered with hoary epiphytes, whose pendulous drapery shut out the sun, that would otherwise have nourished on that rich soil a luxuriant herbaceous vegetation. but we were now within the limits of the annual inundation; and but few plants can thrive there. after a while i could see we were approaching a stagnant water. there was no perceptible descent, but the dank damp odour of the swamp, the noise of the piping frogs, the occasional scream of some wading bird, or the bellowing of the alligator, admonished me that some constant water-- some lake or pond--was near. we were soon upon its margin. it was a large pond, though only a small portion of it came under the eye; for, as far as i could see, the cypress-trees grew up out of the water, their huge buttresses spreading out so as almost to touch each other! here and there the black "knees" protruded above the surface, their fantastic shapes suggesting the idea of horrid water-demons, and lending a supernatural character to the scene. thus canopied over, the water looked black as ink, and the atmosphere felt heavy and oppressive. the picture was one from which dante might have drawn ideas for his "inferno." on arriving near this gloomy pond, my guide came to a stop. a huge tree that had once stood near the edge had fallen, and in such a position that its top extended far out into the water. its branches were yet undecayed, and the parasites still clung to them in thick tufts, giving the whole the appearance of a mass of hay loosely thrown together. part of this was under water, but a still larger portion remained above the surface, high and dry. it was at the root of this fallen tree that my guide had halted. he remained but a moment, waiting only till i came up. as soon as i had reached the spot, he mounted upon the trunk; and, beckoning me to follow him, walked along the log in the direction of its top. i climbed up, and balancing myself as well as i could, followed him out into the water. on reaching the head of the tree, we entered among the thick limbs; and, winding around these, kept still farther towards the top branches. i expected that there we should reach our resting-place. at length my companion came to a stop, and i now saw, to my astonishment, a small "pirogue" resting upon the water, and hidden under the moss! so completely was it concealed, that it was not possible to have seen it from any point except that where we now stood. "this, then," thought i, "is the object for which we have crawled out upon the tree." the sight of the pirogue led me to conjecture that we had farther to go. the black now loosed the canoe from its moorings, and beckoned me to get in. i stepped into the frail craft and sat down. my companion followed, and, laying hold of the branches, impelled the vessel outward till it was clear of the tops of the tree. then, seizing the paddle, under its repeated strokes we passed silently over the gloomy surface of the water. for the first two or three hundred yards our progress was but slow. the cypress knees, and huge "buttocks" of the trees, stood thickly in the way, and it was necessary to observe some caution in working the pirogue through among them. but i saw that my companion well understood the _manege_ of his craft, and wielded a "paddle" with the skill of a chippewa. he had the reputation of being a great "'coon-hunter" and "bayou fisherman;" and in these pursuits no doubt he had picked up his canoe-craft. it was the most singular voyage i had ever made. the pirogue floated in an element that more resembled ink than water. not a ray of sun glanced across our path. the darkness of twilight was above and around us. we glided along shadowy aisles, and amidst huge black trunks that rose like columns supporting a canopy of close-woven fronds. from this vegetable root hung the mournful _bromelia_, sometimes drooping down to the very surface of the water, so as to sweep our faces and shoulders as we passed under it. we were not the only living things. even this hideous place had its denizens. it was the haunt and secure abode of the great _saurian_, whose horrid form could be distinguished in the gloom, now crawling along some prostrate trunk, now half mounted upon the protruding knees of the cypresses, or swimming with slow and stealthy stroke through the black liquid. huge water-snakes could be seen, causing a tiny ripple as they passed from tree to tree, or lying coiled upon the projecting buttocks. the swamp-owl hovered on silent wing, and large brown bats pursued their insect prey. sometimes these came near, fluttering in our very faces, so that we could perceive the mephitic odour of their bodies, while their horny jaws gave forth a noise like the clinking of castanets. the novelty of the scene interested me; but i could not help being impressed with a slight feeling of awe. classic memories, too, stirred within me. the fancies of the roman poet were here realised. i was upon the styx, and in my rower i recognised the redoubtable charon. suddenly a light broke through the gloom. a few more strokes of the paddle, and the pirogue shot out into the bright sunlight. what a relief! i now beheld a space of open water,--a sort of circular lake. it was in reality the lake, for what we had been passing over was but the inundation; and at certain seasons this portion covered with forest became almost dry. the open water, on the contrary, was constant, and too deep even for the swamp-loving cypress to grow in it. the space thus clear of timber was not of very large extent,--a surface of half-a-mile or so. on all sides it was enclosed by the moss-draped forest that rose around it, like a grey wall; and in the very centre grew a clump of the same character, that in the distance appeared to be an island. this solitary tarn was far from being silent. on the contrary, it was a scene of stirring life. it seemed the rendezvous for the many species of wild winged creatures that people the great _marais_ of louisiana. there were the egrets, the ibises--both white and scarlet--the various species of _ardeidae_, the cranes, and the red flamingoes. there, too, was the singular and rare darter, swimming with body immersed, and snake-like head just appearing above the water; and there were the white unwieldy forms of the tyrant pelicans standing on the watch for their finny prey. swimming birds speckled the surface; various species of _anatidae_--swans, geese, and ducks,--while the air was filled with flights of gulls and curlews, or was cut by the strong whistling wings of the mallards. other than waterfowl had chosen this secluded spot for their favourite dwelling-place. the osprey could be seen wheeling about in the air, now shooting down like a star upon the unfortunate fish that had approached too near the surface, and anon yielding up his prey to the tyrant _haliaetus_. such were the varied forms of feathered creatures that presented themselves to my eye on entering this lonely lake of the woods. i looked with interest upon the scene. it was a true scene of nature, and made a vivid impression upon me at the moment. not so with my companion, to whom it was neither novel nor interesting. it was an old picture to his eyes, and he saw it from a different point of view. he did not stay to look at it, but, lightly dipping his paddle, pressed the pirogue on in the direction of the island. a few strokes carried us across the open water, and the canoe once more entered under the shadow of trees. but to my surprise, _there was no island_! what i had taken for an island was but a single cypress-tree, that grew upon a spot where the lake was shallow. its branches extending on every side were loaded with the hoary parasites that drooped down to the very surface of the water, and shadowed a space of half an acre in extent. its trunk rested upon a base of enormous dimensions. huge buttresses flanked it on every side, slanting out into the water and rising along its stem to a height of many yards, the whole mass appearing as large as an ordinary cabin. its sides were indented with deep bays; and, as we approached under the screen, i could perceive a dark cavity which showed that this singular "buttock" was hollow within. the bow of the pirogue was directed into one of the bays, and soon struck against the tree. i saw several steps cut into the wood, and leading to the cavity above. my companion pointed to these steps. the screaming of the startled birds prevented me from hearing what he said, but i saw that it was a sign for me to mount upward. i hastened to obey his direction; and, climbing out of the canoe, sprawled up the sloping ridge. at the top was the entrance, just large enough to admit the body of a man; and, pressing through this, i stood inside the hollow tree. we had reached our destination--i was in the _lair of the runaway_! chapter thirty nine. the tree-cavern. the interior was dark, and it was some time before i could distinguish any object. presently my eyes became accustomed to the sombre light, and i was enabled to trace the outlines of this singular tree-cavern. its dimensions somewhat astonished me. a dozen men could have been accommodated in it, and there was ample room for that number either sitting or standing. in fact, the whole pyramidal mass which supported the tree was nothing more than a thin shell, all the heart having perished by decay. the floor, by the falling of this _debris_ of rotten wood, was raised above the level of the water, and felt firm and dry underfoot. near its centre i could perceive the ashes and half-burnt embers of an extinct fire; and along one side was strewed a thick covering of dry _tillandsia_, that had evidently been used as a bed. an old blanket lying upon the moss gave further testimony that this was its purpose. there was no furniture. a rude block,--a cypress knee that had been carried there--formed, the only substitute for a chair, and there was nothing to serve for a table. he who had made this singular cave his residence required no luxuries to sustain him. necessaries, however, he had provided. as my eyes grew more accustomed to the light, i could make out a number of objects i had not at first seen. an earthen cooking-pot, a large water gourd, a tin cup, an old axe, some fishing-tackle, and one or two coarse rags of clothing. what interested me more than all these was the sight of several articles that were _eatable_. there was a good-sized "chunk" of cooked pork, a gigantic "pone" of corn-bread, several boiled ears of maize, and the better half of a roast fowl. all these lay together upon a large wooden dish, rudely carved from the wood of the tulip-tree--of such a fashion as i had often observed about the cabins of the negro quarter. beside this dish lay several immense egg-shaped bodies of dark-green colour, with other smaller ones of a yellow hue. these were water and musk melons,-- not a bad prospect for a dessert. i had made this reconnoissance while my companion was engaged in fastening his pirogue to the tree. i had finished my survey as he entered. "now, mass'," said he, "dis am ole gabe's nest; de dam man-hunter no found 'im yeer." "why, you are quite at home here, gabriel! how did you ever find such a place?" "lor', mass', knowd it long time. he not de fust darkie who hid in dis old cypress,--nor de fust time for gabr'l neider. he runaway afore,-- dat war when he libbed with mass' hicks, 'fore ole mass' bought him. he nebber had 'casion to run away from old mass 'sancon. he good to de brack folks, and so war mass antoine--he good too, but now de poor nigga can't stan no longer; de new oberseer, he flog hard,--he flog till do blood come,--he use de cobbin board, an dat pump, an de red cowhide, an de wagon whip,--ebberything he use,--dam! i nebber go back,--nebber!" "but how do you intend to live? you can't always exist in this way. where will you get your provisions?" "nebber fear, mass' edwad, always get nuff to eat; no fear for dat. da poor runaway hab some friend on de plantations. beside he steal nuff to keep 'im 'live--hya! hya!" "oh!" "gabr'l no need steal now, 'ceptin' de roasting yeers and de millyuns. see! what zip fetch im! zip come las night to de edge ob de woods an' fetch all dat plunder. but, mass', you 'skoose me. forgot you am hungry. hab some pork some chicken. chloe cook 'em--is good--you eat." so saying he set the wooden platter with its contents before me; and the conversation was now interrupted, as both myself and my companion attacked the viands with right good-will. the "millyuns" constituted a delicious dessert, and for a full half-hour we continued to fight against the appetite of hunger. we conquered it at length, but not until the store of the runaway had been greatly reduced in bulk. after dinner we sat conversing for a long time. we were not without the soothing nicotian weed. my companion had several bunches of dry tobacco-leaf among his stores; and a corn-cob with a piece of cane-joint served for a pipe, through which the smoke was inhaled with all the aromatic fragrance of the costliest havanna. partly from gratitude for the saving of my life, i had grown to feel a strong interest in the runaway, and his future prospects became the subject of our converse. he had formed no plan of escape--though some thoughts of an attempt to reach canada or mexico, or to get off in a ship by new orleans, had passed through his mind. a plan occurred to me, though i did not communicate it to him, as i might never be able to carry it out. i begged of him, however, not to leave his present abode until i could see him again, promising that i should do what i could to find him a kinder master. he readily agreed to my proposal; and as it was now sunset, i made preparations for my departure from the lake. a signal was agreed upon, so that when i should return to visit him, he could bring the pirogue to ferry me across; and this being arranged, we once more entered the canoe, and set out for the plantations. we soon recrossed the lake; and, leaving the little boat safely moored by the fallen tree, started off through the woods. the path, with gabriel for my guide, was now easy; and at intervals, as we went along, he directed my attention to certain blazes upon the trees, and other marks by which i should know it again. in less than an hour after, we parted on the edge of the clearings--he going to some rendezvous already appointed--whilst i kept on to the village, the road to which now ran between parallel fences that rendered it impossible for me to go astray. chapter forty. hotel gossip. it was yet early when i entered the village. i glided stealthily through the streets, desirous to avoid observation. unfortunately i had to pass through the bar of the hotel in order to reach my room. it was just before the hour of supper, and the guests had assembled in the bar saloon and around the porch. my tattered habiliments, in places stained with blood, and profusely soiled with mud, could not escape notice; nor did they. men turned and gazed after me. loiterers looked with eyes that expressed their astonishment. some in the portico, and others in the bar, hailed me as i passed, asking me where i had been to. one cried out: "hillow, mister! you've had a tussle with the cats: hain't you?" i did not make reply. i pushed on up-stairs, and found relief in the privacy of my chamber. i had been badly torn by the bushes. my wounds needed dressing. i despatched a messenger for reigart. fortunately he was at home, and in a few minutes followed my messenger to the hotel. he entered my room, and stood staring at me with a look of surprise. "my dear r--, where have you been?" he inquired at length. "to the swamp." "and those wounds--your clothes torn--blood?" "thorn-scratches--that's all." "but where have you been?" "in the swamp." "in the swamp! but how came you to get such a mauling?" "i have been bitten by a rattlesnake." "what! bitten by a rattlesnake? do you speak seriously?" "quite true it is--but i have taken the antidote. i am cured." "antidote! cured! and what cure? who gave you an antidote?" "a friend whom i met in the swamp!" "a friend in the swamp!" exclaimed reigart, his astonishment increasing. i had almost forgotten the necessity of keeping my secret. i saw that i had spoken imprudently. inquisitive eyes were peeping in at the door. ears were listening to catch every sound. although the inhabitant of the mississippi is by no means of a curious disposition--_malgre_ the statements of gossiping tourists--the unexplained and forlorn appearance i presented on my return was enough to excite a degree of interest even among the most apathetic people; and a number of the guests of the hotel had gathered in the lobby around the door of my chamber, and were eagerly asking each other what had happened to me. i could overhear their conversation, though they did not know it. "he's been fightin' a painter?" said one, interrogatively. "a painter or a bar," answered another. "'twur some desprit varmint anyhow--it hez left its mark on him,--that it hez." "it's the same fellow that laid out bully bill: ain't it?" "the same," replied some one. "english, ain't he?" "don't know. he's a britisher, i believe. english, irish, or scotch, he's a hull team an' a cross dog under the wagon. by god! he laid out bully bill straight as a fence-rail, wi' nothin' but a bit o' a whup, and then tuk bill's pistols away from him! ha! ha! ha!" "jehosophat!" "he's jest a feller to whip his weight in wild-cats. he's killed the catamount, i reckon." "no doubt he's done that." i had supposed that my encounter with bully bill had made me enemies among his class. it was evident from the tone and tenor of their conversation that such was not the case. though, perhaps, a little piqued that a stranger--a mere youth as i then was--should have conquered one of their bullies, these backwoodsmen are not intensely clannish, and bully bill was no favourite. had i "whipped" him on any other grounds, i should have gained a positive popularity by the act. but in defence of a slave--and i a foreigner--a britisher, too--that was a presumption not to be pardoned. that was the drawback on my victory, and henceforth i was likely to be a "marked man" in the neighbourhood. these observations had served to amuse me while i was awaiting the arrival of reigart, though, up to a certain point, i took but little interest in them. a remark that now reached my ears, however, suddenly changed the nature of my thoughts. it was this:-- "_he's after miss besancon, they say_." i was now interested. i stepped to the door, and, placing my ear close to the keyhole, listened. "i guess he's arter _the plantation_," said another; and the remark was followed by a significant laugh. "well, then," rejoined a voice, in a more solemn and emphatic tone, "he's after what he won't get." "how? how?" demanded several. "he may get _thee_ lady, preehaps," continued the same voice, in the same measured tones; "but not _thee_ plantation." "how? what do you mean, mr moxley?" again demanded the chorus of voices. "i mean what i say, gentlemen," replied the solemn speaker; and then repeated again his former words in a like measured drawl. "he may get the lady, _pree_haps, but not _thee_ plantation." "oh! the report's true, then?" said another voice, interrogatively. "insolvent? eh? old gayarre--" "owns _thee_ plantation." "and niggers?" "every skin o' them; the sheriff will take possession to-morrow." a murmur of astonishment reached my ears. it was mingled with expressions of disapprobation or sympathy. "poor girl! it's a pity o' _her_!" "well, it's no wonder. she made the money fly since the old 'un died." "some say he didn't leave so much after all. 'twar most part mortgaged before--" the entrance of the doctor interrupted this conversation, and relieved me for the moment from the torture which it was inflicting upon me. "a friend in the swamp, did you say?" again interrogated reigart. i had hesitated to reply, thinking of the crowd by the door. i said to the doctor in a low earnest voice-- "my dear friend, i have met with an adventure; am badly scratched, as you see. dress my wounds, but do not press me for details. i have my reasons for being silent. you will one day learn all, but not now. therefore--" "enough, enough!" said the doctor, interrupting me; "do not be uneasy. let me look at your scratches." the good doctor became silent, and proceeded to the dressing of my wounds. under other circumstances the manipulation of my wounds, for they now felt painful, might have caused me annoyance. it did not then. what i had just heard had produced a feeling within that neutralised the external pain, and i felt it not. i was really in mental agony. i burned with impatience to question reigart about the affairs of the plantation,--about eugenie and aurore. i could not,--we were not alone. the landlord of the hotel and a negro attendant had entered the room, and were assisting the doctor in his operations. i could not trust myself to speak on such a subject in their presence. i was forced to nurse my impatience until all was over, and both landlord and servant had left us. "now, doctor, this news of mademoiselle besancon?" "do _you_ not know all?" "only what i have heard this moment from those gossips outside the room." i detailed to reigart the remarks that had been made. "really i thought you must have been acquainted with the whole matter. i had fancied that to be the cause of your long absence to-day; though i did not even conjecture how you might be engaged in the matter." "i know nothing more than what i have thus accidentally overheard. for heaven's sake tell me all! is it true?" "substantially true, i grieve to say." "poor eugenie!" "the estate was heavily mortgaged to gayarre. i have long suspected this, and fear there has been some foul play. gayarre has foreclosed the mortgage, and, indeed, it is said, is already in possession. everything is now his." "everything?" "everything upon the plantation." "the slaves?" "certainly." "all--all--and--and--aurore?" i hesitated as i put the interrogatory, reigart had no knowledge of my attachment to aurore. "the quadroon girl, you mean?--of course, she with the others. she is but a slave like the rest. she will be sold." "_but a slave! sold with the rest_!" this reflection was not uttered aloud. i cannot describe the tumult of my feelings as i listened. the blood was boiling within my veins, and i could scarce restrain myself from some wild expression. i strove to the utmost to hide my thoughts, but scarce succeeded; for i noticed that the usually cold eye of reigart was kindled in surprise at my manner. if he divined my secret he was generous, for he asked no explanation. "the slaves are all to be sold then?" i faltered out. "no doubt,--everything will be sold,--that is the law in such cases. it is likely gayarre will buy in the whole estate, as the plantation lies contiguous to his own." "gayarre! villain! oh! and mademoiselle besancon, what will become of her? has she no friends?" "i have heard something of an aunt who has some, though not much, property. she lives in the city. it is likely that mademoiselle will live with her in future. i believe the aunt has no children of her own, and eugenie will inherit. this, however, i cannot vouch for. i know it only as a rumour." reigart spoke these words in a cautious and reserved manner. i noticed something peculiar in the tone in which he uttered them; but i knew his reason for being cautious. he was under a mistaken impression as to the feelings with which i regarded eugenie! i did not undeceive him. "poor eugenie! a double sorrow,--no wonder at the change i had observed of late,--no wonder she appeared sad!" all this was but my own silent reflections. "doctor!" said i, elevating my voice; "i must go to the plantation." "not to-night!" "to-night,--now!" "my dear mr e., you must not." "why?" "it is impossible,--i cannot permit it,--you will have a fever; it may cost you your life!" "but--" "i cannot hear you. i assure you, you are now on the verge of a fever. you must remain in your room--at least, until to-morrow. perhaps then you may go out with safety. now it is impossible." i was compelled to acquiesce, though i am not certain but that had i taken my own way it would have been better for my "fever." within me was a _cause of fever_ much stronger than any exposure to the night air. my throbbing heart and wildly-coursing blood soon acted upon my brain. "aurore the slave of gayarre! ha! ha! ha! his slave! gayarre! aurore! ha! ha! ha! is it his throat i clutch? ha, no! it is the serpent! here--help--help! water! water! i am choking. no, gayarre is! i have him now! again it is the serpent! o god! it coils around my throat--it strangles me! help! aurore! lovely aurore! do not yield to him!" "i will die rather than yield!" "i thought so, noble girl! i come to release you! how she struggles in his grasp! fiend! off--off, fiend! aurore, you are free--free! angels of heaven!" such was my dream,--the dream of a fevered brain. chapter forty one. the letter. during all the night my sleep was broken at intervals, and the hours divided between dreaming and half delirium. i awoke in the morning not much refreshed with my night's rest. i lay for some time passing over in my mind the occurrences of yesterday, and considering what course i should pursue. after a time i determined upon going direct to the plantation, and learning for myself how matters stood there. i arose with this intention. as i was dressing, my eye fell upon a letter that lay upon the table. it bore no postmark, but the writing was in a female hand, and i guessed whence it came. i tore open the seal, and read:-- "_monsieur_! "_to-day, by the laws of louisiana, i am a woman,--and none more unhappy in all the land. the same sun that has risen upon the natal day of my majority looks down upon the ruin of my fortune_! "_it was my design to have made_ you _happy: to have proved that i am not ungrateful. alas! it is no longer in my power. i am, no more the proprietor of the plantation besancon_,--_no more the mistress of aurore! all is gone from me, and eugenie besancon is now a beggar. ah, monsieur! it is a sad tale, and i know not what will be its end_. "_alas! there are griefs harder to hear than the loss of fortune. that may in time be repaired, but the anguish of unrequited love_,--_love strong, and single, and pure, as mine is_,--_must long endure, perchance for ever_! "_know, monsieur, that in the bitter cup it is my destiny to drink, there is not one drop of jealousy or reproach. i alone have made the misery that is my portion_. "_adieu, monsieur! adieu, and farewell! it is better we should never meet again. o be happy! no plaint of mine shall ever reach your ear, to cloud the sunshine of your happiness. henceforth the walls of_ sacre coeur _shall alone witness the sorrows of the unfortunate but grateful_. "eugenie." the letter was dated the day before. i knew that that was the birthday of the writer; in common parlance, the day on which she was "of age." "poor eugenie!" reflected i. "her happiness has ended with her girlhood. poor eugenie!" the tears ran fast over my cheeks as i finished reading. i swept them hastily away, and ringing the bell i ordered my horse to be saddled. i hurried through with my toilet; the horse was soon brought to the door; and, mounting him, i rode rapidly for the plantation. shortly after leaving the village, i passed two men, who were also on horseback--going in the same direction as myself, but riding at a slower pace than i. they were dressed in the customary style of planters, and a casual observer might have taken them for such. there was something about them, however, that led me to think they were not planters, nor merchants, nor men whose calling relates to any of the ordinary industries of life. it was not in their dress i saw this something, but in a certain expression of countenance. this expression i cannot well describe, but i have ever noticed it in the faces and features of men who have anything to do with the execution of the laws. even in america, where distinctive costume and badge are absent, i have been struck with this peculiarity,--so much so that i believe i could detect a detective in the plainest clothes. the two men in question had this expression strongly marked. i had no doubt they were in some way connected with the execution of the laws. i had no doubt they were constables or sheriff's officers. with such a slight glance as i gave to them in passing, i might not have troubled myself with this conjecture, had it not been for other circumstances then in my thoughts. i had not saluted these men; but as i passed, i could perceive that my presence was not without interest to them. on glancing back, i saw that one of them had ridden close up to the other, that they were conversing earnestly; and from their gestures i could tell that i was the subject of their talk. i had soon ridden far ahead, and ceased to think any more about them. i had hurried forward without any preconceived plan of action. i had acted altogether on the impulse of the moment, and thought only of reaching the house, and ascertaining the state of affairs, either from eugenie or aurore herself. thus _impromptu_ i had reached the borders of the plantation. it now occurred to me to ride more slowly, in oder to gain a few moments to manage my thoughts. i even halted awhile. there was a slight bend in the river-bank, and the road crossed this like a chord to its arc. the part cut off was a piece of waste--a common--and as there was no fence i forsook the road, and walked my horse out on the river-bank. there i drew up, but remained seated in my saddle. i endeavoured to sketch out some plan of action. what should i say to eugenie? what to aurore? would the former see me after what she had written? in her note she had said "farewell," but it was not a time to stand upon punctilious ceremony. and if not, should i find an opportunity to speak with aurore? i _must_ see _her_. who should prevent me? i had much to say to her; my heart was full. nothing but an interview with my betrothed could relieve it. still without any definite plan, i once more turned my horse's head down the river, used the spur, and galloped onward. on arriving near the gate i was somewhat surprised to see two saddled horses standing there. i instantly recognised them as the horses i had passed on the road. they had overtaken me again while i was halted by the bend of the river, and had arrived at the gate before me. the saddles were now empty. the riders had gone into the house. a black man was holding the horses. it was my old friend "zip." i rode up, and without dismounting addressed myself to scipio. who were they who had gone in? i was hardly surprised at the answer. my conjecture was right. they were men of the law,--the deputy sheriff of the _parish_ and his assistant. it was scarce necessary to inquire their _business_. i guessed that. i only asked scipio the details. briefly scipio gave them; at least so far as i allowed him to proceed without interruption. a sheriff's officer was in charge of the house and all its contents; larkin still ruled the negro quarter, but the slaves were all to be sold; gayarre was back and forward; and "_missa 'genie am gone away_." "gone away! and whither?" "don't know, mass'r. b'lieve she gone to de city. she leab last night in de night-time." "and--" i hesitated a moment till my heart should still its heavy throbbings. "aurore?" i interrogated with an effort. "'rore gone too, mass'r;--she gone long wi' missa 'genie." "aurore gone!" "yes, mass'r, she gone; daat's de troof." i was astounded by the information, as well as puzzled by this mysterious departure. eugenie gone and in the night! aurore gone with her! what could it mean? whither had they gone? my reiterated appeal to the black threw no light upon the subject. he was ignorant of all their movements,--ignorant of everything but what related to the negro quarter. he had heard that himself, his wife, his daughter,--"the leetle chloe,"--with all their fellow-slaves, were to be carried down to the city, and to be sold in the slave-market by auction. they were to be taken the following day. they were already advertised. that was all he knew. no, not all,--one other piece of information he had in store for me. it was authentic: he had heard the "white folks" talk of it to one another:--larkin, gayarre, and a "negro-trader," who was to be concerned in this sale. it regarded the quadroon. _she was to be sold among the rest_! the blood boiled in my veins as the black imparted this information. it was authentic. scipio's statement of what he had heard, minutely detailed, bore the internal evidence of authenticity. i could not doubt the report. i felt the conviction that it was true. the plantation besancon had no more attractions. i had no longer any business at bringiers. new orleans was now the scene of action for me! with a kind word to scipio, i wheeled my horse and galloped away from the gate. the fiery animal caught my excitement, and sprang wildly along the road. it required all his buoyant spirit to keep pace with the quick dancing of my nerves. in a few minutes i had consigned him to his groom; and, climbing to my chamber, commenced preparing for my departure. chapter forty two. the wharf-boat. i now only waited a boat to convey me to new orleans. i knew that i should not have long to wait. the annual epidemic was on the decline, and the season of business and pleasure in the "crescent city" was about commencing. already the up-river steamers were afloat on all the tributary streams of the mighty mississippi, laden with the produce of its almost limitless valley, and converging towards the great southern entrepot of american commerce. i might expect a "down-boat" every day, or rather indeed every hour. i resolved to take the first boat that came along. the hotel in which i dwelt, as well as the whole village, stood at a considerable distance from the boat landing. it had been built so from precaution. the banks of the mississippi at this place, and for a thousand miles above and below, are elevated but a few feet above the surface level of its water; and, in consequence of the continuous detrition, it is no uncommon occurrence for large slips to give way, and be swept off in the red whirling current. it might be supposed that in time this never-ceasing action of the water would widen the stream to unnatural dimensions. but, no. for every encroachment on one bank there is a corresponding formation against the opposite,--a deposit caused by the eddy which the new curve has produced, so that the river thus preserves its original breadth. this remarkable action may be noted from the _embouchure_ of the ohio to the mouth of the mississippi itself, though at certain points the extent of the encroachment and the formation that neutralises it is much greater than at others. in some places the "wearing away" of the bank operates so rapidly that in a few days the whole site of a village, or even a plantation, may disappear. not unfrequently, too, during the high spring-floods this eccentric stream takes a "near cut" across the neck of one of its own "bends," and in a few hours a channel is formed, through which pours the whole current of the river. perhaps a plantation may have been established in the concavity of this bend,--perhaps three or four of them,--and the planter who has gone to sleep under the full belief that he had built his house upon a _continent_, awakes in the morning to find himself the inhabitant of an island! with dismay he beholds the vast volume of red-brown water rolling past, and cutting off his communication with the mainland. he can no longer ride to his neighbouring village without the aid of an expensive ferry. his wagons will no longer serve him to "haul" to market his huge cotton-bales or hogsheads of sugar and tobacco; and, prompted by a feeling of insecurity--lest the next wild sweep of the current may carry himself, his house, and his several hundred half-naked negroes along with it--he flees from his home, and retires to some other part of the stream, where he may deem the land in less danger of such unwelcome intrusion. in consequence of these eccentricities a safe site for a town is extremely rare upon the lower mississippi. there are but few points in the last five hundred miles of its course where natural elevations offer this advantage. the artificial embankment, known as the "levee," has in some measure remedied the deficiency, and rendered the towns and plantations _comparatively_ secure. as already stated, my hotel was somewhat out of the way. a boat might touch at the landing and be off again without my being warned of it. a down-river-boat, already laden, and not caring to obtain further freight, would not stop long; and in a "tavern" upon the mississippi you must not confide in the punctuality of "boots," as you would in a london hotel. your chances of being waked by sambo, ten times sleepier than yourself, are scarcely one in a hundred. i had ample experience of this; and, fearing that the boat might pass if i remained at the hotel, i came to the resolve to settle my affairs in that quarter and at once transport myself and my _impedimenta_ to the landing. i should not be entirely without shelter. there was no house; but an old steamboat, long since condemned as not "river-worthy," lay at the landing. this hulk, moored by strong cables to the bank, formed an excellent floating wharf; while its spacious deck, cabins, and saloons, served as a storehouse for all sorts of merchandise. it was, in fact, used both as a landing and warehouse, and was known as the "wharf-boat." it was late,--nearly midnight,--as i stepped aboard the wharf-boat. stragglers from the town, who may have had business there, had all gone away, and the owner of the store-boat was himself absent. a drowsy negro, his _locum tenens_, was the only human thing that offered itself to my eyes. the lower deck of the boat was tenanted by this individual, who sat behind a counter that enclosed one corner of the apartment. upon this counter stood a pair of scales, with weights, a large ball of coarse twine, a rude knife, and such other implements as may be seen in a country "store;" and upon shelves at the back were ranged bottles of coloured liquors, glasses, boxes of hard biscuit, "western reserve" cheeses, kegs of rancid butter, plugs of tobacco, and bundles of inferior cigars,--in short, all the etceteras of a regular "grocery." the remaining portion of the ample room was littered with merchandise, packed in various forms. there were boxes, barrels, bags, and bales; some on their way up-stream, that had come by new orleans from distant lands, while others were destined downward: the rich product of the soil, to be borne thousands of miles over the wide atlantic. with these various packages every part of the floor was occupied, and i looked in vain for a spot on which to stretch myself. a better light might have enabled me to discover such a place; but the tallow candle, guttering down the sides of an empty champagne-bottle, but dimly lit up the confusion. it just sufficed to guide me to the only occupant of the place, upon whose sombre face the light faintly flickered. "asleep, uncle?" i said, approaching him. a gruff reply from an american negro is indeed a rarity, and never given to a question politely put. the familiar style of my address touched a sympathetic chord in the bosom of the "darkie," and a smile of satisfaction gleamed upon his features as he made answer. of course he was _not_ asleep. but my idle question was only meant as the prelude to further discourse. "ah, gollys! it be massa edward. uncle sam know'd you, massa edward. you good to brack folk. wat can do uncle sam for massa?" "i am going down to the city, and have come here to wait for a boat. is it likely one will pass to-night?" "sure, massa--sure be a boat dis night. bossy 'spect a boat from de red ribber dis berry night--either de houma or de choctuma." "good! and now, uncle sam, if you will find me six feet of level plank, and promise to rouse me when the boat comes in sight, i shall not grudge you this half dollar." the sudden enlargement of the whites of undo sam's eyes showed the satisfaction he experienced at the sight of the shining piece of metal. without more ado he seized the champagne-bottle that hold the candle; and, gliding among the boxes and bales, conducted me to a stairway that led to the second or cabin-deck of the boat. we climbed up, and entered the saloon. "dar, massa, plenty of room--uncle sam he sorry dar's ne'er a bed, but if massa could sleep on these yeer coffee-bags, he berry welcome--berry welcome. i leave dis light wi' massa. i can get anoder for self b'low. good night, massa edward--don't fear i wake you--no fear ob dat." and so saying, the kind-hearted black set the bottle-candlestick upon the floor; and, passing down the stair again, left me to my reflections. with such poor light as the candle afforded, i took a careless survey of my apartment. there was plenty of room, as uncle sam had said. it was the cabin of the old steamboat; and as the partition-doors had been broken off and carried away, the ladies' cabin, main saloon, and front, were now all in one. together they formed a hall of more than a hundred feet in length, and from where i stood, near the centre, both ends were lost to my view in the darkness. the state-rooms on each side were still there, with their green venetian doors. some of these were shut, while others stood ajar, or quite open. the gilding and ornaments, dim from age and use, adorned the sides and ceiling of the hall; and over the arched entrance of the main saloon the word "sultana," in gold letters that still glittered brightly, informed me that i was now inside the "carcase" of one of the most famous boats that ever cleft the waters of the mississippi. strange thoughts came into my mind as i stood regarding this desolate saloon. silent and solitary it seemed--even more so i thought than would some lonely spot in the midst of a forest. the very absence of those sounds that one is accustomed to hear in such a place--the grinding of the machinery--the hoarse detonations of the 'scape-pipe-- the voices of men--the busy hum of conversation, or the ringing laugh-- the absence of the sights, too--the brilliant chandeliers--the long tables sparkling with crystal--the absence of these, and yet the presence of the scene associated with such sights and sounds--gave to the place an air of indescribable desolation. i felt as one within the ruins of some old convent, or amidst the tombs of an antique cemetery. no furniture of any kind relieved the monotony of the place. the only visible objects were the coarse gunny-bags strewed over the floor, and upon which uncle sam had made me welcome to repose myself. after surveying my odd chamber, and giving way to some singular reflections, i began to think of disposing of myself for sleep. i was wearied. my health was not yet restored. the clean bast of the coffee-bags looked inviting. i dragged half-a-dozen of them together, placed them side by side, and then, throwing myself upon my back, drew my cloak over me. the coffee-berries yielded to the weight of my body, giving me a comfortable position, and in less than five minutes i fell asleep. chapter forty three. the norway rat. i must have slept an hour or more. i did not think of consulting my watch before going to sleep, and i had little thought about such a thing after i awoke. but that i had slept at least an hour, i could tell by the length of my candle. a fearful hour that was, as any i can remember to have spent--an hour of horrid dreaming. but i am wrong to call it so. it was no dream, though at the time i thought it one. listen! as i have said, i lay down upon my back, covering myself with my ample cloak from the chin to the ankles. my face and feet were alone free. i had placed one of the bags for a pillow, and thus raised my head in such a position, that i had a full view of the rest of my person. the light, set just a little way beyond my heels, was right before my eyes; and i could see the floor in that direction to the distance of several yards. i have said that in five minutes i was asleep. i thought that i was asleep, and to this hour i think so, and yet my eyes were open, and i plainly saw the candle before them and that portion of the floor illumined by its rays. i thought that i endeavoured to close my eyes, but could not; nor could i change my position, but lay regarding the light and the surface of the floor around it. presently a strange sight was presented to me. a number of small shining objects began to dance and scintillate in the darkness beyond. at first i took them for "lightning-bugs," but although these were plenty enough without, it was not usual to find them inside an enclosed apartment. moreover, those i saw were low down upon the floor of the saloon, and not suspended in the air, as they should have been. gradually the number of these shining objects increased. there were now some dozens of them, and, what was singular, they seemed to move in pairs. they were _not_ fire-flies! i began to experience a sensation of alarm. i began to feel that there was danger in these fiery spots, that sparkled in such numbers along the floor. what on earth could they be? i had scarce asked myself the question, when i was enabled to answer it to the satisfaction of my senses, but not to the tranquillising of my fears. the horrid truth now flashed upon me--each pair of sparkling points was a _pair of eyes_! it was no relief to me to know they were the eyes of rats. you may smile at my fears; but i tell you in all seriousness that i would not have been more frightened had i awaked and found a panther crouching to spring upon me. i had heard such tales of these norway rats--had, in fact, been witness to their bold and ferocious feats in new orleans, where at that time they swarmed in countless numbers--that the sight of them filled me with disgust and horror. but what was most horrible of all--i saw that they were approaching me--that they were each moment coming nearer and nearer, and that _i was unable to get out of their way_! yes. i could not move. my arms and limbs felt like solid blocks of stone, and my muscular power was quite gone! i _now_ thought that i was _dreaming_! "yes!" reflected i, for i still possessed the power of reflection. "yes--i am only dreaming! a horrid dream though--horrid--would i could wake myself--'tis nightmare! i know it--if i could but move something-- my toes--my fingers--oh!" these reflections actually passed through my mind. they have done so at other times when i have been under the influence of nightmare; and i now no longer dread this incubus, since i have learnt how to throw it off. _then_ i could not. i lay like one dead, whose eyelids have been left unclosed; and i thought i was dreaming. dreaming or awake, my soul had not yet reached its climax of horror. as i continued to gaze, i perceived that the number of the hideous animals increased every moment. i could now see their brown hairy bodies--for they had approached close to the candle, and were full under its light. they were _thick upon the floor_. it appeared to be alive with them, and in motion like water under a gale. hideous sight to behold! still nearer they came. i could distinguish their sharp teeth--the long grey bristles upon their snouts--the spiteful expression in their small penetrating eyes. nearer still! they climb upon the coffee-bags--they crawl along my legs and body--they chase each other over the folds of my cloak--they are gnawing at my boots!--horror! horror! they will devour me! they are around me in myriads. i cannot see on either side, but i know that they are all around. i can hear their shrill screaming, the air is loaded with the odour of their filthy bodies. i feel as though it will suffocate me. horror! horror! oh! merciful god! arouse me from this terrible dream! such were my thoughts--such my feelings at that moment. i had a perfect consciousness of all that was passing--so perfect that i believed it a dream. i made every effort to awake myself--to move hand and limb. it was all in vain. i could not move a muscle. every nerve of my body was asleep. my blood lay stagnant within my veins! i lay suffering this monstrous pain for a long, long while. i lay in fear of being eaten up piecemeal! the fierce animals had only attacked my boots and my cloak, but my terror was complete. i waited to feel them at my throat! was it my face and my eyes staring open that kept them off? i am certain my eyes were open all the while. was it that that deterred them from attacking me? no doubt it was. they scrambled over all parts of my body, even up to my breast, but they seemed to avoid my head and face! whether they would have continued under the restraint of this salutary fear, i know not, for a sudden termination was put to the horrid scene. the candle had burnt to its end, and the remnant fell with a hissing sound through the neck of the bottle, thus extinguishing the light. frightened by the sudden transition from light to darkness, the hideous animals uttered their terrible squeaking, and broke off in every direction. i could hear the pattering of their feet upon the planks as they scampered away. the light seemed to have been the spell that bound me in the iron chain of the nightmare. the moment it went out, i found myself again in possession of muscular strength; and, springing to my feet, i caught up my cloak and swept it wildly around me, shouting at the top of my voice. the cold perspiration was running from every pore in my skin, and my hair felt as if on end. i still believed i was dreaming; and it was not until the astonished negro appeared with a light, and i had evidence of the presence of my hairy visitors in the condition of my cloak and boots, that i was convinced the terrible episode was a reality. i remained no longer in the "saloon," but, wrapping my cloak around me, betook myself to the open air. chapter forty four. the houma. i had not much longer to remain on the wharf-boat. the hoarse barking of a 'scape-pipe fell upon my ear and shortly after the fires of a steamboat furnace appeared, glittering red upon the stream. then was heard the crashing plunging sound of the paddle-wheels as they beat the brown water, and then the ringing of the bell, and the shouts of command passing from captain to mate, and from mate to "deck hands," and in five minutes after, the "houma"--red river-boat,--lay side by side with the old "sultana." i stepped aboard, threw my luggage over the guard, and, climbing up-stairs, seated myself under the awning. ten minutes of apparent confusion--the quick trampling of feet over the decks and staging--half-a-dozen passengers hastening ashore--others hurrying in the opposite direction--the screeching of the steam--the rattling of huge fire-logs thrust endways up the furnace--at intervals the loud words of command--a peal of laughter at some rude jest, or the murmur of voices in the sadder accents of adieu. ten minutes of these sights and sounds, and again was heard the ringing of the large bell-- the signal that the boat was about to continue her course. i had flung myself into a chair that stood beside one of the awning-posts, and close to the guards. from my position i commanded a view of the gangway, the staging-plank, and the contiguous wharf-boat, which i had just left. i was looking listlessly on what was passing below, taking note of nothing in particular. if i had a special thought in my mind the subject of it was not there, and the thought itself caused me to turn my eyes away from the busy groups and bend them downward along the left bank of the river. perhaps a sigh was the concomitant of these occasional glances; but in the intervals between, my mind dwelt upon nothing in particular, and the forms that hurried to and fro impressed me only as shadows. this apathy was suddenly interrupted. my eyes, by pure accident, fell upon two figures whose movements at once excited my attention. they stood upon the deck of the wharf-boat--not near the stage-plank, where the torch cast its glare over the hurrying passengers, but in a remote corner under the shadow of the awning. i could see them only in an obscure light,--in fact, could scarce make out their forms, shrouded as they were in dark cloaks--but the attitudes in which they stood, the fact of their keeping thus apart in the most obscure quarter of the boat, the apparent earnestness with which they were conversing--all led me to conjecture that they were lovers. my heart, guided by the sweet instinct of love, at once accepted this explanation, and looked for no other. "yes--lovers! how happy! no--perhaps not so happy--it is a _parting_! some youth who makes a trip down to the city--perhaps some young clerk or merchant, who goes to spend his winter there. what of that? he will return in spring, again to press those delicate fingers, again to fold that fair form in his arms, again to speak those tender words that will sound all the sweeter after the long interval of silence. "happy youth! happy girl! light is the misery of a parting like yours! how easy to endure when compared with that violent separation which i have experienced! aurore!--aurore!--would that you were free! would that you were some high-born dame! not that i should love you the more--impossible--but then might i boldly woo, and freely win. then i might hope--but now, alas! this horrid gulf--this social abyss that yawns between us. well! it cannot separate souls. our love shall bridge it--ha!" "hilloa, mister! what's gwine wrong? anybody fell overboard!" i heeded not the rude interrogatory. a deeper pang absorbed my soul, forcing from me the wild exclamation that had given the speaker cause. the two forms parted--with a mutual pressure of the hand, with a kiss they parted! the young man hastened across the staging. i did not observe his face, as he passed under the light. i had taken no notice of _him_, my eyes by some strange fascination remaining fixed upon _her_. i was curious to observe how _she_ would act in this final moment of leave-taking. the planks were drawn aboard. the signal-bell sounded. i could perceive that we were moving away. at this moment the shrouded form of the lady glided forward into the light. she was advancing to catch a farewell glance of her lover. a few steps brought her to the edge of the wharf-boat, where the torch was glaring. her hood-like gun-bonnet was thrown back. the light fell full upon her face, glistened along the undulating masses of black hair that shrouded her temples, and danced in her glorious eyes. good god! they were the eyes of _aurore_! no wonder i uttered the wild ejaculation-- "it is she!" "what?--a female! overboard, do you say? where? where?" the man was evidently in earnest. my soliloquy had been loud enough to reach his ears. he believed it to be a reply to his previous question, and my excited manner confirmed him in the belief that a woman had actually fallen into the river! his questions and exclamations were overheard and repeated in the voices of others who stood near. like wildfire an alarm ran through the boat. passengers rushed from the cabins, along the guards, and out to the front awning, and mingled their hurried interrogatories, "who? what? where?" a loud voice cried out-- "some one overboard! a woman! it's a woman!" knowing the cause of this ridiculous alarm, i gave no heed to it. my mind was occupied with a far different matter. the first shock of a hideous passion absorbed my whole soul, and i paid no attention to what was going on around me. i had scarce recognised the face, when the boat rounding up-stream brought the angle of the cabin between it and me. i rushed forward, as far as the gangway. i was too late:--the wheel-house obstructed the view. i did not halt, but ran on, directing myself towards the top of the wheel-house. passengers in their excitement were rushing along the guards. they hindered my progress, and it was some time before i could climb up the wheel-house, and stand upon its rounded roof. i did so at length, but too late. the boat had forged several hundred yards into the stream. i could see the wharf-boat with its glaring lights. i could even see human forms standing along its deck, but i could no longer distinguish that one that my eyes were in search of. disappointed i stepped on to the hurricane-deck, which was almost a continuation of the roof of the wheel-house. there i could be alone, and commune with my now bitter thoughts. i was not to have that luxury just then. shouts, the trampling of heavy boots bounding over the planks, and the pattering of lighter feet, sounded in my ears; and next moment a stream of passengers, male and female, came pouring up the sides of the wheel-house. "that's the gentleman--that's him!" cried a voice. in another instant the excited throng was around me, several inquiring at once-- "who's overboard? who? where?" of course i saw that these interrogatories were meant for me. i saw, too, that an answer was necessary to allay their ludicrous alarm. "ladies and gentlemen!" i said, "there is no one overboard that i am aware of. why do you ask _me_?" "hilloa, mister!" cried the cause of all this confusion, "didn't you tell me--?" "i told you nothing." "but didn't i ask you if thar wan't some one overboard?" "you did." "and you said in reply--" "i said nothing in reply." "darned if you didn't! you said `thar she is!' or, `it was she!' or something o' that sort." i turned towards the speaker, who i perceived was rather losing credit with his auditory. "mister!" said i, imitating his tone, "it is evident you have never heard of the man who grew immensely rich by minding his own business." my remark settled the affair. it was received by a yell of laughter, that completely discomfited my meddling antagonist, who, after some little swaggering and loud talk, at length went below to the "bar" to soothe his mortified spirit with a "gin-sling." the others dropped away one by one, and dispersed themselves through the various cabins and saloons; and i found myself once more the sole occupant of the hurricane-deck. chapter forty five. jealousy. have you ever loved in humble life? some fair young girl, whose lot was among the lowly, but whose brilliant beauty in your eyes annihilated all social inequalities? love levels all distinctions, is an adage old as the hills. it brings down the proud heart, and teaches condescension to the haughty spirit; but its tendency is to elevate, to ennoble. it does not make a peasant of the prince, but a prince of the peasant. behold the object of your adoration engaged in her ordinary duties! she fetches a jar of water from the well. barefoot she treads the well-known path. those nude pellucid feet are fairer in their nakedness than the most delicate _chaussure_ of silk and satin. the wreaths and pearl circlets, the pins of gold and drupes of coral, the costliest _coiffures_ of the dress circle,--all seem plain and poor compared with the glossy _neglige_ of those bright tresses. the earthen jar sits upon her head with the grace of a golden coronet--every attitude is the _pose_ of a statue, a study for a sculptor; and the coarse garment that drapes that form is in your eyes more becoming than a robe of richest velvet. you care not for that. you are not thinking of the casket, but of the pearl it conceals. she disappears within the cottage--her humble home. humble? in your eyes no longer humble; that little kitchen, with its wooden chairs, and scoured dresser, its deal shelf, with mugs, cups, and willow-pattern plates, its lime-washed walls and cheap prints of the red soldier and the blue sailor--that little museum of the _penates_ of the poor, is now filled with a light that renders it more brilliant than the gilded saloons of wealth and fashion. that cottage with its low roof, and woodbine trellis, has become a palace. the light of love has transformed it! a paradise you are forbidden to enter. yes, with all your wealth and power, your fine looks and your titles of distinction, your superfine cloth and bright lacquered boots, mayhap you dare not enter there. and oh! how you envy those who dare!--how you envy the spruce apprentice, and the lout in the smock who cracks his whip, and whistles with as much _nonchalance_ as if he was between the handles of his plough! as though the awe of that fair presence should not freeze his lips to stone! _gauche_ that he is, how you envy him his _opportunities_! how you could slaughter him for those sweet smiles that appear to be lavished upon him! there maybe no meaning in those smiles. they may be the expressions of good-nature of simple friendship, perhaps of a little coquetry. for all that, you cannot behold them without envy--without _suspicion_ if there be a meaning--if they be the smiles of love--if the heart of that simple girl has made its lodgement either upon the young apprentice or him of the smock--then are you fated to the bitterest pang that human breast can know. it is not jealousy of the ordinary kind. it is far more painful. wounded vanity adds a poison to the sting. oh! it is hard to bear! a pang of this nature i suffered, as i paced that high platform. fortunately they had left me alone. the feelings that worked within me could not be concealed. my looks and wild gestures must have betrayed them. i should have been a subject for satire and laughter. but i was alone. the pilot in his glass-box did not notice me. his back was towards me, and his keen eye, bent steadily upon the water, was too busy with logs and sand-bars, and snags and sawyers, to take note of my delirium. it _was_ aurore! of that i had no doubt whatever. her face was not to be mistaken for any other. there was none like it--none so lovely-- alas! too fatally fair. who could _he_ be? some young spark of the town? some clerk in one of the stores? a young planter? who? maybe--and with this thought came that bitter pang--one of her own proscribed race--a young man of "colour"--a mulatto--a quadroon--a slave! ha! to be rivalled by a slave!--worse than rivalled.--infamous coquette! why had i yielded to her fascinations? why had i mistaken her craft for _naivete_?--her falsehood for truth? who could _he_ be? i should search the boat till i found him. unfortunately i had taken no marks, either of his face or his dress. my eyes had remained fixed upon her after their parting. in the shadow i had seen him only indistinctly; and as he passed under the lights i saw him not. how preposterous then to think of looking for him! i could not recognise him in such a crowd. i went below, and wandered through the cabins, under the front awning, and along the guard-ways. i scanned every face with an eagerness that to some must have appeared impertinence. wherever one was young and handsome, he was an object of my scrutiny and jealousy. there were several such among the male passengers; and i endeavoured to distinguish those who had come aboard at bringiers. there were some young men who appeared as if they had lately shipped, themselves, but i had no clue to guide me, and i failed to find my rival. in the chagrin of disappointment i returned once more to the roof; but i had hardly reached it, when a new thought came into my mind. i remembered that the slaves of the plantation were to be sent down to the city by the first boat. were they not travelling by that very one? i had seen a crowd of blacks--men, women, and children--hastily driven aboard. i had paid but little heed to such a common spectacle--one that may be witnessed daily, hourly. i had not thought of it, that those might be the slaves of the plantation besancon! if they were, then indeed there might still be hope; aurore had not gone with them--but what of that? though, like them, only a slave, it was not probable she would have been forced to herd with them upon the deck. but she had not come aboard! the staging had been already taken in, as i recognised her on the wharf-boat. on the supposition that the slaves of besancon were aboard, my heart felt relieved. i was filled with a hope that all might yet be well. why? you may ask. i answer--simply because the thought occurred to me, that the youth, who so tenderly parted from aurore, _might be a brother, or some near relative_. i had not heard of such relationship. it might be so, however; and my heart, reacting from its hour of keen anguish, was eager to relieve itself by any hypothesis. i could not endure doubt longer; and turning on my heel, i hastened below. down the kleets of the wheel-house, along the guard-way, then down the main stairs to the boiler-deck. threading my way among bags of maize and hogsheads of sugar, now stooping under the great axle, now climbing over huge cotton-bales, i reached the after-part of the lower deck, usually appropriated to the "deck passengers"--the poor immigrants of ireland and germany, who here huddle miscellaneously with the swarthy bondsmen of the south. as i had hoped, there were they,--those black but friendly faces,--every one of them. old zip, and aunt chloe, and the little chloe; hannibal, the new coachman, and caesar and pompey, and all,--all on their way to the dreaded mart. i had halted a second or two before approaching them. the light was in my favour, and i saw them before discovering my presence. there were no signs of mirth in that sable group. i heard no laughter, no light revelry, as was their wont to indulge in in days gone by, among their little cabins in the quarter. a deep melancholy had taken possession of the features of all. gloom was in every glance. even the children, usually reckless of the unknown future, seemed impressed with the same sentiment. they rolled not about, tumbling over each other. they played not at all. they sat without stirring, and silent. even they, poor infant helots, knew enough to fear for their dark future,--to shudder at the prospect of the slave-market. all were downcast. no wonder. they had been used to kind treatment. they might pass to a hard taskmaster. not one of them knew where in another day should be his home--what sort of tyrant should be his lord. but that was not all. still worse. friends, they were going to be parted; relatives, they would be torn asunder--perhaps never to meet more. husband looked upon wife, brother upon sister, father upon child, mother upon infant, with dread in the heart and agony in the eye. it was painful to gaze upon this sorrowing group, to contemplate the suffering, the mental anguish that spoke plainly in every face; to think of the wrongs which one man can legally put upon another--the deep sinful wrongs, the outrage of every human principle. oh, it was terribly painful to look on that picture! it was some relief to me to know that my presence threw at least a momentary light over its shade. smiles chased away the sombre shadows as i appeared, and joyous exclamations hailed me. had i been their saviour, i could not have met a more eager welcome. amidst their fervid ejaculations i could distinguish earnest appeals that i would buy them--that i would become their master--mingled with zealous protestations of service and devotion. alas! they knew not how heavily at that moment the price of one of their number lay upon my heart. i strove to be gay, to cheer them with words of consolation. i rather needed to be myself consoled. during this while my eyes were busy. i scanned the faces of all. there was light enough glimmering from two oil-lamps to enable me to do so. several were young mulattoes. upon these my glance rested, one after the other. how my heart throbbed in this examination! it triumphed at length. surely there was no face there that _she_ could love? were they all present? yes, all--so scipio said; all but aurore. "and aurore?" i asked; "have you heard any more of her?" "no, mass'; 'blieve 'rore gone to de city. she go by de road in a carriage--not by de boat, some ob de folks say daat, i b'lieve." this was strange enough. taking the black aside-- "tell me, scipio," i asked, "has aurore any relative among you?--any brother, or sister, or cousin?" "no, mass', ne'er a one. golly, mass'! 'rore she near white as missa 'genie all de rest be black, or leas'wise yeller! 'rore she quaderoom, yeller folks all mulatto--no kin to 'rore--no." i was perplexed and puzzled. my former doubts came crowding back upon me. my jealousy returned. scipio could not clear up the mystery. his answer to other questions which i put to him gave me no solution to it; and i returned up-stairs with a heart that suffered under the pressure of disappointment. the only reflection from which i drew comfort was, that i might have been mistaken. perhaps, after all, it was _not_ aurore! chapter forty six. a scientific julep. to drown care and sorrow men drink. the spirit of wine freely quaffed will master either bodily pain or mental suffering--for a time. there is no form of the one or phase of the other so difficult to subdue as the pang of jealousy. wine must be deeply quaffed before that corroding poison can be washed free from the heart. but there is a partial relief in the wine-cup, and i sought it. i knew it to be only temporary, and that the sorrow would soon return. but even so--even a short respite was to be desired. i could bear my thoughts no longer. i am not brave in bearing pain. i have more than once intoxicated myself to deaden the pitiful pain of a toothache. by the same means i resolved to relieve the dire aching of my heart. the spirit of wine was nigh at hand, and might be imbibed in many forms. in one corner of the "smoking-saloon" was the "bar," with its elegant adornments--its rows of decanters and bottles, with silver stoppers and labels its glasses, and lemons, and sugar-crushers--its bouquet of aromatic mint and fragrant pines--its bunches of straw tubes for "sucking" the "mint-julep," the "sherry-cobbler," or the "claret sangaree." in the midst of this _entourage_ stood the "bar-keeper," and in this individual do not picture to yourself some seedy personage of the waiter class, with bloodless cheeks and clammy skin, such as those monstrosities of an english hotel who give you a very _degout_ for your dinner. on the contrary, behold an _elegant_ of latest fashion--that is, the fashion of his country and class, the men of the river. he wears neither coat nor vest while in the exercise of his office, but his shirt will merit an observation. it is of the finest fabric of the irish loom--too fine to be worn by those who have woven it--and no bond street furnishing-house could equal its "make up." gold buttons glance at the sleeves, and diamonds sparkle amid the profuse ruffles on the bosom. the collar is turned down over a black silk riband, knotted _a la byron_; but a tropic sun has more to do with this fashion than any desire to imitate the sailor-poet. over this shirt stretch silk braces elaborately needle-worked, and still further adorned by buckles of pure gold. a hat of the costly grass from the shores of the south sea crowns his well-oiled locks, and thus you have the "bar-keeper of the boat." his nether man need not be described. that is the unseen portion of his person, which is below the level of the bar. no cringing, smirking, obsequious counter-jumper he, but a dashing sprig, who, perhaps, _owns_ his bar and all its contents, and who holds his head as high as either the clerk or captain. as i approached this gentleman, he placed a glass upon the counter, and threw into it some broken fragments of ice. all this was done without a word having passed between us. i had no need to give an order. he saw in my eye the determination to drink. "cobbler?" "no," said i; "a mint-julep." "very well, i'll mix you a julep that'll set your teeth for you." "thank you. just what i want." the gentleman now placed side by side two glasses--tumblers of large size. into one he put, first, a spoonful of crushed white sugar--then a slice of lemon--ditto of orange--next a few sprigs of green mint--after that a handful of broken ice, a gill of water, and, lastly, a large glass measure of cognac. this done, he lifted the glasses one in each hand, and poured the contents from one to the other so rapidly that ice, brandy, lemons, and all, seemed to be constantly suspended in the air, and oscillating between the glasses. the tumblers themselves at no time approached nearer than two feet from each other! this adroitness, peculiar to his craft, and only obtained after long practice, was evidently a source of professional pride. after some half-score of these revolutions the drink was permitted to rest in one glass, and was then set down upon the counter. there yet remained to be given the "finishing touch." a thin slice of pine-apple was cut freshly from the fruit. this held between the finger and thumb was doubled over the edge of the glass, and then passed with an adroit sweep round the circumference. "that's the latest orleans touch," remarked the bar-keeper with a smile, as he completed the manoeuvre. there was a double purpose in this little operation. the pine-apple not only cleared the glass of the grains of sugar and broken leaves of mint, but left its fragrant juice to mingle its aroma with the beverage. "the latest orleans touch," he repeated; "scientific style." i nodded my assent. the julep was now "mixed"--which fact was made known to me by the glass being pushed a little nearer, across the marble surface of the counter. "have a straw?" was the laconic inquiry. "yes; thank you." a joint of wheaten straw was plunged into the glass, and taking this between my lips i drew in large draughts of perhaps the most delicious of all intoxicating drinks--the mint-julep. the aromatic liquid had scarce passed my lips when i began to feel its effects. my pulse ceased its wild throbbing. my blood became cool, and flowed in a more gentle current through my veins, and my heart seemed to be bathing in the waters of lethe. the relief was almost instantaneous, and i only wondered i had not thought of it before. though still far from happy, i felt that i held in my hands what would soon make me so. transitory that happiness might be, yet the reaction was welcome at the moment, and the prospect of it pleasant to my soul. i eagerly swallowed the inspiring beverage--swallowed it in large draughts, till the straw tube, rattling among the fragments of ice at the bottom of the glass, admonished me that the fluid was all gone. "another, if you please!" "you liked it, i guess?" "most excellent!" "said so. i reckon, stranger, we can get up a mint-julep on board this here boat equal to either saint charles or verandah, if not a leetle superior to either." "a superb drink!" "we can mix a sherry-cobbler too, that ain't hard to take." "i have no doubt of it, but i'm not fond of sherry. i prefer this." "you're right. so do i. the pine-apple's a new idea, but an improvement, i think." "i think so too." "have a fresh straw?" "thank you." this young fellow was unusually civil. i fancied that his civility proceeded from my having eulogised his mint-juleps. it was not that, as i afterwards ascertained. these western people are little accessible to cheap flattery. i owed his good opinion of me to a far different cause--_the discomfiture i had put on the meddling passenger_! i believe he had also learnt, that it was i who had chastised the bully larkin! such "feats of arms" soon become known in the region of the mississippi valley, where strength and courage are qualities of high esteem. hence, in the bar-keeper's view, i was one who deserved a civil word; and thus talking together on the best of terms, i swallowed my second julep, and called upon him for a third, aurore was for the moment forgotten, or when remembered, it was with less of bitterness. now and then that parting scene came uppermost in my thoughts; but the pang that rose with it was each moment growing feebler, and easier to be endured. chapter forty seven. a game of whist. in the centre of the smoking-saloon, there was a table, and around it some half-dozen men were seated. other half-dozen stood behind these, looking over their shoulders. the attitudes of all, and their eager glances, suggested the nature of their occupation. the flouting of pasteboard, the chink of dollars, and the oft-recurring words of "ace," "jack," and "trump," put it beyond a doubt that that occupation was gaming. "euchre" was the game. curious to observe this popular american game, i stepped up and stood watching the players. my friend who had raised the false alarm was one of them; but his back was towards me, and i remained for some time unseen by him. some two or three of those who played were elegantly-dressed men. their coats were of the finest cloth, their ruffles of the costliest cambric, and jewels sparkled in their shirt bosoms and glittered upon their fingers. these fingers, however, told a tale. they told plainly as words, that they to whom they belonged had not always been accustomed to such elegant adornment. toilet soap had failed to soften the corrugated skin, and obliterate the abrasions--the souvenirs of toil. this was nothing. they might be gentlemen for all that. birth is of slight consequence in the far west. the plough-boy may become the president. still there was an air about these men--an air i cannot describe, but which led me at the moment to doubt their _gentility_. it was not from any swagger or assumption on their part. on the contrary, they appeared the _most gentlemanly_ individuals around the table! they were certainly the most sedate and quiet. perhaps it was this very sedateness--this polished reserve--that formed the spring of my suspicion. true gentlemen, bloods from tennessee or kentucky, young planters of the mississippi coast, or french creoles of orleans, would have offered different characteristics. the cool complacency with which these individuals spoke and acted--no symptoms of perturbation as the trump was turned, no signs of ruffled temper when luck went against them--told two things; first, that they were men of the world, and, secondly, that they were not now playing their maiden game of "euchre." beyond that i could form no judgment about them. they might be doctors, lawyers, or "gentlemen of elegant leisure"--a class by no means uncommon in the work-a-day world of america. at that time i was still too new to far west society, to be able to distinguish its features. besides, in the united states, and particularly in the western portion of the country, those peculiarities of dress and habit, which in the old-world form, as it were, the landmarks of the professions, do not exist. you may meet the preacher wearing a blue coat and bright buttons; the judge with a green one; the doctor in a white linen jacket; and the baker in glossy black broadcloth from top to toe! where every man assumes the right to be a gentleman, the costumes and badges of trade are studiously avoided. even the tailor is undistinguishable in the mass of his "fellow-citizens." the land of character-dresses lies farther to the south-west--mexico is that land. i stood for some time watching the gamesters and the game. had i not known something of the banking peculiarities of the west, i should have believed that they were gambling for enormous sums. at each man's right elbow lay a huge pile of bank-notes, flanked by a few pieces of silver-- dollars, halves, and quarters. accustomed as my eyes had been to bank-notes of five pounds in value, the table would have presented to me a rich appearance, had i not known that these showy parallelograms of copper-plate and banking-paper, were mere "shin-plasters," representing amounts that varied from the value of one dollar to that of six and a quarter cents! notwithstanding, the bets were far from being low. twenty, fifty, and even a hundred dollars, frequently changed hands in a single game. i perceived that the hero of the false alarm was one of the players. his back was towards me where i stood, and he was too much engrossed with his game to look around. in dress and general appearance he differed altogether from the rest. he wore a white beaver hat with broad brim, and a coat of great "jeans," wide-sleeved and loose-bodied. he had the look of a well-to-do corn-farmer from indiana or a pork-merchant from cincinnati. yet there was something in his manner that told you river-travelling was not new to him. it was not his first trip "down south." most probably the second supposition was the correct one--he was a dealer in hog-meat. one of the fine gentlemen i have described sat opposite to where i was standing. he appeared to be losing considerable sums, which the farmer or pork-merchant was winning. it proved that the luck of the cards was not in favour of the smartest-looking players--an inducement to other plain people to try a hand. i began to feel sympathy for the elegant gentleman, his losses were so severe. i could not help admiring the composure with which he bore them. at length he looked up, and scanned the faces of those who stood around. he seemed desirous of giving up the play. his eye met mine. he said, in a careless way-- "perhaps, stranger, _you_ wish to take a hand? you may have my place if you do. i have no luck. i could not win under any circumstances to-night. i shall give up playing." this appeal caused the rest of the players to turn their faces towards me, and among others the pork-dealer. i expected an ebullition of anger from this individual. i was disappointed. on the contrary, he hailed me in a friendly tone. "hilloa, mister!" cried he, "i hope you an't miffed at me?" "not in the least," i replied. "fact, i meant no offence. did think thar war a some 'un overboard. dog-gone me, if i didn't!" "oh! i have taken no offence," rejoined i; "to prove it, i ask you now to drink with me." the juleps and the late reaction from bitter thought had rendered me of a jovial disposition. the free apology at once won my forgiveness. "good as wheat!" assented the pork-dealer. "i'm your man; but, stranger, you must allow me to pay. you see, i've won a trifle here. _my_ right to pay for the drinks." "oh! i have no objection." "well, then, let's all licker! _i_ stand drinks all round. what say you, fellars?" a murmur of assent answered the interrogatory. "good!" continued the speaker. "hyar, bar-keeper! drinks for the crowd!" and so saying, he of the white-hat and jeans coat stepped forward to the bar, and placed a couple of dollars upon the counter. all who were near followed him, shouting each out the name of the beverage most to his liking in the various calls of "gin-sling", "cocktail", "cobbler," "julep", "brandy-smash," and such-like interesting mixtures. in america men do not sit and sip their liquor, but drink standing. _running_, one might say--for, be it hot or cold, mixed or "neat," it is gone in a gulp, and then the drinkers retire to their chairs to smoke, chew, and wait for the fresh invitation, "let's all licker!" in a few seconds we had all liquored, and the players once more took their seats around the table. the gentleman who had proposed to me to become his successor did not return to his place. he had no luck, he again said, and would not play any more that night. who would accept his place and his partner? i was appealed to. i thanked my new acquaintances, but the thing was impossible, as i had never played euchre, and therefore knew nothing about the game, beyond the few points i had picked up while watching them. "that ar awkward," said the pork-dealer. "ain't we nohow able to get up a set? come, mr chorley--i believe that's your name, sir?" (this was addressed to the gentleman who had risen.) "you ain't a-goin' to desart us that away? we can't make up a game if you do?" "i should only lose if i played longer," reiterated chorley. "no," continued he, "i won't risk it." "perhaps this gentleman plays `whist,'" suggested another, alluding to me. "you're an englishman, sir, i believe. i never knew one of your countrymen who was not a good whist-player." "true, i can play whist," i replied carelessly. "well, then, what say you all to a game of whist?" inquired the last speaker, glancing around the table. "don't know much about the game," bluntly answered the pork-dealer. "mout play it on a pinch rayther than spoil sport; but whoever hez me for a partner 'll have to keep a sharp look-out for himself, i reckon." "i guess you know the game as well as i do," replied the one who had proposed it. "i hain't played a rubber o' whist for many a year, but if we can't make up the set at euchre, let's try one." "oh! if you're goin' to play whist," interposed the gentleman who had seceded from the game of euchre--"if you're going to play whist, i don't mind taking a hand at _that_--it may change my luck--and if this gentleman has no objection, i'd like him for my partner. as you say, sir, englishmen are good whist-players. it's their national game, i believe." "won't be a fair match, mr chorley," said the dealer in hog-meat; "but since you propose it, if mr hatcher here--your name, sir, i believe?" "hatcher is my name," replied the person addressed, the same who suggested whist. "if mr hatcher here," continued white-hat, "has no objection to the arrangement, i'll not back out. doggoned, if i do!" "oh! i don't care," said hatcher, in a tone of reckless indifference, "anything to get up a game." now, i was never fond of gambling, either amateur or otherwise, but circumstances had made me a tolerable whist-player, and i knew there were few who could beat me at it. if my partner knew the game as well, i felt certain we could not be badly damaged; and according to all accounts he understood it well. this was the opinion of one or two of the bystanders, who whispered in my ear that he was a "whole team" at whist. partly from the reckless mood i was in--partly that a secret purpose urged me on--a purpose which developed itself more strongly afterwards-- and partly that i had been bantered, and, as it were, "cornered" into the thing, i consented to play--chorley and i _versus_ hatcher and the pork-merchant. we took our seats--partners _vis-a-vis_--the cards were shuffled, cut, dealt, and the game began. chapter forty eight. the game interrupted. we played the first two or three games for low stakes--a dollar each. this was agreeable to the desire of hatcher and the pork-merchant--who did not like to risk much as they had nearly forgotten the game. both, however, made "hedge bets" freely against my partner, chorley, and against any one who chose to take them up. these bets were on the turn-up, the colour, the "honours," or the "odd trick." my partner and i won the two first games, and rapidly. i noted several instances of bad play on the part of our opponent. i began to believe that they really were not a match for us. chorley said so with an air of triumph, as though we were playing merely for the honour of the thing, and the stakes were of no consequence. after a while, as we won another game, he repeated the boast. the pork-dealer and his partner seemed to get a little nettled. "it's the cards," said the latter, with an air of pique. "of coorse it's the cards," repeated white-hat. "had nothing but darned rubbish since the game begun. thar again!" "bad cards again?" inquired his partner with a sombre countenance. "bad as blazes! couldn't win corn-shucks with 'em." "come, gentlemen!" cried my partner, chorley; "not exactly fair that--no hints." "bah!" ejaculated the dealer. "mout show you my hand, for that matter. thar ain't a trick in it." we won again! our adversaries, getting still more nettled at our success, now proposed doubling the stakes. this was agreed to, and another game played. again chorley and i were winners, and the pork-man asked his partner if he would double again. the latter consented after a little hesitation, as though he thought the amount too high. of course we, the winners, could not object, and once more we "swept the shin-plasters," as chorley euphoniously expressed it. the stakes were again doubled, and possibly would have increased in the same ratio again and again had i not made a positive objection. i remembered the amount of cash i carried in my pocket, and knew that at such a rate, should fortune go against us, my purse would not hold out. i consented, however, to a stake of ten dollars each, and at this amount we continued the play. it was well we had not gone higher, for from this time fortune seemed to desert us. we lost almost every time, and at the rate of ten dollars a game. i felt my purse grow sensibly lighter. i was in a fair way of being "cleared out." my partner, hitherto so cool, seemed to lose patience, at intervals anathematising the cards, and wishing he had never consented to a game of "nasty whist." whether it was this excitement that caused it i could not tell, but certainly he played badly--much worse than at the beginning. several times he flung down his cards without thought or caution. it seemed as if his temper, ruffled at our repeated losses, rendered him careless, and even reckless, about the result. i was the more surprised at this, as but an hour before at euchre i had seen him lose sums of double the amount apparently with the utmost indifference. we had not bad luck neither. each hand our cards were good; and several times i felt certain we should have won, had my partner played his hand more skilfully. as it was, we continued to lose, until i felt satisfied that nearly half of my money was in the pockets of hatcher and the pork-dealer. no doubt the whole of it would soon have found its way into the same receptacles, had not our game been suddenly, and somewhat mysteriously, interrupted. some loud words were heard--apparently from the lower deck--followed by a double report, as of two pistols discharged in rapid succession, and the moment after a voice called out, "great god! there's a man shot!" the cards fell from our fingers--each seized his share of the stakes, springing to his feet as he did so; and then players, backers, lookers-on, and all, making for front and side entrances, rushed _pell-mell_ out of the saloon. some ran down stairs--some sprang up to the hurricane-deck--some took aft, others forward, all crying out "who is it?" "where is he?" "who fired?" "is he killed?" and a dozen like interrogatories, interrupted at intervals by the screams of the ladies in their cabins. the alarm of the "woman overboard" was nothing to this new scene of excitement and confusion. but what was most mysterious was the fact that no killed or wounded individual could be found, nor any one who had either fired a pistol or had seen one fired! no man had been shot, nor had any man shot him! what the deuce could it mean? who had cried out that some one was shot? that no one could tell! mystery, indeed. lights were carried round into all the dark corners of the boat, but neither dead nor wounded, nor trace of blood, could be discovered; and at length men broke out in laughter, and stated their belief that the "hul thing was a hoax." so declared the dealer in hog-meat, who seemed rather gratified that he no longer stood alone as a contriver of false alarms. chapter forty nine. the sportsmen of the mississippi. before things had reached this point, i had gained an explanation of the mysterious alarm. i alone knew it, along with the individual who had caused it. on hearing the shots, i had run forward under the front awning, and stood looking over the guards. i was looking down upon the boiler-deck--for it appeared to me that the loud words that preceded the reports had issued thence, though i also thought that the shots had been fired at some point nearer. most of the people had gone out by the side entrances, and were standing over the gangways, so that i was alone in the darkness, or nearly so. i had not been many seconds in this situation, when some one glided alongside of me, and touched me on the arm. i turned and inquired who it was, and what was wanted. a voice answered me in french-- "a friend, monsieur, who wishes to do you a service." "ha, that voice! it was you, then, who called out--" "it was." "and--" "i who fired the shots--precisely." "there is no one killed, then?" "not that i know of. my pistol was pointed to the sky--besides it was loaded blank." "i'm glad of that, monsieur; but for what purpose, may i ask, have you--" "simply to do _you_ a service, as i have said." "but how do you contemplate serving me by firing off pistols, and frightening the passengers of the boat out of their senses?" "oh! as to that, there's no harm done. they'll soon got over their little alarm. i wanted to speak with you alone. i could think of no other device to separate you from your new acquaintances. the firing of my pistol was only a _ruse_ to effect that purpose. it has succeeded, you perceive." "ha! monsieur, it was you then who whispered the word in my ear as i sat down to play?" "yes; have i not prophesied truly?" "so far you have. it was you who stood opposite me in the corner of the saloon?" "it was i." let me explain these two last interrogatories. as i was about consenting to the game of whist, some one plucked my sleeve, and whispered in french-- "don't play, monsieur; you are certain to lose." i turned in the direction of the speaker, and saw a young man just leaving my side; but was not certain whether it was he who had given this prudent counsel. as is known, i did not heed it. again, while engaged in the game, i noticed this same young man standing in front of me, but in a distant and somewhat dark corner of the saloon. notwithstanding the darkness, i saw that his eyes were bent upon me, as i played. this fact would have drawn my attention of itself, but there was also an expression in the face that at once fixed my interest; and, each time, while the cards were being dealt, i took the opportunity to turn my eyes upon this strange individual. he was a slender youth, under the medium height, and apparently scarce twenty years of age, but a melancholy tone that pervaded his countenance made him look a little older. his features were small, but finely chiselled--the nose and lips resembling more those of a woman. his cheek was almost colourless, and dark silky hair fell in profuse curls over his neck and shoulders; for such at that time was the creole fashion. i felt certain the youth was a creole, partly from his french cast of countenance, partly from the fashion and material of his dress, and partly because he spoke french--for i was under the impression it was he who had spoken to me. his costume was altogether of creole fashion. he wore a blouse of brown linen--not after the mode of that famous garment as known in france--but as the creole "hunting-shirt," with plaited body and gracefully-gathered skirt. its material, moreover,--the fine unbleached linen,--showed that the style was one of choice, not a mere necessary covering. his pantaloons were of the finest sky-blue _cottonade_--the produce of the looms of opelousas. they were plaited very full below the waist, and open at the bottoms with rows of buttons to close them around the ankles when occasion required. there was no vest. its place was supplied by ample frills of cambric lace, that puffed out over the breast. the _chaussure_ consisted of gaiter-bootees of drab lasting-cloth, tipped with patent leather, and fastened over the front with a silk lace. a broad-brimmed panama hat completed the dress, and gave the finishing touch to this truly southern costume. there was nothing _outre_ about either the shirt, the pantaloons, the head-dress, or foot-gear. all were in keeping--all were in a style that at that period was the _mode_ upon the lower mississippi. it was not, therefore, the dress of this youth that had arrested my attention. i had been in the habit of seeing such, every day. it could not be that. no--the dress had nothing to do with the interest which he had excited. perhaps my regarding him as the author of the brief counsel that had been uttered in my ear had a little to do with it--but not all. independent of that, there was something in the face itself that forcibly attracted my regard--so forcibly that i began to ponder whether i had ever seen it before. if there had been a better light, i might have resolved the doubt, but he stood in shadow, and i could not get a fair view of him. it was just about this time that i missed him from his station in the corner of the saloon, and a minute or two later were heard the shouts and shots from without. "and now, monsieur, may i inquire why you wish to speak to me, and what you have to say?" i was beginning to feel annoyed at the interference of this young fellow. a man does not relish being suddenly pulled up from a game of whist; and not a bit the more that he has been losing at it. "why i wish to speak to you is, because i feel an interest in you. what i have to say you shall hear." "an interest in me! and pray, sir, to what am i indebted for this interest?" "is it not enough that you are a stranger likely to be plundered of your purse?--a _green-horn_--" "how, monsieur?" "nay, do not be angry with me. that is the phrase which i have heard applied to you to-night by more than one of your new acquaintances. if you return to play with them, i think you will merit the title." "come, monsieur, this is too bad: you interfere in a matter that does not concern you." "true, it does not; but it concerns _you_, and yet--ah!" i was about to leave this meddling youth, and hurry back to the game, when the strange melancholy tone of his voice caused me to hesitate, and remain by him a little longer. "well," i said, "you have not yet told me what you wished to say." "indeed, i have said already. i have told you not to play--that you would lose if you did. i repeat that counsel." "true, i have lost a little, but it does not follow that fortune will be always on one side. it is rather my partner's fault, who seems a bad player." "your partner, if i mistake not, is one of the best players on the river. i think i have seen that gentleman before." "ha! you know him them?" "something of him--not much, but that much i know. do _you_ know him?" "never saw him before to-night." "nor any of the others?" "they are all equally strangers to me." "you are not aware, then, that you are playing with _sportsmen_?" "no, but i am very glad to hear it. i am something of a sportsman myself--as fond of dogs, horses, and guns, as any of the three, i warrant." "ha! monsieur, you misapprehend. a sportsman in your country, and a sportsman in a mississippi steamboat, are two very distinct things. foxes, hares, and partridges, are the game of your sportsman. greenhorns and their purses are the game of gentry like these." "the men with whom i am playing, then, are--" "professional gamblers--steamboat sharpers." "are you sure of this, monsieur?" "quite sure of it. oh! i often travel up and down to new orleans. i have seen them all before." "but one of them has the look of a farmer or a merchant, as i thought--a pork-merchant from cincinnati--his talk ran that way." "farmer--merchant, ha! ha! ha! a farmer without acres--a merchant without trade! monsieur, that simply-dressed old fellow is said to be the `smartest'--that is the yankee word--the smartest sportsman in the mississippi valley, and such are not scarce, i trow." "after all, they are strangers to each other, and one of them is my partner--i do not see how they can--" "strangers to each other!" interrupted my new friend. "since when have they become acquainted? i myself have seen the three in company, and at the same business, almost every time i have journeyed on the river. true, they talk to each other as if they had accidentally met. that is part of their arrangement for cheating such as you." "so you believe they have actually been cheating me?" "since the stakes have been raised to ten dollars they have." "but how?" "oh, it is very simple. sometimes your partner designedly played the wrong card--" "ha! i see now; i believe it." "it did not need that though. even had you had an honest partner, it would have been all the same in the end. your opponents have a system of signals by which they can communicate to each other many facts--the sort of cards they hold,--the colour of the cards, their value, and so forth. you did not observe how they placed their fingers upon the edge of the table. _i_ did. one finger laid horizontally denoted one trump--two fingers placed in a similar manner, two trumps--three for three, and so on. a slight curving of the fingers told: how many of the trumps were honours; a certain movement of the thumbs bespoke an ace; and in this way each of your adversaries knew almost to a card what his partner had got. it needed not the third to bring about the desired result. as it was, there were seven knaves about the table--four in the cards, and three among the players." "this is infamous!" "true, i would have admonished you of it sooner; but, of course, i could not find an opportunity. it would have been no slight danger for me to have told you openly, and exposed the rascals. hence, the _ruse_ i have been compelled to adopt. these are no common swindlers. any of the three would resent the slightest imputation upon their honour. two of them are noted duellists. most likely i should have been called out to-morrow and shot, and you would scarce have thanked me for my `interference.'" "my dear sir, i am exceedingly grateful to you. i am convinced that what you say is true. how would you have me act?" "simply give up the game--let your losses go--you cannot recover them." "but i am not disposed to be thus outraged and plundered with impunity. i shall try another game, watch them, and--" "no, you would be foolish to do so. i tell you, monsieur, these men are noted duellists as well as black-legs, and possess courage. one of them, your partner, has given proof of it by having travelled over three hundred miles to fight with a gentleman who had slandered him, or rather had spoken the truth about him! he succeeded, moreover, in killing his man. i tell you, monsieur, you can gain nothing by quarrelling with such men, except a fair chance of having a bullet through you. i know you are a stranger in our country. be advised, then, and act as i have said. leave them to their gains. it is late: retire to your state-room, and think no more on what you have lost." whether it was the late excitement consequent upon the false alarm, or whether it was the strange development i had just listened to, aided by the cool river breeze, i know not; but the intoxication passed away, and my brain became clear. i doubted not for a moment that the young creole had told me the truth. his manner as well as words, connected with the circumstances that had just transpired, produced full conviction. i felt impressed with a deep sense of gratitude to him for the service he had rendered, and at such risk to himself--for even the _ruse_ he had adopted might have had an awkward ending for him, had any one seen him fire off his pistols. why had he acted thus? why this interest in my affairs? had he assigned the true reason? was it a feeling of pure chivalry that had prompted him? i had heard of just such instances of noble nature among the creole-french of louisiana. was this another illustration of that character? i say i was impressed with a deep sense of gratitude, and resolved to follow his advice. "i shall do as you say," i replied, "on one condition." "name it, monsieur." "that you will give me your address, so that when we arrive in new orleans, i may have the opportunity of renewing your acquaintance, and proving to you my gratitude." "alas, monsieur! i have no address." i felt embarrassed. the melancholy tone in which these words were uttered was not to be mistaken; some grief pressed heavily on that young and generous heart. it was not for me to inquire into its cause, least of all at that time; but my own secret sorrow enabled me to sympathise the more deeply with others, and i felt i stood beside one whose sky was far from serene. i felt embarrassed by his answer. it left me in a delicate position to make reply. i said at length-- "perhaps you will do me the favour to call upon me? i live at the hotel saint luis." "i shall do so with pleasure." "to-morrow?" "to-morrow night." "i shall stay at home for you. _bon soir_, monsieur." we parted, each taking the way to his state-room. in ten minutes after i lay in my shelf-like bed, asleep; and in ten hours after i was drinking my _cafe_ in the hotel saint luis. chapter fifty. the city. i am strongly in favour of a country life. i am a lover of the chase and the angle. perhaps if i were to analyse the feeling, i might find that these predilections have their source in a purer fountain--the love of nature herself. i follow the deer in his tracks, because they lead me into the wildest solitudes of the forest--i follow the trout in its stream, because i am guided into still retreats, by the margin of shady pools, where human foot rarely treads. once in the haunts of the fish and the game, my sporting energy dies within me. my rod-spear pierces the turf, my gun lies neglected by my side, and i yield up my soul to a diviner dalliance with the beauties of nature. oh, i am a rare lover of the sylvan scene! and yet, for all this, i freely admit that the first hours spent in a great city have for me a peculiar fascination. a world of new pleasures is suddenly placed within reach--a world of luxury opened up. the soul is charmed with rare joys. beauty and song, wine and the dance, vary their allurements. love, or it may be passion, beguiles you into many an incident of romantic adventure; for romance may be found within the walled city. the human heart is its home, and they are but quixotic dreamers who fancy that steam and civilisation are antagonistic to the purest aspirations of poetry. a sophism, indeed, is the chivalry of the savage. his rags, so picturesque, often cover a shivering form and a hungry stomach. soldier though i may claim to be, i prefer the cheering roll of the busy mill to the thunder of the cannon--i regard the tall chimney, with its banner of black smoke, a far nobler sight than the fortress turret with its flouting and fickle flag. i hear sweet music in the plashing of the paddle-wheel; and in my ears a nobler sound is the scream of the iron horse than the neigh of the pampered war-steed. a nation of monkeys may manage the business of gunpowder: they must be men to control the more powerful element of steam. these ideas will not suit the puling sentimentalism of the boudoir and the boarding-school. the quixotism of the modern time will be angry with the rough writer who thus rudely lays his hand upon the helm of the mailed knight, and would deflower it of its glory and glossy plumes. it is hard to yield up prejudices and preconceptions, however false; and the writer himself in doing so confesses to the cost of a struggle of no ordinary violence. it was hard to give up the homeric illusion, and believe that greeks were men, not demigods--hard to recognise in the organ-man and the opera-singer the descendants of those heroes portrayed in the poetic pictures of a virgil; and yet in the days of my dreamy youth, when i turned my face to the west, i did so under the full conviction that the land of prose was before me and the land of poetry behind my back! thanks to saint hubert and the golden ring of the word "mexico," i did turn my face in that direction: and no sooner had i set foot on those glorious shores, trodden by a columbus and a cortez, than i recognised the home both of the poetic and the picturesque. in that very land, called prosaic--the land of dollars--i inhaled the very acme of the poetic spirit; not from the rhythm of books, but expressed in the most beautiful types of the human form, in the noblest impulses of the human soul, in rock and stream, in bird, and leaf and flower. in that very city, which, thanks to perjured and prejudiced travellers, i had been taught to regard as a sort of outcast camp, i found humanity in its fairest forms--progress blended with pleasure--civilisation adorned with the spirit of chivalry as with a wreath. prosaic indeed! a dollar-loving people! i make bold to assert, that in the concave of that little crescent where lies the city of new orleans will be found a psychological _melange_ of greater variety and interest than exists in any space of equal extent on the globe's surface. there the passions, favoured by the clime, reach their fullest, highest development, love and hate, joy and grief, avarice, ambition--all attain to perfect vigour. there, too, the moral virtues are met with in full purity. cant has there no home, hypocrisy must be deep indeed to avoid exposure and punishment. genius is almost universal--universal, too, is activity. the stupid and the slothful cannot exist in this moving world of busy life and enjoyment. an ethnological _melange_ as well this singular city presents. perhaps no other city exhibits so great a variety of nationalities as in its streets. founded by the french, held by the spaniards, "annexed" by the americans, these three nations form the elements of its population. but you may, nevertheless, there meet with representatives of most other civilised, and of many "savage" people. the turk in his turban, the arab in his burnouse, the chinaman with shaven scalp and queue, the black son of africa, the red indian, the swarthy mestize, yellow mulatto, the olive malay, the light graceful creole, and the not less graceful quadroon, jostle each other in its streets, and jostle with the red-blooded races of the north, the german and gael, the russ and swede, the fleming, the yankee, and the englishman. an odd human mosaic--a mottled piebald mixture is the population of the crescent city. in truth, new orleans is a great metropolis, more of a city than places of much greater population either in europe or america. in passing through its streets you feel that you are not in a provincial town. its shops exhibit the richest goods, of best workmanship. palace-like hotels appear in every street. luxurious _cafes_ invite you into their elegant saloons. theatres are there--grand architectural temples--in which you may witness the drama well performed in french, and german, and english, and in its season you may listen to the soul-moving music of the italian opera. if you are a lover of the terpsichorean art, you will fold new orleans, _par excellence_, the town to your taste. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ i knew the capacities of new orleans to afford pleasure. i was acquainted with the sources of enjoyment, yet i sought them not. after a long interval of country life i entered the city without a thought of its gaieties--a rare event in the life even of the most sedate. the masquerades, the quadroon-balls, the drama, the sweet strains of the opera, had lost their attractions for me. no amusement could amuse me at that moment. one thought alone had possession of my heart--aurore! there was room for no other. i pondered as to how i should act. place yourself in my position, and you will surely acknowledge it a difficult one. first, i was in love with this beautiful quadroon--in love beyond redemption. secondly, she, the object of my passion, was for _sale_, and by _public auction_! thirdly, i was jealous--ay jealous, of that which might be sold and bought like a bale of cotton,-- a barrel of sugar! fourthly, i was still uncertain whether i should have it in my power to become the purchaser. i was still uncertain whether my banker's letter had yet reached new orleans. ocean steamers were not known at this period, and the date of a european mail could not be relied upon with any degree of certainty. should that not come to hand in due time, then indeed should my misery reach its culminating point. some one else would become possessed of all i held dear on earth--would be her lord and master--with power to do aught--oh god! the idea was fearful. i could not bear to dwell upon it. again, even should my letter reach me in time, would the amount i expected be enough? five hundred pounds sterling--five times five-- twenty-five hundred dollars! would twenty-five hundred be the price of that which was priceless? i even doubted whether it would. i knew that a thousand dollars was at that time the "average value" of a slave, and it was rare when one yielded twice that amount. it must be a strong-bodied man--a skilful mechanic, a good blacksmith, an expert barber, to be worth such a sum! but for aurore. oh! i had heard strange tales of "fancy prices," for such a "lot"--of brisk competition in the bidding--of men with long purses and lustful thoughts eagerly contending for such a prize. such thoughts might harrow the soul even under the most ordinary circumstances! what was their effect upon me? i cannot describe the feelings i experienced. should the sum reach me in time--should it prove enough--should i even succeed in becoming the _owner_ of aurore, what then? what if my jealousy were well founded? what if she loved me not? worse dilemma than ever. i should only have her body--then her heart and soul would be another's. i should live in exquisite torture--the slave of a slave! why should i attempt to purchase her at all? why not make a bold effort, and free myself from this delirious passion? she is not worthy of the sacrifice i would make for her. no--she has deceived me--surely she has deceived me. why not break my promise, plighted though it be in words of fervid love? why not flee from the spot, and endeavour to escape the torture that is maddening both my heart and brain? oh! why not? in calmer moments, such questions might be thought worthy of an answer. i could not answer them. i did not even entertain them,--though, like shadows, they flitted across my mind. in the then state of my feelings, prudence was unknown. expediency had no place. i would not have listened to its cold counsels. you who have passionately loved can alone understand me. i was resolved to risk fortune, fame, life--all-- to possess the object i so deeply adored. chapter fifty one. vente importante des negres. "_l'abeille_, monsieur?" the _garcon_ who helped me to the fragrant cup, at the same time handed me a newspaper fresh from the press. it was a large sheet, headed upon one side "l'abeille", on the reverse its synonyme in english, "the bee." half of its contents were in french, half in english: each half was a counterpart--a translation of the other. i mechanically took the journal from the hand of the waiter, but without either the design or inclination to read it. mechanically my eyes wandered over its broad-sheet--scarce heeding the contents. all at once, the heading of an advertisement fixed my gaze and my attention. it was on the "french side" of the paper. "annoncement." "_vente importante des negres_!" yes--it was they. the announcement was no surprise to me. i expected as much. i turned to the translation on the reverse page, in order to comprehend it more clearly. there it was in all its broad black meaning:-- "_important sale of negroes_!" i read on:--"_estate in bankruptcy. plantation besancon_!" "poor eugenie!" farther:-- "_forty able-bodied field-hands, of different ages. several first-rate domestic servants, coachman, cooks, chamber-maids, wagon-drivers. a number of likely mulatto boys and girls, from ten to twenty_," etcetera, etcetera. the list followed _in extenso_. i read-- "lot . _scipio, . able-bodied black, foot inches, understands house-work, and the management of horses. sound and without blemish_. "lot . _hannibal, . dark mulatto, foot inches, good coachman, sound and steady_. "lot . _cesar, . black field-hand. sound_," etcetera, etcetera. my eyes could not wait for the disgusting details. they ran down the column in search of that name. they would have lit upon it sooner, but that my hands trembled, and the vibratory motion of the sheet almost prevented me from reading. it was there at length--_last upon the list_! "why last?" no matter--her "description" was there. can i trust myself to read it? down, burning heart, still your wild throbbings! "lot . _aurore. . quadroon. likely_--_good housekeeper, and sempstress_." portrait sketched by refined pen--brief and graphic. "likely," ha! ha! ha! "likely," ha! ha! the brute who wrote that paragraph would have described venus as a likely gal. 'sdeath! i cannot jest--this desecration of all that is lovely--all that is sacred--all that is dear to my heart, is torture itself. the blood is boiling in my veins--my bosom is wrung with dire emotions! the journal fell from my hands, and i bent forward over the table, my fingers clutching each other. i could have groaned aloud had i been alone. but i was not. i sat in the great refectory of the hotel. men were near who would have jeered at my agony had they but known its cause. some minutes elapsed before i could reflect on what i had read. i sat in a kind of stupor, brought on by the violence of my emotions. reflection came at length, and my first thought was of action. more than ever did i now desire to become the purchaser of the beautiful slave--to redeem her from this hideous bondage. i should buy her. i should set her free. true or false to me, i should accomplish this all the same. i should make no claim for gratitude. she should choose for herself. she should be free, if not in the disposal of her gratitude, at least in that of her love. a love based only on gratitude would not content me. such could not last. her heart should freely bestow itself. if i had already won it, well. if not, and it had fixed its affection upon another--mine be the grief. aurore, at all events, shall be happy. my love had elevated my soul--had filled it with such noble resolves. and now to set her free. when was this hideous exhibition--this "important sale," to come off? when was my betrothed to be sold, and i to assist at the spectacle? i took up the paper again to ascertain the time and place. the place i knew well--the rotundo of the saint louis exchange--adjoining the hotel, and within twenty yards of where i sat. that was the slave-market. but the time--it was of more importance--indeed of all importance. strange i did not think of this before! should it be at an early date, and my letter not have arrived! i dared not trust myself with such a supposition. surely it would be a week--several days, at the least-- before a sale of so much importance would take place. ha! it may have been advertised for some days. the negroes may have been brought down only at the last moment! my hands trembled, as my eyes sought the paragraph. at length they rested upon it. i read with painful surprise:-- "_to-morrow at twelve_!" i looked to the date of the journal. all correct. it was the issue of that morning. i looked to the dial on the wall. the clock was on the stroke of _twelve_! just one day to elapse. "o god! if my letter should not have arrived!" i drew forth my purse, and mechanically told over its contents. i knew not why i did so. i knew it contained but a hundred dollars. the "sportsmen" had reduced it in bulk. when i had finished counting it, i could not help smiling at the absurdity of the thing. "a hundred dollars _for the quadroon! likely_--_good housekeeper, etcetera! a hundred dollars bid_!" the auctioneer would not be likely to repeat the bid. all now depended on the english mail. if it had not arrived already, or did not before the morning, i would be helpless. without the letter on my new orleans banker, i could not raise fifty pounds--watch, jewels, and all. as to borrowing, i did not think of such a thing. who was to lend me money? who to an almost perfect stranger would advance such a sum as i required? no one i felt certain. reigart could not have helped me to so large an amount, even had there been time to communicate with him. no--there was no one who _would_, that _could_ have favoured me. no one i could think of. "stop:"--the banker himself! happy thought, the banker brown! good, generous brown, of the english house, brown and co., who, with smiling face, has already cashed my drafts for me. he will do it! the very man! why did i not think of him sooner? yes; if the letter have not reached him i shall tell him that i expect it every day, and its amount. he will advance the money. "twelve o'clock gone. there is no time to be lost. he's in his counting-house by this. i shall at once apply to him." i seized my hat, and hastening out of the hotel, took my way through the streets towards the banking-house of brown and co. chapter fifty two. brown and co. the banking-house of brown and co. was in canal street. from the saint louis exchange, canal street may be approached by the rue conti, or the parallel street of the rue royale. the latter is the favourite promenade of the gay creole-french, as saint charles street is for the fashionable americans. you will wonder at this _melange_ of french and english in the nomenclature of streets. the truth is, that new orleans has a peculiarity somewhat rare. it is composed of two distinct cities--a french and an american one. i might even say _three_, for there is a spanish quarter with a character distinct from either, and where you may see on the corner the spanish designation "calle," as the _calle de casacalvo, calle del obispo_, etcetera. this peculiarity is explained by referring to the history of louisiana. it was colonised by the french in the early part of the eighteenth century, new orleans being founded in . the french held louisiana till , when it was ceded to spain, and remained in her possession for a period of nearly fifty years--till , when france once more became its master. five years after, in , napoleon sold this valuable country to the american government for , , of dollars--the best bargain which brother jonathan has ever made, and apparently a slack one on the part of napoleon. after all, napoleon was right. the sagacious corsican, no doubt, foresaw that it could not have long remained the property of france. sooner or later the american flag would wave over the crescent city, and napoleon's easy bargain has no doubt saved america a war, and france a humiliation. this change of masters will explain the peculiarity of the population of new orleans. the characteristics of all three nations are visible in its streets, in its houses, in the features, habits, and dress of its citizens. in nothing are the national traces more distinctly marked than in the different styles of architecture. in the american quarter you have tall brick dwellings, several stories in height, their shining fronts half occupied with rows of windows, combining the light and ornamental with the substantial and useful. this is typical of the anglo-american. equally typical of the french character are the light wooden one-storey houses, painted in gay colours, with green verandah palings; windows that open as doors, and a profusion of gauzy curtains hanging behind them. equally a type of the grand solemn character of the spaniard, are the massive sombre structures of stone and lime, of the imposing moorish style, that is still seen in many of the streets of new orleans. of these, the great cathedral is a fine specimen--that will stand as a monument of spanish occupancy, long after both the spanish and french population has been absorbed and melted down in the alembic of the anglo-american propagandism. the american part of new orleans is that which is highest on the river--known as the faubourgs saint mary and annunciation. canal street separates it from the french quarter--which last is the old city, chiefly inhabited by creole-french and spaniards. a few years ago, the french and american populations were about equal. now the saxon element predominates, and rapidly absorbs all the others. in time the indolent creole must yield to the more energetic american-- in other words, new orleans will be americanised. progress and civilisation will gain by this, at the expense--according to the sentimental school--of the poetic and picturesque. two distinct cities, then, are there in new orleans. each has its exchange distinct from the other--a distinct municipal court and public offices--each has its centre of fashionable resort--its favourite promenade for the _flaneurs_, of which the south-western metropolis can boast a large crowd--its own theatres, ballrooms, hotels, and cafes. in fact, a walk of a few paces transports one into quite a different world. the crossing of canal street is like being transferred from broadway to the boulevards. in their occupations there is a wide difference between the inhabitants of the two quarters. the americans deal in the strong staples of human life. the great depots of provisions, of cotton, of tobacco, of lumber, and the various sorts of raw produce, will be found among them. on the other hand, the finer fabrics, the laces, the jewels, the modes and modistes, the silks and satins, and all articles of _bijouterie_ and _virtu_, pass through the lighter fingers of the creoles--for these inherit both the skill and taste of their parisian progenitors. fine old rich wine-merchants, too, will be found in the french part, who have made fortunes by importing the wines of bordeaux and champagne--for claret and champagne are the wines that flow most freely on the banks of the mississippi. a feeling of jealousy is not wanting between the two races. the strong energetic kentuckian affects to despise the gay pleasure-loving frenchman, while the latter--particularly the old creole noblesse-- regard with contempt the _bizarrerie_ of the northern, so that feuds and collisions between them are not infrequent. new orleans is, _par excellence_, the city of the duello. in all matters of this kind the kentuckian finds the creole quite his equal--his full match in spirit, courage, and skill. i know many creoles who are notorious for the number of their duels. an opera-singer or _danseuse_ frequently causes half a score or more--according to her merits, or mayhap her demerits. the masqued and quadroon-balls are also frequent scenes of quarrel among the wine-heated bloods who frequent them. let no one fancy that life in new orleans is without incident or adventure. a less prosaic city it would be hard to find. these subjects did _not_ come before my mind as i walked towards the banking-house of brown and co. my thoughts were occupied with a far different theme--one that caused me to press on with an agitated heart and hurried steps. the walk was long enough to give me time for many a hypothetic calculation. should my letter and the bill of exchange have arrived, i should be put in possession of funds at once,--enough, as i supposed, for my purpose--enough to buy my slave-bride! if not yet arrived, how then? would brown advance the money? my heart throbbed audibly as i asked myself this question. its answer, affirmative or negative, would be to me like the pronouncement of a sentence of life or death. and yet i felt more than half certain that brown would do so. i could not fancy his smiling generous john-bull face clouded with the seriousness of a refusal. its great importance to me at that moment-- the certainty of its being repaid, and in a few days, or hours at the farthest--surely he would not deny me! what to him, a man of millions, could be the inconvenience of advancing five hundred pounds? oh! he would do it to a certainty. no fear but he would do it! i crossed the threshold of the man of money, my spirits buoyant with sweet anticipation. when i recrossed it my soul was saddened with bitter disappointment. my letter had not yet arrived--brown refused the advance! i was too inexperienced in business to comprehend its sordid calculations--its cold courtesy. what cared the banker for my pressing wants? what to him was my ardent appeal? even had i told him my motives, my object, it would have been all the same. that game cold denying smile would have been the reply--ay, even had my life depended upon it. i need not detail the interview. it was brief enough. i was told, with a bland smile, that my letter had not yet come to hand. to my proposal for the advance the answer was blunt enough. the kind generous smile blanked off brown's ruddy face. it was not business. it could not be done. there was no sign thrown out--no invitation to talk farther. i might have appealed in a more fervent strain. i might have confessed the purpose for which i wanted the money, but brown's face gave me no encouragement. perhaps it was as well i did not. brown would have chuckled over my delicate secret. the town, over its tea-table, would have relished it as a rich joke. enough--my letter had not arrived--brown refused the advance. with hope behind me and despair in front, i hurried back to the hotel. chapter fifty three. eugene d'hauteville. the remainder of the day i was occupied in searching for aurore. i could learn nothing of her--not even whether she had yet reached the city! in search of her i went to the quarters where the others had their temporary lodgment. she was not these. she had either not yet arrived, or was kept at some other place. they had not seen her! they knew nothing about her. disappointed and wearied with running through the hot and dusty streets, i returned to the hotel. i waited for night. i waited for the coming of eugene d'hauteville, for such was the name of my new acquaintance. i was strangely interested in this young man. our short interview had inspired me with a singular confidence in him. he had given proof of a friendly design towards me; and still more had impressed me with a high idea of his knowledge of the world. young as he was, i could not help fancying him a being possessed of some mysterious power. i could not help thinking that in some way he might aid me. there was nothing remarkable in his being so young and still _au-fait_ to all the mysteries of life. precocity is the privilege of the american, especially the native of new orleans. a creole at fifteen is a man. i felt satisfied that d'hauteville--about my own age--knew far more of the world than i, who had been half my life cloistered within the walls of an antique university. i had an instinct that he both _could_ and _would_ serve me. how? you may ask. by lending me the money i required? it could not be thus. i believed that he was himself without funds, or possessed of but little--far too little to be of use to me. my reason for thinking so was the reply he had made when i asked for his address. there was something in the tone of his answer that led me to the thought that he was without fortune--even without a home. perhaps a clerk out of place, thought i; or a poor artist. his dress was rich enough--but dress is no criterion on a mississippi steamboat. with these reflections it was strange i should have been impressed with the idea _he_ could serve me! but i was so, and had therefore resolved to make him the confidant of my secret--the secret of my love--the secret of my misery. perhaps another impulse acted upon me, and aided in bringing me to this determination. he whose heart has been charged with a deep grief must know the relief which sympathy can afford. the sympathy of friendship is sweet and soothing. there is balm in the counsel of a kind companion. my sorrow had been long pent up within my own bosom, and yearned to find expression. stranger among strangers, i had no one to share it with me. even to the good reigart i had not confessed myself. with the exception of aurore herself, eugenie--poor eugenie--was alone mistress of my secret. would that she of all had never known it! now to this youth eugene--strange coincidence of name!--i was resolved to impart it--resolved to unburden my heart. perhaps, in so doing i might find consolation or relief. i waited for the night. it was at night he had promised to come. i waited with impatience--with my eyes bent almost continuously on the index finger of time, and chafing at the slow measured strokes of the pendulum. i was not disappointed. he came at length. his silvery voice rang in my ears, and he stood before me. as he entered my room, i was once more struck with the melancholy expression of his countenance--the pale cheek--the resemblance to some face i had met before. the room was close and hot. the summer had not yet quite departed. i proposed a walk. we could converse as freely in the open air, and there was a lovely moon to light us on our way. as we sallied forth, i offered my visitor a cigar. this he declined, giving his reason. he did not smoke. strange, thought i, for one of a race, who almost universally indulge in the habit. another peculiarity in the character of my new acquaintance! we passed up the rue royale, and turned along canal street in the direction of the "swamp." presently we crossed the rue des rampartes, and soon found ourselves outside the limits of the city. some buildings appeared beyond, but they were not houses--at least not dwelling-places for the living. the numerous cupolas crowned with crosses--the broken columns--the monuments of white marble, gleaming under the moon, told us that we looked upon a city of the dead. it was the great cemetery of new orleans--that cemetery where the poor after death are _drowned_, and the rich fare no better, for they are _baked_! the gate stood open--the scene within invited me--its solemn character was in unison with my spirit. my companion made no objection, and we entered. after wending our way among tombs, and statues, and monuments; miniature temples, columns, obelisks, sarcophagi carved in snow-white marble-- passing graves that spoke of recent affliction--others of older date, but garnished with fresh flowers--the symbols of lore or affection that still lingered--we seated ourselves upon a moss-grown slab, with the fronds of the babylonian willow waving above our heads, and drooping mournfully around us. chapter fifty four. pity for love. along the way we had conversed upon several topics indifferently--of my gambling adventure on the boat--of the "sportsmen" of new orleans--of the fine moonlight. until after entering the cemetery, and taking our seats upon the tomb, i had disclosed nothing of that which altogether engrossed my thoughts. the time had now arrived for unbosoming myself, and half-an-hour after eugene d'hauteville knew the story of my love. i confided to him all that had occurred from the time of my leaving new orleans, up to the period of our meeting upon the houma. my interview with the banker brown, and my fruitless search that day for aurore, were also detailed. from first to last he listened without interrupting me; only once, when i described the scene of my confession to eugenie, and its painful ending. the details of this seemed to interest him exceedingly--in fact, to give him pain. more than once i was interrupted by his sobs, and by the light of the moon i could see that he was in tears! "noble youth!" thought i, "thus to be affected by the sufferings of a stranger!" "poor eugenie!" murmured he, "is _she_ not to be pitied?" "pitied! ah, monsieur; you know not how much i pity her! that scene will never be effaced from my memory. if pity--friendship--any sacrifice could make amends, how willingly would i bestow it upon her-- all but that which is not in my power to give--my love. deeply, monsieur d'hauteville--deeply do i grieve for that noble lady. oh, that i could pluck the sting from her heart which i have been the innocent cause of placing there. but surely she will recover from this unfortunate passion? surely in time--" "ah! never! never!" interrupted d'hauteville, with an earnestness of manner that surprised me. "why say you so, monsieur?" "why?--because i have some skill in such affairs; young as you think me, _i_ have experienced a similar misfortune. poor eugenie! _such a wound is hard to heal_; she will not recover from it. ah--never!" "indeed, i pity her--with my whole soul i pity her." "you should seek her and say so." "why?" i asked, somewhat astonished at the suggestion. "perhaps your pity expressed to her might give consolation." "impossible. it would have the contrary effect." "you misjudge, monsieur. unrequited love is far less hard to bear when it meets with sympathy. it is only haughty contempt and heartless triumph that wring blood-drops from the heart. sympathy is balm to the wounds of love. believe me it is so. _i feel it to be so. oh! i feel it to be_ so!" the last two phrases he spoke with an earnestness that sounded strangely in my ears. "mysterious youth!" thought i. "so gentle, so compassionate, and yet so worldly-wise!" i felt as though i conversed with some spiritual being--some superior mind, who comprehended all. his doctrine was new to me, and quite contrary to the general belief. at a later period of my life i became convinced of its truth. "if i thought my sympathy would have such an effect," replied i, "i should seek eugenie--i should offer her--" "there will be a time for that afterward," said d'hauteville, interrupting me; "your present business is more pressing. you purpose to _buy this quadroon_?" "i did so this morning. alas! i have no longer a hope. it will not be in my power." "how much money have these sharpers left you?" "not much over one hundred dollars." "ha! that will not do. from your description of her she will bring ten times the amount. a misfortune, indeed! my own purse is still lighter than yours. i have not a hundred dollars. _pardieu_! it is a sad affair." d'hauteville pressed his head between his hands, and remained for some moments silent, apparently in deep meditation. from his manner i could not help believing that he really sympathised with me, and that he was thinking of some plan to assist me. "after all," he muttered to himself, just loud enough for me to hear what was said, "if she should not succeed--if she should not find the papers--then she, too, must be a sacrifice. oh! it is a terrible risk. it might be better not--it might be--" "monsieur!" i said, interrupting him, "of what are you speaking?" "oh!--ah! pardon me: it is an affair i was thinking of--_n'importe_. we had better return, monsieur. it is cold. the atmosphere of this solemn place chills me." he said all this with an air of embarrassment, as though he had been speaking his thoughts unintentionally. though astonished at what he had uttered, i could not press him for an explanation; but, yielding to his wish, i rose up to depart. i had lost hope. plainly he had it not in his power to serve me. at this moment a resource suggested itself to my mind, or rather the forlorn hope of a resource. i communicated it to my companion. "i have still these two hundred dollars," said i, "they are of no more service to me for the purchase of aurore than if they were so many pebbles. suppose i try to increase the amount at the gaming-table?" "oh, i fear it would be an idle attempt. you would lose as before." "that is not so certain, monsieur. the chances at least are equal. i need not play with men of skill, like those upon the boat. here in new orleans there are gaming-houses, plenty of them, where _games of chance_ are carried on. these are of various kinds--as _faro, craps, loto_, and _roulette_. i can choose some one of these, where bets are made on the tossing of a die or the turning of a card. it is just as likely i may win as lose. what say you, monsieur? give me your counsel." "you speak truly," replied he. "there is a chance in the game. it offers a hope of your winning. if you lose, you will be no worse off as regards your intentions for to-morrow. if you win--" "true, true--if i win--" "you must not lose time, then. it is growing late. these gaming-houses should be open at this hour: no doubt, they are now in the very tide of their business. let us find one." "you will go with me? thanks, monsieur d'hauteville! thanks--_allons_!" we hastily traversed the walk that led to the entrance of the cemetery; and, issuing from the gate, took our way back into the town. we headed for our point of departure--the rue saint louis; for i knew that in that neighbourhood lay the principal gambling hells. it was not difficult to find them. at that period there was no concealment required in such matters. the gambling passion among the creoles, inherited from the original possessors of the city, was too rife among all classes to be put down by a police. the municipal authorities in the american quarter had taken some steps toward the suppression of this vice; but their laws had no force on the french side of canal street; and creole police had far different ideas, as well as different instructions. in the french faubourgs gaming was not considered so hideous a crime, and the houses appropriated to it were open and avowed. as you passed along rue conti, or saint louis, or the rue bourbon, you could not fail to notice several large gilded lamps, upon which you might read "faro" and "craps", "loto" or "roulette,"--odd words to the eyes of the uninitiated, but well enough understood by those whose business it was to traverse the streets of the "first municipality." our hurrying stops soon brought us in front of one of these establishments, whose lamp told us in plain letters that "faro" was played inside. it was the first that offered; and, without hesitating a moment, i entered, followed by d'hauteville. we had to climb a wide stairway, at the top of which we were received by a whiskered and moustached fellow in waiting. i supposed that he was about to demand some fee for admission. i was mistaken in my conjecture. admission was perfectly free. the purpose of this individual in staying us was to divest us of arms, for which he handed us a ticket, that we might reclaim them in going out. that he had disarmed a goodly number before our turn came, was evident from the numerous butts of pistols, hafts of bowie-knives, and handles of daggers, that protruded from the pigeon-holes of a shelf-like structure standing in one corner of the passage. the whole proceeding reminded me of the scenes i had often witnessed-- the surrender of canes, umbrellas, and parasols, on entering a picture-gallery or a museum. no doubt it was a necessary precaution-- the non-observance of which would have led to many a scene of blood over the gaming-table. we yielded up our weapons--i a pair of pistols, and my companion a small silver dagger. these were ticketed, duplicates delivered to us, and we were allowed to pass on into the "_saloon_." chapter fifty five. on games and gambling. the passion of gaming is universal amongst men. every nation indulges in it to a greater or less extent. every nation, civilised or savage, has its game, from whist and cribbage at almacks to "chuck-a-luck" and "poke-stick" upon the prairies. moral england fancies herself clear of the stain. her gossiping traveller rarely fails to fling a stone at the foreigner on this head. french, german, spaniard, and mexican, are in turn accused of an undue propensity for this vice. cant--all cant! there is more gambling in moral england than in any country of my knowing. i do not speak of card-playing about the purlieus of piccadilly. go to epsom races on a "derby day," and there you may form an idea of the scale upon which english gaming is carried on--for gaming it is in the very lowest sense of the word. talk of "noble sport,"--of an admiration for that fine animal--the horse. bah! noble, indeed! fancy those seedy scamps, who in thousands and tens of thousands flock upon every race-course,--fancy them and their harlotic companions possessed with the idea of anything fine or noble! of all who crowd there the horse alone is noble--naught could be more ignoble than his _entourage_. no, moral england! you are no pattern for the nations in this respect. you are not free from the stain, as you imagine yourself. you have a larger population of gamblers,--_horse-gamblers_ if you will, than any other people; and, however noble be your game, i make bold to affirm that your gamesters are the seediest, snobbiest, and most revolting of the tribe. there is something indescribably mean in the life and habits of those hungry-looking vultures who hang about the corners of coventry street and the haymarket, out at elbows, out at heels, sneaking from tavern to betting-house, and from betting-house to tavern. there is a meanness, a positive cowardice in the very nature of their game,--their small ventures and timid "hedging" of bets. in comparison, the bold ringer of dice has something _almost_ noble in him. your apathetic don, who stakes his gold onzas on a single throw of the ivory--your mexican monte-player, who risks his doubloons on each turn of the cards,--are, to some extent, dignified by the very boldness of their venture. with them gambling is a passion--its excitement their lure; but brown, and smith, and jones, cannot even plead _the passion_. even _that_ would exalt them. of all gamblers by profession the "sportsman" of the mississippi valley is perhaps the most picturesque. i have already alluded to their elegant style of attire, but, independent of that, there is a dash of the gentleman--a certain _chivalresqueness_ of character which distinguishes them from all others of their calling. during the wilder episodes of my life i have been _honoured_ with the acquaintance of more than one of these _gentlemen_, and i cannot help bearing a somewhat high testimony in their favour. several have i met of excellent moral character,--though, perhaps, not quite up to the standard of exeter hall. some i have known of noble and generous hearts--doers of noble actions--who, though outcasts in society, were not outcasts to their own natures; men who would bravely resent the slightest insult that might be put upon them. of course there were others, as the chorleys and hatchers, who would scarce answer to this description of western "sportsmen"--but i really believe that such are rather the exception than the rule. a word about the "games of america." the true national game of the united states is the "election." the local or state elections afford so many opportunities of betting, just as the minor horse-races do in england; while the great quadrennial, the presidential election, is the "derby day" of america. the enormous sums that change hands upon such occasions, and the enormous number of them, would be incredible. a statistic of these bets, could such be given, and their amount, would surprise even the most "enlightened citizen" of the states themselves. foreigners cannot understand the intense excitement which is felt during an election time throughout the united states. it would be difficult to explain it, in a country where men generally know that the fate of the particular candidate has, after all, but a slight influence on their material interests. true, party spirit and the great stake of all--the "spoils" of office--will account for some of the interest taken in the result, but not for all. i am of opinion that the "balance" of the excitement may be set down to the credit of the gaming passion. nearly every second man you meet has a bet, or rather a "book," upon the presidential election! election, therefore, is the true national game, indulged in by high, low, rich, and poor. to bet upon an election, however, is not considered _infra dig_. it is not _professional_ gambling. the games for that purpose are of various kinds--in most of which cards are relied upon to furnish the chances. dice and billiards are also in vogue--billiards to a considerable extent. it is a very mean village in the united states--particularly in the south and west--that does not furnish one or more public billiard-tables; and among americans may be found some of the most expert (crack) players in the world. the "creoles" of louisiana are distinguished at this game. "ten-pins" is also a very general game, and every town has its "ten-pin alley." but "billiards" and "ten-pins" are not true "gambling games." the first is patronised rather as an elegant amusement, and the latter as an excellent exercise. cards and dice are the real weapons of the "sportsman," but particularly the former. besides the english games of whist and cribbage, and the french games of "vingt-un", "rouge-et-noir," etcetera, the american gambler plays "poker", "euchre", "seven-up," and a variety of others. in new orleans there is a favourite of the creoles called "craps," a dice game, and "keno," and "loto," and "roulette," played with balls and a revolving wheel. farther to the south, among the spano-mexicans, you meet the game of "monte,"--a card game, distinct from all the others. monte is the national game of mexico. to all other modes of getting at your money, the south-western sportsman prefers "faro." it is a game of spanish origin, as its name imports; indeed, it differs but little from monte, and was no doubt obtained from the spaniards of new orleans. whether native or exotic to the towns of the mississippi valley, in all of them it has become perfectly naturalised; and there is no sportsman of the west who does not understand and practise it. the game of faro is simple enough. the following are its leading features:-- a green cloth or baize covers the table. upon this the thirteen cards of a suite are laid out in two rows, with their faces turned up. they are usually attached to the cloth by gum, to prevent them from getting out of place. a square box, like an overgrown snuff-box, is next produced. it is of the exact size and shape to hold two packs of cards. it is of solid silver. any other metal would serve as well; but a professed "faro dealer" would scorn to carry a mean implement of his calling. the object of this box is to hold the cards to be dealt, and to assist in dealing them. i cannot explain the internal mechanism of this mysterious box; but i can say that it is without a lid, open at one edge--where the cards are pressed in--and contains an interior spring, which, touched by the finger of the dealer, pushes out the cards one by one as they lie in the pack. this contrivance is not at all essential to the game, which may be played without the box. its object is to insure a fair deal, as no card can be recognised by any mark on its back, since up to the moment of drawing they are all invisible within the box. a stylish "faro box" is the ambition of every "faro dealer"-- the specific title of all "sportsmen" whose game is faro. two packs of cards, well shuffled, are first put into the box; and the dealer, resting the left hand upon it, and holding the right in readiness, with the thumb extended, pauses a moment until some bets are made. the "dealer" is in reality your antagonist in the game; he is the "banker" who pays all your gains, and pockets all your losses. as many may bet as can sit or stand around the table; but all are betting against the dealer himself. of course, in this case, the faro dealer must be something of a proprietor to play the game at all; and the "faro bank" has usually a capital of several thousands of dollars--often hundreds of thousands to back it! not unfrequently, after an unlucky run, the bank gets "broke;" and the proprietor of it may be years before he can establish another. an assistant or "croupier" usually sits beside the dealer. his business is to exchange the "cheques" for money, to pay the bets lost, and gather in those which the bank has won. the cheques used in the game are pieces of ivory of circular form, of the diameter of dollars: they are white, red, or blue, with the value engraved upon them, and they are used as being more convenient than the money itself. when any one wishes to leave off playing, he can demand from the bank to the amount specified on the cheques he may then hold. the simplest method of betting "against faro" is by placing the money on the face of any particular one of the cards that lie on the table. you may choose which you will of the thirteen. say you have selected the ace, and placed your money upon the face of that card. the dealer then commences, and "draws" the cards out of the box one by one. after drawing each two he makes a pause. until two aces follow each other, with no other card between, there is no decision. when two aces come together the bet is declared. if both appear in the drawing of the two cards, then the dealer takes your money; if only one is pulled out, and the other follows in the next drawing, you have won. you may then renew your bet upon the ace--double it if you will, or remove it to any other card--and these changes you may make at any period of the deal--provided it is not done after the first of the two cards has been drawn. of course the game goes on, whether you play or not. the table is surrounded by betters; some on one card, some on another; some by "paralee," on two or more cards at a time; so that there is a constant "falling due" of bets, a constant rattling of cheques and chinking of dollars. it is all a game of chance. "skill" has naught to do with the game of faro; and you might suppose, as many do, that the chances are exactly equal for the dealer and his opponents. such, however, is not the case; a peculiar arrangement of the cards produces a percentage in favour of the former, else there would be no faro bank; and although a rare run of ill-fortune may go against the dealer for a time, if he can only hold out long enough, he is "bound to beat you" in the end. a similar percentage will be against you in all games of chance--"faro," "monte," or "craps," wherever you bet against a "banker." of course the banker will not deny this, but answers you, that that _small_ percentage is to "pay for the game." it usually does, and well. such is faro--the game at which i had resolved to empty my purse, or win the price of my betrothed. chapter fifty six. the faro bank. we entered the saloon. the game _voila_! at one end was the table--the bank. we could see neither bank nor dealer; both were hidden by the double ring of bettors, who encircled the table--one line seated, the other standing behind. there were women, too, mingled in the crowd--seated and standing in every attitude--gay and beautiful women, decked out in the finery of fashion, but with a certain _braverie_ of manner that betokened their unfortunate character. d'hauteville had guessed aright--the game was at its height. the look and attitudes of the betters--their arms constantly in motion, placing their stakes--the incessant rattling of the ivory cheques, and the clinking together of dollars--all told that the game was progressing briskly. a grand chandelier, suspended above the table, cast its brilliant light over the play and the players. near the middle of the saloon stood a large table, amply furnished with "refreshments." cold fowls, ham and tongue, chicken salad, and lobsters, cut-glass decanters tilled with wine, brandy, and other liquors, garnished this table. some of the plates and glasses bore the traces of having been already used, while others were clean and ready for anyone who chose to play knife and fork a while. it was, in fact, a "free lunch," or rather supper--free to any guest who chose to partake of it. such is the custom of an american gambling-house. the rich viands did not tempt either my companion or myself. we passed the table without halting, and walked directly up to the "bank." we reached the outer circle, and looked over the shoulders of the players. "_shade of fortuna! chorley and hatcher_!" yes--there sat the two sharpers, side by side, behind the faro-table-- not as mere bettors, but acting respectively as banker and croupier of the game! chorley held the dealing-box in his fingers, while hatcher sat upon his right, with cheques, dollars, and bank-notes piled upon the table in front of him! a glance around the ring of faces showed us the pork-merchant as well. there sat he in his loose jeans coat and broad white-hat, talking farmer-like, betting bravely, and altogether a stranger to both banker and croupier! my companion and i regarded each other with a look of surprise. after all, there was nothing to surprise us. a faro bank needs no charter, no further preliminaries to its establishment than to light up a table, spread a green baize over it, and commence operations. the sportsmen were no doubt quite at home here. their up-river excursion was only by way of a little variety--an interlude incidental to the summer. the "season" of new orleans was now commencing, and they had just returned in time for it. therefore there was nothing to be surprised at, in our finding them where we did. at first seeing them, however, i felt astonishment, and my companion seemed to share it. i turned towards him, and was about proposing that we should leave the room again, when the wandering eye of the pseudo pork-merchant fell upon me. "hilloa, stranger!" he cried out, with an air of astonishment, "you hyar?" "i believe so," i replied unconcernedly. "wal! wal! i tho't you war lost. whar did you go, anyhow?" he inquired in a tone of vulgar familiarity, and loud enough to turn the attention of all present upon myself and my companion. "ay--_whar_ did i go?" i responded, keeping my temper, and concealing the annoyance i really felt at the fellow's impudence. "yes--that's jest what i wanted to know." "are you very anxious?" i asked. "oh, no--not particklerly so." "i am glad of that," i responded, "as i don't intend telling you." with all his swagger i could see that his crest fell a little at the general burst of laughter that my somewhat _bizarre_ remark had called forth. "come, stranger," he said, in a half-deprecatory, half-spiteful tone, "you needn't a be so short-horned about it, i guess; i didn't mean no offence--but you know you left us so suddintly--never mind--'taint no business o' mine. you're going to take a hand at faro, ain't you?" "perhaps." "wal, then, it appears a nice game. i'm jest trying it for the first time myself. it's all chance, i believe--jest like odds and evens. i'm a winnin' anyhow." he turned his face to the bank, and appeared to busy himself in arranging his bets. a fresh deal had commenced, and the players, drawn off for a moment by our conversation, became once more engaged in what was of greater interest to them--the little money-heaps upon the cards. of course, both chorley and hatcher recognised me; but they had restricted their recognitions to a friendly nod, and a glance that plainly said-- "he's here! all right! he'll not go till he has tried to get back his hundred dollars--he'll have a shy at the bank--no fear but he will." if such were their thoughts they were, not far astray. my own reflections were as follows:-- "i may as well risk my money here as elsewhere. a faro bank is a faro bank all the same. there is no opportunity for cheating, where cards are thus dealt. the arrangement of the bets precludes every possibility of such a thing. where one player loses to the bank, another may win from it by the very same turn, and this of course checks the dealer from drawing the cards falsely, even if it were possible for him to do so. so i may as well play against messrs. chorley and hatcher's bank as any other--better, indeed; for if i am to win i shall have the satisfaction of the _revanche_, which those gentlemen owe me. i shall play here then. do you advise me, monsieur?" part of the above reflections, and the interrogatory that wound them up, were addressed in a whisper to the young creole. he acknowledged their justice. he advised me to remain. he was of the opinion i might as well tempt fortune there as go farther. enough--i took out a five-dollar gold-piece, and placed it upon the ace. no notice was taken of this--neither banker nor croupier even turning their eyes in the direction, of the bet. such a sum as five dollars would not decompose the well-practised nerves of these gentlemen--where sums of ten, twenty, or even fifty times the amount, were constantly passing to and from their cash-box. the deal proceeded, chorley drawing the cards with that air of imperturbable _sang-froid_ so characteristic of his class. "ace wins," cried a voice, as two aces came forth together. "pay you in cheques, sir?" asked the croupier. i assented, and a flat round piece of ivory, of a red colour, with the figure in its centre, was placed upon my half-eagle. i permitted both to remain upon the ace. the deal went on, and after a while two aces came out together, and two more of the red cheques were mine. i suffered all four pieces, now worth twenty dollars, to lie. i had not come there to amuse myself. my purpose was very different; and, impelled by that purpose, i was resolved not to waste time. if fortune was to prove favourable to me, her favours were as likely to be mine soon as late; and when i thought of the real stake for which i was playing, i could not endure the suspense. no more was i satisfied at contact with the coarse and bawd company that surrounded the table. the deal went on--and after some time aces again came out. this time i lost. without a word passing from his lips, the croupier drew in the cheques and gold-piece, depositing them in his japanned cash-box, i took out my purse, and tried ten dollars upon the queen, i won. i doubled the bet, and lost again. another ten dollars won--another lost--another and another, and so on, now winning, now losing, now betting with cheques, now with gold-pieces--until at length i felt to the bottom of my purse without encountering a coin! chapter fifty seven. the watch and ring. i rose from my seat, and turned towards d'hauteville with a glance of despair. i needed not to tell him the result. my look would have announced it, but he had been gazing over my shoulder and knew all. "shall we go, monsieur?" i asked. "not yet--stay a moment," replied he, placing his hand upon my arm. "and why?" i asked; "i have not a dollar. i have lost all. i might have known it would be so. why stay here, sir?" i spoke somewhat brusquely. i confess i was at the moment in anything but an amiable mood. in addition to my prospects for the morrow, a suspicion had flashed across my mind that my new friend was not loyal. his knowledge of these men--his having counselled me to play there--the accident, to say the least, a strange one, of our again meeting with the "sportsmen" of the boat, and under such a new phase--the great celerity with which my purse had been "cleared out"--all these circumstances passing rapidly through my mind, led me naturally enough to suspect d'hauteville of treason. i ran rapidly over our late conversation. i tried to remember whether he had said or done anything to guide me into this particular hell. certainly he had not proposed my playing, but rather opposed it; and i could not remember that by word or act he had endeavoured to introduce me to the game. moreover, he seemed as much astonished as myself at seeing these gentlemen behind the table. what of all that? the surprise might have been well feigned. possibly enough; and after my late experience of the pork-merchant, probably enough, monsieur d'hauteville was also a partner in the firm of chorley, hatcher, and co. i wheeled round with an angry expression on my lips, when the current of my thoughts was suddenly checked, and turned into a new channel. the young creole stood looking up in my face--he was not so tall as i--gazing upon me out of his beautiful eyes, and waiting until my moment of abstraction should pass. something glittered in his outstretched hand. it was a purse. i could see the yellow coins shining through the silken network. it was a purse of gold! "take it!" he said, in his soft silvery voice. my heart fell abashed within me. i could scarce stammer forth a reply. had he but known my latest thoughts, he might have been able to read the flush of shame that so suddenly mantled my cheeks. "no, monsieur," i replied; "this is too generous of you. i cannot accept it." "come--come! why not? take it, i pray--try fortune again. she has frowned on you of late, but remember she is a fickle goddess, and may yet smile on you. take the purse, man!" "indeed, monsieur, i cannot after what i--pardon me--if you knew--" "then must _i_ play for you--remember the purpose that brought us here! remember aurore!" "oh!" this ejaculation, wrung from my heart, was the only answer i could make, before the young creole had turned to the faro-table, and was placing his gold upon the cards. i stood watching him with feelings of astonishment and admiration, mingled with anxiety for the result. what small white hands! what a brilliant jewel, sparkling on his finger--a diamond! it has caught the eyes of the players, who gloat upon it as it passes back and forward to the cards. chorley and hatcher have both noticed it. i saw them exchange their peculiar glance as they did so. both are polite to him. by the large bets he is laying he has won their esteem. their attention in calling out the card when he wins, and in handing him his cheques, is marked and assiduous. he is the favoured better of the ring; and oh! how the eyes of those fair lemans gleam upon him with their wild and wicked meaning! not one of them that would not love him for that sparkling gem! i stood on one side watching with great anxiety--greater than if the stake had been my own. but it _was_ my own. it was _for me_. the generous youth was playing away his gold for _me_. my suspense was not likely to be of long duration. he was losing rapidly--recklessly losing. he had taken my place at the table, and along with it my ill-luck. almost every bet he made was "raked" into the bank, until his last coin lay upon the cards. another turn, and that, too, chinked as it fell into the cash-box of the croupier! "come now, d'hauteville! come away!" i whispered, leaning over, and laying hold of his arm. "how much against this?" he asked the banker, without heeding me--"how much, sir?" as he put the question, he raised the gold guard over his head, at the same time drawing forth his watch. i suspected this was his intention when i first spoke. i repeated my request in a tone of entreaty--all in vain. he pressed chorley for a reply. the latter was not the man to waste words at such a crisis. "a hundred dollars," said he, "for the watch--fifty more upon the chain." "beautiful!" exclaimed one of the players. "they're worth more," muttered another. even in the _blaze_ hearts around that table there were human feelings. there is always a touch of sympathy for him who loses boldly; and an expression of this in favour of the creole youth could be heard, from time to time, as his money parted from him. "yes, that watch and chain are worth more," said a tall dark-whiskered man, who sat near the end of the table. this remark was made in a firm confident tone of voice, that seemed to command chorley's attention. "i'll look at it again, if you please?" said he, stretching across the table to d'hauteville, who still held the watch in his hand. the latter surrendered it once more to the gambler, who opened the case, and commenced inspecting the interior. it was an elegant watch, and chain also--of the fashion usually worn by ladies. they were worth more than chorley had offered, though that did not appear to be the opinion of the pork-merchant. "it's a good pile o' money, is a hundred an' fifty dollars," drawled he; "a good biggish pile, i reckon. i don't know much about such fixins meself, but it's full valley for that ar watch an' chain, i shed say." "nonsense!" cried several: "two hundred dollars--it's worth it all. see the jewels!" chorley cut short the discussion. "well," said he, "i don't think it worth more than what i've bid, sir. but since you wish to get back what you've already lost, i don't mind staking two hundred against watch and chain together. does that satisfy you?" "play on!" was the only answer made by the impatient creole, as he took back his watch, and laid it down upon one of the cards. it was a cheap watch to chorley. it cost him but the drawing out of half-a-dozen cards, and it became his! "how much against this?" d'hauteville drew off his ring, and held it before the dazzled eyes of the dealer. at this crisis i once more interfered, but my remonstrance was unheeded. it was of no use trying to stay the fiery spirit of the creole. the ring was a diamond, or rather a collection of diamonds in a gold setting. it, like the watch, was also of the fashion worn by ladies; and i could hear some characteristic remarks muttered around the table, such as, "that young blood's got a rich girl somewhere", "there's more where they come from," and the like! the ring was evidently one of much value, as chorley, after an examination of it, proposed to stake four hundred dollars. the tall man in dark whiskers again interfered, and put it at five hundred. the circle backed him, and the dealer at length agreed to give that sum. "will you take cheques, sir?" he inquired, addressing d'hauteville, "or do you mean to stake it at one bet?" "at one bet," was the answer. "no, no!" cried several voices, inclined to favour d'hauteville. "at one bet," repeated he, in a determined tone. "place it upon the ace!" "as you wish, sir," responded chorley, with perfect _sang-froid_, at the same time handing back the ring to its owner. d'hauteville took the jewel in his slender white fingers, and laid it on the centre of the card. it was the only bet made. the other players had become so interested in the result, that they withheld their stakes in order to watch it. chorley commenced drawing the cards. each one as it came forth caused a momentary thrill of expectancy; and when aces, deuces, or tres with their broad white margins appeared outside the edge of that mysterious box, the excitement became intense. it was a long time before two aces came together. it seemed as if the very importance of the stakes called for more than the usual time to decide the bet. it was decided at length. the ring followed the watch. i caught d'hauteville by the arm, and drew him away from the table. this time he followed me unresistingly--as he had nothing more to lay. "what matters it?" said he, with a gay air as we passed together out of the saloon. "ah! yes," he continued, changing his tone, "ah, yes, it does matter! it matters to _you_, and _aurore_!" chapter fifty eight. my forlorn hope. it was pleasant escaping from that hot hell into the cool night air-- into the soft light of a southern moon. it would have been pleasant under other circumstances; but then the sweetest clime and loveliest scene would have made no impression upon me. my companion seemed to share my bitterness of soul. his words of consolation were not without their influence; i knew they were the expressions of a real sympathy. his acts had already proved it. it was, indeed, a lovely night. the white moon rode buoyantly through fleecy clouds, that thinly dappled the azure sky of louisiana, and a soft breeze played through the now silent streets. a lovely night--too sweet and balmy. my spirit would have preferred a storm. oh! for black clouds, red lightning, and thunder rolling and crashing through the sky. oh! for the whistling wind, and the quick pattering of the rain-drops. oh! for a hurricane without, consonant to the storm that was raging within me! it was but a few steps to the hotel; but we did not stop there. we could think better in the open air, and converse as well. sleep had no charms for me, and my companion seemed to share my impulses; so passing once more from among the houses, we went on towards the swamp, caring not whither we went. we walked side by side for some time without exchanging speech. our thoughts were running upon the same theme,--the business of to-morrow. to-morrow no longer, for the tolling of the great cathedral clock had just announced the hour of midnight. in twelve hours more the _vente de l'encan_ would commence--in twelve hours more they would be bidding, for my betrothed! our steps were towards the "shell road," and soon our feet crunched upon the fragments of unios and bivalves that strewed the path. here was a scene more in unison with our thoughts. above and around waved the dark solemn cypress-trees, fit emblems of grief--rendered doubly lugubrious in their expression by the hoary _tillandsia_, that draped them like a couch of the dead. the sounds, too, that here saluted our ears had a soothing effect; the melancholy "coowhoo-a" of the swamp-owl--the creaking chirp of the tree-crickets and cicadas--the solemn "tong-tong" of the bell-frog--the hoarse trumpet-note of the greater batrachian--and high overhead the wild treble of the bull-bat, all mingled together in a concert, that, however disagreeable under other circumstances, now fell upon my ears like music, and even imparted a kind of sad pleasure to my soul. and yet it was not my darkest hour. a darker was yet in store for me. despite the very hopelessness of the prospect, i still clung to hope. a vague feeling it was; but it sustained me against despair. the trunk of a taxodium lay prostrate by the side of our path. upon this we sat down. we had exchanged scarce a dozen words since emerging from the hell. i was busy with thoughts of the morrow: my young companion, whom i now regarded in the light of an old and tried friend, was thinking of the same. what generosity towards a stranger! what self-sacrifice! _ah! little did i then know of the vast extent_--_the noble grandeur of that sacrifice_! "there now remains but one chance," i said; "the chance that to-morrow's mail, or rather to-day's, may bring my letter. it might still arrive in time; the mail is due by ten o'clock in the morning." "true," replied my companion, seemingly too busy with his own thoughts to give much heed to what i had said. "if not," i continued, "then there is only the hope that he who shall become the purchaser, may afterwards sell her to _me_. i care not at what price, if i--" "ah!" interrupted d'hauteville, suddenly waking from his reverie; "it is just that which troubles me--that is exactly what i have been thinking upon. i fear, monsieur, i fear--" "speak on!" "i fear there is no hope that he who buys her will be willing to sell her again." "and why? will not a large sum--?" "no--no--i fear that he who buys will not give her up again, _at any price_." "ha! why do you think so, monsieur d'hauteville." "i have my suspicion that a certain individual designs--" "who?" "monsieur dominique gayarre." "oh! heavens! gayarre! gayarre!" "yes; from what you have told me--from what i know myself--for i, too, have some knowledge of dominique gayarre." "gayarre! gayarre! oh, god!" i could only ejaculate. the announcement had almost deprived me of the power of speech. a sensation of numbness seemed to creep over me--a prostration of spirit, as if some horrid danger was impending and nigh, and i without the power to avert it. strange this thought had not occurred to me before. i had supposed that the quadroon would be sold to some buyer in the ordinary course; some one who would be disposed to _resell_ at a profit--perhaps an enormous one; but in time i should be prepared for that. strange i had never thought of gayarre becoming the purchaser. but, indeed, since the hour when i first heard of the bankruptcy, my thoughts had been running too wildly to permit me to reflect calmly upon anything. now it was clear. it was no longer a conjecture; most certainly, gayarre would become the master of aurore. ere another night her body would be his property. her soul--oh, god! am i awake?--do i dream? "i had a suspicion of this before," continued d'hauteville; "for i may tell you i know something of this family history--of eugenie besancon-- of aurore--of gayarre the avocat. i had a suspicion before that gayarre might desire to be the owner of aurore. but now that you have told me of the scene in the dining-room, i no longer doubt this villain's design. oh! it is infamous." "still further proof of it," continued d'hauteville. "there was a man on the boat--you did not notice him, perhaps--an agent for gayarre in such matters. a negro-trader--a fit tool for such a purpose. no doubt his object in coming down to the city is to be present at the sale--to bid for the poor girl." "but why," i asked, catching at a straw of hope,--"why, since he wishes to possess aurore, could he not have effected it by private contract?-- why send her to the slave-market to public auction?" "the law requires it. the slaves of an estate in bankruptcy must be sold publicly to the highest bidder. besides, monsieur, bad as may be this man, he dare not for the sake of his character act as you have suggested. he is a thorough hypocrite, and, with all his wickedness, wishes to stand well before the world. there are many who believe gayarre a good man! he dare not act openly in this villainous design, and will not appear in it. to save scandal, the negro-trader will be supposed to purchase for himself. it is infamous!" "beyond conception! oh! what is to be done to save her from this fearful man? to save me--" "it is of that i am thinking, and have been for the last hour. be of good cheer, monsieur! all hope is not lost. there is still one chance of saving aurore. there is one hope left. alas! i have known the time,--i, too, have been unfortunate--sadly--sadly--unfortunate. no matter now. we shall not talk of my sorrows till yours have been relieved. perhaps, at some future time you may know me, and my griefs-- no more of that now. there is still one chance for aurore, and she and you--both--may yet be happy. it must be so; i am resolved upon it. 'twill be a wild act; but it is a wild story. enough--i have no time to spare--i must be gone. now to your hotel!--go and rest. to-morrow at twelve i shall be with you--at twelve in the rotundo. good night! adieu." without allowing me time to ask for an explanation, or make any reply, the creole parted from me; and, plunging into a narrow street, soon passed out of sight! pondering over his incoherent words--over his unintelligible promise-- upon his strange looks and manner,--i walked slowly to my hotel. without undressing i flung myself on my bed, without a thought of going to sleep. chapter fifty nine. the rotundo. the thousand and one reflections of a sleepless night--the thousand and one alternations of hope, and doubt, and fear--the theoretic tentation of a hundred projects--all passed before my waking spirit. yet when morning came, and the yellow sunlight fell painfully on my eyes, i had advanced no farther in any plan of proceeding. all my hopes centred upon d'hauteville--for i no longer dwelt upon the chances of the mail. to be assured upon this head, however, as soon as it had arrived, i once more sought the banking-house of brown and co. the negative answer to my inquiry was no longer a disappointment. i had anticipated it. when did money ever arrive in time for a crisis? slowly roll the golden circles--slowly are they passed from hand to hand, and reluctantly parted with. this supply was due by the ordinary course of the mail; yet those friends at home, into whose executive hands i had intrusted my affairs, had made some cause of delay. never trust your business affairs to a _friend_. never trust to a day for receiving a letter of credit, if to a friend belongs the duty of sending it. so swore i, as i parted from the banking-house of brown and co. it was twelve o'clock when i returned to the rue saint louis. i did not re-enter the hotel--i walked direct to the _rotundo_. my pen fails to paint the dark emotions of my soul, as i stepped under the shadow of that spacious dome. i remember no fooling akin to what i experienced at that moment. i have stood under the vaulted roof of the grand cathedral, and felt the solemnity of religious awe--i have passed through the gilded saloons of a regal palace, that inspired me with pity and contempt--pity for the slaves who had sweated for that gilding, and contempt for the sycophants who surrounded me--i have inspected the sombre cells of a prison with feelings of pain--but remembered no scene that had so painfully impressed me as that which now presented itself before my eyes. not sacred was that spot. on the contrary, i stood upon _desecrated_ ground--desecrated by acts of the deepest infamy. this was the famed _slave-market of new orleans_--the place where human bodies--i might almost say _human souls_--were bought and sold! many a forced and painful parting had these walls witnessed. oft had the husband been here severed from his wife--the mother from her child. oft had the bitter tear-bedewed that marble pavement--oft had that vaulted dome echoed back the sigh--nay more--the cry of the anguished heart! i repeat it--my soul was filled with dark emotions as i entered within the precincts of that spacious hall. and no wonder--with such thoughts in my heart, and such a scene before my eyes, as i then looked upon. you will expect a description of that scene. i must disappoint you. i cannot give one. had i been there as an ordinary spectator--a reporter cool and unmoved by what was passing--i might have noted the details, and set them before you. but the case was far otherwise. one thought alone was in my mind--my eyes sought for one sole object--and that prevented me from observing the varied features of the spectacle. a few things i do remember. i remember that the rotundo, as its name imports, was a circular hall, of large extent, with a flagged floor, an arched coiling, and white walls. these were without windows, for the hall was lighted from above. on one side, near the wall, stood a desk or rostrum upon an elevated dais, and by the side of this a large block of cut stone of the form of a parallelopipedon. the use of these two objects i divined. a stone "kerb," or banquette, ran around one portion of the wall. the purpose of this was equally apparent. the hall when i entered was half filled with people. they appeared to be of all ages and sorts. they stood conversing in groups, just as men do when assembled for any business, ceremony, or amusement, and waiting for the affair to begin. it was plain, however, from the demeanour of these people, that what they waited for did not impress them with any feelings of solemnity. on the contrary a merry-meeting might have been anticipated, judging from the rough jests and coarse peals of laughter that from time to time rang through the hall. there was one group, however, which gave out no such signs or sounds. seated along the stone banquette, and standing beside it, squatted down upon the floor, or leaning against the wall in any and every attitude, were the individuals of this group. their black and brown skins, the woolly covering of their skulls, their rough red "brogans," their coarse garments of cheap cottonade, of jeans, of "nigger cloth" died cinnamon colour by the juice of the catalpa-tree,--these characteristics marked them as distinct from all the other groups in the hall--a distinct race of beings. but even without the distinctions of dress or complexion--even without the thick lips or high cheekbones and woolly hair, it was easy to tell that those who sat upon the banquette were under different circumstances from these who strutted over the floor. while these talked loudly and laughed gaily, those were silent and sad. these moved about with the air of the conqueror--those were motionless with the passive look and downcast mien of the captive. these were _masters_--those were _slaves_! they were the slaves of the plantation besancon. all were silent, or spoke only in whispers. most of them seemed ill at ease. mothers sat holding their "piccaninnies" in their sable embrace, murmuring expressions of endearment, or endeavouring to hush them to rest. here and there big tears rolled over their swarthy cheeks, as the maternal heart rose and fell with swelling emotions. fathers looked on with drier eyes, but with the stern helpless gaze of despair, which bespoke the consciousness, that they had no power to avert their fate-- no power to undo whatever might be decreed by the pitiless wretches around them. not all of them wore this expression. several of the younger slaves, both boys and girls, were gaily-dressed in stuffs of brilliant colours, with flounces, frills, and ribbons. most of these appeared indifferent to their future. some even seemed happy--laughing and chatting gaily to each other, or occasionally exchanging a light word with one of the "white folks." a change of masters could not be such a terrible idea, after the usage they had lately had. some of them rather anticipated such an event with hopeful pleasure. these were the dandy young men, and the yellow belles of the plantation. they would, perhaps, be allowed to remain in that great city, of which they had so often heard-- perhaps a brighter future was before them. dark must it be to be darker than their proximate past. i glanced over the different groups, but my eyes rested not long upon them. a glance was enough to satisfy me that _she_ was not there. there was no danger of mistaking any one of those forms or faces for that of aurore. she was not there, thank heaven! i was spared the humiliation of seeing her in such a crowd! she was, no doubt, near at hand and would be brought in when her turn came. i could ill brook the thought of seeing her exposed to the rude and insulting glances--perhaps insulting speeches--of which she might be the object. and yet that ordeal was in store for me. i did not discover myself to the slaves. i knew their impulsive natures, and that a scene would be the result. i should be the recipient of their salutations and entreaties, uttered loud enough to draw the attention of all upon me. to avoid this, i took my station behind one of the groups of white men that screened me from their notice, and kept my eyes fixed upon the entrance, watching for d'hauteville. in him now lay my last and only hope. i could not help noting the individuals who passed out and in. of course they were all of my own sex, but of every variety. there was the regular "negro-trader," a tall lathy fellow, with harsh horse-dealer features, careless dress, loose coat, slouching broad-brimmed hat, coarse boots, and painted quirt of raw hide,--the "cowskin,"--fit emblem of his calling. in strong contrast to him was the elegantly-attired creole, in coat of claret or blue, full-dress, with gold buttons, plated pantaloons, gaiter "bootees," laced shirt, and diamond studs. an older variety of the same might be seen in trousers of buff, nankeen jacket of the same material, and hat of manilla or panama set over his short-cropped snow-white hair. the american merchant from poydras or tehoupitoulas street, from camp, new levee, or saint charles, in dress-coat of black cloth, vest of black satin, shining like glaze--trousers of like material with the coat-- boots of calf-skin, and gloveless hands. the dandy clerk of steamboat or store, in white grass frock, snowy ducks, and beaver hat, long furred and of light yellowish hue. there, too, the snug smooth banker--the consequential attorney, here no longer sombre and professional, but gaily caparisoned--the captain of the river-boat, with no naval look--the rich planter of the coast--the proprietor of the cotton press or "pickery"--with a sprinkling of nondescripts made up the crowd that had now assembled in the rotundo. as i stood noting these various forms and costumes, a large heavy-built man, with florid face, and dressed in a green "shad-bellied" coat, passed through the entrance. in one hand he carried a bundle of papers, and in the other a small mallet with ivory head--that at once proclaimed his calling. his entrance produced a buzz, and set the various groups in motion. i could hear the phrases, "here he comes!" "yon's him!" "here comes the major!" this was not needed to proclaim to all present, who was the individual in the green "shad-belly." the beautiful dome of saint charles itself was not better known to the citizens of new orleans than was major b--, the celebrated auctioneer. in another minute, the bright bland face of the major appeared above the rostrum. a few smart raps of his hammer commanded silence, and the sale began. scipio was ordered first upon the block. the crowd of intended bidders pressed around him, poked their fingers between his ribs, felt his limbs as if he had been a fat ox, opened his mouth and examined his teeth as if he had been a horse, and then bid for him just like he had been one or the other. under other circumstances i could have felt compassion for the poor fellow; but my heart was too full--there was no room in it for scipio; and i averted my face from the disgusting spectacle. chapter sixty. the slave-mart. i once more fixed my eyes upon the entrance, scrutinising every form that passed in. as yet no appearance of d'hauteville! surely he would soon arrive. he said at twelve o'clock. it was now one, and still he had not come. no doubt he would come, and in proper time. after all, i need not be so anxious as to the time. her name was last upon the list. it would be a long time. i had full reliance upon my new friend--almost unknown, but not untried. his conduct on the previous night had inspired me with perfect confidence. he would not disappoint me. his being thus late did not shake my faith in him. there was some difficulty about his obtaining the money, for it was _money_ i expected him to bring. he had hinted as much. no doubt it was that that was detaining him; but he would be in time. he knew that her name was at the bottom of the list--the last lot--lot ! notwithstanding my confidence in d'hauteville i was ill-at-ease. it was very natural i should be so, and requires no explanation. i kept my gaze upon the door, hoping _every_ moment to see him enter. behind me i heard the voice of the auctioneer, in constant and monotonous repetition, interrupted at intervals by the smart rap of his ivory mallet. i knew that the sale was going on; and, by the frequent strokes of the hammer, i could tell that it was rapidly progressing. although but some half-dozen of the slaves had yet been disposed of, i could not help fancying that they were galloping down the list, and that _her_ turn would soon come--too soon. with the fancy my heart beat quicker and wilder. surely d'hauteville will not disappoint me! a group stood near me, talking gaily. they were all young men, and fashionably dressed,--the scions i could tell of the creole noblesse. they conversed in a tone sufficiently loud for me to overhear them. perhaps i should not have listened to what they were saying, had not one of them mentioned a particular name that fell harshly upon my ear. the name was _marigny_. i had an unpleasant recollection associated with this name. it was a marigny of whom scipio had spoken to me--a marigny who had proposed to _purchase aurore_. of course i remembered the name. "marigny!" i listened. "so, marigny, you really intend to bid for her?" asked one. "_qui_," replied a young sprig, stylishly and somewhat foppishly dressed. "_oui--oui--oui_," he continued with a languid drawl, as he drew tighter his lavender gloves, and twirled his tiny cane. "i do intend--_ma foi_!--yes." "how high will you go?" "oh--ah! _une petite somme, mon cher ami_." "a _little sum_ will not do, marigny," said the first speaker. "i know half-a-dozen myself who intend bidding for her--rich dogs all of them." "who?" inquired marigny, suddenly awaking from his languid indifference, "who, may i inquire?" "who? well there's gardette the dentist, who's half crazed about her; there's the old marquis; there's planter tillareau and lebon, of lafourche; and young moreau, the wine-merchant of the rue dauphin; and who knows but half-a-dozen of those rich yankee cotton-growers may want her for a _housekeeper_! ha! ha! ha!" "i can name another," suggested a third speaker. "name!" demanded several; "yourself, perhaps, le ber; you want a sempstress for your shirt-buttons." "no, not myself," replied the speaker; "i don't buy _coturiers_ at that price--_deux mille dollares_, at the least, my friends. _pardieu_! no. i find my sempstresses at a cheaper rate in the faubourg treme." "who, then? name him!" "without hesitation i do,--the old wizen-face gayarre." "gayarre the avocat?" "monsieur dominique gayarre!" "improbable," rejoined one. "monsieur gayarre is a man of steady habits--a moralist--a miser." "ha! ha!" laughed le ber; "it's plain, messieurs, you don't understand the character of monsieur gayarre. perhaps i know him better. miser though he be, in a general sense, there's one class with whom he's generous enough. _il a une douzaine des maitresses_! besides, you must remember that monsieur dominique is a bachelor. he wants a good housekeeper--a _femme-de-chambre_. come, friends, i have heard something--_un petit chose_. i'll lay a wager the miser outbids _every_ one of you,--even rich generous marigny here!" marigny stood biting his lips. his was but a feeling of annoyance or chagrin--mine was utter agony. i had no longer a doubt as to who was the subject of the conversation. "it was at the suit of gayarre the bankruptcy was declared, was it not?" asked one. "'tis so said." "why, he was considered the great friend of the family--the associate of old besancon?" "yes, the _lawyer-friend_ of the family--ha! ha!" significantly rejoined another. "poor eugenie! she'll be no longer the belle. she'll now be less difficult to please in her choice of a husband." "that's some consolation for you, le ber. ha! ha!" "oh!" interposed another, "le ber had no chance lately. there's a young englishman the favourite now--the same who swam ashore with her at the blowing-up of the belle steamer. so i have heard, at least. is it so, le ber?" "you had better inquire of mademoiselle besancon," replied the latter, in a peevish tone, at which the others laughed, "i would," replied the questioner, "but i know not where to find her. where is she? she's not at her plantation. i was up there, and she had left two days before. she's not with the aunt here. where is she, monsieur?" i listened for the answer to this question with a degree of interest. i, too, was ignorant of the whereabouts of eugenie, and had sought for her that day, but in vain. it was said she had come to the city, but no one could tell me anything of her. and i now remembered what she had said in her letter of "_sacre coeur_." perhaps, thought i, she has really gone to the convent. poor eugenie! "ay, where is she, monsieur?" asked another of the party. "very strange!" said several at once. "where can she be? le ber, you must know." "i know nothing of the movements of mademoiselle besancon," answered the young man, with an air of chagrin and surprise, too, as if he was really ignorant upon the subject, as well as vexed by the remarks which his companions were making. "there's something mysterious in all this," continued one of the number. "i should be astonished at it, if it were any one else than eugenie besancon." it is needless to say that this conversation interested me. every word of it fell like a spark of fire upon my heart; and i could have strangled these fellows, one and all of them, as they stood. little knew they that the "young englishman" was near, listening to them, and as little the dire effect their words were producing. it was not what they said of eugenie that gave me pain. it was their free speech about aurore. i have not repeated their ribald talk in relation to her--their jesting innuendoes, their base hypotheses, and coldly brutal sneers whenever her chastity was named. one in particular, a certain monsieur sevigne, was more _bizarre_ than any of his companions; and once or twice i was upon the point of turning upon him. it cost me an effort to restrain myself, but that effort was successful, and i stood unmoved. perhaps i should not have been able to endure it much longer, but for the interposition of an event, which at once drove these gossips and their idle talk out of my mind. that event was _the entrance of aurore_! they had again commenced speaking of her--of her chastity--of her rare charms. they were dismissing the probabilities as to who would become possessed of her, and the _certainty_ that she would be the _maitresse_ of whoever did; they were waxing warmer in their eulogium of her beauty, and beginning to lay wagers on the result of the sale, when all at once the clack of their conversation ceased, and two or three cried out-- "_voila! voila! elle vient_!" i turned mechanically at the words. aurore was in the entrance. chapter sixty one. bidding for my betrothed. yes, aurore appeared in the doorway of that infernal hall, and stood timidly pausing upon its threshold. she was not alone. a mulatto girl was by her side--like herself a slave--like herself brought there _to be sold_! a third individual was of the party, or rather with it; for he did not walk by the side of the girls, but in front, evidently conducting them to the place of sale. this individual was no other than larkin, the brutal overseer. "come along!" said he, roughly, at the same time beckoning to aurore and her companion: "this way, gals--foller me!" they obeyed his rude signal, and, passing in, followed him across the hall towards the rostrum. i stood with slouched hat and averted face. aurore saw me not. as soon as they were fairly past, and their backs towards me, my eyes followed them. oh, beautiful aurore!--beautiful as ever! i was not single in my admiration. the appearance of the quadroon created a sensation. the din ceased as if by a signal; every voice became hushed, and every eye was bent upon her as she moved across the floor. men hurried forward from distant parts of the hall to get a nearer glance; others made way for her, stepping politely back as if she had been a queen. men did this who would have scorned to offer politeness to another of her race--to the "yellow girl" for instance, who walked by her side! oh, the power of beauty! never was it more markedly shown than in the _entree_ of that poor slave. i heard the whispers, i observed the glances of admiration, of passion. i marked the longing eyes that followed her, noting her splendid form and its undulating outlines as she moved forward. all this gave me pain. it was a feeling worse than mere jealousy i experienced. it was jealousy embittered by the very brutality of my rivals. aurore was simply attired. there was no affectation of the fine lady-- none of the ribbons and flounces that bedecked the dresses of her darker-skinned companion. such would have ill assorted with the noble melancholy that appeared upon her beautiful countenance. none of all this. a robe of light-coloured muslin, tastefully made, with long skirt and tight sleeves--as was the fashion of the time--a fashion that displayed the pleasing rotundity of her figure. her head-dress was that worn by all quadroons--the "toque" of the madras kerchief, which sat upon her brow like a coronet, its green, crimson, and yellow checks contrasting finely with the raven blackness of her hair. she wore no ornaments excepting the broad gold rings that glittered against the rich glow of her cheeks; and upon her finger one other circlet of gold--the token of her betrothal. i knew it well. i buried myself in the crowd, slouching my hat on that side towards the rostrum. i desired she should not see me, while i could not help gazing upon her. i had taken my stand in such a situation, that i could still command a view of the entrance. more than ever was i anxious about the coming of d'hauteville. aurore had been placed near the foot of the rostrum. i could just see the edge of her turban over the shoulders of the crowd. by elevating myself on my toes, i could observe her face, which by chance was turned towards me. oh! how my heart heaved as i struggled to read its expression--as i endeavoured to divine the subject of her thoughts! she looked sad and anxious. that was natural enough. but i looked for another expression--that unquiet anxiety produced by the alternation of hope and fear. her eye wandered over the crowd. she scanned the sea of faces that surrounded her. _she was searching for some one. was it for me_? i held down my face as her glance passed over the spot. i dared not meet her gaze. i feared that i could not restrain myself from addressing her. sweet aurore! i again looked up. her eye was still wandering in fruitless search--oh! surely it is for me! again i cowered behind the crowd, and her glance was carried onward. i raised myself once more. i saw the shadow darkening upon her face. her eye filled with a deeper expression--it was the look of despair. "courage! courage!" i whispered to myself. "look again, lovely aurore! this time i shall meet you. i shall speak to you from mine eyes--i shall give back glance for glance--" "she sees--she recognises me! that start--the flash of joy in her eyes--the smile curling upon her lips! her glance wanders no more--her gaze is fixed--proud heart! it _was_ for me!" yes, our eyes met at length--met, melting and swimming with love. mine had escaped from my control. for some moments i could not turn them aside, but surrendered them to the impulse of my passion. it was mutual. i doubted it not. i felt as though the ray of love-light was passing between us. i had almost forgotten where i stood! a murmur from the crowd, and a movement, restored me to my senses. her stedfast gaze had been noticed, and by many--skilled to interpret such glances--had been understood. these, in turning round to see who was the object of that glance, had caused the movement. i had observed it in time, and turned my face in another direction. i watched the entrance for d'hauteville. why had he not arrived? my anxiety increased with the minutes. true, it would still be an hour--perhaps two--before her time should come.--ha!--what? there was silence for a moment--something of interest was going on. i looked towards the rostrum for an explanation. a dark man had climbed upon one of the steps, and was whispering to the auctioneer. he remained but a moment. he appeared to have asked some favour, which was at once conceded him, and he stepped back to his place among the crowd. a minute or two intervened, and then, to my horror and astonishment, i saw the overseer take aurore by the arm, and raise her upon the block! the intention was plain. _she was to be sold next_! in the moments that followed, i cannot remember exactly how i acted. i ran wildly for the entrance. i looked out into the street. up and down i glanced with anxious eyes. no d'hauteville! i rushed back into the hall--again through the outer circles of the crowd, in the direction of the rostrum. the bidding had begun. i had not heard the preliminaries, but as i re-entered there fell upon my ears the terrible words-- "_a thousand dollars for the quadroon_.--_a thousand dollars bid_!" "o heaven! d'hauteville has deceived me. she is lost!--lost!" in my desperation i was about to interrupt the sale. i was about to proclaim aloud its unfairness, in the fact that the quadroon had been _taken out of the order advertised_! even on this poor plea i rested a hope. it was the straw to the drowning man, but i was determined to grasp it. i had opened my lips to call out, when some one pulling me by the sleeve caused me to turn round. it was d'hauteville! thank heaven, it was d'hauteville! i could scarce restrain myself from shouting with joy. his look told me that he was the bearer of bright gold. "in time, and none to spare," whispered he, thrusting a pocket-book between my fingers; "there is three thousand dollars--that will surely be enough; 'tis all i have been able to procure. i cannot stay here-- there are those i do not wish to see. i shall meet you after the sale is over. adieu!" i scarce thanked him. i saw not his parting. my eyes were elsewhere. "fifteen hundred dollars bid for the quadroon!--good housekeeper-- sempstress--fifteen hundred dollars!" "_two thousand_!" i called out, my voice husky with emotion. the sudden leap over such a large sum drew the attention of the crowd upon me. looks, smiles, and innuendoes were freely exchanged at my expense. i saw, or rather heeded them not. i saw aurore, only aurore, standing upon the dais like a statue upon its pedestal--the type of sadness and beauty. the sooner i could take her thence, the happier for me; and with that object in view i had made my "bid." "two thousand dollars bid--two thousand--twenty-one hundred dollars--two thousand, one, two--twenty-two hundred dollars bid--twenty-two--" "twenty-five hundred dollars!" i again cried out, in as firm a voice as i could command. "twenty-five hundred dollars," repeated the auctioneer, in his monotonous drawl; "twenty-five--six--you, sir? thank you! twenty-six hundred dollars for the quadroon--twenty-six hundred!" "oh god! they will go above three thousand; if they do--" "twenty-seven hundred dollars!" bid the fop marigny. "twenty-eight hundred!" from the old marquis. "twenty-eight hundred and fifty!" assented the young merchant, moreau. "nine!" nodded the tall dark man who had whispered to the auctioneer. twenty-nine hundred dollars bid--two thousand nine hundred. "three thousand!" i gasped out in despair. it was my last bid. i could go no farther. i waited for the result, as the condemned waits for the falling of the trap or the descent of the axe. my heart could not have endured very long that terrible suspense. but i had not long to endure it. "_three thousand one hundred dollars_!--three thousand one hundred bid-- thirty-one hundred dollars--" i cast one look upon aurore. it was a look of hopeless despair; and turning away, i staggered mechanically across the hall. before i had reached the entrance i could hear the voice of the auctioneer, in the same prolonged drawl, calling out, "three thousand five hundred bid for the quadroon girl?" i halted and listened. the sale was coming to its close. "three thousand five hundred--going at three thousand five hundred-- going--going--" the sharp stroke of the hammer fell upon my ear. it drowned the final word "gone!" but my heart pronounced that word in the emphasis of its agony. there was a noisy scene of confusion, loud words and high excitement among the crowd of disappointed bidders. who was the fortunate one? i leant over to ascertain. the tall dark man was in conversation with the auctioneer. aurore stood beside him. i now remembered having seen the man on the boat. he was the agent of whom d'hauteville had spoken. the creole had guessed aright, and so, too, had le ber. _gayarre had outbid them all_! chapter sixty two. the hackney-carriage. for a while i lingered in the hall, irresolute and almost without purpose. she whom i loved, and who loved me in return, was wrested from me by an infamous law, ruthlessly torn from me. she would be borne away before my eyes, and i might, perhaps, never behold her again. probable enough was this thought--i might never behold her again! lost to me, more hopelessly lost, than if she had become the _bride_ of another. far more hopelessly lost. then, at least, she would have been free to think, to act, to go abroad, to --. then i might have hoped to meet her again, to see her, to gaze upon her, even if only at a distance, to worship her in the secret silence of my heart, to console myself with the belief that she still loved me. yes; the bride, the wife of another! even that i could have borne with calmness. but now, not the bride of another, but the _slave_, the forced, unwilling _leman_, and that other--. oh! how my heart writhed under its horrible imaginings! what next? how was i to act? resign myself to the situation? make no further effort to recover, to save her? no! it had not come to that. discouraging as the prospect was, a ray of hope was visible; one ray yet illumed the dark future, sustaining and bracing my mind for further action. the plan was still undefined; but the purpose had been formed, and that purpose was to free aurore, to make her mine _at every hazard_! i thought no longer of buying her. i knew that gayarre had become her owner. i felt satisfied that to purchase her was no longer possible. he who had paid such an enormous sum would not be likely to part with her at any price. my whole fortune would not suffice. i gave not a thought to it. i felt certain it would be impossible. far different was the resolve that was already forming itself in my mind, and cheering me with new hopes. forming itself, do i say? it had already taken a definite shape, even before the echoes of the salesman's voice had died upon my ears! with the clink of his hammer my mind was made up. the purpose was formed; it was only the _plan_ that remained indefinite. i had resolved to outrage the laws--to become thief or robber, whichever it might please circumstances to make me. i had resolved to _steal my betrothed_! disgrace there might be--danger i knew there was, not only to my liberty, but my life. i cared but little about the disgrace; i recked not of the danger. my purpose was fixed--my determination taken. brief had been the mental process that conducted me to this determination--the more brief that the thought had passed through my mind before--the more brief that i believed there was positively no other means i could adopt. it was the only course of action left me-- either that, or yield up all that i loved without a struggle--and, passion-led as i was, i was not going to yield. certain disgrace,--even death itself, appeared more welcome than this alternative. i had formed not yet the shadow of a plan. that, must be thought of afterwards; but even at that moment was action required. my poor heart was on the rack; i could not bear the thought that a single night should pass and she under the same roof with that hideous man! wherever she should pass the night, i was determined that i should not be far-distant from her. walls might separate us, but she should know i was near. just that much of a plan _had_ i thought of. stepping to a retired spot, i took out my note-book, and wrote upon one of its leaves: "_ce soir viendrai_!--edouard." i had no time to be more particular, for i feared every moment she would be hurried out of my sight. i tore out the leaf; and, hastily folding it, returned to the entrance of the rotundo. just as i got back to the door a hackney-carriage drove up, and halted in front. i conjectured its use, and lost no time in providing another from a stand close by. this done, i returned within the hall. i was yet in time. as i entered, i saw aurore being led away from the rostrum. i pressed into the crowd, and stood in such a position that she would have to pass near me. and she did so, our hands met, and the note parted from my fingers. there was no time for a further recognition-- not even a love-pressure--for the moment after she was hurried on through the crowd, and the carriage-door closed after her. the mulatto girl accompanied her, and another of the female slaves. all were put into the carriage. the negro-dealer climbed to the box alongside the coachman, and the vehicle rattled off over the stony pavement. a word to my driver was enough, who, giving the whip to his horses, followed at like speed. chapter sixty three. to bringiers. coachmen of new orleans possess their full share of _intelligence_; and the ring of a piece of silver, extra of their fare, is a music well understood by them. they are the witnesses of many a romantic adventure--the necessary confidants of many a love-secret. a hundred yards in front rolled the carriage that had taken aurore; now turning round corners, now passing among drays laden with huge cotton-bales or hogsheads of sugar--but my driver had fixed his knowing eye upon it, and i had no need to be uneasy. it passed up the rue chartres but a short distance, and then turned into one of the short streets that ran from this at right angles towards the levee. i fancied for a moment, it was making for the steamboat wharves; but on reaching the corner, i saw that it had stopped about half way down the street. my driver, according to the instructions i had given him, pulled up at the corner, and awaited my further orders. the carriage i had followed was now standing in front of a house; and just as i rounded the corner, i caught a glimpse of several figures crossing the banquette and entering the door. no doubt, all that had ridden in the carriage--aurore with the rest--had gone inside the house. presently a man came out, and handing his fare to the hackney-coachman, turned and went back into the house. the latter, gathering up his reins, gave the whip to his horses, and, wheeling round, came back by the rue chartres. as he passed me, i glanced through the open windows of his vehicle. it was empty. she had gone into the house, then. i had no longer any doubt as to where she had been taken. i read on the corner, "rue bienville." the house where the carriage had stopped was the town residence of monsieur dominique gayarre. i remained for some minutes in the cab, considering what i had best do. was this to be her future home? or was she only brought here temporarily, to be afterwards taken up to the plantation? some thought, or instinct perhaps, whispered me that she was not to remain in the rue bienville; but would be carried to the gloomy old mansion at bringiers. i cannot tell why i thought so. perhaps it was because i wished it so. i saw the necessity of watching the house--so that she might not be taken away without my knowing it. wherever she went i was determined to follow. fortunately i was prepared for any journey. the three thousand dollars lent me by d'hauteville remained intact. with that i could travel to the ends of the earth. i wished that the young creole had been with me. i wanted his counsel-- his company. how should i find him? he had not said where we should meet--only that he would join me when the sale should be over. i saw nothing of him on leaving the rotundo. perhaps he meant to meet me there or at my hotel; but how was i to get back to either of these places without leaving my post? i was perplexed as to how i should communicate with d'hauteville. it occurred to me that the hackney-coachman--i had not yet dismissed him-- might remain and watch the house, while i went in search of the creole. i had only to pay the jehu; he would obey me, of course, and right willingly. i was about arranging with the man, and had already given him some instructions, when i heard wheels rumbling along the street; and a somewhat old-fashioned coach, drawn by a pair of mules, turned into the rue bienville. a negro driver was upon the box. there was nothing odd in all this. such a carriage and such a coachman were to be seen every hour in new orleans, and drawn by mules as often as horses. but this pair of mules, and the negro who drove them, i recognised. yes! i recognised the equipage. i had often met it upon the levee road near bringiers. it was the carriage of monsieur dominique! i was further assured upon this point by seeing the vehicle draw up in front of the avocat's house. i at once gave up my design of going back for d'hauteville. climbing back into the hack, i ensconced myself in such a position, that i could command a view of what passed in the rue bienville. some one was evidently about to become the occupant of the carriage. the door of the house stood open, and a servant was speaking to the coachman. i could tell by the actions of the latter, that he expected soon to drive off. the servant now appeared outside with several parcels, which he placed upon the coach; then a man came out--the negro-trader--who mounted the box. another man shot across the banquette, but in such a hurried gait that i could not recognise him. i guessed, however, who _he_ was. two others now came from the house--a mulatto woman and a young girl. in spite of the cloak in which she was enveloped i recognised aurore. the mulatto woman conducted the girl to the carriage, and then stepped in after. at this moment a man on horseback appeared in the street, and riding up, halted by the carriage. after speaking to some one inside, he again put his horse in motion and rode off. this horseman was larkin the overseer. the clash of the closing door was immediately followed by the crack of the coachman's whip; and the mules, trotting off down the street, turned to the right, and headed up the levee. my driver, who had already been instructed, gave the whip to his hack, and followed, keeping a short distance in the rear. it was not till we had traversed the long street of tehoupitoulas, through the faubourg marigny, and were some distance upon the road to the suburban village of lafayette, that i thought of where i was going. my sole idea had been to keep in sight the carriage of gayarre. i now bethought me for what purpose i was driving after him. did i intend to follow him to his house, some thirty miles distant, in a hackney-coach? even had i been so determined, it was questionable whether the driver of the vehicle could have been tempted to humour my caprice, or whether his wretched hack could have accomplished such a feat. for what purpose, then, was i galloping after? to overtake these men upon the road, and deliver aurore from their keeping? no, there were three of them--well armed, no doubt--and i alone. but it was not until i had gone several miles that i began to reflect on the absurdity of my conduct. i then ordered my coachman to pull up. i remained seated; and from the window of the hack gazed after the carriage, until it was hidden by a turn in the road. "after all," i muttered to myself, "i have done right in following. i am now sure of their destination. back to the hotel saint luis!" the last phrase was a command to my coachman, who turning his horse drove back. as i had promised to pay for speed, it was not long before the wheels of my hackney rattled over the pave of the rue saint luis. having dismissed the carriage, i entered the hotel. to my joy i found d'hauteville awaiting my return, and in a few minutes i had communicated to him my determination to carry off aurore. bare friendship his! he approved of my resolve. rare devotion! he proposed to take part in my enterprise, i warned him of its perils--to no purpose. with an enthusiasm i could not account for, and that greatly astonished me at the time, he still insisted upon sharing them. perhaps i might more earnestly have admonished him against such a purpose, but i felt how much i stood in need of him. i could not explain the strange feeling of confidence, with which the presence of this gentle but heroic youth had inspired me. the reluctance with which i accepted his offer was only apparent--it was not felt. my heart was struggling against my will. i was but too glad when he stated his determination to accompany me. there was no boat going up that night; but we were not without the means to travel. a pair of horses were hired--the best that money could procure--and before sun-down we had cleared the suburbs of the city, and were riding along the road that conducts to the village of bringiers. chapter sixty four. two villains. we travelled rapidly. there were no hills to impede our progress. our route lay along the levee road, which leads from new orleans by the bank of the river, passing plantations and settlements at every few hundred yards' distance. the path was as level as a race-course, and the hoof fell gently upon the soft dusty surface, enabling us to ride with ease. the horses we bestrode were _mustangs_ from the prairies of texas, trained to that gait, the "pace" peculiar to the saddle-bags of the south-western states. excellent "pacers" both were; and, before the night came down, we had made more than half of our journey. up to this time we had exchanged only a few words. i was busy with my thoughts--busy planning my enterprise. my young companion appeared equally occupied with his. the darkening down of the night brought us closer together; and i now unfolded to d'hauteville the plan which i had proposed to myself. there was not much of plan about it. my intention was simply this: to proceed at once to the plantation of gayarre--stealthily to approach the house--to communicate with aurore through some of the slaves of the plantation; failing in this, to find out, if possible, in what part of the house she would pass the night--to enter her room after all had gone to sleep--propose to her to fly with me--and then make our escape the best way we could. once clear of the house, i had scarce thought of a plan of action. that seemed easy enough. our horses would carry us back to the city. there we might remain concealed, until some friendly ship should bear us from the country. this was all the plan i had conceived, and, having communicated it to d'hauteville, i awaited his response. after some moments' silence, he replied, signifying his approval of it. like me, he could think of no other course to be followed. aurore must be carried away at all hazards. we now conversed about the details. we debated every chance of failure and success. our main difficulty, both agreed, would be in communicating with aurore. could we do so? surely she would not be locked in? surely gayarre would not be suspicious enough to have her guarded and watched? he was now the full owner of this coveted treasure--no one could legally deprive him of his slave--no one could carry her away without the risk of a fearful punishment; and although he no doubt suspected that some understanding existed between the quadroon and myself, i would never dream of such a love as that which i felt--a love that would lead me to risk even life itself, as i now intended. no. gayarre, judging from his own vile passion, might believe that i, like himself, had been "struck" with the girl's beauty, and that i was willing to pay a certain sum--three thousand dollars--to possess her. but the fact that i had bid no more--no doubt exactly reported to him by his agent--was proof that my love had its limits, and there was an end of it. as a rival he would hear of me no more. no. monsieur dominique gayarre would never suspect a passion like mine--would never dream of such a purpose as the one to which that passion now impelled me. an enterprise so romantic was not within the bounds of probability. therefore--so reasoned d'hauteville and i--it was not likely aurore would be either guarded or watched. but even though she might not be, how were we to communicate with her? that would be extremely difficult. i built my hopes on the little slip of paper--on the words "_ce soir viendrai_." surely upon this night aurore would _not sleep_. my heart told me she would not, and the thought rendered me proud and sanguine. that very night should i make the attempt to carry her off. i could not bear the thought that she should pass even a single night under the roof of her tyrant. and the night promised to befriend us. the sun had scarcely gone down, when the sky became sullen, turning to the hue of lead. as soon as the short twilight passed, the whole canopy had grown so dark, that we could scarce distinguish the outline of the forest from the sky itself. not a star could be seen. a thick pall of smoke-coloured clouds hid them from the view. even the yellow surface of the river was scarce perceptible from its bank, and the white dust of the road alone guided us. in the woods, or upon the darker ground of the plantation fields, to find a path would have been impossible--so intense was the darkness that enveloped us. we might have augured trouble from this--we might have feared losing our way. but i was not afraid of any such result. i felt assured that the star of love itself would guide me. the darkness would be in our favour. under its friendly shadow we could approach the house, and act with safety; whereas had it been a moonlight night, we should have been in great danger of being discovered. i read in the sudden change of sky no ill augury, but an omen of success. there were signs of an approaching storm. what to me would have been kindly weather? anything--a rain-storm--a tempest--a hurricane-- anything but a fine night was what i desired. it was still early when we reached the plantation besancon--not quite midnight. we had lost no time on the road. our object in hurrying forward was to arrive at the place before the household of gayarre should go to rest. our hopes were that we might find some means of communicating with aurore--through the slaves. one of those i know. i had done him a slight favour during my residence at bringiers. i had gained his confidence--enough to render him accessible to a bribe. he might be found, and might render us the desired assistance. all was silent upon the plantation besancon. the dwelling-house appeared deserted. there were no lights to be seen. one glimmered in the rear, in a window of the overseer's house. the negro quarter was dark and silent. the buzz usual at that hour was not heard. they whose voices used to echo through its little street were now far away. the cabins were empty. the song, the jest, and the cheerful laugh, were hushed; and the 'coon-dog howling for his absent master, was the only sound that broke the stillness of the place. we passed the gate, riding in silence, and watching the road in front of us. we were observing the greatest caution as we advanced. we might meet those whom above all others we desired not to encounter--the overseer, the agent, gayarre himself. even to have been seen by one of gayarre's negroes might have resulted in the defeat of our plans. so fearful was i of this, that but for the darkness of the night, i should have left the road sooner, and tried a path through the woods which i knew of. it was too dark to traverse this path without difficulty and loss of time. we therefore clung to the road, intending to leave it when we should arrive opposite the plantation of gayarre. between the two plantations a wagon-road for wood-hauling led to the forest. it was this road i intended to take. we should not be likely to meet any one upon it; and it was our design to conceal our horses among the trees in the rear of the cane-fields. on such a night not even the negro 'coon-hunter would have any business in the woods. creeping along with caution, we had arrived near the point where this wood-road _debouched_, when voices reached our ears. some persons were coming down the road. we reined, up and listened. there were men in conversation; and from their voices each moment growing more distinct, we could tell that they were approaching us. they were coming down the main road from the direction of the village. the hoof-stroke told us they were on horseback, and, consequently, that they were white men. a large cotton-wood tree stood on the waste ground on one side of the road. the long flakes of spanish moss hanging from its branches nearly touched the ground. it offered the readiest place of concealment, and we had just time to spur our horses behind its giant trunk, when the horsemen came abreast of the tree. dark as it was, we could see them in passing. their forms--two of them there were--were faintly outlined against the yellow surface of the water. had they been silent, we might have remained in ignorance as to who they were, but their voices betrayed them. they were larkin and the trader. "good!" whispered d'hauteville, as we recognised them; "they have left gayarre's--they are on their way home to the plantation besancon." the very same thought had occurred to myself. no doubt they were returning to their homes--the overseer to the plantation besancon, and the trader to his own house--which i know to be farther down the coast. i now remembered having often seen this man in company with gayarre. the thought had occurred to myself as d'hauteville spoke, but how knew _he_? he must be well acquainted with the country, thought i. i had no time to reflect or ask him any question. the conversation of these two ruffians--for ruffians both were--occupied all my attention. they were evidently in high glee, laughing as they went, and jesting as they talked. no doubt their vile work had been remunerative. "wal, bill," said the trader, "it air the biggest price i ever giv for a nigger." "darn the old french fool! he's paid well for his whistle this time--he ain't allers so open-fisted. dog darned if he is!" "wal--she air dear; an she ain't when a man has the dollars to spare. she's as putty a piece o' goods as there air in all louisiana. i wouldn't mind myself--" "ha! ha! ha!" boisterously laughed the overseer. "i guess you can get a chance if you've a mind to," he added, in a significant tone. "say, bill!--tell me--be candid, old feller--have you ever--?" "wal, to tell the truth, i hain't; but i reckon i mout if i had pushed the thing. i wan't long enough on the plantation. beside, she's so stuck up with cussed pride an larnin', that she thinks herself as good as white. i calclate old foxey 'll bring down her notions a bit. she won't be long wi' him till she'll be glad to take a ramble in the woods wi' anybody that asks her. there'll be chance enough yet, i reckon." the trader muttered some reply to this prophetic speech; but both were now so distant that their conversation was no longer audible. what i had heard, absurd as it was, caused me a feeling of pain, and, if possible, heightened my desire to save aurore from the terrible fate that awaited her. giving the word to my companion, we rode out from behind the tree, and a few minutes after turned into the by-path that led to the woods. chapter sixty five. the pawpaw thicket. our progress along this by-road was slow. there was no white dust upon the path to guide us. we had to grope our way as well as we could between the zigzag fences. now and then our horses stumbled in the deep ruts made by the wood-wagons, and it was with difficulty we could force them forward. my companion seemed to manage better than i, and whipped his horse onward as if he were more familiar with the path, or else more reckless! i wondered at this without making any remark. after half-an-hour's struggling we reached the angle of the rail-fence, where the enclosure ended and the woods began. another hundred yards brought us under the shadow of the tall timber; where we reined up to take breath, and concert what was next to be done. i remembered that there was a pawpaw thicket near this place. "if we could find it," i said to my companion, "and leave our horses there?" "we may easily do that," was the reply; "though 'tis scarce worth while searching for a thicket--the darkness will sufficiently conceal them.-- ha! not so--_voila l'eclair_!" as d'hauteville spoke, a blue flash lit up the whole canopy of heaven. even the gloomy aisles of the forest were illuminated, so that we could distinguish the trunks and branches of the trees to a long distance around us. the light wavered for some seconds, like a lamp about being extinguished; and then went suddenly out, leaving the darkness more opaque than before. there was no noise accompanying this phenomenon--at least none produced by the lightning itself. it caused some noise, however, among the wild creatures of the woods. it woke the white-headed haliaetus, perched upon the head of the tall taxodium, and his maniac laugh sounded harsh and shrill. it woke the grallatores of the swamp--the qua-bird, the curlews, and the tall blue herons--who screamed in concert. the owl, already awake, hooted louder its solemn note; and from the deep profound of the forest came the howl of the wolf, and the more thrilling cry of the cougar. all nature seemed startled by this sudden blaze of light that filled the firmament. but the moment after all was darkness and silence as before. "the storm will soon be on?" i suggested. "no," said my companion, "there will be no storm--you hear no thunder--when it is thus we shall have no rain--a very black night, with lightning at intervals--nothing more. again!" the exclamation was drawn forth by a second blaze of lightning, that like the first lit up the woods on all sides around us, and, as before, unaccompanied by thunder. neither the slightest rumble nor clap was heard, but the wild creatures once more uttered their varied cries. "we must conceal the horses, then," said my companion; "some straggler might be abroad, and with this light they could be seen far off. the pawpaw thicket is the very place. let us seek it! it lies in this direction." d'hauteville rode forward among the tree-trunks. i followed mechanically. i felt satisfied he know the ground better than i! he must have been here before, was my reflection. we had not gone many steps before the blue light blazed a third time; and we could see, directly in front of us, the smooth shining branches and broad green leaves of the _asiminas_, forming the underwood of the forest. when the lightning flashed again, we had entered the thicket. dismounting in its midst, we hastily tied our bridles to the branches; and then, leaving our horses to themselves, we returned towards the open ground. ten minutes' walking enabled us to regain the zigzag railing that shut in the plantation of gayarre. directing ourselves along this, in ten minutes after we arrived opposite the house--which by the electric blaze we could distinguish shining among the tall cotton-wood trees that grew around it. at this point we again made a stop to reconnoitre the ground, and consider how we should proceed. a wide field stretched from the fence almost to the walls. a garden enclosed by palings lay between the field and the house; and on one side we could perceive the roofs of numerous cabins denoting the negro quarter. at some distance in the same direction, stood the sugar-mill and other outbuildings, and near these the house of gayarre's overseer. this point was to be avoided. even the negro quarter must be shunned, lest we might give alarm. the dogs would be our worst enemies. i knew that gayarre kept several. i had often seen them along the roads. large fierce animals they were. how were they to be shunned? they would most likely be rambling about the outbuildings or the negro cabins; therefore, our safest way would be to approach from the opposite side. if we should fail to discover the apartment of aurore, then it would be time to make reconnaissance in the direction of the "quarter," and endeavour to find the boy caton. we saw lights in the house. several windows--all upon the ground-floor--were shining through the darkness. more than one apartment therefore was occupied. this gave us hope. one of them might be occupied by aurore. "and now, monsieur!" said d'hauteville, after we had discussed the various details, "suppose we fail? suppose some alarm be given, and we be detected before--?" i turned, and looking my young companion full in the face, interrupted him in what he was about to say. "d'hauteville!" said i, "perhaps, i may never be able to repay your generous friendship. it has already exceeded all bounds--but _life_ you must not risk for me. that i cannot permit." "and how risk life, monsieur?" "if i fail--if alarm be given--if i am opposed, _voila_--!" i opened the breast of my coat, exposing to his view my pistols. "yes!" i continued; "i am reckless enough. i shall use them if necessary. i shall take life if it stand in the way. i am resolved; but you must not risk an encounter. you must remain here--i shall go to the house alone." "no--no!" he answered promptly; "i go with you." "i cannot permit it, monsieur. it is better for you to remain here. you can stay by the fence until i return to you--until _we_ return, i should say, for i come not back without _her_." "do not act rashly, monsieur!" "no, but i am determined. i am desperate. we must not go farther." "and why not? _i, too, have an interest in this affair_." "you?" i asked, surprised at the words as well as the tone in which they were spoken. "you an interest?" "of course," coolly replied my companion. "i love adventure. that gives me an interest. you must permit me to accompany you--i must go along with you!" "as you will then, monsieur d'hauteville. fear not. i shall act with prudence. come on!" i sprang over the fence, followed by my companion; and, without another word having passed between us, we struck across the field in the direction of the house. chapter sixty six. the elopement. it was a field of sugar-cane. the canes were of that species known as "ratoons"--suckers from old roots--and the thick bunches at their bases, as well as the tall columns, enabled us to pass among them unobserved. even had it been day, we might have approached the house unseen. we soon reached the garden-paling. here we stopped to reconnoitre the ground. a short survey was sufficient. we saw the very place where we could approach and conceal ourselves. the house had an antique weather-beaten look--not without some pretensions to grandeur. it was a wooden building, two stories in height, with gable roofs, and large windows--all of which had venetian shutters that opened to the outside. both walls and window-shutters had once been painted, but the paint was old and rusty; and the colour of the venetians, once green, could hardly be distinguished from the grey wood-work of the walls. all round the house ran an open gallery or verandah, raised some three or four feet from the ground. upon this gallery the windows and doors opened, and a paling or guard-rail encompassed the whole. opposite the doors, a stairway of half-a-dozen steps led up; but at all other parts the space underneath was open in front, so that, by stooping a little, one might get under the floor of the gallery. by crawling close up in front of the verandah, and looking through the rails, we should be able to command a full view of all the windows in the house;--and in case of alarm, we could conceal ourselves in the dark cavity underneath. we should be safe there, unless scented by the dogs. our plan was matured in whispers. it was not much of a plan. we were to advance to the edge of the verandah, peep through the windows until we could discover the apartment of aurore; then do our best to communicate with her, and get her out. our success depended greatly upon accident or good fortune. before we could make a move forward, fortune seemed as though she was going to favour us. in one of the windows, directly before our face, a figure appeared. a glance told us it was the quadroon! the window, as before stated, reached down to the floor of the verandah; and as the figure appeared behind the glass, we could see it from head to foot. the madras kerchief on the head, the gracefully undulating figure, outlined upon the background of the lighted room, left no doubt upon our minds as to who it was. "'tis aurore!" whispered my companion. how could _he_ tell? did he know her? all! i remembered--he had seen her that morning in the rotundo. "it is she!" i replied, my beating heart scarce allowing me to make utterance. the window was curtained, but she had raised the curtain in one hand, and was looking out. there was that in her attitude that betokened earnestness. she appeared as if trying to penetrate the gloom. even in the distance i could perceive this, and my heart bounded with joy. she had understood my note. she was looking for me! d'hauteville thought so as well. our prospects were brightening. if she guessed our design, our task would be easier. she remained but a few moments by the window. she turned away and the curtain dropped into its place; but before it had screened the view, the dark shadow of a man fell against the back wall of the room. gayarre, no doubt! i could hold back no longer; but climbing over the garden-fence, i crept forward, followed by d'hauteville. in a few seconds both of us had gained the desired position--directly in front of the window, from which we were now separated only by the wood-work of the verandah. standing half-bent our eyes were on a level with the floor of the room. the curtain had not fallen properly into its place. a single pane of the glass remained unscreened, and through this we could see nearly the whole interior of the apartment. our ears, too, were at the proper elevation to catch every sound; and persons conversing within the room we could hear distinctly. we were right in our conjecture. it was aurore we had seen. gayarre was the other occupant of the room. i shall not paint that scene. i shall not repeat the words to which we listened. i shall not detail the speeches of that mean villain--at first fulsome and flattering--then coarse, bold, and brutal; until at length, failing to effect his purpose by entreaties, he had recourse to threats. d'hauteville held me back, begging me in earnest whispers to be patient. once or twice i had almost determined to spring forward, dash aside the sash, and strike the ruffian to the floor. thanks to the prudent interference of my companion, i restrained myself. the scene ended by gayarre going out of the room indignant, but somewhat crest-fallen. the bold, upright bearing of the quadroon--whose strength, at least, equalled that of her puny assailant--had evidently intimidated him for the moment, else he might have resorted to personal violence. his threats, however, as he took his departure; left no doubt of his intention soon to renew his brutal assault. he felt certain of his victim--she was his slave, and must yield. he had ample time and opportunity. he need not at once proceed to extremes. he could wait until his valour, somewhat cowed, should return again, and imbue him with a fresh impulse. the disappearance of gayarre gave us an opportunity to make our presence known to aurore. i was about to climb up to the verandah and tap on the glass; but my companion prevented me from doing so. "it is not necessary," he whispered; "she certainly knows you will be here. leave it to _her_. she will return to the window presently. patience, monsieur! a false step will ruin all. remember the dogs!" there was prudence in these counsels, and i gave way to them. a few minutes would decide; and we both crouched close, and watched the movements of the quadroon. the apartment in which she was attracted our notice. it was not the drawing-room of the house, nor yet a bedroom. it was a sort of library or studio--as shelves filled with books, and a table, covered with papers and writing-materials, testified. it was, no doubt, the office of the avocat, in which he was accustomed to do his writing. why was aurore in that room? such a question occurred to us; but we had little time to dwell upon it. my companion suggested that as they had just arrived, she may have been placed there while an apartment was being prepared for her. the voices of servants overhead, and the noise of furniture being moved over the floor, was what led him to make this suggestion; it was just as if a room was being set in order. this led me into a new train of reflection. she might be suddenly removed from the library, and taken up-stairs. it would then be more difficult to communicate with her. it would be better to make the attempt at once. contrary to the wish of d'hauteville, i was about to advance forward to the window, when the movements of aurore herself caused me to hesitate. the door through which gayarre had just made his exit was visible from where we stood. i saw the quadroon approach this with silent tread, as if meditating some design. placing her hand upon the key, she turned it in the lock, so that the door was thus bolted inside. with what design had she doing this? it occurred to us that she was about to make her escape out by the window, and that she had fastened the door for the purpose of delaying pursuit. if so, it would be better for us to remain quiet, and leave her to complete the design. it would be time enough to warn her of our presence when she should reach the window. this was d'hauteville's advice. in one corner of the room stood a large mahogany desk, and over its head was ranged a screen of box-shelves--of the kind known as "pigeon-holes." these were filled with papers and parchments--no doubt, wills, deeds, and other documents relating to the business of the lawyer. to my astonishment i saw the quadroon, as soon as she had secured the door, hastily approach this desk, and stand directly in front of it--her eyes eagerly bent upon the shelves, as though she was in search of some document! such was in reality the case, for she now stretched forth her hand, drew a bundle of folded papers from the box, and after resting her eyes upon them for a moment, suddenly concealed them in the bosom of her dress! "heavens!" i mentally ejaculated, "what can it mean?" i had no time to give way to conjectures--for in a second's time aurore had glided across the floor, and was standing in the window. as she raised the curtain, the light streamed full on the faces of myself and my companion, and at the first glance she saw us. a slight exclamation escaped her, but it was of joy, not surprise; and she suddenly checked herself. the ejaculation was not loud enough to be heard across the room. the sash opened noiselessly--with silent tread the verandah was crossed--and in another moment my betrothed was in my arms! i lifted her over the balustrade, and we passed hastily along the walks of the garden. the outer field was reached without any alarm having been given; and, directing ourselves between the rows of the canes, we speeded on towards the woods, that loomed up like a dark wall in the distance. chapter sixty seven. the lost mustangs. the lightning continued to play at intervals, and we had no difficulty in finding our way. we recrossed near the same place where we had entered the field; and, guiding ourselves along the fence, hurried on towards the thicket of pawpaws, where we had left our horses. my design was to take to the road at once, and endeavour to reach the city before daybreak. once there, i hoped to be able to keep concealed--both myself and my betrothed--until some opportunity offered of getting out to sea, or up the river to one of the free states. i never thought of taking to the woods. chance had made me acquainted with a rare hiding-place, and no doubt we might have found concealment there for a time. the advantage of this had crossed my mind, but i did not entertain the idea for a moment. such a refuge could be but temporary. we should have to flee from it in the end, and the difficulty of escaping from the country would be as great as ever. either for victim or criminal there is no place of concealment so safe as the crowded haunts of the populous city; and in new orleans--half of which consists of a "floating" population--incognito is especially easily to be preserved. my design, therefore--and d'hauteville approved it--was to mount our horses, and make direct for the city. hard work i had cut out for our poor animals, especially the one that should have to "carry double." tough hacks they were, and had done the journey up cleverly enough, but it would stretch all their muscle to take us back before daylight. aided by the flashes, we wound our way, amid the trunks of the trees, until at length we came within sight of the pawpaw thicket--easily distinguished by the large oblong leaves of the _asiminiers_, which had a whitish sheen under the electric light. we hurried forward with joyful anticipation. once mounted, we should soon get beyond the reach of pursuit. "strange the horses do not neigh, or give some sign of their presence! one would have thought our approach would have startled them. but no, there is no whimper, no hoof-stroke; yet we must be close to them now. i never knew of horses remaining so still? what can they be doing? where are they?" "ay, where are they?" echoed d'hauteville; "surely this is the spot where we left them?" "here it certainly was! yes--here--this is the very sapling to which i fastened my bridle. see! here are their hoof-prints. by heaven! the _horses are gone_!" i uttered this with a full conviction of its truth. there was no room left for doubt. there was the trampled earth where they had stood-- there the very tree to which we had tied them. i easily recognised it-- for it was the largest in the grove. who had taken them away? this was the question that first occurred to us. some one had been dogging us? or had it been some one who had come across the animals by accident? the latter supposition was the less probable. who would have been wandering in the woods on such a night? or even if any one had, what would have taken them into the pawpaw thicket? ha! a new thought came into my head--perhaps the horses had got loose of themselves? that was likely enough. well, we should be able to tell as soon as the lightning flashed again, whether they had set themselves free; or whether some human hand had undone the knotted bridles. we stood by the tree waiting for the light. it did not tarry long; and when it came it enabled us to solve the doubt. my conjecture was correct; the horses had freed themselves. the broken branches told the tale. something-- the lightning--or more likely a prowling wild beast, had _stampeded_ them; and they had broken off into the woods. we now reproached ourselves for having so negligently fastened them--for having tied them to a branch of the _asiminier_, whose soft succulent wood possesses scarcely the toughness of an ordinary herbaceous plant. i was rather pleased at the discovery that the animals had freed themselves. there was a hope they had not strayed far. we might yet find them near at hand, with trailing bridles, cropping the grass. without loss of time we went in search of them--d'hauteville took one direction, i another, while aurore remained in the thicket of the pawpaws. i ranged around the neighbourhood, went back to the fence, followed it to the road, and even went some distance along the road. i searched every nook among the trees, pushed through thickets and cane-brakes, and, whenever it flashed, examined the ground for tracks. at intervals i returned to the point of starting, to find that d'hauteville had been equally unsuccessful. after nearly an hour spent in this fruitless search, i resolved to give it up. i had no longer a hope of finding the horses; and, with despairing step, i turned once more in the direction of the thicket. d'hauteville had arrived before me. as i approached, the quivering gleam enabled me to distinguish his figure. he was standing beside aurore. he was conversing familiarly with her. i fancied he was _polite_ to her, and that she seemed pleased. there was something in this slight scene that made a painful impression upon me. neither had he found any traces of the missing steeds. it was no use looking any longer for them; and we agreed to discontinue the search, and pass the night in the woods. it was with a heavy heart that i consented to this; but we had no alternative. afoot we could not possibly reach new orleans before morning; and to have been found on the road after daybreak would have insured our capture. such as we could not pass without observation; and i had no doubt that, at the earliest hour, a pursuing party would take the road to the city. our most prudent plan was to remain all night where we were, and renew our search for the horses as soon as it became day. if we should succeed in finding them, we might conceal them in the swamp till the following night, and then make for the city. if we should not recover them, then, by starting at an earlier hour, we might attempt the journey on foot. the loss of the horses had placed us in an unexpected dilemma. it had seriously diminished our chances of escape, and increased the peril of our position. _peril_ i have said, and in such we stood--peril of no trifling kind. you will with difficulty comprehend the nature of our situation. you will imagine yourself reading the account of some ordinary lover's escapade--a mere runaway match, _a la gretna green_. rid yourself of this fancy. know that all three of us had committed an act for which we were amenable. know that my _crime_ rendered me liable to certain and severe punishment by the _laws of the land_; that a still more terrible sentence might be feared _outside the laws of the land_. i knew all this--i knew that life itself was imperilled by the act i had committed! think of our danger, and it may enable you to form some idea of what were our feelings after returning from our bootless hunt after the horses. we had no choice but stay where we were till morning. we spent half-an-hour in dragging the _tillandsia_ from the trees, and collecting the soft leaves of the pawpaws. with these i strewed the ground; and, placing aurore upon it, i covered her with my cloak. for myself i needed no couch. i sat down near my beloved, with my back against the trunk of a tree. i would fain have pillowed her head upon my breast, but the presence of d'hauteville restrained me. even that might not have hindered me, but the slight proposal which i made had been declined by aurore. even the hand that i had taken in mine was respectfully withdrawn! i will confess that this coyness surprised and piqued me. chapter sixty eight. a night in the woods. lightly clad as i was, the cold dews of the night would have prevented me from sleeping; but i needed not that to keep me awake. i could not have slept upon a couch of eider. d'hauteville had generously offered me his cloak, which i declined. he, too, was clad in cottonade and linen--though that was not the reason for my declining his offer. even had i been suffering, i could not have accepted it. i began to fear him! aurore was soon asleep. the lightning showed me that her eyes were closed, and i could tell by her soft regular breathing that she slept. this, too, annoyed me! i watched for each new gleam that i might look upon her. each time as the quivering light illumined her lovely features, i gazed upon them with mingled feelings of passion and pain. oh! could there be falsehood under that fair face? could sin exist in that noble soul? after all was i _not_ beloved? even so, there was no withdrawing now--no going back from my purpose. the race in which i had embarked must be run to the end--even at the sacrifice both of heart and life. i thought only of the purpose that had brought us there. as my mind became calmer, i again reflected on the means of carrying it out. as soon as day should break, i would go in search of the horses-- track them, if possible, to where they had strayed--recover them, and then remain concealed in the woods until the return of another night. should we not recover the horses, what then? for a long time, i could not think of what was best to be done in such a contingency. at length an idea suggested itself--a plan so feasible that i could not help communicating it to d'hauteville, who like myself was awake. the plan was simple enough, and i only wondered i had not thought of it sooner. it was that he (d'hauteville) should proceed to bringiers, procure other horses or a carriage there, and at an early hour of the following night meet us on the levee road. what could be better than this? there would be no difficulty in his obtaining the horses at bringiers--the carriage more likely. d'hauteville was not known--at least no one would suspect his having any relations with me. i was satisfied that the disappearance of the quadroon would be at once attributed to me. gayarre himself would know that; and therefore i alone would be suspected and sought after. d'hauteville agreed with me that this would be the very plan to proceed upon, in case our horses could not be found; and having settled the details, we awaited with less apprehension for the approach of day. day broke at length. the grey light slowly struggled through the shadowy tree-tops, until it became clear enough to enable us to renew the search. aurore remained upon the ground; while d'hauteville and i, taking different directions set out after the horses. d'hauteville went farther into the woods, while i took the opposite route. i soon arrived at the zigzag fence bounding the fields of gayarre; for we were still upon the very borders of his plantation. on reaching this, i turned along its edge, and kept on for the point where the bye-road entered the woods. it was by this we had come in on the previous night, and i thought it probable the horses might have taken it into their heads to stray back the same way. i was right in my conjecture. as soon as i entered the embouchure of the road, i espied the hoof-tracks of both animals going out towards the river. i saw also those we had made on the previous night coming in. i compared them. the tracks leading both ways were made by the same horses. one had a broken shoe, which enabled me at a glance to tell they were the same. i noted another "sign" upon the trail. i noted that our horses in passing out dragged their bridles, with branches adhering to them. this confirmed the original supposition, that they had broken loose. it was now a question of how far they had gone. should i follow and endeavour to overtake them? it was now bright daylight, and the risk would be great. long before this, gayarre and his friends would be up and on the alert. no doubt parties were already traversing the levee road as well as the bye-paths among the plantations. at every step i might expect to meet either a scout or a pursuer. the tracks of the horses showed they had been travelling rapidly and straight onward. they had not stopped to browse. likely they had gone direct to the levee road, and turned back to the city. they were livery horses, and no doubt knew the road well. besides, they were of the mexican breed--"mustangs." with these lively animals the trick of returning over a day's journey without their riders is not uncommon. to attempt to overtake them seemed hopeless as well as perilous, and i at once gave up the idea and turned back into the woods. as i approached the pawpaw thicket, i walked with lighter tread. i am ashamed to tell the reason. foul thoughts were in my heart. the murmur of voices fell upon my ear. "by heaven! d'hauteville has again got back before me!" i struggled for some moments with my honour. it gave way; and i made my further approach among the pawpaws with the silence of a thief. "d'hauteville and she in close and friendly converse! they stand fronting each other. their faces almost meet--their attitudes betoken a mutual interest. they talk in an earnest tone--in the low murmuring of lovers! o god!" at this moment the scene on the wharf-boat flashed on my recollection. i remembered the youth wore a cloak, and that he was of low stature. it was he who was standing before me! that puzzle was explained. i was but a waif--a foil--a thing for a coquette to play with! there stood the _true_ lover of aurore! i stopped like one stricken. the sharp aching of my heart, oh! i may never describe. it felt as if a poisoned arrow had pierced to its very core, and there remained fixed and rankling. i felt faint and sick. i could have fallen to the ground. she has taken something from her bosom. she is handing it to him! a love-token--a _gage d'amour_! no. i am in error. it is the parchment--the paper taken from the desk of the avocat. what does it mean? what mystery is this? oh! i shall demand a full explanation from both of you. i shall--patience, heart!-- patience! d'hauteville has taken the papers, and hidden them under his cloak. he turns away. his face is now towards me. his eyes are upon me. i am seen! "ho! monsieur?" he inquired, advancing to meet me. "what success? you have seen nothing of the horses!" i made an effort to speak calmly. "their tracks," i replied. even in this short phrase my voice was quivering with emotion. he might easily have noticed my agitation, and yet he did not seem to do so. "only their tracks, monsieur! whither did they lead?" "to the levee road. no doubt they have returned towards the city. we need have no farther dependence on them." "then i shall go to bringiers at once?" this was put hypothetically. the proposal gave me pleasure. i wished him away. i wished to be alone with aurore. "it would be as well," i assented, "if you do not deem it too early?" "oh, no! besides, i have business in bringiers that will occupy me all the day." "ah!" "doubt not my return to meet you. i am certain to procure either horses or a carriage. half-an-hour after twilight you will find me at the end of the bye-road. fear not, monsieur! i have a strong presentiment that for you all will yet be well. for _me_--ah!" a deep sigh escaped him as he uttered the last phrase. what did it mean? was he mocking me? had this strange youth a secret beyond _my_ secret? did he _know_ that aurore loved _him_? was he so confident--so sure of her heart, that he recked not thus leaving her alone with me? was he playing with me as the tiger with its victim? were _both_ playing with me? these horrid thoughts crowding up, prevented me from making a definite rejoinder to his remarks. i muttered something about hope, but he seemed hardly to heed my remark. for some reason he was evidently desirous of being gone; and bidding aurore and myself adieu, he turned abruptly off, and with quick, light steps, threaded his way through the woods. with my eyes i followed his retreating form, until it was hidden by the intervening branches. i felt relief that he was gone. i could have wished that he was gone for ever. despite the need we had of his assistance--despite the absolute necessity for his return--at that moment i could have wished that we should never see him again! chapter sixty nine. love's vengeance. now for an explanation with aurore! now to give vent to the dire passion of jealousy--to relieve my heart with recriminations--with the bitter-sweet vengeance of reproach! i could stifle the foul emotion no longer--no longer conceal it. it must have expression in words. i had purposely remained standing with my face averted from her, till d'hauteville was gone out of sight. longer, too. i was endeavouring to still the wild throbbings of my breast--to affect the calmness of indifference. vain hypocrisy! to her eyes my spite must have been patent, for in this the keen instincts of woman are not to be baffled. it was even so. she comprehended all. hence the wild act--the _abandon_ to which at that moment she gave way. i was turning to carry out my design, when i felt the soft pressure of her body against mine--her arms encircled my neck--her head, with face upturned, rested upon my bosom, and her large lustrous eyes sought mine with a look of melting inquiry. that look should have satisfied me. surely no eyes but the eyes of love could have borne such expression? and yet i was not content. i faltered out-- "aurore, you do not love me!" "_ah, monsieur! pourquoi cette cruaute? je t'aime_--_mon dieu! avec tout mon coeur je t'aime_!" even this did not still my suspicious thoughts. the circumstances had been too strong--jealousy had taken too firm a hold to be plucked out by mere assurances. explanation alone could satisfy me. that or confession. having made a commencement, i went on. i detailed what i had seen at the landing--the after conduct of d'hauteville--what i had observed the preceding night--what i had just that moment witnessed. i detailed all. i added no reproaches. there was time enough for them when i should receive her answer. it came in the midst of tears. she had known d'hauteville before--that was acknowledged. there _was_ a mystery in the relations that existed between them. i was solicited not to require an explanation. my patience was appealed to. it was not her secret. i should soon know all. in due time all would be revealed. how readily my heart yielded to these delicious words! i no longer doubted. how could i, with those large eyes, full of love-light, shining through the tear-bedewed lashes? my heart yielded. once more my arms closed affectionately around the form of my betrothed, and a fervent kiss renewed the vow of our betrothal. we could have remained long upon this love-hallowed spot, but prudence prompted us to leave it. we were too near to the point of danger. at the distance of two hundred yards was the fence that separated gayarre's plantation from the wild woods; and from that could even be seen the house itself, far off over the fields. the thicket concealed this, it was true; but should pursuit lead that way, the thicket would be the first place that would be searched. it would be necessary to seek a hiding-place farther off in the woods. i bethought me of the flowery glade--the scene of my adventure with the _crotalus_. around it the underwood was thick and shady, and there were spots where we could remain screened from the observation of the keenest eyes. at that moment i thought only of such concealment. it never entered my head that there were means of discovering us, even in the heart of the tangled thicket, or the pathless maze of the cane-brake. i resolved, therefore, to make at once for the glade. the pawpaw thicket, where we had passed the night, lay near the south-eastern angle of gayarre's plantation. to reach the glade it would be necessary for us to pass a mile or more to the northward. by taking a diagonal line through the woods, the chances were ten to one we should lose our way, and perhaps not find a proper place of concealment. the chances were, too, that we might not find a path, through the network of swamps and bayous that traversed the forest in every direction. i resolved, therefore, to skirt the plantation, until i had reached the path that i had before followed to the glade, and which i now remembered. there would be some risk until we had got to the northward of gayarre's plantation; but we should keep at a distance from the fence, and as much as possible in the underwood. fortunately a belt of "palmetto" land, marking the limits of the annual inundation, extended northward through the woods, and parallel to the line of fence. this singular vegetation, with its broad fan-like fronds, formed an excellent cover; and a person passing through it with caution could not be observed from any great distance. the partial lattice-work of its leaves was rendered more complete by the tall flower-stalks of the _altheas_, and other malvaceous plants that shared the ground with the palmettos. directing ourselves within the selvage of this rank vegetation, we advanced with caution; and soon came opposite the place where we had crossed the fence on the preceding night. at this point the woods approached nearest to the house of gayarre. as already stated, but one field lay between, but it was nearly a mile in length. it was dead level, however, and did not appear half so long. by going forward to the fence, we could have seen the house at the opposite end, and very distinctly. i had no intention of gratifying my curiosity at that moment by such an act, and was moving on, when a sound fell upon my ear that caused me suddenly to halt, while a thrill of terror ran through my veins. my companion caught me by the arm, and looked inquiringly in my face. a caution to her to be silent was all the reply i could make; and, leaning a little lower, so as to bring my ear nearer to the ground, i listened. the suspense was short. i heard the sound again. my first conjecture was right. it was the "growl" of a hound! there was no mistaking that prolonged and deep-toned note. i was too fond a disciple of saint hubert not to recognise the bay of a long-eared molossian. though distant and low, like the hum of a forest bee, i was not deceived in the sound. it fell upon my ears with a terrible import! and why terrible was the baying of a hound? to me above all others, whose ears, attuned to the "tally ho!" and the "view hilloa!" regarded these sounds as the sweetest of music? why terrible? ah! you must think of the circumstances in which i was placed--you must think, too, of the hours i spent with the snake-charmer--of the tales he told me in that dark tree-cave--the stories of runaways, of sleuth-dogs, of man-hunters, and "nigger-hunts,"--practices long thought to be confined to cuba, but which i found as rife upon the soil of louisiana,--you must think of all these, and then you will understand why i trembled at the distant baying of a hound. the howl i heard was still very distant. it came from the direction of gayarre's house. it broke forth at intervals. it was not like the utterance of a hound upon the trail, but that of dogs just cleared from the kennel, and giving tongue to their joy at the prospect of sport. fearful apprehensions were stirred within me at the moment. a terrible conjecture rushed across my brain. _they were after us with hounds_! chapter seventy. hounds on our trail. o god! after us with hounds! either after us, or about to be, was the hypothetic form of my conjecture. i could proceed no farther upon our path till i had become satisfied. leaving aurore among the palmettoes. i ran directly forward to the fence, which was also the boundary of the woods. on reaching this, i grasped the branch of a tree, and swung myself up to such an elevation as would enable me to see over the tops of the cane. this gave me a full view of the house shining under the sun that had now risen in all his splendour. at a glance i saw that i had guessed aright. distant as the house was, i could plainly see men around it, many of them on horseback. their heads were moving above the canes; and now and then the deep bay of hounds told that several dogs were loose about the enclosure. the scene was just as if a party of hunters had assembled before going out upon a deer "drive;" and but for the place, the time, and the circumstances that had already transpired, i might have taken it for such. far different, however, was the impression it made upon me. i knew well why was that gathering around the house of gayarre. i knew well the game they were about to pursue. i lingered but a moment upon my perch--long enough to perceive that the _hunters_ were all mounted and ready to start. with quick-beating pulse i retraced my steps; and soon rejoined my companion, who stood awaiting me with trembling apprehension. i did not need to tell her the result of my reconnoissance: she read it in my looks. she, too, had heard the baying of the dogs. she was a native, and knew the customs of the land: she knew that hounds were used to hunt deer and foxes and wild-cats of the woods; but she knew also that on many plantations there were some kept for a far different purpose--sleuth-dogs, _trained to the hunting of men_! had she been of slow comprehension, i might have attempted to conceal from her what i had learnt; but she was far from that, and with quick instinct she divined all. our first feeling was that of utter hopelessness. there seemed no chance of our escaping. go where we would, hounds, trained to the scent of a human track, could not fail to follow and find us. it would be of no use hiding in the swamp or the bush. the tallest sedge or the thickest underwood could not give us shelter from pursuers like these. our first feeling, then, was that of hopelessness--quickly followed by a half-formed resolve to go no farther, to stand our ground and be taken. we had not death to fear; though i knew that if taken i might make up my mind to some rough handling. i knew the feeling that was abroad in relation to the abolitionists--at that time raging like a fever. i had heard of the barbarous treatment which some of these "fanatics"--as they were called--had experienced at the hands of the incensed slave-owners. i should no doubt be reckoned in the same category, or maybe, still worse, be charged as a "nigger-stealer." in any case i had to fear chastisement, and of no light kind either. but my dread of this was nothing when compared with the reflection that, if taken, _aurore must go back to gayarre_! it was this thought more than any other that made my pulse beat quickly. it was this thought that determined me not to surrender until after every effort to escape should fail us. i stood for some moments pondering on what course to pursue. all at once a thought came into my mind that saved me from despair. that thought was of gabriel the runaway. do not imagine that i had forgotten him or his hiding-place all this time. do not fancy i had not thought of him before. often, since we had entered the woods, had he and his tree-cave arisen in my memory; and i should have gone there for concealment, but that the distance deterred me. as we intended to return to the levee road after sunset, i had chosen the glade for our resting-place, on account of its being nearer. even then, when i learnt that hounds would be after us, i had again thought of making for the bambarra's hiding-place; but had dismissed the idea, because it occurred to me that _the hounds could follow us anywhere_, and that, by taking shelter with the runaway, we should only guide his tyrants upon _him_. so quick and confused had been all these reflections, that it had never occurred to me that the hounds _could not trail us across water_. it was only at that moment when pondering how i could throw them off the track--thinking of the snake-charmer and his pine-cones--that i remembered the water. sure enough, in that still lay a hope; and i could now appreciate the remarkable cunning with which the lair of the runaway had been chosen. it was just the place to seek refuge from "de dam blood-dogs." the moment i thought of it, i resolved to flee thither. i would be sure to know the way. i had taken especial pains to remember it; for even on the day of my snake-adventure, some half-defined thoughts--something more like a presentiment than a plan--had passed through my mind, vaguely pointing to a contingency like the present. later events, and particularly my design of escaping to the city at once, had driven these thoughts out of my mind. for all that, i still remembered the way by which the bambarra had guided me, and could follow it with hurried steps--though there was neither road nor path, save the devious tracks made by cattle or the wild animals of the forest. but i was certain i knew it well. i should remember the signs and "blazes" to which the guide had called my attention. i should remember where it crossed the "big bayou" by the trunk of a fallen tree that served as a foot-bridge. i should remember where it ran through a strip of marsh impassable for horses, through the cane-brake, among the great knees and buttocks of the cypresses, down to the edge of the water. and that huge tree, with its prostrate trunk projecting out into the lake, and its moss-wrapped branches--that cunning harbour for the little pirogue--i should be sure to remember. neither had i forgotten the signal, by which i was to warn the runaway whenever i should return. it was a peculiar whistle he had instructed me to give, and also the number of times i was to utter it. i had not waited for all these reflections. many of them were after-thoughts, that occurred along the way. the moment i remembered the lake, i resolved upon my course; and, with a word of cheer to my companion, we again moved forward. chapter seventy one. the signal. the change in our plans made no change in the direction. we continued on in the same course. the way to the lake passed by the glade, where we had purposed going--indeed, through the middle of it lay the nearest path to the lair of the runaway. not far from the north-east angle of gayarre's plantation, was the spot where i had parted with the black on the night of my adventure with him. it was at this point the path entered the woods. the blaze upon a sweet-gum-tree, which i remembered well, showed me the direction. i was but too glad to turn off here, and leave the open woods; the more so that, just as we had reached the turning-point, the cry of the hounds came swelling upon the air, loud and prolonged. from the direction of the sound, i had no doubt but that they were already in the cane-field, and lifting our trail of the preceding night. for a few hundred yards farther the timber was thin. the axe had been flourished there, as the numerous "stumps" testified. it was there the "firewood" was procured for the use of the plantation, and "cords" of it, already cut and piled, could be seen on both sides of our path. we passed among these with trembling haste. we feared to meet with some of the woodcutters, or the driver of a wood-wagon. such an encounter would have been a great misfortune; as, whoever might have seen us would have guided our pursuers on the track. had i reasoned calmly i would not have felt uneasiness on this head. i might have known, that if the dogs succeeded in tracking us thus far, they would need no direction from either wagoner or wood-chopper. but in the hurry of the moment i did not think of this; and i felt relief when we had passed through the tract of broken woods, and were entering under the more sombre shadow of the virgin forest. it was now a question of time--a question of whether we should be able to reach the lake, summon the bambarra with his pirogue, and be paddled out of sight, before the dogs should trail us to the edge of the water. should we succeed in doing so, we should then have a fair prospect of escape. no doubt the dogs would guide our pursuers to the place of our embarkation--the fallen tree--but then both dogs and men would be at fault. that gloomy lake of the woods was a rare labyrinth. though the open water was a surface of small extent, neither it, nor the island-like motte of timber in its centre, was visible from the place of embarkation; and, besides the lake itself, the inundation covered a large tract of the forest. even should our pursuers be certain that we had escaped by the water, they might despair of finding us in the midst of such a maze--where the atmosphere at that season of fall foliage had the hue of a dark twilight. but they would hardly be convinced of our escape in that way. there was no trace left where the pirogue was moored--no mark upon the tree. they would scarce suspect the existence of a canoe in such an out-of-the-way spot, where the water--a mere stagnant pond--had no communication either with the river or the adjacent bayous. we were leaving no tracks--i took care of that--that could be perceived under the forest gloom; and our pursuers might possibly conclude that the dogs had been running upon the trail of a bear, a cougar, or the swamp wild-cat (_lynx rufus_)--all of which animals freely take the water when pursued. with such probabilities i was cheering myself and my companion, as we kept rapidly along our course! my greatest source of apprehension was the delay we should have to make, after giving the signal to the runaway. would he hear it at once? would he attend to it in due haste? would he arrive in time? these were the points about which i felt chiefly anxious. time was the important consideration; in that lay the conditions of our danger. oh! that i had thought of this purpose before!--oh! that we had started earlier! how long would it take our pursuers to come up? i could scarce trust myself to think of a reply to this question. mounted as they were, they would travel faster than we: the dogs would guide them at a run! one thought alone gave me hope. they would soon find our resting-place of the night; they would see where we had slept by the pawpaw-leaves and the moss; they could not fail to be certain of all that; but would they so easily trail us thence? in our search after the horses, we had tracked the woods in all directions. i had gone back to the bye-road, and some distance along it. all this would surely baffle the dogs for a while; besides, d'hauteville, at starting, had left the pawpaw thicket by a different route from that we had taken. they might go off on _his_ trail. would that they might follow d'hauteville. all these conjectures passed rapidly through my mind as we hurried along. i even thought of making an attempt to throw the hounds off the scent. i thought of the _ruse_ practised by the bambarra with the spray of the loblolly pine; but, unfortunately, i could not see any of these trees on our way, and feared to lose time by going in search of one. i had doubts, too, of the efficacy of such a proceeding, though the black had solemnly assured me of it. the common red onion, he had afterwards told me would be equally effective for the like purpose! but the red onion grew not in the woods, and the _pin de l'encens_ i could not find. for all that i did not proceed without precautions. youth though i was, i was an old hunter, and had some knowledge of "woodcraft," gathered in deerstalking, and in the pursuit of other game, among my native hills. moreover, my nine months of new-world life had not all been passed within city walls; and i had already become initiated into many of the mysteries of the great american forest. i did not proceed, then, in mere reckless haste. where precautions could be observed, i adopted them. a strip of marsh had to be crossed. it was stagnant water, out of which grew flags, and the shrub called "swamp-wood" (_bois de marais_). it was knee-deep, and could he waded. i knew this, for i had crossed it before. hand in hand we waded through, and got safe to the opposite side; but on entering i took pains to choose a place, where we stepped at once from the dry ground into the water. on going out, i observed a like precaution--so that our tracks might not appear in the mud. perhaps i should not have taken all this trouble, had i known that, there were "hunters" among those who pursued us. i fancied the crowd i had seen were but planters, or people of the town--hurriedly brought together by gayarre and his friends. i fancied they might not have much skill in tracking, and that my simple trick might be sufficient to mislead them. had i known that at their head was a man, of whom gabriel had told me much--a man _who made negro-hunting his profession_, and who was the most noted "tracker" in all the country--i might have saved myself both the time and the trouble i was taking. but i knew not that this ruffian and his trained dogs were after us, and i did my utmost to throw my pursuers off. shortly after passing the marsh, we crossed the "big bayou" by means of its tree-bridge. oh! that i could have destroyed that log, or hurled it from its position. i consoled myself with the idea, that though the dogs might follow us over it, it would delay the pursuers awhile, who, no doubt, were all on horseback. we now passed through the glade, but i halted not there. we stopped not to look upon its bright flowers--we perceived not their fragrance. once i had wished to share this lovely scene in the company of aurore. we were now in its midst, but under what circumstances! what wild thoughts were passing through my brain, as we hurried across this flowery tract under bright sunshine, and then plunged once more into the sombre atmosphere of the woods! the path i remembered well, and was able to pursue it without hesitancy. now and then only did i pause--partly to listen, and partly to rest my companion, whose bosom heaved quick and high with the rude exertion. but her glance testified that her courage was firm, and her smile cheered _me_ on. at length we entered among the cypress-trees that bordered the lake; and, gliding around their massive trunks, soon reached the edge of the water. we approached the fallen tree; and, climbing up, advanced along its trunk until we stood among its moss-covered branches. i had provided myself with an instrument--a simple joint of the cane which grew plenteously around, and which with my knife i had shaped after a fashion i had been already taught by the bambarra. with this i could produce a sound, that would be heard at a great distance off, and plainly to the remotest part of the lake. taking hold of the branches, i now bent down, until my face almost touched the surface of the water, and placing the reed to my lips, i gave utterance to the signal. chapter seventy two. the sleuth-hounds. the shrill whistle, pealing along the water, pierced the dark aisles of the forest. it aroused the wild denizens of the lake, who, startled by such an unusual sound, answered it with their various cries in a screaming concert. the screech of the crane and the louisiana heron, the hoarse hooting of owls, and the hoarser croak of the pelican, mingled together; and, louder than all, the scream of the osprey and the voice of the bald eagle--the last falling upon the ear with sharp metallic repetitions that exactly resembled the filing of saws. for some moments this commotion was kept up; and it occurred to me that if i had to repeat the signal then it would not have been heard. shrill as it was, it could scarce have been distinguished in such a din! crouching among the branches, we remained to await the result. we made no attempts at idle converse. the moments were too perilous for aught but feelings of extreme anxiety. now and then a word of cheer--a muttered hope--were all the communications that passed between us. with earnest looks we watched the water--with glances of fear we regarded the land. on one side we listened for the plashing of a paddle; on the other we dreaded to hear the "howl" of a hound. never can i forget those moments--those deeply-anxious moments. till death i may not forget them. every thought at the time--every incident, however minute--now rushes into my remembrance, as if it were a thing of yesterday. i remember that once or twice, away under the trees, we perceived a ripple along the surface of the water. our hearts were full of hope--we thought it was the canoe. it was a fleeting joy. the waves were made by the great saurian, whose hideous body--large almost as the pirogue itself--next moment passed before our eyes, cleaving the water with fish-like velocity. i remember entertaining the supposition that the runaway _might not be in his lair_! he might be off in the forest--in search of food--or on any other errand. then the reflection followed--if such were the case, i should have found the pirogue by the tree? still he might have other landing-places around the lake--on the other side perhaps. he had not told me whether or no, and it was probable enough. these hypothetic conjectures increased my anxiety. but there arose another, far more dreadful, because far more probable-- _the black might be asleep_! far more probable, because night was his day, and day his night. at night he was abroad, roaming and busy--by day he was at home and slept. oh, heavens! if he should be asleep, and not have heard the signal! such was the terrible fancy that rushed across my brain. i felt suddenly impelled to repeat the signal--though i thought at the time, if my conjecture were correct, there was but little hope he would hear me. a negro sleeps like a torpid bear. the report of a gun or a railway-whistle alone could awake one. there was no chance for a puny pipe like mine--the more especially as the screaming concert still continued. "even if he should hear it, he would hardly be able to distinguish the whistle from--merciful heavens!" i was speaking to my companion when this exclamation interrupted me. it came from my own lips, but with involuntary utterance. it was called forth by a sound of dread import--a sound that i could hear above the shrill screaming of the birds, and hearing could interpret. it was the trumpet-like baying of a hound! i stood bent, and listening; i heard it again. there was no mistaking that note. i had the ears of a hunter. i knew the music well. oh, how unlike to music then! it fell upon my ears like a cry of vengeance--like a knell of death! i thought no longer of repeating the signal; even if heard, it would be too late. i flung the reed away, as a useless toy. i drew aurore along the tree, passing her behind me; and raising myself erect, stood fronting the land. again the "gowl" broke out--its loud echoes rolling through the woods-- this time so near, that every moment i expected to see the animal that had uttered it. i had not long to wait. a hundred yards off was a cane-brake. i could perceive a motion among the tall reeds. their tops swayed to and fro, and their hollow culms rattled against each other, as they were jerked about, and borne downward. some living thing was pressing through their midst. the motion reached their verge--the last canes gave way, and i now saw what i had looked for--the spotted body of a hound! with a spring the animal came forth, paused for a moment in the open ground, and then, uttering a prolonged howl, took up the scent, and galloped forward. close upon his heels came a second; the waving cane closed behind them, and both ran forward in the direction of the log. as there was no longer any underwood, i had a full view of their bodies. gloomy as the place was, i could see them with sufficient distinctness to note their kind--huge, gaunt deer-hounds, black and tan. from the manner of their approach, they had evidently been trained to their work, and that was _not_ the hunting of deer. no ordinary hound would have run upon a human track, as they were running upon ours. the moment i saw these dogs i made ready for a conflict. their huge size, their broad heavy jaws, and ferocious looks, told what savage brutes they were; and i felt satisfied they would attack me as soon as they came up. with this belief i drew forth a pistol; and, laying hold of a branch to steady me, i stood waiting their approach. i had not miscalculated. on reaching the prostrate trunk, he scarcely made a pause; but, leaping upward, came running along the log. he had dropped the scent, and now advanced with eyes glaring, evidently meditating to spring upon me. my position could not have been better, had i spent an hour in choosing it. from the nature of the ground, my assailant could neither dodge to the right nor the left; but was compelled to approach me in a line as straight as an arrow. i had nought to do but hold my weapon firm and properly directed. a novice with fire-arms could hardly have missed such an object. my nerves were strung with anger--a feeling of intense indignation was burning in my breast, that rendered me as firm as steel. i was cool from very passion--at the thought of being thus hunted like a wolf! i waited until the muzzle of the hound almost met that of the pistol, and then i fired. the dog tumbled from the log. i saw the other close upon his heels. i aimed through the smoke, and again pulled trigger. the good weapon did not fail me. again the report was followed by a plunge. the hounds were no longer upon the log. they had fallen right and left into the black water below! chapter seventy three. the man-hunter. the hounds had fallen into the water--one dead, the other badly wounded. the latter could not have escaped, as one of his legs had been struck by the bullet, and his efforts to swim were but the throes of desperation. in a few minutes he must have gone to the bottom; but it was not his fate to die by drowning. it was predestined that his howling should be brought to a termination in a far different manner. the voice of the dog is music to the ear of the alligator. of all other animals, this is the favourite prey of the great saurian; and the howl of hound or cur will attract him from any distance where it may be heard. naturalists have endeavoured to explain this in a different way. they say--and such is the fact--that the howling of a dog bears a resemblance to the voice of the young alligator, and that the old ones are attracted towards the spot where it is heard--the mother to protect it, and the male parent to devour it! this is a disputed point in natural history; but there can be no dispute that the alligator eagerly preys upon the dog whenever an opportunity offers--seizing the canine victim in his terrible jaws, and carrying it off to his aqueous retreat. this he does with an air of such earnest avidity, as to leave no doubt but that he esteems the dog a favourite morsel. i was not surprised, then, to see half-a-dozen of these gigantic reptiles emerging from amid the dark tree-trunks, and hastily swimming towards the wounded hound. the continued howling of the latter guided them; and in a few seconds they had surrounded the spot where he struggled, and were dashing forward upon their victim. a shoal of sharks could not have finished him more expeditiously. a blow from the tail of one silenced his howling--three or four pair of gaunt jaws closed upon him at the same time--a short scuffle ensued-- then the long bony heads separated, and the huge reptiles were seen swimming off again--each with a morsel in his teeth. a few bubbles and blotches of red froth mottling the inky surface of the water, were all that remained where the hound had lately been plunging. almost a similar scene occurred on the opposite side of the log--for the water was but a few feet in depth, and the dead hound was visible as he lay at the bottom. several of the reptiles approaching on that side, had seen this one at the same time, and, rushing forward, they served him precisely as his companion had been served by the others. a crumb of bread could not have disappeared sooner among a shoal of hungry minnows, than did the brace of deer-hounds down the throats of these ravenous reptiles. singular as was the incident, it had scarce drawn my notice. i had far other things to think of. after firing the pistol, i remained standing upon the tree, with my eyes fixed in the direction whence came the hounds. i gazed intently among the tree-trunks, away up the dark vistas of the forest, i watched the cane-brake, to note the slightest motion in the reeds. i listened to every sound, while i stood silent myself, and enjoined silence upon my trembling companion. i had but little hope then. there would be more dogs, no doubt--slower hounds following in the distance--and with them the mounted man-hunters. they could not be far behind--they could not fail to come up soon--the sooner that the report of my pistol would guide them to the spot. it would be of no use making opposition to a crowd of angry men. i could do nothing else than surrender to them. my companion entreated me to this course; abjured me not to use my weapons--for i now held the second pistol in my hand. but i had no intention of using them should the crowd of men come up; i had only taken out the pistol as a precaution against the attack of the dogs-- should any more appear. for a good while i heard no sounds from the forest, and saw no signs of our pursuers. what could be detaining them? perhaps the crossing of the bayou; or the tract of marsh. i knew the horsemen must there leave the trail; but were they all mounted? i began to hope that gabriel might yet be in time. if he had not heard the signal-whistle, he must have heard the reports of my pistol? but, on second thoughts, that might only keep him back. he would not understand the firing, and might fear to come with the pirogue! perhaps he had heard the first signal, and was now on his way. it was not too late to entertain such a supposition. notwithstanding what had passed, we had been yet but a short while upon the spot. if on the way, he might think the shots were fired from my double-barrelled gun--fired at some game. he might not be deterred. there was still a hope he might come in time. if so, we would be able to reach his tree-cave in safety. there was no trace of the dogs, save a blotch or two of blood upon the rough bark of the log, and that was not visible from the shore. unless there were other dogs to guide them to the spot, the men might not in the darkness so easily discover these marks. we might yet baffle them! with fresh hope i turned once more towards the water, and gazed in the direction in which i expected the pirogue to come. alas! there was no sign of it. no sound came from the lake save the wild calling of the affrighted birds. i turned once more to the land. i saw the cane-brake in motion. the tall culms vibrated and crackled under the heavy tread of a man, who the next moment emerging into the open ground, advanced at a slinging trot towards the water! he was alone and afoot--there were no dogs with him--but the long rifle poised upon his shoulder, and the hunting accoutrements around his body, told me at a glance he was the owner of the deer-hounds. his black bushy beard, his leggings, and buckskin shirt, his red neckcloth and raccoon cap--but above all, the brutal ferocity of his visage, left me in no doubt as to who this character was. the description of the runaway answered him in every particular. he could be no other than _ruffin the man-hunter_! chapter seventy four. shot for shot. yes, the individual who now advanced was ruffin the man-hunter; and the dogs i had killed, were his--a brace of sleuth-hounds, well-known in the settlement as being specially trained to tracking the unfortunate blacks, that, driven by cruel treatment, had taken to the woods. well-known, too, was their master--a dissipated brutal fellow, half hunter, half hog-thief, who dwelt in the woods like an indian savage, and hired himself out to such of the planters as needed the aid of him and his horrid hounds! as i have said, i had never seen this individual, though i had heard of him often--from scipio, from the boy caton, and, lastly, from gabriel. the bambarra had described him minutely--had told me wild stories of the man's wickedness and ferocious cruelty--how he had taken the lives of several runaways while in pursuit of them, and caused others to be torn and mangled by his savage dogs! he was the terror and aversion of every negro quarter along the coast; and his name--appropriate to his character--oft served the sable mother as a "bogey" to frighten her squalling piccaninny into silence! such was ruffin the _man-hunter_, as he was known among the black helots of the plantations. the "cobbing-board" and the red cowhide were not half so terrible as he. in comparison with him, such characters as "bully bill," the flogging overseer, might be esteemed mild and humane. the sight of this man at once deprived me of all farther thought of escape. i permitted my pistol arm to drop loosely by my side, and stood awaiting his advance, with the intention of surrendering ourselves up. resistance would be vain, and could only lead to the idle spilling of blood. with this intention i remained silent, having cautioned my companion to do the same. on first emerging from the cane-brake, the hunter did not see us. i was partially screened by the moss where i stood--aurore entirely so. besides, the man's eyes were not turned in our direction. they were bent upon the ground. no doubt he had heard the reports of my pistol; but he trusted more to his tracking instincts; and, from his bent attitude. i could tell that he was trailing his own dogs--almost as one of themselves would have done! as he neared the edge of the pond, the _smell_ of the water reached him; and, suddenly halting, he raised his eyes and looked forward. the sight of the pond seemed to puzzle him, and his astonishment was expressed in the short sharp expression-- "hell!" the next moment his eyes fell upon the prostrate tree, then quickly swept along its trunk, and rested full upon me. "hell and scissors!" he exclaimed, "thar are ye! whar's my dogs?" i stood eyeing him back, but made no reply. "you hear, damn yer! whar's my dogs?" i still remained silent. his eyes fell upon the log. he saw the blood-spots upon the hark. he remembered the shots. "hell and damn!" cried he, with horrid emphasis, "you've kilt my dogs!" and then followed a volley of mingled oaths and threats, while the ruffian gesticulated as, if he had suddenly gone mad! after a while he ceased from these idle demonstrations; and, planting himself firmly, he raised his rifle muzzle towards me, and cried out:-- "come off that log, and fetch your blue-skin with you! quick, damn yer! come off that log! another minnit, an' i'll plug ye!" i have said that at first sight of the man i had given up all idea of resistance, and intended to surrender at once; but there was something so arrogant in the demand--so insulting in the tone with which the ruffian made it--that it fired my very flesh with indignation, and determined me to stand at bay. anger, at being thus hunted, new-nerved both my heart and my arm. the brute had bayed me, and i resolved to risk resistance. another reason for changing my determination--i now saw that he was _alone_. he had followed the dogs afoot, while the others on horseback had no doubt been stopped or delayed by the bayou and morass. had the crowd come up, i must have yielded _nolens volens_; but the man-hunter himself--formidable antagonist though he appeared--was still but _one_, and to surrender tamely to a single individual, was more than my spirit--inherited from border ancestry--could brook. there was too much of the moss-trooper blood in my veins for that, and i resolved, _coute que coute_, to risk the encounter. my pistol was once more firmly grasped; and looking the ruffian full into his bloodshot eyes, i shouted back-- "fire at your peril! miss and you are mine!" the sight of my uplifted pistol caused him to quail; and i have no doubt that had opportunity offered, he would have withdrawn from the contest. he had expected no such a reception. but he had gone too far to recede. his rifle was already at his shoulder, and the next moment i saw the flash, and heard the sharp crack. the "thud" of his bullet, too, fell upon my ear, as it struck into the branch against which i was leaning. good marksman as he was reputed, the sheen of my pistols had spoiled his aim, and he had missed me! i did not miss _him_. he fell to the shot with a demoniac howl; and as the smoke thinned off, i could see him writhing and scrambling in the black mud! i hesitated whether to give him the second barrel--for i was angry and desired his life--but at this moment noises reached me from behind. i heard the plunging paddle, with the sounds of a manly voice; and turning, i beheld the bambarra. the latter had shot the pirogue among the tree-tops close to where we stood, and with voice and gesture now urged us to get aboard. "quick, mass'. quick, 'rore gal! jump into de dugout! jump in! truss ole gabe!--he stand by young mass' to de deff!" almost mechanically i yielded to the solicitations of the runaway-- though i now saw but little chance of our ultimate escape--and, having assisted aurore into the pirogue, i followed and took my seat beside her. the strong arm of the negro soon impelled us far out from the shore; and in five minutes after we were crossing the open lake toward the cypress clump in its midst. chapter seventy five. love in the hour of peril. we glided into the shadow of the tree, and passed under its trailing parasites. the pirogue touched its trunk. mechanically i climbed along the sloping buttress--mechanically assisted aurore. we stood within the hollow chamber--the lurking-place of the runaway-- and for the present were safe from pursuit. but there was no joy in our hearts. we knew it was but a respite, without any hope of ultimate concealment. the encounter with ruffin had ruined all our prospects. whether the hunter were yet dead or alive, his presence would guide the pursuit. the way we had got off would easily be conjectured, and our hiding-place could not long remain undiscovered. what had passed would be likely to aggravate our pursuers, and strengthen their determination to capture us. before ruffin came up, there was yet a chance of safety. most of those engaged in the pursuit would regard it as the mere ordinary affair of a chase after a runaway negro--a sport of which they might get tired whenever they should lose the track. considering for whom the hunt was got up--a man so unpopular as gayarre,--none would have any great interest in the result, excepting himself and his ruffian aids. had we left no traces where we embarked in the pirogue, the gloomy labyrinth of forest-covered water might have discouraged our pursuers--most of whom would have given up at the doubtful prospect, and returned to their homes. we might have been left undisturbed until nightfall, and it was my design to have then recrossed the lake, landed at some new point, and, under the guidance of the bambarra, get back to the levee road, where we were to meet d'hauteville with the horses. thence, as originally agreed upon, to the city. all this programme, i had hastily conceived; and previous to the appearance of ruffin, there was every probability i should succeed in carrying it out. even after i had shot the dogs, i did not wholly despair. there were still many chances of success that occurred to me. the pursuers, thought i, detained by the bayou, might have lost the dogs, and would not follow their track so easily. some time would be wasted at all events. even should they form a correct guess as to the fate of the hounds, neither men afoot nor on horseback could penetrate to our hiding-place. they would need boats or canoes. more time would be consumed in bringing these from the river, and perhaps night would be down before this could be effected. on night and d'hauteville i still had confidence. that was previous to the conflict with the man-hunter. after that affair, circumstances had undergone a change. alive or dead, ruffin would guide the pursuit to where we were. if still living--and now that my angry feeling had passed away i hoped he was--he would at once direct the pursuers upon us. i believed he was not dead--only wounded. his behaviour, after receiving the shot, had not been like that of a man mortally wounded. i believed, and hoped, that he still lived:--not that i felt at all remorseful at what had happened, but from mere prudential considerations. if dead, his body by the prostrate tree would soon be discovered, and would tell the tale to those who came up. we should be captured all the same, and might expect the more terrible consequences. the rencontre with this ruffian had been altogether unfortunate. it had changed the face of affairs. blood had been spilt _in defence of a runaway_. the news would return rapidly to the town. it would spread through the plantations with lightning-speed. the whole community would be fired and roused--the number of our pursuers quadrupled. i should be hunted as a _double_ outlaw, and with the hostile energy of vengeance! i knew all this, and no longer speculated upon the probabilities of deliverance. there was not the remotest prospect of our being able to get away. i drew my betrothed near me. i folded her in my arms, and pressed her to my heart. till death she would be mine! she swore it in that shadowy spot--in that dread and darksome hour. till death she would be mine! her love inspired me with courage; and with courage i awaited the result. another hour passed. despite our fearful anticipations, that hour was pleasantly spent. strange it is to say so, but it was in reality one of the happiest hours i can remember. it was the first time i had been enabled to hold free converse with aurore since the day of our betrothal. we were now alone--for the faithful black stood sentinel below by the hawser of his pirogue. the reaction, consequent upon my late jealousy, had kindled my love to a renewed and fiercer life--for such is the law of nature. in the very ardour of my affection, i almost forgot our desperate situation. over and over again we vowed eternal troth--over and over plighted our mutual faith, in fond, burning words--the eloquence of our heartfelt passion. oh! it was a happy hour! alas! it came to an end. it ended with a painful regret, but not with surprise. i was not surprised to hear horns sounding through the woods, and signal shouts answering each other in different directions. i was not surprised when voices came pealing across the water--loud oaths and ejaculations--mingled with the plashing of paddles and the plunging of oars; and, when the negro announced that several boats filled with armed men were in the open water and approaching the tree, it did not take me by surprise. i had foreseen all this. i descended to the base of the cypress, and, stooping down, looked out under the hanging moss. i could see the surface of the lake. i could see the men in their canoes and skiffs, rowing and gesticulating. when near the middle of the open water, they lay upon their oars, and held a short consultation. after a moment they separated, and rowed in circles around, evidently with the design of encompassing the tree. in a few minutes they had executed this manoeuvre, and now closed in, until their vessels floated among the drooping branches of the cypress. a shout of triumph told that they had discovered our retreat; and i now saw their faces peering through the curtain of straggling _tillandsia_. they could see the pirogue, and both the negro and myself standing by the bow. "surrender!" shouted a voice in a loud, firm tone. "if you resist, your lives be on your own heads!" notwithstanding this summons, the boats did not advance any nearer. they knew that i carried pistols, and that i knew how to handle them-- the proofs, were fresh. they approached, therefore, with caution-- thinking i might still use my weapons. they had no need to be apprehensive. i had not the slightest intention of doing so. resistance against twenty men--for there were that number in the boats, twenty men well armed--would have been a piece of desperate folly. i never thought of such a thing; though, if i had, i believe the bambarra would have stood by me to the death. the brave fellow, steeled to a supernatural courage by the prospect of his punishment, had even proposed fight! but his courage was madness; and i entreated him not to resist--as they would certainly have slain him on the spot. i meant no resistance, but i hesitated a moment in making answer. "we're all armed," continued the speaker, who seemed to have some authority over the others. "it is useless for you to resist--you had better give up!" "damn them!" cried another and a rougher voice; "don't waste talk on them. let's fire the tree, and smoke 'em out; that moss 'll burn, i reckon!" i recognised the voice that uttered this inhuman suggestion. it came from bully bill. "i have no intention of making resistance," i called out in reply to the first speaker. "i am ready to go with you. i have committed no crime. for what i have done i am ready to answer to the laws." "you shall answer to _us_," replied one who had not before spoken; "_we_ are the laws here." there was an ambiguity in this speech that i liked not; but there was no further parley. the skiffs and canoes had suddenly closed in around the tree. a dozen muzzles of pistols and rifles were pointed at me, and a dozen voices commanded the negro and myself to get into one of the boats. from the fierce, determined glances of these rough men, i saw it was death or obedience. i turned to bid adieu to aurore, who had rushed out of the tree-cave, and stood near me weeping. as i faced round, several men sprang upon the buttress; and, seizing me from behind, held me in their united grasp. then drawing my arms across my back, tied them fast with a rope. i could just speak one parting word with aurore, who, no longer in tears, stood regarding my captors with a look of scornful indignation. as they led me unresistingly into the boat, her high spirit gave way to words, and she cried out in a voice of scorn-- "cowards! cowards! not one of you dare meet him in a fair field--no, not one of you!" the lofty spirit of my betrothed echoed mine, and gave me proof of her love. i was pleased with it, and could have applauded; but my mortified captors gave me no time to reply; for the next moment the pirogue in which i had been placed shot out through the branches, and floated on the open water of the lake. chapter seventy six. a terrible fate. i saw no more of aurore. neither was the black brought along. i could gather from the conversation of my captors, that they were to be taken in one of the skiffs that had stayed behind--that they were to be landed at a different point from that to which we were steering. i could gather, too, that the poor bambarra was doomed to a terrible punishment--the same he already dreaded--the losing of an arm! i was pained at such a thought, but still more by the rude jests i had now to listen to. my betrothed and myself were reviled with a disgusting coarseness, which i cannot repeat. i made no attempt to defend either her or myself. i did not even reply. i sat with my eyes bent gloomily upon the water; and it was a sort of relict to me when the pirogue again passed in among the trunks of the cypress-trees, and their dark shadow half concealed my face from the view of my captors. i was brought back to the landing by the old tree-trunk. on nearing this i saw that a crowd of men awaited us on the shore; and among them i recognised the ferocious ruffin, with his arm slung in his red kerchief, bandaged and bloody. he was standing up with the rest. "thank heaven! i have not killed him!" was my mental ejaculation. "so much the less have i to answer for." the canoes and skiffs--with the exception of that which carried aurore and the black--had all arrived at this point, and my captors were landing. in all there were some thirty or forty men, with a proportion of half-grown boys. most of them were armed with either pistols or rifles. under the grey gloom of the trees, they presented a picturesque tableau; but at that moment my feelings were not attuned to enjoy it. i was landed among the rest; and with two armed men, one before and another immediately at my back, i was marched off through the woods. the crowd accompanied us, some in the advance, some behind, while others walked alongside. these were the boys and the more brutal of the men who occasionally taunted me with rude speech. i might have lost patience and grown angry, had that served me; but i knew it would only give pleasure to my tormentors, without bettering my condition. i therefore observed silence, and kept my eyes averted or turned upon the ground. we passed on rapidly--as fast as the crowd could make way through the bushes--and i was glad of this. i presumed i was about to be conducted before a magistrate, or "justice of the peace," as there called. well, thought i. under legal authority, and in the keeping of the officers, i should be protected from the gibes and insults that were being showered upon me. everything short of personal violence was offered; and there were some that seemed sufficiently disposed even for this. i saw the forest opening in front. i supposed we had gone by some shorter way to the clearings. it was not so, for the next moment we emerged into the glade. again the glade! here my captors came to a halt; and now in the open light i had an opportunity to know who they were. at a glance i saw that i was in the hands of a desperate crowd. gayarre himself was in their midst, and beside him his own overseer, and the negro-trader, and the brutal larkin. with these were some half-dozen creole-frenchmen of the poorer class of _proprietaires_, weavers of cottonade, or small planters. the rest of the mob was composed of the very scum of the settlement--the drunken boatmen whom i had used to see gossiping in front of the "groceries," and other dissipated rowdies of the place. not one respectable planter appeared upon the ground--not one respectable man! for what had they stopped in the glade? i was impatient to be taken before the justice, and chafed at the delay. "why am i detained here?" i asked in a tone of anger. "ho, mister!" replied one; "don't be in such a hell of a hurry! you'll find out soon enough, i reckon." "i protest against this," i continued. "i insist upon being taken before the justice." "an' so ye will, damn you! you ain't got far to go. _the justice is hyar_." "who? where?" i inquired, under the impression that a magistrate was upon the ground. i had heard of wood-choppers acting as justices of the peace--in fact, had met with one or two of them--and among the rude forms that surrounded me there might be one of these. "where is the justice?" i demanded. "oh, he's about--never you fear!" replied one. "whar's the justice?" shouted another. "ay, whar's the justice?--whar are ye, judge?" cried a third, as if appealing to some one in the crowd. "come on hyar, judge!" he added. "come along!--hyar's a fellar wants to see you!" i really thought the man was in earnest. i really believed there was such an individual in the mob. the only impression made upon me was astonishment at this rudeness towards the magisterial representative of the law. my misconception was short-lived, for at this moment ruffin--the bandaged and bloody ruffin--came close up to me; and, after scowling upon me with his fierce, bloodshot eyes, bent forward until his lips almost touched my face, and then hissed out-- "perhaps, mister nigger-stealer, you've niver heerd ov _justice lynch_?" a thrill of horror run through my veins. the fearful conviction flashed before my mind that _they_ were _going to lynch me_! chapter seventy seven. the sentence of judge lynch. an undefined suspicion of something of this sort had already crossed my thoughts. i remembered the reply made from the boats, "you shall answer to _us_. _we_ are the law." i had heard some mysterious innuendoes as we passed through the woods--i had noticed too, that on our arrival in the glade, we found those who had gone in the advance halted there, as if waiting for the others to come up; and i could not comprehend why we had stopped there at all. i now saw that the men of the party were drawing to one side, and forming a sort of irregular ring, with that peculiar air of solemnity that bespeaks some serious business. it was only the boys, and some negroes--for these, too, had taken part in our capture--who remained near me. ruffin had simply approached to gratify his revengeful feelings by tantalising me. all these appearances had aroused wild suspicions within me, but up to that moment they had assumed no definite form. i had even endeavoured to keep back such a suspicion, under the vague belief, that by the very imagination of it, i might in some way aid in bringing it about! it was no longer suspicion. it was now conviction. they were going to lynch me! the significant interrogatory, on account of the manner in which it was put, was hailed by the boys with a shout of laughter. ruffin continued-- "no; i guess you han't heerd ov that ar justice, since yur a stranger in these parts, an' a britisher. you han't got sich a one among yur bigwigs, i reckin. he's the fellar that ain't a-goin' to keep you long in chancery. no, by god! he'll do yur business in double-quick time. hell and scissors! yu'll see if he don't." throughout all this speech the brutal fellow taunted me with gestures as well as words--drawing from his auditory repeated bursts of laughter. so provoked was i that, had i not been fast bound, i should have sprung upon him; but, bound as i was, and vulgar brute as was this adversary, i could not hold my tongue. "were i free, you ruffian, you would not dare taunt me thus. at all events _you_ have come off but second best. i've crippled _you_ for life; though it don't matter much, seeing what a clumsy use you make of a rifle." this speech produced a terrible effect upon the brute--the more so that the boys now laughed at _him_. these boys were not all bad. they were incensed against me as an abolitionist--or "nigger-stealer," as they phrased it--and, under the countenance and guidance of their elders, their worst passions were now at play; but for all that, they were not essentially wicked. they were rough backwoods' boys, and the spirit of my retort pleased them. after that they held back from jeering me. not so with ruffin, who now broke forth into a string of vindictive oaths and menaces, and appeared as if about to grapple me with his one remaining hand. at this moment he was called off by the men, who needed him in the "caucus;" and, after shaking his fist in my face, and uttering a parting imprecation, he left me. i was for some minutes kept in suspense. i could not tell what this dread council were debating, or what they meant to do with me--though i now felt quite certain that they did not intend taking me before any magistrate. from frequent phrases that reached my ears, such as, "flog the scoundrel", "tar and feathers," i began to conjecture that some such punishment awaited me. to my astonishment, however, i found, upon listening a while, that a number of my judges were actually opposed to these punishments as being too mild! some declared openly, that _nothing but my life could satisfy the outraged laws_! the _majority_ took this view of the case; and it was to add to their strength that ruffin had been summoned! a feeling of terrible fear crept over me--say rather a feeling of horror--but it was only complete when the ring of men suddenly broke up, and i saw two of their number lay hold of a rope, and commence reeving it over the limb of a gum-tree that stood by the edge of the glade. there had been a trial and a sentence too. even judge lynch has his formality. when the rope was adjusted, one of the men--the negro-trader it was-- approached me; and in a sort of rude paraphrase of a judge, summed up and pronounced the sentence! i had outraged the laws; i had committed two capital crimes. i had stolen slaves, and endeavoured to take away the life of a fellow-creature. a jury of twelve men had tried--and found me guilty; and sentenced me to death by hanging. even this was not permitted to go forth in an informal manner. the very phraseology was adopted. i was to be hung by the neck until i should be dead--dead! you will deem this relation exaggerated and improbable. you will think that i am sporting with you. you will not believe that such lawlessness can exist in a christian--a civilised land. you will fancy that these men were sporting with _me_, and that in the end they did not seriously intend to _hang me_. i cannot help it if you think so; but i solemnly declare that such was their design: and i felt as certain at that moment that they intended to have hanged me, as i now feel that i was not hanged! believe it or not, you must remember that i would not have been the first victim by many, and that thought was vividly before my mind at the time. along with it, there was the rope--there the tree--there stood my judges before me. their looks alone might have produced conviction. there was not a ray of mercy to be seen. at that awful moment i knew not what i said or how i acted. i remember only that my fears were somewhat modified by my indignation. that i protested, menaced, swore--that my ruthless judges answered me with mockery. they were actually proceeding to put the sentence into execution--and had already carried me across to the foot of the tree--when the sound of trampling hoofs fell upon our ears, and the next moment a party of horsemen galloped into the glade. chapter seventy eight. in the hands of the sheriff. at sight of these horsemen my heart leaped with joy, for among the foremost i beheld the calm, resolute face of edward reigart. behind him rode the sheriff of the parish, followed by a "posse" of about a dozen men--among whom i recognised several of the most respectable planters of the neighbourhood. every one of the party was armed either with a rifle or pistols; and the manner in which they rode forward upon the ground, showed that they had come in great haste, and with a determined purpose. i say my heart leaped with joy. an actual criminal standing upon the platform of the gallows could not have been more joyed at sight of the messenger that brought him reprieve or pardon. in the new-comers i recognised friends: in their countenances i read rescue. i was not displeased, therefore, when the sheriff, dismounting, advanced to my side, and placing his hand upon my shoulder, told me i was his prisoner "in the name of the law." though brusquely done, and apparently with a degree of rudeness, i was not displeased either by the act or the manner. the latter was plainly assumed for a purpose; and in the act itself i hailed the salvation of my life. i felt like a rescued man. the proceeding did not equally content my former judges, who loudly murmured their dissatisfaction. they alleged that i had already been tried by a jury of _twelve free citizens_--that i had been found guilty of nigger-stealing--that i had stolen _two niggers_--that i had resisted when pursued, and had "wownded" one of my pursuers; and that, as all this had been "clarly made out," they couldn't see what more was wanted to establish my guilt, and that i ought to be _hung_ on the spot, without further loss of time. the sheriff replied that such a course would be illegal; that the majesty of the law must be respected; that if i was guilty of the crimes alleged against me, the law would most certainly measure out full punishment to me; but that i must first be brought before a justice, and the charge legally and formally made out; and, finally, expressed his intention to take me before justice claiborne, the magistrate of the district. an angry altercation ensued between the mob and the sheriffs party--in which but slight show of respect was paid to the high executive--and for some time i was actually in dread that the ruffians would carry their point. but an american sheriff is entirely a different sort of character from the idle gentleman who fills that office in an english county. the former is, in nine cases out of ten, a man of proved courage and action; and sheriff hickman, with whom my _quasi_ judges had to deal, was no exception to this rule. his "posse," moreover, hurriedly collected by my friend reigart, chanced to have among their number several men of a similar stamp. reigart himself, though a man of peace, was well-known to possess a cool and determined spirit; and there was the landlord of my hotel, and several of the planters who accompanied several of the young planters, behaved in a handsome manner; and the law prevailed. yes! thank heaven and half-a-dozen noble men, the law prevailed--else i should never have gone out of that glade alive! justice lynch had to give way to justice claiborne, and a respite was obtained from the cruel verdict of the former. the victorious sheriff and his party bore me off in their midst. but though my ferocious judges had yielded for the present, it was not certain that they would not still attempt to rescue me from the hands of the law. to prevent this, the sheriff mounted me upon a horse--he himself riding upon one side, while an assistant of tried courage took the opposite. reigart and the planters kept close to me before and behind; while the shouting, blaspheming mob followed both on horseback and afoot. in this way we passed through the woods, across the fields, along the road leading into bringiers, and then to the residence of "squire" claiborne--justice of the peace for that district. attached to his dwelling was a large room or office where the squire was used to administer the magisterial law of the land. it was entered by a separate door from the house itself, and had no particular marks about it to denote that it was a hall of justice, beyond the fact that it was furnished with a bench or two to serve as seats, and a small desk or rostrum in one corner. at this desk the squire was in the habit of settling petty disputes, administering affidavits at a quarter of a dollar each, and arranging other small civic matters. but oftener was his magisterial function employed in sentencing the mutinous "darkie" to his due the sheriff-- sterling men, who were lovers of the law and lovers of fair play as well--and those, armed to the teeth, would have laid down their lives on the spot in defence of the sheriff and his demand. true, they were in the minority in point of numbers; but they had the law upon their side, and that gave them strength. there was one point in my favour above all others, and that was, my accusers chanced to be unpopular men. gayarre, as already stated, although professing a high standard of morality, was not esteemed by the neighbouring planters--particularly by those of american origin. the others most forward against me were known to be secretly instigated by the lawyer. as to ruffin, whom i had "wounded," those upon the ground had heard the crack of his rifle, and knew that _he had fired first_. in their calmer moments my resistance would have been deemed perfectly justifiable--so far as that individual was concerned. had the circumstances been different--had the "two niggers" i had _stolen_ belonged to a popular planter, and not to monsieur dominique gayarre--had ruffin been a respectable citizen, instead of the dissipated half outlaw that he was--had there not been a suspicion in the minds of many present that it was _not_ a case of ordinary _nigger-stealing_, then indeed might it have gone ill with me, in spite of the sheriff and his party. even as it was, a long and angry altercation ensued--loud words, oaths, and gestures of menace, were freely exchanged--and both rifles and pistols were cocked and firmly grasped before the discussion ended. but the brave sheriff remained resolute; reigart acted a most courageous part; my _ci-devant_ host, and proportion of stripes on the complaint of a conscientious master--for, after all, such theoretical protection does the poor slave enjoy. into this room, then, was i hurried by the sheriff and his assistants-- the mob rushing in after, until every available space was occupied. chapter seventy nine. the crisis. no doubt a messenger had preceded us, for we found squire claiborne in his chair of office, ready to hear the case. in the tall, thin old man, with white hair and dignified aspect, i recognised a fit representative of justice--one of those venerable magistrates, who command respect not only by virtue of age and office, but from the dignity of their personal character. in spite of the noisy rabble that surrounded me, i read in the serene, firm look of the magistrate the determination to show fair play. i was no longer uneasy. on the way, reigart had told me to be of good cheer. he had whispered something about "strange developments to be made;" but i had not fully heard him, and was at a loss to comprehend what he meant. in the hurry and crush i had found no opportunity for an explanation. "keep up your spirits!" said he, as he pushed his horse alongside me. "don't have any fear about the result. it's rather an odd affair, and will have an odd ending--rather unexpected for somebody, i should say-- ha! ha! ha!" reigart actually laughed aloud, and appeared to be in high glee! what could such conduct mean? i was not permitted to know, for at that moment the sheriff, in a high tone of authority, commanded that no one should "hold communication with the prisoner;" and my friend and i were abruptly separated. strange, i did not dislike the sheriff for this! i had a secret belief that his manner--apparently somewhat hostile to me--was assumed for a purpose. the mob required conciliation; and all this _brusquerie_ was a bit of management on the part of sheriff hickman. on arriving before justice claiborne, it required all the authority of both sheriff and justice to obtain silence. a partial lull, however, enabled the latter to proceed with the case. "now, gentlemen!" said he, speaking in a firm, magisterial tone, "i am ready to hear the charge against this young man. of what is he accused, colonel hickman?" inquired the justice, turning to the sheriff. "of negro-stealing, i believe," replied the latter. "who prefers the charge?" "dominique gayarre," replied a voice from the crowd, which i recognised as that of gayarre himself. "is monsieur gayarre present?" inquired the justice. the voice again replied in the affirmative, and the fox-like face of the avocat now presented itself in front of the rostrum. "monsieur dominique gayarre," said the magistrate, recognising him, "what is the charge you bring against the prisoner? state it in full and upon oath." gayarre having gone through the formula of the oath, proceeded with his plaint in true lawyer style. i need not follow the circumlocution of legal phraseology. suffice it to say, that there were several counts in his indictment. i was first accused of having endeavoured to instigate to mutiny and revolt the slaves of the plantation besancon, by having interfered to prevent one of their number from receiving his _just_ punishment! secondly, i had caused another of these to strike down his overseer; and afterwards had induced him to run away to the woods, and aided him in so doing! this was the slave gabriel, who had just that day been captured in my company. thirdly and gayarre now came to the cream of his accusation. "thirdly," continued he, "i accuse this person of having entered my house on the night of october the th, and having stolen therefrom the female slave aurore besancon." "it is false!" cried a voice, interrupting him. "it is false! _aurore besancon_ is _not a slave_!" gayarre started, as though some one had thrust a knife into him. "who says that?" he demanded, though with a voice that evidently faltered. "i!" replied the voice; and at the same instant a young man leaped upon one of the benches, and stood with his head overtopping the crowd. it was d'hauteville! "i say it!" he repeated, in the same firm tone. "_aurore besancon is no slave, but a free quadroon_! here, justice claiborne," continued d'hauteville, "do me the favour to read this document!" at the same time the speaker handed a folded parchment across the room. the sheriff passed it to the magistrate, who opened it and read aloud. it proved to be the "free papers" of aurore the quadroon--the certificate of her manumission--regularly signed and attested by her master, auguste besancon, and left by him in his will. the astonishment was extreme--so much so that the crowd seemed petrified, and preserved silence. their feelings were on the turn. the effect produced upon gayarre was visible to all. he seemed covered with confusion. in his embarrassment he faltered out-- "i protest against this--that paper has been stolen from my bureau, and--" "so much the better, monsieur gayarre!" said d'hauteville, again interrupting him; "so much the better! you confess to its being stolen, and therefore you confess to its being genuine. now, sir, having this document in your possession, and knowing its contents, how could you claim aurore besancon as your slave?" gayarre was confounded. his cadaverous face became of a white, sickly hue; and his habitual look of malice rapidly gave way to an expression of terror. he appeared as if he wanted to be gone; and already crouched behind the taller men who stood around him. "stop, monsieur gayarre!" continued the inexorable d'hauteville, "i have not done with you yet. here, justice claiborne! i have another document that may interest you. will you have the goodness to give it your attention?" saying this, the speaker held out a second folded parchment, which was handed to the magistrate--who, as before, opened the document and read it aloud. this was a codicil to the will of auguste besancon, by which the sum of fifty thousand dollars in bank stock was bequeathed to his daughter, eugenie besancon, to be paid to her upon the day on which she should be of age by the joint executors of the estate--monsieur dominique gayarre and antoine lereux--and these executors were instructed not to make known to the recipient the existence of this sum in her favour, until the very day of its payment. "now, monsieur dominique gayarre!" continued d'hauteville, as soon as the reading was finished, "i charge you with the embezzlement of this fifty thousand dollars, with various other sums--of which more hereafter. i charge you with having concealed the existence of this money--of having withheld it from the assets of the estate besancon--of having appropriated it to your own use!" "this is a serious charge," said justice claiborne, evidently impressed with its truth, and prepared to entertain it. "your name, sir, if you please?" continued he, interrogating d'hauteville, in a mild tone of voice. it was the first time i had seen d'hauteville in the full light of day. all that had yet passed between us had taken place either in the darkness of night or by the light of lamps. that morning alone had we been together for a few minutes by daylight; but even then it was under the sombre shadow of the woods--where i could have but a faint view of his features. now that he stood in the light of the open window, i had a full, clear view of his face. the resemblance to some one i had seen before again impressed me. it grew stronger as i gazed; and before the magistrate's interrogatory had received its reply, the shock of my astonishment had passed. "your name, sir, if you please?" repeated the justice. "_eugenie besancon_!" at the same instant the hat was pulled off--the black curls were drawn aside--and the fair, golden tresses of the beautiful creole exhibited to the view. a loud huzza broke out--in which all joined, excepting gayarre and his two or three ruffian adherents. i felt that i was free. the conditions had suddenly changed, and the plaintiff had taken the place of the defendant. even before the excitement had quieted down, i saw the sheriff, at the instigation of reigart and others, stride forward to gayarre, and placing his hand upon the shoulder of the latter, arrest him as his prisoner. "it is false!" cried gayarre; "a plot--a damnable plot! these documents are forgeries! the signatures are false--false!" "not so, monsieur gayarre," said the justice, interrupting him. "those documents are not forgeries. this is the handwriting of auguste besancon. i knew him well. this is his signature--i could myself swear to it." "and i!" responded a voice, in a deep solemn tone, which drew the attention of all. the transformation of eugene d'hauteville to eugenie besancon had astonished the crowd; but a greater surprise awaited them in the resurrection of the _steward antoine_! reader! my story is ended. here upon our little drama must the curtain drop. i might offer you other tableaux to illustrate the after history of our characters, but a slight summary must suffice. your fancy will supply the details. it will glad you to know, then, that eugenie besancon recovered the whole of her property--which was soon restored to its flourishing condition under the faithful stewardship of antoine. alas! there was that that could never be restored--the young cheerful heart--the buoyant spirit--the virgin love! but do not imagine that eugenie besancon yielded to despair--that she was ever after the victim of that unhappy passion. no--hers was a mighty will; and all its energies were employed to pluck the fatal arrow from her heart. time and a virtuous life have much power; but far more effective was that sympathy of the object beloved--that _pity for love_--which to her was fully accorded. her heart's young hope was crushed--her gay spirit shrouded--but there are other joys in life besides the play of the passions; and, it may be, the path of love is not the true road to happiness. oh! that i could believe this! oh! that i could reason myself into the belief, that that calm and unruffled mien--that soft sweet smile were the tokens of a heart at rest. alas! i cannot. fate will have its victims. poor eugenie! god be merciful to thee! oh, that i could steep thy heart in the waters of lethe! and reigart? you, reader, will be glad to know that the good doctor prospered--prospered until he was enabled to lay aside his lancet, and become a grandee planter--nay more, a distinguished legislator,--one of those to whom belongs the credit of having modelled the present system of louisiana law--the most advanced code in the civilised world. you will be glad to learn that scipio, with his chloe and the "leetle chloe," were brought back to their old and now happy home--that the snake-charmer still retained his brawny arms, and never afterwards had occasion to seek refuge in his tree-cavern. you will not be grieved to know, that gayarre passed several years of his after-life in the palace-prison of baton rouge, and then disappeared altogether from the scene. it was said that under a changed name he returned to france, his native country. his conviction was easy. antoine had long suspected him of a design to plunder their joint ward, and had determined to put him to the proof. the raft of chairs had floated after all; and by the help of these the faithful steward had gained the shore, far down the river. no one knew of his escape; and the idea occurred to this strange old man to remain for a while _en perdu_--a silent spectator of the conduct of monsieur dominique. no sooner did gayarre believe him gone, than the latter advanced boldly upon his purpose, and hurried events to the described crisis. it was just what antoine had expected; and acting himself as the accuser, the conviction of the avocat was easy and certain. a sentence of five years to the state penitentiary wound up gayarre's connexion with the characters of our story. it will scarce grieve you to know that "bully bill" experienced a somewhat similar fate--that ruffin, the man-hunter, was drowned by a sudden rising of the swamp--and that the "nigger-trader" afterwards became a "nigger-stealer;" and for that crime was sentenced at the court of judge lynch to the punishment of "tar and feathers." the "sportsmen," chorley and hatcher, i never saw again--though their future is not unknown to me. chorley--the brave and accomplished, but wicked chorley--was killed in a duel by a creole of new orleans, with whom he had quarrelled at play. hatcher's bank "got broke" soon after, and a series of ill-fortune at length reduced him to the condition of a race-course thimble-rig, and small sharper in general. the pork-merchant i met many years afterward, as a successful _monte_ dealer in the "halls of the montezumas." thither he had gone,--a camp-follower of the american army--and had accumulated an enormous fortune by keeping a gambling-table for the officers. he did not live long to enjoy his evil gains. the "_vomito prieto_" caught him at vera cruz; and his dust is now mingled with the sands of that dreary shore. thus, reader, it has been my happy fortune to record _poetical justice_ to the various characters that have figured in the pages of our history. i hear you exclaim, that two have been forgotten, the hero and heroine? ah! no--not forgotten. would you have me paint the ceremony--the pomp and splendour--the ribbons and rosettes--the after-scenes of perfect bliss? hymen, forbid! all these must be left to your fancy, if your fancy deign to act. but the interest of a "lover's adventures" usually ends with the consummation of his hopes--not even always extending to the altar--and you, reader, will scarce be curious to lift the curtain, that veils the tranquil after-life of myself and my beautiful quadroon. note to the preface. after what has been stated in the preface, it will scarce be necessary to say that the _names_ and some of the _places_ mentioned in this book are fictitious. some of the scenes, and many of the characters that figure in these pages, are _real_, and there are those living who will recognise them. the book is "founded" upon an actual experience. it was written many years ago, and would have been then published, but for the interference of a well-known work, which treated of similar scenes and subjects. that work appeared just as the "quadroon" was about to be put to press; and the author of the the latter, not willing to risk the chances of being considered an imitator had determined on keeping the "quadroon" from the public. circumstances have ruled it otherwise; and having re-written some parts of the work, he now presents it to the reader as a painting--somewhat coarse and crude, perhaps--of life in louisiana. the author disclaims all "intention." the book has been written neither to aid the abolitionist nor glorify the planter. the author does not believe that by such means he could benefit the slave, else he would not fear to avow it. on the other hand, he is too true a republican, to be the instrument that would add one drop to the "bad blood" which, unfortunately for the cause of human freedom, has already arisen between "north" and "south." no; he will be the last man to aid european despots in this, their dearest wish and desperate hope. _london, july_, . generously provided by the wright american fiction project (http://www.letrs.indiana.edu/web/w/wright /) of the library electronic text service of indiana university note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h.zip) images of the original pages are available through the wright american fiction project (http://www.letrs.indiana.edu/web/w/wright /) of the library electronic text service of indiana university. angel agnes: or, the heroine of the yellow fever plague in shreveport. the strangely romantic history and sad death of miss agnes arnold, the adopted daughter of the late samuel arnold, of this city. wealthy, lovely, and engaged to be married, yet this devoted girl volunteered to go and nurse yellow fever patients at shreveport, louisiana. after three weeks of incessant labor she met with a painful and fatal accident. _she died in the hope of a blessed immortality_. her intended husband, who had followed her to shreveport, had already died, and the two were buried side by side. terrible scenes during the plague. by wesley bradshaw. issued by old franklin publishing house in philadelphia, pa. entered according to act of congress, in the year , by c. w. alexander, in the office of the librarian of congress at washington, d.c. * * * * * * [advertisement] geo. woods & co's parlor organs. [illustration: organ] their combination solo stops are capable of the most beautiful musical effects. * aeoline--a soft or breathing stop. * vox humana--a baritone solo, not a fan or tremolo. * piano--which will never require tuning. few are aware of the perfection the parlor organ has reached, the variety of musical effects of which it is capable, and how desirable an addition it is to the parlor. these instruments have created much interest and enthusiasm by reason of their quality of tone, elegance of finish and musical effects. the profession and public generally are earnestly invited to examine these beautiful instruments at our own or agents' warerooms, and compare them with other instruments of their class. correspondence with the trade and profession solicited. agents wanted in every town. circulars containing music free. geo. woods & co., cambridgeport, mass. warerooms, * & adams st., chicago. * king william st., london. * m.g. bisbee, chestnut st., philadelphia, pa. in replying cut off this address and enclose in your letter. * * * * * * angel agnes. may god protect you, reader of this book, from all manner of sickness; but above all, from that thrice dreaded pestilence, yellow fever. of all the scourge ever sent upon poor sinful man, none equals in horror and loathsomeness yellow fever. strong fathers and husbands, sons and brothers, who would face the grape-shot battery in battle, have fled dismayed from the approach of yellow fever. they have even deserted those most dear to them. courageous, enduring women, too, who feared hardly any other form of sickness, have been terrified into cowardice and flight when yellow fever announced its awful presence. such was the state of affairs when, a short time ago, the startling announcement was made that yellow fever had broken out in shreveport, louisiana, and that it was of the most malignant type. at once everybody who could do so left the stricken city for safer localities, and, with equal promptitude, other cities and towns quarantined themselves against shreveport, for fear of the spread of the frightful contagion to their own homes and firesides. daily the telegraph flashed to all parts of the land the condition of shreveport, until the operators themselves were cut down by the disease and carried to the graveyard. volunteers were then called for from among operators in the places, and several of these, who came in response to the call, though acclimated, and fanciedly safe, took it and died. then it was that terror really began to take hold of the people in earnest. a man was alive and well in the morning, and at night he was a horrible corpse. the fond mother who thanked heaven, as she put her children to bed, that she had no signs of the malady, and would be able to nurse them if they got sick, left those little ones orphans before another bedtime came around. in some cases even, the fell destroyer within forty-eight hours struck down whole families, leaving neither husband, mother nor orphans to mourn each other, but sweeping them all into eternity on one wave as it were. then it was that a great wail of mortal distress rose from shreveport--a call for help from one end of the land to another. business came to a stand-still, the ordinary avocations of life were suspended. no work! no money! no bread! nothing but sickness! nothing but horror! nothing but despair! nothing but death! alas! was there no help in this supreme moment? there was plenty of money forthcoming, but no nurses. philanthropic men and women in near and also distant states, sent their dollars even by telegraph. but who would go thither and peril his or her life for the good of the city in sackcloth and ashes? praised be the name of that god who gave them their brave hearts, there were some who nobly volunteered for the deadly but loving task. to go was almost certain death to themselves--yet did they go. and most brave, most distinguished, most lovely among those devoted few, was agnes arnold, the subject of this little memoir. we have on our title page called her "angel agnes." that was what many a burning lip named her in the unfortunate city of shreveport, as with her low, kind, tender voice, she spoke words of pious comfort to the passing soul, and whispered religious consolation in the fast deafening ears of the dying. many had called her angel, because their dimming eyes had not beheld a friend's face since they took sick, till they saw hers. let us not fill space, though, with encomiums, but let this noble christian creature's deeds be recorded to speak for themselves. so shall you, reader, do justice to the lovely martyr, whose form, together with that of her intended husband, sleeps in the eternal slumber far away in louisiana. agnes volunteers. one day mrs. arnold, widow of the late well-known samuel arnold of this city, sat in the library of their elegant mansion up town, leading the daily papers. it was shortly after breakfast, and presently agnes, her adopted daughter, entered the room. the arnolds had never had any children, save one, a girl, and she had died when she was three years old. while going to the funeral, mrs. arnold saw a poorly clad lady walking slowly along with a little girl so strikingly like her own dead child, that she was perfectly astonished,--so much so, indeed, that she called her husband's attention to the little one. mr. arnold himself was so surprised that he had the carriage stop, and, getting out, went and inquired the lady's name and address. "for, madame," said he, as a reason for his doing such an apparently strange act, "your little daughter here is a perfect likeness of our own little agnes, whose coffin you see in yonder hearse. you must allow mrs. arnold and me to call upon you, though we are perfect strangers to you; indeed you must." "very well, sir," answered the strange lady, "i shall not, certainly under the circumstances, object." immediately after the funeral the arnolds called at the residence of mrs. morton, whose husband had died more than a year before. she was obliged to take in plain sewing, and when she could do so, she gave occasional lessons in french to eke out a livelihood for herself and child. a very short interview resulted in mrs. arnold persuading the widow to take a permanent situation with her, as her seamstress. and from that date until her death, which took place five years later, the fortunate widow and her child lived with the arnolds as full members of the family. with an exquisite and grateful regard for the sensibilities and possible wishes of her benefactors, the mother of the child voluntarily changed its name from mary to agnes. "i know you will approve of my doing so," said she, on the occasion of her daughter's birthday--the arnolds made quite a time of it, decking the new agnes in all the trinkets which had once belonged to the little agnes, who was gone--"i know you will approve of my doing so, and i cannot think of any better way in which to express my gratitude to you both." mr. and mrs. arnold were moved to tears by these words; in fact, so deep and genuine was their emotion that neither one spoke for some time. they did nothing but fondle and kiss the child they had adopted. thenceforward, instead of mary morton, the child was agnes arnold. years went by, and on the day we first introduced her she was twenty-two years old. her own mother and mr. arnold had passed away and were laid away to sleep in the dust close by the little agnes of old. but like the ivy and the flowers which grew over all their graves, each advancing year made stouter and stronger the invisible ivy that bound agnes' heart and mrs. arnold's heart together, and the same advancing year rendered sweeter and sweeter the fragrance of those unseen yet ever-present buds and blossoms, that created a perpetual summer in their minds and affections. "mother," said agnes as she entered the library and drew up a chair close to mrs. arnold's, "i wish to ask your advice about the affair between george and me. do you think i ought to take any more notice of him or sophia?" "well, i scarcely can speak to you advisedly, agnes, on such a matter," said mrs. arnold. "you are aware that my first and last thoughts are for your happiness. but, from what i know of the circumstances, i do not see that you can make any move either one way or another without sacrificing your feelings unjustly." "i have kept back nothing from you, mother," replied agnes; "you know all, just as well as i do myself." "then i think you did perfectly right, agnes, darling. your course has my emphatic approval. i can appreciate perfectly that it must cause you to feel wretchedly for some time; but the self-satisfaction it must eventually bring you, will gradually but surely overcome the first disappointment and regret, just as the ever-shining sun pierces and dissipates the heaviest storm cloud." "well, mother, i will await the turn of events, and whichever way, whether for weal or for woe, i shall abide it. but should i lose george through this, i shall never risk a second such mental agony with any one else." "ah," smiled mrs. arnold, kissing agnes, gayly, "young hearts like yours are not so brittle as to be easily shattered. better fish in the sea, et cetera. you know the old adage--but there's the postman, dear; you run and get the letters he has." agnes did as her mother requested her, and in a few moments more re-entered the room with four letters in one hand, and one letter in the other. the single missive was directed to herself, in a chirography which she well knew. giving the four to her mother, she sat down and opened her own. it was couched in cold, formal words, instead of gushing sentences as usual, and to say that it chilled and crushed her is to say only the truth. when her mother had finished her's, agnes handed this letter to her with the quietly spoken remark: "that severs george and me forever in this world, mother. with a keen sword he has cut me off from him, like the gardener ruthlessly cuts the vine from the oak." as she spoke, agnes drew from her bosom a gold locket, and, springing it open, she gazed for a moment upon a handsome manly face which it contained. that was george's likeness. "till eternity george, till eternity--" she did not finish the sentence in words; but the fond, artless, fervent kiss she imprinted upon the picture was such a one as is given to the dead lips of one we love, and are about to part with forever. she snapped the lid shut again, replaced the closed trinket in her bosom, and said: "mother, all is over. i shall never open it again. but in case i die before you, i wish you to have this buried with me." mrs. arnold tried to rally agnes about this, her first disappointment of the heart, and had the satisfaction of presently seeing her quite merry. suddenly agnes, as she glanced over the newspaper, exclaimed: "mother, what a dreadful thing that yellow fever is! did you read this? whole families are being swept out of existence, and have no one to help or nurse them. it's frightful, and yet we boast of our christianity. it's a sin and a shame!" she continued to read the fearful despatches that had first attracted her attention, while her mother remained silent. "mother," she resumed, when she had finished, "i am going down to shreveport." "what do you mean, agnes?" exclaimed mrs. arnold, glancing anxiously at her daughter. "i am going down to shreveport, to help to nurse those poor perishing people." "agnes!" "yes, dear mother. i believe it to be my duty to go and do what little i can toward alleviating the distress of those stricken sufferers." "why, agnes, dear, you would surely perish yourself." "o no, mother, you forget how i waited on papa and you when you both had the fever down in new orleans." this was true. several years before, while the arnolds had been making a pleasure tour in the southern states, they had been seized with the disorder, and but for the unflagging, heroic devotion of agnes, they would most likely have perished. "no, darling, i could never forget that were i to live a hundred years. it is because i do remember the horror of that time that i would not wish you to expose yourself to such another. besides, what would i do without you?" "that is the only subject that gives me any pain, mother; but then god would take care of you as well as of me, would he not?" "yes." "i know it, mother. you have always taught me that, and i firmly believe it. god, who sees and notes the fall of even a sparrow, will not let me fall, except it be his gracious will. no, mother, i feel that i must go, and you must consent and give me your best blessing. it is strange that we see no account of ministers or members of any denomination but the roman church volunteering to go to the stricken city. all seem to stand aloof but them. how noble are those truly christian and devoted women, the sisters of mercy! and shall i be idle and listless when i might be saving life, or at least trying to do so. o, mother dear, i must go. i will come back safely to you. you must give me your consent." mrs. arnold was herself a truly brave and christian lady, and a firm believer in the care that god exercises over all who serve him. and therefore, after a short consideration, she gave the required consent to her daughter agnes, to go to shreveport as a nurse. during the late war, fond fathers sent their sons to the battle-field, not that they wished to have them slaughtered, but willing that, for the sake of their cause, they should take the risk. so now, with much the same motive, mrs. arnold gave agnes her approbation to go and perform her christian duty to the sufferers at shreveport. yet when the parting really came, it seemed as though mrs. arnold could never unclasp her arms from about the form of her daughter. "god will bring me safely back to you, dear mother," urged agnes, gently untwining those loving arms; "good-by." "good-by, darling, good-by." it was over--the parting was over--agnes was gone. mrs. arnold was alone--for evermore in this life. not until the sea and earth give up their dead--not until the book of life might be opened and mankind summoned before the white throne on high, were these two destined to look into each other's face again. mrs. arnold could not foresee the solemn significance of her words as, for the last time, she murmured: "agnes, my darling, my angel, good-by!" in the midst of death. in due course of time agnes approached shreveport. while in the cars she had formed the acquaintance of three sisters of mercy, who were bound upon a similar errand of kindness and peril to her own. at first, upon learning whither she was going, and what her object was, these pious ladies were thoroughly astonished; but when they found by interrogation that she was really in earnest, their friendly admiration became equal to their previous astonishment. "your services will be most welcome, miss arnold, i assure you," said the eldest of the sisters. "this is the third time i have been summoned to nurse in yellow fever, and i know that there are never one-half the number of nurses necessary." a little short of the stricken city they were all stopped, and it required the positive statement of the sisters of mercy that their youthful, lovely companion was really going into the place for the purpose of nursing the sick. "miss," asked an elderly gentleman, "were you ever acclimated here? because if you were not, we cannot let you pass, for you would only get the fever yourself, and become a care instead of a help to us. not only that, but you would surely be a corpse inside of twenty-four hours." agnes explained to the firm but kind gentleman, her new orleans experience, and he relaxed and said: "in that case, miss arnold, i sincerely welcome you, and in the name of the sick and dying people here, pray god that you may be spared to help them. pass through, and heaven bless your brave and noble heart!" reader, if you are a man, possibly you have been in the army, and then possibly you have been in a column, to which has been assigned the task of storming a well-served battery of pieces. if so, you may remember the feelings that were within your heart as you left the last friendly cover of woods, and double-quicked across the open space up hill, and saw the artillery-men waiting till you got close up before pulling the primer lanyards, so as to make sure work of you all. to agnes arnold going into shreveport, the emotions must have been very much like yours in front of that battery. yet there was no fluttering of her pulse. "where shall i go first?" asked this splendid heroine of the gentleman in charge of the district in which she chanced to find herself. "not far; right across the street there into that grocery store at the corner. we haven't been able to send any one there. just been able to look in now and then and give them all their doses. please give me your name, and don't leave there till i come, and i'll look after your baggage." "my name, sir, is agnes arnold. i have no baggage except this one small trunk, and i would rather you let this young man bring it along directly with me." "very well, take it, ned, and follow miss arnold, and see you don't ask anything for the job." "yes, sir," replied the negro porter, and shouldering the trunk he strode on hastily after agnes. he would not go further into the house, however, than the little room immediately in the rear of the store. "surely you are not afraid, you who live here!" exclaimed agnes. "de lor' bless your soul, missus. youse couldn't haul dis yer niggah furder inter dis yallah house with an army muel team. don't yer smell dat 'culiah scent. o, lor', good-by missus. dat's de rele jack, suah!" and without waiting for any further argument or remark upon the subject, the terrified fellow clapped his hand over his mouth and nose, and actually bounded out into the street to where some men were burning tar and pitch as a disinfectant. nor did he seem to consider himself safe until he had nearly choked himself by thrusting his head into the dense black fumes. agnes would have laughed at the silly man, but at this moment such violent and agonized groaning fell upon her ears, that she started and trembled. but it was only for a moment. in an instant more she had thrown off her travelling costume and hat and bounded up stairs. there such a sight met her gaze as would have chilled, the stoutest heart. in a narrow rear chamber were four living people and two corpses. the two dead ones were the father, a man of about forty, and a little girl of six years, his youngest child. the four living people were the mother, thirty years old, a little girl, and two boys, of the respective ages of nine, fourteen, and sixteen. "don't take us away to the cemetery yet! for god's sake, don't!" groaned the woman in agony. "we're not dead yet. it won't be long. but it won't be long. leave us be a while, and then you can bury us all in one grave. for god's sake! please!" "my dear woman, i've come to try and save your lives, not to bury you," replied agnes in a low, kindly voice, patting the sick woman's forehead. "they take plenty of them away and stick them in the ground while they are alive yet. heaven help us, for we can't help ourselves." these words were not spoken consecutively, but in fits and starts between paroxysms of dreadful physical suffering. her racked mind and body prevented the mother from quickly comprehending agnes. and it was not until the latter had talked to her soothingly and cheerfully for several minutes, that she began to perceive the real state of affairs. and then the re-action from the depths of despair was like the infusion of new life and strength to the sick woman. she cried and sobbed as though her heart would break for several minutes, which excitement ended in a spasm. most women would have been terrified at such a scene as was at this moment presented to miss arnold. but she was not a mere fancy nurse. far from it. up went her sleeves, and for the next two hours she worked with her four patients like a trojan, first with the mother, and next with the children. her next care was to separate the living from the dead. the child she wrapped up in a small sheet quite neatly, and for the father she performed the same sad task, using a coverlet, so that when about three o'clock the dead wagon came around with the coffins, both bodies were decently prepared for interment. "'bout what time d'ye think i better git back fur t'others, nurse?" inquired the driver of the wagon, consulting a small pass-book that he carried in his side coat pocket. agnes was horrified to hear such a brutal question propounded to her in the coolest and most business-like manner. "what do you mean?" asked she, indignantly. "mean jist wot i says! no time to fool round, nuther," was the answer. "this is the burton fam'ly, aint it?" he asked, giving his book another glance, and then pitching his eye quickly up around the store, as though looking for a sign with which to compare the note book. "yes, burton," answered agnes. "all right, then! they wuz tuk yisterday at noon. there's a man, a woman, four children!" [he tapped the tip of each finger of his left hand once with the back of the book, and the thumb twice, looking agnes very convincingly in the face all the while, as though to make her thoroughly understand, without putting him to the bother of a second statement.] "six--they wuz tuk at noon yisterday. two dead this mornin'. four more oughten be dead by--let's see--why, time's up now! t'houten be dead now! by--how's that? you aint foolin', hey? big fine fur foolin' the wagon man, you know. now say, if any on 'em's near gone it'll do, you know. save me bother, an' you too, don't you see? ef they're near gone, 'nuff not ter kick nor holler wen we puts 'em in, it'll do, 'cause then they can't git better, you know, an' they're outen their misery sooner." the insinuating leer with which the wretch ended this speech caused miss arnold's blood to run cold. "you brute! you fiend! ghoul! or whatever kind of demon you call yourself, begone! in the name of heaven, begone!" exclaimed the heroic girl, her eyes flashing fire, and her whole frame trembling with disgust and horror. her demeanor cowed the fellow, and he actually cringed as he backed out at the door. but on the sidewalk he seemed to recover his coolness, or at least he assumed to, for stepping in again, he exclaimed: "mind, i'll be round in the mornin', and i don't want no gum games! i've got too much to do on my hands now." agnes paid no heed to him at all, but hastening back to her patients, she recommenced her nursing care of them. there was no fire, and in fact none was needed, except for cooking and preparing the one or two simple remedies which agnes used in connection with the treatment of the sick victims, and which she felt assured would not interfere with the medicine they were taking. in truth, during the whole epidemic, it seemed as though mere medicine was of no avail whatever, and that really the methods and means used by the natives, independent of the doctors, did all the good that was done. first, she got out of the store some mackerel and bound them, just as they came out of the barrel, brine and all, to the soles of the feet of both the mother and children. this simple remedy acted like a charm, for in about three hours the fever began to break. agnes put on fresh mackerel as before, removing the first ones, which, startling as it may seem, were perfectly putrid, though reeking with the strong salt brine when she applied them. by nine o'clock that night the noble young woman had the inexpressible delight of seeing her poor patients so far changed for the better as to be completely out of danger. on the next morning, true to his promise, the dead-wagon man came around. he was one of those in-bred wicked spirits which take delight in hating everything and everybody good and beautiful; just as the greek peasant hated aristides, and voted for his banishment, because he was surnamed the "good." this fellow already hated agnes, and his ugly face was contorted with a hideous grin, as he thrust himself in at the store door and exclaimed: "hallo! where's them dead 'uns? fetch 'em out!" agnes had not expected him to put his threat of coming the next morning into execution. she was therefore somewhat taken aback on beholding him. but she was a girl of steady, powerful nerves, and cool temper, and the instant she saw that the fellow had made up his mind to behave the way he did merely to vex and harass her, she made up her mind to "settle him off." paying no heed therefore to what he said, agnes quietly put on her hat and shawl took her umbrella in her hand, and stepping directly up to the brutal wretch said, in a determined tone of voice: "come along with me; i intend to give you such a lesson that you will not forget in a hurry. you have given me impudence enough for the rest of your life. you have got to go back now with me to the office of the superintendent, where i will have you discharged and then punished as you deserve." perhaps thoughts of dark and cruel acts he had already been guilty of, flashed across his mind, and made him tremble for the consequences to himself. he evidently believed that agnes knew more about him than he thought. or perhaps it was that mysterious influence which a positive mind in motion--like miss arnold's--wields over a vacillating temperament like the dead-wagon driver's. whichever of these causes it was, could of course never be positively known, but, like a flash of lightning, the fellow changed his insolent, braggart manner to one of the most contemptible, cringing cowardice. "don't, missus, don't! ef i've 'sulted yer, 'pon my dirty soul i'll beg yer double-barrelled pardon. please don't yer go to complainin' on me. for ef i'd lose my place, my wife and young 'uns 'ud starve to death in no time. i oughter knowed better then to sass you anyhow, when i seed how good and purty ye wuz!" "please don't leave us! don't leave us, miss agnes, for you've been our good angel. you have saved our lives!" piteously exclaimed mrs. burton and her children in chorus at this moment, fearful that their nurse was really going away, and dreading if she did, that they would all be carried off either to the cemetery or some other dreadful place. "now, please go back, and don't go a tellin' on me fur a sassin yer. i oughter to be ashamed; and i am double-barrelled ashamed. an' ef you'll jest say you'll furgiv' me, i'll go down on my knees. there now, miss agony, ain't that 'nuff? ef it ain't, why i'll do whatever you say fur me to do." the fellow pulled off his hat, and set himself in such a ludicrously woebegone attitude, that miss arnold had great difficulty in restraining herself from laughing outright. she managed, however, to keep a straight face, and replied: "well, this time i will allow it to pass; but never let me hear of such conduct again, or i will not be so lenient." "thank you, missus; and may i ask you a queshun?" "yes." "i want ter ask you, how yer kep' them there fel's from a dyin'? 'cause when they're bin tuk like they wuz tuk yer could jest bet every muel in the kerral that they'd peg out in twenty-seven hours at furthest." "god did it, not i," replied agnes. "don't call me sassin' yer, agin, miss agony, but that ain't so; 'cause thar's nuthin' 'll fetch 'em, when they're tuk the way they wuz tuk. it's magic done it, nuthin' else!" "well, in case you should feel the headache, sick stomach, and chill coming on at any time, or fall in with any person suffering that way, remember the following recipe. take out your book again and put it down." "yes, miss agony, willin'." the fellow produced his book and pencil, and holding the former flat up against the door, wrote at miss arnold's dictation: "put the feet immediately into hot and very strong mustard water--put in plenty of mustard. quickly take a strong emetic of ipecac or mustard water. go to bed immediately, and send for the doctor. while waiting for the doctor, get salt mackerel, directly out of the brine, and bind them to the soles of the feet. and the moment the patient craves any particular article of food or drink, do not hesitate to give it _moderately_. if mackerel cannot be obtained, use strong raw onions or garlic. in a few hours the mackerel will most likely become putrid; if so, remove them, and apply others." "golly! golly! i knowed it was magic--somethin' like that, and not medicine at all!" exclaimed the fellow, nodding his head to himself. "let me look at your book, to see if you have it correctly written," said agnes, stepping partially behind the driver. "lor' bless you, miss agony!" he exclaimed, "you'd never be able to read my writin'. hold on, an' i'll read fur you myself, an' then yer ken tell me ef i'm wrong." as agnes still manifested a desire to look at the book, however, he held it for her inspection. but with the exception of here and there a small word, like _a_ or _the_, she could not decipher any of the scrawl. so she expressed her desire to hear it read. the fellow promptly read it all off without a single mistake, much to the astonishment of miss arnold. "is that all straight, hey, miss agony?" asked he, with a comical expression of mingled pride and curiosity running over his countenance. "yes," replied agnes; "and," added she, "my name is not what you call it, but agnes arnold." "well, now, don't think i wuz callin' yer that fur sass, missus arnold, for i wuz not. i'll hurry along now, for i've got a heap to do this mornin'. things is a gittin' wuss an' wuss every day." "i hope they will soon mend," said agnes, fervently; "good day." "good-by, missus arnold, an' i hope god'll take best care uv you, anyhow," answered the driver. "i trust in him always, and you should also put your faith in him. he is strong to save." with this admonition to her rough companion, agnes turned back into the rear room, and removing her hat and shawl, set herself about kindling a fire to prepare some little nourishment for her sick charges. as the burtons happened to keep a grocery store, she had no difficulty in selecting material fitted for her object. they all continued on the mend until the succeeding day, when the physician having that district in charge made them a visit. he was completely astonished upon finding how favorably the surviving cases had turned out, and he held quite a long conversation with agnes in regard to what she had done, after which he remarked: "indeed, miss arnold, i must confess to you that i feel disposed to credit these recoveries entirely to your faithful and intelligent nursing. for to tell you the truth, the modes of treatment which we physicians have hitherto used in cases showing the symptoms that these did, has failed in nearly eighty per cent. of every hundred. but it is true enough sometimes, that many of these 'grandmother remedies' as we call them, are more efficacious than any others." "this is not a grandmother's remedy, doctor," smilingly replied agnus. "it was told to me some years ago in new orleans." she here concisely narrated to him the history of her experience when she helped to nurse her father in the latter city. "who was it told you, miss arnold? was it dr. robinson? he was noted about that period for his success in treating bad cases of the fever. "no, sir, it was a spanish gentleman, who had lived many years in havana. once in vera cruz he took the vomito, and was saved by this treatment. "most astonishing!" mused the doctor. "i shall not fail to try it." "i have another remedy which is equally efficient in small-pox, doctor, that i got from the same gentleman. you might find it useful at some time, and i assure you i have never known it to fail even in the worst cases. "thank you, i will accept it with pleasure." miss arnold repeated the following, and the doctor took it carefully down in his note book: "as soon as the headache comes, and the chill down the back, and the stomach becomes sick, and the limbs begin to ache, clear the stomach with a strong emetic, put the feet in hot mustard water several times during the next twelve hours. talk very often and encouragingly to the patient as the insanity begins to show itself. as soon as the thirst sets in, give frequently alternate small drinks of cold indian meal gruel--no butter in the gruel--and moderately large drinks of the best plain black tea, _hot_, without milk or sugar. occasionally the gruel may be changed and made of oatmeal, and the tea have a bit of toasted bread in it. as the disorder goes through its course, and a craving sets in, humor this at once with moderate supplies of what is craved. air the room twice or three times each day, taking great care to cover up the patient completely, head and all, while the doors and windows are open. keep the room dark, and at an even temperature. pat the face, arms, &c., with warm barley water, and then with a feather oil the whole surface with sweet oil. this prevents all itching and pitting, or marks." [illustration: poor, noble anges was so wearied out, that she got asleep while she walked with the baby, and stepping too near the stairway, she fell all the way down.] "truly a plain and simple remedy," remarked the doctor, as he put away his book, "i shall not fail to try it also, if i should ever come across any cases of variola." "and you may depend on it, doctor," said agnes, "that it will never fail when properly and intelligently carried out." as he turned to leave, the physician said: "miss arnold, please stay here until i send you a note or a messenger, which i will do within an hour or an hour and a half." a strange incident. in less than the specified time a man came back from the doctor to inform miss arnold that her services were needed in a house about two squares away from there, and that he would show her the place. her little trunk was already packed, her shawl and hat donned, when the messenger arrived. but she found it very difficult to get away from the burtons. these poor, grateful people could not bear to part with her whom they almost worshipped as their preserver. children and mother pleaded almost with anguish for her to stay with them. "i would like to remain, mrs. burton," replied agnes, "but there are hundreds being stricken down every hour around us, who have no one to wait upon them, and who may perish before help can reach them. you and these darlings are now comparatively safe, while others just taken are in deadly peril." her kind remonstrance had its effect, and the burtons now consented to let her go. all kissed her most fondly, bade her good-by, and called down the choicest blessings of heaven upon her head. "god bless you, and keep you safe from the horrible fever!" were the words still ringing in her ears, as the heroic and devoted girl followed the doctor's man out into the street. it was not raining now, but the murky, mist-laden atmosphere was rendered like a damp, choking, heavy pall of gloom by the dense volumes of pitch and tar-smoke with which it seemed to be perfectly soaked, as a sponge is with water. it caused agnes to cough violently and continuously until she arrived at her new destination, which was a private dwelling-house, apparently the abode of some one belonging to the middle class of society. "this is the place, miss arnold," said the man, "a young lady was taken early this morning while she was visiting in the house, and a few hours ago a sister of mercy, who was sent in to nurse her, went down sick. and they're both in bed together." agnes could not account for it, but the moment she heard mention of the sister of charity, a feeling came over her that it must be one of the three with whom she had come hither in the cars. upon reaching the house, she found that her impression was correct. sure enough, tossing in agony and delirium upon the bed, was sister theresa. by some mistake, a male nurse had also been sent to this house, of which circumstance agnes, however, was very glad, as his services were very valuable until she had administered her first simple remedies to the two patients. as soon as she could, she thanked the man, and informed him that she could now get along without him, and that he had better report to the doctor for assignment to some other house. he left, and agnes now commenced her task of peril and unceasing labor. the lady whom sister theresa had come to nurse was comparatively quiet. but, strange as it may seem, theresa herself was extremely violent at intervals. yet when in her right mind, she was the sweetest and gentlest of her sex. alas! how unlike her natural self was she, now that reason was dethroned. all through the long, long, dreary night, agnes never once closed her eyes. all night long, too, she never flagged in her devoted attention to her patients. minute by minute, instant by instant, inch by inch, as it were, she battled with the demon fever that held so fiercely the two sick women in his horrible grasp. ah, noble, noble agnes, when thy soul appears on that final day before god's judgment-seat on high, how thrice enviable will be thy reward! what hymns of glorious praise shall heaven's choir chant for thee! it was nearly day-dawn ere agnes succeeded in getting the sister of mercy into a somewhat quiet state, and then, completely worn out, she was herself obliged to seek a little rest. even her manner of doing this showed how little she dreaded the pestilence, for, instead of going to another room, she lifted theresa further over in the bed, and laying herself down beside her, placed her arm over her, kindly, lovingly, so that if she should chance to move, though never so slightly, it would awaken her. uttering a prayer, first for her patients, and then for herself, agnes fell at once into a light but refreshing slumber, from which, however, she awakened at about the proper time to administer another dose of medicine. this done, she again lay down as before, and in this way she obtained three or four hours of good sleep, which had the effect to refresh her very much indeed; after which she rinsed her face, hands and neck in cold water, and partook of as good a breakfast as she could possibly get under the circumstances. by careful attention in such particulars as these, agnes managed to keep up her health, strength and good spirits, when all the rest of the nurses, both male and female, were completely fagged and wearied out both in mind and body. just after partaking of her frugal meal, agnes was obliged to spring to her bedside, for all of a sudden sister theresa had started up out of her sleep, weeping most piteously, and agnes feared she would throw herself out of bed. but in a few minutes, by her kind, soothing voice, she had quieted her patient and got her to lie down again. agnes never was without her bible, and bethinking herself that its holy words would have a good effect upon theresa, she quickly opened it as chance directed. it was at the twenty-third psalm. "the lord is my shepherd, i shall not want. he maketh me to lie down in green pastures. he leadeth me beside the still waters." agnes was a magnificent reader, and as her flute-like voice, in clear, grand, musical tones, uttered word after word of this most beautiful psalm, not only sister theresa, but the other patient, seemed quickly to alter. and ere she had concluded her reading. agnes noticed that both, but especially theresa, looked better, or rather supremely happy. "you are indeed an angel!" she exclaimed, seizing the hand of her nurse and covering it with kisses. "they told me that the patients you were nursing called you angel agnes, and i am sure you are. may god and the saints keep you ever an angel, as you are now." "yes, yes," added the other patient, fervently, "god bless you! if we had all the rest of the nurses like you, i do not believe any body would die. the hired nurses are nearly all worthless. they work for money alone, and do not care whether the people they nurse live or die." "that is horrible. i hope there are not many nurses of that description." "o, indeed, all are that way except the sisters and yourself," replied the lady. at this juncture the doctor entered in a hurried manner. "well, miss arnold," he exclaimed, "how are you all getting along?" "o, very well, sir, very well. i think we are all past danger." agnes answered the inquiry in a light, cheery tone, that in itself was worth, as the saying goes, a cart-load of medicine. "upon my honor, ladies," continued the doctor, as he advanced to the bed and took each of the invalids' wrists at once, in order to save time, "our nurse here, miss arnold, is the most wonderful lady i have ever seen. she has not failed to break the worst cases we have had. now your symptoms were of the most desperate character, and when you were taken, i never expected to see either of you alive this morning, and yet here you are recovering, and i verily believe beyond further danger. let me see your tongues. well, well, well, this is really astonishing. you are both doing splendidly. just be a little careful, and you are perfectly out of peril. miss arnold, you are worth all our nurses; and really i'm afraid all us physicians also put together." "ah, doctor, you flatter me," laughed agnes, much pleased at the same time to hear the flattery, as well because it seemed to have a brightening effect upon the patients as for any other reason. "indeed i do not flatter you at all, miss arnold. i really begin to wish i was a woman myself, so that if i should get the fever i might have you to nurse me well again." "o never mind about the being a woman, doctor," archly rejoined agnes, "if you should be so unfortunate as to get it, i'll come and nurse you." "will you? well now that's kind and brave of you, i am sure. and speaking of a man, miss arnold, that reminds me. while inspecting a train at the first station, we found a young gentleman aboard, who was coming to shreveport here, expressly to see you. his name was harkness"-- "o, doctor!" interruptingly exclaimed agnes, as the color left her cheeks and lips. "i hope you did not permit him to come into this danger!" a far duller observer than the doctor could have seen the intense love of this beautiful girl for the young man referred to. "he's out of peril, miss agnes," explained the doctor, "for we refused to allow him to pass in." no actress ever trod the stage on whose features the emotions of pleasure and regret portrayed themselves at once, as on the face of agnes when heard these words. "would you rather have had us permit his entrance?" asked the doctor. "for my own satisfaction and curiosity i would rather have had it so, doctor. but for his sake, no; a hundred times no." "ah, miss arnold, heart disease is sometimes worse than yellow jack," remarked the doctor half-seriously. "yes, yes, it is always so," said agnes earnestly. "i am surprised he allowed you to come here, miss arnold." the doctor was evidently deeply interested in his wonderful and beautiful nurse, and the artificial twinkle he forced into his gray eyes could not mask his sincerity from agnes, who answered: "doctor, mr. harkness was my intended husband; but a jealous and mischievous young lady, who envied me i suppose, managed, through deceit, to estrange us. and so"-- agnes did not know how to finish the sentence. she studied what words to utter in conclusion, until the pause became painfully awkward, seeing which the doctor with much consideration said: "i can guess miss arnold, what you would say, and i fear there has been too much haste on both your parts for each other's happiness. but mr. harkness evidently has for yourself at least a powerful sentiment of something stronger than mere friendly affection, to leave the other young lady and come hither into the midst of such a deadly peril as yellow fever. he has found out the deception, and has, i suppose, come like a man, to tell you so and ask your forgiveness." "that must be it, doctor, that must be it," replied agnes with much warmth, "that's his disposition, i know. he has a noble disposition." after a short further conversation the physician left, with the same request as before, for agnes to remain until he sent her a message where to go next. this was not long delayed, as in about half an hour or so a message came for her to go to a house a few squares away, where a whole family had just been taken down with the disorder. bidding her two patients farewell, agnes hastened away to the new scene of duty. an unexpected patient. the good and beautiful girl, upon arriving at the stricken home, at once set herself to the heavy task she was called on to perform, with cheerful alacrity; but it was the worst case she had yet had. indeed, it would have been utterly impossible for her to get through, but for the fact that there was an old negress employed by the family, and who, having had the fever last year, was not afraid of it. silver, odd as it may seem, was the name of this negress, and she proved herself to be quite as sterling as her name implied. she was also quite intelligent, and carried out all of miss arnold's directions to the letter. yet, for all this, one of the patients, a little girl of six years, died. agnes was exceedingly pained to lose the little darling; but the wonder was that it lived and stood the attack of the fever as long as it did, for it had been already suffering several days before with an acute summer complaint. the rest of the family all recovered, and miss arnold received their most grateful thanks. truly they hardly knew what method to take to show her how grateful they really were. they were pretty well off in worldly matters, but their kind angel agnes was twice as wealthy as they, so that neither money nor anything which money could buy was of any use to her. "i will tell you what you may do to express your gratitude for what little good i have, under the blessing of god, been able to render you. help your poorer neighbors immediately around you here. there are scores and scores of families who are actually starving, as well as sick. give them all the assistance you can. rich people can take care of themselves, but the poor cannot." this was faithfully promised, and, we may add, just as faithfully performed. during the next ten days agnes was kept continually busy, night and day, in her arduous and dangerous duties. but by strict adherence to her original design and method, she kept herself in perfect health and spirits, and in the midst of her labors and anxieties she found time to send daily messages to her mother. on the succeeding monday, while nursing a poor woman in the northern part of the city, a note was brought to her by the dead-wagon man--the same genius with whom agnes had had the encounter. "missus agonyess," said he, trying to pronounce her name correctly, as he remembered the correction--an effort which betrayed him into a double error--"i wuz asked to fetch this here letter to you. it wuz giv to me by a black feller who's a nussin' in the little hospital. a young man guv it to him last night, and promised to give him his gold watch ef he'd find you out and git it to yer." "hospital--young man--gold watch!" ejaculated agnes in a disjointed way, as she took the letter. a glance at the handwriting was sufficient, and her face grew deadly white as she opened and read: "agnes--angel agnes, i hear they call you--and they may well call you that--darling, i found out the trick by which we were estranged. i was foolish, i was wrong to treat you so. and when i learned you had come here into this pest-hole, i was crazy with anxiety for fear you would take the fever and die. i did not know how i _did_ love you till then. god forgive me, guilty wretch that i am, for driving you to such a desperate piece of romance. i came here to tell you how sorry i was, and to ask you to take me bask to my old place in your heart. but now i am afraid it is too late. i have been hanging around the town a week or longer, trying to get in on some train. not succeeding in my object this way, i have been obliged to walk in by night, concealing myself in the daytime, and walking forward again in the darkness. thus i have eluded them, and got in. but so far i have been unable to find you, and now i fear it too late, for i am sick with the fever in the hospital. "i have given myself up to die, for they are not especially kind or attentive to me, as they think i ought to have stayed away, and not come in and added to their labors, as they have more of their own sick than they can attend to. "o agnes, what i would give just to see you before i die, just to hear your voice! but this is a judgment upon me for the way i have treated you. perhaps you are dead too. if so, then i shall meet you very soon in the other world. if you are not dead, and you get this letter, then, for the sake of the olden times, don't hold any malice toward me, but forgive me in my grave. i have given my watch and some money to the nurse here, to get him to give you this letter. i would like you, to buy it from him and send it, if possible, to mother, for it belonged to my father. good by, agnes, good-by. meet me in heaven. george." the tears were running down the pale face of miss arnold, and the dead-wagon man was in a perfect fever of excitement, but he did not speak till she raised her eyes from the letter, when he spluttered out: "lor' bless you, missus agonyness, i hope there ain't no yaller jeck in that there letter. but you looks orful sick." "i want to go to where you got this letter at once." "all right, missus agonyness, i'll drive slower nor usual, and go back on my route, an' you ken foller the wagon. i'd let yer ride, but there aint room." next door there was a sister of mercy nursing, and agnes asked her to look in at her patient till she could return herself, and then she set out for the hospital where george was lying sick. soon arriving there, she went immediately to the nurse and ordered him to give her the gold watch george had given him, which he did very quickly. then she ordered the nurse to take her instantly to the bedside of the young man. this he did with reluctance, evidently because he was ashamed of the way in which the patient was being treated. leading agnes to the darkest end of a small room in which were a number of sick, he showed her george harkness. poor fellow! in a sort of stupor, there he lay doubled up like a ball on the bare floor in a hot, close corner. agnes was enraged, but there was no time to waste in quarrelling or scolding. "bring that man this moment into the best room you have; put him into bed, and fetch the following things. i will stay and nurse him." there was an imperiousness and determination about her tones that caused agnes to be obeyed instantly, and in a few minutes harkness was laid upon the bed. there was no prudish finicking about agnes. taking pen-knife from her pocket, she ripped the boots off george's feet, pulled off his socks, and in less than three minutes more was laving his feet and legs to the knees in hot mustard water. fully half an hour did she continue her exertions with the sick man before he recovered his senses sufficiently to recognize her. as he did so, he started up, and gazed a long time at her--like one in a dream. "george, do you know me? i am agnes," said she, in a very soft, but trembling voice. he reached his hands along the bed-clothes to take hers, apparently to ascertain if she and he were still in the flesh, or were spirits of the other world. there was magic in the warm eager pressure of her hand, for instantly harkness appeared to gain his full senses. "agnes! agnes! have you found me? thank god for this. i am so glad to see you before i die. it takes the thorn out of my pillow, and puts felicity into my heart to see you again. i know by this you have forgiven me." "hush, george, there's nothing to forgive. do not talk, you are too sick. i have come to nurse you. and, with god's help, you shall soon be well again. with god's help--there, dear, you are all the world to me!" there was an intensity of love in the whispered words that thrilled george's heart. agnes's lips touched his ear as the last accents were breathed, so low that he alone could hear them. "thank you, o, my darling, my angel. twenty fevers shall not kill me now," said george, but in a very weak voice. brave heart, george! loving heart, agnes! but fate willed otherwise. you were to be united, but not then, not then; not until you both had crossed the mysterious river which has but one tide, and that ever flowing in at eternity's gates, but never returning. hour after hour agnes battled with the demon fever which was gnawing at the vitals of her beloved george. at intervals her care seemed to get the better of the disorder, and to cause it to loosen its grip. but, alas! after twenty-four hours of unceasing toil and anxiety, poor devoted agnes was forced to endure the mental agony of seeing harkness die. the last thing he did was to smile up in her yearning face, and try to thank her for all she had done for him. his voice was gone; but she knew what the slowly moving parched lips were saying for all that. slipping her arms under his shoulders, agnes bent down, and raising him up ever so gently, she pressed him to her bosom and kissed him. even as she did so harkness breathed his last. with a deep sigh, agnes allowed the corpse to sink gradually down again upon the bed, composed the limbs, closed the eyes, and bound up the fallen jaw. these sad offices finished, her next care was to see that the body was properly interred in a separate grave by itself--a matter which was quite difficult of accomplishment. but she succeeded in having the burial so effected. the death of mr. harkness under such circumstances was, of course, quite distressing to agnes arnold, and somehow or other she could not banish from her mind a presentiment of an additional calamity that was about to befall her. yet her mind was perfectly at ease, so far as she herself was concerned. never at any moment could death surprise her; for, from early years, she had lived up to the admonition of our saviour, "be ye also ready." yet this gloom, that wrapped itself around her like an ominous pall, she could not penetrate, nor cast from her, no matter how strenuously she tried to do so. more devoted even than before, did she now become in her ministrations to the sick and suffering people of shreveport. agnes saves a child, but dies herself. the last family which agnes nursed lived in the northern portion of the city, and consisted of a mother and three children; the youngest a baby twelve months old. ordinarily they had been in middling circumstances, but having lost her husband by a railroad accident six months previously, the widow was reduced to quite a straightened condition. and when the fever seized her, she was in utter despair at the thought of being taken away from her dear ones. but when they brought agnes to nurse her, and told her of the wonderful good fortune that always attended the heroic girl, she seemed to take fresh spirit and gain strength. as yet the baby was unscathed by the dreadful plague, and it would have been sent away, could they have got any person to take it. that, however, was impossible. "never mind, mrs. green, do not let that subject worry you any more. i will take good care of the baby. they shall not take it away from you," said agnes, hugging the infant to her. "o, god bless you! god bless you, always," exclaimed the poor mother, thrilled with the deepest gratitude. "my darling! my baby! my baby!" true to her word, agnes never neglected the little thing, though sometimes, between it and her patients, she was nearly beside herself. reader, if you are a woman, and have ever had even an ordinary sickness in your household, you can easily comprehend the position in which agnes was placed with her three patients to nurse, and an infant to care for at the same time. yet she never murmured, never became impatient. but, in the mysterious workings of providence, it was destined that the good, the beautiful, the angelic girl should not be long of this world. "de good lord ob hebben has tuk her away to her reward!" wept an old negress, who had been saved by the kind and tender care of agnes, a short time before, and who had waited on her in her dying moments, and closed her eyes when all was over. this poor old creature was only too happy when they gave her permission to prepare the inanimate form of her late benefactress for the grave. when she had done all, she did not know what to do for some ornament, till at last a brilliant thought came across her mind, and she adopted it. wherever agnes used to go she always carried a small basket containing little useful articles, together with a pocket bible, out of which she was ever reading some portion of god's holy word, appropriate to the mental condition of the patients she might be nursing. out of this basket old rachel took the pocket bible, and, with the tears coursing down her wrinkled features, she placed the sacred book in the clasped hand of the quiet sleeper, and laid both gently back on the still pure bosom. "o, honey," she groaned, "ef ye could on'y open dem hebbenly eyes ob yourn, an' see dat book dar, wot you used to lub so well, how you would bress dis poor ole niggah fur puttin' it in dat pooty white hand ob yourn." the manner in which agnes lost her life was as follows: during the day the three who were ill with the fever were exceeding troublesome, fairly overtasking the strength of agnes in attending to them. shortly after noon, also, the baby began to exhibit symptoms of being ill. it steadily grew worse, and became exceedingly fractious. the only way in which agnes could pacify it, was to keep walking with it in her arms constantly. the moment she would attempt to sit down to rest herself or lay it in its crib, so that she might do something for the others, it would scream dreadfully till she began to walk it again. in this way agnes worried along for the greater portion of the night, never closing her eyes nor sitting down. just before daylight, however she became so utterly wearied out with fatigue, that she actually got asleep several times while walking. during one of these overpowering moments she stepped too near the top of the stairway, lost her balance, toppled over, and fell heavily all the way down to the bottom. there she struck the small of her back upon the edge of a water-pail that happened to be standing on the floor. had she not been encumbered with the baby she might have saved herself. but the instant she awoke, and found that she was falling, her first and only thought was how to keep the infant from going down underneath herself and being surely killed. to prevent this, she endeavored to hold it up, which effort caused her to twist or turn round in her descent, and so fall as to inflict on herself the dreadful and fatal injury. she must have screamed as she went down, because two men who were passing by, ran in immediately, and carried her into the next room. the pain she suffered was most excruciating, yet the first words she uttered were: "is the baby safe? poor little darling!" "yes, ma'm. i hope you aint hurted any worse than the baby," replied one of the men, with genuine, though unpolished sympathy. "thank god, the baby's safe," said agnes. "i am hurt; but after awhile i think i will be able to get up. i would be deeply obliged to you though, gentlemen, if you would stay till daylight--that is, if you are not afraid of the fever. there are three sick with it up stairs." "no, ma'm, we're not afeard of it. i'll stay with you, and, john"--the speaker turned to his companion--"you go up to the house, and ask one of the sisters to come right along with you, for it'll be more nicer for this lady to have a female with her than men. it'll make her feel more natural and easy, won't it ma'm?" "o, thank you a thousand times, sir," replied agnes, most deeply affected by the considerate gallantry of the kind-hearted, manly fellow, who was hugging the baby up to him just like a father, and keeping it quiet by all sorts of baby talk. in about half an hour the other man returned with a sister of mercy, who at once recognized agnes. she was one of those with whom agnes had come on the cars into shreveport. the injured girl whispered in her ear how she was hurt, and sister mary dispatched the man who had brought her hither, for additional help, which in a short time arrived. as soon as the doctor came and examined the injury agnes had sustained, he found that, independent of the fracture of the spine, she was much hurt internally. he had no hopes of her recovery, and he commenced, in a roundabout way to break the opinion to her; but she saw it already in his face, and interrupted him: "ah, doctor, i know all. do not hesitate to tell me exactly how long i have to live. i have no fear of death, i am prepared for it." the physician thereupon informed her that she might possibly survive forty-eight hours. "forty-eight hours!" she rejoined, "that is much longer than will be needed for what i wish to do." then, in the most composed manner, she dictated to sister mary a letter to her mother, narrating all which had occurred since her previous letter, including an account of the accident. this done, the heroic girl prepared to pass whatever of life remained to her in pious conversation with sister mary, and advice and comfort to poor old rachel, the negro woman, who hung over her, constantly weeping. as it became apparent that dissolution was close at hand, sister mary asked miss arnold: "agnes, is there any matter relating to your worldly affairs that you have not already thought of, or that you wish attended to." "no, sister, i believe not. ah, yes, there is," she quickly added; "i would ask, that when i am gone, you will put my poor body in a grave immediately beside that of mr. harkness. he was my intended husband, and died only a short time ago with the fever. also, will you add a postscript to mother's letter, and say to her that it was my dying wish, that if she lives, she will at some future time have us both taken up and brought home, and bury us in one grave there?" "indeed, i will do so. is there nothing else, agnes?" there was a great sadness in her voice as sister mary asked this, just as though, years agone, when her own face was young and pretty, and her own heart happy and free, she had been loved and had lost her love in the grave. "no, sister, nothing more of this world. come, death, o come," said agnes, as she was seized with a paroxysm of pain. "in god's good time, agnes, dear," suggested the sister. "yes, yes, in his good time, agnes!" repeated the dying girl, as though chiding herself for her impatience to be gone; "the spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak." "pray, sweet agnes, pray to him for strength to keep you, all unfearful, while passing through the dark valley." "give me, o, my heavenly father, give me strength in this mine hour of tribulation and suffering? not my will, but thine be done!" surely "angels ever bright and fair" bore away these half-whispered words to heaven like sweet incense. for awhile agnes seemed to be wandering, or perhaps she was dreaming; for her eyes were closed as though in slumber, and a smile like she used to smile, flitted over her pale face, as she stretched out her arms to embrace some one, and exclaimed: "come, mother dear, a kiss! i am going to bed. kiss me good-night mother darling." sweet girl, noble young soul! you were indeed going to bed, but it was in the dust of the valley. sister mary bent down and kissed her fondly. her hot tears falling on the cold face roused agnes, and she opened her eyes. bidding all about her, o such a farewell! such a farewell till eternity, she crossed her hand peacefully over her breast and murmured: "rock of ages, cleft for me, let me hide myself in thee." the words had not left her lips ere she was in god's presence, a pure, beautiful seraph of light. angel agnes, farewell! sister mary, during the very short intercourse she had had with agnes arnold, had fallen in love with the sweet, good girl, and when she died she wept over her as an elder sister might have done. she was particular to see that the last wishes of agnes, in regard to her being buried in a separate grave beside young harkness, were carried out to the letter. no mourner save herself was at the funeral, for there were more sick people than well ones to attend to them. and even sister mary could not linger by the grave of her dear young friend as she would have liked to do. she was obliged, after seeing the coffin lowered into the sepulchre, to hasten back to her patients. agnes' last letter to her mother. never was there a more touching, more loving, more solemn epistle written from a daughter to a mother than that which agnes arnold, while dying, dictated to sister mary to be forwarded to her mother after her death. sister mary, in concluding her own letter, in which that of agnes was enclosed, writes: "i assure you again, mrs. arnold not merely myself, but no one else here who has come in contact with your noble and self-sacrificing daughter, will ever forget her, but will ever hold her memory most dear. no words would suffice to accurately describe the love and almost veneration with which we esteemed your sweet, departed daughter. she was so heroic, yet so quiet and modest; she was so prompt and decisive, yet so winning and amiable; she was so devoted to religion, yet never melancholy or austere. ah, no! she was like god's own bright blue sky and genial sunbeam. her very presence in the chamber of the sick appeared to have an instant and magnetic effect for the better. she was god's own dear child and handmaiden, and he has taken her home to himself. i only hope that when i come to die, my death may be so completely beatific as your daughter's was. "just before she passed into immortality she asked me to let her kiss me. 'now,' said she, 'if you ever see my dear mother, give her that kiss, and tell her she was the last one i thought of when i was dying.' and believe me, mrs. arnold, i shall endeavor to fulfil your daughter's tender request should it be the good will of god for me to escape from the pestilence which is raging around us. mr. harkness's gold watch i have placed with the express company, which will carry it to you for your disposal. "most affectionately, madam, i am ever yours, mary." agnes' letter, which, as we have said, was enclosed in the above, was worded as follows: shreveport, la., oct. d, . my darling, ever beloved mother: you will notice that this letter is written by another hand than mine. the reason you will find further on. you will remember when i left you to come here i told you that i had resigned myself to the will of him in whose merciful service i enlisted. i have devoted myself to the work with my whole soul, my heart being thoroughly in the good cause. and i believe that i have been the humble means of saving several lives. i have not got the fever, but night before last, while nursing a child, i carelessly fell asleep--being very much wearied--and fell down stairs. thank heaven, i saved the little one's life. i struck the small of my back causing a fracture and some internal injury. the doctor has done all he could for me, but it will not avail, and i must go away from you, at least on this earth. but sweet, good, kind mother, i will meet you again above, in that better land where there is no sin, no pain, no anguish, but where all is light and love and immortality. my dear friend and nurse, sister mary, who writes this for me, will see that i am buried beside george, and mother, this is the great wish of my heart--that if possible, at some time you will bring our bodies both home and bury us in one grave. i forgive sophia the wrong she did me and george freely from my soul. sister mary has a kiss i gave her for you. pray do not grieve for me that i am thus passing away; but, in the future, always be comforted with the knowledge that i shall be waiting with papa and the others, at heaven's gate, to greet you home when you follow us from earth. i would have so much liked to see you, mother dear, before i died; but it has been ordained otherwise, and god does all things well. give my love to all my acquaintances and tell them i thought of all when dying; and my bible class scholars, i do not know what to ask you to say to them. try and tell them how deeply i love them, and how i wish to meet them all around the great white throne on high. and now, mother, you who are dearer to me than all other earthly treasures, to you i must say--good-by, till we meet again in heaven. ever your own loving agnes. [illustration: "dear little darling!" said anges, tenderly, pressing the infant against her bosom.] none produced from scans of public domain works at the university of michigan's making of america collection.) the great mississippi flood of . its extent, duration and effects. a circular from mayor wiltz, of new orleans, to the mayors of american cities and towns, and to the philanthropic throughout the republic, in behalf of seventy thousand sufferers in louisiana alone. new orleans: picayune steam book and job print, camp street. mayoralty of new orleans. new orleans, may th, . on the th instant, the kind favor of the western union telegraph company enabled me to send to the mayors of thirty-four large american cities the following dispatch: "by request of relief committee and leading citizens, i again call on american cities in behalf of fifty-four thousand victims of the great flood, for such aid as your prosperity may permit or your philanthropy prompt you to grant. contributions in cash and provisions in thirty-five days have been less than one hundred and eighty thousand dollars. in fifteen days our means will be exhausted. the demand for relief will continue great and urgent for many weeks. daily rations have been distributed to about forty-five thousand--eight thousand furnished by the government. painful anxiety as to the results is general. "nothing but large increase of resources for relief can prevent the horrors of famine and great loss of life. we need a million of dollars more. details will be given by mail. louis a. wiltz, mayor and treasurer of relief fund." to give the information promised, to extend the appeal to many other cities and to towns and corporate institutions, to enlist the aid of philanthropic journalists and to lay before the members of the national legislature a statement of facts for their guidance, i issue this circular, with the hope that the great and increasing distress and danger in which the inhabitants of the overflowed regions now are may thus be made more widely known and the situation better understood. the mississippi river in average high water from memphis to the gulf is confined by artificial banks or levees to a channel, varying from half a mile to a mile in width. but for these embankments the unparalleled flood of this year would have formed, for all this distance, a continuous lake, covering the whole alluvial country, from twenty-five miles to one hundred and seventy-five miles in width, and more than six hundred miles long. but in spite of these levees, considerably more than one-half of this area has been submerged. the levees could not withstand the mississippi in its mighty and ruthless violence, and they gave way in numerous crevasses, varying from one hundred to five thousand feet in width, aggregating fully six miles. through these great chasms the flood has been pouring since the th april, in a stream seven feet in average depth and at the rate of more than seven miles an hour. more water is even now flowing from the great river over the farms and plantations of arkansas, mississippi and louisiana, than falls over niagara. this outflow must continue until the river recedes below its natural banks, an indefinite period. in some years high water has lasted a long time. in the river remained at its maximum days and in at vicksburg, days. the flood of , is higher than either, or than any on record. the vast area of the overflow is estimated as follows by wm. j. mcculloh, esq.: formerly and for many years united states surveyor general for louisiana, a practical engineer and especially familiar with the inundated districts. "i estimate the area submerged by crevasses, and overflow by high and back water, to be in _louisiana_ about , , acres, or , square miles. it is impossible, in many places, to define the line of separation between the crevasse and overflow water--the former soon reaching the flat land mingles with the latter. "this overflow extents over all, or nearly all of each of the following parishes: carroll, madison, tensas, concordia, avoyelles, point coupee, west baton rouge, iberville, st. martin, larger part of new iberia and of st. mary, terrebonne, larger part of lafourche, ascension, st. charles, st. john baptiste, jefferson, st. bernard, part of plaquemine, morehouse, richland, catahoula, franklin, caldwell, ouachita, and st. landry. "were it not for the levees, the whole of the lands west of the mississippi river, with a belt say of miles from the arkansas line to red river--those west of the atchafalaya, with a breadth of miles from red river to the gulf--all from red river to the gulf west of the mississippi river and east of the atchafalaya--and all east of the river from baton rouge to the sea--these including a large part of the cotton region and very nearly all of the section cultivated in rice and sugar, and embracing the city of new orleans, _would be annually submerged_, being about one sixth of the area of the state, and the most fertile and valuable part of it. "in mississippi the submerged district is about , , acres, and with the exception of a narrow depth of high land fronting the mississippi river has an average width of about miles, and a length of miles, stretching from alcorn's landing, in coahuma county, to vicksburg, being in that county; in bolivar, sunflower, washington, isaquena and warren counties, and comprising what is known as the yazoo and mississippi delta, bounded on the east by the yazoo river, and the highlands, about miles east of the sunflower river, in the very heart of the richest cotton region of that state. "in arkansas the overflow from opposite to memphis to helena (about miles direct) has an average width of miles, being all of the county of crittenden, part of st. francis and of phillipps; and from helena to the louisiana line, has an average width of miles, being part of arkansas and desha counties, and all of chicot. to the interior, it covers part of ouachita, calhoun, and union counties, bordering on the ouachita river, and has on either side of the white and arkansas rivers a width of miles. as nearly as i can estimate, the overflowed portion of arkansas would be about , , acres." w. j. mcculloh. in louisiana , , in mississippi , , in arkansas , , --------- , , acres. the inundation, beginning two months ago, reached enormous and alarming proportions by april th, continued spreading until may th, and only began to show signs of receding about may th. several weeks must pass before now submerged lands become tillable, perhaps one-third by june th, one-third more by the th july, the remainder in some indefinite time longer and too late for any crop this year. as to the condition in which the subsiding flood will leave the sufferers, i quote from a recent published letter of the hon. j. m. sandidge, of our relief committee, who hears or reads the appeals of the distressed and who is well acquainted with the overflowed region and the situation of the inhabitants. the few mules, horses and cattle preserved from the flood will be unfit for any immediate service, and must continue to live, if they live at all, upon the leaves, moss and cane tops, until such time as the grass can grow again. the people, with nothing now, will have no more when the water subsides; and cannot have until the land can be made to yield its fruits. how are they to be fed and supported until such time? death by famine on the dry, but barren ground, would be quite as terrible as to have been swallowed up in the waters! the relief committee see and understand all this, and it is a source of the most sickening anxiety to know that they will be impotent to avert what seems inevitable. the people, as rapidly as possible, and under whatever circumstances, hardships and sacrifices, must begin quickly to make arrangements for themselves by engaging for food and raiment alone, to work, wherever work on such terms can be had; and if not to be had in their present neighborhoods, to seek it in more distant places, if able to reach them. it is true that a great part of the most helpless and destitute would be, by such policy, left where they are, to live upon public charities, or perish in the swamps. nothing less than $ , , in supplies will enable these people to re-commence and continue to labor where they are, until the earliest products of the soil can give subsistence, and if not sustained to that extent who shall say what crimes may not be committed, if crime it could be called, in the desperation of these starving thousands, thrown upon communities, now barely self-supporting? this is a gloomy picture truly, but it is best always to look dangers straight in the face, and see them in their full proportions, if they are to be averted. however generous the people of the country, and of the cities and towns might be, adequate relief from such quarters, could not be depended on; there can be no sufficient aid extended, except through the bounty of the general government. the contributions in money to our relief fund amount to about one hundred and fifty thousand dollars. donations in provisions from western cities received before may th were, barrels of flour, sacks flour, barrels crackers, half-barrels crackers, barrels meal, boxes crackers, barrels pork, , pounds bacon, barrels beef, barrels beans, barrels potatoes, together with a shipment from lexington, kentucky, of barrels flour, barrels of meal, pounds bacon, sacks of potatoes, barrels sugar, bales and box merchandize, boxes shoes, box clothing. the list of donations includes many valuable articles not above given, consisting of garden seeds, cotton seed, seed corn, clothing, &c. extensive shipments of provisions have also been announced from cincinnati, making the total value of donations for relief, not cash, about thirty-five thousand dollars. up to may nd, there had been received from the u. s. commissary, barrels pork, barrels army bread, barrels beans, barrels meal, and , pounds bacon. from this source are obtained daily rations, which will be continued until june th, or longer. our total shipments to may th, were: , barrels pork , rations. , pounds bacon , " , barrels meal , , " , " crackers , " " flour , " " beans , " " seed potatoes-- sacks of salt. sacks cotton seed-- sacks seed corn. cases garden seeds-- cases drugs and sundries. our committee have been shipping supplies thirty days, ending may th, averaging , rations daily which have subsisted at least , people, the local agents of distribution having been instructed to reduce their _per capita_ issues. with this economy we cannot continue relief to the above numbers with only our present resources beyond the th of june. be not deceived by the falls which may take place in the mississippi, and be reported from time to time. the waters of the overflow do not drain off by the river's channel nor return to it, but flow to the gulf of mexico along the great lake above described. the cultivated lands in the ouachita and atchafalaya valleys or basins are from five to fifteen feet below the level of the natural banks of the mississippi. when the river has fallen ten feet the corresponding fall of the flood waters is not ten inches. the great inundation will subside not faster than one or two inches each day, uncovering the land by degrees so slow and tedious as to weary the hopes and sicken the hearts of the owners and tillers of the soil. i have given and described, as nearly as reasonable limits will permit, the cause, the nature, the extent, the consequences and the probable duration of the flood. i will let this statement have what effect it may upon the moral sense, the philanthropy and the magnanimity of the american people. i could give details and incidents, a few out of thousands of the same nature that world produce emotions of pity and horror. such is not my purpose. i show you what is needed to prevent intense misery, famine and death; i leave the rest to your honor as men, to your pride as americans and to your sense of duty as christians. while there are such fruits of prosperity and such stores of accumulated riches, you cannot afford to let it be recorded in our common history that thousands of people in starved to death on the borders of the mississippi, for the want of one fifty thousandth part of the aggregate wealth of their countrymen. i append an interesting letter of hon. henry g. crowell, commissioner of relief from boston, for further information and in testimony of the faithful, systematic, vigorous and effectual operations of our committees of relief. louis a. wiltz, mayor, chairman of general relief committee and treasurer of relief fund. letter of hon. henry g. crowell, } new orleans, may th, . } hon. louis a. wiltz, mayor: dear sir--i arrived here on the th instant, bearing credentials as commissioner of the mayor of boston and of the boston committee in charge of subscription for the relief of sufferers in louisiana by the flood. i came for the purpose of ascertaining what further assistance the citizens of boston can render towards alleviating the necessities of the suffering, and restoring your ancient prosperity. i was immediately put in communication with the members of the general committee of relief, appointed by you, with those of the several subsidiary committees, and with many intelligent citizens, from whom and from eminent professional engineers made diligent enquiry as to the area of the country overflowed, the number of people made destitute by this stupendous calamity, the extent of damage to crops and live stock, the probable continuance of the inundation, the nature and amount of relief absolutely necessary to prevent loss of life by famine, and as to the plan of relief adopted here. i am grieved to find the overflow to be wider in extent, more disastrous in effect, and causing distress and destitution to far greater extent than represented by you in your first appeal for aid from the chief cities of the union--greater than is generally believed and greater than can be conceived of by those not familiar with the nature of the vast flat alluvial region which the waters of the mississippi and its lower branches now cover. the calamity surpasses in extent and ruinous consequences any that has occurred from fire, storm or flood on this continent during the current century. to see for myself the nature of the great inundation, i went to brashear, eighty miles west of new orleans--the last twenty-three miles through an unbroken flood which pours from the distant crevasses on the mississippi, and devastates an immense region. i shall not here relate what i saw, but it was sufficient to give me a realizing sense of the magnitude and destructiveness of the great flood, and of the reasons why the suffering, destitution and danger caused by it, must continue for a long time. i have made careful examination of the workings of your committees of relief, which i am pleased to find composed of citizens of high character and distinguished ability, who labor zealously and constantly in the noble work to which you have called them. their method of purchasing and forwarding supplies, and their rules and regulations for the distribution of relief met my approval in all respects. by the system adopted the donations of the charitable are sure to do the most good to those who are made destitute by the flood. wise precaution is taken to avoid the encouragement of idleness by strictly withholding relief from such as find work on lands not overflowed, and who refuse to labor; a precaution which i commend and approve. careful, systematic economy is employed in all relief measures. at their request and yours, i have examined your accounts as treasurer of the relief fund and the accounts and vouchers of the committees, finding all correct and in order. by a well organized system everything received is properly accounted for and promptly applied. i am pleased to say that you and the members of your committees have shown much executive and administrative ability, and that the disposition of contributions has been so careful and so judicious as to merit entire confidence. you have done and, i am sure, will continue to do all that can be done for the sufferers with the means which the philanthropic put in your hands. i can suggest no improvement in your method. i cannot close without advising you to renew your appeal for help. your resources for the required relief are altogether insufficient. put before the people of america the leading facts relating to this unprecedented and enormous visitation of calamity. a true knowledge of the great danger and suffering of your afflicted people will awaken wealthy and prosperous states, cities, churches and associations to an active sense of their duty. while there is such prosperity and abundance of means everywhere else, these poor victims of the flood must not be left to starve. please accept for yourself, and extend to all others whom i have met here, my thanks for the very many courtesies and kind attentions which i have received at your hands and theirs. hoping to visit you under more prosperous auspices. i remain yours very respectfully, henry g. crowell. transcriber's notes: passages in italics are indicated by _underscore_. the following misprints have been corrected: "cites" corrected to "cities" (page ) "philantrophic" corrected to "philanthropic" (page ) "witholding" corrected to "withholding" (page ) "philantropic" corrected to "philanthropic" (page ) none chita: a memory of last island by lafcadio hearn "but nature whistled with all her winds, did as she pleased, and went her way." --emerson to my friend dr. rodolfo matas of new orleans contents the legend of l'ile derniere out of the sea's strength the shadow of the tide the legend of l'ile derniere i. travelling south from new orleans to the islands, you pass through a strange land into a strange sea, by various winding waterways. you can journey to the gulf by lugger if you please; but the trip may be made much more rapidly and agreeably on some one of those light, narrow steamers, built especially for bayou-travel, which usually receive passengers at a point not far from the foot of old saint-louis street, hard by the sugar-landing, where there is ever a pushing and flocking of steam craft--all striving for place to rest their white breasts against the levee, side by side,--like great weary swans. but the miniature steamboat on which you engage passage to the gulf never lingers long in the mississippi: she crosses the river, slips into some canal-mouth, labors along the artificial channel awhile, and then leaves it with a scream of joy, to puff her free way down many a league of heavily shadowed bayou. perhaps thereafter she may bear you through the immense silence of drenched rice-fields, where the yellow-green level is broken at long intervals by the black silhouette of some irrigating machine;--but, whichever of the five different routes be pursued, you will find yourself more than once floating through sombre mazes of swamp-forest,--past assemblages of cypresses all hoary with the parasitic tillandsia, and grotesque as gatherings of fetich-gods. ever from river or from lakelet the steamer glides again into canal or bayou,--from bayou or canal once more into lake or bay; and sometimes the swamp-forest visibly thins away from these shores into wastes of reedy morass where, even of breathless nights, the quaggy soil trembles to a sound like thunder of breakers on a coast: the storm-roar of billions of reptile voices chanting in cadence,--rhythmically surging in stupendous crescendo and diminuendo,--a monstrous and appalling chorus of frogs! .... panting, screaming, scraping her bottom over the sand-bars,--all day the little steamer strives to reach the grand blaze of blue open water below the marsh-lands; and perhaps she may be fortunate enough to enter the gulf about the time of sunset. for the sake of passengers, she travels by day only; but there are other vessels which make the journey also by night--threading the bayou-labyrinths winter and summer: sometimes steering by the north star,--sometimes feeling the way with poles in the white season of fogs,--sometimes, again, steering by that star of evening which in our sky glows like another moon, and drops over the silent lakes as she passes a quivering trail of silver fire. shadows lengthen; and at last the woods dwindle away behind you into thin bluish lines;--land and water alike take more luminous color;--bayous open into broad passes;--lakes link themselves with sea-bays;--and the ocean-wind bursts upon you,--keen, cool, and full of light. for the first time the vessel begins to swing,--rocking to the great living pulse of the tides. and gazing from the deck around you, with no forest walls to break the view, it will seem to you that the low land must have once been rent asunder by the sea, and strewn about the gulf in fantastic tatters.... sometimes above a waste of wind-blown prairie-cane you see an oasis emerging,--a ridge or hillock heavily umbraged with the rounded foliage of evergreen oaks:--a cheniere. and from the shining flood also kindred green knolls arise,--pretty islets, each with its beach-girdle of dazzling sand and shells, yellow-white,--and all radiant with semi-tropical foliage, myrtle and palmetto, orange and magnolia. under their emerald shadows curious little villages of palmetto huts are drowsing, where dwell a swarthy population of orientals,--malay fishermen, who speak the spanish-creole of the philippines as well as their own tagal, and perpetuate in louisiana the catholic traditions of the indies. there are girls in those unfamiliar villages worthy to inspire any statuary,--beautiful with the beauty of ruddy bronze,--gracile as the palmettoes that sway above them.... further seaward you may also pass a chinese settlement: some queer camp of wooden dwellings clustering around a vast platform that stands above the water upon a thousand piles;--over the miniature wharf you can scarcely fail to observe a white sign-board painted with crimson ideographs. the great platform is used for drying fish in the sun; and the fantastic characters of the sign, literally translated, mean: "heap--shrimp--plenty." ... and finally all the land melts down into desolations of sea-marsh, whose stillness is seldom broken, except by the melancholy cry of long-legged birds, and in wild seasons by that sound which shakes all shores when the weird musician of the sea touches the bass keys of his mighty organ.... ii. beyond the sea-marshes a curious archipelago lies. if you travel by steamer to the sea-islands to-day, you are tolerably certain to enter the gulf by grande pass--skirting grande terre, the most familiar island of all, not so much because of its proximity as because of its great crumbling fort and its graceful pharos: the stationary white-light of barataria. otherwise the place is bleakly uninteresting: a wilderness of wind-swept grasses and sinewy weeds waving away from a thin beach ever speckled with drift and decaying things,--worm-riddled timbers, dead porpoises. eastward the russet level is broken by the columnar silhouette of the light house, and again, beyond it, by some puny scrub timber, above which rises the angular ruddy mass of the old brick fort, whose ditches swarm with crabs, and whose sluiceways are half choked by obsolete cannon-shot, now thickly covered with incrustation of oyster shells.... around all the gray circling of a shark-haunted sea... sometimes of autumn evenings there, when the hollow of heaven flames like the interior of a chalice, and waves and clouds are flying in one wild rout of broken gold,--you may see the tawny grasses all covered with something like husks,--wheat-colored husks,--large, flat, and disposed evenly along the lee-side of each swaying stalk, so as to present only their edges to the wind. but, if you approach, those pale husks all break open to display strange splendors of scarlet and seal-brown, with arabesque mottlings in white and black: they change into wondrous living blossoms, which detach themselves before your eyes and rise in air, and flutter away by thousands to settle down farther off, and turn into wheat-colored husks once more ... a whirling flower-drift of sleepy butterflies! southwest, across the pass, gleams beautiful grande isle: primitively a wilderness of palmetto (latanier);--then drained, diked, and cultivated by spanish sugar-planters; and now familiar chiefly as a bathing-resort. since the war the ocean reclaimed its own;--the cane-fields have degenerated into sandy plains, over which tramways wind to the smooth beach;--the plantation-residences have been converted into rustic hotels, and the negro-quarters remodelled into villages of cozy cottages for the reception of guests. but with its imposing groves of oak, its golden wealth of orange-trees, its odorous lanes of oleander. its broad grazing-meadows yellow-starred with wild camomile, grande isle remains the prettiest island of the gulf; and its loveliness is exceptional. for the bleakness of grand terre is reiterated by most of the other islands,--caillou, cassetete, calumet, wine island, the twin timbaliers, gull island, and the many islets haunted by the gray pelican,--all of which are little more than sand-bars covered with wiry grasses, prairie-cane, and scrub-timber. last island (l'ile derniere),--well worthy a long visit in other years, in spite of its remoteness, is now a ghastly desolation twenty-five miles long. lying nearly forty miles west of grande isle, it was nevertheless far more populated a generation ago: it was not only the most celebrated island of the group, but also the most fashionable watering-place of the aristocratic south;--to-day it is visited by fishermen only, at long intervals. its admirable beach in many respects resembled that of grande isle to-day; the accommodations also were much similar, although finer: a charming village of cottages facing the gulf near the western end. the hotel itself was a massive two-story construction of timber, containing many apartments, together with a large dining-room and dancing-hall. in rear of the hotel was a bayou, where passengers landed--"village bayou" it is still called by seamen;--but the deep channel which now cuts the island in two a little eastwardly did not exist while the village remained. the sea tore it out in one night--the same night when trees, fields, dwellings, all vanished into the gulf, leaving no vestige of former human habitation except a few of those strong brick props and foundations upon which the frame houses and cisterns had been raised. one living creature was found there after the cataclysm--a cow! but how that solitary cow survived the fury of a storm-flood that actually rent the island in twain has ever remained a mystery ... iii. on the gulf side of these islands you may observe that the trees--when there are any trees--all bend away from the sea; and, even of bright, hot days when the wind sleeps, there is something grotesquely pathetic in their look of agonized terror. a group of oaks at grande isle i remember as especially suggestive: five stooping silhouettes in line against the horizon, like fleeing women with streaming garments and wind-blown hair,--bowing grievously and thrusting out arms desperately northward as to save themselves from falling. and they are being pursued indeed;--for the sea is devouring the land. many and many a mile of ground has yielded to the tireless charging of ocean's cavalry: far out you can see, through a good glass, the porpoises at play where of old the sugar-cane shook out its million bannerets; and shark-fins now seam deep water above a site where pigeons used to coo. men build dikes; but the besieging tides bring up their battering-rams--whole forests of drift--huge trunks of water-oak and weighty cypress. forever the yellow mississippi strives to build; forever the sea struggles to destroy;--and amid their eternal strife the islands and the promontories change shape, more slowly, but not less fantastically, than the clouds of heaven. and worthy of study are those wan battle-grounds where the woods made their last brave stand against the irresistible invasion,--usually at some long point of sea-marsh, widely fringed with billowing sand. just where the waves curl beyond such a point you may discern a multitude of blackened, snaggy shapes protruding above the water,--some high enough to resemble ruined chimneys, others bearing a startling likeness to enormous skeleton-feet and skeleton-hands,--with crustaceous white growths clinging to them here and there like remnants of integument. these are bodies and limbs of drowned oaks,--so long drowned that the shell-scurf is inch-thick upon parts of them. farther in upon the beach immense trunks lie overthrown. some look like vast broken columns; some suggest colossal torsos imbedded, and seem to reach out mutilated stumps in despair from their deepening graves;--and beside these are others which have kept their feet with astounding obstinacy, although the barbarian tides have been charging them for twenty years, and gradually torn away the soil above and beneath their roots. the sand around,--soft beneath and thinly crusted upon the surface,--is everywhere pierced with holes made by a beautifully mottled and semi-diaphanous crab, with hairy legs, big staring eyes, and milk-white claws;--while in the green sedges beyond there is a perpetual rustling, as of some strong wind beating among reeds: a marvellous creeping of "fiddlers," which the inexperienced visitor might at first mistake for so many peculiar beetles, as they run about sideways, each with his huge single claw folded upon his body like a wing-case. year by year that rustling strip of green land grows narrower; the sand spreads and sinks, shuddering and wrinkling like a living brown skin; and the last standing corpses of the oaks, ever clinging with naked, dead feet to the sliding beach, lean more and more out of the perpendicular. as the sands subside, the stumps appear to creep; their intertwisted masses of snakish roots seem to crawl, to writhe,--like the reaching arms of cephalopods.... ... grande terre is going: the sea mines her fort, and will before many years carry the ramparts by storm. grande isle is going,--slowly but surely: the gulf has eaten three miles into her meadowed land. last island has gone! how it went i first heard from the lips of a veteran pilot, while we sat one evening together on the trunk of a drifted cypress which some high tide had pressed deeply into the grande isle beach. the day had been tropically warm; we had sought the shore for a breath of living air. sunset came, and with it the ponderous heat lifted,--a sudden breeze blew,--lightnings flickered in the darkening horizon,--wind and water began to strive together,--and soon all the low coast boomed. then my companion began his story; perhaps the coming of the storm inspired him to speak! and as i listened to him, listening also to the clamoring of the coast, there flashed back to me recollection of a singular breton fancy: that the voice of the sea is never one voice, but a tumult of many voices--voices of drowned men,--the muttering of multitudinous dead,--the moaning of innumerable ghosts, all rising, to rage against the living, at the great witch call of storms.... iv. the charm of a single summer day on these island shores is something impossible to express, never to be forgotten. rarely, in the paler zones, do earth and heaven take such luminosity: those will best understand me who have seen the splendor of a west indian sky. and yet there is a tenderness of tint, a caress of color, in these gulf-days which is not of the antilles,--a spirituality, as of eternal tropical spring. it must have been to even such a sky that xenophanes lifted up his eyes of old when he vowed the infinite blue was god;--it was indeed under such a sky that de soto named the vastest and grandest of southern havens espiritu santo,--the bay of the holy ghost. there is a something unutterable in this bright gulf-air that compels awe,--something vital, something holy, something pantheistic: and reverentially the mind asks itself if what the eye beholds is not the pneuma indeed, the infinite breath, the divine ghost, the great blue soul of the unknown. all, all is blue in the calm,--save the low land under your feet, which you almost forget, since it seems only as a tiny green flake afloat in the liquid eternity of day. then slowly, caressingly, irresistibly, the witchery of the infinite grows upon you: out of time and space you begin to dream with open eyes,--to drift into delicious oblivion of facts,--to forget the past, the present, the substantial,--to comprehend nothing but the existence of that infinite blue ghost as something into which you would wish to melt utterly away forever.... and this day-magic of azure endures sometimes for months together. cloudlessly the dawn reddens up through a violet east: there is no speck upon the blossoming of its mystical rose,--unless it be the silhouette of some passing gull, whirling his sickle-wings against the crimsoning. ever, as the sun floats higher, the flood shifts its color. sometimes smooth and gray, yet flickering with the morning gold, it is the vision of john,--the apocalyptic sea of glass mixed with fire;--again, with the growing breeze, it takes that incredible purple tint familiar mostly to painters of west indian scenery;--once more, under the blaze of noon, it changes to a waste of broken emerald. with evening, the horizon assumes tints of inexpressible sweetness,--pearl-lights, opaline colors of milk and fire; and in the west are topaz-glowings and wondrous flushings as of nacre. then, if the sea sleeps, it dreams of all these,--faintly, weirdly,--shadowing them even to the verge of heaven. beautiful, too, are those white phantasmagoria which, at the approach of equinoctial days, mark the coming of the winds. over the rim of the sea a bright cloud gently pushes up its head. it rises; and others rise with it, to right and left--slowly at first; then more swiftly. all are brilliantly white and flocculent, like loose new cotton. gradually they mount in enormous line high above the gulf, rolling and wreathing into an arch that expands and advances,--bending from horizon to horizon. a clear, cold breath accompanies its coming. reaching the zenith, it seems there to hang poised awhile,--a ghostly bridge arching the empyrean,--upreaching its measureless span from either underside of the world. then the colossal phantom begins to turn, as on a pivot of air,--always preserving its curvilinear symmetry, but moving its unseen ends beyond and below the sky-circle. and at last it floats away unbroken beyond the blue sweep of the world, with a wind following after. day after day, almost at the same hour, the white arc rises, wheels, and passes... ... never a glimpse of rock on these low shores;--only long sloping beaches and bars of smooth tawny sand. sand and sea teem with vitality;--over all the dunes there is a constant susurration, a blattering and swarming of crustacea;--through all the sea there is a ceaseless play of silver lightning,--flashing of myriad fish. sometimes the shallows are thickened with minute, transparent, crab-like organisms,--all colorless as gelatine. there are days also when countless medusae drift in--beautiful veined creatures that throb like hearts, with perpetual systole and diastole of their diaphanous envelops: some, of translucent azure or rose, seem in the flood the shadows or ghosts of huge campanulate flowers;--others have the semblance of strange living vegetables,--great milky tubers, just beginning to sprout. but woe to the human skin grazed by those shadowy sproutings and spectral stamens!--the touch of glowing iron is not more painful... within an hour or two after their appearance all these tremulous jellies vanish mysteriously as they came. perhaps, if a bold swimmer, you may venture out alone a long way--once! not twice!--even in company. as the water deepens beneath you, and you feel those ascending wave-currents of coldness arising which bespeak profundity, you will also begin to feel innumerable touches, as of groping fingers--touches of the bodies of fish, innumerable fish, fleeing towards shore. the farther you advance, the more thickly you will feel them come; and above you and around you, to right and left, others will leap and fall so swiftly as to daze the sight, like intercrossing fountain-jets of fluid silver. the gulls fly lower about you, circling with sinister squeaking cries;--perhaps for an instant your feet touch in the deep something heavy, swift, lithe, that rushes past with a swirling shock. then the fear of the abyss, the vast and voiceless nightmare of the sea, will come upon you; the silent panic of all those opaline millions that flee glimmering by will enter into you also... from what do they flee thus perpetually? is it from the giant sawfish or the ravening shark?--from the herds of the porpoises, or from the grande-ecaille,--that splendid monster whom no net may hold,--all helmed and armored in argent plate-mail?--or from the hideous devilfish of the gulf,--gigantic, flat-bodied, black, with immense side-fins ever outspread like the pinions of a bat,--the terror of luggermen, the uprooter of anchors? from all these, perhaps, and from other monsters likewise--goblin shapes evolved by nature as destroyers, as equilibrists, as counterchecks to that prodigious fecundity, which, unhindered, would thicken the deep into one measureless and waveless ferment of being... but when there are many bathers these perils are forgotten,--numbers give courage,--one can abandon one's self, without fear of the invisible, to the long, quivering, electrical caresses of the sea ... v. thirty years ago, last island lay steeped in the enormous light of even such magical days. july was dying;--for weeks no fleck of cloud had broken the heaven's blue dream of eternity; winds held their breath; slow waveless caressed the bland brown beach with a sound as of kisses and whispers. to one who found himself alone, beyond the limits of the village and beyond the hearing of its voices,--the vast silence, the vast light, seemed full of weirdness. and these hushes, these transparencies, do not always inspire a causeless apprehension: they are omens sometimes--omens of coming tempest. nature,--incomprehensible sphinx!--before her mightiest bursts of rage, ever puts forth her divinest witchery, makes more manifest her awful beauty ... but in that forgotten summer the witchery lasted many long days,--days born in rose-light, buried in gold. it was the height of the season. the long myrtle-shadowed village was thronged with its summer population;--the big hotel could hardly accommodate all its guests;--the bathing-houses were too few for the crowds who flocked to the water morning and evening. there were diversions for all,--hunting and fishing parties, yachting excursions, rides, music, games, promenades. carriage wheels whirled flickering along the beach, seaming its smoothness noiselessly, as if muffled. love wrote its dreams upon the sand... ... then one great noon, when the blue abyss of day seemed to yawn over the world more deeply than ever before, a sudden change touched the quicksilver smoothness of the waters--the swaying shadow of a vast motion. first the whole sea-circle appeared to rise up bodily at the sky; the horizon-curve lifted to a straight line; the line darkened and approached,--a monstrous wrinkle, an immeasurable fold of green water, moving swift as a cloud-shadow pursued by sunlight. but it had looked formidable only by startling contrast with the previous placidity of the open: it was scarcely two feet high;--it curled slowly as it neared the beach, and combed itself out in sheets of woolly foam with a low, rich roll of whispered thunder. swift in pursuit another followed--a third--a feebler fourth; then the sea only swayed a little, and stilled again. minutes passed, and the immeasurable heaving recommenced--one, two, three, four ... seven long swells this time;--and the gulf smoothed itself once more. irregularly the phenomenon continued to repeat itself, each time with heavier billowing and briefer intervals of quiet--until at last the whole sea grew restless and shifted color and flickered green;--the swells became shorter and changed form. then from horizon to shore ran one uninterrupted heaving--one vast green swarming of snaky shapes, rolling in to hiss and flatten upon the sand. yet no single cirrus-speck revealed itself through all the violet heights: there was no wind!--you might have fancied the sea had been upheaved from beneath ... and indeed the fancy of a seismic origin for a windless surge would not appear in these latitudes to be utterly without foundation. on the fairest days a southeast breeze may bear you an odor singular enough to startle you from sleep,--a strong, sharp smell as of fish-oil; and gazing at the sea you might be still more startled at the sudden apparition of great oleaginous patches spreading over the water, sheeting over the swells. that is, if you had never heard of the mysterious submarine oil-wells, the volcanic fountains, unexplored, that well up with the eternal pulsing of the gulf-stream ... but the pleasure-seekers of last island knew there must have been a "great blow" somewhere that day. still the sea swelled; and a splendid surf made the evening bath delightful. then, just at sundown, a beautiful cloud-bridge grew up and arched the sky with a single span of cottony pink vapor, that changed and deepened color with the dying of the iridescent day. and the cloud-bridge approached, stretched, strained, and swung round at last to make way for the coming of the gale,--even as the light bridges that traverse the dreamy teche swing open when luggermen sound through their conch-shells the long, bellowing signal of approach. then the wind began to blow, with the passing of july. it blew from the northeast, clear, cool. it blew in enormous sighs, dying away at regular intervals, as if pausing to draw breath. all night it blew; and in each pause could be heard the answering moan of the rising surf,--as if the rhythm of the sea moulded itself after the rhythm of the air,--as if the waving of the water responded precisely to the waving of the wind,--a billow for every puff, a surge for every sigh. the august morning broke in a bright sky;--the breeze still came cool and clear from the northeast. the waves were running now at a sharp angle to the shore: they began to carry fleeces, an innumerable flock of vague green shapes, wind-driven to be despoiled of their ghostly wool. far as the eye could follow the line of the beach, all the slope was white with the great shearing of them. clouds came, flew as in a panic against the face of the sun, and passed. all that day and through the night and into the morning again the breeze continued from the north. east, blowing like an equinoctial gale ... then day by day the vast breath freshened steadily, and the waters heightened. a week later sea-bathing had become perilous: colossal breakers were herding in, like moving leviathan-backs, twice the height of a man. still the gale grew, and the billowing waxed mightier, and faster and faster overhead flew the tatters of torn cloud. the gray morning of the th wanly lighted a surf that appalled the best swimmers: the sea was one wild agony of foam, the gale was rending off the heads of the waves and veiling the horizon with a fog of salt spray. shadowless and gray the day remained; there were mad bursts of lashing rain. evening brought with it a sinister apparition, looming through a cloud-rent in the west--a scarlet sun in a green sky. his sanguine disk, enormously magnified, seemed barred like the body of a belted planet. a moment, and the crimson spectre vanished; and the moonless night came. then the wind grew weird. it ceased being a breath; it became a voice moaning across the world,--hooting,--uttering nightmare sounds,--whoo!--whoo!--whoo!--and with each stupendous owl-cry the mooing of the waters seemed to deepen, more and more abysmally, through all the hours of darkness. from the northwest the breakers of the bay began to roll high over the sandy slope, into the salines;--the village bayou broadened to a bellowing flood ... so the tumult swelled and the turmoil heightened until morning,--a morning of gray gloom and whistling rain. rain of bursting clouds and rain of wind-blown brine from the great spuming agony of the sea. the steamer star was due from st. mary's that fearful morning. could she come? no one really believed it,--no one. and nevertheless men struggled to the roaring beach to look for her, because hope is stronger than reason ... even today, in these creole islands, the advent of the steamer is the great event of the week. there are no telegraph lines, no telephones: the mail-packet is the only trustworthy medium of communication with the outer world, bringing friends, news, letters. the magic of steam has placed new orleans nearer to new york than to the timbaliers, nearer to washington than to wine island, nearer to chicago than to barataria bay. and even during the deepest sleep of waves and winds there will come betimes to sojourners in this unfamiliar archipelago a feeling of lonesomeness that is a fear, a feeling of isolation from the world of men,--totally unlike that sense of solitude which haunts one in the silence of mountain-heights, or amid the eternal tumult of lofty granitic coasts: a sense of helpless insecurity. the land seems but an undulation of the sea-bed: its highest ridges do not rise more than the height of a man above the salines on either side;--the salines themselves lie almost level with the level of the flood-tides;--the tides are variable, treacherous, mysterious. but when all around and above these ever-changing shores the twin vastnesses of heaven and sea begin to utter the tremendous revelation of themselves as infinite forces in contention, then indeed this sense of separation from humanity appalls ... perhaps it was such a feeling which forced men, on the tenth day of august, eighteen hundred and fifty-six, to hope against hope for the coming of the star, and to strain their eyes towards far-off terrebonne. "it was a wind you could lie down on," said my friend the pilot. ... "great god!" shrieked a voice above the shouting of the storm,--"she is coming!" ... it was true. down the atchafalaya, and thence through strange mazes of bayou, lakelet, and pass, by a rear route familiar only to the best of pilots, the frail river-craft had toiled into caillou bay, running close to the main shore;--and now she was heading right for the island, with the wind aft, over the monstrous sea. on she came, swaying, rocking, plunging,--with a great whiteness wrapping her about like a cloud, and moving with her moving,--a tempest-whirl of spray;--ghost-white and like a ghost she came, for her smoke-stacks exhaled no visible smoke--the wind devoured it! the excitement on shore became wild;--men shouted themselves hoarse; women laughed and cried. every telescope and opera-glass was directed upon the coming apparition; all wondered how the pilot kept his feet; all marvelled at the madness of the captain. but captain abraham smith was not mad. a veteran american sailor, he had learned to know the great gulf as scholars know deep books by heart: he knew the birthplace of its tempests, the mystery of its tides, the omens of its hurricanes. while lying at brashear city he felt the storm had not yet reached its highest, vaguely foresaw a mighty peril, and resolved to wait no longer for a lull. "boys," he said, "we've got to take her out in spite of hell!" and they "took her out." through all the peril, his men stayed by him and obeyed him. by midmorning the wind had deepened to a roar,--lowering sometimes to a rumble, sometimes bursting upon the ears like a measureless and deafening crash. then the captain knew the star was running a race with death. "she'll win it," he muttered;--"she'll stand it ... perhaps they'll have need of me to-night." she won! with a sonorous steam-chant of triumph the brave little vessel rode at last into the bayou, and anchored hard by her accustomed resting-place, in full view of the hotel, though not near enough to shore to lower her gang-plank.... but she had sung her swan-song. gathering in from the northeast, the waters of the bay were already marbling over the salines and half across the island; and still the wind increased its paroxysmal power. cottages began to rock. some slid away from the solid props upon which they rested. a chimney fumbled. shutters were wrenched off; verandas demolished. light roofs lifted, dropped again, and flapped into ruin. trees bent their heads to the earth. and still the storm grew louder and blacker with every passing hour. the star rose with the rising of the waters, dragging her anchor. two more anchors were put out, and still she dragged--dragged in with the flood,--twisting, shuddering, careening in her agony. evening fell; the sand began to move with the wind, stinging faces like a continuous fire of fine shot; and frenzied blasts came to buffet the steamer forward, sideward. then one of her hog-chains parted with a clang like the boom of a big bell. then another! ... then the captain bade his men to cut away all her upper works, clean to the deck. overboard into the seething went her stacks, her pilot-house, her cabins,--and whirled away. and the naked hull of the star, still dragging her three anchors, labored on through the darkness, nearer and nearer to the immense silhouette of the hotel, whose hundred windows were now all aflame. the vast timber building seemed to defy the storm. the wind, roaring round its broad verandas,--hissing through every crevice with the sound and force of steam,--appeared to waste its rage. and in the half-lull between two terrible gusts there came to the captain's ears a sound that seemed strange in that night of multitudinous terrors ... a sound of music! vi. ... almost every evening throughout the season there had been dancing in the great hall;--there was dancing that night also. the population of the hotel had been augmented by the advent of families from other parts of the island, who found their summer cottages insecure places of shelter: there were nearly four hundred guests assembled. perhaps it was for this reason that the entertainment had been prepared upon a grander plan than usual, that it assumed the form of a fashionable ball. and all those pleasure seekers,--representing the wealth and beauty of the creole parishes,--whether from ascension or assumption, st. mary's or st. landry's, iberville or terrebonne, whether inhabitants of the multi-colored and many-balconied creole quarter of the quaint metropolis, or dwellers in the dreamy paradises of the teche,--mingled joyously, knowing each other, feeling in some sort akin--whether affiliated by blood, connaturalized by caste, or simply interassociated by traditional sympathies of class sentiment and class interest. perhaps in the more than ordinary merriment of that evening something of nervous exaltation might have been discerned,--something like a feverish resolve to oppose apprehension with gayety, to combat uneasiness by diversion. but the hours passed in mirthfulness; the first general feeling of depression began to weigh less and less upon the guests; they had found reason to confide in the solidity of the massive building; there were no positive terrors, no outspoken fears; and the new conviction of all had found expression in the words of the host himself,--"il n'y a rien de mieux a faire que de s'amuser!" of what avail to lament the prospective devastation of cane-fields,--to discuss the possible ruin of crops? better to seek solace in choregraphic harmonies, in the rhythm of gracious motion and of perfect melody, than hearken to the discords of the wild orchestra of storms;--wiser to admire the grace of parisian toilets, the eddy of trailing robes with its fairy-foam of lace, the ivorine loveliness of glossy shoulders and jewelled throats, the glimmering of satin-slippered feet,--than to watch the raging of the flood without, or the flying of the wrack ... so the music and the mirth went on: they made joy for themselves--those elegant guests;--they jested and sipped rich wines;--they pledged, and hoped, and loved, and promised, with never a thought of the morrow, on the night of the tenth of august, eighteen hundred and fifty-six. observant parents were there, planning for the future bliss of their nearest and dearest;--mothers and fathers of handsome lads, lithe and elegant as young pines, and fresh from the polish of foreign university training;--mothers and fathers of splendid girls whose simplest attitudes were witcheries. young cheeks flushed, young hearts fluttered with an emotion more puissant than the excitement of the dance;--young eyes betrayed the happy secret discreeter lips would have preserved. slave-servants circled through the aristocratic press, bearing dainties and wines, praying permission to pass in terms at once humble and officious,--always in the excellent french which well-trained house-servants were taught to use on such occasions. ... night wore on: still the shining floor palpitated to the feet of the dancers; still the piano-forte pealed, and still the violins sang,--and the sound of their singing shrilled through the darkness, in gasps of the gale, to the ears of captain smith, as he strove to keep his footing on the spray-drenched deck of the star. --"christ!" he muttered,--"a dance! if that wind whips round south, there'll be another dance! ... but i guess the star will stay." ... half an hour might have passed; still the lights flamed calmly, and the violins trilled, and the perfumed whirl went on ... and suddenly the wind veered! again the star reeled, and shuddered, and turned, and began to drag all her anchors. but she now dragged away from the great building and its lights,--away from the voluptuous thunder of the grand piano, even at that moment outpouring the great joy of weber's melody orchestrated by berlioz: l'invitation a la valse,--with its marvellous musical swing! --"waltzing!" cried the captain. "god help them!--god help us all now! ... the wind waltzes to-night, with the sea for his partner!" ... o the stupendous valse-tourbillon! o the mighty dancer! one--two--three! from northeast to east, from east to southeast, from southeast to south: then from the south he came, whirling the sea in his arms ... ... some one shrieked in the midst of the revels;--some girl who found her pretty slippers wet. what could it be? thin streams of water were spreading over the level planking,--curling about the feet of the dancers ... what could it be? all the land had begun to quake, even as, but a moment before, the polished floor was trembling to the pressure of circling steps;--all the building shook now; every beam uttered its groan. what could it be? ... there was a clamor, a panic, a rush to the windy night. infinite darkness above and beyond; but the lantern-beams danced far out over an unbroken circle of heaving and swirling black water. stealthily, swiftly, the measureless sea-flood was rising. --"messieurs--mesdames, ce n'est rien. nothing serious, ladies, i assure you ... mais nous en avons vu bien souvent, les inondations comme celle-ci; ca passe vite! the water will go down in a few hours, ladies;--it never rises higher than this; il n'y a pas le moindre danger, je vous dis! allons! il n'y a--my god! what is that?" ... for a moment there was a ghastly hush of voices. and through that hush there burst upon the ears of all a fearful and unfamiliar sound, as of a colossal cannonade rolling up from the south, with volleying lightnings. vastly and swiftly, nearer and nearer it came,--a ponderous and unbroken thunder-roll, terrible as the long muttering of an earthquake. the nearest mainland,--across mad caillou bay to the sea-marshes,--lay twelve miles north; west, by the gulf, the nearest solid ground was twenty miles distant. there were boats, yes!--but the stoutest swimmer might never reach them now! then rose a frightful cry,--the hoarse, hideous, indescribable cry of hopeless fear,--the despairing animal-cry man utters when suddenly brought face to face with nothingness, without preparation, without consolation, without possibility of respite ... sauve qui peut! some wrenched down the doors; some clung to the heavy banquet-tables, to the sofas, to the billiard-tables:--during one terrible instant,--against fruitless heroisms, against futile generosities,--raged all the frenzy of selfishness, all the brutalities of panic. and then--then came, thundering through the blackness, the giant swells, boom on boom! ... one crash!--the huge frame building rocks like a cradle, seesaws, crackles. what are human shrieks now?--the tornado is shrieking! another!--chandeliers splinter; lights are dashed out; a sweeping cataract hurls in: the immense hall rises,--oscillates,--twirls as upon a pivot,--crepitates,--crumbles into ruin. crash again!--the swirling wreck dissolves into the wallowing of another monster billow; and a hundred cottages overturn, spin in sudden eddies, quiver, disjoint, and melt into the seething. ... so the hurricane passed,--tearing off the heads of the prodigious waves, to hurl them a hundred feet in air,--heaping up the ocean against the land,--upturning the woods. bays and passes were swollen to abysses; rivers regorged; the sea-marshes were changed to raging wastes of water. before new orleans the flood of the mile-broad mississippi rose six feet above highest water-mark. one hundred and ten miles away, donaldsonville trembled at the towering tide of the lafourche. lakes strove to burst their boundaries. far-off river steamers tugged wildly at their cables,--shivering like tethered creatures that hear by night the approaching howl of destroyers. smoke-stacks were hurled overboard, pilot-houses torn away, cabins blown to fragments. and over roaring kaimbuck pass,--over the agony of caillou bay,--the billowing tide rushed unresisted from the gulf,--tearing and swallowing the land in its course,--ploughing out deep-sea channels where sleek herds had been grazing but a few hours before,--rending islands in twain,--and ever bearing with it, through the night, enormous vortex of wreck and vast wan drift of corpses ... but the star remained. and captain abraham smith, with a long, good rope about his waist, dashed again and again into that awful surging to snatch victims from death,--clutching at passing hands, heads, garments, in the cataract-sweep of the seas,--saving, aiding, cheering, though blinded by spray and battered by drifting wreck, until his strength failed in the unequal struggle at last, and his men drew him aboard senseless, with some beautiful half-drowned girl safe in his arms. but well-nigh twoscore souls had been rescued by him; and the star stayed on through it all. long years after, the weed-grown ribs of her graceful skeleton could still be seen, curving up from the sand-dunes of last island, in valiant witness of how well she stayed. vii. day breaks through the flying wrack, over the infinite heaving of the sea, over the low land made vast with desolation. it is a spectral dawn: a wan light, like the light of a dying sun. the wind has waned and veered; the flood sinks slowly back to its abysses--abandoning its plunder,--scattering its piteous waifs over bar and dune, over shoal and marsh, among the silences of the mango-swamps, over the long low reaches of sand-grasses and drowned weeds, for more than a hundred miles. from the shell-reefs of pointe-au-fer to the shallows of pelto bay the dead lie mingled with the high-heaped drift;--from their cypress groves the vultures rise to dispute a share of the feast with the shrieking frigate-birds and squeaking gulls. and as the tremendous tide withdraws its plunging waters, all the pirates of air follow the great white-gleaming retreat: a storm of billowing wings and screaming throats. and swift in the wake of gull and frigate-bird the wreckers come, the spoilers of the dead,--savage skimmers of the sea,--hurricane-riders wont to spread their canvas-pinions in the face of storms; sicilian and corsican outlaws, manila-men from the marshes, deserters from many navies, lascars, marooners, refugees of a hundred nationalities,--fishers and shrimpers by name, smugglers by opportunity,--wild channel-finders from obscure bayous and unfamiliar chenieres, all skilled in the mysteries of these mysterious waters beyond the comprehension of the oldest licensed pilot ... there is plunder for all--birds and men. there are drowned sheep in multitude, heaped carcasses of kine. there are casks of claret and kegs of brandy and legions of bottles bobbing in the surf. there are billiard-tables overturned upon the sand;--there are sofas, pianos, footstools and music-stools, luxurious chairs, lounges of bamboo. there are chests of cedar, and toilet-tables of rosewood, and trunks of fine stamped leather stored with precious apparel. there are objets de luxe innumerable. there are children's playthings: french dolls in marvellous toilets, and toy carts, and wooden horses, and wooden spades, and brave little wooden ships that rode out the gale in which the great nautilus went down. there is money in notes and in coin--in purses, in pocketbooks, and in pockets: plenty of it! there are silks, satins, laces, and fine linen to be stripped from the bodies of the drowned,--and necklaces, bracelets, watches, finger-rings and fine chains, brooches and trinkets ... "chi bidizza!--oh! chi bedda mughieri! eccu, la bidizza!" that ball-dress was made in paris by--but you never heard of him, sicilian vicenzu ... "che bella sposina!" her betrothal ring will not come off, giuseppe; but the delicate bone snaps easily: your oyster-knife can sever the tendon ... "guardate! chi bedda picciota!" over her heart you will find it, valentino--the locket held by that fine swiss chain of woven hair--"caya manan!" and it is not your quadroon bondsmaid, sweet lady, who now disrobes you so roughly; those malay hands are less deft than hers,--but she slumbers very far away from you, and may not be aroused from her sleep. "na quita mo! dalaga!--na quita maganda!" ... juan, the fastenings of those diamond ear-drops are much too complicated for your peon fingers: tear them out!--"dispense, chulita!" ... ... suddenly a long, mighty silver trilling fills the ears of all: there is a wild hurrying and scurrying; swiftly, one after another, the overburdened luggers spread wings and flutter away. thrice the great cry rings rippling through the gray air, and over the green sea, and over the far-flooded shell-reefs, where the huge white flashes are,--sheet-lightning of breakers,--and over the weird wash of corpses coming in. it is the steam-call of the relief-boat, hastening to rescue the living, to gather in the dead. the tremendous tragedy is over! out of the sea's strength i. there are regions of louisiana coast whose aspect seems not of the present, but of the immemorial past--of that epoch when low flat reaches of primordial continent first rose into form above a silurian sea. to indulge this geologic dream, any fervid and breezeless day there, it is only necessary to ignore the evolutional protests of a few blue asters or a few composite flowers of the coryopsis sort, which contrive to display their rare flashes of color through the general waving of cat-heads, blood-weeds, wild cane, and marsh grasses. for, at a hasty glance, the general appearance of this marsh verdure is vague enough, as it ranges away towards the sand, to convey the idea of amphibious vegetation,--a primitive flora as yet undecided whether to retain marine habits and forms, or to assume terrestrial ones;--and the occasional inspection of surprising shapes might strengthen this fancy. queer flat-lying and many-branching things, which resemble sea-weeds in juiciness and color and consistency, crackle under your feet from time to time; the moist and weighty air seems heated rather from below than from above,--less by the sun than by the radiation of a cooling world; and the mists of morning or evening appear to simulate the vapory exhalation of volcanic forces,--latent, but only dozing, and uncomfortably close to the surface. and indeed geologists have actually averred that those rare elevations of the soil,--which, with their heavy coronets of evergreen foliage, not only look like islands, but are so called in the french nomenclature of the coast,--have been prominences created by ancient mud volcanoes. the family of a spanish fisherman, feliu viosca, once occupied and gave its name to such an islet, quite close to the gulf-shore,--the loftiest bit of land along fourteen miles of just such marshy coast as i have spoken of. landward, it dominated a desolation that wearied the eye to look at, a wilderness of reedy sloughs, patched at intervals with ranges of bitter-weed, tufts of elbow-bushes, and broad reaches of saw-grass, stretching away to a bluish-green line of woods that closed the horizon, and imperfectly drained in the driest season by a slimy little bayou that continually vomited foul water into the sea. the point had been much discussed by geologists; it proved a godsend to united states surveyors weary of attempting to take observations among quagmires, moccasins, and arborescent weeds from fifteen to twenty feet high. savage fishermen, at some unrecorded time, had heaped upon the eminence a hill of clam-shells,--refuse of a million feasts; earth again had been formed over these, perhaps by the blind agency of worms working through centuries unnumbered; and the new soil had given birth to a luxuriant vegetation. millennial oaks interknotted their roots below its surface, and vouchsafed protection to many a frailer growth of shrub or tree,--wild orange, water-willow, palmetto, locust, pomegranate, and many trailing tendrilled things, both green and gray. then,--perhaps about half a century ago,--a few white fishermen cleared a place for themselves in this grove, and built a few palmetto cottages, with boat-houses and a wharf, facing the bayou. later on this temporary fishing station became a permanent settlement: homes constructed of heavy timber and plaster mixed with the trailing moss of the oaks and cypresses took the places of the frail and fragrant huts of palmetto. still the population itself retained a floating character: it ebbed and came, according to season and circumstances, according to luck or loss in the tilling of the sea. viosca, the founder of the settlement, always remained; he always managed to do well. he owned several luggers and sloops, which were hired out upon excellent terms; he could make large and profitable contracts with new orleans fish-dealers; and he was vaguely suspected of possessing more occult resources. there were some confused stories current about his having once been a daring smuggler, and having only been reformed by the pleadings of his wife carmen,--a little brown woman who had followed him from barcelona to share his fortunes in the western world. on hot days, when the shade was full of thin sweet scents, the place had a tropical charm, a drowsy peace. nothing except the peculiar appearance of the line of oaks facing the gulf could have conveyed to the visitor any suggestion of days in which the trilling of crickets and the fluting of birds had ceased, of nights when the voices of the marsh had been hushed for fear. in one enormous rank the veteran trees stood shoulder to shoulder, but in the attitude of giants over mastered,--forced backward towards the marsh,--made to recoil by the might of the ghostly enemy with whom they had striven a thousand years,--the shrieker, the sky-sweeper, the awful sea-wind! never had he given them so terrible a wrestle as on the night of the tenth of august, eighteen hundred and fifty-six. all the waves of the excited gulf thronged in as if to see, and lifted up their voices, and pushed, and roared, until the cheniere was islanded by such a billowing as no white man's eyes had ever looked upon before. grandly the oaks bore themselves, but every fibre of their knotted thews was strained in the unequal contest, and two of the giants were overthrown, upturning, as they fell, roots coiled and huge as the serpent-limbs of titans. moved to its entrails, all the islet trembled, while the sea magnified its menace, and reached out whitely to the prostrate trees; but the rest of the oaks stood on, and strove in line, and saved the habitations defended by them ... ii. before a little waxen image of the mother and child,--an odd little virgin with an indian face, brought home by feliu as a gift after one of his mexican voyages,--carmen viosca had burned candles and prayed; sometimes telling her beads; sometimes murmuring the litanies she knew by heart; sometimes also reading from a prayer-book worn and greasy as a long-used pack of cards. it was particularly stained at one page, a page on which her tears had fallen many a lonely night--a page with a clumsy wood cut representing a celestial lamp, a symbolic radiance, shining through darkness, and on either side a kneeling angel with folded wings. and beneath this rudely wrought symbol of the perpetual calm appeared in big, coarse type the title of a prayer that has been offered up through many a century, doubtless, by wives of spanish mariners,--contra las tempestades. once she became very much frightened. after a partial lull the storm had suddenly redoubled its force: the ground shook; the house quivered and creaked; the wind brayed and screamed and pushed and scuffled at the door; and the water, which had been whipping in through every crevice, all at once rose over the threshold and flooded the dwelling. carmen dipped her finger in the water and tasted it. it was salt! and none of feliu's boats had yet come in;--doubtless they had been driven into some far-away bayous by the storm. the only boat at the settlement, the carmencita, had been almost wrecked by running upon a snag three days before;--there was at least a fortnight's work for the ship-carpenter of dead cypress point. and feliu was sleeping as if nothing unusual had happened--the heavy sleep of a sailor, heedless of commotions and voices. and his men, miguel and mateo, were at the other end of the cheniere. with a scream carmen aroused feliu. he raised himself upon his elbow, rubbed his eyes, and asked her, with exasperating calmness, "que tienes? que tienes?" (what ails thee?) --"oh, feliu! the sea is coming upon us!" she answered, in the same tongue. but she screamed out a word inspired by her fear: she did not cry, "se nos viene el mar encima!" but "se nos viene la altura!"--the name that conveys the terrible thought of depth swallowed up in height,--the height of the high sea. "no lo creo!" muttered feliu, looking at the floor; then in a quiet, deep voice he said, pointing to an oar in the corner of the room, "echame ese remo." she gave it to him. still reclining upon one elbow, feliu measured the depth of the water with his thumb nail upon the blade of the oar, and then bade carmen light his pipe for him. his calmness reassured her. for half an hour more, undismayed by the clamoring of the wind or the calling of the sea, feliu silently smoked his pipe and watched his oar. the water rose a little higher, and he made another mark;--then it climbed a little more, but not so rapidly; and he smiled at carmen as he made a third mark. "como creia!" he exclaimed, "no hay porque asustarse: el agua baja!" and as carmen would have continued to pray, he rebuked her fears, and bade her try to obtain some rest: "basta ya de plegarios, querida!--vete y duerme." his tone, though kindly, was imperative; and carmen, accustomed to obey him, laid herself down by his side, and soon, for very weariness, slept. it was a feverish sleep, nevertheless, shattered at brief intervals by terrible sounds, sounds magnified by her nervous condition--a sleep visited by dreams that mingled in a strange way with the impressions of the storm, and more than once made her heart stop, and start again at its own stopping. one of these fancies she never could forget--a dream about little concha,--conchita, her firstborn, who now slept far away in the old churchyard at barcelona. she had tried to become resigned,--not to think. but the child would come back night after night, though the earth lay heavy upon her--night after night, through long distances of time and space. oh! the fancied clinging of infant-lips!--the thrilling touch of little ghostly hands!--those phantom-caresses that torture mothers' hearts! ... night after night, through many a month of pain. then for a time the gentle presence ceased to haunt her,--seemed to have lain down to sleep forever under the high bright grass and yellow flowers. why did it return, that night of all nights, to kiss her, to cling to her, to nestle in her arms? for in her dream she thought herself still kneeling before the waxen image, while the terrors of the tempest were ever deepening about her,--raving of winds and booming of waters and a shaking of the land. and before her, even as she prayed her dream-prayer, the waxen virgin became tall as a woman, and taller,--rising to the roof and smiling as she grew. then carmen would have cried out for fear, but that something smothered her voice,--paralyzed her tongue. and the virgin silently stooped above her, and placed in her arms the child,--the brown child with the indian face. and the child whitened in her hands and changed,--seeming as it changed to send a sharp pain through her heart: an old pain linked somehow with memories of bright windy spanish hills, and summer scent of olive groves, and all the luminous past;--it looked into her face with the soft dark gaze, with the unforgotten smile of ... dead conchita! and carmen wished to thank; the smiling virgin for that priceless bliss, and lifted up her eyes, but the sickness of ghostly fear returned upon her when she looked; for now the mother seemed as a woman long dead, and the smile was the smile of fleshlessness, and the places of the eyes were voids and darknesses ... and the sea sent up so vast a roar that the dwelling rocked. carmen started from sleep to find her heart throbbing so that the couch shook with it. night was growing gray; the door had just been opened and slammed again. through the rain-whipped panes she discerned the passing shape of feliu, making for the beach--a broad and bearded silhouette, bending against the wind. still the waxen virgin smiled her mexican smile,--but now she was only seven inches high; and her bead-glass eyes seemed to twinkle with kindliness while the flame of the last expiring taper struggled for life in the earthen socket at her feet. iii. rain and a blind sky and a bursting sea feliu and his men, miguel and mateo, looked out upon the thundering and flashing of the monstrous tide. the wind had fallen, and the gray air was full of gulls. behind the cheniere, back to the cloudy line of low woods many miles away, stretched a wash of lead-colored water, with a green point piercing it here and there--elbow-bushes or wild cane tall enough to keep their heads above the flood. but the inundation was visibly decreasing;--with the passing of each hour more and more green patches and points had been showing themselves: by degrees the course of the bayou had become defined--two parallel winding lines of dwarf-timber and bushy shrubs traversing the water toward the distant cypress-swamps. before the cheniere all the shell-beach slope was piled with wreck--uptorn trees with the foliage still fresh upon them, splintered timbers of mysterious origin, and logs in multitude, scarred with gashes of the axe. feliu and his comrades had saved wood enough to build a little town,--working up to their waists in the surf, with ropes, poles, and boat-hooks. the whole sea was full of flotsam. voto a cristo!--what a wrecking there must have been! and to think the carmencita could not be taken out! they had seen other luggers making eastward during the morning--could recognize some by their sails, others by their gait,--exaggerated in their struggle with the pitching of the sea: the san pablo, the gasparina, the enriqueta, the agueda, the constanza. ugly water, yes!--but what a chance for wreckers! ... some great ship must have gone to pieces;--scores of casks were rolling in the trough,--casks of wine. perhaps it was the manila,--perhaps the nautilus! a dead cow floated near enough for mateo to throw his rope over one horn; and they all helped to get it out. it was a milch cow of some expensive breed; and the owner's brand had been burned upon the horns:--a monographic combination of the letters a and p. feliu said he knew that brand: old-man preaulx, of belle-isle, who kept a sort of dairy at last island during the summer season, used to mark all his cows that way. strange! but, as they worked on, they began to see stranger things,--white dead faces and dead hands, which did not look like the hands or the faces of drowned sailors: the ebb was beginning to run strongly, and these were passing out with it on the other side of the mouth of the bayou;--perhaps they had been washed into the marsh during the night, when the great rush of the sea came. then the three men left the water, and retired to higher ground to scan the furrowed gulf;--their practiced eyes began to search the courses of the sea-currents,--keen as the gaze of birds that watch the wake of the plough. and soon the casks and the drift were forgotten; for it seemed to them that the tide was heavy with human dead--passing out, processionally, to the great open. very far, where the huge pitching of the swells was diminished by distance into a mere fluttering of ripples, the water appeared as if sprinkled with them;--they vanished and became visible again at irregular intervals, here and there--floating most thickly eastward!--tossing, swaying patches of white or pink or blue or black each with its tiny speck of flesh-color showing as the sea lifted or lowered the body. nearer to shore there were few; but of these two were close enough to be almost recognizable: miguel first discerned them. they were rising and falling where the water was deepest--well out in front of the mouth of the bayou, beyond the flooded sand-bars, and moving toward the shell-reef westward. they were drifting almost side by side. one was that of a negro, apparently well attired, and wearing a white apron;--the other seemed to be a young colored girl, clad in a blue dress; she was floating upon her face; they could observe that she had nearly straight hair, braided and tied with a red ribbon. these were evidently house-servants,--slaves. but from whence? nothing could be learned until the luggers should return; and none of them was yet in sight. still feliu was not anxious as to the fate of his boats, manned by the best sailors of the coast. rarely are these louisiana fishermen lost in sudden storms; even when to other eyes the appearances are most pacific and the skies most splendidly blue, they divine some far-off danger, like the gulls; and like the gulls also, you see their light vessels fleeing landward. these men seem living barometers, exquisitely sensitive to all the invisible changes of atmospheric expansion and compression; they are not easily caught in those awful dead calms which suddenly paralyze the wings of a bark, and hold her helpless in their charmed circle, as in a nightmare, until the blackness overtakes her, and the long-sleeping sea leaps up foaming to devour her. --"carajo!" the word all at once bursts from feliu's mouth, with that peculiar guttural snarl of the "r" betokening strong excitement,--while he points to something rocking in the ebb, beyond the foaming of the shell-reef, under a circling of gulls. more dead? yes--but something too that lives and moves, like a quivering speck of gold; and mateo also perceives it, a gleam of bright hair,--and miguel likewise, after a moment's gazing. a living child;--a lifeless mother. pobrecita! no boat within reach, and only a mighty surf-wrestler could hope to swim thither and return! but already, without a word, brown feliu has stripped for the struggle;--another second, and he is shooting through the surf, head and hands tunnelling the foam hills.... one--two--three lines passed!--four!--that is where they first begin to crumble white from the summit,--five!--that he can ride fearlessly! ... then swiftly, easily, he advances, with a long, powerful breast-stroke,--keeping his bearded head well up to watch for drift,--seeming to slide with a swing from swell to swell,--ascending, sinking,--alternately presenting breast or shoulder to the wave; always diminishing more and more to the eyes of mateo and miguel,--till he becomes a moving speck, occasionally hard to follow through the confusion of heaping waters ... you are not afraid of the sharks, feliu!--no: they are afraid of you; right and left they slunk away from your coming that morning you swam for life in west-indian waters, with your knife in your teeth, while the balls of the cuban coast-guard were purring all around you. that day the swarming sea was warm,--warm like soup--and clear, with an emerald flash in every ripple,--not opaque and clamorous like the gulf today ... miguel and his comrade are anxious. ropes are unrolled and inter-knotted into a line. miguel remains on the beach; but mateo, bearing the end of the line, fights his way out,--swimming and wading by turns, to the further sandbar, where the water is shallow enough to stand in,--if you know how to jump when the breaker comes. but feliu, nearing the flooded shell-bank, watches the white flashings,--knows when the time comes to keep flat and take a long, long breath. one heavy volleying of foam,--darkness and hissing as of a steam-burst; a vibrant lifting up; a rush into light,--and again the volleying and the seething darkness. once more,--and the fight is won! he feels the upcoming chill of deeper water,--sees before him the green quaking of unbroken swells,--and far beyond him mateo leaping on the bar,--and beside him, almost within arm's reach, a great billiard-table swaying, and a dead woman clinging there, and ... the child. a moment more, and feliu has lifted himself beside the waifs ... how fast the dead woman clings, as if with the one power which is strong as death,--the desperate force of love! not in vain; for the frail creature bound to the mother's corpse with a silken scarf has still the strength to cry out:--"maman! maman!" but time is life now; and the tiny hands must be pulled away from the fair dead neck, and the scarf taken to bind the infant firmly to feliu's broad shoulders,--quickly, roughly; for the ebb will not wait ... and now feliu has a burden; but his style of swimming has totally changed;--he rises from the water like a triton, and his powerful arms seem to spin in circles, like the spokes of a flying wheel. for now is the wrestle indeed!--after each passing swell comes a prodigious pulling from beneath,--the sea clutching for its prey. but the reef is gained, is passed;--the wild horses of the deep seem to know the swimmer who has learned to ride them so well. and still the brown arms spin in an ever-nearing mist of spray; and the outer sand-bar is not far off,--and there is shouting mateo, leaping in the surf, swinging something about his head, as a vaquero swings his noose! ... sough! splash!--it struggles in the trough beside feliu, and the sinewy hand descends upon it. tiene!--tira, miguel! and their feet touch land again! ... she is very cold, the child, and very still, with eyes closed. --"esta muerta, feliu?" asks mateo. --"no!" the panting swimmer makes answer, emerging, while the waves reach whitely up the sand as in pursuit,--"no; vive! respira todavia!" behind him the deep lifts up its million hands, and thunders as in acclaim. iv. --"madre de dios!--mi sueno!" screamed carmen, abandoning her preparations for the morning meal, as feliu, nude, like a marine god, rushed in and held out to her a dripping and gasping baby-girl,--"mother of god! my dream!" but there was no time then to tell of dreams; the child might die. in one instant carmen's quick, deft hands had stripped the slender little body; and while mateo and feliu were finding dry clothing and stimulants, and miguel telling how it all happened--quickly, passionately, with furious gesture,--the kind and vigorous woman exerted all her skill to revive the flickering life. soon feliu came to aid her, while his men set to work completing the interrupted preparation of the breakfast. flannels were heated for the friction of the frail limbs; and brandy-and-water warmed, which carmen administered by the spoonful, skilfully as any physician,--until, at last, the little creature opened her eyes and began to sob. sobbing still, she was laid in carmen's warm feather-bed, well swathed in woollen wrappings. the immediate danger, at least, was over; and feliu smiled with pride and pleasure. then carmen first ventured to relate her dream; and his face became grave again. husband and wife gazed a moment into each other's eyes, feeling together the same strange thrill--that mysterious faint creeping, as of a wind passing, which is the awe of the unknowable. then they looked at the child, lying there, pink checked with the flush of the blood returning; and such a sudden tenderness touched them as they had known long years before, while together bending above the slumbering loveliness of lost conchita. --"que ojos!" murmured feliu, as he turned away,--feigning hunger ... (he was not hungry; but his sight had grown a little dim, as with a mist.) que ojos! they were singular eyes, large, dark, and wonderfully fringed. the child's hair was yellow--it was the flash of it that had saved her; yet her eyes and brows were beautifully black. she was comely, but with such a curious, delicate comeliness--totally unlike the robust beauty of concha ... at intervals she would moan a little between her sobs; and at last cried out, with a thin, shrill cry: "maman!--oh! maman!" then carmen lifted her from the bed to her lap, and caressed her, and rocked her gently to and fro, as she had done many a night for concha,--murmuring,--"yo sere tu madre, angel mio, dulzura mia;--sere tu madrecita, palomita mia!" (i will be thy mother, my angel, my sweet;--i will be thy little mother, my doveling.) and the long silk fringes of the child's eyes overlapped, shadowed her little cheeks; and she slept--just as conchita had slept long ago,--with her head on carmen's bosom. feliu re-appeared at the inner door: at a sign, he approached cautiously, without noise, and looked. --"she can talk," whispered carmen in spanish: "she called her mother"--ha llamado a su madre. --"y dios tambien la ha llamado," responded feliu, with rude pathos;--"and god also called her." --"but the virgin sent us the child, feliu,--sent us the child for concha's sake." he did not answer at once; he seemed to be thinking very deeply;--carmen anxiously scanned his impassive face. --"who knows?" he answered, at last;--"who knows? perhaps she has ceased to belong to any one else." one after another, feliu's luggers fluttered in,--bearing with them news of the immense calamity. and all the fishermen, in turn, looked at the child. not one had ever seen her before. v. ten days later, a lugger full of armed men entered the bayou, and moored at viosca's wharf. the visitors were, for the most part, country gentlemen,--residents of franklin and neighboring towns, or planters from the teche country,--forming one of the numerous expeditions organized for the purpose of finding the bodies of relatives or friends lost in the great hurricane, and of punishing the robbers of the dead. they had searched numberless nooks of the coast, had given sepulture to many corpses, had recovered a large amount of jewelry, and--as feliu afterward learned,--had summarily tried and executed several of the most abandoned class of wreckers found with ill-gotten valuables in their possession, and convicted of having mutilated the drowned. but they came to viosca's landing only to obtain information;--he was too well known and liked to be a subject for suspicion; and, moreover, he had one good friend in the crowd,--captain harris of new orleans, a veteran steamboat man and a market contractor, to whom he had disposed of many a cargo of fresh pompano, sheep's-head, and spanish-mackerel ... harris was the first to step to land;--some ten of the party followed him. nearly all had lost some relative or friend in the great catastrophe;--the gathering was serious, silent,--almost grim,--which formed about feliu. mateo, who had come to the country while a boy, spoke english better than the rest of the cheniere people;--he acted as interpreter whenever feliu found any difficulty in comprehending or answering questions; and he told them of the child rescued that wild morning, and of feliu's swim. his recital evoked a murmur of interest and excitement, followed by a confusion of questions. well, they could see for themselves, feliu said; but he hoped they would have a little patience;--the child was still weak;--it might be dangerous to startle her. "we'll arrange it just as you like," responded the captain;--"go ahead, feliu!" ... all proceeded to the house, under the great trees; feliu and captain harris leading the way. it was sultry and bright;--even the sea-breeze was warm; there were pleasant odors in the shade, and a soporific murmur made of leaf-speech and the hum of gnats. only the captain entered the house with feliu; the rest remained without--some taking seats on a rude plank bench under the oaks--others flinging themselves down upon the weeds--a few stood still, leaning upon their rifles. then carmen came out to them with gourds and a bucket of fresh water, which all were glad to drink. they waited many minutes. perhaps it was the cool peace of the place that made them all feel how hot and tired they were: conversation flagged; and the general languor finally betrayed itself in a silence so absolute that every leaf-whisper seemed to become separately audible. it was broken at last by the guttural voice of the old captain emerging from the cottage, leading the child by the hand, and followed by carmen and feliu. all who had been resting rose up and looked at the child. standing in a lighted space, with one tiny hand enveloped by the captain's great brown fist, she looked so lovely that a general exclamation of surprise went up. her bright hair, loose and steeped in the sun-flame, illuminated her like a halo; and her large dark eyes, gentle and melancholy as a deer's, watched the strange faces before her with shy curiosity. she wore the same dress in which feliu had found her--a soft white fabric of muslin, with trimmings of ribbon that had once been blue; and the now discolored silken scarf, which had twice done her such brave service, was thrown over her shoulders. carmen had washed and repaired the dress very creditably; but the tiny slim feet were bare,--the brine-soaked shoes she wore that fearful night had fallen into shreds at the first attempt to remove them. --"gentlemen," said captain harris,--"we can find no clew to the identity of this child. there is no mark upon her clothing; and she wore nothing in the shape of jewelry--except this string of coral beads. we are nearly all americans here; and she does not speak any english ... does any one here know anything about her?" carmen felt a great sinking at her heart: was her new-found darling to be taken so soon from her? but no answer came to the captain's query. no one of the expedition had ever seen that child before. the coral beads were passed from hand to hand; the scarf was minutely scrutinized without avail. somebody asked if the child could not talk german or italian. --"italiano? no!" said feliu, shaking his head.... one of his luggermen, gioachino sparicio, who, though a sicilian, could speak several italian idioms besides his own, had already essayed. --"she speaks something or other," answered the captain--"but no english. i couldn't make her understand me; and feliu, who talks nearly all the infernal languages spoken down this way, says he can't make her understand him. suppose some of you who know french talk to her a bit ... laroussel, why don't you try?" the young man addressed did not at first seem to notice the captain's suggestion. he was a tall, lithe fellow, with a dark, positive face: he had never removed his black gaze from the child since the moment of her appearance. her eyes, too, seemed to be all for him--to return his scrutiny with a sort of vague pleasure, a half savage confidence ... was it the first embryonic feeling of race-affinity quickening in the little brain?--some intuitive, inexplicable sense of kindred? she shrank from doctor hecker, who addressed her in german, shook her head at lawyer solari, who tried to make her answer in italian; and her look always went back plaintively to the dark, sinister face of laroussel,--laroussel who had calmly taken a human life, a wicked human life, only the evening before. --"laroussel, you're the only creole in this crowd," said the captain; "talk to her! talk gumbo to her! ... i've no doubt this child knows german very well, and italian too,"--he added, maliciously--"but not in the way you gentlemen pronounce it!" laroussel handed his rifle to a friend, crouched down before the little girl, and looked into her face, and smiled. her great sweet orbs shone into his one moment, seriously, as if searching; and then ... she returned his smile. it seemed to touch something latent within the man, something rare; for his whole expression changed; and there was a caress in his look and voice none of the men could have believed possible--as he exclaimed:-- --"fais moin bo, piti." she pouted up her pretty lips and kissed his black moustache. he spoke to her again:-- --"dis moin to nom, piti;--dis moin to nom, chere." then, for the first time, she spoke, answering in her argent treble: --"zouzoune." all held their breath. captain harris lifted his finger to his lips to command silence. --"zouzoune? zouzoune qui, chere?" --"zouzoune, a c'est moin, lili!" --"c'est pas tout to nom, lili;--dis moin, chere, to laut nom." --"mo pas connin laut nom." --"comment ye te pele to maman, piti?" --"maman,--maman 'dele." --"et comment ye te pele to papa, chere?" --"papa zulien." --"bon! et comment to maman te pele to papa?--dis ca a moin, chere?" the child looked down, put a finger in her mouth, thought a moment, and replied:-- --"li pele li, 'cheri'; li pele li, 'papoute.'" --"aie, aie!--c'est tout, ca?--to maman te jamain pele li daut' chose?" --"mo pas connin, moin." she began to play with some trinkets attached to his watch chain;--a very small gold compass especially impressed her fancy by the trembling and flashing of its tiny needle, and she murmured, coaxingly:-- --"mo oule ca! donnin ca a moin." he took all possible advantage of the situation, and replied at once:-- --"oui! mo va donnin toi ca si to di moin to laut nom." the splendid bribe evidently impressed her greatly; for tears rose to the brown eyes as she answered: --"mo pas capab di' ca;--mo pas capab di' laut nom ... mo oule; mo pas capab!" laroussel explained. the child's name was lili,--perhaps a contraction of eulalie; and her pet creole name zouzoune. he thought she must be the daughter of wealthy people; but she could not, for some reason or other, tell her family name. perhaps she could not pronounce it well, and was afraid of being laughed at: some of the old french names were very hard for creole children to pronounce, so long as the little ones were indulged in the habit of talking the patois; and after a certain age their mispronunciations would be made fun of in order to accustom them to abandon the idiom of the slave-nurses, and to speak only french. perhaps, again, she was really unable to recall the name: certain memories might have been blurred in the delicate brain by the shock of that terrible night. she said her mother's name was adele, and her father's julien; but these were very common names in louisiana,--and could afford scarcely any better clew than the innocent statement that her mother used to address her father as "dear" (cheri),--or with the creole diminutive "little papa" (papoute). then laroussel tried to reach a clew in other ways, without success. he asked her about where she lived,--what the place was like; and she told him about fig-trees in a court, and galleries, and banquettes, and spoke of a faubou',--without being able to name any street. he asked her what her father used to do, and was assured that he did everything--that there was nothing he could not do. divine absurdity of childish faith!--infinite artlessness of childish love! ... probably the little girl's parents had been residents of new orleans--dwellers of the old colonial quarter,--the faubourg, the faubou'. --"well, gentlemen," said captain harris, as laroussel abandoned his cross-examination in despair,--"all we can do now is to make inquiries. i suppose we'd better leave the child here. she is very weak yet, and in no condition to be taken to the city, right in the middle of the hot season; and nobody could care for her any better than she's being cared for here. then, again, seems to me that as feliu saved her life,--and that at the risk of his own,--he's got the prior claim, anyhow; and his wife is just crazy about the child--wants to adopt her. if we can find her relatives so much the better; but i say, gentlemen, let them come right here to feliu, themselves, and thank him as he ought to be thanked, by god! that's just what i think about it." carmen understood the little speech;--all the spanish charm of her youth had faded out years before; but in the one swift look of gratitude she turned upon the captain, it seemed to blossom again;--for that quick moment, she was beautiful. "the captain is quite right," observed dr. hecker: "it would be very dangerous to take the child away just now." there was no dissent. --"all correct, boys?" asked the captain ... "well, we've got to be going. by-by, zouzoune!" but zouzoune burst into tears. laroussel was going too! --"give her the thing, laroussel! she gave you a kiss, anyhow--more than she'd do for me," cried the captain. laroussel turned, detached the little compass from his watch chain, and gave it to her. she held up her pretty face for his farewell kiss ... vi. but it seemed fated that feliu's waif should never be identified;--diligent inquiry and printed announcements alike proved fruitless. sea and sand had either hidden or effaced all the records of the little world they had engulfed: the annihilation of whole families, the extinction of races, had, in more than one instance, rendered vain all efforts to recognize the dead. it required the subtle perception of long intimacy to name remains tumefied and discolored by corruption and exposure, mangled and gnawed by fishes, by reptiles, and by birds;--it demanded the great courage of love to look upon the eyeless faces found sweltering in the blackness of cypress-shadows, under the low palmettoes of the swamps,--where gorged buzzards started from sleep, or cottonmouths uncoiled, hissing, at the coming of the searchers. and sometimes all who had loved the lost were themselves among the missing. the full roll call of names could never be made out; extraordinary mistakes were committed. men whom the world deemed dead and buried came back, like ghosts,--to read their own epitaphs. ... almost at the same hour that laroussel was questioning the child in creole patois, another expedition, searching for bodies along the coast, discovered on the beach of a low islet famed as a haunt of pelicans, the corpse of a child. some locks of bright hair still adhering to the skull, a string of red beads, a white muslin dress, a handkerchief broidered with the initials "a.l.b.,"--were secured as clews; and the little body was interred where it had been found. and, several days before, captain hotard, of the relief-boat estelle brousseaux, had found, drifting in the open gulf (latitude degrees minutes; longitude degrees minutes),--the corpse of a fair-haired woman, clinging to a table. the body was disfigured beyond recognition: even the slender bones of the hands had been stripped by the nibs of the sea-birds-except one finger, the third of the left, which seemed to have been protected by a ring of gold, as by a charm. graven within the plain yellow circlet was a date,--"juillet-- "; and the names,--"adele + julien,"--separated by a cross. the estelle carried coffins that day: most of them were already full; but there was one for adele. who was she?--who was her julien? ... when the estelle and many other vessels had discharged their ghastly cargoes;--when the bereaved of the land had assembled as hastily as they might for the du y of identification;--when memories were strained almost to madness in research of names, dates, incidents--for the evocation of dead words, resurrection of vanished days, recollection of dear promises,--then, in the confusion, it was believed and declared that the little corpse found on the pelican island was the daughter of the wearer of the wedding ring: adele la brierre, nee florane, wife of dr. julien la brierre, of new orleans, who was numbered among the missing. and they brought dead adele back,--up shadowy river windings, over linked brightnesses of lake and lakelet, through many a green glimmering bayou,--to the creole city, and laid her to rest somewhere in the old saint-louis cemetery. and upon the tablet recording her name were also graven the words-- ..................... aussi a la memoire de son mari; julien raymond la brierre, ne a la paroisse st. landry, le mai; mdcccxxviii; et de leur fille, eulalie, agee de as et mois,-- qui tous perirent dans la grande tempete qui balaya l'ile derniere, le aout, mdccclvi ..... + ..... priez pour eux! vii. yet six months afterward the face of julien la brierre was seen again upon the streets of new orleans. men started at the sight of him, as at a spectre standing in the sun. and nevertheless the apparition cast a shadow. people paused, approached, half extended a hand through old habit, suddenly checked themselves and passed on,--wondering they should have forgotten, asking themselves why they had so nearly made an absurd mistake. it was a february day,--one of those crystalline days of our snowless southern winter, when the air is clear and cool, and outlines sharpen in the light as if viewed through the focus of a diamond glass;--and in that brightness julien la brierre perused his own brief epitaph, and gazed upon the sculptured name of drowned adele. only half a year had passed since she was laid away in the high wall of tombs,--in that strange colonial columbarium where the dead slept in rows, behind squared marbles lettered in black or bronze. yet her resting-place,--in the highest range,--already seemed old. under our southern sun, the vegetation of cemeteries seems to spring into being spontaneously--to leap all suddenly into luxuriant life! microscopic mossy growths had begun to mottle the slab that closed her in;--over its face some singular creeper was crawling, planting tiny reptile-feet into the chiselled letters of the inscription; and from the moist soil below speckled euphorbias were growing up to her,--and morning glories,--and beautiful green tangled things of which he did not know the name. and the sight of the pretty lizards, puffing their crimson pouches in the sun, or undulating athwart epitaphs, and shifting their color when approached, from emerald to ashen-gray;--the caravans of the ants, journeying to and from tiny chinks in the masonry;--the bees gathering honey from the crimson blossoms of the crete-de-coq, whose radicles sought sustenance, perhaps from human dust, in the decay of generations:--all that rich life of graves summoned up fancies of resurrection, nature's resurrection-work--wondrous transformations of flesh, marvellous bans migration of souls! ... from some forgotten crevice of that tomb roof, which alone intervened between her and the vast light, a sturdy weed was growing. he knew that plant, as it quivered against the blue,--the chou-gras, as creole children call it: its dark berries form the mockingbird's favorite food ... might not its roots, exploring darkness, have found some unfamiliar nutriment within?--might it not be that something of the dead heart had risen to purple and emerald life--in the sap of translucent leaves, in the wine of the savage berries,--to blend with the blood of the wizard singer,--to lend a strange sweetness to the melody of his wooing? ... ... seldom, indeed, does it happen that a man in the prime of youth, in the possession of wealth, habituated to comforts and the elegances of life, discovers in one brief week how minute his true relation to the human aggregate,--how insignificant his part as one living atom of the social organism. seldom, at the age of twenty-eight, has one been made able to comprehend, through experience alone, that in the vast and complex stream of being he counts for less than a drop; and that, even as the blood loses and replaces its corpuscles, without a variance in the volume and vigor of its current, so are individual existences eliminated and replaced in the pulsing of a people's life, with never a pause in its mighty murmur. but all this, and much more, julien had learned in seven merciless days--seven successive and terrible shocks of experience. the enormous world had not missed him; and his place therein was not void--society had simply forgotten him. so long as he had moved among them, all he knew for friends had performed their petty altruistic roles,--had discharged their small human obligations,--had kept turned toward him the least selfish side of their natures,--had made with him a tolerably equitable exchange of ideas and of favors; and after his disappearance from their midst, they had duly mourned for his loss--to themselves! they had played out the final act in the unimportant drama of his life: it was really asking too much to demand a repetition ... impossible to deceive himself as to the feeling his unanticipated return had aroused:--feigned pity where he had looked for sympathetic welcome; dismay where he had expected surprised delight; and, oftener, airs of resignation, or disappointment ill disguised,--always insincerity, politely masked or coldly bare. he had come back to find strangers in his home, relatives at law concerning his estate, and himself regarded as an intruder among the living,--an unlucky guest, a revenant ... how hollow and selfish a world it seemed! and yet there was love in it; he had been loved in it, unselfishly, passionately, with the love of father and of mother, of wife and child ... all buried!--all lost forever! ... oh! would to god the story of that stone were not a lie!--would to kind god he also were dead! ... evening shadowed: the violet deepened and prickled itself with stars;--the sun passed below the west, leaving in his wake a momentary splendor of vermilion ... our southern day is not prolonged by gloaming. and julien's thoughts darkened with the darkening, and as swiftly. for while there was yet light to see, he read another name that he used to know--the name of ramirez ... nacio en cienfuegos, isla de cuba ... wherefore born?--for what eternal purpose, ramirez,--in the city of a hundred fires? he had blown out his brains before the sepulchre of his young wife ... it was a detached double vault, shaped like a huge chest, and much dilapidated already:--under the continuous burrowing of the crawfish it had sunk greatly on one side, tilting as if about to fall. out from its zigzag fissurings of brick and plaster, a sinister voice seemed to come:--"go thou and do likewise! ... earth groans with her burthen even now,--the burthen of man: she holds no place for thee!" viii. ... that voice pursued him into the darkness of his chilly room,--haunted him in the silence of his lodging. and then began within the man that ghostly struggle between courage and despair, between patient reason and mad revolt, between weakness and force, between darkness and light, which all sensitive and generous natures must wage in their own souls at least once--perhaps many times--in their lives. memory, in such moments, plays like an electric storm;--all involuntarily he found himself reviewing his life. incidents long forgotten came back with singular vividness: he saw the past as he had not seen it while it was the present;--remembrances of home, recollections of infancy, recurred to him with terrible intensity,--the artless pleasures and the trifling griefs, the little hurts and the tender pettings, the hopes and the anxieties of those who loved him, the smiles and tears of slaves ... and his first creole pony, a present from his father the day after he had proved himself able to recite his prayers correctly in french, without one mispronunciation--without saying crasse for grace,--and yellow michel, who taught him to swim and to fish and to paddle a pirogue;--and the bayou, with its wonder-world of turtles and birds and creeping things;--and his german tutor, who could not pronounce the j;--and the songs of the cane-fields,--strangely pleasing, full of quaverings and long plaintive notes, like the call of the cranes ... tou', tou' pays blanc! ... afterward camaniere had leased the place;--everything must have been changed; even the songs could not be the same. tou', tou' pays blare!--danie qui commande ... and then paris; and the university, with its wild under-life,--some debts, some follies; and the frequent fond letters from home to which he might have replied so much oftener;--paris, where talent is mediocrity; paris, with its thunders and its splendors and its seething of passion;--paris, supreme focus of human endeavor, with its madnesses of art, its frenzied striving to express the inexpressible, its spasmodic strainings to clutch the unattainable, its soarings of soul-fire to the heaven of the impossible ... what a rejoicing there was at his return!--how radiant and level the long road of the future seemed to open before him!--everywhere friends, prospects, felicitations. then his first serious love;--and the night of the ball at st. martinsville,--the vision of light! gracile as a palm, and robed at once so simply, so exquisitely in white, she had seemed to him the supreme realization of all possible dreams of beauty ... and his passionate jealousy; and the slap from laroussel; and the humiliating two-minute duel with rapiers in which he learned that he had found his master. the scar was deep. why had not laroussel killed him then? ... not evil-hearted, laroussel,--they used to salute each other afterward when they met; and laroussel's smile was kindly. why had he refrained from returning it? where was laroussel now? for the death of his generous father, who had sacrificed so much to reform him; for the death, only a short while after, of his all-forgiving mother, he had found one sweet woman to console him with her tender words, her loving lips, her delicious caress. she had given him zouzoune, the darling link between their lives,--zouzoune, who waited each evening with black eglantine at the gate to watch for his coming, and to cry through all the house like a bird, "papa, lape vini!--papa zulien ape vini!" ... and once that she had made him very angry by upsetting the ink over a mass of business papers, and he had slapped her (could he ever forgive himself?)--she had cried, through her sobs of astonishment and pain:--"to laimin moin?--to batte moin!" (thou lovest me?--thou beatest me!) next month she would have been five years old. to laimin moin?--to batte moin! ... a furious paroxysm of grief convulsed him, suffocated him; it seemed to him that something within must burst, must break. he flung himself down upon his bed, biting the coverings in order to stifle his outcry, to smother the sounds of his despair. what crime had he ever done, oh god! that he should be made to suffer thus?--was it for this he had been permitted to live? had been rescued from the sea and carried round all the world unscathed? why should he live to remember, to suffer, to agonize? was not ramirez wiser? how long the contest within him lasted, he never knew; but ere it was done, he had become, in more ways than one, a changed man. for the first,--though not indeed for the last time,--something of the deeper and nobler comprehension of human weakness and of human suffering had been revealed to him,--something of that larger knowledge without which the sense of duty can never be fully acquired, nor the understanding of unselfish goodness, nor the spirit of tenderness. the suicide is not a coward; he is an egotist. a ray of sunlight touched his wet pillow,--awoke him. he rushed to the window, flung the latticed shutters apart, and looked out. something beautiful and ghostly filled all the vistas,--frost-haze; and in some queer way the mist had momentarily caught and held the very color of the sky. an azure fog! through it the quaint and checkered street--as yet but half illumined by the sun,--took tones of impossible color; the view paled away through faint bluish tints into transparent purples;--all the shadows were indigo. how sweet the morning!--how well life seemed worth living! because the sun had shown his face through a fairy veil of frost! ... who was the ancient thinker?--was it hermes?--who said:-- "the sun is laughter; for 'tis he who maketh joyous the thoughts of men, and gladdeneth the infinite world." ... the shadow of the tide. i. carmen found that her little pet had been taught how to pray; for each night and morning when the devout woman began to make her orisons, the child would kneel beside her, with little hands joined, and in a voice sweet and clear murmur something she had learned by heart. much as this pleased carmen, it seemed to her that the child's prayers could not be wholly valid unless uttered in spanish;--for spanish was heaven's own tongue,--la lengua de dios, el idioma de dios; and she resolved to teach her to say the salve maria and the padre nuestro in castilian--also, her own favorite prayer to the virgin, beginning with the words, "madre santisima, toda dulce y hermosa." . . . so conchita--for a new name had been given to her with that terrible sea christening--received her first lessons in spanish; and she proved a most intelligent pupil. before long she could prattle to feliu;--she would watch for his return of evenings, and announce his coming with "aqui viene mi papacito?"--she learned, too, from carmen, many little caresses of speech to greet him with. feliu's was not a joyous nature; he had his dark hours, his sombre days; yet it was rarely that he felt too sullen to yield to the little one's petting, when she would leap up to reach his neck and to coax his kiss, with--"dame un beso, papa!--asi;--y otro! otro! otro!" he grew to love her like his own;--was she not indeed his own, since he had won her from death? and none had yet come to dispute his claim. more and more, with the passing of weeks, months, seasons, she became a portion of his life--a part of all that he wrought for. at the first, he had had a half-formed hope that the little one might be reclaimed by relatives generous and rich enough to insist upon his acceptance of a handsome compensation; and that carmen could find some solace in a pleasant visit to barceloneta. but now he felt that no possible generosity could requite him for her loss; and with the unconscious selfishness of affection, he commenced to dread her identification as a great calamity. it was evident that she had been brought up nicely. she had pretty prim ways of drinking and eating, queer little fashions of sitting in company, and of addressing people. she had peculiar notions about colors in dress, about wearing her hair; and she seemed to have already imbibed a small stock of social prejudices not altogether in harmony with the republicanism of viosca's point. occasional swarthy visitors,--men of the manilla settlements,--she spoke of contemptuously as negues-marrons; and once she shocked carmen inexpressibly by stopping in the middle of her evening prayer, declaring that she wanted to say her prayers to a white virgin; carmen's senora de guadalupe was only a negra! then, for the first time, carmen spoke so crossly to the child as to frighten her. but the pious woman's heart smote her the next moment for that first harsh word;--and she caressed the motherless one, consoled her, cheered her, and at last explained to her--i know not how--something very wonderful about the little figurine, something that made chita's eyes big with awe. thereafter she always regarded the virgin of wax as an object mysterious and holy. and, one by one, most of chita's little eccentricities were gradually eliminated from her developing life and thought. more rapidly than ordinary children, because singularly intelligent, she learned to adapt herself to all the changes of her new environment,--retaining only that indescribable something which to an experienced eye tells of hereditary refinement of habit and of mind:--a natural grace, a thorough-bred ease and elegance of movement, a quickness and delicacy of perception. she became strong again and active--active enough to play a great deal on the beach, when the sun was not too fierce; and carmen made a canvas bonnet to shield her head and face. never had she been allowed to play so much in the sun before; and it seemed to do her good, though her little bare feet and hands became brown as copper. at first, it must be confessed, she worried her foster-mother a great deal by various queer misfortunes and extraordinary freaks;--getting bitten by crabs, falling into the bayou while in pursuit of "fiddlers," or losing herself at the conclusion of desperate efforts to run races at night with the moon, or to walk to the "end of the world." if she could only once get to the edge of the sky, she said, she "could climb up." she wanted to see the stars, which were the souls of good little children; and she knew that god would let her climb up. "just what i am afraid of!"--thought carmen to herself;--"he might let her climb up,--a little ghost!" but one day naughty chita received a terrible lesson,--a lasting lesson,--which taught her the value of obedience. she had been particularly cautioned not to venture into a certain part of the swamp in the rear of the grove, where the weeds were very tall; for carmen was afraid some snake might bite the child. but chita's bird-bright eye had discerned a gleam of white in that direction; and she wanted to know what it was. the white could only be seen from one point, behind the furthest house, where the ground was high. "never go there," said carmen; "there is a dead man there,--will bite you!" and yet, one day, while carmen was unusually busy, chita went there. in the early days of the settlement, a spanish fisherman had died; and his comrades had built him a little tomb with the surplus of the same bricks and other material brought down the bayou for the construction of viosca's cottages. but no one, except perhaps some wandering duck hunter, had approached the sepulchre for years. high weeds and grasses wrestled together all about it, and rendered it totally invisible from the surrounding level of the marsh. fiddlers swarmed away as chita advanced over the moist soil, each uplifting its single huge claw as it sidled off;--then frogs began to leap before her as she reached the thicker grass;--and long-legged brown insects sprang showering to right and left as she parted the tufts of the thickening verdure. as she went on, the bitter-weeds disappeared;--jointed grasses and sinewy dark plants of a taller growth rose above her head: she was almost deafened by the storm of insect shrilling, and the mosquitoes became very wicked. all at once something long and black and heavy wriggled almost from under her naked feet,--squirming so horribly that for a minute or two she could not move for fright. but it slunk away somewhere, and hid itself; the weeds it had shaken ceased to tremble in its wake; and her courage returned. she felt such an exquisite and fearful pleasure in the gratification of that naughty curiosity! then, quite unexpectedly--oh! what a start it gave her!--the solitary white object burst upon her view, leprous and ghastly as the yawn of a cotton-mouth. tombs ruin soon in louisiana;--the one chita looked upon seemed ready to topple down. there was a great ragged hole at one end, where wind and rain, and perhaps also the burrowing of crawfish and of worms, had loosened the bricks, and caused them to slide out of place. it seemed very black inside; but chita wanted to know what was there. she pushed her way through a gap in the thin and rotten line of pickets, and through some tall weeds with big coarse pink flowers;--then she crouched down on hands and knees before the black hole, and peered in. it was not so black inside as she had thought; for a sunbeam slanted down through a chink in the roof; and she could see! a brown head--without hair, without eyes, but with teeth, ever so many teeth!--seemed to laugh at her; and close to it sat a toad, the hugest she had ever seen; and the white skin of his throat kept puffing out and going in. and chita screamed and screamed, and fled in wild terror,--screaming all the way, till carmen ran out to meet her and carry her home. even when safe in her adopted mother's arms, she sobbed with fright. to the vivid fancy of the child there seemed to be some hideous relation between the staring reptile and the brown death's-head, with its empty eyes, and its nightmare-smile. the shock brought on a fever,--a fever that lasted several days, and left her very weak. but the experience taught her to obey, taught her that carmen knew best what was for her good. it also caused her to think a great deal. carmen had told her that the dead people never frightened good little girls who stayed at home. --"madrecita carmen," she asked, "is my mamma dead?" --"pobrecita! .... yes, my angel. god called her to him,--your darling mother." --"madrecita," she asked again,--her young eyes growing vast with horror,--"is my own mamma now like that?" ... she pointed toward the place of the white gleam, behind the great trees. --"no, no, no! my darling!" cried carmen, appalled herself by the ghastly question,--"your mamma is with the dear, good, loving god, who lives in the beautiful sky, above the clouds, my darling, beyond the sun!" but carmen's kind eyes were full of tears; and the child read their meaning. he who teareth off the mask of the flesh had looked into her face one unutterable moment:--she had seen the brutal truth, naked to the bone! yet there came to her a little thrill of consolation, caused by the words of the tender falsehood; for that which she had discerned by day could not explain to her that which she saw almost nightly in her slumber. the face, the voice, the form of her loving mother still lived somewhere,--could not have utterly passed away; since the sweet presence came to her in dreams, bending and smiling over her, caressing her, speaking to her,--sometimes gently chiding, but always chiding with a kiss. and then the child would laugh in her sleep, and prattle in creole,--talking to the luminous shadow, telling the dead mother all the little deeds and thoughts of the day.... why would god only let her come at night? ... her idea of god had been first defined by the sight of a quaint french picture of the creation,--an engraving which represented a shoreless sea under a black sky, and out of the blackness a solemn and bearded gray head emerging, and a cloudy hand through which stars glimmered. god was like old doctor de coulanges, who used to visit the house, and talk in a voice like a low roll of thunder.... at a later day, when chita had been told that god was "everywhere at the same time "--without and within, beneath and above all things,--this idea became somewhat changed. the awful bearded face, the huge shadowy hand, did not fade from her thought; but they became fantastically blended with the larger and vaguer notion of something that filled the world and reached to the stars,--something diaphanous and incomprehensible like the invisible air, omnipresent and everlasting like the high blue of heaven .... ii. ... she began to learn the life of the coast. with her acquisition of another tongue, there came to her also the understanding of many things relating to the world of the sea she memorized with novel delight much that was told her day by day concerning the nature surrounding her,--many secrets of the air, many of those signs of heaven which the dwellers in cities cannot comprehend because the atmosphere is thickened and made stagnant above them--cannot even watch because the horizon is hidden from their eyes by walls, and by weary avenues of trees with whitewashed trunks. she learned, by listening, by asking, by observing also, how to know the signs that foretell wild weather:--tremendous sunsets, scuddings and bridgings of cloud,--sharpening and darkening of the sea-line,--and the shriek of gulls flashing to land in level flight, out of a still transparent sky,--and halos about the moon. she learned where the sea-birds, with white bosoms and brown wings, made their hidden nests of sand,--and where the cranes waded for their prey,--and where the beautiful wild-ducks, plumaged in satiny lilac and silken green, found their food,--and where the best reeds grew to furnish stems for feliu's red-clay pipe,--and where the ruddy sea-beans were most often tossed upon the shore,--and how the gray pelicans fished all together, like men--moving in far-extending semicircles, beating the flood with their wings to drive the fish before them. and from carmen she learned the fables and the sayings of the sea,--the proverbs about its deafness, its avarice, its treachery, its terrific power,--especially one that haunted her for all time thereafter: si quieres aprender a orar, entra en el mar (if thou wouldst learn to pray, go to the sea). she learned why the sea is salt,--how "the tears of women made the waves of the sea,"--and how the sea has ii no friends,--and how the cat's eyes change with the tides. what had she lost of life by her swift translation from the dusty existence of cities to the open immensity of nature's freedom? what did she gain? doubtless she was saved from many of those little bitternesses and restraints and disappointments which all well-bred city children must suffer in the course of their training for the more or less factitious life of society:--obligations to remain very still with every nimble nerve quivering in dumb revolt;--the injustice of being found troublesome and being sent to bed early for the comfort of her elders;--the cruel necessity of straining her pretty eyes, for many long hours at a time, over grimy desks in gloomy school-rooms, though birds might twitter and bright winds flutter in the trees without;--the austere constrains and heavy drowsiness of warm churches, filled with the droning echoes of a voice preaching incomprehensible things;--the progressively augmenting weariness of lessons in deportment, in dancing, in music, in the impossible art of keeping her dresses unruffled and unsoiled. perhaps she never had any reason to regret all these. she went to sleep and awakened with the wild birds;--her life remained as unfettered by formalities as her fine feet by shoes. excepting carmen's old prayer-book,--in which she learned to read a little,--her childhood passed without books,--also without pictures, without dainties, without music, without theatrical amusements. but she saw and heard and felt much of that which, though old as the heavens and the earth, is yet eternally new and eternally young with the holiness of beauty,--eternally mystical and divine,--eternally weird: the unveiled magnificence of nature's moods,--the perpetual poem hymned by wind and surge,--the everlasting splendor of the sky. she saw the quivering pinkness of waters curled by the breath of the morning--under the deepening of the dawn--like a far fluttering and scattering of rose-leaves of fire;-- saw the shoreless, cloudless, marvellous double-circling azure of perfect summer days--twin glories of infinite deeps inter-reflected, while the soul of the world lay still, suffused with a jewel-light, as of vaporized sapphire;-- saw the sea shift color,--"change sheets,"--when the viewless wizard of the wind breathed upon its face, and made it green;-- saw the immeasurable panics,--noiseless, scintillant,--which silver, summer after summer, curved leagues of beach with bodies of little fish--the yearly massacre of migrating populations, nations of sea-trout, driven from their element by terror;--and the winnowing of shark-fins,--and the rushing of porpoises,--and the rising of the grande-ecaille, like a pillar of flame,--and the diving and pitching and fighting of the frigates and the gulls,--and the armored hordes of crabs swarming out to clear the slope after the carnage and the gorging had been done;-- saw the dreams of the sky,--scudding mockeries of ridged foam,--and shadowy stratification of capes and coasts and promontories long-drawn out,--and imageries, multicolored, of mountain frondage, and sierras whitening above sierras,--and phantom islands ringed around with lagoons of glory;-- saw the toppling and smouldering of cloud-worlds after the enormous conflagration of sunsets,--incandescence ruining into darkness; and after it a moving and climbing of stars among the blacknesses,--like searching lamps;-- saw the deep kindle countless ghostly candles as for mysterious night-festival,--and a luminous billowing under a black sky, and effervescences of fire, and the twirling and crawling of phosphoric foam;-- saw the mesmerism of the moon;--saw the enchanted tides self-heaped in muttering obeisance before her. often she heard the music of the marsh through the night: an infinity of flutings and tinklings made by tiny amphibia,--like the low blowing of numberless little tin horns, the clanking of billions of little bells;--and, at intervals, profound tones, vibrant and heavy, as of a bass viol--the orchestra of the great frogs! and interweaving with it all, one continuous shrilling,--keen as the steel speech of a saw,--the stridulous telegraphy of crickets. but always,--always, dreaming or awake, she heard the huge blind sea chanting that mystic and eternal hymn, which none may hear without awe, which no musician can learn,-- heard the hoary preacher,--el pregonador,--preaching the ancient word, the word "as a fire, and as a hammer that breaketh the rock in pieces,"--the elohim--word of the sea! ... unknowingly she came to know the immemorial sympathy of the mind with the soul of the world,--the melancholy wrought by its moods of gray, the reverie responsive to its vagaries of mist, the exhilaration of its vast exultings--days of windy joy, hours of transfigured light. she felt,--even without knowing it,--the weight of the silences, the solemnities of sky and sea in these low regions where all things seem to dream--waters and grasses with their momentary wavings,--woods gray-webbed with mosses that drip and drool,--horizons with their delusions of vapor,--cranes meditating in their marshes,--kites floating in the high blue.... even the children were singularly quiet; and their play less noisy--though she could not have learned the difference--than the play of city children. hour after hour, the women sewed or wove in silence. and the brown men,--always barefooted, always wearing rough blue shirts,--seemed, when they lounged about the wharf on idle days, as if they had told each other long ago all they knew or could ever know, and had nothing more to say. they would stare at the flickering of the current, at the drifting of clouds and buzzard:--seldom looking at each other, and always turning their black eyes again, in a weary way, to sky or sea. even thus one sees the horses and the cattle of the coast, seeking the beach to escape the whizzing flies;--all watch the long waves rolling in, and sometimes turn their heads a moment to look at one another, but always look back to the waves again, as if wondering at a mystery.... how often she herself had wondered--wondered at the multiform changes of each swell as it came in--transformations of tint, of shape, of motion, that seemed to betoken a life infinitely more subtle than the strange cold life of lizards and of fishes,--and sinister, and spectral. then they all appeared to move in order,--according to one law or impulse;--each had its own voice, yet all sang one and the same everlasting song. vaguely, as she watched them and listened to them, there came to her the idea of a unity of will in their motion, a unity of menace in their utterance--the idea of one monstrous and complex life! the sea lived: it could crawl backward and forward; it could speak!--it only feigned deafness and sightlessness for some malevolent end. thenceforward she feared to find herself alone with it. was it not at her that it strove to rush, muttering, and showing its white teeth, ... just because it knew that she was all by herself? ... si quieres aprender a orar, entra en el mar! and concha had well learned to pray. but the sea seemed to her the one power which god could not make to obey him as he pleased. saying the creed one day, she repeated very slowly the opening words,--"creo en un dios, padre todopoderoso, criador de cielo y de la tierra,"--and paused and thought. creator of heaven and earth? "madrecita carmen," she asked,--"quien entonces hizo el mar?" (who then made the sea?). --"dios, mi querida," answered carmen.--"god, my darling.... all things were made by him" (todas las cosas fueron hechas por el). even the wicked sea! and he had said unto it: "thus far, and no farther." ... was that why it had not overtaken and devoured her when she ran back in fear from the sudden reaching out of its waves? thus far....? but there were times when it disobeyed--when it rushed further, shaking the world! was it because god was then asleep--could not hear, did not see, until too late? and the tumultuous ocean terrified her more and more: it filled her sleep with enormous nightmare;--it came upon her in dreams, mountain-shadowing,--holding her with its spell, smothering her power of outcry, heaping itself to the stars. carmen became alarmed;--she feared that the nervous and delicate child might die in one of those moaning dreams out of which she had to arouse her, night after night. but feliu, answering her anxiety with one of his favorite proverbs, suggested a heroic remedy:-- --"the world is like the sea: those who do not know how to swim in it are drowned;--and the sea is like the world," he added.... "chita must learn to swim!" and he found the time to teach her. each morning, at sunrise, he took her into the water. she was less terrified the first time than carmen thought she would be;--she seemed to feel confidence in feliu; although she screamed piteously before her first ducking at his hands. his teaching was not gentle. he would carry her out, perched upon his shoulder, until the water rose to his own neck; and there he would throw her from him, and let her struggle to reach him again as best she could. the first few mornings she had to be pulled out almost at once; but after that feliu showed her less mercy, and helped her only when he saw she was really in danger. he attempted no other instruction until she had learned that in order to save herself from being half choked by the salt water, she must not scream; and by the time she became habituated to these austere experiences, she had already learned by instinct alone how to keep herself afloat for a while, how to paddle a little with her hands. then he commenced to train her to use them,--to lift them well out and throw them forward as if reaching, to dip them as the blade of an oar is dipped at an angle, without loud splashing;--and he showed her also how to use her feet. she learned rapidly and astonishingly well. in less than two months feliu felt really proud at the progress made by his tiny pupil: it was a delight to watch her lifting her slender arms above the water in swift, easy curves, with the same fine grace that marked all her other natural motions. later on he taught her not to fear the sea even when it growled a little,--how to ride a swell, how to face a breaker, how to dive. she only needed practice thereafter; and carmen, who could also swim, finding the child's health improving marvellously under this new discipline, took good care that chita should practice whenever the mornings were not too cold, or the water too rough. with the first thrill of delight at finding herself able to glide over the water unassisted, the child's superstitious terror of the sea passed away. even for the adult there are few physical joys keener than the exultation of the swimmer;--how much greater the same glee as newly felt by an imaginative child,--a child, whose vivid fancy can lend unutterable value to the most insignificant trifles, can transform a weed-patch to an eden! ... of her own accord she would ask for her morning bath, as soon as she opened her eyes;--it even required some severity to prevent her from remaining in the water too long. the sea appeared to her as something that had become tame for her sake, something that loved her in a huge rough way; a tremendous playmate, whom she no longer feared to see come bounding and barking to lick her feet. and, little by little, she also learned the wonderful healing and caressing power of the monster, whose cool embrace at once dispelled all drowsiness, feverishness, weariness,--even after the sultriest nights when the air had seemed to burn, and the mosquitoes had filled the chamber with a sound as of water boiling in many kettles. and on mornings when the sea was in too wicked a humor to be played with, how she felt the loss of her loved sport, and prayed for calm! her delicate constitution changed;--the soft, pale flesh became firm and brown, the meagre limbs rounded into robust symmetry, the thin cheeks grew peachy with richer life; for the strength of the sea had entered into her; the sharp breath of the sea had renewed and brightened her young blood.... ... thou primordial sea, the awfulness of whose antiquity hath stricken all mythology dumb;--thou most wrinkled diving sea, the millions of whose years outnumber even the multitude of thy hoary motions;--thou omniform and most mysterious sea, mother of the monsters and the gods,--whence shine eternal youth? still do thy waters hold the infinite thrill of that spirit which brooded above their face in the beginning!--still is thy quickening breath an elixir unto them that flee to thee for life,--like the breath of young girls, like the breath of children, prescribed for the senescent by magicians of old,--prescribed unto weazened elders in the books of the wizards. iii ... eighteen hundred and sixty-seven;--midsummer in the pest-smitten city of new orleans. heat motionless and ponderous. the steel-blue of the sky bleached from the furnace-circle of the horizon;--the lukewarm river ran yellow and noiseless as a torrent of fluid wax. even sounds seemed blunted by the heaviness of the air;--the rumbling of wheels, the reverberation of footsteps, fell half-toned upon the ear, like sounds that visit a dozing brain. daily, almost at the same hour, the continuous sense of atmospheric oppression became thickened;--a packed herd of low-bellying clouds lumbered up from the gulf; crowded blackly against the sun; flickered, thundered, and burst in torrential rain--tepid, perpendicular--and vanished utterly away. then, more furiously than before, the sun flamed down;--roofs and pavements steamed; the streets seemed to smoke; the air grew suffocating with vapor; and the luminous city filled with a faint, sickly odor,--a stale smell, as of dead leaves suddenly disinterred from wet mould,--as of grasses decomposing after a flood. something saffron speckled the slimy water of the gutters; sulphur some called it; others feared even to give it a name! was it only the wind-blown pollen of some innocuous plant? i do not know; but to many it seemed as if the invisible destruction were scattering visible seed! ... such were the days; and each day the terror-stricken city offered up its hecatomb to death; and the faces of all the dead were yellow as flame! "decede--"; "decedee--"; "fallecio;"--"died." ... on the door-posts, the telegraph-poles, the pillars of verandas, the lamps,--over the government letter-boxes,--everywhere glimmered the white annunciations of death. all the city was spotted with them. and lime was poured into the gutters; and huge purifying fires were kindled after sunset. the nights began with a black heat;--there were hours when the acrid air seemed to ferment for stagnation, and to burn the bronchial tubing;--then, toward morning, it would grow chill with venomous vapors, with morbific dews,--till the sun came up to lift the torpid moisture, and to fill the buildings with oven-glow. and the interminable procession of mourners and hearses and carriages again began to circulate between the centres of life and of death;--and long trains and steamships rushed from the port, with heavy burden of fugitives. wealth might flee; yet even in flight there was peril. men, who might have been saved by the craft of experienced nurses at home, hurriedly departed in apparent health, unconsciously carrying in their blood the toxic principle of a malady unfamiliar to physicians of the west and north;--and they died upon their way, by the road-side, by the river-banks, in woods, in deserted stations, on the cots of quarantine hospitals. wiser those who sought refuge in the purity of the pine forests, or in those near gulf islands, whence the bright sea-breath kept ever sweeping back the expanding poison into the funereal swamps, into the misty lowlands. the watering-resorts became overcrowded;--then the fishing villages were thronged,--at least all which were easy to reach by steamboat or by lugger. and at last, even viosca's point,--remote and unfamiliar as it was,--had a stranger to shelter: a good old gentleman named edwards, rather broken down in health--who came as much for quiet as for sea-air, and who had been warmly recommended to feliu by captain harris. for some years he had been troubled by a disease of the heart. certainly the old invalid could not have found a more suitable place so far as rest and quiet were concerned. the season had early given such little promise that several men of the point betook themselves elsewhere; and the aged visitor had two or three vacant cabins from among which to select a dwelling-place. he chose to occupy the most remote of all, which carmen furnished for him with a cool moss bed and some necessary furniture,--including a big wooden rocking-chair. it seemed to him very comfortable thus. he took his meals with the family, spent most of the day in his own quarters, spoke very little, and lived so unobtrusively and inconspicuously that his presence in the settlement was felt scarcely more than that of some dumb creature,--some domestic animal,--some humble pet whose relation to the family is only fully comprehended after it has failed to appear for several days in its accustomed place of patient waiting,--and we know that it is dead. iv. persistently and furiously, at half-past two o'clock of an august morning, sparicio rang dr. la brierre's night-bell. he had fifty dollars in his pocket, and a letter to deliver. he was to earn another fifty dollars--deposited in feliu's hands,--by bringing the doctor to viosca's point. he had risked his life for that money,--and was terribly in earnest. julien descended in his under-clothing, and opened the letter by the light of the hall lamp. it enclosed a check for a larger fee than he had ever before received, and contained an urgent request that he would at once accompany sparicio to viosca's point,--as the sender was in hourly danger of death. the letter, penned in a long, quavering hand, was signed,--"henry edwards." his father's dear old friend! julien could not refuse to go,--though he feared it was a hopeless case. angina pectoris,--and a third attack at seventy years of age! would it even be possible to reach the sufferer's bedside in time? "due giorno,--con vento,"--said sparicio. still, he must go; and at once. it was friday morning;--might reach the point saturday night, with a good wind ... he roused his housekeeper, gave all needful instructions, prepared his little medicine-chest;--and long before the first rose-gold fire of day had flashed to the city spires, he was sleeping the sleep of exhaustion in the tiny cabin of a fishing-sloop. ... for eleven years julien had devoted himself, heart and soul, to the exercise of that profession he had first studied rather as a polite accomplishment than as a future calling. in the unselfish pursuit of duty he had found the only possible consolation for his irreparable loss; and when the war came to sweep away his wealth, he entered the struggle valorously, not to strive against men, but to use his science against death. after the passing of that huge shock, which left all the imposing and splendid fabric of southern feudalism wrecked forever, his profession stood him in good stead;--he found himself not only able to supply those personal wants he cared to satisfy, but also to alleviate the misery of many whom he had known in days of opulence;--the princely misery that never doffed its smiling mask, though living in secret, from week to week, on bread and orange-leaf tea;--the misery that affected condescension in accepting an invitation to dine,--staring at the face of a watch (refused by the mont-de-piete) with eyes half blinded by starvation;--the misery which could afford but one robe for three marriageable daughters,--one plain dress to be worn in turn by each of them, on visiting days;--the pretty misery--young, brave, sweet,--asking for a "treat" of cakes too jocosely to have its asking answered,--laughing and coquetting with its well-fed wooers, and crying for hunger after they were gone. often and often, his heart had pleaded against his purse for such as these, and won its case in the silent courts of self. but ever mysteriously the gift came,--sometimes as if from the hand of a former slave; sometimes as from a remorseful creditor, ashamed to write his name. only yellow victorine knew; but the doctor's housekeeper never opened those sphinx-lips of hers, until years after the doctor's name had disappeared from the city directory... he had grown quite thin,--a little gray. the epidemic had burthened him with responsibilities too multifarious and ponderous for his slender strength to bear. the continual nervous strain of abnormally protracted duty, the perpetual interruption of sleep, had almost prostrated even his will. now he only hoped that, during this brief absence from the city, he might find renewed strength to do his terrible task. mosquitoes bit savagely; and the heat became thicker;--and there was yet no wind. sparicio and his hired boy carmelo had been walking backward and forward for hours overhead,--urging the vessel yard by yard, with long poles, through the slime of canals and bayous. with every heavy push, the weary boy would sigh out,--"santo antonio!--santo antonio!" sullen sparicio himself at last burst into vociferations of ill-humor:--"santo antonio?--ah! santissimu e santu diavulu! ... sacramentu paescite vegnu un asidente!--malidittu lu signuri!" all through the morning they walked and pushed, trudged and sighed and swore; and the minutes dragged by more wearily than the shuffling of their feet. "managgia cristo co tutta a croce!" ... "santissimu e santu diavulu!" ... but as they reached at last the first of the broad bright lakes, the heat lifted, the breeze leaped up, the loose sail flapped and filled; and, bending graciously as a skater, the old san marco began to shoot in a straight line over the blue flood. then, while the boy sat at the tiller, sparicio lighted his tiny charcoal furnace below, and prepared a simple meal,--delicious yellow macaroni, flavored with goats' cheese; some fried fish, that smelled appetizingly; and rich black coffee, of oriental fragrance and thickness. julien ate a little, and lay down to sleep again. this time his rest was undisturbed by the mosquitoes; and when he woke, in the cooling evening, he felt almost refreshed. the san marco was flying into barataria bay. already the lantern in the lighthouse tower had begun to glow like a little moon; and right on the rim of the sea, a vast and vermilion sun seemed to rest his chin. gray pelicans came flapping around the mast;--sea-birds sped hurtling by, their white bosoms rose-flushed by the western glow ... again sparicio's little furnace was at work,--more fish, more macaroni, more black coffee; also a square-shouldered bottle of gin made its appearance. julien ate less sparingly at this second meal; and smoked a long time on deck with sparicio, who suddenly became very good-humored, and chatted volubly in bad spanish, and in much worse english. then while the boy took a few hours' sleep, the doctor helped delightedly in maneuvering the little vessel. he had been a good yachtsman in other years; and sparicio declared he would make a good fisherman. by midnight the san marco began to run with a long, swinging gait;--she had reached deep water. julien slept soundly; the steady rocking of the sloop seemed to soothe his nerves. --"after all," he thought to himself, as he rose from his little bunk next morning,--"something like this is just what i needed." ... the pleasant scent of hot coffee greeted him;--carmelo was handing him the tin cup containing it, down through the hatchway. after drinking it he felt really hungry;--he ate more macaroni than he had ever eaten before. then, while sparicio slept, he aided carmelo; and during the middle of the day he rested again. he had not had so much uninterrupted repose for many a week. he fancied he could feel himself getting strong. at supper-time it seemed to him he could not get enough to eat,--although there was plenty for everybody. all day long there had been exactly the same wave-crease distorting the white shadow of the san marco's sail upon the blue water;--all day long they had been skimming over the liquid level of a world so jewel-blue that the low green ribbon-strips of marsh land, the far-off fleeing lines of pine-yellow sand beach, seemed flaws or breaks in the perfected color of the universe;--all day long had the cloudless sky revealed through all its exquisite transparency that inexpressible tenderness which no painter and no poet can ever reimage,--that unutterable sweetness which no art of man may ever shadow forth, and which none may ever comprehend,--though we feel it to be in some strange way akin to the luminous and unspeakable charm that makes us wonder at the eyes of a woman when she loves. evening came; and the great dominant celestial tone deepened;--the circling horizon filled with ghostly tints,--spectral greens and grays, and pearl-lights and fish-colors ... carmelo, as he crouched at the tiller, was singing, in a low, clear alto, some tristful little melody. over the sea, behind them, lay, black-stretching, a long low arm of island-shore;--before them flamed the splendor of sun-death; they were sailing into a mighty glory,--into a vast and awful light of gold. shading his vision with his fingers, sparicio pointed to the long lean limb of land from which they were fleeing, and said to la brierre:-- --"look-a, doct-a! last-a islan'!" julien knew it;--he only nodded his head in reply, and looked the other way,--into the glory of god. then, wishing to divert the fisherman's attention to another theme, he asked what was carmelo singing. sparicio at once shouted to the lad:-- --"ha! ... ho! carmelo!--santu diavulu! ... sing-a loud-a! doct-a lik-a! sing-a! sing!" .... "he sing-a nicee,"--added the boatman, with his peculiar dark smile. and then carmelo sang, loud and clearly, the song he had been singing before,--one of those artless mediterranean ballads, full of caressing vowel-sounds, and young passion, and melancholy beauty:-- "m'ama ancor, belta fulgente, come tu m'amasti allor;-- ascoltar non dei gente, solo interroga il tuo cor." ... --"he sing-a nicee,--mucha bueno!" murmured the fisherman. and then, suddenly,--with a rich and splendid basso that seemed to thrill every fibre of the planking,--sparicio joined in the song:-- "m'ama pur d'amore eterno, ne deilitto sembri a te; t'assicuro che l'inferno una favola sol e." ... all the roughness of the man was gone! to julien's startled fancy, the fishers had ceased to be;--lo! carmelo was a princely page; sparicio, a king! how perfectly their voices married together!--they sang with passion, with power, with truth, with that wondrous natural art which is the birthright of the rudest italian soul. and the stars throbbed out in the heaven; and the glory died in the west; and the night opened its heart; and the splendor of the eternities fell all about them. still they sang; and the san marco sped on through the soft gloom, ever slightly swerved by the steady blowing of the southeast wind in her sail;--always wearing the same crimpling-frill of wave-spray about her prow,--always accompanied by the same smooth-backed swells,--always spinning out behind her the same long trail of interwoven foam. and julien looked up. ever the night thrilled more and more with silent twinklings;--more and more multitudinously lights pointed in the eternities;--the evening star quivered like a great drop of liquid white fire ready to fall;--vega flamed as a pharos lighting the courses ethereal,--to guide the sailing of the suns, and the swarming of fleets of worlds. then the vast sweetness of that violet night entered into his blood,--filled him with that awful joy, so near akin to sadness, which the sense of the infinite brings,--when one feels the poetry of the most ancient and most excellent of poets, and then is smitten at once with the contrast-thought of the sickliness and selfishness of man,--of the blindness and brutality of cities, whereinto the divine blue light never purely comes, and the sanctification of the silences never descends ... furious cities, walled away from heaven ... oh! if one could only sail on thus always, always through such a night--through such a star-sprinkled violet light, and hear sparicio and carmelo sing, even though it were the same melody always, always the same song! ... "scuza, doct-a!--look-a out!" julien bent down, as the big boom, loosened, swung over his head. the san marco was rounding into shore,--heading for her home. sparicio lifted a huge conch-shell from the deck, put it to his lips, filled his deep lungs, and flung out into the night--thrice--a profound, mellifluent, booming horn-tone. a minute passed. then, ghostly faint, as an echo from very far away, a triple blowing responded... and a long purple mass loomed and swelled into sight, heightened, approached--land and trees black-shadowing, and lights that swung ... the san marco glided into a bayou,--under a high wharfing of timbers, where a bearded fisherman waited, and a woman. sparicio flung up a rope. the bearded man caught it by the lantern-light, and tethered the san marco to her place. then he asked, in a deep voice: --"has traido al doctor?" --"si, si!" answered sparicio... "y el viejo?" --"aye! pobre!" responded feliu,--"hace tres dias que esta muerto." henry edwards was dead! he had died very suddenly, without a cry or a word, while resting in his rocking-chair,--the very day after sparicio had sailed. they had made him a grave in the marsh,--among the high weeds, not far from the ruined tomb of the spanish fisherman. but sparicio had fairly earned his hundred dollars. v. so there was nothing to do at viosca's point except to rest. feliu and all his men were going to barataria in the morning on business;--the doctor could accompany them there, and take the grand island steamer monday for new orleans. with this intention julien retired,--not sorry for being able to stretch himself at full length on the good bed prepared for him, in one of the unoccupied cabins. but he woke before day with a feeling of intense prostration, a violent headache, and such an aversion for the mere idea of food that feliu's invitation to breakfast at five o'clock gave him an internal qualm. perhaps a touch of malaria. in any case he felt it would be both dangerous and useless to return to town unwell; and feliu, observing his condition, himself advised against the journey. wednesday he would have another opportunity to leave; and in the meanwhile carmen would take good care of him ... the boats departed, and julien slept again. the sun was high when he rose up and dressed himself, feeling no better. he would have liked to walk about the place, but felt nervously afraid of the sun. he did not remember having ever felt so broken down before. he pulled a rocking-chair to the window, tried to smoke a cigar. it commenced to make him feel still sicker, and he flung it away. it seemed to him the cabin was swaying, as the san marco swayed when she first reached the deep water. a light rustling sound approached,--a sound of quick feet treading the grass: then a shadow slanted over the threshold. in the glow of the open doorway stood a young girl,--gracile, tall,--with singularly splendid eyes,--brown eyes peeping at him from beneath a golden riot of loose hair. --"m'sieu-le-docteur, maman d'mande si vous n'avez besoin d'que'que chose?" ... she spoke the rude french of the fishing villages, where the language lives chiefly as a baragouin, mingled often with words and forms belonging to many other tongues. she wore a loose-falling dress of some light stuff, steel-gray in color;--boys' shoes were on her feet. he did not reply;--and her large eyes grew larger for wonder at the strange fixed gaze of the physician, whose face had visibly bleached,--blanched to corpse-pallor. silent seconds passed; and still the eyes stared--flamed as if the life of the man had centralized and focussed within them. his voice had risen to a cry in his throat, quivered and swelled one passionate instant, and failed--as in a dream when one strives to call, and yet can only moan ... she! her unforgotten eyes, her brows, her lips!--the oval of her face!--the dawn-light of her hair! ... adele's own poise,--her own grace!--even the very turn of her neck, even the bird-tone of her speech! ... had the grave sent forth a shadow to haunt him?--could the perfidious sea have yielded up its dead? for one terrible fraction of a minute, memories, doubts, fears, mad fancies, went pulsing through his brain with a rush like the rhythmic throbbing of an electric stream;--then the shock passed, the reason spoke:--"fool!--count the long years since you first saw her thus!--count the years that have gone since you looked upon her last! and time has never halted, silly heart!--neither has death stood still!" ... "plait-il?"--the clear voice of the young girl asked. she thought he had made some response she could not distinctly hear. mastering himself an instant, as the heart faltered back to its duty, and the color remounted to his lips, he answered her in french:-- "pardon me!--i did not hear ... you gave me such a start!" ... but even then another extraordinary fancy flashed through his thought;--and with the tutoiement of a parent to a child, with an irresistible outburst of such tenderness as almost frightened her, he cried: "oh! merciful god!--how like her! ... tell me, darling, your name; ... tell me who you are?" (dis-moi qui tu es, mignonne;--dis-moi ton nom.) ... who was it had asked her the same question, in another idiom ever so long ago? the man with the black eyes and nose like an eagle's beak,--the one who gave her the compass. not this man--no! she answered, with the timid gravity of surprise:-- --"chita viosca" he still watched her face, and repeated the name slowly,--reiterated it in a tone of wonderment:--"chita viosca?--chita viosca!" --"c'est a dire ..." she said, looking down at her feet,--"concha--conchita." his strange solemnity made her smile,--the smile of shyness that knows not what else to do. but it was the smile of dead adele. --"thanks, my child," he exclaimed of a sudden,--in a quick, hoarse, changed tone. (he felt that his emotion would break loose in some wild way, if he looked upon her longer.) "i would like to see your mother this evening; but i now feel too ill to go out. i am going to try to rest a little." --"nothing i can bring you?" she asked,--"some fresh milk?" --"nothing now, dear: if i need anything later, i will tell your mother when she comes." --"mamma does not understand french very well." --"no importa, conchita;--le hablare en espanol." --"bien, entonces!" she responded, with the same exquisite smile. "adios, senor!" ... but as she turned in going, his piercing eye discerned a little brown speck below the pretty lobe of her right ear,--just in the peachy curve between neck and cheek.... his own little zouzoune had a birthmark like that!--he remembered the faint pink trace left by his fingers above and below it the day he had slapped her for overturning his ink bottle ... "to laimin moin?--to batte moin!" "chita!--chita!" she did not hear ... after all, what a mistake he might have made! were not nature's coincidences more wonderful than fiction? better to wait,--to question the mother first, and thus make sure. still--there were so many coincidences! the face, the smile, the eyes, the voice, the whole charm;--then that mark,--and the fair hair. zouzoune had always resembled adele so strangely! that golden hair was a scandinavian bequest to the florane family;--the tall daughter of a norwegian sea captain had once become the wife of a florane. viosca?--who ever knew a viosca with such hair? yet again, these spanish emigrants sometimes married blonde german girls ... might be a case of atavism, too. who was this viosca? if that was his wife,--the little brown carmen,--whence chita's sunny hair? ... and this was part of that same desolate shore whither the last island dead had been drifted by that tremendous surge! on a clear day, with a good glass, one might discern from here the long blue streak of that ghastly coast ... somewhere--between here and there ... merciful god! ... ... but again! that bivouac-night before the fight at chancellorsville, laroussel had begun to tell him such a singular story ... chance had brought them,--the old enemies,--together; made them dear friends in the face of death. how little he had comprehended the man!--what a brave, true, simple soul went up that day to the lord of battles! ... what was it--that story about the little creole girl saved from last island,--that story which was never finished? ... eh! what a pain! evidently he had worked too much, slept too little. a decided case of nervous prostration. he must lie down, and try to sleep. these pains in the head and back were becoming unbearable. nothing but rest could avail him now. he stretched himself under the mosquito curtain. it was very still, breathless, hot! the venomous insects were thick;--they filled the room with a continuous ebullient sound, as if invisible kettles were boiling overhead. a sign of storm.... still, it was strange!--he could not perspire ... then it seemed to him that laroussel was bending over him--laroussel in his cavalry uniform. "bon jour, camarade!--nous allons avoir un bien mauvais temps, mon pauvre julien." how! bad weather?--"comment un mauvais temps?" ... he looked in laroussel's face. there was something so singular in his smile. ah! yes,--he remembered now: it was the wound! ... "un vilain temps!" whispered laroussel. then he was gone ... whither? --"cheri!" ... the whisper roused him with a fearful start ... adele's whisper! so she was wont to rouse him sometimes in the old sweet nights,--to crave some little attention for ailing eulalie,--to make some little confidence she had forgotten to utter during the happy evening ... no, no! it was only the trees. the sky was clouding over. the wind was rising ... how his heart beat! how his temples pulsed! why, this was fever! such pains in the back and head! still his skin was dry,--dry as parchment,--burning. he rose up; and a bursting weight of pain at the base of the skull made him reel like a drunken man. he staggered to the little mirror nailed upon the wall, and looked. how his eyes glowed;--and there was blood in his mouth! he felt his pulse spasmodic, terribly rapid. could it possibly--? ... no: this must be some pernicious malarial fever! the creole does not easily fall a prey to the great tropical malady,--unless after a long absence in other climates. true! he had been four years in the army! but this was ... he hesitated a moment; then,--opening his medicine chest, he measured out and swallowed thirty grains of quinine. then he lay down again. his head pained more and more;--it seemed as if the cervical vertebrae were filled with fluid iron. and still his skin remained dry as if tanned. then the anguish grew so intense as to force a groan with almost every aspiration ... nausea,--and the stinging bitterness of quinine rising in his throat;--dizziness, and a brutal wrenching within his stomach. everything began to look pink;--the light was rose-colored. it darkened more,--kindled with deepening tint. something kept sparkling and spinning before his sight, like a firework ... then a burst of blood mixed with chemical bitterness filled his mouth; the light became scarlet as claret ... this--this was ... not malaria ... vi. ... carmen knew what it was; but the brave little woman was not afraid of it. many a time before she had met it face to face, in havanese summers; she knew how to wrestle with it; she had torn feliu's life away from its yellow clutch, after one of those long struggles that strain even the strength of love. now she feared mostly for chita. she had ordered the girl under no circumstances to approach the cabin. julien felt that blankets had been heaped upon him,--that some gentle hand was bathing his scorching face with vinegar and water. vaguely also there came to him the idea that it was night. he saw the shadow-shape of a woman moving against the red light upon the wall;--he saw there was a lamp burning. then the delirium seized him: he moaned, sobbed, cried like a child,--talked wildly at intervals in french, in english, in spanish. --"mentira!--you could not be her mother ... still, if you were--and she must not come in here,--jamais! ... carmen, did you know adele,--adele florane? so like her,--so like,--god only knows how like! ... perhaps i think i know;--but i do not--do not know justly, fully--how like! ... si! si!--es el vomito!--yo lo conozco, carmen! ... she must not die twice ... i died twice ... i am going to die again. she only once. till the heavens be no more she will not rise ... moi, au contraire, il faut que je me leve toujours! they need me so much;--the slate is always full; the bell will never stop. they will ring that bell for me when i am dead ... so will i rise again!--resurgam! ... how could i save him?--could not save myself. it was a bad case,--at seventy years! ... there! qui ca?" ... he saw laroussel again,--reaching out a hand to him through a whirl of red smoke. he tried to grasp it, and could not ... "n'importe, mon ami," said laroussel,--"tu vas la voir bientot." who was he to see soon?--"qui done, laroussel?" but laroussel did not answer. through the red mist he seemed to smile;--then passed. for some hours carmen had trusted she could save her patient,--desperate as the case appeared to be. his was one of those rapid and violent attacks, such as often despatch their victims in a single day. in the cuban hospitals she had seen many and many terrible examples: strong young men,--soldiers fresh from spain,--carried panting to the fever wards at sunrise; carried to the cemeteries at sunset. even troopers riddled with revolutionary bullets had lingered longer ... still, she had believed she might save julien's life: the burning forehead once began to bead, the burning hands grew moist. but now the wind was moaning;--the air had become lighter, thinner, cooler. a stone was gathering in the east; and to the fever-stricken man the change meant death ... impossible to bring the priest of the caminada now; and there was no other within a day's sail. she could only pray; she had lost all hope in her own power to save. still the sick man raved; but he talked to himself at longer intervals, and with longer pauses between his words;--his voice was growing more feeble, his speech more incoherent. his thought vacillated and distorted, like flame in a wind. weirdly the past became confounded with the present; impressions of sight and of sound interlinked in fastastic affinity,--the face of chita viosca, the murmur of the rising storm. then flickers of spectral lightning passed through his eyes, through his brain, with every throb of the burning arteries; then utter darkness came,--a darkness that surged and moaned, as the circumfluence of a shadowed sea. and through and over the moaning pealed one multitudinous human cry, one hideous interblending of shoutings and shriekings ... a woman's hand was locked in his own ... "tighter," he muttered, "tighter still, darling! hold as long as you can!" it was the tenth night of august, eighteen hundred and fifty-six ... --"cheri!" again the mysterious whisper startled him to consciousness,--the dim knowledge of a room filled with ruby colored light,--and the sharp odor of vinegar. the house swung round slowly;--the crimson flame of the lamp lengthened and broadened by turns;--then everything turned dizzily fast,--whirled as if spinning in a vortex ... nausea unutterable; and a frightful anguish as of teeth devouring him within,--tearing more and more furiously at his breast. then one atrocious wrenching, rending, burning,--and the gush of blood burst from lips and nostrils in a smothering deluge. again the vision of lightnings, the swaying, and the darkness of long ago. "quick!--quick!--hold fast to the table, adele!--never let go!" ... ... up,--up,--up!--what! higher yet? up to the red sky! red--black-red ... heated iron when its vermilion dies. so, too, the frightful flood! and noiseless. noiseless because heavy, clammy,--thick, warm, sickening--blood? well might the land quake for the weight of such a tide!--why did adele speak spanish? who prayed for him? ... --"alma de cristo santisima santificame! "sangre de cristo, embriagame! "o buen jesus, oye me!" ... out of the darkness into--such a light! an azure haze! ah!--the delicious frost! ... all the streets were filled with the sweet blue mist ... voiceless the city and white;--crooked and weed grown its narrow ways! ... old streets of tombs, these ... eh! how odd a custom!--a night-bell at every door. yes, of course!--a night-bell!--the dead are physicians of souls: they may be summoned only by night,--called up from the darkness and silence ... yet she?--might he not dare to ring for her even by day? ........ strange he had deemed it day!--why, it was black, starless ... and it was growing queerly cold ...... how should he ever find her now? it was so black ... so cold! ... --"cheri!" all the dwelling quivered with the mighty whisper. outside, the great oaks were trembling to their roots;--all the shore shook and blanched before the calling of the sea. and carmen, kneeling at the feet of the dead, cried out, alone in the night:-- --"o jesus misericordioso!--tened compasion de el!" generously made available by the internet archive/american libraries.) * * * * * +-----------------------------------------------------------+ | transcriber's note: | | | | this e-book contains archaic spelling which has not been | | modernized. to avoid confusion a list has been provided | | at the end of this document. | | | +-----------------------------------------------------------+ * * * * * personal narratives of events in the war of the rebellion, being papers read before the rhode island soldiers and sailors historical society. no. .... second series. [illustration] providence: n. bangs williams & co. . copyrighted by n. bangs williams. . reminiscences of two years with the colored troops. by j.m. addeman, [late captain fourteenth r.i. heavy artillery, colored.] providence: n. bangs williams & co. . copyrighted by n. bangs williams. . printed by e.l. freeman & co. reminiscences of two years with the colored troops. the circumstances attending the organizing of a colored regiment in this state are well remembered. in the summer of , white men were no longer eager to enlist for a war the end of which none could foresee; but nevertheless the war must be prosecuted with vigor; another draft was impending and the state's quota must be filled. with difficulty governor smith obtained permission to organize a company, and, as this rapidly filled, then a battalion, and finally a full regiment of twelve companies of colored men for heavy artillery duty. in common with many others i did not at the outset look with particular favor upon the scheme. but with some hesitation i accepted an appointment from the state as a second lieutenant and reported for duty at camp smith, on the dexter training ground, in this city. after serving here for some weeks in the fall of , in the organizing of companies and forwarding them to dutch island, where the regiment was in camp, i successfully passed an examination before what was known as "casey's board," and after some preliminary service with a company of the third battalion, was assigned to the command of company h of the second battalion, with whose fortunes my lot was cast till the close of our term of service. on the turtle-backed crown of dutch island we remained amid fierce storms and the howling winds that swept with keen edge over the waters of the narragansett, until the th of january, , when, as i was about to make a visit home, the transport, daniel webster, appeared in the harbor and orders were issued to prepare for embarking on the following day. at the time appointed, we were on board, but the sutler's arrangements were not completed until early the next morning, when we got up steam and were soon out of sight of our familiar camp. the incidents of the voyage it is not necessary to recite to any comrade whose chance it was to make a trip in an army transport, which had long since seen its better days, and which had been practically condemned before uncle sam found for it such profitable use. the men packed like sheep in the hold, the officers, though far better off as to quarters, yet crowded too much for convenience and comfort, the inevitable sea-sickness, the scanty rations, and what was worse, the extreme scarcity of water, were annoyances but the counterpart of those endured by many brave men who preceded and followed us to the scene of duty. but in the main the weather favored us, and on the hurricane deck we spent the hours off duty, gazing far across the illimitable waste of waters, as day after day we approached a warmer clime with its glowing sunshine and glittering waves and the deep blue sky bending down in unbroken circle around us. the rebel cruisers were then in the midst of their destructive work and it was natural, as we caught sight of a distant vessel, to speculate whether it was a friendly or a hostile craft. when we were in the latitude of charleston, a steamer appeared in the far distance, then a flash, a puff of smoke and a loud report notified us that it was sending us its compliments. it approached nearer, a boat put out and officers from the gunboat connecticut came on board, examined our papers and soon allowed us to proceed. the weather rapidly grew warmer and our winter clothing proved very uncomfortable. the steamer's supply of water was exhausted and we had to depend on sea-water, distilled by the vessel's boilers, for all uses. the allowance of an officer was, i think, a pint a day. warm and insipid, its only use, as i remember, was for our morning ablutions, which were more a matter of form than of substance. in rounding the coast of florida we bumped one evening on a sand bar or coral reef. i was very unceremoniously tumbled over, and the game of back-gammon, in which i was engaged with a brother officer, was of course, ended at once. rushing on deck we found ourselves clear of the obstruction and again on our way. but the breakers, in plain sight, gave us assurance of the peril we had so narrowly escaped. in the early morning of february second we crossed the bar and noted well that line stretching far to the right and left of us, drawn with almost mathematical exactness, which marked the demarcation between the clear waters of the gulf and the turbid waters of the mississippi. in going up the river the buckets were constantly dropped into the muddy stream, and their contents, when allowed to stand for a few minutes, would soon furnish an abundance of that luxury we all craved so much,--clear water, cooled by the ice and snows of the far north. reaching the inhabited portions of the river, we saw the planters busy with their spring work, and though the air was chilled with the icy breath of northern climes, the orange trees in blossom and the green shrubbery on the shores, gave indication of the semi-tropical climate we had reached. arriving at new orleans in due season, our senior captain reported for orders. i must not pause to speak of the strange scenes which greeted our eyes in this, the most cosmopolitan city of our land. a delay here of two or three days proved almost as demoralizing as a campaign, and i, for one, was glad when the orders came to move. for reasons that afterwards transpired, we dropped down the stream some fifteen miles to a point called english turn. it derived its name, as i remember the tradition, from the fact that as the commander of some english vessel was slowly making his way up what was then an unknown and perhaps unexplored body of water, he was met by some french explorer, coming from the opposite direction, who gave him to understand that all the country he had seen in coming up the river, was, by prior discovery, the rightful possession of the french monarch. though no frenchman had perhaps seen it, yet with his facile tongue he worked persuasion in the mind of the bluff englishman, who at this point, turned about and put out to sea--hence its name, english turn. we found here relics of very early times in the form of an old earthwork, and an angle of a brick wall, built, when, and whether by french or spaniard, none could tell. here we soon selected a site and laid out our camp. the time rapidly passed in the busy occupations which each day brought, in little excursions into the surrounding country, in conversations with the colored people whose sad memories of the old slavery days recalled so vividly the experiences of uncle tom and his associates in mrs. stowe's famous tale. nor were the days unvaried by plenty of fun. music, vocal and instrumental, we had in abundance. the mimic talents of our men, led to the performance of a variety of entertainments, and in their happy-go-easy dispositions, their troubles set very lightly on them. their extravagancies of expression were by no means an unremarkable feature. when i at first heard their threats to each other, couched sometimes in the most diabolical language, i had deemed it my duty at once to rush into the company street and prevent what, among white men, i would suppose to be the prelude to a bloody fight. "oh, captain," would be the explanation, "we'se only a foolin'." while here, we had a little flurry of snow, which reminded us of what we had left in abundance behind, but which was a startling novelty to the natives, few, if any, of whom, had ever seen anything like it before. their explanation was that the yankees had brought it with them. in the course of a week or two, an assistant inspector-general put in an appearance and gave us a pretty thorough over-hauling; but what astonished him the most, was to find us in so healthy a condition; for it appeared that because of a few cases of measles on board ship, we had been represented as being in very bad shape, and it was for sanitary reasons that we were sent to english turn. we now began to hope for some change. the place was decidedly unhealthy. our men were dropping off rapidly from a species of putrid sore throat which was very prevalent. the soil was so full of moisture that we had to use the levee for a burial ground. elsewhere a grave dug two feet deep would rapidly fill with water, and to cover a coffin decently, it was necessary that two men should stand on it, while the extemporized sextons completed their task. washington's birthday was duly celebrated, and foot-ball, wheel-barrow and sack races, among other sports, furnished fun for the whole camp. even the inevitable greased pig was provided, but he was so greasy that he got over the lines into the swamps and--freedom. our battalion commander, major shaw, arrived on the third of march, and on the following day, it was my good fortune to witness, in new orleans, the inauguration of gov. hahn, who, by some form of election, had been chosen the chief executive. the unclouded sky, the rich foliage and the beautiful atmosphere, combined to make a glorious day, and the spectacular arrangements were in keeping. the place was lafayette square. flags of all nations waved in the breeze. in seats, arranged tier above tier, were five thousand school children of the city, dressed in white with ribbons and sashes of the national colors, while many thousands of the citizens were gathered as spectators. patriotic songs were sung by the little folks; five hundred musicians filled the air with sweet sounds, and in the anvil chorus which was sung, fifty sons of vulcan kept time on as many veritable anvils; while some half dozen batteries of artillery came in heavy on the choruses. these were fired simultaneously by an electrical arrangement; and the whole was under charge of p.s. gilmore, a name not now unknown to fame in grand musical combinations. an elaborate address by general banks, then commanding the department, was an interesting feature of the occasion. our life at english turn, was varied by little of special interest. of course there was no enemy at hand except those foes which a hot climate breeds so rapidly. a mysterious order came one day, to detail one hundred men "to join the expedition," and we were notified that a steamer would call for them on the morrow. details of picked men were selected from each company. five days' rations and forty rounds of ammunition, were dealt out to each, and in light marching order they waited several days for the steamer to appear. it was in vain, however, and we reluctantly gave up the prospect of some little excitement. we came to the conclusion that somebody at headquarters had forgotten to countermand the order, or, like mr. toots, had deemed it of no consequence. we discussed the varying prospects of change, sometimes coming as a rumor that we should be ordered to texas, where was the first battalion of our regiment; sometimes that we should join the red river expedition, which was then forming, or the expedition against mobile which was in contemplation. but after six weeks delay at english turn, we received orders to move up the river to plaquemine, a point some one hundred and twenty miles above new orleans, a few miles below and on the opposite bank from baton rouge. this town was at the entrance of the bayou plaquemine, of which longfellow makes mention in the story of evangeline's search for her lover; a description which gives so good an idea of the bayous by which louisiana is intersected, that i quote it in this connection. "they * * * entering the bayou of plaquemine, soon were lost in a maze of sluggish and devious waters, which, like a network of steel, extended in every direction. over their heads the towering and tenebrous boughs of the cypress waved like banners that hang on the walls of ancient cathedrals. deathlike the silence seemed, and unbroken save by the herons home to their roosts in the cedar trees returning at sunset, or by the owl, as he greeted the moon with demoniac laughter." here we relieved the forty-second ohio, and went into camp. as we marched through the streets of the village to the site of our camp, the scowling looks of the white spectators, sufficiently indicated their sentiments and especially their wrath at being guarded by "niggers." we found the state of affairs very different from the tranquil neighborhood we had just left. the surrounding country was infested with guerilla bands, and in the jail were a number of rebel prisoners who had been captured in recent raids. the latter received from the town's people very gratifying evidences of sympathy, and in their comparatively comfortable quarters and abundant supplies, afforded a vivid contrast to the treatment received by our boys at libby and andersonville. intimations were quite freely expressed by the prisoners, that it would soon be their turn to guard us, and we were cautioned by friends and from headquarters, to be on the alert against a sudden attack. in the evening of the day after our arrival, we were startled by a steamer approaching the landing, all ablaze from stem to stern. the entire heavens seemed illuminated, and it was light enough to read with perfect distinctness. the vessel was loaded with some three thousand bales of cotton, and in landing at a point above us, the sparks from the torch--a wire basket filled with pine knots, and used after dark to light the loading and unloading of the steamer,--had set the cotton afire. the motion of the boat and the perfect draft from her construction, peculiar to nearly all the river craft, of course spread the fire with great rapidity, and only time sufficient to rescue the passengers was permitted. the vessel had a large freight of live stock, some of which escaped to the shore, but most of them perished in the flames, filling the air with their piteous cries. our particular attention was devoted to our magazine, which was an ordinary store-house and exposed to some danger. its contents we could ill afford to lose, and their explosion would have made a sensation much more lively than even the destruction of the steamer. at plaquemine an earth work had been begun by our predecessors. it had four bastions, one of which was assigned to each of our companies. the work was in a very incomplete condition, and except for the protection its parapets afforded, would have been of little service. in the threatening aspect of affairs, it became necessary at once to strengthen our defences, and under the direction of an engineer, details of men were set to work, and rapid progress was made. in april parties of guerillas and rebel cavalry began to operate actively in our neighborhood. at indian village, a few miles distant, they burned a large quantity of cotton which had been sent in by planters or collected by speculators and was awaiting transportation. about the same time mysterious signals attracted our attention, and soon afterwards, we learned that a body of two hundred cavalry had crossed the grand river for the purpose of attacking us. the men slept on their arms, but no attack was made. a week or two afterwards, i had occasion to visit new orleans on business, and while there, heard a report that plaquemine was "gobbled up" by the rebs. i was very much relieved on my return to find everything in _statu quo_. a raid shortly afterwards on bayou goula, a trading station a few miles below us, resulted in the destruction of considerable property, but no captures of prisoners. on the twenty-fifth of may the gunboat was sent to cruise on the river in our neighborhood, and it was a welcome reinforcement to our meagre numbers. on the twenty-eighth of may the cavalry of general banks' army, on their retreat from the red river campaign, passed through our post, remaining a short time in our vicinity. among them was a portion of our third rhode island cavalry, and no hospitality ever gave greater mutual pleasure than that which it happened to be in our power then to grant. the record of that expedition has been made up, but there was a refreshing vigor of opinion expressed by our comrades on the conduct of the campaign. it seemed very lonesome when they left us with their commander,--a true rhode island son, general richard arnold. orders came within a day or two from baton rouge, announcing a change of commanders of the district, and exhorting us to get everything into fighting trim. it will be remembered that flushed with victory the rebels followed close on the heels of our retreating army, and were only stopped by the lack of transportation to cross the swift and deep atchafalaya. of course we presumed that they would make one of their raids down the coast and attack our post, and that of donaldsonville, some twenty-five miles below us, which constituted the principal defences on the river above new orleans. with the exception, however, of capturing some of our cavalry pickets, we had no trouble, though frequent alarms kept us on the qui vive. the beating of the long roll was almost a nightly occurrence; but this i should not mention to soldiers, except to refer to an instance that now occurs to me in illustration of the rapidity of the mind's movements, at times. about the time of the raids on our northern frontier, i was dreaming one night, that we were ordered home to proceed at once to some point on the border. all the movements incident to our departure and to our arrival at providence, were before me. as we were halting in exchange place, with arms stacked and men at ease, i obtained permission to go home for a few minutes to see my family, to whom our arrival was unknown, when the roll sounded and we were ordered to fall in at once to take the train. of course my momentary disappointment was great, but awaking at once, i heard the drums beating in reality, and jumping into my outer clothing and equipments in a hurry, was shortly at the head of my company. the first beat of the drum had probably started the long train of the incidents of my dream. in the midst of these rumors of attack, in the early morning of august sixth we were visited by a body of mounted men. they dashed upon our pickets who made a bold stand for a short time, and then scattered for shelter. the rebels had caught sight of the officer, lieutenant aldrich, who was in command, and while a part of them made diligent search for him, the remainder dashed into the town, and breaking up into parties raided through the various streets, firing somewhat indiscriminately, but more particularly at what contrabands they saw. the companies gathered in their respective bastions in the fort and we expected a lively brush. as i stood on the parapet and got a glimpse of a portion of the enemy, i ached to let fly a shell, but the danger to innocent parties was too great to warrant it just then. i remember how amused i was at the appearance of the gallant commander of our post, as with his coat and equipments in one hand, and holding up his nether garments in the other, he was "double-quicking" from his quarters in the town, to a place of security in the fort. after that he selected quarters nearer us. the prospect of being "gobbled up" was not particularly gratifying, especially to a "nigger" officer, who had fort pillow memories in mind. as the rebels did not appear to be coming to us, a strong detachment under command of adjutant barney, was sent out to exchange compliments with them. they gave us no opportunity for this but soon retired, taking with them three of our pickets and one cavalry vidette, whom they had captured. we understood, the next day, that our men were shot in cold blood. lieutenant aldrich and the men with him, escaped through the friendly protection of an osage orange grove. others swam the bayou and thus escaped certain death if captured. i think our casualties were, besides those taken prisoners, one man killed and a few wounded. several of the rebels were said to be killed or wounded. one of the latter, as i remember, fell into our hands and was taken into our hospital where he received the same treatment as our own men. subsequently we learned that the raiders were texans who boastfully declared that they asked no quarter and gave none. in consequence of the barbarous treatment of our men who were captured, some correspondence passed between general banks and the rebel commander, but i am not aware that it amounted to anything. on the eighteenth a scouting party of our cavalry was captured at grand river and others in our nearer vicinity. we had two companies of the thirty-first massachusetts mounted infantry, who were used for vidette duty. being more exposed than our own pickets they suffered occasionally from guerilla raids. one party of them, were surprised, probably in consequence of a little carelessness, and were taken prisoners with the exception of one man who was killed. he had been a prisoner once before and fought to the last, rather than again be captured. on some of these occasions the attacking parties were dressed in our own uniform. all through the country back of us, a constant and merciless conscription was going on, sweeping in all able-bodied men between fifteen and sixty years of age. of course many refugees and occasional deserters came within our lines. during the fall of we received from time to time re-inforcements of several companies of colored engineer troops, who continued the work on the fort which we had begun. though not comparing with the arduousness of field service, our duties were by no means slight. it must be remembered that we were in a semi-tropical country, where to an unacclimated person the climate was itself almost a deadly foe. the extreme heat produced a lethargy that was depressing in the extreme. in a few days of dry weather, the surface of the ground would be baked like a brick. then would come most violent storms, converting the soil into a quagmire and covering it with water like a lake. at this time, there was no small danger of falling into the deep ditches with which the fields were intersected, for drainage. in this way i lost one man of my company. of course it will be understood how productive of disease would be the malaria from the soil and the adjacent swamps. our men with all their buoyancy of disposition, had not the resolute will of white men, when attacked by sickness, and would succumb with fatal rapidity. as captain of a company, my most arduous duty, when not on special duty or detached service, was as field officer of the day. this necessitated the visiting occasionally during the day and night, our videttes and picket posts which were stationed on the roads into the country, and at intersecting points in the fields; and also crossing in a skiff the mississippi river, to visit the troops stationed to guard a telegraph station on the other side. this station was in the vicinity of a famous duelling ground,--a path not far from the river bank,--to which in former days the young bloods of the town and vicinity would resort to repair their wounded honor, according to the rules of the code. as we were too short of horses always to furnish a mounted orderly, the officer of the day would at night, have to make his rounds alone. there was a picturesqueness in those rides in the solemn hours of the night, a portion of the way over deserted plantations where the weeds would be as high as one's head on horseback, the path at times fringing the borders of swamps where the moss hung in festoons from the stately cypress trees, past lonely negro cabins, where sometimes i heard the inmates in the midnight hours, singing some plaintive melody in tones the most subdued. in addition to our routine work, our officers were largely detailed for staff, court-martial and other duties. the frequent attempts at smuggling contraband goods through our lines, also necessitated military commissions for the trial of these as well as various other civil offences,--on which duty some of us were always engaged. as a consequence, we were always short-handed, and tours of duty came as often as was agreeable. the fall months of were marked by occasional raids in our vicinity, with orders, at times, to sleep on our arms. the capture of a large supply of revolvers, which were surreptitiously landed near us, indicated the necessity of strictly guarding the lines, and at the same time, furnish those of us who needed them, an ample supply of that weapon. during this period, we organized schools for the instruction of our men. while some of them were comparatively well educated and were very serviceable in various kinds of clerical work, a large proportion of them were destitute of the most rudimentary knowledge. through the christian commission, of which ex-mayor j.v.c. smith, of boston, was in our department the efficient agent, we were amply supplied with various kinds of books and utensils, embracing primers, arithmetics, slates and pencils, besides a liberal allowance of reading matter. our men were eager recipients of these and made good use of them. we tried to stimulate their pride in every way possible, and the great majority of them learned to sign their names to our rolls instead of making their mark. i had some pride in having my rolls signed by the men themselves, but i remember one of my men, however, whom i ineffectually ordered to do this. he admitted to me that he could write, but in consequence of some trouble he had in former years, got into by the use of the pen, he had made a vow never to write again, or something to that effect. my impression is that it was some kind of forgery he was engaged in. it is possible he may have been an unfortunate indorser; if so, his determination would not seem so strange. at the same time, we were trying to make a permanent improvement in the way above indicated, we were troubled by difficulties, which were incident to army life at all times. liquor, of course, would make trouble for us, and i think i never knew of any stimulant more demoralizing, in its way, than louisiana rum. this fiery fluid would arouse all the furies in a man when it had him under its control. gambling was another vice against which we labored with more or less success. sometimes, after taps, i would make a raid on some of the men who were having a quiet little game. when winter came, we had replaced our worn out tents with shanties built from the materials of confiscated houses. these would be darkened, and in voices hushed to the lowest whisper, the men would indulge in their favorite pastime. on one occasion, i remember that suddenly forcing the door open, i dropped, most unexpectedly to them, on a small party of gamblers. as i scooped in the cards and the stakes, one of them remarked that it was no use to play against the captain, for he got high, low, jack and the game. in the preparations that were making against mobile in the winter of - , we anticipated an opportunity to change our comparatively inactive life. but general sherman (t.w.) said he could not spare us from the important post where we were stationed, and it was with regret that we were deprived of a share in that brilliant affair which has been so well described in a former paper. during this winter, the rebel forces in western louisiana, under command of general kirby smith, were comparatively inactive, though raiding parties gave us occasional trouble. towards spring they began to move, and attacks on parties of union cavalry were not infrequent. unpleasant rumors of the capture of the third rhode island cavalry reached us, but proved to be unfounded, except that several couriers were taken. some rebel prisoners were captured by the scouts, who were encamped near us, but our freedom from attack, was probably largely due to the inundated condition of the country. owing to the neglect of the levees, the river at its high stage in the spring following broke through the embankment above and overflowed a large tract of country west of us. a raid contemplated by the rebels, which would have given us sharp work, and a force which would have been large enough to annihilate us, unless in the meanwhile reinforced, were prevented by the condition of the intervening country, from giving us trouble. as an illustration of the disastrous effect of this overflow, i am tempted to give a brief description of a trip i made through a portion of the country that suffered in this way. before the waters had subsided, i was ordered by brigadier-general r.a. cameron, commanding the district of la fourche, in which we were located, to report at his headquarters in brashear city, for duty on his staff. taking a steamer to new orleans and then the train at algiers, which is opposite new orleans, i proceeded very comfortably to a place called terrebonne, where steam travel came to a sudden stop. a hand-car for a mile or two furnished transportation and then we found the railroad completely washed away by the flood above named. the general's quartermaster and myself secured a boat and with a crew of colored soldiers, we rowed some twelve miles to a place called tigerville, on the alligator bayou. our route lay over the bed of the railroad, the track washed to one side of the cut, and a stream of water several feet deep on top of the bed. the road had been built through what seemed, most of the way, a primeval wilderness. the rank growth which skirted both sides of the stream, with no sound to break the silence, save the measured stroke of the oars, for even the birds which occasionally flitted across our path, were songless, though of brilliant plumage; the sight of an occasional moccasin or copperhead snake coiled on the stump of a tree, and not infrequently of an alligator sunning himself on a log, were features of a situation that must be seen to be fully realized. the few small settlements through which we passed, were drowned out. some of the houses were nearly under water and large quantities of debris were afloat on the slowly moving current. through the long weary hours of our boat ride, the sun poured its rays upon us with unmitigated fervor. reaching tigerville, we found an ugly little stern-wheeled boat tied up in what had been one of the thoroughfares of the village, and which the quartermaster at once ordered to take us to brashear city. the captain of the craft, incidentally remarked that his boiler was in bad shape and might blow up at any time. the quartermaster was willing, however, to take the risk, and getting up steam, we were soon on our way. but with the remark of the captain in my mind, as i looked at the stagnant bayou with its waters black as ink, and gazed off upon the interminable swamps on either side, and thought of the monsters from which it took its name, i concluded that the extreme bow would be a little the safest place, and taking passage on an empty water cask i found there, i lighted my pipe and tried to feel as tranquil as the circumstances above suggested would permit. through the winding bayous, we pursued our way and sometime after dark, we safely reached brashear city, or that portion of it which was visible above the waste of waters. speaking of the bayous, it would be difficult to give a clear conception of their peculiarities. equally strange are the people who inhabit those solitudes. time would not permit me to describe the "cajans"--corruption of "acadians,"--descendants of the exiles who early settled the territory of louisiana, but who have been driven from their first places of settlement by those more ambitious and unscrupulous. living in isolated communities, with their artless and unambitious characteristics, their simplicity and exclusiveness, they would furnish material enough for an elaborate paper. many reminiscences occur to me in connection with my service on general cameron's staff, but any attempt to detail them would transgress the proper limits of a paper. in spite of the surrender of lee and johnston, a show of hostilities was kept up in the trans-mississippi department, it being supposed that jeff davis was making his way in that direction to still retain a semblance of power in a country which had not felt the severest ravages of the war. upon his capture, however, the rebel army in western louisiana, rapidly crumbled to pieces, and while the rank and file were seeking their homes, the officers were continually coming in to our headquarters, to make their peace formally with uncle sam. having occasion to remove our headquarters from brashear city, to a place called thibodaux, probably not more than fifty miles distant by rail, we were obliged, by reason of the overflow, to take a steamer and make a circuit of some four hundred and fifty miles, going up the swift flowing and extremely crooked, atchafalaya, much of the way through a very desolate country, then down the red river and the mississippi to algiers, and thence, by rail, to our place of destination. on our journey we had the company of several rebel officers, some of high rank, who availed themselves of the general's courtesy to reach the cresent city. in a few weeks the general was mustered out, and soon afterwards, i returned to my company, which, with the battalion, had in the meanwhile, been ordered to donaldsonville. among the duties here assigned to me, was service as provost marshal of the parish, an office which combined as varied a responsibility as can well be imagined. in certain civil cases i had, as judge, jury and executioner of my own decisions, plenty of employment. with an occasional call to join in matrimonial bonds sundry pairs of hearts that beat as one, i had much more frequent cause to settle disputes between planters and employees, where neither party was disposed to meet the other halfway. vexatious and varied as my employments were, and anxious as i might be to do justice, i was liable to be overhauled by headquarters from misrepresentations made by angry and disappointed suitors. one event in my administration of the office, caused quite a sensation for the day. in the presence of a crowd of whites and blacks, i heard a case in which a colored woman, who had till recently been a slave, was plaintiff and principal witness, and a white man who was defendant, and gave judgment in favor of the former. this may seem to you a very simple matter, but it was evidently no ordinary occurrence in that place, and i presume this was the first occasion in the experience of many of the spectators, in which the sworn testimony of a negro was received as against that of a white person. i seem now to see the glaring eyes of one indignant southron as he scowled upon the proceedings with the intensest malignity. it was not difficult to guess at his opinion of the changed order of things, while to the colored people, it was evident that the year of jubilee had come at last. thus with comparatively tranquil incidents, the summer of passed away. peace with all its attendant blessings, had come. but disease laid its hands heavily on some of us, and death was not an infrequent visitor to officers as well as men. from one scourge of that climate, we were fortunately exempted. thanks to the thorough policing, on which our commanding officers insisted, "yellow jack," who in former seasons had been master of the situation, gave us no trouble. but many of our number, particularly those of us who, during the summer, were on court-martial or other duty in new orleans or its vicinity, had some uncomfortable experiences with the "break-bone fever," a species of malarial disease, whose name is sufficiently indicative. the services of our regiment were sufficiently appreciated to delay our muster-out till the second of the following october. the three battalions were consolidated at carrollton, and a few days after we embarked for home on the good steamer north star. some of our officers who took passage in the ill-fated atlanta, lost their lives by the foundering of that vessel. in the fearful storm, the beginning of which we felt as we passed the jersey shore, more than a hundred vessels were wrecked on the coast, and among the number was the 'daniel webster,' which took us from dutch island to new orleans: in new york we made a parade which was witnessed by crowds of people with apparently hearty demonstrations of favor. on our return home, we received a cordial greeting from the authorities, and in a few days our regiment was disbanded at portsmouth grove and ceased to exist except in history. it had endeavored to do its duty, and by those who knew it, i believe it had been fully appreciated. general banks complimented it in orders, and so strict a disciplinarian as general t.w. sherman, pronounced it a noble regiment, which, from that source, is no small praise. but though most of its officers had served in former organizations during the war, and our lieutenant-colonel was also a veteran of the mexican war, and with many of his associates brought to the discharge of their duties, the advantage of enlarged experience, a reputation for courage and a high degree of skill, it was not given to the regiment or its several battalions, to participate in any of those engagements or campaigns, some of which it has been the pride and pleasure of comrades here to describe. it was, however, from no hesitation or unwillingness of theirs. the call was hopefully expected but disappointedly unheard. yet, may they not fairly claim to share in the glory of the result, and to them may not the words of the poet justly apply,-- "they also serve who only stand and wait." * * * * * +-----------------------------------------------------------+ | archaic spelling not corrected in text: | | | | statu quo | | guerilla | | atchafalaya | | | +-----------------------------------------------------------+ * * * * * proofreading team. balcony stories by grace king contents the balcony a drama of three la grande demoiselle mimi's marriage the miracle chapel the story of a day anne marie and jeanne marie a crippled hope "one of us" the little convent girl grandmother's grandmother the old lady's restoration a delicate affair pupasse list of illustrations "walking away with a shrug of the shoulders" "where is that idiot, that dolt, that sluggard, that snail, with my mail?" champigny "i wept, i wept, i wept" "her heart drove her to the window" "all that day was despondency, dejection" "this time we have caught it!" "the quiet, dim-lighted room of a convalescent" "little mammy" "to pose in abject patience and awkwardness" the sisters bid her good-by watching a landing "turned to her domestic duties" the room in the old gallery the first communion balcony stories the balcony there is much of life passed on the balcony in a country where the summer unrolls in six moon-lengths, and where the nights have to come with a double endowment of vastness and splendor to compensate for the tedious, sun-parched days. and in that country the women love to sit and talk together of summer nights, on balconies, in their vague, loose, white garments,--men are not balcony sitters,--with their sleeping children within easy hearing, the stars breaking the cool darkness, or the moon making a show of light--oh, such a discreet show of light!--through the vines. and the children inside, waking to go from one sleep into another, hear the low, soft mother-voices on the balcony, talking about this person and that, old times, old friends, old experiences; and it seems to them, hovering a moment in wakefulness, that there is no end of the world or time, or of the mother-knowledge; but, illimitable as it is, the mother-voices and the mother-love and protection fill it all,--with their mother's hand in theirs, children are not afraid even of god,--and they drift into slumber again, their little dreams taking all kinds of pretty reflections from the great unknown horizon outside, as their fragile soap-bubbles take on reflections from the sun and clouds. experiences, reminiscences, episodes, picked up as only women know how to pick them up from other women's lives,--or other women's destinies, as they prefer to call them,--and told as only women know how to relate them; what god has done or is doing with some other woman whom they have known--that is what interests women once embarked on their own lives,--the embarkation takes place at marriage, or after the marriageable time,--or, rather, that is what interests the women who sit of summer nights on balconies. for in those long-moon countries life is open and accessible, and romances seem to be furnished real and gratis, in order to save, in a languor-breeding climate, the ennui of reading and writing books. each woman has a different way of picking up and relating her stories, as each one selects different pieces, and has a personal way of playing them on the piano. each story _is_ different, or appears so to her; each has some unique and peculiar pathos in it. and so she dramatizes and inflects it, trying to make the point visible to her apparent also to her hearers. sometimes the pathos and interest to the hearers lie only in this--that the relater has observed it, and gathered it, and finds it worth telling. for do we not gather what we have not, and is not our own lacking our one motive? it may be so, for it often appears so. and if a child inside be wakeful and precocious it is not dreams alone that take on reflections from the balcony outside: through the half-open shutters the still, quiet eyes look across the dim forms on the balcony to the star-spangled or the moon-brightened heavens beyond; while memory makes stores for the future, and germs are sown, out of which the slow, clambering vine of thought issues, one day, to decorate or hide, as it may be, the structures or ruins of life. a drama of three it was a regular dramatic performance every first of the month in the little cottage of the old general and madame b----. it began with the waking up of the general by his wife, standing at the bedside with a cup of black coffee. "hé! ah! oh, honorine! yes; the first of the month, and affairs--affairs to be transacted." on those mornings when affairs were to be transacted there was not much leisure for the household; and it was honorine who constituted the household. not the old dressing-gown and slippers, the old, old trousers, and the antediluvian neck-foulard of other days! far from it. it was a case of warm water (with even a fling of cologne in it), of the trimming of beard and mustache by honorine, and the black broadcloth suit, and the brown satin stock, and that _je ne sais quoi de dégagé_ which no one could possess or assume like the old general. whether he possessed or assumed it is an uncertainty which hung over the fine manners of all the gentlemen of his day, who were kept through their youth in paris to cultivate _bon ton_ and an education. it was also something of a gala-day for madame la générale too, as it must be a gala-day for all old wives to see their husbands pranked in the manners and graces that had conquered their maidenhood, and exhaling once more that ambrosial fragrance which once so well incensed their compelling presence. ah, to the end a woman loves to celebrate her conquest! it is the last touch of misfortune with her to lose in the old, the ugly, and the commonplace her youthful lord and master. if one could look under the gray hairs and wrinkles with which time thatches old women, one would be surprised to see the flutterings, the quiverings, the thrills, the emotions, the coals of the heart-fires which death alone extinguishes, when he commands the tenant to vacate. honorine's hands chilled with the ice of sixteen as she approached scissors to the white mustache and beard. when her finger-tips brushed those lips, still well formed and roseate, she felt it, strange to say, on her lips. when she asperged the warm water with cologne,--it was her secret delight and greatest effort of economy to buy this cologne,--she always had one little moment of what she called faintness--that faintness which had veiled her eyes, and chained her hands, and stilled her throbbing bosom, when as a bride she came from the church with him. it was then she noticed the faint fragrance of the cologne bath. her lips would open as they did then, and she would stand for a moment and think thoughts to which, it must be confessed, she looked forward from month to month. what a man he had been! in truth he belonged to a period that would accept nothing less from nature than physical beauty; and nature is ever subservient to the period. if it is to-day all small men, and to-morrow gnomes and dwarfs, we may know that the period is demanding them from nature. when the general had completed--let it be called no less than the ceremony of--his toilet, he took his chocolate and his _pain de paris_. honorine could not imagine him breakfasting on anything but _pain de paris._ then he sat himself in his large arm-chair before his escritoire, and began transacting his affairs with the usual-- "but where is that idiot, that dolt, that sluggard, that snail, with my mail?" honorine, busy in the breakfast-room: [illustration: "where is that idiot, that dolt, that sluggard, that snail, with my mail?"] "in a moment, husband. in a moment." "but he should be here now. it is the first of the month, it is nine o'clock, i am ready; he should be here." "it is not yet nine o'clock, husband." "not yet nine! not yet nine! am i not up? am i not dressed? have i not breakfasted before nine?" "that is so, husband. that is so." honorine's voice, prompt in cheerful acquiescence, came from the next room, where she was washing his cup, saucer, and spoon. "it is getting worse and worse every day. i tell you, honorine, pompey must be discharged. he is worthless. he is trifling. discharge him! discharge him! do not have him about! chase him out of the yard! chase him as soon as he makes his appearance! do you hear, honorine?" "you must have a little patience, husband." it was perhaps the only reproach one could make to madame honorine, that she never learned by experience. "patience! patience! patience is the invention of dullards and sluggards. in a well-regulated world there should be no need of such a thing as patience. patience should be punished as a crime, or at least as a breach of the peace. wherever patience is found police investigation should be made as for smallpox. patience! patience! i never heard the word--i assure you, i never heard the word in paris. what do you think would be said there to the messenger who craved patience of you? oh, they know too well in paris--a rataplan from the walking-stick on his back, that would be the answer; and a, 'my good fellow, we are not hiring professors of patience, but legs.'" "but, husband, you must remember we do not hire pompey. he only does it to oblige us, out of his kindness." "oblige us! oblige me! kindness! a negro oblige me! kind to me! that is it; that is it. that is the way to talk under the new régime. it is favor, and oblige, and education, and monsieur, and madame, now. what child's play to call this a country--a government! i would not be surprised"--jumping to his next position on this ever-recurring first of the month theme--"i would not be surprised if pompey has failed to find the letter in the box. how do i know that the mail has not been tampered with? from day to day i expect to hear it. what is to prevent? who is to interpose? the honesty of the officials? honesty of the officials--that is good! what a farce--honesty of officials! that is evidently what has happened. the thought has not occurred to me in vain. pompey has gone. he has not found the letter, and--well; that is the end." but the general had still another theory to account for the delay in the appearance of his mail which he always posed abruptly after the exhaustion of the arraignment of the post-office. "and why not journel?" journel was their landlord, a fellow of means, but no extraction, and a favorite aversion of the old gentleman's. "journel himself? you think he is above it, _hé_? you think journel would not do such a thing? ha! your simplicity, honorine--your simplicity is incredible. it is miraculous. i tell you, i have known the journels, from father to son, for--yes, for seventy-five years. was not his grandfather the overseer on my father's plantation? i was not five years old when i began to know the journels. and this fellow, i know him better than he knows himself. i know him as well as god knows him. i have made up my mind. i have made it up carefully that the first time that letter fails on the first of the month i shall have journel arrested as a thief. i shall land him in the penitentiary. what! you think i shall submit to have my mail tampered with by a journel? their contents appropriated? what! you think there was no coincidence in journel's offering me his post-office box just the month--just the month, before those letters began to arrive? you think he did not have some inkling of them? mark my words, honorine, he did--by some of his subterranean methods. and all these five years he has been arranging his plans--that is all. he was arranging theft, which no doubt has been consummated to-day. oh, i have regretted it--i assure you i have regretted it, that i did not promptly reject his proposition, that, in fact, i ever had anything to do with the fellow." it was almost invariably, so regularly do events run in this world,--it was almost invariably that the negro messenger made his appearance at this point. for five years the general had perhaps not been interrupted as many times, either above or below the last sentence. the mail, or rather the letter, was opened, and the usual amount--three ten-dollar bills--was carefully extracted and counted. and as if he scented the bills, even as the general said he did, within ten minutes after their delivery, journel made his appearance to collect the rent. it could only have been in paris, among that old retired nobility, who counted their names back, as they expressed it, "au de çà du déluge," that could have been acquired the proper manner of treating a "roturier" landlord: to measure him with the eyes from head to foot; to hand the rent--the ten-dollar bill--with the tips of the fingers; to scorn a look at the humbly tendered receipt; to say: "the cistern needs repairing, the roof leaks; i must warn you that unless such notifications meet with more prompt attention than in the past, you must look for another tenant," etc., in the monotonous tone of supremacy, and in the french, not of journel's dictionary, nor of the dictionary of any such as he, but in the french of racine and corneille; in the french of the above suggested circle, which inclosed the general's memory, if it had not inclosed--as he never tired of recounting--his star-like personality. a sheet of paper always infolded the bank-notes. it always bore, in fine but sexless tracery, "from one who owes you much." there, that was it, that sentence, which, like a locomotive, bore the general and his wife far on these firsts of the month to two opposite points of the horizon, in fact, one from the other--"from one who owes you much." the old gentleman would toss the paper aside with the bill receipt. in the man to whom the bright new orleans itself almost owed its brightness, it was a paltry act to search and pick for a debtor. friends had betrayed and deserted him; relatives had forgotten him; merchants had failed with his money; bank presidents had stooped to deceive him; for he was an old man, and had about run the gamut of human disappointments--a gamut that had begun with a c major of trust, hope, happiness, and money. his political party had thrown him aside. neither for ambassador, plenipotentiary, senator, congressman, not even for a clerkship, could he be nominated by it. certes! "from one who owed him much." he had fitted the cap to a new head, the first of every month, for five years, and still the list was not exhausted. indeed, it would have been hard for the general to look anywhere and not see some one whose obligations to him far exceeded this thirty dollars a month. could he avoid being happy with such eyes? but poor madame honorine! she who always gathered up the receipts, and the "from one who owes you much"; who could at an instant's warning produce the particular ones for any month of the past half-decade. she kept them filed, not only in her armoire, but the scrawled papers--skewered, as it were, somewhere else--where women from time immemorial have skewered such unsigned papers. she was not original in her thoughts--no more, for the matter of that, than the general was. tapped at any time on the first of the month, when she would pause in her drudgery to reimpale her heart by a sight of the written characters on the scrap of paper, her thoughts would have been found flowing thus, "one can give everything, and yet be sure of nothing." when madame honorine said "everything," she did not, as women in such cases often do, exaggerate. when she married the general, she in reality gave the youth of sixteen, the beauty (ah, do not trust the denial of those wrinkles, the thin hair, the faded eyes!) of an angel, the dot of an heiress. alas! it was too little at the time. had she in her own person united all the youth, all the beauty, all the wealth, sprinkled parsimoniously so far and wide over all the women in this land, would she at that time have done aught else with this than immolate it on the burning pyre of the general's affection? "and yet be sure of nothing." it is not necessary, perhaps, to explain that last clause. it is very little consolation for wives that their husbands have forgotten, when some one else remembers. some one else! ah! there could be so many some one else's in the general's life, for in truth he had been irresistible to excess. but this was one particular some one else who had been faithful for five years. which one? when madame honorine solves that enigma she has made up her mind how to act. as for journel, it amused him more and more. he would go away from the little cottage rubbing his hands with pleasure (he never saw madame honorine, by the way, only the general). he would have given far more than thirty dollars a month for this drama; for he was not only rich, but a great _farceur_. la grande demoiselle that was what she was called by everybody as soon as she was seen or described. her name, besides baptismal titles, was idalie sainte foy mortemart des islets. when she came into society, in the brilliant little world of new orleans, it was the event of the season, and after she came in, whatever she did became also events. whether she went, or did not go; what she said, or did not say; what she wore, and did not wear--all these became important matters of discussion, quoted as much or more than what the president said, or the governor thought. and in those days, the days of ' , new orleans was not, as it is now, a one-heiress place, but it may be said that one could find heiresses then as one finds type-writing girls now. mademoiselle idalie received her birth, and what education she had, on her parents' plantation, the famed old reine sainte foy place, and it is no secret that, like the ancient kings of france, her birth exceeded her education. it was a plantation, the reine sainte foy, the richness and luxury of which are really well described in those fervid pictures of tropical life, at one time the passion of philanthropic imaginations, excited and exciting over the horrors of slavery. although these pictures were then often accused of being purposely exaggerated, they seem now to fall short of, instead of surpassing, the truth. stately walls, acres of roses, miles of oranges, unmeasured fields of cane, colossal sugar-house--they were all there, and all the rest of it, with the slaves, slaves, slaves everywhere, whole villages of negro cabins. and there were also, most noticeable to the natural, as well as to the visionary, eye--there were the ease, idleness, extravagance, self-indulgence, pomp, pride, arrogance, in short the whole enumeration, the moral _sine qua non_, as some people considered it, of the wealthy slaveholder of aristocratic descent and tastes. what mademoiselle idalie cared to learn she studied, what she did not she ignored; and she followed the same simple rule untrammeled in her eating, drinking, dressing, and comportment generally; and whatever discipline may have been exercised on the place, either in fact or fiction, most assuredly none of it, even so much as in a threat, ever attended her sacred person. when she was just turned sixteen, mademoiselle idalie made up her mind to go into society. whether she was beautiful or not, it is hard to say. it is almost impossible to appreciate properly the beauty of the rich, the very rich. the unfettered development, the limitless choice of accessories, the confidence, the self-esteem, the sureness of expression, the simplicity of purpose, the ease of execution--all these produce a certain effect of beauty behind which one really cannot get to measure length of nose, or brilliancy of eye. this much can be said: there was nothing in her that positively contradicted any assumption of beauty on her part, or credit of it on the part of others. she was very tall and very thin with small head, long neck, black eyes, and abundant straight black hair,--for which her hair-dresser deserved more praise than she,--good teeth, of course, and a mouth that, even in prayer, talked nothing but commands; that is about all she had _en fait d'ornements_, as the modesties say. it may be added that she walked as if the reine sainte foy plantation extended over the whole earth, and the soil of it were too vile for her tread. of course she did not buy her toilets in new orleans. everything was ordered from paris, and came as regularly through the custom-house as the modes and robes to the milliners. she was furnished by a certain house there, just as one of a royal family would be at the present day. as this had lasted from her layette up to her sixteenth year, it may be imagined what took place when she determined to make her début. then it was literally, not metaphorically, _carte blanche_, at least so it got to the ears of society. she took a sheet of note-paper, wrote the date at the top, added, "i make my début in november," signed her name at the extreme end of the sheet, addressed it to her dressmaker in paris, and sent it. it was said that in her dresses the very handsomest silks were used for linings, and that real lace was used where others put imitation,--around the bottoms of the skirts, for instance,--and silk ribbons of the best quality served the purposes of ordinary tapes; and sometimes the buttons were of real gold and silver, sometimes set with precious stones. not that she ordered these particulars, but the dressmakers, when given _carte blanche_ by those who do not condescend to details, so soon exhaust the outside limits of garments that perforce they take to plastering them inside with gold, so to speak, and, when the bill goes in, they depend upon the furnishings to carry out a certain amount of the contract in justifying the price. and it was said that these costly dresses, after being worn once or twice, were cast aside, thrown upon the floor, given to the negroes--anything to get them out of sight. not an inch of the real lace, not one of the jeweled buttons, not a scrap of ribbon, was ripped off to save. and it was said that if she wanted to romp with her dogs in all her finery, she did it; she was known to have ridden horseback, one moonlight night, all around the plantation in a white silk dinner-dress flounced with alençon. and at night, when she came from the balls, tired, tired to death as only balls can render one, she would throw herself down upon her bed in her tulle skirts,--on top, or not, of the exquisite flowers, she did not care,--and make her maid undress her in that position; often having her bodices cut off her, because she was too tired to turn over and have them unlaced. that she was admired, raved about, loved even, goes without saying. after the first month she held the refusal of half the beaux of new orleans. men did absurd, undignified, preposterous things for her; and she? love? marry? the idea never occurred to her. she treated the most exquisite of her pretenders no better than she treated her paris gowns, for the matter of that. she could not even bring herself to listen to a proposal patiently; whistling to her dogs, in the middle of the most ardent protestations, or jumping up and walking away with a shrug of the shoulders, and a "bah!" [illustration: "walking away with a shrug of the shoulders."] well! every one knows what happened after ' . there is no need to repeat. the history of one is the history of all. but there was this difference--for there is every shade of difference in misfortune, as there is every shade of resemblance in happiness. mortemart des islets went off to fight. that was natural; his family had been doing that, he thought, or said, ever since charlemagne. just as naturally he was killed in the first engagement. they, his family, were always among the first killed; so much so that it began to be considered assassination to fight a duel with any of them. all that was in the ordinary course of events. one difference in their misfortunes lay in that after the city was captured, their plantation, so near, convenient, and rich in all kinds of provisions, was selected to receive a contingent of troops--a colored company. if it had been a colored company raised in louisiana it might have been different; and these negroes mixed with the negroes in the neighborhood,--and negroes are no better than whites, for the proportion of good and bad among them,--and the officers were always off duty when they should have been on, and on when they should have been off. one night the dwelling caught fire. there was an immediate rush to save the ladies. oh, there was no hesitation about that! they were seized in their beds, and carried out in the very arms of their enemies; carried away off to the sugar-house, and deposited there. no danger of their doing anything but keep very quiet and still in their _chemises de nuit_, and their one sheet apiece, which was about all that was saved from the conflagration--that is, for them. but it must be remembered that this is all hearsay. when one has not been present, one knows nothing of one's own knowledge; one can only repeat. it has been repeated, however, that although the house was burned to the ground, and everything in it destroyed, wherever, for a year afterward, a man of that company or of that neighborhood was found, there could have been found also, without search-warrant, property that had belonged to the des islets. that is the story; and it is believed or not, exactly according to prejudice. how the ladies ever got out of the sugar-house, history does not relate; nor what they did. it was not a time for sociability, either personal or epistolary. at one offensive word your letter, and you, very likely, examined; and ship island for a hotel, with soldiers for hostesses! madame des islets died very soon after the accident--of rage, they say; and that was about all the public knew. indeed, at that time the society of new orleans had other things to think about than the fate of the des islets. as for _la grande demoiselle_, she had prepared for her own oblivion in the hearts of her female friends. and the gentlemen,--her _preux chevaliers_,--they were burning with other passions than those which had driven them to her knees, encountering a little more serious response than "bahs" and shrugs. and, after all, a woman seems the quickest thing forgotten when once the important affairs of life come to men for consideration. it might have been ten years according to some calculations, or ten eternities,--the heart and the almanac never agree about time,--but one morning old champigny (they used to call him champignon) was walking along his levee front, calculating how soon the water would come over, and drown him out, as the louisianians say. it was before a seven-o'clock breakfast, cold, wet, rainy, and discouraging. the road was knee-deep in mud, and so broken up with hauling, that it was like walking upon waves to get over it. a shower poured down. old champigny was hurrying in when he saw a figure approaching. he had to stop to look at it, for it was worth while. the head was hidden by a green barege veil, which the showers had plentifully besprinkled with dew; a tall, thin figure. figure! no; not even could it be called a figure: straight up and down, like a finger or a post; high-shouldered, and a step--a step like a plow-man's. no umbrella; no--nothing more, in fact. it does not sound so peculiar as when first related--something must be forgotten. the feet--oh, yes, the feet--they were like waffle-irons, or frying-pans, or anything of that shape. old champigny did not care for women--he never had; they simply did not exist for him in the order of nature. he had been married once, it is true, about a half century before; but that was not reckoned against the existence of his prejudice, because he was _célibataire_ to his finger-tips, as any one could see a mile away. but that woman _intrigué'd_ him. he had no servant to inquire from. he performed all of his own domestic work in the wretched little cabin that replaced his old home. for champigny also belonged to the great majority of the _nouveaux pauvres_. he went out into the rice-field, where were one or two hands that worked on shares with him, and he asked them. they knew immediately; there is nothing connected with the parish that a field-hand does not know at once. she was the teacher of the colored public school some three or four miles away. "ah," thought champigny, "some northern lady on a mission." he watched to see her return in the evening, which she did, of course; in a blinding rain. imagine the green barege veil then; for it remained always down over her face. [illustration: champigny.] old champigny could not get over it that he had never seen her before. but he must have seen her, and, with his abstraction and old age, not have noticed her, for he found out from the negroes that she had been teaching four or five years there. and he found out also--how, is not important--that she was idalie sainte foy mortemart des islets. _la grande demoiselle_! he had never known her in the old days, owing to his uncomplimentary attitude toward women, but he knew of her, of course, and of her family. it should have been said that his plantation was about fifty miles higher up the river, and on the opposite bank to reine sainte foy. it seemed terrible. the old gentleman had had reverses of his own, which would bear the telling, but nothing was more shocking to him than this--that idalie sainte foy mortemart des islets should be teaching a public colored school for--it makes one blush to name it--seven dollars and a half a month. for seven dollars and a half a month to teach a set of--well! he found out where she lived, a little cabin--not so much worse than his own, for that matter--in the corner of a field; no companion, no servant, nothing but food and shelter. her clothes have been described. only the good god himself knows what passed in champigny's mind on the subject. we know only the results. he went and married _la grande demoiselle_. how? only the good god knows that too. every first of the month, when he goes to the city to buy provisions, he takes her with him--in fact, he takes her everywhere with him. passengers on the railroad know them well, and they always have a chance to see her face. when she passes her old plantation _la grande demoiselle_ always lifts her veil for one instant--the inevitable green barege veil. what a face! thin, long, sallow, petrified! and the neck! if she would only tie something around the neck! and her plain, coarse cottonade gown! the negro women about her were better dressed than she. poor old champignon! it was not an act of charity to himself, no doubt cross and disagreeable, besides being ugly. and as for love, gratitude! mimi's marriage this how she told about it, sitting in her little room,--her bridal chamber,--not larger, really not larger than sufficed for the bed there, the armoire here, the bureau opposite, and the washstand behind the door, the corners all touching. but a nice set of furniture, quite _comme il faut_,--handsome, in fact,--as a bride of good family should have. and she was dressed very prettily, too, in her long white _negligée_, with plenty of lace and ruffles and blue ribbons,--such as only the creole girls can make, and brides, alas! wear,--the pretty honeymoon costume that suggests, that suggests--well! to proceed. "the poor little cat!" as one could not help calling her, so _mignonne_, so blond, with the pretty black eyes, and the rosebud of a mouth,--whenever she closed it,--a perfect kiss. "but you know, louise," she said, beginning quite seriously at the beginning, "papa would never have consented, never, never--poor papa! indeed, i should never have asked him; it would only have been one humiliation more for him, poor papa! so it was well he was dead, if it was god's will for it to be. of course i had my dreams, like everybody. i was so blond, so blond, and so small; it seemed like a law i should marry a _brun_, a tall, handsome _brun_, with a mustache and a fine barytone voice. that was how i always arranged it, and--you will laugh--but a large, large house, and numbers of servants, and a good cook, but a superlatively good cuisine, and wine and all that, and long, trailing silk dresses, and theater every night, and voyages to europe, and--well, everything god had to give, in fact. you know, i get that from papa, wanting everything god has to give! poor papa! it seemed to me i was to meet him at any time, my handsome _brun_. i used to look for him positively on my way to school, and back home again, and whenever i would think of him i would try and walk so prettily, and look so pretty! _mon dieu!_ i was not ten years old yet! and afterward it was only for that that i went into society. what should girls go into society for otherwise but to meet their _brun_ or their blond? do you think it is amusing, to economize and economize, and sew and sew, just to go to a party to dance? no! i assure you, i went into society only for that; and i do not believe what girls say--they go into society only for that too. "you know at school how we used to _tirer la bonne aventure._[ ] well, every time he was not _brun, riche, avenant_, jules, or raoul, or guy, i simply would not accept it, but would go on drawing until i obtained what i wanted. as i tell you, i thought it was my destiny. and when i would try with a flower to see if he loved me,--_il m'aime, un peu, beaucoup, passionément, pas du tout_,--if it were _pas du tout_, i would always throw the flower away, and begin tearing off the leaves from another one immediately. _passionément_ was what i wanted, and i always got it in the end. [footnote : _la bonne aventure_ is or was generally a very much battered foolscap copy-book, which contained a list of all possible elements of future (school-girl) happiness. each item answered a question, and had a number affixed to it. to draw one's fortune consisted in asking question after question, and guessing a number, a companion volunteering to read the answers. to avoid cheating, the books were revised from time to time, and the numbers changed.] "but papa, poor papa, he never knew anything of that, of course. he would get furious when any one would come to see me, and sometimes, when he would take me in society, if i danced with a 'nobody,'--as he called no matter whom i danced with,--he would come up and take me away with such an air--such an air! it would seem that papa thought himself better than everybody in the world. but it went worse and worse with papa, not only in the affairs of the world, but in health. always thinner and thinner, always a cough; in fact, you know, i am a little feeble-chested myself, from papa. and clementine! clementine with her children--just think, louise, eight! i thank god my mama had only me, if papa's second wife had to have so many. and so naughty! i assure you, they were all devils; and no correction, no punishment, no education--but you know clementine! i tell you, sometimes on account of those children i used to think myself in 'ell [making the creole's attempt and failure to pronounce the h], and clementine had no pride about them. if they had shoes, well; if they had not shoes, well also. [illustration] "'but clementine!' i would expostulate, i would pray-- "'but do not be a fool, mimi,' she would say. 'am i god? can i do miracles? or must i humiliate your papa?' "that was true. poor papa! it would have humiliated papa. when he had money he gave; only it was a pity he had no money. as for what he observed, he thought it was clementine's negligence. for, it is true, clementine had no order, no industry, in the best of fortune as in the worst. but to do her justice, it was not her fault this time, only she let him believe it, to save his pride; and clementine, you know, has a genius for stories. i assure you, louise, i was desperate. i prayed to god to help me, to advise me. i could not teach--i had no education; i could not go into a shop--that would be dishonoring papa--and _enfin_, i was too pretty. 'and proclaim to the world,' clementine would cry, 'that your papa does not make money for his family.' that was true. the world is so malicious. you know, louise, sometimes it seems to me the world is glad to hear that a man cannot support his family; it compliments those who can. as if papa had not intelligence, and honor, and honesty! but they do not count now as in old times, 'before the war.' "and so, when i thought of that, i laughed and talked and played the thoughtless like clementine, and made bills. we made bills--we had to--for everything; we could do that, you know, on our old name and family. but it is too long! i am sure it is too long and tiresome! what egotism on my part! come, we will take a glass of anisette, and talk of something else--your trip, your family. no? no? you are only asking me out of politeness! you are so _aimable_, so kind. well, if you are not _ennuyée_--in fact, i want to tell you. it was too long to write, and i detest a pen. to me there is no instrument of torture like a pen. "well, the lady next door, she was an american, and common, very common, according to papa. in comparison to us she had no family whatever. our little children were forbidden even to associate with her little children. i thought that was ridiculous--not that i am a democrat, but i thought it ridiculous. but the children cared; they were so disobedient and they were always next door, and they always had something nice to eat over there. i sometimes thought clementine used to encourage their disobedience, just for the good things they got to eat over there. but papa was always making fun of them; you know what a sharp tongue he had. the gentleman was a clerk; and, according to papa, the only true gentlemen in the world had family and a profession. we did not dare allow ourselves to think it, but clementine and i knew that they, in fact, were in more comfortable circumstances than we. "the lady, who also had a great number of children, sent one day, with all the discretion and delicacy possible, and asked me if i would be so kind as to--guess what, louise! but only guess! but you never could! well, to darn some of her children's stockings for her. it was god who inspired her, i am sure, on account of my praying so much to him. you will be shocked, louise, when i tell you. it sounds like a sin, but i was not in despair when papa died. it was a grief,--yes, it seized the heart, but it was not despair. men ought not to be subjected to the humiliation of life; they are not like women, you know. we are made to stand things; they have their pride,--their _orgueil_, as we say in french,--and that is the point of honor with some men. and clementine and i, we could not have concealed it much longer. in fact, the truth was crying out everywhere, in the children, in the house, in our own persons, in our faces. the darning did not provide a superfluity, i guarantee you! "poor papa! he caught cold. he was condemned from the first. and so all his fine qualities died; for he had fine qualities--they were too fine for this age, that was all. yes; it was a kindness of god to take him before he found out. if it was to be, it was better. just so with clementine as with me. after the funeral--crack! everything went to pieces. we were at the four corners for the necessaries of life, and the bills came in--my dear, the bills that came in! what memories! what memories! clementine and i exclaimed; there were some bills that we had completely forgotten about. the lady next door sent her brother over when papa died. he sat up all night, that night, and he assisted us in all our arrangements. and he came in afterward, every evening. if papa had been there, there would have been a fine scene over it; he would have had to take the door, very likely. but now there was no one to make objections. and so when, as i say, we were at the four corners for the necessaries of life, he asked clementine's permission to ask me to marry him. "i give you my word, louise, i had forgotten there was such a thing as marriage in the world for me! i had forgotten it as completely as the chronology of the merovingian dynasty, alas! with all the other school things forgotten. and i do not believe clementine remembered there was such a possibility in the world for me. _mon dieu!_ when a girl is poor she may have all the beauty in the world--not that i had beauty, only a little prettiness. but you should have seen clementine! she screamed for joy when she told me. oh, there was but one answer according to her, and according to everybody she could consult, in her haste. they all said it was a dispensation of providence in my favor. he was young, he was strong; he did not make a fortune, it was true, but he made a good living. and what an assistance to have a man in the family!--an assistance for clementine and the children. but the principal thing, after all, was, he wanted to marry me. nobody had ever wanted that before, my dear! "quick, quick, it was all arranged. all my friends did something for me. one made my _peignoirs_ for me, one this, one that--_ma foi!_ i did not recognize myself. one made all the toilet of the bureau, another of the bed, and we all sewed on the wedding-dress together. and you should have seen clementine, going out in all her great mourning, looking for a house, looking for a servant! but the wedding was private on account of poor papa. but you know, loulou, i had never time to think, except about clementine and the children, and when i thought of all those poor little children, poor papa's children, i said 'quick, quick,' like the rest. "it was the next day, the morning after the wedding, i had time to think. i was sitting here, just as you see me now, in my pretty new _negligée_. i had been looking at all the pretty presents i have shown you, and my trousseau, and my furniture,--it is not bad, as you see,--my dress, my veil, my ring, and--i do not know--i do not know--but, all of a sudden, from everywhere came the thought of my _brun_, my handsome _brun_ with the mustache, and the _bonne aventure, ricke, avenant_, the jules, raoul, guy, and the flower leaves, and '_il m'aime, un pen, beaucoup, pas du tout,' passionnément_, and the way i expected to meet him walking to and from school, walking as if i were dancing the steps, and oh, my plans, my plans, my plans,--silk dresses, theater, voyages to europe,--and poor papa, so fine, so tall, so aristocratic. i cannot tell you how it all came; it seized my heart, and, _mon dieu!_ i cried out, and i wept, i wept, i wept. how i wept! it pains me here now to remember it. hours, hours it lasted, until i had no tears in my body, and i had to weep without them, with sobs and moans. but this, i have always observed, is the time for reflection--after the tears are all out. and i am sure god himself gave me my thoughts. 'poor little mimi!' i thought, '_fi done_! you are going to make a fool of yourself now when it is all over, because why? it is god who manages the world, and not you. you pray to god to help you in your despair, and he has helped you. he has sent you a good, kind husband who adores you; who asks only to be a brother to your sisters and brothers, and son to clementine; who has given you more than you ever possessed in your life--but because he did not come out of the _bonne aventure_--and who gets a husband out of the _bonne aventure?_--and would your _brun_ have come to you in your misfortune?' i am sure god inspired those thoughts in me. [illustration: "i wept, i wept, i wept."] "i tell you, i rose from that bed--naturally i had thrown myself upon it. quick i washed my face, i brushed my hair, and, you see these bows of ribbons,--look, here are the marks of the tears,--i turned them. _hé,_ loulou, it occurs to me, that if you examined the blue bows on a bride's _negligée_, you might always find tears on the other side; for do they not all have to marry whom god sends? and am i the only one who had dreams? it is the end of dreams, marriage; and that is the good thing about it. god lets us dream to keep us quiet, but he knows when to wake us up, i tell you. the blue bows knew! and now, you see, i prefer my husband to my _brun_; in fact, loulou, i adore him, and i am furiously jealous about him. and he is so good to clementine and the poor little children; and see his photograph--a blond, and not good-looking, and small! "but poor papa! if he had been alive, i am sure he never would have agreed with god about my marriage." the miracle chapel every heart has a miracle to pray for. every life holds that which only a miracle can cure. to prove that there have never been, that there can never be, miracles does not alter the matter. so long as there is something hoped for,--that does not come in the legitimate channel of possible events,--so long as something does come not to be hoped or expected in the legitimate channel of possible events, just so long will the miracle be prayed for. the rich and the prosperous, it would seem, do not depend upon god so much, do not need miracles, as the poor do. they do not have to pray for the extra crust when starvation hovers near; for the softening of an obdurate landlord's heart; for strength in temptation, light in darkness, salvation from vice; for a friend in friendlessness; for that miracle of miracles, an opportunity to struggling ambition; for the ending of a dark night, the breaking of day; and, oh! for god's own miracle to the bedside-watchers--the change for the better, when death is there and the apothecary's skill too far, far away. the poor, the miserable, the unhappy, they can show their miracles by the score; that is why god is called the poor man's friend. he does not mind, so they say, going in the face of logic and reason to relieve them; for often the kind and charitable are sadly hampered by the fetters of logic and reason, which hold them, as it were, away from their own benevolence. but the rich have their miracles, no doubt, even in that beautiful empyrean of moneyed ease in which the poor place them. their money cannot buy all they enjoy, and god knows how much of their sorrow it assuages. as it is, one hears now and then of accidents among them, conversions to better thoughts, warding off of danger, rescue of life; and heirs are sometimes born, and husbands provided, and fortunes saved, in such surprising ways, that even the rich, feeling their limitations in spite of their money, must ascribe it privately if not publicly to other potencies than their own. these cathedral _tours de force_, however, do not, if the truth be told, convince like the miracles of the obscure little chapel. there is always a more and a most obscure little miracle chapel, and as faith seems ever to lead unhesitatingly to the latter one, there is ever rising out of humility and obscurity, as in response to a demand, some new shrine, to replace the wear and tear and loss of other shrines by prosperity. for, alas! it is hard even for a chapel to remain obscure and humble in the face of prosperity and popularity. and how to prevent such popularity and prosperity? as soon as the noise of a real miracle in it gets abroad, every one is for hurrying thither at once with their needs and their prayers, their candles and their picayunes; and the little miracle chapel, perhaps despite itself, becomes with mushroom growth a church, and the church a cathedral, from whose resplendent altars the cheap, humble ex-voto tablets, the modest beginnings of its ecclesiastical fortunes, are before long banished to dimly lighted lateral shrines. the miracle chapel in question lay at the end of a very confusing but still intelligible route. it is not in truth a chapel at all, but a consecrated chamber in a very small, very lowly cottage, which stands, or one might appropriately, if not with absolute novelty, say which kneels, in the center of a large garden, a garden primeval in rusticity and size, its limits being defined by no lesser boundaries than the four intersecting streets outside, and its culture showing only the careless, shiftless culture of nature. the streets outside were miracles themselves in that, with their liquid contents, they were streets and not bayous. however, they protected their island chapel almost as well as a six-foot moat could have done. there was a small paved space on the sidewalk that served to the pedestrian as an indication of the spot in the tall, long, broad fence where a gate might be sought. it was a small gate with a strong latch. it required a strong hand to open it. at the sound of the click it made, the little street ragamuffin, who stood near, peeping through the fence, looked up. he had worked quite a hole between the boards with his fingers. such an anxious expression passed over his face that even a casual passer-by could not help relieving it by a question--any question: "is this the miracle chapel, little boy?" "yes, ma'am; yes." then his expression changed to one of eagerness, yet hardly less anxious. "here. take this--" he did not hold out his hand, the coin had to seek it. at its touch he refused to take it. "i ain't begging." "what are you looking at so through the fence?" he was all sadness now. "just looking." "is there anything to see inside?" he did not answer. the interrogation was repeated. "i can't see nothing. i'm blind," putting his eyes again to the hole, first one, then the other. "come, won't you tell me how this came to be a miracle chapel?" "oh, ma'am,"--he turned his face from the fence, and clasped his hands in excitement,--"it was a poor widow woman who come here with her baby that was a-dying, and she prayed to the virgin mary, and the virgin mary made the baby live--" he dropped his voice, the words falling slower and slower. as he raised his face, one could see then that he was blind, and the accident that had happened to him, in fording the street. what sightless eyes! what a wet, muddy little skeleton! ten? no; hardly ten years of age. "the widow woman she picked up her baby, and she run down the walk here, and out into the street screaming--she was so glad,"--putting his eyes to the peep-hole again,--"and the virgin mary come down the walk after her, and come through the gate, too; and that was all she seed--the widow woman." "did you know the widow woman?" he shook his head. "how do you know it?" "that was what they told me. and they told me, the birds all begun to sing at once, and the flowers all lighted up like the sun was shining on them. they seed her. and she come down the walk, and through the gate," his voice lowering again to a whisper. aye, how the birds must have sung, and the flowers shone, to the widowed mother as she ran, nay, leaped, down that rose-hedged walk, with her restored baby clasped to her bosom! "_they_ seed her," repeated the little fellow. "and that is why you stand here--to see her, too?" his shoulder turned uneasily in the clasp upon it. "they seed her, and they ain't got no eyes." "have you no mother?" "ain't never had no mother." a thought struck him. "would that count, ma'am? would that count? the little baby that was dying--yes, ma'am, it had a mother; and it's the mothers that come here constant with their children; i sometimes hear 'em dragging them in by the hand." "how long have you been coming here?" "ever since the first time i heard it, ma'am." street ragamuffins do not cry: it would be better if they did so, when they are so young and so blind; it would be easier for the spectator, the auditor. "they seed her--i might see her ef--ef i could see her once--ef--ef i could see anything once." his voice faltered; but he stiffened it instantly. "she might see me. she can't pass through this gate without seeing me; and--and--ef she seed me--and i didn't even see her--oh, i'm so tired of being blind!" "did you never go inside to pray?" how embarrassing such a question is, even to a child! "no, ma'am. does that count, too? the little baby didn't pray, the flowers didn't go inside, nor the birds. and they say the birds broke out singing all at once, and the flowers shined, like the sun was shining on 'em--like the sun was shining in 'em," he corrected himself. "the birds they can see, and the flowers they can't see, and they seed her." he shivered with the damp cold--and perhaps too with hunger. "where do you live?" he wouldn't answer. "what do you live on?" he shook his head. "come with me." he could not resist the grasp on his shoulder, and the firm directing of his bare, muddy feet through the gate, up the walk, and into the chamber which the virgin found that day. he was turned to the altar, and pressed down on his knees. one should not look at the face of a blind child praying to the virgin for sight. only the virgin herself should see that--and if she once saw that little boy! there were hearts, feet, hands, and eyes enough hanging around to warrant hope at least, if not faith; the effigies of the human aches and pains that had here found relief, if not surcease; feet and hands beholden to no physician for their exorcism of rheumatism; eyes and ears indebted to no oculist or aurist; and the hearts,--they are always in excess,--and, to the most skeptical, there is something sweetly comforting in the sight of so many cured hearts, with their thanks cut deep, as they should be, in the very marble thereof. where the bed must have stood was the altar, rising by easy gradations, brave in ecclesiastical deckings, to the plaster figure of her whom those yearning hearts were seeing, whom those murmuring lips were addressing. hearts must be all alike to her at such a distance, but the faces to the looker-on were so different. the eyes straining to look through all the experiences and troubles that their life has held to plead, as only eyes can plead, to one who can, if she will, perform their miracle for them. and the mouths,--the sensitive human mouths,--each one distorted by the tragedy against which it was praying. their miracles! their miracles! what trifles to divinity! perhaps hardly more to humanity! how far a simple looker-on could supply them if so minded! perhaps a liberal exercise of love and charity by not more than half a dozen well-to-do people could answer every prayer in the room! but what a miracle that would be, and how the virgin's heart would gladden thereat, and jubilate over her restored heart-dying children, even as the widowed mother did over her one dying babe! and the little boy had stopped praying. the futility of it--perhaps his own impotence--had overcome him. he was crying, and past the shame of showing it--crying helplessly, hopelessly. tears were rolling out of his sightless eyes over his wordless lips. he could not pray; he could only cry. what better, after all, can any of us do? but what a prayer to a woman--to even the plaster figure of a woman! and the virgin did hear him; for she had him taken without loss of a moment to the hospital, and how easy she made it for the physician to remove the disability! to her be the credit. the story of a day it is really not much, the story; it is only the arrangement of it, as we would say of our dresses and our drawing-rooms. it began with the dawn, of course; and the skiff for our voyage, silvered with dew, waiting in the mist for us, as if it had floated down in a cloud from heaven to the bayou. when repeated, this sounds like poor poetry; but that is the way one thinks at day dawn, when the dew is yet, as it were, upon our brains, and our ideas are still half dreams, and our waking hearts, alas! as innocent as waking babies playing with their toes. our oars waked the waters of the bayou, as motionless as a sleeping snake under its misty covert--to continue the poetical language or thought. the ripples ran frightened and shivering into the rooty thicknesses of the sedge-grown banks, startling the little birds bathing there into darting to the nearest, highest rush-top, where, without losing their hold on their swaying, balancing perches, they burst into all sorts of incoherent songs, in their excitement to divert attention from the near-hidden nests: bird mothers are so much like women mothers! it soon became day enough for the mist to rise. the eyes that saw it ought to be able to speak to tell fittingly about it. not all at once, nor all together, but a thinning, a lifting, a breaking, a wearing away; a little withdrawing here, a little withdrawing there; and now a peep, and now a peep; a bride lifting her veil to her husband! blue! white! lilies! blue lilies! white lilies! blue and white lilies! and still blue and white lilies! and still! and still! wherever the veil lifted, still and always the bride! not in clumps and bunches, not in spots and patches, not in banks, meadows, acres, but in--yes; for still it lifted beyond and beyond and beyond; the eye could not touch the limit of them, for the eye can touch only the limit of vision; and the lilies filled the whole sea-marsh, for that is the way spring comes to the sea-marshes. the sedge-roots might have been unsightly along the water's edge, but there were morning-glories, all colors, all shades--oh, such morning-glories as we of the city never see! our city morning-glories must dream of them, as we dream of angels. only god could be so lavish! dropping from the tall spear-heads to the water, into the water, under the water. and then, the reflection of them, in all their colors, blue, white, pink, purple, red, rose, violet! to think of an obscure little acadian bayou waking to flow the first thing in the morning not only through banks of new-blown morning-glories, but sown also to its depths with such reflections as must make it think itself a bayou in heaven, instead of in paroisse st. martin. perhaps that is the reason the poor poets think themselves poets, on account of the beautiful things that are only reflected into their minds from what is above? besides the reflections, there were alligators in the bayou, trying to slip away before we could see them, and watching us with their stupid, senile eyes, sometimes from under the thickest, prettiest flowery bowers; and turtles splashing into the water ahead of us; and fish (silver-sided perch), looking like reflections themselves, floating through the flower reflections, nibbling their breakfast. our bayou had been running through swamp only a little more solid than itself; in fact, there was no solidity but what came from the roots of grasses. now, the banks began to get firmer, from real soil in them. we could see cattle in the distance, up to their necks in the lilies, their heads and sharp-pointed horns coming up and going down in the blue and white. nothing makes cattle's heads appear handsomer, with the sun just rising far, far away on the other side of them. the sea-marsh cattle turned loose to pasture in the lush spring beauty--turned loose in elysium! but the land was only partly land yet, and the cattle still cattle to us. the rising sun made revelations, as our bayou carried us through a drove in their elysium, or it might have always been an elysium to us. it was not all pasturage, all enjoyment. the rising and falling feeding head was entirely different, as we could now see, from the rising and falling agonized head of the bogged--the buried alive. it is well that the lilies grow taller and thicker over the more treacherous places; but, misery! misery! not much of the process was concealed from us, for the cattle have to come to the bayou for water. such a splendid black head that had just yielded breath! the wide-spreading ebony horns thrown back among the morning-glories, the mouth open from the last sigh, the glassy eyes staring straight at the beautiful blue sky above, where a ghostly moon still lingered, the velvet neck ridged with veins and muscles, the body already buried in black ooze. and such a pretty red-and-white-spotted heifer, lying on her side, opening and shutting her eyes, breathing softly in meek resignation to her horrible calamity! and, again, another one was plunging and battling in the act of realizing her doom: a fierce, furious, red cow, glaring and bellowing at the soft, yielding inexorable abysm under her, the bustards settling afar off, and her own species browsing securely just out of reach. they understand that much, the sea-marsh cattle, to keep out of reach of the dead combatant. in the delirium of anguish, relief cannot be distinguished from attack, and rescue of the victim has been proved to mean goring of the rescuer. the bayou turned from it at last, from our beautiful lily world about which our pleasant thoughts had ceased to flow even in bad poetry. our voyage was for information, which might be obtained at a certain habitation; if not there, at a second one, or surely at a third and most distant settlement. the bayou narrowed into a canal, then widened into a bayou again, and the low, level swamp and prairie advanced into woodland and forest. oak-trees began, our beautiful oak-trees! great branches bent down almost to the water,--quite even with high water,--covered with forests of oak, parasites, lichens, and with vines that swept our heads as we passed under them, drooping now and then to trail in the water, a plaything for the fishes, and a landing-place for amphibious insects. the sun speckled the water with its flickering patterns, showering us with light and heat. we have no spring suns; our sun, even in december, is a summer one. and so, with all its grace of curve and bend, and so--the description is longer than the voyage--we come to our first stopping-place. to the side, in front of the well-kept fertile fields, like a proud little showman, stood the little house. its pointed shingle roof covered it like the top of a chafing-dish, reaching down to the windows, which peeped out from under it like little eyes. a woman came out of the door to meet us. she had had time during our graceful winding approach to prepare for us. what an irrevocable vow to old maidenhood! at least twenty-five, almost a possible grandmother, according to acadian computation, and well in the grip of advancing years. she was dressed in a stiff, dark red calico gown, with a white apron. her black hair, smooth and glossy under a varnish of grease, was plaited high in the back, and dropped regular ringlets, six in all, over her forehead. that was the epoch when her calamity came to her, when the hair was worn in that fashion. a woman seldom alters her coiffure after a calamity of a certain nature happens to her. the figure had taken a compact rigidity, an unfaltering inflexibility, all the world away from the elasticity of matronhood; and her eyes were clear and fixed like her figure, neither falling, nor rising, nor puzzling under other eyes. her lips, her hands, her slim feet, were conspicuously single, too, in their intent, neither reaching, nor feeling, nor running for those other lips, hands, and feet which should have doubled their single life. that was adorine mérionaux, otherwise the most industrious acadian and the best cottonade-weaver in the parish. it had been short, her story. a woman's love is still with those people her story. she was thirteen when she met him. that is the age for an acadian girl to meet him, because, you know, the large families--the thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, twenty children--take up the years; and when one wishes to know one's great-great-grandchildren (which is the dream of the acadian girl) one must not delay one's story. she had one month to love him in, and in one week they were to have the wedding. the acadians believe that marriage must come _au point_, as cooks say their sauces must be served. standing on the bayou-bank in front of the mérionaux, one could say "good day" with the eyes to the zévérin theriots--that was the name of the parents of the young bridegroom. looking under the branches of the oaks, one could see across the prairie,--prairie and sea-marsh it was,--and clearly distinguish another little red-washed house like the mérionaux, with a painted roof hanging over the windows, and a staircase going up outside to the garret. with the sun shining in the proper direction, one might distinguish more, and with love shining like the sun in the eyes, one might see, one might see--a heart full. it was only the eyes, however, which could make such a quick voyage to the zévérin theriots; a skiff had a long day's journey to reach them. the bayou sauntered along over the country like a negro on a sunday's pleasuring, trusting to god for time, and to the devil for means. oh, nothing can travel quickly over a bayou! ask any one who has waited on a bayou-bank for a physician or a life-and-death message. thought refuses to travel and turn and double over it; thought, like the eye, takes the shortest cut--straight over the sea-marsh; and in the spring of the year, when the lilies are in bloom, thought could not take a more heavenly way, even from beloved to beloved. it was the week before marriage, that week when, more than one's whole life afterward, one's heart feels most longing--most--well, in fact, it was the week before marriage. from sunday to sunday, that was all the time to be passed. adorine--women live through this week by the grace of god, or perhaps they would be as unreasonable as the men--adorine could look across the prairie to the little red roof during the day, and could think across it during the night, and get up before day to look across again--longing, longing all the time. of course one must supply all this from one's own imagination or experience. but adorine could sing, and she sang. one might hear, in a favorable wind, a gunshot, or the barking of a dog from one place to the other, so that singing, as to effect, was nothing more than the voicing of her looking and thinking and longing. when one loves, it is as if everything was known of and seen by the other; not only all that passes in the head and heart, which would in all conscience be more than enough to occupy the other, but the talking, the dressing, the conduct. it was then that the back hair was braided and the front curled more and more beautifully every day, and that the calico dresses became stiffer and stiffer, and the white crochet lace collar broader and lower in the neck. at thirteen she was beautiful enough to startle one, they say, but that was nothing; she spent time and care upon these things, as if, like other women, her fate seriously depended upon them. there is no self-abnegation like that of a woman in love. it was her singing, however, which most showed that other existence in her existence. when she sang at her spinning-wheel or her loom, or knelt battling clothes on the bank of the bayou, her lips would kiss out the words, and the tune would rise and fall and tremble, as if zepherin were just across there, anywhere; in fact, as if every blue and white lily might hide an ear of him. it was the time of the new moon, fortunately, when all sit up late in the country. the family would stop in their talking about the wedding to listen to her. she did not know it herself, but it--the singing--was getting louder and clearer, and, poor little thing, it told everything. and after the family went to bed they could still hear her, sitting on the bank of the bayou, or up in her window, singing and looking at the moon traveling across the lily prairie--for all its beauty and brightness no more beautiful and bright than a heart in love. it was just past the middle of the week, a thursday night. the moon was so bright the colors of the lilies could be seen, and the singing, so sweet, so far-reaching--it was the essence of the longing of love. then it was that the miracle happened to her. miracles are always happening to the acadians. she could not sleep, she could not stay in bed. her heart drove her to the window, and kept her there, and--among the civilized it could not take place, but here she could sing as she pleased in the middle of the night; it was nobody's affair, nobody's disturbance. "saint ann! saint joseph! saint mary!" she heard her song answered! she held her heart, she bent forward, she sang again. oh, the air was full of music! it was all music! she fell on her knees; she listened, looking at the moon; and, with her face in her hands, looking at zepherin. it was god's choir of angels, she thought, and one with a voice like zepherin! whenever it died away she would sing again, and again, and again-- [illustration: "her heart drove her to the window".] but the sun came, and the sun is not created, like the moon, for lovers, and whatever happened in the night, there was work to be done in the day. adorine worked like one in a trance, her face as radiant as the upturned face of a saint. they did not know what it was, or rather they thought it was love. love is so different out there, they make all kinds of allowances for it. but, in truth, adorine was still hearing her celestial voices or voice. if the cackling of the chickens, the whir of the spinning-wheel, or the "bum bum" of the loom effaced it a moment, she had only to go to some still place, round her hand over her ear, and give the line of a song, and--it was zepherin--zepherin she heard. she walked in a dream until night. when the moon came up she was at the window, and still it continued, so faint, so sweet, that answer to her song. echo never did anything more exquisite, but she knew nothing of such a heathen as echo. human nature became exhausted. she fell asleep where she was, in the window, and dreamed as only a bride can dream of her groom. when she awoke, "adorine! adorine!" the beautiful angel voices called to her; "zepherin! zepherin!" she answered, as if she, too, were an angel, signaling another angel in heaven. it was too much. she wept, and that broke the charm. she could hear nothing more after that. all that day was despondency, dejection, tear-bedewed eyes, and tremulous lips, the commonplace reaction, as all know, of love exaltation. adorine's family, acadian peasants though they were, knew as much about it as any one else, and all that any one knows about it is that marriage is the cure-all, and the only cure-all, for love. [illustration: "all that day was despondency, dejection."] and zepherin? a man could better describe his side of that week; for it, too, has mostly to be described from imagination or experience. what is inferred is that what adorine longed and thought and looked in silence and resignation, according to woman's way, he suffered equally, but in a man's way, which is not one of silence or resignation,--at least when one is a man of eighteen,--the last interview, the near wedding, her beauty, his love, her house in sight, the full moon, the long, wakeful nights. he took his pirogue; but the bayou played with his impatience, maddened his passion, bringing him so near, to meander with him again so far away. there was only a short prairie between him and ----, a prairie thick with lily-roots--one could almost walk over their heads, so close, and gleaming in the moonlight. but this is all only inference. the pirogue was found tethered to the paddle stuck upright in the soft bank, and--adorine's parents related the rest. nothing else was found until the summer drought had bared the swamp. there was a little girl in the house when we arrived--all else were in the field--a stupid, solemn, pretty child, the child of a brother. how she kept away from adorine, and how much that testified! it would have been too painful. the little arms around her neck, the head nestling to her bosom, sleepily pressing against it. and the little one might ask to be sung to sleep. sung to sleep! the little bed-chamber, with its high mattressed bed, covered with the acadian home-spun quilt, trimmed with netting fringe, its bit of mirror over the bureau, the bottle of perfumed grease to keep the locks black and glossy, the prayer-beads and blessed palms hanging on the wall, the low, black polished spinning-wheel, the loom,--the _métier d' adorine_ famed throughout the parish,--the ever goodly store of cotton and yarn hanks swinging from the ceiling, and the little square, open window which looked under the mossy oak-branches to look over the prairie; and once again all blue and white lilies--they were all there, as adorine was there; but there was more--not there. anne marie and jeanne marie old jeanne marie leaned her hand against the house, and the tears rolled down her cheeks. she had not wept since she buried her last child. with her it was one trouble, one weeping, no more; and her wrinkled, hard, polished skin so far had known only the tears that come after death. the trouble in her heart now was almost exactly like the trouble caused by death; although she knew it was not so bad as death, yet, when she thought of this to console herself, the tears rolled all the faster. she took the end of the red cotton kerchief tied over her head, and wiped them away; for the furrows in her face did not merely run up and down--they ran in all directions, and carried her tears all over her face at once. she could understand death, but she could not understand this. it came about in this way: anne marie and she lived in the little red-washed cabin against which she leaned; had lived there alone with each other for fifty years, ever since jeanne marie's husband had died, and the three children after him, in the fever epidemic. the little two-roomed cabin, the stable where there used to be a cow, the patch of ground planted with onions, had all been bought and paid for by the husband; for he was a thrifty, hard-working gascon, and had he lived there would not have been one better off, or with a larger family, either in that quarter or in any of the red-washed suburbs with which gascony has surrounded new orleans. his women, however,--the wife and sister-in-law,--had done their share in the work: a man's share apiece, for with the gascon women there is no discrimination of sex when it comes to work. and they worked on just the same after he died, tending the cow, digging, hoeing, planting, watering. the day following the funeral, by daylight jeanne marie was shouldering around the yoke of milk-cans to his patrons, while anne marie carried the vegetables to market; and so on for fifty years. they were old women now,--seventy-five years old,--and, as they expressed it, they had always been twins. in twins there is always one lucky and one unlucky one: jeanne marie was the lucky one, anne marie the unlucky one. so much so, that it was even she who had to catch the rheumatism, and to lie now bedridden, months at a time, while jeanne marie was as active in her sabots as she had ever been. in spite of the age of both, and the infirmity of one, every saturday night there was some little thing to put under the brick in the hearth, for taxes and license, and the never-to-be-forgotten funeral provision. in the husband's time gold pieces used to go in, but they had all gone to pay for the four funerals and the quadrupled doctor's bill. the women laid in silver pieces; the coins, however, grew smaller and smaller, and represented more and more not so much the gain from onions as the saving from food. it had been explained to them how they might, all at once, make a year's gain in the lottery; and it had become their custom always, at the end of every month, to put aside one silver coin apiece, to buy a lottery ticket with--one ticket each, not for the great, but for the twenty-five-cent, prizes. anne marie would buy hers round about the market; jeanne marie would stop anywhere along her milk course and buy hers, and they would go together in the afternoon to stand with the little crowd watching the placard upon which the winning numbers were to be written. and when they were written, it was curious, jeanne marie's numbers would come out twice as often as anne marie's. not that she ever won anything, for she was not lucky enough to have them come out in the order to win; they only came out here and there, singly: but it was sufficient to make old anne marie cross and ugly for a day or two, and injure the sale of the onion-basket. when she became bedridden, jeanne marie bought the ticket for both, on the numbers, however, that anne marie gave her; and anne marie had to lie in bed and wait, while jeanne marie went out to watch the placard. one evening, watching it, jeanne marie saw the ticket-agent write out the numbers as they came on her ticket, in such a way that they drew a prize--forty dollars. when the old woman saw it she felt such a happiness; just as she used to feel in the old times right after the birth of a baby. she thought of that instantly. without saying a word to any one, she clattered over the _banquette_ as fast as she could in her sabots, to tell the good news to anne marie. but she did not go so fast as not to have time to dispose of her forty dollars over and over again. forty dollars! that was a great deal of money. she had often in her mind, when she was expecting a prize, spent twenty dollars; for she had never thought it could be more than that. but forty dollars! a new gown apiece, and black silk kerchiefs to tie over their heads instead of red cotton, and the little cabin new red-washed, and soup in the pot, and a garlic sausage, and a bottle of good, costly liniment for anne marie's legs; and still a pile of gold to go under the hearth-brick--a pile of gold that would have made the eyes of the defunct husband glisten. she pushed open the picket-gate, and came into the room where her sister lay in bed. "eh, anne marie, my girl," she called in her thick, pebbly voice, apparently made purposely to suit her rough gascon accent; "this time we have caught it!" [illustration: "this time we have caught it!"] "whose ticket?" asked anne marie, instantly. in a flash all anne marie's ill luck ran through jeanne marie's mind; how her promised husband had proved unfaithful, and jeanne marie's faithful; and how, ever since, even to the coming out of her lottery numbers, even to the selling of vegetables, even to the catching of the rheumatism, she had been the loser. but above all, as she looked at anne marie in the bed, all the misery came over jeanne marie of her sister's not being able, in all her poor old seventy-five years of life, to remember the pressure of the arms of a husband about her waist, nor the mouth of a child on her breast. as soon as anne marie had asked her question, jeanne marie answered it. "but your ticket, _coton-maï!_"[ ] [footnote : _coton-maï_ is an innocent oath invented by the good, pious priest as a substitute for one more harmful.] "where? give it here! give it here!" the old woman, who had not been able to move her back for weeks, sat bolt upright in bed, and stretched out her great bony fingers, with the long nails as hard and black as rake-prongs from groveling in the earth. jeanne marie poured the money out of her cotton handkerchief into them. anne marie counted it, looked at it; looked at it, counted it; and if she had not been so old, so infirm, so toothless, the smile that passed over her face would have made it beautiful. jeanne marie had to leave her to draw water from the well to water the plants, and to get her vegetables ready for next morning. she felt even happier now than if she had just had a child, happier even than if her husband had just returned to her. "ill luck! _coton-maï!_ ill luck! there's a way to turn ill luck!" and her smile also should have beautified her face, wrinkled and ugly though it was. she did not think any more of the spending of the money, only of the pleasure anne marie would take in spending it. the water was low in the well, and there had been a long drought. there are not many old women of seventy-five who could have watered so much ground as abundantly as she did; but whenever she thought of the forty dollars and anne marie's smile she would give the thirsting plant an extra bucketful. the twilight was gaining. she paused. "_coton-maï_" she exclaimed aloud. "but i must see the old woman smile again over her good luck." although it was "my girl" face to face, it was always "the old woman" behind each other's back. there was a knot-hole in the plank walls of the house. in spite of anne marie's rheumatism they would never stop it up, needing it, they said, for light and air. jeanne marie slipped her feet out of her sabots and crept easily toward it, smiling, and saying "_coton-maï_!" to herself all the way. she put her eye to the hole. anne marie was not in the bed, she who had not left her bed for two months! jeanne marie looked through the dim light of the room until she found her. anne marie, in her short petticoat and nightsack, with bare legs and feet, was on her knees in the corner, pulling up a plank, hiding--peasants know hiding when they see it--hiding her money away--away--away from whom?--muttering to herself and shaking her old grayhaired head. hiding her money away from jeanne marie! and this was why jeanne marie leaned her head against the side of the house and wept. it seemed to her that she had never known her twin sister at all. a crippled hope you must picture to yourself the quiet, dim-lighted room of a convalescent; outside, the dreary, bleak days of winter in a sparsely settled, distant country parish; inside, a slow, smoldering log-fire, a curtained bed, the infant sleeping well enough, the mother wakeful, restless, thought-driven, as a mother must be, unfortunately, nowadays, particularly in that parish, where cotton worms and overflows have acquired such a monopoly of one's future. [illustration: "the quiet, dim-lighted room of a convalescent."] god is always pretty near a sick woman's couch; but nearer even than god seems the sick-nurse--at least in that part of the country, under those circumstances. it is so good to look through the dimness and uncertainty, moral and physical, and to meet those little black, steadfast, all-seeing eyes; to feel those smooth, soft, all-soothing hands; to hear, across one's sleep, that three-footed step--the flat-soled left foot, the tiptoe right, and the padded end of the broomstick; and when one is so wakeful and restless and thought-driven, to have another's story given one. god, depend upon it, grows stories and lives as he does herbs, each with a mission of balm to some woe. she said she had, and in truth she had, no other name than "little mammy"; and that was the name of her nature. pure african, but bronze rather than pure black, and full-sized only in width, her growth having been hampered as to height by an injury to her hip, which had lamed her, pulling her figure awry, and burdening her with a protuberance of the joint. her mother caused it by dropping her when a baby, and concealing it, for fear of punishment, until the dislocation became irremediable. all the animosity of which little mammy was capable centered upon this unknown but never-to-be-forgotten mother of hers; out of this hatred had grown her love--that is, her destiny, a woman's love being her destiny. little mammy's love was for children. the birth and infancy (the one as accidental as the other, one would infer) took place in--it sounds like the "arabian nights" now!--took place in the great room, caravansary, stable, behind a negro-trader's auction-mart, where human beings underwent literally the daily buying and selling of which the world now complains in a figure of speech--a great, square, dusty chamber where, sitting cross-legged, leaning against the wall, or lying on foul blanket pallets on the floor, the bargains of to-day made their brief sojourn, awaiting transformation into the profits of the morrow. the place can be pointed out now, is often pointed out; but no emotion arises at sight of it. it is so plain, so matter-of-fact an edifice that emotion only comes afterward in thinking about it, and then in the reflection that such an edifice could be, then as now, plain and matter-of-fact. for the slave-trader there was no capital so valuable as the physical soundness of his stock; the moral was easily enough forged or counterfeited. little mammy's good-for-nothing mother was sold as readily as a vote, in the parlance of to-day; but no one would pay for a crippled baby. the mother herself would not have taken her as a gift, had it been in the nature of a negro-trader to give away anything. some doctoring was done,--so little mammy heard traditionally,--some effort made to get her marketable. there were attempts to pair her off as a twin sister of various correspondencies in age, size, and color, and to palm her off, as a substitute, at migratory, bereaved, overfull breasts. nothing equaled a negro-trader's will and power for fraud, except the hereditary distrust and watchfulness which it bred and maintained. and so, in the even balance between the two categories, the little cripple remained a fixture in the stream of life that passed through that back room, in the fluxes and refluxes of buying and selling; not valueless, however--rely upon a negro-trader for discovering values as substitutes, as panaceas. she earned her nourishment, and providence did not let it kill the little animal before the emancipation of weaning arrived. [illustration: "little mammy."] how much circumstances evoked, how much instinct responded, belongs to the secrets which nature seems to intend keeping. as a baby she had eyes, attention, solely for other babies. one cannot say while she was still crawling, for she could only crawl years after she should have been walking, but, before even precocious walking-time, tradition or the old gray-haired negro janitor relates, she would creep from baby to baby to play with it, put it to sleep, pat it, rub its stomach (a negro baby, you know, is all stomach, and generally aching stomach at that). and before she had a lap, she managed to force one for some ailing nursling. it was then that they began to call her "little mammy." in the transitory population of the "pen" no one stayed long enough to give her another name; and no one ever stayed short enough to give her another one. her first recollection of herself was that she could not walk--she was past crawling; she cradled herself along, as she called sitting down flat, and working herself about with her hands and her one strong leg. babbling babies walked all around her,--many walking before they babbled,--and still she did not walk, imitate them as she might and did. she would sit and "study" about it, make another trial, fall; sit and study some more, make another trial, fall again. negroes, who believe that they must give a reason for everything even if they have to invent one, were convinced that it was all this studying upon her lameness that gave her such a large head. and now she began secretly turning up the clothes of every negro child that came into that pen, and examining its legs, and still more secretly examining her own, stretched out before her on the ground. how long it took she does not remember; in fact, she could not have known, for she had no way of measuring time except by her thoughts and feelings. but in her own way and time the due process of deliberation was fulfilled, and the quotient made clear that, bowed or not, all children's legs were of equal length except her own, and all were alike, not one full, strong, hard, the other soft, flabby, wrinkled, growing out of a knot at the hip. a whole psychological period apparently lay between that conclusion and--a broom-handle walking-stick; but the broomstick came, as it was bound to come,--thank heaven!--from that premise, and what with stretching one limb to make it longer, and doubling up the other to make it shorter, she invented that form of locomotion which is still carrying her through life, and with no more exaggerated leg-crookedness than many careless negroes born with straight limbs display. this must have been when she was about eight or nine. hobbling on a broomstick, with, no doubt, the same weird, wizened face as now, an innate sense of the fitness of things must have suggested the kerchief tied around her big head, and the burlaps rag of an apron in front of her linsey-woolsey rag of a gown, and the bit of broken pipe-stem in the corner of her mouth, where the pipe should have been, and where it was in after years. that is the way she recollected herself, and that is the way one recalls her now, with a few modifications. the others came and went, but she was always there. it wasn't long before she became "little mammy" to the grown folks too; and the newest inmates soon learned to cry: "where's little mammy?" "oh, little mammy! little mammy! such a misery in my head [or my back, or my stomach]! can't you help me, little mammy?" it was curious what a quick eye she had for symptoms and ailments, and what a quick ear for suffering, and how apt she was at picking up, remembering, and inventing remedies. it never occurred to her not to crouch at the head or the foot of a sick pallet, day and night through. as for the nights, she said she dared not close her eyes of nights. the room they were in was so vast, and sometimes the negroes lay so thick on the floor, rolled in their blankets (you know, even in the summer they sleep under blankets), all snoring so loudly, she would never have heard a groan or a whimper any more than they did, if she had slept, too. and negro mothers are so careless and such heavy sleepers. all night she would creep at regular intervals to the different pallets, and draw the little babies from under, or away from, the heavy, inert impending mother forms. there is no telling how many she thus saved from being overlaid and smothered, or, what was worse, maimed and crippled. whenever a physician came in, as he was sometimes called, to look at a valuable investment or to furbish up some piece of damaged goods, she always managed to get near to hear the directions; and she generally was the one to apply them also, for negroes always would steal medicines most scurvily one from the other. and when death at times would slip into the pen, despite the trader's utmost alertness and precautions,--as death often "had to do," little mammy said,--when the time of some of them came to die, and when the rest of the negroes, with african greed of eye for the horrible, would press around the lowly couch where the agonizing form of a slave lay writhing out of life, she would always to the last give medicines, and wipe the cold forehead, and soothe the clutching, fearsome hands, hoping to the end, and trying to inspire the hope that his or her "time" had not come yet; for, as she said, "our time doesn't come just as often as it does come." and in those sad last offices, which somehow have always been under reproach as a kind of shame, no matter how young she was, she was always too old to have the childish avoidance of them. on the contrary, to her a corpse was only a kind of baby, and she always strove, she said, to make one, like the other, easy and comfortable. and in other emergencies she divined the mysteries of the flesh, as other precocities divine the mysteries of painting and music, and so become child wonders. others came and went. she alone remained there. babies of her babyhood--the toddlers she, a toddler, had nursed--were having babies themselves now; the middle-aged had had time to grow old and die. every week new families were coming into the great back chamber; every week they passed out: babies, boys, girls, buxom wenches, stalwart youths, and the middle-aged--the grave, serious ones whom misfortune had driven from their old masters, and the ill-reputed ones, the trickish, thievish, lazy, whom the cunning of the negro-trader alone could keep in circulation. all were marketable, all were bought and sold, all passed in one door and out the other--all except her, little mammy. as with her lameness, it took time for her to recognize, to understand, the fact. she could study over her lameness, she could in the dull course of time think out the broomstick way of palliation. it would have been almost better, under the circumstances, for god to have kept the truth from her; only--god keeps so little of the truth from us women. it is his system. poor little thing! it was not now that her master _could_ not sell her, but he _would_ not! out of her own intelligence she had forged her chains; the lameness was a hobble merely in comparison. she had become too valuable to the negro-trader by her services among his crew, and offers only solidified his determination not to sell her. visiting physicians, after short acquaintance with her capacities, would offer what were called fancy prices for her. planters who heard of her through their purchases would come to the city purposely to secure, at any cost, so inestimable an adjunct to their plantations. even ladies--refined, delicate ladies--sometimes came to the pen personally to back money with influence. in vain. little mammy was worth more to the negro-trader, simply as a kind of insurance against accidents, than any sum, however glittering the figure, and he was no ignorant expert in human wares. she can tell it; no one else can for her. remember that at times she had seen the streets outside. remember that she could hear of the outside world daily from the passing chattels--of the plantations, farms, families; the green fields, sunday woods, running streams; the camp-meetings, corn-shuckings, cotton-pickings, sugar-grindings; the baptisms, marriages, funerals, prayer-meetings; the holidays and holy days. remember that, whether for liberty or whether for love, passion effloresces in the human being--no matter when, where, or how--with every spring's return. remember that she was, even in middle age, young and vigorous. but no; do not remember anything. there is no need to heighten the coloring. it would be tedious to relate, although it was not tedious to hear her relate it, the desperations and hopes of her life then. hardly a day passed that she did not see, looking for purchases (rummaging among goods on a counter for bargains), some master whom she could have loved, some mistress whom she could have adored. always her favorite mistresses were there--tall, delicate matrons, who came themselves, with great fatigue, to select kindly-faced women for nurses; languid-looking ladies with smooth hair standing out in wide _bandeaux_ from their heads, and lace shawls dropping from their sloping shoulders, silk dresses carelessly held up in thumb and finger from embroidered petticoats that were spread out like tents over huge hoops which covered whole groups of swarming piccaninnies on the dirty floor; ladies, pale from illnesses that she might have nursed, and over-burdened with children whom she might have reared! and not a lady of that kind saw her face but wanted her, yearned for her, pleaded for her, coming back secretly to slip silver, and sometimes gold, pieces into her hand, patting her turbaned head, calling her "little mammy" too, instantly, by inspiration, and making the negro-trader give them, with all sorts of assurances, the refusal of her. she had no need for the whispered "buy me, master!" "buy me, mistress!" "you'll see how i can work, master!" "you'll never be sorry, mistress!" of the others. the negro-trader--like hangmen, negro-traders are fitted by nature for their profession--it came into his head--he had no heart, not even a negro-trader's heart--that it would be more judicious to seclude her during these shopping visits, so to speak. she could not have had any hopes then at all; it must have been all desperations. that auction-block, that executioner's block, about which so much has been written--jacob's ladder, in his dream, was nothing to what that block appeared nightly in her dreams to her; and the climbers up and down--well, perhaps jacob's angels were his hopes, too. at times she determined to depreciate her usefulness, mar her value, by renouncing her heart, denying her purpose. for days she would tie her kerchief over her ears and eyes, and crouch in a corner, strangling her impulses. she even malingered, refused food, became dumb. and she might have succeeded in making herself salable through incipient lunacy, if through no other way, had she been able to maintain her role long enough. but some woman or baby always was falling into some emergency of pain and illness. how it might have ended one does not like to think. fortunately, one does not need to think. there came a night. she sat alone in the vast, dark caravansary--alone for the first time in her life. empty rags and blankets lay strewn over the floor, no snoring, no tossing in them more. a sacrificial sale that day had cleared the counters. alarm-bells rang in the streets, but she did not know them for alarm-bells; alarm brooded in the dim space around her, but she did not even recognize that. her protracted tension of heart had made her fear-blind to all but one peradventure. once or twice she forgot herself, and limped over to some heap to relieve an imaginary struggling babe or moaning sleeper. morning came. she had dozed. she looked to see the rag-heaps stir; they lay as still as corpses. the alarm-bells had ceased. she looked to see a new gang enter the far door. she listened for the gathering buzzing of voices in the next room, around the auction-block. she waited for the trader. she waited for the janitor. at nightfall a file of soldiers entered. they drove her forth, ordering her in the voice, in the tone, of the negro-trader. that was the only familiar thing in the chaos of incomprehensibility about her. she hobbled through the auction-room. posters, advertisements, papers, lay on the floor, and in the torch-light glared from the wall. her jacob's ladder, her stepping-stone to her hopes, lay overturned in a corner. you divine it. the negro-trader's trade was abolished, and he had vanished in the din and smoke of a war which he had not been entirely guiltless of producing, leaving little mammy locked up behind him. had he forgotten her? one cannot even hope so. she hobbled out into the street, leaning on her nine-year-old broomstick (she had grown only slightly beyond it; could still use it by bending over it), her head tied in a rag kerchief, a rag for a gown, a rag for an apron. free, she was free! but she had not hoped for freedom. the plantation, the household, the delicate ladies, the teeming children,--broomsticks they were in comparison to freedom, but,--that was what she had asked, what she had prayed for. god, she said, had let her drop, just as her mother had done. more than ever she grieved, as she crept down the street, that she had never mounted the auctioneer's block. an ownerless free negro! she knew no one whose duty it was to help her; no one knew her to help her. in the whole world (it was all she had asked) there was no white child to call her mammy, no white lackey or gentleman (it was the extent of her dreams) beholden to her as to a nurse. and all her innumerable black beneficiaries! even the janitor, whom she had tended as the others, had deserted her like his white prototype. she tried to find a place for herself, but she had no indorsers, no recommenders. she dared not mention the name of the negro-trader; it banished her not only from the households of the whites, but from those of the genteel of her own color. and everywhere soldiers sentineled the streets--soldiers whose tone and accent reminded her of the negro-trader. her sufferings, whether imaginary or real, were sufficiently acute to drive her into the only form of escape which once had been possible to friendless negroes. she became a runaway. with a bundle tied to the end of a stick over her shoulder, just as the old prints represent it, she fled from her homelessness and loneliness, from her ignoble past, and the heart-disappointing termination of it. following a railroad track, journeying afoot, sleeping by the roadside, she lived on until she came to the one familiar landmark in life to her--a sick woman, but a white one. and so, progressing from patient to patient (it was a time when sick white women studded the country like mile-posts), she arrived at a little town, a kind of a refuge for soldiers' wives and widows. she never traveled further. she could not. always, as in the pen, some emergency of pain and illness held her. that is all. she is still there. the poor, poor women of that stricken region say that little mammy was the only alleviation god left them after sheridan passed through; and the richer ones say very much the same thing-- but one should hear her tell it herself, as has been said, on a cold, gloomy winter day in the country, the fire glimmering on the hearth; the overworked husband in the fields; the baby quiet at last; the mother uneasy, restless, thought-driven; the soft black hand rubbing backward and forward, rubbing out aches and frets and nervousness. the eyelids droop; the firelight plays fantasies on the bed-curtains; the ear drops words, sentences; one gets confused--one sleeps--one dreams. "one of us" at the first glance one might have been inclined to doubt; but at the second anybody would have recognized her--that is, with a little mental rehabilitation: the bright little rouge spots in the hollow of her cheek, the eyebrows well accentuated with paint, the thin lips rose-tinted, and the dull, straight hair frizzed and curled and twisted and turned by that consummate rascal and artist, the official beautifier and rectifier of stage humanity, robert, the opera _coiffeur_. who in the world knows better than he the gulf between the real and the ideal, the limitations between the natural and the romantic? yes, one could see her, in that time-honored thin silk dress of hers stiffened into brocade by buckram underneath; the high, low-necked waist, hiding any evidences of breast, if there were such evidences to hide, and bringing the long neck into such faulty prominence; and the sleeves, crisp puffs of tulle divided by bands of red velvet, through which the poor lean arm runs like a wire, stringing them together like beads. yes, it was she, the whilom _dugazon_ of the opera troupe. not that she ever was a _dugazon_, but that was what her voice once aspired to be: a _dugazon manquée_ would better describe her. what a ghost! but they always appeared like mere evaporations of real women. for what woman of flesh and blood can seriously maintain through life the rôle of sham attendant on sham sensations, and play public celebrant of other women's loves and lovers, singing, or rather saying, nothing more enlivening than: "oh, madame!" and "ah, madame!" and "_quelle ivresse!_" or "_quelle horreur!_" or, in recitative, detailing whatever dreary platitudes and inanities the librettist and heaven connive to put upon the tongues of confidantes and attendants? [illustration: "to pose in abject patience and awkwardness."] looking at her--how it came over one! the music, the lights, the scene; the fat soprano confiding to her the fact of the "amour extrême" she bears for the tenor, to which she, the _dugazon_, does not even try to listen; her eyes wandering listlessly over the audience. the calorous secret out, and in her possession, how she stumbles over her train to the back of the stage, there to pose in abject patience and awkwardness, while the gallant baritone, touching his sword, and flinging his cape over his shoulder, defies the world and the tenor, who is just recovering from his "ut de poitrine" behind the scenes. she was talking to me all the time, apologizing for the intrusion, explaining her mission, which involved a short story of her life, as women's intrusions and missions usually do. but my thoughts, also as usual, distracted me from listening, as so often they have distracted me from following what was perhaps more profitable. the composer, of course, wastes no music upon her; flinging to her only an occasional recitative in two notes, but always ending in a reef of a scale, trill, or roulade, for her to wreck her voice on before the audience. the _chef d'orchestre_, if he is charitable, starts her off with a contribution from his own lusty lungs, and then she--oh, her voice is always thinner and more osseous than her arms, and her smile no more graceful than her train! as well think of the simulated trees, water-falls, and chateaux leaving the stage, as the _dugazon_! one always imagines them singing on into dimness, dustiness, unsteadiness, and uselessness, until, like any other piece of stage property, they are at last put aside and simply left there at the end of some season--there seems to be a superstition against selling or burning useless and dilapidated stage property. as it came to me, the idea was not an impossibility. the last representation of the season is over. she, tired beyond judgment--haply, beyond feeling--by her tireless rôle, sinks upon her chair to rest in her dressing-room; sinks, further, to sleep. she has no maid. the troupe, hurrying away to france on the special train waiting not half a dozen blocks away, forget her--the insignificant are so easily forgotten! the porter, more tired, perhaps, than any one of the beautiful ideal world about him, and savoring already in advance the good onion-flavored _grillade_ awaiting him at home, locks up everything fast and tight; the tighter and faster for the good fortnight's vacation he has promised himself. no doubt if the old opera-house were ever cleaned out, just such a heap of stiff, wire-strung bones would be found, in some such hole as the _dugazon's_ dressing-room, desiccating away in its last costume--perhaps in that very costume of _inez_; and if one were venturesome enough to pass allhallowe'en there, the spirit of those bones might be seen availing itself of the privilege of unasperged corpses to roam. not singing, not talking--it is an anachronism to say that ghosts talk: their medium of communication must be pure thought; and one should be able to see their thoughts working, just as one sees the working of the digestive organs in the clear viscera of transparent animalcule. the hard thing of it is that ghosts are chained to the same scenes that chained their bodies, and when they sleep-walk, so to speak, it must be through phases of former existence. what a nightmare for them to go over once again the lived and done, the suffered and finished! what a comfort to wake up and find one's self dead, well dead! i could have continued and put the whole opera troupe in "costume de ghost," but i think it was the woman's eyes that drew me back to her face and her story. she had a sensible face, now that i observed her naturally, as it were; and her hands,--how i have agonized over those hands on the stage!--all knuckles and exaggerated veins, clutching her dress as she sang, or, petrified, outstretched to _leonore's_ "pourquoi ces larmes?"--her hands were the hands of an honest, hard-working woman who buckrams her own skirts, and at need could scrub her own floor. her face (my description following my wandering glance)--her face was careworn, almost to desuetude; not dissipation-worn, as, alas! the faces of the more gifted ladies of opera troupes too often are. there was no fattening in it of pastry, truffles, and bonbons; upon it none of the tracery left by nightly champagne tides and ripples; and consequently her figure, under her plain dress, had not that for display which the world has conventioned to call charms. where a window-cord would hardly have sufficed to girdle _leonore_, a necklace would have served her. she had not beauty enough to fear the flattering dangers of masculine snares and temptations,--or there may have been other reasons,--but as a wife--there was something about her that guaranteed it--she would have blossomed love and children as a fig-tree does figs. in truth, she was just talking about children. the first part of her story had passed: her birthplace, education, situation; and now she was saying: "i have always had the temptation, but i have always resisted it. now,"--with a blush at her excuse,--"it may be your spring weather, your birds, your flowers, your sky--and your children in the streets. the longing came over me yesterday: i thought of it on the stage, i thought of it afterward--it was better than sleeping; and this morning"--her eyes moistened, she breathed excitedly--"i was determined. i gave up, i made inquiry, i was sent to you. would it be possible? would there be any place" ("any rôle," she said first) "in any of your asylums, in any of your charitable institutions, for me? i would ask nothing but my clothes and food, and very little of that; the recompense would be the children--the little girl children," with a smile--can you imagine the smile of a woman dreaming of children that might be? "think! never to have held a child in my arms more than a moment, never to have felt a child's arms about my neck! never to have known a child! born on a stage, my mother born on a stage!" ah, there were tragic possibilities in that voice and movement! "pardon, madam. you see how i repeat. and you must be very wearied hearing about me. but i could be their nurse and their servant. i would bathe and dress them, play with them, teach them their prayers; and when they are sick they would see no difference. they would not know but what their mother was there!" oh, she had her program all prepared; one could see that. "and i would sing to them--no! no!" with a quick gesture, "nothing from the stage; little songs and lullabys i have picked up traveling around, and," hesitating, "little things i have composed myself--little things that i thought children would like to hear some day." what did she not unconsciously throw into those last words? "i dream of it," she pursued, talking with as little regard to me as on the stage she sang to the prima donna. "their little arms, their little faces, their little lips! and in an asylum there would be so many of them! when they cried and were in trouble i would take them in my lap, and i would say to them, with all sorts of tenderness--" she had arranged that in her program, too--all the minutiae of what she would say to them in their distress. but women are that way. when once they begin to love, their hearts are magnifying-lenses for them to feel through. "and my heart hungers to commence right here, now, at once! it seems to me i cannot wait. ah, madam, no more stage, no more opera!" speaking quickly, feverishly. "as i said, it may be your beautiful spring, your flowers, your birds, and your numbers of children. i have always loved that place most where there are most children; and you have more children here than i ever saw anywhere. children are so beautiful! it is strange, is it not, when you consider my life and my rearing?" her life, her rearing, how interesting they must have been! what a pity i had not listened more attentively! "they say you have much to do with asylums here." evidently, when rôles do not exist in life for certain characters, god has to create them. and thus he had to create a rôle in an asylum for my friend, for so she became from the instant she spoke of children as she did. it was the poorest and neediest of asylums; and the poor little orphaned wretches--but it is better not to speak of them. how can god ever expect to rear children without their mothers! but the rôle i craved to create for my friend was far different--some good, honest bourgeois interior, where lips are coarse and cheeks are ruddy, and where life is composed of real scenes, set to the real music of life, the homely successes and failures, and loves and hates, and embraces and tears, that fill out the orchestra of the heart; where romance and poetry abound _au naturel_; and where--yes, where children grow as thick as nature permits: the domestic interior of the opera porter, for instance, or the clockmaker over the way. but what a loss the orphan-asylum would have suffered, and the dreary lacking there would have been in the lives of the children! for there must have been moments in the lives of the children in that asylum when they felt, awake, as they felt in their sleep when they dreamed their mothers were about them. the little convent girl she was coming down on the boat from cincinnati, the little convent girl. two sisters had brought her aboard. they gave her in charge of the captain, got her a state-room, saw that the new little trunk was put into it, hung the new little satchel up on the wall, showed her how to bolt the door at night, shook hands with her for good-by (good-bys have really no significance for sisters), and left her there. after a while the bells all rang, and the boat, in the awkward elephantine fashion of boats, got into midstream. the chambermaid found her sitting on the chair in the state-room where the sisters had left her, and showed her how to sit on a chair in the saloon. and there she sat until the captain came and hunted her up for supper. she could not do anything of herself; she had to be initiated into everything by some one else. she was known on the boat only as "the little convent girl." her name, of course, was registered in the clerk's office, but on a steamboat no one thinks of consulting the clerk's ledger. it is always the little widow, the fat madam, the tall colonel, the parson, etc. the captain, who pronounced by the letter, always called her the little _convent_ girl. she was the beau-ideal of the little convent girl. she never raised her eyes except when spoken to. of course she never spoke first, even to the chambermaid, and when she did speak it was in the wee, shy, furtive voice one might imagine a just-budding violet to have; and she walked with such soft, easy, carefully calculated steps that one naturally felt the penalties that must have secured them--penalties dictated by a black code of deportment. [illustration: the sisters bid her good-by.] she was dressed in deep mourning. her black straw hat was trimmed with stiff new crape, and her stiff new bombazine dress had crape collar and cuffs. she wore her hair in two long plaits fastened around her head tight and fast. her hair had a strong inclination to curl, but that had been taken out of it as austerely as the noise out of her footfalls. her hair was as black as her dress; her eyes, when one saw them, seemed blacker than either, on account of the bluishness of the white surrounding the pupil. her eyelashes were almost as thick as the black veil which the sisters had fastened around her hat with an extra pin the very last thing before leaving. she had a round little face, and a tiny pointed chin; her mouth was slightly protuberant from the teeth, over which she tried to keep her lips well shut, the effort giving them a pathetic little forced expression. her complexion was sallow, a pale sallow, the complexion of a brunette bleached in darkened rooms. the only color about her was a blue taffeta ribbon from which a large silver medal of the virgin hung over the place where a breast pin should have been. she was so little, so little, although she was eighteen, as the sisters told the captain; otherwise they would not have permitted her to travel all the way to new orleans alone. unless the captain or the clerk remembered to fetch her out in front, she would sit all day in the cabin, in the same place, crocheting lace, her spool of thread and box of patterns in her lap, on the handkerchief spread to save her new dress. never leaning back--oh, no! always straight and stiff, as if the conventual back board were there within call. she would eat only convent fare at first, notwithstanding the importunities of the waiters, and the jocularities of the captain, and particularly of the clerk. every one knows the fund of humor possessed by a steamboat clerk, and what a field for display the table at meal-times affords. on friday she fasted rigidly, and she never began to eat, or finished, without a little latin movement of the lips and a sign of the cross. and always at six o'clock of the evening she remembered the angelus, although there was no church bell to remind her of it. she was in mourning for her father, the sisters told the captain, and she was going to new orleans to her mother. she had not seen her mother since she was an infant, on account of some disagreement between the parents, in consequence of which the father had brought her to cincinnati, and placed her in the convent. there she had been for twelve years, only going to her father for vacations and holidays. so long as the father lived he would never let the child have any communication with her mother. now that he was dead all that was changed, and the first thing that the girl herself wanted to do was to go to her mother. the mother superior had arranged it all with the mother of the girl, who was to come personally to the boat in new orleans, and receive her child from the captain, presenting a letter from the mother superior, a facsimile of which the sisters gave the captain. it is a long voyage from cincinnati to new orleans, the rivers doing their best to make it interminable, embroidering themselves _ad libitum_ all over the country. every five miles, and sometimes oftener, the boat would stop to put off or take on freight, if not both. the little convent girl, sitting in the cabin, had her terrible frights at first from the hideous noises attendant on these landings--the whistles, the ringings of the bells, the running to and fro, the shouting. every time she thought it was shipwreck, death, judgment, purgatory; and her sins! her sins! she would drop her crochet, and clutch her prayer-beads from her pocket, and relax the constraint over her lips, which would go to rattling off prayers with the velocity of a relaxed windlass. that was at first, before the captain took to fetching her out in front to see the boat make a landing. then she got to liking it so much that she would stay all day just where the captain put her, going inside only for her meals. she forgot herself at times so much that she would draw her chair a little closer to the railing, and put up her veil, actually, to see better. no one ever usurped her place, quite in front, or intruded upon her either with word or look; for every one learned to know her shyness, and began to feel a personal interest in her, and all wanted the little convent girl to see everything that she possibly could. [illustration: watching a landing.] and it was worth seeing--the balancing and _chasséeing_ and waltzing of the cumbersome old boat to make a landing. it seemed to be always attended with the difficulty and the improbability of a new enterprise; and the relief when it did sidle up anywhere within rope's-throw of the spot aimed at! and the roustabout throwing the rope from the perilous end of the dangling gang-plank! and the dangling roustabouts hanging like drops of water from it--dropping sometimes twenty feet to the land, and not infrequently into the river itself. and then what a rolling of barrels, and shouldering of sacks, and singing of jim crow songs, and pacing of jim crow steps; and black skins glistening through torn shirts, and white teeth gleaming through red lips, and laughing, and talking and--bewildering! entrancing! surely the little convent girl in her convent walls never dreamed of so much unpunished noise and movement in the world! the first time she heard the mate--it must have been like the first time woman ever heard man--curse and swear, she turned pale, and ran quickly, quickly into the saloon, and--came out again? no, indeed! not with all the soul she had to save, and all the other sins on her conscience. she shook her head resolutely, and was not seen in her chair on deck again until the captain not only reassured her, but guaranteed his reassurance. and after that, whenever the boat was about to make a landing, the mate would first glance up to the guards, and if the little convent girl was sitting there he would change his invective to sarcasm, and politely request the colored gentlemen not to hurry themselves--on no account whatever; to take their time about shoving out the plank; to send the rope ashore by post-office--write him when it got there; begging them not to strain their backs; calling them mister, colonel, major, general, prince, and your royal highness, which was vastly amusing. at night, however, or when the little convent girl was not there, language flowed in its natural curve, the mate swearing like a pagan to make up for lost time. the captain forgot himself one day: it was when the boat ran aground in the most unexpected manner and place, and he went to work to express his opinion, as only steamboat captains can, of the pilot, mate, engineer, crew, boat, river, country, and the world in general, ringing the bell, first to back, then to head, shouting himself hoarser than his own whistle--when he chanced to see the little black figure hurrying through the chaos on the deck; and the captain stuck as fast aground in midstream as the boat had done. in the evening the little convent girl would be taken on the upper deck, and going up the steep stairs there was such confusion, to keep the black skirts well over the stiff white petticoats; and, coming down, such blushing when suspicion would cross the unprepared face that a rim of white stocking might be visible; and the thin feet, laced so tightly in the glossy new leather boots, would cling to each successive step as if they could never, never make another venture; and then one boot would (there is but that word) hesitate out, and feel and feel around, and have such a pause of helpless agony as if indeed the next step must have been wilfully removed, or was nowhere to be found on the wide, wide earth. it was a miracle that the pilot ever got her up into the pilot-house; but pilots have a lonely time, and do not hesitate even at miracles when there is a chance for company. he would place a box for her to climb to the tall bench behind the wheel, and he would arrange the cushions, and open a window here to let in air, and shut one there to cut off a draft, as if there could be no tenderer consideration in life for him than her comfort. and he would talk of the river to her, explain the chart, pointing out eddies, whirlpools, shoals, depths, new beds, old beds, cut-offs, caving banks, and making banks, as exquisitely and respectfully as if she had been the river commission. it was his opinion that there was as great a river as the mississippi flowing directly under it--an underself of a river, as much a counterpart of the other as the second story of a house is of the first; in fact, he said they were navigating through the upper story. whirlpools were holes in the floor of the upper river, so to speak; eddies were rifts and cracks. and deep under the earth, hurrying toward the subterranean stream, were other streams, small and great, but all deep, hurrying to and from that great mother-stream underneath, just as the small and great overground streams hurry to and from their mother mississippi. it was almost more than the little convent girl could take in: at least such was the expression of her eyes; for they opened as all eyes have to open at pilot stories. and he knew as much of astronomy as he did of hydrology, could call the stars by name, and define the shapes of the constellations; and she, who had studied astronomy at the convent, was charmed to find that what she had learned was all true. it was in the pilot-house, one night, that she forgot herself for the first time in her life, and stayed up until after nine o'clock. although she appeared almost intoxicated at the wild pleasure, she was immediately overwhelmed at the wickedness of it, and observed much more rigidity of conduct thereafter. the engineer, the boiler-men, the firemen, the stokers, they all knew when the little convent girl was up in the pilot-house: the speaking-tube became so mild and gentle. with all the delays of river and boat, however, there is an end to the journey from cincinnati to new orleans. the latter city, which at one time to the impatient seemed at the terminus of the never, began, all of a sudden, one day to make its nearingness felt; and from that period every other interest paled before the interest in the immanence of arrival into port, and the whole boat was seized with a panic of preparation, the little convent girl with the others. although so immaculate was she in person and effects that she might have been struck with a landing, as some good people might be struck with death, at any moment without fear of results, her trunk was packed and repacked, her satchel arranged and rearranged, and, the last day, her hair was brushed and plaited and smoothed over and over again until the very last glimmer of a curl disappeared. her dress was whisked, as if for microscopic inspection; her face was washed; and her finger-nails were scrubbed with the hard convent nail-brush, until the disciplined little tips ached with a pristine soreness. and still there were hours to wait, and still the boat added up delays. but she arrived at last, after all, with not more than the usual and expected difference between the actual and the advertised time of arrival. there was extra blowing and extra ringing, shouting, commanding, rushing up the gangway and rushing down the gangway. the clerks, sitting behind tables on the first deck, were plied, in the twinkling of an eye, with estimates, receipts, charges, countercharges, claims, reclaims, demands, questions, accusations, threats, all at topmost voices. none but steamboat clerks could have stood it. and there were throngs composed of individuals every one of whom wanted to see the captain first and at once: and those who could not get to him shouted over the heads of the others; and as usual he lost his temper and politeness, and began to do what he termed "hustle." "captain! captain!" a voice called him to where a hand plucked his sleeve, and a letter was thrust toward him. "the cross, and the name of the convent." he recognized the envelop of the mother superior. he read the duplicate of the letter given by the sisters. he looked at the woman--the mother--casually, then again and again. the little convent girl saw him coming, leading some one toward her. she rose. the captain took her hand first, before the other greeting, "good-by, my dear," he said. he tried to add something else, but seemed undetermined what. "be a good little girl--" it was evidently all he could think of. nodding to the woman behind him, he turned on his heel, and left. one of the deck-hands was sent to fetch her trunk. he walked out behind them, through the cabin, and the crowd on deck, down the stairs, and out over the gangway. the little convent girl and her mother went with hands tightly clasped. she did not turn her eyes to the right or left, or once (what all passengers do) look backward at the boat which, however slowly, had carried her surely over dangers that she wot not of. all looked at her as she passed. all wanted to say good-by to the little convent girl, to see the mother who had been deprived of her so long. some expressed surprise in a whistle; some in other ways. all exclaimed audibly, or to themselves, "colored!" it takes about a month to make the round trip from new orleans to cincinnati and back, counting five days' stoppage in new orleans. it was a month to a day when the steamboat came puffing and blowing up to the wharf again, like a stout dowager after too long a walk; and the same scene of confusion was enacted, as it had been enacted twelve times a year, at almost the same wharf for twenty years; and the same calm, a death calmness by contrast, followed as usual the next morning. the decks were quiet and clean; one cargo had just been delivered, part of another stood ready on the levee to be shipped. the captain was there waiting for his business to begin, the clerk was in his office getting his books ready, the voice of the mate could be heard below, mustering the old crew out and a new crew in; for if steamboat crews have a single principle,--and there are those who deny them any,--it is never to ship twice in succession on the same boat. it was too early yet for any but roustabouts, marketers, and church-goers; so early that even the river was still partly mist-covered; only in places could the swift, dark current be seen rolling swiftly along. "captain!" a hand plucked at his elbow, as if not confident that the mere calling would secure attention. the captain turned. the mother of the little convent girl stood there, and she held the little convent girl by the hand. "i have brought her to see you," the woman said. "you were so kind--and she is so quiet, so still, all the time, i thought it would do her a pleasure." she spoke with an accent, and with embarrassment; otherwise one would have said that she was bold and assured enough. "she don't go nowhere, she don't do nothing but make her crochet and her prayers, so i thought i would bring her for a little visit of 'how d' ye do' to you." there was, perhaps, some inflection in the woman's voice that might have made known, or at least awakened, the suspicion of some latent hope or intention, had the captain's ear been fine enough to detect it. there might have been something in the little convent girl's face, had his eye been more sensitive--trifle paler, maybe, the lips a little tighter drawn, the blue ribbon a shade faded. he may have noticed that, but-- and the visit of "how d' ye do" came to an end. they walked down the stairway, the woman in front, the little convent girl--her hand released to shake hands with the captain--following, across the bared deck, out to the gangway, over to the middle of it. no one was looking, no one saw more than a flutter of white petticoats, a show of white stockings, as the little convent girl went under the water. the roustabout dived, as the roustabouts always do, after the drowning, even at the risk of their good-for-nothing lives. the mate himself jumped overboard; but she had gone down in a whirlpool. perhaps, as the pilot had told her whirlpools always did, it may have carried her through to the underground river, to that vast, hidden, dark mississippi that flows beneath the one we see; for her body was never found. grandmother's grandmother as the grandmother related it fresh from the primeval sources that feed a grandmother's memory, it happened thus: in the early days of the settlement of georgia--ah, how green and rustic appears to us now the world in the early days of the settlement of georgia! sometimes to women, listening to the stories of their grandmothers, it seems better to have lived then than now--her grandmother was at that time a young wife. it was the day of arduous, if not of long, courtship before marriage, when every wedding celebrated the close of an original romance; and when young couples, for bridal trips, went out to settle new states, riding on a pillion generally, with their trousseaux following as best they could on sumpter mules; to hear the grandmother describe it made one long to be a bride of those days. the young husband had the enumeration of qualities that went to the making of a man of that period, and if the qualities were in the proportion of ten physical to one intellectual, it does not follow that the grandmother's grandfather was not a man of parts. for, to obtain the hand of his bride, an only child and an heiress, he had to give test of his mettle by ignoring his fortune, studying law, and getting his license before marriage, and binding himself to live the first year afterward on the proceeds of his practice; a device of the time thought to be a wholesome corrective of the corrupting influence of over-wealth in young domesticities. although he had already chosen the sea for his profession, and was a midshipman at the time, with more of a reputation for living than for learning, such was he, and such, it may be said, was the incentive genius of his choice, that almost before his resignation as midshipman was accepted, his license as a lawyer was signed. as for practice, it was currently remarked at his wedding, at the sight of him flying down the room in the reel with his bride for partner, that his tongue was as nimble as his heels, and that if he only turned his attention to criminal practice, there was no man in the country who would make a better prosecuting attorney for the state. and with him for prosecuting attorney, it was warranted that sirrahs the highwaymen would not continue to hold georgia judge-and-jury justice in quite such contemptible estimation, and that the gallows would not be left so long bereft of their legitimate swingings. as for fees, it was predicted that the young fellow as he stood, or rather "chassé'd," could snap his fingers at both his and his bride's trustees. he did turn his attention to criminal law, was made prosecuting attorney for the state in his county, and, before his six months had passed, was convincing the hitherto high and mighty, lordly, independent knights of the road that other counties in georgia furnished more secure pasturage for them. it was a beautiful spring morning. the young wife bade him a hearty good-by, and stood in the doorway watching him, gay and _debonair_, riding off, on his stout black charger beetle, in the direction of the town in which court was to be held that week. she herself feeling as full of ambition and work as if she also were prosecuting attorney, with a perennial spring of eloquence bubbling in her brain, turned to her domestic duties, and, without going into the detail of them, it suffices to say that, according to the grandmother's estimation, one morning's list of duties for a healthy young bride of that period would shame the week's work of a syndicate of them to-day. finding herself nearing the limit of diminution of several household necessities, and the spring suggesting the beginning of new ones, she made up her mind to profit by her husband's absence and the fair weather to make a trading visit to the neighboring town next day. [illustration: "turned to her domestic duties."] so, early in a morning as beautiful as the preceding one, mounted on her own stanch mare maid marion, she ambled down the green over-hung forest-road, in the vista of which she had watched her husband disappear the day before; thinking about what she had to buy, and thinking, no doubt, much more, as brides will, of the absent lord and master--as brides of those days loved to consider and denominate their husbands. coming into the little town, the freshly painted, swinging sign-board of the new tavern, "the honest georgian," as usual was the thing to catch her eye; but the instant after what should she see but black beetle hitched to the rack under the tree that shadowed the hostelry! it was not decorous; but she was young, and the day of her first separation from her husband had been so long; and was he not also, against the firmest of resolutions and plans, hastening back to her, the separation being too long for him also? slipping her foot from the stirrup, she jumped to the ground, and ran into the tavern. there he stood calling hastily for a drink; and her heart more than her eyes took in his, to her, consecrated signalment--the riding-boots, short clothes, blue coat, cocked hat, ruffles. she crept up behind to surprise him, her face, with its delight and smiles, beyond her control. she crept, until she saw his watch-fob dangling against the counter, and then her heart made a call. he turned. he was not her husband! another man was in her husband's clothes, a man with a villainous countenance! with a scream she gave the alarm. the stranger turned, dropped his drink, bounded to the door and out, leaped to the back of beetle, gave rein and spur, and the black horse made good his reputation. in a second all was hue-and-cry and pursuit. while men and horses made, for all they were worth, down the road after beetle, she on maid marion galloped for her life in the opposite direction, the direction of the court town whither her husband had journeyed. the mare's hide made acquaintance with the whip that day if never before, for not even the willing maid marion could keep pace with the apprehensions on her back. scouring with her eyes the highway ahead of her, shooting hawk's glances into the forest on each side of her, the wife rode through the distance all, all day, praying that the day might be long enough, might equal the distance. the sun set, and night began to fall; but she and maid marion were none the less fresh, except in the heart. the moon rose straight before them down the road, lighting it and them through the threatened obscurity. and so they came to trampled earth and torn grass, and so she uncovered concealed footsteps, and so, creeping on her hands and knees, she followed traces of blood, through thicket and glade, into the deep forest, to a hastily piled hillock of earth, gravel, and leaves. burrowing with her hands, she came to it, the naked body of her young husband, cold and stiff, foully murdered. maid marion approached at her call. she wrapped him in her cloak, and--a young wife of those times alone would do it--put him in the saddle before her: the good mare maid marion alone knows the rest. in the early gray dawn, from one highway there rode into the town the baffled pursuers, from the other the grandmother's grandmother, clasping the corpse of her husband with arms as stiff as his own; loving him, so the grandmother used to say, with a love which, if ever love could do so, would have effected a resurrection. the old lady's restoration the news came out in the papers that the old lady had been restored to her fortune. she had been deprived of it so long ago that the real manner of her dispossession had become lost, or at least hidden under the many versions that had been invented to replace lapses of memory, or to remedy the unpicturesqueness of the original truth. the face of truth, like the face of many a good woman, is liable to the accident of ugliness, and the desire to embellish one as well as the other need not necessarily proceed from anything more harmful than an overweighted love of the beautiful. if the old lady had not been restored to her fortune, her _personalia_ would have remained in the oblivion which, as one might say, had accumulated upon everything belonging to her. but after that newspaper paragraph, there was such a flowering of memory around her name as would have done credit to a whole cemetery on all saints. it took three generations to do justice to the old lady, for so long and so slow had been her descent into poverty that a grandmother was needed to remember her setting out upon the road to it. she set out as most people do, well provided with money, diamonds, pretty clothing, handsome residence, equipage, opera-box, beaus (for she was a widow), and so many, many friends that she could never indulge in a small party--she always had to give a grand ball to accommodate them. she made quite an occasion of her first reverse,--some litigation decided against her,--and said it came from the court's' having only one ear, and that preempted by the other party. she always said whatever she thought, regardless of the consequences, because she averred truth was so much more interesting than falsehood. nothing annoyed her more in society than to have to listen to the compositions women make as a substitute for the original truth. it was as if, when she went to the theater to hear shakspere and molière, the actors should try to impose upon the audience by reciting lines of their own. truth was the wit of life and the wit of books. she traveled her road from affluence so leisurely that nothing escaped her eyes or her feelings, and she signaled unhesitatingly every stage in it. "my dear, do you know there is really such a thing as existence without a carriage and horses?"--"i assure you it is perfectly new to me to find that an opera-box is not a necessity. it is a luxury. in theory one can really never tell the distinction between luxuries and necessities."--"how absurd! at one time i thought hair was given us only to furnish a profession to hair-dressers; just as we wear artificial flowers to support the flower-makers."--"upon my word, it is not uninteresting. there is always some _haute nouveauté_ in economy. the ways of depriving one's self are infinite. there is wine, now."--"not own your residence! as soon not own your tomb as your residence! my mama used to scream that in my ears. according to her, it was not _comme il faut_ to board or live in a rented house. how little she knew!" when her friends, learning her increasing difficulties, which they did from the best authority (herself), complimented her, as they were forced to do, upon her still handsome appearance, pretty laces, feathers, jewelry, silks, "fat," she would answer--"fat. i am living off my fat, as bears do in winter. in truth, i remind myself of an animal in more ways than one." and so every one had something to contribute to the conversation about her--bits which, they said, affection and admiration had kept alive in their memory. each city has its own roads to certain ends, its ways of calvary, so to speak. in new orleans the victim seems ever to walk down royal street and up chartres, or _vice versa_. one would infer so, at least, from the display in the shops and windows of those thorough-fares. old furniture, cut glass, pictures, books, jewelry, lace, china--the fleece (sometimes the flesh still sticking to it) left on the brambles by the driven herd. if there should some day be a trump of resurrection for defunct fortunes, those shops would be emptied in the same twinkling of the eye allowed to tombs for their rendition of property. the old lady must have made that promenade many, many times, to judge by the samples of her "fat or fleece" displayed in the windows. she took to hobbling, as if from tired or sore feet. "it is nothing," in answer to an inquiry. "made-to-order feet learning to walk in ready-made shoes: that is all. one's feet, after all, are the most unintelligent part of one's body." tea was her abomination, coffee her adoration; but she explained: "tea, you know, is so detestable that the very worst is hardly worse than the very best; while coffee is so perfect that the smallest shade of impurity is not to be tolerated. the truly economical, i observe, always drink tea." "at one time i thought if all the luxuries of the world were exposed to me, and but one choice allowed, i should select gloves. believe me, there is no superfluity in the world so easily dispensed with." as may be supposed, her path led her farther and farther away from her old friends. even her intimates became scarce; so much so, that these observations, which, of course, could be made only to intimates, became fewer and fewer, unfortunately, for her circumstances were becoming such that the remarks became increasingly valuable. the last thing related of her was apropos of friends. "my friends! my dear, i cannot tell you just so, on the spur of the moment, but with a little reflection and calculation i could tell you, to a picayune, the rent of every friend in the market. you can lease, rent, or hire them, like horses, carriages, opera-boxes, servants, by year, month, day, or hour; and the tariff is just as fixed. "christians! christians are the most discreet people in the world. if you should ask me what christianity has most promoted in the world, i should answer without hesitation, discretion. of course, when i say the world i mean society, and when i say christianity i mean our interpretation of it. if only duns could be pastors, and pastors duns! but of course you do not know what duns are; they are the guardian angels of the creditor, the pursuing fiends of the debtor." after that, the old lady made her disappearance under the waves of that sea into the depths of which it is very improbable that a single friend ever attempted to pursue her. and there she remained until the news came that she was restored to fortune. a week passed, two weeks; no sight or sound of her. it was during this period that her old friends were so occupied resuscitating their old friendships for her--when all her antique sayings and doings became current ball-room and dinner-table gossip--that she arose from her obscurity like cinderella from her ashes, to be decked with every gift that fairy minds could suggest. those who had known her intimately made no effort to conceal their importance. those who did not know her personally put forward claims of inherited friendship, and those who did not know her traditionally or otherwise--the _nouveaux riches_ and _parvenus_, who alone feel the moneyed value of such social connections--began making their resolutions to capture her as soon as she came in sight of society. the old residence was to be re-bought, and refurnished from france; the _avant scène_ at the opera had been engaged; the old cook was to be hired back from the club at a fabulous price; the old balls and the old dinners were to gladden the city--so said they who seemed to know. nothing was to be spared, nothing stinted--at her age, with no child or relative, and life running short for pleasure. diamonds, laces, velvets, champagne, château yquem--"grand dieu seigneur!" the old creole servants exclaimed, raising their hands at the enumeration of it. where the news came from nobody knew, but everything was certified and accepted as facts, although, as between women, the grain of salt should have been used. impatience waxed, until nearly every day some one would ring the bell of the old residence, to ask when the mistress was going to move in. and such affectionate messages! and people would not, simply could not, be satisfied with the incomprehensible answers. and then it leaked out. the old lady was simply waiting for everything to arrive--furniture, toilets, carriage, etc.--to make a grand _entrée_ into her old sphere; to come riding on a throne, as it were. and still the time passed, and she did not come. finally two of the clever-heads penetrated the enigma: _mauvaise honte_, shyness--so long out of the world, so old; perhaps not sure of her welcome. so they determined to seek her out. [illustration: the room in the old gallery.] "we will go to her, like children to a grandmother, etc. the others have no delicacy of sentiment, etc. and she will thus learn who really remember, really love her, etc." provided with congratulatory bouquets, they set forth. it is very hard to find a dweller on the very sea-bottom of poverty. perhaps that is why the effort is so seldom made. one has to ask at grocers' shops, groggeries, market-stalls, chinese restaurants; interview corner cobblers, ragpickers, gutter children. but nothing is impossible to the determined. the two ladies overcame all obstacles, and needled their way along, where under other circumstances they would not have glanced, would have thought it improper to glance. they were directed through an old, old house, out on an old, old gallery, to a room at the very extreme end. "poor thing! evidently she has not heard the good news yet. we will be the first to communicate it," they whispered, standing before the dilapidated, withered-looking door. before knocking, they listened, as it is the very wisdom of discretion to do. there was life inside, a little kind of voice, like some one trying to hum a song with a very cracked old throat. the ladies opened the door. "ah, my friend!" "ah, my friend!" "restored!" "restored!" "at last!" "at last!" "just the same!" "exactly the same!" it was which one would get to her first with bouquet and kiss, competition almost crowding friendship. "the good news!" "the good news!" "we could not stay!" "we had to come!" "it has arrived at last!" "at last it has arrived!" the old lady was very much older, but still the same. "you will again have a chance!" "restored to your friends!" "the world!" "your luxuries!" "your comforts!" "comforts! luxuries!" at last the old lady had an opportunity to slip in a word. "and friends! you say right." there was a pause--a pause which held not a small measure of embarrassment. but the two visitors, although they were women of the world, and so dreaded an embarrassment more than they did sin, had prepared themselves even to stand this. the old lady standing there--she was very much thinner, very much bent, but still the same--appeared to be looking not at them, but at their enumeration. "comfort!" she opened a pot bubbling on the fire. "bouillon! a good five-cent bouillon. luxury!" she picked up something from a chair, a handful of new cotton chemises. "luxury!" she turned back her bedspread: new cotton sheets. "did you ever lie in your bed at night and dream of sheets? comfort! luxury! i should say so! and friends! my dear, look!" opening her door, pointing to an opposite gallery, to the yard, her own gallery; to the washing, ironing, sewing women, the cobbling, chair-making, carpentering men; to the screaming, laughing, crying, quarreling, swarming children. "friends! all friends--friends for fifteen years. ah, yes, indeed! we are all glad--elated in fact. as you say. i am restored." the visitors simply reported that they had found the old lady, and that she was imbecile; mind completely gone under stress of poverty and old age. their opinion was that she should be interdicted. a delicate affair "but what does this extraordinary display of light mean?" ejaculated my aunt, the moment she entered the parlor from the dining-room. "it looks like the kingdom of heaven in here! jules! jules!" she called, "come and put out some of the light!" jules was at the front door letting in the usual wednesday-evening visitor, but now he came running in immediately with his own invention in the way of a gas-stick,--a piece of broom-handle notched at the end,--and began turning one tap after the other, until the room was reduced to complete darkness. "but what do you mean now, jules?" screamed the old lady again. "pardon, madame," answered jules, with dignity; "it is an accident. i thought there was one still lighted." "an accident! an accident! do you think i hire you to perform accidents for me? you are just through telling me that it was accident made you give me both soup and gumbo for dinner today." "but accidents can always happen, madame," persisted jules, adhering to his position. the chandelier, a design of originality in its day, gave light by what purported to be wax candles standing each in a circlet of pendent crystals. the usual smile of ecstatic admiration spread over jules's features as he touched the match to the simulated wicks, and lighted into life the rainbows in the prisms underneath. it was a smile that did not heighten the intelligence of his features, revealing as it did the toothless condition of his gums. "what will madame have for her dinner tomorrow," looking benignantly at his mistress, and still standing under his aureole. "do i ever give orders for one dinner, with the other one still on my lips?" "i only asked madame; there is no harm in asking." he walked away, his long stiff white apron rattling like a petticoat about him. catching sight of the visitor still standing at the threshold: "oh, madame, here is mr. horace. shall i let him in?" "idiot! every wednesday you ask me that question, and every wednesday i answer the same way. don't you think i could tell you when not to let him in without your asking?" "oh, well, madame, one never knows; it is always safe to ask." the appearance of the gentleman started a fresh subject of excitement. "jules! jules! you have left that front door unlocked again!" "excuse me," said mr. horace; "jules did not leave the front door unlocked. it was locked when i rang, and he locked it again most carefully after letting me in. i have been standing outside all the while the gas was being extinguished and relighted." "ah, very well, then. and what is the news?" she sank into her arm-chair, pulled her little card-table closer, and began shuffling the cards upon it for her game of solitaire. "i never hear any news, you know. she [nodding toward me] goes out, but she never learns anything. she is as stupid tonight as an empty bottle." after a few passes her hands, which were slightly tremulous, regained some of their wonted steadiness and brilliancy of movement, and the cards dropped rapidly on the table. mr. horace, as he had got into the habit of doing, watched her mechanically, rather absent-mindedly retailing what he imagined would interest her, from his week's observation and hearsay. and madame's little world revolved, complete for her, in time, place, and personality. it was an old-fashioned square room with long ceiling, and broad, low windows heavily curtained with stiff silk brocade, faded by time into mellowness. the tall white-painted mantel carried its obligation of ornaments well: a gilt clock which under a glass case related some brilliant poetical idyl, and told the hours only in an insignificant aside, according to the delicate politeness of bygone french taste; flanked by duplicate continuations of the same idyl in companion candelabra, also under glass; sèvres, or imitation sèvres vases, and a crowd of smaller objects to which age and rarity were slowly contributing an artistic value. an oval mirror behind threw replicas of them into another mirror, receiving in exchange the reflected portrait of madame in her youth, and in the partial nudity in which innocence was limned in madame's youth. there were besides mirrors on the other three walls of the room, all hung with such careful intent for the exercise of their vocation that the apartment, in spots, extended indefinitely; the brilliant chandelier was thereby quadrupled, and the furniture and ornaments multiplied everywhere and most unexpectedly into twins and triplets, producing such sociabilities among them, and forcing such correspondences between inanimate objects with such hospitable insistence, that the effect was full of gaiety and life, although the interchange in reality was the mere repetition of one original, a kind of phonographic echo. the portrait of monsieur, madame's handsome young husband, hung out of the circle of radiance, in the isolation that, wherever they hang, always seems to surround the portraits of the dead. old as the parlors appeared, madame antedated them by the sixteen years she had lived before her marriage, which had been the occasion of their furnishment. she had traveled a considerable distance over the sands of time since the epoch commemorated by the portrait. indeed, it would require almost documentary evidence to prove that she, who now was arriving at eighty, was the same atalanta that had started out so buoyantly at sixteen. instead of a cap, she wore black lace over her head, pinned with gold brooches. her white hair curled naturally over a low forehead. her complexion showed care--and powder. her eyes were still bright, not with the effete intelligence of old age, but with actual potency. she wore a loose black sack flowered in purple, and over that a black lace mantle, fastened with more gold brooches. she played her game of solitaire rapidly, impatiently, and always won; for she never hesitated to cheat to get out of a tight place, or into a favorable one, cheating with the quickness of a flash, and forgetting it the moment afterward. mr. horace was as old as she, but he looked much younger, although his dress and appearance betrayed no evidence of an effort in that direction. whenever his friend cheated, he would invariably call her attention to it; and as usual she would shrug her shoulders, and say, "bah! lose a game for a card!" and pursue the conversation. he happened to mention mushrooms--fresh mushrooms. she threw down her cards before the words were out of his mouth, and began to call, "jules! jules!" mr. horace pulled the bell-cord, but madame was too excitable for that means of communication. she ran into the antechamber, and put her head over the banisters, calling, "jules! jules!" louder and louder. she might have heard jules's slippered feet running from the street into the corridor and up-stairs, had she not been so deaf. he appeared at the door. "but where have you been? here i have been raising the house a half-hour, calling you. you have been in the street. i am sure you have been in the street." "madame is very much mistaken," answered jules, with resentful dignity. he had taken off his white apron of waiter, and was disreputable in all the shabbiness of his attire as cook. "when madame forbids me to go into the street, i do not go into the street. i was in the kitchen; i had fallen asleep. what does madame desire?" smiling benevolently. "what is this i hear? fresh mushrooms in the market!" "eh, madame?" "fresh mushrooms in the market, and you have not brought me any!" "madame, there are fresh mushrooms everywhere in the market," waving his hand to show their universality. "everybody is eating them--" "old pomponnette," jules continued, "only this morning offered me a plate, piled up high, for ten cents." "idiot! why did you not buy them?" "if madame had said so; but madame did not say so. madame said, 'soup, jules; carrots, rice,'" counting on his fingers. "and the gumbo?" "i have explained that that was an accident. madame said 'soup,'" enumerating his menu again; "madame never once said mushrooms." "but how could i know there were mushrooms in the market? do i go to market?" "that is it!" and jules smiled at the question thus settled. "if you had told me there were mushrooms in the market--" pursued madame, persisting in treating jules as a reasonable being. "why did not madame ask me? if madame had asked me, surely i would have told madame. yesterday caesar brought them to the door--a whole bucketful for twenty-five cents. i had to shut the door in his face to get rid of him," triumphantly. "and you brought me yesterday those detestable peas!" "ah," shrugging his shoulders, "madame told me to buy what i saw. i saw peas. i bought them." "well, understand now, once for all: whenever you see mushrooms, no matter what i ordered, you buy them. do you hear?" "no, madame. surely i cannot buy mushrooms unless madame orders them. madame's disposition is too quick." "but i do order them. stupid! i do order them. i tell you to buy them every day." "and if there are none in the market every day?" "go away! get out of my sight! i do not want to see you. ah, it is unendurable! i must--i must get rid of him!" this last was not a threat, as jules knew only too well. it was merely a habitual exclamation. during the colloquy mr. horace, leaning back in his arm-chair, raised his eyes, and caught the reflected portrait of madame in the mirror before him--the reflection so much softer and prettier, so much more ethereal, than the original painting. indeed, seen in the mirror, that way, the portrait was as refreshing as the most charming memory. he pointed to it when madame, with considerable loss of temper, regained her seat. "it is as beautiful as the past," he explained most unnaturally, for he and his friend had a horror of looking at the long, long past, which could not fail to remind them of--what no one cares to contemplate out of church. making an effort toward some determination which a subtle observer might have noticed weighing upon him all the evening, he added: "and, apropos of the past--" "_hein_?" interrogated the old lady, impatiently, still under the influence of her irascibility about the mushrooms. he moved his chair closer, and bent forward, as if his communication were to be confidential. "ah, bah! speak louder!" she cried. "one would suppose you had some secret to tell. what secrets can there be at our age?" she took up her cards and began to play. there could be no one who bothered herself less about the forms of politeness. "yes, yes," answered mr. horace, throwing himself back into his chair; "what secrets can there be at our age?" the remark seemed a pregnant one to him; he gave himself up to it. one must evidently be the age of one's thoughts. mr. horace's thoughts revealed him the old man he was. the lines in his face deepened into wrinkles; his white mustache could not pretend to conceal his mouth, worsened by the loss of a tooth or two; and the long, thin hand that propped his head was crossed with blue, distended veins. "at the last judgment"--it was a favorite quotation with him--"the book of our conscience will be read aloud before the whole company." but the old lady, deep in her game, paid no more heed to his quotation than to him. he made a gesture toward her portrait. "when that was painted, josephine--" madame threw a glance after the gesture. the time was so long ago, the mythology of greece hardly more distant! at eighty the golden age of youth must indeed appear an evanescent myth. madame's ideas seemed to take that direction. "ah, at that time we were all nymphs, and you all demigods." "demigods and nymphs, yes; but there was one among us who was a god with you all." the allusion--a frequent one with mr. horace--was to madame's husband, who in his day, it is said, had indeed played the god in the little arcadia of society. she shrugged her shoulders. the truth is so little of a compliment the old gentleman sighed in an abstracted way, and madame, although apparently absorbed in her game, lent her ear. it is safe to say that a woman is never too old to hear a sigh wafted in her direction. "josephine, do you remember--in your memory--" she pretended not to hear. remember? who ever heard of her forgetting? but she was not the woman to say, at a moment's notice, what she remembered or what she forgot. "a woman's memory! when i think of a woman's memory--in fact, i do not like to think of a woman's memory. one can intrude in imagination into many places; but a woman's memory--" mr. horace seemed to lose his thread. it had been said of him in his youth that he wrote poetry--and it was said against him. it was evidently such lapses as these that had given rise to the accusation. and as there was no one less impatient under sentiment or poetry than madame, her feet began to agitate themselves as if jules were perorating some of his culinary inanities before her. "and a man's memory!" totally misunderstanding him. "it is not there that i either would penetrate, my friend. a man--" when madame began to talk about men she was prompted by imagination just as much as was mr. horace when he talked about women. but what a difference in their sentiments! and yet he had received so little, and she so much, from the subjects of their inspiration. but that seems to be the way in life--or in imagination. "that you should"--he paused with the curious shyness of the old before the word "love"--"that you two should--marry--seemed natural, inevitable, at the time." tradition records exactly the same comment by society at the time on the marriage in question. society is ever fatalistic in its comments. "but the natural--the inevitable--do we not sometimes, i wonder, perform them as jules does his accidents?" "ah, do not talk about that idiot! an idiot born and bred! i won't have him about me! he is a monstrosity! i tell his grandmother that every day when she comes to comb me. what a farce--what a ridiculous farce comfortable existence has become with us! fresh mushrooms in market, and bring me carrots!" the old gentleman, partly from long knowledge of her habit, or from an equally persistent bend of his own, quietly held on to his idea. "one cannot tell. it seems so at the time. we like to think it so; it makes it easier. and yet, looking back on our future as we once looked forward to it--" "eh! but who wants to look back on it, my friend? who in the world wants to look back on it?" one could not doubt madame's energy of opinion on that question to hear her voice. "we have done our future, we have performed it, if you will. our future! it is like the dinners we have eaten; of course we cannot remember the good without becoming exasperated over the bad: but"--shrugging her shoulders--"since we cannot beat the cooks, we must submit to fate," forcing a queen that she needed at the critical point of her game. "at sixteen and twenty-one it is hard to realize that one is arranging one's life to last until sixty, seventy, forever," correcting himself as he thought of his friend, the dead husband. if madame had ever possessed the art of self-control, it was many a long day since she had exercised it; now she frankly began to show ennui. "when i look back to that time,"--mr. horace leaned back in his chair and half closed his eyes, perhaps to avoid the expression of her face,--"i see nothing but lights and flowers, i hear nothing but music and laughter; and all--lights and flowers and music and laughter--seem to meet in this room, where we met so often to arrange our--inevitabilities." the word appeared to attract him. "josephine,"--with a sudden change of voice and manner,--"josephine, how beautiful you were!" the old lady nodded her head without looking from her cards. "they used to say," with sad conviction of the truth of his testimony--"the men used to say that your beauty was irresistible. none ever withstood you. none ever could." that, after all, was mr. horace's great charm with madame; he was so faithful to the illusions of his youth. as he looked now at her, one could almost feel the irresistibility of which he spoke. "it was only their excuse, perhaps; we could not tell at the time; we cannot tell even now when we think about it. they said then, talking as men talk over such things, that you were the only one who could remain yourself under the circumstances; you were the only one who could know, who could will, under the circumstances. it was their theory; men can have only theories about such things." his voice dropped, and he seemed to drop too, into some abysm of thought. madame looked into the mirror, where she could see the face of the one who alone could retain her presence of mind under the circumstances suggested by mr. horace. she could also have seen, had she wished it, among the reflected bric-a-brac of the mantel, the corner of the frame that held the picture of her husband, but peradventure, classing it with the past which held so many unavenged bad dinners, she never thought to link it even by a look with her emotions of the present. indeed, it had been said of her that in past, present, and future there had ever been but the one picture to interest her eyes--the one she was looking at now. this, however, was the remark of the uninitiated, for the true passion of a beautiful woman is never so much for her beauty as for its booty; as the passion of a gamester is for his game, not for his luck. "how beautiful _she_ was!" it was apparently down in the depths of his abysm that he found the connection between this phrase and his last, and it was evidently to himself he said it. madame, however, heard and understood too; in fact, traced back to a certain period, her thoughts and mr. horace's must have been fed by pretty much the same subjects. but she had so carefully barricaded certain issues in her memory as almost to obstruct their flow into her life; if she were a cook, one would say that it was her bad dinners which she was trying to keep out of remembrance. "you there, he there, she there, i there." he pointed to the places on the carpet, under the chandelier; he could have touched them with a walking-stick, and the recollection seemed just as close. "she was, in truth, what we men called her then; it was her eyes that first suggested it--myosotis, the little blue flower, the for-get-me-not. it suited her better than her own name. we always called her that among ourselves. how beautiful she was!" he leaned his head on his hand and looked where he had seen her last--so long, such an eternity, ago. it must be explained for the benefit of those who do not live in the little world where an allusion is all that is necessary to put one in full possession of any drama, domestic or social, that mr. horace was speaking of the wedding-night of madame, when the bridal party stood as he described under the chandelier; the bride and groom, with each one's best friend. it may be said that it was the last night or time that madame had a best friend of her own sex. social gossip, with characteristic kindness, had furnished reasons to suit all tastes, why madame had ceased that night to have a best friend of her own sex. if gossip had not done so, society would still be left to its imagination for information, for madame never tolerated the smallest appeal to her for enlightenment. what the general taste seemed most to relish as a version was that madame in her marriage had triumphed, not conquered; and that the night of her wedding she had realized the fact, and, to be frank, had realized it ever since. in short, madame had played then to gain at love, as she played now to gain at solitaire; and hearts were no more than cards to her--and, "bah! lose a game for a card!" must have been always her motto. it is hard to explain it delicately enough, for these are the most delicate affairs in life; but the image of myosotis had passed through monsieur's heart, and myosotis does mean "forget me not." and madame well knew that to love monsieur once was to love him always, in spite of jealousy, doubt, distrust, nay, unhappiness (for to love him meant all this and more). he was that kind of man, they said, whom women could love even against conscience. madame never forgave that moment. her friend, at least, she could put aside out of her intercourse; unfortunately, we cannot put people out of our lives. god alone can do that, and so far he had interfered in the matter only by removing monsieur. it was known to notoriety that since her wedding madame had abandoned, destroyed, all knowledge of her friend. and the friend? she had disappeared as much as is possible for one in her position and with her duties. "what there is in blue eyes, light hair, and a fragile form to impress one, i cannot tell; but for us men it seems to me it is blue-eyed, light-haired, and fragile-formed women that are the hardest to forget." "the less easy to forget," corrected madam. he paid no attention to the remark. "they are the women that attach themselves in one's memory. if necessary to keep from being forgotten, they come back into one's dreams. and as life rolls on, one wonders about them,--'is she happy? is she miserable? goes life well or ill with her?'" madame played her cards slowly, one would say, for her, prosaically. "and there is always a pang when, as one is so wondering, the response comes,--that is, the certainty in one's heart responds,--'she is miserable, and life goes ill with her.' then, if ever, men envy the power of god." madame threw over the game she was in, and began a new one. "such women should not be unhappy; they are too fragile, too sensitive, too trusting. i could never understand the infliction of misery upon them. i could send death to them, but not--not misfortune." madame, forgetting again to cheat in time, and losing her game, began impatiently to shuffle her cards for a new deal. "and yet, do you know, josephine, those women are the unhappy ones of life. they seem predestined to it, as others"--looking at madame's full-charmed portrait--"are predestined to triumph and victory. they"--unconscious, in his abstraction, of the personal nature of his simile--"never know how to handle their cards, and they always play a losing game." "ha!" came from madame, startled into an irate ejaculation. "it is their love always that is sacrificed, their hearts always that are bruised. one might say that god himself favors the black-haired ones!" as his voice sank lower and lower, the room seemed to become stiller and stiller. a passing vehicle in the street, however, now and then drew a shiver of sound from the pendent prisms of the chandelier. "she was so slight, so fragile, and always in white, with blue in her hair to match her eyes--and--god knows what in her heart, all the time. and yet they stand it, they bear it, they do not die, they live along with the strongest, the happiest, the most fortunate of us," bitterly; "and"--raising his eyes to his old friend, who thereupon immediately began to fumble her cards--"whenever in the street i see a poor, bent, broken woman's figure, i know, without verifying it any more by a glance, that it is the wreck of a fair woman's figure; whenever i hear of a bent, broken existence, i know, without asking any more, that it is the wreck of a fair woman's life." poor mr. horace spoke with the unreason of a superstitious bigot. "i have often thought, since, in large assemblies, particularly in weddings, josephine, of what was going on in the women's hearts there, and i have felt sorry for them; and when i think of god's knowing what is in their hearts, i have felt sorry for the men. and i often think now, josephine,--think oftener and oftener of it,--that if the resurrection trumpet of our childhood should sound some day, no matter when, out there, over the old st. louis cemetery, and we should all have to rise from our long rest of oblivion, what would be the first thing we should do? and though there were a god and a heaven awaiting us,--by that same god, josephine, i believe that our first thought in awakening would be the last in dying,--confession,--and that our first rush would be to the feet of one another for forgiveness. for there are some offenses that must outlast the longest oblivion, and a forgiveness that will be more necessary than god's own. then our hearts will be bared to one another; for if, as you say, there are no secrets at our age, there can still be less cause for them after death." his voice ended in the faintest whisper. the table crashed over, and the cards flew wide-spread on the floor. before we could recover, madame was in the antechamber, screaming for jules. one would have said that, from her face, the old lady had witnessed the resurrection described by mr. horace, the rush of the spirits with their burdens of remorse, the one to the feet of the other; and she must have seen herself and her husband, with a unanimity of purpose never apparent in their short married life, rising from their common tomb and hastening to that other tomb at the end of the alley, and falling at the feet of the one to whom in life he had been recreant in love, she in friendship. of course jules answered through the wrong door, rushing in with his gas-stick, and turning off the gas. in a moment we were involved in darkness and dispute. "but what does he mean? what does the idiot mean? he--" it was impossible for her to find a word to do justice to him and to her exasperation at the same time. "pardon, madame; it is not i. it is the cathedral bell; it is ringing nine o'clock." "but--" "madame can hear it herself. listen!" we could not see it, but we were conscious of the benign, toothless smile spreading over his face as the bell-tones fell in the room. "but it is not the gas. i--" "pardon, madame; but it is the gas. madame said, 'jules, put out the gas every night when the bell rings.' madame told me that only last night. the bell rings: i put out the gas." "will you be silent? will you listen?" "if madame wishes; just as madame says." but the old lady had turned to mr. horace. "horace, you have seen--you know--" and it was a question now of overcoming emotion. "i--i--i--a carriage, my friend, a carriage." "madame--" jules interrupted his smile to interrupt her. she was walking around the room, picking up a shawl here, a lace there; for she was always prepared against draughts. "madame--" continued jules, pursuing her. "a carriage." "if madame would only listen, i was going to say--but madame is too quick in her disposition--the carriage has been waiting since a long hour ago. mr. horace said to have it there in a half hour." it was then she saw for the first time that it had all been prepared by mr. horace. the rest was easy enough: getting into the carriage, and finding the place of which mr. horace had heard, as he said, only that afternoon. in it, on her bed of illness, poverty, and suffering, lay the patient, wasted form of the beautiful fair one whom men had called in her youth myosotis. but she did not call her myosotis. "_mon amour!_" the old pet name, although it had to be fetched across more than half a century of disuse, flashed like lightning from madame's heart into the dim chamber. "_ma divine!_" came in counter-flash from the curtained bed. in the old days women, or at least young girls, could hazard such pet names one upon the other. these--think of it!--dated from the first communion class, the dating period of so much of friendship. "my poor amour!" "my poor, poor divine!" the voices were together, close beside the pillow. "i--i--" began divine. "it could not have happened if god had not wished it," interrupted poor amour, with the resignation that comes, alas! only with the last drop of the bitter cup. and that was about all. if mr. horace had not slipped away, he might have noticed the curious absence of monsieur's name, and of his own name, in the murmuring that followed. it would have given him some more ideas on the subject of woman. at any rate, the good god must thank him for having one affair the less to arrange when the trumpet sounds out there over the old st. louis cemetery. and he was none too premature; for the old st. louis cemetery, as was shortly enough proved, was a near reach for all three of the old friends. pupasse every day, every day, it was the same overture in madame joubert's room in the institute st. denis; the strident: "mesdemoiselles; à vos places! notre père qui est dans le ciel--qui a fait ce bruit?" "it's pupasse, madame! it's pupasse!" the answer invariably was unanimous. "but, madame joubert,--i assure you, madame joubert,--i could not help it! they know i could not help it!" by this time the fresh new fool's cap made from yesterday's "bee" would have been pinned on her head. "quelle injustice! quelle injustice!" this last apostrophe in a high, whining nasal voice, always procured pupasse's elevation on the tall three-legged stool in the corner. it was a theory of the little girls in the primary class that madame joubert would be much more lenient to their own little inevitabilities of bad conduct and lessons if pupasse did not invariably comb her the wrong way every morning after prayers, by dropping something, or sniffling, or sneezing. therefore, while they distractedly got together books, slates, and copy-books, their infantile eyes found time to dart deadly reproaches toward the corner of penitence, and their little lips, still shaped from their first nourishment, pouted anything but sympathy for the occupant of it. indeed, it would have been a most startling unreality to have ever entered madame joubert's room and not seen pupasse in that corner, on that stool, her tall figure shooting up like a post, until her tall, pointed _bonnet d' âne_ came within an inch or two of the ceiling. it was her hoop-skirt that best testified to her height. it was the period of those funnel-shaped hoop-skirts that spread out with such nice mathematical proportions, from the waist down, that it seemed they must have emanated from the brains of astronomers, like the orbits, and diameters, and other things belonging to the heavenly bodies. pupasse could not have come within three feet of the wall with her hoop-skirt distended. to have forced matters was not to be thought of an instant. so even in her greatest grief and indignation, she had to pause before the three-legged black stool, and gather up steel after steel of her circumference in her hands behind, until her calico skirt careened and flattened; and so she could manage to accommodate herself to the limited space of her punishment, the circles drooping far over her feet as she stood there, looking like the costumed stick of a baby's rattle. her thinness continued into her face, which, unfortunately, had nothing in the way of toilet to assist it. two little black eyes fixed in the sides of a mere fence of a nose, and a mouth with the shape and expression of all mouths made to go over sharp-pointed teeth planted very far apart; the smallest amount possible of fine, dry, black hair--a perfect rat-tail when it was plaited in one, as almost all wore their hair. but sometimes pupasse took it into her head to plait it in two braids, as none but the thick-haired ventured to wear it. as the little girls said, it was a petition to heaven for "eau quinquina." when marcelite, the hair-dresser, came at her regular periods to visit the hair of the boarders, she would make an effort with pupasse, plaiting her hundred hairs in a ten-strand braid. the effect was a half yard of black worsted galloon; nothing more, or better. had pupasse possessed as many heads as the hydra, she could have "coiffe'd" them all with fools' caps during one morning's recitations. she entirely monopolized the "daily bee." madame joubert was forced to borrow from "madame" the stale weekly "courrier des etats-unis" for the rest of the room. from grammar, through sacred history, arithmetic, geography, mythology, down to dictation, pupasse could pile up an accumulation of penitences that would have tasked the limits of the current day had not recreation been wisely set as a term which disbarred, by proscription, previous offenses. but even after recreation, with that day's lessons safely out, punished and expiated, pupasse's doom seemed scarcely lightened; there was still a whole criminal code of conduct to infract. the only difference was that instead of books, slates, or copy-books, leathern medals, bearing various legends and mottos, were hung around her neck--a travestied decoration worse than the books for humiliation. the "abécédaires," their torment for the day over, thankful for any distraction from the next day's lessons, and eager for any relief from the intolerable ennui of goodness, were thankful enough now for pupasse. they naturally watched her in preference to madame joubert, holding their books and slates quite cunningly to hide their faces. pupasse had not only the genius, but that which sometimes fails genius, the means for grimacing: little eyes, long nose, foolish mouth, and pointed tongue. and she was so amusing, when madame joubert's head was turned, that the little girls, being young and innocent, would forget themselves and all burst out laughing. it sounded like a flight of singing birds through the hot, close, stupid little room; but not so to madame joubert. "young ladies! but what does this mean?" and, terror-stricken, the innocents would call out with one voice, "it's pupasse, madame! it's pupasse who made us laugh!" there was nothing but fools' caps to be gained by prevaricating, and there was frequently nothing less gained by confession. and oh, the wails and the sobs as the innocents would be stood up, one by one, in their places! even the pigtails at the backs of their little heads were convulsed with grief. oh, how they hated pupasse then! when their _bonnes_ came for them at three o'clock,--washing their tear-stained faces at the cistern before daring to take them through the streets,--how passionately they would cry out, the tears breaking afresh into the wet handkerchiefs: "it's that pupasse! it's that _vilaine_ pupasse!" to pupasse herself would be meted out that "peine forte et dure," that acme of humiliation and disgrace, so intensely horrible that many a little girl in that room solemnly averred and believed she would kill herself before submitting to it. pupasse's voluminous calico skirt would be gathered up by the hem and tied up over her head! oh, the horrible monstrosity on the stool in the corner then! there were no eyes in that room that had any desire to look upon it. and the cries and the "quelle injustice!" that fell on the ears then from the hidden feelings had all the weirdness of the unseen, but heard. and all the other girls in the room, in fear and trembling, would begin to move their lips in a perfect whirlwind of study, or write violently on their slates, or begin at that very instant to rule off their copy-books for the next day's verb. pupasse--her name was marie pupasse but no one thought of calling her anything but pupasse, with emphasis on the first syllable and sibilance on the last--had no parents only a grandmother, to describe whom, all that is necessary to say is that she was as short as pupasse was tall, and that her face resembled nothing so much as a little yellow apple shriveling from decay. the old lady came but once a week, to fetch pupasse fresh clothes, and a great brown paper bag of nice things to eat. there was no boarder in the school who received handsomer bags of cake and fruit than pupasse. and although, not two hours before, a girl might have been foremost in the shrill cry, "it is pupasse who made the noise! it is pupasse who made me laugh!" there was nothing in that paper bag reserved even from such a one. when the girl herself with native delicacy would, under the circumstances, judge it discreet to refuse, pupasse would plead, "oh, but take it to give me pleasure!" and if still the refusal continued, pupasse would take her bag and go into the summer-house in the corner of the garden, and cry until the unforgiving one would relent. but the first offering of the bag was invariably to the stern dispenser of fools' caps and the unnamed humiliation of the reversed skirt: madame joubert. pupasse was in the fifth class. the sixth--the abécédaires--was the lowest in the school. green was the color of the fifth; white--innocence--of the abécédaires. exhibition after exhibition, the same green sash and green ribbons appeared on pupasse's white muslin, the white muslin getting longer and longer every year, trying to keep up with her phenomenal growth; and always, from all over the room, buzzed the audience's suppressed merriment at pupasse's appearance in the ranks of the little ones of nine and ten. it was that very merriment that brought about the greatest change in the institute st. denis. the sitting order of the classes was reversed. the first class--the graduates--went up to the top step of the _estrade_; and the little ones put on the lowest, behind the pianos. the graduates grumbled that it was not _comme il faut_ to have young ladies of their position stepping like camels up and down those great steps; and the little girls said it was a shame to hide them behind the pianos after their mamas had taken so much pains to make them look pretty. but madame said--going also to natural history for her comparison--that one must be a rhinoceros to continue the former routine. religion cannot be kept waiting forever on the intelligence. it was always in the fourth class that the first communion was made; that is, when the girls stayed one year in each class. but pupasse had spent three years in the sixth class, and had already been four in the fifth, and madame joubert felt that longer delay would be disrespectful to the good lord. it was true that pupasse could not yet distinguish the ten commandments from the seven capital sins, and still would answer that jeanne d'arc was the foundress of the "little sisters of the poor." but, as madame joubert always said in the little address she made to the catechism class every year before handing it over to father dolomier, god judged from the heart, and not from the mind. father dolomier--from his face he would have been an able contestant of _bonnets d'âne_ with pupasse, if subjected to madame joubert's discipline--evidently had the same method of judging as god, although the catechism class said they could dance a waltz on the end of his long nose without his perceiving it. there is always a little air of mystery about the first communion: not that there is any in reality, but the little ones assume it to render themselves important. the going to early mass, the holding their dog-eared catechisms as if they were relics, the instruction from the priest, even if he were only old father dolomier--it all put such a little air of devotion into their faces that it imposed (as it did every year) upon their companions, which was a vastly gratifying effect. no matter how young and innocent she may be, a woman's devotion always seems to have two aims--god and her own sex. the week of retreat came. oh, the week of retreat! that was the _bonne bouche_ of it all, for themselves and for the others. it was the same every year. by the time the week of retreat arrived, interest and mystery had been frothed to the point of indiscretion; so that the little girls would stand on tiptoe to peep through the shutters at the postulants inside, and even the larger girls, to whom first communion was a thing of an infantile past, would condescend to listen to their reports with ill-feigned indifference. as the day of the first communion neared, the day of the general confession naturally neared too, leading it. and then the little girls, peeping through the shutters, and holding their breath to see better, saw what they beheld every year; but it was always new and awesome--mysterious scribbling in corners with lead-pencils on scraps of paper; consultations; rewritings; copyings; the list of their sins, of all the sins of their lives. "_ma chère!_"--pigtails and sunbonnets hiving outside would shudder. "oh, _mon dieu!_ to have to confess all--but _all_ your sins! as for me, it would kill me, sure!" and the frightful recoils of their consciences would make all instantly blanch and cross themselves. "and look at pupasse's sins! oh, but they are long! _ma chère_, but look! but look, i ask you, at them!" the longest record was of course the most complimentary and honorable to the possessor, as each girl naturally worked not only for absolution but for fame. between catechisms and instructions madame joubert would have "la vie des saints" read aloud, to stimulate their piety and to engage their thoughts; for the thoughts of first communicants are worse than flies for buzzing around the forbidden. the lecture must have been a great quickener of conscience; for they would dare punishment and cheat madame joubert, under her own eyes, in order surreptitiously to add a new sin to their list. of course the one hour's recreation could not afford time enough for observation now, and the little girls were driven to all sorts of excuses to get out of the classroom for one moment's peep through the shutters; at which whole swarms of them would sometimes be caught and sent into punishment. only two days more. madame joubert put them through the rehearsal, a most important part of the preparation, almost as important as catechism--how to enter the church, how to hold the candle, how to advance, how to kneel, retire--everything, in fact. only one day more, the quietest, most devotional day of all. pupasse lost her sins! of course every year the same accident happened to some one. but it was a new accident to pupasse. and such a long list! the commotion inside that retreat! pupasse's nasal whine, carrying her lament without any mystery to the outside garden. such searching of pockets, rummaging of corners, microscopic examination of the floor! such crimination and recrimination, protestation, asseveration, assurances, backed by divine and saintly invocations! pupasse accused companion after companion of filching her sins, which each after each would violently deny, producing each her own list from her own pocket,--proof to conviction of innocence, and, we may say, of guilt also. pupasse declared they had niched it to copy, because her list was the longest and most complete. she could not go to confession without her sins; she could not go to communion without confession. the tears rolled down her long thin nose unchecked, for she never could remember to use her handkerchief until reminded by madame joubert. she had committed it to memory, as all the others had done theirs; but how was she to know without the list if she had not forgotten something? and to forget one thing in a general confession they knew was a mortal sin. "i shall tell madame joubert! i shall tell madame joubert!" "_ma chère_!'" whispered the little ones outside. "oh, but look at them! _elles font les quatre cents coups_!" which is equivalent to "cutting up like the mischief." and with reason. as if such an influx of the world upon them at this moment were not sufficient of itself to damn them. but to tell madame joubert! with all their dresses made and ready, wreaths, veils, candles, prayer-books, picture-cards, mother-of-pearl prayer-beads, and festival breakfasts with admiring family and friends prepared. tell madame joubert! she would simply cancel it all. in a body they chorused: "but, pupasse!" "_chère_ pupasse!" "_voyons_, pupasse!" "i assure you, pupasse!" "on the cross, pupasse!" "ah, pupasse!" "we implore you, pupasse!" the only response--tears, and "i shall tell madame joubert." consultations, caucuses, individual appeals, general outbursts. pupasse stood in the corner. curiously, she always sought refuge in the very sanctum of punishment, her face hidden in her bended arms, her hoops standing out behind, vouchsafing nothing but tears, and the promise to tell madame joubert. and three o'clock approaching! and madame joubert imminent! but pupasse really could not go to confession without her sins. they all recognized that; they were reasonable, as they assured her. a crisis quickens the wits. they heard the cathedral clock strike the quarter to three. they whispered, suggested, argued--bunched in the farthest corner from pupasse. "console yourself, pupasse! we will help you, pupasse! say no more about it! we will help you!" a delegate was sent to say that. she was only four feet and a half high, and had to stand on tiptoe to pluck the six-foot pupasse's dress to gain her attention. and they did help her generously. a new sheet of fool's-cap was procured, and torn in two, lengthwise, and pinned in a long strip. one by one, each little girl took it, and, retiring as far as possible, would put her hand into her pocket, and, extracting her list, would copy it in full on the new paper. then she would fold it down, and give it to the next one, until all had written. "here, pupasse; here are all our sins. we give them to you; you can have them." pupasse was radiant; she was more than delighted, and the more she read the better pleased she was. such a handsome long list, and so many sins she had never thought of--never dreamed of! she set herself with zeal to commit them to memory. but a hand on the door--madame joubert! you never could have told that those little girls had not been sitting during the whole time, with their hands clasped and eyes cast up to the ceiling, or moving their lips as the prayer-beads glided through their fingers. their versatility was really marvelous. [illustration: the first communion.] poor pupasse! god solved the dilemma of her education, and madame's increasing sensitiveness about her appearance in the fifth class, by the death of the old grandmother. she went home to the funeral, and never returned--or at least she returned, but only for madame. there was a little scene in the parlor: pupasse, all dressed in black, with her bag of primary books in her hand, ready and eager to get back to her classes and fools' caps; madame, hesitating between her interests and her fear of ridicule; madame joubert, between her loyalty to school and her conscience. pupasse the only one free and untrammeled, simple and direct. that little school parlor had been the stage for so many scenes! madame joubert detested acting--the comedy, as she called it. there was nothing she punished with more pleasure up in her room. and yet-- "pupasse, _ma fille_, give me your grammar." the old battered, primitive book was gotten out of the bag, the string still tied between the leaves for convenience in hanging around the neck. "your last punishment: the rule for irregular verbs. commence!" "i know it, madame joubert; i know it perfectly, i assure you." "commence!" "irregular verbs--but i assure you i know it--i know it by heart--" "commence, _ma fille!_" "irregular verbs--irregular verbs--i know it, madame joubert--one moment--" and she shook her right hand, as girls do to get inspiration, they say. "irregular verbs--give me one word, madame joubert; only one word!" "that--" "irregular verbs, that--irregular verbs, that--" "see here, pupasse; you do not know that lesson any more than a cat does"--madame joubert's favorite comparison. "yes, i do, madame joubert! yes, i do!" "silence!" "but, madame joubert--" "will you be silent!" "yes, madame joubert; only--" "pupasse, one more word--and--" madame joubert was forgetting her comedy--"listen, pupasse, and obey! you go home and learn that lesson. when you know it, you can reënter your class. that is the punishment i have thought of to correct your 'want of attention.'" that was the way madame joubert put it--"want of attention." pupasse looked at her--at madame, a silent but potent spectator. to be sent from home because she did not know the rule of the irregular verbs! to be sent from home, family, friends!--for that was the way pupasse put it. she had been in that school--it may only be whispered--fifteen years. madame joubert knew it; so did madame, although they accounted for only four or five years in each class. that school was her home; madame joubert--god help her!--her mother; madame, her divinity; fools' caps and turned-up skirts, her life. the old grandmother--she it was who had done everything for her (a _ci-devant_ rag-picker, they say); she it was who was nothing to her. madame must have felt something of it besides the loss of the handsome salary for years from the little old withered woman. but conventionality is inexorable; and the st. denis's great recommendation was its conventionality. madame joubert must have felt something of it,--she must have felt something of it,--for why should she volunteer? certainly madame could not have imposed _that_ upon _her. it must_ have been an inspiration of the moment, or a movement, a _tressaillement_, of the heart. "listen, pupasse, my child. go home, study your lesson well. i shall come every evening myself and hear it; and as soon as you know it, i shall fetch you back myself. you know i always keep my word." keep her word! that she did. could the inanimate past testify, what a fluttering of fools' caps in that parlor--"daily bees," and "weekly couriers," by the year-full! what could pupasse say or do? it settled the question, as madame joubert assured madame, when the tall, thin black figure with the bag of books disappeared through the gate. madame joubert was never known to break her word; that is all one knows about her part of the bargain. one day, not three years ago, ringing a bell to inquire for a servant, a familiar murmuring fell upon the ear, and an old abécédaire's eyes could not resist the temptation to look through the shutters. there sat pupasse; there was her old grammar; there were both fingers stopping her ears--as all studious girls do, or used to do; and there sounded the old words composing the rule for irregular verbs. and you all remember how long it is since we wore funnel-shaped hoop-skirts! [illustration: "'thank the lord! _now i can see to look for 'em!_'"] moriah's mourning and other half-hour sketches by ruth mcenery stuart _author of "in simpkinsville" "a golden wedding" etc._ with illustrations london and new york harper & brothers publishers copyright, , by harper & brothers. _all rights reserved._ _printed in new york, u.s.a._ contents page moriah's mourning an optical dilemma the second mrs. slimm apollo belvedere. a christmas episode of the plantation nearest of kin (on the plantation) the deacon's medicine two gentlemen of leisure the rev. jordan white's three glances lady. a monologue of the cow-pen a pulpit orator an easter symbol. a monologue of the plantation christmas at the trimbles' a minor chord illustrations "'thank the lord! _now i can see to look for 'em!_'" _frontispiece_ "a surprised and smiling man was sitting at her polished kitchen table" _facing p._ "'i'm ac-chilly most afeerd _to_ see you converted'" " "'i promised him i'd put on mo'nin' for her soon as i married into de family'" " "says she, 'open yore mouth!' an' of co'se i opened it" " "i des lets 'em loose p'omiskyus, tell ev'ybody see blue lightnin'" " "salvation's kyar is movin'!" " "'won't yer, please, sir, spell dat word out fur me slow?'" " moriah's mourning moriah was a widow of a month, and when she announced her intention of marrying again, the plantation held its breath. then it roared with laughter. not because of the short period of her mourning was the news so incredible. but by a most exceptional mourning moriah had put herself upon record as the most inconsolable of widows. so prompt a readjustment of life under similar conditions was by no means unprecedented in colored circles. the rules governing the wearing of the mourning garb are by no means stringent in plantation communities, and the widow who for reasons of economy or convenience sees fit to wear out her colored garments during her working hours is not held to account for so doing if she appear at all public functions clad in such weeds as she may find available. it is not even needful, indeed, that her supreme effort should attain any definite standard. anybody can collect a few black things, and there is often an added pathos in the very incongruity of some of the mourning toilettes that pass up the aisles of the colored churches. was not the soul of artlessness expressed in the first mourning of a certain young widow, for instance, who sewed upon her blue gown all the black trimming she could collect, declaring that she "would 'a' dyed de frock th'oo an' th'oo 'cep'n' it would 'a' swunked it up too much"? and perhaps her sympathetic companions were quite as _naïve_ as she, for, as they aided her in these first hasty stitches, they poured upon her wounded spirit the healing oil of full and sympathetic approval, as the following remarks will testify. "dat frock mo'ns all right, now de black bows is on it." "you kin put any colored frock in mo'nin' 'cep'n' a red one. sew black on red, an' it laughs in yo' face." "i'm a-sewin' de black fringe on de josey, sis jones, 'case fringe hit mo'ns a heap mo'nfuler 'n ribbon do." needless to say, a license so full and free as this found fine expression in a field of flowering weeds quite rare and beautiful to see. moriah had proven herself in many ways an exceptional person even before the occasion of her bereavement, and in this, contrary to all precedent, she had rashly cast her every garment into the dye-pot, sparing not even so much as her underwear. moriah was herself as black as a total eclipse, tall, angular, and imposing, and as she strode down the road, clad in the sombre vestments of sorrow, she was so noble an expression of her own idea that as a simple embodiment of dignified surrender to grief she commanded respect. the plantation folk were profoundly impressed, for it had soon become known that her black garb was not merely a thing of the surface. "moriah sho' does mo'n for numa. she mo'ns f'om de skin out." such was popular comment, although it is said that one practical sister, to whom this "inward mo'nin'" had little meaning, ventured so far as to protest against it. "sis moriah," she said, timidly, as she sat waiting while moriah dressed for church--"sis moriah, look ter me like you'd be 'feerd dem black shimmies 'd draw out some sort o' tetter on yo' skin," to which bit of friendly warning moriah had responded, with a groan, and in a voice that was almost sepulchral in its awful solemnity, "_when i mo'n i mo'n!_" perhaps an idea of the unusual presence of this great black woman may be conveyed by the fact that when she said, as she was wont to do in speaking of her own name, "i'm named moriah--after a bible mountain," there seemed a sort of fitness in the name and in the juxtaposition neither the sacred eminence or the woman suffered a loss of dignity. and this woman it was who, after eight years of respectable wifehood and but four weeks of mourning her lost mate, calmly announced that she was to be married again. the man of her choice--i use the expression advisedly--was a neighbor whom she had always known, a widower whose bereavement was of three months' longer standing than her own. the courtship must have been brief and to the point, for it was positively known that he and his _fiancée_ had met but three times in the interval when the banns were published. he had been engaged to whitewash the kitchen in which she had pursued her vocation as cook for the writer's family. the whitewashing was done in a single morning, but a second coating was found necessary, and it is said by one of her fellow-servants, who professes to have overheard the remark, that while pete was putting the finishing-touches to the bit of chimney back of her stove, moriah, who stooped at the oven door beside him, basting a roast turkey, lifted up her stately head and said, archly, breaking her mourning record for the first time by a gleaming display of ivory and coral as she spoke, "who'd 'a' thought you'd come into my kitchen to do yo' _secon' co'tin'_, pete?" at which, so says our informant, the whitewash brush fell from the delighted artisan's hands, and in a shorter time than is consumed in the telling, a surprised and smiling man was sitting at her polished kitchen table chatting cosily with his mourning hostess, while she served him with giblets and gravy and rice and potatoes "an' coffee b'iled expressly." [illustration: "a surprised and smiling man was sitting at her polished kitchen table"] it was discovered that the kitchen walls needed a third coating. this took an entire day, "because," so said pete, "de third coat, hit takes mo' time to soak in." and then came the announcement. moriah herself, apparently in nowise embarrassed by its burden, bore the news to us on the following morning. there was no visible change of front in her bearing as she presented herself--no abatement of her mourning. "mis' gladys," she said, simply, "i come ter give you notice dat i gwine take fo' days off, startin' nex' sunday." "i hope you are not in any new trouble, moriah?" i said, sympathetically. "well, i don' know ef i is or not. me an' pete pointdexter, we done talked it over, an' we come ter de conclusion ter marry." i turned and looked at the woman--at her black garments, her still serious expression. surely my hearing was playing me false. but catching my unspoken protest, she had already begun to explain. "dey ain't no onrespec' ter de dead, mis' gladys, in _marryin'_," she began. "de onrespec' is in de _carryin's on_ folks does _when_ dey marry. pete an' me, we 'low ter have eve'ything quiet an' solemncholy--an' pay all due respects--right an' left. of co'se pete's chillen stands up fur dey mammy, an' dey don't take no stock in him ma'yin' ag'in. but ca'line she been dead _long enough_--mos' six mont's--countin' fo' weeks ter de mont'. an' as fur me, i done 'ranged ter have eve'ything did ter show respec's ter numa." (numa was her deceased husband.) "de organ-player he gwine march us in chu'ch by de same march he played fur numa's fun'al, an' look like dat in itse'f is enough ter show de world dat i ain't forgot numa. an', tell de trufe, mis' gladys, ef numa was ter rise up f'om his grave, i'd sen' pete a-flyin' so fast you could sen' eggs to market on his coat tail. "you see, de trouble is i done had my eye on pete's chillen ever sence dey mammy died, an' ef dey ever was a set o' onery, low-down, sassy, no-'count little niggers dat need takin' in hand by a able-bodied step-mammy, dey a-waitin' fur me right yonder in pete's cabin. my hand has des nachelly itched to take aholt o' dat crowd many a day--an' ever sence i buried numa of co'se i see de way was open. an' des as soon as i felt like i could bring myse'f to it, i--well--dey warn't no use losin' time, an' so i _tol' you, missy, dat de kitchen need' white-washin'_." "and so you sent for him--and proposed to him, did you?" "p'opose to who, mis' gladys? i'd see pete in de sinkin' swamp 'fo' i'd p'opose to him!" "then how did you manage it, pray?" "g'way, mis' gladys! any wide-awake widder 'oman dat kin get a widder man whar he can't he'p but see her move round at her work for two days hand-runnin', an' can't mesmerize him so's he'll ax her to marry him--um--hm! i'd ondertake ter do dat, even ef i warn't no cook; but wid seasonin's an' flavors to he'p me--law, chile! dey warn't no yearthly 'scape fur dem chillen! "i would 'a' waited," she added, presently--"i would 'a' waited a reas'nable time, 'cep'n dat pete started gwine ter chu'ch, an' you know yo'se'f, missy, when a well-favored widder man go ter seek consolation f'om de pulpit, he's might' ap' ter find it in de congergation." as i sat listening to her quiet exposition of her scheme, it seemed monstrous. "and so, moriah," i spoke now with a ring of real severity in my voice--"and so you are going to marry a man that you confess you don't care for, just for the sake of getting control of his children? i wouldn't have believed it of you." "well--partly, missy." she smiled a little now for the first time. "partly on dat account, an' partly on his'n. pete's wife ca'line, she was a good 'oman, but she was mighty puny an' peevish; an' besides dat, she was one o' deze heah naggers, an' pete is allus had a purty hard pull, an' i lay out ter give him a better chance. eve'y bit o' whitewashin' he'd git ter do 'roun' town, ca'line she'd swaller it in medicine. but she was a good 'oman, ca'line was. heap o' deze heah naggers is good 'omans! co'se i don't say i _loves_ pete, but i looks ter come roun' ter 'im in time. ef i didn't, i wouldn't have him." "and how about his loving you?" "oh, mis' gladys, you is so searching!" she chuckled. "co'se he _say_ he loves me already better'n he love ca'line, but of co'se a widder man he feels obleeged ter talk dat-a-way. an' ef he didn't have the manners ter say it, i wouldn't have him, to save his life; but _ef he meant it, i'd despise him_. after ca'line lovin' de groun' he tread fur nine long yeahs, he ain't got no right ter love _no_ 'oman better'n he love her des 'caze he's a-projec'in' ter git married to 'er. but of co'se, mis' gladys, i ca'culates ter outstrip ca'line in co'se o' time. ef i couldn't do dat--an' she in 'er grave--_an' me a cook_--i wouldn't count myse'f much. an' den, time i outstrips her an' git him over, heart _an'_ soul, i'll know it by de signs." "why will you know it more than you know it now? he can but swear it to you." "oh no, missy. when de rock bottom of a man's heart warms to a 'oman, he eases off f'om swearin' 'bout it. deze heah men wha' swear so much, dey swear des as much ter convince deyselves as dey does ter ketch a 'oman's ear. no, missy. time i got him heart _an'_ soul, i looks for him to commence to th'ow up ca'line's ways ter me. heap of 'em does dat des ter ease dey own consciences an' pacify a dead 'oman's ghost. dat's de way a man nachelly do. but he won't faze me, so long as i holds de fort! an' fur de chillen, co'se quick as i gits 'em broke in i'll see dat dey won't miss ca'line none. dat little teether, i done tol' pete ter fetch her over ter me right away. time i doctors her wid proper teas, an' washes her in good warm pot-liquor, i'll make a fus'-class baby out'n her." moriah had always been a good woman, and as she stood before me, laying bare the scheme that, no matter what the conditions, had in it the smallest selfish consideration, i felt my heart warm to her again, and i could not but feel that the little whitewasher--a kindly, hard-pressed family man of slight account--would do well to lay his brood upon her ample bosom. of course _she_ was marrying _him_, and her acquisition of family would inevitably become pensioners upon our bounty; but this is not a great matter in a land where the so-called "cultivation" of the soil is mainly a question of pruning and selection, and clothes grow upon the commonest bush. as she turned to go, i even offered her my best wishes, and when i laughingly asked her if i might help her with her wedding-dress, she turned and looked at me. "bless yo' heart, mis' gladys," she exclaimed, "_i ain't gwine out o' mo'nin'_! i gwine marry pete in des what i got on my back. i'll _marry_ him, an' i'll take dem little no-'counts o' his'n, an' i'll make _folks_ out'n 'em 'fo' i gits th'ough wid 'em, ef gord spares me; but he nee'n't ter lay out ter come in 'twix' me an' my full year o' mo'nin' fur numa. when i walks inter dat chu'ch, 'cep'n' fur de owange wreaf, which of co'se in a christian ma'iage i'm boun' ter wear, folks 'll be a heap mo' 'minded o' numa 'n dey will o' de bridegroom. an' dem chillen o' his'n, which ain't nuver is had no proper mo'nin' fur dey mammy--no mo' 'n what color gord give 'em in dey skins--i gwine put 'em in special secon' mo'nin', 'cordin' to de time dey ought ter been wearin' it; an' when we walks up de island o' de chu'ch, dey got ter foller, two by two, keepin' time ter de fun'al march. you come ter de weddin', mis' gladys, an' i lay you'll 'low dat i done fixed it so dat, while i'm a-lookin' out fur de livin', de dead ain't gwine feel slighted, right nur left." she was starting away again, and once more, while i wished her joy, i bade her be careful to make no mistake. a note of sympathy in my voice must have touched the woman, for she turned, and coming quite up to me, laid her hand upon my lap. "missy," she said, "i don't believe i gwine make no mistake. you know i allus did love chillen, an' i ain't nuver is had none o' my own, an' dis heah seemed like my chance. an' i been surveyin' de lan'scape o'er tryin' ter think about eve'ything i can do _ter start right_. i'm a-startin' wid dem chillen, puttin' 'em in mo'nin' fur ca'line. den, fur pete, i gwine ring de changes on ca'line's goodness tell he ax me, _for gord sake, ter stop_, so, in years ter come, he won't have nothin' ter th'ow up ter me. an' you know de reason i done tooken fo' days off, missy? i gwine on a weddin'-trip down ter pine bluff, an' i wants time ter pick out a few little weddin'-presents to fetch home ter pete." "pete!" i cried. "pete is going with you, of course?" "pete gwine wid me? who sesso? no, ma'am! why, missy, how would it look fur me ter go a-skylarkin' roun' de country wid pete--_an' me in mo'nin'_? "no, indeedy! i gwine leave pete home ter take keer dem chillen, an' i done set him a good job o' whitewashin' to do while i'm gone, too. de principles' weddin'-present i gwine fetch pete is a fiddle. po' pete been wantin' a good fiddle all his life, an' he 'ain't nuver is had one. but, of co'se, i don't 'low ter let him play on it tell de full year of mo'nin' is out." an optical dilemma elder bradley had lost his spectacles, and he was in despair. he was nearly blind without them, and there was no one at home to hunt them for him. his wife had gone out visiting for the afternoon; and he had just seen dinah, the cook, stride gleefully out the front gate at the end of the lane, arrayed in all her "s'ciety uniform," on her way to a church funeral. she would not be home until dark. it was growing late in the afternoon, and the elder had to make out his report to be read at the meeting of the session this evening. it _had to be done_. he could not, from where he sat, distinguish the pink lion's head from the purple rose-buds on the handsome new american brussels rug that his wife had bought him as a christmas gift--to lay under her sewing-machine--although he could put out his boot and touch it. how could he expect to find anything so small as a pair of spectacles? the elder was a very old man, and for years his focal point had been moving off gradually, until now his chief pleasures of sight were to be found out-of-doors, where the distant views came gratefully to meet him. he could more easily distinguish the dark glass insulators from the little sparrows that sometimes came to visit them upon the telegraph pole a quarter of a mile away than he could discriminate between the beans and the pie that sometimes lay together on his dinner plate. indeed, when his glasses stayed lost over mealtimes, as they had occasionally done, he had, after vainly struggling to locate the various viands upon his plate and suffering repeated palatal disappointments, generally ended by stirring them all together, with the declaration that he would at least get one certain taste, and abide by it. this would seem to show him to have been an essentially amiable man, even though he was occasionally mastered by such outbursts of impatience as this; for, be it said to his credit, he always left a clean plate. the truth is, elder bradley was an earnest, good man, and he had tried all his life, in a modest, undeclared way, to be a christian philosopher. and he would try it now. he had been, for an hour after his mishap, walking more rapidly than was his habit up and down the entire length of the hall that divided the house into two distinct sides, and his head had hung low upon his bosom. he had been pondering. or perhaps he had been praying. his dilemma was by no means a thing to be taken lightly. suddenly realizing, however, that he had squandered the greater part of a valuable afternoon in useless repining, he now lifted his head and glanced about him. "i'm a-goin' to find them blame spec's--eyes or no eyes!" he spoke with a steady voice that had in it the ring of the invincible spirit that dares failure. and now, having resolved and spoken, he turned and entered the dining-room--and sat down. it was here that he remembered having last used the glasses. he would sit here and think. it was a rather small room, which would have been an advantage in ordinary circumstances. but to the elder its dimensions were an insurmountable difficulty. how can one compass a forty-rod focus within the limits of a twelve by sixteen foot room? but if his eyes could not help him, his hands must. he had taken as few steps as possible in going about the room, lest he should tread upon the glasses unawares; and now, stepping gingerly, and sometimes merely pushing his feet along, he approached his writing-table and sat down before it. then he began to feel. it was a tedious experiment and a hazardous one, and after a few moments of nervous and fruitless groping, he sought relief in expression. "that's right! turn over!" he exclaimed. "i s'pose you're the red ink! now if i could jest capsize the mucilage-bottle an' my bag o' snuff, an' stir in that seidlitz-powder i laid out here to take, it would be purty cheerful for them fiddle-de-dees an' furbelows thet's layin' everywhere. i hope they'll ketch it ef anything does! they's nothin' i feel so much like doin' ez takin' a spoon to the whole business!" the elder was a popular father, grandfather, uncle, husband, and bible-class teacher to a band of devoted women of needle-work and hand-painting proclivities, and his writing-table was a favorite target for their patiently wrought love-missiles. one of the strongest evidences of the old man's kindliness of nature was that it was only when he was wrought up to the point of desperation, as now, that he spoke his mind about the gewgaws which his soul despised. there are very few good old elders in the presbyterian church who care to have pink bows tied on their penholders, or to be reminded at every turn that they are hand-painted and daisy-decked "dear grandfathers." it is rather inconvenient to have to dodge a daisy or a motto every time one wants to dry a letter on his blotting-pad, and the hand-painted paper-cutter was never meant to cut anything. "yes," the good old man repeated, "ef i knowed i could stir in every blame thing thet's got a ribbon bow or a bo'quet on it, i'd take a spoon to this table now--an' stir the whole business up--an' start fresh!" still, as his hand tipped a bottle presently, he caught it and set it cautiously back in its place. he had begun now to systematically feel over the table, proceeding regularly with both hands from left to right and back again, until on a last return trip he discerned the edge of the mahogany next his body. and then he said--and he said it with spirit: "dod blast it! they ain't here--nowheres!" he sat still now for a moment in thought. and then he began to remember that he had sat talking to his wife at the sewing-machine just before she left the house. he rose and examined the table of the machine and the floor beneath it. then he tried the sideboard and the window-sill, where he had read his morning chapter from st. paul's epistle to the romans, chapter viii. he even shook out the leaves of his testament upon the floor between his knees and felt for them there. there had been a biblical surrender of this sort more than once in the past, and he never failed to go to the good book for relief, even when, as now, he distinctly remembered having worn the glasses after his daily reading. failing to find them here, he suddenly ran his hand over his forehead with an eager movement. many a time these very spectacles had come back to him there, and, strange to say, it was always one of the last places he remembered to examine. but they were not there now. he chuckled, even in his despair, as he dropped his hand. "i'll look there ag'in after a while. maybe when he's afeerd i'll clair lose my soul, he'll fetch 'em back to me!" the old man had often playfully asserted that his "guardeen angel" found his lost glasses, and laid them back on his head for him when he saw him tried beyond his strength. and maybe he was right. who can tell? that there is some sort of so-called "supernatural" intervention in such matters there seems to be little doubt. there is a race--of brownies, probably, or maybe they are imps--whose business in life seems to be to catch up any needed trifle--a suddenly dropped needle, the very leaf in the morning paper that the reader held a moment ago and that holds "continuations," the scissors just now at his elbow, his collar button--and to hide it until the loser swears his ultimate, most desperate swear! when the profanity is satisfactory, the little fellows usually fetch back the missing article, lay it noiselessly under the swearer's nose, and vanish. at other times, when the victim persistently declines profanity, they have been known to amiably restore the articles after a reasonable time, and to lay them so absurdly in evidence that the hitherto forbearing man breaks his record in a volley of imprecations. when this happens, if one has presence of mind to listen, he can distinctly hear a fine metallic titter along the tops of the furniture and a hasty scamper, as of tiny scurrying feet. this may sound jocund, but the writer testifies that it is true. of course when the victim is a lady the pixies do not require of them men's oaths. but they will have only her best. when the elder had tried in vain all the probable places where the glasses might be hidden, he began to realize that there was only one thing left for him to do. he must feel all over the floor. he was a fat old man and short of neck. for five years he had realized a feeling of thankfulness that the presbyterian form of worship permitted standing in prayer. it hurt him to kneel. but nothing could hurt him so much as to fail to hand in his report to-night. indeed, the missionary collection would be affected by it. it _must be written_. he found a corner in the room and got down on his marrow-bones, throwing his hands forward and bringing them back in far-reaching curves, as one swimming. this was hard work, and before many minutes great drops of perspiration were falling upon the carpet and the old man's breath came in quick gasps. "ef i jest had the blame things _for a minute_ to slip on my eyes, why, _i could find 'em_--easy enough!" he ejaculated--desperation in his voice. and then he proceeded to say a number of things that were lacking in moderation, and consequently very sinful--in an elder of the church. the "bad words" spoken in the vacant house fell accusingly upon the speaker's ears, and they must have startled him, for he hastened to add: "i don't see where no sense o' jestice comes in, nohow, in allowin' a man on the very eve of doin' his christian duty to lose his most important wherewithal!" this plea was no doubt in mild extenuation of the explosive that had preceded it, and as he turned and drew himself forward by his elbows to compass a new section of the room, which, by-the-way, seemed suddenly expanded in size, he began to realize that the plea was in itself most sinful--even more so than the outburst, perhaps, being an implication of divine injustice. a lump came into his throat, and as he proceeded laboriously along on his dry swim, he felt for a moment in danger of crying. of course this would never do, but there was just so much emotion within him, and it had begun to ferment. before he realized his excitement his arms were flying about wildly and he was shrieking in a frenzy. "but _i must have 'em_! i _must have 'em_! i must, i say; o lord, i must--i must have them spectacles! lor-r-d, i have work to do--for thee--an' i am eager to perform it. all i ask is five minutes' use o' my eyes, so thet i may pursue this search in patience--" his voice broke in a sob. and just now it was that his left hand, fumbling over the foot of the sewing-machine treadle, ran against a familiar bit of steel wire. if it had connected with an ordinary electric battery, the resulting shock could scarcely have been more pronounced. there was something really pathetic in the spasmodic grasp with which he seized the glasses, and as he rose to a sitting posture and lifted them to his eyes, his hand shook pitifully. "thank the lord! _now i can see to look for 'em!_" and as he tremblingly brought the curved ends of the wire around his ears he exclaimed with fervor, "yas, lord, with thy help i will keep my vow--an' pursue this search in patience." his wet, red face beamed with pleasure over the recovery of his near vision. so happy was he, indeed, in the new possession, that, instead of rising, he sat still in the middle of the floor, running his eyes with rapid scrutiny over the carpet near him. he sat here a long time--even forgetting his discomfort, while he turned as on a pivot as the search required. though the missing articles did not promptly appear at his side, bradley felt that he was having a good time, and so he was, comparatively. of course he would find the glasses presently. he looked at his watch. what a joy to see its face! he would still have time to do the report, if he hurried a little. he began to rise by painful stages. "lemme see! the last thing i done was to open the sideboa'd an' cut a piece o' pie an' eat it. i _must_ o' had my glasses on then. i ricollec' it was sweet-potato pie, an' it was scorched on one side. lordy! but what a pleasure it is to look for a thing when a person _can_ look!" he crossed over to the sideboard. "yas"--he had opened the door and was cutting another piece of pie. "yas. sweet-potato pie, an' burnt on one side--the side thet's left. yas, an' i'll leave it ag'in!" he chuckled as he took a deep bite. "of co'se i _must 'a'_ had 'em on _when i cut the pie_, or i couldn't 've _saw_ it so distinc'--'an i finished that slice a-settin' down talkin' to her at the sewin'-machine. ricollec' i told _her_ how mother used to put cinnamon in hers. i'll go set there ag'in, an' maybe by lookin' 'round--they might 'a' dropped in her darnin'-basket." it was while he sat here, running one hand through the basket and holding the slice of pie in the other, that he heard a step, and, looking up, he saw his wife standing in the door. "why, ephraim! what on earth!" she exclaimed. "i lef you there eatin' that pie fo' hours ago, an' i come back an' find you settin' there yet! you cert'n'y 'ain't forgot to make out yo' report?" "forgot nothin', maria." he swallowed laboriously as he spoke. "i 'ain't done a thing sence you been gone but look for my glasses--not a blame thing. an' i'm a-lookin' for 'em yet." mrs. bradley was frightened. she walked straight up to her husband and took his hand. "ephraim," she said, gently, and as she spoke she drew the remainder of the pie from his yielding fingers--"ephraim, i wouldn't eat any mo' o' that heavy pie ef i was you. you ain't well. ef you can't make no mo' headway'n that on yo' favor_ite_ pie in fo' hours, you're shorely goin' to be took sick." she took her handkerchief and wiped his forehead. and then she added, with a sweet, wifely tenderness: "to prove to you thet you ain't well, honey, yo' glasses are on yo' nose right now. you better go lay down." bradley looked straight into her face for some moments, but he did not even blink. then he said, in an awe-stricken voice: "ef what you say is true, maria--an' from the clairness with which i see the serious expression of yo' countenance i reckon it must be so--ef it _is_ so--" he paused here, and a new light came into his eyes, and then they filled with tears. "why, maria honey, _of co'se it's so_! i know when i found 'em! but i was so full o' the thought thet _ef i jest had my sight_ i could _look for 'em_ thet i slipped 'em on my nose an' continued the search. feel my pulse, honey; i've no doubt you're right. i'm a-goin' to have a spell o' sickness." "yes, dearie, i'm 'feered you are." the good woman drew him over to the lounge and carefully adjusted a pillow to his head. "now take a little nap, an' i'll send word over to elder jones's thet you ain't feelin' well an' can't come to prayer-meetin' to-night. what you need is rest, an' a change o' subject. i jest been over to may bennett's, an' she's give out thet she an' pete sanders has broke off their engagement--an' joe legget, why his leg's amputated clean off--an' susan tucker's baby had seven spasms an'--" "that so? i'm glad to hear it, wife. but ef you send word over to him thet i ain't well, don't send tell the last minute, please. ef you was to, he'd come by here, shore--an' they'd be questions ast, an' i couldn't stand it. jest send word when the second bell starts a-ringin' thet i ain't well. _an' i ain't_, maria." "i'm convinced o' that, ephraim--or i wouldn't send the message--an' you know it. we ain't so hard pressed for excuses thet we're goin' to lie about it. i knowed you wasn't well ez soon ez i see that piece o' pie." bradley coughed a little. "appearances is sometimes deceitful, maria. i hadn't wrastled with that pie ez unsuccessful ez i seemed. that was the second slice i'd et sence you left. no, the truth is, i lost my glasses, an' i got erritated an' flew into a temper an' said things. an' the lord, he punished me. he took my reason away. he gimme the glasses an' denied me the knowledge of 'em. but i'm thankful to him for lettin' me have 'em--anyhow. ef i was fo'ordained to search for 'em, it was mighty merciful in him to loan 'em to me to do it with." the second mrs. slimm ezra slimm was a widower of nearly a year, and, as a consequence, was in a state of mind not unusual in like circumstances. true, the said state of mind had not in his case manifested itself in the toilet bloomings, friskiness of demeanor, and protestations of youth renewed which had characterized the first signs of the same in the usual run of simpkinsville widowers up to date. if he had for several months been mentally casting about for another wife, he had betrayed it by no outward and visible sign. the fact is ezra's case was somewhat exceptional, as we shall presently see. although he was quite diminutive in size, there was in his bearing, as with hands clasped behind him he paced up and down before his lonely fireside, a distinct dignity that was not only essentially manly--it was _gentlemanly_. the refinement of feeling underlying this no doubt aggravated the dilemma in which he found himself, and which we cannot sooner comprehend than by attending to his soliloquy as he reviewed his trials in the following somewhat rambling fashion: "no, 'twouldn't never do in the world--never, never. 'twouldn't never do to marry any o' these girls round here thet knows all my ups an' downs with--with pore jinny. 'twouldn't never do. any girl thet knew thet her husband had been chastised by his first wife the way i've been would think thet ef she got fretted she was lettin' 'im off easy on a tongue-lashin'. an' i s'pose they is times when any woman gits sort o' wrought up, livin' day in an' day out with a man. no, 'twouldn't never do," he repeated, as, thrusting both hands in his pockets, he stopped before the fire, and steadying the top of his head against the mantel, studied the logs for a moment. "an' so the day pore jinny took it upon herself to lay me acrost her lap an' punish me in the presence of sech ill-mannered persons ez has seen fit to make a joke of it--though i don't see where the fun comes in--well, that day she settled the hash for number two so fur ez this town goes. "no, 'twouldn't never do in the world! even ef she never throwed it up to me, i'd be suspicious. she couldn't even to say clap her hands together to kill a mosquito less'n i'd think she was insinuatin'. an' jest ez quick ez any man suspicions thet his wife is a-naggin' him intentional, it's good-by happiness. "ef 'twasn't for that, of co'se they's more'n one young woman roun' this county thet any man might go further an' do worse than git. "not thet i hold it agin jinny, now she's gone, but--" he had resumed his promenade, extending it through a second room as he proceeded: "--but it does seem strange how a woman gifted in prayer ez she was, an' with all her instinc's religious the way hers was, should o' been allowed to take sech satisfaction in naggin' the very one she agonized most over in prayer, which i _know_ she done over me, _for i've heerd 'er_. an' ef she had o' once-t mentioned me to the lord confidential ez a person fitten to commingle with the cherubim an' seraphim, 'stid of a pore lost sinner not fitten to bresh up their wing-feathers for 'em, i b'lieve i might o' give in. i don't wonder i 'ain't never had a call to enter the kingdom on her ricommendation. 'twouldn't o' been fair to the innocent angels thet would 'a' been called on to associate with me. that's the way i look at it. "an' yit jinny 'lowed herself thet my _out'ard ac's_ was good, but bein' ez they didn't spring from a converted _heart_, they was jest nachel _hypocercy_, an' thet ef i'd o' lied an' stole, _or even answered her back_, she'd o' had more hope for me, because, sez she, a 'consistent sinner is ap' to make a consistent christian.' "she even tol' me one day--pore jinny! i can see her face light up now when she said it--sez she, 'i'm ac-chilly most afeerd _to_ see you converted, less'n you'll break out in some devilment you hadn't never thought about before-you're that inconsistent.' [illustration: "'i'm ac-chilly most afeerd _to_ see you converted'"] "sometimes i feel mean to think i don't miss 'er more'n what i do--an' she so lively, too. tell the truth, i miss them little devils she used to print on the butter pads she set at my plate ez a warnin' to me--seem to me i miss them jest about ez much ez i miss her. "the nearest i ever _did_ come to answerin' her back--'cept, of co'se, the time she chastised me--was the way i used regular to heat my knife-blade good an' hot 'twix' two batter-cakes an' flatten that devil out _de_lib'rate. but he'd be back nex' day, pitchfork an' all. "but with it all jinny loved me--in her own way, of co'se. doubt if i'll ever git another to love me ez well; 'n' don't know ez i crave it, less'n she was different dispositioned. "i've done paid her all the respec's i know--put up a fine bible-texted tombstone for her, an' had her daguerre'type enlarged to a po'tr'it. i don't know's i'm obligated to do any more, 'cep'n, of co'se, to wait till the year's out, which, not havin' no young children in need of a mother, i couldn't hardly do less than do." it was about a week after this that ezra sat beside his fire reading his paper, when his eye happened to fall upon the following paragraph among the "personals": "the claybank academy continues to thrive under the able management of miss myrtle musgrove. that accomplished and popular young lady has abolished the use of the rod, and by substituting the law of kindness she has built up the most flourishing academy in the state." ezra read the notice three times. then he laid the paper down, and clapping his hand upon it, exclaimed: "well, i'll be doggoned ef that ain't the woman for me! _any_ girl thet could teach a county school an' abolish whuppin'--not only a chance to do it, but a crowd o' young rascals _needin_' it all around 'er, an' her _not doin' it_! an' yit some other persons has been known to strain a p'int to whup a person they 'ain't rightly got no business _to_ whup." he read the notice again. "purty name that, too, myrtle musgrove. sounds like a girl to go out walkin' with under the myrtle-trees in the grove moonlight nights, myrtle musgrove does. "i declare, i ain't to say religious, but i b'lieve that notice was sent to me providential. "of co'se, maybe she wouldn't look at me ef i ast her; but one thing shore, she _can't if i don't_. "claybank is a good hund'ed miles from here 'n' i couldn't leave the farm now, noways; besides, the day i start a-makin' trips from home, talk'll start, an' i'll be watched close-ter'n what i'm watched now--ef that's possible. but th' ain't nothin' to hender me _writin_'--ez i can see." this idea, once in his mind, lent a new impulse to ezra's life, a fresh spring to his gait, so evident to solicitous eyes that during the next week even his dog noticed it and had a way of running up and sniffing about him, as if asking what had happened. an era of hope had dawned for the hitherto downcast man simply because miss myrtle musgrove, a woman he had never seen, had abolished whipping in a distant school. two weeks passed before ezra saw his way clearly to write the proposed letter, but he did, nevertheless, in the interval, walk up and down his butter-bean arbor on moonlight nights, imagining miss myrtle beside him--miss myrtle, named for his favorite flower. he _had_ preferred the violet, but he had changed his mind. rose-colored crêpe-myrtles were blooming in his garden at the time. maybe this was why he began to think of her as a pink-faced laughing girl, typified by the blushing flower. everything was so absolutely real in her setting that the ideal girl walked, a definite embodiment of his fancy, night after night by his side, and whether it was from his life habit or an intuitive fancy, he looked _upward_ into her face. he had always liked tall women. and all this time he was trying to frame a suitable letter to the real "popular and accomplished miss musgrove," of claybank academy. finally, however, the ambitious and flowery document was finished. it would be unfair to him whose postscript read, "for your eyes alone," to quote in full, for the vulgar gratification of prying eyes, the pathetic missive that told again the old story of a lonely home, the needed woman. but when it was sent, ezra found the circuit of the butter-bean arbor too circumscribed a promenade, and began taking the imaginary miss myrtle with him down through his orchard and potato-patch. it was during these moonlight communings that he seemed to discover that she listened while he talked--a new experience to ezra--and that even when he expressed his awful doubts as to the existence of a personal devil she only smiled, and thought he might be right. oh, the joy of such companionship! but, oh, the slowness of the mails! a month passed, and ezra was beginning to give up all hope of ever having an answer to his letter, when one day it came, a dainty envelope with the claybank postmark. miss musgrove thanked him for his letter. she would see him. it would not be convenient now, but would he not come down to the academy's closing exercises in june--a month later? until then she was very respectfully his friend, myrtle musgrove. the next month was the longest in ezra's life. still, the lord's calendar is faithful, and the sun not a waiter upon the moods of men. in twenty-nine days exactly a timid little man stood with throbbing heart at the door of claybank academy, and in a moment more he had slipped into a back seat of the crowded room, where a young orator was ringing poe's "bells" through all the varying cadences of his changing voice to a rapt audience of relations and friends. here unobserved ezra hoped to recover his self-possession, remove the beads of perspiration one by one from his brow with a corner of his neatly folded handkerchief, and perhaps from this vantage-ground even enjoy the delight of recognizing miss myrtle without an introduction. he had barely deposited his hat beneath his chair when there burst upon his delighted vision a radiant, dark-eyed, red-haired creature in pink, sitting head and shoulders above her companions on a bench set at right angles with the audience seats, in front of the house. there were a number of women in the row, and they were without bonnets. evidently these were the teachers, and of course the pink goddess was miss myrtle musgrove. ezra never knew whether the programme was long or short. the bells had tintinabulated and musically welled into "casabianca" which, in turn, had merged into "the queen o' the may," and presently before he realized it freedom was ringing in the closing notes of "america," and everybody was standing up, pupils filing out, guests shaking hands, babel reigning, and he had seen only a single, towering, handsome woman in all the assembly. indeed, it had never occurred to him to doubt his own intuition, until suddenly he heard his own name quite near, and turning quickly, he saw a stout matronly woman of forty years or thereabouts standing beside him, extending her hand. every unmarried woman is a "young lady" by courtesy south of mason and dixon's line. "i knew you as soon as i saw you, mr. slimm," she was saying. "i am miss musgrove. but you didn't know me," she added, archly, while ezra made his bravest effort at cordiality, seizing her hand in an agony which it is better not to attempt to describe. miss musgrove's face was wholesome, and so kindly that not even a cross-eye had power to spoil it. but ezra saw only the plain middle-aged woman--the contrast to the blooming divinity whose image yet filled his soul. and he was committed to her who held his hand, unequivocally committed in writing. if he sent heavenward an agonized prayer for deliverance from a trying crisis, his petition was soon answered. and the merciful instrument was even she of the cross-eye. before he had found need of a word of his own, she had drawn him aside, and was saying: "you see, mr. slimm, the only trouble with me is that i am already married." "married!" gasped ezra, trying in vain to keep the joy out of his voice. "married, you--you don't mean--" "yes, married to my profession--the only husband i shall ever take. but your letter attracted me. i am a normal school psychology student--a hard name for a well-meaning woman--and it seemed to me you were worth investigating. so i investigated. then i knew you ought to be helped. and so i sent for you, and i am going to introduce you to three of the sweetest girls in dixie; and if you can't find a wife among them, then you are not so clever as i think you--that's all about it. and here comes one of them now. kitty, step here a minute, please. miss deems, my friend, mr. slimm." and miss myrtle musgrove was off across the room before ezra's gasp had fully expanded into the smile with which he greeted miss kitty deems, a buxom lass with freckles and dimples enough to hold her own anywhere. two other delightful young women were presented at intervals during the afternoon in about the same fashion, and but for a certain pink juno who flitted about ever in sight, ezra would have confessed only an embarrassment of riches. "and how do you get on with my girls?" was miss musgrove's greeting when, late in the evening, she sought ezra for a moment's _tête-à-tête_. he rubbed his hands together and hesitated. "'bout ez fine a set o' young ladies ez i ever see," he said, with real enthusiasm; "but, tell the truth, i--but you've a'ready been so kind--but--there she is now! that tall, light-complected one in pink--" "why, certainly, mr. slimm. if you say so, i'll introduce her. a fine, thorough-going girl, that. you know we have abolished whipping in the academy, and that girl thought one of her boys needed it, and she followed him home, and gave it to him there, and his father interfered, and--well, _she whipped him too_. fine girl. not afraid of anything on earth. certainly i'll introduce you, if you say so." she stopped and looked at ezra kindly. and he saw that she knew all. "well, i ain't particular. some other time," he began to say; then blushing scarlet, he seized her hand, and pressing it, said, fervently, "god bless you!" * * * * the second mrs. slimm is a wholesome little body, with dimples and freckles, whom ezra declares "god a'mighty couldn't o' made without thinkin' of ezra slimm an' his precize necessities." no one but himself and miss musgrove ever knew the whole story of his wooing, nor why, when in due season a tiny dimpled miss slimm came into the family circle, it was by ezra's request that she was called myrtle. apollo belvedere a christmas episode of the plantation he was a little yellow man with a quizzical face and sloping shoulders, and when he gave his full name, with somewhat of a flourish, as if it might hold compensations for physical shortcomings, one could hardly help smiling. and yet there was a pathos in the caricature that dissipated the smile half-way. it never found voice in a laugh. the pathetic quality was no doubt a certain serious ingenuousness--a confiding look that always met your eye from the eager face of the diminutive wearer of second-hand coats and silk hats. "yas, i'm named 'pollo belvedere, an' my marster gi'e me dat intitlemint on account o' my shape," he would say, with a strut, on occasion, if he were bantered, for he had learned that the name held personal suggestions which it took a little bravado to confront. evidently apollo's master was a humorist. apollo had always been a house-servant, and had for several years served with satisfaction as coachman to his master's family; but after the breaking up, when the place went into other hands, he failed to find favor with the new-comers, who had an eye for conventional form, and so apollo was under the necessity of accepting lower rank on the place as a field-hand. but he entered plantation circles with his head up. he had his house rearing, his toilets, and his education--all distinguishing possessions in his small world--and he was, in his way, quite a gentleman. apollo could read a chapter from the bible without stopping to spell. he seized his words with snap-shots and pronounced them with genius. indeed, when not limited by the suggestions of print, as when on occasion he responded to an invitation to lead in public prayer, he was a builder of words of so noble and complex architecture that one hearing him was pleased to remember that the good lord, being omniscient, must of course know all tongues, and would understand. that the people of the plantation thought well of apollo will appear from the fact that he was more than once urged to enter the ministry; but this he very discreetly declined to do, and for several reasons. in the first place he didn't feel "called to preach"; and in the second place he did feel called or impelled to play the fiddle; and more than that, he liked to play dance music, and to have it "danced by." as apollo would have told you himself, the fact that he had never married was not because he couldn't get anybody to have him, but simply that he hadn't himself been suited. and, indeed, it is because of the romance of his life that apollo comes at all into this little sketch that bears his name. had he not been so pathetic in his serious and grotesque personality, the story would probably have borne the name of its heroine, miss lily washington, of lone oak plantation, and would have concerned a number of other people. lily was a beauty in her own right, and she was belle of the plantation. she stood five feet ten in her bare feet, and although she tipped the scales at a hundred and sixty, she was as slim and round as a reed, and it was well known that the grip of her firm fingers applied to the closed fist of any of the young fellows on the place would make him howl. she was an emotional creature, with a caustic tongue on occasion, and when it pleased her mood to look over her shoulder at one of her numerous admirers and to wither him with a look or a word, she did not hesitate to do it. for instance, when apollo first asked her to marry him--it had been his habit to propose to her every day or so for a year or two past--she glanced at him askance from head to foot, and then she said: "why, yas. dat is, i s'pose, of co'se, you's de sample. i'd order a full-size by you in a minute." this was cruel, and seeing the pathetic look come into his face, she instantly repented of it, and walked home from church with him, dismissing a handsome black fellow, and saying only kind things to apollo all the way. and while he walked beside her, he told her that, although she couldn't realize it, he was as tall as she, for his feet were not on the ground at all; which was in a manner true, for when lily was gracious to him, he felt himself borne along on wings that the common people could not see. of course no one took apollo seriously as lily's suitor, much less the chocolate maid herself. but there were other lovers. indeed, there were all the others, for that matter, but in point of eligibility the number to be seriously regarded was reduced to about two. these were pete peters, a handsome griff, with just enough indian in his blood to give him an air of distinction, and a french-talking mulatto who had come up from new orleans to repair the machinery in the sugar-house, and who was buying land in the vicinity, and drove his own sulky. pete was less prosperous than he, but although he worked his land on shares, he owned two mules and a saddle-horse, and would be allowed to enter on a purchase of land whenever he should choose to do so. although pete and the new orleans fellow, whose name was also peter, but who was called pierre, met constantly in a friendly enough way, they did not love each other. they both loved lily too much for that. but they laughed good-naturedly together at apollo and his "case," which they inquired after politely, as if it were a member of his family. "well, 'pollo, how's yo' case on miss lily comin' on?" either one would say, with a wink at the other, and apollo would artlessly report the state of the heavens with relation to his particular star, as when he once replied to this identical question, "well, miss lily was mighty obstropulous 'istiddy, but she is mo' cancelized dis mornin'." it was pete who had asked the question, and he laughed aloud at the answer. "mo' cancelized dis mornin', is she?" he replied. "how you know she is?" "'caze she lemme tote her hoe all de way up f'om de field," answered the ingenuous apollo. "she did, did she? an' who was walkin' by her side all dat time, i like to know?" apollo winced a little at this, but he answered, bravely, "i don't kyah ef pier was walkin' wid her; i was totin' her hoe, all de samee." at this pete seemed to forget all about apollo and his case, and he remarked that he never could see what some folks saw in city niggers, nohow--and neither could apollo. and they felt a momentary sense of nearness to each other that was not exactly a bond, but they did not talk any more as they walked along. it is probable that the coming of the "city fellow" into her circle hastened to culmination more than one pending romance, and there were now various and sundry coldnesses existing between lily and a number of the boys on the place, where there had recently existed only warm and hopeful friendships. the intruder, who had a way of shrugging his shoulders and declaring of almost any question, "well, me, i dun'no'," seemed altogether _too sure_ when it came to a question of lily. at least so he appeared to her more timid rural lovers. * * * * the christmas-eve dance in the sugar-house had been for years an annual function on the plantation. at this, since her début, at fourteen, three christmases before, lily had held undisputed sway, and all former belles amiably accepted their places as lesser lights. but there had been some quarrelling and even a fight or two on lily's account, indirectly, and the church people had declared against the ball, on the score of domestic peace on the place. they had fought dancing _per se_ as long as they could, but terpsichore finally waltzed up the church aisle, figuratively speaking, and flaunted her ruffled skirts in the very faces of elders and minister, and they had had to smile and give her a pew to keep her still. and she was in the church yet, a troublemaker sometimes, and a disturber of spiritual peace--but still there. if they had forcibly ejected her, some of their most promising and important members would have followed. but they could preach to her, and so they did. mayhap in time they would convert her and have her and her numerous votaries for their own. as the reverend brother thundered out his denunciations of the ungodly goddess he cast his eyes often in the direction of the leading dancer, and from her they would wander to the small fiddler who sat beside the tall hat in a back pew. but somehow neither lily nor apollo seemed in the least conscious of any personal appeal in his glance, and when finally the question of the christmas ball was put to vote, they both rose and unequivocally voted for it. so, for that matter, did so large a majority that one of the elders got up and proposed that the church hold revival meetings, in the hope of rousing her people to a realization of her dangers. and then lily whispered something to her neighbor, a good old man of the church, and he stood up and announced that miss lily washington proposed to have the revival _after christmas_. there was some laughter at this, and the pastor very seriously objected to it as thwarting the very object for which the meetings would be held; and then, seeing herself in danger of being vanquished in argument, lily, blushing a fine copper-color in real maidenly embarrassment, rose in the presence of the congregation, to say that when she proposed to have the revival after christmas, she "didn't mean no harm." she was only thinking that "it was a heap better to repent 'n to backslide." this brought down the house, an expression not usually employed in this connection, but which seems to force its way here as particularly fitting. as soon as he could get a hearing the reverend brother gave out a hymn, followed it with a short prayer, and dismissed the congregation. and on the sunday following he gave notice that for several reasons it had been decided as expedient to postpone the revival meetings in the church until _after christmas_. no doubt he had come over to lily's way of thinking. lily was perfectly ravishing in her splendor at the dance. the white swiss frock she wore was high in the neck, but her brown shoulders and arms shone through the thin fabric with fine effect. about her slim waist she tied a narrow ribbon of blue, and she carried a pink feather fan, and the wreath about her forehead was of lilies-of-the-valley. she had done a day's scouring for them, and they had come out of the summer hat of one of the white ladies on the coast. this insured their quality, and no doubt contributed somewhat to the quiet serenity with which she bore herself as, with her little head held like that of the venus of milo, she danced down the centre of the room, holding her flounces in either hand, and kicking the floor until she kicked both her slippers to pieces, when she finished the figure in her stocking feet. she had a relay of slippers ready, and there was a scramble as to who should put them on; but she settled that question by making 'pollo rise, with his fiddle in his arms, and lend her his chair for a minute while she pulled them on herself. then she let pete and pierre each have one of the discarded slippers as a trophy. lily had always danced out several pairs of slippers at the christmas dance, but she had never achieved her stocking feet in the first round until now, and she was in high glee over it. if she had been admired before, she was looked upon as a raving, tearing beauty to-night--and so she was. fortunately 'pollo had his fiddling to do, and this saved him from any conspicuous folly. but he kept his eyes on her, and when she grew too ravishingly lovely to his fond vision, and he couldn't stand it a minute longer in silence, he turned to the man next him, who played the bones, and remarked, "ef--ef anybody but gord a'mighty had a-made anything as purty as miss lily, dey'd 'a' stinted it somewhar," and, watching every turn, he lent his bow to her varying moods while she tired out one dancer after another. it was the new orleans fellow who first lost his head utterly. he had danced with her but three times, but while she took another's hand and whizzed through the figures he scarcely took his eyes from her, and when, at about midnight, he succeeded in getting her apart for a promenade, he poured forth his soul to her in the picturesque english of the quadroon quarter of new orleans. "an' now, to proof to you my lorv, ma'm'selle lee-lee"--he gesticulated vigorously as he spoke--"i am geeving you wan beau-u-tiful christmas present--i am goin' to geeve you--w'at you t'ink? my borgee!" with this he turned dramatically and faced her. they were standing now under the shed outside the door in the moonlight, and, although they did not see him, apollo stood within hearing, behind a pile of molasses-barrels, where he had come "to cool off." lily had several times been "buggy-ridin'" with pierre in this same "borgee," and it was a very magnificent affair in her eyes. when he told her that it was to be hers she gasped. such presents were unknown on the plantation. but lily was a "mannerly" member of good society, if her circle was small, and she was not to be taken aback by any compliment a man should pay her. she simply fanned herself, a little flurriedly, perhaps, with her feather fan, as she said: "you sho' must be jokin', mr. pier. you cert'n'y must." but mr. pierre was not joking. he was never more in earnest in his life, and he told her so, and there is no telling what else he would have told her but for the fact that mr. pete peters happened to come out to the shed to cool off about this time, and as he almost brushed her shoulder, it was as little as lily could do to address a remark to him, and then, of course, he stopped and chatted a while; and after what appeared a reasonable interval, long enough for it not to seem that she was too much elated over it, she remarked, "an' by-de-way, mr. peters, i must tell you what a lovely christmas gif' i have just received by de hand of mr. pier. he has jest presented me wid his yaller-wheeled buggy, an' i sho' is proud of it." then, turning to pierre, she added, "you sho' is a mighty generous gen'leman, mr. pier--you cert'n'y is." peters gave lily one startled look, but he instantly realized, from her ingenuous manner, that there was nothing back of the gift of the buggy--that is, it had been, so far as she was concerned, simply a christmas present. pierre had not offered himself with the gift. and if this were so, well, he reckoned he could match him. he reached forward and took lily's fan from her hand. he hastened to do this to keep pierre from taking it. then, while he fanned her, he said, "is dat so, miss lily, dat mr. pier is give you a buggy? dat sholy is a fine christmas gif'--it sho' is. an' sence you fin' yo'se'f possessed of a buggy, i trust you will allow me de pleasure of presentin' you wid a horse to drive _in_ de buggy." he made a graceful bow as he spoke, a bow that would have done credit to the man from new orleans. it was so well done, indeed, that lily unconsciously bowed in return, as she said, with a look that savored a little of roguishness: "oh, hursh, mr. peters! you des a-guyin' me--dat what you doin'." "guyin' nothin'," said peters, grinning broadly as he noted the expression of pierre's face. "ef you'll jes do me de honor to accep' of my horse, miss lily, i'll be de proudest gen'leman on dis plantation." at this she chuckled, and took her fan in her own hand. and then she turned to pierre. "you sho' has set de style o' mighty expensive christmas gif's on dis plantation, mr. pier--you cert'n'y has. an' i wants to thank you bofe mos' kindly--i cert'n'y does." having heard this much, 'pollo thought it time to come from his hiding, and he strolled leisurely out in the other direction first, but soon returned this way. and then he stopped, and reaching over, took the feather fan--and for a few moments he had his innings. then some one else came along and the conversation became impersonal, and one by one they all dropped off--all except 'pollo. when the rest had gone he and lily found seats on the cane-carrier, and they talked a while, and when a little later supper was announced, it was the proud fiddler who took her in, while pierre and peters stood off and politely glared at each other; and after a while pierre must have said something, for peters suddenly sprang at him and tumbled him out the door and rolled him over in the dirt, and they had to be separated. but presently they laughed and shook hands, and pierre offered pete a cigarette, and pete took it, and gave pierre a light--and it was all over. * * * * it was next day--christmas morning--and the young people were standing about in groups under the china-trees in the campus, when apollo joined them, looking unusually chipper and beaming. he was dressed in his best--prince albert, beaver, and all--and he sported a bright silk handkerchief tied loosely about his neck. he was altogether a delightful figure, absolutely content with himself, and apparently at peace with the world. no sooner had he joined the crowd than the fellows began chaffing him, as usual, and presently some one mentioned lily's name and spoke of her presents. the two men who had broken the record for generosity in the history of plantation lovers were looked upon as nabobs by those of lesser means. of course everybody knew the city fellow had started it, and they were glad peters had come to time and saved the dignity of the place; indeed he was about the only one on the plantation who could have done it. as they stood talking it over the two heroes had nothing to say, of course, and 'pollo began rolling a cigarette--an art he had learned from the man from new orleans. finally he remarked, "yas, miss lily got sev'al mighty nice presents last night." at this pierre turned, laughing, and said, "i s'pose you geeve 'er somet'ing too, eh?" "pity you hadn't a-give her dat silk hankcher. hit'd become her a heap better'n it becomes you," peters said, laughing. "yas, i reckon it would," said 'pollo; "but de fact is _she_ gi' _me_ dis hankcher--an' of co'se i accepted it." "but why ain't you tellin' us what you give her?" insisted peters. 'pollo put the cigarette to his lips, deliberately lit it, puffed several times, and then, removing it in a leisurely way, he drawled: "well, de fact is i heerd mr. pier here give her a buggy, an'--an' mr. peters, he up an' handed over a horse,--an' so, quick as i got a chance, i des balanced my ekalub'ium an' went an' set down beside her an' ast her ef she wouldn't do me de honor to accep' of a _driver_, an'--an' _she say yas_. "you know i'm a coachman by trade. "an' dat's huccome i come to say she got sev'al presents las' night." and he took another puff of his cigarette. nearest of kin (on the plantation) when tamar the laundress was married to the coachman pompey, there was a big time on the plantation. tamar wore white tarlatan and an orange wreath--although it was her severalth marriage--and she had six bridemaids and a train-bearer. the last, a slim little black girl of about ten years, was dressed somewhat after the fashion of the ballet, in green tarlatan with spangles, and her slender legs were carefully wrapped with gilt paper that glistened through the clocked stockings with fine effect. otherwise the "clockings" in the black stockinet would have lost their value. pompey, as groom, was resplendent in the full glare of a white duck suit, and he wore a rosette of satin ribbon--"so's to 'stinguish him out f'om de groomsmen," each of whom was likewise "ducked" out in immaculate linen; and if there were some suggestive misfits among them, there were ample laundry compensations in the way of starch and polish--a proud achievement of the bride. there was a good deal of marching up and down the aisles of the church by the entire party before the ceremony, which was, altogether, really very effective. pompey was as black as his bride, and his face was as carefully oiled and polished for the occasion as hers, which is saying a good deal, both as to color and shine. after the ceremony everybody repaired, for a supper and dance, to the sugar-house, where there was a bride's cake, with all the usual accessories, such as the ring and thimble, to be cut for. and of course, before the end of the evening, there was the usual distribution of bits of cake to be "dreamed on." this last, indeed, was so important that nearly every girl on the plantation slept in a neighbor's cabin that night, so as to command the full potency of the charm by dreaming her great dream in a strange bed. the whole wedding was, in fact, so disturbing a social function that everything on the place was more or less disarranged by it--even the breakfast hour at the great house, which was fully three-quarters of an hour late next morning. but that was no great matter, as all the family had been witnesses to the wedding and were somewhat sleepy in consequence--and the "rising-bell" was a movable form anyway. perhaps if the nuptials had been less festive the demeanor of the bride immediately afterwards would not have been so conspicuous. as it was, however, when she appeared at the wash-house, ready for duty, on the second morning following, dressed in heavy mourning, and wearing, moreover, a pseudo-sorrowful expression on her every-otherwise shining face, they wondered, and there was some nudging and whispering among the negroes. some hastily concluded that the marriage had been rashly repudiated as a failure; but when presently the groom strolled into the yard, smiling broadly, and when he proceeded with many a flourish to devotedly fill her wash-tubs from the well for his bride, they saw that there must be some other explanation. the importance of the central figure in so recent a pageant still surrounded her with somewhat of a glamour in the eyes of her companions, setting her apart, so that they were slow to ask her any questions. later in the day, though, when her mistress, happening to pass through the yard, saw the black-gowned figure bending low over the tubs, she hastened to the wash-shed. "why, tamar," she exclaimed, "what on earth--" at this tamar raised her face and smiled faintly. then, glancing down at her dress to indicate that she understood, she drawled, demurely: "ain't nothin' de matter, missy. i jes mo'nin' for sister sophy-sophia." "sophy-sophia! you don't mean--" "yas, 'm, i does. i means pompey's las' wife, sis' sophy-sophia. she didn't have no kinfolks to go in mo'nin' for her, an' time pompey an' me got ingaged he made known his wushes to me, an' i promised him i'd put on mo'nin' for her soon as i married into de family. co'se i couldn't do it 'fo' i was kin to her." [illustration: "'i promised him i'd put on mo'nin' for her, soon as i married into de family.'"] "kin to her!" the mistress laughed. "why, tamar, what relation on earth are you to pompey's former wife, i'd like to know?" the black woman dropped the garment she was wringing and thought a moment. "well, missy," she said, presently, "looks to me like i'm a speritu'l foster-sister to her, ef i ain't no mo'--an' i done inherited all her rights an' privileges, so pompey say--an' ef i 'ain't got a right to mo'n for her, _who is_? dey tell me a 'oman is got a right to go in mo'nin' for her husband's kin anyway; but of co'se, come down to it, she warn't no blood-kin to pompey, nohow. howsomever, eve'ybody knows a widder or a widderer is intitled to wear _all de mo'nin' dey is_; an' his wife, why, she's intitled to a equal sheer in it, if she choose to seize her rights. i'd 'a' put it on befo' de weddin', 'cep'n i didn't have no title to it, an' it wouldn't 'a' been no comfort to her noways. set down, missy." she began wiping off one of her wash-benches with her apron as she spoke. "set down, mistus, an' lemme talk to you." the situation was interesting, and the mistress sat down. "you see, missy"--she had come nearer now, and assumed a confidential tone--"you see, sister sophy-sophia she 'ain't nuver found rest yit, an' dat frets pompey. hit troubles 'im in de sperit--an' i promised him to try to pacify her." "pacify her! why, tamar! how can you pacify a person who is dead? and how do you know that her spirit isn't at rest?" the black woman turned and looked behind her to make sure that no one should overhear. then, lowering her voice, she whispered: "her grave 'ain't nuver settled yit, mistus. she been buried ever sence befo' christmus, an' hit ain't evened down yit. an' dat's a shore sign of a onrestless sperit--yas, 'm." her face had grown suddenly anxious as she spoke. and presently she added: "of co'se, when a grave settles _too_ quick, dat's a sign dey'll soon be another death, an' nobody don't crave to see a grave sink too sudden. but it'll ease down gradual--ef de dead sleeps easy--yas, 'm. no, sister sophy-sophia she 'ain't took no comfort in her grave yit. an' pompey, righteously speakin', ought to pacified her befo' he set out to marry ag'in. heap o' 'omans would 'a' been afeerd to marry a man wid a unsunk grave on his hands--'feerd she'd ha'nt her. but i done had 'spe'unce, an' i'm mo' 'feerd o' live ha'nts 'n i is o' dead ones. i know sis' sophy-sophia she's _layin' dar_--an' she _can't git out_. you know, she died o' de exclammatory rheumatism, an' some say hit was a jedgmint f'om heaven. you know, sis' sophy-sophia she was a devil for fun. she would have her joke. an' some say gord a'mighty punished her an' turned eve'y bone in 'er body into funny-bones, jes to show her dat eve'y funny thing ain't to be laughed at. an' ef you ever got a sudden whack on de funny-bone in yo' elbow, missy, you know how she suffered when she was teched. an' she ain't at rest yit. she done proved dat. of co'se, ef she died wid some'h'n' on 'er mind, we can't do nothin' for her; but ef she jes need soothin', i'll git her quieted down." she leaned forward and resumed her washing--that is to say, she raised a garment from the suds and looked at it, turned it over idly in her hands several times, and dipped it languidly. her visitor watched her in amused silence for a while. "and how are you going to soothe her, tamar?" she asked, presently. "tell me all about it." at this the woman began wiping her hands upon her apron, and dropping into a seat between two of the tubs and resting her arms upon their rims, she faced her mistress. "of co'se, honey," she began, "de fust thing is to _wear mo'nin_'--an' dat ain't no special trouble to me--i got consider'ble black frocks lef' over from my widderhoods. an' in addition to dat, i gwine carry it around in my countenance--an' _ef she sees it_--an' i b'lieve de dead does see--_maybe it'll ease her mind_. of co'se, when a pusson ain't able to sorrer in her heart, dey 'bleeged to wear it in dey face--" there was something in her voice as she said these last words--an indescribable note that seemed to express detachment from all feeling in the matter--that made her listener turn and look narrowly into her face. still, she was not in the least prepared for the hearty laughter that greeted her question. "and don't you mourn for her in your heart, tamar?" she eyed her narrowly as she put the question. the black woman did not even attempt an answer. nor did she apparently even try to control her mirth. but, after a while, when she had laughed until she was tired, she suddenly rose to her feet, and as she gathered up a handful of wet garments, and began rubbing them on the wash-board, she exclaimed, still chuckling: "lemme git to my washin', honey, befo' i disgrace my mo'nin'." in a little while, however, she grew serious again, and although she still seemed to have trouble with her shoulders, that insisted upon expressing merriment, she said: "i 'clare, i talks like a plumb hycoprite, missy--i sho' does. but i ain't. no, 'm, i ain't. of co'se i grieves for sis' sophy-sophia. i'd grieve for any po' human dat can't find rest in 'er grave--an' i'm gwine to consolate her, good as i kin. soon as de dark o' de moon comes, i gwine out an' set on her grave an' moan, an' ef dat don't ease her, maybe when her funer'l is preached she'll be comforted." "and hasn't she had her funeral sermon yet, tamar?" "oh no, 'm. 'tain't time, hardly, yit. we mos' gin'ly waits two or three years after de bury-in' befo' we has members' funer'ls preached. an' we don't nuver, sca'cely, have 'em under a year. you see, dey's a lot o' smarty folks dat 'ain't got nothin' better to do 'n to bring up things ag'in dead folks's cha'acter, so we waits tell dey been restin' in de groun' a year or so. den a preacher he can expec' to preach dey funer'ls in peace. de fac' is, some o' our mos' piousest elders an' deacons is had so many widders show up at dey funer'ls dat de chu'ches is most of 'em passed a law dat dey compelled to wait a year or so an' give all dese heah p'omiscu'us widders time to marry off--an' save scandalizement. an' pompey an' sophy-sophia dey didn't have no mo'n a broomstick weddin' nohow--but of co'se _dey did have de broomstick. i'm a witness to dat, 'caze dey borried my broom--yas, 'm._ ricollec', i had one o' dese heah green-handle sto'e brooms, an' pompey he come over to my cabin one mornin' an' he say, 'sis' tamar,' he say, 'would you mind loandin' sis' sophy-sophia dat green-handle straw broom dat you sweeps out de chu'ch-house wid?' you 'member, i was married to wash williams dat time--wash williams wha' live down heah at de cross-roads now. he's married to yaller silvy now. you know dat red-head freckled-face yaller gal dat use to sew for mis' ann powers--always wear a sailor hat--wid a waist on her no thicker'n my wris'--an' a hitch in her walk eve'y time she pass a man? dat's de gal. she stole wash f'om me--an' she's welcome to 'im. any 'oman is welcome to any man she kin git f'om me. dat's my principle. but dese heah yaller freckle niggers 'ain't got no principle _to_ 'em. i done heerd dat all my life--an' silvy she done proved it. time wash an' me was married he was a man in good chu'ch standin'--a reg'lar ordained sexton, at six dollars a month--an' i done de sweepin' for him. dat's huccome i happened to have dat green-handle sto'e broom. dat's all i ever did git out o' his wages. any day you'd pass rose-o'-sharon chu'ch dem days you could see him settin' up on de steps, like a gent'eman, an' i sho' did take pride in him. an' now, dey tell me, silvy she got him down to shirt-sleeves--splittin' rails, wid his breeches gallused up wid twine, while she sets in de cabin do' wid a pink caliker mother hubbard wrapper on fannin' 'erse'f. an' on saturdays, when he draw his pay, you'll mos' gin'ally see 'em standin' together at de hat an' ribbon show-case in de sto'e--he grinnin' for all he's worth. an' my belief is he grins des to hide his mizry." "you certainly were very good to do his sweeping for him." tamar's graphic picture of a rather strained situation was so humorous that it was hard to take calmly. but her mistress tried to disguise her amusement so far as possible. to her surprise, the question seemed to restore the black woman to a fresh sense of her dignity in the situation. "cert'ny i done it," she exclaimed, dramatically. "cert'ny. you reckon i'd live in de house wid a man dat 'd handle a broom? no, ma'am. nex' thing i'd look for him to sew. no, ma'am. but i started a-tellin' you huccome i come to know dat pompey an' sis' sophy-sophia was legally married wid a broom. one day he come over to my cabin, jes like i commenced tellin' you, an' he s'lute me wid, 'good-mornin', sis' tamar; i come over to see ef you won't please, ma'am, loand sister sophy-sophia sanders dat straw broom wha' you sweeps out de chu'ch-house wid, please, ma'am?' an' i ricollec's de answer i made him. i laughed, an' i say, 'well, pompey,' i say, 'i don't know about loandin' out a chu'ch broom to a sinner like you.' an' at dat he giggle, 'well, we wants it to play preacher--an' dat seems like a mighty suitable job for a chu'ch broom.' an' of co'se wid dat i passed over de broom, wid my best wushes to de bride; an' when he fetched it back, i ricollec', he fetched me a piece o' de weddin'-cake--but it warn't no mo'n common one-two-three-fo'-cup-cake wid about seventeen onfriendly reesons stirred into it wid brown sugar. i 'clare, when i looks back, i sho' is ashamed to know dat dey was ever sech a po' weddin'-cake in my family--i sho' is. now you know, missy, of co'se, dese heah broom--weddin's dey ain't writ down in nuther co't-house nur chu'ch books--an' so ef any o' dese heah smarty meddlers was to try to bring up ole sco'es an' say dat sister sophy-sophia wasn't legally married, dey wouldn't be no witnesses _but me an' de broom_, an' i'd have to witness _for it_, an'--an' _i_ wouldn't be no legal witness." "why wouldn't you be a legal witness, tamar?" "'_caze i got de same man_--an' dat's de suspiciouses' thing dey kin bring up ag'ins' a witness--so dey tell me. ef 'twarn't for dat, i'd 'a' had her fun'al preached las' month." "but even supposing the matter had been stirred up--and you had been unable to prove that everything was as you wished--wouldn't your minister have preached a funeral sermon anyway?" "oh yas, 'm, cert'n'y. on'y de fun'al he'd preach wouldn't help her to rest in her grave--dat's de on'ies' diffe'ence. like as not dey'd git ole brother philemon peters down f'om de bottom-lands to preach wrath--an' i wants grace preached at sister sophy-sophia's fun'al, even ef i has to wait ten years for it. she died in pain, but i hope for her to rest in peace--an' not to disgrace heaven wid crutches under her wings, nuther. i know half a dozen loud-prayers, now, dat 'd be on'y too glad to 'tract attention away f'om dey own misdoin's by rakin' out scandalizemint on a dead 'oman. dey'd 'spute de legalness of dat marriage in a minute, jes to keep folks f'om lookin' up dey own weddin' papers--yas, 'm. but me an' de broom--we layin' low, now, an' keepin' still, but we'll speak when de time comes at de jedgmint day, ef she need a witness." "but tell me, tamar, why didn't pompey take his bride to the church if they wanted a regular wedding?" "dey couldn't, missy. dey couldn't on account o' sis' sophy-sophia's secon' husband, sam sanders. he hadn't made no secon' ch'ice yit--an', you know, when de fust one of a parted couple marries ag'in, dey 'bleeged to take to de broomstick--less'n dey go whar 'tain't known on 'em. dat's de rule o' divo'cemint. when yaller silvy married my joe wid a broomstick, dat lef' me free for a chu'ch marriage. an' i tell you, _i had it, too_. but ef she had a'tempted to walk up a chu'ch aisle wid joe--an' me still onmarried--well, i wush dey'd 'a' tried it! i'd 'a' been standin' befo' de pulpit a-waitin' for 'em--an' i'd 'a' quoted some scripture at 'em, too. but dey acted accordin' to law. dey married quiet, wid a broomstick, an' de nex' sunday walked in chu'ch together, took de same pew, an' he turned her pages mannerly for her--an' dat's de ladylikest behavior silvy ever been guilty of in her life, i reckon. she an' him can't nair one of 'em read, but dey sets still an' holds de book an' turns de pages--an' gord hisself couldn't ax no mo' for chu'ch behavior. but lemme go on wid my washin', missy--for gord's sake." laughing again now, she drew a match from the ledge of one of the rafters, struck it across the sole of her bare foot, and began to light the fire under her furnace. and as she flattened herself against the ground to blow the kindling pine, she added, between puffs, and without so much as a change of tone: "don't go, please, ma'am, tell i git dis charcoal lit to start dese shirts to bile. i been tryin' to fix my mouf to ax you is you got air ole crêpe veil you could gimme to wear to chu'ch nex' sunday--please, ma'am? i 'clare, i wonder what's de sign when you blowin' one way an' a live coal come right back at yer 'gins' de wind?" and sitting upon the ground, she added, as she touched her finger to her tongue and rubbed a burnt spot upon her chin: "pompey 'd be mighty proud ef i could walk in chu'ch by his side in full sisterly mo'nin' nex' sunday for po' sister sophy-sophia--yas, 'm. i hope you kin fin' me a ole crêpe veil, please, ma'am." unfortunately for the full blossoming of this mourning flower of afro-american civilization, as it is sometimes seen to bloom along the by-ways of plantation life, there was not a second-hand veil of crêpe forth-coming on this occasion. there were small compensations, however, in sundry effective accessories, such as a crêpe collar and bonnet, not to mention a funereal fan of waving black plumes, which pompey flourished for his wife's benefit during the entire service. certainly the "speritu'l foster-sister" of the mourning bride, if she witnessed the tribute paid her that sunday morning in full view of the entire congregation--for the bridal pair occupied the front pew under the pulpit--would have been obdurate indeed if she had not been somewhat mollified. tamar consistently wore her mourning garb for some months, and, so far as is known, it made no further impression upon her companions than to cause a few smiles and exchanges of glances at first among those of lighter mind among them, some of whom were even so uncharitable as to insinuate that sis' tamar wasn't "half so grieved as she let on." the more serious, however, united in commending her act as "mos' christian-like an' sisterly conduc'." and when, after the gentle insistence of the long spring rains, added to the persuasiveness of tamar's mourning, the grave of her solicitude sank to an easy level, bespeaking peace to its occupant, tamar suddenly burst into full flower of flaming color, and the mourning period became a forgotten episode of the past. indeed, in reviewing the ways and doings of the plantation in those days, it seems entitled to no more prominence in the retrospect than many another incident of equal ingenuousness and novelty. there was the second wooing of old aunt salina-sue, for instance, and uncle 'riah's diseases; but, as another would say, these are other stories. another year passed over the plantation, and in the interval the always expected had happened to the house of pompey the coachman. it was a tiny girl child, black of hue as both her doting parents, and endowed with the name of her sire, somewhat feminized for her fitting into the rather euphonious pompeylou. tamar had lost her other children in infancy, and so the pansy-faced little pompeylou of her mid-life was a great joy to her, and most of her leisure was devoted to the making of the pink calico slips that went to the little one's adorning. on her first journey into the great world beyond the plantation, however, she was not arrayed in one of these. indeed, the long gown she wore on this occasion was, like that of her mother, as black as the rejuvenated band of crêpe upon her father's stovepipe hat; for, be it known, this interesting family of three was to form a line of chief mourners on the front pew of rose-of-sharon church on the occasion of the preaching of the funeral of the faithfully mourned and long-lamented sophy-sophia, whose hour of posthumous honor had at length arrived. the obsequies in her memory had been fixed for an earlier date, but in deference to the too-recent arrival of her "nearest of kin" was then too young to attend, they had been deferred by tamar's request, and it is safe to say that no child was ever brought forward with more pride at any family gathering than was the tiny miss pompeylou when she was carried up the aisle "to hear her step-mammy's funeral preached." it was a great day, and the babe, who was on her very best six-months-old behavior, listened with admirable placidity to the "sermon of grace," on which at a future time she might, perhaps, found a genealogy. her only offence against perfect church decorum was a sometimes rather explosive "agoo!" as she tried to reach the ever-swaying black feather fan that was waved by her parents in turn for her benefit. before the service was over, indeed, she had secured and torn the proud emblem into bits; but tamar only smiled at its demolition by the baby fingers. it was a good omen, she said, and meant that the day of mourning was over. the deacon's medicine when the doctor drove by the gregg farm about dusk, and saw old deacon gregg perched cross-legged upon his own gatepost, he knew that something was wrong within, and he could not resist the temptation to drive up and speak to the old man. it was common talk in the neighborhood that when grandmother gregg made things too warm for him in-doors, the good man, her spouse, was wont to stroll out to the front gate and to take this exalted seat. indeed, it was said by a certain mrs. frequent, a neighbor of prying proclivities and ungentle speech, that the deacon's wife sent him there as a punishment for misdemeanors. furthermore, this same mrs. frequent did even go so far as to watch for the deacon, and when she would see him laboriously rise and resignedly poise himself upon the narrow area, she would remark: "well, i see grandma gregg has got the old man punished again. wonder what he's been up to now?" her constant repetition of the unkind charge finally gained for it such credence that the diminutive figure upon the gate-post became an object of mingled sympathy and mirth in the popular regard. the old doctor was the friend of a lifetime, and he was sincerely attached to the deacon, and when he turned his horse's head towards the gate this evening, he felt his heart go out in sympathy to the old man in durance vile upon his lonely perch. but he had barely started to the gate when he heard a voice which he recognized as the deacon's, whereupon he would have hurried away had not his horse committed him to his first impulse by unequivocally facing the gate. "i know three's a crowd," he called out cheerily as he presently drew rein, "but i ain't a-goin' to stay; i jest--why, where's grandma?" he added, abruptly, seeing the old man alone. "i'm shore i heard--" "you jest heerd me a-talkin' to myself, doctor--or not to myself, exactly, neither--that is to say, when you come up i was addressin' my remarks to this here pill." "bill? i don't see no bill." the doctor drew his buggy nearer. he was a little deaf. "no; i said this pill, doctor. i'm a-holdin' of it here in the pa'm o' my hand, a-studyin' over it." "what's she a-dosin' you for now, enoch?" the doctor always called the deacon by his first name when he approached him in sympathy. he did not know it. neither did the deacon, but he felt the sympathy, and it unlocked the portals of his heart. "well"--the old man's voice softened--"she thinks i stand in need of 'em, of co'se. the fact is, that yaller-spotted steer run ag'in her clo'esline twice-t to-day--drug the whole week's washin' onto the ground, an' then tromped on it. she's inside a-renchin' an' a-starchin' of 'em over now. an' right on top o' that, i come in lookin' sort o' puny an' peaked, an' i happened to choke on a muskitty jest ez i come in, an' she declared she wasn't a-goin' to have a consumpted man sick on her hands an' a clo'es-destroyin' steer at the same time. an' with that she up an' wiped her hands on her apron, an' went an' selected this here pill out of a bottle of assorted sizes, an' instructed me to take it. they never was a thing done mo' delib'rate an' kind--never on earth. but of co'se you an' she know how it plegs me to take physic. you could mould out ice-cream in little pill shapes an' it would gag me, even ef 'twas vanilly-flavored. an' so, when i received it, why, i jest come out here to meditate. you can see it from where you set, doctor. it's a purty sizeable one, and i'm mighty suspicious of it." the doctor cleared his throat. "yas, i can see it, enoch--of co'se." "could you jedge of it, doctor? that is, of its capabilities, i mean?" "why, no, of co'se not--not less'n i'd taste it, an' you can do that ez well ez i can. if it's quinine, it'll be bitter; an' ef it's soggy an'--" "don't explain no mo', doctor. i can't stand it. i s'pose it's jest ez foolish to investigate the inwardness of a pill a person is bound to take ez it would be to try to lif the veil of the future in any other way. when i'm obligated to swaller one of 'em, i jest take a swig o' good spring water and repeat a po'tion of scripture and commit myself unto the lord. i always seem foreordained to choke to death, but i notice thet ef i recover from the first spell o' suffocation, i always come through. but i 'ain't never took one yet thet i didn't in a manner prepare to die." "then i wouldn't take it, enoch. don't do it." the doctor cleared his throat again, but this time he had no trouble to keep the corners of his mouth down. his sympathy robbed him for the time of the humor in the situation. "no, i wouldn't do it--doggone ef i would." the deacon looked into the palm of his hand and sighed. "oh yas, i reckon i better take it," he said, mildly. "ef i don't stand in need of it now, maybe the good lord'll sto'e it up in my system, some way, 'g'inst a future attackt." "well"--the doctor reached for his whip--"well, _i_ wouldn't do it--_steer or no steer_!" "oh yas, i reckon you would, doctor, ef you had a wife ez worrited over a wash-tub ez what mine is. an' i had a extry shirt in wash this week, too. one little pill ain't much when you take in how she's been tantalized." the doctor laughed outright. "tell you what to do, enoch. fling it away and don't let on. she don't question you, does she?" "no, she 'ain't never to say questioned me, but--well, i tried that once-t. sampled a bitter white capsule she gave me, put it down for quinine, an' flung it away. then i chirped up an' said i felt a heap better--and that wasn't no lie--which i suppose was on account o' the relief to my mind, which it always did seem to me capsules was jest constructed to lodge in a person's air-passages. jest lookin' at a box of 'em'll make me low-sperited. well, i taken notice thet she'd look at me keen now an' ag'in, an' then look up at the clock, an' treckly i see her fill the gou'd dipper an' go to her medicine-cabinet, an' then she come to me an' she says, says she, 'open yore mouth!' an' of co'se i opened it. you see that first capsule, ez well ez the one she had jest administered, was mostly morphine, which she had give me to ward off a 'tackt o' the neuraligy she see approachin', and here i had been tryin' to live up to the requi'ements of quinine, an' wrastlin' severe with a sleepy spell, which, ef i'd only knew it, would o' saved me. of co'se, after the second dose-t, which i swallered, i jest let nature take its co'se, an' treckly i commenced to doze off, an' seemed like i was a feather-bed an' wife had hung me on the fence to sun, an' i remember how she seemed to be a-whuppin' of me, but it didn't hurt. of co'se nothin' couldn't hurt me an' me all benumbed with morphine. an' i s'pose what put the feather-bed in my head was on account of it bein' goose-pickin' time, an' she was werrited with windy weather, an' she tryin' to fill the feather-beds. no, i won't never try to deceive her ag'in. it never has seemed to me thet she could have the same respect for me after ketchin' me at it, though she 'ain't never referred to it but once-t, an' that was the time i was elected deacon, an' even then she didn't do it outspoke. she seemed mighty tender over it, an' didn't no mo'n remind me thet a officer in a christian church ought to examine hisself mighty conscientious an' be sure he was free of deceit, which, seemed to me, showed a heap 'o' consideration. she 'ain't got a deceitful bone in her body, doctor." [illustration: "says she, 'open yore mouth.' an' of co'se i opened it"] "why, bless her old soul, enoch, you know thet i think the world an' all o' grandma gregg! she's the salt o' the earth--an' rock-salt at that. she's saved too many o' my patients by her good nursin', in spite o' my poor doctorin', for me not to appreciate her. but that don't reconcile me to the way she doses you for her worries." "it took me a long time to see that myself, doctor. but i've reasoned it out this a-way: i s'pose when she feels her temper a-risin' she's 'feerd thet she might be so took up with her troubles thet she'd neglect my health, an' so she wards off any attackt thet might be comin' on. i taken notice that time her strawberry preserves all soured on her hands, an' she painted my face with iodine, a man did die o' the erysipelas down here at battle creek, an' likely ez not she'd heerd of it. sir? no, i didn't mention it at the time for fear she'd think best to lay on another coat, an' i felt sort o' disfiggured with it. wife ain't a scoldin' woman, i'm thankful for that. an' some o' the peppermints an' things she keeps to dole out to me when she's fretted with little things--maybe her yeast'll refuse to rise, or a thunder-storm'll kill a settin' of eggs--why, they're so disguised thet _'cep'n thet i know they're medicine_--" "well, kitty, i reckon we better be a-goin'." the doctor tapped his horse. "be shore to give my love to grandma, enoch. an' ef you're bound to take that pill--of co'se i can't no mo'n speculate about it at this distance, but i'd advise you to keep clear o' sours an' acids for a day or so. don't think, because your teeth are adjustable, thet none o' yore other functions ain't open to salivation. _good_-night, enoch." "oh, she always looks after that, doctor. she's mighty attentive, come to withholdin' harmful temptations. good-bye, doctor. it's did me good to open my mind to you a little. "yas," he added, looking steadily into his palm as the buggy rolled away--"yas, it's did me good to talk to him; but i ain't no more reconciled to you, you barefaced, high-foreheaded little roly-poly, you. funny how a pill thet 'ain't got a feature on earth can look me out o' countenance the way it can, and frustrate my speech. talk about whited sepulchures, an' ravenin' wolves! i don't know how come i to let on thet i was feelin' puny to-night, nohow. i might've knew--with all them clo'es bedaubled over--though i can't, ez the doctor says, see how me a-takin' a pill is goin' to help matters--but of co'se i wouldn't let on to him, an' he a bachelor." he stopped talking and felt his wrist. "maybe my pulse is obstropulous, an' ought to be sedated down. reckon i'll haf to kill that steer--or sell him, one--though i swo'e i wouldn't. but of co'se i swo'e that in a temper, an' temp'rate vows ain't never made 'cep'in' to be repented of." several times during the last few minutes, while the deacon spoke, there had come to him across the garden from the kitchen the unmistakable odor of fried chicken. he had foreseen that there would be a good supper to-night, and that the tiny globule within his palm would constitute for him a prohibition concerning it. grandmother gregg was one of those worthy if difficult women who never let anything interfere with her duty as she saw it magnified by the lenses of pain or temper. it usually pleased her injured mood to make waffles on wash-day, and the hen-house owed many renovations, with a reckless upsetting of nests and roosts, to one of her "splittin' headaches." she would often wash her hair in view of impending company, although she averred that to wet her scalp never failed to bring on the "neuraligy." and her "neuraligy" in turn meant medicine for the deacon. it was probably the doctor's timely advice, augmented, possibly, by the potencies of the frying-pan, with a strong underlying sympathy with the worrying woman within--it was, no doubt, all these powers combined that suddenly surprised the hitherto complying husband into such unprecedented conduct that any one knowing him in his old character, and seeing him now, would have thought that he had lost his mind. with a swift and brave fling he threw the pill far into the night. then, in an access of energy born of internal panic, he slid nimbly from his perch and started in a steady jog-trot into the road, wiping away the tears as he went, and stammering between sobs as he stumbled over the ruts: "no, i won't--yas, i will, too--doggone shame, and she frettin' her life out--of co'se i will--i'll sell 'im for anything he'll fetch--an' i'll be a better man, yas, yas i will--but i won't swaller another one o' them blame--not ef i die for it." this report, taken in long-hand by an amused listener by the road-side, is no doubt incomplete in its ejaculatory form, but it has at least the value of accuracy, so far as it goes, which may be had only from a verbatim transcript. it was perhaps three-quarters of an hour later when enoch entered the kitchen, wiping his face, nervous, weary, embarrassed. supper was on the table. the blue-bordered dish, heaped with side bones and second joints done to a turn, was moved to a side station, while in its accustomed place before enoch's plate there sat an ominous bowl of gruel. the old man did not look at the table, but he saw it all. he would have realized it with his eyes shut. domestic history, as well as that of greater principalities and powers, often repeats itself. enoch's fingers trembled as he came near his wife, and standing with his back to the table, began to untie a broad flat parcel that he had brought in under his arm. she paused in one of her trips between the table and stove, and regarded him askance. "reckon i'll haf to light the lantern befo' i set down to eat, wife," he said, by way of introduction. "isrul'll be along d'rec'ly to rope that steer. i've done sold him." the good woman laid her dish upon the table and returned to the stove. "pity you hadn't 'a' sold 'im day befo' yesterday. i'd 'a' had a heap less pain in my shoulder-blade." she sniffed as she said it; and then she added, "that gruel ought to be e't warm." by this time the parcel was open. there was a brief display of colored zephyrs and gleaming card-board. then enoch began re-wrapping them. "reckon you can look these over in the morn-in', wife. they're jest a few new cross-stitch bible texts, an' i knowed you liked scripture motters. where'll i lay 'em, wife, while i go out an' tend to lightin' that lantern? i told isrul i'd set it in the stable door so's he could git that steer out o' the way immejate." the proposal to lay the mottoes aside was a master-stroke. the aggrieved wife had already begun to wipe her hands on her apron. still, she would not seem too easily appeased. "i do hope you 'ain't gone an' turned that whole steer into perforated paper, enoch, even ef 'tis bible-texted over." thus she guarded her dignity. but even as she spoke she took the parcel from his hands. this was encouragement enough. it presaged a thawing out. and after enoch had gone out to light the lantern, it would have amused a sympathetic observer to watch her gradual melting as she looked over the mottoes: "a virtuous wife is far above rubies." "a prudent wife is from the lord." "better a dinner of herbs where love is--" she read them over and over. then she laid them aside and looked at enoch's plate. then she looked at the chicken-dish, and now at the bowl of gruel which she had carefully set on the back of the stove to keep warm. "don't know ez it would hurt 'im any ef i'd thicken that gruel up into mush. he's took sech a distaste to soft food sense he's got that new set." she rose as she spoke, poured the gruel back into the pot, sifted and mixed a spoonful of meal and stirred it in. this done, she hesitated, glanced at the pile of mottoes, and reflected. then with a sudden resolve she seized the milk-pitcher, filled a cup from it, poured the milk into the little pot of mush, hastily whipped up two eggs with some sugar, added the mixture to the pot, returned the whole to the yellow bowl, and set it in the oven to brown. and just then enoch came in, and approached the water-shelf. "don't keer how you polish it, a brass lantern an' coal ile is like murder on a man's hands. it will out." he was thinking of the gruel, and putting off the evil hour. it had been his intention to boldly announce that he hadn't taken his medicine, that he never would again unless he needed it, and, moreover, that he was going to eat his supper to-night, and always, as long as god should spare him, etc., etc., etc. but he had no sooner found himself in the presence of long-confessed superior powers than he knew that he would never do any of these things. his wife was thinking of the gruel too when she encouraged delay by remarking that he would better rest up a bit before eating. "and i reckon you better soak yo' hands good. take a pinch o' that bran out o' the safe to 'em," she added, "and ef that don't do, the floridy water is in on my bureau." when finally enoch presented himself, ready for his fate, she was able to set the mush pudding, done to a fine brown, before him, and her tone was really tender as she said: "this ain't very hearty ef you're hungry; but you can eat it all. there ain't no interference in it with anything you've took." the pudding was one of enoch's favorite dishes, but as he broke its brown surface with his spoon he felt like a hypocrite. he took one long breath, and then he blurted: "by-the-way, wife, this reminds me, i reckon you'll haf to fetch me another o' them pills. i dropped that one out in the grass--that is, ef you think i still stand in need of it. i feel consider'ble better'n i did when i come in this evenin'." the good woman eyed him suspiciously a minute. then her eyes fell upon the words "above rubies" lying upon the table. reaching over, she lifted the pudding-bowl aside, took the dish of fried chicken from its sub-station, and set it before her lord. "better save that pudd'n' for dessert, honey, an' help yo'self to some o' that chicken, an' take a potater an' a roll, and eat a couple o' them spring onions--they're the first we've had. sence you're a-feelin' better, maybe it's jest ez well thet you mislaid that pill." * * * * the wind blows sometimes from the east in simkinsville, as elsewhere, and there are still occasional days when the deacon betakes himself to the front gate and sits like a nineteenth-century simon stilites on his pillar, contemplating the open palm of his own hand, while he enriches mrs. frequent's _répertoire_ of gossip by a picturesque item. but the reverse of the picture has much of joy in it; for, in spite of her various tempers, grandmother gregg is a warm-hearted soul--and she loves her man. and he loves her. listen to him to-night, for instance, as, having finished his supper, he remarks: "an' i'm a-goin' to see to it, from this on, thet you ain't fretted with things ez you've been, ef i can help it, wife. sometimes, the way i act, i seem like ez ef i forgit you're all i've got--on earth." "of co'se i reelize that, enoch," she replies. "we're each one all the other's got--an' that's why i don't spare no pains to keep you in health." two gentlemen of leisure one could see at a glance that they were gentlemen as they strolled leisurely along, side by side, through madison square, on christmas morning. a certain subtle charm--let us call it a dignified aimlessness--hung about them like an easy garment, labelling them as mild despisers of ambitions, of goals, of destinations, of conventionalities. the observer who passed from casual contemplation of their unkempt locks to a closer scrutiny perceived, even in passing them, that their shoes were not mates, while the distinct bagging at the knees of their trousers was somewhat too high in one case, and too low in the other, to encompass the knees within which were slowly, but surely, gaining tardy secondary recognitions at points more or less remote from the first impressions. one pair was a trifle short in the legs, while the other--they of the too-low knee-marks--were turned up an inch or two above the shoes: a style which in itself may seem to savor of affectation, and yet, taken with the wearer on this occasion, dispelled suspicion. it seemed rather a cold day to sit on a bench in madison square, and yet our two gentlemen, after making a casual tour of the walks, sat easily down; and, indeed, though passers hurried by in heavy top-coats and furs, it seemed quite natural that these gentlemen should be seated. one or two others, differing more or less as individuals from our friends, but evidently members of the same social caste, broadly speaking, were also sitting in the square, apparently as oblivious to the cold as they. "the hardest thing to bear," the taller one, he of the short trousers, was saying, as he dropped his shapely wrist over the iron arm of the bench, "the hardest thing for the individual, under the present system, is the arbitrariness of the assignments of life. the chief advantage of the bellamy scheme seems to me to be in its harmonious adjustments, so to speak. every man does professionally what he can best do. if you and i had been reared under that system, now--" "what, think you, would bellamy the prophet have made of you, humphrey?" "well, sir, his government would have taken pains to discover and develop my tendency, my drift--" "ah, i see. i should judge that nature had endowed you with a fine bump of drift, humphrey. but has it not been rather well cared for? the trouble with drifting is, so say the preachers, that it necessarily carries one downstream." "to the sea, the limitless, the boundless, the ultimatum--however, this is irrelevant and frivolous. i am serious--and modest, i assure you--when i speak of my gifts. i have, as you know, a pronounced gift at repartee. who knows what this might have become under proper development? but it has been systematically snubbed, misunderstood, dubbed impertinence, forsooth." "if i remember aright, it was your gift of repartee that--wasn't it something of that sort which severed your connection with college?" "yes, and here i am. that's where the shoe pinches. ha! and by way of literal illustration, speaking of the mal-adjustments of life, witness this boot." the speaker languidly extended his right foot. "the fellow who first wore it had bunions, blast him, and i come into his bunion-bulge with a short great toe. as a result, here i am in new york in december, instead of absorbing sunshine and the odor of violets in jackson square in new orleans, with picturesqueness and color all about me. no man could start south with such a boot as that. "i do most cordially hope that the beastly vulgarian who shaped it has gone, as my friend mantalini would express it, 'to the demnition bow-wows.' you see the beauty of the bellamy business is that all callings are equally worthy. as a social factor i should have made a record, and would probably have gone into history as a wit." "condemn the history! you'd have gone into life, humphrey. that's enough. you'd have gone into the home--into your own bed at night--into dinner in a dress-coat--into society, your element--into posterity in your brilliant progeny, paterfamilias--" "enough, colonel. there are some things--even from an old comrade like yourself--" "beg pardon, humphrey. no offence meant, i assure you. "it's only when life's fires are burning pretty low that we may venture to stir the coals and knock off the ashes a little. "for myself, i don't mind confessing, humphrey, that there have been women--don't start; there isn't even a yule-log smouldering on my heart's hearth to-day. i can stir the smoking embers safely. i say there have been women--a woman i'll say, even--a nursemaid, whom i have seen in this park--a perfect juno. she was well-born i'd swear, by her delicate ears, her instep, her curved nostrils--" "did you ever approach your goddess near enough to catch her curved articulation, colonel? or doubtless it flowed in angles, anglo-saxon pura." "you are flippant, humphrey. i say if this woman had had educational advantages and--and if my affairs had looked up a little, well--there's no telling! and yet, to tell you this to-day does not even warm my heart." "nor rattle a skeleton within its closet?" "not a rattle about me, sir, excepting the rattle of these beastly newspapers on my chest. have a smoke, humphrey?" the colonel presented a handful of half-burned cigar-stubs. "no choice. they're all twenty-five-centers, assorted from a waldorf lot." "thanks." humphrey took three. the colonel, reserving one for his own use, dropped the rest into his outer pocket. and now eleven men passed, smoking, eleven unapproachables, before one dropped a burning stump. as humphrey rose and strode indolently forward to secure the fragment, there was a certain courtliness about the man that even a pair of short trousers could not disguise. it was the same which constrains us to write him down sir humphrey. "i never appropriate the warmth of another man's lips," said he, as, having first presented the light to his friend, he lit a fragment for himself. then, pressing out the fire of the last acquisition, he laid it beside him to cool before adding it to his store. "nor i," responded the colonel--"at least, i never did but once. i happened to be walking behind general grant, and he dropped a smoking stub--" "which you took for granted--" "if you will, yes. it was a bit sentimental, i know, but i rather enjoyed placing it warm from his lips to mine. it was to me a sort of calumet, a pipe of peace, for rebel that i was, and am, i always respected grant. then, too, i fancied that i might deceive the fragment into surrendering its choicest aroma to me, since i surprised it in the attitude of surrender, and i believe it did." "sentimental dog that you are!" said sir humphrey, smiling, as he inserted the remaining bit of his cigar into an amber tip and returned it to his lips. "you have never disclosed to me, humphrey, where you procured that piece of bric-à-brac?" "haven't i? that is because of my bostonian reticence. no secret, i assure you. i found it, sir, in the lining of this coat. the fair donor of this spacious garment on one occasion, at least, gave a _tip_ to a beggar unawares." "exceptional woman. seems to me the exceptional beggar would have returned the article." "exceptional case. didn't find the tip for a month. i was in mobile at the time. i should have written my benefactress had stationery been available and had i known her name. when i returned to new york in the spring there was a placard on the house. otherwise i should have restored the tip, and trusted to her courtesy for the reward of virtue." "you have forgotten that that commodity is its own reward?" "yes, and the only reward it ever gets, as a new orleans wit once remarked. hence, here we are. however, returning to my fair benefactress, i haven't much opinion of her. any woman who would mend her husband's coat-sleeve with glue--look at this! first moist spell, away it went. worst of it was i happened to have no garment under it at the time. however, the incident secured me quite a handsome acquisition of linen. happened to run against a clever little tub-shaped woman whose ample bosom, i take it, was ordered especially for the accommodation of assorted sympathies. she, perceiving my azure-veined elbow, invited me to the dispensing-room of the i. o. u. society, of which she was a member, and presented me with a roll of garments, and--would you believe it?--there wasn't a tract or leaflet in the bundle--and as to my soul, she never mentioned the abstraction to me. now, that is what i call christianity. however, i may come across a motto somewhere, yet. of course, at my first opportunity, i put on those shirts--one to wear, and the other three to carry. so i've given them only a cursory examination thus far." "which one do you consider yourself wearing, humphrey, and which do you carry?" "i wear the _outside_ one, of course--and carry the others." "do you, indeed? well, now, if i were in the situation, i should feel that i was wearing the one next my body--and carrying the other three." "that's because you are an egotist and can't project yourself. i have the power the giftie gi'e me, and see myself as others see me. how's that for quick adaptation?" "quite like you. if the scotch poet had not been at your elbow with his offering, no doubt you'd have originated something quite as good. so you may be at this moment absorbing condensed theology, _nolens volens_." "for aught i know, yes, under my armpits. however, i sha'n't object, just so the dogmas don't crowd out my morals. my moral rectitude is the one inheritance i proudly retain. i've never sold myself--to anybody." "nor your vote?" "nor my vote. true, i have accepted trifling gratuities on election occasions; but they never affected my vote. i should have voted the same way, notwithstanding." "well, sir, i am always persuaded to accept a bonus on such occasions for _abstaining_. i have been under pay from both parties, each suspecting me of standing with the opposition. needless to say, i have religiously kept my contract. i never vote. it involves too much duplicity for a man of my profession." "not necessarily. i resided comfortably for quite a period in the basement of the dwelling of a certain political leader in this metropolis, once. he wished to have me register for his butler, but i stickled for private secretary, and private secretary i was written, sir, though i discovered later that the rogue had registered me as secretary to his coachman. however, the latter was the better man of the two--dropped his h's so fast that his master seemed to feel constrained to send everything to h---- for repairs." "what else could you expect for a man of _aspirations_?" "by thunder, humphrey, that's not bad. but do you see, by yon clock, that the dinner-hour approacheth?" the colonel took from his waistcoat-pocket two bits of paper. "somehow, i miss irving to-day. there's nothing irving enjoyed so much as a free dinner-ticket. i see the x. y. z.'s are to entertain us at p.m., and the k. r. g.'s at ." sir humphrey produced two similar checks. "well, sir, were irving here to-day i'd willingly present him with this presbyterian chip. there are some things to which i remain sensitive, and i look this ticket in the face with misgivings. it means being elbowed by a lot of english-slaying mendicants in a motto-bedecked saloon, where every bite at the presbyterian fowl seems a confession of faith that that particular gobbler, or hen, as the case may be, was fore-ordained, before the beginning of time, to be chewed by yourself--or eschewed, should you decline it. somehow theology takes the zest out of the cranberries for me. however, _de gustibus_--" "well, sir, i am a philosopher, and so was irving. poor irving! he was never quite square. it was he, you know, who perpetrated that famous roach fraud that went the rounds of the press. i've seen him do it. he would enter a restaurant, order a dinner, and, just before finishing, discover a huge roach, a croton bug, floating in his plate. of course the insects were his own contribution, but the fellow had a knack of introducing them. he could slip a specimen into his omelette soufflé, for instance, dexterously slicing it in half with his knife, with a pressure that left nothing to be desired. the interloper, compactly imbedded, immediately imparted such an atmosphere to his vicinity that even the cook would have sworn he was baked in. i blush to say i was irving's guest on one such occasion." "and sir roach paid for both dinners?" "bless you, yes. sir roach, f.r.s. (fried, roasted, or stewed). indeed, his hospitality did not end here. we were pressed to call again, and begged not to mention the incident. of course, this was in our more prosperous days, before either of us had taken on the stamp of our exclusiveness. even irving would hesitate to try it now, i fancy." "poor irving! a good fellow, but morally insane. in baton rouge now, i believe?" "yes. he changed overcoats with a gentleman. "i wonder how the cooking is in that state institution, humphrey? irving is such an epicure--" "oh, he's faring well enough, doubtless. trust those louisianians for cookery. when irving is in new orleans there are special houses where he drops in on fridays, just for _court-bouillon_. i've known him to weed a bed of geraniums rather than miss it." "such are the vicissitudes of pedestrianism. well, _tempus fugit_; let us be going. we have just an hour to reach our dining-hall. here come the crowd from church. the christmas service is very beautiful. do you recall it, humphrey?" "only in spots--like the varioloid." they were quite in the crowd now, and so ceased speaking, and presently the colonel was considerably in advance of his companion. so it happened that he did not see humphrey stop a moment, put his foot on a bit of green paper, drop his handkerchief, and in recovering it gather the crumpled bill into it. thus it came about that when sir humphrey overtook his friend, and, tapping him upon the shoulder, invited him to follow him into a famous saloon, the colonel raised his eyes in mild surprise. sir humphrey paid for the drinks with a ten-dollar note, and then the two proceeded to the side door of a well-known restaurant. "private dining-room, please," he said, and he dropped a quarter into the hands of the servant at the door as he led the way. * * * * it was two hours later when, having cast up his account from the bill of fare, sir humphrey, calling for cigars, said: "help yourself, colonel. if my arithmetic is correct, we shall enjoy our smoke, have a half dollar for the waiter, and enter the square with a whole cigar apiece in our breast pockets--at peace with the world, the flesh, and his satanic majesty. allow me to give you a light." he handed the colonel one of the free dinner-tickets of the x. y. z. society. "the presbyterian blue-light i reserve for my own use. witness it burn. "well, colonel, i hope you have enjoyed your dinner?" "thoroughly, sir, thoroughly. this is one of the many occasions in my life, humphrey, when i rejoice in my early good breeding. were it not for that, i should feel constrained to inquire whom you throttled and robbed in crossing fifth avenue, two hours ago, during the forty seconds when my back was turned." "and my pious rearing would compel me to answer, 'no one.' "the wherewithal to procure this christmas dinner dropped straight from heaven, colonel. i saw it fall, and gratefully seized it, just in the middle of the crossing." "thanks. i have taken the liberty of helping myself to the rest of the matches, humphrey." "quite thoughtful of you. we'll use one apiece for the other cigars. do you know i really enjoyed the first half of that smoke. it was quite like renewing one's youth." and so, in easy converse, they strolled slowly down fifth avenue. as sir humphrey hesitated in his walk, evidently suffering discomfort from his right boot, he presently remarked: "i say, colonel, i think i'll call around tomorrow at a few of my friends' houses, and see if some benevolent housewife won't let me have a shoe for this right foot." "or why not try your cigar on the ebony janitor of the apartment-house across the way. he has access to the trash-boxes, and could no doubt secure you a shoe--maybe a pair." "thanks, colonel, for the suggestion, but there are a few things i never do. i never fly in the face of providence. i shall smoke that cigar intact." and they walked on. the rev. jordan white's three glances the reverend jordan white, of cold spring baptist church, was so utterly destitute of color in his midnight blackness of hue as to be considered the most thoroughly "colored" person on claybank plantation, arkansas. that so black a man should have borne the name of white was one of the few of such familiar misfits to which the world never becomes insensible from familiarity. from the time when jordan, a half-naked urchin of six, tremblingly pronounced his name before the principal's desk in the summer free claybank school to the memorable occasion of his registration as an afro-american voter, the announcement had never failed to evoke a smile, accompanied many times by good-humored pleasantry. "well, sir," so he had often laughed, "i reck'n dey must o' gimme de name o' white fur a joke. but de jordan--i don' know, less'n dey named me jordan 'caze ev'ybody was afeerd ter cross me." from which it seems that the surname was not an inheritance. in his clerical suit of black, with standing collar and shirt-front matched in fairness only by his marvellously white teeth and eyeballs, jordan was a most interesting study in black and white. there were no intermediate shades about him. even his lips were black, or of so dark a purple as to fail to maintain an outline of color. they looked black, too. jordan was essentially ugly, too, with that peculiar genius for ugliness which must have inspired the familiar saying current among plantation folk, "he's so ogly tell he's purty." there is a certain homeliness of person, a combined result of type and degree, which undeniably possesses a peculiar charm, fascinating the eye more than confessed beauty of a lesser degree or more conventional form. jordan was ugly in this fashion, and he who glanced casually upon his ebony countenance rarely failed to look again. he was a genius, too, in more ways than one. if nature gave him two startling eyes that moved independently of each other, jordan made the most of the fact, as will be seen by the following confession made on the occasion of my questioning him as to the secret of his success as a preacher. "well, sir," he replied, "yer see, to begin wid: i got three glances, an' dat gimme three shots wid ev'y argimint. "when i'm a preachin' i looks straight at one man an' lays his case out so clair he can't miss it, but, you see, all de time i'm a-layin' him out, my side glances is takin' in two mo'." "but," i protested, "i should think he whom you are looking at and describing in so personal a manner would get angry, and--" "so he would, sir, if he knowed i was lookin' at him. _but he don't know it_. you know, dat's my third glance an' hit's my secret glance. you see, if my reel glance went straight, i'd have ter do like de rest o' you preachers, look at one man while yer hittin' de man behin' 'im, an' dat's de way dey _think i is doin_', whiles all de time i'm a watchin' 'im wriggle. "of cose, sometimes i uses my glances diff'ent ways. sometimes i des lets 'em loose p'omiskyus fur a while tell ev'ybody see blue lightnin' in de air, an' de mo'ner's bench is full, an' when i see ev'ybody is ready ter run fur 'is life, of co'se i eases up an' settles down on whatever sinner seem like he's de leastest skeered tell i nails 'im fast." [illustration: "'i des lets 'em loose p'omiskyus, tell ev'ybody see blue lightnin''"] he hesitated here a moment. "de onies' trouble," he resumed, presently. "de onies' trouble wid havin' mixed glances is 'dat seem like hit confines a man ter preach wrath. "so long as i tried preachin' heaven, wid golden streets an' harp music, i nuver fe'ched in a soul, but 'cep'n' sech as was dis a-waitin' fur de open do' _to_ come in. dat's my onies' drawback, brer jones. sometimes seem like when heaven comes inter my heart i does crave ter preach it in a song. of cose, i does preach heaven yit, but _i bleege ter preach it f'om de hell side, an' shoo 'em in_!" there was, i thought, the suspicion of a twinkle lurking in the corners of his eyes throughout his talk, but it was too obscure for me to venture to interpret it by a responsive smile, and so the question was put with entire seriousness when i said: "and yet, jordan, didn't i hear something of your going to an oculist last summer?" "yas, sir. so i did. dat's true." he laughed foolishly now. "i did talk about goin' ter one o' deze heah occular-eye doctors las' summer, _and i went once-t_, but i ain't nuver tol' nobody, an' you mustn't say nothin' 'bout it, please, sir. "but yer see, sir." he lowered his voice here to a confidential whisper. "yer see dat was on account o' de ladies. i was a widder-man den, an', tell de trufe, my mixed glances was gettin' me in trouble. yer know in dealin' wid de ladies, yer don' keer how many glances you got, yer wants ter use 'em _one at a time_. why dey was a yaller lady up heah at de crossroads wha' 'blongs ter my church who come purty nigh ter suein' me in de co't-house, all on account o' one o' my side glances, an' all de time, yer see, my _reel_ glance, hit was settled on mis' white, wha' sot in de middle pew--but in cose she warn't mis' white den; she was de widder simpson." "and so you have been recently married," i asked; "and how does your wife feel about the matter? "well, yer see, sir," he answered, laughing, "she can't say nothin', 'caze she's cross-eyed 'erse'f. "an' lemme tell you some'h'n', boss." he lowered his tone again, implying a fresh burst of confidence, while his whole visage seemed twinkling with merriment. "lemme tell yer some'h'n', boss. you ain't a ma'ied man, is yer?" i assured him that i was not married. "well, sir, i gwine gi'e you my advice. an' i'm a man o' 'spe'unce. i been ma'ied three times, an' of cose i done consider'ble co'tin' off'n an' on wid all three, not countin' sech p'omiskyus co'tin' roun' as any widder gemman is li'ble ter do, an' i gwine gi'e you some good advice. "ef ever you falls in love wid air cross-eyed lady, an' craves ter co't'er, you des turn down de lamp low 'fo' yer comes ter de fatal p'int, ur else set out on de po'ch in de fainty moonlight, whar yer can't see 'er eyes, caze dey's nothin' puts a co'tin' man out, and meek 'im lose 'is pronouns wuss 'n a cross-eye. an' ef it hadn't o' been dat _i knowed what a cook she was_, tell de trufe, de widder simpson's cross-eye would o' discour'ged me off enti'ely. "but now," he continued, chuckling; "but now i done got usen ter it; it's purty ter me--seem like hit's got a searchin' glance dat goes out'n its way ter fin' me." needless to say, i found the old man amusing, and when we parted at the cross-roads i was quite willing to promise to drop in some time to hear one of his sermons. although somewhat famed as a preacher, jordan had made his record in the pulpit not so much on account of any powers of oratory, _per se_, as through a series of financial achievements. during the two years of his ministry he had built a new church edifice, added the imposing parsonage which he occupied, and he rode about the country on his pastoral missions, mounted on a fine bay horse--all the result of "volunteer" contributions. and jordan stood well with his people; the most pious of his fold according him their indorsement as heartily as they who hung about the outskirts of his congregation, and who indeed were unconsciously supplying the glamour of his distinguished career; for the secret of jordan's success lay especially in his power of collecting money from _sinners_. so it came about that, without adding a farthing to their usual donations, the saints reclined in cushioned pews and listened to the words of life from a prosperous, well-fed preacher, who was manifestly an acceptable sower of vital seed--seed which took root in brick and mortar, branched out in turret and gable, and flowered before their very eyes in crimson upholstery. the truth was that cold spring was the only colored church known to its congregation that boasted anything approaching in gorgeousness its pulpit furnishings of red cotton velvet, and never a curious sinner dropped in during any of its services for a peep at its grandeur without leaving a sufficient quota of his substance to endow him with a comfortable sense of proprietorship in it all. the man who has given a brick to the building of the walls of a sanctuary has always a feeling of interest in the edifice, whether he be of its fold or not, and if he return to it an old man, it will seem to yield him a sort of welcoming recognition. the brick he gave is somewhere doing its part in sustaining the whole, and the uncertainty of its whereabouts seems to bestow it everywhere. i was not long in finding my way to jordan's church. it was in summer time, and a large part of his congregation was composed of young girls and their escorts on the afternoon when i slipped into the pew near the door. the church was crowded within, while the usual contingent of idlers hung about the front door and open windows. i searched jordan's face for a few moments, in the hope of discovering whether he recognized me or not, but for the life of me i could not decide. if his "secret glance" ever discerned me in my shadowed corner, neither of the other two betrayed it. i soon discovered that there was to be no sermon on this occasion, for which i was sorry, as i supposed that his most ambitious effort would naturally take shape in this form. of this, however, i now have my doubts. after the conventional opening of service with prayer, scripture reading, and song, he passed with apparent naturalness to the collection, the ceremony to which everything seemed to tend. the opening of this subject was again conventional, the only deviation from the ordinary manner of procedure being that, instead of the hat's passing round it was inverted upon the table beside the pulpit, while contributors, passing up the aisles, deposited their contributions and returned to their seats. this in itself, it will be seen, elevated the collection somewhat in the scale of ceremonial importance. for some time the house was quite astir with the procession which moved up one side and down the other, many singing fervently as they went, and dramatically holding their coins aloft as they swayed in step with the music, while above all rose the exhortations of the preacher which waxed in fervor as the first generous impulse began to wane. "drap in yo' dollar!" he was shouting. "drap in yo' half dollar! drap in yo' dime! drap in yo' nickel. drap in yo' nickel, i say, an' ef yer ain't got a nickel, come up an' let's pray fur yer! "ef yer ain't got a nickel," he repeated, encouraged by the titter that greeted this; "ef yer ain't got a nickel, come up an' let de whole congergation pray fur yer! we'll teck up a collection fur any man dat 'l stan' up an' confess he ain't wuth a nickel." a half dozen grinning young fellows stepped up now with coins concealed in the palms of their hands. "come on! come on, all you nickel boys! come on. "ev'y nickel is a wheel ter keep salvation's train a-movin'! come on, i say; bring yo' wheels! "ef you ain't got a big wheel fur de ingine fetch a little wheel fur de freight train! we needs a-plenty o' freight kyars on dis salvation train. 'caze hit's loaded up heavy wid bibles fur de heathen, an' brick an' lumber to buil' churches, an' medicine fur de sick, an' ole clo'es fur de po'--heap ob 'em wid de buttons cut off'n 'em, but dat ain't our fault, we bleeged ter sen' 'em on! fetch on yo' little wheels, i say, fur de freight train." there had been quite a respectable response to this appeal thus far, but again it spent itself and there was a lull when jordan, folding his arms, and looking intently before him, in several directions apparently, exclaimed in a most tragic tone: "my gord! is de salvation train done stallded right in front o' claybank chu'ch, an' we can't raise wheels ter sen' it on? "lord have mussy, i say! i tell yer, my brers an' sisters, you's a-treatin' de kyar o' glory wuss'n you'd treat a ole cotton mule wagon! you is, fur a fac'! "ef air ole mule wagon ur a donkey-kyart was stallded out in de road in front o' dis chu'ch--don' keer ef it was loaded up wid pippy chickens, much less'n de lord's own freight--dey ain't one o' yer but 'd raise a wheel ter sen' it on! you know yer would! an' heah de salvation train is stuck deep in de mud, an' yer know arkansas mud _hit's mud_; hit ain't b'iled custard; no, it ain't, an' hit sticks like glue! heah de glory kyar is stallded in dis tar-colored arkansas glue-mud, i say, an' i can't raise wheels enough out'n dis congergation ter sen' it on! an' dis is de holy sabbath day, too, de day de lord done special set apart _fur_ h'istin' a oxes out'n a ditch, es much less'n salvation's train. "now, who gwine fetch in de nex' wheel, my brothers, my sisters, my sinner-frien's? who gwine fetch a wheel? dat's it! heah come a wheel--two wheels--three wheels; fetch one mo'; heah, a odd wheel; de train's a-saggin' down lop-sided fur _one mo' wheel_! heah it come--f'om a ole 'oman, too! shame on you, boys, ter let po' ole aunt charity pettigrew, wha' nussed yo' mammies, an' is half-blin' an' deef at dat--shame on yer ter let 'er lif' dis train out'n de mud! an' yer know she kyant heah me nuther. she des brung a wheel 'caze she felt de yearth trimble, an' knowed de train was stallded! "oh, my brers, de yearth gwine trimble wuss'n dat one o' deze days, an' look out de rocks don't kiver you over! don't hol' back dis train ef you c'n he'p it on! i ain't axin' yer fur no paper greenbacks to-day _to light de ingine fire_! "i ain't a-beggin' yer fur no gol' an' silver wheels fur de passenger trains for de saints, 'caze yer know de passenger kyars wha' ride inter de city o' de king, dey 'bleege ter have gol' and silver wheels ter match de golden streets; but, i say, i ain't axin' yer fur no gol' an' silver wheels to-day, nur no kindlin'! de train is all made up an' de ingine is a steamin', an' de b'ilers is full. i say _de b'ilers is full_, my dear frien's. "full o' what? whar do dey git water ter run dis gorspil train? dis heah's been a mighty dry season, an' de cotton-fiel's is a-beggin' now fur water, an' i say _whar do de salvation train git water fur de ingine_? "oh, my po' sinner-frien's, does you want me ter tell yer? "de cisterns long de track is bustin' full o' water, an' _so long as a sinner got o' tear ter shed_ de water ain't gwine run out!" "yas, lord!" "glory!" "amen!" and "amen!" with loud groans came from various parts of the house now, and many wheels were added to glory's train by the men about the door, while jordan continued: "don't be afeerd ter weep! de ingine o' glory's kyar would o' gi'en out o' water long 'fo' now in deze heah summer dry-drouths if 'twarn't fur de tears o' sinners, an' de grief-stricken an' de heavy-hearted! i tell yer glory's train stops ter teck in water at de mo'ner's bench eve'y day! so don't be afeerd to weep. but bring on de wheels!" he paused here and looked searchingly about him. there was no response. stepping backward now and running both hands deep into his pockets, he dropped his oratorical tone, and, falling easily into the conversational, continued: "well, maybe you right! maybe you right, my frien's settin' down by de do', an' my frien's leanin' 'gins' de choir banisters, an' i ain' gwine say no mo'. i was lookin' fur you ter come up wid some sort o' wheel, an' maybe a silver wheel ter match dat watch-chain hangin' out'n yo' waistcoat-pocket; but maybe you right! "when a man set still an' say nothin' while de voice is a callin' i reck'n he knows what he's a-doin'. "he knows whether de wheels in his pocket is _fitt'n_ fur de gorspil kyar ur not! an' i say ter you to-day dat ef dat money in yo' pocket ain't _clean money_, don't you _dare_ ter fetch it up heah! "ef you made dat money sneakin' roun' henrooses in de dark o' de moon--i don't say you is, but _ef_ you is--you set right still in yo' seat an' don't _dare_ ter offer it ter de lord, i say! "ef you backed yo' wagon inter somebody else's watermillion patch by de roadside an' loaded up on yo' way ter town 'fo' sunup--i don't say you is, mind yer, but _ef you is_--set right whar you is, an' do des like you been doin', 'caze de money you made on dat early mornin' wagon load ain't fitt'n fur wheels fur de gorspil train! "an' deze yo'ng men at de winders, i say, ef de wheels in _yo_' pockets come f'om _matchin' nickels on de roadside, or kyard-playin', or maybe drivin' home de wrong pig_. (you nee'n't ter laugh. de feller dat spo'ts de shinies' stovepipe hat of a sunday sometimes cuts de ears off'n de shoat he kills of a sa'day, 'caze de ears got a tell-tale mark on 'em.) _an', i say, ef you got yo' money dat a-way_, won't you des move back from de winders, please, an' meck room fur some o' dem standin' behin' yer dat got good hones' wheels ter pass in!" this secured the window crowds intact, and now jordan turned to the congregation within. "an' now, dear beloved." he lowered his voice. "for sech as i done specified, _let us pray_!" he had raised his hands and was closing his eyes in prayer, when a man rose in the centre of the church. "brer jordan," he began, laughing with embarrassment. "ef some o' de brers ur sisters'll change a dime fur me--" jordan opened his eyes and his hands fell. "bless de lord!" he exclaimed, with feeling. "bless de lord, one man done claired 'isse'f! glory, i say! come on up, brer smiff, 'n' i'll gi'e you yo' change!" "ef--brer smiff'll loan _me_ dat nickel?" said a timid voice near the window. smith hesitated, grinning broadly. "ef--ef i could o' spared de dime, mr. small, i'd a put it in myse'f, but--but--" "_but nothin'_! put de dime in de hat!" the voice came from near the front now. "put it all in de hat, brer smiff. you owes me a nickel an' i'll loan'd it to mr. small." and so, amid much laughter, smith reluctantly deposited his dime. others followed so fast that when jordan exclaimed, "who gwine be de nex'?" his words were almost lost in the commotion. still his voice had its effect. "heah one mo'--two mo'--fo' mo'--eight mo'! glory, i say! an' heah dey come in de winder! oh, i'm proud ter see it, yo'ng men! i'm proud ter see it!" borrowing or making change was now the order of the moment, as every individual present who had not already contributed felt called upon thus to exonerate himself from so grave a charge. amid the fresh stir a tremulous female voice raised a hymn, another caught it up, and another--voices strong and beautiful; alto voices soft as flute notes blended with the rich bass notes and triumphant tenors that welled from the choir, and floated in from the windows, until the body of the church itself seemed almost to sway with the rhythmic movement of the stirring hymn "salvation's kyar is movin'." [illustration: "salvation's kyar is movin'!"] still, above all, jordan's voice could be distinguished--as a fine musical instrument, and whether breaking through the tune in a volley of exhortations, or rising superior to it all in a rich tenor--his words thrown in snatches, or drawn out to suit his purpose--never once did it mar the wonderful harmony of the whole. it was a scene one could not easily forget. the shaft of low sunlight that now filled the church, revealing a bouquet of brilliant color in gay feathers and furbelows, with a generous sprinkling of white heads, lit up a set of faces at once so serious and so happy, so utterly forgetful of life's frettings and cares, that i felt as i looked upon them, that their perfect vocal agreement was surely but a faint reflection of a sweet spiritual harmony, which even if it did not survive the moment, was worth a long journey thither, for in so hearty a confession of fellowship, in so complete a laying down of life's burdens, there is certainly rest and a renewal of strength. feeling this to be a good time to slip out unobserved, i noiselessly secured my hat from beneath the pew before me, but i had hardly risen when i perceived a messenger hurrying towards me from the pulpit, with a request that i should remain a moment longer, and before i could take in the situation the singing was over and jordan was speaking. what he said, as nearly as i can recall it, was as follows: "befo' i pernounces de benediction, i wants ter 'spress de thanks o' dis chu'ch ter de 'oner'ble visitor wha' set 'isse'f so modes' in de las' pew dis evenin', _an' den sen' up de bigges' conterbutiom_, fulfillin' de words o' de scripture, which say _de las' shill be fus' an' de fus' shill be las_'. "brer chesterfiel' jones, please ter rise an' receive de thanks o' de congergation fur dat gen'rous five-dollar bill wha' you sont up by brer phil dolittle." he paused here, and feeling all eyes turned upon me, i was constrained to rise to my feet, and i think i can truly say that i have never been surprised by greater embarrassment than i felt as i hurriedly subsided to the depths of my corner. addressing himself now to dolittle, jordan continued: "i 'ain't see you walk so biggoty in a _long_ time, brer dolittle, as you walked when you fetched up dat five dollars. ef dis heah 'd been a cake walk yo'd o' tooken de prize, sho'. "de nex' time dy' all gets up a cake walk on dis plantation, lemme advise you ter borry a five-dollar note _f'om somebody dat don't know yer_, ter tote when yer walk. hit'll he'p yer ter keep yo' chin up. "_an' dat ain't all_. hit'll he'p _me_ ter keep _my chin up_ when i ca'ys dis greenback bill to de grocery to-morrer an' i'll turn it into a wheel, too--two wheels, wid a bulge between 'em. now guess wha' dat is?" the congregation were by this time convulsed with laughter, and some one answered aloud: "a flour-bar'l!" "dat's it, joe, a flour-bar'l! you's a good guesser. "an' so now, in de name o' col' spring chu'ch, brer jones, i thanks you ag'in fur a bar'l o' flour, an' i tecks it mighty kin' o' you too, 'caze i knows deys a heap o' 'piscopalpalian preachers _wha' wouldn't o' done it!_ dey'd be 'feerd dat ef dey gi'e any o' de high-risin' 'piscopalpalian flour ter de baptists dat dey'd ruin it wid _col' water!_" there was so much laughter here that jordan had to desist for a moment, but he had not finished. "_but_," he resumed, with renewed seriousness--"_but ef christians on'y knowed it_, dey kin put a _little leaven o' solid christianity_ in all de charity flour dey gi'es away, an' hit'll _leaven de whole lot_ so strong dat _too much water can't spile it_, nur _too much fire can't scorch it_, nur _too much fore-sight_ (ur whatever dis heah is de p'esberteriums mixes in dey bread) _can't set it so stiff it can't rise_, 'caze hit's got de strong leaven o' de spirit in it, an' hit's _boun' ter come up_! "i see de sun's gitt'n low, an' hit's time ter let down de bars an' turn de sheeps loose, an' de goats too--not sayin' deys any goats in dis flock, an' not sayin' dey ain't--but 'fo' we goes out, i wants ter say one mo' word ter brer dolittle." his whole face was atwinkle with merriment now. "dey does say, brer dolittle, dat riches is mighty 'ceitful an' mighty ap' ter turn a man's head, an' i tookin' notice dat arter you fetched up brer chesterfiel' jones's five dollars to-day you nuver corndescended ter meck no secon' trip to de hat on brer dolittle's 'count. "i did think i'd turn a searchin' glance on yer fur a minute an' shame yer up heah, but you looked so happy an' so full o' biggoty i spared yer, but yer done had time ter cool off now, an' i 'bleeged ter bring yer ter de scratch. "now, ef you done teched de five-dollar notch an' can't git down, we'll git somebody ter loan'd yer a greenback bill ter fetch up, an' whils' de congergation is meditatin' on dey sins i'll gi'e you back fo' dollars an' ninety-five cents." amid screams of laughter poor little dolittle, a comical, wizen-faced old man, nervously secured a nickel from the corner of his handkerchief, and, grinning broadly, walked up with it. "de ve'y leastest a man _kin_ do," jordan continued, as leaning forward he presented the hat--"de ve'y _leastest_ he kin do is ter _live up ter 'is name_, an' ef my name was _dolittle_ i sho' would try ter _live up ter dat, ef i didn't pass beyond it_!" and as he restored the hat to the table beside him, he added, with a quizzical lift of his brow: "i does try ter live up ter _my_ name even, an' yer know, my feller-sinners, hit does look like a hard case fur a man o' my color ter live up ter de name o' white." he waited again for laughter to subside. "at leas'," he resumed, seriously, "hit did look like a hard case _at fust_, but by de grace o' gord i done 'skivered de way ter do it! "ef we all had ter live up ter our skins, hit'd be purty hard on a heap of us; but, bless de lord! he don't look at de skins; he looks at de _heart_! "i tries ter keep my _heart_ white, an' my _soul_ white, an' my _sperit_ white! dat's how i tries ter live up ter _my_ name wid a _white cornscience, bless de lord_! an' i looks fur my people ter he'p me all dey kin." and now, amid a hearty chorus of "amens!" and "glorys!" he raised his hands for a benediction, which in its all-embracing scope did not fail to invoke divine favor upon "our good 'piscopalpalian brother, riviren' chesterfiel' jones--gord bless him." lady a monologue of the cow-pen umh! fur gord sake, des look at dem cows! all squez up together 'g'ins' dem bars in dat sof' mud--des like i knowed dey gwine be--an' me late at my milkin'! you lady! teck yo' proud neck down f'om off dat heifer's head! back, i tell yer! don't tell me, spot! yas, i know she impose on you--yas she do. reachin' her monst'ous mouf clair over yo' po' little muley head. move back, i say, lady! ef you so biggoty, why don't you fool wid some o' dem horn cows? you is a lady, eve'y inch of yer! you knows who to fool wid. you is de uppishes' cow i ever see in all my life--puttin' on so much style--an' yo' milk so po' an' blue, i could purty nigh blue my starch clo'es wid it. look out dar, peggy, how you squeeze 'g'ins' lady! she ain' gwine teck none o' yo' foolishness. peggy ain't got a speck o' manners! lady b'longs ter de cream o' s'ciety, i have yer know,--an' bless gord, i b'lieve dat's all de cream dey is about her. hyah! fur gord's sake lis'n at me, passin' a joke on lady! i does love to pleg dem cows--dey teck it so good-natured. heap o' us 'omans mought teck lessons in christianity f'om a cow--de way she stan' so still an' des look mild-eyed an' chaw 'er cud when anybody sass 'er. dey'd be a heap less fam'ly quar'lin on dis plantation ef de 'omans had cuds ter chaw--dat is ef dey'd be satisfied ter chaw dey own. but ef dey was ter have 'em 'twouldn't be no time befo' dey'd be cud fights eve'y day in de week, eve'y one thinkin' de nex' one had a sweeter moufful 'n what she had. reckon we got 'nough ter go to law 'bout, widout cuds--ain't we lady? don't start pawin' de groun' now, des caze yer heah me speculatin' at yo' feed-trough. i kin talk an' work too. i ain't like you--nuver do n'air one. i ain't gwine pay no 'tention ter none o' y' all no mo' now tell i git yo' supper ready. po' little brindle! stan' so still, an' ain't say a word. i'm a-fixin' yo' feed now, honey--yas, i is! i allus mixes yo's fust, caze i know you nuver gits in till de las' one an' some o' de rest o' de greedies mos' gin'ally eats it up fo' you gits it. she's a scriptu'al cow, brindle is--she so meek. yas, i sho' does love brindle. any cow dat kin walk in so 'umble, after all de res' git done, an' pick up a little scrap o' leavin's out'n de trough de way she do--an' turn it eve'y bit into good yaller butter--_dat what i calls a cow!_ co'se i know lady'll git in here ahead o' yer, honey, an' eat all dis mash i'm a-mixin' so good fur you. it do do me good to see 'er do it, too. i sho' does love lady--de way 'er manners sets on 'er. she don't count much at de churn--an' she ain't got no conscience--an' no cha'acter--_but she's a lady!_ dat's huccome i puts up wid 'er. yas, i'm a-talkin' 'bout you, lady, an' i'm a-lookin' at yer, too, rahin' yo' head up so circumstantial. but you meets my eye like a lady! you ain't shame-faced, is yer! you too well riz--you is. _you_ know dat _i_ know dat yo' po' measly sky-colored milk sours up into mighty fine clabber ter feed yo'ng tukkeys wid--you an' me, we knows dat, don't we? hyah! dar, now, we done turned de joke on all you yaller-creamers--ain't we, lady? lordy! i wonder fo' gracious ef lady nod her head to me accidental! is you 'spondin' ter me, lady? tell de trufe, i spec's lady ter twis' up 'er tongue an' talk some day--she work 'er mouf so knowin'! dis heah cotton-seed ought ter be tooken out'n her trough, by rights. ef i could feed her on bran an' good warm slops a while, de churn would purty soon 'spute her rights wid de tukkeys! a high-toned cow, proud as lady is, ought ter reach white-folk's table somehow-ma-ruther. but you gits dar all the same, don't yer lady? you gits dar in tukkey-meat _ef dey don't reco'nize yer_! well! i'm done mixin' now an' i turns my back on de trough--an' advance ter de bars. lordy, how purty dem cows does look--wid dat low sun 'g'ins' dey backs! so patient an' yit so onpatient. back, now, till i teck out dese rails! soh, now! easy, spot! easy, lady! i does love ter let down dese bars wid de sun in my eyes. i loves it mos' as good as i loves ter milk. down she goes! step up quick, now, brindle, an' git yo' place. lord have mussy! des look how brindle meck way fur lady! i know'd lady'd git dar fust! i know'd it! an' dat's huccome i mixed dat feed so purtic'lar. i does love lady! a pulpit orator old reub' tyler, pastor of mount zion chapel, sugar hollow plantation, was a pulpit orator of no mean parts. though his education, acquired during his fifty-ninth, sixtieth, and sixty-first summers, had not carried him beyond the first reader class in the local district school, it had given him a pretty thorough knowledge of the sounds of simple letter combinations. this, supplemented by a quick intuition and a correct musical ear, had aided him to really remarkable powers of interpretation, and there was now, ten years later, no chapter in the entire bible which he hesitated to read aloud, such as contained long strings of impossible names hung upon a chain of "begats" being his favorite achievements. a common tribute paid reub's pulpit eloquence by reverential listeners among his flock was, "brer tyler is got a black face, but his speech sho' is white." the truth was that in his humble way reub' was something of a philologist. a new word was to him a treasure, so much stock in trade, and the longer and more formidable the acquisition, the dearer its possession. reub's unusual vocabulary was largely the result of his intimate relations with his master, judge marshall, whose body-servant he had been for a number of years. the judge had long been dead now, and the plantation had descended to his son, the present incumbent. reub' was entirely devoted to the family of his former owners, and almost any summer evening now he might be seen sitting on the lowest of the five steps which led to the broad front veranda of the great house where mr. john marshall sat smoking his meerschaum. if marshall felt amiably disposed he would often hand the old man a light, or even his own tobacco-bag, from which reub' would fill his corn-cob pipe, and the two would sit and smoke by the hour, talking of the crops, the weather, politics, religion, anything--as the old man led the way; for these evening communings were his affairs rather than his "marse john's." on a recent occasion, while they sat talking in this way, marshall was congratulating him upon his unprecedented success in conducting a certain revival then in progress, when the old man said: "yassir, de lord sho' is gimme a rich harves'. but you know some'h'n', marse john? all de power o' language th'ough an' by which i am enable ter seize on de sperit is come to me th'ough ole marster. i done tooken my pattern f'om him f'om de beginnin,' an' des de way i done heerd him argify de cases in de co't-house, dat's de way i lay out ter state my case befo' de lord. "i nuver is preached wid power yit on'y but 'cep' when i sees de sinner standin' 'fo' de bar o' de lord, an' de witnesses on de stan', an' de speckletators pressin' for'ard to heah, an' de jury listenin', an _me--i'm de prosecutin' 'torney_! "an' when i gits dat whole co't-room 'ranged 'fo' my eyes in my min', an' de pris'ner standin' in de box, i des reg'lar _lay 'im out_! you see, i knows all de law words ter do it _wid_! i des open fire on 'im, an' prove 'im a crim'nal, a law-breaker, a vagabone, a murderer in ev'y degree dey is--fus', secon', _an_' third--a reperbate, an' a blot on de face o' de yearth, tell dey ain't a chance lef' fur 'im but ter fall on 'is knees an' plead guilty! "an' when i got 'im down, _i got 'im whar i want 'im_, an' de work's half did. den i shif's roun' an' ac' _pris'ner's 'torney_, an' preach grace tell i gits 'im shoutin'--des de same as ole marster use ter do--clair a man whe'r or no, guilty or no guilty, step by step, nuver stop tell he'd have de last juryman blowin' 'is nose an' snifflin'--an' he'd do it wid swellin' dic'sh'nary words, too! "dat's de way i works it--fus' argify fur de state, den plead fur de pris'ner. "i tell yer, marse john," he resumed, after a thoughtful pause, "dey's one word o' ole marster's--i don'no' huccome it slipped my min', but hit was a long glorified word, an' i often wishes hit'd come back ter me. ef i could ricollec' dat word, hit'd holp me powerful in my preachin'. "wonder ef you wouldn't call out a few dic'sh'nary words fur me, please, sir? maybe you mought strike it." without a moment's reflection, marshall, seizing at random upon the first word that presented itself, said, "how about _ratiocination_?" the old man started as if he were shot. "dat's hit!" he exclaimed. "yassir, dat's hit! how in de kingdom come is you struck it de fust pop? rasheoshinatiom! i 'clare! dat's de ve'y word, sho's you born! dat's what i calls a high-tone word; ain't it, now, marse john?" "yes, uncle reub'; ratiocination is a good word in its place." marshall was much amused. "i suppose you know what it means?" "nemmine 'bout dat," reub' protested, grinning all over--"nemmine 'bout dat. i des gwine fetch it in when i needs a thunder-bolt! rasheoshinatiom! dat's a bomb-shell fur de prosecutiom! but i can't git it off now; i'm too cool. wait tell i'm standin' in de pulpit on tip-toes, wid de sweat a-po'in' down de spine o' my back, an' fin' myse'f _des one argimint short_! den look out fur de locomotive! "won't yer," he added, after a pause--"won't yer, please, sir, spell dat word out fur me slow tell i writes it down 'fo' i forgits it?" [illustration: "'won't yer, please, sir, spell dat word out fur me slow?'"] reaching deep into his trousers pocket, he brought forth a folded scrap of tobacco-stained paper and a bit of lead-pencil. notwithstanding his fondness for the old man, there was a twinkle in marshall's eye as he began to spell for him, letter by letter, the coveted word of power. "r," he began, glancing over the writer's shoulder. "r," repeated reub', laboriously writing. "a," continued marshall. "r-a," repeated reub'. "t," said the tutor. "r-a-t," drawled the old man, when, suddenly catching the sound of the combination, he glanced first at the letters and then with quick suspicion up into marshall's face. the suppressed smile he detected there did its work. he felt himself betrayed. springing tremulously from his seat, the very embodiment of abused confidence and wrath, he exclaimed: "well! hit's come ter dis, is it? one o' ole marster's chillen settin' up makin' spote o' me ter my face! i didn't spect it of yer, marse john--i did not. it's bad enough when some o' deze heah low-down po'-white-trash town-boys hollers 'rats' at me--let alone my own white chillen what i done toted in my arms! lemme go home an' try ter forgit dis insult ole marster's chile insulted me wid!" it was a moment before marshall saw where the offence lay, and then, overcome with the ludicrousness of the situation, he roared with laughter in spite of himself. this removed him beyond the pale of forgiveness, and as reub' hobbled off, talking to himself, marshall felt that present protest was useless. it was perhaps an hour later when, having deposited a bag of his best tobacco in his coat pocket, and tucked a dictionary under his arm, marshall made his way to the old man's cabin, where, after many affectionate protestations and much insistence, he finally induced him to put on his glasses and spell the word from the printed page. he was not easily convinced. however, under the force of marshall's kindly assurances and the testimony of his own eyes, he finally melted, and as he set back the candle and removed his glasses, he remarked, in a tone of the utmost humility, "well--dat's what comes o' nigger educatiom! des let a nigger git fur enough along ter spell out c-a-t, cat, an' r-a-t, rat, an' a few fus' reader varmints, an' he's ready ter conterdic' de whole dic'sh'nary. "des gimme dat word a few times _in my ear_ good, please, sir. i wouldn't dare ter teck it in thoo my eye, 'caze don' keer what you say, when a word sets out wid r-a-t, i gwine see a open-eyed rat settin' right at de head of it blinkin' at me ev'y time i looks at it." an easter symbol a monologue of the plantation _speaker_: a black girl. _time_: easter morning. "'scuse me knockin' at yo' do' so early, miss bettie, but i'se in trouble. don't set up in bed. jes' lay still an' lemme talk to yer. "i come to ax yer to please ma'am loand me a pair o' wings, mistus. no'm, i ain't crazy. i mean what i say. "you see, to-day's easter sunday, miss bettie, an' we havin' a high time in our chu'ch. an' i'se gwine sing de special easter carol, wid freckled frances an' lame jane jinin' in de chorus in our choir. hit's one o' deze heah visible choirs sot up nex' to de pulpit in front o' de congergation. "of co'se, me singin' de high solo makes me de principlest figgur, so we 'ranged fur me to stan' in de middle, wid frances an' jake on my right an' lef' sides, an' i got a bran new white tarlton frock wid spangles on it, an' a easter lily wreath all ready. of co'se, me bein' de fust singer, dat entitles me to wear de highest plumage, an' frances, she knows dat, an' she 'lowed to me she was gwine wear dat white nainsook lawn you gi'n 'er, an' des a plain secondary hat, an' at de p'inted time we all three got to rise an' courtesy to de congergation, an' den bu'st into song. lame jake gwine wear dat white duck suit o' marse john's an' a easter lily in his button-hole. "well, hit was all fixed dat-a-way, peaceable an' proper, but you know de trouble is freckled frances is jealous-hearted, an' she ain't got no principle. i tell you, miss bettie, when niggers gits white enough to freckle, you look out for 'em! dey jes advanced fur enough along to show white ambition an' nigger principle! an' dat's a dange'ous mixture! "an' frances--? she ain't got no mo' principle 'n a suck-aig dorg! ever sence we 'ranged dat easter programme, she been studyin' up some owdacious way to outdo me to-day in de face of eve'ybody. "but i'm jes one too many fur any yaller freckled-faced nigger. i'm black--but dey's a heap o' trouble come out o' ink bottles befo' to-day! "i done had my eye on frances! an' fur de las' endurin' week i taken notice ev'ry time we had a choir practisin', frances, she'd fetch in some talk about butterflies bein' a easter sign o' de resurrection o' de dead, an' all sech as dat. well, i know frances don't keer no mo' 'bout de resurrection o' de dead 'n nothin'. frances is too tuck up wid dis life fur dat! so i watched her. an' las' night i ketched up wid 'er. "you know dat grea' big silk paper butterfly dat you had on yo' _pi_anner lamp, miss bettie? she's got it pyerched up on a wire on top o' dat secondary hat, an' she's a-fixin' it to wear it to church to-day. but she don't know i know it. you see, she knows i kin sing all over her, an' dat's huccome she's a-projectin' to ketch de eyes o' de congergation! "but ef you'll he'p me out, miss bettie, we'll fix 'er. you know dem yaller gauzy wings you wo'e in de tableaux? ef you'll loand 'em to me an' help me on wid 'em terreckly when i'm dressed, i'll _be_ a _whole live butterfly_, an' i bet yer when i flutters into dat choir, freckled frances'll feel like snatchin' dat lamp shade off her hat, sho's you born! an' fur once-t i'm proud i'm so black complected, caze black an' yaller, dey goes together fur butterflies! "frances 'lowed to kill me out to-day, but i lay when she sets eyes on de yaller-winged butterfly she'll 'preciate de resurrection o' de dead ef she never done it befo' in her life." christmas at the trimbles' * * * * part i _time_: daylight, the day before christmas. _place_: rowton's store, simpkinsville. _first monologue, by mr. trimble_: "whoa-a-a, there, ck, ck, ck! back, now, jinny! hello, rowton! here we come, jinny an' me--six miles in the slush up to the hub, an' jinny with a unweaned colt at home. whoa-a-a, there! "it's good christmas don't come but once-t a year--ain't it, jinny? "well, rowton, you're what i call a pro-gressive business man, that's what you are. blest ef he ain't hired a whole row o' little niggers to stand out in front of 'is sto'e an' hold horses--while he takes his customers inside to fleece 'em. "come here, pop-eyes, you third feller, an' ketch aholt o' jinny's bridle. i always did like pop-eyed niggers. they look so god-forsaken an' ugly. a feller thet's afflicted with yo' style o' beauty ought to have favors showed him, an' that's why i intend for you to make the first extry to-day. the boy thet holds my horse of a christmus eve always earns a dollar. don't try to open yo' eyes no wider--i mean what i say. how did rowton manage to git you fellers up so early, i wonder. give out thet he'd hire the first ten that come, did he? an' gives each feller his dinner an' a hat. "i was half afeered you wouldn't be open yet, rowton--but i was determined to git ahead o' the christmus crowd, an' i started by starlight. i ca'culate to meet 'em all a-goin' back. "well, i vow, ef yo' sto'e don't look purty. wish _she_ could see it. she'd have some idee of new york. but, of co'se, i couldn't fetch her to-day, an' me a-comin' specially to pick out her christmus gif'. she's jest like a child. ef she s'picions befo' hand what she's a-goin' to git, why, she don't want it. "i notice when i set on these soap-boxes, my pockets is jest about even with yo' cash-drawer, rowton. well, that's what we're here for. fetch out all yo' purties, now, an' lay 'em along on the counter. you know _her_, an' she ain't to be fooled in quality. reckon i _will_ walk around a little an' see what you've got. i 'ain't got a idee on earth what to buy, from a broach to a barouche. let's look over some o' yo' silver things, rowton. josh porter showed me a butter-dish you sold him with a silver cow on the led of it, an' i was a-wonderin' ef, maybe, you didn't have another. "that's it. that's a mighty fine idee, a statue like that is. it sort o' designates a thing. d'rec'ly a person saw the cow, now, he'd s'picion the butter inside the dish. of co'se, he'd know they wouldn't hardly be hay in it--no, ez you say, 'nor a calf.' no doubt wife'll be a-wantin' one o' these cow-topped ones quick ez she sees josh's wife's. she'll see the p'int in a minute--of the cow, i mean. but, of co'se, i wouldn't think o' gittin' her the same thing josh's got for helen, noways. we're too near neighbors for that. th' ain't no fun in borryin' duplicates over a stile when company drops in sudden, without a minute's warnin'. "no, you needn't call my attention to that tiltin' ice-pitcher. i seen it soon ez i approached the case. didn't you take notice to me a-liftin' my hat? that was what i was a-bowin' to, that pitcher was. no, that's the thing wife hankers after, an' i know it, an' it's the one thing i'll never buy her. not thet i'd begrudge it to her--but to tell the truth it'd pleg me to have to live with the thing. i wouldn't mind it on sundays or when they was company in the house, but i like to take off my coat, hot days, an' set around in my shirt-sleeves, an' i doubt ef i'd have the cheek to do it in the face of sech a thing as that. "fact is, when i come into a room where one of 'em is, i sort o' look for it to tilt over of its own accord an' bow to me an' ask me to 'be seated.' "you needn't to laugh. of co'se, they's a reason for it--but it's so. i'm jest that big of a ninny. ricollec' jedge robinson, he used to have one of 'em--jest about the size o' this one--two goblets an' a bowl--an' when i'd go up to the house on a errand for pa, time pa was distric' coroner, the jedge's mother-in-law, ol' mis' meredy, she'd be settin' in the back room a-sewin,' an' when the black gal would let me in the front door she'd sort o' whisper: 'invite him to walk into the parlor and be seated.' i'd overhear her say it, an' i'd turn into the parlor, an' first thing i'd see'd be that ice-pitcher. i don't think anybody can _set down_ good, noways, when they're ast to 'be seated,' an' when, in addition to that, i'd meet the swingin' ice-pitcher half way to the patent rocker, i didn't have no mo' consciousness where i was a-settin' than nothin'. an' like ez not the rocker'd squawk first strain i put on it. she wasn't no mo'n a sort o' swingin' ice-pitcher herself, ol' mis' meredy wasn't--walkin' round the house weekdays dressed in black silk, with a lace cap on her head, an' half insultin' his company thet he'd knowed all his life. i did threaten once-t to tell her, 'no, thank you, ma'am, i don't keer to be seated--but i'll _set down_ ef it's agreeable,' but when the time would come i'd turn round an' there'd be the ice-pitcher. an' after that i couldn't be expected to do nothin' but back into the parlor over the brussels carpet an' chaw my hat-brim. but, of co'se, i was young then. "reckon you've heerd the tale they tell on aleck turnbull the day he went there in the old lady's time. she had him ast into the cushioned sanctuary--an' aleck hadn't seen much them days--an' what did he do but gawk around an' plump hisself down into that gilt-backed rocker with a tune-playin' seat in it, an', of co'se, quick ez his weight struck it, it started up a jig tune, an' they say aleck shot out o' that door like ez ef he'd been fired out of a cannon. an' he never did go back to say what he come after. i doubt ef he ever knew. "how much did you say for the ice-pitcher, rowton? thirty dollars--an' you'll let me have it for--hush, now, don't say that. i don't see how you could stand so close to it an' offer to split dollars. of co'se i ain't a-buyin' it, but ef i was i wouldn't want no reduction on it, i'd feel like ez ef it would always know it an' have a sort of contemp' for me. they's suitableness in all things. besides, i never want no reduction on anything i buy for _her_, someways. you can charge me reg'lar prices an' make it up on the christmas gif' she buys for me--that is, ef she buys it from you. of co'se it'll be charged. that's a mighty purty coral broach, that grape-bunch one, but she's so pink-complected, i don't know ez she'd become it. i like this fish-scale set, myself, but she might be prejerdyced ag'in' the idee of it. you say she admired that hand-merror, an' this pair o' side-combs--an' she 'lowed she'd git 'em fur my christmus gif' ef she dared? but, of co'se, she was jokin' about that. poor little thing, she ain't never got over the way folks run her about that side-saddle she give me last christmus, though i never did see anything out o' the way in it. she knew thet the greatest pleasure o' my life was in makin' her happy, and she was jest simple-hearted enough to do it--that's all--an' i can truly say thet i ain't never had mo' pleasure out of a christmus gif' in my life than i've had out o' that side-saddle. she's been so consistent about it--never used it in her life without a-borryin' it of me, an' she does it so cunnin'. of co'se i don't never loand it to her without a kiss. they ain't a cunnin'er play-actor on earth 'n she is, though she ain't never been to a theatre--an' wouldn't go, bein' too well raised. "you say this pitcher wasn't there when she was here--no, for ef it had 'a' been, i know she'd 'a' took on over it. th' ain't never been one for sale in simpkinsville before. they've been several of 'em brought here by families besides the one old mis' meredy presided over--though that was one o' the first. but wife is forever a-pickin' out purty patterns of 'em in the catalogues. ef that one hadn't 'a' give me such a setback in my early youth i'd git her this, jest to please her. ef i was to buy this one, it an' the plush album would set each other off lovely. she's a-buyin' _it_ on instalments from the same man thet enlarged her photograph to a' ile-painted po'trait, an' it's a dandy! she's got me a-settin' up on the front page, took with my first wife, which it looks to me thet if she'd do that much to please me, why, i might buy almost anything to please her, don't it? of co'se i don't take no partic'lar pleasure in that photograph--but she seems to think i might, an' no doubt she's put it there to show thet she ain't small-minded. you ricollec' mary jane was plain-featured, but kitty don't seem to mind that ez much ez i do, now thet she's gone an' her good deeds ain't in sight. i never did see no use in throwin' a plain-featured woman's looks up to her _post mortem_. "this is a mighty purty pitcher, in my judgment, but to tell the truth i've made so much fun o' the few swingin' pitchers thet's been in this town that i'd be ashamed to buy it, even ef i could git over my own obnoxion to it. but of co'se, ez you say, everybody'd know thet i done it jest to please her--an' i don't know thet they's a more worthy object in a married man's life than that. "i s'pose i'll haf to git it for her. an' i want a bold, outspoke dedication on it, rowton. i ain't a-goin' about it shamefaced. here, gimme that pencil. now, i want this inscription on it, word for word. i've got to stop over at paul's to git him to regulate my watch, an' i'll tell him to hurry an' mark it for me, soon ez you send it over. "well, so long. happy christmus to you an' yo' folks. "say, rowton, wrap up that little merror an' them side-combs an' send 'em along, too, please. so long!" part ii _time_: same morning. _plate_: store in washington. _second monologue, by mrs. trimble_: "why, howdy, mis' blakes--howdy, mis' phemie--howdy, all. good-mornin', mr. lawson. i see yo' sto'e is fillin' up early. great minds run in the same channel, partic'larly on christmus eve. "my old man started off this mornin' befo' day, an' soon ez he got out o' sight down the simpkinsville road, i struck out for washin'ton, an' here i am. he thinks i'm home seedin' raisins. he was out by starlight this mornin' with the big wagon, an', of co'se, i know what that means. he's gone for my christmus gif', an' i'm put to it to know what tremenjus thing he's a-layin' out to fetch me--thet takes a cotton-wagon to haul it. of co'se i imagine everything, from a guyaskutus down. i always did like to git things too big to go in my stockin'. what you say, mis' blakes? do i hang up my stockin'? well, i reckon. i hadn't quit when i got married, an' i think that's a poor time to stop, don't you? partic'larly when you marry a man twice-t yo' age, an' can't convince him thet you're grown, noways. yas, indeedy, that stockin' goes up to-night--not mine, neither, but one i borry from aunt jane peters. i don't wonder y' all laugh. aunt jane's foot is a yard long ef it's a' inch, but i'll find it stuffed to-morrer mornin', even ef the guyaskutus has to be chained to the mantel. an' it'll take me a good hour to empty it, for he always puts a lot o' devilment in it, an' i give him a beatin' over the head every nonsensical thing i find in it. we have a heap o' fun over it, though. "he don't seem to know i'm grown, an' i know i don't know he's old. "listen to me runnin' on, an' you all nearly done yo' shoppin'. which do you think would be the nicest to give him, mr. lawson--this silver card-basket, or that cupid vase, or--? "y' all needn't to wink. i seen you, mis' blakes. ef i was to pick out a half dozen socks for him like them you're a-buyin' for mr. blakes, how much fun do you suppose we'd have out of it? not much. i'd jest ez lief 'twasn't christmus--an' so would he--though they do say his first wife give him a bolt o' domestic once-t for christmus, an' made it up into night-shirts an' things for him du'in' the year. think of it. no, i'm a-goin' to git him somethin' thet's got some git-up to it, an'--an' it'll be either--that--cupid vase--or--lordy, mr. lawson, don't fetch out that swingin' ice-pitcher. i glimpsed it quick ez i come in the door, an', says i, 'get thee behind me, satan,' an' turned my back on it immejiate. "but of co'se i ca'culated to git you to fetch it out jest for me to look at, after i'd selected his present. ain't it a beauty? seems to me they couldn't be a more suitable present for a man--ef he didn't hate 'em so. no, mis' blakes, it ain't only thet he don't never drink ice-water. i wouldn't mind a little thing like that. "you ricollec' ol' mis' meredy, she used to preside over one thet they had, an' somehow he taken a distaste to her an' to ice-pitchers along with her, an' he don't never lose a chance to express his disgust. when them new folks was in town last year projec'in' about the railroad, he says to me, 'i hope they won't stay, they'd never suit simpkinsville on earth. they're the regular swingin' ice-pitcher sort. git folks like that in town an' it wouldn't be no time befo' they'd start a-chargin' pew rent in our churches.' we was both glad when they give out thet they wasn't a-goin' to build the road. they say railroads is mighty corrupting an' me, with my sick headaches, an' a' ingine whistle in town, no indeed! besides, ef it was to come i know i'd be the first one run over. it's bad enough to have bulls in our fields without turnin' steam-ingines loose on us. jest one look at them cow-ketchers is enough to frustrate a person till he'd stand stock still an' wait to be run over--jest like poor crazy mary done down here to cedar springs. "they say crazy mary looked that headlight full in the face, jes' the same ez a bird looks at a snake, till the thing caught her, an' when the long freight train had passed over her she didn't have a single remain, not a one, though i always thought they might've gethered up enough to give her a funeral. when i die i intend to have a funeral, even if i'm drownded at sea. they can stand on the sho'e, an' i'll be jest ez likely to know it ez them thet lay in view lookin' so ca'm. i've done give him my orders, though they ain't much danger o' me dyin' at sea, not ef we stay in simpkinsville. "how much are them willer rockers, mr. lawson? i declare that one favors my old man ez it sets there, even without him in it. nine dollars? that's a good deal for a pants'-tearin' chair, seems to me, which them willers are, the last one of 'em, an' i'm a mighty poor hand to darn. jest let me lay my stitches in colors, in the shape of a flower, an' i can darn ez well ez the next one, but i do despise to fill up holes jest to be a-fillin'. yes, ez you say, them silver-mounted brier-wood pipes is mighty purty, but he smokes so much ez it is, i don't know ez i want to encourage him. besides, it seems a waste o' money to buy a christmus gif' thet a person has to lay aside when company comes in, an' a silver-mounted pipe ain't no politer to smoke in the presence o' ladies than a corncob is. an' ez for when we're by ourselves--shucks. "ef you don't mind, mr. lawson, i'll stroll around through the sto'e an' see what you've got while you wait on some o' them thet know their own minds. i know mine well enough. _what i want_ is _that swingin' ice-pitcher_, an' my judgment tells me thet they ain't a more suitable present in yo' sto'e for a settled man thet has built hisself a residence an' furnished it complete the way _he_ has, but of co'se 'twouldn't never do. i always think how i'd enjoy it when the minister called. i wonder what mr. lawson thinks o' me back here a-talkin' to myself. i always like to talk about the things i'm buyin'. that's a mighty fine saddle-blanket, indeed it is. he was talkin' about a new saddle-blanket the other day. but that's a thing a person could pick up almost any day, a saddle-blanket is. a' ice-pitcher now-- "say, mr. lawson, lemme look at that tiltin'-pitcher again, please, sir. i jest want to see ef the spout is gold-lined. yes, so it is--an' little holes down in the throat of it, too. it cert'n'y is well made, it cert'n'y is. i s'pose them holes is to strain out grasshoppers or anything thet might fall into it. that musician thet choked to death at the barbecue down at pump springs last summer might 'a' been livin' yet ef they'd had sech ez this to pass water in, instid o' that open pail. _he's_ got a mighty keerless way o' drinkin' out o' open dippers, too. no tellin' what he'll scoop up some day. they'd be great safety for him in a pitcher like this--ef i could only make him see it. it would seem a sort o' awkward thing to pack out to the well every single time, an' he won't drink no water but what he draws fresh. an' i s'pose it would look sort o' silly to put it in here jest to drink it out again. "sir? oh yes, i saw them saddle-bags hang-in' up back there, an' they are fine, mighty fine, ez you say, an' his are purty near wo'e out, but lordy, i don't want to buy a christmus gif' thet's hung up in the harness-room half the time. what's that you say? won't you all never git done a-runnin' me about that side-saddle? you can't pleg me about that. i got it for his pleasure, ef it was for my use, an', come to think about it, i'd be jest reversin' the thing on the pitcher. it would be for his use an' my pleasure. i wish i could see my way to buy it for him. both goblets go with it, you say--an' the slop bowl? it cert'n'y is handsome--it cert'n'y is. an' it's expensive--nobody could accuse me o' stintin' 'im. wonder why they didn't put some polar bears on the goblets, too. they'd 'a' had to be purty small bears, but they could 'a' been cubs, easy. "i don't reely believe, mr. lawson, indeed i don't, thet i could find a mo' suitable present for him ef i took a month, an' i don't keer what he's a-pickin' out for me this minute, it can't be no handsomer 'n this. th' ain't no use--i'll haf to have it--for 'im. jest charge it, please, an' now i want it marked. i'll pay cash for the markin', out of my egg money. an' i want his full name. have it stamped on the iceberg right beside the bear. 'ephraim n. trimble.' no, you needn't to spell out the middle name. i should say not. ef you knew what it was you wouldn't ask me. why, it's nebuchadnezzar. it'd use up the whole iceberg. besides, i couldn't never think o' nebuchadnezzar there an' not a spear o' grass on the whole lan'scape. you needn't to laugh. i know it's silly, but i always think o' sech ez that. no, jest write it, 'ephraim n. trimble, from his wife, kitty.' be sure to put in the kitty, so in after years it'll show which wife give it to him. of co'se, them thet knew us both would know which one. mis' mary jane wouldn't never have approved of it in the world. why, she used to rip up her old crocheted tidies an' things an' use 'em over in bastin' thread, so they tell me. she little dremp' who she was a-savin' for, poor thing. she was buyin' this pitcher then, but she didn't know it. but i keep a-runnin' on. go on with the inscription, mr. lawson. what have you got? 'from his wife, kitty'--what's the matter with 'affectionate wife'? you say affectionate is a purty expensive word? but 'lovin'' 'll do jest ez well, an' it comes cheaper, you say? an' plain 'wife' comes cheapest of all? an' i don't know but what it's mo' suitable, anyhow--at his age. of co'se, you must put in the date, an' make the 'kitty' nice an' fancy, please. lordy, well, the deed's done--an' i reckon he'll threaten to divo'ce me when he sees it--till he reads the inscription. better put in the 'lovin',' i reckon, an' put it in capitals--they don't cost no more, do they? well, goodbye, mr. lawson, i reckon you'll be glad to see me go. i've outstayed every last one thet was here when i come. well, good-bye! have it marked immediate, please, an' i'll call back in an hour. good-bye, again!" part iii when old man trimble stood before the fireplace at midnight that night, stuffing little parcels into the deep, borrowed stocking, he chuckled noiselessly, and glanced with affection towards the corner of the room where his young wife lay sleeping. he was a fat old man, and as he stood with shaking sides in his loose, home-made pajamas, he would have done credit to a more conscious impersonation of old santa himself. his task finally done, he glanced down at a tall bundle that stood on the floor almost immediately in front of him, moved back with his hands resting on his hips, and thoughtfully surveyed it. "well, ef anybody had 'a' told it on me i never would 'a' believed it," he said, under his breath. "the idee o' me, ephe trimble, settin' up sech a thing ez that in his house--at my time o' life." then, glancing towards the sleeper, he added, with a chuckle, "an' ef they'd 'a' prophesied it i wouldn't 'a' believed sech ez _thet_, neither--at my time o' life--bless her little curly head." he sat down on the floor beside the bundle, clipped the twine, and cautiously pushed back the wrappings. then, rising, he carefully set each piece of the water-set up above the stocking on the mantel. he did not stop to examine it. he was anxious to get it in place without noise. it made a fine show, even in the dim, unsteady light of the single taper that burned in its tumbler of oil close beside the bed. indeed, when it arose in all its splendor, he was very much impressed. "a thing like that ought to have a chandelier to set it off right," he thought--"yas, and she'll have one, too--she'll have anything she wants--thet i can give her." sleep came slowly to the old man that night, and even long after his eyes were closed, the silver things seemed arrayed in line upon his mental retina. and when, after a long while, he fell into a troubled slumber, it was only to dream. and in his dream old judge robinson's mother-in-law seemed to come and stand before him--black dress, side curls, and all--and when he looked at her for the first time in his life unabashed--she began to bow, over and over again, and to say with each salutation, "be seated"--"be seated"--"be seated," getting farther and farther away with each bow until she was a mere speck in the distance--and then the speck became a spot of white, and he saw that the old lady had taken on a spout and a handle, and that she was only an ice-pitcher, tilting, and tilting, and tilting--while from the yellow spout came a fine metallic voice saying, "be seated"--"be seated"--again and again. then there would be a change. two ladies would appear approaching each other and retreating--turning into two ice-pitchers, tilting to each other, then passing from tilting pitchers to bowing ladies, until sometimes there seemed almost to be a pitcher and a lady in view at the same time. when he began to look for them both at once the dream became tantalizing. twin ladies and twin pitchers--but never quite clearly a lady and a pitcher. even while the vision tormented him it held him fast--perhaps because he was tired, having lost his first hours of sleep. he was still sleeping soundly, spite of the dissolving views of the novel panorama, when above the two voices that kept inviting him to "be seated," there arose, in muffled tones at first, and then with distressing distinctness, a sound of sobbing. it made the old man turn on his pillow even while he slept, for it was the voice of a woman, and he was tender of heart. it seemed in the dream and yet not of it--this awful, suppressed sobbing that disturbed his slumber, but was not quite strong enough to break it. but presently, instead of the muffled sob, there came a cumulative outburst, like that of a too hard-pressed turkey-gobbler forced to the wall. he thought it was the old black gobbler at first, and he even said, "shoo," as he sprang from his bed. but a repetition of the sound sent him bounding through the open door into the dining-room, dazed and trembling. seated beside the dining-table there, with her head buried in her arms, sat his little wife. before her, ranged in line upon the table, stood the silver water-set--her present to him. he was beside her in a moment--leaning over her, his arms about her shoulders. "why, honey," he exclaimed, "what on earth--" at this she only cried the louder. there was no further need for restraint. the old man scratched his head. he was very much distressed. "why, honey," he repeated, "tell its old man all about it. didn't it like the purty pitcher thet its old husband bought for it? was it too big--or too little--or too heavy for it to tote all the way out here from that high mantel? why didn't it wake up its lazy ol' man and make him pack it out here for it?" it was no use. she was crying louder than ever. he did not know what to do. he began to be cold and he saw that she was shivering. there was no fire in the dining-room. he must do something. "tell its old man what it would 'a' ruther had," he whispered in her ear, "jest tell him, ef it don't like its pitcher--" at this she made several efforts to speak, her voice breaking in real turkey-gobbler sobs each time, but finally she managed to wail: "it ain't m-m-m-mi-i-i-ne!" "not yours! why, honey. what can she mean? did it think i bought it for anybody else? ain't yours! well, i like that. lemme fetch that lamp over here till you read the writin' on the side of it, an' i'll show you whose it is." he brought the lamp. "read that, now. why, honey! wh--wh--wh--what in thunder an' lightnin'! they've done gone an' reversed it. the fool's put my name first--' ephraim n. trimble. from--his--' "why, jerusalem jinger! "no wonder she thought i was a low-down dog--to buy sech a thing an' mark it in my own name--no wonder--here on christmus, too. the idee o' rowton not seein' to it thet it was done right--" by this time the little woman had somewhat recovered herself. still, she stammered fearfully. "r-r-r-owton ain't never s-s-s-saw that pitcher. it come from l-l-l-awson's, d-d-down at washin'ton, an' i b-bought it for y-y-y-you!" "why, honey--darlin'--" a sudden light came into the old man's eyes. he seized the lamp and hurried to the door of the bed-chamber, and looked in. this was enough. perhaps it was mean--but he could not help it--he set the lamp down on the table, dropped into a chair, and fairly howled with laughter. "no wonder i dremp' ol' mis' meredy was twins!" he screamed. "why, h-h-honey," he was nearly splitting his old sides--"why, honey, i ain't seen a thing but these two swingin' pitchers all night. they've been dancin' before me--them an' what seemed like a pair o' ol' mis' meredys, an' between 'em all i ain't slep' a wink." "n-n-either have i. an' i dremp' about ol' mis' m-m-m-eredy, too. i dremp' she had come to live with us--an' thet y-y-you an' me had moved into the back o' the house. that's why i got up. i couldn't sleep easy, an' i thought i might ez well git up an' see wh-wh-what you'd brought me. but i didn't no mor'n glance at it. but you can't say you didn't sleep, for you was a-s-s-snorin' when i come out here--" "an' so was you, honey, when i 'ranged them things on the mantel. lemme go an' git the other set an' compare 'em. that one i picked out is mighty purty." "i'll tell you befo' you fetch 'em thet they're exactly alike"--she began to cry again--"even to the p-p-polar bear. i saw that at a glance, an' it makes it s-s-so much more ridic'--" "hush, honey. i'm reely ashamed of you--i reely am. seems to me ef they're jest alike, so much the better. what's the matter with havin' a pair of 'em? we might use one for buttermilk." "th-that would be perfectly ridiculous. a polar bear'd look like a fool on a buttermilk pitcher. n-n-no, the place for pitchers like them is in halls, on tables, where anybody comin' in can see 'em an' stop an' git a drink. they couldn't be nothin' tackier'n pourin' buttermilk out of a' ice-pitcher." "of co'se, if you say so, we won't--i jest thought maybe--or, i tell you what we might do. i could easy take out a panel o' banisters out of the side po'ch, an' put in a pair o' stairsteps, so ez to make a sort o' side entrance to the house, an' we could set one of 'em in _it_. it would make the pitcher come a little high, of co'se, but it would set off that side o' the house lovely, an' ef you say so-- "lemme go git 'em all out here together." as he trudged in presently loaded up with the duplicate set he said, "i wonder ef you know what time it is, wife?" she glanced over her shoulder at the clock on the wall. "don't look at that. it's six o'clock last night by that. i forgot to wind her up. no. it's half-past three o'clock--that's all it is." by this time he had placed his water-set beside hers upon the table. "why, honey," he exclaimed, "where on earth? i don't see a sign of a' inscription on this--an' what is this paper in the spout? here, you read it, wife, i ain't got my specs." "'too busy to mark to-day--send back after christmas--sorry. rowton.'" "why, it--an' here's another paper. what can this be, i wonder?" "'to my darling wife, from her affectionate husband.'" the little wife colored as she read it. "oh, that ain't nothin' but the motter he was to print on it. but ain't it lucky thet he didn't do it? i'll change it--that's what i'll do--for anything you say. there, now. don't that fix it?" she was very still for a moment--very thoughtful. "an' affectionate is a mighty expensive word, too," she said, slowly, glancing over the intended inscription, in her husband's handwriting. "yes. your pitcher don't stand for a thing but generosity--an' mine don't mean a thing but selfishness. yes, take it back, cert'nly, that is ef you'll get me anything i want for it. will you?" "shore. they's a cow-topped butter-dish an' no end o' purty little things out there you might like. an' ef it's goin' back, it better be a-goin'. i can ride out to town an' back befo' breakfast. come, kiss me, wife." she threw both arms around her old husband's neck, and kissed him on one cheek and then on the other. then she kissed his lips. and then, as she went for pen and paper, she said: "hurry, now, an' hitch up, an' i'll be writin' down what i want in exchange--an' you can put it in yo' pocket." in a surprisingly short time the old man was on his way--a heaped basket beside him, a tiny bit of writing in his pocket. when he had turned into the road he drew rein for a moment, lit a match, and this is what he read: "my dear husband,--i want one silver-mounted brier-wood pipe and a smoking set--a nice lava one--and i want a set of them fine overhauls like them that mis pope give mr. pope that time i said she was too extravagant, and if they's any money left over i want some nice tobacco, the best. i want all the price of the ice-set took up even to them affectionate words they never put on. "your affectionate and loving wife, "kitty." when ephraim put the little note back in his pocket, he took out his handkerchief and wiped his eyes. her good neighbors and friends, even as far as simpkinsville and washington, had their little jokes over mis' trimble's giving her splendor-despising husband a swinging ice-pitcher, but they never knew of the two early trips of the twin pitcher, nor of the midnight comedy in the trimble home. but the old man often recalls it, and as he sits in his front hall smoking his silver-mounted pipe, and shaking its ashes into the lava bowl that stands beside the ice-pitcher at his elbow, he sometimes chuckles to himself. noticing his shaking shoulders as he sat thus one day his wife turned from the window, where she stood watering her geraniums, and said: "what on earth are you a-laughin' at, honey?" (she often calls him "honey" now.) "how did you know i was a-laughin'?" he looked over his shoulder at her as he spoke. "why, i seen yo' shoulders a-shakin'--that's how." and then she added, with a laugh, "an' now i see yo' reflection in the side o' the ice-pitcher, with a zig-zag grin on you a mile long--yo' smile just happened to strike a iceberg." he chuckled again. "is that so? well, the truth is, i'm just sort o' tickled over things in general, an' i'm a-settin' here gigglin', jest from pure contentment." a minor chord i am an old bachelor, and i live alone in my corner upper room of an ancient house of _chambres garnies_, down on the lower edge of the french quarter of new orleans. when i made my nest here, forty years ago, i felt myself an old man, and the building was even then a dilapidated old rookery, and since then we--the house and i--have lapsed physically with the decline of the neighborhood about us, until now our only claims to gentility are perhaps our memories and our reserves. the habit of introspection formed by so isolated an existence tends to develop morbid views of life, and throws one out of sympathetic relations with the world of progress, we are told; but is there not some compensation for this in the acquisition of finer and more subtle perception of things hidden from the social, laughing, hurrying world? so it seems to me, and even though the nicer discernment bring pain, as it often does--as all refinement must--who would yield it for a grosser content resulting from a duller vision? to contemplate the procession that passes daily beneath my window, with its ever-shifting pictures of sorrow, of decrepitude ill-matched with want, new motherhood, and mendicancy, with uplifted eye and palm--to look down upon all this with only a passing sigh, as my worthy but material fat landlady does, would imply a spiritual blindness infinitely worse than the pang which the keener perception induces. there are in this neighborhood of moribund pretensions a few special objects which strike a note of such sadness in my heart that the most exquisite pain ensues--a pain which seems almost bodily, such as those for which we take physic; yet i could never confuse it with the neuralgic dart which it so nearly resembles, so closely does it follow the sight or sound which i know induces it. there is a young lawyer who passes twice a day beneath my window.... i say he is young, for all the moving world is young to me, at eighty--and yet he seems old at five-and-forty, for his temples are white. i know this man's history. the only son of a proud house, handsome, gifted--even somewhat of a poet in his youth--he married a soulless woman, who began the ruin which the wine-cup finished. it is an old story. in a mad hour he forged another man's name--then, a wanderer on the face of the earth, he drifted about with never a local habitation or a name, until his aged father had made good the price of his honor, when he came home--"tramped home," the world says--and, now, after years of variable steadiness, he has built upon the wreck of his early life a sort of questionable confidence which brings him half-averted recognition; and every day, with the gray always glistening on his temples and the clear profile of the past outlining itself--though the high-bred face is low between the shoulders now--he passes beneath my window with halting step to and from the old courthouse, where, by virtue of his father's position, he holds a minor office. almost within a stone's throw of my chamber this man and his aged father--the latter now a hopeless paralytic--live together in the ruins of their old home. year by year the river, by constant cavings, has swallowed nearly all its extensive grounds, yet beyond the low-browed spanish cottage that clings close within the new levee, "the ghost of a garden" fronts the river. here, amid broken marbles--lyreless apollos, pegasus bereft of wings, and prostrate muses--the hardier roses, golden-rod, and honeysuckle run riot within the old levee, between the comings of the waters that at intervals steal in and threaten to swallow all at a gulp. the naked old house, grotesquely guarded by the stately skeleton of a moss-grown oak, is thus bereft, by the river in front and the public road at its back, of all but the bare fact of survival. no visitor ever enters here; but in the summer evenings two old men may be seen creeping with difficult steps from its low portal up to the brow of the bank, where they sit in silence and watch the boats go by. the picture is not devoid of pathos, and even the common people whisper together as they look upon the figures of father and son sitting in the moonlight; and no one likes to pass the door at night, for there are grewsome tales of ghosts afloat, in which decapitated statues are said to stalk about the old garden at nightfall. a sigh always escapes me as i look upon this desolate scene; but it is not now, but when the old-young man, the son, passes my door each day, carrying in his pale hands a bunch of flowers which he keeps upon his desk in the little back office, that my mysterious pain possesses me. why does this hope-forsaken man carry a bunch of flowers? is it the surviving poet within him that finds companionship in them, or does he seem to see in their pure hearts, as in a mirror, a reflection of his own sinless youth? these questions i cannot answer; but every day, as he passes with the flowers, i follow him with fascinated eye until he is quite lost in the distance, my heart rent the while with this incisive pain. finally, he is lost to view. the dart passes through and out my breast, and, as i turn, my eye falls upon a pretty rose-garden across the way, where live a mother and her two daughters. * * * * seventeen years ago this woman's husband--the father--went away and never returned. the daughters are grown, and they are poor. the elder performs some clerical work up in canal street, and i love to watch her trig little figure come and go--early and late. the younger, who is fairer, has a lover, and the two sit together on a little wrought-iron bench, or gather roses from the box-bordered beds in the small inland garden, which lies behind the moss-grown wall and battened gate; and sometimes the mother comes out and smiles upon the pair. the mother is a gentlewoman, and though she wears a steel thimble with an open top, like a tailor's, and her finger is pricked with the needle, she walks and smiles, even waters her roses, with a lady's grace; but it seems to me that the pretty pink daughter's lover is less a gentleman than this girl's lover should be--less than her grandfather must have been when he courted her grandmother in this same rose-garden--less than this maid's lover would be if her father had not gone to india, and her mother did not sew seams for a living. as i sit and watch this peaceful fragment of a family, my heart seems to find repose in its apparent content; but late at night, when the lover has gone and the mother and daughters are asleep, when i rise to close my shutters i perceive, between the parted curtains in the mother's window, a light dimly burning. when i see this beacon in the deserted wife's chamber, and remember that i have seen it burning there, like the faint but steadfast hope that refuses to be extinguished, for seventeen years, the pain of pains comes into my heart. * * * * there is a little old man with a hump upon his shoulder who passes often in the crowd, and a sight of him always awakens this pain within me. it is not the tragedy of senility which his extreme age pictures, nor yet the hump upon his back, which stirs my note of pain. years ago this man left his wife, for a price, to another who had betrayed her, and disappeared from the scene of his ignominy. when the woman was dead and her betrayer gone, the husband came back, an old man; and now, as i see him bending beneath its weight, the hump upon his shoulder seems to be labelled with this price which, in my imagination, though originally the bag of gold, has by a slow and chemically unexplained process of ossification, become a part of himself, and will grotesquely deform his skeleton a hundred years to come. when, morning and evening, i see this old man trudge laboriously, staggering always towards the left, down the street, until he disappears in the clump of willows that overshadow the cemetery gate, and i know that he is going for a lonely vigil to the grave of the dishonored woman, his lost wife, pain, keen as a damascus blade, enters my heart. * * * * i close my window and come in, for the night dews are falling and i am rheumatic and stiff in the legs. so, every night, musing, i go early to my bed, but before i lie down, after my prayer is said, i rise to put fresh water in the vase of flowers, which are always fresh, beneath the picture upon my wall. for one moment i stand and gaze into a pure, girlish face, with a pallid brow and far-away blue eyes. she was only fifteen years old, and i twice as many, when we quarrelled like foolish children. the day she married my brother--my youngest, best-beloved brother benjamin--i laid this miniature, face downward, in a secret drawer of my desk. in the first year she died, and in another benjamin had taken to himself a new wife, with merrier eyes and ruddier lips. my heart leaped within me when i kissed my new sister, but she knew not that my joy was because she was giving me back my love. trembling with ecstasy, i took this image from its hiding-place, and for nearly fifty years the flowers beneath it have not withered. as i stood alone here one night, ere i knew he had entered, my little brother's hand was upon my shoulder. for a moment only he was silent, awe-stricken. "she was always yours, my brother," he said, presently, in a tremulous whisper. "i did not know until it was too late. she had misunderstood--but god was very merciful," and turning he left her to me. and still each day i lay fresh flowers at her shrine, cherishing the dart that rends my heart the while, for its testimony to the immortality of my passion. do you smile because a trembling old man feasts his failing eyes on a fair woman's face and prates of love and flowers and beauty? smile if you will, but if you do it is because you, being of the earth, cannot understand. these things are of the spirit; and palsy and rheumatism and waning strength are of the flesh, which profiteth nothing. the end [illustration: "i do not know why i have summoned you," she said] the net a novel by rex beach author of "the spoilers," "the barrier," "the silver horde," etc. with four illustrations by walter tittle contents chap. i. the train from palermo ii. a confession and a promise iii. the golden girl iv. the feast at terranova v. what waited at the roadside vi. a new resolve vii. the search begins viii. old trails ix. "one who knows" x. myra nell warren xi. the kidnapping xii. la mafia xiii. the blood of his ancestors xiv. the net tightens xv. the end of the quest xvi. quarantine xvii. an obligation is met xviii. belisario cardi xix. felicite xx. the man in the shadows xxi. under fire xxii. a misunderstanding xxiii. the trial and the verdict xxiv. at the feet of the statue xxv. the appeal xxvi. at the dusk illustrations "i do not know why i have summoned you,' she said _frontispiece_ "silenzio!" he growled, "i play my own game, and i lose" he wrestled for possession of the gun "p-please don't kill yourself, dear? i couldn't help it" i the train from palermo the train from palermo was late. already long, shadowy fingers were reaching down the valleys across which the railroad track meandered. far to the left, out of an opalescent sea, rose the fairy-like lipari islands, and in the farthest distance stromboli lifted its smoking cone above the horizon. on the landward side of the train, as it reeled and squealed along its tortuous course, were gray and gold sicilian villages perched high against the hills or drowsing among fields of artichoke and sumac and prickly pear. to one familiar with modern sicilian railway trains the journey eastward from palermo promises no considerable discomfort, but twenty-five years ago it was not to be lightly undertaken--not to be undertaken at all, in fact, without an unusual equipment of patience and a resignation entirely lacking in the average anglo-saxon. it was not surprising, therefore, that norvin blake, as the hours dragged along, should remark less and less upon the beauties of the island and more and more upon the medieval condition of the rickety railroad coach in which he was shaken and buffeted about. he shifted himself to an easier position upon the seat and lighted a cheroot; for although this was his first glimpse of sicily, he had watched the same villages come and go all through a long, hot afternoon, had seen the same groves of orange and lemon and dust-green olive-trees, the same fields of barbary figs, the same rose-grown garden spots, until he was heartily tired of them all. he felt at liberty to smoke, for the only other occupant of the compartment was a young priest in flowing mantle and silk beaver hat. finding that blake spoke italian remarkably well for a foreigner, the priest had shown an earnest desire for closer acquaintance and now plied him eagerly with questions, hanging upon his answers with a childlike intensity of gaze which at first had been amusing. "and so the signore has traveled all the way from paris to attend the wedding at terranova. veramente! that is a great journey. many wonderful adventures befell you, perhaps. eh?" the priest's little eyes gleamed from his full cheeks, and he edged forward until his knees crowded blake's. it was evident that he anticipated a thrilling tale and did not intend to be disappointed. "it was very tiresome, that's all, and the beggars at naples nearly tore me asunder." "incredible! you will tell me about it?" "there's nothing to tell. these european trains cannot compare with ours." evidently discouraged at this lack of response, the questioner tried a new line of approach. "the signore is perhaps related to our young conte?" he suggested. "and yet that can scarcely be, for you are inglese--" "americano." "indeed?" "martel and i are close friends, however. we met in paris. we are almost like brothers." "truly! i have heard that he spends much time studying to be a great painter. it is very strange, but many of our rich people leave sicily to reside elsewhere. as for me, i cannot understand it." "martel left when his father was killed. he says this country is behind the times, and he prefers to be out in the world where there is life and where things progress." but the priest showed by a blank stare that he did not begin to grasp the meaning of this statement. he shook his head. "he was always a wild lad. now as to the signorina ginini, who is to be his beautiful contessa, she loves sicily. she has spent most of her life here among us." with a flash of interest blake inquired: "what is she like? martel has spoken of her a great many times, but one can't place much dependence on a lover's description." "bellissima!" the priest sighed, and rolled his eyes eloquently. "you have never seen anything like her, i assure you. she is altogether too beautiful. if i had my way all the beautiful women would be placed in a convent where no man could see them. then there would be no fighting and no flirting, and the plain women could secure husbands. beautiful women are dangerous. she is rich, too." "of course! that's what martel says, and that is exactly the way he says it. but describe her." "oh, i have never seen her! i merely know that she is very rich and very beautiful." he went off into a number of rapturous "issimas!" "now as for the conte, i know him like a book. i know his every thought." "but martel has been abroad for ten years, and he has only returned within a month." "to be sure, but i come from the village this side of san sebastiano, and my second cousin ricardo is his uomo d'affare--his overseer. it is a very great position of trust which ricardo occupies, for i must tell you that he attends to the leasing of the entire estate during the conte's absence in france, or wherever it is he draws those marvelous pictures. ricardo collects the rents." with true sicilian naivete the priest added: "he is growing rich! beato lui! he for one will not need to go to your golden america. is it true, signore, that in america any one who wishes may be rich?" "quite true," smiled the young man. "even our beggars are rich." the priest wagged his head knowingly. "my mother's cousin, alfio amato, he is an american. you know him?" "i'm afraid not." "but surely--he has been in america these five years. a tall, dark fellow with fine teeth. think! he is such a liar any one would remember him. ebbene! _he_ wrote that there were poor people in america as here, but we knew him too well to believe him." "i suppose every one knows about the marriage?" "oh, indeed! it will unite two old families--two rich families. you know the savigni are rich also. even before the children were left as orphans it was settled that they should be married. what a great fortune that will make for ricardo to oversee! then, perhaps, he will be more generous to his own people. he is a hard man in money matters, and a man of action also; he does not allow flies to sit upon his nose. he sent his own daughter lucrezia to terranova when the contessa was still a child, and what is the result? lucrezia is no longer a servant. indeed no, she is more like a sister to the signorina. at the marriage no doubt she will receive a fine present, and ricardo as well. he is as silent as a mafioso, but he thinks." young blake stretched his tired muscles, yawning. "i'm sorry martel couldn't marry in france; this has been a tedious trip." "it was the contessa's wish, then, to be wed in sicily?" "i believe she insisted. and martel agreed that it was the proper thing to do, since they are both sicilians. he was determined also that i should be present to share his joy, and so here i am. between you and me, i envy him his lot so much that it almost spoils for me the pleasure of this unique journey." "you are an original!" murmured the priest, admiringly, but it was evident that his thirst for knowledge of the outside world was not to be so easily quenched, for he began to question his traveling companion closely regarding america, paris, the journey thence, the ship which bore him to palermo, and a dozen other subjects upon which his active mind preyed. he was full of the gossip of the countryside, moreover, and norvin learned much of interest about sicily and the disposition of her people. one phenomenon to which the good man referred with the extremest wonder was blake's intimacy with a sicilian nobleman. how an american signore had become such a close friend of the illustrious conte, who was almost a stranger, even to his own people, seemed very puzzling indeed, until norvin explained that they had been together almost constantly during the past three years. "we met quite by chance, but we quickly became friends--what in my country we call chums--and we have been inseparable ever since." "and you, then, are also a great artist?" blake laughed at the indirect compliment to his friend. "i am not an artist at all. i have been exiled to europe for three years, upon my mother's orders. she has her own ideas regarding a man's education and wishes me to acquire a continental polish. my ability to tell you all this shows that i have at least made progress with the languages, although i have doubts about the practical value of anything else i have learned. martel has taught me italian; i have taught him english. we use both, and sometimes we understand each other. my three years are up now, and once i have seen my good friend safely married i shall return to america and begin the serious business of life." "you are then in business? my mother's cousin, alfio amato, is likewise a business man. he deals in fruit. beware of him, for he would sell you rotten oranges and swear by the saints that they were excellent." "like martel, i have land which i lease. i am, or i will be, a cotton-planter." this opened a new field of inquiry for the priest, who was making the most of it when the train drew into a station and was stormed by a horde of chattering country folk. the platform swarmed with vividly dressed women, most of whom carried bundles wrapped up in variegated handkerchiefs, and all of whom were tremendously excited at the prospect of travel. lean-visaged, swarthy men peered forth from the folds of shawls or from beneath shapeless caps of many colors; a pair of carabinieri idled past, a soldier in jaunty feathered hat posed before the contadini. dogs, donkeys, fowls added their clamor to the high-pitched voices. twilight had settled and lights were kindling in the village, while the heights above were growing black against a rose-pink and mother-of-pearl sky. the air was cool and fragrant with the odor of growing things and the open sea glowed with a subdued, pulsating fire. the capo stazione rushed madly back and forth striving by voice and gesture to hasten the movements of his passengers. "partenza! pronto!" he cried, then blew furiously upon his bugle. after a series of shudders and convulsions the train began to hiss and clank and finally crept on into the twilight, while the priest sat knee to knee with his companion and resumed his endless questioning. it was considerably after dark when norvin blake alighted at san sebastiano, to be greeted effusively by a young man of about his own age who came charging through the gloom and embraced him with a great hug. "so! at last you come!" savigno cried. "i have been here these three hours eating my heart out, and every time i inquired of that head of a cabbage in yonder he said, 'pazienza! the world was not made in a day!' "'but when? when?' i kept repeating, and he could only assure me that your train was approaching with the speed of the wind. the saints in heaven--even the superintendent of the railway himself--could not tell the exact hour of its arrival, which, it seems, is never twice the same. and now, yourself? you are well?" "never better. and you? but there is no need to ask. you look disgustingly contented. one would think you were already married." martel savigno showed a row of even, white teeth beneath his military mustache and clapped his friend affectionately on the back. "it is good to be among my own people. i find, after all, that i am a sicilian. but let me tell you, that train is not always late. once, seven years ago, it arrived upon the moment. there were no passengers at the station to meet it, however, so it was forced to wait, and now, in order to keep our good-will it always arrives thus." the count was a well-set-up youth of an alert and active type, tall, dark, and vivacious, with a skin as smooth as a girl's. he had an impulsive, energetic nature that seldom left him in repose, and hence the contrast between the two men was marked, for blake was of a more serious cast of features and possessed a decidedly anglo-saxon reserve. he was much the heavier in build, also, which detracted from his height and robbed him of that elegance which distinguished the young sicilian. yet the two made a fine-looking pair as they stood face to face in the yellow glare of the station lights. "what the deuce made me agree to this trip, i don't know," the american declared. "it was vile. i've been carsick, seasick, homesick--" "and all for poor, lovesick martel!" the count laughed. "ah, but if you knew how glad i am to see you!" "really? then that squares it." blake spoke with that indefinable undernote which creeps into men's voices when friend meets friend. "i've been lost without you, too. i was quite ashamed of myself." the count turned to a middle-aged man who had remained in the shadows, saying: "this is ricardo ferara, my good right hand, of whom you have heard me speak." the overseer raised his hat, and blake took his hand, catching a glimpse of a grizzled face and a stiff mop of iron-gray hair. "you will see to signore blake's baggage, ricardo. michele! ippolito!" the count called. "the carretta, quickly! and now, caro norvin, for the last leg of your journey. will you ride in the cart or on horseback? it is not far, but the roads are steep." "horseback, by all means. my muscles need exercise." the young men mounted a pair of compact sicilian horses, which were held by still another man in the street behind the depot, and set off up the winding road which climbed to the village above. blake regretted the lateness of the hour, which prevented him from gaining an adequate idea of his surroundings. he could see, however, that they were picturesque, for san sebastiano lay in a tiny step hewed out of the mountain-side and was crowded into one street overlooking the railway far below and commanding a view of the sea toward the calabrian coast. as the riders clattered through the poorly lighted village, blake saw the customary low-roofed houses, the usual squalid side-streets, more like steep lanes than thoroughfares, and heard the townspeople pronouncing the name of the count of martinello, while the ever-present horde of urchins fled from their path. a beggar appeared beside his stirrup, crying, "i die of hunger, your worship." but the fellow ran with surprising vigor and manifested a degree of endurance quite unexampled in a starving man. a glimpse of these, and then the lights were left behind and they were moving swiftly upward and into the mountains, skirting walls of stone over which was wafted the perfume of many flowers, passing fragrant groves of orange and lemon trees, and less fragrant cottages, the contents of which were bared to their eyes with utter lack of modesty. they disturbed herds of drowsy cattle and goats lying at the roadside, and all the time they continued to climb, until their horses heaved and panted. the american's impressions of this entire journey, from the time of his leaving paris up to the present moment, had been hurried and unreal, for he had made close connections at rome, at naples, and at palermo. having the leisurely deliberateness of the american southerner, he disliked haste and confusion above all things. he had an intense desire, therefore, to come to anchor and to adjust himself to his surroundings. as martel chattered along, telling of his many doings, blake noted that ricardo and the man who had held the horses were following closely. then, as the cavalcade paused at length to breathe their mounts, he saw that both men carried rifles. "why! we look like an american sheriff's posse, martel," said he. "do all sicilian bridegrooms travel with an armed escort?" savigno showed a trace of hesitation. "the nights are dark; the country is wild." "but, my dear boy, this country is surely old enough to be safe. why, sicily was civilized long before my country was even heard of. all sorts of ancient gods and heroes used to live here, i am told, and i supposed diana had killed all the game long ago." he laughed, but savigno did not join him, and a moment later they were under way again. after a brief gallop they drew up at a big, dark house, hidden among the deeper shadows of many trees, and in answer to martel's shout a wide door was flung back; then by the light which streamed forth from it they dismounted and made their way up a flight of stone steps. once inside, savigno exclaimed: "welcome to my birthplace! a thousand welcomes!" seizing norvin by the shoulders, he whirled him about. "let me see you once. ah! i am glad you made this sacrifice for me, for i need you above all men." his eyes, though bright with affection, were grave--something unusual in him--and the other inquired, quickly: "there's nothing wrong, i hope?" savigno tossed his head and smiled. "wrong! what could be wrong with me now that you are here? no! all is quite right, but i have been accursed with lonesomeness. something was lacking, it was you, caro mio. now, however, i am the most contented of mortals. but you must be famished, so i will show you to your room at once. francesca has provided a feast for us, i assure you." "give me a moment to look around. so this is the castello? jove! it's ripping!" blake found himself in a great hall similar to many he had seen in his european wanderings, but ruder and older by far. he judged the castello to be of norman build, but remodeled to suit the taste of the savigni. to the right, through an open door, he saw a large room where a fat sicilian woman was laying the table; to the left was a drawing-room lighted only by a fire of fagots in a huge, black fireplace, the furniture showing curiously distorted in the long shadows. other rooms opened towards the rear, and he realized that the old place was very large. it was unkempt also, and showed the lack of a woman's hand. "you exaggerate!" said savigno. "after paris the castello will seem very mean. we siciliani do not live in grand style, and, besides, i have spent practically no time here, since my father (may the saints receive him) left me free to wander. the place has been closed; the old servants have gone; it is dilapidated." "on the contrary, it's just the sort of place it should be--venerable and overflowing with romance. you must rule like a medieval baron. why, you could sell this woodwork to some millionaire countryman of mine for enough to realize a fortune." "per dio! if taxes are not reduced i shall be forced to some such expedient," the count laughed. "it was my mother's home, it is my birthplace, so i love it--even though i neglect it. as you perceive, it is high time i took a wife. but enough! if you are lacking in appetite, i am not, and francesca is an unbearable tyrant when her meals grow cold." he led his friend up the wide stairs and left him to prepare for supper. "and so this ends it all," said blake, as the two young men lounged in the big, empty drawing-room later that evening. they had dined and gossiped as only friends of their age can gossip, had relived their adventures of the past three years, and still were loath to part, even for sleep. "how so?" queried savigno. "you speak of marriage as if it were dissolution." "it might as well be, so far as the other fellow is concerned." "nonsense! i shall not change." "oh, yes, you will! besides, i am returning to america." "even so, we are rich; we shall travel; we shall meet frequently. you will come to sicily. perhaps the contessa and i may even go to america. friendship such as ours laughs at the leagues." but blake was pessimistic. "perhaps she won't like me." martel laughed at this. "impossible! she is a woman, she has eyes, she will see you as i see you. more than that, i have told her that she must love you." "then that does settle it! you have hung the crepe on our future intimacy, for good and all. she will instruct your cook to put a spider in my dumpling or to do away with me by some characteristic sicilian method." martel seemed puzzled by the americanism of this speech, but norvin merely smiled and changed to italian. "do you really love her?" he asked. "of course! since i was a boy so high i have known we would marry. she adores me, she is young, she is beautiful, she is--rich!" "in heaven's name don't use that tone in speaking of her wealth. you make me doubt you." "no, no!" the count smiled. "it would be the same if she were a peasant girl. we shall be so happy--oh, there is no expressing how happy we intend being." "i've no doubt. and that makes it quite certain to end our comradeship." "you croak like a raven!" declared the sicilian. "what has soured you?" "nothing. i am a wise young man, that's all. you see, happiness is all-sufficient; it needs nothing to complete itself. it is a wall beyond which the owner does not care to wander, so, when you are quite happy with the new countess, you will forget your friends of unmarried days." "would you then have me unhappily married?" "by no means. i am full of regrets at losing you, nothing more." "it is plain, then, that you also must marry. is there no admirable american lady?" "any quantity of them, but i don't care much for women except in an impersonal sort of way, or perhaps i don't attract them. i might enjoy falling in love if it were not such a tedious process." "it is not necessarily tedious. one may love with the suddenness of an explosion. i have done so, many times." "i know you have, but you are a sicilian; we go about such things in a dignified and respectable manner. love is a serious matter with us. we don't explode." "yes. when you love, you marry; and you marry in the same way you buy a farm. but we have blood in our veins and lime in our bones. i have loved many women to distraction; there is only one whom i would marry." ricardo entered at the moment, and the count arose with a word of apology to his guest. he spoke earnestly with his overseer, but, as they were separated from him by the full width of the great room, blake overheard no more than a word now and then. they were speaking in the sicilian dialect, moreover, which was unfamiliar to him, yet he caught the mention of ippolito, one of the men who had met him at the station, also of an orange-grove, and the word "mafioso." then he heard martel say: "the shells for the new rifle--ippolito is a bad shot--take plenty." when ricardo had gone and the count had returned to his seat, norvin fancied he detected once more that grave look he had surprised in his friend's countenance upon their arrival at the castello. "what were you telling ricardo about rifles and cartridges?" he inquired. "eh? it was nothing. we are forced to guard our oranges; there are thieves about. i have been too long away from martinello." later, as norvin blake composed himself to sleep he wondered idly if martel had told him the whole truth. he recalled again the faint, grave lines that had gathered about the count's eyes, where there had never been aught but wrinkles of merriment, and he recalled also that word "mafioso." it conjured memories of certain tales he had heard of sicilian outlawry and brigandage, and of that evil, shadowy society of "friends" which he understood dominated this island. there was a story about the old count's death also, but martel had never told him much. norvin tried to remember what it was, but sleep was heavy upon him and he soon gave up. ii a confession and a promise norvin blake slept soundly, as befitted a healthy young man with less than the usual number of cares upon his mind, and, notwithstanding the fact that he had retired at a late hour, somewhat worn by his journey, he awoke earlier than usual. still lacking an adequate idea of his surroundings, he arose and, flinging back the blinds of his window, looked out upon a scene which set him to dressing eagerly. the big front door of the hall below was barred when he came down, and only yielded to his efforts with a clanging which would have awakened any one except martel, letting him out upon a well-kept terrace beneath which the hills fell away in majestic sweeps and curves to the coast-line far beneath. it was a true sicilian morning, filled with a dazzling glory of color, and although it was not early, from a countryman's point of view, the dewy freshness had not entirely faded, and rosy tints still lingered in the valleys and against the calabrian coast in the distance. an odor of myrtle and jessamine came from a garden beneath the outer terrace wall, and on either side of the manor rose wooded hills the lower slopes of which were laid out in vineyards and groves of citrus fruits. having in full measure the normal man's unaffected appreciation of nature, blake found himself wondering how martel could ever leave this spot for the artificialities of paris. the count was amply able to live where he chose, and it was no love for art which had kept him in france these many years. on the contrary, they had both recognized the mediocrity of his talent and had often joked about it. it was perhaps no more than a youthful restlessness and craving for excitement, he concluded. knowing that his luxurious host would not be stirring for another hour, he set out to explore the place at his leisure, and in time came around to the stables and outhouses. it is not the front of any residence which shows its real character, any more than a woman's true nature is displayed by her sunday attire. norvin made friends with a surly, stiff-haired dog, then with a patriarchal old goat which he found grazing atop a wall, and at last he encountered francesca bearing a bundle of fagots upon her head. she was in a bad temper, it appeared, for in answer to his cheerful greeting she began to revile the names of ippolito and michele. "lazy pigs!" she cried, fiercely. "is it not sufficient that old francesca should bare her bones and become a shadow with the cares of the household? is it not sufficient that she performs the labor of twenty in caring for the padrone? no! is it not the devil's task to prepare the many outlandish delicacies he learned to eat in his travels? yes! ha! what of that! she must also perform the duties of an ass and bear wood for the fires! and what, think you, those two young giants are doing all the day? sleeping, si'or! up all night, asleep all day! a fine business. and francesca with a broken back!" "i'll carry your wood," he offered, at which the mountainous old woman stared at him as if she did not in the least comprehend his words. although her burden was enough to tax a man's strength, she balanced it easily upon her head and made no move to go. "and the others! may they all be blinded--attilio, gaspare, roberto! the hangman will get them, surely. briganti, indeed!" she snorted like a horse. "may belisario cardi roast them over these very fagots." slowly she moved her head from side to side while the bundle swayed precariously. "it is a bad business, si'or. the padrone is mad to resist. you may tell him he is quite mad. mark me, ricardo knows that no good will come of it, but he is like a bull when he is angry. he lowers his head and sees blood. veramente, it is a bad business and we shall all lose our ears." she moved off majestically, her eyes rolling in her fat cheeks, her lips moving; leaving the american to speculate as to what her evil prediction had to do with ippolito and the firewood. he was still smiling at her anger when ippolito himself, astride a horse, came clattering into the courtyard and dismounted stiffly, giving him a good morning with a wide yawn. "corpo di baccho!" exclaimed the rider. "i shall sleep for a century." he stretched luxuriously and, unslinging a gun from his shoulder, leaned it against the wall. blake was surprised to find it a late model of an american repeating rifle. "francesca!" he called loudly. "madonna mia, i am famished!" "francesca was here a moment ago," norvin volunteered. "in a frightful temper, too." "just so! it was the wood, i presume." he scowled. "one cannot be in ten places unless he is in ten pieces. i am glad to be here, and not here and there." "well, she wants you roasted by some fellow named cardi--" "eh? what?" ippolito started, jerking the horse's head by the bridle rein, through which he had thrust his arm. "what is this?" "belisario cardi, i believe she said. i don't know him." the sicilian muttered an oath and disappeared into the stable; he was still scowling when he emerged. prompted by a feeling that he was close to something mysterious, blake tried to sound the fellow. "you are abroad early," he suggested. but ippolito seemed in no mood for conversation, and merely replied: "si, signore, quite early." he was a lean, swarthy youth, square-jawed and well put up. although his clothes were poor, he wore them with a certain grace and moved like a man who is sure of himself. "did you see any robbers?" "robbers?" ippolito's look was one of quick suspicion. "who has ever seen a robber?" "come, come! i heard the count and ricardo talking. you have been away, among the orange-groves, all night. am i right?" "you are right." "tell me, is it common thieves or outlaws whom you watch? i have heard about your brigands." "ippolito!" came the harsh voice of ricardo, who at that moment appeared around the corner of the stable. "in the kitchen you will find food." ippolito bowed to the american and departed, his rifle beneath his arm. blake turned his attention to the overseer, for his mind, once filled with an idea, was not easily satisfied. but ricardo would give him no information. he raised his bushy, gray eyebrows at the american's question. "brigands? ippolito is a great liar." seeing the angry sparkle in the old fellow's eyes, norvin hastened to say: "he told me nothing, i assure you." "thieves, yes! we have ladri here, as elsewhere. sometimes it is well to take precautions." "but francesca was quite excited, and i heard you and martel mention la mafia last night," blake persisted. "i see you all go armed. i am naturally curious. i thought you might be in trouble with the society." "children's tales!" said ricardo, gruffly. "there is no society of la mafia." "oh, see here! we have it even in my own country. the new orleans papers have been full of stories about the mala vita, the mafia, or whatever you choose to call it. there is a big italian population there, you know, and they are causing our police a great deal of worry. i live in louisiana, so i ought to know. we understand it's an offshoot of the sicilian mafia." "in naples i hear there is a camorra. but this is sicily. we have no societies." "nevertheless, i heard you say something about 'mafioso' last night," blake insisted. "perhaps," grudgingly admitted the overseer. "but la mafia is not a man, not a society, as you say. it is--" he made a wide gesture. "it is all sicily. you do not understand." "no, i do not." "very well. one does not speak of it. would the signore care to see the horses?" "thank you, yes." the two went into the stables together, and blake for the time gave up the hope of learning anything further about sicilian brigandage. nor did martel show any willingness to enlighten him when he tentatively introduced the subject at breakfast, but laughingly turned the conversation into another channel. "to-day you shall see the star of my life," he declared. "be prepared to worship as all men do." "assuredly." "and promise you will not fall in love." "is that why you discouraged my coming until a week before your wedding? really, if she is all you claim, we might have been such delightful enemies." "enemies are never that," said the count, gravely. "i know men in my country who cherish their enemies like friends. they seem to enjoy them tremendously, until one or the other has passed on to glory. even then they are highly spoken of." "i am impatient for you to see her. she, of course, has many preparations to make, for the wedding-day is almost here; but it is arranged that we are to dine there to-night with her and her aunt, the donna teresa. ah, norvin mine, seven days separate me from paradise. you can judge of my ecstasy. the hours creep, the moments are leaden. each night when i retire, i feel faithless in allowing sleep to rob my thoughts of her. when i awake it is with the consolation that more of those miserable hours have crept away. i am like a man insane." "i am beginning to think you really are so." "diamine! wait! you have not seen her. we are to be married by a bishop." "no doubt that will insure your happiness." "a marriage like this does not occur every day. it will be an event, i tell you." "and you're sure i won't be in the way this evening?" "no, no! it is arranged. she is waiting--expecting you. she knows you already. this morning, however, you will amuse yourself--will you not?--for i must ride down to san sebastiano and meet the colonel of carabinieri from messina." "certainly. don't mind me." martel hesitated an instant, then explained: "it is a matter of business. one of my farm-hands is in prison." "indeed! what for?" "oh, it is nothing. he killed a fellow last week." "jove! what a peaceful, pastoral place you have here! i arrive to be met by an armed guard, i hear talk of mafiosi, men ride out at night with rifles, and old women predict unspeakable evil. what is all the mystery?" "nonsense! there is no mystery. do you think i would drag you, my best friend, into danger?" savigno's lips were smiling, but he awaited an answer with some restraint. "that would not be quite the--quite a nice thing to do, would it?" "so, that's it! now i know you have something on your mind. and it must be of considerable importance or you would have told me before this." "you are right," the count suddenly declared, "although i hoped you would not discover it. i might have known. but i suppose it is better to make a clean breast of it now. i have enemies, my friend, and i assure you i do not cherish them." "the countess margherita is a famous beauty, eh? well! it is not remarkable that you should have rivals." "no, no. this has nothing to do with her, unless our approaching marriage has roused them to make a demonstration. have you ever heard of--belisario cardi?" "not until this morning. who is he?" "i would give much to know. if you had asked me a month ago, i would have said he is an imaginary character, used to frighten people--a modern fra diavolo, a mere name with which to inspire terror--for nobody has ever seen him. now, however, he seems real enough, and i learn that the carabinieri believe in his existence." martel pushed back the breakfast dishes and, leaning his elbows upon the table, continued, after a pause: "to you sicily is all beauty and peace and fragrance; she is old and therefore civilized, so you think. everything you have seen so far is reasonably modern, eh?" he showed his white teeth as blake assured him: "it's the most peaceful, restful spot i ever saw." "you see nothing but the surface. sicily is much what she was in my grandfather's time. you have inquired about la mafia. well, there is such a thing. it killed my father. it forced me to give up my home and be an exile." at norvin's exclamation of astonishment, he nodded. "there's a long story behind it which you could not appreciate without knowing my father and the character of our sicilian people, for, after all, sicilian character constitutes la mafia. it is no sect, no cult, no secret body of assassins, highwaymen, and robbers, as you foreigners imagine; it is a national hatred of authority, an individual expression of superiority to the law." "in our own new orleans we are beginning to talk of the mafia, but with us it is a mysterious organization of italian criminals. we treat it as somewhat of a joke." "be not so sure. some day it may dominate your american cities as it does all sicily." "still i don't understand. you say it is an organization and yet it is not; it terrorizes a whole island and yet you say it is no more than your national character. it must have a head, it must have arms." "it has no head, or, rather, it has many heads. it is not a band. it is the sicilian intolerance of restraint, the individual's sense of superiority to moral, social, and political law. it is the freemasonry that results from this common resistance to authority. it is an idea, not an institution; it is sicily's curse and that which makes her impossible of government. i do not mean to deny that we have outlawry and brigandage; they are merely the most violent demonstrations of la mafia. it afflicts the cities; it is a tyranny in the country districts. la mafia taxes us with blackmail, it saddles us with a great force of carabinieri, it gives food and drink and life to men like belisario cardi. every landholder, every man of property, contributes to its support. you still do not understand, but you will as i go along. as an instance of its workings, all fruit-growers hereabouts are obliged to maintain watchmen, in addition to their regular employees. otherwise their groves will be robbed. these guards are mafiosi. let us say that one of us opposes this monopoly. what happens? he loses his crop in a night; his trees are cut down. should he appeal to the law for protection, he is regarded as a weakling, a man of no spirit. this is but one small example of the workings of la mafia; as a matter of fact, it permeates the political, the business, and the social life of the whole island. knowing the impotence of the law to protect any one, peaceable citizens shield the criminals. they perjure themselves to acquit a mafioso rather than testify against him and thus incur the certainty of some fearful vengeance. should the farmer persist in his independence, something ends his life, as in my father's case. the whole country is terrorized by a conspiracy of a few bold and masterful men. it is unbearable. there are, of course, capi-mafia--leaders--whose commands are enforced, but there is no single well-organized society. it is a great interlocking system built upon patronage, friendship, and the peculiar sicilian character." "now i think i begin to understand." "my father was not strong enough to throw off the yoke and it meant his death. i was too young to take his place, but now that i am a man i intend to play a man's part, and i have served notice. it means a battle, but i shall win." to martel's hasty and very incomplete sketch of the hidden influences of sicilian life blake listened with the greatest interest, noting the grave determination that had settled upon his friend; yet he could scarcely bring himself to accept an explanation that seemed so far-fetched. the whole theory of the mafia struck him as grotesque and theatrical. "and one man has already been killed, you say?" he asked. "yes, i discharged all the watchmen whom i knew to be mafiosi. it caused a commotion, i can tell you, and no little uneasiness among the country people, who love me even if, to them, i have been a more or less imaginary person since my father's death. naturally they warned me to desist in this mad policy of independence. a week ago one of my campieri, paolo--he who is now in prison--surprised a fellow hacking down my orange-trees and shot him. the miscreant proved to be a certain galli, whom i had discharged. he left a family, i regret to say, but his reputation was bad. notwithstanding all this, paolo is still in prison despite my utmost efforts. the machinery of the mafia is in motion, they will perjure witnesses, they will spend money in any quantity to convict my poor paolo. heaven knows what the result will be." "and where does this bogey-man enter--this belisario cardi?" "i have had a letter from him." "really?" "it is in the hands of the carabinieri, hence this journey of my friend, colonel neri, from messina." "what did the letter say?" "it demanded a great sum of money, with my life as the penalty for refusal. it was signed by cardi; there was no mistaking the name. if it had been from narcone, for instance, i would have paid no attention to it, for he is no more than a cattle-thief. but belisario cardi! my boy, you don't appreciate the significance of that name. i should not care to fall into his hands, i assure you, and have my feet roasted over a slow fire--" "good heavens!" norvin cried, rising abruptly from his chair. "you don't really mean he's that sort?" "as a matter of fact," the count reassured his guest, "i don't believe in his existence at all. it is merely a name to be used upon occasion. but as for the punishment, that is perhaps the least i might expect if i were so unfortunate as to be captured." "why, this can't be! do you realize that this is the year ? such things are not possible any longer. in your father's time--yes." "all things are possible in sicily," smiled savigno. "we are a century behind the times. but, caro mio, i did wrong to tell you--" "no, no." "i shall come to no harm, believe me. i am known to be young, rich, and my marriage is but a few days off. what more natural, therefore, than for some mafioso to try to frighten me and profit by the dreaded name of cardi? i am a stranger here in my own birthplace. when i become better known, there will be no more feeble attempts at blackmail. other landholders have maintained their independence, and i shall do the same, for an enemy who fears to fight openly is a coward, and i am in the right." "i am glad i came. i shall be glad, too, when you are married and safely off on your wedding journey." "i feared to tell you all this lest you should think i had no right to bring you here at such a time--" "don't be an utter idiot, martel." "you are an american; you have your own way of looking at things. of course, if anything should happen--if ill-fortune should overtake me before the marriage--" "see here! if there is the slightest danger, the faintest possibility, you ought to go away, as you did before," norvin declared, positively. "i am no longer a child. i am to be married a week hence. wild horses could not drag me away." "you could postpone it--explain it to the countess--" "there is no necessity; there is no cause for alarm, even. all the same, i feel much easier with you here. margherita has relatives, to be sure, but they are--well, i have no confidence in them. in the remote possibility that the worst should come, you could look out for her, and i am sure you would. am i right?" "of course you are." "and now let us think of something pleasanter. we won't talk of it any more, eh?" "i'm perfectly willing to let it drop. you know i would do anything for you or yours, so we needn't discuss that point any further." "good!" martel rose and with his customary display of affection flung an arm about his friend's shoulders. "and now ricardo is waiting to go to san sebastiano, so you must amuse yourself for an hour or two. i have had the billiard-table recovered, and the cushions are fairly good. you will find books in the library, perhaps a portfolio of my earlier drawings--" "billiards!" exclaimed the american, fervently, whereupon the count laughed. "till i return, then, a riverderci!" he seized his hat and strode out of the room. iii the golden girl shortly after the heat of the day had begun to subside the two friends set out for terranova. ricardo accompanied them--it seemed he went everywhere with martel--following at a distance which allowed the young men freedom to talk, his watchful eyes scanning the roadside as if even in the light of day he feared some lurking danger. the prospect of seeing his fiancee acted like wine upon savigno, and from his exuberant spirits it was evident that he had completely forgotten his serious talk at the breakfast table. his disposition was mercurial, and if he had ever known real forebodings they were forgotten now. it was a splendid ride along a road which wound in serpentine twinings high above the sea, now breasting ridges bare of all save rock and spurge, and now dipping into valleys shaded by flowering trees and cloyed with the scent of blooms. it meandered past farms, in haphazard fashion, past vineyards and gardens and groves of mandarin, lime, and lemon, finally toiling up over a bold chestnut-studded shoulder of the range, where blake drew in to enjoy the scene. a faint haze, impalpable as the memory of dreams, lay over the land, the sea was azure, the mountains faintly purple. a gleam of white far below showed terranova, and when the american had voiced his appreciation the three horsemen plunged downward, leaving a rolling cloud of yellow dust behind them. the road from here on led through a wild and somewhat forbidding country, broken by ravines and watercourses and quite densely wooded with thickets which swept upward into the interior as far as the eye could reach; but in the neighborhood of terranova the land blossomed and flowered again as on the other side of the mountains. leaving the main road by a driveway, the three horsemen swung through spacious grounds and into a courtyard behind the house, where an old man came shuffling slowly forward, his wrinkled face puckered into a smile of welcome. "ha! aliandro!" cried the count. "what do i see? the rheumatism is gone at last, grazie dio!" aliandro's loose lips parted over his toothless gums and he mumbled: "illustrissimo, the accursed affliction is worse." "impossible! then why these capers? my dear aliandro, you are shamming. why, you came leaping like a goat." "as god is my judge, carino, i can sleep only in the sun. it is like the tortures of the devil, and my bones creak like a gate." "and yet each day i declare to myself: 'aliandro, that rascal, is growing younger as the hours go by. it is well we are not rivals in love or i should be forced to hate him!'" the old man chuckled and beamed upon savigno, who proceeded to make norvin known. aliandro's face had once been long and pointed, but with the loss of teeth and the other mysterious shrinkages of time it had shortened until in repose the chin and the nose seemed to meet like the points of calipers. when he moved his jaws his whole countenance lengthened magically, as if made of some substance more elastic than flesh. it stretched and shortened rapidly now, in the most extraordinary fashion, for the count had a knack of pleasing people. "and where are the ladies?" savigno inquired. aliandro cocked a watery eye at the heavens and replied: "they will be upon the loggiato at this hour, illustrissimo. the donna teresa will have a book." he squinted respectfully at a small note which martel handed him, then inquired, "do you wish change?" "not at all. it is yours for your courtesy." "grazie! grazie! a million thanks." the old fellow made off with surprising agility. "what a sham he is!" the count laughed, as he and norvin walked on around the house. "he will do no labor, and yet the contessa supports him in idleness. there is a mafioso for you! he has been a brigand, a robber. he is, to this day, as you see. margherita has an army of such people who impose upon her. every time i am here i tip him. every time he receives it with the same words." although the country-seat of the ginini was known as a castello, it was more in the nature of a comfortable and pretentious villa. it had dignity, however, and drowsed upon a commanding eminence fronted by a splendid terraced lawn which one beheld through clumps of flowering shrubs and well-tended trees. here and there among the foliage gleamed statuary, and the musical purl of a fountain fell upon the ear. as the young men mounted to the loggiato, or covered gallery, a delicate, white-haired italian lady arose and came to meet them. "ah, martel, my dear boy! we have been expecting you," she cried. it was the donna teresa fazello, and she turned a sweet face upon mattel's friend, bidding him welcome to terranova with charming courtesy. she was still exchanging with him the pleasantries customary upon first meetings when he heard the count exclaim softly, and, looking up, saw him bowing low over a girl's hands. her back was half turned toward norvin, but although he had not seen her features clearly, he felt a great surprise. his preconceived notion of her had been all wrong; it seemed, for she was not dark--on the contrary, she was as tawny as a lioness. her hair, of which there was an abundance, was not the ordinary saxon yellow, but iridescent, as if burned by the fierce heat of a tropical sun. the neck and cheeks were likewise golden, or was it the light from her splendid crown? he was still staring at her when she turned and came forward to give him her hand, thus allowing her full glory to flash upon him. "welcome!" she said, in a voice as low-pitched as a cello string, and her lover, watching eagerly for some sign from his friend, smiled delightedly at the emotion he saw leap up in norvin's face. that young man was quite unconscious of martel's espionage--unconscious of everything, in fact, save the splendid creature who stood smiling at him as if she had known him all her days. his first impression, that she was all golden, all gleaming, like a flame, did not leave him; for the same warm tints that were in her hair were likewise present in her cheeks, her neck, her hands. it was like the hue which underlies old ivory. her skin was clear and of unusual pallor, yet it seemed to radiate warmth. something rich and vivid in her voice also lent strength to the odd impression she had given him, as if her very speech were gold made liquid. except for the faintest tinge of olive, her cheeks were colorless, yet they spoke of perfect health, and shone with that same pale, effulgent glow, like the reflection of a late sun. her lips were richly red and as fresh as a half-opened flower, affording the only contrast to that puzzling radiance. her unusual effect was due as much perhaps to the color of her eyes as to her hair and skin, for while they were really of a greenish hazel they held the fires of an opal in their depths. they were oriental, slumbrous, meditative, and the black pupils were of an exaggerated size. her brows were dark and met above a finely chiseled nose. all in all, blake was quite taken aback, for he had not been prepared for such a vision, and a sort of panic robbed him of speech. but when his halting tongue had done its duty and his eyes had turned once more to the aunt, some irresistible power swept them back to the young woman's face. the more he observed her the more he was puzzled by that peculiar effect, that glow which seemed to envelop her. even her gown, of some shimmering material, lent its part to the illusion. yellow was undeniably her color; she seemed steeped in it. he had to make a determined effort to recover his composure. savigno fell quickly into a lover's rhapsody, devouring the girl with ardent glances under which she thrilled, and soon they began to chatter of the wedding preparations. "it was very good of you to come so long a way," said the countess at last, turning to the american for a second time. "martel has told us all about you and about your adventures together." "not all!" cried savigno, lightly. "we have pasts, i assure you." "martel tries so hard to impress us with his wickedness," the aunt explained. "but we know him to be jesting. perhaps you will confound him here before us." "i shall do nothing of the sort," blake laughed. "who am i to rob him of a delightfully wicked past upon which he can pretend to look back in horror? it is the only past he will ever have, so why spoil it for him? on the contrary, i am prepared to lend a hand and to start him off with a list of damning disclosures which it will require years to live down." "pray begin," urged the count with an air of intense satisfaction. "eh? he hesitates. then i shall begin for him. in the first place, margherita, he openly declares that i covet your riches." the countess joined in the laughter at this, and norvin could only say: "i had not met you then, signorina." "he was quite serious, nevertheless, and predicted that marriage would end our friendship, arguing that supreme happiness is but another term for supreme selfishness." "at least i did not question the certainty of your happiness." the girl spoke up gravely: "i don't agree with you, signor blake. i should hate to think it will make us selfish. it seems to me that such--love as we share will make us very good and sweet and generous." when she spoke of love she hesitated and lowered her eyes until the quivering lashes swept her cheeks, but no flush of embarrassment followed. norvin realized that with all her reserve she could not blush, had probably never blushed. "you shouldn't place the least dependence on the words of a man's best friend under such conditions," he told her, "for he covers his chagrin at losing a comrade by a display of pessimism which he doesn't really feel." norvin suddenly wished the countess would not allow her glance to linger upon him so long and searchingly. it filled him with a most disturbing self-consciousness. he was relieved when the donna teresa engaged him in conversation and the lovers were occupied with each other. it was some time later that the countess addressed her aunt excitedly: "listen! what do you think of this, zia mia? the authorities will not admit poor paolo to bail, and he is still in prison." "poor fellow!" cried the donna teresa. "it is la mafia." "perhaps it is better for him to remain where he is," martel said. "he is at least safe, for the time being. here is something you may not know: galli's wife is sister to gian narcone." "the outlaw?" "then she will probably kill paolo," said the countess margherita, calmly. blake exclaimed wonderingly: "i say--this is worse than breathitt county, kentucky. you talk of murders and outlaws as we discuss the cotton crop or the boll-weevil. this is the most fatal country i ever saw." "it is a great pity that such things exist," the donna teresa agreed, "but one grows accustomed to them in time. it has been so ever since i was a child--we do not seem to progress, here in sicily. now in italy it is much more civilized, much more restful." "how hard it must be to do right," said the countess, musingly. "look at paolo, for instance; he kills a wretched thief quite innocently, and yet the law holds him in prison. it is necessary, of course, to be severe with robbers like this galli and his brother-in-law, who is an open outlaw, and yet, i suppose if i were that galli's wife i should demand blood to wash my blood. she is only a wife." "you sympathize with her?" exclaimed martel in astonishment. "deeply! i am not so sorry the man was killed, but a wife has rights. she will doubtless follow him." "do you believe in the vendetta?" norvin asked, curiously. "who does not? the law is full of tricks. there is a saying which runs, 'the gallows for the poor, justice for the fool!'" "you are a mafiosa," cried the scandalized aunt. "it is one of aliandro's sayings. he has lived a life! he often tells me stories." "aliandro is a terrible liar," martel declared. "i fear his adventures are much like his rheumatism." "you do not exact a reckoning from your enemies in america?" queried margherita. "oh, we do, but not with quite so much enthusiasm as you do," blake answered her. "we aren't ordinarily obliged to kill people in order to protect our property, and wives don't go about threatening vengeance when their husbands meet with accidents. the police take care of such things." "a fine country! it must be so peaceful for old people," ejaculated the aunt. "we have some outlaws, to be sure, like your notorious belisario cardi--" "cardi is but a name," said the girl. "he does not exist." intercepting a warning glance from martel, blake said no more, and the talk drifted to more agreeable subjects. but the count, being possessed of a nervous temperament which called for constant motion, could not long remain inactive, and now, having poured his extravagant devotion into his sweetheart's ears, he rose, saying: "i must go to the village. the baker, the confectioner, the butcher, all have many things to prepare for the festa, and i must order the fireworks from messina. norvin will remain here while ricardo and i complete the arrangements. i tell you it will be a celebration to awaken the countryside. for an hour then, addio!" he touched his lips to margherita's fingers and, bowing to her aunt, ran down the steps. "some gadfly stings him," said the donna teresa, fondly. "he is like a child; he cannot remain seated. he comes, he goes, like the wind. there is no holding him." "so there's to be a festa?" blake observed with interest. "oh, indeed! it will be a great event. it was mattel's idea." margherita arose and the young man followed. "see, out there upon the terrace there will be dancing. you have never seen a sicilian merrymaking? you have never seen the tarantella! then you will be interested. on the night before the ceremony the people will come from the whole countryside. there will be music, games, fireworks. oh, it will be a celebrazione. my cousins from messina will be here, the bishop, many fine people. i--i am more excited than martel. i can scarcely wait." the girl's face mirrored her emotion and her eyes were as deep as the sea. she seemed for the moment very far away, uplifted in contemplation of the great change so soon to occur in her life, and norvin began to suspect her of a tremendous depth of feeling. unknown even to herself she was smouldering; unawakened fires were stirred by the consciousness of coming wifehood. out here in the sun she was more tawny than ever, and, recalling the threat against her lover, the young man fell to wondering how she would take misfortune if it ever came. feeling his eyes upon her, she met his gaze frankly with a smile. "what is it? you have something to say." he recovered himself with an effort. "no! only--you are so different from what i expected." "and you also," she laughed. "you are much more agreeable; i like you immensely, and i want you to tell me all about yourself." that was a wonderful afternoon for blake. the sicilian girl took him into her confidence without the slightest restraint. there was no period of getting acquainted; it was as if they had known each other for a lifetime. he never ceased marveling at her beauty and his ears grew ever more eager for her voice. martel made no secret of his delight at their instantaneous liking for each other, and the dinner that evening was the gayest that had brightened terranova for years. inasmuch as the ride to san sebastiano was long, the young men were forced to leave early, but they were scarcely out of hearing before martel drew his horse in beside norvin and, laying a hand upon his friend's arm, inquired, breathlessly: "well? come, come, brother of mine! you know i perish of eagerness. what have you to say? the truth, between man and man." blake answered him with an odd hesitation: "you must know without asking. there's nothing to say--except that she--she is like a golden flame. she sets one afire. she is different--wonderful. i--i--" "exactly!" savigno laughed with keenest contentment. "there is no other." when blake retired that night it was not to sleep at once, for he was troubled by a growing fear of himself that would not be lightly put aside. iv the feast at terranova during the next few days norvin blake saw much of the countess margherita, for every afternoon he and martel rode to terranova. the preparations for the wedding neared completion and the consciousness of a coming celebration had penetrated the countryside. among all who looked forward to the big event, perhaps the one who watched the hours fly with the greatest degree of suspense was the american. he had half faced the truth on that night after his first meeting with the girl, and the succeeding days enforced the conviction he would have been glad to escape. he could no longer doubt that he was in love, madly infatuated with his best friend's fiancee, and the knowledge came like some crushing misfortune. it could scarcely be called a love at first sight, for he felt that he had always known and always loved this girl. he had never believed in these sudden obsessions, and more than once had been amused at martel's ability to fall violently in love at a moment's notice, and to fall as quickly out again, but in spite of his coolest reasoning and sternest self-reproach he found the spell too strong for him. every decent instinct commanded him to uproot this passion; every impetuous impulse burst into sudden flame and consumed his better sense, his judgment, and his loyalty, leaving him shaken and doubtful. although this was his first serious soul conflict, he possessed more than average self-control, and he managed to conceal his feelings so well that martel, who was the embodiment of loyalty and generosity, never for a moment suspected the truth. as for the girl, she was too full of her own happiness to see anything amiss. she took her lover's comrade into her heart with that odd unrestraint which characterized her, and, recognizing the bond which united the two young men, she strove to widen it sufficiently to include herself. it spoke well for her that she felt no jealousy of that love which a man bears for his life's best friend, but rather strove to encourage it. her intense desire to be a part of her lover and share all his affections led her to strive earnestly for a third place in the union, with the result that blake saw even more of her than did savigno. she deliberately set herself the task of winning the american, a task already more than accomplished, had she but known it, and, although for some women such a course would have been neither easy nor safe, with her a misconception of motive was impossible. she had an ardent, almost reckless manner of attacking problems; she was as intense and yet as changeful as a flame. blake watched her varying moods with the same fascination with which one regards a wind-blown blaze, recognizing, even in her moments of repression, that she was ready to burst forth anew at the slightest breath. she was the sort of woman to dominate men, to inspire them with tremendous enthusiasm for good or for evil as they chanced to lean toward the one or the other. while she seemed wholly admirable, she exercised a damnable effect upon norvin. he was tortured by a thousand devils, he was possessed by dreams and fancies hitherto strange and unrecognized. the nervous strain began to tell in time; he slept little, he grew weary of the struggle, things became unreal and distorted. he longed to end it all by fleeing from sicily, and had there been more time he would have arranged for a summons to america. his mother had not been well for a long time, and he was tempted to use this fact as an excuse for immediate departure, but the thought that martel needed him acted as an effective restraint. the vague menace of la mafia still hung over the count and was not lessened by the receipt of a second threatening letter a few days after blake's arrival. cardi wrote again, demanding instant compliance with the terms contained in his first communication. savigno was directed to send ricardo ferara at a given hour to a certain crossroads above san sebastiano with ten thousand lire. in that case candles would be burned and masses said for the soul of the murdered galli, so the writer promised. the letter put no penalty upon a failure to comply with these demands, beyond a vague prediction of evil. it was short and business-like and very much to the point. as this was the first document of the kind norvin had ever seen, he was greatly interested in it. "don't you think it may be the work of this fellow narcone?" he inquired. "i understand he is the brother-in-law of galli." "narcone would scarcely undertake so bold a piece of blackmail," the count declared. "i knew him slightly before he gave himself to the campagna. he was a butcher; he was brutal and domineering, but he was a coward." "it is not from narcone," ricardo pronounced, positively--they had called in the overseer for the discussion--"he is grossolano. he can neither read nor write. this letter is well spelled and well written." "then you think it is really from cardi?" ricardo shrugged his square shoulders. "who knows? some say there is no such person, others declare he went to america years ago." "what is your belief?" "i know a man who has seen him." "who?" "aliandro." "bah! aliandro is such a liar!" exclaimed savigno. "however that may be, he has seen things in his time. he says that cardi is not what people suppose him to be--a brigand--except when it suits his desires. that is why he comes and goes and the carabinieri can never trace him. that is why he is at home in all parts of sicily; that is why he uses men like narcone when he chooses." "it would please me to capture the wretch," said martel. "let's try it," norvin suggested, and accordingly a trap was laid. four carabinieri were sent to the appointed place, ahead of time, with directions to conceal themselves, and ferara carried out his part of the programme. but no one came to meet him, he encountered no one coming or going to the crossroads, and returned greatly disgusted. however, at his suggestion colonel neri stationed the four soldier policemen at the castello to prevent any demonstration and to profit by any development which might occur. the young men did not permit this diversion to interrupt their daily trips to terranova, although as a matter of precaution they added ippolito to their party. he was delighted at the change of duty, because, as norvin discovered, it brought him to the side of lucrezia ferara. thus it happened that martel had reason to regret the choice of his bodyguard, for on the very first visit ippolito began to strut and swagger before the girl and allowed the secret to escape him, whereupon it was carried to the countess. she appealed to martel to leave san sebastiano for the time being, to postpone the wedding, or at least to go to messina for it; but of course he refused and tried to laugh down her misgivings, and of course she appealed privately to blake for assistance. "you must use your influence to change his mind," she said, earnestly. "he declares he will not be overawed by these ruffians. he says that to pay them the least attention would be to encourage them to another attempt when we return, but--he does not know the mafia as i know it. you will do this for me?" "of course, if you wish it, although i agree with martel, and i'm sure he won't listen to me. he can't play the coward. the wedding is only two days off now. why, to-morrow is the gala-day! how could he notify the whole district, when all his preparations have been completed? what excuse could he give without confessing his fear and making himself liable to a later and stronger attack?" "the country people need not know anything about it. let them come and make merry. he can leave now, tonight. we will join him at messina." norvin shook his head. "i'll do what i can, since you wish it, but i'm sure he won't consent to any change of plan. i'm sure, also, that you are needlessly troubled." "perhaps," she acknowledged, doubtfully. "and yet martel's father--" "yes, yes. but conditions are not what they were fifteen years ago. this is merely a blackmailing scheme, and if he ignores it he'll probably never hear of it again. on the other hand, if he allows it to drive him away it will be repeated upon his return." she searched his face with her eyes, and his wits reeled at her earnest gaze. he was conscious of a single wild desire that such anxiety might be for him. how gladly he would yield to her wishes--how gladly he would yield to any wish of hers! he was a foreigner; he hated this island and its people, for the most part, and yet if he stood in martel's place he would willingly change his life to correspond with hers. he would become sicilian in body and soul. she had the power to dissolve his habits, his likes and dislikes, and reconstruct him through and through. "i hope you are right," she said at last. "and yet--it is said that no one escapes the mafia." "this isn't the mafia. it is the work of some brigand--" "what is the difference? the one merges into the other. blood has been spilled; the forces are at work." suddenly she seized him by the arm, and her eyes blazed. "look you," she cried, "if martel should be injured, if these men should dare--all sicily would not hold them. no power could save them, no hiding-place could be so secret, no lies so cunning, that i would not know. you understand?" blake saw that the girl was at last aroused to that intensity of feeling which he had recognized as latent in her. love had caused her to glow, but it had required this breath of fear to fan the fire into full strength. he was deeply moved and answered simply: "i understand. i--never knew how much you loved him." her humor changed, and she smiled. "one is foolish, perhaps, to be so frank, but that is my nature. you would not have me change it?" "you couldn't if you tried." "martel has always known i loved him. i could never conceal it. i never wished to. if he had not seen it i would have told him. just now, when i heard he was threatened--well, you see." "ippolito had no business to mention the matter. i suppose his tongue ran away with him. tongues have a way of doing such things when their owners are in love." "he is not for lucrezia." "why? he's a fine fellow." "oh, but lucrezia is superior. i have taught her a great many things. she is more like a sister to me than a servant, and i could not see her married to a farm-hand. she can do much better than to marry ippolito." "love goes where it pleases," said the american with so much feeling that margherita's eyes leaped to his. "you know? ah, my good friend, then you have loved?" he nodded. "i have. i do." she was instantly all eagerness, and beamed upon him with a frank delight that stabbed him. "martel? does he know?" "no, you see, there's no use--no possibility." "i'm sorry. there must be some great mistake. i cannot conceive of so sad a thing." "please don't try," he exclaimed, panic-stricken at thought of the dangerous ground he was treading and miserably afraid she would guess the truth in spite of him. "i should think any woman might love you," she said, critically, after a moment's meditation. "you are good and brave and true." "most discerning of women!" he cried, with an elaborate bow. "those are but a few of my admirable traits." he was relieved to see that she had no suspicion of his feelings, for she was extremely quick of wit and her intuition was keen. no doubt, her failure to read him was due to her absorption in her own affairs. he had arrived at a better knowledge of her capabilities to-day and began to realize that she was as changeable as a chameleon. one moment she could be like the sirocco in warmth and languor, the next as sparkling as the sunlit ocean. again she could be steeped in a dreamy abstraction or alive with a pagan joy of life. she might have been sixteen or thirty, as her mood chanced to affect her. of all the crossed strains that go to make up the sicilian race she had inherited more of the oriental than the greek or roman. somewhere back in the ginini family there was saracen blood, he felt sure. blake was as good as his word, and made her wishes known to martel, who laughingly accused him of a lack of faith in his own arguments. the count was bubbling with spirits at the immediate nearness of his nuptials, and declined to consider anything which might interfere with them. he joyfully told blake that the tickets were already bought and all arrangements made to leave for messina immediately after the ceremony, which would take place in the church at terranova. they would catch the boat for naples on the evening after the wedding, he explained, and blake was to accompany them at least that far on his way to america. meanwhile, he had no intention of foregoing the pleasure of to-morrow's celebration, even if belisario cardi himself should appear, to dispute his coming. it was the first, the last, and the only time he intended marrying, and he had promised himself to enjoy the occasion to the utmost, despite those letters, which, after all, were not to be taken seriously. so the matter was allowed to stand. the country people had begun to assemble when martel and his friend arrived at the ginini manor on the following afternoon, and the grounds were filling with gaily dressed peasants. the train from messina had brought margherita's relatives, and the bishop had sent word that he would arrive in ample time for the ceremony on the next morning. the contadini were coming in afoot, astride of donkeys and mules, or in gaily painted carts pictured with the miracles of the saints and the conquests of the moors. there were dark-haired men and women, wild-haired boys with roses above their ears, girls with huge ear-rings and fringed shawls which swept the ground as they walked. as yet they had not entirely lost their restraint, but martel went among them with friendly hand-clasps and exuberant greetings, renewing old acquaintances and welcoming new until at last their shyness disappeared and they began to laugh and chatter unaffectedly. savigno had traveled, he told them. he had arranged many surprises for his friends. there would be games, dances, music, and a wonderful entertainment in the big striped tent yonder, supplied by a troupe of players which he had brought all the way from palermo. as for the feast, well, the tables were already stretched under the trees, as they could see, and if any one wished to tantalize his nostrils just let him wander past the kitchen in the rear, where a dozen women had been at work since dawn. but that was not all; there would be gifts for the children and prizes for the best dancers. the handsomest woman would receive a magnificent shawl the like of which had never been dreamed of in terranova, and then to prevent jealousy the others would receive presents also. but he would not say too much. let them wait and see. finally there would be fireworks, enough to satisfy every one; and all he asked of them was that they drink the health of the countess margherita and wish her lifelong happiness. it was to be a memorable occasion, he hoped, and if they did not enjoy themselves as never before, then he and his bride would feel that their wedding had been a great, a colossal failure. but it seemed, as night approached, that martel had no reason to doubt the quality of his entertainment, for the guests gave themselves up to joy as only southerners can, forgetting poverty, hardship, and all the grinding cares of their barren lives. they yielded quickly to the passion of the festa, and blake began to see sicily for the first time. he would have liked to enter into their merrymaking, but felt himself too much a stranger. the feast was elaborate; no ristorante could have equaled it, no one but a spendthrift lover like martel would have furnished it. but it was not until darkness came and the trees began to twinkle and glow with their myriad lights that the fun reached its highest pitch. then there was true sicilian dancing, true sicilian joking, love-making. eyes were bright, cheeks were flushed, lips were parted, and the halls of terranova echoed to a bacchanalian tumult. there had been an elaborate supper inside also, to which the more prominent townspeople had been invited and from which norvin blake was only too eager to escape as it drew to an end. the strain to which he had been subjected for the past week was growing unbearable, and the sight of margherita ginini clad like a vision in some elaborate parisian gown so intensified his distress that he was glad to slip away into the open air at the first opportunity. he found ricardo leaning against the bole of a eucalyptus-tree, observing the throng with watchful eyes. "why aren't you making merry?" blake inquired. the overseer shrugged his shoulders, replying, somberly, "i am waiting." "for what?" "who knows? there are strangers here." "you mean,"--blake's manner changed quickly--"there may be enemies?" "if cardi is in the mountains behind martinello, may he not be here at terranova? i am looking for a thick, black man. aliandro has described him." "cardi would scarcely come to a wedding feast," said blake, with a certain feeling of uneasiness. "scarcely," the overseer agreed. "have you seen anything?" "nothing." "where is ippolito?" ricardo grunted. "asleep in the stable. the imbecile is drunk." to the american these sicilian people looked very much alike. they were all a bit fantastic, and the scene reminded him of a fancy-dress ball where all the men represented brigands. many of them were, or seemed to be, of truculent countenance; some wore piratical ear-rings, others had shawls wrapped about their heads as if for concealment. any one of them might have been a brigand, for all he knew, and he saw how easy it would be for a handful of evil-intentioned persons to mingle unobserved with such a throng. yet his better sense told him that he was silly to imagine such things. he had allowed old women's tales to upset his nerves. a half-hour later, as he was watching the crowd from the loggiato, margherita appeared, and he thought for a moment that she too might feel some vague foreboding, but her first words reassured him. "my good friend, i missed you," she said, "but i had no chance of leaving until this moment." coming close to him, she inquired: "has something gone amiss? you have seemed sad all this evening. i do not know, but i fear your heart is--heavy." he answered, unsteadily: "perhaps it is. i--don't know." "it is that certain woman." "i dare say. i'm a great fool, you know." "don't say that. this is perhaps the only chance i shall have of seeing you alone." "i'm glad," he broke out in a tone that startled her. "glad for you. i have tried not to be a death's-head at your feast, but it has been a struggle." "we women see things. martel, boy that he is, does not suspect, and yet i, who have known you so short a time, have read your secret. it is our happiness which makes you sad." "no, no. i'm not that sort. i share your happiness. i want it to continue." "if i had one wish it would be that she might care for you as i care for martel. and who knows? perhaps she may. you say it is impossible, yet life is full of blind ways and unseen turnings. somehow i feel that she will." "you are very good," he managed to say. then yielding to a sudden impulse, he took her hand and kissed it. a moment later she left him, but the touch of her cool flesh against his lips remained an unforgetable impression. savigno appeared, yawning prodigiously. "dio!" he exclaimed with a grimace. "those cousins of hers are deadly dull; i do not blame you for escaping. and the judge, and the notary's wife, and that village doctor! colonel neri is a good chap, notwithstanding his mustache in which he takes so much pride. he nurses it like a child, and yet it is older than i. poor friend of mine, you are a martyr, thus to endure for me." "it's tremendously interesting, particularly this part out here," norvin asserted. "i saw them dancing what i took to be the tarantella a moment ago. those peasant boys are like leaping fauns." "yes, and they will continue to dance for hours yet. i fear the donna teresa will not retire at her usual hour. what a day it has been! it is fine to give people happiness. that is one of my new discoveries." "remember to-morrow." "believe me, i think of nothing else. that is why we must be going soon. we cannot wait even for the fireworks, as much as i would like to. it is a long road to martinello and we must be up early in the morning. you do not object?" "on the contrary, i was about to bear you off in spite of yourself." "then i will have ippolito fetch the horses." "ippolito has been demonstrating the mastery of wine over matter. he is asleep in the manger." "drunk? oh, the idiot! he has the appetite of a shark, but the belly of a herring. i ought to warm his soles with a cane," declared savigno, angrily. "don't be too hard on him. i suspect lucrezia would not listen to his suit, poor chap. he's sick from unrequited passion." "very well, we will leave him to sleep it off. i couldn't be harsh with him at this time. and now we had best begin presenting our good-nights, although i hate to go." v what waited at the roadside to avoid the dampening effect of an early departure the three men rode out quietly from the courtyard at the rear of the house, leaving the merrymakers to their fun. "so, this is our last ride together," norvin said, as they left the valley and began the long ascent of the mountain that lay between them and martinello. "yes. henceforth we spare our horses. you see tomorrow we will take the morning train. half of san sebastiano will accompany us, too, and everybody will be dressed in his finest. ricardo here, for instance, will wear his new brown suit--a glorious affair. eh, ricardo?" "it would be as well to refrain from speaking," said the overseer, gruffly. "the road is dark. who knows what may be waiting?" "nonsense! be not always a bear. we are three armed men. i fancy narcone, nay, even our dreadful cardi himself, would scarcely dare molest us." ferara merely grunted and continued to hold his place abreast of his employer. norvin observed that he carried his rifle across his saddle-bow, and involuntarily shifted the strap of his own weapon so that it might be ready in case of an emergency. he had rebelled, somewhat, at carrying a firearm, but martel, after making a clean breast of his troubles that first morning, had insisted, and the american had yielded even though he felt ridiculous. the sky was moonless to-night but crowded with stars which gave light enough so that the riders were able to follow the road without difficulty, although the shadows on either side were dense. the air was sweet, and so still that the sounds of revelry from terranova were plainly audible. strains of music floated up the hillside, the shouts of the master of ceremonies came distinctly as he issued his commands for a country dance. the many lights within the grounds shone cloudily among the tree-tops far below, like the effulgence from some well-lit city hidden behind a hill, now disappearing for a time, now shining out again as the road pursued its meanderings. the hurried footfalls of the horses thudded steadily in the soft dust; the saddles creaked with that music which lulls a horseman like a song. "youth! youth! what a glorious thing it is!" exclaimed martel after a fruitless attempt to hold his tongue. "ricardo would have us go prowling like robbers when our hearts are singing loud enough for all the mountainside to hear. there is no evil in the world to-night, for the world is in love; to-morrow it bursts into happiness! and i am king over it all!" "i shall be glad to be rid of you, just the same," grumbled the old man. "ricardo alone has fears, but he was never young. think you that the gods would permit my wedding-day to be marred? bah! one can see evil before it comes; it casts a shadow; it has a chilling breath which any one with sensibilities can feel. as for me, i see the future as clearly as if it were spread out before me in the sunshine, and there is no misfortune in it anywhere. i cannot conceive of misfortune, with all this gladness and expectancy inside me." "they have begun the fireworks," said blake. "it's too bad you couldn't stay to see them, martel." he turned in his saddle, and the others reined in as a rocket soared into the night sky and burst with a shower of sparks. others followed and a detonation sounded faintly. "poor people!" said the count, gently. "i can hear them crying, 'oh!' 'ah!' 'beautiful!' 'it is an angel from heaven!'" "on the contrary, i'll warrant they're exclaiming, 'it is that angel from san sebastiano.' you have given them a great night." the count laughed. "yes. they will have much to talk and dream about. their lives are very barren, you know, and i hope the countess and i will be able to make them brighter as the years go by. oh, i have plans, caro mio, so many plans i scarcely know where to begin or how to talk about them. i could never be an artist, no matter how furiously i painted, no matter how many beautiful women i drew; but i can paint smiles upon the faces of those sad women down yonder. i can bring happiness into their lives. and that will be a picture to look back upon, eh? don't you think so? when they learn to know me, when they learn to love and trust me, there will be brighter days at terranova and at san sebastiano." "they love you now, i am sure." "i am too much a stranger yet. i have neglected my duties, but--well, in my travels i have learned some things that will be of benefit to us all. i see so much to do. it is delightful to be young and full of hopes, and to have the means of realizing them. above all, it is delicious to know that there is one who will share those ambitions and efforts with you. i see ricardo is disgusted with me, but he is a pessimist. he does not believe in charity and love." "what foolish talk!" protested the old man with heat. "do i not love my girl lucrezia? do i not love you, the countess, and--and--perhaps a few others?" martel laughed. "i was merely teasing you." they resumed their journey, leaving the showering meteors behind them, and the count, in the lightness of his heart, began humming a tune. as for blake, he rode as silently as ferara, being lost in contemplation of a happiness in which he had no part. not until this moment had he realized how entirely unnecessary he was to the existence of martel and margherita. he longed to remain a part of them, but saw that his desire was vain. they were complete without him, their lives would be full. he began to feel like a stranger already. it was a new sensation, for he had always seemed to be a factor in the lives of those about him; but martel had changed with the advent of new interests and ambitions. sicily, too, was different from any land he knew, and even margherita ginini was hard to understand. she seemed to be the spirit of sicily made flesh and blood. he wondered if the very fact that she was so unusual might not help him to forget her once he was away from her influence. he hoped so, for this last week had been the most painful period of his life. he had come south, somewhat against his will, for a kaleidoscopic glimpse of europe, never dreaming that he would carry back to america anything more than the usual flitting memories of a pleasant trip; but instead he was destined to take with him a single vivid picture. he argued that he was merely infatuated with the girl, carried away by the allurement of a new and remarkable type of woman, and that these headlong passions were neither healthy nor lasting; but his reasoning brought him no real sense of conviction, and his life, as he looked forward to it, appeared singularly flat and stale. his one consolation, poor as it seemed, lay in the fact that he had played the man to the best of his ability and was really glad, even if a bit envious, of martel's good-fortune. he let his thoughts run free in this manner, sitting his horse listlessly, for he was tired mentally and physically, watching the gray road idly as it slipped past beneath the muffled hoofs, and lulled by savigno's musical humming. it was while he was still in this half-somnolent, semidetached frame of mind that he rode into a sudden white-hot whirl of events. norvin blake was never clear in his mind regarding the precise sequence of the action that followed, for he was snatched too quickly from his mental relaxation to retain any well-defined impressions. he recalled vaguely that the road lay like a mysterious canon walled in with darkness, and that his thoughts were miles away when his horse shied without warning, nearly unseating him and bringing him back to a sense of his surroundings with a shock. simultaneously he heard a cry from ricardo; it was a scream of agony, cutting through savigno's song like a saber stroke. for a moment blake's heart seemed to stop, then began pounding crazily. a stream of fire leaped out at his left side, splitting the quiet night with a detonation. the wood which had lain so silent and deserted an instant before was lit by answering flashes, the blackness at an arm's-length on every side was stabbed by wicked tongues of flame, and the road swarmed with grotesque bodies leaping and tumbling and fighting. blake's horse reared as something black rose up beneath its forefeet and snatched at its bridle; martel's steed lurched into it, then fell kicking and screaming, sending its mate careening to the roadside. the unexpected movement wrenched norvin's feet from the stirrups and left him clinging desperately to mane and cantle. it all came with a terrifying swiftness--quite as if the three riders had crossed over a powder-train at the instant of its eruption, to find themselves, in the fraction of a second, involved in chaos. ricardo's horse thundered away, riderless, leaving a squirming, wriggling confusion of forms in the road where the overseer was battling for his life. martel's voice rose shrilly in a curse, and then norvin felt himself dragged roughly from his saddle, whether by human hands or by some overhanging tree-branch he never knew. the force of his fall bruised and stunned him, but he struggled weakly to his feet only to find himself in the grasp of a man whose black visage fronted his own. he tried to break away, but his bones were like rope, his muscles were flabby and shaking. he exerted no more force than a child. in front of him something sickening, something unspeakably foul and horrible, was going on, and in its presence he was wholly unmanned. more hands seized him quickly, but he lacked the vigor to attempt an escape. on the contrary, he hung limp and paralyzed with terror. the mystery, the uncertainty, the hideous significance of that wordless scuffle in the dusty road rendered him nerveless, and he cried out shakingly, like a man in a nightmare. a voice commanded him to be silent, a hot breath beat against his cheek; but he could not restrain his hysteria, and one of his captors began to throttle him. he heard his name called and saw savigno's figure outlined briefly against the gray background, saw another figure blend with it, then heard martel's voice end in a rising cry which lived to haunt his memory. it rose in protest, in surprise, as if the count doubted even at the last that death could really claim him. then it broke in a thin, wavering shriek. blake may have fainted; at any rate, his body was beyond his control, and his next remembrance was of being half dragged, half thrust forward out into the lesser shadows. there was no longer any struggling, although men were speaking excitedly and he could hear them panting; some one was working the ejector of a rifle as if it had stuck. a tall man was wiping his hands upon some dried grass pluck'ed from the roadside, and he was cursing. "who is this?" he cried, thrusting his face into the american's and showing a brutal countenance bristly with a week's growth of beard. "the stranger," one of blake's captors answered, whereupon the tall man uttered a violent exclamation. "wait!" cried the other. "he is already dying. he cannot stand." some one else explained, "it is indeed the american, but he is wounded." "let me finish the work; he has seen too much," said the first speaker, roughly. "no, no! he is the american. do you not understand?" "remember the order, narcone," cautioned another. but narcone continued to curse as if mastered by the craving to kill, and if the others had not laid hands upon him he might have made good his intention. they argued with him, all at once, and in the midst of the confusion which ensued a new voice called from the darkness: "what have you there?" "the american! he cannot stand." a square figure came swiftly through the group, muttering angrily, and the others fell back to give him room, all but narcone, who repeated, doggedly: "let me finish the work if you fear to do so." his companions broke out at him again in a babble of argument, whereupon the new-comer shouted at them in a furious voice: "silenzio! who did this?" no one answered for a moment, but at length the brigand who held blake's hands pinioned at his back with a sash or scarf ventured to suggest: "i am not so sure he is injured. we pulled him down first; he may only be frightened." "there was to be no shooting," growled the leader of the band. "eh? but you saw for yourself. there was nothing else to do," said narcone. "that ricardo was an old wolf." the thick-set man, whom norvin took to be the infamous cardi himself, cried sharply: "come, come, signore, speak! are you hurt?" the prisoner shook his head mechanically, although he did not know whether he was injured or not. his denial seemed to satisfy the chief, who said with relief: "it is well. we did not wish to harm you. there would be consequences, you understand? and now a match, somebody." "it is not necessary," narcone assured him with a laugh. "of what use to learn a trade like mine if one cannot strike true? the knife went home, twice--once for us, once for poor galli, who was murdered. it was like killing sheep." picking up the wisp of grass which he had dropped, he began to dry his hands once more. a tiny flame flickered in the darkness. it was lowered until it shone upon the upturned face of ricardo ferara where he lay sprawled in the dust, his teeth showing beneath his gray mustache, then died away, and the black outlines of the bull-necked man leaped into relief again as he stooped to examine martel. not until that instant did the full, crushing horror of the affair come home to the american, for events had crowded one another so closely that his mind was confused; but when, in the halting yellow glare, he saw those two slack forms and the crooked, unnatural postures in which death had left them, his consciousness cleared and he strained at his bonds like a fear-maddened horse. his actual danger, however, was at an end. one of the band removed the rifle which still hung from his shoulders and which he had forgotten; another slipped the scarf from his wrists and directed him to go. he staggered away down the road along which he and martel and ricardo had come, walking like a sick man, for he was crippled with, fright. after a few steps he began to run, heavily, awkwardly at first, stumbling as if his joints were loose; but as his body awoke and the blood surged through him he went faster and faster until he was fleeing like a wild animal. and as he ran his terror grew. he fell many times, goblin shapes pursued him or leaped forth from the shadows, but he knew that no matter how fast he fled he could never escape the thing he had met back there in the night. it was not the grisly sight of his murdered friend nor the bared teeth of ricardo ferara grinning upward out of the road which filled him with the greatest horror; it was the knowledge of his own foul, sickening cowardice. he ran wildly as if to leave it behind, but it trod in his tracks and kept step with him. the pyrotechnics at terranova were nearly over and the grounds echoed to the applause of the delighted spectators. the donna teresa was leaning upon the arm of colonel neri and saying: "no one but that extravagant martel would have entertained these poor people so magnificently, but there is no reasoning with him when he has an idea." "it is the finest display since the fair at san felice two years ago," the colonel acknowledged. they had come out upon the open piazza which overlooked the lawn, and the other guests who had been present at the supper had followed suit and were gathered there to admire the spectacle. "the country people will never finish discussing it. why, it has been the greatest event this village ever witnessed. and margherita! have you ever seen her so beautiful?" the old lady spoke with pride, for she was very happy. "never!" colonel neri fondled his mustache tenderly. "she is ablaze with love. oh, that martel has broken all our hearts, lucky fellow! i could hate him if i did not like him so." "you men, without exception, pretend to adore her but it is flattery; you know that she loves it and that it pleases me. now martel--madonna mia! what is this?" she broke off sharply and pointed toward the main gateway to the grounds. by the light that gleamed from the trees on each side of the driveway men could be seen approaching at a run; others were hurrying toward them across the terrace, calling excitedly to one another. a woman screamed something unintelligible, but the tone of her voice brought a hush over the merrymakers. in the midst of the group coming up the road was one who labored heavily. he was bareheaded, gray with dust, and he staggered as if wounded. "some one has been hurt," exclaimed the colonel. "maledetto! there has been a fight." he dropped his companion's arm and hastened to the steps, then halfway down paused, staring. he whirled quickly and cried to the old lady: "wait! do not come." but madame fazello had seen the white face of the runner, and screamed: "mother of god! the american!" the other guests from the balcony pressed forward with alarmed inquiries. no one guessed as yet what had befallen, but the loud voices died away, a murmuring tide swept the merrymakers toward the castello. "what has happened, signore?" colonel neri was crying. "speak!" "the mafia!" blake gasped. "martel--is--" his knees sagged and he would have pitched forward had not the soldier supported him. "we met them--in the woods. cardi--" "cardi!" echoed the colonel in a harsh voice. "cardi!" came from a dozen frightened throats. the donna teresa uttered a second shrill cry, and then through the ranks of staring, chalk-faced peasants the countess came running swiftly. "cardi!" she cried. "what is this i hear?" "go away, signorina, i beseech you," exclaimed the colonel of carbineers. "something dreadful has occurred." but she disregarded him and faced norvin blake. he raised his dripping, dust-smeared face and nodded, whereat she closed her eyes an instant and swayed. but she made no outcry. "take her--away," he wheezed painfully. "god in heaven! don't you--understand?" even yet there was no coherent speech and the people merely stared at one another or inquired, dully: "what did he say? what is this about cardi?" "take her away," blake repeated. but the countess recovered herself and with a little gesture bade him go on. he told his story haltingly, clinging to the colonel to prevent himself from falling, his matted head rolling weakly from side to side. when he had finished a furious clamor broke forth from the men, the women, and the children. neri commanded them roughly to silence. "run to the village, some one, and give the alarm," he ordered in the voice of a sick man. "call sandro and his men and bid them bring extra horses." a half-dozen fleet-footed youths broke away and were off before he had finished speaking. then blake was helped into the hall of the castello, where the confusion was less. lucrezia ferara, who had been in the rear of the house and was among the last to hear the evil tidings, came running to him with colorless lips and eyes distended, crying: "the truth, signore, for the love of christ! they tell me he is murdered, but i know it is a lie." the notary's wife attempted to calm her, but the girl began to scream, flinging herself upon her knees at the feet of the american, begging him to tell her it was all a mistake. "my father would not die," she cried, loudly. "he was here but an hour ago and he kissed me." she would not be calmed and became so violent that it required force to remove her. as soon as she was out of the way, colonel neri began questioning norvin rapidly, at the same time striving by his own example to steady the young man, who was in a terrible condition of collapse. bit by bit, the soldier learned all there was to learn of the shocking story, and through it all the countess margherita stood at his elbow, never speaking. her eyes were glazed with horror, her lips were whispering something over and over, but when her cousin appealed to her to leave the scene she seemed not to hear him. she only stood and stared at the exhausted man until he could bear it no longer and, hiding his face in his hands, he began to shiver and cringe and sob. it seemed to him that she must know; that all these people must know the truth, and see his shame as if it were blazoned in fire. their horror was for him; their looks were changing even now to contempt and hatred. why did they not accuse him openly instead of staring with wide, shocked eyes? realization had come to him long before he had reached terranova, and he was sick with loathing for himself. now, therefore, in every blanched cheek, in every parted lip, he felt an accusation. he supposed all the world would have to know it, and it was a thing he could never live down. he wished he might have died as martel had died, might die even now, and escape this torture; but with every breath life flowed back into him, his heart was no longer bursting, his lungs were no longer splitting. "why do you wait?" he queried at length, thinking of martel out there on the lonely mountainside. "why don't you go fetch him?" neri said, soothingly: "help will be here in a few moments, signore. you could not sit a horse yet a while." "i?" blake asked blankly, and shuddered. so they expected him to return through that darkness--to guide them to the horror from which he had just fled! he would not go! his mind recoiled at the thought and terror came upon him afresh. nevertheless, he made an effort at self-control, lurched to his feet, and chattered through clicking teeth: "come on! i'm ready." "presently! presently! there will be men and horses here in a moment." in a lower tone the colonel urged: "for the love of our saviour, can you not send the contessa away? i am afraid she is dying." blake went to the girl and laid a shaking hand upon her arm, stammering, wretchedly: "contessa, you--you--" he could not go on and turned appealingly to the others. "you say he is dead?" she inquired dully. "how can that be when you told me there was no danger?" "i did not know. oh--" he lowered his working features. "if it had only been i, instead!" she nodded. "that would have been better." from somewhere to the rear of the house came the shrill screams of lucrezia, and the countess cried: "poor child! they did not even spare ricardo, but--after all, he was only a father." neri said, gently: "let me help you, signorina. the doctor is with your aunt, but i will call him." "he cannot give me back martel," she answered in the same dull, lifeless tone. voices, footsteps, sounded outside and a man in the cocked hat and uniform of a lieutenant of carbineers came briskly into the hall and saluted his superior. "we are ready, sir." the countess roused herself, saying: "then come! i too am ready." "heaven above us!" neri faltered. "you are not going." he took her by the hand and led her away from the door. "no, my child, we will go alone. you must wait." his face was twitching, and the sweat dripped from his square jaw as he nodded to blake. they went out into the mocking glare of the garden lights, leaving her standing in the great hall like a statue of ivory, her lips dumbly framing the name of her lover. vi a new resolve all sicily blazed with the account of the assassination of the count of martinello and his overseer. all italy took it up and called for vengeance. there went forth to the world by wire, by post, and through the public press a many-voiced and authoritative promise that the brigandage which had cursed the island for so many generations should be extirpated. the outrage was the one topic of conversation from trapani to genoa, from brindisi to venice, in clubs, in homes, upon the streets. carbineers and soldiers came pouring into terranova and san sebastiano. they scoured the mountains and patrolled the roads; they searched the houses and farms, the valleys and thickets, and as the days dragged on, proving the futility of their efforts, still more carbineers arrived. but no trace of cardi, of narcone, or of the other outlaws was discovered. rewards were offered, doubled, trebled; the north coast seethed with excitement. the rank of the young count and his fiancee enlisted the interest of the nobility, the lively-minded middle classes were romantically stirred by the picture of the lonely girl stricken on the eve of her wedding, and yet notwithstanding the fact that towns were searched, forests dragged as with a net, no quarry came to bay. colonel neri explained it to norvin, as he rode in to san sebastiano after thirty-six hours in the saddle. "it is this accursed sicilian mafia," he growled. "the common people are shocked, horrified, sympathetic, and yet they fear to show their true feelings. they dare not tell what they know. mark you, those men are not hiding in the forests, they are here in san sebastiano or the other villages under our very noses; perhaps they are strutting the streets of palermo or bagheria or messina marked by a hundred eyes, discussed by a hundred tongues, and yet we cannot surprise a look or win the slightest hint. fifty arrests have been made, but there will be fifty alibis proven. it is maddening, it is damnable, it is--sicily!" he swore wearily beneath his breath, and twirled his mustache with listless fingers. "then you are losing hope?" "no. i had none to begin with, for i know these people. but we are doing everything possible. god in heaven! the country is wild. from rome has come the order, definite, explicit, to stamp out the banditti, if it requires an army; enough soldiers are coming to defeat the germans. but the more we have the less we shall accomplish. 'sweep sicily!' 'stamp out the mafia!' what does rome know about the mafia? signore, did we arrest one half of those whom we know to be mafiosi, rome would need to send us, not an army of soldiers, but regiments of stone masons to enlarge our prisons. no! send back the armed men, give me ten thousand of your american dollars, and ten of my carbineers, and i will catch cardi, though it would require the cunning of the devil. however, we may find something; who can tell? at any rate we will try." "can't you work secretly?" "it is being done, but we are too many. we make too much noise. the sicilian distrusts the law and above all he distrusts his neighbor. he will perjure himself to acquit a mafioso rather than betray him and become a victim of his vengeance. he who talks little is wise. of that which does not concern him he says neither good nor evil; that is a part of the sicilians' training. but--miracles have happened, and god may intervene for that saintly girl at terranova. and now tell me, how is the poor child bearing up?" "i haven't seen her since we brought in martel's body. i couldn't, in fact, although i have sent word for her to call me when she is ready. it seems a long time since--since--" neri shook his head in sorrowful agreement. "i have never seen such grief. my heart bleeds. she was so still! not a tear! not an outcry! it was terrible! weak women do not act in that manner. but you have suffered also, and i judge you have rested no more than i." "i can't rest," blake said, dully. "i can do nothing but think." he did not reveal the nature of the thoughts which in the short space of thirty-six hours had put lines into his face. instead, he scanned the officer's countenance with fearful eyes to see if by any chance he had guessed the truth. blake had found himself looking thus at every one since the tragedy, and it was a source of constant wonder to him that his secret had remained his own. it seemed that they must know and loathe him as he loathed himself. but on the contrary he was treated with sympathy on all sides, and it was taken merely as an example of the outlaws' cunning that they had refrained from injuring a foreigner. to illustrate how curiously the sicilian mind works on these subjects, there were some who even spoke of it as demonstrating the fairness of the bandits, thus to exclude savigno's friend from any connection with their quarrel. during the long hours since the night of his friend's death blake had looked at himself in all his nakedness of soul, and the sight was not pleasant. he could never escape the thought that if he had acted the part of a man, if he had resisted with the promptness and vigor of his companions, the result might have been different and martel might at this moment be on his way to rome with his bride, alive and well. on such occasions he felt like a murderer. but his mind was not always undivided in this self-condemnation; there were times when with some show of justice he told himself that the result would have been the same or even worse if he had fought; and he tried to ease his conscience by dwelling on the possibility that under other circumstances he might not have proved a coward. he had been physically tired, worn out; his nervous force had been spent. at the moment of ambush his mind had been far away and he had had no time in which to gather his wits. moral courage, he knew, is quite different from physical courage, which may depend upon one's digestion, one's state of mind, or the amount of sleep one has had. it is sometimes present in physical weaklings, and men of great daring may entirely lack it. a man's behavior when suddenly attacked and overpowered is a test of his nerve rather than his true nature. still, at the last, he was always faced by the stark, ugly fact that he had been tried and found wanting. conversation with neri he found rather a relief. "i wonder what the countess will do?" he said. "what would any one do? she will grieve for a long while, but time will gradually rob her of her sorrow. she will remember martel as a saint and marry some sinner like you or me." "marry? never!" "never?" the colonel raised his brows. "she is young, she is human, she is full of fire. it would be a great pity if she did not allow herself to love--a great pity indeed." "i'm afraid she's thinking more of vengeance than of love." "perhaps, but hatred is short-lived, while love grows younger all the time. the world is full of great loves, but great hates usually consume themselves quickly. i hope she will leave all thoughts of such things to us who make a business of them." "if you fail, as you fear, she might feel bound to take up the task where you leave it." "and she might succeed. but--" "but what?" "revenge is a cold bedfellow, and women are designed to cherish finer sentiments. as for lucrezia, she will doubtless swear a vendetta, like those sardinians." "she has." "indeed! well, she is the kind to nourish hatred, for she is like her father, silent, somber, unforgiving, whereas the contessa is all sunshine. but hear me talk! i am dying of fatigue. the funeral is at twelve? it will be very sad and the poor girl will be under the greatest strain then, so we must be with her, you and i. and then i must be off again upon the trail of this infamous cardi, who is, and who is not. ah, well!" he yawned widely. "we may accomplish the impossible, or if not we may press him so closely that he will sail for your america, which would not be so bad, after all." of course the country people turned out for the funeral, but for the most part they came from curiosity. to norvin the presence of such spectators at the last sacred rites for the dead seemed sacrilegious, indecent, and he knew that it must add to margherita's pain. it was an endless, heart-rending ordeal, a great somber, impressive pageant, of which he remembered little save a tall, tawny girl crushed beneath a grief so great that his own seemed trivial in comparison. she was in such a state of physical collapse after the service that she did not send for him until the second day following. he came timidly even then, for he was at a loss how to comfort her, vividly conscious as he was of his own guilt and shame. he found her crouched upon one of the old stone benches in the garden in the full hot glare of the sun. it relieved him to find that she had lost her unnatural self-control, having fallen, it seemed, into much the same mood he would have expected in any woman. it had been so hard to find what to say heretofore--for she was braver than those about her and her grief was so deep as to render words of comfort futile. her eyes now were heavy and full of haunting shadows, her ivory cheeks were pale, her lips tremulous, and she seemed at last to crave sympathy. "i do not know why i have summoned you," she said, leaving her hand in his, "unless it is because my loneliness has begun and i lack the courage to face it." "i have been waiting. it will always be so, contessa. i shall come from across the world whenever you need me." she smiled listlessly. "you are very good. i knew you were waiting. it seems so strange to know that he is gone"--her voice caught, her eyes filled, then cleared without overflowing--"and that the world is moving on again in the same way and only i am left standing by the wayside. you cannot wait with me; you must move on with the rest of the world. you had planned to go home, and you must, for you have your work and it calls you." "please don't think of it. i sha'n't leave you for a long time. i promised martel--" "you promised? then he had reason to suspect?" "he would not acknowledge the possibility, and yet he must have had a premonition." "oh, why will men trust themselves when women know! if he had told me, if he had confided his fears to me, i could have told him what to do." "i couldn't leave now, even if i wished, for i might be needed by the--the law. you understand? it isn't finished with me yet." "the law will not need you," she told him bitterly. "the law will do nothing. the task is for other hands." after a pause he said, "i had news from home to-day,--rather bad news." then at her quick look of inquiry he went on: "nothing serious, i hope, nothing to take me away. my mother is ill and has cabled me to come." "then you will go at once, of course?" "no. i've tried to explain to her the situation here, and the necessity of my remaining for a time at least. unless she grows worse i shall stay and try to help neri in his search." "it is a great comfort to have you near, for in you i see a part of--martel. you were his other half. but there are other aching hearts, it seems. that mother calls to you, and you ought to go. besides, i must begin my work." "what work?" she met his eyes squarely. "you know without asking. neri will fail; no italian could succeed; no one could succeed except a sicilian. i am one." "you mean to bring those men to justice?" she nodded. "certainly! who else can do it?" "but, my dear signorina, think what that means. they are of a class with which you can have no contact. they are the dregs; there is the mafia to reckon with. how will you go about it?" "i will become one of them, if necessary." he answered her in a shocked voice. "no, no! you are mad to think of it. if you were a man you might have some chance for success, but you--a girl, a gentlewoman!" "i am a sicilian. i am rich, too. i have resources." she took him by the arm as she had done that first time when the thought of martel's danger had roused her. "i told you no power could save them; no hiding-place could be so secret, no lies so cunning that i would not know. well! those soldiers have failed and will continue to fail. but you see they did not love martel. i shall live for this thing." "i won't allow you to dwell on the subject; it isn't natural, and it isn't good for you. the desire to see justice done is commendable and proper, but the desire for revenge isn't. you must not sacrifice your life to it. there is a law of compensation; those men will be apprehended." "where is my compensation? what had martel done to warrant this?" he fell silent, and she shook her head as if to indicate the hopelessness of answering her. after a moment of meditation he began again, gravely: "if you feel that way, i shall make you an offer. give up your idea of taking an active personal part in this quest, and i will assume your place. we will work together, but you will direct while i face the risks." "you are a stranger. we would be sure to fail. i thank you, but my mind is made up." "if it becomes known, you will be in great danger. think! life is before you, and all its possibilities. please let other hands do this." "it is useless to argue," she said, firmly. "i am like rock. i have begun already and i have accomplished more than colonel neri and his carbineers. i see aliandro coming now, and i think he has news. he knows many things of which the soldiers do not dream, for he is one of the people. you will excuse me?" "of course, but--i can't let you undertake so dangerous a task without a protest. i shall come back, if i may." he rose as the old man shuffled down the path, and went in search of the donna teresa, for he was determined to offer every discouragement in his power to what struck him as an extremely rash and perilous course. men like belisario cardi, or narcone the butcher, would hesitate no more in attacking a woman than a man. he knew the whole sicilian country to be a web of intrigue and secret understandings, sensitive to the slightest touch and possessed of many means of communication. it was a great ear which heard the slightest stir, and its unfailing efficiency was shown by the ease with which the bandits had forestalled every effort of the authorities. in the hall of the manor house he encountered lucrezia and stopped to speak to her. "you would do a great deal to protect the countess, would you not?" he asked. "yes, signore. she has been both a sister and a mother to me. but what do you mean?" ferara's daughter was a robust girl of considerable physical charm, but although her training at terranova had done much for her, it was still evident that she was a country woman. she had nursed her grief with all the sullen fierceness of a peasant, and even now her face and eyes were swollen from weeping. blake explained briefly his concern, but when he had finished, the girl surprised him by breaking forth into a furious denunciation of the assassins. she surrendered to her passion with complete abandon, and began to curse the names of cardi and gian narcone horribly. "we demand blood to wash our blood," she cried. "i curse them and their souls, living and dead, in the name of god who made my father, in the name of christ who died for him, in the name of the holy saints who could not save him. in the name of the whole world i curse them. may they pray and not be heard. may they repent unforgiven and lie unburied. may every living thing that bears their names die in agony before their eyes. may their women and unborn children be afflicted with every unclean thing until they pray for death at my hands--" "lucrezia!" he seized her roughly and clapped his hand over her mouth, for her voice was rising steadily and threatened to rouse the whole household. her cheeks were white, she was shaking with long, tearless sobs. she would have broken out again when he released her had he not commanded her to be silent. he tried to explain that this work of vengeance was not for her or for the countess, and to point out the ruin that was sure to follow any attempt on their part to take up the work of the carabinieri, but she shook her head, declaring stubbornly: "we have sworn it." the more he argued the more obstinate she became, until, seeing the ineffectiveness of his pleas, he gave up any further effort to move her, sorry that he had raised such a storm. he went on in search of madam fazello, with lucrezia's parting words ringing ominously in his ears: "if we die, we shall be buried; if we live, we shall give them to the hangman." from margherita's aunt he got but little comfort or hope of assistance. "oh, my dear boy, i agree with your every word," the old lady said. "but what can i do? i know better than you what it will lead to, but margherita is like iron--there is no reasoning with her. she would sacrifice herself, lucrezia, even me, to see martel avenged, and if she does not have her way she will burn herself to ashes. as for lucrezia, she is demented, and they do nothing all day but scheme and plan with aliandro, who is himself as bad as any bandit. i have no voice with them; they do with me as they will." she hid her face in her trembling fingers and wept softly. "and to think--we were all so happy with martel!" "nevertheless, somebody must dissuade them from this enterprise. it is no matter for two girls and an old man to undertake." "i pray hourly for guidance, but i am frightened, so frightened! when margherita talks to me, when i see her high resolve, i am ready to follow; then when i am alone i become like water again." "what are her plans?" "i do not know. i have begged her to take her sorrow to god. the bishop who came from messina to marry martel and remained to bury him has joined me. there is a convent at palermo--" "no, no!" blake cried, vehemently. "not that! that life is not for her. she must do nothing at all until her grief has had time to moderate." "it will never be less. you do not know her. but you are the one to reason with her." realizing that the old lady was powerless, he returned to the garden and tried once more to weaken the girl's resolution, but without success. it was with a very troubled mind that he took the train back to san sebastiano that afternoon. the more he thought it over, the more certain he became that it was his duty to remain in sicily until margherita had reached her right senses. martel had put a trust in him, and what could be more important than to prevent her from carrying out this fantastic enterprise? he would take up the search for the assassins in her place, allowing her to work through him and in that way satisfying her determination. what she needed above all things was distraction, occupation. if she remained persistent they would work side by side until justice had been done, and meanwhile he would become a part of her life. he might make himself necessary to her. at least he would prevent her from doing anything rash and perhaps fatal. in time he would prevail upon her to travel, to seek recreation, and then her youth would be bound to tell. that would be the work of a friend indeed, that would remove at least a part of the obligation which rested upon him. some day, he reasoned, the countess might even marry and be happy in spite of what had occurred. as he contemplated the idea, it began to seem less improbable. what if she should come to care for him? he would still be true to martel, for how could he protect her better than by making her his wife? his heart leaped at the thought, but then his old self-disgust returned, reminding him that he had yet to prove himself a man. as he stepped down from the train at san sebastiano the station master met him with a telegram. even before he opened it he guessed its contents, and his spirits sank. was he never to escape these maddening questions of duty--never to be free to pursue his heart's desire? it was a cablegram, and read: "come quickly. "kenear." he regarded it gravely for a moment, striving to balance his duty to martel and the girl against his duty to his mother, but his hesitation was brief. he stepped into the little telegraph office with the mandarin-tree peering in at the open window and wrote his answer. he did not try to deceive himself; the mere fact that dr. kenear had been summoned from new orleans showed as plainly as the message itself that his mother's condition was more serious than he had supposed. she was alone with many responsibilities upon her frail shoulders, and she was calling for her son. there was but one thing to do. he stopped at the barracks to explain the necessity for his immediate departure to colonel neri, who was most sympathetic. "you are not needed here," the soldier assured him, "and you would have to go, even though you were. you made your statement at the inquest; there is nothing further for you to do until we accomplish the capture of somebody. even then i doubt if you could identify any one of those bandits." "i think i should know narcone anywhere." the colonel shrugged. "narcone has been swallowed by the earth. as for cardi and the rest, they have become thin smoke and the wind has carried them away. we are precisely where we were at the start. perhaps it is fortunate for you that you have not been called upon to testify against any of the band, for even the fact that you are a foreigner might not save you from--unpleasant results." norvin reasoned silently that if this were indeed true it more than confirmed his fears for the countess, and after a brief hesitation he told the soldier what he had learned at his visit to terranova. neri rose and paced the room in agitation. "oh! she is mad indeed!" he exclaimed. "what can she do that we have not already done? aliandro? bah! he is a doddering old reprobate who will spread news instead of gather it. he has a bad record, and although he loved martel and doubtless loves margherita, i have no confidence in him whatever. she will accomplish nothing but her own undoing." "i am afraid so, too. that is why i shall return to sicily as soon as possible." "indeed? then you plan to come back? martel was fortunate to have so good a friend as you, signore. we must both do all we can to prevent this folly on the part of his sweetheart. you may rest assured that i shall make every effort in your absence." the colonel extended his hand, and norvin took it, feeling some relief in the knowledge that there was at least one man close to the girl upon whose caution he could rely and upon whose good offices he could count. he had grown to like the soldier during their brief acquaintance, and the fact that neri knew and appreciated the situation helped to reconcile him to the thought of going away. he was not ready to leave sicily, however, without one final appeal, and accordingly he stopped at terranova on the following morning on his way to messina, where a boat was sailing for naples that night. but he found no change in the countess; on the contrary, she told him gently but firmly that she had made up her mind once for all and that she would resent any further efforts at dissuasion. "won't you even wait until i return?" he inquired. she shook her head and smiled sadly. "do not let us deceive ourselves, amico mio; you will not return." "on the contrary, i shall. you make it necessary for me to return whether i wish to or not." "the ocean is wide, the world moves. you are a foreigner and you will forget. it is only in sicily that people remember." "will you give me time to prove you wrong?" "i could not allow it. you have your own life to live; you have a multitude of duties. martel, you see, was only your friend. but with me it is different. he was my lover; my life was a part of his and my duty will not let me sleep." "you have no reason to say i will forget." "it is the way of the world. then, too, there is the other woman. you will see her. you will find a way, perhaps." but he replied, doggedly, "i shall return to sicily." "when?" "i can't tell. a month from now--two months at the longest." "it would be very sweet to have you near," she said musingly, "for i am lonely, very lonely, and with you i feel at rest, at peace in a way. but something drives me, signore, and i cannot promise. if you should not forget, if you should wish to join hands with me, then i should thank god and be very glad. but i sha'n't wish for it; that would be unfair." his voice shook as he said, "i am going to prove to you that your life is not hopelessly wrecked, and to show you that there is something worth living for." she laid her two cool hands in his and looked deeply into his eyes, but if she saw what lay in them she showed no altered feeling in her words or tone. "martel would be glad to have you near me, i am sure," she said, "but i shall only pray for your safety and your happiness in that far-off america. good-by." he kissed her fingers, vowing silently to devote his whole life to her, and finding it very hard to leave. vii the search begins it was ten months later when norvin blake landed at messina and took the morning train westward to terranova. as he disposed his travelling-bags in a corner of the compartment, and settled himself for the short journey, he felt a kind of irrational surprise at the fact that there had been no changes during his absence. the city was just as dirty and uninteresting as when he had left, the beggars were just as ragged and importunate, the street coaches were just as rickety. it required an effort to realize that ten months is, after all, a very short time, for it seemed ten years since he had sailed away. it had been a difficult period for him, one crowded with many changes, readjustments, and responsibilities. he had gone far, he had done much, he had been pressed by cares and anxieties on every side, and even at the last he had willfully abandoned urgent duties, to his own great loss and to the intense disgust of his friends, in order to come back according to his promise. his return had been delayed from week to week, from month to month, in spite of all he could do, and meanwhile his thoughts had not been in america at all, but in sicily, causing him to fret and chafe at the necessities which bound him to his post. now, however, the day upon which he had counted had arrived; he had taken his liberty regardless of consequences, and no dusty pilgrim ever longed more fiercely for a journey's end. he was glad of the impression of sameness he had received, for it made him feel that there would be no great changes in terranova. he had learned little from the countess during the interim, for she had been slow in answering his frequent letters, while her own had been brief and non-commital. they contained hardly a suggestion of that warmth and intimacy which he had known in her presence. her last letter, now quite old, had added to this impression of aloofness and rendered him somewhat timid as the time for meeting her approached. he re-read it for the hundredth time as the train crawled out of the city-- "my dear friend,--your good letter was very welcome indeed, and i thank you for your sympathetic interest in our affairs at terranova, but since fate has shown in so many ways that your life lies in louisiana, and not in sicily, i beg of you to let things take their course and give up any idea of returning here. there is nothing that you can do, particularly since time has proved your fears for our safety to be groundless. it is kind and chivalrous of you to persist in offering to take that long journey from america, but nothing would be gained by it, absolutely nothing, i assure you, and it would entail a sacrifice on your part which i cannot permit. "very little of interest or of encouragement had occurred here, but i am working. i shall always work. some day i shall succeed. meanwhile we talk of you and are heartened by your friendship, which seems very close and real, despite the miles that separate us. we shall cherish it and the memory of your loyalty to martel. meanwhile, you must not feel bound by your promise to come back, which was not a promise, after all, but merely an unselfish offer. once again i repeat, it would do no good, and might only disappoint you. besides, i am hoping that you have seen the woman of whom you told me and that she will need you. "we are all well. we have made no plans. "yours gratefully, margherita ginini" it was certainly unsatisfying, but her letters had all been of this somewhat formal nature. she persisted, too, in referring to that imaginary woman, and blake regretted ever having mentioned her. if margherita suspected the truth, she could not help feeling his lack of delicacy, his disloyalty to martel, in confessing his love while the count was still alive; if she really believed him to be in love with some other woman, it would necessitate sooner or later an explanation which he dreaded. at all events, he hoped that the surprise of seeing him unexpectedly, the knowledge that he had really crossed the world to help her, would tend to dissipate her melancholy and restore her old responsiveness. during the months of his absence the girl had never been out of his mind, and he had striven hard to reconcile his unconquerable love for her with the sense of his own unworthiness. his unforgivable cowardice was a haunting shame, and the more he dwelt upon it the more unspeakably vile he appeared in his own sight; for the blakes were honorable people. the family was old and cherished traditions common to fine southern houses; the men of his name prided themselves upon an especially nice sense of honor, which had been conspicuous even in a country where bravery and chivalrous regard for women are basic ideals. having been reared in such an atmosphere, the young man looked upon his own behavior with almost as much surprise as chagrin. he had always taken it for granted that if he should be confronted with peril he would behave himself like a man. it was inexplicable that he had failed so miserably, for he had no reason to suspect a heritage of cowardice, and he was sound in mind and body. he loved margherita ginini with all his heart and his resolution to win her was stronger than ever, but he felt that sooner or later he would have to prove himself as manly as martel had been, and, having lost faith in himself, the prospect frightened him. if she ever discovered the truth--and such things are very hard to conceal--she would spurn him: any self-respecting woman would do the same. he had forced himself to an unflinching analysis of his case, with the result that a fresh determination came to him. he resolved to reconstruct his whole being. if he were indeed a physical coward he would deliberately uproot the weakness and make himself into a man. others had accomplished more difficult tasks, he reasoned; thieves had made themselves into honest men, criminals had become decent. why, then, could not a coward school himself to become brave? it was merely a question of will power, not so hard, perhaps, as the cure of some drug habit. he made up his mind to attack the problem coldly, systematically, and he swore solemnly by all his love for margherita that he would make himself over into a person who could not only win but hold her. as yet there had been no opportunity of putting the plan into operation, but he had mapped out a course. terranova drowsed among the hills just as he had left it, and high up to the right, among the trees, he saw the white walls of the castello. as he mounted the road briskly a goat-herd, flat upon his back in the sun, was piping some haunting air; a tinkle of bells came from the hillside, the vines were purple with fruit. women were busy in the vineyards gathering their burdens and bearing them to the tubs for the white feet of the girls who trod the vintage. nearing his goal, he saw that the house had an unoccupied air, and he found the big gates closed. since no one appeared in answer to his summons, he made his way around to the rear, where he discovered aliandro sunning himself. "well, aliandro!" he cried. "this is good weather for rheumatism." the old man peered up at him uncertainly, muttering: "the saints in heaven are smiling to-day." "where are the contessa margherita and her aunt?" "they are where their business takes them, i dare say. ma che?" "gone to messina, perhaps?" "perhaps." "visiting friends?" "exactly." aliandro nodded. "they are visiting friends in messina." "i wish i had known; i just came from there. will they return soon?" blake's hopes had been so high, his disappointment was so keen, that he failed to notice the old man's lack of greeting and his crafty leer as he answered: "si, veramente! soon, very soon. within a year--five years, at the outside." "what?" "oh, they will return so soon as it pleases them." he chuckled as if delighted at his own secrecy. norvin said sharply: "come, come! don't jest with me. i have traveled a long way to see them. i wish to know their whereabouts." "then ask some one who knows. if ever i was told, i have forgotten, si'or. my memory goes jumping about like a kid. it is the rheumatism." after an instant more, he queried, "you are perhaps a friend of that thrice-blessed angel, my padrona?" with an exclamation of relief norvin laid a hand upon the old fellow's shoulder and shook him gently. "have your eyes failed you, my good aliandro?" he cried. "don't you recognize the american?--the signore blake, who came here with the count of martinello? look at me and tell me where your mistress has gone." aliandro arose and peered into his visitor's face, wagging his loose jaws excitedly. "as god is my judge," he declared, finally, "i believe it is, che dio! who would have expected to see you? yes, yes! i remember as if it were yesterday when you came riding up with that most illustrious gentleman who now sits in paradise. it is a miracle that you have crossed the seas so many times in safety." "so! now tell me what i want to know." "they have gone." "where?" "how do i know? find belisario cardi--may he live a million years in hell! find him, and you will find them also." "you mean--" "find belisario cardi, that most infamous of assassins. my padrona has set out to say good morning to him. he may even now be on his way to purgatory." blake stared at the speaker, for he could not credit the words. once more he asked: "but where? where?" "where, indeed? if i had known in time where this cardi lived i would have knocked at his door some evening with the hilt of a knife. but he was never twice in the same place. he has the ears of a fox. so long as the soldiers went tramping back and forth he laughed. then he must have heard something--perhaps it was aliandro whetting his blade--at any rate he was gone in an hour, in a moment, in a second. now i know nothing more." "she took the donna teresa with her?" "yes, squealing like a cat. she is too old to be of use, but the contessa could not leave her behind, i suppose." norvin felt some relief at this intelligence, reflecting that margherita would hardly draw her aunt into an enterprise which promised to be dangerous. as he considered the matter further he began to doubt the truth of aliandro's story, for the old fellow seemed half daft. perhaps the countess and her aunt were merely traveling and aliandro had construed their trip into a journey of vengeance. he had doubtless spent all his time meditating upon the murder of his friend and benefactor, and that was a subject which might easily unbalance a stronger mind. ten months had worked a change in blake's viewpoint. when he left sicily the idea of a girl's devoting her life to the pursuit of her lover's assassins had seemed to him extravagant, yet not wholly unnatural. now it struck him as beyond belief that margherita should really do this. aliandro was continuing: "it is work for young hands, excellency. old people grow weary and forget, especially women. now that lucrezia, she is a fine child; she can hate like the devil himself and she is as silent as a mafioso. it was two months ago that they went away, and that angel of gold, that sweetest of ladies whom the saints are quarreling over, she left me sufficient money for the balance of my days. but i will tell you something, excellency--a scandal to make your blood boil. she left that money with the notary. and now, what do you think? he gives me scarcely enough for tobacco! once a week, sometimes oftener, i go down to the village and whine like a beggar for what is mine. a fine man to trust, eh? may he lie unburied! sometimes i think i shall have to kill him, he is so hard-hearted, but--i cannot see well enough. if you should find him kicking in the road, however, you will know that he brought it upon himself. you are shocked? no wonder. he is a greater scoundrel than that judas. perhaps you--you are a great friend of the family--perhaps you might force the wolf to disgorge. eh? what do you say? a word would do it. you will save his life in all probability." "very well, i'll speak to him, and meanwhile here is something to please you." norvin handed the old ruffian a gold coin, greatly to his delight. "they have been gone two months and you have had no word?" "not a whisper. once a week the notary comes up from the village to see that all is well with the house. many people have asked me the same questions you asked. some of them know me, and i know some who think i do not. they would like to trick me into betraying the whereabouts of the contessa, but i lie like a lawyer and tell them first one thing, then another. body of christ! i am no fool." when norvin had put himself in possession of all that aliandro knew he retraced his steps to the village, where the notary confirmed practically all the old man had said, but declared positively that the countess and her admirable aunt were traveling for pleasure. "what else would take them abroad?" he inquired. "nothing! i have the honor to look after the castello during their absence and the rents from the land are placed in the bank at messina." "when do you expect them to return?" "privately, signore, i do not expect them to return at all. that shocking tragedy preyed upon the poor child's mind until she could no longer endure terranova. she is highly sensitive, you know; everything spoke of martel savigno. what more natural than for her to wish never to see it again? she consulted me once regarding a sale of all the lands, and only last week some men came with a letter from the bank at messina. they were englishmen, i believe, or perhaps germans--i can never tell the difference, if indeed there is any. i showed them through the house. it would be a great loss to the village, however, yes, and to the whole countryside, if they purchased terranova, for the countess was like a ray of sunshine, like an angel's smile. and so generous!" "tell me--cardi was never found?" the notary shrugged his shoulders. "as for me, i have never believed there was such a person. gian narcone, yes. we all knew him, but he has not been heard from since that terrible night which we both remember. now this cardi, well, he is imaginary. if he were flesh and blood the carabinieri would certainly have caught him--there were enough of them. per baccho! you never saw the like of it. they were thicker than flies." "and yet they didn't catch narcone, and he's real enough." "true," acknowledged the notary, thoughtfully. "i never thought of it in that light. perhaps there is such a person, after all. but why has no one ever seen him?" "where is colonel neri?" "he is stationed at messina. perhaps he could tell you more than i." dismayed, yet not entirely discouraged, by what he had learned, blake caught the first train back to messina and that evening found him at neri's rooms. the colonel was delighted to see him, but could tell him little more than aliandro or the notary. "do you really believe the countess left sicily to travel?" blake asked him. "to you i will confess that i do not. we know better than that, you and i. she was working constantly from the time you left for america until her own departure, but i never knew what she discovered. that she learned more than we did i am certain, and it is my opinion that she found the trail of cardi." "then you're not like the others. you still believe there is such a person?" "whether he calls himself cardi or something else makes no difference; there has been an intelligence of a high order at work among the mafiosi and the banditti of this neighborhood for many years. we learned things after you left; we were many times upon the verge of important discoveries; but invariably we were thwarted at the last moment by that sicilian trait of secrecy and by some very potent terror. we tried our best to get to the bottom of this fear i mention, but we could not. it was more than the customary distrust and dislike of the law; it was a lively personal dread of some man or body of men, the fact that we have been working nearly a year now without result would indicate that the person at the head of the organization is no common fellow. no one dares betray him, even at the price of a fortune. i believe him to be some man of affairs, some well-fed and respected merchant, or banker, perhaps, the knowledge of whose identity would cause a commotion such as etna causes when she turns over in her sleep." "that was ricardo's belief, you remember." "yes. i have many reasons for thinking he was right, but i have no proof. cardi may still be in sicily, although i doubt it. gian narcone has fled; that much i know." "indeed?" "yes! the pursuit became hot; we did not rest! i do not see, even yet, how we failed to capture him. we apprehended a number whom we know were in the band, although we have no evidence connecting them with that particular outrage. i think we will convict them for something or other, however; at any rate, we have broken up this gang, even though we have lost the two men we most desired. narcone went to naples. he may be there now, he may be in any part of italy, or he may even be in your own america, for all i know. and this mysterious cardi is probably with him. it is my hope that we have frightened them off the island for all time." "and sent them to my country! thanks! we're having trouble enough with our own italians, as it is." "you at least have more room than we. but now, before we go further, you must tell me about yourself, about your mother--" norvin shook his head gravely. "i arrived in time to see her, to be with her at the last, that is all." "i am indeed full of sympathy," said neri. "it is no wonder you could not return to sicily as soon as you had planned." "everything conspired to hold me back. there were many things that needed attention, for her affairs had become badly mixed and required a strong hand to straighten them out. yet all the time i knew i was needed here; i knew the countess was in want of some one to lean upon. i came at the first opportunity, but--it seems i am too late. i am afraid, neri--afraid for her. god knows what she may do." "god knows!" agreed the soldier. "i pleaded with her; i tried to argue." "but surely she can't absolutely disappear in this fashion. she will have to make herself known sooner or later." "i'm not so certain. her affairs are in good shape and terranova is for sale." "doesn't the bank know her whereabouts?" "if so, she has instructed them to conceal it." "nevertheless i shall go there in the morning and also to her cousins. will you help me?" "of course!" neri regarded the young man curiously for an instant, then said, "you will pardon this question, i hope, but since she has taken such pains to conceal herself, do you think it wise to--to--" "to force myself upon her? i don't know whether it is wise or foolish; all i know is that i must find her. i must!" blake met the older man's eyes and his own were filled with a great trouble. "you told me once that revenge and hatred are bad companions for a woman and that it would be a great pity if margherita ginini did not allow herself to love and be loved. i think you were right. i'm afraid to let her follow this quest of hers; it may lead her into something--very bad, for she has unlimited capabilities for good or evil. i had hoped to--to show her that god had willed her to be happy. you see, neri, i loved her even when martel was alive." the colonel nodded. "i guessed as much. all men love her, and there lies her danger. i love her, also, signore. i have always loved her, even though i am old enough to be her father, and i would give my life to see her--well, to see her your wife. you understand me? i would help you find her if i could, but i am a soldier. i am chained to my post. i am poor." "jove! you're mighty decent," said the american with an odd breathlessness. "but do you think she could ever forget martel?" "she is not yet twenty." "do you think there is any possibility of my winning her? i thought so once, but lately i have been terribly doubtful." "i should say it will depend largely upon your finding her. we are not the only good men who will love her. they sailed from here to naples on the trail of narcone; that much i believe is reasonably certain. i will give you a letter to the police there, and they will help you. it is possible that we excite ourselves unduly; perhaps you will have no difficulty whatever in locating her, but in the mean time we will do well to talk with her relatives and with the officials of the bank. i look for little help from those quarters, however." colonel neri's misgivings were well founded, as the following day proved. at the bank nothing definite was known as to the whereabouts of the countess. she had left instructions for the rents to be collected until terranova was sold and then for all moneys to be held until she advised further. her cousins were under the impression that she had taken her aunt to northern italy for a change of climate and believed that she could be found in the mountains somewhere. blake was not long in discovering that while the relations between the two branches of the family were maintained with an outward show of cordiality they were really not of the closest. neri told him, as a matter of fact, that margherita had always considered these people covetous and untrustworthy. having exhausted the clues at messina, norvin hastened to naples and there took up his inquiry. he presented his letter, but the police could find no trace of the women and finally told him that they must have passed through the city without stopping, perhaps on their way to rome. so to rome he went, and there met a similar discouragement. by now he was growing alarmed, for it seemed incredible that a woman so conspicuous and so well known as the countess of terranova should be so hard to find unless she had taken unusual pains to hide her identity. if such were the case the search promised many difficulties. nevertheless, he set about it energetically, sparing no expense and yet preserving a certain caution in order not to embarrass the countess. he reasoned that if cardi and narcone had fled their own island they would be unlikely to seek an utterly foreign land, but would probably go where their own tongue was spoken; hence the countess was doubtless in one of the italian cities. when several weeks had been spent without result the young man widened the scope of his efforts and appealed to the police of all the principal cities of southern europe. two months had crept by before word came from colonel neri which put an end to his futile campaign. the bank, it seemed, had received a letter from the countess written in new york. it was merely a request to perform certain duties and contained no return address, but it sent norvin blake homeward on the first ship. now that he knew that the girl was in his own country he felt his hopes revive. it seemed very natural, after all, that she should be there instead of in europe, for cardi and his lieutenant, having found sicily too hot to hold them, had doubtless joined the tide of italian emigration to america, that land of freedom and riches whither all the scum of europe was floating. why should they turn to italy, the mother country, when the criminals of europe were flocking across the westward ocean to a richer field which offered little chance of identification? it seemed certain now that margherita had taken up the work in earnest; nothing less would have drawn her to the united states. blake gave up his last lingering doubt regarding her intentions, but he vowed that if her resolve were firm, his should be firmer; if her life held nothing but thoughts of martel, his held nothing but thoughts of her; if she were determined to hide herself, he was equally determined to find her, and he would keep searching until he had done so. the hunt began to obsess him; he obeyed but one idea, beheld but one image; and he cherished the illusion that once he had overtaken her his task would be completed. only upon rare occasions did he realize that the girl was still unwon--perhaps beyond his power to win. he chose to trust his heart rather than his reason, and in truth something deep within him gave assurance that she was waiting, that she needed him and would welcome his coming. viii old trails mr. bernard dreux was regarded by his friends rather as an institution than as an individual. he was a small man, but he wore the dignity of a senator, and he possessed a pride of that intense and fastidious sort which is rarely encountered outside the oldest southern families. he was thin, with the delicate, bird-like mannerisms of a dyspeptic, and although he was nearing fifty he cultivated all the airs and graces of beardless youth. his feet were small and highly arched, his hands were sensitive and colorless. he was an authority on art, he dabbled in music, and he had once been a lavish entertainer--that was in the early days when he had been a social leader. now, although harassed by a lack of money which he considered degrading, he still mingled in good society, he still dressed elegantly, his hands were still white and sensitive, contrasting a little with his conscience, which had become slightly discolored and calloused. he no longer entertained, however, except by his wit; he exercised a watchful solicitude over his slender wardrobe, and his revenues were derived from sources so uncertain that he seemed to maintain his outwardly placid existence only through a series of lucky chances. but adversity had not soured mr. dreux; it had not dimmed his pride nor coarsened his appreciation of beauty; he remained the gentle, suave, and agreeably cynical beau. young girls had been known to rave over him, despite their mother's frowns; fathers and brothers called him bernie and greeted him warmly--at their clubs. but aside from mr. dreux's inherited right to social recognition he was marked by another and peculiar distinction in that he was the half-brother and guardian of myra nell warren. this fact alone would have assured him a wide acquaintance and a degree of popularity without regard to his personal characteristics. while it was generally known that old captain warren, during a short and riotous life, had dashed through the dreux fortune at a tremendous rate, very few people realized what an utter financial wreck he had left for the two children. there had been barely enough for them to live upon after his death, and inasmuch as myra nell's extravagance steadily increased as the income diminished, her half-brother was always hard pressed to keep up appearances. she was a great responsibility upon the little man's shoulders, particularly since she managed in all innocence and thoughtlessness to spend not only her own share of the income, but his also. he was many times upon the point of remonstrating with her, but invariably his courage failed him and he ended by planning some additional self-sacrifice to offset her expanding necessities. the situation would have been far simpler had bernie lacked that particular inborn pride which forbade him to seek employment. not that he felt himself above work, but he recoiled from any occupation which did not carry with it a dignity matching that of his name. since the name he bore was as highly honored as any in the state, and since his capabilities for earning a living were not greater than those of an eighteen-year-old boy, he was obliged to rely upon his wits. and his wits had become uncommonly keen. the winter climate of new orleans drew thither a stream of northern tourists, and upon these strangers mr. dreux, in a gentlemanly manner, exercised his versatile talents. he made friends easily, he knew everybody and everything, and, being a man of leisure, his time was at the command of those travelers who were fortunate enough to meet him. he understood the good points of each and every little cafe in the foreign quarters; he could order a dinner with the rarest taste; it was due largely to him that the fame of the ramos gin-fizz and the sazerac cocktail became national. his grandfather, general dreux, had drunk at the old absinthe house with no less a person that lafitte, the pirate, and had frequented the house on royal street when lafayette and marechal ney were there. it was in this house, indeed, that he had met louis philippe. his grandson had such a wealth of intimate detail at his finger tips that it was a great pleasure and privilege to go through the french quarter with him. he exhaled the atmosphere of southern aristocracy which is so agreeable to northern sensibilities, he told inimitable stories, and, as for antiques, he knew every shop and bargain in the city. he was liberal, moreover, nay, ingenuous in sharing this knowledge with his new-found friends, even while admitting that he coveted certain of these bargains for his own slender collection. as a result of mr. dreux's knack of making friends and his intimate knowledge of art he did a very good business in antiques. many of his acquaintances wrote him from time to time, asking him to execute commissions, which he was ever willing to do, gratuitously, of course. in this way he was able to bridge over the dull summer season and live without any unpleasant sacrifice of dignity. but it was at best a precarious means of livelihood and one which he privately detested. however, on the particular day in the summer of on which we first encounter him mr. dreux was well contented, for a lumber-man from minneapolis, who had come south with no appreciation whatever of colonial antiques, had just departed with enough worm-eaten furniture to stock a museum, and bernie had collected his regular commission from the dealer. now that his own pressing necessities were taken care of for the moment, he began, as usual, to plan for myra nell's future. this would have required little thought or worry had she been an ordinary girl, but that was precisely what miss warren was not. the beaux of new orleans were enthusiastically united in declaring that she was quite the contrary, quite the most extraordinary and dazzling of creatures. bernie had led them to the slaughter methodically, one after another, with hope flaming in his breast, only to be disappointed time after time. they had merely served to increase the unhappy number which vainly swarmed about her, and to make bernie himself the target of her satire. popularity had not spoiled the girl, however; her attitude toward marriage was very sensible beneath the surface, and bernie's anxious efforts at matchmaking, instead of relieving their financial distress, merely served to keep him in the antique business. miss warren loved admiration; she might be said to live on it; and she greeted every new admirer with a bubbling gladness which was intoxicating. but she had no appreciation of the sanctity of a promise. she looked upon an engagement to marry in the same light as an engagement to walk or dine, namely, as being subject to the weather or to a prior obligation of the same sort. bernie was too much a gentleman to urge her into any step for which she was not ready, so he merely sighed when he saw his plans go astray, albeit confessing to moments of dismay as he foresaw himself growing old in the second-hand business. but a change had occurred lately, and although no word had passed between brother and sister, the melancholy little bachelor had been highly gratified at certain indications he had marked. it seemed to him that her choice, provided she really had chosen, was excellent; for norvin blake was certainly very young to be the president of the cotton exchange, he was free from any social entanglements, and he was rich. moreover, his name had as many honorable associations as even bernie's own. all in all, therefore, the little man was in an agreeable frame of mind to-day as he strolled up canal street, nodding here and there to his acquaintances, and turned into blake's office. he entered without announcing himself, and norvin greeted him cordially. bernie seldom announced himself, being one of those rare persons who come and go unobtrusively and who interrupt important conversations without offense. "do i find you busy?" he inquired, dropping into one of blake's easy-chairs and lighting a perfumed cigarette. "no. business is over for the day. but i am glad to see you at any time; you're so refreshingly restful." "how are the new duties and responsibilities coming on?" "oh, very well," said blake, "although i'm absurdly self-conscious." "the exchange needed new blood, i'm told. i think you are a happy choice. opportunity has singled you out and evidently intends to bear you forward on her shoulders whether you wish or not. jove! you _have_ made strides! let me see, you are thirty--" "two! this makes me look older than i am." norvin touched his hair, which was gray, and bernie nodded. "funny how your hair changed so suddenly. i remember seeing you four years ago at the lexington races just after you returned from europe the second time. you were dark then. i saw you a year later and you were gray. did the wing of sorrow brush your brow?" blake shrugged. "they say fear will turn men gray." dreux laughed lightly. "fancy! you afraid!" "and why not? have you never been afraid?" "i? to be sure. i rather like it, too! it's invigorating--unusual. you know there's a kind of fascination about certain emotions which are in themselves unpleasant. but--my dear boy, you can't understand. we were talking about you the other night at the boston club after your election, and thompson told about that affair you had with those niggers up the state, when you were sheriff. it was quite thrilling to hear him tell it." "indeed?" "oh, yes! he made you out a great hero. i never knew why you went in for politics, or at least why, if you went in at all, you didn't try for something worth while. you could have gone to the legislature just as easily. but for a blake to be sheriff! well, it knocked us all silly when we heard of it, and i don't understand it yet. we pictured you locking up drunken men, serving subpoenas, and selling widows' farms over their heads." "there's really more to a sheriff's duties than that." "so i judged from thompson's blood-curdling tales. i felt very anaemic and insignificant as i listened to him." "it doesn't hurt a gentleman to hold a minor political office, even in a tough parish. i think men ought to try themselves out and find what they are made of." "it isn't your lack of exclusiveness that strikes one; it's your nerve." "oh, that's mostly imaginary. i haven't much, really. but the truth is i'm interested in courage. they say a man always admires the quality in which he is naturally lacking, and wants to acquire it. i'm interested in brave men, too; they fascinate me. i've studied them; i've tried to analyze courage and find out what it is, where it lies, how it is developed, and all about it, because i have, perhaps, a rather foolish craving to be able to call myself fairly brave." "if you hadn't made a reputation for yourself, this sort of modesty would convict you of cowardice," dreux exclaimed. "it sounds very funny, coming from you, and i think you are posing. now with me it is wholly different. i couldn't stand what you have; why, the sight of a dead man would unsettle me for months and, as for risking my life or attempting the life of a fellow creature--well, it would be a physical impossibility. i--i'd just turn tail. you are exceptional, though you may not know it; you're not normal. the majority of us, away back in the woodsheds of our minds, recognize ourselves as cowards, and i differ from the rest in that i'm brave enough to admit it." "how do you know you are a coward?" "oh, any little thing upsets me." "your people were brave enough." "of course, but conditions were different in those days; we're more advanced now. there's nothing refined about swinging sabers around your head like a windmill and chopping off yankee arms and legs; nor is there anything especially artistic in two gentlemen meeting at dawn under the oaks with shotguns loaded with scrap iron." mr. dreux shuddered. "i'm tremendously glad the war is over and duels are out of fashion." "well, be thankful that antiques are not out of fashion. there is still a profit in them, i suppose?" dreux shook his head mournfully. "not in the good stuff. i just sold the original sword of jean lafitte to a man who makes preserved tomatoes. it is the eighth in three weeks. the business in lafitte sabers is very fair lately. general jackson belt-buckles are moving well, too, not to mention plug hats worn by jefferson davis at his inauguration. there was a fabulous hardwood king at the st. charles whom i inflamed with the beauties of marquetrie du bois. it was all modern, of course, made in baltimore, but i found him a genuine sinurette four-poster which was very fine. i also discovered a royal sevres vase for him, worth a small fortune, but he preferred a bath sponge used by louis xiv. i assured him the sponge was genuine, so he bought a buhl cabinet to put it in. i took the vase for myra nell." "do you think myra nell would care to be queen of the carnival?" norvin inquired. "care?" bernie started forward in his chair, his eyes opened wide. "you're--joking! is--is there any--" he relaxed suddenly, and after an instant's hesitation inquired, "what do you mean?" "i mean what i say. she can be queen if she wishes." dreux shook his head reluctantly. "she'd be delighted, of course; she'd go mad at the prospect, but--frankly, she can't afford it." he flushed under blake's gaze. "i'm sorry, bernie. i've been told to ask her." "i am very much obliged to you for the honor, and it's worth any sacrifice, but--lord! it is disgusting to be poor." he prodded viciously with his cane. "it is a great thing for any girl to be queen. the chance may not come again." dreux made a creditable effort to conceal his disappointment, but he was really beside himself with chagrin. "you needn't tell me," he said, "but there is no use of my even dreaming of it; i've figured over the expense too often. she was queen of momus last year--that's why i've had to vouch for so many lafitte swords and davis high hats. if those tourists ever compare notes they'll think that old pirate must have been a centipede or a devilfish to wield all those weapons." "i would like to have her accept," blake persisted. bernie dreux glanced at the speaker quickly, feeling a warm glow suffuse his withered body at the hint of encouragement for his private hopes. what more natural, he reasoned, than for blake to wish his future wife to accept the highest social honor that new orleans can confer? norvin's next words offered further encouragement, yet awoke a very conflicting emotion. "in view of the circumstances, and in view of all it means to myra nell, i would consider it a privilege to lend you whatever you require. she need never know." involuntarily the little bachelor flushed and drew himself up. "thanks! it's very considerate of you, but--i can't accept, really." "even for her sake?" "if i didn't know you so well, or perhaps if you didn't know us so well, i'd resent such a proposal." "nonsense! don't be foolish." realizing thoroughly what this sacrifice meant to miss warren's half-brother, norvin continued: "suppose we say nothing further about it for the time being. perhaps you will feel differently later." after a pause dreux said: "heaven knows where these carnivals will end if we continue giving bigger pageants every year. it's a frightful drain on the antique business, and i'm afraid i will have to drop out next season. i scarcely know what to do." "why don't you marry?" blake inquired. "marry?" dreux smiled whimsically. "that lumber king had a daughter, but she was freckled." "felicite delord isn't freckled." bernie said nothing for a moment, and then inquired quietly: "what do you know about felicite?" "all there is to know, i believe. enough, at any rate, to realize that you ought to marry her." as dreux made no answer, he inquired, "she is willing, of course?" "of course." "then why don't you do it?" "the very fact that people--well, that i know i ought to, perhaps. then, too, my situation. i have certain obligations which i must live up to." "don't be forever thinking of yourself. there are others to be considered." "exactly. myra nell, for instance." "it seems to me you owe something to felicite." "my dear boy, you don't talk like a--like a--" "southern gentleman?" blake smiled. "nevertheless, miss delord is a delightful little person and you can make her happy. if myra nell should be queen of the mardi gras it would round out her social career. she will marry before long, no doubt, and then you will be left with no obligations beyond those you choose to assume. nobody knows of your relations with felicite." "_you_ know," said the bachelor stiffly, "and therefore others must know, hence it is quite impossible. i'd prefer not to discuss it if you don't mind." "certainly. i want you to keep that loan in mind, however. i think you owe it to your sister to accept. at any rate, i am glad we had this opportunity of speaking frankly." "ah," said bernie, suddenly, as if seizing with relief upon a chance to end the discussion, "i think i heard some one in the outer office." "to be sure," exclaimed blake. "that must be donnelly. i had an appointment with him here which i'd forgotten all about." "the chief of police? he's quite a friend of yours." "yes, we met while i was sheriff. he's a remarkably able officer--one of those men i like to study." "well, then, i'll be going," said bernie, rising. "no, stay and meet him." blake rose to greet a tall, angular man of about dreux's age, who came in without knocking. chief donnelly had an impassive face, into which was set a pair of those peculiar smoky-blue eyes which have become familiar upon our frontiers. he acknowledged his introduction to bernie quietly, and measured the little man curiously. "mr. dreux is a friend of mine, and he was anxious to meet you, so i asked him to stay," norvin explained. "if i'm not intruding," bernie said. "oh, there's nothing much on my mind," the chief declared. "i've come in for some information which i don't believe blake can give me." to norvin he said, "i remembered hearing that you'd been to italy, so i thought you might help me out." mr. dreux sat back, eliminated himself from the conversation in his own effective manner, and regarded the officer as a mouse might gaze upon a lion. "yes, but that was four years ago," norvin replied. "all the better. were you ever in sicily?" blake started. the sudden mention of sicily was like a touch upon an exposed nerve. "i was in sicily twice," he said, slowly. "then perhaps you can help me, after all. i recalled some sort of experience you had over there with the mafia, and took a chance." the chief drew from his pocket a note-book which he consulted. "did you ever hear of a sicilian named--narcone? gian narcone?" he looked up to see that his friend's face had gone colorless. blake nodded silently. "also a chap named--some nobleman--" he turned again to his memorandum-book. "martel savigno, count of martinello," norvin supplied in a strained, breathless voice. "that's him! why, you must know all about this affair." blake rose and began to pace his office while the others watched him curiously, amazed at his agitated manner and his evident effort to control his features. neither of his two friends had deemed him capable of such an exhibition of feeling. as a matter of fact, norvin had grown to pride himself upon his physical self-command and above all upon his impassivity of countenance. he had cultivated it purposely, for it formed a part of his later training--what he chose to call his course in courage. but this sudden probing of an old wound, this unexpected reference to the most painful part of his life, had found him off his guard and with his nerves loose. after his return from europe he had set himself vigorously to the task of uprooting his cowardice. realizing that his parish had always been lawless, it occurred to him that the office of sheriff would compel an exercise of whatever courage he had in him. it had been absurdly easy to win the election, but afterward--the memory of the bitter fight which followed often made him cringe. strangely enough, his theory had not worked out. he found that his cowardice was not a sick spot which could be cauterized or cut out, but rather that it was like some humor of the blood, or something ingrained in the very structure of his nervous tissue. but although his lack of physical courage seemed constitutional and incurable, he had a great and splendid pride which enabled him to conceal his weakness from the world. time and again he had balked, had shied like a frightened horse; time and again he had roweled himself with cruel spurs and ridden down his unruly terrors by force of will. but the struggle had burned him out, had calcined his youth, had grayed his hair, and left him old and tired. even now, when he had begun to consider his self-mastery complete, it had required no more than the unexpected mention of martel savigno's name and that of his murderer to awaken pangs of poignant distress, the signs of which he could not altogether conceal. when after an interval of several minutes he felt that he had himself sufficiently in hand to talk without danger of self-betrayal, he seated himself and inquired: "what do you wish to know about--the count of martinello and narcone the bandit?" "i want to know all there is," said donnelly. "perhaps we can get at it quicker if you will tell me what you know. i had no idea you were familiar with the case. it's remarkable how these old trails recross." "i--i know everything about the murder of martel savigno, for i saw it. i was there. he was my best friend. that is the story of which you read. that is why the mention of his name upset me, even after nearly five years." bernie dreux uttered an exclamation and hitched forward in his chair. this new side of blake's character fascinated him. "if you will tell me the circumstances it will help me piece out my record," said the chief, so blake began reluctantly, hesitatingly, giving the facts clearly, but with a constraint that bore witness to his pain in the recital. when he had finished, it was donnelly's turn to show surprise. "that is remarkable!" he exclaimed. "to think that you have seen gian narcone! d'you suppose you would know him again after four years?" he shot a keen glance at his friend. "i am quite sure i would. but come, you haven't told me anything yet." "well, narcone is in new orleans." "what?" blake leaned forward in his chair, his eyes blazing. "at least i'm informed that he is. i received a letter some time ago containing most of the information you've just given me, and stating that there are extradition papers for him in new york. the letter says that some of his old gang have confessed to their part in the murder and have implicated narcone so strongly that he will hang if they can get him back to sicily." "i believe that. but who is your informant?" "i don't know. the letter is anonymous." a sudden wild hope sprang up in blake's mind. he dared not trust it, yet it clamored for credence. "was it written by a--woman?" he queried, tensely. "no; at least i don't think so. it was written on one of these new-fangled typewriting machines. i left it at the office, or you could judge for yourself." "if it is typewritten, how do you know whether--" "i tell you i don't know. but i can guess pretty closely. it was one of the pallozzo gang. this narcone--he calls himself vito sabella, by the way--is a leader of the quatrones. the two factions have been at war lately and some member of the pallozzo outfit has turned him up." the light died out of norvin's face, his body relaxed. he had followed so many clues, his quest had been so long and fruitless, that he met disappointment half-way. up to this moment bernie dreux had listened without a word or movement, but now he stirred and inquired, hesitatingly: "pardon me, but what is this pallozzo gang and who are the quatrones? i'm tremendously interested in this affair." "the pallozzos and the quatrones," donnelly explained, "are two italian gangs which have come into rivalry over the fruit business. they unload the ships, you know, and they have clashed several times. you probably heard about their last mix-up--one man killed and four wounded." "i never read about such things," dreux acknowledged, at which the chief's eyes twinkled and once more wandered over the little man's immaculate figure. "you are familiar with our italian problem, aren't you?" "i--i'm afraid not. i know we have a large foreign population in the city--in fact, i spend much of my time on the other side of canal street--but i didn't know there was any particular problem." "well, there is, and a very serious one, too," blake assured him. "it's giving our friend donnelly and the rest of the city officials trouble enough and to spare. there have been some eighty killings in the italian quarter." "eighty-four," said donnelly. "and about two hundred outrages of one sort or another." "and almost no convictions. am i right?" "you are. we can't do a thing with them. they are a law to themselves, and they ignore us and ours absolutely. it's getting worse, too. fine situation to exist in the midst of a law-abiding american community, isn't it?" donnelly appealed to dreux. "now that will show you how little a person may know of his own home," reflected bernie. "has it anything to do with this mafia we hear so much about?" "it has. but the mafia is going to end," donnelly announced positively. "i've gone on record to that effect. if those dagos can't obey our laws, they'll have to pull their freight. it's up to me to put a finish to this state of affairs or acknowledge i'm a poor official and don't know my business. the reform crowd has seized upon it as a weapon to put me out of office, claiming that i've sold out to the italians and don't want to run 'em down, so i've got to do something to show i'm not asleep on my beat. i've never had a chance before, but now i'm going after this vito sabella and land him. will you look him over, norvin, and see if he's the right party?" "of course. i owe narcone a visit and i'm glad of this chance. but granting that he is narcone, how can you get him out of new orleans? he'll fight extradition and the quatrones will support him." "i'm blamed if i know. i'll have to figure that out," said the chief as he rose to go. "i'm mighty glad i had that hunch to come and see you, and i wish you were a plain-clothes man instead of the president of the cotton exchange. i think you and i could clean out this mafia and make the town fit for a white man to live in. if you'll drop in on me at eight o'clock to-night we'll walk over toward st. phillip street and perhaps get a look at your old friend narcone. if you care to come along, mr. dreux, i'd be glad to have you." bernie dreux threw up his shapely hands in hasty refusal. "oh dear, no!" he protested. "i haven't lost any italian murderers. this expedition, which you're planning so lightly, may lead to--heaven knows what. at any rate, i should only be in the way, so if it's quite the same to you i'll send regrets." "quite the same," donnelly laughed, then to norvin: "if you think this dago may recognize you, you'd better tote a gun. at eight, then." "at eight," agreed blake and escorted him to the door. ix "one who knows" norvin blake dined at his club that evening, returning to his office at about half-past seven. he was relieved to find the place deserted, for he desired an opportunity to think undisturbed. although this unforeseen twist of events had seemed remarkable, at first, he began to feel that he had been unconsciously waiting for this very hour. something had always forewarned him that a time would come when he would be forced to take a hand once more in that old affair. nor was he so much disturbed by the knowledge that narcone, the butcher, was here in new orleans as by the memories and regrets which the news aroused. entering his private office, he lit the gas, and flinging himself into an easy-chair, gave himself over to recollections of all that the last four years had brought forth. it seemed only yesterday that he had returned from italy, hot upon the scent which colonel neri had uncovered for him. he had been confident, eager, hopeful, yet he had failed, signally, unaccountably. he had combed new york city for a trace of margherita ginini with a thoroughness that left no possible means untried. as he looked back upon it now, he wondered if he could ever summon sufficient enthusiasm to attack any other project with a similar determination. he doubted it. later experience had bred in him a peculiar caution, a shrinking hesitancy at exposing his true feelings, due, no doubt, to that ever-present necessity of watching himself. margherita had never written him after her first disappearance; his own letters had been returned from sicily; the police of new york had failed as those of rome and naples and other cities had failed. he had wasted a small fortune in the hire of private detectives. at last, when it was too late to profit him, he had learned that the three women had been in new york at the time of his arrival, but evidently they had become alarmed at his pursuit and fled. it was this which had forced him to give up--the certainty that margherita knew the motive of his search and resented it. he had never quite recovered from the sting of that discovery, for he was proud, but he had grown too wise to cherish unjust resentment. it merely struck him as a great pity that their lives had fallen out in such unhappy fashion. he never tried to deceive himself into believing that he could forget her, become a new man, and banish the joy and the pain of his past, impartially. there were other women, it is true, who attracted him strongly, aroused his tenderness and appealed to his manhood--and among them myra nell warren. his power of feeling had not been atrophied, rather it had become deeper. yet his loyalty was never really impaired. in the bottom of his heart he knew that that tawny, slumbrous yet passionate sicilian girl was his first and his most sacred love. as he sat alone now, with the evidences of his accomplishment about him, he realized that in spite of his material success, life, so far, at least, had been just as stale and flat as it had promised to be on that night when he and martel had ridden away from the feast at terranova. he had made good, to his own satisfaction, in all respects save one, and even in that he had gained the form if not the substance, for the world regarded him as a man of proven courage. it seemed to him a grim and hideous joke, and he wondered what his friends would think if they knew that the very commonplace adventure planned for this evening filled him with a cringing horror. the prospect of this trip into the italian quarter with the probability of encountering narcone turned him cold and sick. his hands were like ice and the muscles of his back were twitching nervously; he could feel his heart pound as he let his thoughts have free play. but these symptoms were only too familiar; he had conquered them too many times to think of weakening. after five years of intimate self-study he was still at a loss to account for his phenomenal cowardice. he wondered again to-night if it might not be the result of a too powerful imagination. donnelly had no imagination whatever, and the same seemed true of others whom he had studied. as for himself, his fancies took alarm at the slightest hint and went careering off into all the dark byways of supposition, encountering impossible shapes and improbable dangers. whatever the cause, he had long since given up hope of ever winning a permanent victory over himself and had learned that each trial meant a fresh battle. when he saw by the clock that the hour of his appointment had come, he arose, although his body seemed to belong to some one else and his spirit was crying out a mad, panicky warning. he opened the drawer of his desk and, extracting a revolver, raised it at arm's-length. he drew it down before his eye until the sights crept into alignment, and held it there for a throbbing second. then he smiled mirthlessly, for his hand had not shown the slightest tremor. donnelly was waiting as blake walked into headquarters, and, exhuming a box of cigars from the remotest depths of a desk drawer, he offered them, saying: "i've sent o'connell over to reconnoiter. there's no use of our starting out until he locates sabella. you needn't be so suspicious of those perfectos; they won't bite you." "the last one you gave me did precisely that." "must have been one of my cooking cigars. i keep two kinds, one for callers and one for friends." "then if this is a flor de friendship i'll accept," blake said with a laugh. "i see mr. dreux didn't change his mind and decide to join us." "no, this is a little too rough for bernie. he very cheerfully acknowledged that he was afraid narcone might recognize me and make trouble." "i thought of that," donnelly acknowledged. "is there any chance?" in the depths of blake's consciousness something cried out fearfully in the affirmative, but he replied: "hardly. he never saw me except indistinctly, and that was nearly five years ago. he might recall my name, but i dare say not without an introduction, which isn't necessary." "do you think you will know him?" "i-i have reason to think i will." the chief grunted with satisfaction. "a funny little fellow, that dreux!" he remarked. "wasn't it his father who fought a duel with colonel hammond from baton rouge?" "the same. they used shotguns at forty yards. colonel hammond was killed." "humph! and he was afraid to go with us to-night?" "oh, he makes no secret of his cowardice." "well, a mule is a mule, a coward is a coward, and a gambler is a--son-of-a-gun," paraphrased the chief. "if he hasn't any courage he can't force it into himself." "do you think so?" "i know so. i've seen it tried. some people are born cowards and can't help themselves. as for me, i was never troubled much that way. i suppose you find it the same, too." "no. my only consolation lies in thinking it's barely possible the other fellow may be as badly frightened as i am." donnelly scoffed openly. "i never saw a man stand up better than you. why i've touted you as the gamest chap i ever saw. do you remember that dago misetti who jumped from here into your parish when you were sheriff?" blake smiled. "i'm not likely to forget him." "you walked into a gun that day when you knew he'd use it." "he didn't, though--at least not much. perhaps he was as badly rattled as i was." "have it your own way," the chief said. "but that reminds me, he's out again." "indeed! i hadn't heard." "you knew, of course, we couldn't convict him for that killing. we had a perfect case, but the mafia cleared him. same old story--perjury, alibis, and jury-fixing. we put him away for resisting an officer, though; they couldn't stop us there. but they've 'sprung' him and he's back in town again. damn such people! with over two hundred italian outrages of various kinds in this city up to date, i can count the convictions on the fingers of one hand. the rest of the country is beginning to notice it." "it is a serious matter," blake acknowledged, "and it is affecting the business interests of the city. we see that every day." "if i had a free hand i'd tin-can every dago in new orleans." "nonsense! they're not all bad. the great majority of them are good, industrious, law-abiding people. it's a comparatively small criminal element that does the mischief." "you think so, eh? well, if you held down this job for a year you'd be ready to swear they're all blackmailers and murderers. if they're so honest and peaceable, why don't they come out and help us run down the malefactors?" "that's not their way." "no, you bet it isn't," donnelly affirmed. "things are getting worse every day. the reformers don't have to call my attention to it; i'm wise. so far, they have confined their operations to their own people, but what's to prevent them from spreading out? some day those italians will break over and tackle us americans, and then there will be hell to pay. i'll be blamed for not holding them in check. why, you've no idea of the completeness of their organization; it has a thousand branches and it takes in some of their very best people. i dare say you think this mafia is some dago secret society with lodge-rooms and grips and passwords and a picnic once a year. well, i tell you--" "you needn't tell me anything about la mafia," blake interrupted, gravely. "i know as much about it, perhaps, as you do. something ought to be done to choke off this flood of european criminal immigration. believe me, i realize what you are up against, dan, and i know, as you know, that la mafia will beat you." "i'm damned if it will!" exploded the officer. "the policing of this city is under my charge, and if those people want to live here among us--" the telephone bell rang and donnelly broke off to answer it. "hello! is that you, o'connell? good! stick around the neighborhood. we'll be right over." he hung up the receiver and explained: "o'connell has him marked out. we'd better go." it was not until they were well on their way that norvin thought to mention the letter, which he had wished to see. "oh, yes, i meant to show it to you," said donnelly. "but there's nothing unusual about it, except perhaps the signature." "i thought you said it was anonymous." "well, it is; it's merely signed 'one who knows.'" "does it mention an associate of narcone--a man named cardi?" "no. who's he?" "i dare say at least a hundred thousand people have asked that same question." briefly norvin told what he knew of the reputed chief of the banditti, of the terrors his name inspired in sicily, and of his supposed connection with the murder of savigno. "once or twice a year i hear from colonel neri," he added, "but he informs me that cardi has never returned to the island, so it occurred to me that he too might be in new orleans." "it's very likely that he is, and if he was a capo-mafia there, he's probably the same here. lord! i'd like to get inside of that outfit; i'd go through it like a sandstorm." by this time they had threaded the narrow thoroughfares of the old quarter, and were nearing the vicinity of st. phillip street, the heart of what donnelly called "dagotown." there was little to distinguish this part of the city from that through which they had come. there were the same dingy, wrinkled houses, with their odd little balconies and ornamental iron galleries overhanging the sidewalks and peering into one another's faces as if to see what their neighbors were up to; the same queer, musty, dusty shops, dozing amid violent foreign odors; the same open doorways and tunnel-like entrances leading to paved courtyards at the rear. the steep roofs were tiled and moss-grown, the pavements were of huge stone flags, set in between seams of mud, and so unevenly placed as to make traffic impossible save by the light of day. alongside the walks were open sewers, in which the foul and sluggish current was setting not toward, but away from, the river-front. the district was peopled by shadows and mystery; it abounded in strange sights and sounds and smells. at the corner of royal and dumaine they found o'connell loitering in a doorway, and with a word he directed them to a small cafe and wine-shop in the next block. a moment later they pushed through swinging doors and entered. donnelly nodded to the white-haired italian behind the bar and led the way back to a vacant table against the wall, where he and norvin seated themselves. there were perhaps a half-dozen similar tables in the room, at some of which men were eating. but it was late for supper, and for the most part the occupants were either drinking or playing cards. there was a momentary pause in the babble of conversation as the two stalked boldly in, and a score of suspicious glances were leveled at them, for the chief was well known in the italian quarter. the proprietor came bustling toward the new-comers with an obsequious smile upon his grizzled features. taking the end of his apron he wiped the surface of their table dry, at the same time informing donnelly in broken english that he was honored by the privilege of serving him. donnelly ordered a bottle of wine, then drew an envelope from his pocket and began making figures upon it, leaning forward and addressing his companion confidentially, to the complete disregard of his surroundings. norvin glued his eyes upon the paper, nodding now and then as if in agreement. although he had taken but one hasty glance around the cafe upon entering, he had seen a certain heavy-muscled sicilian whose face was only too familiar. it was narcone, without a doubt. blake had seen that brutal, lust-coarsened countenance too many times in his dreams to be mistaken, and while his one and only glimpse had been secured in a half-light, his mind at that instant had been so unnaturally sensitized that the photograph remained clear and unfading. he could feel narcone staring at him now, as he sat nodding to the senseless patter of the chief in a sort of breathless, terrifying suspense. would his own face recall to the fellow's mind that night in the forest of terranova and set his fears aflame? blake's reason told him that such a thing was beyond the faintest probability, yet the flesh upon his back was crawling as if in anticipation of a knife-thrust. nevertheless, he lit a cigar and held the match between fingers which did not tremble. he was fighting his usual, senseless battle, and he was winning. when the proprietor set the bottle in front of him he filled both glasses with a firm hand and then, still listening to donnelly's words, he settled back in his chair and let his eyes rove casually over the room. he encountered narcone's evil gaze when the glass was half-way to his lips and returned it boldly for an instant. it filled him with an odd satisfaction to note that not a ripple disturbed the red surface of the wine. "have you 'made' him?" donnelly inquired under his breath. blake nodded: "the tall fellow at the third table." "that's him, all right," agreed the chief. "he doesn't remember you." "i didn't expect him to; i've changed considerably, and besides he never saw me distinctly, as i told you before." "you've got the policeman's eye," declared donnelly with enthusiasm. "i wanted you to pick him out by yourself. we'll go, now, as soon as we lap up this dago vinegar." out in the street again, blake heaved a sigh of relief, for even this little harmless adventure had been a trial to his unruly nerves. "we'll drift past the red wing club; it's a hang-out of mine and i want to talk further with you," said donnelly. they turned back towards the heart of the city, stopping a moment while the chief directed o'connell to keep a close watch upon narcone. the red wing club was not really a club at all, but a small restaurant which had become known for certain of its culinary specialties and had gathered to itself a somewhat select clientele of bons vivants, who dined there after the leisurely continental fashion. thither the two men betook themselves. "i can't see what real good those extradition papers are going to do you, even now that you're sure of your man," said norvin as soon as they were seated. "it won't be difficult to arrest him, but to extradite him will prove quite another matter. i'm not eager myself to take the stand against him, for obvious reasons." donnelly nodded his appreciation. "i will do so, if necessary, of course, but my evidence won't counterbalance all the testimony sabella will be able to bring. we know he's the man; his friends know it, but they'll unite to swear he is really vito sabella, a gentle, sweet soul whom they knew in sicily, and they'll prove he was here in america at the time martel savigno was murdered. if we had him in new york, away from his friends, it would be different; he'd go back to sicily, and once there he'd hang, as he deserves." donnelly swore under his breath. "it's the thing i run foul of every time i try to enforce the law against these people. but just the same i'm going to get this fellow, somehow, for he's one of the gang that fired into the pallozzos and killed tony alto. that's another thing i know but can't prove. what made you ask if that letter was written by a woman? has sabella a sweetheart?" "not to my knowledge. i--" norvin hesitated. "no, sabella has no sweetheart, but savigno had. i haven't told you much of that part of my story. it's no use my trying to give you an idea of what kind of woman the countess of terranova was, or is--you wouldn't understand. it's enough to say that she is a woman of extraordinary character, wholly devoted to martel's memory, and sicilian to the backbone. after her lover's death, when the police had failed, she swore to be avenged upon his murderers. i know it sounds strange, but it didn't seem so strange to me then. i tried to reason with her, but it was a waste of breath. when i returned to sicily after my mother died, margherita--the countess--had disappeared. i tried every means to find her--you know, martel left her, in a way, under my care--but i couldn't locate her in any italian city. then i learned that she had come to the united states and took up the search on this side. it's a long story; the gist of it is simply that i looked up every possibility, and finally gave up in despair. that was more than four years ago. i have no idea that all this has any connection with our present problem." donnelly listened with interest, and for a time plied blake with shrewd questions, but at length the subject seemed to lose its importance in his mind. "it's a queer coincidence," he said. "but the letter was mailed in this city and by some one familiar with narcone's movements up to date. if your countess was here you'd surely know it. this isn't new york. besides, women don't make good detectives; they get discouraged. i dare say she went back to italy long ago and is married now, with a dozen or more little counts and countesses around her." "i agree with you," said blake, "that she can't be the 'one who knows.' there are too many easier explanations, and i couldn't hope--" he checked himself. "well, i guess i've told you about all i know. call on me at any time that i can be of assistance." he left rather abruptly, struggling with a sense of self-disgust in that he had been led to talk of margherita unnecessarily, yet with a curious undercurrent of excitement running through his mood. x myra nell warren miss myra nell warren seldom commenced her toilet with that feeling of pleasurable anticipation common to most girls of her age. not that she failed to appreciate her own good looks, for she did not, but because in order to attain the desired effects she was forced to exercise a nice discrimination which can be appreciated only by those who have attempted to keep up appearances upon an income never equal to one's requirements. she had many dresses, to be sure, but they were as familiar to her as family portraits, and even among her most blinded admirers they had been known to stir the chords of remembrance. then, too, they were always getting lost, for myra nell had a way of scattering other things than her affections. she had often likened her dresses to an army of central american troops, for mere ragged abundance in which there lay no real fighting strength. having been molded to fit the existing fashions in ladies' clothes, and bred to a careless extravagance, poverty brought the girl many complexities and worries. to-night, however, she was in a very happy frame of mind as she began dressing, and bernie, hearing her singing blithely, paused outside her door to inquire the cause. "can't you guess, stupid?" she replied. "um-m! i didn't know he was coming." "well, he is. and, bernie--have you seen my white satin slippers?" "how in the world should i see them?" "it isn't them, it is just him. i've discovered one under the bed, but the other has disappeared, gone, skedaddled. do rummage around and find it for me, won't you? i think it's down-stairs--" "my dear child," her brother began in mild exasperation, "how can it be down-stairs--" the door of myra nell's room burst open suddenly, and a very animated face peered around the edge at him. "because i left it there, purposely. i kicked it off--it hurt. at least i think i did, although i'm not sure. i kicked it off somewhere." miss warren's words had a way of rushing forth head over heels, in a glad, frolicky manner which was most delightful, although somewhat damaging to grammar. but she was too enthusiastic to waste time on grammar; life forever pressed her too closely to allow repose of thought, of action, or of speech. "now, don't get huffy, honey," she ran on. "if you only knew how i've-- oh, goody! you're going out!" "i was going out, but of course--" "now don't be silly. he isn't coming to see you." bernie exclaimed in a shocked voice: "myra nell! you know i never leave you to entertain your callers alone. it isn't proper." she sighed. "it isn't proper to entertain them on one foot, like a stork, either. do be a dear, now, and find my slipper. i've worn myself to the bone, i positively have, hunting for it, and i'm in tears." "very well," he said. "i'll look, but why don't you take care of your things? the idea--" she pouted a pair of red lips at him, slammed the door in his face, and began singing joyously once more. "what dress are you going to wear?" he called to her. "that white one with all the chiffon missing." "what has become of the chiffon?" he demanded, sternly. "i must have stepped on it at the dance. i--in fact, i know i did." "of course you saved it?" "oh, yes. but i can't find it now. if you could only--" "no!" he cried, firmly, and dashed down the stairs two steps at a time. from the lower hall he called up to her, "wear the new one, and be sure to let me see you before he comes." bernie sighed as he hung up his hat, for he had looked forward through a dull, disappointing day to an evening with felicite delord. she was expecting him--she would be greatly disappointed. he sighed a second time, for he was far from happy. life seemed to be one long constant worry over money matters and myra nell. being a prim, orderly man, he intensely disliked searching for mislaid articles, but he began a systematic hunt; for, knowing myra nell's peculiar irresponsibility, he was prepared to find the missing slipper anywhere between the hammock on the front gallery and the kitchen in the rear. however, a full half-hour's search failed to discover it. he had been under most of the furniture and was both hot and dusty when she came bouncing in upon him. miss warren never walked nor glided nor swayed sinuously as languorous southern society belles are supposed to do; she romped and bounced, and she was chattering amiably at this moment. "here i am, bunny, decked out like an empress. the new dress is a duck and i'm ravishing--perfectly ravishing. eh? what?" he wriggled out from beneath the horsehair sofa, rose, and, wiping the perspiration from his brow, pointed with a trembling finger at her feet. "there! there it is," he said in a terrible tone. "that's it on your foot." "oh, yes. i found it right after you came downstairs." she burst out laughing at his disheveled appearance. "i forgot you were looking. but come, admire me!" she revolved before his eyes, and he smiled delightedly. in truth, miss warren presented a picture to bring admiration into any eye, and although she was entirely lacking in poise and dignity, her constant restless vivacity and the witch-like spirit of laughter that possessed her were quite as engaging. she was a madcap, fly-away creature whose ravishing lace was framed by an unruly mop of dark hair, which no amount of attention could hold in place. little dancing curls and wisps and ringlets were forever escaping in coquettish fashion: bernie regarded her critically from head to foot, absent-mindedly brushing from his own immaculate person the dust which bore witness to his sister's housekeeping. in his eyes this girl was more than a queen, she was a sort of deity, and she could do no wrong. he was by no means an admirable man himself, but he saw in her all the virtues which he lacked, and his simple devotion was touching. "you didn't comb your hair," he said, severely. "oh, i did! i combed it like mad, but the hairpins pop right out," she exclaimed. "anyway, there weren't enough." "well, i found some on the piano," he said, "so i'll fix you." with deft fingers he secured the stray locks which were escaping, working as skilfully as a hair-dresser. "oh, but you're a nuisance," she told him, as she accepted his aid with the fidgety impatience of a restless boy. "they'll pop right out again." "they wouldn't if you didn't jerk and flirt around--" "flirt, indeed! bunny! bunny! what an idea!" she kissed him with a resounding smack, squarely upon the end of his thin nose, then flounced over to the old-fashioned haircloth sofa. now, mr. dreux abhorred the name of bunny, and above all things he abominated myra nell's method of saluting him upon the nose, but she only laughed at his exclamation of disgust, saying: "well, well! you haven't told me how nice i look." "there is no possible hope for him," he acknowledged. "the gown fits very nicely, too." "chloe did it--she cut it off, and sewed on the doodads--" "the what?" "the ruffly things." myra nell sighed. "it's hard to make a dressmaker out of a cook. her soul never rises above fried chicken and light bread, but she did pretty well this time, almost as well as--do you know, bunny, you'd have made a dandy dressmaker." "my dear child," he said in scandalized tones, "you get more slangy every day. it's not ladylike." "i know, but it gets you there quicker. lordy! i hope he doesn't keep me waiting until i get all wrinkled up. why don't you go out and have a good time? i'll entertain him." "you know i wouldn't leave you alone." she made a little laughing grimace at him and said: "well, then, if you must stay, i'll keep him out on the gallery all to myself. it's a lovely night, and, besides, the drawing-room is getting to smell musty. mind you, don't get into any mischief." she bounced up from the sofa and gave his ear a playful tweak with her pink fingers, then danced out into the drawing-room, where she rattled off a part of a piano selection at breakneck speed, ending in the middle with a crash, and finally flung open the long french blinds. the next instant he heard her swinging furiously in the hammock. bernie smiled fondly, as a mother smiles, and his pinched little face was glorified, then he sighed for a third time, as he thought of felicite delord, and regretfully settled himself down to a dull and solitary evening. the library had long since been denuded of its valuable books, in the same way that the old frame mansion had lost its finer furniture, piece by piece, as some whim of its mistress made a sacrifice necessary. in consequence, about all that remained now to afford bernie amusement were certain works on art which had no market value. selecting one of these, he lit a cigarette and lost himself among the old masters. when norvin blake came up the walk beneath the live-oak and magnolia trees, myra nell met him at the top of the steps, and her cool, fresh loveliness struck him as something extremely pleasant to look upon, after his heated, bustling day on the exchange. "bernie's in the library feasting on spanish masters, so if you don't mind we'll sit out here," she told him. "i'll be delighted," he assured her. "in that way i may be seen and so excite the jealousy of certain fellows who have been monopolizing you lately." "a little jealousy is a good thing, so i'll help you. but--they don't have it in them. they're as calm and placid as bayou water." blake was fond of mildly teasing the girl about her popularity, assuming, as an old friend, a whimsically injured tone. she could never be sure how much or little his speeches meant, but, being an outrageous little coquette herself, she seldom put much confidence in any one's words. "tell me," he went on--"i haven't seen you for a week--who are you engaged to now?" "the idea! i'm never really engaged; that is, hardly ever." "then there is a terrible misapprehension at large!" "oh, i'm always misapprehended. even bernie misapprehends me; he thinks i'm frivolous and light-minded, but i'm not. i'm really very serious; i'm--i'm almost morose." he laughed at her. "you don't mean to deny you have a bewildering train of admirers?" "perhaps, but i don't like to think of them. you see, it takes years to collect a real train of admirers, and it argues that a girl is a fixture. that's something i won't be. i'm beginning to feel like one of the sights of the city, such as bernie points out to his northern tourists. of course, you're the exception. i don't think we've ever been engaged, have we?" "um-m! i believe not, i don't care to be considered eccentric, however. it isn't too late." "bernie wouldn't allow it for a moment, and, besides, you're too serious. a girl should never engage herself to a serious-minded man unless she's really ready to--marry him." "how true!" "by the way," she chattered on, "what in the world have you done to bernie? he has talked nothing but mafia and murders and vendettas ever since he saw you the other day." "he told you about meeting donnelly in my office?" "yes! he's become tremendously interested in the italian question all at once; he reads all the papers and he haunts the foreign quarter. he tells me we have a fearful condition of affairs here. of course i don't know what he's talking about, but he's very much in earnest, and wants to help mr. donnelly do something or other--kill somebody, i judge." "really! i didn't suppose he cared for such things." "neither did i. but your story worked him all up. of course, i read about _you_ long ago, and that's how i knew you were a hero. when you returned from abroad i was simply smothered with excitement until i met you. the _idea_ of your fighting with bandits, and all that! but tell me, did you discover that murderer creature?" "yes. we identified him." "oh-h!" the girl fairly wriggled with eagerness, and he had to smile at her as she leaned forward waiting for details. "bernie said you asked him to go, but he was afraid. i--i wish you'd take me the next time. fancy! what did he do? was he a tall, dangerous-looking man? did he grind his teeth at you?" "no, no!" norvin briefly explained the very ordinary happenings of his trip with the chief of police, to which she listened with her usual intensity of interest in the subject of the moment. "you won't have to testify against him in those what-do-you-call-'em proceedings?" she asked as soon as he had finished. "extradition?" "why! why, they'll blow you up, or do something dreadful!" "i suppose i'll have to. donnelly is bent on arresting him, and i owe something to the memory of mattel savigno." "you mustn't!" she exclaimed with a gravity quite surprising in her. "when bernie told me what it might lead to, it frightened me nearly to death. he says this mafia is a perfectly awful affair. you won't get mixed up in it, will you? please!" the girl who was speaking now was not the myra nell he knew; her tone of real concern struck him very agreeably. beneath her customary mood of intoxication with the joy of living he had occasionally caught fleeting glimpses of a really unusual depth of feeling, and the thought that she was concerned for his welfare filled him with a selfish gladness. nevertheless, he answered her, truly: "i can't promise that. i rather feel that i owe it to martel" "he's dead! that sounds brutal, but--" "i owe something also to--those he left behind." "you mean that sicilian woman--that countess. i suppose you know i'm horribly jealous of her?" "i didn't know it." "i am. just think of it--a real countess, with a castle, and dozens--thousands of gorgeous dresses! was she--beautiful?" "very!" "_don't_ say it that way. goodness! how i hate her!" miss warren flounced back into the corner of the hammock, and norvin said with a laugh: "no wonder you have a train of suitors." "i've never seen a really beautiful italian woman--except vittoria fabrizi, of course." "your friend, the nurse?" "yes, and she's not really italian, she's just like anybody else. she was here to see me again this afternoon, by the way; it's her day off at the hospital, you know. i want you to meet her. you'll fall desperately in love." "really, i'm not interested in trained nurses, and i wouldn't want you to hate her as you hate the countess." "oh, i couldn't hate vittoria, she's such a dear. she saved my life, you know." "nonsense! you only had a sprained ankle." "yes, but it was a perfectly odious sprain. nobody knows how i suffered. and to think it was all bernie's fault!" "how so? you fell off a horse." "i did not," indignantly declared miss warren. "i was thrown, hurled, flung, violently projected, and then i was frightfully trampled by a snorting steed." norvin laughed heartily at this, for he knew the rickety old family horse very well by sight, and the picture she conjured up was amusing. "how do you manage to blame it on bernie?" he inquired. "well, he forbade me to ride horseback, so of course i had to do it." "oh, i see." "i fixed up a perfectly ravishing habit. i couldn't ask bernie to buy me one, since he refused to let me ride, so i made a skirt out of our grand-piano cover--it was miles long, and a darling shade of green. when it came to a hat i was stumped until i thought of bernie's silk one. no mother ever loved a child as he loved that hat, you know. i twisted his evening scarf around it, and the effect was really stunning--it floated beautifully. babylon and i formed a picture, i can tell you. i call the horse babylon because he's such an old ruin. but i don't believe any one ever rode him before; he didn't seem to know what it was all about. he was very bony, too, and he stuck out in places. i suppose we would have gotten along all right if i hadn't tried to make him prance. he wouldn't do it, so i jabbed him." "jabbed him?" myra nell nodded vigorously. "with my hat-pin. i didn't mean to hurt him, but--oh my! he isn't nearly so old as we think. i suppose the surprise did it. anyhow, he became a raging demon in a second, and when they picked me up i had a sprained ankle and the piano cover was a sight." "i suppose babylon ran away?" "no, he was standing there, with one foot right through bernie's high hat. that was the terrible part of it all--i had to pretend i was nearly killed, just to take bernie's mind off the hat. i stayed in bed for the longest time--i was afraid to get up--and he got vittoria fabrizi to wait on me. so that's how i met her. you can't linger along with your life in a person's hands for weeks at a time without getting attached to her. i was sorry for babylon, so i had chloe put a poultice on his back where i jabbed him. now i'd like to know if that isn't bernie's fault. he should have allowed me to ride and then i wouldn't have wanted to. poor boy! he was the one to suffer after all. he'd planned to take a trip somewhere, but of course he couldn't do that and pay for a trained nurse, too." myra nell's allusion to her brother's financial condition reminded blake of the subject which had been uppermost in his mind all evening, and he decided to broach it now. subsequent to his last talk with dreux he had thought a good deal about that proffered loan and had come to regard bernie's refusal as unwarranted. to be queen of the carnival was an honor given to but few young women, and one that would probably never come to miss warren again, so even at the risk of offending her half-brother he had decided to lay the matter before myra nell herself. she ought at least to have in later years the consoling thought that she had once refused the royal scepter. he hoped, however, that her persuasion added to his own would bring dreux to a change of heart. "if you'll promise to make no scene, refrain from hysterics, and all that," he began, warningly, "i'll tell you some good news." "how silly! i'm an iceberg! i never get excited!" she declared. "well then, how would you like to be queen of the next mardi gras?" myra nell gasped faintly in the darkness, and sat bolt-upright. "you--you're joking." "that's no answer." "i--i--do you mean it? oh!" she was out of the hammock now and poised tremblingly before him, like a bird. "honestly? you're not fooling? norvin, you dear duck!" she clapped her hands together gleefully and began to dance up and down. "i-i'm going to scream." "remember your promise." "oh, but queen! queen! why i'm dreaming, i _must_ scream." "i gather from these rapt incoherences that you'd like it." "_like_ it! you silly! like it? haven't i lived for it? haven't i dreamed about it ever since t was a baby? wouldn't any girl give her eyes to be queen?" she seemed upon the verge of kissing him, perhaps upon the nose, but changed her mind and went dancing around his chair like some moon-mad sprite. he seized her, barely in time to prevent her from crying the news aloud to bernie, explaining hastily that she must breathe no word to any one for the time being and must first win her brother's consent. it was very difficult to impress her with the fact that the carnival was still a long way off and that bernie was yet to be reckoned with. "as if there could be any question of my accepting," she chattered. "dear, dear! why shouldn't i? and it was lovely of you to arrange it for me, too. oh, i know you did, so you needn't deny it. i hope you're to be rex. wouldn't that be splendid--but of course you wouldn't tell me." "i can tell you this much, that i am not to be king. now i have already spoken to bernie--" "the wretch! he never breathed a word of it." "he's afraid he can't afford it." "oh, la, la! he'll have to. i'll die if he refuses--just die. you know i will." "we'll bring him around, between us. you talk to him after i go, and the next time i see him i'll clinch matters. you'll make the most gorgeous of queens, myra nell." "you think so?" she blushed prettily in the gloom. "i'll have to be very dignified; the train is as long as a hall carpet and i'll have to walk this way." she illustrated the royal step, bowing to him with a regal inclination of her dark head, and then broke out into rippling life and laughter so infectious that he felt he was a boy once more. the girl's unaffected spontaneity was her most adorable trait. she was like a dancing ray of sunshine, and underneath her blithesome carelessness was a fine, clean, tender nature. blake watched her with his eyes alight, for all men loved myra nell warren and it was conceded among those who worshiped at her shrine that he who finally received her love in return for his would be favored far above his kind. she was closer to him to-night than ever before; she seemed to reach out and take him into her warm confidence, while he felt her appeal more strongly than at any time in their acquaintance. of course she did not let him do much talking, she never did that, and now her head was full of dreams, of delirious anticipations, of splendid visions. at last, when she had thanked him in as many ways as she could think of for his kindness and the time drew near for him to leave, she fell serious in a most abrupt manner, and then to his great surprise referred once again to his affair with the mafia. "it seems to me that my joy would be supreme to-night if i knew you would drop that italian matter," she said. "the consequences may be terrible and--i--don't want you to get into trouble." "i'll be careful," he told her, but as she stood with her hand in his she looked up at him with eyes which were no longer sparkling with fun, but deep and dark with shadows, saying, gently: "is there nothing which would induce you to change your mind?" "that's not a fair question." "i shall be worried to death--and i detest worry." "there's no necessity for the least bit of concern," he assured her. but there was a plaintive wrinkle upon her brow as she watched him swing down the walk to the street. as blake strolled homeward he began to reflect that this charming intimacy with myra nell warren could not go much farther without doing her an injustice. the time was rapidly nearing when he would have to make up his mind either to have very much more or very much less of her society. he was undeniably fond of her, for she not only interested him, but, what is far rarer and quite as important, she amused him. moreover, she was of his own people; the very music of her southern speech soothed his ear in contrast with the harsh accents of his northern acquaintances. the thought came to him with a profound appeal that she might grow to love him with that unswerving faithfulness which distinguishes the southern woman. and yet, strangely enough, when he retired that night it was not with her picture in his mind, but that of a splendid, tawny sicilian girl with lips as fresh as a half-opened flower and eyes as deep as the sea. xi the kidnapping bernie dreux appeared at blake's office on the following afternoon with a sour look upon his face. norvin had known he would come, but hardly expected myra nell to win her victory so easily. without waiting for the little man to speak, he began: "i know what you're here for and i know just what you're going to tell me, so proceed; run me through with your reproaches; i offer no resistance." "do you think you acted very decently?" dreux inquired. "my dear bernie, a crown was at stake." "a crown of thorns for me. it means bankruptcy." "then you have consented? good! i knew you would." "of course you knew i would; that's what makes your trick so abominable. i didn't think it of you." "that's because you don't know my depravity; few people do." "it would serve you right if i accepted your loan and never paid you back." "it would indeed." blake laughingly laid his hand upon his friend's shoulder. "what's more, that is exactly what i would do in your place. i'd borrow all i could and give my sister her one supreme hour, free from all disturbing fears and embarrassments; then i'd tell the impertinent meddler who was to blame for my trouble to go whistle for his satisfaction. of course miss myra nell doesn't suspect?" "oh, heaven forbid!" piously exclaimed dreuix. "now how much will you need?" "i don't know; some fabulous sum. there will be gowns, and luncheons, and carriages, and entertaining. i will have to figure it out." "do. then double it. and thanks awfully for coming to your senses." "that's just the point--i haven't come to them, i'm perfectly insane to consider it," bernie declared, savagely. "but what can i do when she looks at me with her eyes like stars and--and--" he waved his hands hopelessly. "it's mighty decent of you, but understand i consider it a dastardly trick and i'm horribly offended." "exactly, and i don't blame you, but your sister deserves a crown for her royal gift of youth and sweetness. as for being offended, since you are not one of the mafia, i am not afraid." "do you know," said bernie, "i have been thinking about this mafia matter ever since i saw you. i'm tremendously interested and i--i'm beginning to feel the dawning of a civic spirit. remarkable, eh? you know i haven't many interests, and i'd like to--to take a hand in running down these miscreants. i've always had an ambition, ever since i was a child, to be a--don't laugh now. this is a confession. i've always wanted to be a--detective." he looked very grave, and at the same time a little shamefaced. "do you suppose donnelly could make me one?" "well! this is rather startling," said blake, with difficulty restraining a desire to laugh. "i--i can wear disguises wonderfully well," bernie went on, wistfully. "i learned when i was in college theatricals. i was really very good. and you see i might earn a lot of money that way; i understand there are tremendous rewards offered for train-robbers and that sort of people. no one need know, of course, and no one would ever suspect me of being a minion of the law." "that's true enough. but i'm afraid detectives in real life don't wear false beards. it's a pretty mean occupation, i fancy. do you seriously think you are--er--fitted for it?" "heavens! i'm no good at anything else, and i'm perfectly wonderful at worming secrets out of people. this mafia matter would give me a great opportunity. i--think i'll try it." "these italians have no sense of humor, you know. something disagreeable might happen if you went prowling around them." "oh, of course i'd quit if they discovered my intentions--my game. when we were talking of such things, the other day, i said i was a coward, but really i'm not. i've a frightful temper when i'm roused--really fiendish. as a matter of fact, i've"--he smiled sheepishly and tapped his slender, high-arched foot with his rattan cane--"i've already begun." blake settled back in his chair without a word. "i'm taking italian lessons from myra nell's nurse, miss fabrizi. she's a very superior woman, for a nurse, and she knows all about the mafia. quite an inspiration, i call it, thinking of her. i'm working her for informa--for a clue." he winked one eye gravely, and norvin gasped. bernie suddenly seemed very secretive, very different from his usual self. it was the first time blake had ever seen him give this particular facial demonstration, and the effect was much as if some benevolent old lady had winked brazenly. "well!" he exclaimed. "i don't know what to say." "there is nothing to say," mr. dreux answered in a vastly self-satisfied tone. "i'm going to offer my services to donnelly--in confidence, of course. i'm glad you introduced us, for otherwise i'd have to arrange to meet him properly. if he doesn't want me, i'll proceed unaided." when his caller had gone blake gave way to the hearty laughter he had been smothering, dwelling with keen enjoyment upon the probable result of bernie's interview with the chief. dan, he was sure, would not hurt the little man's feelings, so he felt no obligation to interfere. although he was expecting to hear from donnelly at any moment regarding the narcone matter, it was not until two weeks after their nocturnal excursion to the italian quarter that the chief came to see him. he brought unexpected news. "we've had a run of luck," he began. "i've verified the information in that letter and found that those extradition papers for narcone are really in new york. what's more, there's an italian detective there on another matter, and he's ready to take our man back to sicily with him." "really!" "narcone, it seems, was in new york for a year before he came here; that's why steps were taken to extradite him. then he evidently got suspicious and came south. anyhow, the plank is all greased, and if we land him in that city he'll go back to sicily." "i see. all that's necessary is to invite him to run up there and be arrested. it seems to me you're just where you were two weeks ago, dan; unfortunately, this doesn't happen to be new york, and you've still got to solve the important problem of getting him there." "i'm going to kidnap him," said the chief, quietly. "what? you're joking!" "not a bit of it." "but--kidnapping--it isn't done any more! it's not even considered the thing in police circles, i believe. you'll be stealing children next, like any mafioso." donnelly grinned. "that's where i got the idea. this same narcone is mixed up in the domenchino case. the kid has been gone nearly a month, now, but the father won't help us. he made a roar at the start, but they evidently got to him and now he declares that the boy must have strayed away to the river-front and been drowned. well, it occurred to me to treat that quatrone gang to some of its own medicine by stealing their ringleader." "there's poetic justice in the idea--that is, if narcone was really connected with the disappearance of the child." "oh, he was connected with it all right. ordinary blackmail was getting too slow for the outfit, so they went after a good ransom. now that old domenchino has kicked up such a row, they're afraid to come through, and have probably murdered the child. that's what he fears, at any rate, and that's why he won't help us." "it's shocking! but tell me, is this plan your own, or did bernie dreux suggest it?" donnelly laughed silently. "so you knew he'd turned fly cop? i thought i'd split when he came to me." "i hope you didn't offend him." "oh, not at all. those little milliners are mighty sensitive. i told him he had the makings of another le coq, but the force was full. i suggested that he work on the outside, and set him to watching a certain dago fruit-stand on canal street." "why that particular stand?" "because it's owned by one of our men and he can't come to any harm there. he reports every day." "but narcone--are you really in earnest about this scheme?" "i am. it's our only chance to land him, and i've got to accomplish something or quit drawing my salary. here's the layout; the pinkertons have an operative who knew sabella in new york; they were friends, in fact. this fellow arrived here two hours ago--calls himself corte. he's to renew his acquaintance with our man and explain that he is returning to new york in a week. the day he sails we grab mr. narcone, hustle him aboard ship, and corte will see to the rest. if it works right nobody'll know anything about it until narcone is at sea, when it will be too late for interference. it's old stuff, but it'll work." from what he knew of the sicilian bandit, blake felt a certain doubt as to the practicability of this plan, yet he was relieved to learn that he would not be called upon to testify. he therefore expressed himself as gratified at the change of procedure. "it was partly to spare you," the chief replied, "that i decided on this course. i want you to help me though." "in what way?" "well, it will naturally take some force; narcone won't go willingly. i want you to help me take him." instantly those fears which had been lulled in norvin's breast leaped into turmoil; the same sick surge of emotions rose, and he felt himself quailing. after an instant's pause he said: "i'll act any part you cast me for, but don't you think it is work for trained officers like you and this corte?" "that's exactly the point. narcone may put up a fight, and i have more confidence in you, when it comes to a pinch, than in any man i know. corte's job is to get him down to the dock, and i can't ask any of my men to take a hand with me, for it's--well, not exactly regular. besides, i may need a witness." donnelly hesitated. "if i do need one, i'll want some man whose word will carry more weight than that of a policeman. you understand?" he leveled his blue eyes at blake and they looked particularly smoky and cold. "you mean the quatrones may try to break you?" "something like that." "suppose narcone--er--resists?" donnelly shrugged, "we can't very well kill him, that's what makes it hard. i knew you had as much at stake as i, so i felt sure you'd help." blake heard himself assuring the officer that he had not been mistaken, but it was not his own voice that reached his ears, and when his caller had gone he found himself sitting limply in his chair, numb with horror at his own temerity. as he looked back upon it, blaming himself for his too ready agreement, he realized that several mingling emotions had been at the root of it. in the first place, he had said "yes" because his craven spirit had screamed "no" so loudly. he felt that the project was not only dangerous, but impracticable, yet something, which he chose to term his over-will, had warned him that he must not upon any account give way to fear lest he weaken his already insecure hold upon himself. again, donnelly had appealed to him in a way hard to resist. he was not only flattered by the chief's high regard for his courage, but grateful to him for having relieved him of the notoriety and possible consequences of a public proceeding. most of all, perhaps, his final acquiescence had been an instinctive reaction of rage and disgust at the part of his nature that he hated. he struck at it as a man strikes at a snake. but now that he was irrevocably pledged, his reason broke and fled, leaving him a prey to his imagination. what, he wondered, would narcone do when he saw his life at stake--when he recognized in one of his captors the man he had craved to kill in the forest of terranova? there would in all probability be a physical struggle--perhaps he would find his own flabby muscles pitted against the mighty thews of the sicilian butcher. at the thought he felt again the melting horror which had weakened him on that unspeakable night when narcone had turned from wiping the warm blood from his hands to glare into his face. blake feared that the memories would return to betray him at the last moment. that would mean that he would be left naked of the reputation he had guarded so jealously--and a far worse calamity--that his rebellious nature would finally triumph. one defeat, he knew, implied total overthrow. he tried to reason that he was magnifying the danger--that narcone would be easily handled, that other criminals as desperate had been taken without a struggle, but the instant such grains of comfort touched the healed terrors in his mind they vanished like drops of water sprinkled upon an incandescent furnace. nevertheless, he was pledged, and he knew that he would go. he had barely gotten himself under a semblance of control, two days later, when donnelly called him up by telephone to advise him in cautious terms that affairs were nearing a climax and to warn him to make ready. this served to throw him into a renewed panic. it required a tremendous effort to concentrate upon his business affairs, and it took the genius of an actor to carry him through the inconsequent details of his every-day life without betrayal. alone, at home, upon the crowded 'change, in deadly-dull directors' meetings, that sinister shadow overhung him. these long, leaden hours of suspense were doing what nothing else had been able to do since he took himself definitely in hand. they were harder to bear than any of those disciplinary experiences which had turned his hair white and burned his youth to an ash. at last donnelly came. "corte has framed it for to-morrow," he announced with evident satisfaction. "to-morrow?" norvin echoed, faintly. "yes. he's sailing on the _philadelphia_ at eleven o'clock--no stops between here and new york. they'll be waiting for narcone at quarantine." "i'm glad--it's time to do something." donnelly rubbed his palms together and showed his teeth in a smile, "corte says he'll have him at the cromwell line docks without fail, so that will save us grabbing him on the street and holding him until sailing time. if we pull it off quietly, at the last minute, nobody'll know anything about it. you'd better be at my office by nine, in case anything goes wrong." "you may count on me," blake answered in a tone that gave no hint of his inward flinching. but once alone, he found that his nerves would not allow him to work. he closed his desk and went home. when the heat of the afternoon diminished he took out his saddle-horse and went for a gallop, thinking in this way to blow some of the tortured fancies out of his mind, but he did not succeed. despite his agitation, he ate a hearty dinner--much as a condemned man devours his last meal--but he could not sleep. all night he alternately tossed in his bed or paced his room restlessly, his features working, his body shivering. he ate breakfast, however, with an apparent appetite that delighted his colored servant, and as the clock struck nine he walked into donnelly's office, smoking a cigar which he did not taste. "i haven't heard anything further from corte, so we'll go down to the dock," the chief informed him. on the way to the river-front, blake continued to smoke silently, giving a careful ear to donnelly's final directions. when they reached their destination he waited while dan went aboard the ship in search of the captain. in those days, rail transportation had not developed into its present proportions, and new orleans was even more interesting as a shipping-point than now. along the levee stretched rows of craft from every port, big black ocean liners, barques and brigantines, fruit steamers from the tropics, and a tremendous flotilla of flat-nosed river steamers with their huge tows of barges. the cavernous sheds that lined the embankment echoed to a thunder of rumbling trucks, of clanking winches, of stamping hoofs, while through and above it all came the cries and songs of a multitude of roustabouts and deck-hands. down the gangways of the _philadelphia_, a thin, continuous line of dusky truckmen was moving. a growing chaos of trunks and smaller baggage on the dock indicated that her passenger-list was heavy. blake watched the shifting scene with little interest, now and then casting an unseeing eye over the ramparts of cotton bales near by; but although he was outwardly calm, his palms were cold and wet and his mind was working with a panicky swiftness. donnelly reappeared with the assurance that all was arranged with the ship's master, and, taking their stand where they could observe what went on, they settled themselves to wait. again the moments dragged. again blake fought his usual weary battle. he envied donnelly his utter impassivity, for the officer betrayed no more feeling than as if he were standing, rod in hand, waiting for a fish to strike. an hour passed, bringing no sign of their men, although a stream of passengers was filing aboard and the piles of baggage were diminishing. norvin struggled with the desire to voice his misgivings, which were taking the form of hopes; donnelly chewed tobacco, and occasionally spat accurately at a knot-hole. his companion watched him curiously. then, without warning, the chief stirred, and there in the crowd norvin suddenly saw the tall figure of gian narcone, with another man, evidently a sicilian, beside him. "that's corte," donnelly said, quietly. the two watchers mingled with the crowd, gradually drawing closer to their quarry. but it seemed that narcone refused to go aboard with his friend--at any rate, he made no move in that direction. the _philadelphia_ blew a warning blast, the remaining passengers quickened their movements, there was but little baggage left now upon the deck, and still the two italians stood talking volubly. donnelly waited stolidly near by, never glancing at his man. blake held himself with an iron grip, although his heart-throbs were choking him. it was plain that corte also was beginning to feel the strain, and norvin began to fear that donnelly would delay too long. at last the pinkerton man stooped and raised his valise, then extended his hand to the mafioso. donnelly edged closer. blake knew that the moment for action had come, and found that without any exercise of will-power he too was closing in. his mind was working at such high speed that time seemed to halt and wait. donnelly was within arm's-length of narcone before he spoke; then he said, quietly, "going to leave the city, sabella?" "eh?" the sicilian started, his eyes leaped to the speaker, and the smile died from his heavy features. recognizing the officer, however, he pulled at the visor of his cap, and said, brokenly: "no, no, signore. my friend goes." "come, now," the chief said, grimly. "i want you to tell me something about the domenchino boy." narcone recoiled, colliding with blake, who instantly locked his arm within his own. simultaneously donnelly seized the other wrist, repeating, "you know who stole the little domenchino." the tension which had leaped into the giant muscles died away; narcone shrugged his shoulders, crying, excitedly, in his native tongue: "before god you wrong me." it was the instant for which his captor had planned; the ruse had worked; there was a deft movement on donnelly's part, something snapped metallically, and the manacles of the law were upon the murderer of martel savigno. it had all been accomplished quietly, quickly; even those standing near by hardly noticed it, and those who did were unaware of the significance of the arrest. but once his man was safely ironed, the chief's manner changed, and in the next instant the prisoner caught, perhaps from the eye of corte, the stool-pigeon, some fleeting hint that he had been betrayed. following that came the suspicion that he had been seized not for complicity in the domenchino affair, but for something far more significant. with a furious, snarling cry he flung himself backward and raised his manacled hands to strike. but it was too late for effective resistance. they took him across the gang-plank, screaming, struggling, biting like a maddened animal, while curious passengers rushed to the rails above and stared at them, and another crowd yelled and hooted derisively from the dock. a moment later they were in corte's stateroom, panting, grim, triumphant, with their prisoner's back against the wall and their work done. now that narcone realized the deception that had been practised upon him he began to curse his betrayer with incredible violence and fluency. as yet he had no idea whither he was being taken, nor for which of his many crimes he had been apprehended. but it seemed as if his rage would strangle him. with the unrestraint of a lifetime of lawlessness he poured out his passion in a terrifying rush of vilification, anathema, and threat. he hurled himself against the walls of the stateroom as if to burst his way out, and they were forced to clamp leg-irons upon him. when donnelly had regained his breath he savagely commanded the fellow to be silent, but narcone only shifted his fury from his betrayer to the chief of police. to the pinkerton operative donnelly said, gratefully: "that was good work, corte. wire me from new york. we'll have to go now, for the ship is clearing." "wait!" said blake; then pushing himself forward, he addressed the captive in italian, "where is belisario cardi?" the question came like a gunshot, silencing the outlaw as if with a gag. his bloodshot eyes searched his questioner's face; his lips, wet with slaver, were snarling like those of a dog, but he said nothing. "where is belisario cardi?" came the question for a second time. "i do not know him," said the sicilian, sullenly. "i am vito sabella, an honest man--" "you are gian narcone, the butcher, of san sebastiano," said blake. "you are going back to sicily to be hanged for the murder of martel savigno, count of martinello, and his man ricardo." "bah!" cried the prisoner, loudly. "i am not this narcone of which you speak. i do not know him. i am vito sabella, a poor man, i swear it by the body of christ. i have never seen this cardi. god will punish those who persecute me." blake leaned forward until his face was close to narcone's. "look closely," he said. "have you ever seen me before?" they stared at each other, eye to eye, and the sicilian nodded. "you were drinking chianti in the cafe on royal street, but i swear to you i am an innocent man and i curse those who betray me." "think! do you recall a night four years ago? you were waiting beside the road above terranova. there was a feast of all the country people at the castello, and finally three men came riding upward through the darkness. one of them was singing, for it was the eve of his marriage, and you knew him by his voice as the count of martinello. do you remember what happened then? think! you were called narcone the butcher, and you boasted loudly of your skill with the knife as you dried your hands upon a wisp of grass. you left two men in the road that night, but the third returned to terranova. i ask you again if you have ever seen my face." the effect of these words was extraordinary. the fury died from the prisoner's eyes, his coarse lips fell apart, the blood receded from his purple cheeks, he shrank and shivered loosely. in the silence they could hear the breath wheezing hoarsely in his throat. blake made a final appeal. "they will take you back to sicily, to colonel neri and his carbineers, and you will hang. before it is too late, tell me, where is belisario cardi?" narcone moistened his livid lips and glared malignantly at his inquisitors. but he could not be prevailed upon to speak. "well, that was easy," said donnelly, when the _philadelphia_ had cast off and the two friends were once more back in the rush and bustle of the water-front. norvin agreed. "and yet it seemed a bit unfair," he remarked. "there were three of us, you know. if he were not what he is, i'd feel somewhat ashamed of my part in the affair." donnelly showed his contempt for such quixotic views by an expressive grunt. "you can take the next one single-handed, if you prefer. perhaps it may be your friend cardi." "perhaps," said norvin, gravely. "if that should happen, i should feel that i had paid my debt in full." "i'd like a chance to sweat narcone," growled the chief, regretfully. "i'd find cardi, or i'd--" he heaved a sigh of relief. "oh, well, we've done a good day's work as it is. i hope the papers don't get hold of it." but the papers did get hold of it, and with an effect which neither man had anticipated. had they foreseen the consequences of this morning's work, had they even remotely guessed at the forces they had unwittingly set in motion, they would have lost something of their complacency. throughout the greater part of the city that night the kidnapping of vito sabella became the subject of excited comment. in the neighborhood of st. phillip street it was received in an ominous silence. xii la mafia the surprising ease with which the capture of narcone had been effected gratified norvin blake immensely, for it gave him an opportunity to jeer at the weaker side of his nature. he told himself that the incident went to prove what his saner judgment was forever saying--that fear depends largely upon the power of visualization, that danger is real only in so far as the mind sees it. moreover, the admiration his conduct aroused was balm to his soul. his friends congratulated him warmly, agreeing that he and donnelly had taken the only practical means to rid the community of a menace. in our southern and western states, where individual character stands for more than it does in the over-legalized communities of the north and east, men are concerned not so much with red-tape as with effects, and hence there was little disposition to criticize. blake was amazed to discover what a strong public sentiment the italian outrages had awakened. new orleans, it seemed, was not only indignant, but alarmed. his self-satisfaction received a sudden shock, however, when donnelly strolled into his office a few days later, and without a word laid a letter upon his desk. it ran as follows: daniel donnelly, chief of police, new orleans, la. dear sir,--god be praised that gian narcone has gone to his punishment! but you have incurred the everlasting enmity of the mala vita, or what you term la mafia, and it has been decided that your life must pay for his. you are to be killed next thursday night at the red wing club. i cannot name those upon whom the choice has fallen, for that is veiled in secrecy. i pray that you will not ignore this warning, for if you do your blood will rest upon, one who knows. p. s. destroy this letter. the color had receded from norvin's face when he looked up to meet the smoke-blue eyes of his friend. "god!" he exclaimed. "this--looks bad, doesn't it?" "you think it's on the level?" "don't you?" donnelly shrugged. "i'm blessed if i know. it may have come from the very gang i'm after. it strikes me that they wanted to get rid of narcone, but didn't know just how to go about it, so used me for an instrument. now they want to scare me off." "but--he names the very place; the very hour." "sure--everything except the very dago who is to do the killing! if he knew where and when, why wouldn't he know how and who?" "i--that sounds reasonable, and yet--you are not going to the red wing club any more, are you?" "why not? i've got until thursday and--i like their coffee. here is the other letter, by the way." donnelly produced the first communication. the paper was identical and the type appeared to be the same. beyond this norvin could make out nothing. "well," dan exclaimed, when they had exhausted their conjectures, "they've set their date and i reckon they won't change it, so i'm going to eat dinner to-night at the red wing club as usual, just to see what happens." after a brief hesitation norvin said, "i'd like to join you, if you don't mind." donnelly shook his gray head doubtfully. "i don't think you'd better. this may be on the square." "i think it is, and therefore i intend to see you through." "suit yourself, of course. i'd like to have you go along, but i don't want to get you into any fuss." seven o'clock that evening found the two friends dining at the little cafe in the foreign quarter, but they were seated at one of the corner tables and their backs were toward the wall. "i've had my reasons for eating here, and it wasn't altogether the coffee, either," the elder man confessed. "i suspected as much," norvin told him. "at least i couldn't detect anything remarkable about this rio." "you see, it's a favorite hang-out of the better italian class, and i've been working it carefully for a year." "what have you discovered?" "not much, and yet a great deal. i've made friends, for one thing, and that's considerable. here comes one now. you know him, don't you?" dan indicated a thick-necked, squarely built italian who had entered at the moment. "that's caesar maruffi." norvin regarded the new-comer with interest, for maruffi stood for what is best among his americanized countrymen. moreover, if rumor spoke true, he was one of the richest and most influential foreigners in the city. in answer to the chief's invitation he approached and seated himself at the table, accepting his introduction to blake with a smile and a gracious word. "ah! it is my first opportunity to thank you for the service you have done us in arresting that hateful brigand," he began. "did you know the fellow?" norvin queried. "very well indeed." "maruffi knows a whole lot, if he'd only open up. he's a mafioso himself--eh, caesar?" the chief laughed. "no, no!" the other exclaimed, casting a cautious glance over his shoulder. "i tell you everything i learn. but as for this sabella--i thought him a trifle sullen, perhaps, but an honest fellow." "you don't really think there has been any mistake?" "eh? how could that be possible? did not signore blake remember him?" norvin was about to disclaim his part in the affair, but the speaker ran on: "i fear you must regard all us italians as mafiosi, signore blake, but it is not so. no! we are honest people, but we are terrorized by a few bad men. we do not know them, signore. we are robbed, we are blackmailed, and if we resist, behold! something unspeakable befalls us. we do not know who deals the blow, we merely know that we are marked and that some day we--are buried." maruffi shrugged his square shoulders expressively. "do you suffer in your business?" norvin asked. "per dio! who does not? i have adopted your free country, signore, but it is not so free as my own. maledetto! you have too damned many laws in this free america." maruffi spoke hesitatingly, and yet with intense feeling; his black eyes glittered wickedly, and it was plain that he sounded the note of revolt which was rising from the law-abiding italian element. his appearance bore out his reputation for leadership, for he was big and black and dour, and he gave the impression of unusual force. "your home is in sicily, is it not?" blake inquired. "si! i come from palermo." "i have been there." "i remember," said maruffi, calmly. donnelly broke in, "what do you hear regarding our capture of sabella?" "eh?" "how do they take it?" again maruffi shrugged. "how can they take it? my good countrymen are delighted; others, perhaps, not so well pleased." "but sabella has friends. i suppose they've marked me for revenge?" "no doubt! but what can they do? you are the law. with a private citizen, with me, for instance, it would be different. my wife would prepare herself for widowhood." "how's that? you're not married," said donnelly. "not yet. but i have plans. a fine sicilian girl." "good! i congratulate you." "speaking of sabella," blake interposed, curiously, "i had a hand in taking him, and i'm a private citizen." "true!" maruffi regarded him with his impenetrable eyes. "you predict trouble for me, then?" "i predict nothing. we say in my country that no one escapes the mafia. no doubt we are timid. you are an american, you are not easily frightened. but tell me"--he turned to the chief of police--"who is to follow this brigand? there are others quite as black as he, if they were known." "no doubt! but, unfortunately, i don't know them. why don't you help me out, caesar?" "if i could! you have no suspicions, eh?" "plenty of suspicions, but no proofs." maruffi turned back to norvin, saying: "so, you identified the murderer of your friend savigno? madonna mia! you have a memory! but were you not--afraid?" "afraid of what?" "ah! you are american, as i said before; you fear nothing. but it was belisario cardi who killed the conte of martinello." "belisario cardi is only a name," said norvin, guardedly. "true!" maruffi agreed. "being a palermitan myself, he is real to me, but, as you say, nobody knows." he rose and shook hands cordially with both men. when he had joined the group of italians at a near-by table, donnelly said: "there's the whitest dago in the city. i thought he might be the 'one who knows,' but i reckon i was mistaken. he could help me, though, if he dared." "have you confided in him?" "lord, no! i don't trust any of them. say! the more i think about that letter, the more i think it's a bluff." "you can't afford to ignore it." "of course not. i'll plant o'connell and another man outside on thursday night and see if anything suspicious turns up, but i'll take my dinner elsewhere." the two men had finished their meal when bernie dreux strolled in and took the seat which maruffi had vacated. "well, how goes your detecting, bernie?" norvin inquired. "_hist_!" breathed the little man so sharply that his hearers started. he winked mysteriously and they saw that he was bursting with important tidings. "there's something doing!" "what is it?" demanded the chief. but mr. dreux answered nothing. instead he lit a cigarette, and as he raised the match looked guardedly into a mirror behind donnelly's chair. "i'm glad you took this table," he began in a low voice. "i always sit where i can get a flash." "a _what_?" queried the astonished blake. "pianissimo with that talk!" cautioned the speaker. "you'll tip him off." "tip who?" donnelly breathed. "my man! he's one of the gang. do you see that fellow--that wop next to caesar maruffi?" bernie did not lower his eyes from the mirror, "the third from the left." "sure!" "well!" triumphantly. "well?" "that is he." "that's who?" "i don't know." "what the--" "he's one of 'em, that's all i know. i've been on him for a week. i've trailed him everywhere. he has an accomplice--a woman!" the chief's face underwent a remarkable change. "are you sure?" he whispered, eagerly. "it's a cinch! he comes to the fruit-stand every day. i think he's after blackmail, but i'm not sure." "good!" dan exclaimed. "i want you to trail him wherever he goes, and, above all, watch the woman. now tear back to your banana rookery or you'll miss something. better have a drink first, though." "i'll go you; it's tough work on the nerves. i'm all upset." "i thought you never drank whiskey," norvin said, still amazed at the extraordinary transformation in his friend. "i don't as a rule, it kippers my stomach; but it gives me the courage of a lion." donnelly nodded with satisfaction. "don't get pickled, but keep your nerve. remember, i'm depending on you." dreux's slender form writhed and shuddered as he swallowed the liquor, but his eyes were shining when he rose to go. "i'm glad i'm making good," said he. "if anything happens to me, keep your eye skinned for that fellow; there's dirty work afoot." when he had gone donnelly stuck his napkin into his mouth to still his laughter. "'there's dirty work afoot,'" he quoted in a strangling voice. "can you beat that?" "i--can't believe my senses. why, bernie's actually getting tough! who is this fellow he's trailing?" "that? that's joe poggi, the owner of the fruit-stand. he's my best dago detective, and i sent him here to-night in case anything blew off. the woman is his wife--lovely lady, too. 'blackmail!' oh, lord! i'll have to tell poggi about this. i'll have to tell him he's being shadowed, too, or he'll stop suddenly on the street some day and bernie will run into him from behind and break his nose." thursday night passed without incident. donnelly set a watch upon the red wing club, but nothing occurred to give the least color to the written warning. in the course of a fortnight he had well-nigh forgotten it, and when a third letter came he was less than ever inclined to believe it genuine. "you forestalled the first attempt upon your life," wrote the informant, "but another will be made. you are to be shot at police headquarters some night next week. your desk stands just inside a window which opens upon the street. a fight will occur at the corner near by and during the disturbance an assassin will fire upon you out of the darkness, then disappear in the confusion. do not treat this warning lightly or i swear that you will repent it. "one who knows" donnelly showed this to blake, saying, sourly, "you see. it's just as i told you. they're trying to run me out." "what are you going to do?" "i'm going to move my desk, for one thing, then i'm going to run down this writer. o'connell is going through the stationery-stores now, trying to match the water-mark on the paper. the post-office is on the lookout for the next letter and will try to find which mail-box it is dropped into." "then you think there will be other letters to follow this one?" "certainly! when they see that i've moved away from that window they'll think they've got me going, then i'll be warned of another plot, and another, and another. it might work with some people." the speaker's lips curled in a wintry smile. "you no longer think it came from one of the pallozzo gang?" "no! there's nobody in the outfit who can write a letter like that. it's from the mafia." "how can you say that when the same writer betrayed narcone?" "oh, i've asked myself the same question," donnelly answered with a trace of exasperation, "and i can't answer it unless that was merely a case of revenge. take it from me, i'll get another letter inside of ten days. see if i don't." true to his prediction, the tenth day brought another warning. the writer advised him that his enemies had changed their plans once more, but would strike, when the first opportunity offered. as to where or when this would occur, no information was given. the chief was merely urged in the strongest terms to remove himself beyond the possibility of danger. naturally the recipient took this as proof positive that the whole affair was no more than a weak attempt to frighten him. unfortunately, the postal authorities could not determine where the letter had been mailed, and o'connell reported that the paper on which it was written was of a variety in common use. there seemed to be little hope of tracing the matter back to its source, so donnelly dismissed the whole affair from his mind and went about his duties undisturbed. norvin blake, however, could not bring himself to take the same view. as usual, he attributed his fears to imagination, yet they preyed upon him so constantly that he was forced to heed them. his one frightful experience with la mafia had marked him, it seemed, like some prenatal influence, and now the more he dwelt upon the subject, the more his apprehension quickened. he was ashamed to confess to donnelly, and at the same time he was loath to allow the chief to expose himself unnecessarily. therefore he made it a point to be with him as much as possible. this, of course, involved a considerable risk to himself, and he recalled with misgiving what caesar maruffi had said that night in the red wing club. donnelly alone had been warned, but that did not argue that vengeance would be confined to him. october had come; the lazy heat of summer had passed and new orleans was awakening under its magic winter climate. the piny, breeze-swept gulf resorts had emptied their summer colonies cityward, the social season had begun. the preparations for the great february carnival were nearing completion, and blake had the satisfaction of knowing that myra nell warren was to realize her heart's desire. he had forced a loan upon bernie sufficient to meet the requirements of any queen, and had spent several delightful evenings with the girl herself, amused by her plans of royal conquest. it was like a tonic to be with her. norvin invariably parted from her with a feeling of optimism and a gayety quite reasonless; he had no fears, no apprehensions; the universe was peopled with sprites and fairies, the morrow was a glad adventure full of merriment and promise. he was in precisely such a mood one drizzly wednesday night after having made an inexcusably long call upon her. nothing whatever had occurred to put him in this agreeable humor, yet he went homeward humming as blithely as a barefoot boy in springtime. as he neared the neighborhood in which donnelly lived he decided to drop in on him for a few moments and smoke a cigar. business had lately kept him away from the chief, and he felt a bit guilty. but donnelly had either retired early or else he had not returned from headquarters, for his windows were dark, and norvin retraced his steps, a trifle disappointed. in front of a cobbler's shop, across the street, several men were talking, and as he glanced in their direction the door behind them opened, allowing a stream of light to pour forth. he recognized larubio, the old italian shoemaker himself, and he was on the point of inquiring if donnelly had come home, but thought better of it. larubio and his companions were idling beneath the wooden awning or shed which extended over the sidewalk, and in the open doorway, briefly silhouetted against the yellow light, blake noted a man clad in a shining rubber coat. although the picture was fleeting, it caught his attention. the thought occurred to him that these men were italians, and therefore possible mafiosi, but his mood was too optimistic to permit of silly suspicions. to-night the mafia seemed decidedly unreal and indefinite. he found himself smiling again at the memory of an argument in which he had been worsted by myra nell. he had taken her a most elaborate box of chocolates and she had gleefully promised to consume at least half of them that very night after retiring. he had remonstrated at such an unhygienic procedure, whereupon she had confessed to a secret, ungovernable habit of eating candy in bed. he had argued that the pernicious practice was sure to wreck her digestion and ruin her teeth, but she had confounded him utterly by displaying twin rows as sound as pearls, as white and regular as rice kernels. her digestion, he had to confess, was that of a shetland pony, and he had been forced to fall back upon an unconvincing prophecy of a toothless and dyspeptic old age. he pictured her at this moment propped up in the middle of the great mahogany four-poster, all lace and ruffles and ribbons, her wayward hair in adorable confusion about her face, as she pawed over the sweets and breathed ecstatic blessings upon his name. near the corner he stumbled over a boy hiding in the shadows. then as he turned north on rampart street he ran plump into donnelly and o'connell. "i just came from your house," he told dan. "i thought i'd drop in and smoke one of your bad cigars. is there anything new?" "not much! i've had a hard day and there was a police board meeting to-night. i'm fagged out." "no more letters, eh?" "no. but i've heard that sabella is safe in sicily. that means his finish. i'll have something else to tell you in a day or so; something about your other friend, cardi." "no! really?" "if what i suspect is true, it'll be a sensation. i can't credit the thing myself, that's why i don't want to say anything just yet. i'm all up in the air over it." a moment later the three men separated, donnelly and o'connell turning toward their respective homes, blake continuing his way toward the heart of the city. but the chief's words had upset norvin's complacency. his line of thought was changed and he found himself once more dwelling upon the tragedy which had left such a mark upon his life. martel had been the finest, the cleanest fellow he had ever known; his life, so full of promise, had just begun, and yet he had been ruthlessly stricken down. norvin shuddered at the memory. he saw the road to martinello stretching out ahead of him like a ghost-gray canyon walled with gloom; he heard the creaking of saddles, the muffled thud of hoofs in the dust of the causeway, the song of a lover, then-- blake halted suddenly, listening. from somewhere not far away came the sound again; it was a gunshot, deadened by the blanket of mist and drizzle that shrouded the streets. he turned. it was repeated for a third time, and as he realized whence it came he cried out, affrightedly: "donnelly! donnelly! oh, god!" then he began to run swiftly, as he had run that night four years before, with the lights of terranova in the distance, and in his heart was that same sickening, horrible terror. but this time he ran, not away from the sound, but towards it. as he raced along the slippery streets the night air was ripped again and again with those same loud reverberations. he saw, by the flickering arc-lamp above the crossing where he had just left donnelly, another figure flying towards him, and recognized o'connell. together they turned into girod street. they were in time to see a flash from the shed that stood in front of larubio's shop, then an answering spurt of flame from the side of the street upon which they were. the place was full of noise and smoke. at the farther crossing a man in a shining rubber coat knelt and fired, then rose and scurried into the darkness beyond. figures broke out from the shadows of the wooden awning in front of larubio's shop and followed, some turning towards the left at basin street, others continuing on through the area lighted by the sputtering street light and into the night. one of them paused and looked back as if loath to leave the spot until certain of his work. side by side blake and o'connell raced towards the chief, whom they saw lurching uncertainly along the banquette ahead of them. the detective was cursing; blake sobbed through his tight-clenched teeth. donnelly was down when they reached him, and his empty revolver lay by his side. norvin raised him with shaking arms, his whole body sick with horror. "are you badly--hit, old man?" he gasped. "i'm--done for!" said the chief, weakly. "and the dagos did it." from an open window above them a woman began to scream loudly: "murder! murder!" the cry was taken up in other quarters and went echoing down the street. doors were flung wide, gates slammed, men came hurrying through the wet night, hurling startled questions at one another, but the powder smoke which hung sluggishly in the dark night air was sufficient answer. it floated in thin blue layers beneath the electric lights, gradually fading and melting as the life ebbed from the mangled body of dan donnelly. it was nearing dawn when norvin blake emerged from the hospital whither donnelly had been taken. the air was dead and heavy, a dripping winding-sheet of fog wrapped the city in its folds; no sound broke the silence of the hour. he was sadly shaken, for he had watched a brave soul pass out of the light, and in his ears the words of his friend were ringing: "don't let them get away with this, norvin. you're the only man i trust." xiii the blood of his ancestors at the central station norvin found a great confusion. city officials and newspaper men were coming and going, telephones were ringing, patrolmen and detectives, summoned from their beds, were reporting and receiving orders; yet all this bustling activity affected him with a kind of angry impatience. it seemed, somehow, perfunctory and inadequate; in the intensity of his feeling he doubted that any one else realized, as he did, the full significance of what had occurred. as quickly as possible he made his way to o'neil, the assistant superintendent of police, who was deep in consultation with mayor wright. for a moment he stood listening to their talk, and then, at the first pause, interposed without ceremony: "tell me--what is being done?" o'neil, who had not seemed to note his approach, answered without a hint of surprise at the interruption: "we are dragging the city." "of course. have you arrested larubio, the cobbler?" "no!" both men turned to blake now with concentrated attention. "then don't lose a moment's time. arrest all his friends and associates. look for a man in a rubber coat. i saw him fire. there's a boy, too," he added, after a moment's pause, "about fourteen years old. he was hiding at the corner. i think he must have been their picket; at any rate, he knows something." the assistant superintendent noted these directions, and listened impassively while norvin poured forth his story of the murder. before it was fairly concluded he was summoned elsewhere, and, turning away abruptly, he left the room, like a man who knows he must think of but one thing at a time. the young man, wiping his face with uncertain hand, turned to the mayor. "dan was the second friend i've seen murdered by these devils," he said. "i'd like to do something." "we'll need your help, if it was really the dagoes." "what? there's no doubt on that score. donnelly was warned." "well, we ought to have them under arrest in short order." "and then what? they've probably arranged their alibis long ago. the fellows who did the shooting are not the only ones, either. we must get the leaders." "exactly. o'neil understands." "but he'll fail, as donnelly failed." "what would you have us do?" blake spoke excitedly, his emotions finding a vent. "do? i'd rouse the people. awaken the city. create an uprising of the law-abiding. strip the courts of their red tape and administer justice with a rope. hang the guilty ones at once, before delay robs their execution of its effect and before there is time to breed doubts and distrust in the minds of the people." "you mean, in plain words--lynch them?" "well, what of that? it's the only--" "but, my dear young man, the law--" "oh, i know what you're going to say, well enough, yet there are times when mob law is justified. if these men are not destroyed quickly they will live to laugh at our laws and our scheme of justice. we must strike terror into the heart of every foreign-born criminal; we must clean the city with fire, unless we wish to see our institutions become a mockery and our community overridden by a band of cutthroats. the killing of dan donnelly is more than a mere murder; it is an attack on our civilization." "you are carried away by your personal feelings." "i think not. if this thing runs through the regular channels, what will happen? you know how hard it is to convict those people. we must fight fire with fire." "personally, i agree with a good deal you say; officially, of course. i can't go so far. you say you want to help. will you assume a large responsibility? will you take the lead in a popular movement to help the enforcement of the law--organize a committee?" "if you think i'm the right man?" "good! understand"--the mayor spoke now with determined earnestness--"we must have no lynchings; but i believe the police will need help in the search, and i think you are the man to stir up the public conscience and secure that aid. if you can help in apprehending the criminals we shall see that the courts do their part. i can trust you in so delicate a matter where i couldn't trust--some others." o'neil appeared at that moment with two strange objects in his hands. "see what we've just found on the basin street banquette." he displayed a pair of sawed-off shotguns the stocks of which were hinged in such a manner that the weapons could be doubled into a length of perhaps eighteen inches and thus be concealed upon the person. blake examined them with mingled feelings. having seen the body of the chief ripped and torn in twenty places by buckshot, slugs, and scraps of iron, he had tried to imagine what sort of firearms had been used. now he knew, and he began to wonder whether death would come to him in the same ugly form. "have you sent for larubio?" he asked. "the men are just leaving." "i'll go with them." o'neil intercepted the officers at the door, and a moment later norvin was hurrying with them toward girod street. mechanically his mind began to review the events leading up to the murder, dwelling on each detail with painful and fruitless persistence. he repictured the scene that his eye had so swiftly and so carelessly recorded; he saw again the dark shed, the dumb group of figures idling beneath it, the open door and the flood of yellow light behind. but when he strove to recall a single face or form, or even the precise number of persons, he was at a loss. nothing stood out distinctly but the bearded face of larubio, the silhouette of a man in a gleaming rubber coat, and, a moment later, a slim stripling boy crouched in the shadows near the corner. as the party turned into girod street he saw by the first streaks of dawn that the curious had already begun to assemble. a dozen or more men were morbidly examining the scene, re-enacting the assassination and tracing the course of bullets by the holes in wall and fence--no difficult matter, since the ground where donnelly had given battle had been swept by a fusillade. larubio's shop was dark. the officers tried the door quietly, then at a signal from norvin they rushed it. the next instant the three men found themselves in an evil-smelling room furnished with a bench, some broken chairs, a litter of tools and shoes and leather findings. it was untenanted, but, seeing another door ahead of him, blake stumbled toward it over the debris. like the outer door, it was barred, but yielded to his shoulder. it was well that the policemen were close upon his heels, for they found him locked in desperate conflict with a huge, half-naked sicilian, who fought with the silent wickedness of a wolf at bay. the chamber was squalid and odorous; a tumbled couch, from which the occupant had leaped, showed that he had been calmly sleeping upon the scene of his crime. through the dim-lit filth of the place the cobbler whirled them, struggling like a man insane. a table fell with a crash of dishes, a stove was wrecked, a chair smashed, then he was pinned writhing to the bed from which he had just arisen. "close the front door--quick!" norvin panted. "keep out the crowd!" one of the policemen dashed to the front of the hovel barely in time to bar the way. larubio, as he crouched there in the half-light, manacled but defiant, made a striking figure. he was a patriarchal man. his hairy, naked chest rose and fell as he fought for his breath, a thick beard grew high upon his cheeks, lending dignity to his fierce aquiline features, a tangled mass of iron-gray hair hung low above his eyes. he looked more like an arab sheik than a beggarly sicilian shoemaker. "why are you here?" he questioned, in a deep voice. blake answered him in his own language: "you killed the chief of police." "no. i had no part--" "don't lie!" "as god is my judge, i am innocent. i heard the shooting; i looked out into the night and saw men running about. i was frightened, so i went to bed. that is all." norvin undertook to stare him down. "you will hang for this, larubio," he said. the fierce gray eyes met his unflinchingly. "you had a hand in the killing, for i saw you. but you acted against your will. am i right?" still the patriarch flung back his glance defiantly. "you were ordered to kill and you dared not disobey. where is belisario cardi?" the old man started. into his eyes for the briefest instant there leaped a look of terror, then it was gone. "i do not know what you are talking about," he answered. "come! the man with the rubber coat has confessed." larubio's gaze roved uncertainly about the squalid quarters; but he shook his head, mumbling: "god will protect the innocent. i know nothing, your excellency." they dragged him, still protesting, from his den as dogs drag an animal from its burrow. but norvin had learned something. that momentary wavering glance, that flitting light of doubt and fear, had told him that to the cobbler the name of cardi meant something real and terrible. back at headquarters o'neil had further information for him. "we've got larubio's brother-in-law, caspardo cressi. it was his son, no doubt, whom you saw waiting at the corner." "have you found the boy?" "no, he's gone." "then make haste before they have time to spirit him away. these men won't talk, but we might squeeze something out of the boy. he's the weakest link in the chain, so you _must_ find him." the morning papers were on the street when norvin went home. new orleans had awakened to the outrage against her good name. men were grouped upon corners, women were gossiping from house to house, the air was surcharged with a great excitement. it was as if a public enemy had been discovered at the gates, as if an alien foe had struck while the city slept. that unformed foreign prejudice which had been slowly growing had crystallized in a single night. to norvin the popular clamor, which rose high during the next few days, had a sickening familiarity. at the time of martel savigno's murder he had looked upon justice as a thing inevitable, he had felt that the public wrath, once aroused, was an irresistible force; yet he had seen how ineffectually such a force could spend itself. and the new orleans police seemed likely to accomplish little more than the italian soldiers. although more than a hundred arrests were made, it was doubtful if, with the exception of larubio and cressi, any of the real culprits had been caught. he turned the matter over in his mind incessantly, consulted with o'neil as to ways and means, conferred with the mayor, sounded his friends. then one morning he awoke to find himself at the head of a committee of justice, composed of fifty leading business men of the city, armed with powers somewhat vaguely defined, but in reality extremely wide. he set himself diligently to his task. there followed through the newspapers an appeal to the italian population for assistance, and offers of tremendous rewards. this resulted in a flood of letters, some signed, but mostly anonymous, a multitude of shadowy clues, of wild accusations. but no sooner was a promising trail uncovered than the witness disappeared or became inspired with a terror which sealed his lips. it began to appear that there was really no evidence to be had beyond what norvin's eyes had photographed. and this, he knew, was not enough to convict even larubio and his brother-in-law. while thus baffled and groping for the faintest clue, he received a letter which brought him at least a ray of sunshine. he had opened perhaps half of his morning's mail one day when he came upon a truly remarkable missive. it was headed with an amateurish drawing or a skull; at the bottom of the sheet was a dagger, and over all, in bright red, was the life-size imprint of a small, plump hand. in round, school-girl characters he read as follows: "beware! you are a traitor and a deserter, therefore you are doomed. escape is impossible unless you heed this warning. meet me at the old house on st. charles street, and bring your ransom. "the avenger." at the lower left-hand corner, in microscopic characters, was written: "i love chocolate nougat best." norvin laughed as he re-read this sanguinary epistle, for he had to admit that it had given him a slight start. being a man of action, he walked to the telephone and called a number which had long since become familiar. "is this the creole candy kitchen? send ten pounds of your best chocolate nougat to miss myra nell warren at once. this is blake speaking. wait! i have enough on my conscience without adding another sin. perhaps you'd better make it five pounds now and five pounds a week hereafter. put it in your fanciest basket, with lots of blue ribbon, and label it 'ransom!'" next he called the girl himself, and after an interminable wait heard a breathless voice say: "hello, norvin! i've been out in the kitchen making cake, so i couldn't get away. it's in the oven now, cooking like mad." "i've just received a threatening letter," he told her. "who in the world could have sent it?" "evidently some blackmailing wretch. it demands a ransom." "heavens! you won't be cowardly enough to yield?" "certainly. i daren't refuse." he heard her laughing softly. "why don't you tell the police?" "indeed! there's an army of men besieging the place now." "then you must expect to catch the writer?" "i've been trying to for a long time." "i'm sure i don't know what you are talking about," she said, innocently. "could i have sent the ransom to the wrong address?" he pretended to be seized with doubt, whereupon myra nell exclaimed, quickly: "oh, not necessarily." then, after a pause, "norvin, how does a person get red ink off of her hands?" "use a cotton broker. let him hold it this evening." "i'd love to, but bernie wouldn't allow it. it was his ink, you know, and i spilled it all over his desk. norvin--is it really nougat?" "it is, the most unhealthy, the most indigestible--" "you _duck_! you _may_ hold my gory hand for--wait!" blake heard a faint shriek. "don't ring off. something terrible--" then the wire was dead. "hello! hello!" he called. "what's wrong, myra nell?" he rattled the receiver violently, and getting no response, applied to central. after some moments he heard her explaining in a relieved tone: "oh, _such_ a fright as i had." "what was it? for heaven's--" "the cake!" "you frightened me. i thought--" "it's four stories high and pasted together with caramel." "you should never leave a 'phone in that way without--" "bernie detests caramel; but i'm expecting a 'certain party' to call on me to-night. norvin, do you think red ink would hurt a cake?" "myra nell," he said, severely, "didn't you wash your hands before mixing that dough?" "of course." "i have my doubts. will you really be at liberty this evening?" "that depends entirely upon you. if i am, i shall exact another ransom--flowers, perhaps." "i'll send them anyhow, marechal neils." "oh, you are a--wait!" for a second time miss warren broke off; but now norvin heard her cry out gladly to some one. he held the receiver patiently until his arm cramped, then rang up again. "oh, i forgot all about you, norvin dear," she chattered. "vittoria has just come, so i can't talk to you any more. won't you run out and meet her? i know she's just dying to--she says she isn't, either! oh, fiddlesticks! you're not so busy as all that. very well, we'll probably eat the cake ourselves. good-by!" "good-by, avenger," he laughed. as he turned away smiling he found bernie dreux comfortably ensconced in an office chair and regarding him benignly. "hello, bernie! i didn't hear you come in." "wasn't that myra nell talking?" inquired the little man. "yes." "you called her 'avenger.' what has she been up to now?" blake handed him the red-hand letter. to his surprise bernie burst out angrily: "how dare she?" "what?" "it's most unladylike--begging a gentleman for gifts. i'll see that she apologizes." "if you do i'll punch your head. she couldn't do anything unladylike if she tried." "i don't approve--" "nonsense!" "i'll see that she gets her chocolates." "oh, i've sent 'em--a deadly consignment--enough to destroy both of you. and i've left a standing order for five pounds a week." "but that letter--it's blackmail." bernie groaned. "she holds me up in the same way whenever she feels like it. she's getting suspicious of me lately, and i daren't tell her i'm a detective. the other day she set remus, our gardener, on my trail, and he shadowed me all over the town. felicite thinks there's something wrong, too, and she's taken to following me. between her and remus i haven't a moment's privacy." "it's tough for a detective to be dogged by his gardener and his sweetheart," norvin sympathized. he began to run through his mail, while his visitor talked on in his amusing, irrelevant fashion. "i'm rather offended that i wasn't named on that committee of fifty," bernie confessed, after a time. "you know how the chief relied on me?" "exactly." "well, i'm full of italian mysteries now. what i haven't discovered by my own investigations, vittoria fabrizi has told me. for instance, i know what became of the boy gino cressi." "you do?" blake looked up curiously from a letter he had been eagerly perusing. "he's in mobile." "are you sure?" "certainly." "i think you're wrong." "why am i wrong?" "read this. my mail is full of anonymous communications." he passed over the letter in his hand, and mr. dreux read as follows: norvin blake, new orleans, louisiana. the cressi boy is hidden at / st. phillip street. go personally and in secret, for there are spies among the police. one who knows. "good lord! do you believe it?" "i shall know in an hour." in reality norvin had no doubt that his informant told the truth. on the contrary, he found that he had been waiting subconsciously for a hint from this mysterious but reliable source, and now that it had come he felt confident and elated. "a leak in the department would explain the maddening series of checkmates up to date." after a moment's hesitation he continued: "if gino cressi proves to be the boy i saw that night, we will put the rope around his father's and his uncle's necks, for he is little more than a child, and they evidently knew he would confess if accused; otherwise they wouldn't have been so careful to hide him." he rose and, eying dreux intently, inquired, "will you go along and help me take him?" bernie fell into a sudden panic of excitement. his face paled, he blinked with incredible rapidity, his lips twitched, and he clasped his thin, bloodless hands nervously. "why--are you--really--going--and alone?" norvin nodded. "if they have spies among our own men the least indiscretion may give the alarm. besides, there is no time to lose; it would be madness to go there after dark. will you come?" "you--b-b-bet," mr. dreux stuttered. after a painful effort to control himself he inquired, with rolling eyes, "s-say, norvin, will there be any fighting--any d-d-danger?" blake's own imagination had already presented that aspect of the matter all too vividly. "yes, there may be danger," he confessed. "we may have to take the boy by force." his nerves began to dance and quiver, as always before every new adventure. "perhaps, after all, you'd better not go. i--understand how you feel." the little man burst out in a forceful expletive. "_pudding!_ i _want_ to fight. d-don't you see?" "no. i don't." "i've never been in a row. i've never done anything brave or desperate, like--like you. i'm aching for trouble. i go looking for it every night." "really!" blake looked his incredulity. "sure thing! last night i insulted a perfectly nice gentleman just to provoke a quarrel. i'd never seen him before, and ordinarily i hesitate to accost strangers; but i felt as if i'd have hysterics if i couldn't lick somebody; so i walked up to this person and told him his necktie was in rotten taste." "what did he say?" "he offered to go home and change it. i was so chagrined that i--cursed him fearfully." "bernie!" dreux nodded with an expression of the keenest satisfaction. "i could have cried. i called him a worm, a bug, a boll-weevil; but he said he had a family and didn't intend to be shot up by some well-dressed desperado." "i suppose it's the blood of your ancestors." "i suppose it is. now let's go get this dago boy. i'm loaded for grizzlies, and if the mafia cuts in i'll croak somebody." he drew a huge rusty military revolver from somewhere inside his clothes and flourished it so recklessly that his companion recoiled. together the two set out for st. phillip street. blake, whose reputation for bravery had become proverbial, went reluctantly, preyed upon by misgivings; dreux, the decadent, overbred dandy, went gladly, as if thirsting for the fray. xiv the net tightens number / st. phillip street proved to be a hovel, in the front portion of which an old woman sold charcoal and kindling. leaving bernie on guard, blake penetrated swiftly to the rooms behind, paying no heed to the crone's protestations. in one corner a slender, dark-eyed boy was cowering, whom he recognized at once as the lad he had seen on the night of donnelly's death. "you are gino cressi," he said, quietly. the boy shook his head. "oh, yes, you are, and you must come with me, gino." the little fellow recoiled. "you have come to kill me," he quavered. "no, no, my little man. why should i wish to do that?" "i am a sicilian; you hate me." "that is not true. we hate only bad sicilians, and you are a good boy." "i did not kill the chief." "true. you did not even know that those other men intended to kill him. you were merely told to wait at the corner until you saw him come home. am i right?" "i do not know anything about the chief," gino mumbled. but it was plain that some of his fear was vanishing under this unexpected kindness. blake had a voice which won dumb animals, and a smile which made friends of children. at last the young sicilian came forward and put his hand into the stranger's. "they told me to hide or the americans would kill me. madonna mia! i am no mafioso! i--i wish to see my father." "i will take you to him now." "you will not harm me?" "no. you are perfectly safe." but the boy still hung back, stammering: "i--am afraid, si'or. after all, you see, i know nothing. perhaps i had better wait here." "but you will come, to please me, will you not? then when you find that the policemen will not hurt you, you will tell us all about it, eh, carino?" he led his shrinking captive out through the front of the house, whence the crone had fled to spread the alarm, and lifted him into the waiting cab. but bernie dreux was loath to acknowledge such a tame conclusion to an adventure upon which he had built high hopes. "l-let's stick round," he shivered. "it's just getting g-g-good." "come on, you idiot." blake fairly dragged him in and commanded the driver to whip up. "that old woman will rouse the neighborhood, and we'll have a mob heaving bricks at us in another minute." "that'll be fine!" dreux declared, his pride revolting at what he considered a cowardly retreat. he had come along in the hope of doing deeds that would add luster to his name, and he did not intend to be disappointed. it required a vigorous muscular effort to keep him from clambering out of the carriage. "i don't understand you at all," said norvin, with one hand firmly gripping his coat collar, "but i understand the value of discretion at this moment, and i don't intend to take any chances on losing our little friend gino before he has turned state's evidence." dreux sank back, gloomily enough, continuing for the rest of the journey to declaim against the fate that had condemned him to a life of insipid peace; but it was not until they had turned out of the narrow streets of the foreign quarter into the wide, clean stretch of canal street that blake felt secure. little gino cressi was badly frightened. his wan, pinched face was ashen and he shivered wretchedly. yet he strove to play the man, and his pitiful attempt at self-control roused something tender and protective in his captor. laying a reassuring hand upon his shoulder, blake said, gently: "coraggio! no harm shall befall you." "i--do not wish to die, excellency." "you will not die. speak the truth, figlio mio, and the police will be very kind to you. i promise." "i know nothing," quavered the child. "my father is a good man. they told me the chief was dead, but i did not kill him. i only hid." "who told you the chief was dead?" "i--do not remember." "who told you to hide?" "i do not remember, si'or." gino's eyes were like those of a hunted deer, and he trembled as if dreadfully cold. it was a wretched, stricken child whom blake led into o'neil's office, and for a long time young cressi's lips were glued; but eventually he yielded to the kind-faced men who were so patient with him and his lies, and told them all he knew. on the following morning the papers announced three new arrests in the donnelly case, resulting from a confession by gino cressi. on the afternoon of the same day the friendly and influential caesar maruffi called upon blake with a protest. "signore, my friend," he began, "you and your committee are doing a great injustice to the italians of this city." "how so?" "already everybody hates us. we cannot walk upon your streets without insult. men curse us, children spit at us. we are not jews; we are italians. there are bad people among my countrymen, of course, but, signore, look upon me. do you think such men as i--" "oh, you stand for all that is best in your community. mr. maruffi. i only wish you'd help us clean house." the sicilian shrugged. "help? how can i help?" "tell what you know of the mafia so that we can destroy it. at every turn we are thwarted by the secrecy of your people." "they know what is good for them. as for me, my flesh will not turn the point of a knife, signore. life is an enjoyable affair, and if i die i can never marry. what would you have me tell?" "the name of the capo-mafia, for instance." "you think there is a capo-mafia?" "i know it. what's more, i know who he is." "belisario cardi? bah! few people believe there is such a man." "you and i believe it." "perhaps. but what if i could lay hands upon him? think you that i, or any sicilian, would dare? all the police of this city could never take belisario cardi. it is to make laugh! our friend donnelly was unwise, he was too zealous. now--he is but a memory. he took a life, his life was taken in return. this affair will mean more deaths. leave things as they are, my friend, before you too are mourned." norvin eyed his caller curiously. "that sounds almost as much like a threat as a warning." "god forbid! i simply state the truth for your own good and for the good of all of us. wherever sicilians are found there your laws will be ignored. for my own part, naturally, i do not approve--i am an american now--but the truth is what i tell you." "in other words, you think we ought to leave your countrymen alone?" "ah, i do not go so far. the laws should be enforced, that is certain. but in trying to do what is impossible you stir up race hatred and make it hard for us reputable sicilians, who would help you so far as lies in our power. you cannot stamp out the mafia in a day, in a week; it is sicilian character. already you have done enough to vindicate the law. if you go on in a mad attempt to catch this cardi--whose existence, even, is doubtful--the consequences may be in every way bad." "we have five of the murderers now, and we'll have the other man soon--the fellow with the rubber coat. the grand jury will indict them. but we won't stop there. we're on a trail that leads higher up, to the man, or men, who directed larubio and the others to do their work." maruffi shook his head mournfully. "and the cressi boy--it was you who found him?" "it was." "how did you do it?" norvin laughed. "if you'd only enlist in the cause i'd tell you all my secrets gladly." "eh! then he was betrayed!" for the life of him norvin could not tell whether the man was pleased or chagrined at his secrecy, but something told him that the sicilian was feeling him out for a purpose. he smiled without answering. "betrayed!" said maruffi. "ah, well, i should not like to be in the shoes of the betrayer." he seemed to lose himself in thought for a moment. "believe me, i would help you if i could, but i know nothing, and besides it is dangerous. i am a good citizen, but i am not a detective. you american-born," he smiled, "assume that all we sicilians are deep in the secrets of the mafia. so the people in the street insult us, and you in authority think that if we would only tell--bah! tell what? we know no more than you, and it is less safe for us to aid." he rose and extended his hand. "of course, if i learn anything i will inform you; but there are times when it is best to let sleeping dogs lie." norvin closed the door behind him with a feeling of relief, for he was puzzled as to the object of this visit and wanted time to think it out undisturbed. the upshot of his reflection was that donnelly had been right and that caesar was indeed the author of the warning letters. as to his want of knowledge, the sicilian protested rather like a man who plays a part openly. on the other hand, his fears for his own safety seemed genuine enough. what more natural, then, than that he should "wish to test donnelly's successor with the utmost care before proceeding with his disclosures?" blake was glad that he had been secretive, for if maruffi were the unknown friend he would find such caution reassuring. as if to confirm this view of the case, there came, a day or two later, another communication, stating that the assassin who was still at large (he, in fact, who had worn the rubber coat) was a laborer in the parish of st. john the baptist, named frank normando. the letter went on to say that in escaping from the scene of the crime the man had fallen on the slippery pavement, and the traces of his injury might still be found upon his body. norvin lost no time in consulting o'neil. "jove! you're the best detective we have," said the acting chief, admiringly. "i'd do well to turn this affair over to you entirely." "have you learned anything more from your prisoners?" "nothing. they refuse to talk. we're giving them the third degree; but it's no use. there was another murder on st. phillip street last night. the old woman who guarded the cressi boy was found dead." "then they think she betrayed the lad?" norvin recalled maruffi's hint that it would go hard with the traitor. "yes; we might have expected it. how many men will you need to take this normando?" "i? you--think i'd better do the trick?" blake had not intended to take any active part in the capture. he was already known as the head of the movement to avenge donnelly; he had apprehended larubio and the cressi boy with his own hand. inner voices warned him wildly to run no further risks. "i thought you'd prefer to lead the raid," o'neil said. "so i would. give me two or three men and we'll bring in normando, dead or alive." six hours later the last of donnelly's actual assassins was in the parish prison and the police were in possession of evidence showing his movements from early morning on the day of the murder up to the hour of the crime. his identification was even more complete than that of his accomplices, and the public press thanked norvin blake in the name of the city for his efficient service. the anonymous letters continued to come to him regularly, and each one contained some important clue, which, followed up, invariably led to evidence of value. slowly, surely, out of nothing as it were, the chain was forged. now came the names of persons who had seen or had talked with some of the accused upon the fatal day, now a hint which turned light upon some dark spot in their records. again the letters aided in the discovery of important witnesses, who, under pressure, confessed to facts which they had feared to make public--until at last the history of the six assassins lay exposed like an open sheet before the prosecuting attorney. the certainty and directness with which the "one who knows" worked was a matter of ever-increasing amazement to blake. he himself was little more than an instrument in these unseen hands. who or what could the writer be? by what means could he remain in such intimate touch with the workings of the mafia, and what reason impelled him to betray its members? hour after hour the young man speculated, racking his head until it ached. he considered every possibility, he began to look with curiosity at every face. at length he came to feel an even greater interest in the identity of this hidden friend than in the result of the struggle itself. but investigations--no matter how cautious--invariably resulted in a prompt and imperative warning to desist upon pain of ruining everything. gradually in his mind the conviction assumed certainty that the omniscient informer could be none other than caesar maruffi. he frequented the red wing club as donnelly had done, and the more he saw of the fellow the more firm became his belief. he had recognized at their first meeting that caesar was unusual--there was something unfathomable about him--but precisely what this peculiarity was he could never quite determine. as for maruffi, he met norvin's advances half-way; but although he was apparently more than once upon the verge of some disclosure, the terror of the brotherhood seemed always to intervene. feeling that he could not openly voice his suspicions until the other was ready to show his hand, blake kept a close mouth, and thus the two played at cross-purposes. maruffi--if he were indeed the author of those letters--had not shrunk from betraying the unthinking instruments of the mafia. would he ever bring himself to implicate the man, or men, higher up? blake doubted it. a certain instinctive distrust of the sicilian was beginning to master him when a letter came which put a wholly different face upon the matter. "the men who really killed chief donnelly," it read, "are salvatore di marco, frank garcia, giordano bolla, and lorenzo cardoni." blake gasped; these were men of standing and repute in the foreign community. "larubio and his companions were but parts of the machine; these are the hands which set them in motion. these four men dined together on the evening of october th, at fabacher's, then attended a theater where they made themselves conspicuous. from there they proceeded to the lower section of the city and were purposely arrested for disturbing the peace about the time of donnelly's murder, in order to establish incontestable alibis. nevertheless, it was they who laid the trap, and they are equally guilty with the wretches who obeyed their orders. it was they who paid over the blood money, and with their arrest you will have all the accessories to the crime, save one. of him i can tell you nothing. i fear i can never find him, for he walks in shadow and no man dares identify him." the importance of this information was tremendous, for arrests up to date had been made only among the lower element. an accusation against di marco, garcia, bolla, and cardoni would set the city ablaze. o'neil was aghast at the charge. the mayor was incredulous, the committee of fifty showed signs of hesitation. but blake, staking his reputation on the genuineness of the letter, and urging the reliability of the writer as shown on each occasion in the past, won his point, and the arrests were made. the italian press raised a frightful clamor, the prisoners themselves were righteously indignant, and norvin found that he had begun to lose that confidence which the public had been so quick to place in him. nevertheless, he pursued his work systematically, and soon the mysterious agent proceeded to weave a new web around the four suspected men, while he looked on fascinated, doing as he was bid, keeping his own counsel as he had been advised, and turning over the results of his inquiries to the police as they were completed. then came what he had long been dreading--a warning like those which had foreshadowed donnelly's death--and he began to spend sleepless nights. his daylight hours were passed in a strained expectancy; he fought constantly to hold his fears in check; he began sitting with his face to doors; he turned wide corners and avoided side streets. he became furtive and watchful; his eyes were forever flitting here and there; he chose the outer edges of the sidewalks, and he went nowhere after nightfall unattended. the time was past when he could doubt the constancy of his purpose; but he did fear a nervous breakdown, and even shuddered at the thought of possible insanity. being in fact as sane a man as ever lived, his irrational nerves alarmed him all the more. he could not conceive that an event was immediately before him which, without making his position safer, would rouse him from all thought of self. our lives are swayed by trifles; a feather's weight may alter the course of our destinies. a man's daily existence is made up of an infinite series of choices, every one of which is of the utmost importance, did he but know it. we follow paths of a million forkings, none of which converge. a momentary whim, a passing fancy, a broken promise, turns our feet into trails that wind into realms undreamed of. it so happened that myra nell warren yielded to an utterly reasonless impulse to go calling at the utterly absurd hour of a.m. miss warren followed no set rules in her conduct, her mind reacted according to no given formula, and, therefore, when it suddenly occurred to her to visit a little old creole lady in the french quarter, she went without thoughtful consideration or delay. madame la branche was a distant cousin on bernie's side--so distant, in fact, that no one except herself had ever troubled to trace the precise relationship; but she employed a cook whose skill was celebrated. now myra nell's appetite was a most ungovernable affair, and when she realized that her complete happiness depended upon a certain bouillabaisse, in the preparation of which madame la branche's julia had become famous, she whisked her hair into a knot, jammed her best and largest hat over its unruly confusion, and went bouncing away in the direction of esplanade street. it was in the early afternoon that norvin blake received a note from a coal-black urchin, who, after many attempts, had finally succeeded in penetrating to his inner office. recognizing the writing, norvin tore open the envelope eagerly, ready to be entertained by some fresh example of the girl's infinite variety. he read with startled eyes: "i send this by a trusted messenger, hoping that it will reach you in time. i am a prisoner. i am in danger. i fear my beauty is destroyed. if you love me, come. "your wretched "myra nell." the address was that of a house on esplanade street. "how did you get this?" he demanded, harshly, of the pickaninny. "a lady drap it from a window." "where? where was she?" "in a gre't big house on esplanade street. she seemed mighty put out about something. then a man run me away with a club." a moment later blake was on the street and had hailed a carriage. the driver, reading urgency in the set face of his fare, whipped the horses into a gallop and the vehicle tore across town, leaping and rocking violently. the thought that myra nell was in danger filled blake with a physical sickness. her beauty gone! could it be that the mafia had taken this means of attacking him, knowing of his affection for the girl? of a sudden she became very dear, and he was smothered with fury that any one should cause her suffering. his heart was pounding madly as the carriage slowed into esplanade street, threatening to upset, and he saw ahead of him the house he sought. with a sharp twinge of apprehension he sighted another man approaching the place at a run, and leaping from his conveyance, he raced on with frantic speed. xv the end of the quest evidently the alarm had spread, for there were others ahead of blake. several men were grouped beneath an open window. they were strangely excited; some were panting as if from violent exertion; a young french creole, lecompte rilleau, was sprawled at full length upon the grassy banquette, either badly injured or entirely out of breath. he raised a listless hand to the newcomer, as if waving him to the attack. norvin recognized them all as admirers of myra nell--cotton brokers, merchants, a bank cashier--a great relief surged over him. "thank god! you're here--in time," he gasped. "what's happened to--her?" raymond cline started to speak, but just then blake heard the girl herself calling to him, and saw her leaning from a window, her piquant beauty framed with blushing roses which hung about the sill. "myra nell! you're safe!" he cried, shakingly. "what have they done to you?" she smiled piteously and shook her dark head. "you were good to come. i am a prisoner." "a prisoner!" norvin stared at the young men about him. "come on," he said, "let's get her out!" but murray logan quieted him. "it's no use, old man." "what d'you mean?" "you can't go in." "can't--go--in?" as blake stared uncomprehendingly at the speaker he heard rapid footsteps approaching and saw achille marigny coming on the wings of the wind. it was he who appeared in the distance as norvin rounded the corner, and it was plain now that he was well-nigh spent. rilleau reared himself on one elbow and cried with difficulty: "welcome, achille." "take it easy, marigny," called cline; "we've saved her." some one laughed, and the suspicion that he had been hoaxed swept over blake. "what's the joke?" he demanded. "i was frightened to death." "the house is quarantined." "i never dreamed you'd _all_ come," miss warren was saying, sweetly. "it was very gallant, and i shall _never_ forget it--never." "she says her--beauty is--gone," wildly panted marigny, who had run himself blind and as yet could hear nothing but the drumming in his ears. "judge for yourself." cline steadied him against the low iron fence and pointed to the girl's bewitching face embowered in the leafy window above. from where he lay flat on his back, idly flapping his hands, rilleau complained: "i have a weak heart. will somebody get me a drink?" "it was _splendid_ of you," myra nell called down to the group. "i love you for it. please get me out, right away." norvin now perceived a burly individual seated upon the steps of the la branche mansion. he approached with a view to parleying, but the man forestalled him" saying warningly: "you can't go in. they've got smallpox in there." "smallpox!" "go away from that door!" screamed myra nell; but the fellow merely scowled. "i hate to offend the lady," he explained to norvin, in a hoarse whisper; "but i can't let her out." miss warren repeated in a fury: "go away, i tell you. these are friends of mine. if you were a gentleman you'd know you're not wanted. norvin, make him skedaddle." blake shook his head. "you've scared us all blue. if you're quarantined i don't see what we can do." "the idea! you can at least come in." "if you go in, you can't come out," belligerently declared the watchman. "them's orders." "_oh-h!_ you monster!" cried his prisoner. "she says herself she's got it," the man explained. "i never did!" myra nell wrung her hands. "will you stand there and let me perish? do you refuse to save me?" "where is madame la branche?" norvin asked. "asleep. and cousin montegut is playing solitaire in the library." "then who has the smallpox?" "the cook! they took her screaming to the pest-house an hour after i came. i shall be the next victim; i feel it. we're shut up here for a _week_, maybe longer. think of that! there's nothing to do, nobody to talk to, nothing to look at. we need another hand for whist. i--i supposed somebody would volunteer." "i'd love to," rilleau called, faintly, from the curb, "but i wouldn't survive a week. my heart is beating its last, and besides--i don't play whist." mr. cline called the attention of his companions to two figures which had appeared in the distance, and began to chant: "the animals came in two by two, the elephant and the kangaroo," "gentlemen, here come the porpoise and the antelope. we are now complete." the new arrivals proved to be bernie dreux and august kulm, the latter a fat teutonic merchant whose place of business was down near the river. mr. kulm had evidently run all the way, for he was laboring heavily and his gait had long since slackened into a stumbling trot. his eyes were rolling wildly; his fresh young cheeks were purple and sheathed in perspiration. miss warren exclaimed, crossly: "oh, dear! i didn't send for bernie. i'll bet he's furious." and so it proved. when her half-brother's horrified alarm had been dispelled by the noisy group of rescuers it was replaced by the blackest indignation. he thanked them stiffly and undertook to apologize for his sister, in the midst of which rilleau, who had now managed to regain his feet, suggested the formation of "the myra nell contagion club." "its object shall be the alleviation of our lady's distress, and its membership shall be limited to her rejected suitors," he declared. "we'll take turns amusing her. i'll appoint myself chairman of the entertainment committee and one of us will always be on guard. we'll sing, we'll dance, we'll cavort beneath the window, and help to while the dreary hours away." his suggestion was noisily accepted, then after an exchange of views murray logan confessed that he had bolted a directors' meeting, and that ruin stared him in the face unless he returned immediately. achille marigny, it appeared, had unceremoniously fled from the trial of an important lawsuit, and raymond cline was needed at the bank. foote, delavan, and the others admitted that they, too, must leave miss warren to her fate, at least until after 'change had closed. and so, having put themselves at her service with extravagant protestations of loyalty, promising candy, books, flowers, a choir to sing beneath her window, they finally trooped off, half carrying the rotund mr. kulm, who had sprinted himself into a jelly-like state of collapse. rilleau alone maintained his readiness to brave the perils of smallpox, leprosy, or plague at miss warren's side, until bernie informed him that the very idea was shocking, whereupon he dragged himself away with the accusation that all his heart trouble lay at her door. "oh, you spoiled it all!" myra nell told her brother, indignantly. "you might at least have let _him_ come in. cousin althea would have chaperoned us." "the idea! why _did_ you do such an atrocious thing?" "where you frightened, norvin?" the girl beamed hopefully down upon him. "horribly. i'm not over it yet. i'm half inclined to act on lecompte's suggestion and break in." she clapped her hands gleefully, whereupon the watchman arose, saying: "no you don't!" "i wouldn't allow such a thing," said bernie, firmly. "it would mean a scandal." "i--i can't stay here _alone_, for a whole _week_. i'll die." "then i'll join you myself," her brother offered. myra nell looked alarmed. "oh, not _you_! i want some one to nurse me when i fall ill." "what makes you think you'll catch it? were you exposed?" "exposed! heavens! i can feel the disease coming on this very minute. the place is full of germs; i can spear 'em with a hat-pin." she shuddered and managed to counterfeit a tear. "i've an idea," said norvin. "i'll get that trained nurse who saved you when you fell off the horse." "vittoria? she might do. but, norvin, the horse threw me." she warned him with a grimace which bernie did not see. "he's a frightful beast." "i can't afford a trained nurse," dreux objected, "and you don't need one, anyhow." "all right for you, bernie; if you don't care any more for my life than that, i'll sicken and die. when a girl's relatives turn against her it's time she was out of the way." "oh, all right," said her brother, angrily. "it's ruinous, but i suppose you must have it your way." myra nell shook her head gloomily. "no--not if you are going to feel like that. of course, if she were here she could cut off my hair when i take to my bed; she could bathe my face with lime-water when my beauty goes; she could listen to my ravings and understand, for she is a--woman. but no, i'm not worth it. perhaps i can get along all right, and, anyhow, i'll have to teach school or--or be a nun if i'm all pock-marks." "good lord!" bernie wiped his brow with a trembling hand. "d'you think that'll happen, norvin?" "it's bound to," the girl predicted, indifferently. "but what's the odds?" suddenly a new thought dilated her eyes with real horror. "oh!" she cried. "_oh!_ i just happened to remember. i'm to be queen of the carnival! now, i'll be scarred and hideous, even if i happen to recover; but i won't recover. you shall have my royal robe, bunny. keep it always. and norvin shall have my hair." "here! i--don't want your hair," blake asserted, nervously. "i mean not without--" "it is all i have to give." "you may not catch the smallpox, after all." "we'll--have miss fabrizi b-by all means," bernie chattered. "you stay here and talk to her while i go," norvin suggested, quickly. "and, myra nell, i'll fetch you a lot of chocolates. i'll fetch you anything, if you'll only cheer up." "remember, it's against my wishes," the girl said. "but she's not at the hospital now; she's living in the italian quarter." she gave him the street, and number, and he made off in all haste. on his way he had time to think more collectedly of the girl he had just left. her prank had shocked him into a keen realization of his feeling for her, and he began to understand the large part she played in his life. many things inclined him to believe that her regard for him was really deeper than her careless levity indicated, and it seemed now that they had been destined for each other. it was dusk when he reached his destination. a nondescript italian girl ushered him up a dark stairway and into an old-fashioned drawing-room with high ceiling, and long windows which opened out upon a rusty overhanging iron balcony. the room ran through to a court in the rear, after the style of so many of these foreign-built houses. it had once been the home of luxury and elegance, but had long since fallen into a state of shabby decay. he was still lost in thoughts of the important step which he contemplated when he heard the rustle of a woman's garment behind him and rose as a tall figure entered the room. "miss fabrizi?" he inquired. "i came to find you--" he paused, for the girl had given a smothered cry. the light was poor and the shadows played tricks with his eyes. he stepped forward, peering strangely at her, then halted. "margherita!" he whispered; then in a shaking voice, "my god!" "yes," she said, quietly, "it is i." he touched her gently, staring as if bereft of his senses. he felt himself swept by a tremendous excitement. it struck him dumb; it shook him; it set the room to whirling dizzily. the place was no longer ill-lit and shabby, but illumined as if by a burst of light. and through his mad panic of confusion he saw her standing there, calm, tawny, self-possessed. "caro norvin! you have found me, indeed," he heard her say. "i wondered when the day would come." "you--you!" he choked. his arms were hungry for her, his heart was melting with the wildest ecstasy that had ever possessed it. she was clad as he often remembered her, in a dress which partook of her favorite and inseparable color, her hair shone with that unforgettable luster; her face was the face he had dreamed of, and there was no shock of readjustment in his recognition of her. rather, her real presence made the cherished mental image seem poor and weak. "i came to see miss fabrizi. why are _you_ here?" he glanced at the door as if expecting an interruption. "i am she." "contessa!" "hush!" she laid her fingers upon his lips. "i am no longer the contessa margherita. i am vittoria fabrizi." "then--you have been here--in new orleans for a long time?" "more than a year." "impossible! i--you--it's inconceivable! why have we never met?" "i have seen you many times." "and you didn't speak? why, oh, why, margherita?" "my friend, if you care for me, for my safety and my peace of mind, you must not use that name. collect yourself. we will have explanations. but first, remember, i am vittoria fabrizi, the nurse, a poor girl." "i shall remember. i don't understand; but i shall be careful. i don't know what it all means, why you--didn't let me know." in spite of his effort at self-control he fell again into a delicious bewilderment. his spirits leaped, he felt unaccountably young and exhilarated; he laughed senselessly and yet with a deep throbbing undernote of delight. "what are names and reasons, anyhow? what are worries and hopes and despairs? i've found you. you live; you are safe; you are young. i feared you were old and changed--it has seemed so long and--and my search dragged so. but i never ceased thinking and caring--i never ceased hoping--" she laid a gentle hand upon his arm. "come, come! you are upset. it will all seem natural enough when you know the story." "tell me everything, all at once. i can't wait." he led her to a low french _lit de repos_ near by, and seated himself beside her. her nearness thrilled him with the old intoxication, and he hardly heeded what he was saying. "tell me how you came to be vittoria fabrizi instead of margherita ginini; how you came to be here; how you knew of my presence and yet--oh, tell me everything, for i'm smothering. i'm incoherent. i--i--" "first, won't you explain how you happened to come looking for me?" he gathered his wits to tell her briefly of myra nell, feeling a renewed sense of strangeness in the fact that these two knew each other. she made as if to rise. "please!" he cried; "this is more important than miss warren's predicament. she's really delighted with her adventure, you know." "true, she is in no danger. there is so much to tell! that which has taken four years to live cannot be told in five minutes. i--i'm afraid i am sorry you came." "don't destroy my one great moment of gladness." "remember i am vittoria fabrizi--" "i know of no other name." "lucrezia is here, also, and she, too, is another. you have never seen her. you understand?" he nodded. "and her name?" "oliveta! we are cousins." "i respect your reasons for these changes. tell me only what you wish." "oh, i have nothing to conceal," she said, relieved at his growing calmness. "they are old family names which i chose when i gave up my former life. you wonder why? it is part of the story. when martel died the contessa margherita died also. she could not remain at terranova where everything spoke of him. she was young; she began a long quest. as you know, it was fruitless, and when in time her ideas changed she was born to a new life." "you have--abandoned the search?" "long ago. you told me truly that hatred and revenge destroy the soul. i was young and i could not understand; but now i know that only good can survive--good thoughts, good actions, good lives." "and is the donna teresa here?" vittoria shook her head. "she has gone--back, perhaps, to her land of sunshine, her flowers, and her birds and her dream-filled mountain valleys. it was two years ago that we lost her. she could not survive the change. i have--many regrets when i think of her." "you know, of course, that i returned to sicily, and that i followed you?" "yes. and when i learned of it i knew there was but one thing to do." "i was unwise--disloyal there at terranova." she met his eyes frankly, but made no sign. "is that why you avoided me?" "ah, let us not speak of that old time. when one severs all connections with the past and begins a new existence, one should not look back. but i have not lost interest in you, my friend, i have learned much from myra nell; seeing her was like seeing you, for she hardly speaks of any one else. many times we nearly met--only a moment separated us--you came as i went, or i came in time barely to miss you. you walked one street as i walked another; we were in the same crowds, our elbows touched, our paths crossed, but we never chanced to meet until this hour. now i am almost sorry--" "but why--if you have forgiven me; how could you be so indifferent? you must have known how i longed for you." her look checked him on the brink of a passionate avowal. "does my profession tell you nothing?" she asked. "you are a--nurse. what has that to do with it?" "do you know that i have been with the sisters of mercy? i--i am one of them." "impossible!" "in spirit at least. i shall be one in reality, as soon as i am better fitted." "a nun!" he stared at her dumbly, and his face paled. "i have given all i possess to the order excepting only what i have settled upon oliveta. this is her house, i am her guest, her pensioner. i am ready to take the last step--to devote my life to mercy. now you begin to understand my reason for waiting and watching you in silence. you see it is very true that margherita ginini no longer exists. i have not only changed my name, i am a different woman. i am sorry," she said, doing her best to comfort him--"yes, and it is hard for me, too. that is why i would have avoided this meeting." "if you contemplate this--step," he inquired, dully, "why have you left the hospital?" "i am not ready to take orders. i have much to--overcome. now i must prepare oliveta to meet you, for she has not changed as i have, and there might be consequences." "what consequences?" "we wish to forget the past," she said, non-committally. when she returned from her errand she saw him outlined blackly against one of the long windows, his hands clasped behind his back, his head low as if in meditation. he seemed unable to throw off this spell of silence as they drove to the la branche home, but listened contentedly to her voice, so like the low, soft music of a cello. after he left her it was long before he tried to reduce his thoughts to order. he preferred to dwell indefinitely upon the amazing fact that he at last had found her, that he had actually seen and touched her. finally, when he brought himself to face the truth in its entirety, he knew that he was deeply disappointed, and he felt that he ought to be hopeless. yet hope was strong in him. it blazed through his very veins, he felt it thrill him magically. when he fell asleep that night it was with a smile upon his lips, for hope had crystallized into a baseless but none the less assured belief that he would find a way to win her. xvi quarantine blake arose like a boy on christmas morning. he thrilled to an extravagant gladness. at breakfast the truth came to him--he was young! for the first time he realized that he had let himself grow up and lose his illusions; that he had become cynical, tired, prosaic, while all the time the flame of youth was merely smouldering. old he was, but only as a stripling soldier is aged by battle; as for the real, rare joys of living and loving, he had never felt them. myra nell had appealed to his affection like a dear and clever child, and helped to keep some warmth in his heart. but this was magic. the sun had never been so bright, the air so sweet to his nostrils, the strength so vigorous in his limbs. he had become so accustomed to the mysterious letters by this time that he had grown to look for them as a matter of course, and he was not disturbed when, on arriving at his office, he found one in his mail. heretofore the writer had been positive in his statements, but now came the first hint of uncertainty. "i cannot find belisario cardi," he wrote. "his hand is over all, and yet he is more intangible than mist. i am hedged about with difficulties and dangers which multiply as the days pass. i can do no more, hence the task devolves upon you. be careful, for he is more desperate than ever. it is your life or his. "one who knows." it was as daunting a message as he could have received--the withdrawal of assistance, the authoritative confirmation of his fears--yet blake's spirit rose to meet the exigency with a new courage. it occurred to him that if maruffi, or whoever the author was, had exhausted his usefulness, perhaps vittoria could help. she had spent much time in her search for this very cardi, and might have learned something of value concerning him. oliveta, too, could be of assistance. he felt sure that the knowledge of his own peril would be enough to enlist their aid, and he gladly seized upon the thought that a common interest would draw him closer to the woman he loved. he arrived at the la branche house early that afternoon, and found young rilleau sitting on a box beneath myra nell's window, with the girl herself embowered as before in a frame of roses. "any symptoms yet?" norvin inquired, agreeably. "thousands! i'm slowly dying." lecompte nodded dolefully. "look at her color." "no doubt it's the glow from those red roses that i see in her cheeks." "it's fever," miss warren exclaimed, indignantly. she took a hand-glass from her lap and regarded her vivid young features. "smallpox attacks people differently. with me the first sign is fever." she had parted her abundant hair and swept it back from her brow in an attempt to make herself look ill, but with the sole effect of enhancing her appearance of abounding health. madame la branche's best black shawl was drawn about her plump and dimpled shoulders. assuming a hollow tone, she inquired: "do you see any other change in me?" "yes. and i rather like that way of doing your hair." "vittoria says i look like a picture of sister dolorosa, or something." "is miss fabrizi in?" "in? how could she be out? isn't she a dear, norvin? i knew you'd meet some day." "does she play whist?" "of course not, silly. she's--nearly a nun. but we sat up in bed all night talking. oh, it's a comfort to have some one with you at the last, some one in whom you can confide. i can't bear to--to soar aloft with so much on my conscience. i've confessed _everything_." "what's to prevent her from catching the disease and soaring away with you?" "she's a nurse. they're just like doctors, you know, they never catch anything. is that hideous watchman still at his post?" "yes. fast asleep, with his mouth open." "i hope a fly crawls in," said the girl, vindictively; then, in an eager whisper: "couldn't you manage to get past him? we'd have a lovely time here for a week." rilleau raised his voice in jealous protest. "and leave me sitting on my throne? never! i'm giving this box-party for you, myra nell." "oh, you could come, too." "i respect the law," norvin told her; but lecompte continued to complain. "i don't see what you're doing here at this time of day, anyhow, blake, have you no business responsibilities?" "i'm a member of the contagion club; i've a right to be here." "we were discussing rice, old shoes, and orange blossoms when you interrupted," the languid mr. rilleau continued. "frankly, speaking as a friend, i don't see anything in your conversation so far to interest a sick lady. why don't you talk to the yellow-haired nurse?" "i intend to." "vittoria is back in the kitchen preparing my diet," said myra nell. "she's making fudge, i believe. i--i seem to crave sweet things. maybe it's another symptom." "it must be," blake acknowledged. "i'll ask her what she thinks of it." with a glance at the slumbering guard he vaulted the low fence and made his way around to the rear of the house. he heard vittoria singing as he came into the flower-garden, a low-pitched sicilian love-song. he called to her, and she came to a window, smiling down at him, spotless and fresh in her stiff uniform. "do you know that you're trespassing and may get into trouble?" she queried. "the watchman is asleep, and i had to speak to you." "no wonder he sleeps. myra nell holds the poor fellow responsible for all her troubles, and those young men have nearly driven him insane." "is there any danger of smallpox, really?" "not the slightest. this quarantine is merely a matter of form. but that child--" she broke into a frank, sweet laugh. "she pretends to be horribly frightened. all the time she is acting--the little fraud!" norvin flushed a bit under her gaze. "i had no chance to talk to you last night." "and you will have no chance now." vittoria tipped her chin the slightest bit. "i must see you, alone." "impossible!" "to-night. you can slip away on some pretext or other. it is really important." she regarded him questioningly. "if that is true i will try, but--i cannot meet you at oliveta's house. besides, you must not go into that quarter alone at night." "what do you mean?" he inquired, wondering how she could know of his danger. "because--no american is safe there now. perhaps i can meet you on the street yonder." "i'll be waiting." "it may be late, unless i tell myra nell." "heaven above! she'd insist on coming, too, just because it's forbidden." "very well. now go before you are discovered." during the afternoon his excitement increased deliciously, and that evening he found himself pacing the shaded street near the la branche home, with the eager restlessness of a lover. it was indeed late when vittoria finally appeared. "myra nell is such a chatterbox," she explained, "that i couldn't get her to bed. have you waited long?" "i dare say. i'm not sure." "this is very exciting, is it not?" she glanced over her shoulder up the ill-lighted street. rows of shade trees cast long inky blots between the corner illuminations; the houses on either side sat well back in their yards, increasing the sense of isolation. "it is quite a new experience for me." "for me, too." "i hope we're not seen. signore norvin blake and a trained nurse! oh, the comment!" "there's a bench near by where we can sit. passers-by will take us for servants." "you are the butler, i am the maid," she laughed. "i am glad you can laugh," he told her. "you were very sad, there at terranova." "i've learned the value of a smile. life is full of gladness if we can only bring ourselves to see it. now tell me the meaning of this. i knew it must be important or i would not have come." back of the bench upon which she had seated herself a jessamine vine depended, filling the air with perfume; the night was warm and still and languorous; through the gloom she regarded him with curiosity. "i hate to begin," he said. "i dread to speak of unpleasant things--to you. i wish we might just sit here and talk of whatever we pleased." "we cannot sit here long on any account. but let me guess. it is your work against--those men." "exactly. you know the history of our struggle with the mafia?" "everything." "i am leading a hard fight, and i think you can help me." "why do you think so?" she asked, in a low voice. "i have given up my part. i have no desire for revenge." "nor have i. i do not wish to harm any man; but i became involved in this through a desire to see justice done, and i have reached a point where i cannot stop or go back. it started with the arrest of gian narcone. you know how donnelly was killed. they took his life for narcone's, and he, too, was my--dear friend." "all this is familiar to me," she said, in a strained tone. "i will tell you something that no one knows but myself, i have a friend among the mafiosi, and it is he, not i, who has brought the murderers of mr. donnelly to an accounting." "you know him?" "yes. at least i think i do." "his--name?" she was staring at him oddly. "i feel bound not to reveal it even to you. he has told me many things, among them that belisario cardi is alive, is here, and that it is he who worked all this evil." "what has all this to do with me?" she inquired. "have i not told you that i gave my search into other hands?" "it was cardi who killed--one whom we both loved, one for whose life i would have given my own; it was cardi who destroyed my next-best friend, a simple soul who lived for nothing but his duty. now he has threatened my life also--does that count for nothing with you?" she leaned forward, searching his face earnestly. "you are a brave man. you should go away where he cannot harm you." "i would like very much to," he confessed, "but i am too great a coward to run away." "and why do you tell me this?" "i need your help. my mysterious friend can do no more; he has said so. i'm not equal to it alone." "oh," she cried, as if yielding to a feeling long suppressed, "i did so want to be rid of it all, and now you are in danger--the greatest danger. won't you give it up?" he shook his head, puzzled at her vehemence. "i don't wish to drag you into it against your will, but oliveta lives there among her countrypeople. she must know many things which i, as an outsider, could never learn. i--need help." there was a long silence before the girl said: "yes, i will help, for i am still the same woman you knew in sicily. i am still full of hatred. i would give my life to convict martel's assassins; but i am fighting myself. that is why i have gone to live with oliveta until i have conquered and am ready to become a sister." "please don't say that." "oliveta, you know, is alone," she went on, with forced composure, "and so i watch over her. she is to be married soon, and when she is safe, then i think i can return to the sisters and live as i long to. it will be a good match, much better than i ever hoped for, and she loves, which is even more blessed to contemplate." vittoria laid her hands impulsively upon his arm. "meanwhile i cannot refuse such aid as i can give you, for you have already suffered too much through me. you _have_ suffered, have you not?" "it has turned my hair gray," he laughed, trying not to show the depth of his feeling. "but now that i know you are safe and well and happy, nothing seems to matter. does myra nell know who you are?" "no one knows save you and oliveta. if that child even dreamed--" she lifted her slender hands in an eloquent gesture. "my secret would be known in an hour. now i must go, for even housemaids must observe the proprieties." "it's late. i think i had better see you safely home." "i dare say our watchman has found himself a comfortable bed--" "the slumbers of night-watchmen are notoriously deep." "and papa la branche has finished his solitaire. there is no danger." no one was in sight as they stole in through the driveway to the servants' door. she gave him her hand, and he pressed it closely, whispering: "when shall i see you again?" "after the quarantine. i can do nothing until then." "you will go back to oliveta's house?" "yes, but you must never come there, even in daylight." she thought for a moment while he still retained her hand. "i will instruct you later--" she broke off suddenly, and at the same instant blake heard a stir in the darkness behind him. vittoria drew him quickly into the black shadows of the rear porch, where they stood close together, afraid to move until the man had passed. the kitchen gallery was shielded by a latticework covered with vines, and blake felt reasonably safe within its shelter. he was beginning to breathe easier when a voice barely an arm's-length away inquired, gruffly: "who's there?" he would have given something handsome to be out of this foolish predicament, which he knew must be very trying to his companion. but the fates were against him. to his horror, the man struck a match and mounting the steps to the porch flashed it directly into his face. "good evening," said blake, with rather a weak attempt at assurance. "what are you doing here?" the guard demanded. "don't you know that this house is quarantined?" "i do. kindly lower your voice; there are people asleep." the fellow's eyes took in the girl in her stiffly starched uniform before the match burned out and darkness engulfed them once more. "i'm not a burglar." "humph! i don't know whether you are or not." "i assure you," urged vittoria. "strike another match and i'll prove to you that i'm not dangerous." when the light flared up once more norvin selected a card from his case and handed it to the watchman. "i am norvin blake, president of the cotton exchange." but this information failed of the desired effect. "oh, i know you, but this ain't exactly the right time to be calling on a lady." vittoria felt her companion's muscles stiffen. "i will explain my presence later," he said, stiffly; then, turning to vittoria, "i am sorry i disturbed this estimable man. good night." "just a minute," the watchman broke in. "you needn't say good night." "what do you mean?" "this house is quarantined for smallpox." "well?" "nobody can come or go without the doctor's permission." "i understand that." "now that you're here, i reckon you'll stay." miss fabrizi uttered a smothered exclamation. "you're crazy!" said blake, angrily. "yes? well, that's my instructions." "i haven't been inside." "that don't make any difference; the lady has." "it's absurd. you can't force--" "'sh-h!" breathed vittoria. some one had entered the kitchen at their back. a light flashed through the window, the door opened, and mr. la branche, clad in a rusty satin dressing-gown and carpet slippers, stood revealed, a lamp in his hand. "i thought i heard voices," he said. "what is the trouble?" "there's no trouble at all, sir," blake protested, then found himself absurdly embarrassed. vittoria and the guard both began to speak at once, and at length she broke into laughter, saying: "poor mr. blake, i fear he has been exposed to contagion. it was necessary for him to talk with me on a matter of importance, and now this man tells him he cannot leave." but from papa la branche's expression it was evident that he saw nothing humorous in the situation. "to talk with you! at this hour!" "i'm working for the board of health, and those are my orders," declared outraged authority. "it was imperative that i see miss fabrizi; the blame for this complication is entirely mine," norvin assured the old creole. the representative of the board of health inquired, loudly: "didn't the doctors tell you that nobody could come or go, mr. la branche?" "they did." "but, my dear man, this is no ordinary case. now that i have explained, i shall go, first apologizing to mr. la branche for disturbing him." "no, you won't" the master of the house stepped aside, holding his light on high. "miss fabrizi is my guest," he said, quietly, "so no explanations are necessary. this man is but doing his duty, and, therefore, mr. blake, i fear i shall have to offer you the poor hospitality of my roof until the law permits you to leave." "impossible, sir! i--" "i regret that we have never met before; but you are welcome, and i shall do my best to make you comfortable." he waved his hand commandingly toward the open door. "thank you, but i can't accept, really." "i fear that you have no choice." "but the idea is ridiculous, preposterous! i'm a busy man; i can't shut myself up this way for a week or more. besides, i couldn't allow myself to be forced upon strangers in this manner." "if you are a good citizen, you will respect the law," said la branche, coldly. "bother the law! i have obligations! why--the very idea is absurd! i'll see the health officers and explain at once--" the old gentleman, however, still waited, while the watchman took his place at the top of the steps as if determined to do his duty, come, what might. norvin found vittoria's eyes upon him, and saw that beneath her self-possession she was intensely embarrassed. evidently there was nothing to do now but accept the situation and put an end to the painful scene at any sacrifice. once inside, he could perhaps set himself right; but for the present no explanations were possible. he might have braved the board of health, but he could not run away from papa la branche's accusing eye. bowing gravely, he said: "you are quite right, sir, and i thank you for your hospitality. if you will lead the way, i will follow." the two culprits entered the big, empty kitchen, then followed the rotund little figure which waddled ahead of them into the front part of the house. xvii an obligation is met montegut la branche paused in the front hall at the foot of the stairs. "it is late" he said; "no doubt mademoiselle wishes to retire." "i would like to offer a word of explanation," norvin ventured, but vittoria interposed, quietly: "mr. la branche is right--explanations are unnecessary." bowing graciously to them both, she mounted the stairs into the gloom above, followed by the old creole's polite voice: "a pleasant sleep, mademoiselle, and happy dreams." leading the way into the library, he placed the lamp upon a table, then, turning to his unbidden guest, inquired, coldly, "well?" his black eyes were flashing underneath his gray brows, and he presented a fierce aspect despite his gown, which resembled a mother hubbard, and his slippers, which flapped as he walked. "i must apologize for my intrusion," said norvin. "i wish you to understand how it came about." "in view of your attentions to my wife's cousin, it was unfortunate that you should have selected this time, this place, for your--er--adventure." "exactly! i'm wondering how to spare miss warren any annoyance." "i fear that will be impossible. she must know the truth." "she must not know; she must not guess." "m'sieu!" exclaimed the old man. "my wife and i can take no part in your intrigues. myra nell is too well bred to show resentment at your conduct, no matter what may be her feelings." norvin flushed with exasperation, then suddenly felt ashamed of himself. surely he could trust this chivalrous old soul with a part of the truth. once his scruples were satisfied, the man's very sense of honor would prevent him from even thinking of what did not concern him. "i think you will understand better," he said, "when you have heard me through. i can't tell you everything, for i am not at liberty to do so. but you know, perhaps, that i am connected with the committee of justice." "i do." "you don't know the full extent of the task with which i am charged, however." "perhaps not." "its gravity may be understood when you know that i have been marked for the same fate as chief donnelly." the old man started. "my labors have taken me into many quarters. i seek information through many channels. it was upon this business, in a way, that i came to see miss fabrizi." "i do not follow you." "she is a sicilian. she knows much which would be of value to the committee and to me. it was necessary for me to see her alone and secretly. if the truth were known it would mean her--life, perhaps." the creole's bearing altered instantly. "say no more. i believe you to be a man of honor, and i apologize for my suspicions." "may i trust you to respect this confidence?" "it is sealed." "but this doesn't entirely relieve the situation. i can't explain to madame la branche or to miss myra nell even as much as i've explained to you." "some day will you relieve me from my promise of secrecy?" queried the old man, with an eager, bird-like glance from his bright eyes. "assuredly. as soon as we have won our fight against the mafia." "then i will lie for you, and confess later. i have never lied to my wife, m'sieu--except upon rare occasions," mr. la branche chuckled merrily. "and even then only about trifles. so, the result? absolute trust; supreme confidence on her part. a happy state for man and wife, is it not? ha! i am a very good liar, an adept, as you shall see, for i am not calloused by practice and therefore liable to forgetfulness. with me a lie is always fresh in my mind; it is a matter of absorbing interest, hence i do not forget myself. heaven knows the excitement of nursing an innocent deceit and of seeing it grow and flower under my care will be most welcome, for the monotony of this abominable confinement--but i must inquire, do you play piquet?" "i am rather good at it," norvin confessed, whereat papa la branche seemed about to embrace him. "you are sent from heaven!" he declared. "you deliver me from darkness. thirty-seven games of napoleon to-day! think of it! i was dealing the thirty-eighth when you came. but piquet! ah, that is a game, even though my angel wife abominates it. we have still five days of this hideous imprisonment, so let us agree to an hour before lunch, an hour before dinner, then--um-,--perhaps two hours in the evening at a few cents a game, eh? you agree, my friend?" the little man peered up timidly. "perhaps--but no, i dare say you are sleepy, and it _is_ late." "i should enjoy a game or two right now," norvin falsified. "but first, don't you think we'd better rehearse our explanation of my presence?" "a good idea. you came to see me upon business. i telephoned, and you came like a good friend, then--let me see, i was so overjoyed to see a new face that i rushed forth to greet you, and behold! that scorpion, that loathsome reptile outside pronounced you infected. he forced you to enter, even against my protestations. it was all my fault. i am desolated with regrets. eh? how is that? you see nature designed me for a rogue." "excellent! but what is our important business?" "true. since i retired from active affairs i have no business. that is awkward, is it not? may i ask in what line you are engaged?" "i am a cotton factor." "then i shall open an account with you. i shall give you money to invest. come, there need be no deceit about that; i shall write you a check at once." "that's hardly necessary, so long as we understand each other." but mr. la branche insisted, saying: "one lie is all that i dare undertake. i have told two at the same time, but invariably they clashed and disaster resulted. there! i trust you to make use of the money as you think best. but enough! what do women know of business? it is a mysterious word to them. now--piquet!" he dragged norvin to a seat at a table, then trotted away in search of cards, his slippers clap-clapping at every step as if in gleeful applause. "shall we cut for deal, m'sieu? ah!" he sighed gratefully as he won, and began to shuffle. "with four hours of piquet every day, and a lie upon my conscience, i feel that i shall be happy in spite of this execrable smallpox." myra nell's emotions may be imagined when, on the following morning, she learned who had broken through the cordon while she slept. "lordy! lordy!" she exclaimed, with round eyes. "he said he'd do it; but i didn't think he really would." she had flounced into vittoria's room to gossip while she combed her hair. "mr. la branche says it's all his fault, and he's terribly grieved," miss fabrizi told her. "now, now! your eyes are fairly popping out." "wouldn't your eyes pop out if the handsomest, the richest, the bravest man in new orleans deliberately took his life in his hands to see you and be near you?" "but he says it was important business which brought him." vittoria smiled guiltily. "tell that to your granny! you don't know men as i do. have you really seen him? i'm not _dreaming_?" "i have seen him, with these very eyes, and if you were not such a lazy little pig you'd have seen him, too. shall you take your breakfast in your room, as usual?" vittoria's eyes twinkled. "don't tease me!" miss warren exclaimed, with a furious blush. "i--i love to tease other people, but i can't stand it myself. breakfast in my room, indeed! but of course i shall treat him with freezing politeness." "why should you pretend to be offended?" "don't you understand? this is bound to cause gossip. why, the idea of norvin blake, the handsomest, the richest--" "yes, yes." "the idea of his getting himself quarantined in the same house with _me_, and our being here together for days--maybe for _months!_ why, it will create the loveliest scandal. i'll never dare hold up my head again in public, _never_. you see how it must make me feel. i'm compromised." myra nell undertook to show horror in her features, but burst into a gale of laughter. "do you care for him very much?" "i'm crazy about him! why, dearie, after _this_--we're--we're almost married! now watch me show him how deeply i'm offended." but when she appeared in the dining-room, late as usual, her frigidity was not especially marked. on the contrary, her face rippled into one smile after another, and seizing blake by both hands, she danced around him, singing: "you did it! you did it! you did it! hurrah for a jolly life in the pest-house!" madame la branche was inclined to be shocked at this behavior, but inasmuch as papa montegut was beaming angelically upon the two young people, she allowed herself to be mollified. "i couldn't believe vittoria," myra nell told norvin. "don't you know the danger you run?" mr. la branche exclaimed: "i am desolated at the consequences of my selfishness! i did not sleep a wink. i can never atone." "quite right," his wife agreed. "you must have been mad, montegut. it was criminal of you to rush forth and embrace him in that manner." "but, delight of my soul, the news he bore! the joy of seeing him! it unmanned me." the creole waved his hands wildly, as if at a loss for words. "oh, you fibber! norvin told me he'd never met you," said myra nell. "eh! impossible! we are associates in business; business of a most important--but what does that term signify to you, my precious ladybird? nothing! enough, then, to say that he saved me from disaster. naturally i was overjoyed and forgot myself." his wife inquired, timidly, "have your affairs gone disastrously?" "worse than that! ruin stared us in the face until _he_ came. our deliverer!" blake flushed at this fulsome extravagance, particularly as he saw myra nell making faces at him. "fortunately everything is arranged now," he assured his hostess. but this did not satisfy miss warren, who, with apparent innocence, questioned the two men until papa la branche began to bog and flounder in his explanations. fortunately for the men, she was diverted for the moment by discovering that the table was set for only four. "oh, we need another place," she exclaimed, "for vittoria!" the old lady said, quietly: "no, dear. while we were alone it was permissible, but it is better now in this way." myra nell's ready acquiescence was a shock to norvin, arguing, as it did, that these people regarded the countess margherita as an employee. could it be that they were so utterly blind? he was allowed little time for such thoughts, however, since myra nell set herself to the agreeable task of unmasking her lover and confounding montegut la branche. but cousin althea was not of a suspicious nature, and continued to beam upon her husband, albeit a trifle vaguely. then when breakfast was out of the way the girl added to norvin's embarrassment by flirting with him so outrageously that he was glad to flee to papa montegut's piquet game. at the first opportunity he said to vittoria: "i feel dreadfully about this. why, they seem to think you're a--a--servant! it's unbearable!" "that is part of my work; i am accustomed to it." she smiled. "then you _have_ changed. but if they knew the truth, how differently they'd act!" "they must never suspect; more depends upon it than you know." "i feel horribly guilty, all the same." "it can make no difference what they think of me. i'm afraid, however, that you have--made it--difficult for myra nell." "so it appears. i didn't think of her when i entered this delightful prison." "you had no choice." "it wasn't altogether that. i wanted to be near you, vittoria." her glance was level and cool, her voice steady. "it was chivalrous to try to spare me the necessity of explaining. the situation was trying; but we were both to blame, and now we must make the best of it. myra nell's misunderstanding is complete, and she will be unhappy unless you devote yourself to her." "i simply can't. i think i'll keep to myself as much as possible." "you don't know that girl," vittoria said. "you think she is frivolous and inconsequent, that she has the brightness of a sunbeam and no more substance; but you are mistaken. she is good and true and steadfast underneath, and she can feel deeply." blake found that it was impossible to isolate himself. mr. la branche clung to him like a drowning man; his business affairs called him repeatedly to the telephone; myra nell appropriated him with all the calm assurance of a queen, and madame la branche insisted upon seeing personally to his every want. the only person of whom he saw little was vittoria fabrizi. his disappearance, of course, required much explaining and long conversations with his office, with his associates, and with police headquarters, where his plight was regarded as a great joke. this was all very well; but there were other and unforeseen consequences. bernie dreux heard of the affair with blank amazement, which turned into something resembling rage. his duty, however, was plain. he packed a valise and set out for the quarantined house like a man marching to his execution; for he had a deathly horror of disease, and smallpox was beyond compare the most loathsome. but the health department had given strict orders, and he was turned away; nay, he was rudely repulsed. crushed, humiliated, he retired to his club, and there it was that rilleau found him, steeped in melancholy and a very insidious brand of kentucky bourbon. when lecompte accused blake of breaking the rules of the game, the little bachelor rose resolutely to his sister's defense. "norvin's got a perfect right to protect her," he lied, "and i honor him for it." "you mean he's engaged to her?" rilleau inquired, blankly. bernie nodded. "well, so am i, so are delevan and mangny, and the others." "not this way." mr. dreux's alcoholic flush deepened. "he thought she was in danger, so he flew to her side. mighty unselfish to sacrifice his business and brave the disease. he did it with my consent, y'understand? when he asked me, i said, 'norvin, my boy, she needs you.' so he went. unselfish is no word for it; he's a man of honor, a hero." mr. rilleau's gloom thickened, and he, too, ordered the famous bourbon. he sighed. "i'd have done the same thing; i offered to, and i'm no hero. i suppose that ends us. it's a great disappointment, though. i hoped--during carnival week that she'd--well, i wanted her for my real queen." bernie undertook to clap the speaker on the shoulder and admonish him to buck up; but his eye was wavering and his aim so uncertain that he knocked off mr. rilleau's hat. with due apologies he ran on: "she couldn't have been queen at all, only for him. he made it possible." "i had as much to say about it as he did." bernie whispered: "he lent me the money, y'understand? it was all right, under the circumstances, everything being settled but the date, y'understand?" rilleau rose at last, saying: "you're all to be congratulated. he is the best fellow in new orleans, and there's only one man i'd rather see your sister marry than him; that's me. now i'm going to select a present before the rush commences. what would you think of an onyx clock with gold cupids straddling around over it?" "fine! i'm sorry, old man--i like you, y'understand?" bernie upset his chair in rising to embrace his friend, then catching sight of august kulm, who entered at the moment, he made his way to him and repeated his explanations. mr. kulm was silent, attentive, despairing, and spoke vaguely of suicide, whereupon dreux set himself to the task of drowning this teutonic instinct in the flowing bowl. "i don't know what has happened to the boys," myra nell complained to norvin, on the second day after his arrival. "lecompte was going to read me the rubaiyat, and raymond cline promised me a bunch of orchids; but nobody has shown up." "it's jealousy," he said, lightly. "i suppose so. of course it was nice of you to compromise me this way--it's delicious, in fact--but i didn't think it would scare off the others." "you think i have compromised you?" "you know you have, _terribly_. i'm engaged to all of them--everybody, in fact, except you--" "but they know my presence here is unintentional." "oh! _is_ it, really?" she laughed. "don't you believe it is?" "goodness! don't spoil all my pleasure. if ever i saw two cringing, self-conscious criminals, it's you and papa montegut. men are so deceitful. heigh-ho! i thought this was going to be splendid, but you play cards all day with mr. la branche while i die of loneliness." "what would you like me to do?" he faltered. "i don't know. it's very dull. couldn't you sally forth and drag in lecompte or murray or raymond?" she looked up with eyes beaming. "bernie was furious, wasn't he?" mr. la branche came trotting in with the evening newspaper in his hand. "it's in the paper," he chuckled. "those reporters get everything." "what's in the paper?" myra nell snatched the sheet from his hand and read eagerly as he went trotting out again with his slippers applauding every step. "oh, lordy!" blake read over her shoulder, and his face flushed. "norvin, we're really, truly engaged, now. see!" after a pause, "and you've never even asked me." there was only one thing to say. "myra nell," he began, "i want you--will you--" "oh, you goose, you're not taking a cold shower!" "will you do me the honor to be my wife?" she burst into delightful laughter. "so you actually have the courage to propose? shall i take time to think it over, or shall i answer now?" "now, by all means." "very well, of course i--won't." "why not?" he exclaimed, with a start. "the idea! you don't mean it!" "i do." "why, norvin, you're old enough to be my father." "oh, no, i'm not." "do you think i could marry a man with gray hair?" "it all gets gray after a while." "no. i'll be engaged to you, but i'll never marry any one, never. that would spoil all the fun. this very thing shows how stupid it must be; the mere rumor has scared the others away." "you're a mormon." "i'm not. i'll tell you what i'll do; if i ever marry any one, i'll marry you." "that's altogether too indefinite." "i don't see it. meanwhile we're engaged, aren't we?" "if that's the case--" he reached uncertainly for her hand, and pressed it. "i--i'm very happy!" she waited an instant, watching him shyly, then said: "now i must show this to vittoria. but--please don't look so frightened." the next instant she was gone. when miss fabrizi entered her room, a half-hour later, it was to find her with her eyes red from weeping. as for norvin, he had risen to the occasion as best he could. he loved myra nell sincerely, tenderly, in a big-brotherly way; he would have gone to any lengths to serve her, yet he could not feel toward her as he felt toward vittoria fabrizi. he nerved himself to stand by his word, even though it meant the greatest sacrifice. but the thought agonized him. nor was he made more easy as time went on, for mr. and mrs. la branche took it for granted that he was their cousin's affianced lover; and while the girl herself now bewildered him with her shy, inviting coquetry, or again berated him for placing her in an unwelcome position, he could never determine how much she really cared. when the quarantine was finally lifted he walked out with feelings akin to those of a prisoner who has been reprieved. xviii belisario cardi after his enforced idleness blake was keen to resume his task, yet there was little for him to do save study the one big problem which lay at the root of the whole matter. the evidence against the prisoners was in good shape; they were indicted, and the trial date would soon be set. they had hired competent lawyers and were preparing for a desperate fight. where the necessary money came from nobody seemed to know, although it was generally felt that a powerful influence was at work to free them. the district attorney expressed the strongest hopes of obtaining convictions; but there came disturbing rumors of alibis for the accused, of manufactured evidence, and of overwhelming surprises to be sprung at the last moment. detectives were shadowed by other detectives, lawyers were spied upon, their plans leaked out; witnesses for the state disappeared. opposing the authorities was a master hand, at once so cunning and so bold as to threaten a miscarriage of justice. this could be none other then belisario cardi, yet he seemed no nearer discovery than ever. norvin had no idea how to proceed. he could only wait for some word from his new ally, vittoria fabrizi. it might be that she would find a clue, and he feared to complicate matters by any premature or ill-judged action. meanwhile, he encountered the results of bernie dreux's garrulity. he found himself generally regarded as myra nell's accepted suitor, and, of course, could make no denial. but when he telephoned to the girl herself and asked when he might call he was surprised to hear her say: "you can't call at all why, you've ruined all my enjoyment as it is! there hasn't been a man in this whole neighborhood since i came home. even the policeman takes the other side of the street." "all the more reason why i should come." "i won't have you hanging around until i get my carnival dresses fitted. oh, norvin, you ought to see them. there's one-white brocaded peau de soie, all frills and rosebuds; the bodice is trimmed with pearl passementerie, and it's a dear." after a moment's hesitation she added: "norvin dear, what does it cost to rent the front page of a newspaper?" "i don't know. i don't think it can be done." "i wondered if you couldn't do it and--deny our engagement." "do you want to break it?" he could hardly keep the eagerness out of his voice. "oh, no! but i'd like to deny it until after the carnival. now don't be offended. i'll never get my dances filled if i'm as good as married to you. imagine a queen with an empty programme. i just love you to pieces, of course, but i can't allow our engagement to interfere with the success of the carnival, can i?" "don't you know this is a thing we can't joke about?" "of course i do. it has taught me a good lesson." "what?" "i'll never be engaged to another man." "well! i should hope not. do you intend to marry me, myra nell?" "i don't know. sometimes i think i will, then again i'm afraid nobody'd ever come to see me if i did. i'll get old, like you." "i'm not old." "we'd both have gray hair and--i can't talk any more. here comes bernie with an armful of dresses and a mouthful of pins. if he coughs i'll be all alone in the world. no, you can't see me for a week. i don't even want to hear from you except--" "what?" "well, the strain of dress-fitting is tremendous. i'm nearly always hungry--ravenous for nourishment." "you mean you're out of candy, i suppose?" "practically. there's hardly a whole piece left. they've all been nibbled." blake did not know whether to feel amused or ashamed. he was relieved at the girl's apparent carelessness, yet this half-serious engagement had put myra nell in a new light. he could not think of their relations as really unchanged, and this was inevitable since his sentiment for her was genuine. the grotesqueness of the affair--even myra nell's own attitude toward it--seemed a violation of something sacred. but nothing could subdue the joy he felt in his growing intimacy with vittoria, whom he managed to see frequently, although she never permitted him to come to oliveta's house. little by little her reserve melted, and more and more she seemed to forget her intention of devoting herself to a religious life, while fears for her friend's safety appealed to the deep mother instinct which had remained latent in her. she was unable, however, even with oliveta's assistance, to put any information in his way, and blake could think of no better plan than to try once more to sound caesar maruffi. if caesar had really written the letters, it would be strange if he could not be induced to go farther, despite his obvious fear of cardi. it was unbelievable that a man who knew so much about the mafia was really in ignorance of its leader's identity, and blake was convinced that if he acted diplomatically and seized the right occasion he could bring the fellow to unbosom himself. discarding all thought of his own safety, he went often to the red wing club. but he found caesar wary, and he dared not be too abrupt. time and again he was upon the verge of speaking out, but something invariably prevented, some inner voice warned him that the man's mood was unpropitious, that his extravagant caution was not yet satisfied. he allowed the sicilian to feel him out to his heart's content, and, at last, seeing that he made no real progress, he set out one evening resolved to risk all in an effort to reach some definite understanding. he was delayed in reaching the foreign quarter, and the dinner-hour was nearly over when he arrived at the cafe. maruffi was there, as usual, but he had finished his meal and was playing cards with some of his countrymen, swarthy, eager-faced, voluble fellows whose chatter filled the place. they greeted norvin politely as he seated himself near by, then went on with their amusement as he ordered and ate his dinner. he was near enough to hear their talk, and to catch an occasional glimpse of the game, so that he was not long in finding that they played for considerable stakes. they were as earnest as school-boys, and he watched their ever-changing expressions with interest, particularly when he discovered that maruffi was in hard luck. the big sicilian sat bulked up in a corner, black, silent, and sinister, his scowling brows bespeaking his rage. occasionally he growled a curse, then sent the waiter scurrying with an order. other italians were drawn to the scene and crowded about the players. when norvin had finished his meal he sat back to smoke and idly sip his claret, thinking he would wait until the game broke up, so that he might get caesar to himself and perhaps put the issue to the test. he began to study the fellow's face, thinking what force, what passion lay in it, puzzling his brain for some means of enlisting that energy upon his side. but as fortune continued to run against maruffi, he began to fear that the time was not favorable. what a picture those laughing, hawk-like men formed, surrounding the black, resentful merchant! martel savigno could have drawn a group like that, he mused, for he had a rare appreciation of his own people, no matter what might be said of his talent. he had done some very creditable sicilian sketches; in fact, norvin had one framed in his room. what a pity the count had been stricken in the first years of his promise! what a ruthless hand it was that had destroyed him! what a giant mind it was which had kept all sicily in terror and scaled its lips! in that very group yonder there probably was more than one who knew the evil genius in person, and yet they were held in a thralldom of fear which no offer of riches could break. what manner of man was this cardi? what hellish methods did he follow to wield such despotism? those card-players were impudent, unscrupulous blades, as ready to gamble with death as with their jingling coins, and yet they dared not lift a hand against him. blake saw that the game had reached a point of unusual intensity; the players were deeply engrossed; the spectators had fallen silent, with bright eyes fixed upon the mounting stakes. when the tension broke norvin saw that caesar had lost again, and smiled at the excited conversation which ensued. there was a babble of laughter, of curses, of expostulation, shafts of badinage flew at the sicilian merchant. in the midst of it he raised a huge, hairy fist and brought it down, smiting the table until the coins, the cards, and the glasses leaped. his face was distorted; his voice was thick with passion. [illustration: "silenzio" he growled, "i play my own game, and i lose"] "_silenzio!_" he growled, with such imperative fury that the others fell silent; then hoarsely: "i play my own game, and i lose. that is all! you are like old wives with your advice. it is my accursed luck, which will some day bring me to the gallows. now deal!" that same nausea which invariably seized norvin blake in moments of extreme excitement swept over him now. his whole body went cold, the knot of figures faded from his vision, he heard the noisy voices as if from a great distance. a giant hand had reached forth and gripped him, halting his breath and his heart-beats. the room swam dizzily, in a haze. he found, an instant later, that he had risen and was gripping the table in front of him as if for support. he had upset his goblet of wine, and a wide red stain was spreading over the white cloth. to him it was the blood of martel savigno. he stared down at it dazedly, his eyes glazed with horror and surprise. as the crimson splotch widened his heart took up its halting labors, then began to race, faster and faster, until he felt himself smothering; his frame was swept with tremors. then the raucous voices grew louder and louder, mounting into a roar, as if he were coming out from a swoon, and all the time that red blotch grew until he could see no other color; it blurred the room and the quarreling gamblers; it steeped the very air. he was still deathly sick, as only those men are whose blood sours, whose bones and muscles disintegrate at the touch of fear. he did not remember leaving the place, but found the cool night air fanning fresh upon his face as he lurched blindly down the dark street, within his eyes the picture of a scowling, black-browed visage; in his ears that hoarse, unforgettable command, _"silenzio!"_ a single word, burdened with rage and venom, had carried him back over the years to a certain moment and a certain spot on a sicilian mountain-side. the peculiar arrogance, the harsh vibrations of that voice permitted no mistake. he saw again a ghost-gray road walled in with fearful shadows, and at his feet two silent, twisted bodies dimly outlined against the dust. a match flared and ricardo ferara grinned up into the night beneath his grizzled mustache, narcone, the butcher, his hands still wet, was whining for the blood of the american. he heard martel savigno call, heard the young count's voice rise and break in a shriek, heard a thunder of hoofs retreating into the blackness. sicilian men were peering into his face, talking excitedly; through their chatter came that same voice, imperative, furious, filled with rage, and it cried: "_silenzio!_" there was no mistaking it. the veil was ripped at last. blake recalled the dim outlines of that burly, bull-necked figure as it had leaped into brief silhouette against the glare of the blazing match, that night so long ago, and then he cried out aloud in the empty street as he realized how complete was the identification. he remembered donnelly's vague prediction five minutes before he was stricken: "if what i suspect is true, it will cause a sensation," a sensation indeed! the surprise, the realization of consequences, was too overpowering to permit coherent thought. this maruffi, or cardi, or whoever he might prove to be, was tremendous. no wonder he had been hard to uncover. no wonder his power was absolute. he had the genius of a great general, a great politician, and a great criminal, all in one, and he was as pitiless as a panther, more deadly than a moccasin. what influence had perverted such intellect into a weapon of iniquity? what evil of the blood, what lesion of the brain, had distorted his instincts so monstrously? caesar maruffi, rich, respected, honored! it was unbelievable. blake halted after a time and took note of the surroundings into which his feet had led him. he was deep in the foreign quarter, and found, with a start, that he had been heading for vittoria fabrizi's dwelling as if guided by some extraneous power. by a strong exercise of will he calmed himself. what he needed above all things was counsel, some one with whom he could share this amazing discovery. perhaps his presence here was a sign; at any rate, he decided to follow his first impulse, so hastened onward. inside the house his brain cleared in a measure, as he waited; but his agitation must have left plain traces, for no sooner had vittoria appeared than she exclaimed: "my friend! something has happened." he rose and met her half-way. "yes. something tremendous, something terrible." "it was unwise of you to come here--you may be followed. tell me quickly what has made you so indiscreet?" "i have found belisario cardi." she paled; her eyes flamed. "yes--it's incredible." his voice shook. "i know the man well, that's the marvel of it. i've trusted him; i've rubbed shoulders with him; i went to him to-night to enlist his aid." he paused, realizing for the first time that the mystery of those letters was now deeper than ever. if maruffi had not written them, who then? "he's the best and richest italian in the city. god! the thing is appalling." "he must go to justice," said vittoria, quietly. "his name?" "caesar maruffi!" the girl's eager look faded into one of blank dismay. "no!" she said, strangely. "no!" "do you know him?" in a daze she nodded; then cast a hurried, frightened look over her shoulder. "madonna mia! caesar maruffi!" disbelief and horror leaped into her eyes. "you are mad! not caesar. i do not believe it." "caesar, _caesar_." he cried. "why do you call him that? why do you doubt? what is he to you?" she drew away with a look that brought him to his senses. "there is no mistake," he mumbled. "he is cardi. i know it. i--" "wait, wait; don't tell me." she went groping uncertainly to the door. "don't tell me yet." a moment later he heard her call: "oliveta! come quickly, sorella mia. a friend. quickly!" oliveta--recognizably the same girl that he had known in sicily--entered with her black brows lifted in anxious inquiry, her dark eyes wide with apprehension. "some evil has befallen; tell me!" she said, wasting no time in greeting. "no. nothing evil," blake assured her. "our friend has made a terrible discovery," said vittoria, in a faint voice. "i cannot believe--i--want you to hear, carina." she motioned to norvin. "i have been seeking our enemy, belisario cardi, and--i have found him." oliveta cried out in fierce triumph: "god be praised! he lives; that is enough. i feared he had cheated us." "listen!" exclaimed vittoria, in such a tone that the peasant girl started. "you don't understand." "i understand nothing except that he lives. his blood shall wash our blood. that is what we swore, and i have never forgotten, even though you have. he shall go to meet his dead, and his soul shall be accursed." she spoke with the same hysterical ferocity as when she had cursed her father's murderer in the castello of terranova. "he calls himself caesar maruffi," blake told her. there was a pause, then she said, simply: "that is a lie." "no, no! i saw him that night. i saw him again to-night." "it cannot be." "that is what i have said," concurred vittoria, with strange eagerness. "no, no--it would be too dreadful." mystified and offended, blake defended his statement forcibly. "believe it or not, as you please, it is true. that night in sicily he came among the brigands who held me prisoner. they were talking excitedly. he cried, 'silenzio!' in a voice i can never forget. to-night he was gambling, and he lost heavily. he was furious; his friends began to chatter, and he cried that word again! i would know it a thousand years hence. i saw it all in a flash. i saw other things i had failed to grasp--his size, his appearance. i tell you he is belisario cardi." "god help me!" whispered the daughter of ferara, crossing herself with uncertain hand. she was staring affrightedly at vittoria. "god help me!" she kept repeating the words and gesture. blake turned inquiringly to the other woman and read the truth in her eyes. "good lord!" he cried. "he is her--" she nodded. "they were to be married." oliveta began speaking slowly to her foster sister. "yes, it is indeed true. i have suspected something, but i dared not tell you all--the things he said--all that i half learned and would not ask about. i was afraid to know. i closed my eyes and my ears. body of christ! and all the time my father's blood was on his hands!" vittoria appealed helplessly to blake. "you see how it is. what is to be done?" but his attention was all centered upon oliveta, whose face was changing curiously. "his blood!" she exclaimed. "i have loved that infamous man. his hands--" she let her gaze fall to her own, as if they too might be stained from contact. "does maruffi know who you really are?" he asked. vittoria answered; "no. she would have told him soon; we were waiting until we had run down those men. you see, it was largely through her that i worked. those things which i could not discover she learned from--him. it was she who secured the names of di marco and garcia and the others." sudden enlightenment brought a cry from him. "you! then you wrote those letters! you are the 'one who knows'?" vittoria nodded; but her eyes were fixed upon the girl. oliveta was whispering through white lips: "it is the will of god! he has been delivered into my hands." "i am beginning to--" "wait!" vittoria did not withdraw her anxious gaze. after an instant she inquired, gently, "oliveta, what shall we do?" "there is but one thing to do." "you mean--" "i have been sent by god to betray him." her face became convulsed, her voice harsh. "i curse him, living and dead, in the name of my father, in the name of martel savigno, who died by his hand. may he pray unheard, may he burn in agony for a thousand thousand years. take him to the hangman, signore. he shall die with my curse in his ears." "i can't bring him to justice," blake confessed. "i know him to be the assassin, but my mere word isn't enough to convict him. i have no way of connecting him with the murder of chief donnelly, and that is what he must answer for." oliveta's lips writhed into a tortured smile. "never fear, i shall place the loop about his neck where my arms have lain. he has told me little, for i feared to listen. but wait! give me time." vittoria cried in a shocked voice: "child! not--that," "it was from him i learned of gian narcone and his other friends; now i shall learn from his own mouth the whole truth. he shall weave the rope for his own destruction. oh, he is like water in my hands, and i shall lie in his arms--" "lucrezia! you can't touch him--knowing--" "i will have the truth, if i give myself to him in payment, if i am damned for eternity. god has chosen me!" she broke down into frightful sobs. with sisterly affection the other woman put her arms about her and tried to soothe her. at length she led her away, but for a long time norvin could hear sounds of the peasant girl's grief. when vittoria reappeared her face was still pale and troubled. "i can do nothing with her. she seems to think we are all divine instruments." "poor girl! she is in a frightful position. i'm too amazed to talk sensibly. but surely she won't persist." "you do not know her; she is like iron. even i have no power over her now, and i--fear for the result. she is sicilian to the core, she will sacrifice her body, her soul, for vengeance, and that--man is a fiend." "it's better to know the truth now than later." "yes, the web of chance has entangled our enemies and delivered them bound into our hands. we cannot question the wisdom of that power which wove the net. oliveta is perhaps a stronger instrument than i; she will never rest until her father is avenged." "the strangest part is that you are the 'one who knows,' you told me you had given up the quest." "and so i had. i was weary of it. my life was bleak and empty. i could not return to sicily, because of the memories it held. we came south in answer to the call of our blood, and i took up a work of love instead of hate, while oliveta found a new interest in this man, who was wonderful and strong and fierce in his devotion to her. i attained to that peace for which i had prayed. then, when i was nearly ready for my vows, my foster sister learned of gian narcone and came to me. we talked long together, and i finally yielded to her demands--she is a contadina, she never forgets--and i wrote that first letter to mr. donnelly. i feared you might see and recognize my handwriting, so i bought one of those new machines and learned to use it. what followed you know. when we discovered that the mafia had vowed to take chief donnelly's life in payment for narcone's, we were forced to go on or have innocent blood upon our hands. "the chief was killed in spite of our warnings, and then you appeared as the head of his avengers--you--my truest friend, the brother of martel. i knew that the mafia would have your life unless you crushed it, and in a sense i was responsible for your danger. it seemed my duty to help break up this accursed brotherhood, much as i wished that the work might fall to other hands. oliveta was eager for the struggle, and while she fought for her vengeance, i--i fought to save you." "you did this for _me!_" he cried, falteringly. "yes. my position at the hospital, my occupation made it easy for me to learn many things. it was i who discovered the men who actually killed chief donnelly; for normando, after his injury, was brought there and i attended him. i learned of his accomplices, where the boy, gino cressi, was concealed, and other things. lucrezia was a spy here among her countrypeople, and caesar was forever dropping bits of information, though we never dreamed who he was." she went to the long french window, and, shading her eyes with her hands, peered down into the dark street. "then you have--thought of me," he urged. "you thought of me even before we were drawn together by this net of chance?" "you have seldom been out of my thoughts," she told him, quietly. "you were my only friend, and i live a lonely life." turning with a wistful smile, she asked: "and have you now and then remembered that sicilian girl you knew so long ago?" his voice was unruly; it broke as he replied: "your face is always before me, contessa. i grew very tired of waiting, but i always felt that i would find you." she gave him her two hands. "the thought of your affection and loyalty has meant much to me; and it will always mean much. when i have entered upon my new life and know that you are happy in yours--" "but i never shall be happy," he broke out, hoarsely. she stopped him with a grave look. "please! you must go now. i will show you a way. so long as cardi is at liberty you must not return; the risks are too great for all of us. as oliveta learns the truth i shall advise you. poor girl, she needs me tonight. come!" she led him through the house, down a stairway into the courtyard, and directed him into a narrow passageway which led out to the street behind. "even this is not safe, for they may be waiting." she laid her hand upon his arm and said, earnestly, "you will be careful?" "i will." he fought down the wild impulse to take her in his arms. as he skulked through the gloom, searching the darkest shadows like a criminal, his fear was gone, and in his heart was something singing joyously. xix felicite "you're just the man i'm looking for," bernie dreux told norvin, whom he chanced to meet on the following morning. "i've made a discovery." "indeed! what is it?" "hist! the walls have ears." bernie cast a glance over his shoulder at the busy, sunlit street and the hurrying crowds. "come!" with a melodramatic air he led blake into a coffee-house near by. "you can't guess it!" he exclaimed, when they were seated. "and what's more, i won't try. you're getting too mysterious, bernie." "i've found him." "whom?" "the bell-cow; the boss dago; the chief head-hunter; belisario cardi!" blake started and the smile died from his lips. dreux ran on with some heat: "oh, don't look so skeptical. any man with intelligence and courage can become as good a detective as i am. i've found your capo-mafia, that's all." "who is he?" "you won't believe me; but he's well thought of. you know him; o'neil knows him. he's generally trusted." norvin began to suspect that by some freak of fortune his little friend had indeed stumbled upon the truth. dreux was leaning back in his chair and beaming triumphantly. "come, come! what's his name?" "joe poggi." "poggi? he's the owner of that fruit-stand you've been watching." "exactly! chief donnelly suspected him." "nonsense!" norvin's face was twitching once more. "poggi is on the force; he's a detective, like you." "come off!" bernie was shocked and incredulous. "have you shadowed him for months without learning that he's an officer?" "i--i--he's the fellow, just the same." "oh, bernie, you'd better stick to the antique business." mr. dreux flushed angrily. "if he isn't one of the gang," he cried, "what was he doing with salvatore di marco and frank garcia the night after donnelly's murder? what's he doing now with caesar maruffi if he isn't after him for money?" blake's amusement suddenly gave place to eagerness. "maruffi!" he exclaimed. "what's this?" "joe poggi is blackmailing caesar maruffi out of the money to defend his friends. he was at di marco's house an hour before salvatore's arrest. i saw him with garcia and bolla and cardoni more than once." "why didn't you tell this to o'neil?" "i tried to, but he wouldn't listen. when i said i was a detective he laughed in my face, and we had a scene. he told me i couldn't find a ham at a hebrew picnic. since then i've been working alone. poggi has been lying low lately, but--" bernie hesitated, and a slight flush stole into his cheeks. "i've become acquainted with his wife--we're good friends." "and what have you learned from her?" "nothing directly; but i think she's acting as her husband's agent, collecting blackmail to hire lawyers for the defense. poor caesar! he's rich, and poggi is bleeding him. since joe is on the police force he knows every thing that goes on. no wonder you can't break up the mafia!" "by jove!" said norvin. "i was warned of a leak in the department. but it couldn't be poggi!" he began to question bernie with a peremptoriness and rapidity that made the little man blink. mingled with much that was grotesque and irrelevant, he drew out a fairly credible story of nocturnal meetings between the italian detective and caesar maruffi, which, taken in connection with what he already knew, was most disturbing. "how did you come to meet mrs. poggi?" he inquired, at last. the question brought that same flush to mr. dreux's cheeks. "she found i was following her one day," he explained, "so i told her i was smitten by her beauty. i got away with it, too. rather clever, for an amateur, eh?" "is she good-looking?" bernie nodded. "she's an outrageous flirt, though, and--oh, what a temper!" he shuddered nervously. "why, she'd stick a knife into me or bite my ears off if she suspected. she's insanely jealous." "it's not a nice position for you." "no. but i've something far worse than her on my hands--felicite. she's more to be feared than the mafia." "surely miss delord isn't dangerous." "isn't she?" mocked the bachelor. "you ought to see--" he started, his eyes fixed themselves upon the entrance to the cafe with a look of horror, he paled and cast a hurried glance around as if in search of a means of escape. "here she is now!" norvin turned to behold miss delord approaching them like an arrow. she was a tiny creature, but it was plain that she was out in all her fighting strength. her pretty face was dark with passion, her eyes were flashing, and they pierced her lover with a terrible glance as she paused before him, crying furiously: "well? where is she?" "felicite," stammered dreux, "d-don't cause a scene." miss delord stamped a ridiculously small foot and cried again, oblivious of all save her black jealousy: "where is she, i say? eh? you fear to answer. you shield her, perhaps." a plump brown hand darted forth and seized bernie by the ear, giving it a tweak like the bite of a parrot. "ouch!" he exclaimed, loudly. "felicite, you'll ruin us!" a waiter began to laugh in smothered tones. "tell me," stormed the diminutive fury. "it is time we had a settlement, she and i. i will lead you to her by those ass's ears of yours and let her hear the truth from your own mouth." "miss delord, you do bernie an injustice," norvin said, placatingly. she turned swiftly. "injustice? bah! he is a flirt, a loathsome trifler. what could be more abominable?" "felicite! d-don't make a scene," groaned the unhappy dreux, nursing his ear and staring about the cafe with frightened, appealing eyes. "bernie was just--" "you defend him, eh?" stormed the creole girl. "you are his friend. beware, m'sieu, that i do not pull your ears also. i came here to unmask him." "please sit down. you're attracting attention." "attention! yes! but this is nothing to what will follow. i shall make known his depravity to the whole city, for he has sweethearts like that king solomon of old. it is his beauty, m'sieu! listen! he loves a married woman! imagine it!" "felicite! for heaven's sake--" "a dago woman by the name of piggy. but wait, i shall make her squeal. piggy! a suitable name, indeed! he follows her about; he meets her secretly; he adores her, the scoundrel! is it not disgusting? but i am no fool. i, too, have watched; i have followed them both, and i shall scratch her black face until it bleeds, then i shall tell her husband the whole truth." miss delord paused, out of breath for the moment, while bernie pawed at her in a futile manner. beads of perspiration were gathering upon his brow and he seemed upon the verge of swooning. as if from habit, however, he reached forth a trembling hand and deftly replaced a loose hairpin, then tucked in a stray lock which felicite's vehemence had disarranged. "y-your hat's on one side, my dear," he told her. she tossed her head and drew away, saying, "your touch contaminates me--monster!" blake drew out a chair for her; his eyes were twinkling as he said, "won't you allow him to explain?" "there is nothing to explain, since i know everything. see! his tongue cleaves to the roof of his mouth. he quails! he cannot even lie! but wait until i have told the piggy's husband--that big, black ruffian--then perhaps he will find his voice. ah, if i had found that woman here there would have been a scene, i promise you." "help me--out," gasped mr. dreux, and norvin came willingly to his friend's rescue. "bernie loves no one but you," he said. "so? i glory in the fact that i loathe him." "please sit down." "no!" miss delord plumped herself down upon the edge of the proffered seat, her toes bardy touching the floor. "i'm--working mrs. poggi," bernie explained. "i'm a--detective." "what new falsehood is this?" "no falsehood at all," norvin told her. "he is a detective--a very fine one, too--and he has been working on the mafia case for a long time. it has been part of his work to follow the poggis. please don't allow your jealousy to ruin everything." "i am not jealous. i merely will not let him love another, that is all--but what is this you say?" her velvet eyes had lost a little of their hardness; they were as round as buttons and fixed inquiringly upon the speaker. "you must believe me," he said, impressively, "though i can't tell you more. even of this you mustn't breathe a word to any one. mr. dreux has had to permit this misunderstanding, much against his will, because of the secrecy imposed upon him." with wonderful quickness the anger died out of felicite's face, to be replaced by a look of sweetness. "a detective!" she cried, turning to bernie. "you work for the public good, at the risk of your life? and that dago woman is one of the mafia? what a noble work! you forgive me?" instantly mr. dreux's embarrassment left him and he assumed a chilling haughtiness. "forgive you? after such a scene? my dear girl, that's asking a good deal." felicite's lips trembled, her eyes, as they turned to norvin, held such an appeal that he hastened to reassure her. "of course he forgives you. he's delighted that you care enough to be jealous." bernie grinned, whereupon his peppery sweetheart exploded angrily: "you delight in my unhappiness, villain! you enjoy my sufferings! very well! you have flirted; i shall flirt you drive me to distraction; i shall behave accordingly. that antoine giroux worships me and would buy a ring for me to-morrow if i would consent." "i'll murder him!" exclaimed dreux, with more savagery than his friend believed was in him. "now, don't start all over again," blake cautioned them. "you are mad about each other--" "nothing of the sort," declared felicite. "at least bernie worships you." the girl fell silent and beamed openly upon her lover. "why don't you two end this sort of misunderstanding and--marry?" miss delord paled at this bold question. dreux gasped and flushed dully, but seemed to find no words. "that is impossible," he said, finally. "it's nothing of the sort," urged blake. "you think you're happy this way, but you're not and never will be. you're letting the best years of your lives escape. why care what people say if you're happy with each other and unhappy when apart?" to his surprise, the girl turned upon him fiercely. "do not torture bernie so," she cried. "there are reasons why he cannot marry. i love him, he adores me; that is enough." two tears gathered and stole down her smooth cheeks. "you are cruel to hurt him so, m'sieu." "bernie, you're a coward!" blake said, with some degree of feeling, but the girl flew once more to her lover's defense. "coward, indeed! his bravery is unbelievable. does he not risk his life for this miserable committee of yours? he has the courage of a thousand lions." "i admire your loyalty--and of course it's really not my affair, although--why don't you go out to the park where the birds are singing, and talk it all over? those birds are always glad to welcome lovers. meanwhile i'll look into the poggi matter." bernie was glad enough to end the scene, and he arose with alacrity; but his face was very red and he avoided the eye of his friend. as for miss delord, now that her doubts were quelled, she was as sparkling and as cheerful as an april morning. if bernie dreux supposed that his troubles for the day had ended with that stormy scene in the cafe, he was greatly mistaken. he had promised felicite that he would fly to her with the coming of dusk, and that neither the claims of duty nor of family should keep him from her side. but that evening myra nell seized upon him as he was cautiously tiptoeing past her door on his way out. the tone of her greeting gave him an unpleasant start. "i want to talk with you, young man," she said. now nobody, save myra nell, ever assumed the poetic license of calling bernie "young man," and even she did so only upon momentous occasions. a quick glance at her face confirmed his premonition of an uncomfortable half-hour. "i haven't a cent, really," he said, desperately. "this isn't about money." she was very grave. "it is something far more serious." "then what can it be?" he inquired, in a tone of mild surprise. but she deigned no explanation until she had led him into the library, waved him imperiously to a seat upon the hair-cloth sofa, and composed herself on a chair facing him. reflecting that he was already late for his appointment, he wriggled uncomfortably under her gaze. "well?" she said, after a pause. something in her bearing caused his spirits to continue their downward course. her brow was furrowed with a somber portent. "yes'm," he said, nervously, quite like a small schoolboy whose eyes are fixed upon the sunshine outside. "i've heard the truth." "yes'm," he repeated, vaguely. "needless to say i'm crushed," bernie slowly whitened as the meaning of his sister's words sank in. he seemed to melt, to settle together, and his eyes filled with a strange, hunted expression. "what are you talking about?" he demanded, thickly. "you know, very well." "do i?" she nodded her head. "this is the first disgrace which has ever fallen upon us, and i'm heartbroken." "i don't understand," he protested, in a voice so faint she could scarcely hear him. but his pallor increased; he sat upon the edge of the couch, clutching it nervously as if it had begun to move under him. he really felt dizzy. myra nell had a bottle of smelling-salts in her room, and he thought of asking her to fetch it. "even yet i can't believe it of you," she continued. "the idea that you, my protector, the one man upon whom i've always looked with reverence and respect; you, my sole remaining relative.... the idea that you should be entangled in a miserable intrigue.... why, it's appalling!" her lips quivered, tears welled into her eyes, seeing which the little man felt himself strangling. "don't!" he cried, miserably. "i didn't think you'd ever find it out." "i seem to be the only one who doesn't know all about it." myra nell shuddered. "i simply couldn't help it," he told her. "i'm human and i've been in love for years." "but think what people are saying." he passed a shaking hand over his forehead, which had grown damp. "one never realizes the outcome of these things until too late. i hoped you'd never discover it. i've done everything i could to conceal it." "that's the terrible part--your double life. don't you know it's wrong, wicked, vile? i can't really believe it of you. why, you're my own brother! the honor of our name rests upon you. the--the idea that you should fall a victim to the wiles of a low, vulgar--" bernie stiffened his back and his colorless eyes flashed. "myra nell, she's nothing like that!" he declared. "you don't know her." "perhaps. but didn't you think of me?" he nodded his head. "didn't you realize it meant my social ruin?" again he nodded, his mind in a whirl of doubts and fears and furious regrets. "nobody'll care to marry me now. what do you think lecompte will say?" "what the devil has lecompte to do with it? you're engaged to norvin blake." "oh, yes, among the others." bernie was too miserable to voice the indignation which such flippancy evoked in him. he merely said: "norvin isn't like the others. it's different with him; he compromised you." "yes. it was rather nice of him, but do you think he'll care to continue our engagement after this?" "oh, he's known about felicite for a long time. most of the fellows know. that's what makes it so hard." this intelligence entirely robbed myra nell of words; she stared at her half-brother as if trying to realize that the man who had made this shocking admission was he. "do you mean to tell me that your friends have known of this disgrace?" she asked at length. bernie nodded. "of course it seems terrible to you, myra nell, for you're innocent and unworldly, and i'm rather a dissipated old chap. but i'm awfully lonely. the men of my own age are successful and busy and they've all left me behind; the young ones don't find me interesting. you see, i don't know anything, i can't do anything, i'm a failure. nobody cares anything about me, except you and felicite i found a haven in her society; her faith in me is splendid. to her i'm all that's heroic and fine and manly, so when i'm with her i begin to feel that i'm really all she believes, all that i hoped to be once upon a time. she shares my dreams and i allow myself to believe in her beliefs." "and yet you must realize that your conduct is shocking?" "i suppose i do." "you must know that you're an utterly immoral person?" he nodded. "you're my protector, bernie; you're all i have. i'm a poor motherless girl and i lean upon you. but you must appreciate now that you're quite unfit to act as my guardian." the little man wailed his miserable assent. his half-sister's reproachful eyes distracted him; the mention of her defenseless position before the world touched his sorest feeling. it was almost more than he could stand, he was upon the verge of hysterical breakdown, when her manner suddenly changed. her eyes brightened, and, rising swiftly, she flung herself down beside him upon the sofa, where he still sat clutching it as if it were a bucking horse. then, curling one foot under her, she bent toward him, all eagerness, all impulsiveness. with breathless intensity she inquired: "tell me, bunnie, is she pretty?" "very pretty, indeed," he said, lamely. "what's she like? quick! tell me all about her. this is the wickedest thing i ever heard of and i'm _perfectly_ delighted." it was bernie's turn to look shocked. he arose indignantly. "myra nell! you paralyze me. have you no moral--" "rats!" interrupted miss warren, inelegantly. "i've let you preach to me in the past, but never again. we've the same blood in us, bunnie. if i were a man i dare say i'd do the most terrible things--although i've never dreamed of anything so fiercely awful as this." "i should hope not," he gasped. "so come now, tell me everything. does she pet you and call you funny names and ruffle your hair the way i do?" bernie assumed an attitude of military erectness. "it's bad enough for me to be a reprobate in secret," he said, stiffly, "but i sha'n't allow my own flesh and blood to share my shame and gloat over it." the girl's essential innocence, her child-like capacity for seeing only the romance of a situation in which he himself recognized real dishonor, made him feel ashamed, yet he was grateful that she took the matter, after all, so lightly. his respite, however, was of short duration. failing to draw him out on the subject which held her interest for the moment, myra nell followed the beckoning of a new thought. fixing her eyes meditatively upon him, she said, with mellow satisfaction: "it seems we're both being gossiped about, dear." "you? what have _you_ been doing?" he demanded, in despair. "oh, i really haven't done anything, but it's nearly as bad. there's a report that norvin blake is paying all my carnival bills, and naturally it has occasioned talk. of course i denied it; the idea is too preposterous." bernie, who had in a measure recovered his composure, felt himself paling once more. "amy cline told me she'd heard that he actually bought my _dresses_, but amy is a catty creature. she's mad over lecompte, you know; that's why i encourage him; and she wanted to be queen, too, but la, la, she's so skinny! well, i was furious, naturally--" miss warren paused, quick to note the telltale signs in her brother's face. "bernie!" she said. "look me in the eye!" then--"it is true!" her own eyes were round and horrified, her rosy cheeks lost something of their healthy glow; for once in her capricious life she was not acting. "i never dreamed you'd learn about it," her brother protested. "when norvin asked me if you'd like to be queen i forbade him to mention it to you, for i couldn't afford the expense. but he told you in spite of me, and when i saw your heart was set on it--i--i just couldn't refuse. i allowed him to loan me the money." "bernie! bernie!" myra nell rose and, turning her back upon him, stared out of the window into the dusk of the evening. at length she said, with a strange catch in her voice, "you're an anxious comfort, bernie, for an orphan girl." another moment passed in silence before he ventured: "you see, i knew he'd marry you sooner or later, so it wasn't really a loan." he saw the color flood her neck and cheek at his words, but he was unprepared for her reply. "i'll never marry him now; i'll never speak to him again." "why not?" "can't you understand? do you think i'm entirely lacking in pride? what kind of man can he be to _tell_ of his loan, to make it public that the very dresses which cover me were bought with his money?" she turned upon her half-brother with clenched hands and eyes which were gleaming through tears of indignation. "i could _kill_ him for that." "he didn't tell," bernie blurted out. "he must have. nobody knew it except you--" her eyes widened; she hesitated. "you?" she gasped. it was indeed, the hour of bernie's discomfiture. myra nell was his divinity, and to confess his personal offense against her, to destroy her faith in him, was the hardest thing he had ever done. but he was gentleman enough not to spare himself. at the cost of an effort which left him colorless he told her the truth. "i'd been drinking, that day of the quarantine. i thought i'd fix it so he couldn't back out." myra nell's lips were white as she said, slowly, measuring him meanwhile with a curious glance: "well, i reckon you fixed it right enough; i reckon you fixed it so that neither of us can back out." she turned and went slowly up-stairs, past the badly done portraits of her people which stared down at her in all their ancient pride. she carried her head high before them, but, once in her room, she flung herself upon her bed and wept as if her heart were breaking. fortunately for norvin blake's peace of mind, he had no inkling of bernie's indiscretion nor of any change in myra nell. his work now occupied his mind to the exclusion of everything else. while anxiously waiting for some word from oliveta he took up, with o'neil, the investigation of joe poggi, the italian detective. before definite results had been obtained he was delighted to receive a visit from vittoria fabrizi, who explained that she had risked coming to see him because she dared not trust the mails and feared to bring him into the foreign quarter. "then oliveta has made some progress?" he asked, eagerly. "yes." "good! poor girl, it must be terribly hard for her to play such a part." "no one knows how hard it has been. you would not recognize her, she has changed so. her love, for which we were so deeply thankful, has turned into bitter hate. it was a long time before she dared trust herself with maruffi, for always she saw the blood of her father upon his hands. but she is sicilian, she turned to stone and finally welcomed his caresses. ah! that man will suffer for what he has made her endure." blake inquired, curiously, "does he really love her?" "yes. that is the strangest part of the whole affair. it is the one good thing in his character, the bit of gold in that queer alloy which goes to make him up. perhaps if he had met her when he was younger, love would have made him a different man. in her hands he is like wax; he is simple, childlike; he fawns upon her, he would shower her with gifts and attentions; yet underneath there is that streak of devilish cunning." "what has he told, so far?" "much that is significant, little that is definite. we have pieced his words together, bit by bit, and uncovered his life an inch at a time. it was he who paid the blood money to di marco and bolla--thousand dollars." "a thousand dollars for the life of dan donnelly!" the countess lowered her yellow head. "they in turn hired larubio, normando, and the rest. the chain is complete." "then all that remains is to prove it, link by link, before arresting him." "is not oliveta's word sufficient proof?" "no." blake paced his office silently, followed by the anxious gaze of his caller. at length he asked, "will she take the stand at the trial?" "heaven forbid! nothing could induce her to do so. that is no part of her scheme of vengeance, you understand? being sicilian, she will work only in her own way. besides--that would mean the disclosure of her identity and mine." "i feared as much. in that case every point which maruffi confesses to her must be verified by other means. that will not be easy, but i dare say it can be done." "the law is such a stupid thing!" exclaimed vittoria. "it has no eyes, it will not reason, it cannot multiply nor add; it must be led by the hand like a blind old man and be told that two and two make four. however, i have a plan." "i confess that i see no way. what do you advise?" "these accused men are in the parish prison, yes? very well. imprison spies with them who will gain their confidence. in that way we can verify maruffi's words." "that's not so easily done. there is no certainty that they would make damaging admissions." "men who dwell constantly with thoughts of their guilt feel the need of talking. the mind is incapable of continued silence; it must communicate the things that weigh it down. let the imprisoned mafiosi mingle with one another freely whenever ears are open near by, and you will surely get results." seeing him frown in thought, she continued, after a moment, "you told me of a great detective agency--one which sent that man corte here to betray narcone." "yes, the pinkertons. i was thinking of them. i believe it can be done. at any rate, leave it to me to try, and if i succeed no one shall know about it, not even our own police. when our spies enter the prison, if they do, it will be in a way to inspire confidence among the mafiosi. meanwhile, do you think you are entirely safe in that foreign quarter?" "quite safe, although the situation is trying. i have felt the strain almost as deeply as my unfortunate sister." "and when it is all over you will be ready for your vows?" her answer gave no sign of the hesitation he had hoped for and half expected. "of course." he shook his head doubtfully. "somehow, i--i feel that fate will keep you from that life; i cannot think of you as a sister of mercy." in spite of himself his voice was uneven and his eyes were alight with the hope which she so steadfastly refused to recognize. as she rose to leave she said, musingly, "how strange it is that this master of crime and intrigue should betray himself through the one good and unselfish emotion of his life!" "samson was shorn of his strength by the fingers of a woman," he said. "yes. many good men have been betrayed by evil women, but it is not often that evil men meet their punishment through good ones. and now--a riverderci." "good-by, for a few days." he pressed his lips lightly to her fingers. xx the man in the shadows late one day, a fortnight after her visit to blake's office, vittoria returned from a call upon myra nell warren, to find oliveta in a high state of apprehension. the girl, who had evidently kept watch for her, met her at the door, and inquired, nervously: "what news? what have you heard?" "nothing further, sorella mia." "impossible! god in heaven! i am dying! this suspense--i cannot endure it longer." vittoria laid a comforting hand upon her. "courage!" she said. "we can only wait. i too am torn by a thousand demons. caesar has gone, but no one knows where." oliveta shuddered. "we are ruined. he suspects." "so you have said before, but how could he suspect?" "i don't know, yet judge for yourself. i worm his secrets from him at the cost of kisses and endearments; i hold him in my arms and with smiles and caresses i lead him to betray himself. then, suddenly, without warning or farewell, he vanishes. i tell you he knows. he has the cunning of the fiend, and your friend signore blake has blundered." oliveta's face blanched with terror. she clung to her companion weakly, repeating over and over: "he will return. god help us, he will return." "even though he knows the truth, which is far from likely, he would scarcely dare to come here," vittoria said, striving with a show of confidence which she did not feel to calm her foster sister. "you do not know him as i do. you do not know the furies which goad him in his anger." in spite of herself vittoria felt choked again by those fears which during the days since maruffi's disappearance she had with difficulty controlled. she knew that the net had been spread for him in all caution, yet he had slipped through it. whether he had been warned or whether mere chance had taken him from the city at the last moment, neither she, nor blake, nor the chief of police had been able to learn. all had been done with such secrecy that, except a bare half-dozen trusted officers, no one knew him to be even suspected of a part in the mafia's affairs. norvin had been quick to sense the possible danger to the two women, and had urged them to accept his protection; but they had convinced him that such a course had its own dangers, for in case the mafioso was really unsuspicious the slightest indiscretion on their part might frighten him. therefore they had insisted upon living as usual until something more definite was known. this afternoon vittoria had received a message from myra nell, requesting, or rather demanding, her immediate attendance. she had gone gladly, hoping to divert her mind from its present anxieties; but the girl had talked of little except norvin blake and the effect had not been calming. oliveta soon discovered that her sister was in a state to receive rather than give consolation. "carissima, you are ill!" she said with concern. vittoria assented. "it is my eyes--my head. the heat is perhaps as much to blame as our many worries." she removed her hat and pressed slender fingers to her throbbing temples, while oliveta drew the curtains against the fierce rays of a westering sun. later, clad in a loose silken robe, vittoria flung herself upon the low couch and her companion let down her luxuriant masses of hair until it enveloped her like a cloud. she lay back upon the cushions in grateful relaxation, while oliveta combed and brushed the braids, soothing her with an occasional touch of cool palms or straying fingers. "how strange that both our lives should have been blighted by this man!" the peasant girl said at length. "'sh-h! you must not think of him so unceasingly," vittoria warned her. "one's thoughts go where they will when one is sick and wearied. i have grown to hate everything about me--the people, the life, the country." "sicily is calling you, perhaps?" oliveta answered eagerly, "yes! you, too, are unhappy, my dearest. let us go home. home!" she let her hands fall idle and stared ahead of her, seeing the purple hills behind terranova, the dusty gray-green groves of olive-trees, the brilliant fields of sumach, the arbors bent beneath their weight of blushing fruit. "i want to see the village people again, my father's relatives, old aliandro, and the notary's little boy--" "he must be a well-grown lad, by now," murmured vittoria. "aliandro, i fear, is dead. but it is a long road to terranova; we have--changed." "yes--everything has changed. my happiness has changed to misery, my hope to despair, my love to hate." "poor sister mine!" vittoria sympathized. "be patient. no wound is too deep for time to heal. the scar will remain, but the pain will disappear. i should know, for i have suffered." "and do you suffer no longer? it has been a long time since you mentioned--martel." for a moment vittoria remained silent, her eyes closed. when she replied it was not in answer to the question. "i can never return to sicily, for it would awaken nothing but distress in me. but there is no reason why you should not go if you wish. you have the means, while all that i had has been given to the sisters." oliveta cried out at this passionately. "i have nothing. that which you gave me i hold only for you. but i would not go alone; i shall never leave you." "some time you must, my dear. our parting is not far off." "i am not sure." the peasant girl hesitated. "deep in your heart, do you hope to find peace inside the walls of that hospital?" "yes--peace, at least; perhaps contentment and happiness also." "that is impossible," said oliveta, at which vittoria's hazel eyes flew open. "eh? why not?" "because you love this signore blake!" "oliveta! you are losing your wits." "perhaps! but i have not lost my eyes. as for him, he loved you even in sicily." "what then?" "he is a fine man. i think you could hear an echo to the love you cherished for martel, if you but listened." vittoria gazed at her foster-sister with a look half tender and half stern. her voice had lost some of its languid indifference when she replied: "any feeling i might have would indeed be no more than an echo. i--am not like other women; something in me is dead--it is the power to love as women love. i am like a person who emerges from a conflagration, blinded; the eyes are there, but the sight is gone." "perhaps you only sleep, like the princess who waited for a kiss--" vittoria interrupted impatiently: "no, no! and you mistake his feelings. i attract him, perhaps, but he loves miss warren and has asked her to marry him. what is more, she adores him and--they were made for each other." "she adores him!" echoed the other. "che dio! she only plays at love. her affections are as shifting as the winds." "that may be. but he is in earnest. it was he who gave her this social triumph--he made her queen of the carnival. he even bought her dresses. it was that which caused her to send for me this afternoon. heaven knows i was in no mood to listen, but she chattered like a magpie. as if i could advise her wisely!" "she is very dear to you," oliveta ventured. "indeed, yes. she shares with you all the love that is left in me." "i think i understand. you have principles, my sister. you have purposely barred the way to your fairy prince, and will continue sleeping." vittoria's brow showed faint lines, but whether of pain or annoyance it was hard to tell. oliveta sighed. "what evil fortune overhangs us that we should be denied love!" "please! let us speak no more of it." she turned her face away and for a long time her companion soothed her with silent ministrations. meanwhile the dusk settled, the golden flames died out of the western windows, the room darkened. seeing that her patient slept, oliveta arose and with noiseless step went to a little shrine which hung on the wall. she knelt before the figure of the virgin, whispering a prayer, then lit a fresh candle for her sister's pain and left the room, partly closing the door behind her. she had allowed the maid-servant to go for the afternoon, and found, upon examination, that the day's marketing had been neglected. there was still time, however, in which to secure some delicacies to tempt vittoria's taste so she flung a shawl over her dark hair and descended softly to the street. a little earlier on this same afternoon, as norvin blake sat at work in his office, the telephone bell roused him from deep thought. he seized the instrument eagerly, hoping for any news that would relieve the tension upon his nerves. for uncertainty as to maruffi's whereabouts had weighed heavily upon him, especially in view of the possible danger to the woman he loved and to her devoted companion. the voice of o'neil came over the wire, full-toned and distinct: "hello! is this blake?"--and then, "we've got maruffi!" "when? where?" shouted norvin. "five minutes ago; at his own house. johnson and dean have been watching the place. he went with them like a lamb, too. they've just 'phoned me that they're all on their way here." "good! do you need me?" "no! see you later. good-by!" the acting chief slammed up his receiver, leaving his hearer stunned at the suddenness of this long-awaited denouement. maruffi taken! his race run! then this was the end of the fight! a ferocious triumph flooded norvin's brain. with belisario cardi in the hands of the law the spell of the mafia was broken. savigno and donnelly were as good as avenged. he experienced an odd feeling of relaxation, as if both his body and brain were cramped and tired with waiting. then, realizing that the countess and oliveta must have suffered an even greater strain, he set out at once to give them the news in person. as he turned swiftly into royal street he encountered o'connell, who, noting his haste and something unusual in his bearing, detained him to ask the cause. "haven't you heard?" exclaimed norvin. "maruffi's captured at last." "you don't mean it!" "yes. o'neil told me over the wire not ten minutes ago." o'connell fell into step with him, saying, incredulously: "and he came without a fight? lord! i can't believe it." "nor i. i expected trouble with him." "sure! i thought he was a bad one, but that's the way it goes sometimes. i reckon he saw he had no chance." the officer shook his red head. "it's just my blamed luck to miss the fun." o'connell was one of the few who had been first trusted with the news of maruffi's identity, and for the past fortnight he had been casting high and low for the sicilian's trail. ever since that october night when he had supported donnelly in his arms as the life ebbed from the chief, ever since he had knelt on the soft banquette with the sting of powder smoke in his nostrils, he had been obsessed by a fanatical desire to be in at the death of his friend's murderers. he left blake at his destination and hurried on toward st. phillip street in the vague hope that he might not be too late to take a hand in some part of the proceedings. blake's hand was upon oliveta's bell when the door opened and she confronted him. her start, her frightened cry, gave evidence of the nervous dread under which she labored. "don't be afraid, oliveta," he said, quickly. "i come with news--good news." she swayed and groped blindly for support. he put out his hand to sustain her, but she shrank away from him, saying, faintly: "then he is captured? god be praised!" in spite of the words, her eyes filmed over with tears, a look of abject misery bared itself upon her face. "where is the countess?" "above--resting. come; she, too, will rejoice." "let me take her the news. you were going out, and--i think the air will do you good. be brave, oliveta; you have done your share, and there's nothing more to fear." she acquiesced dully; her olive features were ghastly as she felt her way past him; she walked like a sick woman. he watched her pityingly for a moment, then mounted the stairs. as he laid his hand upon the door it gave to his touch and he stood upon the threshold of the parlor. vittoria's name was upon his lips when, by the dim evening light which came through the drawn curtains and by the faint illumination from the solitary shrine candle, he saw her recumbent form upon the couch. she was lying in an attitude of complete relaxation, her sun-gilded hair straying in long thick braids below her waist, those tawny ropes were of a length and thickness to bind a man about the body. her lips were slightly parted; her lashes lay like dark shadows against her ivory cheeks. he was swept by a sudden awed abashment. the impulse to retreat came over him, but he lacked the will. the longing which had remained so strong in him through years of denial, governing the whole course of his life, blazed up in him now and increased with every heartbeat. he found that without willing it he had come close to the couch. the girl's slim hand lay upon the cushions, limply upturned to him; it was half open and there sprang through him an ungovernable desire to bury his lips in its rosy palm. he knelt, then quailed and recovered himself. at the same instant she stirred and, to his incredulous delight, whispered his name. a wild exultation shot through him. why not yield to this madness, he asked himself, dizzily. the long struggle was over now. for this woman's sake he had repeatedly played the part of bravery in a fever of fear. he had done what he had done to make himself worthy of her, and now, at the last, he was to have nothing--absolutely nothing, except a memory. against these thoughts his notions of honorable conduct hastily and confusedly arrayed themselves. but he was in no state to reason. the same enchantment, half psychic, half physical, ethereal yet strongly human, that had mastered him in the old sicilian days, was at work upon him now. dimly he felt that so mighty and natural a thing ought not to be resisted. he stood stiffly like a man spellbound. it may have been oliveta's accusation that affected the course of the sleeping woman's thoughts, it may have been that she felt the man's nearness, or that some influence passed from his mind to hers. however it was, she spoke his name again, her fingers closed over his, she drew him toward her. he yielded; her warm breath beat upon his face; then the last atoms of self-restraint fled away from him like sparks before a fierce night wind. a fiery madness coursed through his veins as he caught her to him. her lips were fevered with sleep. for a moment the caress seemed real; it was the climax of his hopes, the attainment of his longings. he crushed her in his arms; her hair blinded him; he buried his face in it, kissing her brow, her cheek, the curve where neck and shoulder met, and all the time he was speaking her name with hoarse tenderness. so strangely had the fanciful merged into the real that the girl was slow in waking. her eyelids fluttered, her breast rose and fell tumultuously, and even while her wits were struggling back to reality her arms clung to him. but the transition was brief. her eyes opened, and she stiffened as with the shock of an electric current. a cry, a swift, writhing movement, and she was upon her feet, his incoherent words beating upon her ears but making no impression upon her brain. "_you_! god above!" she cried. she faced him, white, terror-stricken, yet splendid in her anger. she was still dazed, but horror and dismay leaped quickly into her eyes. "margherita! you called me. you drew me to you. it was your real self that spoke--i know it." "you--kissed me while--i slept!" he paled at the look with which she scorched him, then broke out, doggedly: "you wanted me; you drew me close. you can't undo that moment--you can't. my god! don't tell me it was all a mistake. that would make it unendurable. i could never forgive myself." she hid her face with a choking cry of shame. "no, no! i didn't know--" he approached and touched her arm timidly. "margherita," he said, "if i thought you really did not call me--if i were made to believe that i had committed an unpardonable offense against your womanhood and our friendship--i would go and kill myself. but somehow i cannot believe that. i was beside myself--but i was never more exalted. something greater than my own will made me do as i did. i think it was your love answering to mine. if that is not so--if it is all a delusion--there is nothing left for me. i have played my part out to the end. my work is done, and i do not see how i can go on living." there was an odd mingling of pain and rapture in the gaze she raised to his. it gave him courage. "why struggle longer?" he urged, gently. "why turn from love when heaven wills you to receive it and learn to be a woman? i was in your thoughts and you longed for me, as i have never ceased, all these years, to hunger for you. please! please! margherita! why fight it longer?" "what have you done? what have you done?" she whispered over and over. she looked toward the open door as if with thought of escape or assistance, and despite his growing hope blake was miserable at sight of her distress. "how came you here, alone with me?" she asked at length. "oliveta was here only a moment ago." "i came with good news for both of you. i met oliveta as she went out, and when i had told her she sent me to you. don't you understand, dear? it was good news. our quest is over, our work is done, and god has seen fit to deliver our enemy--" she flung out a trembling hand, while the other hid itself in the silk and lace at her breast. "what is this you tell me? maruffi? am i still dreaming?" "maruffi has been arrested." "is it possible?--this long nightmare ended at last like this? maruffi is arrested? you are safe? no one has been killed?" "it is all right. o'neil telephoned me and i came here at once to tell you and oliveta." "when did they find him? where?" "not half an hour ago--at his house. we have been watching the place ever since he disappeared, feeling sure he'd have to return sooner or later, if only for a moment. he is under lock and key at this instant." blake attributed a stir in the hall outside to the presence of the maid-servant; margherita, whose eyes were fixed upon him, failed to detect a figure which stood in the shadow just beyond the open door. "does he know of our part in it--oliveta's part?" she asked. "o'neil didn't say. he'll learn of it shortly, in any event. do you realize what his capture means? i--hardly do myself. for one thing, there's no further need of concealment. i--i want people to know who you are. it seems hardly conceivable that belisario cardi has gone to meet his punishment, but it is true. lucrezia has her revenge at last. it has been a terrible task for all of us, but it brought you and me together. i don't intend ever to let you go again, margherita. i loved you there in sicily. i've loved you every moment, every hour--" blake turned at the sound of a door closing behind him. he saw margherita start, then lean forward staring past him with a look of amazement, of frightened incredulity, upon her face. some one, a man, had stepped into the dim-lit room and was fumbling with the lock, his eyes fixed upon them, meanwhile, over his shoulder. the light from the windows had faded, the faint illumination from the taper before the shrine was insufficient fully to pierce the gloom. but on the instant of his interruption all triumph and hope, all thoughts of love, fled from norvin's mind, bursting like iridescent bubbles, at a touch. the flesh along his back writhed, the hair at his neck lifted itself; for there in the shadow, huge, black, and silent, stood caesar maruffi. xxi under fire blake heard margherita's breath release itself. she was staring as if at an apparition. his mind, working with feverish speed, sought vainly to grasp the situation. maruffi had broken away and come for his vengeance, but how or why this had been made possible he could not conceive. it sufficed that the man was here in the flesh, sinister, terrible, malignant as hell. blake knew that the ultimate test of his courage had come. he felt the beginnings of that same shuddering, sickening weakness with which he was only too familiar; felt the strength running out from his body as water escapes from a broken vessel. he froze with the sense of his physical impotency, and yet despite this chaos of conflicting emotions his inner mind was clear; it was bitter, too, with a ferocious self-disgust. there was a breathless pause before maruffi spoke. "lucrezia ferara!" he said, hoarsely, as if wishing to test the sound of the name. "so oliveta is the daughter of the overseer, and you are savigno's sweetheart." his words were directed at margherita, who answered in a thin, shrill, broken voice: "what--are you doing--here?" "i came for that wanton's blood. give her to me." "oliveta? she is--gone." the sicilian cursed. "gone? where?" "away. into the street. you--you cannot find her." "christ!" maruffi reached upward and tore open the collar of his shirt. blake spoke for the first time, but his voice was dead and lifeless. "yes. she's gone. you're wanted. you must go with me!" maruffi gave a snarling, growling cry and his gesture showed that he was armed. involuntarily blake shrank back; his hand groped for his hip, but, half-way, encountered the pile of silken cushions upon which margherita had been lying; his fingers sank into them nervously, his other hand gripped the carven footboard of the couch. he had no weapon. he had not dreamed of such a necessity. in this imminent peril a new fear swept over him greater than any he had ever known. it was not the fear of death. it was something far worse. for the moment, it seemed to him inevitable that margherita ginini should, at last, learn the truth concerning him, should see him as he was that night at terranova. swift upon the heels of his long-deferred declaration of love would come the proof that he was a craven. then he thought of her danger, realizing that this man was quite capable in his fury of killing her, too, and he stiffened in every fiber. his cowardice fell away from him like a rotten garment, and he stood erect. maruffi, it seemed, had not heard his last words, or else his mind was still set upon oliveta. "gone!" he exclaimed. "then i shall not see her face grow black within my fingers--not yet. god! how i ran!" he cursed again. "but i shall not fare so badly, after all." he stirred, and with his movement blake flew to action. swiftly, with one sweep of his right hand, he brought the silken cushions up before his breast and lunged at his enemy. at the same instant maruffi fired. in the closed room the detonation was deafening; it rattled the windows, it seemed to bulge the very walls. blake felt a heavy blow which drove the floss-filled pillows against his body with the force of a giant hammer, it tore them from his grip, it crushed the breath from his lungs and spun him half around. seeing that he did not fall, maruffi cocked and fired a second time without aiming, but his victim was upon him like a tiger and together they crashed back against the wall, locked in each other's arms. blake's will propelled him splendidly. all that indecision with which fear works upon the mind had left him, but the old contraction of his nerves still hampered his action. the blaze from maruffi's second shot half blinded him and its breath smote him like a blow. "two!" he counted, wonderingly. a pain in his left side, due to that first sledge-hammer impact, was spreading slowly, but he had crossed the room under the belching muzzle of the revolver and was practically unharmed. there began a struggle--the more terrible since it was unequal--in which the weaker man had to drive his body at the cost of tremendous effort. blake was like a leader commanding troops which had begun to retreat. but more power came to him under the spur of action and the pressing realization that he must give margherita a chance to get safely away. if he could not wrest the weapon from maruffi's hands he knew that he must receive those four remaining bullets in his own body. he rather doubted that he could take that weight of lead. he shouted to her to run, while he wrestled for possession of the gun. he had flung his right arm about his adversary's body, his other hand gripped his wrist; his head was pressed against maruffi's chest. the weapon described swift circles, jerking parabolas and figures as the men strained to wrest it from each other. maruffi strove violently to free his imprisoned hand, and in doing so he discharged the revolver a third time. the bullet brought a shower of plaster from the ceiling, and blake counted with fierce exultation, "three!" he gasped his warning to the woman again, then twined his leg about his antagonist's in a wrestler's hold, striving mightily to bear maruffi against the wall. but caesar was like an oak-tree. failing to move him, blake suddenly flung himself backward, with all his weight, lifting at the same instant in the hope of a fall. in this he was all but successful. the two reeled out into the room, tripped, went to their knees, then rose, still intertwined in that desperate embrace. the odd, stiff feeling in blake's side had increased rapidly; it began to numb his muscles and squeeze his lungs. his eyes were stinging with sweat and smoke; his ears were roaring. as they swayed and turned he saw that margherita had made no effort to escape and he was seized with an extraordinary rage, which for a brief time renewed his strength. she was at the front window crying for help. "jump! for--god's sake, jump!" he shouted, but she did not obey. instead she ran toward the combatants and seized maruffi's free arm, in a measure checking his effort to break the other man's hold. her closeness to danger agonized blake, the more as he felt his own strength ebbing, under that stabbing pain in his side. he centered his force in the grip of his left hand, clinging doggedly while the sicilian flung his two assailants here and there as a dog worries a scarf. blake fancied he heard a stamping of feet in the hall outside and the sound of voices, of heavy bodies crashing against the door. maruffi heard it, too, for with a bellow of fury he redoubled his exertions. a sweep of his arm flung the girl aside; with a mighty wrench of his body he carried blake half across the room, loosening his hold. then he seized him by the throat and forced his head back. [illustration: he wrestled for possession of the gun] the shouting outside was increasing, the pounding was growing louder. blake's breath was cut off and his strength went swiftly; his death grip on the sicilian's body slackened. as he tore at the fingers which were throttling him, his left hand slipped, citing to maruffi's sleeve, and finally began clawing blindly for the weapon. the next moment he was hurled aside, so violently that he fell, his feet entangled in the cushions with which he had defended himself against the first shot. he rose and renewed his attack, hearing margherita cry out in horror. this time maruffi took deliberate aim, and when he fired the figure lurching toward him was halted as if by some giant fist. "four!" blake counted. he was hit, he knew, but he still had strength; there were but two more shots to come. then he was dazed to find himself upon his knees. as if through a film he saw the italian turn away and raise his weapon toward the girl, who was wrenching at the door. "maruffi!" he shouted. "oh, god!" then he closed his eyes to shut out what followed. but he heard nothing, for he slipped forward, face down, and felt himself falling, falling, into silence and oblivion. as o'connell made his way toward st. phillip street he nursed a growing resentment at the news norvin blake had given him. his feeling toward caesar maruffi had all the fierceness of private hatred, calling for revenge, and he considered himself ill-used in that he had not even been permitted to witness the arrest. he knew maruffi's countrymen would be likely to make a demonstration, and he was grimly desirous of being present when this occurred. as he neared the heart of the italian section he saw a blue-coated officer running toward him. "what's up?" he cried. "have the dagoes started something?" "maruffi was pinched, but he got away," the other answered. "johnson is hurt, and--" o'connell lost the remaining words, for he had broken into a run. a crowd had gathered in front of a little shop where the wounded policeman had been carried to await the arrival of an ambulance, and even before o'connell had heard the full story of the escape acting-chief o'neil drove up behind a lathered horse. he leaped from his mud-stained buggy, demanding, hoarsely: "where is he--maruffi?" officer dean, johnson's companion, met him at the door of the shop. "he made his break while i was 'phoning you," he answered. "hell! didn't you frisk him?" roared the chief. "sure! but we missed his gun." "caesar carries it on a cord around his neck--nigger-fashion," briefly explained o'connell. dean was running on excitedly: "i heard johnson holler, but before i could get out into the street maruffi had shot him twice and was into that alley yonder. i tried to follow, but lost him, so i came back and sent in the alarm." the acting chief cursed under his breath, and with a few sharp orders hurried off the few officers who had reached the scene. then as an ambulance appeared he passed into the room where johnson lay. as he emerged a moment later o'connell drew him aside. "maruffi won't try to leave town till it's good and dark," he said. "he's got a girl, and i've an idea he'll ask her to hide him out." "it was his girl who turned him up--she and blake--" o'connell cried, sharply: "wait! does he know she did that? if he does, he'll make for her, sure." "that may be. those two women are all alone, and i'd feel better if they were safely out of the way. i'll leave you there on the way back." an instant later they were clattering over the uneven flags while their vehicle rocked and bounded in a way that threatened to hurl them out. even before they reached their destination they saw people running through the dusk toward the house in which the two girls lived and heard a shot muffled behind walls. o'neil reined the horse to his haunches as the shrill cry of a woman rang out above them, and the next moment he and o'connell were inside, rushing up the stairs with headlong haste. they were brought to a stop before a bolted door from behind which came the sounds of a furious struggle. "blake! norvin blake!" shouted o'connell. "break it down!" o'neil ordered. he set his back against the opposite wall, then launched himself like a catapult. the patrolman followed suit, but although the panels strained and split the heavy door held. "by god! he's in there!" the chief cried, as he set his shoulder to the barrier for a second time. "once more! together!" through a crevice which had opened in the upper panels they caught a glimpse of the dimly lighted room. what they saw made them struggle like madmen. another shot sounded, and o'neil in desperation inserted his fingers in the opening and tore at it. through the aperture o'connell saw maruffi run to an open window at the rear, then pause long enough to snatch the taper from its sconce at the foot of the little shrine and, stooping, touch its flame to the long lace curtains. they promptly flashed into a blaze. parting them, he bestrode, the sill, lowered himself outside, and disappeared. it was an old but effective ruse to delay pursuit. "quick! he's set fire to the place," o'connell gasped, and dashed down the hall. a tremendous final heave of o'neil's body cleared his way, a few strides and he was at the window, ripping the blazing hangings down and flinging them into the court below. when he turned it was to behold in the dim twilight vittoria fabrizi kneeling beside blake. her arms were about him, her yellow hair entwined his figure. "a light! somebody get a light!" the chief roared to those who had followed him up the stairs, then seeing a lamp near by he lit it hurriedly, revealing the full disorder of the room. he knelt beside vittoria, who drew the fallen man closer to her, moaning something in italian which o'neil could not understand. but her look told him enough, and, rising, he ordered some one to run for a doctor. strangers, white-faced and horrified, were crowding in; the sound of other feet came from the stairs outside, questions and explanations were noisily exchanged. o'neil swore roundly at the crowd and drove it ahead of him down into the street, where he set a man to guard the door. then he returned and helped the girl examine her lover's wounds. her fingers were steady and sure, but in her face was such an abandonment of grief as he had never seen, and her voice was little more than a rasping whisper. they were still working when the doctor came, followed a moment later by a disheveled, stricken figure of tragedy which o'neil recognized as oliveta. at sight of her foster-sister the peasant girl broke into a passion of weeping, but vittoria checked her with an imperious word, meanwhile keeping her tortured eyes upon the physician. she waited upon him, forestalling his every thought and need with a mechanical dexterity that bore witness to her training, but all the while her eyes held a pitiful entreaty. not until she heard o'neil call for an ambulance did she rouse herself to connected speech. then she exclaimed with hysterical insistence: "you shall not take him away! i am a nurse; he shall stay here. who better than i could attend to him?" "he can stay here if you have a place for him," said the doctor. o'neil drew him aside, inquiring, "will he live?" the doctor indicated vittoria with a movement of his head. "i'm sure of it. that girl won't let him die." the news of that combat traveled fast and far and it came to myra nell warren among the first. despite the dreadful false position in which bernie had placed her with respect to norvin, the girl had but one thought and that was to go to her friend. she could not endure the sight of blood, and her somewhat child-like imagination conjured up a gory spectacle. she was afraid that if she tried to act as nurse she would faint or run away when most needed. but she was determined to go to him and to assist in any way she could. it was not consistent with her ideas of loyalty to shrink from the sight of suffering even though she could do nothing to relieve it. when she mounted the stairs to oliveta's living-quarters she was pale and agitated, and she faltered on the threshold at the sight of strangers. within were a newspaper reporter, a doctor, the chief of police, the mayor of the city, while outside a curious throng was gathered. seeing miss fabrizi, she ran toward her, sobbing nervously. "where is he, vittoria? tell me that he's--safe!" some one answered, "he's safe and resting quietly." "t-take me to him." a spasm stirred vittoria's tired features; she petted the girl with a comforting hand, while mayor wright said, gently: "it must have been a great shock to you, myra nell, as it was to all of us, but you may thank god he has been spared to you." the reporter made a note upon his pad, and began framing the heart interest of his story. here was a new and interesting aspect of an event worth many columns. vittoria led the girl toward her room, but outside the door myra nell paused, shaking in every limb. "you--you love him?" asked the other woman. the look which miss warren gave her stabbed like a knife, and when the girl had sunk to her knees beside the bed, with blake's name upon her lips, vittoria stood for a long moment gazing down upon her dazedly. later, when she had sent myra nell home and silence lay over the city, norvin's nurse stole into the great front room where she had experienced so much of gladness and horror that night, and made her way wearily to the little image of the virgin. she noted with a start that the candle was gone, so she lit a new one and, kneeling for many minutes, prayed earnestly for strength to do the right and to quench the leaping, dazzling flame which had been kindled in her heart. xxii a misunderstanding several days later vittoria fabrizi led bernie dreux into the room where norvin lay. the little man walked on tiptoe and wore an expression of such gloomy sympathy that blake said: "please don't look so blamed pious; it makes me hurt all over." bernie's features lightened faintly; he smiled in a manner bordering upon the natural. "they wouldn't let me see you before. lord! how you have frightened us!" "my nurse won't let me talk." blake's eyes rested with puzzled interrogation upon the girl, who maintained her most professional air as she smoothed his pillow and admonished him not to overtax himself. when she had disappeared noiselessly, he said: "well, you needn't put a rose in my hand yet awhile. tell me what has happened? how is myra nell?" "she's heartbroken, of course. she came here that first night; but the smell of drugs makes her sick." "i suppose maruffi got away?" dreux straightened in his chair; his face flushed proudly; he put on at least an inch of stature. "haven't you heard?" he inquired, incredulously. "how could i hear anything when i'm doctored by a deaf-mute and nursed by a divinity without a tongue?" "maruffi was captured that very night. sure! why, the whole country knows about it." again a look of mellow satisfaction glowed on the little man's face. "my dear boy, you're a hero, of course, but--there--are--others." "who caught him?" "i did." "_you!_" norvin stared in open-mouthed amazement. "that's what i said. i--me--mr. bernard effingwell dreux, the prominent cotillion leader, the second-hand dealer, the art critic and amateur detective. i unearthed the notorious and dreaded sicilian desperado in his lair, and now he's cooling his heels in the parish prison along with his little friends." "why--i'm astonished." "naturally! i found him in joe poggi's house. mr. poggi also languishes in the bastille." "how in the world--" "well, it's quite a story, and it all happened through the woman--" bernie flushed a bit as he met his companion's eye. "when i told you about mrs. poggi i didn't exactly go into all the intimate--er--details. the truth is she became deeply interested in me. i told you how i met her--well, she wasn't averse to receiving my attentions--heavens, no! she ate 'em up! before i knew it i found myself entangled in an intrigue--i had hold of an electric current and couldn't let go. when i didn't follow her around, she followed me. when i didn't make love, she did. she learned about felicite, and there was--excuse me!" bernie rose, put his head cautiously outside the door to find the coast clear, then said: "hell to pay! i tried to back out; but you can't back away from some women any more than you can back away from a prairie fire." he shook his head gloomily. "it seems she wasn't satisfied with poggi; she had ambitions. she'd caught a glimpse of the life that went on around her and wanted to take part in it. she thought i was rich, too--my name had something to do with it, i presume--at any rate, she began to talk of divorce, elopement, and other schemes that terrorized me. she was quite willing that i murder her husband, poison her relatives, or adopt any little expedient of that kind which would clear the path for our true love. i was in over my depth, but when i backed water she swam out and grabbed me. when i stayed away from her she looked me up. i tried once to tell her that i didn't really care for her--only once." the memory brought beads of sweat to the detective's brow. "between her and felicite i led a dog's life. if i'd had the money i'd have left town. "i'd been meeting her on street corners up to that point; but she finally told me to come to the house while poggi was away--it was the day you were hurt. i rebelled, but she made such a scene i had to agree or be arrested for blocking traffic. she carries a dagger, norvin, in her stocking, or somewhere; it's no longer than your finger, but it's the meanest-looking weapon i ever saw. well, i went, along about dark, determined to have it out with her once for all; but those aristocrats during the french revolution had nothing on me. i know how it feels to mount the steps of the guillotine. "the poggi's parlor furniture is upholstered in red and smells musty. i sat on the edge of a chair, one eye on her and the other taking in my surroundings. there's a fine crayon enlargement of joe with his uniform, in a gold frame with blue mosquito-netting over it to disappoint the flies--four ninety-eight, and we supply the frame--done by an old master of the county fair school. there's an organ in the parlor, too, with a stuffed fish-hawk on it. "she seemed quite subdued and coy at first, so i took heart, never dreaming she'd wear her dirk in the house. but say! that woman was raised on raw beef. before i could wink she had it out; it has an ivory hilt, and you could split a silk thread with it. i suppose she didn't want to spoil the parlor furniture with me, although i'd never have showed against that upholstery, or else she's in the habit of preparing herself for manslaughter by a system of vocal calisthenics. at any rate, we were having it hot and heavy, and i was trying to think of some good and unselfish actions i had done, when we heard the back door of the cottage open and close, then somebody moving in the hall. "mrs. poggi turned green--not white--green! and i began to picture the head-lines in the morning papers! 'the bachelor and the policeman's wife,' they seemed to say. it wasn't poggi, however, as i discovered when the fellow called to her. he was breathing heavily, as if he had been running. she signaled me to keep quiet, then went out; and i heard them talking, but couldn't understand what was said. when she came back she was greener than ever, and told me to go, which i did, realizing that the day of miracles is not done. i fell down three times, and ran over a child getting out of that neighborhood." blake, who had listened eagerly, inquired: "the man was maruffi?" "exactly! i got back to the club in time to hear about his arrest and escape and your fight here. the town was ringing with it; everybody was horrified and amazed. what particularly stunned me was the news that maruffi, not poggi, was the head of the mafia; but my experience in criminal work has taught me to be guided by circumstances, and not theory, so when i learned more about caesar's escape i fell to wondering where he could hide. then i recalled his secret meetings with joe poggi and that scalding volcano of emotion from whom i had just been delivered. her fright, when she let me out, something familiar in the voice which called to her, came back, and--well, i couldn't help guessing the truth. maruffi was in the house of one of the officers who was supposed to be hunting him." "but his capture?" "simple enough. i went to o'neil and told him. we got a posse together and went after him. we descended in such force and so suddenly that he didn't have a chance to resist. if i'd known who he was at first i'd have tried to take him single-handed." "then it's well you didn't know." blake smiled. "what bothers me," dreux confessed, "is how mrs. poggi regards my action. i--i hate to appear a cad. i'd apologize if i dared." vittoria appeared to warn dreux that his visit must end. when the little man had gone norvin inquired: "you knew of maruffi's arrest?" "oh, yes!" "why didn't you tell me?" "you were in no condition to hear news of importance." "is that why you have been so silent?" "hush! you have talked quite enough for the present." "you act strangely--differently," he insisted. "i am your nurse. i am responsible for your recovery, so i do as i am ordered." "and you haven't changed?" he inquired, wistfully. "not at all, i am quite the same--quite the same girl you knew in sicily!" he did not relish her undertone, and wondered if illness had quickened his imagination, if he was forever seeing more in her manner, hearing more in her words than she meant. there was something intangibly cold and distant about her, or seemed to be. during the first feverish hours after his return to consciousness he had seen her hanging over him with a wonderful loving tenderness--it was that which had closed his wounds and brought him back toward health so swiftly; but as his brain had cleared and he had grown more rational this vision had disappeared along with his other fancies. he wondered whether knowledge of his pseudo-engagement to myra nell had anything to do with her manner. he knew that she was in the girl's confidence. naturally, he himself was not quite at his ease in regard to miss warren. the rumor about his advancing the money for her carnival expenses had been quieted through bernie's efforts, and the knowledge of it restricted to a necessary few. although myra nell had refused his offers of marriage and treated the matter lightly, he could not help feeling that this attitude was assumed or exaggerated to cover her humiliation--or was it something deeper? it would be terrible if she really cared for him in earnest. her own character protected her from scandal. the breaking-off of his supposed engagement with her could not hurt her--unless she really loved him. he closed his eyes, cursing bernie inwardly. after a time he again addressed vittoria. "tell me," he said, "how maruffi came to spare you. my last vision was of him aiming--" "he had but four shots." "four?" "yes, he had used two in his escape from the officers--before he came here." "i see! it was horrible. i felt as if i had failed you at the critical moment, just as i failed--" "as you failed whom?" "martel!" the word sounded in his ears with a terrible significance; he could hardly realize that he had spoken it. he had always meant to tell her, of course, but the moment had taken him unawares. his conscience, his inmost feeling, had found a voice apart from his volition. there was a little silence. at length she said in a low, constrained tone. "did you fail--him?" "i--i did," he said, chokingly; and, the way once opened, he made a full and free confession of his craven fear that night on the road to terranova, told her of the inherent cowardice which had ever since tortured and shamed him, and of his efforts to reconstruct his whole being. "i wanted to expiate my sin," he finished, "and, above all, i have longed to prove myself a man in your sight." she listened with white, set face, slightly averted. when she turned to him at last, he saw that her eyes were wet with tears. "i cannot judge of these matters," she said. "you--you were no coward the other night, amico mio. you were the bravest of the brave. you saved my life. as for that other time, do not ask me to turn back and judge. you perhaps blame yourself too much. it was not as if you could have saved martel. it is rather that you should have at least tried--that is how you feel, is it not? you had to reckon with your own sense of honor. well, you have won your fight; you have become a new person, and you are not to be held responsible for any action of that norvin blake i knew in sicily, who, indeed, did not know his own weakness and could not guard against it. ever since i met you here in new orleans i have known you for a brave, strong man. it is splendid--the way in which you have conquered yourself--splendid! few men could have done it. be comforted," she added, with a note of tenderness that answered the pleading in his eyes--"there is no bitterness in my heart." "margherita," he cried, desperately, "can't you--won't you--" "oh," she interposed, peremptorily, "do not say it. i forbid you to speak." then, as he fell silent, she continued in a manner she strove to make natural: "that dear girl, myra nell warren, has inquired about you daily. she has been distracted, heartbroken. believe me, caro norvin, there is a true and loving woman whom you cannot cast aside. she seems frivolous on the surface, i grant you. even i have been deceived. but at the time of mr. dreux's dreadful faux pas she was so hurt, she grieved so that i couldn't but believe she felt deeply." norvin flushed dully and said nothing. vittoria smiled down upon him with a look that was half maternal in its sweetness. "all this has been painful for you," she said, "and you have become over-excited. you must not talk any more now. you are to be moved soon." "aren't you going to be my nurse any more?" "you are to be taken home." his hand encountered hers, and he tried to thank her for what she had done, but she rose and, admonishing him to sleep, left the room somewhat hurriedly. in the short time which intervened before norvin was taken to his own quarters vittoria maintained her air of cool detachment. myra nell came once, bringing bernie with her, much to the sick man's relief; his other friends began to visit him in rapidly increasing numbers; he gradually took up the threads of his every-day life which had been so rudely severed. meanwhile, he had ample time to think over his situation. he could not persuade himself that vittoria had been right in her reading of myra nell. perhaps she had only put this view forward to shield herself from the expression of a love she was not ready to receive. he could not believe that he had been deluded, that there was in reality no hope for him. mardi gras week found him still in bed and unable to witness myra nell's triumph. during the days of furious social activity she had little time to give him, for the series of luncheons, of pageants, of gorgeous tableaux and brilliant masked balls kept her in a whirl of rapturous confusion, and left her scant leisure in which to snatch even her beauty sleep. since she was to be the flower of the festival, and since her beauty was being saved for the grand climax of the whole affair, she had no idea of sacrificing it. proteus, momus, the mistick krewe of comus, and the other lesser societies celebrated their distinctive nights with torch and float and tableau; the city was transformed by day with bunting and flags, by night it was garlanded with fire; merrymakers thronged the streets, their carnival spirit entered into every breast. it was a glad, mad week of gaiety, of dancing, of laughter, of flirting and love-making under the glamour of balmy skies and velvet torch-lit nights; and to the pleasure of the women was added the delicious torture of curiosity regarding those mysterious men in masks who came through a blaze of fire and departed, no one knew whither. as the spirit of the celebration mounted, myra nell abandoned herself to it; she lived amid a bewilderment of social obligations, through which she strove incessantly to discover the identity of her king. finding herself unsuccessful in this, her excitement redoubled. at last came his entrance to the city; the booming cannon, the applauding thousands, his royal progress through the streets toward the flower-festooned stand where she looked down upon the multitude. miss warren's maids of honor were the fairest of all this fair city, and yet she stood out of that galaxy as by far the most entrancing. her royal consort came at length, a majestic figure upon a float of ivory and gold; he took the goblet from her hand; he pledged her with silent grace while the assembled hordes shouted their allegiance to the pair. she knew he must be very handsome underneath his mask; and he was bold also, in a quite unkingly way, for there was more in his glance than the greeting of a monarch; there was ardent love, a burning adoration which thrilled her breast and fanned her curiosity to a leaping flame. this was, indeed, life, romance, the purple splendor for which she had been born. she could scarcely contain herself until the hour of the rex ball, when she knew her chance would come to match her charm and beauty against his voiceless secrecy. she was no longer a make-believe queen, but a royal ruler, beloved by her subjects, adored by her throne-mate. then the glittering ball that followed!--the blazing lights, the splendid pantomime, the great shifting kaleidoscope of beauteous ladies and knightly men in gold and satin and coats of mail! and, above all, the maddening mystery of that king at her side whose glances were now melting with melancholy, now ablaze with eagerness, and whose whispered words, muffled behind his mask, were not those of a monarch, but rather those of a bold and audacious lover! he poured his vows into her blushing ear; he set her wits to scampering madly; his sincere passion, together with the dream-like unreality of the scene, intoxicated her. who could he be? how dared he say these things? what faint familiar echo did his voice possess? which one of her many admirers had the delightful effrontery to court her thus ardently beneath a thousand eyes? he was drunk with the glory of this hour, it seemed, for he whispered words she dared not listen to. what preposterous proposals he voiced; what insane audacity he showed! and yet he was in deadly earnest, too. she canvassed her many suitors in her mind, she tried artfully to trap him into some betrayal; the game thrilled her with a keen delight. at last she realized there was but one who possessed such brazen impudence, and told him she had known him from the first, whereat he laughed with the abandon of a pagan and renewed the fervor of his suit. blake learned from many sources that myra nell had made a gorgeous queen. the papers lauded her grace, her beauty, the magnificence of her costumes. bernie was full of it and could talk of nothing else when he dropped in as usual. "she's all tired out, and i reckon she'll sleep for a week. i hope so, anyhow." "i'm sorry i couldn't see her, but i'm glad i escaped the carnival. the mardi gras is hard enough on the women; but it kills us men." "i should say so. look at me--a wreck." after a moment he added: "you think myra nell is all frivolity and glitter, but she isn't; she's as deep as the sea, norvin. i can't tell you how glad i am that you two--" blake stirred uneasily. "i--i admire you tremendously, for you're just what i wanted to be and couldn't. i'm talking foolishly, i know, but this carnival has made me see myra nell in a new light; i see now that she was born for joy and luxury and splendor and--and those things which you can give her. she's been a care to me. i've been her mother; i've actually made her dresses--but i'm glad now for all my little sacrifices." two tears gathered and trickled down mr. dreux's cheeks, while blake marveled at the strange mixture of qualities in this withered little beau. bernie's words left him very uncomfortable, however, and the hours that followed did not lessen the feeling. although myra nell sent him daily messages and gifts--now books, now flowers, now a plate of fudge which she had made with her own hands and which he was hard put to dispose of--she nevertheless maintained a shy embarrassment and came to see him but seldom. when she did call, her attitude was most unusual: she overflowed with gossip, yet she talked with a nervous hesitation; when she found his eyes upon her she stammered, flushed, and paled; and he caught her stealing glances of miserable appeal at him. she was very different from the girl he had known and had learned to love in a big, impersonal way. he attributed the change to his own failure in responding to her timid advances, and this made him quite unhappy. nor did he see much of vittoria, although oliveta came daily to inquire about his progress. he was up and about in time for the mafia trial; but his duties in connection with it left him little leisure for society, which he was indeed glad to escape. new orleans, he found, was on tiptoe for the climax of the tragedy which had so long been its source of ferment; the public was roused to a new and even keener suspense than at any time--not so much, perhaps, by the reopening of the case as by the rumors of bribery and corruption which were gaining ground. a startling array of legal talent had appeared for the defense; the trial was expected to prove the greatest legal battle in the history of the commonwealth. maruffi, with his genius for control, had assumed an iron-bound leadership and laughed openly at the possibility of a conviction. he had struck the note of persecution, making a patriotic appeal to the italian populace; and the foreign section of the city seethed in consequence. on the opening day the court-room was packed, the halls and corridors of the criminal court building were filled to suffocation, the neighboring streets were jammed with people clamoring for admittance and hungry for news from within. then began the long, tedious task of selecting a jury. public opinion had run so high that this was no easy undertaking. as day after day went by in the monotonous examination and challenge of talesmen, as panel after panel was exhausted with no result, not only did the ridiculous shortcomings of our jury system become apparent, but also the fact that the mafia had, as usual, made full use of its sinister powers of intimidation. in view of the atrocious character of the crime and the immense publicity given it, those citizens who were qualified by intelligence to act as jurors had of necessity read and heard sufficient to form an opinion, and were therefore automatically debarred from service. it became necessary to place the final adjudication of the matter in the hands of men who were either utterly indifferent to the public weal or lacked the intelligence to read and weigh and think. a remarkable wave of humanity seemed to have overwhelmed the city. four out of every five men examined professed a disbelief in capital punishment, which, although it merely covered a fear of the mafia's antagonism, nevertheless excused them for cause. day after day this mockery went on. as the list of talesmen grew into the hundreds and the same extraordinary antipathy to hanging continued to manifest itself, it occasioned remark, then ridicule. it would have been laughable had it not been so significant. the papers took it up, urging, exhorting, demanding that there be a stiffening of backbone; but to no effect. more than this, the mafia had reigned so long and so autocratically, it had so shamefully abused the courts in the past, that a large proportion of honest men declared themselves unwilling to believe sicilian testimony unless corroborated, and this prevented them from serving. a week went by, and then another, and still twelve men who could try the issue fairly had not been found. some few had been accepted, to be sure, but they were not representative of the city, and the list of talesmen who had been examined and excused on one pretext or another numbered fully a thousand. meanwhile, maruffi smiled and shrugged and maintained his innocence. xxiii the trial and the verdict blake did not attend these tiresome preliminaries, although he followed them with intense interest, the while a sardonic irritation arose in him. chancing to meet mayor wright one day, he said: "i'm beginning to think my original plan was the best after all." "you mean we should have lynched those fellows as they were taken?" queried the mayor, with a smile. "something like that." "it won't take long to fix their guilt or innocence, once we get a jury." "perhaps--if we ever get one. but the men of new orleans seem filled with a quality of mercy which isn't tempered with justice. those who haven't already formed an opinion of the case are incompetent to act as intelligent jurors. those who could render a fair judgment are afraid." "you don't think there's any chance of an acquittal!" "hardly! and yet i hear the defense has called two hundred witnesses, so there's no telling what they will prove. you see, the prosecution is handicapped by a regard for the truth, something which doesn't trouble the other side in the least." "suppose they should be acquitted?" "it would mean the breakdown of our legal system." "and what would happen?" blake repeated the question, eyeing the mayor curiously. "exactly! what would happen? what ought to happen?" "why, nothing," said the other, nervously. "they'd go free, i suppose. but maruffi can't get off--he resisted an officer." "bah! he'd prove that johnson assaulted him and he acted in self-defense." "he'd have to answer for his attack upon you." norvin gave a peculiarly disagreeable laugh. "not at all. that's the least of his sins. if the law fails in the donnelly case i sha'n't ask it to help me." but his pessimism gave way to a more hopeful frame of mind when the jury was finally impaneled and sworn and the trial began. the whole city likewise heaved a sigh of relief. the people had been puzzled and disgusted by the delay, and now looked forward to the outcome with all the keener eagerness to see justice done. even before the hour for opening, the streets around the criminal court were thronged; the halls and lobbies were packed with a crowd which gave evidence of a breathless interest. no inch of space in the court-room was untenanted; an air of deep importance, a hush of strained expectancy lay over all. norvin found himself in a room with the other witnesses for the state, a goodly crowd of men and women, whites and blacks, many of whom he had been instrumental in ferreting out. from beyond came the murmur of a great assemblage, the shuffling of restless feet, the breathing of a densely packed audience. the wait grew tedious as witness after witness was summoned and did not return. at last he heard his own name called, and was escorted down a narrow aisle into an inclosure peopled with lawyers, reporters, and court officials, above which towered the dais of the judge, the throne of justice. he mounted the witness-stand, was sworn, and seated himself, then permitted his eyes to take in the scene. before him, stretching back to the distant walls, was a sea of faces; to his right was the jury, which he scanned with the quick appraisal of one skilled in human analysis. between him and his audience were the distinguished counsel, a dozen or more; and back of them eleven swarthy, dark-visaged sicilian men, seated in a row. at one end sat caesar maruffi, massive, calm, powerful; at the other end sat gino cressi, huddled beside his father, his pinched face bewildered and terror-stricken. a buzz of voices arose as the crowd caught its first full glimpse of the man who had so nearly lost his life through his efforts to bring these criminals to justice. upon maruffi's face was a look of such malignant hate that the witness stiffened in his chair. for one brief instant the sicilian laid bare his soul, as their eyes met, then his cunning returned; the fire died from his impenetrable eyes; he was again the handsome, solid merchant who had sat with donnelly at the red wing club. the man showed no effect of his imprisonment and betrayed no sign of fear. norvin told his story simply, clearly, with a positiveness which could not fail to impress the jury; he withstood a grilling cross-examination at the hands of a criminal lawyer whose reputation was more than state-wide; and when he finally descended from the stand, larubio, the cobbler, the senior cressi, and frank normando stood within the shadow of the gallows. normando he identified as the man in the rubber coat whose face he had clearly seen as the final shot was fired; he pointed out gino cressi as the picket who had given warning of the chief's approach, then told of his share in the lad's arrest and what gino had said. concerning the other three who had helped in the shooting he had no conclusive evidence to offer; nevertheless, it was plain that his testimony had dealt a damaging blow to the defense. yet maruffi's glance showed no concern, but rather a veiled and mocking insolence. as blake passed out, young cressi reached forth a timid hand and plucked at him, whispering: "signore, you said they would not hurt me." "don't be afraid. no one shall harm you," he told the boy, reassuringly. "you promise?" "yes." cressi snatched his son to his side and scowled upward, breathing a malediction upon the american. inasmuch as the assassination had been carefully planned and executed at a late hour on a deserted street, it was popularly believed that very little direct testimony would be brought out, and that a conviction, therefore, would rest mainly upon circumstantial evidence; but as the trial progressed the case against the prisoners developed unexpected strength. had donnelly fallen at the first volley, his assailants would, in all probability, never have been identified, but he had stood and returned their fire for a considerable time, thus allowing opportunity for those living near by to reach their windows or to run into the street in time to catch at least a glimpse of the tragedy. few saw more than a little, no one could identify all six of the assailants; but so thoroughly had the prosecution worked, so cunningly had it put these pieces together, that the whole scene was reproduced in the court-room. the murderers were singled out one by one and identified beyond a reasonable doubt. one witness had passed larubio's shop a few minutes before the shooting and had recognized the cobbler and his brother-in-law, gaspardo cressi. he also pointed out normando and paul rafiro, both of whom he knew by sight. from an upper window of a house near by another man who had been awakened by the noise saw normando and celso fabbri in the act of firing. a woman living opposite the cobbler's house peered out into the smoke and flare in time to see adriano dora kneeling in the middle of the street. he was facing her; the light was fairly good; there could be no mistake. various residents of the neighborhood had similar tales to tell, for, while no one had seen the beginning of the fight, a dozen pairs of eyes had looked out upon the finish, and many of these had recorded a definite picture of one or more of the actors. a gentleman returning from a lodge-meeting had even found himself on the edge of the battle, and had been so frightened that he ran straight home. he had learned, later, the significance of the fray, and had told nobody about his experience until norvin blake had traced him out and wrung the story from him. he feared the mafia with the fear of death; but descending from the stand he pointed out four of the assassins--normando, fabbri, rafiro, and dora. he had seen them in the very act of firing. a watchman on duty near by saw the boy gino running past a moment before the shooting began; then, as he hurried toward the disturbance, he met normando, dora, and rafiro coming toward him. the first of these carried a shotgun, which dropped into the gutter as he slipped and fell. the weapon and the suit of clothes normando had worn were produced and identified. it transpired that this witness knew paul rafiro well, and for that reason had refused to tell what he knew until norvin blake had come to him and forced the words from his lips. so it ran; the chain of evidence grew heavier with every hour. it seemed that some superhuman agency must have set the stage for the tragedy, posting witnesses at advantageous points. people marveled how so many eyes had gazed through the empty, rainy night; it was as if a mysterious hand had reached out of nowhere and brought together the onlookers, one by one, willing and unwilling, friend and enemy alike. a more conclusive case than the state advanced against the six hired murderers during the first few days would be hard to conceive, and the public began to look for equally conclusive proof against the master ruffian and his lieutenants; but through it all maruffi sat unperturbed, guiding the counsel with a word or a suggestion, in his bearing a calm self-assurance. then came a surprise which roused the whole city. from out of the parish prison appeared another italian, a counterfeiter, who had recently been arrested, and who proved to be a pinkerton detective "planted" among the mafiosi for a purpose. larubio had been a counterfeiter in sicily--it was in the government prison that he had learned his cobbler's trade; and out of the fullness of his heart he had talked--so the detective swore--concerning these foolish americans who sought to stay the hand of la mafia. nor had he been the only one to commit himself. di marco, garcia, and the other two lieutenants turned livid as the stool-pigeon confronted them with their own words. on the heels of this came the crowning dramatic moment of the trial. normando broke down and tried to confess in open court. he was a dull, ignorant man, with a bestial face and a coward's eye. this unexpected treachery, his own complete identification, had put an intolerable strain upon him. without warning, he rose to his feet in the crowded court-room and cried loudly in his own tongue: "madonna mia! i do not want to die! i confess! i confess!" norvin blake, who had been watching the proceedings from the audience, leaped from his seat as if electrified; other spectators followed, for even among those who could not understand the fellow's words it was seen that he was breaking. normando's ghastly pallor, his wet and twitching lips, his shaking hands, all told the story. confusion followed. amid the hubbub of startled voices, the stir of feet, the interruption of counsel, the wretch ran on, repeating his fear of death and his desire to confess, meanwhile beating his breast in hysterical frenzy. of all the americans present perhaps norvin alone understood exactly what the sicilian was saying and why consternation had fallen upon the other prisoners. larubio went white; a blind and savage fury leaped into maruffi's face; the other nine wilted or stiffened according to the effect fear had upon them. a death-like hush succeeded the first outbreak, and through normando's gabble came the judge's voice calling for an interpreter. there was no need for the crier to demand silence; every ear was strained for the disclosures that seemed imminent. blake was forcing himself forward to offer his services when the wretch's wavering eyes caught something in the audience and rested there. the death sign of the brotherhood was flashed at him; he halted. his tongue ran thickly for a moment; then he sank into his chair, and, burying his head in his hands, began to rock from side to side, sobbing and muttering. nor would he say more, even when a recess was declared and he was taken into the judge's chambers. thereafter he maintained a sullen, hopeless silence which nothing could break, glaring at his captors with the defiance of a beast at bay. but the episode had had its effect; it seemed that no one could now doubt the guilt of the prisoners. the assurance of conviction grew as it was proven that maruffi himself had rented larubio's shop and laid the trap for donnelly's destruction. step by step the plot was bared in all its hideous detail. the blood money was traced from the six hirelings up through the four superiors to caesar himself. then followed the effort to show a motive for the crime--not a difficult task, since every one knew of donnelly's work against the mafia. maruffi's domination of the society was harder to bring out; but when the state finally rested its case, even blake, who had been dubious from the start, confessed that american law and american courts had demonstrated their efficiency. during all this time his relations with vittoria remained unchanged. she and oliveta eagerly welcomed his reports of the trial; but she never permitted him to see her alone, and he felt that she was deliberately withdrawing from him. he met her only for brief interviews. of myra nell, meanwhile, he saw nothing, since, with characteristic abruptness, she had decided to visit some forgotten cousins in mobile. of all those who followed the famous mafia trial, detail by detail, perhaps no one did so with greater fixity of interest than bernie dreux. he reveled in it, he talked of nothing else, his waking hours were spent in the courtroom, his dreams were peopled with sicilian figures. he hung upon norvin, his hero, with a tenacity that was trying; he discussed the evidence bit by bit; he ran to him with every rumor, every fresh development. as the prosecution made its case his triumph became fierce and fearful to behold; then when the defense began its crafty efforts he grew furiously indignant, a mighty rage shook him, he swelled and choked with resentment. "what do you think?" he inquired, one day. "they're proving alibis, one by one! it's infamous!" "it will take considerable sicilian testimony to offset the effect of our witnesses," blake told him. but dreux looked upon the efforts of the opposing lawyers as a personal affront, and so declared himself. "why, they're trying to make you out a liar! that's what it amounts to. the law never intended that a gentleman's word should be disputed. if i were the judge i'd close the case right now and instruct the sheriff to hang all the prisoners, including their attorneys." "they'll never be acquitted." bernie shook his head morosely. "there's a rumor of jury-fixing. i hear one of the talesmen was approached with a bribe before the trial." "i can scarcely believe that." "i'll bet it's true just the same. if i'd known what they were up to i'd have got on the jury myself. i'd have taken their money, then i'd have fixed 'em!" "you'd have voted for eleven hemp neckties, eh?" "i'd have hung each man twice." although blake at first refused to credit the rumors of corruption, the following days served to verify them, for more than one juryman confessed to receiving offers. this caused a sensation which grew as the papers took up the matter and commented editorially. a leading witness for the state finally told of an effort to intimidate him, and men began to ask if this was destined to prove as rotten as other mafia cases in the past. a feeling of unrest, of impatience, began to manifest itself, vague threats were voiced, but the idea of a bribed or terrorized jury was so preposterous that few gave credence to it. nevertheless, the closing days of the trial were weighted heavily with suspense. not only the city, but the country at large, hung upon the outcome. so strongly had racial antipathy figured that italy took note of the case, and it assumed an international importance. biased accounts were cabled abroad which led to an uneasy stir in ministerial and consular quarters. during the exhaustive arguments at the close of the trial norvin and bernie sat together. when the opening attorneys for the prosecution had finished, dreux exclaimed, triumphantly: "we've got 'em! they can't escape after that." but when the defense in turn had closed, the little man revealed an indignant face to his companion, saying: "lord! they're as good as free! we'll never convict on evidence like that." once more he changed, under the spell of the masterly state's attorney, and declared with fierce exultance: "what did i tell you? they'll hang every mother's son of 'em. the jury won't be out an hour." the jury was out more than an hour, even though press and public declared the case to be clear. yet, knowing that the eyes of the world were upon her, new orleans went to sleep that night serene in the certainty that she had vindicated herself, had upheld her laws, and proved her ability to deal with that organized lawlessness which had so long been a blot upon her fair name. soon after court convened on the following morning the jury sent word that they had reached a verdict, and the court-room quickly filled. rumors of caesar maruffi's double identity had gone forth; it was hinted that he was none other than the dreaded belisario cardi, that genius of a thousand crimes who had held all sicily in fear. this report supplied the last touch of dramatic interest. blake and bernie were in their places before the prisoners arrived. every face in the room was tense and expectant; even the calloused attendants felt the hush and lowered their voices in deference. every eye was strained toward the door behind which the jury was concealed. there came the rumble of the prison van below, the tramp of feet upon the hollow stairs, and into the dingy, high-ceilinged hall of justice filed the accused, manacled and doubly guarded. maruffi led, his black head held high; normando brought up the rear, supported by two officers. he was racked with terror, his body hung like a sack, a moisture of foam and spittle lay upon his lips. when he reached the railing of the prisoners' box he clutched it and resisted loosely, sobbing in his throat; but he was thrust forward into a seat, where he collapsed. the judge and the attorneys were in their places when a deputy sheriff swung open the door to the jury-room and the "twelve good men and true" appeared. as if through the silence of a tomb they went to their stations while eleven pairs of black sicilian eyes searched their downcast features for a sign. larubio, the cobbler, was paper-white above his smoky beard; di marco's swarthy face was green, like that of a corpse; his companions were frozen in various attitudes of eager, dreadful waiting. the only sound through the scuff and tramp of the jurors' feet was normando's lunatic murmuring. as for the leader of the band, he sat as if graven in stone; but, despite his iron control, a pallor had crept up beneath his skin. blake heard bernie whisper: "look! they know they're lost." "gentlemen of the jury, have you agreed upon a verdict?" came the voice of the judge. the foreman rose. "we have." he passed a document up to the bench, and silently the court examined it. the seconds were now creeping minutes. normando's ceaseless mumbling was like that of a man distraught by torture. a hand was used to silence him. the spectators were upon their feet and bent forward in attention; the cordon of officers closed in behind the accused as if to throttle any act of desperation. the judge passed the verdict down to the minute clerk, who read in a clear, distinct, monotonous tone: "celso fabbri, frank normando, mistrial. salvatore di marco, frank garcia, giordano bolla"--the list of names seemed interminable--"gaspardo cressi, lorenzo cardoni, caesar maruffi"--he paused for an instant while time halted--"not guilty." after the first moment of stunned stupefaction a murmur of angry disapproval ran through the crowd; it was not loud, but hushed, as if men doubted their senses and were seeking corroboration of their ears. from the street below, as the judgment was flashed to the waiting hundreds, came an echo, faint, unformed, like the first vague stir that runs ahead of a tempest. the shock of norvin blake's amazement in part blurred his memory of that dramatic tableau, but certain details stood out clearly afterwards. for one thing he heard bernie dreux giggling like an overwrought woman, while through his hysteria ran a stream of shocking curses he saw one of the jurors rise, yawn, and stretch himself, then rub his bullet head, smiling meanwhile at the cressi boy. he saw caesar maruffi turn full to the room behind him and search for his own face. when their eyes met, a light of devilish amusement lit the sicilian's visage; his lips parted and his white teeth gleamed, but it was no smile, rather the nervous, rippling twitch that bares a wolf's fangs. his color had come flooding back, too; victory suffused him with a ruddy, purple congestion, almost apoplectic. then heads came between them; friends of the prisoners crowded forward with noisy congratulations and outstretched palms; the rival attorneys were shaking hands. blake found himself borne along by the eddying stream which set out of the court-room and down into the sunlit street, where the curbs were lined with uplifted faces. dreux was close beside him, quite silent now. a similar silence brooded over the whole procession which emerged from the building like a funeral cortege. when the moments brought home the truth to its members they felt, indeed, as if they came from a house of death, for they had seen justice murdered, and the chill was in their hearts. but there was something sinister in the hush which gagged that multitude. many readers will doubtless recall, even now, the shock that went through this country at the conclusion of the famous new orleans mafia trial of twenty years ago. they will, perhaps, remember a general feeling of surprise that an american jury would dare, in the face of such popular feeling and such apparently overwhelming evidence, to render a verdict of "not guilty." in some quarters the farcical outcome of the trial was blamed upon louisiana's peculiar legal code. but the truth is our northern cities had not at that time felt the power of organized crime. new york, for instance, had not been shaken by an interminable succession of dynamite outrages nor terrorized by bands of latin-born apaches who live by violence and blackmail; therefore, the tremendous difficulty of securing convictions was not appreciated as it is to-day. there was a universal suspicion that the last word concerning the new orleans affair had not been written, so what followed was not entirely a surprise. xxiv at the feet of the statue two hours after the verdict there was a meeting of the committee of justice, and that night the evening papers carried the following notice: "mass-meeting" "all good citizens are invited to attend a mass-meeting to-morrow morning at o'clock at clay statue, to take steps to remedy the failure of justice in the donnelly case. come prepared for action." it was signed by the fifty well-known men who had been appointed to represent the people. that incredible verdict had caused a great excitement; but this bold and threatening appeal brought the city up standing. it caused men who had been loudly cursing the jury to halt and measure the true depth of their indignation. there was no other topic of conversation that night; and when the same call appeared in the morning papers, together with a ringing column headed, "awake! arise!" it stirred a swift and mighty public sentiment. never, perhaps, in any public press had so sanguinary an appeal been issued. "citizens of new orleans," it read in part, "when murder overrides law and justice, when juries are bribed and suborners go unwhipped, it is time to resort to your own indefeasible right of self-preservation. alien bands of oath-bound assassins have set the blot of a martyr's blood upon your civilization. your laws, in the very temple of justice, have been bought, suborners have loosed upon your streets the midnight murderers of an officer in whose grave lies the majesty of american law. "rise in your might, people of new orleans! rise!" a similar note was struck by editorials, many of them couched in language even stronger and more suited to fan the public rage. the recent trial was called an outrageous travesty on justice; attention was directed to the damnable vagaries of recent juries which had been impaneled to try red-handed italian murderers. "our city is become the haven of blackmailers and assassins, the safe vantage-ground for sicilian stilletto bands who slay our legal officers, who buy jurors, and corrupt sworn witnesses under the hooded eyes of justice. how much longer will this outrage be permitted?" so read a heavily typed article in the leading journal. a wave of fierce determination ran through the whole community. margherita ginini was waiting at blake's place of business when he arrived, after a night of sleepless worry. she, too, showed evidence of a painful vigil; her hand was shaking as she held out a copy of the morning paper, inquiring: "what is the meaning of this?" "it means we're no longer in sicily," he said. "you intend to--kill those men?" "i fear something like that may occur. the question will be put up to the people, plainly." she clutched the edge of his desk, staring at him with wide, tragic eyes. "your name heads the list. did--you do this?" "i am the chairman of that committee. i did my part." "but the law declares them innocent," she gasped--"all but two, and they can be tried over again." "the law!" he smiled bitterly. "do you believe that?" "i believe they are guilty--who can doubt it? but this lawlessness--this mad cry for revenge--it is against all my beliefs, my religion. oh, my friend, can't you stop it? at least take no part in it--for my sake." his look was hard, yet regretful, "for your sake i would give my life gladly," he said, "but there are times when one must act his destined part. that verdict holds me up to the public as a perjurer; but that is a small matter. oh, i have had my scruples; i have questioned my conscience, and deep in my heart i see that there is only one way. i'd be a hypocrite if i denied it. i'm wrong, perhaps, but i can't be untrue to myself." "we know but a part of the truth," she urged, desperately. "god alone knows it all. you saw three men--there are others whom you did not see." "they were seen by other eyes quite as trustworthy as mine." she wrung her hands miserably, crying: "but wait! guilty or innocent, they have appeared in judgment, and the law has acquitted them. you urge upon the people now a crime greater than theirs. two wrongs do not make a right. who are you to raise yourself above that power which is supreme?" "there's a law higher than the courts." "yes, one; the law of god. if our means have failed, leave their punishment to him." he shook his head, no trace of yielding in his eyes. "one man was killed, and yet you contemplate the death of eleven!" "listen," he cried, "this cause belongs to the people who have seen their sacred institutions debauched. if i had the power to sway the citizens of new orleans from the course which i believe they contemplate, i doubt that i could bring myself to exercise it, for it is plain that the mafia must be exterminated. the good of the city, the safety of all of us, demands it." he regarded her curiously. "do you realize what maruffi's freedom would mean to you and oliveta?" "we are in god's hands." "it would require a miracle to save you. caesar would have my life, too; he told me as much with his eyes when that corrupted jury lifted the fear of death from his heart." "so!" cried the girl. "you fear him, therefore you take this means of destroying him! you goad the public and your friends into a red rage and send them to murder your enemy." her hysteria was not proof against the look which leaped into his eyes--the pallor that left him facing her with the visage of a sick man. "during the last five years," he said, slowly, "i've often tried to be a man, but never until last night have i succeeded fully. when i signed that call to arms i felt that i was writing maruffi's death-warrant. i hesitated for a time, then i put aside all thoughts of myself, and now i'm prepared to meet this accusation. i knew it would come. the world--my world--knows that maruffi's life or mine hinges on his liberty; if he dies by the mob to-day, that world will call me coward for my act; it will say that i roused the passions of the populace to save myself. nevertheless, i was chosen leader of that committee, and i did their will--as i shall do the will of the people." "the will of the people! you know very well that the people have no will. they do what their leaders tell them." "my name is written. i am sorry that i cannot do as you wish." "but surely you do not deceive yourself," she insisted. "this is wrong, oh, so inconceivably, so terribly wrong! you do not possess the divine power to bestow life. how then can you dare to take it? by what possible authority do you decree the destruction of your fellow-men whom the law has adjudged innocent?" "by the sovereign authority of the public good. by the inherited right of self-protection." "you would shoot them down, like caged animals?" "those eleven individuals have ceased to exist as men. they represent an infection, a diseased spot which must be cut out. they stand for disorder and violence; to free them would be a crime, to give them arms to defend themselves would be merely to increase their evil." "there is a child among them, too; would you have his death upon your conscience?" "i told gino he should come to no harm, and, god willing, he sha'n't." "how can you hope to stem the rage of a thousand madmen? a mob will stop at no half measures. there are two men among the prisoners who are entitled to another trial. do you think the people will spare them if they take the others?" he shrugged his shoulders doubtfully, and she shuddered. "you shall not have the death of those defenseless men upon your soul!" she cried. "your hands at least shall remain clean." "please don't urge me," he said. "but i do. i ask you to take no part in this barbarous uprising." "and i must refuse you." she looked at him wildly; her face was ashen as she continued: "you have said that you love me. can't you make this sacrifice for me? can't you make this concession to my fears, my conscience, my beliefs? i am only a woman, and i cannot face this grim and awful thing. i cannot think of your part in it." the look she gave him went to his heart. "margherita!" he cried, in torture; "don't you see i have no choice? i couldn't yield, even if the price were--you and your love. you wouldn't rob me of my manhood?" "i could never touch hands which were stained with the blood of defenseless men--not even in friendship, you--understand?" "i understand!" for a second time the color left his face. her glance wavered again, she swayed, then groped for the door, while he stood like stone in his tracks. "good-by!" he said, lifelessly. "good-by!" she answered, in the same tone. "i have done my part. you are a man, and you must do yours as you see it. but may god save you from bloodshed." long before the hour set for the gathering at clay statue the streets in that vicinity began to fill. men continued on past their places of business; shops and offices remained closed; the wide strip of neutral ground which divided the two sides of the city's leading thoroughfare began to pack. around the base of the monument groups of citizens congregated until the cars were forced to slow down and proceed with a clangor of gongs which served only as a tocsin to draw more recruits. vehicles came to a halt, were wedged dose to the curbs, and became coigns of vantage; office windows, store-fronts, balconies, and roof-tops began to cluster with a human freight. after a week of wind and rain the sun had risen in a sky that was cloudless, save for a few thin streaks of shining silver which resembled long polished rapiers or the gleaming spear-points of a host still hidden below the horizon. the fragrance of shrubs and flowers, long dormant, weighted the breeze. it was a glorious morning, fit for love and laughter and little children. nor did the rapidly swelling assemblage resemble in any measure a mob bent upon violence. it was composed mainly of law-abiding business men who greeted each other genially; in their grave, intelligent faces was no hint of savagery or brutality. all traffic finally ceased, the entire neighborhood was massed and clotted with waiting humanity; then, as the hour struck, a running salvo of applause came from the galleries and a cheer from the street when a handful of men was seen crowding its way up to the base of the statue. it was composed of a half-dozen prominent men who had been identified with the committee of justice; among them was norvin blake. a hush followed as one of them mounted the pedestal and began to speak. he was recognized as judge blackmar, a wealthy lawyer, and his well-trained voice filled the wide spaces from wall to wall; it went out over the sea of heads and up to the crowded roof-tops. he told of the reasons which had inspired this indignation meeting; he recounted the history of the mafia in new orleans, and recalled its many outrages culminating in the assassination of chief donnelly. "affairs have reached such a crisis," said he, "that we who live in an organized and civilized community find our laws ineffective and are forced to protect ourselves as best we may. when courts fail, the people must act. what protection is left us, when our highest police official is slain in our very midst by the mafia and his assassins turned loose upon us? this is not the first case of wilful murder and supine justice; our court records are full of similar ones. the time has come to say whether we shall tolerate these outrages further or whether we shall set aside the verdict of an infamous and perjured jury and cleanse our city of the ghouls which prey upon it. i ask you to consider this question fairly. you have been assembled, not behind closed doors, nor under the cloak of darkness, but in the heart of the city, in the broad light of day, to take such action as honest men must take to save their homes against a public enemy. what is your answer?" a roar broke from all sides; an incoherent, wordless growling rumbled down the street. those on the outskirts of the assemblage who had come merely from curiosity, or in doubt that anything would be accomplished, began to press closer. a restless murmur, broken by the cries of excitable men, arose when the second speaker took his place. then as he spoke the temper of the people began to manifest itself undeniably. the crowd swayed and cheered; certain demands were voiced insistently; a wave of intense excitement swept it as it heard its desires so boldly proclaimed. as the heaving sea is lashed to fury by the wind, the people's rage mounted higher with every sentence of the orator; every pause was greeted with howls. men stared into the faces around them, and, seeing their own emotions mirrored, they were swept by an ever-increasing agitation. there was a general impulse to advance at once upon the parish prison, and knots of stragglers were already making in that direction, while down from the telegraph-poles, from roofs and shed-tops men were descending. all that seemed lacking for a concerted movement was a leader, a bold figure, a ringing voice to set this army in motion. blake had been selected to make the third address and to put the issue squarely up to the people; but, as he wedged his way forward to enact his role, up to the feet of the statue squirmed and wriggled a figure which assumed the place just vacated by the second speaker. it was bernie dreux, but a different bernie from the man his amazed friends in the crowd thought they knew. he was pale, and his limbs shook under him, but his eyes blazed with a fire which brought a hush of attention to all within sight of him. up there against the heroic figure of henry clay he looked more diminutive, more insignificant than ever; but oddly enough he had attained a sudden dignity which made him seem intensely masterful and alive. for a moment he paused, erect and motionless, surveying that restless multitude which rocked and rumbled for the distance of a full city square in both directions; then he began. his voice, though high-pitched from emotion, was as clear and ringing as a trumpet; it pierced to the farthest limits of the giant audience and stirred it like a battle signal. the blood of his forefathers had awakened at last; and old general dreux, the man of iron and fire and passion, was speaking through his son. "people of new orleans," he cried, "i desire neither fame nor name nor glory; i am here not as one of the committee of public safety, but as a plain citizen. let me therefore speak for you; let mine be the lips which give your answer. fifty of our trusted townsmen were appointed to assist in bringing the murderers of chief donnelly to justice. they told us to wait upon the law. we waited, and the law failed. our court and our jury were debauched; our committee comes back to us now, the source from which it took its power, and acknowledges that it can do no more. it lays the matter in our hands and asks for our decision. let me deliver the message: justice must be done! dan donnelly must be avenged to-day!" the clamor which had greeted the words of the previous speakers was as nothing to the titanic bellow which burst forth acclaiming dreux's. "this is the hour for action, not for talk," he continued, when he had stilled them. "the anglo-saxon is slow to anger, and because of that the mafia has thrived among us; but once he is aroused, once his rights are invaded and his laws assailed, his rage is a thing to reckon with. our committee asks us if we are ready to take justice into our own hands, and i answer, yes!" a chaos of waving arms and of high-flung hats, a deafening crash of voices again answered. "then our speakers shall lead us. judge blackmar shall be the first in command; mr. slade, who spoke after him, shall be second, and i shall be the third in authority. arm yourselves quickly, gentlemen, and may god have mercy upon the souls of those eleven murderers." he leaped lightly down, and the great assemblage burst into motion, streaming out canal street like a storming army. it boiled into side streets and through every avenue which led in the direction of the prison. at each corner it gathered strength; every thoroughfare belched forth reinforcements; hundreds who had entertained no faintest notion of taking part fell in, were swallowed up in the seething tide, and went shouting to the very gates of the jail. once that tossing river of humanity had been given force and direction its character changed; it became a mailed dragon, it suddenly blossomed with steel. peaceful, middle-aged men who had stood beside the monument buttoned up in peculiarly bulky overcoats were now marching silently with weapons at their shoulders. strangest of all, perhaps, was the greeting this army received on every side. the flotsam and jetsam which swirled along in its eddies or followed in its wake cheered, howled, and danced deliriously; men, women, and children from doorways and galleries raised their voices lustily, and applauded as if at some favorite carnival parade. in notable contrast was the bearing of the armed men themselves; they marched through the echoing streets like a regiment of mutes. xxv the appeal on the iron balcony of a house in the vicinity of the parish prison the two sicilian girls were standing. across from them loomed the great decaying structure with its little iron-barred windows and its steel-ribbed doors behind which lay their countrymen. from inside came the echo of a great hammering, as if a gallows were being erected; but the square and the streets outside were quiet. "what time is it now?" oliveta had repeated this question already a dozen times. "it is after ten." "i hear nothing as yet, do you?" "nothing!" "we could hear if it were not for that dreadful pounding yonder in the jail." "hush! they are building barricades." the peasant girl gasped and seized the iron railing in front of her. "madonna mia! i am dying. do you think signore blake will yield to your appeal and turn the mob?" "i'm afraid not," said vittoria, faintly. "he can do more than any other, for he is powerful; they will listen to him. if caesar should escape! i am shamed through and through to have loved such a man, and yet to have him killed like a rat in a hole! i pray, and i know not what i pray for--my thoughts are whirling so. do you hear anything from the city?" "no, no!" there was a moment's pause. "those barricades will not allow them to enter, even if our friend does not persuade them to disperse." "i have heard there is sometimes shooting." vittoria shuddered. "it is terrible for men to become brutes." "the time is growing late," oliveta quavered. there was another period of silence while they strained their ears for the faintest sound, but the fresh breeze wafted nothing to them. on a neighboring gallery two housewives were gossiping; a child was playing on the walk beneath, and his piping laughter sounded strangely incongruous. from across the way rose that desultory pounding as spikes were driven home and beams were nailed in place. through a grated aperture in the prison wall an armed man peered down the street. "caesar is cunning," oliveta broke out. "he is not one to be easily caught. he is brave, too. ah, god! how i loved him and how i have hated him!" ever since maruffi's capture she had remained in a frame of mind scarcely rational, fluctuating between a silent, sullen mood of revenge and a sense of horror at her betrayal of the man who had once possessed her whole heart. "it can't be that you still care for him?" "no, i loathe him, and if he escapes he would surely kill me. yet sometimes i wish it." she began mumbling to herself. "look!" she cried, suddenly. "what is this?" a public hack came swinging into view, its horses at a gallop. it drew up before the main gate of the prison, a man leaped forth and began pounding for admittance. some one spoke to him through a grating. "what does he say?" queried the peasant girl. "i cannot hear. perhaps he comes to say there is no--mother of god! listen!" from somewhere toward the heart of the city came a faint murmur. "it is the rumble of a wagon on the next street," gasped oliveta. the sound died away. the girls stood frozen at attention with their senses strained. then it rose again, louder. soon there was no mistaking it. a whisper came upon the breeze, it mounted into a long-drawn humming, which in turn grew to a steady drone of voices broken by waves of cheering. it gathered volume rapidly, and straggling figures came running into view, followed by knots and groups of fleet-footed youths. the driver of the carriage rose on his box, looked over his shoulder, then whipped his horses into a gallop and fled. as he did so a slowly moving wagon laden with timbers turned in from a side street. it was driven by a somnolent negro, who finally halted his team and stared in dull lack of comprehension at what he saw approaching. by now the street beneath the girls was half filled with people; it echoed to a babble of voices, to the shuffle and tread of a coming multitude, and an instant later out of every thoroughfare which fronted upon the grim old prison structure streamed the people of new orleans. "see! they are unarmed!" oliveta's fingers sank into her sister's wrist. then through the press came a body of silent men, four abreast and shoulder to shoulder. the crowd opened to let them through, cheering frenziedly. they wore an air of sober responsibility; they carried guns, and looked to neither right nor left. directly beneath the waiting women they passed, and at their head marched norvin blake and bernie dreux together with two men unknown to the girls. vittoria leaned forward horror-stricken, and although she tried to call she did not hear her voice above the confusion; oliveta clutched her, murmuring distractedly. the avenues were jammed from curb to curb; telegraph-poles, lamp-posts, trees held a burden of human forms; windows and house-tops were filling in every direction; a continuous roar beat thunderously against the prison walls. the army of vigilantes drew up before the main gate, and a man smote it with the butt of his shotgun, demanding entrance. the crowd, anticipating a volley from within, surged back, leaving them isolated. a dozen bluecoats struggled to clear the sidewalks next the structure, but they might as well have tried to stem a rising tide with their naked hands; they were buffeted briefly, then swallowed up. in answer to a command, the armed men scattered, surrounding the building with a cordon of steel; then the main body renewed its assault. but the oaken barrier, stoutly reinforced, withstood them gallantly, and a brief colloquy occurred, after which they made their way to a small side door which directly faced the two women across the street. this was not so heavily constructed as the front gate and promised an easier entrance; but it was likewise locked and barred. then some one spied the wagon and its load of timbers, now hopelessly wedged into the press, and a rush was made toward it. a beam was raised upon willing shoulders, and with this as a battering-ram a breach was begun. every crash was the signal for a shout from the multitude, and when the door finally gave way a triumphant roar arose. the armed men swarmed into the opening and disappeared one by one, all but two who stood with backs to the door and faced the crowd warningly. it was evident that some sort of order prevailed among them, and that this was more than an unorganized assault. through the close-packed ranks, on and on around the massive pile, ran the word that the vigilantes were within; it was telegraphed from house-top to house-top. then a silence descended, the more sinister and ominous because of the pandemonium which had preceded it. thus far vittoria and her companion had seen and heard all that occurred, for their position commanded a view of both fronts of the building; but now they had only their ears to guide them. "come, let us leave now! we have seen enough." vittoria cried, and strove to drag oliveta from her post. but the girl would not yield, she did not seem to hear, her eyes were fixed with strained and fascinated horror upon that shattered aperture which showed like a gaping wound. her bloodless lips were whispering; her fingers, where they gripped the iron railing, were like claws. "quickly! quickly!" moaned vittoria. "we did not come to see this monstrous thing. oliveta, spare yourself!" in the silence her voice sounded so loudly and shrilly that people on the adjoining balcony turned curious, uncomprehending faces toward her. moment after moment that hush continued, then from within came a renewed hammering, hollow, measured; above it sounded the faint cries of terrified prisoners. this died away after a time, and some one said: "they're into the corridors at last. it won't be long now." a moment later a dull, unmistakable reverberation rolled forth like the smothered sound of a subterranean explosion; it was followed by another and another--gunshots fired within brick walls and flag-paved courtyards. it shattered that sickening, unending suspense which caused the pulse to flutter and the breath to lag; the crowd gave tongue in a howl of hoarse delight. then followed a peculiar shrilling chorus--that familiar signal known as the "dago whistle"--which was like the piercing cry of lost souls. "who killa da chief?" screamed the hoodlums, then puckered their lips and piped again that mocking signal. as the booming of the guns continued, now singly, now in volley, the maddened populace squeezed toward that narrow entrance through which the avengers had disappeared; but they were halted by the guards and forced to content themselves by greeting every shot with an exultant cry. the streets in all directions were tossing and billowing like the waves of the sea; men capered and flung their arms aloft, shrieking; women and children waved their aprons and kerchiefs, sobbing and spent with excitement. it was a wild and grotesque scene, unspeakably terrible, inhumanly ferocious. through it the two sicilian girls clung to each other, fainting, revolted, fascinated. when they could summon strength they descended to the street and fought their way out of the bedlam. norvin blake was not a willing participant in the lynching, although he had gone to the meeting at clay statue determined to do what he considered his duty. he had felt no doubt as to the outcome of the mass-meeting even before he saw its giant proportions, and even before it had sounded its approval of the first speaker's words, for he knew how deeply his townspeople were stirred by the astounding miscarriage of justice. at the rally of the committee on the afternoon previous it had been urged to proceed with the execution at once, and the counsel of the more conservative had barely prevailed. blake knew perhaps better than his companions to what lengths the rage of a mob will go, and he confessed to a secret fear of the result. therefore, although he marched in the vanguard of the storming party, it was more to exercise a restraining influence and to prevent violence against unoffending foreigners, than to take part in the demonstration. as for the actual shedding of blood, his instinct revolted from it, while his reason recognized its necessity and defended it. bernie dreux's amazing assumption of dictatorship had relieved him of the duty of heading the mob, a thing for which he was profoundly grateful. when the main body of vigilantes had armed itself, he fell in beside his friend with some notion of helping and protecting him. but the little man proved amply equal to the occasion. he was unwaveringly grim and determined it was he who faced the oaken gate and demanded entrance in the name of the people; it was he who suggested the use of the battering-ram; and it was he who first fought his way through the breach, at the risk of bullets from within. blake followed to find him with his fowling-piece at the head of the prison captain, and demanding the keys to the cells. the posse had gained a partial entrance, but another iron-ribbed door withheld them from the body of the prison, and there followed a delay while this was broken down. meanwhile, from within came the sound of turning locks and of clanging steel doors, also a shuffling of many feet and cries of mortal terror, which told that the prisoners had been freed to shift for themselves in this extremity. in truth, a scene was being enacted within more terrible than that outside, for as the deputies released the prisoners, commanding them to save themselves if they could, a frightful confusion ensued. not only did the eleven sicilians cry to god, but the other inmates of the place who feared their crimes had overtaken them joined in the appeal. men and women, negroes and whites, felons and minor evil-doers, rushed to and fro along the galleries and passageways, fighting with one another, tearing one another from places of refuge, seeking new and securer points of safety. they huddled in dark corners; they crept under beds, beneath stairways, and into barrels. they burrowed into rubbish piles only to be dragged out by the hair or the heels and to see their jealous companions seize upon these sanctuaries. terror is swiftly contagious; the whole place became a seething pit of dismay. some knelt and prayed, while others trampled upon them; they rose from their knees to beat with bleeding fists upon barred doors and blind partitions; but as their fear of death increased and the chorus of their despair mounted higher there came another pounding, nearer, louder--the sound of splitting wood and of rending metal. to escape was impossible; to remain was madness; of hiding-places there was a fearful scarcity. the regulators came rushing into the prison proper, with footsteps echoing loudly through the barren corridors. out into the open court they swarmed, then up the iron stairways to the galleries that ringed it about, peering into cells as they went, ousting the wretched inmates from remotest corners. but the chamber in which they knew their quarry had been housed was empty, so they paused undecided, while from all sides came the smothered sounds of terror like the mewling and squeaking of mice hidden in a wall. suddenly some one shouted, "there they are!" and pointed to the topmost gallery, which ran in front of the condemned cells. a rush began, but at the top of the winding stairs another grating barred the way. through this, however, could be seen salvatore di marco, giordano bolla, and the elder cressi. the three sicilians had fled to this last stronghold, slammed the steel door behind them, and now crouched in the shelter of a brick column. some one hammered at the lock, and the terrified prisoners started to their feet with an agonized appeal for mercy. as they exposed themselves to view a man fired through the bars. his aim was true; di marco flung his arms aloft and pitched forward on his face. crazed by this, his two companions rushed madly back and forth; but they were securely penned in, and appeal was futile. another shot boomed deafeningly in the close confines of the place, and cressi plunged to his death; then bolla followed, his bloody hands gripping the bars, his face upturned in a hideous grimace, and his eyes, which stared through at his slayers, glazing slowly. down the ringing stairs marched the grim-featured men who had set themselves this task, and among them bernie dreux strode, issuing orders. the weapon in his hand was hot, his shoulder was bruised, for he had long been unaccustomed to the use of firearms. then began a systematic search of the men's department of the prison; but no new victims were discovered, only the ordinary prisoners who were well-nigh speechless with fright. "where are the others?" went up the cry, and some one answered: "on the women's side." the band passed through to the adjoining portion of the double building, and, keys having been secured, the rapidity of their search increased. into the twin courtyard they filed; then while some investigated the cookhouse others climbed to the topmost tier of cells. as the quest narrowed, six of the sicilians, who had lain concealed in a compartment on the first floor, broke out in a desperate endeavor to escape, but they were caught between the opposing ranks, as in the jaws of a trap. the cell door clanged to behind them; they found themselves at bay in the open yard. resistance was useless; they sank to their knees and set up a cry for mercy. they shrieked, they sobbed, they groveled; but their enemies were open to no appeal, untouched by any sense of compunction. they were men wholly dominated by a single fixed idea, as merciless as machines. there followed a nightmare scene; a horrid, bellowing uproar of voices and detonations, of groans and prayers and curses. the armed men emptied their weapons blindly into that writhing tangle of forms, and as one finished he stepped back while another took his place. the prison rocked with the din of it; the wretches were shot to pieces, riddled, by that horizontal hail which mowed and mangled like an invisible scythe. now a figure struggled to its feet only to become the target for a fusillade; again one twisted in his agony only to be filled with missiles fired from so short a range that his garments were torn to rags. the pavement became wet and slippery; in one brief moment that section of the yard became a shambles. then men went up and poked among the bodies with the hot muzzles of their rifles, turning the corpses over for identification; and as each stark face was recognized a name went echoing out through the dingy corridors to the mob beyond. larubio, the cobbler, had attempted a daring ruse. the firing had ceased when up out of that limp and sodden heap he rose, his gray hair matted, his garments streaming. they thrust their rifles against his chest and killed him quickly. nine men had died by now, and only two remained, normando and maruffi. the former was found shortly, where he had squeezed himself into a dog-kennel which stood under the stairs; but the vigilantes, it seemed, had had enough of slaughter, so he was rushed into the street, where the crowd tore him to pieces as wolves rend a rabbit. even his garments were ripped to rags and distributed as ghastly souvenirs. norvin blake had been a witness to only a part of this brutality, but what he had seen had sickened him, and had increased his determination to find gino cressi. he shared not at all in the sanguinary exaltation which possessed his fellow-townsmen; instead he longed for the end and hoped he would be able to forget what he had seen. he would have fled but for his fear of what might happen to the cressi boy. corridor after corridor he searched, peering into cells, under cots, into corners and crannies, while through the cavernous old building the other hunters stormed. he was hard pressed to keep ahead of them, and when he finally found the lad they were dose at his heels. they came upon him with the lad clinging to his knees, and a shout went up. "here's the cressi kid. he gave the signal; let him have it!" but norvin turned upon them, saying: "you can't kill this boy." "step aside, blake," ordered a red-faced man, raising and cocking his weapon. norvin seized the rifle-barrel and turned it aside roughly. the two stared at each other with angry eyes. "he's only a baby, don't you understand? good god! you have children of your own." "i--i--" the fellow hesitated. "so he is. damnation! what has come over me?" he lowered his gun and turned against the others who were clamoring behind him. "this is--awful," he murmured, shakingly, when the crowd had passed on. "i've done all i intend to." he flung his rifle from him with a gesture of repugnance, and went out of the cell. norvin continued to stand guard over his charge while the search for maruffi went on, for he dared not trust these men who had gone mad. thus he did not learn that his arch enemy had been taken until he saw him rushed past in the hands of his captors. caesar had fought as best he could against overwhelming odds, and continued to resist now in a blind fury; but a rope was about his neck, at the end of which were a dozen running men; a dozen gun-butts hustled him on his way to the open air. blake closed the cell door upon gino cressi and followed, drawn by a magnetic force he could not resist. the main gate of the prison opened before the rush of that tangled, growling handful of men, and they swept straight out into the turmoil that filled the streets. an instant later maruffi was beset by five thousand maniacs; he was kicked, he was beaten, he was spat upon, he was overwhelmed by an avalanche of humanity. his progress to the gallows was a short but a terrible one, marked by a series of violent whirlpools which set through that river of people. the uproar was deafening; spectators screamed hoarsely, but did not hear their voices. from where blake paused beside the gate he traced the sicilian's progress plainly, marveling at the fellow's vitality, for it seemed impossible that any human being could withstand that onslaught. a coil of rope sailed upward, a negro perched in a tree passed it over a limb, and the next instant the head and shoulders of the capo-mafia rose above the dense level of standing forms. he was writhing horribly, but, seizing the rope with his hands, he drew himself upward; his blackened face glared down upon his executioners. the grinning negro kicked at the dark head beneath him, once, twice, three times, so violently that he lost his balance and fell, whereupon a bellowing shout of laughter arose more terrible than any sound heretofore. still the sicilian clung to the rope which was strangling him. then puffs of smoke curled up in the sunshine, and the crowd rolled back upon itself, leaving the gibbet ringed with armed men. maruffi's body was swayed and spun as if by invisible hands; his fingers slipped; he settled downward. blake turned and hid his face against the cold, damp walls, for he was very sick. xxvi at the dusk within two days the city had regained its customary calm. it had, in fact, settled down to a more placid mood than at any time since the murder of chief donnelly. immediately after the lynching the citizens had dispersed to their homes. no prisoners except the mafiosi had been harmed, and of those who had been sought not one had escaped. the damage to the parish prison did not amount to fifty dollars. through the community spread a feeling of satisfaction, which horror at the terrible details of the slaughter could not destroy. there was nowhere the slightest effort at dodging responsibility; those who had led in the assault were the best-known citizens and openly acknowledged their parts. it was realized now, even more fully than before the event, that the course pursued had been the only one compatible with public safety; and, while every one deplored the necessity of lynchings in general, there was no regret at this one, shocking as it had been. this state of mind was reflected by the local press, and, for that matter, by the press of all the southern cities where the gravity of the situation had become known, while to lend it further countenance, the cotton exchange, the board of trade, and the chamber of commerce promptly passed resolutions commending the action of the vigilance committee. there was some talk of legal proceedings; but no one took it seriously, except the police, who felt obliged to excuse their dereliction. of course, the stir was national--international, indeed, since italy demanded particulars; but, serene in the sense of an unpleasant duty thoroughly performed, new orleans did not trouble to explain, except by a bare recital of facts. in spite of the passive part he had played, blake was perhaps more deeply affected by the doings at the prison than any other member of the party, and during the interval that followed he did not trust himself to see vittoria. there was a double reason for this, for he not only recalled their last interview with consternation, but he still had a guilty feeling about myra nell. on the second afternoon after the lynching bernie dreux dropped in to tell him of his sister's return from mobile. "she read that i took a hand in the fuss," bernie explained, "but, of course, she has no idea i did so much actual shooting. when she told me she was going to see you this afternoon, i came to warn you not to expose me." "do you regret your part?" "not the least bit. i'm merely surprised at myself." "you surprised all your friends," blake said, with a smile. "you seem to have changed lately." in truth, the difference in dreux's bearing was noteworthy, and many had remarked upon it. the dignity and force which had enveloped the little beau for the first time when he stood before the assembled thousands still clung to him; his eyes were steady and bright and purposeful; he had lost his wavering, deprecatory manner. "yes, i've just come of age," he declared, with some satisfaction. "i realize that i'm free, white, and twenty-one, for the first time. i'm going to quit idling and do something." "what, for instance?" "well, i'm going to marry felicite, to begin with, then maybe some of my friends will give me a job." "i will," said blake. "thanks, but--i'd rather impose on somebody else at the start. i want to make good on my own merits, understand? i've lived off my relatives long enough. it's just as bad to let the deceased members of your family support you as to allow the live ones--" "bernie!" blake interrupted, gravely. "i'm afraid i won't marry myra nell." "you think she won't have you, eh? she has been acting queerly of late; but leave it to me." norvin was spared the necessity of further explanation by the arrival of the girl herself. miss warren seemed strangely lacking in her usual abundance of animal spirits; she was obviously ill at ease, and the sight of her brother did not lessen her embarrassment. during the brief interchange of pleasantries her eyes were fixed upon blake with a troubled gaze. "we--i just ran in for a moment," she said, and seemed upon the point of leaving after inquiring solicitously about his health. "my dear," said bernie, with elaborate unction, "norvin and i have just been discussing your engagement." miss warren gasped and turned pale; blake stammered. with a desperate effort the girl inquired: "d--do you love me, norvin?" "of course i do." "see!" bernie nodded his satisfaction. "oh, lordy!" said myra nell. "i--can't marry you, dear." "what?" blake knew that his expression was changing, and tried to stifle his relief. as for bernie, he flushed angrily, and his voice rang with his newly born determination. "don't be silly. didn't he just say he loved you? and, for heaven's sake, don't look so scared. we won't devour you." "i can't marry him," declared the girl, once more. "why?" "be-because i'm already married! there! jimmy! i've been trying to get that out for a month." dreux gasped. "myra nell! you're crazy!" she nodded, then turned to blake with a look of entreaty, "p-please don't kill yourself, dear? i couldn't help it." "why, you poor frightened little thing! i'm delighted! i am indeed," he told her, reassuringly. "don't you care? aren't you going to storm and--and raise the dickens?" she queried. "maybe this is your way of hiding your despair?" "not at all. i'm glad--so long as you're happy." "and you're not mad with anguish nor crushed with--why, the idea! i'm perfectly _furious!_ i ran away because i was afraid of you, and i haven't seen my husband once, not once, do you understand, since we were married. oh, you--_brute!_" by this time dreux had recovered his power of speech, and yelled in furious voice: "who is the reptile?" there came a timid rap, the office door opened, and lecompte rilleau inserted his head, saying gently: "me! i! i'm it!" blake rose so suddenly that his chair upset, whereupon rilleau, who saw in this abrupt movement a threat, propelled himself fully into view, crying with determination: "here! don't you touch her! she's mine! you take it out of me!" blake's answering laugh seemed so out of character that the bridegroom took it as merely a new phase of insanity, and edged in front of his wife protectingly. "i wanted to come in at first and break the news, but she wouldn't let me," he explained. "you have a weak heart. you--you mustn't fight!" implored myra nell; but lecompte only shrugged. [illustration: "p-please don't kill yourself, dear? i couldn't help it"] "that's all a bluff." then to norvin: "i'll admit it _was_ a mean trick, and i guess my heart really might have petered out if she'd married you; but i'm all right now, and you can have satisfaction." "i don't know whether to be angry or amused at you children," norvin told them. "understand, once for all, that our engagement wasn't serious. there have been a lot of mistakes and misunderstandings--that's all. now tell us how and when this all happened." "y-yes!" echoed bernie, who was still dazed. myra nell seemed more chagrined than relieved. "it was perfectly simple," she informed them. "it happened during the carnival. i--never heard a man talk the way he did, and i was really worried about his heart. i said no--for fifteen minutes, then we arranged to be married secretly. when it was all over, i was frightened and ran away. you're such a deep, desperate, unforgiving person, norvin. i--i think it was positively horrid of you." "good lord!" breathed her brother. "what a perverted sense of responsibility!" "are we forgiven?" "it's all right with me, if it is with norvin," said bernie, somewhat doubtfully. "forgiven?" blake took the youthful pair by the hands, and in his eyes was a brightness they had never seen. "of course you are, and let me tell you that you haven't cornered all the love in the world. i've never cared but for one woman. perhaps you will wish me as much happiness as i wish you both?" "then you have found your italian girl?" queried myra nell, with flashing eagerness. "vittoria!" "vittoria!" miss warren shrieked. "vittoria--a _countess!_ so, she's the one who spoiled everything?" "gee! you'll be a count," said rilleau. there followed a period of laughing, incoherent explanations, and then the beaming bridegroom tugged at myra nell's sleeve, saying: "now that it's all over, i'm mighty tired of being a widower." she flung her arms about his neck and lifted her blushing face to his, explaining to her half-brother, when she could: "i don't know what you'll do without some one to look after you, bernie, but--it's perfectly grand to elope." dreux rose with a grin and winked at norvin as he said: "oh, don't mind me. i'll get along all right." and seizing his hat he rushed out with his thin face all ablaze. when blake was finally alone, he closed his desk and with bounding heart set out for the foreign quarter. his day had dawned; he could hardly contain himself. but, as he neared his goal, strange doubts and indecisions arose in his mind; and when he had reached oliveta's house he passed on, lacking courage to enter. he decided it was too soon after the tragedy at the parish prison to press his suit; that to intrude himself now would be in offensively bad taste. then, too, he began to reason that if margherita had wished to see him she would have sent for him--all in all, the hour was decidedly unpropitious. he dared not risk his future happiness upon a blundering, ill-timed declaration; therefore he walked onward. but no sooner had he passed the house than a thousand voices urged him to return, in this the hour of the girl's loneliness, and lay his devotion at her feet. torn thus by hesitation and by the sense of his unworthiness, he walked the streets, hour after hour. at one moment he approached the house desperately determined; the next he fled, mastered by the fear of dismissal. so he continued his miserable wanderings on into the dusk. twilight was settling when margherita ginini finished her packing. the big living-room was stripped of its furnishings; trunks and cases stood about in a desolate confusion. there was no look of home or comfort remaining anywhere, and the whole house echoed dismally to her footsteps. from the rear came the sound of oliveta's listless preparations. pausing at an open window, margherita looked down upon the street which she had grown to love--the suggestion of darkness had softened it, mellowed it with a twilight beauty, like the face of an old friend seen in the glow of lamplight. the shouting of urchins at play floated upward, stirring the chords of motherhood in her breast and emphasizing her loneliness. with oliveta gone what would be left? nothing but an austere life compressed within drab walls; nothing but sickness and suffering on every side. she had begun to think a great deal about those walls of late and--the bells of a convent pealed out softly in the distance, bringing a tightness to her throat. in spite of herself she shuddered. those laughing children's voices mocked at her empty life. they seemed always to jeer at that hungry mother-love, but never quite so loudly as now. she remembered surprising norvin blake at play with these very children one day, and the half-abashed, half-defiant light in his eyes when he discovered her watching him. thinking of him, she recalled just such another twilight hour as this when, in a whirl of shamed emotion, she had been compelled to face the fact of her love. a sudden trembling weakness seized her at the memory, and she saw again those cold gray walls, which never echoed to the gleeful crowing of babes or the thrilling merriment of little voices. in that brief hour of her awakening life had opened gloriously, bewilderingly, only to close again, leaving her soul bruised and sore with rebellion. she crossed the floor listlessly in answer to a knock, for the repeated attentions of her neighbors, although sincere and touching, were intrusive; then she fell back at sight of the man who entered. the magic of this evening hour had brought him to her in spite of all his fears; but his heart was in his throat, and he could hardly manage a greeting. as he passed the threshold of the disordered room he looked round him in dismay. "what is this?" he asked. "oliveta is going home to sicily. it is our parting." "and you?" "to-morrow--i go to the sisters." "no, no!" he cried, in a voice which thrilled her. "i won't let you. for hours i've been trying to come here--dearest, don't answer until you know everything. sometimes i fear i was the one who was dreaming at that moment when you confessed you loved me, for it is all so unreal--but my love is not unreal. it has lived with me night and day since that first moment at terranova--i couldn't speak before, but all these years seem only hours, and i've been living in the gardens of sicily where you first smiled at me and awoke this love. you asked me to take no part--i had to refuse--i've tried to make a man of myself, not for my own sake, not for what the world would say, but for you--" in the tumult of feeling that his words aroused she held fast to one thought. "what--what about myra nell?" she gasped. "myra nell is married!" the curling lashes which had lain half closed during his headlong speech flew open to display a look of wonderment and dawning gladness. "yes," he reiterated. "she is married. she has been married ever since the carnival, and she's very happy. but i didn't know. i was tied by a miserable misunderstanding, so i couldn't come to you honestly until today. and now--i--i'm--afraid--" "what do you fear?" she heard herself say. the breathless delight of this moment was so intense that she toyed with it, fearing to lose the smallest part. she withheld the confession trembling upon her lips which he was too timid to take for granted, too blind to see. "can you take me, in spite of my wretched cowardice back there in sicily? i would understand, dear, if you couldn't forget it, but--i love you so--i tried so hard to make myself worthy--you'll never know how hard it was--i couldn't do what you asked me, the other day, but, thank god, my hands are clean." he held them out as if in evidence; then, to his great, his never-ending surprise, she came forward and placed her two palms in his. she stood looking gravely at him, her surrender plain in the curve of her tremulous lip, the droop of her faltering, silk-fringed lids. knowledge came to him with a blinding, suffocating suddenness which set his brain to reeling and wrung a rapturous cry from his throat. after a long time he felt her shudder in his arms. "what is it, heart of my life?" he whispered, without lifting his lips from her tawny cloud of hair. "those walls!" she said. "those cold, gray walls!" a sob rose, caught, then changed to a laugh of deep contentment, and she nestled closer. children's voices were wafted up to them through the fragrant, peaceful dusk, and the two fell silent again, until oliveta came and stood beside them with her face transfigured. "god be praised!" said the peasant girl, as she put her hands in theirs. "something told me i should not return to sicily alone." the end generously made available by the internet archive/american libraries.) [illustration: william o. hudson president, board of commissioners of port of new orleans] foreword. oh the mind of man! frail, untrustworthy, perishable--yet able to stand unlimited agony, cope with the greatest forces of nature and build against a thousand years. passion can blind it--yet it can read in infinity the difference between right and wrong. alcohol can unsettle it--yet it can create a poem or a harmony or a philosophy that is immortal. a flower pot falling out of a window can destroy it--yet it can move mountains. if man had a tool that was as frail as his mind, he would fear to use it. he would not trust himself on a plank so liable to crack. he would not venture into a boat so liable to go to pieces. he would not drive a tack with a hammer, the head of which is so liable to fly off. but man knows that what the mind can conceive, that can he execute. so man sits in his room and plans the things the world thought impossible. from the known he dares the unknown. he covers paper with figures, conjures forth a blue print, and sends an army of workmen against the forces of nature. if his mind blundered, he would waste millions in money and perhaps destroy thousands of lives. but man can trust his mind; fragile though it is, he knows it can bear the strain of any task put upon it. all over the world there is the proof: in the heavens above, and in the waters under the earth. and nowhere has man won a greater triumph over unspeakable odds than in new orleans, in the dredging of a canal through buried forests , years old, the creation of an underground river, and the building of a lock that was thought impossible. the industrial canal and inner harbor of new orleans history, description and economic aspects of giant facility created to encourage industrial expansion and develop commerce by thomas ewing dabney published by board of commissioners of the port of new orleans second port u. s. a. may, (copyright, , by thomas ewing dabney). contents foreword the need recognized for a century new orleans decides to build canal small canal first planned the dirt begins to fly canal plans expanded digging the ditch overwhelming endorsement by new orleans siphon and bridges the remarkable lock new channel to the gulf why government should operate canal economic aspect of canal construction costs and contractors other port facilities comparison of distances between new orleans and the principal cities and ports of the world the need recognized for a century. there is a map in the possession of t. p. thompson of new orleans, who has a notable collection of books and documents on the early history of this city, dated march , , and drawn by captain w. t. poussin, topographical engineer, showing the route of a proposed canal to connect the mississippi river and lake pontchartrain, curiously near the site finally chosen for that great enterprise nearly a hundred years later. new orleans then was a mere huddle of buildings around jackson square; but with the purchase of the louisiana territory from france, and the great influx of american enterprise that characterized the first quarter of the last century, development was working like yeast, and it was foreseen that new orleans' future depended largely upon connecting the two waterways mentioned--the river, that drains the commerce of the mississippi valley, at our front door, and the lake, with its short-cut to the sea and the commerce of the world, at the back. when the carondelet canal, now known as the old basin canal, was begun in , the plan was to extend it to the river. it was also planned to connect the new basin canal, begun in , with the mississippi. this was, in fact, one of the big questions of the period. that the work was not put through was due more to the lack of machinery than of enterprise. during the rest of the century, the proposal bobbed up at frequent intervals, and the small lake borgne canal was finally shoved through from the mississippi to lake borgne, which is a bay of lake pontchartrain. the difference between these early proposals and the plan for the industrial canal and inner harbor that was finally adopted, is that the purpose in the former case was simply to develop a waterway for handling freight, whereas the object of new orleans' great facility, now nearing completion, is to create industrial development. under the law of louisiana, inherited from the spanish and french regimes, river frontage can not be sold or leased to private enterprise. this law prevents port facilities being sewed up by selfish interests and insures a fair deal for all shipping lines, new ones as well as old, with a consequent development of foreign trade; and port officials, at harbors that are under private monopoly, would give a pretty if the louisiana system could be established there. but there is no law, however good, that meets all conditions, and a number of private enterprises--warehouses and factories--have undoubtedly been kept out of new orleans because they could not secure water frontage. an artificial waterway, capable of indefinite expansion, on whose banks private enterprise could buy or lease, for a long period of time, the land for erecting its buildings and plants, without putting in jeopardy the commercial development of the port; a waterway that would co-ordinate river, rail and maritime facilities most economically, and lend itself to the development of a "free port" when the united states finally adopts that requisite to a world commerce--that was the recognized need of new orleans when the proposal for connecting the two waterways came to the fore in the opening years of the present century. the progressive union, later the association of commerce, took a leading part in the propaganda; it was assisted by other public bodies, and forward-looking men, who gradually wore away the opposition with which is received every attempt to do something that grandfather didn't do. and on july , , the legislature of louisiana passed act no. , authorizing the commission council of new orleans to determine the site, and the board of port commissioners of louisiana, or dock board, as it is more commonly called, to build the industrial canal. the act gave the board a right to expropriate all property necessary for the purpose, to build the "necessary locks, slips, laterals, basins and appurtenances * * * in aid of commerce," and to issue an unlimited amount in bonds "against the real estate and canal and locks and other improvements * * * to be paid out of the net receipts of said canal and appurtenances thereof, after the payment of operating expenses * * * (and) to fix charges for tolls in said canal." this was submitted to a vote of the people at the regular election in november of that year, and became part of the constitution. to avoid the complication of a second mortgage on the property, the dock board subsequently (ordinance of june , ) set a limit on the total bond issue. to enable the development that was then seen to be dimly possible, it set this limit high--at $ , , . new orleans decides to build canal. the canal for which the legislature made provision in bears about the relation to the one that was finally built as the acorn does to the oak. it was to be a mere barge canal that might ultimately be enlarged to a ship canal. its cost was estimated at $ , , , which was less than the cost of digging the new basin canal nearly a century before, which was a great deal smaller and ran but half way between the lake and river. the panic of the early days of the world war shoved even this modest plan to one side, and it was not until the next year that enthusiasm caught its second wind. then the leading men and the press of the city put themselves behind the project once more. as the new orleans item said, october , , "the lack of that canal has already proven to have cost the city much in trade and developed industry." commenting on the "astonishing exhibition of intelligent public spirit" in new orleans, the chicago tribune said that "no other city in or near the mississippi valley, including chicago, has shown such an awakening to the possibilities and rearrangements that are following the cutting of the panama canal. * * * the awakening started with the talk of the new canal." other papers throughout the country made similar expressions. in the engineering firm of ford, bacon & davis made a preliminary survey of conditions and how development would be affected by the canal. at about the same time the illinois legislature voted to spend $ , , to construct a deep water canal, giving chicago water connection with the mississippi river; and the new orleans item linked the two projects when it said, january , , "the illinois-lake michigan canal and the new orleans industrial canal are complementary links in a new system of waterways connecting the upper valley through the mississippi river and new orleans with the gulf and the panama canal. this system again gives the differential to the valley cities in trade with the markets of the orient, our own west coast, and south america." commodore ernest lee jahncke, president of the association of commerce, issued a statement to the press january , , declaring that the prospect of the canal "brightened the whole business future of this city and the mississippi valley"; the new orleans real estate board and the auction exchange, in a joint meeting, urged its speedy building; and governor luther e. hall, in a formal statement to the press january , , gave his endorsement to the construction of the canal "long sought by many commercial interests of new orleans," and said that work would probably begin in "three months." in august, , the governor dismissed the dock board and appointed a new one. in the confusion attending the reorganization the canal project was again dropped. the new orleans american, on august , , attempted to revive it, but the effort fell flat, and the plan laid on ice until . america had in the meantime thrown its hat into the ring, and the cry was going up for ships, more ships, and still more ships. national patriotism succeeded where civic effort had failed. new orleans brought out its industrial canal project to help the country build the famous "bridge of boats." but this new phase of the plan was far from the canal that was finally built. in fact, the accomplishment of this project has shown a remarkable development with the passing years, reminding one of the growth of the trivial hopes of the boy into the mighty achievement of the man. ships could not be built on the mississippi river. the twenty-foot range in the water level would require the ways to make a long slope into the current, a work of prohibitive expense, and as nearly impossible from an engineering standpoint as anything can be. early in a committee of representative orleanians began to study the situation. this was known as the city shipbuilding committee. it comprised mayor behrman, o. s. morris, president of the association of commerce; walter parker, manager of that body; arthur mcguirk, special counsel of the dock board; r. s. hecht, president of the hibernia bank; dr. paul h. saunders, president of the canal-commercial bank; j. d. o'keefe, vice-president of the whitney-central bank; j. k. newman, financier; g. g. earl, superintendent of the sewerage and water board; hampton reynolds, contractor; d. d. moore, james m. thompson and j. walker ross, of the times-picayune, item and states, respectively. on february , , this committee laid the plans for an industrial basin, connected with the river by a lock, and ultimately to be connected with the lake by a small barge canal. ships could be built on the banks of this basin, the water in which would have a fixed level. mr. hecht, and arthur mcguirk, special counsel of the dock board, devised the plan by which the project could be financed. the dock board would issue long-term bonds, and build the necessary levees with the material excavated from the canal. the committee's formal statement summarized the public need of this facility as follows: " . it will provide practical, convenient and fixed-level water-front sites for ship and boat building and repair plants, for industries and commercial enterprises requiring water frontage. " . it will provide opportunities for all enterprises requiring particular facilities on water frontage to create such facilities. " . it will permit the complete co-ordination, in the city of new orleans, of the traffic of the mississippi river and its tributaries, of the intracoastal canal, the railroads and the sea, under the most convenient and satisfactory conditions. " . in connection with the publicly-owned facilities on the river front, it will give new orleans all the port and harbor advantages enjoyed by amsterdam with its canal system, rotterdam and antwerp with their joint river and ocean facilities; hamburg with its free port, and liverpool with its capacity as a market deposit. " . it will give new orleans a fixed-level, well protected harbor. " . it will serve the purposes of the intracoastal canal and increase the benefits to accrue to new orleans from that canal. " . in connection with revived commercial use of the inland waterways upon which the federal government is now determined, it will open the way for an easy solution of the problem of handling, housing and interchange of water-borne commerce, and of the development of facilities for the storage of commodities between the period of production and consumption. " . it will prove an important facility in the equipment of new orleans to meet the new competition the enlarged erie canal will create. the original erie canal harmed new orleans because mississippi river boat lines could not build their own terminal and housing facilities at new orleans." [illustration: w. a. kernaghan vice-president renÉ clerc secretary albert mackie hugh mccloskey commissioners board of commissioners of the port of new orleans] this meeting made industrial history in new orleans. the hecht plan was studied by lawyers and financiers and declared feasible. mr. hecht summarized the confidence of the far-visioned men in the new new orleans when he declared in a public interview: "i feel there is absolutely nothing to prevent the immediate realization of new orleans' long dream of becoming a great industrial and commercial center and having great shipbuilding plants located within the city limits." and the item said, in commenting on the undertaking (february , ): "millions of dollars of capital will be ready to engage in shipbuilding in new orleans the moment that piledrivers and steam shovels are set to work on the shiplock and navigation canal." it was a time of great industrial excitement. victory was at last in the grasp of new orleans. the eyes of the country were on new orleans. the cry was, "full speed ahead!" small canal first planned. the plan, at this time, was to have a lock-sill only or feet deep. this would be sufficient to allow empty ships to enter or leave the canal, but not loaded. the mere building of ships was thus the principal thought, despite the rhetoric on commercial and industrial possibilities. perhaps the leaders who were beating the project into shape were themselves afraid to think in the millions necessary to do the work to which new orleans finally dedicated itself; perhaps they realized that the figure would stagger the minds of the people and defeat the undertaking, if they were not gradually educated up to the mark. meeting on february , , the dock board resolved unanimously to put the plan through, if it proved feasible. w. b. thompson was president of the board; the other members were dr. e. s. kelly, thomas j. kelly, b. b. hans and o. p. geren. later, e. e. lafaye took mr. kelly's place on the board. the public belt railroad board had in the meantime (february ) voted to pay the dock board $ , a year; and the levee board (february ) to give $ , a year. as the plans were increased, the levee board later increased its bit to $ , . mayor behrman, arthur mcguirk and r. s. hecht laid the proposition before both bodies. action was unanimous. colonel j. d. hill, speaking for the belt railroad board, said: "i am glad that at last there has been outlined a plan which seemingly makes it possible to construct the canal. it will not only result in the eventual construction of a big fleet of ships, but will prepare the way for a tremendous industrial activity in other lines. the consensus has been that a navigation canal is needed to induce large manufacturers, importers and exporters to establish their factories and warehouses here. this project will be the opening wedge." members of the public belt board voting, besides colonel hill and mayor behrman (ex-officio) were ginder abbott, arthur simpson, john h. murphy, w. b. bloomfield, adam lorch, george p. thompson, thomas f. cunningham, victor lambou, edgar b. stern and sam segari. members of the levee board voting were: william mcl. fayssoux, president, thomas killeen, thomas smith, john f. muller, james p. williams, john p. vezien. w. b. thompson, president, put the matter before the dock board. "the idea" he said, according to the minutes of the meeting of february , , "had always received his approval, and he thought that the mayor would recall that in the preparation, he with the city attorney, had a very considerable part in framing the same, and he had taken an active interest in the matter; he had always been in favor of the industrial canal, and he believed in the possibility of development of new orleans through this, as a terminus; and it was entirely logical that the dock board should do all that may lie within its power to bring about the successful consummation of this project; the only doubt in his mind being as to the feasibility of the project from the financial standpoint. it seems now, however, that a plan has been devised, through efforts of the mayor and mr. hecht, which gives every promise of success. the co-operation of the city on behalf of the public belt railroad, and of the levee board, apparently removed the difficulties in respect to the financial end. the dock board welcomes the assistance and co-operation of the city and of the levee board, but inasmuch as these boards are merely contributing certain amounts per year, and whereas the dock board is the obligor in respect of the principal of the bond issue, it devolves upon the dock board to use great caution before committing itself to any particular plan in a matter which so vitally affects the credit of the dock board, the city of new orleans and the levee board. president thompson further stated that he unhesitatingly endorsed the project and that he was sure that every member of the board agreed, and the board would be glad to give prompt consideration to the particular plan in question and reach some conclusion which will insure the realization of this great project." to estimate the probable cost of the canal, mayor behrman appointed the following committee of engineers: w. j. hardee, city engineer; a. f. barclay, engineer of the public belt railroad; george g. earl, superintendent of the sewerage & water board; c. t. rayner, jr., engineer of the levee board and hampton reynolds, contractor. on february , the committee reported that, not counting real estate, a canal could be built for $ , , . this estimate called for a lock feet long, feet wide, and feet deep, and a barge canal to the lake. the cost of constructing the lock was put at $ , , , and of digging the canal $ , , . this report was first received by a special committee composed of mayor behrman, w. b. thompson, col. j. b. hill, r. s. hecht and major w. mcl. fayssoux. this committee referred it to the dock board, which adopted it february . financial arrangements were completed at this same meeting. in order to have sufficient to pay for the land which would have to be expropriated for the canal, and to give some leeway, it was decided to issue bonds for $ , , , with an option of floating $ , , more within days. a financial syndicate, consisting of the hibernia, interstate and whitney-central banks of new orleans, the william r. compton investment company of st. louis, and the halsey, stuart company of chicago, agreed to take the entire issue. the bonds were to run years and begin to mature serially after years. they were to bear per cent interest, and to be sold at . they would be secured by a mortgage on the real estate of the canal site, and by the taxing powers of the state, for they were a recognized state obligation, as arthur mcguirk, special counsel of the dock board, pointed out in his opinion of july , . he added: "i am likewise of opinion that said bonds are unaffected by any limitations upon the state debt, or upon the rate of taxation for public purposes; that the said bonds are entitled to be paid out of the general funds, or by the exercise of the power of taxation insofar as the revenues, funds or property preferentially pledged or mortgaged to secure said issue may fail, or be insufficient, to pay the same." the following sat with the dock board and its attorneys at the meeting of february : mayor behrman, j. d. hill of the public belt railroad, r. s. hecht, president of the hibernia bank, j. d. o'keefe, vice-president of the whitney-central bank, c. g. reeves, vice-president of the interstate bank, w. r. compton of the compton investment company, h. l. stuart of halsey, stuart and company, w. j. hardee, city engineer, and hampton reynolds, contractor. the selection of the site was left, by the state law, to the commission council. there were a number of possible routes, and the selection was made with the utmost secrecy to prevent real estate profiteering. at first the area bounded by france and reynes streets was chosen. this was on february . on may , however, the site was changed to the area bounded by france and lizardi streets, north from the mississippi river to florida walk, thence to lake pontchartrain. this is a virtually uninhabited region in the third district, through the old ursulines tract. the site chosen for expropriation is five and a third miles long by , feet wide, acres. for this land the dock board paid $ , , . , which is at the rate of $ , an acre. the valuation was reached by expropriation proceedings. in the meantime, commodore ernest lee jahncke had asked to be allotted the first site on the industrial canal, and doullut & williams for the second. both were for shipyards. the foundation company, which was operating a number of shipyards in various parts of the country, sent an engineer here to see if it would be feasible for the concern to build a shipyard here. even before the piledrivers and dredges were on the job, the millions were being counted for investment in the city whose remarkable enterprise had won the admiration of the country. the dirt begins to fly. until the money for the bond issue should be available, the hibernia bank authorized the dock board to draw against it on open account. it only remained, then, to secure the authorization of the capital issues committee of the federal reserve board, which controlled all bond issues during the world war, to start the work. the grounds on which the authorization was requested summarize conditions that make possible a great industrial development in new orleans, and will stand quoting. they are: "(a) semi-tropical conditions, which make it feasible to work every day and night in the year; "(b) admirable housing conditions which render it feasible for labor to live under most sanitary conditions in houses closely proximate to both the plants and the city, with sewerage and water connections, and with street car transportation facilities to and from the plants and to and from the amusement centers of the city; "(c) ample labor supply and satisfactory labor conditions; "(d) proximity to timber, steel and coal sources of supply with all water as well as rail transportation facilities thereon; "(e) state control of the canal facilities and operation of the same, not for profit, but for the economical and expeditious development of shipbuilding." two shipyards were established on the canal. they poured millions of dollars into new orleans. the tremendous tonnage built in the united states during the war, and the slump in foreign trade that followed the armistice, due to financial conditions abroad, have caused many shipyards throughout the united states to close down, among them one of these at new orleans. the other one is now finishing its war contracts, and will be more or less inactive until the demands of the american merchant marine and business in general open up again. if they are not used for shipbuilding, they can be used for ship repairing or building barges. and it is obvious that the same conditions that made ship building an economic possibility, will encourage other industrial production, especially production that requires the co-ordination of river, rail and maritime facilities. the canal means millions of new money to new orleans, as its proponents said it would. on march , the authorization of the capital issues committee was given. on march , the george w. goethals company, inc., was retained as consulting engineers on the big job. the services of this company were secured as much for its engineering skill, proven by its work on the panama canal, as for the prestige of its name. the goethals company, co-operating with the engineers of the dock board, which did the work, designed the famous lock and directed the entire job. george m. wells, vice-president of the firm, was put in active charge of the work. general goethals made occasional visits of supervision. the dirt began to fly on june , . before coming to new orleans to take up his work, mr. wells, acting upon instructions of the dock board, called at the office of the foundation company in new york, whose engineer had already studied the possibilities of establishing a shipyard on the canal, and guaranteed an outlet to the sea by the time its vessels should be finished. the river end of the site chosen for the canal consisted of low and flat meadow land. there were a few houses helter-skeltered about, like blocks in a nursery, but the principal signs of human life were the cows that grazed where the grazing was good, and sought refuge from the noonday beams of the sun under the occasional oaks that had strayed out into the open and didn't know how to get back. the middle of the site--several miles in extent--was a gray cypress swamp, with five or six hundred trees to the acre, and always awash. the lake end was "trembling prairie" marsh land subject to tidal overflow and very soft. [illustration: n. o. army supply base] [illustration: building lake entrance] with dredges, spades, mechanical excavators, piledrivers and dynamite the work opened. a great force of men began to throw up by hand, the levees that were to serve as banks for the turning basin, the lock and other portions of the canal. this levee would keep the liquid material, dredged out, from running back into the excavation. the turning basin, feet by , feet, was an expansion of the original industrial basin. situated several hundred feet from the lock, its purpose is to enable ships entering the canal from the river, and passing through the lock, to turn in, as well as to furnish a site for the concentration of industries. the foundation company had in the meantime decided to establish a shipyard on this basin; its engineers were on the ground, and its material was rolling. one dredge was sent around lake pontchartrain to commence boring in from that end. this could not be done on the river end. the mississippi is too mighty a giant to risk such liberties. the , -foot cut between the river and the lock would have to be done last of all, when the rest of the canal and the lock were finished, and the new levees that would protect the city against its overflow, were solidly set. but a few hundred feet from the turning basin, was bayou bienvenu, which runs into lake borgne, part of lake pontchartrain, and one of the refuges of lafitte in the brave days when smuggling was more a sport of the plain people than it is now with european travel restricted to the wealthy. so through bayou bienvenu a small excavator was sent to cut a passage into the turning basin, to allow the mighty -inch dredges to get in and work outwards towards the lake and the lock site. the problem was further complicated by the florida walk drainage system, which emptied into bayou bienvenu, and by the railway lines that crossed the site of the canal. these railways were the southern railway, at the lake end, the louisville & nashville, at the middle, and the southern and public belt near the turning basin on florida walk. for them, the dock board had to build "run-around" tracks, to be used while their lines were cut to enable the dredging to be made and the bridges to be constructed. for the drainage, the plans called for the construction of an inverted siphon passing under the canal, a river under a river, so to speak. in the meantime, however, the drainage canal had to be blocked off with two cofferdams, to cut off the water from the city and the bayou, and enable the construction of the siphon between. additional railroad tracks, too, had to be built to handle the immense volume of material needed for the work; roads had to be built for getting supplies on the job by truck; the trolley line had to be extended for the transportation of labor. week by week the labor gangs grew, as the men were able to find places in the attacking line of the industrial battle. great excavators stalked over the land, pulling themselves along by their dippers which bit out chunks of earth as big as a cart when they "took a-hold"; the smack of pile drivers, the thump of dynamite, and the whistle of dredges filled the air. buildings sprouted like mushrooms; in the meadow, half a mile from the nearest water, the shipyard of the foundation company began to take form. it was the plan to finish the canal by january, . canal plans expanded. work in the meantime had begun on the commodity warehouse and wharf, another facility planned by the dock board to relieve the growing pains. built on the canal, but opening on the river, it was to perform the same service for general commodities as the public cotton warehouse and the public grain elevator did for those products. though not a part of the canal plan, the construction of the warehouse at this point was part of the general scheme to concentrate industrial development on that waterway. later, the federal government took over this work and gave new orleans a $ , , terminal, through which it handled army supplies. it is still using the three warehouses for storage purposes, but has leased the half-mile double-deck wharf to the dock board, which is devoting it to the general commerce of the port. in time, the dock board hopes to get at least one of the buildings. there can be no doubt but that the enterprise of new orleans in building the industrial canal had a great deal to do with the government's determination to establish a depot at new orleans. on may , the news came out of washington that the doullut & williams shipbuilding company had been awarded a $ , , contract by the emergency fleet corporation to build eight ships of , tons each. this was the largest shipbuilding contract that had been given the south. the industrial canal rendered it possible. the firm of doullut & williams had been engaged for fifteen years or so in the civil engineering and contracting business in new orleans. captain m. p. doullut had built launches with his own hands when a young man, and dreamed of the time when he would have a yard capable of turning out ocean-going vessels. the doullut & williams shipbuilding company was organized april , , with the following officers: m. p. doullut, president; paul doullut, vice-president; w. horace williams, secretary-treasurer and general manager; l. h. guerin, chief engineer; and james p. ewin, assistant chief engineer. "i feel that new orleans is on the eve of a very remarkable development" said senator ransdell of louisiana in a telegram of congratulation, "and earnestly hope our people will continue to work together with energy and hearty accord until we have gone way over the top in shipbuilding and many other lines." the expression "over the top" had not become the pest that it and other war-time weeds of rhetoric have subsequently proven. that was a time when one could still refer to a "drive" without causing a gnashing of teeth. picking the site at the lake pontchartrain end of the canal, doullut & williams shipbuilding company began to erect its shipyard. the plant buildings were erected upon tall piling. as the dredges excavated the material from the cut, they deposited it on the site of the shipyard and raised the elevation several feet, so the buildings were only the usual height above the ground. both sides of the canal, it should be added, have been similarly raised by excavation material. it was planned that the ships from the doullut & williams yard should be sent out into the world through lake pontchartrain, which empties into the gulf of mexico. there was ample water in the lake, without dredging, to accommodate unloaded ships of this size. but the fact that ships or so feet long and drawing, when loaded to capacity, feet, were to be built at new orleans, emphasized the belief of those directing the work of the industrial canal that the plan on which they were working was too small. an -foot canal would not meet the growing needs of new orleans. accordingly the dock board instructed the engineering department to expand the plans. by june , , the plans had been revised to give a -foot channel. this would accommodate all but the largest ships that come to new orleans. the cost of such a lock and canal, george m. wells estimated, would be $ , , , or $ , , more than the estimate for the original canal. the levee board promptly raised its ante to $ , to guarantee the interest. when the dock board floated the first bond issue of $ , , in february, at , it reserved the option to issue another $ , , of bonds within thirty days, at the same rate. for $ , , of the new issue, the same syndicate of banks offered - / , or two and a half points higher than for the first; but for the other million, they held the board to the original rate of . president thompson reported to the dock board june that he considered these "very satisfactory terms." he added: "we were able to secure these better prices and conditions because the bond market is in a somewhat better condition now than it was when we made the original contract." the contract was accepted on that date, and application made to the capital issues committee for the necessary permission. this was given in due time, though there was considerable opposition. the opposition, said president thompson, at the dock board meeting of february , , reviewing the development of the canal plans, "was inspired by vicious and spectacular attacks of certain private interests hostile to the canal project and to the port of new orleans." railroads, whose right of way crossed the canal, were the principal propagandists. they realized that the dock board could not be required to build their bridges over the waterway, and although the thompson board financed the work at the time, they knew that sooner or later would come a day of reckoning. the hudson board has since then taken steps to collect several million dollars from these roads. but why build a canal almost large enough, only? why build a -foot lock when ships drawing -feet of water come to new orleans? a lock cannot be enlarged, once it is completed--and the tendency of the times is towards larger ships. why not make a capacity facility while they were about it? [illustration: lock site driving sheet piling] [illustration: lock site dredges entering] these were questions the dock board asked itself, and on june , , it decided to build the lock with a -foot depth over the sill at extreme low water, and make the canal feet wide at the top, and feet wide at the bottom. to do this, would cost about $ , , more, it was estimated by george m. wells of the goethals company--a sum which the dock board thought would be realized from the rental-revenues of doullut & williams and the foundation company, without increasing the second bond issue. this is the canal that was finally built--nearly per cent larger than the one that was begun and about per cent larger than the one originally planned, when the newspapers and forward-looking told the people that the lack of such a canal had cost new orleans millions of dollars in development. digging the ditch. no rock-problem was encountered in dredging the canal. the cost was below what the engineers estimated it would be--less than thirty cents a cubic yard. but a novel situation did develop; a condition that would have sent the cost sky-rocketing if an orleanian had not met the difficulty. louisiana is what geologists call a region of subsidence. the gulf of mexico formerly reached to where cairo, ill., now is. washings from the land, during the slow-moving centuries, pushed the shoreline ever outward; the humus of decaying vegetation raised the ground surface still higher. this section of louisiana, built by the silt of the mississippi, was of course the most recent formation. twenty thousand years ago, say the geologists, there were great forests where louisiana now is. among these mighty trees roamed the glyptodont; the -foot armadillo with a tail like the morning-star of the old crusaders, monstrously magnified; the giraffe camel; the titanothere; the columbian elephant, about the size of a trolley car and with -foot tusks; the giant sloth which could look into a second-story window; here the saber-toothed tiger fought with the megatherium; mighty rhinoceroses sloshed their clumsy way, and huge and grotesque birds filled the air with their flappings. as the subsoil packed more solidly, this wilderness in time sunk beneath the waters. the mississippi built up its sandbars again, storms shaped them above the waves, marsh grass raised the surface with its humus, and another forest grew. this, in turn, sunk. and so the process was repeated, time after time. at different depths below the surface of the ground the remains of these forests are found today, the wood perfectly preserved by the dampness. and through this tangled mass the dredges had to fight their way. it was a task too great for the ordinary type of or -inch suction dredge, even with the strength of , horses behind it. when they met these giant stumps and trunks they just stopped. a. b. wood, of the sewerage and water department, had already designed and patented a centrifugal pump impeller adapted to the handling of sewerage containing trash. learning of this, w. j. white, superintendent of dredging on the canal, asked him to design a special impeller, along similar lines, for the dredge texas. results from the invention were remarkable. during the thirty days immediately preceding the installation the dredge had suffered delays from clogged suction which totalled - / hours. during the thirty days immediately succeeding installation the total of delays for the same reason was cut down to - / hours. the average yardage was, for the earlier period, an hour, of actual excavation; and for the later period, an hour--an increase of almost per cent. the situation had been met. this was the period when the cost of labor and material began to jump. employers were bidding against each other for men, and the government's work practically fixed the price of supplies. george m. wells, consulting engineer, in his report of december , , to the dock board, summarized labor increases over the scale when the work was begun, as follows: unskilled labor, %; pile driver men, %; machinists, %; blacksmiths, %; foremen and monthly, to %--an average increase of %. materials had advanced, he went on to show, as follows: gravel, %; sand, %; cement, %; lumber (form), %; timber, %; piles, untreated, %; piles, treated, %. these increases, together with the expansion of the plans requiring a canal of maximum depth, instead of the pilot cut of fifteen feet, as originally planned; the insistence of the levee board that levees in the back areas must be raised to elevation ; development of unforeseen and unforeseeable quicksand conditions in the various excavations; requirements of railroads for bridges of greater capacity and strength than needed; building of a power line to the foundation company's plant--not a dock board job, but one that the conditions required it should finance then; and other expenses, besides delaying the work, made another bond issue necessary to finish the job. at its meeting of february , , president thompson laid the matter before the board. it decided to issue $ , , of bonds, for which the same syndicate of bankers that had taken the other two offered . liberty bonds were then selling at a big discount, and this seemed the best terms on which the money could be secured. this gave a total issue of $ , , to date, the interest on which amounted to $ , a year. the levee board raised its share of the "rental" to $ , , to guarantee the interest; the public belt railroad's $ , made the total complete. in the meantime ships were beginning to bulk large on the ways of the foundation and the doullut & williams yards. the foundation company launched its first, the gauchy--a , -ton non-sinkable steel ship, built for the french government--in september, ; and the doullut & williams company launched its first, the new orleans, a steel vessel of , tons, the largest turned out south of newport news, built for the shipping board, in january, . these were followed by four sister vessels from the foundation yard and seven from the doullut & williams plant. the former went to sea through bayou bienvenu and the latter through lake pontchartrain. the doullut & williams yard is a large one. originally planning a mere assembling yard, the foundation company had subsequently developed the greatest steel fabricating plant in the south--so confident it was that new orleans would carry through the project. and, too, the new orleans army supply base that uncle sam was building on the river end of the industrial canal was rapidly rising--the facility that was to double the port storage capacity of new orleans when it was finally completed in june, . the canal is - / miles long. between river and lock the canal prism will be feet wide at the bottom and feet at the top; between the lock and the lake, feet wide at the bottom and feet wide at the top. it is an excavation job of , , cubic yards. five hundred thousand flat cars would be required to carry that dirt--a train more than , miles long. by september, , the canal had been entirely dredged, except for the , -foot channel between the lock and river, which must be left until the last, to a width of about feet and a depth of feet. since then, the labor has been concentrated upon the lock. but twenty-six feet will float a vessel carrying , bales of cotton. full dimensions, however, will be developed, and the canal, with a system of laterals and basins such as are found in europe, will be an inner harbor capable of indefinite expansion. overwhelming endorsement by new orleans. when the canal was about half finished it received the most tremendous endorsement by every interest of new orleans in its history. the question was put squarely before the people: "do you think it is a good thing, and you are willing to be taxed to put it across, and, if so, how much?" and the answer came without hesitation: "it is absolutely necessary to the industrial progress of the city. we must have the canal at all costs, and are willing to be taxed any amount for it." on september , , george m. wells, consulting engineer, made a report to the dock board, showing that the last bond issue of $ , , had been exhausted, and about $ , , more was needed to finish the canal. this was in the last days of the thompson board, and it took no action. the hudson board entered upon its duties october . it comprised william o. hudson, president; william a. kernaghan, rené f. clerc, albert mackie, thomas h. roberts. later, mr. roberts resigned and hugh mccloskey took his place. all are sound business men, with the interests of the port at heart. they found, in the bank, only $ , , . to the industrial canal account. after deducting the obligations already made there was left only $ , . to continue the work. without a public expression from new orleans they were unwilling to incur the responsibility of issuing $ , , more bonds. president hudson called a series of meetings of the representative interests of the city to decide what was to be done. as the people of new orleans had decided to begin the canal in the first place, it was only right that they should determine whether the undertaking, costing five times as much as the original plan, should be carried through. the governor, the mayor, presidents of banks, committees of commercial exchanges, the president of the public belt railroad, the president of the levee board, newspaper publishers, labor leaders and prominent business men were invited. likewise, a general call was made to the community at large to express an opinion as to finishing the canal. at the meeting of october the city made its answer. president hudson outlined the attitude of the dock board as follows: "the board has no feeling of prejudice against the completion of the canal. we are in favor of it. we are anxious to complete it. it was fostered by the citizens of new orleans. "the floating of the bond issue is a simple matter, if you men think we ought to do it; but where is the money for meeting the interest to come from? the $ , interest on bonds now outstanding is being paid, $ , by the levee board, and $ , by the public belt railroad. the public belt's share is paid from its earnings; but the levee board's share is being paid by direct taxation on the citizens of new orleans. must we increase that tax? i personally won't object to any taxation as a citizen to pay my part towards financing the canal." "i want to see the canal completed," said governor pleasant. "but it is up to the people of new orleans to say whether they are willing to assume the added obligation." r. s. hecht, president of the hibernia bank, and a recognized financial leader in new orleans, then arose. "i feel," he said, "that all who have the future of new orleans at heart must agree that we are here to discuss not whether the canal is to be finished, but how. "finished it must be, or our commercial future will be doomed for many years. if the dock board were to stop the work, it would forever kill its credit for any other bond issue that might be proposed for wharf development, new warehouses, or anything else. "the cost of the canal is a surprise to everybody. i was present when the cost was originally estimated at $ , , with a leeway of $ , , . i said then, and i repeat now, that the canal could be financed if the people of new orleans stood squarely behind it. "the cotton warehouse and the grain elevator cost a great deal more than the original estimates. so the industrial canal, though it is costing more than anticipated, because of the increased cost of material and labor and the increased size in the canal, will, i feel sure, be justified by the development of the future. "are we to be taxed for fifty years for our investment of $ , , and get no return, or are we willing to pay a little bit more and get something worth while?" that expressed the sentiment of the meeting. [illustration: building the lock] "the people of new orleans," said hugh mccloskey, financier and dean of all dock board presidents, "have never failed to meet a crisis. it is the duty of the dock board to finish the canal, no matter what the doubting thomases may say." similar expressions were made by thomas killeen, president of the levee board; thomas cunningham, of the public belt railroad; d. d. moore, editor of the times-picayune; james m. thompson, publisher of the item; b. c. casanas, president of the association of commerce; l. m. pool, president of the marine bank; j. e. bouden, president of the whitney-central bank; bernard mccloskey, attorney; frank b. hayne, of the cotton exchange; jefferson d. hardin, of the board of trade; william v. seeber, representative of the ninth ward; marshall ballard, editor of the item. others present, assenting by their silence, included john f. clark, president, and e. s. butler, member of the cotton exchange; w. horace williams, of doullut & williams shipbuilding company; e. m. stafford, state senator; c. g. rives of the interstate bank; s. t. demilt, president of the new orleans steamship association; r. w. dietrich of the bienville warehouse corporation; edgar b. stern, milton boylan, w. h. byrnes, j. c. hamilton, and about thirty other representative business and professional men. mayor behrman, john t. banville, president of the brewery workers' union, and george w. moore, president of the building trades council, at a subsequent meeting, gave their endorsement. with only one dissenting voice, these meetings were unanimous that the industrial canal must be completed at all costs; that without it, the growth of the city would be seriously interrupted. the one protest was by the southern realty and securities company. it was made october against the levee board's underwriting the interest on the new bond issue. on that date the levee board unanimously voted to guarantee these interest charges, amounting to $ , a year. this brings the total being paid by that body out of direct taxation to $ , . a year. the other $ , is paid by the public belt railroad. to provide a leeway against the engineer's estimates, the dock board made provision for a bond issue of $ , , , but actually issued only $ , , worth. this was taken by the same syndicate of bankers that had taken the previous issues, but this time they paid par. that was a point on which president hudson had insisted. the contract was accepted december , . and the work went on, with every effort concentrated on economical construction. siphon and bridges. as an incident in the work of building the industrial canal, it was necessary to create a disappearing river. this is the famous siphon--the quadruple passage of concrete that will carry the city's drainage underneath the shipway. it is one of the largest structures of its kind in the country. a word about new orleans' drainage problem. the city is the bowl of a dish, of which the levees against river and lake are the rim. there is no natural drainage. the rainfall is nearly five feet a year, concentrated at times, upon the thousand miles of streets, into cloudbursts of four inches an hour and ten inches in a day. in the boyhood of men now in their early thirties it was a regular thing for the city to be flooded after a heavy rain. to meet the situation, new orleans has constructed the greatest drainage system in the world. there are six pumping stations on the east side of the river, connected with each other by canals, and with a discharge capacity of more than , cubic feet a second. the seven billion gallons of water that these pumps can move a day would fill a lake one mile square and thirty-five feet deep. three of the canals empty into lake pontchartrain, the fourth, the florida walk canal, into bayou bienvenu, which leads into lake borgne, an arm of pontchartrain. because of this drainage contamination, the lake shore front of new orleans has been held back in its development. yet it is an ideal site for a suburb--on a beautiful body of water, and just half a dozen miles from the business district. so the sewerage and water board has been planning ultimately to turn the city's entire drainage into bayou bienvenu, a stream with swamps on both sides, running into a lake surrounded by marsh. the industrial canal crosses the florida walk drainage canal. this made it necessary to build the inverted siphon. a siphon, in the ordinary sense, is a bent tube, one section of which is longer than the other, through which a liquid flows by its own weight over an elevation to a lower level. but siphon here is an engineering term to describe a channel that goes under an obstruction--the canal--and returns the water to its former level. like the famous rivers that drop into the earth and appear again miles further on, the florida drainage canal approaches to within a hundred or so feet of the industrial canal, then dives forty feet underground, passes beneath the shipway, and comes to the surface on the other side, in front of the pumping station, which lifts it into bayou bienvenu. at first it was planned to build a comparatively small siphon, but while the plans were being drawn, new orleans entered upon its tremendous development. the engineers threw away their blueprints and began over again. they designed one that is capable of handling the entire drainage of the city. and in april, , it was finished--a work of steel and concrete and machinery, costing nearly three-quarters of a million dollars, and with a capacity of , cubic feet of water a second, , , an hour, , , a day. it was a work that presented many difficulties. first the florida walk canal had to be closed by two cofferdams. the space between was pumped out, the excavation was made, and the driving of foundation piling begun. quicksands gave much trouble. they flowed into the cut, until they were stopped with sheet piling. the piles were from to feet in length and from three to five feet apart on centers. forty-six feet below the ground surface (- cairo datum) was laid the concrete floor of the siphon. the siphon is divided into four compartments. there are two storm chambers, measuring by feet each, one normal weather chamber measuring by feet, and one public utilities duct, measuring by feet. these are inside dimensions. the floor of the siphon is two feet thick; the roof, one foot nine inches. the whole structure is a solid piece of concrete and capable of standing a pressure of more than , pounds to the square foot. its total length is feet; the shipway passing over it is feet wide and feet deep. in the public utilities duct are carried the city's water pipes, cables, telephone and telegraph wires, and gas mains. the storm chambers will handle the rainfall of cloudbursts. in ordinary weather the water will be concentrated through the smaller chamber, in order to produce a strong flow and reduce the settlement of sediment to a minimum. eight sluice gates, each by feet, open or close the water chambers. they are operated by hydraulic cylinders of the most approved type. for sending workmen inside the siphon to make repairs or clearing away an obstruction there are eight manholes. four measure by feet, two by feet, and two by feet. as soon as the florida walk canal can be deepened and a few link-ups in the drainage system can be made, the entire drainage of new orleans, in normal weather and during light storms, will, according to announcement by the sewerage and water board, be sent through this outlet. during the occasional cloudbursts it will be necessary to send some of the drainage into the lake, but this will be rapidly flowing water and will sweep offshore. it means a great deal to the suburban development of the city. a year and a half the siphon was in the making. preparations for the structure cost more than $ , --excavation foundation, etc. the concrete alone cost $ , . machinery and the work of housing and installing it cost $ , more. four bascule steel bridges now cross the industrial canal. they are the largest in the city. three of them--at florida walk, for the southern and public belt railways; gentilly, for the louisville & nashville; and on the lake front, for the southern, weigh , , pounds each--superstructure only. the fourth--at the lock--weighs , , pounds. they are balanced by -ton concrete blocks and concrete adjustment blocks. their extreme length is feet; the moving leaf has a span of feet. with a -foot right of way for railroad tracks, feet for vehicles and trolley cars and four feet for pedestrians, they are designed to meet traffic conditions of a great and growing city. they will support -ton street cars or -ton road rollers--new orleans has nothing as heavy as that now--and trains a great deal heavier than are now coming to the city. no bridge in the south will support as heavy loads. the tensile strength of the steel of which the bridges are constructed is from , to , pounds to the square inch, and they will bear a wind load of pounds to the square inch of exposed surface. they are operated by two -horse power electric motors, volts, -cycle, -phase current, which is stepped down from , volts by means of transformers. in addition, there is a -horse power gasoline engine, to be used if the electrical equipment is out of order. to open or close the bridges will require a minute and a half. the remarkable lock. not only is the lock of the industrial canal one of the largest in the united states, but its construction solved a soil problem that was thought impossible. that of the panama canal is simple in comparison. the design is unique in many respects. the lock is a monument to the power of man over the forces of nature, and to the progress of a community that will not say die. because of the great variation in the level of the river at low and high water--a matter of twenty feet--it was necessary to make the excavation, for building the lock, about fifty feet deep. in solid soil this would be a simple matter. but this ground has been made by the gradual deposit of mississippi river silt upon what was originally the sandy bed of the ocean, and through these deposits run strata of water-bearing sand, or quicksand. this flows into a cut and causes the banks to cave and slide into the excavation. underneath there is a pressure of marsh gas, which, with the pressure of the collapsing banks, squeezes the deeper layers of quicksand upwards, creating boils and blowing up the bottom. new orleans has had plenty of experiences with these flowing sands in its shallow sewerage excavations. how, then, expect to make an excavation fifty feet deep? asked the doubting thomases. it couldn't be done. the quicksands would flow in too fast. the dredges would drain the surrounding subsoil, but that wouldn't get beyond a certain depth. furthermore, what assurance was there that the soil that far down would supply sufficient friction to hold the piles necessary to sustain the enormous weight of the lock and the ships passing through it? undaunted by these croakings, the engineers, from test borings, calculated the sliding and flowing character of the soil, and estimated the various pressures that would have to be counteracted, balanced this with the holding power of pine and steel and concrete, evolved a plan, and began an excavation of a hole feet wide by , feet long, gradually sloping the cut ( to ratio) to a center where the lock, , by feet, outside dimensions, was to be built. [illustration: inner harbor--navigation canal lock and vicinity] the gentle slope of the cut was to prevent slides. it had been ascertained that the first stratum of quicksand began twenty-eight feet below the ground surface (- cairo datum) and was three feet thick; the second stratum, forty-eight feet below the surface (- cairo datum) and ten feet thick. coarser sand extended eleven feet below this, from - cairo datum. the second stratum of flowing sand began just below where the lock floor had to be laid. the third layer was feet below the surface (- cairo datum); the tips of the piling would just miss it. excavation began in november, . while the dredges were at work a wooden sheet piling cofferdam was driven completely around the lock, and about feet from the edge of the bank, to cut off the first quicksand stratum. about feet further in, when the excavation was well advanced, a second ring of sheet piling was driven, to cut off the second stratum, which carried a static pressure of feet and was just a foot or so below where the floor of the lock would be. it was not thought necessary to cut off the third stratum. the excavation was made in the wet. when it was finished the dredges moved back into the canal, the entrance closed, and the work of unwatering the lock site began. this was in april, . there had never been such a deep cut made in this section. consequently, the character of the soil, while it could be estimated, could not be known absolutely. and the exact pressure of the gas could not be known. the sands proved to be more liquid and the gas pressure stronger than anticipated. quicksands ran through the sheet piling as through a sieve. the walls of the excavation began to slough and cave. the gas pressure became alarming when the weight of earth and water was taken off; sand boils began to develop at the bottom; the floor of the cut was blowing up. the fate of the industrial canal hung in the scale. to meet the situation the engineers pumped a great volume of water into the excavation. its weight counterbalanced the earth pressure of the side and the gas pressure of the bottom. then another ring of sheet piling was driven inside the other two. this one was of steel, and the walls were braced apart by wooden beams ten inches square and fifteen feet apart in both directions. this is one of the largest cofferdams of steel ever driven. as an added precaution against the danger of a blowout by the third stratum of quicksand, which had a static head of feet, ten-inch artesian wells were driven inside the steel cofferdam. fifty-six similar wells were driven between the steel and the wooden cofferdams to dry out the second stratum of quicksand, as much as possible, and lessen its flowing character. in november, , the work of unwatering the lock site again began. only one foot every other day was taken off. engineers watched every timber. it was not until january , , that the unwatering was complete. the plan had worked. only in one place had there been any movement--a section of the wooden sheet piling about feet long bulged forward a maximum distance of three inches, when the bracing caught and stopped it. then began the work of driving the , piles on which the lock was to be floated. they are feet long and their tips are feet below the surface of the ground. in march, , the work of laying the concrete began. the work was done in -foot sections, for only a few of the braces could be moved at one time. when it was finished in april, , the lock was in one piece, a solid mass of steel and stone, , feet long, feet wide, and feet high, weighing, with its gates and machinery, , tons, and filled with water, , tons. the concrete floor of the lock is to feet thick, the walls feet wide at the bottom, decreasing to a two foot width at the top. six thousand tons of reinforcing steel were used in the construction, and , barrels of cement. there are , cubic yards of concrete in the structure. two and a half million feet of lumber were used in building the forms. usable dimensions of the lock are feet long, feet wide, and feet (at minimum low water of the river) deep. the top of the lock is feet above the natural ground surface and feet above the highest stage of the mississippi river on record. to the top the ground will be sloped on a -foot series of terraces. this will brace the walls against the pressure of water within the monolith. it will be developed to a beautiful park. heavy anchor-columns of concrete will hold the walls against the pressure of these artificial hills when the lock is empty. traffic crosses the canal here by a steel bascule bridge feet wide, with two railroad and two street car tracks, two vehicle roadways, and two ways for pedestrians. concrete viaducts lead to the bridge. gas and water mains, sewer pipes and telephone, telegraph and electric wires pass under the lock in conduits cast in the living concrete. water is admitted into and drained from the lock by culverts cast in the base. these are by feet, narrowing at the opening to by feet, and closed by sluice gates, each operated by a -horsepower electric motor. it will be possible to fill or empty the lock in ten minutes. there are five sets of gates to the lock. they are built of steel plates and rolled shapes, four and a half feet thick and weighing tons each. and there is an emergency dam weighing tons, which in case of necessity can be used as a gate. four pairs of the gates are of -foot size; one of -foot. each gate is operated by a -horsepower electric motor. when open, the gates fit flush into the walls of the locks. in the emergency dam is the refinement of precaution--designed as it was to save the city from overflow in the remote event of the lock gates failing to work during high water, and to insure the uninterrupted operation of the lock in normal times, if the gates should be sprung by a ship, or otherwise put out of commission. this dam consists of eight girders or sections, feet long, feet wide and feet high. they weigh tons each. they are kept on a platform near the river end of the lock. nearby is the crane with a -horsepower motor, that picks up these girders and drops them into the slots in the walls of the lock. to set this emergency dam is the work of an hour. a ship passing through the lock will not proceed under her own power. there are six capstans, two at each end of the lock and two at the middle, each operated by a -horsepower electric motor, and capable of developing a pull of , pounds, which will work the vessels through. the lock complete, counting the bridge and approaches, cost $ , , . one and a half million of this is for machinery, and $ , for the approaches. henry goldmark, the new york engineer who designed the gates of the panama canal and the new orleans industrial canal, in a letter of march , , to the engineering department of the dock board, comments as follows on the remarkable lock: "i was much impressed by the uniformly high grade of construction of the lock, the systematic and energetic way in which the work was being carried on, and especially by the admirable spirit of team work, shown by the employees of the dock board, of different grades, as well as the contractors, superintendents and foremen. "the desire to get the best possible results in all the details, at the least cost, was manifest throughout. "the unique method used for carrying on the very difficult and risky work of excavation has attracted much professional attention in all parts of the country. its successful completion is very creditable to all concerned, in the inception and carrying out of the method used. "the concrete work gives the impression of lightness, as well as strength, as though every yard of concrete was doing its special share of the work without overstraining, which is, of course, the characteristic of well-designed reinforced masonry. "the outer surfaces are particularly smooth and well finished, more so than in any work i have recently seen. "the erection of the gates, valves, operating machinery and the protective dam, has kept up closely with the concrete work, so that no delays need be apprehended at the close of the construction period. "the shop and field work in the lock gates is excellent. the rivet holes match well and the rivet heads appear to be tight and well formed. the gate leaves seem very straight and true." the lock was designed by george m. wells of the george w. goethals company, assisted by r. o. comer, designing engineer of the dock board, and approved by general goethals. the methods employed to unwater the lock were devised by mr. wells. j. devereux o'reilly, chief engineer of the dock board, to november, , had charge of the details of installing the unwatering and safety devices. he was succeeded by general arséne perrilliat, who supervised the final unwatering process. upon his death in october, , he was succeeded by j. f. coleman & company, in charge of the engineering department, and h. m. gallagher, chief engineer, under whom work is being brought to a conclusion. from first to last, tiley s. mcchesney, assistant secretary and treasurer of the dock board, rendered intelligent and invaluable service, gathering together and holding the threads of the enterprise, and attending promptly to the multitude of details connected with the prosecution of the work. the lock was formally dedicated may , --a ceremony that was the feature of the mississippi valley association's convention in new orleans. with the dredging of the channel between the river and the lock, a work that should be finished before january, , ships will be able to pass from the mississippi into lake pontchartrain. then new orleans can plan its next great development. [illustration: cross section of lock] [illustration: cross section of siphon] new channel to the gulf. george m. wells, george r. goethals, son of the general, colonel e. j. dent, u.s. district engineer at new orleans, and other engineers who have studied the problem, say that the dredging of a channel from the industrial canal to the gulf through lake pontchartrain, or the marshes, is feasible, comparatively cheap, and maintenance would be simple. this would shorten the distance from new orleans to the sea by about miles, and would be a vast saving for ships. it is one of the objects towards which the hudson dock board is working. it is uncle sam's recognized duty to develop and maintain harbors and channels to the sea. distance is obviously an important factor; furthermore, the proposed new outlet would be an important link in the intracoastal canal, connecting with the warrior river section of alabama, which the government is developing between the atlantic and gulf coasts. a bill was introduced in the senate in by senator ransdell of louisiana, providing for the development of the proposed channel; it was not pressed because the canal was far from completed. however, every effort will be made by the dock board from now on to have uncle sam take hold. colonel dent has for a number of months been studying the feasible routes. he, by the way, is thoroughly convinced of the value of the industrial canal to the development of new orleans, and the commerce of the nation, and has so expressed himself in public. the pontchartrain route has been laid off, by engineers, beginning at the canal, paralleling the south shore of the lake pontchartrain to the south draw of the southern railway bridge, thence to the rigolets to cat island pass, from there to cat island channel and so to the deep water of the gulf, a total distance of miles. soundings and surface probings have been taken at frequent intervals over the entire route. these have shown the engineers the following: three-quarters of a mile from the south shore of the lake, and as far as the railroad drawbridge, a hard bottom is found. the material is principally packed sand, rather fine, with a small amount of clay, and occasionally some broken shells. beyond this distance from the shore, the bottom is softer, consisting of mud mixed with sand. from the bridge over the remainder of the route, the bottom, with the exception of a few sand pockets, is soft--a blue mud with a large percentage of sand. this soft material has so much tenacity, however, that current and wave wash, which tend to fill up artificially dredged channels, would affect only the surface. the government is conducting large dredging operations in mobile bay, gulfport channel, atchafalaya bay and the houston ship channel. an outline of the results there will show how feasible the dredging of the pontchartrain channel would be, and how much cheaper in comparison. the channel connecting mobile bay with the gulf of mexico has a bottom very soft for the most part, and with a small percentage of sand. towards the outer end, the material is black mud, about equal in consistency to the softest material found in the pontchartrain route. a sounding pole with a -inch disc on the end can be easily pushed three or four feet into the mud and pulled out again. wave and current action cause the channel to shoal at the rate of , to , cubic yards per mile per year, depending on the softness of the bottom and the depth. where the highest rate obtains, the surrounding material consists of soft mud, without a trace of sand. experience shows that where there is a fair percentage of sand in the material adjacent to the channel bed, the shoaling is lessened. in general, the material along the pontchartrain route contains a greater percentage of sand and is far more tenacious than that along the mobile bay channel. furthermore, the pontchartrain route is not exposed to such strong cross currents. the gulfport channel is dredged through very soft material, a grayish-blue mud of oozy consistency, into which the sounding pole penetrates six feet with very little exertion. on top, a small amount of sand is found, but practically none in the lower stratum. the material is considerably softer than any encountered on the pontchartrain route, except for one small stretch. yet the shoaling is not great. where the shoaling is heaviest, between the end of the pier and beacon , only about , cubic yards a mile has to be dredged out every year to maintain the channel. from beacon out, the average annual maintenance is less than , cubic yards a mile. except for the four-mile stretch west of the inner entrance to the cat island channel, the bottom, on the pontchartrain route, is harder than that of the gulfport channel. therefore, it is reasonable to conclude that the maintenance of the pontchartrain channel would not average as high as the outer portion of the gulfport channel. the atchafalaya bay ship channel, extending from the mouth of the atchafalaya river across the shoal waters of atchafalaya bay, to about the -foot contour of the gulf, a distance of fifteen miles, is through a material of slushy mud, with occasional thin pockets of sand. the shoaling runs from , to , , cubic yards a mile a year. the highest rate is obtained in shallow water. except in the stretch mentioned, the material on the pontchartrain route is not as soft as on the atchafalaya, nor are the depths as shoal, nor is there the exposure to cross currents. in the houston ship channel, the material is composed of soft mud with a small amount of sand. a two-mile stretch through red fish reef is practically self-maintaining. for the remainder of the channel, during the six years from to , a total excavation of , , cubic yards was necessary to maintain the depth. this is equivalent to , cubic yards a mile a year. in summary, then: . the lake pontchartrain route is practically unexposed to cross currents, as is the case with the mobile bay, gulfport, atchafalaya, and, to a certain extent, the outer portion of the houston ship channels. . the material along and on the sides of the pontchartrain route is, with the exception of a small stretch, more tenacious, and contains, in general, a greater proportion of sand than in the case of the neighboring channels mentioned. the channel could therefore be more easily maintained. engineers estimate that a channel with a -foot bottom would be needed. on the south shore of the lake, the side slopes should be on the to ratio, with provision for a to ratio at the end of five years. dumped on shore, the material would reclaim considerable frontage, and eliminate the re-deposit of this material in the channel. through the remainder of the route, the original excavation should be made with side slopes on the to ratio, with provision made for a to ratio in five years. the dredging of the miles of the pontchartrain channel would amount to , , cubic yards, it is estimated by engineers. the cost would be around $ , , . the annual maintenance, during the first five years, would amount to , , cubic yards--an estimate based on a comparison with the other channels into the gulf, and the character of the material to be excavated. this estimate is considered large--but even at that, it is only , cubic yards a mile a year, and the cost would be about $ , , according to colonel dent. after five years, it would be less. another proposed route, investigated by colonel dent, is through lake borgne. a canal some miles in length, through the marsh, would connect the lake with the industrial canal. this route has considerable maintenance advantages over the pontchartrain route. the character of the bottom in borgne is more or less the same as in pontchartrain. sooner or later, one of these channels will be built by the government. that it has not already been begun is due to the fact that the canal has not yet been completed, and the expected development has not taken place. but there is no doubt that it will. [illustration: typical bridge on canal] [illustration: emergency dam crane] why government should operate canal. it is the function of the state to provide port facilities in the form of docks, piers, warehouses, grain elevators, mechanical equipment, etc. but it is the duty of the national government to improve harbors, dredge streams, dig canals for navigation and irrigation, erect levees to protect the back country, and build locks and dams when needed. these are the premises from which the hudson dock board reasons that the cost of construction and maintenance of the new orleans navigation canal and inner harbor should be assumed by uncle sam. it will leave no stone unturned to have him assume the obligation. the navigation canal is essentially a harbor improvement. it enables practically unlimited industrial development and commercial interchange. it is an important link in the intracoastal canal system which the government is developing to provide an inland waterway from boston, mass. to brownsville, tex., and, with the dredging of a channel through lake pontchartrain to the gulf, a problem which u.s. engineers have been studying for some time and an undertaking which they have found feasible, it will put the nation's second port about fifty miles closer to the sea. it has considerable military value. its purpose is, therefore, national; the local interests are secondary. it is no new principle, this obligation of the government. that duty has been recognized by congress since the united states was. any rivers and harbors bill will show great and useful expenditure for waterways improvement. the panama canal, built by the government, is the greatest example. coming closer home, there is south pass at the mouth of the mississippi. a bar, with a nine-foot depth of water, blocked the commerce of new orleans. under the rivers and harbors act of , captain james b. eads was paid $ , , for building the famous jetties to provide a -foot channel. since then, the channel has been deepened to feet. in more recent years, the government began to improve southwest pass, the westernmost mouth of the mississippi. a nine-foot bar was there, too. to increase the depth to feet, the government spent, up to , about $ , , , and is still spending. "just as the purpose of the improvements of these channels was to bridge the distance from deep water to deep water" says arthur mcguirk, special counsel of the dock board, in a report of february , , to the board, "so is the purpose of the navigation canal to bridge the distance from the deep water of the river to the proposed deep water channel of the lake." in the annual report of the chief of engineers, u.s.a., for the fiscal year ending june , , are listed the following waterways improvements and canal developments being made by the government: "operating and care of canals, $ , , . . "cape cod canal, purchase authorized, river and harbors act, august , , cost not exceeding $ , , , and enlargement $ , , . "jamaica bay channel, feet width, feet depth, to be further increased to , feet width entrance channel and , feet interior channel, maximum depth of feet, length of channel miles. approved estimate of cost to united states not to exceed $ , , . river and harbors act of june , . house document no. , th congress. "ambrose channel, new york harbor, appropriation new work and maintenance, $ , , . , year ending june , . "bay ridge and red hook channels, $ , , . "locks and dams on coosa river, alabama-georgia, $ , , . . "channel connecting mobile bay and mississippi sound, act of june , , original project, for construction and maintenance total cost $ , , . . "black warrior river, locks, mobile to sanders' ferry, miles. total to date, $ , , . . indefinite appropriation. "sabine pass, act of june , and prior, channels, turning basins and jetties, march , , and previously, total appropriations, $ , , . . "trinity river, galveston, north, miles locks and dams. act of june , , house document , th congress. estimate cost complete canalization of river, revised , in addition to amounts expended prior to rivers and harbors act of july, , in round numbers $ , , . estimated annual cost of maintenance, $ , . "houston to galveston ship canal, act of july , , and july , . cost, $ , , . annual maintenance, $ , . "rock island rapids (ill.) and leclaire canal, rock excavations, etc., act of march , , dams, locks, etc., to june , $ , , . and $ , . for year maintenance. "keokuk, iowa (formerly des moines rapids canal), old project (act of june , ), $ , , . . "muscle shoals canal (tennessee river), . miles, depth feet, $ , , . . exclusive of cost of nitrate plant. "locks and dams on ohio river, act of march , , to act of march , , including purchase of louisville and portland canal, $ , , . . "estimated cost of new work, widening louisville and portland canal and changes in dams, $ , , . annual maintenance covering only lock forces and cost of repairs and renewals, $ , . act of june , , house document , th congress, first session. also act of march , , house document , th congress, second session. "ship channel connecting waters of great lakes, including st. mary's river (sault sainte marie locks), st. clair and detroit rivers, locks and dams, total appropriations to june , , $ , , . . estimate new work, $ , . "st. clair river, connecting lakes st. clair and erie, shoalest part was - / to feet. improved at expense of $ , , . . estimated cost of completion, $ , , . "niagara river, $ , , . . "los angeles and long beach harbor, $ , , . . "seattle, lake washington ship canal, in city of seattle, from puget sound to lake; original project, act of august , . double lock and fixed dam. length about miles. total appropriation to date, $ , , . ." these are only some of the larger projects. of course there are a great number of such works, all over the country, constructed and maintained by the united states, sometimes alone, and again by co-operation with local authorities. new orleans was founded because of the strategic value of the location, both from a commercial and a military standpoint. the power that holds new orleans commands the mississippi valley--a fact which the british recognized in when they tried to capture it. likewise, when farragut captured new orleans, he broke the backbone of the confederacy. mr. mcguirk, in the report to which reference has already been made, discusses the military importance of the industrial canal as follows: "a ship canal, connecting the river and the lake at new orleans will be a panama or a kiel canal, in miniature, and double in effectiveness the naval forces defending the valley, as they may be moved to and fro in the canal from the river to the lake. on this line of defense heavy artillery on mobile mounts can be utilized, in addition to heavy ships of the line. that is to say, just as light-draft monitors, and even floats carrying high-powered rifles were used effectively on the belgian coast; on the piave river in italy, and on the tigris in mesopotamia, so may they be used in the defense of the valley, on any canal connecting the mississippi river and lake pontchartrain. changes are constantly occurring in the details of work of defense due to development of armament, munitions and transport. the never-ending development of range and caliber has assumed vast importance, particularly with reference to the effect on the protection of cities from bombardment. naval guns are now capable of hurling projectiles to distances of over , yards, to miles. for the protection of the valley we should have at new orleans armament mounted on floating platforms which will hold the enemy beyond the point where his shells may not reach their objective, and in this operation the canal, affording means of rapid transport, will render invaluable and essential service." a country's ports are its watergates. their local importance is comparatively small. they are important or not according to whether they are on trade routes, and easily accessible. an infinitesimal part of the trade that flows through new orleans originates or terminates there. the back country gets the bulk of the business. the development of the harbor is for the service of the interior. it is essentially national. from every point of view, therefore, it is the duty of the national government to take over the navigation canal and release the monies of the state so they may be devoted to the improvement of the waterway with wharves and other works in aid of the nation's commerce. [illustration: s. s. new orleans first ship launched by doullut & williams shipbuilding co.] [illustration: s. s. gauchy first ship launched on canal] economic aspect of canal. tied to the mississippi valley by nearly , miles of navigable waterways, and the largest port on the gulf coast and the most centrally situated with respect to the latin-american and oriental trade, new orleans is naturally a market of deposit. the development of the river service, in which the government set the pace in , is restoring the north and south flow of commerce, after a generation of forced haul east and west, along the lines of greatest resistance; and new orleans has become the nation's second port. its import and export business in amounted to a billion dollars. ninety per cent of the nation's wealth is produced in the valley, of which new orleans is the maritime capital. it is the source of supply of wheat, corn, sugar, lumber, meat, iron, coal, cotton oil, agricultural implements, and many other products. it is a market for the products of latin-america and the orient. with the co-ordination of river, rail and maritime facilities, and sufficient space for development, it is inevitable that new orleans should become a mighty manufacturing district. such enterprises as coke ovens, coal by-product plants, flour mills, iron furnaces, industrial chemical works, iron and steel rolling mills, shipbuilding and repair plants, automobile factories and assembling plants, soap works, packing plants, lumber yards, building material plants and yards, warehouses of all kinds, etc., would be encouraged to establish here if given the proper facilities, and the industrial canal is the answer to this need, for under the laws of louisiana private industries can not acquire or lease property on the river front. even before the completion of the canal, the dream has been partly realized--with the establishment of two large shipyards on the canal, which otherwise would have gone somewhere else, and the building of the army supply base on the same waterway, largely due to the enterprise of the port. as colonel e. j. dent, u.s. district engineer, said before the members' council of the association of commerce, february , , the industrial canal will be the means of removing the handicaps on new orleans' foreign trade. "i hold no brief for the industrial canal," he continued, "but speaking as one who has no interest in it but who has studied the question deeply, i will say that five years from now, if you develop the industrial canal as it should be developed, you will be wondering how on earth you ever got along without it." before the constitutional convention of louisiana, on april , , he elaborated this thought as follows: "the industrial canal will furnish to new orleans her greatest need. it should be possible to build docks there where the entire cargo for a ship may be assembled. under present conditions in the river it is often necessary for a ship to go to three or four docks to get a complete cargo. "last year there passed through the port of new orleans , , tons of freight valued at $ , , , . this required , loaded freight cars a day passing over the docks, fifteen solid trainloads of freight each day. the inbound freight was about , , tons and the outbound about , , . this is extraordinarily well balanced for any port in the united states. this would mean about , steamers of an average capacity of , tons. "the proper place to assemble a cargo is on the docks. last year the dock board allowed but seven days for assembling the cargo for a ship--only seven days for assembling carloads of stuff. then last year the dock board would not assign a ship a berth until it was within the jetties. these are some of the difficulties. "what new orleans needs is to per cent more facilities for her port. last summer the port of new orleans was congested, but she held her own because other ports were congested. but that may not occur again. if you want to hold your own you must improve your facilities." wharves can be built a great deal cheaper on the fixed-level canal, with its stable banks. and that is the only place specialized industries can secure water frontage. sooner or later the government will adopt the free port system, by which other countries have pushed their foreign trade to such heights. free ports have nothing to do with the tariff question. they are simply zones established in which imports may be stored, re-packed, manufactured and then exported without the payment of duties in the first place, duties for the refund of which the present law makes provision, but only after vexatious delays and expensive red tape. precautions are taken to prevent smuggling. in the preliminary investigations and recommendations made by the department of commerce, new york, san francisco and new orleans have been designated as the first free ports that should be established. with the ample space it offers for expansion, the industrial canal is the logical location for the free zone. counting the $ , , contract of the doullut & williams shipyard, the $ , , contract of the foundation company shipyard, the $ , , army supply base, the industrial canal has already brought $ , , of development to new orleans, per cent more than the cost of the undertaking. more than half of this was for wages and material purchased in new orleans. the state has gained hundreds of thousands of dollars in taxes. about half the money spent on the industrial canal was wages; and helped to increase the population, force business to a new height, raise the value of real estate, and make new orleans the financial stronghold of the south. what indirect bearing on bringing scores of other industries to new orleans, which did not require a location on the waterway, the building of the industrial canal has had, there is no way of ascertaining. since the work was begun the dock board has received inquiries from a hundred or so large enterprises regarding the cost of a site on the canal. that they have not established there is due to the fact that the canal has not yet been completed, and the dock board has announced no policy. it is now working on that question with representatives of the association of commerce, joint traffic bureau, clearing house association, cotton exchange, board of trade, and steamship association. there is no use trying to guess at what the policy will be. it is too big a problem, and must be worked out very carefully, with reference to a confusing tangle of cross-interests. two principles have already been categorically laid down by president hudson and endorsed by the dock board at an open meeting of april , , with the commercial and industrial interests of the city, planning for the policy of the canal: first, that the development of the canal shall not be at the expense of the river. wharf development will be pushed on the river to meet the legitimate commercial demands of the port. no one is to be forced on the canal. that would hurt the port. it is not thought that such forced development would be necessary, and the canal will be kept open for the specialized industries that can best use the co-ordination of the river, rail and maritime facilities. second, that the control of the property along the canal, owned by the dock board, will not go out of the hands of the board. there will be long-term leases--up to ninety-nine years, but no outright sale. furthermore, the private land on the other side of the dock board's property will not be allowed to be developed at the expense of the state's interests. so the frontage on the canal will be developed before there is any extensive construction of lateral basins and slips. what will be the rate charged for a site? will it be based on the actual cost of the canal and its maintenance? or will the state consider it a business investment like a road or street, and charge the property owners thereon less than the cost of construction, collecting the difference in the general progress? that, too, is a question which calls for considerable study before it can be answered. with the industrial canal open, sites available on long leases to business enterprise, and with our tax laws relating to the processes of industry and commerce revised and made more favorable, new orleans will enter a period of expansion and development on a scale hardly yet dreamed of by her most far-visioned citizens, with enlarged profit and opportunity for all her people. new taxable wealth will be created rapidly. new needs for taxable property will arise. the tax burden on all will be distributed more widely and when contrasted with the earning power of such property will become less and less of a burden. this will be so because the water frontage through which the canal is being created for the attraction of many enterprises which cannot locate on the river front, is all within the limits of the city of new orleans. with this canal in operation, new orleans will possess to the fullest degree the three great systems of port operation: public ownership and operation of the river harbor facilities; public ownership of the land and private operation of facilities on the industrial canal; and private ownership of the land and private operation of the facilities on the new channel to the sea. no other port in the country has the capacity for this trinity of port systems. no other port possesses such a hinterland as is embraced within the mississippi valley, nor so extensive and so complete a system of easy-grade railroads and navigable waterways penetrating its hinterland. no other port holds so strategic a position in the path of the new trade routes connecting the region of greatest productivity with the new markets of greatest promise in latin-america and the orient. [illustration: lock gate there are ten like this] construction costs and contractors. everything is relative. looking at the total, some may think that the cost of the industrial canal is large. so it is--compared with the cost of an irrigation ditch through a -acre farm. but comparing the cost with the wealth it is invested to produce--has already begun to produce--it dwindles to a mere percentage. and a comparison of construction costs on the industrial canal with similar work done elsewhere during the same time is very much in favor of the former. witness the following figures shown in the books of the engineering department of the dock board: dredging, including the canal prism and the excavation of the sites of the bridge foundations, siphon and lock, averaged . cents a cubic yard. the highest cost was in the lock section, from which , cubic yards were excavated at an average cost of . cents a cubic yard. on the siphon and florida walk bridge section, including two other deep cuts, the , cubic yards excavated cost an average of . cents a cubic yard. on the louisville & nashville bridge section, the , , cubic yards excavated cost an average of . cents a cubic yard. from there to the lake, , , cubic yards, the average cost was . cents. dredging costs were below the original estimates when labor and supplies were per cent cheaper. the , cubic yards of concrete in the lock cost an average of $ . a cubic yard. this includes cost of material, mixing, building forms, pouring and stripping forms. mixing and pouring, from the time the material was handled from the storehouse or pile, averaged $ . a cubic yard. it would be hard to find cheaper concrete on a work of similar magnitude anywhere, say the engineers. on the siphon the concrete work cost more, because it was a subterranean job, with elaborate shaping. the price there was $ a cubic yard, in place, including material and form work. to drive the , bearing piles and , traveling piles on which the lock is floated, cost an average of cents a running foot. this does not include the cost of the piling. construction steel cost . cents a pound, and erection around cents. these were standard prices. the lock gates, weighing , , pounds, cost $ , , in place. this does not include opening and closing machinery. three of the bascule bridges crossing the canal, weighing , , pounds each, cost $ , each, erected. the fourth bridge, near the lock, weighing , , pounds, cost $ , , erected. this is for superstructure only--it does not include the foundation. the emergency dam bridge, weighing , pounds, and its , pounds of turning machinery, cost $ , , in place. hoisting machinery cost $ , more. the eight girders of the emergency dam, weighing tons each, at $ a ton, cost $ , . machinery for working the ten lock gates, the eight filling gates, and the six capstans--twenty-four -horse power electric motors--cost $ , , f.o.b. new orleans. the plant for unwatering the lock, consisting of one pump with a capacity of , gallons a minute, and two with a capacity of gallons each, cost, erected, $ , . total mechanical equipment used on the industrial canal weighs , tons. its cost, including power-house, electrical connections, etc., is $ , , . plant and equipment for building the canal, including locomotives, cranes, piledrivers, dredges, tools, etc., cost $ , . depreciation, up to february, , is set at $ , , leaving a balance of $ , , carried as assets. much of this has already been sold, and more will be disposed of. following are the firms that executed contracts on the industrial canal: outside new orleans. lock gates and emergency dam girders: mcclintic-marshall construction company, pittsburg, pa.; designed by goldmark & harris company, new york. filling gates: coffin valve company, indian orchard, mass. miscellaneous valve equipment: ludlow valve company, troy, n.y. capstans: american engineering company, philadelphia, pa. mooring posts: shipbuilding products company, new york, n.y. miter gate moving machines: fawcus machine works, pittsburg, pa. motors, control boards and miscellaneous electrical equipment: general electric company, schenectady, n.y. bridge crane and bascule bridges: bethlehem steel corporation, steelton, pa. former designed by goldmark & harris company, new york, n.y.; latter, by strauss bascule bridge company, chicago, ill. steel sheet piling: lackawanna steel company, buffalo, new york. hoists and cranes: orton & steinbrenner, huntington, ind.; american hoist and derrick company, st. paul, minn. conveyor equipment: webster company, tiffany, ohio; barker-greene company, aurora, ill. woodworking machinery: fay & egan company, cincinnati, ohio. pipe: u.s. cast iron pipe company, birmingham, ala. lumber and piling: hammond lumber company, hammond, la.; great southern lumber company, bogalusa, la. dredges: bowers southern dredging company, galveston, tex.; atlantic, gulf and pacific company, mobile, ala. in new orleans. cinder and earth fill: thomas m. johnson. levee work: hercules construction company; hampton reynolds. sand and gravel: jahncke service, inc.; d. v. johnston company. cement: atlas portland cement company, the michel lumber and brick company being local agents. lumber and piling: salmen brick and lumber company; w. w. carre company, ltd. coal: kirkpatrick coal company; tennessee coal, iron and r.r. company. reinforcing steel and supplies: tennessee coal, iron and r.r. company; ole k. olsen. rail and track accessories: a. marx & sons. concrete mixers: fairbanks company. repairs and castings: dibert, bancroft & ross; joubert & goslin machinery and foundry company; stern foundry and machinery company. other port facilities. "new orleans," says dr. roy s. macelwee in his book on port and terminal facilities, a subject on which he is considered an authority, "is the most advanced port in america in respect to scientific policy." the shipping board echoed the compliment in its report of its port and harbor facilities commission of april, , when it said: "new orleans ranks high among the ports of the united states for volume of business, and presents a very successful example of the public ownership and operation of port facilities. it is one of the best equipped and co-ordinated ports of the country." new orleans is the principal fresh water-ocean harbor in the united states. landlocked and protected from storms, it is the safest harbor on the gulf coast. almost unlimited is the number of vessels that can be accommodated at anchor. alongside the wharves the water is from thirty to seventy feet deep. the government maintains a -foot channel at the mouth of the river. the "port of new orleans" takes in about miles of this harbor on both sides of the river. this gives a river frontage of . miles, which is under the jurisdiction of the dock board, an agency of the state. the board has, to date, improved seven miles of the east bank of the river with wharves, steel sheds, cotton warehouses, a grain elevator and a coal-handling plant of most modern type, together with other facilities for loading and unloading. authority has been granted to issue $ , , in bonds for increasing these facilities. wharves, elevators and warehouses built by railroads and industrial plants on both sides of the river bring up the total improved portion of the port to , linear feet, capable of berthing ninety vessels feet long. these facilities are co-ordinated by the only municipally owned and operated belt railroad in the united states, which saves the shipper much money. more than sixty steamship lines connect the port with the world markets; the government barge line, a number of steamboat lines, and twelve railroad lines connect it with the producing and consuming sections of the united states. [illustration: bull wheel part of operating machinery for lock gates] now nearing completion is the public coal handling plant. built by the dock board to develop the business in cargo coal, it is costing more than $ , , . , and will have a capacity of , tons. it is of the belt-conveyor type. the plant will be able to: . unload coal from railway cars into a storage pile; . unload coal from cars into steamers or barges; . load coal from storage pile into steamers or barges; . unload coal from barges into steamers and storage pile; . load coal from barges or storage pile into cars. at the -foot wharf the plant can take care of three ships at one time, with a maximum loading capacity of to , tons an hour. other coaling facilities at the port are furnished by: illinois central railroad: tipple with capacity of tons an hour; new orleans coal company: two tipples, capacity and tons an hour; floating collier to coal ships while freight is being taken aboard at the wharf, capacity tons an hour; collier, capacity tons an hour. alabama and new orleans transportation company: storage plant with loading towers on lake borgne canal, just below the city; american sugar refining company: coal plant, capacity, tons an hour, for receiving coal from barges and delivering it to boiler house; monongahela river coal and coke company: floating collier. fuel oil facilities for bunkering purposes are furnished by: gulf refining company: storage capacity, , barrels; bunkering capacity, barrels an hour; texas oil company: storage capacity, , barrels; bunkering capacity, , barrels an hour; mexican petroleum corporation: bunkering capacity, , barrels an hour; sinclair refining company: storage capacity, , barrels; bunkering capacity, , barrels an hour; standard oil company: storage capacity, , barrels; bunkering capacity, , barrels an hour. in the jahncke dry dock and ship repair company, new orleans has the largest ship repair plant south of newport news. the plant is on the mississippi river, adjacent to the industrial canal. it has a , -foot wharf and three dry docks, of , , , and , tons capacity, respectively. these can be joined for lifting the very large ships. it is equipped with the latest and most powerful machinery, and has been a strong factor in developing the port. the johnson iron works and shipbuilding company likewise has facilities for wood repairing, caulking, painting and scraping of vessels, as well as iron work. it has three docks: one feet long, one feet long, and a small one for lifting barges and small river tugs. at the united states naval yard is a dock of , tons capacity. this is placed at the service of commercial vessels when private docks are not available. the public cotton warehouse and public grain elevator are among the most modern facilities in the country. both plants are of reinforced concrete throughout, insuring a low insurance rate. the cotton warehouse comprises five units, with a total storage capacity at one time of , bales, and an annual handling capacity of , , . high density presses compress this cotton to pounds per cubic foot, saving the exporter per cent on steamship freight rates. the insurance rate on storage cotton is cents per $ a year. cotton is handled by dock board employees licensed by the new orleans cotton exchange under rules and regulations laid down by the department of agriculture. warehouse receipts may be discounted at the banks. cotton can be handled cheaper here than at any other warehouse in the country. storage capacity of the public grain elevator is , , bushels. this is about per cent of the grain elevator storage capacity of the port, but the public elevator handles per cent of the business--proving its efficiency. its unloading capacity is , bushels a day from barges or ships, and , bushels from cars. loading capacity into ships is , bushels an hour--to one or four vessels, simultaneously. fireproof and equipped with a modern dust-collecting system, this facility is considered one of the best in the country. other grain elevators at new orleans are operated by: southern railway: capacity, , bushels; illinois central railroad two elevators, capacity, , , bushels; trans-mississippi terminal railroad company: two elevators, capacity, , , bushels. wharves owned and controlled by the dock board measure , linear feet in length, with an area of , , square feet. twenty of these thirty-four wharves are covered with steel sheds. wharves operated by the railroads on both sides of the river increase the port facilities as follows: southern railway: two concrete and steel covered docks, one a two-story structure; one is by , feet, with a floor space of , square feet; one is by , feet on the lower floor, and by , on the upper, with a combined area of , square feet floor space. illinois central railroad: covered wharf, - by , feet. morgan's louisiana and texas railroad and steamship company: wharf space, , square feet; covered space, , square feet. trans-mississippi terminal railroad company: wharf no. , three berths, , square feet; no. , one berth, , square feet; no. , one berth, , square feet--most of it covered; oil wharf, , square feet. the new orleans army supply base has a two-story wharf , feet long by feet wide. the lower floor of the wharf is leased by the dock board. back of it are the three warehouses, each by feet, and six stories in height. seven industrial plants have loading and unloading facilities on the river. the dock board does not lease or part with the control of these, and controls the following charges: harbor fees, dockage, sheddage, wharfage, etc. open storage on river front contiguous to wharves totals , , square feet. there is a great deal of potential open storage space away from the wharves and along railroad tracks, which could be reached by switches. for the storage of coffee, alcohol, sisal, sugar and general commodities, private warehouses offer a floor space of , , square feet. railroads serving new orleans are: the public belt, illinois central, yazoo & mississippi valley, gulf coast lines, louisiana railway & navigation company, louisville & nashville, louisiana southern, missouri-pacific, texas & pacific, new orleans & lower coast, morgan's louisiana & texas railroad and steamship company, (southern pacific) southern railway and new orleans & great northern. storage track capacity of new orleans for export traffic totals , cars. track facilities alongside the wharves will accommodate cars. new orleans can handle, at the grain elevators and wharves, , cars a day. wharves are served exclusively by the public belt railroad. the industrial canal will be similarly served. the public belt railroad assumes the obligations of a common carrier, operating under appropriate traffic rules and regulations. the switching charge is $ . a car, regardless of the distance. on uncompressed cotton and linters, the charge is $ . . the government barge line connects new orleans with the warrior river section of alabama and the upper mississippi valley, including a great deal of inland territory to which river and rail differential rates apply, as far as st. louis. it is operating a fleet of , -ton steel covered barges and , horsepower towboats. there is a weekly service. rates are per cent cheaper than rail rates. the port is supplied with some of the most modern freight handling machinery. harbor dues and other expenses are low. the water supply, for drinking purposes and boilers, meets the strongest tests. how advantageously situated is new orleans will be seen from the following comparison of distances: [illustration: ship lock on the inner harbor navigation canal at the port of new orleans the lock completed] comparison of distances by and between new orleans and new york and principal cities. (distances in statute miles, furnished by war department.) new york new orleans ---------------------------------------- atlanta baltimore , birmingham , boston , buffalo , charleston chattanooga chicago cincinnati cleveland , dallas , denver , , detroit , duluth , , el paso , , galveston , indianapolis kansas city , little rock , louisville memphis , minneapolis , , mobile , norfolk , oklahoma city , omaha , , pittsburgh , philadelphia , port townsend , , portland, oregon , , salt lake city , , san antonio , san francisco , , savannah seattle , , st. louis , toledo , washington, d.c. , comparison of distances by water routes between new orleans and new york to principal ports of the world. (distances in nautical miles, supplied by hydrographic office, navy department; land routes in statute miles supplied by war department.) new york new orleans --------------------------------------------------------- antwerp , , bombay-- via suez , , via cape of good hope , , buenos ayres , , callao-- via panama , , via tehauntepec , , cape town , , colon (eastern end of panama canal) , , havana , hong kong-- via panama , , [a] via rail to san francisco , , honolulu-- via panama , , via rail to san francisco , , liverpool , , london , , manila-- via panama , , [a] yokohama and san francisco , , [a] yokohama and port townsend , , melbourne-- [a] via san francisco , , via panama , , via tehauntepec , , via suez canal , , mexico city-- by land and water , , by land , , new orleans-- land , water , nome, alaska-- [a] via san francisco , , [a] via port townsend , , via panama , , panama (western end canal)-- via canal and colon , , pernambuco, brazil , , rio de janeiro , , san juan, p.r. , , singapore-- via yokohama and panama , , via suez , , san francisco , , via tehauntepec , , via panama , , tehauntepec-- eastern end of railroad , valparaiso-- via panama , , yokohama-- via honolulu and tehauntepec , , via honolulu and panama , , via panama , , --------------------------------------------------------- [a] by land and water. [b] by land. elsie in the south by martha finley author of the elsie books, the mildred books, "wanted, a pedigree," etc. new york dodd, mead and company publishers copyright, , by dodd, mead & company. _all rights reserved._ the mershon company press, rahway, n. j. elsie in the south chapter i. "what a storm! there will be no going out to-day even for the early stroll about the grounds with papa," sighed lucilla raymond one december morning, as she lay for a moment listening to the dash of rain and sleet against her bedroom windows. "ah, well! i must not fret, knowing who appoints the changes of the seasons, and that all he does is for the best," her thoughts ran on. "besides, what pleasures we can all have within doors in this sweetest of homes and with the dearest and kindest of fathers!" with that she left her bed and began the duties of the toilet, first softly closing the communicating door between her own and her sister's sleeping apartments lest she should disturb grace's slumbers, then turning on the electric light in both bedroom and bathroom, for, though after six, it was still dark. the clock on the mantel struck seven before she was quite through with these early morning duties, but the storm had in no wise abated in violence, and as she heard it she felt sure that outdoor exercise was entirely out of the question. "and i'll not see chester to-day," she sighed half-aloud. "it was evident when he was here last night that he had taken a cold, and i hope he won't think of venturing out in such weather as this." just then the door into grace's room opened and her sweet voice said, "good-morning, lu. as usual, you are up and dressed before your lazy younger sister has begun the duties of the toilet." "take care what you say, young woman," laughed lucilla, facing round upon her. "i am not going to have my delicate younger sister slandered in that fashion. she is much too feeble to leave her bed at the early hour which suits her older and stronger sister." "very kind in you to see it in that light," laughed grace. "but i must make haste now with my dressing. papa may be coming in directly, for it is certainly much too stormy for him and you to take your usual stroll in the grounds." "it certainly is," assented lu. "just listen to the hail and rain dashing against the windows. and there comes papa now," she added, as a tap was heard at their sitting-room door. she ran to open it and receive the fatherly caress that always accompanied his morning greeting to each one of his children. "grace is not up yet?" he said inquiringly, as he took possession of an easy-chair. "yes, papa, but not dressed yet; so that i shall have you to myself for a while," returned lu in a cheery tone and seating herself on an ottoman at his knee. "a great privilege that," he said with a smile, passing a hand caressingly over her hair as he spoke. "it is storming hard, so that you and i must do without our usual early exercise about the grounds." "yes, sir; and i am sorry to miss it, though a chat with my father here and now is not so bad an exchange." "i think we usually have that along with the walk," he said, smiling down into the eyes that were gazing so lovingly up into his. "yes, sir, so we do; and you always manage to make the shut-in days very enjoyable." "it is what i wish to do. lessons can go on as usual with you and grace as well as with the younger ones, and after that we can have reading, music, and quiet games." "and grace and i have some pretty fancy work to do for christmas time." "ah, yes! and i presume you will both be glad to have a little--or a good deal--of extra money with which to purchase gifts or materials for making them." "if you feel quite able to spare it, father," she returned with a pleased smile; "but not if it will make you feel in the least cramped for what you want to spend yourself." "i can easily spare you each a hundred dollars," he said in a cheery tone. "will that be enough, do you think?" "oh, i shall feel rich!" she exclaimed. "how very good, kind, and liberal you are to us and all your children, papa." "and fortunate in being able to be liberal to my dear ones. there is no greater pleasure than that of gratifying them in all right and reasonable desires. i think that as soon as the weather is suitable for a visit to the city we will take a trip there for a day's shopping. have you and grace decided upon any particular articles that you would like to give?" "we have been doing some bits of fancy work, father, and making up some warm clothing for the old folks and children among our poor neighbors--both white and colored; also a few things for our house servants. and to let you into a secret," she added with a smile and a blush, "i am embroidering some handkerchiefs for chester." "ah, that is right!" he said. "chester will value a bit of your handiwork more than anything else that you could bestow upon him." "except perhaps the hand itself," she returned with a low, gleeful laugh. "but that he knows he cannot have for some time," her father said, taking in his the one resting on the arm of his chair. "this belongs to me at present and it is my fixed purpose to hold it in possession for at least some months to come." "yes, sir; i know that and highly approve of your intention. please never give up your claim to your eldest daughter so long as we both live." "no, daughter, nothing is further from my thoughts," he said with a smile that was full of affection. "what do you want from santa claus, papa?" she asked. "really, i have not considered that question," he laughed; "but anything my daughters choose to give me will be highly appreciated." "it is pleasant to know that, father dear; and now please tell me what you think would be advisable to get for mamma vi, elsie, and ned." that question was under discussion for some time, and the conclusion was arrived at that it could not be decided until their visit to the city stores to see what might be offered there. then grace joined them, exchanged greetings and caresses with her father, and as the call to breakfast came at that moment, the three went down together, meeting violet and the younger children on the way. they were a cheerful party, all at the table seeming to enjoy their meal and chatting pleasantly as they ate. much of their talk was of the approaching christmas and what gifts would be appropriate for different ones and likely to prove acceptable. "can't we send presents to brother max, papa?" asked ned. "hardly, i think," was the reply, "but we can give him some when he comes home next month." "and he'll miss all the good times the rest of us have. it's just too bad!" replied ned. "we will try to have some more good times when he is with us," said the captain cheerily. "oh, so we can!" was neddie's glad response. the captain and the young people spent the morning in the schoolroom as usual. in the afternoon dr. conly called. "i came in principally on your account, lu," he said, when greetings had been exchanged. "chester has taken a rather severe cold so that i, as his physician, have ordered him to keep within doors for the present; which he deeply regrets because it cuts him off from his daily visits here." "oh, is he very ill?" she asked, vainly trying to make her tones quite calm and indifferent. "oh, no! only in danger of becoming so unless he takes good care of himself." "and you will see to it that he does so, cousin arthur?" violet said in a sprightly, half-inquiring tone. "yes; so far as i can," returned the doctor, with a slight smile. "my patients, unfortunately, are not always careful to obey orders." "when they don't the doctor cannot be justly blamed for any failure to recover," remarked the captain. "but i trust chester will show himself docile and obedient." "which i dare say he will if lu sides strongly with the doctor," grace remarked, giving lucilla an arch look and smile. "my influence, if i have any, shall all be on that side," was lucilla's quiet rejoinder. "he and i might have a bit of chat over the telephone, if he is able to go to it." "able enough for that," said the doctor, "but too hoarse, i think, to make himself intelligible. however, you can talk to him, bidding him to be careful, and for your sake to follow the doctor's directions." "of course i shall do that," she returned laughingly, "and surely he will not venture to disregard my orders." "not while he is a lover and liable to be sent adrift by his lady-love," said violet, in sportive tone. just then the telephone bell rang and the captain and lulu hastened to it. it proved to be mrs. dinsmore of the oaks, who called to them with a message from chester to his affianced--a kindly greeting, a hope that she and all the family were well, and an expression of keen regret that he was, and probably would be for some days, unable to pay his accustomed visit to woodburn. "there, daughter, take your place and reply as you deem fit," said captain raymond, stepping aside from the instrument. lucilla at once availed herself of the permission. "aunt sue," she called, "please tell chester we are all very sorry for his illness, but hope he may soon be well. we think he will if he is careful to follow the doctor's directions. and when this storm is over probably some of us will call at the oaks to inquire concerning his welfare." a moment's silence; then came the reply. "chester says, thank you; he will be glad to see any or all of the woodburn people; but you must not venture out till the storm is over." "we won't," returned lucilla. "good-by." and she and her father returned to the parlor where they had left the others, with their report of the interview. two stormy days followed; then came one that was bright and clear and they gladly availed themselves of the opportunity to go to the city, do their christmas shopping, and call at the oaks on their return. they reached home tired, but in excellent spirits, having been very successful in making their purchases, and found chester recovering from his cold. from that day until christmas time the ladies and little girls of the connection were very busy in preparing gifts for their dear ones; grandma elsie as well as the rest. she did not come so often to woodburn as was her custom, and the visits she did make were short and hurried. chester was a more frequent caller after partially recovering from his cold, but even while he was there lucilla worked busily with her needle, though never upon the gift intended for him. she now wore and highly prized a beautiful diamond ring which he had given her in token of their betrothal, though she had told him at the time of its bestowal that she feared it had cost more than he could well afford. at which he laughed, telling her that nothing could be too good or expensive for one so lovely and charming as herself. "in your partial eyes," she returned with a smile. "ah, it is very true that love is blind. oh, chester! i often wonder what you ever found to fancy in me!" in reply to that he went over quite a list of the attractive qualities he had discovered in her. "ah," she laughed, "you are not blind to my perhaps imaginary good qualities, but see them through multiplying glasses; which is certainly very kind in you. but, oh, dear! i'm afraid you'll find out your mistake one of these days!" "don't be disturbed. i'll risk it," he laughed. then added more seriously, "oh, lu, darling, i think i'm a wonderfully fortunate fellow in regard to the matter of my suit for your heart and hand." "i wish you may never see cause to change your mind, you dear boy!" she said, glad tears springing to her eyes, "but ah, me! i fear you will when you know me better." "ah," he said teasingly, "considering our long and rather intimate acquaintance, i think you are not giving me credit for any great amount of discernment." "well," she laughed, "as regards my faults and failings probably the less you have of that the better for me." they were alone in the library and the house was very quiet, most of the family having already retired to their sleeping rooms. presently captain raymond came in, saying with his pleasant smile, "i should be sorry to seem inhospitable, chester, but it is growing late and i am loath to have my daughter lose her beauty sleep. don't for a moment think i want to hurry you away from woodburn, though; the room you occupied during your illness is at your service and you are a most welcome guest." "many thanks, captain; but i think i should go back to the oaks at once lest someone should be waiting up for me. i should have brought my night key, but neglected to do so," chester replied, and in a few minutes took leave. the captain secured the door after him, then turned to lucilla, saying: "now, daughter, you may bid me good-night, then make prompt preparations for bed." "oh, papa, let me stay five minutes with you," she entreated. "see, i have something to show you," holding out her hand in a way to display chester's gift to advantage. her father took the hand in his. "ah, an engagement ring!" he said with a smile; "and a very handsome one it is. well, dear child, i hope it may always have most pleasant associations to you." "i should enjoy it more if i were quite sure chester could well afford it," she said with a half sigh. "don't let that trouble you," said her father. "chester is doing very well, and probably your father will be able to give some assistance to you and him at the beginning of your career as a married couple. should providence spare me my present income, my dear eldest daughter shall not be a portionless bride." "papa, you are very, very good to me!" she exclaimed with emotion, "the very dearest and best of fathers! i can hardly bear to think of living away from you, even though it may not be miles distant." "dear child," he said, drawing her into his arms, "i do not intend it shall be even one mile. my plan is to build a house for you and chester right here on the estate, over yonder in the grove. some day in the near future we three will go together and select the exact spot." "oh, papa, what a delightful idea!" she exclaimed, looking up into his face with eyes dancing with pleasure; "for i may hope to see almost as much of you as i do now, living in the same house." "yes, daughter mine; that is why i want to have your home so near. now bid me good-night and get to bed with all speed," he concluded with a tender caress. chapter ii. "they are going to have a christmas tree at ion, one at fairview, one at roselands, and i suppose one at the oaks," remarked ned raymond one morning at the breakfast table. "but i guess folks think elsie and i have grown too old for such things," he added in a tone of melancholy resignation and with a slight sigh. "a very sensible conclusion, my son," said the captain cheerfully, with a twinkle of amusement in his eye. "but now that you have grown so manly you can enjoy more than ever giving to others. the presents you have bought for your little cousins can be sent to be put on their trees, those for the poor to the schoolhouses; and if you choose you can be there to see the pleasure with which they are received. remember what the bible says: 'it is more blessed to give than to receive.'" "oh, yes, so it is!" cried the little fellow, his face brightening very much. "i do like to give presents and see how pleased folks look that get them." "and as papa is so liberal to all of us in the matter of pocket money, we can every one of us have that pleasure," said grace. "yes; and i know we're going to," laughed ned. "we didn't go so many times to the city and stay so long there for nothing. and i don't believe grandma and papa and mamma did either." "no," said his mother; "and i don't believe anybody--children, friend, relative, servant, or poor neighbor--will find himself neglected. and i am inclined to think the gifts will be enjoyed even if we have no tree." "oh, yes, mamma! and i'm glad to be the big fellow that i am, even if it does make me have to give up some of the fun i had when i was small," ned remarked with an air of satisfaction. "and to-night will be christmas eve, won't it, papa?" asked elsie. "yes, daughter; and some of us will be going this afternoon to trim the tree in the schoolhouse. do you, elsie and ned, want to be of the party?" "oh, yes, sir! yes, indeed!" was the joyous answering exclamation of both. then elsie asked: "are you going too, mamma? sisters lu and gracie too?" glancing inquiringly at them. all three replied that they would like to go, but had some work to finish at home. a part of that work was the trimming of the tree, which was brought in and set up after the departure of the captain, elsie, and ned for the schoolhouse. violet's brothers, harold and herbert, came in and gave their assistance as they had done some years before when max, lucilla, and grace had been the helpers of their father at the schoolhouse. the young girls had enjoyed that, but this was even better, as those for whom its fruits were intended were nearer and dearer. they had a merry, happy time embellishing the tree with many ornaments, and hanging here and there mysterious packages, each carefully wrapped and labelled with the name of its intended recipient. "there!" said violet at length, stepping back a little and taking a satisfied survey, "i think we have finished." "not quite," said harold. "but you and the girls may please retire while herbert and i attend to some small commissions of our good brother--the captain." "ah! i was not aware that he had given you any," laughed violet. "but come, girls, we will slip away and leave them to their own devices." "i am entirely willing to do so," returned lucilla gayly, following in her wake as she left the room. "i, too," said grace, hastening after them, "for one never loses by falling in with papa's plans." "what is it, harold?" asked herbert. "the captain has not let me into his secret." "only that his gifts to them--his wife and daughters--are in this closet and to be taken out now and added to the fruits of this wondrous tree," replied harold, taking a key from his pocket and unlocking a closet door. "ah! something sizable, i should say," laughed herbert, as four large pasteboard boxes came into view. "yes; what do you suppose they contain?" returned his brother, as they drew them out. "ah, this top one--somewhat smaller than the others--bears little elsie's name, i see, and the other three must be for vi, lu, and grace. probably they are new cloaks or some sort of wraps." "altogether likely," assented herbert. "well, when they are opened in the course of the evening, we shall see how good a guess we have made. and here," taking a little package from his pocket, "is something chester committed to my care as his christmas gift to his betrothed." "ah! do you know what it is?" "not i," laughed herbert, "but though a great deal smaller than her father's present, it may be worth more as regards moneyed value." "yes; and possibly more as regards the giver; though lu is evidently exceedingly fond of her father." "yes, indeed! as all his children are and have abundant reason to be." herbert hung the small package on a high branch, then said: "these large boxes we will pile at the foot of the tree; vi's at the bottom, elsie's at the top, the other two in between." "a very good arrangement," assented herbert, assisting him. "there, we have quite finished and i feel pretty well satisfied with the result of our labors," said harold, stepping a little away from the tree and scanning it critically from top to bottom. "yes," assented herbert, "it is about as attractive a christmas tree as i ever saw. it is nearing tea time now and the captain and the children will doubtless soon return. i think i shall accept his and vi's invitation to stay to that meal; as you will, will you not?" "yes; if no call comes for my services elsewhere." and with that they went out, harold locking the door and putting the key into his pocket. they found the ladies in one of the parlors and chatted there with them until the woodburn carriage was seen coming up the drive. it drew up before the door and presently elsie and ned came bounding in, merry and full of talk about all they had done and seen at the schoolhouse. "we had just got all the things on the tree when the folks began to come," elsie said: "and oh, mamma, it was nice to see how glad they were to get their presents! i heard one little girl say to another, 'this is the purtiest bag, with the purtiest candy and the biggest orange ever i seed.' and the one she was talking to said, 'yes, and so's mine. and aint these just the goodest cakes!' after that they each--each of the girls in the school i mean--had two pair of warm stockings and a woollen dress given them, and they went wild with delight." "yes; and the boys were just as pleased with their coats and shoes," said ned. "and the old folks too with what they got, i guess. i heard some of them thank papa and say he was a very good, kind gentleman." "as we all think," said violet, with a pleased smile. "but come upstairs with me now; for it is almost tea time and you need to be made neat for your appearance at the table." they were a merry party at the tea table and enjoyed their fare, but did not linger long over it. on leaving the table, violet led the way to the room where she, her brothers, and lucilla and grace had been so busy; harold produced the key and threw the door open, giving all a view of the christmas tree with its tempting fruits and glittering ornaments. ned, giving a shout of delight, rushed in to take a nearer view, elsie following close in his wake, the older ones not far behind her. christine, having another key to the door, had been there before them and lighted up the room and the tree so that it could be seen to the very best advantage. "oh, what a pile of big, big boxes!" exclaimed elsie. "and there's my name on the top one! oh, papa, may i open it?" his only reply was a smile as he threw off the lid and lifted out a very handsome baby astrakhan fur coat. "oh! oh!" she cried, "is it for me, papa?" "if it fits you," he replied. "let me help you to try it on." he suited the action to the word, while harold lifted the box and pointing to the next one, said, "this seems to be yours, gracie. shall i lift the lid for you?" "oh, yes, if you please," she cried. "oh! oh! one for me too! oh, how lovely!" as another baby astrakhan fur coat came to light. he put it about her shoulders while harold lifted away that box and, pointing to the address on the next, asked lucilla if he should open that for her. "yes, indeed! if you please," she answered, her eyes shining with pleasure. he did so at once, bringing to light a very handsome sealskin coat. "oh, how lovely! how lovely!" she exclaimed, examining it critically. "papa, thank you ever so much!" "you are heartily welcome, daughters, both of you," he said; for grace too was pouring out her thanks, her lovely blue eyes sparkling with delight. and now violet's box yielded up its treasure--a mate to lu's--and she joined the young girls in their thanks to the giver and expressions of appreciation of the gift. "here, lu, i see this bears your name," said harold, taking a small package from the tree and handing it to her. she took it, opened it, and held up to view a beautiful gold chain and locket. as she opened the latter, "from chester," she said with a blush and a smile, "and oh, what a good likeness!" "his own?" asked violet. "ah, yes! and a most excellent one," she added, as lucilla held it out for her inspection. all, as they crowded around to look, expressed the same opinion. "oh, here's another big bundle!" exclaimed ned; "and with your name, mamma, on it! and it's from grandma. see!" pointing to the label. "let me open it for you, my dear," said the captain, and doing so brought to light a tablecloth and dozen napkins of finest damask, with violet's initials beautifully embroidered in the corner of each. "oh, they are lovely!" she said with a look of delight, "and worth twice as much for having such specimens of mamma's work upon them. i know of nothing she could have given me which i would have prized more highly." there was still more--a great deal more fruit upon that wonderful tree; various games, books, and toys for the children of the family and the servants; suitable gifts for the parents of the latter, useful and handsome articles for christine and alma, and small remembrances for different members of the family from relatives and friends. chester joined them before the distribution was quite over and was highly pleased with his share, especially the handkerchiefs embroidered by the deft fingers of his betrothed. the captain too seemed greatly pleased with his as well as with various other gifts from his wife, children, and friends. the distribution over, violet's brothers hastened to ion to go through a similar scene there. and much the same thing was in progress at the home of each of the other families of the connection. grandma elsie's gift to each daughter, including zoe, was similar to that given to violet, tablecloth and napkins of the finest damask, embroidered by her own hands with the initials of the recipient--a most acceptable present to each. ned had received a number of very gratifying presents and considered himself as having fared well; but christmas morning brought him a glad surprise. when breakfast and family worship were over his father called him to the outer door and pointing to a handsome pony grazing near at hand, said in his pleasant tones, "there is a christmas gift from captain raymond to his youngest son. what do you think of it, my boy?" "oh, papa," cried the little fellow, clapping his hands joyously, "thank you, thank you! it's just the very best present you could have thought of for me! he's a little beauty and i'll be just as good to him as i know how to be." "i hope so indeed," said his father; "and if you wish you may ride him over to ion this morning." "oh, yes, papa! but mayn't i ride him about here a while just now, so as to be sure i'll know how to manage him on the road?" "why, yes; i think that's a good idea; but first put on your overcoat and cap. the air is too cool for a ride without them." "oh, mamma and sisters!" cried ned, turning about to find them standing near as most interested spectators, "haven't i got just the finest of all the christmas gifts from papa?" "the very best for you, i think, sonny boy," returned his mother, giving him a hug and a kiss. "and we are all very glad for you," said grace. "i as well as the rest, dear ned," added elsie, her eyes shining with pleasure. "and we expect you to prove yourself a brave and gallant horseman, very kind and affectionate to your small steed," added lucilla, looking with loving appreciation into the glad young face. "yes, indeed, i do mean to be ever so good to him," rejoined the little lad, rushing to the hat-stand and, with his mother's help, hastily assuming his overcoat and cap. "i'm all ready, papa," he shouted the next moment, racing out to the veranda where the captain was giving directions to a servant. "yes, my son, and so shall i be when i have slipped on my coat and cap," returned his father, taking them, with a smile of approval, from lucilla, who had just brought them. the next half hour passed very delightfully to little ned, learning under his father's instruction to manage skilfully his small steed. having had some lessons before in the riding and management of a pony, he succeeded so well that, to his extreme satisfaction, he was allowed to ride it to ion and exhibit it there, where its beauty and his horsemanship were commented upon and admired to his heart's content. the entire connection was invited to take christmas dinner at ion, and when they gathered about the table not one was missing. everybody seemed in excellent spirits and all were well excepting chester, who had a troublesome cough. "i don't quite like that cough, chester," said dr. conly at length, "and if you ask me for a prescription it will be a trip to florida." "thank you, cousin art," returned chester with a smile. "that would be a most agreeable medicine if i could spare the time and take with me the present company, or even a part of it." "meaning lu, i presume, ches," laughed zoe. "among the rest; she is one of the present company," he returned pleasantly. "what do you say, captain, to taking your family down there for a few weeks?" asked dr. conly, adding, "i don't think it would be a bad thing for grace." "i should have no objection if any of my family need it, or if they all wish to go," said the captain, looking at his wife and older daughters as he spoke. "a visit to florida would be something new and very pleasant, i think," said violet. "as i do, papa," said grace. "thank you for recommending it for me, cousin arthur," she added, giving him a pleased smile. "being very healthy i do not believe i need it, but i should greatly enjoy going with those who do," said lucilla, adding in an aside to chester, who sat next her, "i do hope you can go and get rid of that trying cough." "perhaps after a while; not just yet," was his low-toned reply. "i hardly know what i should like better." "well, don't let business hinder; your life and health are of far more importance than that, or anything else." his only answer to that was a smile which spoke appreciation of her solicitude for him. no more was said on the subject just then, but it was talked over later in the evening and quite a number of those present seemed taken with a desire to spend a part of the winter in florida. chester admitted that by the last of january he could probably go without sacrificing the interests of his clients, and the captain remarked that by that time max would be at home and could go with them. grandma elsie, her father and his wife, also cousin ronald and his annis, pledged themselves to be of the party, and so many of the younger people hoped they might be able to join that it bade fair to be a large one. "are we going in our yacht, papa?" asked ned raymond. "some of us, perhaps, but it is unfortunately not large enough to hold us all comfortably," was the amused reply. "not by any means," said dr. conly, "but the journey can be taken more quickly by rail, and probably more safely at this time of the year." their plans were not matured before separating for the night, but it seemed altogether probable that quite a large company from that connection would visit florida before the winter was over; and at the woodburn breakfast the next morning the captain, in reply to some questions in regard to the history of that state, suggested that they, the family, should take up that study as a preparation for their expected visit there. "i will procure the needed books," he said, "and distribute them among you older ones to be read at convenient times during the day and reported upon when we are all together in the evenings." "an excellent idea, my dear," said violet. "i think we will all enjoy it, for i know that florida's history is an interesting one." "were you ever there, papa?" asked elsie. "yes; and i found it a lovely place to visit at the right time of the year." "that means the winter time, i suppose?" "yes; we should find it unpleasantly warm in the summer." "how soon are we going, papa?" asked ned. "probably about the st of february." "to stay long?" "that will depend largely upon how we enjoy ourselves." "the study of the history of florida will be very interesting, i am sure, father," said lucilla; "but we will hardly find time for it until next week." "no," he replied, "i suppose not until after new year's--as we are to go through quite a round of family reunions. but in the meantime i will, as i said, procure the needed books." "and shall we learn lessons in them in school time, papa?" asked ned. "no, son; when we are alone together in the evenings--or have with us only those who care to have a share in learning all they can about florida. our readers may then take turns in telling the interesting facts they have learned from the books. do you all like the plan?" all thought they should like it; so it was decided to carry it out. that week except sunday was filled with a round of most enjoyable family festivities, now at the home of one part of the connection, now at another, and wound up with a new year's dinner at woodburn. there was a good deal of talk among them about florida and the pleasure probably to be found in visiting it that winter, to say nothing of the benefit to the health of several of their company--chester especially, as he still had a troublesome cough. "you should go by all means, chester," said dr. conly, "and the sooner the better." "i think i can arrange to go by the st of february," replied chester, "and shall be glad to do so if i can secure the good company of the rest of you, or even some of you." "of one in particular, i presume," laughed his brother. "will you take us in the yacht, my dear?" asked violet, addressing her husband. "if the weather proves suitable we can go in that way--as many as the _dolphin_ can accommodate comfortably. though probably some of the company would prefer travelling by rail, as the speedier and, at this season, the safer mode," replied captain raymond. "if we take the yacht you, mamma, will go with us in it, of course," observed violet. "grandpa and grandma, too." "thank you, daughter, the yacht always seems very pleasant and homelike to me, and i have great confidence in my honored son-in-law as her commander," returned mrs. travilla, with a smiling look at the captain. he bowed his acknowledgments, saying, "thank you, mother, i fully appreciate the kindness of that remark." then turning to his wife's grandfather, "and you, sir, and your good wife, i hope may feel willing to be of our company should we decide to take the yacht?" "thank you, captain; i think it probable we will," mr. dinsmore said in reply. "i wish my three brothers may be able to accompany us also," said violet. neither one of them felt certain of his ability to do so, but all thought it would be a pleasure indeed to visit florida in such company. no one seemed ready yet for definite arrangements, but as the trip was not to be taken for a month prompt decision was not esteemed necessary, and shortly after tea most of them bade good-night and left for their homes. chester was one of the last to go, but it was not yet very late when lucilla and grace sought their own little sitting-room and lingered there for a bit of chat together. their father had said they need not hasten with their preparations for bed, as he was coming in presently for a few moments. they had hardly finished their talk when he came in. "well, daughters," he said, taking a seat between them on the sofa and putting an arm about the waist of each, "i hope you have enjoyed this first day of a new year?" "yes, indeed, papa," both replied. "and we hope you have also," added grace. "i have," he said. "i think we may well be called a happy and favored family. but i wonder," he added with a smiling glance from one to the other, "if my older daughters have not been a trifle disappointed that their father has made them no new year's gift of any account." "why, papa!" they both exclaimed, "you gave us such elegant and costly christmas gifts and each several valuable books to-day. we should be very ungrateful if we did not think that quite enough." "i am well satisfied that you should think it enough," he returned laughingly, "but i do not. here is something more." as he spoke he took from his pocket two sealed envelopes and put one into the hand of each. they took them with a pleased, "oh, thank you, papa!" and hastened to open them and examine the contents. "what is it, papa?" asked grace with a slightly puzzled look at a folded paper found in hers. "a certificate of stock which will increase your allowance of pocket money to about ten dollars a week." "oh, how nice! how kind and generous you are, papa!" she exclaimed, putting an arm about his neck and showering kisses on his lips and cheek. "and mine is just the same, is it not, papa?" asked lucilla, taking her turn in bestowing upon him the same sort of thanks. "but oh, i am afraid you are giving us more than you can well spare!" "no, daughter dear," he said, "you need trouble yourselves with no fears on that score. our kind heavenly father has so prospered me that i can well afford it; and i have confidence in my dear girls that they will not waste it, but will use it wisely and well." "i hope so, papa," said grace. "you have taught us that our money is a talent for which we will have to give an account." "yes, daughter, i hope you will always keep that in mind, and be neither selfish nor wasteful in the use you put it to." "i do not mean to be either, papa," she returned; "and i may always consult you about it, may i not?" "whenever it pleases you to do so i shall be happy to listen and advise you to the best of my ability," he answered with an affectionate look and smile. chapter iii. a few days later a package of books was received at woodburn which, upon being opened, proved to be histories of florida ordered by the captain from the neighboring city. they were hailed with delight by violet and the older girls, who were cordially invited to help themselves, study up the subject in private, and report progress in the evenings. each one of them selected a book, as did the captain also. "aren't elsie and i to help read them, papa?" asked ned, in a slightly disappointed tone. "you may both do so if you choose," their father replied, "but i hardly think the books will prove juvenile enough to interest you as much as it will to hear from us older ones some account of their contents." "oh, yes, papa! and your way is always best," exclaimed elsie, her eyes beaming with pleasure. "neddie," turning to her brother, "you know we always like listening to stories somebody tells us; even better than reading them for ourselves." "yes, indeed!" he cried, "i like it a great deal better. i guess papa's way is best after all." just then chester came in and, when the usual greetings had been exchanged, glancing at the books, he exclaimed, "ah, so they have come--your ordered works on florida, captain?" "yes; will you help yourself to one or more and join us in the gathering up of information in regard to the history, climate, productions, et cetera, of that part of our country?" "thank you, captain, i will be very glad to do so," was the prompt and pleased reply. "glad to join in your studies now and your visits to the localities afterward." "that last, i am thinking, will be the pleasantest part," said grace; "but all the more enjoyable for doing this part well first." "father," said lucilla, "as you have visited florida and know a great deal about its history, can't you begin our work of preparation for the trip by telling us something of the facts as we sit together in the library just after tea to-night?" "i can if it is desired by all of you," was the pleasant-toned reply. "before neddie and i have to go to bed, papa, please," exclaimed little elsie coaxingly. "yes, daughter, you and neddie shall be of the audience," replied her father, patting affectionately the little hand she had laid upon his knee. "my lecture will not be a very lengthy one, and if not quite over by your usual bedtime, you and ned, if not too sleepy to be interested listeners, may stay up until its conclusion." "oh, thank you, sir!" exclaimed the little girl joyfully. "thank you, papa," said her brother. "i'll not grow sleepy while you are telling the story, unless you make it very dull and stupid." "why, son, have i ever done that?" asked his father, looking much amused, and elsie exclaimed, "why, ned! papa's stories are always ever so nice and interesting." "most always," returned the little fellow, hanging his head and blushing with mortification; "but i have got sleepy sometimes because i couldn't help it." "for which papa doesn't blame his little boy in the least," said the captain soothingly, drawing the little fellow to him and stroking his hair with caressing hand. at that moment wheels were heard on the drive and grace, glancing from the window, exclaimed joyfully, "oh, here comes the ion carriage with grandma elsie and evelyn in it. now, papa, you will have quite an audience." "if they happen to want the same thing that the rest of you do," returned her father, as he left the room to welcome the visitors and help them to alight. they had come only for a call, but it was not very difficult to persuade them to stay and spend the night, sending back word to their homes by the coachman. in prospect of their intended visit to florida they were as greatly interested as the others in learning all they could of its history and what would be the best points to visit in search of pleasure and profit. on leaving the tea table all gathered in the library, the ladies with their fancy needlework, chester seated near his betrothed, the captain in an easy-chair with the little ones close beside him--one at each knee and both looking eagerly expectant; for they knew their father to be a good story-teller and thought the subject in hand one sure to prove very interesting. after a moment's silence in which the captain seemed to be absorbed in quiet thought, he began: "in the year --that is nearly four hundred years ago--a spaniard named juan ponce de leon, who had amassed a fortune by subjugating the natives of the island of puerto rico, but had grown old and wanted to be young again, having heard of an indian tradition that there was a land to the north where was a fountain, bathing in which, and drinking of the water freely, would restore youth and make one live forever--set sail in search of it. on the st day of april he landed upon the eastern shore of florida, near the mouth of the st. johns river. "the day was what the romanists called paschal sunday, or the sunday of the feast of flowers, and the land was very beautiful--with magnificent trees of various kinds, stalwart live-oaks, tall palm trees, the mournful cypress, and the brilliant dogwood. waving moss drooped from the hanging boughs of the forest trees; golden fruit and lovely blossoms adorned those of the orange trees; while singing birds filled the air of the woods with music, and white-winged waterfowls skimmed quietly on the surface of the water. the ground was carpeted with green grass and beautiful flowers of various hues; also in the forest was an abundance of wild game, deer, turkeys, and so forth. "de leon thought he had found the paradise of which he was in search. he went up the river, but by mistake took a chain of lakes, supposing them to be a part of the main river, and finally reached a great sulphur and mineral spring which is now called by his name. he did not stay long, but soon sailed southward to the end of the peninsula, then back to puerto rico. nine years afterward he tried to plant a colony in florida, but the indians resisted and mortally wounded him. he retreated to cuba and soon afterward died there." the captain paused in his narrative and elsie asked, "then did the spaniards let the indians have their own country in peace, papa?" "no," replied her father. "cortez had meanwhile conquered mexico, finding quantities of gold there, of which he basely robbed its people. he landed there in and captured the city of mexico in . "in the meantime narvaez had tried to get possession of florida, and its supposed treasures. he had asked and obtained of the king of spain authority to conquer and govern it, with the title of adelantado, his dominion to extend from cape florida to the river of palms. "on the th of april he landed near tampa bay with four hundred armed men and eighty horses. "he and his men were entirely unsuccessful: they found no gold, the indians were hostile, provisions scarce; and finally they built boats in which to escape from florida. the boats were of a very rude sort and the men knew nothing about managing them. so, though they set sail, it was to make a most unsuccessful voyage. they nearly perished with cold and hunger and many were drowned in the sea. the boat that carried narvaez was driven out to sea and nothing more was ever heard of him. not more than four of his followers escaped." the captain paused for a moment, then turning to his wife, said pleasantly, "well, my dear, suppose you take your turn now as narrator and give us a brief sketch of the doings of fernando de soto, the spaniard who next undertook to conquer florida." "yes," said violet, "i have been reading his story to-day with great interest, and though i cannot hope to nearly equal my husband as narrator, i shall just do the best i can. "history tells us that cabeca de vaca--one of the four survivors of the ill-fated expedition of narvaez--went back to spain and for purposes of his own spread abroad the story that florida was the richest country yet discovered. that raised a great furor for going there. de soto began preparations for an expedition and nobles and gentlemen contended for the privilege of joining it. "it was on the th of may, , that de soto left cuba with one thousand men-at-arms and three hundred and fifty horses. he landed at tampa bay--on the west coast--on whitsunday, th of may. his force was larger and of more respectable quality than any that had preceded it. and he was not so bad and cruel a man as his predecessor--narvaez." "did narvaez do very bad things to the poor indians, mamma?" asked elsie. "yes, indeed!" replied her mother; "in his treatment of them he showed himself a most cruel, heartless wretch. wilmer, in his 'ferdinand de soto,' tells of a chief whom he calls cacique ucita, who, after forming a treaty of peace and amity with pamphilo de narvaez, had been most outrageously abused by him--his aged mother torn to pieces by dogs, in his absence from home, and when he returned and showed his grief and anger, himself seized and his nose cut off." "oh, mamma, how very, very cruel!" cried elsie. "had ucita's mother done anything to narvaez to make him treat her so?" "nothing except that she complained to her son of a spaniard who had treated a young indian girl very badly indeed. "narvaez had shown himself an atrociously cruel man. so that it was no wonder the poor indians hated him. how could anything else be expected of poor ucita when he learned of the dreadful, undeserved death his poor mother had died, than that he would be, as he was, frantic with grief and anger, and make, as he did, threats of terrible vengeance against the spaniards? but instead of acknowledging his cruelty and trying to make some amends, as i have said, narvaez ordered him to be seized, scourged, and sadly mutilated. "then, as soon as ucita's subjects heard of all this, they hastened from every part of his dominions to avenge him upon the spaniards. perceiving their danger the spaniards then fled with all expedition, and so barely escaped the vengeance they so richly deserved. "but to go back to my story of de soto--he had landed a few miles from an indian town which stood on the site of the present town of tampa. he had with him two indians whom he had been training for guides and interpreters; but to his great disappointment they escaped. "the spaniards had captured some indian women, and from them de soto learned that a neighboring chief had in his keeping a captured spaniard, one of the men of narvaez. "after narvaez landed he had sent back to cuba one of his smaller vessels--on board of which was this juan ortiz--to carry the news of his safe arrival to his wife. she at once sent additional supplies by the same vessel and it reached the bay the day after narvaez and his men had fled, as i have already told you, from the vengeance of the outraged ucita and his indignant subjects. "ortiz and those with him, seeing a letter fixed in a cleft of a stick on shore, asked some indians whom they saw to bring it to them. they refused and made signs for the spaniards to come for it. juan ortiz, then a boy of eighteen, with some comrades, took a boat and went on shore, when they were at once seized by the indians, one of them, who resisted, instantly killed, and the rest taken to the cruelly wronged and enraged chief ucita, who had made a vow to punish with death any spaniard who should fall into his hands. "ortiz' mind, as they hurried him onward, was filled with the most horrible forebodings. when they reached the village the chief was waiting in the public square to receive them. one of the spaniards was at once seized, stripped of his clothes and bade to run for his life. "the square was enclosed by palisades and the only gateway was guarded by well-armed indians. as soon as the naked spaniard began to run one of the indians shot an arrow, the barbed edge of which sank deeply into his shoulder. another and another arrow followed, the man in a frenzy of pain hurrying round and round in a desperate effort to find some opening by which he might escape; the indians looking on with evident delight. "this scene lasted for more than an hour, and when the wretched victim fell to the ground there were no less than thirty arrows fixed in his flesh, and the whole surface of his body was covered with blood. "the indians let him lie there in a dying condition and chose another victim to go through the same tortures; then another and another till all were slain except ortiz. by that time the indians seemed to be tired of the cruel sport and he saw them consulting together, the chief apparently giving the others some directions. "it seems that from some real or fancied resemblance ucita saw in the lad to the cruel wretch, pamphilo de narvaez, he supposed him to be a relative; and therefore intended him to suffer some even more agonizing death than than just meted out to his fellows. for that purpose some of them now busied themselves in making a wooden frame. they laid parallel to each other two stout pieces of wood--six or seven feet long and three feet apart, then laid a number of others across them so as to form a sort of grate or hurdle to which they then bound ortiz with leathern thongs. they then placed it on four stakes driven into the ground, and kindled a fire underneath, using for it such things as would burn slowly, scarcely making a blaze! "oh, mamma! were they going to burn him to death?" exclaimed elsie, aghast with horror. "yes," replied her mother; "and he was soon suffering terribly. but one of the indian women who was present felt sorry for him and hastened away to the house of ucita and told his daughter ulelah what was going on. she was a girl of eighteen and not so hard as the men. she was sorry for the poor young man and made haste to run to the scene of his sufferings, where he was shrieking with pain and begging for mercy. "hearing those sounds before she reached the spot she ran faster and got there panting for breath. at once she threw herself at her father's feet and begged him to stop the execution for a few minutes. he did so, ordering some of his men to lift the frame to which ortiz was fastened, and lay it on the ground. ulelah then begged her father to remember that ortiz had never offended him, and that it would be more humane--more to his honor--to keep him as a prisoner, than to put him to death without any reason or justification. "the chief sternly replied that he had sentenced the spaniard to death and no consideration should prevent him from executing him. then ulelah begged him to put it off for a day that was annually celebrated as a religious festival, at which time he might be offered as a sacrifice to their gods. "to that at length ucita consented. ortiz was unbound and the princess placed him under the care of the best physician of their tribe. "as soon as ortiz began to recover every care was taken that he should not escape. he was made to busy himself in the most laborious and slavish occupations. sometimes he was compelled to run incessantly, from the rising of the sun to its setting, in the public square where his comrades had been put to death, indians armed with bows and arrows standing ready to shoot him if he should halt for a moment. that over, he would lie exhausted, and almost insensible, on the hard earthen floor of a hut, the best lodging the chief would allow him. "at such times ulelah and her maids would come to him with food, restoratives, medicines, and words of consolation and encouragement, all of which helped him to live and endure. "when ortiz had been there about nine months the princess ulelah came to him one evening and told him that their religious festival would be celebrated on the first day of the new moon. ortiz had heard that the chief intended to sacrifice him on that occasion and of course he was sorely distressed at the dreadful prospect before him, and as the time drew near he tried to prepare his mind for his doom, for he could see no way of escape. ulelah told him she had done all she could to induce her father to spare his life, but could gain nothing more than a promise to delay the execution of the sentence for a year--on one condition, that he should keep guard over the cemetery of the tribe, where, according to the custom of their people, the bodies of the dead were exposed above ground until the flesh wasted away, leaving only the naked skeletons. "the cemetery was about three miles from the village, in an open space of ground surrounded by forests. the bodies lay on biers on stages raised several feet above the ground, and it was necessary to keep a watch over them every night to protect them from the wild beasts of prey in the surrounding woods. generally those who were compelled to keep this watch were criminals under sentence of death, who were permitted to live, if they could, so long as they performed that duty faithfully. but they ran great risks from the wild beasts of prey in the surrounding forests and from effluvia arising from the decaying bodies. "it seemed a terrible alternative, but ortiz took it rather than suffer immediate death. ulelah wept over him, and her sympathy abated something of the horror of his hard fate and helped him to meet it manfully. "next day he was taken to the place by the chief's officers, who gave him a bow and arrows and other weapons, told him to be vigilant, and warned him against any attempt to escape. "his little hut of reeds was in the midst of the cemetery. the stench was horrible and for several hours overpowered him with sickness and stupor such as he had never known before. but from that he partially recovered before night, and toward morning the howling of wolves helped to arouse him; yet presently he nearly lost consciousness again. "in the early part of the night he had contrived to scare away the wolves by waring a lighted torch which was kept ready for the purpose. but at length he became conscious that some living thing was near him, as he could hear the sound of breathing; then by the light of his torch he saw a large animal dragging away the body of a child. "before he could arouse himself sufficiently to attack the animal it had reached the woods and was out of sight. he was very ill, but roused all his energies, fitted an arrow to his bow and staggered toward that part of the forest where the beast had disappeared. as he reached the edge of the wood he heard a sound like the gnawing of a bone. he could not see the creature that made it, but sent an arrow in the direction of the sound, and at the same moment he fell to the ground in a faint; for the exertion had entirely exhausted his small portion of strength. "there he lay till daybreak, then recovering consciousness, he by great and determined effort managed to crawl back to his hut. "sometime later came the officers whose duty it was to make a daily examination. they at once missed the child's body and were about to dash out the brains of ortiz, but he made haste to tell of his night adventure; they went to the part of the forest which he pointed out as the spot where he had fired at the wild animal; found the body of the child, and lying near it, that of a large dead animal of the tiger kind. the arrow of ortiz had struck it between the shoulders, penetrated to the heart, and doubtless killed it instantly. "the indians greatly admired the skill ortiz had shown by that shot, and as they recovered the body of the child they held him blameless. "gradually he grew accustomed to that tainted air and strong enough to drive away the wolves, killing several of them. the indian officers brought him provisions, and so he lived for about two weeks. then one night he was alarmed by the sound of footsteps which seemed those of human beings. he thought some new trouble was coming upon him, but as they drew near he saw by the light of his torch that they were three women--the princess ulelah and two female attendants. he recognized the princess by her graceful form and the richness of her dress. she told him the priests of her tribe would not consent to any change of his sentence or delay in carrying it out. that ucita had promised them he should be sacrificed at the approaching festival, and they were determined not to allow their deity to be defrauded of his victim. she said she had exposed herself to great risk by coming to warn him of his danger, for if the priests should learn that she had helped him to escape they would take her life--not even her father's authority could save her from them,--and to save his life she advised him to fly at once. "he thought all this proved that she loved him, and told her he loved her; that in his own country he belonged to an ancient and honorable family and was heir to a large estate. he begged her to go with him and become his wife. "when he had finished speaking she was silent for a few moments; then answered in a tone that seemed to show some displeasure. 'i regret,' she said, 'that any part of my conduct should have led you into so great an error. in all my efforts to serve you i have had no motives but those of humanity; and i would have done no less for any other human being in the same circumstances. to fully convince you of your mistake i will tell you that i am betrothed to a neighboring cacique, to whose protection i am about to recommend you. before daybreak i will send a faithful guide to conduct you to the village. lose no time on the way, and when you are presented to mocoso, give him this girdle as a token that you come from me. he will then consider himself bound to defend you from all danger, at the hazard of his own life.' "ulelah and her maidens then left him and before morning came the promised guide, who conducted ortiz through the trackless forest in a northerly direction, urging him to walk very fast, as he would certainly be pursued as soon as his absence was discovered. "in telling his story afterward ortiz said they travelled about eight leagues and reached mocoso's village, at whose entrance the guide, fearing to be recognized by some one of mocoso's subjects, left him to enter it alone. "some indians were fishing in a stream near by. they saw ortiz come out of the woods, and frightened by his outlandish appearance, snatched up their arms with the intention of attacking him. but when he showed the girdle which ulelah had given him they understood that he was the bearer of a message to their chief, and one of them came forward to give the usual welcome, and then led him to the village, where his spanish dress, which he still wore, attracted much attention, and he was ushered into the presence of mocoso. he found that chief a youthful indian of noble bearing, tall and graceful in person, and possessed of a handsome and intelligent face. ortiz presented the girdle. mocoso examined it attentively, and greatly to the surprise of ortiz seemed to gain from it as much information as if its ornamental work had been in written words. "presently raising his eyes from the girdle mocoso said, 'christian, i am requested to protect you and it shall be done. you are safe in my village; but do not venture beyond it, or you may have the misfortune to be recaptured by your enemies.' "from that time mocoso treated ortiz with the affection of a brother." "oh, how nice!" exclaimed little elsie. "but when ucita heard that ortiz was gone, what did he do about it?" "when he heard where he was he sent ambassadors to demand that he be given up. mocoso refused. that caused a misunderstanding between the two chiefs and delayed the marriage of ulelah and mocoso for several years. at the end of three years the priests interposed and the wedding was allowed to take place, but the two chiefs did not become reconciled and held no communication with each other. "for twelve years ortiz was kept in safety by mocoso, then de soto and his men came and ortiz, hearing of their arrival, wanted to join them and set out to do so in company with some of his indian friends. "at the same time a spaniard named porcalla had started out to hunt some indians for slaves. on his way he saw ortiz with his party of ten or twelve indians, and with uplifted weapons he and his men spurred their horses toward them. all but one fled, but he drew near and, speaking in spanish, said, 'cavaliers, do not kill me. i am one of your own countrymen; and i beg you not to molest these indians who are with me; for i am indebted to them for the preservation of my life.' "he then made signs for his indian friends to come back, which some few did, and he and they were taken on horseback behind some of the cavaliers, and so conveyed to de soto's camp where ortiz told his story; the same that i have been telling you. "'as soon as mocoso heard of your arrival,' he went on, 'he asked me to come to you with the offer of his friendship, and i was on my way to your camp with several of his officers when i met your cavaliers.' "while listening to this story de soto's sympathies had been much excited for ortiz. he at once presented him with a fine horse, a suit of handsome clothes, and all the arms and equipments of a captain of cavalry. "then he sent two indians to mocoso with a message, accepting his offers of friendship and inviting him to visit the camp; which he shortly afterward did, bringing with him some of his principal warriors. his appearance and manners were such as at once to prepossess the spaniards in his favor. de soto received him with cordiality and thanked him for his kindness to the spaniard who had sought his protection. "mocoso's reply was one that could not fail to be pleasing to the spaniards. it was that he had done nothing deserving of thanks; that ortiz had come to him well recommended and his honor was pledged for his safety. 'his own valor and other good qualities,' he added, 'entitled him to all the respect which i and my people could show him. my acquaintance with him disposes me to be friendly to all his countrymen.' "the historian goes on to tell us that when mocoso's mother heard where he had gone she was terrified at the thought of what injury might be done to him--no doubt remembering the sad misfortune of ucita and his mother, so cruelly dealt with by the treacherous spaniards. in the greatest distress she hurried to the camp of de soto and implored him to set her son at liberty and not treat him as ucita had been treated by pamphilo. 'if he has offended you,' she said, 'consider that he is but young and look upon his fault as one of the common indiscretions of youth. let him go back to his people and i will remain here and undergo whatever sufferings you may choose to inflict.'" "what a good kind mother!" exclaimed elsie raymond. "i hope they didn't hurt her or her son either." "no," said her mother; "de soto tried to convince her that he considered himself under obligations to mocoso, and that he had only intended to treat him in a most friendly manner. but all he could say did not remove the anxiety of the poor frightened woman, for she had come to believe the whole spanish nation treacherous and cruel. mocoso himself at last persuaded her that he was entirely free to go or stay as he pleased. still she could not altogether banish her fears, and before leaving she took juan ortiz aside and entreated him to watch over the safety of his friend, and especially to take heed that the other spaniards did not poison him." "did mocoso stay long? and did they harm him, mamma?" asked elsie. "he stayed eight days in the spanish camp," replied violet; "being inspired with perfect confidence in the christians." "christians, mamma? what christians?" asked ned. "that was what the spaniards called themselves," she answered; "but it was a sad misnomer; for theirs was anything else than the spirit of christ." chapter iv. the next evening the same company, with some additions, gathered in the library at woodburn, all full of interest in the history of florida and anxious to learn what they could of its climate, productions, and anything that might be known of the tribes of indians inhabiting it before the invasion of the spaniards. at the earnest request of the others grandma elsie was the first narrator of the evening. "i have been reading wilmer's 'travels and adventures of de soto,'" she said. "he tells much that is interesting in regard to the indians inhabiting florida when the spaniards invaded it. one tribe was the natchez, and he says that they and other tribes also had made some progress in civilization; but the effect of that invasion was a relapse into barbarism from which they have never recovered. at the time of de soto's coming they had none of the nomadic habits for which the north american indians have since been remarkable. they then lived in permanent habitations and cultivated the land, deriving their subsistence chiefly from it, though practising hunting and fishing, partly for subsistence and partly for sport. they were not entirely ignorant of arts and manufactures and some which they practised were extremely ingenious. they had domestic utensils and household furniture which were both artistic and elegant. their dresses, especially those of the females, were very tasteful and ornate. some specimens of their earthenware are still preserved and are highly creditable to their skill in that branch of industry. among their household goods they had boxes made of split cane and other material, ingeniously wrought and ornamented; also mats for their floors. their wearing apparel was composed partly of skins handsomely dressed and colored, and partly of a sort of woven cloth made of the fibrous bark of the mulberry tree and a certain species of wild hemp. their finest fabrics, used by the wives and daughters of the caciques, were obtained from the bark of the young mulberry shoots beaten into small fibres, then bleached and twisted or spun into threads of a convenient size for weaving, which was done in a very simple manner by driving small stakes into the ground, stretching a warp across from one to another, then inserting the weft by using the fingers instead of a shuttle. by this tedious process they made very beautiful shawls and mantillas, with figured borders of most exquisite patterns." "they must have been very industrious, i think," said elsie. "yes," assented her grandmother. "the weavers i presume were women; but the men also seem to have been industrious, for they manufactured articles of gold, silver, and copper. none of iron, however. some of their axes, hatchets, and weapons of war were made of copper, and they, like the peruvians, possessed the art of imparting a temper to that metal which made it nearly equal to iron for the manufacture of edge tools. the peruvians, it is said, used an alloy of copper and tin for such purposes; and that might perhaps be harder than brass, which is composed chiefly of copper and zinc." "had they good houses to live in, grandma?" asked ned. "yes," she replied; "even those of the common people were much better than the log huts of our western settlers, or the turf-built shanties of the irish peasantry. some were thirty feet square and contained several rooms each, and some had cellars in which the people stored their grain. the houses of the caciques were built on mounds or terraces, and sometimes had porticos, and the walls of some were hung with prepared buckskin which resembled tapestry, while others had carpets of the same material. some of their temples had sculptured ornaments. a portuguese gentleman tells of one on the roof or cupola of a temple which was a carved bird with gilded eyes. "the religion of the natchez resembled that of the peruvians; they worshipped the sun as the source of light and heat, or a symbol of the divine goodness and wisdom. they believed in the immortality of the human soul and in future rewards and punishments; in the existence of a supreme and omnipotent deity called the great spirit and also in an evil spirit of inferior power, who was supposed to govern the seasons and control the elements. they seem not to have been image-worshippers until the spaniards made them such. their government was despotic, but not tyrannical. they were ruled by their chiefs, whose authority was patriarchal, who were like popes or bishops, rather than princes, but who never abused their power." grandma elsie paused as if she had finished her narration and ned exclaimed, "oh, that isn't all, grandma, is it?" "all of my part of the account, for the present at least," she said with her sweet smile. then turning to lucilla: "you will tell us the story of the princess xualla, will you not?" "you could surely do it much better than i, grandma elsie," was the modest rejoinder; "but if you wish it i will do my best." "we do," replied several voices, and lucilla, encouraged by a look and smile from her father which seemed to speak confidence in her ability, at once began. "it seems that de soto, not finding there the gold for which he had come, and encouraged by the indians, who wanted to be rid of him, to think that it might be discovered in regions still remote, started again upon his quest, taking a northerly or northwesterly direction. "as they journeyed on they came to a part of florida governed by a female cacique--a beautiful young girl called the princess xualla. her country was a fine open one, well cultivated. they reached the neighborhood of her capital--a town on the farther side of a river--about an hour before nightfall. here they encamped and were about to seize some indians to get from them information of the country and people. but some others on the farther side of the stream hastened over in a canoe to ask what was wanted. "de soto had had a chair of state placed on the margin of the stream and placed himself in it. the indians saluted him and asked whether he was for peace or for war. he replied that he wished to be at peace and hoped they would supply him with provisions for his army. "they answered that they wished to be at peace, but the season had been one of scarcity and they had barely enough food for themselves. their land, they said, was governed by a maiden lady and they would report to her of the arrival of the strangers and what they demanded. "they then returned to their canoe and paddled back to the town to carry the news to the princess and chieftains. the spaniards, watching the canoe, saw those in it received by a crowd of their countrymen at the landing place, and that their news seemed to cause some commotion. but soon several canoes left the wharf and came toward the spaniards. the first was fitted up with a tasteful canopy and various decorations. it was filled with women all gayly dressed, among them the princess, the splendor of whose appearance almost dazzled the eyes of the beholders. there were five or six other canoes, which held her principal officers and attendants. "when the boats reached the shore the indians disembarked and placed a seat for their lady opposite to de soto's chair of state. she saluted the strangers with grace and dignity, then, taking her seat, waited in silence as if expecting her visitors to begin the conference. "for several minutes de soto gazed upon her with feelings of admiration and reverence. he had seldom seen a more beautiful female, or one in whom the conscious pride of elevated rank was so nicely balanced with womanly reserve and youthful modesty. she seemed about nineteen years of age, had perfectly regular features and an intellectual countenance, a beautiful form, and she was richly dressed. her robe and mantilla were of the finest woven cloth of native manufacture and as white and delicate of texture as the finest linen of europe. her garments were bordered with a rich brocade composed of feathers and beads of various colors interwoven with the material of the cloth. she wore also a profusion of pearls and some glittering ornaments which the spaniards supposed to be of gold. her name was xualla and she ruled over several provinces. "juan ortiz, being acquainted with several indian dialects, acted as interpreter and told of the needs of the spaniards. xualla was sorry the harvest had been so poor that she had little ability to relieve their wants. she invited them to fix their quarters in her principal village while it was convenient for them to stay in the neighborhood. then she took from her neck a necklace of pearls of great value and requested juan ortiz to present it to the governor, as it would not be modest for her to give it herself. "de soto arose, took it respectfully, and presented a ruby ring in return, taking it from his own finger. that seems to have been considered a ratification of peace between them. the spanish troops were taken over the river and quartered in the public square in the centre of the town and the princess sent them a supply of good provisions, and poultry and other delicacies for de soto's table. "xualla's mother was living in retirement about twelve leagues from her daughter's capital. xualla invited her to come and see these strange people--the spaniards--but she declined and reproved her daughter for entertaining travellers of whom she knew nothing. and events soon showed that she was right; for the spaniards, acting with their usual perfidy, made xualla a prisoner, robbed the people, the temples and burial places, and tried to get possession of her mother. xualla was urged and probably finally compelled by threats to direct them to the mother's abode. "a young indian warrior, evidently occupying some prominent position under her government, was given directions which were not heard or understood by the spaniards. he made a sign of obedience, then turned to the spaniards and gave them to understand that he was ready to be their conductor. one of them, named juan anasco, had been selected to go in search of the widow, and now thirty spaniards, under his command, started on that errand. "as they proceeded on their way the young chief seemed to grow more melancholy. after travelling about five miles they stopped for a rest, and while the soldiers were taking some refreshments the guide sat in pensive silence by the side of the road, refusing to partake of the repast. he laid aside his mantle, or cloak, which was made of the finest of sable furs, took off his quiver, and began to draw out the arrows one by one. "the curiosity of the spaniards was excited; they drew near and admired the arrows, which were made of reeds, feathered with the dark plumage of the crow or raven, and variously pointed, some with bones properly shaped, others with barbs of very hard wood, while the last one in the quiver was armed with a piece of flint cut in a triangular form and exceedingly sharp. this he held in his hand while the spaniards were examining the others, and suddenly he plunged the barb of flint into his throat and fell dead. "the other indians stood aghast and began to fill the air with their lamentations. from them i presume it was that the spaniards then learned that the young chief was affianced to the princess and was very much beloved and respected by the whole nation. he had committed suicide to escape betraying the mother of his betrothed into the hands of the spaniards. in obedience to the order of the princess he had undertaken to guide those cruel enemies to the widow's hiding place, but he well knew that she was forced to give the order and that the carrying out of it would be the cause of increased trouble to her and her parent, and he had told one of the indians who were of the party that it would be better for him to die than to be the means of increasing the afflictions of those whom he so dearly loved. "the grief and despair of xualla, when she heard of the death of her betrothed, were so great that even the spaniards were moved to pity. for several days she shut herself up in her own dwelling and was not seen by either the spaniards or her own people. "in the meantime the spaniards were robbing the tombs and temples of the country, finding great spoil there. "about a week after the death of the young chief, de soto told xualla she must send another guide with a party of spaniards to her mother's habitation. she promptly and decidedly refused to do so, saying she had been justly punished once for consenting to place her poor mother in his power, and no fears for herself would ever make her do so again. she said he had made her as miserable as she could be, and now she set him at defiance. she wished she had listened to the advice of her wise counsellors and driven him away from her shores when he first came with his false and deceitful promises of peace and friendship; for she would have saved herself from that sorrow and remorse which now made her life insupportable. 'why do you still remain in my country?' she asked. 'are there no other lands to be robbed, no other people to be made miserable? here there is nothing for you to do; you have taken all we had, and you can add nothing to our wretchedness. go, coward as you are! cease to make war on helpless women; and if you must be a villain, let your conduct prove that you are a man!'" "i think she was very brave to talk to him in that way," said elsie. "did he kill her for it?" "no," replied lucilla, "he was polite and courteous as usual, but told her that the king of spain was the true sovereign and lawful proprietor of the country over which she claimed to be princess, and that, in all those matters which had offended her, the spanish army had acted under the authority of that great monarch, to whom she herself was bound to render obedience. "next he told her she must accompany the spaniards on their march as far as the border of her dominions and that she would be expected to control her subjects and to make them entirely submissive to the spaniards. he promised that she should be treated with the respect and delicacy due to her rank and sex. "but the one who tells the story says she did not receive such usage as she deserved. it was on the d day of may, , that the spaniards left cofachiqui, compelling the princess to accompany them and requiring her to call upon her subjects to carry burdens for them from one stopping place to another. they passed through a delightful valley called xualla, which had many groves, plantations, and pasture grounds. on the seventh day they came to a province called chulaque, supposed to have been inhabited by a tribe of cherokees. but before the spaniards had reached this point xualla had contrived to escape, assisted by two of her female slaves who were in attendance upon her." "oh, i hope they didn't catch her again--the spaniards, i mean," exclaimed ned. "no," replied lucilla; "de soto would not allow her to be pursued." "did he and his men stay there in that beautiful valley, lu?" asked elsie. "no; as he could not find the gold he so coveted in florida, he travelled on in a westerly direction till he reached the mississippi; a hard journey through a wilderness of forests and marshes. he could nowhere find the gold he so coveted, became discouraged and worn out, was stricken with malignant fever, and died on the banks of the mississippi in june, ." "a victim to the love of gold, like so many of his countrymen," sighed grandma elsie. "the bible tells us 'the love of money is the root of all evil,' and history repeats the lesson. the love of money led to pizarro's wicked attack upon the peruvians, and the conquest of that country was a source of trouble and calamity to all, or nearly all who were concerned in it. as soon as de soto left, after the capture of cuzco, the victors began to quarrel with each other for the spoils. almagro provoked a war with pizarro, was taken prisoner and strangled. gonzalo pizarro was beheaded by his own countrymen. another of the brothers, hernando, returned to spain, where he was thrown into prison and kept there for many years. francisco pizarro himself fell a victim to the resentment of almagro's soldiers. he was assaulted in his own palace, where he had just finished his dinner when the avengers entered. all his servants and guests except his half-brother, martinez de alcantara, instantly fled and abandoned him to his fate. it was midday when the assassins entered the palace with drawn weapons and loudly proclaiming their intention to kill the tyrant. there were upward of a thousand persons in the plaza, but no one opposed them; they merely looked coldly on, saying to each other, 'these men are going to kill the governor.'" "he deserved it for killing almagro, didn't he, grandma?" asked ned. "he certainly did," replied grandma elsie. "but they should, if possible, have given him a trial; everyone has a right to that. it is right that murderers should be put to death, lawfully--for the bible says, 'whoso sheddeth man's blood, by man shall his blood be shed.' history tells us it is probable that not more than twenty spaniards in getting the mastery of the great empire of peru--one of the largest upon earth--became rich, and in the end they made nothing; all that they gained was ruin--individual and national. few, if any of them, carried back to their own land any evidences of their success. they dissipated their ill-gotten riches in riotous living, or lost them by unfortunate speculations. "i must tell you of the fate of another of pizarro's band--the priest vincent, or valverde. he counselled, or consented to, many of the most enormous crimes committed by that monster of cruelty and avarice pizarro, who, after some years of their association in crime, made him bishop of cuzco. in november, , he (vincent) went with a considerable number of spaniards, who had served under pizarro, to the island of puna, where they were all massacred by the indians. on that very island, about nine years before, pizarro had butchered the people, vincent conniving at the crime. the historian says 'the murderers slandered the archangel michael, by pretending that he assisted them in their bloody performance; but no angel interposed when vincent and his fellow assassins were about to be put to death by the infidels.'" chapter v. the next day, by grandma elsie's invitation, the students of the history of florida gathered at ion, and chester took his turn in relating some of the facts he had come upon in his reading. "de soto," he said, "died in june, . nearly twenty years later--in february, --two good vessels under command of captain jean ribaut, a french naval officer of experience and repute, were sent out by admiral coligny, the chief of the protestants in france, to establish colonies in unexplored countries where the protestants would be at liberty to follow the dictates of their consciences without fear of persecution. "the admiral obtained a patent from charles ix., armed those two ships, put in them five hundred and fifty veteran soldiers and sailors, besides many young noblemen who embarked as volunteers, and appointed ribaut as commander. "they made a prosperous voyage, going directly to the coast of florida, avoiding the routes in which they were likely to meet spanish vessels, as the success of their expedition depended upon secrecy. "on the th of april they sighted a cape which ribaut named françois. it is now one of the headlands of matanzas inlet. the next day he discovered the mouth of a river which he named may, because they entered it on the st day of that month, but which is now called the st. johns. here they landed and erected a monument of stone with the arms of france engraved upon it. it is said to have been placed upon a little sand hillock in the river. they re-embarked and sailed northward, landing occasionally and finding themselves well received by the many indians, to whom they made little presents such as looking-glasses and bracelets. they continued to sail northward till they entered the harbor of port royal, where they anchored. there they built a small fort upon a little island and called it fort charles, in honor of the king of france. "ribaut then selected twenty-five men to remain in the fort, and one of his trusted lieutenants, charles d'albert, to command them; gave them a supply of ammunition and provisions and left with a parting salute of artillery, replied to from the fort. with that the vessels sailed away for france, from which they had been absent about four months. "for some time the colony prospered, and made various excursions among the indians, who received and treated them well. but finally this effort to found a colony proved a failure. "in rené de laudonnière was charged with the direction of a new one--this also sent out by coligny. three vessels were given him, and charles ix. made him a present of fifty thousand crowns. he took with him skilful workmen and several young gentlemen who asked permission to go at their own expense. he landed in florida on the d of june, sailed up the river st. johns, and began the building of a fort which he named caroline in honor of the king. "the indians proved friendly. but soon the young gentlemen who had volunteered to come with him complained of being forced to labor like common workmen, and fearing that they would excite a mutiny, he sent the most turbulent of them back to france on one of his vessels. "but the trouble increased among the remaining colonists and he sent out part of them under the orders of his lieutenant, to explore the country. a few days later some sailors fled, taking with them the two boats used in procuring provisions; and others, who had left france only with the hope of making their fortunes, seized one of his ships and went cruising in the gulf of mexico. also the deserters had had a bad influence upon the indians, who now refused to supply the colonists with provisions, and they were soon threatened with famine. i cannot see why they should have been, with abundance of fish in river and sea, and wild game and fruits in the woods," remarked chester, then went on with his story. "the historians tell us that they lived for some time on acorns and roots, and when at the last extremity were saved by the arrival of captain john hawkins, august , . he showed them great kindness, furnishing them with provisions and selling to laudonnière one of his ships in which they might return to france. "in telling the story of his visit to florida hawkins mentions the abundance of tobacco, sorrel, maize, and grapes, and ascribes the failure of the french colony 'to their lack of thrift, as in such a climate and soil, with marvellous store of deer and divers other beasts, all men may live.' "laudonnière was waiting for a favorable wind to set sail, when jean ribaut arrived with seven vessels carrying supplies and provisions, some emigrants of both sexes, and four hundred soldiers. he told laudonnière his loyalty was suspected by the french court, and that he had been deprived of the governorship of florida. that news only made laudonnière the more eager to go back to france that he might justify himself. "after landing his troops ribaut went to explore the country, leaving some of his men to guard the ships. ribaut's arrival was on the th of august. on the th of september the french in his vessels sighted a large fleet approaching and asked their object. 'i am pedro menendez de aviles, who has come to hang and behead all protestants in these regions,' was the haughty reply of the fleet's commander. 'if i find any catholic he shall be well treated, but every heretic shall die.' "the french fleet, surprised and not strong enough to cope with the spaniards, cut their cables and left, and menendez entered an inlet which he called st. augustin, and there began to intrench himself. "ribaut called together all his forces and resolved to attack the spaniards, contrary to the advice of laudonnière and all his officers. on the th of september he embarked for that purpose, but was scarcely at sea when a hurricane dispersed his fleet. then the spaniards attacked fort caroline. "laudonnière was still in the fort, but was sick and had only about a hundred men, scarcely twenty of them capable of bearing arms. the spaniards took the fort, massacred all the sick, the women and children, and hanged the soldiers who fell into their hands. "after doing all he could to defend the fort laudonnière cut his way through the enemy and plunged into the woods, where he found some of his soldiers who had escaped. he said what he could for their encouragement and during the night led them to the seashore, where they found a son of ribaut with three vessels. on one of these--a small brig--laudonnière, jacques ribaut, and a few others escaped from the spaniards and carried the news of the disaster to france. "laudonnière's purpose had been to rejoin and help jean ribaut, but his vessel being driven out to sea, he was unable to carry out that intention. "three days after the fort was taken ribaut's ships were wrecked near cape canaveral, and he at once marched in three divisions toward fort caroline. when the first division came near the site of the fort they were attacked by the spaniards, surrendered to menendez, and were all put to death. a few days later ribaut arrived with his party, and as menendez pledged his word that they should be spared, they surrendered and were all murdered, menendez killing ribaut with his own hand. their bodies were hung on the surrounding trees with the inscription, 'executed, not as frenchmen, but as lutherans.'" "lutherans?" echoed ned inquiringly. "yes; meaning protestants," replied chester. "that was an age of great cruelty. satan was very busy, and multitudes were called upon to seal their testimony to christ with their blood. "but to go on with the story. about two years after a gallant frenchman--dominic de gourgues, by name--got up an expedition to avenge the massacre of his countrymen by the spaniards at fort caroline. he came to florida with three small vessels and a hundred and eighty-four men, secured the help of the natives, attacked the fort--now called by the spaniards fort san mateo--and captured the entire garrison. many of the captives were killed by the indians, the rest de gourgues hanged upon the trees on which menendez had hanged the huguenots, putting over the corpses the inscription, 'i do this, not as to spaniards, nor as to outcasts, but as to traitors, thieves, and murderers.' his work of revenge accomplished, de gourgues set sail for france." "oh," sighed little elsie, "what dreadful things people did do in those days! i'm glad i didn't live then instead of now." "as we all are," responded her mother; "glad for you and for ourselves." "yes," said chester; "and i think i have now come to a suitable stopping place. there seems to me little more in florida's history that we need recount." "no," said grandma elsie, "it seems to be nothing but a round of building and destroying, fighting and bloodshed, kept up between the spaniards and the french; the english also taking part; the indians too, and in later years negroes also. in the british captured havana and in the treaty following the next year great britain gave cuba to spain in exchange for florida. "florida took no part in the revolutionary war and became a refuge for many loyalists, as it was afterward for fugitive slaves. in florida was returned to spanish rule, great britain exchanging it for the bahamas." "and when did we get it, grandma?" asked ned. "in , by a treaty between our country and spain." "then the fighting stopped, i suppose?" "no; the seminole wars followed, lasting from to . florida was admitted into the union in , seceded in , bore her part bravely and well through the civil war, and at its close a state convention repealed the ordinance of secession." "so since that she has been a part of our union like the rest of our states; hasn't she, grandma?" asked ned. "yes; a part of our own dear country--a large and beautiful state." "and probably it won't be long now till some of us, at least, will see her," observed grace with satisfaction. "how soon will the _dolphin_ be ready, papa?" "by the time we are," replied the captain, "which will be as soon as max can join us." "dear max! i long for the time when he will be with us again," said violet. "i suppose by this time he knows how to manage a vessel almost as well as you do, papa?" observed ned in an inquiring tone. "i hope so," his father replied with a smile. "so the passengers may all feel very safe, i suppose," said mrs. lilburn. "and that being the case you are willing to be one of them, cousin annis, are you not?" queried violet hospitably. "more than willing; glad and grateful to you and the captain for the invitation to be, as my husband is also, i know." "i am neither able nor desirous to deny that, my dear," laughed cousin ronald. "ah, ha; ah, ha; um, hm! it will be my first visit to florida, and i'm thinking we'll have a grand time of it--looking up the sites and scenes of the old histories we've been reading and chatting over." chapter vi. the yacht was ready in due season, and the weather being favorable captain raymond invited as many of the connection as could be comfortably accommodated on board, to go with him to witness the graduation of max and his classmates. certainly his own immediate family, mr. and mrs. dinsmore and grandma elsie would be of that number; evelyn leland also and cousins ronald and annis lilburn. max's joy in meeting them all--especially his father and the others of his own immediate family--was evidently very great, for it was the first sight he had had of any of them for two years or more. he passed his examination successfully, received his diploma, and was appointed to the engineer corps of the navy. he received many warm congratulations and valuable gifts from friends and relatives; but the pleasure in his father's eyes, accompanied by the warm, affectionate clasp of his hand, and his look of parental pride in his firstborn, was a sweeter reward to the young man than all else put together. "you are satisfied with me, father?" he asked in a low aside. "entirely so, my dear boy," was the prompt and smiling rejoinder; "you have done well and made me a proud and happy father. and now, if you are quite ready for the homeward-bound trip, we will go aboard the yacht at once." "i am entirely ready, sir," responded max in joyful tones; "trunk packed and good-byes said." but they were detained for a little, some of captain raymond's old friends coming up to congratulate him and his son on the latter's successful entrance into the most desirable corps of the navy. then, on walking down to the wharf, they found the _dolphin's_ dory waiting for them and saw that the rest of their party was already on board, on deck and evidently looking with eager interest for their coming. max remarked it with a smile, adding, "how the girls have grown, father! and how lovely they all are! girls that any fellow might be proud to claim as his sisters--and friend. evelyn, i suppose, would hardly let me claim her as a sister." "i don't know," laughed his father; "she once very willingly agreed to a proposition from me to adopt her as my daughter." "yes? i think she might well be glad enough to do that; but to take me for a brother would not perhaps be quite so agreeable." "well, your mamma vi objecting to having so old a daughter, we agreed to consider ourselves brother and sister; so i suppose you can consider her your aunt, if you wish." "there now, father, what a ridiculous idea!" laughed max. "not so very," returned his father, "since aunts are sometimes younger than their nephews." but they had reached the yacht and the conversation went no farther. in another moment they were on deck, and the dear relatives and friends there crowding about max to tell of their joy in having him in their midst again and in knowing that he had so successfully finished his course of tuition and fully entered upon the profession chosen as his life work. max, blushing with pleasure, returned hearty thanks and expressed his joy in being with them again. "the two years of absence have seemed a long time to be without a sight of your dear faces," he said, "and i feel it a very great pleasure to be with you all again." "and it will be a delight to get home once more, won't it?" asked grace, hanging lovingly on his arm. "indeed it will," he responded; "and getting aboard the dear old yacht seems like a long step in that direction; particularly as all the family and so many other of my dear friends are here to welcome me." "well, we're starting," said ned. "the sailors have lifted anchor and we begin to move down stream." at that a silence fell upon the company, all gazing out upon the wintry landscape and the vessels lying at anchor in the river as they passed them one after another. but a breeze had sprung up, the air was too cool for comfort, and presently all went below. then came the call to the table, where they found an abundance of good cheer awaiting them. the meal was enlivened by much cheerful chat, max doing his full share of it in reply to many questions in regard to his experiences during the two years of his absence; especially of the last few weeks in which he had not been heard from, except in a rather hurried announcement of his arrival at annapolis. they were all making much of the fine young fellow, but, as his father noticed with pleasure, it did not seem to spoil him. his manner and speech were modest and unassuming, and he listened with quiet respect to the remarks and queries of the older people. the younger ones were quiet listeners to all. at the conclusion of the meal all withdrew to the saloon and the younger ones collected in a group by themselves. max, seated near to evelyn leland, turned to her and in a grave and quiet tone remarked, "it seems a long time since we have had a bit of chat together, aunt evelyn." at that her eyes opened wide in astonishment. "aunt?" she repeated. "why--why, max, what do you mean by calling me that?" "i supposed it was the proper title for my father's sister," he returned with a twinkle of fun in his eye. "oh!" she laughed. "i had nearly forgotten that bargain made with the captain so long ago. and he has told you of it?" "yes; it was in answer to a remark of mine showing that i should like to include you among my sisters. but can you hold that relationship to my father and to me at the same time?" "that is a question to be carefully considered," she laughed; "and in the meantime suppose you just go back to the old way of calling me simply evelyn or eva. and shall i call you max, as of old?" "yes, yes, indeed! it's a bargain! and now, girls," glancing from her to his sisters, "as i haven't heard from home in some weeks, perhaps you may have some news to tell me. has anything happened? or is anything out of the usual course of events likely to happen?" at that grace laughed, lucilla blushed and smiled, and little ned burst out in eager, joyful tones, "oh, yes, brother max! papa is going to take us all to florida in a day or two, you as well as the rest." "indeed!" exclaimed max, "that will be very pleasant, i think." "yes," continued neddie, "it's because cousin dr. arthur says chester must go to get cured of his bad cough that he's had so long; and of course lu must go if he does--cousin chester, i mean--and if lu goes the rest of us ought to go too. don't you think so, brother max?" max's only reply for the moment was a puzzled look from one to another. "you may as well know it at once, max," lucilla said with a smile. "chester and i are engaged, and naturally he wants us all with him." "is it possible!" exclaimed max, giving her a look of surprise and interest. "why, lu, i thought father was quite determined to keep his daughters single till they were far beyond your present age." "yes," she returned with a smile; "but circumstances alter cases. chester saved my life--at nearly the expense of his own," she added with a tremble in her voice. "so father let him tell me--what he wanted to, and allowed us to become engaged. but that is to be all, for a year or more." "saved your life, lu? tell me all about it, do, for i haven't heard the story." "you remember the anger of the burglar whom you and i testified against some years ago, and his threat to be revenged on me?" "yes; and that in one of father's letters i was told that he had escaped from prison. and he attacked you?" "yes; he fired at me from some bushes by the roadside, but missed, chester, who was with me, backing our horses just in time; then they fired simultaneously at each other and the convict fell dead, and chester terribly wounded, while i escaped unhurt. but i thought father had written you all about it." "if so that letter must have missed me," said max. "and chester hasn't recovered entirely?" "not quite; his lungs seem weak, but we are hoping that a visit to florida will perfect his cure." "i hope so indeed! i have always liked chester and shall welcome him as a brother-in-law, since he has saved my sister's life and won her heart." "and that of her father," added the captain, coming up at that moment and laying a hand on lucilla's shoulder while he looked down at her with eyes of love and pride. "he has proved himself worthy of the gift of her hand." "i think i must have missed one of your letters, father," said max; "for surely you did not intend to keep me in ignorance of all this?" "no, my son; i wrote you a full account of all but the engagement, leaving that to be told on your arrival here. one or more of my recent letters must have missed you." "too bad!" exclaimed max, "for a letter from my father, or from any one of the home folks, is a great treat when i am far away on shipboard or on some distant shore." "and, oh, max, but we feel it a great treat when one comes from you," said grace. "ah! that's very good of you all," he returned with a pleased smile. "but i think we may look forward to a fine time for the next few weeks or months, as we expect to spend them together." "yes," said his father, then asked, "are you well up in the history of florida, my son?" "not so well as i should like to be, sir," returned max. "but perhaps i can refresh my memory, and also learn something new on that subject, while we are on the way there." "yes; we have a good supply of books in that line, which we will carry along for your benefit--and to perhaps refresh our own memories occasionally. and possibly the girls may like to recount to you some of the tales of early times in that part of our country, which have interested them of late," the captain continued with a smiling glance at evelyn and his daughters. all three at once and heartily expressed their entire willingness to do so, and max returned his thanks with the gallant remark that that would be even more delightful than reading the accounts for himself. "papa, can't we keep right on now to florida?" asked ned. "no, my son; there are several reasons why that is not practicable--matters to be attended to at home, luggage to be brought aboard the yacht, and so forth. besides, your brother no doubt wants a sight of woodburn before setting out upon a journey that is likely to keep us away from there for some weeks." "yes, indeed, father, you are right about that," said max. "i have always esteemed my woodburn home a lovely and delightful place, and dare say i shall find it even more beautiful now than when i saw it last." "then we'll expect to hear you say so when you get there," said lucilla, with a smile of pleasure and assurance. and she was not disappointed; when at length woodburn was reached max's admiration and delight were evident and fully equal to her expectations. but of necessity his stay at this time must be brief, scarce allowing opportunity to see all the relatives and connections residing in that neighborhood, if he would not miss having a share in the contemplated trip to florida. chapter vii. the _dolphin_ carried to florida the same party that she had brought from annapolis, with the addition of chester dinsmore and dr. harold travilla; while some others of the connection were intending to travel thither by land. the voyage was but a short one, the weather pleasant--though cool enough to make the cabin a more comfortable place for family gatherings than the deck--the vessel in fine condition, well manned, well officered, and provided with everything necessary for convenience, comfort, and enjoyment. amusements--such as music, books, and games--were always to be had in abundance aboard the yacht, but on this occasion the collection of information in regard to the history and geography of florida took precedence of everything else. as soon as the vessel was well under way they gathered about a table in the saloon on which were maps and books bearing upon the subject, and while examining them chatted freely and gayly in regard to which points they should visit, and how long remain in each place. "that last is a question which would better be decided upon the spot," captain raymond said when it had been asked once or twice. "there is little or nothing to hurry us, so that we may move forward, or tarry in one place or another, as suits our convenience or inclination." "we will call at jacksonville, i suppose, father?" lucilla said inquiringly. "i see it is spoken of as the travel-centre and metropolis of the state." "yes; and if my passengers desire to go there we will do so." "can we go all the way in the _dolphin_, papa?" asked little elsie. "yes; i think, however, we will call at fernandina first, as it is nearer." "it is on an island, is it not?" asked evelyn. "yes; amelia island, at the mouth of st. mary's river." "there are a very great many islands on florida's coast, i think," said elsie. "i was looking at the map to-day and it seemed to me there were thousands." "so there are," said her father; "islands of various sizes, from a mere dot in some cases to from thirty to fifty miles of length in others." "then we won't stop at all of them, i suppose," remarked ned sagely; "only at the big ones, won't we, papa?" "yes; and not at every one of them either," answered his father, with a look of amusement. "ten thousand or more stoppages would use up rather too much of our time." "yes, indeed!" laughed ned. "most of them i'd rather just look at as we pass by." "we will want to see st. augustine and other places mentioned in the history we have been reading," said grace. "certainly," replied her father, "we will not neglect them. the mouth of st. john's river is about the first we will come to. do you remember, elsie, what they called it, and what they did there?" "oh, yes, papa," she answered eagerly. "they named the river may, and set up a monument of stone on a little sand bank in the river and engraved the arms of france upon it." "quite correct, daughter," the captain said in a tone of pleased commendation; "i see you have paid good attention to our reading and talks on the subject, and i hope soon to reward you with a sight of the scenes of the occurrences mentioned; though of course they are greatly changed from what they were nearly four hundred years ago." "wasn't jacksonville formerly known by another name, captain?" asked evelyn. "yes," he replied, "the indian name was waccapilatka--meaning cowford or oxford--but in it became a white man's town and in its name was changed to jackson, in honor of general andrew jackson. i think we should go up the st. johns to that city before going farther down the coast." "yes," said mrs. travilla, "and then on up the river and through the lakes to de leon springs. we all want to see that place." all in the company seemed to approve of that plan and it was presently decided to carry it out. they did not stop at fernandina, only gazed upon it in passing, made but a short stay at jacksonville, then passed on up the river and through the lakes to de leon springs. here they found much to interest them;--the great mineral spring, one hundred feet in diameter and thirty feet deep, its water so clear that the bottom could be distinctly seen and so impregnated with soda and sulphur as to make it most healthful, giving ground for the legend that it is the veritable fountain of perpetual youth sought out by ponce de leon. the ruins of an old spanish mill close at hand interested them also. these consisted of an immense brick smokestack and furnace covered with vines; two large iron wheels, thrown down when the mill was destroyed, in a way to cause one to overlap the other, and now a gum tree grows up through them so that the arms of the wheels are deeply imbedded in its trunk. our friends found this so charming a spot that they spent some days there. then returning down the river, to the ocean, they continued their voyage in a southerly direction. their next pause was at st. augustine, which they found a most interesting old city--the oldest in the united states--noted for its picturesque beauty, its odd streets ten to twenty feet wide, without sidewalks, its crumbling old city gates, its governor's palace, its coquina-built houses with overhanging balconies, its sea walls and old fort, its moorish cathedral, and the finest and most striking hotel in the world. but what interested our party more than anything else was the old fort--called san marco by the spaniard, but now bearing the american name of fort marion. they went together to visit it and were all greatly interested in its ancient and foreign appearance; in the dried-up moat, the drawbridges, the massive arched entrance, dark under-ways and dungeons. "papa," said elsie, "it's a dreadful place, and very, very old, isn't it?" "yes," he answered; "it was probably begun in . about how long ago was that?" "more than three hundred years," she returned after a moment's thought. "oh, that is a long, long while!" "yes," he said, "a very long while, and we may be very thankful that our lives were given us in this time rather than in that; for it was a time of ignorance and persecution." "yes, yes, ignorance and persecution;" the words came in sepulchral tones from the depths of the nearest dungeon, "here have i lain for three hundred years with none to pity or help. oh, 'tis a weary while! shall i never, never escape?" "oh, papa," cried elsie in tones of affright, and clinging to his hand, "how dreadful! can't we help him out?" "i don't think there is anyone in there, daughter," the captain said in reassuring tones, her uncle harold adding, with a slight laugh, "and if there is he must surely be pretty well used to it by this time." all their little company had been startled at first and felt a thrill of horror at thought of such misery, but now they all laughed and turned to cousin ronald, as if saying surely it was his doing. "yes," he said, "the voice was mine; and thankful we may be that those poor victims of such hellish cruelty have long, long since been released from their pain." "oh, i am glad to know that," exclaimed elsie with a sigh of relief; "but please let's go away from here, for i think it's a dreadful place." "yes," said her father, "we have seen it all now and will try to find something pleasanter to look at." and with that they turned and left the old fort. captain raymond and his little company, feeling in no haste to continue their journey, lingered for some time in st. augustine and its neighborhood. one day they visited an island where some friends were boarding. it was a very pretty place. there were several cottages standing near together amid the orange groves, one of them occupied by the proprietor--a finely educated austrian physician--and his wife, the others by the boarders. the party from the _dolphin_ were much interested in the story of these people told them by their friend. "the doctor," he said, "had come over to america before our civil war, and was on the island when union troops came into the neighborhood. he was one day walking in the woods when suddenly a party of union soldiers appeared and, seeing him, took him for a spy, seized him and declared their intention to shoot him. they tied his hands behind his back, led him to what they deemed a suitable spot on the edge of a thick part of the wood, then turned and walked away to station themselves at the proper distance for firing. but the instant their eyes were off him the prisoner started into the wood and was out of sight before they were aware that he was making an attempt to escape. "they pursued, but favored by the thick growth of trees and shrubs, he kept out of sight until he reached a palmetto, which he climbed--having contrived to get his hands free as he ran--and there concealed himself among the leaves. he had hardly ensconced himself there before he could see and hear his foes running past beneath his place of shelter, beating about the bushes and calling to each other to make sure of catching the rascally spy. but he was safely hidden and at length they gave up the search for the time. "but they had encamped in the neighborhood and for several days and nights the austrian remained in the tree, afraid to descend lest he should be caught and shot. he did not starve, as he could eat of the cabbage which grows at the top of that tree, but he suffered from thirst and lack of sleep, as he could rest but insecurely in the treetop. when two or three days and nights had passed he felt that he could stand it no longer; he must get water and food though at the risk of his life. waiting only for darkness and a silence that led him to hope his foes were not near at hand, he descended and cautiously made his way through the wood. he presently reached a house occupied by a woman only, told her his story and asked for food and drink. her heart was touched with pity for his hard case, she supplied his wants and told him she would put food in a certain spot where he could get it the next night. "he thanked her and told her he wanted to get away from that neighborhood, as there was no safety for him there. she said she thought she might be able to secure a skiff in which he could go up or down the coast and so perhaps escape the soldiers. he was, you know, a physician--not a sailor--and knew but little about managing a boat; but anything seemed better than his present situation, so he thanked her and said he would be glad to try it. "shortly afterward she informed him that the boat was ready. he entered it, took up the oars, and started down the coast. but a storm came on, he was unable to manage his small craft, it was upset by the waves, he was thrown into the water and presently lost consciousness. when he recovered it he was lying in a berth on board a much larger vessel than the canoe, a kindly-looking man leaning over him using restoratives. 'ah, doctor,' he said with a pleased smile, 'i am glad, very glad to have succeeded in restoring you to consciousness; glad to have been able to rescue you from a watery grave.' "the doctor expressed his thanks, but acknowledged that he did not know this new friend, who seemed to know him; then the other asked if he did not remember having prescribed for a sick man in such a time and at such a place. 'it was i,' he added; 'you then saved my life, and i am most happy to have been enabled to save yours from being lost in the ocean.' "the talk went on; the doctor told of his danger, his escape, and his anxiety to keep out of the way of the soldiers until the war should be over. "the captain told him he was bound for philadelphia, and that if he chose he could go there and live in safety to the end of the war and longer. so that was what he did; he stayed there till peace came, and in the meantime met and married a countrywoman of his own, a lovely and amiable lady, whom he brought back with him to florida." "i noticed her as we passed," said grandma elsie; "she is a lovely-looking woman. but have they no children?" "none now; they had two--a son and a daughter--who lived to grow up, were children to be proud of, highly educated by their father, and very fond of each other and of their parents. the son used to act as guide to visitors boarding here in the cottages, going with them on fishing expeditions and so forth. on one of those occasions he was caught in a storm and took cold; that led to consumption and he finally died. they buried him under the orange trees. his sister was so overwhelmed with grief that she fretted herself to death, and now lies by his side." "ah, the poor mother!" sighed grandma elsie. "and the father too," added captain raymond in a moved tone. chapter viii. leaving st. augustine the _dolphin_ pursued her way down the florida coast, pausing here and there for a day or two at the most attractive places, continuing on to the southernmost part of the state, around it, past cape sable and out into the gulf of mexico. then, having accepted an invitation from grandma elsie to visit viamede, they sailed on in a westerly direction. they had pleasant weather during their sojourn in and about florida, but as they entered the gulf a rain storm came up and continued until they neared the port of new orleans. that confined the women and children pretty closely to the cabin and active little ned grew very weary of it. "i wish i could go on deck," he sighed on the afternoon of the second day. "i'm so tired of staying down here where there's nothing to see." as he concluded a voice that sounded like that of a boy about his own age, and seemed to come from the stairway to the deck, said, "i'm sorry for that little chap. suppose i come down there and try to get up a bit of fun for him." "by all means," replied the captain. "we will be happy to have you do so." ned straightened himself up and looked eagerly in the direction of the stairway. "who is it, papa?" he asked. "why, don't you know me?" asked the voice, this time seeming to come from the door of one of the staterooms. "no, i don't," returned ned. "i didn't know there was any boy on board, except myself." "nor did i," said a rough man's voice, "what are you doing here, you young rascal? came aboard to steal, did you?" "nothing but my passage, sir; and i'm not doing a bit of harm," replied the boyish voice. "oh, i guess i know who you are," laughed ned. "at least i'm pretty sure you're either cousin ronald or brother max." at that a loud guffaw right at his ear made the little boy jump with an outcry, "oh, who was that?" "why don't you look and see?" laughed lucilla. "why, it doesn't seem to have been anybody," returned ned, looking around this way and that. "but i'm not going to be frightened, for i just know it's one or the other of our ventriloquists. now, good sirs, please let's have some more of it, for it's real fun." "not much, i should think, after you are in the secret," said max. "it's some, though," said ned, "because it seems so real even when you do know--or guess--who it is that's doing it." "well, now, i'm glad you are so easily pleased and entertained, little fellow," said the voice from the state-room door. "perhaps now the captain will let me pay my fare on the yacht by providing fun for his little son. that oldest one doesn't seem to need any; he gets enough talking with the ladies." "oh, do you, brother max?" asked ned, turning to him. "yes," laughed max; "it's very good fun." "hello!" shouted a voice, apparently from the deck, "mr. raymond, sir, better come up here and see that we don't run foul of that big steamer--or she of us." the captain started to his feet, but max laughed, and said in a mirthful tone, "never mind, father, it's a false alarm, given for ned's amusement." "please don't scare anybody else to amuse me, brother max," said ned, with the air of one practising great self-denial. "i don't think father was really very badly scared," laughed lucilla; "and we may feel pretty safe with two good naval officers and a skilful crew to look out for threatening dangers and help us to avoid them." "that's right, miss; no occasion for anxiety or alarm," said the man's rough voice that had spoken before. "thank you; i don't feel a particle of either," laughed lucilla. "and i am sure neither you nor any of us should, under the care of two such excellent and skilful seamen," added violet in a sprightly tone. "that's right and i reckon you may feel pretty safe--all o' you," said the man's voice. "of course; who's afraid?" cried the boyish voice, close at ned's side. "some of those old spaniards were drowned in this gulf, but that was because they knew nothing about managing a vessel." "oh, yes!" exclaimed ned, "but my father does know how, and so does brother max." "that's a mighty good thing," said the voice, "and we needn't fear shipwreck, but can just devote ourselves to having a good time." "so we can," said ned. "and we do have good times here in the _dolphin_. anybody is pretty sure of good times when papa is at the head of affairs." "quite a complimentary speech from my little son," laughed the captain. "and where are you going in this _dolphin_?" asked the voice. "to new orleans, then to berwick bay and on through the lakes and bayous to my grandma's place--viamede. i've been there before and it's just beautiful." "then i'd like to go too," said the voice. "won't you take me along?" "yes, yes, indeed! whether you are cousin ronald or brother max, i know grandma will make you welcome." at that everybody laughed and his grandma said: "yes, indeed, they are both heartily welcome." "and whichever you are i'm obliged to you for making this fun for me," continued ned. "oh, what was that!" as a loud whistle was heard seemingly close in his rear. he turned hastily about, then laughed as he perceived that there was no one there. "was it you did that, brother max?" he asked. "did it sound like my voice?" asked max. "as much as like any other. but oh, there's the call to supper and i suppose the fun will have to stop for this time." "yes, you can have the fun of eating instead," said his father, leading the way to the table. in due time the next day they reached new orleans, where they paused for a few days of rest and sight-seeing, then returning to their yacht, they passed out into the gulf, up the bay into teche bayou and beyond, through lake and lakelet, past plain and forest, plantation and swamp. the scenery was beautiful; there were miles of smoothly shaven and velvety green lawns, shaded by magnificent oaks and magnolias; there were cool, shady dells carpeted with a rich growth of flowers; lordly villas peering through groves of orange trees, tall white sugar-houses, and long rows of cabins for the laborers. the scenes were not entirely new to anyone on the boat, but were scarcely the less enjoyable for that--so great was their beauty. when they reached their destination and the boat rounded to at the wharf, they perceived a welcoming group awaiting their landing--all the relatives from magnolia, the parsonage, and torriswood. there was a joyful exchange of greetings with them and then with the group of servants standing a little in the rear. in accordance with written directions sent by grandma elsie some days in advance of her arrival, a feast had been prepared and the whole connection in that neighborhood invited to partake of it. and not one older or younger had failed to come, for she was too dearly loved for an invitation from her to be neglected unless the hinderance were such as could not be ignored or set aside. dr. dick percival and his maud were there among the rest; dick's half brother dr. robert johnson, and maud's sister sidney also. they gave a very joyful and affectionate greeting to their brother chester and to lucilla raymond, then attached themselves to her for the short walk from the wharf up to the house. "oh, lu," said maud, "we are so glad that we are to have you for our sister. i don't know any other girl i should be so pleased to have come into the family. and ches will make a good kind husband, i am sure, for he has always been a dear good brother." "indeed he has," said sidney. "and we are hoping that he and frank will come and settle down here near us." "oh, no, indeed!" exclaimed lulu. "i should like to live near you two, but nothing would induce me to make my home so far away from my father. and chester has promised never to take me away from him." "oh, i was hoping you would want to come," said maud. "but ches is one to keep his word; so that settles it." but they had reached the house and here the talk ended for the time. the new arrivals retired to their rooms for a little attention to the duties of the toilet, then all gathered about the well-spread board and made a hearty meal, enlivened by cheerful chat mingled with many an innocent jest and not a little mirthful laughter. it was still early when the meal was concluded, and the next hour or two were spent in pleasant, familiar intercourse upon the verandas or in the beautiful grounds. then the guests began to return to their homes, those with young children leaving first. the torriswood family stayed a little longer, and at their urgent request chester consented to become their guest for the first few days, if no longer. "there are two good reasons why you should do so," said dick in a half-jesting tone: "firstly, i having married your sister, by that we are the most nearly related; and secondly, as bob and i are both physicians, we may be better able to take proper care of you than these good and kind relatives." "dick, dick," remonstrated violet, "how you forget! or is it professional jealousy? have we not been careful to bring along with us one of the very physicians who have had charge of chester's case?" "why, sure enough!" exclaimed dick. "harold, old fellow, i beg your pardon! and to make amends, should i get sick i shall certainly have you called in at once." "which will quite make amends," returned harold, laughing; "as it will give me a good opportunity to punish your impertinence in ignoring my claims as one of the family physicians." "ah!" returned dick, "i perceive that my wiser plan will be to keep well." there was a general laugh, a moment's pause, then robert, sending a smiling glance in sidney's direction, said, "now, dear friends and relatives, sid and i have a communication to make. we have decided to follow the good example set us by our brother and sister--maud and dick--and so we expect in two or three weeks to take each other for better or for worse." the announcement caused a little surprise to most of those present, but everyone seemed pleased; thinking it a suitable match in every way. "i think you have chosen wisely--both of you," said grandma elsie, "and i hope there are many years of happiness in store for you; happiness and usefulness. and, chester," turning to him, "remember that these doors are wide open to you at all times. come back when you will and stay as long as you will." "thank you, cousin; you are most kindly hospitable," chester said with a gratified look and smile. "the two places are so near together that i can readily divide my time between them; which--both being so attractive--is certainly very fortunate for me." "and for all of us," said violet; "as we shall be able to see more of each other than we could if farther apart." "yes; i shall hope and expect to see you all coming in every day," added her mother with hospitable cordiality. "thank you, cousin elsie," said maud, "but, though it is delightful to come here, we must not let it be altogether a one-sided affair. please remember to return our visits whenever you find it convenient and pleasant to do so." with that they took leave and departed, and a little later those constituting the family for the time bade each other good-night, and most of them retired to their sleeping apartments. not quite all of them, however. max, evelyn, and lucilla stepped out upon the veranda again, max remarking, "the grounds are looking bewitchingly beautiful in the moonlight; suppose we take a little stroll down to the bayou." "you two go if you like, but i want to have a word or two with papa," said lucilla, glancing toward her father, who was standing quietly and alone at some little distance, seemingly absorbed in gazing upon the beauties of the landscape. "well, we will not be gone long," said evelyn, as she and max descended the steps while lucilla glided softly in her father's direction. he did not seem aware of her approach until she was close at his side, and laying a hand on his arm, said in her low, sweet tones: "i have come for my dear father's good-night caresses, and to hear anything he may have to say to his eldest daughter." "ah, that is right," he said, turning and putting an arm about her and drawing her into a close embrace. "i hope all goes well with you, dear child. if not, your father is the very one to bring your troubles to." "thank you, dear papa," she said; "if i had any troubles i should certainly bring them to you; but i have not. oh, i do think i am the happiest girl in the land! with your dear love and chester's too. and max with us again; and all of us well and in this lovely, lovely place!" "yes, we have a great deal to be thankful for," he returned. "but you will miss chester, now that he has left here for torriswood." "oh, not very much," she said with a happy little laugh; "for he has assured me that he will be here at least a part of every day; the ride or walk from torriswood being not too long to be taken with pleasure and profit." "and doubtless some of the time you will be there. by the way, you should give sidney something handsome as a wedding present. you may consider what would be suitable and likely to please, consult with the other ladies, and let your father know what the decision is--that he may get the article, or supply the means." "thank you ever so much, father dear," she replied in grateful tones, "but you have given me such a generous supply of pocket money that i don't think i shall need to call upon you for help about this. but i shall ask your advice about what the gift shall be and be sure not to buy anything of which you do not approve." "spoken like my own dear, loving daughter," he said approvingly, and with a slight caress. "by the way, did robert johnson's bit of news make my daughter and her lover a trifle jealous that their engagement must be so long a one?" "not me, papa; i am entirely willing--yes, very glad--to be subject to your orders; very loath to leave the dear home with you and pass from under your care and protection. oh, i sometimes feel as if i could never do it. but then i say to myself, 'but i shall always be my dear father's child and we need not--we will not love each other the less because another claims a share of my affection.' is that not so, papa?" "yes, daughter; and i do not believe anything can ever make either one of us love the other less. but it is growing late and about time for my eldest daughter to be seeking her nest, if she wants to be up with the birds in the morning and ready to share a stroll with her father through these beautiful grounds before breakfast." "yes, sir; but, if you are willing, i should like to wait for evelyn. she and max will be in presently, i think. papa, i do think they have begun to be lovers, and i am glad; for i should dearly love to have eva for a sister." "and i should not object to having her for a daughter," returned the captain, with a pleased little laugh. "and you are not mistaken, so far as max is concerned. he asked me to-day if i were willing that he should try to win the dear girl, and i told him most decidedly so; that i heartily wished him success in his wooing. though, as in your case, i think marriage would better be deferred for a year or two." "yes, max would be quite as much too young for a bridegroom as i for a bride," she said with a slight and amused laugh; "and i don't believe he would disregard his father's advice. all your children love you dearly and have great confidence in your opinion on every subject, father dear." "as i have in their love and willingness to be guided by me," the captain responded in a tone of gratification. "you may wait for evelyn. i think she and max will be in presently. ah, yes; see they are turning this way now." max had given his arm to evelyn as they left the house, and crossing the lawn together they strolled slowly along the bank of the bayou. "oh, such a beautiful night as it is!" exclaimed evelyn, "and the air is so soft and balmy one can hardly realize that in our more northern homes cold february reigns." "no," said max, "and i am glad we are escaping the blustering march winds that will soon be visiting that section. still, for the year round i prefer that climate to this." "yes; but it is very pleasant to be able to go from one section to another as the seasons change," said eva. "i think we are very fortunate people in being able to do it." "yes," returned max, "but after all one's happiness depends far more upon being in congenial society and with loved ones than upon climate, scenery--or anything else. eva," and he turned to her as with sudden determination, "i--i think i can never again be happy away from you. i love you and want you for my own. you have said you would like to be my father's daughter, and i can make you that if you will only let me. say, dearest, oh, say that you will let me--that you will be mine--my own dear little wife." "max, oh, max," she answered in low, trembling tones, "i--i am afraid you don't know me quite as i am--that you would be disappointed--would repent of having said what you have." "never, never! if you will only say yes; if you will only promise to be mine--my own love, my own dear little wife." and putting an arm about her he drew her close, pressing an ardent kiss upon her lips. she did not repulse him, and continuing his endearments and entreaties he at length drew from her an acknowledgment that she returned his love. then presently they turned their steps toward the mansion, as happy a pair as could be found in the whole length and breadth of the land. captain raymond and lucilla were waiting for them, and max, leading evelyn to his father, said in joyous tones, "i have won a new daughter for you, father, and a dear sweet wife for myself. at least she has promised to be both to us one of these days." "ah, i am well pleased," the captain said, taking eva's hand in his, and bending down to give her a fatherly caress. "i have always felt that i should like to take her into my family and do a father's part by her." "oh, captain, you are very, very kind," returned eva, low and feelingly; "there is nobody in the wide world whose daughter i should prefer to be." "and oh, eva, i shall be so glad to have you really my sister!" exclaimed lucilla, giving her friend a warm embrace. "max, you dear fellow, i'm ever so glad and so much obliged to you." "you needn't to be, sis. eva is the one deserving of thanks for accepting one so little worthy of her as this sailor brother of yours," returned max, with a happy laugh. "yes, we will give her all the credit," said the captain; "and hope that you, my son, will do your best to prove yourself worthy of the prize you have won. and now, my dears, it is high time we were all retiring to rest; in order that we may have strength and spirits for the duties and pleasures of to-morrow." evelyn and lucilla were sharing a room communicating directly with the one occupied by grace and little elsie, and that opened into the one where the captain and violet slept. in compliance with the captain's advice the young girls at once retired to their room to seek their couches for the night; but first they indulged in a bit of loving chat. "oh, eva," lucilla exclaimed, holding her friend in a loving embrace, "i am so glad, so very, very glad that we are to be sisters. and max i am sure will make you a good, kind husband. he has always been the best and dearest of brothers to me--as well as to grace and the little ones." "yes, i know it," said evelyn softly. "i know too that your father has always been the best and kindest of husbands and that max is very much like him." "and you love max?" "how could i help it?" asked evelyn, blushing as she spoke. "i thought it was as a dear brother i cared for him, till--till he asked me to--to be his wife; but then i knew better. oh, it was so sweet to learn that he loved me so! and i am so happy! i am not the lonely girl i was this morning--fatherless and motherless and without brother or sister. oh, i have them all now--except the mother," she added with a slight laugh--"for of course your mamma vi is much too young to be that to me." "yes; as she is to be a mother to max, gracie, and me. but with such a father as ours one could do pretty well without a mother. don't you think so?" "yes; he seems to be father and mother both to those of his children who have lost their mother." "he is indeed. but now i must obey his last order by getting to bed as quickly as i can." "i, too," laughed evelyn; "it seems really delightful to have a father to obey." she ended with a slight sigh, thinking of the dear father who had been so long in the better land. chapter ix. lucilla woke at her usual early hour, rose at once, and moving so quietly about as not to disturb evelyn's slumbers, attended to all the duties of the time, then went softly from the room and down to the front veranda, where she found her father pacing slowly to and fro. "ah, daughter," he said, holding out his hand with a welcoming smile, "good-morning. i am glad to see you looking bright and well;" and drawing her into his arms he gave her the usual welcoming caress. "as i feel, papa," she returned, "and i hope you too are quite well." "yes; entirely so. it is a lovely morning and i think we will find a stroll along the bank of the bayou very enjoyable. however, i want you to eat a bit of something first; and here is aunt phillis with oranges prepared in the usual way for an early morning lunch," he added as an elderly negress stepped from the doorway bearing a small silver waiter on which was a dish of oranges ready for eating. "yes, massa captain, and i hopes you, sah, and miss lu kin eat what's heah; dere's plenty moah for de res' ob de folks when dey gets out o' dere beds." "yes," said the captain, helping lucilla and himself, "there is always a great abundance of good cheer where your miss elsie is at the head of affairs." "father," lucilla said as they set off across the lawn, "i am so pleased that max and eva are engaged. i should prefer her for a sister-in-law to anyone else; for i have always loved her dearly since we first met." "yes; i can say the same; she is a dear girl, and max could have done nothing to please me better," was the captain's answering remark. "and she loves you, father," returned lucilla, smiling up into his eyes; "which of course seems very strange to me." "ah? although i know you to be guilty of the very same thing yourself," he returned with an assured smile and pressing affectionately the hand he held in his. "ah, but having been born your child, how can i help it?" she asked with a happy little laugh. then went on, "father, i've been thinking how it would do for you to make that house you have been talking of building near your own, big enough for two families--max's and eva's, chester's and mine." "perhaps it might do," he answered pleasantly, "but it is hardly necessary to consider the question yet." "no, sir," she returned. "oh, i am glad i do not have to leave my sweet home in my father's house for months or maybe years yet. i do so love to be with you that i don't know how i can ever feel willing to leave you; even for chester, whom i do really love very dearly." "and i shall find it very hard to have you leave me," he said. "but we expect to be near enough to see almost as much of each other as we do now." "yes, papa, that's the pleasant part of it," she said with a joyous look; then went on, "chester has been talking to me about plans for the house, but i tell him that, as you said just now, it is hardly time to think about them yet." "there would be no harm in doing so, however," her father said; "no harm in deciding just what you want before work on it is begun. i should like to make it an ideal home for my dear eldest daughter." "thank you, father dear," she said. "i do think you are just the kindest father ever anyone had." "i have no objection to your thinking so," he returned with a pleased smile; then went on to speak of some plans for the building that had occurred to him. "we will examine the plans," he said, "and try to think in what respect each might be improved. i intend my daughter's home to be as convenient, cosey, and comfortable as possible; and you must not hesitate to suggest any improvement that may occur to you." "thank you, papa; how good and kind you are to me! oh, i wish i had been a better daughter to you--never wilful or disobedient." "dear child, you are a great comfort to me and have been for years past," he said; then went on speaking of the plans that he had been considering. in the meantime they had walked some distance along the bank of the bayou, and glancing at his watch the captain said it was time to return, as it was not far from the breakfast hour, and probably they would find most, if not all of the others ready for and awaiting the summons to the table. lucilla had scarcely left her sleeping apartment when eva awoke, and seeing that the sun was shining, arose and made a rapid toilet; careful, though--thinking of max and his interest in her--that it should be neat and becoming. she descended the stairs just as the captain and lucilla were approaching the house on their return from their walk; and max was waiting on the veranda while most of the other guests had gathered in the nearest parlor. eva stepped out upon the veranda and max came swiftly to meet her. "my darling!" he said, low and tenderly, putting his arm about her and giving her an ardent kiss, "my own promised one. you are lovelier than ever. a treasure far beyond my deserts. but as you have given your dear self to me you are mine; and let this seal our compact," slipping upon her finger, as he spoke, a ring set with a very large and brilliant diamond. "oh, how lovely!" she exclaimed, looking at it and then lifting to his face eyes filled with love and joy. "it is very beautiful, dear max, valuable for that reason, but still more for being the emblem of your dear love--love that makes me the happiest girl in the land." "as yours makes me the happiest man. ah, eva dear, i am not worthy of you." "ah," she laughed, "i shall take your opinion on most subjects, but not on that. here comes your father and lu." "good-morning," they said, coming up the steps, the captain adding in jesting tones, "ah, max, my son, you seem to be making an early return to the business begun yesterday." "and something more, captain," eva said, displaying his gift. "is it not lovely?" "oh, beautiful!" exclaimed lucilla. "as handsome a diamond as ever i saw," remarked the captain, examining it critically; "but none too handsome or expensive for a gift to my new daughter that is to be," he added with a smile, and imprinting a kiss upon the small white hand which wore the ring. "shall we join the others in the parlor now? and will you let max tell them of his good fortune? you will neither of you, surely, wish to keep it a secret from friends so near and dear." "i do not," said max; "but it shall be just as you decide, eva dear," he added in low and tender tones, drawing her hand within his arm as he spoke. "i think your--our father's opinions are always right, max," she said with a smile and a blush. "will you go in first, father? you and lu--and we will follow," said max, and the captain at once, taking lucilla's hand in his, led the way. "good-morning to you all, friends and relatives," was his cheerful-toned and smiling address as he entered the room, "i hope you are all well and in good spirits." then, stepping aside, he allowed max to pass him with the blushing evelyn on his arm. he led her up to mrs. travilla, saying, "good-morning, grandma elsie. i want to introduce to you my future wife. for this dear girl has, to my great joy, promised to become that one of these days." "ah! is that so, max? i know of nothing that could please me better," exclaimed that dear lady, rising to her feet and bestowing a warm embrace upon the blushing, happy-faced evelyn. violet was beside them in an instant, exclaiming in joyous tones, "oh, eva and max! how glad i am! for i am sure you were made for each other, and will be very happy together." "and are you willing now to let me be the captain's daughter?" asked eva, with a charming blush, accompanied by a slightly roguish laugh. "yes; seeing that max calls me mamma vi, and you are really younger than he," was violet's laughing reply. but grace, little elsie, and the others were crowding around with expressions of surprise and pleasure and many congratulations and good wishes. for everybody who knew them loved both max and eva. but now came the call to breakfast and they repaired to the dining room and gathered about the table, as cheerful and gay a party as could be found in the whole length and breadth of the land. "you seem likely to have a rapid increase in your family, captain," said dr. harold travilla, with a smiling glance directed toward lucilla, max, and eva, seated near together. "some time hence," returned the captain pleasantly. "i consider them all young enough to wait a little, and they are dutifully willing to do as i desire." "as they certainly should be, considering what a good and kind father you are, sir, and how young they are." "and how pleasant are the days of courtship," added mr. lilburn; "as no doubt they will prove with them." "and how wise as well as kind our father is," said max, giving the captain an ardently appreciative look and smile; "how patiently and earnestly he has striven to bring his children up for usefulness and happiness in this world and the next." "that is true," said violet. "i think no one ever had a better father than yours, max." "and certainly no one had a more appreciative wife or children than i," remarked captain raymond, with a smile. "we seem to have formed a mutual admiration society this morning." "surely the very best kind of society for families to form among themselves," laughed herbert. "and i like the way our young people are pairing off," remarked mr. dinsmore; "the matches arranged for among them seem to be very suitable. by the way, elsie, we must be planning for some wedding gifts for bob and sidney." "yes, sir," replied mrs. travilla, "i have been thinking of that, but have not decided upon any particular article yet. i suppose our better plan will be to buy in new orleans." "yes, i think so. and it will be well for us to have a consultation on the subject, in order to avoid giving duplicates." "a very good idea, grandpa," said violet, "and as there are so many of us--counting the magnolia and parsonage people, as well as those of torriswood--might it not be well to have that consultation soon, to determine what each will give, and then set about securing the articles in good season for the wedding, which will probably take place in about three weeks?" there was a general approval of that idea and it was decided to take prompt measures for carrying it out. the meal concluded, all gathered in the family parlor and held the usual morning service of prayer, praise, and reading of the scriptures. that over, they gathered upon the front veranda and were again engaged in discussing the subject of wedding gifts, when dr. percival drove up with his wife and her brother. they were most cordially greeted and invited to give their views in regard to the subject which was engaging the thoughts of the others at the moment. "i think it would be wise for us all to agree as to what each one shall give, so that there will be no duplicates," said maud. "yes," said violet, "that is the conclusion we have all come to." "very good," said maud. "and sidney wanted me to consult with you older ladies in regard to the material of her wedding dress--whether it should be silk or satin; and about the veil. they are to be married in the morning, out under the orange trees." "oh, that will be lovely," said violet. "yes; i think so; and it will allow plenty of room," continued maud; "and we need plenty because our two doctors want to invite so many of their patients lest somebody should feel hurt by being left out. our idea is to have the ceremony about noon and the wedding breakfast on the lawn immediately after it." "i like that," said violet. "as to the wedding-dress question--suppose we send to new orleans for samples, let sidney choose from them and order the quantity she wants?" "that strikes me as a very good idea," said chester; "and i want it distinctly understood that i pay for this wedding dress. i had no opportunity to do a brother's part by maud at the time of her marriage, but i insist that i shall be allowed to do so by this only remaining sister." "yes, chester, you and i will both insist upon being allowed our rights this time," laughed dick; "especially as there will be no single sister left to either of us." "and between you, and with the other relatives to help, sidney will fare well, i hope and believe," remarked mr. dinsmore with a smile. "chester," said lucilla in a low aside, "i want your help in choosing my gift for your sister. i have the greatest confidence in your judgment and taste." "thank you, dearest," he returned with a pleased smile. "i shall be very glad to give my opinion for what it is worth." "i presume you have sent or will promptly send word to frank that his sister is about to marry?" mr. dinsmore remarked in a tone between assertion and inquiry. "we have written," replied dick, "but are not at all certain that the letter will reach him in time, as he may have left florida before it could be received." "i do not quite despair of getting him here in season," remarked chester. "i think we will hear of his whereabouts in time to send him a telegram." just at that moment the magnolia carriage was seen coming up the driveway with mr. and mrs. embury in it. they had come to consult with the viamede relatives and friends in regard to preparations for the approaching wedding and suitable and desirable gifts for the bride; for mrs. embury, being own sister to dr. percival and half-sister to dr. robert johnson, felt particularly interested and desirous to do her full share in helping the young couple with their preparations for making a home for themselves. "do they intend to go to housekeeping?" she asked of maud. "it is hardly decided yet," replied maud. "we are trying to persuade them that it will be best for us all to continue to be one family. i think that will be the way for a time at least; and when we tire of that we can easily occupy the house as two families. it is large enough and so planned that it can readily be used in that way." "a very good thing," remarked mr. embury. "i think you will be the more likely to agree if you do not feel that you are shut up to the necessity of remaining one family." "you have hardly sent out your invitations yet?" molly said half inquiringly. "only to the more distant relatives," replied maud. "of course we cannot expect that they will all come, but we did not want to neglect any of them." "we must arrange to accommodate them if they should come," said molly, "and i hope most of them will. now about making purchases--of wedding gifts, wedding finery, and so forth. new orleans will of course be our best place for shopping if we want to see the goods before buying. does anybody feel inclined to go there and attend to the matter?" there was silence for a moment. then captain raymond said, "the _dolphin_ and i are at the service of any one--or any number--who would like to go." both maud and molly thought themselves too busy with home preparations, and after some discussion it was finally decided that mrs. travilla, violet, and the captain, eva and max, lulu and chester, grace and harold should form the deputation and that they would go the next monday morning--this being saturday. that matter settled, the emburys and percivals took their departure. then a thought seemed to strike grandma elsie. "annis," she said, turning to her cousin, "cannot you and cousin ronald go with us? i wish you would." "why, yes; if you want us i think we can," laughed annis, turning an inquiring look upon her husband. "if you wish it, my dear," he answered pleasantly. "i always enjoy being with the cousins." and so it was decided they would be of the party. chapter x. "now, my daughters, lucilla and grace, if you have any preparations to make for your trip to new orleans, my advice is that you attend to them at once," captain raymond said when their callers had gone. "yes, sir," they both returned, making prompt movement to obey; lucilla adding, "though i am sure we have but little to do." "and what are your directions to me, captain raymond? or am i to be left entirely to my own devices?" laughed violet. "i think my wife is wise enough to be safely so left," he replied in his usual pleasant tones, and with a look of fond appreciation; "and perhaps might give some advice to my daughters," he added. "and now i think of it, perhaps it might be well to consult with them in regard to some matters," said violet, and hurried away after the girls, who had gone up to their sleeping apartments. "have not you some preparations to make also, elsie?" asked mr. dinsmore of his daughter. "very little," she answered with a smile; "only some packing that my maid can do in a few minutes. ah, there is someone wanting to speak to me, i think," as an elderly negro came out upon the veranda, bowed to the company in general, then looked toward her with a sort of pleading expression, as if he had a petition to offer. she rose and went to him, asking in kindly inquiring tone, "what is it, uncle joe?" "ise come to ax a favor, mistiss," he replied, bowing low. "ole aunt silvy she mighty porely--mos' likely gwine die befo' many days--an' she doan pear to feel pow'ful sure ob de road for to git to de bes' place on de furder side ob de river. she says miss elsie knows da way and maybe she come and 'struct her how to find it." "indeed i shall be very glad if i can help her to find it," elsie answered with emotion. "i will go with you at once." then turning to her son, "harold," she said, "uncle joe reports a woman at the quarter as very ill; will you go down there with me and see if your medical skill can give her any relief?" "certainly, mother dear;" replied harold, hastening to her side; and excusing herself to her guests and taking her son's arm, mrs. travilla at once set off for the quarter, uncle joe following respectfully at a little distance, ready to point out the cabin where the ailing negress lay. they found her tossing about on her bed, moaning and groaning. "oh, mistiss," she cried as they entered, "you's berry good comin' fo' to see dis po' ole darky. i'se pow'ful glad for to see you, mistiss, an' de young massa too. uncle joe, set out dat cheer fo' de mistiss and dat oder one for de young massa." uncle joe hastened to do her bidding, while harold felt her pulse and questioned her in regard to her illness. she complained of misery in her head, misery in her back, and being "pow'ful weak," finishing up with the query, "is i gwine die dis day, suh?" "i think not," he replied, "you may live for weeks or months. but life is very uncertain with us all, and i advise you to promptly make every preparation for death and eternity." "dat's what i gwine do when mistiss tell me how," she groaned, with a look of keen distress directed toward mrs. travilla. "i will try to make the way plain to you," that lady returned in compassionate tones. "it is just to come to the lord jesus confessing that you are a helpless, undone sinner and asking him to help you--to take away the love of sinning and wash you in his own precious blood. the bible tells us 'he is able also to save them to the uttermost that come unto god by him.' and he says, 'him that cometh to me i will in no wise cast out.' so that if you come, truly seeking him with all your heart--desiring to be saved, not only from eternal death but from sin and the love of it--he will hear and save you." "won' you pray de good lawd for dis ole darky, mistiss?" pleaded the woman. "you knows bes' how to say de words, an' dis chile foller you in her heart." at that mrs. travilla knelt beside the bed and offered up an earnest prayer couched in the simplest words, so that the poor ignorant creature on the bed could readily understand and feel it all. "dis chile am berry much 'bliged, mistiss," she said, when mrs. travilla had resumed her seat by the bedside. "i t'ink de good lawd hear dat prayer an open de gate ob heaben to ole silvy when she git dar." "i hope so indeed," mrs. travilla replied. "put all your trust in jesus and you will be safe; for he died to save sinners such as you and i. we cannot do anything to save ourselves, but to all who come to him he gives salvation without money and without price. don't think you can do anything to earn it; it is his free gift." "but de lawd's chillens got to be good, mistiss, aint dey?" "yes; they are not his children if they do not try to know and do all his holy will. jesus said, 'if ye love me, keep my commandments.' 'ye are my friends, if ye do whatsoever i command you.' we have no right to consider ourselves christians if we do not try earnestly to keep all his commands, and do all his holy will." harold had sat there listening quietly to all his mother said and had knelt with her when she prayed. now, when she paused for a little, he questioned aunt silvy about her ailments, gave her directions for taking some medicine, and said he would send it presently from the house. mrs. travilla added that she would send some delicacies to tempt the sickly appetite; then with a few more kindly words they left the cabin, bidding uncle joe a kindly good-by as they went. "you do not think aunt silvy really a dying woman, harold?" his mother said in a tone of inquiry, as they walked on together. "no, mamma; i shall not be surprised if she lives for years yet," harold answered cheerily. "no doubt she is suffering, but i think medicine, rest, and suitable food will relieve her and she will probably be about again in a week or two. but preparation for death and eternity can do her no harm." "no, certainly; to become truly a christian must add to the happiness--as well as safety--of anyone." "and you have brought that happiness to many a one, my dear mother," harold said, giving her a tenderly affectionate look. "how often in thinking of you i recall those words of the prophet daniel, 'and they that be wise shall shine as the brightness of the firmament; and they that turn many to righteousness, as the stars for ever and ever.'" "'tis a precious promise," she said with emotion. "oh, my son, make it the business of your life to do that; to help to the healing of souls--the immortal part--even more than that of the frail bodies which must soon die." "yes, mother," he said with emotion, "i do try constantly to do that; and it is a great comfort and help to me to know that my dear mother is often asking for me help from on high." "yes," she said; "without that none of us could accomplish anything in the way of winning souls for christ; and every christian should feel that that is his principal work. this life is so short and the never-ending ages of eternity are so long. 'whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might; for there is no work nor device, nor knowledge, nor wisdom in the grave whither thou goest.'" they walked on in silence for a little, then harold remarked that the air was delightful and a little more extended walk might prove beneficial to them both. "yes," replied his mother, "let us take a stroll through the orange orchard; the sight and perfume of the fruit and blossoms are delightful." "yes, indeed!" he said, "and you can see, mother, whether everything is properly cared for." "i expect to find it so," she returned, "as i have every reason to believe my overseer both faithful and competent." they enjoyed their stroll greatly and she found no reason to change her estimate of the overseer. it was lunch time when they returned to the house, and on leaving the table some of their party went for a row on the bayou while the rest chose riding or driving through the beautiful woods. evelyn and max, lucilla and chester formed the riding party and greatly enjoyed their little excursion. the courting of the two young couples was carried on in a very quiet way, but was none the less satisfactory and enjoyable for that. but all four of them felt a great interest in the approaching wedding and much of their talk as they rode was of it, and what gifts to the bride would be the most appropriate and acceptable. "chester, you know you have promised to advise me what to give to sidney," lucilla said, with a smile into his eyes. "you dear girl! so i will and i make that same request of you, for i am sure you know far more about such matters than i do," he returned with a very loverlike look. "quite a mistake, mr. dinsmore," she laughed. "but i understood you intended to give some part of the trousseau--perhaps the wedding dress." "yes; that and pretty much all the rest of it. and i am sure your help will be invaluable in the choice of the various articles." "thank you," she said, with a pleased laugh. "it is very nice to have you think so highly of my judgment and taste; but i hope you will let grandma elsie and mamma vi and eva assist in the selection." "certainly, if you wish it, but i do not promise to let their opinions have as much weight with me as yours." "no, you needn't," she returned merrily; "it is by no means disagreeable to have you consider mine the most valuable, even though it be really worthless in other people's esteem. it is very possible sidney might prefer their choice to mine." "ah! but she won't have the chance. by the way, your father has a good deal of taste in the line of ladies' dress, has he not?" "i think so," she returned with a pleased smile; "he has selected many an article of dress for me, and always suited my taste as well as if i had been permitted to choose for myself. what he buys is sure to be of excellent quality and suited to the intended wearer's age, complexion, and needs." "you are very fond of your father," chester said with a smile. "indeed i am," she returned in an earnest tone. "i believe i give him all the love that should have been divided between him and my mother, had she lived. mamma vi calls him my idol; but i don't think i make him quite that. he has at least one rival in my affection," she added with a blush, and in a tone so low that he barely caught the words. "and i may guess who that is, may i, dearest?" he returned in the same low key and with a look that spoke volumes of love, and joy in the certainty of her affection. max and eva, riding on a trifle faster, were just far enough ahead and sufficiently absorbed in their own private chat to miss this little colloquy. there were some love passages between them also; some talk of what they hoped the future held in store for them when they should be old enough for the dear, honored father to give his consent to their immediate marriage. neither of them seemed to have a thought of going contrary to his wishes; so strong was their affection for him and their faith in his wisdom and his love for them. all four greatly enjoyed their ride and returned to their temporary home in fine health and spirits. chester had gotten rid of his troublesome cough before landing in louisiana and was now looking younger and handsomer than he had before that almost fatal wound--a fact which greatly rejoiced the hearts of his numerous relatives and friends. none more so than that of his betrothed, for whose defence he had risked his life. by the time the viamede dinner hour had arrived all the pleasure parties had returned and were ready to do justice to the good cheer provided in abundance. and the meal was enlivened by cheerful chat. the evening was spent much as the previous one had been and all retired early, that sabbath morning might find them rested, refreshed, and ready for the duties and enjoyments of the sacred day. chapter xi. sabbath morning dawned bright and clear and as in former days all the family, old and young, attended church and the pastor's bible class. and in the afternoon the house and plantation servants collected on the lawn and were addressed by captain raymond and dr. harold travilla. hymns were sung too, and prayers offered. the services over, the little congregation slowly dispersed; some lingering a few minutes for a shake of the hand and a few kind words from their loved mistress mrs. travilla, her father, her son, and captain raymond; then as the last one turned to depart, the captain and the doctor walked down to the quarter for a short call upon old aunt silvy, still lying in her bed. mrs. travilla had seated herself in the veranda and seemed to be doing nothing but gaze out upon the lovely landscape--the velvety, flower-bespangled lawn, the bayou, and the fields and woods beyond. but the slight patter of little feet drew her attention from that and turning she found elsie and ned at her side. "grandma, will it be disturbing if i talk to you and ask some questions?" asked the little girl. "no, dear child, not at all," was the kindly-spoken reply. "i am always glad to help my dear little grandchildren to information when it is in my power. here is an empty chair on each side of me. draw them up closely, you and ned, and seat yourselves and then i hope we can have a nice talk." "yes, ma'am; and it will be a pleasant rest too," returned the little girl, as she and her brother followed the directions. "papa told me once that the meaning of the word sabbath is rest. but what i wanted particularly to ask about this time, grandma, is the feast of the passover. will you please tell us why it was kept and why they called it that?" "surely, my dear children, you have heard the story of the institution of that feast of the jews called the passover!" said grandma elsie in some surprise. "in the twelfth chapter of exodus there is a full account of its institution. every householder in israel was to take a lamb of a year old, without blemish; and at even on the th day of the month it was to be slain. the householder was then to take of the blood of the lamb and sprinkle the door-posts of his house. that was to be a sign to the destroying angel, who was to slay all the firstborn of the egyptians that night, not to enter and slay here. then they were to roast the flesh of the lamb and eat it that night with unleavened bread and bitter herbs. the lives of the israelites were saved by the angel passing over, instead of entering the house to destroy life." "oh, yes, grandma, i understand," said the little girl. "but why is christ called our passover? you know the text--'for even christ our passover is sacrificed for us.'" "you know," said her grandmother, "that jesus is often called the 'lamb of god'; that paschal lamb was a type of christ and is so spoken of in many scriptures." "thank you, grandma, for telling me," elsie said gratefully. "and the jews kept that feast every year from that time till the time of christ, i suppose. and he kept it too. wasn't it at that feast that he instituted what we call the lord's supper?" "yes," replied her grandmother; "he used the bread and wine which were a part of that feast, saying, 'take, eat; this is my body. and he took the cup and gave thanks, and gave it to them, saying, drink ye all of it; for this is my blood of the new testament, which is shed for many for the remission of sins.'" "oh, grandma, how good and kind he was to shed his blood for us! to die that dreadful, dreadful death of the cross that we might go to heaven!" exclaimed the little girl with tears in her sweet blue eyes. "i do love him for it, and i want to be his servant, doing everything he would have me do." "that is as we all should feel, dear child," replied her grandmother, bending down to press a kiss upon the rosy cheek. "i do, grandma," said ned. "do you think the lord jesus takes notice that we love him and want to do as he tells us?" "yes, neddie dear, i am quite sure of it," replied his grandmother. "the psalmist says, 'thou compassest my path and my lying down, and art acquainted with all my ways. for there is not a word in my tongue, but, lo, oh, lord, thou knowest it altogether.'" "it is so good, grandma, that god doesn't think us not worth noticing," said elsie; "that he sees and cares for us all the time and lets us ask his help whenever we will." "it is indeed good, my child, and we are sure of it. jesus said, 'are not two sparrows sold for a farthing? and one of them shall not fall to the ground without your father. but the very hairs of your head are all numbered. fear ye not therefore, ye are of more value than many sparrows.'" "i think god was very good to give us our father and mother and grandma; brother max too and our nice sisters and--and all the rest of the folks," remarked ned reflectively. "i am very glad you appreciate all those blessings, my little son," said his mother's voice close at his side. "yes, mamma. and oh, mamma! can't elsie and i go along with the rest of you to new orleans to-morrow?" "i think so," she replied with a smile. "i am pretty sure your father will say yes if you ask him. then he will have all his children along, and that is what he likes." "he and uncle harold went down to the quarter," said elsie, "and here they come now." ned hurried to meet them, preferred his request, and the next moment came running back with the joyful announcement, "papa says, yes we may. oh, elsie, aren't you glad?" "yes," she said. "i always like to be with papa and mamma and grandma, and it's ever so pleasant to be on our yacht." "'specially when we have both papa and brother max to make it go all right," said ned. "you think it takes the two of us, do you?" laughed his father, taking a seat near his wife and drawing the little fellow in between his knees. "no, papa; i know you could do it all by your own self," returned ned. "but when brother max is there you don't have to take the trouble to mind how things are going all the time." "no, that's a fact," returned his father, with a pleased laugh. "brother max can be trusted, and knows how to manage that large vessel quite as well as papa does. but what will you and elsie do while we older people are shopping?" "why, my dear, there will be so many of us that we will hardly all want to go at once," remarked violet. "i think there will always be someone willing to stay with the little folks." "yes, mamma," said grace, who had drawn near, "i shall. shopping is apt to tire me a good deal, and i think i shall prefer to spend the most of the time on the _dolphin_." "yes, daughter, it will certainly be better for you," her father said, giving her an appreciative smile. "you can go when you wish and feel able, and keep quiet and rest when you will. but we will leave the rest of our talk about the trip until to-morrow, choosing for the present some subject better suited to the sacredness of the day. i will now hear the texts which my children have got ready to recite to me." "yes, sir," said grace. "shall i go and tell max and lu that you are ready?" "you may," the captain answered and she went, to return in a moment with her brother and sister, chester and eva. "why, i have quite a class," the captain said, with a look of pleasure. "i for my part esteem it a privilege to be permitted to make one of the number, captain," said chester. "as we all do, i think," said eva. "thank you both," said the captain. "our principal subject to-day is grace; god's grace to us. can you give me a text that teaches it, chester?" "yes, sir. paul says in his epistle to the ephesians, 'that in the ages to come he might shew the exceeding riches of his grace, in his kindness toward us through christ jesus. for by grace are ye saved through faith; and that not of yourselves; it is the gift of god.'" "'being justified freely by his grace through the redemption that is in christ jesus,'" quoted max in his turn. then evelyn, "'therefore it is of faith, that it might be by grace; to the end the promise might be sure to all the seed; not to that only which is of the law, but to that also which is of the faith of abraham; who is the father of us all.'" lucilla's turn came next and she repeated a text from d peter: "'grow in grace, and in the knowledge of our lord and saviour jesus christ. to him be glory both now and forever. amen.'" "i have two texts that seem to go well together," said violet. "the first is in proverbs, 'surely he scorneth the scorners: but he giveth grace unto the lowly.' the other is in james, 'but he giveth more grace. wherefore he saith, god resisteth the proud but giveth grace unto the humble.'" it was grace's turn and she repeated, with a look of joy, "'for the lord god is a sun and shield; the lord will give grace and glory; no good thing will he withhold from them that walk uprightly. oh, lord of hosts, blessed is the man that trusteth in thee.'" "i have a little one, papa," said his daughter elsie: "'looking diligently lest any man fail of the grace of god.'" "this is mine and it is short too," said ned. "'thou therefore, my son, be strong in the grace that is in christ jesus.'" "yes, my boy, that is a short verse, but long enough if you will be careful to put it in practice," said his father. grandma elsie, sitting near, had been listening attentively to the quotations of the younger people and now she joined in with one: "'and of his fulness have all we received, and grace for grace. for the law was given by moses, but grace and truth came by jesus christ.' 'wherefore gird up the loins of your mind, be sober, and hope to the end for the grace that is to be brought unto you at the revelation of jesus christ.'" as she ceased, cousin ronald, who had drawn near, joined in the exercise, repeating the text, "'what shall we say then? shall we continue in sin that grace may abound?... shall we sin because we are not under the law, but under grace? god forbid,'" then, at the captain's request, followed them with a few pertinent remarks. a little familiar talk from the captain followed and then came the call to the tea table. all retired early to their beds that night that they might be ready to leave them betimes in the morning and set out in good season on their trip to the city. they succeeded in so doing, all feeling well and in the best of spirits. the weather was fine, their voyage a prosperous one without any remarkable adventure, and the shopping proved quite as interesting and enjoyable as any of the shoppers had expected. they all made the yacht their headquarters while they stayed, and the little ones hardly left it at all. they had always a companion; generally it was grace, and she exerted herself for their entertainment--playing games with them and telling them stories or reading aloud from some interesting book. all enjoyed the return voyage to viamede and the warm welcome from grandpa and grandma dinsmore on their arrival there. then it was a pleasure to display their purchases and hear the admiring comments upon them. the bridal veil and the material for the wedding dress were greatly admired and all the purchases highly approved of by both these grandparents and the relatives from the parsonage, magnolia, and torriswood, all of whom came in early in the evening, full of interest in the results of the shopping expedition. they had a pleasant social time together, the principal topic of conversation being the bride's trousseau and so forth, and the various arrangements for the coming festivities to be had in connection with the approaching marriage. chester had been very generous in providing the trousseau, and sidney was very grateful to him. each of the raymonds made her a gift of a handsome piece of sliver, grandma elsie adding a beautiful set of jewelry. sidney was delighted with her gifts. "oh, ches, but you are good to me!" she exclaimed with glad tears in her eyes; "and all the rest of you, dear friends and relatives. this jewelry, cousin elsie, is lovely, and i shall always think of you when i wear it. all the silver is just beautiful too, and indeed everything. i feel as rich as a queen." "and when you have cousin bob added to all the rest, how do you suppose you are going to stand it?" laughed harold. "oh, as the gifts are partly to him, he will help me to stand it," sidney returned, with a smiling glance at her affianced. "i'll do my best," he answered, returning the smile. "you must not allow yourselves to be overwhelmed yet," remarked mr. embury, "when not half the relatives and friends have been heard from." "and i'll warrant my sister betty will remember my bride with something worth while," remarked the bridegroom-elect. "yes, she will; i haven't a doubt of it," said mrs. embury; "and as they are in good circumstances it will no doubt be something handsome." "of course it will," said dick. "sister betty was always a generous soul, taking delight in giving." "being related to you both, bob and sid, i want to give you something worth while. what would you like it to be?" said mrs. keith. "oh, never mind, isa," exclaimed dr. johnson, jocosely, "your husband is to tie the knot, and if he does it right--as no doubt he will--he will give me my bride, and that will be the best, most valuable gift any one could bestow upon me." "yes," laughed isa; "but it won't hurt you to have something else--something from me too." "oh, by the way, why shouldn't we have a triple wedding?" exclaimed maud. "i think it would be just lovely! it struck me so when i heard yesterday of the engagement of max and eva." at that the young people colored, the girls looking slightly embarrassed, but no one spoke for a moment. "don't you think it would make a pretty wedding, cousin vi?" asked maud. "i dare say it would, maud," replied mrs. raymond, "but our young folks are too young yet for marriage, my husband thinks, and should all wait for a year or two. besides," she added with playful look and tone, "there would be hardly time to make ready a proper trousseau for either, and certainly not for both." "oh, well, i hardly expected to be able to bring it about," returned maud, "but i certainly do think it would be pretty." "so it would," said mrs. embury; "very pretty indeed, but that wouldn't pay for hurrying anyone into marriage before he or she is ready." "no," said cousin ronald, "it is always best to make haste slowly in matters so vitally important." "wouldn't you be willing to make haste quickly in this instance, dearest?" queried chester in a low aside to lucilla; for as usual they sat near together. "no," she returned with a saucy smile, "i find courting times too pleasant to be willing to cut them short; even if father would let me; and i know he would not." "and he won't let the other couple; which is good, since misery loves company." "ah, is courting me such hard work?" she asked, knitting her brows in pretended anger and disgust. "delightful work, but taking you for my very own would be still better." "ah, but you see that captain raymond considers me one of the little girls who are still too young to leave their fathers." "well, you know i am pledged never to take you away from him." "yes, i am too happy in the knowledge of that ever to forget it. but do you know i for one should not fancy being married along with other couples--one ceremony serving for all. i should hardly feel sure the thing had been thoroughly and rightly done." "shouldn't you?" laughed chester. "well, then, we will have the minister and ceremony all to ourselves whenever we do have it." just then the lady visitors rose to take leave, and chester, who had promised to return with dr. and mrs. percival to torriswood for the night, had time for but a few words with lucilla. "i hope to be here again to-morrow pretty soon after breakfast," he said. "i grudge every hour spent away from your side." "really, you flatter me," she laughed. "i doubt if anybody else appreciates my society so highly." "you are probably mistaken as to that," he said. "i am quite aware that i am not your only admirer, and i feel highly flattered by your preference for me." "do you?" she laughed. "well, i think it would not be prudent to tell you how great it is--if i could. good-night," giving him her hand, which he lifted to his lips. as usual she had a bit of chat with her father before retiring to her sleeping apartment for the night, and in that she repeated something of this little talk with chester. "yes, he is very much in love, and finds it hard to wait," said the captain; "but i am no more ready to give up my daughter than he is to wait for her." "i am in no hurry, papa," said lucilla, "i do so love to be with you and under your care--and authority," she added with a mirthful, loving look up into his eyes. "yes, daughter dear, but do you expect to escape entirely from that last when you marry?" "no, sir; and i don't want to. i really do love to be directed and controlled by you--my own dear father." "i think no man ever had a dearer child than this one of mine," he said with emotion, drawing her into his arms and caressing her with great tenderness. he held her close for a moment, then releasing her bade her go and prepare for her night's rest. max and evelyn were again sauntering along near the bayou, enjoying a bit of private chat before separating for the night. "what do you think of maud's proposition, eva?" he asked. "it seems hardly worth while to think about it at all, max," she replied in a mirthful tone; "at least not if one cares for a trousseau; or for pleasing your father in regard to the time of--taking that important step; tying that knot that we cannot untie again should we grow ever so tired of it." "i have no fear of that last so far as my feelings are concerned, dearest, and i hope you have none," he said in a tone that spoke some slight uneasiness. "not the slightest," she hastened to reply. "i think we know each other too thoroughly to indulge any such doubts and fears. still, as i have great faith in your father's wisdom, and courting times are not by any means unpleasant, i feel in no haste to bring them to an end. you make such a delightful lover, max, that the only thing i feel in a hurry about is the right to call the dear captain father." "ah, i don't wonder that you are in haste for that," returned max. "i should be sorry indeed not to have that right. he is a father to love and to be proud of." "he is indeed," she responded. "i fell in love with him at first sight and have loved him more and more ever since; for the better one knows him the more admirable and lovable he seems." "i think that is true," said max. "i am very proud of my father and earnestly desire to have him proud of me." "which he evidently is," returned eva, "and i don't wonder at it." "thank you," laughed max; then added more gravely, "i hope i may never do anything to disgrace him." "i am sure you never will," returned eva in a tone that seemed to say such a thing could not be possible. "had we not better retrace our steps to the house now?" she asked the next moment. "probably," said max. "i presume father would say i ought not to deprive you of your beauty sleep. but these private walks and chats are so delightful to me that i am apt to be selfish about prolonging them." "and your experience on shipboard has accustomed you to late hours, i suppose?" "yes; to rather irregular times of sleeping and waking. a matter of small importance, however, when one gets used to it." "but there would be the rub with me," she laughed, "in the getting used to it." chapter xii. "cousin ronald, can't you make some fun for us?" asked ned at the breakfast table the next morning. "we haven't had any of your kind since we came here." "well, and what of that, youngster? must you live on fun all the time?" asked a rough voice directly behind the little boy. "oh! who are you? and how did you come in here?" he asked, turning half round in his chair, in the effort to see the speaker. "oh, pshaw! you're nobody. was it you, cousin ronald? or was it brother max?" "polite little boys do not call gentlemen nobodies," remarked another voice that seemed to come from a distant corner of the room. "and i didn't mean to," said ned, "but the things i want to say will twist up, somehow." "that bird you are eating looks good," said the same voice; "couldn't you spare me a leg?" "oh, yes," laughed ned, "if you'll come and get it. but one of these little legs wouldn't be much more than a bite for you." "well, a bite would be better than no breakfast at all; and somebody might give me one of those nice-looking rolls." "i'm sure of it if you'll come to the table and show yourself," replied ned. "here i am then," said the voice close at his side. "oh, are you?" returned ned. "well, help yourself. you can have anything you choose to take." "now, ned, do you call that polite?" laughed lucilla. "as you invited him to the table you surely ought to help him to what he has asked for." at that ned looked scrutinizingly at cousin ronald's plate, then at his brother's, and seeing that both were well filled remarked, "i see he's well helped already and oughtn't to be asking for more till he gets that eaten up." "oh, you know too much, young man," laughed max. "it isn't worth while for cousin ronald and me to waste our talents upon you." "oh, yes, it is, brother max," said the little fellow, "for it's fun, even though i do know it's one or the other or both of you." "oh, cousin ronald," exclaimed elsie, "can't you make some fun at the wedding, as you did when cousin betty was married? i don't remember much of it myself, but i've heard other folks tell about it." "why not ask max instead of me?" queried mr. lilburn. "oh!" cried the little girl, "i'd like to have both of you do it. it's more fun with two than with only one." "and it might be well to consult cousins maud and dick about it," suggested grandma elsie. "you can do so to-day, as we are all invited to take lunch at torriswood." "are we? oh, that's nice!" exclaimed elsie, smiling brightly. "you will let us go, papa, won't you?" "yes; i expect to take you there." "and if we all go cousin ronald and max might make some fun for us there. i guess the torriswood folks would like it," remarked ned insinuatingly. "but might not you grow tired--having so much of it?" asked max. "no, indeed!" cried the little fellow. "it's too much fun for anybody to get tired of it." "any little chap like you, perhaps," remarked the strange voice from the distant corner. "pooh! i'm not so very little now," returned ned. "not too little to talk a good deal," laughed grandpa dinsmore. "this is a lovely morning," remarked dr. harold, "the roads are in fine condition too, and i think the distance to torriswood is not too great to make a very pleasant walk for those of us who are young and strong." "and there are riding horses and conveyances in plenty for any who prefer to use them," added his mother. evelyn, lucilla, and max all expressed their desire to try the walk, and grace said, "i should like to try it too;" but both her father and dr. harold put a veto upon that, saying she was not strong enough, so must be content to ride. "cousin ronald and brother max, can't we have some fun there to-day, as well as at the wedding time?" said ned in his most coaxing tones. "possibly, bit laddie," returned the old gentleman pleasantly. "if i am not too auld, your good brother is no' too young." "but you are the more expert of the two, sir," said max; "and perhaps it may be the better plan for us both to take part." "ah, well, we'll see when the time comes," responded the old gentleman. "i like well to please the bit laddie, if it can be done without vexing or disturbing anybody else." "i don't think it can do that," observed ned wisely, "for it's good fun and everybody likes fun. even my papa does," he added with a smiling glance up into his father's face. "yes; when it does not annoy or weary anyone else," the captain said in return. "will chester be over here this morning, lu?" asked violet. "he expected to when he went away last night," was the reply. "but possibly he may not come if he hears that we are to go there." "i think he is too much a man of his word to be hindered by that," her father said, giving her a reassuring smile. and he was right, for chester was with them even a little earlier than usual. "maud told me you were all coming over to lunch with her," he said, "but as some of you have never seen the place, i thought you might not object to a pilot, and the exercise would be rather beneficial to me." "you are right there," said harold. "you know that as your physician i have prescribed a good deal of outdoor exercise." "yes; i have been taking the prescription, too, and i find it beneficial; especially when i am so fortunate as to secure pleasant company." his glance at lucilla as he spoke seemed to imply that there was none more desirable than hers. "then, as the walk is a long one, i would suggest that we start as soon as may suit the convenience of the ladies," said harold, and evelyn and lucilla hastened to make such preparation as they deemed necessary or desirable. the parsonage was scarce a stone's throw out of their path and they called there on their way. they owed isadore a call and were willing to make one upon her sister virginia also--now making her home at the parsonage--though she had not as yet called upon them. they found both ladies upon the veranda. isadore gave them a joyful welcome, virginia a cool one, saying, "i should have called upon you before now, but i know poor relations are not apt to prove welcome visitors." "but i had thought you were making your home at viamede," said dr. harold. "no; not since dick and bob removed to torriswood. i couldn't think of living on there alone; so came here to isa, she being my nearest of kin in this part of the world." harold thought he did not envy isa on that account, but prudently refrained from saying so. isa invited them to stay and spend the day there, but they declined, stating that they were on their way to torriswood by invitation. "yes," said virginia; "they can invite rich relations but entirely neglect poor me." "why, virgie," exclaimed isadore in surprise, "i am sure you have been invited there more than once since you have been here." "well, i knew it was only a duty invitation and they didn't really want me; so i didn't go. i have a little more sense than to impose my company upon people who don't really want it." "i shouldn't think anybody would while you show such an ugly temper," thought lucilla, but refrained from saying it. she and her companions made but a short call, presently bade good-by and continued on their way to torriswood. they received a warm welcome there and were presently joined by the rest of their party from viamede. there was some lively and animated chat in regard to letters sent and letters received, the making of the wedding dress and various other preparations for the coming ceremony, to all of which little ned listened rather impatiently; then, as soon as a pause in the conversation gave him an opportunity, he turned to dr. percival, saying, "cousin dick, wouldn't it be right nice to have a little fun?" "fun, neddie? why, certainly, my boy; fun is often quite beneficial to the health. but how shall we manage it? have you a good joke for us?" "no, sir," said ned, "but you know we have two ventriloquists here and--and i like the kind of fun they make. don't you?" "it is certainly very amusing sometimes, and i see no objection if our friends are willing to favor us with some specimens of their skill," was the reply, accompanied by a glance first at mr. milburn, then at max. "oh!" exclaimed maud, "that might be a good entertainment for our wedding guests!" "probably," returned her husband, "but if it is to be used then it would be well not to let our servants into the secret beforehand." "decidedly so, i should say," said max. "it would be better to reserve that entertainment for that time." "but surely it would do no harm to give us a few examples of your skill to-day, when the servants are out of the room," said maud. "no, certainly not, if anything worth while could be thought of," said max; "but it seems to me that it must be quite an old story with all of us here." "not to me, brother max," exclaimed ned. "and the funny things you and cousin ronald seem to make invisible folks say make other people laugh as well as me." "and laughter is helpful to digestion," said a strange voice, apparently speaking from the doorway. "but should folks digest too well these doctors might find very little to do. so it is not to be wondered at if they object to letting much fun be made." "but the doctors haven't objected," laughed dr. percival, "and i have no fear that work for them will fail even if some of their patients should laugh and grow fat." "i presume that's what the little fellow that wants the fun has been doing," said the voice; "for as regards fat he is in prime condition." at that ned colored and looked slightly vexed. "papa, am i so very fat?" he asked. "none too fat to suit my taste, my son," replied the captain, smiling kindly on the little fellow. "and you wouldn't want to be a bag of bones, would you?" queried the voice. "no," returned ned sturdily, "i'd a great deal rather be fat; bones are ugly things any way." "good to cover up with fat, but very necessary underneath it," said the voice. "you couldn't stand or walk if you had no bones." "no; to be sure not; though i never thought about it before," returned ned. "some ugly things are worth more, after all, than some pretty ones." "very true," said the voice; "so we must not despise anything merely because it lacks beauty." "is it you talking, cousin ronald, or is it brother max?" asked ned, looking searchingly first at one and then at the other. "no matter which, laddie," said the old gentleman; "and who shall say it hasn't been both of us?" "oh, yes, maybe it was! i couldn't tell," exclaimed ned. but lunch was now ready and all repaired to the table. the blessing had been asked and all were sitting quietly as dr. percival took up a knife to carve a fowl. "don't, oh, don't!" seemed to come from it in a terrified scream. "i'm all right. no need of a surgeon's knife." everyone was startled for an instant, the doctor nearly dropping his knife; then there was a general laugh and the carving proceeded without further objection. the servants were all out of the room at the moment. "ah, cousin ronald, that reminds me of very old times, when i was a little child," said violet, giving the old gentleman a mirthful look. "ah, yes!" he said, "i remember now that i was near depriving you of your share of the fowl when breakfasting one morning at your father's hospitable board. have you not yet forgiven that act of indiscretion?" "indeed, yes; fully and freely long ago. but it was really nothing to forgive--your intention having been to afford amusement to us all." "neddie, shall i help you? are you willing to eat of a fowl that can scream out so much like a human creature?" asked dr. percival. "oh, yes, cousin doctor; 'cause i know just how he did it," laughed the little boy. then the talk about the table turned upon various matters connected with the subject of the approaching wedding--whether this or that relative would be likely to come; when he or she might be expected to arrive, and where be entertained; the adornment of the grounds for the occasion; the fashion in which each of the brides's new dresses should be made and what jewelry, if any, she should wear when dressed for the ceremony. also about a maid of honor and bridesmaids. "i want to have two or three little flower girls," said sidney; "and i have thought of elsie dinsmore, elsie embury, and elsie raymond as the ones i should prefer; they are near enough of an age, all related to me and all quite pretty; at least they will look so when handsomely dressed," she added with a laughing look at the one present, who blushed and seemed slightly embarrassed for a moment, but said not a word. "i highly approve if we can get the other two here in season," said maud. "then for my maid of honor i must have one of you older girls," continued sidney. "perhaps i'll want all three. i don't know yet how many groomsmen robert is going to have." "cousin harold and my friend max, if they will serve," said robert, glancing inquiringly at them in turn. "thank you, bob," said harold; "seeing you are a brother physician--cousin as well--i cannot think of refusing. in fact i consider myself quite honored." max also accepted the invitation with suitable words and the talk went on. "are you expecting to take a trip?" asked harold. "yes; we talk of going to the bahamas," said robert. "it is said to be a delightful winter resort and neither of us has ever been there." "then i think you will be likely to enjoy your visit there greatly," responded harold. "so we think," said robert. "but now about groomsmen; i'd like to add your brother herbert and sidney's brother frank if we can get them here, and they are willing to serve. chester won't, because lu must not be a bridesmaid, having served twice or thrice already in that capacity--and you know the old saying, 'three times a bridesmaid never a bride.'" "i have little doubt of the willingness of the lads if they are here in season," returned harold; "but i think herbert's movements will depend largely upon those of cousin arthur conly. it would hardly do for all three of us to absent ourselves from professional duties at the same time." "but frank can be spared from his, i suppose?" robert said inquiringly, turning to chester as he spoke. "yes; for a short time, i think," was chester's reply. "come, let us all go out on the lawn and consult in regard to the best place for having the arch made under which our bridal party are to stand," maud said, addressing the company in general as they left the table. the invitation was accepted and they spent some time in strolling about under the trees, chatting familiarly; the principal topic being the one proposed by mrs. percival, but considering also the question where it would be best to set the tables for the wedding guests. "it is likely to be a large company," said maud, "but i think we can accommodate them all comfortably." "yes; i should think so," said grandma elsie. "your lawn is large and lovely. i am very glad, dick, that you secured so beautiful a place." "thank you, cousin," he returned, "i think i was fortunate in getting it; as maud does too. she likes it well." "and you prefer it to viamede?" "only because it is my own," he answered with a smile. "one could not find a lovelier place than viamede." "but you lost the housekeeping of your cousin virginia by making the change," harold observed with a humorous look. "hardly!" laughed dick; "she was that but in name. and the change to isa's housekeeping and companionship must be rather agreeable to her, i should think." "she seems to me much the more agreeable of the two," said harold. "yes; isa is a lovely woman. and virginia has her good qualities, too." as torriswood was but little farther from the bayou than viamede, it was presently decided by the young people that they would return by boat, and upon starting they found it so pleasant that they took a much longer sail, reaching their destination barely in time for dinner. "does sidney's evident happiness in the near approach of her marriage make my little girl unhappy and discontented with her father's decision in regard to hers?" asked captain raymond, when lucilla came to him for the usual bit of good-night chat. "oh, no, papa; no indeed!" she exclaimed with a low, happy laugh. "have you forgotten, or don't you know yet, how dearly that same little girl loves to be with you?" "really, i believe she does," he said, caressing her with tenderness, "and though it is undeniably partly for his own--her father's--sake, that he insists upon delay, it is still more for yours--believing as he does that you are yet much too young for the cares and duties of married life. i want you to have a good play-day before going into them," he added, with another caress. "you dear, kind father!" she said in response. "i could wish to be always a child if so i might be always with you." "well, daughter, we may hope for many years together in this world and a blessed eternity together in heaven." "yes, papa, there is great happiness in that thought. oh, i am glad and thankful that god gave me a christian father." "and i that i have every reason to believe that my dear eldest daughter has learned to know and love him. to belong to christ is better than to have the wealth of the world. riches take to themselves wings and fly away; but he has said, 'i will never leave thee, nor forsake thee.'" "such a sweet, precious promise, father!" "yes; it may well relieve us from care and anxiety about the future; especially as taken in connection with that other precious promise, 'as thy days, so shall thy strength be.'" "don't you think, papa, that if we always remembered and fully believed the promises of god's word we might--we should be happy under all circumstances?" "i do indeed," he said emphatically. "we all need to pray as the disciples did, 'lord increase our faith,' for 'without faith it is impossible to please him.'" chapter xiii. the next three weeks passed very delightfully to our friends at viamede. there were rides, drives, boating, and fishing excursions, not to speak of rambles through the woods and fields and quiet home pleasures. also the approaching wedding and the preparations for it greatly interested them all, especially the young girls. it was pleasantly exciting to watch the making of the bride's dresses and of their own, intended to be worn on that important occasion. besides, after a little there were various arrivals of relations and friends to whom invitations had been sent: the whole families from riverside, ion, fairview, the oaks, the laurels, beechwood, and roselands. herbert travilla would have denied himself the pleasure of the trip in order that dr. arthur conly might take a much-needed rest, but it was finally decided that both might venture to absent themselves from their practice for a short season. all grandma elsie's children and grandchildren were taken in at viamede, making the house very full, and the rest were accommodated with the other relatives at the parsonage, magnolia hall, and torriswood; in which last-named place the family from the oaks were domiciled. it was not until a very few days before that appointed for the wedding that the last of the relatives from a distance arrived. to the extreme satisfaction of all concerned the wedding day dawned bright and beautiful--not a cloud in the sky. the ceremony was to be at noon, and the guests came pouring in shortly before that hour. the grounds were looking their loveliest--the grass like emerald velvet bespangled with fragrant flowers of every hue, the trees laden with foliage, some of them--the oranges and magnolias in particular--bearing blossoms; the former their green and golden fruit also. under these an arch, covered with smilax, had been erected, and from its centre hung a large bell formed of the lovely and fragrant orange blossoms; the clapper made of crimson roses. under that the bridal party presently took their stand. first came the three little flower girls--elsie dinsmore, elsie raymond, and elsie embury--dressed in white silk mull, and each carrying a basket of white roses; then the bridesmaids and groomsmen--frank dinsmore with corinne embury, harold travilla with grace raymond, herbert travilla and mary embury--the girls all dressed in white and carrying bouquets of smilax and white flowers. max had declined to serve on hearing that eva could not serve with him on account of being still in mourning for her mother. lastly came the bride and groom, sidney looking very charming in a white silk trimmed with abundance of costly lace, wearing a beautiful bridal veil and wreath of fresh and fragrant orange blossoms, and carrying a bouquet of the same in her hand. the party stood underneath the arch, the bride and groom directly beneath the bell in its centre, while the guests gathered about them, the nearest relatives taking the nearest stations. mr. cyril keith was the officiating minister. it was a pretty ceremony, but short, and then the congratulations and good wishes began. those over, the guests were invited to seat themselves about a number of tables scattered here and there under the trees and loaded with tempting viands. the minister craved a blessing upon the food and the feast began. an effort had been made to some extent so to seat the guests that relatives and friends would be near each other. the entire bridal party was at one table, the other young people of the connection were pretty close at hand--the older ones and their children not much farther off. everybody had been helped and cheery chat, mingled with some mirth, was going on, when suddenly a shrill voice, that seemed to come from the branches overhead, cried out, "what you 'bout, all you folks? polly wants some breakfast." everybody started and looked up into the tree from which the sounds had seemed to come; but no parrot was visible there. "why, where is the bird?" asked several voices in tones of surprise. but hardly had the question been asked when another parrot seemed to speak from a table near that at which the bridal party sat. "polly's hungry. poor old polly--poor old soul!" "is that so, polly? then just help yourself," said dr. percival. "polly wants her coffee. poor old polly, poor old soul!" came in reply, sounding as if the bird had gone farther down the table. then a whistle was heard that seemed to come from some distance among the trees, and hardly had it ceased when there was a loud call, "come on, my merry men, and let us get our share of this grand wedding feast." "tramps about! and bold ones they must be!" exclaimed one of the neighborhood guests. "really i hope they are not going to make any trouble!" cried another. "i fear we have no weapons of defence among us; and if we had i for one would be loath to turn a wedding feast into a fight." "hark! hark!" cried another as the notes of a bugle came floating on the breeze, the next minute accompanied by what seemed to be the sound of a drum and fife playing a national air, "what, what can it mean? i have heard of no troops in this neighborhood. but that's martial music, and now," as another sound met the ear, "don't you hear the tramp, tramp?" "yes, yes, it certainly must be troops. but who or what can have called them out?" asked a third guest, starting to his feet as if contemplating rushing away to try to catch a glimpse of the approaching soldiers. "oh, sit down and let us go on with our breakfast," expostulated still another. "of course they are american troops on some trifling errand in the neighborhood and not going to interfere with us. there! the music has stopped and i don't hear their tramp either. dr. percival," turning in his host's direction and raising his voice, "can you account for that martial music playing a moment since?" "i haven't heard of any troops about, but am quite sure they will not interfere with us," returned the doctor. "please, friends, don't let it disturb you at all." little ned raymond was looking and listening in an ecstasy of delight. "oh, cousin ronald and brother max, do some more!" he entreated in a subdued, but urgent tone. "folks do believe it's real soldiers and it's such fun to see how they look and talk about it." the martial music and the tramp, tramp began again and seemed to draw nearer and nearer, and several dogs belonging on the place rushed away in that direction, barking furiously. it seemed to excite and disturb many of the guests, and violet said, "there, my little son, i think that ought to satisfy you for the present. let our gentlemen and everybody else have their breakfast in peace." "good advice, cousin vi," said mr. lilburn, "and the bit laddie may get his fill of such fun at another time." "really i don't understand this at all," remarked a lady seated at the same table with the gentleman who had called to dr. percival; "that martial music has ceased with great suddenness, and i no longer hear the tramp, tramp of the troops." "i begin to have a very strong suspicion that ventriloquism is responsible for it all," returned the gentleman with a smile. "did you not hear at the time of the marriage of dr. johnson's sister that a ventriloquist was present and made rare sport for the guests?" "oh, yes, i think i did and that he was one of the relatives. i presume he is here now and responsible for these strange sounds. but," she added thoughtfully, "there are several sounds going on at once; could he make them all, do you think?" "perhaps the talent runs in the family and there is more than one here possessing it." "ah, yes, that must be it," remarked another guest, nodding wisely. "i presume it is in the family, and what sport it must make for them." "but what has become of those tramps--the merry men who were going to claim a share of this feast?" queried a young girl seated at the same table. "perhaps they have joined the troops," laughed another. "but hark! they are at it again," as a shrill whistle once more came floating on the breeze from the same direction as before, followed by the words, "come on, my merry men; let us make haste ere all the best of the viands have disappeared down the throats of the fellows already there." mr. hugh lilburn had overheard the chat about the neighboring table and thought best to gratify the desire to hear further from the merry men of the wood. a good many eyes were turned in the direction of the sounds, but none could see even one of the merry men so loudly summoned to make a raid upon the feasting company. then another voice seemed to reply from the same quarter as the first. "the days of robin hood and his merry men are over lang syne; and this is no' the country for ony sic doin's. if we want a share o' the grand feast we maun ask it like decent, honest folk, tendering payment if that wad no' be considered an insult by the host an' hostess." at that dr. percival laughed and called out in a tone of amusement, "come on, friends, and let me help you to a share of the eatables; we have enough and to spare, and you will be heartily welcome." "thanks, sir," said the voice; "perhaps we may accept when your invited guests have eaten their fill and departed." "very well; manage it to suit yourselves," laughed the doctor. then another voice from the wood said, "well, comrades, let us sit down here under the trees and wait for our turn." all this had caused quite an excitement and a great buzz of talk among the comparatively stranger guests; yet they seemed to enjoy the dainty fare provided and ate heartily of it as they talked, listening, too, for a renewal of the efforts of the ventriloquists. but the latter refrained from any further exercise of their skill, as the time was drawing near when the bride and groom were to set out upon their bridal trip. they and their principal attendants repaired to the house, where the bride exchanged her wedding gown for a very pretty and becoming travelling dress, her bridesmaids and intimate girl friends assisting her. her toilet finished, they all ran down into the lower hall--already almost crowded with other guests--and, laughing and excited, stood awaiting her appearance at the head of the stairway. she was there in a moment--her bouquet of orange blossoms in her hand. the hands of the laughing young girls were instantly extended toward her and she threw the bouquet, saying merrily: "catch it who can, and you will be the first to follow me into wedded happiness." it so happened that evelyn leland and lucilla raymond stood so near together that their hands almost touched and that the bouquet fell to both--each catching it with one hand. their success was hailed by a peal of laughter from all present, chester dinsmore and max raymond particularly seeming to enjoy the sport. the bride came tripping down the stairway, closely followed by her groom, and the adieus began; not especially sad ones, as so many of the near and dear relatives left behind expected to see them again ere many weeks should pass--and quite a goodly number followed them down to the edge of the bayou, where lay the boat that was to carry them over the first part of their wedding journey. they stepped aboard amid showers of rice, accompanied by an old shoe or two, merry laughter, and many good wishes for a happy and prosperous trip; and as they seated themselves, a beautiful horseshoe formed of lovely orange blossoms fell into the bride's lap. the little vessel was bountifully adorned with flags of various sizes--by the previous arrangement of dr. percival, who knew them both to be devoted admirers of the flag of our union--and as the vessel moved away there came again from among the trees at a little distance, the sound of a bugle, the drum and the fife playing the "star-spangled banner," than which nothing could have been more appropriate. as the boat disappeared and the music died away something of a lonely feeling came over many of those left behind, and the guests not related began to make their adieus and depart to their homes. but the relatives tarried somewhat longer, chatting familiarly among themselves and re-examining the many handsome bridal gifts. "they have fared well," said mrs. betty norton, dr. robert's sister, "i am so glad for them both. i'm fond of my brother bob, and well pleased with the match he has made. and not less so with dick's," she added, turning with a smile to maud, who stood at her side. "thank you, betty," said maud. "i was well pleased with the relationship we held to each other before, and am glad it has been made nearer. though at first--when dick proposed--i was afraid it--the relationship--ought to be a bar to our union. however, he said it was not near enough for that, and as he is a good physician i supposed he knew--so did not say him nay," she added, with a laughing look up into her husband's face as at that moment he drew near and stood at her side. "ah, don't you wish you had?" he returned, laying a hand lightly on her shoulder and giving her a very loverlike look and smile. "i have serious objections to being questioned too closely," she said laughingly; "and please to remember, sir, that i did not promise never to have a secret from you even if you're my other--and perhaps better half." "oh, i always understood it was the woman's privilege to be that," he laughed; "and i certainly expect it of you, my dear." "why, how absurd in you!" she exclaimed. "with such a husband as mine it would be utterly impossible for me to be the better half." "but it is quite the thing for each to think the other is," said grandma elsie, regarding them with an affectionate smile. "a state of feeling that is certain to make both very happy," remarked captain raymond, who happened to be standing near. "as you and i know by experience," said violet with a bright look up into his face. "yes," said her cousin betty, "and anybody who knows you two as well as i do may see the exemplification of that doctrine in your lives. i have always known that you were a decidedly happy couple." "but needn't plume yourself very much on that discovery, cousin betty," laughed lucilla, "i think everybody makes it who is with them for even a day or two." "and his children are not much, if at all, behind his wife in love for him, or behind him in love for her," added grace, smiling up into her father's face. "all doing their best to fill him with conceit," he said, returning the smile, but with a warning shake of the head. "where are elsie and ned?" he asked, adding, "it is about time we were returning home--to viamede." "yes," said violet, "we must hunt them up at once." "i will find them, papa and mamma," grace answered, hastening from the room. the children were playing games on the lawn, but all ceased and came running to grace as she stepped out upon the veranda and called in musical tones to her little sister and brother. "what is it?" they asked as they drew near, "time to go home?" "yes; so papa and mamma think; and we must always do what they say, you know." "yes, indeed!" answered elsie, "and it's just a pleasure because they always know best and are so kind and love us so dearly." "we've been having an elegant time and it's just lovely here at torriswood," said little elsie embury, "but as it is uncle dick's place we can come here often; and besides viamede is quite as pretty, and we are to go there for the rest of the day." "oh, yes! aren't you glad?" responded several other young voices. the carriages which had brought them were now seen to be in preparation to convey them to that desired destination, and presently one after another received its quota and departed. one three-seated vehicle contained mrs. travilla, her father and his wife, captain and mrs. raymond and their little boy and girl. naturally the talk ran upon the scenes through which they had just been passing. "it was right odd that eva and lu should have caught that bridal bouquet together," laughed violet. "my dear, does it not make you tremble with apprehension lest those two weddings should take place somewhat sooner than you wish?" "i cannot say that i am greatly alarmed," the captain returned pleasantly. "i have too much confidence in the affection and desire to please their father of my eldest son and daughter, to greatly fear that they will disregard my wishes and opinion in reference to that, or anything else indeed." "and i feel very sure that your confidence is not misplaced," said mrs. travilla. "also i think you are wise in wishing them--young as they are--to defer marriage for a few years." mr. and mrs. dinsmore expressed a hearty agreement in that opinion, and violet said it was hers also. "but i could see," she added with playful look and tone, "that the lovers were both pleased and elated. however, it is not supposed to mean speedy matrimony, but merely that they will be the first of those engaged in the sport to enter into it." "yes," captain raymond said laughingly, "and i have known of one case in which the successful catcher--though the first of the competitors to enter into the bonds of matrimony--did not do so until six years afterward. so, naturally, i am not greatly alarmed." a smaller vehicle, driving at some little distance in their rear, held the two young couples of whom they were speaking, and with them also the episode of the throwing and catching of the bouquet was the subject of conversation. "it was capitally done, girls," laughed max, "and possibly may encourage father to shorten our probation--somewhat at least." "yes, i am sure i wish it may," said chester. "i hope you will not object, lu?" "i don't believe it would make a particle of difference in the result whether i did or not," she laughed. "if you knew father as well as i do you would know that he does not often retreat from a position that he has once taken. and he is not superstitious enough to pay any attention to such an omen as we have had to-day. nor would i wish him to, as i have the greatest confidence in his wisdom and his love for his children." "to all of which i add an unqualified assent," said max heartily. "my father's opinion on almost any subject has far more weight with me than that of any other man." chapter xiv. viamede presently showed as beautiful and festive a scene as had torriswood earlier in the day--the velvety grass bespangled with sweet-scented flowers of varied hues, the giant oaks and magnolias, the orange trees with their beautiful glossy leaves, green fruit and ripe, lovely blossoms; also many flags floating here and there from upper windows, verandas, and tree tops. there were not a few exclamations of admiration and delight from the young people and children as carriage after carriage drove up and deposited its living load. a very gay and mirthful time followed; sports begun at torriswood were renewed here with as much zest and spirit as had been shown there; the large company scattering about the extensive grounds and forming groups engaged in one or another game suited to the ages and capacity of its members. but some preferred strolling here and there through the alleys and groves, engaging in nothing more exciting or wearying than sprightly chat and laughter, while the older ladies and gentlemen--among them mr. and mrs. dinsmore, mr. and mrs. ronald and mr. and mrs. hugh lilburn, mr. and mrs. embury, and mr. and mrs. keith, mrs. travilla, and mr. and mrs. leland, dr. arthur conly and his marian--gathered in groups on the verandas or the nearer parts of the lawn. edward travilla and his zoe were down among the little folks, overseeing the sports of their own twin boy and girl and their mates, as were also captain raymond and his violet, with their elsie and ned. his older son and daughters, with chester dinsmore and his brother frank, could be seen at some little distance, occupying rustic seats under a wide-spreading tree and seemingly enjoying an animated and amusing chat. drs. harold and herbert travilla, strolling along with the two older daughters of mr. embury, presently joined them, and dr. and mrs. percival shortly followed, the mirth and jollity apparently increasing with every addition. "they seem to be very merry over yonder," remarked mrs. embury, with a smiling glance at that particular group. "it does me good to see dick take a little relaxation--he is usually so busy in the practice of his profession." "yes," said grandma elsie, "and the evidently strong affection between him and maud is very delightful to see." "as is that between the captain and violet," added her cousin annis. "i thought her young for him when they married, but i never saw a more attached couple. they make no display of it before people, but no close observer could be with them long without becoming convinced of the fact." "that is so, i think," said mrs. leland. "the captain is a fond father, but he has told vi more than once that to lose her would be worse to him than being called to part with all his children." "ah, i hope neither trial may ever be appointed him," said grandma elsie, low and softly, ending with a slight sigh. "and so chester and lucilla, max and eva are engaged," remarked mrs. embury in a reflective tone; "and so far as i know the entire connection seems satisfied with the arrangement." "i have yet to hear of objection from any quarter," mrs. leland said with a smile, "and i can say with certainty that lester and i are well satisfied, so far as our niece eva is concerned. i think the captain is right and wise though, in bidding them delay marriage for at least a year or two--all of them being so young." "i think," said mrs. arthur conly, joining in the talk, "that frank dinsmore is evidently very much in love with grace." "in which i sincerely hope he will get no encouragement from the captain," dr. conly added quickly and with strong emphasis. "grace is much too young, and entirely too feeble to safely venture into wedlock for years to come." "and i think you may safely trust her father to see that she does not," said grandma elsie. "i am sure he agrees in your opinion and that grace is too good and obedient a daughter ever to go contrary to his wishes." gradually, as the sun drew near his setting, the participants in the sports gave them up and gathered in the parlors or upon the verandas, most of them just about weary enough with the pleasant exercise they had been taking to enjoy a little quiet rest before being summoned to partake of the grand dinner in process of preparation by viamede's famous cooks. lucilla and her sister grace, wishing to make some slight change in the arrangement of hair or dress, hastened up the broad stairway together on their way to the room now occupied by grace and elsie. in the upper hall they met their father, coming from a similar errand to his own apartment. "ah, daughters," he said in his usual kindly tones, "we have had much less than usual to say to each other to-day, but i hope you have been enjoying yourselves?" and as he spoke he put an arm around each and drew them closer to him. "oh, yes, yes, indeed, papa!" both replied, smilingly and in mirthful tones, lucilla adding, "everything seems to have gone swimmingly to-day." "even to the catching of the bride's bouquet, i suppose," returned her father, giving her an amused yet searching and half-inquiring look. at that lucilla laughed. "yes, papa; wasn't it odd that eva and i happened to catch it together?" "and were both highly elated over the happy augury?" he queried, still gazing searchingly into her eyes. "hardly, i think, papa; though chester and max seemed rather elated by it. but really," she added with a mirthful look, "i depend far more upon my father's decision than upon dozens of such auguries; and besides am in no haste to leave his care and protection or go from under his authority." "spoken like my own dear eldest daughter," he returned with a gratified look, and giving her a slight caress. "it would be strange indeed, if any one of your children did want to get from under it, papa," said grace, with a look of ardent affection up into his eyes. "i am glad to hear you say that, daughter," he returned with a smile, and softly smoothing the shining, golden hair, "because it will be years before i can feel willing to resign the care of my still rather feeble little grace to another, or let her take up the burdens and anxieties of married life." "you may be perfectly sure i don't want to, papa," she returned with a gleeful, happy laugh. "it is just a joy and delight to me to feel that i belong to you and always shall as long as you want to keep me." "which will be just as long as you enjoy it--and we both live," he added a little more gravely. then releasing them with an injunction not to waste too much time over their toilet, he passed on down the stairway while they went on into their tiring-room. "oh, lu," said grace as she pulled down her hair before the glass, "haven't we the best and dearest father in the world? i like chester ever so much, but i sometimes wonder how you can bear the very thought of leaving papa for him." "it does not seem an easy thing to do," sighed lucilla, "and yet----" but she paused, leaving her sentence unfinished. "yet what?" asked grace, turning an inquiring look upon her sister. "well, i believe i'll tell you," returned lucilla in a half-hesitating way. "i have always valued father's love oh, so highly, and once when i happened accidentally to overhear something he said to mamma vi, it nearly broke my heart--for a while." her voice quivered with the last words, and she seemed unable to go on for emotion. "why, lu, what could it have been?" exclaimed grace in surprise, and giving her sister a look of mingled love and compassion. with an evident effort lucilla went on: "it was that she was dearer to him than all his children put together--that he would lose every one of them rather than part with her. it made me feel for a while as if i had lost everything worth having--papa's love for me must be so very slight. but after a long and bitter cry over it i was comforted by remembering what the bible says, 'let every one of you in particular so love his wife even as himself.' and the words of jesus, 'for this cause shall a man leave father and mother, and cleave to his wife: and they twain shall be one flesh.' so i could see it was right for my father to love his wife best of all earthly creatures--she being but a part of himself--and besides i could not doubt that he loved me and each one of his children very, very dearly." "yes, i am sure he does," said grace, vainly trying to speak in her usual cheery, light-hearted tones. "oh, lu, i don't wonder you cried over it. it would just kill me to think papa didn't care very much about me." "oh, gracie, he does! i know he does! i am sure he would not hesitate a moment to risk his life for any one of us." "yes, i am sure of it! and what but his love for you makes him so unwilling to give you up to chester? i can see that ches feels it hard to wait, but father certainly has the best of rights to keep his daughters to himself as long as they are under age." "and as much longer as he chooses, so far as i am concerned. i am only too glad that he seems so loath to give me up. my dear, dear father! words cannot express my love for him or the regret i feel for the rebellious conduct which gave him so much pain and trouble in days long gone by." "dear lu," said grace, "i am perfectly sure our dear father forgave all that long ago." "yes, but i can never forget or forgive it myself. nor can i forget how glad and thankful he was that i was not the one killed by the bear out at minersville, or his saving me that time when i was so nearly swept into lake erie by the wind; how closely he hugged me to his breast--a tear falling on my head--when he got me safely into the cabin, and the low-breathed words, 'thank god, my darling, precious child is safe in my arms.' oh, gracie, i have seemed to hear the very words and tones many a time since. so i cannot doubt that he does love me very much; even if i am not so dear to him as his wife is." "and you love mamma, too?" "yes, indeed! she is just like a dear older sister. i may well love her since she is so dear to papa, and was so kind and forbearing with me in those early years of her married life when i certainly was very far from being the good and lovable child i ought to have been. she was very forbearing, and never gave papa the slightest hint of my badness." "she has always been very good and kind to us," said grace, "and i love her very dearly." "and papa showed his love for me in allowing chester to offer himself because he had saved my life--for otherwise he would have forbidden it for at least another year or two." "yes, i know," said grace. "we certainly have plenty of proofs that father does love us very much." "but we must not delay at this business, as he bade us hasten down again," lucilla said, quickening her movements as she spoke. "no; i'm afraid he is beginning to wonder what is keeping us so long," said grace, following her example. they had no idea how their father was engaged at that moment. as he reached the lower hall frank dinsmore stepped forward and accosted him. "can i have a moment's chat with you, captain?" he asked in an undertone, and with a slightly embarrassed air. "certainly, frank. it is a very modest request," was the kindly-toned response, "what can i do for you?" "very nearly the same thing that you have so kindly done for my brother, sir," replied the young man, coloring and hesitating somewhat in his speech. "i--i am deeply, desperately in love with your daughter, miss grace, and----" "go no farther, my young friend," interrupted the captain in a grave though still kindly tone. "i have no objection to you personally, but grace is entirely too young and too delicate for her father to consider for a moment the idea of allowing her to think of such a thing as marriage. understand distinctly that i should be not a whit more ready to listen to such a request from any other man--older or younger, richer or poorer." "but she is well worth waiting for, sir, and if you would only let me speak and try to win her affections, i----" "that must be waited for, frank. i cannot and will not have her approached upon the subject," was the almost stern rejoinder. "promise me that you will not do or say anything to give her the idea that you want to be more to her than a friend." "that is a hard thing you are requiring, sir," sighed frank. "but quite necessary if you would be permitted to see much of grace," returned the captain with great decision. "and, seeing that you feel toward her as you have just told me you do, i think the less you see of each other--or hold intercourse together--the better. should she be in good, firm health some six or eight years hence, and you and she then have a fancy for each other, her father will not, probably, raise any objection to your suit; but until then i positively forbid anything and everything of the kind." "i must say i find that a hard sentence, captain," sighed the would-be suitor. "it strikes me that most fathers would be a trifle more ready to make an eligible match for a daughter of miss grace's age. she is very young, i acknowledge, but i have known some girls to marry even younger. and you will not even allow her to enter into an engagement?" "no; i have no desire to rid myself of my daughter; very far from it. for my first set of children i have a peculiarly tender feeling because--excepting each other--they have no very near relative but myself. they were quite young when they lost their mother, and for years i have felt that i must fill to them the place of both parents as far as possible, and have tried to do so. as one result," he added with his pleasant smile, "i find that i am exceedingly loath to give them up into any other care and keeping." "but since we are neighbors and distant connections, and my brother engaged to miss lu, you do not absolutely forbid me your house, captain?" "no; you may see grace in my presence--perhaps occasionally out of it--provided you carefully obey my injunction to refrain from anything like love-making." "thank you, sir; i accept the conditions," was frank's response, and the two separated just as lucilla and grace appeared at the top of the stairway near which they had been standing, frank passing out to the veranda, the captain moving slowly in the opposite direction. "there's father now!" exclaimed grace, tripping down the stairs. "papa," as he turned at the sound of her voice and glanced up at her, "i've been re-arranging my hair. please tell me if you like it in this style." "certainly, daughter; i like it in any style in which i have ever seen it arranged," he returned, regarding it critically, but with an evidently admiring gaze. "i am glad and thankful that you have an abundance of it--such as it is," he added sportively, taking her hand in his as she reached his side. then turning to lucilla, "and yours, too, lulu, seems to be in well-cared-for condition." "thank you, papa dear; i like occasionally to hear you call me by that name so constantly used in the happy days of my childhood." "ah! i hope that does not mean that these are not happy days?" he said, giving her a look of kind and fatherly scrutiny. "oh, no, indeed, father! i don't believe there is a happier girl than i in all this broad land." "i am thankful for that," he said with a tenderly affectionate look into her eyes as she stood at his side gazing up into his; "for there is nothing i desire more than the happiness of these two dear daughters of mine." "yes, father dear, we both know you would take any amount of trouble for our pleasure or profit," said grace gayly; "but just to know that we belong to you is enough for us. isn't it, lu?" "and are so dear to him," added lucilla. "i couldn't be the happy girl i am if i didn't know that." "never doubt it, my darlings; never for a moment," he said in a moved tone. "oh, so here you are, girls!" exclaimed a familiar voice just in their rear. "i have been all round the verandas, looking for you, but you seemed to be lost in the crowd or to have vanished into thin air." "certainly not that last, sister rose," laughed the captain. "i am happy to say there is something a good deal more substantial than that about them." "yes, i see there is; they are both looking remarkably well. and now i hope we can have a good chat. there has hardly been an opportunity for it yet--there being such a crowd of relations and friends, and such a commotion over the wedding--and you know i want to hear all about what you did and saw in florida. also to tell you of the improvements we are talking of making at riverside." "you will have hardly time for a very long talk, rosie," said her mother, joining them at that moment. "the call to dinner will come soon. but here are comfortable chairs and a sofa in which you can rest and chat until then." "yes, mamma, and you will join us, will you not? and you too, brother levis?" as the captain turned toward the outer door. "i shall be pleased to do so if my company is desired," he replied, taking a chair near the little group already seated. "of course it is, sir. i always enjoyed your company even when you were my respected and revered instructor with the right and power to punish me if i failed in conduct or recitation," returned rosie in the bantering tone she had so often adopted in days gone by. "i am rejoiced to hear it," he laughed. "and you may as well make yourself useful as story-teller of all you folks saw and did in florida," she continued. "much too long a tale for the few minutes we are likely to be able to give to it at present," he said. "let us reserve that for another time and now hear the story of your own prospective doings at riverside." "or talk about this morning's wedding. it was a pretty one; wasn't it? i never saw sidney look so charming as she did in that wedding gown and veil. i hope they will have as pleasant a wedding trip as my will and i had; and be as happy afterward as we are." "i hope so, indeed," said her mother, "and that their after life may be a happy and prosperous one." "yes, mamma, i join you in that. and, lu, how soon do you expect to follow suit and give her the right to call you sister?" "when my father bids me; not a moment sooner," replied lucilla, turning an affectionately smiling look upon him. he returned it, saying, "which will not be for many months to come. he is far from feeling ready yet to resign even one of his heart's best treasures." "oh, it is a joy to have you call me that, papa!" she exclaimed low and feelingly. they chatted on for a few minutes longer, when they were interrupted by the call to the dinner table. a very welcome one, for the sports had given good appetites and the viands were toothsome and delicious. the meal was not eaten in haste or silence, but amid cheerful, mirthful chat and low-toned, musical laughter, and with its numerous courses occupied more than an hour. on leaving the banqueting room they again scattered about the parlors, verandas, and grounds, resuming the intimate and friendly intercourse held there before the summons to their feast. captain raymond had kept a watchful eye upon his daughters--grace in especial--and now took pains to seat her near himself on the veranda, saying, "i want you to rest here a while, daughter, for i see you are looking weary; which is not strange, considering how much more than your usual amount of exercise you have already taken to-day." "yes, i am a little tired, papa," she answered, with a loving smile up into his eyes as she sank somewhat wearily into the chair, "and it is very, very pleasant to have you so kindly careful of me." "ah!" he returned, patting her cheek and smiling affectionately upon her, "it behooves everyone to be careful of his own particular treasures." "and our dear gracie is certainly one of those," said violet, coming to the other side of the young girl and looking down a little anxiously into the sweet, fair face. "are you very weary, dearest?" "oh, not so very, mamma dear," she answered blithely. "this is a delightful chair papa has put me into, and a little rest in it, while digesting the good hearty meal i have just eaten, will make me all right again, i think." "won't you take this other one by her side, my love? i think you too need a little rest," said the captain gallantly. "thank you, i will if you will occupy that one on her other side, so that we will have her between us. and here come lu and rosie, so that we can perhaps finish the chat she tells me she was holding with you and the girls before the call to dinner." "i don't believe we can, mamma," laughed grace, "for here come will croly and chester to take possession of them; eva and max too, and frank." "then we will just defer it until another time," said violet. "those who have children will soon be leaving for their homes and those left behind will form a smaller, quieter party." violet's surmises proved correct, those with young children presently taking their departure in order that the little ones might seek their nests for the night. the air began to grow cool and the family and remaining guests found it now pleasanter within doors than upon the verandas. music and conversation made the time pass rapidly, a light tea was served, mr. dinsmore--mrs. travilla's father--read a portion of scripture and led in a short prayer, a little chat followed, and the remaining guests bade adieu for the present and went their ways; maud's two brothers and the dinsmores from the oaks among them. "now, grace, my child, linger not a moment longer, but get to bed as fast as you can," said captain raymond to his second daughter as they stood upon the veranda, looking after the departing guests. his tone was tenderly affectionate and he gave her a good-night caress as he spoke. "i will, father dear," she answered cheerfully and made haste to do his bidding. "she is looking very weary. i fear i have let her exert herself to-day far more than was for her good," he remarked somewhat anxiously to his wife and lucilla standing near. "but i hope a good night's rest will make it all right with her," violet returned in a cheery tone, adding playfully, "and we certainly have plenty of doctors at hand, if anything should go wrong with her or any of us." "excellent ones, too," said lucilla; "but i hope and really expect that a good night's rest will quite restore her to her usual health and strength. so, father, don't feel anxious and troubled." "i shall endeavor not to, my wise young mentor," he returned with a slight laugh, laying a hand lightly upon her shoulder as he spoke. "oh, papa, please excuse me if i seemed to be trying to teach you!" she exclaimed in a tone of penitence. "i'm afraid it sounded very conceited and disrespectful." "if it did it was not, i am sure, so intended, so i shall not punish you this time," he replied in a tone which puzzled her with the question whether he were jesting or in earnest. "i hope you will if you think i deserve it, father," she said low and humbly, violet having left them and gone within doors, and no one else being near enough to overhear her words. at that he put his arm about her and drew her closer. "i but jested, daughter," he said in tender tones, "and am not in the least displeased with you. so your only punishment shall be an order presently to go directly to your room and prepare for bed. but first let us have our usual bit of bedtime chat, which i believe i enjoy as fully as does my little girl herself." "oh, father, how kind in you to say that!" she exclaimed in low, but joyous tones. "i do dearly love to make you my confidant--you are so wise and kind and i am so sure that you love me dearly, as your very own god-given property. am i not that still as truly as i ever was?" "indeed you are! as truly now as when you were a babe in arms," he said, with a happy laugh and drawing her closer to his heart. "a treasure that no amount of money could buy from me. your price is above rubies, my own darling." "what sweet words, papa!" she exclaimed with a happy sigh. "but sometimes when i think of all my past naughtiness--giving you so much pain and trouble--i wonder that you can love me half so well as you do." "dear child, i think i never loved you the less because of all that, nor you me less because of the severity of my discipline." "papa, i believe i always loved you better for your strictness and severity. you made it so clear to me that it was done for my best good and that it hurt you when you felt it your duty to give me pain." "it did indeed!" he said; "but for a long time now my eldest daughter has been to me only a joy, a comfort, a delight--so that i can ill bear the thought of resigning her to another." "ah, father, what sweet, sweet words to hear from your lips! they make me so glad, so happy." "pleasant words those for me to hear, and a pleasant thought that my dear eldest daughter is not in haste to leave my protecting care for that of another. i trust chester is inclined to wait patiently until the right time comes?" "he has made it evident to me that he would much rather shorten the time of waiting if there were a possibility of gaining my father's consent." "but that there is not," the captain replied with decision. "if i should consider only my own feeling and inclination and my belief as to what would be really best for you, i should certainly keep full possession of my eldest daughter for several years to come. i have had a talk with dr. conly on the subject, and he, as a physician, tells me it would be far better in most cases, for a girl to remain single until well on toward twenty-five." "which would make her quite an old maid, i should think, papa," laughed lucilla. "yet if you bid me wait that long and can make chester content--i'll not be at all rebellious." "no, i don't believe you would; but i have really no idea of trying you so far. by the way, rosie and her will, maud and dick seem two very happy couples." "yes, indeed, father; it is a pleasure to watch them. and do you know i think frank dinsmore is casting longing eyes at our grace." "but you don't think the dear child cares at all for him?" "oh, no, sir! no, indeed! grace doesn't care in the least for beaux, and loves no other man half so well as she does her father and mine." "just as i thought; but i want you quietly to help me prevent any private interviews between them--lest she might learn to care for him." "thank you for trusting me, papa; i will do any best," she responded. then they bade good-night and lucilla went to her room. she found eva there and they chatted pleasantly together as they prepared for bed. eva had noticed frank's evident devotion to grace and spoke of it, adding, "it is a pity, for of course your father--i had very nearly said father, for i begin to feel as if i belonged in his flock--considering us older ones too young to marry, will say she is very far from being old enough for loverlike attentions." "yes, he does," replied lucilla, "and i want your help in a task he has set me--the endeavor to keep them from being alone together." "i'll do so with pleasure," laughed evelyn, "and i think probably it would be just as well to take grace herself into the plot, for i'm very sure she doesn't care a pin for frank, but dotes upon her father." chapter xv. the ladies of the torriswood party retired for the night almost immediately on their arrival there, but the gentlemen lingered a little in the room used by dr. percival as his office. there was some cheerful chat over the events of the day in which, however, frank dinsmore took no part. he sat in moody silence, seeming scarcely to hear what the others were saying. "what's the matter with you, frank?" queried the doctor at length. "didn't things go off to suit you to-day?" "well enough," grumbled frank, "except that i don't seem to be considered as worthy as my brother is of being taken into--a certain family really no better than my own, unless as regards wealth." "oh, ho! so that's the way the land lies! it's grace raymond you're after, eh? and she won't consent?" "her father won't. i must not say a word to her on the subject." "and he is right, frank," returned the doctor gravely. "she is far too young and too delicate to begin with such things. art would tell you that in a moment if you should ask him. my opinion as a physician is that marriage now would be likely to kill her within a year; or, if she lived, make her an invalid for life." "i'd be willing to let marriage wait if i might only speak and win her promise; but no, i'm positively forbidden to say a word." "you would gain nothing by it if you did," said chester. "she is devoted to her father and hasn't the least idea of falling in love with any other man." "ridiculous!" growled frank. "well, things being as they are, i'll not tarry long in this part of the country. i'll go back and attend to the business of our clients, and you, chester, can stay on here with your fiancée and her family, and perhaps gather up a larger amount of health and strength." "don't be in a hurry about leaving us, frank," said dick cordially. "maud has been calculating on at least a few days more of your good company; and there's no telling when you may find it convenient to pay us another visit." "thanks, dick; you are hospitality itself; and this is a lovely home you have secured, for yourself and maud. i'll sleep on the question of the time of departure. and now good-night and pleasant dreams. i hope none of your patients will call you out before sunrise." and with that they separated, each to seek his own sleeping apartment. for some hours all was darkness and silence within and without the house. then the doctor was awakened by the ringing of his night bell. "what is wanted?" he asked, going to the open window. "you, doctah, fast as you kin git dar, down to lamont--ole massa gest's place. leetle miss nellie she got a fit." "indeed! i am very sorry to hear it. i'll be there as soon as possible," and turning from the window the doctor rang for his servant, ordered horses saddled and brought to a side door, then hurried on his clothes, explaining matters to the now awakened maud as he did so--gathered up the remedies likely to be needed, and hastened away. directing his servant to keep close in his rear he rode rapidly in the direction of the place named by the messenger. he found the child very ill and not fit to be left by him until early morning. it was in the darkest hour, just before day, that he started for home again. all went well till he was within a few rods of home, but then his horse--a rather wild young animal--took fright at the hoot of an owl in a tree close at hand, reared suddenly and threw him violently to the ground, then rushed away in the direction of his stable. "oh, doctah, sah, is you bad hurted?" queried the servant man, hastily alighting and coming to his master's side. "pretty badly, i'm afraid, pete," groaned the doctor. "help me to the house, and then you must ride over to viamede as fast as you can, wake up dr. harold travilla and ask him to come to me immediately to set some broken bones. take one of the other horses with you for him to ride. ah," as he attempted to rise, "i'm hardly able to walk, pete; you will have to pretty nearly carry me to the house." "i kin do dat, doctah; ise a strong-built nigger; jes lemme tote you 'long like de mammies do de leetle darkies." and with that pete lifted dr. percival in his arms carried him to the house and on up to his own sleeping room, where he laid him gently down upon his bed in an almost fainting condition. maud was greatly alarmed, and bade pete hasten with all speed for one or another of the doctor cousins. "harold, harold!" groaned the sufferer, "he is older than herbert and nearer than art, who is at the parsonage. and he can bring herbert with him should he see fit." pete, alarmed at the condition of his master, to whom he had become strongly attached, made all the haste he could to bring the needed help; but the sun was already above the tree tops when he reached viamede. the first person he saw there was captain raymond, who had just stepped out upon the veranda. "morning, sah! is you uns one ob de doctahs?" he queried in anxious tones, as he reined in his horse at the foot of the veranda steps. "no," replied the captain; "but there are doctors in the house. you are from torriswood, i think. is any one ill there?" "massa doctah, he's 'most killed! horse frowed him. please, sah, where de doctahs? i'se in pow'ful big hurry to git dem dere fore----" "here," called the voice of harold from an upper window; "is it i that am wanted? i'll be down there in five minutes or less." "yes, i think it is you, and probably herbert also, who are wanted in all haste at torriswood," answered captain raymond, his voice betraying both anxiety and alarm. "it seems dick has met with a serious accident and has sent for one or both of you." "yes," replied herbert, speaking as harold had from the window, "we will both go to him as speedily as possible and do what we can for his relief. please, captain, order another horse saddled and brought round immediately." the captain at once complied with the request, and in a very few minutes both doctors were riding briskly toward torriswood. they found their patient in much pain from a dislocated shoulder and some broken bones; all of which they proceeded to set as promptly as possible. but there were symptoms of some internal injury which occasioned more alarm than the displacement and fracture of the bones. they held a consultation outside of the sick room. "i think we should have cousin arthur here," said harold. "'in multitude of counsellors is safety,' solomon tells us, and art excels us both in wisdom and experience." "certainly," responded herbert; "let us summon him at once. i am glad indeed that he is still within reach." "as i am. i will speak to maud and have him sent for immediately." a messenger was promptly despatched to the parsonage and returned shortly, bringing dr. conly with him. another examination and consultation followed and dr. percival, who had become slightly delirious, was pronounced in a critical condition; yet the physicians, though anxious, by no means despaired of his ultimate recovery. the news of the accident had by this time reached all of the connection in that neighborhood, and silent petitions on his behalf were going up from many hearts. on behalf of his young wife also, for poor maud seemed well-nigh distracted with grief and the fear of the bereavement that threatened her. mrs. embury, too, was greatly distressed, for dick and she had been all their lives a devotedly attached brother and sister. no day now passed in which she did not visit torriswood that she might catch a sight of his dear face and learn as far as possible his exact state; though neither her nursing nor that of other loving relatives was needed--the doctors and an old negress, skilled in that line of work, doing all that could be done for his relief and comfort. mrs. betty norton, his half-sister, was scarcely less pained and anxious; as indeed were maud's brothers and all the relatives in that region. it was from her father lucilla first heard of the accident--when she joined him on the veranda at viamede directly after the departure of the doctors and pete for torriswood. "oh, father," she exclaimed, "i do hope he is not seriously injured! poor maud! she must be sorely distressed, for he has proved such a good, kind husband, and she almost idolizes him." "yes, i feel deeply for her as well as for him. we will pray for them both, asking that if it be consistent with the will of god, he may be speedily restored to perfect health and strength." "yes, papa; what a comfort it is that we may cast upon the lord all our care for ourselves and others!" "it is indeed! i have found it so in many a sore trial sent to myself or to some one dear to me. i am glad for maud that she has her brothers with her now." "i too, papa, and i suppose chester will stay with her to-day." "most likely; and my daughter must not feel hurt should he not show himself here at his usual early hour, or even at all to-day." "i'll try not, papa. i am sure it would be very selfish in me to grudge poor dear maud any show of sympathy or any comfort she might receive from him--her own dear eldest brother." "yes, so i think," said her father, "and i should not expect it of any one of my daughters." chester came at length, some hours later than his wont, and looking grave and troubled. in answer to inquiries, "yes, poor dick is certainly badly hurt," he said, "and maud well-nigh distracted with grief and anxiety. she is a most devoted wife and considers him her all." "but the case is not thought to be hopeless?" mr. dinsmore said inquiringly. "no, not exactly that, but the doctors are not yet able to decide just what the internal injury may be." "and while there is life there is hope," said grandma elsie in determinately cheerful tones. "it is certainly in his favor that he is a strong, healthy man, in the prime of life." "and still more that he is a christian man; therefore ready for any event," added her father. "and so loved and useful a man that we may well unite in prayer for his recovery, if consistent with the will of god," said captain raymond. "and so we will," said cousin ronald. "i feel assured that no one of us will refuse or neglect the performance of that duty." "and we can plead the promise, 'if two of you shall agree on earth as touching anything that they shall ask, it shall be done for them of my father which is in heaven,'" said mrs. dinsmore. "so i have strong hope that dear dick will be spared to us. he is certainly a much loved and very useful man." "and maud must be relieved as far as possible from other cares," remarked mrs. travilla. "i shall at once invite my brother and his family here. there is room enough, especially as my two sons are there and will be nearly, if not all, the time while dick is so ill." "no, cousin," said chester, "thank you very much, but cousin sue is making herself very useful and could not well be spared. she has undertaken the housekeeping, leaving maud to devote herself entirely to dick." "oh, that is good and kind in her," was the quick response from several voices. "and very fortunate it is that she happened to be there, ready for the undertaking," said mrs. rose croly; "and if dick had to have that accident he couldn't have found a better time for it than now, while there are three good doctors at hand to attend to him." "true enough," assented chester. "things are never so bad but they might be worse." days of anxiety and suspense followed, during which dr. percival's life seemed trembling in the balance. drs. harold and herbert scarcely left the house and spent much of their time in the sick room, while dr. conly made several visits every day, sometimes remaining for hours, and the rest of the relatives and near friends came and went with kind offers and inquiries, doing all in their power to show sympathy, and give help, while carefully avoiding unwelcome intrusion or disturbance of the quiet that brooded over torriswood and seemed so essential under the circumstances. nothing was neglected that could be done for the restoration of the loved sufferer, and no one of the many relatives and connections there felt willing to leave the neighborhood while his life hung in the balance. chester spent a part of each day with his distressed and anxious sister, and a part with his betrothed, from whom he felt very unwilling to absent himself for even one whole day. the young people and some of the older ones made little excursions, as before, on the bayou and about the woods and fields, captain raymond and violet usually forming a part of the company; especially if his daughter grace and frank dinsmore were in it. at other times they gathered upon the veranda or in the parlors and entertained each other with conversation, music, or games of the quiet and innocent kind. in the meantime many earnest prayers were sent up on behalf of the injured one--the beloved physician--in the closet, in the family worship, and in the sanctuary when they assembled there on the sabbath day; and many a silent petition as one and another thought of him on his bed of suffering. they prayed in faith, believing that if it were best in the sight of him who is all-wise and all-powerful and with whom there is no variableness or shadow of turning, their petition would be granted. and at length so it proved; the fever left him, consciousness and reason were restored, and presently the rejoicing physicians were able to declare the danger past, the recovery certain should nothing occur to cause a relapse. then there was great rejoicing among those who were of his kith and kin, and those to whom he was the beloved physician. then such as were needed at their places of residence presently bade farewell and departed for their homes; drs. conly and herbert travilla among them, leaving dr. harold in sole charge of the invalid. those who had come on the _dolphin_ decided to return on it, though they would linger somewhat longer--no one feeling it a trial to have to delay for days or weeks where they were. frank dinsmore was one of the earliest to leave, and chester, finding that more southern climate beneficial to him at that season of the year, was entirely willing to entrust the business of the firm to his brother for a time. so, relieved of anxiety in regard to dick and still numerous enough to make a very pleasant party, the time passed swiftly and most agreeably to them--especially to the two affianced pairs and the children; cousin ronald and max now and then entertaining them by the exertion of their ventriloquial powers. the young people from magnolia hall were often with them and their presence added zest to the enjoyment of little elsie and ned in the fun made by their indulgent ventriloquists. that particular sport was apt to begin unexpectedly to the children, making it a little more difficult to recognize it as the doings of the ventriloquists. one afternoon, after playing romping games upon the lawn until weary enough to enjoy a quiet rest on the veranda where the older people were, they had hardly seated themselves when they heard a sound of approaching footsteps, then a voice that seemed like that of a little girl, asking, "dear little ladies and gentlemen, may i sit here with you for a while? i'm lonesome and would be glad of good company, such as i am sure yours must be." some of the children, hearing the voice but not able to see the speaker, seemed struck dumb with surprise. it was violet who answered, "oh, yes, little girl. take this empty chair by me and tell me who you are." "oh, madam, i really can't tell you my name," answered the voice, now seeming to come from the empty chair by violet's side. "it seems an odd thing to happen, but there are folks who do sometimes forget their own name." "and that is the case with you now, is it?" laughed violet. "your voice sounds like that of a girl, but i very much doubt if you belong to our sex." "isn't that rather insulting, madam?" asked the voice in an offended tone. "oh, i know you're not a girl or a woman either!" cried ned raymond gleefully, clapping his hands and laughing with delight. "you're a man, just pretending to be a little girl." "that is insulting, you rude little chap, and i shall just go away," returned the voice in indignant tones, followed immediately by the sound of footsteps starting from the chair beside violet and gradually dying away in the distance. "why, she went off in a hurry and i couldn't see her at all!" exclaimed one of the young visitors; then, as everybody laughed, "oh, of course it was cousin ronald or cousin max!" "why, the voice sounded to me like that of a little girl," said violet, "and cousin ronald and max are men." "of course they are, and could not talk in the sweet tones of my little girl," said a rough masculine voice that seemed to come from the doorway into the hall. involuntarily nearly everybody turned to look for the speaker, but he was not to be seen. "and who are you and your girl?" asked another voice, seeming to speak from the farther end of the veranda. "people of consequence, whom you should treat with courtesy," answered the other, who seemed to stand in the doorway. "as we will if you will come forward and show yourselves," laughed lucilla, putting up her hand as she spoke to drive away a bee that seemed to buzz about her ears. "never mind, lu; its sting won't damage you seriously," said max, giving her a look of amusement. "oh, hark! here come the soldiers again!" exclaimed elsie embury, as the notes of a bugle, quickly followed by those of the drum and fife, seemed to come from a distant point on the farther side of the bayou. "don't be alarmed, miss; american soldiers don't harm ladies," said the voice from the farther end of the veranda. "no, i am not at all alarmed," she returned with a look of amusement directed first at cousin ronald, then at max; "not in the least afraid of them." the music continued for a few minutes, all listening silently to it, then as the last strain died away a voice spoke in tones apparently trembling with affright, "oh, please somebody hide me! hide me quick! quick! before those troops get here. i'm falsely accused and who knows but they may shoot me down on sight?" the speaker was not visible, but from the sounds seemed to be on the lawn and very near at hand. "oh, run round the house and get the servants to hide you in the kitchen or one of the cellars," cried ned, not quite able, in the excitement of the moment, to realize that there was not a stranger there who might be really in sore peril. "thanks!" returned the voice, and a sound as of some one running swiftly in the prescribed direction accompanied and followed the word. then the tramp, tramp, as of soldiers on the march, and the music of the drum and fife seemed to draw nearer and nearer. "why, it's real, isn't it?" exclaimed one of the children, jumping up and trying to get a nearer view of the approaching troop. "oh, don't be afraid," laughed grace; "i'm sure they won't hurt us or that poor, frightened man either." "no," chuckled ned. "if he went to the kitchen, as i told him to, he'll have plenty of time to hide before they can get here." "sure enough, laddie," laughed cousin ronald, "they don't appear to be coming on very fast. i hear no more o' their music or their tramp, tramp. do you?" "no, sir; and i won't believe they are real live fellows till i see them." "well now, ned," said lucilla, "i really believe they are very much alive and kindly making a good deal of fun for us." "who, who, who?" came at that instant from among the branches of the tree near at hand--or at least seemed to come from there. "our two ventriloquist friends," replied lucilla, gazing up into the tree as if expecting to see and recognize the bird. "oh, what was that?" exclaimed one of the little girls, jumping up in affright, as the squeak of a mouse seemed to come from among the folds of her dress. "nothing dangerous, my dear," said mr. dinsmore, drawing her into the shelter of his arms. "it was no mouse; only a little noise." "oh, yes, uncle, i might have known that," she said with a rather hysterical little laugh. just then the tramp, tramp was heard again apparently near at hand, at one side of the house, where the troops might be concealed by the trees and shrubs; the music of the drum and fife following the next moment. "oh," cried ned, "won't they catch that fellow who just ran round to the kitchen as i told him to?" "if they do i hope they won't hurt him," laughed lucilla. the music seemed to arouse the anger of several dogs belonging on the place and at that moment they set up a furious barking. the music continued and seemed to come nearer and nearer, the dogs barked more and more furiously; but presently the drum and fife became silent, the dogs ceased barking and all was quiet. but not for long; the voice that had asked for a hiding-place spoke again close at hand. "here i am, safe and sound, thanks to the little chap who told me where to hide. the fellows didn't find me and i'm off. but if they come here looking for me, please don't tell which way i've gone. good-by." "wait a minute and tell us who you are before you go," called out eric leland, and from the tree came the owl's "who, who, who?" "who i am?" returned the manlike voice, seeming to speak from a greater distance, "well, sir, that's for me to know and you to find out." "now please tell us which of you it was--cousin ronald and max," said ned, looking from one to the other. "that's for us to know and you to find out, little brother," laughed max. "papa," said ned, turning to their father, "i wish you'd order max to tell." "max is of age now and not at present under my orders," replied captain raymond, with a humorous look and smile, and just then came the call to the tea table. ned was unusually quiet during the meal, gazing scrutinizingly every now and then at his father or max. when they had returned to the veranda he watched his opportunity and seized upon a moment when he could speak to his brother without being overheard by anyone else. "brother max," he queried, "won't you ever have to obey papa any more?" "yes, little brother," returned max, looking slightly amused, "i consider it my duty to obey papa now whenever it pleases him to give me an order; and that it will be my duty as long as he and i both live." "and you mean to do it?" "yes, indeed." "so do i," returned ned with great decision. "and i think all our sisters do too; because the bible tells us to; and besides papa knows best about everything." "very true, ned; and i hope none of us will ever forget that or fail to obey his orders or wishes or to follow his advice." chapter xvi. dr. percival had so far recovered as to be considered able to lie in a hammock upon an upper veranda where he could look out upon the beauties of the lawn, the bayou, and the fields and woods beyond. dr. harold travilla was still in attendance and seldom left him for any great length of time, never alone, seldom with only the nurse--maud, one of dick's sisters, or some other relative being always near at hand, ready to wait upon him, chat pleasantly for his entertainment, or remain silent as seemed best to suit his mood at the moment. he was very patient, cheerful, and easily entertained, but did not usually talk very much himself. one day he and harold were alone for a time. both had been silent for some moments when dick, turning an affectionate look upon his cousin, said in grateful tones, "how very good, kind, and attentive you have been to me, harold. i think that but for you and the other two doctors--cousins arthur and herbert--i should now be lying under the sod; and i must acknowledge that you are a most excellent physician and surgeon," he added with an appreciative smile and holding out his hand. harold took the hand and, pressing it affectionately in both of his, said with feeling, "thank you, dick. i consider your opinion worth a great deal, and it is a joy to me that i have been permitted to aid in helping on your recovery; but i am no more deserving of thanks than the others. indeed both herbert and i felt it to be a very great help to be able to call cousin arthur in to give his opinion, advice, assistance; which he did freely and faithfully. he is an excellent physician and surgeon--as i know you to be also: knowledge which increases the delight of having been--by god's blessing upon our efforts--able to pull you through, thus saving a most useful life." "thank you," replied dick in a moved tone. "by god's help i shall try to make it more useful in the future than it has been in the past--should he see fit to restore me to health and vigor. i feel at present as if i might never again be able to walk or ride." "i think you need change of climate for a while," said harold. "what do you say to going north with us, if captain raymond should give you and maud an invitation to take passage in his yacht?" "why, that is a splendid idea, harold!" exclaimed dick, with such a look of animation and pleasure as had not been seen upon his features for many a day. "should i get the invitation and bob come back in time to attend to our practice, i--i really shall, i think, be strongly inclined to accept." "i hope so indeed," harold said with a smile, "and i haven't a doubt that you will get it; for i know of no one who loves better than the captain to do good or give pleasure. ah! speak of angels! here he is with his wife and yours," as just at that moment the three stepped out from the open doorway upon the veranda. "the three of us, harold? are we all angels to-day?" asked violet, with a smile, stepping forward and taking dick's hand in hers. "quite as welcome as if you were, cousin," said dick. "ah, captain! it was you we were speaking of at the moment of your arrival." "ah? a poor substitute for an angel, i fear," was the rejoinder in the captain's usual pleasant tones. "but i hope it was the thought of something which it may be in my power to do for you, cousin dick." "thanks, captain; you are always most kind," returned dick, asking harold by a look to give the desired explanation, which he did at once by repeating what had just passed between him and dr. percival in regard to a northern trip to be taken by the latter upon his partner's return from his bridal trip. captain raymond's countenance brightened as he listened and scarcely waiting for the conclusion, "why, certainly," he said. "it will be an easy matter to make room for cousins dick and maud, and a delight to have them with us on the voyage and after we reach home until the warm weather sends us all farther north for the summer." "oh, delightful!" cried maud. "oh, dick, my dear, it will set you up as nothing else could; and you may hope to come back in the fall as well and strong as ever." dr. percival looked inquiringly at violet. "yes, cousin," she said with a smile, "i think we can make you very comfortable; and that without inconveniencing anybody; especially as grandpa and grandma dinsmore decline to return in the _dolphin_. they go from here to philadelphia by rail, to visit her relations there or in that region. so you need not hesitate about it for a moment, and," glancing at her brother, "you will have your doctor along to see that you are well taken care of and not allowed to expose yourself on deck when you should be down in the saloon or lying in your berth." "yes," laughed harold, "i shall do my best to keep my patient within bounds and see that he does nothing to bring on a relapse and so do discredit to my medical and surgical knowledge and skill." "which i should certainly be most sorry to do," smiled dick. "if i do not do credit to it all, it shall be no fault of mine. never again, cousin, can i for a moment forget that you stand at about the head of your profession--or deserve to, certainly--as both physician and surgeon. captain, i accept your kind offer with most hearty thanks. i feel already something like fifty per cent. better for the very thought of the rest and pleasure of the voyage, the visit to my old home and friends, and then a sojourn during the hot months in the cooler regions of the north." from that time his improvement was far more rapid than it had been, and maud was very happy over that and her preparations for the contemplated trip, in which grandma elsie and cousins annis and violet gave her valuable assistance. at length a letter was received telling that the newly-married pair might be expected two days later. chester brought the news to viamede shortly after breakfast and all heard it with pleasure, for they were beginning to feel a strong drawing toward their northern homes. "it is good news," said grandma elsie; "and now i want to carry out a plan of which i have been thinking for some time." "in regard to what?" asked her father. "the reception to be given our bride and groom," she answered. "i want it to be given here; all the connection now in these parts to be invited, house and lawn to be decorated as they were for our large party just after the wedding, and such a feast of fat things as we had then to be provided." "that is just like you, mother," said captain raymond; "always thinking how to give pleasure and save trouble to other people." "ah, it seems to me that i am the one to do it in this instance," she returned with a gratified smile, "having the most means, the most room of any of the connection about here, abundance of excellent help as regards all the work of preparation and the entertainment of the guests; indeed everything that the occasion calls for. dick and maud are in no case to do the entertaining, though i do certainly hope they may both be able to attend--he, poor fellow, lying in a hammock on the veranda or under the trees. if they like they may as well come fully prepared for their journey and start with us from here." "a most excellent and kind plan, cousin, as yours always are," said chester, giving mrs. travilla a pleased and grateful look. "i have no doubt it will be accepted if dr. harold approves." "as he surely should, since it is his mother's," remarked violet in her sprightly way. "suppose you drive over at once, mamma, see the three, and have the whole thing settled." "a very good idea i think, vi," was the smiling rejoinder. "captain, will you order a carriage brought round promptly, and you and vi go with me?--taking elsie and ned also, if they would care for a drive," she added, giving the little folks a kindly inquiring look. both joyfully accepted the invitation, if papa and mamma were willing; elsie adding: "and if cousin dick is not well enough for us to go in, we can stay in the carriage or out in the grounds, till you and papa and mamma are ready to come back." "yes," said her father; "so there is no objection to your going." "there will still be a vacant seat," said grandma elsie, "will you not go with us also, grace? i have heard harold say driving was good exercise for you." "oh, thank you, ma'am," said grace. "i should like it very much, if papa approves," glancing with an inquiring smile at him. "certainly. i am quite sure that my daughter grace's company will add to my enjoyment of the drive," was the captain's kindly response. "and, grandma elsie, cannot you find some use for the stay-at-homes?" asked max. "chester and myself for instance. would there be any objection to having 'old glory' set waving from the tree tops to-day?" "none whatever," she returned with her sweet smile. "i, for one, never weary of seeing it 'wave o'er the land of the free and the home of the brave.'" "i think anyone who does isn't worthy to be called an american!" exclaimed lucilla with warmth. "unless so unfortunate as to be only a south american," remarked eva with a smile. "you would not expect such an one to care for our old glory." "oh, no, certainly not; it is no more to them than to the rest of the world." "but i dare say it is a good deal to some of the rest of the world; judging from the way they flock to these shores," said chester. "which i sincerely wish some of them wouldn't," said lucilla; "the ignorant, idle, and vicious. to read of the great numbers constantly coming in often makes me tremble for our liberties." "honest and industrious ones we are always glad to welcome," said chester, "but the idle and vicious ought to be kept out. and as our own native born boys must be twenty-one years old before being allowed to vote, i think every foreigner should be required to wait here that same length of time before receiving the right of suffrage." "and i heartily agree with you in that," said captain raymond. "but unfortunately we have too many selfish politicians--men who are selfishly set upon their own advancement to wealth and power and care little, if anything, for their country and their country's good--who, to gain votes for themselves, have managed to have the right of suffrage given those worthless, ignorant foreigners in order to get into place and power through them." "i haven't a particle of respect for such men," exclaimed lucilla hotly; "and not much, more for some others who are so engrossed in the management of their own affairs--the making of money by such close attention to business, that they can't, or won't look at all after the interests of their country." "very true, my dear sister," said max, with a roguish look and smile, "so it is high time the ladies should be given the right of suffrage." "the right! i think they have that already," she returned with rising color and an indignant look, "but domineering men won't allow them to use it." "why, daughter," laughed the captain, "i had no idea that you were such a woman's rights woman. surely it is not the result of my training." "no, indeed, papa; though you have tried to teach me to think for myself," she returned with a blush and smile, adding, "i am not wanting to vote--even if i were old enough, which i know i am not yet--but i do want the laws made and administered by my own countrymen, and that without any assistance from ignorant foreigners." "ah, and that is perhaps the result of my teachings. are you not afraid, chester," turning to him, "that one of these days she may prove too independent for you?" "ah, captain, if you are thinking of frightening me out of my bargain let me assure you at once that it is perfectly useless," laughed chester in return. "ah, yes; i suppose so," sighed the captain in mock distress. "but i must go now and order the carriage," he added, rising and hastening away in the direction of the stables. "and we to make our preparations for the drive and call at torriswood," said grandma elsie, addressing violet and the younger ones, expecting to be of the party. "dick and maud should have as early a report of our plans and purposes as we can well give them." to that violet and grace gave a hearty assent, the little ones echoing it joyfully, and by the time the carriage could be brought to the door they were all ready to enter it. they found maud and dick full of pleasurable excitement, the former already at work upon her packing. grandma elsie's plan and invitation were highly appreciated by both and joyfully accepted. the arrangements were soon made. if all went well with dr. and mrs. johnson they would reach viamede the next afternoon, stay there in the enjoyment of its hospitality until toward bedtime of that evening, then come on to torriswood, and a day or two later the others would start upon their northward journey; all going together to new orleans, grandpa and grandma dinsmore taking the cars there for philadelphia, and the rest starting for home by water--along the gulf of mexico, around florida, and up the atlantic coast. the whole plan met dr. harold's unqualified approval, while dr. percival was so charmed with it that he insisted that the very prospect of it all had nearly restored him to health and strength. "is that so, cousin?" exclaimed violet with a pleased laugh, "why, you will be another samson by the time we reach our homes." "ah, if i can only recover the amount of strength i had before my accident i shall be satisfied," said he, "and i shall know how to appreciate it as i never did in the past." all the necessary arrangements having now been made, the viamede party presently returned to their temporary home, which they found looking very gay and patriotic with flags fluttering from tree tops, gables, windows, and verandas; for the young folks left behind had been very busy in their work of adornment. the result of their labors met with warm approval from grandma elsie, the captain, and violet. grace and elsie raymond, too, expressed themselves as highly pleased, while ned quite went into raptures at the sight of so fine a display of the "star-spangled banner." "now, cousin ronald," he exclaimed, turning to mr. lilburn, "don't you think it is the very prettiest flag that floats?" "as bonny a one as ever i saw, laddie," responded the old gentleman with a genial smile. "and don't you know that having adopted this as my country, i now consider it as truly my ain banner as it is yours?" "oh, yes, sir, and i like you to," returned ned with a pleased look. "i like this to be your country as well as mine." "it's a grand country, laddie," was the pleasant-toned response, "and the native land of my bonny young wife and the dear little bairns of my son hugh; so i may well give it a share of my affection." the weather continued fine, all the preparations were carried forward successfully, and by noon of the next day the percivals were ready to enjoy a brief stay at viamede and gaining strength, but carefully attended and watched over by his cousin harold, and maud full of life and gayety because of his improvement and the pleasant prospect before them. it would be so delightful, she thought and said, to see her old home and friends and acquaintances about there, dick taking his ease among them all for a time; and then to spend some weeks or months, farther north, enjoying sea breezes and sea bathing. all the cousins, older and younger, from magnolia hall and the parsonage were gathered there before the hour when the boat bringing their bride and groom might be expected, and as it rounded to at the wharf quite a little crowd could be seen waiting to receive them. the johnsons had not been apprised of the reception awaiting them and were expecting to go on immediately to torriswood, but the boat was hailed and stopped by chester, and at the same time seeing the festive preparations and the assemblage of relatives, they understood what was going on and expected, and stepped quickly ashore, where glad greetings were exchanged; then all moved on to the house where dr. percival lay in a hammock on the front veranda. "oh, dick, dear fellow, are you still unable to move about?" asked dr. johnson, grasping his hand and looking down into his thin, pale face with eyes that filled with tears in spite of himself. "oh, i'll soon be all right, bob; though if it hadn't been for harold here," giving the latter a warmly affectionate glance, "i doubt if you would have found a partner in your practice on your return." "in that case i am certainly under great obligations to you, harold," robert said with feeling, as he and harold grasped hands with cousinly warmth. "you could hardly have done me a greater service." "don't talk of obligations," said harold with emotion. "dick and you and i are not only all members of the same profession, but all near kinsmen; so that dick had a double and strong claim upon me and my services." "and we all think he needs a change," said maud, standing near, "and so, by cousin elsie's kind invitation, we are going with her and the rest, in the captain's yacht, to visit them and our old homes; then on farther north to the seashore." "the very best thing that could be done, i think," said robert; "it certainly is dick's turn to have a holiday while i stay and attend to our practice." the mirth, jollity, and feasting that followed, filling up the rest of the day, were very similar to those of the day of the wedding, weeks before. dr. percival was still feeble, and mrs. travilla had some arrangements to make in regard to the conduct of affairs at viamede after her departure, which together made it best to delay for a few days. but at length all was ready, the good-byes were said, and the return journey to their northern homes was begun. as had been planned mr. and mrs. dinsmore took the cars at new orleans, while the _dolphin_, bearing the remaining members of their party, passed from west to east along the gulf of mexico, around the southern coast of florida and up its eastern coast and that of the carolinas. quite a voyage, but neither tedious nor tiresome to the passengers, so pleasant did they find each other's society and the variety of books and sports provided for their entertainment. during the greater part of the voyage the weather was pleasant enough to allow them to spend the most of their days upon deck, where they could walk about or sit and chat beneath an awning. "grandma," said little elsie, coming to mrs. travilla's side one morning as she sat on deck busied with a bit of fancy work, "would it trouble you to talk to ned and me a little while?" "no, dear," was the smiling reply, "but what is it that you wish to hear from me?" "something about general marion, grandma, if you please. i know a little about him and admire him very much indeed. he was a south carolina man, i know, and when i heard papa say a while ago that we were on the south carolina coast, it made me think of marion and that i should be very glad to hear something more of what he did in the revolution." "and so would i, grandma; ever so much," added ned, who was close at his sister's side. "then sit down, one on each side of me, and i will tell you some things that i have read about general francis marion, one of the boldest, most energetic, and faithful patriots of the revolution. he was born in south carolina in , and it is said was so small a baby that he might have been easily put into a quart pot." "he must have had to grow a good deal before he could be a soldier, grandma," laughed ned. "yes, but he had forty-three years to do it in," said elsie. "that many years before the revolutionary war began," said her grandma, "but he was only twenty-seven when he became a soldier by joining an expedition against the cherokees and other hostile indian tribes on the western frontier of his state. when the revolution began he was made a captain in the second south carolina regiment. he fought in the battle at fort sullivan, on sullivan's island, in the contest at savannah, and many another. he organized a brigade and became brigadier of the militia of south carolina. after the battle of eutaw he became senator in the legislature, but soon went back into the army and remained there till the close of the war." "grandma, didn't he and his soldiers camp in the swamps a good deal of the time?" asked elsie. "yes; and often had but little to eat--sometimes sweet potatoes only, and but a scant supply of them. a story is told of a young british officer from georgetown coming to treat with him respecting prisoners, when marion was camping on snow's island--at the confluence of the pedee river and lynch's creek. the briton was led blindfolded to marion's camp. there for the first time he saw that general--a small man--with groups of his men about him, lounging under the magnificent trees draped with moss. when they had concluded their business marion invited the englishman to dine with him. the invitation was accepted, and great was the astonishment of the guest when the dinner was served; only some roasted potatoes on a piece of bark. 'surely, general,' he said, 'this cannot be your ordinary fare?' 'indeed it is,' replied marion, 'and we are fortunate on this occasion, entertaining company, to have more than our usual allowance.' "it is said that the young officer gave up his commission on his return, saying that such a people could not, and ought not to be subdued." "marion and his men must have loved their country and liberty to be willing to live in swamps with nothing but potatoes to eat," said elsie; "it makes me think of the stories i've read and heard about robin hood and his merry men." "yes," said her grandmother, "and lossing tells us marion's men were as devoted to him as those of robin hood were to their leader. our poet bryant has drawn a telling picture of that noble band in his "song of marion's men. "our band is few, but true and tried, our leader frank and bold; the british soldier trembles when marion's name is told. our fortress is the good greenwood, our tent the cypress-tree; we know the forest round us as seamen know the sea. we know its walls of thorny vines, its glades of reedy grass; its safe and silent islands within the dark morass. "woe to the english soldiery, that little dread us near! on them shall light at midnight a strange and sudden fear; when, waking to their tents on fire, they grasp their arms in vain, and they who stand to face us are beat to earth again; and they who fly in terror deem a mighty host behind, and hear the tramp of thousands upon the hollow wind. "then sweet the hour that brings release from danger and from toil; we talk the battle over, and share the battle's spoil. the woodland rings with laugh and shout, as if a hunt were up, and woodland flowers are gather'd to crown the soldier's cup. with merry songs we mock the wind that in the pine-top grieves, and slumber long and sweetly on beds of oaken leaves. "well knows the fair and friendly moon the band that marion leads-- the glitter of their rifles. the scampering of their steeds. 'tis life to guide the fiery barb across the moonlight plain; 'tis life to feel the night wind that lifts his tossing mane. a moment in the british camp-- a moment--and away back to the pathless forest, before the peep of day. "grave men there are by broad santee, grave men with hoary hairs, their hearts are all with marion, for marion are their prayers. and lovely ladies greet our band with kindliest welcoming, with smiles like those of summer, with tears like those of spring. for them we wear these trusty arms, and lay them down no more till we have driven the briton forever from our shore." "and we did drive the british away--or marion and his men, and the rest of our brave soldiers did," exclaimed ned when the recitation of the poem was finished, "didn't they, grandma?" "yes, neddie boy, god helped us to get free and become the great nation which we are to-day; and to him let us give all the glory and the praise." "yes, grandma, i know that even those brave and good fighters couldn't have done it if god hadn't helped them. did marion live long after the war was over?" "about a dozen years. he died on the th of february, . we are told his last words were, 'thank god, since i came to man's estate i have never intentionally done wrong to any man.'" "and is that all the story about him?" asked ned regretfully. "enough for the present, i think," replied his grandma; "when you are older you can read of him in history for yourself. however, some of his work will come in incidentally as i go on with some other historical sketches. i want to tell you something of mrs. rebecca motte--one of the brave and patriotic women living in south carolina at that time--and the doings of the british and americans on her estate. "mrs. motte was a rich widow. she had a fine large mansion occupying a commanding position on the road between charleston and camden. the british, knowing that she was a patriot, drove her and her family from their home to a farmhouse which she owned, upon a hill north of her mansion, into which they put a garrison of one hundred and fifty men under captain m'pherson, a brave british officer. "early in may he was joined by a small detachment of dragoons sent from charleston with despatches for lord rawdon. they were about to leave when marion and lee, with their troops, were seen upon the height at the farmhouse where mrs. motte was now living. so the dragoons remained to give their help in the defense of the fort. "lee took position at the farmhouse, and his men, with a fieldpiece which general greene had sent them, were stationed on the eastern slope of the high plain on which fort motte stood. marion at once threw up a mound and planted the fieldpiece upon it in a position to rake the northern face of the parapet of the fort against which lee was about to move. "m'pherson was without artillery. between fort motte and the height where lee was posted was a narrow valley which enabled his men to come within a few hundred yards of the fort. from that they began to advance by a parallel--a wide trench--and by the th of the month they were so far successful that they felt warranted in demanding a surrender. they sent a summons to m'pherson, but he gallantly refused to comply. "that evening our men heard that lord rawdon had retreated from camden, was coming in that direction, and would relieve fort motte. the next morning beacon fires could be seen on the high hills of santee, and that night the besieged were greatly rejoiced to see their gleam on the highest ground of the country opposite fort motte. they were delighted, but soon found that they had rejoiced too soon. "lee proposed a quicker plan for dislodging them than had been thought of before. mrs. motte's mansion, in the center of their works, was covered with a roof of shingles now very dry, as there had been no rain for several days and the heat of the sun had been great. lee's idea was to set those shingles on fire and so drive the enemy out. he had been enjoying mrs. motte's hospitality and her only marriageable daughter was the wife of a friend of his, so he was very loath to destroy her property, but on telling her his plan, he was much relieved to find that she was not only willing, but desirous to serve her country by the sacrifice of her property. "he then told his plan to marion and they made haste to execute it. it was proposed to set the roof on fire with lighted torches attached to arrows which should be shot against it. mrs. motte, seeing that the arrows the men were preparing were not very good, brought out a fine bow and bundle of arrows which had come from the east indies, and gave them to lee. "the next morning lee again sent a flag of truce to m'pherson, the bearer telling him that rawdon had not yet crossed the santee, and that immediate surrender would save many lives. "but m'pherson still refused, and at noon nathan savage, a private in marion's brigade, shot toward the house several arrows with lighted torches attached. two struck the dry shingles and instantly a bright flame was creeping along the roof. soldiers were sent up to knock off the shingles and put out the fire, but a few shots from marion's battery raked the loft and drove them below. then m'pherson hung out a white flag, the americans ceased firing, the flames were put out, and at one o'clock the garrison surrendered themselves prisoners of war. "then mrs. motte invited both the american and the british officers to a sumptuous dinner which she had had made ready for them." grace raymond had drawn near and was listening in a very interested way to the story as told by mrs. travilla. "grandma elsie," she said as that lady paused in her narrative, "do you remember a little talk between the american and british officers at that dinner of mrs. motte's?" "i am not sure that i do," was the reply. "can you repeat it for us?" "i think i can give at least the substance," said grace. "one of the prisoners was an officer named captain ferguson. he was seated near colonel horry, one of our american officers. addressing him, ferguson said, 'you are colonel horry, i presume, sir?' horry replied that he was and ferguson went on, 'well, i was with colonel watson when he fought your general marion on sampit. i think i saw you there with a party of horse, and also at nelson's ferry, when marion surprised our party at the house. but i was hid in high grass and escaped. you were fortunate in your escape at sampit, for watson and small had twelve hundred men.' "'if so,' said horry, 'i certainly was fortunate, for i did not suppose they had more than half that number,' then ferguson said, 'i consider myself equally fortunate in escaping at nelson's old field.' "'truly you were,' horry returned sarcastically, 'for marion had but thirty militia on that occasion,' the other officers at the table could not refrain from laughing. general greene afterward asked horry how he came to affront captain ferguson, and horry answered that he affronted himself by telling his own story.'" "ah, i think our soldiers were the bravest," was little elsie's comment upon that anecdote. "yes," said her grandma, "probably because they were fighting for liberty and home." "please, grandma, tell us another revolutionary story," pleaded ned. "did you ever hear the story of what emily geiger did for the good cause?" asked grandma elsie in reply. "no, ma'am; won't you please tell it?" "yes. emily was the daughter of a german planter in fairfield district. she was not more than eighteen years old, but very brave. general greene had an important message to send to sumter, but because of the danger from the numbers of tories and british likely to be encountered on the way none of his men seemed willing to take it; therefore he was delighted when this young girl came forward and offered to carry his letter to sumter. but fearing she might lose it on the way, he made her acquainted with its contents. "she mounted a fleet horse, crossed the wateree at the camden ferry, and hastened on toward sumter's camp. on the second day of her journey, while passing through a dry swamp, she was stopped and made prisoner by some tory scouts, who suspected her because she came from the direction of greene's army. they took her to a house on the edge of the swamp and shut her up in a room, while they sent for a woman to search her person. "emily was by no means willing to have the letter found upon her person, so as soon as left alone she began tearing it up and swallowing it piece by piece. after a while the woman came and searched her carefully, but found nothing to criminate the girl, as the last piece of the letter had already gone down her throat. "her captors, now convinced of her innocence, made many apologies and allowed her to go on her way. she reached sumter's camp, gave him greene's message, and soon the british under rawdon were flying before the americans toward orangeburg." "is that all, grandma?" asked ned, as mrs. travilla paused and glanced up smilingly at captain raymond, who now drew near. "all for the present, neddie," she replied. "some other time i may perhaps think of other incidents to give you." "ah, mother, so you have been kindly entertaining my children, who are great lovers of stories," remarked the captain. "i hope they have not been too exacting in their entreaties for such amusement?" "oh, no," she replied; "they wanted some episodes in the history of the state we are passing, and i have been giving them some account of the gallant deeds of general marion and others." "he was a brave, gallant man, was francis marion, thoroughly patriotic, and one of the finest characters of that time; a countryman of whom we may well be proud," remarked the captain, speaking with earnestness and enthusiasm; "and with it all he was most humane; a great contrast to some of the british officers who burnt houses, robbed and wronged women and children--rendering them shelterless, stripping them of all clothes except those they wore, not to speak of even worse acts of barbarity. bancroft tells us that when the british were burning houses on the little pedee, marion permitted his men of that district to go home and protect their wives and families; but that he would not suffer retaliation and wrote with truth, 'there is not one house burned by my orders or by any of my people. it is what i detest, to distress poor women and children.'" "i am proud of him as one of my countrymen," said grace. "he was sometimes called 'the swamp fox,' was he not, papa?" "yes; the swamps were his usual place of refuge and camping ground." "i admire him very much and like to hear about him and all he did for our country," said little elsie; "but i am glad and thankful that i didn't live in those dreadful war times." "as you well may be, my dear child," said her father. "we cannot be too thankful for the liberty we enjoy in these days and which was largely won for us by marion and other brave and gallant patriots of those darker days. they, and our debt of gratitude to them, should never be forgotten or ignored." chapter xvii. the _dolphin's_ passengers greatly enjoyed their voyage up the atlantic coast, yet were not sorry when they reached their desired haven--the city within a few miles of their homes. dr. percival had gained strength every day and now could go about very well with the help of a friend's arm or a cane, and spent but a part of his time lounging in an easy-chair or resting upon a couch. a telegram had carried to their home friends the information that they expected to reach port on that day, and carriages were there in waiting to convey them to their several places of abode. dr. conly had come for dr. and mrs. percival, as had also mr. dinsmore from the oaks; the one claiming that roselands was dick's old home, therefore undoubtedly the proper place for him at present--the other that maud belonged at the oaks and of course her husband with her. grandma elsie had already given them a warm invitation to ion, and captain raymond and violet the same to woodburn. it seemed a little difficult to decide which had the prior claim. dr. harold said it should be ion first in order that he might still have his patient where he could keep continued and careful watch over him; and as he grew better and stronger the others could have their turns at entertaining him and maud. to that dick laughingly replied that he was now tolerably used to obeying harold's orders, so should submit to his decision, still hoping that in time he and maud might have the pleasure of accepting the other invitations in turn. that seemed to give tolerable satisfaction as about as good an arrangement as could well be made. the beechwood and woodburn family carriages and max's pony were there, also the carriage from fairview for evelyn. max helped her into it, then mounted his steed and rode alongside, the woodburn carriage driving a little ahead of them, while the other vehicles were somewhat in their rear. all reached their destinations in safety, each party receiving a joyful welcome on their arrival. chester, after a brief but affectionate good-by, "for a short time," to lucilla, had taken a seat in mr. dinsmore's carriage, as he and his brother still made their home at the oaks. both pairs of lovers had greatly enjoyed their daily intercourse upon the _dolphin_ and gave that up with some feeling of regret, but comforted themselves with the thought that twenty-four hours would seldom pass without allowing them at least a brief interview. bidding good-by to eva at the gate into fairview avenue, max rode rapidly onward and entered the woodburn grounds just in the rear of his father's carriage, then dismounted at the veranda in time to take part in assisting the ladies and children to alight. "oh, how delightful it is to be at home again!" exclaimed grace, dancing about and gazing this way and that into the beautifully kept grounds. "i am always glad to go, but still gladder to get back." "and so am i," "and i," exclaimed the younger ones. "and i am as glad as anybody else, i think," said max, "though i should not be if i were here alone--without father, mamma vi, and the sisters and little brother." "no, indeed! the dear ones make more than half of home," lucilla said with a loving glance around upon the others, then one of ardent affection up into her father's face. "yes," said grace, "father alone is more than half of home to each and every one of us." an assertion which no one was in the least inclined to contradict. "he certainly is to me--his wife," said violet, giving him a look that spoke volumes of respect and love. "and i certainly know of no man who has less reason to complain of the lack of appreciation by his nearest and dearest," responded the captain in tones slightly tremulous with feeling, and a look of fond, proud affection, first at his wife, then at his children, each in turn. "this is certainly a happy home-coming to us all," said max, "to me in especial, i think, as the one who has seen so little of it for years past. it is to me the dearest spot on earth; though it would not be without the dear ones it holds." but housekeeper and servants had now come crowding about with glad greetings, which were warmly returned, and then the family scattered to their rooms to prepare for the dinner just ready to be served. all our returned travellers were received with joyful greetings at their homes, not excepting dr. harold travilla at ion; and all there seemed to rejoice that they were to be the first to entertain the cousins--dr. percival and maud. they were warmly welcomed and speedily installed in most comfortable quarters--a suite of beautifully furnished apartments--on the ground floor, that dick might be spared the exertion of going up and down even the easiest flight of stairs. they were more than content. "we seem to have come into a haven of rest, maud, my love," dick remarked as he lay back in his reclining chair, and gazed about with eyes that kindled with joy and admiration. "yes, my dear," laughed maud, "it would seem almost appropriate to put another letter into that noun and call it a heaven--so beautiful and tasteful is everything around us." "yes; i wish everybody had as good, kind, capable, and helpful friends and relatives as ours, and as able to give them such royal entertainment." "cousin elsie is the very person to have large means," said maud, "for she seems to be always thinking of others and what she can do for their comfort and happiness. there is not a particle of selfishness or self-righteousness about her." "i heartily agree with you there," said dick. "i have known her since i was the merest child and she has always seemed to live to do good and show kindness to all around her. she evidently looks upon her wealth as simply a trust--something the lord has put into her hands to be used for his glory and the good of her fellow creatures." "i am sure you are right about that," said maud. "and her children resemble her in it. what could have exceeded the kindness of cousins harold and herbert--cousin arthur conly, too--when you were so ill? oh, dick dear, i thought i was going to lose you! oh, how could i ever have borne that?" she added with a sob; "and i am sure you and i owe your life to their skilful treatment, their untiring care and devotion." "we do indeed," he said with emotion; "but for their untiring efforts and god's blessing upon them i should now be under the sod--and my darling a widow," he added tenderly and in quivering tones, drawing her down to give her a fond caress. "and how kind vi and her husband have been," he went on. "the captain is a grand good man and quite as anxious to use all he has for the glory of god and the good of his fellow creatures as dear cousin elsie herself." "yes; i don't wonder his wife and children love him so dearly; and i could hardly love him better were he my own brother," said maud. "i am so glad he and cousin violet fancied each other and married when they did." "yes, they are the most enjoyable of relatives to us and very happy in each other." here their bit of chat was interrupted by a tap on the door opening into the hall. dr. harold had come to say that dinner was on the table, and ask if his patient felt able, and if it would be enjoyable to join the family at their meal. "indeed i should like it," was dick's prompt response, "and i think too that i am entirely equal to the exertion." "perhaps even with only your cane, if i give you the support of my arm," suggested harold. "thank you, yes," returned dick, with a pleased look, as harold assisted him to rise and maud handed him his cane. so the little journey was made successfully and the social meal greatly enjoyed. at its conclusion harold assisted dr. percival to his couch again, where he lay down, just weary enough to take a long, refreshing nap. on leaving the table, grandma elsie went to the telephone and called to woodburn. violet answered, "what is it, mother?" and received the reply, "i expect the whole connection here to take tea and spend the evening, and i want you all to come." the captain, standing near, heard the message also, and as violet turned inquiringly to him, "surely there is nothing to prevent any of us from going," he said, and she at once answered, "thank you, mother, you may expect us all." the same invitation had been already sent to, and accepted by, the others, and some time before the tea hour they were all there, glad to meet and exchange greetings, and chat about all that had occurred since they last saw each other. and dr. percival, refreshed and strengthened by his dinner and a long, sound sleep after it, was able to enjoy it all, perhaps as keenly as anyone else. they talked of whatever had occurred among them during the time that they had been separated, and of their plans for the coming heated term--who would pass it at home and who go north to find a cooler climate. but it was not necessary to decide fully upon their plans, as some weeks must elapse ere carrying them out and there would be a good deal of intercourse among them in the meantime. they scattered to their homes early in the evening that dr. percival might not be kept up or awake, and that the little ones might be safely and in good season bestowed in their nests for the night. dr. percival improved rapidly in the next few weeks; so rapidly that he was able to make a visit to roselands, the oaks, and woodburn, each in turn, and felt that he should greatly enjoy the journey to the north and the sojourn by the seaside there which awaited him, his wife, and friends. our two pairs of lovers went quietly and happily on with their courting, considered plans for future house-building and housekeeping, and what should be done and enjoyed in the meantime, and it seemed but a little while till they were again on board the _dolphin_ and speeding on their northward course. it was the same party that had come in her on that last voyage from the south. max was still in the enjoyment of his furlough and by his father's request now took command of the vessel; but, the weather being fine throughout the voyage, his duties were not arduous and evelyn had no reason to complain of want of attention from her fiancé. nor had lucilla; chester being seldom absent from her side during the day or evening. so that captain raymond began to feel at times that he was already losing--to some extent--his eldest daughter. he sighed over it to himself, but made no complaint to either of them. lucilla's affection for him did not seem to have suffered any abatement; as had been her custom, she often came to him for a bit of private chat early in the morning or in the evening after the others had gone to their staterooms; and in these private interviews she was the same ardently affectionate daughter she had been for years; so that he felt he had no reason to fear that her lover had stolen all her heart. but she was very keen-sighted as regarded him and his feelings toward her. one evening as, according to his custom, he paced the deck after all the passengers had retired for the night, he heard her light step at his side and then her voice asking in its sweetest tones, "papa dear, mayn't i walk with you for at least a few minutes? i am neither sleepy nor tired, and it is so seldom now that i can have my own dear father all to myself." "yes, daughter dear," he said, putting an arm about her and caressing her with tenderness. "i am very glad to have your company if it is not going to weary you or rob you of needed sleep." then he drew her hand within his arm and they paced slowly back and forth, conversing in subdued tones. "it is so sweet to be alone with you once in a while, my own dear father," she said. "i think, papa, if my engagement has made any change in my feelings toward you it has been to make you seem to me nearer and dearer, if possible, than ever. oh, i think it would break my heart if i should ever have to go so far away from you that i could not see and talk with you every day!" "dear child, those are sweet words to my ear," he said in moved tones, "and i am most thankful that, so far as we can see into the future, there seems little or no danger that we will ever be so separated in this world." "yes, papa; that assurance is one of my greatest joys. and i am so glad that my dear father is so strong and well, and not so very old," she added with a smile and a look of loving admiration up into his face. "i am not very young, daughter," he returned pleasantly, "though i think my natural strength has not abated, and life seems as enjoyable to me as ever. but the happy thought is that god our heavenly father rules and reigns and shall choose all our changes for us; for to his wisdom and love there is no limit. how sweet are the words, 'i have loved thee with an everlasting love,' 'as the father hath loved me, so have i loved you.' if we are his children we need not fear to trust our all in his hands. we need not desire to choose for ourselves as regards the things of this life, or the time when he shall call us to our heavenly home." "that is a very sweet thought, father," she said. "what a care and anxiety it would be to us to have to choose all those changes for ourselves. how kind in the dear lord jesus to bid his disciples to take no thought--which you have explained to me means no care or anxiety--for the morrow--telling them that 'sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.'" "yes; and when troubled with cares and fears for the future we may be sure that it is because we are lacking in that faith which trusts all in his hands." "oh, i want that faith!" she exclaimed earnestly, though her voice was low and sweet. "papa, pray for me that i may have it." "i will, daughter, i do," he said; "there is nothing i desire more strongly for you and all my dear children than that." they were silent for a moment, then she asked, "where are we now, papa? and to what port bound as the first?" "we are nearing delaware bay," he replied, "and expect to pass up it and the river to philadelphia, where we will add grandpa and grandma dinsmore to our party, then come down and round the southern part of new jersey and on up the eastern coast to atlantic city. rooms have been engaged for us at haddon hall and there we purpose staying for perhaps a fortnight, then we think of going on up the new england coast, perhaps as far as bar harbor in maine." "oh, i like that plan," she said; "for we have never yet visited either of those places, and i have wanted to see them both." "i shall be glad to give you that pleasure, daughter," he said. "now it is high time you were in bed and asleep; so bid me good-night and go." our travellers reached philadelphia the next day, took on board mr. and mrs. dinsmore, passed down the river and bay again, and up the atlantic coast to the city of that name, as the captain had planned. they were charmed with their quarters; rooms near the sea--looking out directly upon it--with a private porch where they could sit and enjoy the breeze and an extended view of the ocean, watching the vessels pass and repass, outward bound or coming from distant ports to the harbors farther up the coast. strolling along the broad plank walk, four miles in length and close to the sea, was another pleasure; as were also the driving down on the beach at low tide, and the little excursions out to longport and other adjacent villages. most of the days were spent in making these little trips--sometimes in carriages, at others in the electric cars--and the evenings in wandering by moonlight along the board walk. there were various places of innocent amusement too--such as the japanese garden and the piers, where seals and other curiosities were on exhibition. they found the table excellent and everything about the establishment homelike, neat, and refined, and their hostess so agreeable, so charming, that their only regret was that they saw so little of her--so many were the calls upon her time and attention. "she certainly must need an occasional rest," said grandma elsie one day, talking with violet and the captain, "and we must invite her to pay us a visit in our southern homes." to that proposal both captain raymond and violet gave an unqualified assent, saying that they would be pleased indeed to entertain her. a fortnight was spent there most pleasantly, after which the _dolphin_ carried them up the coast to bar harbor, where we will leave them for the present. a list of the elsie books and other popular books by martha finley _elsie dinsmore._ _elsie's holidays at roselands._ _elsie's girlhood._ _elsie's womanhood._ _elsie's motherhood._ _elsie's children._ _elsie's widowhood._ _grandmother elsie._ _elsie's new relations._ _elsie at nantucket._ _the two elsies._ _elsie's kith and kin._ _elsie's friends at woodburn._ _christmas with grandma elsie._ _elsie and the raymonds._ _elsie yachting with the raymonds._ _elsie's vacation._ _elsie at viamede._ _elsie at ion._ _elsie at the world's fair._ _elsie's journey on inland waters._ _elsie at home._ _elsie on the hudson._ _elsie in the south._ _mildred keith._ _mildred at roselands._ _mildred's married life._ _mildred and elsie._ _mildred at home._ _mildred's boys and girls._ _mildred's new daughter._ _casella._ _signing the contract and what it cost._ _the tragedy of wild river valley._ _our fred._ _an old-fashioned boy._ _wanted, a pedigree._ _the thorn in the nest._ transcriber's notes some quotes are opened with marks but are not closed. obvious errors have been silently closed, while those requiring interpretation have been left open. other than the corrections listed above, printer's inconsistencies in spelling, punctuation and hyphenation have been retained. eight days in new-orleans in february, , by albert j. pickett, of montgomery, alabama. note. the following sketches of new-orleans originally appeared in the alabama journal of montgomery. for the purpose of presenting them to the perusal of his friends at a distance, the author has caused them to be embodied in the present form. these pages were written from the recollection of only a few days sojourn in the crescent city. the period allowed the author of collecting information was very limited. it is also his first essay at descriptive and historic writing. the author fondly indulges the hope that these things will be taken into consideration by his charitable friends, and will cause them to cast the veil of compassion over imperfections. may th, . chapter i. a brief account of the discovery of the mississippi.--desoto's expedition,--his death,--the fate of his party, etc. on a recent excursion to the crescent city, i collected some facts and statistics which are respectfully submitted to the public. in attempting a description of this magnificent emporium of commerce, as it exists at the present day, i will briefly allude to its early history, commencing with the great "drain" of the western world, which is destined to bear upon its turbid bosom half the commerce of the american union. three hundred and thirty years ago the noble mississippi rolled its waters to its ocean home in native silence and grandeur, hitherto seen by no european eye, when suddenly one morning hernandez de soto stood upon its banks. how awfully sublime must have been the contemplations of that man. he had discovered it a thousand miles from its mouth, two thousand from its source. no one had ever seen its rise,--no one its exit into the ocean. but it was reserved for the governor of cuba to find it through a wilderness, at a place and under circumstances the most thrilling and romantic. four years previous to this discovery, he embarked for florida with an outfit of a thousand men, with arms, munitions, priests and chains. his object, the conquest of a country teeming with wealth and splendour, like that which his former captain found in the conquest of peru. he penetrated florida, georgia and alabama, finding no gold--no splendid montezuma--nothing but savages breathing out an innocent and monotonous existence, inhabiting a country in a state of nature alone. after hardships the most unheard of, disappointments the most mortifying, the proud and enterprising de soto threw his troops into mauville, a large town near the confluence of the bigby and alabama. here a most disastrous battle attended him, for although he routed the enemy in the death of thousands, he lost all his baggage and most of his horses. his fleet then lay at the bay of pensacola, awaiting his arrival, and by reaching it in a few days he could have terminated his disastrous campaign. but the proud castilian was not to be subdued by misfortunes and disappointments. he determined to find just such a country as he had constantly sought. fired with fresh intelligence of the magnificence of the people who lived near the "father of waters," we find him pursuing his expedition in a sun-set direction in company with his jaded, reduced and dispirited force, with a fortitude and courage which none but a spaniard knows. he surmounted innumerable difficulties, which both nature and man interposed to arrest his progress; and finally, through a dense and almost endless forest, he suddenly gratified his vision with the majestic mississippi. crossing over the great river, he toiled in the prairies and swamps of arkansas and missouri, until wants and vicissitudes of the most trying character impelled his return. arrived once more upon its virgin banks, his lofty spirit fell, and brooding over his fallen fortunes, a fever terminated his existence far from home, in the american wilds! just before he passed from life, he caused his officers to surround his bed, appointed luis de muscoso his successor in command, and bid them an affectionate farewell. he also had his soldiers introduced by twenties, endeavored to cheer their drooping spirits, (who were now inconsolable at the loss of their great leader,) exhorted them to keep together, share each other's burthens, and endeavor to reach their native country, which he was never to see. to conceal his body from the brutalities of the natives, it was encased in an oaken trough, and silently plunged in the middle of the channel, at the dark and gloomy hour of midnight, and the muddy waters washed the bones of one of the noblest sons of spain![a] thus was the adelantado of florida the first to behold the mississippi river; the first to close his eyes in death upon it, and the first to find a grave in its deep and turbid channel. [footnote a: see "monette's history of the mississippi valley," vol. i., from pp. , to . this learned man and eloquent writer has given a most interesting account of de soto's expedition. his work is recently published, and should be extensively read by the people of the south-west particularly.] muscoso and his remaining troops, now annoyed by the natives, by hunger and disease, built some vessels, and dropped down the river, in the hopes of reaching cuba. and three hundred and thirty years ago these adventurers silently floated by the spot where new orleans now stands! no hand had ever felled a tree,--no civilized voice had ever echoed among the forests of that place. but nature, eternal nature, ruled supreme. the poor fellows went out at one of the mouths of the river, and a tremendous tornado encountered and dispersed them. but few lived to reach home. the several journalists of that expedition describe the mississippi river of that day exactly as it is at present, in respect to several things, "a river so broad that if a man stood still on the other side, it could not be discerned whether he was a man or not. the channel was very deep, the current strong, the water muddy and filled with floating trees." a long century was added to the age of the world before the mississippi river was beheld again by civilized man. col. woods, of the virginia colony next saw it, and crossed it. marquette, in , started at its source, and came down as far as the arkansas. the chevalier de la salle, some years after this, commenced near its head and descended to the gulf, with seventeen men. having returned to france, he fitted out an expedition, but his vessels were unable to find the river. he made another voyage, but could not find its mouth. iberville was the first voyager that ever entered this river from the ocean, and he erected a fort at biloxi, near mobile, in . chapter ii. the early settlement of new orleans,--of biloxi,--natchez.--governor iberville and his successor. iberville, the father of louisiana, having formed a settlement at biloxi, by erecting a fort and leaving a garrison, proceeded up the river, and established a town at natchez, on that splendid bluff which towers above the angry waters of the mississippi. on his departure for france, his brother, bienville, was made governor, and he appears to have been anxious to procure a more eligible site for the capitol of the province than either of those which his predecessor had selected. dropping down the vast current he most patiently made a thorough examination of the banks from natchez to the gulf, and finally determined to make the crescent bend the future capitol. his judgment was good, although the visitor frequently wonders why the city was not placed nearer the ocean. it was, perhaps, the most elevated spot convenient to the outlet, and was certainly nearest lake pontchartrain, upon the commerce of which the founder no doubt made reasonable calculations. but whether the settlement of new orleans was the result of accident, as many suppose, or of well conceived design, it matters but little. it was selected by bienville, and he threw fifty able men forthwith into the forest to felling the trees, exactly one hundred and twenty-nine years ago! in defiance of the united opposition of natchez and biloxi, the governor pushed forward his work. it appears that in the very outset this place encountered difficulties of various kinds, which thwarted its prosperity for nearly a century. while only one year old, the mississippi rising to an unprecedented height, swept away every vestige of human innovation. being totally abandoned for three years, it was again settled by delorme, "who acting under positive instructions, removed to it the government establishment." in the following year it contained about one hundred houses scattered in all directions, with no regularity, with no dyke to protect them from the rolling waves, no fort to repel the incursions of the indians; without the smallest luxury and comfort, without society, without religious enjoyment, reduced by disease and assailed by the venom of every tropical insect, did these enterprising sons of france struggle for existence and a town. no sooner were they left to some kind of repose than they were visited by a dreadful tornado, which blew away their houses, destroyed their shipping, and ruined their gardens. but new orleans has risen above all disasters and opposition. one of the most remarkable characters of that day was governor bienville. he must have been a determined man, with great good sense, and had the confidence of the citizens. he was made governor three times, and for many years exercised a salutary influence over the destinies of louisiana. a few years after this period, a body of jesuit priests and nuns arriving from france, gave a new impetus to the town. they made a most fortunate location, and their property greatly augmented in value. but these pious adventurers were also to be disturbed. the pope of rome not only expelled that sect from europe, but pursued them in american exile. their property in new orleans, variously estimated to be worth now, from fifteen to thirty millions, was then confiscated and sold for one hundred and eighty thousand dollars. these unfortunate people still further had to satisfy the tyrannical decree to the full measure, by leaving louisiana! fifty-one years elapsed from the settlement of orleans until it was visited by that dreadful disease, the yellow fever, and we may ascribe that affliction, as we may do many other entailed evils, to the english. they introduced it by importing to louisiana a cargo of slaves; and now these philanthropists would be willing to see our nation exterminated, and our throats cut, because we are pursuing a system of mild domestic slavery, when they imposed it upon us in the most heartless and aggravated form, by kidnapping and robbery!!! but i am digressing. to terminate this very rapid and imperfect sketch of the history of orleans, i will introduce a brief summary, with the remark, however, that the louisianians had every impediment thrown in their way in endeavoring to become a prosperous and happy people. they were handed over by the french government to a chartered company, who afterwards returned them to the government. they were then sold to spain, and a remorseless governor of that nation introduced a system of plunder and oppression. afterwards spain ceded this country again to france, and france sold it to the united states for fifteen millions of dollars! a sum that startled many of our economical republicans of that day, but which, compared to the advantages of the purchase and the revenue since derived, was a most paltry sum. in a fire consumed nine hundred houses. in , seventy years after it was founded, the population was only four thousand seven hundred and eighty. in the first comedians arrived from cape francois. in spain receded the province to france, and it was purchased by the united states in . in the population amounted to twenty-four thousand five hundred and fifty-two souls: ever since the cession to the united states the strides of the city of orleans have been rapid, and her march onward! chapter iii. gen. jackson.--the battle of new orleans.--the population at that day, and other things about the crescent city. the most extraordinary man that ever lived in any age or country, was gen. andrew jackson. from youth to the last moments of his life, he swayed the minds and actions of men beyond anything on record. buonaparte, with all his power, was at last subdued, and died at st. helena as harmless as a child. the venerated "father of his country" lost much of his popularity and influence after he retired to mount vernon.[a] nearly all the great men of whom we read, lose to some extent their position towards the close of their lives. but gen. jackson retained his influence so long as the breath remained in his body. while retired at the hermitage, divested of all official power, with a weak and attenuated frame, bowed down with disease and tottering to decay; whilst the last light was flickering in that once refulgent lamp, did this masterly and commanding man dictate the nomination of a president, and achieve, through his expressed opinions, the annexation of texas!! this is mentioned, not by way of political boasting, but to show the powerful influence he exerted over the destinies of this union, even when the hand of death was upon him! it was the efforts of this distinguished captain which saved new orleans in . no sooner had that devoted city become free from that despotic and ruinous policy which had for a century crippled its energies, no sooner had it been made a member of our family, than the ruthless hand of fate was down upon it once more. to sack it, to dishonor it, there were ready encamped on its outskirts eight thousand chosen troops, who had fought under wellington in the peninsular war; veterans in service, and the flower of the british army. [footnote a: some of the author's friends find fault with the contrast here made in regard to the influence which gen. washington and jackson exerted over the people of the united states, and they say that i have ranked jackson before the "father of his country," for true greatness. now, while i agree with them that washington was the purest and greatest man that ever lived, i say that jackson was the most brilliant of the two, and exercised more influence over the people than any other man that ever lived!] general jackson reached orleans under the most embarrassing circumstances. his troops numbered only four thousand, as undisciplined as children of the forest could be, with few arms and but little ammunition. the population of the city was made up principally of french, spanish and dutch, who knew not our laws, who were aliens in feelings, who had never heard of jackson, but who looked upon his raw troops with doubt and dismay, while the splendid numbers in the british lines over-awed and intimidated them. among this mixed and doubtful mass, it was the aim of the american commander to inspire confidence and make them stand by him. in the darkest hour of his deepest embarrassment, when mutiny and riot stalked over the infatuated city, when much of the talent and influence of orleans was at that moment employed in overtures to the enemy; in that dark hour that tortured the commander's soul, a large deputation of french ladies implored him with tears and lamentations, to surrender the city and save their lives and persons. when informed by his aid, col. livingston, who was familiar with the french language, the nature of their visit, this great native captain, this commander by the creation of his maker, rose in his stirrups and said, in a loud voice, "tell them, colonel, to rely upon me, i will protect them, defend the city, and save it!" jackson carried out his bold declaration, which seemed groundless when made. no man but him had nerve enough to make, and none to demonstrate it under such unfavorable circumstances. in a conversation with the duke of wellington, not long since, that distinguished soldier remarked to col. king, our ex-minister to france, "that taking into account the disparagement of the opposite forces and the number slain on either side, the battle of new orleans was unrivalled in the annals of warfare." only seven americans paid the debt of war, while the bloody field was covered with two thousand sons of britain! after the defeated troops had embarked for england, and peace being declared, the crescent city, relieved of many of its tramels, made the most mastodon strides to wealth and fame. her population increased rapidly in despite of the yellow fever, which annually swept off thousands. as disease made fearful lanes through the ranks, the avenues were immediately filled by fresh pioneers invited by the inducements which her commerce held out. the population of new orleans in was , ; in , , ; in , , ; in , , ; and at this time it amounts to , souls! in regard to her population orleans is not unlike astor with his money. each have arrived at that prosperous state when it requires but a few years to double their numbers. when napoleon sold louisiana to mr. jefferson, the condition of orleans was poor indeed compared to its present imposing and magnificent appearance. norman, a writer, says "at that time the public property transferred to us consisted of two large brick stores, a government house, a military hospital, powder magazine on the opposite side of the river, an old frame custom-house, extensive barracks below those now remaining, five miserable redoubts, a town-house, market-house, assembly room and prison, a cathedral and presbytery, and a charity hospital." the second municipality, which now contains a population of fifty thousand, with lofty and compact buildings, the centre of trade and enterprise, where now towers the conspicuous st. charles and comfortable verandah, was not many years since a sugar plantation belonging to monsieur gravier. in , the enterprising caldwell erected the american theatre on a portion of this field, and was considered a madman for building in the country. the lovers of the drama could only reach the theatre upon the gunwales of flat-bottomed boats, but how soon was this isolated building surrounded by wealth, beauty and fashion! chapter iv. new orleans in .--its extent and situation.--lafayette.--carrollton, etc. omitting an account of the many deadly quarrels which were constantly fermented with the indians--of the battles of the louisianas with the spanish and english--of the horrible and unparalleled murder of twelve of the principle citizens of orleans, by the order of o'reilly, the spanish commandant, who had invited them to one of his banquets--nay, of a thousand interesting things connected with the history of this romantic city, which could not have been embodied in these hasty numbers, i proceed to consider its present condition and prospects. the bend of land which sustains all this magnificence and wealth, is very much like that opposite montgomery. a citizen acquainted with our localities, may very justly imagine new orleans to commence on the west side of the alabama, below jackson's ferry, continuing on by bibb's gate and terminating just below town.--opposite old alabama town he may suppose the city of lafayette to commence, then, further on, the town of bouligny, and then carrollton. the city proper is, by the river, five miles long, and will average three-fourths of a mile wide. then commences lafayette, which extends up the river two miles further, and, as they are so intimately connected and associated, it all may be considered as one vast place, seven miles in extent. after a succession of splendid mansions, farms, and other houses, the whole resembling a continued village, bouligny and carrollton unite with the chain of commerce. a century from this date, orleans, like london, will reach out her arms and encompass within her limits every town and hamlet for miles around. as london swallowed up westminster, southwark, lambeth, and chelsea, so will lafayette, bouligny, carrollton, and others adjacent be lost in her future immensity. it will then all be new orleans, the largest city on the continent of america, and perhaps in the world. the foundation consists of a plain inclining from the river, and when looking from the st. charles to the levee, the singular spectacle is presented of ships and boats standing raised up before you, and the little rivulet in the street, just after a rain, running in a smart current by you and losing itself in the swamp, as if afraid to mingle with the "father of waters." as health and cleanliness are greatly promoted by this gentle inclined plain, it is most fortunate that orleans is so situated. in ancient times the inhabitants were either amphibious or lived at great sufferance from the floods. but now they are protected by the levee. a stranger however, upon the impulse, would think that protection uncertain. but if he would reflect for a moment, he would wisely determine that it requires not a very strong dyke to pen up the surplus water during a freshet, for the main current is confined by immense banks reaching far, far below. to render my position more palpable, suppose the river should suddenly dry up, orleans would then be standing on a bluff three hundred and sixty feet high, for that is the depth of the river opposite the city. the foundation, a low alluvial bottom, has been much improved by draining and filling up. no building is erected without the foundation is made firm by piling with long logs driven down with immense force; but very massive buildings, even with this precaution, will continue to settle. it is said that the st. charles is two feet lower now than formerly. three great streets divide the city into municipalities. between canal and esplanade, lies the first municipality, between esplanade and the lowest street on the outskirts, far down the river, lies the third municipality; and between canal and felicity, is the second. they are wide and beautiful streets, running perfectly straight from the river to the farthest back limits, serving not only as boundaries for municipal purposes, but absolutely separating different races. the everlasting yankees, with their shrewdness and enterprize, inhabit the second municipality; the wealthy french and spanish fill up the first, with a large mixture of native americans; but the third municipality is entirely french and spanish. it was impossible for me to ascertain how many streets run through the city, but there are many. no fault can be found of the topography of orleans, and it is strange that the regularity of the thorough fares should have been so well preserved under all the changes and vicissitudes through which she has passed. everything is of interest here; even the names of the streets attract the notice of the visitor; and as he rides along, he may trace the different races who have formed and named them. he will pass through streets which the descendants of spain first laid out, such as esplanade, ferdinand casacalvo, morales, and perdido. again his eye will glance at french names, such as josephine, bourbon, chartres, notre dame, dauphin, and toulouse. then there are various streets bearing the names of all the saints known to the catholic devotee. in respect to names very little of orleans has been americanized. occasionally you will meet with such names as commerce and canal, which doubtless sound very vulgar to the the french. but the master street of the world is the great levee, usually from two to five hundred feet wide from the river to the buildings. from this great thoroughfare all others diverge, and it is the greatest mart of its extent in the world. while i was there, thirty-six thousand barrels of flour were sold in a few hours! and while this astonishing transfer was going on, thousands of other produce and commodities were changing hands. many years ago it was used as a fashionable promenade to enjoy the breezes of the mississippi. commerce has changed its character entirely. now scenes of the most intensely exciting character are upon the levee. the very air howls with an eternal din and noise. drays and wagons of all descriptions, loaded with the produce of every clime, move on continually in one unbroken chain. ships from every nation, whose masts tower aloft in a dense forest for five miles, with thirty thousand sailors and stevedores, busily loading and unloading, stand in your view. steamboats, and crafts of every make and shape, from every river which empties into the mississippi, are here mingling in the strife of commerce. the rough and homely produce of the far and cold iowa--of the distant wisconsin--of the black and stormy northern lakes, is here thrown upon the levee in hurry and confusion mingled and mixed with the sweets and luxuries of the sunny tropics. here, too, the various races of men astonish one. the kentuckian with an honest and ruddy face; the yankee with his shrewd and enterprising look; the rich planter of mississippi; the elegant and chivalrous carolinian; the sensible and honest citizen from the "old north state;" the lively, fine-looking, and smart georgian; the talented and handsome virginian; the swarthy creole sugar planter; the rough hunter from the gorges of the rocky mountains--all natives of the union--all freemen alike--all meet upon this common ground of liberty and commerce. and this picture must be carried out with the children of _adoption_. here is also the dark and mysterious spaniard puffing his cigar and sending up volumes of smoke through his black imperials; the gay and frisky frenchman; the sturdy dutchman; the son of erin, and the cunning jew. a trite adage says that "it takes all kinds of people to make a world;" verily, then, the levee is a world. chapter v. the cathedral.--orphan's asylum.--the sisters of charity, etc. immediately opposite the place d'armes, and fronting the levee, rises in solemn grandeur, the celebrated cathedral. it must be very old, and was said to have been erected through the zealous munificence of don andre almonoster. connected with the building is a story curious and romantic, and from all i could learn no less true. when don andre died, he exacted of the priesthood the positive injunction, that every saturday evening prayer should be offered up for his soul, and in default thereof the property was to pass into other hands. from that day to this, in fulfilling these extraordinary stipulations, not a solitary omission has been made. and as you stand about sundown at the cathedral, you will hear the doleful bell mournfully recalling the memory of the departed don andre! i was there at that hour. the dark and frowning church towered far above me. the deep-toned bell echoed its mournful sound until twilight began to mantle the city with her sable curtains. i thought of don andre. i thought of his injunction; i thought of his soul, and i turned from the consecrated place with feelings the most singular and solemn. the edifice in appearance is grand, antique and venerable. judging from the disregard to repairs, i should conclude it was designed for it to remain so. built of brick, with very thick walls and stuccoed, it nevertheless looks black and dingy, all which assists to make it more imposing to the stranger. a large door in the middle will let you into the ante-chamber, and from this by a door on the right and one on the left, you enter the immense chapel. passing by two large marble basins filled with holy water, where devotees sprinkle and cross themselves upon entering; you are by the side of the "confession boxes." there are three on each side, each about ten feet high and eight feet square, with three apartments or stalls; the middle one for the priest, the other two for those wishing to lay down their burden of sins. the priest standing in the middle hears an account of the transgressions of the one on the right through a small grated window, while the one on the left is kneeling until his fellow-sufferer gets through. all that can be heard is a low whispering and murmuring throughout all the confessional boxes, where six priests are continually officiating. when the penitent is dismissed by the holy father, he appears to be a happier man, and on coming out of the box immediately kneels before the altar, and another person takes his place. this system of confession is often denounced; i do not pretend to defend it, but there is much excuse for it. what protestant is there who in deep trouble, does not find relief in disclosing those troubles to an old confidential person in whom he can confide, and who gives him good advice? are not the cases somewhat similar? i watched and listened attentively to see or hear the settlement between the father and sinner, but i made no discoveries and heard no money jingle. all classes unite here in the services, and as you cast your eye over this devout assembly, the elegant young lady may be seen kneeling on the hard stone floor, beside the negro or mulatto. and still further on, the well-attired gentleman prostrates himself with the ragged beggar in worshipping the same common and universal god! all appear to be deeply engaged, and in no church can there be found so much profound silence, awe and veneration. the three altars are so far distant that the fathers are seldom heard, and the worshippers are governed in their devotions by the ringing of bells. there is nothing very imposing in the interior, some very fine paintings representing incidents in the bible, hang around the walls. in regard to the public buildings, "there is probably no city in the united states that has so many benevolent institutions as new orleans, in proportion to its population. certainly it has not an equal in those voluntary contributions which are sometimes required to answer the immediate calls of distress. here assembled a mixed multitude, composed of almost every nation and tongue, from the frozen to the torrid zone, and whether it be the sympathy of strangers, or the influence of the "sunny south," their purses open and their hearts respond like those of brothers, to the demands of charity."[a] [footnote a: "norman's new orleans and environs."] the female orphan asylum is a fine building on the corner of camp and prytania streets, and the visitor who has never seen any thing of the kind will be well repaid by an examination. he will be met at the door by one of the sisters of charity, (known as nuns,) a lady about forty years old, rather stooping, but mild and holy, dressed in black, with a hood of the same, partly covering her head. her dress is gathered around her waist by a black belt made of bombazine, to which is attached some keys and catholic relics. she beckons you in the house, and proceeds on before you with a gait as noiseless and nimble as a cat. the first room you enter is the school for small girls, numbering about fifty, who all rise simultaneously on your entrance. you then pass into a room of fifty girls, generally from twelve to sixteen years of age. here they exhibit specimens of needle work, painting, etc., all well executed. these schools are under the especial care and management of the good sisters, and nothing can exceed the orderly, neat and well-behaved deportment of the girls. we next visited the kitchen; if a clean, neat, ungreased apartment can bear that appellation. there we found the lady superior up to her elbows in dough, and busily assisted by several charity girls in cooking dinner. she was a fat, healthy looking lady, about forty years old, and looked like she had more of the good things of this life at her command, or rather appeared to have made better use of them than her sisters. the dining-room is well arranged, so are the dormitories, which are composed of four spacious rooms, very airy and commodious. each school has its dormitory, and every girl has a separate bed, neat and comfortable, exactly corresponding to her size and length. just as the good sister (our conductress) opened the door of the chapel, she dropped upon her knees and repeated something to herself. on opening the door, we saw another sister "solitary and alone," kneeling, rising and prostrating herself before the altar. she was deeply engaged in her devotions, and never once turned her head to look at us. being struck with the infinite degree of trouble which the sisters must daily encounter in nursing and rearing over one hundred orphan girls from a month to sixteen years of age, i alluded to it, she replied, "that is what we are here for. we give up the allurements of the world to devote our days exclusively in doing good, and what you call troubles are our pleasures." this immense building, with four school rooms, four dormitories, dining rooms and many other apartments, are all under the management of seven sisters, who attend to every thing, even wash and scour the floors, dress and teach the children. but the most interesting apartment was that of the infants. here we found about thirty children about four years old, clean and well dressed and sending up their innocent and sweet little voices in singing praises to god! it was almost impossible to notice any difference in the sizes of this interesting little circle. not one of the little sweets had father or mother alive. no one could look upon them with feelings other than those of pity and love. like so many young birds holding their little heads above their nests, would these sweet little children ask us, "have you any candy for me?" chapter vi. the united states branch mint.--the water works.--markets, etc. the stranger should never leave the crescent city without seeing the mint, where money is made as if by magic. it is situated in the old jackson square, between barrack and esplanade streets. it is a fine edifice, having a projecting centre building with two exterior wings. the walls are strong and thick, plastered in good imitation of granite; the length, by deep. this mint was commenced in , and the whole cost of building, fencing, machinery, and furniture, was $ , . the yard is handsomely enclosed with iron railing on a granite basement. you enter at a fine gate, and passing through the first court over a block wood pavement, you ascend a flight of granite steps, and enter in a large passage where sets a pleasant old gentleman, who requires you to register your name and residence. this being done, he leads the visitor among the furnaces where the smelting is performed; then in a large room where the metal is formed into bars of various sizes by running it through powerful iron rollers. these bars are then cut out into coins from the size of half a dime to a doubloon, by means of a machine something like a punch, but which moves with great regularity, and power, and despatch. the polite old gentleman then leads you down below, and in a remote wing stands a man solitary and alone by the side of the most splendid and beautiful machinery which ever was made, who puts the cut pieces of coin by twenties into a tube which fits them exactly, and the machinery stamps them one by one, with an eagle on one side, and the goddess of liberty on the other. the untiring machinery goes up and down, and stamps according to different sizes, from eighty to one hundred and fifty to the minute! and they are received into a beautiful silver vase below. before the coin is brought into this finishing room, it is not counted, but weighed; and after it is here impressed, it is then weighed again. in , the mint coined only the amount $ , ; , $ , ; , $ , ; , $ , ; , $ , , ; , $ , , ; , $ , , ; , $ , , . the falling off during the last year mentioned, has been owing to the state of our foreign exchanges being against the interests of the mint. the chief work has consisted in the new coinage of old spanish dollars, french, german, and english coins. the unwrought gold is chiefly from alabama, and is greatly on the increase. nothing is charged for the coinage of pure metal. the expenses are borne by the government, and are annually about fifty-two thousand dollars. a large portion of the city of orleans is watered from the large reservoir in the upper part of the second municipality. an iron pipe eighteen inches in diameter, is placed in the river twelve feet below the surface, and through this, great columns of water are continually ascending by sixty horse power force-pumps, situated in brick buildings on tchoupitoulas and richard streets. the water is carried under ground for two hundred yards further, and forced up the reservoir alluded to, which has been made in the manner of an artificial mound, from the sediment of the river. the reservoir is built on the top of the mound, and is about three hundred feet square, walled with brick and cemented, with four apartments in it, each having about five feet live water in them. every month or two, the water is drawn off from two of them, and the deposit formed six inches deep is scraped off, and the water let in again. a pavilion in the middle of the reservoir affords a pleasant seat, and affords you a commanding view of the immediate neighborhood. the pumps force up , gallons per minute. the cost of the works is about $ , , ; expenses, $ , ; revenue, $ . the water is distributed through cast iron pipes from sixteen to six inches in diameter, and is sold at the rate of three dollars per head. the daily consumption is near one million three hundred thousand gallons. the city of new orleans is more abundantly blessed, according to its extent, with good markets than any city on the continent. they may be found in all directions, affording a great abundance of the best that the whole mississippi valley and the far western plains of texas can produce. the great attraction to visitors is the celebrated french market. the french, english, spanish, dutch, swiss and italian languages are employed here in trading, buying, and selling, and a kind of mongrel mixture and jumble of each and all is spoken by the lower class in the market. it lies on the levee, admirably situated, and extends a long ways. all is hurry, jostling and confusion; the very drums of your ears ache with the eternal jargon--with the cursing, swearing, whooping, hollowing, cavilling, laughing, crying, cheating and stealing, which are all in full blast. the screams of parrots, the music of birds, the barking of dogs, the cries of oystermen, the screams of children, the dutch girl's organ, the french negro humming a piece of the last opera--all are going it, increasing the novelty of this novel place. the people engaged in building the tower of babel, whose language was confounded and confused for their presumptuous undertaking, never made a worse jargon or inflicted a greater blow upon harmonious sounds, than is to be found here. while looking around at the various commodities exposed for sale, i saw scores of opossums, coons, crawfish, eels, minks, and frogs, brought there to satiate the fancy appetite of the french. but what was my astonishment on seeing a basket of five fat _puppies_ about six weeks old, which the owner informed me were for french gentlemen to eat! in charity for the frenchman's taste, i have sometimes thought the vender of these little barkers was palming a quiz upon me. i hope so. this is an unrivalled market. every fish that swims in the gulf, every bird that flies in the air, or swims upon the wave, every quadruped that scours the plains or skulks in dens, which are usually eaten by men, can be had in great abundance. all kinds of grain and roots raised in the up country, all the luxuries of the tropics, are here. the elk of the osage river, the buffalo of the yellowstone, venison of louisiana, and the bear of mississippi, fill the list, and contribute in pandering to the appetites of luxurious citizens. chapter vii. other public buildings.--the french theatre.--the carnival.--the st. charles, etc. i cannot undertake to describe the numerous public buildings which adorn the city of orleans. i will merely observe that the stranger would be much entertained and instructed by visiting the gas works, the chapel of the ursulines, st. patrick's church, the cypress grove cemetery, and other beautiful resting places of the dead; the charity hospital, the maison de sante, the marine hospital, the municipal hall, the workhouses in the first and second municipalities, the city prisons, the city hall, the orleans cotton press, the commercial exchange, the merchants' exchange, the medical college, and many others too numerous to mention. a very great object of attraction at night is the orleans theatre, the most conveniently arranged building, perhaps in america. with a very commodious and elevated pit, with grated boxes on the sides for persons desiring to be private, two tiers of boxes and one of galleries above, the whole is so admirably arranged as to allow spectators every privilege of seeing and hearing. the pieces performed at this novel theatre are generally well selected operas, and although the acting is in the french language, yet the pantomime is so excellent and the costume so much to the life, that it requires but little practice on the part of the alabamian to unravel the plot and become intensely engaged. every kind of instrument necessary in producing sweet and harmonious sounds, is to be found in the orchestra, and the music is alternately melodious and grand. the dress circle surpasses all others for the beauty and fashion which it contains. it literally glows with diamonds and sparkling eyes!! in front are seated ladies most magnificently dressed, from all parts of the south and west, and among them sat the beautiful daughter of the hero of mexico! as the child of the captor of monterey, she was the object of attraction throughout the dress circle, and doubtless was loved by all for the noble deeds of her brave and patriotic father. on the sides of the circle are beauties still more richly attired, if possible, but darker and more effeminate than the former, but pretty and sweet beyond all description. they are the daughters of louisianians! no theatre in the world can be better patronised. every night it is crowded with fashionable audiences. for weeks together seats at an extravagant price are engaged far ahead. in going away from this little world of gaiety and amusement, the visitor may justly conclude that frenchmen never get old! here are men portly in appearance and elegant in manners, whose heads are "silvered o'er with many winters," apparently sixty and seventy years of age, entering into the merits of the play with spirits as gay and ardent as the young man of twenty. at the conclusion of a fine act, they will rise upon their feet and shout with rapture and delight, "bravo! bravo!! bravissimo!!! c'est bien!!!!" i shall continue to speak more frequently of the french and spanish population than of the native americans, because, being the more novel and strange, they are the most interesting. they have a great many singular customs and attractive amusements. among others, "mardi-gras, or shrove tuesday," when the religious holidays are at an end, is of some interest. i saw this ceremony under unfavorable auspices. it rained the whole day, and the procession did not exceed an hundred, who constantly appeared in small detachments, some riding on horseback, others in open wagons and cabs, but many on foot; all masked and most fantastically and even ridiculously dressed. i presume the eminently pious portion of the catholics do not engage in this celebration, unless giving it a more serious and respectable turn, for it struck me as i witnessed it as composed of persons of a low and vulgar character. every mardi-gras man has his pockets filled with flour, and as he passes the well-dressed stranger, who excited by curiosity gets near, throws handfuls upon him, to the amusement of those bystanders who fortunately escape. one wagon in particular contained eight hideous-looking objects, dressed in bear, panther and buffalo skins, with horns of various descriptions on. among them was his satanic majesty, with the same old cloven feet, lashing tail, and black skin. those on foot fared badly, for scores of boys would follow them up, and pelt them with sticks and mud, and in one instance i saw a fellow stripped of his old woman's habiliments and mask, who looked stupid and ridiculous to the laughing boys and spectators. but while quitting a description of this poor celebration, once so large and interesting, i must not fail to notice the grandest sight my eyes ever beheld. i was standing on the gallery of the verandah; in front of me rose up high in the air the imposing and magnificent st. charles. on its granite gallery stood crowds of the finest race of men upon the globe--below, the streets were full, all looking at the carnival. for four stories high, every window was full of beauty and fashion. never had the remark so often made to me before, been so entirely convincing, that new orleans contained more handsome ladies and fine looking men than any city in the union. every thing in front of the st. charles is rich and inviting. the men all free and easy and elegantly apparelled, with forms cast in nature's best mould; the ladies all gay, cheerful and beautiful; the cabs and coaches all elegant, with the most dazzling caparisons covering the noble horses. the eminent merchant, the learned jurist, the respectable planter, the dashing young fellow, the officer of the army, all congregate before the st. charles, the best house in the world! chapter viii. the roads in the environs.--the town of carrollton.--the wood yards.--river-bottoms, etc. of the various delightful rides in the environs of the city, none affords so much interest as the route to carrollton. you reach that place on a railroad, commencing in the upper part of the second municipality, and running a third of the way through the suburbs of lafayette, the remainder passing over a wide and lovely plain, with the mississippi river on your left, and the deep and dismal swamp on your right. it is impossible to conceive a more interesting level than this, for as far as the eye can reach, objects of both nature and art are most agreeably presented. the road first passes a splendid country seat, resembling in appearance our imperfect ideas of a french chateau, surrounded with shrubbery of the greenest shade, with orange trees covered with buds and blossoms whose fragrance embalms the air, and burthened with golden globes which richly glitter in the sun. and next you see spread out upon this beautiful plain, heads of cattle and sheep grazing upon the soft green sward, which none but the alluvial bottoms of the noble mississippi can afford in such inviting varieties. further on, you enter a pecan grove, resembling some of the oaks in our forests, but every tree alike--all of the same size--bearing aloft the nutricious nuts which make them so celebrated. the road passes by many handsome seats and villas, the style of which at once indicates the taste and wealth of the inmates. while enjoying this interesting ride, my mind suddenly fell back upon orleans, and was at once wrapt in thoughts of futurity. an hundred years hence, where now browze those innocent cattle in undisturbed silence--where now grow the green grass, "the vine and the fig-tree,"--will then be occupied by churches, towers, hotels, and theatres! what place is this? it is a part of new orleans the queen city of america. carrollton is a small place, but contains some fine residences; and there is a large public garden, tastefully laid out, belonging to the railroad company. the sale of wood seems to be the principal employment of the inhabitants. rafts containing one hundred large logs about fifty feet long, almost entirely of ash, pinned together, are floated down from all parts of the world above orleans, from as high up as missouri. while winding their way through the torturous currents of the river, these raftsmen may be considered the most independent set of people that navigate the great watery thoroughfare. all boats and crafts avoid them and they have nothing to fear. a small hut of the most temporary character, made of boards, and sometimes the bottom of an old yawl turned up, is all the covering these amphibious and nondescript watermen have. upon landing, the raft is sold to the proprietor of the wood yard. a log at a time is hauled upon the levee by large chains attached to a stationary windlass. it is then sawed into blocks four feet long, bolted up and put in cords which are sold for four dollars. at one of the wood yards, thirty hands were employed, and they sold $ , worth of wood per year. i must ask pardon for so often recurring to mr. calhoun's great "inland sea." it is to me the most interesting of all objects. i sat upon the levee at carrollton. i saw it in all its might and majesty, nothing interposing to intercept the view. i thought of the countless number of rills, of the many creeks, of the numerous lakes, and of the untold rivers, rising in different regions and latitudes thousands of miles apart, combining every variety of minerals known to the continent--here passing by me, confined in one vast and deep channel, lashing its banks with violence, and pressing onward and onward its mighty waters to the briney sea! i cannot say, "to its ocean home," for it has none. it finds no resting place in the gulf like other rivers, but the sea groans and gives way to its immensity, and we find its discoloured current far within the tropics! the reader of this number being well acquainted with the low, marshy, dismal character of the several mouths of the mississippi, will doubtless be surprised at being informed that there is a mountain there near four hundred feet high! he has only to reflect that the river from natchez to the balize is usually from three to four hundred feet deep; across the bar there is only eighteen feet water; beyond the bar, just in the ocean, the gulf is unfathomable. so, then, the river in going into the sea, has to pass over a mountain, which it is strange has not been washed away, for the river, as before observed, is not arrested in its onward course by the ocean to much extent. the levee at carrollton is considerably higher than the plain upon which reposes the town. this great work that has occupied the labor, time, and enterprize of louisiana for years, appears to afford a permanent and durable protection from the floods of the river. it commences at fort plaquemines, and extends to baton rouge, the distance of one hundred and sixty-three miles, on the east side of the river; on the west side it extends as high up as arkansas. it will average four feet high and fifteen feet wide, and follows the river in its winding course. a visitor, seeing no ditch from which the earth is taken to erect this artificial dyke, is at first at a loss to know where soil was obtained to make it. on the margin of the river a continual deposit is forming called "batture;" this is drawn back from the river and makes the levee. it soon becomes soil, and has given rise to much litigation, for ownership is exercised over it when formed. the levee has not given way in a long time, to do any extensive damage. near this place, in , the river rising to an unprecedented height, broke through and inundated much of orleans; but governor claiborne had a vessel sunk in the crevasse, which stopped it. chapter ix. orleans at night.--the commerce of the place.--the twenty-second of february. when the sun sheds his last rays behind the hills of peaceful alabama, then it is that the farmer whistles a note over his last furrow, and thanks himself that the toils of day are nearly over; then the hunter checks his horse, blows his last horn and turns for home; then the lazy angler rises from the green bank, strings his silvery fish, winds up his lines and quits the quiet stream; then the children cease to "gambol o'er the plain," and night soon shrouds all objects in darkness and repose. not so with orleans. over her massive buildings and pretty streets, the veil of night is cast in vain! anon a soft and yellow light issues from a thousand lamps, and tells that untiring man is still abroad. has the merchant pored over his books the whole day, he at this happy hour sups his tea, and thinks in anticipation of monsieur malet's delightful party. has the lawyer attended upon the courts and given audience to clients, he now forms plans for this night's amusement. has the laborious editor written "copy" by the long hour until exhausted and fatigued, he now kicks the exchange papers under the table, throws aside his pen, and recals with delight the orleans theatre and the sweet music of norma. has the gay matron visited and shopped, and shopped and visited for the last eight hours, she now once more attires herself for the splendid "route" of mad. solon. has the creole maiden danced and sung, and slept and read, and lounged in flowing dishabille, she now rises from her delicious ottoman and for the st. louis masquerade, once more adorns her lovely form. has the good and pious man toiled all day in honorable trade in behalf of his virtuous wife and smiling children, he now sits around his evening meal, blesses his maker for "all the good he gives," and catches with joy the sound of the deep-toned bell, calling him to the worship of his god. thus may all tastes and dispositions find accommodation by "orleans at night." the cabs and coaches moving in all directions, with lights attached, resemble at a distance so many 'ignuis fatuis,' or jack o' the lanterns. they never stop, but go the whole night; for the gay and dissipated, surfeited with one amusement, seek another, and it is not uncommon for the same person to have made the entire rounds of the public amusements in one night. stepping out of the theatre at eleven o'clock, they are escorted by the eager cabmen proposing to convey them to the quarteroon ball, the st. louis masquerade, and many other places. by the way, these cabs are most delightful inventions, easy to get in, fine to ride in. to prevent cheating on the part of the driver, the police have arranged the fare, so that the visitor pays one dollar per hour, as long as he rides. the city is supplied with one thousand cabs and coaches for public hire. there are fifteen hundred milk and market wagons. the quantity of milk consumed at the st. charles hotel alone, is eighty gallons per day! four thousand drays are constantly moving with merchandise of all kinds. they are drawn by large mules driven in tandem style, and although these useful animals are apparently well fed, they are certainly most unmercifully laden and cruelly beaten. i should suppose that twelve thousand mules are engaged in the commerce of orleans one way and another. what a mart for kentucky! when the reader reflects that this immense city is assisted by twenty thousand miles of river navigation, extending into all parts of the western country, which is a world of itself, added to the commerce which it enjoys through the lakes and the great gulf, he will not be surprised in casting his eye over the following items: number of ships which arrived in , ; barks, ; brigs ; schooners, ; flatboats, ; arrivals of steamboats, . there are steamboats employed in the river navigation. the value of produce exported was $ , , ; of imports, $ , , . number of lawyers, ; physicians, ; commission merchants, . this statement proves the commerce of orleans to be very great, but it must be borne in mind that it is constantly on the increase, and no calculations can be made upon it in future, as to where it will stop. mississippi, tennessee, kentucky, ohio, illinois, indiana, michigan, missouri, iowa, wisconsin, are all yearly increasing in population and produce; the latter of which must find a market here. then i may add the product of another world not hitherto contributing, the whole western part of the valley, from the extreme north-western base of the rocky mountains, far, far down to the mouth of the rio grande, embracing the whole of texas, all the santa fé territory, and the vast regions now inhabited by the cherokees, foxes, creeks, osages, and other tribes, who roam in "wilds immeasurably spread." "the country tributary to orleans" so norman says, "contains nearly as many square miles and more tillable ground than all of continental europe, and if peopled as densely as england, would sustain a population of five hundred millions." he is hardly large enough in his conceptions. who can tell the future size of the crescent city? none but him who numbers the sands on the sea shore, and notices the sparrows as they fall! on the twenty-second of february, the hearts of the patriotic louisianians were made glad by the roar of cannon and the waving of flags. the vessels for miles were hung with beautiful banners of every civilized nation and clime, unfolding their rich colors to the ocean breeze. when i saw the sons of spain, and france, england and russia, thus doing homage to the memory of washington, the greatest and best man that ever lived, i felt a spirit of gratitude towards those noble nations, mingled with pride and satisfaction for the glory of my own country. the military of orleans formed upon canal street and marched through the first municipality down the bayou road, and halted upon a beautiful green. for some cause the "native" americans did not turn out. there were two spanish, two german, one swiss, and four french companies upon parade. should i attempt to describe the splendid evolutions of these incomparable troops, and the noble bearing of their skilful and accomplished officers, i would utterly fail to do justice. presently along their lines appeared upon a "snow white steed," governor johnson, an elegant man about forty-five years old, six feet high, straight and majestic, with florid complexion and sandy hair. he was accompanied by his aids all in the most expensive uniform. after reviewing the troops marquees and tents were pitched, and vast collation tables covered the ground. and while mirth and hilarity universally prevailed, at that very moment twenty thousand infuriated mexicans were pressing upon the plains of buena vista, preparing to immolate the army of the brave taylor! and now, kind and indulgent reader, i will no longer obtrude upon your patience; these sketches are at an end. if they have afforded you any amusement, i am compensated. the end. ........ [transcriber's note: the spellings of the original document have been retained, with the following exceptions: on page , "by draining and fillling up" was corrected to "by draining and filling up"; on page , "everything thing is" was corrected to "everything is" and "move on continuualy in" to "move on continually in"; on page , "navigate the great watery thouroughfare" was corrected to "navigate the great watery thoroughfare"; and on page , "has the laborions editor" was corrected to "has the laborious editor" and 'attires herself for the splended "route"' to 'attires herself for the splendid "route"'.] additions to the list of the birds of louisiana by george h. lowery, jr. university of kansas publications museum of natural history volume , no. , pp. - november , university of kansas lawrence university of kansas publications, museum of natural history editors: e. raymond hall, chairman, h. h. lane, edward h. taylor volume , no. , pp. - published november , university of kansas lawrence, kansas printed by ferd voiland, jr., state printer topeka, kansas - additions to the list of the birds of louisiana by george h. lowery, jr. oberholser's "bird life of louisiana" (la. dept. conserv. bull. , ), was a notable contribution to the ornithology of the gulf coast region and the lower mississippi valley, for it gave not only a complete distributional synopsis of every species and subspecies of bird then known to occur in louisiana but also nearly every record of a louisiana bird up to . however, at the time of the appearance of this publication, one of the most active periods in louisiana ornithology was just then beginning. the bird collection in the louisiana state university museum of zoölogy had been started only the year before, and the first comprehensive field work since the time of beyer, kohn, kopman, and allison, two decades before, was still in its initial stage. since the museum of zoölogy has acquired more specimens of birds from louisiana than were collected there in all of the years prior to that time. many parts of the state have been studied where no previous work at all had been done. also in the last eight years some capable ornithologists have visited the state as students at louisiana state university, and each has contributed greatly to the mass of new data now available. despite the excellence of oberholser's compilation of records, it is, therefore, not surprising that even at this early date twenty-four additions can be made to the list of birds known from louisiana. furthermore, this recently acquired information permits the emendation of the recorded status of scores of species, each previously ascribed to the state on the basis of comparatively meager data. the plan is to publish eventually a revision of the birds of louisiana which will incorporate all of the new information, but the projected scope of this work is such that many years may elapse before it is finished. the present paper is intended to record only the more pertinent additions, particularly records that may be significant in connection with the preparation of the fifth edition of the american ornithologists' union's "check-list of north american birds." there are numerous species for which oberholser cited only a few records, but of which we now have many records and large series of specimens. if, in such instances, the treatment given in the fourth edition of the american ornithologists' union's check-list would not be materially affected, i have omitted mention of the new material in this paper. i am indebted to a number of ornithologists who have presented their notes on louisiana birds to the museum of zoölogy and who have done much to supplement its collections. outstanding among these are thomas r. howell, robert j. newman, sam m. ray, robert e. tucker, harold e. wallace, and the late austin w. burdick. their efforts in behalf of the museum have been untiring. i am grateful also to thomas d. burleigh and jas. hy. bruns, both of whom have played an integral part in our field activities in recent years and without whose help much less would have been accomplished. john s. campbell, ambrose daigre, james nelson gowanloch, sara elizabeth hewes, e. a. mcilhenny, edouard morgan, and george l. tiebout, jr., have generously contributed notes and specimens which are duly attributed in the following text. for assistance in taxonomic problems, or for the loan of comparative material, i wish to thank john w. aldrich, herbert friedmann, howard k. gloyd, alden h. miller, harry c. oberholser, james l. peters, karl p. schmidt, george m. sutton, j. van tyne, and alexander wetmore. #sula sula sula# (linnaeus), red-footed booby an immature individual of this species came aboard a boat of the louisiana department of conservation near the mouth of bayou scofield, miles below buras, plaquemines parish, on november , . it was captured by j. n. mcconnell, who delivered it to james nelson gowanloch of the department of wildlife and fisheries. the bird was then turned over to me in the flesh for preparation and deposit in the louisiana state university museum of zoölogy. it has since been examined by james l. peters and alexander wetmore, who confirmed the identification. this is the first specimen of the species obtained in the united states. the only other record of its occurrence in this country is that of individuals observed near micco, brevard county, florida, on february , (bangs, auk, , : - ). to eliminate possible confusion in the literature, attention is called here to the fact that the above-listed specimen was erroneously recorded by an anonymous writer (la. conserv. rev., , fall issue, : ) as a gannet, _morus bassanus_ (linnaeus). #butorides virescens virescens# (linnaeus), eastern green heron no winter records for the occurrence of this species were available to oberholser in , the latest date cited by him being october . recently, however, it has been noted several times in winter on the coast of louisiana. kilby and croker (aud. mag., , : ) observed it at the mouth of the mississippi river, near pilot town, on december , , and burleigh and i each obtained a specimen at cameron on december , . another was shot by me at the same place on february , . the species is therefore of casual occurrence in the state in winter. #dichromanassa rufescens# (gmelin), reddish egret although previously reported only as a casual summer visitor along the coast, the reddish egret is known now to occur regularly in small numbers during the winter. since oberholser (_op. cit._, ) cited only one specific record of occurrence in the state, all additional records are listed here. on east timbalier island, one to three were seen daily, august - , , and two to five were seen daily, november - , . in cameron parish, the species has been noted as follows (lowery, _et al._): two on december , ; one on january , ; three on september and two on november , ; one on april , . several specimens were collected. #plegadis falcinellus falcinellus# (linnaeus), eastern glossy ibis #plegadis mexicana# (gmelin), white-faced glossy ibis considerable confusion exists concerning the specific identity of the glossy ibises inhabiting louisiana. the fourth edition of the a. o. u. check-list ( : ) stated that _falcinellus_ "breeds rarely and locally in central florida and probably in louisiana." in , holt visited the marshes of cameron parish in southwestern louisiana where he studied the ibises nesting in a large rookery. later he definitely stated (auk, , : - ) that the birds seen by him were eastern glossy ibises (_plegadis falcinellus_). it was doubtless holt's identification that influenced oberholser to list _falcinellus_ as a fairly common local resident in the state (_op. cit._, ). this, however, is contrary to the evidence at my disposal. my associates and i have studied thousands of glossy ibises in the marshes of southwestern louisiana in the past ten years. these observations include numerous field trips into the region where ibises are plentiful throughout the year, especially during the breeding season. i have also visited a large nesting rookery in cameron parish, the only one in the state known to me, and the one which i have every reason to believe is the same colony visited by holt in . although holt identified as _falcinellus_ the birds seen by him at a nesting rookery in cameron parish, i have never seen that species anywhere in louisiana except at grand isle, miles east of cameron, as henceforth noted. in winter when the white-faced glossy ibis lacks the white on its face, some difficulty might be encountered in differentiating that species from the eastern glossy ibis. the perplexing thing, however, is that holt made his observations in the nesting season when no possible confusion should exist; also he was in the middle of a nesting rookery with birds close at hand on all sides. this fact notwithstanding, the ibis nesting in the cameron parish rookery (known locally as "the burn") on may , , was the white-faced species (_plegadis mexicana_), as evidenced by moving pictures taken by j. harvey roberts and by specimens of varying ages collected at the same time by me. in all, the louisiana state university museum of zoölogy has specimens of _mexicana_ taken in cameron parish in april, may, november, december, and january. field records are available also for the months of february, march, july, and september. aside from holt's statement, oberholser had only five other records for _falcinellus_ in louisiana, one being a market specimen with incomplete data and therefore of questionable scientific value. the remaining four specimens were taken by e. r. pike near the mouth of the mississippi river on november and , , and are now on deposit in the chicago academy of sciences. recently i borrowed these specimens for reëxamination with the following results. the three taken on november , , are _mexicana_ and not _falcinellus_ as labeled and so reported by oberholser. the single specimen taken on november is, however, correctly identified as _falcinellus_. alexander wetmore kindly examined the material for me and confirmed my identifications. the occurrence of _falcinellus_ in louisiana thus hinged on holt's statement and one preserved specimen. however, on july , , in the marshes on grand isle, jefferson parish, louisiana, i encountered a flock of immature ibises that impressed me by their blackness in contrast to the color of glossy ibises with which i was familiar in cameron parish. two specimens were collected and both proved to be _falcinellus_. holt's published observations cannot be positively refuted, for we cannot be sure that a colony of _falcinellus_ did not exist in cameron parish in , nor that the portion of the rookery under his observation did not consist of a segregated population of that species. however, ten years of field observations by other ornithologists have failed to disclose the species which holt considered a common nesting bird in an area where we now know that only the white-faced glossy ibis occurs. the fact that holt specifically stated that he failed to find the white-faced bird at any time in his stay in cameron parish is difficult to explain, but this much is certain--the present known status of _falcinellus_ in louisiana is that of only a rare and casual visitor. #branta canadensis hutchinsii# (richardson), hutchins goose oberholser (_op. cit._, ) cited only one louisiana record for this goose. the bird in question was shot but apparently not preserved. consequently, the status of the race on the louisiana list was subject to question. recently, however, two typical specimens of _hutchinsii_ were obtained in the state, one by edouard morgan, near lake catherine, on november , , and the other by herman deutsch, four miles above the mouth of the mermentau river, on november , . the former is displayed in the louisiana wildlife and fisheries exhibit in the louisiana state museum, and the latter is now in the louisiana state university museum of zoölogy. #oxyura dominica# (linnaeus), masked duck a mounted specimen of this species was found by t. d. burleigh and myself in a sporting goods store in lake charles, louisiana. through the kindness of mr. jack gunn, owner, it was donated to the louisiana state university museum collection. the bird was shot approximately miles southeast of lake charles at sweet lake, cameron parish, on december , , by r. t. newton. this is the first recorded occurrence of the species in louisiana, as well as one of the very few instances of its appearance anywhere in the united states. #buteo lineatus texanus# bishop, texas red-shouldered hawk although this race has been recorded previously only from texas and northeastern mexico, it appears to be of regular occurrence in southern louisiana in the fall and winter. the six specimens in the louisiana state university collection, identified by herbert friedmann as _texanus_, are as follows: westover, november , ; baton rouge, october , , november , , and september , ; university, november , ; hoo-shoo-too, october , (lowery, tiebout, and wallace). another specimen, taken at baton rouge on september , (ray), was acquired by louis b. bishop, who identified it as _texanus_. #numenius americanus americanus# bechstein, long-billed curlew #numenius americanus parvus# bishop, northern long-billed curlew thirteen specimens of this species in the louisiana state university museum have been identified subspecifically (in part by j. van tyne) as follows: _n. a. americanus_-- [female], cameron, november and , , and december , . _n. a. parvus_-- [male], [female], cameron, november and , , and april and october , ; [female], east timbalier island, august , . three are intermediate in size and therefore not identifiable with certainty. contrary to published accounts, the long-billed curlew is a fairly common migrant in certain parts of southern louisiana. about seventy-five were counted on the beach near cameron on november , , and twenty-five were noted at the same place on december , . almost invariably a few are present there during every month of the year. #charadrius alexandrinus nivosus# (cassin), western snowy plover #charadrius alexandrinus tenuirostris# (lawrence), cuban snowy plover oberholser (_op. cit._, - ) listed the cuban snowy plover as a rare transient in louisiana, and cited only four definite records based on three specimens. our recent studies, however, have yielded twelve additional specimens and a number of sight records, all of which indicate that the species is a regular and sometimes common migrant in spring and fall. eleven specimens in the series are identifiable with certainty as examples of _nivosus_ and therefore constitute an addition to the state list. they were taken at east timbalier island on november and , (burleigh, lowery, and ray), at grand isle on march , (burleigh), and near cameron on november and , , april and october , , and september , (burdick, howell, and lowery). on april , , tucker saw twenty on the beach near cameron, but he did not obtain a specimen. a single adult male in our series, taken on east timbalier island, on november , (ray), is referable to _tenuirostris_. #charadrius hiaticula semipalmatus# bonaparte, semipalmated plover oberholser (_op. cit._, ) made special mention of the absence of definite winter records for this species, but, in recent years, it has been noted on numerous occasions in louisiana in that season. for example, ten were seen at cameron on december , , and the same number was noted there on january and , (lowery, _et al._). a specimen was shot at cameron on december , (lowery). #charadrius wilsonia wilsonia# ord, wilson plover oberholser's single winter record for this species (_op. cit._, ) has now been supplemented by two others--fifteen birds seen and three collected at cameron on january , (burleigh, wallace, and ray); one taken at the same place on december , (burdick). #pluvialis dominica dominica# (müller), american golden plover the presence of the golden plover on the northern gulf coast in winter already has been reported by burleigh ("bird life of the gulf coast region of mississippi," occas. papers mus. zoöl. la. state univ., , : ), but since there are no published instances of its occurrence in louisiana at that season, the following four specimens are noteworthy: two collected near creole by lowery and ray on november , ; two others shot at the same place by burdick and tucker on december , ; and one seen, but not taken, near cameron on november , (lowery, _et al._). #erolia bairdii# (coues), baird sandpiper since there is only one previous definite record of the occurrence of this species in the state, the following records are significant. a male was obtained by burdick at university, miles south, on october , . i saw three at the same place on october and shot a male there on november . the only spring record is that of a bird seen by me at university, mile south, on may , . #steganopus tricolor# vieillot, wilson phalarope apparently the first definite record of this species in the state is that of an adult female, in breeding plumage, shot by e. a. mcilhenny at avery island, louisiana, on may , , and later sent to the louisiana state university museum of zoölogy. a second specimen, a male in winter plumage, was taken by burdick miles south of the university on september , . #limosa fedoa# (linnaeus), marbled godwit this species was listed by oberholser (_op. cit._, ) as a very rare winter resident along the gulf coast region of southern louisiana and he cited only two records of occurrence in the state. the following additional records should clarify its present-day status. in two were seen on east timbalier island on august , eight on november , and seventy-five on both november and . three were seen near cameron on november , . in , two were seen near cameron on april , five on april , three on april , two on april , and one on april . another was noted near cameron on october , (lowery, _et al._). a small series of specimens was taken from the birds mentioned above. in connection with this species, it may be of interest to note that the hudsonian godwit (_limosa haemastica_) has not been observed in louisiana by me or my associates. #geococcyx californianus# (lesson), road-runner the road-runner inhabits the northwestern part of the state where it has been reported for many years by local residents. however, since confirmation of its occurrence was lacking, previous publications on the birds of the state have not listed, it. the first definite record is that of a bird killed near shreveport, on may , , by an unspecified collector. another was shot four miles north of keatchie, de soto parish, on july , , by delmer b. johnson, at that time field biologist with the louisiana department of wildlife and fisheries. both specimens are in the louisiana state university museum. johnson states that he has seen the species on a number of occasions, specific records being in april and may, , twelve miles east of mansfield, and two miles east of logansport. various reports of nests have been received, but as yet no completely satisfactory breeding record for the state has been obtained. #columbigallina passerina pallescens# (baird), mexican ground dove the louisiana state university museum of zoölogy now has a series of specimens of _columbigallina passerina_ collected in louisiana since the publication of oberholser's book, in which only a few records for _c. p. passerina_ alone are cited. examination of the new material reveals that eleven specimens are clearly referable to _pallescens_, providing, therefore, an addition to the avifauna of the state. as might be expected, _pallescens_ prevails in the western part of the state, although, at least occasionally, it migrates farther east. the specimens identifiable as _pallescens_ are as follows: [male], [female], cameron, april , (lowery); december , (wallace); november and , (burdick and lowery); october , (burdick and tucker). two females were taken at white castle on january , (hewes), and another was shot at carville on january , (lowery). no louisiana breeding record for the species is yet available, but in i saw a pair in the last week of may at baton rouge, another near plaquemine on may , , and george m. sutton and i noted a pair almost daily at cameron between april and , . if the bird breeds in cameron parish, the nesting race may prove to be _pallescens_, since a bird taken there on april , as listed above, belongs to that subspecies. #chordeiles minor minor# (forster), eastern nighthawk since the one previous record (oberholser, _op. cit._, ) of the occurrence of this subspecies in the state now proves to be an example of _c. m. howelli_, the following specimens, all taken after the publication of oberholser's book, constitute the only louisiana records: [male], [female], university, october , , , , (burdick, howell, ray, and lowery); [male], [female], university, may , , , , (burdick and lowery); [male], creole, september , (burdick). #chordeiles minor howelli# oberholser, howell nighthawk the only state records known, all previously unpublished, are as follows: [female], colfax, may , (lowery); [male], [female], university, may and and october , (ray and lowery); [male], university, may and , (burdick); [male], chloe, miles south, april , ; [male], creole, miles west, april , (tucker). #chordeiles minor aserriensis# cherrie, cherrie nighthawk three specimens, one male and two females, taken from flocks of migrating nighthawks at university on september and october and , (ray and lowery), are the only records of the occurrence of this race in the state. #chordeiles minor sennetti# coues, sennett nighthawk a female taken at university on september , (burdick), and a male shot at the same place on may , (lowery), constitute the basis for the addition of this subspecies to the louisiana list. #chordeiles acutipennis texensis# lawrence, texas nighthawk at dusk on april , , in company with burdick and ray, i encountered a small flock of nighthawks feeding over the marsh near the beach a few miles from cameron. darkness came before more than two could be collected, but both of these proved to be the texas nighthawk, a species not heretofore recorded from louisiana. on the following day a nighthawk was found perched in a tree near the marsh where the birds had been seen the previous evening. it was collected and likewise proved to be _texensis_. #muscivora forficata# (gmelin), scissor-tailed flycatcher the nesting of this species in northwestern louisiana has been indicated for some time, especially after wallace noted it at lucas, in caddo parish, on june and july , . however, the first authentic breeding record for the state was furnished by a freshly built nest found by edgar w. fullilove and myself several miles below bossier, on july , . at least two pairs were found there in a large cotton field in which an occasional pecan tree had been left standing. the nest was in one of these trees, about feet from the ground and far out on the end of a limb. fullilove informed me that to his knowledge the species had nested in this field for at least ten years and that on numerous previous occasions he had seen both nests and young. #myiarchus cinerascens cinerascens# (lawrence), ash-throated flycatcher the first record of the occurrence of this species in louisiana is that of a male collected by howell at university, on march , . on december , , i shot a second specimen, a female, on the bank of false river opposite new roads. when found, both birds were actively pursuing insects and on being skinned, both were found to be very fat. #empidonax flaviventris# (baird and baird), yellow-bellied flycatcher oberholser (_op. cit._, ) listed this species as a rare autumn transient, citing one definite louisiana record for that season. on the contrary, the species is quite regular in fall. six specimens have been collected at university, one each on september , , , and , , october , , and september , (lowery and wallace). two others have been taken at cameron, on october , (burleigh), and september , (lowery). there are numerous sight records, but since the species cannot be distinguished with certainty in the field from extremely yellow-plumaged acadian flycatchers, none of these is recorded. #empidonax traillii traillii# (audubon), alder flycatcher this species long has been regarded as an uncommon transient in louisiana in both spring and fall. however, recent field work has shown the bird to occur regularly and sometimes abundantly in autumnal migration. forty-one specimens have been collected at university on dates ranging from august to october (lowery, _et al._). specimens taken by burleigh at new orleans on september , , and august , , are in the louisiana state university museum. #empidonax minimus# (baird and baird), least flycatcher oberholser (_op. cit._, ) listed this species as an uncommon transient since he had only a few sight records at hand. since field identification of all eastern empidonaces in fall is open to question, our recent data, based on collected material, are significant. six specimens have been taken at university on dates ranging from september to october , and five at cameron between july and october inclusive (lowery, _et al._). another specimen in the collection is that of a bird taken by burleigh at new orleans on october , . there is, as yet, no unquestionable spring record for louisiana. #pyrocephalus rubinus mexicanus# sclater, vermilion flycatcher oberholser (_op. cit._, ) listed only one record for this species, a male observed by h. e. wallace at university, on february , , and shot the next day by me. since , however, it has been found regularly and frequently at numerous localities in southern louisiana in winter. at baton rouge, for example, an adult male was noted almost daily between october , , and january , , at a small pond on the university campus. an immature male was seen there also on november , , but not thereafter. in the following autumn another adult male appeared at the same place on october , and was observed regularly until january , . again, an adult male returned to the same area on november , , and remained until the middle of january, . w. c. abbott informs me that for several years one or two individuals have spent the winter at a small willow-bordered pond at his home near hopevilla, iberville parish. like the individuals noted at baton rouge, abbott's birds arrived in october or november and remained until the following january or february. h. b. chase, jr., noted two individuals at city park lake in new orleans in the winter of - , and three at the same place in the winter of - . i have seen the species frequently in cameron parish, in southwestern louisiana, where six specimens have been collected on dates ranging from november to january . atwood (auk, , : ) has also recorded its presence near the laccasine refuge in cameron parish. an immature male was obtained at false river, near lakeland, in pointe coupee parish, on november , (burdick). e. a. mcilhenny writes me that he has seen the species many times at avery island and recently he sent me a skin of an adult female which he collected there on october , (also _cf._ mcilhenny, auk, , : ). from these data it is evident that the vermilion flycatcher is now a regular winter visitor to southern louisiana. #troglodytes troglodytes pullus# (burleigh), southern winter wren a rather large series of winter wrens, all taken later than the date of publication of oberholser's book, includes three specimens of this race and provides an addition to the state list. two of the specimens are males collected at baton rouge on november and december , (burleigh), and the other is a male shot at the same place on january , (burdick). several additional specimens in the series are noticeably darker than the average _hiemalis_ and may have migrated from a zone of intergradation. #turdus migratorius nigrideus# aldrich and nutt, newfoundland robin the only two records for the occurrence of this race in louisiana are those of specimens taken at baton rouge on february , , and february , (lowery). #hylocichla ustulata swainsoni# (tschudi), eastern olive-backed thrush #hylocichla ustulata almae# oberholser, alma olive-backed thrush only four louisiana specimens of the olive-backed thrush were available to oberholser in . he identified two as _swainsoni_ and two as _almae_. we have since collected twenty-five specimens in the state, seven of which are definitely _almae_. of the remaining, all are clearly _swainsoni_ with the exception of a few that appear intermediate in color. the specimens of _almae_ were collected at cameron, baton rouge, and baines on dates ranging from april to may and from september to october . the specimens of _swainsoni_ were taken at new orleans, port hudson, baton rouge, and baines between april and may and between september and october . #hylocichla fuscescens salicicola# ridgway, willow thrush oberholser (_op. cit._, ) recorded this race as a rare spring transient on the basis of two records. however, eleven out of twenty-three recently taken specimens are referable to _salicicola_, indicating that _salicicola_ and _fuscescens_ possibly occur in approximately equal numbers, in both spring and fall. the dates on which _salicicola_ have been collected range from april to may , and from september to . they were taken at cameron, port hudson, baton rouge, university, and baines. #anthus spinoletta pacificus# todd, western pipit the only louisiana record for this far western race is that of a female taken by me at jennings, on january , . the specimen was sent to alden h. miller, who compared it with material in the museum of vertebrate zoölogy and verified the identification. as a rule, i scrutinize closely with binoculars all flocks of pipits, and as a result, on several occasions have detected pale individuals that stood out from the remainder of the flock. however, the above-mentioned specimen is the only individual so detected that i succeeded in shooting. #vireo solitarius alticola# brewster, mountain vireo four specimens out of a series of twenty-eight blue-headed vireos taken in louisiana since are referable to this race. it has not been recorded previously from the state. the specimens consist of a male and a female collected at bogalusa on february , , a male taken at tunica on march , , and a female at erwinville on march , (lowery). #helmitheros vermivorus# (gmelin), worm-eating warbler although there are no published nesting records of this species in louisiana, it is now known to be a common summer resident in the beech-magnolia forests of the bayou sara-tunica hills section north of st. francisville. jas. hy. bruns has supplied me with copious data on the birds seen in the nesting season at baines, and the two of us have spent a great deal of time searching for a nest, without success. however, bruns obtained a juvenile female, just out of a nest, on june , . #seiurus aurocapillus furvior# batchelder, newfoundland oven-bird #seiurus aurocapillus cinereus# a. h. miller, gray oven-bird four specimens in our series of oven-birds are identifiable without question as examples of _furvior_. two were collected by me at university on september and , , and tucker shot one there on september , , and another at cameron on april , . there are also two specimens in the series referable to _cinereus_, as well as several that are intermediate between _cinereus_ and _s. a. aurocapillus_. burdick shot one of the typical examples of _cinereus_ at university on september , , and i shot the other at the same place on may , . #seiurus noveboracensis noveboracensis# (gmelin), northern water-thrush #seiurus noveboracensis limnaeus# mccabe and miller, british columbia water-thrush a. h. miller has recently examined our large series of migrant water-thrushes and identified three as good examples of _limnaeus_, and six as _noveboracensis_, neither one of which has been recorded previously from the state. the specimens of _limnaeus_ were taken at or near university on october , (howell), october , , and may , (burleigh). the specimens of _noveboracensis_ were collected at university on september , (lowery); at baines on september , , august , , and may , (bruns); at new orleans on october , (burleigh); and at cameron on april , (lowery). #geothlypis trichas occidentalis# brewster, western yellow-throat i have found it impracticable to determine subspecifically every specimen in our series of yellow-throats from louisiana. however, two female specimens taken by me, one at cameron on december , , and the other on false river at lakeland on february , , are without doubt representatives of the race now known as _occidentalis_, a subspecies not previously recorded from this state. several additional specimens in the series are probably also of that race, but i am deferring, for the time, recording them as such. #icteria virens virens# (linnaeus), yellow-breasted chat the only winter record for louisiana is that of a female taken by me at hackberry on january , . #wilsonia pusilla pusilla# (wilson), wilson warbler the only winter record for the state is that of a female shot by t. d. burleigh on december , , in a thicket along the mississippi river at university. he first found the bird at this place in november, and he saw it several times in december before he succeeded in obtaining it. since oberholser cited so few louisiana records, it might be well to mention in this connection that the species is after all a fairly common fall migrant in southern louisiana. at baton rouge it occurs regularly between september and october , and at cameron it has been noted between october and november . there are still no spring records for southern louisiana. #sturnella neglecta# audubon, western meadowlark in oberholser cited only two louisiana records, both from the northwestern part of the state. however, recently the species has been found in the south-central region. two were collected at churchill on february , (lowery and wallace), and another was shot at university on december , (burdick). there are in addition several sight records, all of birds in song. #cassidix mexicanus prosopidicola# lowery, mesquite great-tailed grackle i am indebted to e. a. mcilhenny for material that now permits the definite recording of this subspecies from louisiana. on occasions during the winters of , , and , mcilhenny sent me specimens of grackles in the flesh which he had removed from his bird-banding traps at avery island. selection was based primarily on eye-color; individuals with clear yellow irises proved invariably to be examples of _prosopidicola_, whereas those with brown or yellow-brown irises were always _major_. the final basis for sub-specific identification was, however, size and plumage color. the series provided by mcilhenny consists of six females taken on november and december , , december , , january and march , . since the range in texas of typical _prosopidicola_ extends eastward to within thirty miles of the louisiana line, it is not surprising that occasional individuals or flocks wander into louisiana in winter. #passerculus sandwichensis mediogriseus# aldrich, southeastern savannah sparrow #passerculus sandwichensis labradorius# howe, labrador savannah sparrow #passerculus sandwichensis nevadensis# grinnell, nevada savannah sparrow our series of savannah sparrows, collected in louisiana almost entirely since the publication of oberholser's book, includes representatives of five geographical races, as follows: _savanna_, _oblitus_, _mediogriseus_, _labradorius_, and _nevadensis_. the remaining specimens show various combinations of characters and appear to be intergrades, and so have not been assigned definitely to any one race. i am indebted to james l. peters for the identification of most of our specimens. since _mediogriseus_ and _labradorius_ have not been reported previously from louisiana, and since there is only one louisiana record of _nevadensis_ (miles, auk, , : - ), actual dates and localities of occurrence for these races are listed here. _p. s. mediogriseus_ (specimens by burdick, howell, lowery, ray, tucker, and wallace)--university, january , ; february and , april , november , and december , ; december and , ; october and , ; april , . erwinville, march , . _p. s. labradorius_ (specimens by burleigh, lowery, mcilhenny, ray and wallace)--university, february and november , ; january , ; december , . mi. ne baton rouge, january , . burtville, december , . avery island, may , . lake charles, november , . _p. s. nevadensis_ (specimens by burdick, lowery, and wallace)--iowa station, january and , . university, february and march , . university, december , , and november , . cameron, december , . there are at present no _bona fide_ records of _p. s. anthinus_ in louisiana, since the one recorded example of that race (oberholser, _op. cit._, ) appears, on reëxamination, to be referable to _savanna_ (_fide_ j. l. peters). #ammodramus savannarum pratensis# vieillot, eastern grasshopper sparrow eight specimens of the grasshopper sparrow taken recently in louisiana are without exception referable to _pratensis_. our one remaining specimen, a male collected at pride on december , , is an example of _perpallidus_ as recorded by oberholser (_op. cit._, ). although the present series is inadequate for determining the prevailing form in the state in the winter, it would appear that _pratensis_ is more common, rather than _perpallidus_ as indicated by oberholser. #chondestes grammacus strigatus# swainson, western lark sparrow oberholser cited only one louisiana record for this race. the following additional records are now available: a specimen was taken by howell at cameron on october , , and one was obtained by me at university on april , . the species is a transient in both localities. a supplementary winter record for the lark sparrow in louisiana is that of an individual seen at port hudson on december , , by howell and newman. the bird was shot, but unfortunately, it was not retrieved. #junco hyemalis cismontanus# dwight, cassiar junco the only specimen in our series of slate-colored juncos that is a clear-cut example of this race is a male taken by ambrose daigre at catahoula lake on november , . a. h. miller has confirmed the identification. #calcarius lapponicus alascensis# ridgway, alaska longspur oberholser listed this species as a casual winter visitor in northern louisiana, which was possibly no more than was indicated by records then available to him. since , however, the species has been observed in large flocks at various localities in the southern part of the state, notably in january, , when the whole state was blanketed with snow. nevertheless, snow is apparently not prerequisite to the appearance of the species this far south, for on january and , , a flock of approximately a thousand individuals was seen a few miles north of jennings. again, on february , , about half of what may have been the original flock was observed there. in neither instance was there snow anywhere in louisiana. of the thirty specimens in the louisiana state university collection, eleven have been identified by alexander wetmore as somewhat intermediate between _alascensis_ and _lapponicus_, but closer to the former. only _lapponicus_ has been previously recorded from louisiana. the specimens of _alascensis_ were taken at baton rouge on january and , ; cornor, january , ; lottie, january , ; and miles north of jennings, january and february , (burdick, campbell, hewes, lowery, and wallace). _transmitted february , ._ - note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/ / / / / / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/ / / / / / -h.zip) strange true stories of louisiana by george w. cable author of "the grandissimes," "bonaventure," etc. illustrated [illustration: "tonton." (from a portrait now in the possession of mme. veuve alcibiade de blanc.)] to my friend james birney guthrie contents page how i got them the young aunt with white hair the adventures of franÇoise and suzanne. i. the two sisters ii. making up the expedition iii. the embarkation iv. alix carpentier v. down bayou plaquemine.--the fight with wild nature vi. the twice-married countess vii. odd partners in the bolero dance viii. a bad storm in a bad place ix. maggie and the robbers x. alix puts away the past xi. alix plays fairy.--parting tears. xii. little paris xiii. the countess madelaine xiv. "poor little alix!" xv. the discovery of the hat xvi. the ball xvii. picnic and farewell alix de morainville salome mÜller, the white slave. i. salome and her kindred ii. six months at anchor iii. famine at sea iv. sold into bondage v. the lost orphans vi. christian roselius vii. miller versus belmonti viii. the trial ix. the evidence x. the crowning proof xi. judgment xii. before the supreme court the "haunted house" in royal street. i. as it stands now ii. madame lalaurie iii. a terrible revelation iv. the lady's flight v. a new use vi. evictions attalie brouillard. i. furnished rooms ii. john bull iii. ducour's meditations iv. proxy v. the nuncupative will vi. men can be better than their laws war diary of a union woman in the south i. secession ii. the volunteers.--fort sumter iii. tribulation iv. a beleaguered city v. married vi. how it was in arkansas vii. the fight for food and clothing viii. drowned out and starved out ix. homeless and shelterless x. frights and perils in steele's bayou xi. wild times in mississippi xii. vicksburg xiii. preparations for the siege xiv. the siege itself xv. gibraltar falls list of illustrations. from photographs of the originals, in possession of mr. george w. cable. "tonton" frontispiece some of the manuscripts part of françois's first page part of first page, "alix manuscript" the court papers the entrance of the "haunted house" printed on wall paper in the siege of vicksburg fac-simile of a letter from adj.-gen. thomas l. snead [illustration: some of the manuscripts court papers in miller vs. belmonti. letter from suzanne. the "alix ms." louisa cheval's letter. francois's pages. the war diary (underneath).] strange true stories of louisiana. how i got them. - . true stories are not often good art. the relations and experiences of real men and women rarely fall in such symmetrical order as to make an artistic whole. until they have had such treatment as we give stone in the quarry or gems in the rough they seldom group themselves with that harmony of values and brilliant unity of interest that result when art comes in--not so much to transcend nature as to make nature transcend herself. yet i have learned to believe that good stories happen oftener than once i thought they did. within the last few years there have dropped into my hands by one accident or another a number of these natural crystals, whose charms, never the same in any two, are in each and all enough at least to warn off all tampering of the fictionist. happily, moreover, without being necessary one to another, they yet have a coherent sequence, and follow one another like the days of a week. they are mine only by right of discovery. from various necessities of the case i am sometimes the story-teller, and sometimes, in the reader's interest, have to abridge; but i add no fact and trim naught of value away. here are no unconfessed "restorations," not one. in time, place, circumstance, in every essential feature, i give them as i got them--strange stories that truly happened, all partly, some wholly, in louisiana. in the spring of , being one night the guest of my friend dr. francis bacon, in new haven, connecticut, and the conversation turning, at the close of the evening, upon wonderful and romantic true happenings, he said: "you are from new orleans; did you never hear of salome müller?" "no." thereupon he told the story, and a few weeks later sent me by mail, to my home in new orleans, whither i had returned, a transcription, which he had most generously made, of a brief summary of the case--it would be right to say tragedy instead of case--as printed in "the law reporter" some forty years ago. that transcription lies before me now, beginning, "the supreme court of the state of louisiana has lately been called upon to investigate and decide one of the most interesting cases which has ever come under the cognizance of a judicial tribunal." this episode, which had been the cause of public excitement within the memory of men still living on the scene, i, a native resident of new orleans and student of its history, stumbled upon for the first time nearly two thousand miles from home. i mentioned it to a number of lawyers of new orleans, one after another. none remembered ever having heard of it. i appealed to a former chief-justice of the state, who had a lively personal remembrance of every member of the bench and the bar concerned in the case; but of the case he had no recollection. one of the medical experts called in by the court for evidence upon which the whole merits of the case seemed to hang was still living--the distinguished creole physician, dr. armand mercier. he could not recall the matter until i recounted the story, and then only in the vaguest way. yet when my friend the former chief-justice kindly took down from his shelves and beat free of dust the right volume of supreme court decisions, there was the terse, cold record, no. . i went to the old newspaper files under the roof of the city hall, and had the pleasure speedily to find, under the dates of and , such passing allusions to the strange facts of which i was in search as one might hope to find in those days when a serious riot was likely to receive no mention, and a steamboat explosion dangerously near the editorial rooms would be recorded in ten lines of colorless statement. i went to the courts, and, after following and abandoning several false trails through two days' search, found that the books of record containing the object of my quest had been lost, having unaccountably disappeared in--if i remember aright-- . there was one chance left: it was to find the original papers. i employed an intelligent gentleman at so much a day to search till he should find them. in the dusty garret of one of the court buildings--the old spanish cabildo, that faces jackson square--he rummaged for ten days, finding now one desired document and now another, until he had gathered all but one. several he drew out of a great heap of papers lying in the middle of the floor, as if it were a pile of rubbish; but this one he never found. yet i was content. through the perseverance of this gentleman and the intervention of a friend in the legal profession, and by the courtesy of the court, i held in my hand the whole forgotten story of the poor lost and found salome müller. how through the courtesy of some of the reportorial staff of the "new orleans picayune" i found and conversed with three of salome's still surviving relatives and friends, i shall not stop to tell. while i was still in search of these things, the editor of the "new orleans times-democrat" handed me a thick manuscript, asking me to examine and pronounce upon its merits. it was written wholly in french, in a small, cramped, feminine hand. i replied, when i could, that it seemed to me unfit for the purposes of transient newspaper publication, yet if he declined it i should probably buy it myself. he replied that he had already examined it and decided to decline it, and it was only to know whether i, not he, could use it that i had been asked to read it. i took it to an attorney, and requested him, under certain strict conditions, to obtain it for me with all its rights. "what is it?" "it is the minute account, written by one of the travelers, a pretty little creole maiden of seventeen, of an adventurous journey made, in , from new orleans through the wilds of louisiana, taking six weeks to complete a tour that could now be made in less than two days." but this is written by some one else; see, it says [handwriting: voyage de ma grand'mere] "yes," i rejoined, "it purports to be a copy. we must have the little grandmother's original manuscript, written in ; that or nothing." so a correspondence sprang up with a gentle and refined old creole lady with whom i later had the honor to become acquainted and now count among my esteemed friends--grand-daughter of the grandmother who, after innumerable recountings by word of mouth to mother, sisters, brothers, friends, husband, children, and children's children through twenty-seven years of advancing life, sat down at last and wrote the oft-told tale for her little grand-children, one of whom, inheriting her literary instinct and herself become an aged grandmother, discovers the manuscript among some old family papers and recognizes its value. the first exchange of letters disclosed the fact that the "new orleans bee" ("l'abeille") had bought the right to publish the manuscript in french; but the moment its editors had proper assurance that there was impending another arrangement more profitable to her, they chivalrously yielded all they had bought, on merely being reimbursed. the condition that required the delivery of the original manuscript, written over sixty years before, was not so easily met. first came the assurance that its spelling was hideous, its writing bad and dimmed by time, and the sheets tattered and torn. later followed the disclosure that an aged and infirm mother of the grandmother owned it, and that she had some time before compelled its return to the private drawer from which the relic-loving daughter had abstracted it. still later came a letter saying that since the attorney was so relentlessly exacting, she had written to her mother praying her to part with the manuscript. then followed another communication,--six large, closely written pages of despair,--inclosing a letter from the mother. the wad of papers, always more and more in the way and always "smelling bad," had been put into the fire. but a telegram followed on the heels of the mail, crying joy! an old letter had been found and forwarded which would prove that such a manuscript had existed. but it was not in time to intercept the attorney's letter saying that, the original manuscript being destroyed, there could be no purchase or any need of further correspondence. the old letter came. it was genuine beyond a doubt, had been written by one of the party making the journey, and was itself forty-seven years old. the paper was poor and sallow, the hand-writing large, and the orthography--! [handwriting: ma bien chair niaice je ressoit ta lette ce mattin] but let us translate: st. john baptist[ ] august my very dear niece. i received your letter this morning in which you ask me to tell you what i remember of the journey to attakapas made in by papa, m. -----, [and] my younger sister françoise afterward your grandmother. if it were with my tongue i could answer more favorably; but writing is not my forte; i was never calculated for a public writer, as your grandmother was. by the way, she wrote the journey, and very prettily; what have you done with it? it is a pity to lose so pretty a piece of writing.... we left new orleans to go to the attakapas in the month of may, , and in an old barge ["vieux chalant qui senté le rat mord a plien nez"]. we were françoise and i suzanne, pearl of the family, and papa, who went to buy lands; and one joseph charpentier and his dear and pretty little wife alix [whom] i love so much; irish, father mother and son [fice]; lastly mario, whom you knew, with celeste, formerly lady's maid to marianne--who is now my sister-in-law.... if i knew better how to write i would tell you our adventures the alligators tried to devour us. we barely escaped perishing in lake chicot and many other things.... at last we arrived at a pretty village st. martinville called also little paris and full of barons, marquises, counts and countesses[ ] that were an offense to my nose and my stomach. your grandmother was in raptures. it was there we met the beautiful tonton, your aunt by marriage. i have a bad finger and must stop.... your loving aunty [ta tantine qui temme] suzanne ---- née ---- the kind of letter to expect from one who, as a girl of eighteen, could shoot and swim and was called by her father "my son"; the antipode of her sister françoise. my attorney wrote that the evidence was sufficient. his letter had hardly got into the mail-bag when another telegram cried hold! that a few pages of the original manuscript had been found and forwarded by post. they came. they were only nine in all--old, yellow, ragged, torn, leaves of a plantation account-book whose red-ruled columns had long ago faded to a faint brown, one side of two or three of them preoccupied with charges in bad french of yards of cottonade, "mouslin à dames," "jaconad," dozens of soap, pounds of tobacco, pairs of stockings, lace, etc.; but to our great pleasure each page corresponding closely, save in orthography and syntax, with a page of the new manuscript, and the page numbers of the old running higher than those of the new! here was evidence which one could lay before a skeptical world that the transcriber had not expanded the work of the original memoirist. the manuscript passed into my possession, our creole lady-correspondent reiterating to the end her inability to divine what could be wanted with "an almost illegible scrawl" (griffonage), full of bad spelling and of rather inelegant diction. but if old manuscript was the object of desire, why, here was something else; the very document alluded to by françoise in her memoir of travel--the autobiography of the dear little countess, her beloved alix de morainville, made fatherless and a widow by the guillotine in the reign of terror. "was that all?" inquired my agent, craftily, his suspicions aroused by the promptness with which the supply met the demand. "had she not other old and valuable manuscripts?" "no, alas! only that one." thus reassured, he became its purchaser. it lies before me now, in an inner wrapper of queer old black paper, beside its little tight-fitting bag, or case of a kind of bright, large-flowered silken stuff not made in these days, and its outer wrapper of discolored brief-paper; a pretty little document of sixty-eight small pages in a feminine hand, perfect in its slightly archaic grammar, gracefully composed, and, in spite of its flimsy yellowed paper, as legible as print: "histoire d'alix de morainville écrite à la louisiane ce aout . pour mes chères amies, suzanne et françoise bossier." one day i told the story to professor charles eliot norton of harvard university. he generously offered to see if he could find the name of the count de morainville on any of the lists of persons guillotined during the french revolution. he made the search, but wrote, "i am sorry to say that i have not been able to find it either in prudhomme, 'dictionnaire des individues envoyés à la mort judiciairement, - ,' or in the list given by wallon in the sixth volume of his very interesting 'histoire du tribunal revolutionnaire de paris.' possibly he was not put to death in paris," etc. and later he kindly wrote again that he had made some hours' further search, but in vain. here was distress. i turned to the little manuscript roll of which i had become so fond, and searched its pages anew for evidence of either genuineness or its opposite. the wrapper of black paper and the close-fitting silken bag had not been sufficient to keep it from taking on the yellowness of age. it was at least no modern counterfeit. presently i noticed the total absence of quotation marks from its passages of conversation. now, at the close of the last century, the use of quotation marks was becoming general, but had not become universal and imperative. their entire absence from this manuscript of sixty-eight pages, abounding in conversations, meant either age or cunning pretense. but would a pretender carry his or her cunning to the extreme of fortifying the manuscript in every possible way against the sallowing touch of time, lay it away in a trunk of old papers, lie down and die without mentioning it, and leave it for some one in the second or third generation afterward to find? i turned the leaves once more, and lo! one leaf that had had a large corner torn off had lost that much of its text; it had been written upon before it was torn; while on another torn leaf, for there are two, the writing reads--as you shall see--uninterruptedly around the torn edge; the writing has been done after the corner was torn off. the two rents, therefore, must have occurred at different times; for the one which mutilates the text is on the earlier page and surely would not have been left so by the author at the time of writing it, but only by some one careless of it, and at some time between its completion and the manifestly later date, when it was so carefully bestowed in its old-fashioned silken case and its inner wrapper of black paper. the manuscript seemed genuine. maybe the name de morainville is not, but was a convenient fiction of alix herself, well understood as such by françoise and suzanne. everything points that way, as was suggested at once by madame sidonie de la houssaye --there! i have let slip the name of my creole friend, and can only pray her to forgive me! "tout porte à le croire" (everything helps that belief), she writes; although she also doubts, with reason, i should say, the exhaustive completeness of those lists of the guillotined. "i recall," she writes in french, "that my husband has often told me the two uncles of his father, or grandfather, were guillotined in the revolution; but though search was made by an advocate, no trace of them was found in any records." an assumed name need not vitiate the truth of the story; but discoveries made since, which i am still investigating, offer probabilities that, after all, the name is genuine. we see, however, that an intention to deceive, were it supposable, would have to be of recent date. now let me show that an intention to deceive could not be of recent date, and at the same time we shall see the need of this minuteness of explanation. notice, then, that the manuscript comes directly from the lady who says she found it in a trunk of her family's private papers. a prominent paper-maker in boston has examined it and says that, while its age cannot be certified to from its texture, its leaves are of three different kinds of paper, each of which might be a hundred years old. but, bluntly, this lady, though a person of literary tastes and talent, who recognized the literary value of alix's _history_, esteemed original _documents_ so lightly as, for example, to put no value upon louisa cheval's thrilling letter to her brother. she prized this alix manuscript only because, being a simple, succinct, unadorned narrative, she could use it, as she could not françoise's long, pretty story, for the foundation of a nearly threefold expanded romance. and this, in fact, she had written, copyrighted, and arranged to publish when our joint experience concerning françoise's manuscript at length readjusted her sense of values. she sold me the little alix manuscript at a price still out of all proportion below her valuation of her own writing, and counting it a mistake that the expanded romance should go unpreferred and unpublished. but who, then, wrote the smaller manuscript? madame found it, she says, in the possession of her very aged mother, the daughter and namesake of françoise. surely she was not its author; it is she who said she burned almost the whole original draft of françoise's "voyage," because it was "in the way and smelt bad." neither could françoise have written it. her awkward handwriting, her sparkling flood of words and details, and her ignorance of the simplest rules of spelling, make it impossible. nor could suzanne have done it. she wrote and spelled no better at fifty-nine than françoise at forty-three. nor could any one have imposed it on either of the sisters. so, then, we find no intention to deceive, either early or recent. i translated the manuscript, it went to the magazine, and i sat down to eat, drink, and revel, never dreaming that the brazen water-gates of my babylon were standing wide open. for all this time two huge, glaring anachronisms were staring me, and half a dozen other persons, squarely in the face, and actually escaping our notice by their serene audacity. but hardly was the pie--i mean the magazine--opened when these two birds began to sing. wasn't that--interesting? of course louis de la houssaye, who in "had lately come from san domingo," had _not_ "been fighting the insurgents"--who did not revolt until four or five years afterward! and of course the old count, who so kindly left the family group that was bidding madelaine de livilier good-bye, was not the prime minister maurepas, who was _not_ "only a few months returned from exile," and who was _not_ then "at the pinnacle of royal favor"; for these matters were of earlier date, and this "most lovable old man in the world" wasn't any longer in the world at all, and had not been for eight years. he was dead and buried. and so, after all, fraudulent intent or none, _this_ manuscript, just as it is, could never have been written by alix. on "this d of august, ," she could not have perpetrated such statements as these two. her memory of persons and events could not have been so grotesquely at fault, nor could she have hoped so to deceive any one. the misstatements are of later date, and from some one to whom the two events were historical. but the manuscript is all in one simple, undisguised, feminine handwriting, and with no interlineation save only here and there the correction of a miswritten word. now in translating madame's "voyage de ma grandmère," i noticed something equivalent to an interlineation, but in her own writing like all the rest, and added in a perfectly unconcealed, candid manner, at the end of a paragraph near the close of the story. it struck me as an innocent gloss of the copyist, justified in her mind by some well-credited family tradition. it was this: "just as we [françoise and alix] were parting, she [alix] handed me the story of her life." i had already called my friend's attention to the anachronisms, and she was in keen distress, because totally unable to account for them. but as i further pondered them, this gloss gained new significance and i mentioned it. my new inquiry flashed light upon her aged memory. she explained at once that, to connect the two stories of françoise and alix, she had thought it right to impute these few words to françoise rather than for mere exactness to thrust a detailed explanation of her own into a story hurrying to its close. my question called back an incident of long ago and resulted first in her rummaging a whole day among her papers, and then in my receiving the certificate of a gentleman of high official standing in louisiana that, on the th of last april ( ), this lady, in his presence, took from a large trunk of written papers, variously dated and "appearing to be perfectly genuine," a book of memoranda from which, writes he, "i copy the following paragraph written by madame s. de la houssaye herself in the middle of the book, on page ." then follows in french: june , .--m. gerbeau has dined here again. what a singular story he tells me. we talked of my grandmother and madame carpentier, and what does m. gerbeau tell me but that alix had not finished her history when my grandmother and my aunt returned, and that he had promised to get it to them. "and i kept it two years for want of an opportunity," he added. how mad grandmamma must have been! how the delay must have made her suffer! well and good! then alix did write her story! but if she wrote for both her "dear and good friends," suzanne and françoise, then françoise, the younger and milder sister, would the more likely have to be content, sooner or later, with a copy. this, i find no reason to doubt, is what lies before me. indeed, here (crossed out in the manuscript, but by me restored and italicized) are signs of a copyist's pen: "mais helas! il desesperoit de reussir quand' _il desespe_ rencontra," etc. is not that a copyist's repetition? or this:"--et lui, mon mari apres tout se fit mon _marim_ domestique." and here the copyist misread the original: "lorsque le maire entendit les noms et les _personnes_ prenoms de la mariée," etc. in the manuscript personnes is crossed out, and the correct word, prenoms, is written above it. whoever made this copy it remains still so simple and compact that he or she cannot be charged with many embellishments. and yet it is easy to believe that some one, with that looseness of family tradition and largeness of ancestral pride so common among the creoles, in half-knowledge and half-ignorance should have ventured aside for an instant to attribute in pure parenthesis to an ancestral de la houssaye the premature honor of a san domingan war; or, incited by some tradition of the old prime minister's intimate friendship with madelaine's family, should have imputed a gracious attention to the wrong count de maurepas, or to the wrong count altogether. i find no other theory tenable. to reject the whole matter as a forgery flies into the face of more incontestable facts than the anachronisms do. we know, from suzanne and françoise, without this manuscript, that there was an alix carpentier, daughter of a count, widow of a viscount, an _emigrée_ of the revolution, married to a norman peasant, known to m. gerbeau, beloved of suzanne and françoise, with whom they journeyed to attakapas, and who wrote for them the history of her strange life. i hold a manuscript carefully kept by at least two generations of françoise's descendants among their valuable private papers. it professes to be that history--a short, modest, unadorned narrative, apparently a copy of a paper of like compass, notwithstanding the evident insertion of two impossible statements whose complete omission does not disturb the narrative. i see no room to doubt that it contains the true story of a real and lovely woman. but to come back to my attorney. while his grave negotiations were still going on, there met me one evening at my own gate a lady in black, seeking advice concerning her wish to sell to some publisher a private diary never intended for publication. "that kind is the best," i said. "did you write it during the late war?" i added at a guess. "yes." "i suppose, then, it contains a careful record of each day's public events." "no, i'm sorry to say--" "nay, don't be sorry; that lack may save it from the waste-basket." then my heart spoke. "ah! madam, if you had only done what no woman seems to have seen the importance of doing--written the women's side of that awful war--" "that's just what i have done," she interrupted. "i was a union woman, in the confederacy. i couldn't talk; i had to write. i was in the siege of vicksburg from beginning to end." "leave your manuscript with me," i said. "if, on examining it, i find i can recommend it to a publisher, i will do so. but remember what i have already told you--the passage of an unknown writer's work through an older author's hands is of no benefit to it whatever. it is a bad sign rather than a good one. your chances of acceptance will be at least no less if you send this to the publishers yourself." no, she would like me to intervene. how my attorney friend and i took a two days' journey by rail, reading the manuscript to each other in the pullman car; how a young newly married couple next us across the aisle, pretending not to notice, listened with all their might; how my friend the attorney now and then stopped to choke down tears; and how the young stranger opposite came at last, with apologies, asking where this matter would be published and under what title, i need not tell. at length i was intercessor for a manuscript that publishers would not lightly decline. i bought it for my little museum of true stories, at a price beyond what i believe any magazine would have paid--an amount that must have filled the widow's heart with joy, but as certainly was not beyond its worth to me. i have already contributed a part of this manuscript to "the century" as one of its "wax-papers." but by permission it is restored here to its original place. judge farrar, with whom i enjoyed a slight but valued acquaintance, stopped me one day in carondelet street, new orleans, saying, "i have a true story that i want you to tell. you can dress it out--" i arrested him with a shake of the head. "dress me no dresses. story me no stories. there's not one of a hundred of them that does not lack something essential, for want of which they are good for naught. keep them for after-dinner chat; but for the novelist they are good to smell, not to eat. and yet--tell me your story. i have a use for it--a cabinet of true things that have never had and shall not have a literary tool lifted up against them; virgin shells from the beach of the sea of human events. it may be i shall find a place for it there." so he told me the true story which i have called "attalie brouillard," because, having forgotten the woman's real name, it pleased his fancy to use that name in recounting the tale: "attalie brouillard." i repeated the story to a friend, a gentleman of much reading. his reply dismayed me. "i have a faint impression," he said, "that you will find something very much like that in one of lever's novels." but later i thought, "even so, what then? good stories repeat themselves." i remembered having twice had experiences in my own life the accounts of which, when given, would have been great successes only that they were old anecdotes--great in their day, but long worn out in the club-rooms and abandoned to clergymen's reunions. the wise thing was not to find out or care whether lever had somewhere told something like it, but whether the story was ever a real event in new orleans, and, if so, to add it to my now, to me, priceless collection. meeting the young judge again, i asked boldly for the story's full authentication. he said promptly that the man who told it of his own knowledge was the late judge t. wharton collins; that the incidents occurred about , and that judge mccaleb could doubtless give the name of the notary public who had been an actor in the affair. "let us go to his office right now," said my obliging friend. we went, found him, told him our errand. he remembered the story, was confident of its entire verity, and gave a name, which, however, he begged i would submit for verification to an aged notary public in another street, a gentleman of the pure old creole type. i went to him. he heard the story through in solemn silence. from first to last i mentioned no name, but at the end i asked: "now, can you tell me the name of the notary in that case?" "yes." i felt a delicious tingling as i waited for the disclosure. he slowly said: "dthere eeze wan troub' 'bout dat. to _which_ case do you _riffer? 'cause, you know, dey got t'ree, four case' like dat_. an' you better not mention no name, 'cause you don't want git nobody in troub', you know. now dthere's dthe case of----. and dthere's dthe case of----. and dthere's the case of----. he had to go away; yes; 'cause when _he_ make dthe dade man make his will, he git _behine_ dthe dade man in bade, an' hole 'im up in dthe bade." i thanked him and departed, with but the one regret that the tale was true so many more times than was necessary. in all this collection the story of the so-called haunted house in royal street is the only one that must ask a place in literature as partly a twice-told tale. the history of the house is known to thousands in the old french quarter, and that portion which antedates the late war was told in brief by harriet martineau as far back as when she wrote her book of american travel. in printing it here i fulfill an oft-repeated promise; for many a one has asked me if i would not, or, at least, why i did not, tell its dark story. so i have inventoried my entire exhibit--save one small matter. it turned out after, all that the dear old creole lady who had sold us the ancient manuscript, finding old paper commanding so much more per ton than it ever had commanded before, raked together three or four more leaves--stray chips of her lovely little ancestress françoise's workshop, or rather the shakings of her basket of cherished records,--to wit, three creole african songs, which i have used elsewhere; one or two other scraps, of no value; and, finally, a long letter telling its writer's own short story--a story so tragic and so sad that i can only say pass it, if you will. it stands first because it antedates the rest. as you will see, its time is something more than a hundred years ago. the writing was very difficult to read, owing entirely to the badness--mainly the softness--of the paper. i have tried in vain to find exactly where fort latourette was situated. it may have had but a momentary existence in galvez's campaign against the english. all along the gulf shore the sites and remains of the small forts once held by the spaniards are known traditionally and indiscriminately as "spanish fort." when john law,--author of that famed mississippi bubble, which was in paris what the south sea bubble was in london,--failed in his efforts at colonization on the arkansas, his arkansas settlers came down the mississippi to within some sixty miles of new orleans and established themselves in a colony at first called the _côte allemande_ (german coast), and later, owing to its prosperity, the _côte d'or_, or golden coast. thus the banks of the mississippi became known on the rhine, a goodly part of our louisiana creoles received a german tincture, and the father and the aunt of suzanne and françoise were not the only alsatians we shall meet in these wild stories of wild times in louisiana. footnotes: [ ] name of the parish, or county.--translator. [ ] royalist refugees of ' .--translator. the young aunt with white hair. . the date of this letter--i hold it in one hand as i write, and for the first time noticed that it has never in its hundred years been sealed or folded, but only doubled once, lightly, and rolled in the hand, just as the young spanish officer might have carried it when he rode so hard to bear it to its destination--its date is the last year but one of our american revolution. france, spain, and the thirteen colonies were at war with great britain, and the indians were on both sides. galvez, the heroic young governor of louisiana, had just been decorated by his king and made a count for taking the forts at manchac, baton rouge, natchez, and mobile, and besieging and capturing the stronghold of pensacola, thus winning all west florida, from the mississippi to the appalachicola, for spain. but this vast wilderness was not made safe; fort panmure (natchez) changed hands twice, and the land was full of indians, partly hireling friends and partly enemies. the waters about the bahamas and the greater and lesser antilles were fields for the movements of hostile fleets, corsairs, and privateers. yet the writer of this letter was tempted to run the gauntlet of these perils, expecting, if all went well, to arrive in louisiana in midsummer. "how many times," says the memorandum of her brother's now aged great-granddaughter,--"how many times during my childhood has been told me the story of my aunt louise. it was not until several years after the death of my grandmother that, on examining the contents of the basket which she had given me, i found at the bottom of a little black-silk bag the letter written by my grand-aunt to her brother, my own ancestor. frankly, i doubt that my grandmother had intended to give it to me, so highly did she prize it, though it was very difficult to read. the orthography is perfect; the difficulty is all owing to the paper and, moreover, to the situation of the poor wounded sufferer." it is in french: _to my brother mister pierre bossier. in the parish[ ] of st. james._ fort latourette, the august, . my good dear brother: ah! how shall i tell you the frightful position in which i am placed! i would that i were dead! i seem to be the prey of a horrible nightmare! o pierre! my brother! hasten with all speed to me. when you left germany, your little sister was a blooming girl, very beautiful in your eyes, very happy! and to-day! ah! to-day, my brother, come see for yourself. after having received your letter, not only my husband and i decided to leave our village and go to join you, but twelve of our friends united with us, and on the may, , we quitted strasbourg on the little vessel north star [Étoile du nord],[ ] which set sail for new orleans, where you had promised to come to meet us. let me tell you the names of my fellow-travelers. o brother! what courage i need to write this account: first my husband, leonard cheval, and my son pierre, poor little angel who was not yet two years old! fritz newman, his wife nina, and their three children; irwin vizey; william hugo, his wife, and their little daughter; jacques lewis, his daughter, and their son henry. we were full of hope: we hoped to find fortune in this new country of which you spoke with so much enthusiasm. how in that moment did i bless my parents and you my brother, for the education you had procured me. you know how good a musician my leonard was, and our intention was on arriving to open a boarding-school in new orleans; in your last letter you encouraged the project--all of us, movables with us, all our savings, everything we owned in this world. this paper is very bad, brother, but the captain of the fort says it is all he has; and i write lying down, i am so uncomfortable. the earlier days of the voyage passed without accident, without disturbance, but often leonard spoke to me of his fears. the vessel was old, small, and very poorly supplied. the captain was a drunkard [here the writer attempted to turn the sheet and write on the back of it], who often incapacitated himself with his first officers [word badly blotted]; and then the management of the vessel fell to the mate, who was densely ignorant. moreover, we knew that the seas were infested with pirates. i must stop, the paper is too bad. the captain has brought me another sheet. our uneasiness was great. often we emigrants assembled on deck and told each other our anxieties. living on the frontier of france, we spoke german and french equally well; and when the sailors heard us, they, who spoke only english, swore at us, accused us of plotting against them, and called us saurkrouts. at such times i pressed my child to my heart and drew nearer to leonard, more dead than alive. a whole month passed in this constant anguish. at its close, fevers broke out among us, and we discovered, to our horror, there was not a drop of medicine on board. we had them lightly, some of us, but only a few; and [bad blot] newman's son and william hugo's little daughter died, ... and the poor mother soon followed her child. my god! but it was sad. and the provisions ran low, and the captain refused to turn back to get more. one evening, when the captain, his lieutenant, and two other officers were shut in their cabin drinking, the mate, of whom i had always such fear, presented himself before us surrounded by six sailors armed, like himself, to the teeth, and ordered us to surrender all the money we had. to resist would have been madness; we had to yield. they searched our trunks and took away all that we possessed: they left us nothing, absolutely nothing. ah! why am i not dead? profiting by the absence of their chiefs they seized the [or some--the word is blotted] boats and abandoned us to our fate. when, the next day, the captain appeared on deck quite sober, and saw the cruelty of our plight, he told us, to console us, that we were very near the mouth of the mississippi, and that within two days we should be at new orleans. alas! all that day passed without seeing any land[ ], but towards evening the vessel, after incredible efforts, had just come to a stop--at what i supposed should be the mouth of the river. we were so happy to have arrived that we begged captain andrieux to sail all night. he replied that our men, who had worked all day in place of the sailors, were tired and did not understand at all sufficiently the handling of a vessel to sail by night. he wanted to get drunk again. as in fact our men were worn out, we went, all of us, to bed. o great god! give me strength to go on. all at once we were awakened by horrible cries, not human sounds: we thought ourselves surrounded by ferocious beasts. we poor women clasped our children to our breasts, while our husbands armed themselves with whatever came to hand and dashed forward to meet the danger. my god! my god! we saw ourselves hemmed in by a multitude of savages yelling and lifting over us their horrible arms, grasping hatchets, knives, and tomahawks. the first to fall was my husband, my dear leonard; all, except irwin vizey, who had the fortune to jump into the water unseen, all were massacred by the monsters. one indian tore my child from me while another fastened my arms behind my back. in response to my cries, to my prayers, the monster who held my son took him by one foot and, swinging him several times around, shattered his head against the wall. and i live to write these horrors!... i fainted, without doubt, for on opening my eyes i found i was on land [blot], firmly fastened to a stake. nina newman and kate lewis were fastened as i was: the latter was covered with blood and appeared to be dangerously wounded. about daylight three indians came looking for them and took them god knows where! alas! i have never since heard of either of them or their children. i remained fastened to the stake in a state of delirium, which saved me doubtless from the horrors of my situation. i recall one thing: that is, having seen those savages eat human flesh, the members of a child--at least it seemed so. ah! you see plainly i must have been mad to have seen all that without dying! they had stripped me of my clothing and i remained exposed, half naked, to a july sun and to clouds of mosquitoes. an indian who spoke french informed me that, as i was young and fat, they were reserving me for the dinner of the chief, who was to arrive next day. in a moment i was dead with terror; in that instant i lost all feeling. i had become indifferent to all. i saw nothing, i heard nothing. towards evening one of the sub-chiefs approached and gave me some water in a gourd. i drank without knowing what i did; thereupon he set himself to examine me as the butcher examines the lamb that he is about to kill; he seemed to find me worthy to be served on the table of the head-chief, but as he was hungry and did not wish to wait [blot], he drew from its sheath the knife that he carried at his belt and before i had had time to guess what he intended to do [enough to say, in place of literal translation, that the savage, from the outside of her right thigh, flayed off a large piece of her flesh.] it must be supposed that i again lost consciousness. when i came to myself, i was lying some paces away from the stake of torture on a heap of cloaks, and a soldier was kneeling beside me, while i was surrounded by about a hundred others. the ground was strewed with dead indians. i learned later that vizey had reached the woods and by chance had stumbled into fort latourette, full of troops. without loss of time, the brave soldiers set out, and arrived just in time to save me. a physician dressed my wound, they put me into an ambulance and brought me away to fort latourette, where i still am. a fierce fever took possession of me. my generous protectors did not know to whom to write; they watched over me and showed every care imaginable. now that i am better, i write you, my brother, and close with these words: i await you! make all haste! your sister, louisa cheval. [illustration] "my grandmother," resumes the memorandum of the creole great-grandniece, "had often read this letter, and had recounted to me the incidents that followed its reception. she was then but three years old, but as her aunt lived three years in her (_i.e._, the aunt's) brother's family, my grandmother had known her, and described her to me as a young woman with white hair and walking with a staff. it was with difficulty that she used her right leg. my great-grandfather used to tell his children that his sister louise had been blooming and gay, and spoke especially of her beautiful blonde hair. a few hours had sufficed to change it to snow, and on the once charming countenance of the poor invalid to stamp an expression of grief and despair. "it was lieutenant rosello, a young spaniard, who came on horseback from fort latourette to carry to my great-grandfather his sister's letter.... not to lose a moment, he [the brother] began, like lieutenant rosello, the journey on horseback, procuring a large ambulance as he passed through new orleans.... he did all he could to lighten the despair of his poor sister.... all the members of the family lavished upon her every possible care and attention; but alas! the blow she had received was too terrible. she lingered three years, and at the end of that time passed peaceably away in the arms of her brother, the last words on her lips being 'leonard!--my child!'" so we make way for the bright and happy story of how françoise made evangeline's journey through the dark wilds of atchafalaya. footnotes: [ ] county. [ ] if this was an english ship,--for her crew was english and her master's name seems to have been andrews,--she was probably not under british colors.--translator. [ ] the treeless marshes of the delta would be very slow coming into view.--translator. the adventures of franÇoise and suzanne. . years passed by. our war of the revolution was over. the indians of louisiana and florida were all greedy, smiling gift-takers of his catholic majesty. so were some others not indians; and the spanish governors of louisiana, scheming with them for the acquisition of kentucky and the regions intervening, had allowed an interprovincial commerce to spring up. flatboats and barges came floating down the mississippi past the plantation home where little suzanne and françoise were growing up to womanhood. many of the immigrants who now came to louisiana were the royalist _noblesse_ flying from the horrors of the french revolution. governor carondelet was strengthening his fortifications around new orleans; for creole revolutionists had slipped away to kentucky and were there plotting an armed descent in flatboats upon his little capital, where the rabble were singing the terrible songs of bloody paris. agents of the revolution had come from france and so "contaminated," as he says, "the greater part of the province" that he kept order only "at the cost of sleepless nights, by frightening some, punishing others, and driving several out of the colony." it looks as though suzanne had caught a touch of dis-relish for _les aristocrates_, whose necks the songs of the day were promising to the lampposts. to add to all these commotions, a hideous revolution had swept over san domingo; the slaves in louisiana had heard of it, insurrection was feared, and at length, in , when susanne was seventeen and françoise fifteen, it broke out on the mississippi no great matter over a day's ride from their own home, and twenty-three blacks were gibbeted singly at intervals all the way down by their father's plantation and on to new orleans, and were left swinging in the weather to insure the peace and felicity of the land. two other matters are all we need notice for the ready comprehension of françoise's story. immigration was knocking at every gate of the province, and citizen Étienne de boré had just made himself forever famous in the history of louisiana by producing merchantable sugar; land was going to be valuable, even back on the wild prairies of opelousas and attakapas, where, twenty years before, the acadians,--the cousins of evangeline,--wandering from far nova scotia, had settled. such was the region and such were the times when it began to be the year . by good fortune one of the undestroyed fragments of françoise's own manuscript is its first page. she was already a grandmother forty-three years old when in she wrote the tale she had so often told. part of the dedication to her only daughter and namesake--one line, possibly two--has been torn off, leaving only the words, "ma fille unique a la grasse [meaning 'grace'] de dieu [sic]," over her signature and the date, " julet [sic], ." i. the two sisters. it is to give pleasure to my dear daughter fannie and to her children that i write this journey. i shall be well satisfied if i can succeed in giving them this pleasure: by the grace of god, amen. papa, mr. pierre bossier, planter of st. james parish, had been fifteen days gone to the city (new orleans) in his skiff with two rowers, louis and baptiste, when, returning, he embraced us all, gave us some caramels which he had in his pockets, and announced that he counted on leaving us again in four or five days to go to attakapas. he had long been speaking of going there. papa and mamma were german, and papa loved to travel. when he first came to louisiana it was with no expectation of staying. but here he saw mamma; he loved her, married her, and bought a very fine plantation, where he cultivated indigo. you know they blue clothes with that drug, and dye cottonade and other things. there we, their eight children, were born.... [illustration: part of franÇois's first page.] when my father used to go to new orleans he went in his skiff, with a canopy over his head to keep off the sun, and two rowers, who sang as they rowed. sometimes papa took me with him, and it was very entertaining. we would pass the nights of our voyage at the houses of papa's friends [des zami de papa]. sometimes mamma would come, and suzanne always--always. she was the daughter next older than i. she barely missed being a boy. she was eighteen years of age, went hunting with our father, was skillful with a gun, and swam like a fish. papa called her "my son." you must understand the two boys were respectively but two years and three months old, and papa, who greatly desired a son, had easily made one of suzanne. my father had brought a few books with him to louisiana, and among them, you may well suppose, were several volumes of travel. for myself, i rarely touched them; but they were the only books that suzanne read. and you may well think, too, that my father had no sooner spoken of his intention than suzanne cried: "i am going with you, am i not, papa?" "naturally," replied my father; "and françoise shall go also." françoise--that was i; poor child of sixteen, who had but six months before quitted the school-bench, and totally unlike my sister--blonde, where suzanne was dark; timid, even cowardly, while she had the hardihood and courage of a young lioness; ready to cry at sight of a wounded bird, while she, gun in hand, brought down as much game as the most skillful hunter. i exclaimed at my father's speech. i had heard there were many indians in attakapas; the name means man-eaters. i have a foolish terror of indians, and a more reasonable one for man-eaters. but papa and suzanne mocked at my fears; and as, after all, i burned with desire for the journey, it was decided that i should go with them. necessarily we wanted to know how we were to go--whether we should travel by skiff, and how many negroes and negresses would go with us. for you see, my daughter, young people in were exactly what they are in ; they could do nothing by themselves, but must have a domestic to dress and undress them. especially in traveling, where one had to take clothes out of trunks and put them back again, assistance became an absolute necessity. think, then, of our astonishment, of our vexation, when papa assured us that he would not take a single slave; that my sister and i would be compelled to help each other, and that the skiff would remain behind, tied up at the landing where it then lay. "but explain yourself, papa, i beg of you," cried suzanne, with her habitual petulance. "that is what i am trying to do," said he. "if you will listen in silence, i will give you all the explanation you want." here, my daughter, to save time, i will borrow my father's speech and tell of the trip he had made to new orleans; how he had there found means to put into execution his journey to attakapas, and the companions that were to accompany him. ii. making up the expedition. in new orleans was nothing but a mere market town. the cathedral, the convent of the ursulines, five or six cafés, and about a hundred houses were all of it.[ ] can you believe, there were but two dry-goods stores! and what fabulous prices we had to pay! pins twenty dollars a paper. poor people and children had to make shift with thorns of orange and _amourette_ [honey locust?]. a needle cost fifty cents, very indifferent stockings five dollars a pair, and other things accordingly. on the levee was a little pothouse of the lowest sort; yet from that unclean and smoky hole was destined to come one of the finest fortunes in louisiana. they called the proprietor "père la chaise."[ ] he was a little old marten-faced man, always busy and smiling, who every year laid aside immense profits. along the crazy walls extended a few rough shelves covered with bottles and decanters. three planks placed on boards formed the counter, with père la chaise always behind it. there were two or three small tables, as many chairs, and one big wooden bench. here gathered the city's working-class, and often among them one might find a goodly number of the city's élite; for the wine and the beer of the old _cabaretier_ were famous, and one could be sure in entering there to hear all the news told and discussed. by day the place was quiet, but with evening it became tumultuous. père la chaise, happily, did not lose his head; he found means to satisfy all, to smooth down quarrels without calling in the police, to get rid of drunkards, and to make delinquents pay up. my father knew the place, and never failed to pay it a visit when he went to new orleans. poor, dear father! he loved to talk as much as to travel. père la chaise was acquainted with him. one evening papa entered, sat down at one of the little tables, and bade père la chaise bring a bottle of his best wine. the place was already full of people, drinking, talking, and singing. a young man of twenty-six or twenty-seven entered almost timidly and sat down at the table where my father was--for he saw that all the other places were occupied--and ordered a half-bottle of cider. he was a norman gardener. my father knew him by sight; he had met him here several times without speaking to him. you recognized the peasant at once; and yet his exquisite neatness, the gentleness of his face, distinguished him from his kind. joseph carpentier was dressed[ ] in a very ordinary gray woolen coat; but his coarse shirt was very white, and his hair, when he took off his broad-brimmed hat, was well combed and glossy. as carpentier was opening his bottle a second frequenter entered the _cabaret_. this was a man of thirty or thirty-five, with strong features and the frame of a hercules. an expression of frankness and gayety overspread his sunburnt face. cottonade pantaloons, stuffed into a pair of dirty boots, and a _vareuse_ of the same stuff made up his dress. his vareuse, unbuttoned, showed his breast, brown and hairy; and a horrid cap with long hair covered, without concealing, a mass of red locks that a comb had never gone through. a long whip, the stock of which he held in his hand, was coiled about his left arm. he advanced to the counter and asked for a glass of brandy. he was a drayman named john gordon--an irishman. but, strange, john gordon, glass in hand, did not drink; carpentier, with his fingers round the neck of the bottle, failed to pour his cider; and my father himself, his eyes attracted to another part of the room, forgot his wine. every one was looking at an individual gesticulating and haranguing in the middle of the place, to the great amusement of all. my father recognized him at first sight. he was an italian about the age of gordon; short, thick-set, powerful, swarthy, with the neck of a bull and hair as black as ebony. he was telling rapidly, with strong gestures, in an almost incomprehensible mixture of spanish, english, french, and italian, the story of a hunting party that he had made up five years before. this was mario carlo. a neapolitan by birth, he had for several years worked as a blacksmith on the plantation of one of our neighbors, m. alphonse perret. often papa had heard him tell of this hunt, for nothing could be more amusing than to listen to carlo. six young men, with carlo as sailor and cook, had gone on a two-months' expedition into the country of the attakapas. "yes," said the italian, in conclusion, "game never failed us; deer, turkeys, ducks, snipe, two or three bears a week. but the sublimest thing was the rich land. ah! one must see it to believe it. plains and forests full of animals, lakes and bayous full of fish. ah! fortune is there. for five years i have dreamed, i have worked, with but one object in view; and today the end is reached. i am ready to go. i want only two companions to aid me in the long journey, and those i have come to look for here." john gordon stepped forward, laid a hand upon the speaker's shoulder, and said: "my friend, i am your man." mario carlo seized the hand and shook it with all his force. "you will not repent the step. but"--turning again to the crowd--"we want one more." joseph carpentier rose slowly and advanced to the two men. "comrades, i will be your companion if you will accept me." before separating, the three drank together and appointed to meet the next day at the house of gordon, the irishman. when my father saw gordon and carpentier leave the place, he placed his hand on mario's shoulder and said in italian, "my boy, i want to talk with you." at that time, as now, parents were very scrupulous as to the society into which they introduced their children, especially their daughters; and papa knew of a certain circumstance in carlo's life to which my mother might greatly object. but he knew the man had an honest and noble heart. he passed his arm into the italian's and drew him to the inn where my father was stopping, and to his room. here he learned from mario that he had bought one of those great barges that bring down provisions from the west, and which, when unloaded, the owners count themselves lucky to sell at any reasonable price. when my father proposed to mario to be taken as a passenger the poor devil's joy knew no bounds; but it disappeared when papa added that he should take his two daughters with him. the trouble was this: mario was taking with him in his flatboat his wife and his four children; his wife and four children were simply--mulattoes. however, then as now, we hardly noticed those things, and the idea never entered our minds to inquire into the conduct of our slaves. suzanne and i had known celeste, mario's wife, very well before her husband bought her. she had been the maid of marianne perret, and on great occasions marianne had sent her to us to dress our hair and to prepare our toilets. we were therefore enchanted to learn that she would be with us on board the flatboat, and that papa had engaged her services in place of the attendants we had to leave behind. it was agreed that for one hundred dollars mario carlo would receive all three of us as passengers, that he would furnish a room simply but comfortably, that papa would share this room with us, that mario would supply our table, and that his wife would serve as maid and laundress. it remained to be seen now whether our other fellow-travelers were married, and, if so, what sort of creatures their wives were. [the next day the four intended travelers met at gordon's house. gordon had a wife, maggie, and a son, patrick, aged twelve, as unlovely in outward aspect as were his parents. carpentier, who showed himself even more plainly than on the previous night a man of native refinement, confessed to a young wife without offspring. mario told his story of love and alliance with one as fair of face as he, and whom only cruel law forbade him to call wife and compelled him to buy his children; and told the story so well that at its close the father of françoise silently grasped the narrator's hand, and carpentier, reaching across the table where they sat, gave his, saying: "you are an honest man, monsieur carlo." "will your wife think so?" asked the italian. "my wife comes from a country where there are no prejudices of race." françoise takes the pains to say of this part of the story that it was not told her and suzanne at this time, but years afterward, when they were themselves wives and mothers. when, on the third day, her father saw carpentier's wife at the norman peasant's lodgings, he was greatly surprised at her appearance and manner, and so captivated by them that he proposed that their two parties should make one at table during the projected voyage--a proposition gratefully accepted. then he left new orleans for his plantation home, intending to return immediately, leaving his daughters in st. james to prepare for the journey and await the arrival of the flatboat, which must pass their home on its way to the distant wilds of attakapas.] footnotes: [ ] an extreme underestimate, easy for a girl to make of a scattered town hidden among gardens and groves.--translator. [ ] without doubting the existence of the _cabaret_ and the nickname, the de la chaise estate, i think, came from a real de la chaise, true nephew of pere la chaise, the famous confessor of louis xiv. the nephew was royal commissary under bienville, and one of the worthiest fathers of the colony of louisiana.--translator. [ ] in all likelihood described here as seen by the writer herself later, on the journey.--translator. iii. the embarkation. you see, my dear child, at that time one post-office served for three parishes: st. james, st. john the baptist, and st. charles. it was very far from us, at the extremity of st. john the baptist, and the mail came there on the first of each month. we had to pay--though the price was no object--fifty cents postage on a letter. my father received several journals, mostly european. there was only one paper, french and spanish, published in new orleans--"the gazette."[ ] to send to the post-office was an affair of state. our father, you see, had not time to write; he was obliged to come to us himself. but such journeys were a matter of course in those days. "and above all things, my children," said my father, "don't have too much baggage." i should not have thought of rebelling; but suzanne raised loud cries, saying it was an absolute necessity that we go with papa to new orleans, so as not to find ourselves on our journey without traveling-dresses, new neckerchiefs, and a number of things. in vain did poor papa endeavor to explain that we were going into a desert worse than arabia; suzanne put her two hands to her ears and would hear nothing, until, weary of strife, poor papa yielded. our departure being decided upon, he wished to start even the very next day; and while we were instructing our sisters elinore and marie concerning some trunks that we should leave behind us, and which they must pack and have ready for the flatboat, papa recommended to mamma a great slaughter of fowls, etc., and especially to have ready for embarkation two of our best cows. ah! in those times if the planter wished to live well he had to raise everything himself, and the poultry yard and the dairy were something curious to see. dozens of slaves were kept busy in them constantly. when my mother had raised two thousand chickens, besides turkeys, ducks, geese, guinea-fowls, and pea-fowls, she said she had lost her crop.[ ] and the quantity of butter and cheese! and all this without counting the sauces, the jellies, the preserves, the gherkins, the syrups, the brandied fruits. and not a ham, not a chicken, not a pound of butter was sold; all was served on the master's table, or, very often, given to those who stood in need of them. where, now, can you find such profusion? ah! commerce has destroyed industry. the next day, after kissing mamma and the children, we got into the large skiff with papa and three days later stepped ashore in new orleans. we remained there a little over a week, preparing our traveling-dresses. despite the admonitions of papa, we went to the fashionable modiste of the day, madame cinthelia lefranc, and ordered for each a suit that cost one hundred and fifty dollars. the costume was composed of a petticoat of _camayeu_, very short, caught up in puffs on the side by a profusion of ribbons; and a very long-pointed black velvet jacket (_casaquin_), laced in the back with gold and trimmed on the front with several rows of gilt buttons. the sleeves stopped at the elbows and were trimmed with lace. now, my daughter, do you know what camayeu was? you now sometimes see an imitation of it in door and window curtains. it was a stuff of great fineness, yet resembling not a little the unbleached cotton of to-day, and over which were spread very brilliant designs of prodigious size. for example, suzanne's petticoat showed bunches of great radishes--not the short kind--surrounded by long, green leaves and tied with a yellow cord; while on mine were roses as big as a baby's head, interlaced with leaves and buds and gathered into bouquets graced with a blue ribbon. it was ten dollars an ell; but, as the petticoats were very short, six ells was enough for each. at that time real hats were unknown. for driving or for evening they placed on top of the high, powdered hair what they called a _catogan_, a little bonnet of gauze or lace trimmed with ribbons; and during the day a sun-bonnet of silk or velvet. you can guess that neither suzanne nor i, in spite of papa's instructions, forgot these. our traveling-dresses were gray _cirsacas_,--the skirt all one, short, without puffs; the jacket coming up high and with long sleeves,--a sunbonnet of cirsacas, blue stockings, embroidered handkerchief or blue cravat about the neck, and high-heeled shoes. as soon as celeste heard of our arrival in new orleans she hastened to us. she was a good creature; humble, respectful, and always ready to serve. she was an excellent cook and washer, and, what we still more prized, a lady's maid and hairdresser of the first order. my sister and i were glad to see her, and overwhelmed her with questions about carlo, their children, their plans, and our traveling companions. "ah! momzelle suzanne, the little madame carpentier seems to me a fine lady, ever so genteel; but the irish woman! ah! _grand dieu!_ she puts me in mind of a soldier. i'm afraid of her. she smokes--she swears--she carries a pistol, like a man." at last the th of may came, and papa took us on board the flatboat and helped us to find our way to our apartment. if my father had allowed carlo, he would have ruined himself in furnishing our room; but papa stopped him and directed it himself. the flatboat had been divided into four chambers. these were covered by a slightly arching deck, on which the boat was managed by the moving of immense sweeps that sent her forward. the room in the stern, surrounded by a sort of balcony, which monsieur carpentier himself had made, belonged to him and his wife; then came ours, then that of celeste and her family, and the one at the bow was the irishwoman's. carlo and gordon had crammed the provisions, tools, carts, and plows into the corners of their respective apartments. in the room which our father was to share with us he had had mario make two wooden frames mounted on feet. these were our beds, but they were supplied with good bedding and very white sheets. a large cypress table, on which we saw a pile of books and our workboxes; a washstand, also of cypress, but well furnished and surmounted by a mirror; our trunks in a corner; three rocking-chairs--this was all our furniture. there was neither carpet nor curtain. all were on board except the carpentier couple. suzanne was all anxiety to see the irishwoman. poor suzanne! how distressed she was not to be able to speak english! so, while i was taking off my _capotte_--as the sun-bonnet of that day was called--and smoothing my hair at the glass, she had already tossed her capotte upon papa's bed and sprung up the ladder that led to the deck. (each room had one.) i followed a little later and had the satisfaction of seeing madame margaretto gordon, commonly called "maggie" by her husband and "maw" by her son patrick. she was seated on a coil of rope, her son on the boards at her feet. an enormous dog crouched beside them, with his head against maggie's knee. the mother and son were surprisingly clean. maggie had on a simple brown calico dress and an apron of blue ticking. a big red kerchief was crossed on her breast and its twin brother covered her well combed and greased black hair. on her feet were blue stockings and heavy leather shoes. the blue ticking shirt and pantaloons and waistcoat of master pat were so clean that they shone; his black cap covered his hair--as well combed as his mother's; but he was barefooted. gordon, mario, and celeste's eldest son, aged thirteen, were busy about the deck; and papa, his cigar in his mouth and his hands in his pockets, stood looking out on the levee. i sat down on one of the rough benches that had been placed here and there, and presently my sister came and sat beside me. "madame carpentier seems to be a laggard," she said. she was burning to see the arrival of her whom we had formed the habit of calling "the little french peasant." [presently suzanne begins shooting bonbons at little patrick, watching the effect out of the corners of her eyes, and by and by gives that smile, all her own,--to which, says françoise, all flesh invariably surrendered,--and so became dumbly acquainted; while carlo was beginning to swear "fit to raise the dead," writes the memoirist, at the tardiness of the norman pair. but just then--] a carriage drove up to within a few feet of our _chaland_ and joseph carpentier alighted, paid the driver, and lifted from it one so delicate, pretty, and small that you might take her at first glance for a child of ten years. suzanne and i had risen quickly and came and leaned over the balustrade. to my mortification my sister had passed one arm around the waist of the little irishman and held one of his hands in hers. suzanne uttered a cry of astonishment. "look, look, françoise!" but i was looking, with eyes wide with astonishment. the gardener's wife had alighted, and with her little gloved hand shook out and re-arranged her toilet. that toilet, very simple to the eyes of madame carpentier, was what petrified us with astonishment. i am going to describe it to you, my daughter. we could not see her face, for her hood of blue silk, trimmed with a light white fur, was covered with a veil of white lace that entirely concealed her features. her traveling-dress, like ours, was of cirsacas, but ours was cotton, while hers was silk, in broad rays of gray and blue; and as the weather was a little cool that morning, she had exchanged the unfailing casaquin for a sort of _camail_ to match the dress, and trimmed, like the capotte, with a line of white fur. her petticoat was very short, lightly puffed on the sides, and ornamented only with two very long pockets trimmed like the camail. below the folds of the robe were two cinderella feet in blue silk stockings and black velvet slippers. it was not only the material of this toilet that astonished us, but the way in which it was made. "maybe she is a modiste. who knows?" whispered suzanne. another thing: madame carpentier wore a veil and gloves, two things of which we had heard but which we had never seen. madame ferrand had mentioned them, but said that they sold for their weight in gold in paris, and she had not dared import them, for fear she could not sell them in louisiana. and here was the wife of a laboring gardener, who avowed himself possessor of but two thousand francs, dressed like a duchess and with veil and gloves! i could but notice with what touching care joseph assisted his wife on board. he led her straight to her room, and quickly rejoined us on deck to put himself at the disposition of his associates. he explained to mario his delay, caused by the difficulty of finding a carriage; at which carlo lifted his shoulders and grimaced. joseph added that madame--i noticed that he rarely called her alix--was rather tired, and would keep her room until dinner time. presently our heavy craft was under way. pressing against the long sweeps, which it required a herculean strength to move, were seen on one side carlo and his son celestino, or 'tino, and on the other joseph and gordon. it moved slowly; so slowly that it gave the effect of a great tortoise. footnotes: [ ] another error easy to make. for "gazette" read "moniteur"; "the gazette" appeared a little later.--translator. [ ] the translator feels constrained to say that he was not on the spot. iv. alix carpentier. towards noon we saw celeste come on deck with her second son, both carrying baskets full of plates, dishes, covers, and a tablecloth. you remember i have often told you of an awning stretched at the stern of the flatboat? we found that in fine weather our dining-room was to be under this. there was no table; the cloth was simply spread on the deck, and those who ate had to sit _à la turque_ or take their plates on their knees. the irish family ate in their room. just as we were drawing around our repast madame carpentier, on her husband's arm, came up on deck. dear little alix! i see you yet as i saw you then. and here, twenty-seven years after our parting, i have before me the medallion you gave me, and look tenderly on your dear features, my friend! she had not changed her dress; only she had replaced her camail with a scarf of blue silk about her neck and shoulders and had removed her gloves and _capuche_. her rich chestnut hair, unpowdered, was combed back _à la chinoise_, and the long locks that descended upon her shoulders were tied by a broad blue ribbon forming a rosette on the forepart of her head. she wore no jewelry except a pearl at each ear and her wedding ring. suzanne, who always saw everything, remarked afterward that madame carpentier wore two. "as for her earrings," she added, "they are nothing great. marianne has some as fine, that cost, i think, ten dollars." poor suzanne, a judge of jewelry! madame carpentier's earrings were two great pearls, worth at least two hundred dollars. never have i met another so charming, so lovely, as alix carpentier. her every movement was grace. she moved, spoke, smiled, and in all things acted differently from all the women i had ever met until then. she made one think she had lived in a world all unlike ours; and withal she was simple, sweet, good, and to love her seemed the most natural thing on earth. there was nothing extraordinary in her beauty; the charm was in her intelligence and her goodness. maggie, the irishwoman, was very taciturn. she never mingled with us, nor spoke to any one except suzanne, and to her in monosyllables only when addressed. you would see her sometimes sitting alone at the bow of the boat, sewing, knitting, or saying her beads. during this last occupation her eyes never quitted alix. one would say it was to her she addressed her prayers; and one day, when she saw my regard fixed upon alix, she said to me: "it does me good to look at her; she must look like the virgin mary." her little form, so graceful and delicate, had, however, one slight defect; but this was hidden under the folds of her robe or of the scarf that she knew how to arrange with such grace. one shoulder was a trifle higher than the other. after having greeted my father, whom she already knew, she turned to us, hesitated a moment, and then, her two little hands extended, and with a most charming smile, she advanced, first to me and then to suzanne, and embraced us both as if we had been old acquaintances. and from that moment we were good friends. it had been decided that the boat should not travel by night, notwithstanding the assurance of carlo, who had a map of attakapas. but in the mississippi there was no danger; and as papa was pressed to reach our plantation, we traveled all that first night. the next day alix--she required us to call her by that name--invited us to visit her in her room. suzanne and i could not withhold a cry of surprise as we entered the little chamber. (remember one thing: papa took nothing from home, not knowing even by what means we should return; but the carpentiers were going for good and taking everything.) joseph had had the rough walls whitewashed. a cheap carpet--but high-priced in those times--of bright colors covered the floor; a very low french bed occupied one corner, and from a sort of dais escaped the folds of an embroidered bobbinet mosquito-bar. it was the first mosquito-bar of that kind we had ever seen. alix explained that she had made it from the curtains of the same bed, and that both bed and curtains she had brought with her from england. new mystery! beside the bed a walnut dressing-table and mirror, opposite to it a washstand, at the bed's foot a _príedieu_, a center-table, three chairs--these were all the furniture; but [an enumeration follows of all manner of pretty feminine belongings, in crystal, silver, gold, with a picture of the crucifixion and another of the virgin]. on the shelves were a rich box of colors, several books, and some portfolios of music. from a small peg hung a guitar. but suzanne was not satisfied. her gaze never left an object of unknown form enveloped in green serge. alix noticed, laughed, rose, and, lifting the covering, said: "this is my harp, suzanne; later i will play it for you." the second evening and those that followed, papa, despite carlo's representation and the magnificent moonlight, opposed the continuation of the journey by night; and it was not until the morning of the fifth day that we reached st. james. you can fancy the joy with which we were received at the plantation. we had but begun our voyage, and already my mother and sisters ran to us with extended arms as though they had not seen us for years. needless to say, they were charmed with alix; and when after dinner we had to say a last adieu to the loved ones left behind, we boarded the flatboat and left the plantation amid huzzas,[ ] waving handkerchiefs, and kisses thrown from finger-tips. no one wept, but in saying good-bye to my father, my mother asked: "pierre, how are you going to return?" "dear wife, by the mercy of god all things are possible to the man with his pocket full of money." during the few days that we passed on the mississippi each day was like the one before. we sat on the deck and watched the slow swinging of the long sweeps, or read, or embroidered, or in the chamber of alix listened to her harp or guitar; and at the end of another week, we arrived at plaquemine. footnotes: [ ] according to a common habit of the southern slaves.--translator. v. down bayou plaquemine--the fight with wild nature. plaquemine was composed of a church, two stores, as many drinking-shops, and about fifty cabins, one of which was the court-house. here lived a multitude of catalans, acadians, negroes, and indians. when suzanne and maggie, accompanied by my father and john gordon, went ashore, i declined to follow, preferring to stay aboard with joseph and alix. it was at plaquemine that we bade adieu to the old mississippi. here our flatboat made a détour and entered bayou plaquemine.[ ] hardly had we started when our men saw and were frightened by the force of the current. the enormous flatboat, that suzanne had likened to a giant tortoise, darted now like an arrow, dragged by the current. the people of plaquemine had forewarned our men and recommended the greatest prudence. "do everything possible to hold back your boat, for if you strike any of those tree-trunks of which the bayou is full it would easily sink you." think how reassuring all this was, and the more when they informed us that this was the first time a flatboat had ventured into the bayou! mario, swearing in all the known languages, sought to reassure us, and, aided by his two associates, changed the manoeuvring, and with watchful eye found ways to avoid the great uprooted trees in which the lakes and bayous of attakapas abound. but how clouded was carpentier's brow! and my father? ah! he repented enough. then he realized that gold is not always the vanquisher of every obstacle. at last, thanks to heaven, our flatboat came off victor over the snags, and after some hours we arrived at the indian village of which you have heard me tell. if i was afraid at sight of a dozen savages among the spaniards of plaquemine, what was to become of me now? the bank was entirely covered with men, their faces painted, their heads full of feathers, moccasins on their feet, and bows on shoulder--indians indeed, with women simply wrapped in blankets, and children without the shadow of a garment; and all these indians running, calling to one another, making signs to us, and addressing us in incomprehensible language. suzanne, standing up on the bow of the flatboat, replied to their signs and called with all the force of her lungs every indian word that--god knows where--she had learned: "chacounam finnan! o choctaw! conno poposso!" and the indians clapped their hands, laughing with pleasure and increasing yet more their gestures and cries. the village, about fifty huts, lay along the edge of the water. the unfortunates were not timid. presently several came close to the flatboat and showed us two deer and some wild turkeys and ducks, the spoils of their hunting. then came the women laden with sacks made of bark and full of blackberries, vegetables, and a great quantity of baskets; showing all, motioning us to come down, and repeating in french and spanish, "money, money!" it was decided that mario and gordon should stay on board and that all the rest of the joyous band should go ashore. my father, m. carpentier, and 'tino loaded their pistols and put them into their belts. suzanne did likewise, while maggie called tom, her bulldog, to follow her. celeste declined to go, because of her children. as to alix and me, a terrible contest was raging in us between fright and curiosity, but the latter conquered. suzanne and papa laughed so about our fears that alix, less cowardly than i, yielded first, and joined the others. this was too much. grasping my father's arm and begging him not to leave me for an instant, i let him conduct me, while alix followed me, taking her husband's arm in both her hands. in front marched 'tino, his gun on his shoulder; after him went maggie, followed by tom; and then suzanne and little patrick, inseparable friends. hardly had we gone a few steps when we were surrounded by a human wall, and i realized with a shiver how easy it would be for these savages to get rid of us and take all our possessions. but the poor devils certainly never thought of it: they showed us their game, of which papa bought the greater part, as well as several sacks of berries, and also vegetables. but the baskets! they were veritable wonders. as several of those that i bought that day are still in your possession, i will not lose much time telling of them. how those half-savage people could make things so well contrived and ornamented with such brilliant colors is still a problem to us. papa bought for mamma thirty-two little baskets fitting into one another, the largest about as tall as a child of five years, and the smallest just large enough to receive a thimble. when he asked the price i expected to hear the seller say at least thirty dollars, but his humble reply was five dollars. for a deer he asked one dollar; for a wild turkey, twenty-five cents. despite the advice of papa, who asked us how we were going to carry our purchases home, suzanne and i bought, between us, more than forty baskets, great and small. to papa's question, suzanne replied with an arch smile: "god will provide." maggie and alix also bought several; and alix, who never forgot any one, bought two charming little baskets that she carried to celeste. each of us, even maggie, secured a broad parti-colored mat to use on the deck as a couch _à la turque_. our last purchases were two indian bows painted red and blue and adorned with feathers; the first bought by celestino carlo, and the other by suzanne for her chevalier, patrick gordon. an indian woman who spoke a little french asked if we would not like to visit the queen. we assented, and in a few moments she led us into a hut thatched with palmetto leaves and in all respects like the others. its interior was disgustingly unclean. the queen was a woman quite or nearly a hundred years old. she sat on a mat upon the earth, her arms crossed on her breast, her eyes half closed, muttering between her teeth something resembling a prayer. she paid no attention to us, and after a moment we went out. we entered two or three other huts and found the same poverty and squalor. the men did not follow us about, but the women--the whole tribe, i think--marched step by step behind us, touching our dresses, our _capuches_, our jewelry, and asking for everything; and i felt well content when, standing on our deck, i could make them our last signs of adieu. our flatboat moved ever onward. day by day, hour by hour, every minute it advanced--slowly it is true, in the diminished current, but it advanced. i no longer knew where i was. we came at times where i thought we were lost; and then i thought of mamma and my dear sisters and my two pretty little brothers, whom i might never see again, and i was swallowed up. then suzanne would make fun of me and alix would caress me, and that did me good. there were many bayous,--a labyrinth, as papa said,--and mario had his map at hand showing the way. sometimes it seemed impracticable, and it was only by great efforts of our men ["no zomme," says the original] that we could pass on. one thing is sure--those who traverse those same lakes and bayous to-day have not the faintest idea of what they were [il zété] in . great vines hung down from lofty trees that shaded the banks and crossed one another a hundred--a thousand--ways to prevent the boat's passage and retard its progress, as if the devil himself was mixed in it; and, frankly, i believe that he had something to do with us in that cavern. often our emigrants were forced to take their axes and hatchets in hand to open a road. at other times tree-trunks, heaped upon one another, completely closed a bayou. then think what trouble there was to unbar that gate and pass through. and, to make all complete, troops of hungry alligators clambered upon the sides of our flatboat with jaws open to devour us. there was much outcry; i fled, alix fled with me, suzanne laughed. but our men were always ready for them with their guns. footnotes: [ ] flowing, not into, but out of, the mississippi, and, like it, towards the gulf.--translator. vi. the twice-married countess. but with all the sluggishness of the flatboat, the toils, the anxieties, and the frights, what happy times, what gay moments, we passed together on the rough deck of our rude vessel, or in the little cells that we called our bedrooms. it was in these rooms, when the sun was hot on deck, that my sister and i would join alix to learn from her a new stitch in embroidery, or some of the charming songs she had brought from france and which she accompanied with harp or guitar. often she read to us, and when she grew tired put the book into my hands or suzanne's, and gave us precious lessons in reading, as she had in singing and in embroidery. at times, in these moments of intimacy, she made certain half-disclosures that astonished us more and more. one day suzanne took between her own two hands that hand so small and delicate and cried out all at once: "how comes it, alix, that you wear two wedding rings?" "because," she sweetly answered, "if it gives you pleasure to know, i have been twice married." we both exclaimed with surprise. "ah!" she said, "no doubt you think me younger [bocou plus jeune] than i really am. what do you suppose is my age?" suzanne replied: "you look younger than françoise, and she is sixteen." "i am twenty-three," replied alix, laughing again and again. another time my sister took a book, haphazard, from the shelves. ordinarily [audinaremend] alix herself chose our reading, but she was busy embroidering. suzanne sat down and began to read aloud a romance entitled "two destinies." "ah!" cried my sister, "these two girls must be françoise and i." "oh no, no!" exclaimed alix, with a heavy sigh, and suzanne began her reading. it told of two sisters of noble family. the elder had been married to a count, handsome, noble, and rich; and the other, against her parents' wish, to a poor workingman who had taken her to a distant country, where she died of regret and misery. alix and i listened attentively; but before suzanne had finished, alix softly took the book from her hands and replaced it on the shelf. "i would not have chosen that book for you; it is full of exaggerations and falsehoods." "and yet," said suzanne, "see with what truth the lot of the countess is described! how happy she was in her emblazoned coach, and her jewels, her laces, her dresses of velvet and brocade! ah, françoise! of the two destinies i choose that one." alix looked at her for a moment and then dropped her head in silence. suzanne went on in her giddy way: "and the other: how she was punished for her plebeian tastes!" "so, my dear suzanne," responded alix, "you would not marry--" "a man not my equal--a workman? ah! certainly not." madame carpentier turned slightly pale. i looked at suzanne with eyes full of reproach; and suzanne remembering the gardener, at that moment in his shirt sleeves pushing one of the boat's long sweeps, bit her lip and turned to hide her tears. but alix--the dear little creature!--rose, threw her arms about my sister's neck, kissed her, and said: "i know very well that you had no wish to give me pain, dear suzanne. you have only called up some dreadful things that i am trying to forget. i am the daughter of a count. my childhood and youth were passed in châteaux and palaces, surrounded by every pleasure that an immense fortune could supply. as the wife of a viscount i have been received at court; i have been the companion of princesses. to-day all that is a dreadful dream. before me i have a future the most modest and humble. i am the wife of joseph the gardener; but poor and humble as is my present lot, i would not exchange it for the brilliant past, hidden from me by a veil of blood and tears. some day i will write and send you my history; for i want to make it plain to you, suzanne, that titles and riches do not make happiness, but that the poorest fate illumined by the fires of love is very often radiant with pleasure." we remained mute. i took alix's hand in mine and silently pressed it. even suzanne, the inquisitive suzanne, spoke not a word. she was content to kiss alix and wipe away her tears. if the day had its pleasures, it was in the evenings, when we were all reunited on deck, that the moments of gayety began. when we had brilliant moonlight the flatboat would continue its course to a late hour. then, in those calm, cool moments, when the movement of our vessel was so slight that it seemed to slide on the water, amid the odorous breezes of evening, the instruments of music were brought upon deck and our concerts began. my father played the flute delightfully; carlo, by ear, played the violin pleasantly; and there, on the deck of that old flatboat, before an indulgent audience, our improvised instruments waked the sleeping creatures of the centuries-old forest and called around us the wondering fishes and alligators. my father and alix played admirable duos on flute and harp, and sometimes carlo added the notes of his violin or played for us cotillons and spanish dances. finally suzanne and i, to please papa, sang together spanish songs, or songs of the negroes, that made our auditors nearly die a-laughing; or french ballads, in which alix would mingle her sweet voice. then carlo, with gestures that always frightened patrick, made the air resound with italian refrains, to which almost always succeeded the irish ballads of the gordons. but when it happened that the flatboat made an early stop to let our men rest, the programme was changed. celeste and maggie went ashore to cook the two suppers there. their children gathered wood and lighted the fires. mario and gordon, or gordon and 'tino, went into the forest with their guns. sometimes my father went along, or sat down by m. carpentier, who was the fisherman. alix, too, generally sat near her husband, her sketch-book on her knee, and copied the surrounding scene. often, tired of fishing, we gathered flowers and wild fruits. i generally staid near alix and her husband, letting suzanne run ahead with patrick and tom. it was a strange thing, the friendship between my sister and this little irish boy. never during the journey did he address one word to me; he never answered a question from alix; he ran away if my father or joseph spoke to him; he turned pale and hid if mario looked at him. but with suzanne he talked, laughed, obeyed her every word, called her miss souzie, and was never so happy as when serving her. and when, twenty years afterward, she made a journey to attakapas, the wealthy m. patrick gordon, hearing by chance of her presence, came with his daughter to make her his guest for a week, still calling her miss souzie, as of old. vii. odd partners in the bolero dance. only one thing we lacked--mass and sunday prayers. but on that day the flatboat remained moored, we put on our sunday clothes, gathered on deck, and papa read the mass aloud surrounded by our whole party, kneeling; and in the parts where the choir is heard in church, alix, my sister, and i, seconded by papa and mario, sang hymns. one evening--we had already been five weeks on our journey--the flatboat was floating slowly along, as if it were tired of going, between the narrow banks of a bayou marked in red ink on carlo's map, "bayou sorrel." it was about six in the afternoon. there had been a suffocating heat all day. it was with joy that we came up on deck. my father, as he made his appearance, showed us his flute. it was a signal: carlo ran for his violin, suzanne for alix's guitar, and presently carpentier appeared with his wife's harp. ah! i see them still: gordon and 'tino seated on a mat; celeste and her children; mario with his violin; maggie; patrick at the feet of suzanne; alix seated and tuning her harp; papa at her side; and m. carpentier and i seated on the bench nearest the musicians. my father and alix had already played some pieces, when papa stopped and asked her to accompany him in a new bolero which was then the vogue in new orleans. in those days, at all the balls and parties, the boleros, fandangos, and other spanish dances had their place with the french contra-dances and waltzes. suzanne had made her entrance into society three years before, and danced ravishingly. not so with me. i had attended my first ball only a few months before, and had taken nearly all my dancing-lessons from suzanne. what was to become of me, then, when i heard my father ask me to dance the bolero which he and alix were playing!... every one made room for us, crying, "_oh, oui, mlle. suzanne; dancez! oh, dancez, mlle. françoise!_" i did not wish to disobey my father. i did not want to disoblige my friends. suzanne loosed her red scarf and tossed one end to me. i caught the end of the shawl that suzanne was already waving over her head and began the first steps, but it took me only an instant to see that the task was beyond my powers. i grew confused, my head swam, and i stopped. but alix did not stop playing; and suzanne, wrapped in her shawl and turning upon herself, cried, "play on!" i understood her intention in an instant. harp and flute sounded on, and suzanne, ever gliding, waltzing, leaping, her arms gracefully lifted above her head, softly waved her scarf, giving it a thousand different forms. thus she made, twice, the circuit of the deck, and at length paused before mario carlo. but only for a moment. with a movement as quick as unexpected, she threw the end of her scarf to him. it wound about his neck. the italian with a shoulder movement loosed the scarf, caught it in his left hand, threw his violin to celeste, and bowed low to his challenger. all this as the etiquette of the bolero inexorably demanded. then maestro mario smote the deck sharply with his heels, let go a cry like an indian's war-whoop, and made two leaps into the air, smiting his heels against each other. he came down on the points of his toes, waving the scarf from his left hand; and twining his right arm about my sister's waist, he swept her away with him. they danced for at least half an hour, running the one after the other, waltzing, tripping, turning, leaping. the children and gordon shouted with delight, while my father, m. carpentier, and even alix clapped their hands, crying, "hurrah!" suzanne's want of dignity exasperated me; but when i tried to speak of it, papa and alix were against me. "on board a flatboat," said my father, "a breach of form is permissible." he resumed his flute with the first measures of a minuet. "ah, our turn!" cried alix; "our turn, françoise! i will be the cavalier!" i could dance the minuet as well as i could the bolero--that is, not at all; but alix promised to guide me: and as, after all, i loved the dance as we love it at sixteen, i was easily persuaded, and fan in hand followed alix, who for the emergency wore her husband's hat; and our minuet was received with as much enthusiasm as suzanne's bolero. this ball was followed by others, and alix gave me many lessons in the dance, that some weeks later were very valuable in the wilderness towards which we were journeying. viii. a bad storm in a bad place. the flatboat continued its course, and some slight signs of civilization began to appear at long intervals. towards the end of a beautiful day in june, six weeks after our departure from new orleans, the flatboat stopped at the pass of lake chicot.[ ] the sun was setting in a belt of gray clouds. our men fastened their vessel securely and then cast their eyes about them. "ah!" cried mario, "i do not like this place; it is inhabited." he pointed to a wretched hut half hidden by the forest. except two or three little cabins seen in the distance, this was the first habitation that had met our eyes since leaving the mississippi.[ ] a woman showed herself at the door. she was scarcely dressed at all. her feet were naked, and her tousled hair escaped from a wretched handkerchief that she had thrown upon her head. hidden in the bushes and behind the trees half a dozen half-nude children gazed at us, ready to fly at the slightest sound. suddenly two men with guns came out of the woods, but at the sight of the flatboat stood petrified. mario shook his head. "if it were not so late i would take the boat farther on." [yet he went hunting with 'tino and gordon along the shore, leaving the father of françoise and suzanne lying on the deck with sick headache, joseph fishing in the flatboat's little skiff, and the women and children on the bank, gazed at from a little distance by the sitting figures of the two strange men and the woman. then the hunters returned, supper was prepared, and both messes ate on shore. gordon and mario joining freely in the conversation of the more cultivated group, and making altogether a strange babel of english, french, spanish, and italian.] after supper joseph and alix, followed by my sister and me, plunged into the denser part of the woods. "take care, comrade," we heard mario say; "don't go far." the last rays of the sun were in the treetops. there were flowers everywhere. alix ran here and there, all enthusiasm. presently suzanne uttered a cry and recoiled with affright from a thicket of blackberries. in an instant joseph was at her side; but she laughed aloud, returned to the assault, and drew by force from the bushes a little girl of three or four years. the child fought and cried; but suzanne held on, drew her to the trunk of a tree, sat down, and held her on her lap by force. the poor little thing was horribly dirty, but under its rags there were pretty features and a sweetness that inspired pity. alix sat down by my sister and stroked the child's hair, and, like suzanne, spite of the dirt, kissed her several times; but the little creature still fought, and yelled [in english]: "let me alone! i want to go home! i want to go home!" joseph advised my sister to let the child go, and suzanne was about to do so when she remembered having at supper filled her pocket with pecans. she quickly filled the child's hands with them and the rubicon was passed.... she said that her name was annie; that her father, mother, and brothers lived in the hut. that was all she could say. she did not know her parents' name. when suzanne put her down she ran with all her legs towards the cabin to show alix's gift, her pretty ribbon. before the sun went down the wind rose. great clouds covered the horizon; large rain-drops began to fall. joseph covered the head of his young wife with her mantle, and we hastened back to the camp. "do you fear a storm, joseph?" asked alix. "i do not know too much," he replied; "but when you are near, all dangers seem great." we found the camp deserted; all our companions were on board the flatboat. the wind rose to fury, and now the rain fell in torrents. we descended to our rooms. papa was asleep. we did not disturb him, though we were greatly frightened.... joseph and gordon went below to sleep. mario and his son loosed the three bull-dogs, but first removed the planks that joined the boat to the shore. then he hoisted a great lantern upon a mast in the bow, lighted his pipe, and sat down to keep his son awake with stories of voyages and hunts. the storm seemed to increase in violence every minute. the rain redoubled its fury. frightful thunders echoed each other's roars. the flatboat, tossed by the wind and waves, seemed to writhe in agony, while now and then the trunks of uprooted trees, lifted by the waves, smote it as they passed. without a thought of the people in the hut, i made every effort to keep awake in the face of these menaces of nature. suzanne held my hand tightly in hers, and several times spoke to me in a low voice, fearing to wake papa, whom we could hear breathing regularly, sleeping without a suspicion of the surrounding dangers. yet an hour had not passed ere i was sleeping profoundly. a knock on the partition awoke us and made us run to the door. mario was waiting there. "quick, monsieur! get the young ladies ready. the flatboat has probably but ten minutes to live. we must take the women and children ashore. and please, signorina,"--to my sister,--"call m. and mme. carpentier." but joseph had heard all, and showed himself at the door of our room. "ashore? at such a time?" "we have no choice. we must go or perish." "but where?" "to the hut. we have no time to talk. my family is ready".... it took but a few minutes to obey papa's orders. we were already nearly dressed; and as sabots were worn at that time to protect the shoes from the mud and wet, we had them on in a moment. a thick shawl and a woolen hood completed our outfits. alix was ready in a few moments. "save your jewels,--those you prize most,--my love," cried carpentier, "while i dress." alix ran to her dressing-case, threw its combs, brushes, etc., pell-mell into the bureau, opened a lower part of the case and took out four or five jewel-boxes that glided into her pockets, and two lockets that she hid carefully in her corsage. joseph always kept their little fortune in a leathern belt beneath his shirt. he put on his vest and over it a sort of great-coat, slung his gun by its shoulder-belt, secured his pistols, and then taking from one of his trunks a large woolen cloak he wrapped alix in it, and lifted her like a child of eight, while she crossed her little arms about his neck and rested her head on his bosom. then he followed us into mario's room, where his two associates were waiting. at another time we might have laughed at maggie, but not now. she had slipped into her belt two horse-pistols. in one hand she held in leash her bull-dog tom, and in the other a short carbine, her own property. footnotes: [ ] that is, "lake full of snags."--translator. [ ] the indian village having the mississippi probably but a few miles in its rear.--translator. ix. maggie and the robbers. "we are going out of here together," said mario; "but john and i will conduct you only to the door of the hut. thence we shall return to the flatboat, and all that two men can do to save our fortune shall be done. you, monsieur, have enough to do to take care of your daughters. to you, m. carpentier--to you, son celestino, i give the care of these women and children." "i can take care of myself," said maggie. "you are four, well armed," continued mario. (my father had his gun and pistols.) "this dog is worth two men. you have no risks to run; the danger, if there be any, will be with the boat. seeing us divided, they may venture an attack; but one of you stand by the window that faces the shore. if one of those men in the hut leaves it, or shows a wish to do so, fire one pistol-shot out of the window, and we shall be ready for them; but if you are attacked, fire two shots and we will come. now, forward!" we went slowly and cautiously: 'tino first, with a lantern; then the irish pair and child; then mario, leading his two younger boys, and celeste, with her daughter asleep in her arms; and for rear-guard papa with one of us on each arm, and joseph with his precious burden. the wind and the irregularities of the ground made us stumble at every step. the rain lashed us in the face and extorted from time to time sad lamentations from the children. but, for all that, we were in a few minutes at the door of the hovel. "m. carpentier," said mario, "i give my family into your care." joseph made no answer but to give his hand to the italian. mario strode away, followed by gordon. "knock on the door," said joseph to 'tino. the boy knocked. no sound was heard inside, except the growl of a dog. "knock again." the same silence. "we can't stay here in this beating rain; open and enter," cried carpentier. 'tino threw wide the door and we walked in. there was but one room. a large fire burned in a clay chimney that almost filled one side of the cabin. in one corner four or five chickens showed their heads. in another, the woman was lying on a wretched pallet in all her clothes. by her slept the little creature suzanne had found, her ribbon still on her frock. near one wall was a big chest on which another child was sleeping. a rough table was in the middle, on it some dirty tin plates and cups, and under it half a dozen dogs and two little boys. i never saw anything else like it. on the hearth stood the pot and skillet, still half full of hominy and meat. kneeling by the fire was a young man molding bullets and passing them to his father, seated on a stool at a corner of the chimney, who threw them into a jar of water, taking them out again to even them with the handle of a knife. i see it still as if it was before my eyes. the woman opened her eyes, but did not stir. the dogs rose tumultuously, but tom showed his teeth and growled, and they went back under the table. the young man rose upon one knee, he and his father gazing stupidly at us, the firelight in their faces. we women shrank against our protectors, except maggie, who let go a strong oath. the younger man was frightfully ugly; pale-faced, large-eyed, haggard, his long, tangled, blonde hair on his shoulders. the father's face was written all over with depravity and crime. joseph advanced and spoke to him. "what the devil of a language is that?" he asked of his son in english. "he is asking you," said maggie, "to let us stay here till the storm is over." "and where do you come from this way?" "from that flatboat tied to the bank." "well, the house isn't big nor pretty, but you are its masters." maggie went and sat by the window, ready to give the signal. pat sank at her feet, and laying his head upon tom went straight to sleep. papa sat down by the fire on an inverted box and took me on one knee. with her head against his other, suzanne crouched upon the floor. we were silent, our hearts beating hard, wishing ourselves with mamma in st. james. joseph set alix upon a stool beside him and removed her wrapping. "hello!" said the younger stranger, "i thought you were carrying a child. it's a woman!" an hour passed. the woman in the corner seemed to sleep; celeste, too, slumbered. when i asked suzanne, softly, if she was asleep, she would silently shake her head. the men went on with their task, not speaking. at last they finished, divided the balls between them, put them into a leather pouch at their belt, and the father, rising, said: "let us go. it is time." maggie raised her head. the elder man went and got his gun and loaded it with two balls, and while the younger was muffling himself in an old blanket-overcoat such as we give to plantation negroes, moved towards the door and was about to pass out. but quicker than lightning maggie had raised the window, snatched a pistol from her belt, and fired. the two men stood rooted, the elder frowning at maggie. tom rose and showed two rows of teeth. "what did you fire that pistol for? what signal are you giving?" "that is understood at the flatboat," said maggie, tranquilly. "i was to fire if you left the house. you started, i fired, and that's all." "----! and did you know, by yourself, what we were going to do?" "i haven't a doubt. you were simply going to attack and rob the flatboat." a second oath, fiercer than the first, escaped the man's lips. "you talk that way to me! do you forget that you're in my power?" "ah! do you think so?" cried maggie, resting her fists on her hips. "ah, ha, ha!" that was the first time i ever heard her laugh--and such a laugh! "don't you know, my dear sir, that at one turn of my hand this dog will strangle you like a chicken? don't you see four of us here armed to the teeth, and at another signal our comrades yonder ready to join us in an instant? and besides, this minute they are rolling a little cannon up to the bow of the boat. go, meddle with them, you'll see." she lied, but her lie averted the attack. she quietly sat down again and paid the scoundrel not the least attention. "and that's the way you pay us for taking you in, is it? accuse a man of crime because he steps out of his own house to look at the weather? well, that's all right." while the man spoke he put his gun into a corner, resumed his seat, and lighted a cob pipe. the son had leaned on his gun during the colloquy. now he put it aside and lay down upon the floor to sleep. the awakened children slept. maggie sat and smoked. my father, joseph, and 'tino talked in low tones. all at once the old ruffian took his pipe from his mouth and turned to my father. "where do you come from?" "from new orleans, sir." "how long have you been on the way?" "about a month." "and where are you going," etc. joseph, like papa, remained awake, but like him, like all of us, longed with all his soul for the end of that night of horror. at the first crowing of the cock the denizens of the hut were astir. the father and son took their guns and went into the forest. the fire was relighted. the woman washed some hominy in a pail and seemed to have forgotten our presence; but the little girl recognized alix, who took from her own neck a bright silk handkerchief and tied it over the child's head, put a dollar in her hand, and kissed her forehead. then it was suzanne's turn. she covered her with kisses. the little one laughed, and showed the turban and the silver that "the pretty lady," she said, had given her. next, my sister dropped, one by one, upon the pallet ten dollars, amazing the child with these playthings; and then she took off her red belt and put it about her little pet's neck. my father handed me a handful of silver. "they are very poor, my daughter; pay them well for their hospitality." as i approached the woman i heard joseph thank her and offer her money. "what do you want me to do with that?" she said, pushing my hand away. "instead of that, send me some coffee and tobacco." that ended it; i could not pay in money. but when i looked at the poor woman's dress so ragged and torn, i took off [j'autai] my shawl, which was large and warm, and put it on her shoulders,--i had another in the boat,--and she was well content. when i got back to the flatboat i sent her some chemises, petticoats, stockings, and a pair of shoes. the shoes were papa's. alix also sent her three skirts and two chemises, and suzanne two old dresses and two chemises for her children, cutting down what was too large. before quitting the hut celeste had taken from her two lads their knitted neckerchiefs and given them to the two smaller boys, and maggie took the old shawl that covered pat's shoulders and threw it upon the third child, who cried out with joy. at length we returned to our vessel, which had triumphantly fought the wind and floating trees. mario took to the cabin our gifts, to which we added sugar, biscuits, and a sack of pecans. x. alix puts away the past. for two weeks more our boat continued its slow and silent voyage among the bayous. we saw signs of civilization, but they were still far apart. these signs alarmed mario. he had already chosen his place of abode and spoke of it with his usual enthusiasm; a prairie where he had camped for two weeks with his young hunters five years before. "a principality--that is what i count on establishing there," he cried, pushing his hand through his hair. "and think!--if, maybe, some one has occupied it! oh, the thief! the robber! let him not fall into my hands! i'll strangle--i'll kill him!" my father, to console him, would say that it would be easy to find other tracts just as fine. "never!" replied he, rolling his eyes and brandishing his arms; and his fury would grow until maggie cried: "he is satan himself! he's the devil!" one evening the flatboat stopped a few miles only from where is now the village of pattersonville. the weather was magnificent, and while papa, gordon, and mario went hunting, joseph, alix, and we two walked on the bank. little by little we wandered, and, burying ourselves in the interior, we found ourselves all at once confronting a little cottage embowered in a grove of oranges. alix uttered a cry of admiration and went towards the house. we saw that it was uninhabited and must have been long abandoned. the little kitchen, the poultry-house, the dovecote, were in ruins. but the surroundings were admirable: in the rear a large court was entirely shaded with live-oaks; in front was the green belt of orange trees; farther away bayou teche, like a blue ribbon, marked a natural boundary, and at the bottom of the picture the great trees of the forest lifted their green-brown tops. "oh!" cried alix, "if i could stay here i should be happy." "who knows?" replied joseph. "the owner has left the house; he may be dead. who knows but i may take this place?" "oh! i pray you, joseph, try. try!" at that moment my father and mario appeared, looking for us, and alix cried: "welcome, gentlemen, to my domain." joseph told of his wife's wish and his hope.... "in any case," said mario, "count on us. if you decide to settle here we will stay two weeks--a month, if need be--to help you establish yourself." as soon as we had breakfasted my father and joseph set out for a plantation which they saw in the distance. they found it a rich estate. the large, well-built house was surrounded by outbuildings, stables, granaries, and gardens; fields of cane and corn extended to the limit of view. the owner, m. gerbeau, was a young frenchman. he led them into the house, presented them to his wife, and offered them refreshments. [m. gerbeau tells the travelers how he had come from the mississippi river parish of st. bernard to this place with all his effects in a schooner--doubtless via the mouth of the river and the bay of atchafalaya; while joseph is all impatience to hear of the little deserted home concerning which he has inquired. but finally he explains that its owner, a lone swede, had died of sunstroke two years before, and m. gerbeau's best efforts to find, through the swedish consul at new orleans or otherwise, a successor to the little estate had been unavailing. joseph could take the place if he would. he ended by generously forcing upon the father of françoise and suzanne the free use of his traveling-carriage and "two horses, as gentle as lambs and as swift as deer," with which to make their journey up the teche to st. martinville,[ ] the gay, not to say giddy, little capital of the royalist _émigrés_.] my father wished to know what means of transport he could secure, on his return to this point, to take us home. "don't let that trouble you; i will arrange that. i already have a plan--you shall see." the same day the work began on the carpentier's home. the three immigrants and 'tino fell bravely to work, and m. gerbeau brought his carpenter and a cart-load of lumber. two new rooms were added. the kitchen was repaired, then the stable, the dovecote, the poultry-house; the garden fences were restored; also those of the field. my father gave joseph one of his cows; the other was promised to carlo. mme. gerbeau was with us much, helping alix, as were we. we often dined with her. one sunday m. gerbeau came for us very early and insisted that mario and gordon should join us. maggie, with her usual phlegm, had declined. at dinner our host turned the conversation upon st. martinville, naming again all the barons, counts, and marquises of whom he had spoken to my father, and descanting especially on the grandeur of the balls and parties he had there attended. "and we have only our camayeu skirts!" cried suzanne. "daughter," observed papa, "be content with what you have. you are neither a duchess nor a countess, and besides you are traveling." "and," said m. gerbeau, "the stores there are full of knickknacks that would capture the desires of a queen." on returning to our flatboat alix came into my room, where i was alone, and laying her head on my shoulder: "françoise," she said, "i have heard mentioned today the dearest friend i ever had. that countess de la houssaye of whom m. gerbeau spoke is madelaine de livilier, my companion in convent, almost my sister. we were married nearly at the same time; we were presented at court the same day; and now here we are, both, in louisiana!" "o alix!" i cried, "i shall see her. papa has a letter to her husband; i shall tell her; she will come to see you; and--" "no, no! you must not speak of me, françoise. she knew and loved the countess alix de morainville. i know her; she would repel with scorn the wife of the gardener. i am happy in my obscurity. let nothing remind me of other days." seeing that alix said nothing of all this to suzanne, i imitated her example. with all her goodness, suzanne was so thoughtless and talkative! footnotes: [ ] now generally miscalled st. martinsville.--translator. xi. alix plays fairy.--parting tears. in about fifteen days the work on the cottage was nearly done and the moving began, celeste, and even maggie, offering us their services. alix seemed enchanted. "two things, only, i lack," she said--"a sofa, and something to cover the walls." one morning m. gerbeau sent to carpentier a horse, two fine cows and their calves, and a number of sheep and pigs. at the same time two or three negresses, loaded down with chickens, geese, and ducks, made their appearance. also m. gerbeau. "what does all this mean?" asked joseph. "this is the succession of the dead swede," replied the generous young man. "but i have no right to his succession." "that's a question," responded m. gerbeau. "you have inherited the house, you must inherit all. if claimants appear--well, you will be responsible to them. you will please give me a receipt in due form; that is all." tears came into carpentier's eyes.... as he was signing the receipt m. gerbeau stopped him. "wait; i forgot something. at the time of karl's [the swede's] death, i took from his crib fifty barrels of corn; add that." "o sir!" cried joseph, "that is too much--too much." "write!" said m. gerbeau, laying his hand on joseph's shoulder, "if you please. i am giving you nothing; i am relieving myself of a burden." * * * * * my dear daughter, if i have talked very much about alix it is because talking about her is such pleasure. she has been so good to my sister and me! the memory of her is one of the brightest of my youth. the flatboat was to go in three days. one morning, when we had passed the night with mme. gerbeau, patrick came running to say that "madame 'lix" wished to see us at once. we hastened to the cottage. alix met us on the gallery [veranda]. "come in, dear girls. i have a surprise for you and a great favor to ask. i heard you say, suzanne, you had nothing to wear--" "but our camayeu petticoats!" "but your camayeu petticoats." she smiled. "and they, it seems, do not tempt your vanity. you want better?" "ah, indeed we do!" replied suzanne. "well, let us play cinderella. the dresses of velvet, silk, and lace, the jewels, the slippers--all are in yonder chest. listen, my dear girls. upon the first signs of the revolution my frightened mother left france and crossed into england. she took with her all her wardrobe, her jewels, the pictures from her bedroom, and part of her plate. she bought, before going, a quantity of silks and ribbons.... when i reached england my mother was dead, and all that she had possessed was restored to me by the authorities. my poor mother loved dress, and in that chest is all her apparel. part of it i had altered for my own use; but she was much larger than i--taller than you. i can neither use them nor consent to sell them. if each of you will accept a ball toilet, you will make me very happy." and she looked at us with her eyes full of supplication, her hands clasped. we each snatched a hand and kissed it. then she opened the chest, and for the first and last time in my life i saw fabrics, ornaments, and coiffures that truly seemed to have been made by the fairies. after many trials and much debate she laid aside for me a lovely dress of blue brocade glistening with large silver flowers the reflections of which seemed like rays of light. it was short in front, with a train; was very full on the sides, and was caught up with knots of ribbon. the long pointed waist was cut square and trimmed with magnificent laces that re-appeared on the half-long sleeves. the arms, to the elbow, were to be covered with white frosted gloves fastened with twelve silver buttons. to complete my toilet she gave me a blue silk fan beautifully painted, blue satin slippers with high heels and silver buckles, white silk stockings with blue clocks, a broidered white cambric handkerchief trimmed with brussels point lace, and, last, a lovely set of silver filigree that she assured us was of slight value, comprising the necklace, the comb, the earrings, bracelets, and a belt whose silver tassels of the same design fell down the front of the dress. my sister's toilet was exactly like mine, save that it was rose color. alix had us try them on. while our eyes were ravished, she, with more expert taste, decided to take up a little in one place, lower a ribbon in another, add something here, take away there, and, above all, to iron the whole with care. we staid all day helping her; and when, about o'clock, all was finished, our fairy godmother said she would now dress our hair, and that we must observe closely. "for suzanne will have to coiffe françoise and françoise coiffe suzanne," she said. she took from the chest two pasteboard boxes that she said contained the headdresses belonging to our costumes, and, making me sit facing my sister, began to dress her hair. i was all eyes. i did not lose a movement of the comb. she lifted suzanne's hair to the middle of the head in two rosettes that she called _riquettes_ and fastened them with a silver comb. next, she made in front, or rather on the forehead, with hairpins, numberless little knots, or whorls, and placed on each side of the head a plume of white, rose-tipped feathers, and in front, opposite the riquettes, placed a rose surrounded with silver leaves. long rose-colored, silver-frosted ribbons falling far down on the back completed the headdress, on which alix dusted handfuls of silver powder. can you believe it, my daughter, that was the first time my sister and i had ever seen artificial flowers? they made very few of them, even in france, in those days. while suzanne admired herself in the mirror i took her place. my headdress differed from hers in the ends of my feathers being blue, and in the rose being white, surrounded by pale blue violets and a few silver leaves. and now a temptation came to all of us. alix spoke first: "now put on your ball-dresses and i will send for our friends. what do you think?" "oh, that would be charming!" cried suzanne. "let us hurry!" and while we dressed, pat, always prowling about the cottage, was sent to the flatboat to get his parents and the carlos, and to m. gerbeau's to ask my father and m. and mme. gerbeau to come at once to the cottage.... no, i cannot tell the cries of joy that greeted us. the children did not know us, and maggie had to tell pat over and over that these were miss souzie and miss francise. my father's eyes filled with tears as he thanked alix for her goodness and generosity to us. alas! the happiest days, like the saddest, have an end. on the morrow the people in the flatboat came to say good-bye. mario cried like a child. celeste carried Àlix's hands to her lips and said in the midst of her tears: "o madame! i had got so used to you--i hoped never to leave you." "i will come to see you, celeste," replied alix to the young mulattress, "i promise you." maggie herself seemed moved, and in taking leave of alix put two vigorous kisses on her cheeks. as to our father, and us, too, the adieus were not final, we having promised mario and gordon to stop [on their journey up the shore of the bayou] as soon as we saw the flatboat. "and we hope, my dear carlo, to find you established in your principality." "amen!" responded the italian. alix added to her gifts two pairs of chamois-skin gloves and a box of lovely artificial flowers. two days after the flatboat had gone, we having spent the night with alix, came m. gerbeau's carriage to take us once more upon our journey. ah! that was a terrible moment. even alix could scarce hold back the tears. we refused to get into the carriage, and walked, all of us together, to m. gerbeau's, and then parted amid tears, kisses, and promises. xii. little paris. [so the carriage rolled along the margin of bayou teche, with two big trunks besides monsieur's on back and top, and a smaller one, lent by alix, lashed underneath; but shawls, mats, and baskets were all left behind with the carpentiers. the first stop was at the plantation and residence of captain patterson, who "offered his hand in the english way, saying only, 'welcomed, young ladies.'" in , the narrator stops to say, one might see in and about new orleans some two-story houses; but along the banks of bayou teche, as well as on the mississippi, they were all of one sort,--like their own; like captain patterson's,--a single ground floor with three rooms facing front and three back. yet the very next stop was at a little cottage covered with roses and with its front yard full of ducks and geese,--"'a genuine german cottage,' said papa,"--where a german girl, to call her father, put a great ox's horn to her lips and blew a loud blast. almost every one was english or german till they came to where was just beginning to be the town of franklin. one harlman, a german, offered to exchange all his land for the silver watch that it best suited monsieur to travel with. the exchange was made, the acts were all signed and sealed, and--when suzanne, twenty years after, made a visit to attakapas there was harlman and his numerous family still in peaceful possession of the place.... "and i greatly fear that when some day our grandchildren awaken from that apathy with which i have always reproached the creoles, i fear, my daughter, they will have trouble to prove their titles." but they journeyed on, françoise ever looking out the carriage window for the flatboat, and suzanne crying: "annie, my sister annie, do you see nothing coming?" and about two miles from where franklin was to be they came upon it, greeted with joyous laughter and cries of "miss souzie! o miss souzie!" from the women and the children, and from mario: "i have it, signor! i have it! my prinicipality, miss souzie! it is mine, signorina françoise!" while he danced, laughed, and brandished his arms. "he had taken up enough land," says françoise, "for five principalities, and was already knocking the flatboat to pieces." she mentioned meeting jacques and charles picot, st. domingan refugees, whose story of adventures she says was very wonderful, but with good artistic judgement omits them. the travelers found, of course, a _charmante cordialité_ at the home of m. agricole fuselier[ ], and saw a little girl of five who afterward became a great beauty--uranie fuselier. they passed another indian village, where françoise persuaded them not to stop. its inhabitants were chetimachas, more civilized than those of the village near plaquemine, and their sworn enemies, living in constant fear of an attack from them. at new iberia, a town founded by spaniards, the voyagers saw "several houses, some drinking-shops and other buildings," and spent with "the pretty little madame dubuclet ... two of the pleasantest days of their lives."] at length, one beautiful evening in july, under a sky resplendent with stars, amid the perfume of gardens and caressed by the cool night breeze, we made our entry into the village of st. martinville--the little paris, the oasis in the desert. my father ordered julien [the coachman] to stop at the best inn. he turned two or three corners and stopped near the bayou [teche] just beside the bridge, before a house of the strangest aspect possible. there seemed first to have been built a _rez-de-chaussée_ house of ordinary size, to which had been hastily added here a room, there a cabinet, a balcony, until the "white pelican"--i seem to see it now--was like a house of cards, likely to tumble before the first breath of wind. the host's name was morphy. he came forward, hat in hand, a pure-blooded american, but speaking french almost like a frenchman. in the house all was comfortable and shining with cleanness. madame morphy took us to our room, adjoining papa's ["tou ta côté de selle de papa"], the two looking out, across the veranda, upon the waters of the teche. after supper my father proposed a walk. madame morphy showed us, by its lights, in the distance, a theater! "they are playing, this evening, 'the barber of seville.'" we started on our walk, moving slowly, scanning the houses and listening to the strains of music that reached us from the distance. it seemed but a dream that at any moment might vanish. on our return to the inn, papa threw his letters upon the table and began to examine their addresses. "to whom will you carry the first letter, papa?" i asked. "to the baron du clozel," he replied. "i have already met him in new orleans, and even had the pleasure to render him a slight service." mechanically suzanne and i examined the addresses and amused ourselves reading the pompous title's. "'le chevalier louis de blanc!'" began my sister; "'l'honorable a. déclouet'; 'le comte louis le pelletrier de la houssaye'! ah!" she cried, throwing the packet upon the table, "the aristocrats! i am frightened, poor little plebeian that i am." "yes, my daughter," responded my father, "these names represent true aristocrats, as noble in virtues as in blood. my father has often told me of two uncles of the count de la houssaye: the first, claude de la pelletrier de la houssaye, was prime minister to king louis xv.; and the second, barthelemy, was employed by the minister of finance. the count, he to whom i bear this letter, married madelaine victoire de livilier. these are noble names." then alix was not mistaken; it was really her friend, the countess madelaine, whom i was about to meet. footnotes: [ ] when i used the name of agricole fuselier (or agricola fusilier, as i have it in my novel "the grandissimes") i fully believed it was my own careful coinage; but on publishing it i quickly found that my supposed invention was but an unconscious reminiscence. the name still survives, i am told, on the teche.--translator. xiii. the countess madelaine. early the next day i saw, through the partly open door, my father finishing his toilet. he had already fastened over his black satin breeches his garters secured with large buckles of chased silver. similar buckles were on his shoes. his silver-buttoned vest of white piqué reached low down, and his black satin coat faced with white silk had large lappets cut square. such dress seemed to me very warm for summer; but the fashion and etiquette allowed only silk and velvet for visits of ceremony, and though you smothered you had to obey those tyrants. at the moment when i saw him out of the corner of my eye he was sticking a cluster diamond pin into his shirt-frill and another diamond into his lace cravat. it was the first time i ever saw papa so fine, so dressed! presently we heard him call us to arrange his queue, and although it was impossible for us to work up a club and pigeon wings like those i saw on the two young du clozels and on m. neville déclouet, we arranged a very fine queue wrapped with a black ribbon, and after smiling at himself in the glass and declaring that he thought the whole dress was in very good taste he kissed us, took his three-cornered hat and his gold-headed cane and went out. with what impatience we awaited his return! about two hours afterward we saw papa coming back accompanied by a gentleman of a certain age, handsome, noble, elegant in his severe suit of black velvet. he had the finest black eyes in the world, and his face beamed with wit and amiability. you have guessed it was the baron du clozel. the baron bowed to us profoundly. he certainly knew who we were, but etiquette required him to wait until my father had presented us; but immediately then he asked papa's permission to kiss us, and you may suppose your grandfather did not refuse. m. du clozel had been sent by the baroness to oppose our sojourn at the inn, and to bring us back with him. "run, put on your hoods," said papa; "we will wait for you here." mr. and mrs. morphy were greatly disappointed to see us go, and the former declared that if these nobles kept on taking away their custom they would have to shut up shop. papa, to appease him, paid him double what he asked. and the baron gave his arm to suzanne, as the elder, while i followed, on papa's. madame du clozel and her daughter met us at the street gate. the baroness, though not young, was still pretty, and so elegant, so majestic! a few days later i could add, so good, so lovable! celeste du clozel was eighteen. her hair was black as ebony, and her eyes a beautiful blue. the young men of the village called her _celeste la bien nommée_ [celeste the well named]; and for all her beauty, fortune, and high position she was good and simple and always ready to oblige. she was engaged, we learned afterward, to the chevalier de blanc, the same who in was made post-commandant of attakapas.[ ] olivier and charles du clozel turned everything to our entertainment, and it was soon decided that we should all go that same evening to the theater. hardly was the sun down when we shut ourselves into our rooms to begin the work of dressing. celeste put herself at our service, assuring us that she knew perfectly how to dress hair. the baroness asked us to let her lend us ornaments, ribbons--whatever we might need. we could see that she supposed two young girls who had never seen the great world, who came from a region where nearly all articles of luxury were wanting, could hardly have a choice wardrobe. we thanked them, assuring celeste that we had always cultivated the habit of dressing each other's hair. we put on our camayeu petticoats and our black velvet waists, adding gloves; and in our hair, sparkling with gold powder, we put, each of us, a bunch of the roses given us by alix. we found ourselves charming, and hoped to create a sensation. but if the baroness was satisfied she showed no astonishment. her hair, like her daughter's, was powdered, and both wore gloves. suzanne on the arm of olivier, i on charles's, celeste beside her fiancé, the grandparents in front, we entered the theater of st. martinville, and in a moment more were the observed of all observers. the play was a vaudeville, of which i remember only the name, but rarely have i seen amateurs act so well: all the prominent parts were rendered by young men. but if the french people are polite, amiable, and hospitable, we know that they are also very inquisitive. suzanne was more annoyed than i can tell; yet we knew that our toilets were in excellent taste, even in that place full of ladies covered with costly jewels. when i asked celeste how the merchants of st. martinville could procure these costly goods, she explained that near by there was a place named the _butte à la rose_ that greatly shortened the way to market.[ ] they were bringing almost everything from london, owing to the revolution. between the acts many persons came to greet madame du clozel. oh, how i longed to see the friend of alix! but i would not ask anything; i resolved to find her by the aid of my heart alone. presently, as by a magnetic power, my attention was drawn to a tall and beautiful young lady dressed in white satin, with no ornaments except a set of gold and sapphires, and for headdress a _résille_ the golden tassels of which touched her neck. ah! how quickly i recognized those brown eyes faintly proud, that kind smile, that queenly bearing, that graceful step! i turned to charles du clozel, who sat beside me, and said: "that is the countess de la houssaye, isn't it?" "do you know her?" "i see her for the first time; but--i guessed it." several times i saw her looking at me, and once she smiled. during the last two acts she came and shook hands with us, and, caressing our hair with her gloved hand, said her husband had seen papa's letter; that it was from a dear friend, and that she came to ask madame du clozel to let her take us away with her. against this the baroness cried out, and then the countess madelaine said to us: "well, you will come spend the day with me day after to-morrow, will you? i shall invite only young people. may i come for you?" ah, that day! how i remember it!... madame de la houssaye was fully five or six years older than madame carpentier, for she was the mother of four boys, the eldest of whom was fully twelve.[ ] her house was, like madame du clozel's, a single rez-de-chaussée surmounted by a mansard.... from the drawing-room she conducted us to a room in the rear of the house at the end of the veranda [galerie], where ... a low window let into a garden crossed and re-crossed with alleys of orange and jasmine. several lofty magnolias filled the air with the fragrance of their great white flowers.... xiv. "poor little alix!" hardly had we made a few steps into the room when a young girl rose and advanced, supported on the arm of a young man slightly overdressed. his club and pigeon-wings were fastened with three or four pins of gold, and his white-powdered queue was wrapped with a black velvet ribbon shot with silver. the heat was so great that he had substituted silk for velvet, and his dress-coat, breeches, and long vest were of pearl-gray silk, changing to silver, with large silver buttons. on the lace frill of his embroidered shirt shone three large diamonds, on his cravat was another, and his fingers were covered with rings.[ ] the young girl embraced us with ceremony, while her companion bowed profoundly. she could hardly have been over sixteen or seventeen. one could easily guess by her dress that the pretty creature was the slave of fashion. "madame du rocher," said charles du clozel, throwing a wicked glance upon her. "madame!" i stammered. "impossible!" cried suzanne. "don't listen to him!" interrupted the young lady, striking charles's fingers with her fan. "he is a wretched falsifier. i am called tonton de blanc." "the widow du rocher!" cried olivier, from the other side. "ah, this is too much!" she exclaimed. "if you don't stop these ridiculous jokes at once i'll make neville call you out upon the field of battle." ... but a little while afterward celeste whispered in my ear that her brothers had said truly. at thirteen years tonton, eldest daughter of commandant louis de blanc and sister of chevalier de blanc, had been espoused to dr. du rocher, at least forty years older than she. he was rich, and two years later he died, leaving all his fortune to his widow.... one after another madame de la houssaye introduced to us at least twenty persons, the most of whose names, unfortunately, i have forgotten. i kept notes, but have mislaid them.... a few moments before dinner the countess re-appeared among us, followed by two servants in livery bearing salvers of fruit; and while we ate she seated herself at the harpsichord and played. "do you sing?" she asked me. "a little, madame." [the two sisters sang a song together.] "children," she cried, "tell me, i pray you, who taught you that duet?" "a young french lady, one of our friends," replied suzanne. "but her name! what is her name?" "madame carpentier." the name meant nothing to her. she sighed, and asked us to sing on.... at dinner we met again my father and the count. after dinner the countess sent for me to come to her chamber while she was nursing her babe. after a few unimportant words she said: "you have had your lessons from a good musician." "yes, madame, our friend plays beautifully on the harp." "on the harp! and you say her name is--" "madame joseph carpentier." "it is strange," said madame de la houssaye. "the words of your duet are by me, and the music by my friend the viscomptesse alix de morainville. all manner of things have happened in this terrible revolution; i had for a moment the hope that she had found chance to emigrate and that you had met her. do you know m. carpentier?" "yes, madame; he was with her. he is--in fact--a laboring gardener." "oh! then there is no hope. i had the thought of a second marriage, but alix de morainville could never stoop so low. poor, dear, innocent little alix! she must be dead--at the hand of butchers, as her father and her husband are." when we returned to the joyous company in the garden all wanted to speak at once. the countess imposed silence, and then tonton informed us that a grand ball was proposed in our honor, to be given in the large dining-room of mr. morphy's tavern, under the direction of neville déclouet, the following monday--that is, in four days. oh, that ball! i lay my pen on the table and my head in my hands and see the bright, pretty faces of young girls and richly clad cavaliers, and hear the echoes of that music so different from what we have to-day. alas! the larger part of that company are sleeping now in the cemetery of st. martinville. wherever you went, whoever you met, the ball was the subject of all conversation. all the costumes, masculine and feminine, were prepared in profound secrecy. each one vowed to astonish, dazzle, surpass his neighbor. my father, forgetting the presents from alix, gave us ever so much money and begged madame du clozel to oversee our toilets; but what was the astonishment of the dear baroness to see us buy only some vials of perfumery and two papers of pins. we paid ten dollars for each vial and fifteen for the pins! celeste invited us to see her costume the moment it reached her. it certainly did great honor to the dressmaker of st. martinville. the dress was simply made, of very fine white muslin caught up _en paniers_ on a skirt of blue satin. her beautiful black hair was to be fastened with a pearl comb, and to go between its riquettes she showed us two bunches of forget-me-nots as blue as her eyes. the extremely long-pointed waist of her dress was of the same color as the petticoat, was decolleté, and on the front had a drapery of white muslin held in place by a bunch of forget-me-nots falling to the end of the point. in the whole village she could get no white gloves. she would have to let that pass and show her round white arms clasped with two large bracelets of pearls. she showed also a necklace and earrings of pearls. madame du clozel, slave to the severe etiquette of that day, did not question us, but did go so far as to say in our presence that camayeu was never worn at night. "we know that, madame," replied my sister, slightly hurt. we decided to show our dresses to our hostess. we arranged them on the bed. when the baroness and her daughter entered our chamber they stood stupefied. the baroness spoke first. "oh, the villains! how they have fooled us! these things are worthy of a queen. they are court costumes." i said to myself, "poor, dear little alix!" footnotes: [ ] ancestor of the late judge alcibiade de blanc of st. martinville, noted in reconstruction days.--translator. [ ] by avoiding the spanish custom-house.--translator. [ ] this seems to be simply a girl's thoughtless guess. she reports alix as saying that madelaine and she "were married nearly at the same time." but this tiny, frail, spiritual alix, who between twenty-two and twenty-three looked scant sixteen, could hardly, even in those times, have been married under the age of fifteen, that is not before - ; whereas if madelaine had been married thirteen years she would have been married when alix was but ten years old. this bit of careless guessing helps to indicate the genuineness of alix's history. for when, by the light of françoise's own statements, we correct this error--totally uncorrected by any earlier hand--the correction agrees entirely with the story of alix as told in the separate manuscript. there alix is married in march, , and madelaine about a year before. in midsummer, , madelaine had been married between seven and eight years and her infant was, likely enough, her fourth child.--translator. [ ] the memoirist omits to say that this person was neville déclouet.--translator. xv. the discovery of the hat. "oh!" cried celeste, "but what will tonton say when she sees you?" "do not let her know a thing about it, girls," said madame du clozel, "or, rather than yield the scepter of beauty and elegance for but one evening, she will stay in the white chapel. what! at sixteen you don't know what the white chapel is? it is our bed." before the ball, came sunday. madame du clozel had told us that the population of the little city--all catholics--was very pious, that the little church could hardly contain the crowd of worshipers; and celeste had said that there was a grand display of dress there. we thought of having new dresses made, but the dressmaker declared it impossible; and so we were obliged to wear our camayeus a second time, adding only a lace scarf and a hat. a hat! but how could one get in that little town in the wilderness, amid a maze of lakes and bayous, hundreds of miles from new orleans, so rare and novel a thing as a hat? ah, they call necessity the mother of invention, but i declare, from experience, that vanity has performed more miracles of invention, and made greater discoveries than galileo or columbus. the women of st. martinville, tonton at their head, had revolted against fate and declared they would have hats if they had to get them at the moon. behold, now, by what a simple accident the hat was discovered. tonton de blanc had one of the prettiest complexions in the world, all lily and rose, and what care she took of it! she never went into the yard or the garden without a sunbonnet and a thick veil. yet for all that her jealous critics said she was good and sensible, and would forget everything, even her toilet, to succor any one in trouble. one day tonton heard a great noise in the street before her door. she was told that a child had just been crushed by a vehicle. without stopping to ask whether the child was white or black or if it still lived, tonton glanced around for her sun-bonnet, but, not finding it at hand, darted bareheaded into the street. at the door she met her young brother, and, as the sun was hot, she took his hat and put it on her own head. the rubicon was crossed--tonton had discovered the hat! all she had heard was a false alarm. the crushed child was at play again before its mother's door. it had been startled by a galoping team, had screamed, and instantly there had been a great hubbub and crowd. but ten minutes later the little widow, the hat in her hand, entered the domicile of its maker and astonished the woman by ordering a hat for her own use, promising five dollars if the work was done to her satisfaction. the palmetto was to be split into the finest possible strips and platted into the form furnished by madame tonton. it was done; and on sunday the hat, trimmed with roses and ribbons, made its appearance in the church of st. martin, on the prettiest head in the world. the next sunday you could see as many hats as the hatmaker had had time to make, and before the end of the month all the women in st. martinville were wearing palmetto hats. to-day the modistes were furnishing them at the fabulous price of twenty-five dollars,--trimmed, you understand,--and palmetto hats were really getting to be a branch of the commerce of the little city; but ours, thanks to alix's flowers and ribbons, cost but ten dollars. the church was crowded. the service, performed by an old priest nearly a hundred years of age, was listened to with interest; but what astonished me was to see the crowd stop at the church door, the women kissing; to hear laughter, chat, and criticism at the door of this sacred place as if it were the public square. i understood the discontent that knit my father's brows and the alacrity with which he descended the church steps. tonton saw and came to us--so fresh, so young, she was indeed the queen of beauty and fashion. out of nothing tonton could work wonders. her dress to-day was of camayeu the pattern of which was bunches of strawberries--the very same stuff as our dresses; but how had she made it to look so different? and her hat! it was a new marvel of her invention. she had taken a man's felt hat and entirely covered it with the feathers of the cardinal bird, without other ornament than a bunch of white ribbon on the front and two long cords of white silk falling clear to the waist. that was the first hat of the kind i ever saw, but it was not the last. with one turn of her little hand she could make the whole female population of st. martinville go as she pleased. before we left st. martinville we had the chance to admire more than fifty hats covered with the feathers of peacocks, geese, and even guinea-fowl, and--must we confess it?--when we got home we enlisted all our hunter friends to bring us numerous innocent cardinals, and tried to make us hats; but they did not look the least like the pretty widow's. sunday was also the day given to visiting. being already dressed, it was so easy to go see one's friends.... among the new visitors was saint marc d'arby--engaged to little constance de blanc, aged thirteen. he came to invite us to a picnic on the coming wednesday. "ah," i cried, with regret, "the very day papa has chosen for us to leave for the town of opelousas!" ... since arriving in st. martinville we had hardly seen papa. he left early each morning and returned late in the evening, telling of lands he had bought during the day. his wish was to go to opelousas to register them.... to-day the whole town of opelousas belongs to his heirs; but those heirs, with creole heedlessness and afraid to spend a dollar, let strangers enjoy the possession of the beautiful lands acquired by their ancestor for so different an end. shame on all of them! it was decided for papa to leave us with the baroness during his visit to opelousas. "and be ready to depart homeward," said he, "on the following monday." xvi. the ball. the evening before that of the ball gave us lively disappointment. a fine rain began to fall. but celeste came to assure us that in st. martinville a storm had never prevented a ball, and if one had to go by boat, still one had to go. later the weather improved, and several young gentlemen came to visit us.... "will there be a supper, chevalier?" asked the baroness of her future son-in-law.--"ah, good! for me the supper is the best part of the affair." alas! man proposes. the next morning she was in bed suffering greatly with her throat. "neither supper nor ball for me this evening," she said. "the countess de la houssaye will take care of you and celeste this evening."... at last our toilets were complete.... when madame de la houssaye opened the door and saw us, instead of approaching, she suddenly stopped with her hands clasped convulsively, and with eyes dilated and a pallor and look of astonishment that i shall never forget. i was about to speak when she ran to suzanne and seized her by the arm. "child! for pity answer me! where did that dress--these jewels, come from?" "madame!" said my sister, quickly taking offense. "françoise!" cried the countess, "you will answer me. listen. the last time i saw the countess aurélie de morainville, six years ago, was at a reception of queen marie antoinette, and she wore a dress exactly like that of suzanne's. my child, pity my emotions and tell me where you bought that toilet." i answered, almost as deeply moved as she: "we did not buy it, madame. these costumes were given to us by madame carpentier." "given! do you know the price of these things?" "yes; and, moreover, madame du clozel has told us." "and you tell me a poor woman, the wife of a gardener, made you these presents. oh! i must see this madame carpentier. she must have known alix. and who knows--oh, yes, yes! i must go myself and see her." "and i must give her forewarning," i said to myself. but, alas! as i have just said, "man proposes, god disposes." about six months after our return to st. james we heard of the death of the countess de la houssaye, which had occurred only two months after our leaving st. martinville.... * * * * * oh, how my heart beat as i saw the lights of the ball-room and heard its waves of harmony! i had already attended several dances in the neighborhood of our home, but they could not compare with this. the walls were entirely covered with green branches mingled with flowers of all colors, especially with magnolias whose odor filled the room. hidden among the leaves were millions of fantastically colored lampions seeming like so many glow-worms.[ ] to me, poor little rustic of sixteen, it seemed supernaturally beautiful. but the prettiest part--opposite the door had been raised a platform surmounted by a dais made of three flags: the french, spanish, and prussian--prussia was papa's country. and under these colors, on a pedestal that supported them, were seen, in immense letters composed of flowers, the one german word, _bewillkommen_! papa explained that the word meant "welcome." on the platform, attired with inconceivable elegance, was the master of ceremonies, the handsome neville déclouet himself, waiting to wish us welcome anew. it would take volumes, my daughter, to describe the admirable toilets, masculine as well as feminine, of that memorable night. the thing is impossible. but i must describe that of the king of the festival, the young neville, that you may understand the immense difference between the toilets of and those of . neville had arranged his hair exactly as on the day we first saw him. it was powdered white; his pigeon-wings were fastened with the same pins of gold, and his long queue was wrapped with a rose-colored ribbon. his coat was of frosted rose silk with broad facings of black velvet. his vest came down nearly to his knees. it also was of rose silk, but covered with black buttons. his breeches, also rose, were fastened at the knees with black velvet ribbons escaping from diamond buckles and falling upon silk stockings shot alternately with black and rose. diamonds sparkled again on his lace frill, at his wrists, on his cravat of rose silk, and on the buckles of his pumps. i cast my eye around to find tonton, but she had not come. some one near me said, "do you know who will escort madame du rocher to the ball?" and another said, "here is neville, so who will replace him at the side of the pretty widow?" as we entered the room the baron du clozel passed his arm under papa's and conducted him to the platform, while his sons, following, drew us forward to receive the tributes prepared for us. neville bowed low and began his address. at first he spoke with feeling and eloquence, but by and by he lost the thread. he cast a look of despair upon the crowd, which did not conceal its disposition to laugh, turned again quickly towards us, passed his hand twice across his forehead, and finished with: "yes, i repeat it, we are glad to see you; you are welcome among us, and--i say to you only that!" there was a general burst of laughter. but my father pitied the young man's embarrassment. he mounted the platform, shook his hand, and thanked him, as well as all the people of st. martinville, for his gracious welcome and their warm hospitality. then, to our great joy, the ball opened. it began with a minuet danced by twelve couples at once, six on each side. the minuet in vogue just then was well danced by but few persons. it had been brought to st. martinville by émigrés who had danced it at the french court ... but, thanks to the lessons given us by alix, we had the pleasure to surprise them. now i ought to tell you, my daughter, that these male costumes, so effeminate, extravagant, and costly, had met great opposition from part of the people of st. martin parish. they had been brought in by the french émigrés, and many had adopted them, while others had openly revolted against them. a league had been formed against them. among its members were the chevalier de blanc, the elder of the d'arbys, the chevalier de la houssaye, brother of the count, paul briant, adrian dumartrait, young morse, and many others. they had thrown off entirely the fashionable dress and had replaced it with an attire much like what men wear now. it was rumored that the pretty tonton favored the reform of which her brother was one of the chiefs. just as the minuet was being finished a loud murmur ran through the hall. all eyes were turned to the door and some couples confused their steps in the dance. tonton had come. she was received with a cry of surprise; not for her beauty, not for her exquisite toilet, but because of him who entered with her. "great god!" exclaimed celeste du clozel, "it is tréville de saint julien!"--"oh!" cried madame de la houssaye, "tonton is a fool, an arch-fool. does she want to see bloodshed this evening?"--"the countess madelaine is going to faint!" derisively whispered olivier in my ear. "who," asked suzanne, "is tréville de saint julien?" "he is 'the hermit of bayou tortue,'" responded the gentle celeste de blanc. "what pretense of simplicity, look you!" said charles du clozel, glancing towards him disdainfully. "but look at madame du rocher," cried a girl standing on a bench, "how she is dressed. what contempt of fashion and propriety! it is positively shameful." and tonton, indifferent to these remarks, which she heard and to which she was accustomed, and to the furious glances thrown upon her cavalier by neville déclouet, continued, with her arm in his, to chat and laugh with him as they walked slowly around the hall. if i describe to you, my daughter, the toilets of tonton and of tréville de saint julien, i write it for you alone, dear child, and it seems to me it would be a theft against you if i did not. but this is the last time i shall stop to describe petticoats, gowns, and knee-breeches. tréville was twenty-five; large, dark, of a manly, somber beauty. a great unhappiness had overtaken him in childhood and left a permanent trace on his forehead. he wore his hair slightly long, falling behind without queue or powder. in only soldiers retained their beard. tréville de saint julien, despite the fashion, kept the fine black mustache on his proud lip. his shirt, without a frill, was fastened with three gold buttons. his broad-skirted coat, long vest, and breeches were of black woolen stuff. his black stockings were also of wool. his garters and shoes were without buckles. but serving him as a garter, and forming a rosette on the front of the leg, he wore a ribbon of plaided rose and black. and tonton. over a dress--a real dress, such as we have nowadays--of rose satin, with long-pointed waist, was draped another, of black lace. the folds, running entirely around the skirt, were caught up by roses surrounded by their buds and leaves. the same drapery was repeated on the waist, and in front and on the shoulders re-appeared the roses. the sleeves were very short, and the arms bare and without gloves. it was simple, but prettier than you can think. her hair was in two wide braids, without powder, forming a heart and falling low upon the neck. among these tresses she had placed a rose like those on the skirt. for ornaments she had only a necklace and bracelets of jet to heighten the fresh whiteness of her complexion. they had said tonton would die of jealousy at our rich toilets. nothing of the sort. she came to us with her habitual grace, kissed us, ignoring etiquette and the big eyes made by the countess madelaine. without an allusion to our dress or seeming to see it, she sat down between us, told us persons' names, pointed out the beauty of this one, the pretty dress of that one, always admiring, never criticising. she knew well she was without a rival. i amused myself watching tréville and neville out of the corner of my eyes. tréville seemed to see but one woman in the room. he danced several times, always with her, and when he did not dance he went aside, spoke with no one, but followed with his glances her whom he seemed to adore. he made no attempt to hide his adoration; it shone from his eyes: his every movement was full of it. when she returned to her place, he came, remained before her chair, leaned towards her, listened with ravished ear, and rarely sat down by her side. it was good to watch neville. his eyes flashed with anger, his fists fidgeted, and more than once i saw him quit the hall, no doubt to make a quarrel with his rival. not once did he come near tonton! not once did he dance with her! but he danced with all the young girls in the room and pretended to be very gay. while i was dancing with him i said: "how pretty tonton is this evening!" and i understood the spite that made him reply: "ah! mademoiselle, her beauty is certainly not to be compared with yours." after the supper, which was magnificent, the bolero was danced. twelve couples were engaged, continually changing partners. tonton danced with tréville, suzanne with olivier, and i with neville. alas, alas! all things earthly have an end, and at two in the morning the ball was over. when we reached our chamber i saw that my sister had something to tell me. "ah!" said she, "have patience. i will tell you after we get into bed." [what she told was the still famous saint julien feud. tréville and neville were representatives of the two sides in that, one of the darkest vendettas known in the traditions of louisiana. the omission of this episode in the present translation is the only liberty taken with the original that probably calls for an apology.] footnotes: [ ] number of millions not stated.--translator. xvii. picnic and farewell. the day of the picnic rose brightly. oh, what a day we passed under those grand trees, on the margin of that clear lake full of every imaginable sort of fish! what various games! what pleasant companions! all our friends were there except tréville de saint julien, and madame tonton gave her smiles and sweet looks to neville, who never left her a moment. oh, how i regretted that my father was not with us! he had gone to opelousas. he had bought several plantations in st. martin parish, and in a region called fausse pointe, and in another known as the côte gelée. the days that followed were equally fête days--a dinner here, a dance there, and everywhere the most gracious reception. at length came the day for us to meet at la fontaine--a real spring near st. martinville, belonging to neville déclouet's uncle. about five in the afternoon we gathered on the bank of the bayou. we never saw tonton twice in the same dress. to-day she was all in blue. suddenly the sound of distant music, and an open flat--not like our boat--approached, arched over with green branches and flowers. benches stood about, and in the middle the orchestra played. in the prow stood the captain [neville déclouet], and during the moments of the journey the music was mingled with the laughter and songs of our joyous company. about o'clock all the trees about la fontaine were illuminated, and neville led us to a floored place encircled by magnolia trees in bloom and by garlands running from tree to tree and mingling their perfume with the languishing odor of the magnolias. only heaven can tell how neville was praised and thanked. i felt sure that tonton's good taste had directed the details. there was something singular in this young woman. without education save what she had taught herself, tonton spoke with remarkable correctness, and found means to amuse every one. her letters were curious to see, not a single word correctly spelled; yet her style was charming, and i cannot express the pleasure they gave me, for during more than a year i received them by every opportunity that presented itself. but to return to la fontaine. about seven the handsome tréville de st. julien came on a horse as black as ebony, and i saw the color mount to suzanne's forehead. for a wonder he paid tonton only the attentions required by politeness, and the pretty widow, while still queen of all, belonged that evening entirely to neville. the following saturday my father arrived. the next day, after mass, our friends came in a body to say adieu. and on the morrow, amid kisses, handshaking, regrets, tears, and waving handkerchiefs, we departed in the carriage that was to bear us far and forever from little paris, and the friends we shall never meet again. suzanne and i wept like children. on the fourth day after, the carriage stopped before the door of m. gerbeau's house. i must confess we were not over-polite to mme. gerbeau. we embraced her hurriedly, and, leaving my father talking about lands, started on a run for alix's dwelling. oh, dear alix! how happy she seemed to see us again! how proud to show us the innovations made in her neat little house! with what touching care had she prepared our chamber! she had wished for a sofa, and joseph had made her one and covered it with one of the velvet robes of the countess aurelia de morainville. and when we went into alix's own room, suzanne, whose eye nothing ever escaped, pointed out to me, half hidden behind the mosquito-net of the bed, the prettiest little cradle in the world. "yes," said alix, blushing, "i am blessed. i am perfectly happy." we told her all our adventures and pleasures. she wept when she heard that the countess de la houssaye had not forgotten her. "you will see her," said suzanne. "she will come to see you, without a doubt." "ah, heaven prevent it! our destinies are too unlike now. me perhaps the countess madelaine might welcome affectionately; but joseph? oh, no! my husband's lot is mine; i have no wish for any other. it is better that she and i remain strangers." and joseph? how he confessed his joy in seeing us! during our absence m. gerbeau had found means for us to return to st. james. it seems that two little boats, resembling steamboats in form, kept up a constant trade in wood--clapboards, _pieux_ [split boards], shingles, even cordwood--between the lakes and the bayou teche plantation. m. gerbeau had taken his skiff and two oarsmen and gone in search of one of these boats, which, as he guessed, was not far away. in fact he met it in mexican [now berwick's] bay, and for two hundred dollars persuaded the captain to take us to st. james. "yes," said m. gerbeau to us, "you will make in a week a journey that might have taken you two months." the following monday the captain tied up at m. gerbeau's landing. it was a droll affair, his boat. you must have seen on plantations what they call a horse-mill--a long pole on which a man sits, and to which a horse or mule is hitched. such was the machinery by which we moved. the boat's cabin was all one room. the berths, one above another, ran all round the room, hung with long curtains, and men, women, and children--when there were any--were all obliged to stay in the same apartment. we remained with alix to the last moment. the morning we left she gave suzanne a pretty ring, and me a locket containing her portrait. in return my sister placed upon her finger a ruby encircled with little diamonds; and i, taking off the gold medal i always wore on my neck, whispered: "wear it for love of me." she smiled. [just as we were parting she handed me the story of her life.[ ]] at an early hour my father had our trunks, baskets, and mats sent aboard the _sirène_; and after many tears, and promises to write and to return, we took our leave. we had quitted st. james the th of may. we landed there once more on the th of september. need i recount the joy of my mother and sisters? you understand all that. and now, my daughter, the tale is told. read it to your children and assure them that all is true; that there is here no exaggeration; that they can put faith in their old grandmother's story and take their part in her pleasures, her friendships, and her emotions. footnotes: [ ] see "how i got them," page . [illustration: part of first page, "alix ms."] alix de morainville - . _written in louisiana this d of august, , for my dear friends suzanne and françoise bossier_. i have promised you the story of my life, my very dear and good friends with whom i have had so much pleasure on board the flatboat which has brought us all to attakapas. i now make good my promise. and first i must speak of the place where i was born, of the beautiful château de morainville, built above the little village named morainville in honor of its lords. this village, situated in normandy on the margin of the sea, was peopled only and entirely by fishermen, who gained a livelihood openly by sardine-fishing, and secretly, it was said, by smuggling. the château was built on a cliff, which it completely occupied. this cliff was formed of several terraces that rose in a stair one above another. on the topmost one sat the château, like an eagle in its nest. it had four dentilated turrets, with great casements and immense galleries, that gave it the grandest possible aspect. on the second terrace you found yourself in the midst of delightful gardens adorned with statues and fountains after the fashion of the times. then came the avenue, entirely overshaded with trees as old as noah, and everywhere on the hill, forming the background of the picture, an immense park. how my suzanne would have loved to hunt in that beautiful park full of deer, hare, and all sorts of feathered game! and yet no one inhabited that beautiful domain. its lord and mistress, the count gaston and countess aurélie, my father and mother, resided in paris, and came to their château only during the hunting season, their sojourn never exceeding six weeks. already they had been five years married. the countess, a lady of honor to the young dauphine, marie antoinette, bore the well-merited reputation of being the most charming woman at the court of the king, louis the fifteenth. count and countess, wealthy as they were and happy as they seemed to be, were not overmuch so, because of their desire for a son; for one thing, which is not seen in this country, you will not doubt, dear girls, exists in france and other countries of europe: it is the eldest son, and never the daughter, who inherits the fortune and titles of the family. and in case there were no children, the titles and fortune of the morainvilles would have to revert in one lump to the nephew of the count and son of his brother, to abner de morainville, who at that time was a mere babe of four years. this did not meet the wishes of m. and mme. de morainville, who wished to retain their property in their own house. but great news comes to morainville: the countess is with child. the steward of the château receives orders to celebrate the event with great rejoicings. in the avenue long tables are set covered with all sorts of inviting meats, the fiddlers are called, and the peasants dance, eat, and drink to the health of the future heir of the morainvilles. a few months later my parents arrived bringing a great company with them; and there were feasts and balls and hunting-parties without end. it was in the course of one of these hunts that my mother was thrown from her horse. she was hardly in her seventh month when i came into the world. she escaped death, but i was born as large as--a mouse! and with one shoulder much higher than the other. i must have died had not the happy thought come to the woman-in-waiting to procure catharine, the wife of the gardener, guillaume carpentier, to be my nurse; and it is to her care, to her rubbings, and above all to her good milk, that i owe the capability to amuse you, my dear girls and friends, with the account of my life--that life whose continuance i truly owe to my mother catharine. when my actual mother had recovered she returned to paris; and as my nurse, who had four boys, could not follow her, it was decided that i should remain at the château and that my mother catharine should stay there with me. her cottage was situated among the gardens. her husband, father guillaume, was the head gardener, and his four sons were joseph, aged six years; next matthieu, who was four; then jerome, two; and my foster-brother bastien, a big lubber of three months. my father and mother did not at all forget me. they sent me playthings of all sorts, sweetmeats, silken frocks adorned with embroideries and laces, and all sorts of presents for mother catharine and her children. i was happy, very happy, for i was worshiped by all who surrounded me. mother catharine preferred me above her own children. father guillaume would go down upon his knees before me to get a smile [risette], and joseph often tells me he swooned when they let him hold me in his arms. it was a happy time, i assure you; yes, very happy. i was two years old when my parents returned, and as they had brought a great company with them the true mother instructed my nurse to take me back to her cottage and keep me there, that i might not be disturbed by noise. mother catharine has often said to me that my mother could not bear to look at my crippled shoulder, and that she called me a hunchback. but after all it was the truth, and my nurse-mother was wrong to lay that reproach upon my mother aurélie. seven years passed. i had lived during that time the life of my foster-brothers, flitting everywhere with them over the flowery grass like the veritable lark that i was. two or three times during that period my parents came to see me, but without company, quite alone. they brought me a lot of beautiful things; but really i was afraid of them, particularly of my mother, who was so beautiful and wore a grand air full of dignity and self-regard. she would kiss me, but in a way very different from mother catharine's way--squarely on the forehead, a kiss that seemed made of ice. one fine day she arrived at the cottage with a tall, slender lady who wore blue spectacles on a singularly long nose. she frightened me, especially when my mother told me that this was my governess, and that i must return to the château with her and live there to learn a host of fine things of which even the names were to me unknown; for i had never seen a book except my picture books. i uttered piercing cries; but my mother, without paying any attention to my screams, lifted me cleverly, planted two spanks behind, and passed me to the hands of mme. levicq--that was the name of my governess. the next day my mother left me and i repeated my disturbance, crying, stamping my feet, and calling to mother catharine and bastien. (to tell the truth, jerome and matthieu were two big lubbers [rougeots] very peevish and coarse-mannered, which i could not endure.) madame put a book into my hands and wished to have me repeat after her; i threw the book at her head. then, rightly enough, in despair she placed me where i could see the cottage in the midst of the garden and told me that when the lesson was ended i might go and see my mother catharine and play with my brothers. i promptly consented, and that is how i learned to read. this mme. levicq was most certainly a woman of good sense. she had a kind heart and much ability. she taught me nearly all i know--first of all, french; the harp, the guitar, drawing, embroidery; in short, i say again, all that i know. i was fourteen years old when my mother came, and this time not alone. my cousin abner was with her. my mother had me called into her chamber, closely examined my shoulder, loosed my hair, looked at my teeth, made me read, sing, play the harp, and when all this was ended smiled and said: "you are beautiful, my daughter; you have profited by the training of your governess; the defect of your shoulder has not increased. i am satisfied--well satisfied; and i am going to tell you that i have brought the viscomte abner de morainville because i have chosen him for your future husband. go, join him in the avenue." i was a little dismayed at first, but when i had seen my intended my dismay took flight--he was such a handsome fellow, dressed with so much taste, and wore his sword with so much grace and spirit. at the end of two days he loved me to distraction and i doted on him. i brought him to my nurse's cabin and told her all our plans of marriage and all my happiness, not observing the despair of poor joseph, who had always worshiped me and who had not doubted he would have me to love. but who would have thought it--a laboring gardener lover of his lord's daughter? ah, i would have laughed heartily then if i had known it! on the evening before my departure--i had to leave with my mother this time--i went to say adieu to mother catharine. she asked me if i loved abner. "oh, yes, mother!" i replied, "i love him with all my soul"; and she said she was happy to hear it. then i directed joseph to go and request monsieur the curé, in my name, to give him lessons in reading and writing, in order to be able to read the letters that i should write to my nurse-mother and to answer them. this order was carried out to the letter, and six months later joseph was the correspondent of the family and read to them my letters. that was his whole happiness. i had been quite content to leave for paris: first, because abner went with me, and then because i hoped to see a little of all those beautiful things of which he had spoken to me with so much charm; but how was i disappointed! my mother kept me but one day at her house, and did not even allow abner to come to see me. during that day i must, she said, collect my thoughts preparatory to entering the convent. for it was actually to the convent of the ursulines, of which my father's sister was the superior, that she conducted me next day. think of it, dear girls! i was fourteen, but not bigger than a lass of ten, used to the open air and to the caresses of mother catharine and my brothers. it seemed to me as if i were a poor little bird shut in a great dark cage. my aunt, the abbess, agnes de morainville, took me to her room, gave me bonbons and pictures, told me stories, and kissed and caressed me, but her black gown and her bonnet appalled me, and i cried with all my might: "i want mother catharine! i want joseph! i want bastien!" my aunt, in despair, sent for three or four little pupils to amuse me; but this was labor lost, and i continued to utter the same outcries. at last, utterly spent, i fell asleep, and my aunt bore me to my little room and put me to bed, and then slowly withdrew, leaving the door ajar. on the second floor of the convent there were large dormitories, where some hundreds of children slept; but on the first there were a number of small chambers, the sole furniture of each being a folding bed, a washstand, and a chair, and you had to pay its weight in gold for the privilege of occupying one of these cells, in order not to be mixed with the daughters of the bourgeoisie, of lawyers and merchants. my mother, who was very proud, had exacted absolutely that they give me one of these select cells. hardly had my aunt left me when i awoke, and fear joined itself to grief. fancy it! i had never lain down in a room alone, and here i awoke in a corner of a room half lighted by a lamp hung from the ceiling. you can guess i began again my writhings and cries. thereupon appeared before me in the open door the most beautiful creature imaginable. i took her for a fairy, and fell to gazing at her with my eyes full of amazement and admiration. you have seen madelaine, and you can judge of her beauty in her early youth. it was a fabulous beauty joined to a manner fair, regal, and good. she took me in her arms, dried my tears, and at last, at the extremity of her resources, carried me to her bed; and when i awoke the next day i found myself still in the arms of madelaine de livilier. from that moment began between us that great and good friendship which was everything for me during the time that i passed in the convent. i should have died of loneliness and grief without madelaine. i had neither brothers nor sisters; she was both these to me: she was older than i, and protected me while she loved me. she was the niece of the rich cardinal de ségur, who had sent and brought her from louisiana. this is why madelaine had such large privileges at the convent. she told me she was engaged to the young count louis le pelletrier de la houssaye, and i, with some change of color, told her of abner. one day madelaine's aunt, the countess de ségur, came to take her to spend the day at her palace. my dear friend besought her aunt with such graciousness that she obtained permission to take me with her, and for the first time i saw the count louis, madelaine's _fiancé_. he was a very handsome young man, of majestic and distinguished air. he had hair and eyes as black as ink, red lips, and a fine mustache. he wore in his buttonhole the cross of the royal order of st. louis, and on his shoulders the epaulettes of a major. he had lately come from san domingo [where he had been fighting the insurgents at the head of his regiment].[ ] yes, he was a handsome young man, a bold cavalier; and madelaine idolized him. after that day i often accompanied my friend in her visits to the home of her aunt. count louis was always there to wait upon his betrothed, and abner, apprised by him, came to join us. ah! that was a happy time, very happy. at the end of a year my dear madelaine quitted the convent to be married. ah, how i wept to see her go! i loved her so! i had neither brothers nor sisters, and madelaine was my heart's own sister. i was very young, scarcely fifteen; yet, despite my extreme youth, madelaine desired me to be her bridesmaid, and her aunt, the countess de ségur, and the baroness de chevigné, count louis's aunt, went together to find my mother and ask her to permit me to fill that office. my mother made many objections, saying that i was too young; but--between you and me--she could refuse nothing to ladies of such high station. she consented, therefore, and proceeded at once to order my costume at the dressmaker's. it was a mass of white silk and lace with intermingled pearls. for the occasion my mother lent me her pearls, which were of great magnificence. but, finest of all, the queen, marie antoinette, saw me at the church of notre dame, whither all the court had gathered for the occasion,--for count louis de la houssaye was a great favorite,--and now the queen sent one of her lords to apprise my mother that she wished to see me, and commanded that i be presented at court--_grande rumeur_! mamma consented to let me remain the whole week out of the convent. every day there was a grand dinner or breakfast and every evening a dance or a grand ball. always it was abner who accompanied me. i wrote of all my pleasures to my mother catharine. joseph read my letters to her, and, as he told me in later days, they gave him mortal pain. for the presentation my mother ordered a suit all of gold and velvet. madelaine and i were presented the same day. the countess de ségur was my escort [marraine] and took me by the hand, while mme. de chevigné rendered the same office to madelaine. abner told me that day i was as pretty as an angel. if i was so to him, it was because he loved me. i knew, myself, i was too small, too pale, and ever so different from madelaine. it was she you should have seen. i went back to the convent, and during the year that i passed there i was lonely enough to have died. it was decided that i should be married immediately on leaving the convent, and my mother ordered for me the most beautiful wedding outfit imaginable. my father bought me jewels of every sort, and abner did not spare of beautiful presents. i had been about fifteen days out of the convent when terrible news caused me many tears. my dear madelaine was about to leave me forever and return to america. the reason was this: there was much disorder in the colony of louisiana, and the king deciding to send thither a man capable of restoring order, his choice fell upon count louis de la houssaye, whose noble character he had recognized. count louis would have refused, for he had a great liking for france; but [he had lately witnessed the atrocities committed by the negroes of san domingo, and[ ]] something--a presentiment--warned him that the revolution was near at hand. he was glad to bear his dear wife far from the scenes of horror that were approaching with rapid strides. madelaine undoubtedly experienced pleasure in thinking that she was again going to see her parents and her native land, but she regretted to leave france, where she had found so much amusement and where i must remain behind her without hope of our ever seeing each other again. she wept, oh, so much! she had bidden me good-bye and we had wept long, and her last evening, the eve of the day when she was to take the diligence for havre, where the vessel awaited them, was to be passed in family group at the residence of the baroness de chevigné. here were present, first the young couple; the cardinal, the count and countess de ségur; then barthelemy de la houssaye, brother of the count, and the old count de [maurepas, only a few months returned from exile and now at the pinnacle of royal favor].[ ] he had said when he came that he could stay but a few hours and had ordered his coach to await him below. he was the most lovable old man in the world. all at once madelaine said: "ah! if i could see alix once more--only once more!" the old count without a word slipped away, entered his carriage, and had himself driven to the morainville hotel, where there was that evening a grand ball. tarrying in the ante-chamber, he had my mother called. she came with alacrity, and when she knew the object of the count's visit she sent me to get a great white burnoose, enveloped me in it, and putting my hand into the count's said to me: "you have but to show yourself to secure the carriage." but the count promised to bring me back himself. oh, how glad my dear madelaine was to see me! with what joy she kissed me! but she has recounted this little scene to you, as you, françoise, have told me. a month after the departure of the de la houssayes, my wedding was celebrated at notre dame. it was a grand occasion. the king was present with all the court. as my husband was in the king's service, the queen wished me to become one of her ladies of honor. directly after my marriage i had bastien come to me. i made him my confidential servant. he rode behind my carriage, waited upon me at table, and, in short, was my man of all work. i was married the th of march, , at the age of sixteen. already the rumbling murmurs of the revolution were making themselves heard like distant thunder. on the th of july the bastille was taken and the head of the governor de launay [was] carried through the streets.[ ] my mother was frightened and proposed to leave the country. she came to find me and implored me to go with her to england, and asked abner to accompany us. my husband refused with indignation, declaring that his place was near his king. "and mine near my husband," said i, throwing my arms around abner's neck. my father, like my husband, had refused positively to leave the king, and it was decided that mamma should go alone. she began by visiting the shops, and bought stuffs, ribbons, and laces. it was i who helped her pack her trunks, which she sent in advance to morainville. she did not dare go to get her diamonds, which were locked up in the bank of france; that would excite suspicion, and she had to content herself with such jewelry as she had at her residence. she left in a coach with my father, saying as she embraced me that her absence would be brief, for it would be easy enough to crush the vile mob. she went down to morainville, and there, thanks to the devotion of guillaume carpentier and of his sons, she was carried to england in a contrabandist vessel. as she was accustomed to luxury, she put into her trunks the plate of the château and also several valuable pictures. my father had given her sixty thousand francs and charged her to be economical. soon i found myself in the midst of terrible scenes that i have not the courage, my dear girls, to recount. the memory of them makes me even to-day tremble and turn pale. i will only tell you that one evening a furious populace entered our palace. i saw my husband dragged far from me by those wretches, and just as two of the monsters were about to seize me bastien took me into his arms, and holding me tightly against his bosom leaped from a window and took to flight with all his speed. happy for us that it was night and that the monsters were busy pillaging the house. they did not pursue us at all, and my faithful bastien took me to the home of his cousin claudine leroy. she was a worker in lace, whom, with my consent, he was to have married within the next fortnight. i had lost consciousness, but claudine and bastien cared for me so well that they brought me back to life, and i came to myself to learn that my father and my husband had been arrested and conveyed to the conciergerie. my despair was great, as you may well think. claudine arranged a bed for me in a closet [cloisette] adjoining her chamber, and there i remained hidden, dying of fear and grief, as you may well suppose. at the end of four days i heard some one come into claudine's room, and then a deep male voice. my heart ceased to beat and i was about to faint away, when i recognized the voice of my faithful joseph. i opened the door and threw myself upon his breast, crying over and over: "o joseph! dear joseph!" he pressed me to his bosom, giving me every sort of endearing name, and at length revealed to me the plan he had formed, to take me at once to morainville under the name of claudine leroy. he went out with claudine to obtain a passport. thanks to god and good angels claudine was small like me, had black hair and eyes like mine, and there was no trouble in arranging the passport. we took the diligence, and as i was clothed in peasant dress, a suit of claudine's, i easily passed for her. joseph had the diligence stop beside the park gate, of which he had brought the key. he wished to avoid the village. we entered therefore by the park, and soon i was installed in the cottage of my adopted parents, and joseph and his brothers said to every one that claudine leroy, appalled by the horrors being committed in paris, had come for refuge to morainville. then joseph went back to paris to try to save my father and my husband. bastien had already got himself engaged as an assistant in the prison. but alas! all their efforts could effect nothing, and the only consolation that joseph brought back to morainville was that he had seen its lords on the fatal cart and had received my father's last smile. these frightful tidings failed to kill me; i lay a month between life and death, and joseph, not to expose me to the recognition of the morainville physician, went and brought one from rouen. the good care of mother catharine was the best medicine for me, and i was cured to weep over my fate and my cruel losses. it was at this juncture that for the first time i suspected that joseph loved me. his eyes followed me with a most touching expression; he paled and blushed when i spoke to him, and i divined the love which the poor fellow could not conceal. it gave me pain to see how he loved me, and increased my wish to join my mother in england. i knew she had need of me, and i had need of her. meanwhile a letter came to the address of father guillaume. it was a contrabandist vessel that brought it and of the first evening other to the address recognized the writing set me to sobbing all, my heart i began (_torn off and gone_.) demanded of my father of saying that country well added that abner and i must come also, and that it was nonsense to wish to remain faithful to a lost cause. she begged my father to go and draw her diamonds from the bank and to send them to her with at least a hundred thousand francs. oh! how i wept after seeing letter! mother catharine to console me but then to make. then and said to me, will to make you (_torn off and gone_.) england, madame oh! yes, joseph would be so well pleased poor fellow the money of family. i from the way in which, the cabin was built, one could see any one coming who had business there. but one day--god knows how it happened--a child of the village all at once entered the chamber where i was and knew me. "madame alix!" he cried, took to his heels and went down the terrace pell-mell [quatre à quatre] to give the alarm. ten minutes later matthieu came at a full run and covered with sweat, to tell us that all the village was in commotion and that those people to whom i had always been so good were about to come and arrest me, to deliver me to the executioners. i ran to joseph, beside myself with affright. "save me, joseph! save me!" "i will use all my efforts for that, mme. la viscomtesse." at that moment jerome appeared. he came to say that a representative of the people was at hand and that i was lost beyond a doubt. "not yet," responded joseph. "i have foreseen this and have prepared everything to save you, mme. la viscomtesse, if you will but let me make myself well understood." "oh, all, all! do _thou_ understand, joseph, i will do everything thou desirest." "then," he said, regarding me fixedly and halting at each word--"then it is necessary that you consent to take joseph carpentier for your spouse." i thought i had [been] misunderstood and drew back haughtily. "my son!" cried mother catharine. "oh, you see," replied joseph, "my mother herself accuses me, and you--you, madame, have no greater confidence in me. but that is nothing; i must save you at any price. we will go from here together; we will descend to the village; we will present ourselves at the mayoralty--" in spite of myself i made a gesture. "let me speak, madame," he said. "we have not a moment to lose. yes, we will present ourselves at the mayoralty, and there i will espouse you, not as claudine leroy, but as alix de morainville. once my wife you have nothing to fear. having become one of the people, the people will protect you. after the ceremony, madame, i will hand you the certificate of our marriage, and you will tear it up the moment we shall have touched the soil of england. keep it precious till then; it is your only safeguard. nothing prevents me from going to england to find employment, and necessarily my wife will go with me. are you ready, madame?" for my only response i put my hand in his; i was too deeply moved to speak. mother catharine threw both her arms about her son's neck and cried, "my noble child!" and we issued from the cottage guarded by guillaume and his three other sons, armed to the teeth. when the mayor heard the names and surnames of the wedding pair he turned to joseph, saying: "you are not lowering yourself, my boy." at the door of the mayoralty we found ourselves face to face with an immense crowd. i trembled violently and pressed against joseph. he, never losing his presence of mind [sans perdre la carte], turned, saying: "allow me, my friends, to present to you my wife. the viscomtesse de morainville no longer exists; hurrah for the citoyenne carpentier." and the hurrahs and cries of triumph were enough to deafen one. those who the moment before were ready to tear me into pieces now wanted to carry me in triumph. arrived at the house, joseph handed me our act of marriage. "keep it, madame," said he; "you can destroy it on your arrival in england." at length one day, three weeks after our marriage, joseph came to tell me that he had secured passage on a vessel, and that we must sail together under the name of citoyen and citoyenne carpentier. i was truly sorry to leave my adopted parents and foster-brother, yet at the bottom of my heart i was rejoiced that i was going to find my mother. but alas! when i arrived in london, at the address that she had given me, i found there only her old friend the chevalier d'ivoy, who told me that my mother was dead, and that what was left of her money, with her jewels and chests, was deposited in the bank of england. i was more dead than alive; all these things paralyzed me. but my good joseph took upon himself to do everything for me. he went and drew what had been deposited in the bank. indeed of money there remained but twelve thousand francs; but there were plate, jewels, pictures, and many vanities in the form of gowns and every sort of attire. joseph rented a little house in a suburb of london, engaged an old frenchwoman to attend me, and he, after all my husband, made himself my servant, my gardener, my factotum. he ate in the kitchen with the maid, waited upon me at table, and slept in the garret on a pallet. "am i not very wicked?" said i to myself every day, especially when i saw his pallor and profound sadness. they had taught me in the convent that the ties of marriage were a sacred thing and that one could not break them, no matter how they might have been made; and when my patrician pride revolted at the thought of this union with the son of my nurse my heart pleaded and pleaded hard the cause of poor j joseph. his (_evidently torn before alix care, his wrote on it, as no words presence, became are wanting in the text_.) more and more necessary. i knew not how to do anything myself, but made him my all in all, avoiding myself every shadow of care or trouble. i must say, moreover, that since he had married me i had a kind of fear of him and was afraid that i should hear him speak to me of love; but he scarcely thought of it, poor fellow: reverence closed his lips. thus matters stood when one evening joseph entered the room (_opposite page of the where i was reading, same torn sheet. alix and standing has again written upright before around the rent_.) me, his hat in his hand, said to me that he had something to tell me. his expression was so unhappy that i felt the tears mount to my eyes. "what is it, dear joseph?" i asked; and when he could answer nothing on account of his emotion, i rose, crying: "more bad news? what has happened to my nurse-mother? speak, speak, joseph!" "nothing, mme. la viscomtesse," he replied. "my mother and bastien, i hope, are well. it is of myself i wish to speak." then my heart made a sad commotion in my bosom, for i thought he was about to speak of love. but not at all. he began again, in a low voice: "i am going to america, madame." i sprung towards him. "you go away? you go away?" i cried. "and i, joseph?" "you, madame?" said he. "you have money. the revolution will soon be over, and you can return to your country. there you will find again your friends, your titles, your fortune." "stop!" i cried. "what shall i be in france? you well know my château, my palace are pillaged and burned, my parents are dead." "my mother and bastien are in france," he responded. "but thou--thou, joseph; what can i do without thee? why have you accustomed me to your tenderness, to your protection, and now come threatening to leave me? hear me plainly. if you go i go with you." he uttered a smothered cry and staggered like a drunken man. "alix--madame--" "i have guessed your secret," continued i. "you seek to go because you love me--because you fear you may forget that respect which you fancy you owe me. but after all i am your wife, joseph. i have the right to follow thee, and i am going with thee." and slowly i drew from my dressing-case the act of our marriage. he looked, at me, oh! in such a funny way, and--extended his arms. i threw myself into them, and for half an hour it was tears and kisses and words of love. for after all i loved joseph, not as i had loved abner, but altogether more profoundly. the next day a catholic priest blessed our marriage. a month later we left for louisiana, where joseph hoped to make a fortune for me. but alas! he was despairing of success, when he met mr. carlo, and--you know, dear girls, the rest. * * * * * roll again and slip into its ancient silken case the small, square manuscript which some one has sewed at the back with worsted of the pale tint known as "baby-blue." blessed little word! time justified the color. if you doubt it go to the teche; ask any of the de la houssayes--or count, yourself, the carpentiers and charpentiers. you will be more apt to quit because you are tired than because you have finished. and while there ask, over on the attakapas side, for any trace that any one may be able to give of dorothea müller. she too was from france: at least, not from normandy or paris, like alix, but, like françoise's young aunt with the white hair, a german of alsace, from a village near strasbourg; like her, an emigrant, and, like françoise, a voyager with father and sister by flatboat from old new orleans up the mississippi, down the atchafalaya, and into the land of attakapas. you may ask, you may seek; but if you find the faintest trace you will have done what no one else has succeeded in doing. we shall never know her fate. her sister's we can tell; and we shall now see how different from the stories of alix and françoise is that of poor salome müller, even in the same land and almost in the same times. footnotes: [ ] inserted by a later hand than the author's.--translator. [ ] inserted by a later hand than the author's.--translator. [ ] alix makes a mistake here of one day. the bastille fell on the th.--translator. salome mÜller, the white slave. - . i. salome and her kindred. she may be living yet, in . for when she came to louisiana, in , she was too young for the voyage to fix itself in her memory. she could not, to-day, be more than seventy-five. in alsace, france, on the frontier of the department of lower rhine, about twenty english miles from strasburg, there was in those days, as i suppose there still is, a village called langensoultz. the region was one of hills and valleys and of broad, flat meadows yearly overflowed by the rhine. it was noted for its fertility; a land of wheat and wine, hop-fields, flax-fields, hay-stacks, and orchards. it had been three hundred and seventy years under french rule, yet the people were still, in speech and traditions, german. those were not the times to make them french. the land swept by napoleon's wars, their firesides robbed of fathers and sons by the conscription, the awful mortality of the russian campaign, the emperor's waning star, waterloo--these were not the things or conditions to give them comfort in french domination. there was a widespread longing among them to seek another land where men and women and children were not doomed to feed the ambition of european princes. in the summer of there lay at the dutch port of helder--for the great ship-canal that now lets the largest vessels out from amsterdam was not yet constructed--a big, foul, old russian ship which a certain man had bought purposing to crowd it full of emigrants to america. these he had expected to find up the rhine, and he was not disappointed. hundreds responded from alsace; some in strasburg itself, and many from the surrounding villages, grain-fields, and vineyards. they presently numbered nine hundred, husbands, wives, and children. there was one family named thomas, with a survivor of which i conversed in . and there was eva kropp, _née_ hillsler, and her husband, with their daughter of fifteen, named for her mother. also eva kropp's sister margaret and her husband, whose name does not appear. and there were koelhoffer and his wife, and frau schultzheimer. there is no need to remember exact relationships. all these except the thomases were of langensoultz. as they passed through another village some three miles away they were joined by a family of name not given, but the mother of which we shall know by and by, under a second husband's name, as madame fleikener. and there too was one wagner, two generations of whose descendants were to furnish each a noted journalist to new orleans. i knew the younger of these in my boyhood as a man of, say, fifty. and there was young frank schuber, a good, strong-hearted, merry fellow who two years after became the husband of the younger eva kropp; he hailed from strasburg; i have talked with his grandson. and lastly there were among the langensoultz group two families named müller. the young brothers henry and daniel müller were by birth bavarians. they had married, in the hillsler family, two sisters of eva and margaret. they had been known in the village as lockmaker müller and shoemaker müller. the wife of daniel, the shoemaker, was dorothea. henry, the locksmith, and his wife had two sons, the elder ten years of age and named for his uncle daniel, the shoemaker. daniel and dorothea had four children. the eldest was a little boy of eight years, the youngest was an infant, and between these were two little daughters, dorothea and salome. and so the villagers were all bound closely together, as villagers are apt to be. eva kropp's young daughter eva was godmother to salome. frau koelhoffer had lived on a farm about an hour's walk from the müllers and had not known them; but frau schultzheimer was a close friend, and had been a schoolmate and neighbor of salome's mother. the husband of her who was afterward madame fleikener was a nephew of the müller brothers, frank schuber was her cousin, and so on. ii. six months at anchor. setting out thus by whole families and with brothers' and sisters' families on the right and on the left, we may safely say that, once the last kisses were given to those left behind and the last look taken of childhood's scenes, they pressed forward brightly, filled with courage and hope. they were poor, but they were bound for a land where no soldier was going to snatch the beads and cross from the neck of a little child, as one of napoleon's had attempted to do to one of the thomas children. they were on their way to golden america; through philadelphia to the virgin lands of the great west. early in august they reached amsterdam. there they paid their passage in advance, and were carried out to the helder, where, having laid in their provisions, they embarked and were ready to set sail. but no sail was set. word came instead that the person who had sold the ship had not been paid its price and had seized the vessel; the delays of the law threatened, when time was a matter of fortune or of ruin. and soon came far worse tidings. the emigrants refused to believe them as long as there was room for doubt. henry and daniel müller--for locksmith müller, said wagner twenty-seven years afterwards on the witness-stand, "was a brave man and was foremost in doing everything necessary to be done for the passengers"--went back to amsterdam to see if such news could be true, and returned only to confirm despair. the man to whom the passage money of the two hundred families--nine hundred souls--had been paid had absconded. they could go neither forward nor back. days, weeks, months passed, and there still lay the great hulk teeming with its population and swinging idly at anchor; fathers gazing wistfully over the high bulwarks, mothers nursing their babes, and the children, eva, daniel, henry, andrew, dorothea, salome, and all the rest, by hundreds. salome was a pretty child, dark, as both her parents were, and looking much like her mother; having especially her black hair and eyes and her chin. playing around with her was one little cousin, a girl of her own age,--that is, somewhere between three and five,--whose face was strikingly like salome's. it was she who in later life became madame karl rouff, or, more familiarly, madame karl. provisions began to diminish, grew scanty, and at length were gone. the emigrants' summer was turned into winter; it was now december. so pitiful did their case become that it forced the attention of the dutch government. under its direction they were brought back to amsterdam, where many of them, without goods, money, or even shelter, and strangers to the place and to the language, were reduced to beg for bread. but by and by there came a word of great relief. the government offered a reward of thirty thousand gilders--about twelve thousand dollars--to any merchant or captain of a vessel who would take them to america, and a certain grandsteiner accepted the task. for a time he quartered them in amsterdam, but by and by, with hearts revived, they began to go again on shipboard. this time there were three ships in place of the one; or two ships, and one of those old dutch, flattish-bottomed, round-sided, two-masted crafts they called galiots. the number of ships was trebled--that was well; but the number of souls was doubled, and eighteen hundred wanderers from home were stowed in the three vessels. iii. famine at sea. these changes made new farewells and separations. common aims, losses, and sufferings had knit together in friendship many who had never seen each other until they met on the deck of the big russian ship, and now not a few of these must part. the first vessel to sail was one of the two ships, the _johanna maria_. her decks were black with people: there were over six hundred of them. among the number, waving farewell to the kropps, the koelhoffers, the schultzheimers, to frank schuber and to the müllers, stood the thomases, madame fleikener, as we have to call her, and one whom we have not yet named, the jungfrau hemin, of würtemberg, just turning nineteen, of whom the little salome and her mother had made a new, fast friend on the old russian ship. a week later the _captain grone_--that is, the galiot--hoisted the dutch flag as the _johanna maria_ had done, and started after her with other hundreds on her own deck, i know not how many, but making eleven hundred in the two, and including, for one, young wagner. then after two weeks more the remaining ship, the _johanna_, followed, with grandsteiner as supercargo, and seven hundred emigrants. here were the müllers and most of their relatives and fellow-villagers. frank schuber was among them, and was chosen steward for the whole shipful. at last they were all off. but instead of a summer's they were now to encounter a winter's sea, and to meet it weakened and wasted by sickness and destitution. the first company had been out but a week when, on new year's night, a furious storm burst upon the crowded ship. with hatches battened down over their heads they heard and felt the great buffetings of the tempest, and by and by one great crash above all other noises as the mainmast went by the board. the ship survived; but when the storm was over and the people swarmed up once more into the pure ocean atmosphere and saw the western sun set clear, it set astern of the ship. her captain had put her about and was steering for amsterdam. "she is too old," the travelers gave him credit for saying, when long afterwards they testified in court; "too old, too crowded, too short of provisions, and too crippled, to go on such a voyage; i don't want to lose my soul that way." and he took them back. they sailed again; but whether in another ship, or in the same with another captain, i have not discovered. their sufferings were terrible. the vessel was foul. fevers broke out among them. provisions became scarce. there was nothing fit for the sick, who daily grew more numerous. storms tossed them hither and yon. water became so scarce that the sick died for want of it. one of the thomas children, a little girl of eight years, whose father lay burning with fever and moaning for water, found down in the dark at the back of one of the water-casks a place where once in a long time a drop of water fell from it. she placed there a small vial, and twice a day bore it, filled with water-drops, to the sick man. it saved his life. of the three ship-loads only two families reached america whole, and one of these was the thomases. a younger sister told me in that though the child lived to old age on the banks of the mississippi river, she could never see water wasted and hide her anger. the vessels were not bound for philadelphia, as the russian ship had been. either from choice or of necessity the destination had been changed before sailing, and they were on their way to new orleans. that city was just then--the war of - being so lately over--coming boldly into notice as commercially a strategic point of boundless promise. steam navigation had hardly two years before won its first victory against the powerful current of the mississippi, but it was complete. the population was thirty-three thousand; exports, thirteen million dollars. capital and labor were crowding in, and legal, medical, and commercial talent were hurrying to the new field. scarcely at any time since has the new orleans bar, in proportion to its numbers, had so many brilliant lights. edward livingston, of world-wide fame, was there in his prime. john r. grymes, who died a few years before the opening of the late civil war, was the most successful man with juries who ever plead in louisiana courts. we must meet him in the court-room by and by, and may as well make his acquaintance now. he was emphatically a man of the world. many anecdotes of him remain, illustrative rather of intrepid shrewdness than of chivalry. he had been counsel for the pirate brothers lafitte in their entanglements with the custom-house and courts, and was believed to have received a hundred thousand dollars from them as fees. only old men remember him now. they say he never lifted his voice, but in tones that grew softer and lower the more the thought behind them grew intense would hang a glamour of truth over the veriest sophistries that intellectual ingenuity could frame. it is well to remember that this is only tradition, which can sometimes be as unjust as daily gossip. it is sure that he could entertain most showily. the young duke of saxe-weimar-eisenach, was once his guest. in his book of travels in america ( - ) he says: my first excursion [in new orleans] was to visit mr. grymes, who here inhabits a large, massive, and splendidly furnished house.... in the evening we paid our visit to the governor of the state.... after this we went to several coffee-houses where the lower classes amuse themselves.... mr. grymes took me to the masked ball, which is held every evening during the carnival at the french theater.... the dress of the ladies i observed to be very elegant, but understood that most of those dancing did not belong to the better class of society.... at a dinner, which mr. grymes gave me with the greatest display of magnificence,... we withdrew from the first table, and seated ourselves at the second, in the same order in which we had partaken of the first. as the variety of wines began to set the tongues of the guests at liberty, the ladies rose, retired to another apartment, and resorted to music. some of the gentlemen remained with the bottle, while others, among whom i was one, followed the ladies.... we had waltzing until o'clock, when we went to the masquerade in the theater in st. philip street.... the female company at the theater consisted of quadroons, who, however, were masked. such is one aspect given us by history of the new orleans towards which that company of emigrants, first of the three that had left the other side, were toiling across the waters. iv. sold into bondage. they were fever-struck and famine-wasted. but february was near its end, and they were in the gulf of mexico. at that time of year its storms have lulled and its airs are the perfection of spring; march is a kind of may. and march came. they saw other ships now every day; many of them going their way. the sight cheered them; the passage had been lonely as well as stormy. their own vessels, of course,--the other two,--they had not expected to see, and had not seen. they did not know whether they were on the sea or under it. at length pilot-boats began to appear. one came to them and put a pilot on board. then the blue water turned green, and by and by yellow. a fringe of low land was almost right ahead. other vessels were making for the same lighthouse towards which they were headed, and so drew constantly nearer to one another. the emigrants line the bulwarks, watching the nearest sails. one ship is so close that some can see the play of waters about her bows. and now it is plain that her bulwarks, too, are lined with emigrants who gaze across at them. she glides nearer, and just as the cry of recognition bursts from this whole company the other one yonder suddenly waves caps and kerchiefs and sends up a cheer. their ship is the _johanna_. do we dare draw upon fancy? we must not. the companies did meet on the water, near the mississippi's mouth, though whether first inside or outside the stream i do not certainly gather. but they met; not the two vessels only, but the three. they were towed up the river side by side, the _johanna_ here, the _captain grone_ there, and the other ship between them. wagner, who had sailed on the galiot, was still alive. many years afterwards he testified: "we all arrived at the balize [the river's mouth] the same day. the ships were so close we could speak to each other from on board our respective ships. we inquired of one another of those who had died and of those who still remained." madame fleikener said the same: "we hailed each other from the ships and asked who lived and who had died. the father and mother of madame schuber [kropp and his wife] told me daniel müller and family were on board." but they had suffered loss. of the _johanna's_ souls only were left alive. henry müller's wife was dead. daniel müller's wife, dorothea, had been sick almost from the start; she was gone, with the babe at her bosom. henry was left with his two boys, and daniel with his one and his little dorothea and salome. grandsteiner, the supercargo, had lived; but of homeless poor whom the dutch king's gilders had paid him to bring to america, foul ships and lack of food and water had buried in the sea. the vessels reached port and the passengers prepared to step ashore, when to their amazement and dismay grandsteiner laid the hand of the law upon them and told them they were "redemptioners." a redemptioner was an emigrant whose services for a certain period were liable to be sold to the highest bidder for the payment of his passage to america. it seems that in fact a large number of those on board the _johanna_ had in some way really become so liable; but it is equally certain that of others, the kropps, the schultzheimers, the koelhoffers, the müllers, and so on, the transportation had been paid for in advance, once by themselves and again by the government of holland. yet daniel müller and his children were among those held for their passage money. some influential german residents heard of these troubles and came to the rescue. suits were brought against grandsteiner, the emigrants remaining meanwhile on the ships. mr. grymes was secured as counsel in their cause; but on some account not now remembered by survivors scarce a week had passed before they were being sold as redemptioners. at least many were, including daniel müller and his children. then the dispersion began. the people were bound out before notaries and justices of the peace, singly and in groups, some to one, some to two years' service, according to age. "they were scattered,"--so testified frank schuber twenty-five years afterwards,--"scattered about like young birds leaving a nest, without knowing anything of each other." they were "taken from the ships," says, the jungfrau hemin, "and went here and there so that one scarcely knew where the other went." many went no farther than new orleans or its suburbs, but settled, some in and about the old rue chartres--the thomas family, for example; others in the then new faubourg marigny, where eva kropp's daughter, salome's young cousin eva, for one, seems to have gone into domestic service. others, again, were taken out to plantations near the city; madame fleikener to the well-known estate of maunsell white, madame schultzheimer to the locally famous hopkins plantation, and so on. but others were carried far away; some, it is said, even to alabama. madame hemin was taken a hundred miles up the river, to baton rouge, and henry müller and his two little boys went on to bayou sara, and so up beyond the state's border and a short way into mississippi. when all his relatives were gone daniel müller was still in the ship with his little son and daughters. certainly he was not a very salable redemptioner with his three little motherless children about his knees. but at length, some fifteen days after the arrival of the ships, frank schuber met him on the old customhouse wharf with his little ones and was told by him that he, müller, was going to attakapas. about the same time, or a little later, müller came to the house where young eva kropp, afterwards schuber's wife, dwelt, to tell her good-bye. she begged to be allowed to keep salome. during the sickness of the little one's mother and after the mother's death she had taken constant maternal care of the pretty, black-eyed, olive-skinned godchild. but müller would not leave her behind. v. the lost orphans. the prospective journey was the same that we saw suzanne and françoise, joseph and alix, take with toil and danger, yet with so much pleasure, in . the early company went in a flatboat; these went in a round-bottom boat. the journey of the latter was probably the shorter. its adventures have never been told, save one line. when several weeks afterwards the boat returned, it brought word that daniel müller had one day dropped dead on the deck and that his little son had fallen overboard and was drowned. the little girls had presumably been taken on to their destination by whoever had been showing the way; but that person's name and residence, if any of those left in new orleans had known them, were forgotten. only the wide and almost trackless region of attakapas was remembered, and by people to whom every day brought a struggle for their own existence. besides, the children's kindred were bound as redemptioners. those were days of rapid change in new orleans. the redemptioners worked their way out of bondage into liberty. at the end of a year or two those who had been taken to plantations near by returned to the city. the town was growing, but the upper part of the river front in faubourg ste. marie, now in the heart of the city, was still lined with brick-yards, and thitherward cheap houses and opportunities for market gardening drew the emigrants. they did not colonize, however, but merged into the community about them, and only now and then, casually, met one another. young schuber was an exception; he throve as a butcher in the old french market, and courted and married the young eva kropp. when the fellow-emigrants occasionally met, their talk was often of poor shoemaker müller and his lost children. no clear tidings of them came. once the children of some germans who had driven cattle from attakapas to sell them in the shambles at new orleans corroborated to frank schuber the death of the father; but where salome and dorothea were they could not say, except that they were in attakapas. frank and eva were specially diligent inquirers after eva's lost godchild; as also was henry müller up in or near woodville, mississippi. he and his boys were, in their small german way, prospering. he made such effort as he could to find the lost children. one day in the winter of - he somehow heard that there were two orphan children named miller--the müllers were commonly called miller--in the town of natchez, some thirty-five miles away on the mississippi. he bought a horse and wagon, and, leaving his own children, set out to rescue those of his dead brother. about midway on the road from woodville to natchez the homochitto creek runs through a swamp which in winter overflows. in here müller lost his horse. but, nothing daunted, he pressed on, only to find in natchez the trail totally disappear. again, in the early spring of , a man driving cattle from attakapas to bayou sara told him of two little girls named müller living in attakapas. he was planning another and bolder journey in search of them, when he fell ill; and at length, without telling his sons, if he knew, where to find their lost cousins, he too died. years passed away. once at least in nearly every year young daniel miller--the "u" was dropped--of woodville came down to new orleans. at such times he would seek out his relatives and his father's and uncle's old friends and inquire for tidings of the lost children. but all in vain. frank and eva schuber too kept up the inquiry in his absence, but no breath of tidings came. on the city's south side sprung up the new city of lafayette, now the fourth district of new orleans, and many of the aforetime redemptioners moved thither. its streets near the river became almost a german quarter. other german immigrants, hundreds and hundreds, landed among them and in the earlier years many of these were redemptioners. among them one whose name will always be inseparable from the history of new orleans has a permanent place in this story. vi. christian roselius. one morning many years ago, when some business had brought me into a corridor of one of the old court buildings facing the place d'armes, a loud voice from within one of the court-rooms arrested my own and the general ear. at once from all directions men came with decorous haste towards the spot whence it proceeded. i pushed in through a green door into a closely crowded room and found the supreme court of the state in session. a short, broad, big-browed man of an iron sort, with silver hair close shorn from a roman head, had just begun his argument in the final trial of a great case that had been before the court for many years, and the privileged seats were filled with the highest legal talent, sitting to hear him. it was a famous will case[ ], and i remember that he was quoting from "king lear" as i entered. "who is that?" i asked of a man packed against me in the press. "roselius," he whispered; and the name confirmed my conjecture: the speaker looked like all i had once heard about him. christian roselius came from brunswick, germany, a youth of seventeen, something more than two years later than salome müller and her friends. like them he came an emigrant under the dutch flag, and like them his passage was paid in new orleans by his sale as a redemptioner. a printer bought his services for two years and a half. his story is the good old one of courage, self-imposed privations, and rapid development of talents. from printing he rose to journalism, and from journalism passed to the bar. by , at thirty-three years of age, he stood in the front rank of that brilliant group where grymes was still at his best. before he was forty he had been made attorney-general of the state. punctuality, application, energy, temperance, probity, bounty, were the strong features of his character. it was a common thing for him to give his best services free in the cause of the weak against the strong. as an adversary he was decorous and amiable, but thunderous, heavy-handed, derisive if need be, and inexorable. a time came for these weapons to be drawn in defense of salome müller. footnotes: [ ] the will of r.d. shepherd. vii. miller _versus_ belmonti. in frank and eva schuber had moved to a house on the corner of jackson and annunciation streets.[ ] they had brought up sons, two at least, who were now old enough to be their father's mainstay in his enlarged business of "farming" (leasing and subletting) the poydras market. the father and mother and their kindred and companions in long past misfortunes and sorrows had grown to wealth and standing among the german-americans of new orleans and lafayette. the little girl cousin of salome müller, who as a child of the same age had been her playmate on shipboard at the helder and in crossing the atlantic, and who looked so much like salome, was a woman of thirty, the wife of karl rouff. one summer day she was on some account down near the lower limits of new orleans on or near the river front, where the population was almost wholly a lower class of spanish people. passing an open door her eye was suddenly arrested by a woman of about her own age engaged in some humble service within with her face towards the door. madame karl paused in astonishment. the place was a small drinking-house, a mere _cabaret_; but the woman! it was as if her aunt dorothea, who had died on the ship twenty-five years before, stood face to face with her alive and well. there were her black hair and eyes, her olive skin, and the old, familiar expression of countenance that belonged so distinctly to all the hillsler family. madame karl went in. "my name," the woman replied to her question, "is mary." and to another question, "no; i am a yellow girl. i belong to mr. louis belmonti, who keeps this 'coffee-house.' he has owned me for four or five years. before that? before that, i belonged to mr. john fitz müller, who has the saw-mill down here by the convent. i always belonged to him." her accent was the one common to english-speaking slaves. but madame karl was not satisfied. "you are not rightly a slave. your name is müller. you are of pure german blood. i knew your mother. i know you. we came to this country together on the same ship, twenty-five years ago." "no," said the other; "you must be mistaking me for some one else that i look like." but madame karl: "come with me. come up into lafayette and see if i do not show you to others who will know you the moment they look at you." the woman enjoyed much liberty in her place and was able to accept this invitation. madame karl took her to the home of frank and eva schuber. their front door steps were on the street. as madame karl came up to them eva stood in the open door much occupied with her approach, for she had not seen her for two years. another woman, a stranger, was with madame karl. as they reached the threshold and the two old-time friends exchanged greetings, eva said: "why, it is two years since last i saw you. is that a german woman?--i know her!" "well," said madame karl, "if you know her, who is she?" "my god!" cried eva,--"the long-lost salome müller!" "i needed nothing more to convince me," she afterwards testified in court. "i could recognize her among a hundred thousand persons." frank schuber came in, having heard nothing. he glanced at the stranger, and turning to his wife asked: "is not that one of the girls who was lost?" "it is," replied eva; "it is. it is salome müller!" on that same day, as it seems, for the news had not reached them, madame fleikener and her daughter--they had all become madams in creole america--had occasion to go to see her kinswoman, eva schuber. she saw the stranger and instantly recognized her, "because of her resemblance to her mother." they were all overjoyed. for twenty-five years dragged in the mire of african slavery, the mother of quadroon children and ignorant of her own identity, they nevertheless welcomed her back to their embrace, not fearing, but hoping, she was their long-lost salome. but another confirmation was possible, far more conclusive than mere recognition of the countenance. eva knew this. for weeks together she had bathed and dressed the little salome every day. she and her mother and all henry müller's family had known, and had made it their common saying, that it might be difficult to identify the lost dorothea were she found; but if ever salome were found they could prove she was salome beyond the shadow of a doubt. it was the remembrance of this that moved eva schuber to say to the woman: "come with me into this other room." they went, leaving madame karl, madame fleikener, her daughter, and frank schuber behind. and when they returned the slave was convinced, with them all, that she was the younger daughter of daniel and dorothea müller. we shall presently see what fixed this conviction. the next step was to claim her freedom. she appears to have gone back to belmonti, but within a very few days, if not immediately, madame schuber and a certain mrs. white--who does not become prominent--followed down to the cabaret. mrs. white went out somewhere on the premises, found salome at work, and remained with her, while madame schuber confronted belmonti, and, revealing salome's identity and its proofs, demanded her instant release. belmonti refused to let her go. but while doing so he admitted his belief that she might be of pure white blood and of right entitled to freedom. he confessed having gone back to john f. müller[ ] soon after buying her and proposing to set her free; but müller, he said, had replied that in such a case the law required her to leave the country. thereupon belmonti had demanded that the sale be rescinded, saying: "i have paid you my money for her." "but," said müller, "i did not sell her to you as a slave. she is as white as you or i, and neither of us can hold her if she chooses to go away." such at least was belmonti's confession, yet he was as far from consenting to let his captive go after this confession was made as he had been before. he seems actually to have kept her for a while; but at length she went boldly to schuber's house, became one of his household, and with his advice and aid asserted her intention to establish her freedom by an appeal to law. belmonti replied with threats of public imprisonment, the chain-gang, and the auctioneer's block. salome, or sally, for that seems to be the nickname by which her kindred remembered her, was never to be sold again; but not many months were to pass before she was to find herself, on her own petition and bond of $ , a prisoner, by the only choice the laws allowed her, in the famous calaboose, not as a criminal, but as sequestered goods in a sort of sheriff's warehouse. says her petition: "your petitioner has good reason to believe that the said belmonti intends to remove her out of the jurisdiction of the court during the pendency of the suit"; wherefore not _he_ but _she_ went to jail. here she remained for six days and was then allowed to go at large, but only upon _giving still another bond and security_, and in a much larger sum than she had ever been sold for. the original writ of sequestration lies before me as i write, indorsed as follows: no. , . sally miller ) sequestration. ) vs. ) sigur, caperton ) louis belmonti. ) and bonford. received th january, , and on the th of the same month sequestered the body of the plaintiff and committed her to prison for safe keeping; but on the st february, , she was released from custody, having entered bond in the sum of one thousand dollars with francis schuber as the security conditioned according to law, and which bond is herewith returned this d february, . b.f. lewis, d'y sh'ff. inside is the bond with the signatures, frantz schuber in german script, and above in english, [illustration: the court papers.] [illustration: handwritten text] also the writ, ending in words of strange and solemn irony: "in the year of our lord one thousand eight hundred and forty-four and in the sixty-eighth year of the independence of the united states." we need not follow the history at the slow gait of court proceedings. at belmonti's petition john f. miller was called in warranty; that is, made the responsible party in belmonti's stead. there were "prayers" and rules, writs and answers, as the cause slowly gathered shape for final contest. here are papers of date february and --it was leap year--and april , , , and . on the th of may frank schuber asked leave, and on the th was allowed, to substitute another bondsman in his place in order that he himself might qualify as a witness; and on the d of may the case came to trial. viii. the trial. it had already become famous. early in april the press of the city, though in those days unused to giving local affairs more than the feeblest attention, had spoken of this suit as destined, if well founded, to develop a case of "unparalleled hardship, cruelty, and oppression." the german people especially were aroused and incensed. a certain newspaper spoke of the matter as the case "that had for several days created so much excitement throughout the city." the public sympathy was with salome. but by how slender a tenure was it held! it rested not on the "hardship, cruelty, and oppression" she had suffered for twenty years, but only on the fact, which she might yet fail to prove, that she had suffered these things without having that tincture of african race which, be it ever so faint, would entirely justify, alike in the law and in the popular mind, treatment otherwise counted hard, cruel, oppressive, and worthy of the public indignation. and now to prove the fact. in a newspaper of that date appears the following: hon. a.m. buchanan, _judge_. sally miller _vs_. belmonti. }--no. , . this cause came on to-day for trial before the court, roselius and upton for plaintiff, canon for defendant, grymes and micou for warrantor; when after hearing evidence the same is continued until to-morrow morning at o'clock. salome's battle had begun. besides the counsel already named, there were on the slave's side a second upton and a bonford, and on the master's side a sigur, a caperton, and a lockett. the redemptioners had made the cause their own and prepared to sustain it with a common purse. neither party had asked for a trial by jury; the decision was to come from the bench. the soldier, in the tableaux of judge buchanan's life, had not dissolved perfectly into the justice, and old lawyers of new orleans remember him rather for unimpeachable integrity than for fine discrimination, a man of almost austere dignity, somewhat quick in temper. before him now gathered the numerous counsel, most of whose portraits have long since been veiled and need not now be uncovered. at the head of one group stood roselius, at the head of the other, grymes. and for this there were good reasons. roselius, who had just ceased to be the state's attorney-general, was already looked upon as one of the readiest of all champions of the unfortunate. he was in his early prime, the first full spread of his powers, but he had not forgotten the little dutch brig _jupiter_, or the days when he was himself a redemptioner. grymes, on the other side, had had to do--as we have seen--with these same redemptioners before. the uncle and the father of this same sally miller, so called, had been chief witnesses in the suit for their liberty and hers, which he had--blamelessly, we need not doubt--lost some twenty-five years before. directly in consequence of that loss salome had gone into slavery and disappeared. and now the loser of that suit was here to maintain that slavery over a woman who, even if she should turn out not to be the lost child, was enough like to be mistaken for her. true, causes must have attorneys, and such things may happen to any lawyer; but here was a cause which in our lights to-day, at least, had on the defendant's side no moral right to come into court. one other person, and only one, need we mention. many a new york city lawyer will recall in his reminiscences of thirty years ago a small, handsome, gold-spectacled man with brown hair and eyes, noted for scholarship and literary culture; a brilliant pleader at the bar, and author of two books that became authorities, one on trade-marks, the other on prize law. even some who do not recollect him by this description may recall how the gifted frank upton--for it is of him i write--was one day in or struck down by apoplexy while pleading in the well-known peterhoff case. or they may remember subsequently his constant, pathetic effort to maintain his old courtly mien against his resultant paralysis. this was the young man of about thirty, of uncommon masculine beauty and refinement, who sat beside christian roselius as an associate in the cause of sally miller _versus_ louis belmonti. footnotes: [ ] long since burned down. [ ] the similarity in the surnames of salome and her master is odd, but is accidental and without significance. ix. the evidence. we need not linger over the details of the trial. the witnesses for the prosecution were called. first came a creole woman, so old that she did not know her own age, but was a grown-up girl in the days of the spanish governor-general galvez, sixty-five years before. she recognized in the plaintiff the same person whom she had known as a child in john f. miller's domestic service with the mien, eyes, and color of a white person and with a german accent. next came madame hemin, who had not known the müllers till she met them on the russian ship and had not seen salome since parting from them at amsterdam, yet who instantly identified her "when she herself came into the court-room just now." "witness says," continues the record, "she perceived the family likeness in plaintiff's face when she came in the door." the next day came eva and told her story; and others followed, whose testimony, like hers, we have anticipated. again and again was the plaintiff recognized, both as salome and as the girl mary, or mary bridget, who for twenty years and upward had been owned in slavery, first by john f. miller, then by his mother, mrs. canby, and at length by the cabaret keeper louis belmonti. if the two persons were but one, then for twenty years at least she had lived a slave within five miles, and part of the time within two, of her kindred and of freedom. that the two persons were one it seemed scarcely possible to doubt. not only did every one who remembered salome on shipboard recognize the plaintiff as she, but others, who had quite forgotten her appearance then, recognized in her the strong family likeness of the müllers. this likeness even witnesses for the defense had to admit. so, on salome's side, testified madame koelhoffer, madame schultzheimer, and young daniel miller (müller) from mississippi. she was easily pointed out in the throng of the crowded court-room. and then, as we have already said, there was another means of identification which it seemed ought alone to have carried with it overwhelming conviction. but this we still hold in reserve until we have heard the explanation offered by john f. miller both in court and at the same time in the daily press in reply to its utterances which were giving voice to the public sympathy for salome. it seems that john fitz miller was a citizen of new orleans in high standing, a man of property, money, enterprises, and slaves. john lawson lewis, commanding-general of the state militia, testified in the case to mr. miller's generous and social disposition, his easy circumstances, his kindness to his eighty slaves, his habit of entertaining, and the exceptional fineness of his equipage. another witness testified that complaints were sometimes made by miller's neighbors of his too great indulgence of his slaves. others, ladies as well as gentlemen, corroborated these good reports, and had even kinder and higher praises for his mother, mrs. canby. they stated with alacrity, not intending the slightest imputation against the gentleman's character, that he had other slaves even fairer of skin than this mary bridget, who nevertheless, "when she was young," they said, "looked like a white girl." one thing they certainly made plain--that mr. miller had never taken the müller family or any part of them to attakapas or knowingly bought a redemptioner. he accounted for his possession of the plaintiff thus: in august, , one anthony williams, being or pretending to be a negro-trader and from mobile, somehow came into contact with mr. john fitz miller in new orleans. he represented that he had sold all his stock of slaves except one girl, mary bridget, ostensibly twelve years old, and must return at once to mobile. he left this girl with mr. miller to be sold for him for his (williams's) account under a formal power of attorney so to do, mr. miller handing him one hundred dollars as an advance on her prospective sale. in january, , williams had not yet been heard from, nor had the girl been sold; and on the st of february mr. miller sold her to his own mother, with whom he lived--in other words, _to himself_, as we shall see. in this sale her price was three hundred and fifty dollars and her age was still represented as about twelve. "from that time she remained in the house of my mother," wrote miller to the newspapers, "as a domestic servant" until , when "she was sold to belmonti." mr. miller's public statement was not as full and candid as it looked. how, if the girl was sold to mrs. canby, his mother--how is it that belmonti bought her of miller himself? the answer is that while williams never re-appeared, the girl, in february, , "the girl bridget," now the mother of three children, was with these children bought back again by that same mr. miller from the entirely passive mrs. canby, for the same three hundred and fifty dollars; the same price for the four which he had got, or had seemed to get, for the mother alone when she was but a child of twelve years. thus had mr. miller become the owner of the woman, her two sons, and her daughter, had had her service for the keeping, and had never paid but one hundred dollars. this point he prudently overlooked in his public statement. nor did he count it necessary to emphasize the further fact that when this slave-mother was about twenty-eight years old and her little daughter had died, he sold her alone, away from her two half-grown sons, for ten times what he had paid for her, to be the bond-woman of the wifeless keeper of a dram-shop. but these were not the only omissions. why had williams never come back either for the slave or for the proceeds of her sale? mr. miller omitted to state, what he knew well enough, that the girl was so evidently white that williams could not get rid of her, even to him, by an open sale. when months and years passed without a word from williams, the presumption was strong that williams knew the girl was not of african tincture, at least within the definition of the law, and was content to count the provisional transfer to miller equivalent to a sale. miller, then, was--heedless enough, let us call it--to hold in african bondage for twenty years a woman who, his own witnesses testified, had every appearance of being a white person, without ever having seen the shadow of a title for any one to own her, and with everything to indicate that there was none. whether he had any better right to own the several other slaves whiter than this one whom those same witnesses of his were forward to state he owned and had owned, no one seems to have inquired. such were the times; and it really was not then remarkable that this particular case should involve a lady noted for her good works and a gentleman who drove "the finest equipage in new orleans." one point, in view of current beliefs of to-day, compels attention. one of miller's witnesses was being cross-examined. being asked if, should he see the slave woman among white ladies, he would not think her white, he replied: "i cannot say. there are in new orleans many white persons of dark complexion and many colored persons of light complexion." the question followed: "what is there in the features of a colored person that designates them to be such?" "i cannot say. persons who live in countries where there are many colored persons acquire an instinctive means of judging that cannot be well explained." and yet neither this man's "instinct" nor that of any one else, either during the whole trial or during twenty years' previous knowledge of the plaintiff, was of the least value to determine whether this poor slave was entirely white or of mixed blood. it was more utterly worthless than her memory. for as to that she had, according to one of miller's own witnesses, in her childhood confessed a remembrance of having been brought "across the lake"; but whether that had been from germany, or only from mobile, must be shown in another way. that way was very simple, and we hold it no longer in suspense. x. the crowning proof. "if ever our little salome is found," eva kropp had been accustomed to say, "we shall know her by two hair moles about the size of a coffee-bean, one on the inside of each thigh, about midway up from the knee. nobody can make those, or take them away without leaving the tell-tale scars." and lo! when madame karl brought mary bridget to frank schuber's house, and eva schuber, who every day for weeks had bathed and dressed her godchild on the ship, took this stranger into another room apart and alone, there were the birth-marks of the lost salome. this incontestable evidence the friends of salome were able to furnish, but the defense called in question the genuineness of the marks. the verdict of science was demanded, and an order of the court issued to two noted physicians, one chosen by each side, to examine these marks and report "the nature, appearance, and cause of the same." the kindred of salome chose warren stone, probably the greatest physician and surgeon in one that new orleans has ever known. mr. grymes's client chose a creole gentleman almost equally famed, dr. armand mercier. dr. stone died many years ago; dr. mercier, if i remember aright, in . when i called upon dr. mercier in his office in girod street in the summer of , to appeal to his remembrance of this long-forgotten matter, i found a very noble-looking, fair old gentleman whose abundant waving hair had gone all to a white silken floss with age. he sat at his desk in persistent silence with his strong blue eyes fixed steadfastly upon me while i slowly and carefully recounted the story. two or three times i paused inquiringly; but he faintly shook his head in the negative, a slight frown of mental effort gathering for a moment between the eyes that never left mine. but suddenly he leaned forward and drew his breath as if to speak. i ceased, and he said: "my sister, the wife of pierre soulé, refused to become the owner of that woman and her three children because they were so white!" he pressed me eagerly with an enlargement of his statement, and when he paused i said nothing or very little; for, sad to say, he had only made it perfectly plain that it was not the girl mary bridget whom he was recollecting, but _another case_. he did finally, though dimly, call to mind having served with dr. stone in such a matter as i had described. but later i was made independent of his powers of recollection, when the original documents of the court were laid before me. there was the certificate of the two physicians. and there, over their signatures, "mercier d.m.p." standing first, in a bold heavy hand underscored by a single broad quill-stroke, was this "conclusion": " . these marks ought to be considered as _noevi materni_. " . they are congenital; or, in other words, the person was born with them. " . there is no process by means of which artificial spots bearing all the character of the marks can be produced." [illustration: handwritten conclusion number and signatures of mercier dmp and dr. stone.] xi. judgment. on the th of june the case of sally miller _versus_ louis belmonti was called up again and the report of the medical experts received. could anything be offered by mr. grymes and his associates to offset that? yes; they had one last strong card, and now they played it. it was, first, a certificate of baptism of a certain mary's child john, offered in evidence to prove that this child was born at a time when salome müller, according to the testimony of her own kindred, was too young by a year or two to become a mother; and secondly, the testimony of a free woman of color, that to her knowledge that mary was this bridget or sally, and the child john this woman's eldest son lafayette. and hereupon the court announced that on the morrow it would hear the argument of counsel. salome's counsel besought the court for a temporary postponement on two accounts: first, that her age might be known beyond a peradventure by procuring a copy of her own birth record from the official register of her native langensoultz, and also to procure in new orleans the testimony of one who was professionally present at the birth of her son, and who would swear that it occurred some years later than the date of the baptismal record just accepted as evidence. "we are taken by surprise," exclaimed in effect roselius and his coadjutors, "in the production of testimony by the opposing counsel openly at variance with earlier evidence accepted from them and on record. the act of the sale of this woman and her children from sarah canby to john fitz miller in , her son lafayette being therein described as but five years of age, fixes his birth by irresistible inference in , in which year by the recorded testimony of her kindred salome müller was fifteen years old." but the combined efforts of roselius, upton, and others were unavailing, and the newspapers of the following day reported: "this cause, continued from yesterday, came on again to-day, when, after hearing arguments of counsel, the court took the same under consideration." it must be a dull fancy that will not draw for itself the picture, when a fortnight later the frequenters of the court-room hear the word of judgment. it is near the end of the hot far-southern june. the judge begins to read aloud. his hearers wait languidly through the prolonged recital of the history of the case. it is as we have given it here: no use has been made here of any testimony discredited in the judge's reasons for his decision. at length the evidence is summed up and every one attends to catch the next word. the judge reads: "the supposed identity is based upon two circumstances: first, a striking resemblance of plaintiff to the child above mentioned and to the family of that child. second, two certain marks or moles on the inside of the thighs [one on each thigh], which marks are similar in the child and in the woman. this resemblance and these marks are proved by several witnesses. are they sufficient to justify me in declaring the plaintiff to be identical with the german child in question? i answer this question in the negative." what stir there was in the room when these words were heard the silent records lying before me do not tell, or whether all was silent while the judge read on; but by and by his words were these: "i must admit that the relatives of the said family of redemptioners seem to be very firmly convinced of the identity which the plaintiff claims.... as, however, it is quite out of the question to take away a man's property upon grounds of this sort, i would suggest that the friends of the plaintiff, if honestly convinced of the justice of her pretensions, should make some effort to settle _à l'aimable_ with the defendant, who has honestly and fairly paid his money for her. they would doubtless find him well disposed to part on reasonable terms with a slave from whom he can scarcely expect any service after what has passed. judgment dismissing the suit with costs." the white slave was still a slave. we are left to imagine the quiet air of dispatch with which as many of the counsel as were present gathered up any papers they may have had, exchanged a few murmurous words with their clients, and, hats in hand, hurried off and out to other business. also the silent, slow dejection of salome, eva, frank, and their neighbors and kin--if so be, that they were there--as they rose and left the hall where a man's property was more sacred than a woman's freedom. but the attorney had given them ground of hope. application would be made for a new trial; and if this was refused, as it probably would be, then appeal would be made to the supreme court of the state. so it happened. only two days later the plaintiff, through one of her counsel, the brother of frank upton, applied for a new trial. she stated that important evidence not earlier obtainable had come to light; that she could produce a witness to prove that john f. miller had repeatedly said she was white; and that one of miller's own late witnesses, his own brother-in-law, would make deposition of the fact, recollected only since he gave testimony, that the girl bridget brought into miller's household in was much darker than the plaintiff and died a few years afterwards. and this witness did actually make such deposition. in the six months through which the suit had dragged since salome had made her first petition to the court and signed it with her mark she had learned to write. the application for a new trial is signed-- [illustration: signature] the new trial was refused. roselius took an appeal. the judge "allowed" it, fixing the amount of salome's bond at $ . frank schuber gave the bond and the case went up to the supreme court. in that court no witnesses were likely to be examined. new testimony was not admissible; all testimony taken in the inferior courts "went up" by the request of either party as part of the record, and to it no addition could ordinarily be made. the case would be ready for argument almost at once. xii. before the supreme court. once more it was may, when in the populous but silent court-room the clerk announced the case of miller _versus_ louis belmonti, and john f. miller, warrantor. well-nigh a year had gone by since the appeal was taken. two full years had passed since madame karl had found salome in belmonti's cabaret. it was now ; grymes was still at the head of one group of counsel, and roselius of the other. there again were eva and salome, looking like an elder and a younger sister. on the bench sat at the right two and at the left two associate judges, and between them in the middle the learned and aged historian of the state, chief-justice martin. the attorneys had known from the first that the final contest would be here, and had saved their forces for this; and when on the th of may the deep, rugged voice of roselius resounded through the old cabildo, a nine-days' contest of learning, eloquence, and legal tactics had begun. roselius may have filed a brief, but i have sought it in vain, and his words in salome's behalf are lost. yet we know one part in the defense which he must have retained to himself; for francis upton was waiting in reserve to close the argument on the last day of the trial, and so important a matter as this that we shall mention would hardly have been trusted in any but the strongest hands. it was this: roselius, in the middle of his argument upon the evidence, proposed to read a certain certified copy of a registry of birth. grymes and his colleagues instantly objected. it was their own best gun captured and turned upon them. they could not tolerate it. it was no part of the record, they stoutly maintained, and must not be introduced nor read nor commented upon. the point was vigorously argued on both sides; but when roselius appealed to an earlier decision of the same court the bench decided that, as then, so now, "in suits for freedom, and _in favorem_ libertatis_, they would notice facts which come credibly before them, even though they be _dehors_ the record."[ ] and so roselius thundered it out. the consul for baden at new orleans had gone to europe some time before, and was now newly returned. he had brought an official copy, from the records of the prefect of salome's native village, of the registered date of her birth. this is what was now heard, and by it salome and her friends knew to their joy, and belmonti to his chagrin, that she was two years older than her kinsfolk had thought her to be. who followed roselius is not known, but by and by men were bending the ear to the soft persuasive tones and finished subtleties of the polished and courted grymes. he left, we are told, no point unguarded, no weapon unused, no vantage-ground unoccupied. the high social standing and reputation of his client were set forth at their best. every slenderest discrepancy of statement between salome's witnesses was ingeniously expanded. by learned citation and adroit appliance of the old spanish laws concerning slaves, he sought to ward off as with a toledo blade the heavy blows by which roselius and his colleagues endeavored to lay upon the defendants the burden of proof which the lower court had laid upon salome. he admitted generously the entire sincerity of salome's kinspeople in believing plaintiff to be the lost child; but reminded the court of the credulity of ill-trained minds, the contagiousness of fanciful delusions, and especially of what he somehow found room to call the inflammable imagination of the german temperament. he appealed to history; to the scholarship of the bench; citing the stories of martin guerre, the russian demetrius, perkin warbeck, and all the other wonderful cases of mistaken or counterfeited identity. thus he and his associates pleaded for the continuance in bondage of a woman whom their own fellow-citizens were willing to take into their houses after twenty years of degradation and infamy, make their oath to her identity, and pledge their fortunes to her protection as their kinswoman. day after day the argument continued. at length the sabbath broke its continuity, but on monday it was resumed, and on tuesday francis upton rose to make the closing argument for the plaintiff. his daughter, miss upton, now of washington, once did me the honor to lend me a miniature of him made about the time of salome's suit for freedom. it is a pleasing evidence of his modesty in the domestic circle--where masculine modesty is rarest--that his daughter had never heard him tell the story of this case, in which, it is said, he put the first strong luster on his fame. in the picture he is a very david--"ruddy and of a fair countenance"; a countenance at once gentle and valiant, vigorous and pure. lifting this face upon the wrinkled chief-justice and associate judges, he began to set forth the points of law, in an argument which, we are told, "was regarded by those who heard it as one of the happiest forensic efforts ever made before the court." he set his reliance mainly upon two points: one, that, it being obvious and admitted that plaintiff was not entirely of african race, the presumption of law was in favor of liberty and with the plaintiff, and therefore that the whole burden of proof was upon the defendants, belmonti and miller; and the other point, that the presumption of freedom in such a case could be rebutted only by proof that she was descended from a slave mother. these points the young attorney had to maintain as best he could without precedents fortifying them beyond attack; but "adele _versus_ beauregard" he insisted firmly established the first point and implied the court's assent to the second, while as legal doctrines "wheeler on slavery" upheld them both. when he was done salome's fate was in the hands of her judges. almost a month goes by before their judgment is rendered. but at length, on the st of june, the gathering with which our imagination has become familiar appears for the last time. the chief-justice is to read the decision from which there can be no appeal. as the judges take their places one seat is left void; it is by reason of sickness. order is called, silence falls, and all eyes are on the chief-justice. he reads. to one holding the court's official copy of judgment in hand, as i do at this moment, following down the lines as the justice's eyes once followed them, passing from paragraph to paragraph, and turning the leaves as his hand that day turned them, the scene lifts itself before the mind's eye despite every effort to hold it to the cold letter of the time-stained files of the court. in a single clear, well-compacted paragraph the court states salome's claim and belmonti's denial; in another, the warrantor miller's denial and defense; and in two lines more, the decision of the lower court. and now-- "the first inquiry," so reads the chief-justice--"the first inquiry that engages our attention is, what is the color of the plaintiff?" but this is far from bringing dismay to salome and her friends. for hear what follows: "persons of color"--meaning of mixed blood, not pure negro--"are presumed to be free.... the burden of proof is upon him who claims the colored person as a slave.... in the highest courts of the state of virginia ... a person of the complexion of the plaintiff, without evidence of descent from a slave mother, would be released even on _habeas corpus_.... not only is there no evidence of her [plaintiff] being descended from a slave mother, or even a mother of the african race, but no witness has ventured a positive opinion that she is of that race." glad words for salome and her kindred. the reading proceeds: "the presumption is clearly in favor of the plaintiff." but suspense returns, for--"it is next proper," the reading still goes on, "to inquire how far that presumption has been weakened or justified or repelled by the testimony of numerous witnesses in the record.... if a number of witnesses had sworn"--here the justice turns the fourth page; now he is in the middle of it, yet all goes well; he is making a comparison of testimony for and against, unfavorable to that which is against. and now--"but the proof does not stop at mere family resemblance." he is coming to the matter of the birth-marks. he calls them "evidence which is not impeached." he turns the page again, and begins at the top to meet the argument of grymes from the old spanish partidas. but as his utterance follows his eye down the page he sets that argument aside as not good to establish such a title as that by which miller received the plaintiff. he _exonerates_ miller, but accuses the absent williams of imposture and fraud. one may well fear the verdict after that. but now he turns a page which every one can see is the last: "it has been said that the german witnesses are imaginative and enthusiastic, and their confidence ought to be distrusted. that kind of enthusiasm is at least of a quiet sort, evidently the result of profound conviction and certainly free from any taint of worldly interest, and is by no means incompatible with the most perfect conscientiousness. if they are mistaken as to the identity of the plaintiff; if there be in truth two persons about the same age bearing a strong resemblance to the family of miller [müller] and having the same identical marks from their birth, and the plaintiff is not the real lost child who arrived here with hundreds of others in , it is certainly one of the most extraordinary things in history. if she be not, then nobody has told who she is. after the most mature consideration of the case, we are of opinion the plaintiff is free, and it is our duty to declare her so. "it is therefore ordered, adjudged, and decreed, that the judgment of the district court be reversed; and ours is that the plaintiff be released from the bonds of slavery, that the defendants pay the costs of the appeal, and that the case be remanded for further proceedings as between the defendant and his warrantor." so ends the record of the court. "the question of damage," says the "law reporter," "is the subject-matter of another suit now pending against jno. f. miller and mrs. canby." but i have it verbally from salome's relatives that the claim was lightly and early dismissed. salome being free, her sons were, by law, free also. but they could only be free mulattoes, went to tennessee and kentucky, were heard of once or twice as stable-boys to famous horses, and disappeared. a mississippi river pilot, john given by name, met salome among her relatives, and courted and married her. as might readily be supposed, this alliance was only another misfortune to salome, and the pair separated. salome went to california. her cousin, henry schuber, tells me he saw her in in sacramento city, living at last a respected and comfortable life. footnotes: [ ] marie louise _vs._ marot, la. r. the "haunted house" in royal street. - . i. as it stands now. when you and----- make that much-talked-of visit to new orleans, by all means see early whatever evidences of progress and aggrandizement her hospitable citizens wish to show you; new orleans belongs to the living present, and has serious practical relations with these united states and this great living world and age. and yet i want the first morning walk that you two take together and alone to be in the old french quarter. go down royal street. you shall not have taken many steps in it when, far down on the right-hand side, where the narrow street almost shuts its converging lines together in the distance, there will begin to rise above the extravagant confusion of intervening roofs and to stand out against the dazzling sky a square, latticed remnant of a belvedere. you can see that the house it surmounts is a large, solid, rectangular pile, and that it stands directly on the street at what residents call the "upper, river corner," though the river is several squares away on the right. there are fifty people in this old rue royale who can tell you their wild versions of this house's strange true story against any one who can do this present writer the honor to point out the former residence of 'sieur george, madame délicieuse, or doctor mossy, or the unrecognizably restored dwelling of madame delphine. i fancy you already there. the neighborhood is very still. the streets are almost empty of life, and the cleanness of their stone pavements is largely the cleanness of disuse. the house you are looking at is of brick, covered with stucco, which somebody may be lime-washing white, or painting yellow or brown, while i am saying it is gray. an uncovered balcony as wide as the sidewalk makes a deep arcade around its two street sides. the last time i saw it it was for rent, and looked as if it had been so for a long time; but that proves nothing. every one of its big window-shutters was closed, and by the very intensity of their rusty silence spoke a hostile impenetrability. just now it is occupied. they say that louis philippe, afterwards king of the french, once slept in one of its chambers. that would have been in ; but in they were not building such tall buildings as this in new orleans--did not believe the soil would uphold them. as late as , when 'sieur george's house, upon the st. peter street corner, was begun, people shook their heads; and this house is taller than 'sieur george's. i should like to know if the rumor is true. lafayette, too, they say, occupied the same room. maybe so. that would have been in - . but we know he had elegant apartments, fitted up for him at the city's charge, in the old cabildo. still-- it was, they say, in those, its bright, early days, the property of the pontalbas, a noble franco-spanish family; and i have mentioned these points, which have no close bearing upon our present story, mainly to clear the field of all mere they-says, and leave the ground for what we know to be authenticated fact, however strange. the entrance, under the balcony, is in royal street. within a deep, white portal, the walls and ceiling of which are covered with ornamentations, two or three steps, shut off from the sidewalk by a pair of great gates of open, ornamental iron-work with gilded tops, rise to the white door. this also is loaded with a raised work of urns and flowers, birds and fonts, and phoebus in his chariot. inside, from a marble floor, an iron-railed, winding stair ("said the spider to the fly") leads to the drawing-rooms on the floor even with the balcony. these are very large. the various doors that let into them, and the folding door between them, have carved panels. a deep frieze covered with raised work--white angels with palm branches and folded wings, stars, and wreaths--runs all around, interrupted only by high, wide windows that let out between fluted corinthian pilasters upon the broad open balcony. the lofty ceilings, too, are beautiful with raised garlandry. [illustration: the entrance of the haunted house. from a photograph.] measure one of the windows--eight feet across. each of its shutters is four feet wide. look at those old crystal chandeliers. and already here is something uncanny--at the bottom of one of these rooms, a little door in the wall. it is barely a woman's height, yet big hinges jut out from the jamb, and when you open it and look in you see only a small dark place without steps or anything to let you down to its floor below, a leap of several feet. it is hardly noteworthy; only neither you nor----can make out what it ever was for. the house is very still. as you stand a moment in the middle of the drawing-room looking at each other you hear the walls and floors saying those soft nothings to one another that they so often say when left to themselves. while you are looking straight at one of the large doors that lead into the hall its lock gives a whispered click and the door slowly swings open. no cat, no draft, you and----exchange a silent smile and rather like the mystery; but do you know? that is an old trick of those doors, and has made many an emotional girl smile less instead of more; although i doubt not any carpenter could explain it. i assume, you see, that you visit the house when it is vacant. it is only at such times that you are likely to get in. a friend wrote me lately: "miss ---- and i tried to get permission to see the interior. madame said the landlord had requested her not to allow visitors; that over three hundred had called last winter, and had been refused for that reason. i thought of the three thousand who would call if they knew its story." another writes: "the landlord's orders are positive that no photographer of any kind shall come into his house." the house has three stories and an attic. the windows farthest from the street are masked by long, green latticed balconies or "galleries," one to each story, which communicate with one another by staircases behind the lattices and partly overhang a small, damp, paved court which is quite hidden from outer view save from one or two neighboring windows. on your right as you look down into this court a long, narrow wing stands out at right angles from the main house, four stories high, with the latticed galleries continuing along the entire length of each floor. it bounds this court on the southern side. each story is a row of small square rooms, and each room has a single high window in the southern wall and a single door on the hither side opening upon the latticed gallery of that floor. wings of that sort were once very common in new orleans in the residences of the rich; they were the house's slave quarters. but certainly some of the features you see here never were common--locks seven inches across; several windows without sashes, but with sturdy iron gratings and solid iron shutters. on the fourth floor the doorway communicating with the main house is entirely closed twice over, by two pairs of full length batten shutters held in on the side of the main house by iron hooks eighteen inches long, two to each shutter. and yet it was through this doorway that the ghosts--figuratively speaking, of course, for we are dealing with plain fact and history--got into this house. will you go to the belvedere? i went there once. unless the cramped stair that reaches it has been repaired you will find it something rickety. the newspapers, writing fifty-five years ago in the heat and haste of the moment, must have erred as to heavy pieces of furniture being carried up this last cramped flight of steps to be cast out of the windows into the street far below. besides, the third-story windows are high enough for the most thorough smashing of anything dropped from them for that purpose. the attic is cut up into little closets. lying in one of them close up under the roof maybe you will still find, as i did, all the big iron keys of those big iron locks down-stairs. the day i stepped up into this belvedere it was shaking visibly in a squall of wind. an electric storm was coming out of the north and west. yet overhead the sun still shone vehemently through the rolling white clouds. it was grand to watch these. they were sailing majestically hither and thither southward across the blue, leaning now this way and now that like a fleet of great ships of the line manoeuvring for position against the dark northern enemy's already flashing and thundering onset. i was much above any neighboring roof. far to the south and south-west the newer new orleans spread away over the flat land. north-eastward, but near at hand, were the masts of ships and steamers, with glimpses here and there of the water, and farther away the open breadth of the great yellow river sweeping around slaughterhouse point under an air heavy with the falling black smoke and white steam of hurrying tugs. closer by, there was a strange confusion of roofs, trees, walls, vines, tiled roofs, brown and pink, and stuccoed walls, pink, white, yellow, red, and every sort of gray. the old convent of the ursulines stood in the midst, and against it the old chapel of st. mary with a great sycamore on one side and a willow on the other. almost under me i noticed some of the semicircular arches of rotten red brick that were once a part of the spanish barracks. in the north the "old third" (third city district) lay, as though i looked down upon it from a cliff--a tempestuous gray sea of slate roofs dotted with tossing green tree-tops. beyond it, not far away, the deep green, ragged line of cypress swamp half encircled it and gleamed weirdly under a sky packed with dark clouds that flashed and growled and boomed and growled again. you could see rain falling from one cloud over lake pontchartrain; the strong gale brought the sweet smell of it. westward, yonder, you may still descry the old calaboose just peeping over the tops of some lofty trees; and that bunch a little at the left is congo square; but the _old_, old calaboose--the one to which this house was once strangely related--is hiding behind the cathedral here on the south. the street that crosses royal here and makes the corner on which the house stands is hospital street; and yonder, westward, where it bends a little to the right and runs away so bright, clean, and empty between two long lines of groves and flower gardens, it is the old bayou road to the lake. it was down that road that the mistress of this house fled in her carriage from its door with the howling mob at her heels. before you descend from the belvedere turn and note how the roof drops away in eight different slopes; and think--from whichever one of these slopes it was--of the little fluttering, befrocked lump of terrified childhood that leaped from there and fell clean to the paved yard below. a last word while we are still here: there are other reasons--one, at least, besides tragedy and crime--that make people believe this place is haunted. this particular spot is hardly one where a person would prefer to see a ghost, even if one knew it was but an optical illusion; but one evening, some years ago, when a bright moon was mounting high and swinging well around to the south, a young girl who lived near by and who had a proper skepticism for the marvels of the gossips passed this house. she was approaching it from an opposite sidewalk, when, glancing up at this belvedere outlined so loftily on the night sky, she saw with startling clearness, although pale and misty in the deep shadow of the cupola,--"it made me shudder," she says, "until i reasoned the matter out,"--a single, silent, motionless object; the figure of a woman leaning against its lattice. by careful scrutiny she made it out to be only a sorcery of moonbeams that fell aslant from the farther side through the skylight of the belvedere's roof and sifted through the lattice. would that there were no more reality to the story before us. ii. madame lalaurie. on the th of august, , before octave de armas, notary, one e. soniat dufossat sold this property to a madame lalaurie. she may have dwelt in the house earlier than this, but here is where its tragic history begins. madame lalaurie was still a beautiful and most attractive lady, though bearing the name of a third husband. her surname had been first mccarty,--a genuine spanish-creole name, although of irish origin, of course,--then lopez, or maybe first lopez and then mccarty, and then blanque. she had two daughters, the elder, at least, the issue of her first marriage. the house is known to this day as madame blanque's house,--which, you notice, it never was,--so distinctly was she the notable figure in the household. her husband was younger than she. there is strong sign of his lesser importance in the fact that he was sometimes, and only sometimes, called doctor--dr. louis lalaurie. the graces and graciousness of their accomplished and entertaining mother quite outshone his step-daughters as well as him. to the frequent and numerous guests at her sumptuous board these young girls seemed comparatively unanimated, if not actually unhappy. not so with their mother. to do her full share in the upper circles of good society, to dispense the pleasures of drawing-room and dining-room with generous frequency and captivating amiability, was the eager pursuit of a lady who nevertheless kept the management of her money affairs, real estate, and slaves mainly in her own hands. of slaves she had ten, and housed most of them in the tall narrow wing that we have already noticed. we need not recount again the state of society about her at that time. the description of it given by the young german duke whom we quoted without date in the story of "salome muller" belongs exactly to this period. grymes stood at the top and front of things. john slidell was already shining beside him. they were co-members of the elkin club, then in its glory. it was trying energetically to see what incredible quantities of madeira it could drink. judge mazereau was "avocat-général" and was being lampooned by the imbecile wit of the singers and dancers of the calinda in congo square. the tree-planted levee was still populous on summer evenings with promenaders and loungers. the quadroon caste was in its dying splendor, still threatening the moral destruction of private society, and hated--as only woman can hate enemies of the hearthstone--by the proud, fair ladies of the creole pure-blood, among whom madame lalaurie shone brilliantly. her elegant house, filled with "furniture of the most costly description,"--says the "new orleans bee" of a date which we shall come to,--stood central in the swirl of "downtown" gayety, public and private. from royal into hospital street, across circus street--rue de la cirque--that was a good way to get into bayou road, white, almost as snow, with its smooth, silent pavement of powdered shells. this road followed the slow, clear meanderings of bayou st. jean, from red-roofed and embowered suburb st. jean to the lake, the swamp of giant, grizzly bearded cypresses hugging it all the way, and the whole five miles teeming with gay, swift carriages, some filled with smokers, others with ladies and children, the finest equipage of all being, as you may recollect, that of john fitz miller. he was at that very time master of salome muller, and of "several others fairer than salome." he belongs in the present story only here in this landscape, and here not as a typical, but only as an easily possible, slaveholder. for that matter, madame lalaurie, let it be plainly understood, was only another possibility, not a type. the two stories teach the same truth: that a public practice is answerable for whatever can happen easier with it than without it, no matter whether it must, or only may, happen. however, let the moral wait or skip it entirely if you choose: a regular feature of that bright afternoon throng was madame lalaurie's coach with the ever-so-pleasant madame lalaurie inside and her sleek black coachman on the box. "think," some friend would say, as he returned her courteous bow--"think of casting upon that woman the suspicion of starving and maltreating her own house-servants! look at that driver; his skin shines with good keeping. the truth is those jealous americans"-- there was intense jealousy between the americans and the creoles. the americans were just beginning in public matters to hold the odds. in private society the creoles still held power, but it was slipping from them even there. madame lalaurie was a creole. whether louisiana or st. domingo born was no matter; she should not be criticised by american envy! nor would the creoles themselves go nosing into the secretest privacy of her house. "why, look you, it is her common practice, even before her guests, to leave a little wine in her glass and hand it, with some word of kindness, to the slave waiting at her back. thin and hollow-chested--the slaves? yes, to be sure: but how about your rich uncle, or my dear old mother: are they not hollow-chested? well!" but this kind of logic did not satisfy everybody, not even every creole; and particularly not all her neighbors. the common populace too had unflattering beliefs. "do you see this splendid house? do you see those attic windows? there are slaves up there confined in chains and darkness and kept at the point of starvation." a creole gentleman, m. montreuil, who seems to have been a neighbor, made several attempts to bring the matter to light, but in vain. yet rumors and suspicious indications grew so rank that at length another prominent citizen, an "american" lawyer, who had a young creole studying law in his office, ventured to send him to the house to point out to madame lalaurie certain laws of the state. for instance there was article xx. of the old black code: "slaves who shall not be properly fed, clad, and provided for by their masters, may give information thereof to the attorney-general or the superior council, or to all the other officers of justice of an inferior jurisdiction, and may put the written exposition of their wrongs into their hands; upon which information, and even ex officio, should the information come from another quarter, the attorney-general shall prosecute said masters," etc. but the young law student on making his visit was captivated by the sweetness of the lady whom he had been sent to warn against committing unlawful misdemeanors, and withdrew filled with indignation against any one who could suspect her of the slightest unkindness to the humblest living thing. iii. a terrible revelation. the house that joined madame lalaurie's premises on the eastern side had a staircase window that looked down into her little courtyard. one day all by chance the lady of that adjoining house was going up those stairs just when the keen scream of a terrified child resounded from the next yard. she sprung to the window, and, looking down, saw a little negro girl about eight years old run wildly across the yard and into the house, with madame lalaurie, a cow-hide whip in her hand, following swiftly and close upon her. they disappeared; but by glimpses through the dark lattices and by the sound of the tumult, the lady knew that the child was flying up stairway after stairway, from gallery to gallery, hard pressed by her furious mistress. soon she heard them rise into the belvedere and the next instant they darted out upon the roof. down into its valleys and up over its ridges the little fugitive slid and scrambled. she reached the sheer edge, the lady at the window hid her face in her hands, there came a dull, jarring thud in the paved court beneath, and the lady, looking down, saw the child lifted from the ground and borne out of sight, limp, silent, dead. she kept her place at the window. hours passed, the day waned, darkness settled down. then she saw a torch brought, a shallow hole was dug,--as it seemed to her; but in fact a condemned well of slight depth, a mere pit, was uncovered,--and the little broken form was buried. she informed the officers of justice. from what came to light at a later season, it is hard to think that in this earlier case the investigation was more than superficial. yet an investigation was made, and some legal action was taken against madame lalaurie for cruelty to her slaves. they were taken from her and--liberated? ah! no. they were sold by the sheriff, bid in by her relatives, and by them sold back to her. let us believe that this is what occurred, or at least was shammed; for unless we do we must accept the implication of a newspaper statement of two or three years afterwards, and the confident impression of an aged creole gentleman and notary still living who was an eye-witness to much of this story, that all madame lalaurie ever suffered for this part of her hideous misdeeds was a fine. lawyers will doubtless remind us that madame lalaurie was not legally chargeable with the child's death. the lady at the window was not the only witness who might have been brought. a woman still living, who after the civil war was for years a domestic in this "haunted house," says her husband, now long dead, then a lad, was passing the place when the child ran out on the roof, and he saw her scrambling about on it seeking to escape. but he did not see the catastrophe that followed. no one saw more than what the law knows as assault; and the child was a slave. miss martineau, in her short account of the matter, which she heard in new orleans and from eye-witnesses only a few years after it had occurred, conjectures that madame lalaurie's object in buying back these slaves was simply to renew her cruelties upon them. but a much easier, and even kinder, guess would be that they knew things about her that had not been and must not be told, if she could possibly prevent it. a high temper, let us say, had led her into a slough of misdoing to a depth beyond all her expectation, and the only way out was on the farther side. yet bring to bear all the generous conjecture one can, and still the fact stands that she did starve, whip, and otherwise torture these poor victims. she even mistreated her daughters for conveying to them food which she had withheld. was she not insane? one would hope so; but we cannot hurry to believe just what is most comfortable or kindest. that would be itself a kind of "emotional insanity." if she was insane, how about her husband? for miss martineau, who was told that he was no party to her crimes, was misinformed; he was as deep in the same mire as passive complicity could carry him. if she was insane her insanity stopped abruptly at her plump, well-fed coachman. he was her spy against all others. and if she was insane, then why did not her frequent guests at table suspect it? all that society knew was that she had carried her domestic discipline to excess, had paid dearly for it, and no doubt was desisting and would henceforth desist from that kind of thing. enough allowance can hardly be made in our day for the delicacy society felt about prying into one of its own gentleman or lady member's treatment of his or her own servants. who was going to begin such an inquiry--john fitz miller? and so time passed, and the beautiful and ever sweet and charming madame lalaurie--whether sane or insane we leave to the doctors, except dr. lalaurie--continued to drive daily, yearly, on the gay bayou road, to manage her business affairs, and to gather bright groups around her tempting board, without their suspicion that she kept her cook in the kitchen by means of a twenty-four-foot chain fastened to her person and to the wall or floor. and yet let this be said to the people's credit, that public suspicion and indignation steadily grew. but they were still only growing when one day, the both of april, , the aged cook,--she was seventy,--chained as she was, purposely set the house on fire. it is only tradition that, having in a dream the night before seen the drawing-room window curtains on fire, she seized the happy thought and made the dream a reality. but it is in the printed record of the day that she confessed the deed to the mayor of the city. the desperate stratagem succeeds. the alarm of fire spreads to the street and a hundred men rush, in, while a crowd throngs the streets. some are neighbors, some friends, some strangers. one is m. montreuil, the gentleman who has so long been watching his chance to bring the law upon the house and its mistress. young d----, a notary's clerk, is another. and another is judge cononge--aha! and there are others of good and well-known name! the fire has got a good start; the kitchen is in flames; the upper stories are filling with smoke. strangers run to the place whence it all comes and fall to fighting the fire. friends rally to the aid of monsieur and madame lalaurie. the pretty lady has not lost one wit--is at her very best. her husband is as passive as ever. "this way," she cries; "this way! take this--go, now, and hurry back, if you please. this way!" and in a moment they are busy carrying out, and to places of safety, plate, jewels, robes, and the lighter and costlier pieces of furniture. "this way, please, gentlemen; that is only the servants' quarters." the servants' quarters--but where are the servants? madame's answers are witty but evasive. "never mind them now--save the valuables!" somebody touches judge canonge--"those servants are chained and locked up and liable to perish." "where?" "in the garret rooms." he hurries towards them, but fails to reach them, and returns, driven back and nearly suffocated by the smoke. he looks around him--this is no sketch of the fancy; we have his deposition sworn before a magistrate next day--and sees some friends of the family. he speaks to them: "i am told"--so and so--"can it be? will you speak to monsieur or to madame?" but the friends repulse him coldly. he turns and makes fresh inquiries of others. he notices two gentlemen near him whom he knows. one is montreuil. "here, montreuil, and you, fernandez, will you go to the garret and search? i am blind and half smothered." another--he thinks it was felix lefebre--goes in another direction, most likely towards the double door between the attics of the house and wing. montreuil and fernandez come back saying they have searched thoroughly and found nothing. madame lalaurie begs them, with all her sweetness, to come other ways and consider other things. but here is lefebre. he cries, "i have found some of them! i have broken some bars, but the doors are locked!" judge canonge hastens through the smoke. they reach the spot. "break the doors down!" down come the doors. the room they push into is a "den." they bring out two negresses. one has a large heavy iron collar at the neck and heavy irons on her feet. the fire is subdued now, they say, but the search goes on. here is m. guillotte; he has found another victim in another room. they push aside a mosquito-net and see a negro woman, aged, helpless, and with a deep wound in the head. some of the young men lift her and carry her out. judge canonge confronts doctor lalaurie again: "are there slaves still in your garret, monsieur?" and the doctor "replies with insulting tone that 'there are persons who would do much better by remaining at home than visiting others to dictate to them laws in the quality of officious friends.'" the search went on. the victims were led or carried out. the sight that met the public eye made the crowd literally groan with horror and shout with indignation. "we saw," wrote the editor of the "advertiser" next day, "one of these miserable beings. the sight was so horrible that we could scarce look upon it. the most savage heart could not have witnessed the spectacle unmoved. he had a large hole in his head; his body from head to foot was covered with scars and filled with worms! the sight inspired us with so much horror that even at the moment of writing this article we shudder from its effects. those who have seen the others represent them to be in a similar condition." one after another, seven dark human forms were brought forth, gaunt and wild-eyed with famine and loaded with irons, having been found chained and tied in attitudes in which they had been kept so long that they were crippled for life. it must have been in the first rush of the inside throng to follow these sufferers into the open air and sunlight that the quick-witted madame lalaurie clapped to the doors of her house with only herself and her daughters--possibly the coachman also--inside, and nothing but locks and bars to defend her from the rage of the populace. the streets under her windows--royal street here, hospital yonder--and the yard were thronged. something by and by put some one in mind to look for buried bodies. there had been nine slaves besides the coachman; where were the other two? a little digging brought their skeletons to light--an adult's out of the soil, and the little child's out of the "condemned well"; there they lay. but the living seven--the indiscreet crowd brought them food and drink in fatal abundance, and before the day was done two more were dead. the others were tenderly carried--shall we say it?--to prison;--to the calaboose. thither "at least two thousand people" flocked that day to see, if they might, these wretched sufferers. a quiet fell upon the scene of the morning's fire. the household and its near friends busied themselves in getting back the jewelry, plate, furniture, and the like, the idle crowd looking on in apathy and trusting, it may be, to see arrests made. but the restoration was finished and the house remained close barred; no arrest was made. as for dr. lalaurie, he does not appear in this scene. then the crowd, along in the afternoon, began to grow again; then to show anger and by and by to hoot and groan, and cry for satisfaction. iv. the lady's flight. the old bayou road saw a strange sight that afternoon. down at its farther end lay a little settlement of fishermen and spanish moss gatherers, pot-hunters, and shrimpers, around a custom-house station, a lighthouse, and a little fort. there the people who drove out in carriages were in the habit of alighting and taking the cool air of the lake, and sipping lemonades, wines, and ices before they turned homeward again along the crowded way that they had come. in after years the place fell into utter neglect. the customs station was removed, the fort was dismantled, the gay carriage people drove on the "new shell road" and its tributaries, bienville and canal streets, washington and carrollton avenues, and sipped and smoked in the twilights and starlights of carrollton gardens and the "new lake end." the older haunt, once so bright with fashionable pleasure-making, was left to the sole illumination of "st. john light" and the mongrel life of a bunch of cabins branded crabtown, and became, in popular superstition at least, the yearly rendezvous of the voodoos. then all at once in latter days it bloomed out in electrical, horticultural, festal, pyrotechnical splendor as "spanish fort," and the carriages all came rolling back. so, whenever you and----visit spanish fort and stroll along the bayou's edge on the fort side, and watch the broad schooners glide out through the bayou's mouth and into the open water, you may say: "somewhere just along this bank, within the few paces between here and yonder, must be where that schooner lay, moored and ready to sail for mandeville the afternoon that madame lalaurie, fleeing from the mob," etc. for on that afternoon, when the people surrounded the house, crying for vengeance, she never lost, it seems, her cunning. she and her sleek black coachman took counsel together, and his plan of escape was adopted. the early afternoon dinner-hour of those times came and passed and the crowd still filled the street, but as yet had done nothing. presently, right in the midst of the throng, her carriage came to the door according to its well-known daily habit at that hour, and at the same moment the charming madame lalaurie, in all her pretty manners and sweetness of mien, stepped quickly across the sidewalk and entered the vehicle. the crowd was taken all aback. when it gathered its wits the coach-door had shut and the horses were starting. then her audacity was understood. "she is getting away!" was the cry, and the multitude rushed upon her. "seize the horses!" they shouted, and dashed at the bits and reins. the black driver gave the word to his beasts, and with his coach whip lashed the faces of those who sprung forward. the horses reared and plunged, the harness held, and the equipage was off. the crowd went with it. "turn the coach over!" they cry, and attempt it, but fail. "drag her out!" they try to do it, again and again, but in vain; away it rattles! away it flashes! down hospital street, past bourbon, dauphine, burgundy, and the rampart, with the crowd following, yelling, but fast growing thin and thinner. "stop her! stop her! stop that carriage! stop that _carriage_!" in vain! on it spins! out upon the bayou road come the pattering hoofs and humming wheels--not wildly driven, but just at their most telling speed--into the whole whirling retinue of fashionable new orleans out for its afternoon airing. past this equipage; past that one; past half a dozen; a dozen; a score! their inmates sit chatting in every sort of mood over the day's sensation, when--what is this? a rush from behind, a whirl of white dust, and--"as i live, there she goes now, on her regular drive! what scandalous speed! and--see here! they are after her!" past fifty gigs and coaches; past a hundred; around this long bend in the road; around that one. good-bye, pursuers! never a chance to cut her off, the swamp forever on the right, the bayou on the left; she is getting away, getting away! the crowd is miles behind! the lake is reached. the road ends. what next? the coach dashes up to the bayou's edge and stops. why just here? ah! because just here so near the bayou's mouth a schooner lies against the bank. is dr. lalaurie's hand in this? the coachman parleys a moment with the schooner-master and hands him down a purse of gold. the coach-door is opened, the lady alights, and is presently on the vessel's deck. the lines are cast off, the great sails go up, the few lookers-on are there without reference to her and offer no interruption; a little pushing with poles lets the wind fill the canvas, and first slowly and silently, and then swiftly and with a grateful creaking of cordage and spars, the vessel glides out past the lighthouse, through the narrow opening, and stands away towards the northern horizon, below which, some thirty miles away, lies the little watering-place of mandeville with roads leading as far away northward as one may choose to fly. madame lalaurie is gone! the brave coachman--one cannot help admiring the villain's intrepidity--turned and drove back towards the city. what his plan was is not further known. no wonder if he thought he could lash and dash through the same mob again. but he mistook. he had not reached town again when the crowd met him. this time they were more successful. they stopped the horses--killed them. what they did with the driver is not told; but one can guess. they broke the carriage into bits. then they returned to the house. they reached it about o'clock in the evening. the two daughters had just escaped by a window. the whole house was locked and barred; "hermetically sealed," says "l'abeille" of the next morning. the human tempest fell upon it, and "in a few minutes," says "the courier," "the doors and windows were broken open, the crowd rushed in, and the work of destruction began." "those who rush in are of all classes and colors" continues "the courier" of next day; but "no, no!" says a survivor of to-day who was there and took part; "we wouldn't have allowed that!" in a single hour everything movable disappeared or perished. the place was rifled of jewelry and plate; china was smashed; the very stair-balusters were pulled piece from piece; hangings, bedding and table linen were tossed into the streets; and the elegant furniture, bedsteads, wardrobes, buffets, tables, chairs, pictures, "pianos," says the newspaper, were taken with pains to the third-story windows, hurled out and broken--"smashed into a thousand pieces"--upon the ground below. the very basements were emptied, and the floors, wainscots, and iron balconies damaged as far as at the moment they could be. the sudden southern nightfall descended, and torches danced in the streets and through the ruined house. the débris was gathered into hot bonfires, feather-beds were cut open, and the pavements covered with a thick snow of feathers. the night wore on, but the mob persisted. they mounted and battered the roof; they defaced the inner walls. morning found them still at their senseless mischief, and they were "in the act of pulling down the walls when the sheriff and several citizens interfered and put an end to their work." it was proposed to go at once to the houses of others long suspected of like cruelties to their slaves. but against this the highest gentility of the city alertly and diligently opposed themselves. not at all because of sympathy with such cruelties. the single reason has its parallel in our own day. it was the fear that the negroes would be thereby encouraged to seek by violence those rights which their masters thought it not expedient to give them. the movement was suppressed, and the odious parties were merely warned that they were watched. madame lalaurie, we know by notarial records, was in mandeville ten days after, when she executed a power of attorney in favor of her new orleans business agent, in which act she was "authorized and assisted by her husband, louis lalaurie." so he disappears. his wife made her way to mobile--some say to the north--and thence to paris. being recognized and confronted there, she again fled. the rest of her story is tradition, but comes very directly. a domestic in a creole family that knew madame lalaurie--and slave women used to enjoy great confidence and familiarity in the creole households at times--tells that one day a letter from prance to one of the family informed them that madame lalaurie, while spending a season at pau, had engaged with a party of fashionable people in a boar-hunt, and somehow meeting the boar while apart from her companions had been set upon by the infuriated beast, and too quickly for any one to come to her rescue had been torn and killed. if this occurred after or it has no disagreement with harriet martineau's account, that at the latter date madame lalaurie was supposed to be still "skulking about some french province under a false name." the house remained untouched for at least three years, "ornamented with various writings expressive of indignation and just punishment." the volume of "l'abeille" containing this account seems to have been abstracted from the city archives. it was in the last week of april or the first week of may, , that miss martineau saw the house. it "stands," she wrote about a year later, "and is meant to stand, in its ruined state. it was the strange sight of its gaping windows and empty walls, in the midst of a busy street, which excited my wonder, and was the cause of my being told the story the first time. i gathered other particulars afterwards from eye-witnesses." so the place came to be looked upon as haunted. in march, , madame lalaurie's agent sold the house to a man who held it but a little over three months and then sold it at the same price that he had paid--only fourteen thousand dollars. the notary who made the earlier act of sale must have found it interesting. he was one of those who had helped find and carry out madame lalaurie's victims. it did not change hands again for twenty-five years. and then--in what state of repair i know not--it was sold at an advance equal to a yearly increase of but six-sevenths of one per cent, on the purchase price of the gaping ruin sold in . there is a certain poetry in notarial records. but we will not delve for it now. idle talk of strange sights and sounds crowded out of notice any true history the house may have had in those twenty-five years, or until war had destroyed that slavery to whose horridest possibilities the gloomy pile, even when restored and renovated, stood a ghost-ridden monument. yet its days of dark romance were by no means ended. v. a new use. the era of political reconstruction came. the victorious national power decreed that they who had once been master and slave should enter into political partnership on terms of civil equality. the slaves grasped the boon; but the masters, trained for generations in the conviction that public safety and private purity were possible only by the subjection of the black race under the white, loathed civil equality as but another name for private companionship, and spurned, as dishonor and destruction in one, the restoration of their sovereignty at the price of political copartnership with the groveling race they had bought and sold and subjected easily to the leash and lash. what followed took every one by surprise. the negro came at once into a larger share of power than it was ever intended he should or expected he would attain. his master, related to him long and only under the imagined necessities of plantation government, vowed the issue must and should be, not how shall the two races share public self-government in prosperous amity? but, which race shall exclusively rule the other, race by race? the necessities of national authority tipped the scale, and the powers of legislation and government and the spoils of office tumbled, all together, into the freedman's ragged lap. thereupon there fell upon new orleans, never well governed at the best, a volcanic shower of corruption and misrule. and yet when history's calm summing-up and final judgment comes, there must this be pointed out, which was very hard to see through the dust and smoke of those days: that while plunder and fraud ran riot, yet no serious attempt was ever made by the freedman or his allies to establish any un-american principle of government, and for nothing else was he more fiercely, bloodily opposed than for measures approved by the world's best thought and in full harmony with the national scheme of order. we shall see now what these things have to do with our strange true story. in new orleans the american public school system, which recognizes free public instruction as a profitable investment of the public funds for the common public safety, had already long been established. the negro adopted and enlarged it. he recognized the fact that the relation of pupils in the public schools is as distinctly a public and not a private relation as that of the sidewalk, the market, the public park, or the street-car. but recognizing also the impracticabilities of place and time, he established separate schools for whites and blacks. in one instance, however, owing mainly to smallness of numbers, it seemed more feasible to allow a common enjoyment of the civil right of public instruction without separation by race than to maintain two separate schools, one at least of which would be very feeble for lack of numbers. now, it being so decided, of all the buildings in new orleans which one was chosen for this experiment but the "haunted house" in royal street! i shall never forget the day--although marked by no startling incident--when i sat in its lofty drawing-rooms and heard its classes in their annual examination. it was june, and the teachers and pupils were clad in recognition of the special occasion and in the light fabrics fitted to the season. the rooms were adorned with wreaths, garlands, and bouquets. among the scholars many faces were beautiful, and all were fresh and young. much gallic blood asserted itself in complexion and feature, generally of undoubted, unadulterated "caucasian" purity, but sometimes of visible and now and then of preponderating african tincture. only two or three, unless i have forgotten, were of pure negro blood. there, in the rooms that had once resounded with the screams of madame lalaurie's little slave fleeing to her death, and with the hootings and maledictions of the enraged mob, was being tried the experiment of a common enjoyment of public benefits by the daughters of two widely divergent races, without the enforcement of private social companionship. from such enforcement the school was as free as any school is or ought to be. the daily discipline did not require any two pupils to be social, but only every one to be civil, and civil to all. these pages are written, however, to tell a strange true story, and not to plead one cause or another. whatever the story itself pleads, let it plead. outside the "haunted house," far and near, the whole community was divided into two fiercely hostile parties, often at actual war with each other, the one striving to maintain government upon a co-citizenship regardless of race in all public relations, the other sworn to make race the supreme, sufficient, inexorable condition of supremacy on the one part and subjection on the other. yet for all this the school prospered. nevertheless, it suffered much internal unrest. many a word was spoken that struck like a club, many a smile stung like a whip-lash, many a glance stabbed like a knife; even in the midst of recitations a wounded one would sometimes break into sobs or silent tears while the aggressor crimsoned and palpitated with the proud indignation of the master caste. the teachers met all such by-play with prompt, impartial repression and concentration upon the appointed duties of the hour. sometimes another thing restored order. few indeed of the pupils, of whatever racial purity or preponderance, but held more or less in awe the ghostly traditions of the house; and at times it chanced to be just in the midst of one of these ebullitions of scorn, grief, and resentful tears that noiselessly and majestically the great doors of the reception-rooms, untouched by visible hands, would slowly swing open, and the hushed girls would call to mind madame lalaurie. not all who bore the tincture of the despised race suffered alike. some were fierce and sturdy, and played a savage tit-for-tat. some were insensible. a few bore themselves inflexibly by dint of sheer nerve; while many, generally much more white than black, quivered and winced continually under the contumely that fell, they felt, with peculiar injustice and cruelty upon them. odd things happened from time to time to remind one of the house's early history. one day a deep hidden well that no one had suspected the existence of was found in the basement of the main house. another time--but we must be brief. matters went on thus for years. but at length there was a sudden and violent change. vi. evictions. the "radical" party in louisiana, gorged with private spoils and loathed and hated by the all but unbroken ranks of well-to-do society, though it held a creed as righteous and reasonable as any political party ever held, was going to pieces by the sheer weakness of its own political corruption. it was made mainly of the poor and weak elements of the people. had it been ever so pure it could not have made headway against the strongest ranks of society concentrating against it with revolutionary intent, when deserted by the power which had called it to responsibility and--come! this history of a house must not run into the history of a government. it is a fact in our story, however, that in the "conservative" party there sprung up the "white league," purposing to wrest the state government from the "radicals" by force of arms. on the th of september, , the white league met and defeated the metropolitan police in a hot and bloody engagement of infantry and artillery on the broad steamboat landing in the very middle of new orleans. but the federal authority interfered. the "radical" government resumed control. but the white league survived and grew in power. in november elections were held, and the state legislature was found to be republican by a majority of only two. one bright, spring-like day in december, such as a northern march might give in its best mood, the school had gathered in the "haunted house" as usual, but the hour of duty had not yet struck. two teachers sat in an upper class-room talking over the history of the house. the older of the two had lately heard of an odd new incident connected with it, and was telling of it. a distinguished foreign visitor, she said, guest at a dinner-party in the city the previous season, turned unexpectedly to his hostess, the talk being of quaint old new orleans houses, and asked how to find "the house where that celebrated tyrant had lived who was driven from the city by a mob for maltreating her slaves." the rest of the company sat aghast, while the hostess silenced him by the severe coldness with which she replied that she "knew nothing about it." one of madame lalaurie's daughters was sitting there, a guest at the table. when the teacher's story was told her companion made no comment. she had noticed a singular sound that was increasing in volume. it was out-of-doors--seemed far away; but it was drawing nearer. she started up, for she recognized it now as a clamor of human voices, and remembered that the iron gates had not yet been locked for the day. they hurried to the window, looked down, and saw the narrow street full from wall to wall for a hundred yards with men coming towards them. the front of the crowd had already reached the place and was turning towards the iron gates. the two women went quickly to the hall, and, looking down the spiral staircase to the marble pavement of the entrance three stories below, saw the men swarming in through the wide gateway and doorway by dozens. while they still leaned over the balustrade, marguerite, one of their pupils, a blue-eyed blonde girl of lovely complexion, with red, voluptuous lips, and beautiful hair held by a carven shell comb, came and bent over the balustrade with them. suddenly her comb slipped from its hold, flashed downward, and striking the marble pavement flew into pieces at the feet of the men who were about to ascend. several of them looked quickly up. "it was my mother's comb!" said marguerite, turned ashy pale, and sunk down in hysterics. the two teachers carried her to a remote room, the bed-chamber of the janitress, and then obeyed an order of the principal calling her associates to the second floor. a band of men were coming up the winding stair with measured, military tread towards the landing, where the principal, with her assistants gathered around her, stood to confront them. she was young, beautiful, and of calm temper. her skin, says one who was present, was of dazzling clearness, her abundant hair was golden auburn, and in happy hours her eyes were as "soft as velvet." but when the leader of the band of men reached the stair-landing, threw his coat open, and showed the badge of the white league, her face had blanched and hardened to marble, and her eyes darkened to black as they glowed with indignation. "we have come," said the white leaguer, "to remove the colored pupils. you will call your school to order." to which the principal replied: "you will permit me first to confer with my corps of associates." he was a trifle disconcerted. "oh, certainly." the teachers gathered in the principal's private room. some were dumb, one broke into tears, another pleaded devotion to the principal, and one was just advising that the onus of all action be thrown upon the intruders, when the door was pushed open and the white leaguer said: "ladies, we are waiting. assemble the school; we are going to clean it out." the pupils, many of them trembling, weeping, and terrified, were with difficulty brought to order in the assembly room. this place had once been madame lalaurie's dining-hall. a frieze of angels ran round its four walls, and, oddly, for some special past occasion, a legend in crimson and gold on the western side bore the words, "the eye of god is on us." "gentlemen, the school is assembled," said the principal. "call the roll," was the reply, "and we will challenge each name." it was done. as each name was called its young bearer rose and confronted her inquisitors. and the inquisitors began to blunder. accusations of the fatal taint were met with denials and withdrawn with apologies. sometimes it was truth, and sometimes pure arrogance and falsehood, that triumphed over these champions of instinctive racial antagonism. one dark girl shot up haughtily at the call of her name-- "i am of indian blood, and can prove it!" "you will not be disturbed." "coralie----," the principal next called. a thin girl of mixed blood and freckled face rose and said: "my mother is white." "step aside!" commanded the white leaguer. "but by the law the color follows the mother, and so i am white." "step aside!" cried the man, in a fury. (in truth there was no such law.) "octavie ----." a pretty, oriental looking girl rises, silent, pale, but self-controlled. "are you colored?" "yes; i am colored." she moves aside. "marie o ----." a girl very fair, but with crinkling hair and other signs of negro extraction, stands up and says: "i am the sister of the hon.----," naming a high democratic official, "and i shall not leave this school." "you may remain; your case will be investigated." "eugénie ----." a modest girl, visibly of mixed race, rises, weeping silently. "step aside." "marcelline v----." a bold-eyed girl of much african blood stands up and answers: "i am not colored! we are spanish, and _my brother will call on you and prove it."_ she is allowed to stay. at length the roll-call is done. "now, madam, you will dismiss these pupils that we have set aside, at once. we will go down and wait to see that they come out." the men tramped out of the room, went down-stairs, and rejoined the impatient crowd that was clamoring in the street. then followed a wild scene within the old house. restraint was lost. terror ruled. the girls who had been ordered into the street sobbed and shrieked and begged: "oh, save us! we cannot go out there; the mob will kill us! what shall we do?" one girl of grand and noble air, as dark and handsome as an east indian princess, and standing first in her class for scholarship, threw herself at her teacher's feet, crying, "have pity on me, miss ----!" "my poor léontine," replied the teacher, "what can i do? there are good 'colored' schools in the city; would it not have been wiser for your father to send you to one of them?" but the girl rose up and answered: "must i go to school with my own servants to escape an unmerited disdain?" and the teacher was silent, while the confusion increased. "the shame of it will kill me!" cried gentle eugénie l----. and thereupon, at last, a teacher, commonly one of the sternest in discipline, exclaimed: "if eugénie goes, marcelline shall go, if i have to put her out myself! spanish, indeed! and eugénie a pearl by the side of her!" just then eugénie's father came. he had forced his way through the press in the street, and now stood bidding his child have courage and return with him the way he had come. "tie your veil close, eugénie," said the teacher, "and they will not know you." and so they went, the father and the daughter. but they went alone. none followed. this roused the crowd to noisy anger. "why don't the rest come?" it howled. but the teachers tried in vain to inspire the panic-stricken girls with courage to face the mob, and were in despair, when a school official arrived, and with calm and confident authority bade the expelled girls gather in ranks and follow him through the crowd. so they went out through the iron gates, the great leaves of which closed after them with a rasping of their key and shooting of their bolts, while a teacher said: "come; the reporters will soon be here. let us go and see after marguerite." they found her in the room of the janitress, shut in and fast asleep. "do you think," one asked of the janitress, "that mere fright and the loss of that comb made this strong girl ill?" "no. i think she must have guessed those men's errand, and her eye met the eye of some one who knew her." "but what of that?" "she is 'colored.'" "impossible!" "i tell you, yes!" "why, i thought her as pure german as her name." "no, the mixture is there; though the only trace of it is on her lips. her mother--she is dead now--was a beautiful quadroon. a german sea-captain loved her. the law stood between them. he opened a vein in his arm, forced in some of her blood, went to court, swore he had african blood, got his license, and married her. marguerite is engaged to be married to a white man, a gentleman who does not know this. it was like life and death, so to speak, for her not to let those men turn her out of here." the teacher turned away, pondering. the eviction did not, at that time, hold good. the political struggle went on, fierce and bitter. the "radical" government was doomed, but not dead. a few weeks after the scene just described the evicted girls were reinstated. a long term of suspense followed. the new year became the old and went out. twice this happened. in there were two governors and two governments in louisiana. in sight from the belvedere of the "haunted house," eight squares away up royal street, in the state house, the _de facto_ government was shut up under close military siege by the _de jure_ government, and the girls' high school in madame lalaurie's old house, continuing faithfully their daily sessions, knew with as little certainty to which of the two they belonged as though new orleans had been some italian city of the fifteenth century. but to guess the white league, was not far from right, and in april the radical government expired. a democratic school-board came in. june brought commencement day, and some of the same girls who had been evicted in were graduated by the new board in . during the summer the schools and school-laws were overhauled, and in september or october the high school was removed to another place, where each pupil suspected of mixed blood was examined officially behind closed doors and only those who could prove white or _indian_ ancestry were allowed to stay. a "colored" high school was opened in madame lalaurie's house with a few pupils. it lasted one session, maybe two, and then perished. in the "haunted house" had become a conservatory of music. chamber concerts were frequent in madame lalaurie's old dining-hall. on a certain sweet evening in the spring of that year there sat among those who had gathered to hear the haunted place filled with a deluge of sweet sounds one who had been a teacher there when the house had been, as some one--conservative or radical, who can tell which?--said on the spot, "for the second time purged of its iniquities." the scene was "much changed," says the auditor; but the ghosts were all there, walking on the waves of harmony. and thickest and fastest they trooped in and out when a passionate song thrilled the air with the promise that "some day--some day eyes clearer grown the truth may see." attalie brouillard. . i. furnished rooms. the strange true stories we have thus far told have all been matter of public or of private record. pages of history and travel, law reports, documents of court, the testimony of eye-witnesses, old manuscripts and letters, have insured to them the full force and charm of their reality. but now we must have it clearly and mutually understood that here is one the verity of which is vouched for stoutly, but only by tradition. it is very much as if we had nearly finished a strong, solid stone house and would now ask permission of our underwriters to add to it at the rear a small frame lean-to. it is a mere bit of lawyers' table-talk, a piece of after-dinner property. it originally belonged, they say, to judge collins of new orleans, as i believe we have already mentioned; his by right of personal knowledge. i might have got it straight from him had i heard of it but a few years sooner. his small, iron-gray head, dark, keen eyes, and nervous face and form are in my mind's eye now, as i saw him one day on the bench interrupting a lawyer at the bar and telling him in ten words what the lawyer was trying to tell in two hundred and fifty. that the judge's right to this story was that of discovery, not of invention, is well attested; and if he or any one else allowed fictitious embellishments to gather upon it by oft telling of it in merry hours, the story had certainly lost all such superfluities the day it came to me, as completely as if some one had stolen its clothes while it was in swimming. the best i can say is that it came unmutilated, and that i have done only what any humane person would have done--given it drapery enough to cover its nakedness. to speak yet plainer, i do not, even now, put aside, abridge, or alter a single _fact_; only, at most, restore one or two to spaces that indicate just what has dropped out. if a dentist may lawfully supply the place of a lost tooth, or an old beau comb his hair skillfully over a bald spot, then am i guiltless. i make the tale not less, and only just a trifle more, true; not more, but only a trifle less, strange. and this is it: in this attalie brouillard--so called, mark you, for present convenience only--lived in the french quarter of new orleans; i think they say in bienville street, but that is no matter; somewhere in the _vieux carré_ of bienville's original town. she was a worthy woman; youngish, honest, rather handsome, with a little money--just a little; of attractive dress, with good manners, too; alone in the world, and--a quadroon. she kept furnished rooms to rent--as a matter of course; what would she do? hence she was not so utterly alone in the world as she might have been. she even did what stevenson says is so good, but not so easy, to do, "to keep a few friends, but these without capitulation." for instance there was camille ducour. that was not his name; but as we have called the woman a.b., let the man be represented as c.d. he, too, was a quadroon; an f.m.c.[ ] his personal appearance has not been described to us, but he must have had one. fancy a small figure, thin, let us say, narrow-chested, round-shouldered, his complexion a dull clay color spattered with large red freckles, his eyes small, gray, and close together, his hair not long or bushy, but dense, crinkled, and hesitating between a dull yellow and a hot red; his clothes his own and his linen last week's. he is said to have been a shrewd fellow; had picked up much practical knowledge of the law, especially of notarial business, and drove a smart trade giving private advice on points of law to people of his caste. from many a trap had he saved his poor clients of an hour. out of many a danger of their own making had he safely drawn them, all unseen by, though not unknown to, the legitimate guild of judges, lawyers, and notaries out of whose professional garbage barrel he enjoyed a sort of stray dog's privilege of feeding. his meetings with attalie brouillard were almost always on the street and by accident. yet such meetings were invariably turned into pleasant visits in the middle of the sidewalk, after the time-honored southern fashion. hopes, ailments, the hardness of the times, the health of each one's "folks," and the condition of their own souls, could not be told all in a breath. he never failed, when he could detain her no longer, to bid her feel free to call on him whenever she found herself in dire need of a wise friend's counsel. there was always in his words the hint that, though he never had quite enough cash for one, he never failed of knowledge and wisdom enough for two. and the gentle attalie believed both clauses of his avowal. attalie had another friend, a white man. footnotes: [ ] free man of color. ii. john bull. this other friend was a big, burly englishman, forty-something years old, but looking older; a big pink cabbage-rose of a man who had for many years been attalie's principal lodger. he, too, was alone in the world. and yet neither was he so utterly alone as he might have been. for he was a cotton buyer. in there was no business like the cotton business. everything else was subservient to that. the cotton buyer's part, in particular, was a "pretty business." the cotton _factor_ was harassingly responsible to a whole swarm of planter patrons, of whose feelings he had to be all the more careful when they were in his debt. the cotton _broker_ could be bullied by his buyer. but the _buyer_ was answerable only to some big commercial house away off in havre or hamburg or liverpool, that had to leave all but a few of the largest and most vital matters to his discretion. commendations and criticisms alike had to come by mail across the atlantic. now, if a cotton buyer of this sort happened to be a bachelor, with no taste for society, was any one likely to care what he substituted, out of business hours, for the conventional relations of domestic life? no one answers. cotton buyers of that sort were apt to have very comfortable furnished rooms in the old french quarter. this one in attalie's house had the two main rooms on the first floor above the street. honestly, for all our winking and tittering, we know nothing whatever against this person's private character except the sad fact that he was a man and a bachelor. at forty-odd, it is fair to suppose, one who knows the world well enough to be the trusted agent of others, thousands of miles across the ocean, has bid farewell to all mere innocence and has made choice between virtue and vice. but we have no proof whatever that attalie's cotton buyer had not solemnly chosen virtue and stuck to his choice as an englishman can. all we know as to this, really, is that for many years here he had roomed, and that, moved by some sentiment, we know not certainly what, he had again and again assured attalie that she should never want while he had anything, and that in his will, whenever he should make it, she would find herself his sole legatee. on neither side of the water, said he, had he any one to whom the law obliged him to leave his property nor, indeed, any large wealth; only a little money in bank--a very indefinite statement. in the will was still unwritten. there is little room to doubt that this state of affairs did much interest camille ducour--at a distance. the englishman may have known him by sight. the kind of acquaintance he might have had with the quadroon was not likely to vary much from an acquaintance with some unknown neighbor's cat on which he mildly hoped to bestow a pitcher of water if ever he caught him under his window. camille mentioned the englishman approvingly to three other friends of attalie, when, with what they thought was adroitness, they turned conversation upon her pecuniary welfare. they were jean d'eau, a slumberous butcher; richard reau, an embarrassed baker; and one ---- ecswyzee, an illiterate but prosperous candlestick-maker. these names may sound inexact, but _can you prove_ that these were not their names and occupations? we shall proceed. these three simple souls were bound to attalie by the strong yet tender bonds of debit and credit. she was not distressingly but only interestingly "behind" on their well-greased books, where camille's account, too, was longer on the left-hand side. when they alluded inquiringly to her bill, he mentioned the englishman vaguely and assured them it was "good paper to hold," once or twice growing so extravagant as to add that his (camille's) own was hardly better! the tradesmen replied that they hadn't a shadow of doubt. in fact, they said, their mention, of the matter was mere jest, etc. iii. ducour's meditations. there were a few points in this case upon which camille wished he could bring to bear those purely intellectual--not magical--powers of divination which he modestly told his clients were the secret of all his sagacious advice. he wished he could determine conclusively and exactly what was the mutual relation of attalie and her lodger. out of the minutest corner of one eye he had watched her for years. a quadroon woman's lot was a hard one; any true woman would say that, even while approving the laws and popular notions of necessity that made that lot what it was. the law, popular sentiment, public policy, always looked at attalie's sort with their right eye shut. and according to all the demands of the other eye camille knew that attalie was honest, faithful. but was that all; or did she stand above and beyond the demands of law and popular sentiment? in a word, to whom was she honest, faithful; to the englishman merely, or actually to herself? if to herself actually, then in case of his early death, for camille had got a notion of that, and had got it from attalie, who had got it from the englishman,--what then? would she get his money, or any of it? no, not if camille knew men--especially white men. for a quadroon woman to be true to herself and to her god was not the kind of thing that white men--if he knew them--rewarded. but if the case was not of that sort, and the relation was what he _hoped_ it was, and according to his ideas of higher law it had a right to be, why, then, she might reasonably hope for a good fat slice--if there should turn out, after all, to be any fat to slice. thence arose the other question--had the englishman any money? and if so, was it much, or was it so little as to make it hardly worth while for the englishman to die early at all? you can't tell just by looking at a man or his clothes. in fact, is it not astonishing how quietly a man--of the quiet kind--can either save great shining stacks of money, or get rid of all he makes as fast as he makes it? isn't it astonishing? being a cotton buyer did not answer the question. he might be getting very large pay or very small; or even none. some men had got rich without ever charging anything for their services. the cotton business those days was a perfectly lovely business--so many shady by-paths and circuitous labyrinths. even in the law--why, sometimes even he, camille ducour, did not charge anything. but that was not often. only one thing was clear--there ought to be a written will. for attalie brouillard, f. w. c, could by no means be or become the englishman's legal heir. the law mumbled something about "one-tenth," but for the rest answered in the negative and with a black frown. her only chance--but we shall come to that. all in a tremor one day a messenger, attalie's black slave girl, came to camille to say that her mistress was in trouble! in distress! in deeper distress than he could possibly imagine, and in instant need of that wise counsel which camille ducour had so frequently offered to give. "i am busy," he said, in the creole-negro _patois_, "but--has anybody--has anything happened to--to anybody in madame brouillard's house?" "yes," the messenger feared that "_ce michié qui poté soulié jaune_--that gentleman who wears yellow shoes--is ill. madame brouillard is hurrying to and fro and crying." "very loud?" "no, silently; yet as though her heart were breaking." "and the doctor?" asks camille, as he and the messenger are hurrying side by side out of exchange alley into bienville street. "---- was there yesterday and the day before." they reach the house. attalie meets her counselor alone at the top of the stairs. "_li bien malade_," she whispers, weeping; "he is very ill." "---- wants to make his will?" asks camille. all their talk is in their bad french. attalie nods, answers inaudibly, and weeps afresh. presently she manages to tell how the sick man had tried to write, and failed, and had fallen back exclaiming, "attalie--attalie--i want to leave it all to you--what little--" and did not finish, but presently gasped out, "bring a notary." "and the doctor?" "---- has not come to-day. michié told the doctor if he came again he would kick him downstairs. yes, and the doctor says whenever a patient of his says that he stops coming." they reach the door of the sick man's bedchamber. attalie pushes it softly, looks into the darkened chamber and draws back, whispering, "he has dropped asleep." camille changes places with her and looks in. then he moves a step across the threshold, leans forward peeringly, and then turns about, lifts his ill-kept forefinger, and murmurs while he fixes his little eyes on hers: "if you make a noise, or in any way let any one know what has happened, it will cost you all he is worth. i will leave you alone with him just ten minutes." he makes as if to pass by her towards the stair, but she seizes him by the wrist. "what do you mean?" she asks, with alarm. "hush! you speak too loud. he is dead." the woman leaps by him, slamming him against the banisters, and disappears within the room. camille hears her loud, long moan as she reaches the bedside. he takes three or four audible steps away from the door and towards the stairs, then turns, and darting with the swift silence of a cat surprises her on her knees by the bed, disheveled, unheeding, all moans and tears, and covering with passionate kisses the dead man's--hands only! to impute moral sublimity to a white man and a quadroon woman at one and the same time and in one and the same affair was something beyond the powers of camille's small soul. but he gave attalie, on the instant, full credit, over credit it may be, and felt a momentary thrill of spiritual contagion that he had scarcely known before in all his days. he uttered not a sound; but for all that he said within himself, drawing his breath in through his clenched teeth, and tightening his fists till they trembled, "oho-o!--aha!--no wonder you postponed the writing of your will day by day, month by month, year in and year out! but you shall see, my fine michié white man--dead as you are, you shall see--you'll see if you shan't!--she shall have the money, little or much! unless there are heirs she shall have every picayune of it!" almost as quickly as it had flashed up, the faint flicker of moral feeling died out; yet the resolution remained. he was going to "beat" a dead white man. iv. proxy. camille glided to the woman's side and laid a gentle yet commanding touch upon her. "come, there is not a moment to lose." "what do you want?" asked attalie. she neither rose nor turned her head, nor even let go the dead man's hand. "i must make haste to fulfill the oft-repeated request of my friend here." "_your_ friend!" she still knelt, and held the hand, but turned her face, full of pained resentment, upon the speaker behind her. he was calm. "our friend; yes, this man here. you did not know that i was his secret confidential adviser? well, that was all right; i told him to tell no one. but now i must carry out his instructions. madame brouillard, this man wished to leave you every cent he had in the world." attalie slowly laid her lips on the big cold hand lying in her two hot ones and let the silent tears wet all three. camille spoke on to her averted form: "he may never have told you so till to-day, but he has often told me. 'i tell you, camille,' he used to say, 'because i can trust you: i can't trust a white man in a matter like this.' he told you? yes; then you know that i speak the truth. but one thing you did not know; that this intention of his was the result of my earnest advice.--stop! madame brouillard--if you please--we have no time for amazement or questions now; and less than none for expressions of gratitude. listen to me. you know he was always afraid he would die some day suddenly? yes, of course; everybody knew that. one night--our meetings were invariably at night--he said to me, 'camille, my dear friend, if i should go all of a sudden some day before i write that will, _you know what to do_.' those were his exact words: 'camille, my dear friend, _you know what to do_.'" all this was said to the back of attalie's head and neck; but now the speaker touched her with one finger: "madame, are your lodgers all up town?" she nodded. "good. and you have but the one servant. go tell her that our dear friend has been in great suffering but is now much better, quite free from pain, in fact, and wants to attend to some business. send her to exchange alley, to the office of eugene favre. he is a notary public"--he murmured some further description. "understand?" attalie, still kneeling, kept her eyes on his in silence, but she understood; he saw that. "she must tell him," he continued, "to come at once. but before she goes there she must stop on the way and tell three persons to come and witness a notarial act. now whom shall they be? for they must be white male residents of the parish, and they must not be insane, deaf, dumb, blind, nor disqualified by crime. i will tell you: let them be jean d'eau--at the french market. he will still be there; it is his turn to scrub the market to-day. get him, get richard reau, and old man ecswyzee. and on no account must the doctor be allowed to come. do that, madame brouillard, as quickly as you can. i will wait here." but the kneeling figure hesitated, with intense distress in her upturned face: "what are you going to do, michié ducour?" "we are going to make you sole legatee." "i do not want it! how are you going to do it? how?" "in a way which he knows about and approves." attalie hid her shapely forehead again on the dead hand. "i cannot leave him. do what you please, only let me stay here. oh! let me stay here." "i see," said camille, with cold severity, "like all women, you count the foolish sentiments of the living of more value than the reasonable wish of the dead." he waited a moment for these words to take effect upon her motionless form, and then, seeing that--again like a woman--she was waiting and wishing for compulsion, he lifted her by one arm. "come. go. and make haste to get back again; we are losing priceless time." she went. but just outside the door she seemed to halt. camille put out his freckled face and turtle neck. "well?" "o michié ducour!" the trembling woman whispered, "those three witnesses will never do. i am in debt to every one of them!" "madame brouillard, the one you owe the most to will be the best witness. well? what next?" "o my dear friend! what is this going to cost?--in money, i mean. i am so afraid of lawyers' accounts! i have nothing, and if it turns out that he has very, very little--it is true that i sent for you, but--i did not think you--what must you charge?" "nothing!" whispered camille. "madame brouillard, whether he leaves you little or much, this must be for me a labor of love to him who was secretly my friend, or i will not touch it. he certainly had something, however, or he would not have tried to write a will. but, my dear madame, if you do not right here, now, stop looking scared, as if you were about to steal something instead of saving something from being stolen, it will cost us a great deal. go. make haste! that's right!--ts-s-st! hold on! which is your own bedroom, upstairs?--never mind why i ask; tell me. yes; all right i now, go!--ts-s-st! bring my hat up as you return." she went downstairs. camille tiptoed quickly back into the death chamber, whipped off his shoes, ran to a small writing-table, then to the bureau, then to the armoire, trying their drawers. they were locked, every one. he ran to the bed and searched swiftly under pillows and mattresses--no keys. never mind. he wrapped a single sheet about the dead man's form, stepped lightly to the door, looked out, listened, heard nothing, and tripped back again. and then with all his poor strength he lifted the bulk, still limp, in his arms, and with only two or three halts in the toilsome journey, to dash the streaming sweat from his brows and to better his hold so that the heels should not drag on the steps, carried it up to attalie's small room and laid it, decently composed, on her bed. then he glided downstairs again and had just slipped into his shoes when attalie came up hastily from below. she was pale and seemed both awe-struck and suspicious. as she met him outside the door grief and dismay were struggling in her eyes with mistrust, and as he coolly handed her the key of her room indignation joined the strife. she reddened and flashed: "my god! you have not, yourself, already?" "i could not wait, madame brouillard. we must run up now, and do for him whatever cannot be put off; and then you must let me come back, leaving my hat and shoes and coat up there, and--you understand?" yes; the whole thing was heartless and horrible, but--she understood. they went up. v. the nuncupative will. in their sad task upstairs attalie held command. camille went and came on short errands to and from the door of her room, and was let in only once or twice when, for lifting or some such thing, four hands were indispensable. soon both he and she came down to the door of the vacated room again together. he was in his shirt sleeves and without his shoes; but he had resumed command. "and now, madame brouillard, to do this thing in the very best way i ought to say to you at once that our dear friend--did he ever tell you what he was worth?" the speaker leaned against the door-post and seemed to concern himself languidly with his black-rimmed finger-nails, while in fact he was watching attalie from head to foot with all his senses and wits. she looked grief-stricken and thoroughly wretched. "no," she said, very quietly, then suddenly burst into noiseless fresh tears, sank into a chair, buried her face in her wet handkerchief, and cried, "ah! no, no, no! that was none of my business. he was going to leave it all to me. i never asked if it was little or much." while she spoke camille was reckoning with all his might and speed: "she has at least some notion as to whether he is rich or poor. she seemed a few minutes ago to fear he is poor, but i must try her again. let me see: if he is poor and i say he is rich she will hope i know better than she, and will be silent. but if he is rich and she knows it, and i say he is poor, she will suspect fraud and will out with the actual fact indignantly on the spot." by this time she had ceased, and he spoke out: "well, madame brouillard, the plain fact is he was--as you may say--poor." she looked up quickly from her soaking handkerchief, dropped her hands into her lap, and gazing at camille through her tears said, "alas! i feared it. that is what i feared. but ah! since it makes no difference to him now, it makes little to me. i feared it. that accounts for his leaving it to me, poor _milatraise_." "but would you have imagined, madame, that all he had was barely three thousand dollars?" "ah! three thousand--ah! michié ducour," she said between a sob and a moan, "that is not so little. three thousand! in paris, where my brother lives, that would be fifteen thousand francs. ah! michié ducour, i never guessed half that much, michié ducour, i tell you--he was too good to be rich." her eyes stood full. camille started busily from his leaning posture and they began again to be active. but, as i have said, their relations were reversed once more. he gave directions from within the room, and she did short errands to and from the door. the witnesses came: first jean d'eau, then richard reau, and almost at the same moment the aged ecswyzee. the black maid led them up from below, and attalie, tearless now, but meek and red-eyed, and speaking low through the slightly opened door from within the englishman's bed-chamber, thanked them, explained that a will was to be made, and was just asking them to find seats in the adjoining front room, when the notary, aged, bent, dark-goggled, and as insensible as a machine, arrived. attalie's offers to explain were murmurously waved away by his wrinkled hand, and the four men followed her into the bedchamber. the black maid-of-all-work also entered. the room was heavily darkened. there was a rich aroma of fine brandy on its air. the englishman's little desk had been drawn up near the bedside. two candles were on it, unlighted, in small, old silver candlesticks. attalie, grief-worn, distressed, visibly agitated, moved close to the bedside. her sad figure suited the place with poetic fitness. the notary stood by the chair at the desk. the three witnesses edged along the wall where the curtained windows glimmered, took seats there, and held their hats in their hands. all looked at one object. it was a man reclining on the bed under a light covering, deep in pillows, his head and shoulders much bundled up in wrappings. he moaned faintly and showed every sign of utmost weakness. his eyes opened only now and then, but when they did so they shone intelligently, though with a restless intensity apparently from both pain and anxiety. he gasped a faint word. attalie hung over him for an instant, and then turning quickly to her maid, who was lighting the candles for the notary and placing them so they should not shine into the eyes of the man in bed, said: "his feet--another hot-water bottle." the maid went to get it. while she was gone the notary asked the butcher, then the baker, and then the candlestick-maker, if they could speak and understand english, and where they resided. their answers were satisfactory. then he sat down, bent low to the desk, and wrote on a blank form the preamble of a nuncupative will. by the time he had finished, the maid had got back and the hot bottle had been properly placed. the notary turned his goggles upon the reclining figure and asked in english, with a strong creole accent: "what is your name?" the words of the man in the bed were an inaudible gasp. but attalie bent her ear quickly, caught them, and turning repeated: "more brandy." the black girl brought a decanter from the floor behind the bureau, and a wine-glass from the washstand. attalie poured, the patient drank, and the maid replaced glass and decanter. the eyes of the butcher and the baker followed the sparkling vessel till it disappeared, and the maker of candlesticks made a dry swallow and faintly licked his lips. the notary remarked that there must be no intervention of speakers between himself and the person making the will, nor any turning aside to other matters; but that merely stopping a moment to satisfy thirst without leaving the room was not a vitiative turning aside and would not be, even if done by others besides the party making the will. but here the patient moaned and said audibly, "let us go on." and they went on. the notary asked the patient's name, the place and date of his birth, etc., and the patient's answers were in every case whatever the englishman's would have been. presently the point was reached where the patient should express his wishes unprompted by suggestion or inquiry. he said faintly, "i will and bequeath"-- the servant girl, seeing her mistress bury her face in her handkerchief, did the same. the patient gasped audibly and said again, but more faintly: "i will and bequeath--some more brandy." the decanter was brought. he drank again. he let attalie hand it back to the maid and the maid get nearly to the bureau when he said in a low tone of distinct reproof: "pass it 'round." the four visitors drank. then the patient resumed with stronger voice. "i will and bequeath to my friend camille ducour"-- attalie started from her chair with a half-uttered cry of amazement and protest, but dropped back again at the notary's gesture for silence, and the patient spoke straight on without hesitation--"to my friend camille ducour, the sum of fifteen hundred dollars in cash." attalie and her handmaiden looked at each other with a dumb show of lamentation; but her butcher and her baker turned slowly upon her candlestick-maker, and he upon them, a look of quiet but profound approval. the notary wrote, and the patient spoke again: "i will everything else which i may leave at my death, both real and personal property, to madame attalie brouillard." "ah!" exclaimed attalie, in the manner of one largely, but not entirely, propitiated. the maid suited her silent movement to the utterance, and the three witnesses exchanged slow looks of grave satisfaction. mistress and maid, since the will seemed to them so manifestly and entirely finished, began to whisper together, although the patient and the notary were still perfecting some concluding formalities. but presently the notary began to read aloud the instrument he had prepared, keeping his face buried in the paper and running his nose and purblind eyes about it nervously, like a new-born thing hunting the warm fountain of life. all gave close heed. we need not give the document in its full length, nor its creole accent in its entire breadth. this is only something like it: "dthee state of louisiana," etc. "be h-it known dthat on dthees h-eighth day of dthee month of may, one thousan' h-eight hawndred and fifty-five, dthat i, eugene favre, a not-arie pewblic een and for dthe state of louisiana, parrish of orleans, duly commission-ed and qualeefi-ed, was sue-mon-ed to dthe domee-ceel of mr. [the englishman's name], number [so-and-so] bienville street; ...dthat i found sayed mr. [englishman] lyingue in heez bade in dthee rear room of dthee second floor h-of dthee sayed house ... at about two o'clawk in dthee h-afternoon, and beingue informed by dthee sayed mr. [englishman] dthat he _diz_-i-red too make heez weel, i, sayed not-arie, sue-mon-ed into sayed bedchamber of dthe sayed mr. [englishman] dthe following nam-ed wit_nes_ses of lawfool h-age and residents of dthe sayed cittie, parrish, and state, to wit: mr. jean d'eau, mr. richard reau, and mr. v. deblieux ecswyzee. that there _up_-on sayed mr. [englishman] being seek in bodie but of soun' mine, which was _hap_parent to me not-arie and dthe sayed wit_nes_ses by heez lang-uage and h-actions then and there in dthe presence of sayed wit_nes_ses _dic_tated to me not-arie dthe following as heez laz weel and tes_tam_ent, wheech was written by me sayed not-arie as _dic_tated by the sayed mr. [englishman], to wit: "'my name ees [john bull]. i was born in,' etc. 'my father and mother are dade. i have no chil'ren. i have never had annie brawther or seester. i have never been marri-ed. thees is my laz weel. i have never made a weel befo'. i weel and _bick_weath to my fran' camille ducour dthe sawm of fifteen hawndred dollars in cash. i weel h-everything h-else wheech i may leave at my daith, both real and personal property, to madame attalie brouillard, leevingue at number,' etc. 'i appoint my sayed fran' camille ducour as my testamentary executor, weeth-out bon', and grant heem dthe seizin' of my h-estate, h-and i dir-ect heem to pay h-all my juz debts.' "thees weel and tes_tam_ent as thus _dic_tated too me by sayed _tes_tator and wheech was wreeten by me notarie by my h-own han' jus' as _dic_tated, was thane by me not-arie rade to sayed mr. [englishman] in an au_dib_le voice and in the presence of dthe aforesayed three witnesses, and dthe sayed mr. [englishman] _dic_lar-ed that he well awnder-stood me not-arie and per_sev_er-ed een _dic_laring the same too be his laz weel; all of wheech was don' at one time and place weethout in_ter_'uption and weethout turningue aside to other acts. "thus done and pass-ed," etc. the notary rose, a wet pen in one hand and the will--with his portfolio under it for a tablet--in the other. attalie hurried to the bedside and stood ready to assist. the patient took the pen with a trembling hand. the writing was laid before him, and attalie with a knee on the bed thrust her arm under the pillows behind him to make a firmer support. the patient seemed to summon all his power to poise and steady the pen, but his hand shook, his fingers loosened, and it fell upon the document, making two or three blots there and another on the bed-covering, whither it rolled. he groped faintly for it, moaned, and then relaxed. "he cannot sign!" whispered attalie, piteously. "yes," gasped the patient. the notary once more handed him the pen, but the same thing happened again. the butcher cleared his throat in a way to draw attention. attalie looked towards him and he drawled, half rising from his chair: "i t'ink--a li'l more cognac"-- "yass," murmured the baker. the candlestick-maker did not speak, but unconsciously wet his lips with his tongue and wiped them with the back of his forefinger. but every eye turned to the patient, who said: "i cannot write--my hand--shakes so." the notary asked a formal question or two, to which the patient answered "yes" and "no." the official sat again at the desk, wrote a proper statement of the patient's incapacity to make his signature, and then read it aloud. the patient gave assent, and the three witnesses stepped forward and signed. then the notary signed. as the four men approached the door to depart the baker said, lingeringly, to attalie, smiling diffidently as he spoke: "dat settin' still make a man mighty dry, yass." "yass, da's true," said attalie. "yass," he added, "same time he dawn't better drink much _water_ dat hot weader, no." the butcher turned and smiled concurrence; but attalie, though she again said "yass," only added good-day, and the maid led them and the notary down stairs and let them out. vi. men can be better than their laws. an hour later, when the black maid returned from an errand, she found her mistress at the head of the stairs near the englishman's door, talking in suppressed tones to camille ducour, who, hat in hand, seemed to have just dropped in and to be just going out again. he went, and attalie said to her maid that he was "so good" and was going to come and sit up all night with the sick man. the next morning the maid--and the neighborhood--was startled to hear that the cotton buyer had died in the night. the physician called and gave a certificate of death without going up to the death chamber. the funeral procession was short. there was first the carriage with the priest and the acolytes; then the hearse; then a carriage in which sat the cotton buyer's clerk,--he had had but one,--his broker, and two men of that singular sort that make it a point to go to everybody's funeral; then a carriage occupied by attalie's other lodgers, and then, in a carriage bringing up the rear, were camille ducour and madame brouillard. she alone wept, and, for all we have seen, we yet need not doubt her tears were genuine. such was the cortége. oh! also, in his private vehicle, driven by himself, was a very comfortable and genteel-looking man, whom neither camille nor attalie knew, but whom every other attendant at the funeral seemed to regard with deference. while the tomb was being sealed camille sidled up to the broker and made bold to ask who the stranger was. attalie did not see the movement, and camille did not tell her what the broker said. late in the next afternoon but one camille again received word from attalie to call and see her in all haste. he found her in the englishman's front room. five white men were sitting there with her. they not only looked amused, but plainly could have looked more so but for the restraints of rank and station. attalie was quite as visibly frightened. camille's knees weakened and a sickness came over him as he glanced around the group. for in the midst sat the stranger who had been at the funeral, while on his right sat two, and on his left two, men, the terror of whose presence we shall understand in a moment. "mr. ducour," said the one who had been at the funeral, "as friends of mr. [englishman] we desire to express our satisfaction at the terms of his last will and testament. we have had a long talk with madame brouillard; but for myself, i already know his wish that she should have whatever he might leave. but a wish is one thing; a will, even a nuncupative will by public act, is another and an infinitely better and more effective thing. but we wish also to express our determination to see that you are not hindered in the execution of any of the terms of this will, whose genuineness we, of course, do not for a moment question." he looked about upon his companions. three of them shook their heads gravely; but the fourth, in his over-zeal, attempted to, say "no," and burst into a laugh; whereupon they all broadly smiled, while camille looked ghastly. the speaker resumed. "i am the custodian of all mr. [englishman's] accounts and assets. this gentleman is a judge, this one is a lawyer,--i believe you know them all by sight,--this one is a banker, and this one--a--in fact, a detective. we wish you to feel at all times free to call upon any or all of us for advice, and to bear in mind that our eyes are ever on you with a positively solicitous interest. you are a busy man, mr. ducour, living largely by your wits, and we must not detain you longer. we are glad that you are yourself to receive fifteen hundred dollars. we doubt not you have determined to settle the affairs of the estate without other remuneration, and we not merely approve but distinctly recommend that decision. the task will involve an outlay of your time and labor, for which fifteen hundred dollars will be a generous, a handsome, but not an excessive remuneration. you will be glad to know there will still be something left for madame brouillard. and now, mr. ducour,"--he arose and approached the pallid scamp, smiling benevolently,--"_remember_ us as your friends, who will _watch_ you"--he smote him on the shoulder with all the weight of his open palm--"with no _ordinary_ interest. be assured you shall get your fifteen hundred, and attalie shall have the rest, which--as attalie tells me she has well known for years--will be about thirty thousand dollars. gentlemen, our dinner at the lake will be waiting. good-day, mr. ducour. good-day, madame brouillard. have no fear. mr. ducour is going to render you full justice,--without unnecessary delay,--in solid cash." and he did. war diary of a union woman in the south. - . [the following diary was originally written in lead pencil and in a book the leaves of which were too soft to take ink legibly. i have it direct from the hands of its writer, a lady whom i have had the honor to know for nearly thirty years. for good reasons the author's name is omitted, and the initials of people and the names of places are sometimes fictitiously given. many of the persons mentioned were my own acquaintances and friends. when some twenty years afterwards she first resolved to publish it, she brought me a clear, complete copy in ink. it had cost much trouble, she said, for much of the pencil writing had been made under such disadvantages and was so faint that at times she could decipher it only under direct sunlight. she had succeeded, however, in making a copy, _verbatim_ except for occasional improvement in the grammatical form of a sentence, or now and then the omission, for brevity's sake, of something unessential. the narrative has since been severely abridged to bring it within the limits of this volume. in reading this diary one is much charmed with its constant understatement of romantic and perilous incidents and conditions. but the original penciled pages show that, even in copying, the strong bent of the writer to be brief has often led to the exclusion of facts that enhance the interest of exciting situations, and sometimes the omission robs her own heroism of due emphasis. i have restored one example of this in the short paragraph following her account of the night she spent fanning her sick husband on their perilous voyage down the mississippi.] g.w.c. i. secession. _new orleans, dec. , _.--i understand it now. keeping journals is for those who can not, or dare not, speak out. so i shall set up a journal, being only a rather lonely young girl in a very small and hated minority. on my return here in november, after a foreign voyage and absence of many months, i found myself behind in knowledge of the political conflict, but heard the dread sounds of disunion and war muttered in threatening tones. surely no native-born woman loves her country better than i love america. the blood of one of its revolutionary patriots flows in my veins, and it is the union for which he pledged his "life, fortune, and sacred honor" that i love, not any divided or special section of it. so i have been reading attentively and seeking light from foreigners and natives on all questions at issue. living from birth in slave countries, both foreign and american, and passing through one slave insurrection in early childhood, the saddest and also the pleasantest features of slavery have been familiar. if the south goes to war for slavery, slavery is doomed in this country. to say so is like opposing one drop to a roaring torrent. this is a good time to follow st. paul's advice that women should refrain from speaking, but they are speaking more than usual and forcing others to speak against their will. _sunday, dec.--, _.--in this season for peace i had hoped for a lull in the excitement, yet this day has been full of bitterness. "come, g.," said mrs. f. at breakfast, "leave _your_ church for to-day and come with us to hear dr. ---- on the situation. he will convince you." "it is good to be convinced," i said; "i will go." the church was crowded to suffocation with the élite of new orleans. the preacher's text was, "shall we have fellowship with the stool of iniquity which frameth mischief as a law?" ... the sermon was over at last and then followed a prayer ... forever blessed be the fathers of the episcopal church for giving us a fixed liturgy! when we met at dinner mrs. f. exclaimed, "now, g., you heard him prove from the bible that slavery is right and that therefore secession is. were you not convinced?" i said, "i was so busy thinking how completely it proved too that brigham young is right about polygamy that it quite weakened the force of the argument for me." this raised a laugh, and covered my retreat. _jan. , _.--the solemn boom of cannon today announced that the convention have passed the ordinance of secession. we must take a reef in our patriotism and narrow it down to state limits. mine still sticks out all around the borders of the state. it will be bad if new orleans should secede from louisiana and set up for herself. then indeed i would be "cabined, cribbed, confined." the faces in the house are jubilant to-day. why is it so easy for them and not for me to "ring out the old, ring in the new"? i am out of place. _jan. , monday_.--sunday has now got to be a day of special excitement. the gentlemen save all the sensational papers to regale us with at the late sunday breakfast. rob opened the battle yesterday morning by saying to me in his most aggressive manner, "g., i believe these are your sentiments"; and then he read aloud an article from the "journal des debats" expressing in rather contemptuous terms the fact that france will follow the policy of non-intervention. when i answered: "well, what do you expect? this is not their quarrel," he raved at me, ending by a declaration that he would willingly pay my passage to foreign parts if i would like to go. "rob," said his father, "keep cool; don't let that threat excite you. cotton is king. just wait till they feel the pinch a little; their tone will change." i went to trinity church. some union people who are not episcopalians go there now because the pastor has not so much chance to rail at the lord when things are not going to suit: but yesterday was a marked sunday. the usual prayer for the president and congress was changed to the "governor and people of this commonwealth and their representatives in convention assembled." the city was very lively and noisy this evening with rockets and lights in honor of secession. mrs. f., in common with the neighbors, illuminated. we walked out to see the houses of others gleaming amid the dark shrubbery like a fairy scene. the perfect stillness added to the effect, while the moon rose slowly with calm splendor. we hastened home to dress for a soirée, but on the stairs edith said, "g., first come and help me dress phoebe and chloe [the negro servants]. there is a ball to-night in aristocratic colored society. this is chloe's first introduction to new orleans circles, and henry judson, phoebe's husband, gave five dollars for a ticket for her." chloe is a recent purchase from georgia. we superintended their very stylish toilets, and edith said, "g., run into your room, please, and write a pass for henry. put mr. d.'s name to it." "why, henry is free," i said.--"that makes no difference; all colored people must have a pass if out late. they choose a master for protection and always carry his pass. henry chose mr. d., but he's lost the pass he had." when the pass was ready, a carriage dashed up to the back-gate and the party drove off in fine style. at the soirée we had secession talk sandwiched everywhere; between the supper, and the music, and the dance; but midnight has come, and silence, and a few too brief hours of oblivion. ii. the volunteers.--fort sumter. _feb. , _.--the toil of the week has ended. nearly a month has passed since i wrote here. events have crowded upon one another. a lowering sky closes in upon the gloomy evening, and a moaning wind is sobbing in every key. they seem in keeping with the national sorrow, and in lieu of other sympathy i am glad to have that of nature to-night. on the th the cannon boomed in honor of jefferson davis's election, and day before yesterday washington's birthday was made the occasion of another grand display and illumination, in honor of the birth of a new nation and the breaking of that union which he labored to cement. we drove to the racecourse to see the review of troops. a flag was presented to the washington artillery by ladies. senator judah benjamin made an impassioned speech. the banner was orange satin on one side, crimson silk on the other, the pelican and brood embroidered in pale green and gold. silver crossed cannon surmounted it, orange-colored fringe surrounded it, and crimson tassels drooped from it. it was a brilliant, unreal scene; with military bands clashing triumphant music, elegant vehicles, high-stepping horses, and lovely women richly appareled. wedding cards have been pouring in till the contagion has reached us; edith will be married next thursday. the wedding dress is being fashioned, and the bridesmaids and groomsmen have arrived. edith has requested me to be special mistress of ceremonies on thursday evening, and i have told this terrible little rebel, who talks nothing but blood and thunder, yet faints at the sight of a worm, that if i fill that office no one shall mention war or politics during the whole evening, on pain of expulsion. the clock points to ten. i must lay the pen aside. _march , ._--the excitement in this house has risen to fever heat during the past week. the four gentlemen have each a different plan for saving the country, and now that the bridal bouquets have faded, the three ladies have again turned to public affairs; lincoln's inauguration and the story of the disguise in which he traveled to washington is a never-ending source of gossip. the family board being the common forum, each gentleman as he appears first unloads his pockets of papers from all the southern states, and then his overflowing heart to his eager female listeners, who in turn relate, inquire, sympathize, or cheer. if i dare express a doubt that the path to victory will be a flowery one, eyes flash, cheeks burn, and tongues clatter, till all are checked up suddenly by a warning rap for "order, order!" from the amiable lady presiding. thus we swallow politics with every meal. we take a mouthful and read a telegram, one eye on table, the other on the paper. one must be made of cool stuff to keep calm and collected. i say but little. there is one great comfort; this war fever has banished small talk. the black servants move about quietly, never seeming to notice that this is all about them. "how can you speak so plainly before them?" i say. "why, what matter? they know that we shall keep the whip-handle." _april , ._--more than a month has passed since the last date here. this afternoon i was seated on the floor covered with loveliest flowers, arranging a floral offering for the fair, when the gentlemen arrived (and with papers bearing the news of the fall of fort sumter, which, at her request, i read to mrs. f.). _april ._--the last few days have glided away in a halo of beauty. i can't remember such a lovely spring ever before. but nobody has time or will to enjoy it. war, war! is the one idea. the children play only with toy cannons and soldiers; the oldest inhabitant goes by every day with his rifle to practice; the public squares are full of companies drilling, and are now the fashionable resorts. we have been told that it is best for women to learn how to shoot too, so as to protect themselves when the men have all gone to battle. every evening after dinner we adjourn to the back lot and fire at a target with pistols. yesterday i dined at uncle ralph's. some members of the bar were present and were jubilant about their brand-new confederacy. it would soon be the grandest government ever known. uncle ralph said solemnly, "no, gentlemen; the day we seceded the star of our glory set." the words sunk into my mind like a knell, and made me wonder at the mind that could recognize that and yet adhere to the doctrine of secession. in the evening i attended a farewell gathering at a friend's whose brothers are to leave this week for richmond. there was music. no minor chord was permitted. iii. tribulation. _april , ._--yesterday i went with cousin e. to have her picture taken. the picture-galleries are doing a thriving business. many companies are ordered off to take possession of fort pickens (florida), and all seem to be leaving sweethearts behind them. the crowd was in high spirits; they don't dream that any destinies will be spoiled. when i got home edith was reading from the daily paper of the dismissal of miss g. from her place as teacher for expressing abolition sentiments, and that she would be ordered to leave the city. soon a lady came with a paper setting forth that she has established a "company"--we are nothing if not military--for making lint and getting stores of linen to supply the hospitals. my name went down. if it hadn't, my spirit would have been wounded as with sharp spears before night. next came a little girl with a subscription paper to get a flag for a certain company. the little girls, especially the pretty ones, are kept busy trotting around with subscription lists. a gentleman leaving for richmond called to bid me good-bye. we had a serious talk on the chances of his coming home maimed. he handed me a rose and went off gaily, while a vision came before me of the crowd of cripples that will be hobbling around when the war is over. it stayed with me all the afternoon while i shook hands with one after another in their shining gray and gold uniforms. latest of all came little guy, mr. f.'s youngest clerk, the pet of the firm as well as of his home, a mere boy of sixteen. such senseless sacrifices seem a sin. he chattered brightly, but lingered about, saying good-bye. he got through it bravely until edith's husband incautiously said, "you didn't kiss your little sweetheart," as he always called ellie, who had been allowed to sit up. he turned suddenly, broke into agonizing sobs and ran down the steps. i went right up to my room. suddenly the midnight stillness was broken by the sound of trumpets and flutes. it was a serenade, by her lover, to the young lady across the street. she leaves to-morrow for her home in boston, he joins the confederate army in virginia. among the callers yesterday she came and astonished us all by the change in her looks. she is the only person i have yet seen who seems to realize the horror that is coming. was this pallid, stern-faced creature, the gentle, glowing nellie whom we had welcomed and admired when she came early last fall with her parents to enjoy a southern winter? _may , _.--i am tired and ashamed of myself. last week i attended a meeting of the lint society to hand in the small contribution of linen i had been able to gather. we scraped lint till it was dark. a paper was shown, entitled the "volunteer's friend," started by the girls of the high school, and i was asked to help the girls with it. i positively declined. to-day i was pressed into service to make red flannel cartridge-bags for ten-inch columbiads. i basted while mrs. s. sewed, and i felt ashamed to think that i had not the moral courage to say, "i don't approve of your war and won't help you, particularly in the murderous part of it." _may , ._--this has been a scenic sabbath. various companies about to depart for virginia occupied the prominent churches to have their flags consecrated. the streets were resonant with the clangor of drums and trumpets. e. and myself went to christ church because the washington artillery were to be there. _june ._--to-day has been appointed a fast day. i spent the morning writing a letter on which i put my first confederate postage-stamp. it is of a brown color and has a large in the center. to-morrow must be devoted to all my foreign correspondents before the expected blockade cuts us off. _june ._--i attended a fine luncheon yesterday at one of the public schools. a lady remarked to a school official that the cost of provisions in the confederacy was getting very high, butter, especially, being scarce and costly. "never fear, my dear madame," he replied. "texas alone can furnish butter enough to supply the whole confederacy; we'll soon be getting it from there." it's just as well to have this sublime confidence. _july , _.--the quiet of midsummer reigns, but ripples of excitement break around us as the papers tell of skirmishes and attacks here and there in virginia. "rich mountain" and "carrick's ford" were the last. "you see," said mrs. d. at breakfast to-day, "my prophecy is coming true that virginia will be the seat of war." "indeed," i burst out, forgetting my resolution not to argue, "you may think yourselves lucky if this war turns out to have any seat in particular." so far, no one especially connected with me has gone to fight. how glad i am for his mother's sake that rob's lameness will keep him at home. mr. f., mr. s., and uncle ralph are beyond the age for active service, and edith says mr. d. can't go now. she is very enthusiastic about other people's husbands being enrolled, and regrets that her alex is not strong enough to defend his country and his rights. _july _.--what a day! i feel like one who has been out in a high wind, and cannot get my breath. the news-boys are still shouting with their extras, "battle of bull's run! list of the killed! battle of manassas! list of the wounded!" tender-hearted mrs. f. was sobbing so she could not serve the tea; but nobody cared for tea. "o g.!" she said, "three thousand of our own, dear southern boys are lying out there." "my dear fannie," spoke mr. f., "they are heroes now. they died in a glorious cause, and it is not in vain. this will end it. the sacrifice had to be made, but those killed have gained immortal names." then rob rushed in with a new extra, reading of the spoils captured, and grief was forgotten. words cannot paint the excitement. rob capered about and cheered; edith danced around ringing the dinner bell and shouting, "victory!" mrs. f. waved a small confederate flag, while she wiped her eyes, and mr. d. hastened to the piano and in his most brilliant style struck up "dixie," followed by "my maryland" and the "bonnie blue flag." "do not look so gloomy, g.," whispered mr. s. "you should be happy to-night; for, as mr. f. says, now we shall have peace." "and is that the way you think of the men of your own blood and race?" i replied. but an utter scorn choked me, and i walked out of the room. what proof is there in this dark hour that they are not right? only the emphatic answer of my own soul. to-morrow i will pack my trunk and accept the invitation to visit at uncle ralph's country-house. _sept. , ._ (_home again from "the pines."_)--when i opened the door of mrs. f.'s room on my return, the rattle of two sewing-machines and a blaze of color met me. "ah! g., you are just in time to help us; these are coats for jeff thompson's men. all the cloth in the city is exhausted; these flannel-lined oilcloth table-covers are all we could obtain to make overcoats for thompson's poor boys. they will be very warm and serviceable." "serviceable, yes! the federal army will fly when they see those coats! i only wish i could be with the regiment when these are shared around." yet i helped make them. seriously, i wonder if any soldiers will ever wear these remarkable coats. the most bewildering combination of brilliant, intense reds, greens, yellows, and blues in big flowers meandering over as vivid grounds; and as no table-cover was large enough to make a coat, the sleeves of each were of a different color and pattern. however, the coats were duly finished. then we set to work on gray pantaloons, and i have just carried a bundle to an ardent young lady who wishes to assist. a slight gloom is settling down, and the inmates here are not quite so cheerfully confident as in july. iv. a beleaguered city. _oct. , ._--when i came to breakfast this morning rob was capering over another victory--ball's bluff. he would read me, "we pitched the yankees over the bluff," and ask me in the next breath to go to the theater this evening. i turned on the poor fellow: "don't tell me about your victories. you vowed by all your idols that the blockade would be raised by october , and i notice the ships are still serenely anchored below the city." "g., you are just as pertinacious yourself in championing your opinions. what sustains you when nobody agrees with you?" i would not answer. _oct. , _.--when i dropped in at uncle ralph's last evening to welcome them back, the whole family were busy at a great center-table copying sequestration acts for the confederate government. the property of all northerners and unionists is to be sequestrated, and uncle ralph can hardly get the work done fast enough. my aunt apologized for the rooms looking chilly; she feared to put the carpets down, as the city might be taken and burned by the federals. "we are living as much packed up as possible. a signal has been agreed upon, and the instant the army approaches we shall be off to the country again." great preparations are being made for defense. at several other places where i called the women were almost hysterical. they seemed to look forward to being blown up with shot and shell, finished with cold steel, or whisked off to some northern prison. when i got home edith and mr. d. had just returned also. "alex," said edith, "i was up at your orange-lots to-day and the sour oranges are dropping to the ground, while they cannot get lemons for our sick soldiers." "that's my kind, considerate wife," replied mr. d. "why didn't i think of that before? jim shall fill some barrels to-morrow and take them to the hospitals as a present from you." _nov. _.--surely this year will ever be memorable to me for its perfection of natural beauty. never was sunshine such pure gold, or moonlight such transparent silver. the beautiful custom prevalent here of decking the graves with flowers on all saint's day was well fulfilled, so profuse and rich were the blossoms. on all-hallow eve mrs. s. and myself visited a large cemetery. the chrysanthemums lay like great masses of snow and flame and gold in every garden we passed, and were piled on every costly tomb and lowly grave. the battle of manassas robed many of our women in mourning, and some of these, who had no graves to deck, were weeping silently as they walked through the scented avenues. a few days ago mrs. e. arrived here. she is a widow, of natchez, a friend of mrs. f.'s, and is traveling home with the dead body of her eldest son, killed at manassas. she stopped two days waiting for a boat, and begged me to share her room and read her to sleep, saying she couldn't be alone since he was killed; she feared her mind would give way. so i read all the comforting chapters to be found till she dropped into forgetfulness, but the recollection of those weeping mothers in the cemetery banished sleep for me. _nov. , ._--the lingering summer is passing into those misty autumn days i love so well, when there is gold and fire above and around us. but the glory of the natural and the gloom of the moral world agree not well together. this morning mrs. f. came to my room in dire distress. "you see," she said, "cold weather is coming on fast, and our poor fellows are lying out at night with nothing to cover them. there is a wail for blankets, but there is not a blanket in town. i have gathered up all the spare bed-clothing, and now want every available rug or table-cover in the house. can't i have yours, g.? we must make these small sacrifices of comfort and elegance, you know, to secure independence and freedom." "very well," i said, denuding the table. "this may do for a drummer boy." _dec. , ._--the foul weather cleared off bright and cool in time for christmas. there is a midwinter lull in the movement of troops. in the evening we went to the grand bazaar in the st. louis hotel, got up to clothe the soldiers. this bazaar has furnished the gayest, most fashionable war-work yet, and has kept social circles in a flutter of pleasant, heroic excitement all through december. everything beautiful or rare garnered in the homes of the rich was given for exhibition, and in some cases for raffle and sale. there were many fine paintings, statues, bronzes, engravings, gems, laces--in fact, heirlooms, and bric-à-brac of all sorts. there were many lovely creole girls present, in exquisite toilets, passing to and fro through the decorated rooms, listening to the band clash out the anvil chorus. this morning i joined the b.'s and their party in a visit to the new fortifications below the city. it all looks formidable enough, but of course i am no judge of military defenses. we passed over the battle-ground where jackson fought the english, and thinking of how he dealt with treason, one could almost fancy his unquiet ghost stalking about. _jan. , _.--i am glad enough to bid ' goodbye. most miserable year of my life! what ages of thought and experience have i not lived in it. last sunday i walked home from church with a young lady teacher in the public schools. the teachers have been paid recently in "shin-plasters." i don't understand the horrid name, but nobody seems to have any confidence in the scrip. in pure benevolence i advised my friend to get her money changed into coin, as in case the federals took the city she would be in a bad fix, being in rather a lonely position. she turned upon me in a rage. "you are a black-hearted traitor," she almost screamed at me in the street, this well-bred girl! "my money is just as good as coin you'll see! go to yankee land. it will suit you better with your sordid views and want of faith, than the generous south." "well," i replied, "when i think of going, i'll come to you for a letter of introduction to your grandfather in yankee land." i said good-morning and turned down another street in a sort of a maze, trying to put myself in her place and see what there was sordid in my advice. luckily i met mrs. b. to turn the current of thought. she was very merry. the city authorities have been searching houses for fire-arms. it is a good way to get more guns, and the homes of those men suspected of being unionists were searched first. of course they went to dr. b.'s. he met them with his own delightful courtesy. "wish to search for arms? certainly, gentlemen." he conducted them through all the house with smiling readiness, and after what seemed a very thorough search bowed them politely out. his gun was all the time safely reposing between the canvas folds of a cot-bed which leaned folded up together against the wall, in the very room where they had ransacked the closets. queerly, the rebel families have been the ones most anxious to conceal all weapons. they have dug pits quietly at night in the back yards, and carefully wrapping the weapons, buried them out of sight. every man seems to think he will have some private fighting to do to protect his family. v. married. _friday, jan. , . (on steamboat w., mississippi river.)_--with a changed name i open you once more, my journal. it was a sad time to wed, when one knew not how long the expected conscription would spare the bridegroom. the women-folk knew how to sympathize with a girl expected to prepare for her wedding in three days, in a blockaded city, and about to go far from any base of supplies. they all rallied round me with tokens of love and consideration, and sewed, shopped, mended, and packed, as if sewing soldier clothes. they decked the whole house and the church with flowers. music breathed, wine sparkled, friends came and went. it seemed a dream, and comes up now and again out of the afternoon sunshine where i sit on deck. the steamboat slowly plows its way through lumps of floating ice,--a novel sight to me,--and i look forward wondering whether the new people i shall meet will be as fierce about the war as those in new orleans. that past is to be all forgiven and forgotten; i understood thus the kindly acts that sought to brighten the threshold of a new life. _feb. , . (village of x.)_--we reached arkansas landing at nightfall. mr. y., the planter who owns the landing, took us right up to his residence. he ushered me into a large room where a couple of candles gave a dim light, and close to them, and sewing as if on a race with time, sat mrs. y. and a little negro girl, who was so black and sat so stiff and straight she looked like an ebony image. this was a large plantation; the y.'s knew h. very well, and were very kind and cordial in their welcome and congratulations. mrs. y. apologized for continuing her work; the war had pushed them this year in getting the negroes clothed, and she had to sew by dim candles, as they could obtain no more oil. she asked if there were any new fashions in new orleans. next morning we drove over to our home in this village. it is the county-seat, and was, till now, a good place for the practice of h.'s profession. it lies on the edge of a lovely lake. the adjacent planters count their slaves by the hundreds. some of them live with a good deal of magnificence, using service of plate, having smoking-rooms for the gentlemen built off the house, and entertaining with great hospitality. the baptists, episcopalians, and methodists hold services on alternate sundays in the court-house. all the planters and many others, near the lake shore, keep a boat at their landing, and a raft for crossing vehicles and horses. it seemed very piquant at first, this taking our boat to go visiting, and on moonlight nights it was charming. the woods around are lovelier than those in louisiana, though one misses the moaning of the pines. there is fine fishing and hunting, but these cotton estates are not so pleasant to visit as sugar plantations. but nothing else has been so delightful as, one morning, my first sight of snow and a wonderful, new, white world. _feb. , _.--the people here have hardly felt the war yet. there are but two classes. the planters and the professional men form one; the very poor villagers the other. there is no middle class. ducks and partridges, squirrels and fish, are to be had. h. has bought me a nice pony, and cantering along the shore of the lake in the sunset is a panacea for mental worry. vi. how it was in arkansas _march , _.--the serpent has entered our eden. the rancor and excitement of new orleans have invaded this place. if an incautious word betrays any want of sympathy with popular plans, one is "traitorous," "ungrateful," "crazy." if one remains silent, and controlled, then one is "phlegmatic," "cool-blooded," "unpatriotic." cool-blooded! heavens! if they only knew. it is very painful to see lovable and intelligent women rave till the blood mounts to face and brain. the immediate cause of this access of war fever has been the battle of pea ridge. they scout the idea that price and van dorn have been completely worsted. those who brought the news were speedily told what they ought to say. "no, it is only a serious check; they must have more men sent forward at once. this country must do its duty." so the women say another company _must_ be raised. we were guests at a dinner-party yesterday. mrs. a. was very talkative. "now, ladies, you must all join in with a vim and help equip another company." "mrs. l.," she said, turning to me, "are you not going to send your husband? now use a young bride's influence and persuade him; he would be elected one of the officers." "mrs. a.," i replied, longing to spring up and throttle her, "the bible says, 'when a man hath married a new wife, he shall not go to war for one year, but remain at home and cheer up his wife.'" ... "well, h.," i questioned, as we walked home after crossing the lake, "can you stand the pressure, or shall you be forced into volunteering?" "indeed," he replied, "i will not be bullied into enlisting by women, or by men. i will sooner take my chance of conscription and feel honest about it. you know my attachments, my interests are here; these are my people. i could never fight against them; but my judgment disapproves their course, and the result will inevitably be against us." this morning the only irishman left in the village presented himself to h. he has been our woodsawyer, gardener, and factotum, but having joined the new company, his time recently has been taken up with drilling. h. and mr. r. feel that an extensive vegetable garden must be prepared while he is here to assist or we shall be short of food, and they sent for him yesterday. "so, mike, you are really going to be a soldier?" "yes, sor; but faith, mr. l., i don't see the use of me going to shtop a bullet when sure an' i'm willin' for it to go where it plazes." _march , ._--there has been unusual gayety in this little village the past few days. the ladies from the surrounding plantations went to work to get up a festival to equip the new company. as annie and myself are both brides recently from the city, requisition was made upon us for engravings, costumes, music, garlands, and so forth. annie's heart was in the work; not so with me. nevertheless, my pretty things were captured, and shone with just as good a grace last evening as if willingly lent. the ball was a merry one. one of the songs sung was "nellie gray," in which the most distressing feature of slavery is bewailed so pitifully. to sing this at a festival for raising money to clothe soldiers fighting to perpetuate that very thing was strange. _march , ._--a man professing to act by general hindman's orders is going through the country impressing horses and mules. the overseer of a certain estate came to inquire of h. if he had not a legal right to protect the property from seizure. mr. l. said yes, unless the agent could show some better credentials than his bare word. this answer soon spread about, and the overseer returned to report that it excited great indignation, especially among the company of new volunteers. h. was pronounced a traitor, and they declared that no one so untrue to the confederacy should live there. when h. related the circumstance at dinner, his partner, mr. r., became very angry, being ignorant of h.'s real opinions. he jumped up in a rage and marched away to the village thoroughfare. there he met a batch of the volunteers, and said, "we know what you have said of us, and i have come to tell you that you are liars, and you know where to find us." of course i expected a difficulty; but the evening passed, and we retired undisturbed. not long afterward a series of indescribable sounds broke the stillness of the night, and the tramp of feet was heard outside the house. mr. r. called out, "it's a serenade, h. get up and bring out all the wine you have." annie and i peeped through the parlor window, and lo! it was the company of volunteers and a diabolical band composed of bones and broken-winded brass instruments. they piped and clattered and whined for some time, and then swarmed in, while we ladies retreated and listened to the clink of glasses. _march , _.--h., mr. r., and mike have been very busy the last few days getting the acre of kitchen-garden plowed and planted. the stay-law has stopped all legal business, and they have welcomed this work. but to-day a thunderbolt fell in our household. mr. r. came in and announced that he has agreed to join the company of volunteers. annie's confederate principles would not permit her to make much resistance, and she has been sewing and mending as fast as possible to get his clothes ready, stopping now and then to wipe her eyes. poor annie! she and max have been married only a few months longer than we have; but a noble sense of duty animates and sustains her. vii. the fight for food and clothing. _april , _.--the last ten days have brought changes in the house. max r. left with the company to be mustered in, leaving with us his weeping annie. hardly were her spirits somewhat composed when her brother arrived from natchez to take her home. this morning he, annie, and reeney, the black handmaiden, posted off. out of seven of us only h., myself, and aunt judy are left. the absence of reeney will not be the one least noted. she was as precious an imp as any topsy ever was. her tricks were endless and her innocence of them amazing. when sent out to bring in eggs she would take them from nests where hens were hatching, and embryo chickens would be served up at breakfast, while reeney stood by grinning to see them opened; but when accused she was imperturbable. "laws, mis' l., i nebber done bin nigh dem hens. mis' annie, you can go count dem dere eggs." that when counted they were found minus the number she had brought had no effect on her stolid denial. h. has plenty to do finishing the garden all by himself, but the time rather drags for me. _april , _.--this morning i was sewing up a rent in h.'s garden-coat, when aunt judy rushed in. "laws! mis' l., here's mr. max and mis' annie done come back!" a buggy was coming up with max, annie, and reeney. "well, is the war over?" i asked. "oh, i got sick!" replied our returned soldier, getting slowly out of the buggy. he was very thin and pale, and explained that he took a severe cold almost at once, had a mild attack of pneumonia, and the surgeon got him his discharge as unfit for service. he succeeded in reaching annie, and a few days of good care made him strong enough to travel back home. "i suppose, h., you've heard that island no. is gone?" yes, we heard that much, but max had the particulars, and an exciting talk followed. at night h. said to me, "g., new orleans will be the next to go, you'll see, and i want to get there first; this stagnation here will kill me." _april , _.--this evening has been very lovely, but full of a sad disappointment. h. invited me to drive. as we turned homeward he said: "well, my arrangements are completed. you can begin to pack your trunks to-morrow, and i shall have a talk with max." mr. r. and annie were sitting on the gallery as i ran up the steps. "heard the news?" they cried. "no! what news?" "new orleans is taken! all the boats have been run up the river to save them. no more mails." how little they knew what plans of ours this dashed away. but our disappointment is truly an infinitesimal drop in the great waves of triumph and despair surging to-night in thousands of hearts. _april _.--the last two weeks have glided quietly away without incident except the arrival of new neighbors--dr. y., his wife, two children, and servants. that a professional man prospering in vicksburg should come now to settle in this retired place looks queer. max said: "h., that man has come here to hide from the conscript officers. he has brought no end of provisions, and is here for the war. he has chosen well, for this county is so cleaned of men it won't pay to send the conscript officers here." our stores are diminishing and cannot be replenished from without; ingenuity and labor must evoke them. we have a fine garden in growth, plenty of chickens, and hives of bees to furnish honey in lieu of sugar. a good deal of salt meat has been stored in the smoke-house, and, with fish in the lake, we expect to keep the wolf from the door. the season for game is about over, but an occasional squirrel or duck comes to the larder, though the question of ammunition has to be considered. what we have may be all we can have, if the war last five years longer; and they say they are prepared to hold out till the crack of doom. food, however, is not the only want. i never realized before the varied needs of civilization. every day something is "out." last week but two bars of soap remained, so we began to save bones and ashes. annie said: "now, if we only had some china-berry trees here we shouldn't need any other grease. they are making splendid soap at vicksburg with china-balls. they just put the berries into the lye and it eats them right up and makes a fine soap." i did long for some china-berries to make this experiment. h. had laid in what seemed a good supply of kerosene, but it is nearly gone, and we are down to two candles kept for an emergency. annie brought a receipt from natchez for making candles of rosin and wax, and with great forethought brought also the wick and rosin. so yesterday we tried making candles. "we had no molds, but annie said the latest style in natchez was to make a waxen rope by dipping, then wrap it round a corn-cob. but h. cut smooth blocks of wood about four inches square, into which he set a polished cylinder about four inches high. the waxen ropes were coiled round the cylinder like a serpent, with the head raised about two inches; as the light burned down to the cylinder, more of the rope was unwound. to-day the vinegar was found to be all gone and we have started to make some. for tyros we succeed pretty well." viii. drowned out and starved out. _may , _.--a great misfortune has come upon us all. for several days every one has been uneasy about the unusual rise of the mississippi and about a rumor that the federal forces had cut levees above to swamp the country. there is a slight levee back of the village, and h. went yesterday to examine it. it looked strong and we hoped for the best. about dawn this morning a strange gurgle woke me. it had a pleasing, lulling effect. i could not fully rouse at first, but curiosity conquered at last, and i called h. "listen to that running water; what is it?" he sprung up, listened a second, and shouted: "max, get up! the water is on us!" they both rushed off to the lake for the skiff. the levee had not broken. the water was running clean over it and through the garden fence so rapidly that by the time i dressed and got outside max was paddling the pirogue they had brought in among the pea-vines, gathering all the ripe peas left above the water. we had enjoyed one mess and he vowed we should have another. h. was busy nailing a raft together while he had a dry place to stand on. annie and i, with reeney, had to secure the chickens, and the back piazza was given up to them. by the time a hasty breakfast was eaten the water was in the kitchen. the stove and everything there had to be put up in the dining-room. aunt judy and reeney had likewise to move into the house, their floor also being covered with water. the raft had to be floated to the store-house and a platform built, on which everything was elevated. at evening we looked round and counted the cost. the garden was utterly gone. last evening we had walked round the strawberry beds that fringed the whole acre and tasted a few just ripe. the hives were swamped. many of the chickens were drowned. sancho had been sent to high ground where he could get grass. in the village every green thing was swept away. yet we were better off than many others; for this house, being raised, we have escaped the water indoors. it just laves the edge of the galleries. _may , ._--during the past week we have lived somewhat like venetians, with a boat at front steps and a raft at the back. sunday h. and i took skiff to church. the clergyman, who is also tutor at a planter's across the lake, preached to the few who had arrived in skiffs. we shall not try it again, it is so troublesome getting in and out at the court-house steps. the imprisonment is hard to endure. it threatened to make me really ill, so every evening h. lays a thick wrap in the pirogue, i sit on it and we row off to the ridge of dry land running along the lake-shore and branching off to a strip of woods also out of water. here we disembark and march up and down till dusk. a great deal of the wood got wet and has to be laid out to dry on the galleries, with clothing, and everything that must be dried. one's own trials are intensified by the worse suffering around that we can do nothing to relieve. max has a puppy named after general price. the gentlemen had both gone up town yesterday in the skiff when annie and i heard little price's despairing cries from under the house, and we got on the raft to find and save him. we wore light morning dresses and slippers, for shoes are becoming precious. annie donned a shaker and i a broad hat. we got the raft pushed out to the center of the grounds opposite the house and could see price clinging to a post; the next move must be to navigate the raft up to the side of the house and reach for price. it sounds easy; but poke around with our poles as wildly or as scientifically as we might, the raft would not budge. the noonday sun was blazing right overhead and the muddy water running all over slippered feet and dainty dresses. how long we staid praying for rescue, yet wincing already at the laugh that would come with it, i shall never know. it seemed like a day before the welcome boat and the "ha, ha!" of h. and max were heard. the confinement tells severely on all the animal life about us. half the chickens are dead and the other half sick. the days drag slowly. we have to depend mainly on books to relieve the tedium, for we have no piano; none of us like cards; we are very poor chess-players, and the chess-set is incomplete. when we gather round the one lamp--we dare not light any more--each one exchanges the gems of thought or mirthful ideas he finds. frequently the gnats and the mosquitoes are so bad we cannot read at all. this evening, till a strong breeze blew them away, they were intolerable. aunt judy goes about in a dignified silence, too full for words, only asking two or three times, "w'at i dun tole you fum de fust?" the food is a trial. this evening the snaky candles lighted the glass and silver on the supper-table with a pale gleam and disclosed a frugal supper indeed--tea without milk (for all the cows are gone), honey, and bread. a faint ray twinkled on the water swishing against the house and stretching away into the dark woods. it looked like civilization and barbarism met together. just as we sat down to it, some one passing in a boat shouted that confederates and federals were fighting at vicksburg. _monday, june , _.--on last friday morning, just three weeks from the day the water rose, signs of its falling began. yesterday the ground appeared, and a hard rain coming down at the same time washed off much of the unwholesome débris. to-day is fine, and we went out without a boat for a long walk. _june _.--since the water ran off, we have, of course, been attacked by swamp fever. h. succumbed first, then annie, max next, and then i. luckily, the new dr. y. had brought quinine with him, and we took heroic doses. such fever never burned in my veins before or sapped strength so rapidly, though probably the want of good food was a factor. the two or three other professional men have left. dr. y. alone remains. the roads now being dry enough, h. and max started on horseback, in different directions, to make an exhaustive search for supplies. h. got back this evening with no supplies. _june , ._--max got back to-day. he started right off again to cross the lake and interview the planters on that side, for they had not suffered from overflow. _june ._--max got back this morning. h. and he were in the parlor talking and examining maps together till dinner-time. when that was over they laid the matter before us. to buy provisions had proved impossible. the planters across the lake had decided to issue rations of corn-meal and peas to the villagers whose men had all gone to war, but they utterly refused to sell anything. "they said to me," said max, "' we will not see your family starve, mr. k.; but with such numbers of slaves and the village poor to feed, we can spare nothing for sale.'" "well, of course," said h., "we do not purpose to stay here and live on charity rations. we must leave the place at all hazards. we have studied out every route and made inquiries everywhere we went. we shall have to go down the mississippi in an open boat as far as fetler's landing (on the eastern bank). there we can cross by land and put the boat into steele's bayou, pass thence to the yazoo river, from there to chickasaw bayou, into mcnutt's lake, and land near my uncle's in warren county." _june , ._--as soon as our intended departure was announced, we were besieged by requests for all sorts of things wanted in every family--pins, matches, gunpowder, and ink. one of the last cases h. and max had before the stay-law stopped legal business was the settlement of an estate that included a country store. the heirs had paid in chattels of the store. these had remained packed in the office. the main contents of the cases were hardware; but we found treasure indeed--a keg of powder, a case of matches, a paper of pins, a bottle of ink. red ink is now made out of poke-berries. pins are made by capping thorns with sealing-wax, or using them as nature made them. these were articles money could not get for us. we would give our friends a few matches to save for the hour of tribulation. the paper of pins we divided evenly, and filled a bank-box each with the matches. h. filled a tight tin case apiece with powder for max and himself and sold the rest, as we could not carry any more on such a trip. those who did not hear of this in time offered fabulous prices afterwards for a single pound. but money has not its old attractions. our preparations were delayed by aunt judy falling sick of swamp fever. _friday, june ._--as soon as the cook was up again, we resumed preparations. we put all the clothing in order and had it nicely done up with the last of the soap and starch. "i wonder," said annie, "when i shall ever have nicely starched clothes after these? they had no starch in natchez or vicksburg when i was there." we are now furbishing up dresses suitable for such rough summer travel. while we sat at work yesterday the quiet of the clear, calm noon was broken by a low, continuous roar like distant thunder. to-day we are told it was probably cannon at vicksburg. this is a great distance, i think, to have heard it--over a hundred miles. h. and max have bought a large yawl and are busy on the lake bank repairing it and fitting it with lockers. aunt judy's master has been notified when to send for her; a home for the cat jeff has been engaged; price is dead, and sancho sold. nearly all the furniture is disposed of, except things valued from association, which will be packed in h.'s office and left with some one likely to stay through the war. it is hardest to leave the books. _tuesday, july , ._--we start to-morrow. packing the trunks was a problem. annie and i are allowed one large trunk apiece, the gentlemen a smaller one each, and we a light carpet-sack apiece for toilet articles. i arrived with six trunks and leave with one! we went over everything carefully twice, rejecting, trying to shake off the bonds of custom and get down to primitive needs. at last we made a judicious selection. everything old or worn was left; everything merely ornamental, except good lace, which was light. gossamer evening dresses were all left. i calculated on taking two or three books that would bear the most reading if we were again shut up where none could be had, and so, of course, took shakspere first. here i was interrupted to go and pay a farewell visit, and when we returned max had packed and nailed the cases of books to be left. chance thus limited my choice to those that happened to be in my room--"paradise lost," the "arabian nights," a volume of macaulay's history that i was reading, and my prayer-book. to-day the provisions for the trip were cooked: the last of the flour was made into large loaves of bread; a ham and several dozen eggs were boiled; the few chickens that have survived the overflow were fried; the last of the coffee was parched and ground; and the modicum of the tea was well corked up. our friends across the lake added a jar of butter and two of preserves. h. rode off to x. after dinner to conclude some business there, and i sat down before a table to tie bundles of things to be left. the sunset glowed and faded and the quiet evening came on calm and starry. i sat by the window till evening deepened into night, and as the moon rose i still looked a reluctant farewell to the lovely lake and the grand woods, till the sound of h.'s horse at the gate broke the spell. ix. homeless and shelterless _thursday, july , ._ (---- plantation._)--yesterday about o'clock we walked to the lake and embarked. provisions and utensils were packed in the lockers, and a large trunk was stowed at each end. the blankets and cushions were placed against one of them, and annie and i sat on them turkish fashion. near the center the two smaller trunks made a place for reeney. max and h. were to take turns at the rudder and oars. the last word was a fervent god-speed from mr. e., who is left in charge of all our affairs. we believe him to be a union man, but have never spoken of it to him. we were gloomy enough crossing the lake, for it was evident the heavily laden boat would be difficult to manage. last night we staid at this plantation, and from the window of my room i see the men unloading the boat to place it on the cart, which a team of oxen will haul to the river. these hospitable people are kindness itself, till you mention the war. _saturday, july , . (under a cotton-shed on the bank of the mississippi river.)_--thursday was a lovely day, and the sight of the broad river exhilarating. the negroes launched and reloaded the boat, and when we had paid them and spoken good-bye to them we felt we were really off. every one had said that if we kept in the current the boat would almost go of itself, but in fact the current seemed to throw it about, and hard pulling was necessary. the heat of the sun was very severe, and it proved impossible to use an umbrella or any kind of shade, as it made steering more difficult. snags and floating timbers were very troublesome. twice we hurried up to the bank out of the way of passing gunboats, but they took no notice of us. when we got thirsty, it was found that max had set the jug of water in the shade of a tree and left it there. we must dip up the river water or go without. when it got too dark to travel safely we disembarked. reeney gathered wood, made a fire and some tea, and we had a good supper. we then divided, h. and i remaining to watch the boat, max and annie on shore. she hung up a mosquito-bar to the trees and went to bed comfortably. in the boat the mosquitoes were horrible, but i fell asleep and slept till voices on the bank woke me. annie was wandering disconsolate round her bed, and when i asked the trouble, said, "oh, i can't sleep there! i found a toad and a lizard in the bed." when dropping off again, h. woke me to say he was very sick; he thought it was from drinking the river water. with difficulty i got a trunk opened to find some medicine. while doing so a gunboat loomed up vast and gloomy, and we gave each other a good fright. our voices doubtless reached her, for instantly every one of her lights disappeared and she ran for a few minutes along the opposite bank. we momently expected a shell as a feeler. at dawn next morning we made coffee and a hasty breakfast, fixed up as well as we could in our sylvan dressing-rooms, and pushed on, for it is settled that traveling between eleven and two will have to be given up unless we want to be roasted alive. h. grew worse. he suffered terribly, and the rest of us as much to see him pulling in such a state of exhaustion. max would not trust either of us to steer. about eleven we reached the landing of a plantation. max walked up to the house and returned with the owner, an old gentleman living alone with his slaves. the housekeeper, a young colored girl, could not be surpassed in her graceful efforts to make us comfortable and anticipate every want. i was so anxious about h. that i remember nothing except that the cold drinking-water taken from a cistern beneath the building, into which only the winter rains were allowed to fall, was like an elixir. they offered luscious peaches that, with such water, were nectar and ambrosia to our parched lips. at night the housekeeper said she was sorry they had no mosquito-bars ready and hoped the mosquitoes would not be thick, but they came out in legions. i knew that on sleep that night depended recovery or illness for h. and all possibility of proceeding next day. so i sat up fanning away mosquitoes that he might sleep, toppling over now and then on the pillows till roused by his stirring. i contrived to keep this up till, as the chill before dawn came, they abated and i got a short sleep. then, with the aid of cold water, a fresh toilet, and a good breakfast, i braced up for another day's baking in the boat. [if i had been well and strong as usual the discomforts of such a journey would not have seemed so much to me; but i was still weak from the effects of the fever, and annoyed by a worrying toothache which there had been no dentist to rid me of in our village.[ ]] having paid and dismissed the boat's watchman, we started and traveled till eleven to-day, when we stopped at this cotton-shed. when our dais was spread and lunch laid out in the cool breeze, it seemed a blessed spot. a good many negroes came offering chickens and milk in exchange for tobacco, which we had not. we bought some milk with money. a united states transport just now steamed by and the men on the guards cheered and waved to us. we all replied but annie. even max was surprised into an answering cheer, and i waved my handkerchief with a very full heart as the dear old flag we have not seen for so long floated by; but annie turned her back. _sunday, july , . (under a tree on the east bank of the mississippi.)_--late on saturday evening we reached a plantation whose owner invited us to spend the night at his house. what a delightful thing is courtesy! the first tone of our host's welcome indicated the true gentleman. we never leave the oars with the watchman; max takes those, annie and i each take a band-box, h. takes my carpet-sack, and reeney brings up the rear with annie's. it is a funny procession. mr. b.'s family were absent, and as we sat on the gallery talking it needed only a few minutes to show this was a "union man." his home was elegant and tasteful, but even here there was neither tea nor coffee. about eleven we stopped here in this shady place. while eating lunch the negroes again came imploring for tobacco. soon an invitation came from the house for us to come and rest. we gratefully accepted, but found the idea of rest for warm, tired travelers was for us to sit in the parlor on stiff chairs while the whole family trooped in, cool and clean in fresh toilets, to stare and question. we soon returned to the trees; however, they kindly offered corn-meal pound-cake and beer, which were excellent. if we reach fetler's landing to-night, the mississippi-river part of the journey is concluded. eight gunboats and one transport have passed us. getting out of their way has been troublesome. our gentlemen's hands are badly blistered. _tuesday, july , ._--sunday night about ten we reached the place where, according to our map, steele's bayou comes nearest to the mississippi, and where the landing should be, but when we climbed the steep bank there was no sign, of habitation. max walked off into the woods on a search, and was gone so long we feared he had lost his way. he could find no road. h. suggested shouting and both began. at last a distant halloo replied, and by cries the answerer was guided to us. a negro said "who are you? what do you want?" "travelers seeking shelter for the night." he came forward and said that was the right place, his master kept the landing, and he would watch the boat for five dollars. he showed the road, and said his master's house was one mile off and another house two miles. we mistook and went to the one two miles off. there a legion of dogs rushed at us, and several great, tall, black fellows surrounded us till the master was roused. he put his head through the window and said,--"i'll let nobody in. the yankees have been here and took twenty-five of my negroes to work on their fortifications, and i've no beds nor anything for anybody." at o'clock we reached mr. fetler's, who was pleasant, and said we should have the best he had. the bed into whose grateful softness i sank was piled with mattresses to within two or three feet of the ceiling, and, with no step-ladder, getting in and out was a problem. this morning we noticed the high-water mark, four feet above the lower floor. mrs. fetler said they had lived up-stairs several weeks. footnotes: [ ] restored omission. see page . x. frights and perils in steele's bayou. _wednesday, july , . (under a tree on the bank of steele's bayou.)_--early this morning our boat was taken out of the mississippi and put on mr. fetler's ox-cart. after breakfast we followed on foot. the walk in the woods was so delightful that all were disappointed when a silvery gleam through the trees showed the bayou sweeping along, full to the banks, with dense forest trees almost meeting over it. the boat was launched, calked, and reloaded, and we were off again. towards noon the sound of distant cannon began to echo around, probably from vicksburg again. about the same time we began to encounter rafts. to get around them required us to push through brush so thick that we had to lie down in the boat. the banks were steep and the land on each side a bog. about o'clock we reached this clear space with dry shelving banks and disembarked to eat lunch. to our surprise a neatly dressed woman came tripping down the declivity bringing a basket. she said she lived above and had seen our boat. her husband was in the army, and we were the first white people she had talked to for a long while. she offered some corn-meal pound-cake and beer, and as she climbed back told us to "look out for the rapids." h. is putting the boat in order for our start and says she is waving good-bye from the bluff above. _thursday, july , . (on a raft in steele's bayou.)_--yesterday we went on nicely awhile and at afternoon came to a strange region of rafts, extending about three miles, on which persons were living. many saluted us, saying they had run away from vicksburg at the first attempt of the fleet to shell it. on one of these rafts, about twelve feet square,[ ] bagging had been hung up to form three sides of a tent. a bed was in one corner, and on a low chair, with her provisions in jars and boxes grouped round her, sat an old woman feeding a lot of chickens. they were strutting about oblivious to the inconveniences of war, and she looked serenely at ease. having moonlight, we had intended to travel till late. but about ten o'clock, the boat beginning to go with great speed, h., who was steering; called to max: "don't row so fast; we may run against something." "i'm hardly pulling at all." "then we're in what she called the rapids!" the stream seemed indeed to slope downward, and in a minute a dark line was visible ahead. max tried to turn, but could not, and in a second more we dashed against this immense raft, only saved from breaking up by the men's quickness. we got out upon it and ate supper. then, as the boat was leaking and the current swinging it against the raft, h. and max thought it safer to watch all night, but told us to go to sleep. it was a strange spot to sleep in--a raft in the middle of a boiling stream, with a wilderness stretching on either side. the moon made ghostly shadows and showed h., sitting still as a ghost, in the stern of the boat, while mingled with the gurgle of the water round the raft beneath was the boom of cannon in the air, solemnly breaking the silence of night. it drizzled now and then, and the mosquitoes swarmed over us. my fan and umbrella had been knocked overboard, so i had no weapon against them. fatigue, however, overcomes everything, and i contrived to sleep. h. roused us at dawn. reeney found light-wood enough on the raft to make a good fire for coffee, which never tasted better. then all hands assisted in unloading; a rope was fastened to the boat, max got in, h. held the rope on the raft, and, by much pulling and pushing, it was forced through a narrow passage to the farther side. here it had to be calked, and while that was being done we improvised a dressing-room in the shadow of our big trunks. (during the trip i had to keep the time, therefore properly to secure belt and watch was always an anxious part of my toilet.) the boat is now repacked, and while annie and reeney are washing cups i have scribbled, wishing much that mine were the hand of an artist. _friday morning, july , . (house of col. k., on yazoo river.)_--after leaving the raft yesterday all went well till noon, when we came to a narrow place where an immense tree lay clear across the stream. it seemed the insurmountable obstacle at last. we sat despairing what to do, when a man appeared beside us in a pirogue. so sudden, so silent was his arrival that we were thrilled with surprise. he said if we had a hatchet he could help us. his fairy bark floated in among the branches like a bubble, and he soon chopped a path for us, and was delighted to get some matches in return. he said the cannon we heard yesterday were in an engagement with the ram _arkansas_, which ran out of the yazoo that morning. we did not stop for dinner to-day, but ate a hasty lunch in the boat, after which nothing but a small piece of bread was left. about two we reached the forks, one of which ran to the yazoo, the other to the old river. max said the right fork was our road; h. said the left, that there was an error in max's map; but max steered into the right fork. after pulling about three miles he admitted his mistake and turned back; but i shall never forget old river. it was the vision of a drowned world, an illimitable waste of dead waters, stretching into a great, silent, desolate forest. a horror chilled me and i begged them to row fast out of that terrible place. just as we turned into the right way, down came the rain so hard and fast we had to stop on the bank. it defied trees or umbrellas and nearly took away the breath. the boat began to fill, and all five of us had to bail as fast as possible for the half-hour the sheet of water was pouring down. as it abated a cold breeze sprung up that, striking our wet clothes, chilled us to the bone. all were shivering and blue--no, i was green. before leaving mr. fetler's wednesday morning i had donned a dark-green calico. i wiped my face with a handkerchief out of my pocket, and face and hands were all dyed a deep green. when annie turned round and looked at me she screamed and i realized how i looked; but she was not much better, for of all dejected things wet feathers are the worst, and the plumes in her hat were painful. about five we reached colonel k.'s house, right where steele's bayou empties into the yazoo. we had both to be fairly dragged out of the boat, so cramped and weighted were we by wet skirts. the family were absent, and the house was headquarters for a squad of confederate cavalry, which was also absent. the old colored housekeeper received us kindly and lighted fires in our rooms to dry the clothing. my trunk had got cracked on top, and all the clothing to be got at was wet. h. had dropped his in the river while lifting it out, and his clothes were wet. a spoonful of brandy apiece was left in the little flask, and i felt that mine saved me from being ill. warm blankets and the brandy revived us, and by supper-time we got into some dry clothes. just then the squad of cavalry returned; they were only a dozen, but they made much, uproar, being in great excitement. some of them were known to max and h., who learned from them that a gunboat was coming to shell them out of this house. then ensued a clatter such as twelve men surely never made before--rattling about the halls and galleries in heavy boots and spurs, feeding horses, calling for supper, clanking swords, buckling and unbuckling belts and pistols. at last supper was dispatched, and they mounted and were gone like the wind. we had a quiet supper and good night's rest in spite of the expected shells, and did not wake till ten to-day to realize we were not killed. about eleven breakfast was furnished. now we are waiting till the rest of our things are dried to start on our last day of travel by water. _sunday, july , _.--a little way down the yazoo on friday we ran into mcnutt's lake, thence into chickasaw bayou, and at dark landed at mrs. c.'s farm, the nearest neighbors of h.'s uncle. the house was full of confederate sick, friends from vicksburg, and while we ate supper all present poured out the story of the shelling and all that was to be done at vicksburg. then our stuff was taken from the boat, and we finally abandoned the stanch little craft that had carried us for over one hundred and twenty-five miles in a trip occupying nine days. the luggage in a wagon, and ourselves packed in a buggy, were driven for four or five miles, over the roughest road i ever traveled, to the farm of mr. b., h.'s uncle, where we arrived at midnight and hastened to hide in bed the utter exhaustion of mind and body. yesterday we were too tired to think, or to do anything but to eat peaches. footnotes: [ ] more likely twelve yards.--g.w.c. xi. wild times in mississippi. this morning there was a most painful scene. annie's father came into vicksburg, ten miles from here, and learned of our arrival from mrs. c.'s messenger. he sent out a carriage to bring annie and max to town that they might go home with him, and with it came a letter for me from friends on the jackson railroad, written many weeks before. they had heard that our village home was under water, and invited us to visit them. the letter had been sent to annie's people to forward, and thus had reached us. this decided h., as the place was near new orleans, to go there and wait the chance of getting into that city. max, when he heard this from h., lost all self-control and cried like a baby. he stalked about the garden in the most tragic manner, exclaiming: "oh! my soul's brother from youth up is a traitor! a traitor to his country!" then h. got angry and said, "max, don't be a fool!" "who has done this?" bawled max. "you felt with the south at first; who has changed you?" "of course i feel _for_ the south now, and nobody has changed me but the logic of events, though the twenty-negro law has intensified my opinions. i can't see why i, who have no slaves, must go to fight for them, while every man who has twenty may stay at home." i, also, tried to reason with max and pour oil on his wound. "max, what interest has a man like you, without slaves, in a war for slavery? even if you had them, they would not be your best property. that lies in your country and its resources. nearly all the world has given up slavery; why can't the south do the same and end the struggle? it has shown you what the south needs, and if all went to work with united hands the south would soon be the greatest country on earth. you have no right to call h. a traitor; it is we who are the true patriots and lovers of the south." this had to come, but it has upset us both. h. is deeply attached to max, and i can't bear to see a cloud between them. max, with annie and reeney, drove off an hour ago, annie so glad at the prospect of again seeing her mother that nothing could cloud her day. and so the close companionship of six months, and of dangers, trials, and pleasures shared together, is over. _oak ridge, july , , saturday._--it was not till wednesday that h. could get into vicksburg, ten miles distant, for a passport, without which we could not go on the cars. we started thursday morning. i had to ride seven miles on a hard-trotting horse to the nearest station. the day was burning at white heat. when the station was reached my hair was down, my hat on my neck, and my feelings were indescribable. on the train one seemed to be right in the stream of war, among officers, soldiers, sick men and cripples, adieus, tears, laughter, constant chatter, and, strangest of all, sentinels posted at the locked car-doors demanding passports. there was no train south from jackson that day, so we put up at the bowman house. the excitement was indescribable. all the world appeared to be traveling through jackson. people were besieging the two hotels, offering enormous prices for the privilege of sleeping anywhere under a roof. there were many refugees from new orleans, among them some acquaintances of mine. the peculiar style of [women's] dress necessitated by the exigencies of war gave the crowd a very striking appearance. in single suits i saw sleeves of one color, the waist of another, the skirt of another; scarlet jackets and gray skirts; black waists and blue skirts; black skirts and gray waists; the trimming chiefly gold braid and buttons, to give a military air. the gray and gold uniforms of the officers, glittering between, made up a carnival of color. every moment we saw strange meetings and partings of people from all over the south. conditions of time, space, locality, and estate were all loosened; everybody seemed floating he knew not whither, but determined to be jolly, and keep up an excitement. at supper we had tough steak, heavy, dirty-looking bread, confederate coffee. the coffee was made of either parched rye or cornmeal, or of sweet potatoes cut in small cubes and roasted. this was the favorite. when flavored with "coffee essence," sweetened with sorghum, and tinctured with chalky milk, it made a curious beverage, which, after tasting, i preferred not to drink. every one else was drinking it, and an acquaintance said, "oh, you'll get bravely over that. i used to be a jewess about pork, but now we just kill a hog and eat it, and kill another and do the same. it's all we have." friday morning we took the down train for the station near my friend's house. at every station we had to go through the examination of passes, as if in a foreign country. the conscript camp was at brookhaven, and every man had been ordered to report there or to be treated as a deserter. at every station i shivered mentally, expecting h. to be dragged off. brookhaven was also the station for dinner. i choked mine down, feeling the sword hanging over me by a single hair. at sunset we reached our station. the landlady was pouring tea when we took our seats and i expected a treat, but when i tasted it it was sassafras tea, the very odor of which sickens me. there was a general surprise when i asked to exchange it for a glass of water; every one was drinking it as if it were nectar. this morning we drove out here. my friend's little nest is calm in contrast to the tumult not far off. yet the trials of war are here too. having no matches, they keep fire, carefully covering it at night, for mr. g. has no powder, and cannot flash the gun into combustibles as some do. one day they had to go with the children to the village, and the servant let the fire go out. when they returned at nightfall, wet and hungry, there was neither fire nor food. mr. g. had to saddle the tired mule and ride three miles for a pan of coals, and blow them, all the way back, to keep them alight. crockery has gradually been broken and tin-cups rusted out, and a visitor told me they had made tumblers out of clear glass bottles by cutting them smooth with a heated wire, and that they had nothing else to drink from. _aug. , _.--we cannot get to new orleans. a special passport must be shown, and we are told that to apply for it would render h. very likely to be conscripted. i begged him not to try; and as we hear that active hostilities have ceased at vicksburg, he left me this morning to return to his uncle's and see what the prospects are there. i shall be in misery about conscription till he returns. _sunday, sept. _., (vicksburg, washington hotel)--h. did not return for three weeks. an epidemic disease broke out in his uncle's family and two children died. he staid to assist them in their trouble. tuesday evening he returned for me and we reached vicksburg yesterday. it was my first sight of the "gibraltar of the south." looking at it from a slight elevation suggests the idea that the fragments left from world-building had tumbled into a confused mass of hills, hollows, hillocks, banks, ditches, and ravines, and that the houses had rained down afterwards. over all there was dust impossible to conceive. the bombardment has done little injury. people have returned and resumed business. a gentleman asked h. if he knew of a nice girl for sale. i asked if he did not think it impolitic to buy slaves now. "oh, not young ones. old ones might run off when the enemy's lines approach ours, but with young ones there is no danger." we had not been many hours in town before a position was offered to h. which seemed providential. the chief of a certain department was in ill-health and wanted a deputy. it secures him from conscription, requires no oath, and pays a good salary. a mountain seemed lifted off my heart. _thursday, sept. , . (thanksgiving day.)_--we staid three days at the washington hotel; then a friend of h.'s called and told him to come to his house till he could find a home. boarding-houses have all been broken up, and the army has occupied the few houses that were for rent. to-day h. secured a vacant room for two weeks in the only boarding-house. _oak haven, oct. _.--to get a house in v. proved impossible, so we agreed to part for a time till h. could find one. a friend recommended this quiet farm, six miles from ---- (a station on the jackson railroad). on last saturday h. came with me as far as jackson and put me on the other train for the station. on my way hither a lady, whom i judged to be a confederate "blockade runner," told me of the tricks resorted to to get things out of new orleans, including this: a very large doll was emptied of its bran, filled with quinine, and elaborately dressed. when the owner's trunk was opened, she declared with tears that the doll was for a poor crippled girl, and it was passed. this farm of mr. w.'s[ ] is kept with about forty negroes. mr. w., nearly sixty, is the only white man on it. he seems to have been wiser in the beginning than most others, and curtailed his cotton to make room for rye, rice, and corn. there is a large vegetable garden and orchard; he has bought plenty of stock for beef and mutton, and laid in a large supply of sugar. he must also have plenty of ammunition, for a man is kept hunting and supplies the table with delicious wild turkeys and other game. there is abundance of milk and butter, hives for honey, and no end of pigs. chickens seem to be kept like game in parks, for i never see any, but the hunter shoots them, and eggs are plentiful. we have chicken for breakfast, dinner, and supper, fried, stewed, broiled, and in soup, and there is a family of ten. luckily i never tire of it. they make starch out of corn-meal by washing the meal repeatedly, pouring off the water and drying the sediment. truly the uses of corn in the confederacy are varied. it makes coffee, beer, whisky, starch, cake, bread. the only privations here are the lack of coffee, tea, salt, matches, and good candles. mr. w. is now having the dirt-floor of his smoke-house dug up and boiling from it the salt that has dripped into it for years. to-day mrs. w. made tea out of dried blackberry leaves, but no one liked it. the beds, made out of equal parts of cotton and corn-shucks, are the most elastic i ever slept in. the servants are dressed in gray homespun. hester, the chambermaid, has a gray gown so pretty that i covet one like it. mrs. w. is now arranging dyes for the thread to be woven into dresses for herself and the girls. sometimes her hands are a curiosity. the school at the nearest town is broken up and mrs. w. says the children are growing up heathens. mr. w. has offered me a liberal price to give the children lessons in english and french, and i have accepted transiently. _oct. , _.--it is a month to-day since i came here. i only wish h. could share these benefits--the nourishing food, the pure aromatic air, the sound sleep away from the fevered life of vicksburg. he sends me all the papers he can get hold of, and we both watch carefully the movements reported, lest an army should get between us. the days are full of useful work, and in the lovely afternoons i take long walks with a big dog for company. the girls do not care for walking. in the evening mr. w. begs me to read aloud all the war news. he is fond of the "memphis appeal," which has moved from town to town so much that they call it the "moving appeal." i sit in a low chair by the fire, as we have no other light to read by. sometimes traveling soldiers stop here, but that is rare. _oct. _.--mr. w. said last night the farmers felt uneasy about the "emancipation proclamation" to take effect in december. the slaves have found it out, though it had been carefully kept from them. "do yours know it?" i asked. "oh, yes. finding it to be known elsewhere, i told it to mine with fair warning what to expect if they tried to run away. the hounds are not far off." the need of clothing for their armies is worrying them too. i never saw mrs. w. so excited as on last evening. she said the provost-marshal at the next town had ordered the women to knit so many pairs of socks. "just let him try to enforce it and they'll cow-hide him. he'll get none from me. i'll take care of my own friends without an order from him." "well," said mr. w., "if the south is defeated and the slaves set free, the southern people will all become atheists, for the bible justifies slavery and says it shall be perpetual." "you mean, if the lord does not agree with you, you'll repudiate him." "well, we'll feel it's no use to believe in anything." at night the large sitting-room makes a striking picture. mr. w., spare, erect, gray-headed, patriarchal, sits in his big chair by the odorous fire of pine logs and knots roaring up the vast fireplace. his driver brings to him the report of the day's picking and a basket of snowy cotton for the spinning. the hunter brings in the game. i sit on the other side to read. the great spinning wheels stand at the other end of the room, and mrs. w. and her black satellites, the heads of the elderly women in bright bandanas, are hard at work. slender and auburn-haired, she steps back and forth out of shadow into shine following the thread with graceful movements. some card the cotton, some reel it into hanks. over all the firelight glances, now touching the golden curls of little john toddling about, now the brown heads of the girls stooping over their books, now the shadowy figure of little jule, the girl whose duty it is to supply the fire with rich pine to keep up the vivid light. if they would only let the child sit down! but that is not allowed, and she gets sleepy and stumbles and knocks her head against the wall and then straightens up again. when that happens often it drives me off. sometimes while i read the bright room fades and a vision rises of figures clad in gray and blue lying pale and stiff on the blood-sprinkled ground. _nov. , _.--yesterday a letter was handed me from h. grant's army was moving, he wrote, steadily down the mississippi central and might cut the road at jackson. he has a house and will meet me in jackson to-morrow. when bessie j. and i went in to dinner to-day, a stranger was sitting by mr. w.; a dark, heavy-looking man who said but little. i excused myself to finish packing. presently bessie rushed upstairs flushed and angry. "i shall give mr. w. a piece of my mind. he must have taken leave of his senses!" "what is the matter, bessie?" "why, g., don't you know whom you've been sitting at table with?" "that stranger, you mean; i suppose mr. w. forgot to introduce him." "forgot! he knew better than to introduce him! that man is a nigger-chaser. he's got his bloodhounds here now." "did you see the dogs?" "no, i asked hester if he had them, and she said, 'yes.' think of mr. w. bringing him to table with us. if my brothers knew it there would be a row." "where are your brothers? at college still?" "no, in the army; pa told them they'd have to come and fight to save their property. his men cost him twelve to fifteen hundred dollars apiece and are too valuable to lose." "well, i wouldn't worry about this man, he may be useful some day to save that kind of property." "of course, you can take it easily, you're going away; but if mr. w. thinks i'm going to sit at table with that wretch he's vastly mistaken." _nov. , _. (_vicksburg_.)--a fair morning for my journey back to vicksburg. the autumn woods were shining through a veil of silvery mist and the spicy breezes blew cool and keen from the heart of the pines, a friend sat beside me, a husband's welcome awaited me. general pemberton, recently appointed to the command at vicksburg, was on the train; also the gentleman who in new orleans had told us we should have all the butter we wanted from texas. on the cars, as elsewhere, the question of food alternated with news of the war. when we ran into the jackson station h. was on the platform, and i gladly learned that we could go right on. a runaway negro, an old man, ashy colored from fright and exhaustion, with his hands chained, was being dragged along by a common-looking man. just as we started out of jackson the conductor led in a young woman sobbing in a heart-broken manner. her grief seemed so overpowering, and she was so young and helpless, that every one was interested. her husband went into the army in the opening of the war, just after their marriage, and she had never heard from him since. after months of weary searching she learned he had been heard of at jackson, and came full of hope, but found no clue. the sudden breaking down of her hope was terrible. the conductor placed her in care of a gentleman going her way and left her sobbing. at the next station the conductor came to ask her about her baggage. she raised her head to try and answer. "don't cry so, you'll find him yet." she gave a start, jumped from her seat with arms flung out and eyes staring. "there he is now!" she cried. her husband stood before her. the gentleman beside her yielded his seat, and as hand grasped hand a hysterical gurgle gave place to a look like heaven's peace. the low murmur of their talk began, and when i looked round at the next station they had bought pies and were eating them together like happy children. midway between jackson and vicksburg we reached the station near where annie's parents were staying. i looked out, and there stood annie with a little sister on each side of her, brightly smiling at us. max had written to h., but we had not seen them since our parting. there was only time for a word and the train flashed away. footnotes: [ ] on this plantation, and in this domestic circle, i myself afterward sojourned, and from them enlisted in the confederate army. the initials are fictitious, but the description is perfect.--g.w.c. xii. vicksburg. we reached vicksburg that night and went to h.'s room. next morning the cook he had engaged arrived, and we moved into this house. martha's ignorance keeps me busy, and h. is kept close at his office. _january th, _.--i have had little to record recently, for we have lived to ourselves, not visiting or visited. every one h. knows is absent, and i know no one. h. tells me of the added triumph since the repulse of sherman in december, and the one paper published here shouts victory as much as its gradually diminishing size will allow. paper is a serious want. there is a great demand for envelopes in the office where h. is. he found and bought a lot of thick and smooth colored paper, cut a tin pattern, and we have whiled away some long evenings making envelopes. i have put away a package of the best to look at when we are old. the books i brought from arkansas have proved a treasure, but we can get no more. i went to the only book-store open; there were none but mrs. stowe's "sunny memories of foreign lands." the clerk said i could have that cheap, because he couldn't sell her books, so i am reading it now. the monotony has only been broken by letters from friends here and there in the confederacy. one of these letters tells of a federal raid and says, "but the worst thing was, they would take every tooth-brush in the house, because we can't buy any more; and one cavalry man put my sister's new bonnet on his horse, and said 'get up, jack,' and her bonnet was gone." _feb. th, _.--a long gap in my journal, because h. has been ill unto death with typhoid fever. i nearly broke down from loss of sleep, there being no one to relieve me. it was terrible to be alone at night with a patient in delirium, and no one within call. to wake martha was simply impossible. i got the best doctor here, but when convalescence began the question of food was a trial. i got with great difficulty two chickens. the doctor made the drug-store sell two of their six bottles of port; he said his patient's life depended on it. an egg is a rare and precious thing. meanwhile the federal fleet has been gathering, has anchored at the bend, and shells are thrown in at intervals. _march th_.--the slow shelling of vicksburg goes on all the time, and we have grown indifferent. it does not at present interrupt or interfere with daily avocations, but i suspect they are only getting the range of different points; and when they have them all complete, showers of shot will rain on us all at once. non-combatants have been ordered to leave or prepare accordingly. those who are to stay are having caves built. cave-digging has become a regular business; prices range from twenty to fifty dollars, according to size of cave. two diggers worked at ours a week and charged thirty dollars. it is well made in the hill that slopes just in the rear of the house, and well propped with thick posts, as they all are. it has a shelf, also, for holding a light or water. when we went in this evening and sat down, the earthy, suffocating feeling, as of a living tomb, was dreadful to me. i fear i shall risk death outside rather then melt in that dark furnace. the hills are so honeycombed with caves that the streets look like avenues in a cemetery. the hill called the sky-parlor has become quite a fashionable resort for the few upper-circle families left here. some officers are quartered there, and there is a band and a field-glass. last evening we also climbed the hill to watch the shelling, but found the view not so good as on a quiet hill nearer home. soon a lady began to talk to one of the officers: "it is such folly for them to waste their ammunition like that. how can they ever take a town that has such advantages for defense and protection as this? we'll just burrow into these hills and let them batter away as hard as they please." "you are right, madam; and besides, when our women are so willing to brave death and endure discomfort, how can we ever be conquered?" soon she looked over with significant glances to where we stood, and began to talk at h. "the only drawback," she said, "are the contemptible men who are staying at home in comfort when they ought to be in the army if they had a spark of honor." i cannot repeat all, but it was the usual tirade. it is strange i have met no one yet who seems to comprehend an honest difference of opinion, and stranger yet that the ordinary rules of good breeding are now so entirely ignored. as the spring comes on one has the craving for fresh, green food that a monotonous diet produces. there was a bed of radishes and onions in the garden, that were a real blessing. an onion salad, dressed only with salt, vinegar, and pepper, seemed a dish fit for a king, but last night the soldiers quartered near made a raid on the garden and took them all. _april d, _.--we have had to move, and have thus lost our cave. the owner of the house suddenly returned and notified us that he intended to bring his family back; didn't think there'd be any siege. the cost of the cave could go for the rent. that means he has got tired of the confederacy and means to stay here and thus get out of it. this house was the only one to be had. it was built by ex-senator g., and is so large our tiny household is lost in it. we only use the lower floor. the bell is often rung by persons who take it for a hotel and come beseeching food at any price. to-day one came who would not be denied. "we do not keep a hotel, but would willingly feed hungry soldiers if we had the food." "i have been traveling all night and am starving; will pay any price for just bread." i went to the dining-room and found some biscuits, and set out two, with a large piece of corn-bread, a small piece of bacon, some nice sirup, and a pitcher of water. i locked the door of the safe and left him to enjoy his lunch. after he left i found he had broken open the safe and taken the remaining biscuits. _april th, _.--what shall we eat? what shall we drink? and wherewithal shall we be clothed? we have no prophet of the lord at whose prayer the meal and oil will not waste. as to wardrobe, i have learned to darn like an artist. making shoes is now another accomplishment. mine were in tatters. h. came across a moth-eaten pair that he bought me, giving ten dollars, i think, and they fell into rags when i tried to wear them; but the soles were good, and that has helped me to shoes. a pair of old coat-sleeves--nothing is thrown away now--was in my trunk. i cut an exact pattern from my old shoes, laid it on the sleeves, and cut out thus good uppers and sewed them carefully; then soaked the soles and sewed the cloth to them. i am so proud of these home-made shoes that i think i'll put them in a glass case when the war is over, as an heirloom. h. says he has come to have an abiding faith that everything he needs to wear will come out of that trunk while the war lasts. it is like a fairy-casket. i have but a dozen pins remaining, i gave so many away. every time these are used they are straightened and kept from rust. all these curious labors are performed while the shells are leisurely screaming through the air; but as long as we are out of range we don't worry. for many nights we have had but little sleep because the federal gun-boats have been running past the batteries. the uproar when this is happening is phenomenal. the first night the thundering artillery burst the bars of sleep, we thought it an attack by the river. to get into garments and rush upstairs was the work of a moment. from the upper gallery we have a fine view of the river, and soon a red glare lit up the scene and showed a small boat towing two large barges, gliding by. the confederates had set fire to a house near the bank. another night, eight boats ran by, throwing a shower of shot, and two burning houses made the river clear as day. one of the batteries has a remarkable gun they call "whistling dick," because of the screeching, whistling sound it gives, and certainly it does sound like a tortured thing. added to all this is the indescribable confederate yell, which is a soul-harrowing sound to hear. i have gained respect for the mechanism of the human ear, which stands it all without injury. the streets are seldom quiet at night; even the dragging about of cannon makes a din in these echoing gullies. the other night we were on the gallery till the last of the eight boats got by. next day a friend said to h., "it was a wonder you didn't have your heads taken off last night. i passed and saw them stretched over the gallery, and grape-shot were whizzing up the street just on a level with you." the double roar of batteries and boats was so great, we never noticed the whizzing. yesterday the _cincinnati_ attempted to go by in daylight, but was disabled and sunk. it was a pitiful sight; we could not see the finale, though we saw her rendered helpless. xiii. preparations for the siege. _vicksburg, may st, ._--ever since we were deprived of our cave, i had been dreading that h. would suggest sending me to the country, where his relatives live. as he could not leave his position and go also without being conscripted, and as i felt certain an army would get between us, it was no part of my plan to be obedient. a shell from one of the practicing mortars brought the point to an issue yesterday and settled it. sitting at work as usual, listening to the distant sound of bursting shells, apparently aimed at the court-house, there suddenly came a nearer explosion; the house shook, and a tearing sound was followed by terrified screams from the kitchen. i rushed thither, but met in the hall the cook's little girl america, bleeding from a wound in the forehead, and fairly dancing with fright and pain, while she uttered fearful yells. i stopped to examine the wound, and her mother bounded in, her black face ashy from terror. "oh! miss g., my child is killed and the kitchen tore up." seeing america was too lively to have been killed, i consoled martha and hastened to the kitchen. evidently a shell had exploded just outside, sending three or four pieces through. when order was restored i endeavored to impress on martha's mind the uselessness of such excitement. looking round at the close of the lecture, there stood a group of confederate soldiers laughing heartily at my sermon and the promising audience i had. they chimed in with a parting chorus: "yes, it's no use hollerin', old lady." "oh! h.," i exclaimed, as he entered soon after, "america is wounded." "that is no news; she has been wounded by traitors long ago." "oh, this is real, living, little, black america. i am not talking in symbols. here are the pieces of shell, the first bolt of the coming siege." "now you see," he replied, "that this house will be but paper to mortar-shells. you must go into the country." the argument was long, but when a woman is obstinate and eloquent, she generally conquers. i came off victorious, and we finished preparations for the siege to-day. hiring a man to assist, we descended to the wine-cellar, where the accumulated bottles told of festive hours long since departed. to empty this cellar was the work of many hours. then in the safest corner a platform was laid for our bed, and in another portion one arranged for martha. the dungeon, as i call it, is lighted only by a trap-door, and is very damp. the next question was of supplies. i had nothing left but a sack of rice-flour, and no manner of cooking i had heard or invented contrived to make it eatable. a column of recipes for making delicious preparations of it had been going the rounds of confederate papers. i tried them all; they resulted only in brick-bats, or sticky paste. h. sallied out on a hunt for provisions, and when he returned the disproportionate quantity of the different articles provoked a smile. there was a _hogshead_ of sugar, a barrel of sirup, ten pounds of bacon and pease, four pounds of wheat-flour, and a small sack of corn-meal, a little vinegar, and actually some spice! the wheat-flour he purchased for ten dollars as a special favor from the sole remaining barrel for sale. we decided that must be kept for sickness. the sack of meal, he said, was a case of corruption, though a special providence to us. there is no more for sale at any price, but, said he, "a soldier who was hauling some of the government sacks to the hospital offered me this for five dollars, if i could keep a secret. when the meal is exhausted, perhaps we can keep alive on sugar. here are some wax candles; hoard them like gold." he handed me a parcel containing about two pounds of candles, and left me to arrange my treasures. it would be hard for me to picture the memories those candles called up. the long years melted away, and i "trod again my childhood's track and felt its very gladness." in those childish days, whenever came dreams of household splendor or festal rooms or gay illuminations, the lights in my vision were always wax candles burning with a soft radiance that enchanted every scene.... and, lo! here on this spring day of ' , with war raging through the land, i was in a fine house, and had my wax candles sure enough, but, alas! they were neither cerulean blue nor rose-tinted, but dirty brown; and when i lighted one, it spluttered and wasted like any vulgar, tallow thing, and lighted only a desolate scene in the vast handsome room. they were not so good as the waxen rope we had made in arkansas. so, with a long sigh for the dreams of youth, i return to the stern present in this besieged town, my only consolation to remember the old axiom, "a city besieged is a city taken,"--so if we live through it we shall be out of the confederacy. h. is very tired of having to carry a pass around in his pocket and go every now and then to have it renewed. we have been so very free in america, these restrictions are irksome. _may th, _.--this morning the door-bell rang a startling peal. martha being busy; i answered it. an orderly in gray stood with an official envelope in his hand. "who lives here?" "mr. l." very imperiously--"which mr. l.?" "mr. h.l." "is he here?" "no." "where can he be found?" "at the office of deputy----." "i'm not going there. this is an order from general pemberton for you to move out of this house in two hours. he has selected it for headquarters. he will furnish you with wagons.". "will he furnish another house also?" "of course not." "has the owner been consulted?" "he has not; that is of no consequence; it has been taken. take this order." "i shall not take it, and i shall not move, as there is no place to move to but the street." "then i'll take it to mr. l." "very well, do so." as soon as mr. impertine walked off i locked, bolted, and barred every door and window. in ten minutes h. came home. "hold the fort till i've seen the owner and the general," he said, as i locked him out. then dr. b.'s remark in new orleans about the effect of dr. c.'s fine presence on the confederate officials there came to my mind. they are influenced in that way, i thought; i look rather shabby now, i will dress. i made an elaborate toilet, put on the best and most becoming dress i had, the richest lace, the handsomest ornaments, taking care that all should be appropriate to a morning visit; dressed my hair in the stateliest braids, and took a seat in the parlor ready for the fray. h. came to the window and said: "landlord says, 'keep them out. wouldn't let them have his house at any price.' he is just riding off to the country and can't help us now. now i'm going to see major c, who sent the order." next came an officer, banged at the door till tired, and walked away. then the orderly came again and beat the door--same result. next, four officers with bundles and lunch-baskets, followed by a wagon-load of furniture. they went round the house, tried every door, peeped in the windows, pounded and rapped, while i watched them through the blind-slats. presently the fattest one, a real falstaffian man, came back to the front door and rung a thundering peal. i saw the chance for fun and for putting on their own grandiloquent style. stealing on tiptoe to the door, i turned the key and bolt noiselessly, and suddenly threw wide back the door, and appeared behind it. he had been leaning on it, and nearly pitched forward with an "oh! what's this?" then seeing me as he straightened up, "ah, madam!" almost stuttering from surprise and anger, "are you aware i had the right to break down this door if you hadn't opened it?" "that would make no difference to me. i'm not the owner. you or the landlord would pay the bill for the repairs." "why didn't you open the door?" "have i not done so as soon as you rung? a lady does not open the door to men who beat on it. gentlemen usually ring; i thought it might be stragglers pounding." "well," growing much blander, "we are going to send you some wagons to move; you must get ready." "with pleasure, if you have selected a house for me. this is too large; it does not suit me." "no, i didn't find a house for you." "you surely don't expect _me_ to run about in the dust and shelling to look for it, and mr. l. is too busy." "well, madam, then we must share the house. we will take the lower floor." "i prefer to keep the lower floor myself; you surely don't expect _me_ to go up and down stairs when you are so light and more able to do it." he walked through the hall, trying the doors. "what room is that?"--"the parlor." "and this?"--"my bedroom." "and this?"--"the dining-room." "well, madam, we'll find you a house and then come and take this." "thank you, colonel. i shall be ready when you find the house. good morning, sir." i heard him say as he ran down the steps, "we must go back, captain; you see i didn't know they were this kind of people." of course the orderly had lied in the beginning to scare me, for general pemberton is too far away from vicksburg to send such an order. he is looking about for general grant. we are told he has gone out to meet johnston; and together they expect to annihilate grant's army and free vicksburg forever. there is now a general hospital opposite this house and a small-pox hospital next door. war, famine, pestilence, and fire surround us. every day the band plays in front of the small-pox hospital. i wonder if it is to keep up their spirits? one would suppose quiet would be more cheering. _may th, _.--hardly was our scanty breakfast over this morning when a hurried ring drew us both to the door. mr. j., one of h.'s assistants, stood there in high excitement. "well, mr. l., they are upon us; the yankees will be here by this evening." "what do you mean?" "that pemberton has been whipped at baker's creek and big black, and his army are running back here as fast as they can come and the yanks after them, in such numbers nothing can stop them. hasn't pemberton acted like a fool?" "he may not be the only one to blame," replied h. "they're coming along the big b. road, and my folks went down there to be safe, you know; now they're right in it. i hear you can't see the armies for the dust; never was anything else known like it. but i must go and try to bring my folks back here." what struck us both was the absence of that concern to be expected, and a sort of relief or suppressed pleasure. after twelve some worn-out-looking men sat down under the window. "what is the news?" i inquired. "retreat, retreat!" they said, in broken english--they were louisiana acadians. about o'clock the rush began. i shall never forget that woful sight of a beaten, demoralized army that came rushing back,--humanity in the last throes of endurance. wan, hollow-eyed, ragged, footsore, bloody, the men limped along unarmed, but followed by siege-guns, ambulances, gun-carriages, and wagons in aimless confusion. at twilight two or three bands on the court-house hill and other points began playing dixie, bonnie blue flag, and so on, and drums began to beat all about; i suppose they were rallying the scattered army. xiv. the siege itself. _may th, _.--since that day the regular siege has continued. we are utterly cut off from the world, surrounded by a circle of fire. the fiery shower of shells goes on day and night. h.'s occupation, of course, is gone, his office closed. every man has to carry a pass in his pocket. people do nothing but eat what they can get, sleep when they can, and dodge the shells. there are three intervals when the shelling stops, either for the guns to cool or for the gunners' meals, i suppose,--about eight in the morning, the same in the evening, and at noon. in that time we have both to prepare and eat ours. clothing cannot be washed or anything else done. on the th and d, when the assaults were made on the lines, i watched the soldiers cooking on the green opposite. the half-spent balls coming all the way from those lines were flying so thick that they were obliged to dodge at every turn. at all the caves i could see from my high perch, people were sitting, eating their poor suppers at the cave doors, ready to plunge in again. as the first shell again flew they dived, and not a human being was visible. the sharp crackle of the musketry-firing was a strong contrast to the scream of the bombs. i think all the dogs and cats must be killed or starved, we don't see any more pitiful animals prowling around.... the cellar is so damp and musty the bedding has to be carried out and laid in the sun every day, with the forecast that it may be demolished at any moment. the confinement is dreadful. to sit and listen as if waiting for death in a horrible manner would drive me insane. i don't know what others do, but we read when i am not scribbling in this. h. borrowed somewhere a lot of dickens's novels, and we reread them by the dim light in the cellar. when the shelling abates h. goes to walk about a little or get the "daily citizen," which is still issuing a tiny sheet at twenty-five and fifty cents a copy. it is, of course, but a rehash of speculations which amuses half an hour. to-day we heard while out that expert swimmers are crossing the mississippi on logs at night to bring and carry news to johnston. i am so tired of corn-bread, which i never liked, that i eat it with tears in my eyes. we are lucky to get a quart of milk daily from a family near who have a cow they hourly expect to be killed. i send five dollars to market each morning, and it buys a small piece of mule-meat. rice and milk is my main food; i can't eat the mule-meat. we boil the rice and eat it cold with milk for supper. martha runs the gauntlet to buy the meat and milk once a day in a perfect terror. the shells seem to have many different names; i hear the soldiers say, "that's a mortar-shell. there goes a parrott. that's a rifle-shell." they are all equally terrible. a pair of chimney-swallows have built in the parlor chimney. the concussion of the house often sends down parts of their nest, which they patiently pick up and reascend with. _friday, june th, . (in the cellar.)_--wednesday evening h. said he must take a little walk, and went while the shelling had stopped. he never leaves me alone long, and when an hour had passed without his return i grew anxious; and when two hours, and the shelling had grown terrific, i momentarily expected to see his mangled body. all sorts of horrors fill the mind now, and i am so desolate here; not a friend. when he came he said that passing a cave where there were no others near, he heard groans, and found a shell had struck above and caused the cave to fall in on the man within. he could not extricate him alone, and had to get help and dig him out. he was badly hurt, but not mortally. i felt fairly sick from the suspense. yesterday morning a note was brought h. from a bachelor uncle out in the trenches, saying he had been taken ill with fever, and could we receive him if he came? h. sent to tell him to come, and i arranged one of the parlors as a dressing-room for him, and laid a pallet that he could move back and forth to the cellar. he did not arrive, however. it is our custom in the evening to sit in the front room a little while in the dark, with matches and candles held ready in hand, and watch the shells, whose course at night is shown by the fuse. h. was at the window and suddenly sprang up, crying, "run!"--"where?"--"_back_!" i started through the back room, h. after me. i was just within the door when the crash came that threw me to the floor. it was the most appalling sensation i'd ever known. worse than an earthquake, which i've also experienced. shaken and deafened i picked myself up; h. had struck a light to find me. i lighted mine, and the smoke guided us to the parlor i had fixed for uncle j. the candles were useless in the dense smoke, and it was many minutes before we could see. then we found the entire side of the room torn out. the soldiers who had rushed in said, "this is an eighty-pound parrott." it had entered through the front and burst on the pallet-bed, which was in tatters; the toilet service and everything else in the room was smashed. the soldiers assisted h. to board up the break with planks to keep out prowlers, and we went to bed in the cellar as usual. this morning the yard is partially plowed by two shells that fell there in the night. i think this house, so large and prominent from the river, is perhaps mistaken for headquarters and specially shelled. as we descend at night to the lower regions, i think of the evening hymn that grandmother taught me when a child: "lord, keep us safe this night, secure from all our fears; may angels guard us while we sleep, till morning light appears." _june th, . (in the cellar.)_--i feel especially grateful that amid these horrors we have been spared that of suffering for water. the weather has been dry a long time, and we hear of others dipping up the water from ditches and mud-holes. this place has two large underground cisterns of good cool water, and every night in my subterranean dressing-room a tub of cold water is the nerve-calmer that sends me to sleep in spite of the roar. one cistern i had to give up to the soldiers, who swarm about like hungry animals seeking something to devour. poor fellows! my heart bleeds for them. they have nothing but spoiled, greasy bacon, and bread made of musty pea-flour, and but little of that. the sick ones can't bolt it. they come into the kitchen when martha puts the pan of corn-bread in the stove, and beg for the bowl she has mixed it in. they shake up the scrapings with water, put in their bacon, and boil the mixture into a kind of soup, which is easier to swallow than pea-bread. when i happen in they look so ashamed of their poor clothes. i know we saved the lives of two by giving a few meals. to-day one crawled upon the gallery to lie in the breeze. he looked as if shells had lost their terrors for his dumb and famished misery. i've taught martha to make first-rate corn-meal gruel, because i can eat meal easier that way than in hoe-cake, and i prepared him a saucerful, put milk and sugar and nutmeg--i've actually got a nutmeg. when he ate it the tears ran from his eyes. "oh, madam, there was never anything so good! i shall get better." _june th, _.--the churches are a great resort for those who have no caves. people fancy they are not shelled so much, and they are substantial and the pews good to sleep in. we had to leave this house last night, they were shelling our quarter so heavily. the night before, martha forsook the cellar for a church. we went to h.'s office, which was comparatively quiet last night. h. carried the bank box; i the case of matches; martha the blankets and pillows, keeping an eye on the shells. we slept on piles of old newspapers. in the streets the roar seems so much more confusing, i feel sure i shall run right into the way of a shell. they seem to have five different sounds from the second of throwing them to the hollow echo wandering among the hills, which sounds the most blood-curdling of all. [illustration: printed on wall paper in the siege of vicksburg.] _june th, _.--shell burst just over the roof this morning. pieces tore through both floors down into the dining-room. the entire ceiling of that room fell in a mass. we had just left it. every piece of crockery on the table was smashed. the "daily citizen" to-day is a foot and a half long and six inches wide. it has a long letter from a federal officer, p. p. hill, who was on the gun-boat _cincinnati_, that was sunk may th. says it was found in his floating trunk. the editorial says, "the utmost confidence is felt that we can maintain our position until succor comes from outside. the undaunted johnston is at hand." _june th_.--to-day the "citizen" is printed on wall paper; therefore has grown a little in size. it says, "but a few days more and johnston will be here"; also that "kirby smith has driven banks from port hudson," and that "the enemy are throwing incendiary shells in." _june th_.--the gentleman who took our cave came yesterday to invite us to come to it, because, he said, "it's going to be very bad to-day." i don't know why he thought so. we went, and found his own and another family in it; sat outside and watched the shells till we concluded the cellar was as good a place as that hill-side. i fear the want of good food is breaking down h. i know from my own feelings of weakness, but mine is not an american constitution and has a recuperative power that his has not. _june st, _.--i had gone upstairs to-day during the interregnum to enjoy a rest on my bed and read the reliable items in the "citizen," when a shell burst right outside the window in front of me. pieces flew in, striking all round me, tearing down masses of plaster that came tumbling over me. when h. rushed in i was crawling out of the plaster, digging it out of my eyes and hair. when he picked up beside my pillow a piece as large as a saucer, i realized my narrow escape. the window-frame began to smoke, and we saw the house was on fire. h. ran for a hatchet and i for water, and we put it out. another (shell) came crashing near, and i snatched up my comb and brush and ran down here. it has taken all the afternoon to get the plaster out of my hair, for my hands were rather shaky. _june th_.--a horrible day. the most horrible yet to me, because i've lost my nerve. we were all in the cellar, when a shell came tearing through the roof, burst upstairs, and tore up that room, the pieces coming through both floors down into the cellar. one of them tore open the leg of h.'s pantaloons. this was tangible proof the cellar was no place of protection from them. on the heels of this came mr. j., to tell us that young mrs. p. had had her thighbone crushed. when martha went for the milk she came back horror-stricken to tell us the black girl there had her arm taken off by a shell. for the first time i quailed. i do not think people who are physically brave deserve much credit for it; it is a matter of nerves. in this way i am constitutionally brave, and seldom think of danger till it is over; and death has not the terrors for me it has for some others. every night i had lain down expecting death, and every morning rose to the same prospect, without being unnerved. it was for h. i trembled. but now i first seemed to realize that something worse than death might come; i might be crippled, and not killed. life, without all one's powers and limbs, was a thought that broke down my courage. i said to h., "you must get me out of this horrible place; i cannot stay; i know i shall be crippled." now the regret comes that i lost control, for h. is worried, and has lost his composure, because my coolness has broken down. _july st, ._--some months ago, thinking it might be useful, i obtained from the consul of my birthplace, by sending to another town, a passport for foreign parts. h. said if we went out to the lines we might be permitted to get through on that. so we packed the trunk, got a carriage, and on the th drove out there. general v. offered us seats in his tent. the rifle-bullets were whizzing so _zip, zip_ from the sharp-shooters on the federal lines that involuntarily i moved on my chair. he said, "don't be alarmed; you are out of range. they are firing at our mules yonder." his horse, tied by the tent door, was quivering all over, the most intense exhibition of fear i'd ever seen in an animal. general v. sent out a flag of truce to the federal headquarters, and while we waited wrote on a piece of silk paper a few words. then he said, "my wife is in tennessee. if you get through the lines, give her this. they will search you, so i will put it in this toothpick." he crammed the silk paper into a quill toothpick, and handed it to h. it was completely concealed. the flag-of-truce officer came back flushed and angry. "general grant says that no human being shall pass out of vicksburg; but the lady may feel sure danger will soon be over. vicksburg will surrender on the th." "is that so, general?" inquired h. "are arrangements for surrender made?" "we know nothing of the kind. vicksburg will not surrender." "those were general grant's exact words, sir," said the flag-officer. "of course it is nothing but their brag." we went back sadly enough, but to-day h. says he will cross the river to general porter's lines and try there; i shall not be disappointed. _july d, ._--h. was going to headquarters for the requisite pass, and he saw general pemberton crawling out of a cave, for the shelling has been as hot as ever. he got the pass, but did not act with his usual caution, for the boat he secured was a miserable, leaky one--a mere trough. leaving martha in charge, we went to the river, had our trunks put in the boat, and embarked; but the boat became utterly unmanageable, and began to fill with water rapidly. h. saw that we could not cross it and turned to come back; yet in spite of that the pickets at the battery fired on us. h. raised the white flag he had, yet they fired again, and i gave a cry of horror that none of these dreadful things had wrung from me. i thought h. was struck. when we landed h. showed the pass, and said that the officer had told him the battery would be notified we were to cross. the officer apologized and said they were not notified. he furnished a cart to get us home, and to-day we are down in the cellar again, shells flying as thick as ever. provisions are so nearly gone, except the hogshead of sugar, that a few more days will bring us to starvation indeed. martha says rats are hanging dressed in the market for sale with mule meat,--there is nothing else. the officer at the battery told me he had eaten one yesterday. we have tried to leave this tophet and failed, and if the siege continues i must summon that higher kind of courage--moral bravery--to subdue my fears of possible mutilation. xv. gibraltar falls. _july th, _.--it is evening. all is still. silence and night are once more united. i can sit at the table in the parlor and write. two candles are lighted. i would like a dozen. we have had wheat supper and wheat bread once more. h. is leaning back in the rocking-chair; he says: "g., it seems to me i can hear the silence, and feel it too. it wraps me like a soft garment; how else can i express this peace?" but i must write the history of the last twenty-four hours. about five yesterday afternoon, mr. j., h.'s assistant, who, having no wife to keep him in, dodges about at every change and brings us the news, came to h. and said: "mr. l., you must both come to our cave to-night. i hear that to-night the shelling is to surpass anything yet. an assault will be made in front and rear. you know we have a double cave; there is room for you in mine, and mother and sister will make a place for mrs. l. come right up; the ball will open about seven." we got ready, shut up the house, told martha to go to the church again if she preferred it to the cellar, and walked up to mr. j.'s. when supper was eaten, all secure, and the ladies in their cave night toilet, it was just six, and we crossed the street to the cave opposite. as i crossed a mighty shell flew screaming over my head. it was the last thrown into vicksburg. we lay on our pallets waiting for the expected roar, but no sound came except the chatter from the neighboring caves, and at last we dropped asleep. i woke at dawn stiff. a draught from the funnel-shaped opening had been blowing on me all night. every one was expressing surprise at the quiet. we started for home and met the editor of the "daily citizen." h. said: "this is strangely quiet, mr. l." "ah, sir," shaking his head gloomily, "i'm afraid the last shell has been thrown into vicksburg." "why do you fear so?" "it is surrender. at six last evening a man went down to the river and blew a truce signal; the shelling stopped at once." when i entered the kitchen a soldier was there waiting for the bowl of scrapings. (they took turns for it.) "good-morning, madam," he said; "we won't bother you much longer. we can't thank you enough for letting us come, for getting this soup boiled has helped some of us to keep alive, but now all this is over." "is it true about the surrender?" "yes; we have had no official notice, but they are paroling out at the lines now, and the men in vicksburg will never forgive pemberton. an old granny! a child would have known better than to shut men up in this cursed trap to starve to death like useless vermin." his eyes flashed with an insane fire as he spoke. "haven't i seen my friends carted out three or four in a box, that had died of starvation! nothing else, madam! starved to death because we had a fool for a general." "don't you think you're rather hard on pemberton? he thought it his duty to wait for johnston." "some people may excuse him, ma'am, but we'll curse him to our dying day. anyhow, you'll see the blue-coats directly." breakfast dispatched, we went on the upper gallery. the street was deserted, save by a few people carrying home bedding from their caves. among these was a group taking home a little creature, born in a cave a few days previous, and its wan-looking mother. about o'clock a man in blue came sauntering along, looking about curiously. then two followed him, then another. "h., do you think these can be the federal soldiers?" "why, yes; here come more up the street." soon a group appeared on the court-house hill, and the flag began slowly to rise to the top of the staff. as the breeze caught it, and it sprang out like a live thing exultant, h. drew a long breath of contentment. "now i feel once more at home in my own country." in an hour more a grand rush of people set in toward the river,--foremost among them the gentleman who took our cave; all were flying as if for life. "what can this mean, h.? are the populace turning out to greet the despised conquerors?" "oh," said h., springing up, "look! it is the boats coming around the bend." truly, it was a fine spectacle to see that fleet of transports sweep around the curve and anchor in the teeth of the batteries so lately vomiting fire. presently mr. j. passed and called: "aren't you coming, mr. l.? there's provisions on those boats: coffee and flour. 'first come, first served,' you know." "yes, i'll be there pretty soon," replied h. but now the new-comers began to swarm into our yard, asking h. if he had coin to sell for greenbacks. he had some, and a little bartering went on with the new greenbacks. h. went out to get provisions. when he returned a confederate officer came with him. h. went to the box of confederate money and took out four hundred dollars, and the officer took off his watch, a plain gold one, and laid it on the table, saying, "we have not been paid, and i must get home to my family." h. added a five-dollar greenback to the pile, and wished him a happy meeting. the townsfolk continued to dash through the streets with their arms full, canned goods predominating. towards five mr. j. passed again. "keep on the lookout," he said; "the army of occupation is coming along," and in a few minutes the head of the column appeared. what a contrast to the suffering creatures we had seen so long were these stalwart, well-fed men, so splendidly set up and accoutered! sleek horses, polished arms, bright plumes,--this was the pride and panoply of war. civilization, discipline, and order seemed to enter with the measured tramp of those marching columns; and the heart turned with throbs of added pity to the worn men in gray, who were being blindly dashed against this embodiment of modern power. and now this "silence that is golden" indeed is over all, and my limbs are unhurt, and i suppose if i were catholic, in my fervent gratitude, i would hie me with a rich offering to the shrine of "our lady of mercy." _july th, _.--i did not enjoy quiet long. first came martha, who announced her intention of going to search for her sons, as she was free now. i was hardly able to stand since the severe cold taken in the cave that night, but she would not wait a day. a colored woman came in wanting a place, and said she had asked her mistress for wages and her mistress had turned her out. i was in no condition to stand upon ceremony then, and engaged her at once, but hear to-day that i am thoroughly pulled to pieces in vicksburg circles; there is no more salvation for me. next came two federal officers and wanted rooms and board. to have some protection was a necessity; both armies were still in town, and for the past three days every confederate soldier i see has a cracker in his hand. there is hardly any water in town, no prospect of rain, and the soldiers have emptied one cistern in the yard already and begun on the other. the colonel put a guard at the gate to limit the water given. next came the owner of the house and said we must move; he wanted the house, but it was so big he'd just bring his family in; we could stay till we got one. they brought boarders with them too, and children. men are at work all over the house shoveling up the plaster before repairing. upstairs they are pouring it by bucketfuls through the windows. colonel d. brought work for h. to help with from headquarters. making out the paroles and copying them has taken so long they wanted help. i am surprised and mortified to find that two-thirds of all the men who have signed made their mark; they cannot write. i never thought there was so much ignorance in the south. one of the men at headquarters took a fancy to h. and presented him with a portfolio, that he said he had captured when the confederates evacuated their headquarters at jackson. it contained mostly family letters written in french, and a few official papers. among them was the following note, which i will copy here, and file away the original as a curiosity when the war is over. [illustration: handwriting] headquarters dept. of tenn. tupelo, aug , . capt.: the major-general commanding directs me to say that he submits it altogether to your own discretion whether you make the attempt to capture general grant or not. while the exploit would be very brilliant if successful, you must remember that failure might be disastrous to you and your men. the general commends your activity and energy and expects you to continue to show these qualities. i am, very respectfully, yr. obt. svt. _thomas l. snead, a.a.g._ capt. geo. l. baxter, commanding beaureguard scouts. i would like to know if he tried it and came to grief or abandoned the project. as letters can now get through to new orleans, i wrote there. _july th, _.--moved yesterday into a house i call "fair rosamond's bower" because it would take a clue of thread to go through it without getting lost. one room has five doors opening into the house, and no windows. the stairs are like ladders, and the colonel's contraband valet won't risk his neck taking down water, but pours it through the windows on people's heads. we shan't stay in it. men are at work closing up the caves; they had become hiding-places for trash. vicksburg is now like one vast hospital--every one is getting sick or is sick. my cook was taken to-day with bilious fever, and nothing but will keeps me up. _july d, _.--we moved again two days ago. _aug. _.--sitting in my easy chair to-day, looking out upon a grassy slope of the hill in the rear of this house, i have looked over this journal as if in a dream; for since the last date sickness and sorrow have been with me. i feel as if an angry wave had passed over me bearing away strength and treasure. for on one day there came to me from new orleans the news of mrs. b.'s death, a friend whom no tie of blood could have made nearer. the next day my beautiful boy ended his brief life of ten days and died in my arms. my own illness caused him to perish; the fatal cold in the cave was the last straw that broke down strength. the colonel's sweet wife has come, and i do not lack now for womanly companionship. she says that with such a pre-natal experience perhaps death was the best for him. i try to think so, and to be glad that h. has not been ill, though i see the effects. this book is exhausted, and i wonder whether there will be more adventures by flood and field to cause me to begin another. breeding minks in louisiana for their fur a profitable industry [illustration] by william andrÉ elfer for sale by the gessner co., canal st., new orleans, la. copyrighted by w. a. elfer press of j. g. hauser "the legal printer" - poydras st. new orleans preface this little volume is issued in illustration of the feasibility of breeding minks in louisiana for their fur. it is the result of experiments conducted by the author himself, and he feels that it should be of interest to many and of value to the few who are looking for fields for profitable investment. it is the author's aim to issue a more elaborate work on the same subject sometime during the early part of next year. w. a. e. [illustration: a louisiana mink. notice the small eyes, and the low, rounded ears, scarcely projecting beyond the adjacent fur.] for the following description of the american mink i am indebted to the encyclopædia britannica: "in size it much resembles the english polecat--the length of the head and body being usually from fifteen to eighteen inches; that of the tail to the end of the hair about nine inches. the female is considerably smaller than the male. the tail is bushy, but tapering at the end. the ears are small, low, rounded, and scarcely project beyond the adjacent fur. the pelage consists of a dense, soft, matted under-fur, mixed with long, stiff, lustrous hairs on all parts of the body and tail. the gloss is greatest on the upper parts; on the tail the bristly hairs predominate. northern specimens have the finest and most glistening pelage; in those from the southern regions there is less difference between the under- and over-fur, and the whole pelage is coarser and harsher. in color, different specimens present a considerable range of variation, but the animal is ordinarily of a rich, dark brown, scarcely or not paler below than on the general upper parts; but the back is usually the darkest, and the tail is nearly black. the under jaw, from the chin about as far back as the angle of the mouth, is generally white. in the european mink the upper lip is also white, but, as this occasionally occurs in american specimens, it fails as an absolutely distinguishing character. besides the white on the chin, there are often other irregular white patches on the under parts of the body. in very rare instances the tail is tipped with white. the fur, like that of most of the animals of the group to which it belongs, is an important article of commerce." the fur market has always been a good market. it has grown firmer and stronger from year to year, while the prices for furs have been advancing steadily and rapidly with the growing demand for furs in europe and america, and with the general increasing scarcity of all fur-bearing animals. mink fur advanced about fifty per cent. during the last two seasons, and there is every reason to believe that the mink fur in louisiana will advance to about six dollars within the coming three years. the minks caught in louisiana last season were sold at an average price of three dollars. [illustration: resting in a warm place. notice the long body and its shape.] [illustration: in a position to jump. notice the long tail.] fur-bearing animals are becoming scarce where they were once so plentiful, and, like the buffaloes that roamed this country in such great numbers, they will soon, many of them, become extinct if the present rate of trapping continues to obtain in america. already certain fur animals are almost trapped out and are rare. even the alligator, which was so plentiful a few years ago in the swamps of louisiana, is hardly sought after any more for its hide because of its scarcity. the laws enacted by the various state legislatures for the protection of fur-bearing animals, in fact, offer no protection; for most furs caught out of season have no market value, and for that reason are not caught. in louisiana a trapper has to procure a hunting license if he wishes to carry a gun while trapping, which license costs only one dollar and is good for one season only. such a low license, while it may bring a large revenue to the state, clearly has no element of protection in it. on the contrary, it is a truth that it stimulates both hunting and trapping, as there were more trappers in louisiana last season than before the law requiring this license came into effect. every trapper procures a hunting license whether he carries a gun or not, and most trappers believe the law requires them to have this license to trap. whatever is being done for the protection of fur-bearing animals in louisiana, the fact remains that they are fast disappearing. old and experienced trappers will tell you that minks were very difficult to trap last season as compared with the seasons of a few years ago, when they could be so easily trapped in dead-falls. raccoons, too, which were so numerous in the rear of old cornfields during the trapping seasons, have diminished at a surprising rate within the last three years. [illustration: a female of two years.] while laws are being adopted by different states for the regulation of trapping to protect fur-bearing animals, it is time for those who expect to make money with fur in the future to begin raising their own animals. the time is almost here when trapping will be unprofitable. fur animals will be too scarce to make anything at it. then people will have to build farms in which to breed minks for their fur, and mink farms will become common. minks are the most valuable fur-bearing animals in louisiana, being the most numerous, and they are also the easiest and most profitable to breed for their fur. breeding minks in louisiana for their fur can be made a very profitable industry. there is more to be made at it than raising horses, hogs or cattle. after a farm is once completed and stocked, all expense is about over if there is a large-enough pond in it to supply the minks with sufficient food. under the present condition of the fur market, each female will average a profit of forty dollars a year. a farm stocked for the first time during the winter with five hundred female minks should bring its owner the following winter approximately twenty thousand dollars. this is figured at three dollars a fur; but within three years the mink fur in louisiana should be selling for what the mink fur in the north sold last season. with this increase in the price of fur, a farm stocked with the same number should bring forty thousand dollars. [illustration: the fur during the summer is very poor, and not so dark as it is during the winter.] [illustration: an excited mink trying to climb.] minks require little room, and thousands can be raised each year on a farm of ten acres. the larger the farm, however, the better chances they will have to procure food for themselves, as birds will enter a large farm more freely than a small one. for this reason, in building a mink farm the first and most important requirement is a good location. a small island consisting of low land covered with trees and grasses, with the opposite shore at least three-quarters of a mile distant, would make an excellent farm, provided the surrounding water supplies an abundance of small fishes. such an island would, of course, preclude the necessity of using material for holding the minks in captivity. if a suitable island cannot be found, a good farm can be made with five or more acres of low swampy land having a natural growth of trees, grasses and underbrush, such as can be found in southern louisiana. but the piece of land selected for a farm must inclose a large pond, or several small ponds, containing a good quantity of small fishes, especially crayfish. the trees and grasses will attract birds, which, in addition to fish and rabbits, form a large part of food for the minks. feeding minks is pretty costly, and is hardly to be considered by one entering the business of breeding them for their fur. the walls surrounding a mink farm can be made either with bricks or with sheets of corrugated, galvanized iron. the latter material makes an excellent wall, and costs less than a brick wall. it should be used in sheets measuring twelve feet in length by about twenty-six inches in width. these sheets should be used in an upright position, and at least five feet should be underground and seven feet aboveground. they should be allowed to lap two inches, and the dirt should be firmly packed against them. two rows of wooden strips nailed on the outside of the wall, one about two feet above the ground, and the other along the top edge of the sheets, will greatly strengthen the wall and also prevent the wind from shaking it. [illustration: a young female mink walking along the walls of a small farm.] the following photograph shows a small pentagonal farm, the walls of which are made with sheets of corrugated, galvanized iron. each side measures sixteen feet in length, extending four feet underground and four feet aboveground. wire netting is used to cover the farm, not to prevent the minks from jumping over, although the walls are too low, but to prevent chickens, cats and buzzards from entering and eating the food put in for the minks. a wooden shed also covers a part of the small farm and serves to keep out some of the rain and heat, there being no shrubs or trees therein. there are two small troughs in the ground for holding water, and in the center of the farm there is a place for the minks to live during the day, which consists of boards laid five inches above the surface of the ground with about fourteen inches of dirt on top. under these boards it is dark during the day and always damp and cool. there are also several barrels in this farm filled with corn shucks and hay for the minks to enter during cold weather. the minks in this little farm are fed with the spleen of cattle, different meats, crayfish and other small fishes. the cost of this farm, or pen, which has been used for experimental purposes only, amounts to approximately forty-two dollars. it is large enough to raise two hundred minks if they are properly fed and cared for. [illustration: a small mink farm.] [illustration: part of interior of small farm, showing boards with dirt on top for the minks to live under during the day.] sometimes an island can be used for a farm even when it has opposite shores or islands within two hundred feet or less, provided the water surrounding it has an average depth of from four to six feet. in such a case, the walls inclosing the island should be built in the water at a distance of fifty or one hundred feet from its shores. sheets of metal should be used, as previously described, by placing them upright in the water and nailing them together with strips running along the outside. it is not essential that the lower wall should be in the ground or even touching it; posts can be driven in the ground to strengthen the wall, or to support it entirely. [illustration: a mink farm made out of an island. the water surrounding has a uniform depth of five feet.] in a small farm where minks are in close captivity and have to be fed, the old ones used for the purpose of stocking it will at first do considerable digging near the walls. they will dig into loose earth to a depth ranging from a few inches to three feet in their attempts to liberate themselves. but they will cease to dig after they have been in captivity for about four months. those born in a farm will not dig or try to get out. they will climb, however, to a height of fifteen feet on reclining trees or on bushes, and for this reason all trees, bushes and pieces of lumber should be removed from the inside of the walls before any minks are turned loose in a farm. they will ordinarily jump to a height of four feet. they can climb wooden walls as swiftly as a cat, or any wall made of soft material. [illustration: disturbed in her sleep. notice the bushy tail.] the following sketch shows the very best mink farm that can be made. it requires a rectangular piece of land of five or ten acres, running along and separated by a large bayou in the swamps of louisiana. covering this land there should be the necessary trees, shrubbery and grasses. the walls are built along the bayou about one hundred feet from the middle, and extend underground to a depth of six feet. the walls at the ends of the farm where they cross the bayou should be very carefully constructed. at these places where the walls cross the bayou should have a depth of at least twelve feet or more, so that the walls can be made to extend nine feet below the water surface for one-third the width of the stream and still have sufficient openings below the walls to permit the water to flow through freely. for example, if the bayou is fifty feet wide, fifteen feet of the wall crossing it can be elevated so that there will be a large-enough opening below for the water to flow. the remaining portion of the wall (that lying near the shore) should be driven in the ground for about one foot, as minks will not dig under water. a farm of five acres, similar to the one just described, would cost, completed, approximately eight hundred dollars. the minks in such a farm, owing to the continuous change of water in the bayou, would always have an abundance of food. the banks of the bayou would afford a natural breeding-place, as minks usually burrow in the banks of small streams or along canals and have their young near the water. if the water in the bayou falls, wire netting could be used over the opening at the ends below the walls. [illustration: a mink farm inclosing portion of a bayou, allowing the water to flow through.] [illustration: an angry mink.] "minks eat birds, small mammals and eggs. the principal food of minks comes from water, fish, frogs, crayfish."--_international encyclopædia._ the minks i have been experimenting with have persistently refused to eat frogs. i penned one up separately and attempted to feed her on frogs only, and i believe she would have starved rather than eat frogs. minks can be raised in any kind of pen or cage, and water is not essential to their happiness. they are easily tamed and like to be petted. habits of the mink in louisiana minks in louisiana have two litters a season, the number of young in each brood varying from four to eight. sometimes, however, but very rarely, there will be only two in a brood, and almost as infrequently, on the other hand, there will be three litters a season instead of two. captive animals breed more profusely than the wild, and will occasionally have three litters where they are in close captivity. they begin to breed when they are about one year old, and in captivity will raise an average of fourteen a year. normally, they live to be about nine years old, but they will live longer in captivity where they are well treated and given all the water and the different foods required by them. like all other industries, the business of breeding minks for their fur necessitates an outlay of capital. a farm cannot be built without money, and the cost of one sufficiently large to breed minks profitably ranges from five hundred to a thousand dollars. of course, a farm can be made any size and costing any amount of money; but large farms are not necessary, and it is much better to have several small farms of six or ten acres than one very large one. [illustration: a female mink resting with eyes open.] after a farm is completed it has to be stocked, and the task is no easy or inexpensive one. trappers will have to be employed to trap minks with no. steel traps, as these small traps do not injure them very much unless they are permitted to remain caught too long. those that have badly-broken bones should not be bought, as suffering will cause them to eat their leg off, in which case they will always die. the author intends to organize a company styled the "louisiana mink company," the objects and purposes of which shall be to build mink farms and to breed minks in this state for their fur. no matter what capital is involved, or expense incurred, in entering into the business of breeding minks for their fur, the returns will be so big that this will appear small in comparison. and those who are so fortunate as to start in the industry now will, when minks will have become so rare that trapping will be unprofitable, and the demand so great that the prices for mink fur will soar higher and higher--those persons, i say, of foresight, who had the good fortune to start in the business early, will reap each year the steady advances in the price of mink fur, and be able, in a word, to command the fur market of both europe and america. transcriber's notes all obvious typographical corrections were made. all original spelling and gramatic constructs were retained. some images were moved to rejoin split paragraphs. where the first letter in a paragraph was displayed in old english font, it was assumed that represented a new "section". the octoroon; or, life in louisiana. a play, in five acts by, dion boucicault, esq., author of "the coleen bawn," "west end," etc. printed, not published boston museum, . howard athenaeum, . george peyton, _mr. john wilson._ _l. f. rand._ salem scudder, _william warren._ _d. setchell._ mr. sunnyside, _r. f. mcclannin._ _w. h. curtis._ jacob mcclosky, _jos. wheelock._ _h. langdon._ wahnotee, _william whalley._ _e. l. davenport._ captain ratts, _g. f. ketchum._ _d. hanchett._ colonel pointdexter, _louis mestayer._ _w. s. lennox._ jules thibodeaux, _j. e. whiting._ _t. e. litton._ judge caillou, _sol. smith, jr._ _s. h. verney._ lafouche, _j. h. ring._ _j. h. browne._ jackson, _bartlett._ _blaisdell._ old pete, _f. hardenbergh._ _f. hardenburgh._ paul (a boy slave), _josie orton._ _miss o. marshall._ solon, _j. s. nolan._ _w.h. otis._ mrs. peyton, _miss emily mestayer._ _mrs. j. e. sylvester._ zoe, _kate reignolds._ _miss josie orton._ dora sunnyside, _annie clark._ _mrs. h. w. smith._ grace, _louise anderson._ _miss burbank._ minnie, _lizzie baker._ _miss ramsey._ dido, _mrs. e. thompson._ * * * * * costumes. george peyton.--light travelling suit. jacob mcclosky.--dark coat, light waistcoat, brown trousers. scudder.--light plantation suit. pete and negroes.--canvas trousers, shoes, striped calico shirts. sunnyside.--planter's nankeen suit, broad-brimmed straw hat. ratts.--(captain of a steamer.) black coat, waistcoat, and trousers. planters.--various characteristic suits. indian.--deer-skin trousers and body, blanket, moccasons, indian knot and feathers for the hair. mrs. peyton.--black silk dress. zoe.--white muslin dress. dora.--fashionable morning dress, hat and feather. female slaves.--striped skirts and calico jackets, some with kerchiefs round the head. the octoroon. act i. scene i.--_a view of the plantation terrebonne, in louisiana.--a branch of the mississippi is seen winding through the estate.--a low built, but extensive planter's dwelling, surrounded with a veranda, and raised a few feet from the ground, occupies the_ l. _side.--a table and chairs,_ r. c. grace _discovered sitting at breakfast-table with_ children. _enter_ solon, _from house,_ l. _solon._ yah! you bomn'ble fry--git out--a gen'leman can't pass for you. _grace._ [_seizing a fly whisk._] hee! ha--git out! [_drives_ children _away; in escaping they tumble against and trip up_ solon, _who falls with tray; the_ children _steal the bananas and rolls that fall about._] _enter_ pete, r. u. e. [_he is lame_]; _he carries a mop and pail._ _pete._ hey! laws a massey! why, clar out! drop dat banana! i'll murder this yer crowd, [_he chases children about; they leap over railing at back. exit_ solon, r. u. e.] dem little niggers is a judgment upon dis generation. _enter_ george, _from house,_ l. _george._ what's the matter, pete. _pete._ it's dem black trash, mas'r george; dis ere property wants claring; dem's getting too numerous round; when i gets time i'll kill some on 'em, sure! _george._ they don't seem to be scared by the threat. _pete._ top, you varmin! top till i get enough of you in one place! _george._ were they all born on this estate? _pete._ guess they nebber was born--dem tings! what, dem?--get away! born here--dem darkies? what, on terrebonne! don't b'lieve it, mas'r george; dem black tings never was born at all; dey swarmed one mornin' on a sassafras tree in the swamp; i cotched 'em; dey ain't no 'count. don't b'lieve dey'll turn out niggers when dey're growed; dey'll come out sunthin else. _grace._ yes, mas'r george, dey was born here; and old pete is fonder on 'em dan he is of his fiddle on a sunday. _pete._ what? dem tings--dem?--getaway [_makes blow at the_ children.] born here! dem darkies! what, on terrebonne? don't b'lieve it, mas'r george,--no. one morning dey swarmed on a sassafras tree in de swamp, and i cotched 'em all in a sieve.--dat's how dey come on top of dis yearth--git out, you,--ya, ya! [_laughs._] [_exit_ grace, r. u. e. _enter_ mrs. peyton, _from house._ _mrs. p._ so, pete, you are spoiling those children as usual! _pete._ dat's right, missus! gib it to ole pete! he's allers in for it. git away dere! ya! if dey aint all lighted, like coons, on dat snake fence, just out of shot. look dar! ya! ya! dem debils. ya! _mrs. p._ pete, do you hear? _pete._ git down dar!--i'm arter you! [_hobbles off,_ r. . e. _mrs. p._ you are out early this morning, george. _george._ i was up before daylight. we got the horses saddled, and galloped down the shell road over the piney patch; then coasting the bayou lake, we crossed the long swamps, by paul's path, and so came home again. _mrs. p._ [_laughing._] you seem already familiar with the names of every spot on the estate. _enter_ pete.--_arranges breakfast, &c._ _george._ just one month ago i quitted paris. i left that siren city as i would have left a beloved woman. _mrs. p._ no wonder! i dare say you left at least a dozen beloved women there, at the same time. _george._ i feel that i departed amid universal and sincere regret. i left my loves and my creditors equally inconsolable. _mrs. p._ george, you are incorrigible. ah! you remind me so much of your uncle, the judge. _george._ bless his dear old handwriting, it's all i ever saw of him. for ten years his letters came every quarter-day, with a remittance and a word of advice in his formal cavalier style; and then a joke in the postscript, that upset the dignity of the foregoing. aunt, when he died, two years ago, i read over those letters of his, and if i didn't cry like a baby-- _mrs. p._ no, george; say you wept like a man. and so you really kept those foolish letters? _george._ yes; i kept the letters, and squandered the money. _mrs. p._ [_embracing him._] ah! why were you not my son--you are so like my dear husband. _enter_ salem scudder, r. _scud._ ain't he! yes--when i saw him and miss zoe galloping through the green sugar crop, and doing ten dollars' worth of damage at every stride, says i, how like his old uncle he do make the dirt fly. _george._ o, aunt! what a bright, gay creature she is! _scud._ what, zoe! guess that you didn't leave anything female in europe that can lift an eyelash beside that gal. when she goes along, she just leaves a streak of love behind her. it's a good drink to see her come into the cotton fields--the niggers get fresh on the sight of her. if she ain't worth her weight in sunshine you may take one of my fingers off, and choose which you like. _mrs. p._ she need not keep us waiting breakfast, though. pete, tell miss zoe that we are waiting. _pete._ yes, missus. why, minnie, why don't you run when you hear, you lazy crittur? [minnie _runs off._] dat's de laziest nigger on dis yere property. [_sits down._] don't do nuffin. _mrs. p._ my dear george, you are left in your uncle's will heir to this estate. _george._ subject to your life interest and an annuity to zoe, is it not so? _mrs. p._ i fear that the property is so involved that the strictest economy will scarcely recover it. my dear husband never kept any accounts, and we scarcely know in what condition the estate really is. _scad._ yes, we do, ma'am; it's in a darned bad condition. ten years ago the judge took as overseer a bit of connecticut hardware called m'closky. the judge didn't understand accounts--the overseer did. for a year or two all went fine. the judge drew money like bourbon whiskey from a barrel, and never turned off the tap. but out it flew, free for everybody or anybody to beg, borrow, or steal. so it went, till one day the judge found the tap wouldn't run. he looked in to see what stopped it, and pulled out a big mortgage. "sign that," says the overseer; "it's only a formality." "all right," says the judge, and away went a thousand acres; so at the end of eight years, jacob m'closky, esquire, finds himself proprietor of the richest half of terrebonne-- _george._ but the other half is free. _scud._ no, it ain't; because, just then, what does the judge do, but hire another overseer--a yankee--a yankee named salem scudder. _mrs. p._ o, no, it was-- _scud._ hold on, now! i'm going to straighten this account clear out. what was this here scudder? well, he lived in new york by sittin' with his heels up in front of french's hotel, and inventin'-- _george._ inventing what? _scud._ improvements--anything, from a stay-lace to a fire-engine. well, he cut that for the photographing line. he and his apparatus arrived here, took the judge's likeness and his fancy, who made him overseer right off. well, sir, what does this scudder do but introduces his inventions and improvements on this estate. his new cotton gins broke down, the steam sugar-mills burst up, until he finished off with his folly what mr. m'closky with his knavery began. _mrs. p._ o, salem! how can you say so? haven't you worked like a horse? _scud._ no, ma'am, i worked like an ass--an honest one, and that's all. now, mr. george, between the two overseers, you and that good old lady have come to the ground; that is the state of things, just as near as i can fix it. [zoe _sings without,_ l.] _george._ 'tis zoe. _scud._ o, i have not spoiled that anyhow. i can't introduce any darned improvement there. ain't that a cure for old age; it kinder lifts the heart up, don't it? _mrs. p._ poor child! what will become of her when i am gone? if you haven't spoiled her, i fear i have. she has had the education of a lady. _george._ i have remarked that she is treated by the neighbors with a kind of familiar condescension that annoyed me. _scud._ don't you know that she is the natural daughter of the judge, your uncle, and that old lady thar just adored anything her husband cared for; and this girl, that another woman would a hated, she loves as if she'd been her own child. _george._ aunt, i am prouder and happier to be your nephew and heir to the ruins of terrebonne, than i would have been to have had half louisiana without you. _enter_ zoe, _from house,_ l. _zoe._ am i late? ah! mr. scudder, good morning. _scud._ thank'ye. i'm from fair to middlin', like a bamboo cane, much the same all the year round. _zoe._ no; like a sugar cane; so dry outside, one would never think there was so much sweetness within. _scud._ look here; i can't stand that gal! if i stop here, i shall hug her right off. [_sees_ pete, _who has set his pail down_ l. c. _up stage, and goes to sleep on it_.] if that old nigger ain't asleep, i'm blamed. hillo! [_kicks pail from under_ pete, _and lets him down._] [_exit,_ l. u. e. _pete._ hi! debbel's in de pail! whar's breakfass? _enter_ solon _and_ dido _with coffee-pot, dishes, &c.,_ r. u. e. _dido._ bless'ee, missey zoe, here it be. dere's a dish of pen-pans--jess taste, mas'r george--and here's fried bananas; smell 'em, do, sa glosh. _pete._ hole yer tongue, dido. whar's de coffee? [_pours out._] if it don't stain de cup, your wicked ole life's in danger, sure! dat right! black as nigger; clar as ice. you may drink dat, mas'r george. [_looks off._] yah! here's mas'r sunnyside, and missey dora, jist drov up. some of you niggers run and hole de hosses; and take dis, dido. [_gives her coffee-pot to hold, and hobbles off, followed by_ solon _and_ dido, r. u. e.] _enter_ sunnyside _and_ dora, r. u. e. _sunny._ good day, ma'am. [_shakes hands with_ george.] i see we are just in time for breakfast. [_sits,_ r.] _dora._ o, none for me; i never eat. [_sits,_ r. c.] _george._ [_aside._] they do not notice zoe.--[_aloud._] you don't see zoe, mr. sunnyside. _sunny._ ah! zoe, girl; are you there? _dora._ take my shawl, zoe. [zoe _helps her._] what a good creature she is. _sunny._ i dare say, now, that in europe you have never met any lady more beautiful in person, or more polished in manners, than that girl. _george._ you are right, sir; though i shrank from expressing that opinion in her presence, so bluntly. _sunny._ why so? _george._ it may be considered offensive. _sunny._ [_astonished._] what? i say, zoe, do you hear that? _dora._ mr. peyton is joking. _mrs. p._ [l. c.] my nephew is not acquainted with our customs in louisiana, but he will soon understand. _george._ never, aunt! i shall never understand how to wound the feelings of any lady; and, if that is the custom here, i shall never acquire it. _dora._ zoe, my dear, what does he mean? _zoe._ i don't know. _george._ excuse me, i'll light a cigar. [_goes up._] _dora._ [_aside to_ zoe.] isn't he sweet! o, dear zoe, is he in love with anybody? _zoe._ how can i tell? _dora._ ask him, i want to know; don't say i told you to inquire, but find out. minnie, fan me, it is so nice--and his clothes are french, ain't they? _zoe._ i think so; shall i ask him that too? _dora._ no, dear. i wish he would make love to me. when he speaks to one he does it so easy, so gentle; it isn't bar-room style; love lined with drinks, sighs tinged with tobacco--and they say all the women in paris were in love with him, which i feel _i_ shall be; stop fanning me; what nice boots he wears. _sunny._ [_to_ mrs. peyton.] yes, ma'am, i hold a mortgage over terrebonne; mine's a ninth, and pretty near covers all the property, except the slaves. i believe mr. m'closky has a bill of sale on them. o, here he is. _enter_ m'closky, r. u. e. _sunny._ good morning, mr. m'closky. _m'closky._ good morning, mr. sunnyside; miss dora, your servant. _dora._ [_seated,_ r. c.] fan me, minnie.--[_aside._] i don't like that man. _m'closky._ [_aside,_ c.] insolent as usual.--[_aloud._] you begged me to call this morning. i hope i'm not intruding. _mrs. p._ my nephew, mr. peyton. _m'closky._ o, how d'ye do, sir? [_offers hand,_ george _bows coldly,_ r. c.] [_aside._] a puppy, if he brings any of his european airs here we'll fix him.--[_aloud._] zoe, tell pete to give my mare a feed, will ye? _george._ [_angrily._] sir. _m'closky._ hillo! did i tread on ye? _mrs. p._ what is the matter with george? _zoe._ [_takes fan from_ minnie.] go, minnie, tell pete; run! [_exit_ minnie, r. _mrs. p._ grace, attend to mr. m'closky. _m'closky._ a julep, gal, that's my breakfast, and a bit of cheese, _george._ [_aside to_ mrs. peyton.] how can you ask that vulgar ruffian to your table? _mrs. p._ hospitality in europe is a courtesy; here, it is an obligation. we tender food to a stranger, not because he is a gentleman, but because he is hungry. _george._ aunt, i will take my rifle down to the atchafalaya. paul has promised me a bear and a deer or two. i see my little nimrod yonder, with his indian companion. excuse me ladies. ho! paul! [_enters house._] _paul._ [_outside._] i'ss, mas'r george. _enter_ paul, r. u. e., _with_ indian, _who goes up._ _sunny._ it's a shame to allow that young cub to run over the swamps and woods, hunting and fishing his life away instead of hoeing cane. _mrs. p._ the child was a favorite of the judge, who encouraged his gambols. i couldn't bear to see him put to work. _george._ [_returning with rifle._] come, paul, are you ready? _paul._ i'ss, mas'r george. o, golly! ain't that a pooty gun. _m'closky._ see here, you imps; if i catch you, and your red skin yonder, gunning in my swamps, i'll give you rats, mind; them vagabonds, when the game's about, shoot my pigs. [_exit_ george _into house._] _paul._ you gib me rattan, mas'r clostry, but i guess you take a berry long stick to wahnotee; ugh, he make bacon of you. _m'closky._ make bacon of me, you young whelp. do you mean that i'm a pig? hold on a bit. [_seizes whip, and holds_ paul.] _zoe._ o, sir! don't, pray, don't. _m'closky._ [_slowly lowering his whip,_] darn you, red skin, i'll pay you off some day, both of ye. [_returns to table and drinks._] _sunny._ that indian is a nuisance. why don't he return to his nation out west. _m'closky._ he's too fond of thieving and whiskey. _zoe._ no; wahnotee is a gentle, honest creature, and remains here because he loves that boy with the tenderness of a woman. when paul was taken down with the swamp fever the indian sat outside the hut, and neither ate, slept, or spoke for five days, till the child could recognize and call him to his bedside. he who can love so well is honest--don't speak ill of poor wahnotee. _mrs. p._ wahnotee, will you go back to your people. _wahnotee._ sleugh. _paul._ he don't understand; he speaks a mash-up of indian and mexican. wahnotee patira na sepau assa wigiran. _wahnotee._ weal omenee. _paul._ says he'll go if i'll go with him. he calls me omenee, the pigeon, and miss zoe is ninemoosha, the sweetheart. _wahnotee._ [_pointing to_ zoe.] ninemoosha. _zoe._ no, wahnotee, we can't spare paul. _paul._ if omenee remain, wahnotee will die in terrebonne. [_during the dialogue_ wahnotee _has taken_ george's _gun._] _enter_ george, l. _george._ now i'm ready. [george _tries to regain his gun;_ wahnotee _refuses to give it up;_ paul _quietly takes it from him and remonstrates with him._] _dora._ zoe, he's going; i want him to stay and make love to me that's what i came for to-day. _mrs. p._ george, i can't spare paul for an hour or two; he must run over to the landing; the steamer from new orleans passed up the river last night, and if there's a mail they have thrown it ashore. _sunny._ i saw the mail-bags lying in the shed this morning. _mrs. p._ i expect an important letter from liverpool; away with you, paul; bring the mail-bags here. _paul._ i'm 'most afraid to take wahnotee to the shed, there's rum there. _wahnotee._ rum! _paul._ come, then, but if i catch you drinkin', o, laws a mussey, you'll get snakes! i'll gib it you! now mind. [_exit with_ indian, r. u. e. _george._ come, miss dora, let me offer you my arm. _dora._ mr. george, i am afraid, if all we hear is true, you have led a dreadful life in europe. _george._ that's a challenge to begin a description of my feminine adventures. _dora._ you have been in love, then? _george._ two hundred and forty-nine times! let me relate you the worst cases. _dora._ no! no! _george._ i'll put the naughty parts in french. _dora._ i won't hear a word! o, you horrible man! go on. [_exit_ george _and_ dora _to house._ _m'closky._ now, ma'am, i'd like a little business, if agreeable. i bring you news; your banker, old lafouche, of new orleans, is dead; the executors are winding up his affairs, and have foreclosed on all overdue mortgages, so terrebonne is for sale. here's the picayune [_producing paper_] with the advertisement. _zoe._ terrebonne for sale! _mrs. p._ terrebonne for sale, and you, sir, will doubtless become its purchaser. _m'closky._ well, ma'am, i spose there's no law agin my bidding for it. the more bidders, the better for you. you'll take care, i guess, it don't go too cheap. _mrs. p._ o, sir, i don't value the place for its price, but for the many happy days i've spent here; that landscape, flat and uninteresting though it may be, is full of charm for me; those poor people, born around me, growing up about my heart, have bounded my view of life; and now to lose that homely scene, lose their black, ungainly faces; o, sir, perhaps you should be as old as i am, to feel as i do, when my past life is torn away from me. _m'closky._ i'd be darned glad if somebody would tear my past life away from me. sorry i can't help you, but the fact is, you're in such an all-fired mess that you couldn't be pulled out without a derrick. _mrs. p._ yes, there is a hope left yet, and i cling to it. the house of mason brothers, of liverpool, failed some twenty years ago in my husband's debt. _m'closky._ they owed him over fifty thousand dollars. _mrs. p._ i cannot find the entry in my husband's accounts; but you, mr. m'closky, can doubtless detect it. zoe, bring here the judge's old desk; it is in the library. [_exit_ zoe _to house_. _m'closky._ you don't expect to recover any of this old debt, do you? _mrs. p._ yes; the firm has recovered itself, and i received a notice two months ago that some settlement might be anticipated. _sunny._ why, with principal and interest this debt has been more than doubled in twenty years. _mrs. p._ but it may be years yet before it will be paid off, if ever. _sunny._ if there's a chance of it, there's not a planter round here who wouldn't lend you the whole cash, to keep your name and blood amongst us. come, cheer up, old friend. _mrs. p._ ah! sunnyside, how good you are; so like my poor peyton. [_exit_ mrs. peyton _and_ sunnyside _to house._ _m'closky._ curse their old families--they cut me--a bilious, conceited, thin lot of dried up aristocracy. i hate 'em. just because my grandfather wasn't some broken-down virginia transplant, or a stingy old creole, i ain't fit to sit down with the same meat with them. it makes my blood so hot i feel my heart hiss. i'll sweep these peytons from this section of the country. their presence keeps alive the reproach against me that i ruined them; yet, if this money should come. bah! there's no chance of it. then, if they go, they'll take zoe--she'll follow them. darn that girl; she makes me quiver when i think of her; she's took me for all i'm worth. _enter_ zoe _from house,_ l., _with the desk._ o, here, do you know what annuity the old judge left you is worth to-day? not a picayune. _zoe._ it's surely worth the love that dictated it; here are the papers and accounts. [_putting it on the table,_ r. c.] _m'closky._ stop, zoe; come here! how would you like to rule the house of the richest planter on atchafalaya--eh? or say the word, and i'll buy this old barrack, and you shall be mistress of terrebonne. _zoe._ o, sir, do not speak so to me! _m'closky._ why not! look here, these peytons are bust; cut 'em; i am rich, jine me; i'll set you up grand, and we'll give these first families here our dust, until you'll see their white skins shrivel up with hate and rage; what d'ye say? _zoe._ let me pass! o, pray, let me go! _m'closky._ what, you won't, won't ye? if young george peyton was to make you the same offer, you'd jump at it, pretty darned quick, i guess. come, zoe, don't be a fool; i'd marry you if i could, but you know i can't; so just say what you want. here then, i'll put back these peytons in terrebonne, and they shall know you done it; yes, they'll have you to thank for saving them from ruin. _zoe._ do you think they would live here on such terms? _m'closky,_ why not? we'll hire out our slaves, and live on their wages. _zoe._ but i'm not a slave. _m'closky._ no; if you were i'd buy you, if you cost all i'm worth. _zoe._ let me pass! _m'closky._ stop. _enter_ scudder, r. _scud._ let her pass. _m'closky._ eh? _scud._ let her pass! [_takes out his knife._] [_exit_ zoe _to house._ _m'closky._ is that you, mr. overseer? [_examines paper._] _scud._ yes, i'm here, somewhere, interferin'. _m'closky._ [_sitting,_ r. c.] a pretty mess you've got this estate in-- _scud._ yes--me and co.--we done it; but, as you were senior partner in the concern, i reckon you got the big lick. _m'closky._ what d'ye mean. _scud._ let me proceed by illustration. [_sits,_ r.] look thar! [_points with knife off,_ r.] d'ye see that tree?--it's called a live oak, and is a native here; beside it grows a creeper; year after year that creeper twines its long arms round and round the tree--sucking the earth dry all about its roots--living on its life--overrunning its branches, until at last the live oak withers and dies out. do you know what the niggers round here call that sight? they call it the yankee hugging the creole. [_sits._] _m'closky._ mr. scudder, i've listened to a great many of your insinuations, and now i'd like to come to an understanding what they mean. if you want a quarrel-- _scudder._ no, i'm the skurriest crittur at a fight you ever see; my legs have been too well brought up to stand and see my body abused; i take good care of myself, i can tell you. _m'closky._ because i heard that you had traduced my character. _scud._ traduced! whoever said so lied. i always said you were the darndest thief that ever escaped a white jail to misrepresent the north to the south. _m'closky._ [_raises hand to back of his neck._] what! _scud._ take your hand down--take it down. [m'closky _lowers his hand._] whenever i gets into company like yours, i always start with the advantage on my side. _m'closky._ what d'ye mean? _scud._ i mean that before you could draw that bowie-knife, you wear down your back, i'd cut you into shingles. keep quiet, and let's talk sense. you wanted to come to an understanding, and i'm coming thar as quick as i can. now, jacob m'closky, you despise me because you think i'm a fool; i despise you because i know you to be a knave. between us we've ruined these peytons; you fired the judge, and i finished off the widow. now, i feel bad about my share in the business. i'd give half the balance of my life to wipe out my part of the work. many a night i've laid awake and thought how to pull them through, till i've cried like a child over the sum i couldn't do; and you know how darned hard 'tis to make a yankee cry. _m'closky._ well, what's that to me? _scud._ hold on, jacob, i'm coming to that--i tell ye, i'm such a fool--i can't bear the feeling, it keeps at me like a skin complaint, and if this family is sold up-- _m'closky._ what then? _scud._ [_rising._] i'd cut my throat--or yours--yours i'd prefer. _m'closky._ would you now? why don't you do it? _scud._ 'cos i's skeered to try! i never killed a man in my life--and civilization is so strong in me i guess i couldn't do it--i'd like to, though! _m'closky._ and all for the sake of that old woman and that young puppy--eh? no other cause to hate--to envy me--to be jealous of me--eh? _scud._ jealous! what for? _m'closky._ ask the color in your face; d'ye think i can't read you, like a book? with your new england hypocrisy, you would persuade yourself it was this family alone you cared for; it ain't--you know it ain't--'tis the "octoroon;" and you love her as i do; and you hate me because i'm your rival--that's where the tears come from, salem scudder, if you ever shed any--that's where the shoe pinches. _scud._ wal, i do like the gal; she's a-- _m'closky._ she's in love with young peyton; it made me curse, whar it made you cry, as it does now; i see the tears on your cheeks now. _scud._ look at 'em, jacob, for they are honest water from the well of truth. i ain't ashamed of it--i do love the gal; but i ain't jealous of you, because i believe the only sincere feeling about you is your love for zoe, and it does your heart good to have her image thar; but i believe you put it thar to spile. by fair means i don't think you can get her, and don't you try foul with her, 'cause if you do, jacob, civilization be darned. i'm on you like a painter, and when i'm drawed out i'm pizin. [_exit_ scudder _to house,_ l. _m'closky._ fair or foul, i'll have her--take that home with you! [_opens desk._] what's here--judgments? yes, plenty of 'em; bill of costs; account with citizens' bank--what's this? "judgment, , , 'thibodeaux against peyton,'"--surely, that is the judgment under which this estate is now advertised for sale--[_takes up paper and examines it_]; yes, "thibodeaux against peyton, ." hold on! whew! this is worth taking to--in this desk the judge used to keep one paper i want--this should be it. [_reads._] "the free papers of my daughter, zoe, registered february th, ." why, judge, wasn't you lawyer enough to know that while a judgment stood against you it was a lien on your slaves? zoe is your child by a quadroon slave, and you didn't free her; blood! if this is so, she's mine! this old liverpool debt--that may cross me--if it only arrive too late--if it don't come by this mail--hold on! this letter the old lady expects--that's it; let me only head off that letter, and terrebonne will be sold before they can recover it. that boy and the indian have gone down to the landing for the post-bags; they'll idle on the way as usual; my mare will take me across the swamp, and before they can reach the shed, i'll have purified them bags--ne'er a letter shall show this mail. ha, ha!--[_calls._] pete, you old turkey-buzzard, saddle my mare. then, if i sink every dollar i'm worth in her purchase, i'll own that octoroon. [_stands with his hand extended towards the house, and tableau._] end of the first act. act ii. _the wharf--goods, boxes, and bales scattered about--a camera on stand,_ r. scudder, r., dora, l., george _and_ paul _discovered;_ dora _being photographed by_ scudder, _who is arranging photographic apparatus,_ george _and_ paul _looking on at back._ _scud._ just turn your face a leetle this way--fix your--let's see--look here. _dora._ so? _scud._ that's right. [_puts his head under the darkening apron._] it's such a long time since i did this sort of thing, and this old machine has got so dirty and stiff, i'm afraid it won't operate. that's about right. now don't stir. _paul._ ugh! she look as though she war gwine to have a tooth drawed!_ _scud._ i've got four plates ready, in case we miss the first shot. one of them is prepared with a self-developing liquid that i've invented. i hope it will turn out better than most of my notions. now fix yourself. are you ready? _dora._ ready! _scud._ fire!--one, two, three. [scudder _takes out watch._] _paul._ now it's cooking, laws mussey, i feel it all inside, as if it was at a lottery. _scud._ so! [_throws down apron._] that's enough. [_with-draws slide, turns and sees_ paul.] what! what are you doing there, you young varmint! ain't you took them bags to the house yet? _paul._ now, it ain't no use trying to get mad, mas'r scudder. i'm gwine! i only come back to find wahnotee; whar is dat ign'ant ingiun? _scud._ you'll find him scenting round the rum store, hitched up by the nose. [_exit into room,_ r. _paul._ [_calling at door._] say, mas'r scudder, take me in dat telescope? _scud._ [_inside room._] get out, you cub! clar out! _paul._ you got four of dem dishes ready. gosh, wouldn't i like to hab myself took! what's de charge, mas'r scudder? [_runs off, r. u. e. _enter_ scudder, _from room,_ r. _scud._ job had none of them critters on his plantation, else he'd never ha' stood through so many chapters. well, that has come out clear, ain't it? [_shows plate._] _dora._ o, beautiful! look, mr. peyton. _george._ [_looking._] yes, very fine! _scud._ the apparatus can't mistake. when i travelled round with this machine, the homely folks used to sing out, "hillo, mister, this ain't like me!" "ma'am," says i, "the apparatus can't mistake." "but, mister, that ain't my nose." "ma'am, your nose drawed it. the machine can't err--you may mistake your phiz but the apparatus don't." "but, sir, it ain't agreeable." "no, ma'am, the truth seldom is." _enter_ pete, l. u. e., _puffing._ _pete._ mas'r scudder! mas'r scudder! _scud._ hillo! what are you blowing about like a steamboat with one wheel for? _pete._ you blow, mas'r scudder, when i tole you; dere's a man from noo aleens just arriv' at de house, and he's stuck up two papers on de gates; "for sale--dis yer property," and a heap of oder tings--and he seen missus, and arter he shown some papers she burst out crying--i yelled; den de corious of little niggers dey set up, den de hull plantation children--de live stock reared up and created a purpiration of lamentation as did de ole heart good to har. _dora._ what's the matter? _scud._ he's come. _pete._ dass it--i saw'm! _scud._ the sheriff from new orleans has taken possession--terrebonne is in the hands of the law. _enter_ zoe, l. u. e. _zoe._ o, mr. scudder! dora! mr. peyton! come home--there are strangers in the house. _dora._ stay, mr. peyton; zoe, a word! [_leads her forward--aside._] zoe, the more i see of george peyton the better i like him; but he is too modest--that is a very impertinent virtue in a man. _zoe._ i'm no judge, dear. _dora._ of course not, you little fool; no one ever made love to you, and you can't understand; i mean, that george knows i am an heiress; my fortune would release this estate from debt. _zoe._ o, i see! _dora._ if he would only propose to marry me i would accept him, but he don't know that, and he will go on fooling, in his slow european way, until it is too late. _zoe._ what's to be done? _dora._ you tell him. _zoe._ what? that he isn't to go on fooling in his slow-- _dora._ no, you goose! twit him on his silence and abstraction--i'm sure it's plain enough, for he has not spoken two words to me all the day; then joke round the subject, and at last speak out. _scud._ pete, as you came here, did you pass paul and the indian with the letter-bags? _pete._ no, sar; but dem vagabonds neber take de 'specable straight road, dey goes by de swamp. [_exit up path,_ l. u. e. _scud._ come, sir! _dora._ [_to_ zoe.] now's your time.--[_aloud._] mr. scudder, take us with you--mr. peyton is so slow, there's no getting him, on. [_exit_ dora _and_ scudder, l. u. e. _zoe._ they are gone!--[_glancing at_ george.] poor fellow, he has lost all. _george._ poor child! how sad she looks now she has no resource. _zoe._ how shall i ask him to stay? _george._ zoe, will you remain here? i wish to speak to you. _zoe._ [_aside._] well, that saves trouble. _george._ by our ruin, you lose all. _zoe._ o, i'm nothing; think of yourself. _george._ i can think of nothing but the image that remains face to face with me; so beautiful, so simple, so confiding, that i dare not express the feelings that have grown up so rapidly in my heart. _zoe._ [_aside._] he means dora. _george._ if i dared to speak! _zoe._ that's just what you must do, and do it at once, or it will be too late. _george._ has my love been divined? _zoe._ it has been more than suspected. _george._ zoe, listen to me, then. i shall see this estate pass from me without a sigh, for it possesses no charm for me; the wealth i covet is the love of those around me--eyes that are rich in fond looks, lips that breathe endearing words; the only estate i value is the heart of one true woman, and the slaves i'd have are her thoughts. _zoe._ george, george, your words take away my breath! _george._ the world, zoe, the free struggle of minds and hands, if before me; the education bestowed on me by my dear uncle is a noble heritage which no sheriff can seize; with that i can build up a fortune, spread a roof over the heads i love, and place before them the food i have earned; i will work-- _zoe._ work! i thought none but colored people worked. _george._ work, zoe, is the salt that gives savor to life. _zoe._ dora said you were slow; if she could hear you now-- _george._ zoe, you are young; your mirror must have told you that you are beautiful. is your heart free? _zoe._ free? of course it is! _george._ we have known each other but a few days, but to me those days have been worth all the rest of my life. zoe, you have suspected the feeling that now commands an utterance--you have seen that i love you. _zoe._ me! you love me? _george._ as my wife,--the sharer of my hopes, my ambitions, and my sorrows; under the shelter of your love i could watch the storms of fortune pass unheeded by. _zoe._ my love! my love? george, you know not what you say. i the sharer of your sorrows--your wife. do you know what i am? _george._ your birth--i know it. has not my dear aunt forgotten it--she who had the most right to remember it? you are illegitimate, but love knows no prejudice. _zoe._ [_aside._] alas! he does not know, he does not know! and will despise me, spurn me, loathe me, when he learns who, what, he has so loved.--[_aloud._] george, o, forgive me! yes, i love you--i did not know it until your words showed me what has been in my heart; each of them awoke a new sense, and now i know how unhappy--how very unhappy i am. _george._ zoe, what have i said to wound you? _zoe._ nothing; but you must learn what i thought you already knew. george, you cannot marry me; the laws forbid it! _george._ forbid it? _zoe._ there is a gulf between us, as wide as your love, as deep as my despair; but, o, tell me, say you will pity me! that you will not throw me from you like a poisoned thing! _george._ zoe, explain yourself--your language fills me with shapeless fears. _zoe._ and what shall i say? i--my mother was--no, no--not her! why should i refer the blame to her? george, do you see that hand you hold? look at these fingers; do you see the nails are of a bluish tinge? _george._ yes, near the quick there is a faint blue mark. _zoe._ look in my eyes; is not the same color in the white? _george._ it is their beauty. _zoe._ could you see the roots of my hair you would see the same dark, fatal mark. do you know what that is? _george._ no. _zoe._ that is the ineffaceable curse of cain. of the blood that feeds my heart, one drop in eight is black--bright red as the rest may be, that one drop poisons all the flood; those seven bright drops give me love like yours--hope like yours--ambition like yours--life hung with passions like dew-drops on the morning flowers; but the one black drop gives me despair, for i'm an unclean thing--forbidden by the laws--i'm an octoroon! _george._ zoe, i love you none the less; this knowledge brings no revolt to my heart, and i can overcome the obstacle. _zoe._ but i cannot. _george._ we can leave this country, and go far away where none can know. _zoe._ and our mother, she who from infancy treated me with such fondness, she who, as you said, had most reason to spurn me, can she forget what i am? will she gladly see you wedded to the child of her husband's slave? no! she would revolt from it, as all but you would; and if i consented to hear the cries of my heart, if i did not crush out my infant love, what would she say to the poor girl on whom she had bestowed so much? no, no! _george._ zoe, must we immolate our lives on her prejudice? _zoe._ yes, for i'd rather be black than ungrateful! ah, george, our race has at least one virtue--it knows how to suffer! _george._ each word you utter makes my love sink deeper into my heart. _zoe._ and i remained here to induce you to offer that heart to dora! _george._ if you bid me do so i will obey you-- _zoe._ no, no! if you cannot be mine, o, let me not blush when i think of you. _george._ dearest zoe! [_exit_ george _and_ zoe, l. u. e. _as they exit,_ m'closky _rises from behind rock,_ r., _and looks after them._ _m'olosky._ she loves him! i felt it--and how she can love! [_advances._] that one black drop of blood burns in her veins and lights up her heart like a foggy sun. o, how i lapped up her words, like a thirsty bloodhound! i'll have her, if it costs me my life! yonder the boy still lurks with those mail-bags; the devil still keeps him here to tempt me, darn his yellow skin. i arrived just too late, he had grabbed the prize as i came up. hillo! he's coming this way, fighting with his injiun. [_conceals himself._] _enter_ paul, _wrestling with_ wahnotee, r. . e. _paul._ it ain't no use now; you got to gib it up! _wahno._ ugh! _paul._ it won't do! you got dat bottle of rum hid under your blanket--gib it up now, you--yar! [_wrenches it from him._] you nasty, lying injiun! it's no use you putting on airs; i ain't gwine to sit up wid you all night and you drunk. hillo! war's de crowd gone? and dar's de 'paratus--o, gosh, if i could take a likeness ob dis child! uh--uh, let's have a peep. [_looks through camera_] o, golly! yar, you wahnotee! you stan' dar, i see you ta demine usti. [_goes_ r., _and looks at_ wahnotee, l., _through the camera;_ wahnotee _springs back with an expression of alarm._] _wahno._ no tue wahnotee. _paul._ ha, ha! he tinks it's a gun. you ign'ant injiun, it can't hurt you! stop, here's dem dishes--plates--dat's what he call 'em, all fix; i see mas'r scudder do it often--tink i can take likeness--stay dere, wahnotee. _wahno._ no, carabine tue. _paul._ i must operate and take my own likeness too--how debbel i do dat? can't be ober dar an' here too--i ain't twins. ugh' ach! 'top; you look, you wahnotee; you see dis rag, eh? well when i say go, den lift dis rag like dis, see! den run to dat pine tree up dar [_points,_ l. u. e.] and back agin, and den pull down de rag so, d'ye see? _wahno._ hugh! _paul._ den you hab glass ob rum. _wahno._ rum! _paul._ dat wakes him up. coute wahnotee in omenee dit go wahnotee, poina la fa, comb a pine tree, la revieut sala, la fa. _wahno._ fire-water! _paul._ yes, den a glass ob fire-water; now den. [_throws mail bags down and sits on them,_ l. c.] pret, now den go. [wahnotee _raises apron and runs off,_ l. u. e. paul _sits for his picture_--m'closky _appears from_ r. u. e.] _m'closky._ where are they? ah. yonder goes the indian! _paul._ de time he gone just 'bout enough to cook dat dish plate. _m'closky._ yonder is the boy--now is my time! what's he doing; is he asleep? [_advances._] he is sitting on on my prize! darn his carcass! i'll clear him off there--he'll never know what stunned him. [_takes indian's tomahawk and steals to_ paul.] _paul._ dam dat injiun! is dat him creeping dar? i daren't move fear to spile myself. [m'closky _strikes him on the head--he falls dead._] _m'closky._ hooraw! the bags are mine--now for it!--[_opens mail-bags._] what's here? sunnyside, pointdexter, jackson, peyton; here it is--the liverpool post-mark, sure enough!--[_opens letter--reads._] "madam, we are instructed by the firm of mason and co., to inform you that a dividend of forty per cent, is payable on the st proximo, this amount in consideration of position, they send herewith, and you will find enclosed by draft to your order, on the bank of louisiana, which please acknowledge--the balance will be paid in full, with interest, in three, six, and nine months--your drafts on mason brothers at those dates will be accepted by la palisse and compagnie, n. o., so that you may command immediate use of the whole amount at once, if required. yours, &c, james brown." what a find! this infernal letter would have saved all. [_during the reading of letter he remains nearly motionless under the focus of the camera._] but now i guess it will arrive too late--these darned u. s. mails are to blame. the injiun! he must not see me. [_exit rapidly,_ l. [wahnotee _runs on, pulls down apron--sees_ paul, _lying on ground-- speaks to him--thinks he's shamming sleep--gesticulates and jabbers-- goes to him--moves him with feet, then kneels down to rouse him--to his horror finds him dead--expresses great grief--raises his eyes-- they fall upon the camera--rises with savage growl, seizes tomahawk and smashes camera to pieces, then goes to paul--expresses grief, sorrow, and fondness, and takes him in his arms to carry him away.-- tableau._] end of the second act. act iii. _a room in mrs. peyton's house; entrances,_ r. u. e. _and_ l. u. e.--_an auction bill stuck up,_ l.--_chairs,_ c., _and tables,_ r. _and_ l. solon _and_ grace _discovered._ _pete._ [_outside,_ r. u. e.] dis way--dis way. _enter_ pete, pointdexter, jackson, lafouche, _and_ caillou, r. u. e. _pete._ dis way, gen'l'men; now solon--grace--dey's hot and tirsty--sangaree, brandy, rum. _jackson._ well, what d'ye say, lafouche--d'ye smile? _enter_ thibodeaux _and_ sunnyside, r. u. e. _thibo._ i hope we don't intrude on the family. _pete._ you see dat hole in dar, sar. [r. u. e.] i was raised on dis yar plantation--neber see no door in it--always open, sar, for stranger to walk in. _sunny._ and for substance to walk out. _enter_ ratts, r. u. e. _ratts._ fine southern style that, eh! _lafouche._ [_reading bill._] "a fine, well-built old family mansion, replete with every comfort." _ratts._ there's one name on the list of slaves scratched, i see. _lafouche._ yes; no. , paul, a quadroon boy, aged thirteen. _sunny._ he's missing. _point._ run away, i suppose. _pete._ [_indignantly._] no, sar; nigger nebber cut stick on terrebonne; dat boy's dead, sure. _ratts._ what, picayune paul, as we called, him, that used to come aboard my boat?--poor little darkey, i hope not; many a picayune he picked up for his dance and nigger-songs, and he supplied our table with fish and game from the bayous. _pete._ nebber supply no more, sar--nebber dance again. mas'r ratts, you hard him sing about de place where de good niggers go, de last time. _ratts._ well! _pete._ well, he gone dar hisself; why, i tink so--'cause we missed paul for some days, but nebber tout nothin' till one night dat injiun wahnotee suddenly stood right dar 'mongst us--was in his war paint, and mighty cold and grave--he sit down by de fire. "whar's paul?" i say--he smoke and smoke, but nebber look out ob de fire; well knowing dem critters, i wait a long time--den he say, "wahnotee, great chief;" den i say nothing--smoke anoder time--last, rising to go, he turn round at door, and say berry low--o, like a woman's voice, he say, "omenee pangeuk,"--dat is, paul is dead--nebber see him since. _ratts._ that red-skin killed him. _sunny._ so we believe; and so mad are the folks around, if they catch the red-skin they'll lynch him sure. _ratts._ lynch him! darn his copper carcass, i've got a set of irish deck-hands aboard that just loved that child; and after i tell them this, let them get a sight of the red-skin, i believe they would eat him, tomahawk and all. poor little paul! _thibo._ what was he worth? _ratts._ well, near on five hundred dollars. _pete._ [_scandalized._] what, sar! you p'tend to be sorry for paul, and prize him like dat. five hundred dollars!--[_to_ thibodeaux.] tousand dollars, massa thibodeaux. _enter_ scudder, l. u. e. _scud._ gentlemen, the sale takes place at three. good morning, colonel. it's near that now, and there's still the sugar-houses to be inspected. good day, mr. thibodeaux--shall we drive down that way? mr. lafouche, why, how do you do, sir? you're looking well. _lafouche._ sorry i can't return the compliment. _ratts._ salem's looking a kinder hollowed out. _scud._ what, mr. ratts, are you going to invest in swamps? _ratts._ no; i want a nigger. _scud._ hush. _pete._ [r.] eh! wass dat? _scud._ mr. sunnyside, i can't do this job of showin' round the folks; my stomach goes agin it. i want pete here a minute. _sunny._ i'll accompany them certainly. _scud._ [_eagerly._] will ye? thank ye; thank ye. _sunny._ we must excuse scudder, friends. i'll see you round the estate. _enter_ george _and_ mrs. peyton, l. u. e. _lafouche._ good morning, mrs. peyton. [_all salute._] _sunny._ this way, gentlemen. _ratts._ [_aside to_ sunnyside.] i say, i'd like to say summit soft to the old woman; perhaps it wouldn't go well, would it? _thibo._ no; leave it alone. _ratts._ darn it, when i see a woman in trouble, i feel like selling the skin off my back. [_exit_ thibodeaux, sunnyside, ratts, pointdexter, grace, jackson, lafouche, caillou, solon, r. u. e. _scud._ [_aside to_ pete.] go outside, there; listen to what you hear, then go down to the quarters and tell the boys, for i can't do it. o, get out. _pete._ he said i want a nigger. laws, mussey! what am goin' to cum ob us! [_exit slowly, as if concealing himself,_ r. u. e. _george._ [c.] my dear aunt, why do you not move from this painful scene? go with dora to sunnyside. _mrs. p._ [r.] no, george; your uncle said to me with his dying breath, "nellie, never leave terrebonne," and i never will leave it, till the law compels me. _scud._ [l.] mr. george, i'm going to say somethin' that has been chokin' me for some time. i know you'll excuse it. thar's miss dora--that girl's in love with you; yes, sir, her eyes are startin' out of her head with it; now her fortune would redeem a good part of this estate. _mrs. p._ why, george, i never suspected this! _george._ i did, aunt, i confess, but-- _mrs. p._ and you hesitated from motives of delicacy? _scud._ no, ma'am; here's the plan of it. mr. george is in love with zoe. _george._ scudder! _mrs. p._ george! _scud._ hold on now! things have got so jammed in on top of us, we ain't got time to put kid gloves on to handle them. he loves zoe, and has found out that she loves him. [_sighing._] well, that's all right; but as he can't marry her, and as miss dora would jump at him-- _mrs. p._ why didn't you mention this before? _scud._ why, because i love zoe, too, and i couldn't take that young feller from her; and she's jist living on the sight of him, as i saw her do; and they so happy in spite of this yer misery around them, and they reproachin' themselves with not feeling as they ought. i've seen it, i tell you; and darn it, ma'am, can't you see that's what's been a hollowing me out so--i beg your pardon. _mrs. p._ o, george,--my son, let me call you,--i do not speak for my own sake, nor for the loss of the estate, but for the poor people here; they will be sold, divided, and taken away--they have been born here. heaven has denied me children; so all the strings of my heart have grown around and amongst them, like the fibres and roots of an old tree in its native earth. o, let all go, but save them! with them around us, if we have not wealth, we shall at least have the home that they alone can make-- _george._ my dear mother--mr. scudder--you teach me what i ought to do; if miss sunnyside will accept me as i am, terrebonne shall be saved; i will sell myself, but the slaves shall be protected. _mrs. p._ _sell_ yourself, george! is not dora worth any man's-- _scud._ don't say that, ma'am; don't say that to a man that loves another gal. he's going to do an heroic act; don't spile it. _mrs. p._ but zoe is only an octoroon. _scud._ she's won this race agin the white, anyhow; it's too late now to start her pedigree. _enter_ dora, l. u. e. _scud._ [seeing dora.] come, mrs. peyton, take my arm. hush! here's the other one; she's a little too thoroughbred--too much of the greyhound; but the heart's there, i believe. [_exit_ scudder _and_ mrs. peyton, r. u. e. _dora._ poor mrs. peyton. _george._ miss sunnyside, permit me a word; a feeling of delicacy has suspended upon my lips an avowal, which-- _dora._ [_aside._] o, dear, has he suddenly come to his senses? _enter_ zoe, l. u. e., _she stops at back._ _george._ in a word, i have seen and admired you! _dora._ [_aside._] he has a strange way of showing it. european, i suppose. _george._ if you would pardon the abruptness of the question, i would ask you, do you think the sincere devotion of my life to make yours happy would succeed? _dora._ [_aside._] well, he has the oddest way of making love. _george._ you are silent? _dora._ mr. peyton, i presume you have hesitated to make this avowal because you feared, in the present condition of affairs here, your object might be misconstrued, and that your attention was rather to my fortune than myself. [_a pause._] why don't he speak?--i mean, you feared i might not give you credit for sincere and pure feelings. well, you wrong me. i don't think you capable of anything else than-- _george._ no, i hesitated because an attachment i had formed before i had the pleasure of seeing you had not altogether died out. _dora._ [_smiling._] some of those sirens of paris, i presume, [_pause._] i shall endeavor not to be jealous of the past; perhaps i have no right to be. [_pause._] but now that vagrant love is--eh? faded--is it not? why don't you speak, sir? _george._ because, miss sunnyside, i have not learned to lie. _dora._ good gracious--who wants you to? _george._ i do, but i can't do it. no, the love i speak of is not such as you suppose,--it is a passion that has grown up here since i arrived; but it is a hopeless, mad, wild feeling, that must perish. _dora._ here! since you arrived! impossible; you have seen no one; whom can you mean? _zoe._ [_advancing,_ c.] me. _george._ [l.] zoe! _dora._ [r.] you! _zoe._ forgive him, dora; for he knew no better until i told him. dora, you are right. he is incapable of any but sincere and pure feelings--so are you. he loves me--what of that? you know you can't be jealous of a poor creature like me. if he caught the fever, were stung by a snake, or possessed of any other poisonous or unclean thing, you could pity, tend, love him through it, and for your gentle care he would love you in return. well, is he not thus afflicted now? i am his love--he loves an octoroon. _george._ o, zoe, you break my heart! _dora._ at college they said i was a fool--i must be. at new orleans, they said, "she's pretty, very pretty, but no brains." i'm afraid they must be right; i can't understand a word of all this. _zoe._ dear dora, try to understand it with your heart. you love george; you love him dearly; i know it; and you deserve to be loved by him. he will love you--he must. his love for me will pass away--it shall. you heard him say it was hopeless. o, forgive him and me! _dora._ [_weeping._] o, why did he speak to me at all then? you've made me cry, then, and i hate you both! [_exit_ l., _through room._ _enter_ mrs. peyton _and_ scudder, m'closky _and_ pointdexter, r. _m'closky._ [c.] i'm sorry to intrude, but the business i came upon will excuse me. _mrs. pey._ here is my nephew, sir. _zoe._ perhaps i had better go. _m'closky._ wal, as it consarns you, perhaps you better had. _scud._ consarns zoe? _m'closky._ i don't know; she may as well hear the hull of it. go on, colonel--colonel pointdexter, ma'am--the mortgagee, auctioneer, and general agent. _point._ [r. c.] pardon me, madam, but do you know these papers? [_hands papers to_ mrs. peyton.] _mrs. pey._ [_takes them._] yes, sir; they were the free papers of the girl zoe; but they were in my husband's secretary. how came they in your possession? _m'closky._ i--i found them. _george._ and you purloined them? _m'closky._ hold on, you'll see. go on, colonel. _point._ the list of your slaves is incomplete--it wants one. _scud._ the boy paul--we know it. _point._ no, sir; you have omitted the octoroon girl, zoe. [_together._] _mrs. pey._ zoe! _zoe._ me! _point._ at the time the judge executed those free papers to his infant slave, a judgment stood recorded against him; while that was on record he had no right to make away with his property. that judgment still exists; under it and others this estate is sold to-day. those free papers ain't worth the sand that's on 'em. _mrs. pey._ zoe a slave! it is impossible! _point._ it is certain, madam; the judge was negligent, and doubtless forgot this small formality. _scud._ but the creditors will not claim the gal? _m'closky._ excuse me; one of the principal mortgagees has made the demand. [_exit_ m'closky _and_ pointdexter, r. u. e. _scud._ hold on yere, george peyton; you sit down there. you're trembling so, you'll fall down directly. this blow has staggered me some. _mrs. pey._ o, zoe, my child! don't think too hardly of your poor father. _zoe._ i shall do so if you weep. see, i'm calm. _scud._ calm as a tombstone, and with about as much life. i see it in your face. _george._ it cannot be! it shall not be! _scud._ hold your tongue--it must. be calm--darn the things; the proceeds of this sale won't cover the debts of the estate. consarn those liverpool english fellers, why couldn't they send something by the last mail? even a letter, promising something--such is the feeling round amongst the planters. darn me, if i couldn't raise thirty thousand on the envelope alone, and ten thousand more on the post-mark. _george._ zoe, they shall not take you from us while i live. _scud._ don't be a fool; they'd kill you, and then take her, just as soon as--stop; old sunnyside, he'll buy her! that'll save her. _zoe._ no, it won't; we have confessed to dora that we love each other. how can she then ask her father to free me? _scud._ what in thunder made you do that? _zoe._ because it was the truth; and i had rather be a slave with a free soul, than remain free with a slavish, deceitful heart. my father gives me freedom--at least he thought so. may heaven bless him for the thought, bless him for the happiness he spread around my life. you say the proceeds of the sale will not cover his debts. let me be sold then, that i may free his name. i give him back the liberty he bestowed upon me; for i can never repay him the love he bore his poor octoroon child, on whose breast his last sigh was drawn, into whose eyes he looked with the last gaze of affection. _mrs. pey._ o, my husband! i thank heaven you have not lived to see this day. _zoe._ george, leave me! i would be alone a little while. _george._ zoe! [_turns away overpowered._] _zoe._ do not weep, george. dear george, you now see what a miserable thing i am. _george._ zoe! _scud._ i wish they could sell me! i brought half this ruin on this family, with my all-fired improvements. i deserve to be a nigger this day--i feel like one, inside. [_exit_ scudder, l. u. e. _zoe._ go now, george--leave me--take her with you. [_exit_ mrs. peyton _and_ george, l. u. e.] a slave! a slave! is this a dream--for my brain reels with the blow? he said so. what! then i shall be sold!--sold! and my master--o! [_falls on her knees, with her face in her hands_] no--no master, but one. george--george--hush--they come! save me! no, [_looks off,_ r.] 'tis pete and the servants--they come this way. [_enters inner room,_ r. u. e.] _enter_ pete, grace, minnie, solon, dido, _and all_ niggers, r. u. e. _pete._ cum yer now--stand round, cause i've got to talk to you darkies--keep dem chil'n quiet--don't make no noise, de missus up dar har us. _solon._ go on, pete. _pete._ gen'l'men, my colored frens and ladies, dar's mighty bad news gone round. dis yer prop'ty to be sold--old terrebonne--whar we all been raised, is gwine--dey's gwine to tak it away--can't stop here no how. _omnes._ o-o!--o-o! _pete._ hold quiet, you trash o' niggers! tink anybody wants you to cry? who's you to set up screching?--be quiet! but dis ain't all. now, my culled brethren, gird up your lines, and listen--hold on yer bref--it's a comin. we tought dat de niggers would belong to de ole missus, and if she lost terrebonne, we must live dere allers, and we would hire out, and bring our wages to ole missus peyton. _omnes._ ya! ya! well-- _pete._ hush! i tell ye, 't'ain't so--we can't do it--we've got to be sold-- _omnes._ sold! _pete._ will you hush? she will har you. yes! i listen dar jess now--dar was ole lady cryin'--mas'r george--ah! you seen dem big tears in his eyes. o, mas'r scudder, he didn't cry zackly; both ob his eyes and cheek look like de bad bayou in low season--so dry dat i cry for him. [_raising his voice._] den say de missus, "'tain't for de land i keer, but for dem poor niggars--dey'll be sold--dat wot stagger me." "no," say mas'r george, "i'd rather sell myself fuss; but dey shan't suffer, nohow,--i see 'em dam fuss." _omnes._ o, bless um! bless mas'r george. _pete._ hole yer tongues. yes, for you, for me, for dem little ones, dem folks cried. now, den, if grace dere wid her chil'n were all sold, she'll begin screechin' like a cat. she didn't mind how kind old judge was to her; and solon, too, he'll holler, and break de ole lady's heart. _grace._ no, pete; no, i won't. i'll bear it. _pete._ i don't tink you will any more, but dis here will; 'cause de family spile dido, dey has. she nebber was 'worth much 'a dat nigger. _dido._ how dar you say dat, you black nigger, you? i fetch as much as any odder cook in louisiana. _pete._ what's de use of your takin' it kind, and comfortin' de missus heart, if minnie dere, and louise, and marie, and julie is to spile it? _minnie._ we won't, pete; we won't. _pete._ [_to the men._] dar, do ye hear dat, ye mis'able darkies, dem gals is worth a boat load of kinder men dem is. cum, for de pride of de family, let every darky look his best for the judge's sake--dat ole man so good to us, and dat ole woman--so dem strangers from new orleans shall say, dem's happy darkies, dem's a fine set of niggars; every one say when he's sold, "lor' bless dis yer family i'm gwine out of, and send me as good a home." _omnes._ we'll do it, pete; we'll do it. _pete._ hush! hark! i tell ye dar's somebody in dar. who is it? _grace._ it's missy zoe. see! see! _pete._ come along; she har what we say, and she's cryin' for us. none o' ye ign'rant niggars could cry for yerselves like dat. come here quite; now quite. [_exit_ pete _and all the_ negroes, _slowly,_ r. u. e. _enter_ zoe [_supposed to have overheard the last scene_], l. u. e. _zoe._ o! must i learn from these poor wretches how much i owed, how i ought to pay the debt? have i slept upon the benefits i received, and never saw, never felt, never knew that i was forgetful and ungrateful? o, my father! my dear, dear father! forgive your poor child. you made her life too happy, and now these tears will be. let me hide them till i teach my heart. o, my--my heart! [exit, with a low, wailing, suffocating cry, l. u. e. _enter_ m'closky, lafouche, jackson, sunnyslde, _and_ pointdexter, r. u. e. _point._ [_looking at watch._] come, the hour is past. i think we may begin business. where is mr. scudder? jackson, i want to get to ophelensis to-night. _enter_ dora, r. _dora._ father, come here. _sunny._ why, dora, what's the matter? your eyes are red. _dora._ are they? thank you. i don't care, they were blue this morning, but it don't signify now. _sunny._ my darling! who has been teasing you? _dora._ never mind. i want you to buy terrebonne. _sunny._ buy terrebonne! what for? _dora._ no matter--buy it! _sunny._ it will cost me all i'm worth. this is folly, dora. _dora._ is my plantation at comptableau worth this? _sunny._ nearly--perhaps. _dora._ sell it, then, and buy this. _sunny._ are you mad, my love? _dora._ do you want me to stop here and bid for it? _sunny._ good gracious! no. _dora._ then i'll do it, if you don't. _sunny._ i will! i will! but for heaven's sake go--here comes the crowd. [_exit_ dora, l. u. e.] what on earth does that child mean or want? _enter_ scudder, george, ratts, caillou, pete, grace, minnie, _and all the negroes. a large table is in the_ c., _at back._ pointdexter mounts the table with his hammer, his clerk sits at his feet. the negro mounts the table from behind_ c. _the company sit._ _point._ now, gentlemen, we shall proceed to business. it ain't necessary for me to dilate, describe, or enumerate; terrebonne is known to you as one of the richest bits of sile in louisiana, and its condition reflects credit on them as had to keep it. i'll trouble you for that piece of baccy, judge--thank you--so, gentlemen, as life is short, we'll start right off. the first lot on here is the estate in block, with its sugar-houses, stock, machines, implements, good dwelling-houses and furniture. if there is no bid for the estate and stuff, we'll sell it in smaller lots. come, mr. thibodeaux, a man has a chance once in his life--here's yours. _thib._ go on. what's the reserve bid? _point._ the first mortgagee bids forty thousand dollars. _thib._ forty-five thousand. _sunny._ fifty thousand. _point._ when you have done joking, gentlemen, you'll say one hundred and twenty thousand. it carried that easy on mortgage. _lafouche._ [r.] then why don't you buy it yourself, colonel? _point._ i'm waiting on your fifty thousand bid. _caillou._ eighty thousand. _point._ don't be afraid; it ain't going for that, judge. _sunny._ [l.] ninety thousand. _point._ we're getting on. _thib._ one hundred-- _point._ one hundred thousand bid for this mag-- _caillou._ one hundred and ten thousand-- _point._ good again--one hundred and-- _sunny._ twenty. _point._ and twenty thousand bid. squire sunnyside is going to sell this at fifty thousand advance to-morrow.--[_looks round._] where's that man from mobile that wanted to give one hundred and eighty thousand? _thib._ i guess he ain't left home yet, colonel. _point._ i shall knock it down to the squire--going--gone--for one hundred and twenty thousand dollars. [_raises hammer._] judge, you can raise the hull on mortgage--going for half its value. [_knocks._] squire sunnyside, you've got a pretty bit o' land, squire. hillo, darkey, hand me a smash dar. _sunny._ i got more than i can work now. _point._ then buy the hands along with the property. now, gentlemen, i'm proud to submit to you the finest lot of field hands and house servants that was ever offered for competition; they speak for themselves, and do credit to their owners.--[_reads._] "no. , solon, a guess boy, and good waiter." _pete._ [r. c.] that's my son--buy him, mas'r ratts; he's sure to sarve you well. _point._ hold your tongue! _ratts._ [l.] let the old darkey alone--eight hundred for that boy. _caillou._ nine. _ratts._ a thousand. _solon._ thank you, mas'r ratts; i die for you, sar; hold up for me, sar. _ratts._ look here, the boy knows and likes me, judge; let him come my way? _caillou._ go on--i'm dumb. _point._ one thousand bid. [_knocks._] he's yours, captain ratts, magnolia steamer. [solon _goes down and stands behind_ ratts.] "no. , the yellow girl grace, with two children--saul, aged four, and victoria five." [_they get on table._] _scud._ that's solon's wife and children, judge. _grace._ [_to_ ratts.] buy me, mas'r ratts, do buy me, sar? _ratts._ what in thunder should i do with you and those devils on board my boat? _grace._ wash, sar--cook, sar--anyting. _ratts._ eight hundred agin, then--i'll go it. _jackson._ nine. _ratts._ i'm broke, solon--i can't stop the judge. _thib._ what's the matter, ratts? i'll lend you all you want. go it, if you're a mind to. _ratts._ eleven. _jackson._ twelve. _sunny._ o, o! _scud._ [_to_ jackson.] judge, my friend. the judge is a little deaf. hello! [_speaking in his ear-trumpet._] this gal and them children belong to that boy solon there. you're bidding to separate them, judge. _jackson._ the devil i am! [_rises._] i'll take back my bid, colonel. _point._ all right, judge; i thought there was a mistake. i must keep you, captain, to the eleven hundred. _ratts._ go it. _point._ eleven hundred--going--going--sold! "no. , pete, a house servant." _pete._ dat's me--yer, i'm comin'--stand around dar. [_tumbles upon the table._] _point._ aged seventy-two. _pete._ what's dat? a mistake, sar--forty-six. _point._ lame. _pete._ but don't mount to nuffin--kin work cannel. come, judge, pick up. now's your time, sar. _jackson._ one hundred dollars. _pete._ what, sar? me! for me--look ye here! [_dances._] _george._ five hundred. _pete._ mas'r george--ah, no, sar--don't buy me--keep your money for some udder dat is to be sold. i ain't no count, sar. _point._ five hundred bid--it's a good price. [_knocks._] he's yours, mr. george peyton. [_pete goes down._] "no. , the octoroon girl, zoe." _enter_ zoe, l. u. e., _very pale, and stands on table._--m'closky _hitherto has taken no interest in the sale, now turns his chair._ _sunny._ [_rising._] gentlemen, we are all acquainted with the circumstances of this girl's position, and i feel sure that no one here will oppose the family who desires to redeem the child of our esteemed and noble friend, the late judge peyton. _omnes._ hear! bravo! hear! _point._ while the proceeds of this sale promises to realize less than the debts upon it, it is my duty to prevent any collusion for the depreciation of the property. _ratts._ darn ye! you're a man as well as an auctioneer, ain't ye? _point._ what is offered for this slave? _sunny._ one thousand dollars. _m'closky._ two thousand. _sunny._ three thousand. _m'closky._ five thousand. _george._ [r.] demon! _sunny._ i bid seven thousand, which is the last dollar this family possesses. _m'closky._ eight. _thibo._ nine. _omnes._ bravo! _m'closky._ ten. it's no use, squire. _scud._ jacob m'closky, you shan't have that girl. now, take care what you do. twelve thousand. _m'closky._ shan't i! fifteen thousand. beat that any of ye. _point._ fifteen thousand bid for the octoroon. _enter_ dora, l. u. e. _dora._ twenty thousand. _omnes._ bravo! _m'closky._ twenty-five thousand. _omnes._ [groan.] o! o! _george._ [l.] yelping hound--take that. [_rushes on_ m'closky--m'closky _draws his knife._] _scud._ [_darts between them._] hold on, george peyton--stand back. this is your own house; we are under your uncle's roof; recollect yourself. and, strangers, ain't we forgetting there's a lady present. [_the knives disappear._] if we can't behave like christians, let's try and act like gentlemen. go on, colonel. _lafouche._ he didn't ought to bid against a lady. _m'closky._ o, that's it, is it? then i'd like to hire a lady to go to auction and buy my hands. _point._ gentlemen, i believe none of us have two feelings about the conduct of that man; but he has the law on his side--we may regret, but we must respect it. mr. m'closky has bid twenty-five thousand dollars for the octoroon. is there any other bid? for the first time, twenty-five thousand--last time! [_brings hammer down._] to jacob m'closky, the octoroon girl, zoe, twenty-five thousand dollars. [_tableaux._] end of act third. act iv scene.--_the wharf, the steamer "magnolia" alongside,_ l.; _a bluff rock,_ r. u. e. ratts _discovered, superintending the loading of ship. enter_ lafouche _and_ jackson, l. _jackson._ how long before we start, captain? _ratts._ just as soon as we put this cotton on board. _enter_ pete, _with lantern, and_ scudder, _with note book,_ r. _scud._ one hundred and forty-nine bales. can you take any more? _ratts._ not a bale. i've got engaged eight hundred bales at the next landing, and one hundred hogsheads of sugar at patten's slide--that'll take my guards under--hurry up thar. _voice._ [_outside._] wood's aboard. _ratts._ all aboard then. _enter_ m'closky, r. _scud._ sign that receipt, captain, and save me going up to the clerk. _m'closky._ see here--there's a small freight of turpentine in the fore hold there, and one of the barrels leaks; a spark from your engines might set the ship on fire, and you'd go with it. _ratts._ you be darned! go and try it, if you've a mind to. _lafouche._ captain, you've loaded up here until the boat is sunk so deep in the mud she won't float. _ratts._ [_calls off._] wood up thar, you polio--hang on to the safety valve--guess she'll crawl off on her paddles. [_shouts heard,_ r.] _jackson._ what's the matter? _enter_ solon, r. _solon._ we got him! _scud._ who? _solon._ the injiun! _scud._ wahnotee? where is he? d'ye call running away from a fellow catching him? _ratts._ here he comes. _omnes._ where? where? _enter_ wahnotee, r.; _they are all about to rush on him._ _scud._ hold on! stan' round thar! no violence--the critter don't know what we mean. _jackson._ let him answer for the boy, then. _m'closky._ down with him--lynch him. _omnes._ lynch him! [_exit_ lafouche, r. _scud._ stan' back, i say i i'll nip the first that lays a finger on him. pete, speak to the red-skin. _pete._ whar's paul, wahnotee? what's come ob de child? _wahnotee._ paul wunce--paul pangeuk. _pete._ pangeuk--dead. _wahnotee._ mort! _m'closky._ and you killed him? [_they approach again._] _scud._ hold on! _pete._ um, paul reste? _wahnotee._ hugh vieu. [_goes_ l.] paul reste el! _scud._ here, stay! [_examines the ground._] the earth has been stirred here lately. _wahnotee._ weenee paul. [_points down, and shows by pantomime how he buried_ paul.] _scud._ the injiun means that he buried him there! stop! here's a bit of leather; [_draws out mail-bags_] the mail-bags that were lost! [_sees tomahawk in_ wahnotee's _belt--draws it out and examines it._] look! here are marks of blood--look thar, red-skin, what's that? wahnotee. paul! [_makes sign that_ paul _was killed by a blow on the head._] _m'closky._ he confesses it; the indian got drunk, quarreled with him, and killed him. _re-enter_ lafouche, r., _with smashed apparatus._ _lafouche._ here are evidences of the crime; this rum-bottle half emptied--this photographic apparatus smashed--and there are marks of blood and footsteps around the shed. _m'closky._ what more d'ye want--ain't that proof enough? lynch him! _omnes._ lynch him! lynch him! _scud._ stan' back, boys! he's an injiun--fair play. _jackson._ try him, then--try him on the spot of his crime. _omnes._ try him! try him! _lafouche._ don't let him escape! _ratts._ i'll see to that. [_draws revolver._] if he stirs, i'll put a bullet through his skull, mighty quick. _m'closky._ come, form a court then, choose a jury--we'll fix this varmin. _enter_ thibodeaux _and_ caillou, l. _thibo._ what's the matter? _lafouche._ we've caught this murdering injiun, and are going to try him. [wahnotee _sits_ l., _rolled in blanket._] _pete._ poor little paul--poor little nigger! _scud._ this business goes agin me, ratts--'tain't right. _lafouche._ we're ready; the jury's impanelled--go ahead--who'll be accuser? _ratts._ m'closky. _m'closky._ me? _ratts._ yes; you was the first to hail judge lynch. _m'closky._ [r.] well, what's the use of argument whar guilt sticks out so plain; the boy and injiun were alone when last seen. _scud._ (l. c.) who says that? _m'closky._ everybody--that is, i heard so. _scud._ say what you know--not what you heard. _m'closky._ i know then that the boy was killed with that tomahawk--the red-skin owns it--the signs of violence are all round the shed--this apparatus smashed--ain't it plain that in a drunken fit he slew the boy, and when sober concealed the body yonder? _omnes._ that's it--that's it. _ratts._ who defends the injiun? _scud._ i will; for it is agin my natur' to b'lieve him guilty; and if he be, this ain't the place, nor you the authority to try him. how are we sure the boy is dead at all? there are no witnesses but a rum bottle and an old machine. is it on such evidence you'd hang a human being? _ratts._ his own confession. _scud._ i appeal against your usurped authority. this lynch law is a wild and lawless proceeding. here's a pictur' for a civilized community to afford; yonder, a poor, ignorant savage, and round him a circle of hearts, white with revenge and hate, thirsting for his blood; you call yourselves judges--you ain't--you're a jury of executioners. it is such scenes as these that bring disgrace upon our western life. _m'closky._ evidence! evidence! give us evidence. we've had talk enough; now for proof. _omnes._ yes, yes! proof, proof. _scud._ where am i to get it? the proof is here, in my heart. _pete._ [_who has been looking about the camera._] top, sar! top a bit! o, laws-a-mussey, see dis; here's a pictur' i found stickin' in that yar telescope machine, sar! look sar! _scud._ a photographic plate. [_pete holds lantern up._] what's this, eh? two forms! the child--'tis he! dead--and above him--ah! ah! jacob m'closky, 'twas you murdered that boy! _m'closky._ me? _scud._ you! you slew him with that tomahawk; and as you stood over his body with the letter in your hand, you thought that no witness saw the deed, that no eye was on you--but there was, jacob m'closky, there was. the eye of the eternal was on you--the blessed sun in heaven, that, looking down, struck upon this plate the image of the deed. here you are, in the very attitude of your crime! _m'closky._ 'tis false! _scud._ 'tis true! the apparatus can't lie. look there, jurymen. [_shows plate to jury._] look there. o, you wanted evidence--you called for proof--heaven has answered and convicted you. _m'closky._ what court of law would receive such evidence? [_going._] _ratts._ stop; this would. you called it yourself; you wanted to make us murder that injiun; and since we've got our hands in for justice, we'll try it on you. what say ye? shall we have one law for the red-skin and another for the white? _omnes._ try him! try him! _ratts._ who'll be accuser? _scud._ i will! fellow-citizens, you are convened and assembled here under a higher power than the law. what's the law? when the ship's abroad on the ocean, when the army is before the enemy where in thunder's the law? it is in the hearts of brave men, who can tell right from wrong, and from whom justice can't be bought. so it is here, in the wilds of the west, where our hatred of crime is measured by the speed of our executions--where necessity is law! i say, then, air you honest men? air you true? put your hands on your naked breasts, and let every man as don't feel a real american heart there, bustin' up with freedom, truth, and right, let that man step out--that's the oath i put to ye--and then say, darn ye, go it! _omnes._ go on. go on. _scud._ no! i won't go on; that man's down. i won't strike him, even with words. jacob, your accuser is that picter of the crime--let that speak--defend yourself. _m'closky._ [_draws knife._] i will, quicker than lightning. _ratts._ seize him, then! [_they rush on_ m'closky, _and disarm him._] he can fight though he's a painter; claws all over. _scud._ stop! search him, we may find more evidence. _m'closky._ would you rob me first, and murder me afterwards? _ratts._ [_searching him._] that's his programme--here's a pocket-book. _scud._ [_opens it._] what's here? letters! hello! to "mrs. peyton, terrebonne, louisiana, united states." liverpool post mark. ho! i've got hold of the tail of a rat--come out. [reads.] what's this? a draft for eighty-five thousand dollars, and credit on palisse and co., of new orleans, for the balance. hi! the rat's out. you killed the boy to steal this letter from the mail-bags--you stole this letter, that the money should not arrive in time to save the octoroon; had it done so, the lien on the estate would have ceased, and zoe be free. _omnes._ lynch him! lynch him! down with him! _scud._ silence in the court; stand back, let the gentlemen of the jury retire, consult, and return their verdict. _ratts._ i'm responsible for the crittur--go on. _pete._ [_to_ wahnotee.] see injiun; look dar [_shows him plate_], see dat innocent; look, dar's de murderer of poor paul. _wahnotee._ ugh! [_examines plate._] _pete._ ya!--as he? closky tue paul--kill de child with your tomahawk dar; 'twasn't you, no--ole pete allus say so. poor injiun lub our little paul. [wahnotee _rises and looks at_ m'closky--_he is in his war paint and fully armed._] _scud._ what say ye, gentlemen? is the prisoner guilty, or is he not guilty? _omnes._ guilty! _scud._ and what is to be his punishment? _omnes._ death! [_all advance._] _wahnotee._ [_crosses to_ m'closky.] ugh! _scud._ no, injiun; we deal out justice here, not revenge. 'tain't you he has injured, 'tis the white man, whose laws he has offended. _ratts._ away with him--put him down the aft hatch, till we rig his funeral. _m'closky._ fifty against one! o! if i had you one by one, alone in the swamp, i'd rip ye all. [_he is borne off in boat, struggling._] _scud._ now then to business. _pete._ [_re-enters from boat._] o, law, sir, dat debil closky, he tore hisself from de gen'lam, knock me down, take my light, and trows it on de turpentine barrels, and de shed's all afire! [_fire seen,_ r.] _jackson._ [_re-entering._] we are catching fire forward; quick, set free from the shore. _ratts._ all hands aboard there--cut the starn ropes--give her headway! _all._ ay, ay! [_cry of "fire" heard--engine bells heard--steam whistle noise._] _ratts._ cut all away for'ard--overboard with every bale afire. _the steamer moves off--fire kept up_--m'closky _re-enters,_ r., _swimming on._ _m'closky._ ha! have i fixed ye? burn! burn! that's right. you thought you had cornered me, did ye? as i swam down, i thought i heard something in the water, as if pursuing me--one of them darned alligators, i suppose--they swarm hereabout--may they crunch every limb of ye! [_exit,_ l. wahnote _swims on--finds trail--follows him. the steamer floats on at back, burning. tableaux._ curtain. end of act fourth. act v scene i.--_negroes' quarters in_ . _enter_ zoe, l. . e. _zoe._ it wants an hour yet to daylight--here is pete's hut--[_knocks._] he sleeps--no; i see a light. _dido._ [_enters from hut,_ r. f.] who dat? _zoe._ hush, aunty! 'tis i--zoe. _dido._ missey zoe! why you out in de swamp dis time ob night--you catch de fever sure--you is all wet. _zoe._ where's pete? _dido._ he gone down to de landing last night wid mas'r scudder; not come back since--kint make it out. _zoe._ aunty, there is sickness up at the house; i have been up all night beside one who suffers, and i remembered that when i had the fever you gave me a drink, a bitter drink, that made me sleep--do you remember it? _dido._ didn't i? dem doctors ain't no 'count; dey don't know nuffin. _zoe._ no; but you, aunty, you are wise--you know every plant, don't you, and what it is good for? _dido._ dat you drink is fust rate for red fever. is de folks head bad? _zoe._ very bad, aunty; and the heart aches worse, so they can get no rest. _dido._ hold on a bit, i get you de bottle. [_exit,_ l. r. _zoe._ in a few hours that man, my master, will come for me; he has paid my price, and he only consented to let me remain here this one night, because mrs. peyton promised to give me up to him to-day. _dido._ [_re-enters with phial._] here 'tis--now you give one timble-full--dat's nuff. _zoe._ all there is there would kill one, wouldn't it? _dido._ guess it kill a dozen--nebber try. _zoe._ it's not a painful death, aunty, is it? you told me it produced a long, long sleep. _dido._ why you tremble so? why you speak so wild? what you's gwine to do, missey? _zoe._ give me the drink. _dido._ no. who dat sick at de house? _zoe._ give it to me. _dido._ no. you want to hurt yourself. o, miss zoe, why you ask ole dido for dis pizen? _zoe._ listen to me. i love one who is here, and he loves me--george. i sat outside his door all night--i heard his sighs--his agony--torn from him by my coming fate; and he said, "i'd rather see her dead than his!" _dido._ dead! _zoe._ he said so--then i rose up, and stole from the house, and ran down to the bayou; but its cold, black, silent stream terrified me--drowning must be so horrible a death. i could not do it. then, as i knelt there, weeping for courage, a snake rattled beside me. i shrunk from it and fled. death was there beside me, and i dared not take it. o! i'm afraid to die; yet i am more afraid to live. _dido._ die! _zoe._ so i came here to you; to you, my own dear nurse; to you, who so often hushed me to sleep when i was a child; who dried my eyes and put your little zoe to rest. ah! give me the rest that no master but one can disturb--the sleep from which i shall awake free! you can protect me from that man--do let me die without pain. [_music._] _dido._ no, no--life is good for young ting like you. _zoe._ o! good, good nurse; you will, you will. _dido._ no--g'way. _zoe._ then i shall never leave terrebonne--the drink, nurse; the drink; that i may never leave my home--my dear, dear home. you will not give me to that man? your own zoe, that loves you, aunty, so much, so much.--[_gets phial._] ah! i have it. _dido._ no, missey. o! no--don't. _zoe._ hush! [_runs off,_ l. . e. _dido._ here, solon, minnie, grace. _they enter._ _all._ was de matter? _dido._ miss zoe got de pizen. [_exit,_ l. _all._ o! o! _exeunt,_ l. scene ii.--_cane-brake bayou.--bank,_ c.--_triangle fire,_ r. c.--_canoe,_ c.--m'closky _discovered asleep._ _m'closky._ burn, burn! blaze away! how the flames crack. i'm not guilty; would ye murder me? cut, cut the rope--i choke--choke!--ah! [_wakes._] hello! where am i? why, i was dreaming--curse it! i can never sleep now without dreaming. hush! i thought i heard the sound of a paddle in the water. all night, as i fled through the cane-brake, i heard footsteps behind me. i lost them in the cedar swamp--again they haunted my path down the bayou, moving as i moved, resting when i rested--hush! there again!--no; it was only the wind over the canes. the sun is rising. i must launch my dug-out, and put for the bay, and in a few hours i shall be safe from pursuit on board of one of the coasting schooners that run from galveston to matagorda. in a little time this darned business will blow over, and i can show again. hark! there's that noise again! if it was the ghost of that murdered boy haunting me! well--i didn't mean to kill him, did i? well, then, what has my all-cowardly heart got to skeer me so for? [_music._] [_gets in canoe and rows off,_ l.--wahnotee _paddles canoe on,_ r.--_gets out and finds trail--paddles off after him,_ l.] scene iii.--_cedar swamp._ _enter_ scudder _and_ pete, l. . e. _scud._ come on, pete, we shan't reach the house before midday. _pete._ nebber mind, sar, we bring good news--it won't spile for de keeping. _scud._ ten miles we've had to walk, because some blamed varmin onhitched our dug-out. i left it last night all safe. _pete._ p'r'aps it floated away itself. _scud._ no; the hitching line was cut with a knife. _pete._ say, mas'r scudder, s'pose we go in round by de quarters and raise de darkies, den dey cum long wid us, and we 'proach dat ole house like gin'ral jackson when he took london out dar. _scud._ hello, pete, i never heard of that affair. _pete._ i tell you, sar--hush! _scud._ what? [_music._] _pete._ was dat?--a cry out dar in de swamp--dar agin! _scud._ so it is. something forcing its way through the undergrowth--it comes this way--it's either a bear or a runaway nigger. [_draws pistol_--m'closky _rushes on and falls at_ scudder's _feet._] _scud._ stand off--what are ye? _pete._ mas'r clusky. _m'closky._ save me--save me! i can go no farther. i heard voices. _scud._ who's after you? _m'closky._ i don't know, but i feel it's death! in some form, human, or wild beast, or ghost, it has tracked me through the night. i fled; it followed. hark! there it comes--it comes--don't you hear a footstep on the dry leaves? _scud._ your crime has driven you mad. _m'closky._ d'ye hear it--nearer--nearer--ah! [wahnotee _rushes on, and at_ m'closky, l. h.] _scud._ the injiun! by thunder. _pete._ you'se a dead man, mas'r clusky--you got to b'lieve dat. _m'closky._ no--no. if i must die, give me up to the law; but save me from the tomahawk. you are a white man; you'll not leave one of your own blood to be butchered by the red-skin? _scud._ hold on now, jacob; we've got to figure on that--let us look straight at the thing. here we are on the selvage of civilization. it ain't our sile, i believe, rightly; but nature has said that where the white man sets his foot, the red man and the black man shall up sticks and stand around. but what do we pay for that possession? in cash? no--in kind--that is, in protection, forbearance, gentleness; in all them goods that show the critters the difference between the christian and the savage. now, what have you done to show them the distinction? for, darn me, if i can find out. _m'closky._ for what i have done, let me be tried. _scud._ you have been tried--honestly tried and convicted. providence has chosen your executioner. i shan't interfere. _pete._ o, no; mas'r scudder, don't leave mas'r closky like dat--don't, sa--'tain't what good christian should do. _scud._ d'ye hear that, jacob? this old nigger, the grandfather of the boy you murdered, speaks for you--don't that go through you? d'ye feel it? go on, pete, you've waked up the christian here, and the old hoss responds. [_throws bowie-knife to_ m'closky.] take that, and defend yourself. _exit_ scudder _and_ pete, r. . e.--wahnotee _faces him.--fight--buss._ m'closky _runs off,_ l. . e.--wahnote _follows him.--screams outside._ scene iv.--_parlor at terrebonne._ enter zoe, c. [_music._] _zoe._ my home, my home! i must see you no more. those little flowers can live, but i cannot. to-morrow they'll bloom the same--all will be here as now, and i shall be cold. o! my life, my happy life; why has it been so bright? _enter_ mrs. peyton _and_ dora, c. _dora._ zoe, where have you been? _mrs. p._ we felt quite uneasy about you. _zoe._ i've been to the negro quarters. i suppose i shall go before long, and i wished to visit all the places, once again, to see the poor people. _mrs. p._ zoe, dear, i'm glad to see you more calm this morning. _dora._ but how pale she looks, and she trembles so. _zoe._ do i? [_enter_ george, c.] ah! he is here. _dora._ george, here she is! _zoe._ i have come to say good-by, sir; two hard words--so hard, they might break many a heart; mightn't they? _george._ o, zoe! can you smile at this moment? _zoe._ you see how easily i have become reconciled to my fate--so it will be with you. you will not forget poor zoe! but her image will pass away like a little cloud that obscured your happiness a while--you will love each other; you are both too good not to join your hearts. brightness will return amongst you. dora, i once made you weep; those were the only tears i caused any body. will you forgive me? _dora._ forgive you--[_kisses her._] _zoe._ i feel you do, george. _george._ zoe, you are pale. zoe!--she faints! _zoe._ no; a weakness, that's all--a little water. [_dora gets water._] i have a restorative here--will you poor it in the glass? [dora _attempts to take it._] no; not you--george. [george _pours contents of phial in glass._] now, give it to me. george, dear george, do you love me? _george._ do you doubt it, zoe? _zoe._ no! [_drinks._] _dora._ zoe, if all i possess would buy your freedom, i would gladly give it. _zoe._ i am free! i had but one master on earth, and he has given me my freedom! _dora._ alas! but the deed that freed you was not lawful. _zoe._ not lawful--no--but i am going to where there is no law--where there is only justice. _george._ zoe, you are suffering--your lips are white--your cheeks are flushed. _zoe._ i must be going--it is late. farewell, dora. [_retires._] _pete._ [_outside,_ r.] whar's missus--whar's mas'r george? _george._ they come. _enter_ scudder. _scud._ stand around and let me pass--room thar! i feel so big with joy, creation ain't wide enough to hold me. mrs. peyton, george peyton, terrebonne is yours. it was that rascal m'closky--but he got rats, i avow--he killed the boy, paul, to rob this letter from the mail-bags--the letter from liverpool you know--he sot fire to the shed--that was how the steamboat got burned up. _mrs. p._ what d'ye mean? _scud._ read--read that. [_gives letter._] _george._ explain yourself. _enter_ sunnyside. _sunny._ is it true? _scud._ every word of it, squire. here, you tell it, since you know it. if i was to try, i'd bust. _mrs. p._ read, george. terrebonne is yours. _enter_ pete, dido, solon, minnie, _and_ grace. _pete._ whar is she--whar is miss zoe? _scud._ what's the matter? _pete._ don't ax me. whar's de gal? i say. _scud._ here she is--zoe!--water--she faints. _pete._ no--no. 'tain't no faint--she's a dying, sa; she got pison from old dido here, this mornin'. _george._ zoe. _scud._ zoe! is this true?--no, it ain't--darn it, say it ain't. look here, you're free, you know nary a master to hurt you now; you will stop here as long as you're a mind to, only don't look so. _dora._ her eyes have changed color. _pete._ dat's what her soul's gwine to do. it's going up dar, whar dere's no line atween folks. _george._ she revives. _zoe._ [_on sofa,_ c.] george--where--where-- _george._ o, zoe! what have you done? _zoe._ last night i overheard you weeping in your room, and you said, "i'd rather see her dead than so!" _george._ have i prompted you to this? _zoe._ no; but i loved you so, i could not bear my fate; and then i stood your heart and hers. when i am dead she will not be jealous of your love for me, no laws will stand between us. lift me; so--[_george raises her head_]--let me look at you, that your face may be the last i see of this world. o! george, you may without a blush confess your love for the octoroon! [_dies._--george _lowers her head gently.--kneels.--others form picture._] _darken front of house and stage._ [_light fires.--draw flats and discover_ paul's _grave._--m'closky _dead on top of it._--wahnotee _standing triumphantly over him._] slow curtain transcriber's notes scene i is announced for act i, though there is only one scene. original spellings left in this book travelling moccason judgment(s) compagnie travelled fibres both "hillo" and "hello" are used by the author typo? in several places a contraction "wan't" appears where the context requires the verb "want." the change was made. there is a large amount of slang, dialect and colloquialisms in the play that have been left. rbb [illustration] louisiana beef cattle william carter stubbs, ph.d. formerly professor of agriculture louisiana state university and director of state experiment stations copyright, , by the louisiana company new orleans foreword the following remarks relative to louisiana beef cattle are proffered the public to show the marvelous advantages possessed by the alluvial lands of louisiana, for the growing of cattle. an intelligent use of these advantages will bring wealth to the individual, the state and the nation. william carter stubbs, ph.d. [illustration] louisiana beef cattle the wealth-producing possibilities of cattle-raising are written into the history, literature and art of every race; and with every nationality riches have always been counted in cattle and corn. we find cattle mentioned in the earliest known records of the hebrews, chaldeans and hindus, and carved on the monuments of egypt, thousands of years before the christian era. among the primitive peoples wealth was, and still is, measured by the size of the cattle herds, whether it be the reindeer of the frigid north, the camel of the great sahara, or herds of whatsoever kind that are found in every land and in every clime. the earliest known money, in ancient greece, was the image of the ox stamped on metal; and the latin word _pecunia_ and our own english "pecuniary" are derived from _pecus_--cattle. although known to the eastern hemisphere since the dawn of history, cattle are not native to the western hemisphere, but were introduced into america during the sixteenth century. cortez, ponce de leon, de soto and the other _conquistadores_ from old madrid, who sailed the seas in quest of gold, brought with them to the new world the monarchs of the bull ring, and introduced the national sport of spain into the colonies founded in peru, mexico, florida and louisiana. the long-horned, half-wild herds encountered by the pioneers, and by the "forty-niners," who three centuries later trekked across the continent in quest of gold in california, were descendants of the bull pens of mexico city, st. augustine and new orleans. a different type of cattle was brought over to jamestown, the first english colony, in the seventeenth century; these were strictly utilitarian, designed for the triple service of enriching the larder with dairy products, supplementing the abundant meat supply of buffalo, deer and other game and providing the ox as the draft animal. the pioneers, striking out from the atlantic seaboard, carried with them their domestic cattle, which were introduced and fostered wherever settlements were made in their progress across the continent. it was not until after the revolutionary war that wealthy planters of virginia imported herefords from england, jerseys from the isle of jersey, and the flower of other old world herds. even then, extensive breeding of high-grade animals languished for years, owing to the unprogressive farming methods; and at a later period on account of the dominancy of the western cattle ranges. the public domain of the west and southwest, owing to the vast areas of grazing land which cost the cattlemen nothing, became the controlling factor in the american cattle industry, reaching its climax about . subsequently these great feeding grounds were invaded by the sheep-grower, whose flocks destroyed the pastures and drove out the cattle wherever they appeared. the death knell of the national cattle range was sounded by the united states government in throwing open the public lands to settlers. during the romantic period of the cattle outfit--the cowboy with his bucking broncho, lariat and six-shooter--many of the important cities and towns of today came into existence as humble adjuncts of the live stock industry. there are men living today who have witnessed the beginning, the rise, and almost the extinction, of the western cattle range. a complete revolution has been brought about in the cattle industry within a lifetime. the change has been a rapid one from the free range to the fenced pasture; the open ranges turned into farms and settlements. with the advent of changed conditions, the rancher of restricted territory and reduced herds ceased to be an important factor in directly supplying the market, as he was forced to utilize the land that was not desirable for homesteaders, and the pasturage being insufficient to suitably fatten stock, he was compelled to ship his cattle to the feeders of the middle west to prepare them for market. meanwhile, the middle west, or corn-belt states, being unable to raise cattle in an economical way, developed into a feeding station, where young cattle from the western ranges were shipped to be fattened and prepared for the market. with the decrease of range cattle, year by year, fewer western beeves reach the corn belt to be finished and made ready for market. the early settlers of southern louisiana raised cattle after the fashion that prevailed on the plains of texas; that is, great herds without care or attention of any kind increased and multiplied and were annually rounded up and marketed; the returns were virtually all profit, as the cattle found their sustenance entirely in the luxuriant natural pasturage. with the change of conditions in the cattle-growing world, louisiana began the improvement of its herds, so that today there are thousands of highly bred cattle in the state, equal to the best that can be found anywhere. in a consideration of any branch of the live stock industry, a review of the world-wide conditions becomes necessary to establish a standard of comparison between the industry in a given locality as against all other localities, and such a review at the present time shows an international shortage of beef cattle that even threatens famine. the day of nondescript cattle of inferior quality is rapidly passing. through breeding, they are being steadily supplanted by higher grade, perfectly developed animals which yield the proper proportions of lean and fat, whose meat is tender, nutritious and palatable. the old world breeds have been improved and perfected, through the skill of the american grower, until american stock has become the standard of the whole world, from the standpoint of excellence in every particular. there are a multitude of reasons why it will never be possible for the growers of the eastern hemisphere, with the exception of great britain and the scandinavian countries, to successfully compete with the united states in bringing the standard of their beef cattle up to the high point already attained in this country. no longer ago than ten years, cattle were not acceptable as collateral except by banks in the western cattle centers. today, cattle are standard collateral for loans, approved by the treasury of the united states government and acceptable everywhere, as cattle are as good as gold all over the world; and a cattle enterprise managed with ability and integrity is the safest business known. there are diseases to which cattle are subject; but these, like the diseases to which mankind is subject, are now controlled by science, and can be quickly eradicated, even though a foothold is once gained; and that a foothold should be gained at all is as much beyond the bounds of reason as that the cities of new york and chicago should, in this advanced age, be devastated by a scourge of cholera, smallpox, yellow fever, or what not. according to official estimates of the united states government, in there were , , head of beef cattle in the united states, having a value of $ , , , while on january , , there were , , head of beef cattle, having a value of $ , , , ; a decrease in supply, but an increase in value, within seven years, of . per cent. in addition to superior natural conditions, the united states, on account of the great distance to other countries where cattle can be raised successfully, is protected against competition, at all times and under all conditions. the united states for a quarter of a century was the world's greatest export nation, and this trade has fallen off only in recent times, because of the shortage at home. our export business well illustrates the changing conditions in the cattle industry, and the record of live cattle exported from chicago is a notable example, namely: cattle exports in , exports in , exports in exports in this table shows that the export trade was virtually extinct a year before the european war began; and if revived, it will be because of exorbitant prices brought about by the abnormal european demand, due to the depletion of the cattle herds abroad. official statistics show that prior to the european war . per cent of all the european cattle were within the boundaries of the now-belligerent countries. the records at that time, covering both beef cattle and dairy-herds, were as follows: russia , , germany , , austria-hungary , , france , , united kingdom , , turkey , , italy , , rumania , , belgium , , even prior to the war, the world-supply of cattle was diminishing, and now the herds of these nations, representing nine-tenths of the european supply, are depleted as never before, while the one-tenth remaining supply of the neighboring neutral nations is reduced by the drafts of the warring powers. the immense demand in recent years has caused the marketing of vast numbers of the best improved cattle in the united states, including great inroads upon the breeding herds, as cattle growers have marketed their stock without regard to the future, looking solely to the large immediate profits. the depletion and deterioration of the breeding herds is a source of great danger, as it cannot fail to result in a still further decrease in production, and threatens to seriously impair the meat supply of the american people. as an infinitely worse condition prevails in the other cattle-producing countries of the world, it is obvious that we cannot look to any outside source of supply, either to replenish our herds, or to provide our meat food requirements. the increased cost of production in the north has resulted in the great advancement of the dairying industry, to meet the american food requirements. in the milch cows on american farms numbered about , , . this number was increased to , , in , and to about , , in ; and the census of showed , , . in , they numbered , , , and january , , , , , or more than one-third of our entire cattle herds. the change from beef-cattle raising to dairying is most noticeable in the eastern and the north central states, where the lack of pasturage and the increased cost of forage make the production of beef less profitable than formerly, while the proximity to large centers of population and great cities has greatly stimulated the demand for dairy products. in some sections of the country dairying has encroached to such an extent on the beef cattle industry that the latter has ceased to be a factor of importance in those localities. the beef cattle industry of the north is divided into two departments: first, producing in the far west; second, preparing for market in the middle west. the western producer can only provide grazing, and must then ship to the middle west feeder, who raises the corn with which he prepares the cattle for market. the shortness of the grazing season makes it impossible to put a thousand-pound beef on the market in a year; consequently the stock must be shipped to the middle west in september, october or november, to be fattened and prepared for the market. the breeding herds and the stock not ready for shipment to the feeders of the middle west exist on the thin grasses, through eight months--from september to june. these sections of arid soil and thin vegetation are further handicapped by the winters of intense cold, and of enforced housing and feeding; for, during six or seven months, and even eight months, of each year, there is scant vegetation to support animal life, and the struggle is a severe one to sustain life itself against the encroachments of the bitter temperature which so long prevails. if the middle west farmer should go into cattle-raising, his position would be almost identical with that of the cattle grower of the far west, as his pasturage would be exhausted in october, and it would be necessary to feed the cattle until may; otherwise, his loss would be tremendous through partial starvation and exposure to inclement weather, and he could not count upon the survival of more than per cent of his herd from one pasturing season to the next. the farmer of the middle west has six months of open weather, which must be devoted exclusively to planting, cultivating and harvesting his corn crop, and this crop takes up his land, leaving no acreage available for summer pasturage. he produces corn in the summer, and begins feeding in the fall. according to the quality of cattle received from the far west, he feeds , , and up to days, when they are ready for market, and, according to the old saying, are "corn sold on the hoof." even the adoption of intensive methods does not enable the northern grower to successfully compete with the southern grower, because production in the north is limited to one-half the year, and the other half is wholly unproductive, during which period his stores are being consumed, without any returns whatever. to house cattle during the winter is scarcely better than to leave them exposed to the rigors of climate, as confinement brings the scourge of tuberculosis; whereas in the south, and wherever life is spent in the open, cattle enjoy immunity from this plague. furthermore, the year-round supply of green food in the south is naturally conducive to the health and well-being of all animals, whereas in the north, for several months in the year, only concentrated food is available. "the south, with her short, mild winters, and her abundance of grasses, can grow young cattle cheaper than the north."--w. j. spillman, chief of the bureau of farm management, united states department of agriculture. a mild climate, luxuriant pastures, a great variety of forage crops, a year-round supply of green food, and living outdoors all the year, are the factors that make southern louisiana the ideal cattle-raising section of the united states. james wilson, former secretary of the united states department of agriculture, at the national live stock show held in new orleans in , said: "you have as fine domestic animals in the state of louisiana today as you will find anywhere; the finest breeds of cattle--holstein and others, as well as american breeds of herefords, which are an improvement over the english hereford." in the corn belt the lands are not so productive in grains and pasture crops as the alluvial lands of louisiana. in the north the growing season for crops does not exceed six months; in louisiana the productive period is twelve months. in northern states, animals can be pastured in the fields during six or seven months only; in louisiana the animals may pasture in the open the whole year. in the north, extensive and costly barns and equipment are essential for winter shelter and feeding, and vast quantities of grain, hay, ensilage, and other foods, must be raised and stored, as the period of winter-feeding extends over six months; in louisiana, open sheds facing south provide all the shelter needed, as aside from cold rains at intervals during february or march, there are no rigors of climate. careful estimates by farm experts, and by authorities on cattle, place the cost of production in louisiana at less than per cent of the cost in the most favored corn-belt states. there is no winter here, as understood in the north. frost is a rarity, frequently being absent for several years, and is never severe; the rainfall is well distributed and averages inches a year; extremes of temperature are very rare; the average for january is degrees, and for july, degrees, over the gulf coast area of southern louisiana; and vegetation flourishes the year round. the cost of summer feeding in southern louisiana, as compared with summer feeding in the corn-belt states, shows a difference of about per cent in favor of the former. in winter feeding, the difference is altogether in favor of louisiana. furthermore, practically none of the food consumed here is required to keep up the animal heat, whereas per cent of the food given northern cattle during the winter is absorbed by this requirement alone. according to the united states department of agriculture, the cost of ensilage in the northern states ranges from $ . to $ per ton, and it is generally conceded that corn ensilage in the middle west costs an average of $ . per ton. on the alluvial lands of southern louisiana it has been proved that ensilage can be produced at cents to $ . per ton, and the yield per acre is two crops of ten to twenty tons each, as against one crop of five to ten tons in the north. according to the bureau of plant industry, the best bluegrass pastures of the north will carry only one head of cattle to two acres for about six months of the year; whereas on the alluvial lands of louisiana, bermuda grass and lespedeza combined forms permanent pasture which will carry several head of cattle ten months on a single acre. with a network of waterways and railroads, nearer the great consuming markets of the east than any other important cattle-growing section, and but a short distance from chicago and the important markets of the middle states, southern louisiana occupies a strategic commercial position of great money-value to those who raise cattle, as well as other products. out of six thousand members of the american hereford society, a grower from the gulf coast took the greatest number of prizes for a herd of hereford cattle, and also took the grand championship prize for a hereford bull, against the whole of the united states, which shows the merit of this section of country. the market today requires quality, and experience has proved that the greatest profit comes through producing quality. the day of the inferior, lightweight animal, which was marketed at two to three and one-half years old, has passed. the requirement now is for high-grade, one-year-old stock, weighing an average of , pounds. this stock can be produced in louisiana under organized methods, at a cost of ½ cents per pound, delivered at the market, and will bring a price of cents per pound. prior to the civil war the best talent in america was devoted to agricultural pursuits, which offered the greatest opportunity for making large wealth--as wealth was counted in those days. afterward came the manufacturing era, which attracted the genius of the country and brought about the perfection of methods and combinations in almost every known line, with the result that no longer is there any general field of opportunity therein. another era has now arrived, which again focuses the minds of thinking men upon the greatest of all problems--supplying the human race with food--because of the imperative need of increasing the world's food supply, and because of the large profit therein. in the united states today, the production of live stock is the greatest field of opportunity open to men of brains and capital; and it is, above all, the one industry that now attracts the genius of men of large affairs, and the great aggregations of capital. in the average price of beef cattle in the principal markets of this country was $ . per hundredweight; in , it had increased to $ . ; in the average was $ . ; in , $ . ; in , $ . ; in , $ . ; in , $ . ; and in , about $ . per hundredweight. the foregoing market prices tell the story of the cattle industry from a financial standpoint. the following prices paid in and in for prize-winning exhibition beeves--at the international live stock exposition held annually in chicago, at the union stock yards--well illustrate the trend of the cattle market: in , the grand champion carload of fat cattle was two-year-old stock, weighing an average of , pounds, and sold in the auction ring at $ per hundredweight. in , the grand champion carload of fat cattle was one-year-old stock, weighing an average of , pounds, and sold in the auction ring at $ per hundredweight. in , the grand champion steer was two years old, weighed , pounds, and sold in the auction ring at cents per pound. in , the grand champion steer was one year old, weighed , pounds, and sold in the auction ring at $ . per pound. the following top prices were paid in the auction ring of the exposition for "show cattle" of various weights: cattle weighing price in per hundredweight to pounds $ . to pounds . to pounds . to pounds . to pounds . to pounds . to pounds . to pounds . to pounds . to pounds . [illustration] transcriber's notes: text in italics is enclosed with underscores: _italics_. [illustration: frontispiece: the pole was jerked from the fat boy's hands.] the pony rider boys in louisiana or following the game trails in the canebrake by frank gee patchin author of the pony rider boys in the rockies, the pony rider boys in texas, the pony rider boys in montana, the pony rider boys in the ozarks, the pony rider boys in the alkali, the pony rider boys in new mexico, the pony rider boys with the texas rangers, the pony rider boys on the blue ridge, the pony rider boys in new england, etc., etc. illustrated philadelphia henry altemus company copyright, by howard e. altemus printed in the united states of america contents chapter i--southern hospitality a study in black and white. "i'm the duke of missouri." waxed floors too much for the fat boy. "i sometimes fall off a house to give me an appetite." chapter ii--bound for the cane jungle picking out their new ponies. favors for the brave. girl friends see the pony rider boys in daring horsemanship. tad ropes a pickaninny. the colored population treated to an unusual exhibition. chapter iii--in camp on tensas bayou living with the snakes in the canebrake. barred owls make the night hideous. stacy's slumbers greatly disturbed. little rest for the pony rider boys. stacy lays the foundation for trouble. chapter iv--nature blows out a fuse the camp aroused by an explosion. tents found ablaze. "the campfire has blown up!" ichabod denies responsibility. chunky admits his guilt. "gentlemen, i shot a pig." chapter v--marooned in a swamp the cook finds tad's feet out of doors. strange sights in the jungle. on an island made over night. snake and bird battle on high. pony riders are castaway for three days. a forest of perils. chapter vi--taking desperate chances dogs and birds welcome the sunlight. tad blazes a trail on the cypress knees. "have all you boys got scents like deerhounds?" tad butler amazes bill lilly, the guide. chapter vii--a swim in tensas lake chunky goes in with the alligators. tad's bullet speeds true. a narrow escape. stacy up a tree. ned rector knows a way to get the fat boy down. lively times in camp. the professor takes a hand. chapter viii--woodman, spare this tree "no one can stay mad at me for very long." chunky comes down in a heap. how they wound the hunter's horn. stacy brown is left behind and forgotten. chapter ix--the fat boy hung up "whoa, you fool horse!" "give the baby his horn." a narrow escape from death. down goes the fat boy again. chapter x--in the heart of the canebrake the bush-knife a dangerous weapon. stacy found dangling in the air. keeping company with an owl. tad takes a perilous plunge. chunky mixes it up with 'gators again. chapter xi--on the big game trails roped on the verge of death. it takes the whole outfit to rescue the fat boy. "that 'gator won't have any further appetite for fat boys." bear sign in the west. chapter xii--the quest of the phantom deer on the trail of a she-bear. tad butler's champion shot. a deer instead of a bear. mighty hunters get a shock. "he's gone!" gasp the pony rider boys. chapter xiii--the mystery is solved on the trail of the stolen doe. "i'll break my neck if i ride any faster." tad meets a suspicious character. chunky makes a discovery. "your nag has blood on his flank!" chapter xiv--the fat boy distinguishes himself "i remain right here. stacy, wind the horn!" the stranger grows threatening. "a fellow who will steal a deer will not hesitate to lie!" the woodsman takes a shot at tad. chunky turns the tables on the man. chapter xv--pluck and the dead doe just a preliminary skirmish. "i'll get you yet, you young whelp!" stacy disarms a bad man. "now get out of here as fast as you can ride!" traveling amid perils. chapter xvi--the horn points the way joy and anger in the pony rider camp. ichabod licks his chops at sight of tad's doe. the story of the theft arouses bill lilly. "i reckon i've seen that hound before." another day is coming. chapter xvii--wolves on the trail stacy's hat no longer hits his head. cane bears grow savage. hounds set on the trail. flying, snarling, yelping heaps of fur. dogs and wolves in a battle to the death. tad and stacy jump into the fight. chapter xviii--a stand in grim earnest wolves leap on the fallen fat boy. tad battles with the beasts with revolver and bush-knife. chunky sails in with a club and proves himself a hero. professor zepplin sees red. chapter xix--what tad found on the trail venison steak and boiled bayou water. bill lilly is excited over butler's discovery. "the cold-blooded scoundrel!" the guide hits the trail with blood in his eye. chapter xx--man-signs in the canebrake "he'll get a dose of lead if he doesn't watch out!" tad finds a fresh trail. lilly turns up a snaketrap. a moccasin in a bucket. death traps laid by a bad man. chapter xxi--surprises come fast alligator pete gets the drop on the guide. bill lilly in a tight place. "look out, this gun might go off!" the tables quickly turned. chapter xxii--outwitted by a boy tad butler ropes the enemy. "i'll kill you for that!" pete stands on his head. a sign of surrender. the prisoner of the pony rider boys. butler takes a long chance. chapter xxiii--ichabod gets a big surprise "de 'gator done gwine away, sah." hounds and pony riders take the trail for bear. "they've got her!" a strange sight. a bullet that went home. tad charged by a ferocious she-bear. chapter xxiv--conclusion in a dire predicament. butler fights mrs. bruin. a hand and paw conflict. tad's knife driven home. laid up for repairs. smugglers caught and punished. the triumph of pluck. chapter i southern hospitality "professor zepplin, i believe?" "the same. and you are?" "major clowney, sah, at your service," answered the tall, gray-haired, distinguished-looking southerner who had greeted the professor at the railway station in jackson. four clean-cut, clear-eyed young men, who had left the train with the professor, stepped up at that juncture and were introduced to the southerner as thaddeus butler, ned rector, stacy brown and walter perkins, known as the pony rider boys. the major regarded the young men quizzically, then shook hands with each of them, bowing with true southern courtliness over each hand as it was extended toward him. "isn't he the fine old gentleman?" whispered stacy, otherwise and more familiarly known among his companions as chunky, the fat boy. tad butler nodded. the major was a type that they had heard of, but never had known. he was a relic of the old south. "it gives me great pleasure, gentlemen, to welcome you to jackson. my old friend colonel perkins wrote me asking that i do what i could for you. i am delighted at the opportunity to serve him as well as these fine young gentlemen. you will wish to go to your hotel?" "yes, if you please," bowed the professor. the major apologized for the humble hotel to which he conducted them, explaining that it was the best the little southern town afforded. "i shall look for you to dine with myself and family this evening," he added. the professor expressed his appreciation, the boys murmuring their thanks. tad butler said he feared they were not in condition to accept home hospitality to which the major replied that he and his family would feel honored to receive the party, no matter in what condition they might be forced to come. "did the major fight the germans?" questioned chunky. "no, they are all colonels, majors and captains down here," replied tad laughingly. it was agreed that the professor and his party were to go out to the major's home at five o'clock that afternoon, meet major clowney's family, and have dinner with them, after which a pleasant evening would be spent. "you will no doubt wish to rest after your tiresome journey, professor. at a quarter to five i shall send one of my servants to lead you to my home. my wife and daughters are impatient to meet you, my old friend colonel perkins having told us not a little about your young friends." "you are very kind, sir," declared tad. "in the meantime, if you will give us the benefit of your advice, we shall look about us for a guide and for some horses, as i have been given to understand that we might procure all of these here in jackson," said the professor. "it is all arranged, sah, all arranged," answered the major. "it has been my pleasure to attend to all of the details. how many rooms will you require?" having received this information from professor zepplin, major clowney bustled about, sternly ordering the colored porters around, giving directions for the fetching of the equipment of the boys from the station, then making a personal inspection of the rooms assigned the professor and the boys, ordering this and that thing changed, until it seemed as if all the forces of the hotel were jumping about at the major's command. "there, sah, i think you will be as comfortable as this miserable hostelry can make you. and now i shall leave you to your rest," he said. the major, after once more shaking hands all around, bustled out, leaving the boys to themselves. chunky blinked solemnly. "pinch me, fellows. i don't know whether i am awake or dreaming," said stacy. "you will wake up by and by," answered ned. "a splendid gentleman," nodded tad thoughtfully. "we might all profit by major clowney's courtliness. did you ask him what arrangements he had made for us, professor?" "no. he no doubt will explain when we see him this evening. depend upon it, he has left nothing undone." "except to make the weather cool," answered stacy. "whew, but it's hot. where is our baggage? i want to get into some togs that aren't so hot as these glad clothes." "the baggage should be here very soon," answered walter. "the men went after it before we came upstairs." "i never saw so many colored folks in my life," declared chunky. "everything looks black to me now. i wonder if they are all black in this part of the country?" "this is what is known as the black belt of the south," answered professor zepplin. "i believe there are four blacks to every white in this section. further in we may find the proportion even greater." "a regular study in light and shade," observed rector. "you had better keep tight hold of your valuables," advised tad. "these gentlemen are light-fingered, i have heard." "they better not take any of my stuff," bristled stacy belligerently. "we know what to do to them if they do." "don't cry before you're hurt," advised ned. "who wants to take a look at the town?" "i don't care anything about the town; i want to sleep," declared chunky. "that's right. sleep is good for children," jeered ned. "is that why you sleep so much?" wondered stacy innocently. "ned, i will go with you," interjected tad, by way of changing the conversation. "we have plenty of time, and need not dress before four o'clock. it is now only half past one." walter and the professor decided that they would remain in the hotel, so tad and ned started out. before they were out of the house, stacy had thrown himself on the bed in his room, and was sleeping soundly. it was after three o'clock when butler, returning to the hotel, shook stacy awake, urging him to hustle his bath and dress. the boys were eagerly looking forward to the evening before them, for it was to be their first visit to a southern home. they were looking forward with a different sort of eagerness to the journey on which they were about to set out--a journey to the nearly trackless, vast canebrakes of louisiana. it was a wonderful bit of country into which they were headed, but as yet they knew practically nothing of its wildness and its manifold dangers, nor did they give thought to this phase of their summer's outing, for, the greater the thrills, the keener the enjoyment of the pony rider boys. following the return of tad and ned, all hands withdrew to their rooms to dress. the other boys finished dressing some time before stacy made his appearance, strolling dignifiedly into the parlor where his companions were awaiting him. "well, here i am," announced stacy. the pony riders gazed at him in amazement. "for goodness' sake, where did you get that outfit?" demanded tad, the first to find his voice. "how do you like it, fellows?" grinned chunky. "well, if you aren't the dude," giggled walter. "you mean the duke. i am the duke of missouri. what do you think of me," urged stacy. "i'll say you are unspeakable," growled ned rector. stacy brown's outfit was rather unusual. he was dressed in a white suit with a collar so high and tight that the blood was forced up into his face, a streak of red showing in the part of the hair of his head, while chunky's second chin hung over the front of the collar, extending down to the root of his liver-colored tie. his appearance was so ludicrous that the boys burst into a peal of laughter. professor zepplin eyed the fat boy with disapproving eyes. "where did you get that outfit, young man?" he demanded sternly. "i bought it in chillicothe. think i stole it?" "certainly not." "what do you think of it?" insisted stacy. "most remarkable," answered the professor, regarding chunky with a slow shake of the head. "are you going to dinner in that rig?" demanded ned. "of course i am." "then i guess i shall stay home," decided rector. "i don't care whether you stay home or go. i will make a great hit with the ladies, you see if i don't." "let me give you a piece of timely advice," said tad. "well, what is it?" "don't try to shine your shoes on your trousers. it shows so on white, you know." stacy growled. "haven't you anything else to put on?" questioned the professor. "i might put on my pajamas," answered the fat boy innocently. professor zepplin grunted. "i guess we can stand it if he can, professor. the outfit isn't so bad, after all," said tad. "of course it isn't," agreed chunky. "the trouble with you fellows is that you are jealous." "we could stand the white suit all right. but that liver-colored tie is enough to drive a man to do something desperate, stacy," declared tad laughingly. "where did you get it?" "bought it at the five and ten cent store in chillicothe. isn't it a wonder?" "it is," agreed tad. "one of the wonders of the world," added ned. "it might be a great deal worse," said walter seriously, whereat a wave of laughter rippled over the little party. "i suppose we shall have to put up with it, boys," said the professor reflectively, "though i can't understand why you ever thought of such an outfit. go put on another tie." "all right, if you insist," promised the fat boy, rising and stumbling from the parlor. stacy took plenty of time. they called him twenty minutes later, with the information that major clowney's colored man was waiting for them. "i will be there in a minute," answered stacy. "my collar button is two sizes larger than the button hole." when the fat boy finally made his appearance a groan went up from the entire party. from the liver-colored tie chunky had changed to one of the brightest red they had ever seen. instinctively the boys held their hands over their eyes. "oh, oh!" groaned ned. "this is too much." "i agree with you. take that thing off instantly!" commanded the professor. "can't i please you folks at all?" wailed the fat boy. "you can if you will put on a respectable tie," answered professor zepplin. "i--i haven't any others." "i think i have a tie in my trunk," said tad. "please get it for him, then," directed the professor. "yes, for goodness' sake do," urged rector. "stacy is bound to disgrace us." "that would be impossible in some cases," retorted the fat boy sarcastically. "come on, chunky," called tad. "we will see what we can do for you." tad fixed stacy out with a white tie, and assisted him to arrange it, after which stacy once more placed himself on exhibition, this time meeting the approval of his critical companions, though his face was redder than before, and the collar seemed to draw more tightly about his neck than ever. "we will now proceed," announced the professor gravely. "and be very careful that you don't fall down, chunky," warned tad. "i don't intend to fall down. but why shouldn't i fall down if i want to?" demanded stacy. "that collar might cut your head off," replied tad soberly. "then for goodness' sake fall down," grunted ned rector. "i reckon i shall be the one to cut a dash instead of cutting my head off," retorted the fat boy pompously. "as i said before, you fellows are jealous. you're mad because you didn't think to bring along a white suit." stacy suddenly found himself standing alone in the parlor of the hotel, the others having already started down the stairs. he made haste to follow them, joining the party in the lobby where the major's servant was waiting for them. they at once started out, stacy the center of the admiring gaze of pretty much all of the colored population of jackson. stacy was elated, his companions amused. major clowney and his wife welcomed professor zepplin and the boys to the hospitable southern home on the broad, pillared veranda that was large enough to admit a coach and four. the boys were then conducted into the drawing room, and stacy brown's feet nearly went out from under him the instant he stepped into the room. following his hostess chunky followed a perilous track of rugs on a waxed floor. the fat boy's face was now redder than ever, and the perspiration was streaking down his cheeks and getting into his eyes through his strenuous efforts to keep his feet on the floor. there were millicent, muriel and mary of the daughters, millicent being the eldest, each sweet-voiced, soft-spoken, each possessing a refinement and charm that the pony rider boys never had met with among the young folks at home. mrs. clowney's gentle manners reminded tad butler of his mother, and he told her as much on their way into the house. the professor was first introduced to the young ladies. stacy's turn came next. he did not dare make his best bow, for at the slightest movement his feet would slip on the insecure rug beneath them. as a result his bows were stiff affairs, nor could he bend his head to any great extent on account of the high "choker" collar. the other boys were keenly alive to chunky's distress, and they took a malicious pleasure in it. while the others were being introduced, stacy with great difficulty navigated himself to a chair, to the back of which he anchored with both hands gripping it firmly. "what's the matter, stacy?" whispered tad, as he strolled past his fat companion. "i--i forgot to bring my roller skates," mumbled stacy. "how am i ever going to get anywhere on this skating rink?" "take short steps," advised tad. "long strides will finish you." chunky adopted the suggestion with the result that he managed to move about the room with more or less dignity. but his undoing came when miss millicent took his arm as the family and guests moved toward the dining room. chunky forgot himself in the enthusiasm of the moment, and all at once his feet shot up into the air. "oh, wow!" moaned the fat boy as he sat down on the floor with such force as to set the chandeliers jingling, nearly pulling miss millicent down with him. had stacy not had the presence of mind instantly to disengage his arm from hers, the young woman surely would have sat down on the floor beside him. to their credit be it said that the other boys never smiled. they were too well bred for that. neither did chunky smile, but for an entirely different reason. as he scrambled to his feet, making a further exhibition of himself in the effort, a red ring might have been observed about his neck where the collar had pressed into the boy's full neck. major clowney and mrs. clowney were all consideration for the hapless pony rider boy, the major declaring that every rug in the room should be removed and a carpet put down in its place. he said it was criminal to have such a trap in the house. "i do hope you didn't hurt yourself," said miss millicent sympathetically. "oh, not at all. i frequently sit down that way before dinner," answered the fat boy. "do you, indeed?" smiled the young woman. "oh, yes. you see it gives me an appetite for dinner. it's great. you should try it. of course at first you should go outside and sit down on the ground where it's soft. when you get used to that you may try the floor." miss millicent laughed merrily. there was no resisting stacy's drollery. once more they took up their interrupted journey to the dining room, where the boys found themselves in charming surroundings. in spite of stacy brown's awkwardness, the clowneys soon discovered that the pony rider boys were well worth knowing. the lads were self-possessed, and their experiences in the saddle in many parts of the country enabled them to talk interestingly. as usual, stacy made most of the merriment, and every time the fat boy spoke a little wave of good-natured laughter rippled around the table. "i fear," said miss millicent, in answer to stacy's description of how he got an appetite, "that i should prefer to fast." "oh, you wouldn't after you got used to the other way," the fat boy assured her. "that is stacy's way of apologizing for his appetite, miss clowney," said ned across the table. "no one need apologize for a healthy appetite," replied the major promptly. "the apology, should come for the opposite reason." chunky bowed his approval of the sentiment. "that is what i always tell the boys," he said. "sleep out of doors all the time and you will get an appetite that will be almost annoying," he promised. "ah--ahem," interrupted the professor. "major, did i understand you to say that you had procured a guide for us?" "yes, yes. i have been enjoying our young friends to the extent that i forgot all about the business end. i have obtained the services of bill lilly as your guide." "is he a good one?" asked ned. "the best in this part of the country. he knows the brake as do few other men. another man, pete austen--otherwise known as alligator pete--was eager to get the job, but i consider him an unreliable man. there are stories abroad not at all to the credit of austen. but you may depend upon lilly in any and all circumstances." "how far is the brake from here?" asked tad. "a day's ride will take you to it. you never have been in the brake?" "no, sir." "then you have a new experience before you, mr. butler. lilly will meet you at your hotel at eight o'clock tomorrow morning, and you may start at once, though it would please me to have you remain with us longer." "perhaps we shall see you when we return from the brake," said tad. "i should think you young men would not want to go into that awful place," said miss millicent with a shudder. "and pray, why not?" questioned tad. "it is such a horrible place." "oh, you don't know us fellows," interjected stacy. "we are used to horrible places. i reckon there aren't many such in this country that we haven't been in. what is there so horrible about this--this canebrake?" "snakes, lots of them, foul deadly fellows," answered miss millicent. "ugh!" exclaimed the fat boy, his eyes growing large. "alligators, wild animals, almost anything that you might think of you will find in the canebrake," she added. "don't frighten the boys before they get into the brake," begged the major. a grim smile curled the corners of professor zepplin's lips. he was rather sensitive on the subject of timidity so far as his young friends were concerned. "major, i fear you do not know my boys." "how so, professor?" "they are unafraid. they are afraid of nothing. my life would be much easier were they a little less so." "fine! chivalrous, too, eh?" "indeed, yes," nodded the professor. "yes, i have saved the lives of lots of folks," declared stacy pompously. "do tell us about it," urged miss clowney. "i couldn't think of it. i'm too modest to brag about myself." in the meantime tad butler, the professor and major clowney had become absorbed in the subject of big game, which the three were discussing learnedly. the hosts were amused at stacy brown, but they were irresistibly drawn to tad, both because of his sunny disposition and the lad's keen mind, so unusual for one of his age. the dinner came to an end all too soon to suit the pony rider boys, and the party moved towards the drawing room. stacy, seating miss millicent, strolled to one of the broad, open windows which had been swung back against the wall on their hinges. the fat boy thought this window opened out on the veranda, so he stepped out for a breath of air, but his feet touched nothing more substantial than air. stacy took a tumble into the side yard, landing on his head and shoulders. the young women of the family cried out in alarm when they saw the fat boy disappearing through the window. "are you hurt? are you hurt?" cried the clowneys, rushing to the window, the major leaping out with the agility of youth. "hurt?" piped a voice from the darkness. "certainly not. just settling my dinner, that's all. i usually do this. sometimes when i am out in the woods and there isn't a house to jump from, i just climb a tree after dinner and fall out." "i think we had better get stacy home before he gets into more serious difficulty," said tad in a low tone to the professor. "i agree with you, tad. however, he has done his worst, i guess. look at his coat. it is ripped for six inches at the shoulder," groaned the professor. "that must have been where he hit the side yard," smiled tad, after quiet had been restored. after half an hour of pleasant conversation, during which the fat boy entertained miss millicent with stories of his prowess in mountain and on plain, the pony rider boys took their leave, voting the clowneys the most pleasant people they had ever met. with this pleasant evening their social amusement was at an end. on the morrow they were to begin their rough life in the open again, and during their explorations in the canebrake they were destined to have many thrilling experiences and some adventures, the like of which had never befallen any of the hardy pony rider boys. chapter ii bound for the cane jungle eight o'clock on the following morning found tad butler strolling up and down in front of the hotel for his morning airing. by his side walked bill lilly, whom tad had found waiting for them in the lobby of the hotel. bill, who was to guide the party through the maze of the canebrake, was a type. he was a spare man, with a long, drooping, colorless moustache, gentle blue eyes, and a frame of steel and whipcord. billy, it was said, had been known to follow the trail of a bear on foot for days until he finally ran the animal down and killed it. when night came he would throw himself down on the trail and go to sleep or crouch like a wild turkey high up in the crotch of a giant cypress. unlike the guides of the north, billy loved to talk. he had not, however, looked forward to the task before him with any great enthusiasm, believing that he was to guide a party of soft-muscled boys through the jungle, boys who would need looking after constantly. he had not thought to find a seasoned woodsman like young butler. though tad had said nothing about himself, lilly's experienced blue eyes told him that here was no tenderfoot, but a woodsman after his own heart. shortly afterwards the rest of the party came down. tad introduced them to the guide, then proposed that they look the horses over. stacy demurred. he said he never could pick out a horse before breakfast, so, to save argument and grumbling, everyone went in to breakfast, while lilly sat down and talked with them, making known to the party his plans for the coming trip. tad was especially interested in the horses that billy showed them half an hour afterwards. these were hardy little animals, a cross between a standard-bred saddle horse of the north and a mustang. they were tough, wiry animals, owned by a rancher on the outskirts of the town. the guide had not picked out the horses, preferring to leave that to the boys, provided they knew what they wanted. they did, especially tad butler. he went over the whole herd, finally choosing a white-coated, pink-nosed animal for himself, after having roped the animal, which did not propose to be caught. both the owner and the guide opened their eyes at tad's skill with the rope. "that one has a nasty temper," warned the guide. "i know it," nodded the pony rider boy. "but he is sound and can stand a lot of grilling." "i want that black yonder," cried chunky. "i think not," said butler. "why not?" "he is wind-broken. we don't want any of that sort." "i guess you boys don't need any of my help in picking out your mounts," grinned lilly. "where did you get your knowledge of horses, master butler?" "he just couldn't help it. he was born that way," ned rector informed them. one by one tad chose the animals, and when he had finished the owner agreed that tad had picked out the best stock in the herd. they had brought along their trappings in a wagon, and the boys now proceeded to saddle and bridle the horses they had decided to take. then they mounted and raced up and down the road, trying out the little animals as well as they could. their riding was a revelation to bill lilly and to the rancher. bill said it was as good as a circus. "but," he added, "you don't want to try any of those tricks in the brake," shaking his head as tad swooped down at a fast gallop, scooping up stacy brown's sombrero that had been lost from the fat boy's head, and deftly spinning it towards chunky, both at full gallop. the fat boy caught it fully as deftly, and solemnly replaced it on his head. each of the horses was tried out until the boys finally had settled upon those that they thought best fitted to take with them into the woods. next came the packing of kits, the stowing of supplies, and a hundred and one petty details, all of which tad supervised, knowing pretty well what would be needed by the party. of course, not knowing the country into which they were going, he was forced to consult the guide frequently about this or that detail. when the boys returned to the hotel they did so astride of their new horses and in their cowboy outfits, attracting a great deal of attention in the little southern village. major clowney said the young ladies of his family were eager to see the boys before they left. this gave tad an idea. "boys, what do you say to going over to the major's home and giving the ladies an exhibition of rough-riding?" he cried. "hurrah! just the thing," shouted the others. "would it please them, major?" asked tad, glancing at the chuckling major. "they would be delighted, i know." "what do you say, professor?" "yes, by all means, tad." the professor was proud of the horsemanship of his young charges, and was quite willing, indeed, that they should show off their skill before the clowney family. receiving their tutor's permission the boys removed the packs from their horses, while the professor, leaving his mount secured to the tie rail, accompanied major clowney on foot to his home. the pony rider boys made what they called a grand entry. they swept down in a great cloud of dust on the clowney mansion, whooping like a pack of indians on the war path. all the colored people in the establishment ran out into the street to see the exhibition, but by the time they had gotten outside the fence that enclosed the lawn the cloud of dust had rolled on far down the street. the ladies of the family were leaning over the fence clapping their hands. "there they come back," cried miss millicent. "that is mr. butler in the lead." tad, sitting his saddle as if he were, indeed, a part of it, swept past, lifting his hat. miss millicent flung a long-stemmed rose toward him. the rose fell short, landing at the side of the road. with marvelous quickness of thought the pony rider boy swerved his pony to one side, threw himself over and caught up the rose by the very tips of his fingers. he came within a fraction of an inch of missing it, but the recovery was beautifully done, arousing great enthusiasm among the spectators, few of whom ever had seen any such rough-riding. stacy flung his hat into the air, letting it fall to the ground, then other hats went the same way. taking a short ride up the street, the boys wheeled and came back at a terrific pace, swinging down from their saddles and scooping up their hats. tad, however, suddenly changed his mind about recovering his hat. he had discovered a little colored boy of about ten years running across the street to get out of the way. the youngster made even greater haste when he saw tad heading towards him, and placing one hand on the fence enclosing the clowney grounds, the youngster vaulted. tad's rope was whirling about his own head. he let it go while the feet of the pickaninny were still in the air. the loop caught one of the colored youngster's feet and was suddenly jerked taut, and the pickaninny landed on his head and shoulders on the lawn with tad's rope drawn tight around the little fellow's ankle. the pickaninny was yelling lustily. butler brought his horse down so suddenly that the animal plowed up the dirt all the way to the fence. the slightest mistake or error of calculation might have resulted in serious injury to the little colored boy, but butler was confident of himself, the only uncertainty being his mount, which of course he did not know very well. the white horse played his part like a veteran cow pony. how the spectators did applaud! they went wild with enthusiasm, but the colored people did not cheer; they stood in wholesome awe of tad butler's ready rope. there was something almost uncanny to them in the way the lad had roped the pickaninny, and they took good care to crowd back farther from the street lest the boy might take it into his head to rope another of them. "will these horses jump, mr. lilly?" called tad. "as high as themselves," answered the guide. tad tried his mount over the yard fence and was delighted at its jumping skill. then the others poured over into the yard, a veritable mounted cataract. next they gave an exhibition of rescuing a dismounted companion, jerking the boy up from the ground while the rider's horse was at full gallop. there seemed no end to the stunts that the pony rider boys could do, and they gave the spectators everything they knew along this line. professor zepplin's eyes were glowing. he was proud of the achievements of his boys, and well he might be, for their performance had been a most unusual one. the lads brought their exhibition to a close by approaching the fence in a slow trot, and slipping from their saddles without the least attempt to be spectacular. this was as much of a surprise to the spectators as had been the more startling feats, for they had not looked for so slow a finish. "we don't want to tire out our horses, you know," explained tad. "they have a long journey ahead of them today." "yes, we could do a lot more if it weren't for that," added stacy brown pompously. "it was splendid!" cried the young ladies. "it was marvelous." "the finest exhibition i have ever witnessed," declared the major. "do you shoot also?" "we are the only ones who really do," admitted stacy modestly. "i am afraid our friend stacy is laying it on a little too strong," laughed tad, "though we are not what you might call bad shots, especially in the case of stacy brown. why he once shot professor zepplin's hat off and never touched a hair." the fat boy flushed. further teasing along this line was interrupted by the servants coming out with a pitcher of lemonade, which the boys drank sitting on the lawn in the shade of the trees. after a visit of half an hour, billy lilly said they had better be going if they were to make tensas bayou that night as they had planned to do, so bidding good-bye to their new-found friends, the lads rode away, waving their hats in response to the fluttering handkerchiefs of the clowney family. proceeding to the hotel, packs were lashed to the horses, and shortly after that a cloud of dust just outside the town marked the trail that the pony rider boys were following on their way to the jungle. chapter iii in camp on tensas bayou darkness had fallen when the pony rider boys party finally had picked their way through the outer edge of the jungle, and, despite the darkness, had continued on through the tropical growth, guided unerringly by billy lilly to the site he had chosen for their camp. "billy must belong to the owl family," was tad butler's comment as their guide rode confidently ahead, calling back directions to them. behind lilly rode another and not unimportant member of the party. this was ichabod. ichabod was of the color of the night, black. he had been recommended by major clowney as a man who would be useful to them. ichabod was as solemn and dignified as an african tribal chief. in fact, he was an excellent understudy for stacy brown when the latter was in his most dignified mood. ichabod could cook, could make and break camp and, what was almost as useful, he could handle the hunting dogs, and knew the canebrake fairly well, but ichabod was afraid of snakes; that was his worst failing. one afraid of snakes had better keep out of the canebrake. the dozen hunting dogs that lilly had brought with him were in charge of the colored man, who had handled them before and whom the dogs knew and liked. "file left. look out that you don't get into the water," called the guide. "here we are. make camp." "i will go cut the firewood," said tad. "no, no," objected the guide. "i was speaking to ichabod. you all remain on your horses until we get the fire going and i have beaten up the camp site." "why so?" questioned butler. "on account of the reptiles." "oh, fudge!" grunted tad. the other boys laughed and slipped from their saddles. "i guess you don't know my boys," objected the professor, who, not to be outdone, descended from his saddle. "as you wish. but remember, i am responsible for these young men," answered billy. "we are responsible for ourselves, sir, and we are not exactly tenderfeet, mr. lilly," said tad. "if you will show me some firewood trees i will do as i suggested, get wood for the campfire." "leave that to me. you will have plenty of opportunity to work after we get settled to our trails. you will break your neck if you go to floundering about over the cypress knees." the boys did not know what was meant by "cypress knees," and at that moment there were other matters to occupy their minds, so they did not ask. the boys began working away at their packs, loosening the cinches, piling the packs on the ground in an orderly manner born of long experience in the woods. they did not need a light to do this work. in fact, they could just as easily have pitched camp in the darkness as in the light. in this instance they did not do so, knowing that lilly had definite plans as to where and how the camp should be made. they soon heard the sound of the guide's axe. ichabod was humming to himself, the dogs were barking and the horses neighing, while the pony rider boys were shouting jokes at one another. "where is that fat boy?" called rector, not having heard chunky's voice during the last few minutes. "i don't know. stacy!" called the professor. tad struck a match and holding it above his head glanced keenly about him. the light revealed chunky sitting with his back against a tree, his head tilted back, mouth wide open, sound asleep. tad had the fat boy by the collar instantly. "here, here! whatcher want?" demanded stacy rebelliously as he was roughly jerked to his feet. "don't you know better than to lie down in a place like this?" demanded tad. "why not?" "you don't know what there may be about here. didn't you hear the guide say there were reptiles here?" "re--reptiles?" "yes." "oh-h-h, wow!" "if you must sleep, try it standing up. get on your horse and take a nap. that will be safer," advised butler. "i--i guess i don't want to go to sleep," stammered stacy. "i thought not. here is some punk, if you want it, mr. lilly." "how do you chance to have punk?" "oh, i frequently find it useful, especially in wet weather," answered tad. "i have some of the same in my kit, but it isn't available just now. there, that's better," nodded billy. a little crackling flame had leaped up flinging flickering shadows over the scene. the dogs were sitting about on their haunches regarding the proceedings expectantly, knowing that supper time would soon be at hand. "where shall we pitch your tent, mr. lilly?" asked tad. "i will take care of that. you may pitch your own if you wish. you know how and where better than i can tell you." tad did. he laid out the guide's tent so that the opening would be towards the fire, placing it as close to the fire as possible, almost too close it seemed. "why so close?" questioned lilly, tugging at his long moustache. "to catch some of the smoke from the campfire," replied butler. "for what?" "to drive away mosquitoes. i hear there are a few here." "you'll do," declared lilly with an emphatic nod. "i guess you _have_ been in the woods before." the tents were arranged in a semicircle close about the fire that was now blazing higher and higher. "is there any danger of firing the forest here, mr. lilly?" asked butler. "no, not here. everything is too damp. all this part of the forest is really a swamp. wherever you find the cypress you will find moist ground." "but where is the canebrake?" questioned ned. "on the ridges, the higher ground." "near here?" "within a few paces," answered the guide. "i will fetch some of it in to show you after we have had our supper. i guess you boys must be hungry, eh?" "hungry?" cried stacy. "no, just empty, that's all." ichabod was already at work getting the supper, and tempting odors filled the air, with stacy brown squatting down with the dogs, greedily watching the preparations for the evening meal. while this was being done, lilly was trampling down the brush, slashing the thorn bushes with his long bush knife, clearing away, so far as possible, all hiding places for trouble-hunting reptiles. smoking hot waffles were served to the hungry boys for supper. the voice of the fat boy under the influence of the waffles soon was stilled, his cheeks were puffed out and his eyes were rolling expressively. chunky was very near to perfect happiness. "the bayou is just back of the tents," warned lilly. "be careful that none of you falls into the water in the darkness. i should not advise much roaming about in the night until after you have become accustomed to this forest. you will find it far different from any you have ever visited before." "i have observed as much," nodded the professor. "but what are those peculiar formations that i see all about us?" "yes, i was wondering about them," said tad. "you mean the cypress knees?" "those long, crab-like formations standing up from the ground three or four feet," said the professor. "they are the cypress knees. in reality they are a sort of root of the tree itself. they make great hiding places for all sorts of reptiles and small animals, and they are the finest obstacles in the world to fall over." "i should think the horses would break their legs over them," said tad. "a horse unfamiliar with travel in the swamp would do so. but you will find your animals very wise. they know the game down here, though up in the rockies they undoubtedly would break their own necks and those of their riders as well." "every man and beast to his trade," observed the professor reflectively. billy lilly agreed with a long nod. "ichabod, bring in an armful of cane so the gentlemen may see it," he directed. the sticks that ichabod fetched resembled bamboo more than anything the boys ever had seen. these canes they found to be hollow, having no pith, being divided on the inside every few inches into sections. "as i have already said," continued the guide, "the canebrake stretches along slight rises of ground for miles and miles, forming a very striking feature. the canes stand so thickly that they crowd out other growths and make fine hiding places for wild animals and reptiles. they stand in what might be called ranks, each but a few inches from its companion, extending to a height of fifteen or twenty feet, straight and tall." "they should make fine fishpoles," said tad. "they do. they are used for that purpose. the leaves commence about two-thirds the height of the plant, and the peculiar feature of the leaves is that they seem to grow right out of the stalk." "the cypress trees appear to be very tall here," said professor zepplin. "yes, they are. they are said to be rivaled in size and height only by some of the red gums and white oaks. in towering majesty they are really unsurpassed by any tree in the eastern forests. the redwoods of the sierras, of course, can't be beaten by anything else in this country. there are thousands of acres of cypress and cane down here, and for a place in which to get lost the canebrake has no equal. you don't want to get lost in this forest, young gentlemen." "we don't intend to," answered rector. "if we did it would not be the first time that we have lost our way," laughed tad. "yes, tad and i got lost up in the maine woods. i never had so much fun in my life," piped stacy. "but then there weren't any creeping things up there. i guess i'll go to bed. i'm sleepy." "it is time we all turned in," agreed the professor. but there was not much sleep for the pony rider boys for a long time. the unfamiliar noises of this suffocating swamp, the buzzing of the mosquitoes fighting to get into the tents, but driven back by the smoke, kept sleep away also, except in the case of stacy brown who began snoring almost as soon as he touched his bed. a weird hooting and yelling that seemed to come from every direction at once brought the boys to a sitting posture about an hour after they had turned in. "good gracious, what's that?" demanded ned. "i don't know," answered tad. "it isn't like anything i ever heard. i guess it must be some kind of wild animal." "those are barred owls," called the guide from the adjoining tent. "i thought their racket would wake you boys up. but you will get used to them." "do they howl all night?" asked tad. "yes, usually, and sometimes in the day as well." "i see our finish so far as sleep is concerned. but i am going to sleep just the same," growled chunky. late in the night the campers succeeded in getting to sleep. the fire died down and the mosquitoes at last reached their victims. stacy was the first to be awakened by the pests. he slapped and growled, and growled and slapped; then after a time he got up quietly, piling the bundle of cane on the fire, and placing heavier wood on top of that. then, well satisfied with having done his duty, the fat boy went back to bed. but stacy had laid the foundation for a lot of trouble that would arouse the entire camp ere many more minutes had passed. the trouble came with a bang, with a report that sounded as if the camp had been blown up, accompanied by the yells of the boys as fire and burning sticks were hurled into the little tents. chapter iv nature blows out a fuse "we've blown out a fuse!" yelled tad. "shut off the current!" cried ned rector. "i'm shot, i'm shot!" howled the fat boy, leaping out into the open, as had rector and walter. "help! help!" "get back!" shouted tad. "don't go out there barefooted. don't--" _bang! bang! bang!_ the explosions became so rapid that the boys could not have counted them had they desired to do so. a dull red glow showed in two of the tents. "we are on fire!" yelled butler. "use your blankets. stamp it out!" tad did not take his own advice not to step out in bare feet. he sped swiftly to his pony, and, grabbing a heavy blanket, raced back and into his own tent where, by this time, the flames had started up briskly. throwing the blanket on the flames, tad trod up and down, dancing a jig as he sought to beat out the flames. his quick work smothered them in short order, but at the end the boy's feet were swollen and blistered. the guide had not been idle all this time; he had used the same tactics as had tad, assisted by rector, while stacy brown was dancing up and down yelling "fire!" at the top of his voice. "stop calling for the firemen and go to work," ordered tad. "the firemen can't hear you." "they would be deaf if they couldn't," answered ned from the adjoining tent. "what do you think you are yelling about, anyway?" "fire, fire!" "you are slower than cream on a cold day," laughed tad. "the fire is out." "then if there's nothing else to do will someone please tell me what blew up?" asked ned. "that is what i should like to know," nodded tad. "why, the campfire blew up," stacy informed them. "we know that, but what caused it?" "i--i don't know unless you fellows threw in some cartridges," replied chunky. "cartridges!" exploded ned. "don't you think we have better use for our ammunition?" "guide, what is the meaning of this?" questioned the professor. "we will find out. i am somewhat curious myself. ah!" "what have you found?" asked tad, springing into the tent where lilly was pawing over some sticks that had fallen inside. lilly handed a stick of cane to tad, who observed that the stalk had been blown out as if from an interior explosion. "i don't understand, mr. lilly." "some of that cane got in the fire and blew up." "why, i never heard of such a thing," wondered tad. "yes, it is quite common. this stuff is very combustible when dry. when in that condition, and the hot air is confined in the hollow sections, there is sure to be an explosion and loud one, too. that is what happened here tonight." "did you put cane on the fire, mr. lilly?" "no, i didn't. ichabod, did you?" "no, sah, ah doan' put no cane on dat fiah, sah. ah reckons ah know'd bettah dan to do a thing like dat, sah. ah suah does." "hm-m-m!" mused the guide reflectively. "any of you boys put cane on the fire?" no one answered. tad shot a keen glance at stacy who was standing at the opening of his tent. "well, what have you to say for yourself, young man?" demanded tad. "i? nothing," answered the fat boy. "that was a nice trick to play on us when we were sleeping so soundly, now wasn't it?" demanded tad. "i--i didn't know the stuff would go off like a gun. i--i--" "we might have known who did it," chuckled rector. "i am glad you admit it, stacy," said tad with a grin. "better to make a clean breast right at the beginning. you know we are sure to find you out, no matter how cute you may think you are." "i--i didn't do anything." "no, you didn't do anything. you merely put some cane on the fire so it would explode and give us a scare. you nearly burned up the outfit." "stacy, did you do this?" demanded the professor sternly. "i--i guess i did." "why?" "well, you see, i was awakened by those villainous mosquitoes, so i got up, went outside, and put some wood on the fire--that's all i did." "well, what then?" urged the professor. "then the whole business went off." "he did not know the cane would explode," spoke up the guide, who had been tugging at his moustache while listening and regarding stacy narrowly. "no, no, that's right; i didn't know. how should i know that the stuff was loaded? is this country full of stuff like that that will blow up if you look crosswise at it?" "the cane always will explode when subjected to sufficient heat," replied the guide. "first time i ever knew that trees would blow up. i--i guess this isn't much of a place to go around with matches in your pocket. wha--what's that?" stammered the fat boy in a scared tone. "waugh, waugh, waugh." the other boys now took heed. they too were wondering what the strange new sound might mean, and glanced apprehensively at billy lilly for the answer. the guide was still tugging at his moustache, grinning behind his hand. "waugh, waugh, waugh, waugh!" this time the sound seemed nearer. the dogs were growling, some straining at their leashes, a dark ridge showing along the back of each. "the dogs have their rough up. something is around here. i am going to find out what it is for myself," declared tad butler, slipping on his boots and snatching up a rifle. "where are you going?" asked the guide. "i am going to investigate, that's all. you may know what that noise is, but i don't. it may be a bear for all we know." tad slipped out back of the tent. there followed a sharp flash, and a crash, then a series of wild "waugh, waugh, waugh, waughs," a great scurrying and floundering in the bushes. "ha, ha! missed him, didn't you?" shouted the guide. "i did not," answered the pony rider boy calmly. then the listeners heard tad utter a groan of disgust. billy lilly slapped his thighs and laughed loudly. "that's a good joke on the old scout, eh? that's certainly a good one. well, what did you get?" tad walked in and shoved his gun into his tent. "you knew what it was all the time, didn't you, mr. lilly?" "surely i knew. you didn't think i had been in these brakes all these years without knowing all about them, did you?" "wha--what did you shoot, tad?" stammered stacy. "what did i shoot? gentlemen, i shot a pig," answered butler in a tone of disgust. "pork! i am a rank tenderfoot. stacy, please kick me." "i--i can't. i'm in my stocking feet. oh, i wish i had my boots on. i'll never get another opportunity like this," wailed the fat boy in mock sorrow. this raised another laugh. lilly forgot to tug at his tawny moustache and straightening back against a tree opened his mouth and uttered a loud "haw, haw, haw." "you laugh like a burro i knew down in new mexico," observed stacy, eyeing the guide narrowly, ready to run in case lilly should take exception to his remark. "now, if you boys want any sleep, suppose we turn in again," suggested lilly. "i am going to feed the campfire first," answered tad. "i don't propose to leave that to master stacy. next time he will blow up the outfit." "no, i reckon we had better set a watch over him. he's worse'n the mosquitoes," declared billy. chapter v marooned in a swamp "hey, tad!" "yes, what is it?" asked tad butler, wide awake in an instant in response to stacy's quiet call. "what's that roaring?" "rain, you silly." "oh, is that all?" "yes, what did you think it was?" "i--i thought it was a tornado," answered the fat boy sleepily. "goodness, it is coming down, at that!" "i should say it is. at this rate we'll all get wet feet." "we're lucky if we don't get more than our feet wet," returned chunky. "i'm sleepy." in the next breath stacy was snoring. tad lay quiet, watching the rain drown out the campfire that was now steaming and throwing off great clouds of fog. soon there would be nothing left of their big campfire but the blackened, ill-smelling embers. the others evidently had not been awakened by the rain, or, if they had, they had not aroused themselves to discuss it as had stacy and tad. little by little tad dropped off, but it seemed as if he had no more than closed his eyes when he was awakened by the voice of ichabod. "hey, boss, ah reckon, sah, you'd bettah pull in youah feet, sah. they's in de wet, sah." tad's feet, which had somehow got thrust out under the side of the tent, were in a puddle of water more than ankle deep. but so warm was the water and so soundly had he slept that the boy was wholly unconscious of his condition. tad found, upon drawing in his feet, that they were not any too clean either. the black muck of the forest had smeared them. "have you any clean water, ichabod?" he asked. "yes, sah. ah done kotched a bucket full ob de rain. dat am clean, sah." "thank you," said tad, proceeding to scrub his feet. "i am almost as much of a sleepy-head as stacy. no, i don't know enough to get the whole of me in out of the rain. what if a snake had chanced along and discovered my feet out there?" tad could not repress a shiver at the thought. after scrubbing himself and putting on his stockings and boots the lad, still in his pajamas, stepped to the door of the tent. in his amazement at finding his feet outdoors he had neglected to take note of the state of the weather. the rain was still falling in torrents. tad judged from the faint light that day had only just dawned. from where he sat he could see the fog rising from the swamp. he could smell it, too, that fresh odor of wet vegetation, always so marked on the low lands. tad rubbed his eyes and looked again. their camp was pitched on a very slight rise of ground, and to his amazement the camp now occupied a small island, all about it a lake of muddy water. the boy wondered, for the moment, if the mississippi had overflowed and drowned out the jungle, but upon second thought he understood that the heavy rain was responsible for the flood. the ground was so saturated with moisture that it could hold no more. from the water rose the knees of the cypress trees, like giant crabs rearing their bodies to get free of the water--knees twisted and gnarled, assuming all sorts of fantastic shapes. one could imagine that they were dragons and centipedes, while one formation looked like a camel kneeling. from beneath one of these knees the boy saw a dark spot wriggling through the water. tad saw that it was a snake, but what kind he did not know. stepping back into his tent, he picked up his rifle, then returning to the door, scanned the water keenly. "there he is. i see him." the lad raised his weapon, took careful aim at the black speck swaying from side to side as the reptile swam hastily away. tad pulled the trigger. the report of his rifle sounded to him like the firing of an eight-pounder cannon. when the smoke cleared away there was no sign of the black wriggling head. but on the other hand there was an uproar in the tents. the pony rider boys, awake on the instant, leaped out into the open, in most instances splashing into the water up to their ankles, and as quickly leaping back into their tents, uttering yells. stacy brown was not so fortunate. when he landed outside his tent he stepped on a sharp stub and in trying to recover himself, fell face down in the water with a loud splash. he scrambled up, choking and sputtering. "oh, wow!" howled the fat boy. chunky's face was streaked with black muck and his pajamas looked as if they had been dyed black. "oh, wow! somebody pushed me! you did it on purpose." "oh, keep still," rebuked ned. "don't you see what has happened?" "we've moved. why didn't you wake me up before you moved the camp? what lake is this?" "you evidently haven't got your eyes open yet, chunky," answered tad with a laugh. "don't you see, we are marooned?" "why, so we are," cried ned rector. "surrounded by water?" exclaimed the professor. "yes, that's the definition of an island," nodded ned. "entirely surrounded by water." "but--but, who shot? i heard a gun go off," insisted walter. "i did," answered tad. "what were you shooting at?" questioned the guide, who, having pulled on his boots, had splashed out in front of the camp. "i was trying my skill on something floating in the water over yonder." "funny time of day to be shooting at things," grumbled ned. "did you hit the mark?" asked the guide, surmising that tad had shot at a snake. butler nodded, and went back to put his rifle where it would keep dry. "what are we going to do for firewood?" asked the professor apprehensively. "i have some dry wood in my tent," answered the guide. "oh, you have? so have i," grinned tad, whereat lilly tugged some more at his tawny moustache. "they have got to wake up in the morning to get ahead of you, haven't they?" he nodded. "i don't know. i am not so sure of that. if you had seen me when ichabod awakened me, you wouldn't think so," replied tad with a sheepish grin. "what was it?" asked ned. "my feet were outdoors in the water, while the rest of me was inside." "ho, ho," jeered chunky, poking his streaked face from his tent opening for an instant. "lucky none of those savage pigs was about at that time or you might have lost half a pound or so of toes." chunky dodged back to avoid being hit by a handful of black muck that ned shied at him, and which spattered over the front of the tent. "you will have to clean that off," rebuked tad. "we will make chunky do that. he was to blame for it," declared ned. "you will have a fine time making him clean the mud from the tent. by the way, what has become of my pig?" questioned tad. lilly swung a hand in the direction of the bayou, a narrow channel now unrecognizable because of the water that covered the ground on either shore. tad nodded his understanding of the gesture. some of the reptiles there had made away with the dead pig. "i was going to have that wild pig for my own breakfast," said the boy reflectively. "you must have good teeth," smiled lilly. "those wild ones are tough as boot leather. we will have some bear meat one of these days." "that's nothing," answered ned. "we have had lots of that on our trips." "how about venison?" "that always is a luxury," smiled tad. "are there deer here?" "yes, but you will find shooting them in the brake is not the same as letting go at them in comparatively open woods. here, it is a case of shoot quickly or miss your game." "we can shoot quickly, but the next question is, can we hit?" laughed tad. "that's the mighty question," agreed lilly. "if you boys can shoot as well as you ride and do other things, i reckon there isn't a deer in the brake that could get away from you." "i guess i will practise on those horrible owls," said ned. "by the way, are they all drowned out?" asked tad. "oh, no. they are here. if you want to see one, look up in that cypress yonder," answered the guide, pointing. "you will see what birds of prey they are. they are the worst in the woods, and the noisiest," added lilly. tad and ned looked. high up on a swaying limb was perched one of the long-beaked barred owls. the bird was having a desperate battle with something. at first the youngsters were at a loss to understand what that something was. "it is a snake!" cried tad. "that's what it is. you have guessed right," nodded lilly. the boys watched with fascinated gaze this battle high in the air. "what kind of snake is it?" questioned ned in an awed tone. "i reckon i don't know. ichabod, what is that snake the owl has up there?" "ah doan' know, sah. ah reckon it am jest snake." "that is as near as a nigger can get to a direct answer," snorted lilly. "he doesn't know. that was what he was trying to tell us," said tad. preparations for breakfast were well along by this time, though it was with difficulty that they had kept the fire up sufficiently to do the cooking. the rain was still beating down in torrents and a heavy mist hung over the jungle, a mist that would not be dispelled until the sun had come out and licked up the surplus water in the great swamp. to the left and rear of the camp, though they could hardly make out the shore lines now, lay a small lake. tensas it was called. the waters were always foul and muddy, and alive underneath the surface, though the boys could only surmise this. they had observed no signs of life on the surface, but then they had had little opportunity to observe much of anything except the rain. on beyond the camp they were now able to make out faintly the straight stems of the canebrake that stood row upon row in straight lines, as if they had been arranged by human hands on the lines run out by engineers. afterward the lads sat down to breakfast, which, of course, was eaten inside the tents. the boys now wanted to know what was to be done about their situation. "nothing at present," answered mr. lilly. "the water will not rise much more. you see it is running off in a pretty swift current already. of course the water wouldn't interfere much, but the going would be sloppy. you wouldn't enjoy it." "is there water in the canebrake?" asked tad. "oh, no. the cane is on higher ground, as i have already told you. there is one thing to be thankful for--the rain drives away the mosquitoes," smiled lilly. "yes, but i dread to think what they will do when the rain stops and the sun comes out," answered tad. everyone was wet. the rain had found its way through the little tents, and a constant drip, drip, drip was heard above the roaring of the deluge on the roofs. the interiors of the tents were steaming; the heat was greater than before the rain. the tents smelled stuffy, but the boys were good-natured. no one except stacy uttered complaint. being used to stacy's growls, they gave no heed to him. later in the day the boys wrapped themselves in their rubber blankets and went to sleep. for three full days did this state of affairs exist. then the skies cleared as suddenly as they had become overcast. a burning sun blazed down, and the heavy mists rose in clouds. one felt that nature was pluming herself after her long bath. black squirrels chattered in the tops of the tall cypress, thrushes broke out into an incessant clucking, mockingbirds and finches burst into song, above which was heard the twitterings of thousands of sparrows. one could not believe that he was in a forest so full of perils, with these sweet songs in his ears, the fresh odors of luxuriant vegetation in his nostrils. it did not seem possible that the cane just ahead of them was the haunt of savage beasts, that the little lakes and bayous were alive with alligators, savage garfish and monstrous snapping turtles, heavy as a man; that thick-bodied moccasin snakes, foul and dangerous, lurked near the shores, while further back in the forests lay copperheads and rattlers in great numbers. this was the country into which the pony rider boys had come in search of new experiences and thrills, and they were destined to have their full share of these ere they had finished their journey and reached the outer world again. chapter vi taking desperate chances it was wholly due to the foresight of billy lilly that the camp of the pony rider boys was not washed into the bayou. had they pitched the camp two rods from it's present site, in either direction, their outfit would have been wrecked. as it was they were little the worse for their experiences although everyone was still soaked to the skin. as soon as the sun came out tad rigged up a clothes line and stripping down to his underwear hung his clothing up to dry. the same thing was done with his blankets. the other boys thought this was an excellent idea, so they did the same. the water was going down rapidly and their island was growing gradually larger. all manner of driftwood, brush and heaps of muck lay strewn over the ground, and this ichabod was clearing away as rapidly as possible. the colored man understood the needs of the camp without having to be told. in fact, it was seldom found necessary to give him orders. the dogs, for the first time in days, pricked up their ears and began to take interest in life. they were busy brushing out their bedraggled coats in the sunlight, now and then bounding back and forth, barking and leaping and playing. the pony rider boys sang snatches of song, joked, and enjoyed themselves to the full. they were restless under inactivity; they wanted to be up and doing. of course, the ground in the swamp was soft, so they decided to remain in camp another day. this time would be fully occupied in oiling and cleaning guns, which already had begun to show spots of rust, and in putting their equipment in shape. tad found time during this bright day to make short excursions out into the woods, even into the brake, the better to acquaint himself with the conditions round about them. he eyed the dense brake, the giant trees, the queer formations of the cypress knees, and the thick vegetation, with the keen eyes of the experienced woodsman. "this is an awful hole," was the lad's conclusion. "i don't think i should care to be lost in this swamp. if the dismal swamp is any worse, excuse me, as ichabod would say." palmettos he found growing thickly in places above the black ooze of the swamp, bushes of varieties that he did not know covered the ground thickly in places, while vines and creepers climbed the trunks of the trees, hanging in trailing festoons from the branches. coon and possum were plentiful, but he did not see any of them. most interesting to tad were the swamp rabbits. these lived mostly in the depths of the woods and beside the lonely bayous. these rabbits, he discovered to his amazement, could swim and dive like muskrats, being as much at home in the water as on the land. tad never had heard of them before and he watched the antics of some of the little fellows curiously. while tad moved about with caution, he was unafraid. his love of nature was too great to permit him to be afraid of it; even though he knew that at any second he might tread on a deadly reptile, so he strode on with the light, noiseless step of the experienced hunter and woodsman. here and there tad would strike a blaze on a cypress with his axe. he did not propose to be lost in this forest. the sound of the camp horn calling to him warned the boy that he had strayed a long distance from camp. he answered the call by shooting his revolver three times in the air, to which the horn responded by two toots. these horns were used by nearly everyone in the brake. each person was supposed to carry a horn with him, the horn being useful not alone in calling the dogs, but in signaling positions to each other, and its notes could be heard a long distance in clear weather. the boy discovered from the direction of the sound that he had made a wide detour to reach his present position. however, instead of trying to take a direct course back to the camp, as an inexperienced person might have done, the pony rider boy cautiously followed his trail back, never for a moment losing sight of his blazes on the cypress trees. it was more than an hour later when he strolled into camp, the guide having blown the horn several times, which tad had not answered after the first time. "look here, young man, where have you been?" demanded lilly. "i have been tramping. i went over to a round lake a good distance from here." "a lake?" "yes, sir." "that way?" "yes, sir." "do you know how far that is from here?" questioned the guide. "i can't say that i do," answered tad with a smile. "more than three miles in a straight line." "i thought so." "how is it you didn't get lost?" "why should i? i blazed a trail out and just followed it back, that's all." billy threw up his hands. "i don't know why you boys have me along. any fellow who can dive into this swamp for three miles, then walk back just the same as if he were following the sidewalk at home, doesn't need a guide. see anything?" "oh, yes," answered the boy laughing. "i saw pretty much everything but deer and bear. but i saw a deer trail." "you did?" "yes, sir." "where?" "about half the way out. he crossed my trail and went into the canebrake to the north." "probably an old trail," nodded lilly. "no, sir, it was a fresh trail made since the rain. i could see that plainly. it was a buck, too, and i think i should like to get a shot at him. do they have regular runways down here?" "yes, unless they are chased. have all the rest of you boys got scents like deerhounds, eh?" "i have," answered stacy promptly. "why, i can put my nose to a trail and follow it until the deer drops dead from fatigue. i probably am the best all-around deer-chaser in the country. you set me on a trail and see what happens." "i can tell you what would happen," answered rector. "you'd get lost in less than ten minutes." "if i did i should find myself," retorted stacy indignantly. "yes, you would!" "i should like to follow that deer trail, mr. lilly," said tad. "how about it?" "the ground is too soft. the horses couldn't make much headway in the present condition of the muck." "by the way, are there any other hunters in this vicinity now?" questioned tad. "i hadn't heard of any besides ourselves. why?" "nothing much. i discovered some man tracks this morning." billy regarded the pony rider boy steadily. "young man, is there anything you don't see?" he demanded. "oh, yes, i couldn't hope to see everything. but some things i can't help seeing. i found this man's tracks while i was examining the buck's trail in the muck. you know feet, man or beast, sink down a good way into the ooze in places." "i reckon i do. which way was he going?" "the buck?" "no, the man." "heading west." "that's away from the camp," reflected the guide. "i wonder who it could have been? was there more than one of them?" tad shook his head. "i looked for others. the man was alone and he had a gun." "say, are you gifted with second sight?" "no, sir." "then how do you know he had a gun, unless you guessed it?" "i saw the impression of the butt where he stood the gun against the tree. he was looking at the deer trail, so he must have been along a short time before i passed there." "i reckon i'll be looking into that," decided lilly, rising and thrusting his hands in his pockets, striding slowly back and forth. the subject was not again referred to, but later in the afternoon lilly announced that he was going out to look over the trails, and left the camp. he returned just before supper. "well, did you find it?" asked tad quizzically. billy grinned. "i reckon i did. i reckon you-all knew what you were talking about." "who was it?" demanded ned. "oh, i don't know about that. i guess it was some fellow heading for stillman's plantation on the other side of the brake." "how far is that?" "nigh onto twenty miles." "is there no other way to reach the place?" questioned tad. "oh, yes, but it's a long way further. we will be on the trail ourselves tomorrow, i reckon. the ground is drying out fast. i didn't see any bear signs today, but they will be moving right smart, now that the storm is over." that night the campfire blazed and crackled merrily. the boys got a good night's rest, the tents being dry and comfortable and the air more endurable than had been the case for the last three days. twice during the night billy got up, took a look at the weather, and heaped more wood on the fire. tad heard him, but did not open his eyes, knowing what was doing, as well as if he had observed it with wide-open eyes. it was shortly after daylight that the boy awakened suddenly and lay listening. he caught the sound of water being splashed about. a thought occurring to him, tad slipped on his boots and taking his rifle up crept out under the rear wall of his tent. a sight met his eyes that thrilled him through and through. chapter vii a swim in tensas lake there, splashing about in the muddy water of the little lake, was the fat boy. at the moment when tad first espied him, chunky lay floating lazily on his back, kicking an occasional foot and sending up little spurts of water. stacy was enjoying himself greatly. he had been complaining all the day before that he hadn't had a satisfactory bath since he came into the woods. the guide had told him to dip up water in the buckets, then let it settle until clear, after which he might take his bath. this sort of bath did not suit the fat boy. he determined that he would have a real bath or no bath at all, so at daylight that morning he arose, and after peering about to make sure that no one observed him, slipped on a pair of trunks and, barefooted, picked his way to the edge of the lake. stacy sat down on the bank to gaze at the water. he knew it was deep from its appearance, but just how deep he neither knew nor cared. the deeper the better. "i wish the water weren't so black. i'll be a sight when i come out, but at least i shan't feel so sticky," he muttered. with that chunky had permitted his body to slip down into the lake. he swam about in circles, for a time casting an occasional apprehensive eye in the direction of the camp, a short few rods away, but no sign of life was observable there. after splashing about for a few moments the fat boy flopped over on his back for a delicious float. it is doubtful if stacy gave thought to the fact that these were reptile-infested waters, waters literally alive with death-dealing monsters. perhaps he did not know about it; at any rate, the boy was untroubled by thoughts of peril. he was humming to himself when tad first saw him there. at the same time tad butler's attention was attracted to something else. little circles on various parts of the lake were to be seen. these circles were widening. it looked as if one might have carefully dropped a stone into the water here and there without causing a splash. the silent circles were growing with the seconds. "quick! out of there!" yelled tad. for once in his life, butler was excited. "swim for it!" "what's the matter with you?" drawled stacy. "i'm having the time of my life--" "alligators!" shouted tad. stacy suddenly stopped moving his feet. the fat boy was paralyzed with fear. he seemed to have lost all power of movement. tad might have leaped in to stacy's assistance, but he had formed other plans almost on the instant. "ned! mr. lilly!" he shouted. just then a black spot that might have been a floating knot appeared on the surface of the water some thirty feet from where stacy lay trembling. the black spot was the center of one of those widening circles. tad's rifle leaped to his shoulder. a crash echoed through the forest and seemed to rattle among the canes all down the line. there was a sudden and terrific commotion in the water where the black spot had been seen, a floundering and threshing and a lashing of the waters, for tad's bullet had sped true. but there were still other circles, each now rapidly drawing nearer to where stacy lay wide-eyed and motionless. "get him!" yelled tad as ned rector sprang from his tent. ned comprehended on the instant. he saw stacy out there in the water, tad on shore with rifle held slightly forward from his stooping body, alert and ready to shoot. ned did not wait. he took a running jump, landing in the lake with a mighty splash, and came up shaking the water from his face and lunged toward stacy. "get out of this!" roared ned. "i--i can't," wailed the fat boy. "i--i'm too scared." ned rector smote the fat boy with his doubled fist. it was the best thing rector could have done in the circumstances, for it stirred stacy to sudden activity. with a yell, chunky threw himself over on his stomach and began striking out desperately for the shore, with ned, yelling and threatening, following close behind. tad's rifle spoke again. it was just in time to stop a 'gator whose snout was suddenly thrust above the water a few feet behind ned. all this had occupied only a few seconds, but they had been active seconds in every sense of the word, seconds fraught with peril and quickness on the part of two plucky boys. a third time did tad shoot. though excited, his excitement did not appear to affect his aim, for the pony rider boy had not missed once. with the third and last shot, stacy's fingers clutched a bush on the lake edge. the boy pulled himself from the water and fell over in a heap on the bank. "get up. get out of that!" commanded tad. "don't stop there." "hustle yourself," shouted ned, himself losing no time in getting out of the water. chunky scrambled from the beach, then ran with all haste to his tent, with rector following, making vain efforts to catch hold of the fat boy. he succeeded in overhauling chunky at the entrance of the tent. stacy, perceiving that he was going to be caught, found it convenient to stumble. ned was upon him, but not before chunky had picked up two handfuls of black, oozy muck, and as ned fell upon him, stacy plastered the contents of first one hand, then the other, over the face of his assailant. rector's mouth, nose and eyes were glued shut with the black stuff. unfortunately for ned he had opened his mouth at the instant when stacy began painting his face. "now, maybe you will let me alone," jeered chunky. "i guess i know how to defend myself." "you're a fool," snapped lilly. the guide was actually pale. "why, didn't you know what was in the lake?" "i'm busy. come around after business hours," answered the fat boy, making all haste to discard his trunks and get into his clothes. he knew very well that, as soon as rector was able to see and breathe, there would be trouble in the camp. stacy proposed to be out of reach by that time. the lad was out of the tent with remarkable quickness. he did not wait to draw on his boots, having heard the voice of rector approaching. stacy slipped out under the rear of his tent. he carried a rope with him. making a bee line for a birch, he shinned up it almost with the speed of a squirrel, and a moment or so later was sitting hunched in a crotch, blinking down into the camp below him. "where's that ungrateful wretch?" raged ned. "i'll skin him alive once i set eyes on him. where is he?" "he may have gone back in the lake," answered the guide. "i shouldn't be surprised at anything he did after that foolish play." "i saw him go into his tent a few minutes ago," spoke up walter. "stacy!" the professor called several times, but master stacy merely chuckled to himself. "i guess he is all right. don't worry about him, professor," advised tad. "you will find that he is in hiding somewhere about the camp. hello, ned, what's the matter?" "that fat cayuse plastered a pailful of muck on my face," complained rector. "and to think he would do such a thing after my having saved his life." "yes, who would have thought it?" agreed tad. "what were you trying to do to him at the time?" "i was after him to give him a trouncing." "oh, well, you can't blame him for defending himself, can you? by the way, mr. lilly, there are three dead 'gators out there. what are we going to do with them?" "i reckon we won't do anything." "isn't there any way of getting them out?" "no safe way that i know. you have just got one of your companions out of difficulties. please don't go to getting into any on your own account." "i don't intend to." "say, but you certainly can shoot. you plunked those killers squarely in the eye every shot. i'm pretty good with the gun myself, but for quick, accurate shooting there haven't many of them got you beaten." "i had to shoot straight. somebody would have been killed if i hadn't," answered butler. "you're right they would. but where is that boy. where--" lilly uttered an exclamation and leaped aside as something came twisting down, striking him on the head and bouncing off on the ground. tad found himself several paces to one side of the spot where he had been standing. both men held the same thought. they thought it was a reptile that had dropped from the tree. then tad's quick eye discovered that it was a rope that had fallen from the tree. glancing up, he made out the figure of stacy brown huddled in a crotch high up. "hey! there's a big bird up that tree. watch me shoot him out," cried tad, raising his rifle. "wow, oh, wow! don't shoot! it's i, stacy," yelled the fat boy. "what--what--what's that?" stammered the guide. "that boy up a tree?" "yes, and to think i came near shooting him," answered tad, in a voice loud enough for stacy to hear. "how did you get up there?" demanded lilly in amazed wonder. "i flew up. didn't you ever see me fly? why, i am a bird. and you didn't know that?" "i--i guess you are, at that. i am getting to the point where i'll believe almost anything of you youngsters. did he really fly up there?" "he says he did," answered tad with a grin. tad knew how stacy had climbed, for the rope already lay at the foot of the tree, but this form of climbing trees evidently was new to bill lilly. "come down out of that!" yelled ned, catching sight of the boy up the tree. "where is he?" demanded the professor. "up a tree," laughed the guide. "come down!" commanded professor zepplin. "chase ned rector away and i will." "i'll stay right here till he comes down and then i am going to give him a thrashing," declared ned firmly. "then i don't come down," declared stacy firmly. "i know two ways to make you," answered ned. "how?" "place some food down here under you on the ground--something that has an odor and something you like." stacy did not reply, but a troubled expression appeared on his face. "what is the other way?" asked tad, chuckling over the situation. "i am not going to tell you. that's a dark secret. are you coming down, stacy brown?" "i am not, neddie rector." "very good. stay there all the rest of the day if you want to." "i just love to be up a tree. there's another 'gator out there. pass me up a gun and i will shoot him. look, there's a whole pond full of them." "no you don't. you don't catch me that way. i know what you are up to. you are trying to stampede us down to the lake, then you will clamber down and make a get-away. no, sir, there isn't anything green in my eye that you can notice," retorted ned. "except some of the green stuff that i rubbed in with the black," answered stacy in a jeering voice. "why don't you come up here if you want to get me?" "i believe i will, at that." "if you do, you will get a kick in the face," threatened chunky. "you haven't any boots on. you can't hurt me." "no, but i can dig with my toes. if you don't believe me just come up here and try me. i dare you to come up! i double-dare you to come up here. ya, ya, ya! 'fraid-cat, 'fraid-cat!" taunted stacy. the others were laughing. ned's face was flushed. "i'll show you whether i can get you down. we shall see whether i am a 'fraid-cat or not." rector ran to his tent, reappearing at few seconds later with an axe, stacy in the meantime following the movements of the other boy with anxious eyes. chapter viii woodman, spare this tree "now, what are you going to do?" questioned the guide. "i'll show you. everyone get out of the way." ned rector swung the axe, burying the blade in the tree. "ned, ned!" warned the professor. "he won't have to cut it down. stacy will come down long before there is any danger," answered walter. "pshaw! you don't know how to chop," jeered chunky. "george washington, with his dull little hatchet, could out-chop you with one hand." ned was making the chips fly just the same. his hat had dropped off and perspiration was rolling from his forehead, for his axe was not making as much impression on the tree as he had confidently expected it would. he made lots of chips, but they were thin ones. "woodman, spare this tree," pleaded a mocking voice from above. "i will spare the tree, but i won't spare you," retorted rector. "we shall have this tree on the ground within fifteen minutes." stacy was tugging at a small bushy limb, but ned was too busy to observe what the fat boy was doing. after considerable effort chunky succeeded in breaking off the limb. he poised it carefully for a few seconds, then let go. the limb was not heavy, but in falling that distance it gained considerable momentum. the limb caught ned fairly on top of the head, causing him to stagger back and sit down heavily, while his companions shouted and jeered, billy lilly looking on with a broad grin on his face. "stop this instantly!" commanded the professor. "i'll not have such goings on. stacy, will you come down out of that tree?" "i will not." "i command you to come down." "command _him_. don't command _me_. how can i come down when ned rector is using the axe? he might chop me in two." "stacy!" "professor!" "ned, put away that axe. we can't have anything like this." "but he smeared my face with mud after i had saved him from the 'gators," protested ned. "he--he jumped on me. i had to stop him," answered the boy up the tree. the professor motioned to ned to go away, which rector did rather unwillingly. "now, come down here." stacy hesitated, then wrapping both arms about the tree trunk he started down slowly. as he went he gained momentum, and the last eight or ten feet he shot down barely touching the tree, landing in a heap in the mud at the feet of his laughing companions. stacy was up in a twinkling, fully expecting to find ned rector sprinting towards him. ned, however, had remained by the tents. "you never mind! i'll take it out of you some other time. i'll owe you a thrashing until some more convenient time," warned ned, shaking his fist at stacy. "now, young man, what excuse have you to offer for going into the lake?" demanded the professor, laying a firm grip on chunky's shoulder. "what excuse?" "that is what i asked." "be--be--because i wanted to take a bath," answered the fat boy. "go to your tent and finish dressing." "yes, i guess ichabod has breakfast nearly ready," added the guide. stacy pricked up his ears at the word "breakfast," and started on a trot for the camp. "i'll fix you for that, one of these days," threatened ned as chunky sprang into his own tent, appearing neither to have seen nor heard ned. the same condition existed at breakfast. ned was casting threatening glances at the fat boy, which the latter was pleased to ignore. once during the meal chunky, chancing to catch ned's eye, winked solemnly, whereupon ned forgot his anger and laughed aloud. "that's the way it always ends. no one can stay mad at me for very long," wailed the fat boy. "that's the way my fun is always spoiled." "do you like to have folks mad at you?" questioned lilly. "of course i do. what's the fun of living if somebody isn't making life interesting for you?" replied stacy, gazing earnestly at the perplexed face of the guide. "i--i never heard it put just that way before, but i reckon maybe there's something in what you say," reflected billy. "of course there is. there is always something in what i say. i'll leave it to tad, if there isn't." "i agree," laughed butler. "but let's talk about the canebrake. where do we go from here, mr. lilly?" "i reckon we will lay our course for sunflower." "what is that?" asked ned. "a flower," answered stacy. "the common garden variety, like some persons we know." "you mean sunflower river, do you not?" asked tad. "yes. what do you know about it?" inquired lilly, raising his eyebrows. "not very much. i know there is such a place some twenty miles to the westward of where we are located at present," answered butler. "as i have said before, you boys don't need a guide." "no, i think we need a guardian as much as anything. i move that we appoint you as master stacy's guardian," suggested ned. "carried," shouted walter. "excuse me, as ichabod would say. i may be something of a success as a guide, but as the guardian of our young friend i fear i should be a miserable failure. i am too slow for a job like that. it needs a younger and more active man than myself for that position." "you are right it does," piped up stacy. "it needs a hustler to keep going with stacy brown. when do we strike camp?" "after breakfast," answered tad. "that means you fellows will have some work to do," nodded chunky. "it means you will have to do your share," replied tad sharply. "you needn't think we are going to do your work for you this trip. any man who shirks will be punished." "how?" "we haven't decided that yet. when we get into camp on the sunflower river we are going to hold a meeting and draw up rules and regulations for the guidance of the pony rider boys. every man will have to abide by those rules, including professor zepplin," declared tad. "i agree to them in advance. it is an excellent idea," approved the professor. "better not be too sure about that," laughed tad. "we may make some regulations to which you will find it hard to submit. they will be very stringent." "yes," urged chunky. "the professor needs discipline." "so do some others," muttered tad. immediately after breakfast the boys began their work of packing. they were glad to break camp after their experiences on tensas lake. it was not a comforting feeling to know that the waters almost underfoot were alive with dangerous reptiles. then again these might come on shore in search of prey. such things had been known. beyond this the boys were eager to get into the heart of the canebrake and begin following the game trails of the southern jungle, an unknown section to most american people. only a comparatively few sturdy hunters and rangers have followed these trails. the perils are too great, both from fever and from the denizens of the big swamp. "how are we ever going to drive our horses through?" questioned tad. "that is easy when you know how," smiled lilly. "but it was all i could do to get through on foot when i was out the other day." "you will find these horses are pretty handy in the swamp. the ordinary animal would be of no use at all. i will lead the way and show you something that will perhaps be new to you in forest travel." "it is all new to me," answered tad. "all you folks have your horns with you in case we get separated. if you do, wind the horn until you get a reply." "wind your horn?" wondered stacy brown. "yes." "what do you wind it with?" "oh, a piece of string," retorted ned. "winding the horn is blowing it, stacy," tad informed him. "blow it for keeps in case you get lost or are in trouble." "oh! funny names you have for things down here. won't it scare all the game out of the woods?" "it will if you blow the horn," laughed ned. laughing and joking the boys hurried the work of breaking camp, folding their tents into neat packages, putting every piece of equipment in its proper place. the boys liked to attend to all these details themselves, having been in the habit of doing things in the same way for so long. then again they knew where everything was, right where to put their hands on any part of their equipment no matter how dark the night might be. when they were ready, the guide looked over the outfit and nodded approvingly. "i'll take the lead," he said. "give your horses their heads. they will know how to follow; in fact, they will know better than you boys. after you have ridden the brake for a time you will know it as well as i do. and look out that you don't get sidewiped and dismounted by any of those low-hanging vines." "i should like to see the vine that could unhorse me," answered stacy. the outfit started with the guide leading, ichabod next, then tad and the others. stacy's saddle girth slipped as he grabbed the pommel to mount, causing him to sit down suddenly. the others were too fully occupied to notice his mishap, nor did they hear him call to them to wait for him. the riders swept away at a brisk running trot, which these experienced horses always adopted in working through the swamp or the canebrake. the way lilly bored through the forest was a revelation to the boys. in and out among the great tree trunks he rode, dodging cypress knees, leaping fallen trees where not too high, slashing right and left with his long bush-knife, cutting a vine here or a limb there, leaving a broad, easily followed trail that even a novice would have had little difficulty in following, though of course at a slower pace. the boys were convulsed with laughter at the way lilly bored his way through the jungle, the banged tail of his cob standing straight out, the tough little animal's ears laid back on its head, and nose thrust straight ahead. to tad butler the wild ride was a delight, only he would have preferred to be the one up in front, slashing and hewing the way for the others, for tad was a natural leader and would have enjoyed work of this kind. in the meantime stacy brown had been left far behind, out of sight and out of sound of the rapidly moving outfit. as yet he had not been missed. chapter ix the fat boy hung up stacy fumbled and fussed until he had cinched the girth tightly, the horse chafing at its bit, eager to be after its companions. then the fat boy thrust a foot into the stirrup, one hand grasping the pommel of the saddle, the free hand giving the animal a sharp slap on the flanks. chunky's horse started with a leap and a snort. the boy's toe slipped from the stirrup before he had succeeded in swinging the other leg over the saddle. then something else occurred that was not a part of stacy's programme. the pommel caught under his belt, suspending him from the saddle. the pony now was tearing along the trail in the wake of the others at full speed. "whoa! whoa!" yelled chunky. the horse paid no attention to its master's command, and increased rather than lessened its pace. stacy's toes were dragging on the ground, his body being pinioned to the side of the animal, which was literally cracking the whip with the unfortunate fat boy. as it was, stacy's feet touched only the high places along the trail. whack! the boy's body sidewiped a tree. "ou-u-u-u-c-h!" yelled the pony rider boy. "whoa, i tell you, you fool horse!" but there was no stopping the animal. it plunged on and on, thorn bushes tearing the trousers of the lad, drawing blood as the sharp points raked his flesh, threshing him against trees and stumps until there was scarcely a spot on his body that was not at least black and blue. the animal was plainly frightened, and chunky realized that it was running away. the reins were out of the boy's reach and he was powerless to pull himself up or get a leg over the saddle. the horse did not give him time for anything. suddenly the boy's fingers closed over something cold. it was the bush horn. his heart gave a leap. he tugged at the horn until he had succeeded in pulling it from the saddle bag. but when he tried to put the end in his mouth, stacy came near losing some teeth. a trembling blast from the bush horn rang out. then another and another until the birds ceased their song. the blasts of the horn were alternated with the yells of the fat boy. off ahead the others of the party were riding rapidly, though not so rapidly that brown and his frightened horse were not overhauling them. tad's keen ears finally caught the sound of the horn. he turned in his saddle, and for the first time realized that chunky was not with them. the ride had been so exciting thus far that none had given any heed to what was going on at the rear. the boys supposed stacy was trailing along behind them. placing his horn to his lips, butler gave a long, winding blast. the guide pulled his horse up short, as did the others. "stacy is not with us," shouted tad. "where is he?" called the guide. "i don't know." "why, why, he has been right behind us all the time," returned the professor. "i am not sure of that. i haven't looked back once. ichabod, have you seen master brown?" "ah doan' see him." "there goes stacy's horn again." "yes, he is coming on," said ned. "there's something wrong with him," cried tad. "i can tell by the excited way in which he is blowing the horn." [illustration: "look at him!"] at about that time they heard him coming. the sound of the horse threshing its way through the bushes was borne plainly to their ears, and suddenly boy and horse dashed into view. the pony rider boys opened their eyes in amazement. "look at him!" yelled ned. tad whirled his own horse about and started for stacy, with billy lilly not far behind. at this juncture the fat boy's belt gave way, and he disappeared under the horse. the boys groaned, fully expecting to see chunky trampled to death. but the horse was far too active to tread on its fallen rider, and cleared the boy's body in a swerving leap. "catch the horse!" cried tad, dashing toward the fallen chunky and throwing himself from his saddle, at the same time slipping the bridle rein over his animal's neck so that his own mount would not run away. "are you hurt, chunky?" cried tad, gathering the fat boy up in his arms. "hurt? hurt?" answered stacy somewhat dazedly, blinking rapidly and passing a trembling hand slowly over his face. "no, i reckon i'm not hurt. i scratched that race." "but, but, what happened to you?" demanded professor zepplin excitedly. "ha--ha--happened?" "yes, yes." "why nothing happened to me. i--i was just trying out a new stunt," answered the fat boy, a smile rippling over his countenance. "oh, fudge!" grunted ned. "what's the use bothering with him? he won't tell on himself." "neither would you if you had been dragged half a dozen miles by the back of the neck," snapped the fat boy. "how far?" asked lilly. "half a dozen miles." "is there any water near here, mr. lilly?" asked tad. "master stacy's body is covered with blood and scratches." "yes. you-all lead him over here to the right. i reckon we can find some water." "i don't want any water," wailed stacy. "yes you do," insisted tad. "i don't. i guess i know what i want and what i don't want. water will make it hurt. i want something to eat. all my breakfast has been shaken down until i can't feel it at all." tad nodded to the guide, who tethered his horse and hurried away to fetch water. in the meantime butler was removing chunky's torn clothes. even the underclothing had been torn to shreds. "my, what a mauling you did get," observed walter sympathetically. "serves him right," answered ned. "i don't understand how this thing occurred," said the professor. "i think he got hung up by his belt, sir," answered tad. "wasn't that what happened, stacy?" "i--i guess so." "tell me about it," urged tad. "ouch!" howled chunky as butler dabbed a wet cloth against the torn skin of the fat boy. "ned, you hold him." "with pleasure," grinned rector, taking firm hold of stacy. "you let go of me," raged stacy. "i am going to hold you, even if i have to tie you," retorted ned. "if you don't want rough treatment just stand still and take your medicine. tell us how it occurred. that will take your mind from your aches and pains." "i--i had one foot in the stirrup. the beast started and i slipped. then i got hung up." "he got hung up. hooray!" cried ned. chunky tried to punch him, but rector laughingly thrust the fat boy away from him. "if you will stand still it will be ended in a moment, stacy," soothed tad. "my, what a drubbing you did get! so you got hung up?" "ye--yes. then the fool horse ran away. i--i never walked so fast in my life. it--it was like sailing in the air. my feet were straight out behind me most of the time. you ought to try it, fellows. it's great. i'll bet i should have made a hit in a circus with that." "i hope you didn't destroy any of the cypress trees," observed the guide. stacy gave him a resentful look. "walter, get another pair of trousers from chunky's kit. this pair isn't fit to be worn again," directed butler. walter perkins hastened to obey tad's order, and in a few minutes they had fixed the boy up so that he was reasonably comfortable, though his body was sore and it hurt him even to laugh. "i don't know what we are going to do with you, young man," reflected the professor, chin in hand, eyes fixed coldly upon the face of the fat boy. "you--you don't have to do anything with me. i can do quite enough for myself." "i should say you could," grinned tad. the others laughed. "i shouldn't want as much done to me," added ned. "are you able to ride?" questioned the guide. "no, i guess i'll walk. i'm not hankering to sit down. i don't know that i'll ever be able to sit down again." chunky groaned dismally. "perhaps we had better make camp here," suggested the professor. "i don't think this is a good place to camp," answered tad. "the ground is too low. how far is it from here to the sunflower, mr. lilly?" "about five miles." "oh, we can make that all right. i will lash my blanket to stacy's saddle, and after he has ridden a few moments he will be all right." chunky agreed grumblingly, taking a keen pleasure in having others wait on him. he enjoyed his present situation even though his wounds were painful. in a few minutes they had prepared the saddle for him and assisted him into it. "now see if you can keep out of trouble," directed tad. "give the baby his little horn to blow," jeered rector. "'wind,' you mean," corrected stacy. "they wind down here; they don't blow." "well, 'wind,' then, if you like that better," grumbled ned. "i do because that is the right way to say it. your early education was sadly neglected. did they take you out of school to dig early potatoes before the spring terms closed?" questioned stacy innocently. "are you trying to roil me, stacy brown? if you are you might as well save your breath. i am too tickled at your predicament to get angry with you," averred rector. lilly gave the word to move, whereupon the party fell into line again with the same formation as before, stacy stubbornly insisting on keeping at the rear, the boys flinging back jokes at him. in this manner they went on for some distance, at first slowly, then gradually increasing their speed. now and then the boys would glance back to grin at the fat boy, who was having considerable difficulty in keeping up. they noticed that he was not sitting with his full weight in the saddle. instead, he was half standing in his stirrups because it pained him to sit down and take the jolting of the trotting horse. "look out for the vines. keep in the trail," called the guide. the boys, for the moment, forgot their companion at the rear of the line. they swung around in a curving trail, lilly slashing and shouting directions at them, stacy standing a little higher in his stirrups to see what all the shouting was about. then, all of a sudden, the fat boy was swept from his saddle, kicking, yelling, while the horse lurched forward and started into a long, loping gallop now that it was freed from its burden. "hi, look there!" yelled ned rector, as stacy's riderless horse came trotting up to them. "more trouble!" groaned tad butler, wheeling and starting back over the trail at as fast a gallop as possible over the rough ground. chapter x in the heart of the canebrake "that boy!" muttered the professor, as everyone turned sharply and started back, lilly outdistancing all save tad, who now rode the jungle fully as well as the guide, except that tad had never used the bush-knife. it was a dangerous weapon in the hands of an inexperienced rider. with it one was likely to do his horse as well as himself a serious injury. they heard chunky's yells for help long before they reached him, and even after reaching a spot where they might have seen the fat boy, they did not at once catch sight of him. they were looking for chunky on the ground, believing that he had fallen and been left by his horse, while as a matter of fact stacy was in the air, six or eight feet above the ground. while standing high in his stirrups he had been caught across the breast by a tough vine that grew between two trees across the trail, so high that the guide's bush-knife had not reached it. stacy had thrown out both hands to protect himself. the vine had slipped neatly under the lad's arms. the next second he was dangling in the air, with the horse trotting on ahead. and there they found him, swaying back and forth, howling lustily, afraid to let go for fear he would hurt himself when he struck the ground, but almost ready to let go no matter what the consequences might be. the pony rider boys, when finally they did catch sight of their companion, uttered shouts of merriment. "hanged at last!" howled ned rector. "oh, i never thought i should live to see this happy moment!" tad brought his horse down just before reaching the fat boy. "hello, chunky, what are you doing up there?" demanded tad. "having a swing," answered stacy sheepishly. "come on up, it's fine." "thank you, but i don't see any way of getting up," chuckled tad. "easiest thing in the world. all you have to do is to ride under the vine, reach up and grab hold of it, then let your horse go right on about his business." "is that the way _you_ did it?" questioned butler. "something like it," admitted chunky. "are you going to help me down?" was the urgent question. "what do you think about it, professor? wouldn't it be better to leave him up there where he cannot get into any further difficulties?" asked tad, turning to the professor. "i am inclined to agree with you, tad," reflected the professor gravely. "how long have you been there, stacy?" asked walter. "long enough. come, help me down." "let go and you will come down much more quickly than we could help you," suggested ned. "but i don't want to fall," wailed the boy. "oh, very well, then, stay where you are," retorted ned. "i will help you down, stacy," offered tad, riding under his companion. "now, let go." "i--i'm afraid." tad grabbed the fat boy's legs, giving them a violent tug, whereupon stacy and the vine came tumbling down. in trying to catch chunky, tad butler was himself unhorsed, and the two boys landed on their heads and shoulders on the soft ground with the yells of their companions ringing in their ears. "get up!" commanded the professor sternly. "this sort of thing has gone far enough." "tha--that's what i say," stammered chunky, wiping the muck from his flushed face. "a good old-fashioned country road is good enough for me. i don't like this kind of traveling." "do you want to be sent back?" demanded professor zepplin grimly. "no-o-o-o," drawled stacy. "not if i have to go back over that trail. that's the stickiest mess i ever got into." "your behavior is somewhat sticky, too," observed the professor, with a smile. "now, if there is no objection, i move that we proceed on our journey, but i wish master stacy to ride just ahead of me so that i may watch him." "who--who's going to watch you?" stammered the fat boy. "don't worry. we will look after the professor," laughed tad. "you must remember that he hasn't been getting into quite so much trouble as you have." "he will," answered stacy. "he's just been lucky, that's all." the party, after again assisting stacy in his saddle and placing him between the professor and tad, moved on once more. the distance to their next camping place was now less than a mile, and they soon reached the sunflower without further disturbance, tearing their way through the dense cane, making a crashing that must have been heard a long distance away. the sunflower was a stream some fifteen rods wide by several miles long, with little bayous reaching off into the swamp every now and then, lonely, silent bayous, beneath whose surfaces lurked many perils. "do we swim across?" asked walter. "master stacy may want to. i do not believe the others will care about doing so," answered lilly with a smile and a brief nod. "where do we make camp, mr. lilly?" called butler's cheery voice. "straight ahead on the little rise of ground, master tad." "any choice as to position?" "use your own good judgment." "thank you, sir," was tad's response. "stacy, how is your heart today, after all your experiences?" "it's weak," whispered chunky hoarsely. "then i have a good remedy for it. go out and cut some wood, but no more cane as you value your life. we don't propose to have another campfire blow up in the middle watches of the night and scare us to death." "no more cane fire in this camp, young man," affirmed the guide. chunky very reluctantly shouldered an axe, after they had dismounted and removed the lashings from their packs, and after some delay they heard an occasional whack of the axe, then silence. the camp was pretty well settled when tad sang out for chunky. "where is that boy with the wood? ichabod is waiting for it. chunky!" he called. there was no response. "ned, i guess you will have to go look for him. i hope he hasn't chopped his head off." "oh, he couldn't do that if he wanted to," laughed walter. "you don't know him. stacy brown can do most anything that other folks would think they couldn't. chase him up, ned." "which way did he go?" "north, along the bank. he probably has gone into the swamp a little way to get out of the cane. i'll blow the horn." butler did blow several blasts, but there was no answer. tad was not worried, knowing that stacy could not have gone far and realizing that he would leave a plain trail in case he had strayed into the swamp. a few moments later ned's horn was heard. he had found stacy sound asleep, sitting with his back against a tree, while at his side on a log was a great, hook-beaked, barred owl blinking at him wisely. ned said the owl was enough like stacy to be his own brother. ned was obliged to cut the wood himself, as stacy refused to do a thing because rector had used him roughly in waking him up. "you treat me as if i were a bag of meal," complained chunky. "no, i wouldn't insult the meal to that extent," snorted ned. "get over there and sit down till i have the wood cut. you will then tote it to camp." "i will then _not_," retorted stacy belligerently. "you will _yes_. remember i owe you one. if you don't watch out i will make it two and settle both accounts out here while i've got you alone," warned ned. stacy pondered over this for several moments while watching his companion swing the axe, and evidently decided that ned had the better side of the argument. "all right," said stacy finally. "i'll carry my share of the wood. it isn't that i am afraid of you, you know, but my heart won't stand any undue excitement." "oh, fudge!" grunted rector, pausing to wipe the perspiration from his face and forehead. stacy started back with the wood before ned had finished, but carried only about enough wood to burn ten or fifteen minutes. ned had to fetch the rest, for stacy refused to go back for more, knowing that ned would not assault him here in the camp. along the water's edge the great cypress trees reared themselves into the air, and a few rods back of them the dense cane. the party was now in the heart of the canebrake, in which they had reason to believe lurked much of the game of which they were in search. one of the big cypress trees stood just in front of the camp, its awkward knees twisted and bent, extending some four feet above the ground. below the knees were watery caverns, black and oozy, foul and unhealthful. stacy sat perched on one of these knees gazing thoughtfully down into the black pool. the others were busy about the camp and failed to observe him. after a time the fat boy went out to hunt for a pole. he wanted to try the water to see how deep it was. he returned a few minutes later with a tall cane, the foliage still fresh at its top. it had been broken down, he knew not how and cared less. "going fishing?" questioned ned, fixing a grinning gaze on the fat boy. "i may be, then again i may not be." "i hope you have luck." "i hope i do." "and i hope you fall in." "i hope i don't." stacy perched himself on one of the cypress knees, and, letting the bushy top down, began poking about in the black pool. he felt something move under the pole in his hand, and gave a vicious prod. there followed a sudden commotion down in the water, then the cane pole was jerked down with terrific force. it all occurred so quickly that chunky did not think to let go of the pole until it was too late to do so. but there was time in which to yell. stacy uttered a wild, piercing scream, for he saw what had caused the disturbance below. a huge snout, with a pair of jaws that seemingly worked on a loose hinge--chunky didn't have to be told that the swimming reptile was a huge alligator! chapter xi on the big game trails tad butler was the only one of the party to grasp the note of wild alarm in stacy's voice. nor did even butler comprehend what had caused it. tad, however, saw the fat boy lose his balance after clutching desperately at the cane stalk. at that moment, engaged in straightening out the coils of his lasso, tad had just slipped the coil into his left hand, the honda in his right. as he did so butler had swung the rope over his head, intending to catch stacy, giving him a slight scare. just as stacy's feet shot upward tad let go the rope, dropping the loop neatly over master brown's left foot and drawing taut instantly. chunky, thus caught, sprawled between the cypress knees and the black pool, looking more like a giant spider than anything else. "ow, wow! wow! in the name of goodness!" shrieked stacy. "keep cool, if you can!" tad yelled to the frightened victim. then, to the other boys: "get him out as quickly as you can, fellows! you'll have to be lively now! something is wrong with our comrade." "what is it, where is he?" cried the boys. "there, under the tree at the end of my rope. be quick. there's something down there. be careful that you don't get in, too. i've got him fast, but he may squirm loose." tad had snubbed the rope around a tree and now began hauling in. chunky's legs were spread wide apart, and tad hauled him up little by little until the fat boy's legs were on either side of one of the cypress knees, the knee pressing against his body. chunky could be hauled no further unless he were to be split in two. but butler was satisfied that the fat boy was out of the reach of anything that might be down in the pool. lilly was the first to reach the scene, followed in great strides by professor zepplin and the other two boys. now the problem of getting both the boy's legs on one side of the cypress knee was presented to them. "get--get me out of here! i've got a rush of blood to the head," pleaded chunky. "you are fortunate if you don't get more than that," snapped billy lilly. "did de 'gator done git him?" questioned ichabod apprehensively. "not yet. he may," answered the guide. "let up on the rope a little, master tad." "you had better pass another one about his waist first, in case anything happens to this rope. get your rope, ned. i can hold him here until you have him safely secured." ned ran for his rope. all this time stacy brown was hanging head down, looking into the pool, face to face with the terrible thing that he saw down there. he couldn't keep his eyes closed, try as he might. a strange fascination seemed to force him to look into the big, bulging eyes of the 'gator patiently waiting for him down in the black pool. ned, returning with his rope, climbed over on the knees and leaned over to secure it about stacy's waist. he quickly turned a pale face up to those gathered about the scene. "hold fast to me, please. i don't fancy furnishing a meal for that fellow down there," said rector in a quiet voice. "what--what is it, ned?" gasped walter. "never mind what it is. just take tight hold of me. hold my legs, if you please, mr. lilly." the guide did so, and ned lost no time in taking a double hitch about stacy's waist. lilly nodded to tad to lower away on the rope, which tad did slowly and cautiously. "don't--don't let me down in there!" yelled the fat boy, squirming and fighting and kicking. "stop it!" commanded the professor sternly. "if you will behave yourself we may be able to get you out, but if you don't keep quiet we may let you go." a moan was the only answer to the professor's warning. lilly now grabbed one of the truant feet, jerking it over to the other side of the cypress knee against its mate. "haul away, master tad," the guide sang out in a cheery voice. "i guess we've got the young gentleman this time." while butler was hauling in on his rope, lilly and ned rector were pulling the fat boy up by his feet, each having hold of a foot. stacy came out squirming like an angleworm being pulled from the ground after a spring rain. he surely would have fallen in again if they had not held to him by main force. "there, you wooden-headed--" began ned. "tut, tut!" warned professor zepplin. stacy was tossed to the ground a safe distance from the scene of his late unpleasantness, where he lay rubbing that part of his person where the rope had fairly cut into the skin. stacy was still sore from contact with the thorn bushes, and the rope was an added aggravation to his already tender skin. "you may thank master tad and ned for having saved your life, tad first of all," reminded the professor. "for getting into difficulties, young man, you win the blue ribbon in all classes," declared billy lilly. "how did you ever come to get in that hole?" "he was fishing for something," grinned tad. "and he got a real bite," added ned. "he came near furnishing a bite for that gentleman in the pool. that was the quickest move i ever saw," continued lilly, gazing admiringly at tad. "how you can handle a rope! that's one thing i never could do." "how did you manage it so quickly, tad?" asked walter, his face still pale from fright. "i was casting at him for fun at the time. my getting him was not due to any unusual quickness on my part, for the rope was in the air when he lost his balance. i merely jerked it down over one foot, and i guess it was lucky for him that i was preparing to play a joke on him, at that." "i should say it was," muttered the guide. "you come with me, old boy," said tad, taking stacy by an arm and leading the fat boy to his tent. they did not know what tad said to his companion, but they did know that stacy looked very solemn and greatly subdued, when, after a ten-minute interview, tad permitted stacy to leave the tent. the fat boy sat down without a word, gazing reflectively into the campfire, and did not speak again, except to answer questions in monosyllables, until they had finished supper. that night, as usual, the music of the barred owls, their weird screeches and yells, filled to the exclusion of all other sounds except the busy buzz of the giant mosquitoes. the latter were kept out pretty well by the smudge that lilly built in front of the tents and that he kept going through most of the night. stacy turned in early, having very little to say to any one. but by the next morning he had forgotten all about his narrow escape and was the same old chunky, ready for any opportunity that might present itself for getting into trouble. shortly after daybreak tad slipped on his boots, and, with rifle under his arm, sauntered out to the cypress tree, where he perched himself on the knees at the edge of the black pool. the boy waited patiently for half an hour, keeping a close watch of the pool, but he discovered nothing. after a time butler gathered up some rotten sticks and dropped them in. he had not been at this long before a loud splash below told him that his bait had been seized, and a moment later the bulging eyes of a 'gator slowly protruded from the water, the eyes gazing up at the boy perched above them. "now i reckon i have you, my fine gentleman," muttered tad, slowly bringing his rifle into position. it was perhaps three seconds later when tad butler's rifle, roaring out its deadly message, brought every man in the camp from his tent. they saw tad sitting on a cypress knee, gazing down into the black pool, a satisfied grin on his face. lilly understood at once what was going on. "did you get him?" he cried. "i did," answered tad calmly. "he won't have any more appetite for fat boys. are there any more of them down there, do you think, mr. lilly?" "i reckon there are plenty there." "then i am going to make it my business to thin them out," said tad. the bang of the pony rider boy's rifle was heard three more times that morning. that appeared to have rid the black pool of its dangerous residents. while tad was watching the pool stacy brown was dancing about the camp in search of something to occupy his mind and time, but the others kept a close watch on the fat boy and kept him out of mischief. early in the morning mr. lilly had gone out with rifle and dogs in search of "bear sign." the dogs were barking eagerly as he left camp, but the animals were disconsolate when, along towards noon, hunter and dogs returned to camp. "nary a sign," answered lilly in response to tad's questioning look. "there's game here, just the same. the dogs scented something this morning. of course, i don't know what they scented, and what bothers me is that i couldn't find any sign." "how did the dogs act?" asked tad. "as if they were mad about something." "i guess they must have been mad with you for taking them out on a wild goose chase," suggested stacy wisely. "no doubt, no doubt," nodded the guide. "i'll tell you what, i'll go out and find the trail for you. i don't suppose there is a better trailer in the country than myself," declared stacy. "why, i can run a trail with my nose, even though it's ages old." "are you speaking of your nose or the trail?" asked ned. "the trail, of course. my nose isn't ages old." "nor will it be if you don't watch out and keep away from trouble," warned tad. "what are your plans, mr. lilly?" "we will go out in the morning. between us we ought to pick up something. this afternoon i will take a run about to see what i can pick up; then in the morning we will get an early start, all hands going out." "that will be fine," approved the boys. they were enthusiastic over the guide's report when he came in that night with the good news that he had found some "bear sign" about four miles to the west. "do you think that was what the dogs scented when you were out before?" asked tad. "i reckon it must have been. what you-all been doing this afternoon?" "oh, 'gator hunting." "get any?" "i have cleaned them out." the guide laughed. "i reckon if you were to go swimming in there you'd change your mind. they are moving back and forth all the time. it would take your time for the next several years to clean them out of this river. remember, we start early in the morning for the hunting grounds." early in the morning meant just as the dawn was graying in the east, and before the light really had filtered through the tall cypress. all the boys turned out cheerfully, including chunky, who didn't utter a grumble. ned said chunky must be sick, but chunky declared that he always got up that way, and that it was ned who was so grouchy that he thought everyone else was. the other boys mischievously sided with stacy and against ned rector. after a hasty breakfast a light pack of food was stowed in the pockets of the saddles, and the boys jogged from the camp, leaving ichabod in sole charge. lilly rode ahead, slashing as usual, chunky being sandwiched between tad and the professor. the "bear sign" had been discovered in the canebrake about three miles from camp. it was to this point that the guide was heading. arriving there he called the party about him for their instructions. they were to split up, and at least two of them were to pass through an exciting experience ere they returned to their camp on sunflower river. chapter xii the quest of the phantom deer the dogs were tugging at their leashes, having already scented the trail, when lilly called his hunters about him to give them their directions. it was decided that tad butler and stacy brown were to proceed to the north, posting themselves between two ridges of cane in the swamp, and there to wait until they were called in by the guide's horn later in the day. ned was given a post to the south, while walter perkins and the professor were to remain with lilly. taking all things into consideration the three boys who were to guard the north and south were in much the better positions, as it was believed that the bears would take one of these two directions, breaking from ridge to ridge until they found a hiding place in one or the other of the canebrake ridges. tad and ned were each equipped with a bush-knife, with a horn to each party. lilly considered that the boys needed no further advice from him, the lads having had experience with bear before this and all being good shots and well-tried hunters at big game. "look out that you don't get lost if you get on a chase," he warned. "one is likely in the excitement of a chase to forget to blaze his trail. it isn't any use to get game if you can't get back to camp with it." the boys knew this, too. stacy declared that such a little thing as the canebrake didn't worry him in the least; that he could find his way out with his eyes shut. "don't try it," warned the guide tersely. "i am glad i haven't the responsibility of looking after chunky," chuckled ned rector. "tad, you have your work cut out for you." "all take your positions. we will wait here until you have done so, then we will free the dogs. blow your horns, one long blast when you are ready, then lie low," directed the guide. "come on, chunky; i'm off," cried tad, springing into his saddle, armed with rifle, bush-knife, horn and hunting knife, chunky having the usual equipment without the bush-knife and horn. the two boys fought their way through the jungle and were soon out of sight and sound of their companions. ned, too, was on his way to his post, thus placing the two outside parties about five miles apart, with the guide, professor zepplin and perkins, somewhere midway between the outside parties. after some time had elapsed, ned's horn was heard. he had farther to go than tad. the latter's horn sounded fully half an hour after ned's. lilly unleashed the dogs, and with joyful yelps they scattered, diving into the thick cane, darting here and there, in search of the trail, which they found, and started away in a very few minutes. to the surprise of lilly, the dogs headed west instead of going either north or south, as he had looked for them to do. "he will round back sooner or later and break for the other ridges," was the guide's confident prediction. "the boys will get a chance at the bear unless i am greatly mistaken." lilly and his two companions now started at break-neck speed in pursuit of their dogs. through cane, through soft, swampy land they urged their ponies, slashing to the right and left with the bush-knife. the yelping of the dogs could be heard far ahead of them. "good trail," observed lilly. "the hounds are making excellent time. that's a favorable sign." "but we shan't get a shot at the game if it is going so far away," objected walter. "you can't tell about that. the bears are just as likely to double back here as to go on. you never can tell about those fellows. they are sharp and they can cover ground faster than we can in the woods. this nearest one is a she-bear and a big one." "how do you know?" questioned walter. "i can tell by her tracks and the way she works. it is easy when you know. there, the dogs are out of hearing now. gracious, she's making a long run. we will take a short cut across this way. that ought to bring us across the trail and we may be able to head her off." while all this was taking place tad butler and stacy brown were standing beside their horses close to the canebrake. they too heard the barking of the dogs, and realized that the game was getting farther and farther away. suddenly tad heard what he thought was the sound of a breaking twig off to the north of them. "chunky," he whispered, "you stay here and watch the horses while i make a scout. i believe that bear has given them the slip and has come over into the brake here. don't make a sound. i will be back pretty soon." "how long?" "half an hour at the most." stacy nodded. tad tethered his horse, then taking his rifle from the saddle boot stole silently away. stacy lost sight of him in a few minutes. butler, proceeding as quietly as an indian, had crossed the next cane ridge and had gotten nearly over a narrow stretch of swamp when he heard a sound in the cane just ahead of him. tad crouched down and listened. not a sound save that of the birds of the forest did he now hear. he had waited in that position for some time, when he heard something strike the ground in the canebrake just beyond him. the boy straightened up. a flash of red and a crashing of the cane told him that his ears had not deceived him. with characteristic quickness, tad threw up his rifle and fired. a crash woke the echoes of the forest, stilling the songs of the birds in the trees. then followed another crash. "i got him that time. it's a deer," exulted the pony rider boy. he did not pause to think that his had been a remarkable shot, or that he had fired while the deer was still in the air, making a leap for safety. the animal had caught sight of him as he rose to his feet, then leaped. alarmed by the baying of the dogs, the deer had fled in tad's direction, and perhaps it had halted because of the scent of the boy himself. at any rate tad butler's shot had been sure. his bullet had caught the animal just back of the shoulder, dropping the deer dead in its tracks. butler started on a run, crashing through the bushes and into the dense cane, and there lay the deer, a handsome doe. the young hunter felt regretful as he gazed down at the fallen animal. "well, i reckon i've got enough meat to keep us going for some time. mr. lilly will be glad to get this. now, i must get the horses." tad jacked the deer up in the manner learned from his former guide in the maine woods, then started back for stacy and the horses. butler had a little difficulty in finding his way at first, thus losing fully twenty minutes, but finally he found the trail, and set off for the stock on a brisk run. "hey, what did you shoot at?" cried stacy the instant he caught sight of his companion. "at a deer," answered tad, smiling happily, "and i got him, too." "you did?" wondered stacy. "i surely did. we will go get him and take him back to camp." "what about the bear?" "i don't believe the bear will come this way. you heard them going off in the other direction, but perhaps you had better stay here and watch while i get the deer." "no, no, i'm going with you," protested chunky. "very good, if you want to. i don't think we shall lose much. then again i may need your help in loading the beast on my horse." "is he a big one?" "no, it is a doe," answered tad, climbing into his saddle, stacy doing the same with his mount. "hurrah!" shouted the fat boy. "we are the mighty hunters. give us a fair show and send the rest of the folks about their business and we will show them how to get game. but i'm sorry we didn't meet the bears." "so am i. still, we have some food that is better than bear meat." the boys hurried along tad's trail as fast as possible. they crossed the swamp places, on through the canebrake and into the partially open swale where tad had stood when he shot. "it is right over there," called tad. he pushed on, but as he reached the spot he stopped and rubbed his eyes. there was no deer there. "he's gone," gasped tad butler. "a regular phantom deer," jeered the fat boy. "oh, what a joke on you. won't the boys have the laugh on you?" "this is no joke," answered tad slowly. "i'm going to find out what it is right now." chapter xiii the mystery is solved butler's first act was to dismount, tossing the bridle rein to stacy. tad then hurried to the spot where he had left the deer hanging. "i guess the bear has been here all right," chuckled the fat boy. "did you really kill a deer, tad?" "can't you take my word for it?" demanded tad somewhat testily. "oh, yes, of course. don't get touchy about it." "i think i have reason to be touchy. i not only lose my deer, but my companion doubts that i ever had one." "i was only joking, tad." "all right." "what do you think?" stacy resumed. "i don't think. i am trying to see." tad stood still before destroying the clues by tramping about on the scene. the poles on which the deer had been hung had been flung to one side. he could see where the deer had fallen to the ground when the poles had been removed, and his first impression was that a bear had chanced that way and torn down the dead animal. but tad knew that a bear would not have dragged the prey away, that the bear, if hungry, would have made a meal of it, then crawled away somewhere to sleep or rest. the deer had disappeared. that meant that some person had carried it away. the pony rider boy circled slowly about the scene, using his eyes to good advantage. he saw the prints of a heavy boot in the soft ground; then he discovered that the bushes had been crushed down where the doe had been dragged. it was a plain trail up to a certain point, and there the trail changed. further investigation showed the lad that a horse had been tethered to a tree nearby, and it was at the base of this tree that the dragged-trail came to an end. butler understood the meaning of this when he discovered quite a pool of blood on the leaves of some trampled bushes. some person had stolen his deer and loaded it to the back of the horse. following the trail still farther, tad saw that the man had ridden away with his prize. "it is plain theft, nothing more or less," muttered the boy, as he started back to stacy. "well?" questioned the fat boy. "stolen!" answered butler sharply. "you don't say so? who did it?" "how should i know? i shouldn't be surprised if the man saw me hang the deer there, then as soon as i got away he stole the carcass. wasn't that a measly trick?" "beastly," agreed stacy. tad stood pondering. "what are you going to do about it--tell mr. lilly?" questioned stacy. "well, hardly that. i am going after that deer," answered tad with a firm compression of the lips. "you may go back to camp if you wish." "no, sir! if there is going to be any fun you may count me in every time. but we may get lost." "we can't get lost on that trail. by the time we have passed over it in the wake of the other man it will be plainly marked." "how do you know there wasn't more than one?" asked stacy. "because the tracks of one horse are all there are here. one man and one horse, that's all." "hm-m-m! but he may be a long way from here by this time." "he cannot have gone far in this short time. then remember, he is carrying a heavy load. no horse can travel fast in this swamp, especially when carrying a man and a deer, unless the man walked. in that case his progress would be still slower." "yes, but what are you going to do if you do catch up with him?" urged chunky. "get my deer," answered tad firmly. "let's be going," urged stacy after a moment's reflection. tad needed no further urging. he quickly led his horse around the spot where the deer had been dropped, then blazing a tree on four sides for the guidance of billy lilly in case the latter should find it necessary to follow them, tad started off on the trail of the deer thief, followed a short distance to the rear by stacy brown. the trail was not difficult to follow; even a novice could not well have missed it for the thief had used his bush-knife freely in getting away. tad had little use for his own bush-knife, except here and there where he found it possible to make a short cut where the other man had made a detour to find better going for his heavy load. these short cuts saved quite a little of the distance. tad imagined that they were going a third faster than the man they were pursuing. if that were the fact they should overhaul him very quickly. "say, how much farther have we got to go?" finally called stacy. "keep quiet," warned tad. "don't call. the trail is growing fresher every minute. we cannot be far from him now. i think we had better slow down a little. make as little noise as possible." "i don't see what that has to do with it," grumbled chunky. "it may have a great deal to do with it. you do as i tell you." they were not as near as they thought, and the man was making better time than they had deemed possible. at the rate the boys were going tad felt that they should have overhauled him at about this time, but there was neither sight nor sound of a human being, though the trail itself was still plain and fresh. "more speed," directed the pony rider boy. "i'll break my neck if i ride any faster," objected stacy. "then stay here and wait for me." "i won't." the horses settled to their work as if they understood what was expected of them. they leaped cypress knees, fallen trees, and tore through the forest at a perilous pace, but they were making more noise than either of the boys realized. so much noise did they make that horseman some distance ahead of them heard them plainly. tad suddenly pulled his horse down to a walk. ahead of him, sitting his saddle easily, was a tall, bearded man. the latter's horse was white, with pink nostrils, something like tad butler's mount. the rider was raw-boned and armed with rifle and bush-knife, besides a revolver that protruded from his belt. but there was no deer on the horse, nor any trace of a deer. "howdy, stranger," greeted the man. "good afternoon," answered tad, eyeing the man narrowly. "have you seen anything of a man carrying a deer?" "a deer?" "yes, sir." "i reckon i saw a fellow with a buck some twenty minutes back." "where?" "oh, he went on past here." "which way did he go?" "that way," answered the stranger, pointing on to the westward. "did you know the man?" "never sot eyes on him before, kiddie," answered the man. "but you seem mighty interested?" "i am," was the terse reply. tad was using his eyes to good purpose, but trying not to let the man know that he was doing so. "somebody you know?" tad shook his head. "but we would like to know him," interjected stacy. "for what, kiddie?" tad gave chunky a quick glance of warning. "oh, nothing much. we thought we should like to hold a conversation with him, that's all," answered stacy carelessly. "you are quite sure it was a buck that he was carrying?" questioned butler. "i reckon i ought to know." "i think you are mistaken." "eh?" "it was a doe." "so?" "yes, sir. it was _my_ doe," persisted butler. "yours?" in well-feigned amazement. "it was. i shot him and someone stole him. if you know anything about the man who took him, i would ask you kindly to tell me. he may have carried the carcass away under the impression that the man who killed the doe had abandoned it." "this man wasn't under any seech impression, kiddie." "how do you know?" "wall, in the first place it wasn't a doe and in the second place the fellow killed it himself, i reckon," drawled the stranger. "may i ask who you are?" "that doesn't cut any figure." "it may cut more than you think." "what do you mean?" demanded the stranger, peering angrily at tad. "that i am going to have that deer if i have to hold up every man in the canebrake," was tad's firm reply. "i reckon you've got your work out out for you," chuckled the fellow. tad gave him another look, and swung down from his stirrup. "stacy, you remain where you are." "what are you going to do?" demanded the fat boy. "take a little look around. keep your eyes peeled," he warned in a lower tone, intended for chunky's ears alone. the fat boy nodded. stacy was unafraid. in fact he was pleased and he shrewdly suspected that the man before them knew more about the stolen doe than he had told them. he was positive that the stranger was shielding the real thief, and that tad knew it. "trust tad for seeing things," was the fat boy's reasoning. butler _was_ seeing things. "what do you reckon you are going to do?" called the man. "i want to look about here a bit, that's all. i don't suppose you have any objections?" questioned tad sarcastically. "you are a mighty pert young fellow, it strikes me." tad did not reply. he was following the trail of a horse to the north of where the horseman was sitting, narrowly watching tad. in order to do so more fully, the stranger wheeled his mount about. "hello!" exclaimed chunky. "what's the matter with you?" demanded the man. "your nag must have hurt itself." "what makes you think so?" "he has blood on his flanks." "that's so, kiddie. i reckon i must have pricked him with my bush-knife. i'll have to tend to that at the first opportunity," explained the fellow lamely. "pricked him with a bush-knife, eh?" "yes." "ha, ha, ha; haw, haw, haw!" laughed the fat boy mockingly. chapter xiv the fat boy distinguishes himself "you laughing at me?" shouted the stranger angrily. "no, that was a horse laugh," answered chunky. "what d'ye mean?" "i mean i was laughing at the horse. the joke is on the horse, you see. that's why i called it a horse laugh. ever hear of a horse laugh? that was one of those things. you see, you can learn even from a kid." the horseman, glowering, was gazing so fixedly at the fat boy that for the moment he had forgotten to watch tad, who was now circling slowly about the two in ever-widening circles. tad found that the broad trail made by the man who had stolen his doe ended where they were. the lad came around again to the point where he had discovered horse tracks leading north from that point. he took up this trail again. behind a fallen cypress, partially hidden in the foliage, the pony rider boy discovered a dead deer. at first he did not go near to the carcass, pretending not to have seen it, but continued moving around the place, his object being to see where the deer had been hit. he found the wound very soon, for it was just back of the left shoulder. even then butler gave no sign that he understood. he strolled back to stacy, giving the fat boy a knowing wink, which stacy, for a wonder, interpreted correctly. that is, he understood that his companion had made a discovery, but just what that discovery was, chunky could not say. "well?" questioned the stranger sharply. "well?" answered butler, a faint grin appearing on his face. "are you satisfied?" "of what?" "that your doe isn't here?" "i am satisfied," replied tad evasively, not saying of what he was satisfied. "if you want to catch the man with the buck, you'd better be heading on. he'll get so far away that you'll never catch him if you don't move." "i am in no hurry now," replied butler. "what do you-all reckon on doing?" "remain right here until the rest of my party comes up." the stranger started. "chunky, will you be good enough to wind the horn?" stacy grinned broadly. "i reckon i'll wind the old thing up until she caves in or breaks her mainspring," chuckled the fat boy. stacy placed the horn to his lips and gave a long, winding blast that drowned the songs of the birds and set the barred owls to cackling uneasily. "here, what are you doing?" cried the horseman. "if you aren't deaf, you would know without asking such a question," retorted stacy, taking the horn from his lips for a moment. tad in the meantime had seated himself on a log. his rifle was still in the saddle boot, but tad had his rope and his revolver. the former he did not have much if any use for in the present circumstances, but he half expected to have use for the rope. he had tried to avoid a clash, and he hoped the man would take alarm and go away. the man did nothing of the sort. instead, he forced the situation to a head. "how long you going to stay here?" he asked, controlling his voice with evident effort. "until you go away, or until my party comes up," answered butler. "i reckon you'll stay here a long time, then. i am camping here. your party has gone the other way and they won't get out to this brake before tomorrow some time." "you seem to know all about it." "i reckon i do." "and you know all about that deer over yonder behind the down cypress?" "if i do, that's my business. the doe is mine." "you are wrong," answered tad. "the doe is mine. you know it is." "well, for the sake of the argument, what are you going to do about it?" "take the deer back with me," answered butler evenly. "and what do you think i'll be doing while you-all are taking my doe away?" "i don't care what you do. i propose to do what i please with my own property." "look here, kid. i've just been leadin' you along by the nose. now, i'm going to talk straight." "that's what i want you to do. but i doubt if you can talk straight--i doubt if you can tell the truth. a fellow who will steal a deer will not hesitate to lie," answered butler, gazing defiantly at the horseman. the man flushed under his tan, flushed clear up under his hat. "layin' all that talk aside, how you going to prove that that doe is your property?" "how are you going to prove that it isn't?" retorted the pony rider boy. "because i shot him." tad chuckled. "you will have a mighty hard time proving that. listen! i tracked you here. i followed the trail right to this spot where it ends. your story about seeing a man with a buck was not true. there is no trail beyond this place. you hoped we would go on, when you would have taken the doe from its hiding place and gone away with it. if you want a deer so badly, why don't you go shoot one? if you don't know how to shoot, come to our camp and i will divide this deer with you. but take it back with me i am going to, and i'd like to see you or anyone else stop me." "that's the talk," cried chunky. "that's what i call turkey talk. why, you moccasin-chaser, i could eat you. i would if i weren't afraid of getting a pain in my stomach." "never mind, stacy," rebuked tad. "i will talk with this fellow. you, mister man, may think you are dealing with a couple of boys. we may be boys, but we know how to take care of ourselves. i am not making brags; i am simply warning you that we shall take the carcass back to camp with us, and if you interfere we shall have to defend ourselves." "you touch that carcass and something will happen right smart, i reckon," warned the stranger, jerking his horse about and facing the fallen cypress. "chunky, you cover my retreat," ordered tad in a low tone. "you bet i will," answered the fat boy, chuckling happily. stacy was the original trouble man. trouble was meat and drink to him. "here, where you going?" shouted the now thoroughly enraged hunter as tad turned his back on the man and walked briskly towards the cypress. "i am going for my doe," flung back butler. there had been no answer to stacy's signal on the horn, nor had tad looked for any. he would have been surprised had there been, knowing, as did the stranger, that billy lilly and his party were miles away from that particular spot. "come back here!" ordered the man. "i will when i get the deer," answered butler. the stranger, hot with anger, flung up his revolver and pulled the trigger. there followed a sharp report and tad's hat dropped on the ground in front of him. it was then that tad butler showed his cool nerve. without looking back he stooped, and, picking up his sombrero, placed it on his head and started on. for the moment the shooter was too amazed to do more than stare. his face was working nervously. whether he had intended to shoot the boy or not, tad did not know, but he was inclined to think not. once more the fellow raised his weapon. "oh, by--the--way!" drawled chunky. the man turned sharply toward stacy. he found himself looking into the muzzle of the fat boy's rifle. chapter xv pluck and the dead doe "if you don't mind, just drop that little barker, mister what's-your-name. it might go off and accidentally hit somebody. in that case i should have to shoot you. i'd hate to waste any lead on you, and i don't think you're worth the price of a shell." for one uncertain moment the stranger sat with revolver pointed toward tad, his gaze fixed on chunky. "don't try any tricks. i can shoot just as quickly as you can, and i know i can do it a whole lot straighter. drop it!" the revolver fell to the ground, the man's lower jaw hanging so low that stacy could look into his mouth. the fellow twitched slightly at his bridle rein to turn his horse about, but the move was not lost on the watchful chunky. "want to lose that horse? if so, just keep on with what you are doing! that little black spot in his forehead would make a dandy mark. after the horse is down i may conclude to decorate your features, too. oh, i'm a terror when i get started. i'm not started yet. you may think i am, but i'm not. this is just a preliminary skirmish, as the professor would say. when the real sortie begins the air will be filled with the yells of the dead and the silence of the living." growling under his breath the stranger checked his horse. "i'll git you yet, you young whelp!" he threatened. "tut, tut!" warned stacy. "such language before an innocent boy like me? i am amazed. you must have had an awful bad bringing up." "stacy!" the boy answered without looking around. "watch him. don't forget yourself while you are having such a pleasant conversation. i shall have to have my horse here," called tad. "drop it!" yelled the fat boy, swinging his rifle toward the horseman again. the latter was tugging at the rifle in his saddle boot. the man halted instantly. "upon second thought you may pull it out. first turn your back to me, but be slow about it, and after you get the gun from its holster, just let it fall to the ground with the revolver. i'll talk with you some more after you have done that. i mean business!" the stranger knew that. he was perplexed. that boys should be so cool and so ready to defend themselves against an experienced woodsman passed his comprehension. the horseman drew the rifle all the way out, stacy warning, "slower, slower," as the operation proceeded. the horseman's back being turned to the boy left the man at a disadvantage, and he did not dare to attempt a shot, knowing that the boy could fire at least twice before he could get into position to shoot once. "let go of it!" commanded stacy sharply. the rifle fell near where the revolver lay. stacy chuckled audibly. "shall i give him the run, tad? i have pulled his fangs. he can't do us any harm now," proclaimed chunky. "no," tad rejoined quietly. "what shall we do with him, then?" "i want to have a talk with the fellow when i have finished my job. you hold him right where he is, old boy." "oh, i'll hold him all right. i'm keeping my eyes on a spot right behind his left ear. it's the prettiest mark you ever saw." tad grinned appreciatively. he was proud of stacy brown, for stacy had distinguished himself and shown his pluck beyond any doubt. the boy, tugging at the deer, finally succeeded in getting it to the back of his horse, where he lashed the carcass, the stranger watching the operation out of the corners of his eyes, and admitted to himself that he had made a mistake in his reckonings. tad knew his business. the fellow could see that. the fat boy knew his business, too, as earlier events had demonstrated, and to the undoing of the woodsman. "there, i guess the carcass will stay on until we get home. i hope we make it before dark," exclaimed tad as he completed his task. "what about the man?" inquired stacy. "keep him covered until i tell you to let go." butler gathered up the man's revolver and rifle, from both of which he extracted the shells. handing the latter to the fellow, he directed him to put the shells in his pocket. next tad handed the man his weapons. "put them away and don't you dare to load them until you are at least a mile from here." "look here, what are you doing?" cried chunky. "i am returning his property," answered tad. "here i go and draw the animal's fangs, then you go stick them back again! why, he'll be shooting at us before he gets out of sight," protested the fat boy. "i wouldn't turn a man into this swamp unarmed, stacy. it might be sending him to his death." "serve him right," grunted young brown. "chunky, i am amazed at you," rebuked tad. in the meantime the stranger with a look of puzzled amazement on his face was stowing away his weapons, gazing perplexedly at tad butler. "now, my man, i don't know who you are; i don't care who you are. but i hope you will have learned a lesson and that you will leave us alone after this. do you know bill lilly?" the stranger flushed again. tad saw that the fellow did. "then you know that mr. lilly won't stand for any such doings as yours. i reckon if he had been in my place he wouldn't have let you off quite so easy, and if you bother us further i shan't, either. now, sir, i want you to head your horse straight west. ride until you get tired of riding, but don't make the mistake of thinking that you can come back and catch us napping. we shall be on the watch for you." "yes, you had better not come back," interjected stacy brown. "this gun might get unmanageable. you don't know what a terror it is when it gets on a rampage." "i guess that is about all i have to say to you," continued butler. "except that i shall tell mr. lilly. he may take a notion to follow you and call you to account. however, i think you have been punished enough. now get out of here as fast as you can ride." "i'll be even with you, you young cubs!" shouted the angry voice of the stranger as he rode away. "shall i wing him, tad?" yelled stacy. "certainly not," rebuked butler. "what right or reason have you to do it?" "i--i told you he would strike when you put his fangs back in his jaw. he will be after us again, mind what i tell you," predicted chunky. "we don't care. we have our deer," answered tad with a good-humored smile. "but don't you think it is time we were getting back? we shall be caught out after dark if we don't hurry." chunky agreed, so the boys started back over the trail, casting frequent glances to the rear, for tad really believed that the doe thief would try to creep up on them and take his revenge. for that reason butler carried his rifle across the saddle in front of him, ready for instant action. "here, here, we've forgotten something," cried chunky after they had been going on for twenty minutes. "what have we forgotten?" "to eat." "oh, pooh! we can wait until we get to camp." "we can do nothing of the sort! i can't wait another minute. i'm so hungry that my works are rattling around inside of me like the dishes in a pantry when a mad cat is let loose among them." "you have food in your saddle bags," reminded tad. "but i want something warm." "you may get it if you stop," warned butler suggestively. "take a nibble and let it go at that. when we get home we shall have some venison steak. how would that strike you?" "don't aggravate me," groaned the fat boy, rolling his eyes. "anyone would think you were going to throw a fit the way you roll your eyes and show the whites," laughed tad. "i shall throw one if you say any more about venison steak." "all right. i won't find any further fault with you. i am proud of you, chunky. i take back all the disagreeable things i have said about you. you are a plucky boy." "yes, i reckon i am about the bravest man that ever tackled wild beasts in the canebrake," agreed the fat boy. "what are you thinking about?" "i was wondering," answered tad reflectively. "it seems to me that there is something more to this affair than i first thought. why did that man steal the doe, chunky?" "'cause he wanted it. ask me something harder." "i don't believe that was wholly the case." chunky cocked an inquiring eye. "what do you think?" he demanded. "i don't know as i think at all," laughed butler. "i thought not. you are always looking for something. i wish i had your imagination." "what would you do with it?" "think up trouble that couldn't happen at all. but you see i could imagine it was going to happen, and get just as much excitement out of it as if it really had. it would be a whole lot safer, too." "i agree with you," answered tad, tilting back his head and laughing heartily. tad rode watching the trail with keen eyes. he had no difficulty in following it, but he saw that night would be upon them before they reached the camp, which would then make their progress slower and much more uncertain. stacy was not worrying. he was not given to worrying until face to face with an emergency--and not always then. twilight settled over the swamp and the canebrake, and the barred owls began their wild hoots and weird croakings, sounds that always made the fat boy shiver. he said it gave him "crinkles" up and down his back. he told that to tad, and asked permission to wind the horn. "i hardly think that would be prudent. if our late enemy should chance to be following us it would give him a pretty good line on us, wouldn't it?" "gracious! i hadn't thought of that. do you suppose he is on our track?" "i hardly think so. still, he may be. we are not traveling fast, you know, while he, being light, can overtake us easily if he wants to." "i reckon he has had enough of the pony rider boys," averred stacy. "he knows he'd be hurt if he got too familiar with us. you ought to have let me fan him a little while i had the chance." "no. i am amazed that you should think of such a thing. but i am sure you don't mean it." "i _do_ mean it. you bet i mean it." "you are not a safe person to be at large." "neither is he," retorted stacy. "i give up," laughed tad. "there is no such thing as having the last word in an argument with you." "of course there isn't. that's what my aunt says, so she uses a stick. i can't answer that in the same way." tad halted to search for some torch wood. he found some after poking around in the dark for nearly half an hour. some of the wood he gave to stacy, and lighted a torch for himself. the torch flared up, sending ghostly shadows through the forest, causing the owls to break out in a chorus of angry protest. tad was now able to see the trail, though the light made the trail deceiving, requiring the utmost caution in following it. once off the trail, the boy knew that they would be obliged to spend the night in the swamp or the canebrake, for to move about would be to get farther into the depths of the forest. stacy grumbled at their slow progress, but tad's patience was the patience of the experienced woodsman who moved slowly, observing everything about him, listening to all sounds, thinking of everything that a woodsman in the depth of the forest should think of. it was about nine o'clock in the evening when tad halted and held up one hand. "what is it?" whispered chunky. "i thought i heard a horn." "yes, there it goes," cried stacy. the winding horn was a long way off. none but the keenest of ears could have caught the sound. "answer them," nodded butler. stacy did. he wound the horn until he was red in the face. tad had to stop him in order that he might listen for the other horn. he heard it again. they now knew that their companions were out looking for them. it was about this time that lilly discovered the four-sided blaze. he read its message instantly. then he caught the sound of stacy's answering horn. "they are getting near. they will be here soon," announced the guide in a relieved tone. "i told you, you couldn't lose tad butler," cried ned rector. "no, not even in the canebrake." chapter xvi the horn points the way stacy tried to play a tune on the horn, the result being a series of squawks and discords. "for goodness' sake stop it!" begged tad. "don't you like my music?" "i like music, but not your music. it's awful." "huh! you haven't any ear for music," complained chunky. tad concluded that their horn had been heard, and that the searching party was waiting for them rather than start out over the trail which lilly had seen but had not as yet read. he thought of course that the boys had strayed away on the trail of a bear. some time later, guided by the guide's horn fully as much as by the trail marks, tad and stacy neared their two companions. a twinkling light, now appearing and then as suddenly disappearing, seen far down the trail between the trees, told the guide that the missing boys were almost home. "hurrah! there they are," shouted rector. lilly uttered a long-drawn call, which stacy answered with a shrill whoop. "i guess we have a surprise for them," chuckled the fat boy. "won't their noses be out of joint? i reckon they will." "boys, are you all right?" shouted the guide when they came within hailing distance. "both right-side-up," answered tad cheerily, while stacy was marking time with hoarse toots on the hunting horn. as they drew near, ned and lilly rode forward at a gallop to meet them. about this time they discovered that tad was carrying something on his pony's back. "what's that you have there?" called lilly. "guess," shouted chunky. "a bear," ventured ned. "no. there aren't any bears in these woods--only snakes and owls," replied the fat boy. "we have a deer," tad proudly informed the guide and ned. "well, you are some hunters," remarked lilly approvingly. "did you get lost?" tad shook his head. "oh, no; we held closely to the trail. there is no fun in getting lost, you know. mr lilly, did you find my double blaze?" "i reckon i did. i knew, from that, that you had gone away after something, and i saw you knew what you were about. how far did you go?" "'bout a hundred miles," replied stacy. "not quite so far as that, i guess," laughed tad. "we went a long distance, though, and it was the toughest traveling that i ever experienced." "shall i take the doe?" asked billy. "no, thank you, mr. lilly. my horse is tired, but i think he can stand it until we get home. where are the professor and walter?" "at the camp. no need to fetch the whole outfit along. i thought you boys were lost, and that we might have a long hike of it through the night. i am mighty glad to see you safe and sound. where did you get the doe?" "just a few rods from here." "eh?" "yonder." tad pointed. lilly regarded him with a puzzled expression. "then what in the world were you dragging him off into the swamp for?" "i will tell you about that when we get home," replied tad. "it is a long story." "and an exciting one, too," added chunky, mysteriously. "i'll bet you have been getting into fresh difficulties," jeered rector. "on the contrary, ned, he has been helping me out of difficulties. stacy showed himself to be the real man today. you will agree with me when you hear the story." "let's hear it, then," urged ned. "i couldn't think of telling it to you now. stacy is famished; we are both tired and anxious to get home." "yes, and we are going to have some venison steak when we get back to camp. oh, wow?" howled the fat boy. the professor and walter heard them coming when later the party neared the camp. both were out watching with anxious eyes. tad shouted that they were all right, to the great relief of professor zepplin, and the professor and walter opened their eyes when they saw what tad had shot. "help me get this animal strung up," requested tad. "i have bled the doe, but that was all i could find time to do. the carcass should be strung up and dressed at once." "ichabod will attend to that," answered lilly. "here, ichabod. get these young gentlemen something hot to drink and eat, then look after this carcass." "yes, sah." ichabod was grinning broadly. he had not believed that the boys were such mighty hunters. they had not shot a bear, it is true, but they had brought in what was better--a fine, tender doe, and the colored man was actually licking his chops in anticipation of the treat before him. next to a 'possum stew ichabod went silly over venison steaks. none of the party had eaten supper, so that all the appetites were on keen edge. in a few moments there was a steaming pot of coffee ready for them, with some hastily fried bacon. this, with a heaping plate of waffles which the colored man had baked earlier in the evening, made a most palatable meal. stacy's voice was stilled. he began before the others and ate so voraciously that his companions were forced to eat more rapidly by way of self-protection. "let him eat. he has earned it," begged tad in answer to the professor's protest. "suppose you tell us what happened," suggested lilly. "shortly after we arrived at our station," began tad, leaning back, a slice of bacon in one hand, a waffle in the other, both poised half way to his mouth, "i heard something in the brake, and peering, i caught sight of this doe. she saw me at the same instant, and leaped. i shot her while she was still in the air," murmured tad modestly. "was she in the cane?" interrupted the guide. "yes, sir." "good shot!" "it was a quick one, and lucky. i caught her just back of the left shoulder. she went down in her tracks." "better than shooting bears," declared rector. "having left stacy with the horses some distance back i strung up the carcass, then hurried back to get my horse. when we reached the place where i had left the deer, there was no deer there. it had disappeared." lilly had forgotten to eat. he was leaning forward with eager face. "not there?" "i examined the ground and found the tracks of a man," continued butler. "then i found horse tracks. i found also a trail on the ground where the carcass had been dragged over it to a tree and blood at the foot of a tree where the doe had been thrown down. from that point the dragging was not found. instead, were the hoofprints of a horse. these hoofprints sunk into the soft ground deeper now, showing that the animal was carrying a heavier load." "indeed?" wondered professor zepplin. "well, to make a long story short, we determined to get that doe. the trail was an easy one to follow, for the fellow who had stolen the carcass had to cut his way through over most of the trail. a blind man could have followed him." tad then went on to explain how they had eventually come up with the stranger, engaged him in conversation, repeating what the man had said about having seen a hunter with a buck, then proceeding to relate how the carcass had been discovered behind a fallen cypress. "then what?" asked lilly in a low, tense voice, tugging violently at his long moustache. "i went over to fetch the deer." "a--a--a--and the fellow shot him. he shot tad's hat right off," cried stacy, forgetting to eat for the moment. tad embraced the opportunity to take a bite of the crisp bacon. "no, he didn't shoot again. stacy leveled his rifle at the man and made him drop his revolver. then stacy made the fellow give up his rifle. there isn't much more to tell except that we got our doe, after which i returned the fellow's weapons to him and sent him on his way at a lively clip. that's all. you know the rest. we followed our trail home and here we are. how many bear did you get?" "not a smell," answered rector. "but tell us some more." "did you find out what the fellow's name is?" questioned lilly. "we didn't ask him. but i tripped him into an admission that he knew you. still, i don't know as that is of much consequence. everyone down this way appears to know you." "pretty much all of them do," answered the guide. "what did the fellow look like?" "he looked like some sort of a man to me," spoke up chunky. "i reckon he was some sort of a man, but not much of a one at that. i'm sorry he didn't give me an excuse to plug him." "stacy!" warned the professor reprovingly. "yes, stacy is developing into a blood-thirsty young man," smiled tad. "still, he proved himself the genuine thing today. he was as cool as could be. i wish you might have seen the way in which he handled the fellow." "what did he look like?" repeated lilly. "i beg your pardon. he was about your height, i should say, but somewhat thinner. he wore a long beard and his face was weazened. he had blue eyes and light hair. his horse was white, something like the one i am using now. does that give you any idea, mr. lilly?" the guide's face had contracted into a scowl. "i reckon i've seen that hound before," growled billy. "who do you think he is?" "i wouldn't want to say, not knowing for sure. but if it's the fellow i think, you will most likely hear from him again." "but what was his motive?" insisted tad. "eh? motive? why, i reckon he wanted some steak for his supper," grinned billy. "that's what i told him," piped the fat boy. tad shook his head. "that wasn't his only reason. he had another," declared the boy with emphasis. "what makes you think so?" questioned lilly, peering keenly at the brown-faced pony rider boy. "he saw that deer before i did. he must have. why didn't he shoot if he wanted it?" "you're a sharp one," chuckled lilly. "i reckon pete will have to get up before daylight if he thinks to get ahead of my boys." "pete?" repeated butler. "i was just thinkin' out loud," explained billy. "do i understand you to say that he tried to shoot you, tad?" questioned professor zepplin. "i wouldn't say that exactly. i don't think that at first he intended to hit me. later on he was so mad that he would have done so had not chunky held him in check." "stacy, i am pleased beyond words to know that you have in a measure redeemed yourself," declared the professor with glowing face. "oh, i am always in my element when there is danger about. yes, sir, i am a hummer when it comes to danger." "especially when a 'gator is chasing you," reminded ned rector. "that isn't danger, that's just plain murder," answered the fat boy, rolling his eyes and showing the whites. "well, don't have a fit about it," chuckled ned. "i will admit that you were a hero in this instance, but you will have to play the hero a lot more times before we even up for the cold feet you have shown in the past." "you're jealous--that's what is the matter with you," retorted the fat boy. "you are under the impression that you know the man, mr. lilly?" asked the professor. "i may," was the evasive answer. "what do you propose to do about it?" "nothing just now. i reckon i'll think the matter over. i shall come up with the moccasin one of these days, then we'll have a reckoning that _will_ be a reckoning." "i sincerely hope there will be no bloodshed," said the professor anxiously. "there came pretty near being bloodshed today," replied stacy. "br-r-r-r!" after supper lilly went away by himself and sat down on the bank of the river, where he tugged at first one end of his moustache, then the other, while he pondered over the story told by tad butler and stacy brown. "the copperhead!" grunted lilly. "i reckon i don't want to see him. i'm afraid i couldn't hold myself. but we shall see, we shall see." in saying this lilly was a prophet, for before long they did see. chapter xvii wolves on the trail stacy brown was so overcome with his own importance that evening that he could not unbend sufficiently to talk with his companions, save for an occasional word with tad. "stacy has a swelled head," observed ned rector. "he has a right to have. can't you let him have the full enjoyment of his bravery?" laughed tad. "did he really do anything worth while?" asked ned. "i have told you he did." "he had a gun, didn't he?" "yes." "well, then, i don't see anything so great about what he did." "then i'll tell you. had stacy relaxed his vigilance, or been the least bit slow or uncertain, that fellow would have shot him, and chunky knew that. if you don't think that took some nerve you don't know what nerve is." "oh, yes he does," spoke up walter. "ned has a lot of it." "nerve?" grinned tad. "yes." rector gazed at tad. "shall i feel all puffed up or get mad at that remark?" questioned ned. "that depends upon the way you take it, ned." stacy sauntered past them at this juncture casting an indifferent glance in ned's direction, then continued on his journey up and down the camp. ned said the fat boy reminded him of a pouter pigeon with its tail feathers pulled out. "do you know what the plans are for tomorrow?" inquired tad. "i think mr. lilly intends to go out on the trail again." "what kind of trail?" asked stacy, stopping before them. "oh, you have condescended to speak to me, have you?" demanded ned. "i am not addressing you as ned rector. i am addressing you as a part of the pony rider outfit," replied stacy coldly. a grin spread slowly across the countenance of ned rector. then he laughed. "chunky," he said, "if i thought you were half as big a fool as you appear to be, i would throw you out of camp." "what do you think about it, tad? would he?" questioned stacy. "that depends. do you mean _could_ he?" "yes." "then i will answer 'no.' i don't think any one boy in the camp could put you out if you had made up your mind to stay," replied tad. "there! you have an expert opinion, mr. rector. kindly do not refer to the subject again," begged stacy airily. "i can't afford to discuss such trivial matters. what kind of trail are we going out on, do you know?" "same old paw-prints--bears," complained ned. "find any signs today?" "oh, yes, the dogs ran the scent out. the bears took to the water, and we didn't pick up the scent again, for the day was nearly done by that time. mr. lilly decided to come home, especially as he hadn't heard anything of you and stacy, nor of me. he nearly had a fit when he found that you had not been seen or heard from." "didn't he think we could take care of ourselves?" demanded tad. "i told him you could, especially chunky," with a mischievous glance at the fat boy. "but for some reason he was considerably upset over your absence. when we got to the four-blaze tree, i think he began to understand that you had your head with you." "he didn't find the deer signs?" asked tad. "no. he would have done so, i guess, if we hadn't heard you when we did." the guide joined the boys at this juncture. he was smiling good-naturedly, regarding tad and stacy, in both of whom he felt a new interest. they had shown the veteran guide something that day that he never had seen in lads of their age. "where do we go tomorrow?" questioned butler. "i am going to try to pick up the bear trail again. they gave us the slip beautifully today." "would it not be better to make a new camp farther in?" asked tad. "i had thought of that, but i think we are well enough located right where we are. the bears are likely to round back, for this is their stamping ground. i have seen several tree-hollows where they have made their winter quarters." "do the bears live in trees?" cried walter. "i thought they always lived in caves and dens." "in some parts of the country they do. there aren't any caves down here, so they seek out hollows in the trees far above the ground for their winter quarters, or else go into a hollow log. in the spring they come down and begin to feed on the ash buds and the tender young cane, called 'mutton cane.' at this season they are quite likely to take to killing stock on the plantations. just now they are at their best, in weight, in cunning and killing abilities. one of these bears would as lief tackle a man as a yearling calf." "i hope one tackles me. i need something to limber up my muscles. i haven't had anything exciting on this trip," declared stacy brown. "oh, you will get limbered up all right if you meet one of those fellows," answered lilly, fixing his twinkling eyes on the fat boy. "they will fix your joints so they will bend one way as easily as another." the plans for the morrow's hunting were explained by lilly. the arrangements were to be about the same, the party being split up and stationed at different points in the canebrake. tad, being considered the best woodsman, was to be sent on ahead with stacy at or about the point where the dogs had lost the trail that day. the rest of the party were to draw in, eventually converging on that point. lilly had an idea that the bears would have returned to their own ground in the night. in that event they would be driven from the cane by the dogs again, in which case one or the other of the party might get a shot. tad and stacy were pleased with the arrangement. it sent them off where they would be wholly on their own responsibilities. "but don't go off on any long hikes as you did today," warned the guide. "we shan't unless we have to," answered tad. "if we get a bear and someone steals it, why, we shall have to go after it." "let me know before you do. i reckon i should like to have a part in that chase," said the guide almost savagely. an early start was made on the following morning, stacy solemn as an owl, the other boys full of laughter and joking, turning most of their pleasantry on the fat boy. "i'll fetch back something for you tonight," threatened stacy. "a bear?" quizzed ned. "if one gets in my way, yes. if i can't do any better i'll fetch home one of those sweet-voiced owls that you are so fond of." "ugh! don't you bring one of those horrible things here," protested walter. tad and the fat boy rode away ahead of the others. lilly's face wore a grin. he evidently looked for the pair to distinguish themselves, and perhaps he felt reasonably certain that they would fall to the trail of the bear. at least, he had his own reasons for grinning. it was along towards noon, when the two boys had covered about half the distance to their destination, that tad caught the sound of the dogs. the hounds were in full cry, though the cry was faint, showing that the animals were some distance away. the pony rider boys listened attentively, trying to get the direction. "it seems to me that they are heading towards us," said tad. stacy agreed with a nod. "suppose we get over there in the cane where we shall not be so likely to be seen. which way is the breeze?" "blowing that way," answered chunky, pointing in a direction away from the cane. "then we don't want to go there. the breeze will carry our scent to the bears if any are between us and the dogs. i think we had better haul off to the eastward for half a mile or so. that should put us out of the direct line and yet place us within shooting distance." they rode cautiously away, the horses now pricking up their ears, for the animals heard the yelps of the hounds and perhaps understood its meaning. that they were not baying told tad that the dogs had not yet sighted their quarry. as soon as they got in sight of the bear they would bay deeply and hoarsely. the barking grew louder as the dogs drew nearer, then all at once a new sound was borne to the ears of the pony rider boys. it was a shrill yelping. tad looked at stacy, and stacy looked at tad. the latter shook his head, indicating that he did not understand this new sound. "if it weren't for the fact that we knew they were on the trail, i should think they were fighting," declared butler. "why don't you go and find out?" tad reflected over this. "i'll do it," he decided. "you follow on down parallel with the trail, chunky. you can't miss your way if you will keep just at the edge of this row of cane, which will lead you to the place where we were to meet the others." "no, thank you. not for mine. i go with you if you go. you aren't going to leave me here all alone in the swamp, not if i know it." "what, are you afraid of the bears?" scoffed tad. "no, i am not afraid of any bears that ever walked, but i'm afraid of those hideous owls," declared stacy, glancing apprehensively up into the tall cypress towering above them. "well, you are a silly! all right; come along then. we shall probably scare the game away, but something is wrong over yonder." tad took the lead, driving as fast as he could, cutting a new trail with the confidence of an old hunter in the canebrake. they burst out into an open space, open so far as cane was concerned, and gazed in amazement at flying, snarling, yelping heaps of fur. "look at the dogs! look at the dogs!" cried chunky. "they're fighting each other." tad's face flushed and his eyes flashed. "chunky, don't you--don't you see what it is?" cried tad excitedly. "'course i do. it's those confounded dogs fighting when they ought to be chasing bear." "no! the hounds are fighting a band of wolves!" shouted butler. "wolves?" gasped stacy. "yes. the wolves have attacked our dogs. they have killed some of them. are you game to tackle them?" "i'm game for anything that spells trouble. whoop! i'm the original wolf-killer from the plains of arizona, if that's where they come from. get to them! i'm with you." tad grinned harshly. putting spurs to his mount he dashed straight toward the battling dogs and wolves. he had heard that wolves sometimes attacked the hunting dogs right ahead of the hunters themselves, but he had always considered this to be a hunter's story. now he saw the verification before his own eyes. "use your revolver and be careful that you don't shoot me," yelled tad. _bang!_ stacy had let go almost before the words were out of tad's mouth--and missed his mark. butler rode straight at a snarling, yelping bunch. his bush-knife was in his right hand. leaning over he made a pass at the nearest wolf but missed it because the horse jumped at that second, nearly unseating the boy. tad bounded on to the next fighting heap. this time a vicious swing of the bush-knife brought results. he wounded a wolf, sending the beast slinking away yelping. in the meantime stacy brown's revolver was popping away, now and then fanning the body of a wolf with a bullet, but oftener missing the beast entirely. still, stacy was having the time of his life. he was yelling and whooping louder than the desperate combatants. tad was amazed at the pluck of the attacking force. he never had supposed that wolves possessed the courage to attack dogs, especially in the presence of human beings. these wolves had not only the courage to attack the dogs, but they were snarling and snapping at the legs of the horses, now and then making a leap at tad when he had interfered with their sport. it was an exciting battle, the most exciting that the two boys had ever seen. it seemed to them that there must have been a full hundred of the cowardly beasts in the pack, though in all probability there were not more than half this number, which was an unusually large pack at that. "shoot carefully. don't waste your ammunition," warned tad. "whoope-e-e-e!" howled the fat boy, letting go a shot that this time sent a beast limping away, the shot having broken its leg. "can i shoot? well, i guess i can shoot. y-e-o-w!" tad's horse was getting so frantic at the frequent attacks on its legs that he could do nothing with it. moments were precious because the dogs were getting the worst of the battle. suddenly butler leaped from his horse thinking to be able to do greater execution on the ground. the wolves, perhaps believing that this was a signal of surrender, turned snarling upon him. at this juncture the horse jerked the check rein from his hand and jumped away, leaving the pony rider boy standing there facing a large part of the pack. [illustration: tad butler faced the pack.] with the bush-knife in his left hand now, revolver in the right, the boy slashed and shot alternately. nearly every shot and nearly every pass of the knife reached the body of a wolf, not always killing, but in almost every instance doing the animal no little damage. it was likely to be a sad day for the brave dogs, which, the more they were overwhelmed, the more desperately they fought. some of the dogs were already dead, or crawling away in their death agonies. all of the dogs would be killed unless the wolves were swiftly driven off. "chunky," yelled tad, "can't you use your rifle without hitting the dogs?" "i can try," panted the fat boy. "rustle it, then! don't mind me. i'll try to keep out of the way of your bullets." stacy raised his rifle, taking quick aim at a big gray wolf. _bang!_ went the overcharged cartridge, with a noise so like that of a cannon that stacy's horse leaped to one side, while the fat boy went in the other direction, landing on his head in the ooze. yelping in their mad joy, a dozen wolves charged upon the momentarily helpless chunky. chapter xviii a stand in grim earnest freed from restraint stacy's horse darted into the brake. there were now two horseless boys. it was tad to the rescue, firing, kicking, slashing with the bush-knife. two of the bear hounds leaped into the rescue work with him. "are you hurt?" cried tad. "i--i don't know," replied stacy, breathing hard. "get up and fight, or we're goners!" "oh, i'll fight!" instead of being frightened, the fat boy's face was flushed with anger when he got to his feet. in the fall he had lost his rifle and his revolver. with a yell chunky launched a vicious kick at an open, snarling mouth just before him, kicking a mouthful of teeth down the beast's throat. tad snatched up the lost rifle and began to shoot into the pack until the magazine of the weapon had been emptied. he then clubbed the rifle and began whacking the heads of the wolves. stacy recovered his revolver and resumed shooting, narrowly missing putting a bullet through his companion's body. as it was a bullet tore a rent in butler's shirt at the side. "look out there!" he warned, without even glancing towards chunky, keeping his eyes on the force ahead of him and beside him. the dogs, taking fresh courage from the boys' defense of them, took up their battle with renewed vigor. blood was dripping from the mouth of every one of them; some had rents torn in their sides, others were limping about on two legs, here and there fastening their fangs on a gray side or a gray leg as the case might be. stacy having emptied his revolver snatched up the limb of a tree, so heavy that he could hardly swing it, but when the limb landed it did great execution, leaving its imprint on the head that it hit. every time he landed on a gray head, the fat boy would yell. "save your wind; you will need it," shouted tad. "they'll need theirs more." _whack! whack! whack!_ it was a battle royal. but the boys were gaining, as tad quickly saw. the pack was beginning to be fearful. these doughty fighters were working sad havoc among them. scarcely a beast there that did not bear marks of the conflict. a long winding blast from a hunting horn sounded, but neither boy heard it. each was too busy with his own salvation to give heed to anything outside of the work at hand. again the horn sounded, this time closer than before. a few moments later there were shouts and yells from the bush. bill lilly, followed by ned rector, professor zepplin and walter perkins burst from the bush riding like mad, lilly swinging his bush-knife, whooping and yelling, the boys to the rear of him making fully as much noise. the party halted, gazing upon the scene before them with startled eyes. they were for the moment too astonished to move or do a thing. neither tad nor stacy realized that help was at hand, and the party had an opportunity, in those few seconds, to see what tad butler and the much maligned fat boy could do when they got into action. the period of inactivity was brief. "they've tackled the dogs!" roared the guide. "at them, boys, and be careful that you don't kill the hounds." red lights danced before the eyes of professor zepplin. giving his horse the spur, he galloped into the thick of the fight with his heavy army pistol in hand. its loud report furnished a new note in the sound of conflict. and the professor could shoot. every time he pulled the trigger a gray wolf's body got a bullet from his weapon. lilly was laying about him with his bush-knife, as tad had done before him. ned rector, too, plunged into the thick of the fight, losing his hat in the first charge, while walter perkins hung about the outside of the lines, letting drive at a beast that now and then came his way. bullets and beasts were flying about rather too thickly to suit walter. he felt safer on the outside, though he was doing his part. the battle waged fiercely for a few moments after the arrival of lilly and his party; then one by one the attacking band began sneaking away into the cane, some to be stopped by bullets before they reached the canebrake, others dropping from wounds already received. there was a lively scattering, with those of the hounds that were able to fight trying to follow their late assailants. lilly called them back, riding about and heading them off, shouting, commanding, aided by tad butler who understood what the guide was trying to do. the more seriously injured of the hounds were lying about licking their wounds. some already lay dead where they had made their last stand. "too bad, too bad!" muttered tad butler, pausing from his strenuous work, breathing heavily as he gazed about. lilly, having rounded up the dogs, was counting the loss. four hounds were dead. six others were wounded, one or two so badly that he knew they would die. but if the dogs had suffered, the attacking band had suffered much more heavily. a count showed twenty-five dead wolves, the biggest killing, save one, known in the canebrake. and of these twenty-five, tad butler and stacy brown had killed more than half, as nearly as could be estimated. stacy, his clothes torn and his shins bleeding, had thrust both hands into his pockets, and was strolling unconcernedly about, with chin well elevated, as if nothing out of the ordinary had taken place. lilly galloped up to tad and leaning over extended his hand. "good boy!" he said. "thank you," answered tad with a grin. "good boy, master stacy!" "oh, that's all right. it was a mere trifle, not worth speaking about," replied the fat boy airily. "if it weren't for the poor dogs, i'd laugh, young man. master tad, tell me about it," said lilly. "the wolves set upon the dogs." "did you see them?" "no, sir, we heard them and hurried over here to see what was going on." lilly nodded to the others who had ridden up to listen. "we tried to help them, but i guess some of the dogs were already past help even then." "and saved the greater part of the pack," added the guide. "but, is it possible that wolves will attack dogs, mr. lilly?" asked tad. "you have had the evidence of your own eyes. they do it frequently down here. it is a wonder they didn't finish you into the bargain. what puzzles me is why so many of them gathered on this trail." "does that mean anything special?" asked rector. "i don't know. it strikes me as queer." stacy stalked up pompously. "ah, mr. lilly, are there any other varieties of wild beasts down here that we haven't met up with? if so i should like an opportunity to meet them face to face. i don't want to miss anything, you know." "it strikes me forcibly that you haven't missed much," answered the guide, grinning. "hadn't we better look after the dogs? we can talk afterwards," suggested butler. "yes, yes," agreed the guide. they hurried to the suffering hounds. some had to be shot, but the most needed rest and their own treatment more than anything else, so it was decided not to try to move them until along towards night. a fire was built, and lilly cut up one of the dead wolves, giving each dog a liberal portion as his reward. he had some coffee which he boiled. the coffee put new life into the two tired boys, who stretched out on the ground for a rest while the others talked over their courage and grit. tad lay with arms under his head, reflecting over the guide's peculiar remark about the pack of wolves. he wondered, too, why so large a pack had met and attacked the hounds. during the time of his rest lilly had gone out on the trail of the escaped horses, and found them a short distance from the camp. while the guide was absent, tad got up and walked out of camp. "where are you going?" called the professor. "for a little walk," answered butler. the boy was absent for nearly an hour. he returned with face wearing a puzzled expression, but he said nothing to his companions about the reason for it. lilly questioned tad further about the attack of the wolves. "they must have been coming towards the hounds, judging from the trail that i found beyond the camp," said tad. "they were probably following the bear tracks," suggested lilly. "perhaps," answered butler reflectively. "have you boys fixed up your wounds?" asked the guide. "yes, the professor dressed them. we were merely scratched a little. it doesn't amount to anything. but goodness! i never thought wolves could be so ugly nor so plucky," wondered tad. "they would not be in smaller numbers. you know the old saying, 'in unity there is strength,'" smiled lilly. "i know it now," answered tad. "i have had an object lesson. and so have you all. you know, too, that stacy brown is not a tenderfoot. i'd like to see anyone show more grit than did he while we were fighting the wolves. it was an experience that would have frightened most anyone." "neither of you acted as if you were very badly scared," chuckled lilly. "we didn't have time to be," laughed tad. "fully as exciting as fighting wild boar in the black forest of germany," agreed the professor. "the wild pigs of the canebrake are as near as i have ever come to hunting boars," said lilly. "are they ugly?" asked walter. "well, i reckon they are kind of fresh now and again," answered the guide. "the pigs are too small fry for me," declared stacy pompously. "i want big game or no game at all." "chunky is afraid only of the barred owls," chuckled tad. "owls and 'gators," stacy corrected. "how about those bears? they seem to have given you fellows the slip?" "foxy bears," agreed the guide. "but never you mind. we will get them yet. that old she-hear we have been after must be a big one, and she is an ugly one, too. there will be a lively time when the hounds bay her out. i hope we are all in at the death." "so do i," nodded stacy. "i shouldn't mind a hand-to-hand conflict with an ugly old she-bear. i'd show her what sort of a bear-killer i am, i would." "i reckon it's time we were going," announced lilly. "we have a long hike." the boys were willing, so the party packed up, and, after herding the dogs, started on their return journey to camp, whence they were to start on the second morning after that for the most exciting bear hunt in their experience. they reached their permanent camp shortly after dark. ichabod had a warm supper ready for them, and after having eaten, all gathered about the campfire to discuss the incidents of the eventful day. chapter xix what tad found on the trail "venison steak and boiled bayou water doesn't go so badly after all," observed stacy brown wisely. "especially when you have had a hand in getting the steak," laughed walter. "that's the idea," agreed chunky. "we know how we got him, too, don't we, tad?" butler nodded absently. his mind was not on that particular subject at the moment. there was that on his mind which he was trying to solve, in order to get a clear understanding, but reason as he might he was not able to work the problem out to his own satisfaction. "mr. lilly, you don't think for a moment that this man who stole the doe could have been responsible in any way for the attack of the pack on our hounds, do you?" questioned the professor. tad looked up with keen interest reflected on his face. "i don't see how that would be possible, professor. man can't make those whelps do his bidding. at any rate, we shan't be troubled again after what the boys did to them this afternoon. that was a killing worth while. i reckon i'll have something to tell the folks when i get home and so will you. the major will be interested, too. he said you were a lively bunch, but i reckon he didn't know just how true that was when he said it." "yes, the major was right," observed stacy airily. "some of us are all of that." "especially stacy brown," spoke up ned. "stacy brown and tad butler," corrected the fat boy. "still, you and the professor did very well after you got on the job. but we had them pretty well thinned out by the time you arrived. about all there was left to do was to gather up the wounded and bury the dead. professor, that pistol of yours would stop an elephant. how it did keel those beasts over!" chuckled stacy at the recollection of professor zepplin's shooting. "it is my old army pistol. i contend that these new-fangled weapons are no more effective, especially in small arms. there has been some improvement in the long-range guns since my time." "since the north 'fit' the south," suggested lilly with a grin. "yes. it is a far cry from the old muzzle-loader to the improved weapon of today. a far cry, indeed." "then you think the fellow with whom we had the trouble could have had nothing to do with the attack of the wolves?" questioned tad. "of course not. that might have been possible, but it wasn't." "ambiguous, but good sense," muttered professor zepplin. "why do you ask?" demanded lilly. "i wanted to know. i am a little bothered about some features of the affair," tad answered. lilly regarded the pony rider boy thoughtfully. "you have something on your mind?" "well, yes, i have," admitted tad. "out with it. it doesn't do to hold in too much at a time like the present." "you know i went out on that trail this afternoon, mr. lilly?" "no, i didn't know it. to which trail do you refer?" "the bear trail we will call it." "from the other way?" "yes, sir. i went in the opposite direction to that supposed to have been taken by bruin, and i discovered some things that puzzled me." "on the trail?" asked the professor. "yes, sir." "what did you discover?" demanded lilly eagerly. "i found the trail of a horse in the first place." "going which way?" "toward this camp. the horse turned--" "you don't mean this camp exactly. you mean the place where we made temporary camp this afternoon, don't you?" "yes, sir, that is what i mean. the horse, as i was saying, turned about just beyond where we had the fight with the wolves, and took the back trail, or nearly so." "hm-m-m!" mused the guide. "that is peculiar. fresh tracks?" "within a few hours of the time i found them, sir." "what did you make of them?" "not much of anything. but that was not all i discovered. i found a dead dog a little way from camp." "i saw several myself," laughed ned rector. "one of our dogs?" questioned lilly. "no, sir, it was not. furthermore, the dog had a leash, a long one, about his neck. he hadn't been dragged. i found the dog's footprints almost up to the point where his carcass lay." bill lilly was beginning to show signs of excitement. "go on. what had happened to the dog?" "he had been shot and left where he was killed. the wolves or some other animals had torn his flesh some, but not so much that i could not tell what killed him. he was killed by a bullet. i wonder why?" "can't you guess?" asked lilly. "i have an idea now. it has just occurred to me." lilly rose to his full height, tugging at his moustache with both hands, gazing fixedly at tad butler. "it's more work of that miserable whelp. he's done it this time. i see how it was. i should have thought of that before. if my eyes had been as sharp as yours, master tad, you wouldn't need to have told me." "tell us what you suspect," urged professor zepplin, who was as much puzzled as the rest. even stacy was regarding the guide with inquiring eyes. the latter was striding up and down, tugging at his moustache as if he owed it a grudge. "what i suspect? i don't suspect at all. i know now, thanks to master tad's keen scent. what has been done is this. some whelp, knowing what we were going to do, has hit the bear trail leading a dog. he knew the wolves were in that vicinity, so he rode along the back trail, leading the dog behind him, knowing full well that the wolves would scent it, and, knowing it was a lone dog, would follow it. you see he figured that the pack would sooner or later come up with our hounds. he knew that there would be a battle and he hoped we would lose all our dogs." "the cold-blooded scoundrel!" exclaimed ned rector. "there! what did i tell you, tad?" cried stacy. "i ought to have shot the beast while i had the chance. he played us about as i thought he would. why, if you had let me have my way, i should have taken his horse away from him and set him adrift. i guess he wouldn't have played any such miserable trick on us. no, sir, he would have all he wanted to do to get out of the woods, let alone dragging a lone dog along the bear trail to call the wolves to our pack. oh, what a beast!" "it is well that your revengeful disposition was not allowed free range," answered the professor rebukingly. "it is done now. we can't help ourselves," said tad. "it isn't done," exclaimed lilly. "i am not done. i am going after the man who caused the death of half of our hounds. he isn't fit to eat out of the same pan with the dogs. better would he eat with the wild pigs of the swamp. master butler, you have keen eyes and you are sharp as a she-bear with cubs." tad smiled at the comparison. "tomorrow morning i hit the trail. do you want to go with me, butler?" "i am ready for anything," answered the pony rider boy. "so am i," piped chunky. "one is enough," replied lilly. "i think the two of us will be able to do the job as it should be done." "what is it you propose to do?" questioned the professor. "well, we-all reckon to catch the fellow who is bothering us. when a mosquito buzzes around your head, threatening to bite you, you swat him, don't you?" "yes, but this is different." "it's the same thing, except that this mosquito has two legs instead of four. he'll be limping on one before i have finished with him if i get hold of him." "surely, you don't intend to shed human blood?" objected professor zepplin. "i am not saying what i'll do. i am taking the kid with me to kind of hold me back in case i get too mad. then, as i said, he has the eyes that see things as they are. tomorrow morning, master tad, with the professor's permission--" "i will consider the matter," answered the professor. "tomorrow morning," said tad, grinning and nodding to his companions. "you folks will make an awful fizzle of it if you don't take me along," declared the fat boy with a slow shake of the head. chapter xx man-signs in the canebrake daylight on the following morning found bill lilly and tad butler methodically making preparations for their jaunt, which no doubt would lead them many miles from the camp on the sunflower river. lilly had not divulged his plans, beyond telling the professor that he need feel no alarm, as he merely desired to administer a lesson to the man in case they found him. "of course, there's more than an even chance that we don't catch the hound. if we do i promise you there won't be any gun-play if it can be avoided. i don't want to get mixed up with anything of that sort and lose my liberty for the rest of the fall until the courts meet in january. no, sir, not for bill lilly. you don't have to worry about the boy, either. he knows how to take care of himself better than most of us, and he will be a whole lot of help to me, too." professor zepplin had given a reluctant consent to lilly's proposal to take butler, along with him. they packed just enough food in their saddle bags to carry them through the day, intending to eat their meals in the saddle. a hasty breakfast was eaten, then after giving his orders that no one should venture away from the camp out of hearing, lilly and tad mounted their horses and rode away. the horses started off at the loping run that was now so familiar to the boys, and sight and sound of the two men was soon lost to those in the camp. lilly had said it was doubtful if they returned before late in the night, and perhaps not until the following morning. the guide had gained quite a lead on his young companion at the start, but this butler quickly overcame ere they had proceeded far. "where do we go first?" asked tad. "we will take up the trail at the point where you fought the wolves yesterday. i wouldn't do this only there is no telling what that fellow will do, seeing he has done so much already. i thought after he had stolen the doe and you found him out, that he would be scared to go any further. i reckon nothing but a dose of lead will scare him. he'll get that if he doesn't watch out." "if we sight him i guess it will not be necessary to do any shooting," replied tad. "you are right about not wanting to. anybody can pull a trigger, but it isn't everybody that can keep from pulling a trigger under great provocation. it's a good thing that i have someone with me who can keep his head. i confess that i am mad all through. i don't dare to trust myself. never in all the years i have been riding the canebrake have i been so tarnation mad." "you will get over that after you have slashed through the brake for ten miles or so," answered tad laughingly. "i shouldn't work myself up were i in your place." lilly took the advice of the freckle-faced boy and held himself down. they reached the scene of the battle with the wolves. there was no indication that any of the beasts had returned, but while lilly was taking a survey of the place tad butler had gone west a little way to try to pick up the trail he had discovered on the previous day. the boy got down from his horse the better to examine the trail. suddenly tad uttered an exclamation. he had made a further discovery. securing his horse to a tree, he trotted on a short distance, then halting, stood thinking. soon, however, he turned in response to a hail from the guide. "find it, tad?" "yes, sir; will you come here?" lilly rode over to where tad was standing. "he has been here again." "he has?" exclaimed the guide. "yes, sir." "how do you know?" "these are the same hoofprints as the others. the horse had lost a shoe from the nigh fore foot. this horse also has lost a shoe from the off fore foot. i don't know which way he came, i haven't looked for that, but it is immaterial anyway. what is important is that he has gone in that direction--north, i think it is." "right you are. so the moccasin has been back here again, eh?" mused the guide. "came back to see how well his little scheme worked? well, i hope he is satisfied." "have you any idea where he has gone? has he any place where he would go to get out of the way?" "say, i'll bet he has. i'll bet he is heading for turtle bayou," cried lilly. "how far is that from here?" "ten miles in a straight line. it is farther the way he would be most likely to ride because the roundabout way is the easier way." "then had we not better follow his trail?" "yes, i reckon we would make better time. then, if he is coming back, we might meet him. that is what we will do." the trail at first they found rather blind, the fellow evidently having sought to leave as slight evidence of his presence there as possible, but to tad the trail was not very difficult to follow, and tad was keen in work of this sort. he now concentrated all his efforts on the trail, bill lilly satisfying himself with taking second place, where he watched the boy with approving glances. "i will watch the trail and you keep a lookout ahead," suggested tad, glancing back for a moment. "right, my boy. mine is the easy job." "neither one is very hard," smiled tad. for some time neither spoke. at one stage of their journey tad dismounted and began examining the ground. after a few moments of this he nodded and swung into his saddle again. "stop here?" asked lilly. "yes, sir. i don't know what he halted for, but he did not stay long." "you should have been an indian, master tad." "i have been told that i am one as it is," was the boy's laughing reply. "in instinct you are. by the way, we ought to be getting near the place we're heading for," announced the guide. "you tell me when you want to change the plan. we are not making much or any noise, so we should be able to go pretty close to the destination. of course, you know best." "i don't," answered the guide with emphasis. "i may know the brake and the game, but as a trailer of man-signs i am not in the same class with you, young man." it was about three-quarters of an hour later when they came in sight of turtle bayou, a lonely channel in the heart of the swamp, rising from the shores of which were ranks of cane that disappeared in the far distance. "i suppose they are as thick in there as hairs on a dog?" said tad, pointing to the stream. "'gators? i should say so. it's alive with them. a man who got in there never would get out alive. you want to look out for moccasins about here, too. they aren't disturbed much hereabouts, so there are a lot of them." "i don't worry about snakes," answered the freckle-faced boy. "just now i am looking for something that looks like a man. but, do you know, you haven't told me for whom we are looking." "i reckon you wouldn't know his name if i did, but if we are lucky enough to meet him, i'll introduce the fellow," answered lilly with a grim smile. "do you see that thatched shack over there?" he asked, pointing to what appeared to be a heavy growth of bushes back from the bank on a rise of ground. "is that a shack?" asked tad. "yes. it is where our friend puts up when he is in this vicinity. i have several shacks in different parts of the canebrake, but we haven't come across any of them yet, though we shall before we leave the brake." "in there? do you think he is at home?" "we'll find out pretty soon. what would you suggest?" "i would suggest that we walk right up to the entrance and learn if anyone is at home. i should advise leaving the horses back here, so there will be no trail close to his hut." "good idea. we'll do it." they quickly secreted their horses in the brush, and after looking to their revolvers, the only weapons they carried with them after dismounting, the man and the boy made their way cautiously towards the hut, bill lilly leading the way, slightly in advance of tad. there was no sign of life about the place, so they kept on until they stood in front of the hut. "nobody at home," announced the guide. "so it seems. shall i take a look about inside?" asked tad, stepping forward. "wait! don't be in a hurry. i reckon i'll have a look myself." tad did not understand lilly's reason for wanting to do this, but he supposed the guide knew best. lilly did. he leaped back suddenly, giving a vicious kick with his heavy boot, then jumping on some object with both feet. "look out! there may be more of them!" "what is it?" cried tad. "a moccasin! the hound. don't you see what he has done? he's made a snake-trap here. this bucket standing in the middle of the shack is sure to be tripped over by anyone who didn't know the trick. that would mean trouble for the kicker." "i saw that bucket. i presume i should have at least pushed it to one side," answered tad in an awed voice. "that's the kind of a critter we have trailed down." "it strikes me we haven't trailed him down. perhaps he discovered us and has gotten away." "i don't know about that. i'll let you take a look outside in a minute. the dishes are cold, but that doesn't mean much--he may not have cooked anything." "the remains of his fire are cold, too," answered tad. "i felt them when we came in." "you are a wise head," nodded the guide. "you go out and see what you can pick up on the outside, but watch out for yourself," warned billy. "there are some things i want to look at in here. take your time. don't get far away, that's all." tad stepped out, pausing to look about the place. his purpose was to learn if the owner of the shack had ridden away or if he were hiding somewhere in that vicinity. if he had ridden away there must be the trail of the horse with the bare off fore foot. the pony rider boy circled about, first looking for the place where the horse had been tethered. he found it without great difficulty, for a hoofprint always attracted tad butler's attention. even at home he found himself studying them in the streets, out on the highways, wherever horses traveled. as a result he could read much more than the average good observer from tracks that lay before him. tad was able even to form some opinion of the man who was riding the horse that had left the tracks. the ground was considerably trampled at the tethering ground, and the bushes stripped clear of foliage where the horse had been browsing. it was this latter that had attracted the boy's attention first of all, telling him that a horse had been tethered there. from that, it was not a difficult matter to look up the trails. there were several of these. more time was necessary to determine which of them had been made last, but after a little study the pony rider boy picked out the fresh trail. "he rode out this way, heading southwest, i should call it," muttered the lad. "i wonder where he was heading for? still, there is no use wondering, for he may have turned due east or due west after going farther into the swamp or the brake. the question is, where is he now, and is he coming back here today?" the question was answered in a manner wholly unlooked for by tad butler. for the moment the lad, caught off his guard, was at a loss what to do. but his quick wit came to his rescue. tad dropped to all fours and on hands and feet began running over the ground like a monkey, his body well screened by the bushes about him. chapter xxi surprises come fast the cause of tad's alarm had been a slight trembling of the soft ground underfoot, followed by a crunching sound as if something or someone had trod on a rotting stick. the lad knew that either man or beast was near at hand, but he did not have time to satisfy himself which of the two it was. he acted quickly, and, regardless of snakes, wriggled away to a place of greater safety. he reasoned, of course, that if it were the owner of the shack returning, he would ride his horse to its stable first of all. crouching down in the bushes the boy waited and listened. by this time he could tell that it was a horse approaching. taking a long chance the boy half rose from his hiding place and peered out. not more than six rods from him he saw the fellow who had stolen his doe riding straight towards him. the pony rider boy quickly drew back and none too soon, for the fellow's eyes caught the faint movement of the bushes at that point. he probably thought this movement had been caused by some lurking animal, for he made no attempt to investigate. he tethered his horse silently, then to tad's alarm either his own horse or lilly's uttered a loud whinny. the boy in the bushes groaned inwardly. "that gives the whole game away," he muttered. "i am lucky if he doesn't send a shot this way just for luck." the stranger did nothing of the sort. instead, he stood stock still. tad could fairly feel the eyes of the man burn into his hiding place, though he could not see the man at all. there was a slight movement where the stranger's horse was tethered, a scarcely perceptible vibration of the earth under tad's feet. he listened and learned that the man was walking away. butler again took a chance and peered over the tops of the bushes. the fellow was walking toward his shack, and what was more, his revolver was in his hand ready for instant use. the boy hoped that lilly had been warned by the whinny of the horse and made his escape from the shack. but lilly had not heard. he was fussing about in the shack, as tad quickly deduced from the actions of the newcomer. the boy began crawling towards the shack, making a detour so as not to expose himself to view, and for a moment he lost sight of his man. when he next caught sight of him, the fellow was standing close to the entrance of his shack with revolver leveled at it, or rather at the opening. in a twinkling tad butler's pistol was in his hand, trained on the back of the newcomer. still, the boy was not excited; he was watching for the move that would indicate the other man's intention to shoot. butler did not believe he was going to do so. in this he was right. for fully three minutes the man stood still gazing into the shack. tad did not know what was going on in there, for he was unable to see into the place from his position, nor did he dare move on until the fellow made his next move. this he did very shortly. "hold up your hands!" the fellow's voice rang out with startling distinctness. it made tad start. he still had the man covered with his own weapon. the boy saw bill lilly appear at the door, but there was neither surprise nor fear on the face of the guide as he faced the revolver in the hands of the newcomer. "so, it's you, is it, alligator pete? i reckoned you'd be along here pretty soon." "what are you doing in my shack?" "i reckoned i'd cage a few more moccasins for your menagerie. put down that gun and i'll talk to you." pete laughed. he observed that lilly's revolver was not in its holster. as a matter of fact, the guide had removed it, keeping it in his hand in case of a surprise, and in looking into pete's belongings he had had occasion to lay the weapon down. the later interruption came so quickly and unexpectedly that billy did not think of his revolver until too late to recover it. he knew the man before him. it was alligator pete in reality, and pete was in a white rage. "i reckon i'll put down the gun when i get ready and not before," answered the "alligator." "what are you doing in my shack?" "i'll answer that question by asking you one. what do you mean by interfering with my party?" "i haven't." "you have. you stole a doe that one of them shot." "oh, i did, eh?" sneered pete. "you know you did, but that wasn't all. you laid a false trail over the bear sign hoping to call the wolves. you knew they would attack my dogs. you planned it all, you miserable whelp! you see i know all about it. it's lucky for you that i haven't got my pistol. i'd shoot you where you stand!" lilly's voice was calm but incisive. "i reckon i'd have something to say about that; i reckon this gun might go off before yours did. i reckon it may go off as it is." "no. you are too big a coward to shoot a man face to face. i could jump you now before you could shoot." "you'd better not try it," warned pete angrily. "you lie when you say i did those things. you want to get me in a box. you've been trying to get me in a box for the last year." "you have got yourself in a box, pete. this time it's a box that you won't get out of so easily as you think. i have the dead wood on you." "this is the only dead wood that talks here," answered pete, tapping his revolver significantly. "and it talks loud, too. now what do you reckon you are doing in my shack?" "just what you did in one of mine once, tried to find out something. the difference is that i have found something and you didn't, because there wasn't anything to find." "and what do you reckon to do now?" "to make you answer for what you have done," replied lilly evenly. "how?" "that is my business so far. remember i have some boys in camp who can identify you. remember you tried to shoot one of them." "i didn't. i didn't intend to hit him. don't you think i could hit a man at twenty paces without--" a broad grin was spreading over the face of bill lilly. "i'm mighty glad you admit it," he said in a sarcastic tone. "it saves a lot of trouble." pete's face flushed. "it don't save you any. now look here, bill lilly, i've got something to say to you. on one condition i'll let you go and say nothing about your going through my shack." "what's the condition?" "that you step aside and give me a show at some of those fellows who think they are mighty hunters, but have more money than brains. another one is that you don't say anything against me when you get back home, and--" "those are two conditions. you said you would make only one," jeered lilly. "i'll make as many as i want to. another one is that you get sick and have to go home, leaving the party to me for the rest of the time." billy laughed outright. "you must be crazy, or else you take me for a fool. you ought to know that i'm not quite so daffy as to agree to a thing like that." "you'll agree or it will be the worse for you. remember i've got the best of you." billy opened his mouth to speak, then discreetly closed it again. he was about to say that pete was reckoning without a knowledge of the situation, when suddenly the thought of tad butler entered the guide's mind. tad was nowhere in sight. the boy, he believed, was out on the trail, and he did not know how far the boy might have wandered. lilly did not know what was best to be done in the circumstances. he was unarmed. it was true he might leap on his assailant, but the chances were that pete would shoot him before he could disarm the man. "i don't agree to any of your conditions. now what are you going to do about it?" demanded lilly, his lips closing into a firm, straight line. "i am going to--" pete did not finish what he was about to say. a sudden and unlooked-for interruption changed the current of his thoughts in a startling manner. with a yell he leaped back, his revolver going off into the air. in a second alligator pete lay rolling and writhing on the ground. chapter xxii outwitted by a boy bill lilly's attention had been called to a slight movement of the bushes behind where alligator pete was standing, but he did not understand the meaning of the disturbance, nor did he look very sharply until something unusual caused him to flash a quick glance in that direction. a writhing, twisting something rose from behind the bushes, wriggled through the air, headed directly for pete. the guide suddenly realized that it was a rope, with a great loop at the end of it. the loop wobbled over pete's head for a brief instant, then flopped down over his body. instantly the loop was drawn taut; then came a mighty tug and pete went down with his arms pinioned to his sides, struggling frantically to free himself from the grip of the rope. even then he did not understand what had occurred. perhaps he thought it was a snake that had twisted about him. in a few seconds, however, he collected his wits. the revolver was still in his hand. pete began pulling the trigger, trying his best to get a bead on bill lilly and put a bullet through him. "keep out of range till he gets through shooting!" called the exultant voice of tad butler from behind the bushes. "i can hold him. he won't get out of that loop in a hurry." lilly took advantage of the opportunity to spring back into the shack, where he snatched up his own weapon, then leaped out. "drop that gun, pete!" commanded the guide sternly, at the same time leveling his own weapon at the man on the ground. "drop it, i say!" pete, after gazing at the determined face of billy lilly for a few seconds, let go his grip on the butt of his revolver. billy stepped over and kicked the weapon out of reach. next he searched the clothes of the roped man, removing a knife. "get up!" he commanded. alligator pete did so, his face red with rage, his eyes menacing. "who did that?" he demanded. "i reckon i did," answered tad butler, stepping forward, still keeping the rope taut so that his prisoner should not run away. "i'll kill you for that!" raged the prisoner. "not just now you won't. later, perhaps. at present you are not in condition to kill anyone. what shall we do with him, mr. lilly?" pete was staring, still working and tugging at the rope. he had recognized tad butler on the instant. "it isn't a doe this time, pete," laughed the pony rider boy. "no, it'll be a dead kid when i get free again." "i wouldn't make any threats were i in your place. you are in no position to make threats. shall i remove the rope, mr. lilly?" "take it off, but look out that he doesn't grab you. if he tries to run away i'll pink him. remember, pete, no monkey-shines." tad slacked up on the rope, nodding to the prisoner to let it drop, which the man did quickly, tad not taking chances by getting within reach of the fellow's wiry arms. with his freedom, alligator pete's oozing courage in a measure returned to him, though he was still covered by the guide's revolver. tad coiled his rope and secured it to his belt, pete watching the operation with interest. he had never seen roping in real life. he had not seen this time, but he had felt, which was less interesting than had he been a mere spectator. lilly was regarding the fellow frowningly. "i ought to do it, but somehow i can't," he muttered. "what shall we do with him now we have him?" asked tad. "i guess we shall have to turn him loose." "i reckon we won't do anything of the sort, or he will be sure to be up to more mischief. i reckon we better take him with us. he has got to pay for what he has done." "i haven't done anything. you can't--you don't dare hold me. you let me go!" "see anything green in my eyes?" demanded lilly. "we have the goods on you. we have trailed your pony, we have identified your dog, we know the whole story from beginning to end, as i have already told you. i'll tell you what we will do, master tad. we will put him on his horse and take him back to camp with us. we can then talk the matter over and decide what we had better do." tad was willing, in fact he was rather glad of the opportunity to take pete back and show him to the boys. chunky would be pleased to set eyes on the fellow again. "get the horse," directed lilly. "i will hold him here until you are ready." tad hurried away. first he brought up their own animals, then went after pete's mount. pete's rifle came in for attention, and tad decided to empty the magazine and put the rifle back in the saddle boot, which he did. next he examined the horse's feet. there was a shoe missing on the off fore foot. the horse was a wiry, active little animal. the boy looked over him with the eyes of an expert. "he is a better nag than mine," decided the pony rider boy. "i'll wager he could lope all day without tiring out. i wonder if i could buy him? this animal has one shoe off the off fore foot, as i told you," announced the lad, leading the animal up to the shack. "always keep your horse well shod and free from hoof or shoe peculiarities if you don't want to be trailed down," advised butler. "how do you propose to keep pete?" he asked the guide. "we shall have to tie him," answered lilly. "suppose i place my rope around him, keeping the free end in my hand and riding behind him? that will leave you free to use a weapon in case he tries to get away." "good idea. get aboard." pete lost no time in obeying the latter command, evidently believing that on his horse he would find a better opportunity to get away. tad winked at the guide as the hunter swung into his saddle. no sooner had pete felt the touch of the stirrups under his feet than he dug the rowels of his spurs into his horse. the animal snorted, rising into the air. then a most unexpected thing occurred. alligator pete was jerked from his saddle. he landed heavily on his head in the soft muck. "catch the horse!" shouted tad. billy lilly aroused himself from his stupor caused by the quick action of the pony rider boy, and, running out, captured the white horse, leading it back to the scene. pete was getting up slowly, rubbing the ooze from his head and face. tad had suspected the hunter would make the very move he did. the boy was ready for him and while pete was getting into his saddle, back half turned to them, tad was swinging the big loop of his lariat over his own head. the instant he saw what the hunter was up to, the boy sent the rope twisting through the air. it fell neatly over the head of alligator pete with the result already known to the reader. lilly was grinning broadly when he returned with the hunter's horse. "that was the slickest thing i ever saw in all my life, boy. didn't know what you had met up with when you stole the doe from this kid, eh, pete? now, do you think you can be good, or do you want some more of the same medicine?" the prisoner did not reply. "leave the rope where it is," directed butler. "i don't take any more chances with you. you ought to thank me for having roped you. if i had not, the chances are that mr. lilly would have shot you." "i reckon i would have done it," grinned the guide. at a nod from tad the guide led up the boy's horse. he then ordered pete to mount again, after which the guide and the boy leaped into their saddles, with tad riding close behind the prisoner, lilly a little to one side. in this order they started for camp. they had not gone far before butler observed the prisoner's hand resting on the butt of his rifle. this brought a grin to the face of the pony rider boy. "to save you trouble, pete, i will say that i drew the shells from the magazine. your gun is empty. lilly doesn't know this, so if you try to draw the gun you may get shot." the prisoner promptly withdrew his hand from the butt of his weapon. for the first time he seemed to realize that he had been outwitted at every turn, and his courage began slipping away from him. pete's head drooped until his chin was almost to his chest. tad butler recognized the sign of surrender. he felt pity for the man, for tad was tender-hearted and he did not like to see others suffer. "hadn't we better let him go, mr. lilly?" he asked in a low voice, nodding toward the prisoner. _"no!"_ tad shrugged his shoulders. they continued on in silence for a long time, tad keeping his eyes on the prisoner, now jogging faster, now slower, to keep the lariat at about the same degree of tautness. pete felt a gentle pressure about his body all the time. he knew that the other end of the rope was secured to the pommel of his captor's saddle and that any attempt to get away would land him on his back on the ground. this not being a cheerful prospect, alligator pete rode on as docile as a whipped cur. it was just supper time when they rode into the camp on sunflower river with their prisoner. stacy brown was the only one of the party except ichabod who recognized alligator pete. "hello!" greeted the fat boy. the prisoner did not answer. "i am glad to see you. i owe you something. after you have had your supper i'm going to beat you," announced the fat boy. "he is pretty well subdued as it is, chunky," answered tad soberly. "don't humiliate him. can't you see that the fellow is suffering? never kick a dog after he is down and helpless." "he isn't a dog. the dogs wouldn't own him as a member of their tribe." in the meantime, lilly had ordered the prisoner to get down, after which the guide tied the man to a tree. the boys pressed about tad to hear the story of the capture. butler told them briefly what had taken place, without making any special point of his own part in the affair. but if tad had been modest about it, lilly was not. he told them plainly that tad butler was the cleverest little roper and trailer who ever had come into the louisiana canebrake, and that if it hadn't been for tad there might have been all entirely different story to tell. "what do you propose to do with the man, now that you have him?" asked the professor after the story had been fully told. "keep him till we go back to jackson. i'll have him locked up, and you had better believe the judge will give him all that's coming to him. pete won't be hitting the canebrake trail right smart again, i reckon." supper was given to the prisoner, then later he was made comfortable for the night. lilly announced that they would take the trail for bear again in the morning. he said he felt it in his bones that they were going to have the sport for which they had come into the canebrake. he felt that there were bear waiting for them out there. they had enough reserve dogs to take the trail and they might be sure that alligator pete would not be on hand to bother the trail. at a late hour they turned in, tad butler not as well satisfied over his achievement as most lads would have been. it was late in the night when tad crawled from his tent and crept cautiously towards the spot where alligator pete lay sleeping. he reached the prisoner without awakening him, so cautious had been his movements. the first pete knew of his presence was when tad shook him lightly by the shoulder. the "alligator" started up, but was too good a woodsman to utter a sound. "it's butler," whispered the boy. "have you a family?" "yes." "how many?" "wife and some kids." "where are they?" "just over the line in mississippi." "do you think, if you were let go, that you could go home to mississippi and behave yourself?" "i reckon it wouldn't take me long to get home." "and you will keep away from bill lilly and not try to take revenge on him?" "i don't want to set eyes on him again." "it isn't a question of your setting eyes on him, but of his setting eyes on you. if he does, he will shoot you on sight, pete. do you promise to get over to your own state and behave yourself?" "i promise." tad without further parley untied the knots that held the prisoner to the tree. "your horse is about ten rods down the bank that way. your rifle is in the boot and you have plenty of shells. i have also put some food in your saddle bag. now--get!" chapter xxiii ichabod gets a big surprise it was about daybreak on the following morning when the sleepy ichabod stumbled from his bed and wobbled out into the open, rubbing his eyes. he gathered the dry stuff for the campfire, which had gone out, and proceeded to make a smudge which got into his eyes, causing him further distress. the colored man had fussed about his duties for a full half hour, when taking a pail he started for the river to fetch water which he would boil for the use of the outfit. reaching the point where the prisoner had been tied to the tree ichabod halted, rubbing his eyes and scratching his head. he was confident that something was wrong, but in his sleepy condition he was not quite sure for the moment what that something was. the sight of the rope lying at the foot of the tree jogged his memory into sudden activity. ichabod uttered a yell. bill lilly was outside his tent in a twinkling, followed quickly by the other members of the party, tad butler being the last to leave his tent. tad appeared to be in no great haste. "what is it, icha?" shouted lilly. "him--him done gwine away." "eh, what?" "de 'gator done gwine away, sah." "not the prisoner? you don't mean he has escaped?" "ya-a-a-a." the guide covered the ground to the tree in long strides. he halted suddenly upon observing the rope lying where it had been thrown. an ugly expression spread slowly over bill lilly's face. "has his horse been taken?" "yes, the horse is gone too," answered ned rector. "get ready! we must run him down," shouted billy. "what is the use? why not let him go? he has had his lesson," answered tad. "i am of the same opinion," agreed professor zepplin. "we did not come down here to chase criminals, but rather to follow the game trails. we have been in the canebrake for some time, and all we have got has been a small doe. my boys want a bear-hunt, mr. lilly, not a manhunt." billy reflected, tugging at his moustache. in a measure his reputation was at stake. his party simply must get a bear, or his reputation would suffer. "you shall have a bear," he answered almost savagely. tad grinned, well pleased with the decision. as yet no suspicion attached to him. in good time butler would tell them about it, but there need be no hurry to stir up trouble. the boy smiled to himself. he was happy in his little secret. he felt that pete had been punished enough, and was sure that they would not be bothered by him again. pete had had too great a scare to warrant him in annoying them further. lilly had grabbed some cold food, and, taking his hound leader with him, started out on horseback, telling the others that he was going out to see if he could locate a trail. he said he would be back before noon. instead of being away most of the morning the guide was back in an hour. "i've located a fresh trail," he announced. "it isn't more than an hour old at best. it's a she-bear and a fine one. we'll get this one or know the reason why. i have done the best i could. you know i can't make 'bear sign' if it isn't there. we frequently have to wait for weeks for a good trail. we are lucky in finding this one, for it might have been a young bear, and no great sport." the boys were all excitement on the instant. they began making hurried preparations for the chase, which all felt was going to result in something worth while. "master tad, i want you to ride back towards turtle bayou. you know the way. i think she is heading that way. about a mile before you reach the bayou you will find a ridge of cane leading off to the northwest. it is what is known as the big cane ridge. this she-bear has come over from the southern ridge, and, unless i am much mistaken, she is heading for the big ridge. she will stop some time this forenoon for food and rest, and if you take the short cut you ought to get to the ridge ahead of her." "do i go alone?" "yes, you will make better time. we don't want to lose this one. once she gets on the big ridge we shan't get her at all. now hustle yourself. lay your course by the compass two points north of northwest and hold it. that will land you at the exact spot i want you to reach. you will have to use your bush-knife all the way. it's a new trail and a hard one, but you will eat it up." tad hastily stowed food in the pockets of his saddle, then looked to his weapons, his rope and his other equipment. "don't take any chances in case you should come up with the old she, but shoot and shoot to kill." "and be sure that you don't get lost," added the professor. "i shall leave a trail that can be followed, even if i do lose my way," answered tad, leaping into his saddle. swinging his hand in parting salute to his companions he rode away, putting his mount to its best loping run. thirty minutes later the rest of the party with the hounds were also riding away to pick up the trail. the dogs were tugging at their leashes before they reached the trail. "they've got the scent already," cried lilly. "now look out for a chase. it is going to be a hard run and a fast ride, but you boys are good for it." "you bet we are!" shouted the pony rider boys. "i hope we, instead of tad butler, get the bear. he has had enough fun," complained ned rector. "we stand the best chance," answered lilly. "she will lie down to rest, and during that hour we shall get up to her." the hounds were released soon after that. they were off with yelps of joy, tearing along the trail with the horses of the pony riders close behind them. "this is a real joy ride," howled the fat boy, his face already flecked with blood, his clothing torn, from contact with brush and low-hanging limbs, for he was riding close up behind the guide. "no, tad is having that," corrected ned. "he hasn't anything to hold him back, either. he can go as fast as he wishes without having to consider anyone else." by this time the voices of the dogs were to be heard faintly in the distance. a short time later they were too far away to be heard at all. in the meantime tad butler was hewing his way through the cypress swamp, through occasional thin ridges of cane, over rough ground, keeping his muscular little mount down to work every second of the time. tad did not have much time to think about anything save the work in hand. he did not know that he was rapidly converging on the trail of the she-bear. about two o'clock in the afternoon the lad first heard the yelping of the hounds. they seemed to be approaching him obliquely, which in fact they were. tad pulled up sharply and listened. after a short time he rode about, getting the lay of the land, trying to decide in his own mind just what course the bear would take and where his best vantage point would be for getting a shot at her. there was no sound of the approach of the pony riders. he knew that they had been distanced perhaps by some miles, and that what was done here tad butler would be obliged to do on his own account. he now saw the wisdom of billy lilly's plan. billy, too, had given tad the better end of the chase, which, as tad believed, had been done with fore-thought. for this butler was thankful. he wanted to get a bear. the lad showed his excitement only in his eyes. otherwise he was cool and deliberate in all his actions. suddenly the yelping of the hounds changed. they were sounding a new note. the yelping had given place to deep baying sounds. "they've got her!" cried the boy, digging the rowels of his spurs into the sides of his mount. the little animal leaped forward and fairly tore through the brush, with the boy urging her on to renewed efforts regardless of the peril to his own person. butler knew that baying well. he had heard it before, the first time in the rocky mountains, and he knew that there was an animal at bay. he was careful to make as little noise as possible. all at once he burst out into an open space where a strange sight met his gaze. a huge she-bear was lying on the ground, flat on her back, her paws in the air, as a bear at bay frequently does. she was surrounded by a circle of baying dogs, each trying for an opening to get in a vicious bite. tad halted in amazement. he at first thought the beast had been wounded. he saw, however, that she was resting, taking her ease, with her paws in the air, regardless of the savage hounds snapping at her haunches. "well, of all the cool nerve i ever heard!" exclaimed the boy. now and then a hound, more venturesome than the rest, would dive in for a bite, whereupon, quick as a flash, a heavy paw would swing on the animal, sending it tumbling away yelping with pain. so interested was the pony rider boy that it did not occur to him to shoot. he did not know whether or not mrs. bruin had seen or scented him. then, again, it was not any too safe to try a shot at her with the hounds leaping in and out, dodging here and there. when she got up he would get a better sight and a safer shot. tad waited several minutes, the bear still taking her ease. she appeared absolutely without fear of the dogs that were nagging her. "i'm going to stir her up," declared tad with sudden resolution. he threw his rifle to his shoulder and sat his horse waiting a favorable opportunity to let drive at the old she-bear. a faint puff of smoke, a detonating crash, woke the forest echoes. tad's pony, startled, leaped into the air and to one side. the pony rider boy, caught wholly off his guard, disappeared from the saddle in a twinkling, landing on the ground. the boy toppled over and lay still. he was too dazed for the moment to pull himself together. in the meantime things were taking place before him. the beast had suddenly lunged to her feet, uttering growls of rage, her little eyes fixed on the cause of her distress, on the prostrate boy, a bullet from whose rifle had shattered the bone of her left shoulder. suddenly she lunged toward him, pausing to snap and bite at the hounds that were trying to throw themselves upon her, but whom she warded off with paw, her jaws wide open and dripping. the big she-bear was ambling toward tad butler at great speed. chapter xxiv conclusion tad felt a sudden sense of impending peril. bringing the full force of his will to bear on the task, he pulled himself to a sitting posture. not twenty paces from him he saw the she-bear bearing down upon him with jaws wide apart, and uttering growls of rage. tad groped for his rifle, but could not find it. as a matter of fact it had fallen into a clump of bushes beyond him when he fell from the horse. his predicament was a dire one and he knew it. the boy staggered to his feet, tugging at his revolver. with the seconds he was getting back his strength and his nerve. "at her! at her!" he shouted to the dogs. encouraged by his words three of the hounds leaped on the haunches of the bear. this retarded her forward progress for the moment. she turned, snarling, on her assailants. this gave the dogs in front an opportunity to snap at her legs, which they did, but were put to rout with the sweep of a ferocious paw. the dogs seemed to realize that the duty of protecting the pony rider boy rested wholly on them, for they went at the big she-bear with ferocious growls, their jaws snapping like steel traps. their efforts seemed to have no effect on the big beast other than to retard her progress a little. again she started for tad with the pack hanging to her heels. young butler, revolver in hand, stood calmly awaiting the nearer approach of the bear. when she had reached a point as close to him as he thought prudent, tad raised his revolver and fired. the bear slackened her pace. she seemed to be surprised. otherwise there was no indication that the boy's bullet had reached her. surely she had not been wounded in a vital spot and tad wondered if there were any vital spots in this animal. he could see that his first shot with the rifle had stirred the rage of the beast. either he would have to kill her or she would kill him. butler understood this fully. it was an inspiring sight to see the freckle-faced boy standing there, bare-headed, revolver aimed at the bear as calmly as if it were an inanimate mark he were shooting at for target practice, with the yelping dogs assailing mrs. bruin, she almost neglectful of their presence. yet at any moment one of the faithful hounds might get in a bite that would turn the tide in their favor. one did get in an effective bite, but it was after tad butler had emptied the contents of his revolver into the bear. she turned with a roar as a chunk of flesh was torn from her flank. thus encouraged, the dogs attacked with renewed fury, and, regardless of their own safety, threw themselves upon her. for the first time the old she-bear really woke up. she seemed to realize that she must fight and dispose of the dogs before she could go on and finish the freckle-faced boy. a dog, breathing its last, was flung at the feet of the pony rider boy. "oh, that's too bad," mourned the boy. "i've got to help them! but how can i do it? ah!" a stick of cane that had been cut off near the base of the stalk he saw standing against a tree not far from him. this gave the lad an idea. he grabbed up the stick, which was about ten feet long, and drawing near to the battling dogs, watched his opportunity. then he gave the beast a poke with it. this served to distract her attention for the moment, giving the dogs a fresh hold all around. [illustration: the bear turned on tad.] delighted with the success of his ruse, tad kept on poking, leaping back, dodging, thrusting, harrying the bear, assisting the dogs to get fresh and effective holds. the boy sought to poke the animal in the eye, but she was too wary for this. she managed to chew up the end of the cane pole, tearing it into shreds, and would have jerked it away from tad entirely had she not been obliged to drop the pole to attend to the dogs that had just bitten her in the side again. but this battle could not go on indefinitely. the dogs, one by one, were being either wounded or killed outright. tad's chances for winning were lessening with the moments. he was doing his best to help and save the dogs and they were doing their desperate best to protect him from the she-bear. "i've got to put a stop to this or she'll kill them all," cried the boy. the bear seemed to have come to a decision at the same time. with the hounds clinging to her, she ambled for tad again. the boy stood firm. he held his hunting knife in hand. as the bear reared before him, towering higher than his head, the pony rider boy made a swift jab with the knife. but he was not quick enough. he had got within reach of those powerful paws. one caught him on the left shoulder. tad was hurled fully a rod from the bear. he thought the blow had broken his shoulder, but he was up instantly and at her again. this time the lad was more cautious. having once felt the strength of that paw, he had no desire to feel it again. a blow like that one the head or the neck would be likely to finish him, after which the she-bear would have an easy time of disposing of the hounds. tad, as soon as he had recovered in a measure from the first blow, began dancing about the beast like a boxer. the dogs were doing much the same. every one of them was bleeding, their jaws were dripping with the blood of the bear, and their efforts were becoming less and less effective. it appeared to be a matter of but a short time before she would have killed them all. suddenly, as mrs. bruin's attention was attracted to the rear, butler leaped forward. he drove the point of his hunting knife fairly into her body. the bear whirled. tad leaped back, carrying his knife with him. this last act of his was the final straw that broke down the prudence of the bear. with terrible growls she made straight for him. tad leaped aside just in time to avoid the sweep of a paw that, had it landed, no doubt would have killed him. then he sprang forward and drove the knife home. for the next few minutes it would have been hard to say which was pony rider boy, which dog and which bear. tad's clothes were nearly stripped from his body, his skin scratched, torn and bleeding. but the boy was still strong and full of fight. on the other hand, mrs. bruin was getting weaker from loss of blood. she had depended too much on her strength and skill, but the boy and the wounded dogs had proved too much for her. she was now fighting both, probably with a full knowledge of this, which made her the more dangerous. tad butler was wholly on the defensive; he was fighting for his life and he knew it. the bear suddenly reared on her haunches and staggered towards him. tad buried the knife in her side, and it stuck. in the brief seconds that he was trying to recover it the great fore-legs closed about him. strangely enough the she-bear as suddenly released the grip that was closing about tad, and staggering backwards, collapsed and rolled over on her back with all four feet in the air. when the bear released him tad butler went down in a heap, and lay where he had fallen, pale and motionless. the dogs, now realizing that their prey had fallen, attacked her ferociously, to which she returned only a feeble defense. bill lilly and his party had heard the uproar, and were riding to the scene with all speed. lilly had heard the report of the rifle when tad took the first shot, and he knew that tad butler was in the thick of the fray. he knew, too, from the continued baying and yelping of the dogs, after the revolver shots, that the boy had not killed the bear. hearing no further shots the guide was genuinely alarmed, for he read the meaning of these things aright. when the leader of the party came galloping on the scene his eyes quickly comprehended, and lilly was off his horse in a twinkling. giving no heed to the bear, which he saw was nearly dead, he ran to the fallen pony rider boy. the others of his party came tearing in a few moments later. they saw him down on his knees beside tad butler. "tad's dead!" wailed stacy brown. lilly shook his head. professor zepplin took butler's pulse and listened to his heart. "i think he is badly hurt. can't we get him somewhere where we can treat him?" "wait till he comes around," advised lilly. it was a full half hour before they succeeded in bringing tad back to consciousness, during which time his young companions stood about with faces almost as pale as his own. stacy kept thrusting his hands in his pockets, then withdrawing them, while the others showed their nervousness by frequent shiftings from one foot to the other. suddenly tad opened his eyes, and smiled weakly. "i--i got her," he whispered, then swooned. it was fully an hour later that the boy was able to talk. he told them, briefly, while the professor was making a careful diagnosis of the patient, what had taken place. the professor found that besides the boy's flesh wounds he had sustained three broken ribs. the ugly she-bear had crushed them in. lilly immediately began constructing a litter. tad insisted that he would ride back to camp, but they would not permit it. they forced him to ride to camp on the litter, which was hung between two horses. never did a boy get better attention than did tad during that never-to-be-forgotten ride, when every movement gave him agonizing pain. he had insisted that the bear be skinned and the pelt taken along. this consumed some little time, but lilly did the job as quickly as possible. late that night they rode into camp. tad was in a fever. for three days they watched over him, then the party started for jackson with their patient, who pluckily protested that he was all right. tad rode all the way in on the litter. reaching jackson, major clowney insisted that he be taken to the clowney home, which was done. in spite of his suffering, the pony rider boy felt that pleasure was close akin to pain, for his hospitable hosts surrounded him quietly with every thoughtful attention. "i'm sorry to see you in this fix," remarked lilly, dropping in on tad one afternoon. "you needn't be," smiled the boy. "really, i believe i'm having the time of my life. what are the other fellows really doing, mr. lilly?" "nothing much," replied the guide. "that is, mr. stacy is doing nothing." "i might have guessed that," smiled tad. "and the others are helping him," finished the guide with a grin. "and i had to be so unfortunate as to spoil our fine hunting trip in the canebrake," cried tad reproachfully. "you didn't spoil anything," lilly retorted. "i reckon that all the young gentlemen had their fill of the canebrake." "i don't believe it," declared tad. "i know i wouldn't have had enough, if it hadn't been for--this." "well," assented the guide slowly, "i suppose i could have shown you youngsters quite a bit more if i had had the chance." "i'll tell you what i wish you would do, mr. lilly." "well, i'm listening," observed the guide. "it will take me a little time yet to get in the best of shape," tad pursued. "i suggest that while i am laid up here you take the fellows back into the brake, and show 'em something they've missed so far." "that might suit me," lilly replied. "i wanted to show you people all i could, and i wish it had been more. but i don't believe your fellows will consent to go away and leave you here on the laid-up shelf." "nonsense!" protested tad. "it would make me feel a lot worse to realize that i was a spoil-sport." lilly tried out his mission, but with no more success than he had expected. tad, his face flushing, sent for his companions. but all his arguments failed to induce the pony rider boys to leave him. tad pleaded, and at last commanded. "i'm afraid we shall have to go back to the brake whether we like it or not," urged walter perkins at last. "if tad feels that he is hindering sport he'll get worse instead of better." ned and stacy still protested, so tad went at the matter through his physician, who advised the boys to go on or tad would surely fret himself into a relapse, and they consented reluctantly. on the day following, mr. lilly and professor zepplin led the other three pony rider boys back into the brake. tad felt no regrets after they had left. in the sportsman's phrase he had "filled his own bag," and now he was eager to see the other lads do something to their own credit. before very long he was able to sit up and write in his own firm hand to his mother. the receipt of his letter settled all of mrs. butler's fears. then, at the end of two weeks, the boys returned. hearing that they were coming along the road tad butler, pallid yet clear-eyed and steady, strolled down the road to meet them. "wow!" yelled stacy, pointing to a furry object tied over his pony's back in front of the saddle. it was bear. "fine!" grinned tad. "do you know who shot it, chunky?" "a young man of considerable importance, who just fits into my garments," replied stacy brown, throwing out his chest once more. "and i came near having a fearful fight with the critter, too." it was a small bear, but brown had really killed it unaided. ned, too, rode with a small bear tied to his saddle. only walter perkins returned bootless, but that was to be expected of walter, who was an indifferent sportsman. professor zepplin had had no intention of bagging any game. two bears, however, did not represent all the fun that had been had on this second trip into the canebrake. all three of the boys were as brown as coffee berries and as "hard as nails." they were in splendid shape. just a few days more and the pony rider boys were obliged to bid their hosts and lilly good-bye. it seemed as though half the inhabitants of the small town turned out to see the departing boys off at the railway station. "come back again! come back again--soon," was the chorus that went up as the train began to move, while the pony rider boys, their heads at the open windows, waved back. before leaving they learned through major clowney that government agents had arrested alligator pete austen, who had tried to be their guide, and several other men from that section. these men had been part of a band of smugglers, smuggling german goods through mexico. a fishing smack had been bringing the goods across the gulf of mexico. the stuff had been hidden on a remote deep bayou, and from there disposed of for considerable sums of money. the government agents recovered a heavy supply of goods of various sorts that, of course, had come in duty free by way of the secret route. austen, who was in charge, attended to the work of getting the supplies into the brake where it was cached in steel cribs in the bayou. for this, he and others of the gang--ten men in all--were convicted and sent to prison. the pony rider boys had smoked them out without realizing that they were doing their country a great service. and now they were on their journey home. not to remain there for long, however, for the boys had other worlds to conquer, other startling adventures before them. they will be heard from again, in the next volume of this series, which will be published under the title, "the pony rider boys in alaska; or, the gold diggers of taku pass." this following volume will be found one of the most fascinating of the entire series, with the pony riders in the saddle in new surroundings, undergoing experiences different from anything that they had ever met with. the end distributed proofreading canada team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net swamp cat _books by_ jim kjelgaard big red rebel siege forest patrol buckskin brigade chip, the dam builder fire hunter irish red kalak of the ice a nose for trouble snow dog trailing trouble wild trek the explorations of pere marquette the spell of the white sturgeon outlaw red the coming of the mormons cracker barrel trouble shooter the lost wagon lion hound trading jeff and his dog desert dog haunt fox the oklahoma land run double challenge swamp cat swamp cat by jim kjelgaard _illustrated by_ edward shenton dodd, mead & company new york © by jim kjelgaard all rights reserved no part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the publisher thirteenth printing library of congress catalog card number: - printed in the united states of america by the cornwall press, inc., cornwall, n. y. _to polly goodwin_ contents . exiled . andy . the first planting . feathered death . partners . frosty prowls . the second planting . marooned . intruder . andy hunts . the war of the owls . deep sand the characters and situations in this book are wholly fictional and imaginative: they do not portray and are not intended to portray any actual persons or parties. swamp cat exiled the sound came to frosty as a mere vibration that hummed about the fine hairs in his inner ears and set his whiskers to tingling. about to leap from the shelf on which he crouched and resume the boisterous play with his two brothers, he remained where he was and strained for a repetition of the noise. he knew only that it was. before he could continue playing, he must know what it was. on the chaff-littered floor of the shed in which they lived, frosty's brothers engaged in a mock war. they slapped and bit each other, but their claws were sheathed and needle-sharp baby teeth did not penetrate the skin. breaking, they raced pell-mell across the shed. so nearly alike that no casual observer could have seen any difference between the pair, one gray kitten stretched full-length behind a little heap of chaff and waited in this cunning ambush for the other to venture near. they too would have stopped playing if they had been aware of the noise, but only frosty knew it because only his senses were keen enough to detect it. however, more than just superior powers of perception set him apart from the kittens on the floor. the mother of the three, beloved pet of the household, was a medium-sized gray cat that had never done much of anything except doze in the sunshine in summer, lie beside the stove in winter, rub against the legs of the various members of the family when she was pleased, sulk when she was not, and somewhat indifferently carry on various affairs which no cat ever considers the business of any human. their father was a huge black-and-white old tom. a confirmed wanderer and unregenerate adventurer, he bore as many battle scars as any soldier ever carried. smart and crafty, he had never offered allegiance to anything save his own wanderlust and he feared nothing. from point of lineage or breeding, neither the gray mother nor the black-and-white old tom were distinguished by anything special. products of generations of cats that had been allowed to wander where they would and breed as they pleased, in local parlance, they were just common cats. it was a misnomer, though, because there is no such thing as a common cat. perhaps because they were a little nearer the source of things, the ancient peoples who brought cats from the wilderness to their firesides understood this perfectly. they knew that cats are proud. they applauded their intelligence, warmed to their complex characters, marveled at their temperaments and tried eagerly to fathom that unfathomable mystery, so that they might understand why cats were as they were. failing, they accepted their failure with wisdom. they could not understand cats any more than they could understand why gold glittered or precious jewels sparkled, but they did not have to know why a flawless diamond or ruby came about in order to appreciate it. they bowed to perfection and they acknowledged the perfection of cats by making them their equals, or even their superiors. cats had first choice at their own tables, and whole villages walked in the funeral procession when a cat died. they made cats the companions of kings, and it was death to the commoner who hurt or even touched one. they put cats in their temples and worshipped them; many a figure which meant a god to these ancient peoples wore the head of a cat on the body of a man. some part of what had impressed these ancients was evident in frosty as he lay on the shelf and waited for the sound to repeat itself, so he could identify it. though he gave his entire being to the task at hand, his was not the strained tension of a dog that concentrates completely on just one thing. rather than fret toward the source of the sound, it was as though frosty had opened an invisible door which not only could but must let the source become one with him. blood brother to the two kittens on the floor, frosty was a third bigger than they. but the lithe slimness of his mother had tempered the blocky proportions of his father, so that he combined size with strength and fluid grace. his basic fur was jet black, but single white hairs were so scattered through it that he looked as though he were sprinkled with hoarfrost. his eyes were remarkable, and somehow seemed to reflect the accumulated wisdom of all cats since the first. a split second after the first tremor, the noise came again, a tiny bit louder, and thereafter resolved itself into a pattern of rhythmic noises. a horse was coming, and because the tremors strengthened with each step it took. frosty knew that it was coming toward the shed. finally becoming aware of the sound, the gray kittens stopped playing until they too could identify it. frosty's eyes sparkled mischievously. he had been born with a quivering bump of curiosity that stopped throbbing only when it was satisfied, and it was satisfied only when frosty knew at all times exactly what lay about him. his nose was relatively dull, but his eyes and ears verged on the marvelous, so he interpreted the world keenly through sight and hearing. but once he was sure, as he was now sure that he heard a horse, he need concern himself no longer because, from this point on, that part of his brain which worked automatically would take over and tell him what the horse was doing. imps of mischief continued to dance in frosty's eyes. having just detected the sound, his brothers must now identify it. trying to do so was occupying all their attention and there would never be a better chance to take them off guard. frosty launched himself from the shelf. it was a kitten's leap, propelled by a kitten's muscles, but there was still something breath-taking, almost unreal, about it. no blind jump, every nerve and muscle in frosty's body was at all times under perfect control. he landed exactly where he had planned on landing, astride his two brothers, and the three kittens tumbled over and over on the floor. even while he parried paw or fangs, or inflicted playful blows of his own, that part of his brain which had taken over for frosty kept him informed of the horse's progress. there was no need to stop playing and give the horse undivided attention. horses, in a cat's opinion, were big, clumsy and uninteresting. the horse stopped near the house to which the shed belonged and a man whose voice frosty did not recognize called, "halloo the house!" the door opened and the mistress of the place answered, "hello, luke. just a minute." when the house door opened, at once the two gray kittens broke off playing and padded to the shed's door. they stood before it, voicing little mews of anticipation and so eager that their heads alternately raised and dipped, then turned, as though on swivels. their tails were straight and pink tongues flicked out. though he did not hide his interest, frosty stayed well back from the shed door. he knew as well as his two brothers did that the saucers of milk and occasional pile of table scraps upon which all three kittens fed came from the house and that the woman always brought them. but frosty possessed in full a quality which his brothers had only in part. frosty's heritage, in great measure, came from his renegade father. incapable of fearing anything, he was sufficient unto himself and he'd known that from the first day he'd opened his eyes and looked around the shed. there was not and never would be a situation with which he could not cope or a foe from whom he would run in panic. his self-confidence was almost as vast as his curiosity. he would stand alone, or with kindred spirits. never would he place himself at the mercy of, or pay homage to, one who was not kindred. he liked the woman. she was unfailingly kind and gentle. she knew exactly how to pet him and she--a small point--brought his food. but he would not, as the gray kittens did, unbend so far as to meet her at the door. she was not his superior. the woman spoke again and there was a little question in her voice. "mr. harris isn't here now, luke, but i suppose it's all right for you to take them?" "it's all right, miz harris." the man's voice was curiously flat and toneless. "i tol' the mister i'd get 'em today." "well--" the woman still doubted. "how much did he promise you?" "two dollars, miz harris." "all right. i'll pay you. they're in here." she pulled the shed door open and frosty looked out to see his mistress standing beside a lean hillman, dressed in sun-faded blue trousers that, somehow, were kept from falling down by frayed galluses draped over a torn shirt. the man's hair needed cutting and ragged sideburns strayed down either cheek, to meet beneath his chin. his face was hatchet like, its distinguishing characteristic being a pair of pale blue eyes. he held the reins of a skittish-looking brown horse that wore a good saddle. frosty stayed where he was, instinctively flattening himself so that he lay a little nearer the floor. tails erect, eyes happy, pleased purrs filling the shed, the two gray kittens arched against their mistress' feet. she knelt and took one in either hand. "oh, the dears! i hate to see them go!" "kind o' hard," the man said, "to keep so many cats in town." "it's impossible," she sighed. "can you wait a while? it lacks an hour to their feeding time, but maybe i should feed them before they go?" "now don't you fret," he reassured her. "in two hours i'll have 'em up at my place, an' anybody in the hills'll tell you luke trull's critters don't starve. they'll eat plenty." "i hope so. how are you going to carry them?" "if you'll just hold queenie--" he handed the horse's reins to her, took a gunny sack from beneath his shirt, plopped the two surprised gray kittens into it and advanced on frosty. unafraid, but always willing to temper valor with discretion, frosty waited until he was near enough to swoop, then darted into a cracked piece of tile pipe that lay in the shed. luke trull said, "this'n ain't friendly." "no," mrs. harris admitted, "he isn't like the others." "makes no diffe'nce. we can use him, an' his wildness might pay off up in the hills." frosty readied himself. the three-foot length of tile was not merely the best but almost the only hiding place in the shed. if he was found out here, he'd have no choice except fighting. luke trull's hand crept like an unwieldy snake into the hollow tile and frosty struck with unsheathed claws. the man gritted, "why, ya leetle--!" "what's wrong?" the woman asked anxiously. "the leetle--! he bit me!" "please be gentle!" the hand came nearer and its steel-strong fingers enfolded frosty. the black kitten raked until his paws were secured and then scissored with needle-sharp baby teeth. spitting and snarling, he was pulled out of the tile and dropped into the gunny sack, along with his brothers. he made another mad lunge at luke trull but succeeded only in entangling his claws in the sacking. furious, but unable to do anything about it at once, frosty subsided. the man held up his scratched hand. "the leetle--!" the woman said, "i'm sorry!" "makes no mind," luke trull said. "i'll stop down to the drugstore an' git aught to put on it." "i'll pay for it. will two dollars extra be all right?" "if ye've a mind, miz harris." "you--you won't hurt the kittens?" "oh no, miz harris! 'course not! why would i hurt 'em when i told the mister i'd take 'em?" "here's your money." "thankee." luke trull tied the mouth of the gunny sack, slung it over the saddle horn, and swung expertly into the saddle. the horse broke into a fast walk and the gunny sack bobbed back and forth in cadence with the horse's movements. paws spread, claws extended, frosty steadied himself by holding onto the sacking. one of the gray kittens whimpered plaintively. rigid with uncertainty, the second merely stared. frosty paid his brothers not the slightest attention. he could smell nothing, see nothing except dim light that filtered through the gunny sack's coarse weave, and he heard little but the measured clomp-clomp of the horse's hooves. since he could know nothing whatever of what lay about him, or what might happen next, he couldn't possibly plan any intelligent course of action or know how to cope with the next problem that arose. he must be ready for anything and he was. though he knew no fear, his nerves were taut as a blown-up balloon. from the tip of his nose to the end of his tail, no tiny part of him was even slightly relaxed. just so, provision is made for all cats that find themselves in serious and uncertain situations. frosty, and to a lesser extent the gray kittens, were ready to fly in any direction or to do instantly whatever the next second, the next minute, the next hour, or any elapsed time, might have them do. they did not bob around as puppies would have because each had all four claws firmly fixed in the sacking and, in a very real way, even while they were together, they remained apart. though on occasion several cats will cooperate to do what one alone cannot do, theirs is not the pack instinct of dogs and wolves. intelligent enough to work with others when the situation demands it, they are too highly individualized to look to any one leader and too smart ever completely to trust their own fate to anything except themselves. the gray kitten that had mewed before, called a second time. it was not a cry of fear, but one of appeal. until now, the kitten's world had consisted of the shed, of daytime forays into the yard, of all the food it could eat and of unfailingly gentle treatment at the hands of human beings. the desperate kitten wanted only to be back in the familiar world from which it had been so rudely torn. far more intelligent and advanced than either of the gray kittens, frosty gave himself wholly to facing things as they were, with no vain lamentations for what had been. still able to smell only the dusty sack, to see little and to hear only the horse's hoofbeats, he kept every sense alert. thus he knew when they left the road and started climbing a mountain path. the little dust bombs that had been exploding under the horse's feet no longer floated upwards. metal-shod hooves rang on rocks and boulders and the air was cleaner. frosty sensed only the physical change, welcome because the dust was less oppressive. being a cat, he knew nothing of the town's social life, as it was conducted by humans, and if he had known, he wouldn't have cared. but town life had a definite bearing on why he and his brothers were here. the town owed its existence to the fact that it was the logical place to establish a railroad yard. its inhabitants consisted of those who worked for the railroad and various business and professional people who had gathered to serve them. the first scheduled train had run over the new-laid rails just twenty-eight years ago, and, with few exceptions, everybody in the town who was past thirty had come from somewhere else. those who'd stayed had established the town's oldest and most-respected families, and such traditions as there were centered about them and the history they'd seen in the making. it was a colorful story, for though there hadn't been any town, there had been people here long before the steel rails crept this way. they were the trulls, the casmans, the haroldsons, the gates, and others. according to popular report, in which there was probably more than a little truth, these natives of the region lived back in the hills because no place that smacked even faintly of civilization would have them and, before the coming of the railroad and the building of the town, they did just about as they pleased. a choice story, one the town's newspaper reprinted at least once a year, concerned the twenty-five-year-long feud that the trulls and casmans had carried on with the gates. occasionally, some of the hill people had come into town, worked on the railroad long enough to get money for some purpose or other and gone again. they hadn't wanted steady jobs and they still didn't. now the town's relations with the hill dwellers were somewhat curious. the railroad had brought law with it and the hill people had had to conform, but they had never conformed completely. periodically, the game warden found a trull, casman, or some other hillman, with game or fish taken out of season. two years ago, federal officers, searching for illicit stills, had combed the whole area thoroughly. they had uncovered no bootlegging operations but that, as every townsman knew, was only because the hill dwellers had been too clever for them. legend and fact mingled indiscriminately to influence the town's view of the hill people. it was commonly believed that, once a hill man promised to do something, the deed was as good as done. it was also believed that, back in their own wild country, the hill dwellers were still a law unto themselves. many were the darkly whispered tales of violence, even murder, and pagan rites. but most of these stories were born in some town-dweller's imagination. however, there was fact, and andy gates furnished the outstanding example. andy was the last resident survivor of the gates clan. three years ago, looking fourteen but claiming he was sixteen, andy had come into town and obtained a job on the night shift in the roundhouse. days he had enrolled in the town's high school, where he not only completed a four-year course in three but graduated as salutatorian. then, though he might have continued to work for the railroad, with every prospect of some day having a very good job, andy had gone back to the hills. so fact and romance tinted each other, and when mrs. harris handed the three kittens over to luke trull, she hadn't the least idea that he would do anything but exactly as he had promised and give them a fine home. she didn't know anything about his home and had only a vague idea of where he lived. however, who could doubt that surplus kittens, for which there was no room in town, would be very well off in the hills? it never occurred to her, it never occurred to anyone outside the hills, that luke was a man of the meanest order. with an inborn aversion to work, he liked money and he constantly schemed and planned to get some. his scratched hand, an injury not even worth noticing, he had quickly recognized as an opportunity to extort two dollars more from mrs. harris. he had never had the slightest intention of buying any antiseptic from the drugstore and now, as his horse climbed the mountain path, he looked for a good place to rid himself of the kittens. they'd be nothing except a burden at luke's place and he did not want them. at the same time, he must be very careful. those fools from town were always coming into the hills for one reason or another, and, of course, everybody in the town knew everybody else. if he were seen discarding the kittens, he'd get no more surplus kittens or pups either and thus a handy source of income would dry up. luke swung in the saddle to look behind him and saw nobody. there didn't seem to be anybody ahead, either, but luke's were the senses and instincts of a hillman. he could not see around the next bend, but there might be somebody there who could see him. luke rode on. he rounded the bend and silently commended himself for his own caution. swinging down a long, straight stretch toward him came young andy gates. although of anything except a poetical turn of mind, luke thought, as he always did when he saw andy at a distance, of a birch sapling that has shot far into the air without developing a trunk that is capable of supporting it. there was nothing complimentary in the comparison; slim and tall saplings might topple with the first storm. but the description was apt. six feet two, andy's body had not yet filled out in proportion to his height. he had straight, jet-black hair and a smile that always seemed in bud on his mouth but never quite bloomed. unless one looked squarely into his black eyes--and luke never did because andy's eyes made him uncomfortable--the over-all impression he gave was one of extreme gentleness. with his long legs, he covered the ground like a coursing greyhound. he was now, luke guessed, on his way into town to buy some needed supplies. they met and luke said, "hi, andy." andy touched a hand to his forehead in salute. "hello, luke." then they passed and each continued his separate way. a puzzled smile parted luke's thin lips. young gates was a queer one. smart enough, if book learning passed for smartness; he had gone to town and got himself a schooling. then, and only he knew why, he had come back to the ancestral gates holdings in dog tooth valley. what he, or for that matter anyone else, wanted there was a mystery. there was some five hundred acres, all paid for and with a clear title. but there was not enough plow land to provide even a small family with enough vegetables for its own use. here and there was a small patch of scrub timber, and almost all the rest was swamp land. when they'd needed that above all else, dog tooth valley had provided a safe haven for the once-numerous gates men. they knew the only safe paths across their endless swamps and, to this day, nobody else did. but the feud was long since ended. though it had been neither as prolonged nor as bitter as the town liked to remember it and there had been a lot more hand to hand slugging than there ever had been combat with deadly weapons, the law had ended it and a new day had come to the hills. it was a better day, too. who but a fool would try to get what he wanted with a gun when it was much easier and safer to think his way through to it? turning to steal a covert glance behind him, luke saw that andy had disappeared. the man whirled his horse to the side of the trail, lifted the bag of kittens from his saddle horn and threw the still-tied sack into a copse of brush. andy the spring sun, which rose at half-past five, was just climbing into the sky when andy gates got out of bed. he entered the compact kitchen of his little house, started a wood fire in the range, put a pot of coffee over an open lid hole and, while waiting for this to start percolating, walked to the front of his place and looked over his domain. the house was built on a rocky knoll, one of the few places in dog tooth valley that was not given over to swamp land. enough topsoil clung to the elevation to support a small garden. surrounding the garden was a tightly woven picket fence, and, even as andy watched, a trim doe from out of the swamp nosed hopefully at the pickets. andy smiled with his eyes; the doe could not get into his garden. beyond, were three small sheds. in one andy kept the dozen chickens that supplied him with eggs and an occasional table fowl; the other two were a fur shed and a place for storing provisions. all the rest was swamp land. the scene had been familiar since andy's babyhood, but, even though it was old, somehow it was always new. directly in front of the house was a watery slough, around and in which cattails, lily pads and other swamp vegetation grew in lush profusion. just beyond the slough was a cluster of dead trees that thrust skeleton branches and twigs forlornly and forever skyward. the dead trees were one of the swamp's many mysteries. why they'd grown in the first place, andy did not know. nor could he understand why they did not fall down, as other dead trees did, sooner or later. he thought that they took out of the swamp some mineral content that toughened and hardened them. they'd been there since he could remember. beyond the trees, marked here and there by other dead trees and an occasional knoll upon which grew a little patch of live ones, the swamp stretched clear to the foot of some low hills that rose in the distance. andy picked out the paths across it; the sloughs and ponds wherein lurked pickerel, perch and bass; the game trails; and the places where, in bygone days, men of the gates clan had hidden from their enemies. he turned soberly back to the stove, put a slab of butter in a skillet, melted it and broke four eggs into it. he toasted bread on top of the stove and sat down to eat his breakfast. the gates family had long since scattered far and wide. when the railroad brought the law with it, they could no longer raid the trulls and casmans and retreat to the safety of their swamp. safety was about all the swamp did offer; no hungry family had yet found a way to take a livelihood from it. andy poured himself a second cup of coffee. one by one, the gates men had taken their belongings and their families from the hills. but there'd been the inevitable one who couldn't leave. foolish, the rest had called jared, andy's father, but jared hadn't cared. only his son could understand that some roots went too deep to be torn out. jared might have left the swamp, but he wouldn't have been happy elsewhere. this was perfectly plain to andy because he wouldn't either. he'd striven to finish four years of high school in three largely because he was lonesome for the swamp and he'd gone to school for a specific purpose. jared, resting these past four years in the family plot on fiddler's knob, had been contented just to accept the swamp. he'd hunted a little, fished a little, trapped a little and worked by the day for whomever saw fit to give him a job. andy wanted to make the swamp produce something worthwhile and he'd spent hours in the school library, seeking a way. farming, in the accepted sense, was not even to be considered. the swamp would grow no commercial crop. there was little likelihood that it contained valuable minerals, either, but, by sheer chance, andy had run across an account of the great swamps of louisiana and the muskrats that abounded there. in this, he hoped, he had his answer. there were fur bearers in the swamp; mink, otter, raccoon and an occasional fox or coyote. strangely enough, there were no muskrats, but andy thought this was explained by the fact that all the swamp's outlets were subterranean. there was no surface connection with any stream or river, and any muskrat that tried to get into the swamp would have a long and perilous journey overland. however, he knew that there was a vast abundance of the aquatic plants on which muskrats fed, and muskrats did very well in northern climates, too. they were found well into canada. if andy could establish muskrats in his swamp, let them multiply and harvest the surplus, he might very well earn more than just a livelihood. at any rate, the experiment was worth trying and, after corresponding with various animal dealers and breeders, he had succeeded in buying six pairs of muskrats. if everything went according to schedule, they'd arrive on the one o'clock train. andy washed his breakfast dishes, tidied up the house and went outside. hoisting a white tail over her back, the hopeful doe fled into the swamp. andy walked toward his garden and was halted by a whirring rattle. a thick-bodied rattlesnake wriggled hastily out of his way and he let it go. rattlesnakes were one commodity that the swamp did produce in abundance, and they'd killed all three of the dogs andy had tried to keep. after that, he had stopped keeping them. there was little point in getting another dog when it was certain to run afoul of a snake and he didn't really miss the companionship. though he lived alone, he was never lonely. nobody could be if he loved and understood the swamp. opening the gate, andy looked at his garden, saw that it had not been molested and sighed relievedly. deer could not get through the fence, but raccoons had a fancy for tender young vegetables, too, and they could get over it. perhaps the rattlesnake, dangerous only to the unwary and the small creatures upon which it lived, was acting as a sort of guardian. it would be a good idea to let it stay where it was. catching up a hoe, andy cultivated his young plants. two hours later, he laid the tool aside, returned to the house, took up a casting rod with a silver spoon on the leader and stepped down to the slough. he cast expertly, laying his spoon just off the fringe of lily pads that grew on the far side of the slough. he let the spoon sink a little ways, began the retrieve, and there was a succession of little ripples as a good bass followed it clear across the slough. andy cast again and again. on his fourth cast, the bass struck. he fought it across the slough and lifted it out of the water. thus he had his dinner. after he'd cooked and eaten it, he started down the trail leading into town. passing luke trull, he was happy to salute him briefly and hurry on. the feud was long since just a memory, but even if it had never been, andy would not have liked luke trull. he was a coarse and often cruel man, and better left alone. given to violent rages, he was, nevertheless, usually able to avoid trouble. andy strode into the town, returned the greetings of friends he met there, made his way to the express office and waited for johnny linger, the agent, to look up. an old friend from andy's railroading days, johnny's greeting was explosive, "hi, andy!" "hello, johnny. is there anything for me?" "six somethings." johnny indicated six small wooden crates at one side of the room. "i was hoping you'd drop by. what are they, andy?" "muskrats." andy peered between the slats of one crate at two brown-furred animals about as big as cottontail rabbits. "six mated pairs." johnny asked whimsically, "what are you going to do with 'em, andy?" "see if they like my swamp. i forgot my pack board, johnny. will you loan me one?" "sure thing." "would you mind letting me pick them up after dark?" "any time you say. you'd just as soon keep it private, huh?" "i'd just as soon," andy agreed. "nobody will know i have them if i take them in after dark." * * * * * a moment before the sack landed in the brush, all three kittens turned so that the entire trio landed on their feet. this was not an instinctive move but a planned one that was possible because a cat thinks so swiftly. they would not have been hurt if they'd been thrown on rocks. as it was, the yielding branches of the brush broke their fall, so that they came to earth almost gently. wild-eyed, panting, the two gray kittens stretched full-length and waited tensely. as tense as his brothers, frosty was not satisfied merely to wait. a true son of the black-and-white tom, he had inherited all that old warrior's character, courage and spirit. before he did anything else, to the best of his ability, frosty determined what lay about them. normally he depended on his ears, his eyes, and to a lesser extent, his nose. now his eyes were almost useless, but the sun shone brightly and some light penetrated the sack. just overhead, a leafy branch was moving in the gentle wind, and when the branch moved, its shadow shifted across the sack. frosty studied it intently, trying to determine exactly what it was and why it should be. unable to do so, after the shadow had moved back and forth a dozen times, he did satisfy himself that it was harmless. he then gave himself over to the use of his ears and nose. faintly in the distance, he still heard the measured hoofbeats of luke trull's horse. the animal was going farther away and therefore he need not concern himself with it, but indelibly graven on frosty's mind was the image of luke trull himself. the man was a deadly enemy and had proven himself such. he must never be considered as anything else, but enemies could harm or be harmed only when they were near and luke trull was gone with his horse. there were more immediate problems. for a short space the only sounds were the horse's hoofbeats, the sighing of the gentle breeze and the kittens' panting. then a mottled thrush that had been startled into hasty flight when the hurled sack came his way, cocked his head in the chokecherry tree to which he had flown. the sack seemed harmless. at any rate, it did not pursue. curious, the thrush flew back to the copse, tilted on a twig and gave voice to a few questioning notes. frosty heard and interpreted correctly. he had seen birds and even stalked them, when he and his brothers played outside the shed. he was not particularly concerned about the thrush. it was unlikely to offer a battle; all the birds he'd ever seen had avoided him. frosty started suddenly. winging in solitary flight over the mountain, a jet-black crow voiced its raucous song. frosty heard and marveled. never before had such a sound crossed his ears and he waited to hear it again. when the crow did not repeat its call, frosty sank back. but he knew no peace. his curiosity, aroused and unsatisfied, tormented him and would continue to do so until he heard another crow call and identified the source of a sound so intriguing. the sun burned hotly and the gray kitten that had mewed before, cried again. the weakest of the three, the kitten was suffering far more than his brothers. frosty looked once toward his protesting brother and turned his head away. he too was hungry and thirsty, but it was not in him to cry. he poked experimentally at a tiny hole in the gunny sack. unable to thrust his paw through, he turned his attention elsewhere. he was too smart to waste time trying the obviously impossible. when he laid plans, they would succeed. the only scents that reached his nostrils were those of sun-warmed foliage and earth and the heavy, rank odor of a rotting log that lay nearby. the weakening gray kitten mewed again and frosty twisted uncomfortably. it was long past feeding time and hunger was an ache. but thirst was becoming a torture. the fine hairs in frosty's inner ears quivered like stretched wires and he turned his head toward the rotting log. the sound that originated there was so faint and wispy that only a very sensitive ear could have detected it. a chipmunk ran up the log, saw the sack, stopped, sat up for a better view, squeaked in frenzied alarm and turned to flash back along the log. he dived into its hollow interior. the weakening gray kitten twisted, laid his ears back, snarled and sprang upon and slashed viciously at his gray brother. the attacked kitten slashed back. exhausted by its own tremendous effort, the feeble kitten sank down apathetically and closed its eyes. in a grim way, it was the luckiest of the three, for it would be the first to die. frosty unsheathed and sheathed his claws. he looked meaningfully at the second gray kitten, which flattened its ears and spat at him. frosty turned around to face his brother. the sun went down and when it did a chill fell on the mountain. but it brought no relief from raging thirst, though hunger was forgotten. the weakest kitten, past caring what happened, stretched limply. its eyes were closed and it gasped for breath. but frosty and the other gray kitten were still strong. far across the mountain, his every need and want attended to, luke trull slept soddenly in his comfortable bed. frosty strained. something was walking nearby. it walked on paws so soft and stealthy that the sound came to frosty's ears almost like the ghost of a noise. it was less than half real, but it was there. frosty turned to face it, knowing that, as always, he must be ready for anything. nearby, there was a short sigh as something expelled its breath. the gray kitten laid his ears back and snarled. frosty caught the scent of whatever came and at once was aware of two things. the approaching creature was alien to him but he was immediately hostile to it. somewhat like a dog, whatever came was not a dog. but it was wild and big, and it meant no good. frosty bristled. he could have no way of knowing that the creature, now smelling closely at the sack, was a prowling coyote. a big and crafty old male, the coyote had acquired his craft the hard way. four years ago, he had left his right front paw in a steel trap, and ever since he had avoided everything which he did not know. he knew all about helpless kittens and pups in gunny sacks. over the years, luke trull had carried dozens from the town to a promised "good home" in the hills. it was one of the more paradoxical aspects of town-hill relationships that nobody had ever challenged him or stopped to think about it. the most superficial reasoning would have demonstrated that, if luke had really taken home all the kittens and pups he had promised to take there, he couldn't possibly have room for anything else. luke's method of disposing of surplus kittens and pups was manna to the coyote. and, in a way, the coyote's very presence was a blessing to the helpless animals. the coyote killed cleanly, never needing more than one snap of his jaws, and such a death was much easier than waiting for thirst and hunger to do their work. strong pups and kittens often lived a surprisingly long time. having satisfied himself that this was exactly what he had thought it would be, the coyote pinned the sack down with his front paws and went to work with his teeth. he had done this so many times that he was a past master at it and his technique was admirable. rip a hole in the sack, pull out the trapped kittens or pups, snap once and enjoy an easy meal. the coyote was neither in a hurry nor particularly concerned. this formula he himself had perfected. never yet had a sacked kitten or pup escaped him or hurt him even slightly. he pulled out the half-dead gray kitten, killed it and laid it aside. the second gray kitten fought, but not very long or very hard. then, suddenly, what the coyote knew as an old story took on a new and astonishing twist. instead of waiting to be pulled out of the sack, frosty sprang out. straight to the coyote's head he went, all four paws raking, while baby teeth found a mark. he could work no serious damage, but fighting on his side was a powerful ally whose presence frosty did not even suspect. the coyote had opened numerous sacks and each time everything had happened in exactly the same way. deciding to his own satisfaction that they'd always continue to fall into the same pattern, he had prepared himself for nothing else. frosty's vicious attack startled him, so that he leaped suddenly backwards. when he did, frosty relinquished his hold and sprang away. but he did not do so aimlessly. the coyote's backward leap brought him near the end of the rotting log and frosty's night-piercing eyes found the hollow there. his feline brain, able to execute a plan the instant it was conceived, did the rest. the end of frosty's tail disappeared into the hollow a half-inch ahead of the coyote's snapping jaws. though the hollow was scarcely big enough to admit his small body, frosty managed to turn around in it. three feet away, the coyote bent his head to peer into the hollow and his disappointed panting sounded in jerky sequence. growling a warning, frosty took no further action. this was as simple and precise as a mathematical formula. the coyote could kill him. the coyote wanted to kill him. but the kitten was in the hollow log and the coyote was not. if the coyote could get in, he'd be here. all these indisputable elements added up to the fact that, at least temporarily, frosty was safe. he crouched watchfully, not afraid of the coyote but not foolish enough to engage in a battle that he did not have to fight. he was no match for the creature, he knew it, and since there didn't seem to be anything he could do right now, he did nothing. after a moment, the coyote went away. no fool, he was perfectly aware of the fact that he might growl and scratch at the hole all night and still not reach the black kitten. he paused long enough to eat the two gray kittens and padded away on silent paws. frosty stayed where he was for another twenty minutes. when he finally moved, he went only to the entrance of the hollow and lingered there for five minutes more. he thought the coyote had gone but he wanted to be sure, and only when he was sure did he drop out of the hollow onto the ground. he went into a half-crouch, tail curled against his flank and tense muscles ready to carry him wherever circumstance indicated he should go. this was a wholly unfamiliar world, one in which he'd have to feel every inch of his way. the least wrong move could bring disaster. finally, eyes and ears alert, he moved softly as a shadow. frosty paused beside the limp gunny sack. he touched it with an extended nose, then glided cautiously around it. there was nothing to indicate that the sack was dangerous, but it had trapped him once and might again. save for scent that still lingered on the sack, there was nothing whatever to indicate that the two gray kittens had ever been. knowing that he must do something, but with no clear idea of what that might be or where he should go, frosty started into the night. he halted suddenly, warned more by deep-seated instinct than anything he could see or hear, and stood quietly under a bush. a moment later, he saw a big bird, a cruising great horned owl, pass overhead. frosty stayed where he was for ten minutes. he knew only that he must be cautious. he could not know that the owl was hunting, and that a tender young kitten would be as acceptable as anything else. a half-hour later, frosty came to a streamlet, one of many that pursued their winding courses across the mountain, tumbled down it and finally poured their waters into a river. he crouched full-length and lapped water with a dainty pink tongue. . . . the kitten licked his chops, waited a bit, then drank again. his thirst satisfied, he attended to every cat's implicit duty. sitting down, he washed himself thoroughly with his tongue and used his front paws to groom that part of his fur which his tongue would not reach. he licked his chops once more, smoothed his whiskers and wandered on. he struck at and missed a mouse that rustled the grass in front of him and watched, wide-eyed with wonder, when a rabbit bounded away. he missed another mouse and fluffed his fur and spat when a hunting fox rippled past. dawn found him in a grassy meadow. little tendrils of moisture curled upward from dew-wet grass and a thin blanket of mist overhung the meadow. when something moved sluggishly in front of him, frosty sprang to pin it down. his prize was a fat grasshopper, too torpid with morning cold to move swiftly. the kitten's tail lashed back and forth. he looked intently at this, the first catch he had ever made. then he ate it and found it good. casting back and forth across the meadow, frosty caught and ate grasshoppers until his stomach would hold no more. the first planting strapped on a pack board borrowed from the express agent, the six crates were neither a heavy nor a clumsy burden. each box was divided by a partition, with a muskrat at either end. andy had specified that they be shipped in such a fashion because he wanted to be sure of mated pairs and he also wanted to be certain of forestalling domestic arguments among his charges. it was entirely possible that a male and female muskrat, regardless of how long they'd been mated, might start exercising their formidable cutting teeth on each other if put together in the same small crate. now and again, there came a scraping of claws as one of the muskrats, unbalanced by a twist or turn, slid across the wooden floor of its prison. as he carried his new acquisitions up the dark mountain, andy pondered. muskrats, his research had taught him, are almost entirely aquatic creatures, though occasionally they make overland journeys. their food consists of aquatic plants, tender roots and bulbs, and they are very fond of fresh-water mussels. they construct houses of mud mixed with plant stalks or dig burrows in the bank. the entrance to either type of dwelling is always under water. they store food but remain active under the ice all winter long. very prolific, they produce from two to five litters a year, with from four to as many as a dozen young in each litter. there is a reason for this. muskrats, like rabbits, are the prey of numerous things that walk, crawl or fly. they counterbalance heavy casualties with large and frequent families. some naturalists claim that, by the end of the first summer, the earliest young born will rear families of their own. others declare that no young breed until the spring following their birth. because this was at best an uncertain experiment and andy could have no idea as to how it would work out, he had chosen six mated pairs. his plan was to release them in six different parts of the swamp and see where they flourished best. after he had a better idea of what he was doing, he could buy more breeding stock--but there was still one great worry. these muskrats had been reared in a large pond where, insofar as they had had to find their own food, build their own houses and dig their own burrows and tunnels, conditions were approximately the same as would have been encountered in the wilderness. however, it was a fenced pond and a carefully patrolled one. there had been no predators to keep them alert, whereas the swamp was filled with sudden death in many forms. would pen-raised muskrats be able to survive the unfamiliar perils? andy carried his captives into the house, unbuckled the straps that held their pens on his shoulders and eased them gently to the floor. he then separated the crates so that there was space between them. the animals emitted an offensive odor, but this was only because they had been in the tiny boxes so long. they'd cleanse themselves after they had room in which to do it. unless they are sick, few animals will tolerate uncleanliness. andy grimaced. it was less than an alluring prospect to have the muskrats in his house all night, and, other things being equal, they'd be perfectly all right on the porch. but the battle had already started. if they were left outside, a prowling mink might well happen along and put an end to all twelve. it was wiser to endure the odor overnight and keep his charges safe. andy slept well, nevertheless. he was up and had breakfasted with the first hint of dawn. kicking off his slippers, he pulled rubber boots over his trousers. the sun was just rising when, with five crates of muskrats back on the pack board--the sixth he intended to release in the watery slough directly in front of his house--he started out. his step was light and his heart happy, as it always was when he went into the swamp. it was to andy what his mountains are to the born mountaineer; his rolling prairie to the confirmed plainsman; his sun-scorched hills and forbidding acres of cactus to the desert lover. the swamp was grim and andy knew it. but it was also beautiful and he saw its beauty. as no other place could ever be, it was home. he wended his way around the watery slough. swamp grasses, each one of which bore myriad seeds as delicate as fairy dust, brushed against him as he walked. beneath his feet, the earth trembled. there were firm areas in the swamp, rocky places and high knolls where the green trees grew. but much of that which was not given over to surface water was a huge, floating island, undermined by water. in numerous places, it was possible to stand on grass, punch a hole through to the water below, lower a baited hook and pull out a wriggling perch. andy walked swiftly and confidently, for he knew exactly where he was going. when he came to a long slough that varied between a foot and five feet in depth, he plunged unhesitatingly in and waded across without a thought for the death that lurked on either side. this was dead man's slough. across the center, where andy had walked, extended a solid path which at no point was more than twenty inches wide. to step off that was to step into bottomless quicksand. according to legend, an armed party of trulls and casmans, in close pursuit of bije gates, had turned back at dead man's slough. leading, arvin casman had stepped off the path and disappeared before his friends could help him. his bones were still in the quicksand. andy didn't know and he didn't much care whether this tale was true. the feud was long over, a thing of the past, and sleeping dogs were better left alone. but it was a foregone conclusion that, if arvin casman or anyone else had stepped into dead man's slough, his bones were still there. at the far side of the slough, andy turned left along its weed-lined shore, lowered his load to the ground, gently unfastened the wire that fastened one of the partitions shut and opened the door. a cautious brown nose was thrust forth and immediately withdrawn. the muskrat in the partition crouched nervously. now and again there came the sound of a scraping paw. puzzled, andy frowned. then suddenly he understood. he had assumed that, after their long imprisonment in the tiny cages, the animals would be wild for freedom. however, they had been uprooted from safe and comfortable homes, endured a long and nerve-wracking journey, seen sights and heard sounds that must have been terrifying, and, through all this, they had stayed safe in their cages. it was small wonder that they were reluctant to leave. andy tilted the box and spilled both its occupants into the water. they went down, came up gasping and, for a short space, swam in a frenzied, meaningless fashion. then their sudden fright passed. the nightmare was behind them. they were back in the water and muskrats are born for water. they began to enjoy themselves. for the sheer luxury of so doing, they dived. though they must have come within a hair's breadth of the bottom, they were such expert swimmers that they dislodged not even one fleck of mud. forty feet away, they surfaced and played with each other for a moment. somewhat clumsy on land, but incredibly graceful in the water, they swam around and around in the slough and regarded andy with beady little black eyes. andy worried, for this was what he had feared most. animals acquainted with danger would never expose themselves so recklessly. he threw pebbles at them, but though they dived when the pebbles splashed near, they surfaced again almost at once. finally they swam to the weed-grown bank and began to eat ravenously. andy left them and went on. throwing pebbles at this freshly liberated pair all day long, or all week long, would teach them nothing except how to dodge pebbles. if they were to survive in the swamp, they'd have to do so through their own instincts and intelligence, plus, probably, a great deal of luck. andy released his remaining pairs of muskrats at scattered points and returned the way he had come, to pick up the empty crates. without so much as a glance for him, four of the five pairs he had freed were calmly eating the tender young shoots of marsh weeds or digging in the mud for bulbs. the remaining pair, the second he had liberated, dived hastily beneath an overhanging bank and refused to show themselves again. andy began to have hopes. perhaps it would not take the animals as long as he had thought it would to learn caution. or maybe this pair was just naturally cautious. if they were, and remained that way, they stood a good chance of surviving. reaching home, andy took his sixth and final pair of muskrats down to the watery slough in front of his house. he had deliberately saved them until last because he wanted to study at some length just how they reacted when released and just what they did. andy carried the crate to the water's edge, opened the door and jumped just in time. the first five pairs had huddled in their crates until spilled out, but these two had both ideas of their own and a grudge against the human race. as soon as the crate was opened, the two rushed andy. bristled, clicking their teeth, they pursued him for five yards. then, as though discussing the situation between themselves, they clicked their teeth at each other and, in no hurry at all, turned back to the slough. andy grinned his appreciation. together, the two muskrats weighed perhaps five pounds. he weighed a hundred and seventy. but they hadn't hesitated to charge him when they thought circumstances warranted it; there was nothing wrong with their courage. andy watched them closely. still unhurried, and obviously with no intention of hurrying, the pair waddled back to the crate and inspected it thoroughly. then they went into the water and their delight knew no bounds. they dived. surfacing, they swam about for the sheer joy of swimming, then dived again. for a few minutes they occupied themselves eating swamp growth. then they submerged beneath an embankment and a cloud of mud stained the water. evidently this pair intended to lose no time in setting up housekeeping; the cloud of mud could mean only that they were excavating a burrow. the underwater entrance would lead upward into the bank. one of the pair--it was hard to distinguish between them but andy thought it was the male--came up for a hasty look around and promptly dived again. muddy water continued to flow out from beneath the bank. andy went to his house for a bite of lunch and when he returned to the slough the muskrats were still submerged. he grinned smugly. obviously this particular pair of muskrats needed a den in a hurry and there could be only one reason for such a rush. a family was already on its way. there was motion on the opposite side of the slough and a lithe brown mink appeared in the rushes there. it stood still, one paw raised like a pointing dog's and serpent-like head extended. after a moment, it slithered back into the rushes and disappeared. andy frowned. mink are savage creatures, and now this one knew of the muskrats' presence. it had made no effort to investigate closely, either because it had just fed and wasn't hungry or because it had other game in mind. but it might have marked the muskrats as a possible future dinner and mink were almost the only predator able to follow a muskrat into its den. though they preferred peace, muskrats could fight savagely and they had the courage to fight. if there were easier game available, a mink might very well choose it rather than risk a battle. but a hunger-driven mink would never reckon the odds and unless it was very lucky, no muskrat could defeat or escape from one. this presented a serious problem. furs provided an important part of andy's income. if he trapped the mink now, instead of waiting for cold weather to bring prime furs, he'd get nothing for it. but if the mink started killing his muskrats, he'd have to trap it. mink were one of the many things he'd have to watch closely. late in the afternoon, andy started back into the swamp to see how his charges were doing. the pair he'd left in dead man's slough were busy making themselves a house. when andy approached, they swam cautiously to a clump of reeds and lurked near them. studying him with watchful eyes, they swam in little circles. when he made a sudden move, they dived. satisfied, andy went on. these two were at least beginning to suspect that all callers wouldn't necessarily be friendly. the second pair, the naturally cautious ones, were not in sight when andy approached the slough where he'd left them. but dimly beneath the water he saw the entrance to a den. no doubt the muskrats were in it. andy came to the third slough just in time to see a clean-limbed gray fox, a muskrat dangling limply from his jaws, trotting away from it. andy muttered under his breath. he hadn't brought a gun because, though he'd known that predators might be raiding his muskrats, he hadn't expected to catch any in the act. but from now on he must always be armed and definitely he would have to eliminate this particular fox. having learned that it could catch muskrats, it might hunt them constantly and conceivably could catch all twelve. returning to his house, andy took two fox traps and a bottle of fox scent from his storage room. slipping the bottle into his pocket and taking the traps in one hand and his repeating . rifle in the other, he went back to the slough. he tied a flat stone to the pan of each trap, waded into the slough and set the traps so that only the stone protruded above water. then he cut two willow withes and dipped one end of each into his bottle of fox scent. eighteen inches from his traps, he thrust them into the mud until only the scented ends protruded. it was an old and effective trapper's trick, based on a fox's dislike of getting wet. excited by the tantalizing scent and wanting to get close to it, the fox would use the stone on the trap pan as an effective means of so doing and, of course, spring the trap. twilight fell, and, in the gathering gloom of early evening, andy hurried to the next slough. he halted in his tracks and muttered angrily. on a patch of smooth grass, five feet from the water's edge, lay the gnawed head and naked, scaley tail of a muskrat. there was no track or sign to show what had caught it, but clinging to a nearby reed, andy found a cottony puff of fur from a bobcat. he muttered again. it was too dark to go to the house for more traps, but it would be well to have some waiting here. the killer, probably a bobcat, knew of the other muskrat and would return to get it. andy trotted toward the next and last slough and found both muskrats swimming placidly. a split second later, a great horned owl dipped out of the sky, plucked one of the swimming animals from the water and floated away with its victim in its talons. it happened so suddenly and so unexpectedly that andy needed a moment to realize it had happened at all. it was like watching a peaceful scene in which a bomb is suddenly exploded. uncannily silent wings giving not the slightest hint of his approach, the owl was not there, then he was, then he was gone. so perfectly timed and executed was the maneuver that it was carried through from start to finish without the owl's ruffling a single feather or missing one beat of his wings. it was a master feat by a master craftsman. leveling his rifle, sighting as best he could in the uncertain light, andy snapped a shot after the fleeing owl. he shot a second time, a third, and watched the bird fly out of sight. when he lowered the rifle, there was dread in his heart. he had hoped that, in time, his muskrats would come to know and learn to avoid land prowlers, such as foxes and bobcats. but there was not and couldn't possibly be any defense against raiding great horned owls. the wariest muskrat would never hear them coming and, nine times out of ten, would never see them. they were destruction itself, death in its most efficient form. a very few of them, hunting the swamp regularly, could make it impossible ever to raise muskrats there. andy made up his mind. no believer in the unnecessary destruction of anything at all, he must defend that which was his. the only possible course lay in keeping the swamp as free of great horned owls as he could. somewhat dejectedly, he made his way back to the house. turning his swamp into a muskrat farm had seemed like a grand dream, but maybe it could never be anything except a dream. he had expected to lose some, but the first day was not yet ended and he'd lost a quarter of all the muskrats liberated. if casualties kept up at this rate, he'd have none left in another three days. the next morning, carrying more traps and armed with his . , he went back into the swamp. passing dead man's slough, he sighed in relief to discover that the two muskrats he had left there were safe. the second pair, the cautious ones, were not in sight but a partly finished house was evidence that they were still in the slough. why they wanted a house when they already had a den was puzzling, but andy supposed they had their own reasons. approaching the third slough, the one from which the fox had taken the muskrat, andy halted and stood quietly. a leaning log angled from the bank into the slough, and the surviving muskrat sat on it, shucking a fresh-water mussel. it bit through the tough mechanism that clamped the shell, scooped out and ate the tender flesh within, let the shell fall into the water and dived for another mussel. the gray fox that had caught the first muskrat had come back for the second one. he was lying motionless on the bank. as soon as the muskrat dived, the fox rose, paced forward and, a split second before the muskrat's head broke water, went into another crouch. slowly, making no swift move that would call attention to himself, andy raised and sighted his rifle. but he did not shoot because he was interested. the fox, evidently a young one that had not yet learned that it pays to look in all directions all the time, was so intent on the muskrat that it paid no attention to anything else. the muskrat climbed out on the log, ate his mussel and dived for another one. the fox rose, paced forward, and threw himself down again. crouching, he seemed a part of the grass and andy could not help admiring both his plan and the way he was putting it into effect. he continued to hold his fire because here was a chance to learn exactly how foxes catch muskrats and such knowledge might very well be useful. the muskrat reappeared, climbed on the log . . . and the fox leaped. he should have pinned his quarry, but something warned the muskrat and the fox was still in the air when it rolled off the log and dived. struggling wildly, the fox splashed water with his front paws and fought desperately to get back onto the bank. he could not. the bottom of this slough was stony for the most part, but just off the bank from which the fox had leaped was more quicksand and the animal was hopelessly enmeshed in it. he made a mighty effort to hold his nose out of water and andy's shot caught him in the head just before he went down. it was by far the kindest thing to do. andy was surprised and pleased when the day passed and he lost no more muskrats. he was mystified when a whole week went by with no further losses. then the answer occurred to him. muskrats, like everything else, produce their quota of fools, and two of the three that had died the first day probably belonged in that category. the third, the one taken by the great horned owl, had been just plain unlucky. andy caught a young bobcat, picked up his traps . . . and in three days lost the two muskrats in dead man's slough and the one whose mate had been killed by the bobcat! there were neither tracks nor any other sign to identify the raider, but on one of the high knobs andy found him. it was another great horned owl that sat quietly in a gnarled oak, with his tufted ears silhouetted against the sky and his eyes closed against the sun's glare. andy's shot caught him squarely, and he flapped his wings just once as he toppled from the perch. leaving him where he fell, andy went ruefully home. it was very evident that muskrat farming was somewhat less than the ideal way to get rich quick. of his original stock of twelve, he had exactly six left. they were the pair in front of his house, the cautious pair, and two singles. not too much could be expected from them, and andy thought of his lean bank balance. to buy more muskrats for predators to kill fell short of wise investment. dejectedly andy went to the slough in front of his house and sat with his arms clasping his knees. the male muskrat came up to stare haughtily at him and andy stared defiantly back. "all right!" he invited. "go ahead and look!" the muskrat--andy had whimsically named the pair four-leaf and clover--made a lazy circle and turned to fix unblinking eyes on the boy. andy grimaced. at no time had he exerted the slightest effort to make pets of any of his charges because it was better to have them wild. but four-leaf and clover, living so near and visited so frequently, were on familiar terms with him. he had an uncomfortable feeling that they were not on equal terms. four-leaf and clover considered themselves vastly superior to any mere human being! "if you don't wipe that sneer off your face," andy threatened, "i'll turn you into a genuine muskrat-hide glove!" he picked up a pebble and was about to plunk it into the water near four-leaf when clover's head broke water. behind her, in formation so precise that they seemed to have drilled for it, came an even dozen small copies of herself. andy dropped the pebble and a broad smile lighted his face. "glory be! darned if we'uns haven't got ourselves some babies!" his dejection melted like mist before the rising sun. happily he pulled on his boots and went into the swamp. he'd lost half his original stock and still had six more muskrats than he'd started with. reaching the slough where the cautious pair lived, andy crouched quietly in the grass beside it. a half hour later, they appeared with ten babies, and when andy passed the sloughs inhabited by lone muskrats whose mates had been killed, he was amazed to find each of them with eight young. obviously, both females had survived. jubilantly, andy threw his hat into the air, and when he reached home he went carefully over his plans for the future. if he forgot about the new rifle he had intended to give himself for christmas and made his old clothes last a while longer, he could buy twenty more mated pairs. the next morning he walked into town and mailed his order. * * * * * a week later, while patrolling the swamp to inspect his various colonies of muskrats, andy saw a great horned owl flying low over the grass with what appeared to be a black muskrat in its talons. suddenly the victim twisted about to attack its captor. when they came nearer, andy saw, to his vast astonishment, that the supposed muskrat was a black kitten! feathered death his stomach filled with grasshoppers, frosty went to one of several large pine stumps that were spotted here and there about the meadow and crawled beneath an out-jutting root, from the under side of which the earth had crumbled away. he lay perfectly still and went to sleep. aside from luke trull and the coyote, he knew nothing of the enemies he might find in these wild uplands. however, there were sure to be some, and certainly he would be much harder to find beneath the root than he would if he merely lay down on some grassy bed. but he was incapable of sodden slumber. a part of him that never slept was aware of wind rippling the grass; the furtive rustlings and scrapings of a family of mice that dwelt in a tiny burrow beneath the same root; the chattering of a blue jay that, having nothing to scold, was scolding anyhow. frosty eased into wakefulness. he knew the wind and he knew the mice, but not the jay and he must know it. without seeming to move, he edged far enough around the root so he could see the bird. it was perched on another stump, flitting its wings, flicking its tail, ducking its head and scolding. frosty studied it for a second, and by the time he went back to sleep it was assured that, for as long as he lived, he would associate the sound with the beautiful bird that made it and the bird with the sound. he had learned something else. never again, if he heard a blue jay screech, would he have to waken and look for it. he thought of the shed from which luke trull had taken him, but not with any feeling of nostalgia or homesickness because the shed belonged to yesterday. that was there and he was here, and even if he wished to do so, he would be unable to find it again. nor, aside from the fact that he wanted to stay in or very near the meadow, did he have any plans. a rover by nature, he must not rove until conditions were much more auspicious than they were right now. what he knew about the hills consisted largely of the fact that he did not know them at all. but if he stayed near the meadow, he was certain of finding plenty of fat grasshoppers to eat any time he was hungry. it was a common sense decision. when five deer came slowly into the meadow, frosty's built-in ear antenna immediately picked up the thudding of their hooves and a moment later he heard their noisy chewing as they ate grass. he stayed where he was, lacking the slightest idea as to what manner of creature had come into the meadow now but determined to find out. they were feeding toward his stump. twenty minutes later, they were directly in front of it and, as before, frosty eased just far enough out so he could see them. they were big animals, but obviously they intended no harm. when the shuffling hooves of one disturbed a meadow mouse that leaped in wild panic toward the stump, frosty had only to move aside in order to catch it. he pinned the mouse with his paws, ended its tiny struggle with his teeth and gazed defiantly at the deer. they swung their heads toward him, jaws moving in graceless discord as they continued to chew the grass with which they had filled them. then they lowered their heads to crop more grass. frosty lay down to eat his prize, liking the taste of hot flesh in his mouth and the salty tang of fresh-caught prey. he ate all except the hairless tail, and the mouse whetted his appetite for more. slipping out from beneath his root, he looked about for the deer. still cropping gustily, they were feeding toward the forest on the far side of the meadow. frosty minced after them. they had driven one mouse from its covert; the chances were that they would drive more. frosty edged up to a sleek doe that suddenly wheeled and pounded down on him. just in time, he saved himself by slipping behind a boulder. . . . when he could no longer hear the plunging doe, he peered over it. she had resumed feeding. more watchful now, frosty slunk toward the deer. they saw him but paid no attention. evidently they did not mind his trailing them. they did not want him on the place where they were feeding now or where they might feed a moment from now. another mouse panicked. frosty caught and ate it. by the time he had a third mouse, his appetite was satisfied. in addition, he had learned a priceless lesson; large grazing beasts are apt to disturb small creatures that dwell in the grass. the deer, having grazed their fill, drifted to beds in the shady forest. frosty curled up in a sunny spot and let this new world come to him. when two more crows winged lazily over the meadow, cawing as they flew, he knew it as the same sound he had heard while a prisoner in the sack and satisfied his curiosity on that score. he was alert to every furtive rustling, every note in the multi-toned song the breeze sang, every motion in the grass and every flutter of every leaf on a grove of nearby sycamores. the creatures that lived in the meadow were small ones; various insects; moles and mice; cottontail rabbits and harmless snakes. frosty identified each in turn and after he'd done so, he stored each away in his brain. having met and known anything at all, it was his forever. he'd never forget it and never fail to know it should he meet it again. but there was much that he did not know and the unknown roused his instant curiosity. when he saw a flicker of motion over near the sycamores, he concentrated his whole attention on it. he did not know that he'd seen one of two gray squirrels that had chosen to abide for a couple of days in the sycamores, or that all he'd seen was a glimpse of its tail as it climbed a tree. it was strange and he could not rest until it was familiar. frosty began to stalk the sycamores, and the stalk saved his life. he saw nothing and heard nothing, but the same coyote that had ripped the sack open was suddenly upon him. knowing of the gray squirrels, and hoping to catch one or the other on the ground, the coyote had been stalking the sycamores, too. finding frosty, the creature had accepted him instead. not stopping to see what threatened, but reacting instantly, frosty sprang for a sycamore trunk and drew himself up less than two inches ahead of the coyote's snapping jaws. he climbed to the sycamore's crotch and turned to look down. tongue lolling like a dog's, the coyote looked anxiously up and whined his disappointment. then, realizing he'd get nothing among the sycamores, he turned away to hunt some rabbits with whose thicket he was acquainted. frosty remained in the sycamore's crotch. though he had considered himself very alert, he'd had no slight inkling of the coyote's presence until it was almost too late. concentrating on the gray squirrel, he had given little thought to the fact that something might be stalking him. never again must he be so lax--but he had learned. had he been beneath the root, very probably the coyote might have dug him out. but, as had just been proven, the coyote was unable to climb trees. it followed, therefore, that a tree would be a much safer place in which to rest. frosty cleaned his fur, and when one of the gray squirrels appeared in the higher branches of the same tree, he looked at it with challenging interest. but the squirrel fled in panic-stricken terror when it saw the kitten. frosty stayed in his perch until just before nightfall, then descended to hunt again. but the grasshoppers, that had been so easy to catch when numbed by early morning cold, were amazingly agile now. the kitten stalked one that was crawling up a blade of grass. escaping from between his clutching claws, the insect spread bright-colored wings and flew away. frosty marked it down, but when he went to the place where it had descended, it was not there. alighting, the grasshopper had crawled along the ground. presently, four feet to one side, it spread gaudy wings and took flight once more. again frosty marked it down and again failed to find it. crawling beneath a dead weed that matched its drab color exactly, the grasshopper was remaining perfectly still. an hour's hard hunting brought the black kitten one grasshopper, a vast frustration and a mounting hunger. then twilight crept stealthily over the hills and the grasshoppers settled down in various places where they would pass the hours of darkness. because they did not move at all and were almost perfectly camouflaged when holding still, and because it was dark, frosty could not see them. he pounced eagerly when a mouse rustled in front of him. but since he did not know how to hunt mice--the only ones he'd caught were those that fled in terror from the feeding deer--he missed. he ambled disconsolately down to the cold little stream that wandered through the meadow. he was hungry and growing hungrier, but he had not forgotten the earlier lesson of the day when, because he'd given all his attention to the gray squirrel in the sycamores, the coyote had almost caught him. though he was principally interested in getting anything at all to eat, he did not neglect that which lay about him. when he came near the stream, he knew that something else was already there. he stalked cautiously forward until he could see what it was. a mink crouched on the stream bank, busily eating a fourteen-inch trout that it had surprised in the shallows. sure of its own powers, fearing nothing, the mink gave no attention to anything save the meal it had caught. finished, it licked its chops and turned to stare at the tall grass in which frosty lay. the mink knew and had known since the kitten came that frosty was there, for its nose had told it. a bloody little creature, ordinarily it might have amused itself by killing the kitten. but a full belly can make even a mink feel good, and after a moment, it turned to travel downstream. frosty stole forward to find the trout's tail, head and fins. the epicurean mink had chosen only the choice portions and left this carrion for any scavenger that might come. but it was good and it dulled frosty's hunger. his meal ended, he washed up, then and went back into the meadow. no longer hungry and thus no longer finding it necessary to devote his attention to finding food, the kitten could concentrate on the other creatures that had come into the meadow. he sat on a hillock to watch a fox hunt mice. it was a big, sleek dog fox, with a mate and cubs back in a hillside den, and it made not the slightest effort to stalk its quarry. instead, it walked openly, head up and ears alert. when it heard a mouse in a grass-thatched runway, the fox reared, to come stiffly down with both front paws. five times it reared, and five times it pinned the mouse it wanted and extricated it from the grass beneath which it was pinned. suddenly the fox smelled frosty and whirled. it came trotting, its attitude more one of aroused curiosity than hostility. the kitten was something new, and before the fox took any further action, it wanted to know exactly what this strange creature was. its head curving gracefully toward frosty, it stopped four feet away. trapped and knowing it, the kitten made ready to fight. he laid his ears back and framed a snarl on his jaws. the growl that rumbled from his chest was the most ferocious of which he was capable. looking more amused than cautious, the fox extended an exploring paw. frosty struck and missed. he was no match for this veteran of the wilderness. the fox circled and the kitten turned with him. after a short space, seemingly well-entertained, the fox padded away. no wanton killer, it was a good hunter and, in this time of plenty, it could take its choice of mice, fat rabbits, or plump grouse. any one of them was preferable to this snarling kitten, though had it been lean hunting, or had the fox been hungry enough, frosty would have died right there. the black kitten tried to hunt mice as he had seen the fox catch them, but, though he could hear them scurrying along their runways, his timing was poor and his knowledge scant. one needed the skill that only experience brought to succeed at this sort of hunting. frosty leaped a dozen times without pinning even one mouse. when the five deer came back into the meadow, he trotted eagerly toward them. though they had no war with mice, the deer never cared where they walked. their hooves penetrated grass-roofed runways and now and then plowed into a nest. whenever they did, the mice suffered a panic that momentarily robbed them of reason or of any desire save to escape destruction. the feeding deer disturbed two that frosty caught and ate. with the first light of morning, hunger satisfied, he returned to his sycamore and climbed to the familiar crotch. impatiently he lay down. he was fed and tired, and he wanted to sleep, but the cold morning wind ruffled his fur and made comfortable sleep impossible. any other animal would have accepted conditions as they were and slept anyhow. frosty was a cat, and cats never accept second best if they can get the best. frosty climbed out on one of the sycamore's massive limbs until the slender branches in which the limb terminated swayed beneath his weight. that made him afraid of falling, so he turned and went back. but he was still disinclined to accept a bed where the cold wind could chill him if there were a possibility of something better. he tried a second limb, a third, then went up the trunk and found exactly what he sought. a big limb, growing out of the trunk, had rotted and fallen. in falling, it had left a cavity that had been enlarged by a pair of pileated woodpeckers which had nested in it over a period of years. blowing leaves had sifted in and partly filled the hollow, and the cold wind seethed harmlessly past. frosty found it a warm, dry and safe bed. since the opening was barely big enough to admit him, he could defend it against anything else that tried to enter. more than once, in the days that followed, it was necessary for him to fill his belly with grasshoppers only for the simple reason that he could catch nothing else. he learned to see them in the grass, and to gauge his strike so he could catch them before they were able to take to the air. he became an expert hunter of grasshoppers, and the precise training this afforded helped him in other ways. the mice in their grass-thatched runways could never be seen. they must be heard, and since the strike was always blind, it had to be exact. a fraction of an inch one way or the other and the mouse escaped. frosty learned to strike so expertly that almost never did his victim elude him. only when he was feeling lazy or had a run of bad luck did he depend on the browsing deer to flush his mice for him. as he lived, so did he learn. stealthy footsteps foretold some slinking beast of prey. but so did the sudden chatter of an excited bird, a madly-scooting rabbit, or the deer when they stopped eating and became alert. frosty taught himself to read such signs, and by them he always knew when the coyote or some other dangerous creature was aprowl. he acquired a vast confidence in his own ability to meet and overcome any dangers that threatened. hunting mice in the meadow one night, he came face to face with a bobcat that was similarly engaged. the bobcat snarled and leaped at him, and had he turned to run, frosty would have been overtaken and killed. instead of running, he stood his ground and spat back. the bobcat, pretending vast interest in a clump of grass near the kitten, scraped the grass with contemptuous feet and stalked away. frosty extended his range from the meadow into the woods, and each journey became a bit longer and a bit more daring. he not only lived but lived well, and his first great triumph was achieved some six weeks after he came to the meadow. every afternoon, when the sun was hot and high, a mother grouse led her five bobtailed young to some abandoned ant hills beside the forest. the birds burrowed luxuriously in the gritty earth, working it into their feathers and using their wings and beaks to throw it over their backs. the sand and grit acted as a cleansing bath. occasionally other predators visited the meadow in the afternoon, but the grouse came so quietly that these passers-by never knew of them. frosty, who hunted the meadow almost every afternoon, knew all about them. but after stalking his stealthiest, only to have the mother grouse sound a warning and the whole brood take wing in his very face, he gave himself over to studying them. they were very difficult to stalk because the grass around the ant hills was short and he could be seen. but after two weeks, he thought he saw a way. this afternoon, a full hour before the grouse family was due to come out of the woods, frosty was lying motionless behind one of the ant hills. his eyes were unblinking and even the tip of his tail did not twitch. to all appearances, he was a dead thing. he heard the grouse coming; they were announced by the tiny sounds of their own feet and the mother's querulous clucking as she warned her young to take every care. frosty remained motionless until two of the young grouse mounted the very ant hill behind which he lay. then, without seeming to move at all and certainly without visible effort, he was up and over. while the other grouse took thundering wing, he fastened his claws in one and pulled it down. that gave him an inflated idea of his own prowess, and the next afternoon he was again hiding in the ant hills, waiting for the grouse. they did not come. the young were silly and inexperienced but the mother was no fool. she would never be deceived by the same ruse twice in succession. however, catching just one grouse gave frosty so much confidence that he increased his field vastly, and as he did, he learned still more. because enemies could be anywhere, it was at all times necessary to be sharply alert. but frosty had already discovered that the things besides himself which could climb trees were disinclined to be hostile, and, once in the forest, he was never very far from a convenient tree. he changed his sleeping place from the sycamore's hollow trunk to the hollow limb of a massive oak in the forest. he also did more of his hunting in the forest. the place teemed with young rabbits and grouse, many of which were adventurous, incautious, downright silly, or a combination of all three. his kills consisted almost exclusively of these easy-to-catch creatures but, in catching the young and foolish, he was laying the groundwork that would later enable him to bring down the wise and experienced. frosty's move into the forest brought increased skill in hunting, but it also brought disaster. he was prowling one morning when he heard, smelled and then saw a coyote coming. deliberately, frosty showed himself. this was a game he had learned to play, gauging exactly every move the coyote made. when his antagonist rushed, frosty waited until the last possible second before scrambling up the slender trunk of a black birch. he halted just beyond reach of his enemy's strongest leap and looked down contemptuously. suddenly he was wrenched from the tree and suspended in mid air. he did not know what had happened, for he had seen and heard nothing, but he did know that he must not submit meekly to anything at all. he tried to twist himself and rise to attack whatever held him. now he saw that it was a great bird. frosty had been plucked from his perch by a great horned owl, but he was lucky. three days ago, in a foray against ira casman's chickens, the owl had been repelled by a shotgun in the hands of ira's brother. too fine to kill, the number ten shot had only wounded and weakened him. he had since missed every strike at everything and now, famished, he had caught the first creature he could that might be edible. however, instead of being deeply imbedded, his claws were hooked only through the loose skin on frosty's back. the owl winged toward a pine stub, alighted on a branch and turned to kill his captive so he could eat it. but the second he found a purchase for his feet, frosty attacked furiously. he sank his teeth through feathers into flesh, even while he raked with his claws. always before, such of the owl's victims as had lived until they were landed in a tree were terrified and shivering, easy prey. he had bargained for no such fury as this. he took wing again, and this time his course led across the swamp. on the other side was a ledge of rock. even a cat, dropped from any considerable height onto it, would not be likely to move again. frosty knew only that he was helpless, and the knowledge redoubled his anger. he twisted and turned, doing his best to fling himself into any position from which he could claw or bite his captor. without knowing what it was or what it meant, he heard andy gates's shot. he did know that the owl went suddenly limp and that they plummeted toward the swamp. strikingly, frosty was momentarily stunned. he tried dazedly to get up and run away when something else seized him. he turned to attack this new enemy. partners twisting himself almost double, frosty sank his teeth into the fleshy part of andy's hand and raked with all four paws. blood welled from the scratches and cuts and dripped onto the dead owl. but instead of flinging the kitten from him, andy encircled frosty's neck with his right thumb and forefinger, rendered his front paws ineffective by slipping his other three fingers behind them, grabbed his rear paws with his left hand and stretched him out. he murmured, "if you aren't the little spitfire!" unable to do anything else, frosty could only glare. the smile that always lingered in andy's eyes almost flashed to his lips. his face softened. he spoke soothingly, "you might as well stop it. you'd have a real rough time clawing me all to bits." frosty snarled and andy grinned. he'd never had a cat or thought of getting one, but besides his fighting heart, there was something about frosty to which he warmed. without thinking that he too had defied conventional living, andy recognized something akin to himself. he said firmly, "you're going to get some help whether you want it or not." holding frosty so that he could neither scratch nor bite, andy carried him back to the house, pushed the door open with his knee and wondered. the kitten must be hurt because nothing withstood the strike of a great horned owl without getting hurt. in spite of the fact that he did not appear to be seriously injured, he probably would bear watching for a few days. andy thought speculatively of one of the cages in which the muskrats had been shipped. he'd be able to watch the spunky little fellow closely if he put him in one. for no apparent reason, he suddenly remembered when he had lived in town, working on the railroad nights and going to school days. there had always been a feeling of too little room and too much confinement. he looked again at frosty . . . and put him down on the floor. "guess we won't lock you up." frosty scooted beneath the stove and again andy's smile threatened to blossom. running, the kitten looked oddly like a strip of black velvet upon which frost crystals sparkle. it was then that andy gave him his name. "okeh, frosty. if that's what you like, that's what you can have." he stooped to peer beneath the stove and was warned away with a rumbling growl, so he straightened. after he had satisfied himself that the kitten was all right, frosty would be free to go his own way. there never had been and never would be any prisoners in the swamp. going outside, careful to latch the door behind him lest it blow open and let frosty escape, andy caught up a discarded tin can and took a spade from his shed. he turned the rich muck at the swamp's edge, dropped the fat worms he uncovered into the can, then went back to the house for a willow pole with a line, hook and cork bobber attached. carrying the pole and can of worms, he made his way to the watery slough in front of his house. while their dozen children sported in the slough, four-leaf and clover dug succulent bulbs in the mud on the opposite bank. none paid any attention to andy. this colony, protected by the nearness of the house and seeming to know it, was not nearly as wary as those that lived in more remote sections of the swamp. even the great horned owls had not attacked them. andy strung a wriggling worm on his hook and was about to cast it when, "howdy." andy turned to face luke trull, who had stolen upon him unseen and unheard. still wearing his sun-faded trousers and torn shirt, still needing a haircut and shave, his eyes were fixed on the muskrats in the slough. andy's heart sank. he'd feared the native swamp predators. but not even the great horned owls could work the same fearful damage as luke trull, should he decide to come raiding. andy said coldly, "hi, luke." "i heerd tell," the other smirked, "'bout somethin' new in the swamp." "who told you?" "news gits 'round." "there is something new. but it belongs to me and so does the swamp. both are to be left alone." "oh sure. sure 'nough. i aim to leave 'em alone. they's mushrats, ain't they?" "that's right. they're muskrats." "wu'th a heap of money, ain't they?" "not a 'heap.' maybe a couple of dollars or so for a good prime pelt." "could be a heap given a man ketches enough of 'em. how many you got all told?" "not enough to start trapping." "the hills is full of talk 'bout how you've turned your no-count swamp into a mushrat farm. they's talk 'bout how you aim to get rich off mushrat pelts." "nobody's going to get rich. and anybody who traps any muskrats before i give the word, or without my permission, will be in trouble." "oh, sure. sure 'nough. but i've already said i don't aim to bother 'em none." andy said shortly, "that's a good idea. i'll be seeing you, luke." "yep. i'll be 'round." the lean hillman drifted away as silently as he had come and andy cast his baited hook. but his thoughts were troubled ones. he had hoped to keep his muskrat ranch a secret, but he should have known the impossibility of that. only he knew all the safe paths through the swamp, but luke trull, the haroldsons and the casmans knew some of them. frequently they came to fish in some favored slough or other. somebody must have seen a colony of muskrats--perhaps they'd stumbled across four-leaf and clover and their family--and it hadn't been hard to piece the rest of the story together. probably johnny linger, the express agent, hadn't talked to any hillman. but johnny had friends in town to whom he might have talked, his friends had friends, and by the time enough people knew the story, it could easily get back to the hill dwellers. andy was so absorbed with this new problem that he was entirely unaware of the fact that his cork bobber had disappeared. he yanked the pole, missed his strike and strung another worm on the stripped hook. he might post his swamp against trespassers. not that trespass signs had ever kept a single casman, haroldson--or especially a trull--from going where he wished to go but at the very least they'd be evidence that he had acted in his own behalf. but trespass signs or not, there was going to be trouble in plenty if human predators started raiding his muskrats and trouble was always better avoided. he missed another nibble and began to concentrate on his fishing. very possibly he was killing his ogres before he met them. but when luke trull saw a possibility of earning money without working for it--? the bobber disappeared again. andy struck in time, lifted a flapping jumbo perch out of the slough, put it on a stringer, rebaited and cast his line. there was little sport in catching the perch with such heavy tackle, but they were delicious eating and the slough swarmed with them. andy fished until he had six. he sat down, scaled his catch, ran his knife along each side of their backbones, and removed the tasty fillets. the offal, which ordinarily he would have thrown away, he laid on a saucer-sized lily pad and took to the house with him. still beneath the stove, frosty greeted him with a bubbling growl. andy wrapped four of the fish heads in a piece of discarded newspaper and put them in his icebox. the remainder, along with the offal, he placed on a saucer and thrust beneath the stove. he remembered to put a dish of water beside the saucer. andy prepared a batch of biscuits, fried his own fish, ate lunch and washed the dishes. the untouched fish heads remained where he had placed them, and when he stooped to peer beneath the stove, frosty glared back balefully. a little worried that the kitten might be hurt worse than he appeared to be, andy closed and latched the door and took the trail to town. uneasy feelings stirred within him. the town, he had long ago decided to his own satisfaction, had little real touch with the hills. to the townspeople, the hillmen were a strange breed, like lions in a zoo, and as such they could always furnish entertainment. regardless of the work, hopes and dreams it had taken to put them there, few townsmen could be expected to take seriously a swamp with muskrats in it. stealing goods from a town store would be a criminal offense and provoke righteous indignation. stealing muskrats from his swamp would be just another example of what the hillmen were always doing to each other and provoke, at the very most, a sympathetic chuckle. even as he walked resolutely ahead, andy thought that he would have to stand alone. nevertheless, he still felt he must try to enlist aid. an ounce of prevention was definitely worth at least a pound of cure, and though nothing had happened as yet, now was the time to take steps in his own defense. but what could he do and who would listen? reaching town, andy turned aside to the state police substation. the harassed-appearing trooper in charge put aside the report upon which he was working and looked up questioningly. "my name's gates," andy introduced himself. "andy gates. i want to post my land against trespassers." "well--has someone tried to stop you?" "no," andy admitted, "but suppose i post it and someone trespasses? what's the penalty?" the trooper traced a meaningless doodle with his pen. "that depends a lot on circumstances. few judges or justices are inclined to be harsh with a person who merely walks on another's property, even if it is posted." "suppose they steal?" "that's entirely different. what have they stolen?" "nothing yet." "well," the trooper's voice was edged with sarcasm, "what do you think they might steal?" "muskrats." "muskrats?" puzzled wrinkles furrowed the trooper's brow. "do you have some?" "yes." "are they penned?" "no, they're running loose in my swamp." "then how can you claim they're yours?" "i bought and paid for them and the swamp's private property." "well," the trooper shrugged, "when somebody starts stealing them, you come see us." andy turned dejectedly away. if it were a hoard of gold or jewels in his swamp, the trooper would have understood instantly and taken the proper steps to protect it. the boy grinned wryly. doubtless the trooper thought he was a harmless crackpot and was even now congratulating himself on being rid of him so easily. andy went to see the official whom he had planned to consult from the first. joe wilson, the district game warden, was old and would give way to a younger man soon, but he was wise in the ways of the hills and he knew the hillmen as few townspeople did. andy came to his house, knocked and was admitted by lois, the pleasant-faced daughter who kept house for joe. "why hello, andy. goodness! it's been a while since we've seen you. do come in." "is your dad home, lois?" "in his study. go right in." there was a pang in her voice, for there had been a time when no daylight hours, and frequently few night hours, would have found joe wilson behind his desk. now, when he went into the hills at all, it was only to those places which could be reached by car. lean as a weasel, the way he had spent his life was written in his seamed face and wise eyes. storms and sun and wind had marked his face, age and experience had implanted the wisdom in his eyes. he swung on his worn swivel chair to face andy. "hi, young feller." "hi, joe." andy shook the warden's extended hand. "you're looking great." "i may be good for a few days yet. what's on your mind?" "i need your advice." "so?" "i've stocked my swamp with muskrats and--" andy told of the six pairs of muskrats he had planted in his swamp. he spoke of their misadventures with the fox and bobcat and of raiding great horned owls. but in spite of losses, the survivors had produced thirty-eight young. they had not only adjusted themselves to the swamp but had learned how to protect their babies. naturally, there would be some losses among the young, but, as far as andy knew, there hadn't yet been any. he had ordered twenty more mated pairs, which were due next week. he knew he'd lose some, perhaps half or even more, but some would survive and multiply. next spring, when muskrat pelts were at their best, he'd harvest a few, if conditions so warranted. if not enough muskrats survived the winter, he'd let them go another season or more. he hoped that, over the years, he might build up enough of a muskrat population so that harvesting the surplus every year would be profitable. however, he had no illusions of great wealth. when he was finished, joe wilson tamped a blackened pipe full of tobacco, lighted it and puffed soberly for a moment. then he turned to andy. "seems to me you're doing all right by yourself. why do you need my advice?" "luke trull has found out about it." "oh, gosh!" andy said dryly, "i know what you mean." "you leatherhead! why didn't you take them in at night and plant them back in the swamp? you know places there that nobody else can reach." "i did take them in at night, but i wanted to keep one pair under close observation, so i released them in the slough in front of my house. somebody saw them, or somebody, fishing back in the swamp, stumbled across another colony. then too, i think johnny linger talked. they came, of course, through his station." "johnny wouldn't talk." "not to luke trull," andy conceded. "but he has friends in town. they have friends, and the news got around. what can i do?" "have you been to the state police?" "yes. they told me to wait until somebody starts poaching, then come to them and they'd see what they could do about it." "they can't do anything," joe wilson said quietly. "they'd have to catch luke in the act, and knowing him as i do, they can't. i know that he's been violating game laws ever since he was old enough to shoot a gun or cast a line, but i myself have been able to catch him only once in fifteen years. you're in for trouble, andy." "i know it. will posting the swamp help?" "will a trespass sign keep luke trull out of any place he wants to go into?" "no." "nor will anything else. he's mean as a mink and crafty as a shot-stung mallard. he'll find a way to get into your back sloughs and eddys; a shallow-draft boat light enough to carry will take him there. he won't be stopped as long as he scents money in the offing." andy said grimly, "i could meet him, explain that he was to stay out of the swamp and back it up with fists." "do that and you're in trouble," joe wilson pointed out. "luke wouldn't fight back. but he would gallop that horse of his all the way into town and swear out an assault warrant. it'd be you, not luke, whom the state police would bring in." "if he was caught with muskrat pelts, wouldn't it be proof that he stole them from me?" joe wilson shrugged. "there's two hundred miles of streams and fifty different ponds back in those hills, and the trapping season is open to anyone with a license. luke could, and would, say he took his pelts elsewhere." "there are no muskrats anywhere except in my swamp." "do you know every pond and every foot of stream?" "of course not." "then how would you expect to convince a judge or justice? one muskrat pelt looks exactly like another; there's nothing special to mark yours." "isn't there anything i can do?" "yes there is, andy. has it occurred to you that your muskrat ranch will either have to be something pretty decent or else not worth bothering with?" "what do you mean?" the warden shrugged. "just this. considering the price of muskrats, you'll have to have plenty of 'em to make the thing pay off. their pelts are at the best in late winter and early spring. to make it worthwhile, you'll have to have a great many and you won't be able to handle 'em all anyhow. now ira and jud casman are decent enough people. so are old man haroldson and his sons. take them into your confidence. ask them to lay off until you have a trapping stock, and promise that, when and if you get one, they can help you reap your harvest. you won't be able to do it all, anyhow. they'll understand and i'm sure they'll cooperate." "they won't be able to keep luke off my neck." "nobody," said joe wilson, "ever kept luke off anybody's neck, once he has decided to land on it. do you know what i'd do?" "what?" "hope he falls in a quicksand slough, if he comes for your muskrats!" the warden said grimly. "failing that, you'll just have to meet any situation as it arises. i wish you luck." "thanks," andy murmured. "it looks as though i'll need it. well, i'll be getting back." "stay and have a bite with us." "i'd like to but i left a kitten that thinks he's a tiger under my kitchen stove. i'd better get back and make sure he hasn't clawed the house to bits. he looked as though he'd like to do just that." the sun was sinking when andy arrived home. a rattlesnake, sluggishly digesting a chipmunk it had caught, rattled a desultory warning without moving out of his way. the hopeful doe, again sniffing at the garden pickets, looked resentfully at andy and bounced off. four-leaf, clover and their brood of young were sporting in the watery slough. the setting sun cast long shadows of the dead trees across the swamp and the chickens were clucking sleepily. a balmy breeze ruffled the swamp grass. it was another summer night, exactly like summer nights had been for ages past and would be for ages to come. andy sighed and went into his house. he was discouraged and tired. for once, the swamp struck no responsive chord and the fact that he had come home failed to move him. he knelt to peer beneath the stove. the fish had been eaten, but frosty was still far under there and his warning growl rumbled. andy got wearily to his feet. obviously the kitten was not seriously injured and just as obviously any sort of enclosure, even a whole house, was far too much of a prison for his feline spirit. too listless to have much appetite, andy fixed himself a sandwich, washed it down with a glass of water, took the other fish heads from his icebox and put them on the porch. before he went to bed, he opened the door and propped it with a chunk of fire wood. he was attracted to frosty and would like to keep him. but there would be no prisoners here; the kitten could have his freedom, if that was what he wanted. andy lay awake while the night wasted. then sheer exhaustion made itself felt. he fell into deep slumber and did not rouse again until the sun was an hour high. he sat up in bed to see frosty settled in the still open doorway, washing his face with his front paws. andy's dejection of yesterday melted away. he smiled. "well! so you decided to stay, after all!" frosty glanced at him and continued to wash his face. frosty prowls having his freedom, frosty accepted it. partly because the boy had set him free, he also accepted andy. but there was another and very compelling reason why he had chosen to come back into the house, rather than escape into the swamp or the surrounding wilderness. perfectly capable of making his own way, entirely self-sufficient, he recognized no superior and would bow to no inferior. but he liked andy and, in spite of the fact that he could do very well all by himself, he would not choose a lonely life, providing he could ally himself with an equal. if this fellow had kept him prisoner for a little while, he had also set him free and he had offered no real hurt. frosty had recognized in andy the same needs and urgencies that were so powerful within himself. they were traveling similar paths and it was well that they go together. but it must be on a basis of strict equality, and because he was currently busy washing his face, frosty continued to do so after andy spoke to him. the young man's smile remained. "independent little devil, aren't you?" his cleanup finished, frosty sat down with his tail curled behind him and stared at the youth with unreadable feline eyes. not until andy swung out of bed and started across the floor did the kitten move. then he went to meet his new partner, and arched his back and purred when andy stooped to pet him. thus, with a caress and a purr, their bargain was signed and sealed and both understood its terms. while andy prepared his breakfast, frosty walked back out the open door and composed himself in the warming sun. he was not hungry, the fish heads and offal had been more than an adequate meal. while seeming to sleep, he inspected this new domain over which he had just become co-ruler. sporting in the slough, four-leaf and clover and their family attracted his slight interest. they did not seem to be dangerous. they were creatures of the water, and, aside from its convenience when he was thirsty, frosty had a violent aversion to water in all its forms. if he were hungry and happened to find a young muskrat on land, he might very well catch and kill one. under no circumstances would he molest creatures in their sloughs and ponds. while his eyes remained on the muskrat family, his ears were attuned to every sound. the various birdcalls he knew and because he did, he dismissed them as of little consequence. but when he heard the doe, that had gone to rest in some tall swamp grass, reach back to scratch an itching flank with a moist muzzle, he became instantly alert. he did not know the sound and he must know it. rising, frosty slipped from the porch into the yard. he had marked the doe, but though she remained the primary center of interest, he did not concentrate on her to the exclusion of all else. his first days in the hills had taught him that he could afford to neglect nothing on the ground and his recent grim experience with the owl was proof enough that he must also and at all times be aware of everything in the air. because he was alert, frosty saw the rattlesnake andy had encountered last night before it saw him. still sluggish, digestion not yet complete, the snake had crawled to the lee of a boulder for the greater protection it offered against the night's chill. it coiled there, fearing little and scarcely interested in anything that happened. frosty soft-pawed a bit nearer. the snake was interesting and he had never before seen its like. now was a good time to gauge its potentialities and discover for himself what manner of creature it might be. guided by innate caution, the kitten halted three feet away and stared fixedly. becoming alert, the snake rattled a warning. frosty listened, and having heard the sound, it was his. watching the kitten with beady eyes, the snake ceased rattling. frosty arched his back. he still did not know what manner of creature this might be, but whatever it was, he did not like it. intending to discover for himself exactly what the snake could do, he remained cautious. his feint, when he made it, was swift as only a cat's can be. his leap carried him to within fifteen inches of the forty-five inch snake and he nearly met disaster. the striking fangs came within a breath of brushing his fur! having found out everything he wanted to know, frosty withdrew. the snake would strike and its swiftness equaled his own, but the kitten's anger increased. he had been challenged in his own territory. he would accept that challenge, but not blindly. a born warrior, he was also a born strategist. the snake, rattling continuously now, undulated its thick body into coils. but though its strike was lightning fast, otherwise it was a comparatively sluggish thing. frosty feinted again. he knew to the exact hundredth of an inch the length of his last feint and this one he deliberately shortened. the snake struck, its venom-filled fangs falling just short, and frosty became master of the situation. knowing precisely how far the snake could strike, he feinted in rapid succession and each time teased the snake into hitting at him. finally, recognizing an _impasse_ and rattling a warning as it did so, the snake started crawling away. frosty leaped. he landed exactly where he had intended to land, just behind the head, where the snake's thick body tapered to a thin neck, and he bit even as he landed. his teeth met and almost in the same motion he leaped away. for an interested moment he watched the quivering snake, now stretched full length. there were no death throes and no writhing coils, for frosty had done exactly as he had planned to do and severed the spine. the reptile had died instantly. forgetting the snake, frosty padded on toward the doe. nearing her, he went into a stalk so stealthy and so silent that he crouched in the grass less than three feet away before she was aware of his presence. her ears flicked forward and she opened alarmed eyes. recognizing no threat, she relaxed and again scratched her flank with her muzzle. satisfied because he had traced the source of this sound, the kitten retraced, almost step for step, the path he had taken coming into the grass and he was at the edge of the clearing when andy emerged from the house. frosty did not show himself. despite his liking for his human companion, he would not rush to meet him, as a dog might have, unless he felt like it, and right now he did not feel that way. setting out to explore this new land, he wanted to do it in his own time and way and, for the present, he cared for no company. waiting until andy was out of sight, he skirted the swamp and stopped to look closely at the muskrats, which were still swimming about in the slough. the parent animals moved farther out and eleven of their young followed. the twelfth, whose bump of curiosity was bigger than his portion of good sense, raised in the water for a better look at this fascinating creature, then swam eagerly toward him. head extended, nostrils quivering, eyes bright, he climbed out on the bank. the kitten stared back haughtily. bigger than the baby muskrat, he still was not hungry enough to hunt. besides, obviously the muskrats were lesser creatures. frosty considered them as belonging in almost the same category as the rabbits that almost always ran. he went around the slough and into the swamp. the tall grass waved over his head, so that he could see only that which lay directly about him. nor could he smell very much because the over-all dank odor of the swamp drowned slighter scents. a mink or fox would have detected them and sought out their sources, if they were interested enough to do so. a cat could not, but frosty's matchless ears took the place of both eyes and nose. he heard the flutter of a bird's wing, marked it down and deliberated. having fed, he'd still accept a choice tidbit should one come his way. he stalked the bird and found it in a patch of grass. it was a sora. coming here to feed on seeds, it had entangled one foot in a slim strip of wire-tough swamp grass and, in struggling to free itself, had succeeded only in tangling the other foot. almost exhausted, it was able to do little save flutter its wings. frosty pounced upon the bird, killed it and ate as much as he wanted. his belly filled, he sought a warm place and curled up to rest. but he was careful to choose a napping place roofed with interlaced tops of swamp grass. there were enemies in the air, but it stood to reason that they could not catch him if they were unable to see him. in spite of the fact that he was hidden, at no time did he sleep so soundly that he was oblivious to what went on and again his ears served him. something that splashed in a nearby slough had to be a leaping fish; swimming muskrats seldom splashed or did anything else to attract attention to themselves. from far off came a loud noise; one of the dead swamp trees had finally toppled. frosty alerted himself only when he heard a sound he did not know. it was not loud but neither was it especially muted, as though some small creature that did not care whether or not it was seen moved through the swamp. at length it arose near the remains of the sora. silent as a shadow, frosty stalked forward. even before he reached what was left of the bird, he heard something eating. he looked through an aperture in the grass to see a creature approximately the size of a large cat, contentedly feasting on the remains of the sora. it was lustrous-black, except for a v-shaped patch of white on its head that became two white stripes which ran to the base of its tail. this silky tail was heavily furred, the feet were short and stubby. frosty stared with vast curiosity. suddenly, and almost without visible motion, he flattened himself where he was and held perfectly still. a day-cruising great horned owl, which frosty had seen at all only because he was wholly alert, floated in to seize the feeding animal. the owl winged low over the swamp with his prey. frosty sneezed and raced violently away, for suddenly the air was nauseous with stink so thick that a knife might almost have cut it. obviously the owl didn't mind at all, but to frosty it was a repulsive odor. however, he had learned something else; no matter where they were encountered or what they were doing, skunks were better left alone. after running a hundred yards, frosty continued at a fast walk. the air still reeked and he wanted to get away from the stench. as soon as he had gone far enough so that there was only faint evidence of the unfortunate skunk's fate, he resumed prowling. the swamp interested him greatly and he wanted to learn as much as possible about it. because exploration was currently more fascinating than fighting, he detoured around another rattlesnake and continued on his way. he mounted a little rise that was literally honeycombed with the burrows of striped gophers and stopped to watch. flitting from their burrows, the gophers were feasting upon a veritable inundation of grasshoppers that had come among them. moving like an animated streak, one of them would pounce upon a grasshopper and at once dodge back to its burrow or into the shelter of some huckleberry brush that grew upon the knoll. the wise little animals never exposed themselves for more than a few seconds at a time, for they knew too well the many perils that threatened. as frosty watched the gophers, disaster struck them. another rattlesnake, lying like a strip of carelessly discarded velvet upon the little rise, struck a gopher when it paused nearby to snatch up a grasshopper. forgetting his grasshopper, the stricken animal bounced toward his burrow. but he no longer moved like a streak. the injected venom made itself felt almost at once, and instead of ducking into his refuge, the gopher crawled down it. after a moment, in no hurry at all and following his quarry by the scent it left on the ground, the snake moved sluggishly on the gopher's trail, finally disappearing down the burrow which the stricken creature had entered. frosty circled the little rise and went on. he was far too well-fed even to think of hunting the gophers, but the colony was something to remember when he should be hungry. any rodent at all was not only acceptable but desirable food. coming to a slough, frosty slunk like a wraith along its edge and sank down to watch a baby muskrat. visible only from the bank upon which the kitten crouched, hidden from every other direction by a curl of overhanging grass, the youngster was busily engaged in digging succulent bulbs from the mud on the bank's far side. thus frosty learned what even andy had not yet discovered. this baby belonged to the cautious pair that knew so well how to protect themselves, and evidently he had inherited his parents' caution. already anticipating another litter, the parents were separating themselves from the first one. the muskrats were doing exactly as andy had hoped they'd do and spreading out. little interested, frosty resumed his travels and found himself on a point of land that jutted into the slough. he paused, looking at the six feet of water that lay before him. he could not jump it and he would never swim unless forced to do so, therefore he did the only thing he could do and retraced his steps. continuing around the slough, he came to a blanket of tangled weeds that covered it and crossed on them. anything heavier, or even heavier-footed, would have fallen through. frosty not only proceeded in perfect safety but knew he was safe. he came to a little stream, one of the few clear-running streams in the swamp, and watched a mother mallard and her brood of seven swim happily there. frosty did not molest them. no wanton killer, he would hunt only when he wanted to eat. but the mallard family was something else to remember should he be hungry and in their vicinity. when night fell, he was still in the swamp and entirely unconcerned about it. this was, perhaps, even a little more to his liking for he was a little more a creature of night than day. frosty halted suddenly. he was in an area which, being heavily browsed by swamp deer, had comparatively short grass. deer moved about, chewing noisily and now and then blowing to clear their nostrils of a bit of dust. but there was something more and the kitten strained to discover its identity. he saw the deer more clearly than a human being would have but not as clearly as he himself would have seen them by day. though his night vision was good, he had no magic lens that pierced the darkness and made everything easily visible. besides the deer and the chewed-down grass, he could see nothing. he could hear only the deer moving, chewing, blowing, and the soft murmur of the wind that never seemed to cease. he still knew that danger threatened. the knowledge came to him, probably, through a very faint sound that tickled his built-in ear antennae, without identifying itself and without even seeming like an audible noise. had he had any clear idea of what he faced now, he would have known what to do about it. lacking any idea whatsoever, he could only be careful. he turned away from the sound and went back into tall grass. once there, where he was at least partially shielded from great horned owls, he broke into a fast run. but it was not a panicky run. he had set out to elude something which he realized existed, and that was all he knew about it. no instinct could possibly help him and blind flight could lead to nothing but trouble. in a situation such as this, his only hope lay in relying on planned intelligence. frosty halted after running three hundred yards and turned to face the direction from which he had come. he had scurried into a part of the swamp which he had not yet visited. this was an error, and almost instantly he knew it was an error. every tree, clump of brush and the various kinds of grass through which he had already prowled were clearly mapped in his brain. he should have gone back there because, in the event of an emergency, he would have known exactly what lay around him and precisely how he might take advantage of the terrain. but it was too late to turn now. he could hear nothing save the wind, a group of barred owls talking to each other in some of the dead trees, and suddenly, far off, the death shriek of a rabbit upon which a mink had pounced. he still knew there was danger, and that it was on his trail. he ran on. suddenly he came to a slough, a thirty-foot-wide stretch of water whose surface eerily reflected the dim light that filtered from stars. six feet out, a group of dead trees reared skeleton trunks and rattled their bare bones of branches. frosty turned again. he was not trapped, for he could run in either direction along the slough's bank, but that would be blind running and he did not know where it might lead him. now was the time for planning, and before he did anything else, he wanted to know from exactly what he fled. suddenly he did know. it was another coyote, for presently he heard it, and it was on his trail. he could not know that it was a young beast which, catching the scent of a cat and eager to renew the age-old cat and dog fight, had flung itself pell-mell along that scent. frosty made ready to fight. he saw the coyote emerge from the grass and run headlong at him. crouching, prepared to spring, his nerve broke suddenly. turning, he leaped blindly for the trunk of the nearest tree, missed by eighteen inches, fell into the slough and went under. surfacing, he knew only seething fury. water was the most distasteful of all places to him. being forced ignominiously to fall into it roused all his warrior blood, but even now he did not attack blindly. striking for the bank, he saw the eager coyote waiting for him and marked its position exactly. when his paws found a footing, he sprang at once and his body arched into the air. again he went to the head, scraping with all four paws, even while he sliced with his teeth. the startled coyote--a veteran would have known exactly what to do--stood for one brief second. then it gave a startled yelp, unseated its attacker with a fling of its head and streaked away. frosty waited long enough to assure himself that his enemy was not coming back. once he was positive of that, he meticulously groomed his wet fur and started toward the house. the second planting visiting the game warden, joe wilson, and listening to his old friend's sage advice had started andy on a whole fresh train of thought and furnished new ideas. he sat at the table in his little house and devoted himself to serious thinking. muskrat pelts were fairly valuable in the fall, as soon as the weather turned cold enough to make them so. but they were far and away at their best, and brought the highest prices, if taken in late winter or early spring. in order to realize the maximum profit from his venture--and even to think about anything else would be silly--the entire crop of pelts would have to be harvested in a comparatively short time. this posed a problem which, until now, andy had not even considered. nor had he thought of sharing with his neighbors, he admitted honestly. he now saw this as a near necessity, aside from being a kindly gesture. though everything looked favorable, as yet he could not possibly know whether his plan to turn the swamp into one big muskrat ranch would end in success or failure. but he did know that there could be no intermediate point. muskrat pelts, which, depending on the fur market, might bring a little more or a little less than two dollars each--and probably would average that--were not so valuable that a few, or even a few dozen, would be worthwhile. he had to take a great many. but if he restricted himself to the best part of the trapping season--even though he worked as many hours as possible seven days a week during that time--how many pelts would one man, working alone, be able to handle? without knowing the limit, he was sure that there had to be one. merely setting enough traps and moving them whenever a sufficient number of muskrats had been taken from any one portion of the swamp would, within itself, be no small task. in fact, though most of it could be done before trapping started, just patrolling the swamp and deciding how many pelts might safely be taken, and still leave an adequate foundation breeding stock, would be a big job. then there would be skinning the catch, making stretching boards and stretching the pelts. all of this not only had to be done, but it must be well done. a poorly cleansed or badly stretched pelt was not worth nearly as much as one cared for expertly. it would be to his benefit--and theirs, too--if he accepted joe wilson's advice and asked the casman brothers and old man haroldson and his sons whether they cared to participate. since andy was furnishing the swamp, all the initial investment and all the basic work, it would be feasible and acceptable to work something out on a share basis. it would, naturally, be useless to ask luke trull to cooperate with anybody in anything. andy caught up a stub of pencil and a scratch pad and began to figure. he had planted twelve muskrats, of which he had six, two pairs and two lone females, left. they had produced thirty-eight young, and though andy could not be sure--he had found the remains of two baby muskrats without identifying what had killed them--he thought that at least thirty remained. he intended to plant twenty more mated pairs, and judging from past experience, he could expect to lose half of them. if the rest, and supposing ten females survived, propagated in proportion to the first planting, there would be somewhat more than ninety young. if each adult female produced at least one more litter-- andy threw his pencil down and stared across the table. so many factors entered into the picture that there was about as much possibility of accurately forecasting how much increase there would be as there was of knowing definitely which cow in a herd would switch its tail to the left first. if he could keep furred and feathered predators down and luke trull out, and if he were lucky, there might be anywhere between and muskrats in the swamp with the coming of spring. that would not be nearly enough to start reaping a harvest of pelts. it wouldn't even be an adequate breeding stock, and perhaps there would not be enough muskrats to start trapping the following spring. but by the third year, always assuming that luck was on his side, the venture should show at least a modest return. at any rate, he would see ira and jud casman and old man haroldson and his five strapping sons in the near future. he would explain what he was doing and what he hoped to do and he would point out that, if he had their co-operation, which he thought he'd get, nobody would become rich but there would be something for all who cared to join in. coming in the spring, when other work was slack, such funds would be welcome. luke trull was and would have to remain andy's problem. rising, the boy walked to the window and peered into the darkness. he hadn't seen the frost-coated kitten since early morning, and in addition to anxiety, he felt an unaccountable sense of disappointment. somewhat irritably, he tried to shrug it away. why should he have sensed a powerful bond between the kitten and himself? and why was he forever getting ideas and fancies which no one else seemed ever to entertain? obviously the kitten, at best a half-wild thing, had gone back into the wilderness out of which it had come. that was its privilege. andy resumed his seat at the table and again took up his pencil and scratch pad. a second time he started calculating as to exactly what was going to happen, and a second time he gave it up as useless. he'd thought everything was carefully planned and well executed, but all the books he had read and all the information at his disposal, while definitely valuable, could at the very best only help guide him. no book ever written could tell him exactly what muskrats would do in his swamp, for the simple reason that there had never before been any muskrats there. though he would certainly apply what he already knew, experience alone could teach him the rest. andy started suddenly. he listened, sure he'd heard the cry of a cat, but when the sound was not repeated he decided he had heard only the wind whining around a corner of his house. two minutes later, and there was no mistake this time, he heard the cry again. he walked to the door, opened it, and frosty padded in. as meticulously clean as though he had done nothing all day long except groom himself, tail erect and eyes friendly, but at the same time managing to preserve his own great dignity, he came straight to andy and arched against his legs. but when andy stooped to pick him up, the frost-coated kitten dodged aside. he retreated about four feet, sat down on the floor with his tail curled around his legs and regarded andy with grave eyes. understanding, andy grinned. some cats might love to be fondled and cuddled, but obviously frosty was not one of them. he was a partner, not a possession, and his were a partner's rights. the boy's grin widened. again, as he had this morning, he saw something about this proud kitten that fitted exactly his own ideas. independent, intelligent and spirited, frosty knew what he wanted and what he did not want, and certainly he wanted no condescension or patronizing. andy spoke to him. "i don't know where you've been all day, frosty, but wherever it was, you should be hungry now. how about some grub?" he himself had dined on chicken, and he took a leg from the cold remains that were stored in his icebox. cutting the meat away from the bone, he laid it on a clean saucer and placed the saucer on the floor. after a moment's grave deliberation, frosty padded forward and ate daintily. he cleaned his face and whiskers and came over to settle himself near andy's chair. the closed door and the fact that he was shut in were of little importance, for he had satisfied himself that the door would be opened again. purring, he gave himself over to slumber as sound as he would ever enjoy after andy had reached down to stroke him gently. he would never be satisfied always to stay in the house; he had large ideas which called for ample space in which to execute them. but again he had found a refuge. as long as he was in the house, he need not be constantly alert, for no danger threatened here. andy picked up a magazine devoted to furs and fur raising and thumbed through it, but his mind was not on the printed pages. when encroaching civilization forced them to change their way of life, the gates clan had scattered. but two of the gates clan, andy and his father, had been unable to leave the swamp. it was a home to which they were bound by unbreakable ties--but it was also a way of life that nobody else would have chosen and nobody at all understood. even to the hillmen, far closer to it than any town dweller could possibly be, anyone who elected deliberately to live in the swamp was throwing his life away. andy could not live elsewhere, but he knew suddenly that his life had taken a turn for the better. he not only had a companion, but one that had chosen of its own free will to join him. in addition, although andy had no way of knowing where frosty had been, it went without saying that he must have been prowling somewhere, and his new partner was evidently not only able to cope with but to triumph over the rigors and challenges that such a life offered. andy needed to know no more. after a while he rose, undressed, gave himself a sponge bath with warm water from the stove's reservoir, put on his pajamas and went to bed. he lay wakeful in the darkness, and when something jumped on the bed he put out a hand to touch frosty. he smiled contentedly and went to sleep. * * * * * andy was up with the dawn, and as he built a fire in the kitchen stove he started pondering a new problem that faced him. his own way of life had for so long been so well worked out that it had fallen into a routine pattern. in summer, since he had only an icebox and visited the town infrequently, he never bought fresh meat which he himself would be unable to use before it spoiled. he depended on staples, ham and bacon, a very few canned meats, eggs, fish from the swamp, an occasional chicken and vegetables from his garden. after hunting season opened and icy weather set in, he froze the game he shot and occasionally he purchased from or traded with the casman brothers or one of the haroldsons for a side of pork. having frosty meant that he must make provision for him, but it was not an urgent matter and it could be taken care of when he went into town. possibly he would buy some cans of commercial cat food to supplement what he already had to offer. andy breakfasted on eggs, opened a can of milk for frosty and washed the dishes. frosty slipped out with him and composed himself on the porch when his companion left the house. andy gave him a farewell pat and set his face toward the casman brothers' farm. ira and jud, bachelors, lived two miles back in the hills. the various abandoned farms andy passed on his way to them were sufficient evidence that, in their own way, the casman brothers were as hard as the granite boulders that reared humped gray backs out of their fields and pastures. the gateses had not been the only ones to leave the hills. many of the casmans and haroldsons, and all the trulls excepting luke, had gone, too. ira and jud, like old man haroldson and his sons, had not only managed to hang on but even did quite well. they never had more than modest sums of money, but they never knew want either, and they were happy with the life they led. andy passed the one-room, one-teacher country school which he had attended and which was now kept open solely for the numerous offspring of old man haroldson's sons. he swung up a hill, descended the other side and saw the casman farm. the house and outbuildings were well back from the dirt road. five cattle and about sixty sheep grazed in a pasture and the fields were green with various crops. andy swung up the lane toward the house and the casmans' big, friendly dog--there were far fewer rattlesnakes away from the swamp--bounded forward. he barked a happy welcome and andy stooped to pet him. straightening, he saw jud casman standing in the doorway. jud was lean as a greyhound, tough as an oak knot, suspicious and approximately as talkative as a wary buck. there was no certain way to determine his age. he had taken an active part in the trull-casman-gates feud, but, like andy, he knew that belonged to the past. he murmured, "mawnin', andy." "good morning, jud." "you et?" "i've had breakfast, jud. i've come to talk with you and to ask something from you and ira." "ira's afield. call him in if'n you like." "that isn't necessary. you can tell him. i'm trying to do something in my swamp. now--" andy described his project. he spoke of the muskrats he had already liberated, and of the increase in them. he told of the twenty pairs that were due in a few days. if the plan worked, andy said, it would work very well--so well, in fact, that he would need help. therefore, he would share with any hillman who cared to join him. he himself must retain complete control and he would say how many muskrats might be taken from any one section of the swamp. it would be the trapper's job to take the muskrats, pelt them and stretch the pelts. for so doing, he would receive half the value of such pelts as he handled and andy would do the marketing. jud listened in attentive silence. when andy was finished, he spoke. "what you want of ira'n me?" "a chance," andy said frankly, "and nothing more. the best way i can figure it, there won't even be an adequate breeding stock next spring. there can't possibly be any trapping; maybe there can't even be any the following spring. but we should be able to start the spring following that. all i want from you, or anyone, is to leave the muskrats alone until the time is right." "me'n ira got no call to pester 'em." "thanks, jud." "m-_mm_. you're gittin' twenty mo' these mushrats?" "forty. twenty mated pairs." "quite a passel to tote." "i'll make three trips." "you needn't," jud declared. "come get our tom horse. he packs good an' just turn him loose when you're done. he'll come home." * * * * * andy led tom, the casman brothers' gentle brown pack horse, off the road and down the trail to his house. the halter rope was slack. tom knew he had a job and was entirely willing to do it. sure-footed as a goat, he threaded his way among the boulders in his path and matched his pace to andy's. since it was unnecessary to watch the horse, andy gave himself to reflection. there was a change in his relations with the casman brothers and old man haroldson and his sons. nobody had mentioned it and it could not be seen, but it could be felt. his reception by each of the haroldsons had been approximately the same as that which the casmans had accorded him. none had been loquacious, but all had listened and all had promised to leave andy's muskrats alone until he himself gave the word. through that simple understanding, the change was worked. formerly considered at least queer, if not an outright crackpot, he had now advanced to being respected. nobody except himself had thought his swamp anything except a worthless marsh. he had not only seen possibilities there but was in the process of developing them. time might very well prove that it was they, not he, who had been short-sighted. when he arrived at his house, andy tied tom to the porch railing. frosty, napping in the sun, glided silkily over, regarded the horse with haughty and the muskrats with haughtier disdain, then sat down to watch the proceedings. unstrapping the ropes that bound the crates to tom's pack saddle, andy lifted them to the ground, one by one. when they were all unloaded, he untied tom, looped the lead rope through his bridle so it wouldn't drag and patted him on the rump. the horse started cheerfully up the trail toward his home. these muskrats were designed for the most inaccessible ponds and sloughs in the swamp and it was too late even to think of taking them in today. two at a time, one under each arm, andy carried the crates inside. he stepped back to look at them with pleased satisfaction. an almost visible sneer on his face, frosty paraded up and down the row of crates, looked intently at the occupants of each and turned loftily away. andy laughed. "i take it you don't think they're your social equals?" disdaining to glance again at the crated muskrats, frosty curled up in his favorite place near andy's chair. he lost himself in his own meditations and the young man gave him an affectionate glance. the further this partnership progressed, the better he liked it. andy was up and had breakfasted before daylight. he let frosty out and then gave his attention to the muskrats. twenty crates meant four loads of five crates each. that many was by no means a heavy pack, but it was as much as could be carried comfortably through the swamp. besides, andy had in mind four different sections of the swamp where he wanted to plant these animals. strapping five crates to his pack board, he went outside. always before, as soon as he was let out of the house, frosty had gone about his own affairs of the day and usually andy had not seen him again until after nightfall. this morning he was surprised to find the kitten still waiting, and even more astonished when frosty fell in beside him. andy raised puzzled brows. "what are you aiming to do here, fella?" tail high, eyes friendly, frosty stayed beside him. andy grinned good-naturedly. dogs were supposed to accompany their masters wherever they went, but nobody expected a cat to do so. however, this one had evidently made up his mind to go along and he was welcome. maybe, andy thought whimsically, he wants to see for himself what is going to happen to the muskrats. andy made his way toward the north end of the swamp, a wild and tangled place, with not too many sloughs and ponds but more trees and brush than any other part of the whole area. it was also the most dangerous part of the swamp because safe trails were few. the boy worked his way through a tangle of brush and came to a slough. he stopped. frosty halted beside him and andy looked speculatively at his companion. so far, the kitten had shown not the slightest desire to let himself be handled or to permit any undue familiarity. but when andy stooped and picked him up, frosty settled contentedly in his arms. safe on the other side of the slough, of his own accord he jumped down. andy grinned in appreciation. while respecting his own self, frosty had no objection to hitchhiking when that was in order. he'd known very well that andy could carry him securely across the slough. again on the ground, he paced contentedly beside his partner. he sat on the bank and watched solemnly when andy released the first pair of muskrats in a weed-grown pond. confused at first, the liberated animals quickly gave way to the usual wild delight and for the next few moments devoted themselves to sporting in the slough. then, swimming to the bank, they began to satisfy their hunger. aside from keeping a wary eye on andy, they made no attempt to hide and offered not the slightest indication that they knew danger might lurk here. andy went on. previous experience had taught him that, with rare exceptions, pen-raised muskrats--and probably most other pen-raised creatures--would react in just this fashion. never having known danger, they could not possibly understand that it existed. but they would learn if they escaped the first few perils that threatened, and though some would surely die, some would live. making his way to the next slough, where once more frosty watched gravely, andy released another pair of muskrats. he liberated a third pair, and was about to free a fourth when he discovered that the kitten was no longer beside him. andy swung to look for his companion. thirty yards away, frosty had leaped to the top of a moss-covered boulder and flattened himself on it. his tail was straight behind him, and he was so still that not even a hair rippled. his attitude was one of watchful alertness. the short hairs on the back of andy's neck rippled and he had a presentiment of danger. at once he dismissed it. there were plenty of dangers in the swamp, but he knew all of them and understood how to cope with them. still, frosty had heard or sensed something of which he remained unaware. andy started toward him. he had covered less than half the distance when the kitten slipped from the boulder, melted into the brush, and disappeared. a second time, andy had a premonition of danger and a second time he forced it from his mind. certainly, frosty knew something he did not know. however, it was not only possible but highly probable that the kitten might be greatly alarmed by something which would not trouble him at all. andy strained to hear a rattlesnake or to see evidence of a coyote, bobcat, great horned owl, or anything else that might have frightened frosty. he could neither see nor hear anything at all, and anxiety for the kitten rose within him. he was not greatly concerned about whatever had caused his partner to flee. frosty had lived in the wilderness a long while and the very fact that he had lived was evidence that he knew how to stay alive. but as far as andy knew, the only ways out of this section of the swamp led across sloughs and he was certain that, of his own accord, frosty would not cross water. therefore, unless he could be found, he was marooned here. andy hurried to liberate his two remaining pairs of muskrats, then hastened back to the boulder upon which frosty had crouched. he called, "frosty." there was no response and the boy's anxiety mounted. he'd lived with his partner long enough to assure himself that the quality which he had first seen in frosty was indeed a part of him. the kitten was not only capable of deciding for himself and acting as he felt best, but once he had made up his mind to do a certain thing, he would do it and nothing whatever would swerve him. even though he heard his friend calling, he would respond only if he was satisfied that that was the proper thing to do. andy began methodically to cast back and forth. an hour and a half later, he gave up the search as hopeless. no human could find a cat that did not want to be found, and the day was wasting. the boy hurried hopefully back to the slough over which he had carried frosty. but the frost-coated kitten was not waiting for him. andy deliberated. he should turn back and resume the hunt for his partner. sooner or later, no matter where he hid or what his reason for hiding was, when that reason no longer existed, frosty would show himself. at the same time, and aside from their practical value, he had an obligation to the remaining muskrats. they'd been imprisoned in the little crates for as long as anything should be, and it was only right and just to release them. andy made up his mind. hurrying back to the house, he strapped five more crates on the pack board and took them into the swamp. he did not stop for lunch because he wanted to finish as soon as possible and go look for frosty. he took a third load and went back for the last one. these he carried to a remote but relatively open section of the swamp. there were few trees and little brush here, but swamp grass grew tall and the ponds and sloughs were choked with succulent aquatic growth that would enable his released captives to live richly. he freed four pairs and was about to liberate a fifth when he straightened. again, and for no apparent reason, he felt a strong sense of danger. the short hairs on his neck resumed prickling. something was indeed in the swamp, but it was not stalking frosty. it was on his trail. andy whirled suddenly to see luke trull, who had been peering cautiously over the swamp grass, throw himself down in it. marooned acting as though he had seen nothing, andy put his remaining cage of muskrats beside the slough that was to be their future home. he knelt, opened the cage, spilled the muskrats into the slough and watched them swim bewilderedly about. casually, for luke trull was crafty as any fox that had ever padded through the swamp, he strapped the empty crate on his pack board and slipped into the shoulder straps. he turned as if intending to retrace exactly the path he had followed. the swamp grass was tall and dense. a man who wanted to crawl away would do so if his suspicions were aroused and have every chance of hiding successfully. when the path had brought him as near as possible to the place where he had seen luke trull duck into the grass, andy shucked the pack board from his shoulder and ran as swiftly as possible toward the spot. a moment later, he looked down on the hillman. luke was on his hands and knees. his head turned so he could see over his shoulder, and the eyes that met andy's were as cold as those of any hunting great horned owl or bobcat. but his lips framed an appeasing smile and his voice was amiable, "hi, andy." andy stood still, for the moment unable to speak. fierce, hot anger mingled with almost complete discouragement. even though he had taken the casmans and the haroldsons into his confidence, it had still been a grave mistake to bring the muskrats in by day, for luke trull had seen and luke had known. the boy licked dry lips. when he had left the house this morning, it had never occurred to him that he might be followed and therefore he had been off guard. of course he shouldn't have been, but it was too late to think of that now. since he had failed to be alert, any hillman who cared to do so, while remaining unobserved himself, could have followed him wherever he went. andy knew now why frosty had hidden. luke must have been on his trail from the very first. he himself had not only shown the fellow the safe paths into the swamp, but luke knew where everyone of these twenty pairs of muskrats were planted. it went without saying that he would know how to find them again, and probably he would be able to find the others. andy bit off his words and spat them at the crouching man, "i told you to stay out of my swamp!" "why now, you never told me nothin' like that." "what are you doing here?" "lookin'." "get up, luke!" "now, andy, mought's well be neighborly. you give leave to ira'n jud casman an' all the haroldsons to help ya trap mushrats. all i come out for was to see why ya fo'got to ask me?" it was a flimsy excuse. luke knew well enough where andy lived, and if he had wanted to ask him anything at all, he might easily have come to his house. any farfetched chance that he might actually have followed andy into the swamp to ask about anything at all was refuted by the fact that he had been hiding in the grass. andy's voice was dangerously low-pitched, "get up, luke!" "not afore ya cool a mite." andy reached down, grasped the other's coat collar, jerked him erect and spun him around. when he swung, the blow started at the tips of his toes and traveled through his clenched fist. he connected squarely, and luke trull sat down suddenly in the grass. supporting himself with both arms, he looked intently at andy. his eyes remained cold and the smile was gone. andy spoke quietly, "get out! don't come back!" without a word, luke trull rose and shuffled away. andy had a sudden cold feeling. luke trull was no more ethical than a rattlesnake, and he was far more dangerous. andy knew that the man would come again, but he would not be caught again. nor would he ever forget this. one way or another, he would have his revenge, and if he confined his vengeance to wiping out the muskrat colonies, andy would be lucky. the boy's courage returned. he had known when he planned his muskrat ranch that it would be no easy task and that he would have to fight for it, so fight he would. andy picked up his pack board and in what remained of the day went back to the place where frosty had disappeared. he searched carefully but he could not find the kitten, and when he returned to the house, frosty was not there. the boy dawdled over a skimpy supper and went dispiritedly to bed. rising at daybreak, andy hurried eagerly to the door and called, but his frost-coated partner did not respond. pondering the advisability of going again to look for him, he decided that it would be a waste of time. he'd already covered that whole section very thoroughly without finding a trace of the kitten. frosty would be found when and if he was ready. andy was on the point of going into the swamp to check on the muskrats he had planted yesterday, but he caught up a hoe instead and went to his garden. sadly neglected for too long, weeds were crowding vegetables. andy hoed his way down the aisles in his onion patch. putting the hoe aside, he knelt to pull the weeds that were growing among the onions. hearing a car on the road, he merely glanced up briefly, then resumed his weeding. he expected no visitors, certainly none who might drive a car. suddenly a crisp voice asked, "is your name gates?" andy turned, startled, and rose to confront a young man who wore a state policeman's uniform. reserved and doing his best to uphold both the dignity and the authority of his position, nevertheless the young trooper could not completely hide a sparkle in his eye and a humorous twist to his mouth. andy said, "i'm gates." "andrew gates?" "that's right." "i have a warrant for your arrest." andy gave way to astonishment. "a what?" "do you want me to read it to you?" "what's it about?" "an assault warrant sworn out by a man named trull. let's see," the trooper glanced at the warrant, "luke trull." andy clenched his jaws. joe wilson, who had said that luke would not fight back, but would go to the state police if andy hit him, had known exactly what he was talking about. the trooper looked steadily at andy. "well?" "that's right." "you assaulted this trull character?" "yes." "and you admit it?" "i admit it." the trooper turned quizzical. "why?" "i found him in my swamp." "is the swamp posted?" "no." "did he threaten you?" "no." "yours was a wilful attack?" "yes." "have you nothing to say in your own defense?" andy answered wearily, "it would take too long. you'd have to know luke trull." the trooper, who never should have done so and never would have done so had he been more experienced, grinned. "i'll have to take you in." "okeh. i'll just let my chickens out to forage." side by side, a somehow awkward silence between them, they walked to the chicken pen and then on to the trooper's parked car. the officer made a u-turn and started toward town. he asked suddenly, "what do you want in that swamp?" "quite a few things." "this trull--seems to me i've seen his name on our records--what's he want there?" "something that belongs to me." "did he steal from you?" "no." "i don't get it." "he's going to steal. i planted muskrats in the swamp. he followed me to find out where they are." the trooper said thoughtfully, "oh!" for five minutes they drove in silence. the officer broke it with, "i can take you before justice benton, one of the best." andy said, "okeh." "one of the best," the trooper emphasized. "have you ever been arrested before?" "no!" "then you can't know court procedure," the policeman said. "now benton is a great jurist. he's really wasting himself in a small town. he spends most of his time studying the decisions of various high courts, including the supreme court, and deciding what he might have done were he to rule on the same point of law. he shouldn't be handling minor cases and he knows it, and it irritates him if one takes up his time. he always wants to lay it on with a heavy hand when that happens, and he could send you to jail. on the other hand, when a defendant's reasonable and admits his guilt, benton's usually inclined to go light. now you've already told me you're guilty and i'll have to testify as to that. do you understand?" andy grinned his appreciation. the trooper, in the only way he possibly could, was telling him how to get off lightly. andy said, "i understand." an hour later, he faced judge benton, a stern-faced little man who had a disconcerting habit of peering over instead of through his glasses. the trooper recited the charges. justice benton glanced briefly at the papers pertaining to the case and turned to andy, "how does the defendant plead?" "guilty," andy murmured. "young man," justice benton said sternly, "in flouting the laws of this great state, you have set yourself above the whole people whose duly elected representatives formulate those laws. however, you are youthful and the court is not unaware of the fact that youth is too often prompted by passion and inexperience. so the maximum sentence shall not be imposed. at the same time, you receive fair warning that henceforth you are to keep the peace with this plaintiff whom you have so grievously wronged. nor must your present breach of the law go unpunished. in lieu of fine, this court sentences you to--" justice benton paused dramatically, then finished, "ten days in jail." * * * * * whimsically deciding that frosty wanted to accompany him into the swamp so he could see for himself what happened to the muskrats, andy would never be aware of the fact that a chance shot had hit the mark. the kitten was curious about the muskrats' fate, but above and beyond that, he wanted something else. in electing to become andy's partner, he had chosen much better than he knew. self-sufficient and willing to surrender none of his independence, the partnership had been affected by a circumstance over which he had not the slightest control. liking andy and wanting a strong ally of his caliber, frosty had come to love his partner. a confirmed prowler, he would continue to prowl and to go his own way whenever that seemed expedient. but he went gladly back to the house and eagerly looked forward to meeting andy when he arrived. there were even times when he voluntarily cut his prowling short to have his partner's company. he also went into the swamp partly because andy was going there. he became aware that they were being followed shortly after andy planted the third pair of muskrats, but at first all he knew was that something trailed him. uneasy backward glances and growing nervousness were lost on his friend, who was intent on getting his work done. this was wholly understandable, for it never occurred to frosty that andy was responsible for him, any more than he was obligated to watch out for his partner. never for an instant questioning that he was well able to take care of himself, he never doubted that his partner could do likewise. finally, able to bear the tension no longer, frosty had to find out for himself just who was trailing them. his ears had already informed him that it was a man. no fox, bobcat, coyote, or anything else that belonged to the wild, had ever walked so heavily or so clumsily. blowing against him, the wind brought no identifying scent to his nose. frosty sprang to the boulder's top because it was a vantage point from which, while he still used his ears, he could use his eyes to better advantage. he had one fleeting glimpse of their pursuer just after andy turned. two hundred yards behind them, to the side instead of directly on their tail, luke trull saw andy turn and dropped behind a boulder. frosty unsheathed and sheathed his claws while his tail twitched angrily. he knew this man as an enemy much more deadly than any other he had ever faced. even the great horned owl that had seized him had worked less injury than luke trull. vividly frosty remembered the ride, tortured hours in the sack before the coyote came to release him, and the hardships after that. but there was something more. the various creatures that would have killed and eaten frosty had merely been pursuing life in the only way they could live it. luke trull had belittled him and struck at his pride. but he was powerful, and though frosty did not fear him, it was prudent to avoid a battle. he slipped from the boulder, drifted into thick brush and waited. when andy came back and called, frosty remained in hiding. this was his affair and he expected no other living thing ever to fight in his behalf, but neither could he be guided by any judgment save his own. at the same time, he realized that, obviously, andy was not afraid of luke trull, and his respect for his partner increased. but he would not show himself as long as luke was near. andy's search brought him very near, but frosty remained perfectly still. his was the patience of a cat. few other animals could wait so long or so uncomplainingly for exactly the right moment, be so sure of that moment when it arrived, and act accordingly. but one mistake was one too many, and he had no intention of making any more. finally, andy went back in the direction from which they had come. after an interval, luke trull rose to follow him. frosty stayed in hiding. he had no idea as to what was happening here, or why his partner and luke trull should be together in the swamp, and he did not give a thought to possible danger for andy. frosty had accepted him as a partner largely because he was strong. frosty moved only when he was sure both had gone. he wanted to go back to the house and wait for andy there, but he did not return directly to the slough over which andy had carried him. only when forced to do so would he enter water, and he knew perfectly well that he could not cross the slough. he must find his own trail. because he was in thick brush, he made no effort to hide but he did remain wholly alert. slowing when he emerged from the brush into a grove of trees, he saw water sparkling. he went cautiously forward. he looked out on a relatively quiet section of the same slough, and as he gazed, a big bass broke water and splashed back in. a log floated against the bank on the other side, and a sora teetered on it. in a little eddy given over to lily pads, a heron balanced on one leg and waited with poised bill for an unwary fish to venture near. frosty slunk back into the brush and slipped into another grove of trees. suddenly he halted in his tracks. high in one of the trees, a tamarack, he had seen something move. little more than a flicker, it was enough to make him aware of an alien presence. flattening himself, he held perfectly still and searched. presently he saw clearly the thing that had moved. it was another great horned owl. twenty feet from the ground, it perched close to the trunk of the gloomy tamarack and enjoyed a nap. frosty remained where he was. experience had taught him what these great birds could do, and again he wanted to escape notice because, if it came to a battle, he was not sure he would win it. the great owls were strong and unbelievably ferocious, and a motion might bring this one down upon him. never taking his eyes from it, frosty decided exactly what he would do if the owl swooped at him. if possible, he would get back into the brush. he heard andy come back to resume the search, but again he dared not move. his friend went away. twilight draped its gray mantle over the swamp, and finally the owl took wing. frosty still did not move, for the owl merely soared gracefully over the slough, dipped to pluck a swimming muskrat from the water and winged into a dead tree to devour its prey. frosty slunk away. in the tamarack, the owl had been an unknown factor. it might be hungry and it might not. now it was known. having the muskrat, it would eat. after eating, it would not be hungry. therefore, the chances of its hunting anything else in the near future were small. frosty resumed his search for a way out of the swamp. a while later, he knew that there was none. he was on a little island which he could not possibly leave unless he wanted to swim, and he would not swim. hungry, frosty gave himself over to finding something to eat. he prowled back through the brush without discovering anything, and when hunger emboldened him, he stalked among the trees. he struck at and missed a rabbit that promptly jumped into and swam across the slough. the small island had never supported much life anyway, and the owl had been living on it and hunting every night for almost two weeks. many of the island's furred inhabitants had already fallen to it, and whatever had escaped knew it was here. the mice and gophers that remained ventured from their burrows only when necessity forced them to do so. hearing a bird stir, frosty marked the tree in which it roosted and made his way there. he climbed and was ten feet from the ground when the bird took wing and rattled off into the darkness. frosty descended the tree. he took a stance before a mouse's burrow and waited. but the mouse did not emerge. dawn was breaking and frosty was still hungry when he went back to look for the owl. he found it still in the dead tree. he settled down to watch, for once again the owl was an unknown factor. it had fed last night, but it might be in the mood to feed again and the kitten was of no mind to serve as its next dinner. if he knew where his enemy was, he would also know what it was doing. he watched the owl all day. again, with the coming of dusk, the owl winged out to get another muskrat. little interested in the muskrats' fate and unable to catch one himself because none climbed out on the island, frosty could not know that the owl had found a bonanza here. its plan was to remain, with little need to exert itself, until it had caught every one of the ten muskrats andy had planted. then it would seek another hunting ground. knowing that once more it was safe to prowl, for the owl would not hunt until it was again hungry, frosty knew also that he must have something to quiet his own raging hunger. but if he hunted frantically or hastily, he would frighten his prey instead of catching it. returning to the mouse's den he had watched last night, he settled himself down to wait. . . . two hours later, the mouse poked a cautious nose out, then came all the way from its burrow. frosty pounced and pinned his prey. the mouse was a mere tidbit, but it eased the sharpest hunger pangs. frosty sought another burrow. he caught nothing, and again with dawn he sought out the owl. it had gone back to the tamarack and was almost hidden by the tree's foliage. following its customary routine, it went forth at dusk to catch another muskrat, then winged into the dead tree. in the hope that the owl might have dropped some part of its meal, frosty nosed beneath the tamarack. he found only furry pellets; such parts as the owl hadn't eaten were cached in the tamarack's upper branches and frosty did not dare climb the tree because the dead stub in which the owl perched was too near. desperately, the kitten sought out another mouse's burrow, but when he found one, he shed his desperation and gave way to patience. he caught and ate the mouse. seeking another burrow, he was thwarted when the gentle wind that always murmured over the swamp became a stiff breeze. he could not possibly hold still, for the wind ruffled his fur and the mouse knew he waited. frosty prowled after daybreak. he knew he was taking a chance, but it was not a great one, for so far the owl had hunted only at twilight. when a crow cawed, the kitten swung at once toward the sound. the crow was across the slough and thus out of reach, but perhaps it would come nearer and it offered the only present chance to get food. coming out on that quiet part of the slough where he had seen the log, frosty discovered that last night's stiff wind had moved it. now, instead of lying against the bank, it angled out into the water, with its nearer end only two feet away and its farther against the opposite bank. seeing opportunity, frosty seized it. he sprang, landed on the log, ran swiftly across and leaped into tall swamp grass on the other side. crossing the log had been a very dangerous moment for he was completely exposed while doing so. now he was safe, and since peril was behind him, it could be forgotten. frosty resumed stalking the crow. he found it beside a branch of the slough, pecking at a small dead fish that had washed up there and calling at intervals. frosty slunk through some tall grass and came to a place where foliage grew only in scattered places. he stopped to study the situation. when the crow lowered its head to peck at the fish, he glided swiftly forward and hid behind a tuft of grass. he waited quietly when the bird looked around and glided to another tuft when it resumed feeding. suddenly the crow saw him. with a startled squawk, it beat frantically into the air, struggled to gain altitude and cawed derisively after it had done so. frosty ran forward to get what was left of the little fish and the crow jeered at him again. winging over the kitten, presently the crow saw the owl in the dead tree and its raucous insults became a sharp, clear call. another crow answered, and another. the owl was their enemy by night, when it came on silent wings to pluck sleeping crows from their roosts, but they were its masters by day. the flock gathered and advanced to the attack. diving on the owl, they pecked with sharp beaks and beat with their wings. at first the owl fought back, but they were too many and too swift. followed by the screaming crows, he winged across the swamp. the pursuit and the noise attending it died in the distance. lacking the faintest notion that, however indirectly, he had saved this colony of muskrats for andy, frosty finished his fish and went to hunt gophers. intruder safely off the island, frosty's main concern was something to eat. he set his course for the little knoll upon which he had discovered the gopher colony. while remaining aware of everything about him, he walked more openly than he ever had before and far more confidently. bigger than average from birth, he was fulfilling his early promise of becoming an unusually large cat. traces of the kitten remained, but his stride was almost that of an adult and great muscles were already prominent in his neck, front quarters and shoulders. the life he'd been forced to lead had developed them and, in advance of full maturity, had made him tough as rawhide. but though he had inherited his father's size, he also had his mother's grace and balanced proportions. frosty was big without being even slightly awkward. he walked more freely because, with increasing size and experience, there had come an increasing awareness of his own powers. having killed a rattlesnake and put a coyote to flight, he had discovered for himself that the best defense is often a determined offense. so when he saw a gray fox padding toward him, instead of running or hiding, he prepared to fight, if that were necessary. the fox was an old and wise veteran that had been born in a corner of the swamp, had hunted in it since he'd been old enough to hunt, and that knew its every corner. he had a mate and cubs that had left their hillside den a couple of weeks ago, and last night he'd gone hunting with his family. but the cubs were still clumsy hunters who frightened more game than they caught, and the two baby muskrats that the old fox had finally snatched had been just enough to satisfy them. hunting for herself, the fox's mate had had several mice and a woodcock. the dog fox had eaten nothing. now, while his lazy family rested in a thicket, he was out to find a meal for himself. he walked openly, depending on his nose to guide him to food, because he knew and did not fear the swamp. since attaining full growth, the only natural enemies that had ever challenged him were occasional coyotes, and if the fox did not choose to run from them, or fight, he could always climb a tree. andy gates was the only human being who ever penetrated very deeply into the swamp, and andy was confined to certain paths and trails which the fox did not have to travel. however, his nose had already told him that andy was not in the swamp today. the muskrats were new to the swamp. yet, to the experienced fox, they were an old story. among any young animals, there were always a certain number of unwise or incautious. they seldom lasted long, but after catching the pair of youngsters, the fox had wasted no time hunting more because all the others had stayed out of reach in the water. he was on his way to a rabbit colony of which he knew when frosty's scent crossed his nostrils. he stopped at once, knowing it for an alien scent; then followed his nose toward it. six feet away, he stopped again. frosty's jaws framed a snarl, and a warning growl rumbled in his chest. every hair on his body was fluffed, making him seem twice his actual size. his tail was stiffly erect and fluffed, too, and his muscles were ready to carry him into battle. for a moment the fox regarded him closely, then circled and trotted on. the fox was wise enough to know that frosty did not merely look dangerous. he was dangerous. frosty resumed his own course toward the gopher colony. he remembered it to the last detail, and he had not forgotten the rattlesnake that lived there. the snake was still present, but it had recently fed and was sluggish. frosty settled himself in front of a gopher's den. he held perfectly still, eyes fixed on the burrow's mouth, and presently, deep in the earth, he heard a gopher moving. he remained quiet until the little rodent emerged from its den, then pounced. he caught his prey, devoured it and made a half-hearted pass at the snake. but he did not continue the battle because he was anxious to see andy, and, now that he had eaten, he could go find his partner. frosty made his way toward the house. he knew before he emerged from the swamp that andy was not there. though the kitten lacked a keen sense of smell, wood smoke had a pungent odor that lingered for a long time, and there had been no recent fire in the stove. frosty came out of the swamp to see the persistent doe, that had not yet given up hope of getting into the garden, resting beside it. a crow sat on the house's ridgepole and croaked raucous insults to the four winds. scurrying across the porch, a striped chipmunk dived into a crevice. frosty marked him down; the gopher had not filled his stomach. as soon as he climbed onto the porch, he knew that the house had been unoccupied for several days. it had a cold and deserted air, like a frame from which the picture had been removed, and the odors that seeped under the door were cold ones. frosty cried his loneliness, but he did not question his friend's absence. he reserved for himself the right to go prowling and to stay for as long as it suited him. it naturally followed that andy had the same privilege, and sooner or later he would come back. frosty settled beside the crevice in which the chipmunk had disappeared. he caught the furry little animal, ate it, and his hunger was satisfied. curling up in his favorite place, he settled himself for a nap. all about were familiar things, and even while he napped, his ears brought him their story. he heard the doe rise and begin to crop grass, birds crying in the swamp, the murmur of the wind, muskrats swimming in the slough, and he awakened to none of it because it was familiar. but an hour later, when he heard a man walking, he glided silently under the porch and waited there. he'd heard those footsteps before, and he knew who was coming. five minutes later, luke trull passed the house and went into the swamp. frosty watched with anger in his eyes, knowing only that once again he had been near his deadliest enemy. he couldn't possibly know that luke wouldn't have dared let himself be seen going into the swamp, or even past the house, had andy been home. nor could frosty understand, as luke did, that andy was in jail and would not be back for several days. luke disappeared in the tall swamp grass. he knew where andy had planted his twenty pairs of muskrats and the safe trails to them, for andy himself had inadvertently pointed them out. luke did not know how many other colonies there were or their locations, but there would never be a safer time to look for them. he had his own plans, and he had already decided how and when he intended to strike. all he had to find out was where. evening shadows were long when hunger forced frosty from the house. he left reluctantly, for he was very lonesome and ached for andy's presence, but he must have food. the kitten stalked down to the slough in which four-leaf and clover were making their home. only two of the young remained, and they had built themselves a very clumsy house at the slough's far end. the others--partly spurred by a natural wanderlust of youth and partly driven by irritable parents that were expecting new babies and had no time for the old--had gone into the swamp. frosty flattened himself, and again anger flared in his eyes. luke trull came back out of the swamp and took himself off toward the road. waiting until the hated man was out of hearing, frosty went on. he stalked a red-winged blackbird that was swaying on a reed, sprang--and lashed his tail in anger when the bird escaped him. he glared after the bird as it flew, knowing that he should have made a kill and not understanding why he had not. he leaped at a mouse that was moving through its grass-thatched tunnel and missed by a fraction of an inch. twenty minutes later, he missed a strike at a woodcock that whistled away in front of him. chagrined by these failures, frosty went deeper into the swamp. his hunger grew, but so did his bad luck. for some reason, everything in the swamp seemed to be not only unusually alert but extraordinarily agile. frosty missed five more strikes at mice and three at various birds. casting back and forth, he sought for new quarry. black night found him deep in the swamp and still hungry. hearing fresh game, he broke into a swift run. but again his luck was bad. he'd heard a young muskrat, one of the sons of four-leaf and clover, swimming up a thin finger of water that led over a little knob and into a slough. the kitten reached the knob a split second after the youngster jumped into the slough and swam away. twitching an angry tail and glaring, frosty watched the little drama that unfolded before him. another young muskrat, a daughter of the cautious pair, was already in the slough. the two met, looked awkwardly at each other, swam in circles, then climbed out on a half-submerged log and became better acquainted. finally, side by side, they dived beneath an overhanging bank and began to enlarge a burrow that the little female had already started. they were simply two lonely, lost youngsters who, for the present, were happy just to have each other's company. but if both lived, next year there would be another muskrat colony. frosty stalked and missed a rabbit, and made a wild spring at a grouse that was roosting in the lower branches of a tamarack. when the grouse rattled off in the darkness, he spat. then he regained his self-control. irritated by repeated failures, he had been striking furiously but wildly, and that was no way to hunt. he must follow a careful plan. when he heard deer grazing, he trotted toward them. they were a little herd of two does with three fawns that browsed together. a short distance from them a huge buck, a craggy-horned old patriarch of the swamp, kept to himself, but from time to time cast possessive glances at the does. still farther away, where he could flee into the swamp if the bigger one chased him, a smaller buck grazed nervously. the big buck and the small one had spent a companionable winter, spring and part of the summer in a secluded thicket. now, though the rutting season was still weeks away, both were becoming interested in the does and jealousy had come between them. the big buck raised his head, shook his antlers and stamped a threatening hoof when frosty came near. the kitten looked haughtily at him. he'd known deer for a long while, and he could elude any charge they made. he waited patiently near the does and fawns, and when they disturbed a mouse that leaped in panic-stricken haste from them, he caught and ate it. trotting to overtake the grazing deer, he caught the next mouse they disturbed and the one after that. his hunger satisfied, he cleaned himself thoroughly and started back toward the house. thus, the first hunting trick he had ever learned again proved valuable. the house was still cold, and the odors seeping under the door were stale ones. again, frosty cried his loneliness. then he settled himself on the porch to wait and hope for andy's return. for the following three days, luke trull went into the swamp every morning and stayed until evening. his trespassing enraged the kitten, not because the man trespassed but because he was an enemy who came near. if frosty had known how, he would have worked some harm on luke. but he did not know how. it would be the sheerest folly to attack a man unless every advantage was on his own side, so he hid when luke passed and again when the hillman emerged from the swamp. then luke appeared no more. frosty's concerns narrowed to keeping his belly filled and waiting anxiously for andy's return. * * * * * andy, serving his ten days in the town jail with nothing whatever to do, had ample time to think. and the more he thought, the more evident it became that he had walked squarely into a cunning trap. it was none of the young trooper's doing. that embarrassed youngster had visited andy and explained that, usually, in such cases, justice benton levied a small fine and a big lecture. benton himself might be pardoned partly on the grounds of his own ignorance and partly because of a social system which, for political expediency, gave a man of his caliber wide and flexible authority. luke trull, and luke alone, had set the trap, baited it, lured his victim--and sprung his trap when the time was ripe. andy figured out to his own satisfaction exactly why things could have turned out no other way. a townsman, brought before justice benton on a minor assault charge, probably would have been let off with a fine and a lecture. but in the town's opinion, which meant majority opinion, there was a vast difference between town and hill dwellers. the former were commonly supposed to be law-abiding. the latter were not only generally considered lawless, but they were also a different breed of people who merited different treatment. a townsman could understand the law. a hillman could better understand jail, and that was a state of affairs which luke trull comprehended to perfection. aside from being aware that there was a very good chance of andy's serving a jail sentence, luke had also known that he would be ordered to keep the peace. if he appeared again on an assault charge, his sentence might very well be six months instead of ten days. lying on his bunk and staring at the ceiling, andy conceded that he had been stupid as a fox cub just learning to hunt. it was, he decided, not only possible but probable that luke, knowing the boy would resort to violence, had exposed himself deliberately. it was another tribute to his cunning that he had not let himself be seen until after he discovered where andy put the last of his twenty pairs of muskrats. andy grinned ruefully and thought of joe wilson. he should have listened to the game warden, but he hadn't listened and here he was. however, there were still some puzzling aspects to the situation. if andy's fondest hopes were realized, and there were muskrats in the swamp by spring, they would still represent no fortune. it was hard to believe that even luke trull would go to this much trouble for what the reward might be. on the other hand, luke knew definitely only that andy had planted at least the pairs and some before that. he did not know how many had been previously planted, and he might think there were a great many more than actually had been liberated. andy narrowed his eyes. luke, nobody's fool, would not trap furs in the summer because they were worthless then, and he was not one to exert himself for nothing. so, except for those that fell to natural predators, the muskrats were safe during andy's sojourn in jail. but luke could and probably would take advantage of andy's absence to explore the swamp and locate as many other colonies as possible. the jail's outer door opened. the waiter from a cafe across the street brought andy's supper and handed it through the cell bars. ordinarily aloof, tonight the fellow was talkative. "here you are, bud." andy said, "thanks." "what are you in for?" the waiter asked. "i murdered my grandmother." the waiter grinned. "they say you guys from the hills do take pot shots at each other." "we have to have some entertainment." "how many more days you got?" "after tomorrow, i'll no longer be a guest here." "they say," the waiter pursued his interrogation, "that you and another guy fought over some muskrats?" "for once," andy agreed, "rumor got something right." "really?" "really." "and you're in jail on account of some muskrats?" "that's right." the waiter continued, "i've heard that it's as much as a man's life is worth to go into those hills alone at night." "oh, don't talk like a fool!" andy snapped. "i was just being civil," the waiter retorted sulkily. the man left and andy was alone with his dinner and his thoughts. he nibbled listlessly at the food. the waiter exemplified the town's attitude; hillmen would fight over anything, even worthless muskrats in a worthless swamp. in their opinion, it was a small thing, and not a project upon which a man hoped to build a career and a life. out of the dim past, ghosts came to haunt andy. he saw again the men of the gates clan, the older men who had asked neither favors nor assistance from anyone. they had settled their own problems in their own way or died trying, and if they died, no survivor had ever looked to the law for redress. andy forced the ghosts from his mind. their ways had suited their times, but there were different times. nobody could be his own law, and taking the law into one's own hands could lead only to disaster. besides, the boy thought, he must not borrow trouble. luke trull had not yet raided his muskrats, and at least as much as anything else, his own hot-headedness was responsible for his present predicament. andy went to sleep. * * * * * the next morning, two hours after breakfast, a state policeman came to unlock the cell. it was not the young trooper but an older, hardened man who looked at andy with no more personal interest than a scientist wastes on a specimen. "okeh." the trooper nodded toward the door. "you can go." andy walked through the open door, and from the cafe across the street two men stared curiously at him. he turned away, his face burning, and walked swiftly out of town. he had a sudden, vast need for the swamp and the things that were of the swamp. somehow he felt that, when he was once again where he belonged, this would seem just another bad dream. he hurried along into the hills and when he came to the path leading to his place, half ran down it. he was still a hundred yards from the house when frosty came running happily to greet him. andy stooped to caress his partner, and the kitten arched against his legs and purred. side by side, they walked to the house. entering, andy took his . from its rack, then the two partners went contentedly into the swamp. andy hunts a north wind, whistling across the swamp, launched a savage attack against andy's house, broke in half and snarled fiercely around either side. bearing a scattering of snowflakes, the wind whipped away the thin plume of smoke that curled from the chimney and whirled dry leaves across the yard. a little flock of sparrows that had gone to roost under the eaves fluffed their feathers, huddled close together for warmth and twittered sleepily of the lenient weather that had been. the doe that had tried all summer to get into andy's garden walked through the open gate and happily crunched cabbage stalks from which the heads had been cut. the doe raised her head. chewing lustily, she stared into the wind-stirred night. her ears flicked forward and her eyes were big with interest. something was coming, but it was nothing to fear. a moment later, a buck came out of the swamp. it was the smaller of the two bucks frosty had seen when he waited for the deer to frighten mice toward him. there was a bloody welt along his flank and he limped slightly with his right front leg. when the right time came, he had fought the old patriarch for the two does and had been defeated by the bigger, stronger buck. but there was no denying the season or the forces that drove him. the doe came out of the garden, and the pair halted, ten feet apart. then, with mincing little steps, they closed the distance between them. the buck arched his swollen neck, shook his antlers and pawed the ground. stepping high, like a parade horse, he danced clear around the doe and nudged her gently. the doe brushed his flank with her black muzzle and, after five minutes, they went into the hills together. the big buck, who would not be averse to adding another wife to his harem, waited in the swamp. high over the swamp, a v-line of wild geese let themselves be tumbled along by the wind. at a signal from their leader, they banked, glided into the swamp and settled in the center of a pond. with morning, when they could see any enemies that might be lurking on the bank, they would go to feed. three young muskrats, a male and two females, that had been busy cutting reeds and taking them into a roomy burrow, dived in panicky haste when the geese alighted. after a while, screening themselves beneath some frozen rushes that overhung the bank, they came up to see what was happening. when the geese did not make any hostile moves, they resumed cutting and storing reeds. in the middle branches of a tamarack that had shed its needles, a great horned owl ripped at a muskrat which it had plucked from a slough's surface. another owl, on the way to hunt, floated silently past. mice stayed deep in their burrows and stirred only when it was necessary to gather seeds to eat. gophers did not move at all, and rattlesnakes had long since sought winter dens in which the frost could not touch them. as though knowing it was well to eat as much as possible while there was still plenty to be had, a rabbit stuffed itself. a lithe mink that had just swum a slough pointed its snake-like head at the rabbit, stalked, pounced and made a kill. in the house, andy slept snugly and soundly beneath warm quilts. frosty was curled beside him. . . . so the night passed. andy awakened when the first gray light of an autumn morning was just beginning to play with the black windows. his hand stole to frosty, who pushed a furry head against it and licked his partner's palm with a raspy tongue. for a few extra minutes, andy listened to the snarling wind and enjoyed the comfort of his bed. he had a sense of well-being which the bitter weather to be served only to intensify. sometimes alone and sometimes with frosty--and always carrying his . , the shells for which were inexpensive--he had been in the swamp every day. more muskrats had been lost and that he knew, but on the whole, they had done better than he thought they could. prowling every slough and every arm of every slough that he was able to reach and carefully watching every pond, he had found sixty-one different colonies. each contained at least a pair, for the older muskrats that had lost their mates had traveled until they had found others. some adults had taken young mates, and some of the older males had fought savagely for theirs. there were colonies which andy knew definitely contained at least three muskrats, and there was one with five. in addition, and despite the fact that he had searched as thoroughly as he could, there was a distinct possibility that he had not located every colony. some of the sloughs had so many arms and branches that they were practically water systems within themselves, and some of the branches were hidden by foliage. with luck, there should be at least muskrats by spring, and that was one reason why the north wind sang such a beautiful song. andy had shot another great horned owl. he had caught another fox and a bobcat, which he knew were raiding his muskrats, and this in a time of plenty, when anything with more than mediocre hunting skill could fill its belly. now the migratory birds were going or had already gone. soon mice would be moving beneath snow, rather than grass tunnels. that left little except grouse, which were very wise and very hard to catch; sparrows, chickadees and the few other birds that stayed throughout the winter; and rabbits. however, predators did not migrate. the hungry season, which would bring fierce competition for available food, was just around the corner. but ice-locked ponds and sloughs would protect the muskrats from almost everything. if andy could see his charges through the next four to six weeks, he should be able to bring most of them safely through the winter. of course, there was always a possibility of bitter cold that would freeze shallow ponds and sloughs to the bottom. if any water did freeze in such a fashion, muskrats trapped there would starve, merely because they had to be able to move about in order to get food. but most of the colonies were in water deep enough to be safe, regardless of what the weather brought, and only about one winter in ten was very severe. andy had a sobering thought. no ice would deter luke trull, the deadliest predator of all! andy had expected the fellow to strike before this. though far from their best, soon pelts would be good enough to command a fair price. however, luke had not come and andy hoped he would not. frosty rose, stretched, leaped lightly to the floor and delivered himself of a querulous call. andy grinned and sat up in bed. "time to be moving, huh?" he swung out of bed, padded across the floor, lifted the stove lid, stirred the gray ashes with his lid lifter and dropped dry kindling on hot coals. fire nibbled anxiously at the kindling, then took a big bite and flame crackled. andy dressed. he lifted the lid again to add some chunks of wood and looked out the window. the wind still blew hard; but after spitting out just enough snow to dust everything, rolling black clouds had closed their mouths tightly. the thermometer outside the window registered exactly one degree above freezing. andy cut slices from a slab of bacon and laid them in a skillet. his eyes were questioning and he strained to listen. this first real touch of winter should have brought more than just a north wind; wild geese should have blown in, too. but he could not hear them calling. frosty looked expectantly at his partner, voiced an imperious command and walked to the door. andy let him out. frosty had had no breakfast, but that was nothing to worry about. no longer a kitten but a great cat, he was well able to take care of himself and andy had long since discovered that, though he made no distinction between young and old, or male and female, he did not kill wantonly. he did take what he wanted to satisfy his hunger, but so did everything else. andy broke eggs into the skillet and laid two slices of bread on the stove to toast. he was always busy, but during the next six weeks he'd be doubly so. with waterfowl season open, small game season about to open, and deer hunting to follow that, the time had arrived both to enjoy sport and to fill his winter larder. andy hurried through breakfast and the morning's housework, took a double-barreled twelve gauge shotgun from the gun rack, pulled his boots on and donned a wool jacket. he thrust half a dozen number two shells into his pocket and went into the swamp. he walked fast, paying little attention to the noise he made and making no special effort to conceal himself. geese were the wariest of game, and only by accident would a flock alight on any accessible pond or slough. they preferred hidden places, deep in the swamp, and long experience had taught andy where to find waters which the geese liked best. the boy halted to watch a couple of young muskrats that were frantically cutting reeds to store for winter use. he shook his head in wonder. these animals were the offspring of some muskrats he had liberated. they'd never faced a winter in the swamp; they hadn't even lived through a winter, but they still knew enough to cut and store food. how did they know? andy couldn't explain it, nor could anyone else. instinct, perhaps, was responsible for part, but andy had never accepted the theory that instinct is responsible for all a wild creature's actions. if this were true, the muskrats he had planted should have known by instinct that there would be predators about. they'd had to learn, but in learning, they had passed some knowledge on to their offspring. the young were more wary than their parents had been. maybe, andy thought, only the fittest of the adults he'd planted had survived. they'd lived because they were smarter or stronger, or perhaps both. it followed that most of the offspring of such parents would be smart and strong too, and thus it became a process of natural selection. he went on and came to a long, wide slough in which the five muskrats lived. relatively shallow, the slough had a quicksand bottom, and, according to legend, the bones of two men lay somewhere in its depths. they were a gates and a trull who had met here, started a hand-to-hand battle and tumbled into the water. in this instance, legend probably was strictly fancy, with no basis in fact. the slough was not deep, but a good swimmer who knew what he was doing might have every chance of crossing it safely. andy frowned. on the far side of the slough was a high knob. a scattering of brush and scrub aspen grew there, and almost at the very edge of the slough was a huge sycamore with gnarled branches and a hollow trunk. a well-marked path led out of the water into the hollow. andy's frown deepened. muskrats had made the path, and if they intended to live in the hollow sycamore, they risked a very precarious situation. predators could reach them there, but, above and beyond that danger, they'd be locked out of the slough when it froze. then, even if they did not fall to some fanged or taloned prowler, they'd starve. muskrats could not live on hard-frozen vegetation. andy went around the slough, broke his shotgun and extracted the shells, then leaned his weapon against an aspen. he knelt beside the sycamore, but when he sought to support himself with his left hand, he slipped and his arm sank to the elbow in mud. scrambling hastily to pull himself back, he grimaced at the muddy sleeve, cleaned it as best he could with a handful of rushes and removed his jacket to wring the water out. it was not yet cold enough to make it necessary to start a fire so he might dry out the jacket. the next time he knelt, he braced his left hand against the sycamore before he peered into the gloomy interior. when his eyes became adjusted to the darkness, he saw a burrow at the far end. satisfied, he rose. the muskrats were not naturally lazy creatures that had chosen to live in the sycamore, rather than dig their own den. they were merely using the hollow as a partial shelter for a surface den, and doubtless there was another exit that led directly into the water. andy searched until he found it, under an overhanging bank. he caught up his shotgun, reloaded and continued into the swamp. a hundred yards farther on, a young deer, a spring-born fawn, looked steadily at him, twitched long ears, stamped a nervous hoof, then hoisted a white tail and bounded into the swamp. it was followed by two more fawns, which, in turn, were trailed by a pair of adult does. andy stood perfectly still. at this season, a buck should be with the does and he wanted to locate the buck. after a moment, he saw what he was looking for. off in the swamp grass was the barest ripple of motion, a phantom thing that at first seemed not even to exist. it was the craggy-horned old patriarch, the same beast that frosty had seen and that, later, had driven his smaller rival away. too smart to show himself in any open space, the old buck was sneaking, almost unseen, through grass that was tall enough to cover his back. but he had forgotten about his antlers, and now and again they showed. andy watched closely until the old buck was out of sight. every year, if for nothing except for winter meat, a buck was a necessity and this was far and away the biggest in the swamp. but he was also by far the wisest. andy had hunted him for the past three seasons and had managed only a couple of snap shots at him. the old buck refused to be driven from the swamp, and he was acquainted with every inch of that. he never panicked, seldom made an unwise move, and he knew all about hunters with firearms. andy bent his head against the wind and walked on. four weeks would bring another deer season and he intended to spend at least the first half of it matching wits with the old patriarch. if he couldn't get him, he'd take a smaller buck. he looked again at the rolling black clouds. he had heard no geese nor had he seen any, but it was goose weather and they should be down. nearing the slough where he hoped to find them, andy crouched so that his head was below the tops of the swamp grass. he knew the game he sought. not even the old buck was warier or harder to approach. when the boy saw the tops of some tamaracks that flanked the slough, he held the shotgun in his right hand and crawled. he advanced with almost painful slowness. a suspicious sound could warn geese as swiftly as an enemy in sight. the last twenty yards andy wriggled on his stomach. he looked through a fringe of swamp grass at the slough. more than twenty geese swam on it, but the sentry they'd posted had become suspicious and had alerted the others. positive that the geese had not seen him, and until now equally certain that they had not heard him, andy grinned his appreciation. he must have made some sound which possibly nothing except a wild goose could have detected, but his stalk was successful. well within range, all he had to do was stand up and get two of the flock when they took to the air. then his glance strayed across the slough and he muttered under his breath. one on a lower branch and one on an upper, two great horned owls sat in the same tamarack. andy muttered again. within easy range of wild geese, he might have at least two. but choosing them meant letting the owls go, and if he did, he might very well pay for his choice with a dozen or more muskrats. andy sighed. he leveled his shotgun, sighted on the topmost owl and squeezed the trigger. almost before the booming report died, he got the second owl with the other barrel. in a frantic haste, he ejected the two empty shells and slipped fresh ones in, but with a great flapping of wings, the geese were already airborne. andy sighed again and watched them go. he still might shoot, but he could no longer be certain of a kill and it was far better to let the geese escape than to wound one. andy turned dejectedly away from the slough. his swamp was not on one of the great flyways, down or up which, according to the season, waterfowl stream. only the strays alighted here, and some seasons they were very few. the boy shrugged and walked on. the two geese he had hoped to get would have provided his christmas and thanksgiving dinners--and several more besides. but the great horned owls were far too dangerous to be tolerated. andy longed for the freeze--up that would make his muskrats safe. * * * * * the next day, on a different slough, andy bagged two mallards out of a flock that beat hastily into the air before him, and the day after that he got two more. he plucked and dressed the ducks, wrapped each separately in flour sacking and hung it in his shed to freeze. these were the last of the waterfowl. if more came, he missed them. the weather, never very cold or very warm, dropped to a few degrees below freezing every night and climbed a few degrees above it every day. there were some more snow flurries and brittle shell ice formed on the edges of some ponds and sloughs. but, except in places that were shadowed all day long, both snow and ice melted under the noon sun. andy made ready for the trapping and small game season. an hour before dawn on opening day, he had breakfasted. he let frosty out, and with the shotgun under his arm, started off. his way led him into the hills, rather than the swamp, for this morning he intended to set fox traps and there were more foxes in the hills. black night was just shading into gray dawn when he threaded his path among a copse of scrub oak toward a huge stump that had supported a great pine but that was now a melancholy, moss- and lichen-covered relic. andy pawed aside some dead leaves that seemed to have blown into the stump and revealed his fox traps. along with a packsack, leather trapping gloves, a roll of canvas, a bottle of scent, trap stakes and even the hatchet used to drive the stakes, they had been in the stump all summer and no trace of human scent could possibly cling to them. before doing anything else, andy slipped his hands into the gloves. being careful to touch them with nothing except the gloves, he put eight traps, eight stakes, the roll of canvas, the hatchet and the bottle of scent into the packsack and shouldered it. the hills were cut with numerous tote roads over which, at one time, wagons loaded with timber had traveled. though some were brush-grown, most such roads remained open enough so that foxes en route from one place to another traveled them. approaching such a road, andy stopped. he unrolled his strip of canvas, walking on it as he did so. when he came to the middle of the road, he knelt to study the ground carefully. after he was sure he had memorized every tiny detail, he used the hatchet's blade to scoop a hole just big enough to hide a set trap. the surplus earth he scattered to either side. he started a stake through the trap ring and kept pounding until the top of the stake was level with its surroundings. then he replaced every leaf and every blade of grass exactly as it had been. andy took the bottle of scent from his pack, uncorked it and grimaced. the scent was a nauseous substance, composed of exactly measured portions of thoroughly rotted fish; the castor, or scent glands, of beaver; oil of asafetida and oil of wintergreen. its odor would shame the most formidable skunk, but foxes found it irresistible! andy put one drop on his set trap and, rolling up his canvas as he did so, walked backwards. in like manner, he set seven more fox traps. he hurried back toward the house, for he wanted to spend the afternoon in his swamp, but when a fat rabbit with a flashing white tail scooted before him, he shot it. he collected four more rabbits, the bag limit for one day. however, the possession limit was ten and rabbits were plentiful. if he froze these five and four more, he would still have one under the possession limit and, whenever he felt so inclined, he would be entitled to shoot a rabbit for his dinner. andy skinned and dressed his rabbits and hung them in the shed. after a hurried lunch, he exchanged his packs for boots and went into the swamp with mink traps. after reading sign in the few snows that had lingered after sunup, he had determined that there were sixteen mink in the swamp. if he took ten, there would still be enough to perform the necessary functions of such predators, such as catching sick rabbits that would otherwise spread disease and restocking the swamp next year. andy waded a winding little watercourse. he knew mink as inquisitive creatures that will investigate and, if possible, squeeze into every crack and crevice along their line of travel. on this knowledge he had based his plan for trapping mink without catching any muskrats, which also might travel the waterways. he set his traps at places which mink would investigate but muskrats were likely to avoid, and he baited each with a tiny bit of scent from the scent glands of mink trapped last year. on the way home, he shot two grouse and added them to his collection in the shed. thereafter, while the weather became neither very cold nor unduly warm, andy went into the hills every morning and into the swamp every afternoon. he added lustrous fox pelts to his cache in the fur shed, took the ten mink he wanted to catch in eight days and worried because the winter freeze was late. however, neither luke trull nor any extraordinary wave of natural predators had as yet attacked the muskrat colonies. the night before deer season opened, andy took his - from its rack and looked through the spotless bore. he put the rifle to his shoulder, squinted over the sights, and in imagination he was actually sighting on the great swamp buck. the next morning, he set out on what he was sure would be the hardest hunt of his life. * * * * * at first frosty was puzzled by and resentful of the strange madness that had suddenly come over his partner. he had gone once with andy into the swamp and once into the hills, and each time his companion had used his shotgun. though frosty did not mind the snap of a . , the blast of this great weapon was a tremendous shock to feline nerves. after the first discharge, he'd hoped that andy would never fire the shotgun again. after the second, he decided definitely that he would not be around if it were shot off any more. thereafter, when andy carried the shotgun, and he carried it every day, frosty took himself elsewhere. angry at first, feline philosophy came to frosty's aid. it was decidedly a madness--anyone who would make such a noise had to be insane--but sooner or later andy would regain his senses and they could take up their companionship where it had been broken off. frosty roamed the swamp, going where he wished and doing as he pleased, for he was very sure of himself and his own powers now. the night before deer season opened, he fed heartily on a rabbit, slept in a hollow log . . . and resumed prowling. just before daylight, he came upon the big buck. the fawns had long since been driven away to shift for themselves and one of the does had gone of her own free will. when the patriarch approached the remaining doe, she slashed viciously at him with a front hoof and ran a few steps. the second time he came near, she slashed again and disappeared in the swamp grass. still in the grip of the rutting season's urge, the angry buck scraped the ground with his antlers. frosty watched with interest. he had never met his superior. except for andy, he had never even met his equal, so he understood this enraged beast. the cat soft-footed to an aspen that grew in front of a ledge of rocks and gauged the exact distance to a crevice beneath the ledge. then he deliberately showed himself. at once the buck charged. frosty scrambled up the aspen and looked down contemptuously as the great creature raked the tree with his antlers, snorted and fell to scraping the earth with a front hoof. he reared--a move frosty had anticipated--and the black cat dug his nose with a single lightning-like thrust of his paw. then he leaped out of the tree and, with the buck pounding behind him, dodged into the crevice. snorting and puffing, the buck stamped angrily back and forth. he stopped and tried to edge an antler into the crevice. when his nose came near enough, frosty scratched it again. the buck, all fury, thought only of reaching and killing this insignificant thing that had dared defy him. for a time frosty amused himself by scratching the patriarch's nose every time it came within reach. then he withdrew to the rear of the crevice and went to sleep. the buck could not reach him, and while the furious beast stood guard, nothing else would try. frosty slept peacefully, wholly at ease. daylight had bloomed when he was awakened by footsteps. from their rhythm and cadence, he knew they were andy's. the cat waited. he'd be happy to meet his partner again, providing andy had left the shotgun home. then came a blast that outdid even the shotgun's and frosty crouched very quietly in his crevice. andy was still mad, the cat decided, for he was still going about making noises that could not possibly be tolerated by anything in its right mind. however, the buck had hit the ground very hard and very suddenly, and now it lay very still. frosty heard andy's amazed, "i'll be dog-goned! hunt _this_ buck for three years and then stumble right over him! wonder how he got his nose dug that way?" the war of the owls the next morning, knife in hand, andy knelt beside his big buck and expertly skinned out both hindquarters. frosty, entirely at ease as long as no rifles or shotguns were about, sat contentedly near and watched the proceedings with interest. slitting the tendons, andy tied a rope through each, slung the other ends of the ropes over a porch beam and made ready to hoist the carcass aloft and finish skinning. frosty slipped into his favorite hiding place under the porch and did not come out again. andy slackened the taut ropes and eased the buck down onto the floor. frosty was not precisely a watch dog, but the boy had learned to tell from the big cat's actions when something was coming. a little while later, jud casman appeared around a corner of the house. he was dressed for hunting, but not precisely in the costume which fashion magazines say the well-dressed hunter should wear. he wore wool trousers whose legs had been slit so that they might fit over knee-length rubber boots. it was a good, practical arrangement; snow and water would run down the trouser legs, rather than inside the boots. his upper torso was encased in a jacket over which he wore the cut-off upper half of some red woolen underwear. that, according to jud, both enabled other hunters to see him and made the jacket snug enough so that some loose end wasn't forever catching in the brush. his hat might have descended to jud from the first person ever to see the swamp. his rifle matched the costume. it was a muzzle-loader of a type generally associated with frontiersmen and indian fighters, and it was almost as long as jud was tall. a single shot, it had been handed down by jud's father, who in turn had obtained it from his father. the bore had been re-reamed and re-rifled so many times that now it cast a slug approximately the size of a small cannon ball. a lot of people had laughed at jud and his rifle, but on his side, jud snickered at those who needed a whole handful of cartridges when, as any child should know, one ball was plenty, if you put it in the right place. andy, who had seen jud pick the heads off squirrels and grouse and shoot flying geese, knew that jud killed whatever he shot at. he left no wounded creature to die in agony. jud eyed the big buck and expressed his opinion, "_hm-m._" andy said, "it's the big one." "give ya a heap of trouble?" "i walked right up to him," andy admitted. "he didn't even run." "i'll give ya a hand," jud offered. "just snug them ropes when i lift." jud leaned his rifle against the house. no big man, he lifted the -pound buck without visible strain or effort and andy tightened the ropes. saying not another word, jud picked up his rifle and went into the swamp. andy resumed his work, cutting with the knife point and pulling the loosened skin down around the carcass. since this was deer season, obviously jud was going into the swamp to get himself a deer. andy knew where there were some, but if jud had wanted advice, he'd have asked for it. andy skinned his buck down and severed the head as close to the scalp as possible. he grinned. some years ago, old man haroldson had taken a party deer hunting and among them they had shot five deer. when it came time to divide the venison, the hunters, with visions of choice steaks and roasts, had offered old man haroldson the five necks. he had accepted with alacrity, and ever since had been gleefully telling how he put one over on the city-slickers, for the neck was the best part of any deer, in his opinion. whether it was or not, andy thought, there was a lot of good meat in it. frosty came out from beneath the porch and again sat companionably close. he turned up his nose at a little chunk of venison andy threw him. able to take his choice of the finest viands in the swamp, frosty would accept second best only when he could not get first. andy looked with regret at the great antlers, a really fine trophy. but it cost money to have a deer head mounted, and he had no money to spare. he consoled himself with the thought that the antlers, sawed from the scalp and nailed over his door, would still look very nice. he split the carcass and made ready to separate it into the cuts he wanted. a half-hour later, out in the swamp, jud's rifle roared like a clap of thunder. looking disgusted, frosty departed to such peace and quiet as he might find under the porch. andy glanced toward the swamp. jud had shot. therefore he had his buck.... in another twenty minutes, he appeared with it. it was a fair-sized three-year-old. jud had slit the tendons in the hind legs, thrust the front ones through, fastened them with pegs, and was carrying his buck as andy would have carried a packsack. but, though the buck probably weighed pounds, jud was not laboring nor was he the least bit strained. he paused again beside the porch. "got one, huh?" andy greeted him. "yep." "nice one, too." "nice eatin'," jud grunted. "i take it you know they's owls in the swamp, andy?" "owls?" "cat owls," jud said. "i see six. i'd of shot some but i didn't know as you'd of wanted me to." "thanks, jud." "don't mention it," jud said politely. he departed with his buck and andy began to work furiously. "cat owl" was a local term for great horned owl, and if jud had seen six during the short time he'd been absent, they had not only invaded the swamp in force but their invasion had occurred since yesterday. andy nicked his finger, muttered to himself and continued to work feverishly. one owl in the swamp was a threat. six could mean only that game had already become scarce in other localities, and the owls were gathering in his swamp to find food. it was true that, in winter, much small game did seek a refuge in the swamp and, for that very reason, it had more than its winter-time quota of great horned owls and other predators. this early in the season, andy's muskrats must be the very lure that was attracting them. he had feared just such an invasion, and now he must fight it. he wrapped the venison in flour sacking, hung the portions in his shed and closed the door behind him. finished, he breathed a sigh of relief, took his . from its rack, filled the magazine, stuck a couple of extra boxes of cartridges in his pocket and started for the swamp. frosty, who shuddered at the sight of a shotgun but did not mind the . , came happily to join him. andy was rational again. they could take up their partnership where it had been broken off. tail erect and even whiskers seeming to quiver with joy, frosty trotted by andy's side. andy set a direct course for the nearest trees. he searched eagerly, hoping he would not find what he feared he would, and optimism leaped in his breast when he saw nothing. then an owl, a huge bird with a mighty spread of wings, labored up from a slough with a muskrat in its talons. andy leveled his rifle, holding it steady, even while he tried to conquer the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. compared to some other birds, the owls are not swift fliers and this one was furthered slowed by the burden it carried. it was possible to pick it out of the air with a rifle, but andy held his fire because, obviously, the owl intended to light in one of the trees. a sitting shot was not sporting, but there was no question of sport connected with this and a sitting shot was far more certain. the owl dipped gracefully toward a tree and andy followed with the rifle sights. at exactly the right moment, he squeezed the trigger. the vicious little rifle spat its leaden death and the owl dropped limply. he lay tumbled on the ground, talons still imbedded in the muskrat, when andy reached him. it was a grip of steel, so powerful that the boy had to use the point of his knife to disengage each talon separately. andy skinned the still-warm muskrat, knowing as he did so that the pelt would bring less than a good price because the owl's talons had pierced it. but it was something salvaged. the next owl was a dodging gray shape that winged erratically over the swamp grass, more than six hundred feet away. andy leveled his rifle, sighted and shot. he shot a second time . . . and a third. on the third shot, a gray feather detached itself from the bird and floated gracefully downwards. but the shot also warned the owl. he dipped out of sight. hearing something in the grass that interested him, frosty went to investigate. andy strode grimly toward the next grove of trees. he scored a clean miss on an owl perched in a tree, then brought down one in flight. quickly, he reloaded his little rifle. it was better than the shotgun for such hunting, partly because shotgun shells were so much more expensive and partly because the shotgun was limited in range. he would certainly have killed the owl in the tree had he had the shotgun, but probably he would have merely wounded the pair he had brought down and even owls deserved better than that. far off, hopelessly out of range, andy saw two owls in the hollow sycamore that overlooked the slough where the five muskrats lived. he stooped to crawl. when he was within rifle shot, he raised cautiously above the swamp grass--to see the sycamore empty. he muttered to himself. he did not think that he had frightened the owls, for they were incredibly bold. doubtless they'd gone off to hunt, and almost surely they were hunting muskrats. rising, andy walked to the hollow sycamore and cradled the rifle in the crook of his arm while he leaned against it. five minutes later, a muskrat emerged from an underwater burrow, surfaced and swam in little circles. only his head and back broke water. he regarded andy with beady little eyes. although less than ten feet away, the muskrat considered himself safe because he was in the water. the owl came so silently and so eerily that, somehow, it seemed to have materialized out of thin air. gliding over the slough, it took the swimming muskrat in both claws and never missed a wing beat as it flew on. andy gasped. he leveled the rifle and shot five times, but the gathering dusk made his aim uncertain and again he missed. andy's brain reeled. naturally ferocious, the raiding owls were ten times as fierce and ten times as dangerous as they ever were otherwise because they were also desperately hungry. this one must have seen andy, but the presence of an armed man had not prevented it from taking a muskrat that was not even a pebble's toss away. andy glared at the darkening sky, as though his fierce will to hold back the night and let him continue hunting owls would somehow grant time for so long. but approaching night would not be stopped, and he could do nothing before another morning. however, the owls could and would hunt. all night long the muskrats in the swamp would be at their mercy--and they had no mercy! andy trailed tiredly back to his house. he found frosty on the porch, let him in and nibbled at a supper for which he had neither taste nor desire. unless something came to his aid, he was ruined and he knew it. one man alone could not turn back the tide of owls. given one more week, they would take every muskrat from every slough. back in the swamp with daylight the next morning, andy shot two owls almost before night's curtain lifted. hunting, he got three more and missed four. then, shortly before noon, the wind began to scream. just before dusk, it lulled, and that night andy looked happily at his frosted windows. he had to go outside to read the thermometer, but he'd have walked five miles to discover that it was twelve degrees below zero. the following morning, every pond and every slough wore a safe armor of ice. * * * * * it was an extraordinary winter. neither mild nor severe, it skipped the usual january thaw completely and lingered on almost as it had started. except for the one severe cold snap that froze the swamp, the temperature dropped to zero or below only on a few scattered days. however, on two days alone did it climb into the fifties. most of the time it lingered at a few degrees below or a few above the freezing point. the customary snows did not fall. the deepest, only about three inches, came shortly before the temperature reached the fifties and much of it melted then. otherwise, there were only dustings of snow. thus, though there was tracking most of the time, snowshoes were never needed. for andy it was a wonderful, peaceful time, which was further distinguished by being the winter of the big bonanza. few of the town dwellers were so old-fashioned as to have coal furnaces. strictly in tune with modern trends, they used oil or gas. but the ways of the forefathers are not that easily forsaken, and, though the town dwellers also considered this strictly in keeping with progress, a great many of them wanted fireplaces. they served no practical purpose because their houses were always warm enough anyhow. but the fireplaces did fill a spiritual need, and having them, the townsmen wanted fuel to burn in them. naturally, nobody with a fireplace would consider burning anything except wood. a fuel-dealer in town had given the casman brothers an order for cords of fireplace wood, to be picked up at the casman farm and paid for at six dollars a cord. even though the same dealer was selling it in town for twelve dollars a cord, it was still a good deal. jud and ira, remembering that andy had invited them to participate in his muskrat ranch on a share basis, invited him to do the same with their wood. three men were needed for supplying the wood. the casmans had several acres of yellow birch which they wanted to clear for additional pasture anyhow, also the horses to haul the poles and the machinery for sawing them. the casmans were to keep one third of the payment. they would split the remaining two thirds three ways with andy. andy accepted happily, for he had already taken as many mink and fox pelts as he could safely take and leave enough for re-stocking. his trappings throughout the rest of the winter would have been confined to taking bobcats and weasels, upon both of which there was a bounty, and he'd have been lucky to earn one hundred dollars. since his muskrats were safe beneath the ice, a routine patrol sufficed for the swamp. he could do that on sunday. anyway, he liked to cut wood. for the first week, armed with razor-sharp axes that were kept that way by frequent honing, the three of them attacked the grove of yellow birch. then, while ira and andy set up the gasoline-powered buzz saw, ira used his own horses to drag the wood in to them. when they had enough to keep them busy for a while, he felled and trimmed more trees alone. except for sundays, which the casmans always observed, even though they did not do it in church, the trio worked hard every day from dawn to dusk. as a result, wood piled up fast. one afternoon, andy glanced at the sun, calculated that they could work at least one more hour and picked up one end of a birch pole, while ira took the other. co-ordinating their actions perfectly, for they had been working together a long while, they swung it into the cradle. ira had taken the saw end, and andy was just as happy. the whirling saw, kept as sharp as the axes, could scream its way through a twelve-inch tree in a couple of clock ticks--and through a man's hand in considerably less time! but ira, who had been handling the business end of a buzz saw ever since he'd been old enough to work, had yet to receive his first nick. the pair finished the log, took another, and at exactly the right time jud came in from the wood lot. the three of them worked to arrange the tumbled pile of wood in neat cords, eight feet long by four feet high, and so well did they know what they were doing that, by the time they were finished, it lacked only a few minutes of being too dark to work any more. ira solemnly regarded the results of their day's labor. "twenty mo' cords to go," he announced. "we finish early nex' week." "jest in time," jud said. "breakup's comin', an' them town folk won't want wood then." "how do you know the breakup's coming?" andy challenged him. "my rheumatiz changed." "twon't be much of a breakup," ira murmured. "ain't enough snow fo' that. i mistrust 'twill be a puny season' fo' crops, less'n we get a heap o' spring rains." "there'll be water in the swamp," andy said. "allus some theah," ira conceded. "how's yo' mushrats doin', andy?" andy hid his instinctive smile. he'd been working with the casmans all winter, and this was the first time either had asked about his muskrats. in the hills, a man's business was strictly his own. "i figure the owls cleaned out five colonies," andy said, "and probably got an animal or two from others. but since i've been able to walk on the ice, i've found seven colonies that i hadn't even known about. they're on little bits of slough arms that i couldn't even reach before." "any owls theah now?" "about the usual winter's supply. i haven't been shooting any since the freeze-up because they can't do any great damage. no sense in shooting anything at all for the sake of killing." "tha's right," jud agreed. "but won't they raise the dickens when the breakup comes?" "not too much," andy said. "birds will be coming back and everything else will move more. the owls will scatter. well, see you monday." "shuah thing," jud said gravely. "shuah thing," ira echoed. andy walked homeward and frosty met him. for the first week, the big cat had accompanied his partner to the wood lot and happily explored new country while trees were felled. but, though frosty did not mind the thudding of axes, he disliked the screeching buzz saw even more cordially than blasting rifles and shotguns. he was happy to stay near andy nights and to accompany him on sunday patrols into the swamp. they went together the next day, walking safely on ice and frozen earth. the five colonies that had been ravished--and andy was sure that owls had raided them--were easy to locate. the tops of all muskrat houses protruded above the ice that locked them in, but these five had fallen into disrepair and the winds were scattering them. all the rest of the houses were firm and sound. the next week, andy finished his job with the casmans and, just as jud had predicted, the breakup followed. it was no violent change but a soft and gentle thing. one day the temperature climbed to near-summer heights and remained there for three days. it wiped out the snow and presently it took the ice, too. because there had been little snow and not much spring run-off, except for the thaw, there was almost no change in the swamp. andy resumed his daily patrols. the owls were still present and, as andy discovered when one plucked a rabbit from under his very nose, still ravenous. but muskrats that had been ice-bound for weeks were frantic for a taste of fresh food. they swarmed out of dens and houses to dig in the mud for anything succulent. their very eagerness made them careless. andy shot a bobcat with a muskrat in its mouth, found where a great horned owl had taken one, and a fox another. but there was no great wave of predators immediately. another week elapsed before he knew definitely that something was seriously wrong. the sign left by digging muskrats was easy to see, and after a week, in eight separate colonies, there was not only no fresh sign but the houses were falling into disrepair. andy redoubled his efforts, going into the swamp with daylight and staying until dark. this predator was a complete mystery. it left neither tracks nor sign, and the only evidence that it had struck at all was another colony that no longer contained muskrats. andy, who had thought he knew everything there was to know about the swamp, gave up. he did not understand this, but joe wilson might be able to give him some good advice, for joe was very wise. an hour before dark, andy climbed the path leading to the road and struck out toward town. he had walked no more than half a mile when he saw a horseman coming toward him. it was luke trull, whose eyes were cold and whose smile was colder. he passed without speaking, but for a full two minutes andy stood rooted. then he turned slowly back toward his house. the trull-gates feud, with luke and himself as sole participants, was about to be renewed, for, in addition to his usual disreputable clothing, luke wore a muskrat-skin hat! deep sand ten minutes after andy left, frosty went into the swamp. he had his full growth now, and his twelve pounds were distributed perfectly over a near-perfect frame. lithe muscles were under exact control of a brain that, naturally fast, had been further sharpened by the dangers to which he had been exposed. because he was very sure of himself and what he could do, frosty disdained to hide from even the great horned owls, unless he felt like it. he would fight anything anywhere, if fighting seemed the wisest course. but he would hide, if hiding best served the ends he wanted to achieve. he was never guided by anything save his own intelligence, and he met each situation according to circumstances. not especially hungry, tonight he was in the mood to accept a tempting tidbit should one come his way. most of all, he wanted to wander and explore, for his feline curiosity never had been and never would be satisfied. no matter how many times he went into the swamp, he always found something new or some new aspect to something old. and he had prowled the swamp so much that, though the rabbit or muskrat that lived its whole life in one comparatively small area might know that area better than he, frosty grasped the over-all picture more completely than anything else. he knew the favorite grazing grounds, sleeping places and playgrounds of the deer. every muskrat colony--and frosty knew of two which even andy had not yet found--he had visited time after time and he was aware of the exact number of muskrats in each. he was acquainted with every mink, fox, bobcat, raccoon and coyote in the swamp, and he could go directly to their home dens or the place where each individual preferred to hunt. he knew the trees or copses of trees which the great horned owls preferred, and where the grouse were inclined to roost. frosty was familiar with those places where rabbits and mice were most abundant. he had trod every safe trail and visited most of the hiding places. knowing all this, the swamp still fascinated him because it was never static. there was always change, and, next to his partnership with andy, keeping aware and abreast of those changes was the most important business in frosty's life. the first night luke trull entered the swamp, frosty had known of his presence a half-hour later. luke's trespassing angered him greatly, and he still would harm the man if he could find a way to do so. he had not discovered the way, and it was far from prudent to attack even a hated man unless there was every chance of winning the fight. because he did want to discover what luke was about, frosty followed him until he knew his exact schedule. he habitually came just a few minutes after gray twilight shaded into deep night. invariably he entered the swamp by wading a shallow, hard-bottomed slough four hundred yards from andy's house. his equipment was always the same, five number one traps that he carried in his left hand and a club clutched in his right. an empty packsack hung loosely over his shoulders and there was a knife at his belt. he knew the safe trails so well that he needed no light to guide himself, but he carried a small flashlight to carry on his affairs, once he was within the swamp--and his affairs concerned the muskrat colonies. though he did not understand it, frosty had watched what he did there. when luke approached a colony, the muskrats were sure to be digging for bulbs in the bank. they always fled when he came, but they seldom went farther than the center of the pond or slough in which they lived. luke used his flashlight to see where they had been digging. then, depending on what he saw, he set one or more traps. the traps were strung on flexible wires, slipped through the ring in the chain. wooden pegs prevented their sliding off. luke cast one end of his wire into the slough or pond, tied the other to any convenient root, tree or shrub, set his traps and went to another colony. sometimes the muskrats came back as soon as luke left. sometimes they were cautious for an hour or more. but they always came and they were always trapped. when they were, they dived frantically into the water which, hitherto, had provided a safe refuge. the trap chain, sliding along the wire, was invariably stopped by the wooden peg. since no muskrat in trouble would ever think of turning toward land, they continued their efforts to get into the water until they drowned. coming back, luke picked up the drowned muskrats, placed them in the packsack, took his traps and was out of the swamp well before daylight. he had never taken more than five muskrats on any one night. but neither had he taken any less, and he had visited the swamp for seven consecutive nights. frosty expected him again tonight, but he was not particularly worried about the man's possible appearance because he could take care of himself. in the dark, he could always get out of any human's way. they never even seemed to know that he was around. the big cat faced into the brisk north wind. spring, showing her face briefly, had only wanted to tantalize the winter-weary. the wind was as cold as it had been most winter nights and there were a few snowflakes, but not enough to whiten the ground and retain tracks. undaunted by the cold wind, that could ruffle but not penetrate his thick fur, frosty gave his attention to a sound that was borne to his ears. the noise was made by a roosting bird that fluttered its wings as it changed position. it was not a bird that had been in the swamp last night. a venturesome robin, impatient to be away from the south and back at the all-important business of building a nest and rearing a family, had taken a chance on the weather. now, huddling miserably on a naked aspen, it was probably wishing it hadn't. searching in vain for warmth, the robin shifted again. grown a bit hungry, frosty stalked the tree. he advanced so artfully that few things would have taken fright, so it was not frosty's presence that launched the robin from its perch. it was the cold wind. the robin fluttered off into the darkness, to see if there might not be a warmer roost. always angry when a victim eluded him, frosty stood with one forepaw uplifted and lashed his tail. even though experience had taught him that there would be nights when all luck leaned on the side of whatever he hunted, stalking and missing always stung. he hunted to kill, he was satisfied with nothing else, and missing the robin seemed to intensify his hunger. frosty abandoned exploring in favor of determined hunting. he headed for a thicket in which several rabbits had wintered and crouched quietly beside a runway. he was hungry and growing hungrier, but he was also patient. he'd stay here for hours, if necessary, and sooner or later a rabbit would come along the runway. but he'd waited only minutes when one hopped toward him. tense and ready to spring, the black cat did not move. the rabbit was almost within springing distance when a great horned owl swooped to catch it. frosty spat his anger and leaped to attack, but the owl was airborne and he fell short by inches. there came the sounds of thumping feet as the other rabbits, finally aware of an enemy in their midst, told each other about it and sought the safety of burrows. frosty lashed his tail and glared. sooner or later, the rabbits would come out again. he would get one if he waited, but he was too hungry to wait. he set his course toward the high knob upon which the hollow sycamore grew. there were a few rabbits in the scrub there. frosty laid his ambush, waited, made a kill and started to eat. almost as soon as he began his meal, he stopped eating. his ears informed him that luke trull was coming. unwilling to abandon his hard-won dinner, frosty held perfectly still. luke set his traps, went on, and frosty finished eating. he washed himself thoroughly and felt a little sleepy. he'd have a nap before prowling any more, and since he was going to rest, he might as well do it out of the wind. the hollow sycamore, in which he'd slept several times, offered shelter. frosty padded to the hollow and entered. he halted abruptly when one of luke's muskrat traps snapped on his paw, but he did not panic. frosty touched the trap with his nose and he tried to take a bite from it. the steel was hard and unyielding; if he continued to bite it, he'd do nothing except shatter his jaws. therefore he would not bite. this was a time for planning. the pain, severe enough for anything at all, was ten times as excruciating to a cat's complex nervous system. frosty still refused to panic. he could not fight this thing, so he must outwit it. he looked at the water and shuddered, then he heard luke coming back. dragging the trap with him, frosty crawled into the sycamore. he crouched, and mounting fury served to counteract pain. luke reached the knob. his light flashed once and went out. frosty stayed quiet, hoping to escape detection by so doing. but if luke came near him, he would fight as hard and as viciously as he could. * * * * * andy walked slowly back to his house because there was no need to hurry. whatever he did from this point on--and he intended to do much--would be carried out in black night, and it still lacked a couple of hours until darkness. as he walked, andy saw almost everything in a clear light. he should have known, and he blamed himself for not knowing, that the mysterious predator could be none other than luke trull. he had been lulled into a false sense of security by luke's failure to come raiding all autumn and all winter. but he should also have known that, when he came, luke would strike at that time when muskrats were most valuable. he was nobody's fool, and naturally he would do his poaching at night. all this was so unbelievably simple that anyone should have figured it out. andy had not, but since he finally knew, the problem was far more complex than it appeared on the surface. he might, he supposed, go to the state police and say that he had seen luke trull wearing a muskrat-skin hat. the police would look at him, and each other, then they would consult their copy of the state game laws and point out that muskrat season was open to anyone who had a trapping license and it would be open for two weeks more. no doubt they would remember that he had had previous trouble with luke, and even on the far-fetched possibility that they took him seriously, no state trooper would stumble around anyone's swamp at night simply because the swamp's owner had seen someone wearing a muskrat-skin hat. there was only one way. turn time backwards for thirty years, and once again a gates and a trull would settle their differences in their own way. but andy knew that he must stop short of killing. murder, any way one considered it, was murder, and the law had no bearing on the fact that andy did not want another's blood on his hands. but he looked forward with savage joy to fighting. he would find luke, beat a confession out of him, and take him to the police himself. there were a number of reliable witnesses who knew that andy had bought the muskrats with which the swamp was stocked. if he found luke poaching, nothing else should be necessary. at the same time, andy felt the need for caution. luke was a clever person, a cunning schemer who weighed every action and made it count. why, when he saw andy coming, had he not taken off his hat and hidden it? was it his way of jeering? letting the hat speak for him, had he announced to andy that he, luke trull, was stealing muskrats and there was nothing andy could do about it? or did he want a meeting in the swamp? if so, why? luke, always willing to do anything at any time as long as it would turn a dollar for himself, seldom got into trouble. he knew the penalty for murder. it was inconceivable that he would come anywhere near risking that penalty. neither would he fight. but why had he not hidden the hat? andy walked on. luke's reasons for doing or not doing anything no longer made a difference. andy had to stop him or surrender to him, and he would not surrender. he thought again of his own lack, not exactly of foresight, but failure to act on foresight. luke had done exactly as andy had thought he'd do, and explored the swamp thoroughly while andy languished in jail. anybody who knew the trails could go into the swamp as easily by night as by day, and the muskrats had never been hurt by any human being. therefore, they did not fear humans. they'd be easy to trap. reaching his house, andy calmly and methodically unlaced his shoes, took them off, and pulled on rubber boots. he donned a wool jacket, a wool cap that came over his ears, and looked thoughtfully at the gun rack. andy turned away from it. there must be no killing, and in any fight, passion was apt to overcome good sense. what he had to do, he'd do with his fists. when darkness was complete, andy went into the swamp. his plan was simple. knowing every colony that still contained muskrats, he would visit each. if luke were in the swamp tonight, they'd meet. with only a brief glance at four-leaf and clover, since they were so near the house luke would know better than to bother them, andy went on to dead man's slough. he swerved to investigate some colonies in another part of the swamp and swung back. three hours later, a half-hour before midnight, he thought he saw a light. andy stopped in his tracks and fixed intent eyes on the place at which he thought the light had originated. for a second he turned his eyes away, then glanced back. there was no light now and perhaps there never had been any. his imagination could be playing tricks, but andy turned away from the course he'd set himself and went directly towards the high knob upon which the hollow sycamore grew. he thought he'd seen the light there, and there were still muskrats in that slough. nearing the high knob, he stopped to look and listen. but the north wind, still carrying a few snowflakes on its screaming wings, drowned all other noises and there was little light. very cautiously, andy continued to advance. he climbed the knob and leaned against a small aspen. there was a sudden, jarring pain in his head and a galaxy of bright lights danced before his eyes. he staggered, tried to hold himself up by gripping the aspen, and for a second he succeeded. presently he was aware of pain. andy opened bewildered eyes. the last he remembered, he had been holding onto an aspen and looking about. now he lay prone, hands and feet bound with wire, and a flashlight was shining in his face. somebody said something he could not hear and he closed his eyes. then he heard, "i thought ye'd come, gates." andy reopened his eyes to see luke trull, still wearing his disreputable clothing and the muskrat-skin hat, looking down at him. andy shivered. there was about luke the same lethal coldness that there is about a rattlesnake just before it strikes. luke spoke again, "ye hit me, gates." "let me loose, you fool!" luke grinned mirthlessly, and in the faint light his eyes seemed to glow. he said, "i wanted ye to know what was goin' to happen. tha's why i din' do it afore." "didn't do what?" "put ye in the slough." "they'll get you for it, luke." luke's grin widened. "ye know better'n that. ye know well's i do that more'n one man lies in these deep sand sloughs, my own pappy 'mongst 'em, an' a gates put him thar. ye allus mess 'round this swamp, an' what'll folks think when ye jest don't come out?" "you're putting your head in a noose!" "no i hain't, gates. no i hain't. an' ye did hit me. nobody hits luke trull an'," he chuckled, "i thought ye'd be in the swamp after ye saw my hat. how do you like it, gates? made it myself with two pelts f'om your swamp." "you're talking like an idiot!" "idiot? i got thirty fi' o' your mushrats so far an' fo' here," he indicated the packsack. "now i see that i got me 'nother in the hollow tree. i'll let ye see me pull it out an' kill it, gates, afore i roll ye in the slough an' let ye sink in the deep sand." he walked toward and bent near the hollow sycamore while andy made a mighty effort to loose his bonds. he strained, felt the flexible wire give, and knew that he could free himself. if he could only do it in time . . . he saw luke pull at the taut wire and heard a spitting snarl. fury incarnate, frosty came out of the hollow and sprang straight to luke's head. he clawed and scratched while he continued to spit. luke stood up, waved his hands like windmill blades, lost his footing, and tumbled backwards into the slough. andy gasped, continuing to strain at the wire that bound him, even while he remained unable to take his eyes from the drama being enacted before his eyes. the slough was quicksand, and as far as andy knew, it was bottomless. but a good swimmer, even a fully clothed one, who knew what he was doing could cross it safely. andy sighed in relief. luke was a good swimmer, and obviously he both realized his danger and knew what he was doing. only the muskrat-skin hat, leaving a trailing v-curl behind it, broke water as he dog-paddled very slowly and very cautiously. he would make it all right. the thing that came did so with uncanny silence. a great horned owl that had not been there a second before was there now, hovering over what could be nothing except a swimming muskrat. it struck, and rose with luke's hat in its talons. then it was gone. andy struggled frantically to free himself, but each second was an hour long and each minute a day. finally working bleeding hands from the wire, he loosed his legs and rose. the slough was empty, with not even a ripple to show that anything had ever been on it. after two minutes, andy turned toward frosty, who growled warningly but let his partner depress the trap spring and free his paw. frosty fell to cleaning himself. with a prayer in his heart, again andy searched the slough. but all he saw was a pair of swimming muskrats. at least two had survived, just as two must have survived in other sloughs. the muskrats paid no attention to death, for their function was life. they would build houses, dig dens, and eventually they would overspread the swamp. the muskrats dived and only bubbles rose. jim kjelgaard was born in new york city. happily enough, he was still in the pre-school age when his father decided to move the family to the pennsylvania mountains. there young jim grew up among some of the best hunting and fishing in the united states. he says: "if i had pursued my scholastic duties as diligently as i did deer, trout, grouse, squirrels, etc., i might have had better report cards!" jim kjelgaard has worked at various jobs--trapper, teamster, guide, surveyor, factory worker and laborer. when he was in the late twenties he decided to become a full-time writer. he has succeeded in his wish. he has published several hundred short stories and articles and quite a few books for young people. his hobbies are hunting, fishing, dogs, and questing for new stories. he tells us: "story hunts have led me from the atlantic to the pacific and from the arctic circle to mexico city. stories, like gold, are where you find them. you may discover one three thousand miles from home or, as in _the spell of the white sturgeon_, right on your own door step." and he adds: "i am married to a very beautiful girl and have a teen-age daughter. both of them order me around in a shameful fashion, but i can still boss the dog! we live in phoenix, arizona." =transcriber's notes:= hyphenation, spelling and grammar have been preserved as in the original page , scents a mink ==> scents. a mink page , the sora silent ==> the sora. silent page / , "carelessly dis carded" changed to "carelessly discarded" page , needn't,' jud" ==> needn't," jud page , proceedings unstrapping ==> proceedings. unstrapping page , the law a hillman ==> the law. a hillman page , pacs ==> packs page , that are better ==> that area better page , particulary ==> particularly page , the plan, severe ==> the pain, severe generously made available by internet archive (http://www.archive.org) note: images of the original pages are available through internet archive. see http://www.archive.org/details/elsieatviamede finl elsie at viamede * * * * * a list of the elsie books and other popular books by martha finley _elsie dinsmore._ _elsie's holidays at roselands._ _elsie's girlhood._ _elsie's womanhood._ _elsie's motherhood._ _elsie's children._ _elsie's widowhood._ _grandmother elsie._ _elsie's new relations._ _elsie at nantucket._ _the two elsies._ _elsie's kith and kin._ _elsie's friends at woodburn._ _christmas with grandma elsie._ _elsie and the raymonds._ _elsie yachting with the raymonds._ _elsie's vacation._ _elsie at viamede._ _elsie at ion._ _elsie at the world's fair._ _elsie's journey on inland waters._ _elsie at home._ _elsie on the hudson._ _elsie in the south._ _elsie's young folks._ _elsie's winter trip._ _elsie and her loved ones._ * * * * * _mildred keith._ _mildred at roselands._ _mildred's married life._ _mildred and elsie._ _mildred at home._ _mildred's boys and girls._ _mildred's new daughter._ * * * * * _casella._ _signing the contract and what it cost._ _the tragedy of wild river valley._ _our fred._ _an old-fashioned boy._ _wanted, a pedigree._ _the thorn in the nest._ * * * * * elsie at viamede by martha finley author of "elsie dinsmore," "the mildred books," "thorn in the nest," etc., etc., etc. new york dodd, mead & company publishers copyright, by dodd, mead & company. all rights reserved. elsie at viamede. chapter i. it was a beautiful evening at viamede: the sun nearing its setting, shadows sleeping here and there upon the velvety flower-bespangled lawn, and filling the air with their delicious perfume, the waters of the bayou beyond reflecting the roseate hues of the sunset clouds, and the song of some negro oarsmen, in a passing boat, coming to the ear in pleasantly mellowed tones. tea was over, and the family had all gathered upon the veranda overlooking the bayou. a momentary silence was broken by rosie's pleasant voice: "mamma, i wish you or grandpa, or the captain, would tell the story of jackson's defence of new orleans. now while we are in the neighborhood we would all, i feel sure, find it very interesting. i think you have been going over lossing's account of it, mamma," she added laughingly, "for i found his 'pictorial history of the war of ' lying on the table in your room, with a mark in at that part." "yes, i had been refreshing my memory in that way," returned her mother, smiling pleasantly into the dark eyes gazing so fondly and entreatingly into hers. "and," she added, "i have no objection to granting your request, except that i do not doubt that either your grandfather or the captain could do greater justice to the subject than i," glancing inquiringly from one to the other. "captain, i move that you undertake the task," said mr. dinsmore. "you are, no doubt, better prepared to do it justice than i, and i would not have my daughter fatigued with the telling of so long a story." "always so kindly careful of me, my dear father," remarked mrs. travilla in a softly spoken aside. "i am doubtful of my better preparation for the telling of the story, sir," returned the captain in his pleasant tones, "but if both you and mother are disinclined for the exertion i am willing to undertake the task." "yes, do, captain; do, papa," came in eager tones from several young voices, and lifting baby ned to one knee, elsie to the other, while the rest of the young members of the household grouped themselves about him, he began his story after a slight pause to collect his thoughts. "you all, i think, have more or less knowledge of the war of - , which finished the work of separation from the mother country so nearly accomplished by the war of the revolution. upon the close of that earlier contest, england, it is true, acknowledged our independence, but evidently retained a hope of finally recovering her control here. "all through the intervening years, our sailors on our merchant vessels, and even, in some instances, those belonging to our navy, were subjected to insults and oppression when met on the high seas by the more powerful ones of the english. the conduct of british officers--claiming the right to search our vessels for deserters from theirs, and often seizing american born men as such--was most gallingly insulting; the wrongs thus inflicted upon our poor seamen were enough to rouse the anger and indignation of the meekest of men. the clearest proofs of citizenship availed nothing; they were seized, carried forcibly aboard the british ships, and, if they refused to serve their captors, were brutally flogged again and again. "but i will not go into details with which you are all more or less acquainted. we did not lack abundant cause for exasperation, and at length, though ill prepared for the struggle, our government declared war against great britain. "that war had lasted two years; both parties were weary of the struggle, and negotiations for peace were being carried on in europe. in fact the treaty had been signed, december , in the city of ghent, belgium, but news did not travel in those days nearly so fast as it does now, and so it happened that the battle of new orleans was fought two weeks afterward, january , , both armies being still in ignorance of the conclusion of peace." "what a pity!" exclaimed grace. "and andrew jackson was the commanding general?" remarked walter in a tone between inquiry and assertion. "was he an american by birth, brother levis?" "yes; his parents were from ireland, but he was born on the border between north and south carolina, in ; so that he was old enough to remember some of the occurrences of the revolutionary war; one of them being himself carried to camden, south carolina, as a prisoner, and there nearly starved to death and brutally treated by a british officer; cut with a sword because he refused to black his boots for him." "was that so, sir?" queried walter. "well, i shouldn't wonder if the recollection of all that made him more ready to fight them in the next war, particularly at new orleans, than he would have been otherwise." "no doubt," returned the captain. "jackson was a man of great energy, determination, and persistence. it is said his maxim was, 'till all is done nothing is done.' in may of he was made a major-general in the regular army and appointed to the command of the department of the south, the seventh military district, with his headquarters at mobile, of which the americans had taken possession as early as april, . "jackson's vigilance was sleepless. the spanish had possession of pensacola, and, though professing neutrality, were secretly favoring the british. of this jackson promptly informed our government, but at that time our war department was strangely apathetic, and his communication was not responded to in any way. "but he had trusty spies, both white and dark-skinned, everywhere, who kept him informed of all that was taking place in the whole region around. he knew that british marines were allowed to land and encamp on shore; that edward nichols, their commander, was a guest of the spanish governor, and the british flag was unfurled over one of the forts. also, that indians were invited to enroll themselves in the service of the british crown, and that nichols had sent out a general order to his soldiers, and a proclamation to the people of kentucky and louisiana, announcing that the land and naval forces at pensacola were only the van of a far larger number of vessels and troops which were intended for the subjugation of louisiana and especially the city of new orleans. "jackson arrived in that city on the d of december, and prepared to defend it from the british, whom he had driven out of florida. they had planned to take the lower mississippi valley, intending to keep possession of the western bank of the river. they had among them some of the finest of wellington's troops, who, but a short time before, had been engaged in driving napoleon out of europe. "in december, , men under the command of sir edward packenham, brother-in-law of wellington, were landed below new orleans. they had come from jamaica across the gulf of mexico. their expedition was a secret one, and they approached new orleans midway between mobile bay and the mississippi river, entering lake borgne and anchoring there. "a small american navy, composed of five gunboats, opposed their progress, but was soon dispersed by their superior force of fifty vessels, large and small. then the british took full possession of the lake, and landed troops upon a lonely island called the isle des pois (or pea island). "some spaniards, who had formerly lived in new orleans, told cochrane of bayou bienvenu, at the northwestern extremity of lake borgne, by which he could nearly reach the city, the bayou being navigable for large barges to within a few miles of the mississippi river. "a party was sent to explore it, and found that by following it and a canal they would reach a spot but half a mile from the river and nine miles below the city. "they hurried back to cochrane with a report to that effect, and by the d of december half of the army had reached the spot. "a few months before--september st--the british sloop of war _sophia_, commanded by captain lockyer, had sailed from pensacola with despatches for jean lafitte, inviting him and his band to enter the british service." "lafitte! who was he, brother levis?" queried walter. "a frenchman," replied the captain, "who, with his elder brother, pierre, had come to new orleans some six years before. they were blacksmiths, and for a time worked at their trade; but afterward they engaged in smuggling, and were leaders of a band of corsairs, seizing, it was said, merchantmen of different nations, even some belonging to the people of the united states, and for that they were outlawed, though there was some doubt that they were really guilty. but they carried on a contraband trade with some of the citizens of louisiana, smuggling their wares into new orleans through bayou teche, or bayou lafourche and barataria lake. that had brought them into trouble with the united states authorities, and the british thought to get the help of the buccaneers in their intended attack upon the city, where pierre lafitte was at that time a prisoner. "captain lockyer carried to jean a letter from colonel nichols offering him a captain's commission in the british navy and $ , , and to his followers exemption from punishment for past deeds, indemnification for any losses, and rewards in money and lands, if they would go into the service of england's king. "lockyer also brought another paper, in which they were threatened with extermination if they refused the offers in the first." "were they frightened and bribed into doing what the british wished, sir?" asked walter. "no," replied the captain; "they seized captain lockyer and his officers, and threatened to carry them to new orleans as prisoners of war; but lafitte persuaded them to give that up, and they released the officers. lafitte pretended to treat with them, asking them to come back for his reply in ten days, and they were permitted to depart. "after they had gone, he wrote to a member of the legislature telling of the visit of the british officers, what they had said to him and his men, and sending with his letter the papers captain lockyer had left with him. he also offered his own and his men's services in defence of the city, on condition that past offences should never be brought up against them. "troops were badly needed in the american army, and governor claiborne was inclined to accept lafitte's offer; but the majority of his officers were opposed to so doing, thinking the papers sent were forgeries, and the story made up to prevent the destruction of the colony of outlaws, against whom an expedition was then fitting out. lafitte knew of the preparations, but supposed they were for an attack upon the british. they, the members of the expedition, made a sudden descent upon barataria, captured a large number of lafitte's men, and carried them and a rich booty to new orleans. "some of the baratarians escaped, jean and pierre lafitte among them. they soon collected their men again near the mouth of bayou lafourche, and after general jackson took command in new orleans, again offered their services, which jackson accepted, sending a part to man the redoubts on the river, and forming of the rest a corps which served the batteries with great skill. "in his letter at the time of sending information with regard to the attempt of the british to bribe him to enter their service, jean lafitte said: 'though proscribed in my adopted country, i will never miss an occasion of serving her, or of proving that she has never ceased to be dear to me.'" "there!" exclaimed lulu with enthusiasm, "i don't believe he was such a very bad man, after all." "nor do i," her father said with a slight smile; then went on with his story. "early on the th of december, jackson, hearing of the capture of the gunboats, immediately set to work to fortify the city and make every possible preparation to repulse the expected attack of the enemy. he sent word to general winchester, in command at mobile, to be on the alert, and messengers to generals thomas and coffee urging them to hasten with their commands to assist in the defence of the city. "then he appointed, for the th, a grand review of all the troops in front of the cathedral of st. louis, in what is now jackson square, but at that time was called place d'armes. "all the people turned out to see the review. the danger was great, the military force with which to meet the foe small and weak, but jackson made a stirring address, and his aide, edward livingston, read a thrilling and eloquent one. "they were successful in rousing both troops and populace to an intense enthusiasm, taking advantage of which, jackson declared martial law and a suspension of the writ of _habeas corpus_." "what is that, papa?" asked grace. "it is a writ which in ordinary times may be given by a judge to have a prisoner brought before him that he may inquire into the cause of his detention and have him released if unlawfully detained. it is a most important safeguard to liberty, inherited by us from our english ancestors." "then what right had jackson to suspend it, sir?" queried walter. "a right given by the constitution of the united states, in which there is an express provision that it may be suspended in cases of rebellion or invasion, should the public safety demand it," replied the captain: then resumed his narrative. "after the review, jean lafitte again offered his own services and those of his men, urging their acceptance, and they were mustered into the ranks and appointed to important duty. "jackson showed himself sleeplessly vigilant and wonderfully active, making every possible preparation to meet and repulse every coming foe. "on the evening of the d, the schooner _carolina_, one of the two armed american vessels in the river, moved down and anchored within musket shot of the centre of the british camp. half an hour later she opened a tremendous fire upon them from her batteries, and in ten minutes had killed or wounded a hundred or more men. the british answered with a shower of congreve rockets and bullets, but with little or no effect, and in less than half an hour were driven in confusion from their camp. "they had scarcely recovered from that when they were startled by the sound of musketry in the direction of their outposts. some prisoners whom general keane had taken told him there were more than , troops in new orleans, and he now felt convinced that such was the fact. he gave thornton full liberty to do as he would. "thornton moved forward and was presently met by a column under jackson. there was some fierce fighting, and at length the british fell sullenly back. about half past nine the fighting was over; but two hours later, when all was becoming quiet in the camp, musket firing was heard in the distance. some drafted militia, under general david morgan, had heard the firing upon the _carolina_ early in the evening, insisted upon being led against the enemy, and on their way had met some british pickets at jumonsville and exchanged shots with them. by that advance against the foe, jackson had saved new orleans for the time, and now he set vigorously to work to prepare for another attack, for he knew there would be another. also, that the men who were to make it were fresh from the battlefields of europe--veteran troops not likely to be easily conquered or driven away. he omitted nothing which it was in his power to do for the defence of the city, setting his soldiers to casting up intrenchments along the line of the canal from the river to cypress swamp. they were in excellent spirits, and plied their spades with such energy and zeal that by sunset a breastwork three feet high might be seen along the whole line of his army. "the american troops were quite hilarious on that christmas eve, the british soldiers gloomy and disheartened, having lost confidence in their commander, keane, and finding themselves on wet ground, under a clouded sky, and in a chilly atmosphere; but the sudden arrival of their new commander, sir edward packenham, in whose skill and bravery they had great confidence, filled them with joy. "but while the americans were at work preparing for the coming conflict, the foe were not idle; day and night they were busy getting ready a heavy battery with which to attack the _carolina_. on the morning of the th, they had it finished, began firing hot shot upon her from a howitzer and several twelve and eighteen pounders, and soon succeeded in setting her on fire, so that she blew up. "it was a tremendous explosion, but fortunately her crew had abandoned her in time to escape it. the _louisiana_, who had come down to her aid, was near sharing her fate, but, by great exertion on the part of her crew, she was towed out of reach of the enemy's shot, anchored nearly abreast of the american camp, on the other side of the river, and so saved to take a gallant part in the next day's fight. packenham next ordered his men to move forward and carry the intrenchments of the americans by storm. they numbered , and toward evening the two columns, commanded respectively by generals gibbs and keane, obeyed that order, moving forward, driving in the american pickets and outposts, and at twilight they encamped, some of them seeking repose while others began raising batteries near the river. "the americans, however, kept them awake by quick, sharp attacks, which the british called 'barbarian warfare.'" "barbarian warfare, indeed!" sniffed walter. "i wonder if it was half so barbarous as what they employed the indians to do to our people." "ah, but you must remember that it makes a vast difference who does what, walter," laughed rosie. "oh, yes, of course," returned the lad; and captain raymond went on with his story. "jackson was busy getting ready to receive the enemy: watching their movements through a telescope, planting heavy guns, blowing up some buildings that would have interfered with the sweep of his artillery, and calling some louisiana militia from the rear. by the time the british were ready to attack, he had men and twenty pieces of artillery ready to receive them. also the _louisiana_ was in a position to use her cannon with effect in giving them a warm reception. "as soon as the fog of early morning had passed away, they could be seen approaching in two columns, while a party of skirmishers, sent out by gibbs, were ordered to turn the left flank of the americans and attack their rear. "just then a band of rough looking men came down the road from the direction of the city. they were baratarians, who had run all the way from fort st. john to take part in the fight, and jackson was delighted to see them. he put them in charge of the twenty-four pounders and they did excellent service. "next came the crew of the _carolina_, under lieutenants norris and crawley, and they were given charge of the howitzer on the right. a galling fire of musketry fell upon the british as they advanced in solid column, then the batteries of the _louisiana_ and some of jackson's heavy guns swept their lines with deadly effect, one of the shots from the _louisiana_ killing and wounding fifteen men. the british rocketeers were busy on their side, too, but succeeded in inflicting very little damage upon the americans. "but i must leave the rest of the story for another time, for i see we are about to have company," concluded the captain, as a carriage was seen coming swiftly up the driveway. it brought callers who remained until the hour for the retiring of the younger ones among his hearers. chapter ii. the next evening the viamede family were again gathered upon the veranda, and, at the urgent request of the younger portion, seconded by that of the older ones, the captain resumed the thread of his narrative. "keane's men," he said, "could no longer endure the terrible fire that was so rapidly thinning their ranks, and they were presently ordered to seek shelter in the little canals, where, in mud and water almost waist deep, they leaned forward, concealing themselves in the rushes which grew on the banks. they were wellington's veterans, and must have felt humiliated enough to be thus compelled to flee before a few rough backwoodsmen, as they considered jackson's troops. "in the meantime, gibbs and rennie were endeavoring to flank the american left, driving in the pickets till they were within a hundred yards of carroll and his tennesseeans. carroll perceived their object and sent colonel henderson with tennesseeans to cut rennie off from the main body of the enemy by gaining his rear. henderson went too far, met a large british force, and he and five of his men were killed and several wounded. but gibbs, seeing how hard the fight was going with keane, ordered rennie to fall back to his assistance. rennie reluctantly obeyed, but only to be a witness of keane's repulse. packenham, deeply mortified by the unexpected disaster to his veterans, presently ordered his men to fall back, and retired to his headquarters at villere's." "had he lost many of his men that day, sir?" queried walter. "the british loss in the engagement is said to have been about one hundred and fifty," replied captain raymond; "that of the americans nine killed and eight wounded. packenham called a council of war, at which it was resolved to bring heavy siege guns from the navy and with them make another attempt to conquer the americans and get possession of the city, which packenham now began to see to be by no means the easy task he had at first imagined. he perceived that it was difficult, dangerous, and would require all the skill of which he was master; that his movements must be both courageous and persevering if he would save his army from destruction. "jackson, too, was busy with his preparations, extending his line of intrenchments, placing guns, establishing batteries, and appointing those who were to command and work them. "a company of young men from the best families, under captain ogden, were made his body-guard and subject to his orders alone. they were posted in macarte's garden. "everybody was full of enthusiasm, active and alert. particularly so were the tennessee riflemen; they delighted in going on 'hunts,' as they called expeditions to pick off the sentinels of the enemy. so successful were they in this kind of warfare on jackson's left, very near the swamp, that soon the british dared not post sentinels there. they (the british) threw up a strong redoubt there which captain you and lieutenant crawley constantly battered with heavy shot from their cannon; but the british persevered, and by the end of the month had mounted several heavy guns, with which, on the st, they began a vigorous fire upon the americans. "that night the whole of the british army moved forward to within a few hundred yards of the american lines, and in the gloom, began rapid work with spade and pickaxe. they brought up siege guns from the lake, and before dawn had finished three half-moon batteries at nearly equal distances apart, and six hundred yards from the american line. "they (the batteries) were made of earth, hogsheads of sugar, and whatever else could be laid hold of that would answer the purpose. upon them they placed thirty pieces of heavy ordnance, manned by picked gunners of the fleet, who had served under nelson, collingwood, and st. vincent. "that morning was the st of january, . a thick fog hid the two armies from each other until after eight o'clock. then a gentle breeze blew it aside, and the british began firing briskly upon the american works, doubtless feeling sure they would presently scatter them to the winds, and that their own army, placed ready in battle array, would then rush forward, overpower the americans, and take the city. "heavier and heavier grew their bombardment; the rocketeers sent an incessant shower of fiery missiles into the american lines and upon jackson's headquarters at macarte's, more than a hundred balls, shells, and rockets striking the building in the course of ten minutes. he and his staff immediately left the house, and in the meantime he had opened his heavy guns on the assailants. "the british were amazed to find heavy artillery thundering along the whole line, and wondered how and where the americans had got their guns and gunners. "it was a terrible fight. packenham sent a detachment of infantry to turn the american left, but they were driven back in terror by the tennesseeans under coffee. after that, the conflict was between the batteries alone, and before noon the fire of the british had sensibly abated. then they abandoned their works and fled helter-skelter to the ditches for safety; for their demi-lunes were crushed and broken, the hogsheads, of which they were largely composed, having been reduced to splinters and the sugar that had filled them mixed with the earth. some of their guns were dismounted, others careened so that it was very difficult to work them, while the fire of the americans was still unceasing. at noon, as i have said, they gave up the contest. that night they crawled back and carried away some of their cannon, dragging them with difficulty over the wet ground, and leaving five of them a spoil to the americans. "they (the british) were deeply chagrined by their repulse, had eaten nothing for sixty hours, nor had any sleep in all that time, so that their new year's day was even gloomier than their christmas had been. "the americans, on the other hand, were full of joy that they had been able to repulse their own and their country's foes; and their happiness was increased by the news that they were soon to have a re-enforcement, brigadier-general john adair arriving with the glad tidings that drafted militia from kentucky were coming to their assistance. these arrived on the th of the month, and of them were sent to the front under adair. "packenham had lost some of his confidence in the ability of himself and his troops to conquer the americans, but hoped to be more successful in a new effort. he decided to try to carry jackson's lines on both sides of the river. he resolved to rebuild his two batteries near the levee, which had been destroyed by the americans, mount them well, and employ them in assailing the american right, while keane, with his corps, was to advance with fascines to fill the ditches, and scaling ladders with which to mount the embankments. "but first infantry, with some artillery, were to be sent under cover of night to attack morgan, whose works were but feebly manned, and, getting possession, enfilade jackson's line, while the main british army attacked it in front. "all the labor of completing these arrangements was finished on the th, and the army, now , strong, was in fine spirits, no doubt thinking they had an easy task before them. but jackson saw through their designs, and was busily engaged in making his preparations. he had thrown up a redoubt on the edge of the river, and mounted it with cannon so as to enfilade the ditch in front of his line. he had, besides, eight batteries at proper distances from each other, and patterson's marine battery across the river, mounting nine guns; also the _louisiana_ near at hand and ready to take any part she could in assisting him. "the plain of chalmette was in front of jackson's line. his whole force on the new orleans side of the river was about ; only of them were at his line; only of them were regulars, most of them being new recruits commanded by young officers. "the british attempted to carry out packenham's plans, but thornton was delayed in reaching morgan by the falling of the water in the canal and river, so that the sailors had to drag the boats through the mud in many places, and it was three o'clock in the morning before half his force had crossed. besides, the powerful current of the mississippi carried them down stream, and they were landed at least a mile and a half below the point at which they had intended to disembark, and the roar of the cannon on the plain of chalmette was heard before all had landed. the british had formed in line and advanced to within yards of the american intrenchments, and there, under gibbs and keane, they stood in the darkness, fog, and chilly air, listening for the boom of thornton's guns. "the time must have seemed long to them, and doubtless they wondered what delayed him. but day began to dawn, the red coats of the enemy could be dimly seen by our troops through the fog, and lieutenant spotswood, of battery no. , opened the battle by sending one of his heavy shots in among them. "the fog rolled away, and the british line was seen extending two-thirds of the distance across the plain of chalmette. a rocket was sent up from each end of the line and it broke into fragments, the men forming into columns by companies. then gibbs moved forward toward the wooded swamp, his troops, as they advanced, terribly pelted by the fire of the americans, the batteries nos. , , and pouring shot incessantly into their line, making lanes through it. "some sought shelter from the storm behind a projection of the swamp into the plain; but in vain. whole platoons were prostrated, but their places were instantly filled by others. "the company who were to have brought the fascines and scaling ladders had forgotten them, and that, with the terrible fire of the american batteries, wrought some confusion in the ranks; but they pressed on bravely, cheering each other with loud huzzas, their front covered by blazing rockets. as rank after rank fell under the fire of the americans, their places were instantly occupied by others, and the column pushed on toward the american batteries on the left and the weaker line defended by the kentuckians and the tennesseeans. "those british troops were wellington's veterans who had fought so bravely in europe, and now, in spite of the awful slaughter in their ranks, they moved unflinchingly forward, without pause or recoil, stepping unhesitatingly over their fallen comrades, till they were within two hundred yards of our lines, when general carroll's voice rang out in clear, clarion tones, 'fire!' and, at the word, the tennesseeans rose from behind their works, where they had lain concealed, and poured in a deadly fire, each man taking sure aim, and their bullets cutting down scores of the enemy. "then, as the tennesseeans fell back, the kentuckians stepped quickly into their places and poured in their fire with equally deadly aim; then another rank followed, and still another, so that the fire slackened not for a moment, while at the same time grape and round shot from the batteries went crashing through the british ranks, making awful gaps in them. "it was enough to appall the stoutest heart, and their lines began to waver; but their officers encouraged them with the cry, 'here comes the forty-fourth with the fascines and the ladders!'" "papa, what are fascines?" asked grace. "long faggots used for different purposes in engineering," he replied. "it was true they were coming with them, packenham at their head, encouraging his men by stirring words and deeds; but presently a bullet struck his bridle arm, and his horse was shot under him. he quickly mounted a pony belonging to his favorite aid, but another shot disabled his right arm, and, as his pony was being led away to the rear, another passed through his thigh, killed the horse, and he and it fell to the ground together. he was carried to the rear and placed under an oak, where he soon died in the arms of sir duncan mcdougall, the aid who had resigned the pony to him. "other officers fell, till there were not enough to command. general keane was shot through the neck, and the wound compelled him to leave the field. general gibbs was mortally wounded and died the next day. major wilkinson, who then took command, fell on the parapet, mortally wounded; then the british fled in wild confusion." "but they had been very brave," remarked grace. "what a pity it was that they had to fight in such a bad cause. were there very many of them killed, papa?" "yes, a great many. of a regiment of brave highlanders, with twenty-five officers, only nine officers and one hundred and thirty men could be mustered after the terrible fight was over. another regiment had lost five hundred men. "while this fighting had been going on, another of their divisions of nearly one thousand men, led by colonel rennie, attacked an unfinished redoubt on jackson's right and succeeded in driving out the americans there, but could not hold it long, being terribly punished by humphreys' batteries and the seventh regiment. yet rennie succeeded in scaling the parapet of the american redoubt. beale's new orleans rifles poured such a tempest of shot upon the officers and men in the redoubt that nearly every one was killed or wounded. rennie, who had just shouted, 'hurrah, boys! the day is ours!' fell mortally wounded. "and now this attacking column also fell back, and by hastening to the plantation ditches, sought shelter from the terrible tempest of shot and shell coming from jackson's lines. "general lambert with his troops tried to come to the aid of packenham, gibbs, and keane, but was able only to cover the retreat of their vanquished and flying columns." "and the victory was won then, papa?" queried lulu. "yes, though the battle had lasted but a short time; by half past eight a. m. the musketry fire had ceased, though the artillery kept theirs up till two o'clock in the afternoon." "were both americans and british playing their national airs while the fight was going on, sir?" asked walter. "the british had no music but a bugle," replied the captain, "not even a drum or a trumpet; but all through the fight, from the time they sent up their first signal rocket, the new orleans band was stationed near the spot where the american flag was flying, playing national airs to cheer and animate our soldiers." "were not the british rather more successful in another part of the field, captain?" asked eva. "yes," he replied; "in their attack upon the troops on the right bank of the river, they being only militia and few in number; also fatigued and poorly armed. morgan, their commander, was compelled to spike his cannon and throw them into the river, his men being driven from their intrenchments. "then thornton, his assailant, pushed on to patterson's battery, three hundred yards in the rear, and patterson, threatened by a flank movement also, was compelled to spike his guns and flee on board of the _louisiana_, his sailors helping to get her out of the reach of the foe. "but thornton soon heard of the disasters of his comrades on the other side of the river, and received orders to rejoin them. jackson had sent four hundred men to re-enforce morgan, but there was now no need of their services. thornton re-embarked his troops at twilight, the americans repossessed themselves of their works, and patterson removed the spikes from his guns, put his battery in better position, and at dawn informed jackson of what he had done by heavy firing upon the british outposts at bienvenu's. "in that battle of january , , the british had lost twenty-six hundred men, seven hundred killed, fourteen hundred wounded, and five hundred made prisoners; while the americans had only eight killed and thirteen wounded. lossing tells us, 'the history of human warfare presents no parallel to this disparity in loss.' "in thornton's attack, the british loss was a little more than one hundred; the american, one killed and five wounded. on that side of the river the british secured their only trophy of their efforts to capture new orleans. so lossing tells us, adding, 'it was a small flag, and now [ ], hangs conspicuously among other war trophies in whitehall, london, with the inscription: "taken at the battle of new orleans, january , ."'" "that looks as though our british cousins must esteem it quite a triumph to be able to succeed in taking anything from uncle sam," laughed rosie. "yes," said walter, "i think they compliment us by making so much of that one little trophy." "so do i," said lulu. "papa, is that the end of your story?" "no, not quite," replied the captain. "after the battle had come to an end, jackson and his staff passed slowly along his whole line, speaking words of congratulation and praise to his brave troops, officers and men. then the band struck up 'hail columbia,' and cheer after cheer for the hero went up from every part of the line. the citizens also, who had been anxiously and eagerly watching the battle from a distance, joined in the cheering. then, after refreshing themselves with some food (doubtless having gone into the battle without waiting to eat their breakfast), the soldiers set to work to bury the dead of the enemy in front of jackson's lines, and take care of the wounded. "general lambert sent a flag of truce asking for an armistice in order to bury his dead, and jackson granted it on condition that the british should not cross to the right bank of the river. "the next morning, detachments from both armies were drawn up in front of the american lines, at a distance of three hundred yards, then the dead bodies between that point and the intrenchments were carried by the americans upon the very scaling ladders left there by the british, and delivered to them. they were buried on bienvenu's plantation, and, as lossing tells us, the graves were still there undisturbed when he visited the spot in . he says also that it is regarded with superstitious awe by the negroes in the neighborhood. "the wounded who had been taken prisoners were carried to the barracks in new orleans and tenderly cared for by the citizens. some of the dead british officers were buried that night by torch light in the garden at villere's; the bodies of others, among whom were packenham, rennie, and gibbs, were sent to their friends in england." the captain paused, and violet said playfully, "i fear we are fatiguing you, my dear; suppose you leave the rest of your story for another time." "and that we have some music now," added her mother, a suggestion which was immediately adopted, the whole party adjourning to the parlor. chapter iii. the captain opened the piano and glanced smilingly at his young wife. but violet shook her head playfully. "i think mamma should be the player to-night," she said. "she has scarcely touched the piano for months, and i am really hungry to have her do so." "will you give us some music, mother?" queried the captain, offering to lead her to the instrument. "yes," she returned laughingly. "i could never wilfully allow my daughter to suffer from hunger when in my power to relieve it." "patriotic songs first, please, mamma," entreated walter, as she took her seat before the instrument. "i do believe we all feel like singing 'hail, columbia!' and the 'star-spangled banner.' at least i do, i am sure." "i presume we are all in a patriotic frame of mind to-night," she returned, giving him a smile of mingled love and pride as she struck a chord or two, then dashed off into "yankee-doodle-dandy," with variations. "hail columbia!" and "star-spangled banner" followed, old and young uniting together with enthusiasm in singing the patriotic words, but still other voices were unexpectedly heard joining in on the concluding strains: "that star-spangled banner, oh, long may it wave o'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!" "oh, cousin molly and mr. embury! dick, too! and betty!" cried violet, hurrying with outstretched hand toward the doorway into the hall, where the cousins stood in a little group looking smilingly in upon them. "come in; i am delighted to see you." the invitation was promptly accepted, and for the next few minutes there was a tumultuous exchange of joyous greetings. dr. percival and his half brother, robert johnson, had been spending some months together in europe, their sister betty visiting friends in natchez through the winter, and only that morning the three had returned to magnolia hall, where betty had a home with her sister molly, and the brothers were always welcome guests. presently all were seated and a very animated conversation ensued, the newly arrived having much to tell and many inquiries to make concerning absent friends and relatives. after a little it came out that betty was engaged and shortly to be married, provided "uncle horace" was satisfied with regard to the suitableness of the match, of which no one acquainted with the reputation, family, and circumstances of the favored lover, felt any doubt. it was a love match on both sides; the gentleman, an american, engaged in a lucrative business, of irreproachable character and reputation, pleasing appearance and manners, in fact, all that could reasonably be desired, assured of which, mr. dinsmore gave a prompt consent, adding his warm congratulations, which betty accepted with blushes and smiles. "i was not unprepared for this, betty," he said with a smile, "having received a letter from the gentleman himself, asking for the hand of my niece, miss johnson." "o betty, how nice!" cried rosie with a gleeful laugh, and softly clapping her hands. "when is it to be? i hope before we leave for the north, for i, for one, want to see what a pretty bride you will make, and i dare say mr. norris, your favored suitor, feels in as great haste as i." "i am quite aware that i have no beauty to boast of, coz," laughed betty, "but i believe it's a conceded point that a woman always looks her best at such a time, and in bridal attire. however that may be, though, i shall want you all present, so i will hurry my preparations in order that the great event may take place while you are here to have a share in it. by the way, i have laid my plans to have three bridesmaids and several maids of honor, and i have planned that they shall be my three young friends, cousin rosie travilla, evelyn leland, and lucilla raymond," glancing from one to another as she spoke, then adding, "now don't decline, any one of you, for i shall be mortally offended if you do." "no danger of that, unless compelled by some one of the older folks," laughed rosie, turning inquiringly toward her mother, while evelyn colored and smiled, hesitated momentarily, then said in a noncommittal way, "you are very kind, betty, but i'll have to think about it a little and ask permission." lulu's face grew radiant with delight. "o betty, how good of you!" she exclaimed. "papa, may i?" turning a very pleading look upon him and hurrying to his side. he took her hand in his, smiling affectionately into the eager, entreating eyes. "i think you may, daughter," he said kindly, "since cousin betty is so good as to include you in the invitation. i see nothing in the way at present." "oh, thank you, sir!" she cried joyously, then turned to listen with eager interest to an animated discussion going on among the ladies in regard to the most suitable and tasteful attire for bride and bridesmaids or maids of honor. "the bride will, of course, wear white," violet was saying, "but it would be pretty and in accordance with the fashion for her maids of honor to dress in colors." "yes," assented rosie, "and i propose blue for eva, delicate straw or canary color for lu, who has a complexion just to suit, and pink for me. what do you say, girls?" turning to them where they stood side by side. "i like the idea," replied evelyn, lulu adding, "and so do i. do you approve, papa?" hurrying to his side again. "yes, daughter; if it pleases you and meets the approval of the ladies." "you are so good to me, dear papa!" she exclaimed with a look of gratitude and affection. but it was growing late, and leaving various matters to be settled in another interview to be held at an early day, the cousins bade good night and departed. "papa, i do think i have just the best and kindest father in the whole world!" exclaimed lulu, seating herself upon his knee and putting her arm about his neck, her lips to his cheek, when he had come to her room for the usual good-night bit of chat. "rather strong, isn't it?" he queried laughingly, holding her close and returning her caress with interest. "not too strong, you dear, dear papa!" she said, hugging him tighter. "oh, if ever i'm disobedient or ill tempered again i ought to be severely punished." "my dear child," he said gravely, smoothing her hair with caressing hand as he spoke, "do not ever again give your father the pain of punishing you. watch and pray, and try every day to grow into the likeness of the dear master. it makes me happy that you want to please me, your earthly father, but i would have you care far more about pleasing and honoring him." "i do care about that, papa. oh, i want very much to have him pleased with me, but next to that i want to please you, because you are such a good, kind father, and i love you so dearly." "yes, daughter, and i esteem your love one of the great blessings of my life, while you are dearer to me than words can express: one of god's good gifts for which i am truly thankful. but i must now bid you good-night and leave you to rest, for it is growing late." "yes, sir. but i feel as wide-awake as possible--i'm so excited thinking about betty's wedding. so i wish you'd stay just a little bit longer. can't you, papa?" "no, daughter, i must leave you and you must go to bed at once; try to banish exciting thoughts, and get to sleep." "i'll try my very best to obey my own dear father," she returned, looking up into his face with eyes full of ardent affection. he smiled, held her close for a moment, repeating his caresses, saying low and tenderly, "god bless and keep my dear daughter through the silent watches of the night, and wake her in the morning in health and strength, if it be his will." then releasing her he left the room. she was soon in the land of dreams; the sun was shining when she awoke again. the wedding and matters connected with it were the principal topics of discourse at the breakfast table. betty had expressed an ardent wish to have present at the ceremony all the relatives from the neighborhood of her old home, saying that she and molly had already despatched invitations which she hoped would be accepted, and now it was settled that mr. dinsmore and grandma elsie should write at once, urging all to come to viamede and remain till the summer heats would make it more prudent to return to a cooler climate. there was talk, too, of an entertainment to be given there to the bride and groom, of suitable wedding gifts, and also the attire of maids of honor. the young girls selected to take part in the ceremony were particularly interested, excitable lulu especially so; she could hardly think of anything else, even in the school-room, and as a consequence recited so badly that her father looked very grave indeed, and when dismissing the others told her she must remain in the school-room studying, until she could recite each lesson very much more creditably to both herself and her teacher. "yes, sir," she said in a low, unwilling tone, casting down her eyes and coloring with mortification; "but i think the lessons were dreadfully hard to-day, papa." "no, daughter, it is only that your mind is dwelling upon other things. you must learn to exercise better control over your thoughts and concentrate them always upon the business in hand." "but, papa, i'll never be able to learn the lessons before dinner time, and i am hungry now; are you going to make me fast till i recite perfectly?" "no, my child: you may eat when the rest of us do, and finish your tasks afterward. you may have a cracker now if you are hungry." "oh, may i go and get her some, papa?" asked grace, who had lingered behind the others, full of concern and sympathy for her sister, and was now standing close at his side. "yes, my darling," he said, smiling upon the little girl, and smoothing her hair with softly caressing hand. "oh, thank you, sir!" and away she ran, to return in a few moments with a plate of crackers, when she found lulu alone, bending over a book, apparently studying with great diligence. "oh, thank you, grace!" she exclaimed; "you are ever so good. i was so taken up with the talk about the wedding at breakfast time, that i didn't eat nearly so much as usual. some folks in papa's place would have made me fast till my lessons were learned; but he's such a good, kind father; isn't he?" "yes, indeed!" returned grace emphatically, setting down the plate as she spoke. "now i'll run away and let you learn your lesson." lulu did not feel fully prepared for her recitations when the dinner bell rang, but, having her father's permission, she went to the table with the others. at the conclusion of the meal he inquired in an aside, his tone kind and pleasant, if she were ready for him. "no, sir," she replied, "not quite." "you may take half an hour to digest your dinner, then go back to your tasks," he said. "yes, sir, i will," she answered, taking out the pretty little watch, which was one of his gifts, and noting the time. then, in company with rosie, evelyn, and grace, she went out upon the lawn and sauntered about under the trees, gathering flowers. she was careful to return to the school-room at the appointed hour. presently her father followed her. "are those lessons ready, daughter?" he asked in his usual kindly tones. "no, sir; not quite," she replied. "i am sorry," he said, "as if they were, i would hear them at once and you might make one of the party who are going over to magnolia hall." "papa, i should so like to go along!" she exclaimed, looking up coaxingly into his face. "and i would be glad to give you the pleasure," he said with a slight sigh; "but you know i cannot do that, having already told you your lessons must be creditably recited before you can be allowed any further recreation." "they're so long and hard, papa," grumbled lulu, looking wofully disappointed. "no, my child; with your usual attention you could easily have learned them before the regular school hours were over," he said. "i am not going with the others and will come for your recitation in another hour or perhaps sooner." so saying he turned and left the room. "oh, dear! i do wish i was old enough not to have lessons to learn," sighed lulu. but seeing there was no escape, she turned to her tasks again, and when her father came in according to his promise, was able to say she was ready for him and to recite in a creditable manner. he gave the accustomed meed of praise, smiling kindly on her as he spoke. "there, daughter," he added, "you see what you can do when you give your mind to your work, and i hope that in future you will do so always at the proper time." "i hope so, papa; i do really mean to try," she replied, hanging her head and blushing. "are the ladies and girls all gone?" "yes; some time ago," he said. "i am sorry i could not let you go with the others, as i have no doubt you would have enjoyed doing so." "i hope you didn't stay at home just to hear my lessons, papa?" she said regretfully. "i might possibly have gone could i have taken my eldest daughter with me," he replied, "though there were other matters calling for my attention. however," he added with a smile, "you need not measure my disappointment by yours, as i am certain it was not nearly so great." at that moment a servant came to the door to tell the captain that a gentleman had called on business, and was in the library waiting to see him. "very well; tell him i will be there presently," replied captain raymond. then turning to lulu, "you may amuse yourself as you like for an hour, then prepare your lessons for to-morrow." "yes, sir," she answered, as he left the room, then put on her hat and taking a parasol wandered out upon the lawn. the captain had been giving the young people some lessons in botany, and the girls were vieing with each other as to who should gather into her herbarium the largest number of plants and flowers, particularly such as were to be found in that region, but never, or very rarely, in the more northern one they called their home. lulu had found, and, from time to time, placed in her herbarium, several which she highly prized for both beauty and rarity, and now she went in quest of others. she had scarcely left the house when, much to her surprise, she met her baby brother and his nurse. "why, neddie dear, i thought you had gone----" but she paused, fearing to set the child to crying for his mother. "marse ned's sleeping when dey goes, miss lu; i spec's dey'll be back fo' long," said the nurse; and catching him up in her arms she began a romping play with him, her evident object to ward off thoughts of his absent mother. lulu walked on, spent a half hour or more gathering flowers, then returned to the school-room, where she had left her herbarium lying on her desk. but master ned, there before her, had pulled it down on the floor, where he sat tearing out the plants which she had prepared and placed in it with so much labor and care. at that trying sight, lulu's anger flamed out as it had not in years; not since the sad time when little elsie was so nearly sacrificed to her eldest sister's lack of self-control. "you naughty, naughty, naughty boy!" she exclaimed, snatching the herbarium from the floor. "i'd just like to shake you well, and spank you, too. you deserve it richly, for you have no business to be here meddling with my things!" at that the baby boy set up a wail. then their father's voice was heard from the veranda outside. "come here to papa, neddie boy," and the little fellow, who had now scrambled to his feet, hastened to obey. lulu trembled and flushed hotly. "i wish i'd known papa was so near and i'd kept my temper, too," she sighed ruefully to herself, then set to work to repair damages to the best of her ability; but, as her passion cooled, with thoughts dwelling remorsefully upon her unkind treatment of her baby brother, also apprehensively on the consequent displeasure of her dearly loved father. she loved little ned too, and heartily wished she had been more gentle and forbearing toward him. but her hour of recreation was past, and with ned's baby prattle to his father, as he sat on his knee, coming to her ear through the open window, she sat down at her desk, took out her books, and tried to study; but it seemed impossible to fix her thoughts upon the business in hand, and presently hearing the patter of the little fellow's feet as he ran along the veranda, then out into the garden, she sprang up and followed him. "o neddie dear," she said, catching him in her arms and giving him a hearty kiss, "sister is ever so sorry she was cross to you. will you forgive her and love her still?" "ess," returned the baby boy with hearty good will, putting his chubby arms about her neck and hugging her tight; then cooing sweetly, "ned 'oves oo, lu." "and lu loves you, neddie darling," she returned, kissing him again and again. then setting him down, she sped back to the school-room, took up her book, and made another attempt to study; but without success; laying it aside again almost immediately, she went in search of her father. he had left the veranda, but going on into the library, she found him in an easy chair, with a newspaper in his hand which he seemed to be reading with great attention, for he did not turn his head or eyes toward her as she drew near and stood at his side. she waited longingly for a recognition of her vicinity, but he gave none, seeming too intent upon his paper to be aware of it; and he had taught her that she must not rudely interrupt him or any grown person so engaged, but wait patiently till her presence was noted and inquiry made as to what she wished to say. the five or ten minutes she stood silently waiting seemed a long time to her impatient temperament. "oh, would papa never give her an opportunity to speak to him?" at last, however, as he paused in his reading to turn his paper, she ventured a low breathed, "papa." "go instantly to your own room, taking your books with you, lucilla, and don't venture to leave it till you have my permission," he said in stern, cold accents, and without giving her so much as a glance. she obeyed in silence. reaching her own room she again opened her book and tried to study; but found herself so disturbed in mind that it was wellnigh impossible to take in the meaning of the words as she read them over and over. "i can't learn these lessons till i've made it up with papa," she sighed half aloud, and putting down the book opened her writing desk. in a few minutes she had written a very humble little note, saying how sorry she was for the indulgence of her passion and her unkindness to her darling little brother; but that she had asked and received his forgiveness; then sought her father to beg him to forgive her too, and tell him she was ready to submit to any punishment he thought best to inflict. but oh, might it not be something that would be over before the rest of the family should come home from their drive? she signed herself "your penitent little daughter lulu," folded the note, sealed it up in an envelope, and wrote her father's name on the outside. she could hear the prattle of her baby brother coming from the lawn. her window opened upon an upper veranda, and going out there, she called softly, "ned, neddie dear!" the little fellow looked up and laughed. "lu!" he called; then catching sight of the note in her hand, "what oo dot?" he queried. "a letter for papa," she replied. "will you take it to him and ask him to please read it?" "ess; fro it down," he said, holding up both hands to catch it. "me will tate it to papa." it fell on the grass at his feet, he stooped and picked it up, then trotted away with it in his hand. again lulu took up her book and tried to study, but with no better success than before. "what will papa do and say to me?" she was asking herself. "oh, i hope he won't keep me long in suspense! i don't believe he will; he never does, and--ah, yes, i hear his step." she rose hastily, hurried to the door and opened it. he stood on the threshold. "papa," she said humbly, "i am very, very sorry i was passionate and cross to dear little ned." "as i am," he replied, stepping in, securing the door, then taking her hand, leading her to the side of an easy chair and seating himself therein. "i was deeply grieved to hear my eldest daughter speak in such angry words and passionate tones to her baby brother. it not only gave the dear little fellow pain, but set him a very bad example which i greatly fear he will follow one of these days, so giving me the pain of punishing him and you that of seeing him punished!" "papa, i am the one who ought to be punished," she burst out in her vehement way, "and i just hope you will punish me well. but oh, please don't say i shall not go to cousin betty's wedding, or not be one of her bridesmaids or maids of honor." he made no reply at first. there was a moment's silence, then she exclaimed, "oh, papa, i just can't bear it! i'd even rather have the severest whipping you could give me." "you are a little too old for that now," he said in moved tones, drawing her to a seat upon his knee. "it has always been to me a hard trial to feel called upon to punish my dear child in that way; a sad task to have to do so in any way; and if you are a good girl from now on to the time of the wedding, you may accept betty's kind invitation." "oh, thank you, sir! thank you very much indeed!" she exclaimed. "i don't deserve to be allowed to, but oh, i do fully intend to rule my temper better in future!" "i hope so indeed; but you will not succeed if you try merely in your own strength. our sufficiency is of god, and to him alone must we look for strength to resist temptation and be steadfast in fighting the good fight of faith. try, my dear child, to be always on your guard! 'watch and pray,' is the master's command, repeated again and again. 'take ye heed, watch and pray.' ... 'watch ye, therefore.' ... 'and what i say unto you i say unto all, watch.' ... 'watch ye and pray lest ye enter into temptation.'" "papa, i do really mean to try very hard to rule my own spirit," she said humbly; "i have been trying." "yes, dear child, i have not been blind to your efforts," he returned in tender tones. "i know you have tried, and i believe you will try still harder, and will at length come off conqueror. i fear i have not been so patient and forbearing with you to-day as i ought. i think now i should have let you speak when you came to me in the library a while ago. your father is by no means perfect, and therefore has no right to expect perfection in his children." "but i had indulged my temper, papa, and did deserve to be punished for it." "yes, that is true. but it is all forgiven now, and your father and his eldest daughter are at peace again," he added, giving her a loving embrace. "and that makes me so happy," she said, lifting her dewy eyes to his. "i am always very far from happy when i know that my dear father is displeased with me." "you love him, then?" "oh, yes, yes, indeed! dearly! dearly!" she exclaimed, putting her arms about his neck and laying her cheek to his. he held her close for a moment, then saying, "now i want you to spend an hour over your lessons for to-morrow, after which you and i will have a walk together," he left her. by tea time the family were all at home again, and their talk at the table was almost exclusively of the preparations for the approaching wedding. "mamma," said rosie at length, "i for one would dearly like to go to new orleans and select dress and ornaments for myself; also a present for betty." "i see no objection, if a proper escort can be provided," was the smiling rejoinder. "suppose we make up a party to go there, do the necessary shopping, and visit the battle fields and everything of interest connected with them," suggested captain raymond. "we can stay a day or two if necessary, and i think we'll all feel repaid." the proposal was received with enthusiasm by the younger portion of the family, and even the older ones had nothing to say against it. lulu was silent, but sent a very wistful, pleading look in her father's direction. it was answered with a nod and smile, and her face grew radiant, for she knew that meant that she would be permitted to take the little trip with the others. "dear papa, thank you ever so much," she said, following him into the library as they left the table. "for what?" he asked jestingly, laying a hand upon her head and smiling down into the happy, eager face. "giving me permission to go with you and the rest to new orleans." "ah, did i do that?" he asked, sitting down and drawing her to a seat upon his knee. "not in words, papa, but you looked it," she returned with a pleased laugh, putting her arm about his neck and kissing him with ardent affection. "didn't you, now?" "i don't deny that i did, yet it depends largely upon the good conduct of my eldest daughter," he said in a graver tone, smoothing her hair caressingly as he spoke. "i hope she will show herself so sweet tempered and obedient that it may not be necessary to leave her behind because she is lacking in those good qualities." "papa," she replied low and feelingly, "i will ask god to help me to be patient and good." "and if you ask for jesus' sake, pleading his gracious promise, 'if ye ask anything in my name, i will do it,' your petition will be granted." at that moment the other girls came running in, rose saying eagerly, "oh, brother levis, we all hope you will be so kind as to go on with your historical stories of doings and happenings at new orleans. please treat us to some of them to-night, and let us have all before we visit their scenes, won't you?" "certainly, sister rose," he replied, adding, "it looks very pleasant on the veranda now. shall we establish ourselves there?" "yes, sir, if you please," she said, dancing away, the others following. presently all were quietly seated, the older people almost as eager for the story as were the young, and the captain began. "while the armies before new orleans were burying their dead, others of the british troops were trying to secure for themselves the free navigation of the mississippi below the city by capturing fort st. philip, which is in a direct line some seventy or eighty miles lower down the stream, and was considered by both british and americans as the key of the state of louisiana. "the fort was at that time garrisoned by three hundred and sixty-six men under the command of major overton of the rifle corps, with the addition of the crew of a gun-boat. just about the time that the british killed in the battle of new orleans were being carried by the americans under jackson to their comrades for burial, a little squadron of five english vessels appeared before the fort and anchored out of range of its heavy guns, the bomb vessels with their broadsides toward it; and at three o'clock they opened fire on it. their bombardment went on with scarcely a pause till daybreak of the th, when they had sent more than a thousand shells, using for that purpose twenty thousand pounds of powder. they had sent, too, beside the shells, many round and grape shot. "during those nine days the americans were in their battery, five of the days without shelter, exposed to cold and rain a part of the time; but only two of them were killed and seven wounded. "on the th, the british gave up the attempt. that same day a general exchange of prisoners took place, and that night the british stole noiselessly away. by morning they had reached lake borgne, sixty miles distant from their fleet. "they could not have felt very comfortable, as the wintry winds to which they were exposed were keen, and the american mounted men under colonel de la ronde, following them in their retreat, annoyed them not a little. "the british remained at lake borgne until the th, then boarded their fleet, which lay in the deep water between ship and cat islands. "in the meantime jackson had been guarding the approach to new orleans lest they might return and make another effort against it. but on leaving that vicinity they went to fort bowyer, at the entrance to mobile bay, thirty miles distant from the city of that name, then but a village of less than one thousand inhabitants. the fort is now called fort morgan. "it was but a weak fortress, without bomb-proofs, and mounting only twenty guns, only two of them larger than twelve pounders, some of them less. it was under the command of major lawrence. "the british besieged it for nearly two days, when lawrence, a gallant officer, was compelled to surrender to a vastly superior force. "it is altogether likely that the british would then have gone on to attack mobile, had not news come of the treaty of peace between the united states and great britain. "the news of jackson's gallant defence of new orleans caused intense joy all over the union, while in england it was heard with astonishment and chagrin." "they didn't know before how americans could fight," said walter with a look of exultation, "and they have never attacked us since." "no," said his mother, "and god grant that we and our kinsmen across the sea may ever henceforward live in peace with each other." "it seems a great pity that the news of peace had not come in time to prevent that dreadful battle of new orleans and the after fighting of which you have just been telling us, captain," remarked evelyn. "yes," he replied; "and yet, perhaps, it may have been of use in preventing another struggle between the two nations; we have had difficulties since, but fortunately they have thus far been settled without a resort to arms." "i suppose there was an exchange of prisoners?" walter said inquiringly. "yes, though, in regard to some, the dartmoor captives in especial, it was strangely slow." "dartmoor, papa?" grace said with inquiring look and tone. "yes; dartmoor is a desolate region in devonshire; its prison, built originally for french prisoners of war, had thirty acres of ground enclosed by double walls, within which were seven distinct prisons. "at the close of the war of - there were about six thousand prisoners there, twenty-five hundred of them impressed american seamen who had refused to fight against their country, having been forced into the british navy and being still there at the beginning of the struggle. some of the poor fellows, though, had been in dartmoor prison ten or eleven years. think what an intense longing they must have felt for home and their own dear native land! how unbearable the delay to liberate them must have seemed! they were not even permitted to hear of the treaty of peace till three months after it had been signed. but after hearing of it, they were in daily expectation of being released, and just think how hope deferred must have made their hearts sick. some of them showed a disposition to attempt an escape, and on the th of april they demanded bread, and refused to eat the hard biscuits that were given them instead. "two evenings later they very reluctantly obeyed orders to retire to their quarters, some of them showing an inclination to mutiny, passing beyond the limits of their confinement, when, by the orders of captain shortland, commander of the prison, they were fired upon; then the firing was repeated by the soldiers without the shadow of an excuse, as was shown by the impartial report of a committee of investigation, the result of which was the killing of five men and the wounding of thirty-three." "i hope those soldiers were hung for it!" exclaimed walter, his eyes flashing. "no," replied the captain, "the british authorities pronounced it 'justifiable homicide'; which excited the hottest indignation on this side of the ocean; but now the memory of it has nearly passed away." "now, brother levis, if you're not too tired, won't you please go on and tell us all about the taking of new orleans in the last war?" asked walter, looking persuasively into the captain's face. "certainly, if all wish to hear it," was the pleasant toned reply; and all expressing themselves desirous to do so, he at once began. "ship island was appointed as the place of rendezvous for both land and naval forces, the last named under the command of captain david g. farragut, the others led by general butler. "farragut arrived in the harbor of the island, on the th of february, , on his flag-ship, the _hartford_, in which he sailed on the d, from hampton roads, virginia, but sickness had detained him for a time at key west. "the vessels of which he had been given the command, taken collectively, were styled the western gulf squadron. farragut had been informed that a fleet of bomb vessels, under commander david d. porter, would be attached to his squadron. porter was the son of commodore david porter, who had adopted farragut when a little fellow and had him educated for the navy. it was he who commanded the _essex_ in the war of , and farragut was with him, though then only in his twelfth year." "then he must have been past sixty at the time of the taking of new orleans," remarked walter reflectively. "he and porter joined forces at key west," continued the captain. "porter's fleet had been prepared at the navy yard in brooklyn, exciting much interest and curiosity. there were twenty-one schooners of from two to three hundred tons each; they were made very strong and to draw as little water as possible. each vessel carried two thirty-two pounder rifled cannon, and was armed besides with mortars of eight and a half tons weight that would throw a fifteen-inch shell which, when filled, weighed two hundred and twelve pounds. "farragut's orders were to proceed up the mississippi, reducing the forts on its banks, take possession of new orleans, hoist the american flag there, and hold the place till more troops could be sent him. "an expedition was coming down the river from cairo, and if that had not arrived he was to take advantage of the panic which his seizure of new orleans would have caused, and push on up the river, destroying the rebel works. his orders from the secretary of war were, 'destroy the armed barriers which these deluded people have raised up against the power of the united states government, and shoot down those who war against the union; but cultivate with cordiality the first returning reason which is sure to follow your success.' farragut, having received these orders, at once began carrying them out, with the aid of the plans of the works on the mississippi which he had been directed to take, particularly of fort st. philip, furnished him by general barnard, who had built it years before. "the plan made and carried out was to let porter's fleet make the attack upon the forts first, while farragut, with his larger and stronger vessels, should await the result just outside the range of the rebel guns; then, when porter had succeeded in silencing them, farragut was to push on up the river, clearing it of confederate vessels, and cutting off the supplies of the fort. that accomplished, butler was to land his troops in the rear of fort st. philip and try to carry it by assault. those two forts, st. philip and jackson, were about thirty miles from the mouth of the river, fort jackson on the right bank, and fort st. philip on the left. "ship island, the place of rendezvous, is about one hundred miles northeast of the mouth of the mississippi. in the last war with england, as i have told you, st. philip had kept the british in check for nine days, though they threw one thousand shells into it. "fort jackson was a larger fortification, bastioned, built of brick, with casemates and glacis, rising twenty-five feet above the water. some french and british officers, calling upon farragut before the attack, having come from among the confederates, while visiting whom they had seen and examined these forts with their defences, warned him that to attack them would only result in sure defeat; but the brave old hero replied that he had been sent there to try it on and would do so; or words to that effect. "the forts had one hundred and fifteen guns of various kinds and sizes, mostly smooth-bore thirty-two pounders. above them lay the confederate fleet of fifteen vessels, one of them an iron-clad ram, another a large, unfinished floating battery covered with railroad iron. two hundred confederate sharp-shooters kept constant watch along the river banks, and several fire-rafts were ready to be sent down among the federal vessels. both these and the sharp-shooters were below the forts. also there were two iron chains stretched across the river, supported upon eight hulks which were anchored abreast. "farragut's naval expedition was the largest that had ever sailed under the united states flag, consisting of six sloops of war, twenty-one mortar schooners, sixteen gun-boats, and other vessels, carrying in all two hundred guns. "but the vessels were built for the sea and were now to work in a much narrower space--a river with a shifting channel and obstructed by shoals. "to get the larger vessels over the bar at the southwest pass was a work of time and great labor. they had to be made as light as possible and then dragged through a foot of mud. two weeks of such labor was required to get the _pensacola_ over, and the _colorado_ could not be taken over at all. "the mortar vessels were towed up stream and began to take their places. porter disguised them with mud and the branches of trees, so that they could not be readily distinguished from the river banks, being moored under cover of the woods on the bank just below fort jackson. the stratagem was successful; his vessels were moored where he wished to have them, the nearest being two thousand eight hundred and fifty yards from fort jackson, and three thousand six hundred and eighty from fort st. philip. "on the opposite side of the river, and a little farther from the forts, porter had his six remaining vessels stationed, screening them also with willows and reeds, and mooring them under cover of the woods to conceal their true character. "on the th of april, before nine o'clock in the morning, the attack was begun by a shot from fort jackson, then, as soon as porter was ready, the _owasco_ opened fire, and the fourteen mortar boats concealed by the woods, also the six in full sight of the forts, began their bombardment. "the gun-boats took part in the conflict by running up and firing heavy shells when the mortars needed relief. porter was on the _harriet lane_, in a position to see what was the effect of the shells, and direct their aim accordingly. "the fight went on for several days, then farragut, deeming there was small prospect of reducing the forts, prepared to carry out another part of his instructions by running past them. he called a council of the captains in the cabin of the _hartford_, and it was then and there decided that the attempt should be made. "it was an intensely dark night, the wind blowing fiercely from the north, but commander bell with the _winona_, the _itasca_, _kennebec_, _iroquois_, and the _pinola_ ran up to the boom. the _pinola_ ran to the hulk under the guns of fort jackson, and an effort was made to destroy it with a petard, but failed. the _itasca_ was lashed to the next hulk, but a rocket sent up from the fort showed her to the foe, who immediately opened a heavy fire upon her. but half an hour of active work with chisels, saws, and sledges parted the boom of chains and logs, and the hulk to which she was attached swung round and grounded her in the mud in shallow water. but the _pinola_ rescued her. "two hours later an immense fire-raft came roaring down the stream, but, like those sent before, it was caught by our men and rendered harmless. they would catch such things with grappling-irons, tow them to the shore, and leave them there to burn out harmlessly. "day after day the bombardment went on, fire-rafts coming down the river every night, but fort jackson still held out, though its citadel had been set on fire by the shells from the mortar boats, and all the commissary stores and the clothing of the men destroyed; also the levee had been broken in scores of places by the exploding shells, so that the waters of the river flooded the parade ground and casemates. "by sunset on the d, farragut was ready for his forward movement, but porter, with his mortar boats, was to stay and cover the advance with his fire. farragut, on board his flag-ship, the _hartford_, was to lead the way with it, the _brooklyn_, and the _richmond_. "these vessels formed the first division, and were to keep near the right bank of the river, fighting fort jackson, while captain theodorus bailey was to keep close to the western bank with his (the second) division, to fight fort st. philip. his vessels were the _mississippi_, _pensacola_, _varuna_, _oneida_, _katahdin_, _kineo_, _wissahickon_, _portsmouth_. "captain bell still commanded the same vessels which i just mentioned as his, and his appointed duty was to attack the confederate fleet above the forts, to keep the channel of the river, and push right on, paying no attention to the forts themselves. "in obedience to these orders, the _itasca_ ran up to the boom, and at eleven o'clock showed a night signal that the channel was clear of obstruction excepting the hulks, which, with care, might be passed safely. "a heavy fog, and the settling of the smoke from the steamers upon the waters, made the night a very dark one. no sound came from the forts, yet active preparations were going on in them for the approaching struggle, and their fleet was stationed near them in readiness to assist in the effort to prevent the union vessels from ascending the river. "at one o'clock every one on the union ships was called to action, but the fleet remained stationary until two, and at half past three farragut's and bailey's divisions were moving up the river, each on its appointed side, and at the rate of four miles an hour. "then porter's mortars, still at their moorings below the forts, opened upon those forts a terrible storm, sending as many as, if not more than, half a dozen shells, with their fiery trails, screaming through the air at the same moment. "but no sound came from the forts until they discovered captain bailey's ship, the _cayuga_, just as she had passed the boom, when they brought their heavy guns to bear upon her, and broke the long silence with their roar. "when she was close under fort st. philip she replied with heavy broadsides of grape and canister as she passed on up the river. "the other vessels of bailey's division followed closely after, each imitating the _cayuga's_ example in delivering a broadside as she passed the forts, which they did almost unharmed, with the exception of the _portsmouth_, a sailing vessel, which lost her tow, on firing her broadside, and drifted down the river. "captain bell and his division were not quite so fortunate. three of his vessels passed the forts, but the _itasca_ received a storm of shot, one of which pierced her boiler, and she drifted helplessly down the river. the _kennebec_ lost her way among the obstructions and went back to her moorings below; the _winona_, too, recoiled from the storm. "in the meantime, farragut was in the fore rigging of the _hartford_, watching with intense interest, through his night glass, the movements of the vessels under the command of bailey and bell, while the vessels he commanded in person were slowly nearing fort jackson. he was within a mile and a quarter of it when its heavy guns opened upon him. they were well aimed, and the _hartford_ was struck several times. "farragut replied with two guns which he had placed upon his forecastle, while at the same time he pushed on directly for the fort. when within a half mile of it he sheered off and gave them heavy broadsides of grape and canister; so heavy that they were driven from all their barbette guns. but the casemate guns were kept in full play, and the fight became a very severe one. "the _richmond_ soon joined in it; the _brooklyn_ got entangled with some of the hulks that bore up the chain, and so lagged behind. she had just succeeded in freeing herself from them, when the confederate ram _manassas_ came furiously down upon her, and when within about ten feet, fired a heavy bolt at her from its trap-door, aiming for her smoke stack; but fortunately the shot lodged in some sand-bags that protected her steam-drum. "the next moment the ram butted into the _brooklyn's_ starboard gangway; but she was so effectually protected by chain armor that the _manassas_ glanced off and disappeared in the darkness. "all this time a raking fire from the fort had been pouring upon the _brooklyn_, and just as she escaped from the _manassas_ a large confederate steamer attacked her. she pushed slowly on in the darkness, after giving the steamer a broadside that set it on fire and speedily destroyed it, and suddenly found herself abreast of fort st. philip. "she was very close to it, and speedily brought all her guns to bear upon it in a tremendous broadside. "in his report captain craven said, 'i had the satisfaction of completely silencing that work before i left it, my men in the tops witnessing, in the flashes of the shrapnel, the enemy running like sheep for more comfortable quarters.' "while the _brooklyn_ was going through all this, farragut was having what he called 'a rough time of it.' while he was battling with the forts, a huge fire-raft, pushed by the _manassas_, came suddenly upon him all ablaze, and in trying to avoid it the _hartford_ got aground, and the incendiary came crashing alongside of her. "in telling of it farragut said, 'in a moment the ship was one blaze all along the port side, half way up the main and mizzen tops. but thanks to the good organization of the fire department, by lieutenant thornton, the flames were extinguished, and at the same time we backed off and got clear of the raft. all this time we were pouring shells into the forts and they into us; now and then a rebel steamer would get under our fire and receive our salutation of a broadside.' the fleet had not fairly passed the forts when the confederate ram and gun-boats hastened to take part in the battle. "the scene was now both grand and awful. just think of two hundred and sixty great guns and twenty mortars constantly firing, and shells exploding in and around the forts; it 'shook land and water like an earthquake,' lossing tells us, 'and the surface of the river was strewn with dead and helpless fishes.' major bell, of butler's staff, wrote of it, 'combine all that you have ever heard of thunder, and add to it all you have ever seen of lightning, and you have, perhaps, a conception of the scene. and,' continues our historian, 'all this destructive energy, the blazing fire-rafts and floating volcanoes sending forth fire and smoke and bolts of death, the thundering forts, and the ponderous rams, were crowded, in the greatest darkness just before dawn, within the space of a narrow river, "too narrow," said farragut, "for more than two or three vessels to act to advantage. my greatest fear was that we should fire into each other; and captain wainwright and myself were hallooing ourselves hoarse at the men not to fire into our ships."' "the _cayuga_ met the flotilla of confederate rams and gun-boats as soon as she passed fort st. phillip. for a few minutes there were eighteen confederate vessels intent upon her destruction." "was the _manassas_ one of the eighteen, sir?" queried walter. "yes," replied the captain, "and the floating battery _louisiana_ was another. captain mitchell was the name of her commander, and he was also commandant of the remaining sixteen vessels of that rebel fleet. "captain bailey could not fight so many at once without some assistance, so used his skill in avoiding the butting of the rams and the efforts to board his vessel. at the same time he was making such good use of his guns that, while saving his own vessels, he compelled three of the confederate gun-boats to surrender to him before captain boggs and captain lee, of the _varuna_ and the _oneida_ came to his assistance. "the _cayuga_ had then been struck forty-two times and a good deal damaged in spars and rigging, but, in accordance with farragut's orders, she moved up the river as leader of the fleet. "it was upon the _varuna_ that the enemy next poured out the vials of his wrath. in his report of the fight captain boggs, her commander, said that immediately after passing the forts he found himself 'amid a nest of rebel steamers.' he rushed into their midst, giving each a broadside as he passed. the first of those steamers seemed to be crowded with troops. one of the _varuna's_ shots exploded her boiler and she drifted ashore. next a gun-boat and three other vessels were driven ashore in flames, and presently they blew up, one after another. "then the _varuna_ was furiously attacked by the _governor moore_, commanded by beverly kennon, one who had left the united states service for that of the rebels. his vessel raked along the _varuna's_ port, killing four men and wounding nine. captain boggs sent a three-inch shell into her, abaft her armor, and several shots from the after rifled gun, which partially disabled her, and she dropped out of action. "in the meantime, another ram struck the _varuna_ under water with its iron prow, giving her a heavy blow in the port gangway. the _varuna_ answered with a shot, but it glanced harmlessly from the armored prow of the rebel ram, and it, backing off a shorting distance, shot forward again, gave the _varuna_ another blow in the same place, and crushed in her side. "but the ram had become entangled, and was drawn around to the side of the _varuna_, and captain boggs gave her five eighteen shells abaft her armor from his port guns. in telling of it afterward he said, 'this settled her and drove her ashore in flames.' "but his own vessel was sinking; so he ran her into the bank, let go her anchor, and tied her bow up to the trees, but all the time kept his guns at work crippling the _moore_. "he did not cease firing till the water was over the gun-tracks, but then turned his attention to getting his wounded and the crew out of the vessel. "just then, captain lee, commander of the _oneida_, came to his assistance. but boggs waved him after the _moore_, which was then in flames and presently surrendered to the _oneida_. kennon, her commander, had done a cowardly deed in setting her on fire and fleeing, leaving his wounded to the horrible fate of perishing in the flames. the surrender was, therefore, made by her second officer. "that ended the fight on the mississippi river; it had been a desperate one, but lasted only an hour and a half, though nearly the whole of the rebel fleet was destroyed. the national loss was thirty killed and not more than one hundred and twenty-five wounded." chapter iv. captain raymond paused, seemingly lost in thought. all waited in silence for a moment, then violet, laying a hand on his arm, for she was seated close at his side, said with a loving smile into his eyes: "my dear, i fear we have been tiring you." "oh no, not at all!" he replied, coming out of his revery and taking possession of the pretty hand with a quiet air of ownership. "i am sure nobody else is," said walter; "so please go on, sir, won't you? and tell us all about the taking of the forts and the city." "i will," replied the captain. "by the way, i want to tell you about a powder boy on board of the _varuna_, oscar peck, a lad of only thirteen years, who showed coolness and bravery which would have entitled a man to praise. "captain boggs was very much pleased with him, and in his report to farragut praised him warmly. he said that seeing the lad pass quickly he asked where he was going in such a hurry. 'to get a passing box, sir,' replied the lad; 'the other was smashed by a ball.' when the _varuna_ went down oscar disappeared. he had been standing by one of the guns and was thrown into the water by the movement of the vessel. but in a few minutes he was seen swimming toward the wreck. captain boggs was standing on a part of the ship that was still above water, when the lad climbed up by his side, gave the usual salute, and said, 'all right, sir, i report myself on board.'" "ah," cried walter exultantly, "he was a plucky american boy! i'm proud of him." "yes," said the captain, "and the more men and boys we have of a similar spirit the better for our dear land. "but to go on with my story. captain bailey moved on up the river with his crippled vessel, the _cayuga_, leaving the _varuna_ to continue the fight at the forts. "a short distance above fort st. philip was the quarantine station. opposite to it was a confederate battery in charge of several companies of sharp-shooters, commanded by colonel szymanski, a pole. "on perceiving the approach of the _cayuga_, they tried to flee, but a volley of canister-shot from her guns called a halt, and they were taken prisoners of war. "by that time the battle at the forts was over and the remaining twelve ships presently joined the _cayuga_. then the dead were carried ashore and buried." "and where was butler all this time, sir?" queried walter. "he had been busy preparing for his part of the work while the naval officers were doing theirs," was the reply. "his men were in the transports at the passes and could hear distinctly the booming of the guns and mortars, but the general was at that time on the _saxon_, which was following close in the rear of bailey's division, until the plunging of shot and shell into the water around her warned butler that he had gone far enough. he then ordered the _saxon_ to drop a little astern, an order which was by no means disagreeable to her captain and was promptly obeyed, for he had on board eight hundred barrels of gunpowder; a dangerous cargo, indeed, when exposed to the fiery missiles of the enemy." "wasn't it?" exclaimed rosie. "where was porter just then, sir?" asked walter. "he and his mortar fleet were still below the forts," replied the captain, "and just as butler had ordered his vessel away from that dangerous spot, the rebel monitor _manassas_ came moving down into the midst of his fleet. she had just been terribly pounded by the _mississippi_ and was a helpless wreck, but that was not perceived at first, and some of the mortars opened fire upon her, but stopped when they saw what was her condition: her hull battered and pierced, her pipes twisted and riddled by shot, smoke pouring from every opening. in a few minutes her only gun went off, flames burst out from stern, trap-door, and bow port, and she went hissing to the bottom of the river. "butler now hurried to his transports and took them to sable island, twelve miles in the rear of fort st. philip. from there they went in small boats, through the narrow and shallow bayous, piloted by lieutenant weitzel. it was a most fatiguing journey, the men sometimes having to drag their boats through cold, muddy water waist deep. but the brave, patriotic fellows worked on with a will, and by the night of the th they were at the quarantine, ready to begin the assault on fort st. philip the next day, when they were landed under cover of the guns of the _mississippi_ and the _kineo_. butler sent a small force to the other side of the river above fort jackson, which porter had been pounding terribly with the shells from his mortars. on the th, porter sent a flag of truce with a demand for the surrender of the fort, saying that farragut had reached new orleans and taken possession. "colonel higginson, the commander of the fort, replied that he had no official report of that surrender, and that until he should receive such he would not surrender the fort; he could not entertain such a proposition for a moment. "on the same day, general duncan, commander of the coast defences, but at that time in fort jackson, sent out an address to the soldiers, saying, 'the safety of new orleans and the cause of the southern confederacy, our homes, families, and everything dear to man yet depend upon our exertions. we are just as capable of repelling the enemy to-day as we were before the bombardment.' "thus he urged them to fight on. but they did not all agree with the views he expressed. they could see the blackened fragments of vessels and other property strewing the waters of the river as it flowed swiftly by, and the sight convinced them of the truth of the report which had reached them of the fall of new orleans. they had heard, too, of the arrival of butler's troops in the rear of fort st. philip. "doubtless they talked it all over among themselves that night, as a large number of them mutinied, spiked the guns bearing up the river, and the next day went out and surrendered themselves to butler's pickets on that side of the river, saying they had been impressed, and would not fight the government any longer. their loss made the surrender of the fort a necessity, and colonel higginson accepted the generous terms offered him by porter. he and duncan went on board the _harriet lane_ and the terms of surrender were reduced to writing. "while that was going on in her cabin, a dastardly deed was done by the confederate officer mitchell, who, as i have said, commanded the battery called the _louisiana_. it lay above the forts. he had it towed out into the strong current, set on fire and abandoned, leaving the guns all shotted, expecting she would float down and explode among porter's mortar fleet; but a good providence caused the explosion to come before she reached the fleet. it took place when she was abreast of fort st. philip, and a soldier, one of its garrison, was killed by a flying fragment. then she went to the bottom, and the rest of the confederate steamers surrendered. "porter and his mortar fleet were still below the forts, but farragut had now thirteen of his vessels safely above them and was ready to move upon new orleans. "half an hour after he reached the quarantine, he sent captain boggs to butler with despatches. boggs went in a small boat through shallow bayous in the rear of fort st. philip, and, as i have already said, the next day butler and his troops arrived at the quarantine in readiness to assault the forts. "fort st. philip was as perfect when taken by the union forces as before the fight, and fort jackson was injured only in its interior works. "the entire loss of the nationals in all this fighting was killed and wounded. no reliable report was given of the confederate losses in killed and wounded. the number of prisoners amounted to nearly one thousand. "general lovell, who had command of the confederate troops at new orleans, had gone down the river in his steamer _doubloon_, and arrived just as the national fleet was passing the forts. he was near being captured in the terrible fight that followed, but escaped to the shore and hurried back to new orleans as fast as courier horses could carry him. "a rumor of the fight and its results had already reached the city, and when he confirmed it a scene of wild excitement ensued; soldiers hurried to and fro, women were in the street bareheaded, brandishing pistols, and screaming, 'burn the city! never mind us! burn the city!' "merchants fled from their stores, and military officers impressed vehicles to carry cotton to the levees to be burned. four millions of dollars in specie was sent out of the city by railway; foreigners crowded to the consulates to deposit money and other valuables for safety, and twiggs, the traitor, fled, leaving to the care of a young woman the two swords that had been awarded him for his services in mexico. "lovell believed that he had not a sufficient number of troops to defend the city, and convinced the city authorities that such was the fact. then he proceeded to disband the conscripts and to send munitions of war, stores of provisions, and other valuable property to the country by railroad and steamboats. some of the white troops went to camp moore, seventy-eight miles distant, by the railroad, but the negro soldiers refused to go. "the next morning farragut came on up the river, meeting on the way blazing ships filled with cotton floating down the stream. then presently he discovered the chalmette batteries on both sides of the river only a few miles below the city. the river was so full that the waters gave him complete command of those confederate works, and, causing his vessels to move in two lines, he set himself to the task of disabling them. "captain bailey in the _cayuga_ was pressing gallantly forward and did not notice the signal to the vessels to move in close order. he was so far ahead of the others that the fire of the enemy was for a time concentrated upon his vessel; for twenty minutes she sustained a heavy cross fire alone. but farragut hastened forward with the _hartford_, and, as he passed the _cayuga_, he gave the batteries heavy broadsides of grape, shell and shrapnel; so heavy were they that the first discharge drove the confederates from their guns. the other vessels of the fleet followed the _hartford's_ example, and in twenty minutes the batteries were silenced and the men running for their lives. "oh, what a fearful scene our vessels passed through! the surface of the river was strewn with blazing cotton bales, burning steamers and fire-rafts, all together sending up clouds of dense black smoke. but they were nearing the city, these national vessels, and the news that such was the case had caused another great panic, and, by order of the governor of louisiana and general lovell, the destruction of property went on more rapidly than before. great quantities of cotton, sugar, and other staple commodities of that region of country, were set on fire, so that for a distance of five miles there seemed to be a continuous sheet of flame accompanied by dense clouds of smoke; for the people, foolishly believed that the government, like themselves, regarded cotton as king, and that it was one of the chief objects for which the national troops were sent there. so they brought it in huge loads to the levee, piled it up there, and burnt not less than fifteen hundred bales, worth about $ , , . for the same reason they burned more than a dozen large ships, some of which were loaded with cotton, as well as many magnificent steamboats, unfinished gun-boats, and other vessels, sending them down the river wrapped in flames; hoping that in addition to destroying the property the federals were after, they might succeed in setting fire to and destroying their ships and boats. "but the vessels of farragut's squadron all escaped that danger, and in the afternoon, during a fierce thunderstorm, they anchored before the city. "captain bailey was sent ashore with a flag and a summons from farragut for the surrender of the city; also a demand that the confederate flag should be taken down from the public buildings and replaced by the stars and stripes. "escorted by sensible citizens he made his way to the city hall, through a cursing and hissing crowd. lovell, who was still there, positively refused to surrender, but seeing that he was powerless to defend the city he said so and, advising the mayor not to surrender or allow the flags to be taken down, he withdrew with his troops. "the mayor was foolish enough to follow that very foolish advice, and sent to farragut a silly letter saying that though he and his people could not prevent the occupation of their city by the united states, they would not transfer their allegiance to that government, which they had already deliberately repudiated. "while this was going on troops from the _pensacola_ had landed and hoisted the united states flag over the government mint; but scarcely had they retired from the spot when the flag was torn down by some young men and dragged through the streets in derision." "our flag! the glorious stripes and stars!" exclaimed lulu, her eyes flashing; "i hope they didn't escape punishment for such an outrage as that?" "one of them, a gambler, william b. mumford by name, afterward paid the penalty for that and other crimes, on the scaffold," replied her father. "a few hours after the pulling down of that flag, general butler arrived and joined farragut on the _hartford_. on the th, butler reported to the secretary of war, and, referring to the treatment of the flag, said, 'this outrage will be punished in such a manner as in my judgment will caution both the perpetrators and the abettors of the act, so that they shall fear the stripes, if they do not reverence the stars, of our banner.' "the secessionists expressed much exultation over the treatment of the flag and admiration of the rebellious deed. "farragut was very patient with the rebels, particularly the silly mayor; in reply to whose abusive letter he spoke of the insults and indignities to the flag and to his officers, adding, 'all of which go to show that the fire of this fleet may be drawn upon the city at any moment, and in such an event the levee would, in all probability, be cut by the shells and an amount of distress ensue to the innocent population which i have heretofore endeavored to assure you that i desire by all means to avoid. the election therefore is with you; but it becomes me to notify you to remove the women and children, from the city within forty-eight hours, if i have rightly understood your determination.' "to this the foolish mayor sent a most absurd reply, saying that farragut wanted to humble and disgrace the people, and talking nonsense about 'murdering women and children.' it was a decidedly insolent epistle; but the commander of a french ship of war, that had just come in, was still more impertinent. he wrote to farragut that his government had sent him to protect the , of its subjects in new orleans. and that he should demand sixty days, instead of forty-eight hours as the time to be given for the evacuation of the city, his letter closed with a threat: 'if it is your resolution to bombard the city, do it; but i wish to state that you will have to account for the barbarous act to the power which i represent.' "farragut was much perplexed, and troubled with doubts as to what to do, but was soon greatly relieved by the news of the surrender of the forts below, making it almost certain that butler would soon be there to relieve him of the care of the city, and with that in prospect he was able to quietly await the arrival of the land forces. "the people of new orleans believed it impossible that those forts could be taken, and deemed it safe to indulge in their defiant attitude toward the federal forces already at their doors; but this unwelcome news convinced them of the folly and danger of further resistance and defiance of the general government, and a sort of apology was made to farragut for the pulling down of the flag from the mint; it was said to have been the unauthorized act of the men who performed it. "the next day captain bell landed with a hundred marines, hauled down the emblems of rebellion on the mint and custom house, flung to the breeze the national flag in their places, then locking the custom house door, carried the key to his vessel. "there was a military organization in new orleans, called the european brigade, composed of british, french, and spanish aliens, whose ostensible purpose was to aid the authorities in protecting the citizens from unruly members; but now finding their occupation almost at an end, its english members voted at their armory that, as they would have no further use for their weapons and accoutrements, they should be sent to beauregard's army at corinth, as 'a slight token of their affection for the confederate states.'" "i should say that was but a poor sort of neutrality," remarked rosie. "so i think," responded the captain; then went on with his story. "only a few hours after mumford and his mates had pulled down the flag, butler arrived, joined farragut on the _hartford_, and presently made to the secretary of war the report of which i have already spoken. "he hurried back to his troops and made arrangements for their immediate advance up the river. on the first of may he appeared before new orleans with his transports bearing two thousand men; the general with his wife, his staff, and one thousand four hundred troops, was on the _mississippi_, the vessel in which he had sailed from hampton roads sixty-five days before. "at four o'clock on the afternoon of that day the troops began to land: first, a company of the thirty-first massachusetts, presently followed by the rest of the regiment, the fourth wisconsin, and everett's battery of heavy field guns. "they formed in procession, acting as an escort to general butler and general williams and his staff, and marched through several streets to the custom house, their band playing the 'star-spangled banner.' they had been given strict directions not to resent any insults that might be offered by the vast crowd gathered in the streets, unless ordered so to do; if a shot should be fired from any house, they were to halt, arrest the inmates, and destroy the building. "their patience was greatly tried during that short march, the crowd constantly growing greater and more boisterous and pouring out upon them volleys of abusive epithets, both vulgar and profane, applying them to the general as well as his troops." "i think anybody but an american would have ordered his soldiers to fire upon them for that," remarked walter. "did they do no fighting at all at the time, sir?" "no," replied the captain; "they were obedient to the orders of their superior officers and brave enough to endure the undeserved abuse in silence. "at length their destination was reached, captain everett posted his cannon around the custom house, quarters there were given to the massachusetts regiment, and the city was comparatively quiet through the night. "general butler passed the night on board the _mississippi_, and at an early hour in the evening sent out a proclamation to the citizens of new orleans. it was first sent to the office of the _true delta_ to be printed; but the proprietor flatly refused to use his types in such an act of submission to federal rule." "i hope he wasn't allowed to do as he pleased about it?" growled walter. "i think hardly," returned the captain with an amused smile. "some two hours later a file of soldiers were in his office, half a dozen of whom were printers, and in a very short time the proclamation was sent out in printed form. "meanwhile the federal officers had taken possession of their city quarters. general butler was at the st. charles hotel, and invited the city authorities to a conference with him there. that very foolish mayor, monroe, told the messenger sent to him that his place of business was at the city hall. he was answered by a suggestion that such a reply was not likely to prove satisfying to the commanding general, and then prudently decided to go and wait on general butler at the st. charles. "some of his friends accompanied him; among them pierre soulé, who had been a representative to congress before the war. "general butler and these callers had a talk together in regard to the proper relations existing between the general government and the city of new orleans, butler maintaining that the authority of the government of the united states was and ought to be supreme; it had a right to demand the allegiance of the people, and that no other authority could be allowed to conflict with it in ruling the city. "the mayor, soulé, and his friends, on the contrary, insisted that louisiana was an independent sovereignty and that to her alone the people owed their allegiance. they asserted that the national troops were invaders, the people doing right in treating them with contempt and abhorrence, and that they would be fully justified in driving them away if it were in their power to do so. "while this hot discussion was going on, a messenger came from general williams, who had command of the regiment protecting headquarters, saying that he feared he could not control the mob which had collected in the street. "butler calmly replied: 'give my compliments to general williams, and tell him if he finds he cannot control the mob, to open upon them with artillery.' "at that the mayor and his friends sprang to their feet, exclaiming excitedly, 'don't do that, general.' butler asked, 'why not?' and went on, 'the mob must be controlled. we can't have a disturbance in the street.' "at that the mayor stepped out upon the balcony and spoke to the mob, telling them of the general's orders and advising them to disperse. "at that interview general butler read to his callers the proclamation he was about to issue. soulé told him it would give great offence, and that the people would never submit to its demands; for they were not conquered and could not be expected to act as a conquered people would. 'withdraw your troops and leave the city government to manage its own affairs,' he said. 'if the troops remain there will certainly be trouble.'" "and butler, of course, did as he was told," laughed rosie. "not exactly," returned the captain. "'i did not expect to hear from mr. soulé a threat on this occasion,' he said. 'i have long been accustomed to hear threats from southern gentlemen in political conventions, but let me assure the gentlemen present that the time for tactics of that nature has passed, never to return. new orleans _is_ a conquered city. if not, why are we here? how did we get here? have you opened your arms and bid us welcome? are we here by your consent? would you, or would you not, expel us if you could? new orleans has been conquered by the forces of the united states, and by the laws of all nations lies subject to the will of the conquerors.'" "some of the new orleans people, especially the women, behaved very badly, did they not, captain?" asked evelyn. "yes; though no man was injured by the troops, who behaved in a perfectly orderly manner; no woman was treated with the slightest disrespect, though the women were very offensive in their manifestations of contempt of the officers, not omitting even the commanding officer himself. they would leave street cars and church pews when a federal officer entered them; the sidewalks also, going round the gentlemen, turning up their noses and sometimes uttering abusive words; they wore secession colors in their bonnets, sang rebel songs, and turned their backs on passing soldiers, when out on their balconies, and played airs that were used with rebel words; indeed they tried to show in every possible way their contempt and aversion for the union officers and soldiers. at length a woman of the 'dominant class,' meeting two union officers on the street, spit in their faces. then general butler decided to at once put a stop to such proceedings, and on the th of may he issued order no. , which had the desired effect." "what was it, papa? what did he order the people, or the soldiers, to do?" queried lulu. "the amount of the order was that every woman who should behave as that one had, insult or show contempt for any officer or soldier of the united states, should be regarded and held liable to be treated as not of good moral character. the mayor made it the subject of another impudent and absurd letter to general butler, for which he was arrested, but he was soon released again upon making a humble apology." "did they let him be mayor again, papa?" asked grace. "no; instead general g. f. sheply of maine, was appointed military governor of new orleans, and made an excellent one, having the city made cleaner, and in consequence more wholesome, than it had been for years, if ever before. soon after that william b. mumford was arrested, tried by a military court for treason in having torn down the flag, found guilty, and hanged." chapter v. there was a moment of silence broken by lulu with an eager exclamation. "oh, papa, don't you remember that when we were at saratoga last summer you promised that sometime you would tell us about the fighting in the revolution near and at fort schuyler? and won't you please do so now?" "i will if the others wish to hear it," he replied, and a general eager assent being given he at once began the story. "fort schuyler," he said, "at first called fort stanwix, in honor of the general of that name, who directed the work of its erection, stood at the head of boat navigation on the mohawk, where the village of rome now is. it cost the british and colonial government two hundred and sixty-six thousand four hundred dollars and was a strong post of resistance to attack from the french in canada, with whom, as you all know, i think, the colonists were often at war, on their own account or that of the mother country, and a powerful protection to the indian trade. it commanded the portage between lake ontario and the mohawk valley, the theatre of many stirring events during the war of the revolution. indians and tories kept in terror the people who lived there and were loyal to the cause of their country. there were daylight struggles and stealthy midnight attacks in such numbers that tryon county came to be spoken of as 'the dark and bloody ground.' "congress perceiving the importance of defending the northern and western frontiers of new york from incursions by the british and indians, sent general schuyler to strengthen old fort stanwix, which had been allowed to fall into a state of decay so that it was little more than a ruin, and, if he found it necessary, to erect other fortifications. "general phillip schuyler was a gentleman of fortune, of military skill, experience, sound judgment, and lofty patriotism. lossing tells us that, 'for causes quite inexplicable, he was superseded in effect by gates in march , but reinstated in may, and that no appointment could have been more acceptable to the people of northern new york, who were at that time in a state of great excitement and alarm.' "in recent campaigns against the french and indians on lakes champlain and george, general schuyler had done great service to the colony and the people along the northern frontier. that of itself was sufficient cause for attachment to him, besides his many virtues, which had endeared him to all who knew him. and in fighting the british he would be defending his own home and large landed estate. "in march, , burgoyne arrived at quebec, bearing the commission of a lieutenant-general, and by the first of june a force of seven thousand men was collected for him and mustered at st. john's at the foot of lake champlain. also the british lieutenant-colonel st. leger, was sent with a force of seven hundred rangers up the st. lawrence and lake ontario to oswego. he was to gather the indians, make friends with them, and get them to act as his allies; then to sweep the valley of the mohawk, with the help of johnson and his tories, take fort schuyler, and afterward join burgoyne. "colonel peter gansevoort was at that time in command of fort schuyler. the people of tryon county, hearing of st. leger's movement, and that a descent was to be made upon them by the way of oswego, were greatly alarmed. in june a man from canada was arrested as a spy and from him the americans learned that a detachment of british, canadians, and indians was coming against them on their way to join burgoyne at albany." "but burgoyne never got there--to albany--until he went as a prisoner; did he, sir?" asked walter. "no, my boy, he was defeated and made prisoner while on his way to the city. the battle of saratoga was a disastrous one to the invaders of our land. "the intelligence of which i just spoke as given by the spy was afterward confirmed by thomas spencer, a friendly oneida half breed sachem, who was sent to canada as a secret emissary and there became acquainted with the plans of burgoyne. "for a time the loyal people, the whigs, who were for their native land and not for the english king who had been showing himself a tyrant and oppressor, were almost paralyzed with alarm. fort schuyler was still unfinished and the garrison feeble. but colonel gansevoort was hopeful, vigilant, and active. he wrote urgently to general schuyler for aid, and the general made a like appeal to the provincial congress of new york, and the general congress. but it was too late for them to send him help before the attack would be made. "on the d of august brant and lieutenant bird began the investment of the fort, and on that very day gansevoort and his little garrison of seven hundred and fifty men received a re-enforcement of two hundred men under lieutenant-colonel melon, and two bateaux loaded with provisions and military stores; a most welcome addition to the scant supplies in the fort. "the next day colonel st. leger arrived with the rest of his troops. the siege was begun on the th. the indians, hiding in the bushes, wounded some of our men who were at work on the parapets, and a few bombs were thrown into the fort. "the next day it was the same; the indians spread themselves about through the woods encircling the fort, and all through the night tried to intimidate the americans by their hideous yells. "on that very day general herkimer was coming to its aid with more than eight hundred men of the militia of tryon county. he was near oriskany, a little village eight miles eastward from the fort; from there he sent a messenger to tell colonel gansevoort that he was approaching, and asking to be informed of the man's arrival by the firing of three guns in quick succession, knowing that they could be heard at oriskany. but unfortunately his messenger did not reach the fort until the next day, and while herkimer, who though brave was cautious, decided to halt till he should hear the signal or receive re-enforcements, some of his officers and men were impatient to push on. "herkimer would not consent, and two of his colonels, paris and cox, called him a coward and a tory. herkimer replied calmly, 'i am placed over you as a father and guardian and shall not lead you into difficulties from which i may not be able to extricate you.' "but they continued their taunts and demands till he was stung by them into giving the command, 'march on!' "st. leger knew of the advance of herkimer and his troops and sent a division of johnston's greens, under major watts, brant with a strong body of indians, and colonel butler with his rangers, to intercept him and prevent his making an attack upon the entrenchments which he had made about fort schuyler. "gansevoort noticed the silence in the enemy's camp, and also the movement of his troops down toward the river along the margin of the wood. when the courier came with the message from herkimer he understood the meaning of it all, and immediately fired the signal guns. "herkimer had said in his message that he intended, on hearing the signals, to cut his way through the camp of the enemy to the fort, and asked that a sortie from it should be made at the same time. "as quickly as possible gansevoort had it made. a detachment of two hundred men, of his own and wesson's regiments, with an iron three-pounder, were detailed for the duty; then fifty more were added for the protection of the cannon and to assist in whatever way they could. colonel marinus willett was given the command. "it rained heavily while the necessary preparations were going on in the fort, but the moment it ceased willett and his men hastened out and attacked the enemy furiously. "the advanced guard were driven in, and so sudden and impetuous was the charge that sir john johnson had no time to put on his coat. he tried to bring his troops into order, but they were so panic stricken that they fled, and he with them. they crossed the river to st. leger's camp and the indians concealed themselves in the deep forest. "the americans took much plunder; all sir john's baggage and his papers, as well as those of other officers, giving valuable information to the garrison of fort schuyler; also the british colors, all of which--there were five--the americans presently raised upon their flagstaff, beneath their own rude flag--fashioned, as i have already told some of you, out of strips of red and white obtained by tearing up men's shirts for the one, and joining bits of scarlet cloth for the other; while a blue cloak belonging to captain abraham swartwout, of dutchess county, then in the fort, was used to form the ground for the white stars, and the staff upon which all these hung was in full view of the enemy. then the whole garrison mounted the parapets and made the forest ring with three loud cheers. "while all this was going on in and around the fort, general herkimer and his men were coming toward it through the woods. it was a dark, sultry morning. the troops were chiefly militia regiments and marched in an irregular, careless way, neglecting proper precautions. "brant and his tories took advantage of this carelessness, hid themselves in a ravine which crossed herkimer's path, and had a thick growth of underwood along its margin, which made it easy for them to conceal themselves, and when all except the rear-guard of the unsuspecting americans had entered the ravine, where the ground was marshy and crossed by a causeway of earth and logs, brant gave a signal, immediately followed by a warwhoop, and the savages fell upon our poor men with spear, hatchet, and rifle-ball; as lossing says, 'like hail from the clouds that hovered over them.' "the rear-guard fled and left the others to their fate, yet perhaps suffered more from the pursuing indians than they would if they had stood their ground, helping their fellows. the attack had been so sudden that there was great confusion in the ranks; but they presently recovered and fought like veterans; fought bravely for their lives, and for their country." "and were many of them killed, sir?" asked walter. "yes," replied the captain sighing; "the slaughter was dreadful, and the good general was soon among the wounded. a musket ball passed through his horse, killing it and sadly wounding him, shattering his leg just below the knee. he at once ordered the saddle taken from his horse and placed against a large beech tree near by, and there he sat during the rest of the fight, calmly giving his orders while the enemy's bullets whistled around him like sleet, killing and wounding his men on every side." "he was no coward after all," exclaimed walter, his eyes shining. "but did any of our men escape being killed, sir?" "after a little they formed themselves into circles," continued the captain, "so meeting the enemy at all points, and their fire became so destructive that the tories and the johnson greens charged with the bayonet, and the patriots being equally prompt to defend themselves, it became a terrible hand to hand fight. "it was at length stopped by the shower that had delayed the sortie from the fort; both parties seeking shelter under the trees. then, as soon as the shower was over, colonel willett made his sally from the fort, attacking johnson's camp, and the battle at oriskany was renewed. "it is said to have been the bloodiest of the war in proportion to the numbers engaged. it is stated that about one-third of the militia fell on the battle ground, and as many more were mortally wounded or carried into captivity. about fifty wounded were carried from the field on litters, general herkimer among them. he was taken to his own home, where he died ten days afterward." "but who gained the victory, papa?" asked lulu. "the americans, the others having fled; but they were unable to accomplish the object of the expedition--the relief of fort schuyler. and surrounded as they were by the enemy, the men in the fort could gain no intelligence as to the result of the fight at oriskany, and st. leger took advantage of their ignorance to falsely represent the british to have been the victors to the total defeat of the americans, and announce a victorious advance by burgoyne. "two american officers, colonel billenger and major frey, who had been taken prisoners, were forced to write a letter to colonel gansevoort, containing many misrepresentations and advising him to surrender. this colonel butler delivered to gansevoort and verbally demanded his surrender. "gansevoort refused, saying he would not answer such a summons verbally made unless by st. leger himself. "the next morning butler and two other officers drew near the fort carrying a white flag, and asked to be admitted as bearers of a message to the commander of the fort. "the request was granted, but they were first blindfolded, then conducted to the dining room of the fort, where they were received by gansevoort, the windows of the room being closed and candles lighted." "what was that for, papa?" asked grace. "to prevent them from seeing what was the condition of things within the fort," replied her father. "and was gansevoort alone with them, papa?" "no; he had with him colonels willett and mellen. butler and his companions were politely received, and one of them, major ancram by name, made a little speech, telling of the humanity of st. leger's feelings, and his desire to prevent bloodshed; that he found it difficult to keep the indians in check, and that the only salvation of the garrison was an immediate surrender of the fort and all its stores. officers and soldiers would be allowed to keep their baggage and other private property, and their personal safety would be guaranteed. he added that he hoped these honorable terms would be immediately accepted, for if not it would not be in st. leger's power to offer them again." "so the americans of course were afraid to reject them?" sniffed walter. "hardly," returned the captain with a smile. "but that was not all ancram said with a view to inducing them to do so. he went on to say that the indians were eager to march down the country, laying it waste and killing the inhabitants; that herkimer's relief corps had been totally destroyed, burgoyne had possession of albany, and there was no longer any hope for this garrison." "what a liar he was, that ancram!" exclaimed walter. "why, burgoyne had not even got as far as saratoga then." "no," responded the captain, "and the bright and plucky officers of fort schuyler, to whom he was speaking, were not so easily hood-winked; they saw through his designs, and were not to be deceived by the falsehoods and misrepresentations of his address. "it was colonel willett who, with the approval of gansevoort, made answer, speaking, as lossing says, with 'emphasis,' and looking ancram full in the face. "'do i understand you, sir? i think you say that you came from a british colonel, who is commander of the army that invests this fort; and, by your uniform, you appear to be an officer in the british service. you have made a long speech on the occasion of your visit, which, stripped of all its superfluities, amounts to this: that you come from a british colonel to the commandant of this garrison, to tell him that, if he does not deliver up the garrison into the hands of your colonel, he will send his indians to murder our women and children. you will please to reflect, sir, that their blood will be upon your heads, not upon ours. we are doing our duty; this garrison is committed to our care, and we will take care of it. after you get out of it, you may turn round and look at its outside, but never expect to come in again unless you come a prisoner. i consider the message you have brought a degrading one for a british officer to send, and by no means reputable for a british officer to carry. for my own part, i declare, before i would consent to deliver this garrison to such a murdering set as your army, by your own account, consists of, i would suffer my body to be filled with splinters and set on fire, as you know has at times been practiced by such hordes of women and children killers as belong to your army.'" "good!" said walter; "and the other two american officers, i suppose, agreed with him." "yes," captain raymond replied, "and they all felt satisfied that they would not be so urgently pressed to surrender at once, and on conditions so favorable, if their prospects were as dark as their besiegers would have them believe." chapter vi. "st. leger made another effort to induce them to do so," continued captain raymond. "on the th he sent a written demand offering about the same terms as before. "gansevoort replied in writing: 'sir, your letter of this date i have received, in answer to which i say, that it is my determined resolution, with the force under my command, to defend this fort to the last extremity, in behalf of the united states, who have placed me here to defend it against all their enemies.'" "did the british give it up then, papa?" asked grace. "no; they began digging and making preparations to run a mine under the strongest bastion of the fort, while at the same time they sent out an address to the people of tryon county, signed by clause, johnson, and butler, urging them to submit to british rule, asserting that they themselves were desirous to have peace, and threatening that in case of refusal all the horrors of indian cruelty would be visited upon them. also they called upon the principal men of the valley to come up to fort schuyler and compel its garrison to surrender, as they would be forced to do in the end." "did the men in the fort give up then, papa?" queried grace. "no, no indeed, little daughter!" he replied. "they were brave men, and staunch patriots, and had no intention to surrender so long as they could possibly hold out; but fearing ammunition might give out, their supply of provisions too, they resolved to send word to general schuyler, who was then at stillwater, asking for aid from him in their sore extremity. "of course it would be a hazardous attempt, but colonel willett offered to be the messenger, and one stormy night he and lieutenant stockwell left the fort at ten o'clock by the sally-port, each armed with a spear, and crept along the morass on hands and knees, to the river, which they crossed upon a log. their way lay through a tangled wood and they soon lost it. the bark of a dog presently warned them that they were near an indian camp, and fearing to either advance or retreat they stood still there for several hours. "but at length the dawn of day showed them where they were, so that they were able to find the right road and pursue their way. they took a zigzag course, now on land, now through the bed of a stream, to foil any attempt on the part of some possible pursuer to gain upon them by the scent of their footsteps. "they arrived safely at the german flats, mounted fleet horses, and sped down the valley to the quarters of general schuyler. on arriving they learned that he had already heard of the defeat of herkimer, and was preparing to send succor to the besieged in the fort. "meanwhile st. leger was pressing his siege, and the garrison, hearing nothing of the successful journey of their messengers, or of aid coming to them from any quarter, many of them began to grow despondent and to hint to their commander that it might be best to surrender, as their supply of both provisions and ammunition was getting low. "but gansevoort was too brave and hopeful to think of so doing. he told the despondent ones that in case help did not arrive before their supplies were exhausted, they would sally forth in the night and cut their way through the enemy's camp. "but relief came in an unexpected manner, that always reminds me of that siege of samaria by the host of the syrians, in the days of elisha the prophet of israel, and the way the lord took to deliver them, causing 'the syrians to hear a noise of chariots and a noise of horses, even the noise of a great host; and they said one to another, lo, the king of israel hath hired against us the kings of the hittites and the kings of the egyptians to come upon us. wherefore they arose and fled in the twilight, and left their tents and their horses, and there asses, even the camp as it was, and fled for their lives.' for suddenly and mysteriously the british, indians, and tories besieging fort schuyler did the same--fled, leaving tents, artillery, and camp equipage behind them." "why, papa, how very strange!" exclaimed lulu, "were they really frightened in the same way?" "not exactly the same but somewhat like it," replied her father. "general schuyler, then at the mouth of the mohawk, had made an appeal to his men for volunteers to go to the relief of gansevoort and his men, now besieged by the enemy in fort schuyler, and arnold and his troops, most of them massachusetts men, responded with alacrity and, joined by the first new york regiment, they marched at once. "arnold's force was much smaller than that of st. leger's and he resorted to stratagem as the only means of securing his end. a half idiot, a nephew of general herkimer, named hon-yost schuyler, a coarse, ignorant fellow, had been taken prisoner along with that walter butler who had been arrested while carrying to the people of tryon county the call for them to force the defenders of fort schuyler to surrender, tried and condemned as a spy. "the same thing had befallen hon-yost, but his mother plead for him, and though at first arnold was inexorable, he at length agreed to release the fellow on condition that he would go to fort schuyler and alarm st. leger with the story that the americans were coming against him in force to compel the raising of the siege. "hon-yost seemed not at all unwilling, readily gave the required promise, and his mother offered to remain as a hostage for his faithful performance of the duty; but arnold chose instead nicholas, the brother of hon-yost, as his security. "hon-yost managed the business with great adroitness. before leaving he had seven bullets shot through his coat, which he showed to the british and indians on arriving at their encampment as proof of 'a terrible engagement with the enemy.' he was acquainted with many of the indians, and when he came rushing into the camp almost out of breath with haste and fright, apparently, telling this story, with the added information that the americans were coming and he had barely escaped with his life, his hearers were very much alarmed. "they asked what were the numbers of the americans, and in reply he shook his head mysteriously, pointing as he did so to the leaves on the trees, as if he would say that they were numberless. "the indians, who had been uneasy and moody ever since the battle of oriskany, and were at the moment of hon-yost's arrival holding a pow-wow to plead with the 'great spirit' to guide and direct them, at once resolved to flee, and told st. leger of their decision. "he sent for hon-yost, questioned him, and was told that arnold would be there in twenty-four hours with two thousand men. "hon-yost had come in to the camp alone, he and the oneida chief having laid their plans before hand, the chief to arrive a little later than the other, so that they would not appear to be in collusion, and just as hon-yost finished his story to st. leger, the chief and two or three straggling indians of his tribe, who had joined him on his way, came in with the same story of the near approach of a large body of americans. one told st. leger that arnold had three thousand men with him; another that the army of burgoyne was cut to pieces. they pretended that a bird had brought them news that the valley below was swarming with warriors. "the savages were now thoroughly alarmed, and all the bribes and promises of st. leger could not induce them to remain any longer; they suspected foul play and would not touch the strong drink he offered, and when, finding that they would go, he asked them to take the rear in retreating, they indignantly refused, saying, 'you mean to sacrifice us. when you marched down you said there would be no fighting for indians; we might go down and smoke our pipes; numbers of our warriors have been killed, and you mean to sacrifice us also.' "the council broke up, the indians fled, the panic was communicated to the rest of the army, and they fled in terror to their boats on oneida lake, the indians making merry over their flight, hurrying on after them with the warning cry: 'they are coming, they are coming!' so alarmed were the tories and british troops that they threw away their knapsacks and their arms as they ran. also the indians killed or robbed many of them and took their boats, so that st. leger said, 'they became more formidable than the enemy we had to expect.'" "and did the americans chase them that time, sir?" asked walter. "yes; gansevoort at once sent word to arnold that the british were retreating, and arnold sent nine hundred men in pursuit. the next day he himself reached the fort; but he and his men presently marched back to the main army, then at stillwater, leaving colonel willett in command of fort schuyler. "so ended the siege of which lossing says that 'in its progress were shown the courage, skill, and endurance of the americans everywhere so remarkable in the revolution.'" "yes, sir," said walter; "but will you please tell what became of hon-yost?" "yes; he went with the british as far as wood creek, then managed to desert and at once carried the news of arnold's approach to fort schuyler. he went back to fort dayton, afterward fled with his family and fourteen of his tory friends, and joined sir john johnson. when the war was over he returned to the valley, where he died in ." chapter vii. "now, papa, if you're not too tired won't you please tell us about the writing of the 'star-spangled banner'?" pleaded lulu, with a smiling, coaxing look up into her father's face. "i am not too tired, and if all wish to hear it, will willingly tell the story to the best of my ability," he replied, taking in his and softly patting the hand she had laid on his knee. "i'm sure we will all be glad to hear it, sir," said walter. "it happened in the war of , didn't it?" "yes. the british had taken washington, where they had behaved more like vandals than civilized men, burning and destroying both public buildings and private property--the capitol, the president's house, the arsenal, the library of congress, and barracks for nearly three thousand troops; besides private property--a large ropewalk, some houses on capitol hill, and a tavern; all of which they burned. the light of the fire was seen at baltimore, and the news of the capture of washington caused intense excitement there; particularly because it was known that the british were so much exasperated at the baltimoreans on account of its being the place whence had been sent out many swift clipper-built vessels and expert seamen who had struck heavy blows at british commerce on the high seas. "baltimore is on the patapsco river, ten miles from chesapeake bay. the narrow strait connecting harbor and bay is defended by fort mchenry, which stood there at that time. it was expected that baltimore would be the next point of attack by the enemy, and there was, of course, great excitement. "general samuel smith, who had been a revolutionary officer, at once exerted himself to prepare both baltimore and annapolis for successful defence. he was a fine officer. you all perhaps remember him as commander at fort mifflin when attacked by the british and hessians in the revolutionary war. he had been active in this war also, ever since the appearance of a british squadron in the chesapeake, in the spring of the previous year, ." "and this was in the fall of , was it not, captain?" queried evelyn. "yes, early in september. in the spring of it was rumored that the british were coming to attack the city, and several persons were arrested as traitors and spies. also five thousand men were quickly in arms ready to defend the city, and companies of militia came pouring in from the country. all this within a few hours. "then general striker's brigade and other military bodies, to the number of five thousand and with forty pieces of artillery, were reviewed. the marine artillery of baltimore was one hundred and sixty in number, commanded by captain george stiles, and composed of masters and master's mates of vessels there. it was a corps celebrated for its gallantry, and was armed with forty-two pounders. "finding the city so well prepared to give them a warm reception the british abandoned their intention to attack it, went to sea, and baltimore enjoyed a season of repose. but, as i have been telling you, they returned after the capture of washington, and again the people set to work at preparations for defence. "general smith was made first in command of all the military force intended to insure the safety of the city. but it is with the attack upon fort mchenry and its repulse that we are concerned. the fort was garrisoned by about a thousand men under the command of major george armistead." "regulars, sir?" asked walter. "some were, others volunteers," replied the captain. "there were, besides, four land batteries to assist in the work. but i will not go into particulars in regard to them, as i know they would be rather uninteresting to the greater part of my listeners. "it was on sunday evening, september , that the british were seen in strong force at the mouth of the patapsco, preparing to land at north point, fifteen miles from the city by land, twelve by water. their fleet anchored off that point, two miles from the shore. it was a beautiful night, a full moon shining in a cloudless sky, and the air balmy. "ross intended to take baltimore by surprise, and had boasted that he would eat his sunday dinner there. at two o'clock in the morning the boats were lowered from his ships, and seamen and land troops went on shore, protected by several gun brigs anchored very near. the men were armed, of course, and each boat had a carronade ready for action. admiral cockburn and general ross were on shore by about seven o'clock with land troops, seamen, and marines. "their intention was to march rapidly upon baltimore and take it by surprise, therefore they carried as little baggage as possible, and only eighty rounds apiece of ammunition. at the same time a frigate was sent to make soundings in the channel leading to baltimore, as the navy was intended to take part in the attack upon the city." "oh, wasn't everybody terribly frightened, papa?" asked grace. "there was a good deal of alarm," replied the captain, "and many of the citizens fled, with their valuables, to places in the interior of the country, filling the hotels for nearly a hundred miles north of the city. "i will not at present go into the details of the battle of north point, which immediately followed, but will tell of what was going on upon the water. "the british frigates, schooners, sloops, and bomb-ketches had passed into the patapsco early in the morning, while ross was moving from north point, and anchored off fort mchenry, but beyond the reach of its guns. the bomb and rocket vessels were so posted as to act upon fort mchenry and the fortifications on the hill, commanded by rodgers. the frigates were stationed farther outward, the water being too shallow to allow them to approach within four or five miles of the city, or two and a half of the fort. "besides, the americans had sunk twenty-four vessels in the narrow channel between fort mchenry and lazaretto point, to prevent the passage of the vessels of the enemy. "that night was spent by the british fleet in preparations for the morrow's attack upon the fort and the entrenchments on the hill, and on the morning of the th their bomb-vessels opened a heavy fire upon the american works, about seven o'clock, and at a distance of two miles. they kept up a heavy bombardment until three o'clock in the afternoon. "armistead at once opened the batteries of fort mchenry upon them, but, after keeping up a brisk fire for some time, discovered that his missiles fell short and were harmless. it was a great disappointment to find that he must endure the tremendous shower of the shells of the enemy without being able to return it in kind, or do anything whatever to check it. but our brave fellows kept at their posts, enduring the storm with great courage and fortitude. "at length a bomb-shell dismounted one of the twenty-four pounders, killing lieutenant claggett and wounding several of his men. that caused some confusion, which cochrane perceived, and, hoping to profit by it, he ordered three of his bomb-vessels to move up nearer the fort, thinking to thus increase the effectiveness of his guns. "no movement could have been more acceptable to armistead, and he quickly took advantage of it, ordering a general cannonade and bombardment from every part of the fort, thus punishing the enemy so severely that in less than half an hour he fell back to his old anchorage. "one of their rocket vessels was so badly injured that, to save her from being entirely destroyed, a number of small boats had to be sent to tow her out of the reach of armistead's guns. the garrison gave three cheers and ceased firing. "the british vessels returned to their former stations and again opened fire, keeping up, with very little intermission, a furious bombardment until past midnight, when it was discovered that they (the british) had sent a pretty large force up the patapsco to capture fort covington, commanded by lieutenant newcomb, of the united states navy, and the city battery, then attack fort mchenry in the rear. for this purpose there had been sent one thousand two hundred and fifty men in barges, with scaling ladders and other implements for storming the fort. but providentially their errand was made known to the garrison of fort mchenry in good season by the throwing up of rockets to examine the shores, and not the fort alone but also two redoubts on the patapsco immediately opened a heavy fire upon them, and drove them away. "so heavy was the firing that the houses of baltimore were shaken to their very foundations. lossing tells us that rodgers's men in fort covington worked their guns with effect, but to webster's continuous cannonade with his six gun battery armistead said he was persuaded the country was much indebted for the final repulse of the enemy. the historian adds that he thinks it not too much to say that webster's gallant conduct on that occasion saved both fort mchenry and the city." "were any of the british killed, sir?" asked walter. "yes, a large number; also two of their vessels were sunk." "and did they go on firing at the fort?" "they did, until seven o'clock in the morning of the th, then ceased entirely." "oh, papa, you have not told us of the writing of the 'star-spangled banner'!" exclaimed lulu. "wasn't it that night it was written?" "yes; by mr. francis s. key, a resident of georgetown in the district of columbia, who was at that time a volunteer in the light artillery commanded by major peter. "when the british returned to their vessels after the capture of washington, they carried with them dr. beanes, a well known physician of upper marlborough. cockburn carried him away on board the flag-ship of admiral cochrane, in spite of the intercession of his friends. "then mr. key was entreated by the friends to go to cochrane and intercede for the doctor's release. key consented, obtained permission of the president, and went under a flag of truce in the cartel ship _minden_ in company with general skinner. "when they reached the british fleet it was at the mouth of the potomac, preparing to attack baltimore, and though cochrane agreed to release dr. beanes, he refused to let him or his friends return then. they were placed on board the _surprise_ and courteously treated. the fleet sailed up to the patapsco, and they were transferred to their own vessel, but with a guard of marines to prevent them from landing and communicating with their friends and countrymen. "their vessel was anchored in sight of fort mchenry, and from her deck the americans watched the fight, oh, so anxiously! and though it was, as i have said, over before midnight, those anxious watchers did not know until morning how it had ended--whether by surrender of the fort, or the abandonment on the part of the enemy of the attempt to take it. it was with very anxious hearts they waited for the coming of the dawn, but at last, in the dim light, as the day began to break, their eyes were gladdened by the sight, through their glasses directed toward fort mchenry, of the beautiful stars and stripes 'still there,' and to their great joy they soon learned that the attack on baltimore had failed, that ross was killed, and the british were returning to their vessels. "it was while pacing the deck during the bombardment, full of anxiety for the result, that mr. key composed that song so dear to the american heart, 'the star-spangled banner.'" "oh, let us sing it!" exclaimed lulu, and with one consent, patriotic enthusiasm swelling in every breast, they did so, the voices of old and young uniting in the soul-stirring words. "oh, say, can you see, by the dawn's early light, what so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming? whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the perilous fight, o'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming and the rockets' red glare the bombs bursting in air, gave proof through the night that our flag was still there; oh, say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave o'er the land of the free and the home of the brave? "on that shore dimly seen through the mists of the deep, where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes, what is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep, as it fitfully blows, now conceals, now discloses? now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam, in full glory reflected, now shines in the stream; 'tis the star-spangled banner; oh, long may it wave o'er the land of the free and the home of the brave! "and where are the foes who so vauntingly swore that the havoc of war, and the battle's confusion, a home and a country should leave us no more? their blood has washed out their foul footsteps pollution; no refuge could save the hireling and slave, from the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave; and the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave o'er the land of the free and the home of the brave! "oh, thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand between their loved homes and the war's desolation! blest with victory and peace, may the heaven-rescued land praise the power that hath made and preserved us a nation! then conquer we must when our cause it is just, and this be our motto, 'in god is our trust'; and the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave o'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!" a moment of silence followed the dying away of the last strains, then captain raymond resumed his narrative: "the first rough notes of the song were written by key upon the back of a letter he happened to have in his pocket, and after his arrival in baltimore he wrote it out in full. the next morning he read it to his uncle, judge nicholson, one of the gallant defenders of the fort, asking his opinion of it. the judge was delighted with it, took it to the printing office of captain benjamin edes, and directed copies to be struck off in handbill form. that was done, the handbills were distributed, and it was sung first in the street, in front of edes' office, by james lawrenson, a lad but twelve years of age. that was on the second day after the bombardment of fort mchenry. the song was 'set up,' printed, and distributed by another lad seventeen or eighteen years old, named samuel sands. it created intense enthusiasm, was sung nightly at the theater, and everywhere in public and private." "papa," asked lulu, "what became of that very star-spangled banner mr. key was looking for when he wrote the song?" "i presume it is still in existence," replied her father. "lossing says it was shown him in baltimore, during the civil war, by christopher hughes armistead, the son of the gallant defender of the fort, and that it had in it eleven holes made by the shot of the british during the bombardment." "had not the british made very sure beforehand of being able to take baltimore, captain?" asked evelyn. "yes; and their intention was to make it the base for future operations. as early as the th of june a london paper said, 'in the diplomatic circles it is rumored that our naval and military commanders on the american station have no power to conclude any armistice or suspension of arms. they carry with them certain terms which will be offered to the american government at the point of the bayonet. there is reason to believe that america will be left in a much worse situation, as a naval and commercial power, than she was at the commencement of the war." "ah, but they crowed too soon--before they were out of the woods," laughed walter. "they needed the lesson they got at baltimore, and the one jackson gave them some months later at new orleans." chapter viii. "captain, i fear we have been imposing sadly upon good nature in asking so much history of you in one evening," remarked grandma elsie; "and you have been extremely kind in complying with the request." "it has been a pleasure to me, mother," he returned. "there is hardly a subject more interesting to me than the history of my dear native land, and it is my ardent desire to train and teach my children to be earnestly, intelligently patriotic." "including your pupils in the list, i presume, sir?" supplemented rosie, with a saucy smile up into his face. "of course, little sister, and as many others as i can influence," was his pleasant toned rejoinder. "but i am happy to believe that there are few americans who are not ardent lovers of their own country, considering it the best the sun shines upon." "as it certainly is, sir!" exclaimed walter. "i'm more thankful than words can express that god gave me my birth in the united states of america." "as i have no doubt we all are, little brother," said violet. "but to change the subject: when shall we take that delightful trip to new orleans? i suppose the sooner the better, that we may not be too much hurried with the necessary dressmaking?" "i think so," said her mother, "for both the reason you have given and because the weather will soon become unpleasantly warm for shopping in the city." "you are going with us, mamma?" queried rosie. "i really have not thought of it, and probably it would be more prudent for me to stay quietly where i am, rosie dear," she replied. "oh, mamma, we must have you along if you are able to go!" exclaimed walter. "please do say that you will." "yes, mamma dear, i think it would do you good," said violet; and all the young folks joined urgently in the request that she would make one of the party. "perhaps you might, elsie," her father said in reply to an inquiring look directed to him. "i incline to the opinion that such a change, after your long seclusion here, might, probably would be, of benefit." "possibly, father," she said, "though i had been thinking my staying at home might make vi more comfortable in leaving her little ones for a day or two." "i do not care to go, and will gladly take charge of the babies if vi and the captain will trust me with them," grandma rose hastened to say, and was warmly thanked by both parents, and assured that they would have no hesitation in doing so except on the score of giving her too much care and trouble and missing her pleasant companionship on the contemplated trip. however, after some further discussion of the matter, it was decided that mr. and mrs. dinsmore would remain at viamede in charge of house and little ones during the short absence of the others on the contemplated trip. "papa, dear papa," lulu said, with tears shining in her eyes, and putting her arms lovingly about his neck when he had come into her room to bid her good-night, as his custom was, "you are so good to me, your own bad, quick-tempered little daughter! oh, i do want to be good and make you glad that i belong to you." "i am that, my darling, in spite of all your faults," he said, caressing her tenderly. "you are very dear to your father's heart, and i am not without hope that you will one day gain full control of the temper which causes so much pain to both you and me." "oh, i do hope i shall, papa, and i want you to punish me every time i indulge it," she said, "but i'm so glad, so thankful to you that you have said i may go with you and the others to-morrow. i feel that i don't deserve it in the least, but i do intend to try as hard as possible to rule my own spirit in future." "i am glad to hear it, daughter," the captain responded, imprinting a kiss upon her forehead. "but i must leave you now, for it is growing late and you ought to be in bed, that you may be ready to rise betimes in the morning." "yes, sir; but oh, do stay one minute longer; i--i----" she paused, blushing and a trifle shame faced. "what is it, daughter?" he asked, smoothing her hair and cheek caressingly. "never be afraid to tell your father all that is in your heart." "yes, sir; i don't think i'm really afraid--yes, i am a little afraid you might be displeased, and i don't want to do anything to vex or trouble my dear, kind father, but if you're willing, papa, i would like to be allowed to choose for myself what i'm to wear to the wedding." "your taste and wishes shall certainly be consulted, daughter," he replied kindly, "yet i am not prepared to promise that you may have in every case exactly what you would prefer; we must take your mamma and grandma elsie into our counsels in order to make sure of getting what will be most becoming and appropriate." "dear me, i would like to be grown up enough to be considered capable of choosing things for myself!" she exclaimed with rueful look and tone. "but oh, don't be grieved and troubled," as her ear caught the sound of a low breathed sigh; "i'm determined i will be good about it. it certainly would be a very great shame if i were anything else, papa, after all your undeserved goodness to me." "i do not like to refuse my dear child anything she asks," he said, drawing her into a closer embrace, "but i know too much indulgence would not be for her happiness in the end. and since life is short and uncertain with us all, it may be that she will not be long troubled by being subject to her father's control." "oh, papa, please don't talk so!" she exclaimed, sudden tears springing to her eyes. "i can't bear to think of ever losing my own dear, dear father. i hope god may let you live till he is ready to take me too." "if he sees best i hope we may long be spared to each other," the captain said, holding her close to his heart. "but now about the matter of which we were speaking. wise as my dear eldest daughter considers herself, her father thinks grandma elsie and mamma vi, by reason of their superior age and knowledge, will be better capable of judging what will be most suitable for her to wear as one of the bride's-maids. and as they are very tasteful in their own dress, and her father is ready to go to any reasonable expense that his dear little girl may be suitably and tastefully attired, also entirely willing to allow her to decide for herself wherever there is a choice between two or more equally suitable articles, do you not think, as he does, that she should be ready and willing to take what the ladies and he deem most suitable in other things which she would perhaps prefer to have somewhat different?" "yes, you dear papa," she returned, with a look of ardent affection into his eyes. "i do always find out in the end that you know best; and i'd even rather wear any of the dresses i have now than not have you pleased with me; for i know i'm never the least bit happy when you are displeased with me." "neither am i," he sighed; "it troubles me more than i can tell when my dear daughter lulu is disobedient and wilful. but it is high time you were in bed and resting. god our heavenly father bless my dear child and keep her safely through the silent watches of the night." and, bestowing upon her another tender embrace, he released her and left the room. she was quite ready for bed, and as she laid her head on her pillow, "lulu raymond," she said to herself, "if you do the least thing to vex or trouble that dear father of yours, no punishment he could possibly inflict would be equal to your deserts." in another minute she was fast asleep, nor did she move again till awakened by some slight sound to find the sun already shining in at her windows. her father had directed her the night before what to wear as most suitable for making the trip to the city and back again, and she now made her toilet in haste, but with the care that he required, and which her own neat taste made desirable. she had just finished when he came in. "that is right," he said, with an approving smile, and bending down to give her the usual morning caress; "my little girl looks neat and bright, and i hope is quite well." "yes, papa," she returned, putting her arms round his neck and her lips to his in an ardent kiss; "and are you and all the rest?" "all, so far as i know, and all who are to take the little trip with us full of pleasurable excitement. we must now go down to breakfast, which is earlier than usual this morning, for we expect the boat in an hour or so." he took her hand and led her from the room as he spoke. "the others have nearly all gone down already," he added, "and there is the bell now; so we have no time to lose." lulu was full of pleasurable excitement. "oh, i'm so glad and so thankful to you, papa, that you will let me go!" she exclaimed, lifting to his eyes sparkling with joyous anticipation; "for i know i don't deserve it in the very least. but i do intend to be as pleasant tempered and obedient as possible." "i don't doubt it, daughter, or expect to have any trouble with you," he said kindly. but now they had reached the dining room door, morning salutations were exchanged as the different members of the family came flocking in, all quickly took their places at the table, the blessing was asked, and the meal began. the talk was almost exclusively of what would probably be seen and done during the trip by those who were to take it, suitable gifts for the bride that was to be, and necessary or desirable shopping for themselves and those remaining at home. lulu, sitting beside her father, asked in a low aside, "papa, may i buy a handsome present for cousin betty? i've had occasion to spend hardly any pocket-money since we have been here; so i think i've enough to get her something handsome." "i shall be pleased to have you do so," he replied, with a pleasant smile. "and i may choose it myself?" "yes; but don't you think it would be well to get some assistance from the rest of us in making your choice?" "oh, yes, sir; yes indeed. i really would not want to buy anything you and grandma elsie and mamma vi thought unsuitable, or that would not be likely to please cousin betty." "and may i too, papa?" asked grace, who, seated close to his other side, had overheard the bit of low toned talk. "yes, yes indeed, little daughter," he replied, laying a caressing hand upon her head for an instant. an hour later the little party were all on board the boat steaming away in the direction of the gulf, and the talk was more of the beautiful country they were passing through than of the history of that portion yet to be visited. their route grew more interesting to the young people, and indeed to all, as they came upon scenes made memorable by events in the revolutionary and civil wars and that of - . as they passed up the river, the captain pointed out forts st. philip and jackson, and other localities connected with the doings and happenings of those times, all gazing upon them as scenes to be indelibly impressed upon the memory of every lover of our dear native land. the localities about new orleans connected with the struggle there against british invaders and aggressors, received due attention also, and were regarded with equal interest by the young girls and walter, to say nothing of the older members of the party. lulu and grace, not to speak of rosie and evelyn, who were allowed more latitude in their selection, or of walter, who was more than willing to trust to "mamma's taste" rather than his own, readily adopted the opinions of papa, grandma elsie, and mamma vi. on the evening of their second day in the city they went to their hotel, weary enough, to enjoy a few hours of rest. "mamma dear," said violet, glancing at her mother's face as they entered the lower hall, "you do look so fatigued; let us step into this parlor and rest a little before going to our rooms." "perhaps it would be as well to do so," replied mrs. travilla, following her daughter into the room and sinking wearily into an easy chair which violet drew forward for her. "oh, dear grandma elsie, how tired you do look!" exclaimed grace; and walter, speaking at the same instant, said in a tone of deep concern, "oh, mamma, how pale you are! you must be ill. i wish cousin arthur, or some other good doctor, was here to do something to make you feel better." "mamma, dear mamma, i fear you are really ill!" exclaimed rosie in a tone of anxiety, while lulu ran back into the hall in search of her father, who had stepped aside to the clerk's desk to attend to some business matter; for to her he was a tower of strength to be flown to in every need. but an elderly lady and gentleman, the only other occupants of the parlor at the moment, hastily rose and drew near the little group, the lady saying in a tone of mingled concern and delight, "it is my cousin elsie--mrs. travilla--i am sure! you know me, dear cousin? mildred keith--mrs. dr. landreth? and this is my husband, the doctor. i think he could do something to relieve you." "cousin mildred! oh, what a joyful surprise! how glad i am to see you!" exclaimed mrs. travilla, the color coming back to her cheek, and the light to her eyes, as she raised herself to a sitting posture and threw her arms about mildred's neck. the two held each other in a long, tender embrace, hardly conscious for the moment of the presence of the others, who stood looking on in surprise and delight, captain raymond and lulu having joined the group. then mutual introductions and joyous greetings followed, questions about absent dear ones were asked and answered, and each party learned that the other was in the city for but a brief sojourn, purposing to go thence to viamede or its near vicinity. and in the meanwhile mrs. travilla seemed to have forgotten her weariness and exhaustion, and was looking more than ordinarily young and bright. dr. landreth remarked it with a pleased smile. "i am glad to meet you, cousin elsie," he said, "though you seem no longer in need of my services as physician." "no indeed, cousin charlie," she returned brightly; "you are so excellent a doctor that your very presence--especially when accompanied by that of your wife"--with a smiling glance at mildred--"does one good like a medicine." "still, if you will allow it, i will prescribe, were it only to keep my hand in," he said: "an hour's rest on a couch in your own room, to be followed by a good, substantial meal either there or at the table with the rest of us." "exactly the prescription i should give were i your physician, mother," said captain raymond. "may i not assist you to your room?" "yes," she said with a smile. "as i know dr. landreth to be an excellent physician i shall follow his advice, confidently expecting to profit by so doing. doctor," turning to him, "we have a pleasant private parlor where we take our meals and enjoy each other's society in the intervals of sight-seeing, shopping, etc. i hope you and cousin mildred will join us at meal-times, and all times when you find it agreeable, making yourselves perfectly at home. now good-by for the present. i hope to be able, after an hour's rest, to join you all at the tea-table." with evident pleasure her invitation was accepted; an hour later she made her appearance in the parlor, much refreshed by rest and sleep; a tempting meal was partaken of by all, with evident appetite, the remainder of the evening passed in delightful social intercourse, and all retired early that they might be ready for a long day of interesting and, to the children especially, captivating shopping; for, as rosie remarked, "nothing could be more enjoyable than the business of selecting wedding gifts and pretty things to be worn at the wedding festivities." she was delighted with her own finery and presents for betty, selected by herself with her mother's assistance, violet occasionally giving her opinion or advice, mrs. landreth and the gentlemen doing the same when asked. they consisted of handsome jewelry and silver. walter, too, chose, with his mother's help, a set of gold lined silver spoons for his cousin betty. evelyn's gift was a handsome silver pie knife and salt spoons. lulu, too, and grace, gave silver, also a pair of beautiful gold bracelets. the captain's own gift was an expensive set of jewelry; violet's a lovely bridal veil; grandma elsie's a beautiful and costly diamond pin, to which she afterward added a check for five thousand dollars. also dr. and mrs. landreth bought as their gift some very handsome articles of dress and house furnishing. the shopping and a little sight-seeing filled up the time till saturday, when they returned to viamede by the same boat that had brought the captain and his party to the city. it was a very warm and joyous welcome that awaited them there from grandpa and grandma dinsmore, and little elsie and ned raymond, and none the less joyous was the greeting given to dr. and mrs. landreth by their relatives and old friends, mr. and mrs. dinsmore. to each of the four it was a delightful reunion, and much of the evening was passed in recalling the events of their intercourse in those early days when elsie and her cousin annis were happy children together, these older ones gay, young married folks, the eldest son of each couple but a baby boy, though now each was the head of a young family of his own. these reminiscences were very interesting to themselves, grandma elsie, and the keiths, who had been invited to viamede to take tea with these relatives, and who were to go to the parsonage after a short stay with these others. but after a little the young folks grew tired of listening to the talk, and sought out another part of the veranda where they could converse among themselves without disturbing their elders. captain raymond's eyes followed the movements of his little girls with a look of fond fatherly pride, not without a shade of anxiety as they noted the weariness in grace's face, and presently he rose and drew near the little group. "gracie, my darling, do you not want to go to your bed?" he asked. "i think my little girl is looking tired and would be better for a long night's rest." "yes, papa, i am 'most too tired to keep my eyes open," she replied, with a faint smile up into his face. "then come, my pet," he said, bending down and taking her in his arms; "i will carry you to your room and bid the others good-night for you when i come down again; you are too tired to wait to do that yourself," and he carried her away. lulu sprang up and ran after them. "shall i go too, papa?" she asked. "if you, too, feel too tired to stay up for prayers," he answered pleasantly; "otherwise i would not have you absent from that service." "yes, sir, i'm not too tired. good-night, gracie," she said, and ran back to her mates. their tongues were running on the old theme of the wedding so soon to take place, gifts to the bride, and dresses to be worn by her and her attendants. but all of them were pretty well worn out with the shopping and traveling gone through in the last few days, seeing which their elders thought best to hold the evening service a little earlier than usual, then retired to rest. "papa, please may i ask a few questions now, before you leave me?" lulu entreated when he came in to bid her good-night. "yes," he replied with an amused look; "that is number one, and how many are to follow?" seating himself and drawing her to his knee. "oh, i don't know exactly, sir; it will depend somewhat upon the answers, i think," she returned laughingly, putting an arm round his neck and kissing him with ardent affection. "then let me go through the ordeal as soon as possible," he responded, patting her cheek and pressing his lips to hers. "i hope it won't be a very dreadful ordeal to you, papa," she said, smiling up into his eyes. "firstly, then, are we to have school as usual between this and the time of the wedding?" "yes," was the prompt, decided reply. "oh, dear!" she said between a sigh and a laugh, "i 'most wish you were one of the fathers that could be coaxed. but oh, please don't begin to look sorry and grave. i'm determined i will be good about that and everything; just as good as i know how to be; and if i'm not i just hope you'll punish me well, only not by refusing to allow me to act as bridesmaid to cousin betty." "love to your father and a desire to please him seems to me a far better motive for good behavior than fear of punishment," he said with grave look and tone. "yes, sir; and that is my motive; please believe it, my own dear, dear father," she said, lifting dewy eyes to his. "then i have strong hope that my pleasure in the coming festivities will not be spoiled by having a naughty, rebellious little daughter to deal with, or an idle one, either. now what else?" "only this, papa: that if you should have letters to write you will let me help you, using my typewriter, you know." "thank you, my dear little helpful daughter. should i find that i have letters you could answer for me in that way, i will call upon you for your offered assistance, as i well know it will be a pleasure to you to render it," he replied, with a smile and another tender caress. "and i hope you feel no doubt that it is not for lack of love for his dear child that your father refuses the holiday you have asked for." "no indeed, papa. i know you love me dearly. it would break my heart to think you didn't." "as it would mine to think my little girl did not love me. now you must go at once to bed. good-night and pleasant dreams." chapter ix. it was early morning at ion, breakfast awaiting the return of mr. edward travilla, who had ridden into the village on some business errand, leaving word that he would be back within the hour to partake of the morning meal with his wife. zoe, tastefully attired, was on the veranda, and the twin babies, fresh from their bath, looking, the young mother averred, like little angels in their dainty white robes, were toddling about there, laughing, cooing, and prattling. they were the idols of her heart. she romped and played with them now, but with frequent pauses to listen for the sound of a horse's hoofs or gaze down the avenue, saying in joyous tones to the babies, "papa is coming, coming soon; dear, dear papa! and mamma and his darlings will be so glad to see him. ah, there he is at last!" she added at length, as a horseman turned in at the great gates and came at a quick canter up the avenue. he lifted his hat with a bow and smile to his wife as he drew near; then alighting at the steps, where a servant took the reins and led the horse away, he hastily ascended them, and the next moment was seated with a little one upon each knee. "papa's darlings!" he said, caressing them in turn; "papa's dear pets!" "tell papa we have been wanting him," said zoe, standing alongside, smoothing edward's hair with softly caressing hand, and smiling down fondly into the faces of the three; "tell him he stayed so long we did not know how to wait." "i must acknowledge i am a trifle late, my dear," edward said, smiling up into the pretty, rosy face, "detained by business; but here is my atonement," handing her a telegram which he took from his pocket. zoe read it aloud. it was an invitation to a wedding (whose it did not say), at viamede to take place in three weeks from that day. "why, who on earth can be going to be married?" she exclaimed in surprise. "rosie? evelyn? lulu? every one of them is too young." then with a look into edward's laughing eyes, "now you needn't laugh, ned. i know and acknowledge that rosie is a little older than i was when we married, but we would not have made such haste except under those peculiar circumstances." "quite true, my dear," he responded. "but i suppose you will hardly think it necessary to decline the invitation on that account?" "oh, no indeed," was the quick, laughing rejoinder. "i am altogether in favor of accepting--shall begin my preparations at once. but there's the breakfast bell." when they had fairly begun their meal the subject was renewed, edward remarking, "my dear, you will want a new dress. if you like we will drive into the city this morning, make necessary purchases, and at once set alma or some other dressmaker at work." "oh, thank you, dear ned," she returned, her eyes shining with pleasure; "no woman ever had a more generous husband than mine. but there are so many ways for your money to go, and i have several that would be, with remodelling and retrimming, tasteful, handsome, and becoming as any new one." "but you must have a new one, my love," edward replied decidedly. "i can easily afford it, and it is a great pleasure to me to see my little wife well and becomingly dressed." "a very nice speech, my dear husband," returned zoe laughingly, "and really i have not the heart to refuse you the pleasure of seeing your wife arrayed in finery just suited to your taste. so i am very glad you are willing to go with me and assist in the selection. shall we take the babies along?" "to help with the shopping? i doubt if we would find them of much assistance." "they are good little things though, and would not be any hindrance," returned the young mother laughingly. "but the trip might interfere with their morning nap, so if you think best we will leave the darlings at home." "i really think they would have a more comfortable time," edward said; "we also. hark! there's the telephone. excuse me a moment, my dear." "certainly, my love, but as i may possibly be the one wanted, i'll go along; by your leave," she added laughingly, running after him as he left the room. the call proved to be from mrs. elsie leland. a telegram from viamede had reached them also, and they would be at ion in the course of an hour to talk over necessary arrangements for the journey, if, as they supposed, edward and zoe would like to take it in company with them. they too were invited, of course? "yes," edward answered; "mamma would certainly not neglect her eldest son at such a time. come over as soon as you like, prepared to drive into the city with us to make necessary purchases before setting the dressmakers at work upon suitable adornments for the ladies of our party." "nothing to be bought for the gentlemen, i suppose?" was elsie's response, accompanied by a low, sweet laugh. "will be happy to accept your invitation. good-by till then." "now let us go back and finish our breakfast," said zoe. "if the lelands are to be here in half an hour we have no time to spare." they were turning away when the bell rang again. it was ella conly who called this time. the same invitation for herself and brothers had just been received. they knew that ned and zoe must of course have shared the summons to viamede, and, if convenient, they would call at ion after tea that evening to talk over plans and preparations. they were cordially urged to do so. then edward called to his uncle horace at the oaks, his aunt rose at the laurels, and aunt lora howard at pinegrove, and learned to his satisfaction that all had received, and would accept the same invitation. but they had not yet settled upon their plans in regard to needed preparations and the time of setting out upon their journey. edward suggested that it might be satisfactory for all to meet at ion that evening and talk the matter over, an invitation which was promptly accepted by all. "now let us finish our breakfast," edward said, leading the way back to the table. "yes," said zoe, "for i am sure that i for one have no time to waste if i'm to be ready to start for the city in an hour." she was ready, however, when, in less than an hour, the fairview carriage drove up bringing the lelands. elsie declined an invitation to alight. "we have none too much time now," she said, "for shopping cannot always be done in haste, and we are not making a very early start. just get in here with us, you two, will you not? there is plenty of room, and we can talk over matters and settle plans as we drive." "a very good idea, and we are much obliged," returned edward, handing zoe in and taking a seat by her side. "who is to be married, elsie?" asked zoe. "surely it could not be mamma herself?" she added, with a light laugh. "i feel quite sure she would not accept the best and greatest man upon earth." "and i feel as sure of that as you do," said mrs. leland. "she thinks of my father not as lost to her but waiting for her to rejoin him in the better land. i have been trying to think who the coming bride is to be, and suppose it is betty johnson." "but it may be that the groom and not the bride belongs to our family," remarked lester. "who more likely than dick percival?" "why, yes, to be sure!" exclaimed edward. "it is about time dick had a wife. and mother would of course be interested and ready to do anything in her power to make it pleasant for him and her." "well, i should really like to know something more about it before choosing gifts for her," remarked zoe. "i too," said elsie. "then suppose we let that wait for another day, and content ourselves with purchasing what is needed for the adorning of you two ladies," suggested edward; and that was what, after a little further consultation, was decided upon. the city was reached in safety, and some hours later they returned, as zoe said, "laden with lovely things for their own adornment." the babies were on the veranda waiting, watching eagerly for papa and mamma, who, their nurse kept telling them, would soon be seen coming up the avenue. when they did appear, alighting from the fairview carriage, they were recognized with a glad cry, and zoe, forgetting her weariness, ran to the little ones, embraced first one and then the other, put a toy in the hand of each, spent another minute or two caressing them, then hurried to her own apartments to dress for tea and the family gathering expected in the evening. elsie and her husband had driven home, but would return for the informal assembly of the members of the connection. the guests came early, ella conley and her brothers from roselands being the first. ella was in high glee. she had long felt an ardent desire to visit viamede, and now hailed with delight the opportunity to do so. the circumstances of both brothers had greatly improved; they were disposed to be very generous to the only sister remaining at home with them, and had told her she must have a new, handsome dress for the wedding, and everything else she needed to fit her out well for the journey and a sojourn of some weeks at viamede. zoe felt flattered by being consulted in regard to necessary or desirable purchases, and greatly enjoyed exhibiting her own, and describing elsie's, of that day. then the other families, or delegates from them, arrived in rapid succession, and a merry sociable interview ensued. all were quite resolved, should nothing interfere, to accept the invitation to viamede, but some of them could not yet decide upon the exact time when they would be prepared to leave their homes for that distant point, and for an absence of several weeks. but the ion, oaks, fairview, and roselands people would all go in two weeks in company. it was still early, when wheels were heard approaching from the direction of the village, a hack turned in at the gate, drove rapidly up the avenue, halted at the veranda steps, and an old gentleman alighted. "cousin ronald!" exclaimed elsie leland, edward, and zoe in a breath, and they and the others gathered about him with words of cordial greeting and welcome. "you have given us a most pleasant surprise, cousin ronald," edward said when the old gentleman was comfortably seated in an easy chair. "you have not been to tea?" "yes, laddie, i took that in the village yonder where i alighted frae the cars. but the auld folks seem to be missing here," glancing about in search of them as he spoke. "i dinna see your honored grandsire, his wife, or my sweet cousin elsie, your mither. the bairns rosie and walter, too, are not here; what's become o' them a', laddie? they're no ill, i hope?" "they were quite well at last accounts, sir," replied edward. "they have spent the winter and early spring at viamede, and will not return for some weeks yet." "ah ha! um h'm! ah ha!" murmured the old gentleman reflectively. "it's no the best o' news to me--an auld mon who has been wearyin' for a sight o' your mother's sweet face." "don't say that, cousin, for we are going there ourselves, and shall be glad indeed to take you with us. i know of no one who would be a more welcome guest to my mother." "have a care, sir, that ye dinna tempt an auld mon too far," laughed cousin ronald. "oh, but you must go with us, sir," said zoe. "what would mamma say if we failed to bring you? besides, we want your company even if mamma would not be displeased were you not with us." "ah ha! um h'm! ah ha! weel, my bonny leddy, i can no refuse an invitation that holds out so great a prospect of enjoyment." "no, you must not think of refusing, cousin ronald!" exclaimed edward and his sister elsie, speaking simultaneously. "indeed no," said mr. horace dinsmore; "we can assure you of a hearty welcome, and my sister, as zoe says, would be by no means pleased should we fail to take you along with us. but since the first division of our company does not start for two weeks, there will be abundance of time to hear from her on the subject." "certainly there will, uncle," responded edward. "i shall write to mamma to-night. several of us have heard from her to-day by telegraph, cousin ronald, and we think we shall surely have letters soon." then followed the story of the telegrams received that day, and the guesses and surmises as to whose wedding they were invited to attend. mr. lilburn was evidently much interested and more than willing to yield to their persuasions to accompany them to viamede. "well, friends and cousins," he said, "there is scarce anything i can think of at this moment that would delight me more than to gang with you to see them at that lovely spot--an earthly paradise, as it may well be called. i am somewhat fatigued the now, but rest for a few days--the days that must come and go afore you start--will no doubt supply the needed strength for the new journey; and the wedding festivities to follow will not come amiss even to a man of my ain venerable age." "no, indeed!" exclaimed zoe, "i should think not. surely people of any age may enjoy gay and festive scenes and doings. it has always been a source of regret to me that edward's and my nuptials were graced by none of them." "possibly there may be better luck for you next time, my dear," remarked edward laughingly. "indeed i want no next time," she returned with spirit. "i've no intention of trying a second husband lest i might do worse than i did in taking you." "it strikes me there might be a possibility of doing very much worse, my dear niece," remarked mr. horace dinsmore pleasantly. "as it does me," responded zoe, with a proudly affectionate look into her young husband's eyes. "i am glad to hear it," was his answering remark, given with a smiling, affectionate glance into the bright, sweet face. for the next two weeks zoe and the other ladies of the connection were very delightfully busy with their preparations for the wedding. letters had come telling that betty was, as had been conjectured, the prospective bride; also who was to be the groom, where the ceremony was to take place, the bridal feast to be partaken of, with other interesting particulars. the dresses of bride, bridesmaids, and maids of honor were not described, as they would be seen by all the relatives at, if not before, the wedding. the journey to new orleans was made by rail; from there they took a steamboat for berwick bay, preferring to make the rest of the journey by water. the party consisted of the dinsmores, lelands, travillas, conleys, and their aunt adelaide, mrs. allison of philadelphia, who had come on from her home shortly before to join these relatives in their trip to louisiana; for she too had been urgently invited to attend the wedding; and last but not least was mr. ronald lilburn. they were a cheerful set, the younger ones quite gay and mirthful. there were a few other passengers, among whom was a lady clad in deep mourning--widow's weeds--who kept her face carefully concealed by her thick crape veil and sat apart, seeming to studiously avoid all contact with her fellow voyagers; observing which they refrained from making advances toward acquaintanceship. but now and then dr. conley turned an observing eye upon her. there was a droop about her figure that struck him as an indication of illness or exhaustion from some other cause. at length he rose, and stepping to her side, said in a low sympathizing tone, "i fear you are ill, madam. i am a physician, and if i can do anything for you my services are at your command." she made an inarticulate reply, in tones quivering with emotion, staggered to her feet as she spoke, made one step forward and would have fallen had he not caught her with his arm. her head dropped upon his shoulder, and instantly the other members of his party gathered about them with hurried, excited exclamations. "what is the matter?" "is she ill?" "do you know her, art? she has fainted, has she not?" the last exclamation and query came from the lips of mrs. elsie leland. "yes; she is quite unconscious," was arthur's low toned reply "and this thick, heavy veil is smothering her." the next instant he had succeeded in disentangling it. with a quick movement he threw it back, lifted the seemingly lifeless form, laid it on a settee with the head low, laid his finger on her pulse for an instant, then began compressing the ribs and allowing them to expand again. "i will have to loosen her clothing," he said, leaning over her to do so; then for the first time catching sight of her face, he started back with a low, pained exclamation: "my sister virginia! is it possible!" "virginia!" exclaimed adelaide and calhoun in a breath; for both were standing near; "can it be?" the others exchanged glances of astonishment; then ella asked in low, terrified tones, "o art, is she--is she dead? poor, poor virgie!" "no; it is only a faint," he answered, going on with his efforts to restore consciousness, in which he was presently successful. virginia's eyes opened, looked up into his with evident recognition, then closed, while tears stole down her cheeks. he leant over her in brotherly solicitude. "virgie, my poor, dear sister," he said in tones tremulous with emotion, "you are with relatives and friends who will gladly do anything and everything in their power for your comfort and happiness. i think you are not well----" she seemed to be making an effort to speak, and, leaving his sentence unfinished, he bent down over her with his ear almost touching her lips. "starving," was the whispered word that came in reply, and he started back aghast, his features working with emotion. "can it be possible!" was his half suppressed exclamation. "what is it?" asked calhoun; "what does she say?" "she is faint and ill with hunger," returned his brother in a moved tone. "get me a glass of hot milk as quickly as you can, cal," and calhoun hurried away in quest of it. in a very few minutes he was back again with a large tumbler of rich, sweet milk, which virginia drank with avidity. some more substantial food was then given her, and after a little she was able to exchange greetings with the other relatives on board and to give some account of herself. "henry neuville is dead, and i set out on my journey to beg a home with isa as soon as i had seen him laid decently away," she said. "i have no means at all--unfortunate creature that i am--but perhaps i can make myself useful enough to earn my bread." "and your brothers will be both able and willing to clothe you," said the doctor, calhoun adding, "certainly; and to give you a home, too, should isa and her husband find it inconvenient to do so." at that tears coursed down virginia's cheeks. "you are good, kind brothers," she said; "far better to me than i deserve. but living with a man of the stamp of henry neuville has taught me how to appreciate true gentlemen." "o virgie, did he die as he had lived?" asked her cousin elsie. "i saw no sign of repentance or reformation," returned virginia; "he died of drink and with curses on his tongue. i can't mourn his loss; how could i? but i'm the most unfortunate woman--the poorest in the whole connection. i wasn't brought up to support myself either, and can't do it." "perhaps you may learn how," said zoe encouragingly. "there are many avenues to self-support now open to women, you know." a look of disgust and annoyance was virginia's only response to that. a few moments of silence ensued, broken only by the prattle of the little ones, then there was a sudden sound as of some heavy body plunging into the water, and a shrill cry: "man overboard!" a great commotion instantly followed, the captain giving his orders to lower a boat and go in search of the man, and at the same time slowing the movements of the steamer. our party were much interested and excited, most of them full of concern for the drowning one, who seemed to have strangely disappeared, for not a trace of him could be seen as the boat was rowed hither and thither; and at length, resigning all hope of finding even the lifeless body, the men returned to the larger vessel to report their failure. the ladies were in tears, and as the captain drew near, zoe asked in tones tremulous with emotion, "is there no hope at all of saving the poor fellow, captain?" "i'm afraid he's gone to the bottom, ma'am, though it's odd he couldn't keep up for the few minutes it took to launch the boat; but i suppose the wheel must have struck him. by the way," he added, as if struck by a sudden thought, "i don't know yet who it was. i must have the crew mustered on deck and see who is missing." he proceeded to do so at once, when to the surprise of all it was discovered that no one was missing. "a stowaway, evidently!" growled the captain, "and he's got his desserts; though i wouldn't have let him drown if i could have helped it." at that instant a light broke upon edward travilla and dr. conley, and both turned hastily toward their guest, mr. ronald lilburn. he was sitting near, quietly listening to the talk, his features expressing grave concern, yet they could perceive a sparkle of fun in his eye. edward stepped to his side, and, bending down over him, spoke in an undertone close to his ear. "i think you could tell us something of the man, cousin ronald." "i, laddie? what would i ken o' the folk i' this part o' the world?" queried the old gentleman, raising his eyebrows in mock surprise. "ah, sir, who is to say he belonged to this part of the world?" laughed edward. "i must own that i strongly suspect he was a countryman of yours; a scotchman, at least." then going to the side of his wife he said a word or two in an undertone that chased away her tears, while she sent a laughing glance in cousin ronald's direction. but they were drawing near their journey's end, and presently everything else seemed to be forgotten in gazing upon the ever changing beauties of the landscape as they threaded their way through lake and lakelet, past swamp, forest, plain, and plantation. they gazed with delight upon the cool, shady dells carpeted with a rich growth of flowers, miles upon miles of smoothly shaven lawns, velvety green and shaded by magnificent oaks and magnolias, lordly villas peering through groves of orange trees, tall white sugarhouses, and the long rows of cabins of the laborers, forming all together a panorama of surpassing loveliness. "oh, it is an earthly paradise, is it not, ned?" cried zoe, clasping her hands in an ecstacy of delight. "very, very beautiful," he responded, his eyes shining with pleasure. "but you know this is not, like yours, my first sight of it; i spent a very happy winter here in the days when my dear and honored father was with us." "and i," said his sister elsie, softly sighing at the thought that that loved parent had left them to return no more. "it will not seem the same without him; yet with so many dear ones left--especially our dear, dear mother--our visit can hardly be otherwise than most enjoyable. ah, ned, is not that our own orange orchard just coming into view?" "it is, my dear sister; we will be there in a very few minutes now." "at home and with mamma!" she exclaimed in joyous tones; then called to her little sons, "come here, ned and eric. we are almost at dear grandmamma's house, and she will soon have you in her arms." at that the little fellows came running to her with a joyous shout, for they dearly loved their grandma elsie, and to their infant minds the time of separation from her had seemed very long. to their aunt adelaide, the conleys--arthur excepted--and the young dinsmores the scenes were equally new, and called forth from one and all demonstrations of admiration and delight. very soon the boat reached and rounded to at the landing, where were gathered all the members of the viamede, magnolia hall, and parsonage families to meet and welcome these dear ones from their own old homes farther to the north. it was an altogether joyous meeting, cousin ronald and virginia, as well as the rest, receiving most kind and cordial greeting, though the latter was an entirely unexpected guest. isadore took her sister in her arms, kissed and wept over her as a near and dear one who had gone through great trials during the years of their separation. "what a long, long while it is since we parted, and what sore trials you have gone through in the meantime, virgie!" she sighed. "ah, i hope the future may have better things in store for you." "i should say it ought indeed, considering all i've had to suffer in the past," returned virginia. "i've come to beg a home with you, isa, as you might have had to of me if i had been the lucky one in the matter of drawing a prize in the matrimonial lottery." "i will try to do the very best i can for you, virgie," was isadore's pleasant toned reply, though it was not with unmingled satisfaction that she saw opening before her the prospect of receiving this selfish, indolent sister into her peaceful, well regulated household as a permanent addition to it. zoe was in ecstasies over the beauties of viamede--the large, palatial mansion, the beautiful grounds, the lovely scenery. "oh, mamma," she exclaimed, pausing on the veranda to take a general survey, "it is just too lovely for anything! it really exceeds my expectations, though they were raised very high by all i have heard of the beauties of viamede. i wonder you can ever resign yourself to leaving it for a longer time than the hot season, when it is not so healthy as your more northern home." "yes, i sometimes wonder at myself," elsie said with a smile; "and yet both ion and the oaks are very dear to me--so many happy years of my life have been passed in them. ah, no, i could not give up those dear homes entirely any more than i could this." "ah, you are a most fortunate woman, cousin mine," remarked mr. lilburn, standing by, "and worthy of it all; no one more so." "ah, cousin ronald, you, like all the rest of my friends, are only too ready to pass my imperfections by and see only virtues; some of them altogether imaginary, i fear," she returned with a smile. "i cannot tell you how glad i am to see you here again, and i hope you may so greatly enjoy your sojourn among us that you will be pleased to repeat your visit whenever opportunity offers." "ah, many thanks, cousin, but have a care lest you should be in danger of seeing me here oftener than will be found agreeable," was his laughing reply. at that elsie only shook her head with a playful smile, then turned to baby lilly, who was reaching out her little arms to grandma, crying, "take! take, gamma!" "no, no, mother dear," edward said, coming up to them and taking his little daughter from the nurse's arms, "i can't have you wearying yourself with her." then to the child, "papa is going to carry you upstairs, little pet. dear grandma has been sick and is not strong enough to carry you about. the friends and relatives will all be here for some time, mother?" turning to her again. "yes," she replied; "they will all stay to tea." "and zoe and i will join you and them again in a few minutes," he said, moving on through the hall, in the direction of the stairway. all scattered to their rooms then, but reassembled on the veranda some few minutes before the call to the tea-table. it was a large, merry, informal tea-party, grandma elsie having been most hospitably urgent that everyone should stay, partake with her and the others who had been making viamede their home for months past, and spend the evening. the approaching wedding and matters connected with it were naturally the principal themes of discourse, and betty was good-humoredly rallied on the conquest she had made and the pleasant prospect of having a home of her own with at least one loyal subject. zoe insisted on a description of the trousseau, especially the wedding dress. "drive over to magnolia hall day after to-morrow and you shall see everything for yourself, zoe," betty said, laughing and blushing; "at least all but the gifts which have not yet come in." "thank you; i think i'll accept that invitation," returned zoe. "but i suppose there is something to be seen here?" "yes; the dresses of the bridesmaids and maids of honor," said rosie; "and we who are to wear them think them quite beautiful. don't we, girls?" turning toward evelyn and lulu, who answered with an emphatic, "yes, indeed!" "suppose you come and take a look at them, zoe," proposed rosie, as they left the table, and zoe promptly accepted the invitation, betty, elsie leland, ella, and virginia, and the dinsmore cousins going along. "oh, they are lovely!" was the united exclamation at sight of the dresses, zoe adding, "i can't say which is handsomest." "that's just how it is with me," laughed betty; "but i own to thinking the bride's dress a trifle handsomer than any of these." "ah, yes; but just think how we may outshine you when our turns come to wear a wedding dress," said rosie. "i mean to have one that shall be a marvel of beauty and taste. don't you, eva and lu?" "i very much doubt whether i shall ever have any," replied evelyn, with her grave, sweet smile. "if you don't it will be your own fault, i am sure," said rosie. "and it will be just the same with lu." "i'm not going to get married ever!" cried lulu emphatically. "i wouldn't leave my father for all the rest of the men in all the world." "ah, your father is glad to hear it," said a voice close at her side, while a hand was laid affectionately on her shoulder. "but my dear eldest daughter is still quite too young to be even thinking of such things." "then i won't think of them if i can help it, papa dear," she said, lifting loving, smiling eyes to his face, "for indeed i do want to obey even your slightest wish." "i don't doubt it, daughter," he returned, pressing affectionately the hand she had slipped into his. "now, elsie," said zoe, addressing mrs. leland, "let us show our wedding finery. you, ella conley, i suppose won't care to open your trunks, as they are to be carried over to the parsonage." "they have already gone," said isadore, she also having joined the party of inspection, "but the finery can be shown there just as well." "yes, it can wait," returned ella, "and will perhaps be all the more appreciated for not being seen along with so many other beauties." "i am the only one who has no finery to exhibit," remarked virginia in an ill used tone. but they were already on the way to mrs. leland's room and no one seemed to hear or heed the complaint, everybody being too much engrossed with the business in hand to take notice of her ill-humor. but it was saturday evening and the parsonage and magnolia hall people returned to their homes at an early hour, taking their guests with them. "now, daughter," captain raymond said, turning to lulu as the last carriage disappeared from sight, "go at once to your own room and prepare for bed." "yes, sir; and must i say good-night now to you?" she asked in a low tone, close at his ear. "no," he returned, with a smile, "i will be with you presently for a few minutes." she looked her thanks, and hastened to obey. "i am quite ready for bed, papa," she said when he came into her room. "please mayn't i sit on your knee for five or ten minutes?" "that is just what i want you to do," he said, taking possession of an easy chair and drawing her to the coveted place. "i must have a little talk with my dear eldest daughter," he continued, smoothing her hair and cheek caressingly. "what about, papa dear?" she asked, nestling closer in his arms. "i haven't been misbehaving, have i? you are not displeased with me, are you?" "no, dear child; only afraid that you may be caring too much about dress and finery, and that perhaps i am not altogether blameless in regard to that--that i may not have guarded my dear little girl against it as i should." "i am afraid that perhaps i do care too much about it, papa dear," she sighed, hanging her head, while blushes dyed her cheek; "but i'm sure it is all my own fault, not yours at all; so please don't feel badly about it." he took up her bible, opened it, and read, "whose adorning, let it not be that outward adorning of plaiting the hair, and of wearing of gold, or of putting on of apparel; but let it be the hidden man of the heart, in that which is not corruptible, even the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit, which is in the sight of god of great price. for after this manner in the old time the holy women also, who trusted in god, adorned themselves." "papa, is it wrong to wear nice, pretty clothes, and to enjoy having them?" she asked, as he closed the book and laid it aside. "is that what is meant in those verses?" "i think not," he said; "if i understood it in that way i should feel it wrong to allow a daughter of mine to wear them. i think it means that you are not to care too much about such adornment, but more, much more, for that other and greater adornment, even the hidden man of the heart, the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit, remembering that in the sight of god it is of great price, worth infinitely more than any ornament of gold, the richest jewels, or the finest attire. cultivate that with all diligence, my own darling child, if you desire to please and honor your heavenly father and make yourself even dearer than you now are to your earthly one, and lovelier in his eyes." "oh, i do, papa! i do want to please and honor god, and you too; i want to be just a joy and blessing and comfort to you, my own dear, dear father! i don't think you have any idea how very, very dearly i love you, papa," putting her arms about his neck and kissing him over and over again. "gracie and i think--indeed we feel quite sure--that no other children ever had such a dear, good, kind father as ours. and i know max thinks the same." "well, daughter, i delight in having you and all my children think so, however mistaken you maybe," he said, with a pleased smile, holding her close and returning her caresses; "and it certainly is the earnest desire of my heart to be the best, kindest, and dearest of fathers to the darling children god has given me." "as i am sure you are, dear papa," she said. "i never have any doubt of it at all, even when you punish me. and, papa," she added, with an effort, "if you think finery bad for me, i am willing to be dressed just as plainly as you think best." "that is my own dear little girl," he returned, with a gratified look; "but i have not been dressing you better--more richly, gayly, or tastefully--than seems to me right and proper; also, i think quite as much sin may be committed by being proud of plainness in dress as proud of wearing finery. what i am aiming at is to have my little daughter look upon dress as a secondary matter, and feel far more anxious to be one who is pleasing in the sight of her heavenly father than one admired and envied by some earthly creature as the possessor of wealth, and fine or costly raiment. in short, i want you to feel that the style and richness of your attire is a matter of little consequence, while to live in the light of god's countenance, pleasing and honoring him and growing in holiness and conformity to his will, is to be desired and striven for beyond everything else." "yes, papa," she said softly, "i will ask god to help me to do so; and you will pray for me too, won't you?" "indeed i will, my darling; we will kneel down and ask him now; ask for help to keep from indulging in worldly mindedness and vanity, and that our earnest desire and effort may ever be to serve and honor and glorify him in all our words and ways." "my own dear father," she said, when they had risen from their knees, "i am sure that if i don't grow up a good christian the fault will not be yours." then, glancing at the bed where grace lay in a profound sleep, "i am so glad and thankful that i am not feeble like poor, dear gracie, because if i had to go to bed and to sleep so early as she almost always does, i'd miss these nice talks from you. but, fortunately, she doesn't need so much help to be good as i do. ah, papa, i've given you a great deal more trouble to train me up right than she ever has, or will." "my darling," he said, "if you only grow up to be a noble, useful christian woman, such as i hope one day to see you, i shall feel more than repaid for all the anxiety, care, and trouble of your training." chapter x. guests and entertainers, old and young, went to church the next morning, riding, driving, or walking, as best suited the inclination of each. in the afternoon there was the usual gathering of the house servants and field hands on the lawn, near the veranda, where the family and guests were seated, and mr. dinsmore, dr. landreth, and captain raymond each gave them a little talk suited to their capacities, and the sacredness of the day, and their needs as members of the fallen race of man. the captain, standing before them with an open bible in his hand, said, "my friends, i want to talk with you a little, about some of the words spoken by the apostle paul when he was taking leave of the elders of the church at ephesus. he told them that he had been testifying both to the jews, and also to the greeks, repentance toward god and faith toward our lord jesus christ. now, what is meant by repentance toward god? it is a feeling of true sorrow for our sins against him (and everything wrong we have done, or thought, or felt was a sin against god). and what is it to have faith toward our lord jesus christ? to believe in him as one abundantly able and willing to save us--to save us from sin, from the love of it, and the punishment due to us for it. we are all sinners; we have all come short of the glory of god, neglecting many things that we ought to have done, and doing very many things that we ought not to have done. we are all born with a sinful nature, and god only can change it, so that we will hate sin and love holiness: he only can give us true faith in his dear son the lord christ. "'by grace are ye saved through faith; and that not of yourselves: it is the gift of god.' we are saved by grace; it is only of god's undeserved goodness, not because we have done or can do anything pleasing in his sight. paul speaks in this same chapter of the gospel of the grace of god. gospel means good news, and what could be better news than that? that god offers us salvation of his free, unmerited grace? what an offer that is! salvation as his free, undeserved gift, without money, and without price. his offer is, 'come unto me and be ye saved all ye ends of the earth.' no one is left out; this wonderful offer is to each one of us, and to every other inhabitant of this world, so that if any one fails to be saved, the fault will be all his own. for god has said, 'i have no pleasure in the death of him that dieth: wherefore turn yourselves and live ye.' and oh, how plain he has made it that he does love us and would have us live! 'for god so loved the world that he gave his only begotten son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.'" the service was not a long one, and when it was over the captain repaired to the school-room with lulu and grace to hear them recite their bible verses and catechism. when that duty had been attended to, "now, daughters," he said, "if you have anything to say, or questions suitable to the sacredness of the day to ask, i am ready to listen and reply to the best of my ability; but even a child may ask a question that a grown person cannot answer," he added with a smile. "indeed, papa," said grace, putting an arm round his neck and laying her cheek lovingly to his, "i think you do know 'most everything; and i'm oh! so glad god gave you to me for my own father." "i know you are, gracie, i'm sure of it; but you can't be gladder than i am that he is my father, too," said lulu, lifting to his eyes full of filial love and reverence. "nor than i am that these two little girls are my very own," responded the captain, holding both in a close embrace. "but now for the questions." "i have one to ask, papa," said lulu. "it is, what does the bible mean by growing in grace?" "growing in likeness to jesus and in conformity to his will; having more and more of the love and fear of god in our hearts; more faith and patience, and more love to our fellow-creatures; for the more we love the master, the more will we love those whom he died to redeem." "and the more we love him, the more we will try to be like him?" lulu said in a tone of mingled assertion and inquiry. "yes, my child; and it is the dearest wish of my heart that i may see my children thus growing in grace, and in likeness to the dear master." "papa, i want to," said grace softly; "oh, i want to, very much!" "then ask god to help you, my darling, remembering that he is the hearer and answerer of prayer." "and you will ask him for both of us, won't you, papa?" "i will, i do, my darling; there is never a day when i do not pray earnestly for each one of my dear children, that god will make them his own true followers and keep them in every time of trial and temptation, taking them safely to heaven at last. life in this world is exceedingly short compared with the eternal existence which awaits us all in another--that life of infinite joy and blessedness at god's right hand, or of everlasting, untold misery, unending, inconceivable anguish, in the blackness of darkness, shut out forever from his presence," he added in moved tones. "god in his infinite goodness and mercy grant that the first and not the last may be the portion of each one of my beloved children!" "oh, papa," said grace softly, "how can any one help loving the dear saviour who died that we might go to heaven and not to that other awful place!" "oh," said lulu, "i do want to love him more and serve him better! when i think of his wonderful goodness and love to us poor sinners, i'm just as ashamed as i can be that i don't love him at all as i ought, and am so often ill-tempered and selfish and bad. papa, i do really think it is kind and good in you to punish me when i deserve it, and need it to make me a better girl." "and i shall be very glad indeed if you never again make it necessary for me to do so," he responded. "i do hope i won't," she returned. "papa, i'm very much afraid i'll be thinking and talking to-day about the wedding and what everybody is going to wear at it, and i know i won't be in half so much danger of doing so if i keep close to you; so mayn't i?" "yes, daughter; i am always glad to have you near me," he said kindly; "and it pleases me that you are desirous to avoid temptation to do wrong." "and you are just as willing to let me keep near you, papa?" grace said inquiringly, and with a wistful, pleading look up into his face. "certainly, my dear little daughter. i love you not a whit less than i do your sister," he said, drawing her into a closer embrace. "however, you may both stay here reading your bibles and sunday school books for a half hour longer. then i will come for you and you may spend the rest of the day as close to your father's side as you choose." with that he left them. "such a dear, good father as ours is!" exclaimed lulu, gazing after him with loving, admiring eyes. "yes, indeed! i am sure there couldn't be a better or dearer one. oh, i do love him so!" said grace, turning over the leaves of her bible. "let's read verse about, lu." "i'm agreed; and let it be the book of esther. i do think that is such a lovely story." "so it is; and so is ruth, and that's shorter. i don't believe we'll have time to read all of esther before papa comes for us." "maybe not," assented lulu; "so we will read ruth." they had finished the story and were talking it over together when their father came. it was then nearly tea time. sacred music filled up most of the evening, and all the young girls and boys retired early to bed that they might be ready for the pleasures and employments of the coming day. the older people sat somewhat longer upon the veranda, conversing upon topics suited to the sacredness of the day. they were christians, and loved to speak of the master and the things concerning his kingdom. "then they that feared the lord spake often one to another: and the lord hearkened and heard it, and a book of remembrance was written before him for them that feared the lord and that thought upon his name. and they shall be mine, saith the lord of hosts, in that day when i make up my jewels; and i will spare them as a man spareth his own son that serveth him." as usual, lulu was up early the next morning, and joined her father in a walk under the trees along the bank of the bayou. "well, daughter, has the rest of the sabbath made you ready for work in the school-room again?" he asked, smiling down affectionately into her face, rosy, bright, and happy with health and gay spirits. "yes, papa, i feel more like it than i did on saturday," she answered, lifting to his sparkling eyes, full of affection. "i rejoice to hear it," he said; "for it is by no means a pleasant task to me when i have to compel a pupil--whether one of my own children or the child of someone else--against his or her inclination; though i enjoy teaching when all are happy and interested." "as we all ought to be when we have such a good, kind, wise teacher, dear papa," she returned. "it will be difficult, very difficult, i'm afraid, to give my mind to lessons when we are all so much taken up with the preparations for the wedding, but i'm determined to try my very best to do so to please my dearest, kindest, best of fathers," lifting his hand to her lips. "a father who would far rather be obeyed from love than fear," he said, with a tender, loving look down into her face. "yes, i know you would, papa, and my love for you is, oh! ever so much stronger than my fear; though i own i am afraid of your displeasure and punishments, for i know you can punish severely when you think it your duty and for my good; but i respect and love you too a great deal more than i would or could if you indulged me in bad behavior." "i don't doubt it," he said; "and i, as i have often told you, punish you when i deem it needful, because i know you will be the happier in the end for being compelled to try to conquer your faults; happier than you ever could be if allowed to indulge them." "yes, papa, i know that is so; i am never at all happy when indulging wrong tempers and feelings," she acknowledged, with another loving look up into his face. at that moment they were joined by evelyn and rosie. "brother levis," said rosie, "you surely are not going to be so unreasonable and tyrannical as to require lessons of us to-day?" "i'm afraid i am, little sister," he replied, with a smile, "and i hope you are not going to be so naughty and rebellious as to require any kind of discipline?" "i don't know," she said, with a pretended pout; "i feel no inclination at all toward lessons, but a very strong one in favor of a ride or drive over to magnolia hall." "which can be gratified when study and recitations have been duly attended to," returned the captain; "and if in need of an escort you may call upon me for that service." "oh, a thousand thanks! that will do very well indeed!" she exclaimed in a tone of relief and pleasure. "and all the good and industrious little girls may go along," added the captain, with a smiling look into lulu's eagerly inquiring face. "thank you, papa; thank you very much!" she exclaimed joyously. "i do want to go, and intend to be as industrious as possible, and as good and obedient, so that you can take me. and you'll take gracie too if she wants to go, won't you?" "certainly," he said; "gracie deserves all the indulgences and pleasures i can give her." "you are very kind indeed, captain, to spend so much of your time in teaching us to-day; for i feel very sure you would enjoy going to magnolia hall with the other gentlemen and the ladies this morning," remarked evelyn, with a grateful, affectionate look up into his face. "thank you, my dear," he replied. "it would be pleasant to me to go, but it is also a pleasure to help my own children, and other appreciative pupils, to climb the hill of science." just then grace and little elsie came running to meet them, and the next minute the breakfast bell summoned them all to the house. after breakfast followed family worship, school, play-time, then dinner, and, late in the afternoon, the pleasant drive through the woods to magnolia hall. it was only for a call, however, and at tea-time the viamede family and all their guests gathered about the table there. from then until the wedding day the young folks were in a state of pleasurable excitement, though the captain kept his pupils steadily at their work, and they found it not impossible to fix their minds upon their studies for a portion of each day. the other relatives invited had arrived, and in a few days the marriage was to take place. it was saturday morning. scarcely two hours had been spent in the school-room when the captain dismissed his pupils, telling them, with his pleasant smile, that they had done very well indeed, and would be allowed a holiday until the wedding festivities were over, an announcement no one was sorry to hear, although he had made the lessons interesting and enjoyable to them as ever since undertaking the work of teaching them. all returned warm thanks, and rosie, evelyn, and walter hastened from the room, which captain raymond had already left; but his two little girls lingered there a while longer, putting their desks in perfect order. "gracie," said lulu, "how much money have you left?" "not a single cent," was the reply in a rather rueful tone; "and i suppose yours is all gone too?" "yes; every cent of it. i feel as poor as a church mouse." "but we are not wanting to buy anything just now, and papa will be giving us some pocket-money again pretty soon," returned grace in a determinedly cheerful tone. "yes, so he will! oh, what a dear, good, kind father he is! i really don't believe there are very many girls of our ages that get so much pocket-money every week. and papa gave us so much extra money too, to use in buying our gifts for cousin betty." "oh, yes, and now i think of it, i don't believe we ought to expect any more pocket-money for a good while. do you, lu?" "no, i don't; for this wedding's costing a good deal--to papa as well as other folks; and the journey home will cost ever so much, besides all that papa paid to bring us here. then, too, he's going to see max again after we get home, and will maybe take one or both of us along--if we're good." "oh, do you think so?" exclaimed grace. "oh, i'd love to see maxie! but if only one of us can go it ought to be you, because you're the oldest, and so well that it wouldn't give papa half so much trouble to take care of you as of me." "i'm just sure papa doesn't think it any trouble to take care of you, gracie," returned lulu in her quick, earnest way. "and you are a better girl than i, therefore more deserving of such indulgences." "that's a mistake of yours, lu," said grace; "you've been good as gold ever since we came to viamede--as well as before--and helped papa with your typewriter, while i haven't done anything but wait on him a little, and try to learn my lessons well, and amuse the little ones sometimes." lulu's face had grown very red while grace was speaking, and she hung her head in a shamefaced, remorseful way. "no, gracie," she said in a low, mortified tone, "i haven't been half so good as you think; i displeased papa very much that day when you all went to magnolia hall, and i had to stay at home and learn my lessons over. i was very angry and cross with dear little ned because he meddled with my herbarium, which i had carelessly left lying out on my desk. if papa had punished me very severely it would have been no more than i deserved, but all he did was to send me to my room for a while till i told him how sorry i was and asked forgiveness of him, and neddie, too." grace looked surprised. "no, i never heard a word of it before," she said; "but i'm sure you did all you could when you asked forgiveness of both of them--papa and neddie." the little girls had no idea that their father was within hearing, yet such was the case, and their little talk pleased him greatly. "the darlings!" he said to himself, "they shall not be long penniless, for their father thinks them very worthy to be trusted with pocket-money. two more unselfish children i am sure it would be hard to find." with that he rose and went to the library, to which they presently followed him, asking if there were anything he wanted them to do. "why, it is your play-time, daughters," he returned, with a loving smile into the bright young faces. "but we'd like to do something to help you, dear papa," grace said, laying her small, white hand on his arm, and looking lovingly up into his face. "yes, indeed we would, papa," said lulu, standing on his other side, and putting her arm round his neck. "please, if you have letters to answer, mayn't i write them for you on my typewriter?" "does my dear eldest daughter deem that a privilege?" he asked, smiling down into her beseeching eyes, while he put one arm round her, the other about grace's waist, and drew both in between his knees, kissing first one and then the other. "indeed i do, papa," lulu answered in an earnest tone; "it's very sweet to me to feel that i am of even a little use to my dear, dear father, who does so much for me, taking so much trouble to teach me, and gives me so many, many nice things to eat, to wear, to read, and to amuse myself with--so many that it would take quite a long while to count them all up." "ah, that reminds me," he said, taking out his pocket-book, "i shouldn't wonder if my little girls had about emptied their purses in buying gifts for the bride that is to be, and so forth. get them out and let me see what can be done toward replenishing them." he noted with pleasure that as he spoke each young face grew very bright. "we've left them upstairs, papa," said lulu, "and though you're ever so kind," hugging and kissing him again, "we don't want to take any more now when you have to spend so very much on the wedding, and to take us all home to woodburn." "no, indeed we don't, you dear, dear papa," chimed in grace, nestling closer to him and patting his cheek lovingly. "my precious darlings!" he said, holding them close, "your father can spare it without denying himself or anybody else anything at all needful; and he feels very sure that he could not get more enjoyment out of it in any other way. so get your purses and bring them here to me," he concluded, releasing them from his embrace. they ran joyfully to do his bidding, and on their return each found a little pile of money waiting for her--two clean, fresh one dollar bills, two silver half dollars, four quarters, and ten dimes; all looking as if just issued from the mint. "oh! oh! oh!" they cried, "how much! and all so bright and new!" lulu adding, "papa, are you quite, quite sure you can really spare all this without being--embarrassed?" "yes, quite sure," he returned, regarding her with a twinkle of fun in his eyes; "i really think i should not be greatly embarrassed if called upon for twice as much." at that lulu drew a long breath of relief, while grace threw her arms about his neck, saying, "you dear, dear papa! i don't believe any other children ever had such a good, kind father as ours." "well, now, i really hope there are a great many other fathers quite as good and kind as yours," he said, with a smile, pinching the round, rosy cheek, kissing the ruby lips, and fondly stroking the soft, shining curls of her pretty head. "i hope so," said lulu, "but i'm just sure there's not another one i could love so, so dearly as ours. i do think god was very good to me in making me yours, papa. your very own little daughter." "and me too," said grace. "yes; good to me as well as to you," responded the captain, "for my darlings seem to me the dearest, most lovable children in the world. well, lulu daughter, you may help me with your machine for a half hour, if you wish." "oh, yes, papa; yes, indeed! i'll be glad to!" she exclaimed, hastening to uncover it, put in the paper, and seat herself before it, while her father took up a letter, glanced over the contents, then began his dictation. it was a business note and had no interest for grace, who presently wandered out upon the veranda with her well filled purse in her hand. grandma elsie sat there alone, reading. "what a bright, happy face, my little gracie," she said, glancing up from her book as the child drew near. "has some special good come to you, dear?" "yes, ma'am; see!" exclaimed the little girl, displaying her well filled purse; "it was empty, and my dear papa has just filled it. you see, grandma elsie," drawing near and lowering her voice, "i was wanting to buy a few things for good-by presents to some of the poor old colored folks, but i'd spent every cent of my money and thought i'd have to give it up; and i'm oh, so glad that i won't have to now. and--oh, grandma elsie, you and mamma will help me to think what will be best to get for them, won't you?" "i will be very glad to do anything i can to help you, dear child," replied grandma elsie in her low, sweet tones, and softly stroking the golden curls as the little girl stood close at her side. "suppose you get a pencil and paper from the school-room and make out a list of those to whom you wish to give, and opposite to each name the gift that seems most suitable." grace's reply was a joyful assent, and she hurried away in search of the required articles. she was not gone more than a very few minutes, but on her return found that her mamma vi, rosie, and evelyn had joined grandma elsie on the veranda, had been told by her what was the business in hand, and were desirous to have a share in it. they had a pleasant time over their lists, each making out one for herself, while lulu finished the work she had undertaken for her father. they decided to write to the city for what was wanted, and that anyone else who wished could send at the same time; so that matter was satisfactorily disposed of. "oh!" exclaimed grace, struck by a sudden thought, "suppose i run to the library and tell papa and lu about it, and get him to tell her what to say, and let her write on the typewriter for the things?" everyone thought it an excellent idea, and grace immediately carried it out. "i quite approve," her father said, when she had told her story and made her request. "i too," said lulu, "and i'll join you if papa will help me to decide what to buy. i'll write the letter too, if he will tell me what to say." "i am entirely willing to do both, daughter," he said. "let us set to work at once, as it will soon be dinner-time, and i want to take my little girls out for a drive this afternoon." "oh, thank you, papa, thank you very much!" they cried in joyous tones. "is anybody else going, papa?" asked lulu. "your grandma elsie, mamma vi, and our little ones, in our carriage; as many more as may wish to go either in other carriages or on horseback. perhaps you would prefer to ride your pony?" "no, sir; not if you are to be in the carriage i may ride in." "ah, you are very fond of being with your father," he said, with a pleased smile. "yes, sir; yes, indeed! just as close as i can get," stroking and patting his cheek, then pressing her lips to it in an ardent kiss. "and it's exactly the same with me, you dear, darling papa!" exclaimed grace, putting an arm round his neck. "and it's exactly the same with every one of your children from big maxie down to baby ned." "i believe it is, and it makes me very happy to think so," he replied. "but now, my dears, we must to work on our list of articles." chapter xi. it was a large party that set out from viamede shortly after leaving the dinner-table. most of the young people--among them chester, frank, maud, and sydney dinsmore, evelyn leland, rosie and walter travilla--preferred riding. these, having swifter steeds, presently distanced the rest of the riders, as well as those who were driving, and in passing a plantation, which was the home of nettie vance, an old school-mate of the viamede young folks at the time, several years before, of their attendance at oakdale academy, they were joined by her and a young man whom she introduced as her brother, both well mounted and looking merry and happy. "bob and i were just starting out for a ride," she said, "and consider ourselves fortunate in meeting with such good company. may i take my place alongside of you, miss leland? i have a bit of news to tell which i think will interest you and miss travilla. it is that signor foresti, who, as you will doubtless remember, was a teacher of music--anything but an agreeable one, by the way--at oakdale academy when we were there together, is quite ill, partly from an accident, partly from drink, and extremely poor. i must say i hardly pity him very much for that last, but i do feel sorry for his wife and children." "i too," said evelyn. "i wish it were in my power to relieve them, but my purse is about empty just at present. however, i will report the matter at viamede, and i am sure the kind friends there will see that something is done toward supplying their pressing needs." "yes," returned nettie, "i have heard a great deal of the kindness and benevolence of mrs. travilla and her father; of captain raymond's also; though i for one could hardly blame him if he utterly refused to give any assistance to a man who had abused his daughter as foresti did lulu." "nor i," said evelyn; "yet i feel almost certain that he will assist foresti. he would not let the wife and children suffer for the man's ill deeds, nor indeed the man himself, unless i am greatly mistaken; for the captain is a truly christian gentleman." "indeed he is," said rosie, "and very benevolent; exceedingly kind to the poor; to anyone who is in distress of any kind. i am very proud of that brother-in-law of mine, nettie, and don't care who knows it." "i do not wonder at that," returned nettie. "i certainly should be if he were mine; it is very plain from the way in which lulu and gracie look at him that they are both fond and proud of their father." "nor do i wonder at it," said robert vance, joining in the conversation. "nettie pointed him out to me at church last sunday, and i remarked then that he was as fine looking a man as ever i saw; tall, straight, handsome in feature, and of most noble countenance." "thank you," rosie said, with a smile and a bow. "i think him all that, and as noble in character as in looks. it is my opinion that my sister violet drew a prize in the matrimonial lottery; and the captain also, for vi is in every way worthy of him." "surely," returned the young man, "one glance at her is sufficient to assure one of that." rosie and evelyn then asked where the forestis were to be found, and what were their most pressing needs, and having learned those particulars, promised that someone from viamede would call to see and relieve them, rosie adding, with a smile, "we, as you probably know, are busy with preparations for a wedding in the family, yet i have no doubt some one or more among us could find time to attend to this call for help." "yes," said walter, who had been quietly listening to the talk, "mamma will be sure to find time for such an act of kindness; she always does." "i am sure of it," responded nettie heartily, "from her sweet looks and all i have heard of her. and so your cousin, miss johnson, is going to be married?" she added, looking at rosie. "we received our invitations yesterday, and are busy with our preparations. it must be delightful to have such a thing coming off in the family; particularly to be the bride; for i hear it is to be quite a grand affair and the match an excellent one." "yes," returned rosie, "we are all much pleased with what we have heard of the gentleman, and i hope they are going to be very happy together." "i hope so, indeed," responded nettie. "i am but slightly acquainted with miss johnson, but have always liked her looks." it was near tea-time when the viamede party reached home again; the ladies and little girls had barely time to dress for the evening before the summons to the table. it was while all where seated about it that rosie and evelyn told of the news learned from nettie vance in regard to signor foresti and his family. "ah, poor things! we must do something for them," grandma elsie said, when the story was finished. "papa, shall we stop there to-morrow on our way to or from church? it would be a work of mercy suited to the day, i think. do not you?" "yes," replied mr. dinsmore; "and it might be well to carry a basket of provisions with us." lulu had listened in silence while the others were talking, and all through the evening she had but little to say, seeming much of the time lost in thought, though usually she was quite talkative, unless, as occasionally happened, checked by a slight reminder from her father that it would be more becoming in a child of her age to show herself a quiet listener to older people. the captain noticed her abstraction, but, guessing at the cause, said nothing about it till they were alone together in her bedroom; then, drawing her to his knee, "my little girl has been unusually silent this evening," he said. "is anything wrong with her?" she drew a long sigh. "i have been trying to decide a question of duty, papa," she said, "and, please--i'd like you to tell me what to do." "in regard to what, daughter?" "giving a part of my money--the money you put into my purse this morning--to--to the forestis." "i think it would be right and kind for you to do so. do not you?" "yes, sir; and i will do it," she said with sudden determination. "it will be returning good for evil, as the bible bids us; won't it, papa?" "yes; and i think will help you to forgive the man for his ill treatment of my dear little daughter," drawing her closer and kissing her fondly. "yes, sir; even the resolve has made me feel more kindly toward him. how much ought i to give, papa? i hardly think i'll have very much left after i've paid for the presents i've sent for, for the servants here." "no, not a very great deal, i presume; but you are not likely to need much before there will be more pocket-money coming to you." "oh, no, sir, i'll not, of course, because my dear, dear father provides everything i need to eat or wear, and pays my travelling expenses too, so that i'm not really obliged to spend anything on myself," she said, putting an arm about his neck and laying her cheek lovingly to his. "papa, do you think a dollar will be enough for me to give the forestis?" "you may decide that question for yourself, my darling," he said, patting her cheek and stroking her hair; "i leave it entirely to you to give much, little, or nothing, as conscience and inclination dictate." "thank you, papa; you are very kind to say that; but please tell me if you think a dollar will be enough for me?" "yes, i do," was his reply, and lulu looked satisfied and relieved. "i'm glad, papa," she said, "for i really do not know that i shall have more than that left after paying for the presents for the servants; and of course i can't give more than i have." "quite true," he returned, with a slight smile. "i would have you make it a rule never to go into debt for your own gratification or for any other object. 'out of debt, out of danger,' is an old and wise saying. now, daughter, it is time to say good-night; but first let me remind you that to-morrow is the lord's day, and to be kept holy. try not to think of the exciting events expected in the coming week, but to spend the time in the worship of god and the study of his word, that you may grow in grace and conformity to his will, thus becoming 'meet for the inheritance of the saints in light,' and ready, when he shall call you away from earth, to dwell forever with him in that holy, happy land where sin and sorrow are unknown. we will kneel down together now for a moment and ask him to help us both to do so, 'running with patience the race set before us, ever looking unto jesus the author and finisher of our faith.'" sunday was passed by the viamede family in the usual quiet way, most of its hours filled up with divine service in the sanctuary or at home, and all retired to rest at an early hour, to rise the next morning in renewed health and strength, the children rejoicing in their holiday and the near approach of the wedding festivities. mr. and mrs. dinsmore had the day before, on their way to church, called upon the italian music teacher, taking with them delicacies for the sick man, and other articles of food for the rest of the family; some money also, in which was included lulu's dollar; and finding the services of a physician were needed, had engaged to send one. dr. dick percival undertook the errand, made a professional call, and on his return reported the man quite ill, but likely to recover with good and competent nursing. he went over again on monday morning, but called first at viamede to report to his uncle dinsmore and the captain. lulu was present at the interview and heard with interest all that cousin dick had to tell about the signor and his family. "there are three children," said dick--"forlorn looking little creatures, with apparently no playthings except a few broken bits of china, and for doll babies, some corn cobs wrapped in rags." "oh, papa," exclaimed little elsie, seated upon her father's knee, "mayn't i send dem some of my dollies?" "yes, if you want to do so," he replied, smiling upon her, and smoothing her curls caressingly with his hand. "and i will hunt up some playthings for them too, if i may, papa," said lulu. "certainly," he said; "you may do so at once, and we three and gracie will drive over there in the carriage, which i will order immediately; that is, if cousin dick does not object to our company?" "not by any means, captain; i shall be delighted to have it," said dr. percival. "and will you drive over with me, art?" turning to dr. conley. "with pleasure, dick," was the reply, and in a short time all were on their way, the children well laden with toys and sweets for the little forestis. violet had been invited to accompany her husband, but declined because of some preparations still to be made for the wedding. little ned, however, had no such excuse, and gladly made one of the merry little party in his father's carriage. dr. percival, having other patients needing his attention, said he intended to make but a short call upon the italian, and the captain did not think it worth while for his children to alight; but from the carriage they witnessed with delight the pleasure conferred upon the little forestis by their gifts. captain raymond left them for a few moments while he went in to see the sick man, to whom he spoke with the utmost kindness, condoling with him on his sufferings, and inquiring if they were very great. "de bains ish ver bad, sare," replied the man, with a heavy sigh. then, with an earnest look into the captain's face, his own flushing hotly, "you, sare, ish de fader off mees lu raymond?" he said inquiringly. "i am, sir," replied the captain with some sternness of look and tone. "mees lu, she bees one goot leetle girl for send me that monish yesterday," continued foresti; "dot make me ver sorry i haf so leetle batience mit her dat time she sthrike me mit de music book." "yes," said captain raymond, "and i trust that when you are again able to teach you will try to be more patient and forbearing with your pupils. it will be better for both you and them." "yes, sare, i vill try dat blan; but mine batience bees sorely dried mit de mishtakes off dose careless bupils i haf to teach." "i dare say that is true," said the captain, "but one who finds it impossible to have patience with pupils, should try some other way of making a livelihood than by teaching." in another minute or two the captain left--not waiting for the doctors, who were, as he knew, going in another direction--re-entered his carriage, and started on the return trip to viamede. "papa," asked lulu, "can't we take a little different route going home?" "yes," he replied in an indulgent tone, and gave the necessary directions to the driver. it was a pleasant, shady road into which they presently turned, and the children chatted and laughed right merrily, receiving no rebuke from their father and fearing none. they had not gone far on that road when they espied two horsemen approaching from the opposite direction. "oh," cried little elsie, "here come cousin ronald and uncle horace." "an unexpected meeting, captain," mr. dinsmore remarked, with a bow and smile as they drew near. "but none the less pleasant," returned captain raymond. "very true, sir," said mr. lilburn, bowing and smiling in his turn. "for the captain and you young folks, no doubt, but a trifle less delightful for us who have the load to carry," seemed to come from the mouth of one of the horses as he tossed his head to shake off a fly. "true enough, selim. you doubtless envy me with only this gentleman to carry; and i pity you from the bottom of my heart; only that it must be good fun to hear those little folks chatting and laughing," was the answering remark apparently made by the horse ridden by mr. lilburn, speaking as they passed the captain's carriage. lulu and grace clapped their hands, laughing merrily, while baby ned exclaimed, with a look of astonishment, "me didn't fink horsey could talk like udder folks!" "oh, yes! but why did they never do it before?" cried little elsie. "papa, did you know they could talk?" "i never heard them do so before, daughter," the captain said, with an amused smile down into the earnest, surprised little face, "and i suspect that it is only when cousin ronald is about that they can." chapter xii. rides, drives, sports of various kinds, and preparations for the wedding, made the time pass very rapidly and pleasantly to the young folks at viamede, magnolia hall, and the parsonage, until at length all was in readiness for the expected festivities. the ceremony was to be performed at the church, the rev. cyril keith officiating, and to be immediately succeeded by a wedding breakfast on the lawn at magnolia hall. that was to be about noon, so did not interfere with the usual morning meal and family devotions at viamede. when these had been attended to, the ladies and young girls scattered to their rooms to dress for the important occasion. it had been arranged that grace raymond and rose lacy were to act as flower girls, dressed in white tarlatan, and white hats trimmed with white ribbon, and each carrying a basket filled with white roses, white japonicas, and smilax. rose travilla, evelyn leland, and lulu raymond, dressed as had been planned at the first, were to act as bridesmaids, while lora howard, maud and sydney dinsmore, were to be maids of honor, dressed in white, and carrying bouquets of white flowers. betty's own dress was a rich white silk, trimmed with elegant and costly lace--the gift of her brother-in-law, mr. embury--and a tulle veil, fastened to her head with a wreath of orange blossoms. her bouquet was of bride roses and smilax. the dinsmore and howard cousins were to act as ushers and groomsmen. all this had been satisfactorily arranged, and rehearsals gone through with several times at magnolia hall and viamede, that each one might be perfect in his or her part; otherwise timid little gracie could not have been induced to undertake her share in the ceremony. when she and lulu were dressed for the occasion they went in search of their father to ask his opinion of their appearance and attire. he scanned each daintily attired, graceful little figure with a look of proud, fond affection, clasped them in his arms and kissed them tenderly. "my darlings look very sweet in their father's eyes," he said; "but do not be too proud of your appearance, for fathers are apt to see their own children through rose-colored glasses; and it is not very likely that you will attract particular attention among so many attendants upon the bride, who will doubtless be gazed upon more admiringly and critically than anyone else." "i'm ever so glad of that, papa," gracie said, with a sigh of relief; "because i don't like to be viewed with a critic's eye," she concluded with a merry, though slightly disturbed little laugh. "well, dear child, just try to forget yourself, and i have no doubt everything will go right," he said, drawing both her and lulu closer into his arms for a little more petting and caressing. that was interrupted by the entrance of their mamma vi, coming upon the same errand that had brought them. "will i do, my dear?" she asked, with a bright, winsome smile. "ah, my violet, my sweet and beautiful flower," he returned, regarding her with ardently admiring eyes, "i fear you will outshine the bride. you look very like one yourself, except a most becoming air of maturity; scarcely older and certainly not less beautiful than when you gave yourself to me." "and accepted you in return; deeds which i have never yet for a moment regretted," she said, with a coquettish smile up into his face; for he had put his little girls gently aside and risen to take a critical survey of his young and beautiful wife. "and never shall if in my power to prevent it, my love, my darling," he said low and tenderly, laying a hand upon her shoulder, and bending down to press a fond kiss upon her lips. they were in the library, whither the captain had gone, after arraying himself for the wedding festival, to wait for the ladies and damsels who were to go under his care. "ah, brother levis, i have caught you in the very act," laughed rosie, dancing into the room, already in bridesmaid's attire, and looking but little less attractive than violet herself. "ah! and what of that, little sister?" he asked. "who has a better right than her husband to bestow caresses upon a beautiful and attractive woman?" "captain raymond, being my teacher, has an undoubted right to question me in the school-room," laughed rosie, with an arch look up into his face, "but--i don't know that he has here and now. now please let me have your candid opinion of my dress and appearance." "you will do very well, little sister; there is no fault to be found with your appearance, so far as i can see," he answered in a non-committal tone, and with a mischievous twinkle of fun in his eye. at that rosie pretended to pout. "you keep all your compliments for vi," she said. "but--ah, here comes eva, and i wonder if you can afford one to her. she is certainly worthy of it." evelyn did indeed look sweet and fair in a becoming white chip hat and her pretty dress of pale blue silk trimmed with lovely lace. rosie's own dress was a delicate pink; lulu's canary color; all of the same material. "that she is, in my opinion," returned the captain, bestowing a fatherly caress upon the young orphan girl, then offering the same to rosie. "well, now, you are a nice brother--my big, big brother, you remember," she laughed, "so i won't repulse you; help yourself and let us have it over." just at that moment her mother came in, dressed for the wedding in a beautiful pearl-colored silk and point lace, a knot of white roses at her throat and in her belt, her lovely and abundant golden brown hair simply and tastefully arranged. "mamma!" exclaimed violet, "you are the most beautiful and tastefully attired one among us!" "in the partial eyes of my daughter violet," was the smiling rejoinder. "but to me her youthful beauty far exceeds her mother's fading charms." "i incline to the opinion that the fading is perceptible to no eyes but your own, mother," remarked the captain gallantly. "i also," said violet; "a richer, riper bloom is all that i can see." "or that anybody else can," added walter, who, ready dressed for the wedding, had entered the room just in time to catch violet's first exclamation. then the other members of the family and the guests came flocking in, the carriages were announced as waiting for their living freight, and presently all were seated in them and on their way to the church, which they found crowded with invited guests and other spectators. the ceremony was short, but impressive. bride, bridesmaids, flower girls, and maids of honor were all looking their best, and behaved admirably; groom, groomsmen, and ushers also, among whom were a brother and an intimate friend of the bridegroom, the young cousins arthur and walter howard, chester and frank dinsmore, and little walter travilla. old mr. dinsmore, the uncle and guardian of the bride, gave her away, and was the first to salute, and call her by her new name on the completion of the ceremony, the first to congratulate the groom, and wish them a great deal of happiness. other affectionate greetings and best wishes followed in quick succession; then the carriages were re-entered, and all drove to magnolia hall to partake of the wedding breakfast. the place was looking its very loveliest: the grass on the lawn like a velvet carpet of emerald green, spangled with many flowers of varied hues, which filled the air with delicious perfume, and there, scattered about underneath the magnolia, orange, and other beautiful shade trees, were many small tables resplendent with the finest napery, shining silver, cut glass, and delicate china, and loaded with delicate and delicious viands. presently every table was surrounded by a merry group quite disposed to do justice to the tempting fare, and the air filled with the pleasant hum of happy voices and low, gleeful laughter. the bride and groom, with their attendants, were seated about two tables not many feet apart, while the older members of the viamede family and cousin ronald occupied another, quite near to both; and mr. embury and his molly, with the parsonage family, virginia and the older embury children, filled a third, not far from either of the others, when presently nero, a great big newfoundland dog belonging to mr. embury, showed himself at his master's side, looking up wistfully into his face. "i'm hungry, good master," were the words that seemed to come from his lips, "and surely your faithful dog might have a taste of this feast." at that some of the guests looked startled and astounded, too much surprised to speak, but mr. embury, who was not ignorant of cousin ronald's talents, though a little startled at first, recovered his wits instantly, and replying, "certainly, certainly, nero; that's only fair," handed the dog a generous bit of chicken, and bade him carry it to a distance and eat it. an order which was promptly obeyed. "ah ha, ah ha, um h'm! that's a bright and capable dog, mr. embury," remarked cousin ronald, elevating his eyebrows in mock surprise. "what would you take for him, sir?" "he is not for sale, mr. lilburn," was mr. embury's grave rejoinder. "you must surely see for yourself, sir, that he is no ordinary dog, but an uncommonly valuable animal. there are not many of his race who can speak so plainly." "ah ha, ah ha, um h'm! that is very true, sir. i don't wonder you are not inclined to part with him, for it is no easy matter to find a dog that can speak such good english, nor for that matter any other language." "no, sir, they are scarce indeed," said mr. embury, "and i had no idea nero was one of them until he spoke just now." "ah, i'm afraid the power of speech will be lost by him as suddenly as it was found," remarked mrs. embury with a low, gleeful laugh. "there must certainly be a ventriloquist among us," remarked the groom, with a searching look at cousin ronald. "ah, do you really think so, sir?" inquired mr. lilburn gravely, "and would you do me the favor to point him out?" "well, sir, i cannot say that i am absolutely certain, but strongly incline to the opinion that he sits in the chair occupied by yourself." "indeed, sir, i didna think i filled the place so ill that room could be found in it for another mon!" exclaimed mr. lilburn, again raising his eyebrows like one astonished, then sending a downward glance over his own portly person, and assuming so comical an expression of countenance that no one could see it without smiling or laughing outright. so fully was he absorbing the attention of all that no one noticed the return of nero until words were again heard apparently issuing from his lips. "that was a nice morsel, master, but not enough to satisfy the appetite of a dog of my size; so another bit, sir, if you please." "yes, sir, you shall have it, since you ask so politely," returned mr. embury, handing him another and larger piece of the chicken, "but carry it off where there will be no danger of contact with wedding finery." nero obeyed, and as he trotted away, a voice that seemed to come from behind mr. embury, said whiningly: "i'm hungry too, sir, and surely a human creature should be treated at least as well as a dog." at that mr. embury turned suddenly round as if to see the speaker, nearly everyone else doing likewise, but no beggar was in sight. "well, sir," he said, "i cannot give to an invisible suppliant; show yourself if you want anything." "sir," replied the voice, now seeming to come from a clump of bushes near at hand, "i'm not used to begging, and don't want to be seen. can you not send a servant here with a plateful of your most toothsome viands?" "quite a modest request, sir," returned mr. embury, laughing. "but i think you will have to wait till the servants have more leisure; at present they are all fully occupied in waiting upon my guests." "but then you'll let him have something to eat, won't you, papa?" pleaded little mary embury. "you never do turn anybody away hungry." "certainly not, little daughter; if he could be found he should be fed." "but shan't i drive him out, sir?" queried a servant man; "we doan' want no beggahs 'bout yar. dey mout help deirselfs to some o' de silvah when nobody aint lookin'." "well, bill, you might drive him out; he's perhaps a tramp watching his opportunity to help himself." bill, well pleased with the errand, set down with alacrity the dish he carried, and hurried toward the clump of bushes that apparently concealed the tramp. "ki, you ole tief you!" he cried, "git long out ob dis; nobody doan' want yo' hyar! i'se break yo' skull fo' yo' ef ye doan be gone putty quick!" he pulled apart the bushes as he spoke, but instantly started back in astonishment and terror as he perceived that no one was concealed there. "whar dat fellah dun gone?" he exclaimed. "dis chile doan' see nobody dar nohow 'tall!" "ha, ha! you don't look in the right place," cried the same voice that had begged for food a moment before, the speaker seeming to be directly behind him; and bill wheeled about with unusual alacrity with the intention of seizing his tormentor, but turned almost white with terror on perceiving that no one was there. "wha--wha--wha dat raskil done gone?" he exclaimed, "t'ot he right dar, an' he aint nowhar 'bout." "never mind, bill; it seems he has saved you the trouble of driving him off," said mr. embury, "and you may come back to your duties. more coffee is wanted here." bill obeyed, but on his return with the coffee kept glancing apprehensively in the direction of the bushes. "i wonder where the man did go!" exclaimed little mary presently. "i've been watching, and don't know how he could get away without being seen." "beggars are sometimes very quick at hiding, little lassie," remarked mr. lilburn. "ha, ha! so they are!" cried the voice of the beggar, sounding as though he stood just behind her chair. "oh!" she exclaimed, with a start and a backward glance. "why, where is he? i don't see him at all." "don't be frightened, daughter," mr. embury said in an encouraging tone. "no, bit lassie, he's not dangerous," remarked mr. lilburn, with a reassuring smile. "oh, do you know him, sir?" she asked, looking up inquiringly into his face. "i didna see him," replied the old gentleman laughingly, "but judging by his voice i think i know who he is--a quiet, inoffensive countrymon o' me ain." "ah, yes, a rather intimate acquaintance of yours, sir, is he not?" queried norton, with a searching look into the face of the old gentleman and a half mocking smile. "i think i may have heard the voice before, sir," mr. lilburn replied with unmoved countenance. "it is not unusual for beggars to accost one who is by no means o' the same class as themselves. in fact, as ony body can see, it would be useless to ask alms o' those no richer than themselves." "ah, true enough, sir!" was the reply. meanwhile, many mirthful glances had been exchanged by those--particularly the young folks--acquainted with the secret of cousin ronald's peculiar talent, and the guests at more distant tables were looking on with a good deal of curiosity. bill was presently questioned as he passed them on his way to and from the kitchen. "what was it you saw yonder in that bush, bill?" "nothin' 'tall, sah." "but you seemed frightened; you looked scared." "dat's de reason, sah; somebody talkin' an' nobody dare." "why, how was that, bill?" queried another voice. "dunno, sah; maybe witches roun'; 'spect dat de splanation ob de mattah." "oh, of course," laughed the gentleman; "but one hardly expects such company at a wedding." questions were put to mr. and mrs. embury and others as the guests drew together again upon the conclusion of the meal, but no satisfactory answers were elicited. a reception occupied some hours after that, then all returned to their homes, to meet again at viamede in the evening, where a beautiful and bountiful entertainment awaited them. the next evening a smaller party was given at the parsonage, and on the following afternoon the bride and groom took their departure for a little trip northward, expecting to settle down in their own home upon their return. chapter xiii. it was only the next day after the departure of betty and her husband that a letter was received by mrs. cyril keith, informing her of the death of her aunt delaford, leaving the bulk of her large fortune to her, and a fat legacy to each of the conley brothers--calhoun, arthur, walter, and ralph--and the sisters virginia and ella. isadore was well satisfied with the provisions of the will, as were the others also, with the exception of virginia, who frowned and grumbled audibly that she herself might have been made to share equally with isadore, who had a good home and husband already, therefore really needed less than herself, "lone and lorn, and poor as a church mouse." "but you have no children, virgie," said her cousin elsie, in whose presence the remark was made, "no one to support but yourself; and the interest of this money will be sufficient for your comfortable maintenance." "possibly, if i had a home, as isa has; but not without," returned virginia in a pettish tone, while her eyes flashed angrily. elsie bore patiently with the rebuff, and said no more at that time, but considered the matter earnestly, carefully, and prayerfully, in the privacy of her own room, then had a talk about it with her father, without whose approval she seldom took a step of any great importance. finding him alone on the veranda, "papa," she said, taking a seat by his side, "i want a few minutes' chat with you before we are joined by anyone else. you heard virginia's complaint of yesterday--that she had no home of her own. i have been thinking it over, also of the fact that dick and bob are in the same condition, and it has occurred to me that i might invite them to take possession here while we are absent at our more northern home, giving employment to the servants, keeping the house in repair, and the grounds in order; that is, merely overseeing the work and looking to me for the means necessary to cover the expense, i to retain my present satisfactory overseer, and pay his wages out of the returns from the crops; also those of the laborers." "you mean that you would simply give a home here to your cousins?" returned mr. dinsmore interrogatively. "yes, sir; a home without expense--except, perhaps, some small increase of the wages of the servants in consideration of the additional work made for them, and a share of the fruits, vegetables, fowls, and so forth, raised upon the plantation." "a share? meaning all they might want to use? the 'and so forth' i suppose, meaning milk, cream, butter, and eggs?" "yes, sir." "i should call it a very generous offer, and i have no objection to bring it forward, seeing that you are well able to afford it, if it is your pleasure so to do." "i am glad my project meets with your approval," she said, with a smile, "for otherwise, as i think you know, papa, it would never be carried out. ah, how thankful i should be, and i hope i am, that i have been given the financial ability to do such kindness to others!" "yes," he said, with an affectionate smile into the soft brown eyes looking into his; "i know of no one who enjoys doing kindness more than my dear eldest daughter. "what a delightful winter and early spring we have had here," he continued after a pause; "but it is now growing so warm that i think we must soon be moving northward." "yes, sir; when the last arrivals have had a week or more of the enjoyment to be found in this lovely region of country." "yes; they are enjoying it," he said, with a pleased smile; "the younger ones especially, the children of your brother and sister not less than the others. and by the way, daughter, i think you will be doing no little kindness to your cousins cyril and isadore by giving virginia a home here." "yes, i think their home life will be more peaceful," she said in assent. "poor virgie seems to be not of--the happiest or most contented disposition." "no, she never was," said mr. dinsmore; "a discontented, fretful, complaining creature she has always been since i have known her, and she was a very little child when our acquaintance began." in the course of that day elsie's plans were made known to the keiths, virginia, and her cousins dick percival and his half-brother bob johnson, joyfully accepted by the two gentlemen, and half ungraciously by virginia, who said complainingly, that "viamede was a pretty enough place, to be sure, but would be dreadfully lonesome for her when the boys were away." "then you can amuse yourself with a book from the library, a ride or drive, as the horses and carriages will be left here for your use and that of dick and bob," elsie answered pleasantly, while isadore, blushing vividly for her sister, exclaimed, "o virgie, you could not have a lovelier, sweeter home, and i think cousin elsie is wonderfully kind to offer it!" "of course, i'm greatly obliged to her," virginia said, coloring slightly as though a trifle ashamed of her want of appreciation of the kind offer "and i'll not damage anything, so that the house will be none the worse for my occupancy, but possibly a little better." "yes, perhaps it may," elsie said pleasantly, "though the servants usually left in charge are careful about airing it and keeping everything neat and clean. i really think you will have no trouble with your housekeeping, virgie." "that seems a pleasant prospect, for i never liked housekeeping," returned virginia, "and i really am much obliged to you, cousin elsie." "you are very welcome, and i hope will be happy here," was the kindly reply. another fortnight of constant intercourse between the three places--viamede, magnolia hall, and the parsonage--of rides, drives, walks, sailing or rowing about on the lagoon, and every other pleasure and entertainment that could be devised, then the party began to break up, those from the north returning to their homes, most of them by rail, as the speediest and the most convenient mode of travel. however, mr. and mrs. dinsmore, evelyn, grandma elsie and her youngest two, cousin ronald and the woodburn family, returned together by sea, making use of the captain's yacht, which he had ordered to be sent to him in season for the trip by the gulf and ocean. there was no urgent need of haste, and the captain did not deny that he was conscious of a longing to be, for a time, again in command of a vessel sailing over the briny deep; besides, it would be less fatiguing for the little ones, to say nothing of their elders. the little girls were full of delight at the prospect of both the voyage and the return to their lovely homes, yet could not leave beautiful viamede without deep regret. it was the last evening but one of their stay; all were gathered upon the veranda looking out upon the lagoon sparkling in the moonlight, and the velvety flower-bespangled lawn, with its many grand and beautiful old trees. the little ones had already gone to their nests, but evelyn, lulu, and grace were sitting with the older people, grace on her father's knee, the other two together close at hand. there had been some cheerful chat, followed by a silence of several minutes. it was broken by a slight scuffling sound, as of a negro's footstep, in the rear of elsie's chair, then a voice said in mournful accents, "scuse de in'truption, missus, but dis chile want to 'spress to you uns dat we uns all a'most heart-broke t'inkin' how you's gwine 'way an' p'r'arps won't be comin' heah no mo' till de ol'est ob us done gone foreber out dis wicked worl'." before the sentence was completed every eye had turned in the direction of the sounds; but nothing was to be seen of the speaker. "oh, that was you, cousin ronald," laughed rosie, recovering from the momentary start given her by the seemingly mysterious disappearance of the speaker. "ah, rosie, my bonnie lassie, how can you treat your auld kinsman so ill as to suspect him of murdering the king's english in that style?" queried the old gentleman in hurt, indignant tones. "because, my poor abused cousin, i am utterly unable to account in any other way for the phenomenon of an invisible speaker so close at hand." cousin ronald made no reply, for at that instant there came a sound of bitter sobbing, apparently from behind a tree a few feet from the veranda's edge, then a wailing cry, "oh, miss elsie, massa dinsmore, and de res' ob you dar, doan' go for to leab dis po' chile! she cayn't stan' it nohow 'tall! her ole heart like to break! doan' go way, massa an' missus; stay hyah wid de niggahs dat lubs you so!" "oh, cousin ronald, don't!" elsie said in half tremulous tones. "it seems too real, and almost breaks my heart; for i am greatly attached to many of these poor old men and women." "then i think they will not distress you with any more complaints and entreaties to-night, sweet cousin," returned the old gentleman in pleasant, though half regretful tones. chapter xiv. the next day the servants were gathered on the lawn and presented with the parting gifts procured for them by the ladies and little girls, which they received with many thanks and demonstrations of delight. but the following morning, when the time of parting had really come, there were some tears shed by the old retainers, yet they were greatly cheered by the assurances of their loved mistress, her father, and captain raymond, that in all probability it would not be very long before the family would be there again for a season. the feelings of the departing ones were of a mingled character--regret at leaving lovely viamede, and joy in the prospect of soon being again in their own sweet homes farther north. the weather was delightful, light fleecy clouds tempering the heat of the sun; the fields and plantations clothed in the richest verdure of spring; the air filled with the perfume of flowers and vocal with the songs of birds; then on reaching bayou teche they found their own yacht, the _dolphin_, awaiting them. the young folks of the party greeted her with a clapping of hands and many another demonstration of delight, and soon all were on board, and she was steaming out through the bay, into the gulf beyond, her passengers, from grandpa dinsmore down to baby ned, grouped together on deck underneath an awning. "we are in the gulf now, aren't we, sir?" asked walter at length, addressing the captain. "yes, my boy," was the pleasant toned reply; "and are there any places along its coast that you or any of the others would particularly like to see?" "oh, yes, sir; yes, indeed!" exclaimed walter with enthusiasm. "i for one would like greatly to see mobile bay with its fort. morgan is the name?" "yes; fort morgan is at the extremity of mobile point, where fort bowyer stood in the war of - . you remember what happened there at that time?" "it was attacked by the british, wasn't it, sir?" "yes; in september, , by a british squadron of two brigs and two sloops of war, aided by a land force of one hundred and thirty marines and six hundred indians, led by captain woodbine, who had been trying to drill them at pensacola. "florida did not belong to us at that time; the spaniards had made a settlement at pensacola in , were still there at the time of our last war with england, and favored the british, who there, as well as in other parts of florida, organized expeditions against the united states, the spanish governor, though professing neutrality, evidently siding with and giving them aid and comfort." "and when then did we get possession of florida, sir?" asked walter. "in july of ," answered the captain. "didn't jackson capture pensacola at one time during that war with england, captain?" asked evelyn. "yes; in the attack about which walter was just asking, before lafitte forwarded to new orleans those documents showing how the british were trying to get him into their service, jackson had perceived that the spaniards were, as i have said, secretly siding with the british, and now, with the positive proof furnished by those papers before him, he squarely accused manrequez, the spanish governor at pensacola, of bad faith. "then followed a spicy correspondence, which jackson closed by writing to the governor, 'in future i beg you to withhold your insulting charges against my government for one more inclined to listen to slander than i am; nor consider me any more a diplomatic character unless so proclaimed from the mouth of my cannon.' "then he set to work to raise troops, and in a very short time had two thousand sturdy young tennesseeans ready for the field. "but before these reached mobile, hostilities had begun. jackson himself went there early in august, and on his arrival perceived that an attempt would be made by the british to seize it as soon as their talked of great expedition should be ready to move. "fort bowyer was but a small and weak fortification; had no bomb-proofs, and but twenty guns, only two of them larger than twelve pounders, some still smaller in size. "yet small and weak as was the fort, it was the chief defence of mobile; so jackson threw into it a hundred and thirty of his second regular infantry, under major william lawrence, who was as gallant an officer as any in the service. "lawrence at once made every preparation in his power to resist the expected attack. but before he could complete his work, on the morning of the th of september, the british lieutenant-colonel nichols appeared on the peninsula back of the fort, with, as i have said, his marines and indians, the latter under the command of captain woodbine, who had been drilling them at pensacola. "later in the evening of the same day the four british vessels of which i spoke appeared in sight, and anchored within six miles of mobile point. they were a part of a squadron of nine vessels in pensacola bay, under the command of captain percy. "our little garrison slept upon their arms that night. the next morning nichols caused a howitzer to be dragged to a sheltered point within seven hundred yards of the fort, and threw some shells and solid shot from it, but without doing much damage." "and our fellows fired back at him, of course?" exclaimed walter excitedly. "yes, but their fire was equally harmless; but later in the day lawrence's guns quickly dispersed some of percy's men who were attempting to cast up intrenchments, and in the same way several light boats, whose men were engaged in sounding the channel nearest the fort. "the next day was occupied in very much the same way, but on the third the garrison perceived that an assault was to be made from both land and water. at two o'clock the vessels were seen approaching, and lawrence called a council of officers. "all were determined to resist to the last, and if finally compelled to surrender, to do so only on condition that officers and privates should retain their arms and private property, be treated as prisoners of war, and protected from the savages. "the words adopted as the signal for the day were, 'don't give up the fort.' "at half past four the battle began, the four vessels opening fire simultaneously, and pouring broadside after broadside upon the fort, which returned a fearful fire from its circular battery. "while this was going on in front, captain woodbine was assailing our men in the rear, from behind his sand-dune, with a howitzer and a twelve-pounder. "so the battle raged for an hour; then the flag of the _hermes_ was shot away, and lawrence stopped firing to learn if she had surrendered; but the _caron_ fired another broadside, and the fight went on with renewed vigor. soon a shot cut the cable of the _hermes_, and she floated away with the current, her head toward the fort, and her decks swept of men and everything by a raking fire from the fort. "then the fort's flag-staff was shot away and her ensign fell, but the british, instead of following lawrence's humane example, redoubled their fire. at the same time, woodbine, supposing that the fort had surrendered, hastened toward it with his indians, but they were driven back by a storm of grape-shot, and almost immediately the flag was seen again floating over the fort at the end of the staff to which major lawrence had nailed it." "and was that the end of the fight, papa?" asked lulu. "very nearly, if not quite," he replied. "two of the attacking vessels presently withdrew, leaving the helpless _hermes_ behind; she finally grounded upon a sand-bank, when percy fired and abandoned her. near midnight her magazine exploded." "i should think that was a great victory; was it not, brother levis?" queried walter. "i think it was," the captain said. "the result was very mortifying to the british. it was entirely unexpected, and percy had said that he would allow the garrison only twenty minutes to capitulate. it is not surprising that he expected to take the weak little fort, with its feeble garrison of one hundred and thirty, when he brought against it over thirteen hundred men and ninety-two pieces of artillery. "the americans lost only eight men, one-half of whom were killed. the assailants lost two hundred and thirty-two, one hundred and sixty-two of them killed. "one result of that fight was that the indians lost faith in the invincibility of the british, and many of them deserted, and sought safety from the anger of jackson by concealing themselves in the interior of their broad country." "papa," said grace earnestly, "did not god help our cause because we were in the right?" "no doubt of it, daughter," replied the captain; "ours was a righteous cause, a resistance to intolerable oppression and wrong, as our poor sailors felt it to be when a british man-of-war would stop our merchantmen on the high seas and force into their service any man whom they choose to say was an englishman. "but i need not enlarge upon that subject to my present audience, as i am convinced that you all know of and appreciate that bitter wrong. "to resume. the americans were highly gratified with the result of the conflict at fort bowyer, and their zeal was greatly quickened for volunteering for the defence of new orleans, whose citizens testified their appreciation of major lawrence's achievement by resolving to present him with an elegant sword in the name of their city." "was there not a second attack by the british upon fort bowyer, captain?" asked evelyn. "yes; after their defeat at new orleans. that, you will remember, was on the th of january, . they reached their fleet, lying in the deep water between ship and cat islands, on the th of that month, fort bowyer on the th of february, and besieged it for nearly two days, when major lawrence found himself compelled to surrender to a superior force. that left mobile at the mercy of the foe, but just then came the news of peace, concluded at ghent nearly two months before." "but wasn't there some fighting done there or at mobile in the civil war, sir?" asked walter. "yes; on august , , the government forces under farragut attacked the confederate defences there, consisting principally of the two forts, morgan on the eastern side of the bay, and gaines on the western, about three miles apart. "a line of piles and a double one of torpedoes stretched nearly across from fort gaines to fort morgan, leaving only a narrow channel between that fort and the point of termination. it was through that channel, indicated by a red buoy, that blockade runners passed in and out, and inside of these defences lay the confederate ironclad _tennessee_, and three wooden gun-boats. it was early in the morning of that august day that farragut's signal was given, for the advance of his seven sloops of war. the firing was heavy and destructive on both sides. but i will not go into particulars at this time, only saying that the result was in favor of the federals; but the victory cost many lives--of federals men, of whom were drowned in the _tecumseh_--the leading monitor, which had struck a torpedo and gone down--and killed by shot, while the confederate loss was killed, wounded, and prisoners, besides the loss in the forts, which is unknown." just at this point a passing vessel attracted the attention of the captain and his listeners, and the conversation was not renewed until after dinner. chapter xv. it was mrs. travilla, or grandma elsie, as lulu and grace called her, who that afternoon started the captain upon the historical sketches so greatly enjoyed by the younger part of the company, to say nothing of the older ones. "we will pass near enough to forts gaines and morgan to get a view of them--the outside at least--will we not, captain?" she asked, with a smile. "yes, mother," he replied. "pensacola also, whither, as i have said, the british went after their fruitless attack upon fort bowyer--now fort morgan--then occupied by the spaniards under manrequez, and where they were publicly received as friends and allies. "all that, and the revelations of jean lafitte concerning their attempt to engage him and his outlaws to help them in their contemplated attack upon new orleans, kindled the hottest indignation in the minds of jackson and the people of the southwest. the general issued a proclamation in retort for one sent out by the british officer nichols shortly before, in which he had made inflammatory appeals to the french, who were prejudiced against the americans, and the kentuckians, who were discontented because of a seeming neglect by their government--a state of things largely owing to the arts of ambitious politicians. "nichols had also sent out indian runners to excite their fellows against the americans, and in that way he gathered nearly a thousand creeks and seminoles at pensacola, where they were supplied with abundance of arms and ammunition. "jackson, in his proclamation--told of all this the conduct of the british, and the perfidy of the spaniards--and called upon the people of louisiana to 'arouse for the defence of their threatened country.'" "and did they do it, sir?" queried walter. "yes; they were thoroughly roused and much excited by the threatening aspect of affairs, and at once set vigorously to work to prepare for determined resistance to the threatened invasion of their country and their homes. "jackson was impatient to march on pensacola and break up that rendezvous of the enemies of the united states, but it was slow work to get his troops together, and november had come before he had his forces ready for the attack. "at last, however, he had four thousand men gathered at fort montgomery, due north from pensacola, and on the d of the month they marched for that place, some mississippi dragoons leading the way. "on the evening of the th, jackson, with his whole army, encamped within two miles of their destination. major pierre was sent to the spanish governor with a flag of truce, and a message from his general saying that he had not come to injure the town, or make war upon a neutral power, but to deprive the enemies of the republic of a place of refuge. pierre was also told to demand the surrender of the forts. "the british, however, were in possession of fort st. michael, over which their's and the spanish flags had been waving together until the day before, and as soon as the american flag of truce was seen approaching, it was fired upon from the fort by a twelve-pounder. "pierre returned to jackson and reported these facts; then jackson sent to the governor a spaniard whom he had captured on the way, demanding an explanation. "the governor asserted that he knew nothing of the outrage, and promised that another flag should be respected. "at midnight pierre, sent again by jackson, called once more upon the governor with a proposal that american garrisons should be allowed to take possession of the forts until manrequez could man them with a sufficient number of spanish troops to enable him to maintain the neutrality of his government against violations of it by the british, who had taken possession of the fortresses, it seemed, in spite of the spanish governor's protests, the american troops to be withdrawn as soon as the additional spanish ones arrived. "the governor rejected the propositions and before dawn three thousand of the americans were marching upon pensacola. they passed along the beach, but the sand was so deep that they could not drag their cannon through it. then the centre of their column charged gallantly into the town, but on reaching the principal street they were met by a shower of musketry from the gardens and houses, while a two-gun battery opened upon them with balls and grape-shot. "but captain laval and his company charged and captured the battery, when the governor quickly showed himself with a flag, and promised to comply with any terms offered if jackson would spare the town." "i hope jackson wasn't too good to him," laughed rosie. "the surrender of all the forts was what jackson demanded and received," replied the captain. "but one, six miles away, called fort barancas, and commanding the harbor, in which the british vessels lay, was still in the hands of the enemy. jackson determined to march suddenly upon it the next morning, seize it, turn its guns on the british vessels, and capture or injure them before they could escape. "but before morning the british squadron had gone, carrying with it colonel nichols, captain woodbine, the spanish commandant of the fort, and about four hundred men, besides a considerable number of indians; and before leaving they had blown up the fort. "jackson suspected that they had gone to make another attack upon fort bowyer and the town of mobile, so hurried away in that direction, leaving manrequez angry and indignant at this treatment of himself by the british, and the indians filled with the idea that it would be very imprudent for them to again defy the wrath of andrew jackson; much dejected and alarmed, they scattered themselves through the forests. "as for jackson, when he reached mobile, on the th of november, he received messages urging him to hasten to the defence of new orleans. "he left that place on the st, reached it on the d of december--but of what he accomplished there i have already told you." "yes, papa," said lulu; "i'll never forget that interesting story. but do tell me, will we pass near enough to mobile to see those forts?" "yes," he said; then turning to grandma elsie, asked, "mother, would you like to stop and visit the forts?" "i am willing if the rest wish it," she replied; "but otherwise would prefer to press on toward home, my ion home, which, now that we have left viamede fairly behind, i begin to long to see again." "that being the case i am sure no one of us will wish to stop," returned the captain gallantly, a sentiment at once re-echoed by mr. dinsmore and all present. "we are nearing there now, are we not, my dear?" asked violet. "yes; we are moving rapidly, and if all goes well may expect to see the forts early this evening." there was an exclamation of pleasure from several of the young people; then lulu asked, "papa, are there not some other historical places we shall have to pass while we are in the gulf or after we reach the ocean?" "quite a number, daughter, but we will not delay our voyage in order to visit them at this time." "perhaps some other day, then?" she returned inquiringly, smiling up into his face as she spoke. "very possibly," he returned, smoothing her hair with caressing hand; for she was, as usual, close at his side. a pause in the talk was at length broken by a remark from cousin ronald. "you had some great men among your union officers, captain, in both army and navy, in the days of that terrible civil war." "we had indeed, sir," was the hearty response; "a number of them in both arms of the service, and none more worthy of respect and admiration than farragut, who did such splendid service at both new orleans and mobile bay, to say nothing of other places. the city of mobile could not be captured as new orleans had been, by reason of shoal water and obstructions in the channel, but the passage of blockade runners, carrying supplies to the confederacy, was stopped, which was the main object of the expedition." "yes, he did good service to his country," returned mr. lilburn, "although, if i mistake not, he was a southerner." "he was born in tennessee," replied captain raymond. "in the winter of - he was on waiting orders at norfolk, virginia, where he watched with intense interest the movements of the southern states, and especially the effort to carry virginia out of the union into the confederacy; and when that was accomplished he remarked that 'the state had been dragooned out of the union.' "he talked very freely on the subject, and was told that a person with such sentiments as his 'could not live in norfolk.' 'well, then,' he replied, 'i can live somewhere else,' and that very evening left the place, with his wife and son. that was the th of april, . he went first to baltimore, but afterward took a cottage at hastings-on-the-hudson. "the next december he was summoned to washington, and on the d of february sailed from hampton roads for new orleans." "where he certainly did splendid service to his country," remarked mr. lilburn. "i hope she appreciated it." "i think she did," returned the captain; "he received many marks of the people's appreciation, among them a purse of $ , , which was presented him for the purchase of a home in new york city." "did he live to see the end of the war, sir?" asked walter. "yes; he was on the james river with general gordon when richmond was taken, and on hearing the news the two rode there post-haste, reaching the city a little ahead of president lincoln. a few days after that the naval and military officers at norfolk, with some of the citizens who had remained true to the union, gave him a public reception. "farragut was one of the speakers, and in the course of his remarks said: 'this meeting recalls to me the most momentous events of my life, when i listened in this place till the small hours of the morning, and returned home with the feeling that virginia was safe and firm in her place in the union. our union members of the convention were elected by an overwhelming majority, and we believed that every thing was right. judge, then, of our astonishment in finding, a few days later, that the state had been voted out by a miserable minority, for want of firmness and resolution on the part of those whom we trusted to represent us there, and that virginia had been dragooned out of the union. i was told by a brother officer that the state had seceded, and that i must either resign and turn traitor to the government which had supported me from childhood, or i must leave this place. "'thank god, i was not long in making my decision. i have spent half my life in revolutionary countries, and i know the horrors of civil war; and i told the people what i had seen and what they would experience. they laughed at me, and called me "granny," and "croaker"; and i said, "i cannot live here, and will seek some other place where i can live." i suppose they said i left my country for my country's good, and i thank god i did.'" "a countryman to be proud of," remarked mr. lilburn. "oh, i wish i could have seen him!" exclaimed grace. "papa, wasn't he a christian man?" "i think so, daughter," replied the captain. "he is said to have had a strong religious nature and a firm reliance upon providence, believing in god's constant guidance." "do you remember," said grandma elsie, "those lines of oliver wendell holmes' written in honor of admiral farragut, and read at a dinner given him, in which this passage occurs? "fast, fast are lessening in the light the names of high renown, van tromp's proud besom pales from sight, old _benbow's_ half hull down. "scarce one tall frigate walks the sea, or skirts the safer shores, of all that bore to victory our stout old commodores. "hull, bainbridge, porter--where are they? the answering billows roll, still bright in memory's sunset ray, god rest each gallant soul! "a brighter name must dim their light, with more than noontide ray: the viking of the river fight, the conqueror of the bay. "i give the name that fits him best-- ay, better than his own-- the sea-king of the sovereign west, who made his mast a throne." "a fine poem indeed, and with a subject worthy of all its praise," remarked cousin ronald, as mrs. travilla ceased. "no wonder you are proud of him, cousins, for he was, as i said a moment since, one to be proud of; i should be proud indeed of him were he a countryman of mine." "as each one of us--his countrymen and women--certainly is," said mr. dinsmore. there was a silence of a few moments, presently broken by the captain. "yes," he said, "i think there are few, if any, of his countrymen, who are not proud of our grand naval hero, farragut; and there were others among our naval heroes of that day, almost, if not quite, as worthy of our affectionate admiration. captain, afterward admiral, bailey, for instance, who was second in command at the taking of new orleans, leading, in the _cayuga_, the right column of the fleet of government vessels in the passage of forts st. philip and jackson, the capture of the chalmette batteries and the city. "as you probably remember, he passed up ahead of the fleet, through the fire of the forts, the confederate vessels, the rams, fire-rafts, blazing cotton bales, and dense clouds of smoke, meeting the attacks of all unaided. "also it was he who was sent by farragut in company with only one other man, lieutenant george h. perkins, to demand the surrender of the city, the taking down of the confederate flag, and the hoisting in its stead of the stars and stripes. "it certainly required no small amount of courage to pass through those city streets surrounded by a hooting, yelling, cursing crowd, threatening them with drawn pistols and other weapons. "and who can fail to admire the words of bailey, in his official report of the victory: 'it was a contest of iron hearts in wooden ships against iron-clads with iron beaks--and the iron hearts won?' "and not less admirable was his modest behavior at a dinner given him at the astor house, when called upon to reply to the toast of 'the navy.'" "ah, what was that, sir?" asked mr. lilburn, pricking up his ears. "i was reading an account of it only the other day," pursued captain raymond. "the old hero straightened himself up, and began, 'mr. president and gentlemen--hem--thank ye.' then made a long pause, glancing up and down the table. 'well, i suppose you want to hear about that new orleans affair?' he continued. at that there were cries of 'yes! yes!' and a great stamping of feet. so bailey went on; 'well, d'ye see, this was the way of it. we were lying down the river below the forts, and farragut, he--he signalled us to go in and take 'em. being as we were already hove short, it didn't take much time to get under way, so that wasn't so much of a job as ye seem to think. and then the engineers, they ran the ships, so all we had to do was to blaze away when we got up to the forts, and take 'em, according to orders. that's just all there was about it.' and he sat down amid thunders of applause." "ah ha, um h'm, ah ha! a nice, modest fellow he must have been," remarked cousin ronald, nodding reflectively, over his cane. the call to tea interrupted the conversation, but on leaving the table all gathered upon the deck again to watch the sunset, the rising of the moon, and for the forts, morgan and gaines, which they were now rapidly nearing, and upon which all gazed with interest as the captain pointed them out and the vessel steamed slowly past. "ah, what a terrible thing is war!" sighed grandma elsie. "god forbid that this dear land should ever again be visited with that fearful scourge!" "ah, i can say amen to that!" mrs. dinsmore exclaimed, low and tremulously, thinking of the dear young brothers who had fallen victims in that unnatural strife. "we cannot be thankful enough for the peace and prosperity that now bless our native land." "no; and may it ever continue," added her husband. "her growth and prosperity since that fearful struggle ended have been something wonderful." a few moments of silence followed, the vessel moving swiftly on her way, and a gentle breeze fanning the cheeks of her passengers as they sat there placidly gazing out over the moonlit waters, then the quiet was suddenly broken in upon by a loud guffaw, followed by a drunken shout. "aint i fooled ye nice, now? ye didn't know i was aboard, capting, nor any o' the rest o' ye. ye didn't guess ye'd got a free passenger aboard 'sides that old scotch feller a-settin' yander a-looking like he feels hisself as good 's any o' the rest, ef he don't pay nothin' fer his trip." everyone started and turned in the direction of the sounds. "a stowaway!" exclaimed captain raymond. "the voice seems to come from the hold. excuse me, ladies and gentlemen; i must see to his case, and that we are secured from the danger of a visit from him, as he is evidently a drunken wretch," and with the words he hastened away in the direction of the sounds. "ha, ha! i hear ye, capting!" shouted the voice; "but drunken wretch or not, i wouldn't harm a hair o' any o' yer heads. all i'm a-wantin' is a free passage up furder north, where i come from." "oh, mamma, i'm so frightened! so 'fraid the bad man will hurt my dear papa," cried little elsie, clinging to her mother, while tears filled her sweet blue eyes. "no, papa will whip de naughty mans," said ned, shaking his baby fist in the direction of the sounds. "ah ha, ah ha, um h'm! little laddie; i have no doubt your papa is bigger and stronger than the naughty mans," said cousin ronald, "and if he catches the good-for-nothing scamp, can whip him within an inch of his life." at that walter burst into a laugh. "now, cousin ronald," he said, "i'd not be a bit surprised to learn that you are well acquainted with that scamp. however, i'll run after brother levis to see the fun, if there is any, but i'm sure nobody need be one bit afraid," and with that away he ran. "ah, cousin ronald," began violet, laughing, the others joining in with her, and all entirely occupied in looking at the old gentleman, whose face, however, could be but indistinctly seen, as he had so placed himself that the moonlight did not fall fully upon it, "confess that----" but she got no further. a shout of drunken laughter from the other side of the vessel again startled them. "ha, ha! the capting's gone in the wrong direction to catch this customer. but he needn't to hunt me up. i'm a real harmless kind o' chap, an' wouldn't hurt a hair o' any o' your heads." again every head was turned in the direction of the sounds, but seeing no one they all burst into gleeful laughter, in which the captain presently joined, having returned from his bootless search, fully convinced that it need be carried no farther. chapter xvi. it was a bright, sweet may morning. _reveille_ sounded at the naval academy at annapolis, and with the first tap of the drum max woke and sprang from his bed. he glanced from the window as he hurried on his clothes, and a low exclamation of surprise and delight burst from his lips. "what now, raymond?" queried hunt, who was dressing with equal expedition. "the _dolphin_! the _dolphin_!" cried max, in a joyful, exultant tone. "she lies at anchor down yonder, and i haven't a doubt that i shall see my father and all the rest presently." "possible? what a fortunate fellow you are, raymond," returned hunt, hurrying to the window to take a hasty peep. "sure enough! and what a beauty she is, that _dolphin_! and the captain will be here presently getting you leave to spend the day on board; and it being saturday, and he and the commandant old friends, there'll be no trouble in managing it. accept my most hearty congratulations, old fellow." "thank you," said max, vainly trying to suppress his excitement, for his affectionate, boyish heart was bounding with joy at the thought of presently seeing all his loved ones; most of all, the father who was to him the personification of all that was good, honorable, brave, noble, and true; the father to whom, he knew beyond a doubt, he himself was an object of strong parental affection and pride. "and it's fortunate for you that i'm the fellow to set the room to rights on this memorable occasion," continued hunt. "i say, raymond, i think you must have been born under a lucky star." "ah, yes, old fellow," laughed max, "i rather suspect that's what's the matter. but hark! what's that?" as approaching footsteps were heard in the hall without. a rap quickly followed. max flew to the door and threw it open, to find a messenger there from the commandant requiring his presence immediately in the grounds below. little doubting what awaited him, max obeyed the summons with joyful alacrity, running down one flight of stairs after another till the lowest hall was reached, then out into the grounds, sending an eagerly inquiring look from side to side. ah, yes, in the shade of a tree, yonder, a few yards from the door-way, stood the commandant in earnest conversation with another gentleman, not in uniform, but of decidedly soldierly bearing. max recognized the face and form on the instant, and flew to meet him. both gentlemen turned at the sound of the approaching footsteps. max hastily saluted his superior officer, saying half breathlessly, "i am here, sir." "so i see, raymond," was the smiling rejoinder, "and for the present i resign you to this gentleman's care," turning toward the captain. max's hand was instantly clasped in that of his father, who held it fast and, bending down, kissed his son with ardent affection, saying, with emotion, and in low, earnest tones, "my boy, my dear, dear boy!" "papa, papa!" cried max, his voice, too, trembling with feeling and excitement, "i never was gladder in my life!" "i am very glad for you, max," said the commandant, in kindly sympathizing tones. "and raymond, let me assure you that the lad is worthy of every indulgence that could be afforded him; a more industrious or better behaved cadet i have never had under my care. hoping to see you again in the course of the day, i bid you good-morning. you also, max," and with a bow and smile he left father and son alone together. "so good a report of his eldest son makes your father a very happy man, max," the captain said, pressing the hand he held, and gazing into the rosy, boyish face with eyes brimful of fatherly love and pride. "thank you for saying it, papa," returned max, flushing with joy; "but with such a father i ought to be a better and brighter boy than i am. but i do try, papa, and i mean always to try to honor you by being and doing all i know you would wish." "i haven't a doubt of it, my son," the captain said, again affectionately pressing the lad's hand, then letting it go; "but now i must return to the _dolphin_, taking my eldest son with me if he wishes me to do so." "yes, indeed, papa!" cried the boy, ready to dance with delight; "but may i go back to my room for a moment first? i'm afraid that in my hurry to obey the summons of the commandant, i haven't left everything quite in ship shape." "yes, go, son," replied his father; "and if your morning devotions have not been attended to, do not neglect them any longer. i will wait for you here under the trees. by the way, i am to hear your recitations for this morning, so you may bring the needed books with you." "yes, sir," returned max, and hurried away, his father looking after him with proudly beaming eyes till the lithe, graceful young figure disappeared within the door-way, then taking a morning paper from his pocket, he seated himself on a bench beneath a tree to await the lad's return. he had not long to wait; in a few minutes max was again at his side, and the two were wending their way toward the row-boat that was to take them to the _dolphin_, anchored some distance out in the stream. all was so still and quiet in and about the vessel that morning that her passengers slept later than usual, but lulu, as generally happened, was one of the earliest risers, and had not been up long before she hastened to the deck to exchange the accustomed morning greeting with her father. but, to her surprise and disappointment, a hasty glance about the deck showed her that he was not there. "why, what is the matter?" she said to herself. "i'm afraid papa must be sick, for i do not know what else would keep him in his stateroom till this time of day. but," with another sweeping glance from side to side, "we're certainly anchored; and where? why, it looks like--yes, it is annapolis!" hearing the splash of oars and catching sight of a row-boat with several persons in it, "for there's papa, and max with him. oh, oh, oh, how glad i am!" and with the words she ran to the side of the vessel and the next minute was in max's arms. it was a very hearty embrace on the part of both, their father standing by and watching them with shining eyes. "o maxie, how you have grown!" exclaimed lulu, gently withdrawing herself from his embrace and scanning him with keen scrutiny from head to foot; "you look every inch a naval cadet." "do i?" he queried laughingly. "thank you, for i consider it a decided compliment. and you too have changed; you are taller, and look more than ever like papa." "o max, you could not say anything that would please me better than that," she exclaimed, flushing with pleasure; "and i can return the compliment with interest. i think you will look exactly like our dear father when you are his age," turning toward the captain, and lifting her eyes to his full of ardent filial affection; for he was standing there regarding both with fatherly tenderness, and pride in their youthful comeliness of form and feature. "my dear, dear children!" he said, bending down to give lulu the usual morning caress, "your mutual love makes me very happy. may it never be less than it is now!" at that moment violet, grace, and the two little ones joined them, and more hearty, loving embraces followed, all, except violet, being as much taken by surprise at the sight of max as lulu had been. grace almost cried with joy as max caught her in his arms and hugged her close, kissing her sweet lips again and again. "i doubt," he said laughingly, as he let her go, "if there is another fellow at the academy who has such sisters as mine, or such a young, pretty mamma, or darling baby brother and sister," kissing each in turn; "and," looking up into his father's face, a telltale moisture gathering in his eyes, "i'm perfectly certain there's not one can show a father to be so proud of." "ah, my dear boy, love is blind to defects and very keen-sighted as regards good and admirable qualities in those she favors," was the captain's answering remark. "what a surprise you have given us, papa!" exclaimed lulu; "me at least, for i hadn't the least idea we were coming here." "no, but some of the rest of us knew," said violet, with a merry little laugh; "your father told me of his intentions last night--as a secret, however, for he wanted to give you and gracie a pleasant surprise." "and it was certainly a pleasant one to me," said max. "papa, thank you ever so much." "did you get leave for him to stay all day, papa?" asked lulu in a tone that seemed to say she hoped so with all her heart. "he will be with us through the day, except during the two hours of drill, which we will all go to see; also all day to-morrow," was the captain's reply to that, and it seemed to give pleasure to all who heard it: all the passengers on board, for by that time the others had come up to the deck, and one after another gave max a pleased and hearty greeting--the older people as one they had expected to see, the younger with joyful surprise. they gathered about him, some of them--walter in especial--with many questions in regard to the daily routine of life at the academy, all of which max answered readily and to the best of his ability. "haven't you lessons to say to-day?" queried walter. "yes, but i'm to recite them to papa," max replied, with a pleased, smiling glance into his father's face. "you may well look pleased, max, for he's an excellent teacher, as all his viamede pupils can testify," remarked rosie demurely. "oh, yes, i remember now that he has been teaching you all while you were down there," said max. "well, i never saw a better teacher, though perhaps, being his son and very fond of him, it's possible i may be a partial judge." "quite possible, my boy," laughed his father, "and i think no one of my pupils is disposed to view me with a critic's eye." "you need not say the rest of it, papa," said lulu, "for i'm sure you haven't any imperfections to be passed by." "quite right, lu," laughed violet. but at that moment came the call to breakfast, a summons everyone was ready to obey with alacrity. they had a pleasant, social time about the table; the fare was excellent, appetites were of the best, and everyone was in fine spirits and high good-humor. max was called upon to answer so many questions with regard to life at the naval academy, and his replies were listened to with so much deference, that the captain began to fear his boy might become insufferably conceited. disturbed by that fear, he watched him so closely and with so grave an air that at length max noticed it, and was much disturbed with the fear that he had unwittingly done or said something to hurt or displease his dearly loved father. he took the first opportunity--following the captain about the vessel, after breakfast and family prayers were over, till they found themselves alone together for a moment--to inquire, in a tone of much concern, if it were so. "no, my son, not at all," was the kindly reply, "but i felt a little anxious lest my boy should be spoiled and made conceited by being applied to by older people for so much information." "i hope not, papa; i know very well it was only because i've been living there and they haven't; and that every one of them knows far more than i do about many another thing." "quite true, my son," the captain said, with a smile, adding, "and now you may get out your books and look over those lessons, as i shall soon be ready to hear them." "yes, sir; it will be really a great treat to recite to my old tutor once more," returned the lad, with a look of relief and pleasure. "i am very glad indeed that he is not displeased with me as i feared." "very far from it, my dear boy," was the captain's kindly rejoinder; "the account given me to-day by the commandant, of your conduct and attention to your studies, was most gratifying to my pride in my eldest son." those words, and also the warm praise bestowed upon his recitations when they had been heard, filled the boy's heart with happiness. his father returned to the academy with him at the hour for drill, but the others witnessed it from the deck of the _dolphin_. at its conclusion, captain raymond and his son returned to the yacht, max having permission to remain there until near ten o'clock on sunday night. a trip up the river had been planned for the afternoon, and anchor was weighed and the yacht started as soon as her commander and his son had come aboard. all were seated upon the deck under an awning, greatly enjoying a delicious breeze, the dancing and sparkling of the water, and the distant view of the shore arrayed in the lovely verdure of spring. mrs. dinsmore, mrs. travilla, and mrs. raymond sat together, busy with fancy work and chatting cheerily, while the younger ones had their drawing materials or books--except grace, who was dressing a doll for little elsie. few of them, however, were accomplishing a great deal, there being so small necessity for the employment and so many things to withdraw their attention from it. max speedily made his way to mrs. travilla's side. she looked up from her work, and greeted him with her sweet smile. "it is quite delightful to have you among us again, my dear boy," she said, taking his hand and pressing it affectionately in hers. "thank you, dear grandma elsie," he returned, his eyes sparkling; "it is a great pleasure to hear you say so, though i don't know how to believe that you can enjoy it half so much as i do." "i am glad to hear that you do, laddie," she said brightly. "now suppose we have a bit of chat together. take that camp chair by your grandmother's side and tell her how you enjoy that artillery exercise you have just been going through." "thank you, ma'am," said max laughingly, as he took the seat indicated. "it's really delightful to be treated as a relative by so dear and sweet a lady, but you do look so young that it seems almost ridiculous for a great fellow like me to call you grandma." "does it? why, your father calls me mother, and to be so related to him surely must make me your grandmother." "but you are not really old enough to be his mother, and i am his oldest child." "and begin to feel yourself something of a man, since you are not called max, but mr. raymond at the academy yonder?" she returned in a playfully interrogative tone. max seemed to consider a moment, then smiling, but blushing vividly, "i'm afraid i must plead guilty to that charge, grandma elsie," he said with some hesitation. "what is that, max?" asked his father, drawing near just in time to catch the last words. "that i begin to feel that--as if i'm a--at least almost--a man, sir," answered the lad, stammering and coloring with mortification. "ah, that's not so very bad, my boy," laughed his father. "i believe that at your age i was more certain of being one than you are--really feeling rather more fully convinced of my wisdom and consequence than i am now." "were you indeed, papa? then there is hope for me," returned the lad, with a pleased look. "i was really afraid you would think me abominably conceited." "no, dear boy, none of us think you that," said mrs. travilla, again smiling sweetly upon him. "but you have not yet answered my query as to how you enjoyed the artillery exercise we have just seen you go through." "oh, i like it!" returned max, his eyes sparkling. "and i don't think i shall ever regret my choice of a profession if i succeed in passing, and become as good an officer as my father has been," looking up into the captain's face with a smile full of affection and proud appreciation. "now i fear my boy is talking of something that he knows very little about," said the captain, a twinkle of fun in his eye. "who told you, max, that your father had been a good officer?" "my commandant, sir, who knows all about it, or at least thinks he does." at that instant there was a sound like the splashing of oars on the farther side of the vessel, and a boyish voice called out, "ahoy there, raymond! a message from the commandant!" "oh, i hope it isn't to call you back, maxie!" exclaimed lulu, springing up and following max and her father as they hastened to that side of the vessel, expecting to see a row-boat there with a messenger from the academy. but no boat of that kind was in sight. could it have passed around the vessel? max hurried to the other side to make sure but no boat was there. "oh!" he exclaimed, with a merry laugh, "it was mr. lilburn," and he turned a smiling, amused face toward the old gentleman, who had followed, and now stood close at his side. "eh, laddie! what was mr. lilburn?" queried the accused. "that i'm no down there in a boat is surely evident to all who can see me standing here. are ye no ashamed to so falsely accuse an auld friend who wad never do harm to you or yours?" then a voice seemed to come from a distant part of the vessel. "ah, sir, ye ken that ye're known to be up to such tricks. all only to make fun for your friends, though, not to cause fright or harm to anyone--unless it might be a gambler or some other rascal." "hear that, now, cousin!" cried mr. lilburn. "somebody seems ready to do justice to the auld man our fine young cadet here is so ready to suspect and accuse." by this time all the other passengers had joined them, everybody but the very little ones understood the joke, and it was received with merry peals of laughter. to max the afternoon and evening seemed to pass very quickly, so delightful was it to be once more surrounded by his dear ones, not the least pleasant part being a half hour spent alone with his father after the others had retired; he had so many little confidences that he would not willingly have shared with anyone else, and they were heard with so much evident interest, such hearty sympathy, and replied to with such good and kindly advice. max was even more firmly convinced than ever before that such another dear, kind, and lovable father as his was nowhere to be found. and, by the way, the captain was almost equally sure that no other man had a son quite so bright, handsome, intelligent, noble, industrious, and in every way worthy to be the pride of his father's heart, as this dear lad who was his own. "god, even the god of his fathers, keep my dear boy in every hour of trial and temptation, and help him to walk steadily in the strait and narrow way that leads to everlasting life," he said with emotion when bidding his son goodnight. "keep close to the dear master, my son, ever striving to serve and honor him in all your words and ways, and all will be well with you at the last." chapter xvii. the captain, max, and lulu were all three early on deck the next morning--as lovely a may morning as ever was seen. the sun had but just showed his face above the horizon when lulu mounted the companion-way to the deck, but she found her father and brother already there, sitting side by side, both looking very happy and content. "good-morning, papa and max," she said, hurrying toward them. the salutation was returned by both in cheery, pleasant tones. "i thought i'd be the very first on deck; but here you both are before me," she added as she gained her father's side. "but pleased to have you join us," he said, drawing her to a seat upon his knee. "a sweet sabbath morning, is it not? and how did my little girl sleep?" "as well as possible, thank you, papa. it is much cooler here than at viamede now, and a delightful breeze came in at the window. but i almost always sleep well, and that is something to be thankful for, isn't it?" "it is, indeed," he responded. "may my dear eldest daughter never be kept awake by the reproaches of a guilty conscience, cares and anxieties, or physical distress; though that last i can hardly hope she will escape always until she reaches that blessed land where 'the inhabitant shall not say, i am sick.'" "yes, sir," she said, "i ought to be very thankful that i am so healthy; i hope i am; but any kind of physical pain i have ever been tried with is far easier for me to bear than the reproaches of a guilty conscience. i can never forget how hard they were to endure after i had hurt dear little elsie so because i was in a passion." "i can't bear to think of that time," said max; "so let us talk of something else. the view here is lovely, is it not, papa?" "oh," cried lu in surprise, "we are at anchor again in the river at annapolis, aren't we, papa?" "yes; i brought you all back here in the night, to spend the sabbath. i think we will go into the city to church this morning, and have some religious exercises on the vessel this afternoon and evening." "oh, i like that plan, papa," said max, "especially the afternoon part, for i am really hungry for one of those interesting bible lessons with you for my teacher." "yes, maxie, i pity you that you can't share them with gracie and me every sunday," said lulu. "papa, won't you give us--max and gracie and me--a private bible lesson all to ourselves after the service for the grown folks, sailors and all, has been held, just as you used to do when we were all at home at woodburn?" "quite willingly, if my children wish it; indeed, it is what i had contemplated doing," replied the captain; "for we cannot better employ the hours of the holy sabbath than in the study of god's word, which he has given us to be a 'lamp to our feet and a light to our path' that we may journey safely to that happy land where sin and sorrow are unknown. "never forget, my children, that we are but strangers and pilgrims upon this earth, only passing through it on our way to an eternal home of either everlasting blessedness or never ending woe--a home where all is holiness, joy, peace, and love, or to that other world of unending remorse and anguish, 'the blackness of darkness forever.'" "it is very difficult to keep that always in mind, papa," said max. "i hope you will often ask god to help us--me especially--to remember it constantly, and live, not for time, but for eternity." "i do, my dear boy; there is never a day when i do not ask my heavenly father to guard and guide each one of my dear children and give them a home with him at last. but we must all strive to enter in at the strait gate, remembering the warning of jesus, 'strait is the gate, and narrow is the way, which leadeth unto life, and few there be that find it.'" violet joined them at that moment, then the rest of the party, one after another. then came the call to breakfast; and soon after leaving the table, and the holding of the regular morning service on the vessel, nearly everyone went ashore and to church. at the close of the exercises there, they returned to the _dolphin_, dined, a little later assembled under the awning on the deck, and being presently joined by the greater part of the crew, another short service, consisting of the reading of the scriptures, with explanatory remarks, prayer, and the singing of hymns, followed. after that, the captain took his three older children aside and gave them, as in the dear old times at woodburn, a bible lesson, in which they were free to ask of him as many questions as they would. "papa," said grace, "i was reading in isaiah this morning this verse, 'therefore, thus saith the lord god, behold i lay in zion for a foundation, a stone, a tried stone, a precious corner-stone, a sure foundation.' does it mean the dear lord jesus, papa?" "yes, daughter; in both the old and new testaments christ jesus is called a foundation. the foundation of a building is the part that supports all the rest; and that jesus is to all his church, his people. he is the foundation of all the comforts, hopes, happiness of the christian; the foundation of the covenant god has made with his church; the foundation of all the sweet and precious promises of god's word; a sure foundation on which his people may securely rest, knowing that he will never deceive, fail, or forsake anyone who trusts in him. he is the only saviour, the head of the church, the only mediator between god and man. "we are not to look too much to our feelings, doings, prayers, or even our faith, but on the finished work of christ. we can have assurance of hope, but must attain to it by resting upon god's word of promise, remembering that it is christ's righteousness which god accepts, not ours, so imperfect, so unworthy of mention. "in that way only can we have peace and safety, for our own righteousness is but as filthy rags, exceedingly offensive in the sight of god, who is 'of purer eyes than to behold sin, and cannot look upon iniquity,' so utterly abhorrent is it to his holy nature. "the bible tells us, 'he that believeth on the son hath everlasting life; he that believeth not the son shall not see life; but the wrath of god abideth on him.'" "papa," said grace, low and feelingly, "those are dreadful words, 'the wrath of god abideth on him.'" "they are indeed," he said. "the one great question is, 'do you believe on the son of god?' there in egypt, when god sent those plagues upon pharaoh and his people, it was not the feelings of the israelites that saved them, but the blood on the door-posts, symbolizing the blood of christ, which would in future ages be offered to satisfy the demands of god's broken law; and it was when he saw that blood that the angel passed over, harming them not. "the scape-goat too, was a type of christ bearing the sins of the people away into the wilderness; if our sins are laid on jesus they will come no more into remembrance before our righteous judge, but covered with the beautiful robe of his righteousness, god will treat us as if it were our very own. ah, my beloved children, it is the dearest wish of your father's heart that each one of you may have that righteousness put upon you!" a slight pause; then grace said in low, clear, and joyous tones, "papa, i think we have. i feel that i do love jesus and trust in him, and so do max and lulu, i believe." "i do," said max with feeling. "i know i am very, very far from perfect, but i do desire above everything else to be a follower of jesus, and known as such; to live near him, and honor him in all my words and ways." "my boy, nothing could have made me happier than that confession from your lips," his father said with emotion. "and it is no less a joy of heart to me to know that my dear little grace is a follower of jesus." he drew her nearer as he spoke, then turned loving, questioning eyes upon lulu. "papa," she said in tremulous tones, "i--i feel that i am not worthy to be called one of jesus' disciples, but i do love him, and long to grow in likeness to him. i do ask him very, very often to take away all the evil that is in me, and make me just what he would have me to be." "and he will hear your prayer, he will grant your petition," her father replied in moved tones. "oh, my dear children, your father's heart is full of thankfulness that he has reason to hope and believe that you are all true followers of the blessed master, and that we may all live and love together, not in this world only, but also in the next." to max that delightful day and evening seemed very short. he was surprised when his father, glancing at his watch, said, "it is half past nine, my son. say good-night and good-by to your friends here, for we must go back to the academy. it need not be a very sad parting," he added, with a smile, "as you may expect to see some, if not all, of us next month, at the time of the commencement exercises." "thank you, papa; that is good news," said the lad, his countenance brightening very much, "for it is the greatest treat to a fellow to see home folks once in a while." "i know that, my boy. i haven't forgotten the feelings of a cadet, which are pretty much like those of other lads." the farewells were quickly spoken, father and son entered the waiting row-boat, and in a few minutes were at the academy. captain raymond bade his son good-by at the door, reminding him in cheerful tones that he might hope to see him, and perhaps the entire woodburn family, again in a few weeks. with that pleasant prospect in view, max went to his room in excellent spirits. he found hunt already there. "hello, max! glad to see you back again," he exclaimed in a tone of hearty good-will. "had a royal time of it, i suppose?" "delightful!" cried max gayly; "and the best of it is that my father holds out the prospect of another visit from our whole family at the time of the june commencement, which you know is not so very far off." "well, i must say you're a lucky dog, raymond," returned hunt. "i wish i had the same prospect of seeing my folks; but they're too far off, and money's too scarce." violet was alone on deck when her husband returned to the yacht, the others having retired to the cabin or their state-rooms. "waiting for me, love?" he asked, as he stepped to her side and passed an arm round her waist. "yes," she said; "the air is so pleasant here, and i thought it would be really delightful for us two to have the deck entirely to ourselves for a while." "nothing could be pleasanter to me, dearest," he said, giving her his arm and beginning a leisurely promenade. "and you have left max at the academy again?" she said interrogatively. "how manly he grows, the dear fellow! and so handsome; he's a son to be proud of, levis." "so his father thinks," returned the captain, with a low, happy little laugh. "my dear boy is one of god's good gifts to me." "and how evidently he admires and loves his father--as he well may, i think. he grows more and more like you in looks, too, levis. i can imagine that at his age you were just what he is now." "no, my dear; if i am not much mistaken he is both a handsomer and a better lad than his father was at the same age." "doubtless not half so conceited and vain as his father was then or is now," she returned, with her low, sweet silvery laugh. "there must have been a vast improvement, however, before i had the happiness of making his acquaintance." "max's?" he queried with mock gravity. "the acquaintance of max's father, sir," she replied demurely. "i have known the captain now for five years, and can truly say i have never seen him show such vanity and conceit as you are pleased to charge him with, or at least to say were once among his attributes; and i will not have him slandered, even by you." "very well, then, let us change the subject of discourse." "agreed. how soon do we leave annapolis to pursue our homeward way?" "a little after midnight, if that plan suits my wife's wishes." "entirely. but you are not going to remain on deck till then?" "probably. i feel no inclination for sleep at present, and the air outside here is, as you remarked a moment since, delightful." "especially when enjoyed in such good company, i presume?" "yes, that makes a vast difference, of course, yet i can hardly ask you to stay very long with me; cannot have the cruelty to rob my heart's best treasure--my young and lovely wife--of her beauty sleep." "what a gallant speech!" she laughed; "it surely deserves the reward of at least another half hour of her delectable society. ah, my best and dearest of husbands," she added in a more serious tone, "there is nothing else in the world i so keenly enjoy as these rare times when i can have you all to myself." "yet i cannot believe they are ever more enjoyable to you than to me, my love," he returned; "sweet as your society was to me in the days of our courtship, it is, i think, even sweeter now. and i hope mine is not less enjoyable to you." "indeed, no," she said earnestly; "you seem to grow dearer and more lovable every day that we live together; a blessing far, far beyond my deserts. oh, i can never cease to marvel that i have won so great a prize in the matrimonial lottery." "it is wondrous strange," he returned, with a happy laugh, "that a young, beautiful girl, belonging to one of the very best families in the land, and who might have had her pick and choice among its most desirable matches, should have been able to secure a middle-aged widower with three children. you may well wonder at so great good fortune falling to your lot, lady mine," with a strong emphasis upon that last word. "ah, my husband, you could hardly bestow upon me a sweeter name than that," she said softly, and with a bright, winsome look up into his face. "it is so sweet to belong to you, and to have you belong to me. and then our darling children are such treasures." "yes; our two dear babies." "ah, yes; but i meant to include the others also; for i surely may claim now that even lulu loves me, not as a mother exactly, but as a dear older sister." "yes, i am certain of it, dearest," he said in tones expressing heart-felt happiness; "she shows it in many ways, and however many and serious her faults may be, hypocrisy and deceit are not among them." "no, indeed! i never knew anyone more perfectly free from those faults--so perfectly open and candid. i am sure that if her life were in peril she would not be deceitful or untrue in order to save it." "thank you, my love," he said with emotion. "i share that belief, and it has been a great consolation to me when sorely distressed by her very serious faults." "but she is overcoming those under her father's wise and affectionate training." "i think she is," he said; "she is certainly struggling hard against them, though the training you speak of, has, i fear, been far from faultless." "ah, you have not so much confidence in her father's wisdom as i have," returned violet, with a smile and a look up into his face which expressed a world of loving appreciation. the conversation then turned upon other themes not unsuited to the sacredness of the day; they seated themselves and sang a hymn or two together, then violet went below and sought her berth, to be followed an hour later by her husband. chapter xviii. the next morning the _dolphin's_ passengers, on awaking, found her speeding on her homeward way. no one regretted it, for all were full of joy at the thought of seeing home again, delightful as had been their sojourn at lovely viamede and on the vessel. it was still early in the day when they reached their wharf, but carriages from ion, fairview, and woodburn were in waiting, conveyances for the luggage also, and in a very short time they had left the city behind, and were whirling rapidly over the familiar road toward the loved homes they had left some months before--a happy company, the younger ones full of mirth and gayety. the grounds belonging to each estate were looking their loveliest, and the returning travelers were greeted with the warmest of welcomes. zoe and edward had reached ion some days in advance of the others, and seen to it that everything there was in perfect order, while at woodburn such matters had received careful attention from christine and alma. "welcome home, my love," the captain said to his wife as the carriage turned in at the great gates. "and you too, my darlings," addressing his children. "is it almost as lovely here as at viamede?" "oh, yes; yes, indeed, papa!" they responded, baby ned adding, "oh, me so blad to det home adain." then a joyous bark was heard, and prince, max's dog, came bounding to meet them. "oh, dere our big doggie prince!" cried ned, with a joyous laugh, and clapping his chubby hands. "maxie dere too, papa?" "no, neddie boy; we have left brother maxie behind at annapolis," answered his father; then as the carriage came to a standstill, he threw open the door, exclaiming, "home at last!" sprang to the ground, and proceeded to hand out wife and children. "yes," said violet, who, as well as the children, had been gazing with delight upon the grounds from the carriage window, "and i for one am as glad as i was to see viamede on our arrival there. how very lovely everything is looking! ah, christine and alma," as the two came hurrying out to greet the returned travellers, "i hope you are well? what good care you have taken of everything in our absence." "thanks, mrs. raymond; it is very kind in you to notice it; and we are delighted to see you all at home again," the two women returned, smiling with pleasure over the arrival and violet's appreciative words, to which the captain added his hearty commendation, and the children glad, warm greetings. prince's actions, in the meantime, told the same story of his feelings; he was fawning upon one and another, capering about and wagging his tail with many a joyous bark that seemed to say, "i am very glad, very happy to see you all here again," and receiving much loving stroking and patting in return. the servants, too, came crowding about, with smiling faces and exclamations of joy and thankfulness. "bress de lawd yous all safe home agin!" "we's pow'ful glad to see you, cap'n, miss wi'let, an' all ob de chillens!" "dis chile 'specs yo's pow'ful hungry, miss wi'let an' de res'; but de dinnah's 'mos' ready fo' to dish up," remarked the cook. "oh, we are not starving, by any means, aunt judy," returned violet. "we had an excellent and abundant breakfast on board the _dolphin_, and it is hardly the regular dinner hour yet." "and oh, papa, mayn't we run about everywhere and look at everything?" asked lulu and grace half breathlessly. "certainly, daughters," he replied, smiling affectionately into the eager upturned faces, "though as dinner is so nearly ready, i think it might be well to first take off your hats and make yourselves neat for the table; then keep within doors until after the meal." "oh, yes, sir," cried lulu, "and there is no place we want to see more than our own rooms. so come, gracie, let's hurry up there. hark! there's my polly screaming 'lu! lu!' she seems to know i've got home. who can have told her? and where's your kitten?" "here," returned gracie; "don't you see i've got her in my arms? and i do believe she's glad to see me. oh, you pretty pet! i often wanted to see you while i was away." they were hurrying up the stairs while they talked, and presently reached their own little sitting room. "oh!" they cried in a breath, "how sweet and lovely it does look!" then they made a hasty circuit of lulu's bedroom and the little tower room opening into it, exclaiming again and again at the beauty of the furnishings, as though they had never seen them before, and the extreme neatness which attested the good housekeeping of christine. last of all they entered grace's bedroom, to find its appearance quite as inviting as that of the others. "how sweet it does look, lu!" exclaimed grace. "oh, i do think we have just the sweetest home, as well as the dearest, kindest father in the whole world!" "of course we have," returned lulu. "i'd a thousand times rather be his child than any king's daughter." "would you, indeed, my dear child?" asked a familiar voice close behind her, while a kind hand was laid upon each shoulder. "well, my darlings, contentment is better than wealth, and most assuredly your father would not exchange you for any king's daughters, or the children of any other man." as he spoke he bent down to press a fatherly kiss upon lulu's lips, then putting an arm round grace, caressed her in like manner. "now make yourselves neat for the dinner-table, daughters," he said, "and after the meal, if you wish you may spend the whole afternoon in going over the house and grounds." "oh, thank you, papa," they exclaimed, looking full of delight. "lu! lu!" called polly from the sitting room, "what you 'bout? polly wants a cracker." "o polly, i beg your pardon; but you have been so quiet ever since i came in that i really forgot all about you," laughed lulu, running toward the cage, followed by her father and grace. "so you want a cracker, do you?" "you shall have it, polly," the captain said, opening the door of a small cupboard where things of that sort were wont to be kept. "yes, here is a paper of them," taking one out and handing it to the parrot, who promptly took it in one claw, and, standing on the other foot, began biting off bits and disposing of them with a comically serious air and evident enjoyment. just then the little ones came running in, eager to see polly and hear her talk. but she was too much absorbed with her cracker to vouchsafe them a single word. "is mamma ready for dinner, elsie?" the captain asked presently. "yes, sir," answered violet's own voice from the doorway; "and there is the bell." "then we will go down at once," said the captain, picking up elsie and ned, and following his wife down the stairs, lulu and grace bringing up the rear. the diningroom looked very attractive as they entered it; there was perfect neatness and order, vases of freshly cut flowers stood here and there, delighting the senses with their beauty and fragrance, and forming a lovely decoration for the table, which presented a most inviting appearance thus ornamented and set out with delicate china, snowy damask, and glittering cut glass and silver ware. everyone regarded it with evident satisfaction, violet saying gayly, "after all, my dear, can any lovelier or better place be found than this--our own sweet home?" "there is no dearer spot on earth to me, my love," he answered, with a smile that spoke fond affection, and delight in her appreciation of his efforts for her happiness and enjoyment. "i think no place on earth could be more beautiful than viamede," remarked lulu; "but this is more charming because it is our very own." "yes," chimed in grace, "papa's and mamma's and ours. it is ever so good in you, papa, to let us own it too." "ah?" he returned laughingly, "but that is because i own you, you know." he had lifted baby ned to his high chair, and now all seated themselves and the blessing was asked. they were a lively, happy little dinner-party, the children allowed a share in the conversation. "papa," asked grace at length, "are we to begin lessons to-morrow?" "no," he replied, "i will give you two days to run about and see everything here, at ion, fairview, the oaks, and so forth. then you must settle down to work and be very good and industrious if you want to be of the annapolis party in june." "oh, that will be so delightful, papa, and we do intend to be as good and industrious as possible!" she exclaimed, lulu adding, "i am sure i do, and if i should deserve punishment, papa," she went on in an undertone hardly audible to anyone but him, for as usual she was seated close at his right hand, "please do make it something else than being left at home." "i have little fear of being compelled to punish you in that way or any other, daughter," he replied, giving her a loving look. "thank you, dear papa; it is so kind in you to say that; and gracie and i do just love to belong to you," raising her voice a little, "don't we, gracie?" "i do, i'm sure," returned grace, with a loving smile up into her father's face. "well, what shall we do this afternoon?" queried violet. "i for one feel inclined to go all over the house and grounds, to look at every dear, familiar spot." "well, my dear, then that is what we will do," responded her husband; "and the children may go with us or refrain, as they please," with a smiling glance from lulu to grace, which both answered with an eagerly expressed desire to accompany him and violet; grace adding, "but i do want to see elf and fairy more than anything else." "well, dear child," said her father, "they are disporting themselves out yonder in the meadow, and you may run out to look at and pet them as soon as we leave the table, if you wish." "oh, thank you, papa, that is just what i'd like to do!" she replied. "and i think all the rest of us will be glad to go with you," said violet. ned, however, presently began to nod, and had to be carried away to his crib before the others were quite ready to leave the table. "i think elsie, too, looks as if she would enjoy a nap more than anything else," remarked the captain, with a kind look at his youngest daughter, who seemed to be very nearly nodding over her plate. "oh, no, papa!" she said straightening up and opening her eyes very wide; "please, i want to see the ponies first." "very well, so you shall, and the nap can come afterward," he returned in an indulgent tone. "then, as we are all done eating, shall we not go at once, my dear?" asked violet. "i think it would be well to do so," he returned. "put on your hats, children, and we will go." elf and fairy seemed glad to see their young mistresses, who stroked, patted, and fed them with bits of sugar. the next thing was to explore every nook and corner of the grounds, which to them all looked lovelier than ever. then they returned to the house, little elsie willingly submitted to being laid in her crib, for she was very sleepy, and the captain, violet, lulu, and grace went over the whole house, finding it in beautiful order, and saying to each other that it seemed a sweeter home than ever. by that time there were callers from ion, the oaks, roselands, and the laurels, those from ion bringing the news that grandma elsie invited all to a family reunion to be held at her home on the afternoon and evening of the next day. an invitation that every member of the woodburn family was glad to accept. "ah, brother levis," said rosie coaxingly, "you surely will not be so unkind as to require lessons of us to-morrow?" "no, little sister, to-morrow and the next day may be given up to amusement; but after that i shall hope and expect to have some very industrious pupils." "as you certainly shall," she replied, with a grave, emphatic nod; "i am glad of the promised holiday; duly grateful for it, too, as i presume all your scholars are." "yes, yes, indeed we are, sir!" was the hearty response from evelyn and walter, lulu and grace adding, "and so are we, papa." the callers left early, declining an invitation to stay to tea; the family partook of their evening meal; grace and the little ones, wearied with their journey, the excitement of the homecoming, and seeing so much company, went early to bed; an errand took the captain into the village for a short season, and violet and lulu were left for an hour or more to each other's society. they were on the veranda together, pacing slowly back and forth, each with an arm about the other's waist. "oh, mamma vi, isn't it just delightful to be at home again?" exclaimed lulu. "yes, indeed! when the home is such an one as ours, and with such a man as your father at the head of affairs," returned violet. "lu dear, i'm so glad that you and all his children love him as you do, though really i do not see how any one of you could help it." "nor do i, mamma vi; and i'm very glad that you love him so too; that makes me love you even better than i could if you didn't appreciate him so highly. but we can't love him so dearly without loving one another; can we?" "no, certainly not; i am very fond of all five of his children as well as of their father," violet replied, with her low, sweet laugh. * * * * * transcriber's note: obvious punctuation errors were corrected. inconsistent hyphenation was retained. page , "suceeeded" changed to "succeeded" (rennie succeeded in) page , "surrrender" changed to "surrender" (would not surrender the) page , "mutined" changed to "mutinied" (them mutinied, spiked) page , "confederates" changed to "confederates" (drove the confederates) page , "quantites" changed to "quantities" (great quantities of cotton) page , "strips" changed to "stripes" (by the stars and stripes) page , "sufficent" changed to "sufficient" (sufficient cause for) page , "ganesvoort" changed to "gansevoort" (delivered to gansevoort) page , "whereever" changed to "wherever" (for herself wherever) page , "y" changed to "by" (profit by so doing) page , "he" changed to "be" (would be back) the history of louisiana, or of the western parts of virginia and carolina: containing a description of the countries that lie on both sides of the river missisippi: with an account of the settlements, inhabitants, soil, climate, and products. translated from the french of m. le page du pratz; with some notes and observations relating to our colonies. foreword antoine simon le page du pratz was a dutchman, as his birth in holland about apparently proves. he died in , just where available records do not tell us, but the probabilities are that he died in france, for it is said he entered the french army, serving with the dragoons, and saw service in germany. while there is some speculation about all the foregoing, there can be no speculation about the statement that on may , he left la rochelle, france, in one of three ships bound for a place called louisiana. for m. le page tells us about this in a three-volume work he wrote called, histoire de la louisiane, recognized as the authority to be consulted by all who have written on the early history of new orleans and the louisiana province. le page, who arrived in louisiana august , , three months after leaving la rochelle, spent four months at dauphin island before he and his men made their way to bayou st. john where he set up a plantation. he had at last reached new orleans, which he correctly states, "existed only in name," and had to occupy an old lodge once used by an acolapissa indian. the young settler, he was only about at the time, after arranging his shelter tells us: "a few days afterwards i purchased from a neighbour a native female slave, so as to have a woman to cook for us. my slave and i could not speak each other's language; but i made myself understood by means of signs." this slave, a girl of the chitimacha tribe, remained with le page for years, and one draws the inference that she was possessed of a vigorous personality, and was not devoid of charm or bravery. le page writes that when frightened by an alligator approaching his camp fire, he ran to the lodge for his gun. however, the indian girl calmly picked up a stick and hammered the 'gator so lustily on its nose that it retreated. as le page arrived with his gun, ready to shoot "the monster," he tells us: "she began to smile, and said many things which i did not comprehend, but she made me understand by signs, that there was no occasion for a gun to kill such a beast." it is unfortunate, for the purpose of sociological study, that this indian girl appears so infrequently in the many accounts le page has left us in his highly interesting studies of early louisiana and its original inhabitants. he does not even tell us the indian girl's name. we are told that after living on the banks of bayou st. john for about two years, he left for the bluff lands of the natchez country. his indian girl decided she would go with him, as she had relatives there. hearing of her plan, her old father offered to buy her back from le page. the chitimacha girl, however, refused to leave her master, whereupon, the indian father performed a rite of his tribe, which made her the ward of the white man--a simple ceremony of joining hands. le page spent eight years among the natchez and what he wrote about them--their lives, their customs, their ceremonials--has been acknowledged to be the best and most accurate accounts we have of these original inhabitants of louisiana. he has left us, in his splendid history, much information on the other indian tribes of the lower mississippi river country. antoine simon le page du pratz tells us he spent sixteen years in louisiana before returning to france in . they were years well spent--to judge by what he wrote. as it was written and published in the french language, le page's history proved in many instances to be a tantalizing casket of historical treasure that could not be opened by those who had not mastered french. the original edition, published in paris in , a score of years after the author landed in new orleans, was followed in by a two-volume edition in english, and eleven years later in , by a one-volume edition in english, entitled: "the history of louisiana, or of the western parts of virginia and carolina." the texts in the english editions are identical. fortunately, early historians who could not read the french edition, were now able to read m. le page's accounts of his adventures in the new world. unfortunately, especially for present day historians, the english editions have become increasingly rare--many libraries do not have them on their shelves. therefore, the present re-publication fills a long-felt want. the english translation, with its added matter, is reproduced exactly as it was printed for t. becket to be sold in his shop at the corner of the adelphi in the strand, london, . errors of grammar and spelling are not corrected. the only change is the modernizing of the old _s_'s which look like _f_'s. the present edition is really two works in one, for the english translation did not include any of the original edition's many illustrations. the london books did have two folding maps, one of the louisiana province, the other of the country about the mouths of the mississippi river. not only are these maps reproduced in the present work, but in addition, all the other illustrations, including the rare map of new orleans, appearing in the original french edition, are included. these quaint engravings of the birds, the beasts, the flowers, the shrubs, the trees, fish, the deer and buffalo hunts, and the habits and customs of the natchez indians, add much to the value of the present re-publication. i have captioned them with present-day names of the flora and fauna. stanley clisby arthur. (_mr. arthur is a naturalist, historian and writer, and executive-director of the louisiana state museum.--j. s. w. harmanson, publisher_.) contents preface book i. the transactions of the french in louisiana. chap. i. of the first discovery and settlement of louisiana chap. ii. the return of m. de st. denis: his settling the spaniards at the assinaïs. his second journey to mexico, and return from thence chap. iii. embarkation of eight hundred men by the west-india company to louisiana. arrival and stay at cape françois. arrival at the isle dauphine. description of that island chap. iv. the author's departure for his grant. description of the places he passed through, as far as new orleans chap. v. the author put in possession of his territory. his resolution to go and settle among the natchez chap. vi. the voyage of the author to biloxi. description of that place. settlement of grants. the author discovers two copper mines. his return to the natchez chap. vii. first war with the natchez. cause of the war chap. viii. the governor surprized the natchez with seven hundred men. astonishing cures performed by the natives. the author sends upwards of three hundred simples to the company chap. ix. french settlements, or posts. post at mobile. the mouths of the missisippi. the situation and description of new orleans chap. x. the voyages of the french to the missouris, canzas, and padoucas. the settlements they in vain attempted to make in those countries; with a description of an extraordinary phaenomenon chap. xi. the war with the chitimachas. the conspiracy of the negroes against the french. their execution chap. xii. the war of the natchez. massacre of the french in . extirpation of the natchez in chap. xiii. the war with the chicasaws. the first expedition by the river mobile. the second by the river missisippi. the war with the chactaws terminated by the prudence of m. de vaudreuil chap. xiv. reflections on what gives occasion to wars in louisiana. the means of avoiding wars in that province, as also the manner of coming off with advantage and little expence in them chap. xv. pensacola taken by surprize by the french. retaken by the spaniards. again retaken by the french, and demolished book ii. of the country and its products. chap. i. geographical description of louisiana. its climate description of the lower louisiana, and the mouths of the missisippi. chap. ii. the author's journey in louisiana, from the natchez to the river st. francis, and the country of the chicasaws chap. iii. the nature of the lands of louisiana. the lands on the coast. chap. iv. quality of the lands above the fork. a quarry of stone for building. high lands to the east: their vast fertility. west coast: west lands: saltpetre chap. v. quality of the lands of the red river. posts of nachitoches. a silver mine. lands of the black river chap. vi. a brook of salt water: salt lakes. lands of the river of the arkansas. red-veined marble: slate: plaster. hunting the buffalo. the dry sand-banks in the missisippi chap. vii. the lands of the river st. francis. mine of marameg, and other mines. a lead mine. a soft stone, resembling porphyry. lands of the missouri. the lands north of the wabache. the lands of the illinois. de la mothe's mine, and other mines chap. viii. of the agriculture, or manner of cultivating, ordering, and manufacturing the commodities that are proper articles of commerce. of the culture of maiz, rice, and other fruits of the country. of the silk worm chap. ix. of indigo, tobacco, cotton, wax, hops, and saffron chap. x. of the commerce that is, and may be carried on in louisiana. of the commodities which that province may furnish in return for those of europe. of the commerce of louisiana with the isles chap. xi. of the commerce with the spaniards. the commodities they bring to the colony, if there is a demand for them. of such as may be given in return, and may suit them. reflections on the commerce of this province, and the great advantages which the state and particular persons may derive therefrom some abstracts from the historical memoirs of louisiana, by m. dumont. i. of tobacco, with the way of cultivating and curing it ii. of the way of making indigo iii. of tar; the way of making it; and of making it into pitch iv. of the mines of louisiana extract from a late french writer, concerning the importance of louisiana to france book iii. the natural history of louisiana. chap. i. of corn and pulse chap. ii. of the fruit trees of louisiana chap. iii. of forest trees chap. iv. of shrubs and excrescences chap. v. of creeping plants chap. vi. of the quadrupedes chap. vii. of birds and flying insects chap. viii. of fishes and shell-fish book iv. of the natives of louisiana. chap. i. the origin of the americans chap. ii. an account of the several nations of louisiana sect. i. of the nations inhabiting on the east of the missisippi sect. ii. of the nations inhabiting on the west of the missisippi chap. iii. a description of the natives of louisiana; of their manners and customs, particularly those of the natchez: of their language, their religion, ceremonies, rulers, or suns, feasts, marriages, &c sect. i. a description of the natives; the different employments of the two sexes; and their manner of bringing up their children sect. ii. of the language, government, religion, ceremonies, and feasts of the natives sect. iii. of their marriages, and distinction of ranks sect. iv. of the temples, tombs, burials, and other religious ceremonies of the people of louisiana sect. v. of the arts and manufactures of the natives sect. vi. of the attire and diversions of the natives: of their meals and fastings sect. vii. of the indian art of war chap. iv. of the negroes of louisiana sect. i. of the choice of negroes; of their distempers, and the manner of curing them sect. ii. of the manner of governing the negroes index list of illustrations indian in summer time indian in winter time indian woman and daughter plan of new orleans, beaver, beaver lodge, beaver dam indians of the north leaving in the winter with their families for a hunt indigo cotton and rice on the stalk appalachean beans. sweet potatoes watermelon pawpaw. blue whortle-berry sweet gum or liquid-amber cypress magnolia sassafras myrtle wax tree. vinegar tree poplar ("cotton tree") black oak linden or bass tree box elder or stink-wood tree cassine or yapon. tooth-ache tree or prickly ash passion thorn or honey locust. bearded creeper palmetto bramble, sarsaparilla rattlesnake herb red dye plant. flat root panther or catamount. bison or buffalo indian deer hunt wild cat. opossum. skunk alligator. rattle snake. green snake pelican. wood stock flying squirrel. roseate spoonbill. snowy heron white ibis. tobacco worm. cock roach cat fish. gar fish. spoonbill catfish indian buffalo hunt on foot dance of the natchez indians burial of the stung serpent bringing the pipe of peace torture of prisoners. plan of fort {i} preface the history of louisiana, which we here present to the public, was wrote by a planter of sixteen years experience in that country, who had likewise the advantage of being overseer or director of the public plantations, both when they belonged to the company, and afterwards when they fell to the crown; by which means he had the best opportunities of knowing the nature of the soil and climate, and what they produce, or what improvements they are likely to admit of; a thing in which this nation is, without doubt, highly concerned and interested. and when our author published this history in , he had likewise the advantage, not only of the accounts of f. charlevoix, and others, but of the historical memoirs of louisiana, published at paris in , by mr. dumont, an officer who resided two-and-twenty years in the country, and was personally concerned and acquainted with many of the transactions in it; from whom we have extracted some passages, to render this account more complete. but whatever opportunities our author had of gaining a knowledge of his subject, it must be owned, that he made his accounts of it very perplexed. by endeavoring to take in every thing, he descends to many trifles; and by dwelling too long on a subject, he comes to render it obscure, by being prolix in things which hardly relate to what he treats of. he interrupts the thread of his discourse with private anecdotes, long harangues, and tedious narrations, which have little or no relation to the subject, and are of much less consequence to the reader. the want of method and order throughout the whole work is still more apparent; and that, joined to these digressions, renders his accounts, however just and interesting, so tedious and irksome to read, and at the same time so indistinct, that few seem to have reaped the benefit of them. for these reasons it was necessary to methodize the whole work; to abridge some parts of it; and to leave out many things that appear to be trifling. this we have endeavored to do in the translation, by reducing the whole work to four general heads or books; and {ii} by bringing the several subjects treated of, the accounts of which lie scattered up and down in different parts of the original, under these their proper heads; so that the connection between them, and the accounts of any one subject, may more easily appear. this, it is presumed, will appear to be a subject of no small consequence and importance to this nation, especially at this time. the countries here treated of, have not only by right always belonged to great-britain, but part of them is now acknowledged to it by the former usurpers: and it is to be hoped, that the nation may now reap some advantages from those countries, on which it has expended so many millions; which there is no more likely way to do, than by making them better known in the first place, and by learning from the experience of others, what they do or are likely to produce, that may turn to account to the nation. it has been generally suspected, that this nation has suffered much, from the want of a due knowledge of her dominions in america, which we should endeavor to prevent for the future. if that may be said of any part of america, it certainly may of those countries, which have been called by the french louisiana. they have not only included under that name all the western parts of virginia and carolina; and thereby imagined, that they had, from this nominal title, a just right to those antient dominions of the crown of britain: but what is of worse consequence perhaps, they have equally deceived and imposed upon many, by the extravagant hopes and unreasonable expectations they had formed to themselves, of the vast advantages they were to reap from those countries, as soon as they had usurped them; which when they came to be disappointed in, they ran from one extreme to another, and condemned the country as good for nothing, because it did not answer the extravagant hopes they had conceived of it; and we seem to be misled by their prejudices, and to be drawn into mistakes by their artifice or folly. because the missisippi scheme failed in , every other reasonable scheme of improving that country, and of reaping any advantage from it, must do the same. it is to wipe off these prejudices, that the following account of these countries, which appears to be both {iii} just and reasonable, and agreeable to every thing we know of america, may be the more necessary. we have been long ago told by f. charlevoix, from whence it is, that many people have formed a contemptible opinion of this country that lies on and about the missisippi. they are misled, says he, by the relations of some seafaring people, and others, who are no manner of judges of such things, and have never seen any part of the country but the coast side, about mobile, and the mouths of the mississippi; which our author here tells us is as dismal to appearance, the only thing those people are capable of judging of, as the interior parts of the country, which they never saw, are delightful, fruitful, and inviting. they tell us, besides, that the country is unhealthful; because there happens to be a marsh at the mouth of the missisippi, (and what river is there without one?) which they imagine must be unhealthful, rather than that they know it to be so; not considering, that all the coast both of north and south america is the same; and not knowing, that the whole continent, above this single part on the coast, is the most likely, from its situation, and has been found by all the experience that has been had of it, to be the most healthy part of all north america in the same climates, as will abundantly appear from the following and all other accounts. to give a general view of those countries, we should consider them as they are naturally divided into four parts; . the sea coast; . the lower louisiana, or western part of carolina; . the upper louisiana, or western part of virginia; and , the river missisippi. i. the sea coast is the same with all the rest of the coast of north america to the southward of new york, and indeed from thence to mexico, as far as we are acquainted with it. it is all a low flat sandy beach, and the soil for some twenty or thirty miles distance from the shore, more or less, is all a _pine barren_, as it is called, or a sandy desart; with few or no good ports or harbours on the coast, especially in all those southern parts of america, from chesapeak bay to mexico. but however barren this coast is in other respects, it is entirely covered with tall pines, which afford great store of pitch, tar, and turpentine. {iv} these pines likewise make good masts for ships; which i have known to last for twenty odd years, when it is well known, that our common masts of new england white pine will often decay in three or four years. these masts were of that kind that is called the pitch pine, and lightwood pine; of which i knew a ship built that ran for sixteen years, when her planks of this pine were as sound and rather harder than at first, although her oak timbers were rotten. the cypress, of which there is such plenty in the swamps on this coast, is reckoned to be equally serviceable, if not more so, both for masts (of which it would afford the largest of any tree that we know), and for ship building. and ships might be built of both these timbers for half the price perhaps of any others, both on account of the vast plenty of them, and of their being so easily worked. in most parts of these coasts likewise, especially about the missisippi, there is great plenty of cedars and ever-green oaks; which make the best ships of any that are built in north america. and we suspect it is of these cedars and the american cypress, that the spaniards build their ships of war at the havanna. of these there is the greatest plenty, immediately; to the westward of the mouth of the missisippi where "large vessels can go to the lake of the chetimachas, and nothing hinders them to go and cut the finest oaks in the world, with which all that coast is covered;" [footnote: _charlevoix_ hist. n. france, tom. iii. p. .] which, moreover, is a sure sign of a very good, instead of a bad soil; and accordingly we see the french have settled their tobacco plantations thereabouts. it is not without reason then, that our author tells us, the largest navies might be built in that country at a very small expence. from this it appears, that even the sea coast, barren as it is, from which the whole country has been so much depreciated, is not without its advantages, and those peculiarly adapted to a trading and maritime nation. had these sandy desarts indeed been in such a climate as canada, they would have been of as little value, as many would make them here. it might be difficult indeed to settle colonies merely for these or any other {v} productions of those poor lands: but to the westward of the missisippi, the coast is much more fruitful all along the bay of mexico; being watered with a great number of rivers, the banks of which are very fertile, and are covered with forests of the tallest oaks, &c. as far as to new mexico, a thing not to be seen any where else on these coasts. the coast alone will supply all the products of north america, and is as convenient to navigation as any part of it, without going nigh the missisippi; so that it is with good reason our author says, "that country promises great riches to such as shall inhabit it, from the excellent quality of its lands," [footnote: see p. .] in such a climate. these are the productions of the dry (we cannot call them high) grounds: the swamps, with which this coast abounds, are still more fruitful, and abundantly compensate the avidity and barrenness of the soil around them. they bear rice in such plenty, especially the marsh about new orleans, "that the inhabitants reap the greatest advantage from it, and reckon it the manna of the land." [footnote: _dumont_, i. .] it was such marshes on the nile, in the same climate, that were the granary of the roman empire. and from a few such marshes in carolina, not to be compared to those on the missisippi, either in extent or fertility, britain receives at least two or three hundred thousand pounds a year, and might vend twice that value of their products. but however barren or noxious these low lands on the sea coast may be, they extend but a little way about the missisippi, not above thirty or forty miles in a straight line, on the east side of that river, and about twice as far on the west side; in which last, the lands are, in recompence, much more fruitful. to follow the course of the river indeed, which runs very obliquely south-east and north-west, as well as crooked, they reckon it eighty-two leagues from the mouth of the river to the cut-point, where the high lands begin. ii. by the lower louisiana, our author means only the delta of the missisippi, or the drowned lands made by the overflowing of the river. but we may more properly give {vi} that appellation to the whole country, from the low and flat sea coast above described, to the mountains, which begin about the latitude °, a little above the river st. francis; that is, five degrees of latitude, or three hundred and fifty statute miles from the coast; which they reckon to be six hundred and sixty miles up the missisippi. about that latitude a continued ridge of mountains runs westward from the apalachean mountains nigh to the banks of the missisippi, which are thereabouts very high, at what we have called the chicasaw cliffs. opposite to these on the west side of the missisippi, the country is mountainous, and continues to be so here and there, as far as we have any accounts of it, westward to the mountains of new mexico; which run in a chain of continued ridges from north to south, and are reckoned to divide that country from louisiana, about miles west from the missisippi. this is one entire level champaign country; the part of which that lies west of the missisippi is miles (of sixty to a degree) by , and contains , square miles, as much as both france and spain put together. this country lies in the latitude of those fruitful regions of barbary, syria, persia, india, and the middle of china, and is alone sufficient to supply the world with all the products of north america. it is very fertile in every thing, both in lands and metals, by all the accounts we have of it; and is watered by several large navigable rivers, that spread over the whole country from the missisippi to new mexico; besides several smaller rivers on the coast west of the missisippi, that fall into the bay of mexico; of which we have no good accounts, if it be not that mr. coxe tells us of one, the river of the cenis, which, he says, "is broad, deep, and navigable almost to its heads, which chiefly proceed from the ridge of hills that separate this province from new mexico," [footnote: description of carolina, p. ] and runs through the rich and fertile country on the coast above mentioned. the western part of this country is more fertile, says our author, than that on the east side of the missisippi; in which part, however, says he, the lands are very fertile, with a rich {vii} black mould three feet deep in the hills, and much deeper in the bottoms, with a strong clayey foundation. reeds and canes even grow upon the hill sides; which, with the oaks, walnuts, tulip-trees, &c. are a sure sign of a good and rich soil. and all along the missisippi on both sides, dumont tells, "the lands, which are all free from inundations, are excellent for culture, particularly those about baton rouge, cut-point, arkansas, natchez, and yasous, which produce indian corn, tobacco, indigo, &c. and all kinds of provisions and esculent plants, with little or no care or labour, and almost without culture; the soil being in all those places a black mould of an excellent quality." [footnote: memoires, i. .] these accounts are confirmed by our own people, who were sent by the government of virginia in , to view these the western parts of that province; and although they only went down the ohio and missisippi to new orleans, they reported, that "they saw more good land on the missisippi, and its many large branches, than they judge is in all the english colonies, as far as they are inhabited;" as appears from the report of that government to the board of trade. what makes this fertile country more eligible and valuable, is, that it appears both from its situation, and from the experience the french have had of it, [footnote: see p. , .] to be by far the most healthful of any in all these southern parts of north america; a thing of the last consequence in settling colonies, especially in those southern parts of america, which are in general very unhealthful. all the sea coasts of our colonies, to the southward of chesapeak bay, or even of new-york, are low and flat, marshy and swampy, and very unhealthful on that account and those on and about the bay of mexico, and in florida, are withal excessively hot and intemperate, so that white people are unfit for labour in them; by which all our southern colonies, which alone promise to be of any great advantage to the nation, are so thin of people, that we have but , white people in all south carolina. [footnote: description of south carolina. by----, p. .] but those lands on the missisippi are, on {viii} the contrary, high, dry, hilly, and in some places mountainous at no great distance from the river, besides the ridges of the apalachean mountains above mentioned, that lie to the northward of them; which must greatly refresh and cool the air all over the country, especially in comparison of what it is on the low and flat, sandy and parched sea coasts of our present colonies. these high lands begin immediately above the delta, or drowned lands, at the mouth of the missisippi; above which the banks of that river are from one hundred to two hundred feet high, without any marshes about them; and continue such for nine hundred miles to the river ohio, especially on the east side of the river. [footnote: see p. ] such a situation on rich and fertile lands in that climate, and on a navigable river, must appear to be of the utmost consequence. it is only from the rich lands on the river sides (which indeed are the only lands that can generally be called rich in all countries, and especially in north america), that this nation reaps any thing of value from all the colonies it has in that part of the world. but "rich lands on river sides in hot climates are extremely unhealthful," says a very good judge, [footnote: _arbuthnot_ on air. _app_.] and we have often found to our cost. how ought we then to value such rich and healthful countries on the missisippi? as much surely as some would depreciate and vilify them. it may be observed, that all the countries in america are only populous in the inland parts, and generally at a distance from navigation; as the sea coasts both of north and south america are generally low, damp, excessively hot, and unhealthful; at least in all the southern parts, from which alone we can expect any considerable returns. instances of this may be seen in the adjacent provinces of mexico, new mexico, terra firma, peru, quito, etc. and far more in our southern colonies, which never became populous, till the people removed to the inland parts, at a distance from the sea. this we are in a manner prevented to do in our colonies, by the mountains which surround us, and confine us to the coast; whereas on the missisippi the whole continent is open to them, and they have, besides, this healthy {ix} situation on the lower parts of that river, at a small distance from the sea. if those things are duly considered, it will appear, that they who are possessed of the missisippi, will in time command that continent; and that we shall be confined on the sea coasts of our colonies, to that unhealthful situation, which many would persuade us is so much to be dreaded on the missisippi. it is by this means that we have so very few people in all our southern colonies; and have not been able to get in one hundred years above twenty-five thousand people in south carolina; when the french has not less than eighty or ninety thousand in canada, besides ten or twelve thousand on the missisippi, to oppose to them. the low and drowned lands, indeed, about the mouth of the missisippi must no doubt be more or less unhealthful; but they are far from being so very pernicious as many represent them. the waters there are fresh, which we know, by manifold experience in america, are much less prejudicial to health than the offensive fetid marshes, that are to be found every where else on the salt waters. accordingly we are credibly informed, that some of the inhabitants of new orleans say, they never enjoyed better health even in france; and for that reason they invite their countrymen, in their letters to them, we are told, to come and partake of the salutary benefits of that delightful country. the clearing, draining, and cultivating of those low lands, must make a very great change upon them, from the accounts we have had of them in their rude and uncultivated state. iii. the upper louisiana we call that part of the continent, which lies to the northward of the mountains above mentioned in latitude °. this country is in many places hilly and mountainous for which reason we cannot expect it to be so fertile as the plains below it. but those hills on the west side of the missisippi are generally suspected to contain mines, as well as the mountains of new mexico, of which they are a continuation. but the fertile plains of louisiana are perhaps more valuable than all the mines of mexico; which there would be no doubt of, if they were duly cultivated. they will breed and maintain ten times as many people, and supply them with {x} many more necessaries, and articles of trade and navigation, than the richest mines of peru. the most important place in this country, and perhaps in all north america, is at the forks of the missisippi, where the ohio falls into that river; which, like another ocean, is the general receptacle of all the rivers that water the interior parts of that vast continent. here those large and navigable rivers, the ohio, river of the cherokees, wabache, illinois, missouri, and missisippi, besides many others, which spread over that whole continent, from the apalachean mountains to the mountains of new mexico, upwards of one thousand miles, both north, south, east, and west, all meet together at this spot; and that in the best climate, and one of the most fruitful countries of any in all that part of the world, in the latitude °, the latitude of the capes of virginia, and of santa fe, the capital of new mexico. by that means there is a convenient navigation to this place from our present settlements to new mexico; and from all the inland parts of north america, farther than we are acquainted with it: and all the natives of that continent, those old friends and allies of the french, have by that means a free and ready access to this place; nigh to which the french formed a settlement, to secure their interest on the frontiers of all our southern colonies. in short this place is the centre of that vast continent, and of all the nations in it, and seems to be intended by nature to command them both; for which reason it ought no longer to be neglected by britain. as soon as we pass the apalachean mountains, this seems to be the most proper place to settle at; and was pitched upon for that purpose, by those who were the best acquainted with those countries, and the proper places of making settlements in them, of any we know. and if the settlements at this place had been made, as they were proposed, about twenty years ago, they might have prevented, or at least frustrated, the late attempts to wrest that country, and the territories of the ohio, out of the hands of the english; and they may do the same again. but many will tell us, that those inland parts of north america will be of no use to britain, on account of their distance {xi} from the sea, and inconvenience to navigation. that indeed might be said of the parts which lie immediately beyond the mountains, as the country of the cherokees, and ohio indians about pitsburg, the only countries thereabouts that we can extend our settlements to; which are so inconvenient to navigation, that nothing can be brought from them across the mountains, at least none of those gross commodities, which are the staple of north america; and they are as inconvenient to have any thing carried from them, nigh two thousand miles, down the river ohio, and then by the missisippi. for that reason those countries, which we look upon to be the most convenient, are the most inconvenient to us of any, although they join upon our present settlements. it is for these reasons, that the first settlements we make beyond the mountains, that is, beyond those we are now possessed of, should be upon the missisippi, as we have said, convenient to the navigation of that river; and in time those new settlements may come to join to our present plantations; and we may by that means reap the benefit of all those inland parts of north america, by means of the navigation of the missisippi, which will be secured by this post at the forks. if that is not done, we cannot see how any of those inland parts of america, and the territories of the ohio, which were the great objects of the present war, can ever be of any use to britain, as the inhabitants of all those countries can otherwise have little or no correspondence with it. iv. this famous river, the missisippi, is navigable upwards of two thousand miles, to the falls of st. anthony in latitude °, the only fall we know in it, which is degrees of latitude above its mouth; and even above that fall, our author tells us, there is thirty fathom of water in the river, with a proportionate breadth. about one thousand miles from its mouth it receives the river ohio, which is navigable one thousand miles farther, some say one thousand five hundred, nigh to its source, not far from lake ontario in new york; in all which space there is but one fall or rapide in the ohio, and that navigable both up and down, at least in canoes. this fall is three hundred miles from the missisippi, and one thousand three hundred from the sea, with five fathom of water up to {xii} it. the other large branches of the ohio, the river of the cherokees, and the wabache, afford a like navigation, from lake erie in the north to the cherokees in the south, and from thence to the bay of mexico, by the missisippi: not to mention the great river missouri, which runs to the north-west parts of new mexico, much farther than we have any good accounts of that continent. from this it appears, that the missouri affords the most extensive navigation of any river we know; so that it may justly be compared to an inland sea, which spreads over nine tenths of all the continent of north america; all which the french pretended to lay claim to, for no other reason but because they were possessed of a paltry settlement at the mouth of this river. if those things are considered, the importance of the navigation of the missisippi, and of a port at the mouth of it, will abundantly appear. whatever that navigation is, good or bad, it is the only one for all the interior parts of north america, which are as large as a great part of europe; no part of which can be of any service to britain, without the navigation of the missisippi, and settlements upon it. it is not without reason then, that we say, whoever are possessed of this river, and of the vast tracts of fertile lands upon it, must in time command that continent, and the trade of it, as well as all the natives in it, by the supplies which this navigation will enable them to furnish those people. by those means, if the french, or any others, are left in possession of the missisippi, while we neglect it, they must command all that continent beyond the apalachean mountains, and disturb our settlements much more than ever they did, or were able to do; the very thing they engaged in this war to accomplish, and we to prevent. the missisippi indeed is rapid for twelve hundred miles, as far as to the missouri, which makes it difficult to go up the river by water. for that reason the french have been used to quit the missisippi at the river st. francis, from which they have a nigher way to the forks of the missisippi by land. but however difficult it may be to ascend the river, it is, notwithstanding often done; and its rapidity facilitates a descent upon it, and a ready conveyance for those gross commodities, which {xiii} are the chief staple of north america, from the most remote places of the continent above mentioned: and as for lighter european goods, they are more easily carried by land, as our indian traders do, over great part of the continent, on their horses, of which this country abounds with great plenty. the worst part of the navigation, as well as of the country, is reckoned to be at the mouth of the river; which, however, our author tells us, is from seventeen to eighteen feet deep, and will admit ships of five hundred tons, the largest generally used in the plantation trade. and even this navigation might be easily mended, not only by clearing the river of a narrow bar in the passes, which our author, charlevoix, and others, think might be easily done; but likewise by means of a bay described by mr. coxe, from the actual survey of his people, lying to the westward of the south pass of the river; which, he says, has from twenty-five to six fathom water in it, close to the shore, and not above a mile from the missisippi, above all the shoals and difficult passes in it, and where the river has one hundred feet of water. by cutting through that one mile then, it would appear that a port might be made there for ships of any burden; the importance of which is evident, from its commanding all the inland parts of north america on one side, and the pass from mexico on the other; so as to be preferable in these respects even to the havanna; not to mention that it is fresh water, and free from worms, which destroy all the ships in those parts. and as for the navigation from the missisippi to europe, our author shews that voyage may be performed in six weeks; which is as short a time as our ships generally take to go to and from our colonies. they go to the missisippi with the trade winds, and return with the currents. it would lead us beyond the bounds of a preface, to shew the many advantages of those lands on the missisippi to britain, or the necessity of possessing them. that would require a treatise by itself, of which we can only give a few abstracts in this place. for this purpose we should compare those lands with our present colonies; and should be well informed of the quantity and condition of the lands we already possess, before {xiv} we can form any just judgement of what may be farther proper or requisite. our present possessions in north america between the sea and the mountains appear, from many surveys and actual mensurations, as well as from all the maps and other accounts we have of them, to be at a medium about three degrees of longitude, or one hundred and forty miles broad, in a straight line; and they extend from georgia, in latitude °, to the bay of fundi, in latitude ° (which is much farther both north and south, than the lands appear to be of any great value); which makes degrees difference of latitude, or miles: this length multiplied by the breadth , makes , square miles., this is not above as much land as is contained in britain and ireland; which, by templeman's survey, make , square miles. instead of being as large as a great part of europe then, as we are commonly told, all the lands we possess in north america, between the sea and mountains, do not amount to much more than these two islands. this appears farther, from the particular surveys of each of our colonies, as well as from this general estimate of the whole. of these lands which we thus possess, both the northern and southern parts are very poor and barren, and produce little or nothing, at least for britain. it is only in our middle plantations, virginia, maryland, and carolina, that the lands produce any staple commodity for britain, or that appear to be fit for that purpose. in short, it is only the more rich and fertile lands on and about chesapeak bay, with a few swamps in carolina, like the lands on the missisippi, that turn to any great account to this nation in all north america, or that are ever likely to do it. this makes the quantity of lands that produce any staple commodity for britain in north america incredibly small, and vastly less than what is commonly imagined. it is reckoned, that there are more such lands in virginia, than in all the rest of our colonies; and yet it appeared from the public records, about twenty-five years ago, that there was not above as much land patented in that colony, which is at the same time the oldest of any in all north america, than is in the county of yorkshire, in england, to-wit, {xv} square miles; although the country was then settled to the mountains. if we examine all our other colonies, there will appear to be as great a scarcity and want of good lands in them, at least to answer the great end of colonies, the making of a staple commodity for britain. in short, our colonies are already settled to the mountains, and have no lands, either to extend their settlements, as they increase and multiply; to keep up their plantations of staple commodities for britain; or to enlarge the british dominions by the number of foreigners that remove to them; till they pass those mountains, and settle on the missisippi. this scarcity of land in our colonies proceeds from the mountains, with which they are surrounded, and by which they are confined to this narrow tract, and a low vale, along the sea side. the breadth of the continent from the atlantic ocean to the missisippi, appears to be about miles (of to a degree) of which there is about at a medium, or at most, that lies between the sea and mountains: and there is such another, and rather more fertile tract of level and improveable lands, about the same breadth, between the western parts of those mountains and the missisippi: so that the mountainous country which lies between these two, is equal to them both, and makes one half of all the lands between the missisippi and atlantic ocean; if we except a small tract of a level champaign country upon the heads of the ohio, which is possessed by the six nations, and their dependents. these mountainous and barren desarts, which lie immediately beyond our present settlements, are not only unfit for culture themselves, and so inconvenient to navigation, whether to the ocean, or to the missisippi, that little or no use can be made of them; but they likewise preclude us from any access to those more fertile lands that lie beyond them, which would otherwise have been occupied long ago, but never can be settled, so at least as to turn to any account to britain, without the possession and navigation of the missisippi; which is, as it were, the sea of all the inland parts of north america beyond the apalachean mountains, without which those inland parts of that continent can never turn to any account to this nation. {xvi} it is this our situation in north america, that renders all that continent beyond our present settlements of little or no use, at least to britain; and makes the possession of the missisippi absolutely necessary to reap the benefit of it. we possess but a fourth part of the continent between that river and the ocean; and but a tenth part of what lies east of mexico; and can never enjoy any great advantages from any more of it, till we settle on the missisippi. how necessary such settlements on the missisippi may be, will farther appear from what we possess on this side of it. the lands in north america are in general but very poor or barren; and if any of them are more fertile, the soil is light and shallow, and soon worn out with culture. it is only the virgin fertility of fresh lands, such as those on the missisippi, that makes the lands in north america appear to be fruitful, or that renders them of any great value to this nation. but such lands in our colonies, that have hitherto produced their staple commodities for britain, are now exhausted and worn out, and we meet with none such on this side of the missisippi. but when their lands are worn out, neither the value of their commodities, nor the circumstances of the planters, will admit of manuring them, at least to any great advantage to this nation. the staple commodities of north america are so gross and bulky, and of so small value, that it generally takes one half of them to pay the freight and other charges in sending them to britain; so that unless our planters have some advantage in making them, such as cheap, rich, and fresh lands, they never can make any; their returns to britain are then neglected, and the trade is gained by others who have these advantages; such as those who may be possessed of the missisippi, or by the germans, russians, turks, &c. who have plenty of lands, and labour cheap: by which means they make more of our staple of north america, tobacco, than we do ourselves; while we cannot make their staple of hemp, flax, iron, pot-ash, &c. by that means our people are obliged to interfere with their mother country, for want of the use of those lands of which there is such plenty in north america, to produce these commodities that are so much wanted from thence. {xvii} the consequences of this may be much more prejudicial to this nation, than is commonly apprehended. this trade of north america, whatever may be the income from it, consists in those gross and bulky commodities that are the chief and principal sources of navigation; which maintain whole countries to make them, whole fleets to transport them, and numbers of people to manufacture them at home; on which accounts this trade is more profitable to a nation, than the mines of mexico or peru. if we compare this with other branches of trade, as the sugar trade, or even the fishery, it will appear to be by far the most profitable to the nation, whatever those others may be to a few individuals. we set a great value on the fishery, in which we do not employ a third part of the seamen that we do in the plantation trade of north america; and the same may be said of the sugar trade. the tobacco trade alone employs more seamen in britain, than either the fishery, or sugar trade; [footnote: by the best accounts we have, there were seamen employed in the tobacco trade, in the year , when the inspection on tobacco passed into a law; and we may perhaps reckon them now , although some reckon them less. by the same accounts, taken by the custom-house officers, it appeared, that the number of british ships employed in all america, including the fishery, were , with , seamen; besides or , seamen belonging to north-america, who are all ready to enter into the service of britain on, any emergency or encouragement. of these there were but seamen employed in the fishery from britain; and about as many, or , in the sugar trade. the french, on the other hand, employ upwards of , seamen in the fishery, and many more than we do in the sugar trade. in short, the plantation trade of north america is to britain, what the fishery is to france, the great nursery of seamen, which may be much improved. it is for this reason that we have always thought this nation ought, for its safety, to enjoy an exclusive right to the one or the other of these at least.] and brings in more money to the nation than all the products of america perhaps put together. but those gross commodities that afford these sources of navigation, however valuable they may be to the public, and to this nation in particular, are far from being so to individuals: they are cheap, and of small value, either to make, or to trade {xviii} in them; and for that reason they are neglected by private people, who never think of making them, unless the public takes care to give them all due encouragement, and to set them about those employments; for which purpose good and proper lands, such as those on the missisippi, are absolutely necessary, without which nothing can be done. the many advantages of such lands that produce a staple for britain, in north america, are not to be told. the whole interest of the nation in those colonies depends upon them, if not the colonies themselves. such lands alone enable the colonies to take their manufactures and other necessaries from britain, to the mutual advantage of both. and how necessary that may be will appear from the state of those colonies in north america, which do not make, one with another, as much as is sufficient to supply them only with the necessary article of cloathing; not to mention the many other things they want and take from britain; and even how they pay for that is more than any man can tell. in short, it would appear that our colonies in north america cannot subsist much longer, if at all, in a state of dependence for all their manufactures and other necessaries, unless they are provided with other lands that may enable them to purchase them; and where they will find any such lands, but upon the missisippi, is more than we can tell. when their lands are worn out, are poor and barren, or in an improper climate or situation, or that they will produce nothing to send to britain, such lands can only be converted into corn and pasture grounds; and the people in our colonies are thereby necessarily obliged, for a bare subsistence, to interfere with britain, not only in manufactures, but in the very produce of their lands. by this we may perceive the absurdity of the popular outcry, that we have already _land enough_, and more than we can make use of in north america. they who may be of that opinion should shew us, where that land is to be found, and what it will produce, that may turn to any account to the nation. those people derive their opinion from what they see in europe, where the quantity of land that we possess in north america, will, no doubt, maintain a greater number of people than we have there. but they should consider, that those people in {xix} europe are not maintained by the planting of a bare raw commodity, with such immense charges upon it, but by farming, manufactures, trade, and commerce; which they will soon reduce our colonies to, who would confine them to their present settlements, between the sea coast and the mountains that surround them. some of our colonies perhaps may imagine they cannot subsist without these employments; which indeed would appear to be the case in their present state: but that seems to be as contrary to their true interest, as it is to their condition of british colonies. they have neither skill, materials, nor any other conveniences to make manufactures; whereas their lands require only culture to produce a staple commodity, providing they are possessed of such as are fit for that purpose. manufactures are the produce of labour, which is both scarce and dear among them; whereas lands are, or may, and should be made, both cheap and in plenty; by which they may always reap much greater profits from the one than the other. that is, moreover, a certain pledge for the allegiance and dependance of the colonies; and at the same time makes their dependance to become their interest. it has been found by frequent experience, that the making of a staple commodity for britain, is more profitable than manufactures, providing they have good lands to work. it were to be wished indeed, that we could support our interest in america, and those sources of navigation, by countries that were more convenient to it, than those on the missisippi. but that, we fear, is not to be done, however it may be desired. we wish we could say as much of the lands in florida, and on the bay of mexico, as of those on the missisippi: but they are not to be compared to these, by all accounts, however convenient they may be in other respects to navigation. in all those southern and maritime parts of that continent the lands are in general but very poor and mean, being little more than _pine barrens_, or _sandy desarts_. the climate is at the same time so intemperate, that white people are in a great measure unfit for labour in it, as much as they are in the islands; this obliges them to make use of slaves, which are now become so dear, that it is to be doubted, whether all the produce {xx} of those lands will enable the proprietors of them to purchase slaves, or any other labourers; without which they can turn to little or no account to the nation, and those countries can support but very few people, if it were only to protect and defend them. the most convenient part of those countries seems to be about mobile and pensacola; which are, as it were, an entrepot between our present settlements and the missisippi, and safe station for our ships. but it is a pity that the lands about them are the most barren, and the climate the most intemperate, by all accounts, of any perhaps in all america. [footnote: see page , , &c. _charlevoix_ hist. n. france, tom. iii. . _laval, infra_, &c.] and our author tells us, the lands are not much better even on the river of mobile; which is but a very inconsiderable one. but the great inconvenience of those countries proceeds from the number of indians in them; which will make it very difficult to settle any profitable plantations among them, especially in the inland parts that are more fertile; whereas the missisippi is free from indians for miles. it was but in the year , that those indians overran all the colony of carolina, even to charles-town; by which the french got possession of that country, and of the missisippi; both which they had just before, in june , dispossessed us of. if we turn our eyes again to the lands in our northern colonies, it is to be feared we can expect much less from them. there is an inconvenience attending them, with regard to any improvements on them for britain, which is not to be remedied. the climate is so severe, and the winters so long, that the people are obliged to spend that time in providing the necessaries of life, which should be employed in profitable colonies, on the making of some staple commodity, and returns to britain. they are obliged to feed their creatures for five or six months in the year, which employs their time in summer, and takes up the best of their lands, such as they are, which should produce their staple commodities, to provide for themselves and their stocks against winter. for that reason the people in all our northern colonies are necessarily obliged to become farmers, {xxi} to make corn and provisions, instead of planters, who make a staple commodity for britain; and thereby interfere with their mother country in the most material and essential of all employments to a nation, agriculture. in short, neither the soil nor climate will admit of any improvements for britain, in any of those northern colonies. if they would produce any thing of that kind, it must be hemp; which never could be made in them to any advantage, as appears from many trials of it in new england. [footnote: see _douglas's_ hist. n. america. _elliot's_ improvements on new england, &c.] the great dependance of those northern colonies is upon the supplies of lumber and provisions which they send to the islands. but as they increase and multiply, their woods are cut down, lumber becomes scarce and dear, and the number of people inhances the value of land, and of every thing it produces, especially provisions. if this is the case of those northern colonies on the sea coast, what can we expect from the inland parts; in which the soil is not only more barren, and the climate more severe, but they are, with all these disadvantages, so inconvenient to navigation, both on account of their distance, and of the many falls and currents in the river st. lawrence, that it is to be feared those inland parts of our northern colonies will never produce any thing for britain, more than a few furrs; which they will do much better in the hands of the natives, than in ours. these our northern colonies, however, are very populous, and increase and multiply very fast. there are above a million of people in them, who can make but very little upon their lands for themselves, and still less for their mother country. for these reasons it is presumed, it would be an advantage to them, as well as to the whole nation, to remove their spare people, who want lands, to those vacant lands in the southern parts of the continent, which turn to so much greater account than any that they are possessed of. there they may have the necessaries of life in the greatest plenty; their stocks maintain themselves the whole year round, with little or no cost or labour; "by which means many people have a thousand head {xxii} of cattle, and for one man to have two hundred, is very common, with other stock in proportion." [footnote: description of south carolina, p. .] this enables them to bestow their whole labour, both in summer and winter, on the making of some staple commodity for britain, getting lumber and provisions for the islands, &c. which both enriches them and the whole nation. that is much better, surely, than to perish in winter for want of cloathing, which they must do unless they make it; and to excite those grudges and jealousies, which must ever subsist between them and their mother country in their present state, and grow so much the worse, the longer they continue in it. the many advantages that would ensue from the peopling of those southern parts of the continent from our northern colonies, are hardly to be told. we might thereby people and secure those countries, and reap the profits of them, without any loss of people; which are not to be spared for that purpose in britain, or any other of her dominions. this is the great use and advantage that may be made of the expulsion of the french from those northern parts of america. they have hitherto obliged us to strengthen those northern colonies, and have confined the people in them to towns and townships, in which their labour could turn to no great account, either to themselves or to the nation, by which we have, in a great measure, loss the labour of one half of the people in our colonies. but as they are now free from any danger on their borders, they may extend their settlements with safety, disperse themselves on plantations, and cultivate those lands that may turn to some account, both to them and to the whole nation. in short, they may now make some staple commodity for britain; on which the interest of the colonies, and of the nation in them, chiefly depends; and which we can never expect from those colonies in their present situation. what those commodities are, that we might get from those southern parts of north america, will appear from the following accounts; which we have not room here to consider more particularly. we need only mention hemp, flax, and silk, those great articles and necessary materials of manufactures; for which alone this nation pays at least a million and an half {xxiii} a-year, if not two millions, and could never get them from all the colonies we have. cotton and indigo are equally useful. not to mention copper, iron, potash, &c. which, with hemp, flax, and silk, make the great balance of trade against the nation, and drain it of its treasure; when we might have those commodities from our colonies for manufactures, and both supply ourselves and others with them. wine, oil, raisins, and currants, &c. those products of france and spain, on which britain expends so much of her treasure, to enrich her enemies, might likewise be had from those her own dominions. britain might thereby cut off those resources of her enemies; secure her colonies for the future; and prevent such calamities of war, by cultivating those more laudable arts of peace: which will be the more necessary, as these are the only advantages the nation can expect, for the many millions that have been expended on america. _a description of the harbour of_ pensacola. as the harbour of pensacola will appear to be a considerable acquisition to britain, it may be some satisfaction to give the following account of it, from f. laval, royal professor of mathematics, and master of the marine academy at toulon; who was sent to louisiana, on purpose to make observations, in ; and had the accounts of the officers who took pensacola at that time, and surveyed the place. "the colonies of pensacola, and of dauphin-island, are at present on the decline, the inhabitants having removed to settle at mobile and biloxi, or at new-orleans, where the lands are much better; for at the first the soil is chiefly sand, mixed with little earth. the land, however, is covered with woods of pines, firs, and oaks; which make good trees, as well as at ship-island. the road of pensacola is the only good port thereabouts for large ships, and ship-island for small ones, where vessels that draw from thirteen to fourteen feet water, may ride in safety, under the island, in fifteen feet, and a good holding ground; as well as in the other ports, which are all only open roads, exposed to the south, and from west to east. "pensacola is in north-latitude ° '; and is the only road in the bay of mexico, in which ships can be safe from all {xxiv} winds. it is land-locked on every side, and will hold a great number of ships, which have very good anchorage in it, in a good holding ground of soft sand, and from twenty-five to thirty-four feet of water. you will find not less than twenty-one feet of water on the barr, which is at the entrance into the road, providing you keep in the deepest part of the channel. before a ship enters the harbour, she should bring the fort of pensacola to bear between north and north / east, and keep that course till she is west or west / south, from the fort on the island of st. rose, that is, till that fort bears east, and east / north. then she must bear away a little to the land on the west side, keeping about mid-way between that and the island, to avoid a bank on this last, which runs out to some distance west-north-west from the point of the island. "if there are any breakers on the ledge of rocks, which lie to the westward of the barr, as often happens; if there is any wind, that may serve for a mark to ships, which steer along that ledge, at the distance of a good musket-shot, as they enter upon the barr; then keep the course above mentioned. sometimes the currents set very strong out of the road, which you should take care of, less they should carry you upon these rocks. "as there is but half a foot rising (_levèe_) on the barr of pensacola, every ship of war, if it be not in a storm, may depend upon nineteen (perhaps twenty) feet of water, to go into the harbour, as there are twenty-one feet on the barr. ships that draw twenty feet must be towed in. by this we see, that ships of sixty guns may go into this harbour: and even seventy gun ships, the largest requisite in that country in time of war, if they were built flat-bottomed, like the dutch ships, might pass every where in that harbour. "in pensacola was taken by mr. champmelin, in the hercules man of war, of sixty-four guns, but carried only fifty-six; in company with the mars, pierced for sixty guns, but had in only fifty-four; and the triton, pierced for fifty-four guns, but carried only fifty; with two frigates of thirty-six and twenty guns. [footnote: the admiral was on board of the hercules, which drew twenty-one feet of water, and there were but twenty-two feet into the harbour in the highest tides; so that they despaired of carrying in this ship. but an old canadian, named crimeau, a man of experience, who was perfectly acquainted with that coast, boasted of being able to do it, and succeeded; for which he was the next year honoured with letters of noblesse. _dumont_ (an officer there at that time) . . but _bellin_, from the charts of the admiralty, makes but twenty feet of water on the barr of pensacola. the difference may arise from the tides, which are very irregular and uncertain on all that coast, according to the winds; never rising above three feet, sometimes much less. in twenty-four hours the tide ebbs in the harbour for eighteen or nineteen hours, and flows five or six. _laval_.] {xxv} "this road is subject to one inconvenience; several rivers fall into it, which occasion strong currents, and make boats or canoes, as they pass backwards and forwards, apt to run a-ground; but as the bottom is all sand, they are not apt to founder. on the other hand there is a great advantage in this road; it is free from worms, which never breed in fresh water, so that vessels are never worm-eaten in it." but f. charlevoix seems to contradict this last circumstance: "the bay of pensacola would be a pretty good port, (says he) if the worms did not eat the vessels in it, and if there was a little more water in the entrance into it; for the hercules, commanded by mr. champmelin, touched upon it." it is not so certain then, that this harbour is altogether free from worms; although it may not be so subject to them, as other places in those climes, from the many small fresh water rivers that fall into this bay, which may have been the occasion of these accounts, that are seemingly contradictory. in such a place ships might at least be preserved from worms, in all likelihood, by paying their bottoms with aloes, or mixing it with their other stuff. that has been found to prevent the biting of these worms; and might be had in plenty on the spot. many kinds of aloes would grow on the barren sandy lands about pensacola, and in florida, which is the proper soil for them; and would be a good improvement for those lands, which will hardly bear any thing else to advantage, whatever use is made of it. having room in this place, we may fill it up with an answer to a common objection against louisiana; which is, {xxvi} that this country is never likely to turn to any account, because the french have made so little of it. but that objection, however common, will appear to proceed only from the ignorance of those who make it. no country can produce any thing without labourers; which, it is certain, the french have never had in louisiana, in any numbers at least, sufficient to make it turn to any greater account than it has hitherto done. the reason of this appears not to be owing to the country, but to their proceedings and misconduct in it. out of the many thousand people who were contracted for by the grantees, to be sent to louisiana in , there were but eight hundred sent, we see; and of these the greatest part were ruined by their idle schemes, which made them and others abandon the country entirely. the few again who remained in it were cut off by an indian massacre in , which broke up the only promising settlements they had in the country, those of the natchez, and yasous, which were never afterwards reinstated. instead of encouraging the colony in such misfortunes, the minister, cardinal fleuri, either from a spirit of oeconomy, or because it might be contrary to some other of his views, withdrew his protection from it, gave up the public plantations, and must thereby, no doubt, have very much discouraged others. by these means they have had few or no people in louisiana, but such as were condemned to be sent to it for their crimes, women of ill fame, deserted soldiers, insolvent debtors, and galley-slaves, _forçats_, as they call them; "who, looking on the country only as a place of exile, were disheartened at every thing in it; and had no regard for the progress of a colony, of which they were only members by compulsion, and neither knew nor considered its advantages to the state. it is from such people that many have their accounts of this country; and throw the blame of all miscarriages in it upon the country, when they are only owing to the incapacity and negligence of those who were instructed to settle it." [footnote: _charlevoix_ hist. new france, tom. iii. p. .] { } the history of louisiana book i. _the transactions of the_ french _in_ louisiana. chapter i. _of the first discovery and settlement of_ louisiana. after the spaniards came to have settlements on the great antilles, it was not long before they attempted to make discoveries on the coasts of the gulf of mexico. in , lucas vasquez de aillon landed on the continent to the north of that gulf, being favourably received by the people of that country, who made him presents in gold, pearls, and plated silver. this favourable reception made him return thither four years after; but the natives having changed their friendly sentiments towards him, killed two hundred of his men, and obliged him to retire. in , pamphilo nesunez [footnote: narvaez.] landed also on that coast, receiving from the first nations he met in his way, presents made in gold; which, by signs, they made him to understand, came from the apalachean mountains, in the country which at this day goes under the name of florida: and thither he attempted to go, undertaking a hazardous journey of twenty-five days. in this march he was so often attacked by the new people he continually discovered, and lost so many of his men, as only to think of re-embarking with the few that were left, { } happy to have himself escaped the dangers which his imprudence had exposed him to. the relation published by the historian of dominico [footnote: ferdinando.] soto, who in landed in the bay of st. esprit, is so romantic, and so constantly contradicted by all who have travelled that country, that far from giving credit to it, we ought rather to suppose his enterprize had no success; as no traces of it have remained, any more than of those that went before. the inutility of these attempts proved no manner of discouragement to the spaniards. after the discovery of florida, it was with a jealous eye they saw the french settle there in , under rené de laudonniere, sent thither by the admiral de coligni, where he built fort carolin; the ruins of which are still to be seen above the fort of pensacola. [footnote: this intended settlement of admiral coligni was on the east coast of florida, about st. augustin, instead of pensacola. de laet is of opinion, that their fort carolin was the same with st. augustin.] there the spaniards some time after attacked them, and forcing them to capitulate, cruelly murdered them, without any regard had to the treaty concluded between them. as france was at that time involved in the calamities of a religious war, this act of barbarity had remained unresented, had not a single man of mont marfan, named dominique de gourges, attempted, in the name of the nation, to take vengeance thereof. in , having fitted out a vessel, and sailed for florida, he took three forts built by the spaniards; and after killing many of them in the several attacks he made, hanged the rest: and having settled there a new post, [footnote: he abandoned the country without making any settlement; nor have the french ever had any settlement in it from that day to this. see laudonniere. hakluyt, &c.] returned to france. but the disorders of the state having prevented the maintaining that post, the spaniards soon after retook possession of the country, where they remain to this day. from that time the french seemed to have dropped all thoughts of that coast, or of attempting any discoveries therein; when the wars in canada with the natives afforded them the { } knowledge of the vast country they are possessed of at this day. in one of these wars a recollet, or franciscan friar, name f. hennepin, was taken and carried to the illinois. as he had some skill in surgery, he proved serviceable to that people, and was also kindly treated by them: and being at full liberty, he travelled over the country, following for a considerable time the banks of the river st. louis, or missisipi, without being able to proceed to its mouth. however, he failed not to take possession of that country, in the name of louis xiv., calling it louisiana. providence having facilitated his return to canada, he gave the most advantageous account of all he had seen; and after his return to france, drew up a relation thereof, dedicated to m. colbert. the account he gave of louisiana failed not to produce its good effects. me de la salle, equally famous for his misfortunes and his courage, undertook to traverse these unknown countries quite to the sea. in jan. he set out from quebec with a large detachment, and being come among the illinois, there built the first fort france ever had in that country, calling it crevecæur; and there he left a good garrison under the command of the chevalier de tonti. from thence he went down the river st. louis, quite to its mouth; which, as has been said, is in the gulf of mexico; and having made observations, and taken the elevation in the best manner he could, returned by the same way to quebec, from whence he passed over to france. after giving the particulars of his journey to m. colbert, that great minister, who knew of what importance it was to the state to make sure of so fine and extensive a country, scrupled not to allow him a ship and a small frigate, in order to find out, by the way of the gulf of mexico, the mouth of the river st. louis. he set sail in : but his observations, doubtless, not having had all the justness requisite, after arriving in the gulf, he got beyond the river, and running too far westward, entered the bay of st. bernard: and some misunderstanding happening between him and the officers of the vessels, he debarqued with the men under his command, and having settled a post in that place, undertook to go by land in quest of { } the great river. but after a march of several days, some of his people, irritated on account of the fatigue he exposed them to, availing themselves of an opportunity, when separated from the rest of his men, basely assassinated him. the soldiers, though deprived of their commander, still continued their route, and, after crossing many rivers, arrived at length at the arkansas, where they unexpectedly found a french post lately settled. the chevalier de tonti was gone down from the fort of the illinois, quite to the mouth of the river, about the time he judged m. de la salle might have arrived by sea; and not finding him, was gone up again, in order to return to his post. and in his way entering the river of the arkansas, quite to the village of that nation, with whom he made an alliance, some of his people insisted, they might be allowed to settle there; which was agreed to, he leaving ten of them in that place; and this small cantonment maintained its ground, not only because from time to time encreased by some canadians, who came down this river; but above all, because those who formed it had the prudent precaution to live in peace with the natives, and treat as legitimate the children they had by the daughters of the arkansas, with whom they matched out of necessity. the report of the pleasantness of louisiana spreading through canada, many frenchmen of that country repaired to settle there, dispersing themselves at pleasure along the river st. louis, especially towards its mouth, and even in some islands on the coast, and on the river mobile, which lies nearer canada. the facility of the commerce with st. domingo was, undoubtedly, what invited them to the neighbourbood of the sea, though the interior parts of the country be in all respects far preferable. however, these scattered settlements, incapable to maintain their ground of themselves, and too distant to be able to afford mutual assistance, neither warranted the possession of this country, nor could they be called a taking of possession. louisiana remained in this neglected state, till m. d'hiberville, chef d' escadre, having discovered, in , the mouths of the river st. louis, and being nominated governor general of that vast country, carried thither the first colony in . as he was a native of canada, the colony almost entirely consisted of canadians, among whom m. de luchereau, { } uncle of madam d'hiberville, particularly distinguished himself. the settlement was made on the river mobile, with all the facility that could be wished; but its progress proved slow: for these first inhabitants had no other advantage above the natives, as to the necessaries of life, but what their own industry, joined to some rude tools, to give the plainest forms to timbers, afforded them. the war which louis iv, had at that time to maintain, and the pressing necessities of the state, continually engrossed the attention of the ministry, nor allowed them time to think of louisiana. what was then thought most advisable, was to make a grant of it to some rich person; who, finding it his interest to improve that country, would, at the same time that he promoted his own interest, promote that of the state. louisiana was thus ceded to m. crozat. and it is to be presumed, had m. d'hiberville lived longer, the colony would have made considerable progress: but that illustrious sea-officer, whose authority was considerable, dying at the havannah, in (after which this settlement was deserted) a long time must intervene before a new governor could arrive from france. the person pitched upon to fill that post, was m. de la motte cadillac, who arrived in that country in june . the colony had but a scanty measure of commodities, and money scarcer yet: it was rather in a state of languor, than of vigorous activity, in one of the finest countries in the world; because impossible for it to do the laborious works, and make the first advances, always requisite in the best lands. the spaniards, for a long time, considered louisiana as a property justly theirs, because it constitutes the greatest part of florida, which they first discovered. the pains the french were at then to settle there, roused their jealousy, to form the design of cramping us, by settling at the assinaïs, a nation not very distant from the nactchitoches, whither some frenchmen had penetrated. there the spaniards met with no small difficulty to form that settlement, and being at a loss how to accomplish it, one f. ydalgo, a franciscan friar, took it in his head to write to the french, to beg their assistance in { } settling a mission among the assinaïs. he sent three different copies of his letter hap-hazard three different ways to our settlements, hoping one of them at least might fall into the hands of the french. nor was he disappointed in his hope, one of them, from one post to another, and from hand to hand, falling into the hands of m. de la motte. that general, incessantly taken up with the concerns of the colony, and the means of relieving it, was not apprized of the designs of the spaniards in that letter; could only see therein a sure and short method to remedy the present evils, by favouring the spaniards, and making a treaty of commerce with them, which might procure to the colony what it was in want of, and what the spaniards abounded with, namely, horses, cattle, and money: he therefore communicated that letter to m. de st. denis, to whom he proposed to undertake a journey by land to mexico. m. de st. denis, for the fourteen years he was in louisiana, had made several excursions up and down the country; and having a general knowledge of all the languages of the different nations which inhabit it, gained the love and esteem of these people, so far as to be acknowledged their grand chief. this gentleman, in other respects a man of courage, prudence, and resolution, was then the fittest person m. de la motte could have pitched upon, to put his design in execution. how fatiguing soever the enterprize was, m. de st. denis undertook it with pleasure, and set out with twenty-five men. this small company would have made some figure, had it continued entire; but some of them dropped m. de st. denis by the way, and many of them remained among the nactchitoches, to whose country he was come. he was therefore obliged to set out from that place, accompanied only by ten men, with whom he traversed upwards of an hundred and fifty leagues in a country entirely depopulated, having on his route met with no nation, till he came to the presidio, or fortress of st. john baptist, on the rio (river) del norte, in new mexico. the governor of this fort was don diego raimond, an officer advanced in years, who favourbly received m. de st. { } denis, on acquainting him, that the motive to his journey was f. ydalgo's letter, and that he had orders to repair to mexico. but as the spaniards do not readily allow strangers to travel through the countries of their dominion in america, for fear the view of these fine countries should inspire notions, the consequences of which might be greatly prejudicial to them, d. diego did not chuse to permit m. de st. denis to continue his route, without the previous consent of the viceroy. it was therefore necessary to dispatch a courier to mexico, and to wait his return. the courier, impatiently longed for, arrived at length, with the permission granted by the duke of linarez, viceroy of mexico. upon which m. de st. denis set out directly, and arrived at mexico, june , . the viceroy had naturally an affection to france; m. de st. denis was therefore favourably received, saving some precautions, which the duke thought proper to take, not to give any disgust to some officers of justice who were about him. the affair was soon dispatched; the duke of linarez having promised to make a treaty of commerce, as soon as the spaniards should be settled at the assinaïs; which m. de st. denis undertook to do, upon his return to louisiana. chapter ii. _the return of m. de st. denis: his settling the_ spaniards _at the_ assinaïs. _his second journey to_ mexico, _and return from thence_. m. de st. denis soon returned to the fort of st. john baptist; after which he resolved to form the caravan, which was to be settled at the assinaïs; at whose head m. de st. denis put himself, and happily conducted it to the place appointed. and then having, in quality of grand chief, assembled the nation of the assinaïs, he exhorted them to receive and use the spaniards well. the veneration which that people had for him, made them submit to his will in all things; and thus the promise he had made to the duke of linarez was faithfully fulfilled. { } the assinaïs are fifty leagues distant from the nactchitoches. the spaniards, finding themselves still at too great a distance from us, availed themselves of that first settlement, in order to form a second among the adaies, a nation which is ten leagues from our post of the nactchitoches: whereby they confine us on the west within the neighbourhood of the river st. louis; and from that time it was not their fault, that they had not cramped us to the north, as i shall mention in its place. to this anecdote of their history i shall, in a word or two, add that of their settlement at pensacola, on the coast of florida, three months after m. d'hiberville had carried the first inhabitants to louisiana, that country having continued to be inhabited by europeans, ever since the garrison left there by dominique de gourges; which either perished, or deserted, for want of being supported.[footnote: they returned to france. see p. .] to return to m. de la motte and m. de st. denis: the former, ever attentive to the project of having a treaty of commerce concluded with the spaniards, and pleased with the success of m. de st. denis's journey to mexico, proposed his return thither again, not doubting but the duke of linarez would be as good as his word, as the french had already been. m. de st. denis, ever ready to obey, accepted the commission of his general. but this second journey was not to be undertaken as the first; it was proper to carry some goods, in order to execute that treaty, as soon as it should be concluded, and to indemnify himself for the expences he was to be at. though the store-houses of m. crozat were full, it was no easy matter to get the goods. the factors refused to give any on credit; nay, refused m. de la motte's security; and there was no money to be had to pay them. the governor was therefore obliged to form a company of the most responsible men of the colony: and to this company only the factors determined to advance the goods. this expedient was far from being agreeable to m. de st. denis, who opened his mind to m. de la motte on that head, and told him, that some or all of his partners would accompany the goods they had engaged to be security for; and that, although it was absolutely necessary the effects should appear to be his { } property alone, they would not fail to discover they themselves were the proprietors; which would be sufficient to cause their confiscation, the commerce between the two nations not being open. m. de la motte saw the solidity of these reasons; but the impossibility of acting otherwise constrained him to supersede them: and, as m. de st. denis had foreseen, it accordingly happened. he set out from mobile, august , , escorted, as he all along apprehended, by some of those concerned; and being come to the assinaïs, he there passed the winter. on the th of march, the year following, setting out on his journey, he soon arrived at the presidio of st. john baptist. m. de st. denis declared these goods to be his own property, in order to obviate their confiscation, which was otherwise unavoidable; and wanted to shew some acts of bounty and generosity, in order to gain the friendship of the spaniards. but the untractableness, the avarice, and indiscretion of the parties concerned, broke through all his measures; and to prevent the entire disconcerting of them, he hastened his departure for mexico, where he arrived may , . the duke of linarez was yet there, but sick, and on his death-bed. m. de st. denis had, however, time to see him, who knew him again: and that nobleman took care to have him recommended to the viceroy his successor; namely, the marquis of balero, a man as much against the french as the duke was for them. m. de st. denis did not long solicit the marquis of balero for concluding the treaty of commerce; he soon had other business to mind. f. olivarez, who, on the representation of p. ydalgo, as a person of a jealous, turbulent, and dangerous disposition, had been excluded from the mission to the assinaïs, being then at the court of the viceroy, saw with an evil eye the person who had settled f. ydalgo in that mission, and resolved to be avenged on him for the vexation caused by that disappointment. he joined himself to an officer, named don martin de alaron, a person peculiarly protected by the marquis of balero: and they succeeded so well with that nobleman that in the time m. de st. denis least expected, he found himself arrested, and clapt in a dungeon; from which he was not discharged { } till december of this year, by an order of the sovereign council of mexico, to which he found means to present several petitions. the viceroy, constrained to enlarge him, allotted the town for his place of confinement. the business of the treaty of commerce being now at an end, m. de st. denis's attention was only engaged how to make the most of the goods, of which don diego raymond had sent as large a quantity as he could, to the town of mexico; where they were seized by d. martin de alaron, as contraband; he being one of the emissaries of his protector, appointed to persecute such strangers as did not dearly purchase the permission to sell their goods. m. de st. denis could make only enough of his pillaged and damaged effects just to defray certain expences of suit, which, in a country that abounds with nothing else but gold and silver, are enormous. our prisoner having nothing further to engross his attention in mexico, but the safety of his person, seriously bethought himself how to secure it; as he had ever just grounds to apprehend some bad treatment at the bands of his three avowed enemies. having therefore planned the means of his flight, on september , , as the night came on, he quitted mexico, and placing himself in ambush at a certain distance from the town, waited till his good fortune should afford the means of travelling otherwise than on foot. about nine at night, a horseman, well-mounted, cast up. to rush of a sudden upon him, dismount him, mount his horse, turn the bridle, and set up a gallop, was the work of a moment only for st. denis. he rode on at a good pace till day, then quitted the common road, to repose him: a precaution he observed all along, till he came near to the presidio of st. john baptist. from thence he continued his journey on foot; and at length, on april , , arrived at the french colony, where he found considerable alterations. from the departure of m. de st. denis from mexico, to his return again, almost three years had elapsed. in that long time, the grant of louisiana was transferred from m. crozat to the west india company; m. de la motte cadillac was dead, and m. de biainville, brother to m. d'hiberville, succeeded as { } governor general. the capital place of the colony was no longer at mobile, nor even at old biloxi, whither it had been removed: new orleans, now begun to be built, was become the capital of the country, whither he repaired to give m. de biainville an account of his journey; after which he retired to his settlement. the king afterwards conferred upon him the cross of st. louis, in acknowledgement and recompence of his services. the west india company, building great hopes of commerce on louisiana, made efforts to people that country, sufficient to accomplish their end. thither, for the first time, they sent, in , a colony of eight hundred: men some of which settled at new orleans, others formed the settlements of the natchez. it was with this embarkation i passed over to louisiana. chapter iii. _embarkation of eight hundred men by the_ west india company _to_ louisiana. _arrival and stay at _cape françois. _arrival at_ isle dauphine. _description of that island_. the embarkation was made at rochelle on three different vessels, on one of which i embarked. for the first days of our voyage we had the wind contrary, but no high sea. on the eighth the wind turned more favourable. i observed nothing interesting till we came to the tropick of cancer, where the ceremony of baptizing was performed on those who had never been a voyage: after passing the tropick, the commodore steered too much to the south, our captain observed. in effect, after several days sailing, we were obliged to bear off to the north: we afterwards discovered the isle of st. juan de porto rico, which belongs to the spaniards. losing sight of that, we discovered the island of st. domingo; and a little after, as we bore on, we saw the grange, which is a rock, overtopping the steep coast, which is almost perpendicular to the edge of the water. this rock, seen at a distance, seems to have the figure of a grange, or barn. a few hours after we { } arrived at cape françois, distant from that rock only twelve leagues. we were two months in this passage to cape françois; both on account of the contrary winds, we had on setting out, and of the calms, which are frequent in those seas: our vessel, besides, being clumsy and heavy, had some difficulty to keep up with the others; which, not to leave us behind, carried only their four greater sails, while we had out between seventeen and eighteen. it is in those seas we meet with the tradewinds; which though weak, a great deal of way might be made, did they blow constantly, because their course is from east to west without varying: storms are never observed in these seas, but the calms often prove a great hindrance; and then it is necessary to wait some days, till a _grain_, or squall, brings back the wind: a _grain_ is a small spot seen in the air, which spreads very fast, and forms a cloud, that gives a wind, which is brisk at first, but not lasting, though enough to make way with. nothing besides remarkable is here seen, but the chace of the _flying-fish_ by the bonitas. the bonita is a fish, which is sometimes two feet long; extremely fond of the _flying-fish_; which is the reason it always keeps to the places where these fish are found: its flesh is extremely delicate and of a good flavour. the _flying-fish_ is of the length of a herring, but rounder. from its sides, instead of fins, issue out two wings, each about four inches in length, by two in breadth at the extremity; they fold together and open out like a fan, and are round at the end; consisting of a very fine membrane, pierced with a vast many little holes, which keep the water, when the fish is out of it: in order to avoid the pursuit of the bonita, it darts into the air, spreads out its wings, goes straight on, without being able to turn to the right or left; which is the reason, that as soon as the toilets, or little sheets of water, which fill up the small holes of its wings, are dried up, it falls down again; and the same bonita, which pursued it in the water, still following it with his eye in the air, catches it when fallen into the water; it sometimes falls on board ships. the bonita, in his turn, { } becomes the prey of the seamen, by means of little puppets, in the form of _flying-fish_, which it swallows, and by that means is taken. we stayed fifteen days at cape françois, to take in wood and water, and to refresh. it is situate on the north part of the island of st. domingo, which part the french are in possession of, as the spaniards are of the other. the fruits and sweet-meats of the country are excellent, but the meat good for nothing, hard, dry, and tough. this country being scorched, grass is very scarce, and animals therein languish and droop. six weeks before our arrival, fifteen hundred persons died of an epidemic distemper, called the siam distemper. we sailed from cape françois, with the same wind, and the finest weather imaginable. we then passed between the islands of tortuga and st. domingo, where we espied port de paix, which is over-against tortuga: we afterwards found ourselves between the extremities of st. domingo and cuba which belongs to the spaniards: we then steered along the south coast of this last, leaving to the left jamaica, and the great and little kayemans, which are subject to the english. we at length quitted cuba at cape anthony, steering for louisiana a north west course. we espied land in coming towards it, but so flat, though distant but a league from us, that we had great difficulty to distinguish it, though we had then but four fathom water. we put out the boat to examine the land, which we found to be candlemas island (la chandeleur.) we directly set sail for the island of massacre, since called isle dauphine, situated three leagues to the south of that continent, which forms the gulf of mexico to the north, at about ° ' north latitude, and ° of longitude. a little after we discovered the isle dauphine, and cast anchor before the harbour, in the road, because the harbour itself was choaked up. to make this passage we took three months, and arrived only august th. we had a prosperous voyage all along, and the more so, as no one died, or was even dangerously ill the whole time, for which we caused _te deum_ solemnly to be sung. we were then put on shore with all our effects. the company had undertaken to transport us with our servants and { } effects, at their expence, and to lodge, maintain and convey us to our several concessions, or grants. this gulf abounds with delicious fish; as the _sarde_ (pilchard) red fish, cod, sturgeon, ringed thornback, and many other sorts, the best in their kind. the _sarde_ is a large fish; its flesh is delicate, and of a fine flavour, the scales grey, and of a moderate size. the red fish is so called, from its red scales, of the size of a crown piece. the cod, fished for on this coast, is of the middling sort, and very delicate. the thornback is the same as in france. before we quit this island, it will not, perhaps, be improper to mention some things about it. the isle massacre was so called by the first frenchman who landed there, because on the shore of this island they found a small rising ground, or eminence, which appeared the more extraordinary in an island altogether flat, and seemingly formed only by the sand, thrown in by some high gusts of wind. as the whole coast of the gulf is very flat, and along the continent lies a chain of such islands, which seem to be mutually joined by their points, and to form a line parallel with the continent, this small eminence appeared to them extraordinary: it was more narrowly examined, and in different parts thereof they found dead mens bones, just appearing above the little earth that covered them. then their curiosity led them to rake off the earth in several places; but finding nothing underneath, but a heap of bones, they cried out with horror, _ah! what a massacre!_ they afterwards understood by the natives, who are at no great distance off, that a nation adjoining to that island, being at war with another much more powerful, was constrained to quit the continent, which is only three leagues off, and to remove to this island, there to live in peace the rest of their days; but that their enemies, justly confiding in their superiority, pursued them to this their feeble retreat, and entirely destroyed them; and after raising this inhuman trophy of their victorious barbarity, retired again. i myself saw this fatal monument, which made me imagine this unhappy nation must have been even numerous toward its period, as only the bones of their warriors, and aged men must have lain there, their custom being to make slaves of their { } young people. such is the origin of the first name of this island, which, on our arrival, was changed to that of isle dauphine: an act of prudence, it should-seem, to discontinue an appellation, so odious, of a place that was the cradle of the colony; as mobile was its birth-place. this island is very flat, and all a white sand, as are all the others, and the coast in like manner. its length is about seven leagues from east to west; its breadth a short league from south to north, especially to the east, where the settlement was made, on account of the harbour which was at the south end of the island, and choaked up by a high sea, a little before our arrival: this east end runs to a point. it is tolerably well stored with pine; but so dry and parched, on account of its crystal sand, as that no greens or pulse can grow therein, and beasts are pinched and hard put to it for sustenance. in the mean time, m. de biainville, commandant general for the company in this colony, was gone to mark out the spot on which the capital was to be built, namely, one of the banks of the river missisippi, where at present stands the city of new orleans, so called in honour of the duke of orleans, then regent. chapter iv. _the author's departure for his grant. description of the places he passed through, as far as_ new orleans. the time of my departure, so much wished for, came at length. i set out with my hired servants, all my effects, and a letter for m. paillou, major general at new orleans, who commanded there in the absence of m. de biainville. we coasted along the continent, and came to lie in the mouth of the river of the pasca-ogoulas; so called, because near its mouth, and to the east of a bay of the same name, dwells a nation, called pasca-ogoulas, which denotes the nation of bread. here it may be remarked, that in the province of louisiana, the appellation of several people terminates in the word ogoula, which signifies _nation_; and that most of the rivers derive their names from the nations which dwell on { } their banks. we then passed in view of biloxi, where formerly was a petty nation of that name; then in view of the bay of st. louis, leaving to the left successively isle dauphine, isle a corne, (horne-island,) isle aux vaisseaux, (ship-island,) and isle aux chats, (cat-island). i have already described isle dauphine, let us now proceed to the three following. horn-island is very flat and tolerably wooded, about six leagues in length, narrowed to a point to the west side. i know not whether it was for this reason, or on account of the number of horned cattle upon it, that it received this name; but it is certain, that the first canadians, who settled on isle dauphine, had put most of their cattle, in great numbers, there; whereby they came to grow rich even when they slept. these cattle not requiring any attendance, or other care, in this island, came to multiply in such a manner, that the owners made great profits of them on our arrival in the colony. proceeding still westward, we meet ship-island; so called, because there is a small harbour, in which vessels at different times have put in for shelter. but as the island is distant four leagues from the coast, and that this coast is so flat, that boats cannot approach nearer than half a league, this harbour comes to be entirely useless. this island may be about five leagues in length, and a large league in breadth at the west point. near that point to the north is the harbour, facing the continent; towards the east end it may be half a league in breadth: it is sufficiently wooded, and inhabited only by rats, which swarm there. at two leagues distance, going still westward, we meet cat-island; so called, because at the time it was discovered, great numbers of cats were found upon it. this island is very small, not above half a league in diameter. the forests are over-run with underwood: a circumstance which, doubtless, determined m. de biainville to put in some hogs to breed; which multiplied to such numbers, that, in , going to hunt them, no other creatures were to be seen; and it was judged, that in time they must have devoured each other. it was found they had destroyed the cats. { } all these islands are very flat, and have the same bottom of white sand; the woods, especially of the three first, consist of pine; they are almost all at the same distance from the continent, the coast of which is equally sandy. after passing the bay of st. louis, of which i have spoken, we enter the two channels which lead to lake pontchartrain, called at present the lake st. louis: of these channels, one is named the great, the other the little; and they are about two leagues in length, and formed by a chain of islets, or little isles, between the continent and cockle-island. the great channel is to the south. we lay at the end of the channels in cockle-island; so called, because almost entirely formed of the shells named coquilles des palourdes, in the sea-ports, without a mixture of any others. this isle lies before the mouth of the lake st. louis to the east, and leaves at its two extremities two outlets to the lake; the one, by which we entered, which is the channel just mentioned; the other, by the lake borgne. the lake, moreover, at the other end westward, communicates, by a channel, with the lake maurepas; and may be about ten leagues in length from east to west, and seven in breadth. several rivers, in their course southward, fall into it. to the south of the lake is a great creek (bayouc, a stream of dead water, with little or no observable current) called bayouc st. jean; it comes close to new orleans, and falls into this lake at grass point (pointe aux herbes) which projects a great way into the lake, at two leagues distance from cockle-island. we passed near that point, which is nothing but a quagmire. from thence we proceeded to the bayouc choupic, so denominated from a fish of that name, and three leagues from the pointe aux herbes. the many rivulets, which discharge themselves into this lake, make its waters almost fresh, though it communicates with the sea: and on this account it abounds not only with sea fish but with fresh water fish, some of which, particularly carp, would appear to be of a monstrous size in france. we entered this creek choupic: at the entrance of which is a fort at present. we went up this creek for the space of a league, and landed at a place where formerly stood the village { } of the natives, who are called cola-pissas, an appellation corrupted by the french, the true name of that nation being aquelou-pissas, that is, _the nation of men that hear and see_. from this place to new orleans, and the river missisippi, on which that capital is built, the distance is only a league. chapter v. _the author put in possession of his territory. his resolution to go and settle among the_ natchez. being arrived at the creek choupic the sicur lavigne, a canadian, lodged me in a cabin of the aquelou-pissas, whose village he had bought. he gave others to my workmen for their lodging; and we were all happy to find, upon our arrival, that we were under shelter, in a place that was uninhabited. a few days after my arrival i bought an indian female slave of one of the inhabitants, in order to have a person who could dress our victuals, as i perceived the inhabitants did all they could to entice away our labourers, and to gain them by fair promises. as for my slave and me, we did not understand one another's language; but i made myself to be understood by signs, which these natives comprehend very easily: she was of the nation of the chitimachas, with whom the french had been at war for some years. i went to view a spot on st. john's creek, about half a league distant from the place where the capital was to be founded, which was yet only marked out by a hut, covered with palmetto-leaves, and which the commandant had caused to be built for his own lodging; and after him for m. paillou, whom he left commandant of that post. i had chosen that place preferably to any others, with a view to dispose more easily of my goods and provisions, and that i might not have them to transport to a great distance. i told m. paillou of my choice, who came and put me in possession, in the name of the west-india company. i built a hut upon my settlement, about forty yards from the creek of st. john, till i could build my house, and lodging { } for my people. as my hut was composed of very combustible materials, i caused a fire to be made at a distance, about half way from the creek, to avoid accidents: which occasioned an adventure, that put me in mind of the prejudices they have in europe, from the relations that are commonly current. the account i am going to give of it, may have upon those who think as i did then, the same effect that it had upon me. it was almost night, when my slave perceived, within two yards of the fire, a young alligator, five feet long, which beheld the fire without moving. i was in the garden hard by, when she made me repeated signs to come to her; i ran with speed, and upon my arrival she shewed me the crocodile, without speaking to me; the little time that i examined it, i could see, its eyes were so fixed on the fire, that all our motions could not take them off. i ran to my cabin to look for my gun, as i am a pretty good marksman: but what was my surprize, when i came out, and saw the girl with a great stick in her hand attacking the monster! seeing me arrive, she began to smile, and said many things, which i did not comprehend. but she made me understand, by signs, that there was no occasion for a gun to kill such a beast; for the stick she shewed me was sufficient for the purpose. the next day the former master of my slave came to ask me for some salad-plants; for i was the only one who had any garden-stuff, having taken care to preserve the seeds i had brought over with me. as he understood the language of the natives, i begged him to ask the girl, why she had killed the alligator so rashly. he began to laugh, and told me, that all new comers were afraid of those creatures, although they have no reason to be so: and that i ought not to be surprized at what the girl had done, because her nation inhabited the borders of a lake, which was full of those creatures; that the children, when they saw the young ones come on land, pursued them, and killed them, by the assistance of the people of the cabin, who made good cheer of them. i was pleased with my habitation, and i had good reasons, which i have already related, to make me prefer it to others; notwithstanding i had room to believe, that the situation was { } none of the healthiest, the country about it being very damp. but this cause of an unwholesome air does not exist at present, since they have cleared the ground, and made a bank before the town. the quality of that land is very good, for what i had sown came up very well. having found in the spring some peach-stones which began to sprout, i planted them; and the following autumn they had made shoots, four feet high, with branches in proportion. notwithstanding these advantages, i took a resolution to quit this settlement, in order to make another one, about a hundred leagues higher up; and i shall give the reasons, which, in my opinion, will appear sufficient to have made me take that step. my surgeon came to take his leave of me, letting me know, he could be of no service to me, near such a town as was forming; where there was a much abler surgeon than himself; and that they had talked to him so favourably of the post of the natchez, that he was very desirous to go there, and the more so, as that place, being unprovided with a surgeon, might be more to his advantage. to satisfy me of the truth of what he told me, he went immediately and brought one of the old inhabitants, of whom i had bought my slave, who confirmed the account he had given me of the fineness of the country of the natchez. the account of the old man, joined to many other advantages, to be found there, had made him think of abandoning the place where we were, to settle there; and he reckoned to be abundantly repaid for it in a little time. my slave heard the discourse that i have related, and as she began to understand french, and i the language of the country, she addressed herself to me thus: "thou art going, then, to that country; the sky is much finer there; game is in much greater plenty; and as i have relations, who retired there in the war which we had with the french, they will bring us every thing we want: they tell me that country is very fine, that they live well in it, and to a good old age." two days afterwards i told m. hubert what i had heard of the country of the natchez. he made answer, that he was { } so persuaded of the goodness of that part of the country, that he was making ready to go there himself, to take up his grant, and to establish a large settlement for the company: and, continued he, "i shall be very glad, if you do the same: we shall be company to one another, and you will unquestionably do your business better there than here." [illustration: _indian in summer time_] this determined me to follow his advice: i quitted my settlement, and took lodgings in the town, till i should find an { } opportunity to depart, and receive some negroes whom i expected in a short time. [footnote: chap. viii.] my stay at new orleans appeared long, before i heard of the arrival of the negroes. some days after the news of their arrival, m. hubert brought me two good ones, which had fallen to me by lot. one was a young negro about twenty, with his wife of the same age; which cost me both together livres, or l. sterling. two days after that i set off with them alone in a pettyaugre (a large canoe,) because i was told we should make much better speed in such a vessel, than in the boats that went with us; and that i had only to take powder and ball with me, to provide my whole company with game sufficient to maintain us; for which purpose it was necessary to make use of a paddle, instead of oars, which make too much noise for the game. i had a barrel of powder, with fifteen pounds of shot, which i thought would be sufficient for the voyage: but i found by experience, that this was not sufficient for the vast plenty of game that is to be met with upon that river, without ever going out of your way. i had not gone above twenty-eight leagues, to the grant of m. paris du vernai, when i was obliged to borrow of him fifteen pounds of shot more. upon this i took care of my ammunition, and shot nothing but what was fit for our provision; such as wild ducks, summer ducks, teal, and saw-bills. among the rest i killed a carancro, wild geese, cranes, and flamingo's; i likewise often killed young alligators; the tail of which was a feast for the slaves, as well as for the french and canadian rowers. among other things i cannot omit to give an account of a monstrous large alligator i killed with a musquet ball, as it lay upon the bank, about ten feet above the edge of the water. we measured it, and found it to be nineteen feet long, its head three feet and a half long, above two feet nine inches broad, and the other parts in proportion: at the belly it was two feet two inches thick; and it infected the whole air with the odor of musk. m. mehane told me, he had killed one twenty-two feet long. { } after several days navigation, we arrived at tonicas on christmas eve; where we heard mass from m. d' avion, of the foreign missions, with whom we passed the rest of the holy days, on account of the good reception and kind invitation he gave us. i asked him, if his great zeal for the salvation of the natives was attended with any success; he answered me, that notwithstanding the profound respect the people shewed him, it was with the greatest difficulty he could get leave to baptize a few children at the point of death; that those of an advanced age excused themselves from embracing our holy religion because they are too old, say they, to accustom themselves to rules, that are so difficult to be observed; that the chief, who had killed the physician, that attended his only son in a distemper of which he died, had taken a resolution to fast every friday while he lived, in remorse for his inhumanity with which he had been so sharply reproached by him. this grand chief attended both morning and evening prayers; the women and children likewise assisted regularly at them; but the men, who did not come very often, took more pleasure in ringing the bell. in other respects, they did not suffer this zealous pastor to want for any thing, but furnished him with whatever he desired. we were yet twenty-five leagues to the end of our journey to the natchez, and we left the tonicas, where we saw nothing interesting, if it were not several steep hills, which stand together; among which there is one that they name the white hill, because they find in it several veins of an earth, that is white, greasy, and very fine, with which i have seen very good potters ware made. on the same hill there are veins of ochre, of which the natchez had just taken some to stain their earthen ware, which looked well enough; when it was besmeared with ochre, it became red on burning. at last we arrived at the natchez, after a voyage of twenty-four leagues; and we put on shore at a landing-place, which is at the foot of a hill two hundred feet high, upon the top of which fort rosalie [footnote: fort rosalie, in the country of the natchez, was at first pitched upon for the metropolis of this colony. but though it be necessary to begin by a settlement near the sea; yet if ever louisiana comes to be in a flourishing condition, as it may very well be, it appears to me, that the capital of it cannot be better situated than in this place. it is not subject to inundations of the river; the air is pure; the country very extensive; the land fit for every thing, and well watered; it is not at too great a distance from the sea, and nothing hinders vessels to go up to it. in fine, it is within reach of every place intended to be settled. charlevoix, hist. de la n. france, iii. . this is on the east side of the missisippi, and appears to be the first post on that river which we ought to secure.] is built, surrounded only with pallisadoes. { } about the middle of the hill stands the magazine, nigh to some houses of the inhabitants, who are settled there, because the ascent is not so steep in that place; and it is for the same reason that the magazine is built there. when you are upon the top of this hill, you discover the whole country, which is an extensive beautiful plain, with several little hills interspersed here and there, upon which the inhabitants have built and made their settlements. the prospect of it is charming. on our arrival at the natchez i was very well received by m. loire de flaucourt, storekeeper of this post, who regaled us with the game that abounds in this place; and after two days i hired a house near the fort, for m. hubert and his family, on their arrival, till he could build upon his own plantation. he likewise desired me to choose two convenient parcels of land, whereon to settle two considerable plantations, one for the company, and the other for himself. i went to them in two or three days after my arrival, with an old inhabitant for my guide, and to shew me the proper places, and at the same time to choose a spot of ground for myself; this last i pitched upon the first day, because it is more easy to choose for one's self than for others. i found upon the main road that leads from the chief village of the natchez to the fort, about an hundred paces from this last, a cabin of the natives upon the road side, surrounded with a spot of cleared ground, the whole of which i bought by means of an interpreter. i made this purchase with the more pleasure, as i had upon the spot, wherewithal to lodge me and my people, with all my effects: the cleared ground was about six acres, which would form a garden and a plantation for { } tobacco, which was then the only commodity cultivated by the inhabitants. i had water convenient for my house, and all my land was very good. on one side stood a rising ground with a gentle declivity, covered with a thick field of canes, which always grow upon the rich lands; behind that was a great meadow, and on the other side was a forest of white walnuts (hiecories) of nigh fifty acres, covered with grass knee deep. all this piece of ground was in general good, and contained about four hundred acres of a measure greater than that of paris: the soil is black and light. the other two pieces of land, which m. hubert had ordered me to look for, i took up on the border of the little river of the natchez, each of them half a league from the great village of that nation, and a league from the fort; and my plantation stood between these two and the fort, bounding the two others. after this i took up my lodging upon my own plantation, in the hut i had bought of the indian, and put my people in another, which they built for themselves at the side of mine; so that i was lodged pretty much like our wood-cutters in france, when they are at work in the woods. as soon as i was put in possession of my habitation, i went with an interpreter to see the other fields, which the indians had cleared upon my land, and bought them all, except one, which an indian would never sell to me: it was situated very convenient for me, i had a mind for it, and would have given him a good price; but i could never make him agree to my proposals. he gave me to understand, that without selling it, he would give it up to me, as soon as i should clear my ground to his; and that while he stayed on his own ground near me, i should always find him ready to serve me, and that he would go a-hunting and fishing for me. this answer satisfied me, because i must have had twenty negroes, before i could have been able to have reached him; they assured me likewise, that he was an honest man; and far from having any occasion to complain of him as a neighbour, his stay there was extremely serviceable to me. i had not been settled at the natchez six months, when i found a pain in my thigh, which, however, did not hinder me { } to go about my business. i consulted our surgeon about it, who caused me to be bleeded; on which the humour fell upon the other thigh, and fixed there with such violence, that i could not walk without extreme pain. i consulted the physicians and surgeons of new orleans, who advised me to use aromatic baths; and if they proved of no service, i must go to france, to drink the waters, and to bathe in them. this answer satisfied me so much the less, as i was neither certain of my cure by that means, nor would my present situation allow me to go to france. this cruel distemper, i believe, proceeded from the rains, with which i was wet, during our whole voyage; and might be some effects of the fatigues i had undergone in war, during several campaigns i had made in germany. as i could not go out of my hut, several neighbours were so good as to come and see me, and every day we were no less than twelve at table from the time of our arrival, which was on the fifth of january, . among the rest f. de ville, who waited there, in his journey to the illinois, till the ice, which began to come down from the north, was gone. his conversation afforded me great satisfaction in my confinement, and allayed the vexation i was under from my two negroes being run away. in the mean time my distemper did not abate, which made me resolve to apply to one of the indian conjurers, who are both surgeons, divines, and sorcerers; and who told me he would cure me by sucking the place where i felt my pain. he made several scarifications upon the part with a sharp flint, each of them about as large as the prick of a lancet, and in such a form, that he could suck them all at once, which gave me extreme pain for the space of half an hour. the next day i found myself a little better, and walked about into my field, where they advised me to put myself in the hands of some of the natchez, who, they said, did surprising cures, of which they told me many instances, confirmed by creditable people. in such a situation a man will do any thing for a cure, especially as the remedy, which they told me of, was very simple: it was only a poultice, which they put upon the part affected, and in eight days time i was able to walk to the fort, finding myself perfectly cured, as i have felt no return of my pain since that { } time. this was, without doubt, a great satisfaction to a young man, who found himself otherwise in good health, but had been confined to the house for four months and a half, without being able to go out a moment; and gave me as much joy as i could well have, after the loss of a good negro, who died of a defluxion on the breast, which he catched by running away into the woods, where his youth and want of experience made him believe he might live without the toils of slavery; but being found by the tonicas, constant friends of the french, who live about twenty leagues from the nàtchez, they carried him to their village, where he and his wife were given to a frenchman, for whom they worked, and by that means got their livelihood; till m. de montplaisir sent them home to me. this m. de montplaisir, one of the most agreeable gentlemen in the colony, was sent by the company from clerac in gascony, to manage their plantation at the natchez, to make tobacco upon it, and to shew the people the way of cultivating and curing it; the company having learned, that this place produced excellent tobacco, and that the people of clerac were perfectly well acquainted with the culture and way of managing it. chapter vi. _the voyage of the author to_ biloxi. _description of that place. settlement of grants. the author discovers two coppermines. his return to the natchez._ <b>the</b> second year after my settling among the natchez, i went to new orleans, as i was desirous to sell my goods and commodities myself, instead of selling them to the travelling pedlars, who often require too great a profit for their pains. another reason that made me undertake this voyage, was to send my letters to france myself, which i was certainly informed, were generally intercepted. before my departure, i went to the commandant of the fort, and asked him whether he had any letters for the government. i was not on very good terms of friendship with this commandant of the natchez, who endeavoured to pay his court { } to the governor, at the expence of others. i knew he had letters for m. de biainville, although he told me he had none, which made me get a certificate from the commissary general of this refusal to my demand; and at the same time the commissary begged me to carry down a servant of the company, and gave me an order to pay for his maintenance. as i made no great haste, but stopt to see my friends, in my going down the river, the commandant had time to send his letters, and to write to the governor, that i refused to take them. as soon as i arrived at biloxi, this occasioned m. de biainville to tell me, with some coldness, that i refused to charge myself with his letters. upon this i shewed him the certificate of the commissary general; to which he could give no other answer, than by telling me, that at least i could not deny, that i had brought away by stealth a servant of the company. upon this i shewed him the other certificate of the commissary general, by which he desired the directors to reimburse me the charges of bringing down this servant, who was of no use to him above; which put the governor in a very bad humour. upon my arrival at new orleans i was informed, that there were several grantees arrived at new biloxi. i thought fit then to go thither, both to sell my goods, and to get sure conveyance for my letters to france. here i was invited to sup with m. d'artaguette, king's lieutenant, who usually invited all the grantees, as well as myself. i there found several of the grantees, who were all my friends; and among us we made out a sure conveyance for our letters to france, of which we afterwards made use. biloxi is situate opposite to ship-island, and four leagues from it. but i never could guess the reason, why the principal settlement was made at this place, nor why the capital should be built at it; as nothing could be more repugnant to good sense; vessels not being able to come within four leagues of it; but what was worse, nothing could be brought from them, but by changing the boats three different times, from a smaller size to another still smaller; after which they had to go upwards of an hundred paces with small carts through the water to unload the least boats. but what ought still to have { } been a greater discouragement against making a settlement at biloxi, was, that the land is the most barren of any to be found thereabouts; being nothing but a fine sand, as white and shining as snow, on which no kind of greens can be raised; besides, the being extremely incommoded with rats, which swarm there in the sand, and at that time ate even the very stocks of the guns, the famine being there so very great, that more than five hundred people died of hunger; bread being very dear, and flesh-meat still more rare. there was nothing in plenty but fish, with which this place abounds. this scarcity proceeded from the arrival of several grantees all at once; so as to have neither provisions, nor boats to transport them to the places of their destination, as the company had obliged themselves to do. the great plenty of oysters, found upon the coast, saved the lives of some of them, although obliged to wade almost up to their thighs for them, a gun-shot from the shore. if this food nourished several of them, it threw numbers into sickness; which was still more heightened by the long time they were obliged to be in the water. the grants were those of m. law, who was to have fifteen hundred men, consisting of germans, provençals, &c. to form the settlement. his land being marked out at the arkansas, consisted of four leagues square, and was erected into a duchy, with accoutrements for a company of dragoons, and merchandize for more than a million of livres. m. levans, who was a trustee of it, had his chaise to visit the different posts of the grant. but m. law soon after becoming bankrupt, the company seized on all the effects and merchandise; and but a few of those who engaged in the service of that grant, remained at the arkansas; they were afterwards all dispersed and set at liberty. the germans almost to a man settled eight leagues above, and to the west of the capital. this grant ruined near a thousand persons at l'orient before their embarkation, and above two hundred at biloxi; not to mention those who came out at the same time with me in . all this distress, of which i was a witness at biloxi, determined me to make an excursion a few leagues on the coast, in order to pass some days { } with a friend, who received me with pleasure. we mounted horse to visit the interior part of the country a few leagues from the sea. i found the fields pleasant enough, but less fertile than along the missisippi; as they have some resemblance of the neighbouring coast, which has scarce any other plants but pines, that run a great way, and some red and white cedars. when we came to the plain, i carefully searched every spot that i thought worth my attention. in consequence of the search i found two mines of copper, whose metal plainly appeared above ground. they stood about half a league asunder. we may justly conclude that they are very rich, as they thus disclose themselves on the surface of the earth. when i had made a sufficient excursion, and judged i could find nothing further to satisfy my curiosity, i returned to biloxi, where i found two boats of the company, just preparing to depart for new orleans, and a large pettyaugre, which belonged to f. charlevoix the jesuit, whose name is well known in the republic of letters: with him i returned to new orleans. some time after my return from new orleans to the natchez, towards the month of march , a phaenomenon happened, which frightened the whole province. every morning, for eight days running, a hollow noise, somewhat loud, was heard to reach from the sea to the illinois; which arose from the west. in the afternoon it was heard to descend from the east, and that with an incredible quickness; and though the noise seemed to bear on the water, yet without agitating it, or discovering any more wind on the river than before. this frightful noise was only the prelude of a most violent tempest. the hurricane, the most furious ever felt in the province, lasted three days. as it arose from the south-west and north-east, it reached all the settlements which were along the missisippi; and was felt for some leagues more or less strong, in proportion to the greater or less distance: but in the places, where the force or height of the hurricane passed, it overturned every thing in its way, which was an extent of a large quarter of a league broad; so that one would take it for { } an avenue made on purpose, the place where it passed being entirely laid flat, whilst every thing stood upright on each side. the largest trees were torn up by the roots, and their branches broken to pieces and laid flat to the earth, as were also the reeds of the woods. in the meadows, the grass itself, which was then but six inches high, and which is very fine, could not escape, but was trampled, faded, and laid quite flat to the earth. [illustration: indian in winter time] { } the height of the hurricane passed at a league from my habitation; and yet my hose, which was built on piles, would have been overturned, had i not speedily propped it with a timber, with the great end in the earth, and nailed to the house with an iron hook seven or eight inches long. several houses of our post were overturned. but it was happy for us in this colony, that the height of the hurricane passed not directly oer any post, but obliquely traversed the missisippi, over a country intirely uninhabited. as this hurricane came from the south, it so swelled the sea, that the missisippi flowed back against its current, so as to rise upwards of fifteen feet high. chapter vii. _first war with the_ natchez. _cause of the war._ in the same year, towards the end of summer, we had the first war with the natchez. the french had settled at the natchez, without any opposition from these people; so far from opposing them, they did them a great deal of service, and gave them very material assistance in procuring provisions; for those, who were sent by the west india comany with the first fleet, had been detained at new orleans. had it not been for the natives, the people must have perished by famine and distress: for, how excellent soever a new country it may be, it must be cleared, grubbed up, and sown, and then at least we are to wait the first harvest, or crop. but during all that time people must live, and the company was well apprized of this, as they had send, witht he eight hundred men they had transported to louisiana, provisions for three years. the grantees and planters, obliged _to treat_, or truck for provisions with the natchez, in consequence of that saw their funds wasted, and themselves incapable of forming so considerable a settlement, without this trucking, as necessary, as it was frequent. however, some benefit resulted from this; namely that the natchez, enticed by the facility of trucking for goods, before unknown to them, as fusils, gun-powder, lead, brandy, linen, cloths, and other like things, by means of an exchange of what they abounded with, came to be more and more attached { } to the french; and would have continued very useful friends, had not the little satisfaction which the commandant of fort rosalie had given them, for the misbehavior of one of his soldiers, alienated their minds. this fort covered the settlement of the natchez, and protected that of st. catharine, which was on the banks of the rivulet of the natchez; but botht he defence and protection it afforded were very inconsiderable; for this fort was only pallisadoed, open at six breaches, without a ditch, and with a very weak garrison. on the other hand, the houses of the inhabitants, though considerably numerous, were of themselves of no strength; and then the inhabitants, dispersed in the country, each amidst his field, far from affording mutual assistance, as they would had they been in a body, stood each of them, upon any accident, in need of the assistance of others. a young soldier of fort rosalie had given some credit to an old warrior of a village of the natchez; which was that of the white apple, each village having its peculiar name: the warrior, in return, was to give him some corn. towards the beginning of the winter , this soldier lodging near the fort, the old warrior came to see him; the soldier insisted on his corn; the native answered calmly, that the corn was not yet dry enough to shake out the grain; that besides, his wife had been ill, and that he would pay him as soon as possible. the young man, little satisfied with this answer, threatened to cudgel the old man: upon which, this last, who was in the soldier's hut, affronted at this threat, told him, he should turn out, and try who was the best man. on this challenge, the soldier, calling out murder, brings the guard to his assistance. the guard being come, the young fellow pressed them to fire upon the warrior, who was returning to his village at his usual pace; a soldier was imprudent enough to fire: the old man dropt down. the commandant was soon apprized of what happened, and came to the spot; where the witnesses, both french and natchez, informed him of the fact. both justice and prudence demanded to take an exemplary punishment of the soldier; but he got off with a reprimand. after this the natives made a litter, and carried off their warrior, who died the { } following night of his wounds, though the fusil was only charged with great shot. revenge is the predominant passion of the people in america: so that we ought not to be surprised, if the death of this old warrior raised his whole village against the french. the rest of the nation took no part at first in the quarrel. the first effect of the resentment of the natchez fell upon a frenchman named m. guenot, whom they surprised returning from the fort to st. catharine, and upon another inhabitant, whom they killed in his bed. soon after they attacked, all in a body, the settlement of st. catharine, and the other below fort rosalie. it was at this last i had fixed my abode: i therefore saw myself exposed, like many others, to pay with my goods, and perhaps my life, for the rashness of a soldier, and the too great indulgence of his captain. but as i was already acquainted with the character of the people we had to deal with, i despaired not to save both. i therefore barricadoed myself in my house, and having put myself in a posture of defence, when they came in the night, according to their custom, to surprise me, they durst not attack me. this first attempt, which i justly imagined was to be followed by another, if not by many such, made me resolve, as soon as day came, to retire under the fort, as all the inhabitants also did, and thither to carry all the provisions i had at my lodge. i could execute only half of my scheme. my slaves having begun to remove the best things, i was scarce arrived under the fort, but the commandant begged i might put myself at the head of the inhabitants, to go to succour st. catharine. he had already sent thither all his garrison, reserving only five men to guard the fort; but this succour was not sufficient to relieve the settlement, which the natives in great numbers vigorously straitned. i departed without delay: we heard the firing at a distance, but the noise ceased as soon as i was come, and the natives appeared to have retired: they had, doubtless, discovered me on my march, and the sight of a reinforcement which i had brought with me, deceived them. the officer who commanded the detachment of the garrison, and whom i relieved, returned { } to the fort with his men; and the command being thus devolved on me, i caused all the negroes to be assembled, and ordered them to cut down all the bushes; which covering the country, favoured the approach of the enemy, quite to the doors of the houses of that grant. this operation was performed without molestation, if you except a few shot, fired by the natives from the woods, where they lay concealed on the other side of the rivulet; for the plain round st. catharine being entirely cleared of every thing that could screen them, they durst not shew themselves any more. however, the commandant of fort rosalie sent to treat with the _stung serpent_; in order to prevail with him to appease that part of his nation, and procure a peace. as that great warrior was our friend, he effectually laboured therein, and hostilities ceased. after i had passed twenty-four hours in st. catharine, i was relieved by a new detachment from the inhabitants, whom, in my turn, i relieved next day. it was on this second guard, which i mounted, that the village we had been at war with sent me, by their deputies, the _calumet_ or _pipe of peace_. i at first had some thoughts of refusing it, knowing that this honour was due to the commandant of the fort; and it appeared to me a thing so much the more delicate to deprive him of it, as we were not upon very good terms with each other. however, the evident risk of giving occasion to protract the war, by refusing it, determined me to accept of it; after having, however, taken the advice of those about me; who all judged it proper to treat these people gently, to whom the commandant was become odious. i asked the deputies, what they would have? they answered, faultering, _peace_. "good, said i; but why bring you the calumet of peace to me? it is to the chief of the fort you are to carry it, if you wish to have a peace." "our orders" said they, "are to carry it first to you, if you choose to receive it by only smoking therein: after which we will carry it to the chief of the fort; but if you refuse receiving it, our orders are to return." upon this i told them, that i agreed to smoke in their pipe, on condition they would carry it to the chief of the fort. { } they then made me an harangue; to which i answered, that it were best to resume our former manner of living together, and that the french and the _red-men_ should entirely forget what had passed. to conclude, that they had nothing further to do, but to go and carry the pipe to the chief of the fort, and then go home and sleep in peace. this was the issue of the first war we had with the natchez, which lasted only three or four days. the commerce, or truck, was set again on the same footing it had been before; and those who had suffered any damage, now thought only how they might best repair it. some time after, the major general arrived from new orleans, being sent by the governor of louisiana to ratify the peace; which he did, and mutual sincerity was restored, and became as perfect as if there had never been any rupture between us. it had been much to be wished, that matters had remained on so good a footing. as we were placed in one of the best and finest countries of the world; were in strict connection with the natives, from whom we derived much knowledge of the nature of the productions of the country, and of the animals of all sorts, with which it abounds; and likewise reaped great advantage in our traffic for furs and provisions; and were aided by them in many laborious works, we wanted nothing but a profound peace, in order to form solid settlements, capable of making us lay aside all thoughts of europe: but providence had otherwise ordered. the winter which succeeded this war was so severe, that a colder was never remembered. the rain fell in icicles in such quantities as to astonish the oldest natchez, to whom this great cold appeared new and uncommon. towards the autumn of this year i saw a phaenomenon which struck the superstitious with great terror: it was in effect so extraordinary, that i never remember to have heard of any thing that either resembled, or even came up to it. i had just supped without doors, in order to enjoy the cool of the evening; my face was turned to the west, and i sat before my table to examine some planets which had already appeared. { } i perceived a glimmering light, which made me raise my eyes; and immediately i saw, at the elevation of about degrees above the horizon, a light proceeding from the south, of the breadth of three inches, which went off to the north, always spreading itself as it moved, and made itself heard by a whizzing light like that of the largest sky-rocket. i judged by the eye that this light could not be above our atmosphere, and the whizzing noise which i heard confirmed me in that notion. { } when it came in like manner to be about degrees to the north above the horizon, it stopped short, and ceased enlargeing itself: in that place it appeared to be twenty inches broad; so that in its course, which had been very rapid, it formed the figure of a trumpet-marine, and left in its passage very lively sparks, shining brighter than those which fly from under a smith's hammer; but they were extinguished almost as fast as they were emitted. [illustration: _indian woman and daughter_ (on p. )] at the north elevation i just mentioned, there issued out with a great noise from the middle of the large end, a ball quite round, and all on fire: this ball was about six inches in diameter; it fell below the horizon to the north, and emitted, about twenty minutes after, a hollow, but very loud noise for the space of a minute, which appeared to come from a great distance. the light began to be weakened to the south, after emitting the ball, and at length disappeared, before the noise of the ball was heard. chapter viii. _the governor surprized the_ natchez _with seven hundred men. astonishing cures performed by the natives. the author sends upwards of three hundred simples to the company._ m. de biainville, at the beginning of the winter which followed this phaenomenonived very privately at our quarter of the natchez, his march having been communicated to none but the commandant of this post, who had orders to seize all the natchez that should come to the fort that day, to prevent the news of his arrival being carried to their country men. he brought with him, in regular troops, inhabitants and natives, who were our allies, to the number of seven hundred men. orders were given that all our settlers at the natchez should repair before his door at midnight at the latest: i went thither and mixed with the crowd, without making myself known. we arrived two hours before day at the settlement of st. catharine. the commandant having at length found me out, { } ordered me, in the king's name, to put myself at the head of the settlers among the natchez, and to take the command upon me; and these he ordered to pay the same obedience to me as to himself. we advanced with great silence towards the village of the apple. it may be easily seen that all this precaution was taken in order to surprise our enemies, who ought so much the less to expect this act of hostility, as they had fairly made peace with us, and as m. paillou, major general, had come and ratified this peace in behalf of the governor. we marched to the enemy and invested the first hut of the natchez, which we found separate; the drums, in concert with the fifes, beat the charge; we fired upon the hut, in which were only three men and two women. from thence we afterwards moved on to the village, that is, several huts that stood together in a row. we halted at three of them that lay near each other, in which between twelve and fifteen natchez had entrenched themselves. by our manner of proceeding one would have thought that we came only to view the huts. full of indignation that none exerted himself to fall upon them, i took upon me with my men to go round and take the enemy in rear. they took to their heels, and i pursued; but we had need of the swiftness of deer to be able to come up with them. i came so near, however, that they threw away their cloaths, to run with the greater speed. i rejoined our people, and expected a reprimand for having forced the enemy without orders; though i had my excuse ready. but here i was mistaken; for i met with nothing but encomiums. this war, of which i shall give no further detail, lasted only four days. m. de biainville demanded the head of an old mutinous chief of this village; and the natives, in order to obtain a peace, delivered him up. i happened to live at some distance from the village of the apple, and very seldom saw any of the people. such as lived nearer had more frequent visits from them; but after this war, and the peace which followed upon it, i never saw one of them. my neighbours who lived nearer to them saw but a few of them, even a long time after the conclusion of the war. the { } natives of the other villages came but very seldom among us; and indeed, if we could have done well without them, i could have wished to have been rid of them for ever. but we had neither a flesh nor a fish-market; therefore, without them, we must have taken up with what the poultry-yard and kitchen-garden furnished; which would have been extremely inconvenient. i one day stopped the stung serpent, who was passing without taking notice of any one. he was brother to the great sun, and chief of the warriors of the natchez. i accordingly called to him, and said, "we were formerly friends, are we no longer so?" he answered, _noco_; that is, i cannot tell. i replied, "you used to come to my house; at present you pass by. have you forgot the way; or is my house disagreeable to you? as for me, my heart is always the same, both towards you and all my friends. i am not capable of changing, why then are you changed?" he took some time to answer, and seemed to be embarrassed by what i said to him. he never went to the fort, but when sent for the commandant, who put me upon sounding him; in order to discover whether his people still retained any grudge. he at length broke silence, and told me, "he was ashamed to have been so long without seeing me; but i imagined," said he, "that you were displeased at our nation; because among all the french who were in the war, you were the only one that fell upon us." "you are in the wrong," said i, "to think so. m. de biainville being our war-chief, we are bound to obey him; in like manner as you, though a sun, are obliged to kill, or cause to be killed, whomsoever your brother, the great sun orders to be put to death. many other frenchmen, besides me, sought an opportunity to attack your countrymen, in obedience to the orders of m. de biainville; and several other frenchmen fell upon the nearest hut, one of whom was killed by the first shot which the natchez fired." he then said: "i did not approve, as you know, the war our people made upon the french to avenge the death of their { } relation, seeing i made them carry the _pipe of peace_ to the french. this you well know, as you first smoked in the pipe yourself. have the french two hearts, a good one today, and tomorrow a bad one? as for my brother and me, we have but one heart and one word. tell me then, if thou art, as thou sayest, my true friend, what thou thinketh of all this, and shut thy mouth to every thing else. we know not what to think of the french, who, after having begun the war, granted a peace, and offered it of themselves; and then at the time we were quiet, believing ourselves to be at peace, people come to kill us, without saying a word." "why," continued he, with an air of displeasure, "did the french come into our country? we did not go to seek them: they asked for land of us, because their country was too little for all the men that were in it. we told them they might take land where they pleased, there was enough for them and for us; that it was good the same sun should enlighten us both, and that we would walk as friends in the same path; and that we would give them of our provisions, assist them to build, and to labour in their fields. we have done so; is not this true? what occasion then had we for frenchmen? before they came, did we not live better than we do, seeing we deprive ourselves of a part of our corn, our game, and fish, to give a part to them? in what respect, then, had we occasion for them? was it for their guns? the bows and arrows which we used, were sufficient to make us live well. was it for their white, blue, and red blankets? we can do well enough with buffalo skins, which are warmer; our women wrought feather-blankets for the winter, and mulberry-mantles for the summer; which indeed were not so beautiful; but our women were more laborious and less vain than they are now. in fine, before the arrival of the french, we lived like men who can be satisfied with what they have; whereas at this day we are like slaves, who are not suffered to do as they please." to this unexpected discourse i know not what answer another would have made; but i frankly own, that if at my first address he seemed to be confused, i really was so in my turn. "my heart," said i to him, "better understands thy { } reasons than my ears, though they are full of them; and though i have a tongue to answer, my ears have not heard the reasons of m. de biainville, to tell them thee: but i know it was necessary to have the head he demanded, in order to a peace. when our chiefs command us, we never require the reasons: i can say nothing else to thee. but to shew you that i am always your real friend, i have here a beautiful _pipe of peace_, which i wanted to carry to my own country. i know you have ordered all your warriors to kill some white eagles, in order to make one, because you have occasion for it. i give it you without any other design than to shew you that i reckon nothing dear to me, when i want to do you a pleasure." i went to look for it, and i gave it him, telling him, that it was _without design;_ that is, according to them, from no interested motive. the natives put as great a value on a _pipe of peace_ as on a gun. mine was adorned with tinsel and silver wire: so that in their estimation my pipe was worth two guns. he appeared to be extremely well pleased with it; put it up hastily in his case, squeezed my hand with a smile, and called me his true friend. the winter was now drawing to a close, and in a little time the natives were to bring us bear-oil to truck. i hoped that by his means i should have of the best preferably to any other; which was the only compensation i expected for my pipe. but i was agreeably disappointed. he sent me a deer-skin of bear-oil, so very large that a stout man could hardly carry it, and the bearer told me, that he sent it to me as his true friend, _without design_. this deer-skin contained thirty-one pots of the measure of the country, or sixty-two pints paris measure. three days after, the great sun, his brother, sent me another deer-skin of the same oil, to the quantity of forty pints. the commonest sort sold this year at twenty sols a pint, and i was sure mine was not of the worst kind. for some days a _fistula lacrymalis_ had come into my left eye, which discharged an humour, when pressed, that portended danger. i shewed it to m. st. hilaire, an able surgeon, who { } had practised for about twelve years in the hôtel dieu at paris. he told me it was necessary to use the fire for it; and that, notwithstanding this operation, my sight would remain as good as ever, only my eye would be blood-shot: and that if i did not speedily set about the operation, the bone of the nose would become carious. these reasons gave me much uneasiness, as having both to fear and to suffer at the same time: however, after i had resolved to undergo the operation, the grand sun and his brother came one morning very early, with a man loaded with game, as a present for me. the great sun observed i had a swelling in my eye, and asked me what was the matter with it. i shewed it him, and told him, that in order to cure it, i must have fire put to it; but that i had some difficulty to comply, as i dreaded the consequences of such an operation. without replying, or in the least apprizing me, he ordered the man who brought the game to go in quest of his physician, and tell him, he waited for him at my house. the messenger and physician made such dispatch, that this last came in an hour after. the great sun ordered him to look at my eye, and endeavour to cure me: after examining it, the physician said, he would undertake to cure me with simples and common water. i consented to this with so much the greater pleasure and readiness, as by this treatment i ran no manner of risque. that very evening the physician came with his simples, all pounded together, and making but a single ball, which he put with the water in a deep bason, he made me bend my head into it, so as the eye affected stood dipt quite open in the water. i continued to do so for eight or ten days, morning and evening; after which, without any other operation, i was perfectly cured, and never after had any return of the disorder. it is easy from this relation to understand what dextrous physicians the natives of louisiana are. i have seen them perform surprising cures on frenchmen; on two especially, who had put themselves under the hands of a french surgeon { } settled at this post. both patients were about to undergo the grand cure; and after having been under the hands of the surgeon for some time, their heads swelled to such a degree, that one of them made his escape, with as much agility as a criminal would from the hands of justice, when a favourable opportunity offers. he applied to a natchez physician, who cured him in eight days: his comrade continuing still under the french surgeon, died under his hands three days after the escape of his companion, whom i saw three years after in a state of perfect health. in the war which i lately mentioned, the grand chief of the tonicas, our allies, was wounded with a ball, which went through his cheek, came out under the jaw, again entered his body at the neck, and pierced through to the shoulder-blade, lodging at last between the flesh and the skin: the wound had its direction in this manner; because when he received it, he happened to be in a stooping posture, as were all his men, in order to fire. the french surgeon, under whose care he was, and who dressed him with great precaution, was an able man, and spared no pains in order to effect a cure. but the physicians of this chief, who visited him every day, asked the frenchman what time the cure would take? he answered, six weeks at least: they returned no answer, but went directly and made a litter; spoke to their chief, and put him on it, carried him off, and treated him in their own manner, and in eight days affected a complete cure. these are facts well known in the colony. the physicians of the country have performed many other cures, which, if they were to be all related, would require a whole volume apart; but i have confined myself to the three above mentioned, in order to shew that disorders frequently accounted almost incurable, are, without any painful operation, and in a short time, cured by physicians, natives of louisiana. the west india company being informed that this province produces a great many simples, whose virtues, known by the natives, afforded so easy a cure to all sorts of distempers, ordered m. de la chaise, who was sent from france in quality of director general of this colony, to cause enquiry to be made { } into the simples proper for physick and for dying, by means of some frenchmen, who might perhaps be masters of the secrets of the natives. i was pointed out for this purpose to m. de la chaise, who was but just arrived, and who wrote to me, desiring my assistance in this enquiry; which i gave him with pleasure, and in which i exerted myself to my utmost, because i well knew the company continually aimed at what might be for the benefit of the colony. after i thought i had done in that respect, what might give satisfaction to the company, i transplanted in earth, put into cane baskets, above three hundred simples, with their numbers, and a memorial, which gave a detail of their virtues, and taught the manner of using them. i afterwards understood that they were planted in a botanic garden made for the purpose, by order of the company. chapter ix. _french settlements, or posts. the post at mobile. the mouths of the missisippi. the situation and description of_ new orleans. the settlement at mobile was the first seat of the colony in this province. it was the residence of the commandant general, the commissary general, the staff-officers, &c. as vessels could not enter the river mobile, and there was a small harbour at isle dauphine, a settlement was made suited to the harbour, with a guardhouse for its security: so that these two settlements may be said to have made but one; both on account of their proximity, and necessary connection with each other. the settlement of mobile, ten leagues, however, from its harbour, lies on the banks of the river of that name; and isle dauphine, over against the mouth of that river, is four leagues from the coast. though the settlement of mobile be the oldest, yet it is far from being the most considerable. only some inhabitants remained there, the greatest part of the first inhabitants having left it, in order to settle on the river missisippi, ever since new orleans became the capital of the colony. that old post is the { } ordinary residence of a king's lieutenant, a regulating commissary, and a treasurer. the fort, with four bastions, terraced and palisaded, has a garrison. this post is a check upon the nation of choctaws, and cuts off the communication of the english with them; it protects the neighbouring nations, and keeps them in our alliance; in fine, it supports our peltry trade, which is considerable with the choctaws and other nations. [footnote: fort lewis at mobile is built upon the river that bears the same name, which falls into the sea opposite to dauphine island. the fort is about or leagues distant from that island; and is built of brick, fortified with four bastions, in the manner of vauban, with half-moons, a covered way and glacis. there is a magazine in it, with barracks for the troops of the garrison, which is generally pretty numerous, and a flag for the commandant. i must own, i never could see for what reason this fort was built, or what could be the use of it. for although it is leagues from the capital, to go down the river, yet it is from thence that they must have every thing that is necessary for the support of the garrison: and the soil is so bad, being nothing but sand, that it produces nothing but pines and firs, with a little pulse, which grows there but very indifferently: so that there are here but very few people. the only advantage of this place is, that the air is mild and healthful, and that it affords a traffick with the spaniards who are near it. the winter is the most agreeable season, as it is mild, and affords plenty of game. but in summer the heats are excessive; and the inhabitants have nothing hardly to live upon but fish, which are pretty plentiful on the coast, and in the river. _dumont_, ii. .] the same reason which pointed out the necessity of this post, with respect to the choctaws, also shewed the necessity of building a fort at tombecbé, to check the english in their ambitious views on the side of the chicasaws. that fort was built only since the war with the chicasaws in . near the river mobile stands the small settlement of the pasca-ogoulas; which consists only of a few canadians, lovers of tranquillity, which they prefer to all the advantages they could reap from commerce. they content themselves with a frugal country life, and never go to new orleans but for necessaries. from that settlement quite to new orleans, by the way of lake st. louis, there is no post at present. formerly, and { } just before the building of the capital, there were the old and new biloxi: settlements, which have deserved an oblivion as lasting as their duration was short. to proceed with order and perspicuity, we will go up the missisippi from its mouth. fort balise is at the entrance of the missisippi, in ° degrees north latitude, and ° ' of longitude. this fort is built on an isle, at one of the mouths of the missisippi. tho' there are but seventeen feet water in the channel, i have seen vessels of five hundred ton enter into it. i know not why this entrance is left so neglected, as we are not in want of able engineers in france, in the hydraulic branch, a part of the mathematics to which i have most applyed myself. i know it is no easy matter so to deepen or hollow the channel of a bar, that it may never after need clearing, and that the expences run high: but my zeal for promoting the advantage of this colony having prompted me to make reflections on those passes, or entrances of the missisippi, and being perfectly well acquainted both with the country and the nature of the soil, i dare flatter myself, i may be able to accomplish it, to the great benefit of the province, and acquit myself therein with honour, at a small charge, and in a manner not to need repetition. [footnote: seven leagues above the mouth of the river we meet with two other passes, as large as the middle one by which we entered; one is called the otter pass, and the other the east pass; and they assure me, it is only by this last pass that ships now go up or down the river, they having entirely deserted the ancient middle pass. _dumont,_ i. . many other bays and rivers, not known to our authors, lying along the bay of mexico, to the westward of the missisippi, are described by mr. coxe, in his account of carolina, called by the french louisiana.] i say, fort balise is built upon an island; a circumstance, i imagine, sufficient to make it understood, that this fort is irregular; the figure and extent of this small island not admitting it to be otherwise. in going up the missisippi, we meet with nothing remarkable before we come to the detour aux anglois, the english reach: in that part the river takes a large compass; so that { } the same wind, which was before fair, proves contrary in this elbow, or reach. for this reason it was thought proper to build two forts at that place, one on each side of the river, to check any attempts of strangers. these forts are more than sufficient to oppose the passage of an hundred sail; as ships can go up the river, only one after another, and can neither cast anchor, nor come on shore to moor. it will, perhaps, be thought extraordinary that ships cannot anchor in this place. i imagine the reader will be of my opinion, when i tell him, the bottom is only a soft mud, or ooze, almost entirely covered with dead trees, and this for upwards of an hundred leagues. as to putting on shore, it is equally impossible and needless to attempt it; because the place where these forts stand, is but a neck of land between the river and the marshes: now it is impossible for a shallop, or canoe, to come near to moor a vessel, in sight of a fort well guarded, or for an enemy to throw up a trench in a neck of land so soft. besides, the situation of the two forts is such, that they may in a short time receive succours, both from the inhabitants, who are on the interior edge of the crescent, formed by the river, and from new orleans, which is very near thereto. the distance from this place to the capital is reckoned six leagues by water, and the course nearly circular; the winding, or reach, having the figure of a c almost close. both sides of the river are lined with houses, which afford a beautiful prospect to the eye; however, as this voyage is tedious by water, it is often performed on horseback by land. the great difficulties attending the going up the river under sail, particularly at the english reach, for the reasons mentioned, put me upon devising a very simple and cheap machine, to make vessels go up with ease quite to new-orleans. ships are sometimes a month in the passage from balise to the capital; whereas by my method they would not be eight days, even with a contrary wind; and thus ships would go four times quicker than by towing, or turning it. this machine might be deposited at balise, and delivered to the vessel, in order to go up the current, and be returned again on its setting sail. it is besides proper to observe, that this machine would be no detriment { } to the forts, as they would always have it in their power to stop the vessels of enemies, who might happen to use it. new orleans, the capital of the colony, is situated to the east, on the banks of the missisippi, in ° of north latitude. at my first arrival in louisiana, it existed only in name; for on my landing i understood m. de biainville, commandant general, was only gone to mark out the spot; whence he returned three days after our arrival at isle dauphine. he pitched upon this spot in preference to many others, more agreeable and commodious; but for that time this was a place proper enough: besides, it is not every man that can see so far as some others. as the principal settlement was then at mobile, it was proper to have the capital fixed at a place from which there could be an easy communication with this post: and thus a better choice could not have been made, as the town being on the banks of the missisippi, vessels, tho' of a thousand ton, may lay their sides close to the shore even at low water; or at most, need only lay a small bridge, with two of their yards, in order to load or unload, to roll barrels and bales, &c. without fatiguing the ship's crew. this town is only a league from st. john's creek, where passengers take water for mobile, in going to which they pass lake st. louis, and from thence all along the coast; a communication which was necessary at that time. i should imagine, that if a town was at this day to be built in this province, a rising ground would be pitched upon, to avoid inundations; besides, the bottom should be sufficiently firm, for bearing grand stone edifices. such as have been a good way in the country, without seeing stone, or the least pebble, in upwards of a hundred leagues extent, will doubtless say, such a proposition is impossible, as they never observed stone proper for building in the parts they travelled over. i might answer, and tell them, they have eyes, and see not. i narrowly considered the nature of this country, and found quarries in it; and if there were any in the colony i ought to find them, as my condition and profession of architect should have procured me the knowledge of { } them. after giving the situation of the capital, it is proper i describe the order in which it is built. [illustration: _plan of new orleans, _ (on p. )] the place of arms is in the middle of that part of the town which faces the river; in the middle of the ground of the place of arms stands the parish church, called st. louis, where the capuchins officiate, whose house is to the left of the church. to the right stand the prison, or jail, and the guard-house: both sides of the place of arms are taken up by two bodies or rows of barracks. this place stands all open to the river. all the streets are laid out both in length and breadth by the line, and intersect and cross each other at right angles. the streets divide the town into sixty-six isles; eleven along the river lengthwise, or in front, and six in depth: each of those isles is fifty square toises, and each again divided into twelve emplacements, or compartments, for lodging as many families. the intendant's house stands behind the barracks on the left; and the magazine, or warehouse-general behind the barracks on the right, on viewing the town from the river side. the governor's house stands in the middle of that part of the town, from which we go from the place of arms to the habitation of the jesuits, which is near the town. the house of the ursulin nuns is quite at the end of the town, to the right; as is also the hospital of the sick, of which the nuns have the inspection. what i have just described faces the river. on the banks of the river runs a causey, or mole, as well on the side of the town as on the opposite side, from the english reach quite to the town, and about ten leagues beyond it; which makes about fifteen or sixteen leagues on each side the river; and which may be travelled in a coach or on horseback, on a bottom as smooth as a table. the greatest part of the houses is of brick; the rest are of timber and brick. the length of the causeys, i just mentioned, is sufficient to shew, that on these two sides of the missisippi there are many habitations standing close together; each making a causey to secure his ground from inundations, which fail not to come every year with the spring: and at that time, if any ships { } happen to be in the harbour of new orleans, they speedily set sail; because the prodigious quantity of dead wood, or trees torn up by the roots, which the river brings down, would lodge before the ship, and break the stoutest cables. at the end of st. john's creek, on the banks of the lake st. louis, there is a redoubt, and a guard to defend it. from this creek to the town, a part of its banks is inhabited by planters; in like manner as are the long banks of another creek: the habitations of this last go under the name of gentilly. after these habitations, which are upon the missisippi quite beyond the cannes brulées, burnt canes, we meet none till we come to the oumas, a petty nation so called. this settlement is inconsiderable, tho' one of the oldest next to the capital. it lies on the east of the missisippi. the baton rogue is also on the east side of the missisippi, and distant twenty-six leagues from new orleans: it was formerly the grant of m. artaguette d'iron: it is there we see the famouse cypress-tree of which a ship-carpenter offered to make two pettyaugres, one of sixteen, the other of fourteen tons. some one of the first adventurers, who landed in this quarter, happened to say, that tree would make a fine walking-stick, and as cypress is a red wood, it was afterwards called le baton rouge. its height could never be measured, it rises so out of sight. two leagues higher up than le baton rouge, was the grant of m. paris du vernai. this settlement is called bayou-ogoulas, from a nation of that name, which formerly dwelt here. it is on the west side of the missisippi, and twenty-eight leagues from new orleans. at a league on this side of pointe coupée, are les petits ecores, (little cliffs) where was the grant of the marquis de mezieres. at this grant were a director and under-director; but the surgeon found out the secret of remaining sole master. the place is very beautiful, especially behind les petits ecores, where we go up by a gentle ascent. near these cliffs, a rivulet falls into the missisippi, into which a spring discharges its waters, which so attract the buffalos, that they are very often { } found on its banks. 'tis a pity this ground was deserted; there was enough of it to make a very considerable grant: a good water-mill might be guilt on the brook i just mentioned. at forty leagues from new orleans lies a la pointe coupée, so called, because the missisippi made there an elbow or winding, and formed the figure of a circle, open only about an hundred and odd toises, thro' which it made itself a shorter way, and where all its water runs at present. this was not the work of nature alone: two travellers, coming down the missisippi, were forced to stop short at this place, because they observed at a distance the surff, or waves, to be very high, the wind beating against the current, and the river being out, so that they durst not venture to proceed. just by them passed a rivulet, caused by the inundation, which might be a foot deep, by four or five feet broad, more or less. one of the travellers, seeing himself without any thing to do, took his fusil and followed the course of this rivulet, in hopes of killing some game. he had not gone an hundred toises, before he was put into a very great surprize, on perceiving a great opening, as when one is just getting out of a thick forest. he continues to advance, sees a large extent of water, which he takes for a lake; but turning on his left, he espies les petits ecores, just mentioned, and by experience he knew, he must go ten leagues to get thither: upon this he knew, these were the waters of the river. he runs to acquaint his companion: this last wants to be sure of it: certain as they are both of it, they resolve, that it was necessary to cut away the roots, which stood in the passage, and to level the more elevated places. they attempted at length to pass their pettyaugre through, by pushing it before them. they succeeded beyond their expectation; the water which came on, aided them as much by its weight as by its depth, which was increased by the obstacle it met in its way: and they saw themselves in a short time in the missisippi, ten leagues lower down than they were an hour before; or than they would have been, if they had followed the bed of the river, as they were formerly constrained to do. this little labour of our travellers moved the earth; the roots being cut away in part, proved no longer an obstacle to { } the course of the water; the slope or descent in this small passage was equal to that in the river for the ten leagues of the compass it took; in fine, nature, though feebly aided, performed the rest. the first time i went up the river, its entire body of water passed through this part; and though the channel was only made six years before, the old bed was almost filled with the ooze, which the river had there deposited; and i have seen trees growing there of an astonishing size, that one might wonder how they should come to be so large in so short a time. in this spot, which is called la pointe coupée, the cut-point, was the grant of m. de meuse, at present one of the most considerable posts of the colony, with a fort, a garrison, and an officer to command there. the river is on each side lined with inhabitants, who make a great deal of tobacco. there an inspector resides, who examines and receives it, in order to prevent the merchants being defrauded. the inhabitants of the west side have high lands behind them, which form a very fine country, as i have observed above. twenty leagues above this cut-point, and sixty leagues from new orleans, we meet with the red river. in an island formed by that river, stands a french post, with a fort, a garrison, its commandant and officers. the first inhabitants who settled there, were some soldiers of that post, discharged after their time of serving was expired, who set themselves to make tobacco in the island. but the fine sand, carried by the wind upon the leaves of the tobacco, made it of a bad quality, which obliged them to abandon the island and settle on the continent, where they found a good soil, on which they made better tobacco. this post is called the nachitoches, from a nation of that name, settled in the neighbourhood. at this post m. de st. denis commanded. several inhabitants of louisiana, allured thither by the hopes of making soon great fortunes, because distant only seven leagues from the spaniards, imagined the abundant treasures of new mexico would pour in upon them. but in this they happened to be mistaken; for the spanish post, called the adaïes less money in it than the poorest village in europe: the spaniards being ill clad, ill fed, and always ready to buy { } goods of the french on credit: which may be said in general of all the spaniards of new mexico, amidst all their mines of gold and silver. this we are well informed of by our merchants, who have dealt with the spaniards of this post, and found their habitations and way of living to be very mean, and more so than those of the french. from the confluence of this red river, in going up the missisippi, as we have hitherto done, we find, about thirty leagues higher up, the post of the natchez. let not the reader be displeased at my saying often, _nearly_, or _about so many leagues_: we can ascertain nothing justly as to the distances in a country where we travel only by water. those who go up the missisippi, having more trouble, and taking more time than those who go down, reckon the route more or less long, according to the time in which they make their voyage; besides, when the water is high, it covers passes, which often shorten the way a great deal. the natchez are situate in about ° odd minutes of north latitude, and ° of longitude. the fort at this post stands two hundred feet perpendicular above low-water mark. from this fort the point of view extends west of the missisippi quite to the horizon, that is, on the side opposite to that where the fort stands, though the west side be covered with woods, because the foot of the fort stands much higher than the trees. on the same side with the fort, the country holds at a pretty equal height, and declines only by a gentle and almost imperceptible slope, insensibly losing itself from one eminence to another. the nation which gave name to this post, inhabited this very place at a league from the landing-place on the missisippi, and dwelt on the banks of a rivulet, which has only a course of four or five leagues to that river. all travellers who passed and stopped here, went to pay a visit to the natives, the natchez. the distance of the league they went to them is through so fine and good a country, the natives themselves were so obliging and familiar, and the women so amiable, that all travellers failed not to make the greatest encomiums both on the country, and on the native inhabitants. { } the just commendations bestowed upon them drew thither inhabitants in such numbers, as to determine the company to give orders for building a fort there, as well to support the french already settled, and those who should afterwards come thither, as to be a check on that nation. the garrison consisted only of between thirty and forty men, a captain, a lieutenant, under lieutenant, and two serjeants. the company had there a warehouse for the supply of the inhabitants, who were daily increasing in spite of all the efforts of one of the principal superiors, who put all imaginable obstacles in the way: and notwithstanding the progress this settlement made, and the encomiums bestowed upon it, and which it deserved, god in his providence gave it up to the rage of its enemies, in order to take vengeance of the sins committed there; for without mentioning those who escaped the general massacre, there perished of them upwards of five hundred. forty leagues higher up than the natchez, is the river yasou. the grant of m. le blanc, minister, or secretary at war, was settled there, four leagues from the missisippi, as you go up this little river. [footnote: the village of the indians (yasous) is a league from this settlement; and on one side of it there is a hill, on which they pretend that the english formerly had a fort; accordingly there are still some traces of it to be seen. _dumont_, ii. .] there a fort stands, with a company of men, commanded by a captain, a lieutenant, under-lieutenant, and two serjeants. this company, together with the servants, were in the pay of this minister. this post was very advantageously situated, as well for the goodness of the air as the quality of the soil, like to that of the natchez, as for the landing-place, which was very commodious, and for the commerce with the natives, if our people but knew how to gain and preserve their friendship. but the neighbourhood of the chicasaws, ever fast friends of the english, and ever instigated by them to give us uneasiness, almost cut off any hopes of succeeding. this post was on these accounts threatened with utter ruin, sooner or later; as actually happened in , by means of those wretched chicasaws; { } who came in the night and murdered the people in the settlements that were made by two serjeants out of the fort. but a boy who was scalped by them was cured, and escaped with life. sixty miles higher up than the yasouz, and at the distance of two hundred leagues from new orleans, dwell the arkansas, to the west of the missisippi. at the entrance of the river which goes by the name of that nation, there is a small fort, which defends that post, which is the second of the colony in point of time. it is a great pity so good and fine a country is distant from the sea upwards of two hundred leagues. i cannot omit mentioning, that wheat thrives extremely well here, without our being obliged ever to manure the land; and i am so prepossessed in its favour, that i persuade myself the beauty of the climate has a great influence on the character of the inhabitants, who are at the same time very gentle and very brave. they have ever had an inviolable friendship for the french, uninfluenced thereto either by fear or views of interest; and live with the french near them as brethren rather than as neighbours. in going from the arkansas to the illinois, we meet with the river st. francis, thirty leagues more to the north, and on the west side of the missisippi. there a small fort has been built since my return to france. to the east of the missisippi, but more to the north, we also meet, at about thirty leagues, the river margot, near the steep banks of prud'homme: there a fort was also built, called assumption, for undertaking an expedition against the chicasaws, who are nearly in the same latitude. these two forts, after that expedition, were entirely demolished by the french, because they were thought to be no longer necessary. it is, however, probable enough, that this fort assumption would have been a check upon the chicasaws, who are always roving in those parts. besides, the steep banks of prud'homme contain iron and pit-coal. on the other hand, the country is very beautiful, and of an excellent quality, abounding with plains and meadows, which favour the excursions of the chicasaws, and which they will ever continue to make upon us, till we have the address to divert them from their commerce with the english. { } we have no other french settlements to mention in louisiana, but that of the illinois; in which part of the colony we had the first fort. at present the french settlement here is on the banks of the missisippi, near one of the villages of the illinois. [footnote: they have, or had formerly, other settlements hereabouts, at kaskaskies, fort chartres, tamaroas, and on the river marameg, on the west side of the missisippi, where they found those mines that gave rise to the missisippi scheme in . in , when john howard, sallee and others, were sent from virginia to view those countries, they were made prisoners by the french; who came from a settlement they had on an island in the missisippi, a little above the ohio, where they made salt, lead, &c. and went from thence to new orleans, in a fleet of boats and canoes, guarded by a large armed schooner. _report of the government of virginia_.] that post is commanded by one of the principal officers; and m. de bois-briant, who was lieutenant of the king, has commanded at it. many french inhabitants both from canada and europe live there at this day; but the canadians make three-fourths at least. the jesuits have the cure there, with a fine habitation and a mill; in digging the foundation of which last, a quarry of orbicular flat stones was found, about two inches in diameter, of the shape of a buffoon's cap, with six sides, whose groove was set with small buttons of the size of the head of a minikin or small pin. some of these stones were bigger, some smaller; between the stones which could not be joined, there was no earth found. the canadians, who are numerous in louisiana, are most of them at the illinois. this climate, doubtless, agrees better with them, because nearer canada than any other settlement of the colony. besides, in coming from canada, they always pass through this settlement; which makes them choose to continue here. they bring their wives with them, or marry the french or india women. the ladies even venture to make this long and painful voyage from canada, in order to end their days in a country which the canadians look upon as a terrestrial paradise [footnote: it is this that has made the french undergo so many long and perilous voyages in north-america, upwards of two thousand miles, against currents, cataracts, and boisterous winds on the lakes, in order to get to this settlement of the illinois, which is nigh to the forks of the missisippi, the most important place in all the inland parts of north-america, to which the french will sooner or later remove from canada; and there erect another montreal, that will be much more dangerous and prejudicial to us, than ever the other in canada was. they will here be in the midst of all their old friends and allies, and much more convenient to carry on a trade with them, to spirit them up against the english, &c. than ever they were at montreal. to this settlement, where they likewise are not without good hopes of finding mines, the french will for ever be removing, as long as any of them are left in canada.] { } chapter x. _the voyages of the_ french _to the_ missouris, canzas, _and_ padoucas. _the settlements they in vain attempted to make in those countries; with a description of an extraordinary phaenomenon._ the padoucas, who lie west by northwest of the missouris, happened at that time to be at war with the neighbouring nations, the canzas, othouez, aiaouez, osages, missouris, and panimahas, all in amity with the french. to conciliate a peace between all these nations and the padoucas, m. de bourgmont sent to engage them, as being our allies, to accompany him on a journey to the padoucas, in order to bring about a general pacification, and by that means to facilitate the traffick or truck between them and us, and conclude an alliance with the padoucas. for this purpose m. de bourgmont set out on the d of july, , from fort orleans, which lies near the missouris, a nation dwelling on the banks of the river of that name, in order to join that people, and then to proceed to the canzas, where the general rendezvous of the several nations was appointed. m. de bourgmont was accompanied by an hundred missouris, commanded by their grand chief, and eight other chiefs of war, and by sixty-four osages, commanded by four chiefs of war, besides a few frenchmen. on the sixth he joined the grand chief, six other chiefs of war, and several warriors of the canzas, who presented him the pipe of peace, { } and performed the honours customary on such occasions, to the missouris and osages. on the th they passed through extensive meadows and woods, and arrived on the banks of the river missouri, over against the village of the canzas. on the th the french crossed the missouri in a pettyaugre, the indians on floats of cane, and the horses were swam over. they landed within a gun-shot of the canzas, who flocked to receive them with the pipe; their grand chief, in the name of the nation, assuring m. de bourgmont that all their warriors would accompany him in his journey to the padoucas, with protestations of friendship and fidelity, confirmed by smoking the pipe. the same assurances were made him by the other chiefs, who entertained him in their huts, and [footnote: it is thus they express their joy and caresses, at the sight of a person they respect.] rubbed him over and his companions. on the th m. de bourgmont dispatched five missouris to acquaint the othouez with his arrival at the canzas. they returned on the th, and brought word that the othouez promised to hunt for him and his warriors, and to cause provisions to be dried for the journey; that their chief would set out directly, in order to wait on m. de bourgmont, and carry him the word of the whole nation. the canzas continued to regale the french; brought them also great quantities of grapes, of which the french made a good wine. on the th of july, at six in the morning, this little army set out, consisting of three hundred warriors, including the chiefs of the canzas, three hundred women, about five hundred young people, and at least three hundred dogs. the women carried considerable loads, to the astonishment of the french, unaccustomed to such a sight. the young women also were well loaded for their years; and the dogs were made to trail a part of the baggage, and that in the following manner: the back of the dog was covered with a skin, with its pile on, then the dog was girthed round, and his breast-leather put on; and { } taking two poles of the thickness of one's arm, and twelve feet long, they fastened their two ends half a foot asunder, laying on the dog's saddle the thong that fastened the two poles; and to the poles they also fastened, behind the dog, a ring or hoop, lengthwise, on which they laid the load. on the th and th the army crossed several brooks and small rivers, passed through several meadows and thickets, meeting every where on their way a great deal of game. on the th m. de bourgmont, finding himself very ill, was obliged to have a litter made, in order to be carried back to fort orleans till he should recover. before his departure he gave orders about two padouca slaves whom he had ransomed, and was to send before him to that nation, in order to ingratiate himself by this act of generosity. these he caused to be sent by one gaillard, who was to tell their nation, that m. de bourgmont, being fallen ill on his intended journey to their country, was obliged to return home; but that as soon as he got well again, he would resume his journey to their country, in order to procure a general peace between them and the other nations. on the evening of the same day arrived at the camp the grand chief of the othouez: who acquainted m. de bourgmont, that a great part of his warriors waited for him on the road to the padoucas, and that he came to receive his orders; but was sorry to find him ill. at length, on the th of august, m. de bourgmont set out from the canzas in a pettyaugre, and arrived the th at fort orleans. on the th of september, m. de bourgmont, who was still at fort orleans, was informed of the arrival of the two padouca slaves on the th of august at their own nation; and that meeting on the way a body of padouca hunters, a day's journey from their village, the padouca slaves made the signal of their nation, by throwing their mantles thrice over their heads: that they spoke much in commendation of the generosity of m. de bourgmont, who had ransomed them: told all he had done in order to a general pacification: in fine, extolled the french to such a degree, that their discourse, held in presence { } of the grand chief and of the whole nation, diffused an universal joy that gaillard told them, the flag they saw was the symbol of peace, and the word of the sovereign of the french: that in a little time the several nations would come to be like brethren, and have but one heart. the grand chief of the padoucas was so well assured that the war was now at an end, that he dispatched twenty padoucas with gaillard to the canzas, by whom they were extremely well received. the padoucas, on their return home, related their good reception among the canzas; and as a plain and real proof of the pacification meditated by the french, brought with them fifty of the canzas and three of their women; who, in their turn, were received by the padoucas with all possible marks of friendship. though m. de bourgmont was but just recovering of his illness; he, however, prepared for his departure, and on the th of september actually set out from fort orleans by water, and arrived at the canzas on the th. gaillard arrived on the nd of october at the camp of the canzas, with three chiefs of war, and three warriors of the padoucas, who were received by m. de bourgmont with flag displayed, and other testimonies of civility, and had presents made them of several goods, proper for their use. on the th of october arrived at the canzas the grand chief, and seven other chiefs of war of the othouez; and next day, very early, six chiefs of war of the aiaouez. m. de bourgmant assembled all the chiefs present, and setting them round a large fire made before his tent, rose up, and addressing himself to them, said, he was come to declare to them, in the name of his sovereign, and of the grand french chief in the country, [footnote: the governor of louisiana.] that it was the will of his sovereign, they should all live in peace for the future, like brethren and friends, if they expected to enjoy his love and protection: and since, says he, you are here all assembled this day, it is good you conclude a peace, and all smoke in the same pipe. { } the chiefs of these different nations rose up to a man, and said with one consent, they were well satisfied to comply with his request; and instantly gave each other their pipes of peace. after an entertainment prepared for them, the padoucas sung the songs, and danced the dances of peace; a kind of pantomimes, representing the innocent pleasures of peace. on the th of october, m. de bourgmont caused three lots of goods to be made out; one for the othouez, one for the aiaouez, and one for the panimahas, which last arrived in the mean time; and made them all smoke in the same pipe of peace. on the th m. de bourgmont set out from the canzas with all the baggage, and the flag displayed, at the head of the french and such indians as he had pitched on to accompany him, in all forty persons. the goods intended for presents were loaded on horses. as they set out late, they travelled but five leagues, in which they crossed a small river and two brooks, in a fine country, with little wood. the same day gaillard, quenel, and two padoucas were dispatched to acquaint their nation with the march of the french. that day they travelled ten leagues, crossed one river and two brooks. the th they made eight leagues, crossed two small rivers and three brooks. to their right and left they had several small hills, on which one could observe pieces of rock even with the ground. along the rivers there is found a slate, and in the meadows, a reddish marble, standing out of the earth, one, two, and three feet; some pieces of it upwards of six feet in diameter. the th they passed over several brooks and a small river, and then the river of the canzas, which had only three feet water. further on, they found several brooks, issuing from the neighbouring little hills. the river of the canzas runs directly from west to east, and falls into the missouri; is very great in floods, because, according to the report of the padoucas, it comes a great way off. the woods, which border this river, afford a retreat to numbers of buffaloes and other game. on the left were seen great eminences, with hanging rocks. { } the th of october, the journey, as the preceding day, was extremely diversified by the variety of objects. they crossed eight brooks, beautiful meadows, covered with herds of elks and buffaloes. to the right the view was unbounded, but to the left small hills were seen at a distance, which from time to time presented the appearance of ancient castles. the th, on their march they saw the meadows covered almost entirely with buffaloes, elks and deer; so that one could scarce distinguish the different herds, so numerous and so intermixed they were. the same day they passed through a wood almost two leagues long, and a pretty rough ascent; a thing which seemed extraordinary, as till then they only met with little groves, the largest of which scarce contained an hundred trees, but straight as a cane; groves too small to afford a retreat to a quarter of the buffaloes and elks seen there. the th the march was retarded by ascents and descents; from which issued many springs of an extreme pure water, forming several brooks, whose waters uniting make little rivers that fall into the river of the canzas: and doubtless it is this multitude of brooks which traverse and water these meadows, extending a great way out of sight, that invite those numerous herds of buffaloes. the th they crossed several brooks and two little rivers. it is chiefly on the banks of the waters that we find those enchanting groves, adorned with grass underneath, and so clear of underwood, that we may there hunt down the stag with ease. the th they continued to pass over a similar landscape, the beauties of which were never cloying. besides the larger game, these groves afforded also a retreat to flocks of turkeys. the th they made very little way, because they wanted to get into the right road, from which they had strayed the two preceding days, which they at length recovered; and, at a small distance from their camp, saw an encampment of the padoucas, which appeared to have been quitted only about eight days before. this yielded them so much the more pleasure, as it shewed the nearness of that nation, which made them encamp, after having travelled only six leagues, in order { } to make signals from that place, by setting fire to the parts of the meadows which the general fire had spared. in a little time after the signal was answered in the same manner; and confirmed by the arrival of two frenchmen, who had orders given them to make the signals. on the th they met a little river of brackish water; on the banks of which they found another encampment of the padoucas, which appeared to have been abandoned but four days before: at half a league further on, a great smoke was seen to the west, at no great distance off, which was answered by setting fire to the parts of the meadows, untouched by the general fire. about half an hour after, the padoucas were observed coming at full gallop with the flag which gaillard had left them on his first journey to their country. m. de bourgmont instantly ordered the french under arms, and at the head of his people thrice saluted these strangers with his flag, which they also returned thrice, by raising their mantles as many times over their heads. after this first ceremony, m. de bourgmont made them all sit down and smoke in the pipe of peace. this action, being the seal of the peace, diffused a general joy, accompanied with loud acclamations. the padoucas, after mounting the french and the indians who accompanied them, on their horses, set out for their camp: and after a journey of three leagues, arrived at their encampment; but left a distance of a gun-shot between the two camps. the day after their arrival at the padoucas, m. de bourgmont caused the goods allotted for this nation to be unpacked, and the different species parcelled out, which he made them all presents of.[footnote: red and blue limburgs, shirts, fusils, sabres, gun-powder, ball, musket-flints, gunscrews, mattocks, hatchets, looking-glasses, flemish knives, wood cutters knives, clasp-knives, scissars, combs, bells, awls, needles, drinking glasses, brass-wire, boxes, rings, &c.] after which m. de bourgmont sent for the grand chief and other chiefs of the padoucas, who came to the camp to the number of two hundred: and placing himself between them and { } the goods thus parcelled and laid out to view, told them, he was sent by his sovereign to carry them the word of peace, this flag, and these goods, and to exhort them to live as brethren with their neighbours the panimahas, aiaouez, othouez, canzas, missouris, osages, and illinois, to traffick and truck freely together, and with the french. he at the same time gave the flag to the grand chief of the padoucas, who received it with demonstrations of respect, and told him, i accept this flag, which you present to me on the part of your sovereign: we rejoice at our having peace with all the nations you have mentioned; and promise in the name of our nation never to make war on any of your allies; but receive them, when they come among us, as our brethren; as we shall, in like manner, the french, and conduct them, when they want to go to the spaniards, who are but twelve days journey from our village, and who truck with us in horses, of which they have such numbers, they know not what to do with them; also in bad hatchets of a soft iron, and some knives, whose points they break off, lest we should use them one day against themselves. you may command all my warriors; i can furnish you with upwards of two thousand. in my own, and in the name of my whole nation, i entreat you to send some frenchmen to trade with us; we can supply them with horses, which we truck with the spaniards for buffalo-mantles, and with great quantities of furs. before i quit the padoucas, i shall give a summary of their manners; it may not, perhaps, be disagreeable to know in what respects they differ from other indian nations.[footnote: the author should likewise have informed us of the fate of those intended settlements of the french, which dumont tells us were destroyed, and all the french murdered by the indians, particularly among the missouris; which is confirmed below in book . ch. .] the padoucas, who live at a distance from the spaniards, cultivate no grain, and live only on hunting. but they are not to be considered as a wandering nation, tho' employed in hunting winter and summer; seeing they have large villages, consisting of a great number of cabins, which contain very numerous families: these are their permanent abodes; from which a { } hundred hunters set out at a time with their horses, their bows, and a good stock of arrows. they go thus two or three days journey from home, where they find herds of buffaloes, the least of which consists of a hundred head. they load their horses with their baggage, tents and children, conducted by a man on horseback: by this means the men, women, and young people travel unencumbered and light, without being fatigued by the journey. when come to the hunting-spot, they encamp near a brook, where there is always wood; the horses they tie by one of their fore-feet with a string to a stake or bush. next morning they each of them mount a horse, and proceed to the first herd, with the wind at their back, to the end the buffaloes may scent them, and take to flight, which they never fail to do, because they have a very quick scent. then the hunters pursue them close at an easy gallop, and in a crescent, or half ring, till they hang out the tongue through fatigue, and can do no more than just walk: the hunters then dismount, point a dart at the extremity of the shoulder, and kill each of them one cow, sometimes more: for, as i said above, they never kill the males. then they flay them, take out the entrails, and cut the carcasse in two; the head, feet, and entrails they leave to the wolves and other carnivorous animals: the skin they lay on the horse, and on that the flesh, which they carry home. two days after they go out again; and then they bring home the meat stript from the bones; the women and young people dress it in the indian fashion; while the men return for some days longer to hunt in the same manner. they carry home their dry provisions, and let their horses rest for three or four days: at the end of which, those who remained in the village, set out with the others to hunt in the like manner; which has made ignorant travellers affirm this people was a wandering nation. if they sow little or no maiz, they as little plant any citruis, never any tobacco; which last the spaniards bring them in rolls, along with the horses they truck with them for buffalo-mantles. the nation of the padoucas is very numerous, extends almost two hundred leagues, and they have villages quite close { } to the spaniards of new mexico. they are acquainted with silver, and made the french understand they worked at the mines. the inhabitants of the villages at a distance from the spaniards, have knives made of fire-stone, (_pierre de feu_,) of which they also make hatchets; the largest to fell middling and little trees with; the less, to flay and cut up the beasts they kill. these people are far from being savage, nor would it be a difficult matter to civilize them; a plain proof they have had long intercourse with the spaniards. the few days the french stayed among them, they were become very familiar, and would fain have m. de bourgmont leave some frenchmen among them; especially they of the village at which the peace was concluded with the other nations. this village consisted of an hundred and forty huts, containing about eight hundred warriors, fifteen hundred women, and at least two thousand children, some padoucas having four wives. when they are in want of horses, they train up great dogs to carry their baggage. the men for the most part wear breeches and stockings all of a piece, made of dressed skins, in the manner of the spaniards: the women also wear petticoats and bodices all of a piece, adorning their waists with fringes of dressed skins. they are almost without any european goods among them, and have but a faint knowledge of them. they knew nothing of fire-arms before the arrival of m. de bourgmont; were much frighted at them; and on hearing the report, quaked and bowed their heads. they generally go to war on horseback, and cover their horses with dressed leather, hanging down quite round, which secures them from darts. all we have hitherto remarked is peculiar to this people, besides the other usages they have in common with the nations of louisiana. on the nd of october, m. de bourginont set out from the padoucas, and travelled only five leagues that day: the d, and the three following days, he travelled in all forty leagues: the th, six leagues: the th, eight leagues: the th, six leagues; and the th, as many: the st, he travelled only four leagues, and that day arrived within half a league of the canzas. from the padoucas to the canzas, proceeding always { } east, we may now very safely reckon sixty-five leagues and a half. the river of the canzas is parallel to this route. on the st of november they all arrived on the banks of the missouri. m. de bourgmont embarked the d on a canoe of skins; and at length, on the th of november, arrived at fort orleans. i shall here subjoin the description of one of these canoes. they choose for the purpose branches of a white and supple wood, such as poplar; which are to form the ribs or curves, and are fastened on the outside with three poles, one at bottom and two on the sides, to form the keel; to these curves two other stouter poles are afterwards made fast, to form the gunnels; then they tighten these sides with cords, the length of which is in proportion to the intended breadth of the canoe: after which they tie fast the ends. when all the timbers are thus disposed, they sew on the skins, which they take care previously to soak a considerable time to render them manageable. from the account of this journey, extracted and abridged from m. de bourgmont's journal, we cannot fail to observe the care and attention necessary to be employed in such enterprizes; the prudence and policy requisite to manage the natives, and to behave with them in an affable manner. if we view these nations with an eye to commerce, what advantages might not be derived from them, as to furs? a commerce not only very lucrative, but capable of being carried on without any risque; especially if we would follow the plan i am to lay down under the article commerce. the relation of this journey shews, moreover, that louisiana maintains its good qualities throughout; and that the natives of north america derive their origin from the same country, since at bottom they all have the same manners and usages, as also the same manner of speaking and thinking. i, however, except the natchez, and the people they call their brethren, who have preserved festivals and ceremonies, which clearly shew they have a far nobler origin. besides, the richness of their language distinguishes them from all those other people that come from tartary; whose language, on the { } contrary, is very barren: but if they resemble the others in certain customs, they were constrained thereto from the ties of a common society with them, as in their wars, embassies, and in every thing that regards the common interests of these nations. before i put an end to this chapter, i shall relate an extraordinary phænomenon which appeared in louisiana. towards the end of may , the sun was then concealed for a whole day by large clouds, but very distinct one from another; they left but little void space between, to permit the view of the azure sky, and but in very few places: the whole day was very calm; in the evening especially these clouds were entirely joined; no sky was to be seen; but all the different configurations of the clouds were distinguishable: i observed they stood very high above the earth. the weather being so disposed, the sun was preparing to set. i saw him in the instant he touched the horizon, because there was a little clear space between that and the clouds. a little after, these clouds turned luminous, or reflected the light: the contour or outlines of most of them seemed to be bordered with gold, others but with a faint tincture thereof. it would be a very difficult matter to describe all the beauties which these different colourings presented to the view: but the whole together formed the finest prospect i ever beheld of the kind. i had my face turned to the east; and in the little time the sun formed this decoration, he proceeded to hide himself more and more; when sufficiently low, so that the shadow of the earth could appear on the convexity of the clouds, there was observed as if a veil, stretched north to south, had concealed or removed the light from off that part of the clouds which extended eastwards, and made them dark, without hindering their being perfectly well distinguished; so that all on the same line were partly luminous, partly dark. this very year i had a strong inclination to quit the post at the natchez, where i had continued for eight years. i had taken that resolution, notwithstanding my attachment to that { } settlement. i sold off my effects and went down to new orleans, which i found greatly altered by being entirely built. i intended to return to europe; but m. perier, the governor, pressed me so much, that i accepted the inspection of the plantation of the company; which, in a little time after, became the king's. chapter xi. _the war with the_ chitimachas. _the conspiracy of the negroes against the_ french. _their execution._ before my arrival in louisiana, we happened to be at war with the nation of the chitimachas; owing to one of that people, who being gone to dwell in a bye-place on the banks of the missisippi, had assassinated m. de st. come, a missionary of that colony; who, in going down the river, imagined he might in safety retire into this man's hut for a night. m. de biainville charged the whole nation with this assassination; and in order to save his own people, caused them to be attacked by several nations in alliance with the french. prowess is none of the greatest qualities of the indians, much less of the chitimachas. they were therefore worsted, and the loss of their bravest warriors constrained them to sue for peace. this the governor granted, on condition that they brought him the head of the assassin; which they accordingly did, and concluded a peace by the ceremony of the calumet, hereafter described. at the time the succours were expected from france, in order to destroy the natchez, the negroes formed a design to rid themselves of all the french at once, and to settle in their room, by making themselves masters of the capital, and of all the property of the french. it was discovered in the following manner. a female negroe receiving a violent blow from a french soldier for refusing to obey him, said in her passion, that the french should not long insult negroes. some frenchmen overhearing these threats, brought her before the governor, { } who sent her to prison. the judge criminal not being able to draw any thing out of her, i told the governor, who seemed to pay no great regard to her threats, that i was of opinion, that a man in liquor, and a woman in passion, generally speak truth. it is therefore highly probable, said i that there is some truth in what she said: and if so, there must be some conspiracy ready to break out, which cannot be formed without many negroes of the king's plantation being accomplices therein: and if there are any, i take upon me, said i, to find them out, and arrest them, if necessary, without any disorder or tumult. the governor and the whole court approved of my reasons: i went that very evening to the camp of the negroes, and from hut to hut, till i saw a light. in this hut i heard them talking together of their scheme. one of them was my first commander and my confidant, which surprised me greatly; his name was samba. i speedily retired for fear of being discovered; and in two days after, eight negroes, who were at the head of the conspiracy, were separately arrested, unknown to each other, and clapt in irons without the least tumult. the day after, they were put to the torture of burning matches, which, though several times repeated, could not bring them to make any confession. in the mean time i learnt that samba had in his own country been at the head of the revolt by which the french lost fort arguin; and when it was recovered again by m. perier de salvert, one of the principal articles of the peace was, that this negro should be condemned to slavery in america: that samba, on his passage, had laid a scheme to murder the crew, in order to become master of the ship; but that being discovered, he was put in irons, in which he continued till he landed in louisiana. i drew up a memorial of all this; which was read before samba by the judge criminal; who, threatening him again with torture, told him, he had ever been a seditious fellow: upon which samba directly owned all the circumstances of the conspiracy; and the rest being confronted with him, confessed { } also: after which, the eight negroes were condemned to be broke alive on the wheel, and the woman to be hanged before their eyes; which was accordingly done, and prevented the conspiracy from taking effect. chapter xii. _the war of the natchez. massacre of the_ french _in . extirpation of the_ natchez _in ._ in the beginning of the month of december , we heard at new orleans, with the most affecting grief, of the massacre of the french at the post of the natchez, occasioned by the imprudent conduct of the commandant. i shall trace that whole affair from its rise. the sieur de chopart had been commandant of the post of the natchez, from which he was removed on account of some acts of injustice. m. perier, commandant general, but lately arrived, suffered himself to be prepossessed in his favour, on his telling him, that he had commanded that post with applause: and thus he obtained the command from m. perier, who was unacquainted with his character. this new commandant, on taking possession of his post, projected the forming one of the most eminent settlements of the whole colony. for this purpose he examined all the grounds unoccupied by the french, but could not find any thing that came up to the grandeur of his views. nothing but the village of the white apple, a square league at least in extent, could give him satisfaction; where he immediately resolved to settle. this ground was distant from the fort about two leagues. conceited with the beauty of his project, the commandant sent for the sun of that village to come to the fort. the commandant, upon his arrival at the fort, told him, without further ceremony, that he must look out for another ground to build his village on, as he himself resolved, as soon as possible, to build on the village of the apple; that he must directly clear the huts, and retire somewhere else. the better to cover his design, he gave out, that it was necessary for the { } french to settle on the banks of the rivulet, where stood the great village, and the abode of the grand sun. the commandant, doubtless, supposed that he was speaking to a slave, whom we may command in a tone of absolute authority. but he knew not that the natives of louisiana are such enemies to a state of slavery, that they prefer death itself thereto; above all, the suns, accustomed to govern despotically, have still a greater aversion to it. the sun of the apple thought, that if he was talked to in a reasonable manner, he might listen to him: in this he had been right, had he to deal with a reasonable person. he therefore made answer, that his ancestors had lived in that village for as many years as there were hairs in his double cue; and therefore it was good they should continue there still. scarce had the interpreter explained this answer to the commandant, but he fell into a passion, and threatened the sun, if he did not quit his village in a few days, he might repent it. the sun replied, when the french came to ask us for lands to settle on, they told us there was land enough still unoccupied, which they might take; the same sun would enlighten them all, and all would walk in the same path. he wanted to proceed, farther in justification of what he alleged; but the commandant, who was in a passion, told him, he was resolved to be obeyed, without any further reply. the sun, without discovering any emotion or passion, withdrew; only saying, he was going to assemble the old men of his village, to hold a council on this affair. he actually assembled them: and in this council it was resolved to represent to the commandant, that the corn of all the people of their village was already shot a little out of the earth, and that all the hens were laying their eggs; that if they quitted their village at present, the chickens and corn would be lost both to the french and to themselves; as the french were not numerous enough to weed all the corn they had sown in their fields. this resolution taken, they sent to propose it to the commandant, who rejected it with a menace to chastise them if they did not obey in a very short time, which he prefixed. { } the sun reported this answer to his council, who debated the question, which was knotty. but the policy of the old men was, that they should propose to the commandant, to be allowed to stay in their village till harvest, and till they had time to dry their corn, and shake out the grain; on condition each hut of the village should pay him in so many moons (months,) which they agreed on, a basket of corn and a fowl; that this commandant appeared to be a man highly self-interested; and that this proposition would be a means of gaining time, till they should take proper measures to withdraw themselves from the tyrrany of the french. the sun returned to the commandant, and proposed to pay him the tribute i just mentioned, if he waited till the first colds, (winter;) and then the corn would be gathered in, and dry enough to shake out the grain; that thus they would not be exposed to lose their corn, and die of hunger: that the commandant himself would find his account in it; and that as soon as any corn was shaken out, they should bring him some. the avidity of the commandant made him accept the proposition with joy, and blinded him with regard to the consequences of his tyrrany. he, however, pretended that he agreed to the offer out of favour, to do a pleasure to a nation so beloved, and who had ever been good friends of the french. the sun appeared highly satisfied to have obtained a delay sufficient for taking the precautions necessary to the security of the nation; for he was by no means the dupe of the feigned benevolence of the commandant. the sun, upon his return, caused the council to be assembled; told the old men, that the french commandant had acquiesced in the offers which he had made him, and granted the term of time they demanded. he then laid before them, that it was necessary wisely to avail themselves of this time, in order to withdraw themselves from the proposed payment and tyrannic domination of the french, who grew dangerous in proportion as they multiplied. that the natchez ought to remember the war made upon them, in violation of the peace concluded between them: that this war having been made upon their village alone, they ought to consider of the surest means { } to take a just and bloody vengeance: that this enterprise being of the utmost consequence, it called for much secrecy, for solid measures, and for much policy: that thus it was proper to cajole the french chief more than ever: that this affair required some days to reflect on, before they came to a resolution therein, and before it should be proposed to the grand sun and his council: that at present they had only to retire; and in a few days he would assemble them again, that they might then determine the part they were to act. in five or six days he brought together the old men, who in that interval were consulting with each other: which was the reason that all the suffrages were unanimous in the same and only means of obtaining the end they proposed to themselves, which was the entire destruction of the french in this province. the sun, seeing them all assembled, said: "you have had time to reflect on the proposition i made you; and so i imagine you will soon set forth the best means how to get rid of your bad neighbours without hazard." the sun having done speaking, the oldest rose up, saluted his chief after his manner, and said to him: "we have a long time been sensible that the neighbourhood of the french is a greater prejudice than benefit to us: we, who are old men, see this; the young see it not. the wares of the french yield pleasure to the youth; but in effect, to what purpose is all this, but to debauch the young women, and taint the blood of the nation, and make them vain and idle? the young men are in the same case; and the married must work themselves to death to maintain their families, and please their children. before the french came amongst us, we were men, content with what we had, and that was sufficient: we walked with boldness every road, because we were then our own masters: but now we go groping, afraid of meeting thorns, we walk like slaves, which we shall soon be, since the french already treat us as if we were such. when they are sufficiently strong, they will no longer dissemble. for the least fault of our young people, they will tie them to a post, and whip them as they do their black slaves. have they not { } already done so to one of our young men; and is not death preferable to slavery?" here he paused a while, and after taking breath, proceeded thus: "what wait we for? shall we suffer the french to multiply, till we are no longer in a condition to oppose their efforts? what will the other nations say of us, who pass for the most ingenious of all the red-men? they will then say, we have less understanding than other people. why then wait we any longer? let us set ourselves at liberty, and show we are really men, who can be satisfied with what we have. from this very day let us begin to set about it, order our women to get provisions ready, without telling them the reason; go and carry the pipe of peace to all the nations of this country; make them sensible, that the french being stronger in our neighbourhood than elsewhere, make us, more than others, feel that they want to enslave us; and when become sufficiently strong, will in like manner treat all the nations of the country; that it is their interest to prevent so great a misfortune; and for this purpose they have only to join us, and cut off the french to a man, in one day and one hour; and the time to be that on which the term prefixed and obtained of the french commandant, to carry him the contribution agreed on, is expired; the hour to be the quarter of the day (nine in the morning;) and then several warriors to go and carry him the corn, as the beginning of their several payments, also carry with them their arms, as if going out to hunt: and that to every frenchman in a french house, there shall be two or three natchez; to ask to borrow arms and ammunition for a general hunting-match, on account of a great feast, and to promise to bring them meat; the report of the firing at the commandant's, to be the signal to fall at once upon, and kill the french: that then we shall be able to prevent those who may come from the old french village, (new orleans) by the great water (missisippi) ever to settle here." he added, that after apprising the other nations of the necessity of taking that violent step, a bundle of rods, in number equal to that they should reserve for themselves, should be { } left with each nation, expressive of the number of days that were to precede that on which they were to strike the blow at one and the same time. and to avoid mistakes, and to be exact in pulling out a rod every day, and breaking and throwing it away, it was necessary to give this in charge to a person of prudence. here he ceased and sat down: they all approved his counsel, and were to a man of his mind. the project was in like manner approved of by the sun of the apple: the business was to bring over the grand sun, with the other petty suns, to their opinion; because all the princes being agreed as to that point, the nation would all to a man implicitly obey. they however took the precaution to forbid apprising the women thereof, not excepting the female suns, (princesses) or giving them the least suspicion of their designs against the french. the sun of the apple was a man of good abilities; by which means he easily brought over the grand sun to favour his scheme, he being a young man of no experience in the world, and having no great correspondence with the french: he was the more easily gained over, as all the suns were agreed, that the sun of the apple was a man of solidity and penetration; who having repaired to the sovereign of nation, apprised him of the necessity of taking that step, as in time himself would be forced to quit his own village; also of the wisdom of the measures concerted, such as even ascertained success; and of the danger to which his youth was exposed with neighbours so enterprising; above all, with the present french commandant, of whom the inhabitants, and even the soldiers complained: that as long as the grand sun, his father, and his uncle, the stung serpent, lived, the commandant of the fort durst never undertake any thing to their detriment; because the grand chief of the french, who resides at their great village (new orleans,) had a love for them: but that he, the grand sun, being unknown to the french, and but a youth, would be despised. in fine, that the only means to preserve his authority, was to rid himself of the french, by the method, and with the precautions projected by the old men. { } the result of this conversation was, that on the day following, when the suns should in the morning come to salute the grand sun, he was to order them to repair to the sun of the apple, without taking notice of it to any one. this was accordingly executed, and the seducing abilities of the sun of the apple drew all the suns into his scheme. in consequences of which they formed a council of suns and aged nobles, who all approved of the design: and then these aged nobles were nominated heads of embassies to be sent to the several nations; had a guard of warriors to accompany them, and on pain of death, were discharged from mentioning it to any one whatever. this resolution taken, they set out severally at the same time, unknown to the french. notwithstanding the profound secrecy observed by the natchez, the council held by the suns and aged nobles gave the people uneasiness, unable as they were to penetrate into the matter. the female suns (princesses) had alone in this nation a right to demand why they were kept in the dark in this affair. the young grand female sun was a princess scarce eighteen: and none but the stung arm, a woman of great wit, and no less sensible of it, could be offended that nothing was disclosed to her. in effect, she testified her displeasure at this reserve with respect to herself, to her son; who replied, that the several deputations were made, in order to renew their good intelligence with the other nations, to whom they had not of a long time sent an embassy, and who might imagine themselves slighted by such a neglect. this feigned excuse seemed to appease the princess, but not quite to rid her of all her uneasiness; which, on the contrary, was heightened, when, on the return of the embassies, she saw the suns assemble in secret council together with the deputies, to learn what reception they met with; whereas ordinarily they assembled in public. at this the female sun was filled with rage, which would have openly broke out, had not her prudence set bounds to it. happy it was for the french, she imagined herself neglected: for i am persuaded the colony owes its preservation to the vexation of this woman rather than to any remains of affection { } she entertained for the french, as she was now far advanced in years, and her gallant dead some time. in order to get to the bottom of the secret, she prevailed on her son to accompany her on a visit to a relation, that lay sick at the village of the meal; and leading him the longest way about, and most retired, took occasion to reproach him with the secrecy he and the other suns observed with regard to her, insisting with him on her right as a mother, and her privilege as a princess: adding, that though all the world, and herself too, had told him he was the son of a frenchman, yet her own blood was much dearer to her than that of strangers; that he needed not apprehend she would ever betray him to the french, against whom, she said, you are plotting. her son, stung with these reproaches, told her, it was unusual to reveal what the old men of the council had once resolved upon; alledging, he himself, as being grand sun, ought to set a good example in this respect: that the affair was concealed from the princess his consort as well as from her; and that though he was the son of a frenchman, this gave no mistrust of him to the other suns. but seeing, says he, you have guessed the whole affair, i need not inform you farther; you know as much as i do myself, only hold your tongue. she was in no pain, she replied, to know against whom he had taken his precautions: but as it was against the french, this was the very thing that made her apprehensive he had not taken his measures aright in order to surprise them; as they were a people of great penetration, though their commandant had none: that they were brave, and could bring over by their presents, all the warriors of the other nations; and had resources, which the red-men were without. her son told her she had nothing to apprehend as to the measures taken: that all the nations had heard and approved their project, and promised to fall upon the french in their neighbourhood, on the same day with the natchez: that the chactaws took upon them to destroy all the french lower down and along the missisippi, up as far as the tonicas; to which last people, he said, we did not send, as they and the oumas { } are too much wedded to the french; and that it was better to involve both these nations in the same general destruction with the french. he at last told her, the bundle of rods lay in the temple, on the flat timber. the stung arm being informed of the whole design, pretended to approve of it, and leaving her son at ease, henceforward was only solicitous how she might defeat this barbarous design: the time was pressing, and the term prefixed for the execution was almost expired. this woman, unable to bear to see the french cut off to a man in one day by the conspiracy of the natives, sought how to save the greatest part of them: for this purpose she be thought herself of acquainting some young women therewith, who loved the french, enjoining them never to tell from whom they had their information. she herself desired a soldier she met, to go and tell the commandant, that the natchez had lost their senses, and to desire him to be upon his guard: that he need only make the smallest repairs possible on the fort, in presence of some of them, in order to shew his mistrust; when all their resolutions and bad designs would vanish and fall to the ground. the soldier faithfully performed his commission: but the commandant, far from giving credit to the information, or availing himself thereof; or diving into, and informing him self of the grounds of it, treated the soldier as a coward and a visionary, caused him to be clapt in irons, and said, he would never take any step towards repairing the fort, or putting himself on his guard, as the natchez would then imagine he was a man of no resolution, and was struck with a mere panick. the stung arm fearing a discovery, notwithstanding her utmost precaution, and the secrecy she enjoined, repaired to the temple, and pulled some rods out of the fatal bundle: her design was to hasten or forward the term prefixed, to the end that such frenchmen as escaped the massacre, might apprize their countrymen, many of whom had informed the commandant; who clapt seven of them in irons, treating them as cowards on that account. { } the female sun, seeing the term approaching, and many of those punished, whom she had charged to acquaint the governor, resolved to speak to the under-lieutenant; but to no better purpose, the commandant paying no greater regard to him than to the common soldiers. notwithstanding all these informations, the commandant went out the night before on a party of pleasure, with some other frenchmen, to the grand village of the natchez, without returning to the fort till break of day; where he was no sooner come, but he had pressing advice to be upon his guard. the commandant, still flustered with his last night's debauch, added imprudence to his neglect of these last advices; and ordered his interpreter instantly to repair to the grand village, and demand of the grand sun, whether he intended, at the head of his warriors, to come and kill the french, and to bring him word directly. the grand sun, though but a young man, knew how to dissemble, and spoke in such a manner to the interpreter, as to give full satisfaction to the commandant, who valued himself on his contempt of former advices; he then repaired to his house, situate below the fort. the natchez had too well taken their measures to be disappointed in the success thereof. the fatal moment was at last come. the natchez set out on the eve of st. andrew, , taking care to bring with them one of the lower sort, armed with a wooden hatchet, in order to knock down the commandant: they had so high a contempt for him, that no warrior would deign to kill him. [footnote: others say he was shot: but neither account can be ascertained, as no frenchman present escaped.] the houses of the french filled with enemies, the fort in like manner with the natives, who entered in at the gate and breaches, deprived the soldiers, without officers, or even a serjeant at their head, of the means of self defence. in the mean time the grand sun arrived, with some warriors loaded with corn, in appearance as the first payment of the contribution; when several shot were fired. as this firing was the signal, several shot were heard at the same instant. then at length the commandant saw, but too late, his folly: he ran into his garden, whither he was pursued { } and killed. this massacre was executed every where at the same time. of about seven hundred persons, but few escaped to carry the dreadful news to the capital; on receiving which the governor and council were sensibly affected, and orders were dispatched every where to put people on their guard. the other indians were displeased at the conduct of the natchez, imagining they had forwarded the term agreed on, in order to make them ridiculous, and proposed to take vengeance the first opportunity, not knowing the true cause of the precipitation of the natchez. after they had cleared the fort, warehouse, and other houses, the natchez set them all on fire, not leaving a single building standing. the yazous, who happened to be at that very time on an embassy to the natchez, were prevailed on to destroy the post of the yazous; which they failed not to effect some days after, making themselves masters of the fort, under colour of paying a visit, as usual, and knocking all the garrison on the head. m. perier, governor of louisiana, was then taking the proper steps to be avenged: he sent m. le sueur to the chactaws, to engage them on our side against the natchez; in which he succeeded without any difficulty. the reason of their readiness to enter into this design was not then understood, it being unknown that they were concerned in the plot of the natchez to destroy all the french, and that it was only to be avenged of the natchez, who had taken the start of them, and not given them a sufficient share of the booty. m. de loubois, king's lieutenant, was nominated to be at the head of this expedition: he went up the river with a small army, and arrived at the tonicas. the chactaws at length in the month of february near the natchez, to the number of fifteen or sixteen hundred men, with m. le sueur at their head; whither m. de loubois came the march following. the army encamped near the ruins of the old french settlement; and after resting five days there, they marched to the enemy's fort, which was a league from thence. { } after opening the trenches and firing for several days upon the fort without any great effect, the french at last made their approach so near as to frighten the enemy, who sent to offer to release all the french women and children, on the condition of obtaining a lasting peace, and of being suffered to live peaceably on their ground, without being driven from thence, or molested for the future. m. de loubois assured them of peace on their own terms, if they also gave up the french, who were in the fort, and all the negroes they had taken belonging to the french; and if they agreed to destroy the fort by fire. the grand sun accepted these conditions, provided the french general should promise, he would neither enter the fort with the french, nor suffer their auxiliaries to enter; which was accepted by the general; who sent the allies to receive all the slaves. the natchez, highly pleased to have gained time, availed themselves of the following night, and went out of the fort, with their wives and children, loaded with their baggage and the french plunder, leaving nothing but the cannon and ball behind. m. de loubois was struck with amazement at this escape, and only thought of retreating to the landing-place, in order to build a fort there: but first it was necessary to recover the french out of the hands of the chactaws, who insisted on a very high ransom. the matter was compromised by means of the grand chief of the tonicas, who prevailed on them to accept what m. de loubois was constrained to offer them, to satisfy their avarice; which they accordingly accepted, and gave up the french slaves, on promise of being paid as soon as possible: but they kept as security a young frenchman and some negro slaves, whom they would never part with, till payment was made. m. de loubois gave orders to build a terrace-fort, far preferable to a stoccado; there he left m. du crenet, with an hundred and twenty men in garrison, with cannon and ammunition; after which he went down the missisippi to new orleans. the chactaws, tonicas, and other allies, returned home. { } after the natchez had abandoned the fort, it was demolished, and its piles, or stakes, burnt. as the natchez dreaded both the vengeance of the french, and the insolence of the chactaws, that made them take the resolution of escaping in the night. a short time after, a considerable party of the natchez carried the pipe of peace to the grand chief of the tonicas, under pretence of concluding a peace with him and all the french. the chief sent to m. perier to know his pleasure: but the natchez in the mean time assassinated the tonicas, beginning with their grand chief; and few of them escaped this treachery. m. perier, commandant general, zealous for the service, neglected no means, whereby to discover in what part the natchez had taken refuge. and after many enquiries he was told, they had entirely quitted the east side of the missisippi, doubtless to avoid the troublesome and dangerous visits of the chactaws; and in order to be more concealed from the french, had retired to the west of the missisippi, near the silver creek, about sixty leagues from the mouth of the red river. these advices were certain: but the commandant general not thinking himself in a condition fit to attack them without succours, had applied for that purpose to the court; and succours were accordingly sent him. in the mean time the company, who had been apprized of the misfortune at the post of the natchez, and the losses they had sustained by the war, gave up that colony to the king, with the privileges annexed thereto. the company at the same time ceded to the king all that belonged to them in that colony, as fortresses, artillery, ammunition, warehouses, and plantations, with the negroes belonging thereto. in consequence of which, his majesty sent one of his ships, commanded by m. de forant, who brought with him m. de salmont, commissary-general of the marine, and inspector of louisiana, in order to take possession of that colony in the king's name. i was continued in the inspection of this plantation, now become the king's in , as before. { } m. perier, who till then had been commandant general of louisiana for the west india company, was now made governor for the king; and had the satisfaction to see his brother arrive, in one of the king's ships, commanded by m. perier de salvert, with the succours he demanded, which were an hundred and fifty soldiers of the marine. this officer had the title of lieutenant general of the colony conferred upon him. the messrs. perier set out with their army in very favourable weather; and arrived at last, without obstruction, near to the retreat of the natchez. to get to that place, they went up the red river, then the black river, and from thence up the silver creek, which communicates with a small lake at no great distance from the fort, which the natchez had built, in order to maintain their ground against the french. the natchez, struck with terror at the sight of a vigilant enemy, shut themselves up in their fort. despair assumed the place of prudence, and they were at their wits end, on seeing the trenches gain ground on the fort: they equip themselves like warriors, and stain their bodies with different colours, in order to make their last efforts by a sally, which resembled a transport of rage more than the calmness of valour, to the terror, at first, of the soldiers. the reception they met from our men, taught them, however, to keep themselves shut up in their fort; and though the trench was almost finished, our generals were impatient to have the mortars put in a condition to play on the place. at last they are set in battery; when the third bomb happened to fall in the middle of the fort, the usual place of residence of the women and children, they set up a horrible screaming; and the men, seized with grief at the cries of their wives and children, made the signal to capitulate. the natchez, after demanding to capitulate, started difficulties, which occasioned messages to and fro till night, which they waited to avail themselves of, demanding till next day to settle the articles of capitulation. the night was granted them, but being narrowly watched on the side next the gate, they could not execute the same project of escape, as in the war { } with m. de loubois. however, they attempted it, by taking advantage of the obscurity of the night, and of the apparent stillness of the french: but they were discovered in time, the greatest part being constrained to retire into the fort. some of them only happened to escape, who joined those that were out a hunting, and all together retired to the chicasaws. the rest surrendered at discretion, among whom was the grand sun, and the female suns, with several warriors, many women, young people, and children. the french army re-embarked, and carried the natchez as slaves to new orleans, where they were put in prison; but afterwards, to avoid an infection, the women and children were disposed of in the king's plantation, and elsewhere; among these women was the female sun, called the stung arm, who then told me all she had done, in order to save the french. some time after, these slaves were embarked for st. domingo, in order to root out that nation in the colony; which was the only method of effecting it, as the few that escaped had not a tenth of the women necessary to recruit the nation. and thus that nation, the most conspicuous in the colony, and most useful to the french, was destroyed. chapter xiii. _the war with the_ chicasaws. _the first expedition by the river_ mobile. _the second by the_ missisippi. _the war with the_ chactaws _terminated by the prudence of_ m. de vaudreuil. the war with the chicasaws was owing to their having received and adopted the natchez: though in this respect they acted only according to an inviolable usage and sacred custom, established among all the nations of north america; that when a nation, weakened by war, retires for shelter to another, who are willing to adopt them, and is pursued thither by their enemies, this is in effect to declare war against the nation adopting. but m. de biainville, whether displeased with this act of hospitality, or losing sight of this unalterable law, constantly { } prevailing among those nations, sent word to the chicasaws, to give up the natchez. in answer to his demand they alledged, that the natchez having demanded to be incorporated with them, were accordingly received and adopted; so as now to constitute but one nation, or people, under the name of chicasaws, that of natchez being entirely abolished. besides, added they, had biainville received our enemies, should we go to demand them? or, if we did, would they be given up? notwithstanding this answer, m. de biainville made warlike preparations against the chicasaws, sent off captain le blanc, with six armed boats under his command; one laden with gun-powder, the rest with goods, the whole allotted for the war against the chicasaws; the captain at the same time carrying orders to m. d'artaguette, commandant of the post of the illinois, to prepare to set out at the head of all the troops, inhabitants and indians, he could march from the illinois, in order to be at the chicasaws the th of may following, as the governor himself was to be there at the same time. the chicasaws, apprized of the warlike preparations of the french, resolved to guard the missisippi, imagining they would be attacked on that side. in vain they attempted to surprise m. le blanc's convoy, which got safe to the arkansas, where the gun-powder was left, for reasons no one can surmise. from thence he had no cross accident to the illinois, at which place he delivered the orders the governor had dispatched for m. d'artaguette; who finding a boat laden with gun-powder, designed for his post, and for the service of the war intended against the chicasaws, left at the arkansas, sent off the same day a boat to fetch it up; which on its return was taken by a party of chicasaws; who killed all but m. du tiffenet, junior, and one rosalie, whom they made slaves. in the mean time, m. de biainville went by sea to fort mobile, where the grand chief of the chactaws waited for him, in consequence of his engaging to join his warriours with ours, in order to make war upon the chicasaws, in consideration of a certain quantity of goods, part to be paid down directly, the rest at a certain time prefixed. the governor, { } after this, returned to new orleans, there to wait the opening of the campaign. m. de biainville, on his return, made preparations against his own departure, and that of the army, consisting of regular troops, some inhabitants and free negroes, and some slaves, all which set out from new orleans for mobile; where, on the th of march, , the army, together with the chactaws, was assembled; and where they rested till the d of april, when they began their march, those from new orleans taking their route by the river mobile, in thirty large boats and as many pettyaugres; the indians by land, marching along the east bank of that river; and making but short marches, they arrived at tombecbec only the th of april, where m. de biainville caused a fort to be built: here he gave the chactaws the rest of the goods due to them, and did not set out from thence till the th of may. all this time was taken up with a council of war, held on four soldiers, french and swiss, who had laid a scheme to kill the commandant and garrison, to carry off m. du tiffenet and rosalie, who had happily made their escape from the chicasaws, and taken refuge in the fort, and to put them again into the hands of the enemy, in order to be better received by them, and to assist, and shew them how to make a proper defence against the french, and from thence to go over to the english of carolina. from the th of may, on which the army set out from tombeebee, they took twenty days to come to the landing-place. after landing, they built a very extensive inclosure of palisadoes, with a shed, as a cover for the goods and ammuninition, then the army passed the night. on the th powder and ball were given out to the soldiers, and inhabitants, the sick with some raw soldiers being left to guard this old sort of fort. from this place to the fort of the chicasaws are seven leagues: this day they marched five leagues and a half in two columns and in file, across the woods. on the wings marched the chactaws, to the number of twelve hundred at least, commanded by their grand chief. in the evening they encamped in a meadow, surrounded with wood. { } on the th of may they marched to the enemy's fort, across thin woods; and with water up to the waist, passed over a rivulet, which traverses a small wood; on coming out of which, they entered a fine plain: in this plain stood the fort of the chicasaws, with a village defended by it. this fort is situated on an eminence, with an easy ascent; around it stood several huts, and at a greater distance towards the bottom, other huts, which appeared to have been put in a state of defence: quite close to the fort ran a little brook, which watered a part of the plain. the chactaws no sooner espied the enemy's fort, than they rent the air with their death-cries, and instantly flew to the fort: but their ardour flagged at a carabin-shot from the place. the french marched in good order, and got beyond a small wood, which they left in their rear, within cannon-shot of the enemy's fort, where an english flag was seen flying. at the same time four englishmen, coming from the huts, were seen to go up the ascent, and enter the fort, where their flag was set up. upon this, it was imagined, they would be summoned to quit the enemy's fort, and to surrender, as would in like manner the chicasaws: but nothing of this was once proposed. the general gave orders to the majors to form large detachments of each of their corps, in order to go and take the enemy's fort. these orders were in part executed: three large detachments were made; namely, one of grenadiers, one of soldiers, and another of militia, or train-bands; who, to the number of twelve hundred men, advanced with ardour towards the enemy's fort, crying out aloud several times, _vive le roi_, as if already masters of the place; which, doubtless, they imagined to carry sword in hand; for in the whole army there was not a single iron tool to remove the earth, and form the attacks. the rest of the army marched in battle-array, ten men deep; mounted the eminence whereon the fort stood, and being come there, set fire to some huts, with wild-fire thrown at the ends of darts; but the smoke stifled the army. the regular troops marched in front, and the militia, or train-bands, in rear. according to rule these train-bands { } made a quarter turn to right and left, with intent to go and invest the place. but m. de jusan, aid-major of the troops, stopt short their ardor, and sent them to their proper post, reserving for his own corps the glory of carrying the place, which continued to make a brisk defence. biainville remained at the quarters of reserve; where he observed what would be the issue of the attack, than which none could be more disadvantageous. both the regulars and inhabitants, or train-bands, gave instances of the greatest valour: but what could they do, open and exposed as they were, against a fort, whose stakes or wooden posts were a fathom in compass, and their joinings again lined with other posts, almost as big? from this fort, which was well garrisoned, issued a shower of balls; which would have mowed down at least half the assailants, if directed by men who knew how to fire. the enemy were under cover from all the attacks of the french, and could have defended themselves by their loop-holes. besides, they formed a gallery of flat pallisadoes quite round, covered with earth, which screened it from the effects of grenadoes. in this manner the troops lavished their ammunition against the wooden posts, or stakes, of the enemy's fort, without any other effect than having thirty-two men killed, and almost seventy wounded; which last were carried to the body of reserve; from whence the general, seeing the bad success of the attack, ordered to beat the retreat, and sent a large detachment to favour it. it was now five in the evening, and the attack had been begun at half an hour after one. the troops rejoined the body of the army, without being able to carry off their dead, which were left on the field of battle, exposed to the rage of the enemy. after taking some refreshment, they directly fortified themselves, by felling trees, in order to pass the night secure from the insults of the enemy, by being carefully on their guard. next day it was observed the enemy had availed themselves of that night to demolish some huts, where the french, during the attack, had put themselves under cover, in order from thence to batter the fort. { } on the th, the day after the attack, the army began its march, and lay at a league from the enemy. the day following, at a league from the landing-place, whither they arrived next day, the french embarked for fort mobile, and from thence for the capital, from which each returned to his own home. a little time after, a serjeant of the garrison of the illinois arrived at new orleans, who reported, that, in consequence of the general's orders, m. d'artaguette had taken his measures so well, that on the th of may he arrived with his men near the chicasaws, sent out scouts to discover the arrival of the french army; which he continued to do till the th: that the indians in alliance hearing no accounts of the french, wanted either to return home, or to attack the chicasaws; which last m. d'artaguette resolved upon, on the st, with pretty good success at first, having forced the enemy to quit their village and fort: that he then attacked another village with the same success, but that pursuing the runaways, m. d'artaguette had received two wounds, which the indians finding, resolved to abandon that commandant, with forty-six soldiers and two serjeants, who defended their commandant all that day, but were at last obliged to surrender; that they were well used by the enemy, who understanding that the french were in their country, prevailed on m. d'artaguette to write to the general: but that this deputation having had no success, and learning that the french were retired, and despairing of any ransom for their slaves, put them to death by a slow fire. the serjeant added, he had the happiness to fall into the hands of a good master, who favoured his escape to mobile. m. de biainville, desirous to take vengeance of the chicasaws, wrote to france for succours, which the court sent, ordering also the colony of canada to send succours. in the mean time m. de biainville sent off a large detachment for the river st. francis, in order to build a fort there, called also st. francis. the squadron which brought the succours from france being arrived, they set out, by going up the missisippi, for the fort that had been just built. this army consisted of marines, { } of the troops of the colony, of several inhabitants, many negroes, and some indians, our allies; and being assembled in this place, took water again, and still proceeded up the missisippi to a little river called margot, near the cliffs called prud'homme, and there the whole army landed. they encamped on a fine plain, at the foot of a hill, about fifteen leagues from the enemy; fortified themselves by way of precaution, and built in the fort a house for the commandant, some cazerns, and a warehouse for the goods. this fort was called assumption, from the day on which they landed. they had waggons and sledges made, and the roads cleared for transporting cannon, ammunition, and other necessaries for forming a regular siege. there and then it was the succours from canada arrived, consisting of french, iroquois, hurons, episingles, algonquins, and other nations: and soon after arrived the new commandant of the illinois, with the garrison, inhabitants, and neighbouring indians, all that he could bring together, with a great number of horses. this formidable army, consisting of so many different nations, the greatest ever seen, and perhaps that ever will be seen, in those parts, remained in this camp without undertaking any thing, from the month of august , to the march following. provisions, which at first were in great plenty, came at last to be so scarce, that they were obliged to eat the horses which were to draw the artillery, ammunition, and provisions: afterwards sickness raged in the army. m. de biainville, who hitherto had attempted nothing against the chicasaws, resolved to have recourse to mild methods. he therefore detached, about the th of march, the company of cadets, with their captain, m. de celoron, their lieutenant, m. de st. laurent, and the indians, who came with them from canada, against the chicasaws, with orders to offer peace to them in his name, if they sued for it. what the general had foreseen, failed not to happen. as soon as the chicasaws saw the french, followed by the indians of canada, they doubted not in the least, but the rest of that numerous army would soon follow; and they no sooner saw them approach, but they made signals of peace, and came out { } of their fort in the most humble manner, exposing themselves to all the consequences that might ensue, in order to obtain peace. they solemnly protested that they actually were, and would continue to be inviolable friends of the french; that it was the english, who prevailed upon them to act in this manner; but that they had fallen out with them on this account, and at that very time had two of that nation, whom they made slaves; and that the french might go and see whether they spoke truth. m. de st. laurent asked to go, and accordingly went with a young slave: but he might have had reason to have repented it, had not the men been more prudent than the women, who demanded the head of the frenchman: but the men, after consulting together, were resolved to save him, in order to obtain peace of the french, on giving up the two englishmen. the women risk scarce any thing near so much as the men; these last are either slain in battle, or put to death by their enemies; whereas the women at worst are but slaves; and they all perfectly well know, that the indian women are far better off when slaves to the french, than if married at home. m. de st. laurent, highly pleased with this discovery, promised them peace in the name of m. de biainville, and of all the french: after these assurances, they went all in a body out of the fort, to present the pipe to m. de celoron, who accepted it, and repeated the same promise. in a few days after, he set out with a great company of chicasaws, deputed to carry the pipe to the french general, and deliver up the two englishmen. when they came before m. de biainville, they fell prostrate at his feet, and made him the same protestations of fidelity and friendship, as they had already made to m. de celoron; threw the blame on the english; said they were entirely fallen out with them, and had taken these two, and put them in his hands, as enemies. they protested, in the most solemn manner, they would for ever be friends of the french and of their friends, and enemies of their enemies; in fine, that they would make war on the english, if it was thought proper, in order to shew that they renounced them as traitors. { } thus ended the war with the chicasaws, about the beginning of april, . m. de biainville dismissed the auxiliaries, after making them presents; razed the fort assumption, thought to be no longer necessary, and embarked with his whole army; and in passing down, caused the fort st. francis to be demolished, as it was now become useless; and he repaired to the capital, after an absence of more than ten months. some years after, we had disputes with a part of the chactaws, who followed the interests of the red-shoe, a prince of that nation, who, in the first expedition against the chicasaws, had some disputes with the french. this indian, more insolent than any one of his nation, took a pretext to break out, and commit several hostilities against the french. m. de vaudreuil, then governor of louisiana, being apprised of this, and of the occasion thereof, strictly forbad the french to frequent that nation, and to truck with them any arms or ammunition, in order to put a stop to that disorder in a short time, and without drawing the sword. m. de vaudreuil, after taking these precautions, sent to demand of the grand chief of the whole nation, whether, like the red-shoe, he was also displeased with the french. he made answer, he was their friend: but that the red-shoe was a young man, without understanding. having returned this answer, they sent him a present: but he was greatly surprised to find neither arms, powder, nor ball in this present, at a time when they were friends as before. this manner of proceeding, joined to the prohibition made of trucking with them arms or ammunition, heightened their surprise, and put them on having an explication on this head with the governor; who made answer, that neither arms nor ammunition would be trucked with them, as long as the red-shoe had no more understanding; that they would not fail, as being brethren, to share a good part of the ammunition and arms with the warriors of the red-shoe. this answer put them on remonstrating to the village that insulted us; told them, if they did not instantly make peace with the french, they would themselves make war upon them. this threatening declaration made them sue for peace with the french, who were not in a condition to maintain { } a war against a nation so numerous. and thus the prudent policy of m. de vaudreuil put a stop to this war, without either expence or the loss of a man. chapter xiv. _reflections on what gives occasions to wars in_ louisiana. _the means of avoiding wars in that province, as also the manner of coming off with advantage and little expence in them._ the experience i have had in the art of war, from some campaigns i made in a regiment of dragoons till the peace of , my application to the study of the wars of the greeks, romans, and other ancient people, and the wars i have seen carried on with the indians of louisiana, during the time i resided in that province, gave me occasion to make several reflections on what could give rise to a war with the indians, on the means of avoiding such a war, and on such methods as may be employed, in order either to make or maintain a war to advantage against them, when constrained thereto. in the space of sixteen years that i resided in louisiana, i remarked, that the war, and even the bare disputes we have had with the indians of this colony, never had any other origin, but our too familiar intercourse with them. in order to prove this, let us consider the evils produced by this familiarity. in the first place, it makes them gradually drop that respect, which they naturally entertain for our nation. in the second place, the french traffickers, or traders, are generally young people without experience, who, in order to gain the good-will of these people, afford them lights, or instruction, prejudicial to our interest. these young merchants are not, it is true, sensible of these consequences: but again, these people never lose sight of what can be of any utility to them, and the detriment thence accruing is not less great, nor less real. in the third place, this familiarity gives occasion to vices, whence dangerous distempers ensue, and corruption of blood, { } which is naturally highly pure in this colony. these persons, who frequently resort to the indians, imagined themselves authorized to give a loose to their vices, from the practice of these last, which is to give young women to their guests upon their arrival; a practice that greatly injures their health, and proves a detriment to their merchandizing. in the fourth place, this resorting to the indians puts these last under a constraint, as being fond of solitude; and this constraint is still more heightened, if the french settlement is near them; which procures them too frequent visits, that give them so much more uneasiness, as they care not on any account that people should see or know any of their affairs. and what fatal examples have we not of the dangers the settlements which are too near the indians incur. let but the massacre of the french be recollected, and it will be evident that this proximity is extremely detrimental to the french. in the fifth and last place, commerce, which is the principal allurement that draws us to this new world instead of flourishing, is, on the contrary, endangered by the too familiar resort to the indians of north america. the proof of this is very simple. all who resort to countries beyond sea, know by experience, that when there is but one ship in the harbour, the captain sells his cargo at what price he pleases: and then we hear it said, such a ship gained two, three, and sometimes as high as four hundred per cent. should another ship happen to arrive in that harbour, the profit abates at least one half; but should three arrive, or even four successively, the goods then are, so to speak, thrown at the head of the buyer: so that in this case a merchant has often great difficulty to recover his very expenses of fitting out. i should therefore be led to believe, that it would be for the interest of commerce, if the indians were left to come to fetch what merchandize they wanted, who having none but us in their neighbourhood, would come for it, without the french running any risk in their commerce, much less in their lives. for this purpose, let us suppose a nation of indians on the banks of some river or rivulet, which is always the case, as all { } men whatever have at all times occasion for water. this being supposed, i look out for a spot proper to build a small terras-fort on, with fraises or stakes, and pallisadoes. in this fort i would build two small places for lodgings, of no great height; one to lodge the officers, the other the soldiers: this fort to have an advanced work, a half-moon, or the like, according to the importance of the post. the passage to be through this advanced work to the fort, and no indian allowed to enter on any pretence whatever; not even to receive the pipe of peace there, but only in the advanced work; the gate of the fort to be kept shut day and night against all but the french. at the gate of the advanced work a sentinel to be posted, and that gate to be opened and shut on each person appearing before it. by these precautions we might be sure never to be surprised, either by avowed enemies, or by treachery. in the advanced work a small building to be made for the merchants, who should come thither to traffick or truck with the neighbouring indians; of which last only three or four to be admitted at a time, all to have the merchandize at the same price, and no one to be favoured above another. no soldier or inhabitant to go to the villages of the neighbouring indians, under severe penalties. by this conduct disputes would be avoided, as they only arise from too great a familiarity with them. these forts to be never nearer the villages than five leagues, or more distant than seven or eight. the indians would make nothing of such a jaunt; it would be only a walk for them, and their want of goods would easily draw them, and in a little time they would become habituated to it. the merchants to pay a salary to an interpreter, who might be some orphan, brought up very young among these people. this fort, thus distant a short journey, might be built without obstruction, or giving any umbrage to the indians: as they might be told it was built in order to be at hand to truck their furs, and at the same time to give them no manner of uneasiness. one advantage would be, besides that of commerce, which would be carried on there, that these forts would prevent the english from having any communication with the indians, as these last would find a great facility for their truck, and in forts so near them, every thing they could want. { } the examples of the surprise of the forts of the natchez, the yazoux, and the missouris, shew but too plainly the fatal consequences of negligence in the service, and of a misplaced condescension in favour of the soldiers, by suffering them to build huts near the fort, and to lie in them. none should be allowed to lie out of the fort, not even the officers. the commandant of the natchez, and the other officers, and even the serjeants, were killed in their houses without the fort. i should not be against the soldiers planting little fields of tobacco, potatoes, and other plants, too low to conceal a man: on the contrary, these employments would incline them to become settlers; but i would never allow them houses out of the fort. by this means a fort becomes impregnable against the most numerous; because they never will attack, should they have ever so much cause, as long as they see people on their guard. should it be objected that these forts would cost a great deal: i answer, that though there was to be a fort for each nation, which is not the case, it would not cost near so much as from time to time it takes to support wars, which in this country are very expensive, on account of the long journeys, and of transporting all the implements of war, hitherto made use of. besides, we have a great part of these forts already built, so that we only want the advanced works; and two new forts more would suffice to compleat this design, and prevent the fraudulent commerce of the english traders. as to the manner of carrying on the war in louisiana, as was hitherto done, it is very expensive, highly fatiguing, and the risk always great; because you must first transport the ammunition to the landing-place; from thence travel for many leagues; then drag the artillery along by main force, and carry the ammunition on men's shoulders, a thing that harasses and weakens the troops very much. moreover, there is a great deal of risk in making war in this manner: you have the approaches of a fort to make, which cannot be done without loss of lives: and should you make a breach, how many brave men are lost, before you can force men who fight like desperadoes, because they prefer death to slavery. { } i say, should you make a breach; because in all the time i resided in this province, i never saw nor heard that the cannon which were brought against the indian forts, ever made a breach for a single man to pass: it is therefore quite useless to be at that expence, and to harass the troops to bring artillery, which can be of no manner of service. that cannon can make no breach in indian forts may appear strange: but not more strange than true; as will appear, if we consider that the wooden posts or stakes which surround these forts, are too big for a bullet of the size of those used in these wars, to cut them down, though it were even to hit their middle. if the bullet gives more towards the edge of the tree, it glides off, and strikes the next to it; should the ball hit exactly between two posts, it opens them, and meets the post of the lining, which stops it short: another ball may strike the same tree, at the other joining, then it closes the little aperture the other had made. were i to undertake such a war, i would bring only a few indian allies; i could easily manage them; they would not stand me so much in presents, nor consume so much ammunition and provisions: a great saving this; and bringing no cannon with me, i should also save expences. i would have none but portable arms; and thus my troops would not be harassed. the country every where furnishes wherewithal to make moveable intrenchments and approaches, without opening the ground: and i would flatter myself to carry the fort in two days time. there i stop: the reader has no need of this detail, nor i to make it public. chapter xv. pensacola _taken by surprize by the_ french. _retaken by the_ spaniards. _again retaken by the_ french, _and demolished_. before i go any farther, i think it necessary to relate what happened with respect to the fort of pensacola in virginia. [footnote: the author must mean carolina.] this fort belongs to the spaniards, and serves for an { } entrepot, or harbour for the spanish galleons to put into, in their passage from la vera cruz to europe. towards the beginning of the year , the commandant general having understood by the last ships which arrived, that war was declared between france and spain, resolved to take the post of pensacola from the spaniards; which stands on the continent, about fifteen leagues from isle dauphine, is defended by a staccado-fort the entrance of the road: over against it stands a fortin, or small fort, on the west point of the isle st. rose; which, on that side, defends the entrance of the road: this fort has only a guard-house to defend it. the commandant general, persuaded it would be impossible to besiege the place in form, wanted to take it by surprise, confiding in the ardor of the french, and security of the spaniards, who were as yet ignorant of our being at war with them in europe. with that view he assembled the few troops he had, with several canadian and french planters, newly arrived, who went as volunteers. m. de chateauguier, the commandant's brother, and king's lieutenant, commanded under him; and next him, m. de richebourg, captain. after arming this body of men, and getting the necessary supplies of ammunition and provisions, he embarked with his small army, and by the favour of a prosperous wind, arrived in a short time at his place of destination. the french anchored near the fortin, made their descent undiscovered, seized on the guard-house, and clapt the soldiers in irons; which was done in less than half an hour. some french soldiers were ordered to put on the cloaths of the spaniards, in order to facilitate the surprising the enemy. the thing succeeded to their wish. on the morrow at day-break, they perceived the boat which carried the detachment from pensacola, in order to relieve the guard of the fortin; on which the spanish march was caused to be beat up; and the french in disguise receiving them, and clapping them in irons, put on their cloaths; and stepping into the same boat, surprised the sentinel, the guard-house, and at last the garrison, to the very governor himself, who was taken in bed; so that they all were made prisoners without any bloodshed. { } the commandant general, apprehensive of the scarcity of provisions, shipped off the prisoners, escorted by some soldiers, commanded by m. de richebourg, in order to land them at the havanna: he left his brother at pensacola, to command there, with a garrison of sixty men. as soon as the french vessel had anchored at the havanna, m. de richebourg went on shore, to acquaint the spanish governor with his commission; who received him with politeness, and as a testimony of his gratitude, made him and his officers prisoners, put the soldiers in irons and in prison, where they lay for some time, exposed to hunger and the insults of the spaniards, which determined many of them to enter into the service of spain, in order to escape the extreme misery under which they groaned. some of the french, newly enlisted in the spanish troops, informed the governor of the havanna, that the french garrison left at pensacola was very weak: he, in his turn, resolved to carry that fort by way of reprisal. for that purpose he caused a spanish vessel, with that which the french had brought to the havanna, to be armed. the spanish vessel stationed itself behind the isle st. rose, and the french vessel came before the fort with french colours. the sentinel enquired, who commanded the vessel? they answered, m. de richebourg. this vessel, after anchoring, took down her french, and hoisted spanish colours, firing three guns: at which signal, agreed on by the spaniards, the spanish vessel joined the first; then they summoned the french to surrender. m. de chateauguiere rejected the proposition, fired upon the spaniards, and they continued cannonading each other till night. on the following day the cannonading was continued till noon, when the spaniards ceased firing, in order to summon the commandant anew to surrender the fort: he demanded four days, and was allowed two. during that time, he sent to ask succours of his brother, who was in no condition to send him any. the term being expired, the attack was renewed, the commandant bravely defending himself till night; which two thirds of the garrison availed themselves of, to abandon their governor, { } who, having only twenty men left, saw himself unable to make any longer resistance, demanded to capitulate, and was allowed all the honours of war; but in going out of the place, he and all his men were made prisoners. this infraction of the capitulation was occasioned by the shame the spaniards conceived, of being constrained to capitulate in this manner with twenty men only. as soon as the governor of the havanna was apprised of the surrender of the fort, vainly imagining he had overthrown half his enemies at least, he caused great rejoicings to be made in the island, as if he had gained a decisive victory, or carried a citadel of importance. he also sent off several vessels to victual and refresh his warriors, who, according to him, must have been greatly fatigued in such an action as i have just described. the new governor of pensacola caused the fortifications to be repaired and even augmented; sent afterwards the vessel, named the great devil, armed with six pieces of cannon, to take dauphin island, or at least to strike terror into it. the vessel st. philip, which lay in the road, entered a gut or narrow place, and there mooring across, brought all her guns to bear on the enemy; and made the great devil sensible, that saints resist all the efforts of hell. this ship, by her position, served for a citadel to the whole island, which had neither fortifications nor intrenchments, nor any other sort of defence, excepting a battery of cannon at the east point, with some inhabitants, who guarded the coast, and prevented a descent. the great devil, finding she made no progress, was constrained, by way of relaxation, to go and pillage on the continent the habitation of the sieur miragouine, which was abandoned. in the mean time arrived from pensacola, a little devil, a pink, to the assistance of the great devil. as soon as they joined, they began afresh to cannonade the island, which made a vigorous defence. in the time that these two vessels attempted in vain to take the island, a squadron of five ships came in sight, four of them with spanish colours, and the least carrying french hoisted to { } the top of the staff, as if taken by the four others. in this the french were equally deceived with the spaniards: the former, however, knew the small vessel, which was the pink, the mary, commanded by the brave m. iapy. the spaniards, convinced by these appearances, that succours were sent them, deputed two officers in a shallop on board the commodore: but they were no sooner on board, than they were made prisoners. they were in effect three french men of war, with two ships of the company, commanded by m. champmelin. these ships brought upwards of eight hundred men, and thirty officers, as well superior as subaltern, all of them old and faithful servants of the king, in order to remain in louisiana. the spaniards, finding their error, fled to pensacola, to carry the news of this succour being arrived for the french. the squadron anchored before the island, hoisted french colours, and fired a salvo, which was answered by the place. the st. philip was drawn out and made to join the squadron: a new embarkation of troops was made, and the mary left before isle dauphine. on september the th, finding the wind favourable, the squadron set sail for pensacola: by the way, the troops that were to make the attack on the continent, were landed near rio perdido; after which the ships, preceded by a boat, which shewed the way, entered the harbour, and anchored, and laid their broad sides, in spite of several discharges of cannon from the fort, which is upon the isle of st. rose. the ships had no sooner laid their broad-sides, but the cannonade began on both sides. our ships had two forts to batter, and seven sail of ships that lay in the harbour. but the great land fort fired only one gun on our army, in which the spanish governor, having observed upwards of three hundred indians, commanded by m. de st. denis, whose bravery was universally acknowledged, was struck with such a panick, from the fear of falling into their hands, that he struck, and surrendered the place. the fight continued for about two hours longer: but the heavy metal of our commodore making great execution, the spaniards cried out several times on board their ships, to { } strike; but fear prevented their executing these orders: none but a french prisoner durst do it for them. they quitted their ships, leaving matches behind, which would have soon set them on fire. the french prisoners between decks, no longer hearing the least noise, surmised a flight, came on deck, discovered the stratagem of the spaniards, removed the matches, and thus hindered the vessels from taking fire, acquainting the commodore therewith. the little fort held out but an hour longer, after which it surrendered for want of gunpowder. the commandant came himself to put his sword in the hands of m. champmelin, who embraced him, returned him his sword, and told him, he knew how to distinguish between a brave officer, and one who was not. he made his own ship his place of confinement, whereas the commandant of the great fort was made the laughing-stock of the french. all the spaniards on board the ships, and those of the two forts were made prisoners of war: but the french deserters, to the number of forty, were made to cast lots; half of them were hanged at the yard-arms, the rest condemned to be galley-slaves to the company for ten years in the country. m. champmelin caused the two forts to be demolished, preserving only three or four houses, with a warehouse. these houses were to lodge the officer, and the few soldiers that were left there, and one to be a guard-house. the rest of the planters were transported to isle dauphine, and m. champmelin set sail for france. [footnote: at the peace that soon succeeded between france and spain, pensacola was restored to the last.] the history of pensacola is the more necessary, as it is so near our settlements, that the spaniards hear our guns, when we give them notice by that signal of our design to come and trade with them. { } the history of louisiana book ii. _of the country, and its products_. chapter i. _geographical description of louisiana. its climate_ louisiana that part of north america, which is bounded on the south by the gulf of mexico; on the east by carolina, an english colony, and by a part of canada; on the west by new mexico; and on the north, in part by canada; in part it extends, without any assignable bounds, to the terrae incognitae, adjoining to hudson's bay. [footnote: by the charter granted by louis xiv. to m. crozat, louisiana extends only "from the edge of the sea as far as the illinois," which is not above half the extent assigned by our author.] its breadth is about two hundred leagues, [footnote: according to the best maps and accounts extant, the distance from the missisippi to the mountains of new mexico is about nine hundred miles, and from the missisippi to the atlantic ocean about six hundred; reckoning sixty miles to a degree, and in a straight line.] extending between the spanish and english settlements; its length undetermined, as being altogether unknown. however, the source of the missisippi will afford us some light on this head. the climate of louisiana varies in proportion as it extends northward: all that can be said of it in general is, that its southern parts are not so scorching as those of africa in the { } same latitude; and that the northern parts are colder than the corresponding parts of europe. new orleans, which lies in lat. °, as do the more northerly coasts of barbary and egypt, enjoys the same temperature of climate as languedoc. two degrees higher-up, at the natchez, where i resided for eight years, the climate is far more mild than at new orleans, the country lying higher: and at the illinois, which is between ° and °, the summer is in no respect hotter than at rochelle; but we find the frosts harder, and a more plentiful fall of snow. this difference of climate from that of africa and europe, i ascribe to two causes: the first is, the number of woods, which, though scattered up and down, cover the face of this country: the second, the great number of rivers. the former prevent the sun from warming the earth; and the latter diffuse a great degree of humidity: not to mention the continuity of this country with those to the northward; from which it follows, that the winds blowing from that quarter are much colder than if they traversed the sea in their course. for it is well known that the air is never so hot, and never so cold at sea, as on land. we ought not therefore to be surprised, if in the southern part of louisiana, a north wind obliges people in summer to be warmer cloathed; or if in winter a south wind admits of a lighter dress; as naturally owing, at the one time to the dryness of the wind, at the other, to the proximity of the equator. few days pass in louisiana without seeing the sun. the rain pours down there in sudden heavy showers, which do not last long, but disappear in half an hour, perhaps. the dews are very plentiful, advantageously supplying the place of rain. we may therefore well imagine that the air is perfectly good there; the blood is pure; the people are healthy; subject to few diseases in the vigour of life, and without decrepitude in old age, which they carry to a far greater length than in france. people live to a long and agreeable old age in louisiana, if they are but sober and temperate. this country is extremely well watered, but much more so in some places than in others. the missisippi divides this { } colony from north to south into two parts almost equal. the first discoverers of this river by the way of canada, called it colbert, in honour of that great minister. by some of the savages of the north it is called meact-chassipi, which literally denotes, the ancient father of rivers, of which the french have, by corruption formed missisippi. other indians, especially those lower down the river, call it balbancha; and at last the french have given it the name of st. louis. several travellers have in vain attempted to go up to its source; which, however, is well known, whatever some authors, misinformed, may alledge to the contrary. we here subjoin the accounts that may be most depended upon. m. de charleville, a canadian, and a relation of m. de biainville, commandant general of this colony, told me, that at the time of the settlement of the french, curiosity alone had led him to go up this river to its sources; that for this end he fitted out a canoe, made of the bark of the birch-tree, in order to be more portable in case of need. and that having thus set out with two canadians and two indians, with goods, ammunition, and provisions, he went up the river three hundred leagues to the north, above the illinois: that there be found the fall, called st. antony's. this fall is a flat-rock, which traverses the river, and gives it only between eight or ten feet fall. he caused his canoe and effects to be carried over that place; and that embarking afterwards above the fall, he continued going up the river an hundred leagues more to the north, where he met the sioux, a people inhabiting that country, at some distance from the missisippi; some say, on each side of it. the sioux, little accustomed to see europeans, were surprized at seeing him, and asked whither he was going. he told them, up the missisippi to its source. they answered, that the country whither he was going was very bad, and where he would have great difficulty to find game for subsistence; that it was a great way off, reckoned as far from the source to the fall, as from this last to the sea. according to this information, the missisippi must measure from its source to its mouth between fifteen and sixteen hundred leagues, as they reckon eight hundred leagues from st. antony's fall to the sea. this { } conjecture is the more probable, as that far to the north, several rivers of a pretty long course fall into the missisippi; and that even above st. antony's fall, we find in this river between thirty and thirty-five fathom water, and a breadth in proportion; which can never be from a source at no great distance off. i may add, that all the indians, informed by those nearer the source, are of the same opinion. though m. de charleville did not see the source of the missisippi, he, however, learned, that a great many rivers empty their waters into it: that even above st. antony's fall, he saw rivers on each side of the missisippi, having a course of upwards of an hundred leagues. it is proper to observe, that in going down the river from st. antony's fall, the right hand is the west, the left the east. the first river we meet from the fall, and some leagues lower down, is the river st. peter, which comes from the west: lower down to the east, is the river st. croix, both of them tolerable large rivers. we meet several others still less, the names of which are of no consequence. afterwards we meet with the river moingona, which comes from the west, about two hundred and fifty leagues below the fall, and upwards of an hundred and fifty leagues in length. this river is somewhat brackish. from that river to the illinois, several rivulets or brooks, both to the right and left, fall into the missisippi. the river of the illinois comes from the east, and takes its rise on the frontiers of canada; its length is two hundred leagues. the river missouri comes from a source about eight hundred leagues distant; and running from north-west to south-east, discharges itself into the missisippi, about four or five leagues below the river of the illinois. this river receives several others, in particular the river of the canzas, which runs above an hundred and fifty leagues. from the rivers of the illinois and the missouri to the sea are reckoned five hundred leagues, and three hundred to st. antony's fall: from the missouri to the wabache, or ohio, an hundred leagues. by this last river is the passage from louisiana to canada. this voyage is performed from new orleans by going up the missisippi to the wabache; which they go up in the same manner quite to { } the river of the miamis; in which they proceed as far as the carrying-place; from which there are two leagues to a little river which falls into lake erie. here they change their vessels; they come in pettyaugres, and go down the river st. laurence to quebec in birch canoes. on the river st. laurence are several carrying-places, on account of its many falls or cataracts. those who have performed this voyage, have told me they reckoned eighteen hundred leagues from new orleans to quebec. [footnote: it is not above nine hundred leagues.] though the wabache is considered in louisiana, as the most considerable of the rivers which come from canada, and which, uniting in one bed, form the river commonly called by that name, yet all the canadian travellers assure me, that the river called ohio, and which falls into the wabache, comes a much longer way than this last; which should be a reason for giving it the name ohio; but custom has prevailed in this respect. [footnote: but not among the english; we call it the ohio.] from the wabache, and on the same side, to manchac, we see but very few rivers, and those very small ones, which fall into the missisippi, though there are nearly three hundred and fifty leagues from the wabache to manchac. [footnote: that is, from the mouth of the ohio to the river iberville, which other accounts make but two hundred and fifty leagues.] this will, doubtless, appear something extraordinary to those unacquainted with the country. the reason, that may be assigned for it, appears quite natural and striking. in all that part of louisiana, which is to the east of the missisippi, the lands are so high in the neighbourhood of the river, that in many places the rain-water runs off from the banks of the missisippi, and discharges itself into rivers, which fall either directly into the sea, or into lakes. another very probable reason is, that from the wabache to the sea, no rain falls but in sudden gusts; which defect is compensated by the abundant dews, so that the plants lose nothing by that means. the wabache has a course of three hundred { } leagues, and the ohio has its source a hundred leagues still farther off. in continuing to go down the missisippi, from the wabache to the river of the arkansas, we observe but few rivers, and those pretty small. the most considerable is that of st. francis, which is distant thirty and odd leagues from that of the arkansas. it is on this river of st. francis, that the hunters of new orleans go every winter to make salt provisions, tallow, and bears oil, for the supply of the capital. the river of the arkansas, which is thirty-five leagues lower down, and two hundred leagues from new orleans, is so denominated from the indians of that name, who dwell on its banks, a little above its confluence with the missisippi. it runs three hundred leagues, and its source is in the same latitude with santa-fé, in new mexico, in the mountains of which it rises. it runs up a little to the north for a hundred leagues, by forming a flat elbow, or winding, and returns from thence to the south-east, quite to the missisippi. it has a cataract, or fall, about the middle of its course. some call it the white river, because in its course it receives a river of that name. the great cut-point is about forty leagues below the river of the arkansas: this was a long circuit which the missisippi formerly took, and which it has abridged, by making its way through this point of land. below this river, still going towards the sea, we observe scarce any thing but brooks or rivulets, except the river of the yasous, sixty leagues lower down. this river runs but about fifty leagues, and will hardly admit of a boat for a great way: it has taken its name from the nation of the yasous, and some others dwelling on its banks. twenty-eight leagues below the river of the yasous, is a great cliff of a reddish free-stone: over-against this cliff are the great and little whirlpools. from this little river, we meet but with very small ones, till we come to the red river, called at first the marne, because nearly as big as that river, which falls into the seine. the nachitoches dwell on its banks, and it was distinguished by the name of that nation; but its common name, and which it still bears, is that of the red river. it takes its rise in new mexico, { } forms an elbow to the north, in the same manner as the river of the arkansas, falls down afterwards towards the missisippi, running south east. they generally allow it a course of two hundred leagues. at about ten leagues from its confluence it receives the black river, or the river of the wachitas, which takes its rise pretty near that of the arkansas. this rivulet, or source, forms, as is said, a fork pretty near its rise, one arm of which falls into the river of the arkansas; the largest forms the black river. twenty leagues below the red river is the little cut-point, and a league below that point are the little cliffs. from the red river to the sea we observe nothing but some small brooks: but on the east side, twenty-five leagues above new orleans, we find a channel, which is dry at low water. the inundations of the missisippi formed this channel (which is called manchac) below some high lands, which terminate near that place. it discharges itself into the lake maurepas, and from thence into that of st. louis, of which i gave an account before. the channel runs east south-east: formerly there was a passage through it; but at present it is so choaked up with dead wood, that it begins to have no water [footnote: manchac is almost dry for three quarters of the year: but during the inundation, the waters of the river have a vent through it into the lakes ponchartrain and st. louis. _dumont_, ii. . this is the river iberville, which is to be the boundary of the british dominions.] but at the place where it receives the river amité, which is pretty large, and which runs seventy leagues in a very fine country. a very small river falls into the lake maurepas, to the east of manchac. in proceeding eastward, we may pass from this lake into that of st. louis, by a river formed by the waters of the amité. in going to the north of this lake, we meet to the east the little river tandgipao. from thence proceeding always east, we come to the river quéfoncté, which is long and beautiful, and comes from the chactaws. proceeding in the same route, we meet the river castin-bayouc: we may afterwards quit the lake by the channel, which borders the same country, { } and proceeding eastward we meet with pearl river which falls into this channel. farther up the coast, which lies from west to east, we meet st. louis's bay, into which a little river of that name discharges itself: farther on, we meet the river of the paska-ogoulas: and at length we arrive at the bay of mobile, which runs upwards of thirty leagues into the country, where it receives the river of the same name, which runs for about a hundred and fifty leagues from north to south. all the rivers i have just mentioned, and which fall not into the missisippi, do in like manner run from north to south. _description of the lower_ louisiana, _and the mouths of the_ missisippi. i return to manchac, where i quitted the missisippi. at a little distance from manchac we meet the river of the plaqumines; it lies to the west, and is rather a creek than a river. three or four leagues lower down is the fork, which is channel running to the west of the missisippi, through which part of the inundations of that river run off. these waters pass through several lakes, and from thence to the sea, by ascension bay. as to the other rivers to the west of this bay, their names are unknown. the waters which fall into those lakes consist not only of such as pass through this channel, but also of those that come out of the missisippi, when overflowing its banks on each side: for, of all the water which comes out of the missisippi over its banks, not a drop ever returns into its bed; but this is only to be understood of the low lands, that is, between fifty and sixty leagues from the sea eastward, and upwards of a hundred leagues westward. it will, doubtless, seem strange, that a river which overflows its banks, should never after recover its waters again, either in whole or in part; and this will appear so much the more singular, as every where else it happens otherwise in the like circumstances. it appeared no less strange to myself; and i have on all occasions endeavoured to the utmost, to find out what could { } produce an effect, which really appeared to me very extraordinary, and, i imagine, not without success. from manchac down to the sea, it is probable, and even in some degree certain, that all the lands thereabouts are brought down and accumulated by means of the ooze which the missisippi carries along with it in its annual inundations; which begin in the month of march, by the melting of the snow to the north, and last for about three months. those oozy or muddy lands easily produce herbs and reeds; and when the missisippi happens to overflow the following year, these herbs and reeds intercept a part of this ooze, so that those at a distance from the river cannot retain so large a quantity of it, since those that grow next the river have stopt the greatest part; and by a necessary consequence, the others farther off, and in proportion as they are distant from the missisippi, can retain a much less quantity of the mud. in this manner the land rising higher along the river, in process of time the banks of the missisippi became higher than the lands about it. in like manner also these neighbouring lakes on each side of the river are remains of the sea, which are not yet filled up. other rivers have firm banks, formed by the lands of nature, a land of the same nature with the continent, and always adhering thereto: these sorts of banks, instead of augmenting, do daily diminish, either by sinking, or tumbling down into the bed of the river. the banks of the missisippi, on the contrary, increase, and cannot diminish in the low and accumulated lands; because the ooze, alone deposited on its banks, increase them; which, besides, is the reason that the missisippi becomes narrower, in place of washing away the earth, and enlarging its bed, as all other known rivers do. if we consider these facts, therefore, we ought no longer to be surprised that the waters of the missisippi, when once they have left their bed, can never return thither again. in order to prove this augmentation of lands, i shall relate what happened near orleans: one of the inhabitants caused a well to be sunk at a little distance from the missisippi, in order to procure a clearer water. at twenty feet deep there was found a tree laid flat, three feet in diameter: the height of the earth was therefore augmented twenty feet since the fall or lodging of that tree, as well by the accumulated mud, as by the { } rotting of the leaves, which fall every winter, and which the missisippi carries down in vast quantities. in effect, it sweeps down a great deal of mud, because it runs for twelve hundred leagues at least across a country which is nothing else but earth, which the depth of the river sufficiently proves. it carries down vast quantities of leaves, canes and trees, upon its waters, the breadth of which is always above half a league, and sometimes a league and a quarter. its banks are covered with much wood, sometimes for the breadth of a league on each side, from its source to its mouth. there is nothing therefore more easy to be conceived, than that this river carries down with its waters a prodigious quantity of ooze, leaves, canes and trees, which it continually tears up by the roots, and that the sea throwing back again all these things, they should necessarily produce the lands in question, and which are sensibly increasing. at the entrance of the pass or channel to the south-east, there was built a small fort, still called balise. this fort was built on a little island, without the mouth of the river. in it stood on the same spot, and i have been told that at present it is half a league within the river: the land therefore hath in twenty years gained this space on the sea. let us now resume the sequel of the geographical description of louisiana. the coast is bounded to the west by st. bernard's bay, where m. de la salle landed; into this bay a small river falls, and there are some others which discharge their waters between this bay and ascension bay; the planters seldom frequent that coast. on the east the coast is bounded by rio perdido, which the french corruptedly call aux perdrix; rio perdido signifying lost river, aptly so called by the spaniards, because it loses itself under ground, and afterwards appears again, and discharges itself into the sea, a little to the east of mobile, on which the first french planters settled. from the fork down to the sea, there is no river; nor is it possible there should be any, after what i have related: on the contrary, we find at a small distance from the fork, another channel to the east, called the bayoue of le sueur: it is full of a soft ooze or mud, and communicates with the lakes which lie to the east. { } on coming nearer to the sea, we meet, at about eight leagues from the principal mouth of the missisippi, the first pass; and a league lower down, the otter pass. these two passes or channels are only for pettyaugres. from this place there is no land fit to tread on, it being all a quagmire down to the sea. there also we find a point, which parts the mouths of the missisippi: that to the right is called the south-pass, or channel; the west point of which runs two leagues farther into the sea than the point of the south-east pass, which is to the left of that of the south pass. at first vessels entered by the south-east pass, but before we go down to it, we find to the left the east-pass, which is that by which ships enter at present. at each of these three passes or channels there is a bar, as in all other rivers: these bars are three quarters of a league broad, with only eight or nine feet water: but there is a channel through this bar, which being often subject to shift, the coasting pilot is obliged to be always sounding, in order to be sure of the pass: this channel is, at low water, between seventeen and eighteen feet deep. [footnote: i shall make no mention of the islands, which are frequent in the missisippi, as being, properly speaking, nothing but little isles, produced by some trees, though the soil be nothing but a sand bottom.] this description may suffice to shew that the falling in with the land from sea is bad; the land scarce appears two leagues off; which doubtless made the spaniards call the missisippi rio escondido, the hid river. this river is generally muddy, owing to the waters of the missouri; for before this junction the water of the missisippi is very clear. i must not omit mentioning that no ship can either enter or continue in the river when the waters are high, on account of the prodigious numbers of trees, and vast quantities of dead wood, which it carries down, and which, together with the canes, leaves, mud, and sand, which the sea throws back upon the coast, are continually augmenting the land, and make it project into the gulf of mexico, like the bill of a bird. i should be naturally led to divide louisiana into the higher and lower, on account of the great difference between { } the two principal parts of this vast country. the higher i would call that part in which we find stone, which we first meet with between the river of the natchez and that of the yasous, between which is a cliff of a fine free stone; and i would terminate that part at manchac, where the high lands end. i would extend the lower louisiana from thence down to the sea. the bottom of the lands on the hills is a red clay, and so compact, as might afford a solid foundation for any building whatever. this clay is covered by a light earth, which is almost black, and very fertile. the grass grows there knee deep; and in the bottoms, which separate these small eminences, it is higher than the tallest man. towards the end of september both are successively set on fire; and in eight or ten days young grass shoots up half a foot high. one will easily judge, that in such pastures herds of all creatures fatten extraordinarily. the flat country is watery, and appears to have been formed by every thing that comes down to the sea. i shall add, that pretty near the nachitoches, we find banks of muscle-shells, such as those of which cockle-island is formed. the neighbouring nation affirms, that according to their old tradition, the sea formerly came up to this place. the women of this nation go and gather these shells, and make a powder of them, which they mix with the earth, of which they make their pottery, or earthen ware. however, i would not advise the use of these shells indifferently for this purpose, because they are naturally apt to crack in the fire: i have therefore reason to think, that those found at the nachitoches have acquired their good quality only by the discharge of their salts, from continuing for so many ages out of the sea. if we may give credit to the tradition of these people, and if we would reason on the facts i have advanced, we shall be naturally led to believe, and indeed every thing in this country shews it, that the lower louisiana is a country gained on the sea, whose bottom is a crystal sand, white as snow, fine as flour, and such as is found both to the east and west of the missisippi; and we may expect, that in future ages the sea and river may form another land like that of the lower louisiana. the fort balise shews that a century is sufficient to extend louisiana two leagues towards the sea. { } chapter ii. _the author's journey in_ louisiana, _from the natchez to the river st. francis, and the country of the chicasaws._ ever since my arrival in louisiana, i made it my business to get information in whatever was new therein, and to make discoveries of such things as might be serviceable to society. i therefore resolved to take a journey through the country. and after leaving my plantation to the care of my friends and neighbours, i prepared for a journey into the interior parts of the province, in order to learn the nature of the soil, its various productions, and to make discoveries not mentioned by others. i wanted to travel both for my own instruction, and for the benefit of the publick: but at the same time i desired to be alone, without any of my own countrymen with me; who, as they neither have patience, nor are made for fatigue, would be ever teazing me to return again, and not readily take up either with the fare or accommodations, to be met with on such a journey. i therefore pitched upon ten indians, who were indefatigable, robust, and tractable, and sufficiently skilled in hunting, a qualification necessary on such journeys. i explained to them my whole design; told them, we should avoid passing through any inhabited countries, and would take our journeys through such as were unknown and uninhabited; because i travelled in order to discover what no one before could inform me about. this explication pleased them; and on their part they promised, i should have no reason to be dissatisfied with them. but they objected, they were under apprehensions of losing themselves in countries they did not know. to remove these apprehensions, i shewed them a mariner's compass, which removed all their difficulties, after i had explained to them the manner of using it, in order to avoid losing our way. we set out in the month of september, which is the best season of the year for beginning a journey in this country: in the first place, because, during the summer, the grass is too high for travelling; whereas in the month of september, the meadows, the grass of which is then dry, are set on fire, and { } the ground becomes smooth, and easy to walk on: and hence it is, that at this time, clouds of smoke are seen for several days together to extend over a long track of country; sometimes to the extent of between twenty and thirty leagues in length, by two or three leagues in breadth, more or less, according as the wind sets, and is higher or lower. in the second place, this season is the most commodious for travelling over those countries; because, by means of the rain, which ordinarily falls after the grass is burnt, the game spread themselves all over the meadows, and delight to feed on the new grass; which is the reason why travellers more easily find provisions at this time than at any other. what besides facilitates these excursions in autumn, or in the beginning of winter, is, that all works in the fields are then at an end, or at least the hurry of them is over. for the first days of our journey the game was pretty rare, because they shun the neighbourhood of men; if you except the deer, which are spread all over the country, their nature being to roam indifferently up and down; so that at first we were obliged to put up with this fare. we often met with flights of partridges, which the natives cannot kill, because they cannot shoot flying; i killed some for a change. the second day i had a turkey-hen brought to regale me. the discoverer, who killed it, told me, there were a great many in the same place, but that he could do nothing without a dog. i have often heard of a turkey-chace, but never had an opportunity of being at one: i went with him and took my dog along with me. on coming to the spot, we soon descried the hens, which ran off with such speed, that the swiftest indian would lose his labour in attempting to outrun them. my dog soon came up with them, which made them take to their wings, and perch on the next trees; as long as they are not pursued in this manner, they only run, and are soon out of sight. i came near their place of retreat, killed the largest, a second, and my discoverer a third. we might have killed the whole flock; for, while they see any men, they never quit the tree they have once perched on. shooting scares them not, as they only look at the bird that drops, and set up a timorous cry, as he falls. { } before i proceed, it is proper to say a word concerning my discoverers, or scouts. i had always three of them out, one a-head, and one on each hand of me; commonly distant a league from me, and as much from each other. their condition of scouts prevented not their carrying each his bed, and provisions for thirty-six hours upon occasion. though those near my own person were more loaded, i however sent them out, sometimes one, sometimes another, either to a neighbouring mountain or valley: so that i had three or four at least, both on my right and left, who went out to make discoveries a small distance off. i did thus, in order to have nothing to reproach myself with, in point of vigilance, since i had begun to take the trouble of making discoveries. the next business was, to make ourselves mutually understood, notwithstanding our distance: we agreed, therefore, on certain signals, which are absolutely necessary on such occasions. every day, at nine in the morning, at noon, and at three in the afternoon, we made a smoke. this signal was the hour marked for making a short halt, in order to know, whether the scouts followed each other, and whether they were nearly at the distance agreed on. these smokes were made at the hours i mentioned, which are the divisions of the day according to the indians. they divide their day into four equal parts; the first contains the half of the morning; the second is at noon; the third comprizes the half of the afternoon; and the fourth, the other half of the afternoon to the evening. it was according to this usage our signals were mutually made, by which we regulated our course, and places of rendezvous. we marched for some days without finding any thing which could either engage my attention, or satisfy my curiosity. true it is, this was sufficiently made up in another respect; as we travelled over a charming country, which might justly furnish our painters of the finest imagination with genuine notions of landskips. mine, i own, was highly delighted with the sight of fine plains, diversified with very extensive and highly delightful meadows. the plains were intermixed with thickets, planted by the hand of nature herself; and interspersed with hills, running off in gentle declivities, and with { } valleys, thick set, and adorned with woods, which serve for a retreat to the most timorous animals, as the thickets screen the buffaloes from the abundant dews of the country. i longed much to kill a buffalo with my own hand; i therefore told my people my intention to kill one of the first herd we should meet; nor did a day pass, in which we did not see several herds; the least of which exceeded a hundred and thirty or a hundred and fifty in number. next morning we espied a herd of upwards of two hundred. the wind stood as i could have wished, being in our faces, and blowing from the herd; which is a great advantage in this chace; because when the wind blows from you towards the buffaloes, they come to scent you, and run away, before you can come within gun-shot of them; whereas, when the wind blows from them on the hunters, they do not fly till they can distinguish you by sight; and then, what greatly favours your coming very near to them is, that the curled hair, which falls down between their horns upon their eyes, is so bushy, as greatly to confuse their sight. in this manner i came within full gun-shot of them, pitched upon one of the fattest, shot him at the extremity of the shoulder, and brought him down stone-dead. the natives, who stood looking on, were ready to fire, had i happened to wound him but slightly; for in that case, these animals are apt to turn upon the hunter, who thus wounds them. upon seeing the buffalo drop down dead, and the rest taking to flight, the natives told me, with a smile: "you kill the males, do you intend to make tallow?" i answered, i did it on purpose, to shew them the manner of making him good meat, though a male. i caused his belly to be opened quite warm, the entrails to be taken out directly, the bunch, tongue, and chines to be cut out; one of the chines to be laid on the coals, of which i made them all taste; and they all agreed the meat was juicy, and of an exquisite flavour. i then took occasion to remonstrate to them, that if, instead of killing the cows, as was always their custom, they killed the bulls, the difference in point of profit would be very considerable: { } as, for instance, a good commerce with the french in tallow, with which the bulls abound; bull's flesh is far more delicate and tender than cow's; a third advantage is, the selling of the skins at a higher rate, as being much better; in fine, this kind of game, so advantageous to the country, would thereby escape being quite destroyed; whereas, by killing the cows, the breed of these animals is greatly impaired. i made a soup, that was of an exquisite flavour, but somewhat fat, of the broth boiled from the marrow-bones of this buffalo, the rest of the broth serving to make maiz-gruel, called sagamity, which to my taste surpassed the best dish in france: the bunch on the back would have graced the table of a prince. in the route i held, i kept more on the sides of the hills than on the plains. above some of these sides, or declivities, i found, in some places, little eminences, which lay peeled, or bare, and disclosed a firm and compact clay, or pure matrix, and of the species of that of lapis calaminaris. the intelligent in mineralogy understand what i would be at. the little grass, which grows there, was observed to droop, as also three or four misshapen trees, no bigger than one's leg; one of which i caused to be cut down; when, to my astonishment, i saw it was upwards of sixty years standing. the neighbouring country was fertile, in proportion to its distance from this spot. near that place we saw game of every kind, and in plenty, and never towards the summit. we crossed the missisippi several times upon cajeux (rafts, or floats, made of several bundles of canes, laid across each other; a kind of extemporaneous pontoon,) in order to take a view of mountains which had raised my curiosity. i observed, that both sides of the river had their several advantages; but that the west side is better watered; appeared also to be more fruitful both in minerals, and in what relates to agriculture; for which last it seems much more adapted than the east side. notwithstanding our precaution to make signals, one of my scouts happened one day to stray, because the weather was { } foggy; so that he did not return at night to our hut; at which i was very uneasy, and could not sleep; as he was not returned, though the signals of call had been repeated till night closed. about nine the next morning he cast up, telling us he had been in pursuit of a drove of deer, which were led by one that was altogether white: but that not being able to come up with them, he picked up, on the side of a hill, some small sharp stones, of which he brought a sample. these stones i received with pleasure, because i had not yet seen any in all this country, only a hard red free-stone in a cliff on the missisippi. after carefully examining those which my discoverer brought me, i found they were a gypsum. i took home some pieces, and on my return examined them more attentively; found them to be very clear, transparent, and friable; when calcined, they turned extremely white, and with them i made some factitious marble. this gave me hopes that this country, producing plaster of paris, might, besides, have stones for building. i wanted to see the spot myself: we set out about noon, and travelled for about three leagues before we came to it. i examined the spot, which to me appeared to be a large quarry of plaster. as to the white deer above mentioned, i learned from the indians, that some such were to be met with, though but rarely, and that only in countries not frequented by the hunters. the wind being set in for rain, we resolved to put ourselves under shelter. the place where the bad weather overtook us was very fit to set up at. on going out to hunt, we discovered at five hundred paces off, in the defile, or narrow pass, a brook of a very clear water, a very commodious watering-place for the buffaloes, which were in great numbers all around us. my companions soon raised a cabin, well-secured to the north. as we resolved to continue there for eight days at least, they made it so close as to keep out the cold: in the night, i felt nothing of the severity of the north wind, though i lay but lightly covered. my bed consisted of a bear's skin, and two robes or coats of buffalo; the bear skin, with the flesh side { } undermost, being laid on leaves, and the pile uppermost by way of straw-bed; one of the buffalo coats folded double by way of feather-bed; one half of the other under me served for a matrass, and the other over me for a coverlet: three canes, or boughs, bent to a semicircle, one at the head, another in the middle, and a third at the feet, supported a cloth which formed my tester and curtains, and secured me from the injuries of the air, and the stings of gnats and moskitto's. my indians had their ordinary hunting and travelling beds, which consist of a deer skin and a buffalo coat, which they always carry with them, when they expect to lie out of their villages. we rested nine days, and regaled ourselves with choice buffalo, turkey, partridge, pheasants, &c. the discovery i had made of the plaster, put me to look out, during our stay, in all the places round about, for many leagues. i was at last tired of beating about such fine plains, without discovering the least thing, and i had resolved to go forward to the north when at the noon-signal the scout a-head waited to shew me a shining and sharp stone, of the length and size of one's thumb, and as square as a joiner could have made a piece of wood of the same bigness. i imagined it might be rock-crystal; to be assured thereof, i took a large musquet flint in my left hand, presenting its head, or thick end, on which i struck with one of the edges of the crystal, and drew much more fire than with the finest steel: and notwithstanding the many strokes i gave, the piece of crystal was not in the least scratched or streaked. i examined these stones, and found pieces of different magnitudes, some square, others with six faces, even and smooth like mirrors, highly transparent, without any veins or spots. some of these pieces jutted out of the earth, like ends of beams, two feet and upwards in length; others in considerable numbers, from seven to nine inches; above all, those with six panes or faces. there was a great number of a middling and smaller sort: my people wanted to carry some with them; but i dissuaded them. my reason was, i apprehended some frenchman might by presents prevail on them to discover the place. { } for my part, i carefully observed the latitude, and followed, on setting out, a particular point of the compass, to come to a river which i knew. i took that route, under pretense of going to a certain nation to procure dry provisions, which we were in want of, and which are of great help on a journey. we arrived, after seven days march, at that nation, by whom we were well received. my hunters brought in daily many duck and teal. i agreed with the natives of the place for a large pettyaugre of black walnut, to go down the river, and afterwards to go up the missisippi. i had a strong inclination to go up still higher north, in order to discover mines. we embarked, and the eleventh day of our passage i caused the pettyaugre to be unladen of every thing, and concealed in the water, which was then low. i loaded seven men with the things we had. matters thus ordered, we set out according to the intention i had to go to the northward. i observed every day, with new pleasure, the more we advanced to that quarter, the more beautiful and fertile the country was, abounding in game of every kind: the herds of deer are numerous; at every turn we meet with them; and not a day passed without seeing herds of buffaloes, sometimes five or six, of upwards of an hundred in a drove. in such journeys as these we always take up our night's lodging near wood and water, where we put up in good time: then at sun-set, when every thing in nature is hushed, we were charmed with the enchanting warbling of different birds; so that one would be inclined to say, they reserved this favourable moment for the melody and harmony of their song, to celebrate undisturbed and at their ease, the benefits of the creator. on the other hand, we are disturbed in the night, by the hideous noise of the numberless water-fowls that are to be seen on the missisippi, and every river or lake near it, such as cranes, flamingo's, wild geese, herons, saw-bills, ducks, &c. as we proceeded further north, we began to see flocks of swans roam through the air, mount out of sight, and proclaim { } their passage by their piercing shrill cries. we for some days followed the course of a river, at the head of which we found, in a very retired place, a beaver-dam. we set up our hut within reach of this retreat, or village of beavers, but at such a distance, as that they could not observe our fire. i put my people on their guard against making any noise, or firing their pieces, for fear of scaring those animals; and thought it even necessary to forbid them to cut any wood, the better to conceal ourselves. after taking all these precautions, we rose and were on foot against the time of moonshine, posted ourselves in a place as distant from the huts of the beavers, as from the causey or bank, which dammed up the waters of the place where they were. i took my fusil and pouch, according to my custom of never travelling without them. but each indian was only to take with him a little hatchet, which all travellers in this country carry with them. i took the oldest of my retinue, after having pointed out to the others the place of ambush, and the manner in which the branches of trees we had cut were to be set to cover us. i then went towards the middle of the dam, with my old man, who had his hatchet, and ordered him softly to make a gutter or trench, a foot wide, which he began on the outside of the causey or dam, crossing it quite to the water. this he did by removing the earth with his hands. as soon as the gutter was finished, and the water ran into it, we speedily, and without any noise, retired to our place of ambush, in order to observe the behaviour of the beavers in repairing this breach. a little after we were got behind our screen of boughs, we heard the water of the gutter begin to make a noise: and a moment after, a beaver came out of his hut and plunged into the water. we could only know this by the noise, but we saw him at once upon the bank or dam, and distinctly perceived that he took a survey of the gutter, after which he instantly gave with all his force four blows with his tail; and had scarce struck the fourth, but all the beavers threw themselves pell-mell into the water, and came upon the dam: when they were all come thither, one of them muttered and mumbled to the { } rest (who all stood very attentive) i know not what orders, but which they doubtless understood well, because they instantly departed, and went out on the banks of the pond, one party one way; another, another way. those next us were between us and the dam, and we at the proper distance not to be seen, and to observe them. some of them made mortar, others carried it on their tails, which served for sledges. i observed they put themselves two and two, side by side, the one with his head to the other's tail, and thus mutually loaded each other, and trailed the mortar, which was pretty stiff, quite to the dam, where others remained to take it, put it into the gutter, and rammed it with blows of their tails. the noise which the water made before by its fall, soon ceased, and the breach was closed in a short time: upon which one of the beavers struck two great blows with his tail, and instantly they all took to the water without any noise, and disappeared. we retired, in order to take a little rest in our hut, where we remained till day; but as soon as it appeared, i longed much to satisfy my curiosity about these creatures. my people together made a pretty large and deep breach, in order to view the construction of the dam, which i shall describe presently: we then made noise enough without further ceremony. this noise, and the water, which the beavers observed soon to lower, gave them much uneasiness; so that i saw one of them at different times come pretty near to us, in order to examine what passed. as i apprehended that when the water was run off they would all take flight to the woods, we quitted the breach, and went to conceal ourselves all round the pond, in order to kill only one, the more narrowly to examine it; especially as these beavers were of the grey kind, which are not so common as the brown. one of the beavers ventured to go upon the breach, after having several times approached it, and returned again like a spy. i lay in ambush in the bottom, at the end of the dam: i saw him return; he surveyed the breach, then struck four blows, which saved his life, for i then aimed at him. but these { } four blows, so well struck, made me judge it was the signal of call for all the rest, just as the night before. this also made me think he might be the overseer of the works, and i did not choose to deprive the republic of beavers of a member who appeared so necessary to it. i therefore waited till others should appear: a little after, one came and passed close by me, in order to go to work; i made no scruple to lay him at his full length, on the persuasion he might only be a common labourer. my shot made them all return to their cabins, with greater speed than a hundred blows of the tail of their overseer could have done. as soon as i had killed this beaver, i called my companions; and finding the water did not run off quick enough, i caused the breach to be widened, and i examined the dead. i observed these beavers to be a third less than the brown or common sort, but their make the same; having the same head, same sharp teeth, same beards, legs as short, paws equally furnished with claws, and with membranes or webs, and in all respects made like the others. the only difference is, that they are of an ash-gray, and that the long pile, which passes over the soft wool, is silvered, or whitish. during this examination, i caused my people to cut boughs, canes, and reeds, to be thrown in towards the end of the pond, in order to pass over the little mud which was in that place; and at the same time i caused some shot to be fired on the cabins that lay nearest us. the report of the guns, and the rattling of the shot on the roofs of the cabins, made them all fly into the woods with the greatest precipitation imaginable. we came at length to a cabin, in which there were not six inches of water. i caused to undo the roof without breaking any thing, during which i saw the piece of aspin-tree, which was laid under the cabin for their provisions. i observed fifteen pieces of wood, with their bark in part gnawed. the cabin also had fifteen cells round the hole in the middle, at which they went out; which made me think each had his own cell. i am now to give a sketch of the architecture of these amphibious animals, and an account of their villages; it is thus { } i call the place of their abode, after the canadians and the indians, with whom i agree; and allow, these animals deserve, so much the more to be distinguished from others, as i find their instinct far superior to that of other animals. i shall not carry the parallel any farther, it might become offensive. [illustration: top: _beaver_--middle: _beaver lodge_--bottom: _beaver dam_] the cabins of the beavers are round, having about ten or twelve feet in diameter, according to the number, more or { } less, of fixed inhabitants. i mean, that this diameter is to be taken on the flooring at about a foot above the water, when it is even with the dam: but as the upper part runs to a point, the under is much larger than the flooring, which we may represent to ourselves, by supposing all the upright posts to resemble the legs of a great a, whose middle stroke is the flooring. these posts are picked out, and we might say, well proportioned, seeing, at the height this flooring is to be laid at, there is a hook for bearing bars, which by that means form the circumference of the flooring. the bars again bear traverses, or cross pieces of timber, which are the joists; canes and grass complete this flooring, which has a hole in the middle to go out at, when they please, and into this all the cells open. the dam is formed of timbers, in the shape of st. andrew's cross, or of a great x, laid close together, and kept firm by timbers laid lengthwise, which are continued from one end of the dam to the other, and placed on the st. andrew's crosses: the whole is filled with earth, clapped close by great blows of their tails. the inside of the dam, next the water, is almost perpendicular; but on the outside it has a great slope, that grass coming to grow thereon, may prevent the water that passes there, to carry away the earth. i saw them neither cut nor convey the timbers along, but it is to be presumed their manner is the same as that of other beavers, who never cut but a soft wood; for which purpose they use their fore-teeth, which are extremely sharp. these timbers they push and roll before them on the land, as they do on the water, till they come to the place where they want to lay them. i observed these grey beavers to be more chilly, or sensible of cold, than the other species: and it is doubtless for this reason they draw nearer to the south. we set out from this place to come to a high ground, which seemed to be continued to a great distance. we came the same evening to the foot of it, but the day was too far advanced to ascend it. the day following we went to its top, found it a flat, except some small eminences at intervals. there appeared to be very little wood on it, still less water, and least of all stone; though probably there may be some in its bowels, having { } observed some stones in a part where the earth was tumbled down. we accurately examined all this rising ground, without discovering any thing; and though that day we travelled upwards of five leagues, yet we were not three leagues distant from the hut we set out from in the morning. this high ground would have been a very commodious situation for a fine palace; as from its edges is a very distant prospect. next day, after a ramble of about two leagues and a half, i had the signal of call to my right. i instantly flew thither; and when i came, the scout shewed me a stump sticking out of the earth knee high, and nine inches in diameter. the indian took it at a distance for the stump of a tree, and was surprised to find wood cut in a country which appeared to have been never frequented: but when he came near enough to form a judgement about it, he saw from the figure, that it was a very different thing: and this was the reason he made the signal of call. i was highly pleased at this discovery, which was that of a lead-ore. i had also the satisfaction to find my perseverance recompensed; but in particular i was ravished with admiration, on seeing this wonderful production, and the power of the soil of this province, constraining, as it were, the minerals to disclose themselves. i continued to search all around, and i discovered ore in several places. we returned to lodge at our last hut, on account of the convenience of water, which was too scarce on this high ground. we set out from thence, in order to come nearer to the missisippi: through every place we passed, nothing but herds of buffaloes, elk, deer, and other animals of every kind, were to be seen; especially near rivers and brooks. bears, on the other hand, keep in the thick woods, where they find their proper food. after a march of five days i espied a mountain to my right, which seemed so high as to excite my curiosity. next morning i directed thither my course, where we arrived about three in the afternoon. we stopped at the foot of the mountain, where we found a fine spring issuing out of the rock. { } the day following we went up to its top, where it is stony. though there is earth enough for plants, yet they are so thin sown, that hardly two hundred could be found on an acre of ground. trees are also very rare on that spot, and these poor, meagre, and cancerous. the stones i found there are all fit for making lime. we from thence took the route that should carry us to our pettyaugre, a journey but of a few days. we drew the pettyaugre out of the water, and there passed the night. next day we crossed the missisippi; in going up which we killed a she-bear, with her cubs: for during the winter, the banks of the missisippi are lined with them; and it is rare, in going up the river, not to see many cross it in a day, in search of food: the want of which makes them quit the banks. i continued my route in going up the missisippi quite to the chicasaw cliffs, (ecores à prud'homme) where i was told i should find something for the benefit of the colony: this was what excited my curiosity. being arrived at those cliffs we landed, and concealed, after unlading it, the pettyaugre in the water; and from that day i sought, and at length found the iron-mine, of which i had some hints given me. after being sure of this, i carefully searched all around, to find castine: but this was impossible: however, i believe it may be found higher up in ascending the missisippi, but that care i leave to those who hereafter shall choose to undertake the working that mine. i had, however, some amends made me for my trouble; as in searching, i found some marks of pit-coal in the neighbourhood, a thing at least as useful in other parts of the colony as in this. after having made my reflections, i resolved in a little time to return home; but being loth to leave so fine a country, i penetrated a little farther into it; and in his short excursion i espied a small hill, all bare and parched, having on its top only two trees in a very drooping condition, and scarce any grass, besides some little tufts, distant enough asunder, which grew on a very firm clay. the bottom of this hill was not so barren, and the adjacent country fertile as in other parts. { } these indications made me presume there might be a mine in that spot. i at length returned towards the missisippi, in order to meet again the pettyaugre. as in all this country, and in all the height of the colony we find numbers of buffaloes, elk, deer, and other game; so we find numbers of wolves, some tigers, cat-a-mounts, (pichous) and carrion-crows, all of them carnivorous animals, which i shall hereafter describe. when we came near the missisippi we made the signal of recognition, which was answered, though at some distance. it was there my people killed some buffaloes, to be dressed and cured in their manner, for our journey. we embarked at length, and went down the missisippi, till we came within a league of the common landing-place. the indians hid the pettyaugre, and went to their village. as for myself, i got home towards dusk, where i found my neighbours and slaves surprised, and at the same time glad, at my unexpected return, as if it had been from a hunting-match in the neighbourhood. i was really well pleased to have got home, to see my slaves in perfect health, and all my affairs in good order: but i was strongly impressed with the beauties of the countries i had seen. i could have wished to end my days in those charming solitudes, at a distance from the tumultuous hurry of the world, far from the pinching gripe of avarice and deceit. there it is, said i to myself, one relishes a thousand innocent delights, and which are repeated with a satisfaction ever new. it is there one lives exempt from the assaults of censure, detraction, and calumny. in those delightsome meadows, which often extend far out of sight, and where we see so many different species of animals, there it is we have occasion to admire the beneficence of the creator. to conclude, there it is, that at the gentle purling of a pure and living water, and enchanted with the concerts of birds, which fill the neighbouring thickets, we may agreeably contemplate the wonders of nature, and examine them all at our leisure. i had reasons for concealing my journey, and stronger reasons still to suppress what i had discovered, in order to avail myself thereof afterwards: but the crosses i underwent, and { } the misfortunes of my life, have, to this day, prevented me from profiting by these discoveries, in returning to that charming country, and even so much as to lay them before the public. chapter iii. _of the nature of the lands of louisiana. the lands on the coast._ in order to describe the nature of this country with some method, i shall first speak of the place we land at, and shall therefore begin with the coast: i shall then go up the missisippi; the reverse of what i did in the geographical description, in which i described that river from its source down to its mouth. the coast, which was the first inhabited, extends from rio perdido to the lake of st. louis: this ground is a very fine land, white as snow, and so dry, as not to be fit to produce any thing but pine, cedar, and some ever-green oaks. the river mobile is the most considerable of that coast to the east. [footnote: this river, which they call mobile, and which after the rains of winter is a fine river in spring, is but a brook in summer, especially towards its source. _dumont_, ii, .] it rolls its waters over a pure sand, which cannot make it muddy. but if this water is clear, it partakes of the sterility of its bottom, so that it is far from abounding so much in fish as the missisippi. its banks and neighbourhood are not very fertile from its source down to the sea. the ground is stony, and scarce any thing but gravel, mixt with a little earth. though these lands are not quite barren, there is a wide difference between their productions and those of the lands in the neighbourhood of the missisippi. mountains there are, but whether stone fit for building, i know not. in the confines of the river of the alibamous (creeks) the lands are better: the river falls into the mobile, above the bay of the same name. this bay may be about thirty leagues in length, after having received the mobile, which runs from { } north to south for about one hundred and fifty leagues. on the banks of this river was the first settlement of the french in louisiana, which stood till new orleans was founded, which is at this day the capital of the colony. the lands and water of the mobile are not only unfruitful in all kinds of vegetables and fish, but the nature of the waters and the soil contributes also to prevent the multiplication of animals; even women have experienced this. i understood by madam hubert, whose husband was at my arrival commissary director of the colony, that in the time the french were in that post, there were seven or eight barren women, who all became fruitful, after settling with their husbands on the banks of the missisippi, where the capital was built, and whither the settlement was removed. fort st. louis of mobile was the french post. this fort stands on the banks of that river, near another small river, called dog river, which falls into the bay to the south of the fort. though these countries are not so fertile as those in the neighbourhood of the missisippi; we are, however, to observe, that the interior parts of the country are much better than those near the sea. on the coast to the west of mobile, we find islands not worth mentioning. from the sources of the river of the paska-ogoulas, quite to those of the river of quefoncté, which falls into the lake of st. louis, the lands are light and fertile, but something gravelly, on account of the neighbourhood of the mountains that lie to the north. this country is intermixt with extensive hills, fine meadows, numbers of thickets, and sometimes with woods, thick set with cane, particularly on the banks of rivers and brooks; and is extremely proper for agriculture. the mountains which i said these countries have to the north, form nearly the figure of a chaplet, with one end pretty near the missisippi, the other on the banks of the mobile. the inner part of this chaplet or chain is filled with hills; which { } are pretty fertile in grass, simples, fruits of the country, horse-chesnuts, and wild-chesnuts, as large, and at least as good as those of lyons. to the north of this chain of mountains lies the country of the chicasaws, very fine and free of mountains: it has only very extensive and gentle eminences, or rising grounds, fertile groves and meadows, which in springtime are all over red, from the great plenty of wood strawberries: in summer, the plains exhibit the most beautiful enamel, by the quantity and variety of the flowers: in autumn, after the setting fire to the grass, they are covered with mushrooms. all the countries i have just mentioned are stored with game of every kind. the buffalo is found on the most rising grounds; the partridge in thick open woods, such as the groves in meadows; the elks delight in large forests, as also the pheasant; the deer, which is a roving animal, is every where to be met with, because in whatever place it may happen to be, it always has something to browse on. the ring-dove here flies in winter with such rapidity, as to pass over a great deal of country in a few hours; ducks and other aquatick game are in such numbers, that wherever there is water, we are sure to find many more than it is possible for us to shoot, were we to do nothing else; and thus we find game in every place, and fish in plenty in the rivers. let us resume the coast; which, though flat and dry, on account of its sand, abounds with delicious fish, and excellent shell-fish. but the crystal sand, which is pernicious to the sight by its whiteness, might it not be adapted for making some beautiful composition or manufacture? here i leave the learned to find out what use this sand may be of. if this coast is flat, it has in this respect an advantage; as we might say, nature wanted to make it so, in order to be self-defended against the descent of an enemy. coming out of the bay of paska-ogoulas, if we still proceed west, we meet in our way with the bay of old biloxi, where a fort was built, and a settlement begun; but a great fire, spread by a violent wind, destroyed it in a few moments, which in prudence ought never to have been built at all. { } those who settled at old biloxi could not, doubtless, think of quitting the sea-coast. they settled to the west, close to new-biloxi, on a sand equally dry and pernicious to the sight. in this place the large grants happened to be laid off, which were extremely inconvenient to have been made on so barren a soil; where it was impossible to find the least plant or greens for any money, and where the hired servants died with hunger in the most fertile colony in the whole world. in pursuing the same route and the same coast westward, the lands are still the same, quite to the small bay of st. louis, and to the channels, which lead to the lake of that name. at a distance from the sea the earth is of a good quality, fit for agriculture; as being a light soil, but something gravelly. the coast to the north of the bay of st. louis is of a different nature, and much more fertile. the lands at a greater distance to the north of this last coast, are not very distant from the missisippi; they are also much more fruitful than those to the cast of this bay in the same latitude. in order to follow the sea-coast down to the mouth of the missisippi, we must proceed almost south, quitting the channel. i have elsewhere mentioned, that we have to pass between cat-island, which we leave to the left, and cockle-island, which we leave to the right. in making this ideal route, we pass over banks almost level with the water, covered with a vast number of islets; we leave to the left the candlemas-isles, which are only heaps of sand, having the form of a gut cut in pieces; they rise but little above the sea, and scarcely yield a dozen of plants, just as in the neighbouring islets i have now mentioned. we leave to the right lake borgne, which is another outlet of the lake st. louis, and continuing the same route by several outlets for a considerable way, we find a little open clear sea, and the coast to the right, which is but a quagmire, gradually formed by a very soft ooze, on which some reeds grow. this coast leads soon to the east pass or channel, which is one of the mouths of the missisippi, and this we find bordered with a like soil, if indeed it deserves the name of soil. there is, moreover, the south-east pass, where stands balise, and the south pass, which projects farther into the sea. { } balise is a fort built on an island of sand, secured by a great number of piles bound with good timber-work. there are lodgings in it for the officers and the garrison; and a sufficient number of guns for defending the entrance of the missisippi. it is there they take the bar-pilot on board, in order to bring the ships into the river. all the passes and entrances of the missisippi are as frightful to the eye, as the interior part of the colony is delightful to it. the quagmires continue still for about seven leagues going up the missisippi, at the entrance of which we meet a bar, three fourths of a league broad; which we cannot pass without the bar-pilot, who alone is acquainted with the channel. all the west coast resembles that which i mentioned, from mobile to the bay of st. louis; it is equally flat, formed of a like sand, and a bar of isles, which lengthen out the coast, and hinder a descent; the coast continues thus, going westward, quite to ascension bay, and even a little farther. its soil also is also barren, and in every respect like to that i have just mentioned. i again enter the missisippi, and pass with speed over these quagmires, incapable to bear up the traveller, and which only afford a retreat to gnats and moskittos, and to some water-fowl, which, doubtless, find food to live on, and that in security. on coming out of these marshes, we find a neck of land on each side of the missisippi; this indeed is firm land, but lined with marshes, resembling those at the entrance of the river. for the space of three or four leagues, this neck of land is at first bare of trees, but comes after to be covered with them, so as to intercept the winds, which the ships require, in order to go up the river to the capital. this land, though very narrow, is continued, together with the trees it bears, quite to the english reach, which is defended by two forts; one to the right, the other to the left of the missisippi. the origin of the name, english reach, (detour aux anglois) is differently assigned. i made enquiry of the oldest of the country, to what circumstance this reach might owe its { } name. and they told me, that before the first settlement of the french in this colony, the english, having heard of the beauty of the country, which they had, doubtless, visited before, in going thither from carolina by land, attempted to make themselves masters of the entrance of the missisippi, and to go up the river, in order to fortify themselves on the first firm ground they could meet. excited by that jealousy which is natural to them, they took such precautions as they imagined to be proper, in order to succeed. the indians on their part, who had already seen or heard of several people (french) having gone up and down the missisippi at different times; the indians, i say, who, perhaps, were not so well pleased with such neighbours, were still more frightened at seeing a ship enter the river, which determined them to stop its passage; but this was impossible, as long as the english had any wind, of which they availed themselves quite to this reach. these indians were the ouachas and chaouachas, who dwelt to the west of the missisippi, and below this reach. there were of them on each side of the river, and they lying in the canes, observed the english, and followed them as they went up, without daring to attack them. when the english were come to the entrance of this reach, the little wind they had failed them; observing besides, that the missisippi made a great turn or winding, they despaired of succeeding; and wanted to moor in this spot, for which purpose they must bring a rope to land: but the indians shot a great number of arrows at them, till the report of a cannon, fired at random, scattered them, and gave the signal to the english to go on board, for fear the indians should come in greater numbers, and cut them to pieces. such is the origin of the name of this reach. the missisippi in this place forms the figure of a crescent, almost closed; so that the same wind which brings up a ship, proves often contrary, when come to the reach; and this is the reason that ships moor, and go up towed, or tacking. this reach is six or seven leagues; some assign it eight, more or less, according as they happen to make way. { } the lands on both sides of this reach are inhabited, though the depth of soil is inconsiderable. immediately above this reach stands new orleans, the capital of this colony, on the east of the missisippi. a league behind the town, directly back from the river, we meet with a bayouc or creek, which can bear large boats with oars. in following this bayouc for the space of a league, we go to the lake st. louis, and after traversing obliquely this last, we meet the channels, which lead to mobile, where i began my description of the nature of the soil of louisiana. the ground on which new orleans is situated, being an earth accumulated by the ooze, in the same manner as is that both below and above, a good way from the capital, is of a good quality for agriculture, only that it is strong, and rather too fat. this land being flat, and drowned by the inundations for several ages, cannot fail to be kept in moisture, there being, moreover, only a mole or bank to prevent the river from over-flowing it; and would be even too moist, and incapable of cultivation, had not this mole been made, and ditches, close to each other, to facilitate the draining off the waters: by this means it has been put in a condition to be cultivated with success. from new orleans to manchac on the east of the missisippi, twenty-five leagues above the capital, and quite to the fork to the west, almost over-against manchac, and a little way off, the lands are of the same kind and quality with those of new orleans. chapter iv. _quality of the lands above the_ fork. _a quarry of stone for building_. _high lands to the east: their vast fertility. west coast: west lands: saltpetre_. to the west, the fork, the lands are pretty flat, but exempt from inundations. the part best known of these lands is called baya-ogoula, a name framed bayouc and ogoula, which signifies the nation dwelling near the bayouc; there having been a nation of that name in that place, when the first frenchmen { } came down the missisippi; it lies twenty-five leagues from the capital. [illustration: _indians of the north leaving in the winter with their families for a hunt_] but to the east, the lands are a good deal higher, seeing from manchac to the river wabache they are between an hundred and two hundred feet higher than the missisippi in its greatest floods. the slope of these lands goes off perpendicularly from the missisippi, which on that side receives but few rivers, and those very small, if we except the river of the yasous, whose course is not above fifty leagues. all these high lands are, besides, surmounted, in a good many places, by little eminences, or small hills, and rising grounds running off lengthwise, with gentle slopes. it is only when we go a little way from the missisippi, that we find these high lands are over-topped by little mountains, which appear to be all of earth, though steep, without the least gravel or pebble being perceived on them. the soil on these high lands is very good; it is a black light mold, about three feet deep on the hills or rising grounds. this upper earth lies upon a reddish clay, very strong and stiff; the lowest places between these hills are of the same nature, { } but there the black earth is between five and six feet deep. the grass growing in the hollows is of the height of a man, and very slender and fine; whereas the grass of the same meadow on the high lands rises scarce knee deep; as it does on the highest eminences, unless there is found something underneath, which not only renders the grass shorter, but even prevents its growth by the efficacy of some exhalations; which is not ordinarily the case on hills, though rising high, but only on the mountains properly so called. my experience in architecture having taught me, that several quarries have been found under a clay like this, i was always of opinion there must be some in those hills. since i made these reflections, i have had occasion, in my journey to the country, to confirm these conjectures. we had set up our hut at the foot of an eminence, which was steep towards us, and near a fountain, whose water was lukewarm and pure. this fountain appeared to me to issue out of a hole, which was formed by the sinking of the earth. i stooped in order to take a better view of it, and i observed stone, which to the eye appeared proper for building, and the upper part which was this clay, which is peculiar to the country. i was highly pleased to be thus ascertained, that there was stone fit for building in this colony, where it is imagined there is none, because it does not come out of the earth to shew-itself. it is not to be wondered, that there is none to be found in the lower louisiana, which is only an earth accumulated by ooze; but it is far more extraordinary, not to see a flint, nor even a pebble on the hills, for upwards of an hundred leagues sometimes; however, this is a thing common in this province. i imagine i ought to assign a reason for it, which seems pretty probable to me. this land has never been turned, or dug, and is very close above the clay, which is extremely hard, and covers the stone, which cannot shew itself through such a covering: it is therefore no such surprise, that we observe no stone out of the earth in these plains and on these eminences. { } all these high lands are generally meadows and forests of tall trees, with grass up to the knee. along gullies they prove to be thickets, in which wood of every kind is found, and also the fruits of the country. almost all these lands on the east of the river are such as i have described; that is, the meadows are on those high grounds, whose slope is very gentle; we also find there tall forests, and thickets in the low bottoms. in the meadows we observe here and there groves of very tall and straight oaks, to the number of fourscore or an hundred at most: there are others of about forty or fifty, which seem to have been planted by men's hands in these meadows, for a retreat to the buffaloes, deer, and other animals, and a screen against storms, and the sting of the flies. the tall forests are all hiccory, or all oak: in these last we find a great many morels; but then there grows a species of mushrooms at the feet of felled walnut-trees, which the indians carefully gather; i tasted of them, and found them good. the meadows are not only covered with grass fit for pasture, but produce quantities of wood-strawberries in the month of april; for the following months the prospect is charming; we scarce observe a pile of grass, unless what we tread under foot; the flowers, which are then in all their beauty, exhibit to the view the most ravishing sight, being diversified without end; one in particular i have remarked, which would adorn the most beautiful parterre; i mean the lion's mouth (_la gueule de lion_). these meadows afford not only a charming prospect to the eye; they, moreover, plentifully produce excellent simples, (equally with tall woods) as well for the purposes of medicine as of dying. when all these plants are burnt, and a small rain comes on, mushrooms of an excellent flavour succeed to them, and whiten the surface of the meadows all over. those rising meadows and tall forests abound with buffaloes, elk, and deer, with turkeys, partridges, and all kinds of game; consequently wolves, catamounts, and other carnivorous animals are found there; which, in following the other animals, destroy and devour such as are too old or too fat; and when the { } indians go a hunting, these animals are sure to have the offal, or hound's fee, which makes them follow the hunters. these high lands naturally produce mulberry-trees, the leaves of which are very grateful to the silk-worm. indigo, in like manner, grows there along the thickets, without culture. there also a native tobacco is found growing wild, for the culture of which, as well as for other species of tobacco, these lands are extremely well adapted. cotton is also cultivated to advantage: wheat and flax thrive better and more easily there, than lower down towards the capital, the land there being too fat; which is the reason that, indeed, oats come there to a greater height than in the lands i am speaking of; but the cotton and the other productions are neither so strong nor so fine there, and the crops of them are often less profitable, though the soil be of an excellent nature. in fine, those high lands to the east of the missisippi, from manchae to the river wabache, may and ought to contain mines: we find in them, just at the surface, iron and pit-coal, but no appearance of silver mines; gold there may be, copper also, and lead. let us return to manchac, where i quitted the missisippi; which i shall cross, in order to visit the west side, as i have already done the east. i shall begin with the west coast, which resembles that to the east; but is still more dry and barren on the shore. on quitting that coast of white and crystal sand, in order to go northward, we meet five or six lakes, which communicate with one another, and which are, doubtless, remains of the sea. between these lakes and the missisippi, is an earth accumulated on the sand, and formed by the ooze of that river, as i said; between these lakes there is nothing but sand, on which there is so little earth, that the sand-bottom appears to view; so that we find there but little pasture, which some strayed buffaloes come to eat; and no trees, if we except a hill on the banks of one of these lakes, which is all covered with ever-green oaks, fit for ship-building. this spot may be a league in length by half a league in breadth; and was called barataria, because enclosed by these lakes and their outlets, to form almost an island on dry land. { } these lakes are stored with monstrous carp, as well for size as for length; which slip out of the missisippi and its muddy stream, when overflowed, in search of clearer water. the quantity of fish in these lakes is very surprising, especially as they abound with vast numbers of alligators. in the neighbourhood of these lakes there are some petty nations of indians, who partly live on this amphibious animal. between these lakes and the banks of the missisippi, there is some thin herbage, and among others, natural hemp, which grows like trees, and very branched. this need not surprise us, as each plant stands very distant from the other: hereabouts we find little wood, unless when we approach the missisippi. to the west of these lakes we find excellent lands, covered in many places with open woods of tall trees, through which one may easily ride on horseback; and here we find some buffaloes, which only pass through these woods because the pasture under the trees is bitter; and therefore they prefer the grass of the meadows, which lying exposed to the rays of the sun, becomes thereby more savoury. in going still farther west, we meet much thicker woods, because this country is extremely well watered; we here find numbers of rivers, which fall into the sea; and what contributes to the fertility of this land, is the number of brooks, that fall into these rivers. this country abounds with deer and other game; buffaloes are rare; but it promises great riches to such as shall inhabit it, from the excellent quality of its lands. the spaniards, who bound us on that side, are jealous enough: but the great quantities of land they possess in america, have made them lose sight of settling there, though acquainted therewith before us: however, they took some steps to traverse our designs, when they saw we had some thoughts that way. but they are not settled there as yet; and who could hinder us from making advantageous settlements in that country? i resume the banks of the missisippi, above the lakes, and the lands above the fork, which, as i have sufficiently acquainted { } the reader, are none of the best; and i go up to the north, in order to follow the same method i observed in describing the nature of the lands to the east. the banks of the missisippi are of a fat and strong soil; but far less subject to inundations than the lands of the east. if we proceed a little way westward, we meet land gradually rising, and of an excellent quality; and even meadows, which we might well affirm to be boundless, if they were not intersected by little groves. these meadows are covered with buffaloes and other game, which live there so much the more peaceably, as they are neither hunted by men, who never frequent those countries; nor disquieted by wolves or tigers, which keep more to the north. the country i have just described is such as i have represented it, till we come to new mexico: it rises gently enough, near the red river, which bounds it to the north, till we reach a high land, which was no more than five or six leagues in breadth, and in certain places only a league; it is almost flat, having but some eminences at some considerable distance from each other: we also meet some mountains of a middling height, which appear to contain something more than bare stone. this high land begins at some leagues from the missisippi, and continues so quite to new mexico; it lowers towards the red river, by windings, where it is diversified alternately with meadows and woods. the top of this height, on the contrary, has scarce any wood. a fine grass grows between the stones, which are common there. the buffaloes come to feed on this grass, when the rains drive them out of the plains; otherwise they go but little thither, because they find there neither water, nor saltpetre. we are to remark, by the bye, that all cloven-footed animals are extremely fond of salt, and that louisiana in general contains a great deal of saltpetre. and thus we are not to wonder, if the buffalo, the elk, and the deer, have a greater inclination to some certain places than to others, though they are there often hunted. we ought therefore to conclude, that there is more saltpetre in those places, than in such as they { } haunt but rarely. this is what made me remark, that these animals, after their ordinary repass, fail but rarely to go to the torrents, where the earth is cut, and even to the clay; which they lick, especially after rain, because they there find a taste of salt, which allures them thither. most of those who have made this remark imagine that these animals eat the earth; whereas in such places they only go in quest of the salt, which to them is so strong an allurement as to make them bid defiance to dangers in order to get at it. chapter v. _quality of the lands of the_ red river. _posts of the_ nachitoches. _a silver mine. lands of the_ black river. the banks of the red river, towards its confluence, are pretty low, and sometimes drowned by the inundations of the missisippi; but above all, the north side, which is but a marshy land for upwards of ten leagues in going up to the nachitoches, till we come to the black river, which falls into the red. this last takes its name from the colour of its sand, which is red in several places: it is also called the marne, a name given it by some geographers, but unknown in the country. some call it the river of the nachitoches, because they dwell on its banks: but the appellation, red river, has remained to it. between the black river and the red river the soil is but very light, and even sandy, where we find more firs than other trees; we also observe therein some marshes. but these lands, though not altogether barren, if cultivated, would be none of the best. they continue such along the banks of the river, only to the rapid part of it, thirty leagues from the missisippi. this rapid part cannot justly be called a fall; however, we can scarce go up with oars, when laden, but must land and tow. i imagine, if the waterman's pole was used, as on the loire and other rivers in france, this obstacle would be easily surmounted. the south side of this river, quite to the rapid part, is entirely different from the opposite side; it is something higher, { } and rises in proportion as it approaches to the height i have mentioned; the quality is also very different. this land is good and light, and appears disposed to receive all the culture imaginable, in which we may assuredly hope to succeed. it naturally produces beautiful fruit trees and vines in plenty; it was on that side muscadine grapes were found. the back parts have neater woods, and the meadows intersected with tall forests. on that side the fruit trees of the country are common; above all, the hiccory and walnut-trees, which are sure indications of a good soil. from the rapid part to the nachitoches, the lands on both sides of this river sufficiently resemble those i have just mentioned. to the left, in going up, there is a petty nation, called the avoyelles, and known only for the services they have done the colony by the horses, oxen, and cows they have brought from new mexico for the service of the french in louisiana. i am ignorant what view the indians may have in that commerce: but i well know, that notwithstanding the fatigues of the journey, these cattle, one with another, did not come, after deducting all expenses, and even from the second hand, but to about two pistoles a head; whence i ought to presume, that they have them cheap in new mexico. by means of this nation we have in louisiana very beautiful horses, of the species of those of old spain, which, if managed or trained, people of the first rank might ride. as to the oxen and cows, they are the same as those of france, and both are at present very common in louisiana. the south side conveys into the red river only little brooks. on the north side, and pretty near the nachitoches, there is, as is said, a spring of water very salt, running only four leagues. this spring, as it comes out of the earth, forms a little river, which, during the heats, leaves some salt on its banks. and what may render this more credible is, that the country whence it takes its rise contains a great deal of mineral salt, which discovers itself by several springs of salt water, and by two salt lakes, of which i shall presently speak. in fine, in going up we come to the french fort of the nachitoches, built in an island, formed by the red river. { } this island is nothing but sand, and that so fine, that the wind drives it like dust; so that the tobacco attempted to be cultivated there at first was loaded with it. the leaf of the tobacco having a very fine down, easily retains this sand, which the least breath of air diffuses every where; which is the reason that no more tobacco is raised in this island, but provisions only, as maiz, potatoes, pompions, &c. which cannot be damaged by the sands. m. de st. denis commanded at this place, where he insinuated himself into the good graces of the natives in such a manner, that, altho' they prefer death to slavery, or even to the government of a sovereign, however mild, yet twenty or twenty-five nations were so attached to his person, that, forgetting they were born free, they willingly surrendered themselves to him; the people and their chiefs would all have him for their grand chief; so that at the least signal, he could put himself at the head of thirty thousand men, drawn out of those nations, which had of their own accord submitted themselves to his orders; and that only by sending them a paper on which he drew the usual hieroglyphics that represent war among them, with a large leg, which denoted himself. this was still the more surprising, as the greatest part of these people were on the spanish territories, and ought rather to have attached themselves to them, than to the french, if it had not been for the personal merits of this commander. at the distance of seven leagues from the french post, the spaniards have settled one, where they have resided ever since m. de la motte, governor of louisiana, agreed to that settlement. i know not by what fatal piece of policy the spaniards were allowed to make this settlement; but i know, that, if it had not been for the french, the natives would never have suffered the spaniards to settle in that place. however, several french were allured to this spanish settlement, doubtless imagining, that the rains which come from mexico, rolled and brought gold along with them, which would cost nothing but the trouble of picking up. but to what purpose serves this beautiful metal, but to make the people vain and idle among whom it is so common, and to make them { } neglect the culture of the earth, which constitutes true riches, by the sweets it procures to man, and by the advantages it furnishes to commerce. above the nachitoches dwell the cadodaquious, whose scattered villages assume different names. pretty near one of these villages was discovered a silver mine, which was found to be rich, and of a very pure metal. i have seen the assay of it, and its ore is very fine. this silver lies concealed in small invisible particles, in a stone of a chesnut colour, which is spongy, pretty light, and easily calcinable: however, it yields a great deal more than it promises to the eye. the assay of this ore was made by a portuguese, who had worked at the mines of new mexico, whence he made his escape. he appeared to be master of his business, and afterwards visited other mines farther north, but he ever gave the preference to that of the red river. this river, according to the spaniards, takes its rise in degrees of north latitude; runs about fifty leagues north-east; forms a great elbow, or winding to the east; then proceeding thence south-east, at which place we begin to know it, it comes and falls into the missisippi, about ° and odd minutes. i said above, that the black river discharges itself into the red, ten leagues above the confluence of this last with the missisippi: we now proceed to resume that river, and follow its course, after having observed, that the fish of all those rivers which communicate with the missisippi, are the same as to species, but far better in the red and black rivers, because their water is clearer and better than that of the missisippi, which they always quit with pleasure. their delicate and finer flavour may also arise from the nourishment they take in those rivers. the lands of which we are going to speak are to the north of the red river. they may be distinguished into two parts; which are to the right and left of the black river, in going up to its source, and even as far as the river of the arkansas. it is called the black river, because its depth gives it that colour, { } which is, moreover, heightened by the woods which line it throughout the colony. all the rivers have their banks covered with woods; but this river, which is very narrow, is almost quite covered by the branches, and rendered of a dark colour in the first view. it is sometimes called the river of the wachitas, because its banks were occupied by a nation of that name, who are now extinct. i shall continue to call it by its usual name. the lands which we directly find on both sides are low, and continue thus for the space of three or four leagues, till we come to the river of the taensas, thus denominated from a nation of that name, which dwelt on its banks. this river of the taensas is, properly speaking, but a channel formed by the overflowings of the missisippi, has its course almost parallel thereto, and separates the low lands from the higher. the lands between the missisippi and the river of the taensas are the same as in the lower louisiana. the lands we find in going up the black river are nearly the same, as well for the nature of the soil, as for their good qualities. they are rising grounds, extending in length, and which in general may be considered as one very extensive meadow, diversified with little groves, and cut only by the black river and little brooks, bordered with wood up to their sources. buffaloes and deer are seen in whole herds there. in approaching to the river of the arkansas, deer and pheasants begin to be very common; and the same species of game is found there, as is to the east of the missisippi; in like manner wood-strawberries, simples, flowers, and mushrooms. the only difference is, that this side of the missisippi is more level, there being no lands so high and so very different from the rest of the country. the woods are like those to the east of the missisippi, except that to the west there are more walnut and hiccory trees. these last are another species of walnut, the nuts of which are more tender, and invite to these parts a greater number of parrots. what we have just said, holds in general of this west side; let us now consider what is peculiar thereto. { } chapter vi. _a brook of salt water: salt lakes. lands of the river of the_ arkansas. _red veined marble: slate: plaster. hunting the buffalo. the dry sand-banks in the_ missisippi. after we have gone up the black river about thirty leagues, we find to the left a brook of salt water, which comes from the west. in going up this brook about two leagues, we meet with a lake of salt water, which may be two leagues in length, by one in breadth. a league higher up to the north, we meet another lake of salt water, almost as long and broad as the former. this water, doubtless, passes through some mines of salt; it has the taste of salt, without that bitterness of the sea-water. the indians come a great way off to this place, to hunt in winter, and make salt. before the french trucked coppers with them, they made upon the spot pots of earth for this operation: and they returned home loaded with salt and dry provisions. to the east of the black river we observe nothing that indicates mines; but to the west one might affirm there should be some, from certain marks, which might well deceive pretended connoisseurs. as for my part, i would not warrant that there were two mines in that part of the country, which seems to promise them. i should rather be led to believe that they are mines of salt, at no great depth from the surface of the earth, which, by their volatile and acid spirits, prevent the growth of plants in those spots. ten or twelve leagues above this brook is a creek, near which those natchez retreated, who escaped being made slaves with the rest of their nation, when the messrs. perier extirpated them on the east side of the river, by order of the court. the black river takes its rise to the north-west of its confluence, and pretty near the river of the arkansas, into which falls a branch from this rise or source; by means of which we may have a communication from the one to the other with a middling carriage. this communication with the river of the { } arkansas is upwards of an hundred leagues from the post of that name. in other respects, this black river might carry a boat throughout, if cleared of the wood fallen into its bed, which generally traverses it from one side to the other. it receives some brooks, and abounds in excellent fish, and in alligators. i make no doubt but these lands are very fit to bear and produce every thing that can be cultivated with success on the east of the missisippi, opposite to this side, except the canton or quarter between the river of the taensas and the missisippi; that land, being subject to inundations, would be proper only for rice. i imagine we may now pass on to the north of the river of the arkansas, which takes its rise in the mountains adjoining to the east of santa fé. it afterwards goes up a little to the north, from whence it comes down to the south, a little lower than its source. in this manner it forms a line parallel almost with the red river. that river has a cataract or fall, at about an hundred and fifty leagues from its confluence. before we come to this fall, we find a quarry of red-veined marble, one of slate, and one of plaster. some travellers have there observed grains of gold in a little brook: but as they happened to be going in quest of a rock of emeralds, they deigned not to amuse themselves with picking up particles of gold. this river of the arkansas is stored with fish; has a great deal of water; having a course of two hundred and fifty leagues, and can carry large boats quite to the cataract. its banks are covered with woods, as are all the other rivers of the country. in its course it receives several brooks or rivulets, of little consequence, unless we except that called the white river, and which discharges itself into the curve or elbow of that we are speaking of, and below its fall. in the whole tract north of this river, we find plains that extend out of sight, which are vast meadows, intersected by groves, at no great distance from one another, which are all tall woods, where we might easily hunt the stag; great numbers { } of which, as also of buffaloes, are found here. deer also are very common. from having seen those animals frightened at the least noise, especially at the report of a gun, i have thought of a method to hunt them, in the manner the spaniards of new mexico do, which would not scare them at all, and which would turn to the great advantage of the inhabitants, who have this game in plenty in their country. this hunting might be set about in winter, from the beginning of october, when the meadows are burnt, till the month of february. this hunting is neither expensive nor fatiguing: horses are had very cheap in that country, and maintained almost for nothing. each hunter is mounted on horseback, and armed with a crescent somewhat open, whose inside should be pretty sharp; the top of the outside to have a socket, to put in a handle: then a number of people on horseback to go in quest of a herd of buffaloes, and always attack them with the wind in their backs. as soon as they smell a man, it is true, they run away; but at the sight of the horses they will moderate their fears, and thus not precipitate their flight; whereas the report of a gun frightens them so as to make them run at full speed. in this chace, the lightest would run fast enough; but the oldest, and even the young of two or three years old, are so fat, that their weight would make them soon be overtaken: then the armed hunter may strike the buffalo with his crescent above each ham, and cut his tendons; after which he is easily mastered. such as never saw a buffalo, will hardly believe the quantity of fat they yield: but it ought to be considered, that, continuing day and night in plentiful pastures of the finest and most delicious grass, they must soon fatten, and that from their youth. of this we have an instance in a bull at the natchez, which was kept till he was two years old, and grew so fat, that he could not leap on a cow, from his great weight; so that we were obliged to kill him, and got nigh an hundred and fifty pounds of tallow from him. his neck was near as big as his body. from what i have said, it may be judged what profit such hunters might make of the skins and tallow of those buffaloes; { } the hides would be large, and their wool would be still an additional benefit. i may add, that this hunting of them would not diminish the species, those fat buffaloes being ordinarily the prey of wolves, as being too heavy to be able to defend themselves. besides, the wolves would not find their account in attacking them in herds. it is well known that the buffaloes range themselves in a ring, the strongest without, and the weakest within. the strong standing pretty close together, present their horns to the enemy, who dare not attack them in this disposition. but wolves, like all other animals, have their particular instinct, in order to procure their necessary food. they come so near that the buffaloes smell them some way off, which makes them run for it. the wolves then advance with a pretty equal pace, till they observe the fattest out of breath. these they attack before and behind; one of them seizes on the buffalo by the hind-quarter, and overturns him, the others strangle him. the wolves being many in a body, kill not what is sufficient for one alone, but as many as they can, before they begin to eat. for this is the manner of the wolf, to kill ten or twenty times more than he needs, especially when he can do it with ease, and without interruption. though the country i describe has very extensive plains, i pretend not to say that there are no rising grounds or hills; but they are more rare there than elsewhere, especially on the west side. in approaching to new mexico we observe great hills and mountains, some of which are pretty high. i ought not to omit mentioning here, that from the low lands of louisiana, the missisippi has several shoal banks of sand in it, which appear very dry upon the falling of the waters, after the inundations. these banks extend more or less in length; some of them half a league, and not without a considerable breadth. i have seen the natchez, and other indians, sow a sort of grain, which they called choupichoul, on these dry sand-banks. this sand received no manner of culture; and the women and children covered the grain any how with their feet, without taking any great pains about it. after this sowing, { } and manner of culture, they waited till autumn, when they gathered a great quantity of the grain. it was prepared like millet, and very good to eat. this plant is what is called belle dame sauvage, [footnote: he seems to mean buck-wheat.] which thrives in all countries, but requires a good soil: and whatever good quality the soil in europe may have, it shoots but a foot and a half high; and yet, on this sand of the missisippi, it rises, without any culture, three feet and a half, and four feet high. such is the virtue of this sand all up the missisippi; or, to speak more properly, for the whole length of its course; if we except the accumulated earth of the lower louisiana, across which it passes, and where it cannot leave any dry sand-banks; because it is straitened within its banks, which the river itself raises, and continually augments. in all the groves and little forests i have mentioned, and which lie to the north of the arkansas, pheasants, partridges, snipes, and woodcocks, are in such great numbers, that those who are most fond of this game, might easily satisfy their longing, as also every other species of game. small birds are still vastly more numerous. chapter vii. _the lands of the river_ st. francis. _mine of_ marameg, _and other mines. a lead mine. a soft stone resembling porphyry. lands of the_ missouri. _the lands north of the _ wabache. _the lands of the illinois_. de la mothe's _mine, and other mines._ thirty leagues above the river of the arkansas, to the north, and on the same side of the missisippi, we find the river st. francis. the lands adjoining to it are always covered with herds of buffaloes, nothwithstanding they are hunted every winter in those parts: for it is to this river, that is, in its neighbourhood, that the french and canadians go and make their salt provisions for the inhabitants of the capital, and of the neighbouring { } plantations, in which they are assisted by the native arkansas, whom they hire for that purpose. when they are upon the spot, they chuse a tree fit to make a pettyaugre, which serves for a salting or powdering-tub in the middle, and is closed at the two ends, where only is left room for a man at each extremity. the trees they choose are ordinarily the poplar, which grow on the banks of the water. it is a white wood, soft and binding. the pettyaugres might be made of other wood, be cause such are to be had pretty large; but either too heavy for pettyaugres, or too apt to split. the species of wood in this part of louisiana is tall oak; the fields abound with four sorts of walnut, especially the black kind; so called, because it is of a dark brown colour, bordering on black; this sort grows very large. there are besides fruit trees in this country, and it is there we begin to find commonly papaws. we have also here other trees of every species, more or less, according as the soil is favourable. these lands in general are fit to produce every thing the low lands can yield, except rice and indigo. but in return, wheat thrives there extremely well: the vine is found every where; the mulberry-tree is in plenty; tobacco grows fine, and of a good quality; as do cotton and garden plants: so that by leading an easy and agreeable life in that country, we may at the same time be sure of a good return to france. the land which lies between the missisippi and the river st. francis, is full of rising grounds, and mountains of a middling height, which, according to the ordinary indications, contain several mines: some of them have been assayed; among the rest, the mine of marameg, on the little river of that name; the other mines appear not to be so rich, nor so easy to be worked. there are some lead mines, and others of copper, as is pretended. the mine of marameg, which is silver, is pretty near the confluence of the river which gives it name; which is a great advantage to those who would work it, because they might { } easily by that means have their goods from europe. it is situate about five hundred leagues from the sea. i shall continue on the west side of the missisippi, and to the north of the famous river of missouri, which we are now to cross. this river takes its rise at eight hundred leagues distance, as is alledged, from the place where it discharges itself into the missisippi. its waters are muddy, thick, and charged with nitre; and these are the waters that make the missisippi muddy down to the sea, its waters being extremely clear above the confluence of the missouri: the reason is, that the former rolls its waters over a sand and pretty firm soil; the latter, on the contrary, flows across rich and clayey lands, where little stone is to be seen; for though the missouri comes out of a mountain, which lies to the north-west of new mexico, we are told, that all the lands it passes through are generally rich; that is, low meadows, and lands without stone. this great river, which seems ready to dispute the pre-eminence with the missisippi, receives in its long course many rivers and brooks, which considerably augment its waters. but except those that have received their names from some nation of indians who inhabit their banks, there are very few of their names we can be well assured of, each traveller giving them different appellations. the french having penetrated up the missouri only for about three hundred leagues at most, and the rivers which fall into its bed being only known by the indians, it is of little importance what names they may bear at present, being besides in a country but little frequented. the river which is the best known is that of the osages, so called from a nation of that name, dwelling on its banks. it falls into the missouri, pretty near its confluence. the largest known river which falls into the missouri, is that of the canzas; which runs for near two hundred leagues in a very fine country. according to what i have been able to learn about the course of this great river, from its source to the canzas, it runs from west to east; and from that nation it falls down to the southward, where it receives the river of the canzas, which comes from the west; there it forms a great elbow, which terminates in the neighbourhood of the missouri; { } then it resumes its course to the south-east, to lose at last both its name and waters in the missisippi, about f our leagues lower down than the river of the illinois. there was a french post for some time in an island a few leagues in length, overagainst the missouris; the french settled in this fort at the east-point, and called it fort orleans. m. de bourgmont commanded there a sufficient time to gain the friendship of the indians of the countries adjoining to this great river. he brought about a peace among all those nations, who before his arrival were all at war; the nations to the north being more war-like than those to the south. after the departure of that commandant, they murdered all the garrison, not a single frenchman having escaped to carry the news: nor could it be ever known whether it happened through the fault of the french, or through treachery. as to the nature of that country, i refer to m. de bourgmont's journal, an extract from which i have given above. that is an original account, signed by all the officers, and several others of the company, which i thought was too prolix to give at full length, and for that reason i have only extracted from it what relates to the people and the quality of the soil, and traced out the route to those who have a mind to make that journey; and even this we found necessary to abridge in this translation. in this journey of m. de bourgmont, mention is only made of what we meet with from fort orleans, from which we set out, in order to go to the padoucas: wherefore i ought to speak of a thing curious enough to be related, and which is found on the banks of the missouri; and that is, a pretty high cliff, upright from the edge of the water. from the middle of this cliff juts out a mass of red stone with white spots, like porphyry, with this difference, that what we are speaking of is almost soft and tender, like sand-stone. it is covered with another sort of stone of no value; the bottom is an earth, like that on other rising grounds. this stone is easily worked, and bears the most violent fire. the indians of the country have contrived to strike off pieces thereof with their arrows, { } and after they fall in the water plunge for them. when they can procure pieces thereof large enough to make pipes, they fashion them with knives and awls. this pipe has a socket two or three inches long, and on the opposite side the figure of a hatchet; in the middle of all is the boot, or bowl of the pipe, to put the tobacco in. these sort of pipes are highly esteemed among them. all to the north of the missouri is entirely unknown, unless we give credit to the relations of different travellers; but to which of them shall we give the preference? in the first place, they almost all contradict each other: and then, men of the most experience treat them as impostors; and therefore i choose to pay no regard to any of them. let us therefore now repass the missisippi, in order to resume the description of the lands to the east, and which we quitted at the river wabache. this river is distant from the sea four hundred and sixty (three hundred) leagues; it is reckoned to have four hundred leagues in length, from its source to its confluence into the missisippi. it is called wabache, though, according to the usual method, it ought to be called the ohio, or beautiful river; seeing the ohio is known under that name in canada, before its confluence was known: and as the ohio takes its rise at a greater distance off than the three others, which mix together, before they empty themselves into the missisippi, this should make the others lose their names; but custom has prevailed on the occasion. [footnote: but not among the english; we call it the ohio.] the first river known to us, which falls into the ohio, is that of the miamis, which takes its rise towards lake erié. it is by this river of the miamis that the canadians come to louisiana. for this purpose they embark on the river st. laurence, go up this river, pass the cataracts quite to the bottom of lake erié, where they find a small river, on which they also go up to a place called the carriage of the miamis; because that people come and take their effects, and carry them on their backs for two leagues from thence to the banks of the river of their name, which i just said empties itself into { } the ohio. from thence the canadians go down that river, enter the wabache, and at last the missisippi, which brings them to new orleans, the capital of louisiana. they reckon eighteen hundred leagues [footnote: it is but nine hundred leagues.] from the capital of canada to that of louisiana, on account of the great turns and windings they are obliged to take. the river of the miamis is thus the first to the north, which falls into the ohio; then that of the chaouanons to the south; and lastly, that of the cherakees; all which together empty themselves into the missisippi. this is what we call the wabache, and what in canada and new england they call the ohio. this river is beautiful, greatly abounding in fish, and navigable almost up to its source. to the north of this river lies canada, which inclines more to the east than the source of the ohio, and extends to the country of the illinois. it is of little importance to dispute here about the limits of these two neighbouring colonies, as they both appertain to france. the lands of the illinois are reputed to be a part of louisiana; we have there a post near a village of that nation, called tamaroüas. the country of the illinois is extremely good, and abounds with buffalo and other game. on the north of the wabache we begin to see the orignaux; a species of animals which are said to partake of the buffalo and the stag; they have, indeed, been described to me to be much more clumsy than the stag. their horns have something of the stag, but are shorter and more massy; the meat of them, as they say, is pretty good. swans and other water-fowl are common in these countries. the french post of the illinois is, of all the colony, that in which with the greatest ease they grow wheat, rye, and other like grain, for the sowing of which you need only to turn the earth in the slightest manner; that slight culture is sufficient to make the earth produce as much as we can reasonably desire. i have been assured, that in the last war, when the flour from france was scarce, the illinois sent down to new orleans upwards of eight hundred thousand weight thereof in { } one winter. tobacco also thrives there, but comes to maturity with difficulty. all the plants transported thither from france succeed well, as do also the fruits. in those countries there is a river, which takes its name from the illinois. it was by this river that the first travellers came from canada into the missisippi. such as come from canada, and have business only on the illinois, pass that way yet: but such as want to go directly to the sea, go down the river of the miamis into the wabache, or ohio, and from thence into the missisippi. in this country there are mines, and one in particular, called de la mothe's mine, which is silver, the assay of which has been made; as also of two lead-mines, so rich at first as to vegetate, or shoot a foot and a half at least out of the earth. the whole continent north of the river of the illinois is not much frequented, consequently little known. the great extent of louisiana makes us presume, that these parts will not soon come to our knowledge, unless some curious person should go thither to open mines, where they are said to be in great numbers, and very rich. chapter viii. _of the agriculture, or manner of cultivating, ordering, and manufacturing the commodities that are proper articles of commerce. of the culture of_ maiz, rice, _and other fruits of the country. of the_ silk-worm. in order to give an account of the several sorts of plants cultivated in louisiana, i begin with maiz, as being the most useful grain, seeing it is the principal food of the people of america, and that the french found it cultivated by the indians. maiz, which in france we call turkey corn, (and we indian-corn) is a grain of the size of a pea; there is of it as large as our sugar-pea: it grows on a sort of husks, (quenouille) in ascending rows: some of these husks have to the { } number of seven hundred grains upon them, and i have counted even to a greater number. this husk may be about two inches thick, by seven or eight inches and upwards in length: it is wrapped up in several covers or thin leaves, which screen it from the avidity of birds. its foot or stalk is often of the same size: it has leaves about two inches and upwards broad, by two feet and a half long, which are chanelled, or formed like gutters, by which they collect the dew which dissolves at sun-rising, and trickles down to the stalk, sometimes in such plenty, as to wet the earth around them for the breadth of six or seven inches. its flower is on the top of the stalk, which is sometimes eight feet high. we ordinarily find five or six ears on each stalk, and in order to procure a greater crop, the part of the stalk above the ears ought to be cut away. for sowing the maiz in a field already cleared and prepared, holes are made four feet asunder every way, observing to make the rows as straight as may be, in order to weed them the easier: into every hole five or six grains are put, which are previously to be steeped for twenty-four hours at least, to make them rise or shoot the quicker, and to prevent the fox and birds from eating such quantities of them: by day there are people to guard them against birds; by night fires are made at proper distances to frighten away the fox, who would otherwise turn up the ground, and eat the corn of all the rows, one after another, without omitting one, till he has his fill, and is therefore the most pernicious animal to this corn. the corn, as soon as shot out of the earth, is weeded: when it mounts up, and its stalks are an inch big, it is hilled, to secure it against the wind. this grain produces enough for two negroes to make fifty barrels, each weighing an hundred and fifty pounds. such as begin a plantation in woods, thick set with cane, have an advantage in the maiz, that makes amends for the labour of clearing the ground; a labour always more fatiguing than cultivating a spot already cleared. the advantage is this: they begin with cutting down the canes for a great extent of ground; the trees they peel two feet high quite round: this operation is performed in the beginning of march, as then the sap is in motion in that country: about fifteen days after, the canes, { } being dry, are set on fire: the sap of the trees are thereby made to descend, and the branches are burnt, which kills the trees. on the following day they sow the corn in the manner i have just shewn: the roots of the cane, which are not quite dead, shoot fresh canes, which are very tender and brittle; and as no other weeds grow in the field that year, it is easy to be weeded of these canes, and as much corn again may be made, as in a field already cultivated. this grain they eat in many different ways; the most common way is to make it into sagamity, which is a kind of gruel made with water, or strong broth. they bake bread of it like cakes (by baking it over the fire on an iron plate, or on a board before the fire,) which is much better than what they bake in the oven, at least for present use; but you must make it every day; and even then it is too heavy to soak in soup of any kind. they likewise make parched meal [footnote: see book iii, chap. i.] of it, which is a dish of the natives, as well as the cooedlou, or bread mixt with beans. the ears of corn roasted are likewise a peculiar dish of theirs; and the small corn dressed in that manner is as agreeable to us as to them. a light and black earth agrees much better with the maiz than a strong and rich one. the parched meal is the best preparation of this corn; the french like it extremely well, no less than the indians themselves: i can affirm that it is a very good food, and at the same time the best sort of provision that can be carried on a journey, because it is refreshing and extremely nourishing. as for the small indian corn, you may see an account of it in the first chapter of the third book; where you will likewise find an account of the way of sowing wheat, which if you do not observe, you may as well sow none. rice is sown in a soil well laboured, either by the plough or hoe, and in winter, that it may be sowed before the time of the inundation. it is sown in furrows of the breadth of a hoe: when shot, and three or four inches high, they let water into the furrows, but in a small quantity, in proportion as it grows, and then give water in greater plenty. { } the ear of this grain nearly resembles that of oats; its grains are fastened to a beard, and its chaff is very rough, and full of those fine and hard beards: the bran adheres not to the grain, as that of the corn of france; it consists of two lobes, which easily separate and loosen, and are therefore readily cleaned and broke off. they eat their rice as they do in france, but boiled much thicker, and with much less cookery, although it is not inferior in goodness to ours: they only wash it in warm water, taken out of the same pot you are to boil it in, then throw it in all at once, and boil it till it bursts, and so it is dressed without any further trouble. they make bread of it that is very white and of a good relish; but they have tried in vain to make any that will soak in soup. the culture of the water-melon is simple enough. they choose for the purpose a light soil, as that of a rising ground, well exposed: they make holes in the earth, from two and a half to three feet in diameter, and distant from each other fifteen feet every way, in each of which holes they put five or six seeds. when the seeds are come up, and the young plants have struck out five or six leaves, the four most thriving plants are pitched upon, and the others plucked up to prevent their starving each other, when too numerous. it is only at that time that they have the trouble of watering them, nature alone performing the rest, and bringing them to maturity; which is known by the green rind beginning to change colour. there is no occasion to cut or prune them. the other species of melons are cultivated in the same manner, only that between the holes the distance is but five or six feet. all sorts of garden plants and greens thrive extremely well in louisiana, and grow in much greater abundance than in france: the climate is warmer, and the soil much better. however, it is to be observed, that onions and other bulbous plants answer not in the low lands, without a great deal of pains and labour; whereas in the high grounds they grow very large and of a fine flavour. the inhabitants of louisiana may very easily make silk, having mulberries ready at hand, which grow naturally in the { } high lands, and plantations of them may be easily made. the leaves of the natural mulberries of louisiana are what the silk-worms are very fond of; i mean the more common mulberries with a large leaf, but tender, and the fruit of the colour of burgundy wine. the province produces also the white mulberry, which has the same quality with the red. i shall next relate some experiments that have been made on this subject, by people who were acquainted with it. madam hubert, a native of provence, where they make a great deal of silk, which she understood the management of, was desirous of trying whether they could raise silk-worms with the mulberry leaves of this province, and what sort of silk they would afford. the first of her experiments was, to give some large silk-worms a parcel of the leaves of the red mulberry, and another parcel of the white mulberry both upon the same frame. she observed the worms went over the leaves of both sorts, without shewing any greater liking to the one than to the other: then she put to the other two sorts of leaves some of the leaves of the white-sweet or sugar-mulberry, and she found that the worms left the other sorts to go to these, and that they preferred them to the leaves of the common red and white mulberry. [footnote: see an account of these different sorts of mulberry, in the notes at the end of this volume.] the second experiment of madam hubert was, to raise and feed some silk-worms separately. to some she gave the leaves of the common white mulberry, and to others the leaves of the white sugar-mulberry; in order to see the difference of the silk from the difference of their food. moreover, she raised and fed some of the native silk-worms of the country, which were taken very young from the mulberry-trees; but she observed that these last were very flighty, and did nothing but run up and down, their nature being, without doubt, to live upon trees: she then changed their place, that they might not mix with the other worms that came from france, and gave them little branches with the leaves on them, which made them a little more settled. { } this industrious lady waited till the cocoons were perfectly made, in order to observe the difference between them in unwinding the silk; the success of which, and of all her other experiments, she was so good as to give me a particular account of. when the cocoons were ready to be wound, she took care of them herself, and found that the wild worms yielded less silk than those from france; for although they were of a larger size, they were not so well furnished with silk, which proceeded, no doubt, from their not being sufficiently nourished, by their running incessantly up and down; and accordingly she observed that they were but meagre; but notwithstanding, their silk was strong and thick, though coarse. those who were fed with the leaves of the red mulberry made cocoons well furnished with silk; which was stronger and finer than that of france. those that were fed upon the leaves of the common white mulberry, had the same silk with those that were fed on the leaves of the red mulberry. the fourth sort, again, that had been fed with the leaves of the white sugar-mulberry, had but little silk; it was indeed as fine as the preceding, but it was so weak and so brittle, that it was with great difficulty they could wind it. these are the experiments of this lady on silk-worms, which every one may make his own uses of, in order to have the sorts of silk, mulberries, or worms, that are most suitable to his purpose, and most likely to turn to his account: which we are very glad of this opportunity to inform them of, that they may see how much society owes to those persons who take care to study nature, in order to promote industry and public utility. chapter ix. _of_ indigo, tobacco, cotton, wax, hops, _and_ saffron. the high lands of louisiana produce a natural indigo: what i saw in two or three places where i have observed it, grew at the edges of the thick woods, which shews it delights in a good, but light soil. one of these stalks was but ten or twelve inches high, its wood at least three lines in diameter, and of as { } fine a green as its leaf; it was as tender as the rib of a cabbage leaf; when its head was blown a little, the two other stalks shot in a few days, the one seventeen, the other nineteen inches high; the stem was six lines thick below, and of a very lively green, and still very tender, the lower part only began to turn brown a little; the tops of both were equally ill furnished with leaves, and without branches; which makes it to be presumed, that being so thriving and of so fine a growth, it would have shot very high, and surpass in vigour and heighth the cultivated indigo. the stalk of the indigo, cultivated by the french at the natchez, turned brown before it shot eleven or twelve inches; when in seed it was five feet high and upwards, and surpassed in vigour what was cultivated in the lower louisiana, that is, in the quarter about new orleans: but the natural, which i had an opportunity of seeing only young and tender, promised to become much taller and stouter than ours, and to yield more. [illustration: indigo.] the indigo cultivated in louisiana comes from the islands; its grain is of the bigness of one line, and about a quarter longer, brown and hard, flatted at the extremities, because it is compressed in its pod. this grain is sown in a soil prepared like a garden, and the field where it is cultivated is called the indigo-garden. in order to sow it, holes are made on a straight line with a small hoe, a foot asunder; in each hole four or five { } seeds are put, which are covered with earth; great care is had not to suffer any strange plants to grow near it, which would choak it; and it is sown a foot asunder, to the end it may draw the fuller nourishment, and be weeded without grazing or ruffling the leaf, which is that which gives the indigo. when its leaf is quite come to its shape, it resembles exactly that of the acacia, so well known in france, only that it is smaller. it is cut with large pruning-knives, or a sort of sickles, with about six or seven inches aperture, which should be pretty strong. it ought to be cut before its wood hardens; and to be green as its leaf, which ought, however, to have a bluish eye or cast. when cut it is conveyed into the rotting-tub, as we shall presently explain. according as the soil is better or worse, it shoots higher or lower; the tuft of the first cutting, which grows round, does not exceed eight inches in heighth and breadth: the second cutting rises sometimes to a foot. in cutting the indigo you are to set your foot upon the root, in order to prevent the pulling it out of the earth; and to be upon your guard not to cut yourself, as the tool is dangerous. in order to make an indigo-work, a shed is first of all to be built: this building is at least twenty feet high, without walls or flooring, but only covered. the whole is built upon posts, which may be closed with mats, if you please: this building has twenty feet in breadth, and at least thirty in length. in this shed three vats or large tubs are set in such a manner, that the water may be easily drained off from the first, which is the lowermost and smallest. the second rests with the edge of its bottom on the upper edge of the first, so that the water may easily run from it into the one below. this second vat is not broader but deeper than the first, and is called the battery; for this reason it has its beaters, which are little buckets formed of four ends of boards, about eight inches long, which together have the figure of the hopper of a mill; a stick runs across them, which is put into a wooden fork, in order to beat the indigo: there are two of them on each side, which in all make four. the third vat is placed in the same manner over the second, and is as big again, that it may hold the leaves; it is called the { } rotting-tub, because the leaves which are put into it are deadened, not corrupted or spoiled therein. the indigo-operator, who conducts the whole work, knows when it is time to let the water into the second vat; then he lets go the cock; for if the leaves were left too long, the indigo would be too black; it must have no more time than what is sufficient to discharge a kind of flower or froth that is found upon the leaf. the water, when it is all in the second vat, is beat till the indigo-operator gives orders to cease; which he does not before he has several times taken up some of this water with a silver cup, by way of assay, in order to know the exact time in which they ought to give over beating the water: and this is a secret which practice alone can teach with certainty. when the indigo-operator finds that the water is sufficiently beaten, he lets it settle till he can draw off the water clear; which is done by means of several cocks one above another, for fear of losing the indigo. for this purpose, if the water is clear, the highest cock is opened, the second in like manner, till the water is observed to be tinged; then they shut the cock: the same is done in all the cocks till all the indigo be in a pap at the bottom of the second vat. the first, or small vat, serves only to purify the water which is found to be tinged, and let run while clear. when the indigo is well settled, they put it in cloth bags a foot and six inches wide, with a small circle at top, which helps to receive the indigo with ease; it is suffered to drain till it gives no more water: however, it must be moist enough to spread it in the mould with a wooden knife or spatula. in order to have the seed, they suffer it to run up as many feet as they foresee shall be necessary for seed; it shoots four or five feet high, according to the quality of the soil. there are four cuttings of it in the islands, where the climate is warmer; three good cuttings are made in louisiana, and of as good a quality at least as in the islands. tobacco, which was found among the indians of louisiana, seems also to be a native of the country, seeing their ancient tradition informs us, that from time immemorial they { } have, in their treaties of peace and in their embassies, used the pipe, the principal use of which is that the deputies shall all smoke therein. this native tobacco is very large; its stalk, when suffered to run to seed, shoots to five feet and a half and six feet; the lower part of its stem is at least eighteen lines in diameter, and its leaves often near two feet long, which are thick and succulent, its juice is strong, but never disorders the head. the tobacco of virginia has a broader but shorter leaf; its stalk is smaller, and runs not up so high; its smell is not disagreeable, but not so strong; it takes more plants to make a pound, because its leaf is thinner, and not so full of sap as the native. what is cultivated in the lower louisiana is smaller, and not so strong; but that made in the islands is thinner than that of louisiana, but much stronger, and disorders the head. in order to sow tobacco, you make a bed on the best piece of ground you are master of, and give it six inches in heighth; this earth you beat and make level with the back of a spade; you afterwards sow the seed, which is extremely fine, nearly resembling poppy seed. it must be sown thin, and notwithstanding that attention, it often happens to be too thick. when the seed is sown, the earth is no longer stirred, but the seed is covered with ashes the thickness of a farthing, to prevent the worms from eating the tobacco when it is just shooting out of the earth. as soon as the tobacco has four leaves, it is transplanted into a soil prepared for it, put into holes a foot broad made in a line, and distant three feet every way; a distance not too great, in order to weed it with ease, without breaking the leaves. the best time for transplanting it is after rain, otherwise you must water it: in like manner, when the seed is in the earth, if it rains not, you must gently sprinkle it towards evening, because it is somewhat slow in rising, and when it is sprouted it requires a little water. you must lightly cover the plant in the day time with some leaves plucked the night before; a precaution on no account to be dispensed with, till the young plant has fully struck root. you must also daily visit the { } tobacco, to clear it of caterpillars, which fasten upon it, and would entirely eat it up, if they are not destroyed. the tobacco-caterpillar is of the shape of a silk-worm, has a prickle on its back towards its extremity; its colour is of the most beautiful sea-green, striped with silver-streaks; in a word, it is as beautiful to the eye as it is fatal to the plant it is fond of. i gave great attention to keep my plantation clear of all weeds, observing in weeding it with the hoe not to touch the stalks, about which i caused to lay new earth, as well to secure them against gusts of wind, as to enable them to draw from the earth a more abundant nourishment. when the tobacco began to put forth suckers, i plucked them off, because they would have shot into branches, which would impoverish the leaves, and for the same reason stopped the tobacco from shooting above the twelfth leaf, afterwards stripping off the four lowermost, which never come to any thing. hitherto i did nothing but what was ordinarily done by those who cultivate tobacco with some degree of care; but my method of proceeding afterwards was different. i saw my neighbours strip the leaves of tobacco from the stalk, string them, set them to dry, by hanging them out in the air, then put them in heaps, to make them sweat. as for me, i carefully examined the plant, and when i observed the stem begin to turn yellow here and there, i caused the stalk to be cut with a pruning-knife, and left it for some time on the earth to deaden. afterwards it was carried off, on handbarrows, because it is thus less exposed to be broken than on the necks of negroes. when it was brought to the house, i caused it to be hung up, with the big end of the stem turned upwards, the leaves of each stalk slightly touching one another, being well assured they would shrivel in drying, and no longer touch each other. it hereby happened, that the juice contained in the pith (sometimes as big as one's finger) of the stem of the plant, flowed into the leaves, and augmenting their sap, made them much more mild and waxy. as fast as these leaves assumed a bright chesnut colour, i stripped them from the stalk, and made them directly into bundles, which i wrapped up in a cloth, and bound it close with a cord for twenty four hours; { } then undoing the cloth, they were tied up closer still. this tobacco turned black and so waxy, that it could not be rasped in less than a year; but then it had a substance and flavour so much the more agreeable, as it never affected the head; and so i sold it for double the price of the common. the cotton which is cultivated in louisiana, is of the species of the white siam, [footnote: this east-india annual cotton has been found to be much better and whiter than what is cultivated in our colonies, which is of the turkey kind. both of them keep their colour better in washing, and are whiter than the perennial cotton that comes from the islands, although this last is of a longer staple.] though not so soft, nor so long as the silk-cotton; it is extremely white and very fine, and a very good use may be made of it. this cotton is produced, not from a tree, as in the east-indies, but from a plant, and thrives much better in light than in strong and fat lands, such as those of the lower louisiana, where it is not so fine as on the high grounds. this plant may be cultivated in lands newly cleared, and not yet proper for tobacco, much less for indigo, which requires a ground well worked like a garden. the seeds of cotton are planted three feet asunder, more or less according to the quality of the soil: the field is weeded at the proper season, in order to clear it of the noxious weeds, and fresh earth laid to the root of the plant, to secure it against the winds. the cotton requires weeding, neither so often, nor so carefully as other plants; and the care of gathering is the employment of young people, incapable of harder labour. when the root of the cotton is once covered with fresh earth, and the weeds are removed, it is suffered to grow without further touching it, till it arrives to maturity. then its heads or pods open into five parts, and expose their cotton to view. when the sun has dried the cotton well, it is gathered in a proper manner, and conveyed into the conservatory; after which comes on the greatest task, which is to separate it from the grain or seed to which it closely adheres; and it is this part of the work, which disgusts the inhabitants in the cultivation { } of it. i contrived a mill for the purpose, tried it, and found it to succeed, so as to dispatch the work very much. [illustration: top: cotton on the stalk--bottom: rice on the stalk] the culture of indigo, tobacco, and cotton, may be easily carried on without any interruption to the making of silk, as any one of these is no manner of hindrance to the other. in the first place, the work about these three plants does not come on till after the worms have spun their silk: in the second place, { } the feeding and cleaning the silk-worm requires no great degree of strength; and thus the care employed about them interrupts no other sort of work, either as to time, or as to the persons employed therein. it suffices for this operation to have a person who knows how to feed and clean the worms; young negroes of both sexes might assist this person, little skill sufficing for this purpose: the oldest of the young negroes, when taught, might shift the worms and lay the leaves; the other young negroes gather and fetch them; and all this labour, which takes not up the whole day, lasts only for about six weeks. it appears therefore, that the profit made of the silk is an additional benefit, so much the more profitable, as it diverts not the workmen from their ordinary tasks. if it be objected, that buildings are requisite to make silk to advantage; i answer, buildings for the purpose cost very little in a country where wood may be had for taking; i add farther, that these buildings may be made and daubed with mud by any persons about the family; and besides, may serve for hanging tobacco in, two months after the silk-worms are gone. i own i have not seen the wax-tree cultivated in louisiana; people content themselves to take the berries of this tree, without being at pains to rear it; but as i am persuaded it would be very advantageous to make plantations of it, i shall give my sentiments on the culture proper for this tree, after the experiments i made in regard to it. i had some seeds of the wax-tree brought me to fontenai le comte, in poictou, some of which i gave to several of my friends, but not one of them came up. i began to reflect, that poictou not being by far so warm as louisiana, these seeds would have difficulty to shoot; i therefore thought it was necessary to supply by art the defect of nature; i procured horse, cow, sheep, and pigeon's dung in equal quantity, all which i put in a vessel of proportionable size, and poured on them water, almost boiling, in order to dissolve their salts: this water i drew off, and steeped the grains in a sufficient quantity thereof for forty-eight hours; after which i sowed them in a box full of good earth; seven of them came up, and made shoots between seven and eight inches high, but they were all { } killed by the frost for want of putting them into the greenhouse. this seed having such difficulty to come up, i presume that the wax, in which it is wrapped up, hinders the moisture from penetrating into, and making its kernel shoot; and there fore i should think that those who choose to sow it, would do well if they previously rolled it lightly between two small boards just rough from the saw; this friction would cause the pellicle of wax to scale off with so much the greater facility, as it is naturally very dry; and then it might be put to steep. hops grow naturally in louisiana, yet such as have a desire to make use of them for themselves, or sell them to brewers, cultivate this plant. it is planted in alleys, distant asunder six feet, in holes two feet and one foot deep, in which the root is lodged. when shot a good deal, a pole of the size of one's arm, and between twelve and fifteen feet long, is fixed in the hole; care is had to direct the shoots towards it, which fail not to run up the pole. when the flower is ripe and yellowish, the stem is cut quite close to the earth and the pole pulled out, in order to pick the flowers, which are saved. if we consider the climate of louisiana, and the quality of the high lands of that province, we might easily produce saffron there. the culture of this plant would be so much the more advantageous to the planters, as the neighbourhood of mexico would procure a quick and useful vent for it. chapter x. _of the commerce that, and may be carried on in_ louisiana. _of the commodities which that province may furnish in return for those of_ europe. _of the commerce of_ louisiana _with the isles_. i have often reflected on the happiness of france in the portion which providence has allotted her in america. she has found in her lands neither the gold nor silver of mexico and peru, nor the precious stones and rich stuffs of the east-indies; but she will find therein, when she pleases, mines of iron, lead, and copper. she is there possessed of a fertile soil, { } which only requires to be occupied in order to produce not only all the fruits necessary and agreeable to life, but also all the subjects on which human industry may exercise itself in order to supply our wants. what i have already said of louisiana ought to make this very plain; but to bring the whole together, in order, and under one point of view, i shall next relate every thing that regards the commerce of this province. _commodities which_ louisiana _may furnish in return for those of_ europe. france might draw from this colony several sorts of furs, which would not be without their value, though held cheap in france; and by their variety, and the use that might be made of them, would yield satisfaction. some persons have dissuaded the traders from taking any furs from the indians, on a supposition that they would be moth-eaten when carried to new-orleans, on account of the heat of the climate: but i am acquainted with people of the business, who know how to preserve them from such an accident. dry buffalo hides are of sufficient value to encourage the indians to procure them, especially if they were told, that only their skins and tallow were wanted; they would then kill the old bulls, which are so fat as scarce to be able to go: each buffalo would yield at least a hundred pounds of tallow; the value of which, with the skin, would make it worth their while to kill them, and thus none of our money would be sent to ireland in order to have tallow from that country; besides the species of buffaloes would not be diminished, because these fat buffaloes are always the prey of wolves. deer-skins, which were bought of the indians at first, did not please the manufacturers of niort, where they are dressed, because the indians altered the quality by their way of dressing them; but since these skins have been called for without any preparation but taking off the hair, they make more of them, and sell them cheaper than before. the wax-tree produces wax, which being much drier than bees-wax, may bear mixture, which will not hinder its lasting longer than bees-wax. some of this wax was sent to paris to { } a factor of louisiana, who set so low a price upon it as to discourage the planters from sowing any more. the sordid avarice of this factor has done a service to the islands, where it gives a higher price than that of france. the islands also draw timber for building from louisiana, which might in time prevent france from making her profits of the beauty, goodness, and quantity of wood of this province. the quality of the timber is a great inducement to build docks there for the construction of ships: the wood might be had at a low price of the inhabitants, because they would get it in winter, which is almost an idle time with them. this labour would also clear the grounds, and so this timber might be had almost for nothing. masts might be also had in the country, on account of the number of pines which the coast produces; and for the same reason pitch and tar would be common. for the planks of ships, there is no want of oak; but might not very good one be made of cypress? this wood is, indeed, softer than oak, but endowed with qualities surpassing this last: it is light, not apt to split or warp, is supple and easily worked; in a word, it is incorruptible both in air and water; and thus making the planks stouter than ordinary, there would be no inconvenience from the use of cypress. i have observed, that this wood is not injured by the worm, and ship-worms might perhaps have the same aversion to it as other worms have. other wood fit for the building of ships is very common in this country; such as elm, ash, alder, and others. there are likewise in this country several species of wood, which might sell in france for joiners work and fineering, as the cedar, the black walnut, and the cotton-tree. nothing more would therefore be wanting for compleating ships but cordage and iron. as to hemp, it grows so strong as to be much fitter for making cables than cloth. the iron might be brought from france, as also sails; however, there needs only to open the iron mine at the cliffs of the chicasaws, called prud'homme, to set up forges, and iron will be readily had. the king, therefore, might cause all sorts of shipping to be built there at so small a charge, that a moderate expence would procure a numerous fleet. if the english build ships in their colonies { } from which they draw great advantages, why might not we do the same in louisiana? france fetches a great deal of saltpetre from holland and italy; she may draw from louisiana more than she will have occasion for, if once she sets about it. the great fertility of the country is an evident proof thereof, confirmed by the avidity of cloven-footed animals to lick the earth, in all places where the torrents have broke it up: it is well known how fond these creatures are of salt. saltpetre might be made there with all the ease imaginable, on account of the plenty of wood and water; it would besides be much more pure than what is commonly had, the earth not being fouled with dunghills; and on the other hand, it would not be dearer than what is now purchased by france in other places. what commerce might not be made with silk? the silk-worms might be reared with much greater success in this country than in france, as appears from the trials that have been made, and which i have above related. the lands of louisiana are very proper for the culture of saffron, and the climate would contribute to produce it in great abundance; and, what would still be a considerable advantage, the spaniards of mexico, who consume a great deal of it, would enhance its price. i have spoken of hemp, in respect to the building of ships: but such as might be built there, would never be sufficient to employ all the hemp which might be raised in that colony, did the inhabitants cultivate as much of it as they well might. but you will say, why do they not? my answer is, the inhabitants of this colony only follow the beaten track they have got into: but if they saw an intelligent person sow hemp without any great expence or labour, as the soil is very fit for it; if, i say, they saw that it thrives without weeding; that in the winter evenings the negroes and their children can peel it; in a word, if they saw that there is good profit to be had by the sale of it; they then would all make hemp. they think and act in the same manner as to all the other articles of culture in this country. { } cotton is also a good commodity for commerce; and the culture of it is attended with no difficulty. the only impediment to the culture of it in a greater quantity, is the difficulty of separating it from the seed. however, if they had mills, which would do this work with greater dispatch, the profit would considerably increase. the indigo of louisiana, according to intelligent merchants, is as good as that of the islands; and has even more of the copper colour. as it thrives extremely well, and yields more herb than in the islands, as much indigo may be made as there, though they have four cuttings, and only three in louisiana. the climate is warmer in the islands, and therefore they make four gatherings; but the soil is drier, and produces not so much as louisiana: so that the three cuttings of this last are as good as the four cuttings in the islands. the tobacco of this colony is so excellent, that if the commerce thereof was free, it would sell for one hundred sols and six livres the pound, so fine and delicate is its juice and flavour. rice may also form a fine branch of trade. we go to the east-indies for the rice we consume in france; and why should we draw from foreign countries, what we may have of our own countrymen? we should have it at less trouble, and with more security. besides, as sometimes, perhaps too often, years of scarcity happen, we might always depend upon finding rice in louisiana, because it is not subject to fail, an advantage which few provinces enjoy. we may add to this commerce some drugs, used in medicine and dying. as to the first, louisiana produces sassafras, sarsaparilla, esquine, but above all the excellent balm of copalm (sweet-gum) the virtues of which, if well known, would save the life of many a person. this colony also furnishes us with bears oil, which is excellent in all rheumatic pains. for dying, i find only the wood ayac, or stinking wood, for yellow; and the achetchi for red; of the beauty of which colours we shall give an account in the third book. such are the commodities which may form a commerce of this colony with france, which last may carry in exchange all { } sorts of european goods and merchandize; the vent whereof is certain, as every thing answers there, where luxury reigns equally as in france. flour, wines, and strong liquors sell well; and though i have spoken of the manner of growing wheat in this country, the inhabitants, towards the lower part of the river especially, will never grow it, any more than they will cultivate the vine, because in these sorts of work a negro will not earn his master half as much as in cultivating tobacco; which, however, is less profitable than indigo. _the commerce of_ louisiana _with the islands._ from louisiana to the islands they carry cypress wood squared for building, of different scantlings: sometimes they transport houses, all framed and marked out, ready to set up, on landing at their place of destination. bricks, which cost fourteen or fifteen livres the thousand, delivered on board the ship. tiles for covering houses and sheds, of the same price. apalachean beans, (garavanzas) worth ten livres the barrel, of two hundred weight. maiz, or indian corn. cypress plank of ten or twelve feet. red peas, which cost in the country twelve or thirteen livres the barrel. cleaned rice, which costs twenty livres the barrel, of two hundred weight. there is a great profit to be made in the islands, by carrying thither the goods i have just mentioned: this profit is generally _cent. per cent._ in returns. the shipping which go from the colony bring back sugar, coffee, rum, which the negroes consume in drink; besides other goods for the use of the country. the ships which come from france to louisiana put all in at cape françois. sometimes there are ships, which not having a lading for france, because they may have been paid in money or bills of exchange, are obliged to return by cape françois, in order to take in their cargo for france. { } chapter xi. _of the commerce with the_ spaniards. _the commodities they bring to the colony, if there is a demand for them. of such as may be given in return, and may suit them. reflections on the commerce of this province, and the great advantage which the state and particular persons may derive therefrom._ _the commerce with the_ spaniards. the commodities which suit the spaniards are sufficiently known by traders, and therefore it is not necessary to give an account of them: i have likewise forebore to give the particulars of the commodities which they carry to this colony, though i know them all: that is not our present business. i shall only apprise such as shall settle in louisiana, in order to traffick with the spaniards, that it is not sufficient to be furnished with the principal commodities which suit their commerce, but they should, besides, know how to make the proper assortments; which are most advantageous to us, as well as to them, when they carry them to mexico. _the commodities which the_ spaniards _bring to_ louisiana, _if there is a demand for them_. campeachy wood, which is generally worth from ten to fifteen livres the hundred weight. brasil wood, which has a quality superior to that of campeachy. very good cacoa, which is to be met with in all the ports of spain, worth between eighteen and twenty livres the quintal, or hundred weight. cochineal, which comes from vera cruz: there is no difficulty to have as much of it as one can desire, because so near; it is worth fifteen livres the pound: there is an inferior sort, called sylvester. tortoise-shell, which is common in the spanish islands, is worth seven or eight livres the pound. tanned leather, of which they have great quantities; that marked or stamped is worth four livres ten sols the levee. { } marroquin, or spanish leather, of which they have great quantities, and cheap. turned calf, which is also cheap. indigo, which is manufactured at guatimala, is worth three or four livres the pound: there is of it of a perfect good quality, and therefore sells at twelve livres the pound. sarsaparilla, which they have in very great quantities, and sell at thirteen or fifteen sols. havanna snuff, which is of different prices and qualities: i have seen it at three shillings the pound, which in our money make thirty-seven sols six deniers. vanilla, which is of different prices. they have many other things very cheap, on which great profits might be made, and for which an easy vent may be found in europe; especially for their drugs: but a particular detail would carry me too far, and make me lose sight of the object i had in view. what i have just said of the commerce of louisiana, may easily shew that it will necessarily encrease in proportion as the country is peopled; and industry also will be brought to perfection. for this purpose nothing more is requisite than some inventive and industrious geniuses, who coming from europe, may discover such objects of commerce as may turn to account. i imagine a good tanner might in this colony tan the leather of the country, and cheaper than in france; i even imagine that the leather might there be brought to its perfection in less time; and what makes me think so, is, that i have heard it averred, that the spanish leather is extremely good, and is never above three or four months in the tan-pit. the same will hold of many other things, which would prevent money going out of the kingdom to foreign countries. would it not be more suitable and more useful, to devise means of drawing the same commodities from our own colonies? as these means are so easy, at least money would not go out of our hands; france and her colonies would be as two families who traffick together, and render each other mutual service. besides, there would not be occasion for so much money to carry on a commerce to louisiana, seeing the inhabitants have need of european goods. it would therefore be a commerce { } very different from that which, without exporting the merchandise of the kingdom, exports the money; a commerce still very different from that which carries to france commodities highly prejudicial to our own manufactures. i may add to all that i have said on louisiana, as one of the great advantages of this country, that women are very fruitful in it, which they attribute to the waters of the missisippi. had the intentions of the company been pursued, and their orders executed, there is no doubt but this colony had at this day been very strong, and blessed with a numerous young progeny, whom no other climate would allure to go and settle in; but being retained by the beauty of their own, they would improve its riches, and multiplied anew in a short time, could offer their mother-country succours in men and ships, and in many other things that are not to be contemned. i cannot too much shew the importance of the succours in corn, which this colony might furnish in a time of scarcity. in a bad year we are obliged to carry our money to foreigners for corn, which has been oftentimes purchased in france, because they have had the secret of preserving their corn; but if the colony of louisiana was once well settled, what supplies of corn might not be received from that fruitful country? i shall give two reasons which will confirm my opinion. the first is, that the inhabitants always grow more corn than is necessary for the subsistence of themselves, their workmen, and slaves. i own, that in the lower part of the colony only rice could be had, but this is always a great supply. now, were the colony gradually settled to the arkansas, they would grow wheat and rye in as great quantities as one could well desire, which would be of great service to france, when her crops happen to fail. the second reason is, that in this colony a scarcity is never to be apprehended. on my arrival in it, i informed myself of what had happened therein from , and i myself remained in it till ; and since my return to france i have had accounts from it down to this present year ; and from these accounts i can aver, that no intemperature of season has caused { } any scarcity since the beginning of this century. i was witness to one of the severest winters that had been known in that country in the memory of the oldest people living; but provisions were then not dearer than in other years. the soil of this province being excellent, and the seasons always suitable, the provisions and other commodities cultivated in it never fail to thrive surprizingly. one will, perhaps, be surprized to hear me promise such fine things of a country which has been reckoned to be so much inferior to the spanish or portuguese colonies in america; but such as will take the trouble to reflect on that which constitutes the genuine strength of states, and the real goodness of a country, will soon alter their opinion, and agree with me, that a country fertile in men, in productions of the earth, and in necessary metals, is infinitely preferable to countries from which men draw gold, silver, and diamonds: the first effect of which is to pamper luxury and render the people indolent; and the second to stir up the avarice of neighbouring nations. i therefore boldly aver, that louisiana, well governed, would not long fail to fulfil all i have advanced about it; for though there are still some nations of indians who might prove enemies to the french, the settlers, by their martial character, and their zeal for their king and country, aided by a few troops, commanded, above all, by good officers, who at the same time know how to command the colonists: the settlers, i say, will be always match enough for them, and prevent any foreigners whatever from invading the country. what would therefore be the consequence if, as i have projected, the first nation that should become our enemy were attacked in the manner i have laid down in my reflections on an indian war? they would be directly brought to such a pass as to make all other nations tremble at the very name of the french, and to be ever cautious of making war upon them. not to mention the advantage there is in carrying on wars in this manner; for as they cost little, as little do they hazard the loss of lives. in , m. perier, governor of louisiana, was relieved by m. de biainville, and the king's plantation put on a new footing, by an arrangement suitable to the notions of the person { } who advised it. a sycophant, who wanted to make his court to cardinal fleury, would persuade that minister, that the plantation cost his majesty ten thousand livres a year, and that this sum might be well saved; but took care not to tell his eminence, that for these ten thousand it saved at least fifty thousand livres. upon this, my place of director of the public plantations was abolished, and i at length resolved to quit the colony and return to france, nothwithstanding all the fair promises and warm solicitations of my superiors to prevail upon me to stay. a king's ship, la gironde, being ready to sail, i went down the river in her to balise, and from thence we set sail, on the th of may, . we had tolerable fine weather to the mouth of the bahama streights; afterwards we had the wind contrary, which retarded our voyage for a week about the banks of newfoundland, to which we were obliged to stretch for a wind to carry us to france: from thence we made the passage without any cross accident, and happily arrived in the road of chaidbois before rochelle, on the th of june following, which made it a passage of forty-five days from louisiana to france. * * * * * _some abstracts from the historical memoirs of louisiana, by_ m. du mont. i _of_ tobacco, _with the way of cultivating and curing it._ the lands of louisiana are as proper as could be desired, for the culture of tobacco; and, without despising what is made in other countries, we may affirm that the tobacco which grows in the country of the natchez, is even preferable to that of virginia or st. domingo; i say, in the country of the natchez, because the soil at that post appears to be more suitable to this plant than any other: although it must be owned, that there is but very little difference betwixt the tobacco which grows there and in some other parts of the colony, as at the cut-point, at the nachitoches, and even at new orleans; but whether it is owing to the exposure, or to the goodness of { } the soil, it is allowed that the tobacco of the natchez and yasous is preferable to the rest. the way of planting and curing tobacco in this country, is as follows: they sow it on beds well worked with the hoe or spade in the months of december, january, or february; and because the seed is very small, they mix it with ashes, that it may be thinner sowed: then they rake the beds, and trample them with their feet, or clap them with a plank, that the seed may take sooner in the ground. the tobacco does not come up till a month afterwards, or even for a longer time; and then they ought to take great care to cover the beds with straw or cypress-bark, to preserve the plants from the white frosts, that are very common in that season. there are two sorts of tobacco; the one with a long and sharp-pointed leaf, the other has a round and hairy leaf; which last they reckon the best sort. at the end of april, and about st. george's day, the plants have about four leaves, and then they pull the best and strongest of them: these they plant out on their tobacco-ground by a line stretched across it, and at three feet distance one from another: this they do either with a planting-stick, or with their finger, leaving a hole on one side of the plant, to receive the water, with which they ought to water it. the tobacco being thus planted, it should be looked over evening and morning, in order to destroy a black worm, which eats the bud of the plant, and afterwards buries itself in the ground. if any of the plants are eat by this worm, you must set another one by it. you must choose a rainy season to plant your tobacco, and you should water it three times to make it take root. but they never work their ground in this country to plant their tobacco; they reckon it sufficient to stir it a little about four inches square round the plant. when the tobacco is about four or five inches high, they weed it, and clean the ground all about it, and hill up every plant. they do the same again, when it is about a foot and a half high. and when the plant has, about eight or nine leaves, and is ready to put forth a stalk, they nip off the top, which they call topping the tobacco: this amputation makes the { } leaves grow longer and thicker. after this, you must look over every plant, and every leaf, in order to sucker it, or to pull off the buds, which grow at the joints of the leaves; and at the same time you must destroy the large green worms that are found on the tobacco, which are often as large as a man's finger, and would eat up the whole plant in a night's time. after this, you must take care to have ready a hanger (or tobacco-house,) which in louisiana they make in the following manner: they set several posts in the ground, at equal distances from one another, and lay a beam or plate on the top of them, making thus the form of a house of an oblong square. in the middle of this square they set up two forks, about one third higher than the posts, and lay a pole cross them, for the ridge-pole of the building; upon which they nail the rafters, and cover them with cypress-bark, or palmetto-leaves. the first settlers likewise build their dwelling-houses in this manner, which answer the purpose very well, and as well as the houses which their carpenters build for them, especially for the curing of tobacco; which they hang in these houses upon sticks or canes, laid across the building, and about four feet and a half asunder, one above another. the tobacco-house being ready, you wait till your tobacco is ripe, and fit to be cut; which you may know by the leaves being brittle, and easily broke between the fingers, especially in the morning before sun-rising; but those versed in it know when the tobacco is fit to cut by the looks of it, and at first sight. you cut your tobacco with a knife as nigh the ground as you can, after which you lay it upon the ground for some time, that the leaves may fall, or grow tender, and not break in carrying. when you carry your tobacco to the house, you hang it first at the top by pairs, or two plants together, thus continuing from story to story, taking care that the plants thus hung are about two inches asunder, and that they do not touch one another, lest they should rot. in this manner they fill their whole house with tobacco, and leave it to sweat and dry. after the tobacco is cut, they weed and clean the ground on which it grew: each root then puts out several suckers, which are all pulled off, and only one of the best is left to { } grow, of which the same care is taken as of the first crop. by this means a second crop is made on the same ground, and sometimes a third. these seconds, indeed, as they are called, do not usually grow so high as the first plant, but notwithstanding they make very good tobacco. [footnote: this is an advantage that they have in louisiana over our tobacco planters, who are prohibited by law to cultivate these seconds; the summers are so short, that they do not come to due maturity in our tobacco colonies; whereas in louisiana the summers are two or three months longer, by which they make two or three crops of tobacco a year upon the same ground, as early as we make one. add to this, their fresh lands will produce three times as much of that commodity, as our old plantations; which are now worn out with culture, by supplying the whole world almost with tobacco for a hundred and fifty years. now if their tobacco is worth five and six shillings a pound, as we are told above, or even the tenth part of it, when ours is worth but two pence or three pence, and they give a bounty upon ships going to the missisippi, when our tobacco is loaded with a duty equal to seven times its prime cost; they may, with all these advantages, soon get this trade from us, the, only one this nation has left entire to itself. these advantages enable the planters to give a much better price for servants and slaves, and thereby to engross the trade. it was by these means, that the french got the sugar trade from us, after the treaty of utrecht, by being allowed to transport their people from st. christopher's to the rich and fresh lands of st. domingo; and by removing from canada to louisiana, they may in the like manner get not only this, but every other branch of the trade of north america.] if you have a mind to make your tobacco into rolls, there is no occasion to wait till the leaves are perfectly dry; but as soon as they have acquired a yellowish brown colour, although the stem is green, you unhang your tobacco, and strip the leaves from the stalks, lay them up in heaps, and cover them with woolen cloths, in order to sweat them. after that you stem the tobacco, or pull out the middle rib of the leaf, which you throw away with the stalks, as good for nothing; laying by the longest and largest of the leaves, that are of a good blackish brown colour, and keep them for a covering for your rolls. after this you take a piece of coarse linen, at least eight inches broad and a foot long, which you spread on the ground, and on it lay the large leaves you have picked out, and the others over them in handfuls, taking care always to have more in the middle than at the ends: then you roll the { } tobacco up in the cloth, tying it in the middle and at each end. when you have made a sufficient number of these bundles, the negroes roll them up as hard as they can with a cord about as big as the little finger, which is commonly about fifteen or sixteen fathom long: you tighten them three times, so as to make them as hard as possible; and to keep them so, you might tie them up with a string. but since the time of the west india company, we have seldom cured our tobacco in this manner, if it is not for our own use; we now cure it in hands, or bundles of the leaves, which they pack in hogsheads, and deliver it thus in france to the farmers general. in order to cure the tobacco in this manner, they wait till the leaves of the stem are perfectly dry, and in moist, giving weather, they strip the leaves from the stalk, till they have a handful of them, called a hand, or bundle of tobacco, which they tie up with another leaf. these bundles they lay in heaps, in order to sweat them, for which purpose they cover those heaps with blankets, and lay boards or planks over them. but you should take care that the tobacco is not over-heated, and does not take fire, which may easily happen; for which purpose you uncover your heaps from time to time, and give the tobacco air, by spreading it abroad. this you continue to do till you find no more heat in the tobacco; then you pack it in hogsheads, and may transport it any where, without danger either of its heating or rotting. ii. _of the way of making_ indigo. the blue stone, known by the name of indigo, is the extract of a plant which they who have a sufficient number of slaves to manage it, make some quantities throughout all this colony. for this purpose they first weed the ground, and make small holes in it with a hoe, about five inches asunder, and on a straight line. in each of these holes they put five or six seeds of the indigo, which are small, long, and hard. when they come up, they put forth leaves somewhat like those of box, but a little longer and broader, and not so thick and indented. when the plant is five or six inches high, they take { } care to loosen the earth about the root, and at the same time to weed it. they reckon it has acquired a proper maturity, when it is about three feet and a half high: this you may likewise know, if the leaf cracks as you squeeze the plant in your hand. before you cut it, you get ready a place that is covered in the same manner with the one made for tobacco, about twenty-five feet high; in which you put three vats, one above another, as it were in different stories, so that the highest is the largest; that in the middle is square, and the deepest; the third, at bottom, is the least. after these operations, you cut the indigo, and when you have several arms-full, or bundles of the plant, to the quantity judged necessary for one working, you fill the vat at least three quarters full; after which you pour water thereon up to the brim, and the plant is left to steep, in order to rot it; which is the reason why this vat is called the rotting-tub. for the three or four hours which the plant takes to rot, the water is impregnated with its virtue; and, though the plant is green, communicates thereto a blue colour. at the bottom of the great vat, and where it bears on the one in the middle (which, as was said, is square) is a pretty large hole, stopped with a bung; which is opened when the plant is thought to be sufficiently rotten, and all the water of this vat, mixed with the mud, formed by the rotting of the plant, falls by this hole into the second vat; on the edges of which are placed, at proper distances, forks of iron or wood, on which large long poles are laid, which reach from the two sides to the middle of the water in the vat; the end plunged in the water is furnished with a bucket without a bottom. a number of slaves lay hold on these poles, by the end which is out of the water; and alternately pulling them down, and then letting the buckets fall into the vat, they thus continue to beat the water; which being thus agitated and churned, comes to be covered with a white and thick scum; and in such quantity as that it would rise up and flow over the brim of the vat, if the operator did not take care to throw in, from time to time, some fish-oil, which he sprinkles with a feather upon this scum. for these reasons this vat is called the battery. { } they continue to beat the water for an hour and a half, or two hours; after which they give over, and the water is left to settle. however, they from time to time open three holes, which are placed at proper distances from top to bottom in one of the sides of this second vat in order to let the water run off clear. this is repeated for three several times; but when at the third time the muddy water is ready to come out at the lowermost hole, they stop it, and open another pierced in the lower part of that side, which rests on the third vat. then all the muddy water falls through that hole of the second vat, into the third, which is the least, and is called the _deviling (diablotin.)_ they have sacks, a foot long, made of a pretty close cloth, which they fill with this liquid thick matter, and hang them on nails round the indigo-house. the water drains out gradually; and the matter which is left behind, resembles a real mud, which they take out of these sacks, and put in moulds, made like little drawers, two feet long by half a foot broad, and with a border, or ledge, an inch and a half high. then they lay them out in the sun, which draws off all the moisture: and as this mud comes to dry, care is taken to work it with a mason's trowel: at length it forms a body, which holds together, and is cut in pieces, while fresh, with wire. it is in this manner that they draw from a green herb this fine blue colour, of which there are two sorts, one of which is of a purple dove colour. iii. _of tar; the way of making it; and of making it into pitch_. i have said, that they made a great deal of tar in this colony, from pines and firs; which is done in the following manner. it is a common mistake, that tar is nothing but the sap or gum of the pine, drawn from the tree by incision; the largest trees would not yield two pounds by this method; and if it were, to be made in that manner, you must choose the most thriving and flourishing trees for the purpose; whereas it is only made from the trees that are old, and are beginning to decay, because the older they are, the greater quantities they contain of that fat bituminous substance, which yields tar; it { } is even proper that the tree should be felled a long time, before they use them for this purpose. it is usually towards the mouth of the river, and along the sea-coasts, that they make tar; because it is in those places that the pines chiefly grow. when they have a sufficient number of these trees, that are fit for the purpose, they saw them in cuts with a cross-cut saw, about two feet in length; and while the slaves are employed in sawing them, others split these cuts lengthwise into small pieces, the smaller the better. they sometimes spend three or four months in cutting and preparing the trees in this manner. in the mean time they make a square hollow in the ground, four or five feet broad, and five or six inches deep: from one side of which goes off a canal or gutter, which discharges itself into a large and pretty deep pit, at the distance of a few paces. from this pit proceeds another canal, which communicates with a second pit; and even from the first square you make three or four such trenches, which discharge themselves into as many pits, according to the quantity of wood you have, or the quantity of tar you imagine you may draw from it. then you lay over the square hole four or five pretty strong bars of iron, and upon these bars you arrange crosswise the split pieces of pine, of which you should have a quantity ready; laying them so, that there may be a little air between them. in this manner you raise a large and high pyramid of the wood, and when it is finished, you set fire to it at the top. as the wood burns, the fire melts the resin in the pine, and this liquid tar distills into the square hole, and from thence runs into the pits made to receive it. if you would make pitch of this tar, take two or three red-hot cannon bullets, and throw them into the pits, full of the tar, which you intend for this purpose: immediately upon which, the tar takes fire with a terrible noise and a horrible thick smoke, by which the moisture that may remain in the tar is consumed and dissipated, and the mass diminishes in proportion; and when they think it is sufficiently burnt, they extinguish the fire, not with water, but with a hurdle covered with turf and earth. as it grows cold, it becomes hard and shining, so that you cannot take it out of the pits, but by cutting it with an axe. { } iv. _of the mines of_ louisiana. before we quit this subject, i shall conclude this account by answering a question, which has often been proposed to me. are there any mines, say they, in this province? there are, without all dispute; and that is so certain, and so well known, that they who have any knowledge of this country never once called it in question. and it is allowed by all, that there are to be found in this country quarries of plaster of paris, slate, and very fine veined marble; and i have learned from one of my friends, who as well as myself had been a great way on discoveries, that in travelling this province he had found a place full of fine stones of rock-crystal. as for my share, i can affirm, without endeavoring to impose on any one, that in one of my excursions i found, upon the river of the arkansas, a rivulet that rolled down with its waters gold-dust; from which there is reason to believe that there are mines of this metal in that country. and as for silver-mines, there is no doubt but they might be found there, as well as in new mexico, on which this province borders. a canadian traveller, named bon homme, as he was hunting at some distance from the post of the nachitoches, melted some parcels of a mine, that is found in rocks at a very little distance from that post, which appeared to be very good silver, without any farther purification. [footnote: see a farther account and assay of this mine above.] it will be objected to me, perhaps, that if there is any truth in what i advance, i should have come from that country laden with silver and gold; and that if these precious metals are to be found there, as i have said, it is surprizing that the french have never thought of discovering and digging them in thirty years, in which they have been settled in louisiana. to this i answer, that this objection is only founded on the ignorance of those who make it; and that a traveller, or an officer, ordered by his superiors to go to reconnoitre the country, to draw plans, and give an account of what he has seen, in nothing but immense woods and deserts, where they cannot so { } much as find a path, but what is made by the wild beasts; i say, that such people have enough to do to take care of themselves and of their present business, instead of gathering riches; and think it sufficient, that they return in a whole skin. with regard to the negligence that the french seem hitherto to have shewn in searching for these mines, and in digging them, we ought to take due notice, that in order to open a silver-mine, for example, you must advance at least a hundred thousand crowns, before you can expect to get a penny of profit from it, and that the people of the country are not in a condition to be at any such charge. add to this, that the inhabitants are too ignorant of these mines; the spaniards, their neighbours, are too discreet to teach them; and the french in europe are too backward and timorous to engage in such an undertaking. but notwithstanding, it is certain that the thing has been already done, and that just reasons, without doubt, but different from an impossibility, have caused it to be laid aside. this author gives a like account of the culture of rice in louisiana, and of all the other staple commodities of our colonies in north america. { } _extract from a late_ french _writer, concerning the importance of_ louisiana _to france_. "one cannot help lamenting the lethargic state of that colony, (louisiana) which carries in its bosom the bed of the greatest riches; and in order to produce them, asks only arms proper for tilling the earth, which is wholly disposed to yield an hundred fold. thanks to the fertility of our islands, our sugar plantations are infinitely superior to those of the english, and we likewise excel them in our productions of indigo, coffee, and cotton. "tobacco is the only production of the earth which gives the english an advantage over us. providence, which reserved for us the discovery of louisiana, has given us the possession of it, that we may be their rivals in this particular, or at least that we may be able to do without their tobacco. ought we to continue tributaries to them in this respect, when we can so easily do without them? "i cannot help remarking here, that among several projects presented of late years for giving new force to this colony, a company of creditable merchants proposed to furnish negroes to the inhabitants, and to be paid for them in tobacco alone at a fixed valuation. "the following advantages, they demonstrated, would attend their scheme. i. it would increase a branch of commerce in france, which affords subsistence to two of the english colonies in america, namely virginia and maryland, the inhabitants of which consume annually a very considerable quantity of english stuffs, and employ a great number of ships in the transportation of their tobacco. the inhabitants of those two provinces are so greatly multiplied, in consequence of the riches they have acquired by their commerce with us, that they begin to spread themselves upon territories that belong to us. ii. the second advantage arising from the scheme would be, to carry the cultivation of tobacco to its greatest extent and perfection. iii. to diminish in proportion the cultivation of the english plantations, as well as lessen their navigation in that part. iv. to put an end entirely to the { } importation of any tobacco from great-britain into france, in the space of twelve years. v. to diminish annually, and in the same space of time finally put an end to, the exportation of specie from france to great-britain, which amounts annually to five millions of our money for the purchase of tobacco, and the freightage of english ships, which bring it into our ports. vi. by diminishing the cause of the outgoing specie, to augment the balance of commerce in favour of the nation. these are the principal advantages which france would have reason to have expected from the establishment of this company, if it had been effected." _essai sur les interêts du commerce maritime, par_ m. du haye. . the probability of succeeding in such a scheme will appear from the foregoing accounts of tobacco in louisiana, pag. , , , , &c. they only want hands to make any quantities of tobacco in louisiana. the consequences of that will appear from the following account. { } _an account of the quantity of tobacco imported into_ britain, _and exported from it, in the four years of peace, after the late tobacco-law took place, according to the custom-house accounts._ imported exported hhds. hhds. - - - , - - , england, - - - , - - , - - - , - - , - - - , - - , --------- --------- , - - , --------- --------- - - - , - - , scotland, - - - , - - , - - - , - - , - - - , - - , --------- --------- , - - , --------- --------- total - - - , - - , average - - , - - , imported yearly - - - hhds , exported - - - - - - - - - , --------- home consumption - - - - - , to , hogsheads, at £ per hogshead, £ , to duty on , hogsheads at £ - - - , --------- annual income from tobacco - - - - - , , the number of seamen employed in the tobacco trade is computed at ;--in the sugar trade ;--and in the fishery of newfoundland , from britain. { } the history of louisiana book iii. _the natural history of_ louisiana. chapter i. _of corn and pulse_. having, in the former part of this work, given an account of the nature of the soil of louisiana, and observed that some places were proper for one kind of plants, and some for another; and that almost the whole country was capable of producing, and bringing to the utmost maturity, all kinds of grain, i shall now present the industrious planter with an account of the trees and plants which may be cultivated to advantage in those lands with which he is now made acquainted. during my abode in that country, where i myself have a grant of lands, and where i lived sixteen years, i have had leisure to study this subject, and have made such progress in it, that i have sent to the west-india company in france no less than three hundred medicinal plants, found in their possessions, and worthy of the attention of the public. the reader may depend upon my being faithful and exact; he must not however here expect a description of every thing that louisiana produces of the vegetable kind. its prodigious fertility makes it impracticable for me to undertake so extensive a work. i shall chiefly describe those plants and fruits that are most useful to the inhabitants, either in regard to their own subsistence or preservation, or in regard to their foreign commerce; { } and i shall add the manner of cultivating and managing the plants that are of greatest advantage to the colony. louisiana produces several kinds of maiz, namely flour-maiz, which is white, with a flat and shrivelled surface, and is the softest of all the kinds; homony corn, which is round, hard, and shining; of this there are four sorts, the white, the yellow, the red, and the blue; the maiz of these two last colours is more common in the high lands than in the lower louisiana. we have besides small corn, or small maiz, so called because it is smaller than the other kinds. new settlers sow this corn upon their first arrival, in order to have whereon to subsist as soon as possible; for it rises very fast, and ripens in so short a time, that from the same field they may have two crops of it in one year. besides this, it has the advantage of being more agreeable to the taste than the large kind. maiz, which in france is called turkey corn, (and in england indian corn) is the natural product of this country; for upon our arrival we found it cultivated by the natives. it grows upon a stalk six, seven, and eight feet high; the ear is large, and about two inches diameter, containing sometimes seven hundred grains and upwards; and each stalk bears sometimes six or seven ears, according to the goodness of the ground. the black and light soil is that which agrees best with it; but strong ground is not so favourable to it. this corn, it is well known, is very wholesome both for man and other animals, especially for poultry. the natives, that they may have change of dishes, dress it in various ways. the best is to make it into what is called parched meal, (farine froide.) as there is nobody who does not eat of this with pleasure, even though not very hungry, i will give the manner of preparing it, that our provinces of france, which reap this grain, may draw the same advantage from it. the corn is first parboiled in water; then drained and well dried. when it is perfectly dry, it is then roasted in a plate made for that purpose, ashes being mixed with it to hinder it from burning; and they keep continually stirring it, that it may take only the red colour which they want. when it has taken that colour, they remove the ashes, rub it well, and then { } put it in a mortar with the ashes of dried stalks of kidney beans, and a little water; they then beat it gently, which quickly breaks the husk, and turns the whole into meal. this meal, after being pounded, is dried in the sun, and after this last operation it may be carried any where, and will keep six months, if care be taken from time to time to expose it to the sun. when they want to eat of it, they mix in a vessel two thirds water with one third meal, and in a few minutes the mixture swells greatly in bulk, and is fit to eat. it is a very nourishing food, and is an excellent provision for travellers, and those who go to any distance to trade. this parched meal, mixed with milk and a little sugar, may be served up at the best tables. when mixed with milk-chocolate it makes a very lasting nourishment. from maiz they make a strong and agreeable beer; and they likewise distil brandy from it. wheat, rye, barley, and oats grow extremely well in louisiana; but i must add one precaution in regard to wheat; when it is sown by itself, as in france, it grows at first wonderfully; but when it is in flower, a great number of drops of red water may be observed at the bottom of the stalk within six inches of the ground, which are collected there during the night, and disappear at sun-rising. this water is of such an acrid nature, that in a short time it consumes the stalk, and the ear falls before the grain is formed. to prevent this misfortune, which is owing to the too great richness of the soil, the method i have taken, and which has succeeded extremely well, is to mix with the wheat you intend to sow, some rye and dry mould, in such a proportion that the mould shall be equal to the rye and wheat together. this method i remember to have seen practised in france; and when i asked the reason of it, the farmer told me that as the land was new, and had lately been a wood, it contained an acid that was prejudicial to the wheat; and that as the rye absorbed that acid without being hurt, it thereby preserved the other grain. i have seen barley and oats in that country three feet high. the rice which is cultivated in that country was brought from carolina. it succeeds surprizingly well, and experience { } has there proved, contrary to the common notion, that it does not want to have its foot always in the water. it has been sown in the flat country without being flooded, and the grain that was reaped was full grown, and of a very delicate taste. the fine relish need not surprise us; for it is so with all plants and fruits that grow without being watered, and at a distance from watery places. two crops may be reaped from the same plant; but the second is poor if it be not flooded. i know not whether they have attempted, since i left louisiana, to sow it upon the sides of hills. the first settlers found in the country french-beans of various colours, particularly red and black, and they have been called beans of forty days, because they require no longer time to grow and to be fit to eat green. the apalachean beans are so called because we received them from a nation of the natives of that name. they probably had them from the english of carolina, whither they had been brought from guinea. their stalks spread upon the ground to the length of four or five feet. they are like the other beans, but much smaller, and of a brown colour, having a black ring round the eye, by which they are joined to the shell. these beans boil tender, and have a tolerable relish, but they are sweetish, and somewhat insipid. the potatoes are roots more commonly long than thick; their form is various, and their fine skin is like that of the topinambous (irish potatoes.) in their substance and taste they very much resemble sweet chesnuts. they are cultivated in the following manner; the earth is raised in little hills or high furrows about a foot and a half broad, that by draining the moisture, the roots may have a better relish. the small potatoes being cut in little pieces with an eye in each, four or five of those pieces are planted on the head of the hills. in a short time they push out shoots, and these shoots being cut off about the middle of august within seven or eight inches of the ground, are planted double, cross-ways, in the crown of other hills. the roots of these last are the most esteemed, not only on account of their fine relish, but because they are easier kept during the winter. in order to preserve them during { } that season, they dry them in the sun as soon as they are dug up, and then lay them up in a close and dry place, covering them first with ashes, over which they lay dry mould. they boil them, or bake them, or roast them on hot coals like chesnuts; but they have the finest relish when baked or roasted. they are eat dry, or cut into small slices in milk without sugar, for they are sweet of themselves. good sweetmeats are also { } made of them, and some frenchmen have drawn brandy from them. [illustration: top: _appalachean beans,_--bottom: _sweet potatoes_ (on p. )] the cushaws are a kind of pompion. there are two sorts of them, the one round, and the other in the shape of a hunting horn. these last are the best, being of a more firm substance, which makes them keep much better than the others; their sweetness is not so insipid, and they have fewer seeds. they make sweetmeats of these last, and use both kinds in soup; they make fritters of them, fry them, bake them, and roast them on the coals, and in all ways of cooking they are good and palatable. all kinds of melons grow admirably well in louisiana. those of spain, of france, of england, which last are called white melons, are there infinitely finer than in the countries from whence they have their name; but the best of all are the water melons. as they are hardly known in france, except in provence, where a few of the small kind grow, i fancy a description of them will not be disagreeable to the reader. the stalk of this melon spreads like ours upon the ground, and extends to the length of ten feet. it is so tender, that when it is any way bruised by treading upon it, the fruit dies; and if it is rubbed in the least, it grows warm. the leaves are very much indented, as broad as the hand when they are spread out, and are somewhat of a sea-green colour. the fruit is either round like a pompion, or long. there are some good melons of this last kind, but the first sort are most esteemed, and deservedly so. the weight of the largest rarely exceeds thirty pounds, but that of the smallest is always above ten pounds. their rind is of a pale green colour, interspersed with large white spots. the substance that adheres to the rind is white, crude, and of a disagreeable tartness, and is therefore never eaten. the space within that is filled with a light and sparkling substance, that may be called for its properties a rose-coloured snow. it melts in the mouth as if it were actually snow, and leaves a relish like that of the water prepared for sick people from gooseberry jelly. this fruit cannot fail therefore of being very refreshing, and is so wholesome, that persons in all kinds of distempers may satisfy their { } appetite with it, without any apprehension of being the worse for it. the water-melons of africa are not near so relishing as those of louisiana. [illustration: watermelon] the seeds of water-melons are placed like those of the french melons. their shape is oval and flat, being as thick at the ends as towards the middle; their length is about six lines, and their breadth four. some are black and others red; but the black are the best, and it is those you ought to choose { } for sowing, if you would wish to have good fruit; which you cannot fail of, if they are not planted in strong ground, where they would degenerate and become red. all kinds of greens and roots which have been brought from europe into that colony succeed better there than in france, provided they be planted in a soil suited to them; for it is certainly absurd to think that onions and other bulbous plants should thrive there in a soft and watery soil, when every where else they require a light and dry earth. chapter ii. _of the fruit trees of_ louisiana. i shall now proceed to give an account of the fruit trees of this colony, and shall begin with the vine, which is so common in louisiana, that whatever way you walk from the sea coast for five hundred leagues northwards, you cannot proceed an hundred steps without meeting with one; but unless the vine-shoots should happen to grow in an exposed place, it cannot be expected that their fruit should ever come to perfect maturity. the trees to which they twine are so high, and so thick of leaves, and the intervals of underwood are so filled with reeds, that the sun cannot warm the earth, or ripen the fruit of this shrub. i will not undertake to describe all the kinds of grapes which this country produces; it is even impossible to know them all; i shall only speak of three or four. the first sort that i shall mention does not perhaps deserve the name of a grape, although its wood and its leaf greatly resemble the vine. this shrub bears no bunches, and you hardly ever see upon it above two grapes together. the grape in substance and colour is very like a violet damask plum, and its stone, which is always single, greatly resembles a nut. though not very relishing, it has not however that disagreeable sharpness of the grape that grows in the neighbourhood of new orleans. on the edge of the savannahs or meadows we meet with a grape, the shoots of which resemble those of the burgundy { } grape. they make from this a tolerable good wine, if they take care to expose it to the sun in summer, and to the cold in winter. i have made this experiment myself, and must say that i never could turn it into vinegar. there is another kind of grape which i make no difficulty of classing with the grapes of corinth, commonly called currants. it resembles them in the wood, the leaf, the tree, the size, and the sweetness. its tartness is owing to its being prevented from ripening by the thick shade of the large trees to which it twines. if it were planted and cultivated in an open field, i make not the least doubt but it would equal the grape of corinth, with which i class it. muscadine grapes, of an amber colour, of a very good kind, and very sweet, have been found upon declivities of a good exposure, even so far north as the latitude of degrees. there is the greatest probability that they might make excellent wine of these, as it cannot be doubted but the grapes might be brought to great perfection in this country, since in the moist soil of new orleans, the cuttings of the grape which some of the inhabitants of that city brought from france, have succeeded extremely well, and afforded good wine. as a proof of the fertility of louisiana, i cannot forbear mentioning the following fact; an inhabitant of new orleans having planted in his garden a few twigs of this muscadine vine, with a view of making an arbour of them, one of his sons, with another negro boy, entered the garden in the month of june, when the grapes are ripe, and broke off all the bunches they could find. the father, after severely chiding the two boys, pruned the twigs that had been broken and bruised; and as several months of summer still remained, the vine pushed out new shoots, and new bunches, which ripened and were as good as the former. the persimmon, which the french of the colony call placminier, very much resembles our medlar-tree in its leaf and wood: its flower, which is about an inch and a half broad, is white, and is composed of five petals; its fruit is about the size of a large hen's egg; it is shaped like our medlar, but its substance is sweeter and more delicate. this fruit is astringent; { } when it is quite ripe the natives make bread of it, which they keep from year to year; and the bread has this remarkable property that it will stop the most violent looseness or dysentery; therefore it ought to be used with caution, and only after physic. the natives, in order to make this bread, squeeze the fruit over fine sieves to separate the pulp from the skin and the kernels. of this pulp, which is like paste or thick pap, they make cakes about a foot and a half long, a foot broad, and a finger's breadth in thickness: these they dry in an oven, upon gridirons, or else in the sun; which last method of drying gives a greater relish to the bread. this is one of their articles of traffick with the french. their plum-trees are of two sorts: the best is that which bears violet-coloured plums, quite like ours, which are not disagreeable, and which certainly would be good if they did not grow in the middle of woods. the other kind bears plums of the colour of an unripe cherry, and these are so tart that no body can eat them; but i am of opinion they might be preserved like gooseberries; especially if pains were taken to cultivate them in open grounds. the small cherries, called the indian cherry, are frequent in this country. their wood is very beautiful, and their leaves differ in nothing from those of the cherry tree. the papaws are only to be found far up in higher louisiana. these trees, it would seem, do not love heat; they do not grow so tall as the plum-trees; their wood is very hard and flexible; for the lower branches are sometimes so loaded with fruit that they hang perpendicularly downwards; and if you unload them of their fruit in the evening, you will find them next morning in their natural erect position. the fruit resembles a middle-sized cucumber; the pulp is very agreeable and very wholesome; but the rind, which is easily stripped off, leaves on the fingers so sharp an acid, that if you touch your eye with them before you wash them, it will be immediately inflamed, and itch most insupportably for twenty-four hours after. the natives had doubtless got the peach-trees and fig-trees from the english colony of carolina, before the french { } established themselves in louisiana. the peaches are of the kind which we call alberges; are of the size of the fist, adhere to the stone, and contain so much water that they make a kind of wine of it. the figs are either blue or white; are large and well enough tasted. our colonists plant the peach stones about the end of february, and suffer the trees to grow exposed to all weathers. in the third year they will gather from one tree at least two hundred peaches, and double that number for six { } or seven years more, when the tree dies irrecoverably. as new trees are so easily produced, the loss of the old ones is not in the least regretted. [illustration: top: _pawpaw_--bottom: _blue whortle-berry_ (on p. )] the orange-trees and citron-trees that were brought from cape françois have succeeded extremely well; however i have seen so severe a winter that those kinds of trees were entirely frozen to the very trunk. in that case they cut the trees down to the ground, and the following summer they produced shoots that were better than the former. if these trees have succeeded in the flat and moist soil of new orleans, what may we not expect when they are planted in better soil, and upon declivities of a good exposure? the oranges and citrons are as good as those of other countries; but the rind of the orange in particular is very thick, which makes it the better for a sweet-meat. there is plenty of wild apples in louisiana, like those in europe; and the inhabitants have got many kind of fruit trees from france, such as apples, pears, plums, cherries, &c. which in the low grounds run more into wood than fruit; the few i had at the natches proved that high ground is much more suited to them than the low. the blue whortle-berry is a shrub somewhat taller than our largest gooseberry bushes, which are left to grow as they please. its berries are of the shape of a gooseberry, grow single, and are of a blue colour: they taste like a sweetish gooseberry, and when infused in brandy it makes a good dram. they attribute several virtues to it, which, as i never experienced, i cannot answer for. it loves a poor gravelly soil. louisiana produces no black mulberries: but from the sea to the arkansas, which is an extent of navigation upon the river of two hundred leagues, we meet very frequently with three kinds of mulberries; one a bright red, another perfectly white, and a third white and sweetish. the first of these kinds is very common, but the two last are more rare. of the red mulberries they make excellent vinegar, which keeps a long time, provided they take care in the making of it to keep it in the shade in a vessel well stopped, contrary to the practice in france. they make vinegar also of bramble berries, but this { } is not so good as the former. i do not doubt but the colonists at present apply themselves seriously to the cultivation of mulberries, to feed silk-worms, especially as the countries adjoining to france, and which supplied us with silk, have now made the exportation of it difficult. the olive-trees in this colony are surprisingly beautiful. the trunk is sometimes a foot and a half diameter, and thirty feet high before it spreads out into branches. the provençals settled in the colony affirm, that its olives would afford as good an oil as those of their country. some of the olives that were prepared to be eat green, were as good as those of provence. i have reason to think, that if they were planted on the coasts, the olives would have a finer relish. they have great numbers and a variety of kinds of walnut-trees in this country. there is a very large kind, the wood of which is almost as black as ebony, but very porous. the fruit, with the outer shell, is of the size of a large hen's egg: the shell has no cleft, is very rough and so hard as to require a hammer to break it. though the fruit be very relishing, yet it is covered with such a thick film, that few can bestow the pains of separating the one from the other. the natives make bread of it, by throwing the fruit into water, and rubbing it till the film and oil be separated from it. if those trees were engrafted with the french walnut, their fruit would probably be improved. other walnut-trees have a very white and flexible wood. of this wood the natives make their crooked spades for hoeing their fields. the nut is smaller than ours, and the shell more tender; but the fruit is so bitter that none but perroquets can put up with it. the hicori bears a very small kind of nut, which at first sight one would take for filberts, as they have the same shape and colour, and their shell is as tender, but within they are formed like walnuts. they have such an excellent relish, that the french make fried cakes of them as good as those of almonds. louisiana produces but a few filberts, as the filbert requires a poor gravelly soil which is not to be met with in this { } province, except in the neighbourhood of the sea, especially near the river mobile. [illustration: sweet gum or liquid-amber] the large chesnuts are not to be met with but at the distance of one hundred leagues from the sea, and far from rivers in the heart of the woods, between the country of the chactaws and that of the chicasaws. the common chesnuts succeed best upon high declivities, and their fruit is like the chesnuts that grow in our woods. there is another kind of chesnuts, which are called the acorn chesnuts, as they are shaped like an acorn, { } and grow in such a cup. but they have the colour and taste of a chesnut; and i have often thought that those were the acorns which the first of men were said to have lived upon. the sweet-gum, or liquid-ambar (copalm) is not only extremely common, but it affords a balm, the virtues of which are infinite. its bark is black and hard, and its wood so tender and supple, that when the tree is felled you may draw from the middle of it rods of five or six feet in length. it cannot be employed in building or furniture, as it warps continually; nor is it fit for burning on account of its strong smell; but a little of it in a fire yields an agreeable perfume. its leaf is indented with five points like a star. i shall not undertake to particularize all the virtues of this sweet-gum or liquid-ambar, not having learned all of them from the natives of the country, who would be no less surprised to find that we used it only as a varnish, than they were to see our surgeons bleed their patients. this balm, according to them, is an excellent febrifuge; they take ten or a dozen drops of it in gruel fasting, and before their meals; and if they should take a little more, they have no reason to apprehend any danger. the physicians among the natives purge their patients before they give it them. it cures wounds in two days without any bad consequences: it is equally sovereign for all kinds of ulcers, after having applied to them for some days a plaster of bruised ground-ivy. it cures consumptions, opens obstructions; it affords relief in the colic and all internal diseases; it comforts the heart; in short, it contains so many virtues, that they are every day discovering some new property that it has. chapter iii. of forest trees. having described the most remarkable of their fruit trees, i shall now proceed to give an account of their forest trees. white and red cedars are very common upon the coast. the incorruptibility of the wood, and many other excellent properties which are well known, induced the first french settlers to build their houses of it; which were but very low. { } [illustration: cypress] next to the cedar the cypress-tree is the most valuable wood. some reckon it incorruptible; and if it be not, it is at least a great many years in rotting. the tree that was found twenty feet deep in the earth near new orleans was a cypress, and was uncorrupted. now if the lands of lower louisiana are augmented two leagues every century, this tree must have been buried at least twelve centuries. the cypress grows very straight and tall, with a proportionable thickness. they commonly { } make their pettyaugres of a single trunk of this tree, which will carry three or four thousand weight, and sometimes more. of one of those trees a carpenter offered to make two pettyaugres, one of which carried sixteen ton, and the other fourteen. there is a cypress at baton rouge, a french settlement twenty-six leagues above new orleans, which measures twelve yards round, and is of a prodigious height. the cypress has few branches, and its leaf is long and narrow. the trunk close by the ground sometimes sends off two or three stems, which enter the earth obliquely, and serve for buttresses to the tree. its wood is of a beautiful colour, somewhat reddish; it is soft, light, and smooth; its grain is straight, and its pores very close. it is easily split by wedges, and though used green it never warps. it renews itself in a very extraordinary manner: a short time after it is cut down, a shoot is observed to grow from one of its roots exactly in the form of a sugar-loaf, and this sometimes rises ten feet high before any leaf appears: the branches at length arise from the head of this conical shoot. [footnote: this is a mistake, according to charlevoix.] the cypresses were formerly very common in louisiana; but they have wasted them so imprudently, that they are now somewhat rare. they felled them for the sake of their bark, with which they covered their houses, and they sawed the wood into planks which they exported at different places. the price of the wood now is three times as much as it was formerly. the pine-tree, which loves a barren soil, is to be found in great abundance on the sea coasts, where it grows very high and very beautiful. the islands upon the coast, which are formed wholly of shining sand, bear no other trees, and i am persuaded that as fine masts might be made of them as of the firs of sweden. all the south parts of louisiana abound with the wild laurel, which grows in the woods without any cultivation: the same may be said of the stone laurel, but if a person is not upon his guard he may take for the laurel a tree natural to the country, which would communicate its bad smell to every thing it is applied to. among the laurels the preference ought to be { } given to the tulip laurel (magnolia) which is not known in europe. this tree is of the height and bulk of one of our common walnut-trees. its head is naturally very round, and so thick of leaves that neither the sun nor rain can penetrate it. its leaves are full four inches long, near three inches broad, and very thick, of a beautiful sea-green on the upperside, and resembling white velvet on the under-side: its bark is smooth and of a grey colour; its wood is white, soft and flexible, and { } the grain interwoven. it owes its name to the form of its great white flowers, which are at least two inches broad. these appearing in the spring amidst the glossy verdure of the leaves, have a most beautiful effect. as the top is naturally round, and the leaves are ever-green, avenues of this tree would doubtless be worthy of a royal garden. after it has shed its leaves, its fruit appears in the form of a pine apple, and upon the first approach of the cold its grain turns into a lively red. its { } kernel is very bitter, and it is said to be a specific against fevers. [illustration: _magnolia_ (on p. )] [illustration: _sassafras_ (on p. )] the sassafras, the name of which is familiar to botanists on account of its medicinal qualities, is a large and tall tree. its bark is thick, and cracked here and there; its wood is some what of the colour of cinnamon, and has an agreeable smell. it will not burn in the fire without the mixture of other wood, and even in the fire, if it should be separated from the flaming wood, it is immediately extinguished as if it were dipped in water. the maple grows upon declivities in cold climates, and is much more plentiful in the northern than the southern parts of the colony. by boring it they draw from it a sweet syrup which i have drunk of, and which they alledge is an excellent stomachic. the myrtle wax-tree is one of the greatest blessings with which nature has enriched louisiana, as in this country the bees lodge their honey in the earth to save it from the ravages of the bears, who are very fond of it, and do not value their stings. one would be apt to take it at first sight, both from its bark and its height, for that kind of laurel used in the kitchens. it rises in several stems from the root; its leaf is like that of the laurel, but not so thick nor of such a lively green. it bears its fruit in bunches like a nosegay, rising from the same place in various stalks about two inches long: at the end of each of those stalks is a little pea, containing a kernel in a nut, which last is wholly covered with wax. the fruit, which is very plentiful, is easily gathered, as the shrub is very flexible. the tree thrives as well in the shade of other trees as in the open air; in watry places and cold countries, as well as in dry grounds and hot climates; for i have been told that some of them have been found in canada, a country as cold as denmark. this tree yields two kinds of wax, one a whitish yellow, and the other green. it was a long time before they learned to separate them, and they prepared the wax at first in the, following manner. they threw the grains and the stalks into a large kettle of boiling water, and when the wax was detached { } from them, they scummed off the grains. when the water cooled the wax floated in a cake at the top, and being cut small, bleached in a shorter time than bees wax. they now prepare it in this manner; they throw boiling water upon the stalks and grains till they are entirely floated, and when they have stood thus a few minutes, they pour off the water, which carries the finest wax with it. this wax when cold is of a { } pale yellow colour, and may be bleached in six or seven days. having separated the best wax, they pour the water again upon the stalks and grains, and boil all together till they think they have separated all the wax. both kinds are exported to our sugar islands, where the first is sold for a hundred sols the pound, and the second for forty. [illustration: top: _myrtle wax tree_--bottom: _vinegar tree (acacia or locust)_ (on p. )] this wax is so brittle and dry that if it falls it breaks into several pieces; on this account however it lasts longer than that of france, and is preferred to it in our sugar islands, where the latter is softened by the great heats, and, consumes like tallow. i would advise those who prepare this wax to separate the grain from the short stalk before they boil it, as the stalk is greener than the grain, and seems to part easily with its colour. the water which serves to melt and separate the wax is far from being useless. the fruit communicates to it such an astringent virtue, as to harden the tallow that is melted in it to such a degree, that the candles made of that tallow are as firm as the wax candles of france. this astringent quality likewise renders it an admirable specific against a dysentery or looseness. from what i have said of the myrtle wax-tree, it may well be believed that the french of louisiana cultivate it carefully, and make plantations of it. the cotton-tree (a poplar) is a large tree which no wise deserves the name it bears, unless for some beards that it throws out. its fruit which contains the grain is about the size of a walnut, and of no use; its wood is yellow, smooth, somewhat hard, of a fine grain, and very proper for cabinet work. the bark of its root is a sovereign remedy for cuts, and so red that it may even serve to dye that colour. the acacia (locust) is the same in louisiana as in france, much more common, and less streight. the natives call it by a name that signifies hard wood, and they make their bows of it because it is very stiff. they look upon it as an incorruptible wood, which induced the french settlers to build their houses of it. the posts fixed in the earth must be entirely { } stripped of their bark, for notwithstanding their hardness, if the least bark be left upon them they will take root. [illustration: _poplar ("cotton tree")_] the holm-oak grows to a surprising bulk and height in this country; i have seen of them a foot and a half diameter, and about feet from the ground to the lowest branches. the mangrove is very common all over america. it grows in louisiana near the sea, even to the bounds of low water mark. it is more prejudicial than useful, inasmuch as { } it occupies a great deal of good land, prevents sailors from landing, and affords shelter to the fish from the fishermen. [illustration: _black oak_] oak-trees abound in louisiana; there are some red, some white, and some ever-green. a ship-builder of st. maloes assured me that the red is as good as the ever-green upon which we set so high a value in france. the ever-green oak is most common toward the sea-coasts, and near the banks of rivers, consequently may be transported with great ease, and { } become a great resource for the navy of france. [footnote: eleven leagues above the mouth of the mississippi, on the west side, there is great plenty of ever-green oaks, the wood of which is very proper for the timbers of ships, as it does not rot in water. _dumont_, i. & . accordingly the best ships built in america are well known to be those that have their timbers of ever-green oak, and their plank of cedar, of both which there are great plenty on all the coasts of louisiana.] i forgot to mention a fourth kind of oak, namely the black oak, so called from the colour of its bark. its wood is very hard, and of a { } deep red. it grows upon the declivities of hills and in the savannahs. happening after a shower of rain to examine one of these which i cut down, i observed some water to come from it as red as blood, which made me think that it might be used for dying. [illustration: _linden or bass tree_ (on p. )] the ash is very common in this country; but more and better upon the sea-coasts than in the inland parts. as it is easy to be had, and is harder than the elm, the wheel-wrights make use of it for wheels, which it is needless to, ring with iron in a country where there are neither stones nor gravel. the elm, beech, lime, and hornbeam, are exactly the same in louisiana as in france; the last of these trees is very common here. the bark of the lime-tree of this country is equally proper for the making of ropes, as the bark of the common lime; but its leaf is twice as large, and shaped like an oblong trefoil leaf with the point cut off. the white woods are the aspen, willow, alder and liart. this last grows very large, its wood is white and light, and its fibres are interwoven; it is very flexible and is easily cut, on which account they make their large pettyaugres of it. chapter iv. of shrubs and excrescences. the ayac, or stinking-wood, is usually a small tree, seldom exceeding the thickness of a man's leg; its leaf is of a yellowish green, glossy, and of an oval form, being about three inches in length. the wood is yellow, and yields a water of the same colour, when it is cut in the sap: but both the wood and the water that comes from it have a disagreeable, smell. the natives use the wood for dying; they cut it into small bits, pound them, and then boil them in water. having strained this water, they dip the feathers and hair into it, which it is their custom to dye first yellow, and then red. when they intend to use it for the yellow dye, they take care to cut the wood in the winter, but if they want only a slight colour they never mind the season of cutting it. { } [illustration: _box elder or stink-wood tree_] the machonchi, or vinegar-tree, is a shrub with leaves, somewhat resembling those of the ash; but the foot-stalk from which the leaves hang is much longer. when the leaves are dry the natives mix them with their tobacco to weaken it a little, for they do not love strong tobacco for smoaking. the wood is of an astringent nature, and if put into vinegar makes it stronger. { } [illustration: top: _cassine or yapon_--bottom: _tooth-ache tree or prickly ash_] the cassine, or yapon, is a shrub which never grows higher than feet; its bark is very smooth, and the wood flexible. its leaf is very much indented, and when used as tea is reckoned good for the stomach. the natives make an intoxicating liquor from it, by boiling it in water till great part of the liquor evaporate. the tooth-ache tree does not grow higher than to feet. the trunk, which is not very large, is wholly covered over with { } short thick prickles, which are easily rubbed off. the pith of this shrub is almost as large as that of the elder, and the form of the leaf is almost the same in both. it has two barks, the outer almost black, and the inner white, with somewhat of a pale reddish hue. this inner bark has the property of curing the tooth-ach. the patient rolls it up to the size of a bean, puts it upon the aching tooth, and chews it till the pain ceases. sailors and other such people powder it, and use it as pepper. [illustration: top: _passion thorn or honey locust_--bottom: _bearded creeper_] { } [illustration: _palmetto_] the passion-thorn does not rise above the height of a shrub; but its trunk is rather thick for its height. this shrub is in great esteem among the natches; but i never could learn for what reason. its leaf resembles that of the black thorn; and its wood while it is green is not very hard. its prickles are at least two inches long, and are very hard and piercing; within half an inch of their root two other small prickles grow out from them so as to form a cross. the whole trunk is covered { } with these prickles, so that you must be very wary how you approach it, or cut it. the elder-tree is exactly like that of france, only that its leaf is a little more indented. the juice of its leaves mixed with hog's lard is a specific against the haemorrhoids. the palmetto has its leaves in the form of an open fan, scolloped at the end of each of its folds. its bark is more rough and knotty than that of the palm-tree. although it is less than that of the east indies, it may however serve to the same purposes. its wood is not harder than that of a cabbage, and its trunk is so soft that the least wind overturns it, so that i never saw any but what were lying on the ground. it is very common in lower louisiana, where there are no wild oxen; for those animals who love it dearly, and are greatly fattened by it, devour it wherever they can find it. the spanish women make hats of its leaves that do not weigh an ounce, riding-hoods, and other curious works. the birch-tree is the same with that of france. in the north they make canoes of its bark large enough to hold eight persons. when the sap rises they strip off the bark from the tree in one piece with wedges, after which they sew up the two ends of it to serve for stem and stern, and anoint the whole with gum. i make not the least doubt but that there are great numbers of other trees in the forests of louisiana that deserve to be particularly described; but i know of none, nor have i heard of any, but what i have already spoken of. for our travellers, from whom alone we can get any intelligence of those things, are more intent upon discovering game which they stand in need of for their subsistence, than in observing the productions of nature in the vegetable kingdom. to what i have said of trees, i shall only add, from my own knowledge, an account of two singular excrescences. the first is a kind of agaric or mushroom, which grows from the root of the walnut-tree, especially when it is felled. the natives, who are very careful in the choice of their food, gather it with great attention, boil it in water, and eat it with { } their gruel. i had the curiosity to taste of it, and found it very delicate, but rather insipid, which might easily be corrected with a little seasoning. the other excrescence is commonly found upon trees near the banks of rivers and lakes. it is called spanish beard, which name was given it by the natives, who, when the spaniards first appeared in their country about years ago, were greatly surprised at their mustachios and beards. this excrescence appears like a bunch of hair hanging from the large branches of trees, and might at first be easily mistaken for an old perruque, especially when it is dancing with the wind. as the first settlers of louisiana used only mud walls for their houses, they commonly mixed it with the mud for strengthening the building. when gathered it is of a grey colour, but when it is dry its bark falls off, and discovers black filaments as long and as strong as the hairs of a horse's tail. i dressed some of it for stuffing a mattress, by first laying it up in a heap to make it part with the bark, and afterwards beating it to take off some small branches that resemble so many little hooks. it is affirmed by some to be incorruptible: i myself have seen of it under old rotten trees that was perfectly fresh and strong. chapter v. _of creeping plants._ the great fertility of louisiana renders the creeping plants extremely common, which, exclusive of the ivy, are all different from those which we have in france. i shall only mention the most remarkable. the bearded-creeper is so called from having its whole stalk covered with a beard about an inch long, hooked at the end, and somewhat thicker than a horse's hair. there is no tree which it loves to cling to so much as to the sweet gum; and so great is its sympathy, if i may be allowed the expression, for that tree, that if it grow between it and any other tree, it turns solely towards the sweet gum, although it should be at the greatest distance from it. this is likewise the tree upon which { } it thrives best. it has the same virtue with its balm of being a febrifuge, and this i affirm after a great number of proofs. the physicians among the natives use this simple in the following manner. they take a piece of it, above the length of the finger, which they split into as many threads as possible; these they boil in a quart of water, till one third of the decoction evaporate, and the remainder is strained clear. they then purge the patient, and the next day, upon the approach of the fit, they give a third of the decoction to drink. if the patient be not cured with the first dose, he is again purged and drinks another third, which seldom fails of having the wished-for effect. this medicine is indeed very bitter, but it strengthens the stomach; a singular advantage it has over the jesuits bark, which is accused of having a contrary effect. there is another creeper very like salsaparilla, only that it bears its leaves by threes. it bears a fruit smooth on one side like a filbert, and on the other as rough as the little shells which serve for money on the guinea coast. i shall not speak of its properties; they are but too well known by the women of louisiana, especially the girls, who very often have recourse to it. another creeper is called by the native physicians the remedy against poisoned arrows. it is large and very beautiful; its leaves are pretty long, and the pods it bears are narrow, about an inch broad, and eight inches long. the salsaparilla grows naturally in louisiana, and it is not inferior in its qualities to that of mexico. it is so well known that it is needless to enlarge upon it. the esquine partly resembles a creeper and partly a bramble. it is furnished with hard spikes like prickles, and its oblong leaves are like those of the common creeper (liane;) its stalk is straight, long, shining, and hard, and it runs up along the reeds: its root is spungy, and sometimes as large as one's head, but more long than round. besides the sudorific virtue which the esquine possesses in common with the salsaparilla, it has the property of making the hair grow, and the women among the natives use it successfully with this view. { } they cut the root into small bits, boil them in water, and wash their heads with the decoction. i have seen several of them whose hair came down below their knees, and one particularly whose hair came lower than the ankle bones. [illustration: top: _bramble_--bottom: _sarsaparilla_] hops grow naturally in the gullies in the high lands. maiden-hair grows in louisiana more beautiful, at least as good as that of canada, which is in so great repute. it { } grows in gullies upon the sides of hills, in places that are absolutely impenetrable to the most ardent rays of the sun. it seldom rises above a foot, and it bears a thick shaggy head. the native physicians know more of its virtues than we do in france. the canes or reeds which i have mentioned so often may be divided into two kinds. one kind grows in moist places to the height of eighteen feet, and the thickness of the wrist. the natives makes matts, sieves, small boxes, and other works of it. those that grow in dry places are neither so high nor so thick, but are so hard, that before the arrival of the french, the natives used splits of those canes to cut their victuals with. after a certain number of years, the large canes bear a great abundance of grain, which is somewhat like oats, but about three times as large. the natives carefully gather these grains and make bread or gruel of them. this flour swells as much as that of wheat. when the reeds have yielded the grain they die, and none appear for a long time after in the same place, especially if fire has been set to the old ones. the flat-root receives its name from the form of its root, which is thin, flat, pretty often indented, and sometimes even pierced through: it is a line or sometimes two lines in thickness, and its breadth is commonly a foot and a half. from this large root hang several other small straight roots, which draw the nourishment from the earth. this plant, which grows in meadows that are not very rich, sends up from the same root several straight stalks about eighteen inches high, which are as hard as wood, and on the top of the stalks it bears small purplish, flowers, in their figure greatly resembling those of heath; its seed is contained in a deep cup closed at the head, and in a manner crowned. its leaves are about an inch broad, and about two long, without any indenting, of a dark green, inclining to a brown. it is so strong a sudorific, that the natives never use any other for promoting sweating, although they are perfectly acquainted with sassafras, salsaparilla, the esquine and others. the rattle-snake-herb has a bulbous root, like that of the tuberose, but twice as large. the leaves of both have the same { } shape and the same colour, and on the under side have some flame-coloured spots; but those of the rattle-snake plant are twice as large as the others, end in a very firm point, and are armed with very hard prickles on both sides. its stalk grows to the height of about three feet, and from the head rise five or six sprigs in different directions, each of which bears a purple flower an inch broad, with five leaves in the form of a { } cup. after these leaves are shed there remains a head about the size of a small nut, but shaped like the head of a poppy. this head is separated into four divisions, each of which contains four black seeds, equally thick throughout, and about the size of a large lentil. when the head is ripe, it will, when shaken, give the same sound as the tail of a rattle-snake, which seems to indicate the property of the plant; for it is the specific remedy against the bite of that dangerous reptile. the person who has been bit ought immediately to take a root, bite off part of it, chew it for some time, and apply it to the wound. in five or six hours it will extract the whole poison, and no bad consequences need be apprehended. [illustration: _rattlesnake herb_ (on p. )] ground-ivy is said by the natives to possess many more virtues than are known to our botanists. it is said to ease women in labour when drank in a decoction; to cure ulcers, if bruised and laid upon the ulcered part; to be a sovereign remedy for the head-ach; a considerable quantity of its leaves bruised, and laid as a cataplasm. upon the head, quickly removes the pain. as this is an inconvenient application to a person that wears his hair, i thought of taking the salts of the plant, and i gave some of them in vulnerary water to a friend of mine who was often attacked with the head-ach, advising him likewise to draw up some drops by the nose: he seldom practised this but he was relieved a few moments after. the achechy is only to be found in the shade of a wood, and never grows higher than six or seven inches. it has a small stalk, and its leaves are not above three lines long. its root consists of a great many sprigs a line in diameter, full of red juice like chickens blood. having transplanted this plant from an overshadowed place into my garden, i expected to see it greatly improved; but it was not above an inch taller, and its head was only a little bushier than usual. it is with the juice of this plant that the natives dye their red colour. having first dyed their feathers or hair yellow or a beautiful citron colour with the ayac wood, they boil the roots of the achechy in water, then squeeze them with all their force, and the expressed liquor serves for the red dye. that which was naturally white before it was dyed yellow, takes a beautiful scarlet; { } that which was brown, such as buffalo's hair, which is of a chesnut colour, becomes a reddish brown. [illustration: top: _red dye plant_--bottom: _flat root_] i shall not enlarge upon the strawberries, which are of an excellent flavour, and so plentiful, that from the beginning of april the savannahs or meadows appear quite red with them. i shall also only just mention the tobacco, which i reserve for the article of agriculture; but i ought not to omit to take notice, that hemp grows naturally on the lands adjoining to the lakes { } on the west of the missisippi. the stalks are as thick as one's finger, and about six feet long. they are quite like ours both in the wood, the leaf, and the rind. the flax which was sown in this country rose three feet high. i cannot affirm from my own knowledge that the soil in this province produces either white mushrooms or truffles. but morelles in their season are to be found in the greatest abundance, and round mushrooms in the autumn. when i consider the mild temperature of this climate, i am persuaded that all our flowers would succeed extremely well in it. the country has flowers peculiar to itself, and, in such abundance, that from the month of may till the end of summer, you can hardly see the grass in the meadows; and of such various hues that one is at a loss which to admire most and declare to be the most beautiful. the number and diversity of those flowers quite enchant the sight. i will not however attempt to give a particular account of them, as i am not qualified on this head to satisfy the desires of the curious, from my having neglected to consider the various flowers themselves. i have seen single and small roses without any smell; and another kind of rose with four white petals, which in its smell, chives, and pointal, differed in nothing from our damask roses. but of all the flowers of this country, that which struck me most, as it is both very common and lasts a long time, is the flower called lion's mouth. the flowers which decorate its stalk, its shady colours, its blowing for more than three months, justly entitle it to the preference before all other flowers. it forms of itself an agreeable nosegay; and in my opinion, it deserves to be ranked with the finest flowers, and to be cultivated with attention in the gardens of our kings. as to cotton and indigo, i defer speaking of them till i come to the chapter of agriculture. { } chapter vi. _of the quadrupedes._ before i speak of the animals which the first settlers found in louisiana, it is proper to observe, that all those which were brought hither from france, or from new spain and carolina, such as horses, oxen, sheep, goats, dogs, cats, and others, have multiplied and thriven perfectly well. however it ought to be remarked, that in lower louisiana, where the ground is moist and much covered with wood, they can neither be so good nor so beautiful as in higher louisiana, where the soil is dry, where there are most extensive meadows, and where the sun warms the earth to a much greater degree. the buffalo is about the size of one of our largest oxen, but he appears rather bigger, on account of his long curled wool, which makes him appear to the eye much larger than he really is. this wool is very fine and very thick, and is of a dark chesnut colour, as are likewise his bristly hairs, which are also curled, and so long, that the bush between his horns often falls over his eyes, and hinders him from seeing before him; but his sense of hearing and smelling is so exquisite as in some measure to supply the want of the other. a pretty large bunch rises on his shoulders in the place where they join to the neck. his horns are thick, short, and black; and his hoof is also black. the cows of this species have small udders like those of a mare. this buffalo is the chief food of the natives, and of the french also for a long time past; the best piece is the bunch on the shoulders, the taste of which is extremely delicate. they hunt this animal in the winter; for which purpose they leave lower louisiana, and the river missisippi, as he cannot penetrate thither on account of the thickness of the woods; and besides loves to feed on long grass, which is only to be found in the meadows of the high lands. in order to get near enough to fire upon him, they go against the wind, and they take aim at the hollow of the shoulder, that they may bring him to the ground at once, for if he is only slightly wounded, he runs against his enemy. the natives when hunting seldom { } choose to kill any but the cows, having experienced that the flesh of the male smells rank; but this they might easily prevent, if they did but cut off the testicles from the beast as soon as he is dead, as they do from stags and wild boars. by killing the males there is less hazard of diminishing the species than by killing the females; and besides, the males have much more tallow, and their skins are the largest and best. [illustration: top: _panther or catamount_--bottom: _bison or buffalo_] { } these skins are an object of no small consideration. the natives dress them with their wool on, to such great perfection, as to render them more pliable than our buff. they dye them different colours, and cloath themselves therewith. to the french they supply the place of the best blankets, being at the same time very warm and very light. the stag is entirely the same with that of france, only he is a little larger. they are only to be found in upper louisiana, where the woods are much thinner than in lower louisiana, and the chesnuts which the stag greatly loves are very common. the deer is very frequent in this province, notwithstanding the great numbers of them that are killed by the natives. according to the hunters, he partly resembles the stag, the rein-deer, and the roe-buck. as to myself, i can only say what i have seen; that he is about four feet high, has large horns bending forwards, and decorated with several antlers, the ends of which are formed somewhat like a rose; that his flesh is dry like that of ours, and when he is fat tastes like mutton. they feed in herds, and are not in the least of a fierce nature. they are excessively capricious, hardly remain a moment in one place, but are coming and going continually. the natives dress the skin extremely well, like buff, and afterwards paint it. those skins that are brought to france are often called does skins. the natives hunt the deer sometimes in companies, and sometimes alone. the hunter who goes out alone, furnishes himself with the dried head of a deer, with part of the skin of the neck fastened to it, and this skin is stretched out with several hoops made of split cane, which are kept in their places by other splits placed along the inside of the skin, so that the hands and arms may be easily put within the neck. being thus provided, he goes in quest of the deer, and takes all necessary precautions not to be discovered by that animal: when he sees one, he approaches it as gently as possible, hiding himself behind a bush which he carries in his hand, till he be within shot of it. but if, before he can come near enough, the buck shakes its head, which is a sign that he is going to make some { } capers and run away, the hunter immediately counterfeits the cries of those animals when they call each other, in which case the buck frequently comes up towards him. he then shews the head which he holds in his hand, and by lowering and lifting his arm by turns, it makes the appearance of a buck feeding, and lifting his head from time to time to graze. the hunter still keeps himself behind the bush, till the buck comes near enough to him, and the moment he turns his side, he fires at the hollow of his shoulder, and lays him dead. [illustration: _indian deer hunt_] { } when the natives want to make the dance of the deer; or if they want to exercise themselves merrily; or if it should happen that the great sun inclines to such sport, they go about an hundred of them in a company to the hunting of this animals, which they must bring home alive. as it is a diverting exercise, many young men are generally of the party, who disperse themselves in the meadows among the thickets in order to discover the deer. they no sooner perceive one than they advance towards him in a wide crescent, one point of which may be a quarter of a league from the other. part of the crescent draws near to him, which frightens him away to another point; that part likewise advancing, he immediately flies back to the other sidee. he is kept thus running from one side to another a considerable time, on purpose to exercise the young men, and afford diversion to the great sun, or to another little sun, who is nominated to supply his place. the deer sometimes attempts to get out and escape by the openings of the crescent, in which case those who are at the points run forwards, and oblige him to go back. the crescent then gradually forms a circle; and when they perceive the deer beginning to be tired, part of them stoop almost to the ground, and remain in that posture till he approaches them, when they rise and shout: he instantly flies off to the other side, where they do the same; by which means he is at length so exhausted, that he is no longer able to stand on his legs, and suffers himself to be taken like a lamb. sometimes, however, he defends himself on the ground with his antlers and forefeet; they therefore use the precaution to seize upon him behind, and even in that case they are sometimes wounded. the hunters having seized the deer present it to the great sun, or in his absence, to the person whom he sent to represent him. if he says, _well_, the roe-buck is immediately opened, and its four quarters carried to the hut of the great sun, who gives portions of them to the chief men among the hunters. the wolf is not above fifteen inches high, and of a proportionable length. he is not so brown as our wolves, nor so fierce and dangerous; he is therefore more like a dog than a wolf, especially the dog of the natives, who differs from him { } in nothing, but that he barks. the wolf is very common in the hunting countries; and when the hunter makes a hut for himself in the evening upon the bank of a river, if he sees the wolf, he may be confident that the buffaloes are not at a very great distance. it is said, that this animal, not daring to attack the buffalo when in a herd, will come and give notice to the hunter that he may kill him, in hopes of coming in for the offals. the wolves are actually so familiar, that they come and go on all sides when looking for something to eat, without minding in the least whether they be near or at a distance from the habitations of men. in my time two very large black wolves were seen in louisiana. the oldest inhabitants, and those who travel to the remotest parts of the colony, declared that they had never before seen any such; from whence it was concluded, that they were foreign wolves which had lost their way. fortunately they killed them both; for one of them was a she-wolf big with young. the bear appears in louisiana in winter, as the snows, which then cover the northern climates, hinder him from procuring a subsistence there, and force him southwards. if some few are seen in the summer time, they are only the slow young bears, that have not been strong enough to follow the herd northwards. the bear lives upon roots and fruits, particularly acorns; but this most delicate food is honey and milk. when he meets with either of these last, he will suffer himself to be killed than quit his prize. our colonists have sometimes diverted themselves by burying a small pail with some milk in it almost up to the edge in the ground, and setting two young bears to it. the contest then was which of the two should hinder the other from tasting the milk, and both of them so tore the earth with their paws, and pulled at the pail, that they generally overturned the milk, before either of them had tasted of it. in opposition to the general opinion, which supposes the bear a carnivorous animal, i affirm, with all the inhabitants of this colony, and the neighbouring countries, that he never feeds upon flesh. it is indeed to be lamented that the first { } travellers had the impudence to publish to the world a thousand false stories, which were easily believed because they were new. people, so far from wishing to be undeceived, have even been offended with those who attempted to detect the general errors; but it is my duty to speak the truth, for the sake of those who are willing to hear it. what i maintain here is not a mere conjectural supposition, but a known fact over all north america, which may be attested by the evidence of a great number of people who have lived there, and by the traders who are going and coming continually. there is not one instance can be given of their having devoured men, notwithstanding their great multitudes, and the extreme hunger which they must sometimes have suffered; for even in that case they never so much as touch the butchers meat which they meet with. the bears seldom quit the banks of the missisippi, as it is there that they can best procure a subsistence; but when i lived at the natchez there happened so severe a winter, that those animals came from the north in such numbers that they starved each other, and were very lean. their great hunger obliged them to quit the woods which line the banks of the river: they were seen at night running among the settlements; and they sometimes even entered those court-yards that were not well shut; they there found butchers meat exposed to the open air, but they never touched it, and eat only the corn or roots they could meet with. certainly on such occasion as this, and in such a pressing want, they would have proved carnivorous, if it had been in the least degree their natural disposition. but perhaps one will say, "it is true they never touch dead flesh; it is only living flesh that they devour." that is being very delicate indeed, and what i can by no means allow them: for if they were flesh-eaters, i greatly suspect that, in the severe famine which i have spoken of, they would have made a hearty meal of the butchers meat which they found in the court-yards; or at least would have devoured several persons, who fell in their way, which they never did. the following fact however will be a more compleat answer to this objection. { } two canadians, who were on a journey, landed on a sand-bank, when they perceived a bear crossing the river. as he appeared fat, and consequently would yield a great deal of oil, one of the travellers ran forwards and fired at him. unhappily however he only slightly wounded him; and as the bears in that case always turn upon their enemy, the hunter was immediately seized by the wounded bear, who in a few moments squeezed him to death, without wounding him in the least with his teeth, although his muzzle was against his face, and he must certainly have been exasperated. the other canadian, who was not above three hundred paces distance, ran to save his comrade with the utmost speed, but he was dead before he came up to him; and the bear escaped into the wood. upon examining the corpse he found the place, where the bear had squeezed it, pressed in two inches more than the rest of the breast. some perhaps may still add, that the mildness of the climate of louisiana may have an effect upon the disposition of the bears, and prevent them from being so voracious as those of our continent; but i affirm that carnivorous animals retain the same disposition in all countries. the wolves of louisiana are carnivorous as well as those of europe, although they differ in other particulars. the tigers of africa, and those of america, are equally mischievous animals. the wild-cats of america, though very different from those of europe, have however the same appetite for mice when they are tamed. it is the same with other species, naturally inclined to live upon other animals; and the bears of america, if flesh-eaters, would not quit the countries covered with snow, where they would find men and other animals in abundance, to come so far in search of fruits and roots; which kind of nourishment carnivorous animals refuse to taste. [footnote: since i wrote the above account of the bears, i have been certainly informed, that in the mountains of savoy there are two sorts of bears. the one black, like that of louisiana, and not carnivorous; the other red, and no less carnivorous than the wolves. both turn upon their enemy when wounded.] bears are seen very frequently in louisiana in the winter time, and they are so little dreaded, that the people sometimes { } make it a diversion to hunt them. when they are fat, that is about the end of december, they cannot run so fast as a man; therefore the hunters are in no danger if they should turn upon them. the she-bears are tolerably fat when they are big with young; but after they have littered they quickly become lean. the bears usually arrive in louisiana towards the end of autumn; and then they are very lean, as they do not leave the north till the earth be wholly covered with snow, and find often but a very scanty subsistence in their way southwards. i said above, that those animals seldom go to any great distance from the river; and on both banks travellers meet with such a beaten path in winter, that to those who are not acquainted with it, it appears like the track of men. i myself, the first time i observed it, was deceived by it. i was then near two hundred miles from any human dwelling, yet the path at first appeared to me as if it had been made by thousands of men, who had walked that way bare-footed. upon a narrower inspection however, i observed, that the prints of the feet were shorter than that of a man, and that there was the impression of a claw at the end of each toe. it is proper to observe that in those paths the bear does not pique himself upon politeness, and will yield the way to nobody; therefore it is prudent in a traveller not to fall out with him for such a trifling affair. the bears, after they have been a short time in the country, and found abundance of fruits, turn fat and lazy, and it is then the natives go out to hunt them. the bear, when he is fat, huts himself, that is, retires into the hollow trunk of some rotten tree that has died on end. the natives, when they meet with any of those trees, which they suspect contains a bear in it, give two or three strong blows against the trunk, and immediately run behind the next tree opposite to the lowest breach. if there be a bear within, he appears in a few minutes at the breach, to look out and spy the occasion of the disturbance; but upon observing nothing likely to annoy him, he goes down again to the bottom of his castle. the natives having once seen their prey, gather a heap of dried canes, which they bruise with their feet, that they may { } burn the easier, and one of them mounting upon a tree adjoining to that in which the bear is, sets fire to the reeds, and darts them one after another into the breach; the other hunters having planted themselves in ambuscade upon other trees. the bear is quickly burned out of his habitation, and he no sooner appears on the outside, than they let fly their arrows at him, and often kill him before he gets to the bottom of the tree. he is no sooner dead than some of the hunters are dispatched to look for a deer, and they seldom fail of bringing in one or two. when a deer is brought, they cut off the head, and then take off the skin whole, beginning at the neck, and rolling it down, as they cut it, like a stocking. the legs they cut off at the knee-joints, and having cleaned and washed the skin, they stop all the holes except the neck, with a kind of paste made of the fat of the deer mixed with ashes, over which they tie several bindings with the bark of the lime-tree. having thus provided a kind of cask, they fill it with the oil of the bear, which they prepare by boiling the flesh and fat together. this deer of oil, as it is called, they sell to the french for a gun, a yard of cloth, or any other thing of that value. the french, before they use it, purify it, by putting it into a large kettle, with a handful of laurel leaves; and sprinkling it when it begins to be hot with some water, in which they have dissolved a large quantity of salt. the smoke that rises upon this sprinkling carries off with it any bad smell the fat may have; they next pour it off into a vessel, and eight days after there is found on the top of it a clear oil which serves all the purposes of olive oil; what remains below is a fine kind of lard, proper for the kitchen, and a sovereign remedy for all kinds of pains. i myself was cured of the rheumatism in my shoulder by it. the tiger is not above a foot and a half high, and long in proportion: his hair is somewhat of a bright bay colour, and he is brisk as all tigers naturally are. his flesh when boiled tastes like veal, only it is not so insipid. there are very few of them to be seen; i never saw but two near my settlement; and i have great reason to think that it was the same beast i saw both times. the first time he laid hold of my dog, who barked and howled; but upon my running towards him the { } tiger left him. the next time he seized a pig; but this i likewise rescued, and his claws had gone no deeper than the fat. this animal is not more carnivorous than fearful; he flies at the sight of a man, and makes off with greater speed, if you shout and halloo as he runs. [illustration: top: _wild cat_--middle: _opossum_--bottom: _skunk_] the cat-a-mount is a kind of wild cat, as high as the tiger, but not so thick, and his skin is extremely beautiful. he is a great destroyer of poultry, but fortunately his species is rare. { } foxes are so numerous, that upon the woody heights you frequently see nothing but their holes. as the woods afford them plenty of game, they do not molest the poultry, which are always allowed to run at large. the foxes are exactly shaped like ours, but their skin is much more beautiful. their hair is fine and thick, of a deep brown colour, and over this rise several long silver-coloured hairs, which have a fine effect. the wild cat has been improperly so called by the first french settlers in louisiana; for it has nothing of the cat but its nimble activity, and rather resembles a monkey. it is not above eight or ten inches high, and about fifteen long. its head is like that of a fox; it has long toes, but very short claws, not made for seizing game; accordingly it lives upon fruit, bread, and other such things. this animal may be tamed, and then becomes very frolicksome and full of tricks. the hair of those that are tame is grey; but of the wild is reddish; neither of them is so beautiful as that of the fox; it grows very fat, and its flesh is good to eat. i shall not describe the real wild cat, as it is entirely like ours. the rabbit is extremely common over all louisiana; it is particular in this, that its pile is like that of the hare, and it never burrows. its flesh is white and delicate, and has the usual taste, without any rankness. there is no other kind of rabbit or hare, if you please to call it, in all the colony, than that above described. the wood-rat has the head and tail of a common rat, but has the bulk and length of a cat. its legs are short, its paws long, and its toes are armed with claws: its tail is almost without hair, which serves for hooking itself to any thing; for when you take hold of it by that part, it immediately twists itself round your finger. its pile is grey, and though very fine, yet is never smooth. the women among the natives spin it and dye it red. it hunts by night, and makes war upon the poultry, only sucking their blood and leaving their flesh. it is very rare to see any creature walk so slow; and i have often catched them when walking my ordinary pace. when he sees himself upon the point of being caught, instinct prompts him to counterfeit being dead; and in this he perseveres with such { } constancy, that though laid on a hot gridiron, he will not make the least sign of life. he never moves, unless the person go to a distance or hide himself, in which case he endeavors as fast as possible to escape into some hole or bush. when the she-one is about to litter, she chooses a place in the thick bushes at the foot of a tree, after which she and the male crop a great deal of fine dry grass, which is loaded upon her belly, and then the male drags her and her burden by the tail to the littering-place. she never quits her young a moment; but when she is obliged to change her lodging, carries them with her in a pouch or double skin that wraps round her belly, and there they may sleep or suck at their ease. the two sides of this pouch lap so close that the joining can hardly be observed; nor can they be separated without tearing the skin. if the she-one be caught carrying her young thus with her, she will suffer herself to be roasted alive, without the least sign of life, rather than open the pouch and expose her young ones. the flesh of this animal is very good, and tastes somewhat like that of a sucking pig, when it is first broiled, and afterwards roasted on the spit. the pole-cat or skunk is about the size of a kitten eight months old. the male is of a beautiful black, but the female has rings of white intermixed with the black. its ear and its paw are like that of a mouse, and it has a very lively eye. i suppose it lives upon fruits and seeds. it is most justly called the stinking beast, for its odour is so strong, that it may be pursued upon the track twenty-four hours after it has passed. it goes very slow, and when the hunter approaches it, it squirts out, far and wide such a stinking urine, that neither man nor beast can hardly approach it. a drop of this creature's blood, and probably some of its urine, having one day fallen upon my coat when i was hunting, i was obliged as fast as possible to go home and change my cloaths; and before i, could use my coat, it was scoured and exposed for several days to the dew. the squirrels of louisiana are like those of france, excepting one kind, which are called flying-squirrels, because they leap from one tree to another, though the distance between them be twenty-five or thirty feet. it is about the size of a { } rat, and of a deep ash-colour. its two fore-legs are joined to its two hind-legs by two membranes, so that when it leaps it seems to fly, though it always leaps somewhat downwards. this animal may be very easily tamed; but even then it is best to chain it. there is another sort, not much bigger than a mouse, and of a bright bay-colour. these are so familiar that they will come out of the woods, will enter the houses, and sit within two yards of the people of the house, if they do not make any motion; and there they will feed on any maiz within their reach. i never was so well diverted in my life with the frolics of any animal, as i have been with the vivacity and attitudes of this little squirrel. the porcupine is large and fine of this kind; but as he lives only upon fruit, and loves cold, is most common about the river illinois, where the climate is somewhat cold, and there is plenty of wild fruits. the skin, when stripped of the quills, is white and brown. the natives dye part of the white, yellow and red, and the brown they dye black. they have likewise the art of splitting the skin, and applying it to many curious works, particularly to trim the edges of their deer-skin, and to line small bark-boxes, which are very neat. the hedge-hog of louisiana is in every respect the same with that of europe. i shall not enlarge upon the beavers, which are universally known, from the many descriptions we have of them. the otters are the same with those of france, and there are but few of them to be seen. some turtle are seen in this country; but very rarely. in the many hundred leagues of country that i have passed over, i have hardly seen above a hundred. frogs are very common, especially in lower louisiana, notwithstanding the great number of snakes that destroy them. there are some that grow very large, sometimes above a foot and a half long, and astonish strangers at first by their croaking especially if they are in a hollow tree. the crocodile is very common in the river missisippi. although this amphibious animal be almost as well known as { } those i have just mentioned, i cannot however omit taking some notice of it. without troubling the reader with a description of it, which he will meet with every where, i shall observe that it shuns the banks of the river frequented by men. it lays its eggs in the months of may, when the sun is already hot in that country, and it deposits them in the most concealed place it can find among grass exposed to the heats of the south. the eggs are about the size of those of a goose, but longer in proportion. upon breaking them you will find hardly any thing but white, the yolk being about the size of that of a young hen. i never saw any that were new hatched. the smallest i ever met with, which i concluded to be about three months old, was as long as a middle-sized eel, and an inch and a half thick. i have killed one nineteen feet long, and three feet and a half in its greatest breadth. a friend of mine killed one twenty-two feet long, and the legs of both these, which on land seemed to move with great difficulty, were not above a foot in length. but however sluggish they be on land, in the water they move with great agility. this animal has his body always covered with slime, which is the case with all fishes that live in muddy waters. when he comes on shore his track is covered with that slime, as his belly trails on the ground, and this renders the earth very slippery in that part, especially as he returns by the same path to the water. he never hunts the fish upon which he subsists; but places himself in ambuscade, and catches them as they pass. for that purpose he digs a hole in the bank of the river, below the surface of the water, where the current is strong, having a small entrance, but large enough within to turn himself round in. the fish, which are fatigued with the strong current, are glad to get into the smooth water in that corner, and there they are immediately seized by the crocodile. i shall not contradict the accounts of venerable antiquity about the crocodiles of the nile, who fall upon men and devour them; who cross the roads, and make a slippery path upon them to trip passengers, and make them slide into the river; who counterfeit the voice of an infant, to draw children into their snares; neither shall i contradict the travellers who have { } confirmed those stories from mere hearsays. but as i profess to speak the truth, and to advance nothing but what i am certain of from my own knowledge, i may safely affirm that the crocodiles of louisiana are doubtless of another species than those of other countries. in fact, i never heard them imitate the cries of an infant, nor is it at all probable that they can counterfeit them. their voice is as strong as that of a bull. it is true they attack men in the water, but never on land, where they are not at all formidable. besides, there are nations that in great part subsist upon this animal, which is hunted out by the fathers and mothers, and killed by the children. what can we then believe of those stories that have been told us of the crocodile? i myself killed all that ever i met of them; and they are so much the less to be dreaded, in that they can neither run nor rise up against a man. in the water indeed, which is their favourite element, they are dangerous; but in that case it is easy to guard against them. the largest of all the reptiles of louisiana, is the rattle-snake: some of them have been seen fifteen inches thick, and long in proportion; but this species is naturally shorter in proportion to their thickness than the other kinds of serpents. this serpent gets its name from several hollow knots at its tail, very thin and dry, which make a rattling noise. these knots, though inserted into each other, are yet quite detached, and only the first of them is fastened to the skin. the number of the knots, it is said, marks the age of the serpent, and i am much inclined to believe it; for as i have killed a great number of them, i always observed, that the longer and thicker the serpent was, it had the more knots. its skin is almost black; but the lower part of its belly is striped black and white. as soon as it hears or sees a man, it rouses itself by shaking its tail, which makes a rattling noise that may be heard at several paces distance, and gives warning to the traveller to be upon his guard. it is much to be dreaded when it coils itself up in a spiral line, for then it may easily dart upon a man. it shuns the habitations of men, and by a singular providence, wherever it retires to, there the herb which cures its bite, is likewise to be found. { } [illustration: top: _alligator_--middle: _rattle snake_--bottom: _green snake_] there are several other kinds of serpents to be seen here, some of which resemble those of france, and attempt to slip into the hen-houses to devour the eggs and new-hatched chickens. others are green, about two feet long, and not thicker than a goose-quill; they frequent the meadows, and may be seen running over the spires of grass, such is their lightness and nimbleness. { } vipers are very rare in lower louisiana, as that reptile loves stoney grounds. in the highlands they are now-and-then to met with, and there they quite resemble ours. lizards are very common: there is a small kind of these that are called cameleons, because they change their colour according to that of the place they pass over. [footnote: when the cameleon is angry, a nerve rises arch-wise from his mouth to the middle of his throat; and the skin which covers it is so stretched as to remain red, whatever colour the rest of the body be. he never does any hurt, and always runs away when observed.] among the spiders of louisiana there is one kind that will appear very extraordinary. it is as large, but rather longer than a pigeon's egg, black with gold-coloured specks. its claws are pierced through above the joints. it does not carry its eggs like the rest, but encloses them in a kind of cup covered with its silk. it lodges itself in a kind of nut made of the same silk, and hung to the branches of the trees. the web which this insect weaves is so strong, that it not only stops birds, but cannot even be broken by men without a considerable effort. i never saw any moles in louisiana, nor heard of any being seen by others. chapter vii. _of birds, and flying insects_. birds are so very numerous in louisiana, that if all the different kinds of them were known, which is far from being the case at present, the description of them alone would require an entire volume. i only undertake the description of all those which have come within my knowledge, the number of which, i am persuaded, will be sufficient to satisfy the curious reader. the eagle, the king of the birds, is smaller than the eagle of the alps; but he is much more beautiful, being entirely white, excepting only the tips of his wings, which are black. as he is also very rare, this is another reason for heightening his value to the native, who purchase at a great price the large { } feathers of his wings, with which they ornament the calumet, or symbol of peace, as i have elsewhere described. when speaking of the king of birds, i shall take notice of the wren, called by the french roitelet (petty king) which is the same in louisiana as in france. the reason of its name in french will plainly enough appear from the following history. a magistrate, no less remarkable for his probity than for the rank he holds in the law, assured me that, when he was at sables d'olonne in poitou, on account of an estate which he had in the neighbourhood of that city, he had the curiosity to go and see a white eagle which was then brought from america. after he had entered the house a wren was brought, and let fly in the hall where the eagle was feeding. the wren perched upon a beam, and was no sooner perceived by the eagle, than he left off feeding, flew into a corner, and hung down his head. the little bird, on the other hand, began to chirp and appear angry, and a moment after flew upon the neck of the eagle, and pecked him with the greatest fury, the eagle all the while hanging his head in a cowardly manner, between his feet. the wren, after satisfying its animosity, returned to the beam. the falcon, the hawk, and the tassel are the same as in france; but the falcons are much more beautiful than ours. the carrion-crow, or turky bustard, is of the size and shape of a turky-cock; his head is covered with red flesh, and his plumage is black: he has a hooked beak, but his toes are armed with very small talons, and are therefore very improper for seizing live game, which indeed he does not chuse to attack, as his want of agility prevents him from darting upon it with the rapidity of a bird of prey. accordingly he lives only upon the dead beasts that he happens to meet with, and yet notwithstanding this kind of food he smells of musk. several people maintain, that the carrion-crow, or carancro, is the same with our vulture. the spaniards forbid the killing of it under pain of corporal punishment; for as they do not use the whole carcase of the buffaloes which they kill, those birds eat what they leave, which otherwise, by rotting on the ground, would, according to them, infect the air. { } the cormorant is shaped very much like a duck, but its plumage is different and much more beautiful. this bird frequents the shores of the sea and of lakes, but rarely appears in rivers. its usual food is fish; but as it is very voracious, it likewise eats dead flesh; and this it can tear to pieces by means of a notch in its bill, which is about the size of that of a duck. the swan of louisiana are like those of france, only they are larger. however, notwithstanding their bulk and their weight, they often rise so high in the air, that they cannot be distinguished but by their shrill cry. their flesh is very good to eat, and their fat is a specific against cold humours. the natives set a great value upon the feathers of the swan. of the large ones they make the diadems of their sovereigns, hats, and other ornaments; and they weave the small ones as the peruke-makers weave hair, and make coverings of them for their noble women. the young people of both sexes make tippets of the skin, without stripping it of its down. the canada-goose is a water-fowl, of the shape of a goose; but twice as large and heavy. its plumage is ash-coloured; its eyes are covered with a black spot; its cries are different from those of a goose, and shriller; its flesh is excellent. the pelican is so called from its large head, its large bill, and above all for its large pouch, which hangs from its neck, and has neither feather nor down. it fills this pouch with fish, which it afterwards disgorges for the nourishment of its young. it never removes from the shores of the sea, and is often killed by sailors for the sake of the pouch, which when dried serves them as a purse for their tobacco. the geese are the same with the wild geese of france. they abound upon the shores of the sea and of lakes, but are rarely seen in rivers. in this country there are three kinds of ducks; first, the indian ducks, so called because they came originally from that country. these are almost entirely white, having but a very few grey feathers. on each side of their head they have flesh of a more lively red than that of the turky-cock, and they are larger than our tame ducks. they are as tame as those of { } europe, and their flesh when young is delicate, and of a fine flavour. the wild ducks are fatter, more delicate, and of better taste than those of france; but in other respects they are entirely the same. for one you see in france you may here count a thousand. the perching-ducks, or carolina summer-ducks, are somewhat larger than our teals. their plumage is quite beautiful, and so changeable that no painting can imitate it. upon their head they have a beautiful tuft of the most { } lively colours, and their red eyes appear like flames. the natives ornament their calumets or pipes with the skin of their neck. their flesh is very good, but when it is too fat it tastes oily. these ducks are to be met with the whole year round; they perch upon the branches of trees, which the others do not, and it is from this they have their name. [illustration: top: _pelican_--bottom: _wood stock_ (on p. )] the teal are found in every season; and they differ nothing from those of france but in having a finer relish. the divers of louisiana are the same with those of france: they no sooner see the fire in the pan, than they dive so suddenly that the shot cannot touch them, and they are therefore called lead-eaters. the saw-bill has the inside of its beak indented like the edge of a saw: it is said to live wholly upon shrimps, the shells of which it can easily break. the crane is a very common water-fowl; it is larger than a turkey, very lean, and of an excellent taste. it eats somewhat like beef, and makes very good soup. the flamingo has only a little down upon its head; its plumage is grey, and its flesh good. the spatula has its name from the form of its bill, which is about seven or eight inches long, an inch broad towards the head, and two inches and a half towards the extremity; it is not quite so large as a wild goose; its thighs and legs are about the height of those of a turkey. its plumage is rose-coloured, the wings being brighter than any other part. this is a water-fowl, and its flesh is very good. the heron of louisiana is not in the least different from that of europe. the egret, or white heron, is so called from tufts of feathers upon the wings near the body, which hinder it from flying high; it is a water-fowl with white plumage; but its flesh tastes very oily. the bec-croche, or crook-bill, has indeed a crooked bill, with which it seizes the cray-fish upon which it subsists. its { } flesh has that taste, and is red. its plumage is a whitish grey; and it is about the size of a capon. [illustration: top: _flying squirrel_--middle: _roseate spoon-bill_--bottom: _snowy heron_] the indian water-hen, and the green-foot, are the same as in france. the hatchet-bill is so called on account of its bill, which is red, and formed like the edge of an ax. its feet are also of a beautiful red, and it is therefore often called red-foot. as { } it lives upon shell-fish, it never removes from the sea-coast, but upon the approach of a storm, which is always sure to follow its retiring into the inland parts. the king-fisher excels ours in nothing but in the beauty of its plumage, which is as various as the rainbow. this bird, it is well known, goes always against the wind; but perhaps few people know that it preserves the same property when it is dead. i myself hung a dead one by a silk thread directly over a sea-compass, and i can declare it as a fact, that the bill was always turned towards the wind. the sea-lark and sea-snipe never quit the sea; their flesh may be eat, as it has very little of the oily taste. the frigate-bird is a large bird, which in the day-time keeps itself in the air above the shore of the sea. it often rises very high, probably for exercise; for it feeds upon fish, and every night retires to the coast. it appears larger than it really is, as it is covered with a great many feathers of a grey colour. its wings are very long, its tail forked, and it cuts the air with great swiftness. the draught-bird is a large bird, not much unlike the frigate-bird, as light, but not so swift. the under-part of its plumage is chequered brown and white, but the upper-part is of greyish brown. the fool is of a yellowish colour, and about the size of a hen; it is so called, because it will suffer a man to approach it so near as to seize it with his hand: but even then it is too soon to cry victory; for if the person who seizes it does not take the greatest precaution, it will snap off his finger at one bite. when those three last birds are observed to hover very low over the shore, we may most certainly expect an approaching storm. on the other hand, when the sailors see the halcyons behind their vessel, they expect and generally meet with fine weather for some days. since i have mentioned the halcyon, i shall here describe it. it is a small bird, about the size of a swallow, but its beak { } is longer, and its plumage is violet-coloured. it has two streaks of a yellowish brown at the end of the feathers of its wings, which when it sits appear upon its back. when we left louisiana, near an hundred halcyons followed our vessel for near three days: they kept at the distance of about a stone-cast, and seemed to swim, yet i could never discover that their feet were webbed, and was therefore greatly surprised. they probably live upon the small insects that drop from the outside of the vessel when sailing; for they now-and-then dived, and came up in the same place. i have some suspicion that, by keeping in the wake of the ship, they float after it without swimming; for when they happened to be out of the wake of the ship, they were obliged to fly, in order to come up with the ship again. this bird is said to build its nest of the glutinous froth of the sea close upon the shore, and to launch it when a land breeze arises, raising one of its wings in the form of a sail, which receiving the wind, helps to carry it out to sea. i shall now proceed to speak of the fowls which frequent the woods, and shall begin with the wild-turky, which is very common all over the colony. it is finer, larger, and better than that in france. the feathers of the turky are of a duskish grey, edged with a streak of gold colour, near half an inch broad. in the small feathers the gold-coloured streak is not above one tenth of an inch broad. the natives make fans of the tail, and of four tails joined together, the french make an umbrella. the women among the natives weave the feathers as our peruke-makers weave their hair, and fasten them to an old covering of bark, which they likewise line with them, so that it has down on both sides. its flesh is more delicate, fatter, and more juicy than that of ours. they go in flocks, and with a dog one may kill a great many of them. i never could procure any of the turky's eggs, to try to hatch them, and discover whether they were as difficult to bring up in this country as in france, since the climate of both countries is almost the same. my slave told me, that in his nation they brought up the young turkies as easily as we do chickens. the pheasant is the most beautiful bird that can be painted, and in every respect entirely like that of europe. { } their rarity, in my opinion, makes them more esteemed than they deserve. i would at any time prefer a slice off the fillet of a buffalo to any pheasant. [illustration: top: _white ibis_--middle: _tobacco worm_--bottom: _cock roach_] the partridges of louisiana are not larger than a wood-pigeon. their plumage is exactly the same with that of our grey partridges; they have also the horse-shoe upon the breast; they perch upon trees, and are seldom seen in flocks. their { } cry consists only of two strong notes, somewhat resembling the name given them by the natives, who call them ho-ouy. their flesh is white and delicate, but, like all the other game in this country, it has no _fumet_, and only excels in the fine taste. the woodcock is very rare, because it is only to be met with in inhabited countries. it is like that of france; its flesh is white, but rather plumper and more delicate than that of ours, which is owing to the plenty and goodness of its fruit. the snipe is much more common than the woodcock, and in this country is far from being shy. its flesh is white, and of a much better relish than that of ours. i am of opinion that the quail is very rare in louisiana; i have sometimes heard it, but never saw it, nor know any frenchman that ever did. some of our colonists have thought proper to give the name of ortolan to a small bird which has the same plumage, but in every other respect does not in the least resemble it. the corbijeau is as large as the woodcock, and very common. its plumage is varied with several shady colours, and is different from that of the woodcock; its feet and beak are also longer, which last is crooked and of a reddish yellow colour; its flesh is likewise firmer and better tasted. the parroquet of louisiana is not quite so large as those that are usually brought to france. its plumage is usually of a fine sea-green, with a pale rose-coloured spot upon the crown, which brightens into red towards the beak, and fades off into green towards the body. it is with difficulty that it learns to speak, and even then it rarely practices it, resembling in this the natives themselves, who speak little. as a silent parrot would never make its fortune among our french ladies, it is doubtless on this account that we see so few of these in france. the turtle-dove is the same with that of europe, but few of them are seen here. the wood-pigeons are seen in such prodigious numbers, that i do not fear to exaggerate, when i affirm that they sometimes { } cloud the sun. one day on the banks of the missisippi i met with a flock of them which was so large, that before they all passed, i had leisure to fire with the same piece four times at them. but the rapidity of their flight was so great, that though i do not fire ill, with my four shots i brought down but two. these birds come to louisiana only in the winter, and remain in canada during the summer, where they devour the corn, as they eat the acorns in louisiana. the canadians have used every art to hinder them from doing so much mischief, but without success. but if the inhabitants of those colonies were to go a fowling for those birds in the manner that i have done, they would insensibly destroy them. when they walk among the high forest trees, they ought to remark under the trees the largest quantity of dung is to be seen. those trees being once discovered, the hunters ought to go out when it begins to grow dark, and carry with them a quantity of brimstone which they must set fire to in so many earthen plates placed at regular distances under the trees. in a very short time they will hear a shower of wood-pigeons falling to the ground, which, by the light of some dried canes, they may gather into sacks, as soon as the brimstone is extinguished. i shall here give an instance that proves not only the prodigious number of those birds, but also their singular instinct. in one of my journeys at land, when i happened to be upon the bank of the river, i heard a confused noise which seemed to come along the river from a considerable distance below us. as the sound continued uniformly i embarked, as fast as i could, on board the pettyaugre, with four other men, and steered down the river, keeping in the middle, that i might go to any side that best suited me. but how great was my surprise when i approached the place from whence the noise came, and observed it to proceed from a thick short pillar on the bank of the river. when i drew still nearer to it, i perceived that it was formed by a legion of wood-pigeons, who kept continually flying up and down successively among the branches of an ever-green oak, in order to beat down the acorns with their wings. every now and then some alighted to eat the { } acorns which they themselves or the others had beat down; for they all acted in common, and eat in common; no avarice nor private interest appearing among them, but each labouring as much for the rest as for himself. crows are common in louisiana, and as they eat no carrion their flesh is better tasted than that of the crows of france. whatever their appetite may be, they dare not for the carrion crow approach any carcass. i never saw any ravens in this country, and if there be any they must be very rare. the owls are larger and whiter than in france, and their cry is much more frightful. the little owl is the same with ours, but much more rare. these two birds are more common in lower louisiana than in the higher. the magpye resembles those of europe in nothing but its cry; it is more delicate, is quite black, has a different manner of flying, and chiefly frequents the coasts. the blackbirds are black all over, not excepting their bills nor their feet, and are almost as large again as ours. their notes are different, and their flesh is hard. there are two sorts of starlings in this country; one grey and spotted, and the other black. in both the tip of the shoulder is of a bright red. they are only to be seen in winter; and then they are so numerous, that upwards of three hundred of them have been taken at once in a net. a beaten path is made near a wood, and after it is cleaned and smoothed, it is strewed with rice. on each side of this path is stretched a long narrow silken net, with very small meshes, and made to turn over at once by strings fastened to the stick that stretches the end of it. the starlings no sooner alight to pick up the grain, than the fowler, who lies concealed with the strings in his hand, pulls the net over them. the wood-pecker is much the same as in france; but here there are two kinds of them; one has grey feathers spotted with black; the other has the head and the neck of a bright red, and the rest of the body as the former. this bird lives upon the { } worms which it finds in rotten wood, and not upon ants, as a modern author would have us believe, for want of having considered the nature of the things which he relates. the bird, when looking for its food, examines the trunks of trees that have lost their bark; it clasps by its feet with its belly close to the tree, and hearkens if it can hear a worm eating the wood; in this manner it leaps from place to place upon the trunk till it hears a worm, then it pierces the wood in that part, pricks the worm with its hard and pointed tongue, and draws it out. the arms which nature has furnished it with are very proper for this kind of hunting; its claws are hard and very sharp; its beak is formed like a little ax, and is very hard; its neck is long and flexible, to give proper play to its beak; and its hard tongue, which it can extend three or four inches, has a most sharp point with several beards that help to hold the prey. the swallows of this country have that part yellow which ours have white, and they, as well as the martins, live in the woods. the nightingale differs in nothing from ours in respect to its shape or plumage, unless that it has the bill a little longer. but in this it is particular that it is not shy, and sings through the whole year, though rarely. it is very easy to entice them to your roof, where it is impossible for the cats to reach them, by laying something for them to eat upon a lath, with a piece of the shell of a gourd which serves to hold their nest. you may in that case depend upon their not changing their habitation. the pope is a bird that has a red and black plumage. it has got that name perhaps because its colour makes it look somewhat old, and none but old men are promoted to that dignity; or because its notes are soft, feeble, and rare; or lastly, because they wanted a bird of that name in the colony, having two other kinds named cardinals and bishops. the cardinal owes its name to the bright red of the feathers, and to a little cowl on the hind part of the head, which resembles that of the bishop's ornament, called a camail. it is as large as a black-bird, but not so long. its bill and toes are { } large, strong, and black. its notes are so strong and piercing that they are only agreeable in the woods. it is remarkable for laying up its winter provision in the summer, and near a paris bushel of maiz has been found in its retreat, artfully covered, first with leaves and then with small branches, with only a little opening for the bird itself to enter. the bishop is a bird smaller than the linnet; its plumage is a violet-coloured blue, and its wings, which serve it for a cope, are entirely violet-colour. its notes are so sweet, so variable, and tender, that those who have once heard it, are apt to abate in their praises of the nightingale. i had such great pleasure in hearing this charming bird, that i left an oak standing very near my apartment, upon which he used to come and perch, though i very well knew, that the tree, which stood single, might be overturned by a blast of wind, and fall upon my house to my great loss. the humming-bird is not larger even with its feathers than a large beetle. the colour of its feathers is variable, according to the light they are exposed in; in the sun they appear like enamel upon a gold ground, which delights the eyes. the longest feathers of the wings of this bird are not much more than half an inch long; its bill is about the same length, and pointed like an awl; and its tongue resembles a sowing-needle; its feet are like those of a large fly. notwithstanding its little size, its flight is so rapid, that it is always heard before it be seen. although like the bee it sucks the flowers, it never rests upon them, but supports itself upon its wings, and passes from one flower to another with the rapidity of lightening. it is a rare thing to catch a humming-bird alive; one of my friends however had the happiness to catch one. he had observed it enter the flower of a convolvulus, and as it had quite buried itself to get at the bottom, he ran forwards, shut the flower, cut it from the stalk, and carried off the bird a prisoner. he could not however prevail upon it to eat, and it died four days after. the troniou is a small bird about the size of a sparrow; its plumage is likewise the same; but its beak is slenderer. its notes seem to express its name. { } the french settlers raise in this province turkies of the same kind with those of france, fowls, capons, &c. of an excellent taste. the pigeons for their fine flavour and delicacy are preferred by europeans to those of any other country. the guinea fowl is here delicious. in louisiana we have two kinds of silk-worms; one was brought from france, the other is natural to the country. i shall enlarge upon them under the article of agriculture. the tobacco-worm is a caterpillar of the size and figure of a silk-worm. it is of a fine sea-green colour, with rings of a silver colour; on its rump it has a sting near a quarter of an inch long. these insects quickly do a great deal of mischief, therefore care is taken every day, while the tobacco is rising, to pick them off and kill them. in summer caterpillars are sometimes found upon the plants, but these insects are very rare in the colony. glow-worms are here the same as in france. butterflies are not near so common as in france; the consequence of there being fewer caterpillars; but they are of incomparable beauty, and have the most brilliant colours. in the meadows are to be seen black grasshoppers, which almost always walk, rarely leap, and still seldomer fly. they are about the size of a finger or thum, and their head is shaped somewhat like that of a horse. their four small wings are of a most beautiful purple. cats are very fond of grasshoppers. the bees of louisiana lodge in the earth, to secure their honey from the ravages of the bears. some few indeed build their combs in the trunks of trees, as in europe; but by far the greatest number in the earth in the lofty forests, where the bears seldom go. the flies are of two kinds, one a yellowish brown, as in france, and the other black. the wasps in this country take up their abode near the houses where they smell victuals. several french settlers endeavored to root them out of their neighbourhood; but i acted otherwise; for reflecting, that no flies are to be seen where the { } wasps frequent, i invited them by hanging up a piece of flesh in the air. the quick-stinger is a long and yellowish fly, and it receives its name from its stinging the moment it lights. the common flies of france are very common also in louisiana. the cantharides, or spanish flies, are very numerous, and larger than in europe; they are of such an acid nature, that if they but slightly touch the skin as they pass, a pretty large blister instantly rises. these flies live upon the leaves of the oak. the green-flies appear only every other year, and the natives superstitiously look upon their appearance as a presage of a good crop. it is a pity that the cattle are so greatly molested by them, that they cannot remain in the fields; for they are extremely beautiful and twice as large as bees. fire flies are very common; when the night is serene they are so very numerous, that if the light they dart out were constant, one might see as clearly as in fine moonshine. the fly-ants, which we see attach themselves to the flower of the acacia, and which disappear when that flower is gone, do not proceed from the common ants. the fly ants, though shaped like the other kind, are however longer and larger. they have a square head; their colour is a brownish red bordered with black; they have four red and grey wings, and fly like common flies, which the other ants do not even when they have wings. the dragon-flies are pretty numerous; they do not want to destroy them because they feed upon moskitos, which is one of the most troublesome kind of insects. the moskitos are famous all over america, for their multitude, the troublesomeness of their buzzing and the venom of their stings, which occasion an insupportable itching, and often form so many ulcers, if the person stung does not immediately put some spittle on the wound. in open places they are less tormenting; but still they are troublesome; and the best way of driving them out of the houses is to burn a little brimstone in { } the mornings and evenings. the smoke of this infallibly kills them, and the smell keeps others away for several days. an hour after the brimstone has been burnt, the apartments may be safely entered into by men. by the same means we may rid ourselves of the flies and moskitos, whose sting is so painful and so frequent during the short time they fly about; for they do not rise till about sun-set, and they retire at night. this is not the case with the burning-fly. these, though not much larger than the point of a pin, are insupportable to the people who labour in the fields. they fly from sun-rising to sun-setting, and the wounds they give burn like fire. the lavert is an insect about an inch and a quarter long, a little more than a quarter broad, and a tenth part of an inch thick. it enters the houses by the smallest crevices and in the night-time it falls upon dishes that are covered even with a plate, which renders it very troublesome to those whose houses are only built of wood. bue they are so relishing to the cats, that these last quit everything to fall upon them wherever they perceive them. when a new settler has once cleared the ground about his house, and is at some distance from the woods, he is quickly freed from them. in louisiana there are white ants, which seem to love dead wood. persons who have been in the east-indies have assured me, that they are quite like those which in that country are called _cancarla_, and that they would eat through glass, which i never had the experience of. there are in louisiana, as in france, red, black, and flying ants. { } chapter viii. _of fishes and shell-fish_. though there is an incredible quantity of fishes in this country, i shall however be very concise in my account of them; because during my abode in the country they were not sufficiently known; and the people were not experienced enough in the art of catching them. the most of the rivers being very deep, and the missisippi, as i have mentioned, being between thirty-eight and forty fathoms, from its mouth to the fall of st. anthony, it may be easily conceived that the instruments used for fishing in france, cannot be of any use in louisiana, because they cannot go to the bottom of the rivers, or at least so deep as to prevent the fish from escaping. the line therefore can be only used and it is with it they catch all the fish that are eaten by the settlers upon the river. i proceed to an account of those fish. the barbel is of two sorts, the large and the small. the first is about four feet long, and the smallest of this sort that is ever seen is two feet long, the young ones doubtless keeping at the bottom of the water. this kind has a very large head, and a round body, which gradually lessens toward the tail. the fish has no scales, nor any bones, excepting that of the middle: its flesh is very good and delicate, but in a small degree vary insipid, which is easily remedied; in other respects it eats very like the fresh cod of the country. the small is from a foot to two in length. its head is shaped like that of the other kind; but its body is not so round, nor so pointed at the tail. the carp of the river missisippi is monstrous. none are seen under two feet long; and many are met with three and four feet in length. the carps are not so very good in the lower part of the river; but the higher one goes the finer they are, on account of the plenty of sand in those parts. a great number of carps are carried into the lakes that are filled by the overflowing of the river, and in those lakes they are found { } of all sizes, in great abundance, and of a better relish than those of the river. [illustration: top: _cat fish_--middle: _gar fish_--bottom: _spoonbill catfish_] the burgo-breaker is an excellent fish; it is usually a foot and a foot and a half long: it is round, with gold-coloured scales. in its throat it has two bones with a surface like that of a file to break the shell-fish named burgo. though delicate, it is nevertheless very firm. it is best when not much boiled. { } the ring-skate is found in the river up as far as new orleans, but no higher. it is very good, and no way tough. in other respects it is exactly like that of france. the spatula is so called, because from its snout a substance extends about a foot in length, in the form of an apothecary's spatula. this fish, which is about two feet in length, is neither round or flat, but square, having at its sides and in the under part bones that forman angle like those of the back. no pikes are caught above a foot and a half long. as this is a voracious fish, perhaps the armed-fish pursues it, both from jealousy and appetite. the pike, besides being small, is very rare. the choupic is a very beautiful fish; many people mistake it for the trout, as it takes a fly in the same manner. but it is very different from the trout, as it prefers muddy and dead water to a clear stream, and its flesh is so soft that it is only good when fried. the sardine or small pilchard of the river missisippi, is about three or four fingers in breadth, and between six and seven inches long; it is good and delicate. one year i salted about the quantity of forty pints of them, and all the french who eat of them acknowledged them to be sardines from their flesh, their bones, and their taste. they appear only for a short season, and are caught by the natives, when swimming against the strongest current, with nets made for that purpose only. the patassa, so called by the natives for its flatness, is the roach or fresh-water mullet of this country. the armed-fish has its name from its arms, and its scaly mail. its arms are its very sharp teeth, about the tenth of an inch in diameter, and as much distant from each other, and near half an inch long. the interval of the larger teeth is filled with shorter teeth. these arms are a proof of its voracity. its mail is nothing but its scales, which are white, as hard as ivory, and about the tenth of an inch in thickness. they are near an inch long, about half as much in breadth, end in a { } point, and have two cutting sides. there are two ranges of them down the back, shaped exactly like the head of a spontoon, and opposite to the point of the scale has a little shank, about three tenths of an inch long, which the natives insert into the end of their arrows, making the scale serve for a head. the flesh of this fish is hard and not relishing. there are a great number of eels in the river missisippi, and very large ones are found in all the rivers and creeks. the whole lower part of the river abounds in crayfish. upon my first arrival in the colony the ground was covered with little hillocks, about six or seven inches high, which the crayfish had made for taking the air out of the water; but since dikes have been raised for keeping off the river from the low grounds, they no longer shew themselves. whenever they are wanted, they fish for them with the leg of a frog, and in a few moments they will catch a large dish of them. the shrimps are diminutive crayfish; they are usually about three inches long, and of the size of the little finger. although in other countries they are generally found in the sea only, yet in louisiana you will meet with great numbers of them more than an hundred leagues up the river. in the lake st. louis, about two leagues from new orleans, the waters of which, having a communication with the sea, are somewhat brackish, are found several sorts both of sea fish, and fresh water fish. as the bottom of the lake is very level, they fish in it with large nets lately brought from france. near the lake, when we pass by the outlets to the sea, and continue along the coasts, we meet with small oysters in great abundance, that are very well tasted. on the other hand, when we quit the lake by another lake that communicates with one of the mouths of the river, we meet with oysters four or five inches broad, and six or seven long. these large oysters eat best fried, having hardly any saltness, but in other respects are large and delicate. having spoken of the oysters of louisiana, i shall take some notice of the oysters that are found on the trees at st. domingo. when i arrived at the harbour of cape françois in { } my way to louisiana, i was much surprised to see oysters hanging to the branches of some shrubs; but m. chaineau, who was our second captain, explained the phaenomenon to me. according to him, the twigs of the shrubs are bent down at high water, to the very bottom of the shore, whenever the sea is any ways agitated. the oysters in that place no sooner feel the twigs than they lay hold of them, and when the sea retires they appear suspended upon them. towards the mouths of the river we meet with mussels no salter than the large oysters above mentioned; and this is owing to the water being only brackish in those parts, as the river there empties itself by three large mouths, and five other small ones, besides several short creeks, which all together throw at once an immense quantity of water into the sea; the whole marshy ground occupies an extent of ten or twelve leagues. there are likewise excellent mussels upon the northern shore of the lake st. louis, especially in the river of pearls; they may be about six or seven inches long, and sometimes contain pretty large pearls, but of no great value. the largest of the shell-fish on the coast is the burgo, well known in france. there is another fish much smaller and of a different shape. its hollow shell is strong and beautiful, and the flat one is generally black; some blue ones are found, and are much esteemed. these shells have long been in request for tobacco-boxes. { } the history of louisiana book iv. chapter i. _the origin of the americans._ the remarkable difference i observed between the natchez, including in that name the nations whom they treat as brethren, and the other people of louisiana, made me extremely desirous to know whence both of them might originally come. we had not then that full information which we have since received from the voyages and discoveries of m. de lisle in the eastern parts of the russian empire. i therefore applied myself one day to put the keeper of the temple in good humour, and having succeeded in that without much difficulty, i then told him, that from the little resemblance i observed between the natchez and the neighbouring nations, i was inclined to believe that they were not originally of the country which they then inhabited; and that if the ancient speech taught him any thing on that subject, he would do me a great pleasure to inform me of it. at these words he leaned his head on his two hands, with which he covered his eyes, and having remained in that posture about a quarter of an hour, as if to recollect himself, he answered to the following effect: "before we came into this land we lived yonder under the sun, (pointing with his finger nearly south-west, by which i understood that he meant mexico;) we lived in a fine country where the earth is always pleasant; there our suns had their abode, and our nation maintained itself for a long time against the ancients of the country, who conquered some of our villages { } in the plains, but never could force us from the mountains. our nation extended itself along the great water where this large river loses itself; but as our enemies were become very numerous, and very wicked, our suns sent some of their subjects who lived near this river, to examine whether we could retire into the country through which it flowed. the country on the east side of the river being found extremely pleasant, the great sun, upon the return of those who had examined it, ordered all his subjects who lived in the plains, and who still defended themselves against the antients of this country, to remove into this land, here to build a temple, and to preserve the eternal fire. "a great part of our nation accordingly settled here, where they lived in peace and abundance for several generations. the great sun, and those who had remained with him, never thought of joining us, being tempted to continue where they were by the pleasantness of the country, which was very warm, and by the weakness of their enemies, who had fallen into civil dissentions, in consequence of the ambition of one of their chiefs, who wanted to raise himself from a state of equality with the other chiefs of the villages, and to treat all the people of his nation as slaves. during those discords among our enemies, some of them even entered into an alliance with the great sun, who still remained in our old country, that he might conveniently assist our other brethren who had settled on the banks of the great water to the east of the large river, and extended themselves so far on the coast and among the isles, that the great sun did not hear of them sometimes for five or six years together. "it was not till after many generations that the great suns came and joined us in this country, where, from the fine climate, and the peace we had enjoyed, we had multiplied like the leaves of the trees. warriors of fire, who made the earth to tremble, had arrived in our old country, and having entered into an alliance with our brethren, conquered our ancient enemies; but attempting afterwards to make slaves of our suns, they, rather than submit to them, left our brethren who refused to follow them, and came hither attended only with their slaves." { } upon my asking him who those warriors of fire were, he replied, that they were bearded white men, somewhat of a brownish colour, who carried arms that darted out fire with a great noise, and killed at a great distance; that they had likewise heavy arms which killed a great many men at once, and like thunder made the earth tremble; and that they came from the sun-rising in floating villages. the ancients of the country he said were very numerous, and inhabited from the western coast of the great water to the northern countries on his side the sun, and very far upon the same coast beyond the sun. they had a great number of large and small villages, which were all built of stone, and in which there were houses large enough to lodge a whole village. their temples were built with great labour and art, and they made beautiful works of all kinds of materials. but ye yourselves, said i, whence are ye come? the ancient speech, he replied, does not say from what land we came; all that we know is, that our fathers, to come hither, followed the sun, and came with him from the place where he rises; that they were a long time on their journey, were all on the point of perishing, and were brought into this country without seeking it. to this account of the keeper of the temple, which was afterwards confirmed to me by the great sun, i shall add the following passage of diodorus siculus, which seems to confirm the opinion of those who think the eastern americans are descended from the europeans, who may have been driven by the winds upon the coasts of guiana or brazil. "to the west of africa, he says, lies a very large island, distant many days sail from that part of our continent. its fertile soil is partly plain, and partly mountainous. the plain country is most sweet and pleasant, being watered every where with rivulets, and navigable rivers; it is beautified with many gardens, which are planted with all kinds of trees, and the orchards particularly are watered with pleasant streams. the villages are adorned with houses built in a magnificent taste, having parterres ornamented with arbours covered with flowers. hither the inhabitants retire during the summer to enjoy the fruits which the country furnishes them with in the greatest { } abundance. the mountainous part is covered with large woods, and all manner of fruit trees, and in the vallies, which are watered with rivulets, the inhabitants meet with every thing that can render life agreeable. in a word, the whole island, by its fertility and the abundance of its springs, furnishes the inhabitants not only with every thing that may flatter their wishes, but with what may also contribute to their health and strength of body. hunting furnishes them with such an infinite number of animals, that in their feasts they have nothing to wish for in regard either to plenty or delicacy. besides, the sea, which surrounds the island, supplies them plentifully with all kinds of fish, and indeed the sea in general is very abundant. the air of this island is so temperate that the trees bear leaves and fruit almost the whole year round. in a word, this island is so delicious, that it seems rather the abode of the gods than of men. "anciently, on account of its remote situation, it was altogether unknown; but afterwards it was discovered by accident. it is well known, that from the earliest ages the phenicians undertook long voyages in order to extend their commerce, and in consequence of those voyages established several colonies in africa and the western parts of europe. every thing succeeding to their wish, and being become very powerful, they attempted to pass the pillars of hercules and enter the ocean. they accordingly passed those pillars, and in their neighbourhood built a city upon a peninsula of spain, which they named gades. there, amongst the other buildings proper for the place, they built a temple to hercules, to whom they instituted splendid sacrifices after the manner of their country. this temple is in great veneration at this day, and several romans who have rendered themselves illustrious by their exploits, have performed their vows to hercules for the success of their enterprizes. "the phenicians accordingly having passed the streights of spain, sailed along africa, when by the violence of the winds they were driven far out to sea, and the storm continuing several days, they were at length thrown on this island. being the first who were acquainted with its beauty and fertility, they { } published them to other nations. the tuscans, when they were masters at sea, designed to send a colony thither, but the carthaginians found means to prevent them on the two following accounts; first, they were afraid lest their citizens, tempted by the charms of that island, should pass over hither in too great numbers, and desert their own country; next they looked upon it as a secure asylum for themselves, if ever any terrible disaster should befal their republic." this description of diodorus is very applicable in many circumstances to america, particularly in the agreeable temperature of the climate to africans, the prodigious fertility of the earth, the vast forests, the large rivers, and the multitude of rivulets and springs. the natchez may then justly be supposed to be descended from some phenicians or carthaginians, who had been wrecked on the shores of south america, in which case they might well be imagined to have but little acquaintance with the arts, as those who first landed would be obliged to apply all their thoughts to their immediate subsistence, and consequently would soon become rude and barbarous. their worship of the eternal fire likewise implies their descent from the phenicians; for every body knows that this superstition, which first took its rise in egypt, was introduced by the phenicians into all the countries that they visited. the figurative stile, and the bold and syriac expressions in the language of the natchez, is likewise another proof of their being descended from the phenicians. [footnote: the author might have mentioned a singular custom, in which both nations agree; for it appears from _polybius_, i. c. . that carthaginians practised scalping.] as to those whom the natchez, long after their first establishment, found inhabiting the western coasts of america, and whom we name mexicans, the arts which they possessed and cultivated with success, obliged me to give them a different origin. their temples, their sacrifices, their buildings, their form of government, and their manner of making war, all denote a people who have transmigrated in a body, and brought with them the arts, the sciences, and the customs of their country. those people had the art of writing, and also of { } painting. their archives consisted of cloths of cotton, whereon they had painted or drawn all those transactions which they thought worthy of being transmitted to posterity. it were greatly to be wished that the first conquerors of this new world had preserved to us the figures of those drawings; for by comparing them with the characters used by other nations, we might perhaps have discovered the origin of the inhabitants. the knowledge which we have of the chinese characters, which are rather irregular drawings than characters, would probably have facilitated such a discovery; and perhaps those of japan would have been found greatly to have resembled the mexican; for i am strongly of opinion that the mexicans are descended from one of those two nations. in fact, where is the impossibility, that some prince in one of those countries, upon failing in an attempt to raise himself to the sovereign power, should leave his native country with all his partizans, and look for some new land, where, after he had established himself, he might drop all foreign correspondence? the easy navigation of the south sea renders the thing probable; and the new map of the eastern bounds of asia, and the western of north america, lately published by mr. de lisle, makes it still more likely. this map makes it plainly appear, that between the islands of japan, or northern coasts of china, and those of america, there are other lands, which to this day have remained unknown; and who will take upon him to say there is no land, because it has never yet been discovered? i have therefore good grounds to believe, that the mexicans came originally from china or japan, especially when i consider their reserved and uncommunicative disposition, which to this day prevails among the people of the eastern parts of asia. the great antiquity of the chinese nation likewise makes it possible that a colony might have gone from thence to america early enough to be looked upon as _the ancients of the country_, by the first of the phenicians who could be supposed to arrive there. as a further corroboration of my conjectures, i was informed by a man of learning in , that in the king's library there is a chinese manuscript, which positively affirms that america was peopled by the inhabitants of corea. { } when the natchez retired to this part of america, where i saw them, they there found several nations, or rather the remains of several nations, some on the east, others on the west of the missisippi. these are the people who are distinguished among the natives by the name of red men; and their origin is so much the more obscure, as they have not so distinct a tradition, as the natchez, nor arts and sciences like the mexicans, from whence we might draw some satisfactory inferences. all that i could learn from them was, that they came from between the north and the sun-setting; and this account they uniformly adhered to whenever they gave any account of their origin. this lame tradition no ways satisfying the desire i had to be informed on this point, i made great inquiries to know if there was any wise old man among the neighbouring nations, who could give me further intelligence about the origin of the natives. i was happy enough to discover one, named moncacht-apé among the yazous, a nation about forty leagues north from the natchez. this man was remarkable for his solid understanding and elevation of sentiments; and i may justly compare him to those first greeks, who travelled chiefly into the east to examine the manners and customs of different nations, and to communicate to their fellow-citizens, upon their return, the knowledge which they had acquired. moncacht-apé, indeed, never executed so noble a plan; but he had however conceived it, and had spared no labour and pains to effectuate it. he was by the french called the interpreter, because he understood several of the north american languages; but the other name which i have mentioned was given him by his own nation, and signifies _the killer of pain and fatigue_. this name was indeed most justly applicable to him; for, to satisfy his curiosity, he had made light of the most dangerous and painful journeys, in which he had spent several years of his life. he stayed two or three days with me; and upon my desiring him to give me an account of his travels, he very readily complied with my request, and spoke to the following effect: "i had lost my wife, and all the children whom i had by her, when i undertook my journey towards the sun-rising. i set out from my village contrary to the inclinations of all my { } relations, and went first to the chicasaws, our friends and neighbours. i continued among them several days to inform myself whether they knew whence we all came, or at least whence they themselves came; they, who were our elders; since from them came the language of the country. as they could not inform me, i proceeded on my journey. i reached the country of the chaouanous, and afterwards went up the wabash or ohio, almost to its source, which is in the country of the iroquois or five nations. i left them however towards the north; and during the winter, which in that country is very severe and very long, i lived in a village of the abenaquis, where i contracted an acquaintance with a man somewhat older than myself, who promised to conduct me the following spring to the great water. accordingly when the snows were melted, and the weather was settled, we proceeded eastward, and, after several days journey, i at length saw the great water, which filled me with such joy and admiration that i could not speak. night drawing on, we took up our lodging on a high bank above the water, which was sorely vexed by the wind, and made so great a noise that i could not sleep. next day the ebbing and flowing of the water filled me with great apprehension; but my companion quieted my fears, by assuring me that the water observed certain bounds both in advancing and retiring. having satisfied our curiosity in viewing the great water, we returned to the village of the abenaquis, where i continued the following winter; and after the snows were melted, my companion and i went and viewed the great fall of the river st. laurence at niagara, which was distant from the village several days journey. the view of this great fall at first made my hair stand on end, and my heart almost leap out of its place; but afterwards, before i left it, i had the courage to walk under it. next day we took the shortest road to the ohio, and my companion and i cutting down a tree on the banks of the river, we formed it into a pettiaugre, which served to conduct me down the ohio and the missisippi, after which, with much difficulty i went up our small river; and at length arrived safe among my relations, who were rejoiced to see me in good health. { } "this journey, instead of satisfying, only served to excite my curiosity. our old men, for several years, had told me that the antient speech informed them that the red men of the north came originally much higher and much farther than the source of the river missouri; and as i had longed to see, with my own eyes, the land from whence our first fathers came, i took my precautions for my journey westwards. having provided a small quantity of corn, i proceeded up along the eastern bank of the river missisippi, till i came to the ohio. i went up along the bank of this last river about the fourth part of a day's journey, that i might be able to cross it without being carried into the missisippi. there i formed a cajeux or raft of canes, by the assistance of which i passed over the river; and next day meeting with a herd of buffaloes in the meadows, i killed a fat one, and took from it the fillets, the bunch, and the tongue. soon after i arrived among the tamaroas, a village of the nation of the illinois, where i rested several days, and then proceeded northwards to the mouth of the missouri, which, after it enters the great river, runs for a considerable time without intermixing its muddy waters with the clear stream of the other. having crossed the missisippi, i went up the missouri along its northern bank, and after several days journey i arrived at the nation of the missouris, where i staid a long time to learn the language that is spoken beyond them. in going along the missouri i passed through meadows a whole day's journey in length, which were quite covered with buffaloes. "when the cold was past, and the snows were melted, i continued my journey up along the missouri till i came to the nation of the west, or the canzas. afterwards, in consequence of directions from them, i proceeded in the same course near thirty days, and at length i met with some of the nation of the otters, who were hunting in that neighbourhood, and were surprised to see me alone. i continued with the hunters two or three days, and then accompanied one of them and his wife, who was near her time of lying-in, to their village, which lay far off betwixt the north and west. we continued our journey along the missouri for nine days, and then we marched { } directly northwards for five days more, when we came to the fine river, which runs westwards in a direction contrary to that of the missouri. we proceeded down this river a whole day, and then arrived at the village of the otters, who received me with as much kindness as if i had been of their own nation. a few days after i joined a party of the otters, who were going to carry a calumet of peace to a nation beyond them, and we embarked in a pettiaugre, and went down the river for eighteen days, landing now and then to supply ourselves with provisions. when i arrived at the nation who were at peace with the otters, i staid with them till the cold was passed, that i might learn their language, which was common to most of the nations that lived beyond them. "the cold was hardly gone, when i again embarked on the fine river, and in my course i met with several nations, with whom i generally staid but one night, till i arrived at the nation that is but one day's journey from the great water on the west. this nation live in the woods about the distance of a league from the river, from their apprehension of bearded men, who come upon their coasts in floating villages, and carry off their children to make slaves of them. these men were described to be white, with long black beards that came down to their breasts; they were thick and short, had large heads, which were covered with cloth; they were always dressed, even in the greatest heats; their cloaths fell down to the middle of their legs, which with their feet were covered with red or yellow stuff. their arms made a great fire and a great noise; and when they saw themselves outnumbered by red men, they retired on board their large pettiaugre, their number sometimes amounting to thirty, but never more. "those strangers came from the sun-setting, in search of a yellow stinking wood, which dyes a fine yellow colour; but the people of this nation, that they might not be tempted to visit them, had destroyed all those kind of trees. two other nations in their neighbourhood however, having no other wood, could not destroy the trees, and were still visited by the strangers; and being greatly incommoded by them, had invited their allies to assist them in making an attack upon them the next { } time they should return. the following summer i accordingly joined in this expedition, and after traveling five long days journey, we came to the place where the bearded men usually landed, where we waited seventeen days for their arrival. the red men, by my advice, placed themselves in ambuscade to surprize the strangers, and accordingly when they landed to cut the wood, we were so successful as to kill eleven of them, the rest immediately escaping on board two large pettiaugres, and flying westward upon the great water. "upon examining those whom we had killed, we found them much smaller than ourselves, and very white; they had a large head, and in the middle of the crown the hair was very long; their head was wrapt in a great many folds of stuff, and their cloaths seemed to be made neither of wool nor silk; they were very soft, and of different colours. two only of the eleven who were slain had fire-arms with powder and ball. i tried their pieces, and found that they were much heavier than yours, and did not kill at so great a distance. "after this expedition i thought of nothing but proceeding on my journey, and with that design i let the red men return home, and joined myself to those who inhabited more westward on the coast, with whom i travelled along the shore of the great water, which bends directly betwixt the north and the sun-setting. when i arrived at the villages of my fellow-travellers, where i found the days very long and the night very short, i was advised by the old men to give over all thoughts of continuing my journey. they told me that the land extended still a long way in a direction between the north and sun-setting, after which it ran directly west, and at length was cut by the great water from north to south. one of them added, that when he was young, he knew a very old man who had seen that distant land before it was eat away by the great water, and that when the great water was low, many rocks still appeared in those parts. finding it therefore impracticable to proceed much further, on account of the severity of the climate, and the want of game, i returned by the same route by which i had set out; and reducing my whole travels westward to days journeys, i compute that they would have employed { } me thirty-six moons; but on account of my frequent delays, it was five years before i returned to my relations among the yazous." moncacht-apé, after giving me an account of his travels, spent four or five days visiting among the natchez, and then returned to take leave of me, when i made him a present of several wares of no great value, among which was a concave mirror about two inches and a half diameter, which had cost me about three halfpence. as this magnified the face to four or five times its natural size, he was wonderfully delighted with it, and would not have exchanged it with the best mirror in france. after expressing his regret at parting with me, he returned highly satisfied to his own nation. moncacht-apé's account of the junction of america with the eastern parts of asia seems confirmed from the following remarkable fact. some years ago the skeletons of two large elephants and two small ones were discovered in a marsh near the river ohio; and as they were not much consumed, it is supposed that the elephants came from asia not many years before. if we also consider the form of government, and the manner of living among the northern nations of america, there will appear a great resemblance betwixt them and the tartars in the north-east parts of asia. chapter ii. _an account of the several nations of_ indians _in_ louisiana. section i. _of the nations inhabiting on the east of the_ missisippi. if to the history of the discoveries and conquests of the spaniards we join the tradition of all the nations of america, we shall be fully persuaded, that this quarter of the world, before it was discovered by christopher columbus, was very populous, not only on the continent but also in the islands. however, by an incomprehensible fatality, the arrival of the spaniards in this new world seems to have been the unhappy epoch of the destruction of all the nations of america, { } not only by war, but by nature itself. as it is but too well known how many millions of natives were destroyed by the spanish sword, i shall not therefore present my readers with that horrible detail; but perhaps many people do not know that an innumerable multitude of the natives of mexico and peru voluntarily put an end to their own lives, some by sacrificing themselves to the manes of their sovereigns who had been cut off, and whose born victims they, according to their detestable customs, looked upon themselves to be; and others, to avoid falling under the subjection of the spaniards, thinking death a less evil by far than slavery. the same effect has been produced among the people of north america by two or three warlike nations of the natives. the chicasaws have not only cut off a great many nations who were adjoining to them, but have even carried their fury as far as new mexico, near six hundred miles from the place of their residence, to root out a nation that had removed at that distance from them, in a firm expectation that their enemies would not come so far in search of them. they were however deceived and cut off. the iroquois have done the same in the east parts of louisiana; and the padoucas and others have acted in the same manner to nations in the west of the colony. we may here observe, that those nations could not succeed against their enemies without considerable loss to themselves, and that they have therefore greatly lessened their own numbers by their many warlike expeditions. i mentioned that nature had contributed no less than war to the destruction of these people. two distempers, that are not very fatal in other parts of the world, make dreadful ravages among them; i mean the small-pox and a cold, which baffle all the art of their physicians, who in other respects are very skilful. when a nation is attacked by the small-pox, it quickly makes great havock; for as a whole family is crowded into a small hut, which has no communications with the external air, but by a door about two feet wide and four feet high, the distemper, if it seizes one, is quickly communicated to all. the aged die in consequence of their advanced years and the bad quality of their food; and the young, if they are not { } strictly watched, destroy themselves, from an abhorrence of the blotches in their skin. if they can but escape from their hut, they run out and bathe themselves in the river, which is certain death in that distemper. the chatkas, being naturally not very handsome, are not so apt to regret the loss of their beauty; consequently suffer less, and are much more numerous than the other nations. colds, which are very common in the winter, likewise destroy great numbers of the natives. in that season they keep fires in their huts day and night; and as there is no other opening but the door, the air within the hut is kept excessive warm without any free circulation; so that when they have occasion to go out, the cold seizes them, and the consequences of it are almost always fatal. the first nations that the french were acquainted with in this part of north america, were those on the east of the colony; for the first settlement we made there was at fort louis on the river mobile. i shall therefore begin my account of the different nations of indians on this side of the colony, and proceed westwards in the same order as they are situated. but however zealous i may be in displaying not only the beauties, but the riches and advantages of louisiana, yet i am not at all inclined to attribute to it what it does not possess; therefore i warn my reader not to be surprised, if i make mention of a few nations in this colony, in comparison of the great number which he may perhaps have seen in the first maps of this country. those maps were made from memoirs sent by different travellers, who noted down all the names they heard mentioned, and then fixed upon a spot for their residence; so that a map appeared stiled with the names of nations, many of whom were destroyed, and others were refugees among nations who had adopted them and taken them under their protection. thus, though the nations on this continent were formerly both numerous and populous, they are now so thinned and diminished, that there does not exist at present a third part of the nations whose names are to be found in the maps. the most eastern nation of louisiana is that called the apalaches, which is a branch of the great nation of the apalaches, { } who inhabited near the mountains to which they have given their name. this great nation is divided into several branches, who take different names. the branch in the neighbourhood of the river mobile is but inconsiderable, and part of it is roman catholic. on the north of the apalaches are the alibamous, a pretty considerable nation; they love the french, and receive the english rather out of necessity than friendship. on the first settling of the colony we had some commerce with them; but since the main part of the colony has fixed on the river, we have somewhat neglected them, on account of the great distance. east from the alibamous are the caouitas, whom m. de biainville, governor of louisiana, wanted to distinguish above the other nations, by giving the title of emperor to their sovereign, who then would have been chief of all the neighbouring nations; but those nations refused to acknowledge him as such, and said that it was enough if each nation obeyed its own chief; that it was improper for the chiefs themselves to be subject to other chiefs, and that such a custom had never prevailed among them, as they chose rather to be destroyed by a great nation than to be subject to them. this nation is one of the most considerable; the english trade with them, and they suffer the traders to come among them from policy. to, the north of the alibamous are the abeikas and conchacs, who, as far as i can learn, are the same people; yet the name of conchac seems appropriated to one part more than another. they are situated at a distance from the great rivers and consequently have no large canes in their territory. the canes that grow among them are not thicker than one's finger, and are at the same time so very hard, that when they are split, they cut like knives, which these people call _conchacs_. the language of this nation is almost the same with that of the chicasaws, in which the word _conchac_ signifies a knife. the abeikas, on the east of them, have the cherokees, divided into several branches, and situated very near the apalachean mountains. all the nations whom i have mentioned { } have been united in a general alliance for a long time past, in order to defend themselves against the iroquois, or five nations, who, before this alliance was formed, made continual war upon them; but have ceased to molest them since they have seen them united. all these nations, and some small ones intermixed among them, have always been looked upon as belonging to no colony, excepting the apalaches; but since the breaking out of the war with the english in , it is said they have voluntarily declared for us. the nations in the neighbourhood of the mobile, are first the chatots, a small nation consisting of about forty huts, adjoining to the river and the sea. they are roman catholics, or reputed such; and are friends to the french, whom they are always ready to serve upon being paid for it. north from the chatots, and very near them, is the french settlement of fort louis on the mobile. a little north from fort louis are situated the thomez, which are not more numerous than the chatots, and are said to be roman catholics. they are our friends to to such a degree as even to teaze us with their officiousness. further north live the taensas, who are a branch of the natchez, of whom i shall have occasion to speak more at large. both of these nations keep the eternal fire with the utmost care; but they trust the guard of it to men, from a persuasion that none of their daughters would sacrifice their liberty for that office. the whole nation of the taensas consists only of about one hundred huts. proceeding still northwards along the bay, we meet with the nation of the mobiliens, near the mouth of the river mobile, in the bay of that name. the true name of this nation is mouvill, which the french have turned into mobile, calling the river and the bay from the nation that inhabited near them. all these small nations were living in peace upon the arrival of the french, and still continue so; the nations on the east of the mobile serving as a barrier to them against the incursions of the iroquois. besides, the chicasaws look upon them as their brethren, as both they, and their neighbours on the east of the { } mobile, speak a language which is nearly the same with that of the chicasaws. returning towards the sea, on the west of the mobile, we find the small nation of the pacha-ogoulas, that is, nation of bread, situated upon the bay of the same name. this nation consists only of one village of about thirty huts. some french canadians have settled in their neighbourhood, and they live together like brethren, as the canadians, who are naturally of a peaceable disposition, know the character of the natives, and have the art of living with the nations of america. but what chiefly renders the harmony betwixt them durable, is the absence of soldiers, who never appear in this nation. further northwards, near the river pacha-ogoulas, is situated the great nation of the chatkas, or flat-heads. i call them the great nation, for i have not known or heard of any other near so numerous. they reckon in this nation twenty-five thousand warriors. there may perhaps be such a number of men among them, who take that name; but i am far from thinking that all these have a title to the character of warriors. according to the tradition of the natives, this nation arrived so suddenly, and passed so rapidly through the territories of others, that when i asked them, whence came the chatkas? they answered me, that they sprung out of the ground; by which they meant to express their great surprize at seeing them appear so suddenly. their great numbers awed the natives near whom they passed; their character being but little inclined to war, did not inspire them with the fury of conquest; thus they at length arrived in an uninhabited country which nobody disputed with them. they have since lived without any disputes with their neighbours; who on the other hand have never dared to try whether they were brave or not. it is doubtless owing to this that they have increased to their present numbers. they are called flat-heads; but i do not know why that name has been given to them more than to others, since all the nations of louisiana have their heads as flat, or nearly so. they are situated about two hundred and fifty miles north { } from the sea, and extend more from east to west than from south to north. [illustration: _indian buffalo hunt on foot_] those who travel from the chatkas to the chicasaws, seldom go by the shortest road, which extends about one hundred and eighty miles, and is very woody and mountainous. they choose rather to go along the river mobile, which is both the easiest and most pleasant route. the nation of the chicasaws is very warlike. the men have very regular features, { } are large, well-shaped, and neatly dressed; they are fierce, and have a high opinion of themselves. they seem to be the remains of a populous nation, whose warlike disposition had prompted them to invade several nations, whom they have indeed destroyed, but not without diminishing their own numbers by those expeditions. what induces me to believe that this nation has been formerly very considerable, is that the nations who border upon them, and whom i have just mentioned, speak the chicasaw language, though somewhat corrupted, and those who speak it best value themselves upon it. i ought perhaps to except out of this number the taensas, who being a branch of the natchez, have still preserved their peculiar language; but even these speak, in general, the corrupted chicasaw language, which our french settlers call the mobilian language. as to the chatkas, i suppose, that being very numerous, they have been able to preserve their own language in a great measure; and have only adopted some words of the chicasaw language. they always spoke to me in the chicasaw tongue. in returning towards the coast next the river missisippi, we meet with a small nation of about twenty huts, named aquelou-pissas, that is, _men who understand and see_. this nation formerly lived within three of four miles of the place where new orleans is built; but they are further north at present, and not far from the lake st. lewis, or pontchartrain. they speak a language somewhat approaching to that of the chicasaws. we have never had great dealings with them. being now arrived at the river missisippi, i shall proceed upwards along its banks as far as to the most distant nations that are known to us. the first nation that i meet with is the oumas, which signifies the red nation. they are situated about twenty leagues from new orleans, where i saw some of them upon my arrival in this province. upon the first establishment of the colony, some french went and settled near them; and they have been very fatal neighbours, by furnishing them with brandy, which they drink to great excess. { } crossing the red river, and proceeding still upwards, we find the remains of the nation of the tonicas, who have always been very much attached to the french, and have even been our auxiliaries in war. the chief of this nation was our very zealous friend; and as he was full of courage, and always ready to make war on the enemies of the french, the king sent him a brevet of brigadier of the red armies, and a blue ribbon, from whence hung a silver medal, which on one side represented the marriage of the king, and on the reverse had the city of paris. he likewise sent him a gold-headed cane; and the indian chief was not a little proud of wearing those honourable distinctions, which were certainly well bestowed. this nation speaks a language so far different from that of their neighbours, in that they pronounce the letter r, which the others have not. they have likewise different customs. the natchez in former times appear to have been one of the most respectable nations in the colony, not only from their own tradition, but from that of the other nations, in whom their greatness and civilized customs raised no less jealousy than admiration. i could fill a volume with what relates to this people alone; but as i am now giving a concise account of the people of louisiana, i shall speak of them as of the rest, only enlarging a little upon some important transactions concerning them. when i arrived in among the natchez, that nation was situated upon a small river of the same name; the chief village where the great sun resided was built along the banks of the river, and the other villages were planted round it. they were two leagues above the confluence of the river, which joins the missisippi at the foot of the great precipices of the natchez. from thence are four leagues to its source, and as many to rosalie, and they were situated within a league of the fort. two small nations lived as refugees among the natchez. the most ancient of these adopted nations were the grigras, who seem to have received that name from the french, because when talking with one another they often pronounce those two syllables, which makes them be remarked as strangers among the natchez, who, as well as the chicasaws, and all the nations { } that speak the chicasaw language, cannot pronounce the letter r. the other small nation adopted by the natchez, are the thioux, who have also the letter r in their language. these were the weak remains of the thioux nation, formerly one of the strongest in the country. however, according to the account of the other nations, being of a turbulent disposition, they drew upon themselves the resentment of the chicasaws, which was the occasion of their ruin; for by their many engagements they were at length so weakened that they durst not face their enemy, and consequently were obliged to take refuge among the natchez. the natchez, the grigras, and the thioux, may together raise about twelve hundred warriors; which is but a small force in comparison of what the natchez could formerly have raised alone; for according to their traditions they were the most powerful nation of all north america, and were looked upon by the other nations as their superiors, and on that account respected by them. to give an idea of their power, i shall only mention, that formerly they extended from the river manchac, or iberville, which is about fifty leagues from the sea, to the river wabash, which is distant from the sea about four hundred and sixty leagues; and that they had about five hundred suns or princes. from these facts we may judge how populous this nation formerly has been; but the pride of their great suns, or sovereigns, and likewise of their inferior suns, joined to the prejudices of the people, has made greater havock among them, and contributed more to their destruction, than long and bloody wars would have done. as their sovereigns were despotic, they had for a long time past established the following inhuman and impolitic custom, that when any of them died, a great number of their subjects, both men and women, should likewise be put to death. a proportionable number of subjects were likewise killed upon the death of any of the inferior suns; and the people on the other hand had imbibed a belief that all those who followed their princes into the other world, to serve them there, would be eternally happy. it is easy to conceive how ruinous such an { } inhuman custom would be among a nation who had so many princes as the natchez. it would seem that some of the suns, more humane than the rest, had disapproved of this barbarous custom, and had therefore retired to places at a remote distance from the centre of their nation. for we have two branches of this great nation settled in other parts of the colony, who have preserved the greatest part of the customs of the natchez. one of these branches is the nation of the taensas on the banks of the mobile, who preserve the eternal fire, and several other usages of the nation from whom they are descended. the other branch is the nation of the chitimachas, whom the natchez have always looked upon as their brethren. forty leagues north from the natchez is the river yasous, which runs into the missisippi, and is so called from a nation of the same name who had about a hundred huts on its banks. near the yazous, on the same river, lived the coroas, a nation consisting of about forty huts. these two nations pronounce the letter r. upon the same river likewise lived the chacchi-oumas, a name which signifies _red cray-fish_. these people had not above fifty huts. near the same river dwelt the ouse-ogoulas, or the nation of the dog, which might have about sixty huts. the tapoussas likewise inhabited upon the banks of this river, and had not above twenty-five huts. these three last nations do not pronounce the letter r, and seem to be branches of the chicasaws, especially as they speak their language. since the massacre of the french settlers at the natchez, these five small nations, who had joined in the conspiracy against us, have all retired among the chicasaws, and make now but one nation with them. to the north of the ohio, not far from the banks of the missisippi, inhabit the illinois, who have given their name to the river on the banks of which they have settled. they are divided into several villages, such as the tamaroas, the caskaquias, { } the caouquias, the pimiteouis, and some others. near the village of the tamaroas is a french post, where several french canadians have settled. this is one of the most considerable posts in all louisiana, which will appear not at all surprising, when we consider that the illinois were one of the first nations whom we discovered in the colony, and that they have always remained most faithful allies of the french; an advantage which is in a great measure owing to the proper manner of living with the natives of america, which the canadians have always observed. it is not their want of courage that renders them so peaceable, for their valour is well known. the letter r is pronounced by the illinois. proceeding further northwards we meet with a pretty large nation, known by the name of the foxes, with whom we have been at war near these forty years past, yet i have not heard that we have had any blows with them for a long time. from the foxes to the fall of st. anthony, we meet with no nation, nor any above the fall for near an hundred leagues. about that distance north of the fall, the sioux are settled, and are said to inhabit several scattered villages both on the east and west of the missisippi. section ii. _of the nations inhabiting on the west of the_ missisippi. having described as exactly as possible all the nations on the east of the missisippi, as well those who are included within the bounds of the colony, as those who are adjoining to it, and have some connection with the others; i shall now proceed to give an account of those who inhabit on the west of the river, from the sea northwards. between the river missisippi, and those lakes which are filled by its waters upon their overflowing, is a small nation named chaouchas, or ouachas, who inhabit some little villages, but are of so little consequences that they are no otherwise known to our colonists but by their name. { } in the neighbourhood of the lakes abovementioned live the chitimachas. these are the remains of a nation which was formerly pretty considerable; but we have destroyed part of them by exciting our allies to attack them. i have already observed that they were a branch of the natchez, and upon my first settling among these, i found several chitimachas, who had taken refuge among them to avoid the calamities of the war which had been made upon them near the lakes. since the peace that was concluded with them in , they have not only remained quiet, but kept themselves so prudently retired, that, rather than have any intercourse with the french, or traffic with them for what they look upon as superfluities, they choose to live in the manner they did an hundred years ago. along the west coast, not far from the sea, inhabit the nation named atacapas, that is, man-eaters, being so called by the other nations on account of their detestable custom of eating their enemies, or such as they believe to be their enemies. in this vast country there are no other cannibals to be met with besides the atacapas; and since the french have gone among them, they have raised in them so great an horror of that abominable practice of devouring creatures of their own species, that they have promised to leave it off; and accordingly for a long time past we have heard of no such barbarity among them. the bayouc-ogoulas were formerly situated in the country that still bears their name. this nation is now confounded with the others to whom it is joined. the oque-loussas are a small nation situated north-west from the cut point. they live on the banks of two small lakes, the waters of which appear black by reason of the great number of leaves which cover the bottom of them, and have given name to the nation, oque-loussas in their language signifying black water. from the oque-loussas to the red river, we meet with no other nation; but upon the banks of this river, a little above the rapid, is seated the small nation of the avoyels. these are the people who bring to our settlers horses, oxen, and cows. { } i know not in what fair they buy them, nor with what money they pay for them; but the truth is, they sell them to us for about seventeen shillings a-piece. the spaniards of new-spain have such numbers of them that they do not know what to do with them, and are obliged to those who will take them off their hands. at present the french have a greater number of them than they want, especially of horses. about fifty leagues higher up the red river, live the nachitoches, near a french post of the same name. they are a pretty considerable nation, having about two hundred huts. they have always been greatly attached to the french; but never were friends to the spaniards. there are some branches of this nation situated further westward; but the huts are not numerous. three hundred miles west from the missisippi, upon the red river, we find the great nation of the cadodaquioux. it is divided into several branches which extend very widely. this people, as well as the nachitoches, have a peculiar language; however, there is not a village in either of the nations, nor indeed in any nation of louisiana, where there are not some who can speak the chicasaw language, which is called the vulgar tongue, and is the same here as the lingua franca is in the levant. between the red river and the arkansas there is at present no nation. formerly the ouachites lived upon the black river, and gave their name to it; but at this time there are no remains of that nation; the chicasaws having destroyed great part of them, and the rest took refuge among the cadodaquioux, where their enemies durst not molest them. the taensas lived formerly in this neighbourhood upon a river of their name; but they took refuge on the banks of the mobile near the allies of the chicasaws, who leave them undisturbed. the nation of the arkansas have given their name to the river on which they are situated, about four leagues from its confluence with the missisippi. this nation is pretty considerable, and its men are no less distinguished for being good hunters than stout warriors. the chicasaws, who are of a { } restless disposition, have more than once wanted to make trial of the bravery of the arkansas; but they were opposed with such firmness, that they have now laid aside all thoughts of attacking them, especially since they have been joined by the kappas, the michigamias, and a part of the illinois, who have settled among them. accordingly there is no longer any mention either of the kappas or michigamias, who are now all adopted by the arkansas. the reader may have already observed in this account of the natives of louisiana, that several nations of those people had joined themselves to others, either because they could no longer resist their enemies, or because they hoped to improve their condition by intermixing with another nation. i am glad to have this occasion of observing that those people respect the rights of hospitality, and that those rights always prevail, notwithstanding any superiority that one nation may have over another with whom they are at war, or even over those people among whom their enemies take refuge. for example, a nation of two thousand warriors makes war upon, and violently pursues another nation of five hundred warriors, who retire among a nation in alliance with their enemies. if this last nation adopt the five hundred, the first nation, though two thousand in number, immediately lay down their arms, and instead of continuing hostilities, reckon the adopted nation among the number of their allies. besides the arkansas, some authors place other nations upon their river. i cannot take upon me to say that there never were any; but i can positively affirm, from my own observation upon the spot, that no other nation is to be met with at present on this river, or even as far as the missouri. not far from the river missouri is situated the nation of the osages, upon a small river of the same name. this nation is said to have been pretty considerable formerly, but at present they can neither be said to be great nor small. the nation of the missouris is very considerable, and has given its name to the large river that empties itself into the missisippi. it is the first nation we meet with from the confluence { } of the two rivers, and yet it is situated above forty leagues up the missouri. the french had a settlement pretty near this nation, at the time when m. de bourgmont was commandant in those parts; but soon after he left them, the inhabitants massacred the french garrison. the spaniards, as well as our other neighbours, being continually jealous of our superiority over them, formed a design of establishing themselves among the missouris, about forty leagues from the illinois, in order to limit our boundaries westward. they judged it necessary, for the security of their colony, entirely to cut off the missouris, and for that purpose they courted the friendship of the osages, whose assistance they thought would be of service to them in their enterprize, and who were generally at enmity with the missouris. a company of spaniards, men, women, and soldiers, accordingly set out from santa fe, having a dominican for their chaplain, and an engineer for their guide and commander. the caravan was furnished with horses, and all other kinds of beasts necessary; for it is one of their prudent maxims, to send off all those things together. by a fatal mistake the spaniards arrived first among the missouris, whom they mistook for the osages, and imprudently discovering their hostile intentions, they were themselves surprised and cut off by those whom they intended for destruction. the missouris some time afterwards dressed themselves with the ornaments of the chapel; and carried them in a kind of triumphant procession to the french commandant among the illinois. along with the ornaments they brought a spanish map, which seemed to me to be a better draught of the west part of our colony, towards them, than of the countries we are most concerned with. from this map it appears, that we ought to bend the red river, and that of the arkansas, somewhat more, and place the source of the missisippi more westerly than our geographers do. the principal nations who inhabit upon the banks, or in the neighbourhood of the missouri, are, besides those already mentioned, the canzas, the othoues, the white panis, the black panis, the panimachas, the aiouez, and the padoucas. the most numerous of all those nations are the padoucas, the smallest { } are the aiouez, the othoues, and the osages; the others are pretty considerable. to the north of all those nations, and near the river missisippi, it is pretended that a part of the nation of the sioux have their residence. some affirm that they inhabit now on one side of the river, now on another. from what i could learn from travellers, i am inclined to think, that they occupy at the same time both sides of the missisippi, and their settlements, as i have elsewhere observed, are more than an hundred leagues above the fall of st. anthony. but we need not yet disquiet ourselves about the advantages which might result to us from those very remote countries. many ages must pass before we can penetrate into the northern parts of louisiana. chapter iii. _a description of the natives of_ louisiana; _of their manners and customs, particularly those of the_ natchez: _of their language, their religion, ceremonies_, rulers _or_ suns, _feasts, marriages, &c._ section i. _a description of the natives; the different employments of the two sexes; and their manner of bringing up their children._ in the concise history which i have given of the people of louisiana, and in several other places where i have happened to mention them, the reader may have observed that these nations have not all the same character, altho' they live adjoining to each other. he therefore ought not to expect a perfect uniformity in their manners, or that i should describe all the different usages that prevail in different parts, which would create a disagreeable medley, and tend only to confound his ideas which cannot be too clear. my design is only to shew in general, from the character of those people, what course we ought to observe, in order to draw advantage from our intercourse with them. i shall however be more full in speaking of the natchez, a populous nation, among whom i lived the space of eight years, and whose sovereign, the chief of war, and the chief of the keepers of the temple, were among my most intimate { } friends. besides, their manners were more civilized, their manner of thinking more just and fuller of sentiment, their customs more reasonable, and their ceremonies more natural and serious; on all which accounts they were eminently distinguished above the other nations. all the natives of america in general are extremely well made; very few of them are to be seen under five feet and a half, and very many of them above that; their leg seems as if it was fashioned in a mould; it is nervous, and the calf is firm; they are long waisted; their head is upright and somewhat flat in the upper part, and their features are regular; they have black eyes, and thick black hair without curls. if we see none that are extremely fat and pursy, neither do we meet with any that are so lean as if they were in a consumption. the men in general are better made than the women; they are more nervous, and the women more plump and fleshy; the men are almost all large, and the women of a middle size. i have always been inclined to think, that the care they take of their children in their infancy contributes greatly to their fine shapes, tho' the climate has also its share in that, for the french born in louisiana are all large, well shaped, and of good flesh and blood. when any of the women of the natives is delivered, she goes immediately to the water and washes herself and the infant; she then comes home and lies down, after having disposed her infant in the cradle, which is about two feet and a half long, nine inches broad, and half a foot deep, being formed of straight pieces of cane bent up at one end, to serve for a foot or stay. betwixt the canes and the infant is a kind of matrass of the tufted herb called spanish beard, and under its head is a little skin cushion, stuffed with the same herb. the infant is laid on its back in the cradle, and fastened to it by the shoulders, the arms, the legs, the thighs, and the hips; and over its forehead are laid two bands of deer-skin which keeps its head to the cushion, and renders that part flat. as the cradle does not weigh much above two pounds, it generally lies on the mother's bed, who suckles the infant occasionally. the infant is rocked not side-ways but end-ways, and when it is a { } month old they put under its knees garters made of buffalo's wool which is very soft, and above the ankle bones they bind the legs with threads of the same wool for the breadth of three or four inches. and these ligatures the child wears till it be four or five years old. the infants of the natives are white when they are born, but they soon turn brown, as they are rubbed with bear's oil and exposed to the sun. they rub them with oil, both to render their nerves more flexible, and also to prevent the flies from stinging them, as they suffer them to roll about naked upon all fours, before they are able to walk upright. they never put them upon their legs till they are a year old, and they suffer them to suck as long as they please, unless the mother prove with child, in which case she ceases to suckle. when the boys are about twelve years of age, they give them a bow and arrows proportioned to their strength, and in order to exercise them they tie some hay, about twice as large as the fist, to the end of a pole about ten feet high. he who brings down the hay receives the prize from an old man who is always present: the best shooter is called the young warrior, the next best is called the apprentice warrior, and so on of the others, who are prompted to excel more by sentiments of honour than by blows. as they are threatened from their most tender infancy with the resentment of the old man, if they are any ways refractory or do any mischievous tricks, which is very rare, they fear and respect him above every one else. this old man is frequently the great-grandfather, or the great-great-grand-father of the family, for those natives live to a very great age. i have seen some of them not able to walk, without having any other distemper or infirmity than old age, so that when the necessities of nature required it, or they wanted to take the air, they were obliged to be carried out of their hut, an assistance which is always readily offered to the old men. the respect paid to them by their family is so great, that they are looked upon as the judges of all differences, and their counsels are decrees. an old man who is the head of a family is called father, even by his grand-children, and great-grand-children, { } who to distinguish their immediate father call him their true father. if any of their young people happen to fight, which i never saw nor heard of during the whole time i resided in their neighbourhood, they threaten to put them in a hut at a great distance from their nation, as persons unworthy to live among others; and this is repeated to them so often, that if they happen to have had a battle, they take care never to have another. i have already observed that i studied them a considerable number of years; and i never could learn that there ever were any disputes or boxing matches among either their boys or men. as the children grow up, the fathers and mothers take care each to accustom those of their own sex to the labours and exercises suited to them, and they have no great trouble to keep them employed; but it must be confessed that the girls and the women work more than the men and the boys. these last go a hunting and fishing, cut the wood, the smallest bits of which are carried home by the women; they clear the fields for corn, and hoe it; and on days when they cannot go abroad they amuse themselves with making, after their fashion, pickaxes, oars, paddles, and other instruments, which once made last a long while. the women on the other hand have their children to bring up, have to pound the maiz for the subsistence of the family, have to keep up the fire, and to make a great many utensils, which require a good deal of work, and last but a short time, such as their earthen ware, their matts, their clothes, and a thousand other things of that kind. when the children are about ten or twelve years of age they accustom them by degrees to carry small loads, which they increase with their years. the boys are from time to time exercised in running; but they never suffer them to exhaust themselves by the length of the race, lest they should overheat themselves. the more nimble at that exercise sometimes sportfully challenges those who are more slow and heavy; but the old man who presides hinders the raillery from being carried to any excess, carefully avoiding all subjects of quarrel and dispute, on which account doubtless it is that they will never suffer them to wrestle. { } both boys and girls are early accustomed to bathe every morning, in order to strengthen the nerves, and harden them against cold and fatigue, and likewise to teach them to swim, that they may avoid or pursue an enemy, even across a river. the boys and girls, from the time they are three years of age, are called out every morning by an old man, to go to the river; and here is some more employment for the mothers who accompany them thither to teach them to swim. those who can swim tolerably well, make a great noise in winter by beating the water in order to frighten away the crocodiles, and keep themselves warm. the reader will have observed that most of the labour and fatigue falls to the share of the women; but i can declare that i never heard them complain of their fatigues, unless of the trouble their children gave them, which complaint arose as much from maternal affection, as from any attention that the children required. the girls from their infancy have it instilled into them, that if they are sluttish or unhandy they will have none but a dull aukward fellow for their husband; i observed in all the nations i visited, that this threatening was never lost upon the young girls. i would not have it thought however, that the young men are altogether idle. their occupations indeed are not of such a long continuance; but they are much more laborious. as the men have occasion for more strength, reason requires that they should not exhaust themselves in their youth; but at the same time they are not exempted from those exercises that fit them for war and hunting. the children are educated without blows; and the body is left at full liberty to grow, and to form and strengthen itself with their years. the youths accompany the men in hunting, in order to learn the wiles and tricks necessary to be practised in the field, and accustom themselves to suffering and patience. when they are full grown men, they dress the field or waste land, and prepare it to receive the seed; they go to war or hunting, dress the skins, cut the wood, make their bows and arrows, and assist each other in building their huts. they have still i allow a great deal of more spare time than the women; but this is not all thrown away. as these { } people have not the assistance of writing, they are obliged to have recourse to tradition, in order to preserve the remembrance of any remarkable transactions; and this tradition cannot be learned but by frequent repetitions, consequently many of the youths are often employed in hearing the old men narrate the history of their ancestors, which is thus transmitted from generation to generation. in order to preserve their traditions pure and uncorrupt, they are careful not to deliver them indifferently to all their young people, but teach them only to those young men of whom they have the best opinion. section ii. _of the language, government, religion, ceremonies, and feasts of the natives._ during my residence among the natchez i contracted an intimate friendship, not only with the chiefs or guardians of the temple, but with the great sun, or the sovereign of the nation, and his brother the stung serpent, the chief of the warriors; and by my great intimacy with them, and the respect i acquired among the people, i easily learned the peculiar language of the nation. this language is easy in the pronunciation, and expressive in the terms. the natives, like the orientals, speak much in a figurative stile, the natchez in particular more than any other people of louisiana. they have two languages, that of the nobles and that of the people, and both are very copious. i will give two or three examples to shew the difference of these two languages. when i call one of the common people, i say to him _aquenan_, that is, hark ye: if, on the other hand, i want to speak to a sun, or one of their nobles, i say to him, _magani_, which signifies, hark ye. if one of the common people call at my house, i say to him, _tachte-cabanacte, are you there_, or i am glad to see you, which is equivalent to our goodmorrow. i express the same thing to a sun by the word _apapegouaiché_. again, according to their custom, i say to one of the common people, _petchi, sit you down_; but to a sun, when i desire him to sit down, i say, _caham_. the two languages are { } nearly the same in all other respects; for the difference of expression seems only to take place in matters relating to the persons of the suns and nobles, in distinction from those of the people. tho' the women speak the same language with the men, yet, in their manner of pronunciation, they soften and smooth the words, whereas the speech of the men is more grave and serious. the french, by chiefly frequenting the women, contracted their manner of speaking, which was ridiculed as an effeminacy by the women, as well as the men, among the natives. from my conversations with the chief of the guardians of the temple, i discovered that they acknowledged a supreme being, whom they called _coyococop-chill_, or _great spirit_. the _spirit infinitely great_, or the _spirit_ by way of excellence. the word _chill_, in their language, signifies the most superlative degree of perfection, and is added by them to the word which signifies _fire_, when they want to mention the sun; thus _oua_ is _fire_, and _oua-chill_ is the _supreme fire_, or the _sun_; therefore, by the word _coyocop-chill_ they mean a spirit that surpasses other spirits as much as the sun does common fire. "god," according to the definition of the guardian of the temple, "was so great and powerful, that, in comparison with him, all other things were as nothing; he had made all that we see, all that we can see, and all that we cannot see; he was so good, that he could not do ill to any one, even if he had a mind to it. they believe that god had made all things by his will; that nevertheless the little spirits, who are his servants, might, by his orders, have made many excellent works in the universe, which we admire; but that god himself had formed man with his own hands." the guardian added, that they named those little spirits, _coyocop-techou_, that is, a _free servant_, but as submissive and as respectful as a slave; that those spirits were always present before god, ready to execute his pleasure with an extreme diligence; that the air was filled with other spirits, some good some wicked; and that the latter had a chief, who was more { } wicked than them all; that god had found him so wicked, that he had bound him for ever, so that the other spirits of the air no longer did so much harm, especially when they were by prayers entreated not to do it; for it is one of the religious customs of those people to invoke the spirits of the air for rain or fine weather, according as each is needed. i have seen the great sun fast for nine days together, eating nothing but maiz-corn, without meat or fish, drinking nothing but water, and abstaining from the company of his wives during the whole time. he underwent this rigorous fast out of complaisance to some frenchmen, who had been complaining that it had not rained for a long time. those inconsiderate people had not remarked, that notwithstanding the want of rain, the fruits of the earth had not suffered, as the dew is so plentiful in summer as fully to supply that deficiency. the guardian of the temple having told me that god had made man with his own hands, i asked him if he knew how that was done. he answered, "that god had kneaded some clay, such as that which potters use, and had made it into a little man; and that after examining it, and finding it well formed, he blew up his work, and forthwith that little man had life, grew, acted, walked, and found himself a man perfectly well shaped." as he made no mention of the woman, i asked him how he believed she was made; he told me, "that probably in the same manner as the man; that their _antient speech_ made no mention of any difference, only told them that the man was made first, and was the strongest and most courageous, because he was to be the head and support of the woman, who was made to be his companion." here i did not omit to rectify his notions on the subjects we had been talking about, and to give him those just ideas which religion teaches us, and the sacred writings have transmitted to us. he hearkened to me with great attention, and promised to repeat all that i had told him to the old men of his nation, who certainly would not forget it; adding, that we were very happy in being able to retain the knowledge of such fine things by means of the speaking cloth, so they name books and manuscripts. { } i next proceeded to ask him, who had taught them to build a temple; whence had they their eternal fire, which they preserved with so much care; and who was the person that first instituted their feasts? he replied, "the charge i am entrusted with obliges me to know all these things you ask of me; i will therefore satisfy you: hearken to me. a great number of years ago there appeared among us a man and his wife, who came down from the sun. not that we believe that the sun had a wife who bore him children, or that these were the descendants of the sun; but when they first appeared among us they were so bright and luminous that we had no difficulty to believe that they came down from the sun. this man told us, that having seen from on high that we did not govern ourselves well; that we had no master; that each of us had presumption enough to think himself capable of governing others, while he could not even conduct himself; he had thought fit to come down among us to teach us to live better. "he moreover told us, that in order to live in peace among ourselves, and to please the supreme spirit, we must indispensably observe the following points; we must never kill any one but in defence of our own lives; we must never know any other woman besides our own; we must never take any thing that belongs to another; we must never lye nor get drunk; we must not be avaricious, but must give liberally, and with joy, part of what we have to others who are in want, and generously share our subsistence with those who are in need of it." "the words of this man deeply affected us, for he spoke them with authority, and he procured the respect even of the old men themselves, tho' he reprehended them as freely as the rest. next day we offered to acknowledge him as our sovereign. he at first refused, saying that he should not be obeyed, and that the disobedient would infallibly die; but at length he accepted the offer that was made him on the following condition: "that we would go and inhabit another country, better than that in which we were, which he would shew us; that we would afterwards live conformable to the instructions he had given us; that we would promise never to acknowledge any { } other sovereigns but him and his descendants; that the nobility should be perpetuated by the women after this manner; if i, said he, have male and female children, they being brothers and sisters cannot marry together; the eldest boy may chuse a wife from among the people, but his sons shall be only nobles; the children of the eldest girl, on the other hand, shall be princes and princesses, and her eldest son be sovereign; but her eldest daughter be the mother of the next sovereign, even tho' she should marry one of the common people; and, in defect of the eldest daughter, the next female relation to the person reigning shall be the mother of the future sovereign; the sons of the sovereign and princes shall lose their rank, but the daughters shall preserve theirs." "he then told us, that in order to preserve the excellent precepts he had given us, it was necessary to build a temple, into which it should be lawful for none but the princes and princesses to enter, to speak to the spirit. that in the temple they should eternally preserve a fire, which he would bring down from the sun, from whence he himself had descended, that the wood with which the fire was supplied should be pure wood without bark; that eight wise men of the nation should be chosen for guarding the fire night and day; that those eight men should have a chief, who should see them do their duty, and that if any of them failed in it he should be put to death. he likewise ordered another temple to be built in a distant part of our nation, which was then very populous, and the eternal fire to be kept there also, that in case it should be extinguished in the one it might be brought from the other; in which case, till it was again lighted, the nation would be afflicted with a great mortality." "our nation having consented to these conditions, he agreed to be our sovereign; and in presence of all the people he brought down the fire from the sun, upon some wood of the walnut-tree which he had prepared, which fire was deposited in both the temples. he lived a long time, and saw his children's children. to conclude, he instituted our feasts such as you see them." the natchez have neither sacrifices, libations, nor offerings: their whole worship consists in preserving the eternal { } fire, and this the great sun watches over with a peculiar attention. the sun, who reigned when i was in the country, was extremely solicitous about it, and visited the temple every day. his vigilance had been awakened by a terrible hurricane which some years before had happened in the country, and was looked upon as an extraordinary event, the air being generally clear and serene in that climate. if to that calamity should be joined the extinction of the eternal fire, he was apprehensive their whole nation would be destroyed. one day, when the great sun called upon me, he gave me an account of a dreadful calamity that had formerly befallen the nation of the natchez, in consequence, as he believed, of the extinction of the eternal fire. he introduced his account in the following manner: "our nation was formerly very numerous and very powerful; it extended more than twelve days journey from east to west, and more than fifteen from south to north. we reckoned then suns, and you may judge by that what was the number of the nobles, of the people of rank, and the common people. now in times past it happened, that one of the two guardians, who were upon duty in the temple, left it on some business, and the other fell asleep, and suffered the fire to go out. when he awaked and saw that he had incurred the penalty of death, he went and got some profane fire, as tho' he had been going to light his pipe, and with that he renewed the eternal fire. his transgression was by that means concealed; but a dreadful mortality immediately ensued, and raged for four years, during which many suns and an infinite number of the people died. "the guardian at length sickened, and found himself dying, upon which he sent for the great sun, and confessed the heinous crime he had been guilty of. the old men were immediately assembled, and, by their advice, fire being snatched from the other temple, and brought into this, the mortality quickly ceased." upon my asking him what he meant by "snatching the fire," he replied, "that it must always be brought away by violence, and that some blood must be shed, unless some tree on the road was set on fire by lightning, and { } then the fire might be brought from thence; but that the fire of the sun was always preferable." it is impossible to express his astonishment when i told him, that it was a trifling matter to bring down fire from the sun, and that i had it in my power to do it whenever i pleased. as he was extremely desirous to see me perform that seeming miracle, i took the smallest of two burning glasses which i had brought from france, and placing some dry punk (or agaric) upon a chip of wood, i drew the focus of the glass upon it, and with a tone of authority pronounced the word _caheuch_, that is, _come_, as tho' i had been commanding the fire to come down. the punk immediately smoking, i blew a little and made it flame to the utter astonishment of the great sun and his whole retinue, some of whom stood trembling with amazement and religious awe. the prince himself could not help exclaiming, "ah, what an extraordinary thing is here!" i confirmed him in his idea, by telling him, that i greatly loved and esteemed that useful instrument, as it was most valuable, and was given to me by my grandfather, who was a very learned man. upon his asking me, if another man could do the same thing with that instrument that he had seen me do, i told him that every man might do it, and i encouraged him to make the experiment himself. i accordingly put the glass in his hand, and leading it with mine over another piece of agaric, i desired him to pronounce the word _caheuch_, which he did, but with a very faint and diffident tone; nevertheless, to his great amazement, he saw the agaric begin to smoke, which so confounded him that he dropt both the chip on which it was laid and the glass out of his hands, crying out, "ah, what a miracle!" their curiosity being now fully raised, they held a consultation in my yard, and resolved to purchase at any rate my wonderful glass, which would prevent any future mortality in their nation, in consequence of the extinction of the eternal fire. i, in the mean time, had gone out to my field, as if about some business; but in reality to have a hearty laugh at the comical scene which i had just occasioned. upon my return the great sun entered my apartment with me, and laying his hand upon mine, told me, that tho' he loved all the french, he { } was more my friend than of any of the rest, because most of the french carried all their understanding upon their tongue, but that i carried mine in my whole head and my whole body. after this preamble he offered to bargain for my glass, and desired me to set what value i pleased upon it, adding that he would not only cause the price to be paid by all the families of the nation, but would declare to them that they lay under an obligation to me for giving up to them a thing which saved them from a general mortality. i replied, that tho' i bore his whole nation in my heart, yet nothing made me part with my glass, but my affection for him and his brother; that, besides, i asked nothing in return but things necessary for my subsistence, such as corn, fowls, game, and fish, when they brought him any of these. he offered me twenty barrels of maiz, of pounds each, twenty fowls, twenty turkies, and told me that he would send me game and fish every time his warriors brought him any, and his promise was punctually fulfilled. he engaged likewise not to speak any thing about it to the frenchmen, lest they should be angry with me for parting with an instrument of so great a value. next day the glass was tried before a general assembly of all the suns, both men and women, the nobles, and the men of rank, who all met together at the temple; and the same effect being produced as the day before, the bargain was ratified; but it was resolved not to mention the affair to the common people, who, from their curiosity to know the secrets of their court, were assembled in great numbers not far from the temple, but only to tell them, that the whole nation of the natchez were under great obligations to me. the natchez are brought up in a most perfect submission to their sovereign; the authority which their princes exercise over them is absolutely despotic, and can be compared to nothing but that of the first ottoman emperors. like these, the great sun is absolute master of the lives and estates of his subjects, which he disposes of at his pleasure, his will being the only law; but he has this singular advantage over the ottoman princes, that he has no occasion to fear any seditious tumults, or any conspiracy against his person. if he orders a man guilty of a capital crime to be put to death, the criminal { } neither supplicates, nor procures intercession to be made for his life, nor attempts to run away. the order of the sovereign is executed on the spot, and nobody murmurs. but however absolute the authority of the great sun may be, and although a number of warriors and others attach themselves to him, to serve him, to follow him wherever he goes, and to hunt for him, yet he raises no stated impositions; and what he receives from those people appears given, not so much as a right due, as a voluntary homage, and a testimony of their love and gratitude. the natchez begin their year in the month of march, as was the practice a long time in europe, and divide it into thirteen moons. at every new moon they celebrate a feast, which takes its name from the principal fruits reaped in the preceding moon, or from animals that are then usually hunted. i shall give an account of one or two of these feasts as concisely as i can. the first moon is called that of the deer, and begins their new year, which is celebrated by them with universal joy, and is at the same time an anniversary memorial of one of the most interesting events in their history. in former times a great sun, upon hearing a sudden tumult in his village, had left his hut in a great hurry, in order to appease it, and fell into the hands of his enemies; but was quickly after rescued by his warriors, who repulsed the invaders, and put them to flight. in order to preserve the remembrance of this honourable exploit, the warriors divide themselves into two bodies, distinguished from each other by the colour of their feathers. one of these bodies represents the invaders, and after raising loud shouts and cries, seize the great sun, who comes out of his hut undressed, and rubbing his eyes, as though he were just awake. the great sun defends himself intrepidly with a wooden tomahawk, and lays a great many of his enemies upon the ground, without however giving them a single blow, for he only seems to touch them with his weapon. in the mean time the other party come out of their ambuscade, attack the invaders, and, after fighting with them for some time, rescue their prince, and drive them into a wood, which is represented by an arbour { } made of canes. during the whole time of the skirmish, the parties keep up the war-cry, or the cry of terror, as each of them seem to be victors or vanquished. the great sun is brought back to his hut in a triumphant manner; and the old men, women, and children, who were spectators of the engagement, rend the sky with their joyful acclamations. the great sun continues in his hut about half an hour, to repose himself after his great fatigues, which are such that an actor of thirty years of age would with difficulty have supported them, and he however, when i saw this feast, was above ninety. he then makes his appearance again to the people, who salute him with loud acclamations, which cease upon his proceeding towards the temple. when he is arrived in the middle of the court before the temple, he makes several gesticulations, then stretches out his arms horizontally, and remains in that posture motionless as a statute for half an hour. he is then relieved by the master of the ceremonies, who places himself in the same attitude, and half an hour after is relieved by the great chief of war, who remains as long in the same posture. when this ceremony is over, the great sun, who, when he was relieved, had returned to his hut, appears again before the people in the ornaments of his dignity, is placed upon his throne, which is a large stool with four feet cut out of one piece of wood, has a fine buffalo's skin thrown over his shoulders, and several furs laid upon his feet, and receives various presents from the women, who all the while continue to express their joy by their shouts and acclamations. strangers are then invited to dine with the great sun, and in the evening there is a dance in his hut, which is about thirty feet square, and twenty feet high, and like the temple is built upon a mount of earth, about eight feet high, and sixty feet over on the surface. the second moon, which answers to our april, is called the strawberry moon, as that fruit abounds then in great quantities. the third moon is that of the small corn. this moon is often impatiently looked for, their crop of large corn never sufficing to nourish them from one harvest to another. { } the fourth is that of water-melons, and answers to our june. the fifth moon is that of the fishes: in this month also they gather grapes, if the birds have suffered them to ripen. the sixth, which answers to our august, is that of the mulberries. at this feast they likewise carry fowls to the great sun. the seventh, which is that of maiz, or great corn. this feast is beyond dispute the most solemn of all. it principally consists in eating in common, and in a religious manner, of new corn, which had been sown expressly with that design, with suitable ceremonies. this corn is sown upon a spot of ground never before cultivated; which ground is dressed and prepared by the warriors alone, who also are the only persons that sow the corn, weed it, reap it, and gather it. when this corn is near ripe, the warriors fix on a place proper for the general feast, and close adjoining to that they form a round granary, the bottom and sides of which are of cane; this they fill, with the corn, and when they have finished the harvest, and covered the granary, they acquaint the great sun, who appoints the day for the general feast. some days before the feast, they build huts for the great sun, and for all the other families, round the granary, that of the great sun being raised upon a mount of earth about two feet high. on the feast-day the whole nation set out from their village at sun-rising, leaving behind only the aged and infirm that are not able to travel, and a few warriors, who are to carry the great sun on a litter upon their shoulders. the seat of this litter is covered with several deer skins, and to its four sides are fastened four bars which cross each other, and are supported by eight men, who at every hundred paces transfer their burden to eight other men, and thus successively transport it to the place where the feast is celebrated, which may be near two miles from the village. about nine o'clock the great sun comes out of his hut dressed in the ornaments of his dignity, and being placed in his litter, which has a canopy at the head formed of flowers, he is carried in a few minutes to the sacred granary, shouts of { } joy re-echoing on all sides. before he alights he makes the tour of the whole place deliberately, and when he comes before the corn, he salutes it thrice with the words, _hoo, hoo, hoo_, lengthened and pronounced respectfully. the salutation is repeated by the whole nation, who pronounce the word _hoo_ nine times distinctly, and at the ninth time he alights and places himself on his throne. immediately after they light a fire by rubbing two pieces of wood violently against each other, and when every thing is prepared for dressing the corn, the chief of war, accompanied by the warriors belonging to each family, presents himself before the throne, and addresses the sun in these words, "speak, for i hear thee." the sovereign then rises up, bows towards the four quarters of the world, and advancing to the granary, lifts his eyes and hands to heaven, and says, "give us corn:" upon which the great chief of war, the princes and princesses, and all the men, thank him separately, by pronouncing the word _hoo_. the corn is then distributed, first to the female suns, and then to all the women, who run with it to their huts, and dress it with the utmost dispatch. when the corn is dressed in all the huts, a plate of it is put into the hands of the great sun, who presents it to the four quarters of the world, and then says to the chief of war, _eat_; upon this signal the warriors begin to eat in all the huts; after them the boys of whatever age, excepting those who are on the breast; and last of all the women. when the warriors have finished their repast, they form themselves into two choirs before the huts, and sing war songs for half an hour; after which the chief of war, and all the warriors in succession, recount their brave exploits, and mention, in a boasting manner, the number of enemies they have slain. the youths are next allowed to harangue, and each tells in the best manner he can, not what he has done, but what he intends to do; and if his discourse merits approbation, he is answered by a general _hoo_; if not, the warriors hang down their heads and are silent. this great solemnity is concluded with a general dance by torch-light. upwards of two hundred torches of dried canes, each of the thickness of a child, are lighted round the place, { } where the men and women often continue dancing till day-light; and the following is the disposition of their dance. a man places himself on the ground with a pot covered with a deer-skin, in the manner of a drum, to beat time to the dances; round him the women form themselves into a circle, not joining hands, but at some distance from each other; and they are inclosed by the men in another circle, who have in each hand a chichicois, or calabash, with a stick thrust through it to serve for a handle. when the dance begins, the women move round { } the men in the centre, from left to right, and the men contrariwise from right to left, and they sometimes narrow and sometimes widen their circles. in this manner the dance continues without intermission the whole night, new performers successively taking the place of those who are wearied and fatigued. [illustration: _dance of the natchez indians_ (on p. )] next morning no person is seen abroad before the great sun comes out of his hut, which is generally about nine o'clock, and then upon signal made by the drum, the warriors make their appearance distinguished into two troops, by the feathers which they wear on their heads. one of these troops is headed by the great sun, and the other by the chief of war, who begin a new diversion by tossing a ball of deer-skin stuffed with spanish beard from the one to the other. the warriors quickly take part in the sport, and a violent contest ensues which of the two parties shall drive the ball to the hut of the opposite chief. the diversion generally lasts two hours, and the victors are allowed to wear the feathers of superiority till the following year, or till the next time they play at the ball. after this the warriors perform the war dance; and last of all they go and bathe; an exercise which they are very fond of when they are heated or fatigued. the rest of that day is employed as the preceding; for the feasts holds as long as any of the corn remains. when it is all eat up, the great sun is carried back in his litter, and they all return to the village, after which he sends the warriors to hunt both for themselves and him. the eighth moon is that of turkies, and answers to our october. the ninth moon is that of the buffalo; and it is then they go to hunt that animal. having discovered whereabouts the herd feeds, they go out in a body to hunt them. young and old, girls and married women, except those who are with child, are all of the party, for there is generally work for them all. some nations are a little later in going out to this hunting, that they may find the cows fatter, and the herds more numerous. the tenth moon is that of bears; at this time of hunting the feasts are not so grand and solemn, because great part of the nations are accompanying the hunters in their expeditions. { } the eleventh answers to our january, and is named as cold-meal moon. the twelfth is that of chesnuts. that fruit has been gathered long before, nevertheless it gives its name to this moon. lastly, the thirteenth is that of walnuts, and it is added to compleat the year. it is then they break the nuts to make bread of them by mixing with them the flour of maiz. the feasts which i saw celebrated in the chief village of the natchez, which is the residence of the great sun, are celebrated in the same manner in all the villages of the nation, which are each governed by a sun, who is subordinate to the great sun, and acknowledge his absolute authority. it is not to be conceived how exact these people are in assigning the pre-eminence to the men. in every assembly, whether of the whole nation in general, or of several families together, or of one family, the youngest boys have the preference to the women of the most advanced age; and at their meals, when their food is distributed, none is presented to the women, till all the males have received their share, so that a boy of two years old is served before his mother. the women being always employed, without ever being diverted from their duty, or seduced by the gallantries of lovers, never think of objecting to the propriety of a custom, in which they have been constantly brought up. never having seen any example that contradicted it, they have not the least idea of varying from it. thus being submissive from the habit, as well as from reason, they, by their docility, maintain that peace in their families, which they find established upon entering them. { } section iii. _of their marriages, and distinction of ranks._ paternal authority, as i have elsewhere observed, is not less sacred and inviolable than the pre-eminence of the men. it still subsists among the natchez, such as it was in the first ages of the world. the children belong to the father, and while he lives they are under his power. they live with him, they, their wives, and their children; the same hut contains the whole family. the old man alone commands there, and nothing but death puts an end to his empire. as these people have seldom or rather never any differences among them, the paternal authority appears in nothing more conspicuous than in the marriages. when the boys and girls arrive at the perfect age of puberty, they visit each other familiarly, and are suffered so to do. the girls, sensible that they will be no longer mistresses of their heart, when once they are married, know how to dispose of it to advantage, and form their wardrobe by the sale of their favours; for there, as well as in other countries, nothing for nothing. the lover, far from having any thing to object to this, on the contrary, rates the merit of his future spouse, in proportion to the fruits she has produced. but when they are married they have no longer any intrigues, neither the husband nor the wife, because their heart is no longer their own. they may divorce their wives; it is, however, so rare to see the man and wife part, that during the eight years i lived in their neighbourhood, i knew but one example of it, and then each took with them the children of their own sex. if a young man has obtained a girl's consent, and they desire to marry, it is not their fathers, and much less their mothers, or male or female relations who take upon them to, conclude the match; it is the heads of the two families alone, who are usually great-grandfathers, and sometimes more. these two old men have an interview, in which, after the young man has formally made a demand of the girl, they examine if there be any relation between the two parties, and if any, what degree { } it is; for they do not marry within the third degree. notwithstanding this interview, and the two parties be found not within the prohibited degrees, yet if the proposed wife be disagreeable to the father, grandfather, &c. of the husband, the match is never concluded. on the other hand, ambition, avarice, and the other passions, so common with us, never stifle in the breasts of the fathers those dictates of nature, which make us desire to see ourselves perpetuated in our offspring, nor influence them to thwart their children, improperly, and much less to force their inclinations. by an admirable harmony, very worthy of our imitation, they only marry those who love one another, and those who love one another, are only married when their parents agree to it. it is rare for young men to marry before they be five-and-twenty. till they arrive at that age they are looked upon as too weak, without understanding and experience. when the marriage-day is once fixed, preparations are made for it both by the men and women; the men go a hunting, and the women prepare the maiz, and deck out the young man's cabin to the best of their power. on the wedding-day the old man on the part of the girl leaves his hut, and conducts the bride to the hut of the bridegroom; his whole family follow him in order and silence; those who are inclined to laugh or be merry, indulging themselves only in a smile. he finds before the other hut all the relations of the bridegroom, who receive and salute him with their usual expression of congratulation, namely, _hoo, hoo_, repeated several times. when he enters the hut, the old man on the part of the bridegroom says to him in their language, _are you there?_ to which he answers, _yes_. he is next desired to sit down, and then not a word passes for near ten minutes, it being one of their prudent customs to suffer a guest to rest himself a little after his arrival, before they begin a conversation; and besides, they look upon the time spent in compliments as thrown away. after both the old men are fully rested, they rise, and the bridegroom and bride appearing before them, they ask them, if they love each other? and if they are willing to take one another for man and wife? observing to them at the same time, { } that they ought not to marry unless they propose to live amicably together; that nobody forces them, and that as they are each other's free choice, they will be thrust out of the family if they do not live in peace. after this remonstrance the father of the bridegroom delivers the present which his son is to make into his hands, the bride's father at the same time placing himself by her side. the bridegroom then addresses the bride; "will you have me for your husband?" she answers, "most willingly, and it gives me joy; love me, as well as i love you; for i love, and ever will love none but you." at these words the bridegroom covers the head of the bride with the present which he received from his father, and says to her, "i love you, and have therefore taken you for my wife, and this i give to your parents, to purchase you." he then gives the present to the bride's father. the husband wears a tuft of feathers fastened to his hair, which is in the form of a cue, and hangs over his left ear, to which is fastened a sprig of oak with the leaves on, and in his left hand he bears a bow and arrows. the young wife bears in her left hand a small branch of laurel, and in her right a stalk of maiz, which was delivered to her by her mother at the time she received the present from her husband. this stalk she presents to her husband, who takes it from her with his right hand, and says, "i am your husband;" she answers, and "i am your wife." they then shake hands reciprocally with each other's relations; after which he leads her towards the bed, and says, "there is our bed, keep it tight;" which is as much as to say, do not defile the nuptial bed. the marriage ceremony being thus concluded, the bridegroom and the bride, with their friends, sit down to a repast, and in the evening they begin their dances, which continue often till day-light. the nation of the natchez is composed of nobility and common people. the common people are named in their language _miche-miche-quipy_, that is, _stinkards_; a name however which gives them great offense, and which it is proper to avoid pronouncing before them, as it would not fail to put them into a very bad humour. the common people are to the { } last degree submissive to the nobility, who are divided into suns, nobles, and men of rank. the suns are the descendants of the man and woman who pretended to have come down from the sun. among the other laws they gave to the natchez, they ordained that their race should always be distinguished from the bulk of the nation, and that none of them should ever be put to death upon any account. they established likewise another usage which is found among no other people, except a nation of scythians mentioned by herodotus. they ordained that nobility should only be transmitted by the women. their male and female children were equally named suns, and regarded as such, but with this difference, that the males enjoyed this privilege only in their own person, and during their own lives. their children had only the title of nobles, and the male children of those nobles were only men of rank. those men of rank, however, if they distinguished themselves by their war-like exploits, might raise themselves again to the rank of nobles; but their children became only men of rank, and the children of those men of rank, as well as of the others, were confounded with the common people, and classed among the stinkards. thus as these people are very long-lived, and frequently see the fourth generation, it often happens that a sun sees some of his posterity among the stinkards; but they are at great pains to conceal this degradation of their race, especially from strangers, and almost totally disown those great-grand children; for when they speak of them they only say, they are dear to them. it is otherwise with the female posterity of the suns, for they continue through all generations to enjoy their rank. the descendants of the suns being pretty numerous, it might be expected that those who are out of the prohibited degrees might intermarry, rather than ally with the stinkards; but a most barbarous custom obliges them to their mis-alliances. when any of the suns, either male or female, die, their law ordains that the husband or wife of the sun shall be put to death on the day of the interment of the deceased: now as another law prohibits the issue of the suns from being put to death, it is therefore impossible for the descendants of the suns to match with each other. { } whether it be that they are tired of this law, or that they with their suns descended of french blood, i shall not determine; but the wife of the great sun came one day to visit me so early in the morning that i was not got out of bed. she was accompanied with her only daughter, a girl between fourteen and fifteen years of age, handsome and well shaped; but she only sent in her own name by my slave; so that without getting up, i made no scruple of desiring her to come in. when her daughter appeared i was not a little surprized; but i shook hands with them both, and desired them to sit down. the daughter sat down on the foot of my bed, and kept her eyes continually fixed on me, while the mother addressed herself to me in the most serious and pathetic tone. after some compliments to me, and commendations of our customs and manners, she condemned the barbarous usages that prevailed among themselves, and ended with proposing me as a husband for her daughter, that i might have it in my power to civilize their nation by abolishing their inhuman customs, and introducing those of the french. as i foresaw the danger of such an alliance, which would be opposed by the whole nation of the natchez, and at the same time was sensible that the resentment of a slighted woman is very formidable, i returned her such an answer as might shew my great respect for her daughter, and prevent her from making the same application to some brainless frenchman, who, by accepting the offer, might expose the french settlement to some disastrous event. i told her that her daughter was handsome, and pleased me much, as she had a good heart, and a well turned mind; but the laws we received from the great spirit, forbad us to marry women who did not pray; and that those frenchmen who lived with their daughters took them only for a time; but it was not proper that the daughter of the great sun should be disposed of in that manner. the mother acquiesced in my reasons; but when they took their leave i perceived plainly that the daughter was far from being satisfied. i never saw her from that day forwards; and i heard she was soon after married to another. from this relation the reader may perceive that there needs nothing but prudence and good sense to persuade those people { } to what is reasonable, and to preserve their friendship without interruption. we may safely affirm that the differences we have had with them have been more owing to the french than to them. when they are treated insolently or oppressively, they have no less sensibility of injuries than others. if those who have occasion to live among them, will but have sentiments of humanity, they will in them meet with men. section iv. _of the temples, tombs, burials, and other religious ceremonies of the people of_ louisiana. i shall now proceed to give some account of the customs that prevail in general among all the nations of north america; and these have a great resemblance to each other, as there is hardly any difference in the manner of thinking and acting among the several nations. these people have no religion expressed by any external worship. the strongest evidences that we discover of their having any religion at all, are their temples, and the eternal fire therein kept up by some of them. some of them indeed do not keep up the eternal fire, and have turned their temples into charnel-houses. however, all those people, without exception, acknowledge a supreme being, but they never on any account address their prayers to him, from their fixt belief that god, whom they call the great spirit, is so good, that he cannot do evil, whatever provocation he may have. they believe the existence of two great spirits, a good and a bad. they do not, as i have said, invoke the good spirit; but they pray to the bad, in order to avert from their persons and possessions the evils which he might inflict upon them. they pray to the evil spirit, not because they think him almighty; for it is the good spirit whom they believe so; but because, according to them, he governs the air, the seasons, the rain, the fine weather, and all that may benefit or hurt the productions of the earth. they are very superstitious in respect to the flight of birds, and the passage of some animals that are seldom seen in their country. they are much inclined to hear and believe { } diviners, especially in regard to discovering things to come; and they are kept in their errors by the jongleurs, who find their account in them. the natives have all the same manner of bringing up their children, and are in general well shaped, and their limbs are justly proportioned. the chicasaws are the most fierce and arrogant, which they undoubtedly owe to their frequent intercourse with the english of carolina. they are brave; a disposition they may have inherited as the remains of that martial spirit that prompted them to invade their neighbouring nations, by which they themselves were at length greatly weakened. all the nations on the north of the colony are likewise brave, but they are more humane than the chicasaws, and have not their high-spirited pride. all these nations of the north, and all those of louisiana, have been inviolably attached to us ever since our establishment in this colony. the misfortune of the natchez, who, without dispute, were the finest of all those nations, and who loved us, ought not in the least to lessen our sentiments of those people, who are in general distinguished for their natural goodness of character. all those nations are prudent, and speak little; they are sober in their diet, but they are passionately fond of brandy, though they are singular in never tasting any wine, and neither know nor care to learn any composition of liquors. in their meals they content themselves with maiz prepared various ways, and sometimes they use fish and flesh. the meat that they eat is chiefly recommended to them for being wholesome; and therefore i have conjectured that dog's flesh, for which we have such an aversion, must however be as good as it is beautiful, since they rate it so highly as to use it by way of preference in their feasts of ceremony. they eat no young game, as they find plenty of the largest size, and do not think delicacy of taste alone any recommendation; and therefore, in general, they would not taste our ragouts, but, condemning them as unwholesome, prefer to them gruel made of maiz, called in the colony sagamity. the chactaws are the only ugly people among all the nations in louisiana; which is chiefly owing to the fat with which { } they rub their skin and their hair, and to their manner of defending themselves against the moskitos, which they keep off by lighting fires of fir-wood, and standing in the smoke. although all the people of louisiana have nearly the same usages and customs, yet as any nation is more or less populous, it has proportionally more or fewer ceremonies. thus when the french first arrived in the colony, several nations kept up the eternal fire, and observed other religious ceremonies, which they have now disused, since their numbers have been greatly diminished. many of them still continue to have temples, but the common people never enter these, nor strangers, unless peculiarly favoured by the nation. as i was an intimate friend of the sovereign of the natchez, he shewed me their temple, which is about thirty feet square, and stands upon an artificial mount about eight feet high, by the side of a small river. the mount slopes insensibly from the main front, which is northwards, but on the other sides it is somewhat steeper. the four corners of the temple consist of four posts, about a foot and an half diameter, and ten feet high, each made of the heart of the cypress tree, which is incorruptible. the side-posts are of the same wood, but only about a foot square; and the walls are of mud, about nine inches thick; so that in the inside there is a hollow between every post. the inner space is divided from east to west into two apartments one of which is twice as large as the other. in the largest apartment the eternal fire is kept, and there is likewise a table or altar in it, about four feet high, six long, and two broad. upon this table lie the bones of the late great sun in a coffin of canes very neatly made. in the inner apartment, which is very dark, as it receives no light but from the door of communication, i could meet with nothing but two boards, on which were placed some things like small toys, which i had not light to peruse. the roof is in the form of a pavilion, and very neat both within and without, and on the top of it are placed three wooden birds, twice as large as a goose, with their heads turned towards the east. the corner and side-posts, as has been mentioned, rise above the earth ten feet high, and it is said they are as much sunk under ground; it cannot therefore but appear surprising how the natives could transport such large beams, fashion them, and raise them { } upright, when we know of no machines they had for that purpose. besides the eight guardians of the temple, two of whom are always on watch, and the chief of those guardians, there also belongs to the service of the temple a master of the ceremonies, who is also master of the mysteries; since, according to them, he converses very familiarly with the spirit. above all these persons is the great sun, who is at the same time chief priest and sovereign of the nation. the temples of some of the nations of louisiana are very mean, and one would often be apt to mistake them for the huts of private persons, but to those who are acquainted with their manners, they are easily distinguishable, as they have always before the door two posts formed like the ancient termini, that is, having the upper part cut into the shape of a man's head. the door of the temple, which is pretty weighty, is placed between the wall and those two posts, so that children may not be able to remove it, to go and play in the temple. the private huts have also posts before their doors, but these are never formed like termini. none of the nations of louisiana are acquainted with the custom of burning their dead, which was practised by the greeks and romans; nor with that of the egyptians, who studied to preserve them to perpetuity. the different american nations have a most religious attention for their dead, and each have some peculiar customs in respect to them; but all of them either inter them, or place them in tombs, and carefully carry victuals to them for some time. these tombs are either within their temples, or close adjoining to them, or in their neighbourhood. they are raised about three feet above the earth, and rest upon four pillars, which are forked stakes fixed fast in the ground. the tomb, or rather bier, is about eight feet long, and a foot and a half broad; and after the body is placed upon it, a kind of basket-work of twigs is wove round it, and covered with mud, an opening being left at the head for placing the victuals that are presented to the dead person. when the body is all rotted but the bones, these are taken out of the tomb, and placed in a box of canes, which is deposited in the temple. they usually weep and lament for their dead three days; but for those who are killed in war, they make a much longer and more grievous lamentation. { } among the natchez the death of any of their suns, as i have before observed, is a most fatal event; for it is sure to be attended with the destruction of a great number of people of both sexes. early in the spring , the stung serpent, who was the brother of the great sun, and my intimate friend, was seized with a mortal distemper, which filled the whole nation of the natchez with the greatest consternation and terror; for the two brothers had mutually engaged to follow each other to the land of spirits; and if the great sun should kill himself for the sake of his brother, very many people would likewise be put to death. when the stung serpent was despaired of, the chief of the guardians of the temple came to me in the greatest confusion, and acquainting me with the mutual engagements of the two brothers, begged of me to interest myself in preserving the great sun, and consequently a great part of the nation. he made the same request to the commander of the fort. accordingly we were no sooner informed of the death of the stung serpent, than the commander, some of the principal frenchmen, and i, went in a body to the hut of the great sun. we found him in despair; but, after some time, he seemed to be influenced by the arguments i used to dissuade him from putting himself to death. the death of the stung serpent was published by the firing of two muskets, which were answered by the other villages, and immediately cries and lamentations were heard on all sides. the great sun, in the mean time, remained inconsolable, and sat bent forwards, with his eyes towards the ground. in the evening, while we were still in his hut, he made a sign to his favourite wife; who in consequence of that threw a pailful of water on the fire, and extinguished it. this was a signal for extinguishing all the fires of the nation, and filled every one with terrible alarms, as it denoted that the great sun was still resolved to put himself to death. i gently chided him for altering his former resolution, but he assured me he had not, and desired us to go and sleep securely. we accordingly left him, pretending to rely on the assurance he had given us; but we took up our lodging in the hut of his chief servants, and stationed a soldier at the door of his hut, whom we ordered to give us notice of whatever happened. there was no need to fear our being betrayed by the wife of { } the great sun, or any others about him; for none of them had the least inclination to die, if they could help it. on the contrary, they all expressed the greatest thankfulness and gratitude to us for our endeavors to avert the threatened calamity from their nation. before we went to our lodgings we entered the hut of the deceased, and found him on his bed of state, dressed in his finest cloaths, his face painted with vermilion, shod as if for a journey, with his feather-crown on his head. to his bed were fastened his arms, which consisted of a double-barreled gun, a pistol, a bow, a quiver full of arrows, and a tomahawk. round his bed were placed all the calumets of peace he had received during his life, and on a pole, planted in the ground near it, hung a chain of forty-six rings of cane painted red, to express the number of enemies he had slain. all his domesticks were round him, and they presented victuals to him at the usual hours, as if he were alive. the company in his hut were composed of his favourite wife, of a second wife, which he kept in another village, and visited when his favourite was with child; of his chancellor, his physician, his chief domestic, his pipe-bearer, and some old women, who were all to be strangled at his interment. to these victims a noble woman voluntarily joined herself, resolving, from her friendship to the stung serpent, to go and live with him in the country of spirits. i regretted her on many accounts, but particularly as she was intimately acquainted with the virtues of simples, had by her skill saved many of our people's lives, and given me many useful instructions. after we had satisfied our curiosity in the hut of the deceased, we retired to our hut, where we spent the night. but at day-break we were suddenly awaked, and told that it was with difficulty the great sun was kept from killing himself. we hastened to his hut, and upon entering it i remarked dismay and terror painted upon the countenances of all who were present. the great sun held his gun by the butt-end, and seemed enraged that the other suns had seized upon it, to prevent him from executing his purpose. i addressed myself to him, and after opening the pan of the lock, to let the priming fall out, i chided him gently for his not acting according to his former resolution. he pretended at first { } not to see me; but, after some time, he let go his hold of the musket, and shook hands with me without speaking a word. i then went towards his wife, who all this while had appeared in the utmost agony and terror, and i asked her if she was ill. she answered me, "yes, very ill," and added, "if you leave us, my husband is a dead man, and all the natchez will die; stay then, for he opens his ears only to your words, which have the sharpness and strength of arrows. you are his true friend, and do not laugh when you speak, like most of the frenchmen." the great sun at length consented to order his fire to be again lighted, which was the signal for lighting the other fires of the nation, and dispelled all their apprehensions. soon after the natives begun the dance of death, and prepared for the funeral of the stung serpent. orders were given to put none to death on that occasion, but those who were in the hut of the deceased. a child however had been strangled already by its father and mother, which ransomed their lives upon the death of the great sun, and raised them from the rank of stinkards to that of nobles. those who were appointed to die were conducted twice a day, and placed in two rows before the temple, where they acted over the scene of their death, each accompanied by eight of their own relations who were to be their executioners, and by that office exempted themselves from dying upon the death of any of the suns, and likewise raised themselves to the dignity of men of rank. mean while thirty warriors brought in a prisoner, who had formerly been married to a female sun; but, upon her death, instead of submitting to die with her, had fled to new orleans, and offered to become the hunter and slave of our commander in chief. the commander accepting his offer, and granting him his protection, he often visited his countrymen, who, out of complaisance to the commander, never offered to apprehend him: but that officer being now returned to france, and the runaway appearing in the neighbourhood, he was now apprehended, and numbered among the other victims. finding himself thus unexpectedly trapped, he began to cry bitterly; but three old women, who were his relations, offering to die in his stead, he was not only again exempted from death, but { } raised to the dignity of a man of rank. upon this he afterwards became insolent, and profiting by what he had seen and learned at new orleans, he easily, on many occasions, made his fellow-countrymen his dupes. [illustration: _burial of the stung serpent_] on the day of the interment, the wife of the deceased made a very moving speech to the french who were present, recommending her children, to whom she also addressed herself, to their friendship, and advising perpetual union between { } the two nations. soon after the master of the ceremonies appeared in a red-feathered crown, which half encircled his head, having a red staff in his hand in the form of a cross, at the end of which hung a garland of black feathers. all the upper part of his body was painted red, excepting his arms, and from his girdle to his knees hung a fringe of feathers, the rows of which were alternately white and red. when he came before the hut of the deceased, he saluted him with a great _hoo_, and then began the cry of death, in which he was followed by the whole people. immediately after the stung serpent was brought out on his bed of state, and was placed on a litter, which six of the guardians of the temple bore on their shoulders. the procession then began, the master of the ceremonies walking first, and after him the oldest warrior, holding in one hand the pole with the rings of canes, and in the other the pipe of war, a mark of the dignity of the deceased. next followed the corpse, after which came those who were to die at the interment. the whole procession went three times round the hut of the deceased, and then those who carried the corpse proceeded in a circular kind of march, every turn intersecting the former, until they came to the temple. at every turn the dead child was thrown by its parents before the bearers of the corpse, that they might walk over it; and when the corpse was placed in the temple the victims were immediately strangled. the stung serpent and his two wives were buried in the same grave within the temple; the other victims were interred in different parts, and after the ceremony they burnt, according to custom, the hut of the deceased. { } section v. _of the arts and manufactures of the natives._ the arts and manufactures of the natives are so insignificant, when compared with ours, that i should not have thought of treating of them, if some persons of distinction had not desired me to say something of them, in order to shew the industry of those people, and how far invention could carry them, in supplying those wants which human nature is continually exposed to. as they would have frequent occasion for fire, the manner of lighting it at pleasure must have been one of the first things that they invented. not having those means which we use, they bethought themselves of another ingenious method which they generally practise. they take a dry dead stick from a tree, about the thickness of their finger, and pressing one end against another dry piece of wood, they turn it round as swiftly as they can till they see the smoke appear, then blowing gently soon make the wood flame. cutting instruments are almost continually wanted; but as they had no iron, which, of all metals, is the most useful in human society, they were obliged, with infinite pains, to form hatchets out of large flints, by sharpening their thin edge, and making a hole through them for receiving the handle. to cut down trees with these axes would have been almost an impracticable work; they were therefore obliged to light fires round the roots of them, and to cut away the charcoal as the fire eat into the tree. they supplied the want of knives for cutting their victuals with thin splits of a hard cane, which they could easily renew as they wore out. they made their bows of acacia wood, which is hard and easily cleft; and at first their bowstrings were made of the bark of the wood, but now they make them of the thongs of hides. their arrows are made of a shrub that sends out long straight shoots; but they make some of small hard reeds: those that are intended for war, or against the buffalo, the deer, or large carp, are pointed with the sharp scale of the armed fish, which is neatly fastened to the head of the arrow with splits of cane and fish-glue. { } the skins of the beasts which they killed in hunting naturally presented themselves for their covering; but they must be dressed however before they could be properly used. after much practice they at length discovered that the brain of any animal suffices to dress its skin. to sew those skins they use the tendons of animals beat and split into threads, and to pierce the skins they apply the bone of a heron's leg, sharpened like an awl. to defend themselves against the inclemencies of the weather, they built huts of wood, which were close and strong enough to resist the impetuosity of the wind. these huts are each a perfect square; none of them are less than fifteen feet square, and some of them are more than thirty feet in each of their fronts. they erect these huts in the following manner: they bring from the woods several young walnut-trees, about four inches in diameter, and thirteen or twenty feet high; they plant the strongest of these in the four corners, and the others fifteen inches from each other in straight lines, for the sides of the building; a pole is then laid horizontally along the sides in the inside, and all the poles are strongly fastened to it by split canes. then the four corner poles are bent inwards till they all meet in the centre, where they are strongly fastened together; the side-poles are then bent in the same direction, and bound down to the others; after which they make a mortar of mud mixed with spanish beard, with which they fill up all the chinks, leaving no opening but the door, and the mud they cover both outside and inside with mats made of the splits of cane. the roof is thatched with turf and straw intermixed, and over all is laid a mat of canes, which is fastened to the tops of the walls by the creeping plant. these huts will last twenty years without any repairs. the natives having once built for themselves fixed habitations, would next apply themselves to the cultivation of the ground. accordingly, near all their habitations, they have fields of maiz, and of another nourishing grain called choupichoul, which grows without culture. for dressing their fields they invented hoes, which are formed in the shape of an l, having the lower part flat and sharp; and to take the husk { } from their corn they made large wooden mortars, by hollowing the trunks of trees with fire. to prepare their maiz for food, and likewise their venison and game, there was a necessity for dressing them over the fire, and for this purpose they bethought themselves of earthen ware, which is made by the women, who not only form the vessel, but dig up and mix the clay. in this they are tolerable artists; they make kettles of an extraordinary size, pitchers with a small opening, gallon bottles with long necks, pots or pitchers for their bear oil, which will hold forty pints; lastly, large and small plates in the french fashion: i had some made out of curiosity upon the model of my delf-ware, which were a very pretty red. for sifting the flour of their maiz, and for other uses, the natives make sieves of various finenesses of the splits of cane. to supply themselves with fish they make nets of the bark of the limetree; but the large fish they shoot with arrows. the beds of the natives are placed round the sides of their huts, about a foot and a half from the ground, and are formed in this manner. six forked stakes support two poles, which are crossed by three others, over which canes are laid so close as to form an even surface, and upon these are laid several bear skins, which serve for the bed furniture; a buffalo's skin is the coverlet, and a sack stuft with spanish beard is the bolster. the women sometimes add to this furniture of the bed mats wove of canes, dyed of three colours, which colours in the weaving are formed into various figures. these mats render the bottom of the bed still smoother, and in hot weather they remove the bear skins and lie upon them. their seats or stools, which they seldom use, are about six or seven inches high, and the seat and feet are made of the same piece. the women likewise make a kind of hampers to carry corn, flesh, fish, or any other thing which they want to transport from one place to another; they are round, deeper than broad, and of all sizes. here, as well as in other countries, the women take special care to lay up securely all their trinkets and finery. they make baskets with long lids that roll doubly over them, and in these they place their ear-rings and pendants, their { } bracelets, garters, their ribbands for their hair, and their vermilion for painting themselves, if they have any, but when they have no vermilion they boil ochre, and paint themselves with that. the women also make the men's girdles and garters, and the collars for carrying their burdens. these collars are formed of two belts of the breadth of the hand of bear's skin, dressed so as to soften it, and these belts are joined together by long cross straps of the same leather, that serve to tie the bundles, which are oftener carried by the women than the men. one of the broad belts goes over their shoulders, and the other across their forehead, so that those two parts mutually ease each other. the women also make several works in embroidery with the skin of the porcupine, which is black and white, and is cut by them into thin threads, which they dye of different colours. their designs greatly resemble those which we meet with on gothic architecture; they are formed of straight lines, which when they meet always cross each other, or turn off at square angles. the conveniences for passing rivers would soon be suggested to them by the floating of wood upon the water. accordingly one of their methods of crossing rivers is upon floats of canes, which are called by them cajeu, and are formed in this manner: they cut a great number of canes, which they tie up into faggots, part of which they fasten together side-ways, and over these they lay a row crossways, binding all close together, and then launching it into the water. for carrying a great number of men with their necessary baggage, they soon found it necessary to have other conveniences; and nothing appeared so proper for this as some of their large trees hollowed; of these they accordingly made their pettyaugres, which as i mentioned above are sometimes so large as to carry ten or twelve ton weight. these pettyaugres are conducted by short oars, called pagaies, about six feet long, with broad points, which are not fastened to the vessel, but managed by the rowers like shovels. { } section vi. _of the attire and diversions of the natives: of their meals and fastings._ the natives of louisiana, both men and women, wear a very thin dress in the summer. during the heat the men wear only a little apron of deer skin, dressed white or dyed black; but hardly any but chiefs wear black aprons. those who live in the neighbourhood of the french settlements wear aprons of coarse limbourgs, a quarter of a yard broad, and the whole breadth of the cloth, or five quarters long; these aprons are fastened by a girdle about their waists, and tucked up between the thighs. i during the heats the women wear only half a yard of limbourg stuff about their middle, which covers them down to the knees; or in place of that they use deer skin; and the rest of the body both in men and women is naked. many of the women wear cloaks of the bark of the mulberry-tree, or of the feathers of swans, turkies, or india ducks. the bark they take from young mulberry shoots that rise from the roots of trees that have been cut down; after it is dried in the sun they beat it to make all the woody part fall off, and they give the threads that remain a second beating, after which they bleach them by exposing them to the dew. when they are well whitened they spin them about the coarseness of pack-thread, and weave them in the following manner: they plant two stakes in the ground about a yard and a half asunder, and having stretched a cord from the one to the other, they fasten their threads of bark double to this cord, and then interweave them in a curious manner into a cloak of about a yard square with a wrought border round the edges. the young boys and girls go quite naked; but the girls at the age of eight or ten put on a little petticoat, which is a kind of fringe made of threads of mulberry bark. the boys do not wear any covering till they are twelve or thirteen years of age. some women even in hot weather have a small cloak wrapt round like a waistcoat; but when the cold sets in, they wear a { } second, the middle of which passes under the right arm, and the two ends are fastened over the left shoulder, so that the two arms are at liberty, and one of the breasts is covered. they wear nothing on their heads; their hair is suffered to grow to its full length, except in the fore-part, and it is tied in a cue behind in a kind of net made of mulberry threads. they carefully pick out all the hairs that grow upon any part of the body. the shoes of the men and women are of the same fashion, but they rarely wear any but when they travel. they are made of deer-skin, the sole and upper-leather of the same piece, which is sewed together on the upper part of the foot; they are cut about three inches longer than the foot, and are folded over the toes; the quarters are about nine inches high, and fasten round the leg like a buskin. the womens' ear-rings are made of the center part of a large shell, called burgo, which is about the thickness of one's little finger, and there is a hole in the ear about that size for holding it. their necklaces are composed of several strings of longish or roundish kernel-stones, somewhat resembling porcelaine; and with the smallest of these kernel-stones they ornament their furs, garters, &c. from their early youth the women get a streak pricked cross their nose; some of them have a streak pricked down the middle of their chin; others in different parts, especially the women of the nations who have the r in their language. i have seen some who were pricked all over the upper part of the body, not even excepting the breasts which are extremely sensible. in the cold weather the men cover themselves with a shirt made of two dressed deer-skins, which is more like a fur night-gown than a shirt: they likewise, at the same time, wear a kind of breeches, which cover both the thighs and the legs. if the weather be very severe, they throw over all a buffalo's skin, which is dressed with the wool on, and this they keep next to their body to increase the warmth. in the countries where they hunt beavers, they make robes of six skins of those animals sewed together. { } the youths here are as much taken up about dress, and as fond of vying with each other in finery as in other countries; they paint themselves with vermilion very often; they deck themselves with bracelets made of the ribs of deer, which are bent by the means of boiling water, and when polished, look as fine as ivory; they wear necklaces like the women, and sometimes have a fan in their hand; they clip off the hair from the crown of the head, and there place a piece of swan's skin with the down on; to a few hairs that they leave on that part they fasten the finest white feathers that they can meet with; a part of their hair which is suffered to grow long, they weave into a cue, which hangs over their left ear. they likewise have their nose pricked, but no other part till they are warriors, and have performed some brave action, such as killing an enemy, and bringing off his scalp. those who have signalized themselves by some gallant exploit, cause a tomahawk to be pricked on their left shoulder, underneath which is also pricked the hieroglyphic sign of the conquered nation. whatever figure they intend to prick, is first traced on the skin with a bit of charcoal, and having fixed six needles in a piece of wood in two rows, in such a manner that they only stick out about the tenth part of an inch, they prick the skin all over the mark, and then rub charcoal dust over the part, which enters the punctures, and leaves a mark that can never be effaced. this pricking generally gives a fit of sickness to the patient, who is obliged for some time to live only on boiled maiz. the warriors also pierce the lower part of their ears, and make a hole an inch diameter, which they fill with iron wire. besides these ear-rings they have a belt hung round with little bells, if they can purchase any from the french, so that they march more like mules than men. when they can get no bells, they fasten to their belts wild gourds with two or three pebbles in each. the chief ornament of the sovereigns, is their crown of feathers; this crown is composed of a black bonnet of net work, which is fastened to a red diadem about two inches broad. the diadem is embroidered with white kernel-stones, and surmounted with white feathers, which in the fore-part are about eight inches long, and half as much behind. this crown or feather hat makes a very pleasing appearance. { } all nations are not equally ingenious at inventing feasts, shews, and diversions, for employing the people agreeably, and filling up the void of their usual employments. the natives of louisiana have invented but a very few diversions, and these perhaps serve their turn as well as a greater variety would do. the warriors practise a diversion which is called the game of _the pole_, at which only two play together at a time. each has a pole about eight feet long, resembling a roman f, and the game consists in rolling a flat round stone, about three inches diameter and an inch thick, with the edge somewhat sloping, and throwing the pole at the same time in such a manner, that when the stone rests, the pole may touch it or be near it. both antagonists throw their poles at the same time, and he whose pole is nearest the stone counts one, and has the right of rolling the stone. the men fatigue themselves much at this game, as they run after their poles at every throw; and some of them are so bewitched by it, that they game away one piece of furniture after another. these gamesters however are very rare, and are greatly discountenanced by the rest of the people. the women play with small bits of cane, about eight or nine inches long. three of these they hold loosely in one hand, and knock them to the ground with another; if two of them fall with the round side undermost, she that played counts one; but if only one, she counts nothing. they are ashamed to be seen or found playing; and as far as i could discover, they never played for any stake. the young people, especially the girls, have hardly any kind of diversion but that of the ball: this consists in tossing a ball from one to the other with the palm of the hand, which they perform with a tolerable address. when the natives meet with a frenchman whom they know, they shake hands with him, incline their head a little, and say in their own language, "are you there, my friend?" if he has no serious affair to propose to them, or if they themselves have nothing of consequence to say, they pursue their journey. if they happen to be going the same way with a french man, they never go before him, unless something of consequence { } oblige them. when you enter into their hut, they welcome you with the word of salutation, which signifies "are you there, my friend?" then shake hands with you, and pointing to a bed, desire you to sit down. a silence of a few minutes then ensues till the stranger begins to speak, when he is offered some victuals, and desired to eat. you must taste of what they offer you, otherwise they will imagine that you despise them. when the natives converse together, however numerous the assembly be, never more than one person speaks at once. if one of the company has any thing to say to another, he speaks so low that none of the rest hear him. nobody is interrupted, even with the chiding of a child; and if the child be stubborn, it is removed elsewhere. in the council, when a point is deliberated upon and debated, they keep silence for a short time, and then they speak in their turns, no one offering to interrupt another. the natives being habituated to their own prudent custom, it is with the utmost difficulty they can keep from laughing, when they see several french men or french women together, and always several of them speaking at the same time. i had observed them for two years stifling a laugh on those occasions, and had often asked the reason of it, without receiving any satisfactory answer. at length i pressed one of them so earnestly to satisfy me, that after some excuses, he told me in their language, "our people say, that when several frenchmen are together, they speak all at once, like a flock of geese." all the nations whom i have known, and who inhabit from the sea as far as the illinois, and even farther, which is a space of about fifteen hundred miles, carefully cultivate the maiz corn, which they make their principal subsistence. they make bread of it baked in cakes, another kind baked among the ashes, and another kind in water; they make of it also cold meal, roasted meal, gruel, which in this country is called sagamity. this and the cold meal in my opinion are the two best dishes that are made of it; the others are only for a change. they eat the sagamity as we eat soup, with a spoon made of a buffalo's horn. when they eat flesh or fish they use bread. they likewise use two kinds of millet, which they shell in the manner { } of rice; one of these is called choupichoul, and the other widlogouil, and they both grow almost without any cultivation. in a scarcity of these kinds of corn, they have recourse to earth-nuts, which they find in the woods; but they never use these or chestnuts but when necessity obliges them. the flesh-meats they usually eat are the buffalo, the deer, the bear, and the dog: they eat of all kind of water-fowl and fish; but they have no other way of dressing their meat but by roasting or boiling. the following is their manner of roasting their meat when they are in the fields hunting: they plant a stake in the ground sloping towards the fire, and on the point of this stake they spit their meat, which they turn from time to time. to preserve what they do not use, they cut it into thin pieces, which they dry, or rather half-roast, upon a grate made of canes placed cross-ways. they never eat raw flesh, as so many people have falsely imagined, and they limit themselves to no set hours for their meals, but eat whenever they are hungry; so that we seldom see several of them eating at once, unless at their feasts, when they all eat off the same plate, except the women, the boys, and the young girls, who have each a plate to themselves. when the natives are sick, they neither eat flesh nor fish, but take sagamity boiled in the broth of meat. when a man falls sick, his wife sleeps with the woman in the next bed to him, and the husband of that woman goes elsewhere. the natives, when they eat with frenchmen, taste of nothing but of pure roast and boiled: they eat no sallad, and nothing raw but fruit. their drink is pure water or pure brandy, but they dislike wine and all made liquors. having mentioned their manner of feeding, i shall say a word or two of their manner of fasting. when they want rain, or when they desire hot weather for ripening their corn, they address themselves to the old man who has the greatest character for living wisely, and they intreat him to invoke the aerial spirits, in order to obtain what they demand. this old man, who never refuses his countrymen's request, prepares to fast for nine days together. he orders his wife to withdraw, and { } during the whole time he eats nothing but a dish of gruel boiled in water, without salt, which is brought him once a day by his wife after sun-set. they never will accept of any reward for this service, that the spirits may not be angry with them. section vii. _of the_ indian _art of war._ i will now present the reader with their manner of making war, which is uniformly the same among all the nations. when one nation intends to make war upon another in all the forms, they hold a council of war, which is composed of the oldest and bravest warriors. it is to be supposed that this nation has been insulted, that the other has committed some hostilities against it, or that they have disturbed them in their hunting country, coming thither to steal their game, as they call it. there is always some pretence for declaring war; and this pretence, whether true or false, is explained by the war-chief, who omits no circumstance that may excite his nation to take up arms. after he has explained the reasons for the war, the old men debate the question in presence of the great chief or sovereign of the nation. this sovereign and the great chief of war are only witnesses of the debate; for the opinion of the old men always prevails, and the two chiefs voluntarily agree to it, from their respect and their great regard for the experience and wisdom of those venerable counsellors. if it is resolved to demand from the other nation the reason of the hostilities committed by them, they name one of their bravest and most eloquent warriors, as a second to their speech-maker or chancellor, who is to carry the pipe of peace, and address that nation. these two are accompanied by a troop of the bravest warriors, so that the embassy has the appearance of a warlike expedition; and, if satisfaction is not given, sometimes ends in one. the ambassadors carry no presents with them, to shew that they do not intend to supplicate or beg a peace: they take with them only the pipe of peace, { } as a proof that they come as friends. the embassy is always well received, entertained in the best manner, and kept as long as possible; and if the other nation is not inclined to begin a war, they make very large presents to the ambassadors, and all their retinue, to make up for the losses which their nation complains of. [illustration: _bringing the pipe of peace_] if a nation begins actual hostilities without any formalities, the nation invaded is generally assisted by several allies, { } keeps itself on the defensive, gives orders to those who live at a great distance to join the main body of the nation, prepares logs for building a fort, and every morning sends some warriors out upon the scout, choosing for that purpose those who trust more to their heels than their heart. the assistance of the allies is generally solicited by the pipe of peace, the stalk of which is about four feet and a half long, and is covered all over with the skin of a duck's neck, the feathers of which are glossy and of various colours. to this pipe is fastened a fan made of the feathers of white eagles, the ends of which are black, and are ornamented with a tuft dyed a beautiful red. when the allies are assembled a general council is held in presence of the sovereign, and is composed of the great war-chief, the war-chiefs of the allies, and all the old warriors. the great war-chief opens the assembly with a speech, in which he exhorts them to take vengeance of the insults they have received; and after the point is debated, and the war agreed upon, all the warriors go a hunting to procure game for the war-feast, which, as well as the war-dance, lasts three days. the natives distinguish the warriors into three classes, namely, true warriors, who have always given proofs of their courage; common warriors, and apprentice-warriors. they likewise divide our military men into the two classes of true warriors and young warriors. by the former they mean the settlers, of whom the greatest part, upon their arrival, were soldiers, who being now perfectly acquainted with the tricks and wiles of the natives, practice them upon their enemy, whom they do not greatly fear. the young warriors are the soldiers of the regular troops, as the companies are generally composed of young men, who are ignorant of the stratagems used by the natives in time of war. when the war-feast is ready the warriors repair to it, painted from head to foot with stripes of different colours. they have nothing on but their belt, from whence hangs their apron, their bells, or their rattling gourds, and their tomahawk. in their right hand they have a bow, and those of the { } north in their left carry a buckler formed of two round pieces of buffalo's hide sewed together. the feast is kept in a meadow, the grass of which is mowed to a great extent; there the dishes, which are of hollow wood, are placed round in circles of about twelve or fifteen feet diameter, and the number of those circular tables is proportioned to the largeness of the assembly, in the midst of whom is placed the pipe of war upon the end of a pole seven or eight feet high. at the foot of this pole, in the middle of a circle is placed the chief dish of all, which is a large dog roasted whole; the other plates are ranged circularly by threes; one of these contains maiz boiled in broth like gruel, another roasted deer's flesh, and the other boiled. they all begin with eating of the dog, to denote their fidelity and attachment to their chief; but before they taste of any thing, an old warrior, who, on account of his great age, is not able to accompany the rest to the war, makes an harangue to the warriors, and by recounting his own exploits, excites them to act with bravery against the enemy. all the warriors then, according to their rank, smoke in the pipe of war, after which they begin their repast; but while they eat, they keep walking continually, to signify that a warrior ought to be always in action and upon his guard. while they are thus employed, one of the young men goes behind a bush about two hundred paces off, and raises the cry of death. instantly all the warriors seize their arms, and run to the place whence the cry comes; and when they are near it the young warrior shews himself again, raises the cry of death, and is answered by all the rest, who then return to the feast, and take up the victuals which in their hurry they had thrown upon the ground. the same alarm is given two other times, and the warriors each time act as at first. the war drink then goes round, which is a heady liquor drawn from the leaves of the cassine after they have been a long while boiled. the feast being finished, they all assemble about fifty paces from a large post, which represents the enemy; and this each of them in his turn runs up to, and strikes with his tomahawk, recounting at the same time all his former brave exploits, and sometimes boasting of valorous deeds that he never performed. but { } they have the complaisance to each other to pardon this gasconading. all of them having successively struck the post, they begin the dance of war with their arms in their hands; and this dance and the war-feast are celebrated for three days together, after which they set out for the war. the women some time before are employed in preparing victuals for their husbands, and the old men in engraving upon bark the hieroglyphic sign of the nation that attacks, and of their number of warriors. their manner of making war is to attack by surprize; accordingly, when they draw near to any of the enemy's villages, they march only in the night; and that they may not be discovered, raise up the grass over which they trod. one half of the warriors watch, while the other half sleep in the thickest and most unfrequented part of the wood. if any of their scouts can discover a hut of the enemy detached from the rest, they all surround it about day-break, and some of the warriors entering, endeavor to knock the people on the head as they awake, or take some man prisoner. having scalped the dead, they carry off the women and children prisoners, and place against a tree near the hut the hieroglyphic picture, before which they plant two arrows with their points crossing each other. instantly they retreat into the woods, and make great turnings to conceal their route. the women and children whom they take prisoners are made slaves. but if they take a man prisoner the joy is universal, and the glory of their nation is at its height. the warriors, when they draw near to their own villages after an expedition, raise the cry of war three times successively; and if they have a man prisoner with them, immediately go and look for three poles to torture him upon; which, however weary or hungry they be, must be provided before they take any refreshment. when they have provided those poles, and tied the prisoner to them, they may then go and take some victuals. the poles are about ten feet long; two of them are planted upright in the ground at a proper distance, and the other is cut through in the middle, and the two pieces are fastened crossways { } to the other two, so that they form a square about five feet every way. the prisoner being first scalped by the person who took him, is tied to this square, his hands to the upper part, and his feet to the lower, in such a manner that he forms the figure of a st. andrew's cross. the young men in the mean time having prepared several bundles of canes, set fire to them; and several of the warriors taking those flaming canes, burn the prisoner in different parts of his body, while others burn him in other parts with their tobacco-pipes. the patience of prisoners in those miserable circumstances is altogether astonishing. no cries or lamentations proceed from them; and some have been known to suffer tortures, and sing for three days and nights without intermission. sometimes it happens that a young woman who has lost her husband in the war, asks the prisoner to supply the room of the deceased, and her request is immediately granted. [illustration: _torture of prisoners_--inset: _plan of fort_] i mentioned above that when one nation declares war against another, they leave a picture near one of their villages. that picture is designed in the following manner. on the top towards the right hand is the hieroglyphic sign of the nation that declares war; next is a naked man with a tomahawk in his hand; and then an arrow pointed against a woman, who is flying away, her hair floating behind her in the air; immediately { } before this woman is the proper emblem of the nation against whom the war is declared. all this is on one line; and below is drawn the figure of the moon, which is followed by one i, or more; and a man is here represented, before whom is a number of arrows which seem to pierce a woman who is running away. by this is denoted, when such a moon is so many days old, they will come in great numbers and attack such a nation; but this lower part of the picture does not always carry true intelligence. the nation that has offered the insult, or commenced hostilities wrongfully, rarely finds any allies even among those nations who call them brothers. in carrying on a war they have no such thing as pitched battles, or carrying on of sieges; all the mischief they do each other, is by surprise and skirmishing, and in this their courage and address consists. among them flight is no ways shameful; their bravery lies often in their legs; and to kill a man asleep or at unawares, is quite as honourable among them, as to gain a signal victory after a stout battle. when a nation is too weak to defend itself in the field, they endeavour to protect themselves by a fort. this fort is built circularly of two rows of large logs of wood, the logs of the inner row being opposite to the joining of the logs of the outer row. these logs are about fifteen feet long, five feet of which are sunk in the ground. the outer logs are about two feet thick, and the inner about half as much. at every forty paces along the wall a circular tower jets out; and at the entrance of the fort, which is always next to the river, the two ends of the wall pass beyond each other, and leave a side opening. in the middle of the fort stands a tree with its branches lopt off within six or eight inches of the trunk, and this serves for a watch-tower. round this tree are some huts, for the protection of the women and children from random arrows; but notwithstanding all these precautions for defense, if the besieged are but hindered from coming out to water, they are soon obliged to retire. when a nation finds itself no longer able to oppose its enemy, the chiefs send a pipe of peace to a neutral nation, and solicit their mediation, which is generally successful, the vanquished { } nation sheltering themselves under the name of the mediators, and for the future making but one nation with them. here it may be observed that when they go to attack others, it sometimes happens that they lose some of their own warriors. in that case, they immediately, if possible, scalp their dead friends, to hinder the enemy from having that subject of triumph. moreover, when they return home, whether as victors or otherwise, the great warchief pays to the respective families for those whom he does, not bring back with him; which renders the chiefs very careful of the lives of their warriors. chapter iv. _of the negroes of_ louisiana. section i. _of the choice of negroes; of their distemper, and the manner of curing them._ having finished my account of the natives of louisiana, i shall conclude this treatise with some observations relating to the negroes; who, in the lower part of the province especially, perform all the labours of agriculture. on that account i have thought proper to give some instructions concerning them, for the benefit of those who are inclined to settle in that province. the negroes must be governed differently from the europeans; not because they are black, nor because they are slaves; but because they think differently from the white men. first, they imbibe a prejudice from their infancy, that the white men buy them for no other purpose but to drink their blood; which is owing to this, that when the first negroes saw the europeans drink claret, they imagined it was blood, as that wine is of a deep red colour; so that nothing but the actual experience of the contrary can eradicate the false opinion. but as none of those slaves who have had that experience ever return to their own country, the same prejudice continues to subsist on the coast of guinea where we purchase them. some { } who are strangers to the manner of thinking that prevails among the negroes, may perhaps think that the above remark is of no consequence, in respect to those slaves who are already sold to the french. there have been instances however of bad consequences flowing from this prejudice; especially if the negroes found no old slave of their own country upon their first arrival in our colonies. some of them have killed or drowned themselves, several of them have deserted (which they call making themselves marons) and all this from an apprehension that the white men were going to drink their blood. when they desert they believe they can get back to their own country by going round the sea, and may live in the woods upon the fruits, which they imagine are as common every where as with them. they are very superstitious, and are much attached to their prejudices, and little toys which they call _gris, gris_. it would be improper therefore to take them from them, or even speak of them to them; for they would believe themselves undone, if they were stripped of those trinkets. the old negroes soon make them lose conceit of them. the first thing you ought to do when you purchase negroes, is to cause them to be examined by a skilful surgeon and an honest man, to discover if they have the venereal or any other distemper. when they are viewed, both men and women are stripped naked as the hand, and are carefully examined from the crown of the head to the sole of the feet, then between the toes and between the fingers, in the mouth, in the ears, not excepting even the parts naturally concealed, though then exposed to view. you must ask your examining surgeon if he is acquainted with the distemper of the yaws, which is the virus of guinea, and incurable by a great many french surgeons, though very skilful in the management of european distempers. be careful not to be deceived in this point; for your surgeon may be deceived himself; therefore attend at the examination yourself, and observe carefully over all the body of the negro, whether you can discover any parts of the skin, which though black like the rest, are however as smooth as a looking-glass, without any tumor or rising. such spots may be easily discovered; { } for the skin of a person who goes naked is usually all over wrinkles. wherefore if you see such marks you must reject the negro, whether man or woman. there are always experienced surgeons at the sale of new negroes, who purchase them; and many of those surgeons have made fortunes by that means; but they generally keep their secret to themselves. another mortal distemper with which many negroes from guinea are attacked, is the scurvy. it discovers itself by the gums, but sometimes it is so inveterate as to appear outwardly, in which case it is generally fatal. if any of my readers shall have the misfortune to have a negro attacked with one of those distempers, i will now teach him how to save him, by putting him in a way of being radically cured by the surgeons; for i have no inclination to fall out with those gentlemen. i learned this secret from a negro physician, who was upon the king's plantation, when i took the superintendence of it. you must never put an iron instrument into the yaw; such an application would be certain death. in order to open the yaw, you take iron rust reduced to an impalpable powder, and passed through a fine search; you afterwards mix that powder with citron juice till it be of the consistence of an ointment, which you spread upon a linen cloth greased with hog's grease, or fresh lard without salt, for want of a better. you lay the plastier upon the yaw, and renew it evening and morning, which will open the yaw in a very short time without any incision. the opening being once made, you take about the bulk of a goose's egg of hog's lard without salt, in which you incorporate about an ounce of good terebinthine; after which take a quantity of powdered verdigris, and soak it half a day in good vinegar, which you must then pour off gently with all the scum that floats at top. drop a cloth all over with the verdigris that remains, and upon that apply your last ointment. all these operations are performed without the assistance of fire. the whole ointment being well mixed with a spatula, you dress the yaw with it; after that put your negro into a copious sweat, and he will be cured. take special care that your surgeon uses no mercurial medicine, as i have seen; for that will occasion the death of the patient. { } the scurvy is no less to be dreaded than the yaws; nevertheless you may get the better of it, by adhering exactly to the following prescription: take some scurvy-grass, if you have any plants of it, some ground-ivy, called by some st. john's wort, water-cresses from a spring or brook, and for want of that, wild cresses; take these three herbs, or the two last, if you have no scurvy-grass; pound them, and mix them with citron-juice, to make of them a soft paste, which the patient must keep upon both his gums till they be clean, at all times but when he is eating. in the mean while he must be suffered to drink nothing but an infusion of the herbs above named. you pound two handfuls of them, roots and all, after washing off any earth that may be upon the roots or leaves; to these you join a fresh citron, cut into slices. having pounded all together, you then steep them in an earthen pan in a pint of pure water of the measure of paris; after that you add about the size of a walnut of powdered and purified saltpetre, and to make it a little relishing to the negro, you add some powder sugar. after the water has stood one night, you squeeze out the herbs pretty strongly. the whole is performed cold, or without fire. such is the dose for a bottle of water paris measure; but as the patient ought to drink two pints a day, you may make several pints at a time in the above proportion. in these two distempers the patients must be supported with good nourishment, and made to sweat copiously. it would be a mistake to think that they ought to be kept to a spare diet; you must give them nourishing food, but a little at a time. a negro can no more than any other person support remedies upon bad food, and still less upon a spare diet; but the quantity must be proportioned to the state of the patient, and the nature of the distemper. besides, good food makes the best part of the remedy to those who in common are but poorly fed. the negro who taught me these two remedies, observing the great care i took of both the negro men and negro women, taught me likewise the cure of all the distempers to which the women are subject; for the negro women are as liable to diseases as the white women. { } section ii. _of the manner of governing the negroes._ when a negro man or woman comes home to you, it is proper to caress them, to give them something good to eat, with a glass of brandy; it is best to dress them the same day, to give them something to sleep on, and a covering. i suppose the others have been treated in the same manner; for those marks of humanity flatter them, and attach them to their masters. if they are fatigued or weakened by a journey, or by any distempers, make them work little; but keep them always busy as long as they are able to do any thing, never suffering them to be idle, but when they are at their meals. take care of them when they are sick, and give attention both to their remedies and their food, which last ought then to be more nourishing than what they usually subsist upon. it is your interest so to do, both for their preservation, and to attach them more closely to you; for though many frenchmen say that negroes are ungrateful, i have experienced that it is very easy to render them much attached to you by good treatment, and by doing them justice, as i shall mention afterwards. if a negro woman lies-in, cause her to be taken care of in every thing that her condition makes necessary, and let your wife, if you have one, not disdain to take the immediate care of her herself, or at least have an eye over her. a christian ought to take care that the children be baptised and instructed, since they have an immortal soul. the mother ought then to receive half a ration more than usual, and a quart of milk a day, to assist her to nurse her child. prudence requires that your negroes be lodged at a proper distance, to prevent them from being troublesome or offensive; but at the same time near enough for your conveniently observing what passes among them. when i say that they ought not to be placed so near your habitation as to be offensive, i mean by that the smell which is natural to some nations of negroes, such as the congos, the angolas, the aradas, and others. on this account it is proper to have in their camp a bathing place formed by thick planks, buried in the earth about a foot or a { } foot and a half at most, and never more water in it than about that depth, for fear lest the children should drown themselves in it; it ought likewise to have an edge, that the little children may not have access to it, and there ought to be a pond without the camp to supply it with water and keep fish. the negro camp ought to be inclosed all round with palisades, and to have a door to shut with a lock and key. the huts ought to be detached from each other, for fear of fire, and to be built in direct lines, both for the sake of neatness, and in order to know easily the hut of each negro. but that you may be as little incommoded as possible with their natural smell, you must have the precaution to place the negro camp to the north or north-east of your house, as the winds that blow from these quarters are not so warm as the others, and it is only when the negroes are warm that they send forth a disagreeable smell. the negroes that have the worst smell are those that are the least black; and what i have said of their bad smell, ought to warn you to keep always on the windward side of them when you visit them at their work; never to suffer them to come near your children, who, exclusive of the bad smell, can learn nothing good from them, either as to morals, education, or language. from what i have said, i conclude that a french father and his wife are great enemies to their posterity when they give their children such nurses. for the milk being the purest blood of the woman, one must be a step-mother indeed to give her child to a negro nurse in such a country as louisiana, where the mother has all conveniences of being served, of accommodating and carrying their children, who by that means may be always under their eyes. the mother then has nothing else to do but to give the breast to her child. i have no inclination to employ my pen in censuring the over-delicacy and selfishness of the women, who thus sacrifice their children; it may, without further illustration, be easily perceived how much society is interested in this affair. i shall only say, that for any kind of service whatever about the house, i would advise no other kind of negroes, either young or old, but senegals, called among themselves diolaufs, because of all { } the negroes i have known, these have the purest blood; they have more fidelity and a better understanding than the rest, and are consequently fitter for learning a trade, or for menial services. it is true they are not so strong as the others for the labours of the field, and for bearing the great heats. the senegals however are the blackest, and i never saw any who had a bad smell. they are very grateful; and when one knows how to attach them to him, they have been found to sacrifice their own life to save that of their master. they are good commanders over other negroes, both on account of their fidelity and gratitude, and because they seem to be born for commanding. as they are high-minded, they may be easily encouraged to learn a trade, or to serve in the house, by the distinction they will thereby acquire over the other negroes, and the neatness of dress which that condition will entitle them to. when a settler wants to make a fortune, and manage his plantation with oeconomy, he ought to prefer his interest to his pleasure, and only take the last by snatches. he ought to be the first up and the last a-bed, that he may have an eye over every thing that passes in his plantation. it is certainly his interest that his negroes labour a good deal: but it ought to be an equal and moderate labour, for violent and continual labours would soon exhaust and ruin them; whereas by keeping them always moderately employed, they neither exhaust their strength nor ruin their constitution. by this they are kept in good health, and labour longer, and with more good will: besides it must be allowed that the day is long enough for an assiduous labourer to deserve the repose of the evening. to accustom them to labour in this manner i observed the following method: i took care to provide one piece of work for them before another was done, and i informed their commander or driver in their presence, that they might not lose time, some in coming to ask what they were to do, and others in waiting for an answer. besides i went several times a day to view them, by roads which they did not expect, pretending to be going a hunting or coming from it. if i observed them idle, i reprimanded them, and if when they saw me coming, they wrought too hard, i told them that they fatigued themselves, { } and that they could not continue at such hard labour during the whole day, without being harassed, which i did not want. when i surprised them singing at their work, and perceived that they had discovered me, i said to them chearfully, courage, my boys, i love to see you merry at your work; but do not sing so loud, that you may not fatigue yourselves, and at night you shall have a cup of tafia (or rum) to give you strength and spirits. one cannot believe the effect such a discourse would have upon their spirits, which was easily discernible from the chearfulness upon their countenances, and their ardour at work. if it be necessary not to pass over any essential fault in the negroes, it is no less necessary never to punish them but when they have deserved it, after a serious enquiry and examination supported by an absolute certainty, unless you happen to catch them in the fact. but when you are fully convinced of the crime, by no means pardon them upon any assurances or protestations of theirs, or upon the solicitations of others; but punish them in proportion to the fault they have done, yet always with humanity, that they may themselves be brought to confess that they have deserved the punishment they have received. a christian is unworthy of that name when he punishes with cruelty, as is done to my knowledge in a certain colony, to such a degree that they entertain their guests with such spectacles, which have more of barbarity than humanity in them. when a negro comes from being whipped, cause the sore parts to be washed with vinegar mixed with salt, jamaica pepper, which grows in the garden, and even a little gun-powder. as we know from experience that most men of a low extraction, and without education, are subject to thieving in their necessities, it is not at all surprising to see negroes thieves, when they are in want of every thing, as i have seen many badly fed, badly cloathed, and having nothing to lie upon but the ground. i shall make but one reflection. if they are slaves, it is also true that they are men, and capable of becoming christians: besides, it is your intention to draw advantage from them, is it not therefore reasonable to take all the care of { } them that you can? we see all those who understand the government of horses give an extraordinary attention to them, whether they be intended for the saddle or the draught. in the cold season they are well covered and kept in warm stables. in the summer they have a cloth thrown over them, to keep them from the dust, and at all times good litter to lie upon. every morning their dung is carried away, and they are well curried and combed. if you ask those masters, why they bestow so much pains upon beasts? they will tell you, that, to make a horse serviceable to you, you must take a good deal of care of him, and that it is for the interest of the person to whom a horse belongs, so to do. after this example, can one hope for labour from negroes, who very often are in want of necessaries? can one expect fidelity from a man, who is denied what he stands most in need of? when one sees a negro, who labours hard and with much assiduity, it is common to say to him, by way of encouragement, that they are well pleased with him, and that he is a good negro. but when any of them, who understand our language, are so complimented, they very properly reply, _masser, when negre be much fed, negre work much; when negre has good masser, negre be good._ if i advise the planters to take great care of their negroes, i at the same time shew them that their interest is connected in that with their humanity. but i do no less advise them always to distrust them, without seeming to fear them, because it is as dangerous to shew a concealed enemy that you fear him, as to do him an injury. therefore make it your constant custom to shut your doors securely, and not to suffer any negro to sleep in the house with you, and have it in their power to open your door. visit your negroes from time to time, at night and on days and hours when they least expect you, in order to keep them always in fear of being found absent from their huts. endeavour to assign each of them a wife, to keep clear of debauchery and its bad consequences. it is necessary that the negroes have wives, and you ought to know that nothing attaches them so much to a plantation as children. but above all do not suffer any of them to abandon his wife, when he has once made choice of one { } in your presence. prohibit all fighting under pain of the lash, otherwise the women will often raise squabbles among the men. do not suffer your negroes to carry their children to the field with them, when they begin to walk, as they only spoil the plants and take off the mothers from their work. if you have a few negro children, it is better to employ an old negro woman to keep them in the camp, with whom the mothers may leave something for their children to eat. this you will find to be the most profitable way. above all do not suffer the mothers ever to carry them to the edge of the water, where there is too much to be feared. for the better subsistence of your negroes, you ought every week to give them a small quantity of salt and of herbs of your garden, to give a better relish to their couscou, which is a dish made of the meal of rice or maiz soaked in broth. if you have any old negro, or one in weak health, employ him in fishing both for yourself and your negroes. his labour will be well worth his subsistence. it is moreover for your own interest to give your negroes a small piece of waste ground to improve at the end of your own, and to engage them to cultivate it for their own profit, that they may be able to dress a little better, by selling the produce of it, which you ought to buy from them upon fair and just terms. it were better that they should employ themselves in cultivating that field on sundays, when they are not christians, than do worse. in a word, nothing is more to be dreaded than to see the negroes assemble together on sundays, since, under pretence of calinda or the dance, they sometimes get together to the number of three or four hundred, and make a kind of sabbath, which it is always prudent to avoid; for it is in those tumultuous meetings that they sell what they have stolen to one another, and commit many crimes. in these likewise they plot their rebellions. to conclude, one may, by attention and humanity, easily manage negroes; and, as an inducement, one has the satisfaction to draw great advantage from their labours. [the end] index index abeikas indians-- acacia tree-- achechy-- adaies indians-- ; post of, agriculture, indian-- aiaouez indians-- , ; ; ; alaron, martin de-- , algonquins-- alder-- alibamous indians-- alibamous river-- alligator-- slave girl kills, ; author kills large one, ; description of, - amite river-- ants-- ; aplaches indians-- apples, wild-- aquelou-pissas indians-- ; arkansas-- german colonists there, ; arkansas indians-- mate with canadians, ; ; arkansas river-- reached by tonti, ; ; ; - armed-fish-- - ascension bay-- ; ash-- aspen-- assinais indians-- - attakapas indians-- cannibals, avoyelles indians-- ; home of, - ayac shrub-- balers, marquis of-- barataria-- barbel, description of-- barley-- baton rouge-- ; named after a cypress tree, bay of st. bernard-- bay of st. esprit-- bay of st. louis-- ; ; ; lands around, bayou choupic-- ; bayou goula-- bayou-ogoulas indians-- ; bayou st. john-- ; ; ; beans-- cultivation in la., bears-- ; ; description of, - ; feast of, beavers-- description of, - bec-croche-- bees-- bienville-- becomes gov. gen. of la., - ; founds new orleans, ; breeds hogs, ; ; ; defeats natchez indians, ; ; ; ; ; ; ; ; war against chicasaws, - ; ; returns to la., biloxi-- ; ; not suitable for settlement, ; distress of german colonists, ; country back of, ; ; settlement destroyed, . birch tree-- bishop (bird)-- blackbirds-- black river-- ; land around it, ; lands along, - bon homme-- bois-briant-- bonita fish-- bourgrnont, commander de-- voyage to missouri and kansas, - ; his journal, ; ; bows-- how made, buffalo-- ; hunt by author, ; ; ; ; ; ; hunt in new mexico, ; hides and tallow, - ; , ; description of, ; indian hunt, ; feast of, burgo-breaker (fish)-- burial customs-- - butterflies-- buzzard-- deseciption of, caouquias indians-- caouitas indians-- caddo indians-- ; cadillac, de la motte-- arrives in la., ; ; ; ; death of, ; his mine, calendar of natchez-- calumet (pipe of peace)-- ; feathers for, campeachy wood-- canadians-- early voyagers to la., ; at dauphin island, ; at mobile, ; ; ; get salt, ; route to la., - candlemas islands-- cannes brulee's-- canoe-- how made, cantharadies-- canzas (see kansas) cape anthony-- cape francois-- - ; capuchins-- caranco-- cardinal-- carolina-- population, ix; carp-- ; ; carrion-crow-- carthaginians-- practised scalping, caskaquias (see kaskasia) cassine shrub-- castin bayou-- castine mine-- catamounts-- ; caterpillars-- catfish-- description of, cat island-- ; cedar trees-- ; celoron, capt. de-- ; chacchi-oumas indians-- chactaw indians (see choctaws) chaineau, m.-- chameleons-- champmelin, commander-- captures pensacola xxiv; ; chandeleur islands-- chaouachas indians-- ; chaouanous river-- charleville, m. de-- ; charlevoix--i; iii; iv; xxv; xxvi; ; chateauguier-- chatkas indians-- ; language, chatots indians-- cherokees-- cherokee river-- chestnut trees-- chicasaw cliffs-- chicasaw indians-- ; murder french, - ; war with, - ; make peace, ; country of, ; destructive wars, ; language, ; destroy other tribes, - ; fierce and arrogant, . chitimachas indians-- ; war with, ; ; home of, choctaws-- ; ; ; ; chopart, de-- ; his death, choupic-- choupichoul (buck wheat)- - clerac (gascony)- climate-- of gulf coast, iii; viii; severe weather, ; at mobile, ; of the miss. valley, ; of la., - clothing of indians-- - cochineal-- cockle-island-- , codfish-- cola-pissas-- colbert-- coligni, admiral de-- conchac indians-- copper mines-- , corbijeau-- cormorant, coroas indians-- cooking, indian-- corn-- description of, - ; importance of. ; its cultivation in la., ; feast of, - ; cotton-- ; ; how cultivated, - ; for export, cotton tree-- coxe-- account of carolina, vi; xiii; cranes-- ; ; description of, crayfish-- creeper, bearded-- crocodile-- - crows-- crozat-- la. ceded to, ; full store-houses, ; transfers to west india co., ; cuba-- cushaws-- cultivation in la., cypress tree--iv; at baton rouge, ; ; d'artaguette-- ; ; ; dauphin isle-- ; ; ; ; ; ; d'avion-- deer-- ; white, ; ; ; ; ; hunt, - ; feast of, deer oil-- delaet-- de lisle-- de meuse-- grant, de soto-- de ville, father-- diodorus siculus-- his description of lands west of africa, - diseases-- fatal to indians-- ; of negroes, - dove-- dragon flies-- draught (bird)-- ducks-- ; description of, - du crenet-- du haye-- dumont (historian)--i; v; vii; xxv; ; ; ; ; ; historical memoirs, ; du pratz-- eaves la., du tiffenet-- ; du vernai, paris-- eagles-- eels-- egret-- elder tree-- elephant-- skeletons found in ohio-- elk-- , , , elm-- english-- extent of american possessions, xiv; shipping, xvii; at english turn, - ; on the yazoo, ; ; on the miss. river, ; tobacco trade, english turn (reach)-- ; ; why its name, - epidemic-- episingles indians-- esquine-- , eye inflammation-- treatment for, exports-- from la. to islands, falcon-- feast of war-- - feasts of indians-- - ferns-- maiden hair, - fig trees-- - filberts-- fire, how made-- fireflies-- fish-- plentiful in la., five nations-- flamingo-- ; ; description of, flat root-- flaucourt, loire de, flax-- fleury, cardinal-- flies-- florida-- french settle there, ; spanish attack them, ; french later attack spanish, flowers-- flying fish-- food of indians-- - fool-- description of, forant, m. de-- fort assumption-- ; ; fort balise-- ; ; ; ; where built, fort carolin (fla.)-- fort chartres-- fort crevecoeur-- fort louis-- ; fort mobile-- ; fort orleans-- ; ; ; ; fort rosalie-- - ; ; ; fort st. francis-- ; fort st. john baptist-- ; ; ; fort st. louis-- fox indians-- home of, foxes-- french-- shipping, xvii; in fla., , ; at natchez, - ; bad influence, ; massacre at natchez, - ; commerce with la., - frigate (bird)-- frogs-- fur trade-- gar fish-- description of, - gaillard-- - ; games-- indian, geese-- wild, ; gentilly-- germans-- in la., gold-- ; plentiful in mexico, gourges, dominque de-- ; grapes-- - grass point-- great sun-- ; - burial, - green flies-- grigas indians-- guenot-- gulf of mexico coast-- ; northern boundary, ; description of land bordering, - gypsum-- habitations of indians-- hakluyt (fla.)-- halcyon-- description of, - hatchet-bill-- havana-- hawks-- hedge-hog-- hennepin, father-- herons-- ; hemp-- cultivation, ; hickory trees-- horn island-- hornbean trees-- hops-- ; howard, john-- hubert-- planter, ; ; ; hubert, mme.-- ; humming bird-- hurons-- hurricane-- ; ; huts-- how made, iapy, commander-- iberville-- made gov. gen. of la., ; his death, ; ; iberville river-- illinois-- visited by hennepin and lasalle, ; hurricane, ; ; ; ; ; illinois indians-- ; home of, - illinois river-- indians-- travel, - ; how to fight, - ; origin of, ; descended from europeans, indigo-- cultivation and processing, - ; for export, ; dumont's method of making, - iron-- iroquois-- ; destructive wars of, ivy-- ground, jamaica-- jesuits-- ; kappas indians-- kansas indians-- ; ; ; ; ; ; ; kansas river-- ; ; ; description of, kayemans-- kaskasia-- kaskasia indians-- king-fisher-- description of, la chaise, director gen.-- ; lake borgne-- ; lake erie-- ; lake maurepas-- ; lake pontchartrain-- lake st. louis-- ; ; ; ; ; lafourche (the fork)-- language of natchez-- lasalle-- travels from canada to the gulf, ; is killed on second trip, ; lavert-- laudonviere, rené de-- laurel trees-- laval, father--xxiii; xxv lavigne, sieur-- law, john-- lead-- ; ; ; leblanc-- grant, ; lesueur-- lesueur, bayou-- levans-- liart trees-- lime trees-- linarez, duke of-- - lion's mouth (flower) lizards-- locust tree-- longevity of indians-- l'orient-- loubois, lieut. de-- ; louis xiv-- ; ; louisiana-- poor colonization, xxvi; named after louis xiv, ; names, ; boundary of, ; description of soil, - ; a fine country, ; fertility of, luchereau, m. de-- magnolia trees-- - magpie-- maize-- - ; - manchac river-- ; mangrove-- maple trees-- marameg mine-- marameg river-- margat river-- ; marriage customs-- - massacre island-- now dauphin isle, ; how it was named, massacre of french at natchez-- ; medicines-- ; ; ; medicine, indian-- ; ; ; mehane-- mexicans-- descent from chinese or japanese, mexico-- ; ; ; home of ancient natchez tribe, ; natives kill themselves, mezieres, marquis de-- miami river-- ; ; ; michigamias indians-- mines in illinois-- ; in la., - miragouine, sieur-- mississippi river-- lands of lower basin, vi; vii; commands continent, ix; navigation of, xi-xii; mouths of, xiii; reached by hennepin, ; ; ; ; hurricane, ; ; ; ; ; inhabitants along, ; ; ; ; ; ; ; as names, ; attempts to find source, ; mouths of, - ; the passes, ; ; soil at mouth, - ; on east bank, - ; lands west of, ; ; ; ; voyage to source by indian, - mississippi scheme--ii; missionary-- missouri indians-- ; ; ; home of, - missouri river-- navigation of, xii; ; ; ; ; description of, mobile-- barren lands, xx; ; ; birth place of la., ; ; ; ; native of land, - ; fertility of animals and women, mobile bay-- mobile indians-- mobile river-- canadians settle on, - ; ; moingona river-- moncacht-apé, old wise man of yazoo tribe-- his voyages, - montplaisir, m. de-- montreal-- mosquitoes-- description of, - ; how indians fight, mulberry trees-- ; ; for silk growing, - ; ; feast of, muscadine grapes-- mushroom-- myrtle wax-tree-- narvaez-- natchez-- goodness of the country, - ; commandment, - ; terrible storm, - ; settlement at, - ; - natchez indians-- dupratz arrives among, - ; first war with french, - ; second war, - ; ; ; council of war, - ; ; destroyed by french, - ; ; grow grain, ; origin of, - ; ; home of, ; power of, ; description of social habits-- birth and rearing children, - ; language, government, religion, - natchitoches-- french settle, ; st. denis at, ; spanish settle near, ; ; quality of land, ; silver there, natchitoches indians-- ; home of, negroes-- revolt, ; choice of for slaves, ; how to handle, ; odors of, nesunez, pamphilo-- new orleans--v; health good, ix; settlement of, ; founded, ; ; ; ; physicians and surgeons of, ; ; ; ; forts below, ; description of, - ; harbor of, ; ; ; climate, ; ; nature of soil, ; distance from canada, new mexico-- ; ; ; ; nature of land, ; hunting there, niagara falls-- nightingale-- nobility-- natchez, north america-- extent of, xv; its products, xvi oak trees--iv; v; - oats-- ohio river-- navigation of, xii; ; ; ; ; ; skeleton of elephants found, ochre-- olivarez, friar-- olive trees-- orange trees-- opelousas indians-- opossum (wood-rat)-- orignaux-- osage indians-- - ; ; ; osage river-- othouez indians-- ; ; ; ; ; otters-- otter indians-- - ouachas indians-- ouchitas indains-- former home of, ouachita river-- oumas indians-- ; ; home of, ouse-ogoulas indians-- owls-- oysters-- in la., ; on trees in st. domingo, paducah indians-- ; ; ; ; ; customs and manners, - destructive wars of, ; paillou, major general-- at n. o., ; ; parroquets-- palmetto-- panimahas indians-- ; ; ; panis indians-- partridges-- ; paseagoulas river-- ; pasca-ogoulas indians-- ; ; patassa (fish)-- pawpaws-- ; peach trees-- - pearl river-- pelican-- description of, pensacola-- description of, xxiii; ; spanish settle, ; captured by french, - perdido river-- ; ; perrier-- gov. of la., ; ; ; ; defeats natchez indians, - ; ; leaves la., perrier de salvert-- ; persimmons-- peru-- natives killed themselves, petits ecores-- ; pheasant-- phoenicians-- ancestors of natchez indians, phenomenon-- alarming, ; at natchez, - ; extraordinary, pigeons-- description of, - pike-- pilchard-- ; description of, pimiteouis indians-- pin--iv; for tar, - ; pipe of peace-- ; ; ; ; pitch-- how to make, plaquemine bayou-- plums-- pointe coupeé-- ; ; pole cat-- pope (bird)-- poplar-- porcupine-- port de paix-- puerto rico-- potatoes (sweet)-- cultivation in la., - pottery-- how made, provencals-- in la., prud'homme cliffs-- prud'homme river-- pumpkins-- quail-- quebec-- ; rabbits-- raimond, diego-- ; rattle snake-- cure for bite, ; description of, rattle-snake herb-- - red fish-- red river-- ; ; ; nature of land, ; red shoe, prince of chactaws-- religion of natchez-- rice-- how grown, ; how eaten, ; in la., - richebourg, captain-- ; ring-skate (fish)-- rio del norte-- rochelle-- author leaves, ; returns to, rye-- in illinois, ; saffron-- sagamity-- ; st. anthony's falls-- ; st. augustin, fla.-- st. bernard's bay-- st. catherine's creek-- ; ; ; st. come-- missionary, st. croix river-- st. denis-- journey to mexico, - ; ; ; popular with natives, st. domingo-- ; ; ; oysters on trees, st. francis river-- ; lands around, - ; st. hilaire, surgeon-- st. laurent-- ; st. lawrence river-- ; ; st. louis church-- st. louis river-- ; ; st. rose isle-- ; st. peter river-- sallee-- salmont, com. gen.-- salt-- in lower la., ; spring near natchitoches, ; mines, salt petre-- ; samba-- santa fé-- sarde (fish)-- sardine-- sarsaparilla-- sassafras-- ; saw bill-- scalping-- scotland-- tobacco trade, scurvy-- how to cure-- sea-lark-- sea snipe-- ship island-- ; shrimp-- siam distemper-- silk-- growing experiments, - cultivation possible, ; worms, silver-- ; ; ; ; sioux indians-- ; home of, - skunk-- smallpox-- fatal to indians, snipe-- spanish-- claim la., ; ; ; on west of la., colony, ; near natchitoches, ; how they hunt in mexico, ; commerce with la., - ; attempt to settle missouri, starlings-- stag-- spatula-- description of, ; spiders-- description of, squirrels-- stink wood tree-- strawberries-- ; feast of, stung arm-- ; ; stung serpent-- ; ; death of, - sturgeon-- sun of the apple village-- negotiates with the french, - swallows-- swans-- ; ; sweet gum-- ; tamarouas indians-- ; ; ; tangipahoa river-- tar-- how to make-- - tassel-- tattooing-- tchefuncte river-- ; teal-- temple, indian-- description of, tensas indians-- near mobile, ; language, ; ; former home of, tensas river-- lands along, termites-- thioux indians-- thomez indians-- thorn, passion-- - thornback (fish)-- tigers-- ; description of, - timber-- for shipbuilding, tobacco-- trade, xvii; plantation, ; ; ; in illinois, ; how cultivated, - ; for export, ; dumont's description of cultivation, - ; advantages of la. cultivation, - ; british imports and exports, ; worm, tombigbee-- ; tonicas indians-- ; ; ; ; ; ; language of, tonti, chevalier de-- ; topoussas indians-- torture, indian-- - tortuga-- tooth-ache tree-- tradewinds-- troniou-- turkeys, wild-- ; ; description of, ; feast of, turkey buzzard-- turtles-- ursuline nuns-- vanilla-- vasquez de aillon, lucas-- vauban-- vaudreuil, gov.-- ; vinegar tree-- virginia-- wabash river-- ; ; ; ; walnut tree-- ; war-- with natchez indians, - ; - ; causes of indian wars, - ; how they fight, ; war feast, - wasps-- water-hen-- water melons-- how grown, ; cultivation of in la., - ; feast of, wax-- from wax tree, - wax tree-- ; - west india company-- takes over la., ; sends colonists, ; ; ; ; gives up colony, wheat-- ; in illinois, ; in la., white apple village-- ; ; demanded by french, whortle-berries-- wild cat-- wild geese-- ; wild turkey-- description of, (see turkey) willow tree-- wolves-- ; ; kill buffaloes, ; description of, - women-- "fruitful" in la., woodcock-- wood-pecker-- description of, - wood-rat-- wren-- yapon shrub-- yaws-- yazoo indians-- ; kill the garrison at their post, ; yazoo river-- ; ydalgo, friar-- ; ; [illustration: a map of louisiana] [illustration: the gulph of mexico] camp-fire and cotton-field: southern adventure in time of war. life with the union armies, and residence on a louisiana plantation. by thomas w. knox, herald correspondent. with illustrations. . to the representatives of the press, who followed the fortunes of the national armies, and recorded the deeds of valor that secured the perpetuity of the republic, this volume is sympathetically inscribed. [illustration: the rebel ram arkansas running through our fleet.] to the reader. a preface usually takes the form of an apology. the author of this volume has none to offer. the book owes its appearance to its discovery of a publisher. it has been prepared from materials gathered during the campaigns herein recorded, and from the writer's personal recollections. whatever of merit or demerit it possesses remains for the reader to ascertain. his judgment will be unprejudiced if he finds no word of promise on the prefatory page. new york, _september th, _. illustrations. the ram _arkansas_ running through our fleet above vicksburg hauling down a rebel flag at hickman, kentucky the opening gun at booneville the death of general lyon general sigel's transportation in missouri shelling the hill at pea ridge general nelson's division crossing the tennessee running the batteries at island number ten the rebel charge at corinth, mississippi assaulting the hill at chickasaw bayou strategy against guerrillas the steamer _von phul_ running the batteries contents. chapter i. ante bellum. at the rocky mountains.--sentiment of the people.--firing the southern heart.--a midwinter journey across the plains.--an editor's opinion.--election in missouri.--the north springing to arms.--an amusing arrest.--off for the field.--final instructions.--niagara.--curiosities of banking.--arrival at the seat of war. chapter ii. missouri in the early days. apathy of the border states.--the missouri state convention.--sterling price a union man.--plan to take the state out of the union.--capture of camp jackson.--energy of general lyon.--union men organized.--an unfortunate collision.--the price-harney truce.--the panic among the secessionists.--their hegira from st. louis.--a visit to the state capital.--under the rebel flag.--searching for contraband articles.--an introduction to rebel dignitaries.--governor jackson.--sterling price.--jeff. thompson.--activity at cairo.--kentucky neutrality.--the rebels occupy columbus. chapter iii. the beginning of hostilities. general harney relieved.--price's proclamation.--end of the truce.--conference between the union and rebel leaders.--the first act of hostility.--destruction of railway bridges.--promptness of general lyon.--capture of the state capital.--moving on the enemy's works.--the night before battle.--a correspondent's sensation. chapter iv. the first battle in missouri. moving up the river.--a landing effected.--the battle.--precipitous retreat of the rebels.--spoiling a captured camp.--rebel flags emblazoned with the state arms.--a journalist's outfit.--a chaplain of the church militant.--a mistake that might have been unfortunate.--the people of booneville.--visiting an official.--banking-house loyalty.--preparations for a campaign. chapter v. to springfield and beyond. conduct of the st. louis secessionists.--collisions between soldiers and citizens.--indignation of the guests of a hotel.--from st. louis to rolla.--opinions of a "regular."--railway-life in missouri.--unprofitable freight.--a story of orthography.--mountains and mountain streams.--fastidiousness checked.--frontier courtesy.--concentration of troops at springfield.--a perplexing situation.--the march to dug spring.--sufferings from heat and thirst. chapter vi. the battle of wilson creek. the return from dug spring.--the rebels follow in pursuit.--preparations to attack them.--the plan of battle.--moving to the attack--a bivouac--the opening shot.--"is that official?"--sensations of a spectator in battle.--extension of distance and time.--characteristics of projectiles.--taking notes under fire.--strength and losses of the opposing armies.--a noble record.--the wounded on the field.--"one more shot."--granger in his element.--general lyon's death. chapter vii. the retreat from springfield. a council of war.--the journalists' council.--preparations for retreat.--preceding the advance-guard.--alarm and anxiety of the people.--magnificent distances.--a novel odometer.--the unreliable countryman.--neutrality.--a night at lebanon.--a disagreeable lodging-place.--active secessionists.--the man who sought and found his rights.--approaching civilization.--rebel couriers on the route.--arrival at rolla. chapter viii. general fremont's pursuit of price. quarrel between price and mcculloch.--the rebels advance upon lexington.--a novel defense for sharp-shooters.--attempt to re-enforce the garrison.--an enterprising journalist.--the surrender.--fremont's advance.--causes of delay.--how the journalists killed time.--late news.--a contractor "sold."--sigel in front.--a motley collection.--a wearied officer.--the woman who had never seen a black republican.--love and conversion. chapter ix. the second campaign to springfield. detention at warsaw.--a bridge over the osage.--the body-guard.--manner of its organization.--the advance to springfield.--charge of the body-guard.--a corporal's ruse.--occupation of springfield.--the situation.--wilson creek revisited.--traces of the battle.--rumored movements of the enemy.--removal of general fremont.--danger of attack.--a night of excitement.--the return to st. louis.--curiosities of the scouting service.--an arrest by mistake. chapter x. two months of idleness. a promise fulfilled.--capture of a rebel camp and train.--rebel sympathizers in st. louis.--general halleck and his policy.--refugees from rebeldom.--story of the sufferings of a union family.--chivalry in the nineteenth century.--the army of the southwest in motion.--gun-boats and transports.--capture of fort henry.--the effect in st. louis.--our flag advancing. chapter xi another campaign in missouri. from st. louis to rolla.--a limited outfit.--missouri roads in winter.--"two solitary horsemen."--restricted accommodations in a slaveholder's house.--an energetic quartermaster.--general sheridan before he became famous.--"bagging price."--a defect in the bag.--examining the correspondence of a rebel general.--what the rebels left at their departure. chapter xii. the flight and the pursuit. from springfield to pea ridge.--mark tapley in missouri.--"the arkansas traveler."--encountering the rebel army.--a wonderful spring.--the cantonment at cross hollows.--game chickens.--magruder _vs_. breckinridge.--rebel generals in a controversy.--its result.--an expedition to huntsville.--curiosities of rebel currency.--important information.--a long and weary march.--disposition of forces before the battle.--changing front.--what the rebels lost by ignorance. chapter xiii. the battle of pea ridge. the rebels make their attack.--albert pike and his indians.--scalping wounded men.--death of general mcculloch.--the fighting at elkhorn tavern.--close of a gloomy day.--an unpleasant night.--vocal sounds from a mule's throat.--sleeping under disadvantages.--a favorable morning.--the opposing lines of battle.--a severe cannonade.--the forest on fire.--wounded men in the flames.--the rebels in retreat.--movements of our army.--a journey to st. louis. chapter xiv. up the tennessee and at pittsburg landing. at st. louis.--progress of our arms in the great valley.--cairo.--its peculiarities and attractions.--its commercial, geographical, and sanitary advantages.--up the tennessee.--movements preliminary to the great battle.--the rebels and their plans.--postponement of the attack.--disadvantages of our position.--the beginning of the battle.--results of the first day.--re-enforcements.--disputes between officers of our two armies.--beauregard's watering-place. chapter xv. shiloh and the siege of corinth. the error of the rebels.--story of a surgeon.--experience of a rebel regiment.--injury to the rebel army.--the effect in our own lines.--daring of a color-bearer.--a brave soldier.--a drummer-boy's experience.--gallantry of an artillery surgeon.--a regiment commanded by a lieutenant.--friend meeting friend and brother meeting brother in the opposing lines.--the scene of the battle.--fearful traces of musketry-fire.--the wounded.--the labor of the sanitary commission.--humanity a yankee trick.--besieging corinth.--a cold-water battery.--halleck and the journalists.--occupation of corinth. chapter xvi. capture of fort pillow and battle of memphis. the siege of fort pillow.--general pope.--his reputation for veracity.--capture of the "ten thousand."--naval battle above fort pillow.--the _john h. dickey_.--occupation of the fort.--general forrest.--strength of the fortifications.--their location.--randolph, tennessee.--memphis and her last ditch.--opening of the naval combat.--gallant action of colonel ellet.--fate of the rebel fleet.--the people viewing the battle.--their conduct. chapter xvii. in memphis and under the flag. jeff. thompson and his predictions.--a cry of indignation.--memphis humiliated.--the journalists in the battle.--the surrender.--a fine point of law and honor.--going on shore.--an enraged secessionist.--a dangerous enterprise.--memphis and her antecedents.--her loyalty.--an amusing incident.--how the natives learned of the capture of fort donelson.--the last ditch.--a farmer-abolitionist.--disloyalty among the women.--"blessings in disguise."--an american mark tapley. chapter xviii. supervising a rebel journal. the press of memphis.--flight of _the appeal_.--a false prediction.--_the argus_ becomes loyal.--order from general wallace.--installed in office.--lecturing the rebels.--"trade follows the flag."--abuses of traffic.--supplying the rebels.--a perilous adventure.--passing the rebel lines.--eluding watchful eyes. chapter xix. the first siege of vicksburg. from memphis to vicksburg.--running the batteries.--our inability to take vicksburg by assault.--digging a canal.--a conversation with resident secessionists.--their arguments _pro_ and _con_, and the answers they received.--a curiosity of legislation.--an expedition up the yazoo.--destruction of the rebel fleet.--the _arkansas_ running the gauntlet.--a spirited encounter.--a gallant attempt.--raising the siege.--fate of the _arkansas_. chapter xx. the march through arkansas.--the siege of cincinnati. general curtis's army reaching helena.--its wanderings.--the arkansas navy.--troops and their supplies "miss connection."--rebel reports.--memphis in midsummer.--"a journey due north."--chicago.--bragg's advance into kentucky.--kirby smith in front of cincinnati.--the city under martial law.--the squirrel hunters.--war correspondents in comfortable quarters.--improvising an army.--raising the siege.--bragg's retreat. chapter xxi. the battle of corinth. new plans of the rebels.--their design to capture corinth.--advancing to the attack.--strong defenses.--a magnificent charge.--valor _vs_. breast-works.--the repulse.--retreat and pursuit.--the national arms triumphant. chapter xxii. the campaign from corinth. changes of commanders.--preparations for the aggressive.--marching from corinth.--talking with the people.--"you-uns and we-uns."--conservatism of a "regular."--loyalty and disloyalty.--condition of the rebel army.--foraging.--german theology for american soldiers.--a modest landlord.--a boy without a name.--the freedmen's bureau.--employing negroes.--holly springs and its people.--an argument for secession. chapter xxiii. grant's occupation of mississippi. the slavery question.--a generous offer.--a journalist's modesty.--hopes of the mississippians at the beginning of the war.--visiting an editress.--literature under difficulties.--jacob thompson and his correspondence.--plans for the capture of vicksburg.--movements of general sherman.--the raid upon holly springs.--forewarned, but not forearmed.--a gallant fight. chapter xxiv. the battle of chickasaw bayou. leaving memphis.--down the great river.--landing in the yazoo.--description of the ground.--a night in bivouac.--plan of attack.--moving toward the hills.--assaulting the bluff.--our repulse.--new plans.--withdrawal from the yazoo. chapter xxv. before vicksburg. capture of arkansas post.--the army returns to milliken's bend.--general sherman and the journalists.--arrest of the author.--his trial before a military court.--letter from president lincoln.--capture of three journalists. chapter xxvi. kansas in war-time. a visit to kansas.--recollections of border feuds.--peculiarities of kansas soldiers.--foraging as a fine art.--kansas and missouri.--settling old scores.--depopulating the border counties.--two examples of grand strategy.--capture of the "little-more-grape" battery.--a woman in sorrow.--frontier justice.--trial before a "lynch" court.--general blunt's order.--execution of horse-thieves.--auction sale of confiscated property.--banished to dixie. chapter xxvii. gettysburg. a hasty departure.--at harrisburg.--_en route_ for the army of the potomac.--the battle-field at gettysburg.--appearance of the cemetery.--importance of the position.--the configuration of ground.--traces of battle.--round hill.--general meade's head-quarters.--appearance of the dead.--through the forests along the line.--retreat and pursuit of lee. chapter xxviii. in the northwest. from chicago to minnesota.--curiosities of low-water navigation.--st. paul and its sufferings in earlier days.--the indian war.--a brief history of our troubles in that region.--general pope's expeditions to chastise the red man.--honesty in the indian department.--the end of the warfare.--the pacific railway.--a bold undertaking.--penetrating british territory.--the hudson bay company.--peculiarities of a trapper's life. chapter xxix. inauguration of a great enterprise. plans for arming the negroes along the mississippi.--opposition to the movement.--plantations deserted by their owners.--gathering abandoned cotton.--rules and regulations.--speculation.--widows and orphans in demand.--arrival of adjutant-general thomas.--designs of the government. chapter xxx. cotton-planting in . leasing the plantations.--interference of the rebels.--raids.--treatment of prisoners.--the attack upon milliken's bend.--a novel breast-work.--murder of our officers.--profits of cotton-planting.--dishonesty of lessees.--negroes planting on their own account. chapter xxxi. among the officials. reasons for trying an experiment.--activity among lessees.--opinions of the residents.--rebel hopes in .--removal of negroes to west louisiana.--visiting natchez.--the city and its business.--"the rejected addresses". chapter xxxii. a journey outside the lines. passing the pickets.--cold weather in the south.--effect of climate upon the constitution.--surrounded and captured.--prevarication and explanation.--among the natives.--the game for the confederacy.--courtesy of the planters.--condition of the plantations.--the return. chapter xxxiii. on the plantation. military protection.--promises.--another widow.--securing a plantation.--its locality and appearance.--gardening in louisiana.--how cotton is picked.--"the tell-tale."--a southerner's opinion of the negro character.--causes and consequences. chapter xxxiv. rules and regulations under the old and new systems. the plantation record.--its uses.--interesting memoranda.--dogs, jail, and stocks.--instructions to the overseer.--his duties and responsibilities.--the order of general banks.--management of plantations in the department of the gulf.--the two documents. contrasted.--one of the effects of "an abolition war". chapter xxxv. our free-labor enterprise in progress. the negroes at work.--difficulties in the way.--a public meeting.--a speech.--a negro's idea of freedom.--a difficult question to determine.--influence of northern and southern men contrasted.--an increase of numbers.--"ginning" cotton.--in the lint-room.--mills and machinery of a plantation.--a profitable enterprise. chapter xxxvi. war and agriculture. official favors.--division of labor.--moral suasion.--corn-gathering in the south.--an alarm.--a frightened irishman.--the rebels approaching.--an attack on waterproof.--falstaff redivivus.--his feats of arms.--departure for new orleans. chapter xxxvii. in the cotton market. new orleans and its peculiarities.--its loss by the rebellion.--cotton factors in new orleans.--old things passed away.--the northern barbarians a race of shopkeepers.--pulsations of the cotton market.--a quarrel with a lady.--contending for a principle.--inharmony of the "regulations."--an account of sales. chapter xxxviii. some features of plantation life. mysteries of mule-trading.--"what's in a name?"--process of stocking a plantation.--an enterprising white man.--stratagem of a yankee.--distributing goods to the negroes.--the tastes of the african.--ethiopian eloquence.--a colored overseer.--guerrillas approaching.--whisky _vs_. guerrillas.--a hint to military men. chapter xxxix. visited by guerrillas. news of the raid.--returning to the plantation.--examples of negro cunning.--a sudden departure and a fortunate escape.--a second visit.--"going through," in guerrilla parlance.--how it is accomplished.--courtesy to guests.--a holiday costume.--lessees abandoning their plantations.--official promises. chapter xl. peculiarities of plantation labor. resuming operation.--difficulties in the way.--a new method of healing the sick.--a thief discovered by his ignorance of arithmetic.--how cotton is planted.--the uses of cotton-seed.--a novel sleeping-room.--constructing a tunnel.--vigilance of a negro sentinel. chapter xli. the negroes at a military post. the soldiers at waterproof.--the black man in blue.--mutiny and desertion.--their cause and cure.--tendering a resignation.--no desire for a barber.--seeking protection.--falsehood and truth.--proneness to exaggeration.--amusing estimates. chapter xlii. the end of the experiment. the nature of our "protection."--trade following the flag.--a fortunate journey.--our last visit.--inhumanity of the guerrillas.--driving negroes into captivity.--killing an overseer.--our final departure.--plantations elsewhere. chapter xliii. the mississippi and its peculiarities. length of the great river, and the area it drains.--how itasca lake obtained its name.--the bends of the mississippi.--curious effect upon titles to real estate.--a story of napoleon.--a steamboat thirty-five years under water.--the current and its variations.--navigating cotton and corn fields.--reminiscences of the islands. chapter xliv. steamboating on the mississippi in peace and war. attempts to obstruct the great river.--chains, booms, and batteries.--a novelty in piloting.--travel in the days before the rebellion.--trials of speed.--the great race.--travel during the war.--running a rebel battery on the lower mississippi.--incidents of the occasion.--comments on the situation. chapter xlv. the army correspondent. the beginning and the end.--the lake erie piracy.--a rochester story.--the first war correspondent.--napoleon's policy.--waterloo and the rothschilds.--journalistic enterprise in the mexican war.--the crimea and the east indian rebellion.--experiences at the beginning of hostilities.--the tender mercies of the insurgents.--in the field.--adventures in missouri and kentucky.--correspondents in captivity.--how battle-accounts were written.--professional complaints. chapter xlvi. the present condition of the south. scarcity of the population.--fertility of the country.--northern men already in the south.--kansas emigrants crossing missouri.--change of the situation.--present disadvantages of emigration.--feeling of the people.--property-holders in richmond.--the sentiment in north carolina.--south carolina chivalry.--the effect of war.--prospect of the success of free labor.--trade in the south. chapter xlvii. how disadvantages may be overcome. conciliating the people of the south.--railway travel and its improvement.--rebuilding steamboats.--replacing working stock.--the condition of the plantations.--suggestions about hasty departures.--obtaining information.--the attractions of missouri. chapter xlviii. the resources of the southern states. how the people have lived.--an agricultural community.--mineral and other wealth of virginia.--slave-breeding in former times.--the auriferous region of north carolina.--agricultural advantages.--varieties of soil in south carolina.--sea-island cotton.--georgia and her railways.--probable decline of the rice culture.--the everglade state.--the lower mississippi valley.--the red river.--arkansas and its advantages.--a hint for tragedians.--mining in tennessee.--the blue-grass region of kentucky.--texas and its attractions.--difference between southern and western emigration.--the end. camp-fire and cotton-field. chapter i. ante bellum. at the rocky mountains.--sentiment of the people.--firing the southern heart.--a midwinter journey across the plains.--an editor's opinion.--election in missouri.--the north springing to arms.--an amusing arrest.--off for the field.--final instructions.--niagara.--curiosities of banking.--arrival at the seat of war. i passed the summer and autumn of in the rocky mountain gold region. at that time the population of the young territory was composed of emigrants from northern and southern states, those from the colder regions being in the majority. when the presidential election took place, there was much angry discussion of the great questions of the day, and there were threats of violence on the part of the friends of the "institution." the residents of the gold region were unable to cast their votes for the men of their choice, but their anxiety to know the result was very great. when it was announced that the republican candidate had triumphed, there were speedy signs of discontent. some of the more impulsive southerners departed at once for their native states, predicting a separation of dixie from the north before the end of the year. some went to new mexico, and others to texas, while many remained to press their favorite theories upon their neighbors. the friends of the union were slow to believe that any serious difficulty would take place. long after the secession of south carolina they were confident our differences could be healed without an appeal to arms. my visit to the rocky mountains was a professional one. during my stay in that region i supplied several eastern journals with letters from colorado and new mexico. one after another, the editors of these journals informed me that letters from the territories had lost their interest, owing to the troubles growing out of the election. wishing to take part in the drama about to be enacted, i essayed a midwinter journey across the plains, and, early in february, stood in the editorial room of _the herald_. i announced my readiness to proceed to any point between the poles, wherever _the herald_ desired a correspondent. the editor-in-chief was busy over a long letter from some point in the south, but his response was promptly given. half reading, half pausing over the letter, he briefly said:-- "a long and bloody war is upon us, in which the whole country will be engaged. we shall desire you to take the field; probably in the west. it may be several weeks before we need you, but the war cannot be long delayed." at that time few persons in the north looked upon the situation with any fears of trouble. there were some who thought a hostile collision was among the possibilities, but these persons were generally in the minority. many believed the secession movement was only the hasty work of political leaders, that would be soon undone when the people of the south came to their senses. that the south would deliberately plunge the country into civil war was difficult to comprehend, even after the first steps had been taken. the majority of the northern people were hoping and believing, day by day, that something might transpire to quell the excitement and adjust the difficulties threatening to disturb the country. before leaving the rocky mountains i did not believe that war was certain to ensue, though i considered it quite probable. as i passed through missouri, the only slave state that lay in my route, i found every thing comparatively quiet. in st. joseph, on the day of my arrival, the election for delegates to the state convention was being held. there was no disorder, more than is usual on election days in small cities. little knots of people were engaged in discussion, but the discussions partook of no extraordinary bitterness. the vote of the city was decidedly in favor of keeping the state in the union. between the th of december and the th of april, the northern blood warmed slowly. the first gun at sumter quickened its pulsations. when the president issued his call for seventy-five thousand men for three months, to put down insurrection, the north woke to action. everywhere the response was prompt, earnest, patriotic. in the northern cities the recruiting offices were densely thronged. new york and massachusetts were first to send their favorite regiments to the front, but they were not long in the advance. had the call been for four times seventy-five thousand, and for a service of three years, there is little doubt the people would have responded without hesitation. for a short time after my arrival at the east, i remained in a small town in southern new hampshire. a few days after the first call was issued, a friend invited me to a seat in his carriage for a ride to portsmouth, the sea-port of the state. on reaching the city we found the war spirit fully aroused. two companies of infantry were drilling in the public square, and the citizens were in a state of great excitement. in the course of the afternoon my friend and myself were arrested, by a committee of respectable citizens, who suspected us of being southern emissaries. it was with great difficulty we convinced them they had made a slight mistake. we referred them to the only acquaintances we had in the city. they refused to consider the truth established in the mouths of two witnesses, and were not induced to give us our liberty until all convenient proof of our identity had been adduced. to be arrested within twenty miles of home, on suspicion of being delegated from charleston or montgomery, was one of my most amusing experiences of the war. the gentleman who accompanied me was a very earnest believer in coercion. his business in portsmouth on that occasion was to offer his services in a regiment then being formed. a few months later he received a commission in the army, but did not obtain it through any of our temporary acquaintances at portsmouth. our captors were the solid men of the city, any one of whom could have sat for the portrait of mr. turveydrop without the slightest alteration. on taking us into custody, they stated the grounds on which they arrested us. our dark complexions and long beards had aroused suspicions concerning the places of our nativity. suspicion was reduced to a certainty when one of them heard me mention my presence in missouri on the day of choosing candidates for the convention. our purpose was divined when i asked if there was any activity at the navy yard. we were rebel emissaries, who designed to lay their navy yard in ashes! on our release and departure we were followed to our homes, that the correctness of our representations might be ascertained. this little occurrence, in the center of new england, where the people claim to be thoroughly quiet and law-abiding, indicated that the war spirit in that part of the north was more than momentary. the west was not behind the eastern states in the determination to subdue the rebellion. volunteers were gathering at cairo, and threatening to occupy points further down the mississippi. at st. louis the struggle was active between the unionists and the secessionists. a collision was a mere question of time, and of short time at the best. as i visited _the herald_ office for final instructions, i found that the managing editor had determined upon a vigorous campaign. every point of interest was to be covered, so that the operations of our armies would be fully recorded from day to day. the war correspondents had gone to their posts, or were just taking their departure. one correspondent was already on the way to cairo. i was instructed to watch the military movements in missouri, and hastened to st. louis as fast as steam could bear me. detained twelve hours at niagara, by reason of missing a railway train, i found that the opening war gave promise of affecting that locality. the hotel-keepers were gloomy at the prospect of losing their southern patronage, and half feared they would be obliged to close their establishments. there were but few visitors, and even these were not of the class which scatters its money profusely. the village around the falls displayed positive signs of dullness, and the inhabitants had personal as well as patriotic interest in wishing there was no war. the great cataract was unchanged in its beauty and grandeur. the flood from the lakes was not diminished, and the precipice over which the water plunged was none the less steep. the opening war had no effect upon this wonder of the new world. in chicago, business was prostrated on account of the outbreak of hostilities. most of the banks in illinois had been holding state bonds as securities for the redemption of their circulation. as these bonds were nearly all of southern origin, the beginning of the war had materially affected their value. the banks found their securities rapidly becoming insecure, and hence there was a depreciation in the currency. this was not uniform, but varied from five to sixty per cent., according to the value of the bonds the respective banks were holding. each morning and evening bulletins were issued stating the value of the notes of the various banking-houses. such a currency was very inconvenient to handle, as the payment of any considerable sum required a calculation to establish the worth of each note. many rumors were in circulation concerning the insecurity of a northern visitor in st. louis, but none of the stories were very alarming. of one thing all were certain--the star of the union was in the ascendant. on arriving in st. louis i found the city far from quiet, though there was nothing to lead a stranger to consider his personal safety in danger. i had ample material for entering at once upon my professional duties, in chronicling the disordered and threatening state of affairs. on the day of my arrival, i met a gentleman i had known in the rocky mountains, six months before. i knew his courage was beyond question, having seen him in several disturbances incident to the gold regions; but i was not aware which side of the great cause he had espoused. after our first greetings, i ventured to ask how he stood. "i am a union man," was his emphatic response. "what kind of a union man are you?" "i am this kind of a union man," and he threw open his coat, and showed me a huge revolver, strapped to his waist. there were many loyal men in st. louis, whose sympathies were evinced in a similar manner. revolvers were at a premium. some of the secessionists ordered a quantity of revolvers from new york, to be forwarded by express. to prevent interference by the union authorities, they caused the case to be directed to "colonel francis p. blair, jr., care of ----." they thought colonel blair's name would secure the property from seizure. the person in whose care the revolvers were sent was a noted secessionist, who dealt extensively in fire-arms. colonel blair learned of the shipment, and met the box at the station. fifty revolvers of the finest quality, bought and paid for by the secessionists, were distributed among the friends of colonel blair, and were highly prized by the recipients. chapter ii. missouri in the early days. apathy of the border states.--the missouri state convention.--sterling price a union man.--plan to take the state out of the union.--capture of camp jackson.--energy of general lyon.--union men organized.--an unfortunate collision.--the price-harney truce.--the panic among the secessionists.--their hegira from st. louis.--a visit to the state capital.--under the rebel flag.--searching for contraband articles.--an introduction to rebel dignitaries.--governor jackson.--sterling price.--jeff. thompson.--activity at cairo.--kentucky neutrality.--the rebels occupy columbus. the border states were not prompt to follow the example of the states on the gulf and south atlantic coast. missouri and kentucky were loyal, if the voice of the majority is to be considered the voice of the population. many of the wealthier inhabitants were, at the outset, as they have always been, in favor of the establishment of an independent southern government. few of them desired an appeal to arms, as they well knew the border states would form the front of the confederacy, and thus become the battle-field of the rebellion. the greater part of the population of those states was radically opposed to the secession movement, but became powerless under the noisy, political leaders who assumed the control. many of these men, who were unionists in the beginning, were drawn into the rebel ranks on the plea that it would be treason to refuse to do what their state government had decided upon. the delegates to the missouri state convention were elected in february, , and assembled at st. louis in the following april. sterling price, afterward a rebel general, was president of this convention, and spoke in favor of keeping the state in the union. the convention thought it injudicious for missouri to secede, at least at that time, and therefore she was not taken out. this discomfited the prime movers of the secession schemes, as they had counted upon the convention doing the desired work. in the language of one of their own number, "they had called a convention to take the state out of the union, and she must be taken out at all hazards." therefore a new line of policy was adopted. the governor of missouri was one of the most active and unscrupulous secessionists. after the failure of the convention to unite missouri with the confederacy, governor jackson overhauled the militia laws, and, under their sanction, issued a call for a muster of militia near st. louis. this militia assembled at lindell grove, in the suburbs of st. louis, and a military camp was established, under the name of "camp jackson." though ostensibly an innocent affair, this camp was intended to be the nucleus of the army to hoist the rebel flag in the state. the officers in command were known secessionists, and every thing about the place was indicative of its character. the governor of louisiana sent, from the arsenal at baton rouge, a quantity of guns and munitions of war, to be used by the insurgent forces in missouri. these reached st. louis without hinderance, and were promptly conveyed to the embryonic rebel camp. captain lyon, in command of the st. louis arsenal, was informed that he must confine his men to the limits of the united states property, under penalty of the arrest of all who stepped outside. governor jackson several times visited the grounds overlooking the arsenal, and selected spots for planting his guns. every thing was in preparation for active hostility. the union people were by no means idle. captain lyon had foreseen the danger menacing the public property in the arsenal, and besought the government for permission to remove it. twenty thousand stand of arms were, in a single night, loaded upon a steamer and sent to alton, illinois. they were conveyed thence by rail to the illinois state arsenal at springfield. authority was obtained for the formation of volunteer regiments, and they were rapidly mustered into the service. while camp jackson was being formed, the union men of st. louis were arming and drilling with such secrecy that the secessionists were not generally aware of their movements. before the close of the day captain lyon received permission for mustering volunteers; he placed more than six hundred men into the service. regiments were organized under the name of "home guards," and by the th of may there were six thousand armed union men in st. louis, who were sworn to uphold the national honor. colonel francis p. blair, jr., commanded the first regiment of missouri volunteers, and stood faithfully by captain lyon in all those early and dangerous days. the larger portion of the forces then available in st. louis was made up of the german element, which was always thoroughly loyal. this fact caused the missouri secessionists to feel great indignation toward the germans. they always declared they would have seized st. louis and held possession of the larger portion of the state, had it not been for the earnest loyalty of "the dutch." in the interior of missouri the secessionists were generally in the ascendant. it was the misfortune of the time that the unionists were usually passive, while their enemies were active. in certain counties where the unionists were four times the number of the secessionists, it was often the case that the latter were the ruling party. the union people were quiet and law-abiding; the secessionists active and unscrupulous. "peaceably if we can, forcibly if we must," was the motto of the enemies of the republic. in some localities the union men asserted themselves, but they did not generally do so until after the first blows were struck at st. louis. when they did come out in earnest, the loyal element in missouri became fully apparent. to assure the friends of the union, and save missouri from the domination of the insurgents, it was necessary for captain lyon to assume the offensive. this was done on the th of may, resulting in the famous capture of "camp jackson." on the night of the th, loyal parties in st. louis supplied a sufficient number of horses to move the light artillery necessary to accomplish the desired object. on the morning of the th, captain lyon's command moved from various points, so as to surround the rebel camp at three o'clock in the afternoon. at that hour general frost, the rebel commander, was surprised at the appearance of an overpowering force on the hills surrounding his position. a demand for surrender gave half an hour for deliberation. at the end of that time general frost concluded to capitulate. the prisoners, less than a thousand in number, were marched to the arsenal and safely secured. this achievement destroyed camp jackson, and established the united states authority in full force over st. louis. an unfortunate collision occurred between the soldiers and the crowd outside. provoked by insults terminating in an assault with fire-arms, a portion of the german troops fired upon the multitude. upward of thirty persons were killed or wounded in the affair. with the exception of this unhappy collision, the capture was bloodless. general harney arrived at st. louis soon after this event, and assumed command in missouri. the agreement known as "the price-harney truce" was immediately made. under an assurance from governor jackson that the state troops should be disbanded, general harney promised that no hostilities should be undertaken, and attempted to cause the dispersal of the union volunteers. the status of the latter had been so fixed that general harney was not empowered to disarm them, and he so informed, the state authorities. his message announcing this read nearly as follows:-- "i have ascertained that i have no control over the home guards. "w. s. harney, _brig.-gen_." this message was received at the police head-quarters in st. louis, on the morning of sunday, may th. it was misunderstood by the parties who read it. they inferred, from the tenor of the dispatch, that general harney was unable to restrain the union volunteers. the most frightful stories had been circulated concerning the blood-thirsty character of these soldiers, particularly the german portion. visions of murder, pillage, house-burning, and all the accompanying outrages committed by an unrestrained army, flitted through the minds of the secessionists. the story spread, and gained intensity with each repetition. "the dutch are rising; we shall all be slain in cold blood!" was the cry, echoed from house to house. not less than five thousand people fled from the city on that day, and as many more within the succeeding twenty-four hours. carriages, wagons, drays, every thing that could transport persons or valuables, commanded exorbitant prices. steamboats were chartered as ferries to the illinois shore or to go to points of safety, either up or down the river. many persons abandoned their houses, taking with them only a few articles of value or necessity, while others carried away nothing, in their haste to escape. in a few days the excitement subsided and nearly all the refugees returned, but there are some who have never been in st. louis since their remarkable hegira. in their determination to obtain their "rights," they entered the rebel army and followed its checkered fortunes. less than half of these persons are now alive. for a time after the appearance of general harney's proclamation, there were no hostile demonstrations on either side. governor jackson had promised to disband the small force of militia at jefferson city, but he failed to do so. the rebel flag was flying in jefferson city, from a staff in front of the governor's mansion, and over the head-quarters of the missouri state guard. missouri, through her state officers, was in favor of an armed neutrality, which really meant nothing less than armed secession. the secessionists were quietly but earnestly at work to effect their object. they did not heed their promise to remain inactive. the union authorities observed theirs to the letter. the camp jackson prisoners were paroled and restored to liberty. a portion of them observed the parole, but many did not. general frost remained on his farm and took no part in the rebellion until relieved from his parole, several months later. it is proper to add, that he was of very little account to the rebels when he finally entered the field. while watching the progress of affairs in st. louis, i determined upon a visit to jefferson city. though the rebel flag was flying over the state capitol, and the nucleus of the missouri state guard (rebel) had its camp in the suburbs, the communication by railroad had not been interrupted. taking the morning train from st. louis, on the th of may, i found myself, at three o'clock of the afternoon, under the secession banner. the searching of the train for articles contraband of war was then a new feature. in the early days only the outside of a package was examined. if the "marks" indicated nothing suspicious, the goods were allowed to pass. under this regulation, a large number of boxes marked "soap" were shipped on a steamboat for lexington. so much soap going into missouri was decidedly suspicious, as the people of the interior do not make extensive use of the article. an examination disclosed canisters of powder instead of bars of soap. the discovery was followed by the promulgation of an order requiring a rigid examination of all packages that might be of doubtful character. this order, with various modifications, was kept in force for a long time. in starting from st. louis, i left a company of union volunteers at the railway station. at jefferson city i found the depot filled with the rebel soldiers, or "neutrals," as governor jackson persisted in calling them. the particular duty they were performing i was unable to ascertain, but they bore unmistakable signs of being something more than a "neutral" body of men. their camp was just in rear of the city. the rebel flag, which floated above the camp, was recognized as the emblem of their neutrality. the proprietor of the hotel where i stopped held the reputation of an earnest friend of the union, ready to suffer any thing rather than sink his principles. he introduced me to several citizens, most of them, like himself, thoroughly loyal. we discussed freely the condition of affairs in missouri. it was evident the state authorities intended war, as soon as the necessary preparations could be made. they were not quite ready to strike their first blow, but when they should be prepared, they would not hesitate a moment. governor jackson was exerting himself to the utmost to accumulate arms and military stores at various points in the state, where they would be of most value. in defiance of the truce between generals price and harney, companies were being formed throughout the state, and were drilling for service in the field. time was of great importance to the rebels, and this they had secured by means of the truce. during my stay at jefferson city, i met the three, men most prominent in bringing war upon missouri. these were governor jackson, general sterling price, and jeff. thompson. governor jackson was elected in the previous december, before it was thought any serious trouble would grow out of mr. lincoln's election. he was not looked upon as a man of great ability, but no one doubted his desire to promote the best interests of the state. those who knew him said his strength lay more in a public than in a private direction. he had few, if any, personal friends, and was considered dangerous when his passions were roused. some said he was cold and treacherous, giving all around him a feeling of aversion. even among the secessionists, and those who should have been his ardent supporters, he was never mentioned with enthusiasm. within two weeks from the day i saw him, governor jackson, by his own act, was a fugitive from the state capital. he never returned. after wandering in arkansas and louisiana, during the early part of the war, he died at little rock, in , in a condition of extreme poverty. of general price, i heard many praises, even from those who opposed his course. he was said to be a man of warm friendship, of fair abilities, and quite popular among the masses of the inhabitants. he possessed much personal pride, and his ambition for public honor was very great. at the outset he deprecated secession, and prophesied a devastating war as the result. he was inclined to be loyal, but his ambition was greater than his patriotism. the offer of a high position in the rebel service touched his weakest point, and carried him with the insurgents. in the rebel service he never obtained much distinction. his principal successes were in saving his army after defeat. he displayed a capacity for annoying the union armies without doing great damage. though his oft-repeated promise of victory was never fulfilled, it served to keep many missourians in the rebel ranks. he was constantly expected to capture st. louis. some of the rebel residents fully believed he would do so, and kept their wine-cellars ready for the event. until the official announcement of the surrender of all forces west of the mississippi, they did not abandon hope. general price had given his promise, and, as they argued, was sure to keep it. of jeff. thompson little can be said. previous to that time he had been known as the mayor of st. joseph, and a politician of some little importance in northwest missouri. he was famous for much gasconading, and a fondness for whisky and other material things. i could never learn that he commanded much respect. during the war the rebels never trusted him with any command of importance. he made a very fair guerrilla, and, in , gave our forces at cairo and bird's point considerable annoyance. history is not likely to give him a very prominent place in the roll of distinguished military heroes. at this time cairo was the most southerly point on the mississippi in possession of the national forces. we could have occupied columbus or hickman, kentucky, had not the sacredness of the soil prevented. kentucky was neutral, and declared that neither party must set foot within her limits. her declaration of neutrality was much like that issued by the governor of missouri. the united states forces were under great restrictions, while the rebels could do pretty much as they pleased. general prentiss sent a small expedition down the mississippi, some sixty miles below cairo. the kentuckians were greatly enraged because our forces landed at hickman and tore down a rebel flag which the citizens had hoisted. it was an invasion of their soil, for which they demanded apology. a few weeks later the rebels occupied both hickman and columbus, without any objection on the part of the neutrals. columbus was made very strong by the rebel engineers, and supplied with many heavy guns for its protection. at the same time, general prentiss pushed forward the defenses of cairo, in readiness for any attack by the rebel gun-boats. for more than half a year columbus was the northern limit of the rebel domination of the great river. on assuming command there, general polk announced that columbus was the throat of the mississippi, and must be held at all hazards. the rebels repeatedly urged the capture of cairo, but it was never attempted. [illustration: hauling down a rebel flag at hickman, ky] chapter iii. the beginning of hostilities. general harney relieved.--price's proclamation.--end of the truce.--conference between the union and rebel leaders.--the first act of hostility.--destruction of railway bridges.--promptness of general lyon.--capture of the state capital.--moving on the enemy's works.--the night before battle.--a correspondent's sensation. on the first of june an order was received from washington, relieving general harney from command in missouri. captain lyon had been promoted to the rank of a brigadier-general of volunteers, and was assigned to duty in general harney's stead. on the th of june, general price issued a proclamation, calling for the state guard to be in readiness to defend missouri against all enemies. the appearance of this proclamation was not altogether unexpected. it was far more satisfactory to the friends of the union than to the secessionists, as it showed the hostile position of governor jackson and his abettors, and gave an opportunity for proceeding actively against them. it demonstrated very clearly that the secessionists were determined to make their actions correspond to their words. it was ascertained that, a few days before the publication of price's proclamation, governor jackson was in consultation with an agent of the rebel government, who promised twenty-five thousand men, and arms and ammunition for fifty thousand more, if the state were fairly and unequivocally out of the union. he had also conferred with an agent from the indian nation, with a view to putting several thousand indians into the field on the side of the rebels. general lyon wanted an "overt act" on the part of the rebels, before commencing actual hostilities. price's proclamation was the thing desired. the troops in and around st. louis were drilled as thoroughly as possible. every day added to their effectiveness. recruiting was pushed, trade with the interior was suspended, and boats passing down the river were made subject to stoppage and search at the arsenal. every thing was assuming a warlike appearance. the government was very tardy in supplying general lyon's wants. in many cases it did not authorize him to do what was needed. much of the money for outfitting the troops for the field was voluntarily contributed in the eastern cities, or by patriotic men in st. louis. in several things, general lyon acted upon his own responsibility, under the advice and co-operation of colonel blair. on the th of june, governor jackson and general price asked general lyon to give them a safeguard to visit st. louis. they wished to confer with general lyon and colonel blair, upon the best means of bringing peace to the state and making an end of hostilities. the safeguard was granted, and, on the th of june, jackson and price reached st. louis, and signified their readiness for the proposed conference. the meeting took place at the planters' house, governor jackson declining to trust himself inside the walls of the arsenal, where general lyon had invited him to be his guest. the interview began with many professions of goodwill on the part of governor jackson, and the assurance of his earnest desire for peace. he promised to disband the state troops, if general lyon would first remove all united states troops from the limits of missouri, and agree not to bring them back under any consideration. of course, this proposition could not be entertained. a conversation then took place between general lyon and general price, but all to no purpose. price and jackson would do nothing, unless the united states troops were first sent out of missouri. lyon and blair would not consent to any thing of the kind, and so the conference ended. jackson and price left st. louis on a special train for jefferson city, on the afternoon of the th. on the way up the road, they set fire to the bridges over the gasconade and osage rivers, the former thirty-five miles from jefferson city, and ninety from st. louis, and the latter within nine miles of jefferson city. if the conduct of these men had been neutral up to that time, this act made an end of their neutrality. general lyon left the conference fully satisfied there was no longer any reason for hesitation. the course he should pursue was plain before him. early in the forenoon of the th, he learned of the destruction of the bridges over the gasconade and osage rivers. he immediately ordered a force to proceed up the road, and protect as much of it as possible from further damage. within four hours of the reception of the order to move, the troops were on their way. on the next day, three steamers, with about two thousand men, left st. louis for jefferson city. general lyon knew the importance of time, and was determined to give governor jackson very little opportunity for preparation. my first experience of a military campaign was on the expedition up the missouri. i had seen something of indian troubles on the plains, in which white men were concerned, but i had never witnessed civilized warfare where white men fought against white men. a residence of several weeks in st. louis had somewhat familiarized me with the appearance of troops at the arsenal and at the various camps in the city, but the preparations to take the field were full of novelty. i was on the boat which carried the first missouri infantry, and which general lyon had selected for his head-quarters. the young officers were full of enthusiasm, and eagerly anticipating their first encounter with the rebel battalions. colonel blair was less demonstrative than the officers of his regiment, but was evidently much elated at the prospect of doing something aggressive. general lyon was in the cabin, quiet, reserved, and thoughtful. with colonel blair he conversed long and freely. few others approached him. outside the cabin the soldiers were ardently discussing the coming campaign, and wishing an early opportunity for winning glory in battle. to one who travels for the first time by steamboat from st. louis in a northerly direction, a curious picture is presented. the water in the mississippi above the mouth of the missouri is quite clear and transparent. that from the missouri is of a dirty yellow color, derived from the large quantity of earthy matter which it holds in solution. for several miles below the junction of the streams, the two currents remain separated, the line between them being plainly perceptible. the pilots usually endeavor to keep on the dividing line, so that one can look from the opposite sides of a boat and imagine himself sailing upon two rivers of different character at the same moment. sometimes this distinctive line continues for fifteen or twenty miles, but usually less than ten. a soldier wittily remarked, that the water from the upper mississippi derived its transparency from the free states, from whence it came, while the missouri, emerging from a slave state, was, consequently, of a repulsive hue. as missouri is now a free state, the soldier's remark is not applicable. steaming up the missouri toward the state capital, we found the sentiment along the banks of the river strongly in favor of the union. home guard organizations had been hastily formed, and were doing their best for the protection of the railway. most of the villages along the lower missouri contained a strong german element, which needs no question of its loyalty. the railway bridges were thoroughly guarded, and each town had a small garrison to suppress any rising of the secessionists. the conduct of the people in these villages was quite different from the course of those residing above jefferson city. where the inhabitants possessed no slaves, there was outspoken loyalty. in the most populous slave districts it was the reverse. slaveholders declared that their interest lay in secession. there were a few exceptions, but they were very far in a minority. our triumphal entry into jefferson city was not marked by any noteworthy event. the capitol was deserted. the governor and most of the state officials had departed the previous day, in the direction of booneville. we marched through the principal streets, and found many of the people delighted at our coming. we occupied the state house, and, of course, unfurled our flag from its cupola. a steamboat, seized at the landing, was pressed into our service for use further up the stream. an encounter with the rebels was eagerly desired. we left a full regiment, a large force in those days, to retain possession of the place, and then pushed on in pursuit. the rebels had disabled the railway, taking off nearly all the rolling stock and destroying a large bridge four miles west of the city. as the point where they had fled lay upon the river, we pursued them by water. at noon, on the th, general lyon left jefferson city for booneville. within twenty-four hours he fought his first battle in missouri. it is slow work to proceed with a steamboat where one's way must be felt. though we had only fifty miles to move, we advanced less than thirty before nightfall. touching at a landing on the left bank of the river, fifteen miles below booneville, a scout from the enemy's camp came easily into our hands. from being a scout of the enemy he became our scout, as he revealed in his fright all we wished to know. the enemy, confident of an easy victory, was waiting our approach, and expressed the most lively intention of destroying us all in the twinkling of an eye. experience had not then demonstrated that there is little difference in the bravery of americans, when well officered. each side cherished the delusion that it had a monopoly of courage and endurance. one southern man was thought equal to five northern men in a fair contest, and if the former were given the advantage of a defensive position, any odds of numbers would be taken. there was nearly, though not quite, as much boasting on the part of our own press and people. the first severe battles made an end of the greater part of this gasconading. it is said the most trying moment on shipboard is when the deck, previous to an engagement, is sprinkled with saw-dust to receive the blood yet unshed. no man can know whose blood will be first to moisten that dust, or whose life will be passed away before the action is over. so on the eve of that first battle in missouri, as i reclined in the cabin of our flag-boat, and saw the surgeons busy with their preparations for the coming day; as i saw them bring to light all the dreadful implements of their trade, and arrange them in readiness for sudden use--a coldness crept over me, and i fully realized we had earnest work before us. since that time i have witnessed many a battle, many a scene of preparation and of bloody work with knife and saw and bandage, but i have never experienced a chill like that i felt on that early day of the rebellion. the war has made us familiar with horrors. that which once touched us to the heart is now passed over with scarce a moment's thought. our nerves have been hardened, our sensibilities blunted, our hearts steeled against suffering, in the terrible school through which we have passed. [illustration: the opening gun at booneville] chapter iv. the first battle in missouri moving up the river.--a landing effected.--the battle.--precipitous retreat of the rebels.--spoiling a captured camp.--rebel flags emblazoned with the state arms.--a journalist's outfit.--a chaplain of the church militant.--a mistake that might have been unfortunate.--the people of booneville.--visiting an official.--banking-house loyalty.--preparations for a campaign. daybreak on the th found us slowly moving up the river toward booneville. general lyon sat forward of the steamer's cabin, closely scanning both banks of the stream. four miles below the town his glass sought out two pieces of artillery, partially concealed in a clump of trees, and trained upon the channel by which we were to pass. at once our engines were reversed, and the boats moved back to a landing about eight miles below booneville. a little before seven o'clock we were on shore, and our column of fifteen hundred men began its advance upon the rebel camp. it was the story that has found its repetition in many a battle since that time. the enemy's pickets were driven in. the enemy, in line of battle, was discovered on a long ridge, and our own line was formed on a ridge parallel to it. then we opened fire with our artillery (one battery was all we possessed), and received no response, save by a desultory discharge of small-arms. next our infantry added its tenor notes to the bass of the field-guns; the rebel forces melted steadily away, and the field was in our possession, twenty minutes after the opening shot had been fired. once in retreat, the rebels did not halt until out of harm's reach. their camp lay in the line of retreat, but they made no stop in passing it. following in the rear of our column, i entered the camp, and found many signs of a hasty departure. i found the fires burning, and dozens of coffee-pots and frying-pans filled with the materials for breakfast. here was a pan full of meat fried to a crisp, from the neglect of the cook to remove it before his sudden exodus. a few feet distant lay a ham, with a knife sticking in a half-severed slice. a rude camp-table was spread with plates and their accessories, and a portion of the articles of food were carefully arranged. the seats for the breakfast party were in position, two of them being overturned. i could not help fancying the haste with which that table had been abandoned, only a few moments before. the tents were standing, and in some the blankets were lying on the ground, as if they had been very suddenly vacated. in one tent was a side-saddle, a neat pair of gaiters, and a hoop-skirt. the proper connection of those articles with the battle-field i was unable to ascertain. in that camp was a fine lot of provisions, arms, equipments, and ammunition. saddles were numerous, but there were no horses. it was evident that, the hasty evacuation left no time for the simple process of saddling. early in the day i had come into possession of a horse with a very poor outfit. once in camp, i was not slow to avail myself of the privilege of supply. i went into battle on foot, carrying only a knapsack containing a note-book and two pieces of bread. when the fight was over, i was the possessor of a horse and all the equipments for a campaign. i had an overcoat, a roll of fine blankets, and a pair of saddle-bags. the latter were well filled from the trunk of some one i had not the pleasure of knowing, but who was evidently "just my size." mr. barnes, of the missouri _democrat_, was my companion on that occasion. he was equally careful to provide himself from the enemy's stores, but wasted, time in becoming sentimental over two love-letters and a photograph of a young woman. the flags captured in this affair were excellent illustrations of the policy of the leading secessionists. there was one rebel flag with the arms of the state of missouri filling the field. there was a state flag, with only fifteen stars surrounding the coat of arms. there was a. rebel flag, with the state arms in the center, and there was one rebel flag of the regular pattern. the rallying-cry at that time was in behalf of the state, and the people were told they must act for missouri, without regard to any thing else. in no part of the country was the "state rights" theory more freely used. all the changes were rung upon the sovereignty of states, the right of missouri to exclude united states soldiers from her soil, the illegality of the formation of union regiments, and the tyranny of the general government. the flags under which missouri soldiers were gathered clearly blended the interests of the state with secession. our troops entered booneville amid demonstrations of delight from one portion of the inhabitants, and the frowns and muttered indignation of the other. the rebels had fled, a part of them by land, and the balance on a steamboat, toward lexington. quiet possession obtained, there was time to examine into the details of the fight. we had lost twelve men, the enemy probably twice as many. the action, three years later, would have been considered only a roadside skirmish, but it was then an affair of importance. every man with general lyon felt far more elation over the result than has since been felt over battles of much greater moment. we had won a signal victory; the enemy had suffered an equally signal defeat. during the battle, a chaplain, provided with four men to look after the wounded, came suddenly upon a group of twenty-four rebels. an imperative demand for their surrender was promptly complied with, and the chaplain, with his force of four, brought twenty-four prisoners into town. he was so delighted at his success that he subsequently took a commission in the line. in time he was honored with the stars of a brigadier-general. general lyon was my personal friend, but he very nearly did me great injustice. seeing myself and a fellow-journalist on a distant part of the field, he mistook us for scouts of the enemy, and ordered his sharp-shooters to pick us off. his chief-of-staff looked in our direction, and fortunately recognized us in time to countermand the order. i was afterward on the point of being shot at by an infantry captain, through a similar mistake. a civilian's dress on the battle-field (a gray coat formed a part of mine) subjects the wearer to many dangers from his friends, as most war correspondents can testify. while approaching the town, i stopped to slake my thirst at a well. a group of our soldiers joined me while i was drinking. i had drank very freely from the bucket, and transferred it to a soldier, when the resident of a neighboring house appeared, and informed us that the well had been poisoned by the rebels, and the water was certain to produce death. the soldiers desisted, and looked at me with much pity. for a moment, i confess, the situation did not appear cheerful, but i concluded the injury, if any, was already done, and i must make the best of it. the soldiers watched me as i mounted my horse, evidently expecting me to fall within a hundred yards. when i met one of them the following day, he opened his eyes in astonishment at seeing me alive. from that day, i entertained a great contempt for poisoned wells. in booneville the incidents were not of a startling character. i found the strongest secession sympathy was entertained by the wealthier inhabitants, while the poor were generally loyal. some cases of determined loyalty i found among the wealthy; but they were the exception rather than the rule. accompanied by a small squad of soldiers, myself and companion visited the house of a gentleman holding office under the united states government. we obtained from that house several rebel cockades and small flags, which had been fabricated by the ladies. with the same squad we visited the principal bank of booneville, and persuaded the cashier to give us a rebel flag which had been floating for several days from a staff in front of the building. this flag was ten yards in length, and the materials of which it was made were of the finest quality. the interview between the cashier and ourselves was an amusing one. he protested he knew nothing of the flag or its origin, and at first declared it was not about the building. according to his own representation, he was too good a union man to harbor any thing of the sort. just as he was in the midst of a very earnest profession of loyalty the flag was discovered. "somebody must have put that there to ruin me," was his exclamation. "gentlemen, i hope you won't harm me; and, if you want me to do so, i will take the oath of allegiance this minute." soon after the occupation of booneville, general lyon sent a small expedition to syracuse, twenty-five miles in the interior. this force returned in a few days, and then preparations were begun for a march to springfield. colonel blair left booneville for st. louis and washington, while general lyon attended to the preliminaries for his contemplated movement. the first iowa infantry joined him, and formed a part of his expeditionary force. the rebels gathered at lexington, and thence moved southward to reach the arkansas line, to form a junction with the then famous ben mcculloch. the prospect was good that central missouri would soon be clear of rebels. our general success in the state depended upon occupying and holding the southwest. general lyon was to move thither from booneville. general sweeney had already gone there by way of rolla, while another force, under major sturgis, was moving from leavenworth in a southeasterly direction. all were to unite at springfield and form an army of occupation. preparations went on slowly, as the transportation was to be gathered from the surrounding country. foreseeing that the expedition would be slow to reach springfield, i returned to st. louis. there i made preparations to join the army, when its march should be completed, by a more expeditious route than the one general lyon would follow. at booneville, general lyon established a temporary blockade of the missouri river, by stopping all boats moving in either direction. in most cases a single shot across the bow of a boat sufficed to bring it to land. one day the _white cloud_, on her way from kansas city to st. louis, refused to halt until three shots had been fired, the last one grazing the top of the pilot-house. when brought before general lyon, the captain of the _white cloud_ apologized for neglecting to obey the first signal, and said his neglect was due to his utter ignorance of military usage. the apology was deemed sufficient. the captain was dismissed, with a gentle admonition not to make a similar mistake in future. at that time the public was slow to understand the power and extent of military law and military rule. when martial law was declared in st. louis, in august, , a citizen waited upon the provost-marshal, in order to ascertain the precise state of affairs. after some desultory conversation, he threw out the question:-- "what does martial law do?" "well," said major mckinstry, the provost-marshal, "i can explain the whole thing in a second. martial law does pretty much as it d--n pleases." before the year was ended the inhabitants of st. louis learned that the major's assertion was not far from the truth. chapter v. to springfield and beyond. conduct of the st. louis secessionists.--collisions between soldiers and citizens.--indignation of the guests of a hotel.--from st. louis to rolla.--opinions of a "regular."--railway-life in missouri.--unprofitable freight.--a story of orthography.--mountains and mountain streams.--fastidiousness checked.--frontier courtesy.--concentration of troops at springfield.--a perplexing situation.--the march to dug spring.--sufferings from heat and thirst. the success of the union arms at booneville did not silence the secessionists in st. louis. they continued to hold meetings, and arrange plans for assisting their friends in the field. at many places, one could hear expressions of indignation at the restrictions which the proper authorities sought to put upon the secession movement. union flags were torn from the front of private buildings--generally in the night or early morning. twice, when union troops were marching along the streets, they were fired upon by citizens. a collision of this kind had occurred at the corner of fifth and walnut streets, on the day after the capture of camp jackson. the soldiers returned the fire, and killed several persons; but this did not deter the secessionists from repeating the experiment. in the affairs that took place after the battle of booneville, the result was the same. unfortunately, in each collision, a portion of those killed were innocent on-lookers. after a few occurrences of this kind, soldiers were allowed to march through the streets without molestation. about the first of july, there were rumors that an insurrection would be attempted on the national holiday. ample provision was made to give the insurgents a warm reception. consequently, they made no trouble. the printer of the bills of fare at a prominent hotel noticed the fourth of july by ornamenting his work with a national flag, in colors. this roused the indignation of a half-dozen guests, whose sympathies lay with the rebellion. they threatened to leave, but were so far in arrears that they could not settle their accounts. the hotel-keeper endeavored to soothe them by promising to give his printing, for the future, to another house. several loyal guests were roused at this offer, and threatened to secede at once if it were carried out. the affair resulted in nothing but words. on the morning of the th of july i left st. louis, to join general lyon in the southwest. it was a day's ride by rail to rolla, the terminus of the southwest branch of the pacific road. i well recollect the strange and motley group that filled the cars on that journey. there were a few officers and soldiers _en route_ to join their comrades in the field. nearly all of them were fresh from civil life. they wore their uniforms uneasily, as a farmer's boy wears his sunday suit. those who carried sabers experienced much inconvenience when walking, on account of the propensity of those weapons to get between their legs. in citizen's dress, at my side, sat an officer of the old army, who looked upon these newly-made warriors with much contempt, mingled with an admiration of their earnestness. after an outburst of mild invective, he pronounced a well-merited tribute to their patriotism. "after all," said he, "they are as good as the material the rebels have for their army. in some respects, they are better. the northern blood is cold; the southern is full of life and passion. in the first onset, our enemies will prove more impetuous than we, and will often overpower us. in the beginning of the struggle, they will prove our superiors, and may be able to boast of the first victories. but their physical energy will soon be exhausted, while ours will steadily increase. patience, coolness, and determination will be sure to bring us the triumph in the end. these raw recruits, that are at present worthless before trained soldiers, distrusting themselves as we distrust them, will yet become veterans, worthy to rank with the best soldiers of the old world." the civilian passengers on a railway in missouri are essentially different from the same class in the east. there are very few women, and the most of these are not as carefully dressed as their oriental sisters. their features lack the fineness that one observes in new york and new england. the "hog and hominy," the general diet of the southwest, is plainly perceptible in the physique of the women. the male travelers, who are not indigenous to the soil, are more roughly clothed and more careless in manner than the same order of passengers between new york and boston. of those who enter and leave at way-stations, the men are clad in that yellow, homespun material known as "butternut." the casual observer inclines to the opinion that there are no good bathing-places where these men reside. they are inquisitive, ignorant, unkempt, but generally civil. the women are the reverse of attractive, and are usually uncivil and ignorant. the majority are addicted to smoking, and generally make use of a cob-pipe. unless objection is made by some passenger, the conductors ordinarily allow the women to indulge in this pastime. the region traversed by the railway is sparsely settled, the ground being generally unfavorable to agriculture. for some time after this portion of the road was opened, the natives refused to give it patronage, many of them declaring that the old mode of travel, by horseback, was the best of all. during the first week after opening the southwest branch, the company ran a daily freight train each way. all the freight offered in that time was a bear and a keg of honey. both were placed in the same car. the bear ate the honey, and the company was compelled to pay for the damage. i have heard a story concerning the origin of the name of rolla, which is interesting, though i cannot vouch for its truth. in selecting a name for the county seat of phelps county, a north carolinian residing there, suggested that it should do honor to the capital of his native state. the person who reduced the request to writing, used the best orthography that occurred to him, so that what should have been "raleigh," became "rolla." the request thus written was sent to the legislature, and the name of the town became fixed. the inhabitants generally pronounce it as if the intended spelling had been adopted. the journey from rolla to springfield was accomplished by stage, and required two days of travel. for fifty miles the road led over mountains, to the banks of the gasconade, one of the prettiest rivers i have ever seen. the mountain streams of southwest missouri, having their springs in the limestone rock, possess a peculiarity unknown in the eastern states. in a depth of two feet or less, the water is apparently as clear as that of the purest mountain brook in new england. but when the depth reaches, or exceeds, three feet, the water assumes a deep-blue tinge, like that of the sky in a clear day. viewed from an elevation, the picture is one that cannot be speedily forgotten. the blue water makes a marked contrast with surrounding objects, as the streams wind through the forests and fields on their banks. though meandering through mountains, these rivers have few sharp falls or roaring rapids. their current is usually gentle, broken here and there into a ripple over a slightly descending shallow, but observing uniformity in all its windings. my first night from rolla was passed on the banks of the gasconade. another day's ride, extended far into the second night, found me at springfield. when i reached my room at the hotel, and examined the bed, i found but one sheet where we usually look for two. expostulations were of no avail. the porter curtly informed me, "people here use only one sheet. down in st. louis you folks want two sheets, but in this part of the country we ain't so nice." i appreciated my fastidiousness when i afterward saw, at a tennessee hotel, the following notice:-- "gentlemen who wish towels in their rooms must deposit fifty cents at the office, as security for their return." travel in the border and southern states will acquaint a northerner with strange customs. to find an entire household occupying a single large room is not an unfrequent occurrence. the rules of politeness require that, when bedtime has arrived, the men shall go out of doors to contemplate the stars, while the ladies disrobe and retire. the men then return and proceed to bed. sometimes the ladies amuse themselves by studying the fire while the men find their way to their couches, where they gallantly turn their faces to the wall, and permit the ladies to don their _robes de nuit_. notwithstanding the scarcity of accommodations, the traveler seeking a meal or resting-place will rarely meet a refusal. in new york or new england, one can journey many a mile and find a cold denial at every door. in the west and southwest "the latch-string hangs out," and the stranger is always welcome. especially is this the case among the poorer classes. springfield is the largest town in southwest missouri, and has a fine situation. before the war it was a place of considerable importance, as it controlled the trade of a large region around it. east of it the country is quite broken, but on the south and west there are stretches of rolling prairie, bounded by rough wood-land. considered in a military light, springfield was the key to that portion of the state. a large number of public roads center at that point. their direction is such that the possession of the town by either army would control any near position of an adversary of equal or inferior strength. general lyon was prompt in seeing its value, and determined to make an early movement for its occupation. when he started from st. louis for booneville, he ordered general sweeney to march from rolla to springfield as speedily as possible. general sweeney moved with three regiments of infantry and a battery of artillery, and reached springfield in five days from the time of starting; the distance being a hundred and twenty miles. he then divided his forces, sending colonel sigel to carthage, nearly fifty miles further toward the west, in the hope of cutting off the rebel retreat in that direction. major sturgis was moving from leavenworth toward springfield, and expected to arrive there in advance of general lyon. major sturgis was delayed in crossing a river, so that the rebels arrived at carthage before colonel sigel had been reinforced. the latter, with about eleven hundred men, encountered the rebel column, twice as large as his own. the battle raged for several hours, neither side losing very heavily. it resulted in sigel's retreat to avoid being surrounded by the enemy. wonderful stories were told at that time of the terrific slaughter in the rebel ranks, but these stories could never be traced to a reliable source. it is proper to say that the rebels made equally large estimates of our own loss. on general lyon's arrival all the troops were concentrated in the vicinity of springfield. it was known that the rebels were encamped near the arkansas border, awaiting the re-enforcements which had been promised from the older states of the confederacy. general fremont had been assigned to the command of the western department, and was daily expected at st. louis to assume the direction of affairs. our scouts were kept constantly employed in bringing us news from the rebel camp, and it is quite probable the rebels were equally well informed of our own condition. we were able to learn that their number was on the increase, and that they would soon be largely re-enforced. after three weeks of occupation our strength promised to be diminished. half of general lyon's command consisted of "three-months men," whose period of enlistment was drawing to a close. a portion of these men went to st. louis, some volunteered to remain as long as the emergency required their presence, and others were kept against their will. meantime, general lyon made the most urgent requests for re-enforcements, and declared he would be compelled to abandon the southwest if not speedily strengthened. general fremont promised to send troops to his assistance. after he made the promise, cairo was threatened by general pillow, and the re-enforcing column turned in that direction. general lyon was left to take care of himself. by the latter part of july, our situation had become critical. price's army had been re-enforced by a column of arkansas and louisiana troops, under general mcculloch. this gave the rebels upward of twelve thousand men, while we could muster less than six thousand. general price assumed the offensive, moving slowly toward springfield, as if sure of his ability to overpower the national forces. general lyon determined to fall upon the enemy before he could reach springfield, and moved on the st of august with that object in view. on the second day of our march a strong scouting party of rebels was encountered, and a sharp skirmish ensued, in which they were repulsed. this encounter is known in the southwest as "the fight at dug spring." the next day another skirmish occurred, and, on the third morning, twenty-five miles from springfield, general lyon called a council of war. "councils of war do not fight" has grown into a proverb. the council on this occasion decided that we should return to springfield without attacking the enemy. the decision was immediately carried out. the beginning of august, in southwest missouri, is in the midst of the warm season. the day of the march to dug spring was one i shall never forget. in kansas, before the war, i once had a walk of several miles under a burning sun, in a region where not a drop of water could be found. when i finally reached it, the only water to be found was in a small, stagnant pool, covered with a green scum nearly an inch in thickness. warm, brackish, and fever-laden as that water was, i had never before tasted any thing half so sweet. again, while crossing the great plains in , i underwent a severe and prolonged thirst, only quenching it with the bitter alkali-water of the desert. on neither of these occasions were my sufferings half as great as in the advance to dug spring. a long ride in that hot atmosphere gave me a thirst of the most terrible character. making a detour to the left of the road in a vain search for water, i fell behind the column as it marched slowly along. as i moved again to the front, i passed scores of men who had fallen from utter exhaustion. many were delirious, and begged piteously for water in ever so small a quantity. several died from excessive heat, and others were for a long time unfit for duty. reaching the spring which gave its name to the locality, i was fortunate in finding only the advance of the command. with considerable effort i succeeded in obtaining a pint cupful of water, and thus allayed my immediate thirst. according to the custom in that region, the spring was covered with a frame building, about eight feet square. there are very few cellars in that part of the country, and the spring-house, as it is called, is used for preserving milk and other articles that require a low temperature. as the main portion of the column came up, the crowd around the spring-house became so dense that those once inside could not get out. the building was lifted and thrown away from the spring, but this only served to increase the confusion. officers found it impossible to maintain discipline. when the men caught sight of the crowd at the spring, the lines were instantly broken. at the spring, officers and men were mingled without regard to rank, all struggling for the same object. a few of the former, who had been fortunate in commencing the day with full canteens, attempted to bring order out of chaos, but found the effort useless. no command was heeded. the officers of the two regiments of "regulars" had justly boasted of the superior discipline of their men. on this occasion the superiority was not apparent. volunteers and regulars were equally subject to thirst, and made equal endeavor to quench it. twenty yards below the spring was a shallow pool, where cattle and hogs were allowed to run. directly above it was a trough containing a few gallons of warm water, which had evidently been there several days. this was speedily taken by the men. then the hot, scum-covered pool was resorted to. in a very few minutes the trampling of the soldiers' feet had stirred this pool till its substance was more like earth than water. even from this the men would fill their cups and canteens, and drink with the utmost eagerness. i saw a private soldier emerge from the crowd with a canteen full of this worse than ditch-water. an officer tendered a five-dollar gold piece for the contents of the canteen, and found his offer indignantly refused. to such a frenzy were men driven by thirst that they tore up handfuls of moist earth, and swallowed the few drops of water that could be pressed out. in subsequent campaigns i witnessed many scenes of hunger and thirst, but none to equal those of that day at dug spring. chapter vi. the battle of wilson creek. the return from dug spring.--the rebels follow in pursuit.--preparations to attack them.--the plan of battle.--moving to the attack--a bivouac.--the opening shot.--"is that official?"--sensations of a spectator in battle.--extension of distance and time.--characteristics of projectiles.--taking notes under fire.--strength and losses of the opposing armies.--a noble record.--the wounded on the field.--"one more shot."--granger in his element.--general lyon's death. the return of general lyon from dug spring emboldened the enemy to move nearer to springfield. on the th of august the rebels reached wilson creek, ten miles from springfield, and formed their camp on both sides of that stream. general ben. mcculloch was their commander-in-chief. on the night of the th, general lyon proposed to move from springfield for the purpose of attacking their position. the design was not carried out, on account of the impossibility of securing proper disposition of our forces in season to reach the enemy's camp at daylight. during the th and the forenoon of the th, preparations were made for resisting an attack in springfield, in case the enemy should come upon us. in the afternoon of the th, general lyon decided to assault the rebel camp at daylight of the following morning. a council of war had determined that a defeat would be less injurious than a retreat without a battle, provided the defeat were not too serious. "to abandon the southwest without a struggle," said general lyon, "would be a sad blow to our cause, and would greatly encourage the rebels. we will fight, and hope for the best." in arranging a plan of battle, colonel sigel suggested that the forces should be divided, so that a simultaneous attack would be made upon either extremity of the enemy's camp. the two columns were to move from springfield at sunset, bivouac within four miles of the proposed battle-field, and begin their march early enough to fall upon the enemy's camp a little past daylight. we left springfield about sunset on the th, general lyon taking about three thousand men, while colonel sigel took less than two thousand. exceptions have frequently been made to this mode of attack. had it been successful, i presume no one would have found it faulty. it is an easy matter to criticise the plans of others, after their result is known. the columns moved by different roads to obtain the desired positions. the march was as silent as possible. the only sounds were the rumbling of wheels and the occasional clank of arms. no one was heavily encumbered, as we expected to return to springfield before the following night. midnight found us in a hay-field, four miles from the rebel camp. there we rested till morning. on the previous night i had been almost without sleep, and therefore took speedy advantage of the halt. two journeys over the plains, a little trip into new mexico, and some excursions among the rocky mountains, had taught me certain rules of campaign life. i rarely moved without my blankets and rubber "poncho," and with a haversack more or less well filled. on this occasion i was prepared for sleeping in the open air. one bivouac is much like another. when one is weary, a blanket on the ground is just as comfortable as a bed of down under a slated roof. if accustomed to lie under lace curtains, a tree or a bush will make an excellent substitute. "tired nature's sweet restorer" comes quickly to an exhausted frame. realities of the past, expectations of the future, hopes, sorrows, wishes, regrets--all are banished as we sink into sweet repose. at dawn we were in motion. at daylight the smoke hanging over the enemy's camp was fully before us. sunrise was near at hand when the hostile position was brought to our view. it lay, as we had anticipated, stretched along the banks of wilson creek. until our advance drove in the pickets, a thousand yards from their camp, the rebels had no intimation of our approach. many of them were reluctant to believe we were advancing to attack them, and thought the firing upon the pickets was the work of a scouting party. the opening of our artillery soon undeceived them, a shell being dropped in the middle of their camp. a rebel officer afterward told me about our first shell. when the pickets gave the alarm of our approach, the rebel commander ordered his forces to "turn out." an arkansas colonel was in bed when the order reached him, and lazily asked, "is that official?" before the bearer of the order could answer, our shell tore through the colonel's tent, and exploded a few yards beyond it. the officer waited for no explanation, but ejaculated, "that's official, anyhow," as he sprang out of his blankets, and arrayed himself in fighting costume. before the rebels could respond to our morning salutation, we heard the booming of sigel's cannon on the left. colonel sigel reached the spot assigned him some minutes before we were able to open fire from our position. it had been stipulated that he should wait for the sound of our guns before making his attack. his officers said they waited nearly fifteen minutes for our opening shot. they could look into the rebel camp in the valley of the stream, a few hundred yards distant. the cooks were beginning their preparations for breakfast, and gave our men a fine opportunity to learn the process of making confederate corn-bread and coffee. some of the rebels saw our men, and supposed they were their own forces, who had taken up a new position. several walked into our lines, and found themselves prisoners of war. previous to that day i had witnessed several skirmishes, but this was my first battle of importance. distances seemed much greater than they really were. i stood by the side of captain totten's battery as it opened the conflict. "how far are you firing?" i asked. "about eight hundred yards; not over that," was the captain's response. i should have called it sixteen hundred, had i been called on for an estimate. down the valley rose the smoke of sigel's guns, about a mile distant, though, apparently, two or three miles away. opposite sigel's position was the camp of the arkansas division: though it was fully in my sight, and the tents and wagons were plainly visible, i could not get over the impression that they were far off. the explosions of our shells, and the flashes of the enemy's guns, a short distance up the slope on the opposite side of the creek, seemed to be at a considerable distance. to what i shall ascribe these illusions, i do not know. on subsequent battle-fields i have never known their recurrence. greater battles, larger streams, higher hills, broader fields, wider valleys, more extended camps, have come under my observation, but in none of them has the romance exceeded the reality. the hours did not crowd into minutes, but the minutes almost extended into hours. i frequently found, on consulting my watch, that occurrences, apparently of an hour's duration, were really less than a half or a quarter of that time. as the sun rose, it passed into a cloud. when it emerged, i fully expected it would be some distance toward the zenith, and was surprised to find it had advanced only a few degrees. there was a light shower, that lasted less than ten minutes: i judged it had been twenty. the evolutions of the troops on the field appeared slow and awkward. they were really effected with great promptness. general lyon was killed before nine o'clock, as i very well knew. it was some days before i could rid myself of an impression that his death occurred not far from noon. the apparent extension of the hours was the experience of several persons on that field. i think it has been known by many, on the occasion of their first battle. at pea ridge, an officer told me, there seemed to be about thirty hours between sunrise and sunset. another thought it was four p.m. when the sun was at the meridian. it was only at wilson creek that i experienced this sensation. on subsequent battle-fields i had no reason to complain of my estimate of time. the first shell from the enemy's guns passed high over my head. i well remember the screech of that missile as it cut through the air and lost itself in the distance. "too high, captain bledsoe," exclaimed our artillery officer, as he planted a shell among the rebel gunners. in firing a half-dozen rounds the rebels obtained our range, and then used their guns with some effect. the noise of each of those shells i can distinctly recall, though i have since listened to hundreds of similar sounds, of which i have no vivid recollection. the sound made by a shell, in its passage through the air, cannot be described, and, when once heard, can never be forgotten. i was very soon familiar with the whistling of musket-balls. before the end of the action, i thought i could distinguish the noise of a minié bullet from that of a common rifle-ball, or a ball from a smooth-bored musket. once, while conversing with the officer in charge of the skirmish line, i found myself the center of a very hot fire. it seemed, at that instant, as if a swarm of the largest and most spiteful bees had suddenly appeared around me. the bullets flew too rapidly to be counted, but i fancied i could perceive a variation in their sound. after i found a position beyond the range of musketry, the artillery would insist upon searching me out. while i was seated under a small oak-tree, with my left arm through my horse's bridle, and my pencil busy on my note-book, the tree above my head was cut by a shell. moving from that spot, i had just resumed my writing, when a shot tore up the ground under my arm, and covered me with dirt. even a remove to another quarter did not answer my purpose, and i finished my notes after reaching the rear. it is not my intention to give the details of the battle--the movements of each regiment, battalion, or battery, as it performed its part in the work. the official record will be sought by those who desire the purely military history. it is to be regretted that the official report of the engagement at wilson creek displays the great hostility of its author toward a fellow-soldier. in the early campaigns in missouri, many officers of the regular army vied with the rebels in their hatred of "the dutch." this feeling was not confined to missouri alone, but was apparent in the east as well as in the west. as the war progressed the hostility diminished, but it was never entirely laid aside. the duration of the battle was about four and a half hours. the whole force under the national flag was five thousand men. the rebels acknowledged having twelve thousand, of all arms. it is probable that this estimate was a low one. the rebels were generally armed with shot-guns, common rifles, and muskets of the old pattern. about a thousand had no arms whatever. their artillery ammunition was of poorer quality than our own. these circumstances served to make the disparity less great than the actual strength of the hostile forces would imply. even with these considerations, the odds against general lyon were quite large. our loss was a little less than one-fifth our whole strength. up to that time, a battle in which one-tenth of those engaged was placed _hors de combat_, was considered a very sanguinary affair. during the war there were many engagements where the defeated party suffered a loss of less than one-twentieth. wilson creek can take rank as one of the best-fought battles, when the number engaged is brought into consideration. the first missouri infantry went into action with seven hundred and twenty-six men. its casualty list was as follows:-- killed................................ dangerously wounded................... otherwise wounded..................... captured.............................. missing............................... --- total.......................... the first kansas infantry, out of seven hundred and eighty-five men, lost two hundred and ninety-six. the loss in other regiments was quite severe, though not proportionately as heavy as the above. these two regiments did not break during the battle, and when they left the ground they marched off as coolly as from a parade. at the time our retreat was ordered our ammunition was nearly exhausted and the ranks fearfully thinned. the rebels had made a furious attack, in which they were repulsed. general sweeney insisted that it was their last effort, and if we remained on the ground we would not be molested again. major sturgis, upon whom the command devolved after general lyon's death, reasoned otherwise, and considered it best to fall back to springfield. the rebels afterward admitted that general mcculloch had actually given the order for retreat a few moments before they learned of our withdrawal. of course he countermanded his order at once. there were several battles in the late rebellion in which the circumstances were similar. in repeated instances the victorious party thought itself defeated, and was much astonished at finding its antagonist had abandoned the struggle. in our retreat we brought away many of our wounded, but left many others on the field. when the rebels took possession they cared for their own men as well as the circumstances would permit, but gave no assistance to ours. there were reports, well authenticated, that some who lay helpless were shot or bayoneted. two days after the battle a surgeon who remained at springfield was allowed to send out wagons for the wounded. some were not found until after four days' exposure. they crawled about as best they could, and, by searching the haversacks of dead men, saved themselves from starvation. one party of four built a shelter of branches of trees as a protection against the sun. another party crawled to the bank of the creek, and lay day and night at the water's edge. several men sought shelter in the fence corners, or by the side of fallen trees. two days before the battle, ten dollars were paid to each man of the first kansas infantry. the money was in twenty-dollar pieces, and the payment was made by drawing up the regiment in the customary two ranks, and giving a twenty-dollar piece to each man in the front rank. three-fourths of those killed or wounded in that regiment were of the front rank. the rebels learned of this payment, and made rigid search of all whom they found on the field. nearly a year after the battle a visitor to the ground picked up one of these gold coins. during the battle several soldiers from st. louis and its vicinity recognized acquaintances on the opposite side. these recognitions were generally the occasion of many derisive and abusive epithets. in the border states each party had a feeling of bitter hostility toward the other. probably the animosity was greater in missouri than elsewhere. a lieutenant of the first missouri infantry reported that he saw one of the men of his regiment sitting under a tree during the battle, busily engaged in whittling a bullet. "what are you doing there?" said the officer. "my ammunition is gone, and i'm cutting down this bullet to fit my gun." (the soldier's musket was a " -caliber," and the bullet was a " .") "look around among the wounded men," was the order, "and get some -cartridges. don't stop to cut down that bullet." "i would look around, lieutenant," the soldier responded, "but i can't move. my leg is shot through. i won't be long cutting this down, and then i want a chance to hit some of them." captain gordon granger was serving on the staff of general lyon. when not actively engaged in his professional duties, he visited all parts of the field where the fight was hottest. though himself somewhat excited, he was constantly urging the raw soldiers to keep cool and not throw away a shot. wherever there was a weak place in our line, he was among the first to discover it and devise a plan for making it good. on one occasion, he found a gap between two regiments, and noticed that the rebels were preparing to take advantage of it. without a moment's delay, he transferred three companies of infantry to the spot, managing to keep them concealed behind a small ridge. "now, lie still; don't raise your heads out of the grass," said granger; "i'll tell you when to fire." the rebels advanced toward the supposed gap. granger stood where he could see and not be seen. he was a strange compound of coolness and excitement. while his judgment was of the best, and his resources were ready for all emergencies, a by-stander would have thought him heated almost to frenzy. the warmth of his blood gave him a wonderful energy and rendered him ubiquitous; his skill and decision made his services of the highest importance. "there they come; steady, now; let them get near enough; fire low; give them h--l." the rebels rushed forward, thinking to find an easy passage. when within less than fifty yards, granger ordered his men to fire. the complete repulse of the rebels was the result. "there, boys; you've done well. d--n the scoundrels; they won't come here again." with this, the captain hastened to some other quarter. the death of general lyon occurred near the middle of the battle. so many accounts of this occurrence have been given, that i am not fully satisfied which is the correct one. i know at least half a dozen individuals in whose arms general lyon expired, and think there are as many more who claim that sad honor. there is a similar mystery concerning his last words, a dozen versions having been given by persons who claim to have heard them. it is my belief that general lyon was killed while reconnoitering the enemy's line and directing the advance of a regiment of infantry. i believe he was on foot at the instant, and was caught, as he fell, in the arms of "lehman," his orderly. his last utterance was, doubtless, the order for the infantry to advance, and was given a moment before he received the fatal bullet. from the nature of the wound, his death, if not instantaneous, was very speedy. a large musket-ball entered his left side, in the region of the heart, passing nearly through to the right. a reported wound in the breast was made with a bayonet in the hands of a rebel soldier, several hours afterward. the body was brought to springfield on the night after the battle. it was my fortune to be acquainted with general lyon. during the progress of the war i met no one who impressed me more than he, in his devotion to the interests of the country. if he possessed ambition for personal glory, i was unable to discover it. he declared that reputation was a bubble, which no good soldier should follow. wealth was a shadow, which no man in the country's service should heed. his pay as an officer was sufficient for all his wants, and he desired nothing more. he gave to the nation, as the friend he loved the dearest, a fortune which he had inherited. if his death could aid in the success of the cause for which he was fighting, he stood ready to die. the gloom that spread throughout the north when the news of his loss was received, showed a just appreciation of his character. "how sleep the brave who sink to rest by all their country's wishes blest!" at that battle there was the usual complement of officers for five thousand men. two years later there were seven major-generals and thirteen brigadier-generals who had risen from the wilson creek army. there were colonels, lieutenant-colonels, and majors, by the score, who fought in the line or in the ranks on that memorable th of august. in , thirty-two commissioned officers were in the service from one company of the first iowa infantry. out of one company of the first missouri infantry, twenty-eight men received commissions. to the majority of the officers from that army promotion was rapid, though a few cases occurred in which the services they rendered were tardily acknowledged. [illustration: death of general lyon] chapter vii. the retreat from springfield. a council of war.--the journalists' council.--preparations for retreat.--preceding the advance-guard.--alarm and anxiety of the people.--magnificent distances.--a novel odometer.--the unreliable countryman.--neutrality.--a night at lebanon.--a disagreeable lodging-place.--active secessionists.--the man who sought and found his rights.--approaching civilization.--rebel couriers on the route.--arrival at rolla. on the night after the battle, the army was quartered at springfield. the rebels had returned to the battle-ground, and were holding it in possession. the court-house and a large hotel were taken for hospitals, and received such of our wounded as were brought in. at a council of war, it was decided to fall back to rolla, a hundred and twenty miles distant, and orders were given to move at daylight. the journalists held a council of war, and decided to commence their retreat at half-past two o'clock in the morning, in order to be in advance of the army. the probabilities were in favor of the enemy's cavalry being at the junction of certain roads, five miles east of the town. we, therefore, divested ourselves of every thing of a compromising character. in my own saddle-bags i took only such toilet articles as i had long carried, and which were not of a warlike nature. we destroyed papers that might give information to the enemy, and kept only our note-books, from which all reference to the strength of our army was carefully stricken out. we determined, in case of capture, to announce ourselves as journalists, and display our credentials. one of our party was a telegraph operator as well as a journalist. he did not wish to appear in the former character, as the missouri rebels were then declaring they would show no quarter to telegraphers. accordingly, he took special care to divest himself of all that pertained to the transmission of intelligence over the wires. a pocket "instrument," which he had hitherto carried, he concealed in springfield, after carefully disabling the office, and leaving the establishment unfit for immediate use. we passed the dangerous point five miles from town, just as day was breaking. no rebel cavalry confronted us in the highway, nor shouted an unwelcome "halt!" from a roadside thicket. all was still, though we fancied we could hear a sound of troops in motion far in the distance toward wilson creek. the rebels were doubtless astir, though they did not choose to interfere with the retreat of our army. as day broke and the sun rose, we found the people of both complexions thronging to the road, and seeking, anxiously, the latest intelligence. at first we bore their questions patiently, and briefly told them what had occurred. finding that we lost much time, we began, early in the day, to give the shortest answers possible. as fast as we proceeded the people became more earnest, and would insist upon delaying us. soon after mid-day we commenced denying we had been at the battle, or even in springfield. this was our only course if we would avoid detention. several residents of springfield, and with them a runaway captain from a kansas regiment, had preceded us a few hours and told much more than the truth. some of them had advised the people to abandon their homes and go to rolla or st. louis, assuring them they would all be murdered if they remained at home. in pursuance of this advice many were loading a portion of their household goods upon wagons and preparing to precede or follow the army in its retreat. we quieted their alarm as much as possible, advising them to stay at home and trust to fortune. we could not imagine that the rebels would deal severely with the inhabitants, except in cases where they had been conspicuous in the union cause. some of the people took our advice, unloaded their wagons, and waited for further developments. others persisted in their determination to leave. they knew the rebels better than we, and hesitated to trust their tender mercies. a year later we learned more of "the barbarism of slavery." southwest missouri is a region of magnificent distances. a mile in that locality is like two miles in the new england or middle states. the people have an easy way of computing distance by the survey lines. thus, if it is the width of a township from one point to another, they call the distance six miles, even though the road may follow the tortuosities of a creek or of the crest of a ridge, and be ten or twelve miles by actual measurement. from springfield to lebanon it is called fifty miles, as indicated by the survey lines. a large part of the way the route is quite direct, but there are places where it winds considerably among the hills, and adds several miles to the length of the road. no account is taken of this, but all is thrown into the general reckoning. there is a popular saying on the frontier, that they measure the roads with a fox-skin, and make no allowance for the tail. frequently i have been told it was five miles to a certain point, and, after an hour's riding, on inquiry, found that the place i sought was still five, and sometimes six, miles distant. once, when i essayed a "short cut" of two miles, that was to save me twice that distance, i rode at a good pace for an hour and a half to accomplish it, and traveled, as i thought, at least eight miles. on the route from springfield to lebanon we were much amused at the estimates of distance. once i asked a rough-looking farmer, "how far is it to sand springs?" "five miles, stranger," was the reply. "may be you won't find it so much." after riding three miles, and again inquiring, i was informed it was "risin' six miles to sand springs." who could believe in the existence of a reliable countryman, after that? thirty miles from springfield, we stopped at a farm-house for dinner. while our meal was being prepared, we lay upon the grass in front of the house, and were at once surrounded by a half-dozen anxious natives. we answered their questions to the best of our abilities, but nearly all of us fell asleep five minutes after lying down. when aroused for dinner, i was told i had paused in the middle of a word of two syllables, leaving my hearers to exercise their imaginations on what i was about to say. dinner was the usual "hog and hominy" of the southwest, varied with the smallest possible loaf of wheaten bread. outside the house, before dinner, the men were inquisitive. inside the house, when we were seated for dinner, the women were unceasing in their inquiries. who can resist the questions of a woman, even though she be an uneducated and unkempt missourian? the dinner and the questions kept us awake, and we attended faithfully to both. the people of this household were not enthusiastic friends of the union. like many other persons, they were anxious to preserve the good opinion of both sides, by doing nothing in behalf of either. thus neutral, they feared they would be less kindly treated by the rebels than by the national forces. though they had no particular love for our army, i think they were sorry to see it departing. a few of the secessionists were not slow to express the fear that their own army would not be able to pay in full for all it wanted, as our army had done. horses and riders refreshed, our journey was resumed. the scenes of the afternoon were like those of the morning: the same alarm among the people, the same exaggerated reports, and the same advice from ourselves, when we chose to give it. the road stretched out in the same way it had hitherto done, and the information derived from the inhabitants was as unreliable as ever. it was late in the evening, in the midst of a heavy shower, that we reached lebanon, where we halted for the night. i have somewhere read of a persian king who beheaded his subjects for the most trivial or imaginary offenses. the officers of his cabinet, when awaking in the morning, were accustomed to place their hands to their necks, to ascertain if their heads still remained. the individuals comprising our party had every reason to make a similar examination on the morning after our stay in this town, and to express many thanks at the gratifying result. on reaching the only hotel at lebanon, long after dark, we found the public room occupied by a miscellaneous assemblage. it was easy to see that they were more happy than otherwise at the defeat which our arms had sustained. while our supper was being prepared we made ready for it, all the time keeping our eyes on the company. we were watched as we went to supper, and, on reaching the table, found two persons sitting so near our allotted places that we could not converse freely. after supper several individuals wished to talk with us concerning the recent events. we made the battle appear much better than it had really been, and assured them that a company of cavalry was following close behind us, and would speedily arrive. this information was unwelcome, as the countenances of the listeners plainly indicated. one of our party was called aside by a union citizen, and informed of a plan to rob, and probably kill, us before morning. this was not pleasing. it did not add to the comfort of the situation to know that a collision between the home guards and a company of secessionists was momentarily expected. at either end of the town the opposing parties were reported preparing for a fight. as the hotel was about half-way between the two points, our position became interesting. next came a report from an unreliable contraband that our horses had been stolen. we went to the stable, as a man looks in a wallet he knows to be empty, and happily found our animals still there. we found, however, that the stable had been invaded and robbed of two horses in stalls adjacent to those of our own. the old story of the theft of a saw-mill, followed by that of the dam, was brought to our minds, with the exception, that the return of the thief was not likely to secure his capture. the stable-keeper offered to lock the door and resign the key to our care. his offer was probably well intended, but we could see little advantage in accepting it, as there were several irregular openings in the side of the building, each of them ample for the egress of a horse. in assigning us quarters for the night, the landlord suggested that two should occupy a room at one end of the house, while the rest were located elsewhere. we objected to this, and sustained our objection. with a little delay, a room sufficient for all of us was obtained. we made arrangements for the best possible defense in case of attack, and then lay down to sleep. our union friend called upon us before we were fairly settled to rest, bringing us intelligence that the room, where the guns of the home guard were temporarily stored, had been invaded while the sentinels were at supper. the locks had been removed from some of the muskets, but there were arms enough to make some resistance if necessary. telling him we would come out when the firing began, and requesting the landlord to send the cavalry commander to our room as soon as he arrived, we fell asleep. no one of our party carried his fears beyond the waking hours. in five minutes after dismissing our friend, all were enjoying a sleep as refreshing and undisturbed as if we had been in the most secure and luxurious dwelling of new york or chicago. during several years of travel under circumstances of greater or less danger, i have never found my sleep disturbed, in the slightest degree, by the nature of my surroundings. apprehensions of danger may be felt while one is awake, but they generally vanish when slumber begins. in the morning we found ourselves safe, and were gratified to discover that our horses had been let alone. the landlord declared every thing was perfectly quiet, and had been so through the night, with the exception of a little fight at one end of the town. the home guards were in possession, and the secessionists had dispersed. the latter deliberated upon the policy of attacking us, and decided that their town might be destroyed by our retreating army in case we were disturbed. they left us our horses, that we might get away from the place as speedily as possible. so we bade adieu to lebanon with much delight. that we came unmolested out of that nest of disloyalty, was a matter of much surprise. subsequent events, there and elsewhere, have greatly increased that surprise. after a ride of thirteen miles we reached the gasconade river, which we found considerably swollen by recent rains. the proprietor of the hotel where we breakfasted was a country doctor, who passed in that region as a man of great wisdom. he was intensely disloyal, and did not relish the prospect of having, as he called it, "an abolition army" moving anywhere in his vicinity. he was preparing to leave for the south, with his entire household, as soon as his affairs could be satisfactorily arranged. he had taken the oath of allegiance, to protect himself from harm at the hands of our soldiers, but his negroes informed us that he belonged to a company of "independent guards," which had been organized with the design of joining the rebel army. this gentleman was searching for his rights. i passed his place six months afterward. the doctor's negroes had run away to the north, and the doctor had vanished with his family in the opposite direction. his house had been burned, his stables stripped of every thing of value, and the whole surroundings formed a picture of desolation. the doctor had found a reward for his vigilant search. there was no doubt he had obtained his rights. having ended our breakfast, we decided to remain at that place until late in the afternoon, for the purpose of writing up our accounts. with a small table, and other accommodations of the worst character, we busied ourselves for several hours. to the persona of the household we were a curiosity. they had never before seen men who could write with a journalist's ordinary rapidity, and were greatly surprised at the large number of pages we succeeded in passing over. we were repeatedly interrupted, until forced to make a request to be let alone. the negroes took every opportunity to look at us, and, when none but ourselves could see them, they favored us with choice bits of local information. when we departed, late in the afternoon, four stout negroes ferried us across the river. a hotel known as the california house was our stopping-place, ten miles from the gasconade. as an evidence of our approaching return to civilization, we found each bed at this house supplied with two clean sheets, a luxury that springfield was unable to furnish. i regretted to find, several months later, that the california house had been burned by the rebels. at the time of our retreat, the landlord was unable to determine on which side of the question he belonged, and settled the matter, in conversation with me, by saying he was a hotel-keeper, and could not interfere in the great issue of the day. i inclined to the belief that he was a union man, but feared to declare himself on account of the dubious character of his surroundings. the rapidity with which the secessionists carried and received news was a matter of astonishment to our people. while on that ride through the southwest, i had an opportunity of learning their _modus operandi_. several times we saw horsemen ride to houses or stables, and, after a few moments' parley, exchange their wearied horses for fresh ones. the parties with whom they effected their exchanges would be found pretty well informed concerning the latest news. by this irregular system of couriers, the secessionists maintained a complete communication with each other. all along the route, i found they knew pretty well what had transpired, though their news was generally mixed up with much falsehood. even in those early days, there was a magnificence in the rebel capacity for lying. before the war, the northern states produced by far the greatest number of inventions, as the records of the patent office will show. during the late rebellion, the brains of the southern states were wonderfully fertile in the manufacture of falsehood. the inhabitants of dixie invent neither cotton-gins, caloric engines, nor sewing-machines, but when they apply their faculties to downright lying, the mudsill head is forced to bow in reverence. in the last day of this ride, we passed over a plateau twelve miles across, also over a mountain of considerable height. near the summit of this mountain, we struck a small brook, whose growth was an interesting study. at first, barely perceptible as it issued from a spring by the roadside, it grew, mile by mile, until, at the foot of the mountain, it formed a respectable stream. the road crossed it every few hundred yards, and at each crossing we watched its increase. at the base of the mountain it united with another and larger stream, which we followed on our way to rolla. late in the afternoon we reached the end of our journey. weary, dusty, hungry, and sore, we alighted from our tired horses, and sought the office of the commandant of the post. all were eager to gather the latest intelligence, and we were called upon to answer a thousand questions. with our story ended, ourselves refreshed from the fatigue of our long ride, a hope for the safety of our gallant but outnumbered army, we bade adieu to rolla, and were soon whirling over the rail to st. louis. chapter viii. general fremont's pursuit of price. quarrel between price and mcculloch.--the rebels advance upon lexington.--a novel defense for sharp-shooters.--attempt to re-enforce the garrison.--an enterprising journalist.--the surrender.--fremont's advance.--causes of delay.--how the journalists killed time.--late news.--a contractor "sold."--sigel in front.--a motley collection.--a wearied officer.--the woman who had never seen a black republican.--love and conversion. after the battle of wilson creek and the occupation of springfield, a quarrel arose between the rebel generals, price and mcculloch. it resulted in the latter being ordered to arkansas, leaving general price in command of the army in missouri. the latter had repeatedly promised to deliver missouri from the hands of the united states forces, and made his preparations for an advance into the interior. his intention, openly declared, was to take possession of jefferson city, and reinstate governor jackson in control of the state. the rebels wisely considered that a perambulating governor was not entitled to great respect, and were particularly anxious to see the proclamations of his excellency issued from the established capital. accordingly, general price, with an army twenty thousand strong, marched from springfield in the direction of lexington. this point was garrisoned by colonel mulligan with about twenty-five hundred men. after a siege of four days, during the last two of which the garrison was without water, the fort was surrendered. price's army was sufficiently large to make a complete investment of the fortifications occupied by colonel mulligan, and thus cut off all access to the river. the hemp warehouses in lexington were drawn upon to construct movable breast-works for the besieging force. rolling the bales of hemp before them, the rebel sharp-shooters could get very near the fort without placing themselves in great danger. the defense was gallant, but as no garrisons can exist without water, colonel mulligan was forced to capitulate. it afterward became known that price's army had almost exhausted its stock of percussion-caps--it having less than two thousand when the surrender was made. general fremont was highly censured by the press and people for not re-enforcing the garrison, when it was known that price was moving upon lexington. one journal in st. louis, that took occasion to comment adversely upon his conduct, was suddenly suppressed. after a stoppage of a few days, it was allowed to resume publication. during the siege a small column of infantry approached the north bank of the river, opposite lexington, with the design of joining colonel mulligan. the attempt was considered too hazardous, and no junction was effected. mr. wilkie, of the new york _times_, accompanied this column, and was much disappointed when the project of reaching lexington was given up. determined to see the battle, he crossed the river and surrendered himself to general price, with a request to be put on parole until the battle was ended. the rebel commander gave him quarters in the guardhouse till the surrender took place. mr. wilkie was then liberated, and reached st. louis with an exclusive account of the affair. while general price was holding lexington, general fremont commenced assembling an army at jefferson city, with the avowed intention of cutting off the retreat of the rebels through southwest missouri. from jefferson city our forces moved to tipton and syracuse, and there left the line of railway for a march to springfield. our movements were not conducted with celerity, and before we left jefferson city the rebels had evacuated lexington and moved toward springfield. the delay in our advance was chiefly owing to a lack of transportation and a deficiency of arms for the men. general fremont's friends charged that he was not properly sustained by the administration, in his efforts to outfit and organize his army. there was, doubtless, some ground for this charge, as the authorities, at that particular time, were unable to see any danger, except at washington. they often diverted to that point _matériel_ that had been originally designed for st. louis. as the army lay at jefferson city, preparing for the field, some twelve or fifteen journalists, representing the prominent papers of the country, assembled there to chronicle its achievements. they waited nearly two weeks for the movement to begin. some became sick, others left in disgust, but the most of them remained firm. the devices of the journalists to kill time were of an amusing nature. the town had no attractions whatever, and the gentlemen of the press devoted themselves to fast riding on the best horses they could obtain. their horseback excursions usually terminated in lively races, in which both riders and steeds were sufferers. the representatives of two widely-circulated dailies narrowly escaped being sent home with broken necks. evenings at the hotels were passed in reviving the "sky-larking" of school-boy days. these scenes were amusing to participants and spectators. sober, dignified men, the majority of them heads of families, occupied themselves in devising plans for the general amusement. one mode of enjoyment was to assemble in a certain large room, and throw at each other every portable article at hand, until exhaustion ensued. every thing that could be thrown or tossed was made use of. pillows, overcoats, blankets, valises, saddle-bags, bridles, satchels, towels, books, stove-wood, bed-clothing, chairs, window-curtains, and, ultimately, the fragments of the bedsteads, were transformed into missiles. i doubt if that house ever before, or since, knew so much noise in the same time. everybody enjoyed it except those who occupied adjoining rooms, and possessed a desire for sleep. some of these persons were inclined to excuse our hilarity, on the ground that the boys ought to enjoy themselves. "the boys!" most of them were on the shady side of twenty-five, and some had seen forty years. about nine o'clock in the forenoon of the day following price's evacuation of lexington, we obtained news of the movement. the mail at noon, and the telegraph before that time, carried all we had to say of the affair, and in a few hours we ceased to talk of it. on the evening of that day, a good-natured "contractor" visited our room, and, after indulging in our varied amusements until past eleven, bade us good-night and departed. many army contractors had grown fat in the country's service, but this man had a large accumulation of adipose matter before the war broke out. a rapid ascent of a long flight of stairs was, therefore, a serious matter with him. five minutes after leaving us, he dashed rapidly up the stairs and entered our room. as soon as he could speak, he asked, breathing between, the words-- "have you heard the news?" "no," we responded; "what is it?" "why" (with more efforts to recover his breath), "price has evacuated lexington!" "is it possible?" "yes," he gasped, and then sank exhausted into a large (very large) arm-chair. we gave him a glass of water and a fan, and urged him to proceed with the story. he told all he had just heard in the bar-room below, and we listened with the greatest apparent interest. when he had ended, we told him _our_ story. the quality and quantity of the wine which he immediately ordered, was only excelled by his hearty appreciation of the joke he had played upon himself. every army correspondent has often been furnished with "important intelligence" already in his possession, and sometimes in print before his well-meaning informant obtains it. a portion of general fremont's army marched from jefferson city to tipton and syracuse, while the balance, with most of the transportation, was sent by rail. general sigel was the first to receive orders to march his division from tipton to warsaw, and he was very prompt to obey. while other division commanders were waiting for their transportation to arrive from st. louis, sigel scoured the country and gathered up every thing with wheels. his train was the most motley collection of vehicles it has ever been my lot to witness. there were old wagons that made the journey from tennessee to missouri thirty years before, farm wagons and carts of every description, family carriages, spring wagons, stage-coaches, drays, and hay-carts. in fact, every thing that could carry a load was taken along. even pack-saddles were not neglected. horses, mules, jacks, oxen, and sometimes cows, formed the motive power. to stand by the roadside and witness the passage of general sigel's train, was equal to a visit to barnum's museum, and proved an unfailing source of mirth. [illustration: general sigel's transportation in the missouri campaign.] falstaff's train (if he had one) could not have been more picturesque. even the missourians, accustomed as they were to sorry sights, laughed heartily at the spectacle presented by sigel's transportation. the secessionists made several wrong deductions from the sad appearance of that train. some of them predicted that the division with _such_ a train would prove to be of little value in battle. never were men more completely deceived. the division marched rapidly, and, on a subsequent campaign, evinced its ability to fight. one after another, the divisions of fremont's army moved in chase of the rebels; a pursuit in which the pursued had a start of seventy-five miles, and a clear road before them. fremont and his staff left tipton, when three divisions had gone, and overtook the main column at warsaw. a few days later, mr. richardson, of the _tribune_, and myself started from syracuse at one o'clock, one pleasant afternoon, and, with a single halt of an hour's duration, reached warsaw, forty-seven miles distant, at ten o'clock at night. in the morning we found the general's staff comfortably quartered in the village. on the staff there were several gentlemen from new york and other eastern cities, who were totally unaccustomed to horseback exercise. one of these recounted the story of their "dreadful" journey of fifty miles from tipton. "only think of it!" said he; "we came through all that distance in less than three days. one day the general made us come _twenty-four_ miles." "that was very severe, indeed. i wonder how you endured it." "it _was_ severe, and nearly broke some of us down. by-the-way, mr. k----, how did you come over?" "oh," said i, carelessly, "richardson and i left syracuse at noon yesterday, and arrived here at ten last night." before that campaign was ended, general fremont's staff acquired some knowledge of horsemanship. at warsaw the party of journalists passed several waiting days, and domiciled themselves in the house of a widow who had one pretty daughter. our natural bashfulness was our great hinderance, so that it was a day or two before we made the acquaintance of the younger of the women. one evening she invited a young lady friend to visit her, and obliged us with introductions. the ladies persistently turned the conversation upon the rebellion, and gave us the benefit of their views. our young hostess, desiring to say something complimentary, declared she did not dislike the yankees, but despised the dutch and the black republicans." "do you dislike the black republicans very much?" said the _tribune_ correspondent. "oh! yes; i _hate_ them. i wish they were all dead." "well," was the quiet response, "we are black republicans. i am the blackest of them all." the fair secessionist was much confused, and for fully a minute remained silent. then she said-- "i must confess i did not fully understand what black republicans were. i never saw any before." during the evening she was quite courteous, though persistent in declaring her sentiments. her companion launched the most bitter invective at every thing identified with the union cause, and made some horrid wishes about general fremont and his army. a more vituperative female rebel i have never seen. she was as pretty as she was disloyal, and was, evidently, fully aware of it. a few months later, i learned that both these young ladies had become the wives of united states officers, and were complimenting, in high terms, the bravery and patriotism of the soldiers they had so recently despised. the majority of the inhabitants of warsaw were disloyal, and had little hesitation in declaring their sentiments. most of the young men were in the rebel army or preparing to go there. a careful search of several warehouses revealed extensive stores of powder, salt, shoes, and other military supplies. some of these articles were found in a cave a few miles from warsaw, their locality being made known by a negro who was present at their concealment. warsaw boasted a newspaper establishment, but the proprietor and editor of the weekly sheet had joined his fortunes to those of general price. two years before the time of our visit, this editor was a member of the state legislature, and made an earnest effort to secure the expulsion of the reporter of _the missouri_ _democrat_, on account of the radical tone of that paper. he was unsuccessful, but the aggrieved individual did not forgive him. when our army entered warsaw this reporter held a position on the staff of the general commanding. not finding his old adversary, he contented himself with taking possession of the printing-office, and "confiscating" whatever was needed for the use of head-quarters. about twenty miles from warsaw, on the road to booneville, there was a german settlement, known as cole camp. when the troubles commenced in missouri, a company of home guards was formed at cole camp. a few days after its formation a company of secessionists from warsaw made a night-march and attacked the home guards at daylight. though inflicting severe injury upon the home guards, the secessionists mourned the loss of the most prominent citizens of warsaw. they were soon after humiliated by the presence of a union army. chapter ix. the second campaign to springfield. detention at warsaw.--a bridge over the osage.--the body-guard.--manner of its organization.--the advance to springfield.--charge of the body-guard.--a corporal's ruse.--occupation of springfield--the situation.--wilson creek revisited.--traces of the battle.--rumored movements of the enemy.--removal of general fremont.--danger of attack.--a night of excitement.--the return to st. louis.--curiosities of the scouting service.--an arrest by mistake. the army was detained at warsaw, to wait the construction of a bridge over the osage for the passage of the artillery and heavy transportation. sigel's division was given the advance, and crossed before the bridge was finished. the main column moved as soon as the bridge permitted--the rear being brought up by mckinstry's division. a division from kansas, under general lane, was moving at the same time, to form a junction with fremont near springfield, and a brigade from rolla was advancing with the same object in view. general sturgis was in motion from north missouri, and there was a prospect that an army nearly forty thousand strong would be assembled at springfield. while general fremont was in st. louis, before setting out on this expedition, he organized the "fremont body-guard," which afterward became famous. this force consisted of four companies of cavalry, and was intended to form a full regiment. it was composed of the best class of the young men of st. louis and cincinnati. from the completeness of its outfit, it was often spoken of as the "kid-gloved regiment." general fremont designed it as a special body-guard for himself, to move when he moved, and to form a part of his head-quarter establishment. the manner of its organization was looked upon by many as a needless outlay, at a time when the finances of the department were in a disordered condition. the officers and the rank and file of the body-guard felt their pride touched by the comments upon them, and determined to take the first opportunity to vindicate their character as soldiers. when we were within fifty miles of springfield, it was ascertained that the main force of the rebels had moved southward, leaving behind them some two or three thousand men. general fremont ordered a cavalry force, including the body-guard, to advance upon the town. on reaching springfield the cavalry made a gallant charge upon the rebel camp, which was situated in a large field, bordered by a wood, within sight of the court-house. in this assault the loss of our forces, in proportion to the number engaged, was quite severe, but the enemy was put to flight, and the town occupied for a few hours. we gained nothing of a material nature, as the rebels would have quietly evacuated springfield at the approach of our main army. the courage of the body-guard, which no sensible man had doubted, was fully evinced by this gallant but useless charge. when the fight was over, the colonel in command ordered a retreat of twenty miles, to meet the advance of the army. a corporal with a dozen men became separated from the command while in springfield, and remained there until the following morning. he received a flag of truce from the rebels, asking permission to send a party to bury the dead. he told the bearer to wait until he could consult his "general," who was supposed to be lying down in the back office. the "general" replied that his "division" was too much exasperated to render it prudent for a delegation from the enemy to enter town, and therefore declined to grant the request. at the same time he promised to send out strong details to attend to the sad duty. at sunrise he thought it best to follow the movements of his superior officer, lest the rebels might discover his ruse and effect his capture. two days after the charge of the body-guard, the advance of the infantry entered springfield without the slightest opposition. the army gradually came up, and the occupation of the key of southwest missouri was completed. the rebel army fell back toward the arkansas line, to meet a force supposed to be marching northward from fayetteville. there was little expectation that the rebels would seek to engage us. the only possible prospect of their assuming the offensive was in the event of a junction between price and mcculloch, rendering them numerically superior to ourselves. during our occupation of springfield i paid a visit to the wilson creek battle-ground. it was eleven weeks from the day i had left it. approaching the field, i was impressed by its stillness, so different from the tumult on the th of the previous august. it was difficult to realize that the spot, now so quiet, had been the scene of a sanguinary contest. the rippling of the creek, and the occasional chirp of a bird, were the only noises that came to our ears. there was no motion of the air, not enough to disturb the leaves freshly fallen from the numerous oak-trees on the battle-field. at each step i could but contrast the cool, calm, indian-summer day, with the hot, august morning, when the battle took place. all sounds of battle were gone, but the traces of the encounter had not disappeared. as we followed the route leading to the field, i turned from the beaten track and rode among the trees. ascending a slight acclivity, i found my horse half-stumbling over some object between his feet. looking down, i discovered a human skull, partly covered by the luxuriant grass. at a little distance lay the dismembered skeleton to which the skull evidently belonged. it was doubtless that of some soldier who had crawled there while wounded, and sunk exhausted at the foot of a tree. the bits of clothing covering the ground showed that either birds or wild animals had been busy with the remains. not far off lay another skeleton, disturbed and dismembered like the other. other traces of the conflict were visible, as i moved slowly over the field. here were scattered graves, each for a single person; there a large grave, that had received a dozen bodies of the slain. here were fragments of clothing and equipments, pieces of broken weapons; the shattered wheel of a caisson, and near it the exploded shell that destroyed it. skeletons of horses, graves of men, scarred trees, trampled graves, the ruins of the burned wagons of the rebels, all formed their portion of the picture. it well illustrated the desolation of war. the spot where general lyon fell was marked by a rude inscription upon the nearest tree. the skeleton of the general's favorite horse lay near this tree, and had been partially broken up by relic-seekers. the long, glossy mane was cut off by the rebel soldiers on the day after the battle, and worn by them as a badge of honor. subsequently the teeth and bones were appropriated by both rebels and unionists. even the tree that designated the locality was partially stripped of its limbs to furnish souvenirs of wilson creek. during the first few days of our stay in springfield, there were vague rumors that the army was preparing for a long march into the enemy's country. the rebel army was reported at cassville, fifty-five miles distant, fortifying in a strong position. general price and governor jackson had convened the remnant of the missouri legislature, and caused the state to be voted out of the union. it was supposed we would advance and expel the rebels from the state. while we were making ready to move, it was reported that the rebel army at cassville had received large re-enforcements from arkansas, and was moving in our direction. of course, all were anxious for a battle, and hailed this intelligence with delight. at the same time there were rumors of trouble from another direction--trouble to the commander-in-chief. the vague reports of his coming decapitation were followed by the arrival, on the d of november, of the unconditional order removing general fremont from command, and appointing general hunter in his stead. just before the reception of this order, "positive" news was received that the enemy was advancing from cassville toward springfield, and would either attack us in the town, or meet us on the ground south of it. general hunter had not arrived, and therefore general fremont formed his plan of battle, and determined on marching out to meet the enemy. on the morning of the d, the scouts brought intelligence that the entire rebel army was in camp on the old wilson creek battle-ground, and would fight us there. a council of war was called, and it was decided to attack the enemy on the following morning, if general hunter did not arrive before that time. some of the officers were suspicious that the rebels were not in force at wilson creek, but when fremont announced it officially there could be little room for doubt. every thing was put in readiness for battle. generals of division were ordered to be ready to move at a moment's notice. the pickets were doubled, and the grand guards increased to an unusual extent. four pieces of artillery formed a portion of the picket force on the fayetteville road, the direct route to wilson creek. if an enemy had approached on that night he would have met a warm reception. about seven o'clock in the evening, a staff officer, who kept the journalists informed of the progress of affairs, visited general fremont's head-quarters. he soon emerged with important intelligence. "it is all settled. the army is ready to move at the instant. orders will be issued at two o'clock, and we will be under way before daylight. skirmishing will begin at nine, and the full battle will be drawn on at twelve." "is the plan arranged?" "yes, it is all arranged; but i did not ask how." "battle sure to come off--is it?" "certainly, unless hunter comes and countermands the order." alas, for human calculations! general hunter arrived before midnight. two o'clock came, but no orders to break camp. daylight, and no orders to march. breakfast-time, and not a hostile shot had been heard. nine o'clock, and no skirmish. twelve o'clock, and no battle. general fremont and staff returned to st. louis. general hunter made a reconnoissance to wilson creek, and ascertained that the only enemy that had been in the vicinity was a scouting party of forty or fifty men. at the time we were to march out, there was not a rebel on the ground. their whole army was still at cassville, fifty-five miles from springfield. on the th of november the army evacuated springfield and returned to the line of the pacific railway. general fremont's scouts had deceived him. some of these individuals were exceedingly credulous, while others were liars of the highest grade known to civilization. the former obtained their information from the frightened inhabitants; the latter manufactured theirs with the aid of vivid imaginations. i half suspect the fellows were like the showman in the story, and, at length, religiously believed what they first designed as a hoax. between the two classes of scouts a large army of rebels was created. the scouting service often develops characters of a peculiar mould. nearly every man engaged in it has some particular branch in which he excels. there was one young man accompanying general fremont's army, whose equal, as a special forager, i have never seen elsewhere. whenever we entered camp, this individual, whom i will call the captain, would take a half-dozen companions and start on a foraging tour. after an absence of from four to six hours, he would return well-laden with the spoils of war. on one occasion he brought to camp three horses, two cows, a yoke of oxen, and a wagon. in the latter he had a barrel of sorghum molasses, a firkin of butter, two sheep, a pair of fox-hounds, a hoop-skirt, a corn-sheller, a baby's cradle, a lot of crockery, half a dozen padlocks, two hoes, and a rocking-chair. on the next night he returned with a family carriage drawn by a horse and a mule. in the carriage he had, among other things, a parrot-cage which contained a screaming parrot, several pairs of ladies' shoes, a few yards of calico, the stock of an old musket, part of a spinning-wheel, and a box of garden seeds. in what way these things would contribute to the support of the army, it was difficult to understand. on one occasion the captain found a trunk full of clothing, concealed with a lot of salt in a rebel warehouse. he brought the trunk to camp, and, as the quartermaster refused to receive it, took it to st. louis when the expedition returned. at the hotel where he was stopping, some detectives were watching a suspected thief, and, by mistake, searched the captain's room. they found a trunk containing thirteen coats of all sizes, with no pants or vests. naturally considering this a strange wardrobe for a gentleman, they took the captain into custody. he protested earnestly that he was not, and had never been, a thief, but it was only on the testimony of the quartermaster that he was released. i believe he subsequently acted as a scout under general halleck, during the siege of corinth. after the withdrawal of our army, general price returned to springfield and went into winter-quarters. mcculloch's command formed a cantonment at cross hollows, arkansas, about ninety miles southwest of springfield. there was no prospect of further activity until the ensuing spring. every thing betokened rest. from springfield i returned to st. louis by way of rolla, designing to follow the example of the army, and seek a good locality for hibernating. on my way to rolla i found many houses deserted, or tenanted only by women and children. frequently the crops were standing, ungathered, in the field. fences were prostrated, and there was no effort to restore them. the desolation of that region was just beginning. chapter x. two months of idleness. a promise fulfilled.--capture of a rebel camp and train.--rebel sympathizers in st. louis.--general halleck and his policy.--refugees from rebeldom.--story of the sufferings of a union family.--chivalry in the nineteenth century.--the army of the southwest in motion.--gun-boats and transports.--capture of fort henry.--the effect in st. louis.--our flag advancing. early in the december following the events narrated in the last chapter, general pope captured a camp in the interior of the state, where recruits were being collected for price's army. after the return of fremont's army from springfield, the rebels boasted they would eat their christmas dinner in st. louis. many secessionists were making preparations to receive price and his army, and some of them prophesied the time of their arrival. it was known that a goodly number of rebel flags had been made ready to hang out when the conquerors should come. sympathizers with the rebellion became bold, and often displayed badges, rosettes, and small flags, indicative of their feelings. recruiting for the rebel army went on, very quietly, of course, within a hundred yards of the city hall. at a fair for the benefit of the orphan asylum, the ladies openly displayed rebel insignia, but carefully excluded the national emblems. this was the state of affairs when eight hundred rebels arrived in st. louis. they redeemed their promise to enjoy a christmas dinner in st. louis, though they had counted upon more freedom than they were then able to obtain. in order that they might carry out, in part, their original intention, their kind-hearted jailers permitted the friends of the prisoners to send a dinner to the latter on christmas day. the prisoners partook of the repast with much relish. the capture of those recruits was accompanied by the seizure of a supply train on its way to springfield. our success served to diminish the rebel threats to capture st. louis, or perform other great and chivalric deeds. the inhabitants of that city continued to prophesy its fall, but they were less defiant than before. general fremont commanded the western department for just a hundred days. general hunter, his successor, was dressed in brief authority for fifteen days, and yielded to general halleck. the latter officer endeavored to make his rule as unlike that of general fremont as could well be done. he quietly made his head-quarters at the government buildings, in the center of st. louis, instead of occupying a "palatial mansion" on chouteau avenue. the body-guard, or other cumbersome escort, was abolished, and the new general moved unattended about the city. where general fremont had scattered the government funds with a wasteful hand, general halleck studied economy. where fremont had declared freedom to the slaves of traitors, halleck issued his famous "order no. ," forbidding fugitive slaves to enter our lines, and excluding all that were then in the military camps. where general fremont had surrounded his head-quarters with so great a retinue of guards that access was almost impossible, general halleck made it easy for all visitors to see him. he generally gave them such a reception that few gentlemen felt inclined to make a second call. the policy of scattering the military forces in the department was abandoned, and a system of concentration adopted. the construction of the gun-boat fleet, and accompanying mortar-rafts, was vigorously pushed, and preparations for military work in the ensuing spring went on in all directions. our armies were really idle, and we were doing very little on the mississippi; but it was easy to see that we were making ready for the most vigorous activity in the future. in the latter part of december many refugees from the southwest began to arrive in st. louis. in most cases they were of the poorer class of the inhabitants of missouri and northern arkansas, and had been driven from their homes by their wealthier and disloyal neighbors. their stories varied little from each other. known or suspected to be loyal, they were summarily expelled, generally with the loss of every thing, save a few articles of necessity. there were many women and children among them, whose protectors had been driven into the rebel ranks, or murdered in cold blood. many of them died soon after they reached our lines, and there were large numbers who perished on their way. among those who arrived early in january, , was a man from northern arkansas. born in pennsylvania, he emigrated to the southwest in , and, after a few years' wandering, settled near fayetteville. when the war broke out, he had a small farm and a comfortable house, and his two sons were married and living near him. in the autumn of ' , his elder son was impressed into the rebel service, where he soon died. the younger was ordered to report at fayetteville, for duty. failing to do so on the day specified, he was shot down in his own house on the following night. his body fell upon one of his children standing near him, and his blood saturated its garments. the day following, the widow, with two small children, was notified to leave the dwelling, as orders had been issued for its destruction. giving her no time to remove any thing, the rebel soldiers, claiming to act under military command, fired the house. in this party were two persons who had been well acquainted with the murdered man. the widow sought shelter with her husband's parents. the widow of the elder son went to the same place of refuge. thus there were living, under one roof, the old man, his wife, a daughter of seventeen, and the two widows, one with two, and the other with three, children. a week afterward, all were commanded to leave the country. no cause was assigned, beyond the fact that the man was born in the north, and had been harboring the family of his son, who refused to serve in the rebel ranks. they were told they could have two days for preparation, but within ten hours of the time the notice was served, a gang of rebels appeared at the door, and ordered an instant departure. they made a rigid search of the persons of the refugees, to be sure they took away nothing of value. only a single wagon was allowed, and in this were placed a few articles of necessity. as they moved away, the rebels applied the torch to the house and its out-buildings. in a few moments all were in flames. the house of the elder son's widow shared the same fete. they were followed to the missouri line, and ordered to make no halt under penalty of death. it was more than two hundred miles to our lines, and winter was just beginning. one after another fell ill and died, or was left with union people along the way. only four of the party reached our army at rolla. two of these died a few days after their arrival, leaving only a young child and its grandfather. at st. louis the survivors were kindly cared for, but the grief at leaving home, the hardships of the winter journey, and their destitution among strangers, had so worn upon them that they soon followed the other members of their family. there have been thousands of cases nearly parallel to the above. the rebels claimed to be fighting for political freedom, and charged the national government with the most unheard-of "tyranny." we can well be excused for not countenancing a political freedom that kills men at their firesides, and drives women and children to seek protection under another flag. we have heard much, in the past twenty years, of "southern chivalry." if the deeds of which the rebels were guilty are characteristic of chivalry, who would wish to be a son of the cavaliers? the insignia worn in the middle ages are set aside, to make room for the torch and the knife. the chivalry that deliberately starves its prisoners, to render them unable to return to the field, and sends blood-hounds on the track of those who attempt an escape from their hands, is the chivalry of modern days. winder is the coeur-de-leon, and quantrel the bayard, of the nineteenth century; knights "without fear and without reproach." early in january, the army of the southwest, under general curtis, was put in condition for moving. orders were issued cutting down the allowance of transportation, and throwing away every thing superfluous. colonel carr, with a cavalry division, was sent to the line of the gasconade, to watch the movements of the enemy. it was the preliminary to the march into arkansas, which resulted in the battle of pea ridge and the famous campaign of general curtis from springfield to helena. as fast as possible, the gun-boat fleet was pushed to completion. one after another, as the iron-clads were ready to move, they made their rendezvous at cairo. advertisements of the quartermaster's department, calling for a large number of transports, showed that offensive movements were to take place. in february, fort henry fell, after an hour's shelling from admiral foote's gun-boats. this opened the way up the tennessee river to a position on the flank of columbus, kentucky, and was followed by the evacuation of that point. i was in st. louis on the day the news of the fall of fort henry was received. the newspapers issued "extras," with astonishing head-lines. it was the first gratifying intelligence after a long winter of inactivity, following a year which, closed with general reverses to our arms. in walking the principal streets of st. louis on that occasion, i could easily distinguish the loyal men of my acquaintance from the disloyal, at half a square's distance. the former were excited with delight; the latter were downcast with sorrow. the union men walked rapidly, with, faces "wreathed in smiles;" the secessionists moved with alternate slow and quick steps, while their countenances expressed all the sad emotions. the newsboys with the tidings of our success were patronized by the one and repelled by the other. i saw one of the venders of intelligence enter the store of a noted secessionist, where he shouted the nature of the news at the highest note of his voice. a moment later he emerged from the door, bringing the impress of a secessionist's boot. the day and the night witnessed much hilarity in loyal circles, and a corresponding gloom in quarters where treason ruled. i fear there were many men in st. louis whose conduct was no recommendation to the membership of a temperance society. all felt that a new era had dawned upon us. soon after came the tidings of a general advance of our armies. we moved in virginia, and made the beginning of the checkered campaign of ' . along the atlantic coast we moved, and newbern fell into our hands. further down the atlantic, and at the mouth of the mississippi, we kept up the aggression. grant, at donelson, "moved immediately upon buckner's works;" and, in kentucky, the army of the ohio occupied bowling green and prepared to move upon nashville. in missouri, curtis had already occupied lebanon, and was making ready to assault price at springfield. everywhere our flag was going forward. chapter xi. another campaign in missouri. from st. louis to rolla.--a limited outfit.--missouri roads in winter.--"two solitary horsemen."--restricted accommodations in a slaveholder's house.--an energetic quartermaster.--general sheridan before he became famous.--"bagging price."--a defect in the bag.--examining the correspondence of a rebel general.--what the rebels left at their departure. on the th of february i left st. louis to join general curtis's army. arriving at rolla, i found the mud very deep, but was told the roads were in better condition a few miles to the west. with an _attaché_ of the missouri _democrat_, i started, on the morning of the th, to overtake the army, then reported at lebanon, sixty-five miles distant. all my outfit for a two or three months' campaign, was strapped behind my saddle, or crowded into my saddle-bags. traveling with a trunk is one of the delights unknown to army correspondents, especially to those in the southwest. my companion carried an outfit similar to mine, with the exception of the saddle-bags and contents. i returned to rolla eight weeks afterward, but he did not reach civilization till the following july. from rolla to lebanon the roads were bad--muddy in the valleys of the streams, and on the higher ground frozen into inequalities like a gigantic rasp. over this route our army of sixteen thousand men had slowly made its way, accomplishing what was then thought next to impossible. i found the country had changed much in appearance since i passed through on my way to join general lyon. many houses had been burned and others deserted. the few people that remained confessed themselves almost destitute of food. frequently we could not obtain entertainment for ourselves and horses, particularly the latter. the natives were suspicious of our character, as there was nothing in our dress indicating to which side we belonged. at such times the cross-questioning we underwent was exceedingly amusing, though coupled with the knowledge that our lives were not entirely free from danger. from lebanon we pushed on to springfield, through a keen, piercing wind, that swept from the northwest with unremitting steadiness. the night between those points was passed in a log-house with a single room, where ourselves and the family of six persons were lodged. in the bitter cold morning that followed, it was necessary to open the door to give us sufficient light to take breakfast, as the house could not boast of a window. the owner of the establishment said he had lived there eighteen years, and found it very comfortable. he tilled a small farm, and had earned sufficient money to purchase three slaves, who dwelt in a similar cabin, close beside his own, but not joining it. one of these slaves was cook and housemaid, and another found the care of four children enough for her attention. the third was a man upward of fifty years old, who acted as stable-keeper, and manager of the out-door work of the establishment. the situation of this landholder struck me as peculiar, though his case was not a solitary one. a house of one room and with no window, a similar house for his human property, and a stable rudely constructed of small poles, with its sides offering as little protection against the wind and storms as an ordinary fence, were the only buildings he possessed. his furniture was in keeping with the buildings. beds without sheets, a table without a cloth, some of the plates of tin and others of crockery--the former battered and the latter cracked--a less number of knives and forks than there were persons to be supplied, tin cups for drinking coffee, an old fruit-can for a sugar-bowl, and two teaspoons for the use of a large family, formed the most noticeable features. with such surroundings he had invested three thousand dollars in negro property, and considered himself comfortably situated. reaching springfield, i found the army had passed on in pursuit of price, leaving only one brigade as a garrison. the quartermaster of the army of the southwest had his office in one of the principal buildings, and was busily engaged in superintending the forwarding of supplies to the front. every thing under his charge received his personal attention, and there was no reason to suppose the army would lack for subsistence, so long as he should remain to supply its wants. presenting him a letter of introduction, i received a most cordial welcome. i found him a modest and agreeable gentleman, whose private excellence was only equaled by his energy in the performance of his official duties. this quartermaster was captain philip h. sheridan. the double bars that marked his rank at that time, have since been exchanged for other insignia. the reader is doubtless familiar with the important part taken by this gallant officer, in the suppression of the late rebellion. general curtis had attempted to surround and capture price and his army, before they could escape from springfield. captain sheridan told me that general curtis surrounded the town on one side, leaving two good roads at the other, by which the rebels marched out. our advance from lebanon was as rapid as the circumstances would permit, but it was impossible to keep the rebels in ignorance of it, or detain them against their will. one of the many efforts to "bag" price had resulted like all the others. we closed with the utmost care every part of the bag except the mouth; out of this he walked by the simple use of his pedals. operations like those of island number ten, vicksburg, and port hudson, were not then in vogue. price was in full retreat toward arkansas, and our army in hot pursuit. general sigel, with two full divisions, marched by a road parallel to the line of price's retreat, and attempted to get in his front at a point forty miles from springfield. his line of march was ten miles longer than the route followed by the rebels, and he did not succeed in striking the main road until price had passed. i had the pleasure of going through general price's head-quarters only two days after that officer abandoned them. there was every evidence of a hasty departure. i found, among other documents, the following order for the evacuation of springfield:-- head-quarters missouri state guard, springfield, _february_ , . the commanders of divisions will instanter, and without the least delay, see that their entire commands are ready for movement at a moment's notice. by order of major-general s. price. h.h. brand, a.a.g. there was much of general price's private correspondence, together with many official documents. some of these i secured, but destroyed them three weeks later, at a moment when i expected to fall into the hands of the enemy. one letter, which revealed the treatment union men were receiving in arkansas, i forwarded to _the herald_. i reproduce its material portions:-- dover, pope co., arkansas, _december_ , . major-general price: i wish to obtain a situation as surgeon in your army. * * * our men over the boston mountains are penning and hanging the mountain boys who oppose southern men. they have in camp thirty, and in the burrowville jail seventy-two, and have sent twenty-seven to little rock. we will kill all we get, certain: every one is so many less. i hope you will soon get help enough to clear out the last one in your state. if you know them, they ought to be killed, as the older they grow the more stubborn they get. your most obedient servant, james l. adams. in his departure, general price had taken most of his personal property of any value. he left a very good array of desks and other appurtenances of his adjutant-general's office, which fell into general curtis's hands. these articles were at once put into use by our officers, and remained in springfield as trophies of our success. there was some war _matériel_ at the founderies and temporary arsenals which the rebels had established. one store full of supplies they left undisturbed. it was soon appropriated by captain sheridan. the winter-quarters for the soldiers were sufficiently commodious to contain ten thousand men, and the condition in which we found them showed how hastily they were evacuated. very little had been removed from the buildings, except those articles needed for the march. we found cooking utensils containing the remains of the last meal, pans with freshly-mixed dough, on which the impression of the maker's hand was visible, and sheep and hogs newly killed and half dressed. in the officers' quarters was a beggarly array of empty bottles, and a few cases that had contained cigars. one of our soldiers was fortunate in finding a gold watch in the straw of a bunk. there were cribs of corn, stacks of forage, and a considerable quantity of army supplies. every thing evinced a hasty departure. chapter xii. the flight and the pursuit. from springfield to pea ridge.--mark tapley in missouri.--"the arkansas traveler."--encountering the rebel army.--a "wonderful spring."--the cantonment at cross hollows.--game chickens.--magruder _vs_. breckinridge.--rebel generals in a controversy.--its result.--an expedition to huntsville.--curiosities of rebel currency.--important information.--a long and weary march.--disposition of forces before the battle.--changing front.--what the rebels lost by ignorance. when it became certain the army would continue its march into arkansas, myself and the _democrat's_ correspondent pushed forward to overtake it. along the road we learned of the rapid retreat of the rebels, and the equally rapid pursuit by our own forces. about twenty miles south of springfield one of the natives came to his door to greet us. learning to which army we belonged, he was very voluble in his efforts to explain the consternation of the rebels. a half-dozen of his neighbors were by his side, and joined in the hilarity of the occasion. i saw that something more than usual was the cause of their assembling, and inquired what it could be. "my wife died this morning, and my friends have come here to see me," was the answer i received from the proprietor of the house. almost at the instant of completing the sentence, he burst into a laugh, and said, "it would have done you good to see how your folks captured a big drove of price's cattle. the rebs were driving them along all right, and your cavalry just came up and took them. it was rich, i tell you. ha! ha!" not knowing what condolence to offer a man who could be so gay after the death of his wife, i bade him good-morning, and pushed on. he had not, as far as i could perceive, the single excuse of being intoxicated, and his display of vivacity appeared entirely genuine. in all my travels i have never met his equal. up to the time of this campaign none of our armies had been into arkansas. when general curtis approached the line, the head of the column was halted, the regiments closed up, and the men brought their muskets to the "right shoulder shift," instead of the customary "at will" of the march. two bands were sent to the front, where a small post marked the boundary, and were stationed by the roadside, one in either state. close by them the national flag was unfurled. the bands struck up "the arkansas traveler," the order to advance was given, and, with many cheers in honor of the event, the column moved onward. for several days "the arkansas traveler" was exceedingly popular with the entire command. on the night after crossing the line the news of the fall of fort donelson was received. soon after entering arkansas on his retreat, general price met general mcculloch moving northward to join him. with their forces united, they determined on making a stand against general curtis, and, accordingly, halted near sugar creek. a little skirmish ensued, in which the rebels gave way, the loss on either side being trifling. they did not stop until they reached fayetteville. their halt at that point was very brief. at cross hollows, in benton county, arkansas, about two miles from the main road, there is one of the finest springs in the southwest. it issues from the base of a rocky ledge, where the ravine is about three hundred yards wide, and forms the head of a large brook. two small flouring mills are run during the entire year by the water from this spring. the water is at all times clear, cold, and pure, and is said never to vary in quantity. along the stream fed by this spring, the rebels had established a cantonment for the army of northern arkansas, and erected houses capable of containing ten or twelve thousand men. the cantonment was laid out with the regularity of a western city. the houses were constructed of sawed lumber, and provided with substantial brick chimneys. of course, this establishment was abandoned when the rebel army retreated. the buildings were set on fire, and all but a half-dozen of them consumed. when our cavalry reached the place, the rear-guard of the rebels had been gone less than half an hour. there were about two hundred chickens running loose among the burning buildings. our soldiers commenced killing them, and had slaughtered two-thirds of the lot when one of the officers discovered that they were game-cocks. this class of chickens not being considered edible, the killing was stopped and the balance of the flock saved. afterward, while we lay in camp, they were made a source of much amusement. the cock-fights that took place in general curtis's army would have done honor to havana or vera cruz. before we captured them the birds were the property of the officers of a louisiana regiment. we gave them the names of the rebel leaders. it was an every-day affair for beauregard, van dorn, and price to be matched against lee, johnston, and polk. i remember losing a small wager on magruder against breckinridge. i should have won if breck had not torn the feathers from mac's neck, and injured his right wing by a foul blow. i never backed magruder after that. from cross hollows, general curtis sent a division in pursuit of price's army, in its retreat through fayetteville, twenty-two miles distant. on reaching the town they found the rebels had left in the direction of fort smith. the pursuit terminated at this point. it had been continued for a hundred and ten miles--a large portion of the distance our advance being within a mile or two of the rebel rear. in retreating from fayetteville, the rebels were obliged to abandon much of the supplies for their army. a serious quarrel is reported to have taken place between price and mcculloch, concerning the disposition to be made of these supplies. the former was in favor of leaving the large amount of stores, of which, bacon was the chief article, that it might fall into our hands. he argued that we had occupied the country, and would stay there until driven out. our army would be subsisted at all hazards. if we found this large quantity of bacon, it would obviate the necessity of our foraging upon the country and impoverishing the inhabitants. general mcculloch opposed this policy, and accused price of a desire to play into the enemy's hands. the quarrel became warm, and resulted in the discomfiture of the latter. all the rebel warehouses were set on fire. when our troops entered fayetteville the conflagration was at its height. it resulted as price had predicted. the inhabitants were compelled, in great measure, to support our army. the rebels retreated across the boston mountains to fort smith, and commenced a reorganization of their army. our army remained at cross hollows as its central point, but threw out its wings so as to form a front nearly five miles in extent. small expeditions were sent in various directions to break up rebel camps and recruiting stations. in this way two weeks passed with little activity beyond a careful observation of the enemy's movements. there were several flouring mills in the vicinity of our camp, which were kept in constant activity for the benefit of the army. i accompanied an expedition, commanded by colonel vandever, of the ninth iowa, to the town of huntsville, thirty-five miles distant. our march occupied two days, and resulted in the occupation of the town and the dispersal of a small camp of rebels. we had no fighting, scarcely a shot being fired in anger. the inhabitants did not greet us very cordially, though some of them professed union sentiments. in this town of huntsville, the best friend of the union was the keeper of a whisky-shop. this man desired to look at some of our money, but declined to take it. an officer procured a canteen of whisky and tendered a treasury note in payment. the note was refused, with a request for either gold or rebel paper. the officer then exhibited a large sheet of "promises to pay," which he had procured in fayetteville a few days before, and asked how they would answer. "that is just what i want," said the whisky vender. the officer called his attention to the fact that the notes had no signatures. "that don't make any difference," was the reply; "nobody will know whether they are signed or not, and they are just as good, anyhow." i was a listener to the conversation, and at this juncture proffered a pair of scissors to assist in dividing the notes. it took but a short time to cut off enough "money" to pay for twenty canteens of the worst whisky i ever saw. at huntsville we made a few prisoners, who said they were on their way from price's army to forsyth, missouri. they gave us the important information that the rebel army, thirty thousand strong, was on the boston mountains the day previous; and on the very day of our arrival at huntsville, it was to begin its advance toward our front. these men, and some others, had been sent away because they had no weapons with which to enter the fight. immediately on learning this, colonel vandever dispatched a courier to general curtis, and prepared to set out on his return to the main army. we marched six miles before nightfall, and at midnight, while we were endeavoring to sleep, a courier joined us from the commander-in-chief. he brought orders for us to make our way back with all possible speed, as the rebel army was advancing in full force. at two o'clock we broke camp, and, with only one halt of an hour, made a forced march of forty-one miles, joining the main column at ten o'clock at night. i doubt if there were many occasions during the war where better marching was done by infantry than on that day. of course, the soldiers were much fatigued, but were ready, on the following day, to take active part in the battle. on the th of march, as soon as general curtis learned of the rebel advance, he ordered general sigel, who was in camp at bentonville, to fall back to pea ridge, on the north bank of sugar creek. at the same time he withdrew colonel jeff. c. davis's division to the same locality. this placed the army in a strong, defensible position, with the creek in its front. on the ridge above the stream our artillery and infantry were posted. the rebel armies under price and mcculloch had been united and strongly re-enforced, the whole being under the command of general van dorn. their strength was upward of twenty thousand men, and they were confident of their ability to overpower us. knowing our strong front line, general van dorn decided upon a bold movement, and threw himself around our right flank to a position between us and our base at springfield. in moving to our right and rear, the rebels encountered general sigel's division before it had left bentonville, and kept up a running fight during the afternoon of the th. several times the rebels, in small force, secured positions in sigel's front, but that officer succeeded in cutting his way through and reaching the main force, with a loss of less than a hundred men. the position of the enemy at bentonville showed us his intentions, and we made our best preparations to oppose him. our first step was to obstruct the road from bentonville to our rear, so as to retard the enemy's movements. colonel dodge, of the fourth iowa (afterward a major-general), rose from a sick-bed to perform this work. the impediments which he placed in the way of the rebels prevented their reaching the road in our rear until nine o'clock on the morning of the th. our next movement was to reverse our position. we had been facing south--it was now necessary to face to the north. the line that had been our rear became our front. a change of front implied that our artillery train should take the place of the supply train, and _vice versâ_. "elkhorn tavern" had been the quartermaster's depot. we made all haste to substitute artillery for baggage-wagons, and boxes of ammunition for boxes of hard bread. this transfer was not accomplished before the battle began, and as our troops were pressed steadily back on our new front, elkhorn tavern fell into the hands of the rebels. the sugar, salt, and bread which they captured, happily not of large quantity, were very acceptable, and speedily disappeared. among the quartermaster's stores was a wagon-load of desiccated vegetables, a very valuable article for an army in the field. all expected it would be made into soup and eaten by the rebels. what was our astonishment to find, two days later, that they had opened and examined a single case, and, after scattering its contents on the ground, left the balance undisturbed! elkhorn tavern was designated by a pair of elk-horns, which occupied a conspicuous position above the door. after the battle these horns were removed by colonel carr, and sent to his home in illinois, as trophies of the victory. a family occupied the building at the time of the battle, and remained there during the whole contest. when the battle raged most fiercely the cellar proved a place of refuge. shells tore through the house, sometimes from the national batteries, and sometimes from rebel guns. one shell exploded in a room where three women were sitting. though their clothes were torn by the flying fragments, they escaped without personal injury. they announced their determination not to leave home so long as the house remained standing. among other things captured at elkhorn tavern by the rebels, was a sutler's wagon, which, had just arrived from st. louis. in the division of the spoils, a large box, filled with wallets, fell to the lot of mcdonald's battery. for several weeks the officers and privates of this battery could boast of a dozen wallets each, while very few had any money to carry. the rebel soldiers complained that the visits of the paymaster were like those of angels. chapter xiii. the battle of pea ridge. the rebels make their attack.--albert pike and his indians.--scalping wounded men.--death of general mcculloch.--the fighting at elkhorn tavern.--close of a gloomy day.--an unpleasant night.--vocal sounds from a mule's throat.--sleeping under disadvantages.--a favorable morning.--the opposing lines of battle.--a severe cannonade.--the forest on fire.--wounded men in the flames.--the rebels in retreat.--movements of our army.--a journey to st. louis. about nine o'clock on the morning of the th, the rebels made a simultaneous attack on our left and front, formerly our right and rear. general price commanded the force on our front, and general mcculloch that on our left; the former having the old army of missouri, re-enforced by several arkansas regiments, and the latter having a corps made up of arkansas, texas, and louisiana troops. they brought into the fight upward of twenty thousand men, while we had not over twelve thousand with which to oppose them. the attack on our left was met by general sigel and colonel davis. that on our front was met by colonel carr's division and the division of general asboth. on our left it was severe, though not long maintained, the position we held being too strong for the enemy to carry. it was on this part of the line that the famous albert pike, the lawyer-poet of arkansas, brought his newly-formed brigades of indians into use. pike was unfortunate with his indians. while he was arranging them in line, in a locality where the bushes were about eight feet in height, the indians made so much noise as to reveal their exact position. one of our batteries was quietly placed within point-blank range of the indians, and suddenly opened upon them with grape and canister. they gave a single yell, and scattered without waiting for orders. the indians were not, as a body, again brought together during the battle. in a charge which our cavalry made upon a rebel brigade we were repulsed, leaving several killed and wounded upon the ground. some of pike's indians, after their dispersal, came upon these, and scalped the dead and living without distinction. a rebel officer subsequently informed me that the same indians scalped several of their own slain, and barbarously murdered some who had been only slightly injured. on this part of the field we were fortunate, early in the day, in killing general mcculloch and his best lieutenant, general mcintosh. to this misfortune the rebels have since ascribed their easy defeat. at the time of this reverse to the enemy, general van dorn was with. price in our front. after their repulse and the death of their leader, the discomfited rebels joined their comrades in the front, who had been more successful. it was nightfall before the two forces were united. in our front, colonel carr's division fought steadily and earnestly during the entire day, but was pressed back fully two-thirds of a mile. general curtis gave it what re-enforcements he could, but there were very few to be spared. when it was fully ascertained that the rebels on our left had gone to our front, we prepared to unite against them. our left was drawn in to re-enforce colonel carr, but the movement was not completed until long after dark. thus night came. the rebels were in full possession of our communications. we had repulsed them on the left, but lost ground, guns, and men on our front. the rebels were holding elkhorn tavern, which we had made great effort to defend. colonel carr had repeatedly wished for either night or re-enforcements. he obtained both. the commanding officers visited general curtis's head-quarters, and received their orders for the morrow. our whole force was to be concentrated on our front. if the enemy did not attack us at daylight, we would attack him as soon thereafter as practicable. viewed in its best light, the situation was somewhat gloomy. mr. fayel, of the _democrat_, and myself were the only journalists with the army, and the cessation of the day's fighting found us deliberating on our best course in case of a disastrous result. we destroyed all documents that could give information to the enemy, retaining only our note-books, and such papers as pertained to our profession. with patience and resignation we awaited the events of the morrow. i do not know that any of our officers expected we should be overpowered, but there were many who thought such an occurrence probable. the enemy was nearly twice as strong as we, and lay directly between us and our base. if he could hold out till our ammunition was exhausted, we should be compelled to lay down our arms. there was no retreat for us. we must be victorious or we must surrender. in camp, on that night, every thing was confusion. the troops that had been on the left during the day were being transferred to the front. the quartermaster was endeavoring to get his train in the least dangerous place. the opposing lines were so near each other that our men could easily hear the conversation of the rebels. the night was not severely cold; but the men, who were on the front, after a day's fighting, found it quite uncomfortable. only in the rear was it thought prudent to build fires. the soldiers of german birth were musical. throughout the night i repeatedly heard their songs. the soldiers of american parentage were generally profane, and the few words i heard them utter were the reverse of musical. those of irish origin combined the peculiarities of both germans and americans, with their tendencies in favor of the latter. i sought a quiet spot within the limits of the camp, but could not find it. lying down in the best place available, i had just fallen asleep when a mounted orderly rode his horse directly over me. i made a mild remonstrance, but the man was out of hearing before i spoke. soon after, some one lighted a pipe and threw a coal upon my hand. this drew from me a gentle request for a discontinuance of that experiment. i believe it was not repeated. during the night mr. fayel's beard took fire, and i was roused to assist in staying the conflagration. the vocal music around me was not calculated to encourage drowsiness. close at hand was the quartermaster's train, with the mules ready harnessed for moving in any direction. these mules had not been fed for two whole days, and it was more than thirty-six hours since they had taken water. these facts were made known in the best language the creatures possessed. the bray of a mule is never melodious, even when the animal's throat is well moistened. when it is parched and dusty the sound becomes unusually hoarse. each hour added to the noise as the thirst of the musicians increased. mr. fayel provoked a discussion concerning the doctrine of the transmigration of souls; and thought, in the event of its truth, that the wretch was to be pitied who should pass into a mule in time of war. with the dawn of day every one was astir. at sunrise i found our line was not quite ready, though it was nearly so. general curtis was confident all would result successfully, and completed the few arrangements then requiring attention. we had expected the rebels would open the attack; but they waited for us to do so. they deserved many thanks for their courtesy. the smoke of the previous day's fight still hung over the camp, and the sun rose through it, as through a cloud. a gentle wind soon dissipated this smoke, and showed us a clear sky overhead. the direction of the wind was in our favor. the ground selected for deciding the fate of that day was a huge cornfield, somewhat exceeding two miles in length and about half a mile in width. the western extremity of this field rested upon the ridge which gave name to the battle-ground. the great road from springfield to fayetteville crossed this field about midway from the eastern to the western end. it was on this road that the two armies took their positions. the lines were in the edge of the woods on opposite sides of the field--the wings of the armies extending to either end. on the northern side were the rebels, on the southern was the national army. thus each army, sheltered by the forest, had a cleared space in its front, affording a full view of the enemy. [illustration: shelling the hill at pea ridge.] by half-past seven o'clock our line was formed and ready for action. a little before eight o'clock the cannonade was opened. our forces were regularly drawn up in order of battle. our batteries were placed between the regiments as they stood in line. in the timber, behind these regiments and batteries, were the brigades in reserve, ready to be brought forward in case of need. at the ends of the line were battalions of cavalry, stretching off to cover the wings, and give notice of any attempt by the rebels to move on our flanks. every five minutes the bugle of the extreme battalion would sound the signal "all's well." the signal would be taken by the bugler of the next battalion, and in this way carried down the line to the center. if the rebels had made any attempt to outflank us, we could hardly have failed to discover it at once. our batteries opened; the rebel batteries responded. our gunners proved the best, and our shot had the greatest effect. we had better ammunition than that of our enemies, and thus reduced the disparity caused by their excess of guns. our cannonade was slow and careful; theirs was rapid, and was made at random. at the end of two hours of steady, earnest work, we could see that the rebel line was growing weaker, while our own was still unshaken. the work of the artillery was winning us the victory. in the center of the rebel line was a rocky hill, eighty or a hundred feet in height. the side which faced us was almost perpendicular, but the slope to the rear was easy of ascent. on this hill the rebels had stationed two regiments of infantry and a battery of artillery. the balance of their artillery lay at its base. general curtis ordered that the fire of all our batteries should be concentrated on this hill at a given signal, and continued there for ten minutes. this was done. at the same time our infantry went forward in a charge on the rebel infantry and batteries that stood in the edge of the forest. the cleared field afforded fine opportunity for the movement. the charge was successful. the rebels fell back in disorder, leaving three guns in our hands, and their dead and wounded scattered on the ground. this was the end of the battle. we had won the victory at pea ridge. i followed our advancing forces, and ascended to the summit of the elevation on which our last fire was concentrated. wounded men were gathered in little groups, and the dead were lying thick about them. the range of our artillery had been excellent. rocks, trees, and earth attested the severity of our fire. this cannonade was the decisive work of the day. it was the final effort of our batteries, and was terrible while it lasted. the shells, bursting among the dry leaves, had set the woods on fire, and the flames were slowly traversing the ground where the battle had raged. we made every effort to remove the wounded to places of safety, before the fire should reach them. at that time we thought we had succeeded. late in the afternoon i found several wounded men lying in secluded places, where they had been terribly burned, though they were still alive. very few of them survived. our loss in this battle was a tenth of our whole force. the enemy lost more than we in numbers, though less in proportion to his strength. his position, directly in our rear, would have been fatal to a defeated army in many other localities. there were numerous small roads, intersecting the great road at right angles. on these roads the rebels made their lines of retreat. had we sent cavalry in pursuit, the rebels would have lost heavily in artillery and in their supply train. as it was, they escaped without material loss, but they suffered a defeat which ultimately resulted in our possession of all northern arkansas. the rebels retreated across the boston mountains to van buren and fort smith, and were soon ordered thence to join beauregard at corinth. our army moved to keytsville, missouri, several miles north of the battle-ground, where the country was better adapted to foraging, and more favorable to recuperating from the effects of the conflict. from keytsville it moved to forsyth, a small town in taney county, missouri, fifty miles from springfield. extending over a considerable area, the army consumed whatever could be found in the vicinity. it gave much annoyance to the rebels by destroying the saltpeter works on the upper portion of white river. the saltpeter manufactories along the banks of this stream were of great importance to the rebels in the southwest, and their destruction seriously reduced the supplies of gunpowder in the armies of arkansas and louisiana. large quantities of the crude material were shipped to memphis and other points, in the early days of the war. at certain seasons white river is navigable to forsyth. the rebels made every possible use of their opportunities, as long as the stream remained in their possession. half sick in consequence of the hardships of the campaign, and satisfied there would be no more fighting of importance during the summer, i determined to go back to civilization. i returned to st. louis by way of springfield and rolla. a wounded officer, lieutenant-colonel herron (who afterward wore the stars of a major-general), was my traveling companion. six days of weary toil over rough and muddy roads brought us to the railway, within twelve hours of st. louis. it was my last campaign in that region. from that date the war in the southwest had its chief interest in the country east of the great river. chapter xiv. up the tennessee and at pittsburg landing. at st. louis.--progress of our arms in the great valley.--cairo.--its peculiarities and attractions.--its commercial, geographical, and sanitary advantages.--up the tennessee.--movements preliminary to the great battle.--the rebels and their plans.--postponement of the attack.--disadvantages of our position.--the beginning of the battle.--results of the first day.--re-enforcements.--disputes between officers of our two armies.--beauregard's watering-place. on reaching st. louis, three weeks after the battle of pea ridge, i found that public attention was centered upon the tennessee river. fort henry, fort donelson, columbus, and nashville had fallen, and our armies were pushing forward toward the gulf, by the line of the tennessee. general pope was laying siege to island number ten, having already occupied new madrid, and placed his gun-boats in front of that point. general grant's army was at pittsburg landing, and general buell's army was moving from nashville toward savannah, tennessee. the two armies were to be united at pittsburg landing, for a further advance into the southern states. general beauregard was at corinth, where he had been joined by price and van dorn from arkansas, and by albert sidney johnston from kentucky. there was a promise of active hostilities in that quarter. i left st. louis, after a few days' rest, for the new scene of action. cairo lay in my route. i found it greatly changed from the cairo of the previous autumn. six months before, it had been the rendezvous of the forces watching the lower mississippi. the basin in which the town stood, was a vast military encampment. officers of all rank thronged the hotels, and made themselves as comfortable as men could be in cairo. all the leading journals of the country were represented, and the dispatches from cairo were everywhere perused with interest, though they were not always entirety accurate. march and april witnessed a material change. where there had been twenty thousand soldiers in december, there were less than one thousand in april. where a fleet of gun-boats, mortar-rafts, and transports had been tied to the levees during the winter months, the opening spring showed but a half-dozen steamers of all classes. the transports and the soldiers were up the tennessee, the mortars were bombarding island number ten, and the gun-boats were on duty where their services were most needed. the journalists had become war correspondents in earnest, and were scattered to the points of greatest interest. cairo had become a vast depot of supplies for the armies operating on the mississippi and its tributaries. the commander of the post was more a forwarding agent than a military officer. the only steamers at the levee were loading for the armies. cairo was a map of busy, muddy life. the opening year found cairo exulting in its deep and all-pervading mud. there was mud everywhere. levee, sidewalks, floors, windows, tables, bed-clothing, all were covered with it. on the levee it varied from six to thirty inches in depth. the luckless individual whose duties obliged him to make frequent journeys from the steamboat landing to the principal hotel, became intimately acquainted with its character. sad, unfortunate, derided cairo! your visitors depart with unpleasant memories. only your inhabitants, who hold titles to corner lots, speak loudly in your praise. when it rains, and sometimes when it does not, your levee is unpleasant to walk upon. your sidewalks are dangerous, and your streets are unclean. john phenix declared you destitute of honesty. dickens asserted that your physical and moral foundations were insecurely laid. russell did not praise you, and trollope uttered much to your discredit. your musquitos are large, numerous, and hungry. your atmosphere does not resemble the spicy breezes that blow soft o'er ceylon's isle. your energy and enterprise are commendable, and your geographical location is excellent, but you can never become a rival to saratoga or newport. cairo is built in a basin formed by constructing a levee to inclose the peninsula at the junction of the ohio and mississippi rivers. before the erection of the levee, this peninsula was overflowed by the rise of either river. sometimes, in unusual floods, the waters reach the top of the embankment, and manage to fill the basin. at the time of my visit, the ohio was rising rapidly. the inhabitants were alarmed, as the water was gradually gaining upon them. after a time it took possession of the basin, enabling people to navigate the streets and front yards in skiffs, and exchange salutations from house-tops or upper windows. many were driven from their houses by the flood, and forced to seek shelter elsewhere. in due time the waters receded and the city remained unharmed. it is not true that a steamer was lost in consequence of running against a chimney of the st. charles hotel. cairo has prospered during the war, and is now making an effort to fill her streets above the high-water level, and insure a dry foundation at all seasons of the year. this once accomplished, cairo will become a city of no little importance. proceeding up the tennessee, i reached pittsburg landing three days after the great battle which has made that locality famous. the history of that battle has been many times written. official reports have given the dry details,--the movements of division, brigade, regiment, and battery, all being fully portrayed. a few journalists who witnessed it gave the accounts which were circulated everywhere by the press. the earliest of these was published by _the herald._ the most complete and graphic was that of mr. reid, of _the cincinnati gazette._ officers, soldiers, civilians, all with greater or less experience, wrote what they had heard and seen. so diverse have been the statements, that a general officer who was prominent in the battle, says he sometimes doubts if he was present. in the official accounts there have been inharmonious deductions, and many statements of a contradictory character. some of the participants have criticised unfavorably the conduct of others, and a bitterness continuing through and after the war has been the result. in february of , the rebels commenced assembling an army at corinth. general beauregard was placed in command. early in march, price and van dorn were ordered to take their commands to corinth, as their defeat at pea ridge had placed them on the defensive against general curtis. general a. s. johnston had moved thither, after the evacuation of bowling green, kentucky, and from all quarters the rebels were assembling a vast army. general johnston became commander-in-chief on his arrival. general halleck, who then commanded the western department, ordered general grant, after the capture of forts henry and donelson, to move to pittsburg landing, and seize that point as a base against corinth. general buell, with the army of the ohio, was ordered to join him from nashville, and with other re-enforcements we would be ready to take the offensive. owing to the condition of the roads, general buell moved very slowly, so that general grant was in position at pittsburg landing several days before the former came up. this was the situation at the beginning of april; grant encamped on the bank of the tennessee nearest the enemy, and buell slowly approaching the opposite bank. it was evidently the enemy's opportunity to strike his blow before our two armies should be united. on the th of april, the rebels prepared to move from corinth to attack general grant's camp, but, on account of rain, they delayed their advance till the morning of the th. at daylight of the th our pickets were driven in, and were followed by the advance of the rebel army. the division whose camp was nearest to corinth, and therefore the first to receive the onset of the enemy, was composed of the newest troops in the army. some of the regiments had received their arms less than two weeks before. the outposts were not sufficiently far from camp to allow much time for getting under arms after the first encounter. a portion of this division was attacked before it could form, but its commander, general prentiss, promptly rallied his men, and made a vigorous fight. he succeeded, for a time, in staying the progress of the enemy, but the odds against him were too great. when his division was surrounded and fighting was no longer of use, he surrendered his command. at the time of surrender he had little more than a thousand men remaining out of a division six thousand strong. five thousand were killed, wounded, or had fled to the rear. general grant had taken no precautions against attack. the vedettes were but a few hundred yards from our front, and we had no breast-works of any kind behind which to fight. the newest and least reliable soldiers were at the point where the enemy would make his first appearance. the positions of the various brigades and divisions were taken, more with reference to securing a good camping-ground, than for purposes of strategy. general grant showed himself a soldier in the management of the army after the battle began, and he has since achieved a reputation as the greatest warrior of the age. like the oculist who spoiled a hatful of eyes in learning to operate for the cataract, he improved his military knowledge by his experience at shiloh. never afterward did he place an army in the enemy's country without making careful provision against assault. one division, under general wallace, was at crump's landing, six miles below the battle-ground, and did not take part in the action till the following day. the other divisions were in line to meet the enemy soon after the fighting commenced on general prentiss's front, and made a stubborn resistance to the rebel advance. the rebels well knew they would have no child's play in that battle. they came prepared for hot, terrible work, in which thousands of men were to fall. the field attests our determined resistance; it attests their daring advance. a day's fighting pushed us slowly, but steadily, toward the tennessee. our last line was formed less than a half mile from its bank. sixty pieces of artillery composed a grand battery, against which the enemy rushed. general grant's officers claim that the enemy received a final check when he attacked that line. the rebels claim that another hour of daylight, had we received no re-enforcements, would have seen our utter defeat. darkness and a fresh division came to our aid. general buell was to arrive at savannah, ten miles below pittsburg, and on the opposite bank of the river, on the morning of the th. on the evening of the th, general grant proceeded to savannah to meet him, and was there when the battle began on the following morning. his boat was immediately headed for pittsburg, and by nine o'clock the general was on the battle-field. from that time, the engagement received his personal attention. when he started from savannah, some of general buell's forces were within two miles of the town. they were hurried forward as rapidly as possible, and arrived at pittsburg, some by land and others by water, in season to take position on our left, just as the day was closing. others came up in the night, and formed a part of the line on the morning of the th. general nelson's division was the first to cross the river and form on the left of grant's shattered army. as he landed, nelson rode among the stragglers by the bank and endeavored to rally them. hailing a captain of infantry, he told him to get his men together and fall into line. the captain's face displayed the utmost terror. "my regiment is cut to pieces," was the rejoinder; "every man of my company is killed." "then why ain't you killed, too, you d----d coward?" thundered nelson. "gather some of these stragglers and go back into the battle." the man obeyed the order. [illustration: nelson crossing the tennessee river.] general nelson reported to general grant with his division, received his orders, and then dashed about the field, wherever his presence was needed. the division was only slightly engaged before night came on and suspended the battle. at dawn on the second day the enemy lay in the position it held when darkness ended the fight. the gun-boats had shelled the woods during the night, and prevented the rebels from reaching the river on our left. a creek and ravine prevented their reaching it on the right. none of the rebels stood on the bank of the tennessee river on that occasion, except as prisoners of war. as they had commenced the attack on the th, it was our turn to begin it on the th. a little past daylight we opened fire, and the fresh troops on the left, under general buell, were put in motion. the rebels had driven us on the th, so we drove them on the th. by noon of that day we held the ground lost on the day previous. the camps which the enemy occupied during the night were comparatively uninjured, so confident were the rebels that our defeat was assured. it was the arrival of general buell's army that saved us. the history of that battle, as the rebels have given it, shows that they expected to overpower general grant before general buell could come up. they would then cross the tennessee, meet and defeat buell, and recapture nashville. the defeat of these two armies would have placed the valley of the ohio at the command of the rebels. louisville was to have been the next point of attack. the dispute between the officers of the army of the tennessee and those of the army of the ohio is not likely to be terminated until this generation has passed away. the former contend that the rebels were repulsed on the evening of the th of april, before the army of the ohio took part in the battle. the latter are equally earnest in declaring that the army of the tennessee would have been defeated had not the other army arrived. both parties sustain their arguments by statements in proof, and by positive assertions. i believe it is the general opinion of impartial observers, that the salvation of general grant's army is due to the arrival of the army of general buell. with the last attack on the evening of the th, in which our batteries repulsed the rebels, the enemy did not retreat. night came as the fighting ceased. beauregard's army slept where it had fought, and gave all possible indication of a readiness to renew the battle on the following day. so near was it to the river that our gun-boats threw shells during the night to prevent our left wing being flanked. beauregard is said to have sworn to water his horse in the tennessee, or in hell, on that night. it is certain that the animal did not quench his thirst in the terrestrial stream. if he drank from springs beyond the styx, i am not informed. chapter xv. shiloh and the siege of corinth. the error of the rebels.--story of a surgeon.--experience of a rebel regiment.--injury to the rebel army.--the effect in our own lines.--daring of a color-bearer.--a brave soldier.--a drummer-boy's experience.--gallantry of an artillery surgeon.--a regiment commanded by a lieutenant.--friend meeting friend and brother meeting brother in the opposing lines.--the scene of the battle.--fearful traces of musketry-fire.--the wounded.--the labor of the sanitary commission.--humanity a yankee trick.--besieging corinth.--a cold-water battery.--halleck and the journalists.--occupation of corinth. the fatal error of the rebels, was their neglect to attack on the th, as originally intended. they were informed by their scouts that buell could not reach savannah before the th or th; and therefore a delay of two days would not change the situation. buell was nearer than they supposed. the surgeon of the sixth iowa infantry fell into the enemy's hands early on the morning of the first day of the battle, and established a hospital in our abandoned camp. his position was at a small log-house close by the principal road. soon after he took possession, the enemy's columns began to file past him, as they pressed our army. the surgeon says he noticed a louisiana regiment that moved into battle eight hundred strong, its banners flying and the men elated at the prospect of success. about five o'clock in the afternoon this regiment was withdrawn, and went into bivouac a short distance from the surgeon's hospital. it was then less than four hundred strong, but the spirit of the men was still the same. on the morning of the th, it once more went into battle. about noon it came out, less than a hundred strong, pressing in retreat toward corinth. the men still clung to their flag, and declared their determination to be avenged. the story of this regiment was the story of many others. shattered and disorganized, their retreat to corinth had but little order. only the splendid rear-guard, commanded by general bragg, saved them from utter confusion. the rebels admitted that many of their regiments were unable to produce a fifth of their original numbers, until a week or more after the battle. the stragglers came in slowly from the surrounding country, and at length enabled the rebels to estimate their loss. there were many who never returned to answer at roll-call. in our army, the disorder was far from small. large numbers of soldiers wandered for days about the camps, before they could ascertain their proper locations. it was fully a week, before all were correctly assigned. we refused to allow burying parties from the rebels to come within our lines, preferring that they should not see the condition of our camp. time was required to enable us to recuperate. i presume the enemy was as much in need of time as ourselves. a volume could be filled with the stories of personal valor during that battle. general lew wallace says his division was, at a certain time, forming on one side of a field, while the rebels were on the opposite side. the color-bearer of a rebel regiment stepped in front of his own line, and waved his flag as a challenge to the color-bearer that faced him. several of our soldiers wished to meet the challenge, but their officers forbade it. again the rebel stepped forward, and planted his flag-staff in the ground. there was no response, and again and again he advanced, until he had passed more than half the distance between the opposing lines. our fire was reserved in admiration of the man's daring, as he stood full in view, defiantly waving his banner. at last, when the struggle between the divisions commenced, it was impossible to save him, and he fell dead by the side of his colors. on the morning of the second day's fighting, the officers of one of our gun-boats saw a soldier on the river-bank on our extreme left, assisting another soldier who was severely wounded. a yawl was sent to bring away the wounded man and his companion. as it touched the side of the gun-boat on its return, the uninjured soldier asked to be sent back to land, that he might have further part in the battle. "i have," said he, "been taking care of this man, who is my neighbor at home. he was wounded yesterday morning, and i have been by his side ever since. neither of us has eaten any thing for thirty hours, but, if you will take good care of him, i will not stop now for myself. i want to get into the battle again at once." the man's request was complied with. i regret my inability to give his name. a drummer-boy of the fifteenth iowa infantry was wounded five times during the first day's battle, but insisted upon going out on the second day. he had hardly started before he fainted from loss of blood, and was left to recover and crawl back to the camp. colonel sweeney, of the fifty-second illinois infantry, who lost an arm in mexico and was wounded in the leg at wilson creek, received a wound in his arm on the first day of the battle. he kept his saddle, though he was unable to use his arm, and went to the hospital after the battle was over. when i saw him he was venting his indignation at the rebels, because they had not wounded him in the stump of his amputated arm, instead of the locality which gave him so much inconvenience. it was this officer's fortune to be wounded on nearly every occasion when he went into battle. during the battle, dr. cornyn, surgeon of major cavender's battalion of missouri artillery, saw a section of a battery whose commander had been killed. the doctor at once removed the surgeon's badge from his hat and the sash from his waist, and took command of the guns. he placed them in position, and for several hours managed them with good effect. he was twice wounded, though not severely. "i was determined they should not kill or capture me as a surgeon when i had charge of that artillery," said the doctor afterward, "and so removed every thing that marked my rank." the rebels made some very desperate charges against our artillery, and lost heavily in each attack. once they actually laid their hands on the muzzles of two guns in captain stone's battery, but were unable to capture them. general hurlbut stated that his division fought all day on sunday with heavy loss, but only one regiment broke. when he entered the battle on monday morning, the third iowa infantry was commanded by a first-lieutenant, all the field officers and captains having been disabled or captured. several regiments were commanded by captains. colonel mchenry, of the seventeenth kentucky, said his regiment fought a kentucky regiment which was raised in the county where his own was organized. the fight was very fierce. the men frequently called out from one to another, using taunting epithets. two brothers recognized each other at the same moment, and came to a tree midway between the lines, where they conversed for several minutes. the color-bearer of the fifty-second illinois was wounded early in the battle. a man who was under arrest for misdemeanor asked the privilege of carrying the colors. it was granted, and he behaved so admirably that he was released from arrest as soon as the battle was ended. general halleck arrived a week after the battle, and commenced a reorganization of the army. he found much confusion consequent upon the battle. in a short time the army was ready to take the offensive. we then commenced the advance upon corinth, in which we were six weeks moving twenty-five miles. when our army first took position at pittsburg landing, and before the rebels had effected their concentration, general grant asked permission to capture corinth. he felt confident of success, but was ordered not to bring on an engagement under any circumstances. had the desired permission been given, there is little doubt he would have succeeded, and thus avoided the necessity of the battle of shiloh. the day following my arrival at pittsburg landing i rode over the battle-field. the ground was mostly wooded, the forest being one in which artillery could be well employed, but where cavalry was comparatively useless. the ascent from the river was up a steep bluff that led to a broken table-ground, in which there were many ravines, generally at right angles to the river. on this table-ground our camps were located, and it was there the battle took place. everywhere the trees were scarred and shattered, telling, as plainly as by words, of the shower of shot, shell, and bullets, that had fallen upon them. within rifle range of the river, stood a tree marked by a cannon-shot, showing how much we were pressed back on the afternoon of the th. from the moment the crest of the bluff was gained, the traces of battle were apparent. in front of the line where general prentiss's division fought, there was a spot of level ground covered with a dense growth of small trees. the tops of these trees were from twelve to fifteen feet high, and had been almost mowed off by the shower of bullets which passed through them. i saw no place where there was greater evidence of severe work. there was everywhere full proof that the battle was a determined one. assailant and defendant had done their best. it was a ride of five miles among scarred trees, over ground cut by the wheels of guns and caissons, among shattered muskets, disabled cannon, broken wagons, and all the heavier débris of battle. everywhere could be seen torn garments, haversacks, and other personal equipments of soldiers. there were tents where the wounded had been gathered, and where those who could not easily bear movement to the transports were still remaining. in every direction i moved, there were the graves of the slain, the national and the rebel soldiers being buried side by side. few of the graves were marked, as the hurry of interment had been great. i fear that many of those graves, undesignated and unfenced, have long since been leveled. a single year, with its rain and its rank vegetation, would leave but a small trace of those mounds. all through that forest the camps of our army were scattered. during the first few days after the battle they showed much irregularity, but gradually took a more systematic shape. when the wounded had been sent to the transports, the regiments compacted, the camps cleared of superfluous baggage and _matériel_, and the weather became more propitious, the army assumed an attractive appearance. when the news of the battle reached the principal cities of the west, the sanitary commission prepared to send relief. within twenty-four hours, boats were dispatched from st. louis and cincinnati, and hurried to pittsburg landing with the utmost rapidity. the battle had not been altogether unexpected, but it found us without the proper preparation. whatever we had was pushed forward without delay, and the sufferings of the wounded were alleviated as much as possible. as fast as the boats arrived they were loaded with wounded, and sent to st. louis and other points along the mississippi, or to cincinnati and places in its vicinity. chicago, st. louis, and cincinnati were the principal points represented in this work of humanity. many prominent ladies of those cities passed week after week in the hospitals or on the transports, doing every thing in their power, and giving their attention to friend and foe alike. in all cases the rebels were treated with the same kindness that our own men received. not only on the boats, but in the hospitals where the wounded were distributed, and until they were fully recovered, our suffering prisoners were faithfully nursed. the rebel papers afterward admitted this kind treatment, but declared it was a yankee trick to win the sympathies of our prisoners, and cause them to abandon the insurgent cause. the men who systematically starved their prisoners, and deprived them of shelter and clothing, could readily suspect the humanity of others. they were careful never to attempt to kill by kindness, those who were so unfortunate as to fall into their hands. it was three weeks after the battle before all the wounded were sent away, and the army was ready for offensive work. when we were once more in fighting trim, our lines were slowly pushed forward. general pope had been called from the vicinity of fort pillow, after his capture of island number ten, and his army was placed in position on the left of the line already formed. when our advance began, we mustered a hundred and ten thousand men. exclusive of those who do not take part in a battle, we could have easily brought eighty thousand men into action. we began the siege of corinth with every confidence in our ability to succeed. in this advance, we first learned how an army should intrench itself. every time we took a new position, we proceeded to throw up earth-works. before the siege was ended, our men had perfected themselves in the art of intrenching. the defenses we erected will long remain as monuments of the war in western tennessee. since general halleck, no other commander has shown such ability to fortify in an open field against an enemy that was acting on the defensive. it was generally proclaimed that we were to capture corinth with all its garrison of sixty or seventy thousand men. the civilian observers could not understand how this was to be accomplished, as the rebels had two lines of railway open for a safe retreat. it was like the old story of "bagging price" in missouri. every part of the bag, except the top and one side, was carefully closed and closely watched. unmilitary men were skeptical, but the military heads assured them it was a piece of grand strategy, which the public must not be allowed to understand. during the siege, there was very little for a journalist to record. one day was much like another. occasionally there would be a collision with the enemy's pickets, or a short struggle for a certain position, usually ending in our possession of the disputed point. the battle of farmington, on the left of our line, was the only engagement worthy the name, and this was of comparatively short duration. twenty-four hours after it transpired we ceased to talk about it, and made only occasional reference to the event. there were four weeks of monotony. an advance of a half mile daily was not calculated to excite the nerves. the chaplains and the surgeons busied themselves in looking after the general health of the army. one day, a chaplain, noted for his advocacy of total abstinence, passed the camp of the first michigan battery. this company was raised in coldwater, michigan, and the camp-chests, caissons, and other property were marked "loomis's coldwater battery." the chaplain at once sought captain loomis, and paid a high compliment to his moral courage in taking a firm and noble stand in favor of temperance. after the termination of the interview, the captain and several friends drank to the long life of the chaplain and the success of the "coldwater battery." toward the end of the siege, general halleck gave the journalists a sensation, by expelling them from his lines. the representatives of the press held a meeting, and waited upon that officer, after the appearance of the order requiring their departure. they offered a protest, which was insolently rejected. we could not ascertain general halleck's purpose in excluding us just as the campaign was closing, but concluded he desired we should not witness the end of the siege in which so much had been promised and so little accomplished. a week after our departure, general beauregard evacuated corinth, and our army took possession. the fruits of the victory were an empty village, a few hundred stragglers, and a small quantity of war _matériel_. from corinth the rebels retreated to tupelo, mississippi, where they threw up defensive works. the rebel government censured general beauregard for abandoning corinth. the evacuation of that point uncovered memphis, and allowed it to fall into our hands. beauregard was removed from command. general joseph e. johnston was assigned to duty in his stead. this officer proceeded to reorganize his army, with a view to offensive operations against our lines. he made no demonstrations of importance until the summer months had passed away. the capture of corinth terminated the offensive portion of the campaign. our army occupied the line of the memphis and charleston railway from corinth to memphis, and made a visit to holly springs without encountering the enemy. a few cavalry expeditions were made into mississippi, but they accomplished nothing of importance. the army of the tennessee went into summer-quarters. the army of the ohio, under general buell, returned to its proper department, to confront the rebel armies then assembling in eastern tennessee. general halleck was summoned to washington as commander-in-chief of the armies of the united states. chapter xvi. capture of fort pillow and battle of memphis. the siege of fort pillow.--general pope.--his reputation for veracity. --capture of the "ten thousand."--naval battle above fort pillow.--the john ii. dickey.--occupation of the fort.--general forrest.--strength of the fortifications.--their location.--randolph, tennessee.--memphis and her last ditch.--opening of the naval combat.--gallant action of colonel ellet.--fate of the rebel fleet.--the people viewing the battle.--their conduct. while i was tarrying at cairo, after the exodus of the journalists from the army before corinth, the situation on the mississippi became interesting. after the capture of island number ten, general pope was ordered to pittsburg landing with his command. when called away, he was preparing to lay siege to fort pillow, in order to open the river to memphis. his success at island number ten had won him much credit, and he was anxious to gain more of the same article. had he taken fort pillow, he would have held the honor of being the captor of memphis, as that city must have fallen with the strong fortifications which served as its protection. the capture of island number ten was marked by the only instance of a successful canal from one bend of the mississippi to another. as soon as the channel was completed, general pope took his transports below the island, ready for moving his men. admiral foote tried the first experiment of running his gun-boats past the rebel batteries, and was completely successful. the rebel transports could not escape, neither could transports or gun-boats come up from memphis to remove the rebel army. there was a lake in the rear of the rebels which prevented their retreat. the whole force, some twenty-eight hundred, was surrendered, with all its arms and munitions of war. general pope reported his captures somewhat larger than they really were, and received much applause for his success. the reputation of this officer, on the score of veracity, has not been of the highest character. after he assumed command in virginia, his "order number five" drew upon him much ridicule. probably the story of the capture of ten thousand prisoners, after the occupation of corinth, has injured him more than all other exaggerations combined. the paternity of that choice bit of romance belongs to general halleck, instead of general pope. colonel elliott, who commanded the cavalry expedition, which general pope sent out when corinth was occupied, forwarded a dispatch to pope, something like the following:-- "i am still pursuing the enemy. the woods are full of stragglers. some of my officers estimate their number as high as ten thousand. many have already come into my lines." [illustration: the carondelet running the batteries at island no. ] pope sent this dispatch, without alteration, to general halleck. from the latter it went to the country that "general pope reported ten thousand prisoners captured below corinth." it served to cover up the barrenness of the corinth occupation, and put the public in good-humor. general halleck received credit for the success of his plans. when it came out that no prisoners of consequence had been taken, the real author of the story escaped unharmed. at the time of his departure to re-enforce the army before corinth, general pope left but a single brigade of infantry, to act in conjunction with our naval forces in the siege of fort pillow. this brigade was encamped on the arkansas shore opposite fort pillow, and did some very effective fighting against the musquitos, which that country produces in the greatest profusion. an attack on the fort, with such a small force, was out of the question, and the principal aggressive work was done by the navy at long range. on the th of may, the rebel fleet made an attack upon our navy, in which they sunk two of our gun-boats, the _mound city_ and the _cincinnati_, and returned to the protection of fort pillow with one of their own boats disabled, and two others somewhat damaged. our sunken gun-boats were fortunately in shoal water, where they were speedily raised and repaired. neither fleet had much to boast of as the result of that engagement. the journalists who were watching fort pillow, had their head-quarters on board the steamer _john h. dickey_, which was anchored in midstream. at the time of the approach of the rebel gun-boats, the _dickey_ was lying without sufficient steam to move her wheels, and the prospect was good that she might be captured or destroyed. her commander, captain mussleman, declared he was _not_ in that place to stop cannon-shot, and made every exertion to get his boat in condition to move. his efforts were fully appreciated by the journalists, particularly as they were successful. the _dickey_, under the same captain, afterward ran a battery near randolph, tennessee, and though pierced in every part by cannon-shot and musket-balls, she escaped without any loss of life. as soon as the news of the evacuation of corinth was received at cairo, we looked for the speedy capture of fort pillow. accordingly, on the th of june, i proceeded down the river, arriving off fort pillow on the morning of the th. the rebels had left, as we expected, after spiking their guns and destroying most of their ammunition. the first boat to reach the abandoned fort was the _hetty gilmore_, one of the smallest transports in the fleet. she landed a little party, which took possession, hoisted the flag, and declared the fort, and all it contained, the property of the united states. the rebels were, by this time, several miles distant, in full retreat to a safer location. it was at this same fort, two years later, that the rebel general forrest ordered the massacre of a garrison that had surrendered after a prolonged defense. his only plea for this cold-blooded slaughter, was that some of his men had been fired upon after the white flag was raised. the testimony in proof of this barbarity was fully conclusive, and gave general forrest and his men a reputation that no honorable soldier could desire. in walking through the fort after its capture, i was struck by its strength and extent. it occupied the base of a bluff near the water's edge. on the summit of the bluff there were breast-works running in a zigzag course for five or six miles, and inclosing a large area. the works along the river were very strong, and could easily hold a powerful fleet at bay. from fort pillow to randolph, ten miles lower down, was less than an hour's steaming. randolph was a small, worthless village, partly at the base of a bluff, and partly on its summit. here the rebels had erected a powerful fort, which they abandoned when they abandoned fort pillow. the inhabitants expressed much agreeable astonishment on finding that we did not verify all the statements of the rebels, concerning the barbarity of the yankees wherever they set foot on southern soil. the town was most bitterly disloyal. it was afterward burned, in punishment for decoying a steamboat to the landing, and then attempting her capture and destruction. a series of blackened chimneys now marks the site of randolph. our capture of these points occurred a short time after the rebels issued the famous "cotton-burning order," commanding all planters to burn their cotton, rather than allow it to fall into our hands. the people showed no particular desire to comply with the order, except in a few instances. detachments of rebel cavalry were sent to enforce obedience. they enforced it by setting fire to the cotton in presence of its owners. on both banks of the river, as we moved from randolph to memphis, we could see the smoke arising from plantations, or from secluded spots in the forest where cotton had been concealed. in many cases the bales were broken open and rolled into the river, dotting the stream with floating cotton. had it then possessed the value that attached to it two years later, i fear there would have been many attempts to save it for transfer to a northern market. on the day before the evacuation of fort pillow, memphis determined she would never surrender. in conjunction with other cities, she fitted up several gun-boats, that were expected to annihilate the yankee fleet. in the event of the failure of this means of defense, the inhabitants were pledged to do many dreadful things before submitting to the invaders. had we placed any confidence in the resolutions passed by the memphians, we should have expected all the denizens of the bluff city to commit _hari-kari_, after first setting fire to their dwellings. on the morning of the th of june, the rebel gun-boats, eight in number, took their position just above memphis, and prepared for the advance of our fleet. the rebel boats were the _van dorn_ (flag-ship), _general price_, _general bragg_, _general lovell_, _little rebel_, _jeff. thompson_, _sumter_, and _general beauregard_. the _general bragg_ was the new orleans and galveston steamer _mexico_ in former days, and had been strengthened, plated, and, in other ways made as effective as possible for warlike purposes. the balance of the fleet consisted of tow-boats from the lower mississippi, fitted up as rams and gun-boats. they were supplied with very powerful engines, and were able to choose their positions in the battle. the rebel fleet was commanded by commodore montgomery, who was well known to many persons on our own boats. the national boats were the iron-clads _benton, carondelet, st. louis, louisville_, and _cairo_. there was also the ram fleet, commanded by colonel ellet. it comprised the _monarch, queen of the west, lioness, switzerland, mingo, lancaster no. , fulton, horner_, and _samson_. the _monarch_ and _queen of the west_ were the only boats of the ram fleet that took part in the action. our forces were commanded by flag-officer charles h. davis, who succeeded admiral foote at the time of the illness of the latter. the land forces, acting in conjunction with our fleet, consisted of a single brigade of infantry, that was still at fort pillow. it did not arrive in the vicinity of memphis until after the battle was over. early in the morning the battle began. it was opened by the gun-boats on the rebel side, and for some minutes consisted of a cannonade at long range, in which very little was effected. gradually the boats drew nearer to each other, and made better use of their guns. before they arrived at close quarters the rams _monarch_ and _queen of the west_ steamed forward and engaged in the fight. their participation was most effective. the _queen of the west_ struck and disabled one of the rebel gun-boats, and was herself disabled by the force of the blow. the _monarch_ steered straight for the _general lovell_, and dealt her a tremendous blow, fairly in the side, just aft the wheel. the sides of the _lovell_ were crushed as if they had been made of paper, and the boat sank in less than three minutes, in a spot where the plummet shows a depth of ninety feet. grappling with the _beauregard_, the _monarch_ opened upon her with a stream of hot water and a shower of rifle-balls, which effectually prevented the latter from using a gun. in a few moments she cast off and drifted a short distance down the river. coming up on the other side, the _monarch_ dealt her antagonist a blow that left her in a sinking condition. herself comparatively uninjured, she paused to allow the gun-boats to take a part. those insignificant and unwieldy rams had placed three of the enemy's gun-boats _hors de combat_ in less than a quarter of an hour's time. our gun-boats ceased firing as the rams entered the fight; but they now reopened. with shot and shell the guns were rapidly served. the effect was soon apparent. one rebel boat was disabled and abandoned, after grounding opposite memphis. a second was grounded and blown up, and two others were disabled, abandoned, and captured. it was a good morning's work. the first gun was fired at forty minutes past five o'clock, and the last at forty-three minutes past six. the rebels boasted they would whip us before breakfast. we had taken no breakfast when the fight began. after the battle was over we enjoyed our morning meal with a relish that does not usually accompany defeat. the following shows the condition of the two fleets after the battle:-- _general beauregard_, sunk. _general lovell_, sunk. _general price_, injured and captured. _little rebel_, " " " _sumter_, " " " _general bragg_, " " " _jeff. thompson_, burned. _general van dorn_, escaped. the national fleet. _benton_, unhurt. _carondelet_, " _st. louis_, " _louisville_, " _cairo_, " _monarch_ (ram), unhurt. _queen of the west_ (ram), disabled. the captured vessels were refitted, and, without alteration of names, attached to the national fleet. the _sumter_ was lost a few months later, in consequence of running aground near the rebel batteries in the vicinity of bayou sara. the _bragg_ was one of the best boats in the service in point of speed, and proved of much value as a dispatch-steamer on the lower portion of the river. the people of memphis rose at an early hour to witness the naval combat. it had been generally known during the previous night that the battle would begin about sunrise. the first gun brought a large crowd to the bluff overlooking the river, whence a full view of the fight was obtained. some of the spectators were loyal, and wished success to the national fleet, but the great majority were animated by a strong hope and expectation of our defeat. a gentleman, who was of the lookers-on, subsequently told me of the conduct of the populace. as a matter of course, the disloyalists had all the conversation their own way. while they expressed their wishes in the loudest tones, no one uttered a word in opposition. many offered wagers on the success of their fleet, and expressed a readiness to give large odds. no one dared accept these offers, as their acceptance would have been an evidence of sympathy for the yankees. americans generally, but particularly in the south, make their wagers as they hope or wish. in the present instance no man was allowed to "copper" on the rebel flotilla. chapter xvii. in memphis and under the flag jeff. thompson and his predictions.--a cry of indignation.--memphis humiliated.--the journalists in the battle.--the surrender.--a fine point of law and honor.--going on shore.--an enraged secessionist.--a dangerous enterprise.--memphis and her antecedents.--her loyalty.--an amusing incident.--how the natives learned of the capture of fort donelson.--the last ditch.--a farmer-abolitionist.--disloyalty among the women.--"blessings in disguise."--an american mark tapley. the somewhat widely (though not favorably) known rebel chieftain, jeff. thompson, was in memphis on the day of the battle, and boasted of the easy victory the rebels would have over the national fleet. "we will chaw them up in just an hour," said jeff., as the battle began. "are you sure of that?" asked a friend. "certainly i am; there is no doubt of it." turning to a servant, he sent for his horse, in order, as he said, to be able to move about rapidly to the best points for witnessing the engagement. in an hour and three minutes the battle was over. jeff, turned in his saddle, and bade his friend farewell, saying he had a note falling due that day at holly springs, and was going out to pay it. the "chawing up" of our fleet was not referred to again. as the _monarch_ struck the _lovell_, sinking the latter in deep water, the crowd stood breathless. as the crew of the sunken boat were floating helplessly in the strong current, and our own skiffs were putting off to aid them, there was hardly a word uttered through all that multitude. as the rebel boats, one after another, were sunk or captured, the sympathies of the spectators found vent in words. when, at length, the last of the rebel fleet disappeared, and the union flotilla spread its flags in triumph, there went up an almost universal yell of indignation from that vast crowd. women tore their bonnets from their heads, and trampled them on the ground; men stamped and swore as only infuriated rebels can, and called for all known misfortunes to settle upon the heads of their invaders. the profanity was not entirely monopolized by the men. this scene of confusion lasted for some time, and ended in anxiety to know what we would do next. some of the spectators turned away, and went, in sullen silence, to their homes. others remained, out of curiosity, to witness the end of the day's work. a few were secretly rejoicing at the result, but the time had not come when they could display their sympathies. the crowd eagerly watched our fleet, and noted every motion of the various boats. the press correspondents occupied various positions during the engagement. mr. coffin, of the boston _journal_, was on the tug belonging to the flag-ship, and had a fine view of the whole affair. one of _the herald_ correspondents was in the pilot-house of the gun-boat _cairo_, while mr. colburn, of _the world_, was on the captured steamer _sovereign_. "junius," of _the tribune_, and mr. vizitelly, of the london _illustrated news_, with several others, were on the transport _dickey_, the general rendezvous of the journalists. the representative of the st. louis _republican_ and myself were on the _platte valley_, in rear of the line of battle. the _platte valley_ was the first private boat that touched the memphis landing after the capture of the city. the battle being over, we were anxious to get on shore and look at the people and city of memphis. shortly after the fighting ceased, colonel ellet sent the ram _lioness_, under a flag-of-truce, to demand the surrender of the city. to this demand no response was given. a little later, flag-officer davis sent the following note to the mayor, at the hands of one of the officers of the gun-boat _benton_:-- united states flag-steamer benton, off memphis, _june_ , . sir:--i have respectfully to request that you will surrender the city of memphis to the authority of the united states, which i have the honor to represent. i am, mr. mayor, with high respect, your most obedient servant, c. h. davis, _flag-officer commanding_. to his honor, the mayor of memphis. to this note the following reply was received:-- mayor's office, memphis, _june_ , . c. h. davis, _flag-officer commanding_: sir:--your note of this date is received and contents noted. in reply i have only to say that, as the civil authorities have no means of defense, by the force of circumstances the city is in your hands. respectfully, john park, _mayor of memphis_. at the meeting, four days before, the citizens of memphis had solemnly pledged themselves never to surrender. there was a vague understanding that somebody was to do a large amount of fighting, whenever memphis was attacked. if this fighting proved useless, the city was to be fired in every house, and only abandoned after its complete destruction. it will be seen that the note of the mayor, in response to a demand for surrender, vindicates the honor of memphis. it merely informs the united states officer that the city has fallen "by the force of circumstances." since that day i have frequently heard its citizens boast that the place was not surrendered. "you came in," say they, "and took possession, but we did not give up to you. we declared we would never surrender, and we kept our word." about eleven o'clock in the forenoon, the transports arrived with our infantry, and attempted to make a landing. as their mooring-lines were thrown on shore they were seized by dozens of persons in the crowd, and the crews were saved the trouble of making fast. this was an evidence that the laboring class, the men with blue shirts and shabby hats, were not disloyal. we had abundant evidence of this when our occupation became a fixed fact. it was generally the wealthy who adhered to the rebel cause. as a file of soldiers moved into the city, the people stood at a respectful distance, occasionally giving forth wordy expression of their anger. when i reached the office of _the avalanche_, one of the leading journals of memphis, and, of course, strongly disloyal, i found the soldiers removing a rebel flag from the roof of the building. the owner of the banner made a very vehement objection to the proceeding. his indignation was so great that his friends were obliged to hold him, to prevent his throwing himself on the bayonet of the nearest soldier. i saw him several days later, when his anger had somewhat cooled. he found relief from his troubles, before the end of june, by joining the rebel army at holly springs. on the bluff above the levee was a tall flag-staff. the rebels had endeavored to make sure of their courage by nailing a flag to the top of this staff. a sailor from one of the gun-boats volunteered to ascend the staff and bring down the banner. when he had ascended about twenty feet, he saw two rifles bearing upon him from the window of a neighboring building. the sailor concluded it was best to go no further, and descended at once. the staff was cut down and the obnoxious flag secured. with the city in our possession, we had leisure to look about us. memphis had been in the west what charleston was in the east: an active worker in the secession cause. her newspapers had teemed with abuse of every thing which opposed their heresy, and advocated the most summary measures. lynching had been frequent and never rebuked, impressments were of daily and nightly occurrence, every foundery and manufactory had been constantly employed by the rebel authorities, and every citizen had, in some manner, contributed to the insurrection. it was gratifying in the extreme to see the memphis, of which we at cairo and st. louis had heard so much, brought under our control. the picture of five united states gun-boats lying in line before the city, their ports open and their guns shotted, was pleasing in the eyes of loyal men. outside of the poorer classes there were some loyal persons, but their number was not large. there were many professing loyalty, who possessed very little of the article, and whose record had been exceedingly doubtful. prominent among these were the politicians, than whom none had been more self-sacrificing, if their own words could be believed. there were many men of this class ready, no doubt, to swear allegiance to the victorious side, who joined our standard because they considered the rebel cause a losing one. they may have become loyal since that time, but it has been only through the force of circumstances. in many cases our government accepted their words as proof of loyalty, and granted these persons many exclusive privileges. it was a matter of comment that a newly converted loyalist could obtain favors at the hands of government officials, that would be refused to men from the north. the acceptance of office under the rebels, and the earnest advocacy he had shown for secession, were generally alleged to have taken place under compulsion, or in the interest of the really loyal men. a memphis gentleman gave me an amusing account of the reception of the news of the fall of fort donelson. many boasts had been made of the terrible punishment that was in store for our army, if it ventured an attack upon fort donelson. no one would be allowed to escape to tell the tale. all were to be slaughtered, or lodged in rebel prisons. memphis was consequently waiting for the best tidings from the cumberland, and did not think it possible a reverse could come to the rebel cause. one sunday morning, the telegraph, without any previous announcement, flashed the intelligence that fort donelson, with twelve thousand men, had surrendered, and a portion of general grant's army was moving on nashville, with every prospect of capturing that city. memphis was in consternation. no one could tell how long the yankee army would stop at nashville before moving elsewhere, and it was certain that memphis was uncovered by the fall of fort donelson. my informant first learned the important tidings in the rotunda of the gayoso house. seeing a group of his acquaintances with faces depicting the utmost gloom, he asked what was the matter. "bad enough," said one. "fort donelson has surrendered with nearly all its garrison." "that is terrible," said my friend, assuming a look of agony, though he was inwardly elated. "yes, and the enemy are moving on nashville." "horrible news," was the response; "but let us not be too despondent. our men are good for them, one against three, and they will never get out of nashville alive, if they should happen to take it." with another expression of deep sorrow at the misfortune which had befallen the rebel army, this gentleman hastened to convey the glad news to his friends. "i reached home," said he, "locked my front door, called my wife and sister into the parlor, and instantly jumped over the center-table. they both cried for joy when i told them the old flag floated over donelson." the secessionists in memphis, like their brethren elsewhere, insisted that all the points we had captured were given up because they had no further use for them. the evacuation of columbus, fort pillow, fort henry, and bowling green, with the surrender of donelson, were parts of the grand strategy of the rebel leaders, and served to lure us on to our destruction. they would never admit a defeat, but contended we had invariably suffered. an uneducated farmer, on the route followed by one of our armies in tennessee, told our officers that a rebel general and his staff had taken dinner with him during the retreat from nashville. the farmer was anxious to learn something about the military situation, and asked a rebel major how the confederate cause was progressing. "splendidly," answered the major. "we have whipped the yankees in every battle, and our independence will soon be recognized." the farmer was thoughtful for a minute or two, and then deliberately said: "i don't know much about war, but if we are always whipping the yankees, how is it they keep coming down into our country after every battle?" the major grew red in the face, and told the farmer that any man who asked such an absurd question was an abolitionist, and deserved hanging to the nearest tree. the farmer was silenced, but not satisfied. i had a fine illustration of the infatuation of the rebel sympathizers, a few days after memphis was captured. one evening, while making a visit at the house of an acquaintance, the hostess introduced me to a young lady of the strongest secession proclivities. of course, i endeavored to avoid the topics on which we were certain to differ, but my new acquaintance was determined to provoke a discussion. with a few preliminaries, she throw out the question: "now, don't you think the southern soldiers have shown themselves the bravest people that ever lived, while the yankees have proved the greatest cowards?" "i can hardly agree with you," i replied. "your people have certainly established a reputation on the score of bravery, but we can claim quite as much." "but we have whipped you in every battle. we whipped you at manassas and ball's bluff, and we whipped general grant at belmont." "that is very true; but how was it at shiloh?" "at shiloh we whipped you; we drove you to your gun-boats, which was all we wanted to do." "ah, i beg your pardon; but what is your impression of fort donelson?" "fort donelson!"--and my lady's cheek flushed with either pride or indignation--"fort donelson was an unquestioned victory for the south. we stopped your army--all we wanted to; and then general forrest, general floyd, and all the troops we wished to bring off, came away. we only left general buckner and three thousand men for you to capture." "it seems, then, we labored under a delusion at the north. we thought we had something to rejoice over when fort donelson fell. but, pray, what do you consider the capture of island number ten and the naval battle here?" "at island ten we defeated you" (how this was done she did not say), "and we were victorious here. you wanted to capture all our boats; but you only got four of them, and those were damaged." "in your view of the case," i replied, "i admit the south to have been always victorious. without wishing to be considered disloyal to the nation, i can heartily wish you many similar victories." in the tour which dickens records, mark tapley did not visit the southern country, but the salient points of his character are possessed by the sons of the cavaliers. "jolly" under the greatest misfortunes, and extracting comfort and happiness from all calamities, your true rebel could never know adversity. the fire which consumes his dwelling is a personal boon, as he can readily explain. so is a devastating flood, or a widespread pestilence. the events which narrow-minded mudsills are apt to look upon as calamitous, are only "blessings in disguise" to every supporter and friend of the late "confederacy." chapter xviii. supervising a rebel journal. the press of memphis.--flight of _the appeal_.--a false prediction.--_the argus_ becomes loyal.--order from general wallace.--installed in office.--lecturing the rebels.--"trade follows the flag."--abuses of traffic.--supplying the rebels.--a perilous adventure.--passing the rebel lines.--eluding watchful eyes. on the morning of the th of june, the newspaper publishers, like most other gentlemen of memphis, were greatly alarmed. _the avalanche_ and _the argus_ announced that it was impossible for the yankee fleet to cope successfully with the rebels, and that victory was certain to perch upon the banners of the latter. the sheets were not dry before the rebel fleet was a thing of the past. _the appeal_ had not been as hopeful as its contemporaries, and thought it the wisest course to abandon the city. it moved to grenada, mississippi, a hundred miles distant, and resumed publication. it became a migratory sheet, and was at last captured by general wilson at columbus, georgia. in ability it ranked among the best of the rebel journals. _the avalanche_ and _the argus_ continued publication, with a strong leaning to the rebel side. the former was interfered with by our authorities; and, under the name of _the bulletin_, with new editorial management, was allowed to reappear. _the argus_ maintained its rebel ground, though with moderation, until the military hand fell upon it. memphis, in the early days of our occupation, changed its commander nearly every week. one of these changes brought major-general wallace into the city. this officer thought it proper to issue the following order:-- head-quarters third division, reserved corps, army of tennessee, memphis, _june_ , . editors daily argus:--as the closing of your office might be injurious to you pecuniarily, i send two gentlemen--messrs. a.d. richardson and thos. w. knox, both of ample experience--to take charge of the editorial department of your paper. the business management of your office will be left to you. very respectfully, lewis wallace, _general third division, reserved corps._ the publishers of _the argus_ printed this order at the head of their columns. below it they announced that they were not responsible for any thing which should appear editorially, as long as the order was in force. the business management and the general miscellaneous and news matter were not interfered with. mr. richardson and myself entered upon our new duties immediately. we had crossed the plains together, had published a paper in the rocky mountains, had been through many adventures and perils side by side; but we had never before managed a newspaper in an insurrectionary district. the publishers of _the argus_ greeted us cordially, and our whole intercourse with them was harmonious. they did not relish the intrusion of northern men into their office, to compel the insertion of union editorials, but they bore the inconvenience with an excellent grace. the foreman of the establishment displayed more mortification at the change, than any other person whom we met. the editorials we published were of a positive character. we plainly announced the determination of the government to assert itself and put down and punish treason. we told the memphis people that the scheme of partisan warfare, which was then in its inception, would work more harm than good to the districts where guerrilla companies were organized. we insisted that the union armies had entered memphis and other parts of the south, to stay there, and that resistance to their power was useless. we credited the rebels with much bravery and devotion to their cause, but asserted always that we had the right and the strong arm in our favor. it is possible we did not make many conversions among the disloyal readers of _the argus_, but we had the satisfaction of saying what we thought it necessary they should hear. the publishers said their subscribers were rapidly falling off, on account of the change of editorial tone. like newspaper readers everywhere, they disliked to peruse what their consciences did not approve. we received letters, generally from women, denying our right to control the columns of the paper for our "base purposes." some of these letters were not written after the style of chesterfield, but the majority of them were courteous. there were many jests in memphis, and throughout the country generally, concerning the appointment of representatives of _the herald_ and _the tribune_ to a position where they must work together. _the herald_ and _the tribune_ have not been famous, in the past twenty years, for an excess of good-nature toward each other. mr. bennett and mr. greeley are not supposed to partake habitually of the same dinners and wine, or to join in frequent games of billiards and poker. the compliments which the two great dailies occasionally exchange, are not calculated to promote an intimate friendship between the venerable gentlemen whose names are so well known to the public. no one expects these veteran editors to emulate the example of damon and pythias. at the time mr. richardson and myself took charge of _the argus, the tribune_ and _the herald_ were indulging in one of their well-known disputes. it was much like the hibernian's debate, "with sticks," and attracted some attention, though it was generally voted a nuisance. many, who did not know us, imagined that the new editors of _the argus_ would follow the tendencies of the offices from which they bore credentials. several northern journals came to hand, in which this belief was expressed. a chicago paper published two articles supposed to be in the same issue of _the argus_, differing totally in every line of argument or statement of fact. one editor argued that the harmonious occupancy of contiguous desks by the representatives of _the herald_ and _the tribune_, betokened the approach of the millennium. when he issued the order placing us in charge of _the argus_, general wallace assured its proprietors that he should remove the editorial supervision as soon as a union paper was established in memphis. this event occurred in a short time, and _the argus_ was restored to its original management, according to promise. as soon as the capture of memphis was known at the north, there was an eager scramble to secure the trade of the long-blockaded port. several boat-loads of goods were shipped from st. louis and cincinnati, and memphis was so rapidly filled that the supply was far greater than the demand. army and treasury regulations were soon established, and many restrictions placed upon traffic. the restrictions did not materially diminish the quantity of goods, but they served to throw the trade into a few hands, and thus open the way for much favoritism. those who obtained permits, thought the system an excellent one. those who were kept "out in the cold," viewed the matter in a different light. a thousand stories of dishonesty, official and unofficial, were in constant circulation, and i fear that many of them came very near the truth. in our occupation of cities along the mississippi, the rebels found a ready supply from our markets. this was especially the case at memphis. boots and shoes passed through the lines in great numbers, either by stealth or by open permit, and were taken at once to the rebel army. cloth, clothing, percussion-caps, and similar articles went in the same direction. general grant and other prominent officers made a strong opposition to our policy, and advised the suppression of the rebellion prior to the opening of trade, but their protestations were of no avail. we chastised the rebels with one hand, while we fed and clothed them with the other. after the capture of memphis, colonel charles r. ellet, with two boats of the ram fleet, proceeded to explore the river between memphis and vicksburg. it was not known what defenses the rebels might have constructed along this distance of four hundred miles. colonel ellet found no hinderance to his progress, except a small field battery near napoleon, arkansas. when a few miles above vicksburg, he ascertained that a portion of admiral farragut's fleet was below that point, preparing to attack the city. he at once determined to open communication with the lower fleet. opposite vicksburg there is a long and narrow peninsula, around which the mississippi makes a bend. it is a mile and a quarter across the neck of this peninsula, while it is sixteen miles around by the course of the river. it was impossible to pass around by the mississippi, on account of the batteries at vicksburg. the rebels were holding the peninsula with a small force of infantry and cavalry, to prevent our effecting a landing. by careful management it was possible to elude the sentinels, and cross from one side of the peninsula to the other. colonel ellet armed himself to make the attempt. he took only a few documents to prove his identity as soon as he reached admiral farragut. a little before daylight, one morning, he started on his perilous journey. he waded through swamps, toiled among the thick undergrowth in a portion of the forest, was fired upon by a rebel picket, and narrowly escaped drowning in crossing a bayou. he was compelled to make a wide detour, to avoid capture, and thus extended his journey to nearly a half-dozen miles. on reaching the bank opposite one of our gun-boats, he found a yawl near the shore, by which he was promptly taken on board. the officers of this gun-boat suspected him of being a spy, and placed him under guard. it was not until the arrival of admiral farragut that his true character became known. after a long interview with that officer he prepared to return. he concealed dispatches for the navy department and for flag-officer davis in the lining of his boots and in the wristbands of his shirt. a file of marines escorted him as far as they could safely venture, and then bade him farewell. near the place where he had left his own boat, colonel ellet found a small party of rebels, carefully watching from a spot where they could not be easily discovered. it was a matter of some difficulty to elude these men, but he did it successfully, and reached his boat in safety. he proceeded at once to memphis with his dispatches. flag-officer davis immediately decided to co-operate with admiral farragut, in the attempt to capture vicksburg. shortly after the capture of new orleans, admiral farragut ascended the mississippi as far as vicksburg. at that time the defensive force was very small, and there were but few batteries erected. the admiral felt confident of his ability to silence the rebel guns, but he was unaccompanied by a land force to occupy the city after its capture. he was reluctantly compelled to return to new orleans, and wait until troops could be spared from general butler's command. the rebels improved their opportunities, and concentrated a large force to put vicksburg in condition for defense. heavy guns were brought from various points, earth-works were thrown up on all sides, and the town became a vast fortification. when the fleet returned at the end of june, the rebels were ready to receive it. their strongest works were on the banks of the mississippi. they had no dread of an attack from the direction of jackson, until long afterward. vicksburg was the key to the possession of the mississippi. the rebel authorities at richmond ordered it defended as long as defense was possible. chapter xix. the first siege of vicksburg. from memphis to vicksburg.--running the batteries.--our inability to take vicksburg by assault.--digging a canal.--a conversation with resident secessionists.--their arguments _pro_ and _con_, and the answers they received.--a curiosity of legislation.--an expedition up the yazoo.--destruction of the rebel fleet.--the _arkansas_ running the gauntlet.--a spirited encounter.--a gallant attempt.--raising the siege.--fate of the _arkansas_. on the st of july, i left memphis with the mississippi flotilla, and arrived above vicksburg late on the following day. admiral farragut's fleet attempted the passage of the batteries on the th of june. a portion of the fleet succeeded in the attempt, under a heavy fire, and gained a position above the peninsula. among the first to effect a passage was the flag-ship _hartford_, with the "gallant old salamander" on board. the _richmond, iroquois_, and _oneida_ were the sloops-of-war that accompanied the _hartford_. the _brooklyn_ and other heavy vessels remained below. the history of that first siege of vicksburg can be briefly told. twenty-five hundred infantry, under general williams, accompanied the fleet from new orleans, with the design of occupying vicksburg after the batteries had been silenced by our artillery. most of the rebel guns were located at such a height that it was found impossible to elevate our own guns so as to reach them. thus the occupation by infantry was found impracticable. the passage of the batteries was followed by the bombardment, from the mortar-schooners of admiral farragut's fleet and the mortar-rafts which flag-officer davis had brought down. this continued steadily for several days, but vicksburg did not fall. a canal across the peninsula was proposed and commenced. the water fell as fast as the digging progressed, and the plan of leaving vicksburg inland was abandoned for that time. even had there been a flood in the river, the entrance to the canal was so located that success was impossible. the old steamboat-men laughed at the efforts of the massachusetts engineer, to create a current in his canal by commencing it in an eddy. just as the canal project was agreed upon, i was present at a conversation between general williams and several residents of the vicinity. the latter, fearing the channel of the river would be changed, visited the general to protest against the carrying out of his plan. the citizens were six in number. they had selected no one to act as their leader. each joined in the conversation as he saw fit. after a little preliminary talk, one of them said: "are you aware, general, there is no law of the state allowing you to make a cut-off, here?" "i am sorry to say," replied general williams, "i am not familiar with the laws of louisiana. even if i were, i should not heed them. i believe louisiana passed an act of secession. according to your own showing you have no claims on the government now." this disposed of that objection. there was some hesitation, evidently embarrassing to the delegation, but not to general williams. citizen number one was silenced. number two advanced an idea. "you may remember, general, that you will subject the parish of madison to an expenditure of ninety thousand dollars for new levees." this argument disturbed general williams no more than the first one. he promptly replied: "the parish of madison gave a large majority in favor of secession; did it not?" "i believe it did," was the faltering response. "then you can learn that treason costs something. it will cost you far more before the war is over." citizen number two said nothing more. it was the opportunity for number three to speak. "if this cut-off is made, it will ruin the trade of vicksburg. it has been a fine city for business, but this will spoil it. boats will not be able to reach the town, but will find all the current through the short route." "that is just what we want," said the general. "we are digging the canal for the very purpose of navigating the river without passing near vicksburg." number three went to the rear. number four came forward. "if you make this cut-off, all these plantations will be carried away. you will ruin the property of many loyal men." he was answered that loyal men would be paid for all property taken or destroyed, as soon as their loyalty was proved. the fifth and last point in the protest was next advanced. it came from an individual who professed to practice law in de soto township, and was as follows: "the charter of the vicksburg and shreveport railroad is perpetual, and so declared by act of the louisiana legislature. no one has any right to cut through the embankment." "that is true," was the quiet answer. "the constitution of the united states is also a perpetual charter, which it was treason to violate. when you and your leaders have no hesitation at breaking national faith, it is absurd to claim rights under the laws of a state which you deny to be in the union." this was the end of the delegation. its members retired without having gained a single point in their case. they were, doubtless, easier in mind when they ascertained, two weeks later, that the canal enterprise was a failure. the last argument put forth on that occasion, to prevent the carrying out of our plans, is one of the curiosities of legislation. for a long time there were many parties in louisiana who wished the channel of the mississippi turned across the neck of the peninsula opposite vicksburg, thus shortening the river fifteen miles, at least, and rendering the plantations above, less liable to overflow. as vicksburg lay in another state, her interests were not regarded. she spent much money in the corrupt legislature of louisiana to defeat the scheme. as a last resort, it was proposed to build a railway, with a perpetual charter, from the end of the peninsula opposite vicksburg, to some point in the interior. much money was required. the capitalists of vicksburg contributed the funds for lobbying the bill and commencing the road. up to the time when the rebellion began, it was rendered certain that no hand of man could legally turn the mississippi across that peninsula. the first siege of vicksburg lasted but twenty days. our fleet was unable to silence the batteries, and our land force was not sufficient for the work. during the progress of the siege, colonel ellet, with his ram fleet, ascended the yazoo river, and compelled the rebels to destroy three of their gun-boats, the _livingston, polk_, and _van dorn_, to prevent their falling into our hands. the _van dorn_ was the only boat that escaped, out of the fleet of eight rebel gun-boats which met ours at memphis on the th of june. at the time of making this expedition, colonel ellet learned that the famous ram gun-boat _arkansas_ was completed, and nearly ready to descend the river. he notified admiral farragut and flag-officer davis, but they paid little attention to his warnings. this rebel gun-boat, which was expected to do so much toward the destruction of our naval forces on the mississippi, was constructed at memphis, and hurried from there in a partially finished condition, just before the capture of the city. she was towed to yazoo city and there completed. the _arkansas_ was a powerful iron-clad steamer, mounting ten guns, and carrying an iron beak, designed for penetrating the hulls of our gun-boats. her engines were powerful, though they could not be worked with facility at the time of her appearance. her model, construction, armament, and propelling force, made her equal to any boat of our upper flotilla, and her officers claimed to have full confidence in her abilities. on the morning of the th of july, the _arkansas_ emerged from the yazoo river, fifteen miles above vicksburg. a short distance up that stream she encountered two of our gun-boats, the _carondelet_ and _tyler_, and fought them until she reached our fleet at anchor above vicksburg. the _carondelet_ was one of our mail-clad gun-boats, built at st. louis in . the _tyler_ was a wooden gun-boat, altered from an old transport, and was totally unfit for entering into battle. both were perforated by the rebel shell, the _tyler_ receiving the larger number. the gallantry displayed by captain gwin, her commander, was worthy of special praise. our fleet was at anchor four or five miles above vicksburg--some of the vessels lying in midstream, while others were fastened to the banks. the _arkansas_ fired to the right and left as she passed through the fleet. her shot disabled two of our boats, and slightly injured two or three others. she did not herself escape without damage. many of our projectiles struck her sides, but glanced into the river. two shells perforated her plating, and another entered a port, exploding over one of the guns. ten men were killed and as many wounded. the _arkansas_ was not actually disabled, but her commander declined to enter into another action until she had undergone repairs. she reached a safe anchorage under protection of the vicksburg batteries. a few days later, a plan was arranged for her destruction. colonel ellet, with the ram _queen of the west_, was to run down and strike the _arkansas_ at her moorings. the gun-boat _essex_ was to join in this effort, while the upper flotilla, assisted by the vessels of admiral farragut's fleet, would shell the rebel batteries. the _essex_ started first, but ran directly past the _arkansas_, instead of stopping to engage her, as was expected. the _essex_ fired three guns at the _arkansas_ while in range, from one of which a shell crashed through the armor of the rebel boat, disabling an entire gun-crew. the _queen of the west_ attempted to perform her part of the work, but the current was so strong where the _arkansas_ lay that it was impossible to deal an effective blow. the upper flotilla did not open fire to engage the attention of the enemy, and thus the unfortunate _queen of the west_ was obliged to receive all the fire from the rebel batteries. she was repeatedly perforated, but fortunately escaped without damage to her machinery. the _arkansas_ was not seriously injured in the encounter, though the completion of her repairs was somewhat delayed. on the th of july the first siege of vicksburg was raised. the upper flotilla of gun-boats, mortar-rafts, and transports, returned to memphis and helena. admiral farragut took his fleet to new orleans. general williams went, with his land forces, to baton rouge. that city was soon after attacked by general breckinridge, with six thousand men. the rebels were repulsed with heavy loss. in our own ranks the killed and wounded were not less than those of the enemy. general williams was among the slain, and at one period our chances, of making a successful defense were very doubtful. the _arkansas_ had been ordered to proceed from vicksburg to take part in this attack, the rebels being confident she could overpower our three gun-boats at baton rouge. on the way down the river her machinery became deranged, and she was tied up to the bank for repairs. seeing our gun-boats approaching, and knowing he was helpless against them; her commander ordered the _arkansas_ to be abandoned and blown up. the order was obeyed, and this much-praised and really formidable gun-boat closed her brief but brilliant career. the rebels were greatly chagrined at her loss, as they had expected she would accomplish much toward driving the national fleet from the mississippi. the joy with which they hailed her appearance was far less than the sorrow her destruction evoked. chapter xx. the march through arkansas.--the siege of cincinnati. general curtis's army reaching helena.--its wanderings.--the arkansas navy.--troops and their supplies "miss connection."--rebel reports.--memphis in midsummer.--"a journey due north."--chicago.--bragg's advance into kentucky.--kirby smith in front of cincinnati.--the city under martial law.--the squirrel hunters.--war correspondents in comfortable quarters.--improvising an army.--raising the siege.--bragg's retreat. about the middle of july, general curtis's army arrived at helena, arkansas, ninety miles below memphis. after the battle of pea ridge, this army commenced its wanderings, moving first to batesville, on the white river, where it lay for several weeks. then it went to jacksonport, further down that stream, and remained a short time. the guerrillas were in such strong force on general curtis's line of communications that they greatly restricted the receipt of supplies, and placed the army on very short rations. for nearly a month the public had no positive information concerning curtis's whereabouts. the rebels were continually circulating stories that he had surrendered, or was terribly defeated. the only reasons for doubting the truth of these stories were, first, that the rebels had no force of any importance in arkansas; and second, that our army, to use the expression of one of its officers, "wasn't going round surrendering." we expected it would turn up in some locality where the rebels did not desire it, and had no fears of its surrender. general curtis constructed several boats at batesville, which were usually spoken of as "the arkansas navy." these boats carried some six or eight hundred men, and were used to patrol the white river, as the army moved down its banks. in this way the column advanced from batesville to jacksonport, and afterward to st. charles. supplies had been sent up the white river to meet the army. the transports and their convoy remained several days at st. charles, but could get no tidings of general curtis. the river was falling, and they finally returned. twelve hours after their departure, the advance of the lost army arrived at st. charles. from st. charles to helena was a march of sixty miles, across a country destitute of every thing but water, and not even possessing a good supply of that article. the army reached helena, weary and hungry, but it was speedily supplied with every thing needed, and put in condition to take the offensive. it was soon named in general orders "the army of arkansas," and ultimately accomplished the occupation of the entire state. during july and august there was little activity around memphis. in the latter month, i found the climate exceedingly uncomfortable. day after day the atmosphere was hot, still, stifling, and impregnated with the dust that rose in clouds from the parched earth. the inhabitants endured it easily, and made continual prophesy that the _hot_ weather "would come in september." those of us who were strangers wondered what the temperature must be, to constitute "hot" weather in the estimation of a native. the thermometer then stood at eighty-five degrees at midnight, and ninety-eight or one hundred at noon. few people walked the streets in the day, and those who were obliged to do so generally moved at a snail's pace. cases of _coup-de-soleil_ were frequent. the temperature affected me personally, by changing my complexion to a deep yellow, and reducing my strength about sixty per cent. i decided upon "a journey due north." forty-eight hours after sweltering in memphis, i was shivering on the shores of lake michigan. i exchanged the hot, fever-laden atmosphere of that city, for the cool and healthful air of chicago. the activity, energy, and enterprise of chicago, made a pleasing contrast to the idleness and gloom that pervaded memphis. this was no place for me to exist in as an invalid. i found the saffron tint of my complexion rapidly disappearing, and my strength restored, under the influence of pure breezes and busy life. ten days in that city prepared me for new scenes of war. at that time the rebel army, under general bragg, was making its advance into kentucky. general buell was moving at the same time toward the ohio river. the two armies were marching in nearly parallel lines, so that it became a race between them for nashville and louisville. bragg divided his forces, threatening louisville and cincinnati at the same time. defenses were thrown up around the former city, to assist in holding it in case of attack, but they were never brought into use. by rapid marching, general buell reached louisville in advance of bragg, and rendered it useless for the latter to fling his army against the city. meantime, general kirby smith moved, under bragg's orders, to the siege of cincinnati. his advance was slow, and gave some opportunity for preparation. the chief reliance for defense was upon the raw militia and such irregular forces as could be gathered for the occasion. the hills of covington and newport, opposite cincinnati, were crowned with fortifications and seamed with rifle-pits, which were filled with these raw soldiers. the valor of these men was beyond question, but they were almost entirely without discipline. in front of the veteran regiments of the rebel army our forces would have been at great disadvantage. when i reached cincinnati the rebel army was within a few miles of the defenses. on the train which took me to the city, there were many of the country people going to offer their services to aid in repelling the enemy. they entered the cars at the various stations, bringing their rifles, which they well knew how to use. they were the famous "squirrel-hunters" of ohio, who were afterward the subject of some derision on the part of the rebels. nearly twenty thousand of them volunteered for the occasion, and would have handled their rifles to advantage had the rebels given them the opportunity. at the time of my arrival at cincinnati, major-general wallace was in command. the queen city of the west was obliged to undergo some of the inconveniences of martial law. business of nearly every kind was suspended. a provost-marshal's pass was necessary to enable one to walk the streets in security. the same document was required of any person who wished to hire a carriage, or take a pleasant drive to the kentucky side of the ohio. most of the able-bodied citizens voluntarily offered their services, and took their places in the rifle-pits, but there were some who refused to go. these were hunted out and taken to the front, much against their will. some were found in or under beds; others were clad in women's garments, and working at wash-tubs. some tied up their hands as if disabled, and others plead baldness or indigestion to excuse a lack of patriotism. all was of no avail. the provost-marshal had no charity for human weakness. this severity was not pleasant to the citizens, but it served an admirable purpose. when kirby smith arrived in front of the defenses, he found forty thousand men confronting him. of these, not over six or eight thousand had borne arms more than a week or ten days. the volunteer militia of cincinnati, and the squirrel-hunters from the interior of ohio and indiana, formed the balance of our forces. our line of defenses encircled the cities of covington and newport, touching the ohio above and below their extreme limits. nearly every hill was crowned with a fortification. these fortifications were connected by rifle-pits, which were kept constantly filled with men. on the river we had a fleet of gun-boats, improvised from ordinary steamers by surrounding their vulnerable parts with bales of hay. the river was low, so that it was necessary to watch several places where fording was possible. a pontoon bridge was thrown across the ohio, and continued there until the siege was ended. it had been a matter of jest among the journalists at memphis and other points in the southwest, that the vicissitudes of war might some day enable us to witness military operations from the principal hotels in the northern cities. "when we can write war letters from the burnet or the sherman house," was the occasional remark, "there will be some personal comfort in being an army correspondent." what we had said in jest was now proving true. we could take a carriage at the burnet house, and in half an hour stand on our front lines and witness the operations of the skirmishers. later in the war i was enabled to write letters upon interesting topics from detroit and st. paul. the way in which our large defensive force was fed, was nearly as great a novelty as the celerity of its organization. it was very difficult to sever the red tape of the army regulations, and enable the commissary department to issue rations to men that belonged to no regiments or companies. the people of cincinnati were very prompt to send contributions of cooked food to the fifth street market-house, which was made a temporary restaurant for the defenders of the city. wagons were sent daily through nearly all the streets to gather these contributed supplies, and the street-cars were free to all women and children going to or from the market-house. hundreds walked to the front, to carry the provisions they had prepared with their own hands. all the ordinary edibles of civilized life were brought forward in abundance. had our men fought at all, they would have fought on full stomachs. the arrival of general buell's army at louisville rendered it impossible for bragg to take that city. the defenders of cincinnati were re-enforced by a division from general grant's army, which was then in west tennessee. this arrival was followed by that of other trained regiments and brigades from various localities, so that we began to contemplate taking the offensive. the rebels disappeared from our front, and a reconnoissance showed that they were falling back toward lexington. they burned the turnpike and railway bridges as they retreated, showing conclusively that they had abandoned the siege. as soon as the retirement of the rebels was positively ascertained, a portion of our forces was ordered from cincinnati to louisville. general buell's army took the offensive, and pursued bragg as he retreated toward the tennessee river. general wallace was relieved, and his command transferred to general wright. a change in the whole military situation soon transpired. from holding the defensive, our armies became the pursuers of the rebels, the latter showing little inclination to risk an encounter. the battle of perryville was the great battle of this kentucky campaign. its result gave neither army much opportunity for exultation. in their retreat through kentucky and tennessee, the rebels gathered all the supplies they could find, and carried them to their commissary depot at knoxville. it was said that their trains included more than thirty thousand wagons, all of them heavily laden. large droves of cattle and horses became the property of the confederacy. chapter xxi. the battle of corinth. new plans of the rebels.--their design to capture corinth,--advancing to the attack.--strong defenses.--a magnificent charge.--valor _vs._ breast-works.--the repulse.--retreat and pursuit.--the national arms triumphant. the bragg campaign into kentucky being barren of important results, the rebel authorities ordered that an attempt should be made to drive us from west tennessee. the rebel army in northern mississippi commenced the aggressive late in september, while the retreat of bragg was still in progress. the battle of iuka resulted favorably to the rebels, giving them possession of that point, and allowing a large quantity of supplies to fall into their hands. on the th of october was the famous battle of corinth, the rebels under general van dorn attacking general rosecrans, who was commanding at corinth. the rebels advanced from holly springs, striking corinth on the western side of our lines. the movement was well executed, and challenged our admiration for its audacity and the valor the rebel soldiery displayed. it was highly important for the success of the rebel plans in the southwest that we should be expelled from corinth. accordingly, they made a most determined effort, but met a signal defeat. some of the best fighting of the war occurred at this battle of corinth. the rebel line of battle was on the western and northern side of the town, cutting off our communications with general grant at jackson. the rebels penetrated our line, and actually obtained possession of a portion of corinth, but were driven out by hard, earnest work. it was a struggle for a great prize, in which neither party was inclined to yield as long as it had any strength remaining to strike a blow. the key to our position was on the western side, where two earth-works had been thrown up to command the approaches in that direction. these works were known as "battery williams" and "battery robbinette," so named in honor of the officers who superintended their erection and commanded their garrisons at the time of the assault. these works were on the summits of two small hills, where the ascent from the main road that skirted their base was very gentle. the timber on these slopes had been cut away to afford full sweep to our guns. an advancing force would be completely under our fire during the whole time of its ascent. whether succeeding or failing, it must lose heavily. [illustration: the rebel charge at corinth.] general van dorn gave price's division the honor of assaulting these works. the division was composed of missouri, arkansas, and texas regiments, and estimated at eight thousand strong. price directed the movement in person, and briefly told his men that the position must be taken at all hazards. the line was formed on the wooded ground at the base of the hills on which our batteries stood. the advance was commenced simultaneously along the line. as the rebels emerged from the forest, our guns were opened. officers who were in battery williams at the time of the assault, say the rebels moved in splendid order. grape and shell made frequent and wide gaps through their ranks, but the line did not break nor waver. the men moved directly forward, over the fallen timber that covered the ground, and at length came within range of our infantry, which had been placed in the forts to support the gunners. our artillery had made fearful havoc among the rebels from the moment they left the protection of the forest. our infantry was waiting with impatience to play its part. when the rebels were fairly within range of our small-arms, the order was given for a simultaneous volley along our whole line. as the shower of bullets struck the rebel front, hundreds of men went down. many flags fell as the color-bearers were killed, but they were instantly seized and defiantly waved. with a wild cheer the rebels dashed forward up to the very front of the forts, receiving without recoil a most deadly fire. they leaped the ditch and gained the parapet. they entered a bastion of battery williams, and for a minute held possession of one of our guns. of the dozen or more that gained the interior of the bastion, very few escaped. nearly all were shot down while fighting for possession of the gun, or surrendered when the parapet was cleared of those ascending it. the retreat of the rebels was hasty, but it was orderly. even in a repulse their coolness did not forsake them. they left their dead scattered thickly in our front. in one group of seventeen, they lay so closely together that their bodies touched each other. an officer told me he could have walked along the entire front of battery williams, touching a dead or wounded rebel at nearly every step. two rebel colonels were killed side by side, one of them falling with his hand over the edge of the ditch. they were buried where they died. in the attack in which the rebels entered the edge of the town, the struggle was nearly as great. it required desperate fighting for them to gain possession of the spot, and equally desperate fighting on our part to retake it. all our officers who participated in this battle spoke in admiration of the courage displayed by the rebels. praise from an enemy is the greatest praise. the rebels were not defeated on account of any lack of bravery or of recklessness. they were fully justified in retreating after the efforts they made. our army was just as determined to hold corinth as the rebels were to capture it. advantages of position turned the scale in our favor, and enabled us to repulse a force superior to our own. just before the battle, general grant sent a division under general mcpherson to re-enforce corinth. the rebels had cut the railway between the two points, so that the re-enforcement did not reach corinth until the battle was over. on the morning following the battle, our forces moved out in pursuit of the retreating rebels. at the same time a column marched from bolivar, so as to fall in their front. the rebels were taken between the two columns, and brought to an engagement with each of them; but, by finding roads to the south, managed to escape without disorganization. our forces returned to corinth and bolivar, thinking it useless to make further pursuit. thus terminated the campaign of the enemy against corinth. there was no expectation that the rebels would trouble us any more in that quarter for the present, unless we sought them out. their defeat was sufficiently serious to compel them to relinquish all hope of expelling us from corinth. during the time of his occupation of west tennessee, general grant was much annoyed by the wandering sons of israel, who thronged his lines in great numbers. they were engaged in all kinds of speculation in which money could be made. many of them passed the lines into the enemy's country, and purchased cotton, which they managed to bring to memphis and other points on the river. many were engaged in smuggling supplies to the rebel armies, and several were caught while acting as spies. on our side of the lines the jews were union men, and generally announced their desire for a prompt suppression of the rebellion. when under the folds of the rebel flag they were the most ardent secessionists, and breathed undying hostility to the yankees. very few of them had any real sympathy with either side, and were ready, like mr. pickwick, to shout with the largest mob on all occasions, provided there was money to be made by the operation. their number was very great. in the latter half of ' , a traveler would have thought the lost tribes of israel were holding a reunion at memphis. general grant became indignant, and issued an order banishing the jews from his lines. the order created much excitement among the americans of hebraic descent. the matter was placed before the president, and the obnoxious restriction promptly revoked. during the time it was in force a large number of the proscribed individuals were obliged to go north. sometimes the rebels did not treat the jews with the utmost courtesy. on one occasion a scouting party captured two jews who were buying cotton. the israelites were robbed of ten thousand dollars in gold and united states currency, and then forced to enter the ranks of the rebel army. they did not escape until six months later. in chicago, in the first year of the war, a company of jews was armed and equipped at the expense of their wealthier brethren. the men composing the company served their full time, and were highly praised for their gallantry. the above case deserves mention, as it is an exception to the general conduct of the jews. chapter xxii. the campaign from corinth. changes of commanders.--preparations for the aggressive.--marching from corinth.--talking with the people.--"you-uns and we-uns."--conservatism of a "regular."--loyalty and disloyalty.--condition of the rebel army.--foraging.--german theology for american soldiers.--a modest landlord.--a boy without a name.--the freedmen's bureau.--employing negroes.--holly springs and its people.--an argument for secession. two weeks after the battle of corinth, general rosecrans was summoned to the army of the cumberland, to assume command in place of general buell. general grant was placed at the head of the thirteenth army corps, including all the forces in west tennessee. preparations for an aggressive movement into the enemy's country had been in progress for some time. corinth, bolivar, and jackson were strongly fortified, so that a small force could defend them. the base of supply was at columbus, kentucky, eighty-five miles due north of jackson, thus giving us a long line of railway to protect. on the first of november the movement began, by the advance of a column from corinth and another from bolivar. these columns met at grand junction, twenty-five miles north of holly springs, and, after lying there for two weeks, advanced to the occupation of the latter point. the rebels evacuated the place on our approach, and after a day or two at holly springs we went forward toward the south. abbeville and oxford were taken, and the rebels established themselves at grenada, a hundred miles south of memphis. from corinth i accompanied the division commanded by general stanley. i had known this officer in missouri, in the first year of the war, when he claimed to be very "conservative" in his views. during the campaign with general lyon he expressed himself opposed to a warfare that should produce a change in the social status at the south. when i met him at corinth he was very "radical" in sentiment, and in favor of a thorough destruction of the "peculiar institution." he declared that he had liberated his own slaves, and was determined to set free all the slaves of any other person that might come in his way. he rejoiced that the war had not ended during the six months following the fall of fort sumter, as we should then have allowed slavery to exist, which would have rendered us liable to another rebellion whenever the southern leaders chose to make it. we could only be taught by the logic of events, and it would take two or three years of war to educate the country to a proper understanding of our position. it required a war of greater magnitude than was generally expected at the outset. in there were few people who would have consented to interfere with "slavery in the states." the number of these persons was greater in , but it was not until that the anti-slavery sentiment took firm hold of the public mind. in the voice of missouri would have favored the retention of the old system. in that state became almost as radical as massachusetts. the change in public sentiment elsewhere was nearly as great. during the march from corinth to grand junction, i had frequent opportunity for conversing with the people along the route. there were few able-bodied men at home. it was the invariable answer, when we asked the whereabouts of any citizen, "he's away." inquiry would bring a reluctant confession that he had gone to the rebel army. occasionally a woman would boast that she had sent her husband to fight for his rights and the rights of his state. the violation of state rights and the infringement upon personal prerogative were charged upon the national government as the causes of the war. some of the women displayed considerable skill in arguing the question of secession, but their arguments were generally mingled with invective. the majority were unable to make any discussion whatever. "what's you-uns come down here to fight we-uns for?" said one of the women whose husband was in the rebel army. "we-uns never did you-uns no hurt." (this addition of a syllable to the personal pronouns of the second and third persons is common in some parts of the south, while in others it will not be heard.) "well," said general stanley, "we came down here because we were obliged to come. your people commenced a war, and we are trying to help you end it." "we-uns didn't want to fight, no-how. you-uns went and made the war so as to steal our niggers." the woman acknowledged that neither her husband nor herself ever owned negroes, or ever expected to do so. she knew nothing about fort sumter, and only knew that the north elected one president and the south another, on the same occasion. the south only wanted its president to rule its own region, but the north wanted to extend its control over the whole country, so as to steal the negroes. hence arose the war. some of the poorer whites manifested a loyal feeling, which sprang from a belief that the establishment of the confederacy would not better their condition. this number was not large, but it has doubtless increased with the termination of the war. the wealthier portion of the people were invariably in sympathy with the rebel cause. after we reached grand junction, and made our camp a short distance south of that point, we were joined by the column from bolivar. in the two columns general grant had more than forty thousand men, exclusive of a force under general sherman, about to move from memphis. the rebel army was at holly springs and abbeville, and was estimated at fifty thousand strong. every day found a few deserters coming in from the rebels, but their number was not large. the few that came represented their army to be well supplied with shoes, clothing, and ammunition, and also well fed. they were nearly recovered from the effects of their repulse at corinth, a month before. our soldiers foraged at will on the plantations near our camp. the quantities of supplies that were brought in did not argue that the country had been previously visited by an army. mules, horses, cattle, hogs, sheep, chickens, and other things used by an army, were found in abundance. the soldiers did not always confine their foraging to articles of necessity. a clergyman's library was invaded and plundered. i saw one soldier bending under the (avoirdupois) weight of three heavy volumes on theology, printed in the german language. another soldier, a mere boy, was carrying away in triumph a copy of scott's greek lexicon. in every instance when it came to their knowledge, the officers compelled the soldiers to return the books they had stolen. german theology and greek lexicons were not thought advantageous to an army in the field. one wing of our army was encamped at lagrange, tennessee, and honored with the presence of general grant. lagrange presented a fair example of the effects of secession upon the interior villages of the south. before the war it was the center of a flourishing business. its private residences were constructed with considerable magnificence, and evinced the wealth of their owners. there was a male and a female college; there was a bank, and there were several stores and commission houses. when the war broke out, the young men at the male college enlisted in the rebel army. the young women in the female college went to their homes. the bank was closed for want of funds, the hotels had no guests, the stores had few customers, and these had no money, the commission houses could find no cotton to sell and no goods to buy. every thing was completely stagnated. all the men who could carry muskets went to the field. when we occupied the town, there were not three men remaining who were of the arms-bearing age. i found in lagrange a man who _could_ keep a hotel. he was ignorant, lazy, and his establishment only resembled the fifth avenue or the continental in the prices charged to the guests. i staid several days with this boniface, and enjoyed the usual fare of the interior south. calling for my bill at my departure, i found the charges were only three dollars and fifty cents per day. my horse had been kept in a vacant and dilapidated stable belonging to the hotel, but the landlord refused to take any responsibility for the animal. he had no corn or hay, and his hostler had "gone to the yankees!" during my stay i employed a man to purchase corn and give the desired attention to the horse. the landlord made a charge of one dollar per day for "hoss-keeping," and was indignant when i entered a protest. outside of newport and saratoga, i think there are very few hotel-keepers in the north who would make out and present a bill on so small a basis as this. this taverner's wife and daughter professed an utter contempt for all white persons who degraded themselves to any kind of toil. of course, their hostility to the north was very great. beyond a slight supervision, they left every thing to the care of the negroes. a gentleman who was with me sought to make himself acquainted with the family, and succeeded admirably until, on one evening, he constructed a small toy to amuse the children. this was too much. he was skillful with his hands, and must therefore be a "mudsill." his acquaintance with the ladies of that household came to an end. his manual dexterity was his ruin. there was another hotel in lagrange, a rival establishment, that bore the reputation of being much the worse in point of comfort. it was owned by a widow, and this widow had a son--a lank, overgrown youth of eighteen. his poverty, on one point, was the greatest i ever knew. he could have been appropriately selected as the hero of a certain popular novel by wilkie collins. no name had ever been given him by his parents. in his infancy they spoke of him as "the boy." when he grew large enough to appear on the street with other boys, some one gave him the _sobriquet_ of "rough and ready." from that time forward, his only praenomen was "rough." i made several inquiries among his neighbors, but could not ascertain that he bore any other christian appellative. the first comprehensive order providing for the care of the negroes in the southwest, was issued by general grant while his army lay at lagrange and grand junction. previous to that time, the negroes had been disposed of as each division and post commander thought best, under his general instructions not to treat them unkindly. four months earlier, our authorities at memphis had enrolled several hundred able-bodied negroes into an organization for service in the quartermaster's department, in accordance with the provisions of an order from district head-quarters. they threw up fortifications, loaded and unloaded steamboats, and performed such other labor as was required. in general grant's army there was a pioneer corps of three hundred negroes, under the immediate charge of an overseer, controlled by an officer of engineers. no steps were then taken to use them as soldiers. the number of negroes at our posts and in our camps was rapidly increasing. under the previous orders, they were registered and employed only on government work. none but the able-bodied males were thus available. the new arrangements contemplated the employment of all who were capable of performing any kind of field labor. it was expected to bring some revenue to the government, that would partially cover the expense of providing for the negroes. the following is the order which general grant issued:-- head-quarters thirteenth army corps, department of the tennessee, lagrange, tennessee, _november_ , . special field order, no. . i. chaplain j. eaton, jr., of the twenty-seventh ohio volunteers, is hereby appointed to take charge of all fugitive slaves that are now, or may from time to time come, within the military lines of the advancing army in this vicinity, not employed and registered in accordance with general orders, no. , from head-quarters district of west tennessee, and will open a camp for them at grand junction, where they will be suitably cared for, and organized into companies, and set to work, picking, ginning, and baling all cotton now outstanding in fields. ii. commanding officers of all troops will send all fugitives that come within the lines, together with such teams, cooking utensils, and other baggage as they may bring with them, to chaplain j. eaton, jr., at grand junction. iii. one regiment of infantry from brigadier-general mcarthur's division will be temporarily detailed as guard in charge of such contrabands, and the surgeon of said regiment will be charged with the care of the sick. iv. commissaries of subsistence will issue, on the requisitions of chaplain eaton, omitting the coffee ration, and substituting rye. by order of major-general u.s. grant. jno. a. rawlins, a.a.g. chaplain eaton entered immediately upon the discharge of his duties. many division and brigade commanders threw obstacles in his way, and were very slow to comply with general grant's order. some of the officers of the commissary department made every possible delay in filling chaplain eaton's requisitions. the people of the vicinity laughed at the experiment, and prophesied speedy and complete failure. they endeavored to insure a failure by stealing the horses and mules, and disabling the machinery which chaplain eaton was using. failing in this, they organized guerrilla parties, and attempted to frighten the negroes from working in the field. they only desisted from this enterprise when some of their number were killed. all the negroes that came into the army lines were gathered at grand junction and organized, in compliance with the order. there were many fields of cotton fully ripened, that required immediate attention. cotton-picking commenced, and was extensively prosecuted. the experiment proved a success. the cotton, in the immediate vicinity of grand junction and lagrange was gathered, baled, and made ready for market. for once, the labors of the negro in the southwest were bringing an actual return to the government. the following year saw the system enlarged, as our armies took possession of new districts. in , large quantities of cotton were gathered from fields in the vicinity of lake providence and milliken's bend, and the cultivation of plantations was commenced. in , this last enterprise was still further prosecuted. chaplain eaton became colonel eaton, and the humble beginning at grand junction grew into a great scheme for demonstrating the practicability of free labor, and benefiting the negroes who-had been left without support by reason of the flight of their owners. as the army lay in camp near lagrange for nearly four weeks, and the enemy was twenty-five miles distant, there was very little war correspondence to be written. there was an occasional skirmish near the front, but no important movement whatever. the monotony of this kind of life, and the tables of the lagrange hotels, were not calculated to awaken much enthusiasm. learning from a staff officer the probable date when the army would advance, i essayed a visit to st. louis, and returned in season to take part in the movement into mississippi. at the time general grant advanced from lagrange, he ordered general sherman to move from memphis, so that the two columns would unite in the vicinity of oxford, mississippi. general sherman pushed his column as rapidly as possible, and, by the combined movement, the rebels were forced out of their defenses beyond oxford, and compelled to select a new line in the direction of grenada. our flag was steadily advancing toward the gulf. satisfied there would be no battle until our army had passed oxford, i tarried several days at holly springs, waiting for the railway to be opened. i found the town a very pleasant one, finely situated, and bearing evidence of the wealth and taste of its inhabitants. when the war broke out, there were only two places in the state that could boast a larger population than holly springs. at the time of my arrival, the hotels of holly springs were not open, and i was obliged to take a room at a private house with one of the inhabitants. my host was an earnest advocate of the rebel cause, and had the fullest confidence in the ultimate independence of the south. "we intend," said he, "to establish a strong government, in which there will be no danger of interference by any abolitionists. if you had allowed us to have our own way, there would never have been any trouble. we didn't want you to have slavery in the north, but we wanted to go into the territories, where we had a perfect right, and do as we pleased about taking our slaves there. the control of the government belongs to us. the most of the presidents have been from the south, as they ought to be. it was only when you elected a sectional president, who was sworn to break up slavery, that we objected. you began the war when you refused us the privilege of having a national president." this gentleman argued, further, that the half of all public property belonged to the south, and it was only just that the state authorities should take possession of forts and arsenals, as they did at the inception of the war. it was the especial right of the south to control the nation. slavery was instituted from heaven, for the especial good of both white and black. whoever displayed any sympathy for the negro, and wished to make him free, was doing a great injustice to the slave and his master, particularly to the latter. once he said the destruction of slavery would be unworthy a people who possessed any gallantry. "you will," he declared, "do a cruel wrong to many fine ladies. they know nothing about working with their hands, and consider such knowledge disgraceful. if their slaves are taken from them, these ladies will be helpless." this gentleman was the possessor of several negroes, though he lived in a house that he did not own. of course, it was a great injustice to deprive him of his only property, especially as the laws of his state sanctioned such ownership. he declared he would not submit to any theft of that character. i do not think i ever saw a person manifest more passion than was exhibited by this individual on hearings one afternoon, that one of his slaves had taken refuge in our camp, with the avowed intention of going north. "i don't care for the loss," said he, "but what i do care for is, to be robbed by a nigger. i can endure an injury from a white man; to have a nigger defy me is too much." unfortunate and unhappy man! i presume he is not entirely satisfied with the present status of the "peculiar institution." the cotton speculators at holly springs were guilty of some sharp transactions. one day a gentleman residing in the vicinity came to town in order to effect a sale of fifty bales. the cotton was in a warehouse a half-dozen miles away. remaining over night in holly springs, and walking to the railway station in the morning, he found his cotton piled by the track and ready for shipment. two men were engaged effacing the marks upon the bales. by some means they had obtained a sufficient number of government wagons to remove the entire lot during the night. it was a case of downright theft. the offenders were banished beyond the lines of the army. in a public office at holly springs our soldiers found a great number of bills on the northern bank of mississippi. they were in sheets, just as they had come from the press. none of them bore dates or signatures. the soldiers supplied all needed chirography, and the bills obtained a wide circulation. chickens, pigs, and other small articles were purchased of the whites and negroes, and paid for with the most astonishing liberality. counterfeits of the rebel currency were freely distributed, and could only be distinguished from the genuine by their superior execution. among the women in holly springs and its vicinity snuff was in great demand. the article is used by them in much the same way that men chew tobacco. the practice is known as "dipping," and is disgusting in the extreme. a stick the size of a common pencil is chewed or beaten at one end until the fibers are separated. in this condition it forms a brush. this brush is moistened with saliva, and plunged into the snuff. the fine powder which adheres is then rubbed on the gums and among the teeth. a species of partial intoxication is the result. the effect of continued "dipping" becomes apparent. the gums are inflamed, the teeth are discolored, the lips are shriveled, and the complexion is sallow. the throat is dry and irritated, and there is a constant desire to expectorate. i trust the habit will never become a northern one. chapter xxiii. grant's occupation of mississippi. the slavery question.--a generous offer.--a journalist's modesty.--hopes of the mississippians at the beginning of the war.--visiting an editress.--literature under difficulties.--jacob thompson and his correspondence.--plans for the capture of vicksburg.--movements of general sherman.--the raid upon holly springs.--forewarned, but not forearmed.--a gallant fight. the people of holly springs were much excited over the slavery question. it was then early in december. the president's proclamation was to have its effect on all states, or portions of states, not represented in congress on the first of january following. the slaveholders desired to have the northern district of mississippi represented in congress before the first of january. three or four days after my arrival at holly springs i was with a small party of citizens to whom i had received introduction. the great question was being discussed. all were agreed that northern mississippi should be represented in congress at whatever cost. "grant has now been in mississippi nearly two weeks," said the principal speaker; "we are clearly entitled to representation." "certainly we are," responded another; "but who will represent us?" "hold an election to-morrow, and choose our man." "who will we send? none of us would be received. there isn't a man in the district who could swear he has taken no part in the rebellion." "i have it," said the individual who first proposed an election. turning to me, he made a somewhat novel proposition: "you can represent us in congress. we've all been so d----d disloyal that we can't go; but that is no reason why we should not send a loyal men. say yes, and we'll meet to-morrow, a dozen of us, and elect you." here was an opportunity for glory. only four days in a state from which i could go to congress! i was offered all necessary credentials to insure my reception. my loyalty could be clearly and easily proved. my only duties would be to assist in fastening slavery upon my congressional district. much as i felt honored at the offer of distinction, i was obliged to decline it. a similar proposition was made to another journalist. he, like myself, was governed by modesty, and begged to be excused from serving. the desire of this people to be represented in congress, was a partial proof that they expected the national authority restored throughout the country. they professed to believe that our occupation would be temporary, but their actions did not agree with their words. they were greatly mortified at the inability of their army to oppose our advance, and frequently abused the rebel government without stint. they had anticipated an easy victory from the outset, and were greatly disappointed at the result, up to that time. "just see how it is," said a mississippian one day; "we expected to whip you without the slightest trouble. we threw the war into the border states to keep it off our soil. mississippi was very earnest for the rebellion when kentucky was the battle-ground. we no more expected you would come here, than that we should get to the moon. it is the fortune of war that you have driven us back, but it is very severe upon the cotton states." i ventured to ask about the possibilities of repudiation of the rebel debt, in case the confederacy was fairly established. "of course we shall repudiate," was the response. "it would be far better for the confederacy to do so than to attempt to pay the debt, or even its interest. suppose we have a debt of a thousand millions, at eight per cent. this debt is due to our own people, and they have to pay the interest upon it. in twelve years and a half they would have paid another thousand millions, and still be as deeply in debt as ever. now, if they repudiate the whole, the country will be a thousand millions richer at the end of twelve years and a half, than it otherwise would." in mississippi, as well as in other southern states, i frequently heard this argument. it is not surprising that the confidence of the people in their currency was shaken at a very early period. in its days of prosperity, holly springs boasted of two rival papers, each of them published weekly. one of these died just as the war broke out. the proprietor of the other, who was at the same time its editor, went, with his two sons, into the rebel army, leaving the paper in charge of his wife. the lady wielded the pen for nearly a year, but the scarcity of printing-paper compelled her to close her office, a few months before our arrival. one afternoon, i accompanied mr. colburn, of _the world_, on a visit to the ex-editress. the lady received our cards and greeted us very cordially. she spoke, with evident pride, of her struggles to sustain her paper in war-time and under war prices, and hoped she could soon resume its publication. she referred to the absence of her husband and sons in the rebel service, and was gratified that they had always borne a good record. she believed in the south and in the justness of its cause, but was prompt to declare that all the wrong was not on one side. she neither gave the south extravagant praise, nor visited the north with denunciation. she regretted the existence of the war, and charged its beginning upon the extremists of both sides. slavery was clearly its cause, and she should look for its complete destruction in the event of the restoration of national authority. through justice to itself, the north could demand nothing less, and the south must be willing to abide by the fortune of war. this woman respected and admired the north, because it was a region where labor was not degrading. she had always opposed the southern sentiment concerning labor, and educated her children after her own belief. while other boys were idling in the streets, she had taught her sons all the mysteries of the printing-office, and made them able to care for themselves. she was confident they would vindicate the correctness of her theory, by winning good positions in life. she believed slavery had assisted the development of the south, but was equally positive that its effect upon the white race was ruinous in the extreme. she had no word of abuse for the union, but spoke of it in terms of praise. at the same time she expressed an earnest hope for the success of the rebellion. she saw the evil of slavery, but wished the confederacy established. how she could reconcile all her views i was unable to ascertain. i do not believe she will take seriously to heart the defeat of the scheme to found a slaveholders' government. in the suppression of the rebellion she will doubtless discover a brilliant future for "the land of the cypress and myrtle," and bless the day that witnessed the destruction of slavery. at oxford, our forces found the residence of the ex-hon. jacob thompson, who has since figured prominently as the rebel agent in canada. in his office a letter-book and much correspondence were secured--the letters showing that the design of a rebellion dated much further back than the first election of mr. lincoln. some of this correspondence was given to the public at the time, and proved quite interesting. the balance was sent to the war department, where it was expected to be of service. the books in mr. thompson's library found their way to various parts of the union, and became scattered where it will be difficult for their owner to gather them, should he desire to restore his collection. if "misery loves company," it was doubtless gratifying to mr. thompson to know of the capture of the library and correspondence of jefferson davis, several months later. our advance into mississippi was being successfully pushed, early in december, . there was a prospect that it would not accomplish the desired object, the capture of vicksburg, without some counter-movement. a force was sent from helena, arkansas, to cut the railway in rear of the rebel army. though accomplishing its immediate object, it did not make a material change in the military situation. the rebels continued to hold grenada, which they had strongly fortified. they could only be forced from this position by a movement that should render grenada of no practical value. general grant detached the right wing of his army, with orders to make a rapid march to memphis, and thence to descend the mississippi by steamboats to vicksburg. this expedition was commanded by general sherman. while the movement was in progress, general grant was to push forward, on the line he had been following, and attempt to join general sherman at the nearest practicable point on the yazoo river above vicksburg. the fall of vicksburg was thus thought to be assured, especially as general sherman's attack was to be made upon the defenses in its rear. general sherman moved, to memphis with due celerity. the garrison of that city was reduced as much as possible to re-enforce his column. the army of arkansas, then at helena, was temporarily added to his command. this gave a force exceeding twenty-eight thousand strong to move upon vicksburg. it was considered sufficiently large to accomplish the desired object--the garrison of vicksburg having been weakened to strengthen the army in general grant's front. i was in holly springs when general sherman began to move toward memphis. thinking there would be active work at vicksburg, i prepared to go to columbus by rail, and take a steamboat thence to memphis. by this route it was nearly four hundred miles; but it was safer and more expeditious to travel in that way than to attempt the "overland" journey of fifty miles in a direct line. there were rumors that the rebels contemplated a raid upon holly springs, for the purpose of cutting general grant's communications and destroying the supplies known to be accumulated there. from the most vague and obscurely-worded hints, given by a secessionist, i inferred that such a movement was expected. the rebels were arranging a cavalry force to strike a blow somewhere upon our line of railway, and there was no point more attractive than holly springs. i attached no importance to the story, as i had invariably known the friends of the rebels to predict wonderful movements that never occurred. meeting the post-commandant shortly afterward, i told him what i had heard. he assured me there was nothing to fear, and that every thing was arranged to insure a successful defense. on this point i did not agree with him. i knew very well that the garrison was not properly distributed to oppose a dash of the enemy. there were but few men on picket, and no precautions had been taken against surprise. our accumulation of stores was sufficiently large to be worth a strong effort to destroy them. as i was about ready to leave, i concluded to take the first train to columbus. less than forty-eight hours after my departure, general van dorn, at the head of five thousand men, entered holly springs with very slight opposition. he found every thing nearly as he could have arranged it had he planned the defense himself. the commandant, colonel murphy, was afterward dismissed the service for his negligence in preparing to defend the place after being notified by general grant that the enemy was moving to attack him. the accumulation of supplies at the railway depot, and all the railway buildings, with their surroundings, were burned. two trains of cars were standing ready to move, and these shared a similar fate. in the center of the town, a building we were using as a magazine was blown up. the most of the business portion of holly springs was destroyed by fire, communicated from this magazine. during the first year of the war, holly springs was selected as the site of a "confederate states arsenal," and a series of extensive buildings erected at great expense. we had converted these buildings into hospitals, and were fitting them up with suitable accommodations for a large number of sick and wounded. after ordering our surgeons to remove their patients, the rebels set fire to the hospitals while the yellow flag was floating over them. general grant subsequently denounced this act as contrary to the usages of war. the rebels remained in holly springs until five o'clock in the afternoon of the day of their arrival. at their departure they moved in a northerly direction, evidently designing to visit grand junction. at davis's mill, about half-way between holly springs and grand junction, they found a small stockade, garrisoned by two companies of infantry, protecting the railway bridge. they sent forward a flag-of-truce, and demanded the instant surrender of the stockade. their demand was not complied with. that garrison, of less than two hundred men, fought van dorn's entire command four hours, repulsed three successive charges, and finally compelled the rebels to retreat. van dorn's northward movement was checked, and our stores at grand junction and lagrange were saved, by the gallantry of this little force. general grant subsequently gave special compliment to the bravery of these soldiers and their officers, in an order which was read to every regiment in the army of the tennessee. our plans were completely deranged by this movement of the enemy. the supplies and ammunition we had relied upon were destroyed, and our communications severed. it was impossible to push further into mississippi, and preparations were made for immediate retreat. the railway was repaired and the heavy baggage sent to the rear as speedily as possible. when this was accomplished the army began to fall back. oxford, abbeville, and holly springs were abandoned, and returned to the protection of the rebel flag. northern mississippi again became the field for guerrilla warfare, and a source of supply to the rebels in the field. the campaign for the capture of vicksburg took a new shape from the day our lines were severed. a few days before the surrender of vicksburg, general grant, in conversation with some friends, referred to his position in mississippi, six months before. had he pressed forward beyond grenada, he would have been caught in midwinter in a sea of mud, where the safety of his army might have been endangered. van dorn's raid compelled him to retreat, saved him from a possible heavier reverse, and prepared the way for the campaign in which vicksburg finally capitulated. a present disaster, it proved the beginning of ultimate success. chapter xxiv. the battle of chickasaw bayou. leaving memphis.--down the great river.--landing in the yazoo.-- description of the ground..--a night in bivouac.--plan of attack.-- moving toward the hills.--assaulting the bluff.--our repulse.--new plans.--withdrawal from the yazoo. on arriving at memphis, i found general sherman's expedition was ready to move toward vicksburg. a few of the soldiers who escaped from the raid on holly springs had reached memphis with intelligence of that disaster. the news caused much excitement, as the strength of the rebels was greatly exaggerated. a few of these soldiers thought van dorn's entire division of fifteen or twenty thousand men had been mounted and was present at the raid. there were rumors of a contemplated attack upon memphis, after general sherman's departure. unmilitary men thought the event might delay the movement upon vicksburg, but it did not have that effect. general sherman said he had no official knowledge that holly springs had been captured, and could do no less than carry out his orders. the expedition sailed, its various divisions making a rendezvous at friar's point, twelve miles below helena, on the night of the d of december. from this place to the mouth of the yazoo, we moved leisurely down the mississippi, halting a day near milliken's bend, almost in sight of vicksburg. we passed a portion of christmas-day near the mouth of the yazoo. on the morning of the th of december, the fleet of sixty transports, convoyed by several gun-boats, commenced the ascent of the yazoo. this stream debouches into the mississippi, fifteen miles above vicksburg, by the course of the current, though the distance in an airline is not more than six miles. ten or twelve miles above its mouth, the yazoo sweeps the base of the range of hills on which vicksburg stands, at a point nearly behind the city. it was therefore considered a feasible route to the rear of vicksburg. in a letter which i wrote on that occasion, i gave the following description of the country adjoining the river, and the incidents of a night bivouac before the battle:--"the bottom-land of the yazoo is covered with a heavy growth of tall cypress-trees, whose limbs are everywhere interlaced. in many places the forest has a dense undergrowth, and in others it is quite clear, and affords easy passage to mounted men. these huge trees are heavily draped in the 'hanging moss,' so common in the southern states, which gives them a most gloomy appearance. the moss, everywhere pendent from the limbs of the trees, covers them like a shroud, and in some localities shuts out the sunlight. in these forests there are numerous bayous that form a net-work converting the land into a series of islands. when separated from your companions, you can easily imagine yourself in a wilderness. in the wild woods of the oregon there is no greater solitude." * * * * * "on the afternoon of the th, i started from the transports, and accompanied our left wing, which was advancing on the east side of chickasaw bayou. the road lay along the crest of the levee which had been thrown up on the bank of the bayou, to protect the fields on that side against inundation. this road was only wide enough for the passage of a single wagon. our progress was very slow, on account of the necessity for removing heavy logs across the levee. when night overtook us, we made our bivouac in the forest, about three miles from the river. "i had taken with me but a single blanket, and a haversack containing my note-book and a few crackers. that night in bivouac acquainted me with some of the discomforts of war-making on the yazoo. the ground was moist from recent rains, so that dry places were difficult to find. a fellow-journalist proposed that we unite our blankets, and form a double bed for mutual advantage. to this i assented. when my friend came forward, to rest in our combined couch, i found his 'blanket' was purely imaginary, having been left on the steamer at his departure. for a while we 'doubled,' but i was soon deserted, on account of the barrenness of my accommodations. "no fires were allowed, as they might reveal our position to the watchful enemy. the night was cold. ice formed at the edge of the bayou, and there was a thick frost on the little patches of open ground. a negro who had lived in that region said the swamp usually abounded in moccasins, copperheads, and cane-snakes, in large numbers. an occasional rustling of the leaves at my side led me to imagine these snakes were endeavoring to make my acquaintance. "laying aside my snake fancies, it was too cold to sleep. as fast as i would fall into a doze, the chill of the atmosphere would steal through my blanket, and remind me of my location. half-sleeping and half-waking, i dreamed of every thing disagreeable. i had visions of greenland's icy mountains, of rambles in siberia, of my long-past midwinter nights in the snow-drifted gorges of colorado, of shipwreck, and of burning dwellings, and of all moving accidents by flood and field! these dreams followed each other with a rapidity that far outstripped the workings of the electric telegraph. "cold and dampness and snakes and fitful dreams were not the only bodily discomforts. a dozen horses were loose in camp, and trotting gayly about. several times they passed at a careless pace within a yard of my head. once the foremost of the _caballada_ jumped directly over me, and was followed by the rest. my comments on these eccentricities of that noble animal, the horse, provoked the derision rather than the sympathy of those who heard them. "a teamster, who mistook me for a log, led his mules over me. a negro, under the same delusion, attempted to convert me into a chair, and another wanted to break me up for fuel, to be used in making a fire after daylight. each of these little blunders evoked a gentle remonstrance, that effectually prevented a repetition by the same individual. "a little past daylight a shell from the rebel batteries exploded within twenty yards of my position, and warned me that it was time to rise. to make my toilet, i pulled the sticks and leaves from my hair and beard, and brushed my overcoat with a handful of moss. i breakfasted on a cracker and a spoonful of whisky. i gave my horse a handful of corn and a large quantity of leaves. the former he ate, but the latter he refused to touch. the column began to move, and i was ready to attend upon its fortunes." general sherman's plan was to effect a landing on the yazoo, and, by taking possession of the bluffs, sever the communication between vicksburg and the interior. it was thought the garrison of vicksburg had been greatly weakened to re-enforce the army in general grant's front, so that our success would be certain when we once gained the bluffs. a portion of our forces effected a landing on the th, but the whole command was not on shore till the th. fighting commenced on the th, and became more earnest on the th, as we crowded toward the bluffs. in moving from the steamboat landing to the base of the bluffs on the th, our army encountered the enemy at several points, but forced him back without serious loss on either side. it appeared to be the rebel design not to make any resistance of magnitude until we had crossed the lower ground and were near the base of the line of hills protecting vicksburg. not far from the foot of the bluffs there was a bayou, which formed an excellent front for the first line of the rebel defenses. on our right we attempted to cross this bayou with a portion of morgan l. smith's division, but the rebel fire was so severe that we were repulsed. on our extreme right a similar attempt obtained the same result. on our left the bayou was crossed by general morgan's and general steele's divisions at two or three points, and our forces gained a position close up to the edge of the bluff. at eleven a. m. on the th, an assault was made by three brigades of infantry upon the works of the enemy on this portion of the line. general blair and general thayer from steele's division, pushed forward through an abatis which skirted the edge of the bayou, and captured the first line of rebel rifle-pits. from this line the brigades pressed two hundred yards farther up the hillside, and temporarily occupied a portion of the second line. fifty yards beyond was a small clump of trees, which was gained by one regiment, the thirteenth illinois, of general blair's brigade. [illustration: general blair's brigade assaulting the hill at chickasaw, bayou.] the rebels massed heavily against these two brigades. our assaulting force had not been followed by a supporting column, and was unable to hold the works it captured. it fell back to the bayou and re-formed its line. one of general morgan's brigades occupied a portion of the rifle-pits at the time the hill was assaulted by the brigades from general steele's division. during the afternoon of the th, preparations were made for another assault, but the plan was not carried out. it was found the rebels had been re-enforced at that point, so that we had great odds against us. the two contending armies rested within view of each other, throwing a few shells each hour, to give notice of their presence. after the assault, the ground between the contending lines was covered with dead and wounded men of our army. a flag-of-truce was sent out on the afternoon of the th, to arrange for burying the dead and bringing away the wounded, but the rebels would not receive it. sunrise on the th, noon, sunset, and sunrise again, and they lay there still. on the st, a truce of five hours was arranged, and the work of humanity accomplished. a heavy rain had fallen, rendering the ground unfit for the rapid moving of infantry and artillery, in front of the rebel position. on the evening of the st, orders were issued for a new plan of attack at another part of the enemy's lines. a division was to be embarked on the transports, and landed as near as possible to the rebel fortifications on haines's bluff, several miles up the yazoo. the gun-boats were to take the advance, engage the attention of the forts, and cover the landing. admiral porter ordered colonel ellet to go in advance, with a boat of his ram fleet, to remove the obstructions the rebels had placed in the river, under the guns of the fort. a raft was attached to the bow of the ram, and on the end of the raft was a torpedo containing a half ton of powder. admiral porter contended that the explosion of the torpedo would remove the obstructions, so that the fleet could proceed. colonel ellet expressed his readiness to obey orders, but gave his opinion that the explosion, while effecting its object, would destroy his boat and all on board. some officers and civilians, who knew the admiral's antipathy to colonel ellet, suggested that the former was of the same opinion, and therefore desirous that the experiment should be made. every thing was in readiness on the morning of the st of january, but a dense fog prevented the execution of our new plan. on the following day we withdrew from the yazoo, and ended the second attack upon vicksburg. our loss was not far from two thousand men, in all casualties. general sherman claimed to have carried out with exactness, the instructions from his superior officers respecting the time and manner of the attack. van dorn's raid upon general grant's lines, previous to sherman's departure from memphis, had radically changed the military situation. grant's advance being stopped, his co-operation by way of yazoo city could not be given. at the same time, the rebels were enabled to strengthen their forces at vicksburg. the assault was a part of the great plan for the conquest of the mississippi, and was made in obedience to positive orders. before the orders were carried out, a single circumstance had deranged the whole plan. after the fighting was ended and the army had re-embarked, preparatory to leaving the yazoo, general sherman was relieved from command by general mcclernand. the latter officer carried out the order for withdrawal. the fleet steamed up the mississippi to milliken's bend, where it remained for a day or two. general mcclernand directed that an expedition be made against arkansas post, a rebel fortification on the arkansas river, fifty miles above its mouth. after the first attack upon vicksburg, in june, , the rebels strengthened the approaches in the rear of the city. they threw up defensive works on the line of bluffs facing the yazoo, and erected a strong fortification to prevent our boats ascending that stream. just before general sherman commenced his assault, the gun-boat _benton_, aided by another iron-clad, attempted to silence the batteries at haines's bluff, but was unsuccessful. her sides were perforated by the rebel projectiles, and she withdrew from the attack in a disabled condition. captain gwin, her commander, was mortally wounded early in the fight. captain gwin was married but a few weeks before this occurrence. his young wife was on her way from the east to visit him, and was met at cairo with the news of his death. about two months before the time of our attack, an expedition descended the mississippi from helena, and suddenly appeared near the mouth of the yazoo. it reached milliken's bend at night, surprising and capturing the steamer _fairplay_, which was loaded with arms and ammunition for the rebels in arkansas. so quietly was the capture made, that the officers of the _fairplay_ were not aware of the change in their situation until awakened by their captors. chapter xxv. before vicksburg. capture of arkansas post.--the army returns to milliken's bend.--general sherman and the journalists.--arrest of the author.--his trial before a military court.--letter from president lincoln.--capture of three journalists. the army moved against arkansas post, which was captured, with its entire garrison of five thousand men. the fort was dismantled and the earth-works leveled to the ground. after this was accomplished, the army returned to milliken's bend. general grant arrived a few days later, and commenced the operations which culminated in the fall of vicksburg. before leaving memphis on the yazoo expedition, general sherman issued an order excluding all civilians, except such as were connected with the transports, and threatening to treat as a spy any person who should write accounts for publication which might give information to the enemy. no journalists were to be allowed to take part in the affair. one who applied for permission to go in his professional capacity received a very positive refusal. general sherman had a strong antipathy to journalists, amounting almost to a mania, and he was determined to discourage their presence in his movements against vicksburg. five or six correspondents accompanied the expedition, some of them on passes from general grant, which were believed superior to general sherman's order, and others with passes or invitations from officers in the expedition. i carried a pass from general grant, and had a personal invitation from an officer who held a prominent command in the army of arkansas. i had passed memphis, almost without stopping, and was not aware of the existence of the prohibitory order until i reached the yazoo. i wrote for _the herald_ an account of the battle, which i directed to a friend at cairo, and placed in the mail on board the head-quarters' boat. the day after mailing my letter, i learned it was being read at general sherman's head-quarters. the general afterward told me that his mail-agent, colonel markland, took my letter, among others, from the mail, with his full assent, though without his order. i proceeded to rewrite my account, determined not to trust again to the head-quarters' mail. when i was about ready to depart, i received the letter which had been stolen, bearing evident marks of repeated perusal. two maps which it originally contained were not returned. i proceeded to cairo as the bearer of my own dispatches. on my return to milliken's bend, two weeks later, i experienced a new sensation. after two interviews with the indignant general, i received a tender of hospitalities from the provost-marshal of the army of the tennessee. the tender was made in such form as left no opportunity for declining it. a few days after my arrest, i was honored by a trial before a military court, consisting of a brigadier-general, four colonels, and two majors. general sherman had made the following charges against me:-- first.--"_giving information to the enemy._" second.--"_being a spy._" third.--"_disobedience of orders._" the first and second charges were based on my published letter. the third declared that i accompanied the expedition without proper authority, and published a letter without official sanction. these were my alleged offenses. my court had a protracted session. it decided there was nothing in my letter which violated the provisions of the order regulating war correspondence for the press. it declared me innocent of the first and second charges. it could see nothing criminal in the manner of my accompanying the expedition. but i was guilty of something. there was a "general order, number ," issued in , of whose existence neither myself nor, as far as i could ascertain, any other journalist, was aware. it provided that no person should write, print, or cause to be printed "any information respecting military movements, without the authority and sanction of the general in command." here was the rock on which i split. i had written a letter respecting military movements, and caused it to be printed, "without the sanction of the general in command." correspondents everywhere had done the same thing, and continued to do it till the end of the war. "order number " was as obsolete as the laws of the medes and persians, save on that single occasion. dispatches by telegraph passed under the eye of a government censor, but i never heard of an instance wherein a letter transmitted by mail received any official sanction. my court was composed of officers from general sherman's command, and was carefully watched by that distinguished military chieftain, throughout its whole sitting. it wavered in deciding upon the proper "punishment" for my offense. should it banish me from that spot, or should i receive an official censure? it concluded to send me outside the limits of the army of the tennessee. during the days i passed in the care of the provost-marshal, i perused all the novels that the region afforded. when these were ended, i studied a copy of a well-known work on theology, and turned, for light reading, to the "pirate's own book." a sympathizing friend sent me a bundle of tracts and a copy of the "adventures of john a. murrell." a volume of lectures upon temperance and a dozen bottles of allsop's pale ale, were among the most welcome contributions that i received. the ale disappeared before the lectures had been thoroughly digested. the chambermaid of the steamboat displayed the greatest sympathy in my behalf. she declined to receive payment of a washing-bill, and burst into tears when i assured her the money was of no use to me. her fears for my welfare were caused by a frightful story that had been told her by a cabin-boy. he maliciously represented that i was to be executed for attempting to purchase cotton from a rebel quartermaster. the verdant woman believed the story for several days. it may interest some readers to know that the proceedings of a court-martial are made in writing. the judge-advocate (who holds the same position as the prosecuting attorney in a civil case) writes his questions, and then reads them aloud. the answers, as they are given, are reduced to writing. the questions or objections of the prisoner's counsel must be made in writing and given to the judge-advocate, to be read to the court. in trials where a large number of witnesses must be examined, it is now the custom to make use of "short-hand" writers. in this way the length of a trial is greatly reduced. the members of a court-martial sit in full uniform, including sash and sword, and preserve a most severe and becoming dignity. whenever the court wishes to deliberate upon any point of law or evidence, the room is cleared, neither the prisoner nor his counsel being allowed to remain. it frequently occurs that the court is thus closed during the greater part of its sessions. with the necessity for recording all its proceedings, and frequent stoppages for deliberation, a trial by a military court is ordinarily very slow. in obedience to the order of the court, i left the vicinity of the army of the tennessee, and proceeded north. in departing from young's point, i could not obey a certain scriptural injunction, as the mud of louisiana adheres like glue, and defies all efforts to shake it off. mr. albert d. richardson, of the tribune, on behalf of many of my professional friends, called the attention of president lincoln to the little affair between general sherman and myself. in his recently published book of experiences during the war, mr. richardson has given a full and graphic account of his interview with the president. mr. lincoln unbent himself from his official cares, told two of his best stories, conversed for an hour or more upon the military situation, gave his reasons for the removal of general mcclellan, and expressed his hope in our ultimate success. declaring it his inflexible determination not to interfere with the conduct of any military department, he wrote the following document:-- executive mansion, washington, _march_ , . whom it may concern: whereas it appears to my satisfaction that thomas w. knox, a correspondent of _the new york herald_, has been, by the sentence of a court-martial, excluded from the military department under command of major-general grant, and also that general thayer, president of the court-martial, which rendered the sentence, and major-general mcclernand, in command of a corps of that department, and many other respectable persons, are of opinion that mr. knox's offense was technical, rather than willfully wrong, and that the sentence should be revoked: now, therefore, said sentence is hereby so far revoked as to allow mr. knox to return to general grant's head-quarters, to remain if general grant shall give his express assent; and to again leave the department, if general grant shall refuse such assent. a. lincoln with this letter i returned to the army. general grant referred the question to general sherman. in consideration of our quarrel, and knowing the unamiable character of the latter officer, i should have been greatly surprised had he given any thing else than a refusal. i had fully expected to return immediately when i left st. louis, but, like most persons in a controversy, wished to carry my point. general sherman long since retrieved his failure at chickasaw bayou. throughout the war he was honored with the confidence and friendship of general grant. the career of these officers was not marked by the jealousies that are too frequent in military life. the hero of the campaign from chattanooga to raleigh is destined to be known in history. in those successful marches, and in the victories won by his tireless and never vanquished army, he has gained a reputation that may well be enduring. soon after my return from young's point, general grant crossed the mississippi at grand gulf, and made his daring and successful movement to attain the rear of vicksburg. starting with a force less than the one his opponent could bring against him, he cut loose from his communications and succeeded in severing the enemy's line of supplies. from grand gulf to jackson, and from jackson to the rear of vicksburg, was a series of brilliant marches and brilliant victories. once seated where he had his antagonist's army inclosed, general grant opened his lines to the yazoo, supplied himself with every thing desired, and pressed the siege at his leisure. with the fall of vicksburg, and the fall, a few days later, of port hudson, "the father of waters went unvexed to the sea." while the army was crossing the mississippi at grand gulf, three well-known journalists, albert d. richardson and junius h. browne, of _the tribune_, and richard t. colburn, of _the world_, attempted to run past the rebel batteries at vicksburg, on board a tug at midnight. the tug was blown up and destroyed; the journalists were captured and taken to the rebel prison at vicksburg. thence they were removed to richmond, occupying, while _en route_, the prisons of a half-dozen rebel cities. mr. colburn was soon released, but the companions of his adventure were destined to pass nearly two years in the prisons of the confederacy. by a fortunate escape and a midwinter march of nearly four hundred miles, they reached our lines in safety. in books and in lecture-rooms, they have since told the story of their captivity and flight. i have sometimes thought my little quarrel with general sherman proved "a blessing in disguise," in saving me from a similar experience of twenty months in rebel prisons. chapter xxvi. kansas in war-time. a visit to kansas.--recollections of border feuds.--peculiarities of kansas soldiers.--foraging as a fine art.--kansas and missouri.--settling old scores.--depopulating the border counties.--two examples of grand strategy.--capture of the "little-more-grape" battery.--a woman in sorrow.--frontier justice.--trial before a "lynch" court.--general blunt's order.--execution of horse-thieves.--auction sale of confiscated property.--banished to dixie. in may, , i made a hasty visit to western missouri and kansas, to observe the effect of the war in that quarter. seven years earlier the border warfare attracted much attention. the great rebellion caused kansas and its troubles to sink into insignificance. since the first election of mr. lincoln to the presidency, kansas has been rarely mentioned. i passed through this young state in the summer of . i was repeatedly told: "we have old grudges that we wish to settle; if the troubles ever break out again in any part of the united states, we hope to cross out our account." when the war opened, the people of kansas saw their opportunity for "making square work," as they expressed it, with missouri and the other slave states. they placed two regiments of volunteers in the field with as much celerity as was displayed in many of the older and more populous states. these regiments were followed by others until fully half the able-bodied population of kansas was in the service. in some localities the proportion was even greater than this. the dash and daring of these kansas soldiers became proverbial. at wilson creek, two regiments from kansas had their first experience of battle, and bore themselves most nobly. the conduct of other kansas soldiers, on other battle-fields, was equally commendable. their bravery and endurance was only equaled by their ability in foraging. horses, mules, cattle, and provisions have, in all times, been considered the legitimate spoils of war. the kansas soldiers did not confine themselves to the above, but appropriated every thing portable and valuable, whether useful or useless. their example was contagious, and the entire army soon learned to follow it. during general grant's campaign in mississippi in ' , the seventh kansas cavalry obtained a reputation for ubiquity and lawlessness. every man who engaged in plundering on his own account, no matter to what regiment he belonged, invariably announced himself a member of the seventh kansas. every countryman who was robbed declared the robbery was committed by the seventh kansas "jayhawkers." uniting all the stories of robbery, one would conclude that the seventh kansas was about twenty thousand strong, and constantly in motion by fifty different roads, leading to all points of the compass. one day a soldier of the second illinois cavalry gave me an account of his experience in horse-stealing. "jim and i went to an old farmer's house, and told him we wanted his horses. he said he wanted to use them himself, and couldn't spare them. "'that don't make no sort of difference,' said i; 'we want your horses more than you do.' "'what regiment do you belong to?' "'seventh kansas jayhawkers. the whole regiment talks of coming round here. i reckon i'll bring them.' "when i told him that," said the soldier, "he said i might take the horses, if i would only go away. he offered me a pint of whisky if i would promise not to bring the regiment there. jim and me drank the whisky, and told him we would use our influence for him." before the war was ended, the entire armies of the southwest were able to equal the "jayhawkers" in foraging. the march of sherman's column through mississippi, and afterward through georgia and south carolina, fully proved this. particularly in the latter state, which originated the rebellion, were the accomplishments of the foragers most conspicuously displayed. our army left very little for another army to use. the desolation which was spread through the southern states was among the most effective blows at the rebellion. the rebels were taught in the most practical manner, that insurrection was not to be indulged in with impunity. those who suffered most were generally among the earliest to sue for peace. sherman's terse answer to the mayor of atlanta, when the latter protested against the banishment of the inhabitants, was appreciated by the rebels after our final campaigns. "war is cruelty--you cannot refine it," speaks a volume in a few words. when hostilities commenced, the kansas regiments were clamorous to be led into missouri. during the border war of ' and ' , missourians invaded kansas to control the elections by force of arms, and killed, often in cold blood, many of the quiet citizens of the territory. the tier of counties in missouri adjoining kansas were most anxious to make the latter a slave state, and used every possible means to accomplish their object. the kansas soldiers had their wish. they marched through missouri. those who had taken part in the outrages upon kansas, five years earlier, were made to feel the hand of retribution. if they had burned the buildings of free-state settlers in ' , they found their own houses destroyed in ' . in the old troubles they contended for their right to make whatever warfare they chose, but were astounded and horrified in the latter days, when the tables were turned against them by those they had wronged. along the frontier of missouri the old system of warfare was revived. guerrilla bands were formed, of which quantrel and similar men were the leaders. various incursions were made into kansas by these marauders, and the depredations were worse than ever. they culminated in the burning of lawrence and the massacre of its inhabitants. to break up these guerrilla bands, it became necessary to depopulate the western tier of counties in missouri, from the missouri river down to the thirty-eighth parallel of latitude. the most wealthy of these was jackson county. before the war it had a slave population of not far from four thousand, and its fields were highly productive. two years after the war broke out it contained less than three hundred slaves, and its wealth had diminished in almost as great proportion. this was before any freedom had been officially declared to the slaves in the border states. the order of depopulation had the desired effect. it brought peace to the border, though at a terrible cost. missouri suffered greatly, and so did kansas. the most prominent officer that kansas furnished during the rebellion, was brigadier-general blunt. at the beginning of the war he enlisted as a private soldier, but did not remain long in the ranks. his reputation in the field was that of a brave and reckless officer, who had little regard to military forms. his successes were due to audacity and daring, rather than to skill in handling troops, or a knowledge of scientific warfare. the battle of cane hill is said to have commenced by general blunt and his orderlies attacking a rebel picket. the general was surveying the country with his orderlies and a company of cavalry, not suspecting the enemy was as near as he proved to be. at the moment blunt came upon the picket, the cavalry was looking in another direction. firing began, and the picket was driven in and fell back to a piece of artillery, which had an infantry support. blunt was joined by his cavalry, and the gun was taken by a vigorous charge and turned upon the rebels. the latter were kept at bay until the main force was brought up and joined in the conflict. the rebels believed we had a much larger number than we really possessed, else our first assault might have proved a sudden repulse. the same daring was kept up throughout the battle, and gave us the victory. at this battle we captured four guns, two of which bore a history of more than ordinary interest. they were of the old "bragg's battery" that turned the scale at buena vista, in obedience to general taylor's mandate, "give them a little more grape, captain." after the mexican war they were sent to the united states arsenal at baton rouge, whence they were stolen when the insurrection commenced. they were used against us at wilson creek and pea ridge. at another battle, whose name i have forgotten, our entire force of about two thousand men was deployed into a skirmish line that extended far beyond the enemy's flanks. the rebels were nearly six thousand strong, and at first manifested a disposition to stand their ground. by the audacity of our stratagem they were completely deceived. so large a skirmish line was an indication of a proportionately strong force to support it. when they found us closing in upon their flanks, they concluded we were far superior in numbers, and certain to overwhelm them. with but slight resistance they fled the field, leaving much of their transportation and equipments to fall into our hands. we called in our skirmishers and pressed them in vigorous pursuit, capturing wagons and stragglers as we moved. a year after this occurrence the rebels played the same trick upon our own forces near fort smith, arkansas, and were successful in driving us before them. with about five hundred cavalry they formed a skirmish line that outflanked our force of two thousand. we fell back several miles to the protection of the fort, where we awaited attack. it is needless to say that no assault was made. van buren, arkansas, was captured by eighteen men ten miles in advance of any support. this little force moved upon the town in a deployed line and entered at one side, while a rebel regiment moved out at the other. our men thought it judicious not to pursue, but established head-quarters, and sent a messenger to hurry up the column before the rebels should discover the true state of affairs. the head of the column was five hours in making its appearance. when the circumstance became known the next day, one of our officers found a lady crying very bitterly, and asked what calamity had befallen her. as soon as she could speak she said, through her sobs: "i am not crying because you have captured the place. we expected that." then came a fresh outburst of grief. "what _are_ you crying for, then?" asked the officer. "i am crying because you took it with only eighteen men, when we had a thousand that ran away from you!" the officer thought the reason for her sorrow was amply sufficient, and allowed her to proceed with her weeping. on the day of my arrival at atchison there was more than ordinary excitement. for several months there had been much disregard of law outside of the most densely populated portions of the state. robberies, and murders for the sake of robbery, were of frequent occurrence. in one week a dozen persons met violent deaths. a citizen remarked to me that he did not consider the times a great improvement over ' and ' . ten days before my arrival, a party of ruffians visited the house of a citizen about twelve miles from atchison, for the purpose of robbery. the man was supposed to have several hundred dollars in his possession--the proceeds of a sale of stock. he had placed his funds in a bank at leavenworth; but his visitors refused to believe his statement to that effect. they maltreated the farmer and his wife, and ended by hanging the farmer's son to a rafter and leaving him for dead. in departing, they took away all the horses and mules they could find. five of these men were arrested on the following day, and taken to atchison. the judge before whom they were brought ordered them committed for trial. on the way from the court-house to the jail the men were taken from the sheriff by a crowd of citizens. instead of going to jail, they were carried to a grove near the town and placed on trial before a "lynch" court. the trial was conducted with all solemnity, and with every display of impartiality to the accused. the jury decided that two of the prisoners, who had been most prominent in the outrage, should be hanged on that day, while the others were remanded to jail for a regular trial. one of the condemned was executed. the other, after having a rope around his neck, was respited and taken to jail. on the same day two additional arrests were made, of parties concerned in the outrage. these men were tried by a "lynch" court, as their companions had been tried on the previous day. one of them was hanged, and the other sent to jail. for some time the civil power had been inadequate to the punishment of crime. the laws of the state were so loosely framed that offenders had excellent opportunities to escape their deserts by taking advantage of technicalities. the people determined to take the law into their own hands, and give it a thorough execution. for the good of society, it was necessary to put a stop to the outrages that had been so frequently committed. their only course in such cases was to administer justice without regard to the ordinary forms. a delegation of the citizens of atchison visited leavenworth after the arrests had been made, to confer with general blunt, the commander of the district, on the best means of securing order. they made a full representation of the state of affairs, and requested that two of the prisoners, then in jail, should be delivered to the citizens for trial. they obtained an order to that effect, addressed to the sheriff, who was holding the prisoners in charge. on the morning of the day following the reception of the order, people began to assemble in atchison from all parts of the county to witness the trial. as nearly all the outrages had been committed upon the farmers who lived at distances from each other, the trial was conducted by the men from the rural districts. the residents of the city took little part in the affair. about ten o'clock in the forenoon a meeting was called to order in front of the court-house, where the following document was read:-- head-quarters district of kansas, fort leavenworth, _may_ , . to the sheriff of atchison county: sir:--in view of the alarming increase of crime, the insecurity of life and property within this military district, the inefficiency of the civil law to punish offenders, and the small number of troops under my command making it impossible to give such protection to loyal and law-abiding citizens as i would otherwise desire; you will therefore deliver the prisoners, daniel mooney and alexander brewer, now in your possession, to the citizens of atchison county, for trial and punishment by a citizens' court. this course, which in ordinary times and under different circumstances could not be tolerated, is rendered necessary for the protection of the property and lives of honest citizens against the lawless acts of thieves and assassins, who, of late, have been perpetrating their crimes with fearful impunity, and to prevent which nothing but the most severe and summary punishment will suffice. in conducting these irregular proceedings, it is to be hoped they will be controlled by men of respectability, and that cool judgment and discretion will characterize their actions, to the end that the innocent may be protected and the guilty punished. respectfully, your obedient servant, james g. blunt, _major-general._ after the reading of the above order, resolutions indorsing and sustaining the action of general blunt were passed unanimously. the following resolutions were passed separately, their reading being greeted with loud cheers. they are examples of strength rather than of elegance. "_resolved_, that we pledge ourselves not to stop hanging until the thieves stop thieving. "_resolved_, that as this is a citizens' court, we have no use for lawyers, either for the accused or for the people." a judge and jury were selected from the assemblage, and embraced some of the best known and most respected citizens of the county. their selection was voted upon, just as if they had been the officers of a political gathering. as soon as elected, they proceeded to the trial of the prisoners. the evidence was direct and conclusive, and the prisoners were sentenced to death by hanging. the verdict was read to the multitude, and a vote taken upon its acceptance or rejection. nineteen-twentieths of those present voted that the sentence should be carried into execution. the prisoners were taken from the court-house to the grove where the preceding executions had taken place. they were made to stand upon a high wagon while ropes were placed about their necks and attached to the limb of a large, spreading elm. when all was ready, the wagon was suddenly drawn from beneath the prisoners, and their earthly career was ended. a half-hour later the crowd had dispersed. the following morning showed few traces of the excitement of the previous day. the executions were effectual in restoring quiet to the region which had been so much disturbed. the rebel sympathizers in st. louis took many occasions to complain of the tyranny of the national government. at the outset there was a delusion that the government had no rights that should be respected, while every possible right belonged to the rebels. general lyon removed the arms from the st. louis arsenal to a place of safety at springfield, illinois. "he had no constitutional right to do that," was the outcry of the secessionists. he commenced the organization of union volunteers for the defense of the city. the constitution made no provision for this. he captured camp jackson, and took his prisoners to the arsenal. this, they declared, was a most flagrant violation of constitutional privileges. he moved upon the rebels in the interior, and the same defiance of law was alleged. he suppressed the secession organ in st. louis, thus trampling upon the liberties of the rebel press. general fremont declared the slaves of rebels were free, and thus infringed upon the rights of property. numbers of active, persistent traitors were arrested and sent to military prisons: a manifest tyranny on the part of the government. in one way and another the unfortunate and long-suffering rebels were most sadly abused, if their own stories are to be regarded. it was forbidden to display rebel emblems in public: a cruel restriction of personal right. the wealthy secessionists of st. louis were assessed the sum of ten thousand dollars, for the benefit of the union refugees from arkansas and other points in the southwest. this was another outrage. these persons could not understand why they should be called upon to contribute to the support of union people who had been rendered houseless and penniless by rebels elsewhere. they made a most earnest protest, but their remonstrances were of no avail. in default of payment of the sums assessed, their superfluous furniture was seized and sold at auction. this was a violation of the laws that exempt household property from seizure. the auction sale of these goods was largely attended. the bidding was very spirited. pianos, ottomans, mirrors, sofas, chairs, and all the adornments of the homes of affluence, were sold for "cash in united states treasury notes." some of the parties assessed declared they would pay nothing on the assessment, but they reconsidered their decisions, and bought their own property at the auction-rooms, without regard to the prices they paid. in subsequent assessments they found it better to pay without hesitation whatever sums were demanded of them. they spoke and labored against the union until they found such efforts were of no use. they could never understand why they should not enjoy the protection of the flag without being called upon to give it material aid. in may, , another grievance was added to the list. it became necessary, for the good of the city, to banish some of the more prominent rebel sympathizers. it was a measure which the rebels and their friends opposed in the strongest terms. these persons were anxious to see the confederacy established, but could not consent to live in its limits. they resorted to every device to evade the order, but were not allowed to remain. representations of personal and financial inconvenience were of no avail; go they must. the first exodus took place on the th of may. an immense crowd thronged the levee as the boat which was to remove the exiles took its departure. in all there were about thirty persons, half of them ladies. the men were escorted to the boat on foot, but the ladies were brought to the landing in carriages, and treated with every possible courtesy. a strong guard was posted at the landing to preserve order and allow no insult of any kind to the prisoners. one of the young women ascended to the hurricane roof of the steamer and cheered for the "confederacy." as the boat swung into the stream, this lady was joined by two others, and the trio united their sweet voices in singing "dixie" and the "bonnie blue flag." there was no cheering or other noisy demonstration at their departure, though there was a little waving of handkerchiefs, and a few tokens of farewell were given. this departure was soon followed by others, until st. louis was cleared of its most turbulent spirits. chapter xxvii. gettysburg. a hasty departure.--at harrisburg.--_en route_ for the army of the potomac.--the battle-field at gettysburg.--appearance of the cemetery.--importance of the position.--the configuration of ground.--traces of battle.--round hill.--general meade's head-quarters.--appearance of the dead.--through the forests along the line.--retreat and pursuit of lee. while in st. louis, late in june, , i received the following telegram:-- "herald office, "new york, _june_ . "report at harrisburg, pennsylvania, at the earliest possible moment." two hours later, i was traveling eastward as fast as an express train could carry me. the rebel army, under general lee, had crossed the potomac, and was moving toward harrisburg. the army of the potomac was in rapid pursuit. a battle was imminent between harrisburg and baltimore. waiting a day at harrisburg, i found the capital of the keystone state greatly excited. the people were slow to move in their own behalf. earth-works were being thrown up on the south bank of the susquehanna, principally by the soldiers from other parts of pennsylvania and from new york. when it was first announced that the enemy was approaching, only seventeen men volunteered to form a local defense. i saw no such enthusiasm on the part of the inhabitants as i had witnessed at cincinnati during the previous autumn. pennsylvania sent many regiments to the field during the war, and her soldiers gained a fine reputation; but the best friends of the state will doubtless acknowledge that harrisburg was slow to act when the rebels made their last great invasion. i was ordered to join the army of the potomac wherever i could find it. as i left harrisburg, i learned that a battle was in progress. before i could reach the field the great combat had taken place. the two contending armies had made gettysburg historic. i joined our army on the day after the battle. i could find no person of my acquaintance, amid the confusion that followed the termination of three days' fighting. the army moved in pursuit of lee, whose retreat was just commencing. as our long lines stretched away toward the potomac, i walked over the ground where the battle had raged, and studied the picture that was presented. i reproduce, in part, my letter of that occasion:-- "gettysburg, pennsylvania, _july_ , . "to-day i have passed along the whole ground where the lines of battle were drawn. the place bears evidence of a fierce struggle. the shocks of those two great armies surging and resurging, the one against the other, could hardly pass without leaving their traces in fearful characters. at waterloo, at wagram, and at jena the wheat grows more luxuriantly, and the corn shoots its stalks further toward the sky than before the great conflicts that rendered those fields famous. the broad acres of gettysburg and antietam will in future years yield the farmer a richer return than he has hithto received. "passing out of gettysburg by the baltimore turnpike, we come in a few steps to the entrance of the cemetery. little of the inclosure remains, save the gateway, from which the gates have been torn. the neat wooden fence, first thrown down to facilitate the movement of our artillery, was used for fuel, as the soldiers made their camp on the spot. a few scattered palings are all that remain. the cemetery was such as we usually find near thrifty towns like gettysburg. none of the monuments and adornings were highly expensive, though all were neat, and a few were elaborate. there was considerable taste displayed in the care of the grounds, as we can see from the few traces that remain. the eye is arrested by a notice, prominently posted, forbidding the destruction or mutilation of any shrub, tree, or stone about the place, under severe penalties. the defiance that war gives to the civil law is forcibly apparent as one peruses those warning lines. "monuments and head-stones lie everywhere overturned. graves, which loving hands once carefully adorned, have been trampled by horses' feet until the vestiges of verdure have disappeared. the neat and well-trained shrubbery has vanished, or is but a broken and withered mass of tangled brushwood. on one grave lies the body of a horse, fast decomposing under the july sun. on another lie the torn garments of some wounded soldier, stained and saturated with blood. across a small head-stone, bearing the words, 'to the memory of our beloved child, mary,' lie the fragments of a musket shattered by a cannon-shot. "in the center of a space inclosed by an iron fence, and containing a half-dozen graves, a few rails are standing where they were erected by our soldiers to form their shelter in bivouac. a family shaft has been broken in fragments by a shell. stone after stone felt the effects of the _feu d'enfer_ that was poured upon the crest of the hill. cannon thundered, and foot and horse soldiers tramped over the resting-place of the dead. other dead were added to those who are resting here. many a wounded soldier lives to remember the contest above those silent graves. "the hill on which this cemetery is located was the center of our line of battle and the key to our position. had the rebels been able to carry this point, they would have forced us into retreat, and the battle would have been lost. to pierce our line in this locality was lee's great endeavor, and he threw his best brigades against it. wave after wave of living valor rolled up that slope, only to roll back again under the deadly fire of our artillery and infantry. it was on this hill, a little to the right of the cemetery, where the 'louisiana tigers' made their famous charge. it was their boast that they were never yet foiled in an attempt to take a battery; but on this occasion they suffered a defeat, and were nearly annihilated. sad and dispirited, they mourn their repulse and their terrible losses in the assault. "from the summit of this hill a large portion of the battle-ground is spread out before the spectator. in front and at his feet lies the town of gettysburg, containing, in quiet times, a population of four or five thousand souls. it is not more than a hundred yards to the houses in the edge of the village, where the contest with the rebel sharp-shooters took place. to the left of the town stretches a long valley, bounded on each side by a gently-sloping ridge. the crest of each ridge is distant nearly a mile from the other. it was on these ridges that the lines of battle on the second and third days were formed, the rebel line being on the ridge to the westward. the one stretching directly from our left hand, and occupied by our own men, has but little timber upon it, while that held by the rebels can boast of several groves of greater or less extent. in one of these the pennsylvania college is embowered, while in another is seen the theological seminary. half-way between the ridges are the ruins of a large brick building burned during the engagement. dotted about, here and there, are various brick and frame structures. two miles at our left rises a sharp-pointed elevation, known to the inhabitants of the region as round hill. its sides are wooded, and the forest stretches from its base across the valley to the crest of the western ridge. "it must not be supposed that the space between the ridges is an even plain, shaven with, the scythe and leveled with the roller. it rises and falls gently, and with little regularity, but in no place is it steep of ascent. were it not for its ununiformity and for the occasional sprinkling of trees over its surface, it could be compared to a patch of rolling prairie in miniature. to the southwest of the further ridge is seen the mountain region of western maryland, behind which the rebels had their line of retreat. it is not a wild, rough mass of mountains, but a region of hills of the larger and more inaccessible sort. they are traversed by roads only in a few localities, and their passage, except through, the gaps, is difficult for a single team, and impossible for an army. "the theological seminary was the scene of a fierce struggle. it was beyond it where the first and eleventh corps contended with ewell and longstreet on the first day of the engagement. afterward, finding the rebels were too strong for them, they fell back to a new position, this building being included in the line. the walls of the seminary were perforated by shot and shell, and the bricks are indented with numerous bullet-marks. its windows show the effects of the musketry, and but little glass remains to shut out the cold and rain. the building is now occupied as a hospital by the rebels. the pennsylvania college is similarly occupied, and the instruction of its students is neglected for the present. "in passing from the cemetery along the crest of the ridge where our line of battle stood, i first came upon the position occupied by some of our batteries. this is shown by the many dead horses lying unburied, and by the mounds which mark where others have been slightly covered up. there are additional traces of an artillery fight. here is a broken wheel of a gun-carriage, an exploded caisson, a handspike, and some of the accoutrements of the men. in the fork of a tree i found a testament, with the words, 'charles durrale, corporal of company g,' written on the fly-leaf. the guns and the gunners, have disappeared. some of the latter are now with the column moving in pursuit of the enemy, others are suffering in the hospitals, and still others are resting where the bugle's reveille shall never wake them. "between the cemetery and the town and at the foot of the ridge where i stand, runs the road leading to emmetsburg. it is not a turnpike, but a common dirt-road, and, as it leaves the main street leading into town, it makes a diagonal ascent of the hill. on the eastern side, this road is bordered by a stone wall for a short distance. elsewhere on both sides there is only a rail fence. a portion of our sharp-shooters took position behind this wall, and erected traverses to protect them from a flanking fire, should the enemy attempt to move up the road from gettysburg. these traverses are constructed at right angles to the wall, by making a 'crib' of fence-rails, two feet high and the same distance apart, and then filling the crib with dirt. further along i find the rails from the western side of the road, piled against the fence on the east, so as to form a breast-work two or three feet in height--a few spadesful of dirt serve to fill the interstices. this defense was thrown up by the rebels at the time they were holding the line of the roads. "moving to the left, i find still more severe traces of artillery fighting. twenty-seven dead horses on a space of little more than one acre is evidence of heavy work. here are a few scattered trees, which were evidently used as a screen for our batteries. these trees did not escape the storm of shot and shell that was rained in that direction. some of them were perforated by cannon-shot, or have been completely cut off in that peculiar splintering that marks the course of a projectile through green wood. near the scene of this fighting is a large pile of muskets and cartridge-boxes collected from the field. considerable work has been done in thus gathering the débris of the battle, but it is by no means complete. muskets, bayonets, and sabers are scattered everywhere. "my next advance to the left carries me where the ground is thickly studded with graves. in one group i count a dozen graves of soldiers belonging to the twentieth massachusetts; near them are buried the dead of the one hundred and thirty-seventh new york, and close at hand an equal number from the twelfth new jersey. care has been taken to place a head-board at each grave, with a legible inscription thereon, showing whose remains are resting beneath. on one board the comrades of the dead soldier had nailed the back of his knapsack, which bore his name. on another was a brass plate, bearing the soldier's name in heavily stamped letters. "moving still to the left, i found an orchard in which the fighting appears to have been desperate in the extreme. artillery shot had plowed the ground in every direction, and the trees did not escape the fury of the storm. the long bolts of iron, said by our officers to be a modification of the whitworth projectile, were quite numerous. the rebels must have been well supplied with this species of ammunition, and they evidently used it with no sparing hand. at one time i counted twelve of these bolts lying on a space not fifty feet square. i am told that many shot and shell passed over the heads of our soldiers during the action. "a mile from our central position at the cemetery, was a field of wheat, and near it a large tract, on which corn had been growing. the wheat was trampled by the hurrying feet of the dense masses of infantry, as they changed their positions during the battle. in the cornfield artillery had been stationed, and moved about as often as the enemy obtained its range. hardly a hill of corn is left in its pristine luxuriance. the little that escaped the hoof or the wheel, as the guns moved from place to place, was nibbled by hungry horses during the bivouac subsequent to the battle. not a stalk of wheat is upright; not a blade of corn remains uninjured; all has fallen long before the time of harvest. another harvest, in which death was the reaper, has been gathered above it. "on our extreme left the pointed summit of a hill, a thousand feet in elevation, rises toward the sky. beyond it, the country falls off into the mountain region that extends to the potomac and across it into virginia. this hill is quite difficult of ascent, and formed a strong position, on which the left of our line rested. the enemy assaulted this point with great fury, throwing his divisions, one after the other, against it. their efforts were of no avail. our men defended their ground against every attack. it was like the dash of the french at waterloo against the immovable columns of the english. stubborn resistance overcame the valor of the assailants. again and again they came to the assault, only to fall back as they had advanced. our left held its ground, though it lost heavily. "on this portion of the line, about midway between the crests of the ridges, is a neat farm-house. around this dwelling the battle raged, as around hougoumont at waterloo. at one time it was in the possession of the rebels, and was fiercely attacked by our men. the walls were pierced by shot and shell, many of the latter exploding within, and making a scene of devastation. the glass was shattered by rifle bullets on every side, and the wood-work bears testimony to the struggle. the sharp-shooters were in every room, and added to the disorder caused by the explosion of shells. the soldiers destroyed what the missiles spared. the rebels were driven from the house, and the position was taken by our own men. they, in turn, were dislodged, but finally secured a permanent footing in the place. "retracing my steps from the extreme left, i return to the center of our position on cemetery hill. i do not follow the path by which i came, but take a route along the hollow, between the two ridges. it was across this hollow that the rebels made their assaults upon our position. much blood was poured out between these two swells of land. most of the dead were buried where they fell, or gathered in little clusters beneath some spreading tree or beside clumps of bushes. some of the rebel dead are still unburied. i find one of these as i descend a low bank to the side of a small spring. the body is lying near the spring, as if the man had crawled there to obtain a draught of water. its hands are outspread upon the earth, and clutching at the little tufts of grass beneath them. the soldier's haversack and canteen are still remaining, and his hat is lying not far away. "a few paces distant is another corpse, with its hands thrown upward in the position the soldier occupied when he received his fatal wound. the clothing is not torn, no blood appears upon the garments, and the face, though swollen, bears no expression of anguish. twenty yards away are the remains of a body cut in two by a shell. the grass is drenched in blood, that the rain of yesterday has not washed away. as i move forward i find the body of a rebel soldier, evidently slain while taking aim over a musket. the hands are raised, the left extended beyond the right, and the fingers of the former partly bent, as if they had just been grasping the stock of a gun. one foot is advanced, and the body is lying on its right side. to appearances it did not move a muscle after receiving its death-wound. another body attracts my attention by its delicate white hands, and its face black as that of a negro. "the farm-house on the emmetsburg road, where general meade held his head-quarters during the cannonade, is most fearfully cut up. general lee masked his artillery, and opened with one hundred and thirty pieces at the same moment. two shells in every second of time fell around those head-quarters. they tore through the little white building, exploding and scattering their fragments in every direction. not a spot in its vicinity was safe. one shell through the door-step, another in the chimney, a third shattering a rafter, a fourth carrying away the legs of a chair in which an officer was seated; others severing and splintering the posts in front of the house, howling through the trees by which the dwelling was surrounded, and raising deep furrows in the soft earth. one officer, and another, and another were wounded. strange to say, amid all this iron hail, no one of the staff was killed. "once more at the cemetery, i crossed the baltimore turnpike to the hill that forms the extremity of the ridge, on which the main portion of our line of battle was located. i followed this ridge to the point held by our extreme right. about midway along the ridge was the scene of the fiercest attack upon that portion of the field. tree after tree was scarred from base to limbs so thickly that it would have been impossible to place one's hand upon the trunk without covering the marks of a bullet. one tree was stripped of more than half its leaves; many of its twigs were partially severed, and hanging wilted and nearly ready to drop to the ground. the trunk of the tree, about ten inches in diameter, was cut and scarred in every part. the fire which struck these trees was that from our muskets upon the advancing rebels. every tree and bush for the distance of half a mile along these works was nearly as badly marked. the rocks, wherever they faced our breast-works, were thickly stippled with dots like snow-flakes. the missiles, flattened by contact with the rock, were lying among the leaves, giving little indication of their former character. "our sharp-shooters occupied novel positions. one of them found half a hollow log, standing upright, with a hole left by the removal of a knot, which gave him an excellent embrasure. some were in tree-tops, others in nooks among the rocks, and others behind temporary barricades of their own construction. owing to the excellence of our defenses, the rebels lost heavily." a few days after visiting this field, i joined the army in western maryland. the rebels were between us and the potomac. we were steadily pressing them, rather with a design of driving them across the potomac without further fighting, than of bringing on an engagement. lee effected his crossing in safety, only a few hundred men of his rear-guard being captured on the left bank of the potomac. the maryland campaign was ended when lee was driven out. our army crossed the potomac further down that stream, but made no vigorous pursuit. i returned to new york, and once more proceeded to the west. our victory in pennsylvania was accompanied by the fall of vicksburg and the surrender of pemberton's army. a few days later, the capture of port hudson was announced. the struggle for the possession of the mississippi was substantially ended when the rebel fortifications along its banks fell into our hands. chapter xxviii. in the northwest. from chicago to minnesota.--curiosities of low-water navigation.--st. paul and its sufferings in earlier days.--the indian war.--a brief history of our troubles in that region.--general pope's expeditions to chastise the red man.--honesty in the indian department.--the end of the warfare.--the pacific railway.--a bold undertaking.--penetrating british territory.--the hudson bay company.--peculiarities of a trapper's life. early in september, , i found myself in chicago, breathing the cool, fresh air from lake michigan. from chicago to milwaukee i skirted the shores of the lake, and from the latter city pushed across wisconsin to the mississippi river. here it was really the blue mississippi: its appearance was a pleasing contrast to the general features of the river a thousand miles below. the banks, rough and picturesque, rose abruptly from the water's edge, forming cliffs that overtopped the table-land beyond. these cliffs appeared in endless succession, as the boat on which i traveled steamed up the river toward st. paul. where the stream widened into lake pepin, they seemed more prominent and more precipitous than elsewhere, as the larger expanse of water was spread at their base. the promontory known as "maiden's rock" is the most conspicuous of all. the indians relate that some daughter of the forest, disappointed in love, once leaped from its summit to the rough rocks, two hundred feet below. her lover, learning her fate, visited the spot, gazed from the fearful height, and, after a prayer to the great spirit who watches over the red man--returned to his friends and broke the heart of another indian maid. passing lake pepin and approaching st. paul, the river became very shallow. there had been little rain during the summer, and the previous spring witnessed no freshet in that region. the effect was apparent in the condition of the mississippi. in the upper waters boats moved with difficulty. the class that is said to steam wherever there is a heavy dew, was brought into active use. from st. paul to a point forty miles below, only the lightest of the "stern-wheel" boats could make any headway. the inhabitants declared they had never before known such a low stage of water, and earnestly hoped it would not occur again. it was paralyzing much of the business of the state. many flouring and lumber mills were lying idle. transportation was difficult, and the rates very high. a railway was being constructed to connect with the roads from chicago, but it was not sufficiently advanced to be of any service. various stories were in circulation concerning the difficulties of navigation on the upper mississippi in a low stage of water. one pilot declared the wheels of his boat actually raised a cloud of dust in many places. another said his boat could run easily in the moisture on the outside of a pitcher of ice-water, but could not move to advantage in the river between lake pepin and st. paul. a person interested in the railway proposed to secure a charter for laying the track in the bed of the mississippi, but feared the company would be unable to supply the locomotives with water on many portions of the route. many other jests were indulged in, all of which were heartily appreciated by the people of st. paul. the day after my arrival at st. paul, i visited the famous falls of the minnehaha. i am unable to give them a minute description, my visit being very brief. its brevity arose from the entire absence of water in the stream which supplies the fall. that fluid is everywhere admitted to be useful for purposes of navigation, and i think it equally desirable in the formation of a cascade. the inhabitants of st. paul have reason to bless the founders of their city for the excellent site of the future metropolis of the northwest. overlooking and almost overhanging the river in one part, in another it slopes gently down to the water's edge, to the levee where the steamers congregate. back from the river the limits of the city extend for several miles, and admit of great expansion. with a hundred years of prosperity there would still be ample room for growth. before the financial crash in ' , this levee was crowded with merchandise from st. louis and chicago. storage was not always to be had, though the construction of buildings was rapidly pushed. business was active, speculation was carried to the furthest limit, everybody had money in abundance, and scattered it with no niggard hand. in many of the brokers' windows, placards were posted offering alluring inducements to capitalists. "fifty per cent. guaranteed on investments," was set forth on these placards, the offers coming from parties considered perfectly sound. fabulous sums were paid for wild land and for lots in apocryphal towns. all was prosperity and activity. by-and-by came the crash, and this well-founded town passed through a period of mourning and fasting. st. paul saw many of its best and heaviest houses vanish into thin air; merchants, bankers, land-speculators, lumbermen, all suffered alike. some disappeared forever; others survived the shock, but never recovered their former footing. large amounts of property went under the auctioneer's hammer, "to be sold without limit." lots of land which cost two or three hundred dollars in ' , were sold at auction in ' for five or six dollars each. thousands of people lost their all in these unfortunate land-speculations. others who survived the crash have clung to their acres, hoping that prosperity may return to the northwest. at present their wealth consists mainly of great expectations. though suffering greatly, the capital and business center of minnesota was by no means ruined. the speculators departed, but the farmers and other working classes remained. business "touched bottom" and then slowly revived. st. paul existed through all the calamity, and its people soon learned the actual necessities of minnesota. while they mourn the departure of the "good times," many of them express a belief that those happy days were injurious to the permanent prosperity of the state. st. paul is one of the few cities of the world whose foundation furnishes the material for their construction. the limestone rock on which it is built is in layers of about a foot in thickness, and very easy to quarry. the blocks require little dressing to fit them for use. though very soft at first, the stone soon hardens by exposure to the air, and forms a neat and durable wall. in digging a cellar one will obtain more than sufficient stone for the walls of his house. at the time of my visit the indian expedition of had just returned, and was camped near fort snelling. this expedition was sent out by general pope, for the purpose of chastising the sioux indians. it was under command of general sibley, and accomplished a march of nearly six hundred miles. as it lay in camp at fort snelling, the men and animals presented the finest appearance i had ever observed in an army just returned from a long campaign. the sioux massacres of , and the campaign of general pope in the autumn of that year, attracted much attention. nearly all the settlers in the valley of the minnesota above fort snelling were killed or driven off. other localities suffered to a considerable extent. the murders--like nearly all murders of whites by the indians--were of the most atrocious character. the history of those massacres is a chronicle of horrors rarely equaled during the present century. whole counties were made desolate, and the young state, just recovering from its financial misfortunes, received a severe blow to its prosperity. various causes were assigned for the outbreak of hostilities on the part of the sioux indians. very few residents of minnesota, in view of the atrocities committed by the indians, could speak calmly of the troubles. all were agreed that there could be no peace and security until the white men were the undisputed possessors of the land. before the difficulties began, there was for some time a growing discontent on the part of the indians, on account of repeated grievances. just previous to the outbreak, these indians were summoned to one of the government agencies to receive their annuities. these annuities had been promised them at a certain time, but were not forthcoming. the agents, as i was informed, had the money (in coin) as it was sent from washington, but were arranging to pay the indians in treasury notes and pocket the premium on the gold. the indians were kept waiting while the gold was being exchanged for greenbacks. there was a delay in making this exchange, and the indians were put off from day to day with promises instead of money. an indian knows nothing about days of grace, protests, insolvency, expansions, and the other technical terms with which wall street is familiar. he can take no explanation of broken promises, especially when those promises are made by individuals who claim to represent the great father at washington. in this case the sioux lost all confidence in the agents, who had broken their word from day to day. added to the mental annoyance, there was great physical suffering. the traders at the post would sell nothing without cash payment, and, without money, the indians were unable to procure what the stores contained in abundance. the annuities were not paid, and the traders refused to sell on credit. some of the indians were actually starving, and one day they forced their way into a store to obtain food. taking possession, they supplied themselves with what they desired. among other things, they found whisky, of the worst and most fiery quality. once intoxicated, all the bad passions of the savages were let loose. in their drunken frenzy, the indians killed one of the traders. the sight of blood made them furious. other white men at the agency were killed, and thus the contagion spread. from the agency the murderers spread through the valley of the st. peter's, proclaiming war against the whites. they made no distinction of age or sex. the atrocities they committed are among the most fiendish ever recorded. the outbreak of these troubles was due to the conduct of the agents who were dealing with the indians. knowing, as they should have known, the character of the red man everywhere, and aware that the sioux were at that time discontented, it was the duty of those agents to treat them with the utmost kindness and generosity. i do not believe the indians, when they plundered the store at the agency, had any design beyond satisfying their hunger. but with one murder committed, there was no restraint upon their passions. many of our transactions with the indians, in the past twenty years, have not been characterized by the most scrupulous honesty. the department of the interior has an interior history that would not bear investigation. it is well known that the furnishing of supplies to the indians often enriches the agents and their political friends. there is hardly a tribe along our whole frontier that has not been defrauded. dishonesty in our indian department was notorious during buchanan's administration. the retirement of buchanan and his cabinet did not entirely bring this dishonesty to an end. an officer of the hudson bay company told me, in st. paul, that it was the strict order of the british government, enforced in letter and spirit by the company, to keep full faith with the indians. every stipulation is most scrupulously carried out. the slightest infringement by a white man upon the rights of the indians is punished with great severity. they are furnished with the best qualities of goods, and the quantity never falls below the stipulations. consequently the indian has no cause of complaint, and is kept on the most friendly terms. this officer said, "a white man can travel from one end to the other of our territory, with no fear of molestation. it is forty years since any trouble occurred between us and the indians, while on your side of the line you have frequent difficulties." the autumn of ' witnessed the campaign for the chastisement of these indians. twenty-five thousand men were sent to minnesota, under general pope, and employed against the sioux. in a wild country, like the interior of minnesota, infantry cannot be used to advantage. on this account, the punishment of the indians was not as complete as our authorities desired. some of the indians were captured, some killed, and others surrendered. thirty-nine of the captives were hanged. a hundred others were sent to prison at davenport, iowa, for confinement during life. the coming of winter caused a suspension of hostilities. the spring of opened with the outfitting of two expeditions--one to proceed through minnesota, under general sibley, and the other up the missouri river, under general sully. these expeditions were designed to unite somewhere on the missouri river, and, by inclosing the indians between them, to bring them to battle. if the plan was successful, the indians would be severely chastised. general sibley moved across minnesota, according to agreement, and general sully advanced up the missouri. the march of the latter was delayed on account of the unprecedented low water in the missouri, which retarded the boats laden with supplies. although the two columns failed to unite, they were partially successful in their primary object. each column engaged the indians and routed them with considerable loss. after the return of general sibley's expedition, a portion of the troops composing it were sent to the southwest, and attached to the armies operating in louisiana. the indian war in minnesota dwindled to a fight on the part of politicians respecting its merits in the past, and the best mode of conducting it in the future. general pope, general sibley, and general sully were praised and abused to the satisfaction of every resident of the state. laudation and denunciation were poured out with equal liberality. the contest was nearly as fierce as the struggle between the whites and indians. if epithets had been as fatal as bullets, the loss of life would have been terrible. happily, the wordy battle was devoid of danger, and the state of minnesota, her politicians, her generals, and her men emerged from it without harm. various schemes have been devised for placing the sioux indians where they will not be in our way. no spot of land can be found between the mississippi and the pacific where their presence would not be an annoyance to somebody. general pope proposed to disarm these indians, allot no more reservations to them, and allow no traders among them. he recommended that they be placed on isle royale, in lake superior, and there furnished with barracks, rations, and clothing, just as the same number of soldiers would be furnished. they should have no arms, and no means of escaping to the main-land. they would thus be secluded from all evil influence, and comfortably housed and cared for at government expense. if this plan should be adopted, it would be a great relief to the people of our northwestern frontier. minnesota has fixed its desires upon a railway to the pacific. the "st. paul and pacific railway" is already in operation about forty miles west of st. paul, and its projectors hope, in time, to extend it to the shores of the "peaceful sea." it has called british capital to its aid, and is slowly but steadily progressing. in the latter part of several enterprising citizens of st. paul took a small steamer in midwinter from the upper waters of the mississippi to the head of navigation, on the red river of the north. the distance was two hundred and fifty miles, and the route lay through a wilderness. forty yoke of oxen were required for moving the boat. when navigation was open in the spring of , the boat (the _anson northrup_) steamed down to fort garry, the principal post of the hudson bay company, taking all the inhabitants by surprise. none of them had any intimation of its coming, and were, consequently, as much astonished as if the steamer had dropped from the clouds. the agents of the hudson bay company purchased the steamer, a few hours after its arrival, for about four times its value. they hoped to continue their seclusion by so doing; but were doomed to disappointment. another and larger boat was built in the following year at georgetown, minnesota, the spot where the _northrup_ was launched. the isolation of the fur-traders was ended. the owners of the second steamer (the _international_) were the proprietors of a stage and express line to all parts of minnesota. they extended their line to fort garry, and soon established a profitable business. from its organization in , down to , the hudson bay company sent its supplies, and received its furs in return, by way of the arctic ocean and hudson's bay. there are only two months in the year in which a ship can enter or leave hudson's bay. a ship sailing from london in january, enters the bay in august. when the cargo is delivered at york factory, at the mouth of nelson's river, it is too late in the season to send the goods to the great lakes of northwestern america, where the trading posts are located. in the following may the goods are forwarded. they go by canoes where the river is navigable, and are carried on the backs of men around the frequent and sometimes long rapids. the journey requires three months. the furs purchased with these goods cannot be sent to york factory until a year later, and another year passes away before they leave hudson's bay. thus, returns for a cargo were not received in london until four years after its shipment from that port. since american enterprise took control of the carrying trade, goods are sent from london to fort garry by way of new york and st. paul, and are only four months in transit. four or five months will be required to return a cargo of furs to london, making a saving of three years over the old route. stupid as our english cousin sometimes shows himself, he cannot fail to perceive the advantages of the new route, and has promptly embraced them. the people of minnesota are becoming well acquainted with the residents of the country on their northern boundary. many of the northwestern politicians are studying the policy of "annexation." the settlement at pembina, near pembina mountain, lies in minnesota, a few miles only from the international line. the settlers supposed they were on british soil until the establishment of the boundary showed them their mistake. every year the settlement sends a train to st. paul, nearly seven hundred miles distant, to exchange its buffalo-robes, furs, etc., for various articles of necessity that the pembina region does not produce. this annual train is made up of "red river carts"--vehicles that would be regarded with curiosity in new york or washington. a red river cart is about the size of a two-wheeled dray, and is built entirely of wood--not a particle of iron entering into its composition. it is propelled by a single ox or horse, generally the former, driven by a half-breed native. sometimes, though not usually, the wheels are furnished with tires of rawhide, placed upon them when green and shrunk closely in drying. each cart carries about a thousand pounds of freight, and the train will ordinarily make from fifteen to twenty miles a day. it was estimated that five hundred of these carts would visit st. paul and st. cloud in the autumn of . the settlements of which fort garry is the center are scattered for several miles along the red river of the north. they have schools, churches, flouring and saw mills, and their houses are comfortably and often luxuriously furnished. they have pianos imported from st. paul, and their principal church, has an organ. at st. cloud i saw evidences of extreme civilization on their way to fort garry. these were a whisky-still, two sewing-machines, and a grain-reaper. no people can remain in darkness after adopting these modern inventions. the monopoly which the hudson bay company formerly held, has ceased to exist. under its charter, granted by charles ii. in , it had exclusive control of all the country drained by hudson's bay. in addition to its privilege of trade, it possessed the "right of eminent domain" and the full political management of the country. crime in this territory was not punished by the officers of the british government, but by the courts and officers of the company. all settlements of farmers and artisans were discouraged, as it was the desire of the company to maintain the territory solely as a fur preserve, from the arctic ocean to the united states boundary. the profits of this fur-trade were enormous, as the company had it under full control. the furs were purchased of the indians and trappers at very low rates, and paid for in goods at enormous prices. an industrious trapper could earn a comfortable support, and nothing more. having full control of the fur market in europe, the directors could regulate the selling prices as they chose. frequently they issued orders forbidding the killing of a certain class of animals for several years. the fur from these animals would become scarce and very high, and at the same time the animals would increase in numbers. suddenly, when the market was at its uppermost point, the order would be countermanded and a large supply brought forward for sale. this course was followed with all classes of fur in succession. the company's dividends in the prosperous days would shame the best oil wells or nevada silver mines of our time. though its charter was perpetual, the hudson bay company was obliged to obtain once in twenty-one years a renewal of its license for exclusive trade. from to it had no difficulty in obtaining the desired renewal. the last license expired in . though a renewal was earnestly sought, it was not attained. the territory is now open to all traders, and the power of the old company is practically extinguished. the first explorations in minnesota were made shortly after the discovery of the mississippi river by marquette and hennepin. st. paul was originally a french trading post, and the resort of the indians throughout the northwest. fort snelling was established by the united suites government in , but no settlements were made until . after the current of emigration began, the territory was rapidly filled. while minnesota was a wilderness, the american fur company established posts on the upper waters of the mississippi. the old trading-house below the falls of st. anthony, the first frame building erected in the territory, is yet standing, though it exhibits many symptoms of decay. at one time the emigration to minnesota was very great, but it has considerably fallen off during the last eight years. the state is too far north to hold out great inducements to settlers. the winters are long and severe, and the productions of the soil are limited in character and quantity. in summer the climate is excellent, attracting large numbers of pleasure-seekers. the falls of st. anthony and the minnehaha have a world-wide reputation. chapter xxix. inauguration of a great enterprise. plans for arming the negroes along the mississippi.--opposition to the movement.--plantations deserted by their owners.--gathering abandoned cotton.--rules and regulations.--speculation.--widows and orphans in demand.--arrival of adjutant-general thomas.--designs of the government. i have elsewhere alluded to the orders of general grant at lagrange, tennessee, in the autumn of , relative to the care of the negroes where his army was then operating. the plan was successful in providing for the negroes in tennessee and northern mississippi, where the number, though large, was not excessive. at that time, the policy of arming the blacks was being discussed in various quarters. it found much opposition. many persons thought it would be an infringement upon the "rights" of the south, both unconstitutional and unjust. others cared nothing for the south, or its likes and dislikes, but opposed the measure on the ground of policy. they feared its adoption would breed discontent among the white soldiers of the army, and cause so many desertions and so much uneasiness that the importance of the new element would be more than neutralized. others, again, doubted the courage of the negroes, and thought their first use under fire would result in disgrace and disaster to our arms. they opposed the experiment on account of this fear. in south carolina and in kansas the negroes had been put under arms and mustered into service as union soldiers. in engagements of a minor character they had shown coolness and courage worthy of veterans. there was no valid reason why the negroes along the mississippi would not be just as valuable in the army, as the men of the same race in other parts of the country. our government determined to try the experiment, and make the _corps d'afrique_ a recognized and important adjunct of our forces in the field. when general grant encamped his army at milliken's bend and young's point, preparatory to commencing the siege of vicksburg, many of the cotton plantations were abandoned by their owners. before our advent nearly all the white males able to bear arms had, willingly or unwillingly, gone to aid in filling the ranks of the insurgents. on nearly every plantation there was a white man not liable to military service, who remained to look after the interests of the property. when our army appeared, the majority of these white men fled to the interior of louisiana, leaving the plantations and the negroes to the tender mercy of the invaders. in some cases the fugitives took the negroes with them, thus leaving the plantations entirely deserted. when the negroes remained, and the plantations were not supplied with provisions, it became necessary for the commissary department to issue rations for the subsistence of the blacks. as nearly all the planters cared nothing for the negroes they had abandoned, there was a very large number that required the attention of the government. on many plantations the cotton crop of was still in the field, somewhat damaged by the winter rains; but well worth gathering at the prices which then ruled the market. general grant gave authority for the gathering of this cotton by any parties who were willing to take the contract. the contractors were required to feed the negroes and pay them for their labor. one-half the cotton went to the government, the balance to the contractor. there was no lack of men to undertake the collection of abandoned cotton on these terms, as the enterprise could not fail to be exceedingly remunerative. this cotton, gathered by government authority, was, with a few exceptions, the only cotton which could be shipped to market. there were large quantities of "old" cotton--gathered and baled in previous years--which the owners were anxious to sell, and speculators ready to buy. numerous applications were made for shipping-permits, but nearly all were rejected. a few cases were pressed upon general grant's attention, as deserving exception from the ordinary rule. there was one case of two young girls, whose parents had recently died, and who were destitute of all comforts on the plantation where they lived. they had a quantity of cotton which they wished to take to memphis, for sale in that market. thus provided with money, they would proceed north, and remain there till the end of the war. a speculator became interested in these girls, and plead with all his eloquence for official favor in their behalf. general grant softened his heart and gave this man a written permit to ship whatever cotton belonged to the orphans. it was understood, and so stated in the application, that the amount was between two hundred and three hundred bales. the exact number not being known, there was no quantity specified in the permit. the speculator soon discovered that the penniless orphans could claim two thousand instead of two hundred bales, and thought it possible they would find three thousand bales and upward. on the strength of his permit without special limit, he had purchased, or otherwise procured, all the cotton he could find in the immediate vicinity. he was allowed to make shipment of a few hundred bales; the balance was detained. immediately, as this transaction became known, every speculator was on the _qui vive_ to discover a widow or an orphan. each plantation was visited, and the status of the owners, if any remained, became speedily known. orphans and widows, the former in particular, were at a high premium. never in the history of louisiana did the children of tender years, bereft of parents, receive such attention from strangers. a spectator might have imagined the millennium close at hand, and the dealers in cotton about to be humbled at the feet of babes and sucklings. widows, neither young nor comely, received the warmest attention from men of northern birth. the family of john rodgers, had it then lived at milliken's bend, would have been hailed as a "big thing." everywhere in that region there were men seeking "healthy orphans for adoption." the majority of the speculators found the widows and orphans of whom they were in search. some were able to obtain permits, while others were not. several officers of the army became interested in these speculations, and gave their aid to obtain shipping privileges. some who were innocent were accused of dealing in the forbidden fiber, while others, guilty of the transaction, escaped without suspicion. the temptation was great. many refused to be concerned in the traffic; but there were some who yielded. the contractors who gathered the abandoned cotton were enabled to accumulate small fortunes. some of them acted honestly, but others made use of their contracts to cover large shipments of purchased or stolen cotton, baled two or three years before. the ordinary yield of an acre of ground is from a bale to a bale and a half. the contractors were sometimes able to show a yield of ten or twenty bales to the acre. about the first of april, adjutant-general thomas arrived at milliken's bend, bringing, as he declared, authority to regulate every thing as he saw fit. under his auspices, arrangements were made for putting the able-bodied male negroes into the army. in a speech delivered at a review of the troops at lake providence, he announced the determination of the government to use every just measure to suppress the rebellion. the rebels indirectly made use of the negroes against the government, by employing them in the production of supplies for their armies in the field. "in this way," he said, "they can bring to bear against us all the power of their so-called confederacy. at the same time we are compelled to retain at home a portion of our fighting force to furnish supplies for the men at the front. the administration has determined to take the negroes belonging to disloyal men, and make them a part of the army. this is the policy that has been fixed and will be fully carried out." general thomas announced that he brought authority to raise as many regiments as possible, and to give commissions to all proper persons who desired them. the speech was listened to with attention, and loudly cheered at its close. the general officers declared themselves favorable to the new movement, and gave it their co-operation. in a few days a half-dozen regiments were in process of organization. this was the beginning of the scheme for raising a large force of colored soldiers along the mississippi. the disposition to be made of the negro women and children in our lines, was a subject of great importance. their numbers were very large, and constantly increasing. not a tenth of these persons could find employment in gathering abandoned cotton. those that found such employment were only temporarily provided for. it would be a heavy burden upon the government to support them in idleness during the entire summer. it would be manifestly wrong to send them to the already overcrowded camps at memphis and helena. they were upon our hands by the fortune of war, and must be cared for in some way. the plantations which their owners had abandoned were supposed to afford the means of providing homes for the negroes, where they could be sheltered, fed, and clothed without expense to the government. it was proposed to lease these plantations for the term of one year, to persons who would undertake the production of a crop of cotton. those negroes who were unfit for military service were to be distributed on these plantations, where the lessees would furnish them all needed supplies, and pay them for their labor at certain stipulated rates. the farming tools and other necessary property on the plantations were to be appraised at a fair valuation, and turned over to the lessees. where the plantations were destitute of the requisite number of mules for working them, condemned horses and mules were loaned to the lessees, who should return them whenever called for. there were promises of protection against rebel raids, and of all assistance that the government could consistently give. general thomas announced that the measure was fully decided upon at washington, and should receive every support. the plantations were readily taken, the prospects being excellent for enormous profits if the scheme proved successful. the cost of producing cotton varies from three to eight cents a pound. the staple would find ready sale at fifty cents, and might possibly command a higher figure. the prospects of a large percentage on the investment were alluring in the extreme. the plantations, the negroes, the farming utensils, and the working stock were to require no outlay. all that was demanded before returns would be received, were the necessary expenditures for feeding and clothing the negroes until the crop was made and gathered. from five to thirty thousand dollars was the estimated yearly expense of a plantation of a thousand acres. if successful, the products for a year might be set down at two hundred thousand dollars; and should cotton appreciate, the return would be still greater. chapter xxx. cotton-planting in . leasing the plantations.--interference of the rebels.--raids.--treatment of prisoners.--the attack upon milliken's bend.--a novel breast-work.--murder o four officers.--profits of cotton-planting.--dishonesty of lessees.--negroes planting on their own account. it was late in the season before the plantations were leased and the work of planting commenced. the ground was hastily plowed and the seed as hastily sown. the work was prosecuted with the design of obtaining as much as possible in a single season. in their eagerness to accumulate fortunes, the lessees frequently planted more ground than they could care for, and allowed much of it to run to waste. of course, it could not be expected the rebels would favor the enterprise. they had prophesied the negro would not work when free, and were determined to break up any effort to induce him to labor. they were not even willing to give him a fair trial. late in june they visited the plantations at milliken's bend and vicinity. they stripped many of the plantations of all the mules and horses that could be found, frightened some of the negroes into seeking safety at the nearest military posts, and carried away others. some of the lessees were captured; others, having timely warning, made good their escape. of those captured, some were released on a regular parole not to take up arms against the "confederacy." others were liberated on a promise to go north and remain there, after being allowed a reasonable time for settling their business. others were carried into captivity and retained as prisoners of war until late in the summer. a mr. walker was taken to brownsville, texas, and there released, with the privilege of crossing to matamoras, and sailing thence to new orleans. it was six months from the time of his capture before he reached new orleans on his return home. the rebels made a fierce attack upon the garrison at milliken's bend. for a few moments during the fight the prospects of their success were very good. the negroes composing the garrison had not been long under arms, and their discipline was far from perfect. the rebels obtained possession of a part of our works, but were held at bay by the garrison, until the arrival of a gun-boat turned the scale in our favor. the odds were against us at the outset, but we succeeded in putting the enemy to flight. in this attack the rebels made use of a movable breast-work, consisting of a large drove of mules, which they kept in their front as they advanced upon the fort. this breast-work served very well at first, but grew unmanageable as our fire became severe. it finally broke and fled to the rear, throwing the rebel lines into confusion. i believe it was the first instance on record where the defenses ran away, leaving the defenders uncovered. it marked a new, but unsuccessful, phase of war. an officer who was present at the defense of milliken's bend vouches for the truth of the story. the rebels captured a portion of the garrison, including some of the white officers holding commissions in negro regiments. the negro prisoners were variously disposed of. some were butchered on the spot while pleading for quarter; others were taken a few miles on the retreat, and then shot by the wayside. a few were driven away by their masters, who formed a part of the raiding force, but they soon escaped and returned to our lines. of the officers who surrendered as prisoners of war, some were shot or hanged within a short distance of their place of capture. two were taken to shreveport and lodged in jail with one of the captured lessees. one night these officers were taken from the jail by order of general kirby smith, and delivered into the hands of the provost-marshal, to be shot for the crime of accepting commissions in negro regiments. before morning they were dead. similar raids were made at other points along the river, where plantations were being cultivated under the new system. at all these places the mules were stolen and the negroes either frightened or driven away. work was suspended until the plantations could be newly stocked and equipped. this suspension occurred at the busiest time in the season. the production of the cotton was, consequently, greatly retarded. on some plantations the weeds grew faster than the cotton, and refused to be put down. on others, the excellent progress the weeds had made, during the period of idleness, rendered the yield of the cotton-plant very small. some of the plantations were not restocked after the raid, and speedily ran to waste. in , no lessee made more than half an ordinary crop of _cotton_, and very few secured even this return. some obtained a quarter or an eighth of a bale to the acre, and some gathered only one bale where they should have gathered twelve or twenty. a few lost money in the speculation. some made a fair profit on their investment, and others realized their expectations of an enormous reward. several parties united their interest on three or four plantations in different localities, so that a failure in one quarter was offset by success in another. the majority of the lessees were unprincipled men, who undertook the enterprise solely as a speculation. they had as little regard for the rights of the negro as the most brutal slaveholder had ever shown. very few of them paid the negroes for their labor, except in furnishing them small quantities of goods, for which they charged five times the value. one man, who realized a profit of eighty thousand dollars, never paid his negroes a penny. some of the lessees made open boast of having swindled their negroes out of their summer's wages, by taking advantage of their ignorance. the experiment did not materially improve the condition of the negro, save in the matter of physical treatment. as a slave the black man received no compensation for his labor. as a free man, he received none. he was well fed, and, generally, well clothed. he received no severe punishment for non-performance of duty, as had been the case before the war. the difference between working for nothing as a slave, and working for the same wages under the yankees, was not always perceptible to the unsophisticated negro. several persons leased plantations that they might use them as points for shipping purchased or stolen cotton. some were quite successful in this, while others were unable to find any cotton to bring out. various parties united with the plantation-owners, and agreed to obtain all facilities from the government officials, if their associates would secure protection against rebel raids. in some cases this experiment was successful, and the plantations prospered, while those around them were repeatedly plundered. in others, the rebels were enraged at the plantation-owners for making any arrangements with "the yankees," and treated them with merciless severity. there was no course that promised absolute safety, and there was no man who could devise a plan of operations that would cover all contingencies. every thing considered, the result of the free-labor enterprise was favorable to the pockets of the avaricious lessees, though it was not encouraging to the negro and to the friends of justice and humanity. all who had been successful desired to renew their leases for another season. some who were losers were willing to try again and hope for better fortune. all the available plantations in the vicinity of vicksburg, milliken's bend, and other points along that portion of the mississippi were applied for before the beginning of the new year. application for these places were generally made by the former lessees or their friends. the prospects were good for a vigorous prosecution of the free-labor enterprise during . in the latter part of , i passed down the mississippi, _en route_ to new orleans. at vicksburg i met a gentleman who had been investigating the treatment of the negroes under the new system, and was about making a report to the proper authorities. he claimed to have proof that the agents appointed by general thomas had not been honest in their administration of affairs. one of these agents had taken five plantations under his control, and was proposing to retain them for another year. it was charged that he had not paid his negroes for their labor, except in scanty supplies of clothing, for which exorbitant prices were charged. he had been successful with his plantations, but delivered very little cotton to the government agents. the investigations into the conduct of agents and lessees were expected to make a change in the situation. up to that time the war department had controlled the whole system of plantation management. the treasury department was seeking the control, on the ground that the plantations were a source of revenue to the government, and should be under its financial and commercial policy. if it could be proved that the system pursued was an unfair and dishonest one, there was probability of a change. i pressed forward on my visit to new orleans. on my return, two weeks later, the agents of general thomas were pushing their plans for the coming year. there was no indication of an immediate change in the management. the duties of these agents had been enlarged, and the region which they controlled extended from lake providence, sixty miles above vicksburg, to the mouth of red river, nearly two hundred miles below. one of the agents had his office at lake providence, a second was located at vicksburg, while the third was at natchez. nearly all the plantations near lake providence had been leased or applied for. the same was the case with most of those near vicksburg. in some instances, there were several applicants for the same plantation. the agents announced their determination to sell the choice of plantations to the highest bidder. the competition for the best places was expected to be very active. there was one pleasing feature. some of the applicants for plantations were not like the sharp-eyed speculators who had hitherto controlled the business. they seemed to be men of character, desirous of experimenting with free labor for the sake of demonstrating its feasibility when skillfully and honestly managed. they hoped and believed it would be profitable, but they were not undertaking the enterprise solely with a view to money-making. the number of these men was not large, but their presence, although in small force, was exceedingly encouraging. i regret to say that these men were outstripped in the struggle for good locations by their more unscrupulous competitors. before the season was ended, the majority of the honest men abandoned the field. during , many negroes cultivated small lots of ground on their own account. sometimes a whole family engaged in the enterprise, a single individual having control of the matter. in other cases, two, three, or a half-dozen negroes would unite their labor, and divide the returns. one family of four persons sold twelve bales of cotton, at two hundred dollars per bale, as the result of eight months' labor. six negroes who united their labor were able to sell twenty bales. the average was about one and a half or two bales to each of those persons who attempted the planting enterprise on their own account. a few made as high as four bales each, while others did not make more than a single bale. one negro, who was quite successful in planting on his own account, proposed to take a small plantation in , and employ twenty or more colored laborers. how he succeeded i was not able to ascertain. the commissioners in charge of the freedmen gave the negroes every encouragement to plant on their own account. in there were thirty colored lessees near milliken's bend, and about the same number at helena. ten of these persons at helena realized $ , for their year's labor. two of them planted forty acres in cotton; their expenses were about $ , ; they sold their crop for $ , . another leased twenty-four acres. his expenses were less than $ , , and he sold his crop for $ , . another leased seventeen acres. he earned by the season's work enough to purchase a good house, and leave him a cash balance of $ . another leased thirteen and a half acres, expended about $ in its cultivation, and sold his crop for $ , . at milliken's bend the negroes were not as successful as at helena--much of the cotton crop being destroyed by the "army worm." it is possible that the return of peace may cause a discontinuance of the policy of leasing land to negroes. the planters are bitterly opposed to the policy of dividing plantations into small parcels, and allowing them to be cultivated by freedmen. they believe in extensive tracts of land under a single management, and endeavor to make the production of cotton a business for the few rather than the many. it has always been the rule to discourage small planters. no aristocratic proprietor, if he could avoid it, would sell any portion of his estate to a man of limited means. in the hilly portions of the south, the rich men were unable to carry out their policy. consequently, there were many who cultivated cotton on a small scale. on the lower mississippi this was not the case. when the southern states are fairly "reconstructed," and the political control is placed in the hands of the ruling race, every effort will be made to maintain the old policy. plantations of a thousand or of three thousand acres will be kept intact, unless the hardest necessity compels their division. if possible, the negroes will not be permitted to possess or cultivate land on their own account. to allow them to hold real estate will be partially admitting their claim to humanity. no true scion of chivalry can permit such an innovation, so long as he is able to make successful opposition. i have heard southern men declare that a statute law should, and would, be made to prevent the negroes holding real estate. i have no doubt of the disposition of the late rebels in favor of such enactment, and believe they would display the greatest energy in its enforcement. it would be a labor of love on their part, as well as of duty. its success would be an obstacle in the way of the much-dreaded "negro equality." chapter xxxi. among the officials. reasons for trying an experiment.--activity among lessees.--opinions of the residents.--rebel hopes in .--removal of negroes to west louisiana.--visiting natchez.--the city and its business.--"the rejected addresses." in my visit to vicksburg i was accompanied by my fellow-journalist, mr. colburn, of _the world_. mr. colburn and myself had taken more than an ordinary interest in the free-labor enterprise. we had watched its inception eight months before, with many hopes for its success, and with as many fears for the result. the experiment of , under all its disadvantages, gave us convincing proof that the production of cotton and sugar by free labor was both possible and profitable. the negro had proved the incorrectness of the slaveholders' assertion that no black man would labor on a plantation except as a slave. so much we had seen accomplished. it was the result of a single year's trial. we desired to see a further and more extensive test. while studying the new system in the hands of others, we were urged to bring it under our personal observation. various inducements were held out. we were convinced of the general feasibility of the enterprise, wherever it received proper attention. as a philanthropic undertaking, it was commendable. as a financial experiment, it promised success. we looked at the matter in all its aspects, and finally decided to gain an intimate knowledge of plantation life in war-time. whether we succeeded or failed, we would learn more about the freedmen than we had hitherto known, and would assist, in some degree, to solve the great problem before the country. success would be personally profitable, while failure could not be disastrous. we determined to lease a plantation, but had selected none. in her directions for cooking a hare, mrs. glass says: "first, catch your hare." our animal was to be caught, and the labor of securing it proved greater than we anticipated. all the eligible locations around vicksburg had been taken by the lessees of the previous season, or by newly-arrived persons who preceded us. there were several residents of the neighboring region who desired persons from the north to join them in tilling their plantations. they were confident of obtaining rebel protection, though by no means certain of securing perfect immunity. in each case they demanded a cash advance of a few thousands, for the purpose of hiring the guerrillas to keep the peace. as it was evident that the purchase of one marauding band would require the purchase of others, until the entire "confederacy" had been bought up, we declined all these proposals. some of these residents, who wished northern men to join them, claimed to have excellent plantations along the yazoo, or near some of its tributary bayous. these men were confident a fine cotton crop could be made, "if there were some northern man to manage the niggers." it was the general complaint with the people who lived in that region that, with few exceptions, no southern man could induce the negroes to continue at work. one of these plantation proprietors said his location was such that no guerrilla could get near it without endangering his life. an investigation showed that no other person could reach the plantation without incurring a risk nearly as great. very few of these owners of remote plantations were able to induce strangers to join them. we procured a map of the mississippi and the country bordering its banks. whenever we found a good location and made inquiry about it at the office of the leasing agents, we were sure to ascertain that some one had already filed an application. it was plain that vicksburg was not the proper field for our researches. we shook its dust from our feet and went to natchez, a hundred and twenty-five miles below, where a better prospect was afforded. in the spring of , the rebels felt confident of retaining permanent possession of vicksburg and port hudson, two hundred and fifty miles apart. whatever might be the result elsewhere, this portion of the mississippi should not be abandoned. in the belief that the progress of the yankees had been permanently stopped, the planters in the locality mentioned endeavored to make as full crops as possible of the great staple of the south. accordingly, they plowed and planted, and tended the growing cotton until midsummer came. on the fourth of july, vicksburg surrendered, and opened the river to port hudson. general herron's division was sent to re-enforce general banks, who was besieging the latter place. in a few days, general gardner hauled down his flag and gave port hudson to the nation. "the father of waters went unvexed to the sea." the rich region that the rebels had thought to hold was, by the fortune of war, in the possession of the national army. the planters suspended their operations, through fear that the yankees would possess the land. some of them sent their negroes to the interior of louisiana for safety. others removed to texas, carrying all their human property with them. on some plantations the cotton had been so well cared for that it came to maturity in fine condition. on others it had been very slightly cultivated, and was almost choked out of existence by weeds and grass. nearly every plantation could boast of more or less cotton in the field--the quantity varying from twenty bales to five hundred. on some plantations cotton had been neglected, and a large crop of corn grown in its place. everywhere the rebel law had been obeyed by the production of more corn than usual. there was enough for the sustenance of our armies for many months. natchez was the center of this newly-opened region. before the war it was the home of wealthy slave-owners, who believed the formation of a southern confederacy would be the formation of a terrestrial paradise. on both banks of the mississippi, above and below natchez, were the finest cotton plantations of the great valley. one family owned nine plantations, from which eight thousand bales of cotton were annually sent to market. another family owned seven plantations, and others were the owners of from three to six, respectively. the plantations were in the care of overseers and agents, and rarely visited by their owners. the profits were large, and money was poured out in profusion. the books of one of the natchez banks showed a daily business, in the picking season, of two or three million dollars, generally on the accounts of planters and their factors. prior to the rebellion, cotton was usually shipped to new orleans, and sold in that market. there were some of the planters who sent their cotton to liverpool or havre, without passing it through the hands of new orleans factors. a large balance of the proceeds of such shipments remained to the credit of the shippers when the war broke out, and saved them from financial ruin. the business of natchez amounted, according to the season, from a hundred thousand to three hundred thousand bales. this included a great quantity that was sent to new orleans from plantations above and below the city, without touching at all upon the levee at natchez. natchez consists of natchez-on-the-hill and natchez-under-the-hill. a bluff, nearly two hundred feet high, faces the mississippi, where there is an eastward bend of the stream. toward the river this bluff is almost perpendicular, and is climbed by three roads cut into its face like inclined shelves. the french established a settlement at this point a hundred and fifty years ago, and erected a fortification for its defense. this work, known as fort rosalie, can still be traced with distinctness, though it has fallen into extreme decay. it was evidently a rectangular, bastioned work, and the location of the bastions and magazine can be readily made out. natchez-under-the-hill is a small, straggling village, having a few commission houses and stores, and dwellings of a suspicious character. it was once a resort of gamblers and other _chevaliers d'industrie_, whose livelihood was derived from the travelers along the mississippi. at present it is somewhat shorn of its glory. natchez-on-the-hill is a pleasant and well-built city, of about ten thousand inhabitants. the buildings display wealth and good taste, the streets are wide and finely shaded, and the abundance of churches speaks in praise of the religious sentiment of the people. near the edge of the bluff there was formerly a fine park, commanding a view of the river for several miles in either direction, and overlooking the plantations and cypress forests on the opposite shore. this pleasure-ground was reserved for the white people alone, no negro being allowed to enter the inclosure under severe penalties. a regiment of our soldiers encamped near this park, and used its fence for fuel. the park is now free to persons of whatever color. natchez suffered less from the war than most other places of its size along the mississippi. the rebels never erected fortifications in or around natchez, having relied upon vicksburg and port hudson for their protection. when admiral farragut ascended the river, in , after the fall of new orleans, he promised that natchez should not be disturbed, so long as the people offered no molestation to our gun-boats or army transports. this neutrality was carefully observed, except on one occasion. a party which landed from the gun-boat _essex_ was fired upon by a militia company that desired to distinguish itself. natchez was shelled for two hours, in retaliation for this outrage. from that time until our troops occupied the city there was no disturbance. when we arrived at natchez, we found several northern men already there, whose business was similar to our own. some had secured plantations, and were preparing to take possession. others were watching the situation and surveying the ground before making their selections. we found that the best plantations in the vicinity had been taken by the friends of adjutant-general thomas, and were gone past our securing. at vidalia, louisiana, directly opposite natchez, were two fine plantations, "arnuldia" and "whitehall," which had been thus appropriated. others in their vicinity had been taken in one way or another, and were out of our reach. some of the lessees declared they had been forced to promise a division with certain parties in authority before obtaining possession, while others maintained a discreet silence on the subject. many plantations owned by widows and semi-loyal persons, would not be placed in the market as "abandoned property." there were many whose status had not been decided, so that they were practically out of the market. in consequence of these various drawbacks, the number of desirable locations that were open for selection was not large. one of the leasing agents gave us a letter to a young widow who resided in the city, and owned a large plantation in louisiana, fifteen miles from natchez. we lost no time in calling upon the lady. other parties had already seen her with a view to leasing her plantation. though she had promised the lease to one of these visitors, she had no objections to treating with ourselves, provided she could make a more advantageous contract. in a few days we repeated our visit. our rival had urged his reasons for consideration, and was evidently in favor. he had claimed to be a secessionist, and assured her he could obtain a safeguard from the rebel authorities. the lady finally consented to close a contract with him, and placed us in the position of discarded suitors. we thought of issuing a new edition of "the rejected addresses." chapter xxxii. a journey outside the lines. passing the pickets.--cold weather in the south.--effect of climate upon the constitution.--surrounded and captured.--prevarication and explanation.--among the natives.--the game for the confederacy.--courtesy of the planters.--condition of the plantations.--the return. mr. colburn went to st. louis, on business in which both were interested, and left me to look out a plantation. i determined to make a tour of exploration in louisiana, in the region above vidalia. with two or three gentlemen, who were bound on similar business, i passed our pickets one morning, and struck out into the region which was dominated by neither army. the weather was intensely cold, the ground frozen solid, and a light snow falling. cold weather in the south has one peculiarity: it can seem more intense than the same temperature at the north. it is the effect of the southern climate to unfit the system for any thing but a warm atmosphere. the chill penetrates the whole body with a severity i have never known north of the ohio river. in a cold day, the "sunny south" possesses very few attractions in the eyes of a stranger. in that day's ride, and in the night which followed, i suffered more than ever before from cold. i once passed a night in the open air in the rocky mountains, with the thermometer ten degrees below zero. i think it was more endurable than louisiana, with the mercury ten degrees above zero. on my plantation hunt i was thickly clad, but the cold _would_ penetrate, in spite of every thing. an hour by a fire might bring some warmth, but the first step into the open air would drive it away. fluid extract of corn failed to have its ordinary effect. the people of the vicinity said the weather was unusually severe on that occasion. for the sake of those who reside there hereafter, i hope their statement was true. our party stopped for the night at a plantation near waterproof, a small village on the bank of the river, twenty-two miles from natchez. just as we were comfortably seated by the fire in the overseer's house, one of the negroes announced that a person at the door wished to see us. i stepped to the door, and found a half-dozen mounted men in blue uniforms. each man had a carbine or revolver drawn on me. one of my companions followed me outside, and found that the strange party had weapons enough to cover both of us. it had been rumored that several guerrillas, wearing united states uniforms, were lurking in the vicinity. our conclusions concerning the character of our captors were speedily made. resistance was useless, but there were considerations that led us to parley as long as possible. three officers, and as many soldiers, from natchez, had overtaken us in the afternoon, and borne us company during the latter part of our ride. when we stopped for the night, they concluded to go forward two or three miles, and return in the morning. supposing ourselves fairly taken, we wished to give our friends opportunity to escape. with this object in view, we endeavored, by much talking, to consume time. i believe it does not make a man eloquent to compel him to peer into the muzzles of a half-dozen cocked revolvers, that may be discharged at any instant on the will of the holders. prevarication is a difficult task, when time, place, and circumstances are favorable. it is no easy matter to convince your hearers of the truth of a story you know to be false, even when those hearers are inclined to be credulous. surrounded by strangers, and with your life in peril, the difficulties are greatly increased. i am satisfied that i made a sad failure on that particular occasion. my friend and myself answered, indiscriminately, the questions that were propounded. our responses did not always agree. possibly we might have done better if only one of us had spoken. "come out of that house," was the first request that was made. we came out. "tell those soldiers to come out." "there are no soldiers here," i responded. "that's a d--d lie." "there are none here." "yes, there are," said the spokesman of the party. "some yankee soldiers came here a little while ago." "we have been here only a few minutes." "where did you come from?" this was what the lawyers call a leading question. we did not desire to acknowledge we were from natchez, as that would reveal us at once. we did not wish to say we were from shreveport, as it would soon be proved we were not telling the truth. i replied that we had come from a plantation a few miles below. simultaneously my companion said we had just crossed the river. here was a lack of corroborative testimony which our captors commented upon, somewhat to our discredit. so the conversation went on, our answers becoming more confused each time we spoke. at last the leader of the group dismounted, and prepared to search the house. he turned us over to the care of his companions, saying, as he did so: "if i find any soldiers here, you may shoot these d--d fellows for lying." during all the colloquy we had been carefully covered by the weapons of the group. we knew no soldiers could be found about the premises, and felt no fear concerning the result of the search. just as the leader finished his search, a lieutenant and twenty men rode up. "well," said our captor, "you are saved from shooting. i will turn you over to the lieutenant." i recognized in that individual an officer to whom i had received introduction a day or two before. the recognition was mutual. we had fallen into the hands of a scouting party of our own forces. each mistook the other for rebels. the contemplated shooting was indefinitely postponed. the lieutenant in command concluded to encamp near us, and we passed the evening in becoming acquainted with each other. on the following day the scouting party returned to natchez. with my two companions i proceeded ten miles further up the river-bank, calling, on the way, at several plantations. all the inhabitants supposed we were rebel officers, going to or from kirby smith's department. at one house we found two old gentlemen indulging in a game of chess. in response to a comment upon their mode of amusement, one of them said: "we play a very slow and cautious game, sir. such a game as the confederacy ought to play at this time." to this i assented. "how did you cross the river, gentlemen?" was the first interrogatory. "we crossed it at natchez." "at natchez! we do not often see confederates from natchez. you must have been very fortunate to get through." then we explained who and what we were. the explanation was followed by a little period of silence on the part of our new acquaintances. very soon, however, the ice was broken, and our conversation became free. we were assured that we might travel anywhere in that region as officers of the rebel army, without the slightest suspicion of our real character. they treated us courteously, and prevailed upon us to join them at dinner. many apologies were given for the scantiness of the repast. corn-bread, bacon, and potatoes were the only articles set before us. our host said he was utterly unable to procure flour, sugar, coffee, or any thing else not produced upon his plantation. he thought the good times would return when the war ended, and was particularly anxious for that moment to arrive. he pressed us to pass the night at his house, but we were unable to do so. on the following day we returned to natchez. everywhere on the road from vidalia to the farthest point of our journey, we found the plantations running to waste. the negroes had been sent to texas or west louisiana for safety, or were remaining quietly in their quarters. some had left their masters, and were gone to the camps of the national army at vicksburg and natchez. the planters had suspended work, partly because they deemed it useless to do any thing in the prevailing uncertainty, and partly because the negroes were unwilling to perform any labor. squads of rebel cavalry had visited some of the plantations, and threatened punishment to the negroes if they did any thing whatever toward the production of cotton. of course, the negroes would heed such advice if they heeded no other. on all the plantations we found cotton and corn, principally the latter, standing in the field. sometimes there were single inclosures of several hundred acres. the owners were desirous of making any arrangement that would secure the tilling of their soil, while it did not involve them in any trouble with their neighbors or the rebel authorities. they deplored the reverses which the rebel cause had suffered, and confessed that the times were out of joint. one of the men we visited was a judge in the courts of louisiana, and looked at the question in a legal light. after lamenting the severity of the storm which was passing over the south, and expressing his fear that the rebellion would be a failure, he referred to his own situation. "i own a plantation," said he, "and have combined my planting interest with the practice of law. the fortune of war has materially changed my circumstances. my niggers used to do as i told them, but that time is passed. your northern people have made soldiers of our servants, and will, i presume, make voters of them. in five years, if i continue the practice of law, i suppose i shall be addressing a dozen negroes as gentlemen of the jury." "if you had a negro on trial," said one of our party, "that would be correct enough. is it not acknowledged everywhere that a man shall be tried by his peers?" the lawyer admitted that he never thought of that point before. he said he would insist upon having negroes admitted into court as counsel for negroes that were to be tried by a jury of their race. he did not believe they would ever be available as laborers in the field if they were set free, and thought so many of them would engage in theft that negro courts would be constantly busy. generally speaking, the planters that i saw were not violent secessionists, though none of them were unconditional union men. all said they had favored secession at the beginning of the movement, because they thought it would strengthen and perpetuate slavery. most of them had lost faith in its ultimate success, but clung to it as their only hope. the few union men among them, or those who claimed to be loyal, were friends of the nation with many conditions. they desired slavery to be restored to its former status, the rights of the states left intact, and a full pardon extended to all who had taken part in the rebellion. under these conditions they would be willing to see the union restored. otherwise, the war must go on. we visited several plantations on our tour of observation, and compared their respective merits. one plantation contained three thousand acres of land, but was said to be very old and worn out. near it was one of twelve hundred acres, three-fourths covered with corn, but with no standing cotton. one had six hundred acres of cotton in the field. this place belonged to a spaniard, who would not be disturbed by government, and who refused to allow any work done until after the end of the war. another had four hundred acres of standing cotton, but the plantation had been secured by a lessee, who was about commencing work. all had merits, and all had demerits. on some there was a sufficient force for the season's work, while on others there was scarcely an able field-hand. on some the gin-houses had been burned, and on others they were standing, but disabled. a few plantations were in good order, but there was always some drawback against our securing them. some were liable to overflow during the expected flood of the mississippi; others were in the hands of their owners, and would not be leased by the government. some that had been abandoned were so thoroughly abandoned that we would hesitate to attempt their cultivation. there were several plantations more desirable than others, and i busied myself to ascertain the status of their owners, and the probabilities concerning their disposal. some of the semi-loyal owners of plantations were able to make very good speculations in leasing their property. there was an earnest competition among the lessees to secure promising plantations. one owner made a contract, by which he received five thousand dollars in cash and half the product of the year's labor. a week after the lessee took possession, he was frightened by the near approach of a company of rebel cavalry. he broke his contract and departed for the north, forfeiting the five thousand dollars he had advanced. another lessee was ready to make a new contract with the owner, paying five thousand dollars as his predecessor had done. four weeks later, this lessee abandoned the field, and the owner was at liberty to begin anew. to widows and orphans the agents of the government displayed a commendable liberality. nearly all of these persons were allowed to retain control of their plantations, leasing them as they saw fit, and enjoying the income. some were required to subscribe to the oath of allegiance, and promise to show no more sympathy for the crumbling confederacy. in many cases no pledge of any kind was exacted. i knew one widow whose disloyalty was of the most violent character. on a visit to new orleans she was required to take the oath of allegiance before she could leave the steamboat at the levee. she signed the printed oath under protest. a month later, she brought this document forward to prove her loyalty and secure the control of her plantation. chapter xxxiii. oh the plantation. military protection.--promises.--another widow.--securing a plantation.--its locality and appearance.--gardening in louisiana.--how cotton is picked.--"the tell-tale."--a southerner's opinion of the negro character.--causes and consequences. parties who proposed to lease and cultivate abandoned plantations were anxious to know what protection would be afforded them. general thomas and his agents assured them that proper military posts would soon be established at points within easy distance of each other along the river, so that all plantations in certain limits would be amply protected. this would be done, not as a courtesy to the lessees, but as a part of the policy of providing for the care of the negroes. if the lessees would undertake to feed and clothe several thousand negroes, besides paying them for their labor, they would relieve the government authorities of a great responsibility. they would demonstrate the feasibility of employing the negroes as free laborers. the cotton which they would throw into market would serve to reduce the prices of that staple, and be a partial supply to the northern factories. all these things considered, the government was anxious to foster the enterprise, and would give it every proper assistance. the agents were profuse in their promises of protection, and assured us it would be speedily forthcoming. there was a military post at vidalia, opposite natchez, which afforded protection to the plantations in which general thomas's family and friends were interested. another was promised at waterproof, twenty miles above, with a stockade midway between the two places. there was to be a force of cavalry to make a daily journey over the road between vidalia and waterproof. i selected two plantations about two miles below waterproof, and on the bank of the mississippi. they were separated by a strip of wood-land half a mile in width, and by a small bayou reaching from the river to the head of lake st. john. both plantations belonged to the same person, a widow, living near natchez. the authorities had not decided what they would do with these plantations--whether they would hold them as government property, or allow the owner to control them. in consideration of her being a widow of fifteen years' standing, they at length determined upon the latter course. it would be necessary to take out a lease from the authorities after obtaining one from the owner. i proceeded at once to make the proper negotiations. another widow! my first experience in seeking to obtain a widow's plantation was not encouraging. the first widow was young, the second was old. both were anxious to make a good bargain. in the first instance i had a rival, who proved victorious. in the second affair i had no rival at the outset, but was confronted with one when my suit was fairly under way. before he came i obtained a promise of the widow's plantations. my rival made her a better offer than i had done. at this she proposed to desert me. i caused the elder weller's advice to be whispered to him, hoping it might induce his withdrawal. he did not retire, and we, therefore, continued our struggle. _he_ was making proposals on his own behalf; i was proposing for myself and for mr. colburn, who was then a thousand miles away. my widow (i call her mine, for i won at last) desired us to give her all the corn and cotton then on the plantations, and half of what should be produced under our management. i offered her half the former and one-fourth the latter. these were the terms on which nearly all private plantations were being leased. she agreed to the offer respecting the corn and cotton then standing in the field, and demanded a third of the coming year's products. after some hesitation, we decided upon "splitting the difference." upon many minor points, such as the sale of wood, stock, wool, etc., she had her own way. a contract was drawn up, which gave colburn and myself the lease of the two plantations, "aquasco" and "monono," for the period of one year. we were to gather the crops then standing in the field, both cotton and corn, selling all the former and such portion of the latter as was not needed for the use of the plantations. we were to cultivate the plantations to the best of our abilities, subject to the fortunes of flood, fire, and pestilence, and the operations of military and marauding forces. we agreed to give up the plantations at the end of the year in as good condition as we found them in respect to stock, tools, etc., unless prevented by circumstances beyond our control. we were to have full supervision of the plantations, and manage them as we saw fit. we were to furnish such stock and tools as might be needed, with the privilege of removing the same at the time of our departure. our widow (whom i shall call mrs. b.) was to have one-half the proceeds of the corn and cotton then on the plantations, and seven twenty-fourths of such as might be produced during the year. she was to have the privilege of obtaining, once a week, the supplies of butter, chickens, meal, vegetables, and similar articles she might need for her family use. there were other provisions in the contract, but the essential points were those i have mentioned. the two plantations were to be under a single management. i shall have occasion to speak of them jointly, as "the plantation." with this contract duly signed, sealed, and stamped, i went to the "agent for abandoned plantations." after some delay, and a payment of liberal fees, i obtained the government lease. these preliminaries concluded, i proceeded to the locality of our temporary home. colburn had not returned from the north, but was expected daily. the bayou which i have mentioned, running through the strip of woods which separated the plantations, formed the dividing line between the parishes "concordia" and "tensas," in the state of louisiana. lake st. john lay directly in rear of "monono," our lower plantation. this lake was five or six miles long by one in width, and was, doubtless, the bed of the mississippi many years ago. on each plantation there were ten dwelling-houses for the negroes. on one they were arranged in a double row, and on the other in a single row. there was a larger house for the overseer, and there were blacksmith shops, carpenter shops, stables, corn-cribs, meat-houses, cattle-yards, and gin-houses. on aquasco there was a dwelling-house containing five large rooms, and having a wide veranda along its entire front. this dwelling-house was in a spacious inclosure, by the side of a fine garden. inside this inclosure, and not far from the dwelling, were the quarters for the house-servants, the carriage-house and private stable, the smoke-house and the kitchen, which lay detached from the main building, according to the custom prevailing in the south. our garden could boast of fig and orange trees, and other tropical productions. pinks and roses we possessed in abundance. of the latter we had enough in their season to furnish all the flower-girls on broadway with a stock in trade. our gardener "made his garden" in february. by the middle of march, his potatoes, cabbages, beets, and other vegetables under his care were making fine progress. before the jingle of sleigh-bells had ceased in the eastern states, we were feasting upon delicious strawberries from our own garden, ripened in the open air. the region where plowing begins in january, and corn is planted in february or early march, impresses a new englander with its contrast to his boyhood home. when i took possession of our new property, the state of affairs was not the most pleasing. mrs. b. had sent the best of her negroes to texas shortly after the fall of vicksburg. those remaining on the plantations were not sufficient for our work. there were four mules where we needed fifty, and there was not a sufficient supply of oxen and wagons. farming tools, plows, etc., were abundant, but many repairs must be made. there was enough of nearly every thing for a commencement. the rest would be secured in due season. cotton and corn were in the field. the former was to receive immediate attention. on the day after my arrival i mustered thirty-four laborers of all ages and both sexes, and placed them at work, under the superintendence of a foreman. during the afternoon i visited them in the field, to observe the progress they were making. it was the first time i had ever witnessed the operation, but i am confident i did not betray my inexperience in the presence of my colored laborers. the foreman asked my opinion upon various points of plantation management, but i deferred making answer until a subsequent occasion. in every case i told him to do for the present as they had been accustomed, and i would make such changes as i saw fit from time to time. cotton-picking requires skill rather than strength. the young women are usually the best pickers, on account of their superior dexterity. the cotton-stalk, or bush, is from two to five or six feet high. it is unlike any plant with which we are familiar in the north. it resembles a large currant-bush more nearly than any thing else i can think of. where the branches are widest the plant is three or four feet from side to side. the lowest branches are the longest, and the plant, standing by itself, has a shape similar to that of the northern spruce. the stalk is sometimes an inch and a half in diameter where it leaves the ground. before the leaves have fallen, the rows in a cotton-field bear a strong resemblance to a series of untrimmed hedges. when fully opened, the cotton-bolls almost envelop the plant in their snow-white fiber. at a distance a cotton-field ready for the pickers forcibly reminds a northerner of an expanse covered with snow. our northern expression, "white as snow," is not in use in the gulf states. "white as cotton" is the form of comparison which takes its place. the pickers walk between the rows, and gather the cotton from the stalks on either side. each one gathers half the cotton from the row on his right, and half of that on his left. sometimes, when the stalks are low, one person takes an entire row to himself, and gathers from both sides of it. a bag is suspended by a strap over the shoulder, the end of the bag reaching the ground, so that its weight may not be an inconvenience. the open boll is somewhat like a fully bloomed water-lily. the skill in picking lies in thrusting the fingers into the boll so as to remove all the cotton with a single motion. ordinary-pickers grasp the boll with one hand and pluck out the cotton with the other. skillful pickers work with both hands, never touching the bolls, but removing the cotton by a single dextrous twist of the fingers. they can thus operate with great rapidity. as fast as the bags are filled, they are emptied into large baskets, which are placed at a corner of the field or at the ends of the rows. when the day's work is ended the cotton is weighed. the amount brought forward by each person is noted on a slate, from which it is subsequently recorded on the account-book of the plantation. from one to four hundred pounds, according to the state of the plants, is the proper allowance for each hand per day. in the days of slavery the "stint" was fixed by the overseer, and was required to be picked under severe penalties. it is needless to say that this stint was sufficiently large to allow of no loitering during the entire day. if the slave exceeded the quantity required of him, the excess was sometimes placed to his credit and deducted from a subsequent day. this was by no means the universal custom. sometimes he received a small present or was granted some especial favor. by some masters the stint was increased by the addition of the excess. the task was always regulated by the condition of the cotton in the field. where it would sometimes be three hundred pounds, at others it would not exceed one hundred. at the time i commenced my cotton-picking, the circumstances were not favorable to a large return. the picking season begins in august or september, and is supposed to end before christmas. in my case it was late in january, and the winter rain had washed much of the cotton from the stalks. under the circumstances i could not expect more than fifty or seventy-five pounds per day for each person engaged. during the first few days i did not weigh the cotton. i knew the average was not more than fifty pounds to each person, but the estimates which the negroes made fixed it at two hundred pounds. one night i astonished them by taking the weighing apparatus to the field and carefully weighing each basket. there was much disappointment among all parties at the result. the next day's picking showed a surprising improvement. after that time, each day's work was tested and the result announced. the "tell-tale," as the scales were sometimes called, was an overseer from whom there was no escape. i think the negroes worked faithfully as soon as they found there was no opportunity for deception. i was visited by mrs. b.'s agent a few days after i became a cotton-planter. we took an inventory of the portable property that belonged to the establishment, and arranged some plans for our mutual advantage. this agent was a resident of natchez. he was born in the north, but had lived so long in the slave states that his sympathies were wholly southern. he assured me the negroes were the greatest liars in the world, and required continual watching. they would take every opportunity to neglect their work, and were always planning new modes of deception. they would steal every thing of which they could make any use, and many articles that they could not possibly dispose of. pretending illness was among the most frequent devices for avoiding labor, and the overseer was constantly obliged to contend against such deception. in short, as far as i could ascertain from this gentleman, the negro was the embodiment of all earthly wickedness. theft, falsehood, idleness, deceit, and many other sins which afflict mortals, were the especial heritance of the negro. in looking about me, i found that many of these charges against the negro were true. the black man was deceptive, and he was often dishonest. there can be no effect without a cause, and the reasons for this deception and dishonesty were apparent, without difficult research. the system of slavery necessitated a constant struggle between the slave and his overseer. it was the duty of the latter to obtain the greatest amount of labor from the sinews of the slave. it was the business of the slave to perform as little labor as possible. it made no difference to him whether the plantation produced a hundred or a thousand bales. he received nothing beyond his subsistence and clothing. his labor had no compensation, and his balance-sheet at the end of the month or year was the same, whether he had been idle or industrious. it was plainly to his personal interest to do nothing he could in any way avoid. the negro displayed his sagacity by deceiving the overseer whenever he could do so. the best white man in the world would have shunned all labor under such circumstances. the negro evinced a pardonable weakness in pretending to be ill whenever he could hope to make the pretense successful. receiving no compensation for his services, beyond his necessary support, the negro occasionally sought to compensate himself. he was fond of roasted pork, but that article did not appear on the list of plantation rations. consequently some of the negroes would make clandestine seizure of the fattest pigs when the chance of detection was not too great. it was hard to convince them that the use of one piece of property for the benefit of another piece, belonging to the same person, was a serious offense. "you see, mr. k----," said a negro to me, admitting that he had sometimes stolen his master's hogs, "you see, master owns his saddle-horse, and he owns lots of corn. master would be very mad if i didn't give the horse all the corn he wanted. now, he owns me, and he owns a great many hogs. i like hog, just as much as the horse likes corn, but when master catches me killing the hogs he is very mad, and he makes the overseer whip me." corn, chickens, flour, meal, in fact, every thing edible, became legitimate plunder for the negroes when the rations furnished them were scanty. i believe that in nine cases out of ten the petty thefts which the negroes committed were designed to supply personal wants, rather than for any other purpose. what the negro stole was usually an article of food, and it was nearly always stolen from the plantation where he belonged. sometimes there was a specially bad negro--one who had been caught in some extraordinary dishonesty. one in my employ was reported to have been shot at while stealing from a dwelling-house several years before. among two hundred negroes, he was the only noted rascal. i did not attribute his dishonesty to his complexion alone. i have known worse men than he, in whose veins there was not a drop of african blood. the police records everywhere show that wickedness of heart "dwells in white and black the same." with his disadvantages of position, the absence of all moral training, and the dishonesty which was the natural result of the old system of labor, the negro could not be expected to observe all the rules prescribed for his guidance, but which were never explained. like ignorant and degraded people everywhere, many of the negroes believed that guilt lay mainly in detection. there was little wickedness in stealing a pig or a chicken, if the theft were never discovered, and there was no occasion for allowing twinges of conscience to disturb the digestion. i do not intend to intimate, by the above, that all were dishonest, even in these small peculations. there were many whose sense of right and wrong was very clear, and whose knowledge of their duties had been derived from the instructions of the white preachers. these negroes "obeyed their masters" in every thing, and considered it a religious obligation to be always faithful. they never avoided their tasks, in the field or elsewhere, and were never discovered doing any wrong. under the new system of labor at the south, this portion of the negro population will prove of great advantage in teaching their kindred the duties they owe to each other. when all are trained to think and act for themselves, the negroes will, doubtless, prove as correct in morals as the white people around them. early in the present year, the authorities at davies' bend, below vicksburg, established a negro court, in which all petty cases were tried. the judge, jury, counsel, and officers were negroes, and no white man was allowed to interfere during the progress of a trial. after the decisions were made, the statement of the case and the action thereon were referred to the superintendent of the government plantations at that point. it was a noticeable feature that the punishments which the negroes decreed for each other were of a severe character. very frequently it was necessary for the authorities to modify the sentences after the colored judge had rendered them. the cases tried by the court related to offenses of a minor character, such as theft, fraud, and various delinquencies of the freed negroes. the experiment of a negro court is said to have been very successful, though it required careful watching. it was made in consequence of a desire of the authorities to teach the freedmen how to govern themselves. the planters in the vicinity were as bitterly opposed to the movement as to any other effort that lifts the negro above his old position. at the present time, several parties in vicksburg have leased three plantations, in as many localities, and are managing them on different plans. on the first they furnish the negroes with food and clothing, and divide the year's income with them. on the second they pay wages at the rate of ten dollars per month, furnishing rations free, and retaining half the money until the end of the year. on the third they pay daily wages of one dollar, having the money ready at nightfall, the negro buying his own rations at a neighboring store. on the first plantation, the negroes are wasteful of their supplies, as they are not liable for any part of their cost. they are inclined to be idle, as their share in the division will not be materially affected by the loss of a few days' labor. on the second they are less wasteful and more industrious, but the distance of the day of payment is not calculated to develop notions of strict economy. on the third they generally display great frugality, and are far more inclined to labor than on the other plantations. the reason is apparent. on the first plantation their condition is not greatly changed from that of slavery, except in the promise of compensation and the absence of compulsory control. in the last case they are made responsible both for their labor and expenses, and are learning how to care for themselves as freemen. chapter xxxiv. rules and regulations under the old and new systems. the plantation record.--its uses.--interesting memoranda.--dogs, jail, and stocks.--instructions to the overseer.--his duties and responsibilities.--the order of general banks.--management of plantations in the department of the gulf.--the two documents contrasted.--one of the effects of "an abolition war." nearly every planter in the south required the manager of his plantation to keep a record of all events of importance. books were prepared by a publishing house in new orleans, with special reference to their use by overseers. these books had a blank for every day in the year, in which the amount and kind of work performed were to be recorded by the overseer. there were blanks for noting the progress during the picking season, and the amount picked by each person daily. there were blanks for monthly and yearly inventories of stock, tools, etc., statements of supplies received and distributed, lists of births and deaths (there were no blanks for marriages), time and amount of shipments of cotton, and for all the ordinary business of a plantation. in the directions for the use of this book, i found the following:-- "on the pages marked i, the planter himself will make a careful record of all the negroes upon the plantation, stating their ages as nearly as possible, and their cash value, at the commencement of the year. at the close, he will again enter their individual value at that time, adding the year's increase, and omitting those that may have died. the difference can then be transferred to the balance-sheet. the year's crop is chargeable with any depreciation in the value of the negroes, occasioned by overwork and improper management, in the effort, perhaps, to make an extra crop independent of every other consideration. on the other hand, should the number of children have greatly increased during the year; the strength and usefulness of the old been sustained by kind treatment and care; the youngsters taught to be useful, and, perhaps, some of the men instructed in trades and the women in home manufactures, the increased value of the entire force will form a handsome addition to the side of _profits_." on the pages where the daily incidents of the plantation were recorded, i frequently discovered entries that illustrated the "peculiar institution." some of them read thus:-- _june th_. whipped harry and sarah to-day, because they didn't keep up their rows. _july th_. aleck ran away to the woods, because i threatened to whip him. _july th_. got mr. hall's dogs and hunted aleck. didn't find him. think he is in the swamp back of brandon's. _july th_. took aleck out of vidalia jail. paid $ . for jail fees. put him in the stocks when we got home. _july th_. moses died this morning. charles and henry buried him. his wife was allowed to keep out of the field until noon. _august th_. sent six mules and four negroes down to the lower plantation. they will come back to-morrow. _september th_. john said he was sick this morning, but i made him go to the field. they brought him in before noon. he has a bad fever. am afraid he won't be able to go out again soon. _september th_. whipped susan, because she didn't pick as much cotton as she did yesterday. _september th_. put william in the stocks and kept him till sunset, for telling charles he wanted to run away. _october th_. william and susan want to be married. told them i should not allow it, but they might live together if they wanted to. (the above memorandum was explained to me by one of the negroes. the owner of the plantation did not approve of marriages, because they were inconvenient in case it was desired to sell a portion of the working force.) _october st_. took an inventory of the negroes and stock. their value is about the same as when the last inventory was taken. _december d_. finished picking. gave the negroes half a holiday. nearly every day's entry shows the character and amount of work performed. thus we have:-- _february th_. fifteen plows running, five hands piling logs, four hands ditching, six hands in trash-gang. in the planting, hoeing, and picking seasons, the result of the labor was recorded in the same manner. whippings were more or less frequent, according to the character of the overseer. under one overseer i found that whippings were rare. under other overseers they were of common occurrence. the individual who prepared the "_plantation record_" for the publishers, gave, in addition to directions for its use, instructions for the overseer's general conduct. i copy them below, preserving the author's language throughout. the duties of an overseer. it is here supposed that the overseer is not immediately under his employer's eye, but is left for days or weeks, perhaps months, to the exercise of his own judgment in the management of the plantation. to him we would say-- bear in mind, that you have engaged for a stated sum of money, to devote your time and energies, for an entire year, _to one object_--to carry out the orders of your employer, strictly, cheerfully, and to the best of your ability; and, in all things, to study his interests--requiring something more than your mere presence on the plantation, and that at such times as suits your own pleasure and convenience. on entering upon your duties, inform yourself thoroughly of the condition of the plantation, negroes, stock, implements, etc. learn the views of your employer as to the general course of management he wishes pursued, and make up your mind to carry out these views fully, as far as in your power. if any objections occur to you, state them distinctly, that they may either be yielded to or overcome. where full and particular directions are not given to you, but you are left, in a great measure, to the exercise of your own judgment, you will find the following hints of service. they are compiled from excellent sources--from able articles in the agricultural journals of the day, from washington's directions to his overseers, and from personal experience. "i do, in explicit terms, enjoin it upon you to remain constantly at home (unless called off by unavoidable business, or to attend divine worship), and to be constantly with your people when there. there is no other sure way of getting work well done, and quietly, by negroes; for when an overlooker's back is turned the most of them will slight their work, or be idle altogether. in which case correction cannot retrieve either, but often produces evils which are worse than the disease. nor is there any other mode than this to prevent thieving and other disorders, the consequences of opportunities. you will recollect that your time is paid for by me, and if i am deprived of it, it is worse even than robbing my purse, because it is also a breach of trust, which every honest man ought to hold most sacred. you have found me, and you will continue to find me, faithful to my part of the agreement which was made with you, whilst you are attentive to your part; but it is to be remembered that a breach on one side releases the obligation on the other." neither is it right that you should entertain a constant run of company at your house, incurring unnecessary expense, taking up your own time and that of the servants beyond what is needful for your own comfort--a woman to cook and wash for you, milk, make butter, and so on. more than this you have no claim to. endeavor to take the same interest in every thing upon the place, as if it were your own; indeed, the responsibility in this case is greater than if it were all your own--having been intrusted to you by another. unless you feel thus, it is impossible that you can do your employer justice. the health of the negroes under your charge is an important matter. much of the usual sickness among them is the result of carelessness and mismanagement. overwork or unnecessary exposure to rain, insufficient clothing, improper or badly-cooked food, and night rambles, are all fruitful causes of disease. a great majority of the cases you should be yourself competent to manage, or you are unfit for the place you hold; but whenever you find that the case is one you do not understand, send for a physician, if such is the general order of the owner. by exerting yourself to have their clothing ready in good season; to arrange profitable in-door employment in wet weather; to see that an abundant supply of wholesome, _well-cooked food_, including plenty of vegetables, be supplied to them _at regular hours_; that the sick be cheered and encouraged, and some extra comforts allowed them, and the convalescent not exposed to the chances of a relapse; that women, whilst nursing, be kept as near to the nursery as possible, but at no time allowed to suckle their children when overheated; that the infant be nursed three times during the day, in addition to the morning and evening; that no whisky be allowed upon the place at any time or under any circumstances; but that they have, whilst heated and at work, plenty of pure, _cool_ water; that care be taken to prevent the hands from carrying their baskets full of cotton on their head--a most injurious practice; and, in short, that such means be used for their comfort as every judicious, humane man will readily think of, you will find the amount of sickness gradually lessened. next to the negroes, the stock on the place will require your constant attention. you can, however, spare yourself much trouble by your choice of a stock-minder, and by adopting and enforcing a strict system in the care of the stock. it is a part of their duty in which overseers are generally most careless. the horse and mule stock are first in importance. unless these are kept in good condition, it is impossible that the work can go on smoothly, or your crop be properly tended. put your stable in good order; and, if possible, inclose it so that it can be kept under lock. place a steady, careful old man there as hostler, making him responsible for every thing, and that directly to yourself. the foreman of the plow-gang, and the hands under his care, should be made answerable to the hostler--whose business it is to have the feed cut up, ground, and ready; the stalls well littered and cleaned out at proper intervals; to attend to sick or maimed animals; to see that the gears are always hung in their proper place, kept in good order, and so on. it is an easy matter to keep horses or mules fat, with a full and open corn-crib and abundance of fodder. but that overseer shows his good management who can keep his teams fat at the least expense of corn and fodder. the waste of those articles in the south, through shameful carelessness and neglect, is immense; as food for stock, they are most expensive articles. oats, millet, peas (vine and all), broadcast corn, bermuda and crab-grass hay, are all much cheaper and equally good. any one of these crops, fed whilst green--the oats and millet as they begin to shoot, the peas to blossom, and the corn when tasseling--with a feed of dry oats, corn, or corn-chop at noon, will keep a plow-team in fine order all the season. in england, where they have the finest teams in the world, this course _is invariably pursued_, for its economy. from eight to nine hours per day is as long as the team should be at actual work. they will perform more upon less feed, and keep in better order for a _push_ when needful, worked briskly in that way, than when kept dragging a plow all day long at a slow pace. and the hands have leisure to rest, to cut up feed, clean and repair gears, and so on. oxen. no more work oxen should be retained than can be kept at all times in good order. an abundant supply of green feed during spring and summer, cut and fed as recommended above, and in winter well-boiled cotton-seed, with a couple of quarts of meal in it per head; turnips, raw or cooked; corn-cobs soaked twenty-four hours in salt and water; shucks, pea-vines, etc., passed through a cutting-box--any thing of the kind, in short, is cheaper food for them in winter, and will keep them in better order than dry corn and shucks or fodder. indeed, the fewer cattle are kept on any place the better, unless the range is remarkably good. when young stock of any kind are stinted of their proper food, and their growth receives a check, they never can wholly recover it. let the calves have a fair share of milk, and also as much of the cooked food prepared for the cows and oxen as they will eat; with at times a little dry meal to lick. when cows or oxen show symptoms of failing, from age or otherwise, fatten them off at once; and if killed for the use of the place, _save the hide carefully_--rubbing at least two quarts of salt upon it; then roll up for a day or two, when it may be stretched and dried. hogs are generally sadly mismanaged. too many are kept, and kept badly. one good brood sow for every five hands on a place, is amply sufficient--indeed, more pork will be cured from these than from a greater number. provide at least two good grazing lots for them, with bermuda, crab-grass, or clover, which does as well at washington, miss., as anywhere in the world, with two bushels of ground plaster to the acre, sowed over it. give a steady, trusty hand no other work to do but to feed and care for them. with a large set kettle or two, an old mule and cart to haul his wood for fuel, cotton-seed, turnips, etc., for feed, and leaves for bedding, he can do full justice to one hundred head, old and young. they will increase and thrive finely, with good grazing, and a full mess, twice a day, of swill prepared as follows: sound cotton-seed, with a gallon of corn-meal to the bushel, a quart of oak or hickory ashes, a handful of salt, and a good proportion of turnips or green food of any kind, even clover or peas; the whole thoroughly--mind you, _thoroughly_ cooked--then thrown into a large trough, and there allowed _to become sour before being fed_. sheep may be under the charge of the stock-minder; from ten to twenty to the hand may be generally kept with advantage. sick animals require close and judicious attention. too frequently they are either left to get well or to die of themselves, or are bled and dosed with nauseous mixtures indiscriminately. study the subject of the diseases of animals during your leisure evenings, which you can do from some of the many excellent works on the subject. _think_ before you _act_. when your animal has fever, nature would dictate that all stimulating articles of diet or medicine should be avoided. bleeding may be necessary to reduce the force of the circulation; purging, to remove irritating substances from the bowels; moist, light, and easily-digested food, that his weakened digestion may not be oppressed; cool drinks, to allay his thirst, and, to some extent, compensate for diminished secretions; rest and quiet, to prevent undue excitement in his system, and so on through the whole catalogue of diseases--but do nothing without a reason. carry out this principle, and you will probably do much good--hardly great harm; go upon any other, and your measures are more likely to be productive of injury than benefit. the implements and tools require a good deal of looking after. by keeping a memorandum of the distribution of any set of tools, they will be much more likely to be forthcoming at the end of the month. axes, hoes, and other small tools, of which every hand has his own, should have his number marked upon it with a steel punch. the strict enforcement of one single rule will keep every thing straight: "have a place for every thing, and see that every thing is in its place." few instances of good management will better please an employer than that of having all of the winter clothing spun and woven on the place. by having a room devoted to that purpose, under charge of some one of the old women, where those who may be complaining a little, or convalescent after sickness, may be employed in some light work, and where all of the women may be sent in wet weather, more than enough of both cotton and woolen yarn can be spun for the supply of the place. of the principal staple crop of the plantation, whether cotton, sugar, or rice, we shall not here speak. of the others--the provision crops--there is most commonly enough made upon most plantations for their own supply. rarely, however, is it saved without great and inexcusable waste, and fed out without still greater. and this, to their lasting shame be it said, is too often the case to a disgraceful extent, when an overseer feels satisfied that he will not remain another year upon the place. his conduct should be the very opposite of this--an honorable, right-thinking man will feel a particular degree of pride in leaving every thing in thorough order, and especially an abundant supply of all kinds of feed. he thus establishes a character for himself which _must_ have its effect. few plantations are so rich in soil as not to be improved by manure. inform yourself of the best means, suited to the location and soil of the place under, your charge, of improving it in this and in every other way. when an opportunity offers, carry out these improvements. rely upon it there are few employers who will not see and reward such efforts. draining, ditching, circling, hedging, road-making, building, etc., may all be effected to a greater or less extent every season. during the long evenings of winter improve your own mind and the knowledge of your profession by reading and study. the many excellent agricultural periodicals and books now published afford good and cheap opportunities for this. it is indispensable that you exercise judgment and consideration in the management of the negroes under your charge. be _firm_, and, at the same time, _gentle_ in your control. never display yourself before them in a passion; and even if inflicting the severest punishment, do so in a mild, cool manner, and it will produce a tenfold effect. when you find it necessary to use the whip--and desirable as it would be to dispense with it entirely, it _is_ necessary at times--apply it slowly and deliberately, and to the extent you had determined, in your own mind, to be needful before you began. the indiscriminate, constant, and excessive use of the whip is altogether unnecessary and inexcusable. when it can be done without a too great loss of time, the stocks offer a means of punishment greatly to be preferred. so secured, in a lonely, quiet place, where no communication can be held with any one, nothing but bread and water allowed, and the confinement extending from saturday, when they drop work, until sabbath evening, will prove much more effectual in preventing a repetition of the offense, than any amount of whipping. never threaten a negro, but if you have occasion to punish, do it at once, or say nothing until ready to do so. a violent and passionate threat will often scare the best-disposed negro to the woods. always keep your word with them, in punishments as well as in rewards. if you have named the penalty for any certain offense, inflict it without listening to a word of excuse. never forgive that in one that you would punish in another, but treat all alike, showing no favoritism. by pursuing such a course, you convince them that you act from principle and not from impulse, and will certainly enforce your rules. whenever an opportunity is afforded you for rewarding continued good behavior, do not let it pass--occasional rewards have a much better effect than frequent punishments. never be induced by a course of good behavior on the part of the negroes to relax the strictness of your discipline; but, when you have by judicious management brought them to that state, keep them so by the same means. by taking frequent strolls about the premises, including of course the quarter and stock yards, during the evening, and at least twice a week during the night, you will put a more effectual stop to any irregularities than by the most severe punishments. the only way to keep a negro honest, is not to trust him. this seems a harsh assertion; but it is, unfortunately, too true. you will find that an hour devoted, every sabbath morning, to their moral and religious instruction, would prove a great aid to you in bringing about a better state of things among the negroes. it has been thoroughly tried, and with the most satisfactory results, in many parts of the south. as a mere matter of interest it has proved to be advisable--to say nothing of it as a point of duty. the effect upon their general good behavior, their cleanliness, and good conduct on the sabbath, is such as alone to recommend it to both planter and overseer. in conclusion:--bear in mind that _a fine crop_ consists, first, in an increase in the number, and a marked improvement in the condition and value, of the negroes; second, an abundance of provision of all sorts for man and beast, carefully saved and properly housed; third, both summer and winter clothing made at home; also leather tanned, and shoes and harness made, when practicable; fourth, an improvement in the productive qualities of the land, and in the general condition of the plantation; fifth, the team and stock generally, with the farming implements and the buildings, in fine order at the close of the year; and young hogs more than enough for next year's killing; _then_, as heavy a crop of cotton, sugar, or rice as could possibly be made under these circumstances, sent to market in good season, and of prime quality. the time has passed when the overseer is valued solely upon the number of bales of cotton, hogsheads of sugar, or tierces of rice he has made, without reference to other qualifications. in contrast with the instructions to overseers under the old management, i present the proclamation of general banks, regulating the system of free labor in the department of the gulf. these regulations were in force, in , along the mississippi, from helena to new orleans. they were found admirably adapted to the necessities of the case. with a few changes, they have been continued in operation during the present year:-- head-quarters department of the gulf, new orleans, _february_ , . general orders, no. . the following general regulations are published for the information and government of all interested in the subject of compensated plantation labor, public or private, during the present year, and in continuation of the system established january , :-- i. the enlistment of soldiers from plantations under cultivation in this department having been suspended by order of the government, will not be resumed except upon direction of the same high authority. ii. the provost-marshal-general is instructed to provide for the division of parishes into police and school districts, and to organize from invalid soldiers a competent police for the preservation of order. iii. provision will be made for the establishment of a sufficient number of schools, one at least for each of the police and school districts, for the instruction of colored children under twelve years of age, which, when established, will be placed under the direction of the superintendent of public education. iv. soldiers will not be allowed to visit plantations without the written consent of the commanding officer of the regiment or post to which they are attached, and never with arms, except when on duty, accompanied by an officer. v. plantation hands will not be allowed to pass from one place to another, except under such regulations as may be established by the provost-marshal of the parish. vi. flogging and other cruel or unusual punishments are interdicted. vii. planters will be required, as early as practicable after the publication of these regulations, to make a roll of persons employed upon their estates, and to transmit the same to the provost marshal of the parish. in the employment of hands, the unity of families will be secured as far as possible. viii. all questions between the employer and the employed, until other tribunals are established, will be decided by the provost-marshal of the parish. ix. sick and disabled persons will be provided for upon the plantations to which they belong, except such as may be received in establishments provided for them by the government, of which one will be established at algiers and one at baton rouge. x. the unauthorized purchase of clothing, or other property, from laborers, will be punished by fine and imprisonment. the sale of whisky or other intoxicating drinks to them, or to other persons, except under regulations established by the provost-marshal-general, will be followed by the severest punishment. xl the possession of arms, or concealed or dangerous weapons, without authority, will be punished by fine and imprisonment. xii. laborers shall render to their employer, between daylight and dark, _ten_ hours in summer, and _nine_ hours in winter, of respectful, honest, faithful labor, and receive therefor, in addition to just treatment, healthy rations, comfortable clothing, quarters, fuel, medical attendance, and instruction for children, wages per month as follows, payment of one-half of which, at least, shall be reserved until the end of the year:-- for first-class hands..... $ . per month. for second-class hands.... . " " for third-class hands..... . " " for fourth-class hands.... . " " engineers and foremen, when faithful in the discharge of their duties, will be paid $ per month extra. this schedule of wages may be commuted, by consent of both parties, at the rate of one-fourteenth part of the net proceeds of the crop, to be determined and paid at the end of the year. wages will be deducted in case of sickness, and rations, also, when sickness is feigned. indolence, insolence, disobedience of orders, and crime will be suppressed by forfeiture of pay, and such punishments as are provided for similar offenses by army regulations. sunday work will be avoided when practicable, but when necessary will be considered as extra labor, and paid at the rates specified herein. xiii. laborers will be permitted to choose their employers, but when the agreement is made they will be held to their engagement for one year, under the protection of the government. in cases of attempted imposition, by feigning sickness, or stubborn refusal of duty, they will be turned over to the provost-marshal of the parish, for labor upon the public works, without pay. xiv. laborers will be permitted to cultivate land on private account, as herein specified, as follows: first and second class hands, with families..... acre each. first and second class hands, without families.. / " " second and third class hands, with families..... / " " second and third class hands, without families.. / " " to be increased for good conduct at the discretion of the employer. the encouragement of independent industry will strengthen all the advantages which capital derives from labor, and enable the laborer to take care of himself and prepare for the time when he can render so much labor for so much money, which is the great end to be attained. no exemption will be made in this apportionment, except upon imperative reasons; and it is desirable that for good conduct the quantity be increased until faithful hands can be allowed to cultivate extensive tracts, returning to the owner an equivalent of product for rent of soil. xv. to protect the laborer from possible imposition, no commutation of his supplies will be allowed, except in clothing, which may be commuted at the rate of $ per month for first-class hands, and in similar proportion for other classes. the crops will stand pledged, wherever found, for the wages of labor. xvi. it is advised, as far as practicable, that employers provide for the current wants of their hands, by perquisites for extra labor, or by appropriation of land for share cultivation; to discourage monthly-payments so far as it can be done without discontent, and to reserve till the full harvest the yearly wages. xvii. a free-labor bank will be established for the safe deposit of all accumulations of wages and other savings; and in order to avoid a possible wrong to depositors, by official defalcation, authority will be asked to connect the bank with the treasury of the united states in this department. xviii. the transportation of negro families to other countries will not be approved. all propositions for this privilege have been declined, and application has been made to other departments for surplus negro families for service in this department. xix. the last year's experience shows that the planter and the negro comprehend the revolution. the overseer, having little interest in capital, and less sympathy with labor, dislikes the trouble of thinking, and discredits the notion that any thing new has occurred. he is a relic of the past, and adheres to its customs. his stubborn refusal to comprehend the condition of things, occasioned most of the embarrassments of the past year. where such incomprehension is chronic, reduced wages, diminished rations, and the mild punishments imposed by the army and navy, will do good. xx. these regulations are based upon the assumption that labor is a public duty, and idleness and vagrancy a crime. no civil or military officer of the government is exempt from the operation of this universal rule. every enlightened community has enforced it upon all classes of people by the severest penalties. it is especially necessary in agricultural pursuits. that portion of the people identified with the cultivation of the soil, however changed in condition by the revolution through which we are passing, is not relieved from the necessity of toil, which is the condition of existence with all the children of god. the revolution has altered its tenure, but not its law. this universal law of labor will be enforced, upon just terms, by the government under whose protection the laborer rests secure in his rights. indolence, disorder, and crime will be suppressed. having exercised the highest right in the choice and place of employment, he must be held to the fulfillment of his engagements, until released therefrom by the government. the several provost-marshals are hereby invested with plenary powers upon all matters connected with labor, subject to the approval of the provost-marshal-general and the commanding officer of the department. the most faithful and discreet officers will be selected for this duty, and the largest force consistent with the public service detailed for their assistance. xxi. employers, and especially overseers, are notified, that undue influence used to move the marshal from his just balance between the parties representing labor and capital, will result in immediate change of officers, and thus defeat that regular and stable system upon which the interests of all parties depend. xxii. successful industry is especially necessary at the present time, when large public debts and onerous taxes are imposed to maintain and protect the liberties of the people and the integrity of the union. all officers, civil or military, and all classes of citizens who assist in extending the profits of labor, and increasing the product of the soil upon which, in the end, all national prosperity and power depends, will render to the government a service as great as that derived from the terrible sacrifices of battle. it is upon such consideration only that the planter is entitled to favor. the government has accorded to him, in a period of anarchy, a release from the disorders resulting mainly from insensate and mad resistance to sensible reforms, which can never be rejected without revolution, and the criminal surrender of his interests and power to crazy politicians, who thought by metaphysical abstractions to circumvent the laws of god. it has restored to him in improved, rather than impaired condition, his due privileges, at a moment when, by his own acts, the very soil was washed from beneath his feet. xxiii. a more majestic and wise clemency human history does not exhibit. the liberal and just conditions that attend it cannot be disregarded. it protects labor by enforcing the performance of its duty, and it will assist capital by compelling just contributions to the demands of the government. those who profess allegiance to other governments will be required, as the condition of residence in this state, to acquiesce, without reservation, in the demands presented by government as a basis of permanent peace. the non-cultivation of the soil, without just reason, will be followed by temporary forfeiture to those who will secure its improvement. those who have exercised or are entitled to the rights of citizens of the united states, will be required to participate in the measures necessary for the re-establishment of civil government. war can never cease except as civil governments crush out contest, and secure the supremacy of moral over physical power. the yellow harvest must wave over the crimson field of blood, and the representatives of the people displace the agents of purely military power. xxiv. the amnesty offered for the past is conditioned upon an unreserved loyalty for the future, and this condition will be enforced with an iron hand. whoever is indifferent or hostile, must choose between the liberty which foreign lands afford, the poverty of the rebel states, and the innumerable and inappreciable blessings which our government confers upon its people. may god preserve the union of the states! by order of major-general banks. official: george b. drake, _assistant adjutant-general_. the two documents have little similarity. both are appropriate to the systems they are intended to regulate. it is interesting to compare their merits at the present time. it will be doubly interesting to make a similar comparison twenty years hence. while i was in natchez, a resident of that city called my attention to one of the "sad results of this horrid, yankee war." "do you see that young man crossing the street toward ----'s store?" i looked in the direction indicated, and observed a person whom i supposed to be twenty-five years of age, and whose face bore the marks of dissipation. i signified, by a single word, that i saw the individual in question. "his is a sad case," my southern friend remarked. "whisky, isn't it?" "oh, no, i don't mean that. he does drink some, i know, but what i mean is this: his father died about five years ago. he left his son nothing but fourteen or fifteen niggers. they were all smart, young hands, and he has been able to hire them out, so as to bring a yearly income of two thousand dollars. this has supported him very comfortably. this income stopped a year ago. the niggers have all run away, and that young man is now penniless, and without any means of support. it is one of the results of your infernal abolition war." i assented that it was a very hard case, and ought to be brought before congress at the earliest moment. that a promising young man should be deprived of the means of support in consequence of this abolition war, is unfortunate--for the man. chapter xxxv. our free-labor enterprise in progress. the negroes at work.--difficulties in the way.--a public meeting.--a speech.--a negro's idea of freedom.--a difficult question to determine.--influence of northern and southern men contrasted.--an increase of numbers.--"ginning" cotton.--in the lint-room.--mills and machinery of a plantation.--a profitable enterprise. on each of the plantations the negroes were at work in the cotton-field. i rode from one to the other, as circumstances made it necessary, and observed the progress that was made. i could easily perceive they had been accustomed to performing their labor under fear of the lash. some of them took advantage of the opportunity for carelessness and loitering under the new arrangement. i could not be in the field at all times, to give them my personal supervision. even if i were constantly present, there was now no lash to be feared. i saw that an explanation of the new state of affairs would be an advantage to all concerned. on the first sunday of my stay on the plantation, i called all the negroes together, in order to give them an understanding of their position. i made a speech that i adapted as nearly as possible to the comprehension of my hearers. my audience was attentive throughout. i made no allusions to homer, dante, or milton; i did not quote from gibbon or macaulay, and i neglected to call their attention to the spectacle they were presenting to the crowned heads of europe. i explained to them the change the war had made in their condition, and the way in which it had been effected. i told them that all cruel modes of punishment had been abolished. the negroes were free, but they must understand that freedom did not imply idleness. i read to them the regulations established by the commissioners, and explained each point as clearly as i was able. after i had concluded, i offered to answer any questions they might ask. there were many who could not understand why, if they were free, they should be restricted from going where they pleased at all times. i explained that it was necessary, for the successful management of the plantation, that i should always be able to rely upon them. i asked them to imagine my predicament if they should lose half their time, or go away altogether, in the busiest part of the season. they "saw the point" at once, and readily acknowledged the necessity of subordination. i found no one who imagined that his freedom conferred the right of idleness and vagrancy. all expected to labor in their new condition, but they expected compensation for their labor, and did not look for punishment. they expected, further, that their families would not be separated, and that they could be allowed to acquire property for themselves. i know there were many negroes in the south who expected they would neither toil nor spin after being set free, but the belief was by no means universal. the story of the negro at vicksburg, who expected his race to assemble in new york after the war, "and have white men for niggers," is doubtless true, but it would find little credence with the great majority of the freedmen of the south. the schedule of wages, as established by the commissioners, was read and explained. the negroes were to be furnished with house-rent, rations, fuel, and medical attendance, free of charge. able-bodied males were to receive eight dollars a month. other classes of laborers would be paid according to the proportionate value of their services. we were required to keep on hand a supply of clothing, shoes, and other needed articles, which would be issued as required and charged on account. all balances would be paid as soon as the first installment of the cotton crop was sent to market. this was generally satisfactory, though some of the negroes desired weekly or monthly payments. one of them thought it would be better if they could be paid at the end of each day, and suggested that silver would be preferable to greenbacks or confederate money. most of them thought the wages good enough, but this belief was not universal. one man, seventy years old, who acted as assistant to the "hog-minder," thought he deserved twenty-five dollars per month, in addition to his clothing and rations. another, of the same age, who carried the breakfast and dinner to the field, was of similar opinion. these were almost the only exceptions. those whose services were really valuable acquiesced in the arrangement. on our plantation there was an old negress named "rose," who attended the women during confinement. she was somewhat celebrated in her profession, and received occasional calls to visit white ladies in the neighborhood. after i had dismissed the negroes and sent them to their quarters, i was called upon by rose, to ascertain the rate at which she would be paid. as she was regularly employed as one of the house-servants, i allowed her the same wages that the other women received. this was satisfactory, so far, but it was not entirely so. she wished to understand the matter of perquisites. "when i used to go out to 'tend upon white ladies," said rose, "they gave me ten dollars. mistress always took half and let me keep the other half." "well, hereafter, you may keep the ten dollars yourself." "thank you." after a pause, she spoke again: "didn't you say the black people are free?" "yes." "white people are free, too, ain't they?" "yes." "then why shouldn't you pay me ten dollars every time i 'tend upon the black folks on the plantation?" the question was evidently designed as a "corner." i evaded it by assuring rose that though free, the negroes had not attained all the privileges that pertained to the whites, and i should insist on her professional services being free to all on the plantation. the negroes were frequently desirous of imitating the customs of white people in a manner that should evince their freedom. especially did they desire to have no distinction in the payment of money, on account of the color of the recipient. after this sunday talk with the negroes, i found a material improvement. occasionally i overheard some of them explaining to others their views upon various points. there were several who manifested a natural indolence, and found it difficult to get over their old habits. these received admonitions from their comrades, but could not wholly forget the laziness which was their inheritance. with these exceptions, there was no immediate cause for complaint. during the earlier part of my stay in that region, i was surprised at the readiness with which the negroes obeyed men from the north, and believed they would fulfill their promises, while they looked with distrust on all southern white men. many owners endeavored in vain to induce their negroes to perform certain labor. the first request made by a northern man to the same effect would be instantly complied with. the negroes explained that their masters had been in the habit of making promises which they never kept, and cited numerous instances to prove the truth of their assertion. it seemed to have been a custom in that region to deceive the negroes in any practicable manner. to make a promise to a negro, and fail to keep it, was no worse than to lure a horse into a stable-yard, by offering him a choice feed of corn, which would prove but a single mouthful. that the negroes had any human rights was apparently rarely suspected by their owners and overseers. the distrust which many of the negroes entertained for their former masters enabled the lessees to gain, at once, the confidence of their laborers. i regret to say that this confidence was abused in a majority of cases. i gave the negroes a larger ration of meat, meal, and potatoes than had been previously issued. as soon as possible, i procured a quantity of molasses, coffee, and tobacco. these articles had not been seen on the plantation for many months, and were most gladly received. as there was no market in that vicinity where surplus provisions could be sold, i had no fear that the negroes would resort to stealing, especially as their daily supply was amply sufficient for their support. it was the complaint of many overseers and owners that the negroes would steal provisions on frequent occasions. if they committed any thefts during my time of management, they were made so carefully that i never detected them. it is proper to say that i followed the old custom of locking the store-houses at all times. very soon after commencing labor i found that our working force must be increased. accordingly, i employed some of the negroes who were escaping from the interior of the state and making their way to natchez. as there were but few mules on the plantation, i was particularly careful to employ those negroes who were riding, rather than walking, from slavery. if i could not induce these mounted travelers to stop with us, i generally persuaded them to sell their saddle animals. thus, hiring negroes and buying mules, i gradually put the plantation in a presentable condition. while the cotton was being picked the blacksmith was repairing the plows, the harness-maker was fitting up the harnesses for the mules, and every thing was progressing satisfactorily. the gin-house was cleaned and made ready for the last work of preparing cotton for the market. mr. colburn arrived from the north after i had been a planter of only ten days' standing. he was enthusiastic at the prospect, and manifested an energy that was the envy of his neighbors. it required about three weeks to pick our cotton. before it was all gathered we commenced "ginning" the quantity on hand, in order to make as little delay as possible in shipping our "crop" to market. the process of ginning cotton is pretty to look upon, though not agreeable to engage in. the seed-cotton (as the article is called when it comes from the field) is fed in a sort of hopper, where it is brought in contact with a series of small and very sharp saws. from sixty to a hundred of these saws are set on a shaft, about half an inch apart. the teeth of these saws tear the fiber from the seed, but do not catch the seed itself. a brush which revolves against the saws removes the fiber from them at every revolution. the position of the gin is generally at the end of a large room, and into this room the detached fiber is thrown from the revolving brush. this apartment is technically known as the "lint-room," and presents an interesting scene while the process of ginning is going on. the air is full of the flying lint, and forcibly reminds a northerner of a new england snow-storm. the lint falls, like the snow-flakes, with most wonderful lightness, but, unlike the snow-flakes, it does not melt. when the cotton is picked late in the season, there is usually a dense cloud of dust in the lint-room, which settles in and among the fiber. the person who watches the lint-room has a position far from enviable. his lungs become filled with dust, and, very often, the fine, floating fiber is drawn into his nostrils. two persons are generally permitted to divide this labor. there were none of the men on our plantation who craved it. some of the mischievous boys would watch their opportunity to steal into the lint-room, where they greatly enjoyed rolling upon the soft cotton. their amusement was only stopped by the use of a small whip. the machinery of a cotton-gin is driven by steam or horse power; generally the former. there is no water-power in the state of louisiana, but i believe some of the lakes and bayous might be turned to advantage in the same way that the tide is used on the sea-coast. all the larger plantations are provided with steam-engines, the chimneys of which are usually carried to a height sufficient to remove all danger from sparks. there is always a corn-mill, and frequently a saw-mill attached to the gin, and driven by the same power. on every plantation, one day in the week is set apart for grinding a seven-days' supply of corn. this regulation is never varied, except under the most extraordinary circumstances. there is a universal rule in louisiana, forbidding any person, white or black, smoking in the inclosure where the gin-house stands. i was told there was a legal enactment to this effect, that affixed heavy penalties to its infringement. for the truth of this latter statement i cannot vouch. with its own corn-mill, saw-mill, and smithery, each plantation is almost independent of the neighborhood around it. the chief dependence upon the outside world is for farming tools and the necessary paraphernalia for the various branches of field-work. i knew one plantation, a short distance from ours, whose owner had striven hard to make it self-sustaining. he raised all the corn and all the vegetables needed. he kept an immense drove of hogs, and cured his own pork. of cattle he had a goodly quantity, and his sheep numbered nearly three hundred. wool and cotton supplied the raw material for clothing. spinning-wheels and looms produced cloth in excess of what was needed. even the thread for making the clothing for the negroes was spun on the plantation. hats were made of the palmetto, which grew there in abundance. shoes were the only articles of personal wear not of home production. plows, hoes, and similar implements were purchased in the market, but the plantation was provided with a very complete repair-shop, and the workmen were famous for their skill. the plantation, thus managed, yielded a handsome profit to its owner. the value of each year's cotton crop, when delivered on the bank of the river, was not less than forty thousand dollars. including wages of the overseer, and all outlays for repairs and purchase of such articles as were not produced at home, the expenses would not exceed five or six thousand dollars. cotton-planting was very profitable under almost any management, and especially so under a prudent and economical owner. being thus profitable with slave labor, it was natural for the planters to think it could prosper under no other system. "you can't raise cotton without niggers, and you must own the niggers to raise it," was the declaration in all parts of the south. chapter xxxvi. war and agriculture. official favors.--division of labor.--moral suasion.--corn-gathering in the south.--an alarm.--a frightened irishman.--the rebels approaching.--an attack on waterproof.--falstaff redivivus.--his feats of arms.--departure for new orleans. our cotton having been ginned and baled, we made preparations for shipping it to market. these preparations included the procurement of a permit from the treasury agent at natchez, a task of no small magnitude. an application for the permit required, in addition to my own signature, the names of two property-owning citizens, as security for payment of the duties on the cotton. this application being placed in the hands of the treasury agent, i was requested to call in two hours. i did so, and was then put off two hours longer. thus i spent two whole days in frequent visits to that official. his memory was most defective, as i was obliged to introduce myself on each occasion, and tell him the object of my call. a gentleman who had free access to the agent at all times hinted that he could secure early attention to my business on payment for his trouble. many persons asserted that they were obliged to pay handsomely for official favors. i do not _know_ this to be true. i never paid any thing to the treasury agent at natchez or elsewhere, beyond the legitimate fees, and i never found any man who would give me a written statement that he had done so. nevertheless, i had much circumstantial evidence to convince me that the treasury officials were guilty of dishonorable actions. the temptation was great, and, with proper care, the chances of detection were small. armed with my permit, i returned to the plantation. mr. colburn, in my absence, had organized our force, lately engaged in cotton-picking, into suitable parties for gathering corn, of which we had some three hundred acres standing in the field. in new england i fear that corn which had remained ungathered until the middle of february, would be of comparatively little value. in our case it was apparently as sound as when first ripened. corn-gathering in the south differs materially from corn-gathering in the north. the negroes go through the field breaking the ears from the stalks without removing the husk. the ears are thrown into heaps at convenient distances from each other, and in regular rows. a wagon is driven between these rows, and the corn gathered for the crib. still unhusked, it is placed in the crib, to be removed when needed. it is claimed that the husk thus remaining on the corn, protects it from various insects, and from the effect of the weather. every body of laborers on a plantation is called a "gang." thus we had "the picking-gang," "the corn-gang," "the trash-gang," "the hoe-gang," "the planting-gang," "the plow-gang," and so on through the list. each gang goes to the field in charge of a head negro, known as the driver. this driver is responsible for the work of his gang, and, under the old _régime_, was empowered to enforce his orders with the whip, if necessary. under our new dispensation the whip was laid aside, and a milder policy took its place. it was satisfactory with the adults; but there were occasions when the smaller boys were materially benefited by applications of hickory shrubs. solomon's words about sparing the rod are applicable to children of one race as well as to those of another. we did not allow our drivers to make any bodily punishment in the field, and i am happy to say they showed no desire to do so. as i have before stated, our first organization was the picking-gang. then followed the gin-gang and the press-gang. our gin-gang was organized on principles of total abstinence, and, therefore, differed materially from the gin-gangs of northern cities. our press-gang, unlike the press-gangs of new york or chicago, had nothing to do with morning publications, and would have failed to comprehend us had we ordered the preparation of a sensation leader, or a report of the last great meeting at union square. our press-gang devoted its time and energies to putting our cotton into bales of the proper size and neatness. the corn-gang, the trash-gang, and the plow-gang were successively organized by mr. colburn. of the first i have spoken. the duties of the second were to gather the corn-stalks or cotton-stalks, as the case might be, into proper heaps for burning. as all this débris came under the generic name of "trash," the appellation of the gang is readily understood. our trash-gang did very well, except in a certain instance, when it allowed the fire from the trash to run across a field of dead grass, and destroy several hundred feet of fence. in justice to the negroes, i should admit that the firing of the grass was in obedience to our orders, and the destruction of the fence partly due to a strong wind which suddenly sprang up. the trash-gang is usually composed of the younger children and the older women. the former gather and pile the stalks which the latter cut up. they particularly enjoy firing the heaps of dry trash. it was on saturday, the th of february, that our press-gang completed its labors. on the afternoon of that day, as we were hauling our cotton to the landing, the garrison at waterproof, two miles distant, suddenly opened with its artillery upon a real or supposed enemy. a gun-boat joined in the affair, and for half an hour the cannonade was vigorous. we could see the flashes of the guns and the dense smoke rising through the trees, but could discover nothing more. when the firing ceased we were somewhat anxious to know the result. very soon a white man, an irishman, who had been a short time in the vicinity to purchase cotton, reached our place in a state of exhaustion. he told a frightful story of the surprise and massacre of the whole garrison, and was very certain no one but himself had escaped. he had fortunately concealed himself under a very small bridge while the fight was going on. he called attention to his clothes, which were covered with mud, to prove the truth of his statement. for a short time the situation had an unpleasant appearance. while we were deliberating upon the proper measures for safety, one of our negroes, who was in waterproof during the firing, came to us with _his_ story. the fight had been on our side, some guerrillas having chased one of our scouting parties to a point within range of our guns. our men shelled them with artillery, and this was the extent of the battle. the story of the irishman, in connection with the true account of the affair, forcibly reminded me of the famous battle of piketon, kentucky, in the first year of the war. on the next day (sunday) i rode to waterproof, leaving colburn on the plantation. just as i arrived within the lines, i ascertained that an attack was expected. the most stringent orders had been issued against allowing any person to pass out. ten minutes later a scout arrived, saying that a force of rebels was advancing to attack the post. the gun-boat commenced shelling the woods in the rear of waterproof, and the artillery on land joined in the work. the rebels did not get near enough to make any serious demonstration upon the town. the day passed with a steady firing from the gun-boat, relieved by an occasional interval of silence. toward night the small garrison was re-enforced by the arrival of a regiment from natchez. on the following day a portion of general ellet's marine brigade reached waterproof, and removed all possibility of further attack. in the garrison of waterproof, at the commencement of this fight, there was a certain officer who could have sat for the portrait of falstaff with very little stuffing, and without great change of character. early in the war he belonged to an eastern regiment, but on that occasion he had no commission, though this fact was not generally known. nearly as large as hackett's falstaff, he was as much a gascon as the hero of the merry wives of windsor. he differed from falstaff in possessing a goodly amount of bravery, but this bravery was accompanied with an entire absence of judgment. in the early part of the fight, and until he was too drunk to move, this _preux chevalier_ dashed about waterproof, mounted on a small horse, which he urged to the top of his speed. in one hand he flourished a cane, and in the other a revolver. he usually allowed the reins to lie on his horse's neck, except when he wished to change his direction. with his abdomen protruding over the pommel of the saddle, his stirrups several inches too short, one boot-leg outside his pantaloons and the other inside, a very large hat pressed nearly to his eyes, and a face flushed with excitement and whisky, he was a study john leech would have prized. frequent and copious draughts of the cup which cheers and inebriates placed him _hors de combat_ before the close of the day. from the crest of the levee, he could at any time discover several lines of battle approaching the town. frequently he informed the commandant that the rebels were about to open upon us with a dozen heavy batteries, which they were planting in position for a long siege. if the enemy had been in the force that this man claimed, they could not have numbered less than fifty thousand. when unhorsed for the last time during the day, he insisted that i should listen to the story of his exploits. "i went," said he, "to the colonel, this morning, and told him, sir, to give me ten men, and i would go out and feel the enemy's position. he gave me the men, and i went. we found the enemy not less than a thousand strong, sir, behind mrs. miller's gin-house. they were the advance of the whole rebel army, sir, and i saw they must be driven back. we charged, and, after a desperate fight, drove them. they opposed us, sir, every inch of the way for two miles; but we routed them. we must have killed at least a hundred of them, sir, and wounded as many more. they didn't hurt a man of us; but the bullets flew very thick, sir--very. i myself killed twelve of them with my own hand, sir. this is the way it was, sir. this revolver, you see, sir, has six barrels. i emptied it once, sir; i reloaded; i emptied it again, sir. two times six are twelve, sir. i killed twelve of them with my own hand. let it be recorded. "on my way back, sir, i set fire to the gin-house, so that it should no more be a shelter for those infernal rebels. you yourself, sir, saw that building in flames, and can testify to the truth of my story." in this strain the warrior gave the history of his moments of glory. the portion i have written was true in some points. he found three men (instead of a thousand), and pursued them a few hundred yards. he discharged his revolver at very long range, but i could not learn that his shots were returned. he fired the gin-house "to cover his retreat," and gained the fortifications without loss. i do not know his locality at the present time, but presume he remained, up to the close of the war, where storms of shot and shell continually darkened the air, and where lines of battle were seen on every side. the siege being raised, i returned to the plantation. from waterproof, during the fight, i could see our buildings with perfect distinctness. i had much fear that some rebel scouting party might pay the plantation a visit while the attack was going on. i found, on my return, that colburn had taken the matter very coolly, and prevented the negroes becoming alarmed. he declared that he considered the plantation as safe as waterproof, and would not have exchanged places with me during the fight. the negroes were perfectly quiet, and making preparations for plowing. while the fight was in progress, my associate was consulting with the drivers about the details of work for the ensuing week, and giving his orders with the utmost _sang froid_. in consideration of the uncertainty of battles in general, and the possibility of a visit at any moment from a party of rebel scouts, my partner's conduct was worthy of the highest commendation. before leaving waterproof i had arranged for a steamer to call for our cotton, which was lying on the river bank. waterproof lay at one side of the neck of a peninsula, and our plantation was at the other side. it was two miles across this peninsula, and sixteen miles around it, so that i could start on horseback, and, by riding very leisurely, reach the other side, long in advance of a steamboat. the steamer came in due time. after putting our cotton on board, i bade mr. colburn farewell, and left him to the cares and perplexities of a planter's life. i was destined for new orleans, to sell our cotton, and to purchase many things needed for the prosecution of our enterprise. on my way down the river, i found that steamboat traveling was not an entirely safe amusement. the boat that preceded me was fired upon near morganzia, and narrowly escaped destruction. a shell indented her steam-pipe, and passed among the machinery, without doing any damage. had the pipe been cut, the steam would have filled every part of the boat. i was not disturbed by artillery on the occasion of my journey, but received a compliment from small-arms. on the morning after leaving natchez, i was awakened by a volley of musketry from the river-bank. one of the bullets penetrated the thin walls of the cabin and entered my state-room, within two inches of my head. i preserved the missile as a souvenir of travel. on the next day the rebels brought a battery of artillery to the spot. a steamer received its greeting, but escaped with a single passenger wounded. a gentleman who was on this boat had a very narrow escape. he told me that he was awakened by the first shot, which passed through the upper works of the steamer. he was occupying the upper berth in a state-room on the side next the locality of the rebels. his first impulse was to spring from his resting-place, and throw himself at full length upon the floor. he had hardly done so, when a shell entered the state-room, and traversed the berth in the exact position where my friend had been lying. having narrowly escaped death, he concluded not to run a second risk. he returned to st. louis by way of new york. wishing to visit new orleans some time later, he sailed from new york on the _electric spark_, and enjoyed the luxury of a capture by the pirates of the "confederate" steamer _florida_. after that occurrence, he concluded there was little choice between the ocean and river routes. chapter xxxvii. in the cotton market. new orleans and its peculiarities.--its loss by the rebellion.--cotton factors in new orleans.--old things passed away.--the northern barbarians a race of shopkeepers.--pulsations of the cotton market.--a quarrel with a lady.--contending for a principle.--inharmony of the "regulations."--an account of sales. the first impression that new orleans gives a stranger is its unlikeness to northern cities. it is built on ground that slopes downward from the mississippi. as one leaves the river and walks toward the center of the city, he finds himself descending. new orleans is a hundred miles from the mouth of the mississippi and only six miles from lake pontchartrain, which is an arm of the sea. the river at the city is ten feet above lake pontchartrain, so that new orleans is washed by water from the mississippi and drained into the lake. the water in the gutters always runs from the river, no matter what may be its height. the steamers at the foot of canal street appear above the spectator, when he stands a mile or two from the landing. there is no earthy elevation of any kind, except of artificial construction, in the vicinity of new orleans. the level surface of the streets renders the transportation of heavy bodies a work of the utmost ease. the greatest amount of merchandise that can be loaded upon four wheels rarely requires the efforts of more than two animals. the street-cars, unlike those of northern cities, are drawn by a single mule to each car, and have no conductors. the cemeteries are above ground, and resemble the pigeon-holes of a post-office, magnified to a sufficient size for the reception of coffins. there is not a cellar in the entire city of new orleans. musquitos flourish during the entire winter. in the summer there are two varieties of these insects. the night-musquito is similar to the insect which disturbs our slumbers in northern latitudes. the day-musquito relieves his comrade at sunrise and remains on duty till sunset. he has no song, but his bite is none the less severe. he disappears at the approach of winter, but his tuneful brother remains. musquito nettings are a necessity all the year round. the public walks of new orleans are justly the pride of the inhabitants. canal street is probably the prettiest street in america. along its center is a double row of shade-trees, a promenade, and the tracks of the street railway. these shade-trees are inclosed so as to form a series of small parks for the entire length of the street. on each side of these parks is a carriage-way, as wide as the great thoroughfare of new york. canal street is the fashionable promenade of new orleans. in the days of glory, before the rebellion, it presented a magnificent appearance. among the prettiest of the parks of new orleans is jackson square, containing a fine equestrian statue of general jackson. the pedestal of the statue is emblazoned with the words: "the union--it must and shall be preserved." the french element in new orleans is apparent on every side. the auctioneers cry their wares in mingled french and english, and the negroes and white laborers on the levee converse in a hybrid language. in the french quarter, every thing is french. the signs on the shops and the street corners, the conversation of the inhabitants and the shouts of the boys who play on the sidewalks, are in the vernacular of _la belle france_. in jackson square, notices to warn visitors not to disturb the shrubbery, are posted in two languages, the french being first. on one poster i saw the sentence: "_ne touche pas à les fleurs_," followed by the literal translation into english: "don't touch to the flowers." i was happy to observe that the caution was very generally heeded. before the war, new orleans was a city of wonderful wealth. situated at the outlet of the great valley, its trade in cotton, sugar, and other products of the west and south, was immense. boats, which had descended from all points along the navigable portion of the mississippi, discharged their cargoes upon its levee. ships of all nations were at the wharves, receiving the rich freight that the steamers had brought down. the piles of merchandise that lay along the levee were unequaled in any other city of the globe. money was abundant, and was lavishly scattered in all directions. with the secession of the gulf states, the opening of hostilities, and the blockade of the mississippi at its mouth and at cairo, the prosperity of new orleans disappeared. the steamers ceased to bring cotton and sugar to its wharves, and its levee presented a picture of inactivity. many of the wealthy found themselves in straitened circumstances, and many of the poor suffered and died for want of food. for a whole year, while the rebel flag floated over the city, the business of new orleans was utterly suspended. with the passage of the forts and the capture of new orleans by admiral farragut, the rebel rule was ended. very slowly the business of the city revived, but in its revival it fell into the hands of northern men, who had accompanied our armies in their advance. the old merchants found themselves crowded aside by the ubiquitous yankees. with the end of the war, the glory of the city will soon return, but it will not return to its old channels. more than any other city of the south, new orleans will be controlled by men of northern birth and sentiments. the day of slave-auctions in the rotunda of the st. charles has passed away forever. new orleans has a class of men peculiar to the south, whose business it is to sell cotton for the planters. these gentlemen are known as "factors," and, in former times, were numerous and successful. whatever a planter needed, from a quire of paper to a steam-engine, he ordered his factor to purchase and forward. the factor obeyed the order and charged the amount to the planter, adding two and a half per cent, for commission. if the planter wanted money, he drew upon the factor, and that individual honored the draft. at the end of the season, it often occurred that the planter was largely in debt to the factor. but the cotton crop, when gathered, being consigned to the factor, canceled this indebtedness, and generally left a balance in the planter's favor. the factor charged a good commission for selling the cotton, and sometimes required interest upon the money he advanced. in the happy days before the war, the factor's business was highly lucrative. the advances to the planters, before the maturity of the cotton crop, often required a heavy capital, but the risk was not great. nearly every planter was considerably indebted to his factor before his cotton went forward. in many cases the proceeds of the entire crop would but little more than cover the advances which had been made. in new orleans nearly all cotton is sold "by sample." certain men are licensed to "sample" cotton, for which they charge a specified sum per bale. a hole is cut in the covering of each bale, and from this hole a handful of cotton is pulled. every bale is thus "sampled," without regard to the size of the lot. the samples are taken to the sales-room of the commission house, where they are open to the inspection of buyers. the quality of the cotton is carefully noted, the length of the fiber or staple, the whiteness of the sample, and its freedom from dust or fragments of cotton-stalks. not one bale in twenty is ever seen by the buyers until after its purchase. frequently the buyers transfer their cotton to other parties without once looking upon it sometimes cotton is sold at auction instead of being offered at private sale, but the process of "sampling" is carried out in either case. in ' and ' , new orleans could boast of more cotton factors than cotton. the principal business was in the hands of merchants from the north, who had established themselves in the city soon after its occupation by the national forces. nearly all cotton sent to market was from plantations leased by northern men, or from purchases made of planters by northern speculators. the patronage naturally fell into the hands of the new possessors of the soil, and left the old merchants to pine in solitude. the old cotton factors, most of them southern men, who could boast of ten or twenty years' experience, saw their business pass into the hands of men whose arrival in new orleans was subsequent to that of general butler. nearly all the old factors were secessionists, who religiously believed no government could exist unless founded on raw cotton and slavery. they continually asserted that none but themselves could sell cotton to advantage, and wondered why those who had that article to dispose of should employ men unaccustomed to its sale. they were doomed to find themselves false prophets. the new and enterprising merchants monopolized the cotton traffic, and left the slavery-worshiping factors of the olden time to mourn the loss of their occupation. at the time i visited new orleans, cotton was falling. it had been ninety cents per pound. i could only obtain a small fraction above seventy cents, and within a week the same quality sold for sixty. three months afterward, it readily brought a dollar and a quarter per pound. the advices from new york were the springs by which the market in new orleans was controlled. a good demand in new york made a good demand in new orleans, and _vice versâ_. the new york market was governed by the liverpool market, and that in turn by the demand at manchester. thus the old world and the new had a common interest in the production of cotton. while one watched the demand, the other closely observed the supply. some of the factors in new orleans were fearful lest the attention paid to cotton-culture in other parts of the world would prove injurious to the south after the war should be ended. they had abandoned their early belief that their cotton was king, and dreaded the crash that was to announce the overthrow of all their hopes. in their theory that cotton-culture was unprofitable, unless prosecuted by slave labor, these men could only see a gloomy picture for years to come. not so the new occupants of the land. believing that slavery was not necessary to the production of sugar and cotton; believing that the country could show far more prosperity under the new system of labor than was ever seen under the old; and believing that commerce would find new and enlarged channels with the return of peace, they combated the secession heresies of the old residents, and displayed their faith by their works. new orleans was throwing off its old habits and adopting the ideas and manners of northern civilization. mrs. b., the owner of our plantation, was in new orleans at the time of my arrival. as she was to receive half the proceeds of the cotton we had gathered, i waited upon her to tell the result of our labors. the sale being made, i exhibited the account of sales to her agent, and paid him the stipulated amount. so far all was well; but we were destined to have a difference of opinion upon a subject touching the rights of the negro. early in the rebel authorities ordered the destruction of all cotton liable to fall into the hands of the national forces. the order was very generally carried out. in its execution, some four hundred bales belonging to mrs. b. were burned. the officer who superintended the destruction, permitted the negroes on the plantation to fill their beds with cotton, but not to save any in bales. when we were making our shipment, mr. colburn proposed that those negroes who wished to do so, could sell us their cotton, and fill their beds with moss or husks. as we paid them a liberal price, they accepted our offer, and we made up three bales from our purchase. we never imagined that mrs. b. would lay any claim to this lot, and did not include it in the quantity for which we paid her half the proceeds. after i had made the payment to her factor, i received a note from the lady in reference to the three bales above mentioned. she said the cotton in question was entirely her property; but, in consideration of our careful attention to the matter, she would consent to our retaining half its value. she admitted that she would have never thought to bring it to market; but since we had collected and baled it, she demanded it as her own. i "respectfully declined" to comply with her request. i believed the negroes had a claim to what was saved from the burning, and given to them by the rebel authorities. mrs. b. was of the opinion that a slave could own nothing, and therefore insisted that the cotton belonged to herself. very soon after sending my reply, i was visited by the lady's factor. a warm, though courteous, discussion transpired. the factor was a secessionist, and a firm believer in the human and divine right of slavery. he was a man of polished exterior, and was, doubtless, considered a specimen of the true southern gentleman. in our talk on the subject in dispute, i told him the rebels had allowed the negroes to fill their beds with cotton, and it was this cotton we had purchased. "the negroes had no right to sell it to you," said the factor; "neither had you any right to purchase it." "if it was given to them," i asked, "was it not theirs to sell?" "certainly not. the negroes own nothing, and can own nothing. every thing they have, the clothes they wear and the dishes they use, belongs to their owners. when we 'give' any thing to a negro, we merely allow it to remain in his custody, nothing more." "but in this case," said i, "the gift was not made by the owner. the cotton was to be destroyed by order of your confederate government. that order took it from mrs. b.'s possession. when the officer came to burn the cotton, and gave a portion to the negroes to fill their beds, he made no gift to mrs. b." "certainly he did. the cotton became hers, when it was given to her negroes. if you give any thing to one of my negroes, that article becomes my property as much as if given to me." "but how is it when a negro, by working nights or saturdays, manages to make something for himself?" "that is just the same. whatever he makes in that way belongs to his master. out of policy we allow him to keep it, but we manage to have him expend it for his own good. the negro is the property of his master, and can own nothing for himself." "but in this case," i replied, "i have promised to pay the negroes for the cotton. it would be unjust to them to fail to do so." "you must not pay them any thing for it. whatever you have promised makes no difference. it is mrs. b.'s property, not theirs. if you pay them, you will violate all our customs, and establish a precedent very bad for us and for yourself." i assured the gentleman i should feel under obligation to deal justly with the negroes, even at the expense of violating southern precedent. "you may not be aware," i remarked, "of the magnitude of the change in the condition of the southern negro during the two years just closed. the difference of opinion between your people and ourselves is, no doubt, an honest one. we shall be quite as persistent in pushing our views at the present time as you have been in enforcing yours in the past. we must try our theory, and wait for the result." we separated most amiably, each hoping the other would eventually see things in their true light. from present indications, the weight of public opinion is on my side, and constantly growing stronger. my sales having been made, and a quantity of plantation supplies purchased, i was ready to return. it was with much difficulty that i was able to procure permits from the treasury agent at new orleans to enable me to ship my purchases. before leaving natchez, i procured all the documents required by law. natchez and new orleans were not in the same "district," and consequently there was much discord. for example, the agent at natchez gave me a certain document that i should exhibit at new orleans, and take with me on my return to natchez. the agent at new orleans took possession of this document, and, on my expostulating, said the agent at natchez "had no right" to give me instructions to retain it. he kept the paper, and i was left without any defense against seizure of the goods i had in transit. they were seized by a government officer, but subsequently released. on my arrival at natchez, i narrated the occurrence to the treasury agent at that point. i was informed that the agent at new orleans "could not" take my papers from me, and i should not have allowed him to do so. i was forcibly reminded of the case of the individual who was once placed in the public stocks. on learning his offense, a lawyer told him, "why, sir, they can't put you in the stocks for _that_." "but they have." "i tell you they can't do it." "but, don't you see, they have." "i tell you again they can't do any such thing." in my own case, each treasury agent declared the other "could not" do the things which had been done. in consequence of the inharmony of the "regulations," the most careful shipper would frequently find his goods under seizure, from which they could generally be released on payment of liberal fees and fines. i do not know there was any collusion between the officials, but i could not rid myself of the impression there was something rotten in denmark. the invariable result of these little quarrels was the plundering of the shippers. the officials never suffered. like the opposite sides of a pair of shears, though cutting against each other, they only injured whatever was between them. not a hundredth part of the official dishonesty at new orleans and other points along the mississippi will ever be known. enough has been made public to condemn the whole system of permits and treasury restrictions. the government took a wise course when it abolished, soon after the suppression of the rebellion, a large number of the treasury agencies in the south. as they were managed during the last two years of the war, these agencies proved little else than schools of dishonesty. there may have been some honest men in those offices, but they contrived to conceal their honesty. to show the variety of charges which attach to a shipment of cotton, i append the sellers' account for the three bales about which mrs. b. and myself had our little dispute. these bales were not sold with the balance of our shipment. the cotton of which they were composed was of very inferior quality. _account sales of three bales of cotton for knox & colburn._ by parsley & williams. ______________________________________________________________________ mark, | bales. || | || | "k. c."| weight, } , @..............|| $ | || $ | | -- -- } || | || | | auctioneers' commission, pr. ct.....|| | || | | sampling .............................|| | || | | weighing .............................|| | || | | watching..............................|| | || | | tarpaulins ...........................|| | || | | freight, $ pr. bale ................|| | || | | insurance, $ . pr. bale ............|| | || | | c. pr. lb. (tax) on , lb .......|| | || | | / c. " " " " ..........|| | || | | permit and stamps ....................|| | || | | hospital fees, $ pr. bale............|| | || | | factors' commission, pr. ct.........|| | || | | || -- | -- || | | || | || ---- | -- e.o.e. | net proceeds......................|| | || $ | ---------------------------------------------------------------------- new orleans, la., _february _, . it will be seen by the above that the charges form an important portion of the proceeds of a sale. the heaviest items are for government and hospital taxes. the latter was levied before the war, but the former is one of the fruits of the rebellion. it is likely to endure for a considerable time. i knew several cases in which the sales of cotton did not cover the charges, but left a small bill to be paid by the owner. frequently, cotton that had been innocently purchased and sent to market was seized by government officials, on account of some alleged informality, and placed in the public warehouses. the owner could get no hearing until he made liberal presents of a pecuniary character to the proper authorities. after much delay and many bribes, the cotton would be released. new charges would appear, and before a sale could be effected the whole value of the cotton would be gone. a person of my acquaintance was unfortunate enough to fall into the hands of the philistines in the manner i have described above. at the end of the transaction he found himself a loser to the extent of three hundred dollars. he has since been endeavoring to ascertain the amount of traffic on a similar scale that would be needed to make him a millionaire. at last accounts he had not succeeded in solving the problem. chapter xxxviii. some features of plantation life. mysteries of mule-trading.--"what's in a name?"--process of stocking a plantation.--an enterprising white man.--stratagem of a yankee.--distributing goods to the negroes.--the tastes of the african.--ethiopian eloquence.--a colored overseer.--guerrillas approaching.--whisky _vs_. guerrillas.--a hint to military men. on my return from new orleans to the plantation, i found that colburn had been pushing our business with a rapidity and skill that secured the admiration of everyone around us. he had increased our working force, and purchased a goodly number of mules. we had seventeen plows in operation, and two teams engaged in gathering corn, on the day before my arrival. the "trash-gang" was busy, and other working parties were occupied with their various duties. we were looking to a brilliant future, and echoed the wish of jefferson davis, to be "let alone." the enterprise of a lessee at that time, and in that locality, was illustrated by his ability to supply his plantation with mules. there were many who failed in the effort, but my associate was not of the number. there were but few mules in the natchez market--not enough to meet a tenth of the demand. nearly every plantation had been stripped of working animals by one army or the other. before our arrival the rebels plundered all men suspected of lukewarmness in the cause. when the national army obtained possession, it took nearly every thing the rebels had left. all property believed to belong to the rebel government was passed into the hands of our quartermaster. a planter, named caleb shields, had a large plantation near natchez, which had not been disturbed by the rebels. his mules were branded with the letters "c.s.," the initials of their owner. as these letters happened to be the same that were used by the confederate government, mr. shields found his mules promptly seized and "confiscated." before he could explain the matter and obtain an order for their return, his animals were sent to vicksburg and placed in the government corral. if the gentleman had possessed other initials, it is possible (though not certain) he might have saved his stock. mules being very scarce, the lessees exercised their skill in supplying themselves with those animals. on my first arrival at the plantation, i took care to hire those negroes who were riding from the interior, or, at all events, to purchase their animals. in one day i obtained two horses and four mules. an order had been issued for the confiscation of beasts of burden (or draught) brought inside the lines by negroes. we obtained permission to purchase of these runaway negroes whatever mules they would sell, provided we could make our negotiations before they reached the military lines. immediately after my departure, mr. colburn stationed one of our men on the road near our house, with orders to effect a trade with every mounted negro on his way to natchez. the plan was successful. from two to a half-dozen mules were obtained daily. during the two weeks of my absence nearly fifty mules were purchased, placing the plantation in good order for active prosecution of our planting enterprise. at the same time many lessees in our vicinity were unable to commence operations, owing to their inability to obtain working stock. the negroes discovered that the mule market was not well supplied, and some of the more enterprising and dishonest sons of ham endeavored to profit by the situation. frequently mules would be offered at a suspiciously low price, with the explanation that the owner was anxious to dispose of his property and return home. some undertook nocturnal expeditions, ten or twenty miles into the interior, where they stole whatever mules they could find. a few of the lessees suffered by the loss of stock, which was sold an hour after it was stolen, and sometimes to the very party from whom it had been taken. we took every care to avoid buying stolen property, but were sometimes deceived. on one occasion i purchased a mule of a negro who lived at waterproof. the purchase was made an hour before sunset, and the animal was stolen during the night. on the following morning, colburn bought it again of the same party with whom i had effected my trade. after this occurrence, we adopted the plan of branding each mule as soon as it came into our hands. all the lessees did the same thing, and partially protected each other against fraud. white men were the worst mule-thieves, and generally instructed the negroes in their villainy. there were several men in natchez who reduced mule-stealing to a science, and were as thoroughly skilled in it as charley bates or the artful dodger in the science of picking pockets. one of them had four or five white men and a dozen negroes employed in bringing stock to market. i think he retired to st. louis, before the end of may, with ten or twelve thousand dollars as the result of three months' industry. some of the lessees resorted to questionable methods for supplying their plantations with the means for plowing and planting. one of them occupied a plantation owned by a man who refused to allow his own stock to be used. he wished to be neutral until the war was ended. this owner had more than sixty fine mules, that were running loose in the field. one day the lessee told the owner that he had purchased a lot of mules at natchez, and would bring them out soon. on the following night, while the owner slept, the lessee called some trusty negroes to his aid, caught seventeen mules from the field, sheared and branded them, and placed them in a yard by themselves. in the morning he called the owner to look at the "purchase." "you have bought an excellent lot," said the latter individual. "where were they from?" "all from st. louis." was the response. "they were brought down two days ago. i don't know what to do about turning them out. do you think, if i put them with yours, there is any danger of their straying, on account of being on a strange place?" "none at all. i think there is no risk." the lessee took the risk, and expressed much delight to find that the new mules showed themselves at home on the plantation. several days later the owner of the plantation discovered the loss of his mules, but never suspected what had become of them. two weeks afterward, the rebels came and asked him to designate the property of the lessee, that they might remove it. he complied by pointing out the seventeen mules, which the rebels drove away, leaving the balance unharmed. i landed at the plantation one sunday evening, with the goods i had purchased in new orleans. i was met with the unwelcome information that the small force at waterproof, after committing many depredations on the surrounding country, had been withdrawn, leaving us exposed to the tender mercies of the indignant chivalry. we were liable to be visited at any moment. we knew the rebels would not handle us very tenderly, in view of what they had suffered from our own men. a party of guerrillas was reported seven miles distant on the day previous, and there was nothing to hinder their coming as near as they chose. accordingly, we determined to distribute the goods among the negroes as early as possible. on monday morning we commenced. there was some delay, but we succeeded in starting a very lively trade before seven o'clock. shoes were in great demand, as the negroes had not been supplied with these articles for nearly three years. a hundred pairs were speedily issued, when the balance was laid aside for future consideration. there were some of the negroes whose feet were too large for any shoes we had purchased. it was a curious fact that these large-footed negroes were not above the ordinary stature. i remember one in particular who demanded "thirteens," but who did not stand more than five feet and five inches in his invisible stockings. after the shoes, came the material for clothing. for the men we had purchased "gray denims" and "kentucky jeans;" for the women, "blue denims" and common calico. these articles were rapidly taken, and with them the necessary quantity of thread, buttons, etc. a supply of huge bandana kerchiefs for the head was eagerly called for. i had procured as many of these articles as i thought necessary for the entire number of negroes on the plantation; but found i had sadly miscalculated. the kerchiefs were large and very gaudy, and the african taste was at once captivated by them. instead of being satisfied with one or two, every negro desired from six to a dozen, and was much disappointed at the refusal. the gaudy colors of most of the calicoes created a great demand, while a few pieces of more subdued appearance were wholly discarded. white cotton cloth, palm-leaf hats, knives and forks, tin plates, pans and dishes, and other articles for use or wear, were among the distributions of the day. under the slave-owner's rule, the negro was entitled to nothing beyond his subsistence and coarse clothing. out of a large-hearted generosity the master gave him various articles, amounting, in the course of a year, to a few dollars in value. these articles took the name of "presents," and their reception was designed to inspire feelings of gratitude in the breast of the slave. most of the negroes understood that the new arrangements made an end of present-giving. they were to be paid for all their labor, and were to pay for whatever they received. when the plan was first announced, all were pleased with it; but when we came to the distribution of the goods, many of the negroes changed their views. they urged that the clothing, and every thing else we had purchased, should be issued as "presents," and that they should be paid for their labor in addition. whatever little advantages the old system might have, they wished to retain and ingraft upon their new life. to be compensated for labor was a condition of freedom which they joyfully accepted. to receive "presents" was an apparent advantage of slavery which they did not wish to set aside. the matter was fully explained, and i am confident all our auditors understood it. those that remained obstinate had an eye to their personal interests. those who had been sick, idle, absent, or disabled, were desirous of liberal gifts, while the industrious were generally in favor of the new system, or made no special opposition to it. one negro, who had been in our employ two weeks, and whose whole labor in that time was less than four days, thought he deserved a hundred dollars' worth of presents, and compensation in money for a fortnight's toil. all were inclined to value their services very highly; but there were some whose moderation knew no bounds. a difficulty arose on account of certain promises that had been made to the negroes by the owner of the plantation, long before our arrival. mrs. b. had told them (according to their version) that the proceeds of the cotton on the plantation should be distributed in the form of presents, whenever a sale was effected. she did not inform us of any such promise when we secured the lease of the plantation. if she made any agreement to that effect, it was probably forgotten. those who claimed that this arrangement had been made desired liberal presents in addition to payment for their labor. our non-compliance with this demand was acknowledged to be just, but it created considerable disappointment. one who had been her mistress's favorite argued the question with an earnestness that attracted my attention. though past sixty years of age, she was straight as an arrow, and her walk resembled that of a tragedy queen. in her whole features she was unlike those around her, except in her complexion, which was black as ink. there was a clear, silvery tone to her voice, such as i have rarely observed in persons of her race. in pressing her claim, she grew wonderfully eloquent, and would have elicited the admiration of an educated audience. had there been a school in that vicinity for the development of histrionic talent in the negro race, i would have given that woman a recommendation to its halls. during my absence, mr. colburn employed an overseer on our smaller plantation, and placed him in full charge of the work. this overseer was a mulatto, who had been fifteen years the manager of a large plantation about seven miles distant from ours. in voice and manner he was a white man, but his complexion and hair were those of the subject race. there was nothing about the plantation which he could not master in every point. without being severe, he was able to accomplish all that had been done under the old system. he imitated the customs of the white man as much as possible, and it was his particular ambition to rank above those of his own color. as an overseer he was fully competent to take charge of any plantation in that locality. during all my stay in the south, i did not meet a white overseer whom i considered the professional equal of this negro. "richmond" was the name to which our new assistant answered. his master had prevented his learning to read, but allowed him to acquire sufficient knowledge of figures to record the weight of cotton in the field. richmond could mark upon the slate all round numbers between one hundred and four hundred; beyond this he was never able to go. he could neither add nor subtract, nor could he write a single letter of the alphabet. he was able, however, to write his own name very badly, having copied it from a pass written by his master. he had possessed himself of a book, and, with the help of one of our negroes who knew the alphabet, he was learning to read. his house was a model of neatness. i regret to say that he was somewhat tyrannical when superintending the affairs of his domicile. as the day of our distribution of goods was a stormy one, richmond was called from the plantation to assist us. under his assistance we were progressing fairly, interrupted occasionally by various causes of delay. less than half the valuable articles were distributed, when our watches told us it was noon. just as we were discussing the propriety of an adjournment for dinner, an announcement was made that banished all thoughts of the mid-day meal. one of our boys had been permitted to visit waterproof during the forenoon. he returned, somewhat breathless, and his first words dropped like a shell among the assembled negroes: "_the rebels are in waterproof_." "how do you know?" "i saw them there, and asked a lady what they were. she said they were harrison's rebels." we told the negroes to go to their quarters. richmond mounted his horse and rode off toward the plantation of which he had charge. in two minutes, there was not a negro in the yard, with the exception of the house-servants. our goods were lying exposed. we threw some of the most valuable articles into an obscure closet. at the first alarm we ordered our horses brought out. when the animals appeared we desisted from our work. "the rebels are coming down the road," was the next bulletin from the front. we sprang upon our horses and rode a hundred yards along the front of our "quarter-lot," to a point where we could look up the road toward waterproof. there they were, sure enough, thirty or more mounted men, advancing at a slow trot. they were about half a mile distant, and, had we been well mounted, there was no doubt of our easy escape. "now comes the race," said colburn. "twenty miles to natchez. a single heat, with animals to go at will." we turned our horses in the direction of natchez. "stop," said i, as we reached the house again. "they did not see us, and have not quickened their pace. strategy, my boy, may assist us a little." throwing my bridle into colburn's hand, i slid from my saddle and bounded into the dwelling. it was the work of a moment to bring out a jug and a glass tumbler, but i was delayed longer than i wished in finding the key of our closet. the jug contained five gallons of excellent whisky (so pronounced by my friends), and would have been a valuable prize in any portion of the confederacy. placing the jug and tumbler side by side on the veranda, in full view from the road, i remounted, just as the rebels reached the corner of our quarter-lot. "we have pressing engagements in natchez," said colburn. "so we have," i replied; "i had nearly forgotten them. let us lose no time in meeting them." as we rode off, some of the foremost rebels espied us and quickened their pace. when they reached the house they naturally looked toward it to ascertain if any person was there. they saw the jug, and were at once attracted. one man rode past the house, but the balance stopped. the minority of one was prudent, and returned after pursuing us less than fifty yards. the whisky which the jug contained was quickly absorbed. with only one tumbler it required some minutes to drain the jug. these minutes were valuable. whisky may have ruined many a man, but it saved us. around that seductive jug those thirty guerrillas became oblivious to our escape. we have reason to be thankful that we disobeyed the rules of strict teetotalers by "keeping liquor in the house." i was well mounted, and could have easily kept out of the way of any ordinary chase. colburn was only fairly mounted, and must have been run down had there been a vigorous and determined pursuit. as each was resolved to stand by the other, the capture of one would have doubtless been the capture of both. [illustration: "strategy, my boy!"] chapter xxxix. visited by guerrillas. news of the raid.--returning to the plantation.--examples of negro cunning.--a sudden departure and a fortunate escape.--a second visit.--"going through," in guerrilla parlance.--how it is accomplished.--courtesy to guests.--a holiday costume.--lessees abandoning their plantations.--official promises. as soon as satisfied we were not followed we took a leisurely pace, and in due time reached natchez. four hours later we received the first bulletin from the plantation. about thirty guerrillas had been there, mainly for the purpose of despoiling the plantation next above ours. this they had accomplished by driving off all the mules. they had not stolen _our_ mules, simply because they found as much cloth and other desirable property as they wished to take on that occasion. besides, our neighbor's mules made as large a drove as they could manage. they promised to come again, and we believed they would keep their word. we ascertained that my strategy with the whisky saved us from pursuit. on the next day a messenger arrived, saying all was quiet at the plantation. on the second day, as every thing continued undisturbed, i concluded to return. colburn had gone to vicksburg, and left me to look after our affairs as i thought best. we had discussed the propriety of hiring a white overseer to stay on the plantation during our absence. the prospect of visits from guerrillas convinced us that _we_ should not spend much of our time within their reach. we preferred paying some one to risk his life rather than to risk our own lives. the prospect of getting through the season without serious interruption had become very poor, but we desired to cling to the experiment a little longer. once having undertaken it, we were determined not to give it up hastily. i engaged a white man as overseer, and took him with me to the plantation. the negroes had been temporarily alarmed at the visit of the guerrillas, but, as they were not personally disturbed, their excitement was soon allayed. i found them anxiously waiting my return, and ready to recommence labor on the following day. the ravages of the guerrillas on that occasion were not extensive. they carried off a few bolts of cloth and some smaller articles, after drinking the whisky i had set out for their entertainment. the negroes had carefully concealed the balance of the goods in places where a white man would have much trouble in finding them. in the garden there was a row of bee-hives, whose occupants manifested much dislike for all white men, irrespective of their political sentiments. two unused hives were filled with the most valuable articles on our invoice, and placed at the ends of this row. in a clump of weeds under the bench on which the hives stood, the negroes secreted several rolls of cloth and a quantity of shoes. more shoes and more cloth were concealed in a hen-house, under a series of nests where several innocent hens were "sitting." crockery was placed among the rose-bushes and tomato-vines in the garden; barrels of sugar were piled with empty barrels of great age; and two barrels of molasses had been neatly buried in a freshly-ploughed potato-field. obscure corners in stables and sheds were turned into hiding-places, and the cunning of the negro was well evinced by the successful concealment of many bulky articles. it was about two o'clock in the afternoon when i arrived at the plantation. i immediately recommenced the issue of goods, which was suspended so hastily three days before. from two o'clock until dark the overseer and myself were busily engaged, and distributed about two-thirds of our remaining stock. night came. we suspended the distribution and indulged in supper. after giving the overseer directions for the morrow, i recollected an invitation to spend the night at the house of a friend, three miles away, on the road to natchez. i ordered my horse, and in a few moments the animal was ready, at the door. i told the overseer where i was going, and bade him good-night. "where are you going, mr. k----?" said the negro who had brought out the horse, as he delivered the bridle into my hands. "if any one calls to see me," said i, "you can say i have gone to natchez." with that i touched a spur to my horse and darted off rapidly toward my friend's house. a half-dozen negroes had gathered to assist in saddling and holding the horse. as i sprang into the saddle i heard one of them say: "i don't see why mr. k---- starts off to natchez at this time of night." another negro explained the matter, but i did not hear the explanation. if he gave a satisfactory reason, i think he did better than i could have done. immediately after my departure the overseer went to bed. he had been in bed about fifteen minutes when he heard a trampling of horses' feet around the house. a moment later there was a loud call for the door to be opened. before the overseer could comply with the request, the door was broken in. a dozen men crowded into the house, demanding that a light be struck instantly. as the match gave its first flash of light, one of the visitors said: "well, k----, we've got you this time." "that," said another, "is no k----; that is walter owen, who used to be overseer on stewart's plantation." "what are you doing here?" demanded another. mr. owen, trembling in his night-clothes, replied that he had been engaged to stay there as overseer. "where is k----, and where is colburn?" "mr. colburn hasn't been here since last monday. mr. k---- has gone to natchez." "that's a ---- lie," said one of the guerrillas. "we know he came here at two o'clock this afternoon, and was here at dark. he is somewhere around this house." in vain did owen protest i was not there. every room and every closet in the house was searched. a pile of bagging in a garret was overhauled, in the expectation that i was concealed within it. even the chimneys were not neglected, though i doubt if the smallest of professional sweeps could pass through them. one of the guerrillas opened a piano, to see if i had not taken refuge under its cover. they looked into all possible and impossible nooks and corners, in the hope of finding me somewhere. at last they gave up the search, and contented themselves with promising to catch both colburn and myself before long. "we want to go through those d--d abolitionists, and we will do it, too. they may dodge us for a while, but we will have them by-and-by." not being privileged to "go through" me as they had anticipated, the gentlemanly guerrillas went through the overseer. they took his money, his hat, his pantaloons, and his saddle. his horse was standing in the stable, and they took that also. they found four of our mules, and appropriated them to their own use. they frightened one of the negroes into telling where certain articles were concealed, and were thus enabled to carry off a goodly amount of plunder. they threatened mr. owen with the severest punishment, if he remained any longer on the plantation. they possessed themselves of a "protection" paper which mrs. b. had received from the commander at natchez several months before, and were half inclined to burn her buildings as a punishment for having sought the favor of the yankees. their stay was of only an hour's duration. from our plantation the robbers went to the one next above, where they were more fortunate in finding the lessees at home. they surrounded the house in the same manner they had surrounded ours, and then burst open the doors. the lessees were plundered of every thing in the shape of money, watches, and knives, and were forced to exchange hats and coats with their captors. one of the guerrillas observed an ivory-headed pencil, which he appropriated to his own use, with the remark: "they don't make these things back here in the woods. when they do, i will send this one back." these lessees were entertaining some friends on that evening, and begged the guerrillas to show them some distinction. "d--n your friends," said the guerrilla leader; "i suppose they are yankees?" "yes, they are; we should claim friendship with nobody else." "then we want to see what they have, and go through them if it is worth the while." the strangers were unceremoniously searched. their united contributions to the guerrilla treasury were two watches, two revolvers, three hundred dollars in money, and their hats and overcoats. their horses and saddles were also taken. in consideration of their being guests of the house, these gentlemen were allowed to retain their coats. they were presented with five dollars each, to pay their expenses to natchez. no such courtesy was shown to the lessees of the plantation. on the following morning, i was awakened at an early hour by the arrival of a negro from our plantation, with news of the raid. a little later, mr. owen made his appearance, wearing pantaloons and hat that belonged to one of the negroes. the pantaloons were too small and the hat too large; both had long before seen their best days. he was riding a mule, on which was tied an old saddle, whose cohesive powers were very doubtful. i listened to the story of the raid, and was convinced another visit would be made very soon. i gave directions for the overseer to gather all the remaining mules and take them to natchez for safety. i stopped with my friend until nearly noon, and then accompanied him to natchez. on the next morning, i learned that the guerrillas returned to our plantation while i was at my friend's house. they carried away what they were unable to take on the previous night they needed a wagon for purposes of transportation, and took one of ours, and with it all the mules they could find. our house was stripped of every thing of any value, and i hoped the guerrillas would have no occasion to make subsequent visits. several of our mules were saved by running them into the woods adjoining the plantation. these were taken to natchez, and, for a time, all work on the prospective cotton crop came to an end. for nearly three weeks, the guerrillas had full and free range in the vicinity of the leased plantations. one after another of the lessees were driven to seek refuge at natchez, and their work was entirely suspended. the only plantations undisturbed were those within a mile or two of vidalia. as the son of adjutant-general thomas was interested in one of these plantations, and intimate friends of that official were concerned in others, it was proper that they should be well protected. the troops at vidalia were kept constantly on the look-out to prevent raids on these favored localities. nearly every day i heard of a fresh raid in our neighborhood, though, after the first half-dozen visits, i could not learn that the guerrillas carried away any thing, for the simple reason there was nothing left to steal. some of the negroes remained at home, while others fled to the military posts for protection. the robbers showed no disposition to maltreat the negroes, and repeatedly assured them they should not be disturbed as long as they remained on the plantations and planted nothing but corn. it was declared that cotton should not be cultivated under any circumstances, and the negroes were threatened with the severest punishment if they assisted in planting that article. chapter xl. peculiarities of plantation labor. resuming operation.--difficulties in the way.--a new method of healing the sick.--a thief discovered by his ignorance of arithmetic.--how cotton is planted.--the uses of cotton-seed.--a novel sleeping-room.--constructing a tunnel.--vigilance of a negro sentinel. on the th of march a small post was established at waterproof, and on the following day we recommenced our enterprise at the plantation. we were much crippled, as nearly all our mules were gone, and the work of replacing them could not be done in a day. the market at natchez was not supplied with mules, and we were forced to depend upon the region around us. three days after the establishment of the post we were able to start a half-dozen plows, and within two weeks we had our original force in the field. the negroes that had left during the raid, returned to us. under the superintendence of our overseer the work was rapidly pushed. richmond was back again on our smaller plantation, whence he had fled during the disturbances, and was displaying an energy worthy of the highest admiration. our gangs were out in full force. there was the trash-gang clearing the ground for the plows, and the plow-gang busy at its appropriate work. the corn-gang, with two ox-teams, was gathering corn at the rate of a hundred bushels daily, and the fence-gang was patting the fences in order. the shelling-gang (composed of the oldest men and women) was husking and shelling corn, and putting it in sacks for market. the gardener, the stock-tenders, the dairy-maids, nurserymaids, hog-minders, and stable-keepers were all in their places, and we began to forget our recent troubles in the apparent prospect of success. one difficulty of the new system presented itself. several of the negroes began to feign sickness, and cheat the overseer whenever it could be done with impunity. it is a part of the overseer's duty to go through the quarters every morning, examine such as claim to be sick, determine whether their sickness be real or pretended, and make the appropriate prescriptions. under the old system the pretenders were treated to a liberal application of the lash, which generally drove away all fancied ills. sometimes, one who was really unwell, was most unmercifully flogged by the overseer, and death not unfrequently ensued from this cause. as there was now no fear of the lash, some of the lazily-inclined negroes would feign sickness, and thus be excused from the field. the trouble was not general, but sufficiently prevalent to be annoying. we saw that some course must be devised to overcome this evil, and keep in the field all who were really able to be there. we procured some printed tickets, which the overseer was to issue at the close of each day. there were three colors--red, yellow, and white. the first were for a full day's work, the second for a half day, and the last for a quarter day. on the face of each was the following:-- aquasco & monono plantations. . these tickets were given each day to such as deserved them. they were collected every saturday, and proper credit given for the amount of labor performed during the week. the effect was magical. the day after the adoption of our ticket system our number of sick was reduced one-half, and we had no further trouble with pretended patients. colburn and myself, in our new character of "doctors," found our practice greatly diminished in consequence of our innovations. occasionally it would happen that one who was not really able to work, would go to the field through a fear of diminished wages. one saturday night, a negro whom we had suspected of thievish propensities, presented eight full-day tickets as the representative of his week's work. "did you earn all these this week?" i asked. "yes, sir," was the reply; "mr. owen gave them to me. i worked every day, straight along." "can you tell me on which days he gave you each ticket?" "oh, yes. i knows every one of them," said the negro, his countenance expressing full belief in his ability to locate each ticket. as i held the tickets in my hand, the negro picked them out. "mr. owen gave me this one monday, this one tuesday," and so on, toward the end of the week. as he reached friday, and saw three tickets remaining, when there was only another day to be accounted for, his face suddenly fell. i pretended not to notice his embarrassment. "which one did he give you to-day?" there was a stammer, a hesitation, a slight attempt to explain, and then the truth came out. he had stolen the extra tickets from two fellow-laborers only a few minutes before, and had not reflected upon the difficulties of the situation. i gave him some good advice, required him to restore the stolen tickets, and promise he would not steal any more. i think he kept the promise during the remainder of his stay on the plantation, but am by no means certain. every day, when the weather was favorable, our work was pushed. every mule that could be found was put at once into service, and by the th of april we had upward of five hundred acres plowed and ready for planting. we had planted about eighty acres of corn during the first week of april, and arranged to commence planting cotton on monday, the th of the month. on the saturday previous, the overseer on each plantation organized his planting-gangs, and placed every thing in readiness for active work. the ground, when plowed for cotton, is thrown into a series of ridges by a process technically known as "four-furrowing." two furrows are turned in one direction and two in another, thus making a ridge four or five feet wide. along the top of this ridge a "planter," or "bull-tongue," is drawn by a single mule, making a channel two or three inches in depth. a person carrying a bag of cotton seed follows the planter and scatters the seed into the channel. a small harrow follows, covering the seed, and the work of planting is complete. a planting-gang consists of drivers for the planters, drivers for the harrows, persons who scatter the seed, and attendants to supply them with seed. the seed is drawn from the gin-house to the field in ox-wagons, and distributed in convenient piles of ten or twenty bushels each. cotton-seed has never been considered of any appreciable value, and consequently the negroes are very wasteful in using it. in sowing it in the field, they scatter at least twenty times as much as necessary, and all advice to use less is unheeded. it is estimated that there are forty bushels of seed to every bale of cotton produced. a plantation that sends a thousand bales of cotton to market will thus have forty thousand bushels of seed, for which there was formerly no sale. with the most lavish use of the article, there was generally a surplus at the end of the year. cattle and sheep will eat cotton-seed, though not in large quantities. boiled cotton-seed is fed to hogs on all plantations, but it is far behind corn in nutritious and fattening qualities. cotton-seed is packed around the roots of small trees, where it is necessary to give them warmth or furnish a rich soil for their growth. to some extent it is used as fuel for steam-engines, on places where the machinery is run by steam. when the war deprived the southern cities of a supply of coal for their gasworks, many of them found cotton seed a very good substitute. oil can be extracted from it in large quantities. for several years, the cotton-seed oil works of memphis carried on an extensive business. notwithstanding the many uses to which cotton-seed can be applied, its great abundance makes it of little value. the planting-gang which we started on that monday morning, consisted of five planters and an equal number of harrows, sowers, etc. each planter passed over about six acres daily, so that every day gave us thirty acres of our prospective cotton crop. at the end of the week we estimated we had about a hundred and seventy acres planted. on the following week we increased the number of planters, but soon reduced them, as we found we should overtake the plows earlier than we desired. by the evening of monday, may d, we had planted upward of four hundred acres. a portion of it was pushing out of the ground, and giving promise of rapid growth. during this period the business was under the direct superintendence of our overseers, mr. owen being responsible for the larger plantation, and richmond for the smaller. every day they were visited by colburn or myself--sometimes by both of us--and received directions for the general management, which they carried out in detail. knowing the habits of the guerrillas, we did not think it prudent to sleep in our house at the plantation. those individuals were liable to announce their presence at any hour of the night, by quietly surrounding the house and requesting its inmates to make their appearance. when i spent the night at the plantation, i generally slept on a pile of cotton-seed, in an out-building to which i had secretly conveyed a pair of blankets and a flour-bag. this bag, filled with seed, served as my pillow, and though my bed lacked the elasticity of a spring mattress, it was really quite comfortable. my sleeping-place was at the foot of a huge pile of seed, containing many hundred bushels. one night i amused myself by making a tunnel into this pile in much the same way as a squirrel digs into a hillside. with a minute's warning i could have "hunted my hole," taking my blankets with me. by filling the entrance with seed, i could have escaped any ordinary search of the building. i never had occasion to use my tunnel. generally, however, we staid in waterproof, leaving there early in the morning, taking breakfast at the upper plantation, inspecting the work on both plantations, and, after dinner, returning to waterproof. we could obtain a better dinner at the plantation than waterproof was able to furnish us. strawberries held out until late in the season, and we had, at all times, chickens, eggs, and milk in abundance. whenever we desired roast lamb, our purveyor caused a good selection to be made from our flock. fresh pork was much too abundant for our tastes, and we astonished the negroes and all other natives of that region, by our seemingly jewish propensities. pork and corn-bread are the great staples of life in that hot climate, where one would naturally look for lighter articles of food. once i was detained on the plantation till after dark. as i rode toward waterproof, expecting the negro sentinel to challenge and halt me, i was suddenly brought to a stand by the whistling of a bullet close to my ear, followed by several others at wider range. "who comes there?" "a friend, with the countersign." "if that's so, come in. we thought you was the rebels." as i reached the picket, the corporal of the guard explained that they were on duty for the first time, and did not well understand their business. i agreed with him fully on the latter point. to fire upon a solitary horseman, advancing at a walk, and challenge him afterward, was something that will appear ridiculous in the eyes of all soldiers. the corporal and all his men promised to do better next time, and begged me not to report them at head-quarters. when i reached the center of the town, i found the garrison had been alarmed at the picket firing, and was turning out to repel the enemy. on my assurance that i was the "enemy," the order to fall into line of battle was countermanded. chapter xli. the negroes at a military post. the soldiers at waterproof.--the black man in blue.--mutiny and desertion.--their cause and cure.--tendering a resignation.--no desire for a barber.--seeking protection.--falsehood and truth.--proneness to exaggeration.--amusing estimates. the soldiers forming the garrison at waterproof, at that time, were from a regiment raised by colonel eaton, superintendent of contrabands at vicksburg. they were recruited in the vicinity of vicksburg and milliken's bend, especially for local defense. they made, as the negro everywhere has made, excellent material for the army. easily subordinate, prompt, reliable, and keenly alert when on duty (as their shooting at me will evince), they completely gave the lie to the rebel assertion that the negro would prove worthless under arms. on one point only were they inclined to be mutinous. their home ties were very strong, and their affection for their wives and children could not be overcome at once. it appeared that when this regiment was organized it was expected to remain at milliken's bend, where the families of nearly all the men were gathered. the order transferring them to waterproof was unlooked for, and the men made some complaint. this was soon silenced, but after the regiment had been there three or four weeks, a half-dozen of the men went out of the lines one night, and started to walk to milliken's bend. they were brought back, and, after several days in the guardhouse, returned to duty. others followed their example in attempting to go home, and for a while the camp was in a disturbed condition. desertions were of daily occurrence. it was difficult to make them understand they were doing wrong. the army regulations and the intricacies of military law were unknown to them. they had never studied any of general halleck's translations from the french, and, had they done so, i doubt if they would have been much enlightened. none of them knew what "desertion" meant, nor the duties of a soldier to adhere to his flag at all times. all intended to return to the post after making a brief visit to their families. most of them would request their comrades to notify their captains that they would only be absent a short time. two, who succeeded in eluding pursuit, made their appearance one morning as if nothing had happened, and assured their officers that others would shortly be back again. gradually they came to understand the wickedness of desertion, or absence without leave, but this comprehension of their obligations was not easily acquired. a captain, commanding a company at waterproof, told me an amusing story of a soldier "handing in his resignation." as the captain was sitting in front of his quarters, one of his men approached him, carrying his musket and all his accoutrements. without a word the man laid his entire outfit upon the ground, in front of the captain, and then turned to walk away. "come back here," said the officer; "what do you mean by this?" "i'se tired of staying here, and i'se going home," was the negro's answer, and he again attempted to move off. "come back here and pick these things up," and the captain spoke in a tone that convinced the negro he would do well to obey. the negro told his story. he was weary of the war; he had been four weeks a soldier; he wanted to see his family, and had concluded to go home. if the captain desired it, he, would come back in a little while, but he was going home then, "_any how_." the officer possessed an amiable disposition, and explained to the soldier the nature of military discipline. the latter was soon convinced he had done wrong, and returned without a murmur to his duty. does any soldier, who reads this, imagine himself tendering his resignation in the above manner with any prospect of its acceptance? when the first regiment of colored volunteers was organized in kansas, it was mainly composed of negroes who had escaped from slavery in missouri. they were easily disciplined save upon a single point, and on this they were very obstinate. many of the negroes in missouri, as in other parts of the south, wear their hair, or wool, in little knots or braids. they refused to submit to a close shearing, and threatened to return to their masters rather than comply with the regulation. some actually left the camp and went home. the officers finally carried their point by inducing some free negroes in leavenworth, whose heads were adorned with the "fighting cut," to visit the camp and tell the obstinate ones that long locks were a badge of servitude. the negroes on our plantation, as well as elsewhere, had a strong desire to go to waterproof to see the soldiers. every sunday they were permitted to go there to attend church, the service being conducted by one of their own color. they greatly regretted that the soldiers did not parade on that day, as they missed their opportunities for witnessing military drills. to the negroes from plantations in the hands of disloyal owners, the military posts were a great attraction, and they would suffer all privations rather than return home. some of them declared they would not go outside the lines under any consideration. we needed more assistance on our plantation, but it was next to impossible to induce negroes to go there after they found shelter at the military posts. dread of danger and fondness for their new life were their reasons for remaining inside the lines. a portion were entirely idle, but there were many who adopted various modes of earning their subsistence. at natchez, vicksburg, and other points, dealers in fruit, coffee, lemonade, and similar articles, could be found in abundance. there were dozens of places where washing was taken in, though it was not always well done. wood-sawing, house-cleaning, or any other kind of work requiring strength, always found some one ready to perform it. many of those who found employment supported themselves, while those who could not or would not find it, lived at the expense of government. the latter class was greatly in the majority. i have elsewhere inserted the instructions which are printed in every "plantation record," for the guidance of overseers in the olden time. "never trust a negro," is the maxim given by the writer of those instructions. i was frequently cautioned not to believe any statements made by negroes. they were charged with being habitual liars, and entitled to no credence whatever. mrs. b. constantly assured me the negroes were great liars, and i must not believe them. this assurance would be generally given when i cited them in support of any thing she did not desire to approve. _per contrâ_, she had no hesitation in referring to the negroes to support any of her statements which their testimony would strengthen. this was not altogether feminine weakness, as i knew several instances in which white persons of the sterner sex made reference to the testimony of slaves. the majority of southern men refuse to believe them on all occasions; but there are many who refer to them if their statements are advantageous, yet declare them utterly unworthy of credence when the case is reversed. i have met many negroes who could tell falsehoods much easier than they could tell the truth. i have met others who saw no material difference between truth and its opposite; and i have met many whose statements could be fully relied upon. during his whole life, from the very nature of the circumstances which, surround him, the slave is trained in deception. if he did not learn to lie it would be exceedingly strange. it is my belief that the negroes are as truthful as could be expected from their education. white persons, under similar experience and training, would not be good examples for the young to imitate. the negroes tell many lies, but all negroes are not liars. many white persons tell the truth, but i have met, in the course of my life, several men, of the caucasian race, who never told the truth unless by accident. i found in the plantation negroes a proneness to exaggeration, in cases where their fears or desires were concerned. one day, a negro from the back country came riding rapidly to our plantation, declaring that the woods, a mile distant, were "full of rebels," and asking where the yankee soldiers were. i questioned him for some time. when his fears were quieted, i ascertained that he had seen three mounted men, an hour before, but did not know what they were, or whether armed or not. when i took the plantations, mrs. b. told me there were twenty bales of cotton already picked; the negroes had told her so. when i surveyed the place on the first day of my occupation, the negroes called my attention to the picked cotton, of which they thought there were twenty or twenty-five bales. with my little experience in cotton, i felt certain there would be not more than seven bales of that lot. when it was passed through the gin and pressed, there were but five bales. we wished to plant about fifty acres of corn on the larger plantation. there was a triangular patch in one corner that we estimated to contain thirty acres. the foreman of the plow-gang, who had lived twenty years on the place, thought there were about sixty acres. he was surprised when we found, by actual measurement, that the patch contained twenty-eight acres. another spot, which he thought contained twenty acres, measured less than ten. doubtless the man's judgment had been rarely called for, and its exercise, to any extent, was decidedly a new sensation. any thing to which the negroes were unaccustomed became the subject of amusing calculations. the "hog-minder" could estimate with considerable accuracy the weight of a hog, either live or dressed. when i asked him how much he supposed his own weight to be, he was entirely lost. on my demanding an answer, he thought it might be three hundred pounds. a hundred and sixty would not have been far from the real figure. incorrect judgment is just as prevalent among ignorant whites as among negroes, though with the latter there is generally a tendency to overestimate. where negroes make wrong estimates, in three cases out of four they will be found excessive. with whites the variation will be diminutive as often as excessive. in judging of numbers of men, a column of troops, for example, both races are liable to exaggerate, the negro generally going beyond the pale-face. fifty mounted men may ride past a plantation. the white inhabitants will tell you a hundred soldiers have gone by, while the negroes will think there were two or three hundred. i was often surprised at the ability of the negroes to tell the names of the steamboats plying on the river. none of the negroes could read, but many of them would designate the different boats with great accuracy. they recognized the steamers as they would recognize the various trees of the forest. when a new boat made its appearance they inquired its name, and forgot it very rarely. on one occasion a steamer came in sight, on her way up the river. before she was near enough for me to make out the name on her side, one of the negroes declared it was the _laurel hill_. his statement proved correct. it was worthy of note that the boat had not passed that point for nearly a year previous to that day. chapter xlii. the end of the experiment. the nature of our "protection."--trade following the flag.--a fortunate journey.--our last visit.--inhumanity of the guerrillas.--driving negroes into captivity.--killing an overseer.--our final departure.--plantations elsewhere. we did not look upon the post at waterproof as a sure protection. there was no cavalry to make the promised patrol between waterproof and the post next below it, or to hunt down any guerrillas that might come near. a few of the soldiers were mounted on mules and horses taken from the vicinity, but they were not effective for rapid movements. it was understood, and semi-officially announced, that the post was established for the protection of government plantations. the commandant assured me he had no orders to that effect. he was placed there to defend the post, and nothing else. we were welcome to any protection his presence afforded, but he could not go outside the limits of the town to make any effort in our behalf. there was a store at waterproof which was doing a business of two thousand dollars daily. every day the wives, brothers, or sisters of men known to belong to the marauding bands in the vicinity, would come to the town and make any purchases they pleased, frequently paying for them in money which the guerrillas had stolen. a gentleman, who was an intimate friend of general thomas, was one of the proprietors of this store, and a son of that officer was currently reported to hold an interest in it. after a time the ownership was transferred to a single cotton speculator, but the trading went on without hinderance. this speculator told me the guerrilla leader had sent him a verbal promise that the post should not be disturbed or menaced so long as the store remained there. similar scenes were enacted at nearly all the posts established for the "protection" of leased plantations. trading stores were in full operation, and the amount of goods that reached the rebels and their friends was enormous. i have little doubt that this course served to prolong the resistance to our arms along the mississippi river. if we had stopped all commercial intercourse with the inhabitants, we should have removed the inducement for rebel troops to remain in our vicinity. as matters were managed, they kept close to our lines at all the military posts between cairo and baton rouge, sometimes remaining respectfully quiet, and at others making occasional raids within a thousand yards of our pickets. the absence of cavalry, and there being no prospect that any would arrive, led us to believe that we could not long remain unmolested. we were "in for it," however, and continued to plow and plant, trusting to good fortune in getting safely through. our misfortune came at last, and brought our free-labor enterprise to an untimely end. as i stated in the previous chapter, colburn and myself made daily visits to the plantation, remaining there for dinner, and returning to waterproof in the afternoon. on monday, may d, we made our usual visit, and returned to the post. a steamer touched there, on its way to natchez, just after our return, and we accepted the invitation of her captain to go to that place. our journey to natchez was purely from impulse, and without any real or ostensible business to call us away. it proved, personally, a very fortunate journey. on tuesday evening, a neighbor of ours reached natchez, bringing news that the guerrillas had visited our plantation on that day. i hastened to waterproof by the first boat, and found our worst fears were realized. thirty guerrillas had surrounded our house at the hour we were ordinarily at dinner. they called our names, and commanded us to come out and be shot. the house was empty, and as there was no compliance with the request, a half-dozen of the party, pistols in hand, searched the building, swearing they would kill us on the spot. had we been there, i have no doubt the threat would have been carried out. failing to find us, they turned their attention to other matters. they caught our overseer as he was attempting to escape toward waterproof. he was tied upon his horse, and guarded until the party was ready to move. the teams were plowing in the field at the time the robbers made their appearance. some of the negroes unloosed the mules from the plows, mounted them, and fled to waterproof. others, who were slow in their movements, were captured with the animals. such of the negroes as were not captured at once, fled to the woods or concealed themselves about the buildings. many of the negroes on the plantation were personally known to some of the guerrillas. in most cases these negroes were not disturbed. others were gathered in front of the house, where they were drawn up in line and securely tied. some of them were compelled to mount the captured mules and ride between their captors. several children were thrown upon the mules, or taken by the guerrillas on their own horses, where they were firmly held. no attention was paid to the cries of the children or the pleadings of their mothers. some of the latter followed their children, as the guerrillas had, doubtless, expected. in others, the maternal instinct was less than the dread of captivity. among those taken was an infant, little more than eight months old. delaying but a few moments, the captors and the captives moved away. nineteen of our negroes were carried off, of whom ten were children under eleven years of age. of the nineteen, five managed to make their escape within a few miles, and returned home during the night. one woman, sixty-five years old, who had not for a long time been able to do any work, was among those driven off. she fell exhausted before walking three miles, and was beaten by the guerrillas until she lay senseless by the roadside. it was not for several hours that she recovered sufficiently to return to the plantation and tell the story of barbarity. from a plantation adjoining ours, thirty negroes were carried away at the same time. of these, a half-dozen escaped and returned. the balance, joined to the party from our own plantation, formed a mournful procession. i heard of them at many points, from residents of the vicinity. these persons would not admit that the guerrillas were treating the negroes cruelly. those who escaped had a frightful story to tell. they had been beaten most barbarously with whips, sticks, and frequently with the butts of pistols; two or three were left senseless by the roadside, and one old man had been shot, because he was too much exhausted to go further. i learned, a few days later, that the captured negroes were taken to winnsboro; a small town in the interior, and there sold to a party of texas traders. from our plantation the guerrillas stole twenty-four mules at the time of their visit, and an equal number from our neighbors. these were sold to the same party of traders that purchased the negroes, and there was evidently as little compunction at speculating in the one "property" as in the other. our overseer, mr. owen, had been bound upon his horse and taken away. this i learned from the negroes remaining on the plantation. i made diligent inquiries of parties who arrived from the direction taken by the guerrillas, to ascertain, if possible, where he had been carried. one person assured me, positively, that he saw mr. owen, a prisoner, twenty miles away. mrs. owen and five children were living at waterproof, and, of course, were much alarmed on hearing of his capture. it was on thursday, two days after the raid, that i visited the plantation. our lower plantation had not been disturbed, but many of the negroes were gone, and all work was suspended. it was of no use to attempt to prosecute the planting enterprise, and we immediately prepared to abandon the locality. the remaining negroes were set at work to shell the corn already gathered. as fast as shelled, it was taken to waterproof for shipment to market. the plows were left rusting in the furrows, where they were standing at the moment the guerrillas appeared. the heaps of cotton-seed and the implements used by the planting-gang remained in _statu quo_. the cotton we planted was growing finely. to leave four hundred acres thus growing, and giving promise of a fine harvest, was to throw away much labor, but there was no alternative. on saturday, four days after the raid, the corporal of a scouting party came to our plantation and said the body of a white man had been found in the woods a short distance away. i rode with him to the spot he designated. the mystery concerning the fate of our overseer was cleared up. the man was murdered within a thousand yards of the house. from the main road leading past our plantation, a path diverged into the forest. this path was taken by some of the guerrillas in their retreat. following it two hundred yards, and then turning a short distance to the left, i found a small cypress-tree, not more than thirty feet high. one limb of this tree drooped as it left the trunk, and then turned upward. the lowest part of the bend of this limb was not much higher than a tall man's head. it was just such a tree, and just such a limb, as a party bent on murder would select for hanging their victim. i thought, and still think, that the guerrillas turned aside with the design of using the rope as the instrument of death. under this tree lay the remains of our overseer. the body was fast decomposing. a flock of buzzards was gathered around, and was driven away with difficulty. they had already begun their work, so that recognition under different circumstances would not have been easy. the skull was detached from the body, and lay with the face uppermost. a portion of the scalp adhered to it, on which a gray lock was visible. a bit of gray beard was clinging to the chin. in the centre of the forehead there was a perforation, evidently made by a pistol-bullet. death must have been instantaneous, the pistol doing the work which the murderers doubtless intended to accomplish by other means. the body had been stripped of all clothing, save a single under-garment. within a dozen yards lay a pair of old shoes, and close by their side a tattered and misshapen hat. the shoes and hat were not those which our overseer had worn, but were evidently discarded by the guerrillas when they appropriated the apparel of their victim. i caused a grave to be dug, and the remains placed in a rude coffin and buried. if a head-stone had been obtainable, i would have given the locality a permanent designation. the particulars of the murder we were never able to ascertain. three days later we abandoned the plantation. we paid the negroes for the work they had done, and discharged them from further service. those that lived on the plantation previous to our going there, generally remained, as the guerrillas had assured them they would be unmolested if they cultivated no cotton. a few of them went to natchez, to live near their "missus." those whom we had hired from other localities scattered in various directions. some went to the contraband home at davis's bend, others to the negro quarters at natchez, others to plantations near vidalia, and a few returned to their former homes. our "family" of a hundred and sixty persons was thus broken up. we removed the widow and children of our overseer to natchez, and purchased for them the stock and goodwill of a boarding-house keeper. we sent a note to the leader of the guerrilla band that manifested such a desire to "go through" us, and informed him that we could be found in st. louis or new york. before the end of may we passed vicksburg on our journey due north. most of the plantations in the vicinity of natchez, vicksburg, and milliken's bend were given up. probably a dozen lessees were killed, and the same number carried to texas. near vicksburg, the chivalric guerrillas captured two lessees, and tortured them most barbarously before putting them to death. they cut off the ears of one man, and broke his nose by a blow from a club. thus mutilated, he was compelled to walk three or four miles. when he fell, fainting from loss of blood, he was tied to a tree, and the privilege of shooting him was sold at auction. they required his companion to witness these brutalities. whenever he turned away his eyes, his captors pressed the point of a saber into his cheek. finally, they compelled him to take a spade and dig his own grave. when it was finished, they stripped him of his clothing, and shot him as he stood by the brink of the newly-opened trench. blanchard and robinson, two lessees near natchez, both of them residents of boston, were murdered with nearly the same fiendishness as exhibited in the preceding case. their fate was for some time unknown. it was at length ascertained from a negro who was captured at the same time, but managed to escape. that "slavery makes barbarians" would seem to be well established by the conduct of these residents of louisiana. in the vicinity of baton rouge and new orleans there were but few guerrillas, and the plantations generally escaped undisturbed. in all localities the "army-worm" made its appearance in july and august, and swept away almost the entire crop. many plantations that were expected to yield a thousand bales did not yield a hundred, and some of them made less than ten. the appearance of this destructive worm was very sudden. on some plantations, where the cotton was growing finely and without a trace of blight, the fields, three days later, appeared as if swept by fire. there was consequently but little cotton made during the season. the possibility of producing the great staples of the south by free labor was fully established. beyond this there was little accomplished. my four months of cotton-planting was an experience i shall never regret, though i have no desire to renew it under similar circumstances. agriculture is generally considered a peaceful pursuit. to the best of my recollection i found it quite the reverse. for the benefit of those who desire to know the process of cotton culture, from the planting season to the picking season, i give the following extract from an article written by colonel t. b. thorpe, of louisiana, several years ago. after describing the process of preparing the ground and planting the seed, colonel thorpe says:-- if the weather be favorable, the young plant is discovered making its way through in six or ten days, and "the scraping" of the crop, as it is termed, now begins. a light plow is again called into requisition, which is run along the drill, throwing the _earth away from the plant;_ then come the laborers with their hoes, who dexterously cut away the superabundant shoots and the intruding weeds, and leave a single cotton-plant in little hills, generally two feet apart. of all the labors of the field, the dexterity displayed by the negroes in "scraping cotton" is most calculated to call forth the admiration of the novice spectator. the hoe is a rude instrument, however well made and handled; the young cotton-plant is as delicate as vegetation can be, and springs up in lines of solid masses, composed of hundreds of plants. the field-hand, however, will single one delicate shoot from the surrounding multitude, and with his rude hoe he will trim away the remainder with all the boldness of touch of a master, leaving the incipient stalk unharmed and alone in its glory; and at nightfall you can look along the extending rows, and find the plants correct in line, and of the required distance of separation from each other. the planter, who can look over his field in early spring, and find his cotton "cleanly scraped" and his "stand" good, is fortunate; still, the vicissitudes attending the cultivation of the crop have only commenced. many rows, from the operations of the "cut-worm," and from multitudinous causes unknown, have to be replanted, and an unusually late frost may destroy all his labors, and compel him to commence again. but, if no untoward accident occurs, in two weeks after the "scraping," another hoeing takes place, at which time the plow throws the furrow _on to the roots_ of the now strengthening plant, and the increasing heat of the sun also justifying the sinking of the roots deeper in the earth. the pleasant month of may is now drawing to a close, and vegetation of all kinds is struggling for precedence in the fields. grasses and weeds of every variety, with vines and wild flowers, luxuriate in the newly-turned sod, and seem to be determined to choke out of existence the useful and still delicately-grown cotton. it is a season of unusual industry on the cotton plantations, and woe to the planter who is outstripped in his labors, and finds himself "overtaken by the grass." the plow tears up the surplus vegetation, and the hoe tops it off in its luxuriance. the race is a hard one, but industry conquers; and when the third working-over of the crop takes place, the cotton-plant, so much cherished and favored, begins to overtop its rivals in the fields--begins to cast _a chilling shade of superiority_ over its now intimidated groundlings, and commences to reign supreme. through the month of july, the crop is wrought over for the last time; the plant, heretofore of slow growth, now makes rapid advances toward perfection. the plow and hoe are still in requisition. the "water furrows" between the cotton-rows are deepened, leaving the cotton growing as it were upon à slight ridge; this accomplished, the crop is prepared for the "rainy season," should it ensue, and so far advanced that it is, under any circumstances, beyond the control of art. nature must now have its sway. the "cotton bloom," under the matured sun of july, begins to make its appearance. the announcement of the "first blossom" of the neighborhood is a matter of general interest; it is the unfailing sign of the approach of the busy season of fall; it is the evidence that soon the labor of man will, under a kind providence, receive its reward. it should perhaps here be remarked, that the color of cotton in its perfection is precisely that of the blossom--a beautiful light, but warm cream-color. in buying cotton cloth, the "bleached" and "unbleached" are perceptibly different qualities to the most casual observer; but the dark hues and harsh look of the "unbleached domestic" comes from the handling of the artisan and the soot of machinery. if cotton, pure as it looks in the field, could be wrought into fabrics, they would have a brilliancy and beauty never yet accorded to any other material in its natural or artificial state. there cannot be a doubt but that, in the robes of the ancient royal mexicans and peruvians, this brilliant and natural gloss of cotton was preserved, and hence the surpassing value it possessed in the eyes of cavaliers accustomed to the fabrics of the splendid court of ferdinand and isabella. the cotton-blossom is exceedingly delicate in its organization. it is, if in perfection, as we have stated, of a beautiful cream-color. it unfolds in the night, remains in its glory through the morn--at meridian it has begun to decay. the day following its birth it has changed to a deep red, and ere the sun goes down, its petals have fallen to the earth, leaving inclosed in the capacious calyx a scarcely perceptible germ. this germ, in its incipient and early stages, is called "a form;" in its more perfected state, "a boll." the cotton-plant, like the orange, has often on one stalk every possible growth; and often, on the same limb, may sometimes be seen the first-opened blossom, and the bolls, from their first development as "forms," through every size, until they have burst open and scattered their rich contents to the ripening winds. the appearance of a well-cultivated cotton-field, if it has escaped the ravages of insects and the destruction of the elements, is of singular beauty. although it may be a mile in extent, still it is as carefully wrought as is the mold of the limited garden of the coldest climate. the cotton-leaf is of a delicate green, large and luxuriant; the stalk indicates rapid growth, yet it has a healthy and firm look. viewed from a distance, the perfecting plant has a warm and glowing expression. the size of the cotton-plant depends upon the accident of climate and soil. the cotton of tennessee bears very little resemblance to the luxuriant growth of alabama and georgia; but even in those favored states the cotton-plant is not everywhere the same, for in the rich bottom-lands it grows to a commanding size, while in the more barren regions it is an humble shrub. in the rich alluvium of the mississippi the cotton will tower beyond the reach of the tallest "picker," and a single plant will contain hundreds of perfect "bolls;" in the neighboring "piney-woods" it lifts its humble head scarcely above the knee, and is proportionably meager in its produce of fruit. the growing cotton is particularly liable to accidents, and suffers immensely in "wet seasons" from the "rust" and "rot." the first named affects the leaves, giving them a brown and deadened tinge, and frequently causes them to crumble away. the "rot" attacks the "boll." it commences by a black spot on the rind, which, increasing, seems to produce fermentation and decay. worms find their way to the roots; the caterpillar eats into the "boll" and destroys the staple. it would be almost impossible to enumerate all the evils the cotton-plant is heir to, all of which, however, sink into nothingness compared with the scourge of the "army-worm." the moth that indicates the advent of the army-worm has a quaker-like simplicity in its light, chocolate-colored body and wings, and, from its harmless appearance, would never be taken for the destroyer of vast fields of luxuriant and useful vegetation. the little, and, at first, scarcely to be perceived caterpillars that follow the appearance of these moths, can absolutely be seen to grow and swell beneath your eyes as they crawl from leaf to leaf. day by day you can see the vegetation of vast fields becoming thinner and thinner, while the worm, constantly increasing in size, assumes at last an unctuous appearance most disgusting to behold. arrived at maturity, a few hours only are necessary for these modern locusts to eat up all living vegetation that comes in their way. leaving the localities of their birth, they will move from place to place, spreading a desolation as consuming as fire in their path. all efforts to arrest their progress or annihilate them prove unavailing. they seem to spring out of the ground, and fall from the clouds; and the more they are tormented and destroyed, the more perceptible, seemingly, is their power. we once witnessed the invasion of the army-worm, as it attempted to pass from a desolated cotton-field to one untouched. between these fields was a wide ditch, which had been deepened, to prove a barrier to the onward march of the worm. down the perpendicular sides of the trench the caterpillars rolled in untold millions, until its bottom, for nearly a mile in extent, was a foot or two deep in a living mass of animal life. to an immense piece of unhewn timber was attached a yoke of oxen, and, as this heavy log was drawn through the ditch, it seemed absolutely to float on a crushed mass of vegetable corruption. the following day, under the heat of a tropical sun, the stench arising from this decaying mass was perceptible the country round, giving a strange and incomprehensible notion of the power and abundance of this destroyer of the cotton crop. the change that has been effected by the result of the rebellion, will not be confined to the social system alone. with the end of slavery there will be a destruction of many former applications of labor. innovations have already been made, and their number will increase under the management of enterprising men. in louisiana several planters were using a "drill" for depositing the cotton-seed in the ground. the labor of planting is reduced more than one-half, and that of "scraping" is much diminished. the saving of seed is very great--the drill using about a tenth of the amount required under the old system. one man is endeavoring to construct a machine that will pick cotton from the stalks, and is confident he will succeed. should he do so, his patent will be of the greatest value. owners of plantations have recently offered a present of ten thousand dollars to the first patentee of a successful machine of this character. chapter xliii. the mississippi and its peculiarities. length of the great river, and the area it drains.--how itasca lake obtained its name.--the bends of the mississippi.--curious effect upon titles to real estate.--a story of napoleon.--a steamboat thirty-five years under water.--the current and its variations.--navigating cotton and corn fields.--reminiscences of the islands. as railways are to the east, so are the rivers to the west. the mississippi, with its tributaries, drains an immense region, traversed in all directions by steamboats. from the gulf of mexico one can travel, by water to the rocky mountains, or to the alleghanies, at pleasure. it is estimated there are twenty thousand miles of navigable streams which find an outlet past the city of new orleans. the mississippi valley contains nearly a million and a quarter square miles, and is one of the most fertile regions on the globe. to a person born and reared in the east, the mississippi presents many striking features. above its junction with the missouri, its water is clear and its banks are broken and picturesque. after it joins the missouri the scene changes. the latter stream is of a chocolate hue, and its current is very rapid. all its characteristics are imparted to the combined stream. the mississippi becomes a rapid, tortuous, seething torrent. it loses its blue, transparent water, and takes the complexion of the missouri. thus "it goes unvexed to the sea." there is a story concerning the origin of the name given to the source of the mississippi, which i do not remember to have seen in print. a certain lake, which had long been considered the head of the great river, was ascertained by an exploring party to have no claim to that honor. a new and smaller lake was discovered, in which the mississippi took its rise. the explorers wished to give it an appropriate name. an old _voyageur_ suggested that they make a name, by coining a word. "will some of you learned ones tell me," said he, "what is the latin word for _true_?" "_veritas_," was the response. "well, now, what is the latin for _head_" "_caput_, of course." "now," suggested the _voyageur_, "write the two words together, by syllables." a strip of birch bark was the tablet on which "_ver-i-tas-ca-put_" was traced. "read it out," was his next request. the five syllables were read. "now, drop the first and last syllables, and you have a name for this lake." in the indian vernacular, "mississippi" is said to signify "great water." "missouri," according to some authorities, is the indian for "mud river," a most felicitous appellation. it should properly belong to the entire river from st. louis to the gulf, as that stream carries down many thousand tons of mud every year. during the many centuries that the mississippi has been sweeping on its course, it has formed that long point of land known as the delta, and shallowed the water in the gulf of mexico for more than two hundred miles. flowing from north to south, the river passes through all the varieties of climate. the furs from the rocky mountains and the cereals of wisconsin and minnesota are carried on its bosom to the great city which stands in the midst of orange groves and inhales the fragrance of the magnolia. from january to june the floods of its tributaries follow in regular succession, as the opening spring loosens the snows that line their banks. the events of the war have made the mississippi historic, and familiarized the public with some of its peculiarities. its tortuosity is well known. the great bend opposite vicksburg will be long remembered by thousands who have never seen it. this bend is eclipsed by many others. at "terrapin neck" the river flows twenty-one miles, and gains only three hundred yards. at "raccourci bend" was a peninsula twenty-eight miles around and only half a mile across. several years ago a "cut-off" was made across this peninsula, for the purpose of shortening the course of the river. a small ditch was cut, and opened when the flood was highest. an old steamboat-man once told me that he passed the upper end of this ditch just as the water was let in. four hours later, as he passed the lower end, an immense torrent was rushing through the channel, and the tall trees were falling like stalks of grain before a sickle. within a week the new channel became the regular route for steamboats. similar "cut-offs" have been made at various points along the river, some of them by artificial aid, and others entirely by the action of the water. the channel of the mississippi is the dividing line of the states between which it flows, and the action of the river often changes the location of real estate. there is sometimes a material difference in the laws of states that lie opposite each other. the transfer of property on account of a change in the channel occasionally makes serious work with titles. i once heard of a case where the heirs to an estate lost their title, in consequence of the property being transferred from mississippi to louisiana, by reason of the course of the river being changed. in the former state they were heirs beyond dispute. in the latter their claim vanished into thin air. once, while passing up the mississippi, above cairo, a fellow-passenger called my attention to a fine plantation, situated on a peninsula in missouri. the river, in its last flood, had broken across the neck of the peninsula. it was certain the next freshet would establish the channel in that locality, thus throwing the plantation into illinois. unless the negroes should be removed before this event they would become free. "you see, sir," said my informant, "that this great river is an abolitionist." the alluvial soil through which the mississippi runs easily yields to the action of the fierce current. the land worn away at one point is often deposited, in the form of a bar or tongue of land, in the concave of the next bend. the area thus added becomes the property of whoever owns the river front. many a man has seen his plantation steadily falling into the mississippi, year by year, while a plantation, a dozen miles below, would annually find its area increased. real estate on the banks of the mississippi, unless upon the bluffs, has no absolute certainty of permanence. in several places, the river now flows where there were fine plantations ten or twenty years ago. some of the towns along the lower mississippi are now, or soon will be, towns no more. at waterproof, louisiana, nearly the entire town-site, as originally laid out, has been washed away. in the four months i was in its vicinity, more than forty feet of its front disappeared. eighteen hundred and seventy will probably find waterproof at the bottom of the mississippi. napoleon, arkansas, is following in the wake of waterproof. if the distance between them were not so great, their sands might mingle. in view of the character napoleon has long enjoyed, the friends of morality will hardly regret its loss. the steamboat captains have a story that a quiet clergyman from new england landed at napoleon, one morning, and made his way to the hotel. he found the proprietor superintending the efforts of a negro, who was sweeping the bar-room floor. noticing several objects of a spherical form among the _débris_ of the bar-room, the stranger asked their character. "them round things? them's _eyes_. the boys amused themselves a little last night. reckon there's 'bout a pint-cup full of eyes this mornin'. sometimes we gets a quart or so, when business is good." curious people were those natives of arkansas, ten or twenty years ago. schools were rare, and children grew up with little or no education. if there was a "barbarous civilization" anywhere in the united states, it was in arkansas. in , a man was hung at napoleon for reading _the tribune_. it is an open question whether the character of the paper or the man's ability to read was the reason for inflicting the death penalty. the current of the mississippi causes islands to be destroyed in some localities and formed in others. a large object settling at the bottom of the stream creates an eddy, in which the floating sand is deposited. under favorable circumstances an island will form in such an eddy, sometimes of considerable extent. about the year , a steamboat, laden with lead, was sunk in mid-channel several miles below st. louis. an island formed over this steamer, and a growth of cotton-wood trees soon covered it. these trees grew to a goodly size, and were cut for fuel. the island was cleared, and for several successive years produced fine crops of corn. about , there was a change in the channel of the river, and the island disappeared. after much search the location of the sunken steamer was ascertained. by means of a diving-bell, its cargo of lead, which had been lying thirty-five years under earth and under water, was brought to light. the entire cargo was raised, together with a portion of the engines. the lead was uninjured, but the engines were utterly worthless after their long burial. the numerous bends of the mississippi are of service in rendering the river navigable. if the channel were a straight line from cairo to new orleans, the current would be so strong that no boat could stem it. in several instances, where "cut-offs" have been made, the current at their outlets is so greatly increased that the opposite banks are washed away. new bends are thus formed that may, in time, be as large as those overcome. distances have been shortened by "cut-offs," but the mississippi displays a decided unwillingness to have its length curtailed. from st. louis to the red river the current of the mississippi is about three miles an hour. it does not flow in a steady, unbroken volume. the surface is constantly ruffled by eddies and little whirlpools, caused by the inequalities of the bottom of the river, and the reflection of the current from the opposite banks. as one gazes upon the stream, it half appears as if heated by concealed fires, and ready to break into violent ebullition. the less the depth, the greater the disturbance of the current. so general is this rule, that the pilots judge of the amount of water by the appearance of the surface. exceptions occur where the bottom, below the deep water, is particularly uneven. from its source to the mouth of red river, the mississippi is fed by tributaries. below that point, it throws off several streams that discharge no small portion of its waters into the gulf of mexico. these streams, or "bayous," are narrow and tortuous, but generally deep, and navigable for ordinary steamboats. the "atchafalaya" is the first, and enters the gulf of mexico at the bay of the same name. at one time it was feared the mississippi might leave its present bed, and follow the course of this bayou. steps were taken to prevent such an occurrence. bayou plaquemine, bayou sara, bayou la fourche, bayou goula, and bayou teche, are among the streams that drain the great river. these bayous form a wonderful net-work of navigable waters, throughout western louisiana. if we have reason to be thankful that "great rivers run near large cities in all parts of the world," the people of louisiana should be especially grateful for the numerous natural canals in that state. these streams are as frequent and run in nearly as many directions as railways in massachusetts. during its lowest stages, the mississippi is often forty feet "within its banks;" in other words, the surface is forty feet below the level of the land which borders the river. it rises with the freshets, and, when "bank full," is level with the surrounding lowland. it does not always stop at this point; sometimes it rises two, four, six, or even ten feet above its banks. the levees, erected at immense cost, are designed to prevent the overflowing of the country on such occasions. when the levees become broken from any cause, immense areas of country are covered with water. plantations, swamps, forests, all are submerged. during the present year ( ) thousands of square miles have been flooded, hundreds of houses swept away, and large amounts of property destroyed. during the freshet of ' , general grant opened the levee at providence, louisiana, in the hope of reaching bayou mason, and thence taking his boats to red river. after the levee was cut an immense volume of water rushed through the break. anywhere else it would have been a goodly-sized river, but it was of little moment by the side of the mississippi. a steamboat was sent to explore the flooded region. i saw its captain soon after his return. "i took my boat through the cut," said he, "without any trouble. we drew nearly three feet, but there was plenty of water. we ran two miles over a cotton-field, and could see the stalks as our wheels tore them up. then i struck the plank road, and found a good stage of water for four miles, which took me to the bayou. i followed this several miles, until i was stopped by fallen trees, when i turned about and came back. coming back, i tried a cornfield, but found it wasn't as good to steam in as the cotton-field." a farmer in the eastern or middle states would, doubtless, be much astonished at seeing a steamboat paddling at will in his fields and along his roads. a similar occurrence in louisiana does not astonish the natives. steamers have repeatedly passed over regions where corn or cotton had been growing six months before. at st. louis, in , small boats found no difficulty in running from east st. louis to caseyville, nine miles distant. in making these excursions they passed over many excellent farms, and stopped at houses whose owners had been driven to the upper rooms by the water. above cairo, the islands in the mississippi are designated by names generally received from the early settlers. from cairo to new orleans the islands are numbered, the one nearest the former point being "one," and that nearest new orleans "one hundred and thirty-one." island number ten is historic, being the first and the last island in the great river that the rebels attempted to fortify. island number twenty-eight was the scene of several attacks by guerrillas upon unarmed transports. other islands have an equally dishonorable reputation. fifty years ago several islands were noted as the resorts of robbers, who conducted an extensive and systematic business. island number sixty-five (if i remember correctly) was the rendezvous of the notorious john a. murrell and his gang of desperadoes. chapter xliv. steamboating on the mississippi in peace and war. attempts to obstruct the great river.--chains, booms, and batteries.--a novelty in piloting.--travel in the days before the rebellion.--trials of speed.--the great race.--travel during the war.--running a rebel battery on the lower mississippi.--incidents of the occasion.--comments on the situation. no engineer has been able to dam the mississippi, except by the easy process which john phenix adopted on the yuma river. general pillow stretched a chain from columbus, kentucky, to the opposite shore, in order to prevent the passage of our gun-boats. the chain broke soon after being placed in position. near forts jackson and philip, below new orleans, the rebels constructed a boom to oppose the progress of farragut's fleet. a large number of heavy anchors, with the strongest cables, were fixed in the river. for a time the boom answered the desired purpose. but the river rose, drift-wood accumulated, and the boom at length went the way of all things confederate. farragut passed the forts, and appeared before new orleans; "picayune butler came to town," and the great city of the south fell into the hands of the all-conquering yankees. before steam power was applied to the propulsion of boats, the ascent of the mississippi was very difficult. from new orleans to st. louis, a boat consumed from two to four months' time. sails, oars, poles, and ropes attached to trees, were the various means of stemming the powerful current. long after steamboats were introduced, many flat-boats, loaded with products of the northern states, floated down the river to a market. at new orleans, boats and cargoes were sold, and the boatmen made their way home on foot. until twenty years ago, the boatmen of the mississippi were almost a distinct race. at present they are nearly extinct. in the navigation of the mississippi and its tributaries, the pilot is the man of greatest importance. he is supposed to be thoroughly familiar with the channel of the river in all its windings, and to know the exact location of every snag or other obstruction. he can generally judge of the depth of water by the appearance of the surface, and he is acquainted with every headland, forest, house, or tree-top, that marks the horizon and tells him how to keep his course at night. professional skill is only acquired by a long and careful training. shortly after the occupation of little rock by general steele, a dozen soldiers passed the lines, without authority, and captured a steamboat eighteen miles below the city. steam was raised, when the men discovered they had no pilot. one of their number hit upon a plan as novel as it was successful. the arkansas was very low, having only three feet of water in the channel. twenty-five able-bodied negroes were taken from a neighboring plantation, stretched in a line across the river, and ordered to wade against the current. by keeping their steamer, which drew only twenty inches, directly behind the negro who sank the deepest, the soldiers took their prize to little rock without difficulty. for ten years previous to the outbreak of the rebellion, steamboating on the mississippi was in the height of its glory. where expense of construction and management were of secondary consideration, the steamboats on the great river could offer challenge to the world. it was the boast of their officers that the tables of the great passenger-boats were better supplied than those of the best hotels in the south. on many steamers, claret, at dinner, was free to all. fruit and ices were distributed in the evening, as well as choice cups of coffee and tea. on one line of boats, the cold meats on the supper-table were from carefully selected pieces, cooked and cooled expressly for the cenatory meal. bands of music enlivened the hours of day, and afforded opportunity for dancing in the evening. spacious cabins, unbroken by machinery; guards of great width, where cigars and small-talk were enjoyed; well-furnished and well-lighted state-rooms, and tables loaded with all luxuries of the place and season, rendered these steamers attractive to the traveler. passengers were social, and partook of the gayety around them. men talked, drank, smoked, and sometimes gambled, according to their desires. the ladies practiced no frigid reserve toward each other, but established cordial relations in the first few hours of each journey. among the many fine and fast steamers on the western waters, there was necessarily much competition in speed. every new boat of the first class was obliged to give an example of her abilities soon after her appearance. every owner of a steamboat contends that _his_ boat is the best afloat. i have rarely been on board a mississippi steamer of any pretensions whose captain has not assured me, "she is the fastest thing afloat, sir. nothing can pass her. we have beaten the--, and the--, and the--, in a fair race, sir." to a stranger, seeking correct information, the multiplicity of these statements is perplexing. in there was a race from new orleans to louisville, between the steamers _eclipse_ and _a.l. shotwell_, on which seventy thousand dollars were staked by the owners of the boats. an equal amount was invested in "private bets" among outside parties. the two boats were literally "stripped for the race." they were loaded to the depth that would give them the greatest speed, and their arrangements for taking fuel were as complete as possible. barges were filled with wood at stated points along the river, and dropped out to midstream as the steamers approached. they were taken alongside, and their loads of wood transferred without any stoppage of the engines of the boats. at the end of the first twenty-four hours the _eclipse_ and _shotwell_ were side by side, three hundred and sixty miles from new orleans. the race was understood to be won by the _eclipse_, but was so close that the stakes were never paid. in the palmy days of steamboating, the charges for way-travel were varied according to the locality. below memphis it was the rule to take no single fare less than five dollars, even if the passenger were going but a half-dozen miles. along red river the steamboat clerks graduated the fare according to the parish where the passenger came on board. the more fertile and wealthy the region, the higher was the price of passage. travelers from the cotton country paid more than those from the tobacco country. those from the sugar country paid more than any other class. with few exceptions, there was no "ticket" system. passengers paid their fare at any hour of their journey that best suited them. every man was considered honest until he gave proof to the contrary. there was an occasional jeremy diddler, but his operations were very limited. when the rebellion began, the old customs on the mississippi were swept away. the most rigid "pay-on-entering" system was adopted, and the man who could evade it must be very shrewd. the wealth along the great river melted into thin air. the _bonhommie_ of travel disappeared, and was succeeded by the most thorough selfishness in collective and individual bodies. scrambles for the first choice of state-rooms, the first seat at table, and the first drink at the bar, became a part of the new _régime_. the ladies were little regarded in the hurly-burly of steamboat life. men would take possession of ladies' chairs at table, and pay no heed to remonstrances. i have seen an officer in blue uniform place his muddy boots on the center-table in a cabin full of ladies, and proceed to light a cigar. the captain of the boat suggested that the officer's conduct was in violation of the rules of propriety, and received the answer: "i have fought to help open the mississippi, and, by ----, i am going to enjoy it." the careless display of the butt of a revolver, while he gave this answer, left the pleasure-seeker master of the situation. i am sorry to say that occurrences of a similar character were very frequent in the past three years. with the end of the war it is to be hoped that the character of mississippi travel will be improved. in may, , the rebels blockaded the mississippi at memphis. in the same month the national forces established a blockade at cairo. in july, ' , the capture of vicksburg and port hudson removed the last rebel obstruction. the _imperial_ was the first passenger boat to descend the river, after the reopening of navigation. up to within a few months of the close of the rebellion, steamers plying on the river were in constant, danger of destruction by rebel batteries. the rebel secretary of war ordered these batteries placed along the mississippi, in the hope of stopping all travel by that route. his plan was unsuccessful. equally so was the barbarous practice of burning passenger steamboats while in motion between landing-places. on transports fired upon by guerrillas (or rebels), about a hundred persons were killed and as many wounded. a due proportion of these were women and children. on steamboats burned by rebel incendiaries, probably a hundred and fifty lives were lost. this does not include the dead by the terrible disaster to the _sultana_. it is supposed that this boat was blown up by a rebel torpedo in her coal. it was my fortune to be a passenger on the steamer _von phul_, which left new orleans for st. louis on the evening of december th, . i had been for some time traveling up and down the mississippi, and running the gauntlet between rebel batteries on either shore. there was some risk attending my travels, but up to that time i escaped unharmed. on the afternoon of the th, when the boat was about eight miles above bayou sara, i experienced a new sensation. seated at a table in the cabin, and busily engaged in writing, i heard a heavy crash over my head, almost instantly followed by another. my first thought was that the chimneys or some part of the pilot-house had fallen, and i half looked to see the roof of the cabin tumbling in. i saw the passengers running from the cabin, and heard some one shout: "the guerrillas are firing on us." i collected my writing materials and sought my state-room, where i had left mr. colburn, my traveling companion, soundly asleep a few minutes before. he was sitting on the edge of his berth, and wondering what all the row was about. the crash that startled me had awakened him. he thought the occurrence was of little moment, and assented to my suggestion, that we were just as safe there as anywhere else on the boat. gallantry prevented our remaining quiet. there were several ladies on board, and it behooved us to extend them what protection we could. we sought them, and "protected" them to the best of our united ability. their place of refuge was between the cabin and the wheel-house, opposite the battery's position. a sheet of wet paper would afford as much resistance to a paving-stone as the walls of a steamboat cabin to a six-pound shot. as we stood among the ladies, two shells passed through the side of the cabin, within a few inches of our heads. the shots grew fewer in number, and some of them dropped in the river behind us. just as we thought all alarm was over, we saw smoke issuing from the cabin gangway. then, some one shouted, "_the boat is on fire_!" dropping a lady who evinced a disposition to faint, i entered the cabin. a half-dozen men were there before me, and seeking the locality of the fire. i was first to discover it. a shell, in passing through a state-room, entered a pillow, and scattered the feathers through the cabin. a considerable quantity of these feathers fell upon a hot stove, and the smoke and odor of their burning caused the alarm. the ladies concluded not to faint. three minutes after the affair was over, they were as calm as ever. the rebels opened fire when we were abreast of their position, and did not cease until we were out of range. we were fifteen minutes within reach of their guns. [illustration: running batteries on the von phul.] our wheels seemed to turn very slowly. no one can express in words the anxiety with which we listened, after each shot, for the puffing of the engines. so long as the machinery was uninjured, there was no danger of our falling into rebel hands. but with our engines disabled, our chances for capture would be very good. as the last shot fell astern of the boat and sent up a column of spray, we looked about the cabin and saw that no one had been injured. a moment later came the announcement from the pilot-house: "captain gorman is killed!" i ascended to the hurricane deck, and thence to the pilot-house. the pilot, with his hat thrown aside and his hair streaming in the wind, stood at his post, carefully guiding the boat on her course. the body of the captain was lying at his feet. another man lay dying, close by the opening in which the wheel revolved. the floor was covered with blood, splinters, glass, and the fragments of a shattered stove. one side of the little room was broken in, and the other side was perforated where the projectiles made their exit. the first gun from the rebels threw a shell which entered the side of the pilot-house, and struck the captain, who was sitting just behind the pilot. death must have been instantaneous. a moment later, a "spherical-case shot" followed the shell. it exploded as it struck the wood-work, and a portion of the contents entered the side of the bar-keeper of the boat. in falling to the floor he fell against the wheel. the pilot, steering the boat with one hand, pulled the dying man from the wheel with the other, and placed him by the side of the dead captain. though, apparently, the pilot was as cool and undisturbed as ever, his face was whiter than usual. he said the most trying moment of all was soon after the first shots were fired. wishing to "round the bend" as speedily as possible, he rang the bell as a signal to the engineer to check the speed of one of the wheels. the signal was not obeyed, the engineers having fled to places of safety. he rang the bell once more. he shouted down the speaking-tube, to enforce compliance with his order. there was no answer. the engines were caring for themselves. the boat must be controlled by the rudder alone. with a dead man and a dying man at his feet, with the rebel shot and shell every moment perforating the boat or falling near it, and with no help from those who should control the machinery, he felt that his position was a painful one. we were out of danger. an hour later we found the gun-boat _neosho_, at anchor, eight miles further up the stream. thinking we might again be attacked, the commander of the _neosho_ offered to convoy us to red river. we accepted his offer. as soon as the _neosho_ raised sufficient steam to enable her to move, we proceeded on our course. order was restored on the _von phul_. most of the passengers gathered in little groups, and talked about the recent occurrence. i returned to my writing, and colburn gave his attention to a book. with the gun-boat at our side, no one supposed there was danger of another attack. a half-hour after starting under convoy of the gun-boat, the rebels once more opened fire. they paid no attention to the _neosho_, but threw all their projectiles at the _von phul_. the first shell passed through the cabin, wounding a person near me, and grazing a post against which colburn and myself were resting our chairs. this shell was followed by others in quick succession, most of them passing through the cabin. one exploded under the portion of the cabin directly beneath my position. the explosion uplifted the boards with such force as to overturn my table and disturb the steadiness of my chair. i dreaded splinters far more than i feared the pitiless iron. i left the cabin, through which the shells were pouring, and descended to the lower deck. it was no better there than above. we were increasing the distance between ourselves and the rebels, and the shot began to strike lower down. nearly every shot raked the lower deck. a loose plank on which i stood was split for more than half its length, by a shot which struck my foot when its force was nearly spent. though the skin was not abraded, and no bones were broken, i felt the effect of the blow for several weeks. i lay down upon the deck. a moment after i had taken my horizontal position, two men who lay against me were mortally wounded by a shell. the right leg of one was completely severed below the knee. this shell was the last projectile that struck the forward portion of the boat. with a handkerchief loosely tied and twisted with a stick, i endeavored to stop the flow of blood from the leg of the wounded man. i was partially successful, but the stoppage of blood could not save the man's life. he died within the hour. forty-two shot and shell struck the boat. the escape-pipe was severed where it passed between two state-rooms, and filled the cabin with steam. the safe in the captain's office was perforated as if it had been made of wood. a trunk was broken by a shell, and its contents were scattered upon the floor. splinters had fallen in the cabin, and were spread thickly upon the carpet. every person who escaped uninjured had his own list of incidents to narrate. out of about fifty persons on board the _von phul_ at the time of this occurrence, twelve were killed or wounded. one of the last projectiles that struck the boat, injured a boiler sufficiently to allow the escape of steam. in ten minutes our engines moved very feebly. we were forced to "tie up" to the eastern bank of the river. we were by this time out of range of the rebel battery. the _neosho_ had opened fire, and by the time we made fast to the bank, the rebels were in retreat. the _neosho_ ceased firing and moved to our relief. before she reached us, the steamer _atlantic_ came in sight, descending the river. we hailed her, and she came alongside. immediately on learning our condition, her captain offered to tow the _von phul_ to red river, twenty miles distant. there we could lie, under protection of the gun-boats, and repair the damages to our machinery. we accepted his offer at once. i can hardly imagine a situation of greater helplessness, than a place on board a western passenger-steamer under the guns of a hostile battery. a battle-field is no comparison. on solid earth the principal danger is from projectiles. you can fight, or, under some circumstances, can run away. on a mississippi transport, you are equally in danger of being shot. added to this, you may be struck by splinters, scalded by steam, burned by fire, or drowned in the water. you cannot fight, you cannot run away, and you cannot find shelter. with no power for resistance or escape, the sense of danger and helplessness cannot be set aside. a few weeks after the occurrence just narrated, the steamer _brazil_, on her way from vicksburg to natchez, was fired upon by a rebel battery near rodney, mississippi. the boat was struck a half-dozen times by shot and shell. more than a hundred rifle-bullets were thrown on board. three persons were killed and as many wounded. among those killed on the _brazil_, was a young woman who had engaged to take charge of a school for negro children at natchez. the rebel sympathizers at natchez displayed much gratification at her death. on several occasions i heard some of the more pious among them declare that the hand of god directed the fatal missile. they prophesied violent or sudden deaths to all who came to the south on a similar mission. the steamer _black hawk_ was fired upon by a rebel battery at the mouth of red river. the boat ran aground in range of the enemy's guns. a shell set her pilot-house on fire, and several persons were killed in the cabin. strange to say, though aground and on fire under a rebel battery, the _black hawk_ was saved. by great exertions on the part of officers and crew, the fire was extinguished after the pilot-house was burned away. a temporary steering apparatus was rigged, and the boat moved from the shoal where she had grounded. she was a full half hour within range of the rebel guns. chapter xlv. the army correspondent. the beginning and the end.--the lake erie piracy.--a rochester story.--the first war correspondent,--napoleon's policy.--waterloo and the rothschilds.--journalistic enterprise in the mexican war.--the crimea and the east indian rebellion.--experiences at the beginning of hostilities.--the tender mercies of the insurgents.--in the field.--adventures in missouri and kentucky.--correspondents in captivity.--how battle-accounts were written.--professional complaints. having lain aside my pen while engaged in planting cotton and entertaining guerrillas, i resumed it on coming north, after that experiment was finished. setting aside my capture in new hampshire, narrated in the first chapter, my adventures in the field commenced in missouri in the earliest campaign. singularly enough, they terminated on our northern border. in the earlier days of the rebellion, it was the jest of the correspondents, that they would, some time, find occasion to write war-letters from the northern cities. the jest became a reality in the siege of cincinnati. during that siege we wondered whether it would be possible to extend our labors to detroit or mackinaw. in september, , the famous "lake erie piracy" occurred. i was in cleveland when the news of the seizure of the _philo parsons_ was announced by telegraph, and at once proceeded to detroit. the capture of the _parsons_ was a very absurd movement on the part of the rebels, who had taken refuge in canada. the original design was, doubtless, the capture of the gun-boat _michigan_, and the release of the prisoners on johnson's island. the captors of the _parsons_ had confederates in sandusky, who endeavored to have the _michigan_ in a half-disabled condition when the _parsons_ arrived. this was not accomplished, and the scheme fell completely through. the two small steamers, the _parsons_ and _island queen_, were abandoned after being in rebel hands only a few hours. the officers of the _parsons_ told an interesting story of their seizure. mr. ashley, the clerk, said the boat left detroit for sandusky at her usual hour. she had a few passengers from detroit, and received others at various landings. the last party that came on board brought an old trunk bound with ropes. the different parties did not recognize each other, not even when drinking at the bar. when near kelly's island in lake erie, the various officers of the steamer were suddenly seized. the ropes on the trunk were cut, the lid flew open, and a quantity of revolvers and hatchets was brought to light. the pirates declared they were acting in the interest of the "confederacy." they relieved mr. ashley of his pocket-book and contents, and appropriated the money they found in the safe. those of the passengers who were not "in the ring," were compelled to contribute to the representatives of the rebel government. this little affair was claimed to be "belligerent" throughout. at kelly's island the passengers and crew were liberated on parole not to take up arms against the confederacy until properly exchanged. after cruising in front of sandusky, and failing to receive signals which they expected, the pirates returned to canada with their prize. one of their "belligerent" acts was to throw overboard the cargo of the _parsons_, together with most of her furniture. at sandwich, near detroit, they left the boat, after taking ashore a piano and other articles. her majesty's officer of customs took possession of this stolen property, on the ground that it was brought into canada without the proper permits from the custom-house. it was subsequently recovered by its owners. the st. albans raid, which occurred a few months later, was a similar act of belligerency. it created more excitement than the lake erie piracy, but the questions involved were practically the same. that the rebels had a right of asylum in canada no one could deny, but there was a difference of opinion respecting the proper limits to those rights. the rebels hoped to involve us in a controversy with england, that should result in the recognition of the confederacy. this was frequently avowed by some of the indiscreet refugees. after the capture of the _parsons_ and the raid upon st. albans, the canadian authorities sent a strong force of militia to watch the frontier. a battalion of british regulars was stationed at windsor, opposite detroit, early in , but was removed to the interior before the raids occurred. the authorities assigned as a reason for this removal, the desire to concentrate their forces at some central point. the real reason was the rapid desertion of their men, allured by the high pay and opportunity of active service in our army. in two months the battalion at windsor was reduced fifteen per cent, by desertions alone. shortly after the st. albans raid, a paper in rochester announced a visit to that city by a cricket-club from toronto. the paragraph was written somewhat obscurely, and jestingly spoke of the toronto men as "raiders." the paper reached new york, and so alarmed the authorities that troops were at once ordered to rochester and other points on the frontier. the misapprehension was discovered in season to prevent the actual moving of the troops. * * * * * with the suppression of the rebellion the mission of the war correspondent was ended. let us all hope that his services will not again be required, in this country, at least, during the present century. the publication of the reports of battles, written on the field, and frequently during the heat of an engagement, was a marked feature of the late war. "our special correspondent" is not, however, an invention belonging to this important era of our history. his existence dates from the days of the greeks and romans. if homer had witnessed the battles which he described, he would, doubtless, be recognized as the earliest war correspondent. xenophon was the first regular correspondent of which we have any record. he achieved an enduring fame, which is a just tribute to the man and his profession. during the middle ages, the crusades afforded fine opportunities for the war correspondents to display their abilities. the prevailing ignorance of those times is shown in the absence of any reliable accounts of the holy wars, written by journalists on the field. there was no daily press, and the mail communications were very unreliable. down to the nineteenth century, xenophon had no formidable competitors for the honors which attached to his name. the elder napoleon always acted as his own "special." his bulletins, by rapid post to paris, were generally the first tidings of his brilliant marches and victories. his example was thought worthy of imitation by several military officials during the late rebellion. rear-admiral porter essayed to excel napoleon in sending early reports of battles for public perusal. "i have the honor to inform the department," is a formula with which most editors and printers became intimately acquainted. the admiral's veracity was not as conspicuous as his eagerness to push his reports in print. at waterloo there was no regular correspondent of the london press. several volunteer writers furnished accounts of the battle for publication, whose accuracy has been called in question. wellington's official dispatches were outstripped by the enterprise of a london banking-house. the rothschilds knew the result of the battle eight hours before wellington's courier arrived. carrier pigeons were used to convey the intelligence. during the rebellion, wall street speculators endeavored to imitate the policy of the rothschilds, but were only partially successful. in the war between mexico and the united states, "our special" was actively, though not extensively, employed. on one occasion, _the herald_ obtained its news in advance of the official dispatches to the government. the magnetic telegraph was then unknown. horse-flesh and steam were the only means of transmitting intelligence. if we except the new orleans _picayune, the herald_ was the only paper represented in mexico during the campaigns of scott and taylor. during the conflict between france and england on the one hand, and russia on the other, the journals of london and paris sent their representatives to the crimea. the london _times,_ the foremost paper of europe, gave russell a reputation he will long retain. the "thunderer's" letters from the camp before sebastopol became known throughout the civilized world. a few years later, the east indian rebellion once more called the london specials to the field. in giving the history of the campaigns in india, _the times_ and its representative overshadowed all the rest. just before the commencement of hostilities in the late rebellion, the leading journals of new york were well represented in the south. each day these papers gave their readers full details of all important events that transpired in the south. the correspondents that witnessed the firing of the southern heart had many adventures. some of them narrowly escaped with their lives. at richmond, a crowd visited the spottswood house, with the avowed intention of hanging a _herald_ correspondent, who managed to escape through a back door of the building. a representative of _the tribune_ was summoned before the authorities at charleston, on the charge of being a federal spy. he was cleared of the charge, but advised to proceed north as early as possible. when he departed, governor pickens requested him, as a particular favor, to ascertain the name of _the tribune_ correspondent, on arrival in new york, and inform him by letter. he promised to do so. on reaching the north, he kindly told governor pickens who _the tribune_ correspondent was. a _times_ correspondent, passing through harper's ferry, found himself in the hands of "the chivalry," who proposed to hang him on the general charge of being an abolitionist. he was finally released without injury, but at one time the chances of his escape were small. the new orleans correspondent of _the tribune_ came north on the last passenger-train from richmond to aquia creek. one of _the herald's_ representatives was thrown into prison by jeff. davis, but released through the influence of pope walker, the rebel secretary of war. another remained in the south until all regular communication was cut off. he reached the north in safety by the line of the "underground railway." when the rebellion was fairly inaugurated, the various points of interest were at once visited by the correspondents of the press. wherever our armies operated, the principal dailies of new york and other cities were represented. washington was the center of gravity around which the eastern correspondents revolved. as the army advanced into virginia, every movement was carefully chronicled. the competition between the different journals was very great. in the west the field was broader, and the competition, though active, was less bitter than along the potomac. in the early days, st. louis, cairo, and louisville were the principal western points where correspondents were stationed. as our armies extended their operations, the journalists found their field of labor enlarged. st. louis lost its importance when the rebels were driven from missouri. for a long time cairo was the principal rendezvous of the journalists, but it became less noted as our armies pressed forward along the mississippi. every war-correspondent has his story of experiences in the field. gathering the details of a battle in the midst of its dangers; sharing the privations of the camp and the fatigues of the march; riding with scouts, and visiting the skirmishers on the extreme front; journeying to the rear through regions infested by the enemy's cavalry, or running the gauntlet of rebel batteries, his life was far from monotonous. frequently the correspondents acted as volunteer aids to generals during engagements, and rendered important service. they often took the muskets of fallen soldiers and used them to advantage. on the water, as on land, they sustained their reputation, and proved that the hand which wielded the pen was able to wield the sword. they contributed their proportion of killed, wounded, and captured to the casualties of the war. some of them accepted commissions in the army and navy. during the campaign of general lyon in missouri, the journalists who accompanied that army were in the habit of riding outside the lines to find comfortable quarters for the night. frequently they went two or three miles ahead of the entire column, in order to make sure of a good dinner before the soldiers could overtake them. one night two of them slept at a house three miles from the road which the army was following. the inmates of the mansion were unaware of the vicinity of armed "yankees," and entertained the strangers without question. though a dozen rebel scouts called at the house before daylight, the correspondents were undisturbed. after that occasion they were more cautious in their movements. in kentucky, during the advance of kirby smith upon cincinnati, the correspondents of _the gazette_ and _the commercial_ were captured by the advance-guard of rebel cavalry. their baggage, money, and watches became the property of their captors. the correspondents were released, and obliged to walk about eighty miles in an august sun. a short time later, mr. shanks and mr. westfall, correspondents of _the herald,_ were made acquainted with john morgan, in one of the raids of that famous guerrilla. the acquaintance resulted in a thorough depletion of the wardrobes of the captured gentlemen. in virginia, mr. cadwallader and mr. fitzpatrick, of _the herald_, and mr. crounse, of _the times_, were captured by mosby, and liberated after a brief detention and a complete relief of every thing portable and valuable, down to their vests and pantaloons. even their dispatches were taken from them and forwarded to richmond. a portion of these reports found their way into the richmond papers. stonewall jackson and stuart were also fortunate enough to capture some of the representatives of the press. at one time there were five correspondents of _the herald_ in the hands of the rebels. one of them, mr. anderson, was held more than a year. he was kept for ten days in an iron dungeon, where no ray of light could penetrate. i have elsewhere alluded to the capture of messrs. richardson and browne, of _the tribune_, and mr. colburn, of _the world_, in front of vicksburg. the story of the captivity and perilous escape of these representatives of _the tribune_ reveals a patience, a fortitude, a daring, and a fertility of resource not often excelled. some of the most graphic battle-accounts of the war were written very hastily. during the three days' battle at gettysburg, _the herald_ published each morning the details of the fighting of the previous day, down to the setting of the sun. this was accomplished by having a correspondent with each corps, and one at head-quarters to forward the accounts to the nearest telegraph office. at antietam, _the tribune_ correspondent viewed the battle by day, and then hurried from the field, writing the most of his account on a railway train. from fort donelson the correspondents of _the world_ and _the tribune_ went to cairo, on a hospital boat crowded with wounded. their accounts were written amid dead and suffering men, but when published they bore little evidence of their hasty preparation. i once wrote a portion of a letter at the end of a medium-sized table. at the other end of the table a party of gamblers, with twenty or thirty spectators, were indulging in "chuck-a-luck." i have known dispatches to be written on horseback, but they were very brief, and utterly illegible to any except the writer. much of the press correspondence during the war was written in railway cars and on steamboats, and much on camp-chests, stumps, or other substitutes for tables. i have seen a half-dozen correspondents busily engaged with their letters at the same moment, each of them resting his port-folio on his knee, or standing upright, with no support whatever. on one occasion a fellow-journalist assured me that the broad chest of a slumbering _confrere_ made an excellent table, the undulations caused by the sleeper's breathing being the only objectionable feature. sometimes a correspondent reached the end of a long ride so exhausted as to be unable to hold a pen for ten consecutive minutes. in such case a short-hand writer was employed, when accessible, to take down from rapid dictation the story of our victory or defeat. under all the disadvantages of time, place, and circumstances, of physical exhaustion and mental anxiety, it is greatly to the correspondents' credit that they wrote so well. battle-accounts were frequently published that would be no mean comparison to the studied pen-pictures of the famous writers of this or any other age. they were extensively copied by the press of england and the continent, and received high praise for their vivid portrayal of the battle-field and its scenes. apart from the graphic accounts of great battles, they furnished materials from which the historians will write the enduring records of the war. with files of the new york dailies at his side, an industrious writer could compile a history of the rebellion, complete in all its details. it was a general complaint of the correspondents that their profession was never officially recognized so as to give them an established position in the army. they received passes from head-quarters, and could generally go where they willed, but there were many officers who chose to throw petty but annoying restrictions around them. as they were generally situated throughout the army, they were, to some extent, dependent upon official courtesies. of course, this dependence was injurious to free narration or criticism when any officer had conducted improperly. if there is ever another occasion for the services of the war correspondent on our soil, it is to be hoped congress will pass a law establishing a position for the journalists, fixing their status in the field, surrounding them with all necessary restrictions, and authorizing them to purchase supplies and forage from the proper departments. during the crimean war, the correspondents of the french and english papers had a recognized position, where they were subject to the same rules, and entitled to the same privileges, as the officers they accompanied. when sir george brown, at eupatoria, forbade any officer appearing in public with unshaven chin, he made no distinction in favor of the members of the press. notwithstanding their fierce competition in serving the journals they represented, the correspondents with our army were generally on the most friendly terms with each other. perhaps this was less the case in the east than in the west, where the rivalry was not so intense and continuous. in the armies in the mississippi valley, the representatives of competing journals frequently slept, ate, traveled, and smoked together, and not unfrequently drank from the same flask with equal relish. in the early days, "room ," in the st. charles hotel at cairo, was the resort of all the correspondents at that point. there they laid aside their professional jealousies, and passed their idle hours in efforts for mutual amusement. on some occasions the floor of the room would be covered, in the morning, with a confused mass of boots, hats, coats, and other articles of masculine wear, out of which the earliest riser would array himself in whatever suited his fancy, without the slightest regard to the owner. "forty-five" was the neutral ground where the correspondents planned campaigns for all the armies of the union, arranged the downfall of the rebellion, expressed their views of military measures and military men, exulted over successes, mourned over defeats, and toasted in full glasses the flag that our soldiers upheld. since the close of the war, many of the correspondents have taken positions in the offices of the journals they represented in the field. some have established papers of their own in the south, and a few have retired to other civil pursuits. some are making professional tours of the southern states and recording the status of the people lately in rebellion. _the herald_ has sent several of its _attachés_ to the european capitals, and promises to chronicle in detail the next great war in the old world. chapter xlvi. the present condition of the south. scarcity of the population,--fertility of the country.--northern men already in the south.--kansas emigrants crossing missouri.--change of the situation.--present disadvantages of emigration.--feeling of the people.--property-holders in richmond.--the sentiment in north carolina.--south carolina chivalry.--the effect of war.--prospect of the success of free labor.--trade in the south. the suppression of the rebellion, and the restoration of peace throughout the entire south, have opened a large field for emigration. the white population of the southern states, never as dense as that of the north, has been greatly diminished in consequence of the war. in many localities more than half the able-bodied male inhabitants have been swept away, and everywhere the loss of men is severely felt. the breaking up of the former system of labor in the cotton and sugar states will hinder the progress of agriculture for a considerable time, but there can be little doubt of its beneficial effect in the end. the desolation that was spread in the track of our armies will be apparent for many years. the south will ultimately recover from all her calamities, but she will need the energy and capital of the northern states to assist her. during the progress of the war, as our armies penetrated the fertile portions of the "confederacy," many of our soldiers cast longing eyes at the prospective wealth around them. "when the war is over we will come here to live, and show these people something they never dreamed of," was a frequent remark. men born and reared in the extreme north, were amazed at the luxuriance of southern verdure, and wondered that the richness of the soil had not been turned to greater advantage. it is often said in new england that no man who has once visited the fertile west ever returns to make his residence in the eastern states. many who have explored the south, and obtained a knowledge of its resources, will be equally reluctant to dwell in the regions where their boyhood days were passed. while the war was in progress many northern men purchased plantations on the islands along the southern coast, and announced their determination to remain there permanently. after the capture of new orleans, business in that city passed into the hands of northerners, much to the chagrin of the older inhabitants. when the disposition of our army and the topography of the country made the lower portion of louisiana secure against rebel raids, many plantations in that locality were purchased outright by northern speculators. i have elsewhere shown how the cotton culture was extensively carried on by "yankees," and that failure was not due to their inability to conduct the details of the enterprise. ten years ago, emigration to kansas was highly popular. aid societies were organized in various localities, and the territory was rapidly filled. political influences had much to do with this emigration from both north and south, and many implements carried by the emigrants were not altogether agricultural in their character. the soil of kansas was known to be fertile, and its climate excellent. the territory presented attractions to settlers, apart from political considerations. but in going thither the emigrants crossed a region equally fertile, and possessing superior advantages in its proximity to a market. no state in the union could boast of greater possibilities than missouri, yet few travelers in search of a home ventured to settle within her limits. the reason was apparent. missouri was a slave state, though bounded on three sides by free soil. few northern emigrants desired to settle in the midst of slavery. the distinction between the ruling and laboring classes was not as great as in the cotton states, but there was a distinction beyond dispute. whatever his blood or complexion, the man who labored with his hands was on a level, or nearly so, with the slave. thousands passed up the missouri river, or crossed the northern portion of the state, to settle in the new territory of kansas. when political influences ceased, the result was still the same. the hannibal and st. joseph railway threw its valuable lands into the market, but with little success. with the suppression of the late rebellion, and the abolition of slavery in missouri, the situation is materially changed. from illinois, ohio, and indiana, there is a large emigration to missouri. i was recently informed that forty families from a single county in ohio had sent a delegation to missouri to look out suitable locations, either of wild land or of farms under cultivation. there is every prospect that the state will be rapidly filled with a population that believes in freedom and in the dignity of labor. she has an advantage over the other ex-slave states, in lying west of the populous regions of the north. hitherto, emigration has generally followed the great isothermal lines, as can be readily seen when we study the population of the western states. northern ohio is more new englandish than southern ohio, and the parallel holds good in northern and southern illinois. there will undoubtedly be a large emigration to missouri in preference to the other southern states, but our whole migratory element will not find accommodation in her limits. the entire south will be overrun by settlers from the north. long ago, _punch_ gave advice to persons about to marry. it was all comprised in the single word, "don't." whoever is in haste to emigrate to the south, would do well to consider, for a time, this brief, but emphatic counsel. no one should think of leaving the northern states, until he has fairly considered the advantages and disadvantages of the movement. if he departs with the expectation of finding every thing to his liking, he will be greatly disappointed at the result. there will be many difficulties to overcome. the people now residing in the late rebellious states are generally impoverished. they have little money, and, in many cases, their stock and valuables of all kinds have been swept away. their farms are often without fences, and their farming-tools worn out, disabled, or destroyed. their system of labor is broken up. the negro is a slave no longer, and the transition from bondage to freedom will affect, for a time, the producing interests of the south. though the rebellion is suppressed, the spirit of discontent still remains in many localities, and will retard the process of reconstruction. the teachings of slavery have made the men of the south bitterly hostile to those of the north. this hostility was carefully nurtured by the insurgent leaders during the rebellion, and much of it still exists. in many sections of the south, efforts will be made to prevent immigration from the north, through a fear that the old inhabitants will lose their political rights. at the time i am writing, the owners of property in richmond are holding it at such high rates as to repel northern purchasers. letters from that city say, the residents have determined to sell no property to northern men, when they can possibly avoid it. no encouragement is likely to be given to northern farmers and artisans to migrate thither. a scheme for taking a large number of european emigrants directly from foreign ports to richmond, and thence to scatter them throughout virginia, is being considered by the virginia politicians. the wealthy men in the old dominion, who were secessionists for the sake of secession, and who gave every assistance to the rebel cause, are opposed to the admission of northern settlers. they may be unable to prevent it, but they will be none the less earnest in their efforts. this feeling extends throughout a large portion of virginia, and exists in the other states of the south. its intensity varies in different localities, according to the extent of the slave population in the days before the war, and the influence that the radical men of the south have exercised. while virginia is unwilling to receive strangers, north carolina is manifesting a desire to fill her territory with northern capital and men. she is already endeavoring to encourage emigration, and has offered large quantities of land on liberal terms. in newbern, wilmington, and raleigh, the northern element is large. newbern is "yankeeized" as much as new orleans. wilmington bids fair to have intimate relations with new york and boston. an agency has been established at raleigh, under the sanction of the governor of the state, to secure the immediate occupation of farming and mining lands, mills, manufactories, and all other kinds of real estate. northern capital and sinew is already on its way to that region. the great majority of the north carolinians approve the movement, but there are many persons in the state who equal the virginians in their hostility to innovations. in south carolina, few beside the negroes will welcome the northerner with open arms. the state that hatched the secession egg, and proclaimed herself at all times first and foremost for the perpetuation of slavery, will not exult at the change which circumstances have wrought. her barnwells, her mcgraths, her rhetts, and her hamptons declared they would perish in the last ditch, rather than submit. some of them have perished, but many still remain. having been life-long opponents of northern policy, northern industry, and northern enterprise, they will hardly change their opinions until taught by the logic of events. means of transportation are limited. on the railways the tracks are nearly worn out, and must be newly laid before they can be used with their old facility. rolling stock is disabled or destroyed. much of it must be wholly replaced, and that which now remains must undergo extensive repairs. depots and machine-shops have been burned, and many bridges are bridges no longer. on the smaller rivers but few steamboats are running, and these are generally of a poor class. wagons are far from abundant, and mules and horses are very scarce. the wants of the armies have been supplied with little regard to the inconvenience of the people. corn-mills, saw-mills, gins, and factories have fed the flames. wherever our armies penetrated they spread devastation in their track. many portions of the south were not visited by a hostile force, but they did not escape the effects of war. southern georgia and florida suffered little from the presence of the northern armies, but the scarcity of provisions and the destitution of the people are nearly as great in that region as elsewhere. until the present indignation at their defeat is passed away, many of the southern people will not be inclined to give any countenance to the employment of freed negroes. they believe slavery is the proper condition for the negro, and declare that any system based on free labor will prove a failure. this feeling will not be general among the southern people, and will doubtless be removed in time. the transition from slavery to freedom will cause some irregularities on the part of the colored race. i do not apprehend serious trouble in controlling the negro, and believe his work will be fully available throughout the south. it is natural that he should desire a little holiday with his release from bondage. for a time many negroes will be idle, and so will many white men who have returned from the rebel armies. according to present indications, the african race displays far more industry than the caucasian throughout the southern states. letters from the south say the negroes are at work in some localities, but the whites are everywhere idle. those who go to the south for purposes of traffic may or may not be favored with large profits. all the products of the mechanic arts are very scarce in the interior, while in the larger towns trade is generally overdone. large stocks of goods were taken to all places accessible by water as soon as the ports were opened. the supply exceeded the demand, and many dealers suffered heavy loss. from richmond and other points considerable quantities of goods have been reshipped to new york, or sold for less than cost. doubtless the trade with the south will ultimately be very large, but it cannot spring up in a day. money is needed before speculation can be active. a year or two, at the least, will be needed to fill the southern pocket. so much for the dark side of the picture. emigrants are apt to listen to favorable accounts of the region whither they are bound, while they close their ears to all stories of an unfavorable character. to insure a hearing of both sides of the question under discussion, i have given the discouraging arguments in advance of all others. already those who desire to stimulate travel to the south, are relating wonderful stories of its fertility and its great advantages to settlers. no doubt they are telling much that is true, but they do not tell all the truth. every one has heard the statement, circulated in ireland many years since, that america abounded in roasted pigs that ran about the streets, carrying knives and forks in their mouths, and making vocal requests to be devoured. notwithstanding the absurdity of the story, it is reported to have received credit. the history of every emigration scheme abounds in narratives of a brilliant, though piscatorial, character. the interior portions of all the western states are of wonderful fertility, and no inhabitant of that region has any hesitation in announcing the above fact. but not one in a hundred will state frankly his distance from market, and the value of wheat and corn at the points of their production. in too many cases the bright side of the story is sufficient for the listener. i once traveled in a railway car where there were a dozen emigrants from the new england states, seeking a home in the west. an agent of a county in iowa was endeavoring to call their attention to the great advantages which his region afforded. he told them of the fertility of the soil, the amount of corn and wheat that could be produced to the acre, the extent of labor needed for the production of a specified quantity of cereals, the abundance of timber, and the propinquity of fine streams, with many other brilliant and seductive stories. the emigrants listened in admiration of the promised land, and were on the point of consenting to follow the orator. i ventured to ask the distance from those lands to a market where the products could be sold, and the probable cost of transportation. the answer was an evasive one, but was sufficient to awaken the suspicions of the emigrants. my question destroyed the beautiful picture which the voluble agent had drawn. those who desire to seek their homes in the south will do well to remember that baked pigs are not likely to exist in abundance in the regions traversed by the national armies. chapter xlvii. how disadvantages may be overcome. conciliating the people of the south.--railway travel and its improvement.--rebuilding steamboats.--replacing working stock.--the condition of the plantations.--suggestions about hasty departures.--obtaining information.--the attractions of missouri. the hinderances i have mentioned in the way of southern emigration are of a temporary character. the opposition of the hostile portion of the southern people can be overcome in time. when they see there is no possible hope for them to control the national policy, when they fully realize that slavery is ended, and ended forever, when they discover that the negro will work as a free man with advantage to his employer, they will become more amiable in disposition. much of their present feeling arises from a hope of compelling a return to the old relation of master and slave. when this hope is completely destroyed, we shall have accomplished a great step toward reconstruction. a practical knowledge of northern industry and enterprise will convince the people of the south, unless their hearts are thoroughly hardened, that some good can come out of nazareth. they may never establish relations of great intimacy with their new neighbors, but their hostility will be diminished to insignificance. some of the advocates of the "last ditch" theory, who have sworn never to live in the united states, will, doubtless, depart to foreign lands, or follow the example of the virginia gentleman who committed suicide on ascertaining the hopelessness of the rebellion. failing to do either of these things, they must finally acquiesce in the supremacy of national authority. the southern railways will be repaired, their rolling stock replaced, and the routes of travel restored to the old status. all cannot be done at once, as the destruction and damage have been very extensive, and many of the companies are utterly impoverished. from two to five years will elapse before passengers and freight can be transported with the same facility, in all directions, as before the war. under a more liberal policy new lines will be opened, and the various portions of the southern states become accessible. during the war two railways were constructed under the auspices of the rebel government, that will prove of great advantage in coming years. these are the lines from meridian, mississippi, to selma, alabama, and from danville, virginia, to greensborough, north carolina. a glance at a railway map of the southern states will show their importance. on many of the smaller rivers boats are being improvised by adding wheels and motive power to ordinary scows. in a half-dozen years, at the furthest, we will, doubtless, see the rivers of the southern states traversed by as many steamers as before the war. on the mississippi and its tributaries the destruction of steamboat property was very great, but the loss is rapidly being made good. since many fine boats have been constructed, some of them larger and more costly than any that existed during the most prosperous days before the rebellion. on the alabama and other rivers, efforts are being made to restore the steamboat fleets to their former magnitude. horses, mules, machinery, and farming implements must and will be supplied out of the abundance in the north. the want of mules will be severely felt for some years. no yankee has yet been able to invent a machine that will create serviceable mules to order. we must wait for their production by the ordinary means, and it will be a considerable time before the supply is equal to the demand. those who turn their attention to stock-raising, during the next ten or twenty years, can always be certain of finding a ready and remunerative market. the southern soil is as fertile as ever. cotton, rice, corn, sugar, wheat, and tobacco can be produced in their former abundance. along the mississippi the levees must be restored, to protect the plantations from floods. this will be a work of considerable magnitude, and, without extraordinary effort, cannot be accomplished for several years. everywhere fences must be rebuilt, and many buildings necessary in preparing products for market must be restored. time, capital, energy, and patience will be needed to develop anew the resources of the south. properly applied, they will be richly rewarded. no person should be hasty in his departure, nor rush blindly to the promised land. thousands went to california, in ' and ' , with the impression that the gold mines lay within an hour's walk of san francisco. in ' , many persons landed at leavenworth, on their way to pike's peak, under the belief that the auriferous mountain was only a day's journey from their landing-place. thousands have gone "west" from new york and new england, believing that chicago was very near the frontier. those who start with no well-defined ideas of their destination are generally disappointed. the war has given the public a pretty accurate knowledge of the geography of the south, so that the old mistakes of emigrants to california and colorado are in slight danger of repetition, but there is a possibility of too little deliberation in setting out. before starting, the emigrant should obtain all accessible information about the region he intends to visit. geographies, gazetteers, census returns, and works of a similar character will be of great advantage. much can be obtained from persons who traveled in the rebellious states during the progress of the war. the leading papers throughout the country are now publishing letters from their special correspondents, relative to the state of affairs in the south. these letters are of great value, and deserve a careful study. information from interested parties should be received with caution. those who have traveled in the far west know how difficult it is to obtain correct statements relative to the prosperity or advantages of any specified locality. every man assures you that the town or the county where he resides, or where he is interested, is the best and the richest within a hundred miles. to an impartial observer, lying appears to be the only personal accomplishment in a new country. i presume those who wish to encourage southern migration will be ready to set forth all the advantages (but none of the disadvantages) of their own localities. having fully determined where to go and what to do, having selected his route of travel, and ascertained, as near as possible, what will be needed on the journey, the emigrant will next consider his financial policy. no general rule can be given. in most cases it is better not to take a large amount of money at starting. to many this advice will be superfluous. bills of exchange are much safer to carry than ready cash, and nearly as convenient for commercial transactions. beyond an amount double the estimated expenses of his journey, the traveler will usually carry very little cash. for the present, few persons should take their wives and children to the interior south, and none should do so on their first visit. many houses have been burned or stripped of their furniture, provisions are scarce and costly, and the general facilities for domestic happiness are far from abundant. the conveniences for locomotion in that region are very poor, and will continue so for a considerable time. a man can "rough it" anywhere, but he can hardly expect his family to travel on flat cars, or on steamboats that have neither cabins nor decks, and subsist on the scanty and badly-cooked provisions that the sunny south affords. by all means, i would counsel any young man on his way to the south not to elope with his neighbor's wife. in view of the condition of the country beyond mason and dixon's line, an elopement would prove his mistake of a lifetime. i have already referred to the resources of missouri. the state possesses greater mineral wealth than any other state of the union, east of the rocky mountains. her lead mines are extensive, easily worked, very productive, and practically inexhaustible. the same may be said of her iron mines. pilot knob and iron mountain are nearly solid masses of ore, the latter being a thousand feet in height. copper mines have been opened and worked, and tin has been found in several localities. the soil of the northern portion of missouri can boast of a fertility equal to that of kansas or illinois. in the southern portion the country is more broken, but it contains large areas of rich lands. the productions of missouri are similar to those of the northern states in the same latitude. more hemp is raised in missouri than in any other state except kentucky. much of this article was used during the rebellion, in efforts to break up the numerous guerrilla bands that infested the state. tobacco is an important product, and its culture is highly remunerative. at hermann, booneville, and other points, the manufacture of wine from the catawba grape is extensively carried on. in location and resources, missouri is without a rival among the states that formerly maintained the system of slave labor. chapter xlviii. the resources of the southern states. how the people have lived.--an agricultural community.--mineral and other wealth of virginia.--slave-breeding in former times.--the auriferous region of north carolina.--agricultural advantages.--varieties of soil in south carolina.--sea-island cotton.--georgia and her railways.--probable decline of the rice culture.--the everglade state.--the lower mississippi valley.--the red river.--arkansas and its advantages.--a hint for tragedians.--mining in tennessee.--the blue-grass region of kentucky.--texas and its attractions.--difference between southern and western emigration.--the end. compared with the north, the southern states have been strictly an agricultural region. their few manufactures were conducted on a small scale, and could not compete with those of the colder latitudes. they gave some attention to stock-raising in a few localities, but did not attach to it any great importance. cotton was the product which fed, clothed, sheltered, and regaled the people. even with the immense profits they received from its culture, they did not appear to understand the art of enjoyment. they generally lived on large and comfortless tracts of land, and had very few cities away from the sea-coast. they thought less of personal comfort than of the acquisition of more land, mules, and negroes. in the greatest portion of the south, the people lived poorer than many northern mechanics have lived in the past twenty years. the property in slaves, to the extent of four hundred millions of dollars, was their heaviest item of wealth, but they seemed unable to turn this wealth to the greatest advantage. with the climate and soil in their favor, they paid little attention to the cheaper luxuries of rational living, but surrounded themselves with much that was expensive, though utterly useless. on plantations where the owners resided, a visiter would find the women adorned with diamonds and laces that cost many thousand dollars, and feast his eyes upon parlor furniture and ornaments of the most elaborate character. but the dinner-table would present a repast far below that of a new england farmer or mechanic in ordinary circumstances, and the sleeping-rooms would give evidence that genuine comfort was a secondary consideration. outside of new orleans and charleston, where they are conducted by foreigners, the south has no such market gardens, or such abundance and variety of wholesome fruits and vegetables, as the more sterile north can boast of everywhere. so of a thousand other marks of advancing civilization. virginia, "the mother of presidents," is rich in minerals of the more useful sort, and some of the precious metals. her list of mineral treasures includes gold, copper, iron, lead, plumbago, coal, and salt. the gold mines are not available except to capitalists, and it is not yet fully settled whether the yield is sufficient to warrant large investments. the gold is extracted from an auriferous region, extending from the rappahannock to the coosa river, in alabama. the coal-beds in the state are easy of access, and said to be inexhaustible. the kanawha salt-works are well known, and the petroleum regions of west virginia are attracting much attention. virginia presents many varieties of soil, and, with a better system of cultivation, her productions can be greatly increased. (the same may be said of all the southern states, from the atlantic to the rio grande.) her soil is favorable to all the products of the northern states. the wheat and corn of virginia have a high reputation. in the culture of tobacco she has always surpassed every other state of the union, and was also the first state in which it was practiced by civilized man to any extent. washington pronounced the central counties of virginia the finest agricultural district in the united states, as he knew them. daniel webster declared, in a public speech in the shenandoah valley, that he had seen no finer farming land in his european travel than in that valley. until , the people of virginia paid considerable attention to the raising of negroes for the southern market. for some reason this trade has greatly declined within the past five years, the stock becoming unsalable, and its production being interrupted. i would advise no person to contemplate moving to virginia with a view to raising negroes for sale. the business was formerly conducted by the "first families," and if it should be revived, they will doubtless claim an exclusive privilege. north carolina abounds in minerals, especially in gold, copper, iron, and coal. the fields of the latter are very extensive. the gold mines of north carolina have been profitably worked for many years. a correspondent of _the world_, in a recent letter from charlotte, north carolina, says: in these times of mining excitement it should he more widely known that north carolina is a competitor with california, idaho, and nebraska. gold is found in paying quantities in the state, and in the northern parts of south carolina and georgia. for a hundred miles west and southwest of charlotte, all the streams contain more or less gold-dust. nuggets of a few ounces have been frequently found, and there is one well-authenticated case of a solid nugget weighing twenty-eight pounds, which was purchased from its ignorant owner for three dollars, and afterward sold at the mint. report says a still larger lump was found and cut up by the guard at one of the mines. both at greensboro, salisbury, and here, the most reliable residents concur in pointing to certain farms where the owners procure large sums of gold. one german is said to have taken more than a million of dollars from his farm, and refuses to sell his land for any price. negroes are and have been accustomed to go out to the creeks and wash on saturdays, frequently bringing in two or three dollars' worth, and not unfrequently negroes come to town with little nuggets of the pure ore to trade. the iron and copper mines were developed only to a limited extent before the war. the necessities of the case led the southern authorities, however, after the outbreak, to turn their attention to them, and considerable quantities of the ore were secured. this was more especially true of iron. north carolina is adapted to all the agricultural products of both north and south, with the exception of cane sugar. the marshes on the coast make excellent rice plantations, and, when drained, are very fertile in cotton. much of the low, sandy section, extending sixty miles from the coast, is covered with extensive forests of pitch-pine, that furnish large quantities of lumber, tar, turpentine, and resin, for export to northern cities. when cleared and cultivated, this region proves quite fertile, but southern energy has thus far been content to give it very little improvement. much of the land in the interior is very rich and productive. with the exception of missouri, north carolina is foremost, since the close of the war, in encouraging immigration. as soon as the first steps were taken toward reconstruction, the "north carolina land agency" was opened at raleigh, under the recommendation of the governor of the state. this agency is under the management of messrs. heck, battle & co., citizens of raleigh, and is now (august, ) establishing offices in the northern cities for the purpose of representing the advantages that north carolina possesses. the auriferous region of north carolina extends into south carolina and georgia. in south carolina the agricultural facilities are extensive. according to ruffin and tuomey (the agricultural surveyors of the state), there are six varieties of soil: . tide swamp, devoted to the culture of rice. . inland swamp, devoted to rice, cotton, corn, wheat, etc. . salt marsh, devoted to long cotton. . oak and pine regions, devoted to long cotton, corn, and wheat. . oak and hickory regions, where cotton and corn flourish. . pine barrens, adapted to fruit and vegetables. the famous "sea-island cotton" comes from the islands along the coast, where large numbers of the freed negroes of south carolina have been recently located. south carolina can produce, side by side, the corn, wheat, and tobacco of the north, and the cotton, rice, and sugar-cane of the south, though the latter article is not profitably cultivated. notwithstanding the prophecies of the south carolinians to the contrary, the free-labor scheme along the atlantic coast has proved successful. the following paragraph is from a letter written by a prominent journalist at savannah:-- the condition of the islands along this coast is now of the greatest interest to the world at large, and to the people of the south in particular. upon careful inquiry, i find that there are over two hundred thousand acres of land under cultivation by free labor. the enterprises are mostly by northern men, although there are natives working their negroes under the new system, and negroes who are working land on their own account. this is the third year of the trial, and every year has been a success more and more complete. the profits of some of the laborers amount to five hundred, and in some cases five thousand dollars a year. the amount of money deposited in bank by the negroes of these islands is a hundred and forty thousand dollars. one joint, subscription to the seven-thirty loan amounted to eighty thousand dollars. notwithstanding the fact that the troops which landed on the islands robbed, indiscriminately, the negroes of their money, mules, and supplies, the negroes went back to work again. general saxton, who has chief charge of this enterprise, has his head-quarters at beaufort. if these facts, and the actual prosperity of these islands could be generally known throughout the south, it would do more to induce the whites to take hold of the freed-labor system than all the general orders and arbitrary commands that general hatch has issued. the resources of georgia are similar to those of south carolina, and the climate differs but little from that of the latter state. the rice-swamps are unhealthy, and the malaria which arises from them is said to be fatal to whites. many of the planters express a fear that the abolition of slavery has ended the culture of rice. they argue that the labor is so difficult and exhaustive, that the negroes will never perform it excepting under the lash. cruel modes of punishment being forbidden, the planters look upon the rice-lands as valueless. time will show whether these fears are to be realized or not. if it should really happen that the negroes refuse to labor where their lives are of comparatively short duration, the country must consent to restore slavery to its former status, or purchase its rice in foreign countries. as rice is produced in india without slave labor, it is possible that some plan may be invented for its cultivation here. georgia has a better system of railways than any other southern state, and she is fortunate in possessing several navigable rivers. the people are not as hostile to northerners as the inhabitants of south carolina, but they do not display the desire to encourage immigration that is manifested in north carolina. in the interior of georgia, at the time i am writing, there is much suffering on account of a scarcity of food. many cases of actual starvation are reported. florida has few attractions to settlers. it is said there is no spot of land in the state three hundred feet above the sea-level. men born with fins and webbed feet might enjoy themselves in the lakes and swamps, which form a considerable portion of florida. those whose tastes are favorable to timber-cutting, can find a profitable employment in preparing live-oak and other timbers for market. the climate is very healthy, and has been found highly beneficial to invalids. the vegetable productions of the state are of similar character to those of georgia, but their amount is not large. in the indian tongue, alabama signifies "here we rest." the traveler who rests in the state of that name, finds an excellent agricultural region. he finds that cotton is king with the alabamians, and that the state has fifteen hundred miles of navigable rivers and a good railway system. he finds that alabama suffered less by the visits of our armies than either georgia or south carolina. the people extend him the same welcome that he received in georgia. they were too deeply interested in the perpetuation of slavery to do otherwise than mourn the failure to establish the confederacy. elsewhere i have spoken of the region bordering the lower portion of the great river of the west, which includes louisiana and mississippi. in the former state, sugar and cotton are the great products. in the latter, cotton is the chief object of attention. it is quite probable that the change from slavery to freedom may necessitate the division of the large plantations into farms of suitable size for cultivation by persons of moderate capital. if this should be done, there will be a great demand for northern immigrants, and the commerce of these states will be largely increased. early in july, of the present year, after the dispersal of the rebel armies, a meeting was held at shreveport, louisiana, at which resolutions were passed favoring the encouragement of northern migration to the red river valley. the resolutions set forth, that the pineries of that region would amply repay development, in view of the large market for lumber along red river and the mississippi. they further declared, that the cotton and sugar plantations of west louisiana offered great attractions, and were worthy the attention of northern men. the passage of these resolutions indicates a better spirit than has been manifested by the inhabitants of other portions of the pelican state. many of the people in the red river region profess to have been loyal to the united states throughout the days of the rebellion. the red river is most appropriately named. it flows through a region where the soil has a reddish tinge, that is imparted to the water of the river. the sugar produced there has the same peculiarity, and can be readily distinguished from the sugar of other localities. arkansas is quite rich in minerals, though far less so than missouri. gold abounds in some localities, and lead, iron, and zinc exist in large quantities. the saltpeter caves along the white river can furnish sufficient saltpeter for the entire southwest. along the rivers the soil is fertile, but there are many sterile regions in the interior. the agricultural products are similar to those of missouri, with the addition of cotton. with the exception of the wealthier inhabitants, the people of arkansas are desirous of stimulating emigration. they suffered so greatly from the tyranny of the rebel leaders that they cheerfully accept the overthrow of slavery. arkansas possesses less advantages than most other southern states, being far behind her sisters in matters of education and internal improvement. it is to be hoped that her people have discovered their mistake, and will make earnest efforts to correct it at an early day. a story is told of a party of strolling players that landed at a town in arkansas, and advertised a performance of "hamlet." a delegation waited upon the manager, and ordered him to "move on." the spokesman of the delegation is reported to have said: "that thar shakspeare's play of yourn, stranger, may do for new york or new orleans, but we want you to understand that shakspeare in arkansas is pretty ---- well played out." persons who wish to give attention to mining matters, will find attractions in tennessee, in the deposits of iron, copper, and other ores. coal is found in immense quantities among the cumberland mountains, and lead exists in certain localities. though tennessee can boast of considerable mineral wealth, her advantages are not equal to those of missouri or north carolina. in agriculture she stands well, though she has no soil of unusual fertility, except in the western portion of the state. cotton, corn, and tobacco are the great staples, and considerable quantities of wheat are produced. stock-raising has received considerable attention. more mules were formerly raised in tennessee than in any other state of the union. a large portion of the state is admirably adapted to grazing. military operations in tennessee, during the rebellion, were very extensive, and there was great destruction of property in consequence. large numbers of houses and other buildings were burned, and many farms laid waste. it will require much time, capital, and energy to obliterate the traces of war. the inhabitants of kentucky believe that their state cannot be surpassed in fertility. they make the famous "blue grass region," around lexington, the subject of especial boast. the soil of this section is very rich, and the grass has a peculiar bluish tinge, from which its name is derived. one writer says the following of the blue grass region:-- view the country round from the heads of the licking, the ohio, the kentucky, dick's, and down the green river, and you have a hundred miles square of the most extraordinary country on which the sun has ever shone. farms in this region command the highest prices, and there are very few owners who have any desire to sell their property. nearly all the soil of the state is adapted to cultivation. its staple products are the same as those of missouri. it produces more flax and hemp than any other state, and is second only to virginia in the quality and quantity of its tobacco. its yield of corn is next to that of ohio. like tennessee, it has a large stock-raising interest, principally in mules and hogs, for which there is always a ready market. kentucky suffered severely during the campaigns of the rebel army in that state, and from the various raids of john morgan. a parody on "my maryland" was published in louisville soon after one of morgan's visits, of which the first stanza was as follows:-- john morgan's foot is on thy shore, kentucky! o kentucky! his hand is on thy stable door, kentucky! o kentucky! he'll take thy horse he spared before, and ride him till his back is sore, and leave him at some stranger's door, kentucky! o kentucky! last, and greatest, of the lately rebellious states, is texas. every variety of soil can be found there, from the richest alluvial deposits along the river bottoms, down to the deserts in the northwestern part of the state, where a wolf could not make an honest living. all the grains of the northern states can be produced. cotton, tobacco, and sugar-cane are raised in large quantities, and the agricultural capabilities of texas are very great. being a new state, its system of internal communications is not good. texas has the reputation of being the finest grazing region in the southwest. immense droves of horses, cattle, and sheep cover its prairies, and form the wealth of many of the inhabitants. owing to the distance from market, these animals are generally held at very low prices. shortly after its annexation to the united states, texas became a resort for outcasts from civilized society. in some parts of the union, the story goes that sheriffs, and their deputies dropped the phrase "_non est inventus_" for one more expressive. whenever they discovered that parties for whom they held writs had decamped, they returned the documents with the indorsement "g.t.t." (gone to texas). some writer records that the state derived its name from the last words of a couplet which runaway individuals were supposed to repeat on their arrival:-- when every other land rejects us, this is the land that freely takes us. since , the character of the population of texas has greatly improved, though it does not yet bear favorable comparison to that of quaker villages, or of rural districts of massachusetts or connecticut. there is a large german element in texas, which displayed devoted loyalty to the union during the days of the rebellion. an unknown philosopher says the world is peopled by two great classes, those who have money, and those who haven't--the latter being most numerous. migratory americans are subject to the same distinction. of those who have emigrated to points further west during the last thirty years, a very large majority were in a condition of impecuniosity. many persons emigrate on account of financial embarrassments, leaving behind them debts of varied magnitude. in some cases, territories and states that desired to induce settlers to come within their limits, have passed laws providing that no debt contracted elsewhere, previous to emigration, could be collected by any legal process. to a man laboring under difficulties of a pecuniary character, the new territories and states offer as safe a retreat as the cities of refuge afforded to criminals in the days of the ancients. formerly, the west was the only field to which emigrants could direct their steps. there was an abundance of land, and a great need of human sinew to make it lucrative. when land could be occupied by a settler and held under his pre-emption title, giving him opportunity to pay for his possession from the products of his own industry and the fertility of the soil, there was comparatively little need of capital. the operations of speculators frequently tended to retard settlement rather than to stimulate it, as they shut out large areas from cultivation or occupation, in order to hold them for an advance. in many of the territories a dozen able-bodied men, accustomed to farm labor and willing to toil, were considered a greater acquisition than a speculator with twenty thousand dollars of hard cash. labor was of more importance than capital. to a certain extent this is still the case. laboring men are greatly needed on the broad acres of the far-western states. no one who has not traveled in that region can appreciate the sacrifice made by minnesota, iowa, and kansas, when they sent their regiments of stalwart men to the war. every arm that carried a musket from those states, was a certain integral portion of their wealth and prosperity. the great cities of the seaboard could spare a thousand men with far less loss than would accrue to any of the states i have mentioned, by the subtraction of a hundred. there is now a great demand for men to fill the vacancy caused by deaths in the field, and to occupy the extensive areas that are still uncultivated. emigrants without capital will seek the west, where their stout arms will make them welcome and secure them comfortable homes. in the south the situation is different. for the present there is a sufficiency of labor. doubtless there will be a scarcity several years hence, but there is no reason to fear it immediately. capital and direction are needed. the south is impoverished. its money is expended, and it has no present source of revenue. there is nothing wherewith to purchase the necessary stock, supplies, and implements for prosecuting agricultural enterprise. the planters are generally helpless. capital to supply the want must come from the rich north. direction is no less needed than capital. a majority of southern men declare the negroes will be worthless to them, now that slavery is abolished. "we have," say they, "lived among these negroes all our days. we know them in no other light than as slaves. we command them to do what we wish, and we punish them as we see fit for disobedience. we cannot manage them in any other way." no doubt this is the declaration of their honest belief. a northern man can give them an answer appealing to their reason, if not to their conviction. he can say, "you are accustomed to dealing with slaves, and you doubtless tell the truth when declaring you cannot manage the negroes under the new system. we are accustomed to dealing with freemen, and do not know how to control slaves. the negroes being free, our knowledge of freemen will enable us to manage them without difficulty." every thing is favorable to the man of small or large capital, who desires to emigrate to the south. in consideration of the impoverishment of the people and their distrust of the freed negroes as laborers, lands in the best districts can be purchased very cheaply. plantations can be bought, many of them with all the buildings and fences still remaining, though somewhat out of repair, at prices ranging from three to ten dollars an acre. a few hundred dollars will do far more toward securing a home for the settler in the south than in the west. labor is abundant, and the laborers can be easily controlled by northern brains. the land is already broken, and its capabilities are fully known. capital, if judiciously invested and under proper direction, whether in large or moderate amounts, will be reasonably certain of an ample return. finis. none transcriber's notes: obvious punctuation errors and misprints have been corrected. blank pages have been deleted. text in italics is indicated between _underscores_ text in small capitals has been replaced by regular uppercase text. "jayhawkers" is defined in a footnote in page of the original book, although it appears for the first time in page . for clarity, the footnote has been consequently moved. * * * * * how beauty was saved [illustration] how beauty was saved _and other memories of the sixties_ by mrs. james madison washington (_mrs. a. a. washington_) new york and washington the neale publishing company copyright, , by the neale publishing company _to southern girls_ contents how beauty was saved the telltale gloves the magic sign a labor of love the "jayhawkers" memories of slave days a narrow escape _green and golden memories of the thrilling time when hearts and hands were true as steel in our sunny southern clime._ _a. a. w._ how beauty was saved how beauty was saved in the summer of , in the bayou manchac country near baton rouge, louisiana, there was a modest little schoolhouse called the "dove's nest." to that school came two young girls to complete a course of study begun in baton rouge before the federals captured that city. the country was visited quite often by bands of confederates, "jayhawkers,"[ ] and federals; the slaves on the vast sugar plantations were in a demoralized condition from being so near the enemy's lines; yet the girls braved all these dangers, and rode on horseback (both on the same horse) three miles through forest and field to attend school. they had no fear, for both could shoot a pistol, and always carried a loaded one, and a small spanish dirk for self-protection. all the valuable horses on the plantation having been given to the confederate army, only two were left for family use, an old one, not of much service, and a young beautiful bay, the individual property of one of the girls. [ ] "jayhawkers" were bands of deserters and outlaws that kept in hiding from both armies and preyed upon helpless citizens. this horse the girls rode to school. naturally he had a shambling, uncomfortable gait, but the girls determined to teach him to pace, which they did by the use of a small steel spur. the days sped on, the year blushed into spring, bloomed into summer, and the girls grew accustomed to meeting bands of the "blue and the gray," sometimes riding along only fifty yards apart, yet totally ignorant of the fact. the girls narrowly missed being shot on one occasion, as some soldiers were firing down the road for practice, and the bullets whistled near their heads as they turned a curve in the lane. the booming of cannon could be heard from the mississippi river; now and then a friend was killed in a roadside skirmish; loved ones were captured and imprisoned; but the little school was undisturbed outwardly, though thrilled with anxiety and patriotism for the beloved southland. when the days grew too long and hot for study, the earnest little teacher decided to close the term with a thorough, old-fashioned examination, and a modest exhibition. the neighborhood had been quiet for some weeks and no one feared a visit from the enemy. the "dove's nest" was prettily decorated, a piano moved in, and all made ready. the day of the exhibition dawned bright and fair, the woods were full of flowers, and nature seemed to laugh in the glad sunshine. the two girls arrived early, and one of them decided to ride to a friend's home a mile beyond, for a basket of fresh roses; she told her friend, the owner of beauty, of her intention, then sprang into the saddle and rode away. when she reached the house she noticed a horse and buggy under an old oak near by. she knew it belonged to an old bachelor who was slightly deaf (else he would have been in the southern army), and that he had come to take the little teacher to the schoolhouse. when she dismounted she fastened her horse under the same tree, in full view of the road. the house was surrounded by spacious grounds, some distance from the main road, and a broad avenue led up to it from a large outer gate. the flowers were soon gathered, and after a chat with her friends, the girl started back, when someone cried, "just look at the yankees!" sure enough, the house was surrounded and a company was stationed at the big gate. the family stood together on the piazza, pale with fear, for they never knew what would happen in those troublous times. the officer in command told them that they were in need of fresh horses to make a raid, and had orders to "press" any into service that they could find. turning to a soldier he said, "take that horse from the buggy, saddle him and see if he is fit for use." this caused the girl some uneasiness about her friend's horse, but she hoped the side-saddle would save him, as it had done when the southern army were pressing horses. anxiously she waited and listened. when the man returned, the colonel said, "try the other one." the girl was trembling now; the horse was not hers, it was the only one the family with whom she boarded could use to send to mill, or for a physician in case of illness; and she felt that she could not give him up without an effort to save him. "surely, sir, you are not going to take a schoolgirl's horse for the federal government!" he smiled and asked her if she could swear that the horse was hers. she told him no, the horse belonged to a schoolgirl friend. he looked incredulous and said that he suspected it belonged to a rebel soldier; and, bowing an apology, again spoke to the man, "try that horse." like a flash a thought came to the girl. she would not plead or beg,--she was too proud for that,--but she said: "colonel, let me try him for you." "very well," he replied, much amused. "bring him up, lieutenant." the girl had no time or chance to ask advice from anyone; but she _wore the sharp steel spur_. the colonel politely offered to assist her in the saddle, but she sprang up without touching his hand. dressed in white muslin, with braided hair looped back with pink rosebuds; without gloves, hat or riding skirt, she slowly started down the avenue in front of the house. she let the horse shamble along in the ugly way he liked until he reached the large gate where the company of soldiers were stationed. they looked surprised to see her riding down alone on one of the horses they had stopped to take, but thinking it must be all right, as the colonel was in view, they lined up, saluted respectfully, and let her pass out. when she was beyond the last guard, she said, "now, beauty, fly!" and, as she used the spur freely, they did fly. for some distance they were in full view of the colonel and her friends who stood waiting on the piazza for her return, then a curve in the road put her out of sight. in a few minutes she heard the clatter of hoofs behind her, but as the road was hard, dry and level, and she knew every foot of it, she hoped to outrun her pursuers. glancing back she saw two soldiers splendidly mounted tearing after her. the "dove's nest" was in sight now, but the soldiers were gaining ground. she could hear the clanking of swords, the rattle of spurs, and the hoof beats. on she flew, faster and faster, for beauty seemed to feel, with the rider, that an enemy was after them. the schoolyard gate was wide open, and she dashed through it and up to the porch where an eager, startled bevy of girls were assembled. she jumped off quickly and called to her friend, "here is your horse. the yankees are after him!" just then the men rode up, very red, very angry, and somewhat scared, for they were in dense woods over a mile from their command. they ordered the girl to get back on that horse and return to the colonel. she told them that she would not do anything of the kind; she was a southern girl, not subject to federal orders, and that they could not compel her to return. the owner of the horse said she would go with them, but they insisted on the girl who ran away going, too. this she refused to do, and she told them if they did not want to be captured by the southern boys, they had better not linger. this had the desired effect, and the girl who owned the horse, taking a small child behind her, rode back with the soldiers. when she arrived, the colonel was surprised to see a different girl on the horse and to know that his men did not overtake the other one. the owner of beauty was very pretty, very eloquent and spirited, and she could swear that the horse was hers, and prove it by people present, so the colonel allowed her to keep the horse. her friend was greatly relieved, and all rejoiced that beauty was not surrendered to the federal government to make a raid on our own dear soldier boys! this is a true story, for the writer was the runaway. the telltale gloves the telltale gloves the federals having left, and beauty being safe, we proceeded with our exercises that summer day at the "dove's nest." we passed a good examination, and just as we were singing our gayest songs a party of confederates rode up. they tied their horses to the windows and doors, came in, and enjoyed the little concert. after the last melody had died away and the shades of evening were falling, we rode slowly homeward, each girl with a soldier boy beside her. one of the soldiers, in particular, was a reckless, daring young man, who had shot at the federals from ambush many times, had captured some of their horses, and was quite a terror to the raiders. his father's home was in that neighborhood, and the federals were trying to capture him. now, when the boys--for they were only boys--left us at the gate this particular one forgot his gloves--left them on a gate post. we found them, took them into the house, and threw them carelessly on the hall table. there were no millinery stores, in fact no stores of any kind in the country, so the girls, for riding hats, wore boys' hats, with a plume jauntily pinned on the side. we took our hats off and laid them on the table _by the gloves_. the boy's nickname, "little dare devil," was on the inside of the buckskin cuffs, but we had not noticed it. that night we were aroused from sleep by the barking of dogs, the rattling of sabers and spurs. we knew, as soon as we were well awake, that the federals were in the house, and, slipping on our wrappers, we ran to mother's room, for we could hear them beating on our doors. we were dreadfully frightened, for there was an unfinished suit of confederate gray in the house, and we knew that if it was found the house would be burned to ashes. mother, who had the suit in her room, would not "strike a light" until the suit was concealed, and the pelican buttons slipped into her pocket. the federals kept calling loudly for _light_, and we heard them burst into our room, saying, "here they are, boys! the bed is right warm! be quick!" we knew, then, that they were looking for confederate soldiers. the house was searched from garret to cellar, but, finding no one except members of the family, the intruders hurriedly departed. next morning our hats and gloves were missing, having been taken from the hall table. a few days after this the federals were out again, but this time in daylight. one of the officers came in the house and asked for a drink of water. while waiting for it to be drawn cool and fresh from the well (for southerners were courteous to an enemy when he stood upon their threshold), he seemed disposed to chat with the girls. "we came very near catching those fellows the other night," he said; "we got their hats and gloves, and saw their blankets on the floor. where in the world did they hide, young ladies?" we were very indignant; and told him that no southern soldier would sleep in a private house so near the enemy's lines, and thus endanger the lives and property of his relatives and friends. we said that the hats _were ours_, and we would like them returned, and that the roll of blankets was used by a little colored girl who slept in the house, which fact they would have discovered if they had not been nearly scared to death. the officer looked astonished and seemed somewhat ashamed of the whole affair, but some of them did not believe us, for they rode away laughing about the _name inside the gloves_. the magic sign the magic sign "i have come to destroy your tannery and burn down your house." the officer spoke calmly, and my father did not answer for a moment. after school closed i had returned to my home, which was about nine miles from the federal lines. we had a small, rude tannery, for our family, including the servants, was quite large, and, as there was no place to get shoes in that part of louisiana, my father employed a shoemaker and tanned his own leather. our home was beautiful, with spacious grounds around it, and every nook and corner was dear to us. a clear winding stream ran nearly around the plantation, and on the river was our "primitive" tannery. we had all been supplied with hard yellow shoes (the first tan-colored shoes we had ever seen, which we were much ashamed of), and there were some hides left. my father, hearing one day that the report had been carried to baton rouge that he was tanning leather for the southern army, anticipated trouble, fearing the loss of his precious leather. he decided the best thing he could do would be to hide it in some secret place. he was afraid to trust the servants,--for while some were faithful, others were not,--so he told the two youngest girls of his plan, and asked them to help him store away his valuable leather. when the servants were all asleep in their cottages, we three, father and two young girls, dragged those things to the house, then upstairs, and into a long, dark closet. the house was two and a half stories high, so there was quite a space under the roof. we conquered our dread of dark, dust, spiders, and mice, and climbed up into the space just under the roof. father handed up the hides to us and we hid them carefully and with many frights from imaginary terrors. after all was done we came down, closed the narrow little door, hung some dresses over it, and awaited future action on the part of the enemy. sure enough, in a day or two the federals came. before we knew it the house was entirely surrounded by troops. the officer dismounted and knocked at the door. he asked to see my father, who met him at the hall door. "sir," he said, "i am informed that you are tanning leather, and making boots for the confederate army. i have come to destroy your tannery and burn down your house. take your family out immediately." my father, my aged mother, and we, his daughters, who had enjoyed and loved the beautiful home so long, were speechless for a moment, and pale with fear. then father said, slowly, "the report is false. we have a rude tannery, but only for home use," and begged him to spare the sacred old place. the colonel said that he must search the house and see if any evidence could be found against us, and, taking several well-armed soldiers with him, he went through every room. of course we could not follow them, but we anxiously waited for their return. the colonel must have been touched by our mute grief, but he only said, "i have orders to burn the house, and though i find no proof against you, i must obey orders." then father asked him to step out on the veranda. they talked a few minutes, clasped hands, and the colonel, quickly wheeling around, ordered the troops out of the house. in a few minutes every one was in line and rapidly marching away. in answer to our astonished inquiries, we were told that a masonic sign, the secret of true brotherhood, had saved our dear home from desolating flames. a labor of love a labor of love one day a little girl was reading a story-book on the green lawn in front of a southern home; two gentlemen were seated near under a wide-spreading magnolia tree talking about the political situation, the number of presidential candidates, and the possible results of the election. suddenly one of them said, "yes, there is trouble ahead. before that child is grown this country will be plunged into bloody war." the child was startled. the prophetic words were indelibly stamped on her mind. she could not sleep until long after midnight, and when she slept she dreamed that she, like the "maid of monterey," gave food and water to the thirsty soldiers, and dressed their bleeding wounds. the dream came true. while she was attending school in the capital city, talk of secession began, and then came preparations for war. i remember the day the arsenal at baton rouge was seized by louisiana, and all the citizens and the college girls marched down to the barracks on the river to see our soldiers drill. the women and girls went to work making clothes and little conveniences for the soldiers to take with them. in a few weeks we were thrilled with enthusiasm when our first companies marched through the city with their knapsacks, blankets, and a half loaf of bread strapped on their backs. poor boys, they lived to learn that "a half loaf is better than none." some time after two companies[ ] were camped near us on the comite river, and real work began. how young and brave the soldiers were, and how proud every woman was who had a son, brother, or sweetheart in the army! for a time all was excitement, gaiety, and preparation; bands played, soldiers drilled, and citizens flocked to the camps to encourage and help in every way possible. one sad day orders came to move to the front. knapsacks were packed, tents were folded, the last good-byes were spoken, tears fell softly but were dashed away, and our boys were gone--gone to meet their fate, whatever it might be! [ ] bynum's and buffington's. soon after came the hard times. luxuries were given up, privation was felt in every home, but no one complained. people seemed proud to endure, and often met to exchange opinions and plans as to how to "make something out of nothing," as they expressed it. old looms were brought out and repaired, and the spinning wheels were put to work. flour, tea, coffee, and even salt ceased to be used on the family table. from the smoke-houses, where the salt meats had dripped for years, the salt-soaked earth was taken up, boiled in a vessel, the salt extracted, and dried in the sun. sweet potatoes were sliced thin, cut in little pieces, browned in an oven, ground in a coffee mill, and a breakfast drink made from them. it looked like coffee, it was not injurious, so it was cheerfully taken in place of fragrant mocha. okra seed, parched corn meal, and parched peanuts were also used for making a morning drink. "confederate cake" was made by sifting corn meal through a sieve, and then through cloth. rice was harvested, and husked in a wooden mortar, a work which required time and strength. all dress-goods became scarce--calico was $ per yard and very hard to get. jaunty dresses were made of coarse yellow domestic, piped with bright colors. no hats could be purchased, but stylish turbans were made of old straw covered with scraps of black silk or velvet, and were worn with pride, and called "beauregard" hats. this recalls a song that was very popular in louisiana during the war. it is a wee bit touching to read it over now, for the southern girls, daintily reared, sadly missed their fine linen, their soft silks and sheer muslins. the song was sung to the air of "the bonny blue flag." "oh, yes, i am a southern girl, i glory in the name, and boast it with far greater pride than glittering wealth or fame. "i envy not the northern girl, her robes of beauty rare; though diamonds grace her snowy neck and pearls bedeck her hair. "my homespun dress is plain, i know, my hat's palmetto, too, but then it shows what southern girls for southern rights will do." the war dragged on. new orleans fell. baton rouge was in the hands of the enemy. some of the baton rouge people refugeed to the country, living in churches, schoolhouses and deserted log cabins; others were compelled to remain, as they had no shelter and no means of living outside of the city. then followed the sieges on the mississippi river, port hudson, and vicksburg. night after night and all day long we could hear the heavy guns booming and the deadly shells hissing, and we had no means of knowing how our armies were faring. i remember the sad and anxious dread which came over me every time a gun was fired, and how i covered my head with pillows to shut out the fearful sound. one day in august the news came that gen. john c. breckinridge was on his way to attack baton rouge; that his army of less than three thousand were tired and in need of food, and would be glad if the citizens would send out something to the road on which they were marching. every family in the country began to prepare food; quantities of green corn, potatoes, vegetables, egg-bread, chickens, in fact, everything that could be had was cooked, packed in baskets, and carried out to meet the army. general breckinridge pitched camp on the comite river. on a foggy morning, august , the battle was fought. historians have told all about the short, desperate battle. i remember the great disappointment that was expressed, and how people wondered why the _arkansas_ did not do her part on the river, where the enemy's three gunboats made such havoc. we did not know that she was lying, entirely disabled, only four miles away. after the battle the sick and wounded were taken to green-well springs, a pretty little summer resort near us, where a hospital was established, mattresses being laid on the floors of the parlors and dining-room of the hotel. southern women then proved their love and devotion to their country's defenders. every day buggies, drays, and carts went to the springs, loaded with jellies, soups, and every delicate thing that we could make with our limited means. the surgeons had no lint to dress the wounds, so we went home, tore our finest linen sheets and table cloths into strips, and with sharp knives scraped them into fine, soft lint, for linen makes much better lint than plain cotton. during this time general breckinridge, who was a very handsome man, visited our home and dined with us several times. on one occasion, just after a charming dinner with the general and several of his staff as guests, a heavy storm gathered. the rain fell in torrents all the afternoon. my parents urged the guests to spend the night as it was so dark and threatening, but the general said, "while it is a great temptation to enjoy for a few hours the comforts of a home, duty calls me to my camp and my boys." we learned to enjoy our "labor of love," and memory treasures green-well springs as a sacred spot where hands, heads, and hearts were used freely in the service of our beloved southland. the "jayhawkers" the "jayhawkers" on new year's day, , one of the coldest days ever known in louisiana, we were all seated around a bright wood fire talking as usual of the war, and of our absent boys. all were gone to the front--not a man was left, except my father, an aged clergyman. as we talked, we were startled by the furious barking of dogs, the tramp of horses, and a loud "hello" at the front gate. when the door was opened we saw about twenty or twenty-five men muffled up to their eyes, muffled quite beyond recognition. the men were riding miserable ponies, and they looked dreadful in their disguise, and seemed numb with cold. father answered the call, and asked what was wanted. the man in front replied that they were "government officials"; that they had come to search the house, as they had heard it contained contraband articles and smuggled goods. we knew that there was not a shadow of truth in the statement, so my father asked to see the government order. "you need not trouble about that, we have it all right!" replied the leader. then they pushed their way into the hall, the parlor, the bedrooms, and all over the house, opening trunks, bureau drawers, desks, and closets. they took every yard of cloth they could find and everything that looked new or valuable, piling them on the front piazza. toilet articles, ladies' underwear, everything! my brother was a physician, at that time a surgeon in a louisiana regiment, and we had quite a collection of jars and bottles of medicine that had been left over, among them a bottle of quinine valued at one hundred dollars, and prized above gold or silver. this medicine they found, and, sneering and jeering, placed it with other things. when they had gone through every room, they went to the old-fashioned smoke-house in the yard, where the home-cured meat, the corn meal and other such things were kept, broke open the door and entered. hidden away there was a small demijohn of whiskey, kept for medicinal purposes, and a box of sugar, kept also for the sick and suffering. when they found that, the men went wild with glee, and they ran, shouting, to the kitchen for cups and were soon drinking the fiery liquid. we stood looking on in agony,--the old father, the physician's wife, two young girls, and several small children,--all helpless, at the mercy of a band of drunken outlaws, two miles from any help! after they had swallowed every drop, and felt warmed and cheered by the whiskey, they came out and began to talk about the sad duty of obeying "government orders." we then told them that the report they had heard was false; that all the things they had collected on the piazza were in the house when the war broke out, and that we could prove it by the home guards, who would probably be along soon from their camp near by. of course, this was a ruse resorted to in our desperation, but it had a magical effect. the men ran to their horses, mounted in haste, and dashed off through the woods in a wild gallop. oh! what a relief, and how thankful we were! the goods were left on the piazza floor, quinine, clothing and all. they never came again, but the fear of their return never left us by night or day, until the war was over. memories of slave days memories of slave days rows and rows of white-washed cottages constituted the "quarters," with narrow streets between them, many of the little homes adorned with bright-hued, old-fashioned flowers in the front yards, or with potato and melon patches. on cold winter evenings bright firelight shone from every door and window. inside, the father sitting in the chimney corner, smoking his pipe while he deftly wove white-oak splints into cotton baskets; the mother, mending, or knitting, while the fat little darkies tumbled about on the floor, or danced to the music of uncle tom's fiddle. the slaves were well fed, well clothed, well housed, and when ill they were well nursed, and attended by a good doctor. their houses were warmed by fires in broad fireplaces, fires which they kept burning all night. they had gay "sunday-go-to-meetin' clothes," and they generally went to church, either to the "white folkses' church," where an upper gallery was provided for them, or to their own special service. if a planter allowed his slaves to be mistreated in any way, he and his family were ostracized from society, and made to feel the disapprobation of their neighbors. so general was this method of administering rebuke that it seemed to be an unwritten law throughout the south. sometimes, as it often happens to-day, an overseer of quick or ungovernable temper would be severe in punishing an offender; but he soon lost his place and a kinder man was employed in his instead. somewhere in the "quarters" a large nursery was situated, and there the babies and small children were cared for by the old women while their mothers worked in the cotton-fields. white children were taught to treat the grown-up servants with respect, and as they could not say "mrs." or "mr.," they called them "aunt" or "uncle." on sunday afternoons the white children were often sent to read the bible to the old colored people, and the children thought it quite an honor. if any of the house servants wanted to learn to read, they were taught, though after the war we heard this was against the law. we never knew it! half of every saturday was given to "the hands" to "clean up," tend their garden, or go fishing, as they chose. from ten days' to two weeks' holiday was given at christmas time, and a jolly good time they had--balls, parties, and weddings galore! the white family and their guests would be cordially invited down, and they always enjoyed the festivities. _noblesse oblige_ was recognized everywhere, and we felt bound to treat kindly the class dependent upon us. young ladies parted with many a handsome gown or ribbon because their maids wanted them and boldly asked for them. we simply could not refuse, and they knew it. the faithfulness and devotion of the slaves has been written of by historians, and they deserve all praise, for many of them were noble and self-sacrificing. after the war many of them remained at the old homestead with their former owners, as long as they could be provided for, and when poverty compelled a separation, they left the homestead with sorrow. we of the south are glad and thankful that the negroes are free. we would not have them in bondage again if we could. _"social equality" can never exist in the south_, but the race can be, and many of them are, well educated, happy and prosperous: living in peace and harmony with their white neighbors, who are, and have been for many years paying taxes to educate them. it is the "floating" class of colored people that cause the trouble we read about in the daily papers. those negroes who have been reared in the south, and know the old traditions, are law-abiding citizens with comfortable homes, good schools, fine churches, and every chance to be prosperous and contented. a narrow escape a narrow escape one bright, beautiful day, we were all made happy by a visit from the oldest son of the family, a surgeon in the confederate army. the river, winding almost around the plantation, was "up to its banks" from recent heavy rains, all the bridges had been destroyed, and we felt comparatively safe from the federals on the other side, though baton rouge was only nine miles away. the doctor, who wore confederate gray ornamented with louisiana pelican buttons, rode a fine large horse, which he left in the stables some distance from the house. sitting around the broad fireplace in mother's room, talking of the home people and the war, we were enjoying the unexpected visit, when one of the girls chanced to look out through the south door. she turned very pale, and exclaimed, "look at the soldiers!" all around the kitchen, talking to the servants, and all over the grounds were federal soldiers on horseback. what was to be done? if our brother was captured it meant imprisonment to the end of the war, and perhaps death. when he realized the situation, for he had been near the door and knew they had come for him and were questioning the servants, he dropped on his knees, crept into a small room adjoining, where two of us pulled off his gray coat and replaced it by an old one from the wardrobe, gave him a book, and someone whispered, "go into the guest-chamber and wait. take these old trousers with you." he slipped into the quiet room, and taking a seat by the window, and opening the book, assumed the rôle of an invalid. then we hastily concealed the confederate uniform, but where we put it i can never remember. it was securely hidden. by that time the federal officers and some of the men were in the house looking around with curiosity, but they offered no explanation about their call. there were five or six bright, pretty girls in the house, and, contrary to our usual custom, we chatted with the officers and used all our attractive powers to keep them in front of the house and on the broad veranda. our attentions seemed to please them, and the private soldiers were quietly ordered out and were not allowed to search for and appropriate valuables as they usually did. in a little while the federals, the girls, and the family were all engaged in pleasant conversation on the piazza overlooking the beautiful flower-yard and the lovely, peaceful scene. someone quietly stole back to the prisoner's room, told him the chance to escape had come, gave him an old hat, and helped him get out of the window near the garden, a garden bordered by a dense hedge. then the messenger returned to the group on the porch, and we chatted gaily, while our hearts were beating with excitement and anxiety for the fugitive. after some time the soldiers began to mount their horses, the servant having told us in the mean time that the yankees had the doctor's horse. we concluded that the fugitive would need his horse to get back to port hudson, if he had escaped, and we felt encouraged to believe he had, and we determined we would try to save the horse also. two of us requested the colonel to step into the parlor, as we wished to speak to him. he looked a little suspicious and seemed ill at ease when he had entered the room and the door was closed. the large, beautiful room with its heavy furniture, its bright brass andirons, its elegant pictures and wealth of flowers seemed harmless enough, and one of the girls was beautiful and bewitching, so he braved the danger (if there were danger!) and asked what he could do for us. we told him a fine horse had been taken out of our stables by his men; that we needed the animal as we were fond of horseback riding, and only the old carriage horses were left to us. he said he was sorry to refuse our polite request, but his men had seen the army saddle and bridle; that it looked like a "u. s." horse,--in fact, was branded "u. s.,"--and under the circumstances he would be obliged to take him. all this time our soldier-brother was hurrying across fields and woods, hills and valleys to the banks of the river, which meant safety on the other side. the officer, as i remember across the long years now passed, enjoyed the novelty of his position and looked with interest and a touch of sympathy at the southern home and the piquant southern girls. when he returned to the veranda the soldiers mounted their horses, gave us a respectful salute, and galloped down the broad avenue. when they reached the gate a large flock of geese, about a hundred, furiously attacked the enemy; their horses reared and plunged, and the "rank and file" were so angry because they had not been allowed any spoils, that they unsheathed their swords and, leaning over as far as they could, cut off the heads of some of our bravest ganders--the officers sitting erect, and trying to look grave. it was an amusing sight. "they routed them, they scouted them, nor lost a single man!" when all had gone we sent a boy in haste to the ford of the river to find out about our soldier. he had crossed the swollen stream in a rude dug-out with board paddles, and was safe, safe on the other side. gutenberg. (this file was produced from images generously made available by the internet archive.) [transcriber's note: every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as possible, including obsolete and variant spellings and other inconsistencies. text that has been changed is noted at the end of this ebook.] [illustration: solomon in his plantation suit. solomon northup (signed)] fifth thousand. twelve years a slave. narrative of solomon northup, a citizen of new-york, kidnapped in washington city in , and rescued in , from a cotton plantation near the red river, in louisiana. auburn: derby and miller. buffalo: derby, orton and mulligan. london: sampson low, son & company, ludgate hill. . entered according to act of congress, in the year one thousand eight hundred and fifty-three, by derby and miller, in the clerk's office of the district court of the northern district of new-york. entered in london at stationers' hall. to harriet beecher stowe: whose name, throughout the world, is identified with the great reform: this narrative, affording another key to uncle tom's cabin, is respectfully dedicated "such dupes are men to custom, and so prone to reverence what is ancient, and can plead a course of long observance for its use, that even servitude, the worst of ills, because delivered down from sire to son, is kept and guarded as a sacred thing. but is it fit, or can it bear the shock of rational discussion, that a man compounded and made up, like other men, of elements tumultuous, in whom lust and folly in as ample measure meet, as in the bosom of the slave he rules, should be a despot absolute, and boast himself the only freeman of his land?" cowper. contents. page. editor's preface, chapter i. introductory--ancestry--the northup family--birth and parentage--mintus northup--marriage with anne hampton--good resolutions--champlain canal--rafting excursion to canada--farming--the violin--cooking--removal to saratoga--parker and perry--slaves and slavery--the children--the beginning of sorrow, chapter ii. the two strangers--the circus company--departure from saratoga--ventriloquism and legerdemain--journey to new-york--free papers--brown and hamilton--the haste to reach the circus--arrival in washington--funeral of harrison--the sudden sickness--the torment of thirst--the receding light--insensibility--chains and darkness, chapter iii. painful meditations--james h. burch--williams' slave pen in washington--the lackey, radburn--assert my freedom--the anger of the trader--the paddle and cat-o'-nine-tails--the whipping--new acquaintances--ray, williams, and randall--arrival of little emily and her mother in the pen--maternal sorrows--the story of eliza, chapter iv. eliza's sorrows--preparation to embark--driven through the streets of washington--hail, columbia--the tomb of washington--clem ray--the breakfast on the steamer--the happy birds--aquia creek--fredericksburgh--arrival in richmond--goodin and his slave pen--robert, of cincinnati--david and his wife--mary and lethe--clem's return--his subsequent escape to canada--the brig orleans--james h. burch, chapter v. arrival at norfolk--frederick and maria--arthur, the freeman--appointed steward--jim, cuffee, and jenny--the storm--bahama banks--the calm--the conspiracy--the long boat--the small-pox--death of robert--manning, the sailor--the meeting in the forecastle--the letter--arrival at new-orleans--arthur's rescue--theophilus freeman, the consignee--platt--first night in the new-orleans slave pen, chapter vi. freeman's industry--cleanliness and clothes--exercising in the show room--the dance--bob, the fiddler--arrival of customers--slaves examined--the old gentleman of new-orleans--sale of david, caroline, and lethe--parting of randall and eliza--small-pox--the hospital--recovery and return to freeman's slave pen--the purchaser of eliza, harry, and platt--eliza's agony on parting from little emily, chapter vii. the steamboat rodolph--departure from new-orleans--william ford--arrival at alexandria, on red river--resolutions--the great pine woods--wild cattle--martin's summer residence--the texas road--arrival at master ford's--rose--mistress ford--sally and her children--john, the cook--walter, sam, and antony--the mills on indian creek--sabbath days--sam's conversion--the profit of kindness--rafting--adam taydem, the little white man--cascalla and his tribe--the indian ball--john m. tibeats--the storm approaching, chapter viii. ford's embarrassments--the sale to tibeats--the chattel mortgage--mistress ford's plantation on bayou boeuf--description of the latter--ford's brother-in-law, peter tanner--meeting with eliza--she still mourns for her children--ford's overseer, chapin--tibeats' abuse--the keg of nails--the first fight with tibeats--his discomfiture and castigation--the attempt to hang me--chapin's interference and speech--unhappy reflections--abrupt departure of tibeats, cook, and ramsey--lawson and the brown mule--message to the pine woods, chapter ix. the hot sun--yet bound--the cords sink into my flesh--chapin's uneasiness--speculation--rachel, and her cup of water--suffering increases--the happiness of slavery--arrival of ford--he cuts the cords which bind me, and takes the rope from my neck--misery--the gathering of the slaves in eliza's cabin--their kindness--rachel repeats the occurrences of the day--lawson entertains his companions with an account of his ride--chapin's apprehensions of tibeats--hired to peter tanner--peter expounds the scriptures--description of the stocks, chapter x. return to tibeats--impossibility of pleasing him--he attacks me with a hatchet--the struggle over the broad axe--the temptation to murder him--escape across the plantation--observations from the fence--tibeats approaches, followed by the hounds--they take my track--their loud yells--they almost overtake me--i reach the water--the hounds confused--moccasin snakes--alligators--night in the "great pacoudrie swamp"--the sounds of life--north-west course--emerge into the pine woods--slave and his young master--arrival at ford's--food and rest, chapter xi. the mistress' garden--the crimson and golden fruit--orange and pomegranate trees--return to bayou boeuf--master ford's remarks on the way--the meeting-with tibeats--his account of the chase--ford censures his brutality--arrival at the plantation--astonishment of the slaves on seeing me--the anticipated flogging--kentucky john--mr. eldret, the planter--eldret's sam--trip to the "big cane brake"--the tradition of "sutton's field"--forest trees--gnats and mosquitoes--the arrival of black women in the big cane--lumber women--sudden appearance of tibeats--his provoking treatment--visit to bayou boeuf--the slave pass--southern hospitality--the last of eliza--sale to edwin epps, chapter xii. personal appearance of epps--epps, drunk and sober--a glimpse of his history--cotton growing--the mode of ploughing and preparing ground--of planting, of hoeing, of picking, of treating raw hands--the difference in cotton pickers--patsey a remarkable one--tasked according to ability--beauty of a cotton field--the slave's labors--fear of approaching the gin-house--weighing--"chores"--cabin life--the corn mill--the uses of the gourd--fear of oversleeping--fear continually--mode of cultivating corn--sweet potatoes--fertility of the soil--fattening hogs--preserving bacon--raising cattle--shooting-matches--garden products--flowers and verdure, chapter xiii. the curious axe-helve--symptoms of approaching illness--continue to decline--the whip ineffectual--confined to the cabin--visit by dr. wines--partial recovery--failure at cotton picking--what may be heard on epps' plantation--lashes graduated--epps in a whipping mood--epps in a dancing mood--description of the dance--loss of rest no excuse--epps' characteristics--jim burns--removal from huff power to bayou boeuf--description of uncle abram; of wiley; of aunt phebe; of bob, henry, and edward; of patsey; with a genealogical account of each--something of their past history, and peculiar characteristics-- jealousy and lust--patsey, the victim, chapter xiv. destruction of the cotton crop in --demand for laborers in st. mary's parish--sent thither in a drove--the order of the march--the grand coteau--hired to judge turner on bayou salle--appointed driver in his sugar house--sunday services--slave furniture; how obtained--the party at yarney's, in centreville--good fortune--the captain of the steamer--his refusal to secrete me--return to bayou boeuf--sight of tibeats--patsey's sorrows--tumult and contention--hunting the coon and opossum--the cunning of the latter--the lean condition of the slave--description of the fish trap--the murder of the man from natchez--epps challenged by marshall--the influence of slavery--the love of freedom, chapter xv. labors on sugar plantations--the mode of planting cane--of hoeing cane--cane ricks--cutting cane--description of the cane knife--winrowing--preparing for succeeding crops--description of hawkins' sugar mill on bayou boeuf--the christmas holidays--the carnival season of the children of bondage--the christmas supper--red, the favorite color--the violin, and the consolation it afforded--the christmas dance--lively, the coquette--sam roberts, and his rivals--slave songs--southern life as it is--three days in the year--the system of marriage--uncle abram's contempt of matrimony, chapter xvi. overseers--how they are armed and accompanied--the homicide--his execution at marksville--slave drivers--appointed driver on removing to bayou boeuf--practice makes perfect--epps's attempt to cut platt's throat--the escape from him--protected by the mistress--forbids reading and writing--obtain a sheet of paper after nine years' effort--the letter--armsby, the mean white--partially confide in him--his treachery--epps' suspicions--how they were quieted--burning the letter--armsby leaves the bayou--disappointment and despair, chapter xvii. wiley disregards the counsels of aunt phebe and uncle abram, and is caught by the patrollers--the organization and duties of the latter--wiley runs away--speculations in regard to him--his unexpected return--his capture on the red river, and confinement in alexandria jail--discovered by joseph b. roberts--subduing dogs in anticipation of escape--the fugitives in the great pine woods--captured by adam taydem and the indians--augustus killed by dogs--nelly, eldret's slave woman--the story of celeste--the concerted movement--lew cheney, the traitor--the idea of insurrection, chapter xviii. o'niel, the tanner--conversation with aunt phebe overheard--epps in the tanning business--stabbing of uncle abram--the ugly wound--epps is jealous--patsey is missing--her return from shaw's--harriet, shaw's black wife--epps enraged--patsey denies his charges--she is tied down naked to four stakes--the inhuman flogging--flaying of patsey--the beauty of the day--the bucket of salt water--the dress stiff with blood--patsey grows melancholy--her idea of god and eternity--of heaven and freedom--the effect of slave-whipping--epps' oldest son--"the child is father to the man," chapter xix. avery, on bayou rouge--peculiarity of dwellings--epps builds a new house--bass, the carpenter--his noble qualities--his personal appearance and eccentricities--bass and epps discuss the question of slavery--epps' opinion of bass--i make myself known to him--our conversation--his surprise--the midnight meeting on the bayou bank--bass' assurances--declares war against slavery--why i did not disclose my history--bass writes letters--copy of his letter to messrs. parker and perry--the fever of suspense--disappointments--bass endeavors to cheer me--my faith in him, chapter xx. bass faithful to his word--his arrival on christmas eve--the difficulty of obtaining an interview--the meeting in the cabin--non-arrival of the letter--bass announces his intention to proceed north--christmas--conversation between epps and bass--young mistress mccoy, the beauty of bayou boeuf--the "ne plus ultra" of dinners--music and dancing--presence of the mistress--her exceeding beauty--the last slave dance--william pierce--oversleep myself--the last whipping--despondency--cold morning--epps' threats--the passing carriage--strangers approaching through the cotton-field--last hour on bayou boeuf, chapter xxi. the letter reaches saratoga--is forwarded to anne--is laid before henry b. northup--the statute of may , --its provisions--anne's memorial to the governor--the affidavits accompanying it--senator soule's letter--departure of the agent appointed by the governor--arrival at marksville--the hon. john p. waddill--the conversation on new-york politics--it suggests a fortunate idea--the meeting with bass--the secret out--legal proceedings instituted--departure of northup and the sheriff from marksville for bayou boeuf--arrangements on the way--reach epps' plantation--discover his slaves in the cotton-field--the meeting--the farewell, chapter xxii. arrival in new-orleans--glimpse of freeman--genois, the recorder--his description of solomon--reach charleston interrupted by custom house officers--pass through richmond--arrival in washington--burch arrested--shekels and thorn--their testimony--burch acquitted--arrest of solomon--burch withdraws the complaint--the higher tribunal--departure from washington--arrival at sandy hill--old friends and familiar scenes--proceed to glens falls--meeting with anne, margaret, and elizabeth--solomon northup staunton--incidents--conclusion, appendix, list of illustrations. portrait of solomon in his plantation suit, scene in the slave pen at washington, separation of eliza and her last child, chapin rescues solomon from hanging, the staking out and flogging of the girl patsey, scene in the cotton field, and solomon's delivery, arrival home, and first meeting with his wife and children, editor's preface. when the editor commenced the preparation of the following narrative, he did not suppose it would reach the size of this volume. in order, however, to present all the facts which have been communicated to him, it has seemed necessary to extend it to its present length. many of the statements contained in the following pages are corroborated by abundant evidence--others rest entirely upon solomon's assertion. that he has adhered strictly to the truth, the editor, at least, who has had an opportunity of detecting any contradiction or discrepancy in his statements, is well satisfied. he has invariably repeated the same story without deviating in the slightest particular, and has also carefully perused the manuscript, dictating an alteration wherever the most trivial inaccuracy has appeared. it was solomon's fortune, during his captivity, to be owned by several masters. the treatment he received while at the "pine woods" shows that among slaveholders there are men of humanity as well as of cruelty. some of them are spoken of with emotions of gratitude--others in a spirit of bitterness. it is believed that the following account of his experience on bayou boeuf presents a correct picture of slavery, in all its lights and shadows, as it now exists in that locality. unbiased, as he conceives, by any prepossessions or prejudices, the only object of the editor has been to give a faithful history of solomon northup's life, as he received it from his lips. in the accomplishment of that object, he trusts he has succeeded, notwithstanding the numerous faults of style and of expression it may be found to contain. david wilson. whitehall, n. y., may, . narrative of solomon northup. chapter i. introductory--ancestry--the northup family--birth and parentage--mintus northup--marriage with anne hampton--good resolutions--champlain canal--rafting excursion to canada--farming--the violin--cooking--removal to saratoga--parker and perry--slaves and slavery--the children--the beginning of sorrow. having been born a freeman, and for more than thirty years enjoyed the blessings of liberty in a free state--and having at the end of that time been kidnapped and sold into slavery, where i remained, until happily rescued in the month of january, , after a bondage of twelve years--it has been suggested that an account of my life and fortunes would not be uninteresting to the public. since my return to liberty, i have not failed to perceive the increasing interest throughout the northern states, in regard to the subject of slavery. works of fiction, professing to portray its features in their more pleasing as well as more repugnant aspects, have been circulated to an extent unprecedented, and, as i understand, have created a fruitful topic of comment and discussion. i can speak of slavery only so far as it came under my own observation--only so far as i have known and experienced it in my own person. my object is, to give a candid and truthful statement of facts: to repeat the story of my life, without exaggeration, leaving it for others to determine, whether even the pages of fiction present a picture of more cruel wrong or a severer bondage. as far back as i have been able to ascertain, my ancestors on the paternal side were slaves in rhode island. they belonged to a family by the name of northup, one of whom, removing to the state of new-york, settled at hoosic, in rensselaer county. he brought with him mintus northup, my father. on the death of this gentleman, which must have occurred some fifty years ago, my father became free, having been emancipated by a direction in his will. henry b. northup, esq., of sandy hill, a distinguished counselor at law, and the man to whom, under providence, i am indebted for my present liberty, and my return to the society of my wife and children, is a relative of the family in which my forefathers were thus held to service, and from which they took the name i bear. to this fact may be attributed the persevering interest he has taken in my behalf. sometime after my father's liberation, he removed to the town of minerva, essex county, n. y., where i was born, in the month of july, . how long he remained in the latter place i have not the means of definitely ascertaining. from thence he removed to granville, washington county, near a place known as slyborough, where, for some years, he labored on the farm of clark northup, also a relative of his old master; from thence he removed to the alden farm, at moss street, a short distance north of the village of sandy hill; and from thence to the farm now owned by russel pratt, situated on the road leading from fort edward to argyle, where he continued to reside until his death, which took place on the d day of november, . he left a widow and two children--myself, and joseph, an elder brother. the latter is still living in the county of oswego, near the city of that name; my mother died during the period of my captivity. though born a slave, and laboring under the disadvantages to which my unfortunate race is subjected, my father was a man respected for his industry and integrity, as many now living, who well remember him, are ready to testify. his whole life was passed in the peaceful pursuits of agriculture, never seeking employment in those more menial positions, which seem to be especially allotted to the children of africa. besides giving us an education surpassing that ordinarily bestowed upon children in our condition, he acquired, by his diligence and economy, a sufficient property qualification to entitle him to the right of suffrage. he was accustomed to speak to us of his early life; and although at all times cherishing the warmest emotions of kindness, and even of affection towards the family, in whose house he had been a bondsman, he nevertheless comprehended the system of slavery, and dwelt with sorrow on the degradation of his race. he endeavored to imbue our minds with sentiments of morality, and to teach us to place our trust and confidence in him who regards the humblest as well as the highest of his creatures. how often since that time has the recollection of his paternal counsels occurred to me, while lying in a slave hut in the distant and sickly regions of louisiana, smarting with the undeserved wounds which an inhuman master had inflicted, and longing only for the grave which had covered him, to shield me also from the lash of the oppressor. in the church-yard at sandy hill, an humble stone marks the spot where he reposes, after having worthily performed the duties appertaining to the lowly sphere wherein god had appointed him to walk. up to this period i had been principally engaged with my father in the labors of the farm. the leisure hours allowed me were generally either employed over my books, or playing on the violin--an amusement which was the ruling passion of my youth. it has also been the source of consolation since, affording pleasure to the simple beings with whom my lot was cast, and beguiling my own thoughts, for many hours, from the painful contemplation of my fate. on christmas day, , i was married to anne hampton, a colored girl then living in the vicinity of our residence. the ceremony was performed at fort edward, by timothy eddy, esq., a magistrate of that town, and still a prominent citizen of the place. she had resided a long time at sandy hill, with mr. baird, proprietor of the eagle tavern, and also in the family of rev. alexander proudfit, of salem. this gentleman for many years had presided over the presbyterian society at the latter place, and was widely distinguished for his learning and piety. anne still holds in grateful remembrance the exceeding kindness and the excellent counsels of that good man. she is not able to determine the exact line of her descent, but the blood of three races mingles in her veins. it is difficult to tell whether the red, white, or black predominates. the union of them all, however, in her origin, has given her a singular but pleasing expression, such as is rarely to be seen. though somewhat resembling, yet she cannot properly be styled a quadroon, a class to which, i have omitted to mention, my mother belonged. i had just now passed the period of my minority, having reached the age of twenty-one years in the month of july previous. deprived of the advice and assistance of my father, with a wife dependent upon me for support, i resolved to enter upon a life of industry; and notwithstanding the obstacle of color, and the consciousness of my lowly state, indulged in pleasant dreams of a good time coming, when the possession of some humble habitation, with a few surrounding acres, should reward my labors, and bring me the means of happiness and comfort. from the time of my marriage to this day the love i have borne my wife has been sincere and unabated; and only those who have felt the glowing tenderness a father cherishes for his offspring, can appreciate my affection for the beloved children which have since been born to us. this much i deem appropriate and necessary to say, in order that those who read these pages, may comprehend the poignancy of those sufferings i have been doomed to bear. immediately upon our marriage we commenced house-keeping, in the old yellow building then standing at the southern extremity of fort edward village, and which has since been transformed into a modern mansion, and lately occupied by captain lathrop. it is known as the fort house. in this building the courts were sometime held after the organization of the county. it was also occupied by burgoyne in , being situated near the old fort on the left bank of the hudson. during the winter i was employed with others repairing the champlain canal, on that section over which william van nortwick was superintendent. david mceachron had the immediate charge of the men in whose company i labored. by the time the canal opened in the spring, i was enabled, from the savings of my wages, to purchase a pair of horses, and other things necessarily required in the business of navigation. having hired several efficient hands to assist me, i entered into contracts for the transportation of large rafts of timber from lake champlain to troy. dyer beckwith and a mr. bartemy, of whitehall, accompanied me on several trips. during the season i became perfectly familiar with the art and mysteries of rafting--a knowledge which afterwards enabled me to render profitable service to a worthy master, and to astonish the simple-witted lumbermen on the banks of the bayou boeuf. in one of my voyages down lake champlain, i was induced to make a visit to canada. repairing to montreal, i visited the cathedral and other places of interest in that city, from whence i continued my excursion to kingston and other towns, obtaining a knowledge of localities, which was also of service to me afterwards, as will appear towards the close of this narrative. having completed my contracts on the canal satisfactorily to myself and to my employer, and not wishing to remain idle, now that the navigation of the canal was again suspended, i entered into another contract with medad gunn, to cut a large quantity of wood. in this business i was engaged during the winter of - . with the return of spring, anne and myself conceived the project of taking a farm in the neighborhood. i had been accustomed from earliest youth to agricultural labors, and it was an occupation congenial to my tastes. i accordingly entered into arrangements for a part of the old alden farm, on which my father formerly resided. with one cow, one swine, a yoke of fine oxen i had lately purchased of lewis brown, in hartford, and other personal property and effects, we proceeded to our new home in kingsbury. that year i planted twenty-five acres of corn, sowed large fields of oats, and commenced farming upon as large a scale as my utmost means would permit. anne was diligent about the house affairs, while i toiled laboriously in the field. on this place we continued to reside until . in the winter season i had numerous calls to play on the violin. wherever the young people assembled to dance, i was almost invariably there. throughout the surrounding villages my fiddle was notorious. anne, also, during her long residence at the eagle tavern, had become somewhat famous as a cook. during court weeks, and on public occasions, she was employed at high wages in the kitchen at sherrill's coffee house. we always returned home from the performance of these services with money in our pockets; so that, with fiddling, cooking, and farming, we soon found ourselves in the possession of abundance, and, in fact, leading a happy and prosperous life. well, indeed, would it have been for us had we remained on the farm at kingsbury; but the time came when the next step was to be taken towards the cruel destiny that awaited me. in march, , we removed to saratoga springs. we occupied a house belonging to daniel o'brien, on the north side of washington street. at that time isaac taylor kept a large boarding house, known as washington hall, at the north end of broadway. he employed me to drive a hack, in which capacity i worked for him two years. after this time i was generally employed through the visiting season, as also was anne, in the united states hotel, and other public houses of the place. in winter seasons i relied upon my violin, though during the construction of the troy and saratoga railroad, i performed many hard days' labor upon it. i was in the habit, at saratoga, of purchasing articles necessary for my family at the stores of mr. cephas parker and mr. william perry, gentlemen towards whom, for many acts of kindness, i entertained feelings of strong regard. it was for this reason that, twelve years afterwards, i caused to be directed to them the letter, which is hereinafter inserted, and which was the means, in the hands of mr. northup, of my fortunate deliverance. while living at the united states hotel, i frequently met with slaves, who had accompanied their masters from the south. they were always well dressed and well provided for, leading apparently an easy life, with but few of its ordinary troubles to perplex them. many times they entered into conversation with me on the subject of slavery. almost uniformly i found they cherished a secret desire for liberty. some of them expressed the most ardent anxiety to escape, and consulted me on the best method of effecting it. the fear of punishment, however, which they knew was certain to attend their re-capture and return, in all cases proved sufficient to deter them from the experiment. having all my life breathed the free air of the north, and conscious that i possessed the same feelings and affections that find a place in the white man's breast; conscious, moreover, of an intelligence equal to that of some men, at least, with a fairer skin, i was too ignorant, perhaps too independent, to conceive how any one could be content to live in the abject condition of a slave. i could not comprehend the justice of that law, or that religion, which upholds or recognizes the principle of slavery; and never once, i am proud to say, did i fail to counsel any one who came to me, to watch his opportunity, and strike for freedom. i continued to reside at saratoga until the spring of . the flattering anticipations which, seven years before, had seduced us from the quiet farm-house, on the east side of the hudson, had not been realized. though always in comfortable circumstances, we had not prospered. the society and associations at that world-renowned watering place, were not calculated to preserve the simple habits of industry and economy to which i had been accustomed, but, on the contrary, to substitute others in their stead, tending to shiftlessness and extravagance. at this time we were the parents of three children--elizabeth, margaret, and alonzo. elizabeth, the eldest, was in her tenth year; margaret was two years younger, and little alonzo had just passed his fifth birth-day. they filled our house with gladness. their young voices were music in our ears. many an airy castle did their mother and myself build for the little innocents. when not at labor i was always walking with them, clad in their best attire, through the streets and groves of saratoga. their presence was my delight; and i clasped them to my bosom with as warm and tender love as if their clouded skins had been as white as snow. thus far the history of my life presents nothing whatever unusual--nothing but the common hopes, and loves, and labors of an obscure colored man, making his humble progress in the world. but now i had reached a turning point in my existence--reached the threshold of unutterable wrong, and sorrow, and despair. now had i approached within the shadow of the cloud, into the thick darkness whereof i was soon to disappear, thenceforward to be hidden from the eyes of all my kindred, and shut out from the sweet light of liberty, for many a weary year. chapter ii. the two strangers--the circus company--departure from saratoga--ventriloquism and legerdemain--journey to new-york--free papers--brown and hamilton--the haste to reach the circus--arrival in washington--funeral of harrison--the sudden sickness--the torment of thirst--the receding light--insensibility--chains and darkness. one morning, towards the latter part of the month of march, , having at that time no particular business to engage my attention, i was walking about the village of saratoga springs, thinking to myself where i might obtain some present employment, until the busy season should arrive. anne, as was her usual custom, had gone over to sandy hill, a distance of some twenty miles, to take charge of the culinary department at sherrill's coffee house, during the session of the court. elizabeth, i think, had accompanied her. margaret and alonzo were with their aunt at saratoga. on the corner of congress street and broadway, near the tavern, then, and for aught i know to the contrary, still kept by mr. moon, i was met by two gentlemen of respectable appearance, both of whom were entirely unknown to me. i have the impression that they were introduced to me by some one of my acquaintances, but who, i have in vain endeavored to recall, with the remark that i was an expert player on the violin. at any rate, they immediately entered into conversation on that subject, making numerous inquiries touching my proficiency in that respect. my responses being to all appearances satisfactory, they proposed to engage my services for a short period, stating, at the same time, i was just such a person as their business required. their names, as they afterwards gave them to me, were merrill brown and abram hamilton, though whether these were their true appellations, i have strong reasons to doubt. the former was a man apparently forty years of age, somewhat short and thick-set, with a countenance indicating shrewdness and intelligence. he wore a black frock coat and black hat, and said he resided either at rochester or at syracuse. the latter was a young man of fair complexion and light eyes, and, i should judge, had not passed the age of twenty-five. he was tall and slender, dressed in a snuff-colored coat, with glossy hat, and vest of elegant pattern. his whole apparel was in the extreme of fashion. his appearance was somewhat effeminate, but prepossessing, and there was about him an easy air, that showed he had mingled with the world. they were connected, as they informed me, with a circus company, then in the city of washington; that they were on their way thither to rejoin it, having left it for a short time to make an excursion northward, for the purpose of seeing the country, and were paying their expenses by an occasional exhibition. they also remarked that they had found much difficulty in procuring music for their entertainments, and that if i would accompany them as far as new-york, they would give me one dollar for each day's services, and three dollars in addition for every night i played at their performances, besides sufficient to pay the expenses of my return from new-york to saratoga. i at once accepted the tempting offer, both for the reward it promised, and from a desire to visit the metropolis. they were anxious to leave immediately. thinking my absence would be brief, i did not deem it necessary to write to anne whither i had gone; in fact supposing that my return, perhaps, would be as soon as hers. so taking a change of linen and my violin, i was ready to depart. the carriage was brought round--a covered one, drawn by a pair of noble bays, altogether forming an elegant establishment. their baggage, consisting of three large trunks, was fastened on the rack, and mounting to the driver's seat, while they took their places in the rear, i drove away from saratoga on the road to albany, elated with my new position, and happy as i had ever been, on any day in all my life. we passed through ballston, and striking the ridge road, as it is called, if my memory correctly serves me, followed it direct to albany. we reached that city before dark, and stopped at a hotel southward from the museum. this night i had an opportunity of witnessing one of their performances--the only one, during the whole period i was with them. hamilton was stationed at the door; i formed the orchestra, while brown provided the entertainment. it consisted in throwing balls, dancing on the rope, frying pancakes in a hat, causing invisible pigs to squeal, and other like feats of ventriloquism and legerdemain. the audience was extraordinarily sparse, and not of the selectest character at that, and hamilton's report of the proceeds presented but a "beggarly account of empty boxes." early next morning we renewed our journey. the burden of their conversation now was the expression of an anxiety to reach the circus without delay. they hurried forward, without again stopping to exhibit, and in due course of time, we reached new-york, taking lodgings at a house on the west side of the city, in a street running from broadway to the river. i supposed my journey was at an end, and expected in a day or two at least, to return to my friends and family at saratoga. brown and hamilton, however, began to importune me to continue with them to washington. they alleged that immediately on their arrival, now that the summer season was approaching, the circus would set out for the north. they promised me a situation and high wages if i would accompany them. largely did they expatiate on the advantages that would result to me, and such were the flattering representations they made, that i finally concluded to accept the offer. the next morning they suggested that, inasmuch as we were about entering a slave state, it would be well, before leaving new-york, to procure free papers. the idea struck me as a prudent one, though i think it would scarcely have occurred to me, had they not proposed it. we proceeded at once to what i understood to be the custom house. they made oath to certain facts showing i was a free man. a paper was drawn up and handed us, with the direction to take it to the clerk's office. we did so, and the clerk having added something to it, for which he was paid six shillings, we returned again to the custom house. some further formalities were gone through with before it was completed, when, paying the officer two dollars, i placed the papers in my pocket, and started with my two friends to our hotel. i thought at the time, i must confess, that the papers were scarcely worth the cost of obtaining them--the apprehension of danger to my personal safety never having suggested itself to me in the remotest manner. the clerk, to whom we were directed, i remember, made a memorandum in a large book, which, i presume, is in the office yet. a reference to the entries during the latter part of march, or first of april, , i have no doubt will satisfy the incredulous, at least so far as this particular transaction is concerned. with the evidence of freedom in my possession, the next day after our arrival in new-york, we crossed the ferry to jersey city, and took the road to philadelphia. here we remained one night, continuing our journey towards baltimore early in the morning. in due time, we arrived in the latter city, and stopped at a hotel near the railroad depot, either kept by a mr. rathbone, or known as the rathbone house. all the way from new-york, their anxiety to reach the circus seemed to grow more and more intense. we left the carriage at baltimore, and entering the cars, proceeded to washington, at which place we arrived just at nightfall, the evening previous to the funeral of general harrison, and stopped at gadsby's hotel, on pennsylvania avenue. after supper they called me to their apartments, and paid me forty-three dollars, a sum greater than my wages amounted to, which act of generosity was in consequence, they said, of their not having exhibited as often as they had given me to anticipate, during our trip from saratoga. they moreover informed me that it had been the intention of the circus company to leave washington the next morning, but that on account of the funeral, they had concluded to remain another day. they were then, as they had been from the time of our first meeting, extremely kind. no opportunity was omitted of addressing me in the language of approbation; while, on the other hand, i was certainly much prepossessed in their favor. i gave them my confidence without reserve, and would freely have trusted them to almost any extent. their constant conversation and manner towards me--their foresight in suggesting the idea of free papers, and a hundred other little acts, unnecessary to be repeated--all indicated that they were friends indeed, sincerely solicitous for my welfare. i know not but they were. i know not but they were innocent of the great wickedness of which i now believe them guilty. whether they were accessory to my misfortunes--subtle and inhuman monsters in the shape of men--designedly luring me away from home and family, and liberty, for the sake of gold--those who read these pages will have the same means of determining as myself. if they were innocent, my sudden disappearance must have been unaccountable indeed; but revolving in my mind all the attending circumstances, i never yet could indulge, towards them, so charitable a supposition. after receiving the money from them, of which they appeared to have an abundance, they advised me not to go into the streets that night, inasmuch as i was unacquainted with the customs of the city. promising to remember their advice, i left them together, and soon after was shown by a colored servant to a sleeping room in the back part of the hotel, on the ground floor. i laid down to rest, thinking of home and wife, and children, and the long distance that stretched between us, until i fell asleep. but no good angel of pity came to my bedside, bidding me to fly--no voice of mercy forewarned me in my dreams of the trials that were just at hand. the next day there was a great pageant in washington. the roar of cannon and the tolling of bells filled the air, while many houses were shrouded with crape, and the streets were black with people. as the day advanced, the procession made its appearance, coming slowly through the avenue, carriage after carriage, in long succession, while thousands upon thousands followed on foot--all moving to the sound of melancholy music. they were bearing the dead body of harrison to the grave. from early in the morning, i was constantly in the company of hamilton and brown. they were the only persons i knew in washington. we stood together as the funeral pomp passed by. i remember distinctly how the window glass would break and rattle to the ground, after each report of the cannon they were firing in the burial ground. we went to the capitol, and walked a long time about the grounds. in the afternoon, they strolled towards the president's house, all the time keeping me near to them, and pointing out various places of interest. as yet, i had seen nothing of the circus. in fact, i had thought of it but little, if at all, amidst the excitement of the day. my friends, several times during the afternoon, entered drinking saloons, and called for liquor. they were by no means in the habit, however, so far as i knew them, of indulging to excess. on these occasions, after serving themselves, they would pour out a glass and hand it to me. i did not become intoxicated, as may be inferred from what subsequently occurred. towards evening, and soon after partaking of one of these potations, i began to experience most unpleasant sensations. i felt extremely ill. my head commenced aching--a dull, heavy pain, inexpressibly disagreeable. at the supper table, i was without appetite; the sight and flavor of food was nauseous. about dark the same servant conducted me to the room i had occupied the previous night. brown and hamilton advised me to retire, commiserating me kindly, and expressing hopes that i would be better in the morning. divesting myself of coat and boots merely, i threw myself upon the bed. it was impossible to sleep. the pain in my head continued to increase, until it became almost unbearable. in a short time i became thirsty. my lips were parched. i could think of nothing but water--of lakes and flowing rivers, of brooks where i had stooped to drink, and of the dripping bucket, rising with its cool and overflowing nectar, from the bottom of the well. towards midnight, as near as i could judge, i arose, unable longer to bear such intensity of thirst. i was a stranger in the house, and knew nothing of its apartments. there was no one up, as i could observe. groping about at random, i knew not where, i found the way at last to a kitchen in the basement. two or three colored servants were moving through it, one of whom, a woman, gave me two glasses of water. it afforded momentary relief, but by the time i had reached my room again, the same burning desire of drink, the same tormenting thirst, had again returned. it was even more torturing than before, as was also the wild pain in my head, if such a thing could be. i was in sore distress--in most excruciating agony! i seemed to stand on the brink of madness! the memory of that night of horrible suffering will follow me to the grave. in the course of an hour or more after my return from the kitchen, i was conscious of some one entering my room. there seemed to be several--a mingling of various voices,--but how many, or who they were, i cannot tell. whether brown and hamilton were among them, is a mere matter of conjecture. i only remember, with any degree of distinctness, that i was told it was necessary to go to a physician and procure medicine, and that pulling on my boots, without coat or hat, i followed them through a long passage-way, or alley, into the open street. it ran out at right angles from pennsylvania avenue. on the opposite side there was a light burning in a window. my impression is there were then three persons with me, but it is altogether indefinite and vague, and like the memory of a painful dream. going towards the light, which i imagined proceeded from a physician's office, and which seemed to recede as i advanced, is the last glimmering recollection i can now recall. from that moment i was insensible. how long i remained in that condition--whether only that night, or many days and nights--i do not know; but when consciousness returned, i found myself alone, in utter darkness, and in chains. the pain in my head had subsided in a measure, but i was very faint and weak. i was sitting upon a low bench, made of rough boards, and without coat or hat. i was hand-cuffed. around my ankles also were a pair of heavy fetters. one end of a chain was fastened to a large ring in the floor, the other to the fetters on my ankles. i tried in vain to stand upon my feet. waking from such a painful trance, it was some time before i could collect my thoughts. where was i? what was the meaning of these chains? where were brown and hamilton? what had i done to deserve imprisonment in such a dungeon? i could not comprehend. there was a blank of some indefinite period, preceding my awakening in that lonely place, the events of which the utmost stretch of memory was unable to recall. i listened intently for some sign or sound of life, but nothing broke the oppressive silence, save the clinking of my chains, whenever i chanced to move. i spoke aloud, but the sound of my voice startled me. i felt of my pockets, so far as the fetters would allow--far enough, indeed, to ascertain that i had not only been robbed of liberty, but that my money and free papers were also gone! then did the idea begin to break upon my mind, at first dim and confused, that i had been kidnapped. but that i thought was incredible. there must have been some misapprehension--some unfortunate mistake. it could not be that a free citizen of new-york, who had wronged no man, nor violated any law, should be dealt with thus inhumanly. the more i contemplated my situation, however, the more i became confirmed in my suspicions. it was a desolate thought, indeed. i felt there was no trust or mercy in unfeeling man; and commending myself to the god of the oppressed, bowed my head upon my fettered hands, and wept most bitterly. chapter iii. painful meditations--james h. burch--williams' slave pen in washington--the lackey, radburn--assert my freedom--the anger of the trader--the paddle and cat-o'-ninetails--the whipping--new acquaintances--ray, williams, and randall--arrival of little emily and her mother in the pen--maternal sorrows--the story of eliza. some three hours elapsed, during which time i remained seated on the low bench, absorbed in painful meditations. at length i heard the crowing of a cock, and soon a distant rumbling sound, as of carriages hurrying through the streets, came to my ears, and i knew that it was day. no ray of light, however, penetrated my prison. finally, i heard footsteps immediately overhead, as of some one walking to and fro. it occurred to me then that i must be in an underground apartment, and the damp, mouldy odors of the place confirmed the supposition. the noise above continued for at least an hour, when, at last, i heard footsteps approaching from without. a key rattled in the lock--a strong door swung back upon its hinges, admitting a flood of light, and two men entered and stood before me. one of them was a large, powerful man, forty years of age, perhaps, with dark, chestnut-colored hair, slightly interspersed with gray. his face was full, his complexion flush, his features grossly coarse, expressive of nothing but cruelty and cunning. he was about five feet ten inches high, of full habit, and, without prejudice, i must be allowed to say, was a man whose whole appearance was sinister and repugnant. his name was james h. burch, as i learned afterwards--a well-known slave-dealer in washington; and then, or lately, connected in business, as a partner, with theophilus freeman, of new-orleans. the person who accompanied him was a simple lackey, named ebenezer radburn, who acted merely in the capacity of turnkey. both of these men still live in washington, or did, at the time of my return through that city from slavery in january last. the light admitted through the open door enabled me to observe the room in which i was confined. it was about twelve feet square--the walls of solid masonry. the floor was of heavy plank. there was one small window, crossed with great iron bars, with an outside shutter, securely fastened. an iron-bound door led into an adjoining cell, or vault, wholly destitute of windows, or any means of admitting light. the furniture of the room in which i was, consisted of the wooden bench on which i sat, an old-fashioned, dirty box stove, and besides these, in either cell, there was neither bed, nor blanket, nor any other thing whatever. the door, through which burch and radburn entered, led through a small passage, up a flight of steps into a yard, surrounded by a brick wall ten or twelve feet high, immediately in rear of a building of the same width as itself. the yard extended rearward from the house about thirty feet. in one part of the wall there was a strongly ironed door, opening into a narrow, covered passage, leading along one side of the house into the street. the doom of the colored man, upon whom the door leading out of that narrow passage closed, was sealed. the top of the wall supported one end of a roof, which ascended inwards, forming a kind of open shed. underneath the roof there was a crazy loft all round, where slaves, if so disposed, might sleep at night, or in inclement weather seek shelter from the storm. it was like a farmer's barnyard in most respects, save it was so constructed that the outside world could never see the human cattle that were herded there. the building to which the yard was attached, was two stories high, fronting on one of the public streets of washington. its outside presented only the appearance of a quiet private residence. a stranger looking at it, would never have dreamed of its execrable uses. strange as it may seem, within plain sight of this same house, looking down from its commanding height upon it, was the capitol. the voices of patriotic representatives boasting of freedom and equality, and the rattling of the poor slave's chains, almost commingled. a slave pen within the very shadow of the capitol! * * * * * such is a correct description as it was in , of williams' slave pen in washington, in one of the cellars of which i found myself so unaccountably confined. "well, my boy, how do you feel now?" said burch, as he entered through the open door. i replied that i was sick, and inquired the cause of my imprisonment. he answered that i was his slave--that he had bought me, and that he was about to send me to new-orleans. i asserted, aloud and boldly, that i was a free man--a resident of saratoga, where i had a wife and children, who were also free, and that my name was northup. i complained bitterly of the strange treatment i had received, and threatened, upon my liberation, to have satisfaction for the wrong. he denied that i was free, and with an emphatic oath, declared that i came from georgia. again and again i asserted i was no man's slave, and insisted upon his taking off my chains at once. he endeavored to hush me, as if he feared my voice would be overheard. but i would not be silent, and denounced the authors of my imprisonment, whoever they might be, as unmitigated villains. finding he could not quiet me, he flew into a towering passion. with blasphemous oaths, he called me a black liar, a runaway from georgia, and every other profane and vulgar epithet that the most indecent fancy could conceive. during this time radburn was standing silently by. his business was, to oversee this human, or rather inhuman stable, receiving slaves, feeding and whipping them, at the rate of two shillings a head per day. turning to him, burch ordered the paddle and cat-o'-ninetails to be brought in. he disappeared, and in a few moments returned with these instruments of torture. the paddle, as it is termed in slave-beating parlance, or at least the one with which i first became acquainted, and of which i now speak, was a piece of hard-wood board, eighteen or twenty inches long, moulded to the shape of an old-fashioned pudding stick, or ordinary oar. the flattened portion, which was about the size in circumference of two open hands, was bored with a small auger in numerous places. the cat was a large rope of many strands--the strands unraveled, and a knot tied at the extremity of each. as soon as these formidable whips appeared, i was seized by both of them, and roughly divested of my clothing. my feet, as has been stated, were fastened to the floor. drawing me over the bench, face downwards, radburn placed his heavy foot upon the fetters, between my wrists, holding them painfully to the floor. with the paddle, burch commenced beating me. blow after blow was inflicted upon my naked body. when his unrelenting arm grew tired, he stopped and asked if i still insisted i was a free man. i did insist upon it, and then the blows were renewed, faster and more energetically, if possible, than before. when again tired, he would repeat the same question, and receiving the same answer, continue his cruel labor. all this time, the incarnate devil was uttering most fiendish oaths. at length the paddle broke, leaving the useless handle in his hand. still i would not yield. all his brutal blows could not force from my lips the foul lie that i was a slave. casting madly on the floor the handle of the broken paddle, he seized the rope. this was far more painful than the other. i struggled with all my power, but it was in vain. i prayed for mercy, but my prayer was only answered with imprecations and with stripes. i thought i must die beneath the lashes of the accursed brute. even now the flesh crawls upon my bones, as i recall the scene. i was all on fire. my sufferings i can compare to nothing else than the burning agonies of hell! [illustration: scene in the slave pen at washington.] at last i became silent to his repeated questions. i would make no reply. in fact, i was becoming almost unable to speak. still he plied the lash without stint upon my poor body, until it seemed that the lacerated flesh was stripped from my bones at every stroke. a man with a particle of mercy in his soul would not have beaten even a dog so cruelly. at length radburn said that it was useless to whip me any more--that i would be sore enough. thereupon, burch desisted, saying, with an admonitory shake of his fist in my face, and hissing the words through his firm-set teeth, that if ever i dared to utter again that i was entitled to my freedom, that i had been kidnapped, or any thing whatever of the kind, the castigation i had just received was nothing in comparison with what would follow. he swore that he would either conquer or kill me. with these consolatory words, the fetters were taken from my wrists, my feet still remaining fastened to the ring; the shutter of the little barred window, which had been opened, was again closed, and going out, locking the great door behind them, i was left in darkness as before. in an hour, perhaps two, my heart leaped to my throat, as the key rattled in the door again. i, who had been so lonely, and who had longed so ardently to see some one, i cared not who, now shuddered at the thought of man's approach. a human face was fearful to me, especially a white one. radburn entered, bringing with him, on a tin plate, a piece of shriveled fried pork, a slice of bread and a cup of water. he asked me how i felt, and remarked that i had received a pretty severe flogging. he remonstrated with me against the propriety of asserting my freedom. in rather a patronizing and confidential manner, he gave it to me as his advice, that the less i said on that subject the better it would be for me. the man evidently endeavored to appear kind--whether touched at the sight of my sad condition, or with the view of silencing, on my part, any further expression of my rights, it is not necessary now to conjecture. he unlocked the fetters from my ankles, opened the shutters of the little window, and departed, leaving me again alone. by this time i had become stiff and sore; my body was covered with blisters, and it was with great pain and difficulty that i could move. from the window i could observe nothing but the roof resting on the adjacent wall. at night i laid down upon the damp, hard floor, without any pillow or covering whatever. punctually, twice a day, radburn came in, with his pork, and bread, and water. i had but little appetite, though i was tormented with continual thirst. my wounds would not permit me to remain but a few minutes in any one position; so, sitting, or standing, or moving slowly round, i passed the days and nights. i was heart sick and discouraged. thoughts of my family, of my wife and children, continually occupied my mind. when sleep overpowered me i dreamed of them--dreamed i was again in saratoga--that i could see their faces, and hear their voices calling me. awakening from the pleasant phantasms of sleep to the bitter realities around me, i could but groan and weep. still my spirit was not broken. i indulged the anticipation of escape, and that speedily. it was impossible, i reasoned, that men could be so unjust as to detain me as a slave, when the truth of my case was known. burch, ascertaining i was no runaway from georgia, would certainly let me go. though suspicions of brown and hamilton were not unfrequent, i could not reconcile myself to the idea that they were instrumental to my imprisonment. surely they would seek me out--they would deliver me from thraldom. alas! i had not then learned the measure of "man's inhumanity to man," nor to what limitless extent of wickedness he will go for the love of gain. in the course of several days the outer door was thrown open, allowing me the liberty of the yard. there i found three slaves--one of them a lad of ten years, the others young men of about twenty and twenty-five. i was not long in forming an acquaintance, and learning their names and the particulars of their history. the eldest was a colored man named clemens ray. he had lived in washington; had driven a hack, and worked in a livery stable there for a long time. he was very intelligent, and fully comprehended his situation. the thought of going south overwhelmed him with grief. burch had purchased him a few days before, and had placed him there until such time as he was ready to send him to the new-orleans market. from him i learned for the first time that i was in william's slave pen, a place i had never heard of previously. he described to me the uses for which it was designed. i repeated to him the particulars of my unhappy story, but he could only give me the consolation of his sympathy. he also advised me to be silent henceforth on the subject of my freedom; for, knowing the character of burch, he assured me that it would only be attended with renewed whipping. the next eldest was named john williams. he was raised in virginia, not far from washington. burch had taken him in payment of a debt, and he constantly entertained the hope that his master would redeem him--a hope that was subsequently realized. the lad was a sprightly child, that answered to the name of randall. most of the time he was playing about the yard, but occasionally would cry, calling for his mother, and wondering when she would come. his mother's absence seemed to be the great and only grief in his little heart. he was too young to realize his condition, and when the memory of his mother was not in his mind, he amused us with his pleasant pranks. at night, ray, williams, and the boy, slept in the loft of the shed, while i was locked in the cell. finally we were each provided with blankets, such as are used upon horses--the only bedding i was allowed to have for twelve years afterwards. ray and williams asked me many questions about new-york--how colored people were treated there; how they could have homes and families of their own, with none to disturb and oppress them; and ray, especially, sighed continually for freedom. such conversations, however, were not in the hearing of burch, or the keeper radburn. aspirations such as these would have brought down the lash upon our backs. it is necessary in this narrative, in order to present a full and truthful statement of all the principal events in the history of my life, and to portray the institution of slavery as i have seen and known it, to speak of well-known places, and of many persons who are yet living. i am, and always was, an entire stranger in washington and its vicinity--aside from burch and radburn, knowing no man there, except as i have heard of them through my enslaved companions. what i am about to say, if false, can be easily contradicted. i remained in williams' slave pen about two weeks. the night previous to my departure a woman was brought in, weeping bitterly, and leading by the hand a little child. they were randall's mother and half-sister. on meeting them he was overjoyed, clinging to her dress, kissing the child, and exhibiting every demonstration of delight. the mother also clasped him in her arms, embraced him tenderly, and gazed at him fondly through her tears, calling him by many an endearing name. emily, the child, was seven or eight years old, of light complexion, and with a face of admirable beauty. her hair fell in curls around her neck, while the style and richness of her dress, and the neatness of her whole appearance indicated she had been brought up in the midst of wealth. she was a sweet child indeed. the woman also was arrayed in silk, with rings upon her fingers, and golden ornaments suspended from her ears. her air and manners, the correctness and propriety of her language--all showed, evidently, that she had sometime stood above the common level of a slave. she seemed to be amazed at finding herself in such a place as that. it was plainly a sudden and unexpected turn of fortune that had brought her there. filling the air with her complainings, she was hustled, with the children and myself, into the cell. language can convey but an inadequate impression of the lamentations to which she gave incessant utterance. throwing herself upon the floor, and encircling the children in her arms, she poured forth such touching words as only maternal love and kindness can suggest. they nestled closely to her, as if _there_ only was there any safety or protection. at last they slept, their heads resting upon her lap. while they slumbered, she smoothed the hair back from their little foreheads, and talked to them all night long. she called them her darlings--her sweet babes--poor innocent things, that knew not the misery they were destined to endure. soon they would have no mother to comfort them--they would be taken from her. what would become of them? oh! she could not live away from her little emmy and her dear boy. they had always been good children, and had such loving ways. it would break her heart, god knew, she said, if they were taken from her; and yet she knew they meant to sell them, and, may be, they would be separated, and could never see each other any more. it was enough to melt a heart of stone to listen to the pitiful expressions of that desolate and distracted mother. her name was eliza; and this was the story of her life, as she afterwards related it: she was the slave of elisha berry, a rich man, living in the neighborhood of washington. she was born, i think she said, on his plantation. years before, he had fallen into dissipated habits, and quarreled with his wife. in fact, soon after the birth of randall, they separated. leaving his wife and daughter in the house they had always occupied, he erected a new one near by, on the estate. into this house he brought eliza; and, on condition of her living with him, she and her children were to be emancipated. she resided with him there nine years, with servants to attend upon her, and provided with every comfort and luxury of life. emily was his child! finally, her young mistress, who had always remained with her mother at the homestead, married a mr. jacob brooks. at length, for some cause, (as i gathered from her relation,) beyond berry's control, a division of his property was made. she and her children fell to the share of mr. brooks. during the nine years she had lived with berry, in consequence of the position she was compelled to occupy, she and emily had become the object of mrs. berry and her daughter's hatred and dislike. berry himself she represented as a man of naturally a kind heart, who always promised her that she should have her freedom, and who, she had no doubt, would grant it to her then, if it were only in his power. as soon as they thus came into the possession and control of the daughter, it became very manifest they would not live long together. the sight of eliza seemed to be odious to mrs. brooks; neither could she bear to look upon the child, half-sister, and beautiful as she was! the day she was led into the pen, brooks had brought her from the estate into the city, under pretence that the time had come when her free papers were to be executed, in fulfillment of her master's promise. elated at the prospect of immediate liberty, she decked herself and little emmy in their best apparel, and accompanied him with a joyful heart. on their arrival in the city, instead of being baptized into the family of freemen, she was delivered to the trader burch. the paper that was executed was a bill of sale. the hope of years was blasted in a moment. from the height of most exulting happiness to the utmost depths of wretchedness, she had that day descended. no wonder that she wept, and filled the pen with wailings and expressions of heart-rending woe. eliza is now dead. far up the red river, where it pours its waters sluggishly through the unhealthy low lands of louisiana, she rests in the grave at last--the only resting place of the poor slave! how all her fears were realized--how she mourned day and night, and never would be comforted--how, as she predicted, her heart did indeed break, with the burden of maternal sorrow, will be seen as the narrative proceeds. chapter iv. eliza's sorrows--preparation to embark--driven through the streets of washington--hail, columbia--the tomb of washington--clem ray--the breakfast on the steamer--the happy birds--aquia creek--fredericksburgh--arrival in richmond--goodin and his slave pen--robert, of cincinnati--david and his wife--mary and lethe--clem's return--his subsequent escape to canada--the brig orleans--james h. burch. at intervals during the first night of eliza's incarceration in the pen, she complained bitterly of jacob brooks, her young mistress' husband. she declared that had she been aware of the deception he intended to practice upon her, he never would have brought her there alive. they had chosen the opportunity of getting her away when master berry was absent from the plantation. he had always been kind to her. she wished that she could see him; but she knew that even he was unable now to rescue her. then would she commence weeping again--kissing the sleeping children--talking first to one, then to the other, as they lay in their unconscious slumbers, with their heads upon her lap. so wore the long night away; and when the morning dawned, and night had come again, still she kept mourning on, and would not be consoled. about midnight following, the cell door opened, and burch and radburn entered, with lanterns in their hands. burch, with an oath, ordered us to roll up our blankets without delay, and get ready to go on board the boat. he swore we would be left unless we hurried fast. he aroused the children from their slumbers with a rough shake, and said they were d--d sleepy, it appeared. going out into the yard, he called clem ray, ordering him to leave the loft and come into the cell, and bring his blanket with him. when clem appeared, he placed us side by side, and fastened us together with hand-cuffs--my left hand to his right. john williams had been taken out a day or two before, his master having redeemed him, greatly to his delight. clem and i were ordered to march, eliza and the children following. we were conducted into the yard, from thence into the covered passage, and up a flight of steps through a side door into the upper room, where i had heard the walking to and fro. its furniture was a stove, a few old chairs, and a long table, covered with papers. it was a white-washed room, without any carpet on the floor, and seemed a sort of office. by one of the windows, i remember, hung a rusty sword, which attracted my attention. burch's trunk was there. in obedience to his orders, i took hold of one of its handles with my unfettered hand, while he taking hold of the other, we proceeded out of the front door into the street in the same order as we had left the cell. it was a dark night. all was quiet. i could see lights, or the reflection of them, over towards pennsylvania avenue, but there was no one, not even a straggler, to be seen. i was almost resolved to attempt to break away. had i not been hand-cuffed the attempt would certainly have been made, whatever consequence might have followed. radburn was in the rear, carrying a large stick, and hurrying up the children as fast as the little ones could walk. so we passed, hand-cuffed and in silence, through the streets of washington--through the capital of a nation, whose theory of government, we are told, rests on the foundation of man's inalienable right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness! hail! columbia, happy land, indeed! reaching the steamboat, we were quickly hustled into the hold, among barrels and boxes of freight. a colored servant brought a light, the bell rung, and soon the vessel started down the potomac, carrying us we knew not where. the bell tolled as we passed the tomb of washington! burch, no doubt, with uncovered head, bowed reverently before the sacred ashes of the man who devoted his illustrious life to the liberty of his country. none of us slept that night but randall and little emmy. for the first time clem ray was wholly overcome. to him the idea of going south was terrible in the extreme. he was leaving the friends and associations of his youth--every thing that was dear and precious to his heart--in all probability never to return. he and eliza mingled their tears together, bemoaning their cruel fate. for my own part, difficult as it was, i endeavored to keep up my spirits. i resolved in my mind a hundred plans of escape, and fully determined to make the attempt the first desperate chance that offered. i had by this time become satisfied, however, that my true policy was to say nothing further on the subject of my having been born a freeman. it would but expose me to mal-treatment, and diminish the chances of liberation. after sunrise in the morning we were called up on deck to breakfast. burch took our hand-cuffs off, and we sat down to table. he asked eliza if she would take a dram. she declined, thanking him politely. during the meal we were all silent--not a word passed between us. a mulatto woman who served at table seemed to take an interest in our behalf--told us to cheer up, and not to be so cast down. breakfast over, the hand-cuffs were restored, and burch ordered us out on the stern deck. we sat down together on some boxes, still saying nothing in burch's presence. occasionally a passenger would walk out to where we were, look at us for a while, then silently return. it was a very pleasant morning. the fields along the river were covered with verdure, far in advance of what i had been accustomed to see at that season of the year. the sun shone out warmly; the birds were singing in the trees. the happy birds--i envied them. i wished for wings like them, that i might cleave the air to where my birdlings waited vainly for their father's coming, in the cooler region of the north. in the forenoon the steamer reached aquia creek. there the passengers took stages--burch and his five slaves occupying one exclusively. he laughed with the children, and at one stopping place went so far as to purchase them a piece of gingerbread. he told me to hold up my head and look smart. that i might, perhaps, get a good master if i behaved myself. i made him no reply. his face was hateful to me, and i could not bear to look upon it. i sat in the corner, cherishing in my heart the hope, not yet extinct, of some day meeting the tyrant on the soil of my native state. at fredericksburgh we were transferred from the stage coach to a car, and before dark arrived in richmond, the chief city of virginia. at this city we were taken from the cars, and driven through the street to a slave pen, between the railroad depot and the river, kept by a mr. goodin. this pen is similar to williams' in washington, except it is somewhat larger; and besides, there were two small houses standing at opposite corners within the yard. these houses are usually found within slave yards, being used as rooms for the examination of human chattels by purchasers before concluding a bargain. unsoundness in a slave, as well as in a horse, detracts materially from his value. if no warranty is given, a close examination is a matter of particular importance to the negro jockey. we were met at the door of goodin's yard by that gentleman himself--a short, fat man, with a round, plump face, black hair and whiskers, and a complexion almost as dark as some of his own negroes. he had a hard, stern look, and was perhaps about fifty years of age. burch and he met with great cordiality. they were evidently old friends. shaking each other warmly by the hand, burch remarked he had brought some company, inquired at what time the brig would leave, and was answered that it would probably leave the next day at such an hour. goodin then turned to me, took hold of my arm, turned me partly round, looked at me sharply with the air of one who considered himself a good judge of property, and as if estimating in his own mind about how much i was worth. "well, boy, where did you come from?" forgetting myself, for a moment, i answered, "from new-york." "new-york! h--l! what have you been doing up there?" was his astonished interrogatory. observing burch at this moment looking at me with an angry expression that conveyed a meaning it was not difficult to understand, i immediately said, "o, i have only been up that way a piece," in a manner intended to imply that although i might have been as far as new-york, yet i wished it distinctly understood that i did not belong to that free state, nor to any other. goodin then turned to clem, and then to eliza and the children, examining them severally, and asking various questions. he was pleased with emily, as was every one who saw the child's sweet countenance. she was not as tidy as when i first beheld her; her hair was now somewhat disheveled; but through its unkempt and soft profusion there still beamed a little face of most surpassing loveliness. "altogether we were a fair lot--a devilish good lot," he said, enforcing that opinion with more than one emphatic adjective not found in the christian vocabulary. thereupon we passed into the yard. quite a number of slaves, as many as thirty i should say, were moving about, or sitting on benches under the shed. they were all cleanly dressed--the men with hats, the women with handkerchiefs tied about their heads. burch and goodin, after separating from us, walked up the steps at the back part of the main building, and sat down upon the door sill. they entered into conversation, but the subject of it i could not hear. presently burch came down into the yard, unfettered me, and led me into one of the small houses. "you told that man you came from new-york," said he. i replied, "i told him i had been up as far as new-york, to be sure, but did not tell him i belonged there, nor that i was a freeman. i meant no harm at all, master burch. i would not have said it had i thought." he looked at me a moment as if he was ready to devour me, then turning round went out. in a few minutes he returned. "if ever i hear you say a word about new-york, or about your freedom, i will be the death of you--i will kill you; you may rely on that," he ejaculated fiercely. i doubt not he understood then better than i did, the danger and the penalty of selling a free man into slavery. he felt the necessity of closing my mouth against the crime he knew he was committing. of course, my life would not have weighed a feather, in any emergency requiring such a sacrifice. undoubtedly, he meant precisely what he said. under the shed on one side of the yard, there was constructed a rough table, while overhead were sleeping lofts--the same as in the pen at washington. after partaking at this table of our supper of pork and bread, i was hand-cuffed to a large yellow man, quite stout and fleshy, with a countenance expressive of the utmost melancholy. he was a man of intelligence and information. chained together, it was not long before we became acquainted with each other's history. his name was robert. like myself, he had been born free, and had a wife and two children in cincinnati. he said he had come south with two men, who had hired him in the city of his residence. without free papers, he had been seized at fredericksburgh, placed in confinement, and beaten until he had learned, as i had, the necessity and the policy of silence. he had been in goodin's pen about three weeks. to this man i became much attached. we could sympathize with, and understand each other. it was with tears and a heavy heart, not many days subsequently, that i saw him die, and looked for the last time upon his lifeless form! robert and myself, with clem, eliza and her children, slept that night upon our blankets, in one of the small houses in the yard. there were four others, all from the same plantation, who had been sold, and were now on their way south, who also occupied it with us. david and his wife, caroline, both mulattoes, were exceedingly affected. they dreaded the thought of being put into the cane and cotton fields; but their greatest source of anxiety was the apprehension of being separated. mary, a tall, lithe girl, of a most jetty black, was listless and apparently indifferent. like many of the class, she scarcely knew there was such a word as freedom. brought up in the ignorance of a brute, she possessed but little more than a brute's intelligence. she was one of those, and there are very many, who fear nothing but their master's lash, and know no further duty than to obey his voice. the other was lethe. she was of an entirely different character. she had long, straight hair, and bore more the appearance of an indian than a negro woman. she had sharp and spiteful eyes, and continually gave utterance to the language of hatred and revenge. her husband had been sold. she knew not where she was. an exchange of masters, she was sure, could not be for the worse. she cared not whither they might carry her. pointing to the scars upon her face, the desperate creature wished that she might see the day when she could wipe them off in some man's blood! while we were thus learning the history of each other's wretchedness, eliza was seated in a corner by herself, singing hymns and praying for her children. wearied from the loss of so much sleep, i could no longer bear up against the advances of that "sweet restorer," and laying down by the side of robert, on the floor, soon forgot my troubles, and slept until the dawn of day. in the morning, having swept the yard, and washed ourselves, under goodin's superintendence, we were ordered to roll up our blankets, and make ready for the continuance of our journey. clem ray was informed that he would go no further, burch, for some cause, having concluded to carry him back to washington. he was much rejoiced. shaking hands, we parted in the slave pen at richmond, and i have not seen him since. but, much to my surprise, since my return, i learned that he had escaped from bondage, and on his way to the free soil of canada, lodged one night at the house of my brother-in-law in saratoga, informing my family of the place and the condition in which he left me. in the afternoon we were drawn up, two abreast, robert and myself in advance, and in this order, driven by burch and goodin from the yard, through the streets of richmond to the brig orleans. she was a vessel of respectable size, full rigged, and freighted principally with tobacco. we were all on board by five o'clock. burch brought us each a tin cup and a spoon. there were forty of us in the brig, being all, except clem, that were in the pen. with a small pocket knife that had not been taken from me, i began cutting the initials of my name upon the tin cup. the others immediately flocked round me, requesting me to mark theirs in a similar manner. in time, i gratified them all, of which they did not appear to be forgetful. we were all stowed away in the hold at night, and the hatch barred down. we laid on boxes, or where-ever there was room enough to stretch our blankets on the floor. burch accompanied us no farther than richmond, returning from that point to the capital with clem. not until the lapse of almost twelve years, to wit, in january last, in the washington police office, did i set my eyes upon his face again. james h. burch was a slave-trader--buying men, women and children at low prices, and selling them at an advance. he was a speculator in human flesh--a disreputable calling--and so considered at the south. for the present he disappears from the scenes recorded in this narrative, but he will appear again before its close, not in the character of a man-whipping tyrant, but as an arrested, cringing criminal in a court of law, that failed to do him justice. chapter v. arrival at norfolk--frederick and maria--arthur, the freeman--appointed steward--jim, cuffee, and jenny--the storm--bahama banks--the calm--the conspiracy--the long boat--the small-pox--death of robert--manning, the sailor--the meeting in the forecastle--the letter--arrival at new-orleans--arthur's rescue--theophilus freeman, the consignee--platt--first night in the new-orleans slave pen. after we were all on board, the brig orleans proceeded down james river. passing into chesapeake bay, we arrived next day opposite the city of norfolk. while lying at anchor, a lighter approached us from the town, bringing four more slaves. frederick, a boy of eighteen, had been born a slave, as also had henry, who was some years older. they had both been house servants in the city. maria was a rather genteel looking colored girl, with a faultless form, but ignorant and extremely vain. the idea of going to new-orleans was pleasing to her. she entertained an extravagantly high opinion of her own attractions. assuming a haughty mien, she declared to her companions, that immediately on our arrival in new-orleans, she had no doubt, some wealthy single gentleman of good taste would purchase her at once! but the most prominent of the four, was a man named arthur. as the lighter approached, he struggled stoutly with his keepers. it was with main force that he was dragged aboard the brig. he protested, in a loud voice, against the treatment he was receiving, and demanded to be released. his face was swollen, and covered with wounds and bruises, and, indeed, one side of it was a complete raw sore. he was forced, with all haste, down the hatchway into the hold. i caught an outline of his story as he was borne struggling along, of which he afterwards gave me a more full relation, and it was as follows: he had long resided in the city of norfolk, and was a free man. he had a family living there, and was a mason by trade. having been unusually detained, he was returning late one night to his house in the suburbs of the city, when he was attacked by a gang of persons in an unfrequented street. he fought until his strength failed him. overpowered at last, he was gagged and bound with ropes, and beaten, until he became insensible. for several days they secreted him in the slave pen at norfolk--a very common establishment, it appears, in the cities of the south. the night before, he had been taken out and put on board the lighter, which, pushing out from shore, had awaited our arrival. for some time he continued his protestations, and was altogether irreconcilable. at length, however, he became silent. he sank into a gloomy and thoughtful mood, and appeared to be counseling with himself. there was in the man's determined face, something that suggested the thought of desperation. after leaving norfolk the hand-cuffs were taken off, and during the day we were allowed to remain on deck. the captain selected robert as his waiter, and i was appointed to superintend the cooking department, and the distribution of food and water. i had three assistants, jim, cuffee and jenny. jenny's business was to prepare the coffee, which consisted of corn meal scorched in a kettle, boiled and sweetened with molasses. jim and cuffee baked the hoe-cake and boiled the bacon. standing by a table, formed of a wide board resting on the heads of the barrels, i cut and handed to each a slice of meat and a "dodger" of the bread, and from jenny's kettle also dipped out for each a cup of the coffee. the use of plates was dispensed with, and their sable fingers took the place of knives and forks. jim and cuffee were very demure and attentive to business, somewhat inflated with their situation as second cooks, and without doubt feeling that there was a great responsibility resting on them. i was called steward--a name given me by the captain. the slaves were fed twice a day, at ten and five o'clock--always receiving the same kind and quantity of fare, and in the same manner as above described. at night we were driven into the hold, and securely fastened down. scarcely were we out of sight of land before we were overtaken by a violent storm. the brig rolled and plunged until we feared she would go down. some were sea-sick, others on their knees praying, while some were fast holding to each other, paralyzed with fear. the sea-sickness rendered the place of our confinement loathsome and disgusting. it would have been a happy thing for most of us--it would have saved the agony of many hundred lashes, and miserable deaths at last--had the compassionate sea snatched us that day from the clutches of remorseless men. the thought of randall and little emmy sinking down among the monsters of the deep, is a more pleasant contemplation than to think of them as they are now, perhaps, dragging out lives of unrequited toil. when in sight of the bahama banks, at a place called old point compass, or the hole in the wall, we were becalmed three days. there was scarcely a breath of air. the waters of the gulf presented a singularly white appearance, like lime water. in the order of events, i come now to the relation of an occurrence, which i never call to mind but with sensations of regret. i thank god, who has since permitted me to escape from the thralldom of slavery, that through his merciful interposition i was prevented from imbruing my hands in the blood of his creatures. let not those who have never been placed in like circumstances, judge me harshly. until they have been chained and beaten--until they find themselves in the situation i was, borne away from home and family towards a land of bondage--let them refrain from saying what they would not do for liberty. how far i should have been justified in the sight of god and man, it is unnecessary now to speculate upon. it is enough to say that i am able to congratulate myself upon the harmless termination of an affair which threatened, for a time, to be attended with serious results. towards evening, on the first day of the calm, arthur and myself were in the bow of the vessel, seated on the windlass. we were conversing together of the probable destiny that awaited us, and mourning together over our misfortunes. arthur said, and i agreed with him, that death was far less terrible than the living prospect that was before us. for a long time we talked of our children, our past lives, and of the probabilities of escape. obtaining possession of the brig was suggested by one of us. we discussed the possibility of our being able, in such an event, to make our way to the harbor of new-york. i knew little of the compass; but the idea of risking the experiment was eagerly entertained. the chances, for and against us, in an encounter with the crew, was canvassed. who could be relied upon, and who could not, the proper time and manner of the attack, were all talked over and over again. from the moment the plot suggested itself i began to hope. i revolved it constantly in my mind. as difficulty after difficulty arose, some ready conceit was at hand, demonstrating how it could be overcome. while others slept, arthur and i were maturing our plans. at length, with much caution, robert was gradually made acquainted with our intentions. he approved of them at once, and entered into the conspiracy with a zealous spirit. there was not another slave we dared to trust. brought up in fear and ignorance as they are, it can scarcely be conceived how servilely they will cringe before a white man's look. it was not safe to deposit so bold a secret with any of them, and finally we three resolved to take upon ourselves alone the fearful responsibility of the attempt. at night, as has been said, we were driven into the hold, and the hatch barred down. how to reach the deck was the first difficulty that presented itself. on the bow of the brig, however, i had observed the small boat lying bottom upwards. it occurred to me that by secreting ourselves underneath it, we would not be missed from the crowd, as they were hurried down into the hold at night. i was selected to make the experiment, in order to satisfy ourselves of its feasibility. the next evening, accordingly, after supper, watching my opportunity, i hastily concealed myself beneath it. lying close upon the deck, i could see what was going on around me, while wholly unperceived myself. in the morning, as they came up, i slipped from my hiding place without being observed. the result was entirely satisfactory. the captain and mate slept in the cabin of the former. from robert, who had frequent occasion, in his capacity of waiter, to make observations in that quarter, we ascertained the exact position of their respective berths. he further informed us that there were always two pistols and a cutlass lying on the table. the crew's cook slept in the cook galley on deck, a sort of vehicle on wheels, that could be moved about as convenience required, while the sailors, numbering only six, either slept in the forecastle, or in hammocks swung among the rigging. finally our arrangements were all completed. arthur and i were to steal silently to the captain's cabin, seize the pistols and cutlass, and as quickly as possible despatch him and the mate. robert, with a club, was to stand by the door leading from the deck down into the cabin, and, in case of necessity, beat back the sailors, until we could hurry to his assistance. we were to proceed then as circumstances might require. should the attack be so sudden and successful as to prevent resistance, the hatch was to remain barred down; otherwise the slaves were to be called up, and in the crowd, and hurry, and confusion of the time, we resolved to regain our liberty or lose our lives. i was then to assume the unaccustomed place of pilot, and, steering northward, we trusted that some lucky wind might bear us to the soil of freedom. the mate's name was biddee, the captain's i cannot now recall, though i rarely ever forget a name once heard. the captain was a small, genteel man, erect and prompt, with a proud bearing, and looked the personification of courage. if he is still living, and these pages should chance to meet his eye, he will learn a fact connected with the voyage of the brig, from richmond to new-orleans, in , not entered on his log-book. we were all prepared, and impatiently waiting an opportunity of putting our designs into execution, when they were frustrated by a sad and unforeseen event. robert was taken ill. it was soon announced that he had the small-pox. he continued to grow worse, and four days previous to our arrival in new-orleans he died. one of the sailors sewed him in his blanket, with a large stone from the ballast at his feet, and then laying him on a hatchway, and elevating it with tackles above the railing, the inanimate body of poor robert was consigned to the white waters of the gulf. we were all panic-stricken by the appearance of the small-pox. the captain ordered lime to be scattered through the hold, and other prudent precautions to be taken. the death of robert, however, and the presence of the malady, oppressed me sadly, and i gazed out over the great waste of waters with a spirit that was indeed disconsolate. an evening or two after robert's burial, i was leaning on the hatchway near the forecastle, full of desponding thoughts, when a sailor in a kind voice asked me why i was so down-hearted. the tone and manner of the man assured me, and i answered, because i was a freeman, and had been kidnapped. he remarked that it was enough to make any one down-hearted, and continued to interrogate me until he learned the particulars of my whole history. he was evidently much interested in my behalf, and, in the blunt speech of a sailor, swore he would aid me all he could, if it "split his timbers." i requested him to furnish me pen, ink and paper, in order that i might write to some of my friends. he promised to obtain them--but how i could use them undiscovered was a difficulty. if i could only get into the forecastle while his watch was off, and the other sailors asleep, the thing could be accomplished. the small boat instantly occurred to me. he thought we were not far from the balize, at the mouth of the mississippi, and it was necessary that the letter be written soon, or the opportunity would be lost. accordingly, by arrangement, i managed the next night to secret myself again under the long-boat. his watch was off at twelve. i saw him pass into the forecastle, and in about an hour followed him. he was nodding over a table, half asleep, on which a sickly light was flickering, and on which also was a pen and sheet of paper. as i entered he aroused, beckoned me to a seat beside him, and pointed to the paper. i directed the letter to henry b. northup, of sandy hill--stating that i had been kidnapped, was then on board the brig orleans, bound for new-orleans; that it was then impossible for me to conjecture my ultimate destination, and requesting he would take measures to rescue me. the letter was sealed and directed, and manning, having read it, promised to deposit it in the new-orleans post-office. i hastened back to my place under the long-boat, and in the morning, as the slaves came up and were walking round, crept out unnoticed and mingled with them. my good friend, whose name was john manning, was an englishman by birth, and a noble-hearted, generous sailor as ever walked a deck. he had lived in boston--was a tall, well-built man, about twenty-four years old, with a face somewhat pock-marked, but full of benevolent expression. nothing to vary the monotony of our daily life occurred, until we reached new-orleans. on coming to the levee, and before the vessel was made fast, i saw manning leap on shore and hurry away into the city. as he started off he looked back over his shoulder significantly, giving me to understand the object of his errand. presently he returned, and passing close by me, hunched me with his elbow, with a peculiar wink, as much as to say, "it is all right." the letter, as i have since learned, reached sandy hill. mr. northup visited albany and laid it before governor seward, but inasmuch as it gave no definite information as to my probable locality, it was not, at that time, deemed advisable to institute measures for my liberation. it was concluded to delay, trusting that a knowledge of where i was might eventually be obtained. a happy and touching scene was witnessed immediately upon our reaching the levee. just as manning left the brig, on his way to the post-office, two men came up and called aloud for arthur. the latter, as he recognized them, was almost crazy with delight. he could hardly be restrained from leaping over the brig's side; and when they met soon after, he grasped them by the hand, and clung to them a long, long time. they were men from norfolk, who had come on to new-orleans to rescue him. his kidnappers, they informed him, had been arrested, and were then confined in the norfolk prison. they conversed a few moments with the captain, and then departed with the rejoicing arthur. but in all the crowd that thronged the wharf, there was no one who knew or cared for me. not one. no familiar voice greeted my ears, nor was there a single face that i had ever seen. soon arthur would rejoin his family, and have the satisfaction of seeing his wrongs avenged: my family, alas, should i ever see them more? there was a feeling of utter desolation in my heart, filling it with a despairing and regretful sense, that i had not gone down with robert to the bottom of the sea. very soon traders and consignees came on board. one, a tall, thin-faced man, with light complexion and a little bent, made his appearance, with a paper in his hand. burch's gang, consisting of myself, eliza and her children, harry, lethe, and some others, who had joined us at richmond, were consigned to him. this gentleman was mr. theophilus freeman. reading from his paper, he called, "platt." no one answered. the name was called again and again, but still there was no reply. then lethe was called, then eliza, then harry, until the list was finished, each one stepping forward as his or her name was called. "captain, where's platt?" demanded theophilus freeman. the captain was unable to inform him, no one being on board answering to that name. "who shipped _that_ nigger?" he again inquired of the captain, pointing to me. "burch," replied the captain. "your name is platt--you answer my description. why don't you come forward?" he demanded of me, in an angry tone. i informed him that was not my name; that i had never been called by it, but that i had no objection to it as i knew of. "well, i will learn you your name," said he; "and so you won't forget it either, by ----," he added. mr. theophilus freeman, by the way, was not a whit behind his partner, burch, in the matter of blasphemy. on the vessel i had gone by the name of "steward," and this was the first time i had ever been designated as platt--the name forwarded by burch to his consignee. from the vessel i observed the chain-gang at work on the levee. we passed near them as we were driven to freeman's slave pen. this pen is very similar to goodin's in richmond, except the yard was enclosed by plank, standing upright, with ends sharpened, instead of brick walls. including us, there were now at least fifty in this pen. depositing our blankets in one of the small buildings in the yard, and having been called up and fed, we were allowed to saunter about the enclosure until night, when we wrapped our blankets round us and laid down under the shed, or in the loft, or in the open yard, just as each one preferred. it was but a short time i closed my eyes that night. thought was busy in my brain. could it be possible that i was thousands of miles from home--that i had been driven through the streets like a dumb beast--that i had been chained and beaten without mercy--that i was even then herded with a drove of slaves, a slave myself? were the events of the last few weeks realities indeed?--or was i passing only through the dismal phases of a long, protracted dream? it was no illusion. my cup of sorrow was full to overflowing. then i lifted up my hands to god, and in the still watches of the night, surrounded by the sleeping forms of my companions, begged for mercy on the poor, forsaken captive. to the almighty father of us all--the freeman and the slave--i poured forth the supplications of a broken spirit, imploring strength from on high to bear up against the burden of my troubles, until the morning light aroused the slumberers, ushering in another day of bondage. chapter vi. freeman's industry--cleanliness and clothes--exercising in the show room--the dance--bob, the fiddler--arrival of customers--slaves examined--the old gentleman of new-orleans--sale of david, caroline and lethe--parting of randall and eliza--small pox--the hospital--recovery and return to freeman's slave pen--the purchaser of eliza, harry and platt--eliza's agony on parting from little emily. the very amiable, pious-hearted mr. theophilus freeman, partner or consignee of james h. burch, and keeper of the slave pen in new-orleans, was out among his animals early in the morning. with an occasional kick of the older men and women, and many a sharp crack of the whip about the ears of the younger slaves, it was not long before they were all astir, and wide awake. mr. theophilus freeman bustled about in a very industrious manner, getting his property ready for the sales-room, intending, no doubt, to do that day a rousing business. in the first place we were required to wash thoroughly, and those with beards, to shave. we were then furnished with a new suit each, cheap, but clean. the men had hat, coat, shirt, pants and shoes; the women frocks of calico, and handkerchiefs to bind about their heads. we were now conducted into a large room in the front part of the building to which the yard was attached, in order to be properly trained, before the admission of customers. the men were arranged on one side of the room, the women on the other. the tallest was placed at the head of the row, then the next tallest, and so on in the order of their respective heights. emily was at the foot of the line of women. freeman charged us to remember our places; exhorted us to appear smart and lively,--sometimes threatening, and again, holding out various inducements. during the day he exercised us in the art of "looking smart," and of moving to our places with exact precision. after being fed, in the afternoon, we were again paraded and made to dance. bob, a colored boy, who had some time belonged to freeman, played on the violin. standing near him, i made bold to inquire if he could play the "virginia reel." he answered he could not, and asked me if i could play. replying in the affirmative, he handed me the violin. i struck up a tune, and finished it. freeman ordered me to continue playing, and seemed well pleased, telling bob that i far excelled him--a remark that seemed to grieve my musical companion very much. next day many customers called to examine freeman's "new lot." the latter gentleman was very loquacious, dwelling at much length upon our several good points and qualities. he would make us hold up our heads, walk briskly back and forth, while customers would feel of our hands and arms and bodies, turn us about, ask us what we could do, make us open our mouths and show our teeth, precisely as a jockey examines a horse which he is about to barter for or purchase. sometimes a man or woman was taken back to the small house in the yard, stripped, and inspected more minutely. scars upon a slave's back were considered evidence of a rebellious or unruly spirit, and hurt his sale. one old gentleman, who said he wanted a coachman, appeared to take a fancy to me. from his conversation with burch, i learned he was a resident in the city. i very much desired that he would buy me, because i conceived it would not be difficult to make my escape from new-orleans on some northern vessel. freeman asked him fifteen hundred dollars for me. the old gentleman insisted it was too much, as times were very hard. freeman, however, declared that i was sound and healthy, of a good constitution, and intelligent. he made it a point to enlarge upon my musical attainments. the old gentleman argued quite adroitly that there was nothing extraordinary about the nigger, and finally, to my regret, went out, saying he would call again. during the day, however, a number of sales were made. david and caroline were purchased together by a natchez planter. they left us, grinning broadly, and in the most happy state of mind, caused by the fact of their not being separated. lethe was sold to a planter of baton rouge, her eyes flashing with anger as she was led away. the same man also purchased randall. the little fellow was made to jump, and run across the floor, and perform many other feats, exhibiting his activity and condition. all the time the trade was going on, eliza was crying aloud, and wringing her hands. she besought the man not to buy him, unless he also bought herself and emily. she promised, in that case, to be the most faithful slave that ever lived. the man answered that he could not afford it, and then eliza burst into a paroxysm of grief, weeping plaintively. freeman turned round to her, savagely, with his whip in his uplifted hand, ordering her to stop her noise, or he would flog her. he would not have such work--such snivelling; and unless she ceased that minute, he would take her to the yard and give her a hundred lashes. yes, he would take the nonsense out of her pretty quick--if he didn't, might he be d--d. eliza shrunk before him, and tried to wipe away her tears, but it was all in vain. she wanted to be with her children, she said, the little time she had to live. all the frowns and threats of freeman, could not wholly silence the afflicted mother. she kept on begging and beseeching them, most piteously, not to separate the three. over and over again she told them how she loved her boy. a great many times she repeated her former promises--how very faithful and obedient she would be; how hard she would labor day and night, to the last moment of her life, if he would only buy them all together. but it was of no avail; the man could not afford it. the bargain was agreed upon, and randall must go alone. then eliza ran to him; embraced him passionately; kissed him again and again; told him to remember her--all the while her tears falling in the boy's face like rain. freeman damned her, calling her a blubbering, bawling wench, and ordered her to go to her place, and behave herself, and be somebody. he swore he wouldn't stand such stuff but a little longer. he would soon give her something to cry about, if she was not mighty careful, and _that_ she might depend upon. the planter from baton rouge, with his new purchases, was ready to depart. "don't cry, mama. i will be a good boy. don't cry," said randall, looking back, as they passed out of the door. what has become of the lad, god knows. it was a mournful scene indeed. i would have cried myself if i had dared. that night, nearly all who came in on the brig orleans, were taken ill. they complained of violent pain in the head and back. little emily--a thing unusual with her--cried constantly. in the morning a physician was called in, but was unable to determine the nature of our complaint. while examining me, and asking questions touching my symptoms, i gave it as my opinion that it was an attack of small-pox--mentioning the fact of robert's death as the reason of my belief. it might be so indeed, he thought, and he would send for the head physician of the hospital. shortly, the head physician came--a small, light-haired man, whom they called dr. carr. he pronounced it small-pox, whereupon there was much alarm throughout the yard. soon after dr. carr left, eliza, emmy, harry and myself were put into a hack and driven to the hospital--a large white marble building, standing on the outskirts of the city. harry and i were placed in a room in one of the upper stories. i became very sick. for three days i was entirely blind. while lying in this state one day, bob came in, saying to dr. carr that freeman had sent him over to inquire how we were getting on. tell him, said the doctor, that platt is very bad, but that if he survives until nine o'clock, he may recover. i expected to die. though there was little in the prospect before me worth living for, the near approach of death appalled me. i thought i could have been resigned to yield up my life in the bosom of my family, but to expire in the midst of strangers, under such circumstances, was a bitter reflection. there were a great number in the hospital, of both sexes, and of all ages. in the rear of the building coffins were manufactured. when one died, the bell tolled--a signal to the undertaker to come and bear away the body to the potter's field. many times, each day and night, the tolling bell sent forth its melancholy voice, announcing another death. but my time had not yet come. the crisis having passed, i began to revive, and at the end of two weeks and two days, returned with harry to the pen, bearing upon my face the effects of the malady, which to this day continues to disfigure it. eliza and emily were also brought back next day in a hack, and again were we paraded in the sales-room, for the inspection and examination of purchasers. i still indulged the hope that the old gentleman in search of a coachman would call again, as he had promised, and purchase me. in that event i felt an abiding confidence that i would soon regain my liberty. customer after customer entered, but the old gentleman never made his appearance. at length, one day, while we were in the yard, freeman came out and ordered us to our places, in the great room. a gentleman was waiting for us as we entered, and inasmuch as he will be often mentioned in the progress of this narrative, a description of his personal appearance, and my estimation of his character, at first sight, may not be out of place. he was a man above the ordinary height, somewhat bent and stooping forward. he was a good-looking man, and appeared to have reached about the middle age of life. there was nothing repulsive in his presence; but on the other hand, there was something cheerful and attractive in his face, and in his tone of voice. the finer elements were all kindly mingled in his breast, as any one could see. he moved about among us, asking many questions, as to what we could do, and what labor we had been accustomed to; if we thought we would like to live with him, and would be good boys if he would buy us, and other interrogatories of like character. after some further inspection, and conversation touching prices, he finally offered freeman one thousand dollars for me, nine hundred for harry, and seven hundred for eliza. whether the small-pox had depreciated our value, or from what cause freeman had concluded to fall five hundred dollars from the price i was before held at, i cannot say. at any rate, after a little shrewd reflection, he announced his acceptance of the offer. as soon as eliza heard it, she was in an agony again. by this time she had become haggard and hollow-eyed with sickness and with sorrow. it would be a relief if i could consistently pass over in silence the scene that now ensued. it recalls memories more mournful and affecting than any language can portray. i have seen mothers kissing for the last time the faces of their dead offspring; i have seen them looking down into the grave, as the earth fell with a dull sound upon their coffins, hiding them from their eyes forever; but never have i seen such an exhibition of intense, unmeasured, and unbounded grief, as when eliza was parted from her child. she broke from her place in the line of women, and rushing down where emily was standing, caught her in her arms. the child, sensible of some impending danger, instinctively fastened her hands around her mother's neck, and nestled her little head upon her bosom. freeman sternly ordered her to be quiet, but she did not heed him. he caught her by the arm and pulled her rudely, but she only clung the closer to the child. then, with a volley of great oaths, he struck her such a heartless blow, that she staggered backward, and was like to fall. oh! how piteously then did she beseech and beg and pray that they might not be separated. why could they not be purchased together? why not let her have one of her dear children? "mercy, mercy, master!" she cried, falling on her knees. "please, master, buy emily. i can never work any if she is taken from me: i will die." freeman interfered again, but, disregarding him, she still plead most earnestly, telling how randall had been taken from her--how she never would see him again, and now it was too bad--oh, god! it was too bad, too cruel, to take her away from emily--her pride--her only darling, that could not live, it was so young, without its mother! finally, after much more of supplication, the purchaser of eliza stepped forward, evidently affected, and said to freeman he would buy emily, and asked him what her price was. "what is her _price_? _buy_ her?" was the responsive interrogatory of theophilus freeman. and instantly answering his own inquiry, he added, "i won't sell her. she's not for sale." the man remarked he was not in need of one so young--that it would be of no profit to him, but since the mother was so fond of her, rather than see them separated, he would pay a reasonable price. but to this humane proposal freeman was entirely deaf. he would not sell her then on any account whatever. there were heaps and piles of money to be made of her, he said, when she was a few years older. there were men enough in new-orleans who would give five thousand dollars for such an extra, handsome, fancy piece as emily would be, rather than not get her. no, no, he would not sell her then. she was a beauty--a picture--a doll--one of the regular bloods--none of your thick-lipped, bullet-headed, cotton-picking niggers--if she was might he be d--d. when eliza heard freeman's determination not to part with emily, she became absolutely frantic. "i will _not_ go without her. they shall _not_ take her from me," she fairly shrieked, her shrieks commingling with the loud and angry voice of freeman, commanding her to be silent. meantime harry and myself had been to the yard and returned with our blankets, and were at the front door ready to leave. our purchaser stood near us, gazing at eliza with an expression indicative of regret at having bought her at the expense of so much sorrow. we waited some time, when, finally, freeman, out of patience, tore emily from her mother by main force, the two clinging to each other with all their might. "don't leave me, mama--don't leave me," screamed the child, as its mother was pushed harshly forward; "don't leave me--come back, mama," she still cried, stretching forth her little arms imploringly. but she cried in vain. out of the door and into the street we were quickly hurried. still we could hear her calling to her mother, "come back--don't leave me--come back, mama," until her infant voice grew faint and still more faint, and gradually died away, as distance intervened, and finally was wholly lost. eliza never after saw or heard of emily or randall. day nor night, however, were they ever absent from her memory. in the cotton field, in the cabin, always and everywhere, she was talking of them--often _to_ them, as if they were actually present. only when absorbed in that illusion, or asleep, did she ever have a moment's comfort afterwards. she was no common slave, as has been said. to a large share of natural intelligence which she possessed, was added a general knowledge and information on most subjects. she had enjoyed opportunities such as are afforded to very few of her oppressed class. she had been lifted up into the regions of a higher life. freedom--freedom for herself and for her offspring, for many years had been her cloud by day, her pillar of fire by night. in her pilgrimage through the wilderness of bondage, with eyes fixed upon that hope-inspiring beacon, she had at length ascended to "the top of pisgah," and beheld "the land of promise." in an unexpected moment she was utterly overwhelmed with disappointment and despair. the glorious vision of liberty faded from her sight as they led her away into captivity. now "she weepeth sore in the night, and tears are on her cheeks: all her friends have dealt treacherously with her: they have become her enemies." [illustration: seperation of eliza and her last child.] chapter vii. the steamboat rodolph--departure from new-orleans--william ford--arrival at alexandria, on red river--resolutions--the great pine woods--wild cattle--martin's summer residence--the texas road--arrival at master ford's--rose--mistress ford--sally, and her children--john, the cook--walter, sam, and antony--the mills on indian creek--sabbath days--sam's conversion--the profit of kindness--rafting--adam taydem, the little white man--cascalla and his tribe--the indian ball--john m. tibeats--the storm approaching. on leaving the new-orleans slave pen, harry and i followed our new master through the streets, while eliza, crying and turning back, was forced along by freeman and his minions, until we found ourselves on board the steamboat rodolph, then lying at the levee. in the course of half an hour we were moving briskly up the mississippi, bound for some point on red river. there were quite a number of slaves on board beside ourselves, just purchased in the new-orleans market. i remember a mr. kelsow, who was said to be a well known and extensive planter, had in charge a gang of women. our master's name was william ford. he resided then in the "great pine woods," in the parish of avoyelles, situated on the right bank of red river, in the heart of louisiana. he is now a baptist preacher. throughout the whole parish of avoyelles, and especially along both shores of bayou boeuf, where he is more intimately known, he is accounted by his fellow-citizens as a worthy minister of god. in many northern minds, perhaps, the idea of a man holding his brother man in servitude, and the traffic in human flesh, may seem altogether incompatible with their conceptions of a moral or religious life. from descriptions of such men as burch and freeman, and others hereinafter mentioned, they are led to despise and execrate the whole class of slaveholders, indiscriminately. but i was sometime his slave, and had an opportunity of learning well his character and disposition, and it is but simple justice to him when i say, in my opinion, there never was a more kind, noble, candid, christian man than william ford. the influences and associations that had always surrounded him, blinded him to the inherent wrong at the bottom of the system of slavery. he never doubted the moral right of one man holding another in subjection. looking through the same medium with his fathers before him, he saw things in the same light. brought up under other circumstances and other influences, his notions would undoubtedly have been different. nevertheless, he was a model master, walking uprightly, according to the light of his understanding, and fortunate was the slave who came to his possession. were all men such as he, slavery would be deprived of more than half its bitterness. we were two days and three nights on board the steamboat rodolph, during which time nothing of particular interest occurred. i was now known as platt, the name given me by burch, and by which i was designated through the whole period of my servitude. eliza was sold by the name of "dradey." she was so distinguished in the conveyance to ford, now on record in the recorder's office in new-orleans. on our passage i was constantly reflecting on my situation, and consulting with myself on the best course to pursue in order to effect my ultimate escape. sometimes, not only then, but afterwards, i was almost on the point of disclosing fully to ford the facts of my history. i am inclined now to the opinion it would have resulted in my benefit. this course was often considered, but through fear of its miscarriage, never put into execution, until eventually my transfer and his pecuniary embarrassments rendered it evidently unsafe. afterwards, under other masters, unlike william ford, i knew well enough the slightest knowledge of my real character would consign me at once to the remoter depths of slavery. i was too costly a chattel to be lost, and was well aware that i would be taken farther on, into some by-place, over the texan border, perhaps, and sold; that i would be disposed of as the thief disposes of his stolen horse, if my right to freedom was even whispered. so i resolved to lock the secret closely in my heart--never to utter one word or syllable as to who or what i was--trusting in providence and my own shrewdness for deliverance. at length we left the steamboat rodolph at a place called alexandria, several hundred miles from new-orleans. it is a small town on the southern shore of red river. having remained there over night, we entered the morning train of cars, and were soon at bayou lamourie, a still smaller place, distant eighteen miles from alexandria. at that time it was the termination of the railroad. ford's plantation was situated on the texas road, twelve miles from lamourie, in the great pine woods. this distance, it was announced to us, must be traveled on foot, there being public conveyances no farther. accordingly we all set out in the company of ford. it was an excessively hot day. harry, eliza, and myself were yet weak, and the bottoms of our feet were very tender from the effects of the small-pox. we proceeded slowly, ford telling us to take our time and sit down and rest whenever we desired--a privilege that was taken advantage of quite frequently. after leaving lamourie and crossing two plantations, one belonging to mr. carnell, the other to a mr. flint, we reached the pine woods, a wilderness that stretches to the sabine river. the whole country about red river is low and marshy. the pine woods, as they are called, is comparatively upland, with frequent small intervals, however, running through them. this upland is covered with numerous trees--the white oak, the chincopin, resembling chestnut, but principally the yellow pine. they are of great size, running up sixty feet, and perfectly straight. the woods were full of cattle, very shy and wild, dashing away in herds, with a loud snuff, at our approach. some of them were marked or branded, the rest appeared to be in their wild and untamed state. they are much smaller than northern breeds, and the peculiarity about them that most attracted my attention was their horns. they stand out from the sides of the head precisely straight, like two iron spikes. at noon we reached a cleared piece of ground containing three or four acres. upon it was a small, unpainted, wooden house, a corn crib, or, as we would say, a barn, and a log kitchen, standing about a rod from the house. it was the summer residence of mr. martin. rich planters, having large establishments on bayou boeuf, are accustomed to spend the warmer season in these woods. here they find clear water and delightful shades. in fact, these retreats are to the planters of that section of the country what newport and saratoga are to the wealthier inhabitants of northern cities. we were sent around into the kitchen, and supplied with sweet potatoes, corn-bread, and bacon, while master ford dined with martin in the house. there were several slaves about the premises. martin came out and took a look at us, asking ford the price of each, if we were green hands, and so forth, and making inquiries in relation to the slave market generally. after a long rest we set forth again, following the texas road, which had the appearance of being very rarely traveled. for five miles we passed through continuous woods without observing a single habitation. at length, just as the sun was sinking in the west, we entered another opening, containing some twelve or fifteen acres. in this opening stood a house much larger than mr. martin's. it was two stories high, with a piazza in front. in the rear of it was also a log kitchen, poultry house, corncribs, and several negro cabins. near the house was a peach orchard, and gardens of orange and pomegranate trees. the space was entirely surrounded by woods, and covered with a carpet of rich, rank verdure. it was a quiet, lonely, pleasant place--literally a green spot in the wilderness. it was the residence of my master, william ford. as we approached, a yellow girl--her name was rose--was standing on the piazza. going to the door, she called her mistress, who presently came running out to meet her lord. she kissed him, and laughingly demanded if he had bought "those niggers." ford said he had, and told us to go round to sally's cabin and rest ourselves. turning the corner of the house, we discovered sally washing--her two baby children near her, rolling on the grass. they jumped up and toddled towards us, looked at us a moment like a brace of rabbits, then ran back to their mother as if afraid of us. sally conducted us into the cabin, told us to lay down our bundles and be seated, for she was sure that we were tired. just then john, the cook, a boy some sixteen years of age, and blacker than any crow, came running in, looked steadily in our faces, then turning round, without saying as much as "how d'ye do," ran back to the kitchen, laughing loudly, as if our coming was a great joke indeed. much wearied with our walk, as soon as it was dark, harry and i wrapped our blankets round us, and laid down upon the cabin floor. my thoughts, as usual, wandered back to my wife and children. the consciousness of my real situation; the hopelessness of any effort to escape through the wide forests of avoyelles, pressed heavily upon me, yet my heart was at home in saratoga. i was awakened early in the morning by the voice of master ford, calling rose. she hastened into the house to dress the children, sally to the field to milk the cows, while john was busy in the kitchen preparing breakfast. in the meantime harry and i were strolling about the yard, looking at our new quarters. just after breakfast a colored man, driving three yoke of oxen, attached to a wagon load of lumber, drove into the opening. he was a slave of ford's, named walton, the husband of rose. by the way, rose was a native of washington, and had been brought from thence five years before. she had never seen eliza, but she had heard of berry, and they knew the same streets, and the same people, either personally, or by reputation. they became fast friends immediately, and talked a great deal together of old times, and of friends they had left behind. ford was at that time a wealthy man. besides his seat in the pine woods, he owned a large lumbering establishment on indian creek, four miles distant, and also, in his wife's right, an extensive plantation and many slaves on bayou boeuf. walton had come with his load of lumber from the mills on indian creek. ford directed us to return with him, saying he would follow us as soon as possible. before leaving, mistress ford called me into the store-room, and handed me, as it is there termed, a tin bucket of molasses for harry and myself. eliza was still ringing her hands and deploring the loss of her children. ford tried as much as possible to console her--told her she need not work very hard; that she might remain with rose, and assist the madam in the house affairs. riding with walton in the wagon, harry and i became quite well acquainted with him long before reaching indian creek. he was a "born thrall" of ford's, and spoke kindly and affectionately of him, as a child would speak of his own father. in answer to his inquiries from whence i came, i told him from washington. of that city, he had heard much from his wife, rose, and all the way plied me with many extravagant and absurd questions. on reaching the mills at indian creek, we found two more of ford's slaves, sam and antony. sam, also, was a washingtonian, having been brought out in the same gang with rose. he had worked on a farm near georgetown. antony was a blacksmith, from kentucky, who had been in his present master's service about ten years. sam knew burch, and when informed that he was the trader who had sent me on from washington, it was remarkable how well we agreed upon the subject of his superlative rascality. he had forwarded sam, also. on ford's arrival at the mill, we were employed in piling lumber, and chopping logs, which occupation we continued during the remainder of the summer. we usually spent our sabbaths at the opening, on which days our master would gather all his slaves about him, and read and expound the scriptures. he sought to inculcate in our minds feelings of kindness towards each other, of dependence upon god--setting forth the rewards promised unto those who lead an upright and prayerful life. seated in the doorway of his house, surrounded by his man-servants and his maid-servants, who looked earnestly into the good man's face, he spoke of the loving kindness of the creator, and of the life that is to come. often did the voice of prayer ascend from his lips to heaven, the only sound that broke the solitude of the place. in the course of the summer sam became deeply convicted, his mind dwelling intensely on the subject of religion. his mistress gave him a bible, which he carried with him to his work. whatever leisure time was allowed him, he spent in perusing it, though it was only with great difficulty that he could master any part of it. i often read to him, a favor which he well repaid me by many expressions of gratitude. sam's piety was frequently observed by white men who came to the mill, and the remark it most generally provoked was, that a man like ford, who allowed his slaves to have bibles, was "not fit to own a nigger." he, however, lost nothing by his kindness. it is a fact i have more than once observed, that those who treated their slaves most leniently, were rewarded by the greatest amount of labor. i know it from my own experience. it was a source of pleasure to surprise master ford with a greater day's work than was required, while, under subsequent masters, there was no prompter to extra effort but the overseer's lash. it was the desire of ford's approving voice that suggested to me an idea that resulted to his profit. the lumber we were manufacturing was contracted to be delivered at lamourie. it had hitherto been transported by land, and was an important item of expense. indian creek, upon which the mills were situated, was a narrow but deep stream emptying into bayou boeuf. in some places it was not more than twelve feet wide, and much obstructed with trunks of trees. bayou boeuf was connected with bayou lamourie. i ascertained the distance from the mills to the point on the latter bayou, where our lumber was to be delivered, was but a few miles less by land than by water. provided the creek could be made navigable for rafts, it occurred to me that the expense of transportation would be materially diminished. adam taydem, a little white man, who had been a soldier in florida, and had strolled into that distant region, was foreman and superintendent of the mills. he scouted the idea; but ford, when i laid it before him, received it favorably, and permitted me to try the experiment. having removed the obstructions, i made up a narrow raft, consisting of twelve cribs. at this business i think i was quite skillful, not having forgotten my experience years before on the champlain canal. i labored hard, being extremely anxious to succeed, both from a desire to please my master, and to show adam taydem that my scheme was not such a visionary one as he incessantly pronounced it. one hand could manage three cribs. i took charge of the forward three, and commenced poling down the creek. in due time we entered the first bayou, and finally reached our destination in a shorter period of time than i had anticipated. the arrival of the raft at lamourie created a sensation, while mr. ford loaded me with commendations. on all sides i heard ford's platt pronounced the "smartest nigger in the pine woods"--in fact i was the fulton of indian creek. i was not insensible to the praise bestowed upon me, and enjoyed, especially, my triumph over taydem, whose half-malicious ridicule had stung my pride. from this time the entire control of bringing the lumber to lamourie was placed in my hands until the contract was fulfilled. indian creek, in its whole length, flows through a magnificent forest. there dwells on its shore a tribe of indians, a remnant of the chickasaws or chickopees, if i remember rightly. they live in simple huts, ten or twelve feet square, constructed of pine poles and covered with bark. they subsist principally on the flesh of the deer, the coon, and opossum, all of which are plenty in these woods. sometimes they exchange venison for a little corn and whisky with the planters on the bayous. their usual dress is buckskin breeches and calico hunting shirts of fantastic colors, buttoned from belt to chin. they wear brass rings on their wrists, and in their ears and noses. the dress of the squaws is very similar. they are fond of dogs and horses--owning many of the latter, of a small, tough breed--and are skillful riders. their bridles, girths and saddles were made of raw skins of animals; their stirrups of a certain kind of wood. mounted astride their ponies, men and women, i have seen them dash out into the woods at the utmost of their speed, following narrow winding paths, and dodging trees, in a manner that eclipsed the most miraculous feats of civilized equestrianism. circling away in various directions, the forest echoing and re-echoing with their whoops, they would presently return at the same dashing, headlong speed with which they started. their village was on indian creek, known as indian castle, but their range extended to the sabine river. occasionally a tribe from texas would come over on a visit, and then there was indeed a carnival in the "great pine woods." chief of the tribe was cascalla; second in rank, john baltese, his son-in-law; with both of whom, as with many others of the tribe, i became acquainted during my frequent voyages down the creek with rafts. sam and myself would often visit them when the day's task was done. they were obedient to the chief; the word of cascalla was their law. they were a rude but harmless people, and enjoyed their wild mode of life. they had little fancy for the open country, the cleared lands on the shores of the bayous, but preferred to hide themselves within the shadows of the forest. they worshiped the great spirit, loved whisky, and were happy. on one occasion i was present at a dance, when a roving herd from texas had encamped in their village. the entire carcass of a deer was roasting before a large fire, which threw its light a long distance among the trees under which they were assembled. when they had formed in a ring, men and squaws alternately, a sort of indian fiddle set up an indescribable tune. it was a continuous, melancholy kind of wavy sound, with the slightest possible variation. at the first note, if indeed there was more than one note in the whole tune, they circled around, trotting after each other, and giving utterance to a guttural, sing-song noise, equally as nondescript as the music of the fiddle. at the end of the third circuit, they would stop suddenly, whoop as if their lungs would crack, then break from the ring, forming in couples, man and squaw, each jumping backwards as far as possible from the other, then forwards--which graceful feat having been twice or thrice accomplished, they would form in a ring, and go trotting round again. the best dancer appeared to be considered the one who could whoop the loudest, jump the farthest, and utter the most excruciating noise. at intervals, one or more would leave the dancing circle, and going to the fire, cut from the roasting carcass a slice of venison. in a hole, shaped like a mortar, cut in the trunk of a fallen tree, they pounded corn with a wooden pestle, and of the meal made cake. alternately they danced and ate. thus were the visitors from texas entertained by the dusky sons and daughters of the chicopees, and such is a description, as i saw it, of an indian ball in the pine woods of avoyelles. in the autumn, i left the mills, and was employed at the opening. one day the mistress was urging ford to procure a loom, in order that sally might commence weaving cloth for the winter garments of the slaves. he could not imagine where one was to be found, when i suggested that the easiest way to get one would be to make it, informing him at the same time, that i was a sort of "jack at all trades," and would attempt it, with his permission. it was granted very readily, and i was allowed to go to a neighboring planter's to inspect one before commencing the undertaking. at length it was finished and pronounced by sally to be perfect. she could easily weave her task of fourteen yards, milk the cows, and have leisure time besides each day. it worked so well, i was continued in the employment of making looms, which were taken down to the plantation on the bayou. at this time one john m. tibeats, a carpenter, came to the opening to do some work on master's house. i was directed to quit the looms and assist him. for two weeks i was in his company, planning and matching boards for ceiling, a plastered room being a rare thing in the parish of avoyelles. john m. tibeats was the opposite of ford in all respects. he was a small, crabbed, quick-tempered, spiteful man. he had no fixed residence that i ever heard of, but passed from one plantation to another, wherever he could find employment. he was without standing in the community, not esteemed by white men, nor even respected by slaves. he was ignorant, withal, and of a revengeful disposition. he left the parish long before i did, and i know not whether he is at present alive or dead. certain it is, it was a most unlucky day for me that brought us together. during my residence with master ford i had seen only the bright side of slavery. his was no heavy hand crushing us to the earth. _he_ pointed upwards, and with benign and cheering words addressed us as his fellow-mortals, accountable, like himself, to the maker of us all. i think of him with affection, and had my family been with me, could have borne his gentle servitude, without murmuring, all my days. but clouds were gathering in the horizon--forerunners of a pitiless storm that was soon to break over me. i was doomed to endure such bitter trials as the poor slave only knows, and to lead no more the comparatively happy life which i had led in the "great pine woods." chapter viii. ford's embarrassments--the sale to tibeats--the chattel mortgage--mistress ford's plantation on bayou boeuf--description of the latter--ford's brother-in-law, peter tanner--meeting with eliza--she still mourns for her children--ford's overseer, chapin--tibeat's abuse--the keg of nails--the first fight with tibeats--his discomfiture and castigation--the attempt to hang me--chapin's interference and speech--unhappy reflections--abrupt departure of tibeats, cook and ramsay--lawson and the brown mule--message to the pine woods. william ford unfortunately became embarrassed in his pecuniary affairs. a heavy judgment was rendered against him in consequence of his having become security for his brother, franklin ford, residing on red river, above alexandria, and who had failed to meet his liabilities. he was also indebted to john m. tibeats to a considerable amount in consideration of his services in building the mills on indian creek, and also a weaving-house, corn-mill and other erections on the plantation at bayou boeuf, not yet completed. it was therefore necessary, in order to meet these demands, to dispose of eighteen slaves, myself among the number. seventeen of them, including sam and harry, were purchased by peter compton, a planter also residing on red river. i was sold to tibeats, in consequence, undoubtedly, of my slight skill as a carpenter. this was in the winter of . the deed of myself from freeman to ford, as i ascertained from the public records in new-orleans on my return, was dated june d, . at the time of my sale to tibeats, the price agreed to be given for me being more than the debt, ford took a chattel mortgage of four hundred dollars. i am indebted for my life, as will hereafter be seen, to that mortgage. i bade farewell to my good friends at the opening, and departed with my new master tibeats. we went down to the plantation on bayou boeuf, distant twenty-seven miles from the pine woods, to complete the unfinished contract. bayou boeuf is a sluggish, winding stream--one of those stagnant bodies of water common in that region, setting back from red river. it stretches from a point not far from alexandria, in a south-easterly direction, and following its tortuous course, is more than fifty miles in length. large cotton and sugar plantations line each shore, extending back to the borders of interminable swamps. it is alive with alligators, rendering it unsafe for swine, or unthinking slave children to stroll along its banks. upon a bend in this bayou, a short distance from cheneyville, was situated the plantation of madam ford--her brother, peter tanner, a great landholder, living on the opposite side. on my arrival at bayou boeuf, i had the pleasure of meeting eliza, whom i had not seen for several months. she had not pleased mrs. ford, being more occupied in brooding over her sorrows than in attending to her business, and had, in consequence, been sent down to work in the field on the plantation. she had grown feeble and emaciated, and was still mourning for her children. she asked me if i had forgotten them, and a great many times inquired if i still remembered how handsome little emily was--how much randall loved her--and wondered if they were living still, and where the darlings could then be. she had sunk beneath the weight of an excessive grief. her drooping form and hollow cheeks too plainly indicated that she had well nigh reached the end of her weary road. ford's overseer on this plantation, and who had the exclusive charge of it, was a mr. chapin, a kindly-disposed man, and a native of pennsylvania. in common with others, he held tibeats in light estimation, which fact, in connection with the four hundred dollar mortgage, was fortunate for me. i was now compelled to labor very hard. from earliest dawn until late at night, i was not allowed to be a moment idle. notwithstanding which, tibeats was never satisfied. he was continually cursing and complaining. he never spoke to me a kind word. i was his faithful slave, and earned him large wages every day, and yet i went to my cabin nightly, loaded with abuse and stinging epithets. we had completed the corn mill, the kitchen, and so forth, and were at work upon the weaving-house, when i was guilty of an act, in that state punishable with death. it was my first fight with tibeats. the weaving-house we were erecting stood in the orchard a few rods from the residence of chapin, or the "great house," as it was called. one night, having worked until it was too dark to see, i was ordered by tibeats to rise very early in the morning, procure a keg of nails from chapin, and commence putting on the clapboards. i retired to the cabin extremely tired, and having cooked a supper of bacon and corn cake, and conversed a while with eliza, who occupied the same cabin, as also did lawson and his wife mary, and a slave named bristol, laid down upon the ground floor, little dreaming of the sufferings that awaited me on the morrow. before daylight i was on the piazza of the "great house," awaiting the appearance of overseer chapin. to have aroused him from his slumbers and stated my errand, would have been an unpardonable boldness. at length he came out. taking off my hat, i informed him master tibeats had directed me to call upon him for a keg of nails. going into the store-room, he rolled it out, at the same time saying, if tibeats preferred a different size, he would endeavor to furnish them, but that i might use those until further directed. then mounting his horse, which stood saddled and bridled at the door, he rode away into the field, whither the slaves had preceded him, while i took the keg on my shoulder, and proceeding to the weaving-house, broke in the head, and commenced nailing on the clapboards. as the day began to open, tibeats came out of the house to where i was, hard at work. he seemed to be that morning even more morose and disagreeable than usual. he was my master, entitled by law to my flesh and blood, and to exercise over me such tyrannical control as his mean nature prompted; but there was no law that could prevent my looking upon him with intense contempt. i despised both his disposition and his intellect. i had just come round to the keg for a further supply of nails, as he reached the weaving-house. "i thought i told you to commence putting on weather-boards this morning," he remarked. "yes, master, and i am about it," i replied. "where?" he demanded. "on the other side," was my answer. he walked round to the other side, examined my work for a while, muttering to himself in a fault-finding tone. "didn't i tell you last night to get a keg of nails of chapin?" he broke forth again. "yes, master, and so i did; and overseer said he would get another size for you, if you wanted them, when he came back from the field." tibeats walked to the keg, looked a moment at the contents, then kicked it violently. coming towards me in a great passion, he exclaimed, "g--d d--n you! i thought you _knowed_ something." i made answer: "i tried to do as you told me, master. i didn't mean anything wrong. overseer said--" but he interrupted me with such a flood of curses that i was unable to finish the sentence. at length he ran towards the house, and going to the piazza, took down one of the overseer's whips. the whip had a short wooden stock, braided over with leather, and was loaded at the butt. the lash was three feet long, or thereabouts, and made of raw-hide strands. at first i was somewhat frightened, and my impulse was to run. there was no one about except rachel, the cook, and chapin's wife, and neither of them were to be seen. the rest were in the field. i knew he intended to whip me, and it was the first time any one had attempted it since my arrival at avoyelles. i felt, moreover, that i had been faithful--that i was guilty of no wrong whatever, and deserved commendation rather than punishment. my fear changed to anger, and before he reached me i had made up my mind fully not to be whipped, let the result be life or death. winding the lash around his hand, and taking hold of the small end of the stock, he walked up to me, and with a malignant look, ordered me to strip. "master tibeats" said i, looking him boldly in the face, "i will _not_." i was about to say something further in justification, but with concentrated vengeance, he sprang upon me, seizing me by the throat with one hand, raising the whip with the other, in the act of striking. before the blow descended, however, i had caught him by the collar of the coat, and drawn him closely to me. reaching down, i seized him by the ankle, and pushing him back with the other hand, he fell over on the ground. putting one arm around his leg, and holding it to my breast, so that his head and shoulders only touched the ground, i placed my foot upon his neck. he was completely in my power. my blood was up. it seemed to course through my veins like fire. in the frenzy of my madness i snatched the whip from his hand. he struggled with all his power; swore that i should not live to see another day; and that he would tear out my heart. but his struggles and his threats were alike in vain. i cannot tell how many times i struck him. blow after blow fell fast and heavy upon his wriggling form. at length he screamed--cried murder--and at last the blasphemous tyrant called on god for mercy. but he who had never shown mercy did not receive it. the stiff stock of the whip warped round his cringing body until my right arm ached. until this time i had been too busy to look about me. desisting for a moment, i saw mrs. chapin looking from the window, and rachel standing in the kitchen door. their attitudes expressed the utmost excitement and alarm. his screams had been heard in the field. chapin was coming as fast as he could ride. i struck him a blow or two more, then pushed him from me with such a well-directed kick that he went rolling over on the ground. rising to his feet, and brushing the dirt from his hair, he stood looking at me, pale with rage. we gazed at each other in silence. not a word was uttered until chapin galloped up to us. "what is the matter?" he cried out. "master tibeats wants to whip me for using the nails you gave me," i replied. "what is the matter with the nails?" he inquired, turning to tibeats. tibeats answered to the effect that they were too large, paying little heed, however, to chapin's question, but still keeping his snakish eyes fastened maliciously on me. "i am overseer here," chapin began. "i told platt to take them and use them, and if they were not of the proper size i would get others on returning from the field. it is not his fault. besides, i shall furnish such nails as i please. i hope you will understand _that_, mr. tibeats." tibeats made no reply, but, grinding his teeth and shaking his fist, swore he would have satisfaction, and that it was not half over yet. thereupon he walked away, followed by the overseer, and entered the house, the latter talking to him all the while in a suppressed tone, and with earnest gestures. i remained where i was, doubting whether it was better to fly or abide the result, whatever it might be. presently tibeats came out of the house, and, saddling his horse, the only property he possessed besides myself, departed on the road to cheneyville. when he was gone, chapin came out, visibly excited, telling me not to stir, not to attempt to leave the plantation on any account whatever. he then went to the kitchen, and calling rachel out, conversed with her some time. coming back, he again charged me with great earnestness not to run, saying my master was a rascal; that he had left on no good errand, and that there might be trouble before night. but at all events, he insisted upon it, i must not stir. as i stood there, feelings of unutterable agony overwhelmed me. i was conscious that i had subjected myself to unimaginable punishment. the reaction that followed my extreme ebullition of anger produced the most painful sensations of regret. an unfriended, helpless slave--what could i _do_, what could i _say_, to justify, in the remotest manner, the heinous act i had committed, of resenting a _white_ man's contumely and abuse. i tried to pray--i tried to beseech my heavenly father to sustain me in my sore extremity, but emotion choked my utterance, and i could only bow my head upon my hands and weep. for at least an hour i remained in this situation, finding relief only in tears, when, looking up, i beheld tibeats, accompanied by two horsemen, coming down the bayou. they rode into the yard, jumped from their horses, and approached me with large whips, one of them also carrying a coil of rope. "cross your hands," commanded tibeats, with the addition of such a shuddering expression of blasphemy as is not decorous to repeat. "you need not bind me, master tibeats, i am ready to go with you anywhere," said i. one of his companions then stepped forward, swearing if i made the least resistance he would break my head--he would tear me limb from limb--he would cut my black throat--and giving wide scope to other similar expressions. perceiving any importunity altogether vain, i crossed my hands, submitting humbly to whatever disposition they might please to make of me. thereupon tibeats tied my wrists, drawing the rope around them with his utmost strength. then he bound my ankles in the same manner. in the meantime the other two had slipped a cord within my elbows, running it across my back, and tying it firmly. it was utterly impossible to move hand or foot. with a remaining piece of rope tibeats made an awkward noose, and placed it about my neck. "now, then," inquired one of tibeats' companions, "where shall we hang the nigger?" one proposed such a limb, extending from the body of a peach tree, near the spot where we were standing. his comrade objected to it, alleging it would break, and proposed another. finally they fixed upon the latter. during this conversation, and all the time they were binding me, i uttered not a word. overseer chapin, during the progress of the scene, was walking hastily back and forth on the piazza. rachel was crying by the kitchen door, and mrs. chapin was still looking from the window. hope died within my heart. surely my time had come. i should never behold the light of another day--never behold the faces of my children--the sweet anticipation i had cherished with such fondness. i should that hour struggle through the fearful agonies of death! none would mourn for me--none revenge me. soon my form would be mouldering in that distant soil, or, perhaps, be cast to the slimy reptiles that filled the stagnant waters of the bayou! tears flowed down my cheeks, but they only afforded a subject of insulting comment for my executioners. [illustration: chapin rescues solomon from hanging.] at length, as they were dragging me towards the tree, chapin, who had momentarily disappeared from the piazza, came out of the house and walked towards us. he had a pistol in each hand, and as near as i can now recall to mind, spoke in a firm, determined manner, as follows: "gentlemen, i have a few words to say. you had better listen to them. whoever moves that slave another foot from where he stands is a dead man. in the first place, he does not deserve this treatment. it is a shame to murder him in this manner. i never knew a more faithful boy than platt. you, tibeats, are in the fault yourself. you are pretty much of a scoundrel, and i know it, and you richly deserve the flogging you have received. in the next place, i have been overseer on this plantation seven years, and, in the absence of william ford, am master here. my duty is to protect his interests, and that duty i shall perform. you are not responsible--you are a worthless fellow. ford holds a mortgage on platt of four hundred dollars. if you hang him he loses his debt. until that is canceled you have no right to take his life. you have no right to take it any way. there is a law for the slave as well as for the white man. you are no better than a murderer. "as for you," addressing cook and ramsay, a couple of overseers from neighboring plantations, "as for you--begone! if you have any regard for your own safety, i say, begone." cook and ramsay, without a further word, mounted their horses and rode away. tibeats, in a few minutes, evidently in fear, and overawed by the decided tone of chapin, sneaked off like a coward, as he was, and mounting his horse, followed his companions. i remained standing where i was, still bound, with the rope around my neck. as soon as they were gone, chapin called rachel, ordering her to run to the field, and tell lawson to hurry to the house without delay, and bring the brown mule with him, an animal much prized for its unusual fleetness. presently the boy appeared. "lawson," said chapin, "you must go to the pine woods. tell your master ford to come here at once--that he must not delay a single moment. tell him they are trying to murder platt. now hurry, boy. be at the pine woods by noon if you kill the mule." chapin stepped into the house and wrote a pass. when he returned, lawson was at the door, mounted on his mule. receiving the pass, he plied the whip right smartly to the beast, dashed out of the yard, and turning up the bayou on a hard gallop, in less time than it has taken me to describe the scene, was out of sight. chapter ix. the hot sun--yet bound--the cords sink into my flesh--chapin's uneasiness--speculation--rachel, and her cup of water--suffering increases--the happiness of slavery--arrival of ford--he cuts the cords which bind me, and takes the rope from my neck--misery--the gathering of the slaves in eliza's cabin--their kindness--rachel repeats the occurrences of the day--lawson entertains his companions with an account of his ride--chapin's apprehensions of tibeats--hired to peter tanner--peter expounds the scriptures--description of the stocks. as the sun approached the meridian that day it became insufferably warm. its hot rays scorched the ground. the earth almost blistered the foot that stood upon it. i was without coat or hat, standing bare-headed, exposed to its burning blaze. great drops of perspiration rolled down my face, drenching the scanty apparel wherewith i was clothed. over the fence, a very little way off, the peach trees cast their cool, delicious shadows on the grass. i would gladly have given a long year of service to have been enabled to exchange the heated oven, as it were, wherein i stood, for a seat beneath their branches. but i was yet bound, the rope still dangling from my neck, and standing in the same tracks where tibeats and his comrades left me. i could not move an inch, so firmly had i been bound. to have been enabled to lean against the weaving house would have been a luxury indeed. but it was far beyond my reach, though distant less than twenty feet. i wanted to lie down, but knew i could not rise again. the ground was so parched and boiling hot i was aware it would but add to the discomfort of my situation. if i could have only moved my position, however slightly, it would have been relief unspeakable. but the hot rays of a southern sun, beating all the long summer day on my bare head, produced not half the suffering i experienced from my aching limbs. my wrists and ankles, and the cords of my legs and arms began to swell, burying the rope that bound them into the swollen flesh. all day chapin walked back and forth upon the stoop, but not once approached me. he appeared to be in a state of great uneasiness, looking first towards me, and then up the road, as if expecting some arrival every moment. he did not go to the field, as was his custom. it was evident from his manner that he supposed tibeats would return with more and better armed assistance, perhaps, to renew the quarrel, and it was equally evident he had prepared his mind to defend my life at whatever hazard. why he did not relieve me--why he suffered me to remain in agony the whole weary day, i never knew. it was not for want of sympathy, i am certain. perhaps he wished ford to see the rope about my neck, and the brutal manner in which i had been bound; perhaps his interference with another's property in which he had no legal interest might have been a trespass, which would have subjected him to the penalty of the law. why tibeats was all day absent was another mystery i never could divine. he knew well enough that chapin would not harm him unless he persisted in his design against me. lawson told me afterwards, that, as he passed the plantation of john david cheney, he saw the three, and that they turned and looked after him as he flew by. i think his supposition was, that lawson had been sent out by overseer chapin to arouse the neighboring planters, and to call on them to come to his assistance. he, therefore, undoubtedly, acted on the principle, that "discretion is the better part of valor," and kept away. but whatever motive may have governed the cowardly and malignant tyrant, it is of no importance. there i still stood in the noon-tide sun, groaning with pain. from long before daylight i had not eaten a morsel. i was growing faint from pain, and thirst, and hunger. once only, in the very hottest portion of the day, rachel, half fearful she was acting contrary to the overseer's wishes, ventured to me, and held a cup of water to my lips. the humble creature never knew, nor could she comprehend if she had heard them, the blessings i invoked upon her, for that balmy draught. she could only say, "oh, platt, how i do pity you," and then hastened back to her labors in the kitchen. never did the sun move so slowly through the heavens--never did it shower down such fervent and fiery rays, as it did that day. at least, so it appeared to me. what my meditations were--the innumerable thoughts that thronged through my distracted brain--i will not attempt to give expression to. suffice it to say, during the whole long day i came not to the conclusion, even once, that the southern slave, fed, clothed, whipped and protected by his master, is happier than the free colored citizen of the north. to that conclusion i have never since arrived. there are many, however, even in the northern states, benevolent and well-disposed men, who will pronounce my opinion erroneous, and gravely proceed to substantiate the assertion with an argument. alas! they have never drunk, as i have, from the bitter cup of slavery. just at sunset my heart leaped with unbounded joy, as ford came riding into the yard, his horse covered with foam. chapin met him at the door, and after conversing a short time, he walked directly to me. "poor platt, you are in a bad state," was the only expression that escaped his lips. "thank god!" said i, "thank god, master ford, that you have come at last." drawing a knife from his pocket, he indignantly cut the cord from my wrists, arms, and ankles, and slipped the noose from my neck. i attempted to walk, but staggered like a drunken man, and fell partially to the ground. ford returned immediately to the house, leaving me alone again. as he reached the piazza, tibeats and his two friends rode up. a long dialogue followed. i could hear the sound of their voices, the mild tones of ford mingling with the angry accents of tibeats, but was unable to distinguish what was said. finally the three departed again, apparently not well pleased. i endeavored to raise the hammer, thinking to show ford how willing i was to work, by proceeding with my labors on the weaving house, but it fell from my nerveless hand. at dark i crawled into the cabin, and laid down. i was in great misery--all sore and swollen--the slightest movement producing excruciating suffering. soon the hands came in from the field. rachel, when she went after lawson, had told them what had happened. eliza and mary broiled me a piece of bacon, but my appetite was gone. then they scorched some corn meal and made coffee. it was all that i could take. eliza consoled me and was very kind. it was not long before the cabin was full of slaves. they gathered round me, asking many questions about the difficulty with tibeats in the morning--and the particulars of all the occurrences of the day. then rachel came in, and in her simple language, repeated it over again--dwelling emphatically on the kick that sent tibeats rolling over on the ground--whereupon there was a general titter throughout the crowd. then she described how chapin walked out with his pistols and rescued me, and how master ford cut the ropes with his knife, just as if he was mad. by this time lawson had returned. he had to regale them with an account of his trip to the pine woods--how the brown mule bore him faster than a "streak o'lightnin"--how he astonished everybody as he flew along--how master ford started right away--how he said platt was a good nigger, and they shouldn't kill him, concluding with pretty strong intimations that there was not another human being in the wide world, who could have created such a universal sensation on the road, or performed such a marvelous john gilpin feat, as he had done that day on the brown mule. the kind creatures loaded me with the expression of their sympathy--saying, tibeats was a hard, cruel man, and hoping "massa ford" would get me back again. in this manner they passed the time, discussing, chatting, talking over and over again the exciting affair, until suddenly chapin presented himself at the cabin door and called me. "platt," said he, "you will sleep on the floor in the great house to-night; bring your blanket with you." i arose as quickly as i was able, took my blanket in my hand, and followed him. on the way he informed me that he should not wonder if tibeats was back again before morning--that he intended to kill me--and that he did not mean he should do it without witnesses. had he stabbed me to the heart in the presence of a hundred slaves, not one of them, by the laws of louisiana, could have given evidence against him. i laid down on the floor in the "great house"--the first and the last time such a sumptuous resting place was granted me during my twelve years of bondage--and tried to sleep. near midnight the dog began to bark. chapin arose, looked from the window, but could discover nothing. at length the dog was quiet. as he returned to his room, he said, "i believe, platt, that scoundrel is skulking about the premises somewhere. if the dog barks again, and i am sleeping, wake me." i promised to do so. after the lapse of an hour or more, the dog re-commenced his clamor, running towards the gate, then back again, all the while barking furiously. chapin was out of bed without waiting to be called. on this occasion, he stepped forth upon the piazza, and remained standing there a considerable length of time. nothing, however, was to be seen, and the dog returned to his kennel. we were not disturbed again during the night. the excessive pain that i suffered, and the dread of some impending danger, prevented any rest whatever. whether or not tibeats did actually return to the plantation that night, seeking an opportunity to wreak his vengeance upon me, is a secret known only to himself, perhaps. i thought then, however, and have the strong impression still, that he was there. at all events, he had the disposition of an assassin--cowering before a brave man's words, but ready to strike his helpless or unsuspecting victim in the back, as i had reason afterwards to know. at daylight in the morning, i arose, sore and weary, having rested little. nevertheless, after partaking breakfast, which mary and eliza had prepared for me in the cabin, i proceeded to the weaving house and commenced the labors of another day. it was chapin's practice, as it is the practice of overseers generally, immediately on arising, to bestride his horse, always saddled and bridled and ready for him--the particular business of some slave--and ride into the field. this morning, on the contrary, he came to the weaving house, asking if i had seen anything of tibeats yet. replying in the negative, he remarked there was something not right about the fellow--there was bad blood in him--that i must keep a sharp watch of him, or he would do me wrong some day when i least expected it. while he was yet speaking, tibeats rode in, hitched his horse, and entered the house. i had little fear of him while ford and chapin were at hand, but they could not be near me always. oh! how heavily the weight of slavery pressed upon me then. i must toil day after day, endure abuse and taunts and scoffs, sleep on the hard ground, live on the coarsest fare, and not only this, but live the slave of a blood-seeking wretch, of whom i must stand henceforth in continued fear and dread. why had i not died in my young years--before god had given me children to love and live for? what unhappiness and suffering and sorrow it would have prevented. i sighed for liberty; but the bondman's chain was round me, and could not be shaken off. i could only gaze wistfully towards the north, and think of the thousands of miles that stretched between me and the soil of freedom, over which a _black_ freeman may not pass. tibeats, in the course of half an hour, walked over to the weaving-house, looked at me sharply, then returned without saying anything. most of the forenoon he sat on the piazza, reading a newspaper and conversing with ford. after dinner, the latter left for the pine woods, and it was indeed with regret that i beheld him depart from the plantation. once more during the day tibeats came to me, gave me some order, and returned. during the week the weaving-house was completed--tibeats in the meantime making no allusion whatever to the difficulty--when i was informed he had hired me to peter tanner, to work under another carpenter by the name of myers. this announcement was received with gratification, as any place was desirable that would relieve me of his hateful presence. peter tanner, as the reader has already been informed, lived on the opposite shore, and was the brother of mistress ford. he is one of the most extensive planters on bayou boeuf, and owns a large number of slaves. over i went to tanner's, joyfully enough. he had heard of my late difficulties--in fact, i ascertained the flogging of tibeats was soon blazoned far and wide. this affair, together with my rafting experiment, had rendered me somewhat notorious. more than once i heard it said that platt ford, now platt tibeats--a slave's name changes with his change of master--was "a devil of a nigger." but i was destined to make a still further noise, as will presently be seen, throughout the little world of bayou boeuf. peter tanner endeavored to impress upon me the idea that he was quite severe, though i could perceive there was a vein of good humor in the old fellow, after all. "you're the nigger," he said to me on my arrival--"you're the nigger that flogged your master, eh? you're the nigger that kicks, and holds carpenter tibeats by the leg, and wallops him, are ye? i'd like to see you hold me by the leg--i should. you're a 'portant character--you're a great nigger--very remarkable nigger, ain't ye? _i'd_ lash you--_i'd_ take the tantrums out of ye. jest take hold of my leg, if you please. none of your pranks here, my boy, remember _that_. now go to work, you _kickin'_ rascal," concluded peter tanner, unable to suppress a half-comical grin at his own wit and sarcasm. after listening to this salutation, i was taken charge of by myers, and labored under his direction for a month, to his and my own satisfaction. like william ford, his brother-in-law, tanner was in the habit of reading the bible to his slaves on the sabbath, but in a somewhat different spirit. he was an impressive commentator on the new testament. the first sunday after my coming to the plantation, he called them together, and began to read the twelfth chapter of luke. when he came to the th verse, he looked deliberately around him, and continued--"and that servant which knew his lord's _will_,"--here he paused, looking around more deliberately than before, and again proceeded--"which knew his lord's _will_, and _prepared_ not himself"--here was another pause--"_prepared_ not himself, neither did _according_ to his will, shall be beaten with many _stripes_." "d'ye hear that?" demanded peter, emphatically. "_stripes_," he repeated, slowly and distinctly, taking off his spectacles, preparatory to making a few remarks. "that nigger that don't take care--that don't obey his lord--that's his master--d'ye see?--that _'ere_ nigger shall be beaten with many stripes. now, 'many' signifies a _great_ many--forty, a hundred, a hundred and fifty lashes. _that's_ scripter!" and so peter continued to elucidate the subject for a great length of time, much to the edification of his sable audience. at the conclusion of the exercises, calling up three of his slaves, warner, will and major, he cried out to me-- "here, platt, you held tibeats by the legs; now i'll see if you can hold these rascals in the same way, till i get back from meetin'." thereupon he ordered them to the stocks--a common thing on plantations in the red river country. the stocks are formed of two planks, the lower one made fast at the ends to two short posts, driven firmly into the ground. at regular distances half circles are cut in the upper edge. the other plank is fastened to one of the posts by a hinge, so that it can be opened or shut down, in the same manner as the blade of a pocket-knife is shut or opened. in the lower edge of the upper plank corresponding half circles are also cut, so that when they close, a row of holes is formed large enough to admit a negro's leg above the ankle, but not large enough to enable him to draw out his foot. the other end of the upper plank, opposite the hinge, is fastened to its post by lock and key. the slave is made to sit upon the ground, when the uppermost plank is elevated, his legs, just above the ankles, placed in the sub-half circles, and shutting it down again, and locking it, he is held secure and fast. very often the neck instead of the ankle is enclosed. in this manner they are held during the operation of whipping. warner, will and major, according to tanner's account of them, were melon-stealing, sabbath-breaking niggers, and not approving of such wickedness, he felt it his duty to put them in the stocks. handing me the key, himself, myers, mistress tanner and the children entered the carriage and drove away to church at cheneyville. when they were gone, the boys begged me to let them out. i felt sorry to see them sitting on the hot ground, and remembered my own sufferings in the sun. upon their promise to return to the stocks at any moment they were required to do so, i consented to release them. grateful for the lenity shown them, and in order in some measure to repay it, they could do no less, of course, than pilot me to the melon-patch. shortly before tanner's return, they were in the stocks again. finally he drove up, and looking at the boys, said, with a chuckle,-- "aha! ye havn't been strolling about much to-day, any way. _i'll_ teach you what's what. _i'll_ tire ye of eating water-melons on the lord's day, ye sabbath-breaking niggers." peter tanner prided himself upon his strict religious observances: he was a deacon in the church. but i have now reached a point in the progress of my narrative, when it becomes necessary to turn away from these light descriptions, to the more grave and weighty matter of the second battle with master tibeats, and the flight through the great pacoudrie swamp. chapter x. return to tibeats--impossibility of pleasing him--he attacks me with a hatchet--the struggle over the broad axe--the temptation to murder him--escape across the plantation--observations from the fence--tibeats approaches, followed by the hounds--they take my track--their loud yells--they almost overtake me--i reach the water--the hounds confused--moccasin snakes--alligators--night in the "great pacoudrie swamp"--the sounds of life--north-west course--emerge into the pine woods--the slave and his young master--arrival at ford's--food and rest. at the end of a month, my services being no longer required at tanner's i was sent over the bayou again to my master, whom i found engaged in building the cotton press. this was situated at some distance from the great house, in a rather retired place. i commenced working once more in company with tibeats, being entirely alone with him most part of the time. i remembered the words of chapin, his precautions, his advice to beware, lest in some unsuspecting moment he might injure me. they were always in my mind, so that i lived in a most uneasy state of apprehension and fear. one eye was on my work, the other on my master. i determined to give him no cause of offence, to work still more diligently, if possible, than i had done, to bear whatever abuse he might heap upon me, save bodily injury, humbly and patiently, hoping thereby to soften in some degree his manner towards me, until the blessed time might come when i should be delivered from his clutches. the third morning after my return, chapin left the plantation for cheneyville, to be absent until night. tibeats, on that morning, was attacked with one of those periodical fits of spleen and ill-humor to which he was frequently subject, rendering him still more disagreeable and venomous than usual. it was about nine o'clock in the forenoon, when i was busily employed with the jack-plane on one of the sweeps. tibeats was standing by the work-bench, fitting a handle into the chisel, with which he had been engaged previously in cutting the thread of the screw. "you are not planing that down enough," said he. "it is just even with the line," i replied. "you're a d--d liar," he exclaimed passionately. "oh, well, master," i said, mildly, "i will plane it down more if you say so," at the same time proceeding to do as i supposed he desired. before one shaving had been removed, however, he cried out, saying i had now planed it too deep--it was too small--i had spoiled the sweep entirely. then followed curses and imprecations. i had endeavored to do exactly as he directed, but nothing would satisfy the unreasonable man. in silence and in dread i stood by the sweep, holding the jack-plane in my hand, not knowing what to do, and not daring to be idle. his anger grew more and more violent, until, finally, with an oath, such a bitter, frightful oath as only tibeats could utter, he seized a hatchet from the work-bench and darted towards me, swearing he would cut my head open. it was a moment of life or death. the sharp, bright blade of the hatchet glittered in the sun. in another instant it would be buried in my brain, and yet in that instant--so quick will a man's thoughts come to him in such a fearful strait--i reasoned with myself. if i stood still, my doom was certain; if i fled, ten chances to one the hatchet, flying from his hand with a too-deadly and unerring aim, would strike me in the back. there was but one course to take. springing towards him with all my power, and meeting him full half-way, before he could bring down the blow, with one hand i caught his uplifted arm, with the other seized him by the throat. we stood looking each other in the eyes. in his i could see murder. i felt as if i had a serpent by the neck, watching the slightest relaxation of my gripe, to coil itself round my body, crushing and stinging it to death. i thought to scream aloud, trusting that some ear might catch the sound--but chapin was away; the hands were in the field; there was no living soul in sight or hearing. the good genius, which thus far through life has saved me from the hands of violence, at that moment suggested a lucky thought. with a vigorous and sudden kick, that brought him on one knee, with a groan, i released my hold upon his throat, snatched the hatchet, and cast it beyond reach. frantic with rage, maddened beyond control, he seized a white oak stick, five feet long, perhaps, and as large in circumference as his hand could grasp, which was lying on the ground. again he rushed towards me, and again i met him, seized him about the waist, and being the stronger of the two, bore him to the earth. while in that position i obtained possession of the stick, and rising, cast it from me, also. he likewise arose and ran for the broad-axe, on the work-bench. fortunately, there was a heavy plank lying upon its broad blade, in such a manner that he could not extricate it, before i had sprung upon his back. pressing him down closely and heavily on the plank, so that the axe was held more firmly to its place, i endeavored, but in vain, to break his grasp upon the handle. in that position we remained some minutes. there have been hours in my unhappy life, many of them, when the contemplation of death as the end of earthly sorrow--of the grave as a resting place for the tired and worn out body--has been pleasant to dwell upon. but such contemplations vanish in the hour of peril. no man, in his full strength, can stand undismayed, in the presence of the "king of terrors." life is dear to every living thing; the worm that crawls upon the ground will struggle for it. at that moment it was dear to me, enslaved and treated as i was. not able to unloose his hand, once more i seized him by the throat, and this time, with a vice-like gripe that soon relaxed his hold. he became pliant and unstrung. his face, that had been white with passion, was now black from suffocation. those small serpent eyes that spat such venom, were now full of horror--two great white orbs starting from their sockets! there was "a lurking devil" in my heart that prompted me to kill the human blood-hound on the spot--to retain the grip on his accursed throat till the breath of life was gone! i dared not murder him, and i dared not let him live. if i killed him, my life must pay the forfeit--if he lived, my life only would satisfy his vengeance. a voice within whispered me to fly. to be a wanderer among the swamps, a fugitive and a vagabond on the face of the earth, was preferable to the life that i was leading. my resolution was soon formed, and swinging him from the work-bench to the ground, i leaped a fence near by, and hurried across the plantation, passing the slaves at work in the cotton field. at the end of a quarter of a mile i reached the wood-pasture, and it was a short time indeed that i had been running it. climbing on to a high fence, i could see the cotton press, the great house, and the space between. it was a conspicuous position, from whence the whole plantation was in view. i saw tibeats cross the field towards the house, and enter it--then he came out, carrying his saddle, and presently mounted his horse and galloped away. i was desolate, but thankful. thankful that my life was spared,--desolate and discouraged with the prospect before me. what would become of me? who would befriend me? whither should i fly? oh, god! thou who gavest me life, and implanted in my bosom the love of life--who filled it with emotions such as other men, thy creatures, have, do not forsake me. have pity on the poor slave--let me not perish. if thou dost not protect me, i am lost--lost! such supplications, silently and unuttered, ascended from my inmost heart to heaven. but there was no answering voice--no sweet, low tone, coming down from on high, whispering to my soul, "it is i, be not afraid." i was the forsaken of god, it seemed--the despised and hated of men! in about three-fourths of an hour several of the slaves shouted and made signs for me to run. presently, looking up the bayou, i saw tibeats and two others on horse-back, coming at a fast gait, followed by a troop of dogs. there were as many as eight or ten. distant as i was, i knew them. they belonged on the adjoining plantation. the dogs used on bayou boeuf for hunting slaves are a kind of blood-hound, but a far more savage breed than is found in the northern states. they will attack a negro, at their master's bidding, and cling to him as the common bull-dog will cling to a four footed animal. frequently their loud bay is heard in the swamps, and then there is speculation as to what point the runaway will be overhauled--the same as a new-york hunter stops to listen to the hounds coursing along the hillsides, and suggests to his companion that the fox will be taken at such a place. i never knew a slave escaping with his life from bayou boeuf. one reason is, they are not allowed to learn the art of swimming, and are incapable of crossing the most inconsiderable stream. in their flight they can go in no direction but a little way without coming to a bayou, when the inevitable alternative is presented, of being drowned or overtaken by the dogs. in youth i had practised in the clear streams that flow through my native district, until i had become an expert swimmer, and felt at home in the watery element. i stood upon the fence until the dogs had reached the cotton press. in an instant more, their long, savage yells announced they were on my track. leaping down from my position, i ran towards the swamp. fear gave me strength, and i exerted it to the utmost. every few moments i could hear the yelpings of the dogs. they were gaining upon me. every howl was nearer and nearer. each moment i expected they would spring upon my back--expected to feel their long teeth sinking into my flesh. there were so many of them, i knew they would tear me to pieces, that they would worry me, at once, to death. i gasped for breath--gasped forth a half-uttered, choking prayer to the almighty to save me--to give me strength to reach some wide, deep bayou where i could throw them off the track, or sink into its waters. presently i reached a thick palmetto bottom. as i fled through them they made a loud rustling noise, not loud enough, however, to drown the voices of the dogs. continuing my course due south, as nearly as i can judge, i came at length to water just over shoe. the hounds at that moment could not have been five rods behind me. i could hear them crashing and plunging through the palmettoes, their loud, eager yells making the whole swamp clamorous with the sound. hope revived a little as i reached the water. if it were only deeper, they might lose the scent, and thus disconcerted, afford me the opportunity of evading them. luckily, it grew deeper the farther i proceeded--now over my ankles--now half-way to my knees--now sinking a moment to my waist, and then emerging presently into more shallow places. the dogs had not gained upon me since i struck the water. evidently they were confused. now their savage intonations grew more and more distant, assuring me that i was leaving them. finally i stopped to listen, but the long howl came booming on the air again, telling me i was not yet safe. from bog to bog, where i had stepped, they could still keep upon the track, though impeded by the water. at length, to my great joy, i came to a wide bayou, and plunging in, had soon stemmed its sluggish current to the other side. there, certainly, the dogs would be confounded--the current carrying down the stream all traces of that slight, mysterious scent, which enables the quick-smelling hound to follow in the track of the fugitive. after crossing this bayou the water became so deep i could not run. i was now in what i afterwards learned was the "great pacoudrie swamp." it was filled with immense trees--the sycamore, the gum, the cotton wood and cypress, and extends, i am informed, to the shore of the calcasieu river. for thirty or forty miles it is without inhabitants, save wild beasts--the bear, the wild-cat, the tiger, and great slimy reptiles, that are crawling through it everywhere. long before i reached the bayou, in fact, from the time i struck the water until i emerged from the swamp on my return, these reptiles surrounded me. i saw hundreds of moccasin snakes. every log and bog--every trunk of a fallen tree, over which i was compelled to step or climb, was alive with them. they crawled away at my approach, but sometimes in my haste, i almost placed my hand or foot upon them. they are poisonous serpents--their bite more fatal than the rattlesnake's. besides, i had lost one shoe, the sole having come entirely off, leaving the upper only dangling to my ankle. i saw also many alligators, great and small, lying in the water, or on pieces of floodwood. the noise i made usually startled them, when they moved off and plunged into the deepest places. sometimes, however, i would come directly upon a monster before observing it. in such cases, i would start back, run a short way round, and in that manner shun them. straight forward, they will run a short distance rapidly, but do not possess the power of turning. in a crooked race, there is no difficulty in evading them. about two o'clock in the afternoon, i heard the last of the hounds. probably they did not cross the bayou. wet and weary, but relieved from the sense of instant peril, i continued on, more cautious and afraid, however, of the snakes and alligators than i had been in the earlier portion of my flight. now, before stepping into a muddy pool, i would strike the water with a stick. if the waters moved, i would go around it, if not, would venture through. at length the sun went down, and gradually night's trailing mantle shrouded the great swamp in darkness. still i staggered on, fearing every instant i should feel the dreadful sting of the moccasin, or be crushed within the jaws of some disturbed alligator. the dread of them now almost equaled the fear of the pursuing hounds. the moon arose after a time, its mild light creeping through the overspreading branches, loaded with long, pendent moss. i kept traveling forwards until after midnight, hoping all the while that i would soon emerge into some less desolate and dangerous region. but the water grew deeper and the walking more difficult than ever. i perceived it would be impossible to proceed much farther, and knew not, moreover, what hands i might fall into, should i succeed in reaching a human habitation. not provided with a pass, any white man would be at liberty to arrest me, and place me in prison until such time as my master should "prove property, pay charges, and take me away." i was an estray, and if so unfortunate as to meet a law-abiding citizen of louisiana, he would deem it his duty to his neighbor, perhaps, to put me forthwith in the pound. really, it was difficult to determine which i had most reason to fear--dogs, alligators or men! after midnight, however, i came to a halt. imagination cannot picture the dreariness of the scene. the swamp was resonant with the quacking of innumerable ducks! since the foundation of the earth, in all probability, a human footstep had never before so far penetrated the recesses of the swamp. it was not silent now--silent to a degree that rendered it oppressive,--as it was when the sun was shining in the heavens. my midnight intrusion had awakened the feathered tribes, which seemed to throng the morass in hundreds of thousands, and their garrulous throats poured forth such multitudinous sounds--there was such a fluttering of wings--such sullen plunges in the water all around me--that i was affrighted and appalled. all the fowls of the air, and all the creeping things of the earth appeared to have assembled together in that particular place, for the purpose of filling it with clamor and confusion. not by human dwellings--not in crowded cities alone, are the sights and sounds of life. the wildest places of the earth are full of them. even in the heart of that dismal swamp, god had provided a refuge and a dwelling place for millions of living things. the moon had now risen above the trees, when i resolved upon a new project. thus far i had endeavored to travel as nearly south as possible. turning about i proceeded in a north-west direction, my object being to strike the pine woods in the vicinity of master ford's. once within the shadow of his protection, i felt i would be comparatively safe. my clothes were in tatters, my hands, face, and body covered with scratches, received from the sharp knots of fallen trees, and in climbing over piles of brush and floodwood. my bare foot was full of thorns. i was besmeared with muck and mud, and the green slime that had collected on the surface of the dead water, in which i had been immersed to the neck many times during the day and night. hour after hour, and tiresome indeed had they become, i continued to plod along on my north-west course. the water began to grow less deep, and the ground more firm under my feet. at last i reached the pacoudrie, the same wide bayou i had swam while "outward bound." i swam it again, and shortly after thought i heard a cock crow, but the sound was faint, and it might have been a mockery of the ear. the water receded from my advancing footsteps--now i had left the bogs behind me--now i was on dry land that gradually ascended to the plain, and i knew i was somewhere in the "great pine woods." just at day-break i came to an opening--a sort of small plantation--but one i had never seen before. in the edge of the woods i came upon two men, a slave and his young master, engaged in catching wild hogs. the white man i knew would demand my pass, and not able to give him one, would take me into possession. i was too wearied to run again, and too desperate to be taken, and therefore adopted a ruse that proved entirely successful. assuming a fierce expression, i walked directly towards him, looking him steadily in the face. as i approached, he moved backwards with an air of alarm. it was plain he was much affrighted--that he looked upon me as some infernal goblin, just arisen from the bowels of the swamp! "where does william ford live?" i demanded, in no gentle tone. "he lives seven miles from here," was the reply. "which is the way to his place?" i again demanded, trying to look more fiercely than ever. "do you see those pine trees yonder?" he asked, pointing to two, a mile distant, that rose far above their fellows, like a couple of tall sentinels, overlooking the broad expanse of forest. "i see them," was the answer. "at the feet of those pine trees," he continued, "runs the texas road. turn to the left, and it will lead you to william ford's." without farther parley, i hastened forward, happy as he was, no doubt, to place the widest possible distance between us. striking the texas road, i turned to the left hand, as directed, and soon passed a great fire, where a pile of logs were burning. i went to it, thinking i would dry my clothes; but the gray light of the morning was fast breaking away,--some passing white man might observe me; besides, the heat overpowered me with the desire of sleep: so, lingering no longer, i continued my travels, and finally, about eight o'clock, reached the house of master ford. the slaves were all absent from the quarters, at their work. stepping on to the piazza, i knocked at the door, which was soon opened by mistress ford. my appearance was so changed--i was in such a wobegone and forlorn condition, she did not know me. inquiring if master ford was at home, that good man made his appearance, before the question could be answered. i told him of my flight, and all the particulars connected with it. he listened attentively, and when i had concluded, spoke to me kindly and sympathetically, and taking me to the kitchen, called john, and ordered him to prepare me food. i had tasted nothing since daylight the previous morning. when john had set the meal before me, the madam came out with a bowl of milk, and many little delicious dainties, such as rarely please the palate of a slave. i was hungry, and i was weary, but neither food nor rest afforded half the pleasure as did the blessed voices speaking kindness and consolation. it was the oil and the wine which the good samaritan in the "great pine woods" was ready to pour into the wounded spirit of the slave, who came to him, stripped of his raiment and half-dead. they left me in the cabin, that i might rest. blessed be sleep! it visiteth all alike, descending as the dews of heaven on the bond and free. soon it nestled to my bosom, driving away the troubles that oppressed it, and bearing me to that shadowy region, where i saw again the faces, and listened to the voices of my children, who, alas, for aught i knew in my waking hours, had fallen into the arms of that _other_ sleep, from which they _never_ would arouse. chapter xi. the mistress' garden--the crimson and golden fruit--orange and pomegranate trees--return to bayou boeuf--master ford's remarks on the way--the meeting with tibeats--his account of the chase--ford censures his brutality--arrival at the plantation--astonishment of the slaves on seeing me--the anticipated flogging--kentucky john--mr. eldret, the planter--eldret's sam--trip to the "big cane brake"--the tradition of "sutton's field"--forest trees--gnats and mosquitos--the arrival of black women in the big cane--lumber women--sudden appearance of tibeats--his provoking treatment--visit to bayou boeuf--the slave pass--southern hospitality--the last of eliza--sale to edwin epps. after a long sleep, sometime in the afternoon i awoke, refreshed, but very sore and stiff. sally came in and talked with me, while john cooked me some dinner. sally was in great trouble, as well as myself, one of her children being ill, and she feared it could not survive. dinner over, after walking about the quarters for a while, visiting sally's cabin and looking at the sick child, i strolled into the madam's garden. though it was a season of the year when the voices of the birds are silent, and the trees are stripped of their summer glories in more frigid climes, yet the whole variety of roses were then blooming there, and the long, luxuriant vines creeping over the frames. the crimson and golden fruit hung half hidden amidst the younger and older blossoms of the peach, the orange, the plum, and the pomegranate; for, in that region of almost perpetual warmth, the leaves are falling and the buds bursting into bloom the whole year long. i indulged the most grateful feelings towards master and mistress ford, and wishing in some manner to repay their kindness, commenced trimming the vines, and afterwards weeding out the grass from among the orange and pomegranate trees. the latter grows eight or ten feet high, and its fruit, though larger, is similar in appearance to the jelly-flower. it has the luscious flavor of the strawberry. oranges, peaches, plums, and most other fruits are indigenous to the rich, warm soil of avoyelles; but the apple, the most common of them all in colder latitudes, is rarely to be seen. mistress ford came out presently, saying it was praise-worthy in me, but i was not in a condition to labor, and might rest myself at the quarters until master should go down to bayou boeuf, which would not be that day, and it might not be the next. i said to her--to be sure, i felt bad, and was stiff, and that my foot pained me, the stubs and thorns having so torn it, but thought such exercise would not hurt me, and that it was a great pleasure to work for so good a mistress. thereupon she returned to the great house, and for three days i was diligent in the garden, cleaning the walks, weeding the flower beds, and pulling up the rank grass beneath the jessamine vines, which the gentle and generous hand of my protectress had taught to clamber along the walls. the fourth morning, having become recruited and refreshed, master ford ordered me to make ready to accompany him to the bayou. there was but one saddle horse at the opening, all the others with the mules having been sent down to the plantation. i said i could walk, and bidding sally and john goodbye, left the opening, trotting along by the horse's side. that little paradise in the great pine woods was the oasis in the desert, towards which my heart turned lovingly, during many years of bondage. i went forth from it now with regret and sorrow, not so overwhelming, however, as if it had then been given me to know that i should never return to it again. master ford urged me to take his place occasionally on the horse, to rest me; but i said no, i was not tired, and it was better for me to walk than him. he said many kind and cheering things to me on the way, riding slowly, in order that i might keep pace with him. the goodness of god was manifest, he declared, in my miraculous escape from the swamp. as daniel came forth unharmed from the den of lions, and as jonah had been preserved in the whale's belly, even so had i been delivered from evil by the almighty. he interrogated me in regard to the various fears and emotions i had experienced during the day and night, and if i had felt, at any time, a desire to pray. i felt forsaken of the whole world, i answered him, and was praying mentally all the while. at such times, said he, the heart of man turns instinctively towards his maker. in prosperity, and when there is nothing to injure or make him afraid, he remembers him not, and is ready to defy him; but place him in the midst of dangers, cut him off from human aid, let the grave open before him--then it is, in the time of his tribulation, that the scoffer and unbelieving man turns to god for help, feeling there is no other hope, or refuge, or safety, save in his protecting arm. so did that benignant man speak to me of this life and of the life hereafter; of the goodness and power of god, and of the vanity of earthly things, as we journeyed along the solitary road towards bayou boeuf. when within some five miles of the plantation, we discovered a horseman at a distance, galloping towards us. as he came near i saw that it was tibeats! he looked at me a moment, but did not address me, and turning about, rode along side by side with ford. i trotted silently at their horses' heels, listening to their conversation. ford informed him of my arrival in the pine woods three days before, of the sad plight i was in, and of the difficulties and dangers i had encountered. "well," exclaimed tibeats, omitting his usual oaths in the presence of ford, "i never saw such running before. i'll bet him against a hundred dollars, he'll beat any nigger in louisiana. i offered john david cheney twenty-five dollars to catch him, dead or alive, but he outran his dogs in a fair race. them cheney dogs ain't much, after all. dunwoodie's hounds would have had him down before he touched the palmettoes. somehow the dogs got off the track, and we had to give up the hunt. we rode the horses as far as we could, and then kept on foot till the water was three feet deep. the boys said he was drowned, sure. i allow i wanted a shot at him mightily. ever since, i have been riding up and down the bayou, but had'nt much hope of catching him--thought he was dead, _sartin_. oh, he's a cuss to run--that nigger is!" in this way tibeats ran on, describing his search in the swamp, the wonderful speed with which i had fled before the hounds, and when he had finished, master ford responded by saying, i had always been a willing and faithful boy with him; that he was sorry we had such trouble; that, according to platt's story, he had been inhumanly treated, and that he, tibeats, was himself in fault. using hatchets and broad-axes upon slaves was shameful, and should not be allowed, he remarked. "this is no way of dealing with them, when first brought into the country. it will have a pernicious influence, and set them all running away. the swamps will be full of them. a little kindness would be far more effectual in restraining them, and rendering them obedient, than the use of such deadly weapons. every planter on the bayou should frown upon such inhumanity. it is for the interest of all to do so. it is evident enough, mr. tibeats, that you and platt cannot live together. you dislike him, and would not hesitate to kill him, and knowing it, he will run from you again through fear of his life. now, tibeats, you must sell him, or hire him out, at least. unless you do so, i shall take measures to get him out of your possession." in this spirit ford addressed him the remainder of the distance. i opened not my mouth. on reaching the plantation they entered the great house, while i repaired to eliza's cabin. the slaves were astonished to find me there, on returning from the field, supposing i was drowned. that night, again, they gathered about the cabin to listen to the story of my adventure. they took it for granted i would be whipped, and that it would be severe, the well-known penalty of running away being five hundred lashes. "poor fellow," said eliza, taking me by the hand, "it would have been better for you if you had drowned. you have a cruel master, and he will kill you yet, i am afraid." lawson suggested that it might be, overseer chapin would be appointed to inflict the punishment, in which case it would not be severe, whereupon mary, rachel, bristol, and others hoped it would be master ford, and then it would be no whipping at all. they all pitied me and tried to console me, and were sad in view of the castigation that awaited me, except kentucky john. there were no bounds to his laughter; he filled the cabin with cachinnations, holding his sides to prevent an explosion, and the cause of his noisy mirth was the idea of my outstripping the hounds. somehow, he looked at the subject in a comical light. "i _know'd_ dey would'nt cotch him, when he run cross de plantation. o, de lor', did'nt platt pick his feet right up, tho', hey? when dem dogs got whar he was, he was'nt _dar_--haw, haw, haw! o, de lor' a' mity!"--and then kentucky john relapsed into another of his boisterous fits. early the next morning, tibeats left the plantation. in the course of the forenoon, while sauntering about the gin-house, a tall, good-looking man came to me, and inquired if i was tibeats' boy, that youthful appellation being applied indiscriminately to slaves even though they may have passed the number of three score years and ten. i took off my hat, and answered that i was. "how would you like to work for me?" he inquired. "oh, i would like to, very much," said i, inspired with a sudden hope of getting away from tibeats. "you worked under myers at peter tanner's, didn't you?" i replied i had, adding some complimentary remarks that myers had made concerning me. "well, boy," said he, "i have hired you of your master to work for me in the "big cane brake," thirty-eight miles from here, down on red river." this man was mr. eldret, who lived below ford's, on the same side of the bayou. i accompanied him to his plantation, and in the morning started with his slave sam, and a wagon-load of provisions, drawn by four mules, for the big cane, eldret and myers having preceded us on horseback. this sam was a native of charleston, where he had a mother, brother and sisters. he "allowed"--a common word among both black and white--that tibeats was a mean man, and hoped, as i most earnestly did also, that his master would buy me. we proceeded down the south shore of the bayou, crossing it at carey's plantation; from thence to huff power, passing which, we came upon the bayou rouge road, which runs towards red river. after passing through bayou rouge swamp, and just at sunset, turning from the highway, we struck off into the "big cane brake." we followed an unbeaten track, scarcely wide enough to admit the wagon. the cane, such as are used for fishing-rods, were as thick as they could stand. a person could not be seen through them the distance of a rod. the paths of wild beasts run through them in various directions--the bear and the american tiger abounding in these brakes, and wherever there is a basin of stagnant water, it is full of alligators. we kept on our lonely course through the "big cane" several miles, when we entered a clearing, known as "sutton's field." many years before, a man by the name of sutton had penetrated the wilderness of cane to this solitary place. tradition has it, that he fled thither, a fugitive, not from service, but from justice. here he lived alone--recluse and hermit of the swamp--with his own hands planting the seed and gathering in the harvest. one day a band of indians stole upon his solitude, and after a bloody battle, overpowered and massacred him. for miles the country round, in the slaves' quarters, and on the piazzas of "great houses," where white children listen to superstitious tales, the story goes, that that spot, in the heart of the "big cane," is a haunted place. for more than a quarter of a century, human voices had rarely, if ever, disturbed the silence of the clearing. rank and noxious weeds had overspread the once cultivated field--serpents sunned themselves on the doorway of the crumbling cabin. it was indeed a dreary picture of desolation. passing "sutton's field," we followed a new-cut road two miles farther, which brought us to its termination. we had now reached the wild lands of mr. eldret, where he contemplated clearing up an extensive plantation. we went to work next morning with our cane-knives, and cleared a sufficient space to allow the erection of two cabins--one for myers and eldret, the other for sam, myself, and the slaves that were to join us. we were now in the midst of trees of enormous growth, whose wide-spreading branches almost shut out the light of the sun, while the space between the trunks was an impervious mass of cane, with here and there an occasional palmetto. the bay and the sycamore, the oak and the cypress, reach a growth unparalleled, in those fertile lowlands bordering the red river. from every tree, moreover, hang long, large masses of moss, presenting to the eye unaccustomed to them, a striking and singular appearance. this moss, in large quantities, is sent north, and there used for manufacturing purposes. we cut down oaks, split them into rails, and with these erected temporary cabins. we covered the roofs with the broad palmetto leaf, an excellent substitute for shingles, as long as they last. the greatest annoyance i met with here were small flies, gnats and mosquitoes. they swarmed the air. they penetrated the porches of the ear, the nose, the eyes, the mouth. they sucked themselves beneath the skin. it was impossible to brush or beat them off. it seemed, indeed, as if they would devour us--carry us away piecemeal, in their small tormenting mouths. a lonelier spot, or one more disagreeable, than the centre of the "big cane brake," it would be difficult to conceive; yet to me it was a paradise, in comparison with any other place in the company of master tibeats. i labored hard, and oft-times was weary and fatigued, yet i could lie down at night in peace, and arise in the morning without fear. in the course of a fortnight, four black girls came down from eldret's plantation--charlotte, fanny, cresia and nelly. they were all large and stout. axes were put into their hands, and they were sent out with sam and myself to cut trees. they were excellent choppers, the largest oak or sycamore standing but a brief season before their heavy and well-directed blows. at piling logs, they were equal to any man. there are lumberwomen as well as lumbermen in the forests of the south. in fact, in the region of the bayou boeuf they perform their share of all the labor required on the plantation. they plough, drag, drive team, clear wild lands, work on the highway, and so forth. some planters, owning large cotton and sugar plantations, have none other than the labor of slave women. such a one is jim burns, who lives on the north shore of the bayou, opposite the plantation of john fogaman. on our arrival in the brake, eldret promised me, if i worked well, i might go up to visit my friends at ford's in four weeks. on saturday night of the fifth week, i reminded him of his promise, when he told me i had done so well, that i might go. i had set my heart upon it, and eldret's announcement thrilled me with pleasure. i was to return in time to commence the labors of the day on tuesday morning. while indulging the pleasant anticipation of so soon meeting my old friends again, suddenly the hateful form of tibeats appeared among us. he inquired how myers and platt got along together, and was told, very well, and that platt was going up to ford's plantation in the morning on a visit. "poh, poh!" sneered tibeats; "it isn't worth while--the nigger will get unsteady. he can't go." but eldret insisted i had worked faithfully--that he had given me his promise, and that, under the circumstances, i ought not to be disappointed. they then, it being about dark, entered one cabin and i the other. i could not give up the idea of going; it was a sore disappointment. before morning i resolved, if eldret made no objection, to leave at all hazards. at daylight i was at his door, with my blanket rolled up into a bundle, and hanging on a stick over my shoulder, waiting for a pass. tibeats came out presently in one of his disagreeable moods, washed his face, and going to a stump near by, sat down upon it, apparently busily thinking with himself. after standing there a long time, impelled by a sudden impulse of impatience, i started off. "are you going without a pass?" he cried out to me. "yes, master, i thought i would," i answered. "how do you think you'll get there?" demanded he. "don't know," was all the reply i made him. "you'd be taken and sent to jail, where you ought to be, before you got half-way there," he added, passing into the cabin as he said it. he came out soon with the pass in his hand, and calling me a "d--d nigger that deserved a hundred lashes," threw it on the ground. i picked it up, and hurried away right speedily. a slave caught off his master's plantation without a pass, may be seized and whipped by any white man whom he meets. the one i now received was dated, and read as follows: "platt has permission to go to ford's plantation, on bayou boeuf, and return by tuesday morning. john m. tibeats." this is the usual form. on the way, a great many demanded it, read it, and passed on. those having the air and appearance of gentlemen, whose dress indicated the possession of wealth, frequently took no notice of me whatever; but a shabby fellow, an unmistakable loafer, never failed to hail me, and to scrutinize and examine me in the most thorough manner. catching runaways is sometimes a money-making business. if, after advertising, no owner appears, they may be sold to the highest bidder; and certain fees are allowed the finder for his services, at all events, even if reclaimed. "a mean white," therefore,--a name applied to the species loafer--considers it a god-send to meet an unknown negro without a pass. there are no inns along the highways in that portion of the state where i sojourned. i was wholly destitute of money, neither did i carry any provisions, on my journey from the big cane to bayou boeuf; nevertheless, with his pass in his hand, a slave need never suffer from hunger or from thirst. it is only necessary to present it to the master or overseer of a plantation, and state his wants, when he will be sent round to the kitchen and provided with food or shelter, as the case may require. the traveler stops at any house and calls for a meal with as much freedom as if it was a public tavern. it is the general custom of the country. whatever their faults may be, it is certain the inhabitants along red river, and around the bayous in the interior of louisiana are not wanting in hospitality. i arrived at ford's plantation towards the close of the afternoon, passing the evening in eliza's cabin, with lawson, rachel, and others of my acquaintance. when we left washington eliza's form was round and plump. she stood erect, and in her silks and jewels, presented a picture of graceful strength and elegance. now she was but a thin shadow of her former self. her face had become ghastly haggard, and the once straight and active form was bowed down, as if bearing the weight of a hundred years. crouching on her cabin floor, and clad in the coarse garments of a slave, old elisha berry would not have recognized the mother of his child. i never saw her afterwards. having become useless in the cotton-field, she was bartered for a trifle, to some man residing in the vicinity of peter compton's. grief had gnawed remorselessly at her heart, until her strength was gone; and for that, her last master, it is said, lashed and abused her most unmercifully. but he could not whip back the departed vigor of her youth, nor straighten up that bended body to its full height, such as it was when her children were around her, and the light of freedom was shining on her path. i learned the particulars relative to her departure from this world, from some of compton's slaves, who had come over red river to the bayou, to assist young madam tanner during the "busy season." she became at length, they said, utterly helpless, for several weeks lying on the ground floor in a dilapidated cabin, dependent upon the mercy of her fellow-thralls for an occasional drop of water, and a morsel of food. her master did not "knock her on the head," as is sometimes done to put a suffering animal out of misery, but left her unprovided for, and unprotected, to linger through a life of pain and wretchedness to its natural close. when the hands returned from the field one night they found her dead! during the day, the angel of the lord, who moveth invisibly over all the earth, gathering in his harvest of departing souls, had silently entered the cabin of the dying woman, and taken her from thence. she was _free_ at last! next day, rolling up my blanket, i started on my return to the big cane. after traveling five miles, at a place called huff power, the ever-present tibeats met me in the road. he inquired why i was going back so soon, and when informed i was anxious to return by the time i was directed, he said i need go no farther than the next plantation, as he had that day sold me to edwin epps. we walked down into the yard, where we met the latter gentleman, who examined me, and asked me the usual questions propounded by purchasers. having been duly delivered over, i was ordered to the quarters, and at the same time directed to make a hoe and axe handle for myself. i was now no longer the property of tibeats--his dog, his brute, dreading his wrath and cruelty day and night; and whoever or whatever my new master might prove to be, i could not, certainly, regret the change. so it was good news when the sale was announced, and with a sigh of relief i sat down for the first time in my new abode. tibeats soon after disappeared from that section of the country. once afterwards, and only once, i caught a glimpse of him. it was many miles from bayou boeuf. he was seated in the doorway of a low groggery. i was passing, in a drove of slaves, through st. mary's parish. chapter xii. personal appearance of epps--epps, drunk and sober--a glimpse of his history--cotton growing--the mode of ploughing and preparing ground--of planting--of hoeing, of picking, of treating raw hands--the difference in cotton pickers--patsey a remarkable one--tasked according to ability--beauty of a cotton field--the slave's labors--fear on approaching the gin-house--weighing--"chores"--cabin life--the corn mill--the uses of the gourd--fear of oversleeping--fear continually--mode of cultivating corn--sweet potatoes--fertility of the soil--fattening hogs--preserving bacon--raising cattle--shooting-matches--garden products--flowers and verdure. edwin epps, of whom much will be said during the remainder of this history, is a large, portly, heavy-bodied man with light hair, high cheek bones, and a roman nose of extraordinary dimensions. he has blue eyes, a fair complexion, and is, as i should say, full six feet high. he has the sharp, inquisitive expression of a jockey. his manners are repulsive and coarse, and his language gives speedy and unequivocal evidence that he has never enjoyed the advantages of an education. he has the faculty of saying most provoking things, in that respect even excelling old peter tanner. at the time i came into his possession, edwin epps was fond of the bottle, his "sprees" sometimes extending over the space of two whole weeks. latterly, however, he had reformed his habits, and when i left him, was as strict a specimen of temperance as could be found on bayou boeuf. when "in his cups," master epps was a roystering, blustering, noisy fellow, whose chief delight was in dancing with his "niggers," or lashing them about the yard with his long whip, just for the pleasure of hearing them screech and scream, as the great welts were planted on their backs. when sober, he was silent, reserved and cunning, not beating us indiscriminately, as in his drunken moments, but sending the end of his rawhide to some tender spot of a lagging slave, with a sly dexterity peculiar to himself. he had been a driver and overseer in his younger years, but at this time was in possession of a plantation on bayou huff power, two and a half miles from holmesville, eighteen from marksville, and twelve from cheneyville. it belonged to joseph b. roberts, his wife's uncle, and was leased by epps. his principal business was raising cotton, and inasmuch as some may read this book who have never seen a cotton field, a description of the manner of its culture may not be out of place. the ground is prepared by throwing up beds or ridges, with the plough--back-furrowing, it is called. oxen and mules, the latter almost exclusively, are used in ploughing. the women as frequently as the men perform this labor, feeding, currying, and taking care of their teams, and in all respects doing the field and stable work, precisely as do the ploughboys of the north. the beds, or ridges, are six feet wide, that is, from water furrow to water furrow. a plough drawn by one mule is then run along the top of the ridge or center of the bed, making the drill, into which a girl usually drops the seed, which she carries in a bag hung round her neck. behind her comes a mule and harrow, covering up the seed, so that two mules, three slaves, a plough and harrow, are employed in planting a row of cotton. this is done in the months of march and april. corn is planted in february. when there are no cold rains, the cotton usually makes its appearance in a week. in the course of eight or ten days afterwards the first hoeing is commenced. this is performed in part, also, by the aid of the plough and mule. the plough passes as near as possible to the cotton on both sides, throwing the furrow from it. slaves follow with their hoes, cutting up the grass and cotton, leaving hills two feet and a half apart. this is called scraping cotton. in two weeks more commences the second hoeing. this time the furrow is thrown towards the cotton. only one stalk, the largest, is now left standing in each hill. in another fortnight it is hoed the third time, throwing the furrow towards the cotton in the same manner as before, and killing all the grass between the rows. about the first of july, when it is a foot high or thereabouts, it is hoed the fourth and last time. now the whole space between the rows is ploughed, leaving a deep water furrow in the center. during all these hoeings the overseer or driver follows the slaves on horseback with a whip, such as has been described. the fastest hoer takes the lead row. he is usually about a rod in advance of his companions. if one of them passes him, he is whipped. if one falls behind or is a moment idle, he is whipped. in fact, the lash is flying from morning until night, the whole day long. the hoeing season thus continues from april until july, a field having no sooner been finished once, than it is commenced again. in the latter part of august begins the cotton picking season. at this time each slave is presented with a sack. a strap is fastened to it, which goes over the neck, holding the mouth of the sack breast high, while the bottom reaches nearly to the ground. each one is also presented with a large basket that will hold about two barrels. this is to put the cotton in when the sack is filled. the baskets are carried to the field and placed at the beginning of the rows. when a new hand, one unaccustomed to the business, is sent for the first time into the field, he is whipped up smartly, and made for that day to pick as fast as he can possibly. at night it is weighed, so that his capability in cotton picking is known. he must bring in the same weight each night following. if it falls short, it is considered evidence that he has been laggard, and a greater or less number of lashes is the penalty. an ordinary day's work is two hundred pounds. a slave who is accustomed to picking, is punished, if he or she brings in a less quantity than that. there is a great difference among them as regards this kind of labor. some of them seem to have a natural knack, or quickness, which enables them to pick with great celerity, and with both hands, while others, with whatever practice or industry, are utterly unable to come up to the ordinary standard. such hands are taken from the cotton field and employed in other business. patsey, of whom i shall have more to say, was known as the most remarkable cotton picker on bayou boeuf. she picked with both hands and with such surprising rapidity, that five hundred pounds a day was not unusual for her. each one is tasked, therefore, according to his picking abilities, none, however, to come short of two hundred weight. i, being unskillful always in that business, would have satisfied my master by bringing in the latter quantity, while on the other hand, patsey would surely have been beaten if she failed to produce twice as much. the cotton grows from five to seven feet high, each stalk having a great many branches, shooting out in all directions, and lapping each other above the water furrow. there are few sights more pleasant to the eye, than a wide cotton field when it is in the bloom. it presents an appearance of purity, like an immaculate expanse of light, new-fallen snow. sometimes the slave picks down one side of a row, and back upon the other, but more usually, there is one on either side, gathering all that has blossomed, leaving the unopened bolls for a succeeding picking. when the sack is filled, it is emptied into the basket and trodden down. it is necessary to be extremely careful the first time going through the field, in order not to break the branches off the stalks. the cotton will not bloom upon a broken branch. epps never failed to inflict the severest chastisement on the unlucky servant who, either carelessly or unavoidably, was guilty in the least degree in this respect. the hands are required to be in the cotton field as soon as it is light in the morning, and, with the exception of ten or fifteen minutes, which is given them at noon to swallow their allowance of cold bacon, they are not permitted to be a moment idle until it is too dark to see, and when the moon is full, they often times labor till the middle of the night. they do not dare to stop even at dinner time, nor return to the quarters, however late it be, until the order to halt is given by the driver. the day's work over in the field, the baskets are "toted," or in other words, carried to the gin-house, where the cotton is weighed. no matter how fatigued and weary he may be--no matter how much he longs for sleep and rest--a slave never approaches the gin-house with his basket of cotton but with fear. if it falls short in weight--if he has not performed the full task appointed him, he knows that he must suffer. and if he has exceeded it by ten or twenty pounds, in all probability his master will measure the next day's task accordingly. so, whether he has too little or too much, his approach to the gin-house is always with, fear and trembling. most frequently they have too little, and therefore it is they are not anxious to leave the field. after weighing, follow the whippings; and then the baskets are carried to the cotton house, and their contents stored away like hay, all hands being sent in to tramp it down. if the cotton is not dry, instead of taking it to the gin-house at once, it is laid upon platforms, two feet high, and some three times as wide, covered with boards or plank, with narrow walks running between them. this done, the labor of the day is not yet ended, by any means. each one must then attend to his respective chores. one feeds the mules, another the swine--another cuts the wood, and so forth; besides, the packing is all done by candle light. finally, at a late hour, they reach the quarters, sleepy and overcome with the long day's toil. then a fire must be kindled in the cabin, the corn ground in the small hand-mill, and supper, and dinner for the next day in the field, prepared. all that is allowed them is corn and bacon, which is given out at the corncrib and smoke-house every sunday morning. each one receives, as his weekly, allowance, three and a half pounds of bacon, and corn enough to make a peck of meal. that is all--no tea, coffee, sugar, and with the exception of a very scanty sprinkling now and then, no salt. i can say, from a ten years' residence with master epps, that no slave of his is ever likely to suffer from the gout, superinduced by excessive high living. master epps' hogs were fed on _shelled_ corn--it was thrown out to his "niggers" in the ear. the former, he thought, would fatten faster by shelling, and soaking it in the water--the latter, perhaps, if treated in the same manner, might grow too fat to labor. master epps was a shrewd calculator, and knew how to manage his own animals, drunk or sober. the corn mill stands in the yard beneath a shelter. it is like a common coffee mill, the hopper holding about six quarts. there was one privilege which master epps granted freely to every slave he had. they might grind their corn nightly, in such small quantities as their daily wants required, or they might grind the whole week's allowance at one time, on sundays, just as they preferred. a very generous man was master epps! i kept my corn in a small wooden box, the meal in a gourd; and, by the way, the gourd is one of the most convenient and necessary utensils on a plantation. besides supplying the place of all kinds of crockery in a slave cabin, it is used for carrying water to the fields. another, also, contains the dinner. it dispenses with the necessity of pails, dippers, basins, and such tin and wooden superfluities altogether. when the corn is ground, and fire is made, the bacon is taken down from the nail on which it hangs, a slice cut off and thrown upon the coals to broil. the majority of slaves have no knife, much less a fork. they cut their bacon with the axe at the wood-pile. the corn meal is mixed with a little water, placed in the fire, and baked. when it is "done brown," the ashes are scraped off, and being placed upon a chip, which answers for a table, the tenant of the slave hut is ready to sit down upon the ground to supper. by this time it is usually midnight. the same fear of punishment with which they approach the gin-house, possesses them again on lying down to get a snatch of rest. it is the fear of oversleeping in the morning. such an offence would certainly be attended with not less than twenty lashes. with a prayer that he may be on his feet and wide awake at the first sound of the horn, he sinks to his slumbers nightly. the softest couches in the world are not to be found in the log mansion of the slave. the one whereon i reclined year after year, was a plank twelve inches wide and ten feet long. my pillow was a stick of wood. the bedding was a coarse blanket, and not a rag or shred beside. moss might be used, were it not that it directly breeds a swarm of fleas. the cabin is constructed of logs, without floor or window. the latter is altogether unnecessary, the crevices between the logs admitting sufficient light. in stormy weather the rain drives through them, rendering it comfortless and extremely disagreeable. the rude door hangs on great wooden hinges. in one end is constructed an awkward fire-place. an hour before day light the horn is blown. then the slaves arouse, prepare their breakfast, fill a gourd with water, in another deposit their dinner of cold bacon and corn cake, and hurry to the field again. it is an offence invariably followed by a flogging, to be found at the quarters after daybreak. then the fears and labors of another day begin; and until its close there is no such thing as rest. he fears he will be caught lagging through the day; he fears to approach the gin-house with his basket-load of cotton at night; he fears, when he lies down, that he will oversleep himself in the morning. such is a true, faithful, unexaggerated picture and description of the slave's daily life, during the time of cotton-picking, on the shores of bayou boeuf. in the month of january, generally, the fourth and last picking is completed. then commences the harvesting of corn. this is considered a secondary crop, and receives far less attention than the cotton. it is planted, as already mentioned, in february. corn is grown in that region for the purpose of fattening hogs and feeding slaves; very little, if any, being sent to market. it is the white variety, the ear of great size, and the stalk growing to the height of eight, and often times ten feet. in august the leaves are stripped off, dried in the sun, bound in small bundles, and stored away as provender for the mules and oxen. after this the slaves go through the field, turning down the ear, for the purpose of keeping the rains from penetrating to the grain. it is left in this condition until after cotton-picking is over, whether earlier or later. then the ears are separated from the stalks, and deposited in the corncrib with the husks on; otherwise, stripped of the husks, the weevil would destroy it. the stalks are left standing in the field. the carolina, or sweet potato, is also grown in that region to some extent. they are not fed, however, to hogs or cattle, and are considered but of small importance. they are preserved by placing them upon the surface of the ground, with a slight covering of earth or cornstalks. there is not a cellar on bayou boeuf. the ground is so low it would fill with water. potatoes are worth from two to three "bits," or shillings a barrel; corn, except when there is an unusual scarcity, can be purchased at the same rate. as soon as the cotton and corn crops are secured, the stalks are pulled up, thrown into piles and burned. the ploughs are started at the same time, throwing up the beds again, preparatory to another planting. the soil, in the parishes of rapides and avoyelles, and throughout the whole country, so far as my observation extended, is of exceeding richness and fertility. it is a kind of marl, of a brown or reddish color. it does not require those invigorating composts necessary to more barren lands, and on the same field the same crop is grown for many successive years. ploughing, planting, picking cotton, gathering the corn, and pulling and burning stalks, occupies the whole of the four seasons of the year. drawing and cutting wood, pressing cotton, fattening and killing hogs, are but incidental labors. in the month of september or october, the hogs are run out of the swamps by dogs, and confined in pens. on a cold morning, generally about new year's day, they are slaughtered. each carcass is cut into six parts, and piled one above the other in salt, upon large tables in the smoke-house. in this condition it remains a fortnight, when it is hung up, and a fire built, and continued more than half the time during the remainder of the year. this thorough smoking is necessary to prevent the bacon from becoming infested with worms. in so warm a climate it is difficult to preserve it, and very many times myself and my companions have received our weekly allowance of three pounds and a half, when it was full of these disgusting vermin. although the swamps are overrun with cattle, they are never made the source of profit, to any considerable extent. the planter cuts his mark upon the ear, or brands his initials upon the side, and turns them into the swamps, to roam unrestricted within their almost limitless confines. they are the spanish breed, small and spike-horned. i have known of droves being taken from bayou boeuf, but it is of very rare occurrence. the value of the best cows is about five dollars each. two quarts at one milking, would be considered an unusual large quantity. they furnish little tallow, and that of a soft, inferior quality. notwithstanding the great number of cows that throng the swamps, the planters are indebted to the north for their cheese and butter, which is purchased in the new-orleans market. salted beef is not an article of food either in the great house, or in the cabin. master epps was accustomed to attend shooting matches for the purpose of obtaining what fresh beef he required. these sports occurred weekly at the neighboring village of holmesville. fat beeves are driven thither and shot at, a stipulated price being demanded for the privilege. the lucky marksman divides the flesh among his fellows, and in this manner the attending planters are supplied. the great number of tame and untamed cattle which swarm the woods and swamps of bayou boeuf, most probably suggested that appellation to the french, inasmuch as the term, translated, signifies the creek or river of the wild ox. garden products, such as cabbages, turnips and the like, are cultivated for the use of the master and his family. they have greens and vegetables at all times and seasons of the year. "the grass withereth and the flower fadeth" before the desolating winds of autumn in the chill northern latitudes, but perpetual verdure overspreads the hot lowlands, and flowers bloom in the heart of winter, in the region of bayou boeuf. there are no meadows appropriated to the cultivation of the grasses. the leaves of the corn supply a sufficiency of food for the laboring cattle, while the rest provide for themselves all the year in the ever-growing pasture. there are many other peculiarities of climate, habit, custom, and of the manner of living and laboring at the south, but the foregoing, it is supposed, will give the reader an insight and general idea of life on a cotton plantation in louisiana. the mode of cultivating cane, and the process of sugar manufacturing, will be mentioned in another place. chapter xiii. the curious axe-helve--symptoms of approaching illness--continue to decline--the whip ineffectual--confined to the cabin--visit by dr. wines--partial recovery--failure at cotton picking--what may be heard on epps' plantation--lashes graduated--epps in a whipping mood--epps in a dancing mood--description of the dance--loss of rest no excuse--epps' characteristics--jim burns removal from huff power to bayou boeuf--description of uncle abram; of wiley; of aunt phebe; of bob, henry, and edward; of patsey; with a genealogical account of each--something of their past history, and peculiar characteristics--jealousy and lust--patsey, the victim. on my arrival at master epps', in obedience to his order, the first business upon which i entered was the making of an axe-helve. the handles in use there are simply a round, straight stick. i made a crooked one, shaped like those to which i had been accustomed at the north. when finished, and presented to epps, he looked at it with astonishment, unable to determine exactly what it was. he had never before seen such a handle, and when i explained its conveniences, he was forcibly struck with the novelty of the idea. he kept it in the house a long time, and when his friends called, was wont to exhibit it as a curiosity. it was now the season of hoeing. i was first sent into the corn-field, and afterwards set to scraping cotton. in this employment i remained until hoeing time was nearly passed, when i began to experience the symptoms of approaching illness. i was attacked with chills, which were succeeded by a burning fever. i became weak and emaciated, and frequently so dizzy that it caused me to reel and stagger like a drunken man. nevertheless, i was compelled to keep up my row. when in health i found little difficulty in keeping pace with my fellow-laborers, but now it seemed to be an utter impossibility. often i fell behind, when the driver's lash was sure to greet my back, infusing into my sick and drooping body a little temporary energy. i continued to decline until at length the whip became entirely ineffectual. the sharpest sting of the rawhide could not arouse me. finally, in september, when the busy season of cotton picking was at hand, i was unable to leave my cabin. up to this time i had received no medicine, nor any attention from my master or mistress. the old cook visited me occasionally, preparing me corn-coffee, and sometimes boiling a bit of bacon, when i had grown too feeble to accomplish it myself. when it was said that i would die, master epps, unwilling to bear the loss, which the death of an animal worth a thousand dollars would bring upon him, concluded to incur the expense of sending to holmesville for dr. wines. he announced to epps that it was the effect of the climate, and there was a probability of his losing me. he directed me to eat no meat, and to partake of no more food than was absolutely necessary to sustain life. several weeks elapsed, during which time, under the scanty diet to which i was subjected, i had partially recovered. one morning, long before i was in a proper condition to labor, epps appeared at the cabin door, and, presenting me a sack, ordered me to the cotton field. at this time i had had no experience whatever in cotton picking. it was an awkward business indeed. while others used both hands, snatching the cotton and depositing it in the mouth of the sack, with a precision and dexterity that was incomprehensible to me, i had to seize the boll with one hand, and deliberately draw out the white, gushing blossom with the other. depositing the cotton in the sack, moreover, was a difficulty that demanded the exercise of both hands and eyes. i was compelled to pick it from the ground where it would fall, nearly as often as from the stalk where it had grown. i made havoc also with the branches, loaded with the yet unbroken bolls, the long, cumbersome sack swinging from side to side in a manner not allowable in the cotton field. after a most laborious day i arrived at the gin-house with my load. when the scale determined its weight to be only ninety-five pounds, not half the quantity required of the poorest picker, epps threatened the severest flogging, but in consideration of my being a "raw hand," concluded to pardon me on that occasion. the following day, and many days succeeding, i returned at night with no better success--i was evidently not designed for that kind of labor. i had not the gift--the dexterous fingers and quick motion of patsey, who could fly along one side of a row of cotton, stripping it of its undefiled and fleecy whiteness miraculously fast. practice and whipping were alike unavailing, and epps, satisfied of it at last, swore i was a disgrace--that i was not fit to associate with a cotton-picking "nigger"--that i could not pick enough in a day to pay the trouble of weighing it, and that i should go into the cotton field no more. i was now employed in cutting and hauling wood, drawing cotton from the field to the gin-house, and performed whatever other service was required. suffice to say, i was never permitted to be idle. it was rarely that a day passed by without one or more whippings. this occurred at the time the cotton was weighed. the delinquent, whose weight had fallen short, was taken out, stripped, made to lie upon the ground, face downwards, when he received a punishment proportioned to his offence. it is the literal, unvarnished truth, that the crack of the lash, and the shrieking of the slaves, can be heard from dark till bed time, on epps' plantation, any day almost during the entire period of the cotton-picking season. the number of lashes is graduated according to the nature of the case. twenty-five are deemed a mere brush, inflicted, for instance, when a dry leaf or piece of boll is found in the cotton, or when a branch is broken in the field; fifty is the ordinary penalty following all delinquencies of the next higher grade; one hundred is called severe: it is the punishment inflicted for the serious offence of standing idle in the field; from one hundred and fifty to two hundred is bestowed upon him who quarrels with his cabin-mates, and five hundred, well laid on, besides the mangling of the dogs, perhaps, is certain to consign the poor, unpitied runaway to weeks of pain and agony. during the two years epps remained on the plantation at bayou huff power, he was in the habit, as often as once in a fortnight at least, of coming home intoxicated from holmesville. the shooting-matches almost invariably concluded with a debauch. at such times he was boisterous and half-crazy. often he would break the dishes, chairs, and whatever furniture he could lay his hands on. when satisfied with his amusement in the house, he would seize the whip and walk forth into the yard. then it behooved the slaves to be watchful and exceeding wary. the first one who came within reach felt the smart of his lash. sometimes for hours he would keep them running in all directions, dodging around the corners of the cabins. occasionally he would come upon one unawares, and if he succeeded in inflicting a fair, round blow, it was a feat that much delighted him. the younger children, and the aged, who had become inactive, suffered then. in the midst of the confusion he would slily take his stand behind a cabin, waiting with raised whip, to dash it into the first black face that peeped cautiously around the corner. at other times he would come home in a less brutal humor. then there must be a merry-making. then all must move to the measure of a tune. then master epps must needs regale his melodious ears with the music of a fiddle. then did he become buoyant, elastic, gaily "tripping the light fantastic toe" around the piazza and all through the house. tibeats, at the time of my sale, had informed him i could play on the violin. he had received his information from ford. through the importunities of mistress epps, her husband had been induced to purchase me one during a visit to new-orleans. frequently i was called into the house to play before the family, mistress being passionately fond of music. all of us would be assembled in the large room of the great house, whenever epps came home in one of his dancing moods. no matter how worn out and tired we were, there must be a general dance. when properly stationed on the floor, i would strike up a tune. "dance, you d--d niggers, dance," epps would shout. then there must be no halting or delay, no slow or languid movements; all must be brisk, and lively, and alert. "up and down, heel and toe, and away we go," was the order of the hour. epps' portly form mingled with those of his dusky slaves, moving rapidly through all the mazes of the dance. usually his whip was in his hand, ready to fall about the ears of the presumptuous thrall, who dared to rest a moment, or even stop to catch his breath. when he was himself exhausted, there would be a brief cessation, but it would be very brief. with a slash, and crack, and flourish of the whip, he would shout again, "dance, niggers, dance," and away they would go once more, pell-mell, while i spurred by an occasional sharp touch of the lash, sat in a corner, extracting from my violin a marvelous quick-stepping tune. the mistress often upbraided him, declaring she would return to her father's house at cheneyville; nevertheless, there were times she could not restrain a burst of laughter, on witnessing his uproarious pranks. frequently, we were thus detained until almost morning. bent with excessive toil--actually suffering for a little refreshing rest, and feeling rather as if we could cast ourselves upon the earth and weep, many a night in the house of edwin epps have his unhappy slaves been made to dance and laugh. notwithstanding these deprivations in order to gratify the whim of an unreasonable master, we had to be in the field as soon as it was light, and during the day perform the ordinary and accustomed task. such deprivations could not be urged at the scales in extenuation of any lack of weight, or in the cornfield for not hoeing with the usual rapidity. the whippings were just as severe as if we had gone forth in the morning, strengthened and invigorated by a night's repose. indeed, after such frantic revels, he was always more sour and savage than before, punishing for slighter causes, and using the whip with increased and more vindictive energy. ten years i toiled for that man without reward. ten years of my incessant labor has contributed to increase the bulk of his possessions. ten years i was compelled to address him with down-cast eyes and uncovered head--in the attitude and language of a slave. i am indebted to him for nothing, save undeserved abuse and stripes. beyond the reach of his inhuman thong, and standing on the soil of the free state where i was born, thanks be to heaven, i can raise my head once more among men. i can speak of the wrongs i have suffered, and of those who inflicted them, with upraised eyes. but i have no desire to speak of him or any other one otherwise than truthfully. yet to speak truthfully of edwin epps would be to say--he is a man in whose heart the quality of kindness or of justice is not found. a rough, rude energy, united with an uncultivated mind and an avaricious spirit, are his prominent characteristics. he is known as a "nigger breaker," distinguished for his faculty of subduing the spirit of the slave, and priding himself upon his reputation in this respect, as a jockey boasts of his skill in managing a refractory horse. he looked upon a colored man, not as a human being, responsible to his creator for the small talent entrusted to him, but as a "chattel personal," as mere live property, no better, except in value, than his mule or dog. when the evidence, clear and indisputable, was laid before him that i was a free man, and as much entitled to my liberty as he--when, on the day i left, he was informed that i had a wife and children, as dear to me as his own babes to him, he only raved and swore, denouncing the law that tore me from him, and declaring he would find out the man who had forwarded the letter that disclosed the place of my captivity, if there was any virtue or power in money, and would take his life. he thought of nothing but his loss, and cursed me for having been born free. he could have stood unmoved and seen the tongues of his poor slaves torn out by the roots--he could have seen them burned to ashes over a slow fire, or gnawed to death by dogs, if it only brought him profit. such a hard, cruel, unjust man is edwin epps. there was but one greater savage on bayou boeuf than he. jim burns' plantation was cultivated, as already mentioned, exclusively by women. that barbarian kept their backs so sore and raw, that they could not perform the customary labor demanded daily of the slave. he boasted of his cruelty, and through all the country round was accounted a more thorough-going, energetic man than even epps. a brute himself, jim burns had not a particle of mercy for his subject brutes, and like a fool, whipped and scourged away the very strength upon which depended his amount of gain. epps remained on huff power two years, when, having accumulated a considerable sum of money, he expended it in the purchase of the plantation on the east bank of bayou boeuf, where he still continues to reside. he took possession of it in , after the holidays were passed. he carried thither with him nine slaves, all of whom, except myself, and susan, who has since died, remain there yet. he made no addition to this force, and for eight years the following were my companions in his quarters, viz: abram, wiley, phebe, bob, henry, edward, and patsey. all these, except edward, born since, were purchased out of a drove by epps during the time he was overseer for archy b. williams, whose plantation is situated on the shore of red river, not far from alexandria. abram was tall, standing a full head above any common man. he is sixty years of age, and was born in tennessee. twenty years ago, he was purchased by a trader, carried into south carolina, and sold to james buford, of williamsburgh county, in that state. in his youth he was renowned for his great strength, but age and unremitting toil have somewhat shattered his powerful frame and enfeebled his mental faculties. wiley is forty-eight. he was born on the estate of william tassle, and for many years took charge of that gentleman's ferry over the big black river, in south carolina. phebe was a slave of buford, tassle's neighbor, and having married wiley, he bought the latter, at her instigation. buford was a kind master, sheriff of the county, and in those days a man of wealth. bob and henry are phebe's children, by a former husband, their father having been abandoned to give place to wiley. that seductive youth had insinuated himself into phebe's affections, and therefore the faithless spouse had gently kicked her first husband out of her cabin door. edward had been born to them on bayou huff power. patsey is twenty-three--also from buford's plantation. she is in no wise connected with the others, but glories in the fact that she is the offspring of a "guinea nigger," brought over to cuba in a slave ship, and in the course of trade transferred to buford, who was her mother's owner. this, as i learned from them, is a genealogical account of my master's slaves. for years they had been together. often they recalled the memories of other days, and sighed to retrace their steps to the old home in carolina. troubles came upon their master buford, which brought far greater troubles upon them. he became involved in debt, and unable to bear up against his failing fortunes, was compelled to sell these, and others of his slaves. in a chain gang they had been driven from beyond the mississippi to the plantation of archy b. williams. edwin epps, who, for a long while had been his driver and overseer, was about establishing himself in business on his own account, at the time of their arrival, and accepted them in payment of his wages. old abram was a kind-hearted being--a sort of patriarch among us, fond of entertaining his younger brethren with grave and serious discourse. he was deeply versed in such philosophy as is taught in the cabin of the slave; but the great absorbing hobby of uncle abram was general jackson, whom his young master in tennessee had followed to the wars. he loved to wander back, in imagination, to the place where he was born, and to recount the scenes of his youth during those stirring times when the nation was in arms. he had been athletic, and more keen and powerful than the generality of his race, but now his eye had become dim, and his natural force abated. very often, indeed, while discussing the best method of baking the hoe-cake, or expatiating at large upon the glory of jackson, he would forget where he left his hat, or his hoe, or his basket; and then would the old man be laughed at, if epps was absent, and whipped if he was present. so was he perplexed continually, and sighed to think that he was growing aged and going to decay. philosophy and jackson and forgetfulness had played the mischief with him, and it was evident that all of them combined were fast bringing down the gray hairs of uncle abram to the grave. aunt phebe had been an excellent field hand, but latterly was put into the kitchen, where she remained, except occasionally, in a time of uncommon hurry. she was a sly old creature, and when not in the presence of her mistress or her master, was garrulous in the extreme. wiley, on the contrary, was silent. he performed his task without murmur or complaint, seldom indulging in the luxury of speech, except to utter a wish, that he was away from epps, and back once more in south carolina. bob and henry had reached the ages of twenty and twenty-three, and were distinguished for nothing extraordinary or unusual, while edward, a lad of thirteen, not yet able to maintain his row in the corn or the cotton field, was kept in the great house, to wait on the little eppses. patsey was slim and straight. she stood erect as the human form is capable of standing. there was an air of loftiness in her movement, that neither labor, nor weariness, nor punishment could destroy. truly, patsey was a splendid animal, and were it not that bondage had enshrouded her intellect in utter and everlasting darkness, would have been chief among ten thousand of her people. she could leap the highest fences, and a fleet hound it was indeed, that could outstrip her in a race. no horse could fling her from his back. she was a skillful teamster. she turned as true a furrow as the best, and at splitting rails there were none who could excel her. when the order to halt was heard at night, she would have her mules at the crib, unharnessed, fed and curried, before uncle abram had found his hat. not, however, for all or any of these, was she chiefly famous. such lightning-like motion was in her fingers as no other fingers ever possessed, and therefore it was, that in cotton picking time, patsey was queen of the field. she had a genial and pleasant temper, and was faithful and obedient. naturally, she was a joyous creature, a laughing, light-hearted girl, rejoicing in the mere sense of existence. yet patsey wept oftener, and suffered more, than any of her companions. she had been literally excoriated. her back bore the scars of a thousand stripes; not because she was backward in her work, nor because she was of an unmindful and rebellious spirit, but because it had fallen to her lot to be the slave of a licentious master and a jealous mistress. she shrank before the lustful eye of the one, and was in danger even of her life at the hands of the other, and between the two, she was indeed accursed. in the great house, for days together, there were high and angry words, poutings and estrangement, whereof she was the innocent cause. nothing delighted the mistress so much as to see her suffer, and more than once, when epps had refused to sell her, has she tempted me with bribes to put her secretly to death, and bury her body in some lonely place in the margin of the swamp. gladly would patsey have appeased this unforgiving spirit, if it had been in her power, but not like joseph, dared she escape from master epps, leaving her garment in his hand. patsey walked under a cloud. if she uttered a word in opposition to her master's will, the lash was resorted to at once, to bring her to subjection; if she was not watchful when about her cabin, or when walking in the yard, a billet of wood, or a broken bottle perhaps, hurled from her mistress' hand, would smite her unexpectedly in the face. the enslaved victim of lust and hate, patsey had no comfort of her life. these were my companions and fellow-slaves, with whom i was accustomed to be driven to the field, and with whom it has been my lot to dwell for ten years in the log cabins of edwin epps. they, if living, are yet toiling on the banks of bayou boeuf, never destined to breathe, as i now do, the blessed air of liberty, nor to shake off the heavy shackles that enthrall them, until they shall lie down forever in the dust. chapter xiv. destruction of the cotton crop in --demand for laborers in st. mary's parish--sent thither in a drove--the order of the march--the grand coteau--hired to judge turner on bayou salle--appointed driver in his sugar house--sunday services slave furniture, how obtained--the party at yarney's in centreville--good fortune--the captain of the steamer--his refusal to secrete me--return to bayou boeuf--sight of tibeats--patsey's sorrows--tumult and contention--hunting the coon and opossum--the cunning of the latter--the lean condition of the slave--description of the fish trap--the murder of the man from natchez--epps challenged by marshall--the influence of slavery--the love of freedom. the first year of epps' residence on the bayou, , the caterpillars almost totally destroyed the cotton crop throughout that region. there was little to be done, so that the slaves were necessarily idle half the time. however, there came a rumor to bayou boeuf that wages were high, and laborers in great demand on the sugar plantations in st. mary's parish. this parish is situated on the coast of the gulf of mexico, about one hundred and forty miles from avoyelles. the rio teche, a considerable stream, flows through st. mary's to the gulf. it was determined by the planters, on the receipt of this intelligence, to make up a drove of slaves to be sent down to tuckapaw in st. mary's, for the purpose of hiring them out in the cane fields. accordingly, in the month of september, there were one hundred and forty-seven collected at holmesville, abram, bob and myself among the number. of these about one-half were women. epps, alonson pierce, henry toler, and addison roberts, were the white men, selected to accompany, and take charge of the drove. they had a two-horse carriage and two saddle horses for their use. a large wagon, drawn by four horses, and driven by john, a boy belonging to mr. roberts, carried the blankets and provisions. about o'clock in the afternoon, having been fed, preparations were made to depart. the duty assigned me was, to take charge of the blankets and provisions, and see that none were lost by the way. the carriage proceeded in advance, the wagon following; behind this the slaves were arranged, while the two horsemen brought up the rear, and in this order the procession moved out of holmesville. that night we reached a mr. mccrow's plantation, a distance of ten or fifteen miles, when we were ordered to halt. large fires were built, and each one spreading his blanket on the ground, laid down upon it. the white men lodged in the great house. an hour before day we were aroused by the drivers coming among us, cracking their whips and ordering us to arise. then the blankets were rolled up, and being severally delivered to me and deposited in the wagon, the procession set forth again. the following night it rained violently. we were all drenched, our clothes saturated with mud and water. reaching an open shed, formerly a gin-house, we found beneath it such shelter as it afforded. there was not room for all of us to lay down. there we remained, huddled together, through the night, continuing our march, as usual, in the morning. during the journey we were fed twice a day, boiling our bacon and baking our corn-cake at the fires in the same manner as in our huts. we passed through lafayetteville, mountsville, new-town, to centreville, where bob and uncle abram were hired. our number decreased as we advanced--nearly every sugar plantation requiring the services of one or more. on our route we passed the grand coteau or prairie, a vast space of level, monotonous country, without a tree, except an occasional one which had been transplanted near some dilapidated dwelling. it was once thickly populated, and under cultivation, but for some cause had been abandoned. the business of the scattered inhabitants that now dwell upon it is principally raising cattle. immense herds were feeding upon it as we passed. in the centre of the grand coteau one feels as if he were on the ocean, out of sight of land. as far as the eye can see, in all directions, it is but a ruined and deserted waste. i was hired to judge turner, a distinguished man and extensive planter, whose large estate is situated on bayou salle, within a few miles of the gulf. bay on salle is a small stream flowing into the bay of atchafalaya. for some days i was employed at turner's in repairing his sugar house, when a cane knife was put into my hand, and with thirty or forty others, i was sent into the field. i found no such difficulty in learning the art of cutting cane that i had in picking cotton. it came to me naturally and intuitively, and in a short time i was able to keep up with the fastest knife. before the cutting was over, however, judge turner transferred me from the field to the sugar house, to act there in the capacity of driver. from the time of the commencement of sugar making to the close, the grinding and boiling does not cease day or night. the whip was given me with directions to use it upon any one who was caught standing idle. if i failed to obey them to the letter, there was another one for my own back. in addition to this my duty was to call on and off the different gangs at the proper time. i had no regular periods of rest, and could never snatch but a few moments of sleep at a time. it is the custom in louisiana, as i presume it is in other slave states, to allow the slave to retain whatever compensation he may obtain for services performed on sundays. in this way, only, are they able to provide themselves with any luxury or convenience whatever. when a slave, purchased, or kidnapped in the north, is transported to a cabin on bayou boeuf he is furnished with neither knife, nor fork, nor dish, nor kettle, nor any other thing in the shape of crockery, or furniture of any nature or description. he is furnished with a blanket before he reaches there, and wrapping that around him, he can either stand up, or lie down upon the ground, or on a board, if his master has no use for it. he is at liberty to find a gourd in which to keep his meal, or he can eat his corn from the cob, just as he pleases. to ask the master for a knife, or skillet, or any small convenience of the kind, would be answered with a kick, or laughed at as a joke. whatever necessary article of this nature is found in a cabin has been purchased with sunday money. however injurious to the morals, it is certainly a blessing to the physical condition of the slave, to be permitted to break the sabbath. otherwise there would be no way to provide himself with any utensils, which seem to be indispensable to him who is compelled to be his own cook. on cane plantations in sugar time, there is no distinction as to the days of the week. it is well understood that all hands must labor on the sabbath, and it is equally well understood that those especially who are hired, as i was to judge turner, and others in succeeding years, shall receive remuneration for it. it is usual, also, in the most hurrying time of cotton-picking, to require the same extra service. from this source, slaves generally are afforded an opportunity of earning sufficient to purchase a knife, a kettle, tobacco and so forth. the females, discarding the latter luxury, are apt to expend their little revenue in the purchase of gaudy ribbons, wherewithal to deck their hair in the merry season of the holidays. i remained in st. mary's until the first of january, during which time my sunday money amounted to ten dollars. i met with other good fortune, for which i was indebted to my violin, my constant companion, the source of profit, and soother of my sorrows during years of servitude. there was a grand party of whites assembled at mr. yarney's, in centreville, a hamlet in the vicinity of turner's plantation. i was employed to play for them, and so well pleased were the merry-makers with my performance, that a contribution was taken for my benefit, which amounted to seventeen dollars. with this sum in possession, i was looked upon by my fellows as a millionaire. it afforded me great pleasure to look at it--to count it over and over again, day after day. visions of cabin furniture, of water pails, of pocket knives, new shoes and coats and hats, floated through my fancy, and up through all rose the triumphant contemplation, that i was the wealthiest "nigger" on bayou boeuf. vessels run up the rio teche to centreville. while there, i was bold enough one day to present myself before the captain of a steamer, and beg permission to hide myself among the freight. i was emboldened to risk the hazard of such a step, from overhearing a conversation, in the course of which i ascertained he was a native of the north. i did not relate to him the particulars of my history, but only expressed an ardent desire to escape from slavery to a free state. he pitied me, but said it would be impossible to avoid the vigilant custom house officers in new-orleans, and that detection would subject him to punishment, and his vessel to confiscation. my earnest entreaties evidently excited his sympathies, and doubtless he would have yielded to them, could he have done so with any kind of safety. i was compelled to smother the sudden flame that lighted up my bosom with sweet hopes of liberation, and turn my steps once more towards the increasing darkness of despair. immediately after this event the drove assembled at centreville, and several of the owners having arrived and collected the monies due for our services, we were driven back to bayou boeuf. it was on our return, while passing through a small village, that i caught sight of tibeats, seated in the door of a dirty grocery, looking somewhat seedy and out of repair. passion and poor whisky, i doubt not, have ere this laid him on the shelf. during our absence, i learned from aunt phebe and patsey, that the latter had been getting deeper and deeper into trouble. the poor girl was truly an object of pity. "old hogjaw," the name by which epps was called, when the slaves were by themselves, had beaten her more severely and frequently than ever. as surely as he came from holmesville, elated with liquor--and it was often in those days--he would whip her, merely to gratify the mistress; would punish her to an extent almost beyond endurance, for an offence of which he himself was the sole and irresistible cause. in his sober moments he could not always be prevailed upon to indulge his wife's insatiable thirst for vengeance. to be rid of patsey--to place her beyond sight or reach, by sale, or death, or in any other manner, of late years, seemed to be the ruling thought and passion of my mistress. patsey had been a favorite when a child, even in the great house. she had been petted and admired for her uncommon sprightliness and pleasant disposition. she had been fed many a time, so uncle abram said, even on biscuit and milk, when the madam, in her younger days, was wont to call her to the piazza, and fondle her as she would a playful kitten. but a sad change had come over the spirit of the woman. now, only black and angry fiends ministered in the temple of her heart, until she could look on patsey but with concentrated venom. mistress epps was not naturally such an evil woman, after all. she was possessed of the devil, jealousy, it is true, but aside from that, there was much in her character to admire. her father, mr. roberts, resided in cheneyville, an influential and honorable man, and as much respected throughout the parish as any other citizen. she had been well educated at some institution this side the mississippi; was beautiful, accomplished, and usually good-humored. she was kind to all of us but patsey--frequently, in the absence of her husband, sending out to us some little dainty from her own table. in other situations--in a different society from that which exists on the shores of bayou boeuf, she would have been pronounced an elegant and fascinating woman. an ill wind it was that blew her into the arms of epps. he respected and loved his wife as much as a coarse nature like his is capable of loving, but supreme selfishness always overmastered conjugal affection. "he loved as well as baser natures can, but a mean heart and soul were in that man." he was ready to gratify any whim--to grant any request she made, provided it did not cost too much. patsey was equal to any two of his slaves in the cotton field. he could not replace her with the same money she would bring. the idea of disposing of her, therefore, could not be entertained. the mistress did not regard her at all in that light. the pride of the haughty woman was aroused; the blood of the fiery southern boiled at the sight of patsey, and nothing less than trampling out the life of the helpless bondwoman would satisfy her. sometimes the current of her wrath turned upon him whom she had just cause to hate. but the storm of angry words would pass over at length, and there would be a season of calm again. at such times patsey trembled with fear, and cried as if her heart would break, for she knew from painful experience, that if mistress should work herself to the red-hot pitch of rage, epps would quiet her at last with a promise that patsey should be flogged--a promise he was sure to keep. thus did pride, and jealousy, and vengeance war with avarice and brute-passion in the mansion of my master, filling it with daily tumult and contention. thus, upon the head of patsey--the simple-minded slave, in whose heart god had implanted the seeds of virtue--the force of all these domestic tempests spent itself at last. during the summer succeeding my return from st. mary's parish, i conceived a plan of providing myself with food, which, though simple, succeeded beyond expectation. it has been followed by many others in my condition, up and down the bayou, and of such benefit has it become that i am almost persuaded to look upon myself as a benefactor. that summer the worms got into the bacon. nothing but ravenous hunger could induce us to swallow it. the weekly allowance of meal scarcely sufficed to satisfy us. it was customary with us, as it is with all in that region, where the allowance is exhausted before saturday night, or is in such a state as to render it nauseous and disgusting, to hunt in the swamps for coon and opossum. this, however, must be done at night, after the day's work is accomplished. there are planters whose slaves, for months at a time, have no other meat than such as is obtained in this manner. no objections are made to hunting, inasmuch as it dispenses with drafts upon the smoke-house, and because every marauding coon that is killed is so much saved from the standing corn. they are hunted with dogs and clubs, slaves not being allowed the use of fire-arms. the flesh of the coon is palatable, but verily there is nothing in all butcherdom so delicious as a roasted 'possum. they are a round, rather long-bodied, little animal, of a whitish color, with nose like a pig, and caudal extremity like a rat. they burrow among the roots and in the hollows of the gum tree, and are clumsy and slow of motion. they are deceitful and cunning creatures. on receiving the slightest tap of a stick, they will roll over on the ground and feign death. if the hunter leaves him, in pursuit of another, without first taking particular pains to break his neck, the chances are, on his return, he is not to be found. the little animal has out witted the enemy--has "played 'possum"--and is off. but after a long and hard day's work, the weary slave feels little like going to the swamp for his supper, and half the time prefers throwing himself on the cabin floor without it. it is for the interest of the master that the servant should not suffer in health from starvation, and it is also for his interest that he should not become gross from over-feeding. in the estimation of the owner, a slave is the most serviceable when in rather a lean and lank condition, such a condition as the race-horse is in, when fitted for the course, and in that condition they are generally to be found on the sugar and cotton plantations along red river. my cabin was within a few rods of the bayou bank, and necessity being indeed the mother of invention, i resolved upon a mode of obtaining the requisite amount of food, without the trouble of resorting nightly to the woods. this was to construct a fish trap. having, in my mind, conceived the manner in which it could be done, the next sunday i set about putting it into practical execution. it may be impossible for me to convey to the reader a full and correct idea of its construction, but the following will serve as a general description: a frame between two and three feet square is made, and of a greater or less height, according to the depth of water. boards or slats are nailed on three sides of this frame, not so closely, however, as to prevent the water circulating freely through it. a door is fitted into the fourth side, in such manner that it will slide easily up and down in the grooves cut in the two posts. a movable bottom is then so fitted that it can be raised to the top of the frame without difficulty. in the centre of the movable bottom an auger hole is bored, and into this one end of a handle or round stick is fastened on the under side so loosely that it will turn. the handle ascends from the centre of the movable bottom to the top of the frame, or as much higher as is desirable. up and down this handle, in a great many places, are gimlet holes, through which small sticks are inserted, extending to opposite sides of the frame. so many of these small sticks are running out from the handle in all directions, that a fish of any considerable dimensions cannot pass through without hitting one of them. the frame is then placed in the water and made stationary. the trap is "set" by sliding or drawing up the door, and kept in that position by another stick, one end of which rests in a notch on the inner side, the other end in a notch made in the handle, running up from the centre of the movable bottom. the trap is baited by rolling a handful of wet meal and cotton together until it becomes hard, and depositing it in the back part of the frame. a fish swimming through the upraised door towards the bait, necessarily strikes one of the small sticks turning the handle, which displacing the stick supporting the door, the latter falls, securing the fish within the frame. taking hold of the top of the handle, the movable bottom is then drawn up to the surface of the water, and the fish taken out. there may have been other such traps in use before mine was constructed, but if there were i had never happened to see one. bayou boeuf abounds in fish of large size and excellent quality, and after this time i was very rarely in want of one for myself, or for my comrades. thus a mine was opened--a new resource was developed, hitherto unthought of by the enslaved children of africa, who toil and hunger along the shores of that sluggish, but prolific stream. about the time of which i am now writing, an event occurred in our immediate neighborhood, which made a deep impression upon me, and which shows the state of society existing there, and the manner in which affronts are oftentimes avenged. directly opposite our quarters, on the other side of the bayou, was situated the plantation of mr. marshall. he belonged to a family among the most wealthy and aristocratic in the country. a gentleman from the vicinity of natchez had been negotiating with him for the purchase of the estate. one day a messenger came in great haste to our plantation, saying that a bloody and fearful battle was going on at marshall's--that blood had been spilled--and unless the combatants were forthwith separated, the result would be disastrous. on repairing to marshall's house, a scene presented itself that beggars description. on the floor of one of the rooms lay the ghastly corpse of the man from natchez, while marshall, enraged and covered with wounds and blood, was stalking back and forth, "breathing out threatenings and slaughter." a difficulty had arisen in the course of their negotiation, high words ensued, when drawing their weapons, the deadly strife began that ended so unfortunately. marshall was never placed in confinement. a sort of trial or investigation was had at marksville, when he was acquitted, and returned to his plantation, rather more respected, as i thought, than ever, from the fact that the blood of a fellow being was on his soul. epps interested himself in his behalf, accompanying him to marksville, and on all occasions loudly justifying him, but his services in this respect did not afterwards deter a kinsman of this same marshall from seeking his life also. a brawl occurred between them over a gambling-table, which terminated in a deadly feud. riding up on horseback in front of the house one day, armed with pistols and bowie knife, marshall challenged him to come forth and make a final settlement of the quarrel, or he would brand him as a coward, and shoot him like a dog the first opportunity. not through cowardice, nor from any conscientious scruples, in my opinion, but through the influence of his wife, he was restrained from accepting the challenge of his enemy. a reconciliation, however, was effected afterward, since which time they have been on terms of the closest intimacy. such occurrences, which would bring upon the parties concerned in them merited and condign punishment in the northern states, are frequent on the bayou, and pass without notice, and almost without comment. every man carries his bowie knife, and when two fall out, they set to work hacking and thrusting at each other, more like savages than civilized and enlightened beings. the existence of slavery in its most cruel form among them, has a tendency to brutalize the humane and finer feelings of their nature. daily witnesses of human suffering--listening to the agonizing screeches of the slave--beholding him writhing beneath the merciless lash--bitten and torn by dogs--dying without attention, and buried without shroud or coffin--it cannot otherwise be expected, than that they should become brutified and reckless of human life. it is true there are many kind-hearted and good men in the parish of avoyelles--such men as william ford--who can look with pity upon the sufferings of a slave, just as there are, over all the world, sensitive and sympathetic spirits, who cannot look with indifference upon the sufferings of any creature which the almighty has endowed with life. it is not the fault of the slaveholder that he is cruel, so much as it is the fault of the system under which he lives. he cannot withstand the influence of habit and associations that surround him. taught from earliest childhood, by all that he sees and hears, that the rod is for the slave's back, he will not be apt to change his opinions in maturer years. there may be humane masters, as there certainly are inhuman ones--there may be slaves well-clothed, well-fed, and happy, as there surely are those half-clad, half-starved and miserable; nevertheless, the institution that tolerates such wrong and inhumanity as i have witnessed, is a cruel, unjust, and barbarous one. men may write fictions portraying lowly life as it is, or as it is not--may expatiate with owlish gravity upon the bliss of ignorance--discourse flippantly from arm chairs of the pleasures of slave life; but let them toil with him in the field--sleep with him in the cabin--feed with him on husks; let them behold him scourged, hunted, trampled on, and they will come back with another story in their mouths. let them know the _heart_ of the poor slave--learn his secret thoughts--thoughts he dare not utter in the hearing of the white man; let them sit by him in the silent watches of the night--converse with him in trustful confidence, of "life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness," and they will find that ninety-nine out of every hundred are intelligent enough to understand their situation, and to cherish in their bosoms the love of freedom, as passionately as themselves. chapter xv. labors on sugar plantations--the mode of planting cane--of hoeing cane--cane ricks--cutting cane--description of the cane knife--winrowing--preparing for succeeding crops--description of hawkins' sugar mill on bayou boeuf--the christmas holidays--the carnival season of the children of bondage--the christmas supper--red, the favorite color--the violin, and the consolation it afforded--the christmas dance--lively, the coquette--sam roberts, and his rivals--slave songs--southern life as it is--three days in the year--the system of marriage--uncle abram's contempt of matrimony. in consequence of my inability in cotton-picking, epps was in the habit of hiring me out on sugar plantations during the season of cane-cutting and sugar-making. he received for my services a dollar a day, with the money supplying my place on his cotton plantation. cutting cane was an employment that suited me, and for three successive years i held the lead row at hawkins', leading a gang of from fifty to an hundred hands. in a previous chapter the mode of cultivating cotton is described. this may be the proper place to speak of the manner of cultivating cane. the ground is prepared in beds, the same as it is prepared for the reception of the cotton seed, except it is ploughed deeper. drills are made in the same manner. planting commences in january, and continues until april. it is necessary to plant a sugar field only once in three years. three crops are taken before the seed or plant is exhausted. three gangs are employed in the operation. one draws the cane from the rick, or stack, cutting the top and flags from the stalk, leaving only that part which is sound and healthy. each joint of the cane has an eye, like the eye of a potato, which sends forth a sprout when buried in the soil. another gang lays the cane in the drill, placing two stalks side by side in such manner that joints will occur once in four or six inches. the third gang follows with hoes, drawing earth upon the stalks, and covering them to the depth, of three inches. in four weeks, at the farthest, the sprouts appear above the ground, and from this time forward grow with great rapidity. a sugar field is hoed three times, the same as cotton, save that a greater quantity of earth is drawn to the roots. by the first of august hoeing is usually over. about the middle of september, whatever is required for seed is cut and stacked in ricks, as they are termed. in october it is ready for the mill or sugar-house, and then the general cutting begins. the blade of a cane-knife is fifteen inches long, three inches wide in the middle, and tapering towards the point and handle. the blade is thin, and in order to be at all serviceable must be kept very sharp. every third hand takes the lead of two others, one of whom is on each side of him. the lead hand, in the first place, with a blow of his knife shears the flags from the stalk. he next cuts off the top down as far as it is green. he must be careful to sever all the green from the ripe part, inasmuch as the juice of the former sours the molasses, and renders it unsalable. then he severs the stalk at the root, and lays it directly behind him. his right and left hand companions lay their stalks, when cut in the same manner, upon his. to every three hands there is a cart, which follows, and the stalks are thrown into it by the younger slaves, when it is drawn to the sugar-house and ground. if the planter apprehends a frost, the cane is winrowed. winrowing is the cutting the stalks at an early period and throwing them lengthwise in the water furrow in such a manner that the tops will cover the butts of the stalks. they will remain in this condition three weeks or a month without souring, and secure from frost. when the proper time arrives, they are taken up, trimmed and carted to the sugar-house. in the month of january the slaves enter the field again to prepare for another crop. the ground is now strewn with the tops, and flags cut from the past year's cane. on a dry day fire is set to this combustible refuse, which sweeps over the field, leaving it bare and clean, and ready for the hoes. the earth is loosened about the roots of the old stubble, and in process of time another crop springs up from the last year's seed. it is the same the year following; but the third year the seed has exhausted its strength, and the field must be ploughed and planted again. the second year the cane is sweeter and yields more than the first, and the third year more than the second. during the three seasons i labored on hawkins' plantation, i was employed a considerable portion of the time in the sugar-house. he is celebrated as the producer of the finest variety of white sugar. the following is a general description of his sugar-house and the process of manufacture: the mill is an immense brick building, standing on the shore of the bayou. running out from the building is an open shed, at least an hundred feet in length and forty or fifty feet in width. the boiler in which the steam is generated is situated outside the main building; the machinery and engine rest on a brick pier, fifteen feet above the floor, within the body of the building. the machinery turns two great iron rollers, between two and three feet in diameter and six or eight feet in length. they are elevated above the brick pier, and roll in towards each other. an endless carrier, made of chain and wood, like leathern belts used in small mills, extends from the iron rollers out of the main building and through the entire length of the open shed. the carts in which the cane is brought from the field as fast as it is cut, are unloaded at the sides of the shed. all along the endless carrier are ranged slave children, whose business it is to place the cane upon it, when it is conveyed through the shed into the main building, where it falls between the rollers, is crushed, and drops upon another carrier that conveys it out of the main building in an opposite direction, depositing it in the top of a chimney upon a fire beneath, which consumes it. it is necessary to burn it in this manner, because otherwise it would soon fill the building, and more especially because it would soon sour and engender disease. the juice of the cane falls into a conductor underneath the iron rollers, and is carried into a reservoir. pipes convey it from thence into five filterers, holding several hogsheads each. these filterers are filled with bone-black, a substance resembling pulverized charcoal. it is made of bones calcinated in close vessels, and is used for the purpose of decolorizing, by filtration, the cane juice before boiling. through these five filterers it passes in succession, and then runs into a large reservoir underneath the ground floor, from whence it is carried up, by means of a steam pump, into a clarifier made of sheet iron, where it is heated by steam until it boils. from the first clarifier it is carried in pipes to a second and a third, and thence into close iron pans, through which tubes pass, filled with steam. while in a boiling state it flows through three pans in succession, and is then carried in other pipes down to the coolers on the ground floor. coolers are wooden boxes with sieve bottoms made of the finest wire. as soon as the syrup passes into the coolers, and is met by the air, it grains, and the molasses at once escapes through the sieves into a cistern below. it is then white or loaf sugar of the finest kind--clear, clean, and as white as snow. when cool, it is taken out, packed in hogsheads, and is ready for market. the molasses is then carried from the cistern into the upper story again, and by another process converted into brown sugar. there are larger mills, and those constructed differently from the one thus imperfectly described, but none, perhaps, more celebrated than this anywhere on bayou boeuf. lambert, of new-orleans, is a partner of hawkins. he is a man of vast wealth, holding, as i have been told, an interest in over forty different sugar plantations in louisiana. * * * * * the only respite from constant labor the slave has through the whole year, is during the christmas holidays. epps allowed us three--others allow four, five and six days, according to the measure of their generosity. it is the only time to which they look forward with any interest or pleasure. they are glad when night comes, not only because it brings them a few hours repose, but because it brings them one day nearer christmas. it is hailed with equal delight by the old and the young; even uncle abram ceases to glorify andrew jackson, and patsey forgets her many sorrows, amid the general hilarity of the holidays. it is the time of feasting, and frolicking, and fiddling--the carnival season with the children of bondage. they are the only days when they are allowed a little restricted liberty, and heartily indeed do they enjoy it. it is the custom for one planter to give a "christmas supper," inviting the slaves from neighboring plantations to join his own on the occasion; for instance, one year it is given by epps, the next by marshall, the next by hawkins, and so on. usually from three to five hundred are assembled, coming together on foot, in carts, on horseback, on mules, riding double and triple, sometimes a boy and girl, at others a girl and two boys, and at others again a boy, a girl and an old woman. uncle abram astride a mule, with aunt phebe and patsey behind him, trotting towards a christmas supper, would be no uncommon sight on bayou boeuf. then, too, "of all days i' the year," they array themselves in their best attire. the cotton coat has been washed clean, the stump of a tallow candle has been applied to the shoes, and if so fortunate as to possess a rimless or a crownless hat, it is placed jauntily on the head. they are welcomed with equal cordiality, however, if they come bare-headed and barefooted to the feast. as a general thing, the women wear handkerchiefs tied about their heads, but if chance has thrown in their way a fiery red ribbon, or a cast-off bonnet of their mistress' grandmother, it is sure to be worn on such occasions. red--the deep blood red--is decidedly the favorite color among the enslaved damsels of my acquaintance. if a red ribbon does not encircle the neck, you will be certain to find all the hair of their woolly heads tied up with red strings of one sort or another. the table is spread in the open air, and loaded with varieties of meat and piles of vegetables. bacon and corn meal at such times are dispensed with. sometimes the cooking is performed in the kitchen on the plantation, at others in the shade of wide branching trees. in the latter case, a ditch is dug in the ground, and wood laid in and burned until it is filled with glowing coals, over which chickens, ducks, turkeys, pigs, and not unfrequently the entire body of a wild ox, are roasted. they are furnished also with flour, of which biscuits are made, and often with peach and other preserves, with tarts, and every manner and description of pies, except the mince, that being an article of pastry as yet unknown among them. only the slave who has lived all the years on his scanty allowance of meal and bacon, can appreciate such suppers. white people in great numbers assemble to witness the gastronomical enjoyments. they seat themselves at the rustic table--the males on one side, the females on the other. the two between whom there may have been an exchange of tenderness, invariably manage to sit opposite; for the omnipresent cupid disdains not to hurl his arrows into the simple hearts of slaves. unalloyed and exulting happiness lights up the dark faces of them all. the ivory teeth, contrasting with their black complexions, exhibit two long, white streaks the whole extent of the table. all round the bountiful board a multitude of eyes roll in ecstacy. giggling and laughter and the clattering of cutlery and crockery succeed. cuffee's elbow hunches his neighbor's side, impelled by an involuntary impulse of delight; nelly shakes her finger at sambo and laughs, she knows not why, and so the fun and merriment flows on. when the viands have disappeared, and the hungry maws of the children of toil are satisfied, then, next in the order of amusement, is the christmas dance. my business on these gala days always was to play on the violin. the african race is a music-loving one, proverbially; and many there were among my fellow-bondsmen whose organs of tune were strikingly developed, and who could thumb the banjo with dexterity; but at the expense of appearing egotistical, i must, nevertheless, declare, that i was considered the ole bull of bayou boeuf. my master often received letters, sometimes from a distance of ten miles, requesting him to send me to play at a ball or festival of the whites. he received his compensation, and usually i also returned with many picayunes jingling in my pockets--the extra contributions of those to whose delight i had administered. in this manner i became more acquainted than i otherwise would, up and down the bayou. the young men and maidens of holmesville always knew there was to be a jollification somewhere, whenever platt epps was seen passing through the town with his fiddle in his hand. "where are you going now, platt?" and "what is coming off to-night, platt?" would be interrogatories issuing from every door and window, and many a time when there was no special hurry, yielding to pressing importunities, platt would draw his bow, and sitting astride his mule, perhaps, discourse musically to a crowd of delighted children, gathered around him in the street. alas! had it not been for my beloved violin, i scarcely can conceive how i could have endured the long years of bondage. it introduced me to great houses--relieved me of many days' labor in the field--supplied me with conveniences for my cabin--with pipes and tobacco, and extra pairs of shoes, and oftentimes led me away from the presence of a hard master, to witness scenes of jollity and mirth. it was my companion--the friend of my bosom--triumphing loudly when i was joyful, and uttering its soft, melodious consolations when i was sad. often, at midnight, when sleep had fled affrighted from the cabin, and my soul was disturbed and troubled with the contemplation of my fate, it would sing me a song of peace. on holy sabbath days, when an hour or two of leisure was allowed, it would accompany me to some quiet place on the bayou bank, and, lifting up its voice, discourse kindly and pleasantly indeed. it heralded my name round the country--made me friends, who, otherwise would not have noticed me--gave me an honored seat at the yearly feasts, and secured the loudest and heartiest welcome of them all at the christmas dance. the christmas dance! oh, ye pleasure-seeking sons and daughters of idleness, who move with measured step, listless and snail-like, through the slow-winding cotillon, if ye wish to look upon the celerity, if not the "poetry of motion"--upon genuine happiness, rampant and unrestrained--go down to louisiana, and see the slaves dancing in the starlight of a christmas night. on that particular christmas i have now in my mind, a description whereof will serve as a description of the day generally, miss lively and mr. sam, the first belonging to stewart, the latter to roberts, started the ball. it was well known that sam cherished an ardent passion for lively, as also did one of marshall's and another of carey's boys; for lively was _lively_ indeed, and a heart-breaking coquette withal. it was a victory for sam roberts, when, rising from the repast, she gave him her hand for the first "figure" in preference to either of his rivals. they were somewhat crest-fallen, and, shaking their heads angrily, rather intimated they would like to pitch into mr. sam and hurt him badly. but not an emotion of wrath ruffled the placid bosom of samuel, as his legs flew like drum-sticks down the outside and up the middle, by the side of his bewitching partner. the whole company cheered them vociferously, and, excited with the applause, they continued "tearing down" after all the others had become exhausted and halted a moment to recover breath. but sam's superhuman exertions overcame him finally, leaving lively alone, yet whirling like a top. thereupon one of sam's rivals, pete marshall, dashed in, and, with might and main, leaped and shuffled and threw himself into every conceivable shape, as if determined to show miss lively and all the world that sam roberts was of no account. pete's affection, however, was greater than his discretion. such violent exercise took the breath out of him directly, and he dropped like an empty bag. then was the time for harry carey to try his hand; but lively also soon out-winded him, amidst hurrahs and shouts, fully sustaining her well-earned reputation of being the "fastest gal" on the bayou. one "set" off, another takes its place, he or she remaining longest on the floor receiving the most uproarious commendation, and so the dancing continues until broad daylight. it does not cease with the sound of the fiddle, but in that case they set up a music peculiar to themselves. this is called "patting," accompanied with one of those unmeaning songs, composed rather for its adaptation to a certain tune or measure, than for the purpose of expressing any distinct idea. the patting is performed by striking the hands on the knees, then striking the hands together, then striking the right shoulder with one hand, the left with the other--all the while keeping time with the feet, and singing, perhaps, this song: "harper's creek and roarin' ribber, thar, my dear, we'll live forebber; den we'll go to de ingin nation, all i want in dis creation, is pretty little wife and big plantation. _chorus._ up dat oak and down dat ribber, two overseers and one little nigger." or, if these words are not adapted to the tune called for, it may be that "old hog eye" _is_--a rather solemn and startling specimen of versification, not, however, to be appreciated unless heard at the south. it runneth as follows: "who's been here since i've been gone? pretty little gal wid a josey on. hog eye! old hog eye, and hosey too! never see de like since i was born, here come a little gal wid a josey on. hog eye! old hog eye! and hosey too!" or, may be the following, perhaps, equally nonsensical, but full of melody, nevertheless, as it flows from the negro's mouth: "ebo dick and jurdan's jo, them two niggers stole my yo'. _chorus._ hop jim along, walk jim along, talk jim along," &c. old black dan, as black as tar, he dam glad he was not dar. hop jim along," &c. during the remaining holidays succeeding christmas, they are provided with passes, and permitted to go where they please within a limited distance, or they may remain and labor on the plantation, in which case they are paid for it. it is very rarely, however, that the latter alternative is accepted. they may be seen at these times hurrying in all directions, as happy looking mortals as can be found on the face of the earth. they are different beings from what they are in the field; the temporary relaxation, the brief deliverance from fear, and from the lash, producing an entire metamorphosis in their appearance and demeanor. in visiting, riding, renewing old friendships, or, perchance, reviving some old attachment, or pursuing whatever pleasure may suggest itself, the time is occupied. such is "southern life as it is," _three days in the year_, as i found it--the other three hundred and sixty-two being days of weariness, and fear, and suffering, and unremitting labor. marriage is frequently contracted during the holidays, if such an institution may be said to exist among them. the only ceremony required before entering into that "holy estate," is to obtain the consent of the respective owners. it is usually encouraged by the masters of female slaves. either party can have as many husbands or wives as the owner will permit, and either is at liberty to discard the other at pleasure. the law in relation to divorce, or to bigamy, and so forth, is not applicable to property, of course. if the wife does not belong on the same plantation with the husband, the latter is permitted to visit her on saturday nights, if the distance is not too far. uncle abram's wife lived seven miles from epps', on bayou huff power. he had permission to visit her once a fortnight, but he was growing old, as has been said, and truth to say, had latterly well nigh forgotten her. uncle abram had no time to spare from his meditations on general jackson--connubial dalliance being well enough for the young and thoughtless, but unbecoming a grave and solemn philosopher like himself. chapter xvi. overseers--how they are armed and accompanied--the homicide--his execution at marksville--slave-drivers--appointed driver on removing to bayou boeuf--practice makes perfect--epps' attempt to cut platt's throat--the escape from him--protected by the mistress--forbids reading and writing--obtain a sheet of paper after nine years' effort--the letter--armsby, the mean white--partially confide in him--his treachery--epps' suspicions--how they were quieted--burning the letter--armsby leaves the bayou--disappointment and despair. with the exception of my trip to st. mary's parish, and my absence during the cane-cutting seasons, i was constantly employed on the plantation of master epps. he was considered but a small planter, not having a sufficient number of hands to require the services of an overseer, acting in the latter capacity himself. not able to increase his force, it was his custom to hire during the hurry of cotton-picking. on larger estates, employing fifty or a hundred, or perhaps two hundred hands, an overseer is deemed indispensable. these gentlemen ride into the field on horseback, without an exception, to my knowledge, armed with pistols, bowie knife, whip, and accompanied by several dogs. they follow, equipped in this fashion, in rear of the slaves, keeping a sharp lookout upon them all. the requisite qualifications in an overseer are utter heartlessness, brutality and cruelty. it is his business to produce large crops, and if that is accomplished, no matter what amount of suffering it may have cost. the presence of the dogs are necessary to overhaul a fugitive who may take to his heels, as is sometimes the case, when faint or sick, he is unable to maintain his row, and unable, also, to endure the whip. the pistols are reserved for any dangerous emergency, there having been instances when such weapons were necessary. goaded into uncontrollable madness, even the slave will sometimes turn upon his oppressor. the gallows were standing at marksville last january, upon which one was executed a year ago for killing his overseer. it occurred not many miles from epps' plantation on red river. the slave was given his task at splitting rails. in the course of the day the overseer sent him on an errand, which occupied so much time that it was not possible for him to perform the task. the next day he was called to an account, but the loss of time occasioned by the errand was no excuse, and he was ordered to kneel and bare his back for the reception of the lash. they were in the woods alone--beyond the reach of sight or hearing. the boy submitted until maddened at such injustice, and insane with pain, he sprang to his feet, and seizing an axe, literally chopped the overseer in pieces. he made no attempt whatever at concealment, but hastening to his master, related the whole affair, and declared himself ready to expiate the wrong by the sacrifice of his life. he was led to the scaffold, and while the rope was around his neck, maintained an undismayed and fearless bearing, and with his last words justified the act. besides the overseer, there are drivers under him, the number being in proportion to the number of hands in the field. the drivers are black, who, in addition to the performance of their equal share of work, are compelled to do the whipping of their several gangs. whips hang around their necks, and if they fail to use them thoroughly, are whipped themselves. they have a few privileges, however; for example, in cane-cutting the hands are not allowed to sit down long enough to eat their dinners. carts filled with corn cake, cooked at the kitchen, are driven into the field at noon. the cake is distributed by the drivers, and must be eaten with the least possible delay. when the slave ceases to perspire, as he often does when taxed beyond his strength, he falls to the ground and becomes entirely helpless. it is then the duty of the driver to drag him into the shade of the standing cotton or cane, or of a neighboring tree, where he dashes buckets of water upon him, and uses other means of bringing out perspiration again, when he is ordered to his place, and compelled to continue his labor. at huff power, when i first came to epps', tom, one of roberts' negroes, was driver. he was a burly fellow, and severe in the extreme. after epps' removal to bayou boeuf, that distinguished honor was conferred upon myself. up to the time of my departure i had to wear a whip about my neck in the field. if epps was present, i dared not show any lenity, not having the christian fortitude of a certain well-known uncle tom sufficiently to brave his wrath, by refusing to perform the office. in that way, only, i escaped the immediate martyrdom he suffered, and, withal, saved my companions much suffering, as it proved in the end. epps, i soon found, whether actually in the field or not, had his eyes pretty generally upon us. from the piazza, from behind some adjacent tree, or other concealed point of observation, he was perpetually on the watch. if one of us had been backward or idle through the day, we were apt to be told all about it on returning to the quarters, and as it was a matter of principle with him to reprove every offence of that kind that came within his knowledge, the offender not only was certain of receiving a castigation for his tardiness, but i likewise was punished for permitting it. if, on the other hand, he had seen me use the lash freely, the man was satisfied. "practice makes perfect," truly; and during my eight years' experience as a driver, i learned to handle the whip with marvelous dexterity and precision, throwing the lash within a hair's breadth of the back, the ear, the nose, without, however, touching either of them. if epps was observed at a distance, or we had reason to apprehend he was sneaking somewhere in the vicinity, i would commence plying the lash vigorously, when, according to arrangement, they would squirm and screech as if in agony, although not one of them had in fact been even grazed. patsey would take occasion, if he made his appearance presently, to mumble in his hearing some complaints that platt was lashing them the whole time, and uncle abram, with an appearance of honesty peculiar to himself, would declare roundly i had just whipped them worse than general jackson whipped the enemy at new-orleans. if epps was not drunk, and in one of his beastly humors, this was, in general, satisfactory. if he was, some one or more of us must suffer, as a matter of course. sometimes his violence assumed a dangerous form, placing the lives of his human stock in jeopardy. on one occasion the drunken madman thought to amuse himself by cutting my throat. he had been absent at holmesville, in attendance at a shooting-match, and none of us were aware of his return. while hoeing by the side of patsey, she exclaimed, in a low voice, suddenly, "platt, d'ye see old hog-jaw beckoning me to come to him?" glancing sideways, i discovered him in the edge of the field, motioning and grimacing, as was his habit when half-intoxicated. aware of his lewd intentions, patsey began to cry. i whispered her not to look up, and to continue at her work, as if she had not observed him. suspecting the truth of the matter, however, he soon staggered up to me in a great rage. "what did you say to pats?" he demanded, with an oath. i made him some evasive answer, which only had the effect of increasing his violence. "how long have you owned this plantation, _say_, you d----d nigger?" he inquired, with a malicious sneer, at the same time taking hold of my shirt collar with one hand, and thrusting the other into his pocket. "now i'll cut your black throat; that's what i'll do," drawing his knife from his pocket as he said it. but with one hand he was unable to open it, until finally seizing the blade in his teeth, i saw he was about to succeed, and felt the necessity of escaping from him, for in his present reckless state, it was evident he was not joking, by any means. my shirt was open in front, and as i turned round quickly and sprang from him, while he still retained his gripe, it was stripped entirely from my back. there was no difficulty now in eluding him. he would chase me until out of breath, then stop until it was recovered, swear, and renew the chase again. now he would command me to come to him, now endeavor to coax me, but i was careful to keep at a respectful distance. in this manner we made the circuit of the field several times, he making desperate plunges, and i always dodging them, more amused than frightened, well knowing that when his sober senses returned, he would laugh at his own drunken folly. at length i observed the mistress standing by the yard fence, watching our half-serious, half-comical manoeuvres. shooting past him, i ran directly to her. epps, on discovering her, did not follow. he remained about the field an hour or more, during which time i stood by the mistress, having related the particulars of what had taken place. now, _she_ was aroused again, denouncing her husband and patsey about equally. finally, epps came towards the house, by this time nearly sober, walking demurely, with his hands behind his back, and attempting to look as innocent as a child. as he approached, nevertheless, mistress epps began to berate him roundly, heaping upon him many rather disrespectful epithets, and demanding for what reason he had attempted to cut my throat. epps made wondrous strange of it all, and to my surprise, swore by all the saints in the calendar he had not spoken to me that day. "platt, you lying nigger, _have_ i?" was his brazen appeal to me. it is not safe to contradict a master, even by the assertion of a truth. so i was silent, and when he entered the house i returned to the field, and the affair was never after alluded to. shortly after this time a circumstance occurred that came nigh divulging the secret of my real name and history, which i had so long and carefully concealed, and upon which i was convinced depended my final escape. soon after he purchased me, epps asked me if i could write and read, and on being informed that i had received some instruction in those branches of education, he assured me, with emphasis, if he ever caught me with a book, or with pen and ink, he would give me a hundred lashes. he said he wanted me to understand that he bought "niggers" to work and not to educate. he never inquired a word of my past life, or from whence i came. the mistress, however, cross-examined me frequently about washington, which she supposed was my native city, and more than once remarked that i did not talk nor act like the other "niggers," and she was sure i had seen more of the world than i admitted. my great object always was to invent means of getting a letter secretly into the post-office, directed to some of my friends or family at the north. the difficulty of such an achievement cannot be comprehended by one unacquainted with the severe restrictions imposed upon me. in the first place, i was deprived of pen, ink, and paper. in the second place, a slave cannot leave his plantation without a pass, nor will a post-master mail a letter for one without written instructions from his owner. i was in slavery nine years, and always watchful and on the alert, before i met with the good fortune of obtaining a sheet of paper. while epps was in new-orleans, one winter, disposing of his cotton, the mistress sent me to holmesville, with an order for several articles, and among the rest a quantity of foolscap. i appropriated a sheet, concealing it in the cabin, under the board on which i slept. after various experiments i succeeded in making ink, by boiling white maple bark, and with a feather plucked from the wing of a duck, manufactured a pen. when all were asleep in the cabin, by the light of the coals, lying upon my plank couch, i managed to complete a somewhat lengthy epistle. it was directed to an old acquaintance at sandy hill, stating my condition, and urging him to take measures to restore me to liberty. this letter i kept a long time, contriving measures by which it could be safely deposited in the post-office. at length, a low fellow, by the name of armsby, hitherto a stranger, came into the neighborhood, seeking a situation as overseer. he applied to epps, and was about the plantation for several days. he next went over to shaw's, near by, and remained with him several weeks. shaw was generally surrounded by such worthless characters, being himself noted as a gambler and unprincipled man. he had made a wife of his slave charlotte, and a brood of young mulattoes were growing up in his house. armsby became so much reduced at last, that he was compelled to labor with the slaves. a white man working in the field is a rare and unusual spectacle on bayou boeuf. i improved every opportunity of cultivating his acquaintance privately, desiring to obtain his confidence so far as to be willing to intrust the letter to his keeping. he visited marksville repeatedly, he informed me, a town some twenty miles distant, and there, i proposed to myself, the letter should be mailed. carefully deliberating on the most proper manner of approaching him on the subject, i concluded finally to ask him simply if he would deposit a letter for me in the marksville post-office the next time he visited that place, without disclosing to him that the letter was written, or any of the particulars it contained; for i had fears that he might betray me, and knew that some inducement must be held out to him of a pecuniary nature, before it would be safe to confide in him. as late as one o'clock one night i stole noiselessly from my cabin, and, crossing the field to shaw's, found him sleeping on the piazza. i had but a few picayunes--the proceeds of my fiddling performances, but all i had in the world i promised him if he would do me the favor required. i begged him not to expose me if he could not grant the request. he assured me, upon his honor, he would deposit it in the marksville post-office, and that he would keep it an inviolable secret forever. though the letter was in my pocket at the time, i dared not then deliver it to him, but stating i would have it written in a day or two, bade him good night, and returned to my cabin. it was impossible for me to expel the suspicions i entertained, and all night i lay awake, revolving in my mind the safest course to pursue. i was willing to risk a great deal to accomplish my purpose, but should the letter by any means fall into the hands of epps, it would be a death-blow to my aspirations. i was "perplexed in the extreme." my suspicions were well-founded, as the sequel demonstrated. the next day but one, while scraping cotton in the field, epps seated himself on the line fence between shaw's plantation and his own, in such a position as to overlook the scene of our labors. presently armsby made his appearance, and, mounting the fence, took a seat beside him. they remained two or three hours, all of which time i was in an agony of apprehension. that night, while broiling my bacon, epps entered the cabin with his rawhide in his hand. "well, boy," said he, "i understand i've got a larned nigger, that writes letters, and tries to get white fellows to mail 'em. wonder if you know who he is?" my worst fears were realized, and although it may not be considered entirely creditable, even under the circumstances, yet a resort to duplicity and downright falsehood was the only refuge that presented itself. "don't know nothing about it, master epps," i answered him, assuming an air of ignorance and surprise; "don't know nothing at all about it, sir." "wan't you over to shaw's night before last?" he inquired. "no, master," was the reply. "hav'nt you asked that fellow, armsby, to mail a letter for you at marksville?" "why, lord, master, i never spoke three words to him in all my life. i don't know what you mean." "well," he continued, "armsby told me to-day the devil was among my niggers; that i had one that needed close watching or he would run away; and when i axed him why, he said you come over to shaw's, and waked him up in the night, and wanted him to carry a letter to marksville. what have you got to say to that, ha?" "all i've got to say, master," i replied, "is, there is no truth in it. how could i write a letter without any ink or paper? there is nobody i want to write to, 'cause i haint got no friends living as i know of. that armsby is a lying, drunken fellow, they say, and nobody believes him anyway. you know i always tell the truth, and that i never go off the plantation without a pass. now, master, i can see what that armsby is after, plain enough. did'nt he want you to hire him for an overseer?" "yes, he wanted me to hire him," answered epps. "that's it," said i, "he wants to make you believe we're all going to run away, and then he thinks you'll hire an overseer to watch us. he just made that story out of whole cloth, 'cause he wants to get a situation. it's all a lie, master, you may depend on't." epps mused awhile, evidently impressed with the plausibility of my theory, and exclaimed, "i'm d--d, platt, if i don't believe you tell the truth. he must take me for a soft, to think he can come it over me with them kind of yarns, musn't he? maybe he thinks he can fool me; maybe he thinks i don't know nothing--can't take care of my own niggers, eh! soft soap old epps, eh! ha, ha, ha! d--n armsby! set the dogs on him, platt," and with many other comments descriptive of armsby's general character, and his capability of taking care of his own business, and attending to his own "niggers," master epps left the cabin. as soon as he was gone i threw the letter in the fire, and, with a desponding and despairing heart, beheld the epistle which had cost me so much anxiety and thought, and which i fondly hoped would have been my forerunner to the land of freedom, writhe and shrivel on its bed of coals, and dissolve into smoke and ashes. armsby, the treacherous wretch, was driven from shaw's plantation not long subsequently, much to my relief, for i feared he might renew his conversation, and perhaps induce epps to credit him. i knew not now whither to look for deliverance. hopes sprang up in my heart only to be crushed and blighted. the summer of my life was passing away; i felt i was growing prematurely old; that a few years more, and toil, and grief, and the poisonous miasmas of the swamps would accomplish their work upon me--would consign me to the grave's embrace, to moulder and be forgotten. repelled, betrayed, cut off from the hope of succor, i could only prostrate myself upon the earth and groan in unutterable anguish. the hope of rescue was the only light that cast a ray of comfort on my heart. that was now flickering, faint and low; another breath of disappointment would extinguish it altogether, leaving me to grope in midnight darkness to the end of life. chapter xvii. wiley disregards the counsels of aunt phebe and uncle abram, and is caught by the patrollers--the organization and duties of the latter--wiley runs away--speculations in regard to him--his unexpected return--his capture on red river, and confinement in alexandria jail--discovered by joseph b. roberts--subduing dogs in anticipation of escape--the fugitives in the great pine woods--captured by adam taydem and the indians--augustus killed by dogs--nelly, eldret's slave woman--the story of celeste--the concerted movement--lew cheney, the traitor--the idea of insurrection. the year , down to which time i have now arrived, omitting many occurrences uninteresting to the reader, was an unlucky year for my companion wiley, the husband of phebe, whose taciturn and retiring nature has thus far kept him in the background. notwithstanding wiley seldom opened his mouth, and revolved in his obscure and unpretending orbit without a grumble, nevertheless the warm elements of sociality were strong in the bosom of that silent "nigger." in the exuberance of his self-reliance, disregarding the philosophy of uncle abram, and setting the counsels of aunt phebe utterly at naught, he had the fool-hardiness to essay a nocturnal visit to a neighboring cabin without a pass. so attractive was the society in which he found himself, that wiley took little note of the passing hours, and the light began to break in the east before he was aware. speeding homeward as fast as he could run, he hoped to reach the quarters before the horn would sound; but, unhappily, he was spied on the way by a company of patrollers. how it is in other dark places of slavery, i do not know, but on bayou boeuf there is an organization of patrollers, as they are styled, whose business it is to seize and whip any slave they may find wandering from the plantation. they ride on horseback, headed by a captain, armed, and accompanied by dogs. they have the right, either by law, or by general consent, to inflict discretionary chastisement upon a black man caught beyond the boundaries of his master's estate without a pass, and even to shoot him, if he attempts to escape. each company has a certain distance to ride up and down the bayou. they are compensated by the planters, who contribute in proportion to the number of slaves they own. the clatter of their horses' hoofs dashing by can be heard at all hours of the night, and frequently they may be seen driving a slave before them, or leading him by a rope fastened around his neck, to his owner's plantation. wiley fled before one of these companies, thinking he could reach his cabin before they could overtake him; but one of their dogs, a great ravenous hound, griped him by the leg, and held him fast. the patrollers whipped him severely, and brought him, a prisoner, to epps. from him he received another flagellation still more severe, so that the cuts of the lash and the bites of the dog rendered him sore, stiff and miserable, insomuch he was scarcely able to move. it was impossible in such a state to keep up his row, and consequently there was not an hour in the day but wiley felt the sting of his master's rawhide on his raw and bleeding back. his sufferings became intolerable, and finally he resolved to run away. without disclosing his intentions to run away even to his wife phebe, he proceeded to make arrangements for carrying his plan into execution. having cooked his whole week's allowance, he cautiously left the cabin on a sunday night, after the inmates of the quarters were asleep. when the horn sounded in the morning, wiley did not make his appearance. search was made for him in the cabins, in the corn-crib, in the cotton-house, and in every nook and corner of the premises. each of us was examined, touching any knowledge we might have that could throw light upon his sudden disappearance or present whereabouts. epps raved and stormed, and mounting his horse, galloped to neighboring plantations, making inquiries in all directions. the search was fruitless. nothing whatever was elicited, going to show what had become of the missing man. the dogs were led to the swamp, but were unable to strike his trail. they would circle away through the forest, their noses to the ground, but invariably returned in a short time to the spot from whence they started. wiley had escaped, and so secretly and cautiously as to elude and baffle all pursuit. days and even weeks passed away, and nothing could be heard of him. epps did nothing but curse and swear. it was the only topic of conversation among us when alone. we indulged in a great deal of speculation in regard to him, one suggesting he might have been drowned in some bayou, inasmuch as he was a poor swimmer; another, that perhaps he might have been devoured by alligators, or stung by the venomous moccasin, whose bite is certain and sudden death. the warm and hearty sympathies of us all, however, were with poor wiley, wherever he might be. many an earnest prayer ascended from the lips of uncle abram, beseeching safety for the wanderer. in about three weeks, when all hope of ever seeing him again was dismissed, to our surprise, he one day appeared among us. on leaving the plantation, he informed us, it was his intention to make his way back to south carolina--to the old quarters of master buford. during the day he remained secreted, sometimes in the branches of a tree, and at night pressed forward through the swamps. finally, one morning, just at dawn, he reached the shore of red river. while standing on the bank, considering how he could cross it, a white man accosted him, and demanded a pass. without one, and evidently a runaway, he was taken to alexandria, the shire town of the parish of rapides, and confined in prison. it happened several days after that joseph b. roberts, uncle of mistress epps, was in alexandria, and going into the jail, recognized him. wiley had worked on his plantation, when epps resided at huff power. paying the jail fee, and writing him a pass, underneath which was a note to epps, requesting him not to whip him on his return, wiley was sent back to bayou boeuf. it was the hope that hung upon this request, and which roberts assured him would be respected by his master, that sustained him as he approached the house. the request, however, as may be readily supposed, was entirely disregarded. after being kept in suspense three days, wiley was stripped, and compelled to endure one of those inhuman floggings to which the poor slave is so often subjected. it was the first and last attempt of wiley to run away. the long scars upon his back, which he will carry with him to the grave, perpetually remind him of the dangers of such a step. there was not a day throughout the ten years i belonged to epps that i did not consult with myself upon the prospect of escape. i laid many plans, which at the time i considered excellent ones, but one after the other they were all abandoned. no man who has never been placed in such a situation, can comprehend the thousand obstacles thrown in the way of the flying slave. every white man's hand is raised against him--the patrollers are watching for him--the hounds are ready to follow on his track, and the nature of the country is such as renders it impossible to pass through it with any safety. i thought, however, that the time might come, perhaps, when i should be running through the swamps again. i concluded, in that case, to be prepared for epps' dogs, should they pursue me. he possessed several, one of which was a notorious slave-hunter, and the most fierce and savage of his breed. while out hunting the coon or the opossum, i never allowed an opportunity to escape, when alone, of whipping them severely. in this manner i succeeded at length in subduing them completely. they feared me, obeying my voice at once when others had no control over them whatever. had they followed and overtaken me, i doubt not they would have shrank from attacking me. notwithstanding the certainty of being captured, the woods and swamps are, nevertheless, continually filled with runaways. many of them, when sick, or so worn out as to be unable to perform their tasks, escape into the swamps, willing to suffer the punishment inflicted for such offences, in order to obtain a day or two of rest. while i belonged to ford, i was unwittingly the means of disclosing the hiding-place of six or eight, who had taken up their residence in the "great pine woods." adam taydem frequently sent me from the mills over to the opening after provisions. the whole distance was then a thick pine forest. about ten o'clock of a beautiful moonlight night, while walking along the texas road, returning to the mills, carrying a dressed pig in a bag swung over my shoulder, i heard footsteps behind me, and turning round, beheld two black men in the dress of slaves approaching at a rapid pace. when within a short distance, one of them raised a club, as if intending to strike me; the other snatched at the bag. i managed to dodge them both, and seizing a pine knot, hurled it with such force against the head of one of them that he was prostrated apparently senseless to the ground. just then two more made their appearance from one side of the road. before they could grapple me, however, i succeeded in passing them, and taking to my heels, fled, much affrighted, towards the mills. when adam was informed of the adventure, he hastened straightway to the indian village, and arousing cascalla and several of his tribe, started in pursuit of the highwaymen. i accompanied them to the scene of attack, when we discovered a puddle of blood in the road, where the man whom i had smitten with the pine knot had fallen. after searching carefully through the woods a long time, one of cascalla's men discovered a smoke curling up through the branches of several prostrate pines, whose tops had fallen together. the rendezvous was cautiously surrounded, and all of them taken prisoners. they had escaped from a plantation in the vicinity of lamourie, and had been secreted there three weeks. they had no evil design upon me, except to frighten me out of my pig. having observed me passing towards ford's just at night-fall, and suspecting the nature of my errand, they had followed me, seen me butcher and dress the porker, and start on my return. they had been pinched for food, and were driven to this extremity by necessity. adam conveyed them to the parish jail, and was liberally rewarded. not unfrequently the runaway loses his life in the attempt to escape. epps' premises were bounded on one side by carey's, a very extensive sugar plantation. he cultivates annually at least fifteen hundred acres of cane, manufacturing twenty-two or twenty-three hundred hogsheads of sugar; an hogshead and a half being the usual yield of an acre. besides this he also cultivates five or six hundred acres of corn and cotton. he owned last year one hundred and fifty three field hands, besides nearly as many children, and yearly hires a drove during the busy season from this side the mississippi. one of his negro drivers, a pleasant, intelligent boy, was named augustus. during the holidays, and occasionally while at work in adjoining fields, i had an opportunity of making his acquaintance, which eventually ripened into a warm and mutual attachment. summer before last he was so unfortunate as to incur the displeasure of the overseer, a coarse, heartless brute, who whipped him most cruelly. augustus ran away. reaching a cane rick on hawkins' plantation, he secreted himself in the top of it. all carey's dogs were put upon his track--some fifteen of them--and soon scented his footsteps to the hiding place. they surrounded the rick, baying and scratching, but could not reach him. presently, guided by the clamor of the hounds, the pursuers rode up, when the overseer, mounting on to the rick, drew him forth. as he rolled down to the ground the whole pack plunged upon him, and before they could be beaten off, had gnawed and mutilated his body in the most shocking manner, their teeth having penetrated to the bone in an hundred places. he was taken up, tied upon a mule, and carried home. but this was augustus' last trouble. he lingered until the next day, when death sought the unhappy boy, and kindly relieved him from his agony. it was not unusual for slave women as well as slave men to endeavor to escape. nelly, eldret's girl, with whom i lumbered for a time in the "big cane brake," lay concealed in epps' corn crib three days. at night, when his family were asleep, she would steal into the quarters for food, and return to the crib again. we concluded it would no longer be safe for us to allow her to remain, and accordingly she retraced her steps to her own cabin. but the most remarkable instance of a successful evasion of dogs and hunters was the following: among carey's girls was one by the name of celeste. she was nineteen or twenty, and far whiter than her owner, or any of his offspring. it required a close inspection to distinguish in her features the slightest trace of african blood. a stranger would never have dreamed that she was the descendant of slaves. i was sitting in my cabin late at night, playing a low air on my violin, when the door opened carefully, and celeste stood before me. she was pale and haggard. had an apparition arisen from the earth, i could not have been more startled. "who are you?" i demanded, after gazing at her a moment. "i'm hungry; give me some bacon," was her reply. my first impression was that she was some deranged young mistress, who, escaping from home, was wandering, she knew not whither, and had been attracted to my cabin by the sound of the violin. the coarse cotton slave dress she wore, however, soon dispelled such a supposition. "what is your name?" i again interrogated. "my name is celeste," she answered. "i belong to carey, and have been two days among the palmettoes. i am sick and can't work, and would rather die in the swamp than be whipped to death by the overseer. carey's dogs won't follow me. they have tried to set them on. there's a secret between them and celeste, and they wont mind the devilish orders of the overseer. give me some meat--i'm starving." i divided my scanty allowance with her, and while partaking of it, she related how she had managed to escape, and described the place of her concealment. in the edge of the swamp, not half a mile from epps' house, was a large space, thousands of acres in extent, thickly covered with palmetto. tall trees, whose long arms interlocked each other, formed a canopy above them, so dense as to exclude the beams of the sun. it was like twilight always, even in the middle of the brightest day. in the centre of this great space, which nothing but serpents very often explore--a sombre and solitary spot--celeste had erected a rude hut of dead branches that had fallen to the ground, and covered it with the leaves of the palmetto. this was the abode she had selected. she had no fear of carey's dogs, any more than i had of epps'. it is a fact, which i have never been able to explain, that there are those whose tracks the hounds will absolutely refuse to follow. celeste was one of them. for several nights she came to my cabin for food. on one occasion our dogs barked as she approached, which aroused epps, and induced him to reconnoitre the premises. he did not discover her, but after that it was not deemed prudent for her to come to the yard. when all was silent i carried provisions to a certain spot agreed upon, where she would find them. in this manner celeste passed the greater part of the summer. she regained her health, and became strong and hearty. at all seasons of the year the howlings of wild animals can be heard at night along the borders of the swamps. several times they had made her a midnight call, awakening her from slumber with a growl. terrified by such unpleasant salutations, she finally concluded to abandon her lonely dwelling; and, accordingly, returning to her master, was scourged, her neck meanwhile being fastened in the stocks, and sent into the field again. the year before my arrival in the country there was a concerted movement among a number of slaves on bayou boeuf, that terminated tragically indeed. it was, i presume, a matter of newspaper notoriety at the time, but all the knowledge i have of it, has been derived from the relation of those living at that period in the immediate vicinity of the excitement. it has become a subject of general and unfailing interest in every slave-hut on the bayou, and will doubtless go down to succeeding generations as their chief tradition. lew cheney, with whom i became acquainted--a shrewd, cunning negro, more intelligent than the generality of his race, but unscrupulous and full of treachery--conceived the project of organizing a company sufficiently strong to fight their way against all opposition, to the neighboring territory of mexico. a remote spot, far within the depths of the swamp, back of hawkins' plantation, was selected as the rallying point. lew flitted from one plantation to another, in the dead of night, preaching a crusade to mexico, and, like peter the hermit, creating a furor of excitement wherever he appeared. at length a large number of runaways were assembled; stolen mules, and corn gathered from the fields, and bacon filched from smoke-houses, had been conveyed into the woods. the expedition was about ready to proceed, when their hiding place was discovered. lew cheney, becoming convinced of the ultimate failure of his project, in order to curry favor with his master, and avoid the consequences which he foresaw would follow, deliberately determined to sacrifice all his companions. departing secretly from the encampment, he proclaimed among the planters the number collected in the swamp, and, instead of stating truly the object they had in view, asserted their intention was to emerge from their seclusion the first favorable opportunity, and murder every white person along the bayou. such an announcement, exaggerated as it passed from mouth to mouth, filled the whole country with terror. the fugitives were surrounded and taken prisoners, carried in chains to alexandria, and hung by the populace. not only those, but many who were suspected, though entirely innocent, were taken from the field and from the cabin, and without the shadow of process or form of trial, hurried to the scaffold. the planters on bayou boeuf finally rebelled against such reckless destruction of property, but it was not until a regiment of soldiers had arrived from some fort on the texan frontier, demolished the gallows, and opened the doors of the alexandria prison, that the indiscriminate slaughter was stayed. lew cheney escaped, and was even rewarded for his treachery. he is still living, but his name is despised and execrated by all his race throughout the parishes of rapides and avoyelles. such an idea as insurrection, however, is not new among the enslaved population of bayou boeuf. more than once i have joined in serious consultation, when the subject has been discussed, and there have been times when a word from me would have placed hundreds of my fellow-bondsmen in an attitude of defiance. without arms or ammunition, or even with them, i saw such a step would result in certain defeat, disaster and death, and always raised my voice against it. during the mexican war i well remember the extravagant hopes that were excited. the news of victory filled the great house with rejoicing, but produced only sorrow and disappointment in the cabin. in my opinion--and i have had opportunity to know something of the feeling of which i speak--there are not fifty slaves on the shores of bayou boeuf, but would hail with unmeasured delight the approach of an invading army. they are deceived who flatter themselves that the ignorant and debased slave has no conception of the magnitude of his wrongs. they are deceived who imagine that he arises from his knees, with back lacerated and bleeding, cherishing only a spirit of meekness and forgiveness. a day may come--it _will_ come, if his prayer is heard--a terrible day of vengeance, when the master in his turn will cry in vain for mercy. chapter xviii. o'niel, the tanner--conversation with aunt phebe overheard--epps in the tanning business--stabbing of uncle abram--the ugly wound--epps is jealous--patsey is missing--her return from shaw's--harriet, shaw's black wife--epps enraged--patsey denies his charges--she is tied down naked to four stakes--the inhuman flogging--flaying of patsey--the beauty of the day--the bucket of salt water--the dress stiff with blood--patsey grows melancholy--her idea of god and eternity--of heaven and freedom--the effect of slave-whipping--epps' oldest son--"the child is father to the man." wiley suffered severely at the hands of master epps, as has been related in the preceding chapter, but in this respect he fared no worse than his unfortunate companions. "spare the rod," was an idea scouted by our master. he was constitutionally subject to periods of ill-humor, and at such times, however little provocation there might be, a certain amount of punishment was inflicted. the circumstances attending the last flogging but one that i received, will show how trivial a cause was sufficient with him for resorting to the whip. a mr. o'niel, residing in the vicinity of the big pine woods, called upon epps for the purpose of purchasing me. he was a tanner and currier by occupation, transacting an extensive business, and intended to place me at service in some department of his establishment, provided he bought me. aunt phebe, while preparing the dinner-table in the great house, overheard their conversation. on returning to the yard at night, the old woman ran to meet me, designing, of course, to overwhelm me with the news. she entered into a minute repetition of all she had heard, and aunt phebe was one whose ears never failed to drink in every word of conversation uttered in her hearing. she enlarged upon the fact that "massa epps was g'wine to sell me to a tanner ober in de pine woods," so long and loudly as to attract the attention of the mistress, who, standing unobserved on the piazza at the time, was listening to our conversation. "well, aunt phebe," said i, "i'm glad of it. i'm tired of scraping cotton, and would rather be a tanner. i hope he'll buy me." o'niel did not effect a purchase, however, the parties differing as to price, and the morning following his arrival, departed homewards. he had been gone but a short time, when epps made his appearance in the field. now nothing will more violently enrage a master, especially epps, than the intimation of one of his servants that he would like to leave him. mistress epps had repeated to him my expressions to aunt phebe the evening previous, as i learned from the latter afterwards, the mistress having mentioned to her that she had overheard us. on entering the field, epps walked directly to me. "so, platt, you're tired of scraping cotton, are you? you would like to change your master, eh? you're fond of moving round--traveler--ain't ye? ah, yes--like to travel for your health, may be? feel above cotton-scraping, i 'spose. so you're going into the tanning business? good business--devilish fine business. enterprising nigger! b'lieve i'll go into that business myself. down on your knees, and strip that rag off your back! i'll try my hand at tanning." i begged earnestly, and endeavored to soften him with excuses, but in vain. there was no other alternative; so kneeling down, i presented my bare back for the application of the lash. "how do you like _tanning_?" he exclaimed, as the rawhide descended upon my flesh. "how do you like _tanning_?" he repeated at every blow. in this manner he gave me twenty or thirty lashes, incessantly giving utterance to the word "tanning," in one form of expression or another. when sufficiently "tanned," he allowed me to arise, and with a half-malicious laugh assured me, if i still fancied the business, he would give me further instruction in it whenever i desired. this time, he remarked, he had only given me a short lesson in "_tanning_"--the next time he would "curry me down." uncle abram, also, was frequently treated with great brutality, although he was one of the kindest and most faithful creatures in the world. he was my cabin-mate for years. there was a benevolent expression in the old man's face, pleasant to behold. he regarded us with a kind of parental feeling, always counseling us with remarkable gravity and deliberation. returning from marshall's plantation one afternoon, whither i had been sent on some errand of the mistress, i found him lying on the cabin floor, his clothes saturated with blood. he informed me that he had been stabbed! while spreading cotton on the scaffold, epps came home intoxicated from holmesville. he found fault with every thing, giving many orders so directly contrary that it was impossible to execute any of them. uncle abram, whose faculties were growing dull, became confused, and committed some blunder of no particular consequence. epps was so enraged thereat, that, with drunken recklessness, he flew upon the old man, and stabbed him in the back. it was a long, ugly wound, but did not happen to penetrate far enough to result fatally. it was sewed up by the mistress, who censured her husband with extreme severity, not only denouncing his inhumanity, but declaring that she expected nothing else than that he would bring the family to poverty--that he would kill all the slaves on the plantation in some of his drunken fits. it was no uncommon thing with him to prostrate aunt phebe with a chair or stick of wood; but the most cruel whipping that ever i was doomed to witness--one i can never recall with any other emotion than that of horror--was inflicted on the unfortunate patsey. it has been seen that the jealousy and hatred of mistress epps made the daily life of her young and agile slave completely miserable. i am happy in the belief that on numerous occasions i was the means of averting punishment from the inoffensive girl. in epps' absence the mistress often ordered me to whip her without the remotest provocation. i would refuse, saying that i feared my master's displeasure, and several times ventured to remonstrate with her against the treatment patsey received. i endeavored to impress her with the truth that the latter was not responsible for the acts of which she complained, but that she being a slave, and subject entirely to her master's will, he alone was answerable. at length "the green-eyed monster" crept into the soul of epps also, and then it was that he joined with his wrathful wife in an infernal jubilee over the girl's miseries. on a sabbath day in hoeing time, not long ago, we were on the bayou bank, washing our clothes, as was our usual custom. presently patsey was missing. epps called aloud, but there was no answer. no one had observed her leaving the yard, and it was a wonder with us whither she had gone. in the course of a couple of hours she was seen approaching from the direction of shaw's. this man, as has been intimated, was a notorious profligate, and withal not on the most friendly terms with epps. harriet, his black wife, knowing patsey's troubles, was kind to her, in consequence of which the latter was in the habit of going over to see her every opportunity. her visits were prompted by friendship merely, but the suspicion gradually entered the brain of epps, that another and a baser passion led her thither--that it was not harriet she desired to meet, but rather the unblushing libertine, his neighbor. patsey found her master in a fearful rage on her return. his violence so alarmed her that at first she attempted to evade direct answers to his questions, which only served to increase his suspicions. she finally, however, drew herself up proudly, and in a spirit of indignation boldly denied his charges. "missus don't give me soap to wash with, as she does the rest," said patsey, "and you know why. i went over to harriet's to get a piece," and saying this, she drew it forth from a pocket in her dress and exhibited it to him. "that's what i went to shaw's for, massa epps," continued she; "the lord knows that was all." "you lie, you black wench!" shouted epps. "i _don't_ lie, massa. if you kill me, i'll stick to that." "oh! i'll fetch you down. i'll learn you to go to shaw's. i'll take the starch out of ye," he muttered fiercely through his shut teeth. then turning to me, he ordered four stakes to be driven into the ground, pointing with the toe of his boot to the places where he wanted them. when the stakes were driven down, he ordered her to be stripped of every article of dress. ropes were then brought, and the naked girl was laid upon her face, her wrists and feet each tied firmly to a stake. stepping to the piazza, he took down a heavy whip, and placing it in my hands, commanded me to lash her. unpleasant as it was, i was compelled to obey him. nowhere that day, on the face of the whole earth, i venture to say, was there such a demoniac exhibition witnessed as then ensued. mistress epps stood on the piazza among her children, gazing on the scene with an air of heartless satisfaction. the slaves were huddled together at a little distance, their countenances indicating the sorrow of their hearts. poor patsey prayed piteously for mercy, but her prayers were vain. epps ground his teeth, and stamped upon the ground, screaming at me, like a mad fiend, to strike _harder_. "strike harder, or _your_ turn will come next, you scoundrel," he yelled. "oh, mercy, massa!--oh! have mercy, _do_. oh, god! pity me," patsey exclaimed continually, struggling fruitlessly, and the flesh quivering at every stroke. when i had struck her as many as thirty times, i stopped, and turned round toward epps, hoping he was satisfied; but with bitter oaths and threats, he ordered me to continue. i inflicted ten or fifteen blows more. by this time her back was covered with long welts, intersecting each other like net work. epps was yet furious and savage as ever, demanding if she would like to go to shaw's again, and swearing he would flog her until she wished she was in h--l. throwing down the whip, i declared i could punish her no more. he ordered me to go on, threatening me with a severer flogging than she had received, in case of refusal. my heart revolted at the inhuman scene, and risking the consequences, i absolutely refused to raise the whip. he then seized it himself, and applied it with ten-fold greater force than i had. the painful cries and shrieks of the tortured patsey, mingling with the loud and angry curses of epps, loaded the air. she was terribly lacerated--i may say, without exaggeration, literally flayed. the lash was wet with blood, which flowed down her sides and dropped upon the ground. at length she ceased struggling. her head sank listlessly on the ground. her screams and supplications gradually decreased and died away into a low moan. she no longer writhed and shrank beneath the lash when it bit out small pieces of her flesh. i thought that she was dying! [illustration: the staking out and flogging of the girl patsey.] it was the sabbath of the lord. the fields smiled in the warm sunlight--the birds chirped merrily amidst the foliage of the trees--peace and happiness seemed to reign everywhere, save in the bosoms of epps and his panting victim and the silent witnesses around him. the tempestuous emotions that were raging there were little in harmony with the calm and quiet beauty of the day. i could look on epps only with unutterable loathing and abhorrence, and thought within myself--"thou devil, sooner or later, somewhere in the course of eternal justice, thou shalt answer for this sin!" finally, he ceased whipping from mere exhaustion, and ordered phebe to bring a bucket of salt and water. after washing her thoroughly with this, i was told to take her to her cabin. untying the ropes, i raised her in my arms. she was unable to stand, and as her head rested on my shoulder, she repeated many times, in a faint voice scarcely perceptible, "oh, platt--oh, platt!" but nothing further. her dress was replaced, but it clung to her back, and was soon stiff with blood. we laid her on some boards in the hut, where she remained a long time, with eyes closed and groaning in agony. at night phebe applied melted tallow to her wounds, and so far as we were able, all endeavored to assist and console her. day after day she lay in her cabin upon her face, the sores preventing her resting in any other position. a blessed thing it would have been for her--days and weeks and months of misery it would have saved her--had she never lifted up her head in life again. indeed, from that time forward she was not what she had been. the burden of a deep melancholy weighed heavily on her spirits. she no longer moved with that buoyant and elastic step--there was not that mirthful sparkle in her eyes that formerly distinguished her. the bounding vigor--the sprightly, laughter-loving spirit of her youth, were gone. she fell into a mournful and desponding mood, and oftentimes would start up in her sleep, and with raised hands, plead for mercy. she became more silent than she was, toiling all day in our midst, not uttering a word. a care-worn, pitiful expression settled on her face, and it was her humor now to weep, rather than rejoice. if ever there was a broken heart--one crushed and blighted by the rude grasp of suffering and misfortune--it was patsey's. she had been reared no better than her master's beast--looked upon merely as a valuable and handsome animal--and consequently possessed but a limited amount of knowledge. and yet a faint light cast its rays over her intellect, so that it was not wholly dark. she had a dim perception of god and of eternity, and a still more dim perception of a saviour who had died even for such as her. she entertained but confused notions of a future life--not comprehending the distinction between the corporeal and spiritual existence. happiness, in her mind, was exemption from stripes--from labor--from the cruelty of masters and overseers. her idea of the joy of heaven was simply _rest_, and is fully expressed in these lines of a melancholy bard: "i ask no paradise on high, with cares on earth oppressed, the only heaven for which i sigh, is rest, eternal rest." it is a mistaken opinion that prevails in some quarters, that the slave does not understand the term--does not comprehend the idea of freedom. even on bayou boeuf, where i conceive slavery exists in its most abject and cruel form--where it exhibits features altogether unknown in more northern states--the most ignorant of them generally know full well its meaning. they understand the privileges and exemptions that belong to it--that it would bestow upon them the fruits of their own labors, and that it would secure to them the enjoyment of domestic happiness. they do not fail to observe the difference between their own condition and the meanest white man's, and to realize the injustice of the laws which place it in his power not only to appropriate the profits of their industry, but to subject them to unmerited and unprovoked punishment, without remedy, or the right to resist, or to remonstrate. patsey's life, especially after her whipping, was one long dream of liberty. far away, to her fancy an immeasurable distance, she knew there was a land of freedom. a thousand times she had heard that somewhere in the distant north there were no slaves--no masters. in her imagination it was an enchanted region, the paradise of the earth. to dwell where the black man may work for himself--live in his own cabin--till his own soil, was a blissful dream of patsey's--a dream, alas! the fulfillment of which she can never realize. the effect of these exhibitions of brutality on the household of the slave-holder, is apparent. epps' oldest son is an intelligent lad of ten or twelve years of age. it is pitiable, sometimes, to see him chastising, for instance, the venerable uncle abram. he will call the old man to account, and if in his childish judgment it is necessary, sentence him to a certain number of lashes, which he proceeds to inflict with much gravity and deliberation. mounted on his pony, he often rides into the field with his whip, playing the overseer, greatly to his father's delight. without discrimination, at such times, he applies the rawhide, urging the slaves forward with shouts, and occasional expressions of profanity, while the old man laughs, and commends him as a thorough-going boy. "the child is father to the man," and with such training, whatever may be his natural disposition, it cannot well be otherwise than that, on arriving at maturity, the sufferings and miseries of the slave will be looked upon with entire indifference. the influence of the iniquitous system necessarily fosters an unfeeling and cruel spirit, even in the bosoms of those who, among their equals, are regarded as humane and generous. young master epps possessed some noble qualities, yet no process of reasoning could lead him to comprehend, that in the eye of the almighty there is no distinction of color. he looked upon the black man simply as an animal, differing in no respect from any other animal, save in the gift of speech and the possession of somewhat higher instincts, and, therefore, the more valuable. to work like his father's mules--to be whipped and kicked and scourged through life--to address the white man with hat in hand, and eyes bent servilely on the earth, in his mind, was the natural and proper destiny of the slave. brought up with such ideas--in the notion that we stand without the pale of humanity--no wonder the oppressors of my people are a pitiless and unrelenting race. chapter xix. avery, of bayou rouge--peculiarity of dwellings--epps builds a new house--bass, the carpenter--his noble qualities--his personal appearance and eccentricities--bass and epps discuss the question of slavery--epps' opinion of bass--i make myself known to him--our conversation--his surprise--the midnight meeting on the bayou bank--bass' assurances--declares war against slavery--why i did not disclose my history--bass writes letters--copy of his letter to messrs. parker and perry--the fever of suspense--disappointments--bass endeavors to cheer me--my faith in him. in the month of june, , in pursuance of a previous contract, mr. avery, a carpenter of bayou rouge, commenced the erection of a house for master epps. it has previously been stated that there are no cellars on bayou boeuf; on the other hand, such is the low and swampy nature of the ground, the great houses are usually built upon spiles. another peculiarity is, the rooms are not plastered, but the ceiling and sides are covered with matched cypress boards, painted such color as most pleases the owner's taste. generally the plank and boards are sawed by slaves with whip-saws, there being no waterpower upon which mills might be built within many miles. when the planter erects for himself a dwelling, therefore, there is plenty of extra work for his slaves. having had some experience under tibeats as a carpenter, i was taken from the field altogether, on the arrival of avery and his hands. among them was one to whom i owe an immeasurable debt of gratitude. only for him, in all probability, i should have ended my days in slavery. he was my deliverer--a man whose true heart overflowed with noble and generous emotions. to the last moment of my existence i shall remember him with feelings of thankfulness. his name was bass, and at that time he resided in marksville. it will be difficult to convey a correct impression of his appearance or character. he was a large man, between forty and fifty years old, of light complexion and light hair. he was very cool and self-possessed, fond of argument, but always speaking with extreme deliberation. he was that kind of person whose peculiarity of manner was such that nothing he uttered ever gave offence. what would be intolerable, coming from the lips of another, could be said by him with impunity. there was not a man on red river, perhaps, that agreed with him on the subject of politics or religion, and not a man, i venture to say, who discussed either of those subjects half as much. it seemed to be taken for granted that he would espouse the unpopular side of every local question, and it always created amusement rather than displeasure among his auditors, to listen to the ingenious and original manner in which he maintained the controversy. he was a bachelor--an "old bachelor," according to the true acceptation of the term--having no kindred living, as he knew of, in the world. neither had he any permanent abiding place--wandering from one state to another, as his fancy dictated. he had lived in marksville three or four years, and in the prosecution of his business as a carpenter; and in consequence, likewise, of his peculiarities, was quite extensively known throughout the parish of avoyelles. he was liberal to a fault; and his many acts of kindness and transparent goodness of heart rendered him popular in the community, the sentiment of which he unceasingly combated. he was a native of canada, from whence he had wandered in early life, and after visiting all the principal localities in the northern and western states, in the course of his peregrinations, arrived in the unhealthy region of the red river. his last removal was from illinois. whither he has now gone, i regret to be obliged to say, is unknown to me. he gathered up his effects and departed quietly from marksville the day before i did, the suspicions of his instrumentality in procuring my liberation rendering such a step necessary. for the commission of a just and righteous act he would undoubtedly have suffered death, had he remained within reach of the slave-whipping tribe on bayou boeuf. one day, while working on the new house, bass and epps became engaged in a controversy, to which, as will be readily supposed, i listened with absorbing interest. they were discussing the subject of slavery. "i tell you what it is epps," said bass, "it's all wrong--all wrong, sir--there's no justice nor righteousness in it. i wouldn't own a slave if i was rich as croesus, which i am not, as is perfectly well understood, more particularly among my creditors. _there's_ another humbug--the credit system--humbug, sir; no credit--no debt. credit leads a man into temptation. cash down is the only thing that will deliver him from evil. but this question of _slavery_; what _right_ have you to your niggers when you come down to the point?" "what right!" said epps, laughing; "why, i bought 'em, and paid for 'em." "of _course_ you did; the law says you have the right to hold a nigger, but begging the law's pardon, it _lies_. yes, epps, when the law says that it's a _liar_, and the truth is not in it. is every thing right because the law allows it? suppose they'd pass a law taking away your liberty and making you a slave?" "oh, that ain't a supposable case," said epps, still laughing; "hope you don't compare me to a nigger, bass." "well," bass answered gravely, "no, not exactly. but i have seen niggers before now as good as i am, and i have no acquaintance with any white man in these parts that i consider a whit better than myself. now, in the sight of god, what is the difference, epps, between a white man and a black one?" "all the difference in the world," replied epps. "you might as well ask what the difference is between a white man and a baboon. now, i've seen one of them critters in orleans that knowed just as much as any nigger i've got. you'd call them feller citizens, i s'pose?"--and epps indulged in a loud laugh at his own wit. "look here, epps," continued his companion; "you can't laugh me down in that way. some men are witty, and some ain't so witty as they think they are. now let me ask you a question. are all men created free and equal as the declaration of independence holds they are?" "yes," responded epps, "but all men, niggers, and monkeys _ain't_;" and hereupon he broke forth into a more boisterous laugh than before. "there are monkeys among white people as well as black, when you come to that," coolly remarked bass. "i know some white men that use arguments no sensible monkey would. but let that pass. these niggers are human beings. if they don't know as much as their masters, whose fault is it? they are not _allowed_ to know anything. you have books and papers, and can go where you please, and gather intelligence in a thousand ways. but your slaves have no privileges. you'd whip one of them if caught reading a book. they are held in bondage, generation after generation, deprived of mental improvement, and who can expect them to possess much knowledge? if they are not brought down to a level with the brute creation, you slaveholders will never be blamed for it. if they are baboons, or stand no higher in the scale of intelligence than such animals, you and men like you will have to answer for it. there's a sin, a fearful sin, resting on this nation, that will not go unpunished forever. there will be a reckoning yet--yes, epps, there's a day coming that will burn as an oven. it may be sooner or it may be later, but it's a coming as sure as the lord is just." "if you lived up among the yankees in new-england," said epps, "i expect you'd be one of them cursed fanatics that know more than the constitution, and go about peddling clocks and coaxing niggers to run away." "if i was in new-england," returned bass, "i would be just what i am here. i would say that slavery was an iniquity, and ought to be abolished. i would say there was no reason nor justice in the law, or the constitution that allows one man to hold another man in bondage. it would be hard for you to lose your property, to be sure, but it wouldn't be half as hard as it would be to lose your liberty. you have no more right to your freedom, in exact justice, than uncle abram yonder. talk about black skin, and black blood; why, how many slaves are there on this bayou as white as either of us? and what difference is there in the color of the soul? pshaw! the whole system is as absurd as it is cruel. you may own niggers and behanged, but i wouldn't own one for the best plantation in louisiana." "you like to hear yourself talk, bass, better than any man i know of. you would argue that black was white, or white black, if any body would contradict you. nothing suits you in this world, and i don't believe you will be satisfied with the next, if you should have your choice in them." conversations substantially like the foregoing were not unusual between the two after this; epps drawing him out more for the purpose of creating a laugh at his expense, than with a view of fairly discussing the merits of the question. he looked upon bass, as a man ready to say anything merely for the pleasure of hearing his own voice; as somewhat self-conceited, perhaps, contending against his faith and judgment, in order, simply, to exhibit his dexterity in argumentation. he remained at epps' through the summer, visiting marksville generally once a fortnight. the more i saw of him, the more i became convinced he was a man in whom i could confide. nevertheless, my previous ill-fortune had taught me to be extremely cautious. it was not my place to speak to a white man except when spoken to, but i omitted no opportunity of throwing myself in his way, and endeavored constantly in every possible manner to attract his attention. in the early part of august he and myself were at work alone in the house, the other carpenters having left, and epps being absent in the field. now was the time, if ever, to broach the subject, and i resolved to do it, and submit to whatever consequences might ensue. we were busily at work in the afternoon, when i stopped suddenly and said-- "master bass, i want to ask you what part of the country you came from?" "why, platt, what put that into your head?" he answered. "you wouldn't know if i should tell you." after a moment or two he added--"i was born in canada; now guess where that is." "oh, i know where canada is," said i, "i have been there myself." "yes, i expect you are well acquainted all through that country," he remarked, laughing incredulously. "as sure as i live, master bass," i replied, "i have been there. i have been in montreal and kingston, and queenston, and a great many places in canada, and i have been in york state, too--in buffalo, and rochester, and albany, and can tell you the names of the villages on the erie canal and the champlain canal." bass turned round and gazed at me a long time without uttering a syllable. "how came you here?" he inquired, at length. "master bass," i answered, "if justice had been done, i never would have been here." "well, how's this?" said he. "who are you? you have been in canada sure enough; i know all the places you mention. how did you happen to get here? come, tell me all about it." "i have no friends here," was my reply, "that i can put confidence in. i am afraid to tell you, though i don't believe you would tell master epps if i should." he assured me earnestly he would keep every word i might speak to him a profound secret, and his curiosity was evidently strongly excited. it was a long story, i informed him, and would take some time to relate it. master epps would be back soon, but if he would see me that night after all were asleep, i would repeat it to him. he consented readily to the arrangement, and directed me to come into the building where we were then at work, and i would find him there. about midnight, when all was still and quiet, i crept cautiously from my cabin, and silently entering the unfinished building, found him awaiting me. after further assurances on his part that i should not be betrayed, i began a relation of the history of my life and misfortunes. he was deeply interested, asking numerous questions in reference to localities and events. having ended my story i besought him to write to some of my friends at the north, acquainting them with my situation, and begging them to forward free papers, or take such steps as they might consider proper to secure my release. he promised to do so, but dwelt upon the danger of such an act in case of detection, and now impressed upon me the great necessity of strict silence and secresy. before we parted our plan of operation was arranged. we agreed to meet the next night at a specified place among the high weeds on the bank of the bayou, some distance from master's dwelling. there he was to write down on paper the names and address of several persons, old friends in the north, to whom he would direct letters during his next visit to marksville. it was not deemed prudent to meet in the new house, inasmuch as the light it would be necessary to use might possibly be discovered. in the course of the day i managed to obtain a few matches and a piece of candle, unperceived, from the kitchen, during a temporary absence of aunt phebe. bass had pencil and paper in his tool chest. at the appointed hour we met on the bayou bank, and creeping among the high weeds, i lighted the candle, while he drew forth pencil and paper and prepared for business. i gave him the names of william perry, cephas parker and judge marvin, all of saratoga springs, saratoga county, new-york. i had been employed by the latter in the united states hotel, and had transacted business with the former to a considerable extent, and trusted that at least one of them would be still living at that place. he carefully wrote the names, and then remarked, thoughtfully-- "it is so many years since you left saratoga, all these men may be dead, or may have removed. you say you obtained papers at the custom house in new-york. probably there is a record of them there, and i think it would be well to write and ascertain." i agreed with him, and again repeated the circumstances related heretofore, connected with my visit to the custom house with brown and hamilton. we lingered on the bank of the bayou an hour or more, conversing upon the subject which now engrossed our thoughts. i could no longer doubt his fidelity, and freely spoke to him of the many sorrows i had borne in silence, and so long. i spoke of my wife and children, mentioning their names and ages, and dwelling upon the unspeakable happiness it would be to clasp them to my heart once more before i died. i caught him by the hand, and with tears and passionate entreaties implored him to befriend me--to restore me to my kindred and to liberty--promising i would weary heaven the remainder of my life with prayers that it would bless and prosper him. in the enjoyment of freedom--surrounded by the associations of youth, and restored to the bosom of my family--that promise is not yet forgotten, nor shall it ever be so long as i have strength to raise my imploring eyes on high. "oh, blessings on his kindly voice and on his silver hair, and blessings on his whole life long, until he meet me there." he overwhelmed me with assurances of friendship and faithfulness, saying he had never before taken so deep an interest in the fate of any one. he spoke of himself in a somewhat mournful tone, as a lonely man, a wanderer about the world--that he was growing old, and must soon reach the end of his earthly journey, and lie down to his final rest without kith or kin to mourn for him, or to remember him--that his life was of little value to himself, and henceforth should be devoted to the accomplishment of my liberty, and to an unceasing warfare against the accursed shame of slavery. after this time we seldom spoke to, or recognized each other. he was, moreover, less free in his conversation with epps on the subject of slavery. the remotest suspicion that there was any unusual intimacy--any secret understanding between us--never once entered the mind of epps, or any other person, white or black, on the plantation. i am often asked, with an air of incredulity, how i succeeded so many years in keeping from my daily and constant companions the knowledge of my true name and history. the terrible lesson burch taught me, impressed indelibly upon my mind the danger and uselessness of asserting i was a freeman. there was no possibility of any slave being able to assist me, while, on the other hand, there _was_ a possibility of his exposing me. when it is recollected the whole current of my thoughts, for twelve years, turned to the contemplation of escape, it will not be wondered at, that i was always cautious and on my guard. it would have been an act of folly to have proclaimed my _right_ to freedom; it would only have subjected me to severer scrutiny--probably have consigned me to some more distant and inaccessible region than even bayou boeuf. edwin epps was a person utterly regardless of a black man's rights or wrongs--utterly destitute of any natural sense of justice, as i well knew. it was important, therefore, not only as regarded my hope of deliverance, but also as regarded the few personal privileges i was permitted to enjoy, to keep from him the history of my life. the saturday night subsequent to our interview at the water's edge, bass went home to marksville. the next day, being sunday, he employed himself in his own room writing letters. one he directed to the collector of customs at new-york, another to judge marvin, and another to messrs. parker and perry jointly. the latter was the one which led to my recovery. he subscribed my true name, but in the postscript intimated i was not the writer. the letter itself shows that he considered himself engaged in a dangerous undertaking--no less than running "the risk of his life, if detected." i did not see the letter before it was mailed, but have since obtained a copy, which is here inserted: "bayou boeuf, august , . "mr. william perry or mr. cephas parker: "gentlemen--it having been a long time since i have seen or heard from you, and not knowing that you are living, it is with uncertainty that i write to you, but the necessity of the case must be my excuse. "having been born free, just across the river from you, i am certain you must know me, and i am here now a slave. i wish you to obtain free papers for me, and forward them to me at marksville, louisiana, parish of avoyelles, and oblige "yours, solomon northup. "the way i came to be a slave, i was taken sick in washington city, and was insensible for some time. when i recovered my reason, i was robbed of my free-papers, and in irons on my way to this state, and have never been able to get any one to write for me until now; and he that is writing for me runs the risk of his life if detected." the allusion to myself in the work recently issued, entitled "a key to uncle tom's cabin," contains the first part of this letter, omitting the postscript. neither are the full names of the gentlemen to whom it is directed correctly stated, there being a slight discrepancy, probably a typographical error. to the postscript more than to the body of the communication am i indebted for my liberation, as will presently be seen. when bass returned from marksville he informed me of what he had done. we continued our midnight consultations, never speaking to each other through the day, excepting as it was necessary about the work. as nearly as he was able to ascertain, it would require two weeks for the letter to reach saratoga in due course of mail, and the same length of time for an answer to return. within six weeks, at the farthest, we concluded, an answer would arrive, if it arrived at all. a great many suggestions were now made, and a great deal of conversation took place between us, as to the most safe and proper course to pursue on receipt of the free papers. they would stand between him and harm, in case we were overtaken and arrested leaving the country altogether. it would be no infringement of law, however much it might provoke individual hostility, to assist a freeman to regain his freedom. at the end of four weeks he was again at marksville, but no answer had arrived. i was sorely disappointed, but still reconciled myself with the reflection that sufficient length of time had not yet elapsed--that there might have been delays--and that i could not reasonably expect one so soon. six, seven, eight, and ten weeks passed by, however, and nothing came. i was in a fever of suspense whenever bass visited marksville, and could scarcely close my eyes until his return. finally my master's house was finished, and the time came when bass must leave me. the night before his departure i was wholly given up to despair. i had clung to him as a drowning man clings to the floating spar, knowing if it slips from his grasp he must forever sink beneath the waves. the all-glorious hope, upon which i had laid such eager hold, was crumbling to ashes in my hands. i felt as if sinking down, down, amidst the bitter waters of slavery, from the unfathomable depths of which i should never rise again. the generous heart of my friend and benefactor was touched with pity at the sight of my distress. he endeavored to cheer me up, promising to return the day before christmas, and if no intelligence was received in the meantime, some further step would be undertaken to effect our design. he exhorted me to keep up my spirits--to rely upon his continued efforts in my behalf, assuring me, in most earnest and impressive language, that my liberation should, from thenceforth, be the chief object of his thoughts. in his absence the time passed slowly indeed. i looked forward to christmas with intense anxiety and impatience. i had about given up the expectation of receiving any answer to the letters. they might have miscarried, or might have been misdirected. perhaps those at saratoga, to whom they had been addressed, were all dead; perhaps, engaged in their pursuits, they did not consider the fate of an obscure, unhappy black man of sufficient importance to be noticed. my whole reliance was in bass. the faith i had in him was continually re-assuring me, and enabled me to stand up against the tide of disappointment that had overwhelmed me. so wholly was i absorbed in reflecting upon my situation and prospects, that the hands with whom i labored in the field often observed it. patsey would ask me if i was sick, and uncle abram, and bob, and wiley frequently expressed a curiosity to know what i could be thinking about so steadily. but i evaded their inquiries with some light remark, and kept my thoughts locked closely in my breast. chapter xx. bass faithful to his word--his arrival on christmas eve--the difficulty of obtaining an interview--the meeting in the cabin--non-arrival of the letter--bass announces his intention to proceed north--christmas--conversation between epps and bass--young mistress m'coy, the beauty of bayou boeuf--the "ne plus ultra" of dinners--music and dancing--presence of the mistress--her exceeding beauty--the last slave dance--william pierce--oversleep myself--the last whipping--despondency--the cold morning--epps' threats--the passing carriage--strangers approaching through the cotton-field--last hour on bayou boeuf. faithful to his word, the day before christmas, just at night-fall, bass came riding into the yard. "how are you," said epps, shaking him by the hand, "glad to see you." he would not have been _very_ glad had he known the object of his errand. "quite well, quite well," answered bass. "had some business out on the bayou, and concluded to call and see you, and stay over night." epps ordered one of the slaves to take charge of his horse, and with much talk and laughter they passed into the house together; not, however, until bass had looked at me significantly, as much as to say, "keep dark, we understand each other." it was ten o'clock at night before the labors of the day were performed, when i entered the cabin. at that time uncle abram and bob occupied it with me. i laid down upon my board and feigned i was asleep. when my companions had fallen into a profound slumber, i moved stealthily out of the door, and watched, and listened attentively for some sign or sound from bass. there i stood until long after midnight, but nothing could be seen or heard. as i suspected, he dared not leave the house, through fear of exciting the suspicion of some of the family. i judged, correctly, he would rise earlier than was his custom, and take the opportunity of seeing me before epps was up. accordingly i aroused uncle abram an hour sooner than usual, and sent him into the house to build a fire, which, at that season of the year, is a part of uncle abram's duties. i also gave bob a violent shake, and asked him if he intended to sleep till noon, saying master would be up before the mules were fed. he knew right well the consequence that would follow such an event, and, jumping to his feet, was at the horse-pasture in a twinkling. presently, when both were gone, bass slipped into the cabin. "no letter yet, platt," said he. the announcement fell upon my heart like lead. "oh, _do_ write again, master bass," i cried; "i will give you the names of a great many i know. surely they are not all dead. surely some one will pity me." "no use," bass replied, "no use. i have made up my mind to that. i fear the marksville post-master will mistrust something, i have inquired so often at his office. too uncertain--too dangerous." "then it is all over," i exclaimed. "oh, my god, how can i end my days here!" "you're not going to end them here," he said, "unless you die very soon. i've thought this matter all over, and have come to a determination. there are more ways than one to manage this business, and a better and surer way than writing letters. i have a job or two on hand which can be completed by march or april. by that time i shall have a considerable sum of money, and then, platt, i am going to saratoga myself." i could scarcely credit my own senses as the words fell from his lips. but he assured me, in a manner that left no doubt of the sincerity of his intention, that if his life was spared until spring, he should certainly undertake the journey. "i have lived in this region long enough," he continued; "i may as well be in one place as another. for a long time i have been thinking of going back once more to the place where i was born. i'm tired of slavery as well as you. if i can succeed in getting you away from here, it will be a good act that i shall like to think of all my life. and i _shall_ succeed, platt; i'm _bound_ to do it. now let me tell you what i want. epps will be up soon, and it won't do to be caught here. think of a great many men at saratoga and sandy hill, and in that neighborhood, who once knew you. i shall make excuse to come here again in the course of the winter, when i will write down their names. i will then know who to call on when i go north. think of all you can. cheer up! don't be discouraged. i'm with you, life or death. good-bye. god bless you," and saying this he left the cabin quickly, and entered the great house. it was christmas morning--the happiest day in the whole year for the slave. that morning he need not hurry to the field, with his gourd and cotton-bag. happiness sparkled in the eyes and overspread the countenances of all. the time of feasting and dancing had come. the cane and cotton fields were deserted. that day the clean dress was to be donned--the red ribbon displayed; there were to be re-unions, and joy and laughter, and hurrying to and fro. it was to be a day of _liberty_ among the children of slavery. wherefore they were happy, and rejoiced. after breakfast epps and bass sauntered about the yard, conversing upon the price of cotton, and various other topics. "where do your niggers hold christmas?" bass inquired. "platt is going to tanners to-day. his fiddle is in great demand. they want him at marshall's monday, and miss mary mccoy, on the old norwood plantation, writes me a note that she wants him to play for her niggers tuesday." "he is rather a smart boy, ain't he?" said bass. "come here, platt," he added, looking at me as i walked up to them, as if he had never thought before to take any special notice of me. "yes," replied epps, taking hold of my arm and feeling it, "there isn't a bad joint in him. there ain't a boy on the bayou worth more than he is--perfectly sound, and no bad tricks. d--n him, he isn't like other niggers; doesn't look like 'em--don't act like 'em. i was offered seventeen hundred dollars for him last week." "and didn't take it?" bass inquired, with an air of surprise. "take it--no; devilish clear of it. why, he's a reg'lar genius; can make a plough beam, wagon tongue--anything, as well as you can. marshall wanted to put up one of his niggers agin him and raffle for them, but i told him i would see the devil have him first." "i don't see anything remarkable about him," bass observed. "why, just feel of him, now," epps rejoined. "you don't see a boy very often put together any closer than he is. he's a thin-skin'd cuss, and won't bear as much whipping as some; but he's got the muscle in him, and no mistake." bass felt of me, turned me round, and made a thorough examination, epps all the while dwelling on my good points. but his visitor seemed to take but little interest finally in the subject, and consequently it was dropped. bass soon departed, giving me another sly look of recognition and significance, as he trotted out of the yard. when he was gone i obtained a pass, and started for tanner's--not peter tanner's, of whom mention has previously been made, but a relative of his. i played during the day and most of the night, spending the next day, sunday, in my cabin. monday i crossed the bayou to douglas marshall's, all epps' slaves accompanying me, and on tuesday went to the old norwood place, which is the third plantation above marshall's, on the same side of the water. this estate is now owned by miss mary mccoy, a lovely girl, some twenty years of age. she is the beauty and the glory of bayou boeuf. she owns about a hundred working hands, besides a great many house servants, yard boys, and young children. her brother-in-law, who resides on the adjoining estate, is her general agent. she is beloved by all her slaves, and good reason indeed have they to be thankful that they have fallen into such gentle hands. nowhere on the bayou are there such feasts, such merrymaking, as at young madam mccoy's. thither, more than to any other place, do the old and the young for miles around love to repair in the time of the christmas holidays; for nowhere else can they find such delicious repasts; nowhere else can they hear a voice speaking to them so pleasantly. no one is so well beloved--no one fills so large a space in the hearts of a thousand slaves, as young madam mccoy, the orphan mistress of the old norwood estate. on my arrival at her place, i found two or three hundred had assembled. the table was prepared in a long building, which she had erected expressly for her slaves to dance in. it was covered with every variety of food the country afforded, and was pronounced by general acclamation to be the rarest of dinners. roast turkey, pig, chicken, duck, and all kinds of meat, baked, boiled, and broiled, formed a line the whole length of the extended table, while the vacant spaces were filled with tarts, jellies, and frosted cake, and pastry of many kinds. the young mistress walked around the table, smiling and saying a kind word to each one, and seemed to enjoy the scene exceedingly. when the dinner was over the tables were removed to make room for the dancers. i tuned my violin and struck up a lively air; while some joined in a nimble reel, others patted and sang their simple but melodious songs, filling the great room with music mingled with the sound of human voices and the clatter of many feet. in the evening the mistress returned, and stood in the door a long time, looking at us. she was magnificently arrayed. her dark hair and eyes contrasted strongly with her clear and delicate complexion. her form was slender but commanding, and her movement was a combination of unaffected dignity and grace. as she stood there, clad in her rich apparel, her face animated with pleasure, i thought i had never looked upon a human being half so beautiful. i dwell with delight upon the description of this fair and gentle lady, not only because she inspired me with emotions of gratitude and admiration, but because i would have the reader understand that all slave-owners on bayou boeuf are not like epps, or tibeats, or jim burns. occasionally can be found, rarely it may be, indeed, a good man like william ford, or an angel of kindness like young mistress mccoy. tuesday concluded the three holidays epps yearly allowed us. on my way home, wednesday morning, while passing the plantation of william pierce, that gentleman hailed me, saying he had received a line from epps, brought down by william varnell, permitting him to detain me for the purpose of playing for his slaves that night. it was the last time i was destined to witness a slave dance on the shores of bayou boeuf. the party at pierce's continued their jollification until broad daylight, when i returned to my master's house, somewhat wearied with the loss of rest, but rejoicing in the possession of numerous bits and picayunes, which the whites, who were pleased with my musical performances, had contributed. on saturday morning, for the first time in years, i overslept myself. i was frightened on coming out of the cabin to find the slaves were already in the field. they had preceded me some fifteen minutes. leaving my dinner and water-gourd, i hurried after them as fast as i could move. it was not yet sunrise, but epps was on the piazza as i left the hut, and cried out to me that it was a pretty time of day to be getting up. by extra exertion my row was up when he came out after breakfast. this, however, was no excuse for the offence of oversleeping. bidding me strip and lie down, he gave me ten or fifteen lashes, at the conclusion of which he inquired if i thought, after that, i could get up sometime in the _morning_. i expressed myself quite positively that i _could_, and, with back stinging with pain, went about my work. the following day, sunday, my thoughts were upon bass, and the probabilities and hopes which hung upon his action and determination. i considered the uncertainty of life; that if it should be the will of god that he should die, my prospect of deliverance, and all expectation of happiness in this world, would be wholly ended and destroyed. my sore back, perhaps, did not have a tendency to render me unusually cheerful. i felt down-hearted and unhappy all day long, and when i laid down upon the hard board at night, my heart was oppressed with such a load of grief, it seemed that it must break. monday morning, the third of january, , we were in the field betimes. it was a raw, cold morning, such as is unusual in that region. i was in advance, uncle abram next to me, behind him bob, patsey and wiley, with our cotton-bags about our necks. epps happened (a rare thing, indeed,) to come out that morning without his whip. he swore, in a manner that would shame a pirate, that we were doing nothing. bob ventured to say that his fingers were so numb with cold he couldn't pick fast. epps cursed himself for not having brought his rawhide, and declared that when he came out again he would warm us well; yes, he would make us all hotter than that fiery realm in which i am sometimes compelled to believe he will himself eventually reside. with these fervent expressions, he left us. when out of hearing, we commenced talking to each other, saying how hard it was to be compelled to keep up our tasks with numb fingers; how unreasonable master was, and speaking of him generally in no flattering terms. our conversation was interrupted by a carriage passing rapidly towards the house. looking up, we saw two men approaching us through the cotton-field. * * * * * having now brought down this narrative to the last hour i was to spend on bayou boeuf--having gotten through my last cotton picking, and about to bid master epps farewell--i must beg the reader to go back with me to the month of august; to follow bass' letter on its long journey to saratoga; to learn the effect it produced--and that, while i was repining and despairing in the slave hut of edwin epps, through the friendship of bass and the goodness of providence, all things were working together for my deliverance. chapter xxi. the letter reaches saratoga--is forwarded to anne--is laid before henry b. northup--the statute of may , --its provisions--anne's memorial to the governor--the affidavits accompanying it--senator soule's letter--departure of the agent appointed by the governor--arrival at marksville--the hon. john p. waddill--the conversation on new-york politics--it suggests a fortunate idea--the meeting with bass--the secret out--legal proceedings instituted--departure of northup and the sheriff from marksville for bayou boeuf--arrangements on the way--reach epps' plantation--discover his slaves in the cotton field--the meeting--the farewell. i am indebted to mr. henry b. northup and others for many of the particulars contained in this chapter. the letter written by bass, directed to parker and perry, and which was deposited in the post-office in marksville on the th day of august, , arrived at saratoga in the early part of september. some time previous to this, anne had removed to glens falls, warren county, where she had charge of the kitchen in carpenter's hotel. she kept house, however, lodging with our children, and was only absent from them during such time as the discharge of her duties in the hotel required. messrs. parker and perry, on receipt of the letter, forwarded it immediately to anne. on reading it the children were all excitement, and without delay hastened to the neighboring village of sandy hill, to consult henry b. northup, and obtain his advice and assistance in the matter. upon examination, that gentleman found among the statutes of the state an act providing for the recovery of free citizens from slavery. it was passed may , , and is entitled "an act more effectually to protect the free citizens of this state from being kidnapped or reduced to slavery." it provides that it shall be the duty of the governor, upon the receipt of satisfactory information that any free citizen or inhabitant of this state, is wrongfully held in another state or territory of the united states, upon the allegation or pretence that such person is a slave, or by color of any usage or rule of law is deemed or taken to be a slave, to take such measures to procure the restoration of such person to liberty, as he shall deem necessary. and to that end, he is authorized to appoint and employ an agent, and directed to furnish him with such credentials and instructions as will be likely to accomplish the object of his appointment. it requires the agent so appointed to proceed to collect the proper proof to establish the right of such person to his freedom; to perform such journeys, take such measures, institute such legal proceedings, &c., as may be necessary to return such person to this state, and charges all expenses incurred in carrying the act into effect, upon moneys not otherwise appropriated in the treasury.[ ] it was necessary to establish two facts to the satisfaction of the governor: first, that i was a free citizen of new-york; and secondly, that i was wrongfully held in bondage. as to the first point, there was no difficulty, all the older inhabitants in the vicinity being ready to testify to it. the second point rested entirely upon the letter to parker and perry, written in an unknown hand, and upon the letter penned on board the brig orleans, which, unfortunately, had been mislaid or lost. a memorial was prepared, directed to his excellency, governor hunt, setting forth her marriage, my departure to washington city; the receipt of the letters; that i was a free citizen, and such other facts as were deemed important, and was signed and verified by anne. accompanying this memorial were several affidavits of prominent citizens of sandy hill and fort edward, corroborating fully the statements it contained, and also a request of several well known gentlemen to the governor, that henry b. northup be appointed agent under the legislative act. on reading the memorial and affidavits, his excellency took a lively interest in the matter, and on the d day of november, , under the seal of the state, "constituted, appointed and employed henry b. northup, esq., an agent, with full power to effect" my restoration, and to take such measures as would be most likely to accomplish it, and instructing him to proceed to louisiana with all convenient dispatch.[ ] the pressing nature of mr. northup's professional and political engagements delayed his departure until december. on the fourteenth day of that month he left sandy hill, and proceeded to washington. the hon. pierre soule, senator in congress from louisiana, hon. mr. conrad, secretary of war, and judge nelson, of the supreme court of the united states, upon hearing a statement of the facts, and examining his commission, and certified copies of the memorial and affidavits, furnished him with open letters to gentlemen in louisiana, strongly urging their assistance in accomplishing the object of his appointment. senator soule especially interested himself in the matter, insisting, in forcible language, that it was the duty and interest of every planter in his state to aid in restoring me to freedom, and trusted the sentiments of honor and justice in the bosom of every citizen of the commonwealth would enlist him at once in my behalf. having obtained these valuable letters, mr. northup returned to baltimore, and proceeded from thence to pittsburgh. it was his original intention, under advice of friends at washington, to go directly to new orleans, and consult the authorities of that city. providentially, however, on arriving at the mouth of red river, he changed his mind. had he continued on, he would not have met with bass, in which case the search for me would probably have been fruitless. taking passage on the first steamer that arrived, he pursued his journey up red river, a sluggish, winding stream, flowing through a vast region of primitive forests and impenetrable swamps, almost wholly destitute of inhabitants. about nine o'clock in the forenoon, january st, , he left the steamboat at marksville, and proceeded directly to marksville court house, a small village four miles in the interior. from the fact that the letter to messrs. parker and perry was post-marked at marksville, it was supposed by him that i was in that place or its immediate vicinity. on reaching this town, he at once laid his business before the hon. john p. waddill, a legal gentleman of distinction, and a man of fine genius and most noble impulses. after reading the letters and documents presented him, and listening to a representation of the circumstances under which i had been carried away into captivity, mr. waddill at once proffered his services, and entered into the affair with great zeal and earnestness. he, in common with others of like elevated character, looked upon the kidnapper with abhorrence. the title of his fellow parishioners and clients to the property which constituted the larger proportion of their wealth, not only depended upon the good faith in which slave sales were transacted, but he was a man in whose honorable heart emotions of indignation were aroused by such an instance of injustice. marksville, although occupying a prominent position, and standing out in impressive italics on the map of louisiana, is, in fact, but a small and insignificant hamlet. aside from the tavern, kept by a jolly and generous boniface, the court house, inhabited by lawless cows and swine in the seasons of vacation, and a high gallows, with its dissevered rope dangling in the air, there is little to attract the attention of the stranger. solomon northup was a name mr. waddill had never heard, but he was confident that if there was a slave bearing that appellation in marksville or vicinity, his black boy tom would know him. tom was accordingly called, but in all his extensive circle of acquaintances there was no such personage. the letter to parker and perry was dated at bayou boeuf. at this place, therefore, the conclusion was, i must be sought. but here a difficulty suggested itself, of a very grave character indeed. bayou boeuf, at its nearest point, was twenty-three miles distant, and was the name applied to the section of country extending between fifty and a hundred miles, on both sides of that stream. thousands and thousands of slaves resided upon its shores, the remarkable richness and fertility of the soil having attracted thither a great number of planters. the information in the letter was so vague and indefinite as to render it difficult to conclude upon any specific course of proceeding. it was finally determined, however, as the only plan that presented any prospect of success, that northup and the brother of waddill, a student in the office of the latter, should repair to the bayou, and traveling up one side and down the other its whole length, inquire at each plantation for me. mr. waddill tendered the use of his carriage, and it was definitely arranged that they should start upon the excursion early monday morning. it will be seen at once that this course, in all probability, would have resulted unsuccessfully. it would have been impossible for them to have gone into the fields and examine all the gangs at work. they were not aware that i was known only as platt; and had they inquired of epps himself, he would have stated truly that he knew nothing of solomon northup. the arrangement being adopted, however, there was nothing further to be done until sunday had elapsed. the conversation between messrs. northup and waddill, in the course of the afternoon, turned upon new-york politics. "i can scarcely comprehend the nice distinctions and shades of political parties in your state," observed mr. waddill. "i read of soft-shells and hard-shells, hunkers and barnburners, woolly-heads and silver-grays, and am unable to understand the precise difference between them. pray, what is it?" mr. northup, re-filling his pipe, entered into quite an elaborate narrative of the origin of the various sections of parties, and concluded by saying there was another party in new-york, known as free-soilers or abolitionists. "you have seen none of those in this part of the country, i presume?" mr. northup remarked. "never, but one," answered waddill, laughingly. "we have one here in marksville, an eccentric creature, who preaches abolitionism as vehemently as any fanatic at the north. he is a generous, inoffensive man, but always maintaining the wrong side of an argument. it affords us a deal of amusement. he is an excellent mechanic, and almost indispensable in this community. he is a carpenter. his name is bass." some further good-natured conversation was had at the expense of bass' peculiarities, when waddill all at once fell into a reflective mood, and asked for the mysterious letter again. "let me see--l-e-t m-e s-e-e!" he repeated, thoughtfully to himself, running his eyes over the letter once more. "'bayou boeuf, august .' august --post-marked here. 'he that is writing for me--' where did bass work last summer?" he inquired, turning suddenly to his brother. his brother was unable to inform him, but rising, left the office, and soon returned with the intelligence that "bass worked last summer somewhere on bayou boeuf." "he is the man," bringing down his hand emphatically on the table, "who can tell us all about solomon northup," exclaimed waddill. bass was immediately searched for, but could not be found. after some inquiry, it was ascertained he was at the landing on red river. procuring a conveyance, young waddill and northup were not long in traversing the few miles to the latter place. on their arrival, bass was found, just on the point of leaving, to be absent a fortnight or more. after an introduction, northup begged the privilege of speaking to him privately a moment. they walked together towards the river, when the following conversation ensued: "mr. bass," said northup, "allow me to ask you if you were on bayou boeuf last august?" "yes, sir, i was there in august," was the reply. "did you write a letter for a colored man at that place to some gentleman in saratoga springs?" "excuse me, sir, if i say that is none of your business," answered bass, stopping and looking his interrogator searchingly in the face. "perhaps i am rather hasty, mr. bass; i beg your pardon; but i have come from the state of new-york to accomplish the purpose the writer of a letter dated the th of august, post-marked at marksville, had in view. circumstances have led me to think that you are perhaps the man who wrote it. i am in search of solomon northup. if you know him, i beg you to inform me frankly where he is, and i assure you the source of any information you may give me shall not be divulged, if you desire it not to be." a long time bass looked his new acquaintance steadily in the eyes, without opening his lips. he seemed to be doubting in his own mind if there was not an attempt to practice some deception upon him. finally he said, deliberately-- "i have done nothing to be ashamed of. i am the man who wrote the letter. if you have come to rescue solomon northup, i am glad to see you." "when did you last see him, and where is he?" northup inquired. "i last saw him christmas, a week ago to-day. he is the slave of edwin epps, a planter on bayou boeuf, near holmesville. he is not known as solomon northup; he is called platt." the secret was out--the mystery was unraveled. through the thick, black cloud, amid whose dark and dismal shadows i had walked twelve years, broke the star that was to light me back to liberty. all mistrust and hesitation were soon thrown aside, and the two men conversed long and freely upon the subject uppermost in their thoughts. bass expressed the interest he had taken in my behalf--his intention of going north in the spring, and declaring that he had resolved to accomplish my emancipation, if it were in his power. he described the commencement and progress of his acquaintance with me, and listened with eager curiosity to the account given him of my family, and the history of my early life. before separating, he drew a map of the bayou on a strip of paper with a piece of red chalk, showing the locality of epps' plantation, and the road leading most directly to it. northup and his young companion returned to marksville, where it was determined to commence legal proceedings to test the question of my right to freedom. i was made plaintiff, mr. northup acting as my guardian, and edwin epps defendant. the process to be issued was in the nature of replevin, directed to the sheriff of the parish, commanding him to take me into custody, and detain me until the decision of the court. by the time the papers were duly drawn up, it was twelve o'clock at night--too late to obtain the necessary signature of the judge, who resided some distance out of town. further business was therefore suspended until monday morning. everything, apparently, was moving along swimmingly, until sunday afternoon, when waddill called at northup's room to express his apprehension of difficulties they had not expected to encounter. bass had become alarmed, and had placed his affairs in the hands of a person at the landing, communicating to him his intention of leaving the state. this person had betrayed the confidence reposed in him to a certain extent, and a rumor began to float about the town, that the stranger at the hotel, who had been observed in the company of lawyer waddill, was after one of old epps' slaves, over on the bayou. epps was known at marksville, having frequent occasion to visit that place during the session of the courts, and the fear entertained by mr. northup's adviser was, that intelligence would be conveyed to him in the night, giving him an opportunity of secreting me before the arrival of the sheriff. this apprehension had the effect of expediting matters considerably. the sheriff, who lived in one direction from the village, was requested to hold himself in readiness immediately after midnight, while the judge was informed he would be called upon at the same time. it is but justice to say, that the authorities at marksville cheerfully rendered all the assistance in their power. as soon after midnight as bail could be perfected, and the judge's signature obtained, a carriage, containing mr. northup and the sheriff, driven by the landlord's son, rolled rapidly out of the village of marksville, on the road towards bayou boeuf. it was supposed that epps would contest the issue involving my right to liberty, and it therefore suggested itself to mr. northup, that the testimony of the sheriff, describing my first meeting with the former, might perhaps become material on the trial. it was accordingly arranged during the ride, that, before i had an opportunity of speaking to mr. northup, the sheriff should propound to me certain questions agreed upon, such as the number and names of my children, the name of my wife before marriage, of places i knew at the north, and so forth. if my answers corresponded with the statements given him, the evidence must necessarily be considered conclusive. at length, shortly after epps had left the field, with the consoling assurance that he would soon return and _warm_ us, as was stated in the conclusion of the preceding chapter, they came in sight of the plantation, and discovered us at work. alighting from the carriage, and directing the driver to proceed to the great house, with instructions not to mention to any one the object of their errand until they met again, northup and the sheriff turned from the highway, and came towards us across the cotton field. we observed them, on looking up at the carriage--one several rods in advance of the other. it was a singular and unusual thing to see white men approaching us in that manner, and especially at that early hour in the morning, and uncle abram and patsey made some remarks, expressive of their astonishment. walking up to bob, the sheriff inquired: "where's the boy they call platt?" "thar he is, massa," answered bob, pointing to me, and twitching off his hat. i wondered to myself what business he could possibly have with me, and turning round, gazed at him until he had approached within a step. during my long residence on the bayou, i had become familiar with the face of every planter within many miles; but this man was an utter stranger--certainly i had never seen him before. "your name is platt, is it?" he asked. "yes, master," i responded. pointing towards northup, standing a few rods distant, he demanded--"do you know that man?" i looked in the direction indicated, and as my eyes rested on his countenance, a world of images thronged my brain; a multitude of well-known faces--anne's, and the dear children's, and my old dead father's; all the scenes and associations of childhood and youth; all the friends of other and happier days, appeared and disappeared, flitting and floating like dissolving shadows before the vision of my imagination, until at last the perfect memory of the man recurred to me, and throwing up my hands towards heaven, i exclaimed, in a voice louder than i could utter in a less exciting moment-- "_henry b. northup!_ thank god--thank god!" in an instant i comprehended the nature of his business, and felt that the hour of my deliverance was at hand. i started towards him, but the sheriff stepped before me. "stop a moment," said he; "have you any other name than platt?" "solomon northup is my name, master," i replied. "have you a family?" he inquired. "i _had_ a wife and three children." "what were your children's names?" "elizabeth, margaret and alonzo." "and your wife's name before her marriage?" "anne hampton." "who married you?" "timothy eddy, of fort edward." "where does that gentleman live?" again pointing to northup, who remained standing in the same place where i had first recognized him. "he lives in sandy hill, washington county, new-york," was the reply. he was proceeding to ask further questions, but i pushed past him, unable longer to restrain myself. i seized my old acquaintance by both hands. i could not speak. i could not refrain from tears. "sol," he said at length, "i'm glad to see you." i essayed to make some answer, but emotion choked all utterance, and i was silent. the slaves, utterly confounded, stood gazing upon the scene, their open mouths and rolling eyes indicating the utmost wonder and astonishment. for ten years i had dwelt among them, in the field and in the cabin, borne the same hardships, partaken the same fare, mingled my griefs with theirs, participated in the same scanty joys; nevertheless, not until this hour, the last i was to remain among them, had the remotest suspicion of my true name, or the slightest knowledge of my real history, been entertained by any one of them. not a word was spoken for several minutes, during which time i clung fast to northup, looking up into his face, fearful i should awake and find it all a dream. "throw down that sack," northup added, finally; "your cotton-picking days are over. come with us to the man you live with." i obeyed him, and walking between him and the sheriff, we moved towards the great house. it was not until we had proceeded some distance that i had recovered my voice sufficiently to ask if my family were all living. he informed me he had seen anne, margaret and elizabeth but a short time previously; that alonzo was also living, and all were well. my mother, however, i could never see again. as i began to recover in some measure from the sudden and great excitement which so overwhelmed me, i grew faint and weak, insomuch it was with difficulty i could walk. the sheriff took hold of my arm and assisted me, or i think i should have fallen. as we entered the yard, epps stood by the gate, conversing with the driver. that young man, faithful to his instructions, was entirely unable to give him the least information in answer to his repeated inquiries of what was going on. by the time we reached him he was almost as much amazed and puzzled as bob or uncle abram. shaking hands with the sheriff, and receiving an introduction to mr. northup, he invited them into the house, ordering me, at the same time, to bring in some wood. it was some time before i succeeded in cutting an armful, having, somehow, unaccountably lost the power of wielding the axe with any manner of precision. when i entered with it at last, the table was strewn with papers, from one of which northup was reading. i was probably longer than necessity required, in placing the sticks upon the fire, being particular as to the exact position of each individual one of them. i heard the words, "the said solomon northup," and "the deponent further says," and "free citizen of new-york," repeated frequently, and from these expressions understood that the secret i had so long retained from master and mistress epps, was finally developing. i lingered as long as prudence permitted, and was about leaving the room, when epps inquired, [illustration: scene in the cotton field, solomon delivered up.] "platt, do you know this gentleman?" "yes, master," i replied, "i have known him as long as i can remember." "where does he live?" "he lives in new-york." "did you ever live there?" "yes, master--born and bred there." "you was free, then. now you d----d nigger," he exclaimed, "why did you not tell me that when i bought you?" "master epps," i answered, in a somewhat different tone than the one in which i had been accustomed to address him--"master epps, you did not take the trouble to ask me; besides, i told one of my owners--the man that kidnapped me--that i was free, and was whipped almost to death for it." "it seems there has been a letter written for you by somebody. now, who is it?" he demanded, authoritatively. i made no reply. "i say, who wrote that letter?" he demanded again. "perhaps i wrote it myself," i said. "you haven't been to marksville post-office and back before light, i know." he insisted upon my informing him, and i insisted i would not. he made many vehement threats against the man, whoever he might be, and intimated the bloody and savage vengeance he would wreak upon him, when he found him out. his whole manner and language exhibited a feeling of anger towards the unknown person who had written for me, and of fretfulness at the idea of losing so much property. addressing mr. northup, he swore if he had only had an hour's notice of his coming, he would have saved him the trouble of taking me back to new-york; that he would have run me into the swamp, or some other place out of the way, where all the sheriffs on earth couldn't have found me. i walked out into the yard, and was entering the kitchen door, when something struck me in the back. aunt phebe, emerging from the back door of the great house with a pan of potatoes, had thrown one of them with unnecessary violence, thereby giving me to understand that she wished to speak to me a moment confidentially. running up to me, she whispered in my ear with great earnestness, "lor a' mity, platt! what d'ye think? dem two men come after ye. heard 'em tell massa you free--got wife and tree children back thar whar you come from. goin' wid 'em? fool if ye don't--wish i could go," and aunt phebe ran on in this manner at a rapid rate. presently mistress epps made her appearance in the kitchen. she said many things to me, and wondered why i had not told her who i was. she expressed her regret, complimenting me by saying she had rather lose any other servant on the plantation. had patsey that day stood in my place, the measure of my mistress' joy would have overflowed. now there was no one left who could mend a chair or a piece of furniture--no one who was of any use about the house--no one who could play for her on the violin--and mistress epps was actually affected to tears. epps had called to bob to bring up his saddle horse. the other slaves, also, overcoming their fear of the penalty, had left their work and come to the yard. they were standing behind the cabins, out of sight of epps. they beckoned me to come to them, and with all the eagerness of curiosity, excited to the highest pitch, conversed with and questioned me. if i could repeat the exact words they uttered, with the same emphasis--if i could paint their several attitudes, and the expression of their countenances--it would be indeed an interesting picture. in their estimation, i had suddenly arisen to an immeasurable height--had become a being of immense importance. the legal papers having been served, and arrangements made with epps to meet them the next day at marksville, northup and the sheriff entered the carriage to return to the latter place. as i was about mounting to the driver's seat, the sheriff said i ought to bid mr. and mrs. epps good bye. i ran back to the piazza where they were standing, and taking off my hat, said, "good-bye, missis." "good-bye, platt," said mrs. epps, kindly. "good-bye, master." "ah! you d--d nigger," muttered epps, in a surly, malicious tone of voice, "you needn't feel so cussed tickled--you ain't gone yet--i'll see about this business at marksville to-morrow." i was only a "_nigger_" and knew my place, but felt as strongly as if i had been a white man, that it would have been an inward comfort, had i dared to have given him a parting kick. on my way back to the carriage, patsey ran from behind a cabin and threw her arms about my neck. "oh! platt," she cried, tears streaming down her face, "you're goin' to be free--you're goin' way off yonder where we'll neber see ye any more. you've saved me a good many whippins, platt; i'm glad you're goin' to be free--but oh! de lord, de lord! what'll become of me?" i disengaged myself from her, and entered the carriage. the driver cracked his whip and away we rolled. i looked back and saw patsey, with drooping head, half reclining on the ground; mrs. epps was on the piazza; uncle abram, and bob, and wiley, and aunt phebe stood by the gate, gazing after me. i waved my hand, but the carriage turned a bend of the bayou, hiding them from my eyes forever. we stopped a moment at carey's sugar house, where a great number of slaves were at work, such an establishment being a curiosity to a northern man. epps dashed by us on horseback at full speed--on the way, as we learned next day, to the "pine woods," to see william ford, who had brought me into the country. tuesday, the fourth of january, epps and his counsel, the hon. h. taylor, northup, waddill, the judge and sheriff of avoyelles, and myself, met in a room in the village of marksville. mr. northup stated the facts in regard to me, and presented his commission, and the affidavits accompanying it. the sheriff described the scene in the cotton field. i was also interrogated at great length. finally, mr. taylor assured his client that he was satisfied, and that litigation would not only be expensive, but utterly useless. in accordance with his advice, a paper was drawn up and signed by the proper parties, wherein epps acknowledged he was satisfied of my right to freedom, and formally surrendered me to the authorities of new-york. it was also stipulated that it be entered of record in the recorder's office of avoyelles.[ ] mr. northup and myself immediately hastened to the landing, and taking passage on the first steamer that arrived, were soon floating down red river, up which, with such desponding thoughts, i had been borne twelve years before. footnotes: [ ] see appendix a. [ ] see appendix b. [ ] see appendix c. chapter xxii. arrival in new-orleans--glimpse of freeman--genois, the recorder--his description of solomon--reach charleston--interrupted by custom house officers--pass through richmond--arrival in washington--burch arrested--shekels and thorn--their testimony--burch acquitted--arrest of solomon--burch withdraws the complaint--the higher tribunal--departure from washington--arrival at sandy hill--old friends and familiar scenes--proceed to glens falls--meeting with anne, margaret and elizabeth--solomon northup staunton--incidents--conclusion. as the steamer glided on its way towards new-orleans, _perhaps_ i was not happy--_perhaps_ there was no difficulty in restraining myself from dancing round the deck--perhaps i did not feel grateful to the man who had come so many hundred miles for me--perhaps i did not light his pipe, and wait and watch his word, and run at his slightest bidding. if i didn't--well, no matter. we tarried at new-orleans two days. during that time i pointed out the locality of freeman's slave pen, and the room in which ford purchased me. we happened to meet theophilus in the street, but i did not think it worth while to renew acquaintance with him. from respectable citizens we ascertained he had become a low, miserable rowdy--a broken-down, disreputable man. we also visited the recorder, mr. genois, to whom senator soule's letter was directed, and found him a man well deserving the wide and honorable reputation that he bears. he very generously furnished us with a sort of legal pass, over his signature and seal of office, and as it contains the recorder's description of my personal appearance, it may not be amiss to insert it here. the following is a copy: "_state of louisiana_--_city of new-orleans_: recorder's office, second district. "to all to whom these presents shall come:-- "this is to certify that henry b. northup, esquire, of the county of washington, new-york, has produced before me due evidence of the freedom of solomon, a mulatto man, aged about forty-two years, five feet, seven inches and six lines, woolly hair, and chestnut eyes, who is a native born of the state of new-york. that the said northup, being about bringing the said solomon to his native place, through the southern routes, the civil authorities are requested to let the aforesaid colored man solomon pass unmolested, he demeaning well and properly. "given under my hand and the seal of the city of new-orleans this th january, . [l. s.] "th. genois, recorder." on the th we came to lake pontchartrain, by railroad, and, in due time, following the usual route, reached charleston. after going on board the steamboat, and paying our passage at this city, mr. northup was called upon by a custom-house officer to explain why he had not registered his servant. he replied that he had no servant--that, as the agent of new-york, he was accompanying a free citizen of that state from slavery to freedom, and did not desire nor intend to make any registry whatever. i conceived from his conversation and manner, though i may perhaps be entirely mistaken, that no great pains would be taken to avoid whatever difficulty the charleston officials might deem proper to create. at length, however, we were permitted to proceed, and, passing through richmond, where i caught a glimpse of goodin's pen, arrived in washington january th, . we ascertained that both burch and radburn were still residing in that city. immediately a complaint was entered with a police magistrate of washington, against james h. burch, for kidnapping and selling me into slavery. he was arrested upon a warrant issued by justice goddard, and returned before justice mansel, and held to bail in the sum of three thousand dollars. when first arrested, burch was much excited, exhibiting the utmost fear and alarm, and before reaching the justice's office on louisiana avenue, and before knowing the precise nature of the complaint, begged the police to permit him to consult benjamin o. shekels, a slave trader of seventeen years' standing, and his former partner. the latter became his bail. at ten o'clock, the th of january, both parties appeared before the magistrate. senator chase, of ohio, hon. orville clark, of sandy hill, and mr. northup acted as counsel for the prosecution, and joseph h. bradley for the defence. gen. orville clark was called and sworn as a witness, and testified that he had known me from childhood, and that i was a free man, as was my father before me. mr. northup then testified to the same, and proved the facts connected with his mission to avoyelles. ebenezer radburn was then sworn for the prosecution, and testified he was forty-eight years old; that he was a resident of washington, and had known burch fourteen years; that in he was keeper of williams' slave pen; that he remembered the fact of my confinement in the pen that year. at this point it was admitted by the defendant's counsel, that i had been placed in the pen by burch in the spring of , and hereupon the prosecution rested. benjamin o. shekels was then offered as a witness by the prisoner. benjamin is a large, coarse-featured man, and the reader may perhaps get a somewhat correct conception of him by reading the exact language he used in answer to the first question of defendant's lawyer. he was asked the place of his nativity, and his reply, uttered in a sort of rowdyish way, was in these very words-- "i was born in ontario county, new-york, and _weighed fourteen pounds_!" benjamin was a prodigious baby! he further testified that he kept the steamboat hotel in washington in , and saw me there in the spring of that year. he was proceeding to state what he had heard two men say, when senator chase raised a legal objection, to wit, that the sayings of third persons, being hearsay, was improper evidence. the objection was overruled by the justice, and shekels continued, stating that two men came to his hotel and represented they had a colored man for sale; that they had an interview with burch; that they stated they came from georgia, but he did not remember the county; that they gave a full history of the boy, saying he was a bricklayer, and played on the violin; that burch remarked he would purchase if they could agree; that they went out and brought the boy in, and that i was the same person. he further testified, with as much unconcern as if it was the truth, that i represented i was born and bred in georgia; that one of the young men with me was my master; that i exhibited a great deal of regret at parting with him, and he believed "got into tears!"--nevertheless, that i insisted my master had a right to sell me; that he _ought_ to sell me; and the remarkable reason i gave was, according to shekels, because he, my master, "had been gambling and on a spree!" he continued, in these words, copied from the minutes taken on the examination: "burch interrogated the boy in the usual manner, told him if he purchased him he should send him south. the boy said he had no objection, that in fact he would like to go south. burch paid $ for him, to my knowledge. i don't know what name was given him, but think it was not solomon. did not know the name of either of the two men. they were in my tavern two or three hours, during which time the boy played on the violin. the bill of sale was signed in my bar-room. it was a _printed blank, filled up by burch_. before burch was my partner. our business was buying and selling slaves. after that time he was a partner of theophilus freeman, of new-orleans. burch bought here--freeman sold there!" shekels, before testifying, had heard my relation of the circumstances connected with the visit to washington with brown and hamilton, and therefore, it was, undoubtedly, he spoke of "two men," and of my playing on the violin. such was his fabrication, utterly untrue, and yet there was found in washington a man who endeavored to corroborate him. benjamin a. thorn testified he was at shekels' in , and saw a colored boy playing on a fiddle. "shekels said he was for sale. heard his master tell him he should sell him. the boy acknowledged to me he was a slave. i was not present when the money was paid. will not swear positively this is the boy. the master _came near shedding tears: i think the boy did_! i have been engaged in the business of taking slaves south, off and on, for twenty years. when i can't do that i do something else." i was then offered as a witness, but, objection being made, the court decided my evidence inadmissible. it was rejected solely on the ground that i was a colored man--the fact of my being a free citizen of new-york not being disputed. shekels having testified there was a bill of sale executed, burch was called upon by the prosecution to produce it, inasmuch as such a paper would corroborate the testimony of thorn and shekels. the prisoner's counsel saw the necessity of exhibiting it, or giving some reasonable explanation for its non-production. to effect the latter, burch himself was offered as a witness in his own behalf. it was contended by counsel for the people, that such testimony should not be allowed--that it was in contravention of every rule of evidence, and if permitted would defeat the ends of justice. his testimony, however, was received by the court! he made oath that such a bill of sale had been drawn up and signed, _but he had lost it, and did not know what had become of it_! thereupon the magistrate was requested to dispatch a police officer to burch's residence, with directions to bring his books, containing his bills of sales for the year . the request was granted, and before any measure could be taken to prevent it, the officer had obtained possession of the books, and brought them into court. the sales for the year were found, and carefully examined, but no sale of myself, by any name, was discovered! upon this testimony the court held the fact to be established, that burch came innocently and honestly by me, and accordingly he was discharged. an attempt was then made by burch and his satellites, to fasten upon me the charge that i had conspired with the two white men to defraud him--with what success, appears in an extract taken from an article in the new-york times, published a day or two subsequent to the trial: "the counsel for the defendant had drawn up, before the defendant was discharged, an affidavit, signed by burch, and had a warrant out against the colored man for a conspiracy with the two white men before referred to, to defraud burch out of six hundred and twenty-five dollars. the warrant was served, and the colored man arrested and brought before officer goddard. burch and his witnesses appeared in court, and h. b. northup appeared as counsel for the colored man, stating he was ready to proceed as counsel on the part of the defendant, and asking no delay whatever. burch, after consulting privately a short time with shekels, stated to the magistrate that he wished him to dismiss the complaint, as he would not proceed farther with it. defendant's counsel stated to the magistrate that if the complaint was withdrawn, it must be without the request or consent of the defendant. burch then asked the magistrate to let him have the complaint and the warrant, and he took them. the counsel for the defendant objected to his receiving them, and insisted they should remain as part of the records of the court, and that the court should endorse the proceedings which had been had under the process. burch delivered them up, and the court rendered a judgment of discontinuance by the request of the prosecutor, and filed it in his office." * * * * * there may be those who will affect to believe the statement of the slave-trader--those, in whose minds his allegations will weigh heavier than mine. i am a poor colored man--one of a down-trodden and degraded race, whose humble voice may not be heeded by the oppressor--but _knowing_ the truth, and with a full sense of my accountability, i do solemnly declare before men, and before god, that any charge or assertion, that i conspired directly or indirectly with any person or persons to sell myself; that any other account of my visit to washington, my capture and imprisonment in williams' slave pen, than is contained in these pages, is utterly and absolutely false. i never played on the violin in washington. i never was in the steamboat hotel, and never saw thorn or shekels, to my knowledge, in my life, until last january. the story of the trio of slave-traders is a fabrication as absurd as it is base and unfounded. were it true, i should not have turned aside on my way back to liberty for the purpose of prosecuting burch. i should have _avoided_ rather than sought him. i should have known that such a step would have resulted in rendering me infamous. under the circumstances--longing as i did to behold my family, and elated with the prospect of returning home--it is an outrage upon probability to suppose i would have run the hazard, not only of exposure, but of a criminal prosecution and conviction, by voluntarily placing myself in the position i did, if the statements of burch and his confederates contain a particle of truth. i took pains to seek him out, to confront him in a court of law, charging him with the crime of kidnapping; and the only motive that impelled me to this step, was a burning sense of the wrong he had inflicted upon me, and a desire to bring him to justice. he was acquitted, in the manner, and by such means as have been described. a human tribunal has permitted him to escape; but there is another and a higher tribunal, where false testimony will not prevail, and where i am willing, so far at least as these statements are concerned, to be judged at last. * * * * * we left washington on the th of january, and proceeding by the way of philadelphia, new-york, and albany, reached sandy hill in the night of the st. my heart overflowed with happiness as i looked around upon old familiar scenes, and found myself in the midst of friends of other days. the following morning i started, in company with several acquaintances, for glens falls, the residence of anne and our children. as i entered their comfortable cottage, margaret was the first that met me. she did not recognize me. when i left her, she was but seven years old, a little prattling girl, playing with her toys. now she was grown to womanhood--was married, with a bright-eyed boy standing by her side. not forgetful of his enslaved, unfortunate grand-father, she had named the child solomon northup staunton. when told who i was, she was overcome with emotion, and unable to speak. presently elizabeth entered the room, and anne came running from the hotel, having been informed of my arrival. they embraced me, and with tears flowing down their cheeks, hung upon my neck. but i draw a veil over a scene which can better be imagined than described. when the violence of our emotions had subsided to a sacred joy--when the household gathered round the fire, that sent out its warm and crackling comfort through the room, we conversed of the thousand events that had occurred--the hopes and fears, the joys and sorrows, the trials and troubles we had each experienced during the long separation. alonzo was absent in the western part of the state. the boy had written to his mother a short time previous, of the prospect of his obtaining sufficient money to purchase my freedom. from his earliest years, that had been the chief object of his thoughts and his ambition. they knew i was in bondage. the letter written on board the brig, and clem ray himself, had given them that information. but where i was, until the arrival of bass' letter, was a matter of conjecture. elizabeth and margaret once returned from school--so anne informed me--weeping bitterly. on inquiring the cause of the children's sorrow, it was found that, while studying geography, their attention had been attracted to the picture of slaves working in the cotton-field, and an overseer following them with his whip. it reminded them of the sufferings their father might be, and, as it happened, actually _was_, enduring in the south. numerous incidents, such as these, were related--incidents showing they still held me in constant remembrance, but not, perhaps, of sufficient interest to the reader, to be recounted. [illustration: arrival home, and first meeting with his wife and children] * * * * * my narrative is at an end. i have no comments to make upon the subject of slavery. those who read this book may form their own opinions of the "peculiar institution." what it may be in other states, i do not profess to know; what it is in the region of red river, is truly and faithfully delineated in these pages. this is no fiction, no exaggeration. if i have failed in anything, it has been in presenting to the reader too prominently the bright side of the picture. i doubt not hundreds have been as unfortunate as myself; that hundreds of free citizens have been kidnapped and sold into slavery, and are at this moment wearing out their lives on plantations in texas and louisiana. but i forbear. chastened and subdued in spirit by the sufferings i have borne, and thankful to that good being through whose mercy i have been restored to happiness and liberty, i hope henceforward to lead an upright though lowly life, and rest at last in the church yard where my father sleeps. roaring river. a refrain of the red river plantation. [illustration: musical score] "harper's creek and roarin' ribber, thar, my dear, we'll live forebber; den we'll go to de ingin nation, all i want in dis creation, is pretty little wife and big plantation. chorus. up dat oak and down dat ribber, two overseers and one little nigger." appendix. a.--page . chap. . _an act more effectually to protect the free citizens of this state from being kidnapped, or reduced to slavery._ [passed may , .] the people of the state of new-york, represented in senate and assembly, do enact as follows: § . whenever the governor of this state shall receive information satisfactory to him that any free citizen or any inhabitant of this state has been kidnapped or transported away out of this state, into any other state or territory of the united states, for the purpose of being there held in slavery; or that such free citizen or inhabitant is wrongfully seized, imprisoned or held in slavery in any of the states or territories of the united states, on the allegation or pretence that such a person is a slave, or by color of any usage or rule of law prevailing in such state or territory, is deemed or taken to be a slave, or not entitled of right to the personal liberty belonging to a citizen; it shall be the duty of the said governor to take such measures as he shall deem necessary to procure such person to be restored to his liberty and returned to this state. the governor is hereby authorized to appoint and employ such agent or agents as he shall deem necessary to effect the restoration and return of such person; and shall furnish the said agent with such credentials and instructions as will be likely to accomplish the object of his appointment. the governor may determine the compensation to be allowed to such agent for his services besides his necessary expenses. § . such agent shall proceed to collect the proper proof to establish the right of such person to his freedom, and shall perform such journeys, take such measures, institute and procure to be prosecuted such legal proceedings, under the direction of the governor, as shall be necessary to procure such person to be restored to his liberty and returned to this state. § . the accounts for all services and expenses incurred in carrying this act into effect shall be audited by the comptroller, and paid by the treasurer on his warrant, out of any moneys in the treasury of this state not otherwise appropriated. the treasurer may advance, on the warrant of the comptroller, to such agent, such sum or sums as the governor shall certify to be reasonable advances to enable him to accomplish the purposes of his appointment, for which advance such agent shall account, on the final audit of his warrant. § . this act shall take effect immediately. b.--page . memorial of anne. _to his excellency, the governor of the state of new-york:_ the memorial of anne northup, of the village of glens falls, in the county of warren, state aforesaid, respectfully sets forth-- that your memorialist, whose maiden name was anne hampton, was forty-four years old on the th day of march last, and was married to solomon northup, then of fort edward, in the county of washington and state aforesaid, on the th day of december, a. d. , by timothy eddy, then a justice of the peace. that the said solomon, after such marriage, lived and kept house with your memorialist in said town until , when he removed with his said family to the town of kingsbury in said county, and remained there about three years, and then removed to saratoga springs in the state aforesaid, and continued to reside in said saratoga springs and the adjoining town until about the year , as near as the time can be recollected, when the said solomon started to go to the city of washington, in the district of columbia, since which time your memorialist has never seen her said husband. and your memorialist further states, that in the year she received information by a letter directed to henry b. northup, esq., of sandy hill, washington county, new-york, and post-marked at new-orleans, that said solomon had been kidnapped in washington, put on board of a vessel, and was then in such vessel in new-orleans, but could not tell how he came in that situation, nor what his destination was. that your memorialist ever since the last mentioned period has been wholly unable to obtain any information of where the said solomon was, until the month of september last, when another letter was received from the said solomon, post-marked at marksville, in the parish of avoyelles, in the state of louisiana, stating that he was held there as a slave, which statement your memorialist believes to be true. that the said solomon is about forty-five years of age, and never resided out of the state of new-york, in which state he was born, until the time he went to washington city, as before stated. that the said solomon northup is a free citizen of the state of new-york, and is now wrongfully held in slavery, in or near marksville, in the parish of avoyelles, in the state of louisiana, one of the united states of america, on the allegation or pretence that the said solomon is a slave. and your memorialist further states that mintus northup was the reputed father of said solomon, and was a negro, and died at fort edward, on the d day of november, ; that the mother of said solomon was a mulatto, or three quarters white, and died in the county of oswego, new-york, some five or six years ago, as your memorialist was informed and believes, and never was a slave. that your memorialist and her family are poor and wholly unable to pay or sustain any portion of the expenses of restoring the said solomon to his freedom. your excellency is entreated to employ such agent or agents as shall be deemed necessary to effect the restoration and return of said solomon northup, in pursuance of an act of the legislature of the state of new-york, passed may th, , entitled "an act more effectually to protect the free citizens of this state from being kidnappd or reduced to slavery." and your memorialist will ever pray. (signed,) anne northup. dated november , . * * * * * state of new-york: washington county, ss. anne northup, of the village of glens falls, in the county of warren, in said state, being duly sworn, doth depose and say that she signed the above memorial, and that the statements therein contained are true. (signed,) anne northup. subscribed and sworn before me this th november, . charles hughes, justice peace. * * * * * we recommend that the governor appoint henry b. northup, of the village of sandy hill, washington county, new-york, as one of the agents to procure the restoration and return of solomon northup, named in the foregoing memorial of anne northup. dated at sandy hill, washington co., n. y., november , . (signed.) peter holbrook, daniel sweet, b. f. hoag, almon clark, charles hughes, benjamin ferris, e. d. baker, josiah h. brown, orville clark. * * * * * state of new-york: washington county, ss: josiah hand, of the village of sandy hill, in said county, being duly sworn, says, he is fifty-seven years old, and was born in said village, and has always resided there; that he has known mintus northup and his son solomon, named in the annexed memorial of anne northup, since previous to the year ; that mintus northup then, and until the time of his death, cultivated a farm in the towns of kingsbury and fort edward, from the time deponent first knew him until he died; that said mintus and his wife, the mother of said solomon northup, were reported to be free citizens of new-york, and deponent believes they were so free; that said solomon northup was born in said county of washington, as deponent believes, and was married dec. th, , in fort edward aforesaid, and his said wife and three children--two daughters and one son--are now living in glens falls, warren county, new-york, and that the said solomon northup always resided in said county of washington, and its immediate vicinity, until about , since which time deponent has not seen him, but deponent has been credibly informed, and as he verily believes truly, the said solomon is now wrongfully held as a slave in the state of louisiana. and deponent further says that anne northup, named in the said memorial, is entitled to credit, and deponent believes the statements contained in her said memorial are true. (signed,) josiah hand. subscribed and sworn before me this th day of november, , charles hughes, justice peace. * * * * * state of new-york: washington county, ss: timothy eddy, of fort edward, in said county, being duly sworn, says he is now over--years old, and has been a resident of said town more than--years last past, and that he was well acquainted with solomon northup, named in the annexed memorial of anne northup, and with his father, mintus northup, who was a negro,--the wife of said mintus was a mulatto woman; that said mintus northup and his said wife and family, two sons, joseph and solomon, resided in said town of fort edward for several years before the year , and said mintus died in said town a. d. , as deponent believes. and deponent further says that he was a justice of the peace in said town in the year , and as such justice of the peace, he, on the th day of dec'r, , joined the said solomon northup in marriage with anne hampton, who is the same person who has subscribed the annexed memorial. and deponent expressly says, that said solomon was a free citizen of the state of new-york, and always lived in said state, until about the year a. d. , since which time deponent has not seen him, but has recently been informed, and as deponent believes truly, that said solomon northup is wrongfully held in slavery in or near marksville, in the parish of avoyelles, in the state of louisiana. and deponent further says, that said mintus northup was nearly sixty years old at the time of his death, and was, for more than thirty years next prior to his death, a free citizen of the state of new-york. and this deponent further says, that anne northup, the wife of said solomon northup, is of good character and reputation, and her statements, as contained in the memorial hereto annexed, are entitled to full credit. (signed,) timothy eddy. subscribed and sworn before me this th day of november, , tim'y stoughton, justice. * * * * * state of new-york: washington county, ss: henry b. northup, of the village of sandy hill, in said county, being duly sworn, says, that he is forty-seven years old, and has always lived in said county; that he knew mintus northup, named in the annexed memorial, from deponent's earliest recollection until the time of his death, which occurred at fort edward, in said county, in ; that deponent knew the children of said mintus, viz, solomon and joseph; that they were both born in the county of washington aforesaid, as deponent believes; that deponent was well acquainted with said solomon, who is the same person named in the annexed memorial of anne northup, from his childhood; and that said solomon always resided in said county of washington and the adjoining counties until about the year ; that said solomon could read and write; that said solomon and his mother and father were free citizens of the state of new-york; that sometime about the year this deponent received a letter from said solomon, post-marked new-orleans, stating that while on business at washington city, he had been kidnapped, and his free papers taken from him, and he was then on board a vessel, in irons, and was claimed as a slave, and that he did not know his destination, which the deponent believes to be true, and he urged this deponent to assist in procuring his restoration to freedom; that deponent has lost or mislaid said letter, and cannot find it; that deponent has since endeavored to find where said solomon was, but could get no farther trace of him until sept. last, when this deponent ascertained by a letter purporting to have been written by the direction of said solomon, that said solomon was held and claimed as a slave in or near marksville, in the parish of avoyelles, louisiana, and that this deponent verily believes that such information is true, and that said solomon is now wrongfully held in slavery at marksville aforesaid. (signed,) henry b. northup. subscribed and sworn to before me this th day of november, , charles hughes, j. p. * * * * * state of new-york: washington county, ss nicholas c. northup, of the village of sandy hill, in said county, being duly sworn, doth depose and say, that he is now fifty-eight years of age, and has known solomon northup, mentioned in the annexed memorial of ann northup, ever since he was born. and this deponent saith that said solomon is now about forty-five years old, and was born in the county of washington aforesaid, or in the county of essex, in said state, and always resided in the state of new-york until about the year , since which time deponent has not seen him or known where he was, until a few weeks since, deponent was informed, and believes truly, that said solomon was held in slavery in the state of louisiana. deponent further says, that said solomon was married in the town of fort edward, in said county, about twenty-four years ago, and that his wife and two daughters and one son now reside in the village of glens falls, county of warren, in said state of new-york. and this deponent swears positively that said solomon northup is a citizen of said state of new-york, and was born free, and from his earliest infancy lived and resided in the counties of washington, essex, warren and saratoga, in the state of new-york, and that his said wife and children have never resided out of said counties since the time said solomon was married; that deponent knew the father of said solomon northup; that said father was a negro, named mintus northup, and died in the town of fort edward, in the county of washington, state of new-york, on the d day of november, a. d. , and was buried in the grave-yard in sandy hill aforesaid; that for more than thirty years before his death he lived in the counties of essex, washington and rensselaer and state of new-york, and left a wife and two sons, joseph and the said solomon, him surviving; that the mother of said solomon was a mulatto woman, and is now dead, and died, as deponent believes, in oswego county, new-york, within five or six years past. and this deponent further states, that the mother of the said solomon northup was not a slave at the time of the birth of said solomon northup, and has not been a slave at any time within the last fifty years. (signed,) n. c. northup. subscribed and sworn before me this th day of november, . charles hughes, justice peace. * * * * * state of new-york: washington county, ss. orville clark, of the village of sandy hill, in the county of washington, state of new-york, being duly sworn, doth depose and say--that he, this deponent, is over fifty years of age; that in the years and , or most of the time of those years, this deponent resided at sandy hill, aforesaid, and at glens falls; that this deponent then knew mintus northup, a black or colored man; he was then a free man, as this deponent believes and always understood; that the wife of said mintus northup, and mother of solomon, was a free woman; that from the year until the time of the death of said mintus northup, about the year , this deponent was very well acquainted with the said mintus northup; that he was a respectable man in the community in which he resided, and was a free man, so taken and esteemed by all his acquaintances; that this deponent has also been and was acquainted with his son solomon northup, from the said year until he left this part of the country, about the year or ; that he married anne hampton, daughter of william hampton, a near neighbor of this deponent; that the said anne, wife of said solomon, is now living and resides in this vicinity; that the said mintus northup and william hampton were both reputed and esteemed in this community as respectable men. and this deponent saith that the said mintus northup and his family, and the said william hampton and his family, from the earliest recollection and acquaintance of this deponent with him (as far back as ,) were always reputed, esteemed, and taken to be, and this deponent believes, truly so, free citizens of the state of new-york. this deponent knows the said william hampton, under the laws of this state, was entitled to vote at our elections, and he believes the said mintus northup also was entitled as a free citizen with the property qualification. and this deponent further saith, that the said solomon northup, son of said mintus, and husband of said anne hampton, when he left this state, was at the time thereof a free citizen of the state of new-york. and this deponent further saith, that said anne hampton, wife of solomon northup, is a respectable woman, of good character, and i would believe her statements, and do believe the facts set forth in her memorial to his excellency, the governor, in relation to her said husband, are true. (signed,) orville clark. sworn before me, november th, . u. g. paris, justice of the peace. * * * * * state of new-york: washington county, ss. benjamin ferris, of the village of sandy hill, in said county, being duly sworn, doth depose and say--that he is now fifty-seven years old, and has resided in said village forty-five years; that he was well acquainted with mintus northup, named in the annexed memorial of anne northup, from the year to the time of his death, which occurred at fort edward, in the fall of ; that he knew the children of the said mintus, namely, joseph northup and solomon northup, and that the said solomon is the same person named in said memorial; that said mintus resided in the said county of washington to the time of his death, and was, during all that time, a free citizen of the said state of new-york, as deponent verily believes; that said memorialist, anne northup, is a woman of good character, and the statement contained in her memorial is entitled to credit. (signed) benjamin ferris. sworn before me, november th, . u. g. paris, justice of the peace. * * * * * state of new-york: executive chamber, albany, nov. , . i hereby certify that the foregoing is a correct copy of certain proofs filed in the executive department, upon which i have appointed henry b. northup an agent of this state, to take proper proceedings in behalf of solomon northup, there in mentioned. (signed,) washington hunt. by the governor. j. f. r., private secretary. * * * * * state of new-york: executive department. washington hunt, _governor of the state of new-york, to whom it may concern, greeting_: whereas, i have received information on oath, which is satisfactary to me, that solomon northup, who is a free citizen of this state, is wrongfully held in slavery, in the state of louisiana: and whereas, it is made my duty, by the laws of this state, to take such measures as i shall deem necessary to procure any citizen so wrongfully held in slavery, to be restored to his liberty and returned to this state: be it known, that in pursuance of chapter of the laws of this state, passed in , i have constituted, appointed and employed henry b. northup, esquire, of the county of washington, in this state, an agent, with full power to effect the restoration of said solomon northup, and the said agent is hereby authorized and empowered to institute such proper and legal proceedings, to procure such evidence, retain such counsel, and finally to take such measures as will be most likely to accomplish the object of his said appointment. he is also instructed to proceed to the state of louisiana with all convenient dispatch, to execute the agency hereby created. in witness whereof, i have hereunto subscribed my name, and [l.s.] affixed the privy seal of the state, at albany, this d day of november, in the year of our lord . (signed,) washington hunt. james f. ruggles, private secretary. c.--page . state of louisiana: parish of avoyelles. before me, aristide barbin, recorder of the parish of avoyelles, personally came and appeared henry b. northup, of the county of washington, state of new-york, who hath declared that by virtue of a commission to him as agent of the state of new-york, given and granted by his excellency, washington hunt, governor of the said state of new-york, bearing date the d day of november, , authorizing and empowering him, the said northup, to pursue and recover from slavery a free man of color, called solomon northup, who is a free citizen of the state of new-york, and who was kidnapped and sold into slavery, in the state of louisiana, and now in the possession of edwin epps, of the state of louisiana, of the parish of avoyelles; he, the said agent, hereto signing, acknowledges that the said edwin has this day given and surrendered to him as such agent, the said solomon northup, free man of color, as aforesaid, in order that he be restored to his freedom, and carried back to the said state of new-york, pursuant to said commission, the said edwin epps being satisfied from the proofs produced by said agent, that the said solomon northup is entitled to his freedom. the parties consenting that a certified copy of said power of attorney be annexed to this act. done and signed at marksville, parish of avoyelles, this fourth day of january, one thousand eight hundred and fifty-three, in the presence of the undersigned, legal and competent witnesses, who have also hereto signed. (signed,) henry b. northup. edwin epps. ade. barbin, recorder. witnesses: h. taylor, john p. waddill. * * * * * state of louisiana: parish of avoyelles. i do hereby certify the foregoing to be a true and correct copy of the original on file and of record in my office. [l.s.] given under my hand and seal of office as recorder in and for the parish of avoyelles, this th day of january, a. d. . (signed,) ade. barbin, recorder. the end * * * * * [transcriber's notes: the transcriber made these changes to the text: . p. xi., chalenged --> challenged . p. xiii., coversation --> conversation . p. xvi, expresssion --> expression . p. , hight --> height . p. , susually --> usually . p. , she's not for sale. --> she's not for sale." . p. , looded --> looked . p, , capenter --> carpenter . p. , aligators --> alligators . p. , chenyville --> cheneyville . p. , gripe --> grip . p. , loose --> lose . p. , listing --> listening . p. , an one --> a one . p. , maintin --> maintain . p. , lew cheeney --> lew cheney . p. , priviliges --> privileges . p. , 'bringing down his hand emphatically on the table,' --> bringing down his hand emphatically on the table, . p. , reppresented --> represented . p. , offer- --> offered end of transcriber's notes] proofreading team. old creole days a story of creole life by george w. cable contents madame delphine cafÉ des exilÉs belles demoiselles plantation "posson jone'" jean-ah poquelin 'tite poulette 'sieur george madame dÉlicieuse madame delphine. chapter i. an old house. a few steps from the st. charles hotel, in new orleans, brings you to and across canal street, the central avenue of the city, and to that corner where the flower-women sit at the inner and outer edges of the arcaded sidewalk, and make the air sweet with their fragrant merchandise. the crowd--and if it is near the time of the carnival it will be great--will follow canal street. but you turn, instead, into the quiet, narrow way which a lover of creole antiquity, in fondness for a romantic past, is still prone to call the rue royale. you will pass a few restaurants, a few auction-rooms, a few furniture warehouses, and will hardly realize that you have left behind you the activity and clatter of a city of merchants before you find yourself in a region of architectural decrepitude, where an ancient and foreign-seeming domestic life, in second stories, overhangs the ruins of a former commercial prosperity, and upon every thing has settled down a long sabbath of decay. the vehicles in the street are few in number, and are merely passing through; the stores are shrunken into shops; you see here and there, like a patch of bright mould, the stall of that significant fungus, the chinaman. many great doors are shut and clamped and grown gray with cobweb; many street windows are nailed up; half the balconies are begrimed and rust-eaten, and many of the humid arches and alleys which characterize the older franco-spanish piles of stuccoed brick betray a squalor almost oriental. yet beauty lingers here. to say nothing of the picturesque, sometimes you get sight of comfort, sometimes of opulence, through the unlatched wicket in some _porte-cochère_--red-painted brick pavement, foliage of dark palm or pale banana, marble or granite masonry and blooming parterres; or through a chink between some pair of heavy batten window-shutters, opened with an almost reptile wariness, your eye gets a glimpse of lace and brocade upholstery, silver and bronze, and much similar rich antiquity. the faces of the inmates are in keeping; of the passengers in the street a sad proportion are dingy and shabby; but just when these are putting you off your guard, there will pass you a woman--more likely two or three--of patrician beauty. now, if you will go far enough down this old street, you will see, as you approach its intersection with ----. names in that region elude one like ghosts. however, as you begin to find the way a trifle more open, you will not fail to notice on the right-hand side, about midway of the square, a small, low, brick house of a story and a half, set out upon the sidewalk, as weather-beaten and mute as an aged beggar fallen asleep. its corrugated roof of dull red tiles, sloping down toward you with an inward curve, is overgrown with weeds, and in the fall of the year is gay with the yellow plumes of the golden-rod. you can almost touch with your cane the low edge of the broad, overhanging eaves. the batten shutters at door and window, with hinges like those of a postern, are shut with a grip that makes one's knuckles and nails feel lacerated. save in the brick-work itself there is not a cranny. you would say the house has the lockjaw. there are two doors, and to each a single chipped and battered marble step. continuing on down the sidewalk, on a line with the house, is a garden masked from view by a high, close board-fence. you may see the tops of its fruit-trees--pomegranate, peach, banana, fig, pear, and particularly one large orange, close by the fence, that must be very old. the residents over the narrow way, who live in a three-story house, originally of much pretension, but from whose front door hard times have removed almost all vestiges of paint, will tell you: "yass, de 'ouse is in'abit; 'tis live in." and this is likely to be all the information you get--not that they would not tell, but they cannot grasp the idea that you wish to know--until, possibly, just as you are turning to depart, your informant, in a single word and with the most evident non-appreciation of its value, drops the simple key to the whole matter: "dey's quadroons." he may then be aroused to mention the better appearance of the place in former years, when the houses of this region generally stood farther apart, and that garden comprised the whole square. here dwelt, sixty years ago and more, one delphine carraze; or, as she was commonly designated by the few who knew her, madame delphine. that she owned her home, and that it had been given her by the then deceased companion of her days of beauty, were facts so generally admitted as to be, even as far back as that sixty years ago, no longer a subject of gossip. she was never pointed out by the denizens of the quarter as a character, nor her house as a "feature." it would have passed all creole powers of guessing to divine what you could find worthy of inquiry concerning a retired quadroon woman; and not the least puzzled of all would have been the timid and restive madame delphine herself. chapter ii. madame delphine. during the first quarter of the present century, the free quadroon caste of new orleans was in its golden age. earlier generations--sprung, upon the one hand, from the merry gallants of a french colonial military service which had grown gross by affiliation with spanish-american frontier life, and, upon the other hand from comely ethiopians culled out of the less negroidal types of african live goods, and bought at the ship's side with vestiges of quills and cowries and copper wire still in their head-dresses,--these earlier generations, with scars of battle or private rencontre still on the fathers, and of servitude on the manumitted mothers, afforded a mere hint of the splendor that was to result from a survival of the fairest through seventy-five years devoted to the elimination of the black pigment and the cultivation of hyperian excellence and nymphean grace and beauty. nor, if we turn to the present, is the evidence much stronger which is offered by the _gens de couleur_ whom you may see in the quadroon quarter this afternoon, with "ichabod" legible on their murky foreheads through a vain smearing of toilet powder, dragging their chairs down to the narrow gateway of their close-fenced gardens, and staring shrinkingly at you as you pass, like a nest of yellow kittens. but as the present century was in its second and third decades, the _quadroones_ (for we must contrive a feminine spelling to define the strict limits of the caste as then established) came forth in splendor. old travellers spare no terms to tell their praises, their faultlessness of feature, their perfection of form, their varied styles of beauty,--for there were even pure caucasian blondes among them,--their fascinating manners, their sparkling vivacity, their chaste and pretty wit, their grace in the dance, their modest propriety, their taste and elegance in dress. in the gentlest and most poetic sense they were indeed the sirens of this land where it seemed "always afternoon"--a momentary triumph of an arcadian over a christian civilization, so beautiful and so seductive that it became the subject of special chapters by writers of the day more original than correct as social philosophers. the balls that were got up for them by the male _sang-pur_ were to that day what the carnival is to the present. society balls given the same nights proved failures through the coincidence. the magnates of government,--municipal, state, federal,--those of the army, of the learned professions and of the clubs,--in short, the white male aristocracy in every thing save the ecclesiastical desk,--were there. tickets were high-priced to insure the exclusion of the vulgar. no distinguished stranger was allowed to miss them. they were beautiful! they were clad in silken extenuations from the throat to the feet, and wore, withal, a pathos in their charm that gave them a family likeness to innocence. madame delphine, were you not a stranger, could have told you all about it; though hardly, i suppose, without tears. but at the time of which we would speak ( - ) her day of splendor was set, and her husband--let us call him so for her sake--was long dead. he was an american, and, if we take her word for it, a man of noble heart and extremely handsome; but this is knowledge which we can do without. even in those days the house was always shut, and madame delphine's chief occupation and end in life seemed to be to keep well locked up in-doors. she was an excellent person, the neighbors said,--a very worthy person; and they were, maybe, nearer correct then they knew. they rarely saw her save when she went to or returned from church; a small, rather tired-looking, dark quadroone of very good features and a gentle thoughtfulness of expression which would take long to describe: call it a widow's look. in speaking of madame delphine's house, mention should have been made of a gate in the fence on the royal-street sidewalk. it is gone now, and was out of use then, being fastened once for all by an iron staple clasping the cross-bar and driven into the post. which leads us to speak of another person. chapter iii. capitaine lemaitre. he was one of those men that might be any age,--thirty, forty, forty-five; there was no telling from his face what was years and what was only weather. his countenance was of a grave and quiet, but also luminous, sort, which was instantly admired and ever afterward remembered, as was also the fineness of his hair and the blueness of his eyes. those pronounced him youngest who scrutinized his face the closest. but waiving the discussion of age, he was odd, though not with the oddness that he who had reared him had striven to produce. he had not been brought up by mother or father. he had lost both in infancy, and had fallen to the care of a rugged old military grandpa of the colonial school, whose unceasing endeavor had been to make "his boy" as savage and ferocious a holder of unimpeachable social rank as it became a pure-blooded french creole to be who would trace his pedigree back to the god mars. "remember, my boy," was the adjuration received by him as regularly as his waking cup of black coffee, "that none of your family line ever kept the laws of any government or creed." and if it was well that he should bear this in mind, it was well to reiterate it persistently, for, from the nurse's arms, the boy wore a look, not of docility so much as of gentle, _judicial_ benevolence. the domestics of the old man's house used to shed tears of laughter to see that look on the face of a babe. his rude guardian addressed himself to the modification of this facial expression; it had not enough of majesty in it, for instance, or of large dare-deviltry; but with care these could be made to come. and, true enough, at twenty-one (in ursin lemaitre), the labors of his grandfather were an apparent success. he was not rugged, nor was he loud-spoken, as his venerable trainer would have liked to present him to society; but he was as serenely terrible as a well-aimed rifle, and the old man looked upon his results with pride. he had cultivated him up to that pitch where he scorned to practise any vice, or any virtue, that did not include the principle of self-assertion. a few touches only were wanting here and there to achieve perfection, when suddenly the old man died. yet it was his proud satisfaction, before he finally lay down, to see ursin a favored companion and the peer, both in courtesy and pride, of those polished gentlemen famous in history, the brothers lafitte. the two lafittes were, at the time young lemaitre reached his majority (say or ), only merchant-blacksmiths, so to speak, a term intended to convey the idea of blacksmiths who never soiled their hands, who were men of capital, stood a little higher than the clergy, and moved in society among its autocrats. but they were full of possibilities, men of action, and men, too, of thought, with already a pronounced disbelief in the custom-house. in these days of big carnivals they would have been patented as the dukes of little manchac and barataria. young ursin lemaitre (in full the name was lemaitre-vignevielle) had not only the hearty friendship of these good people, but also a natural turn for accounts; and as his two friends were looking about them with an enterprising eye, it easily resulted that he presently connected himself with the blacksmithing profession. not exactly at the forge in the lafittes' famous smithy, among the african samsons, who, with their shining black bodies bared to the waist, made the rue st. pierre ring with the stroke of their hammers; but as a--there was no occasion to mince the word in those days--smuggler. smuggler--patriot--where was the difference? beyond the ken of a community to which the enforcement of the revenue laws had long been merely so much out of every man's pocket and dish, into the all-devouring treasury of spain. at this date they had come under a kinder yoke, and to a treasury that at least echoed when the customs were dropped into it; but the change was still new. what could a man be more than capitaine lemaitre was--the soul of honor, the pink of courtesy, with the courage of the lion, and the magnanimity of the elephant; frank--the very exchequer of truth! nay, go higher still: his paper was good in toulouse street. to the gossips in the gaming-clubs he was the culminating proof that smuggling was one of the sublimer virtues. years went by. events transpired which have their place in history. under a government which the community by and by saw was conducted in their interest, smuggling began to lose its respectability and to grow disreputable, hazardous, and debased. in certain onslaughts made upon them by officers of the law, some of the smugglers became murderers. the business became unprofitable for a time until the enterprising lafittes--thinkers--bethought them of a corrective--"privateering". thereupon the united states government set a price upon their heads. later yet it became known that these outlawed pirates had been offered money and rank by great britain if they would join her standard, then hovering about the water-approaches to their native city, and that they had spurned the bribe; wherefore their heads were ruled out of the market, and, meeting and treating with andrew jackson, they were received as lovers of their country, and as compatriots fought in the battle of new orleans at the head of their fearless men, and--here tradition takes up the tale--were never seen afterward. capitaine lemaitre was not among the killed or wounded, but he was among the missing. chapter iv. three friends. the roundest and happiest-looking priest in the city of new orleans was a little man fondly known among his people as père jerome. he was a creole and a member of one of the city's leading families. his dwelling was a little frame cottage, standing on high pillars just inside a tall, close fence, and reached by a narrow out-door stair from the green batten gate. it was well surrounded by crape myrtles, and communicated behind by a descending stair and a plank-walk with the rear entrance of the chapel over whose worshippers he daily spread his hands in benediction. the name of the street--ah! there is where light is wanting. save the cathedral and the ursulines, there is very little of record concerning churches at that time, though they were springing up here and there. all there is certainty of is that père jerome's frame chapel was some little new-born "down-town" thing, that may have survived the passage of years, or may have escaped "paxton's directory" "so as by fire." his parlor was dingy and carpetless; one could smell distinctly there the vow of poverty. his bed-chamber was bare and clean, and the bed in it narrow and hard; but between the two was a dining-room that would tempt a laugh to the lips of any who looked in. the table was small, but stout, and all the furniture of the room substantial, made of fine wood, and carved just enough to give the notion of wrinkling pleasantry. his mother's and sister's doing, père jerome would explain; they would not permit this apartment--or department--to suffer. therein, as well as in the parlor, there was odor, but of a more epicurean sort, that explained interestingly the père jerome's rotundity and rosy smile. in this room, and about this miniature round table, used sometimes to sit with père jerome two friends to whom he was deeply attached--one, evariste varrillat, a playmate from early childhood, now his brother in-law; the other, jean thompson, a companion from youngest manhood, and both, like the little priest himself, the regretful rememberers of a fourth comrade who was a comrade no more. like père jerome, they had come, through years, to the thick of life's conflicts,--the priest's brother-in-law a physician, the other an attorney, and brother-in-law to the lonely wanderer,--yet they loved to huddle around this small board, and be boys again in heart while men in mind. neither one nor another was leader. in earlier days they had always yielded to him who no longer met with them a certain chieftainship, and they still thought of him and talked of him, and, in their conjectures, groped after him, as one of whom they continued to expect greater things than of themselves. they sat one day drawn thus close together, sipping and theorizing, speculating upon the nature of things in an easy, bold, sophomoric way, the conversation for the most part being in french, the native tongue of the doctor and priest, and spoken with facility by jean thompson the lawyer, who was half américain; but running sometimes into english and sometimes into mild laughter. mention had been made of the absentee. père jerome advanced an idea something like this: "it is impossible for any finite mind to fix the degree of criminality of any human act or of any human life. the infinite one alone can know how much of our sin is chargeable to us, and how much to our brothers or our fathers. we all participate in one another's sins. there is a community of responsibility attaching to every misdeed. no human since adam--nay, nor adam himself--ever sinned entirely to himself. and so i never am called upon to contemplate a crime or a criminal but i feel my conscience pointing at me as one of the accessories." "in a word," said evariste varrillat, the physician, "you think we are partly to blame for the omission of many of your paternosters, eh?" father jerome smiled. "no; a man cannot plead so in his own defence; our first father tried that, but the plea was not allowed. but, now, there is our absent friend. i tell you truly this whole community ought to be recognized as partners in his moral errors. among another people, reared under wiser care and with better companions, how different might he not have been! how can we speak of him as a law-breaker who might have saved him from that name?" here the speaker turned to jean thompson, and changed his speech to english. "a lady sez to me to-day: 'père jerome, 'ow dat is a dreadfool dat 'e gone at de coas' of cuba to be one corsair! ain't it?' 'ah, madame,' i sez, ''tis a terrible! i 'ope de good god will fo'give me an' you fo' dat!'" jean thompson answered quickly: "you should not have let her say that." "_mais_, fo' w'y?" "why, because, if you are partly responsible, you ought so much the more to do what you can to shield his reputation. you should have said,"--the attorney changed to french,--"'he is no pirate; he has merely taken out letters of marque and reprisal under the flag of the republic of carthagena!'" "_ah, bah_!" exclaimed doctor varrillat, and both he and his brother-in-law, the priest, laughed. "why not?" demanded thompson. "oh!" said the physician, with a shrug, "say id thad way iv you wand." then, suddenly becoming serious, he was about to add something else, when père jerome spoke. "i will tell you what i could have said, i could have said: 'madame, yes; 'tis a terrible fo' him. he stum'le in de dark; but dat good god will mek it a _mo' terrible fo'_ dat man oohever he is, w'at put 'at light out!'" "but how do you know he is a pirate?" demanded thompson, aggressively. "how do we know?" said the little priest, returning to french. "ah! there is no other explanation of the ninety-and-nine stories that come to us, from every port where ships arrive from the north coast of cuba, of a commander of pirates there who is a marvel of courtesy and gentility"--[ ] [footnote : see gazettes of the period.] "and whose name is lafitte," said the obstinate attorney. "and who, nevertheless, is not lafitte," insisted père jerome. "daz troo, jean," said doctor varrillat. "we hall know daz troo." père jerome leaned forward over the board and spoke, with an air of secrecy, in french. "you have heard of the ship which came into port here last monday. you have heard that she was boarded by pirates, and that the captain of the ship himself drove them off." "an incredible story," said thompson. "but not so incredible as the truth. i have it from a passenger. there was on the ship a young girl who was very beautiful. she came on deck, where the corsair stood, about to issue his orders, and, more beautiful than ever in the desperation of the moment, confronted him with a small missal spread open, and her finger on the apostles' creed, commanded him to read. he read it, uncovering his head as he read, then stood gazing on her face, which did not quail; and then with a low bow, said: 'give me this book and i will do your bidding.' she gave him the book and bade him leave the ship, and he left it unmolested." père jerome looked from the physician to the attorney and back again, once or twice, with his dimpled smile. "but he speaks english, they say," said jean thompson. "he has, no doubt, learned it since he left us," said the priest. "but this ship-master, too, says his men called him lafitte." "lafitte? no. do you not see? it is your brother-in-law, jean thompson! it is your wife's brother! not lafitte, but" (softly) "lemaitre! lemaitre! capitaine ursin lemaitre!" the two guests looked at each other with a growing drollery on either face, and presently broke into a laugh. "ah!" said the doctor, as the three rose up, "you juz kip dad cog-an'-bull fo' yo' negs summon." père jerome's eyes lighted up-- "i goin' to do it!" "i tell you," said evariste, turning upon him with sudden gravity, "iv dad is troo, i tell you w'ad is sure-sure! ursin lemaitre din kyare nut'n fo' doze creed; _he fall in love!_" then, with a smile, turning to jean thompson, and back again to père jerome: "but anny'ow you tell it in dad summon dad 'e hyare fo' dad creed." père jerome sat up late that night, writing a letter. the remarkable effects upon a certain mind, effects which we shall presently find him attributing solely to the influences of surrounding nature, may find for some a more sufficient explanation in the fact that this letter was but one of a series, and that in the rover of doubted identity and incredible eccentricity père jerome had a regular correspondent. chapter v. the cap fits. about two months after the conversation just given, and therefore somewhere about the christmas holidays of the year , père jerome delighted the congregation of his little chapel with the announcement that he had appointed to preach a sermon in french on the following sabbath--not there, but in the cathedral. he was much beloved. notwithstanding that among the clergy there were two or three who shook their heads and raised their eyebrows, and said he would be at least as orthodox if he did not make quite so much of the bible and quite so little of the dogmas, yet "the common people heard him gladly." when told, one day, of the unfavorable whispers, he smiled a little and answered his informant,--whom he knew to be one of the whisperers himself,--laying a hand kindly upon his shoulder: "father murphy,"--or whatever the name was,--"your words comfort me." "how is that?" "because--_'voe quum benedixerint mihi homines!'_" [ ] [footnote : "woe unto me when all men speak well of me!"] the appointed morning, when it came, was one of those exquisite days in which there is such a universal harmony, that worship rises from the heart like a spring. "truly," said père jerome to the companion who was to assist him in the mass, "this is a sabbath day which we do not have to make holy, but only to _keep_ so." maybe it was one of the secrets of père jerome's success as a preacher, that he took more thought as to how he should feel, than as to what he should say. the cathedral of those days was called a very plain old pile, boasting neither beauty nor riches; but to père jerome it was very lovely; and before its homely altar, not homely to him, in the performance of those solemn offices, symbols of heaven's mightiest truths, in the hearing of the organ's harmonies, and the yet more elegant interunion of human voices in the choir, in overlooking the worshipping throng which knelt under the soft, chromatic lights, and in breathing the sacrificial odors of the chancel, he found a deep and solemn joy; and yet i guess the finest thought of his the while was one that came thrice and again: "be not deceived, père jerome, because saintliness of feeling is easy here; you are the same priest who overslept this morning, and over-ate yesterday, and will, in some way, easily go wrong to-morrow and the day after." he took it with him when--the _veni creator_ sung--he went into the pulpit. of the sermon he preached, tradition has preserved for us only a few brief sayings, but they are strong and sweet. "my friends," he said,--this was near the beginning,--"the angry words of god's book are very merciful--they are meant to drive us home; but the tender words, my friends, they are sometimes terrible! notice these, the tenderest words of the tenderest prayer that ever came from the lips of a blessed martyr--the dying words of the holy saint stephen, 'lord, lay not this sin to their charge.' is there nothing dreadful in that? read it thus: 'lord, lay not this sin to their charge.' not to the charge of them who stoned him? to whose charge then? go ask the holy saint paul. three years afterward, praying in the temple at jerusalem, he answered that question: 'i stood by and consented.' he answered for himself only; but the day must come when all that wicked council that sent saint stephen away to be stoned, and all that city of jerusalem, must hold up the hand and say: 'we, also, lord--we stood by.' ah! friends, under the simpler meaning of that dying saint's prayer for the pardon of his murderers is hidden the terrible truth that we all have a share in one another's sins." thus père jerome touched his key-note. all that time has spared us beside may be given in a few sentences. "ah!" he cried once, "if it were merely my own sins that i had to answer for, i might hold up my head before the rest of mankind; but no, no, my friends--we cannot look each other in the face, for each has helped the other to sin. oh, where is there any room, in this world of common disgrace, for pride? even if we had no common hope, a common despair ought to bind us together and forever silence the voice of scorn!" and again, this: "even in the promise to noë, not again to destroy the race with a flood, there is a whisper of solemn warning. the moral account of the antediluvians was closed off, and the balance brought down in the year of the deluge; but the account of those who come after runs on and on, and the blessed bow of promise itself warns us that god will not stop it till the judgment day! o god, i thank thee that that day must come at last, when thou wilt destroy the world, and stop the interest on my account!" it was about at this point that père jerome noticed, more particularly than he had done before, sitting among the worshippers near him, a small, sad-faced woman, of pleasing features, but dark and faded, who gave him profound attention. with her was another in better dress, seemingly a girl still in her teens, though her face and neck were scrupulously concealed by a heavy veil, and her hands, which were small, by gloves. "quadroones," thought he, with a stir of deep pity. once, as he uttered some stirring word, he saw the mother and daughter (if such they were), while they still bent their gaze upon him, clasp each other's hand fervently in the daughter's lap. it was at these words: "my friends, there are thousands of people in this city of new orleans to whom society gives the ten commandments of god with all the _nots_ rubbed out! ah! good gentlemen! if god sends the poor weakling to purgatory for leaving the right path, where ought some of you to go who strew it with thorns and briers!" the movement of the pair was only seen because he watched for it. he glanced that way again as he said: "o god, be very gentle with those children who would be nearer heaven this day had they never had a father and mother, but had got their religious training from such a sky and earth as we have in louisiana this holy morning! ah! my friends, nature is a big-print catechism!" the mother and daughter leaned a little farther forward, and exchanged the same spasmodic hand-pressure as before. the mother's eyes were full of tears. "i once knew a man," continued the little priest, glancing to a side aisle where he had noticed evariste and jean sitting against each other, "who was carefully taught, from infancy to manhood, this single only principle of life: defiance. not justice, not righteousness, not even gain; but defiance: defiance to god, defiance to man, defiance to nature, defiance to reason; defiance and defiance and defiance." "he is going to tell it!" murmured evariste to jean. "this man," continued père jerome, "became a smuggler and at last a pirate in the gulf of mexico. lord, lay not that sin to his charge alone! but a strange thing followed. being in command of men of a sort that to control required to be kept at the austerest distance, he now found himself separated from the human world and thrown into the solemn companionship with the sea, with the air, with the storm, the calm the heavens by day, the heavens by night. my friends, that was the first time in his life that he ever found himself in really good company. "now, this man had a great aptness for accounts. he had kept them--had rendered them. there was beauty, to him, in a correct, balanced, and closed account. an account unsatisfied was a deformity. the result is plain. that man, looking out night after night upon the grand and holy spectacle of the starry deep above and the watery deep below, was sure to find himself, sooner or later, mastered by the conviction that the great author of this majestic creation keeps account of it; and one night there came to him, like a spirit walking on the sea, the awful, silent question: 'my account with god--how does it stand?' ah! friends, that is a question which the book of nature does not answer. "did i say the book of nature is a catechism? yes. but, after it answers the first question with 'god,' nothing but questions follow; and so, one day, this man gave a ship full of merchandise for one little book which answered those questions. god help him to understand it! and god help you, monsieur, and you, madame, sitting here in your _smuggled clothes_, to beat upon the breast with me and cry, 'i, too, lord--i, too, stood by and consented.'" père jerome had not intended these for his closing words; but just there, straight away before his sight and almost at the farthest door, a man rose slowly from his seat and regarded him steadily with a kind, bronzed, sedate face, and the sermon, as if by a sign of command, was ended. while the credo was being chanted he was still there; but when, a moment after its close, the eye of père jerome returned in that direction, his place was empty. as the little priest, his labor done and his vestments changed, was turning into the rue royale and leaving the cathedral out of sight, he just had time to understand that two women were purposely allowing him to overtake them, when the one nearer him spoke in the creole _patois,_ saying, with some timid haste: "good-morning, père--père jerome; père jerome, we thank the good god for that sermon." "then, so do i," said the little man. they were the same two that he had noticed when he was preaching. the younger one bowed silently; she was a beautiful figure, but the slight effort of père jerome's kind eyes to see through the veil was vain. he would presently have passed on, but the one who had spoken before said: "i thought you lived in the rue des ursulines." "yes; but i am going this way to see a sick person." the woman looked up at him with an expression of mingled confidence and timidity. "it must be a blessed thing to be so useful as to be needed by the good god," she said. père jerome smiled: "god does not need me to look after his sick; but he allows me to do it, just as you let your little boy in frocks carry in chips." he might have added that he loved to do it, quite as much. it was plain the woman had somewhat to ask, and was trying to get courage to ask it. "you have a little boy?" asked the priest. "no, i have only my daughter;" she indicated the girl at her side. then she began to say something else, stopped, and with much nervousness asked: "père jerome, what was the name of that man?" "his name?" said the priest. "you wish to know his name?" "yes, monsieur" (or _miché_, as she spoke it); "it was such a beautiful story." the speaker's companion looked another way. "his name," said father jerome,--"some say one name and some another. some think it was jean lafitte, the famous; you have heard of him? and do you go to my church, madame----?" "no, miché; not in the past; but from this time, yes. my name"--she choked a little, and yet it evidently gave her pleasure to offer this mark of confidence--"is madame delphine--delphine carraze." chapter vi. a cry of distress. père jerome's smile and exclamation, as some days later he entered his parlor in response to the announcement of a visitor, were indicative of hearty greeting rather than surprise. "madame delphine!" yet surprise could hardly have been altogether absent, for though another sunday had not yet come around, the slim, smallish figure sitting in a corner, looking very much alone, and clad in dark attire, which seemed to have been washed a trifle too often, was delphine carraze on her second visit. and this, he was confident, was over and above an attendance in the confessional, where he was sure he had recognized her voice. she rose bashfully and gave her hand, then looked to the floor, and began a faltering speech, with a swallowing motion in the throat, smiled weakly and commenced again, speaking, as before, in a gentle, low note, frequently lifting up and casting down her eyes while shadows of anxiety and smiles of apology chased each other rapidly across her face. she was trying to ask his advice. "sit down," said he; and when they had taken seats she resumed, with downcast eyes: "you know,--probably i should have said this in the confessional, but"-- "no matter, madame delphine; i understand; you did not want an oracle, perhaps; you want a friend." she lifted her eyes, shining with tears, and dropped them again. "i"--she ceased. "i have done a"--she dropped her head and shook it despondingly--"a cruel thing." the tears rolled from her eyes as she turned away her face. père jerome remained silent, and presently she turned again, with the evident intention of speaking at length. "it began nineteen years ago--by"--her eyes, which she had lifted, fell lower than ever, her brow and neck were suffused with blushes, and she murmured--"i fell in love." she said no more, and by and by père jerome replied: "well, madame delphine, to love is the right of every soul. i believe in love. if your love was pure and lawful i am sure your angel guardian smiled upon you; and if it was not, i cannot say you have nothing to answer for, and yet i think god may have said 'she is a quadroone; all the rights of her womanhood trampled in the mire, sin made easy to her--almost compulsory,--charge it to account of whom it may concern.'" "no, no!" said madame delphine, looking up quickly, "some of it might fall upon"--her eyes fell, and she commenced biting her lips and nervously pinching little folds in her skirt. "he was good--as good as the law would let him be--better, indeed, for he left me property, which really the strict law does not allow. he loved our little daughter very much. he wrote to his mother and sisters, owning all his error and asking them to take the child and bring her up. i sent her to them when he died, which was soon after, and did not see my child for sixteen years. but we wrote to each other all the time, and she loved me. and then--at last"--madame delphine ceased speaking, but went on diligently with her agitated fingers, turning down foolish hems lengthwise of her lap. "at last your mother-heart conquered," said père jerome. she nodded. "the sisters married, the mother died; i saw that even where she was she did not escape the reproach of her birth and blood, and when she asked me to let her come"--the speaker's brimming eyes rose an instant. "i know it was wicked, but--i said, come." the tears dripped through her hands upon her dress. "was it she who was with you last sunday?" "yes." "and now you do not know what to do with her?" "_ah! c'est ça oui_!--that is it." "does she look like you, madame delphine?" "oh, thank god", no! you would never believe she was my daughter, she is white and beautiful!" "you thank god for that which is your main difficulty, madame delphine." "alas! yes." père jerome laid his palms tightly across his knees with his arms bowed out, and fixed his eyes upon the ground, pondering. "i suppose she is a sweet, good daughter?" said he, glancing at madame delphine, without changing his attitude. her answer was to raise her eyes rapturously. "which gives us the dilemma in its fullest force," said the priest, speaking as if to the floor. "she has no more place than if she had dropped upon a strange planet." he suddenly looked up with a brightness which almost as quickly passed away, and then he looked down again. his happy thought was the cloister; but he instantly said to himself: "they cannot have overlooked that choice, except intentionally--which they have a right to do." he could do nothing but shake his head. "and suppose you should suddenly die," he said; he wanted to get at once to the worst. the woman made a quick gesture, and buried her head in her handkerchief, with the stifled cry: "oh, olive, my daughter!" "well, madame delphine," said père jerome, more buoyantly, "one thing is sure: we _must_ find a way out of this trouble." "ah!" she exclaimed, looking heavenward, "if it might be!" "but it must be!" said the priest. "but how shall it be?" asked the desponding woman. "ah!" said père jerome, with a shrug, "god knows." "yes," said the quadroone, with a quick sparkle in her gentle eye; "and i know, if god would tell anybody, he would tell you!" the priest smiled and rose. "do you think so? well, leave me to think of it. i will ask him." "and he will tell you!" she replied. "and he will bless you!" she rose and gave her hand. as she withdrew it she smiled. "i had such a strange dream," she said, backing toward the door. "yes?" "yes. i got my troubles all mixed up with your sermon. i dreamed i made that pirate the guardian of my daughter." père jerome smiled also, and shrugged. "to you, madame delphine, as you are placed, every white man in this country, on land or on water, is a pirate, and of all pirates, i think that one is, without doubt, the best." "without doubt," echoed madame delphine, wearily, still withdrawing backward. père jerome stepped forward and opened the door. the shadow of some one approaching it from without fell upon the threshold, and a man entered, dressed in dark blue cottonade, lifting from his head a fine panama hat, and from a broad, smooth brow, fair where the hat had covered it, and dark below, gently stroking back his very soft, brown locks. madame delphine slightly started aside, while père jerome reached silently, but eagerly, forward, grasped a larger hand than his own, and motioned its owner to a seat. madame delphine's eyes ventured no higher than to discover that the shoes of the visitor were of white duck. "well, père jerome," she said, in a hurried undertone, "i am just going to say hail marys all the time till you find that out for me!" "well, i hope that will be soon, madame carraze. good-day, madame carraze." and as she departed, the priest turned to the newcomer and extended both hands, saying, in the same familiar dialect in which he had been addressing the quadroone: "well-a-day, old playmate! after so many years!" they sat down side by side, like husband and wife, the priest playing with the other's hand, and talked of times and seasons past, often mentioning evariste and often jean. madame delphine stopped short half-way home and returned to père jerome's. his entry door was wide open and the parlor door ajar. she passed through the one and with downcast eyes was standing at the other, her hand lifted to knock, when the door was drawn open and the white duck shoes passed out. she saw, besides, this time the blue cottonade suit. "yes," the voice of père jerome was saying, as his face appeared in the door--"ah! madame"-- "i lef' my para_sol_," said madame delphine, in english. there was this quiet evidence of a defiant spirit hidden somewhere down under her general timidity, that, against a fierce conventional prohibition, she wore a bonnet instead of the turban of her caste, and carried a parasol. père jerome turned and brought it. he made a motion in the direction in which the late visitor had disappeared. "madame delphine, you saw dat man?" "not his face." "you couldn' billieve me iv i tell you w'at dat man purpose to do!" "is dad so, père jerome?" "he's goin' to hopen a bank!" "ah!" said madame delphine, seeing she was expected to be astonished. père jerome evidently longed to tell something that was best kept secret; he repressed the impulse, but his heart had to say something. he threw forward one hand and looking pleasantly at madame delphine, with his lips dropped apart, clenched his extended hand and thrusting it toward the ground, said in a solemn undertone: "he is god's own banker, madame delphine." chapter vii. michÉ vignevielle. madame delphine sold one of the corner lots of her property. she had almost no revenue, and now and then a piece had to go. as a consequence of the sale, she had a few large bank-notes sewed up in her petticoat, and one day--maybe a fortnight after her tearful interview with père jerome--she found it necessary to get one of these changed into small money. she was in the rue toulouse, looking from one side to the other for a bank which was not in that street at all, when she noticed a small sign hanging above a door, bearing the name "vignevielle." she looked in. père jerome had told her (when she had gone to him to ask where she should apply for change) that if she could only wait a few days, there would be a new concern opened in toulouse street,--it really seemed as if vignevielle was the name, if she could judge; it looked to be, and it was, a private banker's,--"u.l. vignevielle's," according to a larger inscription which met her eyes as she ventured in. behind the counter, exchanging some last words with a busy-mannered man outside, who, in withdrawing, seemed bent on running over madame delphine, stood the man in blue cottonade, whom she had met in père jerome's doorway. now, for the first time, she saw his face, its strong, grave, human kindness shining softly on each and every bronzed feature. the recognition was mutual. he took pains to speak first, saying, in a re-assuring tone, and in the language he had last heard her use: "'ow i kin serve you, madame?" "iv you pliz, to mague dad bill change, miché." she pulled from her pocket a wad of dark cotton handkerchief, from which she began to untie the imprisoned note. madame delphine had an uncommonly sweet voice, and it seemed so to strike monsieur vignevielle. he spoke to her once or twice more, as he waited on her, each time in english, as though he enjoyed the humble melody of its tone, and presently, as she turned to go, he said: "madame carraze!" she started a little, but bethought herself instantly that he had heard her name in père jerome's parlor. the good father might even have said a few words about her after her first departure; he had such an overflowing heart. "madame carraze," said monsieur vignevielle, "doze kine of note wad you '_an_' me juz now is bein' contrefit. you muz tek kyah from doze kine of note. you see"--he drew from his cash-drawer a note resembling the one he had just changed for her, and proceeded to point out certain tests of genuineness. the counterfeit, he said, was so and so. "bud," she exclaimed, with much dismay, "dad was de manner of my bill! id muz be--led me see dad bill wad i give you,--if you pliz, miché." monsieur vigneville turned to engage in conversation with an employé and a new visitor, and gave no sign of hearing madame delphine's voice. she asked a second time, with like result, lingered timidly, and as he turned to give his attention to a third visitor, reiterated: "miché vignevielle, i wizh you pliz led"-- "madame carraze," he said, turning so suddenly as to make the frightened little woman start, but extending his palm with a show of frankness, and assuming a look of benignant patience, "'ow i kin fine doze note now, mongs' all de rez? iv you p'iz nod to mague me doze troub'." the dimmest shadow of a smile seemed only to give his words a more kindly authoritative import, and as he turned away again with a manner suggestive of finality, madame delphine found no choice but to depart. but she went away loving the ground beneath the feet of monsieur u.l. vignevielle. "oh, père jerome!" she exclaimed in the corrupt french of her caste, meeting the little father on the street a few days later, "you told the truth that day in your parlor. _mo conné li à c't heure_. i know him now; he is just what you called him." "why do you not make him _your_ banker, also, madame delphine?" "i have done so this very day!" she replied, with more happiness in her eyes than père jerome had ever before seen there. "madame delphine," he said, his own eyes sparkling, "make _him_ your daughter's guardian; for myself, being a priest, it would not be best; but ask him; i believe he will not refuse you." madame delphine's face grew still brighter as he spoke. "it was in my mind," she said. yet to the timorous madame delphine many trifles became, one after another, an impediment to the making of this proposal, and many weeks elapsed before further delay was positively without excuse. but at length, one day in may, , in a small private office behind monsieur vignevielle's banking-room,--he sitting beside a table, and she, more timid and demure than ever, having just taken a chair by the door,--she said, trying, with a little bashful laugh, to make the matter seem unimportant, and yet with some tremor of voice: "miché vignevielle, i bin maguing my will." (having commenced their acquaintance in english, they spoke nothing else.) "'tis a good idy," responded the banker. "i kin mague you de troub' to kib dad will fo' me miché vignevielle?" "yez." she looked up with grateful re-assurance; but her eyes dropped again as she said: "miché vignevielle"--here she choked, and began her peculiar motion of laying folds in the skirt of her dress, with trembling fingers. she lifted her eyes, and as they met the look of deep and placid kindness that was in his face, some courage returned, and she said: "miché." "wad you wand?" asked he, gently. "if it arrive to me to die"-- "yez?" her words were scarcely audible: "i wand you teg kyah my lill' girl." "you 'ave one lill' gal, madame carraze?" she nodded with her face down. "an' you godd some mo' chillen?" "no." "i nevva know dad, madame carraze. she's a lill small gal?" mothers forget their daughters' stature. madame delphine said: "yez." for a few moments neither spoke, and then monsieur vignevielle said: "i will do dad." "lag she been you' h-own?" asked the mother, suffering from her own boldness. "she's a good lill' chile, eh?" "miché, she's a lill' hangel!" exclaimed madame delphine, with a look of distress. "yez; i teg kyah 'v 'er, lag my h-own. i mague you dad promise." "but"--there was something still in the way, madame delphine seemed to think. the banker waited in silence. "i suppose you will want to see my lill' girl?" he smiled; for she looked at him as if she would implore him to decline. "oh, i tek you' word fo' hall dad, madame carraze. it mague no differend wad she loog lag; i don' wan' see 'er." madame delphine's parting smile--she went very shortly--was gratitude beyond speech. monsieur vignevielle returned to the seat he had left, and resumed a newspaper,--the _louisiana gazette_ in all probability,--which he had laid down upon madame delphine's entrance. his eyes fell upon a paragraph which had previously escaped his notice. there they rested. either he read it over and over unwearyingly, or he was lost in thought. jean thompson entered. "now," said mr. thompson, in a suppressed tone bending a little across the table, and laying one palm upon a package of papers which lay in the other, "it is completed. you could retire, from your business any day inside of six hours without loss to anybody." (both here and elsewhere, let it be understood that where good english is given the words were spoken in good french.) monsieur vignevielle raised his eyes and extended the newspaper to the attorney, who received it and read the paragraph. its substance was that a certain vessel of the navy had returned from a cruise in the gulf of mexico and straits of florida, where she had done valuable service against the pirates--having, for instance, destroyed in one fortnight in january last twelve pirate vessels afloat, two on the stocks, and three establishments ashore. "united states brig _porpoise_" repeated jean thompson. "do you know her?" "we are acquainted," said monsieur vignevielle. chapter viii she. a quiet footstep, a grave new presence on financial sidewalks, a neat garb slightly out of date, a gently strong and kindly pensive face, a silent bow, a new sign in the rue toulouse, a lone figure with a cane, walking in meditation in the evening light under the willows of canal marigny, a long-darkened window re-lighted in the rue conti--these were all; a fall of dew would scarce have been more quiet than was the return of ursin lemaitre-vignevielle to the precincts of his birth and early life. but we hardly give the event its right name. it was capitaine lemaìtre who had disappeared; it was monsieur vignevielle who had come back. the pleasures, the haunts, the companions, that had once held out their charms to the impetuous youth, offered no enticements to madame delphine's banker. there is this to be said even for the pride his grandfather had taught him, that it had always hald him above low indulgences; and though he had dallied with kings, queens, and knaves through all the mazes of faro, rondeau, and craps, he had done it loftily; but now he maintained a peaceful estrangement from all. evariste and jean, themselves, found him only by seeking. "it is the right way," he said to père jerome, the day we saw him there. "ursin lemaìtre is dead. i have buried him. he left a will. i am his executor." "he is crazy," said his lawyer brother-in-law, impatiently. "on the contr-y," replied the little priest, "'e 'as come ad hisse'f." evariste spoke. "look at his face, jean. men with that kind of face are the last to go crazy." "you have not proved that," replied jean, with an attorney's obstinacy. "you should have heard him talk the other day about that newspaper paragraph i have taken ursin lemaitre's head; i have it with me; i claim the reward, but i desire to commute it to citizenship.' he is crazy." of course jean thompson did not believe what he said; but he said it, and, in his vexation, repeated it, on the _banquettes_ and at the clubs; and presently it took the shape of a sly rumor, that the returned rover was a trifle snarled in his top-hamper. this whisper was helped into circulation by many trivial eccentricities of manner, and by the unaccountable oddness of some of his transactions in business. "my dear sir!" cried his astounded lawyer, one day, "you are not running a charitable institution!" "how do you know?" said monsieur vignevielle. there the conversation ceased. "why do you not found hospitals and asylums at once," asked the attorney, at another time, with a vexed laugh, "and get the credit of it?" "and make the end worse than the beginning,' said the banker, with a gentle smile, turning away to a desk of books. "bah!" muttered jean thompson. monsieur vignevielle betrayed one very bad symptom. wherever he went he seemed looking for somebody. it may have been perceptible only to those who were sufficiently interested in him to study his movements; but those who saw it once saw it always. he never passed an open door or gate but he glanced in; and often, where it stood but slightly ajar, you might see him give it a gentle push with his hand or cane it was very singular. he walked much alone after dark. the _gurchinangoes_ (garroters, we might say), at those times the city's particular terror by night, never crossed his path. he was one of those men for whom danger appears to stand aside. one beautiful summer night, when all nature seemed hushed in ecstasy, the last blush gone that told of the sun's parting, monsieur vignevielle, in the course of one of those contemplative, uncompanioned walks which it was his habit to take, came slowly along the more open portion of the rue royale, with a step which was soft without intention, occasionally touching the end of his stout cane gently to the ground and looking upward among his old acquaintances, the stars. it was one of those southern nights under whose spell all the sterner energies of the mind cloak themselves and lie down in bivouac, and the fancy and the imagination, that cannot sleep, slip their fetters and escape, beckoned away from behind every flowering bush and sweet-smelling tree, and every stretch of lonely, half-lighted walk, by the genius of poetry. the air stirred softly now and then, and was still again, as if the breezes lifted their expectant pinions and lowered them once more, awaiting the rising of the moon in a silence which fell upon the fields, the roads, the gardens, the walls, and the suburban and half-suburban streets, like a pause in worship. and anon she rose. monsieur vignevielle's steps were bent toward the more central part of the town, and he was presently passing along a high, close, board-fence, on the right hand side of the way, when, just within this enclosure, and almost overhead, in the dark boughs of a large orange-tree, a mocking-bird began the first low flute-notes of his all-night song. it may have been only the nearness of the songster that attracted the passer's attention, but he paused and looked up. and then he remarked something more,--that the air where he had stopped was filled with the overpowering sweetness of the night-jasmine. he looked around; it could only be inside the fence. there was a gate just there. would he push it, as his wont was? the grass was growing about it in a thick turf, as though the entrance had not been used for years. an iron staple clasped the cross-bar, and was driven deep into the gate-post. but now an eye that had been in the blacksmithing business--an eye which had later received high training as an eye for fastenings--fell upon that staple, and saw at a glance that the wood had shrunk from it, and it had sprung from its hold, though without falling out. the strange habit asserted itself; he laid his large hand upon the cross-bar; the turf at the base yielded, and the tall gate was drawn partly open. at that moment, as at the moment whenever he drew or pushed a door or gate, or looked in at a window, he was thinking of one, the image of whose face and form had never left his inner vision since the day it had met him in his life's path and turned him face about from the way of destruction. the bird ceased. the cause of the interruption, standing within the opening, saw before him, much obscured by its own numerous shadows, a broad, ill-kept, many-flowered garden, among whose untrimmed rose-trees and tangled vines, and often, also, in its old walks of pounded shell, the coco-grass and crab-grass had spread riotously, and sturdy weeds stood up in bloom. he stepped in and drew the gate to after him. there, very near by, was the clump of jasmine, whose ravishing odor had tempted him. it stood just beyond a brightly moonlit path, which turned from him in a curve toward the residence, a little distance to the right, and escaped the view at a point where it seemed more than likely a door of the house might open upon it. while he still looked, there fell upon his ear, from around that curve, a light footstep on the broken shells--one only, and then all was for a moment still again. had he mistaken? no. the same soft click was repeated nearer by, a pale glimpse of robes came through the tangle, and then, plainly to view, appeared an outline--a presence--a form--a spirit--a girl! from throat to instep she was as white as cynthia. something above the medium height, slender, lithe, her abundant hair rolling in dark, rich waves back from her brows and down from her crown, and falling in two heavy plaits beyond her round, broadly girt waist and full to her knees, a few escaping locks eddying lightly on her graceful neck and her temples,--her arms, half hid in a snowy mist of sleeve, let down to guide her spotless skirts free from the dewy touch of the grass,--straight down the path she came! will she stop? will she turn aside? will she espy the dark form in the deep shade of the orange, and, with one piercing scream, wheel and vanish? she draws near. she approaches the jasmine; she raises her arms, the sleeves falling like a vapor down to the shoulders; rises upon tiptoe, and plucks a spray. o memory! can it be? _can it be_? is this his quest, or is it lunacy? the ground seems to monsieur vignevielle the unsteady sea, and he to stand once more on a deck. and she? as she is now, if she but turn toward the orange, the whole glory of the moon will shine upon her face. his heart stands still; he is waiting for her to do that. she reaches up again; this time a bunch for her mother. that neck and throat! now she fastens a spray in her hair. the mockingbird cannot withhold; he breaks into song--she turns--she turns her face--it is she, it is she! madame delphine's daughter is the girl he met on the ship. chapter ix. olive she was just passing seventeen--that beautiful year when the heart of the maiden still beats quickly with the surprise of her new dominion, while with gentle dignity her brow accepts the holy coronation of womanhood. the forehead and temples beneath her loosely bound hair were fair without paleness, and meek without languor. she had the soft, lack-lustre beauty of the south; no ruddiness of coral, no waxen white, no pink of shell; no heavenly blue in the glance; but a face that seemed, in all its other beauties, only a tender accompaniment for the large, brown, melting eyes, where the openness of child-nature mingled dreamily with the sweet mysteries of maiden thought. we say no color of shell on face or throat; but this was no deficiency, that which took its place being the warm, transparent tint of sculptured ivory. this side doorway which led from madame delphine's house into her garden was over-arched partly by an old remnant of vine-covered lattice, and partly by a crape-myrtle, against whose small, polished trunk leaned a rustic seat. here madame delphine and olive loved to sit when the twilights were balmy or the moon was bright. "_chérie_," said madame delphine on one of those evenings, "why do you dream so much?" she spoke in the _patois_ most natural to her, and which her daughter had easily learned. the girl turned her face to her mother, and smiled, then dropped her glance to the hands in her own lap; which were listlessly handling the end of a ribbon. the mother looked at her with fond solicitude. her dress was white again; this was but one night since that in which monsieur vignevielle had seen her at the bush of night-jasmine. he had not been discovered, but had gone away, shutting the gate, and leaving it as he had found it. her head was uncovered. its plaited masses, quite black in the moonlight, hung down and coiled upon the bench, by her side. her chaste drapery was of that revived classic order which the world of fashion was again laying aside to re-assume the medaeval bondage of the staylace; for new orleans was behind the fashionable world, and madame delphine and her daughter were behind new orleans. a delicate scarf, pale blue, of lightly netted worsted, fell from either shoulder down beside her hands. the look that was bent upon her changed perforce to one of gentle admiration. she seemed the goddess of the garden. olive glanced up. madame delphine was not prepared for the movement, and on that account repeated her question: "what are you thinking about?" the dreamer took the hand that was laid upon hers between her own palms, bowed her head, and gave them a soft kiss. the mother submitted. wherefore, in the silence which followed, a daughter's conscience felt the burden of having withheld an answer, and olive presently said, as the pair sat looking up into the sky: "i was thinking of père jerome's sermon." madame delphine had feared so. olive had lived on it ever since the day it was preached. the poor mother was almost ready to repent having ever afforded her the opportunity of hearing it. meat and drink had become of secondary value to her daughter; she fed upon the sermon. olive felt her mother's thought and knew that her mother knew her own; but now that she had confessed, she would ask a question: "do you think, _maman_, that père jerome knows it was i who gave that missal?" "no," said madame delphine, "i am sure he does not." another question came more timidly: "do--do you think he knows _him_?" "yes, i do. he said in his sermon he did." both remained for a long time very still, watching the moon gliding in and through among the small dark-and-white clouds. at last the daughter spoke again. "i wish i was père--i wish i was as good as père jerome." "my child," said madame delphine, her tone betraying a painful summoning of strength to say what she had lacked the courage to utter,--"my child, i pray the good god you will not let your heart go after one whom you may never see in this world!" the maiden turned her glance, and their eyes met. she cast her arms about her mother's neck, laid her cheek upon it for a moment, and then, feeling the maternal tear, lifted her lips, and, kissing her, said: "i will not! i will not!" but the voice was one, not of willing consent, but of desperate resolution. "it would be useless, anyhow," said the mother, laying her arm around her daughter's waist. olive repeated the kiss, prolonging it passionately. "i have nobody but you," murmured the girl; "i am a poor quadroone!" she threw back her plaited hair for a third embrace, when a sound in the shrubbery startled them. "_qui ci pa?_" called madame delphine, in a frightened voice, as the two stood up, holding to each other. no answer. "it was only the dropping of a twig," she whispered, after a long holding of the breath. but they went into the house and barred it everywhere. it was no longer pleasant to sit up. they retired, and in course of time, but not soon, they fell asleep, holding each other very tight, and fearing, even in their dreams, to hear another twig fall. chapter x. birds. monsieur vigneville looked in at no more doors or windows; but if the disappearance of this symptom was a favorable sign, others came to notice which were especially bad,--for instance, wakefulness. at well-nigh any hour of the night, the city guard, which itself dared not patrol singly, would meet him on his slow, unmolested, sky-gazing walk. "seems to enjoy it," said jean thompson; "the worst sort of evidence. if he showed distress of mind, it would not be so bad; but his calmness,--ugly feature." the attorney had held his ground so long that he began really to believe it was tenable. by day, it is true, monsieur vignevielle was at his post in his quiet "bank." yet here, day by day, he was the source of more and more vivid astonishment to those who held preconceived notions of a banker's calling. as a banker, at least, he was certainly out of balance; while as a promenader, it seemed to those who watched him that his ruling idea had now veered about, and that of late he was ever on the quiet alert, not to find, but to evade, somebody. "olive, my child," whispered madame delphine one morning, as the pair were kneeling side by side on the tiled floor of the church, "yonder is miché vignevielle! if you will only look at once--he is just passing a little in--ah, much too slow again; he stepped out by the side door." the mother thought it a strange providence that monsieur vignevielle should always be disappearing whenever olive was with her. one early dawn, madame delphine, with a small empty basket on her arm, stepped out upon the _banquette_ in front of her house, shut and fastened the door very softly, and stole out in the direction whence you could faintly catch, in the stillness of the daybreak, the songs of the gascon butchers and the pounding of their meat-axes on the stalls of the distant market-house. she was going to see if she could find some birds for olive,--the child's appetite was so poor; and, as she was out, she would drop an early prayer at the cathedral. faith and works. "one must venture something, sometimes, in the cause of religion," thought she, as she started timorously on her way. but she had not gone a dozen steps before she repented her temerity. there was some one behind her. there should not be any thing terrible in a footstep merely because it is masculine; but madame delphine's mind was not prepared to consider that. a terrible secret was haunting her. yesterday morning she had found a shoe-track in the garden. she had not disclosed the discovery to olive, but she had hardly closed her eyes the whole night. the step behind her now might be the fall of that very shoe. she quickened her pace, but did not leave the sound behind. she hurried forward almost at a run; yet it was still there--no farther, no nearer. two frights were upon her at once--one for herself, another for olive, left alone in the house; but she had but the one prayer--"god protect my child!" after a fearful time she reached a place of safety, the cathedral. there, panting, she knelt long enough to know the pursuit was, at least, suspended, and then arose, hoping and praying all the saints that she might find the way clear for her return in all haste to olive. she approached a different door from that by which she had entered, her eyes in all directions and her heart in her throat. "madame carraze." she started wildly and almost screamed, though the voice was soft and mild. monsieur vignevielle came slowly forward from the shade of the wall. they met beside a bench, upon which she dropped her basket. "ah, miché vignevielle, i thang de good god to mid you!" "is dad so, madame carraze? fo' w'y dad is?" "a man was chase me all dad way since my 'ouse!" "yes, madame, i sawed him." "you sawed 'im? oo it was?" "'twas only one man wad is a foolizh. de people say he's crezzie. _mais_, he don' goin' to meg you no 'arm." "but i was scare' fo' my lill' girl." "noboddie don' goin' trouble you' lill' gal, madame carraze." madame delphine looked up into the speaker's strangely kind and patient eyes, and drew sweet reassurance from them. "madame," said monsieur vignevielle, "wad pud you bout so hearly dis morning?" she told him her errand. she asked if he thought she would find any thing. "yez," he said, "it was possible--a few lill' _bécassines-de-mer_, ou somezin' ligue. but fo' w'y you lill' gal lose doze hapetide?" "ah, miché,"--madame delphine might have tried a thousand times again without ever succeeding half so well in lifting the curtain upon the whole, sweet, tender, old, old-fashioned truth,--"ah, miché, she wone tell me!" "bud, anny'ow, madame, wad you thing?" "miché," she replied, looking up again with a tear standing in either eye, and then looking down once more as she began to speak, "i thing--i thing she's lonesome." "you thing?" she nodded. "ah! madame carraze," he said, partly extending his hand, "you see? 'tis impossible to mague you' owze shud so tighd to priv-en dad. madame, i med one mizteg." "ah, _non_, miché!" "yez. there har nod one poss'bil'ty fo' me to be dad guardian of you' daughteh!" madame delphine started with surprise and alarm. "there is ondly one wad can be," he continued. "but oo, miché?" "god." "ah, miché vignevielle"--she looked at him appealingly. "i don' goin' to dizzerd you, madame carraze," he said. she lifted her eyes. they filled. she shook her head, a tear fell, she bit her lip, smiled, and suddenly dropped her face into both hands, sat down upon the bench and wept until she shook. "you dunno wad i mean, madame carraze?" she did not know. "i mean dad guardian of you' daughteh godd to fine 'er now one 'uzban'; an' noboddie are hable to do dad egceb de good god 'imsev. but, madame, i tell you wad i do." she rose up. he continued: "go h-open you' owze; i fin' you' daughteh dad uzban'." madame delphine was a helpless, timid thing; but her eyes showed she was about to resent this offer. monsieur vignevielle put forth his hand--it touched her shoulder--and said, kindly still, and without eagerness: "one w'ite man, madame: 'tis prattycabble. i know 'tis prattycabble. one w'ite jantleman, madame. you can truz me. i goin' fedge 'im. h-ondly you go h-open you' owze." madame delphine looked down, twining her handkerchief among her fingers. he repeated his proposition. "you will come firz by you'se'f?" she asked. "iv you wand." she lifted up once more her eye of faith. that was her answer. "come," he said, gently, "i wan' sen' some bird ad you' lill' gal." and they went away, madame delphine's spirit grown so exaltedly bold that she said as they went, though a violent blush followed her words: "miché vignevielle, i thing père jerome mighd be ab'e to tell you someboddie." chapter xi. face to face. madame delphine found her house neither burned nor rifled. "_ah! ma, piti sans popa_! ah i my little fatherless one!" her faded bonnet fell back between her shoulders, hanging on by the strings, and her dropped basket, with its "few lill' _bécassines-de-mer_" dangling from the handle, rolled out its okra and soup-joint upon the floor. "_ma piti_! kiss!--kiss!--kiss!" "but is it good news you have, or bad?" cried the girl, a fourth or fifth time. "_dieu sait, ma cère; mo pas conné!_"--god knows, my darling; i cannot tell! the mother dropped into a chair, covered her face with her apron, and burst into tears, then looked up with an effort to smile, and wept afresh. "what have you been doing?" asked the daughter, in a long-drawn, fondling tone. she leaned forward and unfastened her mother's bonnet-strings. "why do you cry?" "for nothing at all, my darling; for nothing--i am such a fool." the girl's eyes filled. the mother looked up into her face and said: "no, it is nothing, nothing, only that"--turning her head from side to side with a slow, emotional emphasis, "miché vignevielle is the best--_best_ man on the good lord's earth!" olive drew a chair close to her mother, sat down and took the little yellow hands into her own white lap, and looked tenderly into her eyes. madame delphine felt herself yielding; she must make a show of telling something: "he sent you those birds!" the girl drew her face back a little. the little woman turned away, trying in vain to hide her tearful smile, and they laughed together, olive mingling a daughter's fond kiss with her laughter. "there is something else," she said, "and you shall tell me." "yes," replied madame delphine, "only let me get composed." but she did not get so. later in the morning she came to olive with the timid yet startling proposal that they would do what they could to brighten up the long-neglected front room. olive was mystified and troubled, but consented, and thereupon the mother's spirits rose. the work began, and presently ensued all the thumping, the trundling, the lifting and letting down, the raising and swallowing of dust, and the smells of turpentine, brass, pumice and woollen rags that go to characterize a housekeeper's _émeute_; and still, as the work progressed, madame delphine's heart grew light, and her little black eyes sparkled. "we like a clean parlor, my daughter, even though no one is ever coming to see us, eh?" she said, as entering the apartment she at last sat down, late in the afternoon. she had put on her best attire. olive was not there to reply. the mother called but got no answer. she rose with an uneasy heart, and met her a few steps beyond the door that opened into the garden, in a path which came up from an old latticed bower. olive was approaching slowly, her face pale and wild. there was an agony of hostile dismay in the look, and the trembling and appealing tone with which, taking the frightened mother's cheeks between her palms, she said: "_ah! ma mère, qui vini 'ci ce soir_?"--who is coming here this evening? "why, my dear child, i was just saying, we like a clean"-- but the daughter was desperate: "oh, tell me, my mother, _who_ is coming?" "my darling, it is our blessed friend, miché vignevielle!" "to see me?" cried the girl. "yes." "oh, my mother, what have you done?" "why, olive, my child," exclaimed the little mother, bursting into tears, "do you forget it is miché vignevielle who has promised to protect you when i die?" the daughter had turned away, and entered the door; but she faced around again, and extending her arms toward her mother, cried: "how can--he is a white man--i am a poor"-- "ah! _chérie_," replied madame delphine, seizing the outstretched hands, "it is there--it is there that he shows himself the best man alive! he sees that difficulty; he proposes to meet it; he says he will find you a suitor!" olive freed her hands violently, motioned her mother back, and stood proudly drawn up, flashing an indignation too great for speech; but the next moment she had uttered a cry, and was sobbing on the floor. the mother knelt beside her and threw an arm about her shoulders. "oh, my sweet daughter, you must not cry! i did not want to tell you at all! i did not want to tell you! it isn't fair for you to cry so hard. miché vignevielle says you shall have the one you wish, or none at all, olive, or none at all." "none at all! none at all! none, none, none!" "no, no, olive," said the mother, "none at all. he brings none with him to-night, and shall bring none with him hereafter." olive rose suddenly, silently declined her mother's aid, and went alone to their chamber in the half-story. madame delphine wandered drearily from door to window, from window to door, and presently into the newly-furnished front room which now seemed dismal beyond degree. there was a great argand lamp in one corner. how she had labored that day to prepare it for evening illumination! a little beyond it, on the wall, hung a crucifix. she knelt under it, with her eyes fixed upon it, and thus silently remained until its outline was indistinguishable in the deepening shadows of evening. she arose. a few minutes later, as she was trying to light the lamp, an approaching step on the sidewalk seemed to pause. her heart stood still. she softly laid the phosphorus-box out of her hands. a shoe grated softly on the stone step, and madame delphine, her heart beating in great thuds, without waiting for a knock, opened the door, bowed low, and exclaimed in a soft perturbed voice: "miché vignevielle!" he entered, hat in hand, and with that almost noiseless tread which we have noticed. she gave him a chair and closed the door; then hastened, with words of apology, back to her task of lighting the lamp. but her hands paused in their work again,--olive's step was on the stairs; then it came off the stairs; then it was in the next room, and then there was the whisper of soft robes, a breath of gentle perfume, and a snowy figure in the door. she was dressed for the evening. "maman?" madame delphine was struggling desperately with the lamp, and at that moment it responded with a tiny bead of light. "i am here, my daughter." she hastened to the door, and olive, all unaware of a third presence, lifted her white arms, laid them about her mother's neck, and, ignoring her effort to speak, wrested a fervent kiss from her lips. the crystal of the lamp sent out a faint gleam; it grew; it spread on every side; the ceiling, the walls lighted up; the crucifix, the furniture of the room came back into shape. "maman!" cried olive, with a tremor of consternation. "it is miché vignevielle, my daughter"-- the gloom melted swiftly away before the eyes of the startled maiden, a dark form stood out against the farther wall, and the light, expanding to the full, shone clearly upon the unmoving figure and quiet face of capitaine lemaitre. chapter xii. the mother bird. one afternoon, some three weeks after capitaine lemaitre had called on madame delphine, the priest started to make a pastoral call and had hardly left the gate of his cottage, when a person, overtaking him, plucked his gown: "père jerome"-- he turned. the face that met his was so changed with excitement and distress that for an instant he did not recognize it. "why, madame delphine"-- "oh, père jerome! i wan' see you so bad, so bad! _mo oulé dit quiç'ose_,--i godd some' to tell you." the two languages might be more successful than one, she seemed to think. "we had better go back to my parlor," said the priest, in their native tongue. they returned madame delphine's very step was altered,--nervous and inelastic. she swung one arm as she walked, and brandished a turkey-tail fan. "i was glad, yass, to kedge you," she said, as they mounted the front, outdoor stair; following her speech with a slight, unmusical laugh, and fanning herself with unconscious fury. "_fé chaud_," she remarked again, taking the chair he offered and continuing to ply the fan. père jerome laid his hat upon a chest of drawers, sat down opposite her, and said, as he wiped his kindly face: "well, madame carraze?" gentle as the tone was, she started, ceased fanning, lowered the fan to her knee, and commenced smoothing its feathers. "père jerome"--she gnawed her lip and shook her head. "well?" she burst into tears. the priest rose and loosed the curtain of one of the windows. he did it slowly--as slowly as he could, and, as he came back, she lifted her face with sudden energy, and exclaimed: "oh, père jerome, de law is brogue! de law is brogue! i brogue it! 'twas me! 'twas me!" the tears gushed out again, but she shut her lips very tight, and dumbly turned away her face. père jerome waited a little before replying; then he said, very gently: "i suppose dad muss 'ave been by accyden', madame delphine?" the little father felt a wish--one which he often had when weeping women were before him--that he were an angel instead of a man, long enough to press the tearful cheek upon his breast, and assure the weeper god would not let the lawyers and judges hurt her. he allowed a few moments more to pass, and then asked: "_n'est-ce-pas_, madame delphine? daz ze way, ain't it?' "no, père jerome, no. my daughter--oh, père jerome, i bethroath my lill' girl--to a w'ite man!" and immediately madame delphine commenced savagely drawing a thread in the fabric of her skirt with one trembling hand, while she drove the fan with the other. "dey goin' git marry." on the priest's face came a look of pained surprise. he slowly said: "is dad possib', madame delphine?" "yass," she replied, at first without lifting her eyes; and then again, "yass," looking full upon him through her tears, "yaas, 'tis tru'." he rose and walked once across the room, returned, and said, in the creole dialect: "is he a good man--without doubt?" "de bez in god's world!" replied madame delphine, with a rapturous smile. "my poor, dear friend," said the priest, "i am afraid you are being deceived by somebody." there was the pride of an unswerving faith in the triumphant tone and smile with which she replied, raising and slowly shaking her head: "ah-h, no-o-o, miché! ah-h, no, no! not by ursin lemaitre-vignevielle!" père jerome was confounded. he turned again, and, with his hands at his back and his eyes cast down, slowly paced the floor. "he _is_ a good man," he said, by and by, as if he thought aloud. at length he halted before the woman "madame delphine"-- the distressed glance with which she had been following his steps was lifted to his eyes. "suppose dad should be true w'at doze peop' say 'bout ursin." "_qui ci ca_? what is that?" asked the quadroone, stopping her fan. "some peop' say ursin is crezzie." "ah, père jerome!" she leaped to her feet as if he had smitten her, and putting his words away with an outstretched arm and wide-open palm, suddenly lifted hands and eyes to heaven, and cried: "i wizh to god--_i wizh to god_--de whole worl' was crezzie dad same way!" she sank, trembling, into her chair. "oh, no, no," she continued, shaking her head, "'tis not miché vignevielle w'at's crezzie." her eyes lighted with sudden fierceness. "'tis dad _law_! dad _law_ is crezzie! dad law is a fool!" a priest of less heart-wisdom might have replied that the law is--the law; but père jerome saw that madame delphine was expecting this very response. wherefore he said, with gentleness: "madame delphine, a priest is not a bailiff, but a physician. how can i help you?" a grateful light shone a moment in her eyes, yet there remained a piteous hostility in the tone in which she demanded: "_mais, pou'quoi yé, fé cette méchanique là?_"--what business had they to make that contraption? his answer was a shrug with his palms extended and a short, disclamatory "ah." he started to resume his walk, but turned to her again and said: "why did they make that law? well, they made it to keep the two races separate." madame delphine startled the speaker with a loud, harsh, angry laugh. fire came from her eyes and her lip curled with scorn. "then they made a lie, père jerome! separate! no-o-o! they do not want to keep us separated; no, no! but they _do_ want to keep us despised!" she laid her hand on her heart, and frowned upward with physical pain. "but, very well! from which race do they want to keep my daughter separate? she is seven parts white! the law did not stop her from being that; and now, when she wants to be a white man's good and honest wife, shall that law stop her? oh, no!" she rose up. "no; i will tell you what that law is made for. it is made to--punish--my--child--for--not--choosing--her--father! père jerome--my god, what a law!" she dropped back into her seat. the tears came in a flood, which she made no attempt to restrain. "no," she began again--and here she broke into english--"fo' me i don' kyare; but, père jerome,--'tis fo' dat i came to tell you,--dey _shall not_ punizh my daughter!" she was on her feet again, smiting her heaving bosom with the fan. "she shall marrie oo she want!" père jerome had heard her out, not interrupting by so much as a motion of the hand. now his decision was made, and he touched her softly with the ends of his fingers. "madame delphine, i want you to go at 'ome go at 'ome." "wad you goin' mague?" she asked. "nottin'. but go at 'ome. kip quite; don put you'se'f sig. i goin' see ursin. we trah to figs dat aw fo' you." "you kin figs dad!" she cried, with a gleam of joy. "we goin' to try, madame delphine. adieu!" he offered his hand. she seized and kissed it thrice, covering it with tears, at the same time lifting up her eyes to his and murmuring: "de bez man god evva mague!" at the door she turned to offer a more conventional good-by; but he was following her out, bareheaded. at the gate they paused an instant, and then parted with a simple adieu, she going home and he returning for his hat, and starting again upon his interrupted business. * * * * * before he came back to his own house, he stopped at the lodgings of monsieur vignevielle, but did not find him in. "indeed," the servant at the door said, "he said he might not return for some days or weeks." so père jerome, much wondering, made a second detour toward the residence of one of monsieur vignevielle's employés. "yes," said the clerk, "his instructions are to hold the business, as far as practicable, in suspense, during his absence. every thing is in another name." and then he whispered: "officers of the government looking for him. information got from some of the prisoners taken months ago by the united states brig _porpoise_. but"--a still softer whisper--"have no fear; they will never find him: jean thompson and evariste varrillat have hid him away too well for that." chapter xiii tribulation. the saturday following was a very beautiful day. in the morning a light fall of rain had passed across the town, and all the afternoon you could see signs, here and there upon the horizon, of other showers. the ground was dry again, while the breeze was cool and sweet, smelling of wet foliage and bringing sunshine and shade in frequent and very pleasing alternation. there was a walk in père jerome's little garden, of which we have not spoken, off on the right side of the cottage, with his chamber window at one end, a few old and twisted, but blossom-laden, crape-myrtles on either hand, now and then a rose of some unpretending variety and some bunches of rue, and at the other end a shrine, in whose blue niche stood a small figure of mary, with folded hands and uplifted eyes. no other window looked down upon the spot, and its seclusion was often a great comfort to père jerome. up and down this path, but a few steps in its entire length, the priest was walking, taking the air for a few moments after a prolonged sitting in the confessional. penitents had been numerous this afternoon. he was thinking of ursin. the officers of the government had not found him, nor had père jerome seen him; yet he believed they had, in a certain indirect way, devised a simple project by which they could at any time "figs dad law," providing only that these government officials would give over their search; for, though he had not seen the fugitive, madame delphine had seen him, and had been the vehicle of communication between them. there was an orange-tree, where a mocking-bird was wont to sing and a girl in white to walk, that the detectives wot not of. the law was to be "figs" by the departure of the three frequenters of the jasmine-scented garden in one ship to france, where the law offered no obstacles. it seemed moderately certain to those in search of monsieur vignevielle (and it was true) that jean and evariste were his harborers; but for all that the hunt, even for clews, was vain. the little banking establishment had not been disturbed. jean thompson had told the searchers certain facts about it, and about its gentle proprietor as well, that persuaded them to make no move against the concern, if the same relations did not even induce a relaxation of their efforts for his personal discovery. père jerome was walking to and fro, with his hands behind him, pondering these matters. he had paused a moment at the end of the walk farthest from his window, and was looking around upon the sky, when, turning, he beheld a closely veiled female figure standing at the other end, and knew instantly that it was olive. she came forward quickly and with evident eagerness. "i came to confession," she said, breathing hurriedly, the excitement in her eyes shining through her veil, "but i find i am too late." "there is no too late or too early for that; i am always ready," said the priest. "but how is your mother?" "ah!"-- her voice failed. "more trouble?" "ah, sir, i have made trouble. oh, père jerome, i am bringing so much trouble upon my poor mother!" père jerome moved slowly toward the house, with his eyes cast down, the veiled girl at his side. "it is not your fault," he presently said. and after another pause: "i thought it was all arranged." he looked up and could see, even through the veil, her crimson blush. "oh, no," she replied, in a low, despairing voice, dropping her face. "what is the difficulty?" asked the priest, stopping in the angle of the path, where it turned toward the front of the house. she averted her face, and began picking the thin scales of bark from a crape-myrtle. "madame thompson and her husband were at our house this morning. _he_ had told monsieur thompson all about it. they were very kind to me at first, but they tried"--she was weeping. "what did they try to do?" asked the priest. "they tried to make me believe he is insane." she succeeded in passing her handkerchief up under her veil. "and i suppose then your poor mother grew angry, eh?" "yes; and they became much more so, and said if we did not write, or send a writing, to _him_, within twenty-four hours, breaking the"-- "engagement," said père jerome. "they would give him up to the government. oh, père jerome, what shall i do? it is killing my mother!" she bowed her head and sobbed. "where is your mother now?" "she has gone to see monsieur jean thompson. she says she has a plan that will match them all. i do not know what it is. i begged her not to go; but oh, sir, _she is_ crazy,--and i am no better." "my poor child," said père jerome, "what you seem to want is not absolution, but relief from persecution." "oh, father, i have committed mortal sin,--i am guilty of pride and anger." "nevertheless," said the priest, starting toward his front gate, "we will put off your confession. let it go until to-morrow morning; you will find me in my box just before mass; i will hear you then. my child, i know that in your heart, now, you begrudge the time it would take; and that is right. there are moments when we are not in place even on penitential knees. it is so with you now. we must find your mother go you at once to your house; if she is there, comfort her as best you can, and _keep her in, if possible_, until i come. if she is not there, stay; leave me to find her; one of you, at least, must be where i can get word to you promptly. god comfort and uphold you. i hope you may find her at home; tell her, for me, not to fear,"--he lifted the gate-latch,--"that she and her daughter are of more value than many sparrows; that god's priest sends her that word from him. tell her to fix her trust in the great husband of the church and she shall yet see her child receiving the grace-giving sacrament of matrimony. go; i shall, in a few minutes, be on my way to jean thompson's, and shall find her, either there or wherever she is. go; they shall not oppress you. adieu!" a moment or two later he was in the street himself. chapter xiv. by an oath. père jerome, pausing on a street-corner in the last hour of sunlight, had wiped his brow and taken his cane down from under his arm to start again, when somebody, coming noiselessly from he knew not where, asked, so suddenly as to startle him: "_miché, commin yé pellé la rie ici_?--how do they call this street here?" it was by the bonnet and dress, disordered though they were, rather than by the haggard face which looked distractedly around, that he recognized the woman to whom he replied in her own _patois_: "it is the rue burgundy. where are you going, madame delphine?" she almost leaped from the ground. "oh, père jerome! _mo pas conné_,--i dunno. you know w'ere's dad 'ouse of miché jean tomkin? _mo courri 'ci, mo courri là,--mo pas capabe li trouvé_. i go (run) here--there--i cannot find it," she gesticulated. "i am going there myself," said he; "but why do you want to see jean thompson, madame delphine?" "i _'blige'_ to see 'im!" she replied, jerking herself half around away, one foot planted forward with an air of excited pre-occupation; "i godd some' to tell 'im wad i _'blige'_ to tell 'im!" "madame delphine"-- "oh! père jerome, fo' de love of de good god, show me dad way to de 'ouse of jean tomkin!" her distressed smile implored pardon for her rudeness. "what are you going to tell him?" asked the priest. "oh, père jerome,"--in the creole _patois_ again,--"i am going to put an end to all this trouble--only i pray you do not ask me about it now; every minute is precious!" he could not withstand her look of entreaty. "come," he said, and they went. * * * * * jean thompson and doctor varrillat lived opposite each other on the bayou road, a little way beyond the town limits as then prescribed. each had his large, white-columned, four-sided house among the magnolias, --his huge live-oak overshadowing either corner of the darkly shaded garden, his broad, brick walk leading down to the tall, brick-pillared gate, his square of bright, red pavement on the turf-covered sidewalk, and his railed platform spanning the draining-ditch, with a pair of green benches, one on each edge, facing each other crosswise of the gutter. there, any sunset hour, you were sure to find the householder sitting beside his cool-robed matron, two or three slave nurses in white turbans standing at hand, and an excited throng of fair children, nearly all of a size. sometimes, at a beckon or call, the parents on one side of the way would join those on the other, and the children and nurses of both families would be given the liberty of the opposite platform and an ice-cream fund! generally the parents chose the thompson platform, its outlook being more toward the sunset. such happened to be the arrangement this afternoon. the two husbands sat on one bench and their wives on the other, both pairs very quiet, waiting respectfully for the day to die, and exchanging only occasional comments on matters of light moment as they passed through the memory. during one term of silence madame varrillat, a pale, thin-faced, but cheerful-looking lady, touched madame thompson, a person of two and a half times her weight, on her extensive and snowy bare elbow, directing her attention obliquely up and across the road. about a hundred yards distant, in the direction of the river, was a long, pleasantly shaded green strip of turf, destined in time for a sidewalk. it had a deep ditch on the nearer side, and a fence of rough cypress palisades on the farther, and these were overhung, on the one hand, by a row of bitter-orange-trees inside the enclosure, and, on the other, by a line of slanting china-trees along the outer edge of the ditch. down this cool avenue two figures were approaching side by side. they had first attracted madame varrillat's notice by the bright play of sunbeams which, as they walked, fell upon them in soft, golden flashes through the chinks between the palisades. madame thompson elevated a pair of glasses which were no detraction from her very good looks, and remarked, with the serenity of a reconnoitring general. "_père jerome et cette milatraise_." all eyes were bent toward them. "she walks like a man," said madame varrillat, in the language with which the conversation had opened. "no," said the physician, "like a woman in a state of high nervous excitement." jean thompson kept his eyes on the woman, and said: "she must not forget to walk like a woman in the state of louisiana,"--as near as the pun can be translated. the company laughed. jean thompson looked at his wife, whose applause he prized, and she answered by an asseverative toss of the head, leaning back and contriving, with some effort, to get her arms folded. her laugh was musical and low, but enough to make the folded arms shake gently up and down. "père jerome is talking to her," said one. the priest was at that moment endeavoring, in the interest of peace, to say a good word for the four people who sat watching his approach. it was in the old strain: "blame them one part, madame delphine, and their fathers, mothers, brothers, and fellow-citizens the other ninety-nine." but to every thing she had the one amiable answer which père jerome ignored: "i am going to arrange it to satisfy everybody, all together. _tout à fait_." "they are coming here," said madame varrillat, half articulately. "well, of course," murmured another; and the four rose up, smiling courteously, the doctor and attorney advancing and shaking hands with the priest. no--père jerome thanked them--he could not sit down. "this, i believe you know, jean, is madame delphine"-- the quadroone courtesied. "a friend of mine," he added, smiling kindly upon her, and turning, with something imperative in his eye, to the group. "she says she has an important private matter to communicate." "to me?" asked jean thompson. "to all of you; so i will--good-evening." he responded nothing to the expressions of regret, but turned to madame delphine. she murmured something. "ah! yes, certainly." he addressed the company "she wishes me to speak for her veracity; it is unimpeachable. well, good-evening." he shook hands and departed. the four resumed their seats, and turned their eyes upon the standing figure. "have you something to say to us?" asked jean thompson, frowning at her law-defying bonnet. "oui," replied the woman, shrinking to one side, and laying hold of one of the benches, "_mo oulé di' tou' ç'ose_"--i want to tell every thing. "_miché vignevielle la plis bon homme di moune_"--the best man in the world; "_mo pas capabe li fé tracas_"--i cannot give him trouble. "_mo pas capable, non; m'olé di' tous ç'ose_." she attempted to fan herself, her face turned away from the attorney, and her eyes rested on the ground. "take a seat," said doctor varrillat, with some suddenness, starting from his place and gently guiding her sinking form into the corner of the bench. the ladies rose up; somebody had to stand; the two races could not both sit down at once--at least not in that public manner. "your salts," said the physician to his wife. she handed the vial. madame delphine stood up again. "we will all go inside," said madame thompson, and they passed through the gate and up the walk, mounted the steps, and entered the deep, cool drawing-room. madame thompson herself bade the quadroone be seated. "well?" said jean thompson, as the rest took chairs. "_c'est drole_"--it's funny--said madame delphine, with a piteous effort to smile, "that nobody thought of it. it is so plain. you have only to look and see. i mean about olive." she loosed a button in the front of her dress and passed her hand into her bosom. "and yet, olive herself never thought of it. she does not know a word." the hand came out holding a miniature. madame varrillat passed it to jean thompson. "_ouala so popa_," said madame delphine. "that is her father." it went from one to another, exciting admiration and murmured praise. "she is the image of him," said madame thompson, in an austere undertone, returning it to her husband. doctor varrillat was watching madame delphine. she was very pale. she had passed a trembling hand into a pocket of her skirt, and now drew out another picture, in a case the counterpart of the first. he reached out for it, and she handed it to him. he looked at it a moment, when his eyes suddenly lighted up and he passed it to the attorney. "_et là_"--madame delphine's utterance failed--"_et là ouala sa moman_. that is her mother." the three others instantly gathered around jean thompson's chair. they were much impressed. "it is true beyond a doubt!" muttered madame thompson. madame varrillat looked at her with astonishment. "the proof is right there in the faces," said madame thompson. "yes! yes!" said madame delphine, excitedly; "the proof is there! you do not want any better! i am willing to swear to it! but you want no better proof! that is all anybody could want! my god! you cannot help but see it!" her manner was wild. jean thompson looked at her sternly. "nevertheless you say you are willing to take your solemn oath to this." "certainly"-- "you will have to do it." "certainly, miché thompson, _of course_ i shall; you will make out the paper and i will swear before god that it is true! only"--turning to the ladies--"do not tell olive; she will never believe it. it will break her heart! it"-- a servant came and spoke privately to madame thompson, who rose quickly and went to the hall madame delphine continued, rising unconsciously: "you see, i have had her with me from a baby. she knows no better. he brought her to me only two months old. her mother had died in the ship, coming out here. he did not come straight from home here. his people never knew he was married!" the speaker looked around suddenly with a startled glance. there was a noise of excited speaking in the hall. "it is not true, madame thompson!" cried a girl's voice. madame delphine's look became one of wildest distress and alarm, and she opened her lips in a vain attempt to utter some request, when olive appeared a moment in the door, and then flew into her arms. "my mother! my mother! my mother!" madame thompson, with tears in her eyes, tenderly drew them apart and let madame delphine down into her chair, while olive threw herself upon her knees, continuing to cry: "oh, my mother! say you are my mother!" madame delphine looked an instant into the upturned face, and then turned her own away, with a long, low cry of pain, looked again, and laying both hands upon the suppliant's head, said: "_oh, chère piti à moin, to pa' ma fie_!"--oh, my darling little one, you are not my daughter!--her eyes closed, and her head sank back; the two gentlemen sprang to her assistance, and laid her upon a sofa unconscious. when they brought her to herself, olive was kneeling at her head silently weeping. "_maman, chère maman_!" said the girl softly, kissing her lips. "_ma courri c'ez moin_"--i will go home--said the mother, drearily. "you will go home with me," said madame varrillat, with great kindness of manner--"just across the street here; i will take care of you till you feel better. and olive will stay here with madame thompson. you will be only the width of the street apart." but madame delphine would go nowhere but to her home. olive she would not allow to go with her. then they wanted to send a servant or two to sleep in the house with her for aid and protection; but all she would accept was the transient service of a messenger to invite two of her kinspeople--man and wife--to come and make their dwelling with her. in course of time these two--a poor, timid, helpless pair--fell heir to the premises. their children had it after them; but, whether in those hands or these, the house had its habits and continued in them; and to this day the neighbors, as has already been said, rightly explain its close-sealed, uninhabited look by the all-sufficient statement that the inmates "is quadroons." chapter xv. kyrie eleison. the second saturday afternoon following was hot and calm. the lamp burning before the tabernacle in père jerome's little church might have hung with as motionless a flame in the window behind. the lilies of st. joseph's wand, shining in one of the half opened panes, were not more completely at rest than the leaves on tree and vine without, suspended in the slumbering air. almost as still, down under the organ-gallery, with a single band of light falling athwart his box from a small door which stood ajar, sat the little priest, behind the lattice of the confessional, silently wiping away the sweat that beaded on his brow and rolled down his face. at distant intervals the shadow of some one entering softly through the door would obscure, for a moment, the band of light, and an aged crone, or a little boy, or some gentle presence that the listening confessor had known only by the voice for many years, would kneel a few moments beside his waiting ear, in prayer for blessing and in review of those slips and errors which prove us all akin. the day had been long and fatiguing. first, early mass; a hasty meal; then a business call upon the archbishop in the interest of some projected charity; then back to his cottage, and so to the banking-house of "vignevielle," in the rue toulouse. there all was open, bright, and re-assured, its master virtually, though not actually, present. the search was over and the seekers gone, personally wiser than they would tell, and officially reporting that (to the best of their knowledge and belief, based on evidence, and especially on the assurances of an unexceptionable eye-witness, to wit, monsieur vignevielle, banker) capitaine lemaitre was dead and buried. at noon there had been a wedding in the little church. its scenes lingered before père jerome's vision now--the kneeling pair: the bridegroom, rich in all the excellences of man, strength and kindness slumbering interlocked in every part and feature; the bride, a saintly weariness on her pale face, her awesome eyes lifted in adoration upon the image of the saviour; the small knots of friends behind: madame thompson, large, fair, self-contained; jean thompson, with the affidavit of madame delphine showing through his tightly buttoned coat; the physician and his wife, sharing one expression of amiable consent; and last--yet first--one small, shrinking female figure, here at one side, in faded robes and dingy bonnet. she sat as motionless as stone, yet wore a look of apprehension, and in the small, restless black eyes which peered out from the pinched and wasted face, betrayed the peacelessness of a harrowed mind; and neither the recollection of bride, nor of groom, nor of potential friends behind, nor the occupation of the present hour, could shut out from the tired priest the image of that woman, or the sound of his own low words of invitation to her, given as the company left the church--"come to confession this afternoon." by and by a long time passed without the approach of any step, or any glancing of light or shadow, save for the occasional progress from station to station of some one over on the right who was noiselessly going the way of the cross. yet père jerome tarried. "she will surely come," he said to himself; "she promised she would come." a moment later, his sense, quickened by the prolonged silence, caught a subtle evidence or two of approach, and the next moment a penitent knelt noiselessly at the window of his box, and the whisper came tremblingly, in the voice he had waited to hear: "_bénissez-moin, mo' père, pa'ce que mo péché._" (bless me, father, for i have sinned.) he gave his blessing. "ainsi soit-il--amen," murmured the penitent, and then, in the soft accents of the creole _patois_, continued: "'i confess to almighty god, to the blessed mary, ever virgin, to blessed michael the archangel, to blessed john the baptist, to the holy apostles peter and paul, and to all the saints, that i have sinned exceedingly in thought, word, and deed, _through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault._' i confessed on saturday, three weeks ago, and received absolution, and i have performed the penance enjoined. since then"--there she stopped. there was a soft stir, as if she sank slowly down, and another as if she rose up again, and in a moment she said: "olive _is_ my child. the picture i showed to jean thompson is the half-sister of my daughter's father, dead before my child was born. she is the image of her and of him; but, o god! thou knowest! oh, olive, my own daughter!" she ceased, and was still. père jerome waited, but no sound came. he looked through the window. she was kneeling, with her forehead resting on her arms--motionless. he repeated the words of absolution. still she did not stir. "my daughter," he said, "go to thy home in peace." but she did not move. he rose hastily, stepped from the box, raised her in his arms, and called her by name: "madame delphine!" her head fell back in his elbow; for an instant there was life in the eyes--it glimmered--it vanished, and tears gushed from his own and fell upon the gentle face of the dead, as he looked up to heaven and cried: "lord, lay not this sin to her charge!" cafÉ des exilÉs. that which in --i think he said thirty-five--was a reality in the rue burgundy--i think he said burgundy--is now but a reminiscence. yet so vividly was its story told me, that at this moment the old café des exilés appears before my eye, floating in the clouds of revery, and i doubt not i see it just as it was in the old times. an antiquated story-and-a-half creole cottage sitting right down on the banquette, as do the choctaw squaws who sell bay and sassafras and life-everlasting, with a high, close board-fence shutting out of view the diminutive garden on the southern side. an ancient willow droops over the roof of round tiles, and partly hides the discolored stucco, which keeps dropping off into the garden as though the old café was stripping for the plunge into oblivion--disrobing for its execution. i see, well up in the angle of the broad side gable, shaded by its rude awning of clapboards, as the eyes of an old dame are shaded by her wrinkled hand, the window of pauline. oh for the image of the maiden, were it but for one moment, leaning out of the casement to hang her mocking-bird and looking down into the garden,--where, above the barrier of old boards, i see the top of the fig-tree, the pale green clump of bananas, the tall palmetto with its jagged crown, pauline's own two orange-trees holding up their bands toward the window, heavy with the promises of autumn; the broad, crimson mass of the many-stemmed oleander, and the crisp boughs of the pomegranate loaded with freckled apples, and with here and there a lingering scarlet blossom. the café des exilés, to use a figure, flowered, bore fruit, and dropped it long ago--or rather time and fate, like some uncursed adam and eve, came side by side and cut away its clusters, as we sever the golden burden of the banana from its stem; then, like a banana which has borne its fruit, it was razed to the ground and made way for a newer, brighter growth. i believe it would set every tooth on edge should i go by there now,--now that i have heard the story,--and see the old site covered by the "shoo-fly coffee-house." pleasanter far to close my eyes and call to view the unpretentious portals of the old café, with her children--for such those exiles seem to me--dragging their rocking-chairs out, and sitting in their wonted group under the long, out-reaching eaves which shaded the banquette of the rue burgundy. it was in that the café des exilés was, as one might say, in full blossom. old m. d'hemecourt, father of pauline and host of the café, himself a refugee from san domingo, was the cause--at least the human cause--of its opening. as its white-curtained, glazed doors expanded, emitting a little puff of his own cigarette smoke, it was like the bursting of catalpa blossoms, and the exiles came like bees, pushing into the tiny room to sip its rich variety of tropical sirups, its lemonades, its orangeades, its orgeats, its barley-waters, and its outlandish wines, while they talked of dear home--that is to say, of barbadoes, of martinique, of san domingo, and of cuba. there were pedro and benigno, and fernandez and francisco, and benito. benito was a tall, swarthy man, with immense gray moustachios, and hair as harsh as tropical grass and gray as ashes. when he could spare his cigarette from his lips, he would tell you in a cavernous voice, and with a wrinkled smile that he was "a-t-thorty-seveng." there was martinez of san domingo, yellow as a canary, always sitting with one leg curled under him and holding the back of his head in his knitted fingers against the back of his rocking-chair. father, mother, brother, sisters, all, had been massacred in the struggle of ' and ' ; he alone was left to tell the tale, and told it often, with that strange, infantile insensibility to the solemnity of his bereavement so peculiar to latin people. but, besides these, and many who need no mention, there were two in particular, around whom all the story of the café des exilés, of old m. d'hemecourt and of pauline, turns as on a double centre. first, manuel mazaro, whose small, restless eyes were as black and bright as those of a mouse, whose light talk became his dark girlish face, and whose redundant locks curled so prettily and so wonderfully black under the fine white brim of his jaunty panama. he had the hands of a woman, save that the nails were stained with the smoke of cigarettes. he could play the guitar delightfully, and wore his knife down behind his coat-collar. the second was "major" galahad shaughnessy. i imagine i can see him, in his white duck, brass-buttoned roundabout, with his sabreless belt peeping out beneath, all his boyishness in his sea-blue eyes, leaning lightly against the door-post of the café des exilés as a child leans against his mother, running his fingers over a basketful of fragrant limes, and watching his chance to strike some solemn creole under the fifth rib with a good old irish joke. old d'hemecourt drew him close to his bosom. the spanish creoles were, as the old man termed it, both cold and hot, but never warm. major shaughnessy was warm, and it was no uncommon thing to find those two apart from the others, talking in an undertone, and playing at confidantes like two schoolgirls. the kind old man was at this time drifting close up to his sixtieth year. there was much he could tell of san domingo, whither he had been carried from martinique in his childhood, whence he had become a refugee to cuba, and thence to new orleans in the flight of . it fell one day to manuel mazaro's lot to discover, by sauntering within earshot, that to galahad shaughnessy only, of all the children of the café des exilés, the good host spoke long and confidentially concerning his daughter. the words, half heard and magnified like objects seem in a fog, meaning manuel mazaro knew not what, but made portentous by his suspicious nature, were but the old man's recital of the grinding he had got between the millstones of his poverty and his pride, in trying so long to sustain, for little pauline's sake, that attitude before society which earns respect from a surface-viewing world. it was while he was telling this that manuel mazaro drew near; the old man paused in an embarrassed way; the major, sitting sidewise in his chair, lifted his cheek from its resting-place on his elbow; and mazaro, after standing an awkward moment, turned away with such an inward feeling as one may guess would arise in a heart full of cuban blood, not unmixed with indian. as he moved off, m. d'hemecourt resumed: that in a last extremity he had opened, partly from dire want, partly for very love to homeless souls, the café des exilés. he had hoped that, as strong drink and high words were to be alike unknown to it, it might not prejudice sensible people; but it had. he had no doubt they said among themselves, "she is an excellent and beautiful girl and deserving all respect;" and respect they accorded, but their _respects_ they never came to pay. "a café is a café," said the old gentleman. "it is nod possib' to ezcape him, aldough de café des exilés is differen from de rez." "it's different from the café des réfugiés," suggested the irishman. "differen' as possib'," replied m. d'hemecourt he looked about upon the walls. the shelves were luscious with ranks of cooling sirups which he alone knew how to make. the expression of his face changed from sadness to a gentle pride, which spoke without words, saying--and let our story pause a moment to hear it say: "if any poor exile, from any island where guavas or mangoes or plantains grow, wants a draught which will make him see his home among the cocoa-palms, behold the café des exilés ready to take the poor child up and give him the breast! and if gold or silver he has them not, why heaven and santa maria, and saint christopher bless him! it makes no difference. here is a rocking-chair, here a cigarette, and here a light from the host's own tinder. he will pay when he can." as this easily pardoned pride said, so it often occurred; and if the newly come exile said his father was a spaniard--"come!" old m. d'hemecourt would cry; "another glass; it is an innocent drink; my mother was a castilian." but, if the exile said his mother was a frenchwoman, the glasses would be forthcoming all the same, for "my father," the old man would say, "was a frenchman of martinique, with blood as pure as that wine and a heart as sweet as this honey; come, a glass of orgeat;" and he would bring it himself in a quart tumbler. now, there are jealousies and jealousies. there are people who rise up quickly and kill, and there are others who turn their hot thoughts over silently in their minds as a brooding bird turns her eggs in the nest. thus did manuel mazaro, and took it ill that galahad should see a vision in the temple while he and all the brethren tarried without. pauline had been to the café des exilés in some degree what the image of the virgin was to their churches at home; and for her father to whisper her name to one and not to another was, it seemed to mazaro, as if the old man, were he a sacristan, should say to some single worshiper, "here, you may have this madonna; i make it a present to you." or, if such was not the handsome young cuban's feeling, such, at least, was the disguise his jealousy put on. if pauline was to be handed down from her niche, why, then, farewell café des exilés. she was its preserving influence, she made the place holy; she was the burning candles on the altar. surely the reader will pardon the pen that lingers in the mention of her. and yet i know not how to describe the forbearing, unspoken tenderness with which all these exiles regarded the maiden. in the balmy afternoons, as i have said, they gathered about their mother's knee, that is to say, upon the banquette outside the door. there, lolling back in their rocking-chairs, they would pass the evening hours with oft-repeated tales of home; and the moon would come out and glide among the clouds like a silver barge among islands wrapped in mist, and they loved the silently gliding orb with a sort of worship, because from her soaring height she looked down at the same moment upon them and upon their homes in the far antilles. it was somewhat thus that they looked upon pauline as she seemed to them held up half way to heaven, they knew not how. ah, those who have been pilgrims; who have wandered out beyond harbor and light; whom fate hath led in lonely paths strewn with thorns and briers not of their own sowing; who, homeless in a land of homes, see windows gleaming and doors ajar, but not for them,--it is they who well understand what the worship is that cries to any daughter of our dear mother eve whose footsteps chance may draw across the path, the silent, beseeching cry, "stay a little instant that i may look upon you. oh, woman, beautifier of the earth! stay till i recall the face of my sister; stay yet a moment while i look from afar, with helpless-hanging hands, upon the softness of thy cheek, upon the folded coils of thy shining hair; and my spirit shall fall down and say those prayers which i may never again--god knoweth--say at home." she was seldom seen; but sometimes, when the lounging exiles would be sitting in their afternoon circle under the eaves, and some old man would tell his tale of fire and blood and capture and escape, and the heads would lean forward from the chair-backs and a great stillness would follow the ending of the story, old m. d'hemecourt would all at once speak up and say, laying his hands upon the narrator's knee, "comrade, your throat is dry, here are fresh limes; let my dear child herself come and mix you a lemonade." then the neighbors over the way, sitting about their doors, would by and by softly say, "see, see! there is pauline!" and all the exiles would rise from their rocking-chairs, take off their hats and stand as men stand in church, while pauline came out like the moon from a cloud, descended the three steps of the café door, and stood with waiter and glass, a new rebecca with her pitcher, before the swarthy wanderer. what tales that would have been tear-compelling, nay, heart-rending, had they not been palpable inventions, the pretty, womanish mazaro from time to time poured forth, in the ever ungratified hope that the goddess might come down with a draught of nectar for him, it profiteth not to recount; but i should fail to show a family feature of the café des exilés did i omit to say that these make-believe adventures were heard with every mark of respect and credence; while, on the other hand, they were never attempted in the presence of the irishman. he would have moved an eyebrow, or made some barely audible sound, or dropped some seemingly innocent word, and the whole company, spite of themselves, would have smiled. wherefore, it may be doubted whether at any time the curly-haired young cuban had that playful affection for his celtic comrade, which a habit of giving little velvet taps to galahad's cheek made a show of. such was the café des exilés, such its inmates, such its guests, when certain apparently trivial events began to fall around it as germs of blight fall upon corn, and to bring about that end which cometh to all things. the little seed of jealousy, dropped into the heart of manuel mazaro, we have already taken into account. galahad shaughnessy began to be specially active in organizing a society of spanish americans, the design of which, as set forth in its manuscript constitution, was to provide proper funeral honors to such of their membership as might be overtaken by death; and, whenever it was practicable, to send their ashes to their native land. next to galahad in this movement was an elegant old mexican physician, dr.--,--his name escapes me--whom the café des exilés sometimes took upon her lap--that is to say door-step--but whose favorite resort was the old café des réfugiés in the rue royale (royal street, as it was beginning to be called). manuel mazaro was made secretary. it was for some reason thought judicious for the society to hold its meetings in various places, now here, now there; but the most frequent rendezvous was the café des exilés; it was quiet; those spanish creoles, however they may afterward cackle, like to lay their plans noiselessly, like a hen in a barn. there was a very general confidence in this old institution, a kind of inward assurance that "mother wouldn't tell;" though, after all, what great secrets could there be connected with a mere burial society? before the hour of meeting, the café des exilés always sent away her children and closed her door. presently they would commence returning, one by one, as a flock of wild fowl will do, that has been startled up from its accustomed haunt. frequenters of the café des réfugiés also would appear. a small gate in the close garden-fence let them into a room behind the café proper, and by and by the apartment would be full of dark-visaged men conversing in the low, courteous tone common to their race. the shutters of doors and windows were closed and the chinks stopped with cotton; some people are so jealous of observation. on a certain night after one of these meetings had dispersed in its peculiar way, the members retiring two by two at intervals, manuel mazaro and m. d'hemecourt were left alone, sitting close together in the dimly lighted room, the former speaking, the other, with no pleasant countenance, attending. it seemed to the young cuban a proper precaution--he was made of precautions--to speak in english. his voice was barely audible. "---- sayce to me, 'manuel, she t-theeng i want-n to marry hore.' senor, you shouth 'ave see' him laugh!" m. d'hemecourt lifted up his head, and laid his hand upon the young man's arm. "manuel mazaro," he began, "iv dad w'ad you say is nod"-- the cuban interrupted. "if is no' t-thrue you will keel manuel mazaro?--a' r-r-right-a!" "no," said the tender old man, "no, bud h-i am positeef dad de madjor will shood you." mazaro nodded, and lifted one finger for attention. "---- sayce to me, 'manuel, you goin' tell-a senor d'hemecourt, i fin'-a you some nigh' an' cut-a you' heart ou'. an' i sayce to heem-a, 'boat-a if senor d'hemecourt he fin'-in' ou' frone pauline'"-- "_silence!_" fiercely cried the old man. "my god! 'sieur mazaro, neider you, neider somebody helse s'all h'use de nem of me daughter. it is nod possib' dad you s'all spick him! i cannot pearmid thad." while the old man was speaking these vehement words, the cuban was emphatically nodding approval. "co-rect-a, co-rect-a, senor," he replied. "senor, you' r-r-right-a; escuse-a me, senor, escuse-a me. senor d'hemecourt, mayor shanghness', when he talkin' wi' me he usin' hore-a name o the t-thime-a!" "my fren'," said m. d'hemecourt, rising and speaking with labored control, "i muz tell you good nighd. you 'ave sooprise me a verry gred deal. i s'all _in_vestigade doze ting; an', manuel mazaro, h-i am a hole man; bud i will requez you, iv dad wad you say is nod de true, my god! not to h-ever ritturn again ad de café des exilés." mazaro smiled and nodded. his host opened the door into the garden, and, as the young man stepped out, noticed even then how handsome was his face and figure, and how the odor of the night jasmine was filling the air with an almost insupportable sweetness. the cuban paused a moment, as if to speak, but checked himself, lifted his girlish face, and looked up to where the daggers of the palmetto-tree were crossed upon the face of the moon, dropped his glance, touched his panama, and silently followed by the bare-headed old man, drew open the little garden-gate, looked cautiously out, said good-night, and stepped into the street. as m. d'hemecourt returned to the door through which he had come, he uttered an ejaculation of astonishment. pauline stood before him. she spoke hurriedly in french. "papa, papa, it is not true." "no, my child," he responded, "i am sure it is not true: i am sure it is all false; but why do i find you out of bed so late, little bird? the night is nearly gone." he laid his hand upon her cheek. "ah, papa, i cannot deceive you. i thought manuel would tell you something of this kind, and i listened." the father's face immediately betrayed a new and deeper distress. "pauline, my child," he said with tremulous voice, "if manuel's story is all false, in the name of heaven how could you think he was going to tell it?" he unconsciously clasped his hands. the good child had one trait which she could not have inherited from her father; she was quick-witted and discerning; yet now she stood confounded. "speak, my child," cried the alarmed old man; "speak! let me live, and not die." "oh, papa," she cried, "i do not know!" the old man groaned. "papa, papa," she cried again, "i felt it; i know not how; something told me." "alas!" exclaimed the old man, "if it was your conscience!" "no, no, no, papa," cried pauline, "but i was afraid of manuel mazaro, and i think he hates him--and i think he will hurt him in any way he can--and i _know_ he will even try to kill him. oh! my god!" she struck her hands together above her head, and burst into a flood of tears. her father looked upon her with such sad sternness as his tender nature was capable of. he laid hold of one of her arms to draw a hand from the face whither both hands had gone. "you know something else," he said; "you know that the major loves you, or you think so: is it not true?" she dropped both hands, and, lifting her streaming eyes that had nothing to hide straight to his, suddenly said: "i would give worlds to think so!" and sunk upon the floor. he was melted and convinced in one instant. "oh, my child, my child," he cried, trying to lift her. "oh, my poor little pauline, your papa is not angry. rise, my little one; so; kiss me; heaven bless thee. pauline, treasure, what shall i do with thee? where shall i hide thee?" "you have my counsel already, papa." "yes, my child, and you were right. the café des exilés never should have been opened. it is no place for you; no place at all." "let us leave it," said pauline. "ah! pauline, i would close it to-morrow if i could, but now it is too late; i cannot." "why?" asked pauline, pleadingly. she had cast an arm about his neck. her tears sparkled with a smile. "my daughter, i cannot tell you; you must go now to bed; good-night--or good-morning; god keep you!" "well, then, papa," she said, "have no fear; you need not hide me; i have my prayer-book, and my altar, and my garden, and my window; my garden is my fenced city, and my window my watch-tower; do you see?" "ah! pauline," responded the father, "but i have been letting the enemy in and out at pleasure." "good-night," she answered, and kissed him three times on either cheek; "the blessed virgin will take care of us; good-night; _he_ never said those things; not he; good-night." the next evening galahad shaughnessy and manuel mazaro met at that "very different" place, the café des réfugiés. there was much free talk going on about texan annexation, about chances of war with mexico, about san domingan affairs, about cuba and many et-ceteras. galahad was in his usual gay mood. he strode about among a mixed company of louisianais, cubans, and américains, keeping them in a great laugh with his account of one of ole bull's concerts, and how he had there extorted an invitation from m. and mme. devoti to attend one of their famous children's fancy dress balls. "halloo!" said he as mazaro approached, "heer's the etheerial angelica herself. look-ut heer, sissy, why ar'n't ye in the maternal arms of the café des exilés?" mazaro smiled amiably and sat down. a moment after, the irishman, stepping away from his companions, stood before the young cuban, and asked with a quiet business air: "d'ye want to see me, mazaro?" the cuban nodded, and they went aside. mazaro, in a few quick words, looking at his pretty foot the while, told the other on no account to go near the café des exilés, as there were two men hanging about there, evidently watching for him, and-- "wut's the use o' that?" asked galahad; "i say, wut's the use o' that?" major shaughnessy's habit of repeating part of his words arose from another, of interrupting any person who might be speaking. "they must know--i say they must know that whenever i'm nowhurs else i'm heer. what do they want?" mazaro made a gesture, signifying caution and secrecy, and smiled, as if to say, "you ought to know." "aha!" said the irishman softly. "why don't they come here?" "z-afrai'," said mazaro; "d'they frai' to do an'teen een d-these-a crowth." "that's so," said the irishman; "i say, that's so. if i don't feel very much like go-un, i'll not go; i say, i'll not go. we've no business to-night, eh mazaro?" "no, senor." a second evening was much the same, mazaro repeating his warning. but when, on the third evening, the irishman again repeated his willingness to stay away from the café des exilés unless he should feel strongly impelled to go, it was with the mental reservation that he did feel very much in that humor, and, unknown to mazaro, should thither repair, if only to see whether some of those deep old fellows were not contriving a practical joke. "mazaro," said he, "i'm go-un around the caurnur a bit; i want ye to wait heer till i come back. i say i want ye to wait heer till i come back; i'll be gone about three-quarters of an hour." mazaro assented. he saw with satisfaction the irishman start in a direction opposite that in which lay the café des exilés, tarried fifteen or twenty minutes, and then, thinking he could step around to the café des exilés and return before the expiration of the allotted time, hurried out. meanwhile that peaceful habitation sat in the moonlight with her children about her feet. the company outside the door was somewhat thinner than common. m. d'hemecourt was not among them, but was sitting in the room behind the café. the long table which the burial society used at their meetings extended across the apartment, and a lamp had been placed upon it. m. d'hemecourt sat by the lamp. opposite him was a chair, which seemed awaiting an expected occupant. beside the old man sat pauline. they were talking in cautious undertones, and in french. "no," she seemed to insist; "we do not know that he refuses to come. we only know that manuel says so." the father shook his head sadly. "when has he ever staid away three nights together before?" he asked. "no, my child; it is intentional. manuel urges him to come, but he only sends poor excuses." "but," said the girl, shading her face from the lamp and speaking with some suddenness, "why have you not sent word to him by some other person?" m. d'hemecourt looked up at his daughter a moment, and then smiled at his own simplicity. "ah!" he said. "certainly; and that is what i will--run away, pauline. there is manuel, now, ahead of time!" a step was heard inside the café. the maiden, though she knew the step was not mazaro's, rose hastily, opened the nearest door, and disappeared. she had barely closed it behind her when galahad shaughnessy entered the apartment. m'hemecourt rose up, both surprised and confused. "good-evening, munsher d'himecourt," said the irishman. "munsher d'himecourt, i know it's against rules--i say, i know it's against rules to come in here, but"--smiling,--"i want to have a private wurd with ye. i say, i want to have a private wurd with ye." in the closet of bottles the maiden smiled triumphantly. she also wiped the dew from her forehead, for the place was very close and warm. with her father was no triumph. in him sadness and doubt were so mingled with anger that he dared not lift his eyes, but gazed at the knot in the wood of the table, which looked like a caterpillar curled up. mazaro, he concluded, had really asked the major to come. "mazaro tol' you?" he asked. "yes," answered the irishman. "mazaro told me i was watched, and asked"-- "madjor," unluckily interrupted the old man, suddenly looking up and speaking with subdued fervor, "for w'y--iv mazaro tol' you--for w'y you din come more sooner? dad is one 'eavy charge again' you." "didn't mazaro tell ye why i didn't come?" asked the other, beginning to be puzzled at his host's meaning. "yez," replied m. d'hemecourt, "bud one brev zhenteman should not be afraid of"-- the young man stopped him with a quiet laugh, "munsher d'himecourt," said he, "i'm nor afraid of any two men living--i say i'm nor afraid of any two men living, and certainly not of the two that's bean a-watchin' me lately, if they're the two i think they are." m. d'hemecourt flushed in a way quite incomprehensible to the speaker, who nevertheless continued: "it was the charges," he said, with some slyness in his smile. "they _are_ heavy, as ye say, and that's the very reason--i say that's the very reason why i staid away, ye see, eh? i say that's the very reason i staid away." then, indeed, there was a dew for the maiden to wipe from her brow, unconscious that every word that was being said bore a different significance in the mind of each of the three. the old man was agitated. "bud, sir," he began, shaking his head and lifting his hand. "bless yer soul, munsher d'himecourt," interrupted the irishman. "wut's the use o' grapplin' two cut-throats, when"-- "madjor shaughnessy!" cried m. d'hemecourt, losing all self-control. "h-i am nod a cud-troad, madjor shaughnessy, h-an i 'ave a r-r-righd to wadge you." the major rose from his chair. "what d'ye mean?" he asked vacantly, and then: "look-ut here, munsher d'himecourt, one of uz is crazy. i say one"-- "no, sar-r-r!" cried the other, rising and clenching his trembling fist. "h-i am not crezzy. i 'ave de righd to wadge dad man wad mague rimark aboud me dotter." "i never did no such a thing." "you did." "i never did no such a thing." "bud you 'ave jus hacknowledge'--" "i never did no such a _thing_, i tell ye, and the man that's told ye so is a liur!" "ah-h-h-h!" said the old man, wagging his finger "ah-h-h-h! you call manuel mazaro one liar?" the irishman laughed out. "well, i should say so!" he motioned the old man into his chair, and both sat down again. "why, munsher d'himecourt, mazaro's been keepin' me away from heer with a yarn about two spaniards watchin' for me. that's what i came in to ask ye about. my dear sur, do ye s'pose i wud talk about the goddess--i mean, yer daughter--to the likes o' mazaro--i say to the likes o' mazaro?" to say the old man was at sea would be too feeble an expression--he was in the trough of the sea, with a hurricane of doubts and fears whirling around him. somebody had told a lie, and he, having struck upon its sunken surface, was dazed and stunned. he opened his lips to say he knew not what, when his ear caught the voice of manuel mazaro, replying to the greeting of some of his comrades outside the front door. "he is comin'!" cried the old man. "mague you'sev hide, madjor; do not led 'im kedge you, mon dieu!" the irishman smiled. "the little yellow wretch!" said he quietly, his blue eyes dancing. "i'm goin' to catch _him_." a certain hidden hearer instantly made up her mind to rush out between the two young men and be a heroine. "_non, non!_" exclaimed m. d'hemecourt excitedly. "nod in de café des exilés--nod now, madjor. go in dad door, hif you pliz, madjor. you will heer 'im w'at he 'ave to say. mague you'sev de troub'. nod dad door--diz one." the major laughed again and started toward the door indicated, but in an instant stopped. "i can't go in theyre," he said. "that's yer daughter's room." "_oui, oui, mais!_" cried the other softly, but mazaro's step was near. "i'll just slip in heer," and the amused shaughnessy tripped lightly to the closet door, drew it open in spite of a momentary resistance from within which he had no time to notice, stepped into a small recess full of shelves and bottles, shut the door, and stood face to face--the broad moonlight shining upon her through a small, high-grated opening on one side--with pauline. at the same instant the voice of the young cuban sounded in the room. pauline was in a great tremor. she made as if she would have opened the door and fled, but the irishman gave a gesture of earnest protest and re-assurance. the re-opened door might make the back parlor of the café des exilés a scene of blood. thinking of this, what could she do? she staid. "you goth a heap-a thro-vle, senor," said manuel mazaro, taking the seat so lately vacated. he had patted m. d'hemecourt tenderly on the back and the old gentleman had flinched; hence the remark, to which there was no reply. "was a bee crowth a' the _café the réfugiés_," continued the young man. "bud, w'ere dad madjor shaughnessy?" demanded m. d'hemecourt, with the little sternness he could command. "mayor shaughness'--yez-a; was there; boat-a," with a disparaging smile and shake of the head, "_he_ woon-a come-a to you. senor, oh' no." the old man smiled bitterly. "_non?_" he asked. "oh, no, senor!" mazaro drew his chair closer. "senor;" he paused,--"eez a-vary bath-a fore-a you thaughter, eh?" "w'at?" asked the host, snapping like a tormented dog. "d-theze talkin' 'bou'," answered the young man; "d-theze coffee-howces noth a goo' plaze-a fore hore, eh?" the irishman and the maiden looked into each other's eyes an instant, as people will do when listening; but pauline's immediately fell, and when mazaro's words were understood, her blushes became visible even by moonlight. "he's r-right!" emphatically whispered galahad. she attempted to draw back a step, but found herself against the shelves. m. d'hemecourt had not answered. mazaro spoke again. "boat-a you canno' help-a, eh? i know, 'out-a she gettin' marry, eh?" pauline trembled. her father summoned all his force and rose as if to ask his questioner to leave him; but the handsome cuban motioned him down with a gesture that seemed to beg for only a moment more. "senor, if a-was one man whath lo-va you' thaughter, all is possiblee to lo-va." pauline, nervously braiding some bits of wire which she had unconsciously taken from a shelf, glanced up--against her will,--into the eyes of galahad. they were looking so steadily down upon her that with a great leap of the heart for joy she closed her own and half turned away. but mazaro had not ceased. "all is possiblee to lo-va, senor, you shouth-a let marry hore an' tak'n 'way frone d'these plaze, senor." "manuel mazaro," said m. d'hemecourt, again rising, "you 'ave say enough." "no, no, senor; no, no; i want tell-a you--is a-one man--_whath lo-va_ you' thaughter; an' i _knowce_ him!" was there no cause for quarrel, after all? could it be that mazaro was about to speak for galahad? the old man asked in his simplicity: "madjor shaughnessy?" mazaro smiled mockingly. "mayor shaughness'," he said; "oh, no; not mayor shaughness'!" pauline could stay no longer; escape she must, though it be in manuel mazaro's very face. turning again and looking up into galahad's face in a great fright, she opened her lips to speak, but-- "mayor shaughness'," continued the cuban; "_he_ nev'r-a lo-va you' thaughter." galahad was putting the maiden back from the door with his hand. "pauline," he said, "it's a lie!" "an', senor," pursued the cuban, "if a was possiblee you' thaughter to lo-va heem, a-wouth-a be worse-a kine in worlt; but, senor, _i_"-- m. d'hemecourt made a majestic sign for silence. he had resumed his chair, but be rose up once more, took the cuban's hat from the table and tendered it to him. "manuel mazaro, you 'ave"-- "senor, i goin' tell you"-- "manuel mazaro, you"-- "boat-a senor"-- "bud, manuel maz"-- "senor, escuse-a me"-- "huzh!" cried the old man. "manuel mazaro, you ave deceive' me! you 'ave _mocque_ me, manu"-- "senor," cried mazaro, "i swear-a to you that all-a what i sayin' ees-a"-- he stopped aghast. galahad and pauline stood before him. "is what?" asked the blue-eyed man, with a look of quiet delight on his face, such as mazaro instantly remembered to have seen on it one night when galahad was being shot at in the sucking calf restaurant in st. peter street. the table was between them, but mazaro's hand went upward toward the back of his coat-collar. "ah, ah!" cried the irishman, shaking his head with a broader smile and thrusting his hand threateningly into his breast; "don't ye do that! just finish yer speech." "was-a notthin'," said the cuban, trying to smile back. "yer a liur," said galahad. "no," said mazaro, still endeavoring to smile through his agony; "z-was on'y tellin' senor d'hemecourt someteen z-was t-thrue." "and i tell ye," said galahad, "ye'r a liur, and to be so kind an' get yersel' to the front stoop, as i'm desiruz o' kickin' ye before the crowd." "madjor!" cried d'hemecourt-- "go," said galahad, advancing a step toward the cuban. had manuel mazaro wished to personate the prince of darkness, his beautiful face had the correct expression for it. he slowly turned, opened the door into the café, sent one glowering look behind, and disappeared. pauline laid her hand upon her lover's arm. "madjor," began her father. "oh, madjor and madjor," said the irishman; "munsher d'hemecourt, just say 'madjor, heer's a gude wife fur ye,' and i'll let the little serpent go." thereupon, sure enough, both m. d'hemecourt and his daughter, rushing together, did what i have been hoping all along, for the reader's sake, they would have dispensed with; they burst into tears; whereupon the major, with his irish appreciation of the ludicrous, turned away to hide his smirk and began good-humoredly to scratch himself first on the temple and then on the thigh. mazaro passed silently through the group about the door-steps, and not many minutes afterward, galahad shaughnessy, having taken a place among the exiles, rose with the remark that the old gentleman would doubtless be willing to tell them good-night. good-night was accordingly said, the café des exilés closed her windows, then her doors, winked a moment or two through the cracks in the shutters and then went fast asleep. the mexican physician, at galahad's request, told mazaro that at the next meeting of the burial society he might and must occupy his accustomed seat without fear of molestation; and he did so. the meeting took place some seven days after the affair in the back parlor, and on the same ground. business being finished, galahad, who presided, stood up, looking, in his white duck suit among his darkly-clad companions, like a white sheep among black ones, and begged leave to order "dlasses" from the front room. i say among black sheep; yet, i suppose, than that double row of languid, effeminate faces, one would have been taxed to find a more harmless-looking company. the glasses were brought and filled. "gentlemen," said galahad, "comrades, this may be the last time we ever meet together an unbroken body." martinez of san domingo, he of the horrible experience, nodded with a lurking smile, curled a leg under him and clasped his fingers behind his head. "who knows," continued the speaker, "but senor benito, though strong and sound and har'ly thirty-seven"--here all smiled--"may be taken ill tomorrow?" martinez smiled across to the tall, gray benito on galahad's left, and he, in turn, smilingly showed to the company a thin, white line of teeth between his moustachios like distant reefs. "who knows," the young irishman proceeded to inquire, "i say, who knows but pedro, theyre, may be struck wid a fever?" pedro, a short, compact man of thoroughly mixed blood, and with an eyebrow cut away, whose surname no one knew, smiled his acknowledgments. "who knows?" resumed galahad, when those who understood english had explained in spanish to those who did not, "but they may soon need the services not only of our good doctor heer, but of our society; and that fernandez and benigno, and gonzalez and dominguez, may not be chosen to see, on that very schooner lying at the picayune tier just now, their beloved remains and so forth safely delivered into the hands and lands of their people. i say, who knows bur it may be so!" the company bowed graciously as who should say, "well-turned phrases, senor--well-turned." "and _amigos_, if so be that such is their approoching fate, i will say:" he lifted his glass, and the rest did the same. "i say, i will say to them, creoles, countrymen, and lovers, boun voyadge an' good luck to ye's." for several moments there was much translating, bowing, and murmured acknowledgments; mazaro said: "_bueno!_" and all around among the long double rank of moustachioed lips amiable teeth were gleaming, some white, some brown, some yellow, like bones in the grass. "and now, gentlemen," galahad recommenced, "fellow-exiles, once more. munsher d'himecourt, it was yer practice, until lately, to reward a good talker with a dlass from the hands o' yer daughter." (_si, si!_) "i'm bur a poor speaker." (_si, si, senor, z-a-fine-a kin'-a can be; si!_) "however, i'll ask ye, not knowun bur it may be the last time we all meet together, if ye will not let the goddess of the café des exilés grace our company with her presence for just about one minute?" (_yez-a, senor; si; yez-a; oui._) every head was turned toward the old man, nodding the echoed request. "ye see, friends," said galahad in a true irish whisper, as m. d'hemecourt left the apartment, "her poseetion has been a-growin' more and more embarrassin' daily, and the operaytions of our society were likely to make it wurse in the future; wherefore i have lately taken steps--i say i tuke steps this morn to relieve the old gentleman's distresses and his daughter's"-- he paused. m. d'hemecourt entered with pauline, and the exiles all rose up. ah!--but why say again she was lovely? galahad stepped forward to meet her, took her hand, led her to the head of the board, and turning to the company, said: "friends and fellow-patriots, misthress shaughnessy." there was no outburst of astonishment--only the same old bowing, smiling, and murmuring of compliment. galahad turned with a puzzled look to m. d'hemecourt, and guessed the truth. in the joy of an old man's heart he had already that afternoon told the truth to each and every man separately, as a secret too deep for them to reveal, but too sweet for him to keep. the major and pauline were man and wife. the last laugh that was ever heard in the café des exilés sounded softly through the room. "lads," said the irishman. "fill yer dlasses. here's to the café des exilés, god bless her!" and the meeting slowly adjourned. two days later, signs and rumors of sickness began to find place about the café des réfugiés, and the mexican physician made three calls in one day. it was said by the people around that the tall cuban gentleman named benito was very sick in one of the back rooms. a similar frequency of the same physician's calls was noticed about the café des exilés. "the man with one eyebrow," said the neighbors, "is sick. pauline left the house yesterday to make room for him." "ah! is it possible?" "yes, it is really true; she and her husband. she took her mocking-bird with her; he carried it; he came back alone." on the next afternoon the children about the café des réfugiés enjoyed the spectacle of the invalid cuban moved on a trestle to the café des exilés, although he did not look so deathly sick as they could have liked to see him, and on the fourth morning the doors of the café des exilés remained closed. a black-bordered funeral notice, veiled with crape, announced that the great caller-home of exiles had served his summons upon don pedro hernandez (surname borrowed for the occasion), and don carlos mendez y benito. the hour for the funeral was fixed at four p.m. it never took place. down at the picayune tier on the river bank there was, about two o'clock that same day, a slight commotion, and those who stood aimlessly about a small, neat schooner, said she was "seized." at four there suddenly appeared before the café des exilés a squad of men with silver crescents on their breasts--police officers. the old cottage sat silent with closed doors, the crape hanging heavily over the funeral notice like a widow's veil, the little unseen garden sending up odors from its hidden censers, and the old weeping-willow bending over all. "nobody here?" asks the leader. the crowd which has gathered stares without answering. as quietly and peaceably as possible the officers pry open the door. they enter, and the crowd pushes in after. there are the two coffins, looking very heavy and solid, lying in state but unguarded. the crowd draws a breath of astonishment. "are they going to wrench the tops off with hatchet and chisel?" bap, rap, rap; wrench, rap, wrench. ah! the cases come open. "well kept?" asks the leader flippantly. "oh, yes," is the reply. and then all laugh. one of the lookers-on pushes up and gets a glimpse within. "what is it?" ask the other idlers. he tells one quietly. "what did he say?" ask the rest, one of another. "he says they are not dead men, but new muskets"-- "here, clear out!" cries an officer, and the loiterers fall back and by and by straggle off. the exiles? what became of them, do you ask? why, nothing; they were not troubled, but they never all came together again. said a chief-of-police to major shaughnessy years afterward: "major, there was only one thing that kept your expedition from succeeding--you were too sly about it. had you come out flat and said what you were doing, we'd never a-said a word to you. but that little fellow gave us the wink, and then we had to stop you." and was no one punished? alas! one was. poor, pretty, curly-headed traitorous mazaro! he was drawn out of carondelet canal--cold, dead! and when his wounds were counted--they were just the number of the café des exilés' children, less galahad. but the mother--that is, the old café--did not see it; she had gone up the night before in a chariot of fire. in the files of the old "picayune" and "price-current" of may be seen the mention of galahad shaughnessy among the merchants--"our enterprising and accomplished fellow-townsman," and all that. but old m. d'hemecourt's name is cut in marble, and his citizenship is in "a city whose maker and builder is god." only yesterday i dined with the shaughnessys--fine old couple and handsome. their children sat about them and entertained me most pleasantly. but there isn't one can tell a tale as their father can--'twas he told me this one, though here and there my enthusiasm may have taken liberties. he knows the history of every old house in the french quarter; or, if he happens not to know a true one, he can make one up as he goes along. belles demoiselles plantation. the original grantee was count----, assume the name to be de charleu; the old creoles never forgive a public mention. he was the french king's commissary. one day, called to france to explain the lucky accident of the commissariat having burned down with his account-books inside, he left his wife, a choctaw comptesse, behind. arrived at court, his excuses were accepted, and that tract granted him where afterwards stood belles demoiselles plantation. a man cannot remember every thing! in a fit of forgetfulness he married a french gentlewoman, rich and beautiful, and "brought her out." however, "all's well that ends well;" a famine had been in the colony, and the choctaw comptesse had starved, leaving nought but a half-caste orphan family lurking on the edge of the settlement, bearing our french gentlewoman's own new name, and being mentioned in monsieur's will. and the new comptesse--she tarried but a twelvemonth, left monsieur a lovely son, and departed, led out of this vain world by the swamp-fever. from this son sprang the proud creole family of de charleu. it rose straight up, up, up, generation after generation, tall, branchless, slender, palm-like; and finally, in the time of which i am to tell, flowered with all the rare beauty of a century-plant, in artemise, innocente, felicité, the twins marie and martha, leontine and little septima; the seven beautiful daughters for whom their home had been fitly named belles demoiselles. the count's grant had once been a long pointe, round which the mississippi used to whirl, and seethe, and foam, that it was horrid to behold. big whirlpools would open and wheel about in the savage eddies under the low bank, and close up again, and others open, and spin, and disappear. great circles of muddy surface would boil up from hundreds of feet below, and gloss over, and seem to float away,--sink, come back again under water, and with only a soft hiss surge up again, and again drift off, and vanish. every few minutes the loamy bank would tip down a great load of earth upon its besieger, and fall back a foot,--sometimes a yard,--and the writhing river would press after, until at last the pointe was quite swallowed up, and the great river glided by in a majestic curve, and asked no more; the bank stood fast, the "caving" became a forgotten misfortune, and the diminished grant was a long, sweeping, willowy bend, rustling with miles of sugar-cane. coming up the mississippi in the sailing craft of those early days, about the time one first could descry the white spires of the old st. louis cathedral, you would be pretty sure to spy, just over to your right under the levee, belles demoiselles mansion, with its broad veranda and red painted cypress roof, peering over the embankment, like a bird in the nest, half hid by the avenue of willows which one of the departed de charleus,--he that married a marot,--had planted on the levee's crown. the house stood unusually near the river, facing eastward, and standing four-square, with an immense veranda about its sides, and a flight of steps in front spreading broadly downward, as we open arms to a child. from the veranda nine miles of river were seen; and in their compass, near at hand, the shady garden full of rare and beautiful flowers; farther away broad fields of cane and rice, and the distant quarters of the slaves, and on the horizon everywhere a dark belt of cypress forest. the master was old colonel de charleu,--jean albert henri joseph de charleu-marot, and "colonel" by the grace of the first american governor. monsieur,--he would not speak to any one who called him "colonel,"--was a hoary-headed patriarch. his step was firm, his form erect, his intellect strong and clear, his countenance classic, serene, dignified, commanding, his manners courtly, his voice musical, --fascinating. he had had his vices,--all his life; but had borne them, as his race do, with a serenity of conscience and a cleanness of mouth that left no outward blemish on the surface of the gentleman. he had gambled in royal street, drunk hard in orleans street, run his adversary through in the duelling-ground at slaughter-house point, and danced and quarrelled at the st. philippe-street-theatre quadroon balls. even now, with all his courtesy and bounty, and a hospitality which seemed to be entertaining angels, he was bitter-proud and penurious, and deep down in his hard-finished heart loved nothing but himself, his name, and his motherless children. but these!--their ravishing beauty was all but excuse enough for the unbounded idolatry of their father. against these seven goddesses he never rebelled. had they even required him to defraud old de carlos-- i can hardly say. old de carlos was his extremely distant relative on the choctaw side. with this single exception, the narrow thread-like line of descent from the indian wife, diminished to a mere strand by injudicious alliances, and deaths in the gutters of old new orleans, was extinct. the name, by spanish contact, had become de carlos; but this one surviving bearer of it was known to all, and known only, as injin charlie. one thing i never knew a creole to do. he will not utterly go back on the ties of blood, no matter what sort of knots those ties may be. for one reason, he is never ashamed of his or his father's sins; and for another,--he will tell you--he is "all heart!" so the different heirs of the de charleu estate had always strictly regarded the rights and interests of the de carloses, especially their ownership of a block of dilapidated buildings in a part of the city, which had once been very poor property, but was beginning to be valuable. this block had much more than maintained the last de carlos through a long and lazy lifetime, and, as his household consisted only of himself, and an aged and crippled negress, the inference was irresistible that he "had money." old charlie, though by _alias_ an "injin," was plainly a dark white man, about as old as colonel de charleu, sunk in the bliss of deep ignorance, shrewd, deaf, and, by repute at least, unmerciful. the colonel and he always conversed in english. this rare accomplishment, which the former had learned from his scotch wife,--the latter from up-river traders,--they found an admirable medium of communication, answering, better than french could, a similar purpose to that of the stick which we fasten to the bit of one horse and breast-gear of another, whereby each keeps his distance. once in a while, too, by way of jest, english found its way among the ladies of belles demoiselles, always signifying that their sire was about to have business with old charlie. now a long-standing wish to buy out charlie troubled the colonel. he had no desire to oust him unfairly; he was proud of being always fair; yet he did long to engross the whole estate under one title. out of his luxurious idleness he had conceived this desire, and thought little of so slight an obstacle as being already somewhat in debt to old charlie for money borrowed, and for which belles demoiselles was, of course, good, ten times over. lots, buildings, rents, all, might as well be his, he thought, to give, keep, or destroy. "had he but the old man's heritage. ah! he might bring that into existence which his _belles demoiselles_ had been begging for, 'since many years;' a home,--and such a home,--in the gay city. here he should tear down this row of cottages, and make his garden wall; there that long rope-walk should give place to vine-covered ardors; the bakery yonder should make way for a costly conservatory; that wine warehouse should come down, and the mansion go up. it should be the finest in the state. men should never pass it, but they should say--'the palace of the de charleus; a family of grand descent, a people of elegance and bounty, a line as old as france, a fine old man, and seven daughters as beautiful as happy; whoever dare attempt to marry there must leave his own name behind him!' "the house should be of stones fitly set, brought down in ships from the land of 'les yankees,' and it should have an airy belvedere, with a gilded image tiptoeing and shining on its peak, and from it you should see, far across the gleaming folds of the river, the red roof of belles demoiselles, the country-seat. at the big stone gate there should be a porter's lodge, and it should be a privilege even to see the ground." truly they were a family fine enough, and fancy-free enough to have fine wishes, yet happy enough where they were, to have had no wish but to live there always. to those, who, by whatever fortune, wandered into the garden of belles demoiselles some summer afternoon as the sky was reddening towards evening, it was lovely to see the family gathered out upon the tiled pavement at the foot of the broad front steps, gayly chatting and jesting, with that ripple of laughter that comes so pleasingly from a bevy of girls. the father would be found seated in their midst, the centre of attention and compliment, witness, arbiter, umpire, critic, by his beautiful children's unanimous appointment, but the single vassal, too, of seven absolute sovereigns. now they would draw their chairs near together in eager discussion of some new step in the dance, or the adjustment of some rich adornment. now they would start about him with excited comments to see the eldest fix a bunch of violets in his button-hole. now the twins would move down a walk after some unusual flower, and be greeted on their return with the high pitched notes of delighted feminine surprise. as evening came on they would draw more quietly about their paternal centre. often their chairs were forsaken, and they grouped themselves on the lower steps, one above another, and surrendered themselves to the tender influences of the approaching night. at such an hour the passer on the river, already attracted by the dark figures of the broad-roofed mansion, and its woody garden standing against the glowing sunset, would hear the voices of the hidden group rise from the spot in the soft harmonies of an evening song; swelling clearer and clearer as the thrill of music warmed them into feeling, and presently joined by the deeper tones of the father's voice; then, as the daylight passed quite away, all would be still, and he would know that the beautiful home had gathered its nestlings under its wings. and yet, for mere vagary, it pleased them not to be pleased. "arti!" called one sister to another in the broad hall, one morning,--mock amazement hi her distended eyes,--"something is goin' to took place!" "_comm-e-n-t?_"--long-drawn perplexity. "papa is goin' to town!" the news passed up stairs. "inno!"--one to another meeting in a doorway,--"something is goin' to took place!" "_qu'est-ce-que c'est!_"--vain attempt at gruffness. "papa is goin' to town!" the unusual tidings were true. it was afternoon of the same day that the colonel tossed his horse's bridle to his groom, and stepped up to old charlie, who was sitting on his bench under a china-tree, his head as was his fashion, bound in a madras handkerchief the "old man" was plainly under the effect of spirits and smiled a deferential salutation without trusting himself to his feet. "eh, well charlie!"--the colonel raised his voice to suit his kinsman's deafness,--"how is those times with my friend charlie?" "eh?" said charlie, distractedly. "is that goin' well with my friend charlie?" "in de house,--call her,"--making a pretence of rising. "_non, non!_ i don't want,"--the speaker paused to breathe--"ow is collection?" "oh!" said charlie, "every day he make me more poorer!" "what do you hask for it?" asked the planter indifferently, designating the house by a wave of his whip. "ask for w'at?" said injin charlie. "de _house!_ what you ask for it?" "i don't believe," said charlie. "what you would _take_ for it!" cried the planter. "wait for w'at?" "what you would _take_ for the whole block?" "i don't want to sell him!" "i'll give you _ten thousand dollah_ for it." "ten t'ousand dollah for dis house? oh, no, dat is no price. he is blame good old house,--dat old house." (old charlie and the colonel never swore in presence of each other.) "forty years dat old house didn't had to be paint! i easy can get fifty t'ousand dollah for dat old house." "fifty thousand picayunes; yes," said the colonel. "she's a good house. can make plenty money," pursued the deaf man. "that's what make you so rich, eh, charlie?" "_non_, i don't make nothing. too blame clever, me, dat's de troub'. she's a good house,--make money fast like a steamboat,--make a barrel full in a week! me, i lose money all de days. too blame clever." "charlie!" "eh?" "tell me what you'll take." "make? i don't make _nothing_. too blame clever." "what will you _take?_" "oh! i got enough already,--half drunk now." "what will you take for the 'ouse?" "you want to buy her?" "i don't know,"--(shrug),--"may_be_,--if you sell it cheap." "she's a bully old house." there was a long silence. by and by old charlies commenced-- "old injin charlie is a low-down dog." "_c'est vrai, oui!_" retorted the colonel in an undertone. "he's got injin blood in him." "but he's got some blame good blood, too, ain't it?" the colonel nodded impatiently. "_bien!_ old charlie's injin blood says, 'sell de house, charlie, you blame old fool!' _mais_, old charlie's good blood says, 'charlie! if you sell dat old house, charlie, you low-down old dog, charlie, what de compte de charleu make for you grace-gran'muzzer, de dev' can eat you, charlie, i don't care.'" "no!" and the _no_ rumbled off in muttered oaths like thunder out on the gulf. the incensed old colonel wheeled and started off. "curl!" (colonel) said charlie, standing up unsteadily. the planter turned with an inquiring frown. "i'll trade with you!" said charlie. the colonel was tempted. "'ow'l you trade?" he asked. "my house for yours!" the old colonel turned pale with anger. he walked very quickly back, and came close up to his kinsman. "charlie!" he said. "injin charlie,"--with a tipsy nod. but by this time self-control was returning. "sell belles demoiselles to you?" he said in a high key, and then laughed "ho, ho, ho!" and rode away. a cloud, but not a dark one, overshadowed the spirits of belles demoiselles' plantation. the old master, whose beaming presence had always made him a shining saturn, spinning and sparkling within the bright circle of his daughters, fell into musing fits, started out of frowning reveries, walked often by himself, and heard business from his overseer fretfully. no wonder. the daughters knew his closeness in trade, and attributed to it his failure to negotiate for the old charlie buildings,--so to call them. they began to depreciate belles demoiselles. if a north wind blew, it was too cold to ride. if a shower had fallen, it was too muddy to drive. in the morning the garden was wet. in the evening the grasshopper was a burden. _ennui_ was turned into capital; every headache was interpreted a premonition of ague; and when the native exuberance of a flock of ladies without a want or a care burst out in laughter in the father's face, they spread their french eyes, rolled up their little hands, and with rigid wrists and mock vehmence vowed and vowed again that they only laughed at their misery, and should pine to death unless they could move to the sweet city. "oh! the theatre! oh! orleans street! oh! the masquerade! the place d'armes! the ball!" and they would call upon heaven with french irreverence, and fall into each other's arms, and whirl down the hall singing a waltz, end with a grand collision and fall, and, their eyes streaming merriment, lay the blame on the slippery floor, that would some day be the death of the whole seven. three times more the fond father, thus goaded, managed, by accident,--business accident,--to see old charlie and increase his offer; but in vain. he finally went to him formally. "eh?" said the deaf and distant relative. "for what you want him, eh? why you don't stay where you halways be 'appy? dis is a blame old rat-hole,--good for old injin charlie,--da's all. why you don't stay where you be halways 'appy? why you don't buy somewheres else?" "that's none of yonr business," snapped the planter. truth was, his reasons were unsatisfactory even to himself. a sullen silence followed. then charlie spoke: "well, now, look here; i sell you old charlie's house." "_bien!_ and the whole block," said the colonel. "hold on," said charlie. "i sell you de 'ouse and de block. den i go and git drunk, and go to sleep de dev' comes along and says, 'charlie! old charlie, you blame low-down old dog, wake up! what you doin' here? where's de 'ouse what monsieur le compte give your grace-gran-muzzer? don't you see dat fine gentyman, de charleu, done gone and tore him down and make him over new, you blame old fool, charlie, you low-down old injin dog!'" "i'll give you forty thousand dollars," said the colonel. "for de 'ouse?" "for all." the deaf man shook his head. "forty-five!" said the colonel. "what a lie? for what you tell me 'what a lie?' i don't tell you no lie." "_non, non!_ i give you _forty-five!_" shouted the colonel. charlie shook his head again. "fifty!" he shook it again. the figures rose and rose to-- "seventy-five!" the answer was an invitation to go away and let the owner alone, as he was, in certain specified respects, the vilest of living creatures, and no company for a fine gentyman. the "fine gentyman" longed to blaspheme--but before old charlie!--in the name of pride, how could he? he mounted and started away. "tell you what i'll make wid you," said charlie. the other, guessing aright, turned back without dismounting, smiling. "how much belles demoiselles hoes me now?" asked the deaf one. "one hundred and eighty thousand dollars," said the colonel, firmly. "yass," said charlie. "i don't want belle demoiselles." the old colonel's quiet laugh intimated it made no difference either way. "but me," continued charlie, "me,--i'm got le compte de charleu's blood in me, any'ow,--a litt' bit, any'ow, ain't it?" the colonel nodded that it was. "_bien!_ if i go out of dis place and don't go to belles demoiselles, de peoples will say,--dey will say, 'old charlie he been all doze time tell a blame _lie!_ he ain't no kin to his old grace-gran-muzzer, not a blame bit! he don't got nary drop of de charleu blood to save his blame low-down old injin soul!' no, sare! what i want wid money, den? no, sare! my place for yours!" he turned to go into the house, just too soon to see the colonel make an ugly whisk at him with his riding-whip. then the colonel, too, moved off. two or three times over, as he ambled homeward, laughter broke through his annoyance, as he recalled old charlie's family pride and the presumption of his offer. yet each time he could but think better of--not the offer to swap, but the preposterous ancestral loyalty. it was so much better than he could have expected from his "low-down" relative, and not unlike his own whim withal--the proposition which went with it was forgiven. this last defeat bore so harshly on the master of belles demoiselles, that the daughters, reading chagrin in his face, began to repent. they loved their father as daughters can, and when they saw their pretended dejection harassing him seriously they restrained their complaints, displayed more than ordinary tenderness, and heroically and ostentatiously concluded there was no place like belles demoiselles. but the new mood touched him more than the old, and only refined his discontent. here was a man, rich without the care of riches, free from any real trouble, happiness as native to his house as perfume to his garden, deliberately, as it were with premeditated malice, taking joy by the shoulder and bidding her be gone to town, whither he might easily have followed, only that the very same ancestral nonsense that kept injin charlie from selling the old place for twice its value prevented him from choosing any other spot for a city home. but by and by the charm of nature and the merry hearts around him prevailed; the fit of exalted sulks passed off, and after a while the year flared up at christmas, flickered, and went out. new year came and passed; the beautiful garden of belles demoiselles put on its spring attire; the seven fair sisters moved from rose to rose; the cloud of discontent had warmed into invisible vapor in the rich sunlight of family affection, and on the common memory the only scar of last year's wound was old charlie's sheer impertinence in crossing the caprice of the de charleus. the cup of gladness seemed to fill with the filling of the river. how high that river was! its tremendous current rolled and tumbled and spun along, hustling the long funeral flotillas of drift,--and how near shore it came! men were out day and night, watching the levee. on windy nights even the old colonel took part, and grew light-hearted with occupation and excitement, as every minute the river threw a white arm over the levee's top, as though it would vault over. but all held fast, and, as the summer drifted in, the water sunk down into its banks and looked quite incapable of harm. on a summer afternoon of uncommon mildness, old colonel jean albert henri joseph de charleu-marot, being in a mood for revery, slipped the custody of his feminine rulers and sought the crown of the levee, where it was his wont to promenade. presently he sat upon a stone bench,--a favorite seat. before him lay his broad-spread fields; near by, his lordly mansion; and being still,--perhaps by female contact,--somewhat sentimental, he fell to musing on his past. it was hardly worthy to be proud of. all its morning was reddened with mad frolic, and far toward the meridian it was marred with elegant rioting. pride had kept him well-nigh useless, and despised the honors won by valor; gaming had dimmed prosperity; death had taken his heavenly wife; voluptuous ease had mortgaged his lands; and yet his house still stood, his sweet-smelling fields were still fruitful, his name was fame enough; and yonder and yonder, among the trees and flowers, like angels walking in eden, were the seven goddesses of his only worship. just then a slight sound behind him brought him to his feet. he cast his eyes anxiously to the outer edge of the little strip of bank between the levee's base and the river. there was nothing visible. he paused, with his ear toward the water, his face full of frightened expectation. ha! there came a single plashing sound, like some great beast slipping into the river, and little waves in a wide semi-circle came out from under the bank and spread over the water! "my god!" he plunged down the levee and bounded through the low weeds to the edge of the bank. it was sheer, and the water about four feet below. he did not stand quite on the edge, but fell upon his knees a couple of yards away, wringing his hands, moaning and weeping, and staring through his watery eyes at a fine, long crevice just discernible under the matted grass, and curving outward on either hand toward the river. "my god!" he sobbed aloud; "my god!" and even while he called, his god answered: the tough bermuda grass stretched and snapped, the crevice slowly became a gape, and softly, gradually, with no sound but the closing of the water at last, a ton or more of earth settled into the boiling eddy and disappeared. at the same instant a pulse of the breeze brought from the garden behind, the joyous, thoughtless laughter of the fair mistresses of belles demoiselles. the old colonel sprang up and clambered over the levee. then forcing himself to a more composed movement he hastened into the house and ordered his horse. "tell my children to make merry while i am gone," he left word. "i shall be back to-night," and the horse's hoofs clattered down a by-road leading to the city. "charlie," said the planter, riding up to a window, from which the old man's nightcap was thrust out, "what you say, charlie,--my house for yours, eh, charlie--what you say?" "ello!" said charlie; "from where you come from dis time of to-night?" "i come from the exchange in st. louis street." (a small fraction of the truth.) "what you want?" said matter-of-fact charlie. "i come to trade." the low-down relative drew the worsted off his ears. "oh! yass," he said with an uncertain air. "well, old man charlie, what you say: my house for yours,--like you said,--eh, charlie?" "i dunno," said charlie; "it's nearly mine now. why you don't stay dare youse'f?" "_because i don't want!_" said the colonel savagely. "is dat reason enough for you? you better take me in de notion, old man, i tell you,--yes!" charlie never winced; but how his answer delighted the colonel! quoth charlie: "i don't care--i take him!--_mais_, possession give right off." "not the whole plantation, charlie; only"-- "i don't care," said charlie; "we easy can fix dat _mais_, what for you don't want to keep him? i don't want him. you better keep him." "don't you try to make no fool of me, old man," cried the planter. "oh, no!" said the other. "oh, no! but you make a fool of yourself, ain't it?" the dumbfounded colonel stared; charlie went on: "yass! belles demoiselles is more wort' dan tree block like dis one. i pass by dare since two weeks. oh, pritty belles demoiselles! de cane was wave in de wind, de garden smell like a bouquet, de white-cap was jump up and down on de river; seven _belles demoiselles_ was ridin' on horses. 'pritty, pritty, pritty!' says old charlie. ah! _monsieur le père_, 'ow 'appy, 'appy, 'appy!" "yass!" he continued--the colonel still staring--"le compte de charleu have two familie. one was low-down choctaw, one was high up _noblesse_. he gave the low-down choctaw dis old rat-hole; he give belles demoiselles to you gran-fozzer; and now you don't be _satisfait_. what i'll do wid belles demoiselles? she'll break me in two years, yass. and what you'll do wid old charlie's house, eh? you'll tear her down and make you'se'f a blame old fool. i rather wouldn't trade!" the planter caught a big breathful of anger, but charlie went straight on: "i rather wouldn't, _mais_ i will do it for you;--just the same, like monsieur le compte would say, 'charlie, you old fool, i want to shange houses wid you.'" so long as the colonel suspected irony he was angry, but as charlie seemed, after all, to be certainly in earnest, he began to feel conscience-stricken. he was by no means a tender man, but his lately-discovered misfortune had unhinged him, and this strange, undeserved, disinterested family fealty on the part of charlie touched his heart. and should he still try to lead him into the pitfall he had dug? he hesitated;--no, he would show him the place by broad daylight, and if he chose to overlook the "caving bank," it would be his own fault;--a trade's a trade. "come," said the planter, "come at my house to-night; to-morrow we look at the place before breakfast, and finish the trade." "for what?" said charlie. "oh, because i got to come in town in the morning." "i don't want," said charlie. "how i'm goin' to come dere?" "i git you a horse at the liberty stable." "well--anyhow--i don't care--i'll go." and they went. when they had ridden a long time, and were on the road darkened by hedges of cherokee rose, the colonel called behind him to the "low-down" scion: "keep the road, old man." "eh?" "keep the road." "oh, yes; all right; i keep my word; we don't goin' to play no tricks, eh?" but the colonel seemed not to hear. his ungenerous design was beginning to be hateful to him. not only old charlie's unprovoked goodness was prevailing; the eulogy on belles demoiselles had stirred the depths of an intense love for his beautiful home. true, if he held to it, the caving of the bank, at its present fearful speed, would let the house into the river within three months; but were it not better to lose it so, than sell his birthright? again,--coming back to the first thought,--to betray his own blood! it was only injin charlie; but had not the de charleu blood just spoken out in him? unconsciously he groaned. after a time they struck a path approaching the plantation in the rear, and a little after, passing from behind a clump of live-oaks, they came in sight of the villa. it looked so like a gem, shining through its dark grove, so like a great glow-worm in the dense foliage, so significant of luxury and gayety, that the poor master, from an overflowing heart, groaned again. "what?" asked charlie. the colonel only drew his rein, and, dismounting mechanically, contemplated the sight before him. the high, arched doors and windows were thrown wide to the summer air; from every opening the bright light of numerous candelabra darted out upon the sparkling foliage of magnolia and bay, and here and there in the spacious verandas a colored lantern swayed in the gentle breeze. a sound of revel fell on the ear, the music of harps; and across one window, brighter than the rest, flitted, once or twice, the shadows of dancers. but oh! the shadows flitting across the heart of the fair mansion's master! "old charlie," said he, gazing fondly at his house, "you and me is both old, eh?" "yaas," said the stolid charlie. "and we has both been bad enough in our times eh, charlie?" charlie, surprised at the tender tone, repeated "yaas." "and you and me is mighty close?" "blame close, yaas." "but you never know me to cheat, old man!" "no,"--impassively. "and do you think i would cheat you now?" "i dunno," said charlie. "i don't believe." "well, old man, old man,"--his voice began to quiver,--"i sha'n't cheat you now. my god!--old man, i tell you--you better not make the trade!" "because for what?" asked charlie in plain anger; but both looked quickly toward the house! the colonel tossed his hands wildly in the air, rushed forward a step or two, and giving one fearful scream of agony and fright, fell forward on his face in the path. old charlie stood transfixed with horror. belles demoiselles, the realm of maiden beauty, the home of merriment, the house of dancing, all in the tremor and glow of pleasure, suddenly sunk, with one short, wild wail of terror--sunk, sunk, down, down, down, into the merciless, unfathomable flood of the mississippi. twelve long months were midnight to the mind of the childless father; when they were only half gone, he took his bed; and every day, and every night, old charlie, the "low-down," the "fool," watched him tenderly, tended him lovingly, for the sake of his name, his misfortunes, and his broken heart. no woman's step crossed the floor of the sick-chamber, whose western dormer-windows overpeered the dingy architecture of old charlie's block; charlie and a skilled physician, the one all interest, the other all gentleness, hope, and patience--these only entered by the door; but by the window came in a sweet-scented evergreen vine, transplanted from the caving bank of belles demoiselles. it caught the rays of sunset in its flowery net and let then softly in upon the sick man's bed; gathered the glancing beams of the moon at midnight, and often wakened the sleeper to look, with his mindless eyes, upon their pretty silver fragments strewn upon the floor. by and by there seemed--there was--a twinkling dawn of returning reason. slowly, peacefully, with an increase unseen from day to day, the light of reason came into the eyes, and speech became coherent; but withal there came a failing of the wrecked body, and the doctor said that monsieur was both better and worse. one evening, as charlie sat by the vine-clad window with his fireless pipe in his hand, the old colonel's eyes fell full upon his own, and rested there. "charl--," he said with an effort, and his delighted nurse hastened to the bedside and bowed his best ear. there was an unsuccessful effort or two, and then he whispered, smiling with sweet sadness,-- "we didn't trade." the truth, in this case, was a secondary matter to charlie; the main point was to give a pleasing answer. so he nodded his head decidedly, as who should say--"oh yes, we did, it was a bona-fide swap!" but when he saw the smile vanish, he tried the other expedient and shook his head with still more vigor, to signify that they had not so much as approached a bargain; and the smile returned. charlie wanted to see the vine recognized. he stepped backward to the window with a broad smile, shook the foliage, nodded and looked smart. "i know," said the colonel, with beaming eyes,"--many weeks." the next day-- "charl--" the best ear went down. "send for a priest." the priest came, and was alone with him a whole afternoon. when he left, the patient was very haggard and exhausted, but smiled and would not suffer the crucifix to be removed from his breast. one more morning came. just before dawn charlie, lying on a pallet in the room, thought he was called, and came to the bedside. "old man," whispered the failing invalid, "is it caving yet?" charlie nodded. "it won't pay you out." "oh, dat makes not'ing," said charlie. two big tears rolled down his brown face. "dat makes not'in." the colonel whispered once more: "_mes belles demoiselles!_ in paradise;--in the garden--i shall be with them at sunrise;" and so it was. "posson jone'." [ ] [footnote : published in appletons' journal. republished by permission.] to jules st.-ange--elegant little heathen--there yet remained at manhood a remembrance of having been to school, and of having been taught by a stony-headed capuchin that the world is round--for example, like a cheese. this round world is a cheese to be eaten through, and jules had nibbled quite into his cheese-world already at twenty-two. he realized this as he idled about one sunday morning where the intersection of royal and conti streets some seventy years ago formed a central corner of new orleans. yes, yes, the trouble was he had been wasteful and honest. he discussed the matter with that faithful friend and confidant, baptiste, his yellow body-servant. they concluded that, papa's patience and _tante's_ pin-money having been gnawed away quite to the rind, there were left open only these few easily-enumerated resorts: to go to work--they shuddered; to join major innerarity's filibustering expedition; or else--why not?--to try some games of confidence. at twenty-two one must begin to be something. nothing else tempted; could that avail? one could but try. it is noble to try; and, besides, they were hungry. if one could "make the friendship" of some person from the country, for instance, with money, not expert at cards or dice, but, as one would say, willing to learn, one might find cause to say some "hail marys." the sun broke through a clearing sky, and baptiste pronounced it good for luck. there had been a hurricane in the night. the weed-grown tile-roofs were still dripping, and from lofty brick and low adobe walls a rising steam responded to the summer sunlight. up-street, and across the rue du canal, one could get glimpses of the gardens in faubourg ste.-marie standing in silent wretchedness, so many tearful lucretias, tattered victims of the storm. short remnants of the wind now and then came down the narrow street in erratic puffs heavily laden with odors of broken boughs and torn flowers, skimmed the little pools of rain-water in the deep ruts of the unpaved street, and suddenly went away to nothing, like a juggler's butterflies or a young man's money. it was very picturesque, the rue royale. the rich and poor met together. the locksmith's swinging key creaked next door to the bank; across the way, crouching, mendicant-like, in the shadow of a great importing-house, was the mud laboratory of the mender of broken combs. light balconies overhung the rows of showy shops and stores open for trade this sunday morning, and pretty latin faces of the higher class glanced over their savagely-pronged railings upon the passers below. at some windows hung lace certains, flannel duds at some, and at others only the scraping and sighing one-hinged shutter groaning toward paris after its neglectful master. m. st.-ange stood looking up and down the street for nearly an hour. but few ladies, only the inveterate mass-goers, were out. about the entrance of the frequent _cafés_ the masculine gentility stood leaning on canes, with which now one and now another beckoned to jules, some even adding pantomimic hints of the social cup. m. st.-ange remarked to his servant without turning his head that somehow he felt sure he should soon return those _bons_ that the mulatto had lent him. "what will you do with them?" "me!" said baptiste, quickly; "i will go and see the bull-fight in the place congo." "there is to be a bull-fight? but where is m. cayetano?" "ah, got all his affairs wet in the tornado. instead of his circus, they are to have a bull-fight--not an ordinary bull-fight with sick horses, but a buffalo-and-tiger fight. i would not miss it"-- two or three persons ran to the opposite corner, and commenced striking at something with their canes. others followed. can m. st.-ange and servant, who hasten forward--can the creoles, cubans, spaniards, san domingo refugees, and other loungers--can they hope it is a fight? they hurry forward. is a man in a fit? the crowd pours in from the side-streets. have they killed a so-long snake? bareheaded shopmen leave their wives, who stand upon chairs. the crowd huddles and packs. those on the outside make little leaps into the air, trying to be tall. "what is the matter?" "have they caught a real live rat?" "who is hurt?" asks some one in english. "_personne_," replies a shopkeeper; "a man's hat blow' in the gutter; but he has it now. jules pick' it. see, that is the man, head and shoulders on top the res'." "he in the homespun?" asks a second shopkeeper. "humph! an _américain_--a west-floridian; bah!" "but wait; 'st! he is speaking; listen!" "to who is he speak----?" "sh-sh-sh! to jules." "jules who?" "silence, you! to jules st.-ange, what howe me a bill since long time. sh-sh-sh!" then the voice was heard. its owner was a man of giant stature, with a slight stoop in his shoulders, as if he was making a constant, good-natured attempt to accommodate himself to ordinary doors and ceilings. his bones were those of an ox. his face was marked more by weather than age, and his narrow brow was bald and smooth. he had instantaneously formed an opinion of jules st.-ange, and the multitude of words, most of them lingual curiosities, with which he was rasping the wide-open ears of his listeners, signified, in short, that, as sure as his name was parson jones, the little creole was a "plum gentleman." m. st.-ange bowed and smiled, and was about to call attention, by both gesture and speech, to a singular object on top of the still uncovered head, when the nervous motion of the _américain_ anticipated him, as, throwing up an immense hand, he drew down a large roll of bank-notes. the crowd laughed, the west-floridian joining, and began to disperse. "why, that money belongs to smyrny church," said the giant. "you are very dengerous to make your money expose like that, misty posson jone'," said st.-ange, counting it with his eyes. the countryman gave a start and smile of surprise. "how d'dyou know my name was jones?" he asked; but, without pausing for the creole's answer, furnished in his reckless way some further specimens of west-floridian english; and the conciseness with which he presented full intelligence of his home, family, calling, lodging-house, and present and future plans, might have passed for consummate art, had it not been the most run-wild nature. "and i've done been to mobile, you know, on busi_ness_ for bethesdy church. it's the on'yest time i ever been from home; now you wouldn't of believed that, would you? but i admire to have saw you, that's so. you've got to come and eat with me. me and my boy ain't been fed yit. what might one call yo' name? jools? come on, jools. come on, colossus. that's my niggah--his name's colossus of rhodes. is that yo' yallah boy, jools? fetch him along, colossus. it seems like a special provi_dence_.--jools, do you believe in a special provi_dence?_" jules said he did. the new-made friends moved briskly off, followed by baptiste and a short, square, old negro, very black and grotesque, who had introduced himself to the mulatto, with many glittering and cavernous smiles, as "d'body-sarvant of d'rev'n' mr. jones." both pairs enlivened their walk with conversation. parson jones descanted upon the doctrine he had mentioned, as illustrated in the perplexities of cotton-growing, and concluded that there would always be "a special provi_dence_ again' cotton untell folks quits a-pressin' of it and haulin' of it on sundays!" "_je dis_," said st.-ange, in response, "i thing you is juz right. i believe, me, strong-strong in the improvidence, yes. you know my papa he hown a sugah-plantation, you know. 'jules, me son,' he say one time to me, 'i goin' to make one baril sugah to fedge the moze high price in new orleans.' well, he take his bez baril sugah--i nevah see a so careful man like me papa always to make a so beautiful sugah _et sirop_. 'jules, go at father pierre an' ged this lill pitcher fill with holy water, an' tell him sen' his tin bucket, and i will make it fill with _quitte_.' i ged the holy-water; my papa sprinkle it over the baril, an' make one cross on the 'ead of the baril." "why, jools," said parson jones, "that didn't do no good." "din do no good! id broughd the so great value! you can strike me dead if thad baril sugah din fedge the more high cost than any other in the city. _parce-que_, the man what buy that baril sugah he make a mistake of one hundred pound"--falling back--"_mais_ certainlee!" "and you think that was growin' out of the holy-water?" asked the parson. "_mais_, what could make it else? id could not be the _quitte_, because my papa keep the bucket, an' forget to sen' the _quitte_ to father pierre." parson jones was disappointed. "well, now, jools, you know, i don't think that was right. i reckon you must be a plum catholic." m. st.-ange shrugged. he would not deny his faith. "i am a _catholique, mais_"--brightening as he hoped to recommend himself anew--"not a good one." "well, you know," said jones--"where's colossus? oh! all right. colossus strayed off a minute in mobile, and i plum lost him for two days. here's the place; come in. colossus and this boy can go to the kitchen.--now, colossus, what _air_ you a-beckonin' at me faw?" he let his servant draw him aside and address him in a whisper. "oh, go 'way!" said the parson with a jerk. "who's goin' to throw me? what? speak louder. why, colossus, you shayn't talk so, saw. 'pon my soul, you're the mightiest fool i ever taken up with. jest you go down that alley-way with this yalla boy, and don't show yo' face untell yo' called!" the negro begged; the master wrathily insisted. "colossus, will you do ez i tell you, or shell i hev to strike you, saw?" "o mahs jimmy, i--i's gwine; but"--he ventured nearer--"don't on no account drink nothin', mahs jimmy." such was the negro's earnestness that he put one foot in the gutter, and fell heavily against his master. the parson threw him off angrily. "thar, now! why, colossus, you most of been dosted with sumthin'; yo' plum crazy.--humph, come on, jools, let's eat! humph! to tell me that when i never taken a drop, exceptin' for chills, in my life--which he knows so as well as me!" the two masters began to ascend a stair. "_mais_, he is a sassy; i would sell him, me," said the young creole. "no, i wouldn't do that," replied the parson; "though there is people in bethesdy who says he is a rascal. he's a powerful smart fool. why, that boy's got money, jools; more money than religion, i reckon. i'm shore he fallen into mighty bad company"--they passed beyond earshot. baptiste and colossus, instead of going to the tavern kitchen, passed to the next door and entered the dark rear corner of a low grocery, where, the law notwithstanding, liquor was covertly sold to slaves. there, in the quiet company of baptiste and the grocer, the colloquial powers of colossus, which were simply prodigious, began very soon to show themselves. "for whilst," said he, "mahs jimmy has eddication, you know--whilst he has eddication, i has 'scretion. he has eddication and i has 'scretion, an' so we gits along." he drew a black bottle down the counter, and, laying half his length upon the damp board, continued: "as a p'inciple i discredits de imbimin' of awjus liquors. de imbimin' of awjus liquors, de wiolution of de sabbaf, de playin' of de fiddle, and de usin' of by-words, dey is de fo' sins of de conscience; an' if any man sin de fo' sins of de conscience, de debble done sharp his fork fo' dat man.--ain't that so, boss?" the grocer was sure it was so. "neberdeless, mind you"--here the orator brimmed his glass from the bottle and swallowed the contents with a dry eye--"mind you, a roytious man, sech as ministers of de gospel and dere body-sarvants, can take a _leetle_ for de weak stomach." but the fascinations of colossus's eloquence must not mislead us; this is the story of a true christian; to wit, parson jones. the parson and his new friend ate. but the coffee m. st.-ange declared he could not touch; it was too wretchedly bad. at the french market, near by, there was some noble coffee. this, however, would have to be bought, and parson jones had scruples. "you see, jools, every man has his conscience to guide him, which it does so in"-- "oh, yes!" cried st.-ange, "conscien'; thad is the bez, posson jone'. certainlee! i am a _catholique_, you is a _schismatique_; you thing it is wrong to dring some coffee--well, then, it _is_ wrong; you thing it is wrong to make the sugah to ged the so large price--well, then, it _is_ wrong; i thing it is right--well, then, it is right; it is all 'abit; _c'est tout_. what a man thing is right, _is right_; 'tis all 'abit. a man muz nod go again' his conscien'. my faith! do you thing i would go again' my conscien'? _mais allons_, led us go and ged some coffee." "jools." "w'at?" "jools, it ain't the drinkin' of coffee, but the buyin' of it on a sabbath. you must really excuse me, jools, it's again' conscience, you know." "ah!" said st.-ange, "_c'est_ very true. for you it would be a sin, _mais_ for me it is only 'abit. rilligion is a very strange; i know a man one time, he thing it was wrong to go to cock-fight sunday evening. i thing it is all 'abit. _mais_, come, posson jone'; i have got one friend, miguel; led us go at his house and ged some coffee. come; miguel have no familie; only him and joe--always like to see friend; _allons_, led us come yonder." "why, jools, my dear friend, you know," said the shamefaced parson, "i never visit on sundays." "never w'at?" asked the astounded creole. "no," said jones, smiling awkwardly. "never visite?" "exceptin' sometimes amongst church-members." said parson jones. "_mais_," said the seductive st.-ange, "miguel and joe is church-member'--certainlee! they love to talk about rilligion. come at miguel and talk about some rilligion. i am nearly expire for me coffee." parson jones took his hat from beneath his chair and rose up. "jools," said the weak giant, "i ought to be in church right now." "_mais_, the church is right yonder at miguel', yes. ah!" continued st.-ange, as they descended the stairs, "i thing every man muz have the rilligion he like' the bez--me, i like the _catholique_ rilligion the bez--for me it _is_ the bez. every man will sure go to heaven if he like his rilligion the bez." "jools," said the west-floridian, laying his great hand tenderly upon the creole's shoulder, as they stepped out upon the _banquette_, "do you think you have any shore hopes of heaven?" "yass!" replied st.-ange; "i am sure-sure. i thing everybody will go to heaven. i thing you will go, _et_ i thing miguel will go, _et_ joe--everybody, i thing--_mais_, hof course, not if they not have been christen'. even i thing some niggers will go." "jools," said the parson, stopping in his walk--"jools, i _don't_ want to lose my niggah." "yon will not loose him. with baptiste he _cannot_ ged loose." but colossus's master was not re-assured. "now," said he, still tarrying, "this is jest the way; had i of gone to church"-- "posson jone'," said jules. "what?" "i tell you. we goin' to church!" "will you?" asked jones, joyously. "_allons_, come along," said jules, taking his elbow. they walked down the rue chartres, passed several corners, and by and by turned into a cross street. the parson stopped an instant as they were turning and looked back up the street. "w'at you lookin'?" asked his companion. "i thought i saw colossus," answered the parson, with an anxious face; "i reckon 'twa'n't him, though." and they went on. the street they now entered was a very quiet one. the eye of any chance passer would have been at once drawn to a broad, heavy, white brick edifice on the lower side of the way, with a flag-pole standing out like a bowsprit from one of its great windows, and a pair of lamps hanging before a large closed entrance. it was a theatre, honey-combed with gambling-dens. at this morning hour all was still, and the only sign of life was a knot of little barefoot girls gathered within its narrow shade, and each carrying an infant relative. into this place the parson and m. st.-ange entered, the little nurses jumping up from the sills to let them pass in. a half-hour may have passed. at the end of that time the whole juvenile company were laying alternate eyes and ears to the chinks, to gather what they could of an interesting quarrel going on within. "i did not, saw! i given you no cause of offence, saw! it's not so, saw! mister jools simply mistaken the house, thinkin' it was a sabbath-school! no such thing, saw; i _ain't_ bound to bet! yes, i kin git out. yes, without bettin'! i hev a right to my opinion; i reckon i'm a _white man_, saw! no saw! i on'y said i didn't think you could get the game on them cards. 'sno such thing, saw! i do _not_ know how to play! i wouldn't hev a rascal's money ef i should win it! shoot, ef you dare! you can kill me, but you cayn't scare me! no, i shayn't bet! i'll die first! yes, saw; mr. jools can bet for me if he admires to; i ain't his mostah." here the speaker seemed to direct his words to st.-ange. "saw, i don't understand you, saw. i never said i'd loan you money to bet for me. i didn't suspicion this from you, saw. no, i won't take any more lemonade; it's the most notorious stuff i ever drank, saw!" m. st.-ange's replies were in _falsetto_ and not without effect; for presently the parson's indignation and anger began to melt. "don't ask me, jools, i can't help you. it's no use; it's a matter of conscience with me, jools." "_mais oui!_ 'tis a matt' of conscien' wid me, the same." "but, jools, the money's none o' mine, nohow; it belongs to smyrny, you know." "if i could make jus' _one_ bet," said the persuasive st.-ange, "i would leave this place, fas'-fas', yes. if i had thing--_mais_ i did not soupspicion this from you, posson jone'"-- "don't, jools, don't!" "no! posson jone'." "you're bound to win?" said the parson, wavering. "_mais certainement!_ but it is not to win that i want;'tis me conscien'--me honor!" "well, jools, i hope i'm not a-doin' no wrong. i'll loan you some of this money if you say you'll come right out 'thout takin' your winnin's." all was still. the peeping children could see the parson as he lifted his hand to his breast-pocket. there it paused a moment in bewilderment, then plunged to the bottom. it came back empty, and fell lifelessly at his side. his head dropped upon his breast, his eyes were for a moment closed, his broad palms were lifted and pressed against his forehead, a tremor seized him, and he fell all in a lump to the floor. the children ran off with their infant-loads, leaving jules st.-ange swearing by all his deceased relatives, first to miguel and joe, and then to the lifted parson, that he did not know what had become of the money "except if" the black man had got it. in the rear of ancient new orleans, beyond the sites of the old rampart, a trio of spanish forts, where the town has since sprung up and grown old, green with all the luxuriance of the wild creole summer, lay the congo plains. here stretched the canvas of the historic cayetano, who sunday after sunday sowed the sawdust for his circus-ring. but to-day the great showman had fallen short of his printed promise. the hurricane had come by night, and with one fell swash had made an irretrievable sop of every thing. the circus trailed away its bedraggled magnificence, and the ring was cleared for the bull. then the sun seemed to come out and work for the people. "see," said the spaniards, looking up at the glorious sky with its great, white fleets drawn off upon the horizon--"see--heaven smiles upon the bull-fight!" in the high upper seats of the rude amphitheatre sat the gayly-decked wives and daughters of the gascons, from the _métaries_ along the ridge, and the chattering spanish women of the market, their shining hair un-bonneted to the sun. next below were their husbands and lovers in sunday blouses, milkmen, butchers, bakers, black-bearded fishermen, sicilian fruiterers, swarthy portuguese sailors, in little woollen caps, and strangers of the graver sort; mariners of england, germany, and holland. the lowest seats were full of trappers, smugglers, canadian _voyageurs_, drinking and singing; _américains_, too--more's the shame--from the upper rivers--who will not keep their seats--who ply the bottle, and who will get home by and by and tell how wicked sodom is; broad-brimmed, silver-braided mexicans, too, with their copper cheeks and bat's eyes and their tinkling spurred heels. yonder, in that quieter section, are the quadroon women in their black lace shawls--and there is baptiste; and below them are the turbaned black women, and there is--but he vanishes--colossus. the afternoon is advancing, yet the sport, though loudly demanded, does not begin. the _américains_ grow derisive and find pastime in gibes and raillery they mock the various latins with their national inflections, and answer their scowls with laughter. some of the more aggressive shout pretty french greetings to the women of gascony, and one bargeman, amid peals of applause, stands on a seat and hurls a kiss to the quadroons. the mariners of england, germany, and holland, as spectators, like the fun, while the spaniards look black and cast defiant imprecations upon their persecutors. some gascons, with timely caution, pick their women out and depart, running a terrible fire of gallantries. in hope of truce, a new call is raised for the bull: "the bull, the bull!--hush!" in a tier near the ground a man is standing and calling--standing head and shoulders above the rest--callimg in the _américaine_ tongue. another man, big and red, named joe, and a handsome little creole in elegant dress and full of laughter, wish to stop him, but the flat-boatmen, ha-ha-ing and cheering, will not suffer it. ah, through some shameful knavery of the men, into whose hands he has fallen, he is drunk! even the women can see that; and now he throws his arms wildly and raises his voice until the whole great circle hears it. he is preaching! ah! kind lord, for a special providence now! the men of his own nation--men from the land of the open english bible and temperance cup and song are cheering him on to mad disgrace. and now another call for the appointed sport is drowned by the flat-boatmen singing the ancient tune of mear. you can hear the words-- "old grimes is dead, that good old soul" --from ribald lips and throats turned brazen with laughter, from singers who toss their hats aloft and roll in their seats; the chorus swells to the accompaniment of a thousand brogans-- "he used to wear an old gray coat all buttoned down before." a ribboned man in the arena is trying to be heard, and the latins raise one mighty cry for silence. the big red man gets a hand over the parson's mouth, and the ribboned man seizes his moment. "they have been endeavoring for hours," he says, "to draw the terrible animals from their dens, but such is their strength and fierceness, that"-- his voice is drowned. enough has been heard to warrant the inference that the beasts cannot be whipped out of the storm-drenched cages to which menagerie-life and long starvation have attached them, and from the roar of indignation the man of ribbons flies. the noise increases. men are standing up by hundreds, and women are imploring to be let out of the turmoil. all at once, like the bursting of a dam, the whole mass pours down into the ring. they sweep across the arena and over the showman's barriers. miguel gets a frightful trampling. who cares for gates or doors? they tear the beasts' houses bar from bar, and, laying hold of the gaunt buffalo, drag him forth by feet, ears, and tail; and in the midst of the _mêlée_, still head and shoulders above all, wilder, with the cup of the wicked, than any beast, is the man of god from the florida parishes! in his arms he bore--and all the people shouted at once when they saw it--the tiger. he had lifted it high up with its back to his breast, his arms clasped under its shoulders; the wretched brute had curled up caterpillar-wise, with its long tail against its belly, and through its filed teeth grinned a fixed and impotent wrath. and parson jones was shouting: "the tiger and the buffler _shell_ lay down together! you dah to say they shayn't and i'll comb you with this varmint from head to foot! the tiger and the buffler _shell_ lay down together. they _shell!_ now, you, joe! behold! i am here to see it done. the lion and the buffler _shell_ lay down together!" mouthing these words again and again, the parson forced his way through the surge in the wake of the buffalo. this creature the latins had secured by a lariat over his head, and were dragging across the old rampart and into a street of the city. the northern races were trying to prevent, and there was pommelling and knocking down, cursing and knife-drawing, until jules st.-ange was quite carried away with the fun, laughed, clapped his hands, and swore with delight, and ever kept close to the gallant parson. joe, contrariwise, counted all this child's-play an interruption. he had come to find colossus and the money. in an unlucky moment he made bold to lay hold of the parson, but a piece of the broken barriers in the hands of a flat-boatman felled him to the sod, the terrible crowd swept over him, the lariat was cut and the giant parson hurled the tiger upon the buffalo's back. in another instant both brutes were dead at the hands of the mob; jones was lifted from his feet, and prating of scripture and the millennium, of paul at ephesus and daniel in the "buffler's" den, was borne aloft upon the shoulders of the huzzaing _américains_. half an hour later he was sleeping heavily on the floor of a cell in the _calaboza_. when parson jones awoke, a bell was somewhere tolling for midnight. somebody was at the door of his cell with a key. the lock grated, the door swung, the turnkey looked in and stepped back, and a ray of moonlight fell upon m. jules st.-ange. the prisoner sat upon the empty shackles and ring-bolt in the centre of the floor. "misty posson jone'," said the visitor, softly. "o jools!" "_mais_, w'at de matter, posson jone'?" "my sins, jools, my sins!" "ah! posson jone', is that something to cry, because a man get sometime a litt' bit intoxicate? _mais_, if a man keep _all the time_ intoxicate, i think that is again' the conscien'." "jools, jools, your eyes is darkened--oh i jools, where's my pore old niggah?" "posson jone', never min'; he is wid baptiste." "where?" "i don' know w'ere--_mais_ he is wid baptiste. baptiste is a beautiful to take care of somebody." "is he as good as you, jools?" asked parson jones, sincerely. jules was slightly staggered. "you know, posson jone', you know, a nigger cannot be good as a w'ite man--_mais_ baptiste is a good nigger." the parson moaned and dropped his chin into his hands. "i was to of left for home to-morrow, sun-up, on the isabella schooner. pore smyrny!" he deeply sighed. "posson jone'," said jules, leaning against the wall and smiling, "i swear you is the moz funny man i ever see. if i was you i would say, me, 'ah! 'ow i am lucky! the money i los', it was not mine, anyhow!' my faith! shall a man make hisse'f to be the more sorry because the money he los' is not his? me, i would say, 'it is a specious providence.' "ah! misty posson jone'," he continued, "you make a so droll sermon ad the bull-ring. ha! ha! i swear i thing you can make money to preach thad sermon many time ad the theatre st. philippe. hah! you is the moz brave dat i never see, _mais_ ad the same time the moz rilligious man. where i'm goin' to fin' one priest to make like dat? _mais,_ why you can't cheer up an' be 'appy? me, if i should be miserabl' like that i would kill meself." the countryman only shook his head. "_bien,_ posson jone', i have the so good news for you." the prisoner looked up with eager inquiry. "las' evening when they lock' you, i come right off at m. de blanc's house to get you let out of de calaboose; m. de blanc he is the judge. so soon i was entering--'ah! jules, me boy, juz the man to make complete the game!' posson jone', it was a specious providence! i win in t'ree hours more dan six hundred dollah! look." he produced a mass of bank-notes, _bons_, and due-bills. "and you got the pass?" asked the parson, regarding the money with a sadness incomprehensible to jules. "it is here; it take the effect so soon the daylight." "jools, my friend, your kindness is in vain." the creole's face became a perfect blank. "because," said the parson, "for two reasons: firstly, i hare broken the laws, and ought to stand the penalty; and secondly--you must really excuse me, jools, you know, but the pass has been got onfairly, i'm afeerd. you told the judge i was innocent; and in neither case it don't become a christian (which i hope i can still say i am one) to 'do evil that good may come.' i muss stay." m. st.-ange stood up aghast, and for a moment speechless, at this exhibition of moral heroism; but an artifice was presently hit upon. "_mais_, posson jone'!"--in his old _falsetto_--"de order--you cannot read it, it is in french--compel you to go hout, sir!" "is that so?" cried the parson, bounding up with radiant face--"is that so, jools?" the young man nodded, smiling; but, though he smiled, the fountain of his tenderness was opened. he made the sign of the cross as the parson knelt in prayer, and even whispered "hail mary," etc., quite through, twice over. morning broke in summer glory upon a cluster of villas behind the city, nestled under live-oaks and magnolias on the banks of a deep bayou, and known as suburb st. jean. with the first beam came the west-floridian and the creole out upon the bank below the village. upon the parson's arm hung a pair of antique saddle-bags. baptiste limped wearily behind; both his eyes were encircled with broad, blue rings, and one cheek-bone bore the official impress of every knuckle of colossus's left hand. the "beautiful to take care of somebody" had lost his charge. at mention of the negro he became wild, and, half in english, half in the "gumbo" dialect, said murderous things. intimidated by jules to calmness, he became able to speak confidently on one point; he could, would, and did swear that colossus had gone home to the florida parishes; he was almost certain; in fact, he thought so. there was a clicking of pulleys as the three appeared upon the bayou's margin, and baptiste pointed out, in the deep shadow of a great oak, the isabella, moored among the bulrushes, and just spreading her sails for departure. moving down to where she lay, the parson and his friend paused on the bank, loath to say farewell. "o jools!" said the parson, "supposin' colossus ain't gone home! o jools, if you'll look him out for me, i'll never forget you--i'll never forget you, nohow, jools. no, jools, i never will believe he taken that money. yes, i know all niggahs will steal"--he set foot upon the gang-plank--"but colossus wouldn't steal from me. good-by." "misty posson jone,'" said st.-ange, putting his hand on the parson's arm with genuine affection, "hol' on. you see dis money--w'at i win las' night? well, i win' it by a specious providence, ain't it?" "there's no tellin'," said the humbled jones. "providence 'moves in a mysterious way his wonders to perform.'" "ah!" cried the creole, "_c'est_ very true. i ged this money in the mysterieuze way. _mais_, if i keep dis money, you know where it goin' be to-night?" "i really can't say," replied the parson. "goin' to de dev'," said the sweetly-smiling yonng man. the schooner-captain, leaning against the shrouds, and even baptiste, laughed outright. "o jools, you mustn't!" "well, den, w'at i shall do wid _it?_" "any thing!" answered the parson; "better donate it away to some poor man"-- "ah! misty posson jone', dat is w'at i want. you los' five hondred dollar'--'twas me fault." "no, it wa'n't, jools." "_mais_, it was!" "no!" "it _was_ me fault! i _swear_ it was me fault! _mais_, here is five hondred dollar'; i wish you shall take it. here! i don't got no use for money.--oh, my faith! posson jone', you must not begin to cry some more." parson jones was choked with tears. when he found voice he said: "o jools, jools, jools! my pore, noble, dear, misguidened friend! ef you hed of hed a christian raisin'! may the lord show you your errors better'n i kin, and bless you for your good intentions--oh, no! i cayn't touch that money with a ten-foot pole; it wa'n't rightly got; you must really excuse me, my dear friend, but i cayn't touch it." st.-ange was petrified. "good-by, dear jools," continued the parson. "i'm in the lord's haynds, and he's very merciful, which i hope and trust you'll find it out. good-by!"--the schooner swang slowly off before the breeze--"good-by!" st.-ange roused himself. "posson jone'! make me hany'ow _dis_ promise: you never, never, _never_ will come back to new orleans." "ah, jools, the lord willin', i'll never leave home again!" "all right!" cried the creole; "i thing he's willin'. adieu, posson jone'. my faith'! you are the so fighting an' moz rilligious man as i never saw! adieu! adieu!" baptiste uttered a cry and presently ran by his master toward the schooner, his hands full of clods. st.-ange looked just in time to see the sable form of colossus of rhodes emerge from the vessel's hold, and the pastor of smyrna and bethesda seize him in his embrace. "o colossus! you outlandish old nigger! thank the lord! thank the lord!" the little creole almost wept. he ran down the tow-path, laughing and swearing, and making confused allusion to the entire _personnel_ and furniture of the lower regions. by odd fortune, at the moment that st.-ange further demonstrated his delight by tripping his mulatto into a bog, the schooner came brushing along the reedy bank with a graceful curve, the sails flapped, and the crew fell to poling her slowly along. parson jones was on the deck, kneeling once more in prayer. his hat had fallen before him; behind him knelt his slave. in thundering tones he was confessing himself "a plum fool," from whom "the conceit had been jolted out," and who had been made to see that even his "nigger had the longest head of the two." colossus clasped his hands and groaned. the parson prayed for a contrite heart. "oh, yes!" cried colossus. the master acknowledged countless mercies. "dat's so!" cried the slave. the master prayed that they might still be "piled on." "glory!" cried the black man, clapping his hands; "pile on!" "an' now," continued the parson, "bring this pore, backslidin' jackace of a parson and this pore ole fool nigger back to thar home in peace!" "pray fo' de money!" called colossus. but the parson prayed for jules. "pray fo' de _money!_" repeated the negro. "and oh, give thy servant back that there lost money!" colossus rose stealthily, and tiptoed by his still shouting master. st.-ange, the captain, the crew, gazed in silent wonder at the strategist. pausing but an instant over the master's hat to grin an acknowledgment of his beholders' speechless interest, he softly placed in it the faithfully-mourned and honestly-prayed-for smyrna fund; then, saluted by the gesticulative, silent applause of st.-ange and the schooner-men, he resumed his first attitude behind his roaring master. "amen!" cried colossus, meaning to bring him to a close. "onworthy though i be"--cried jones. "_amen!_" reiterated the negro. "a-a-amen!" said parson jones. he rose to his feet, and, stooping to take up his hat, beheld the well-known roll. as one stunned, he gazed for a moment upon his slave, who still knelt with clasped hands and rolling eyeballs; but when he became aware of the laughter and cheers that greeted him from both deck and shore, he lifted eyes and hands to heaven, and cried like the veriest babe. and when he looked at the roll again, and hugged and kissed it, st.-ange tried to raise a second shout, but choked, and the crew fell to their poles. and now up runs baptiste, covered with slime, and prepares to cast his projectiles. the first one fell wide of the mark; the schooner swung round into a long reach of water, where the breeze was in her favor; another shout of laughter drowned the maledictions of the muddy man; the sails filled; colossus of rhodes, smiling and bowing as hero of the moment, ducked as the main boom swept round, and the schooner, leaning slightly to the pleasant influence, rustled a moment over the bulrushes, and then sped far away down the rippling bayou. m. jules st.-ange stood long, gazing at the receding vessel as it now disappeared, now re-appeared beyond the tops of the high undergrowth; but, when an arm of the forest hid it finally from sight, he turned townward, followed by that fagged-out spaniel, his servant, saying, as he turned, "baptiste." "_miché?_" "you know w'at i goin' do wid dis money?" "_non, m'sieur._" "well, you can strike me dead if i don't goin' to pay hall my debts! _allons!_" he began a merry little song to the effect that his sweetheart was a wine-bottle, and master and man, leaving care behind, returned to the picturesque rue royale. the ways of providence are indeed strange. in all parson jones's after-life, amid the many painful reminiscences of his visit to the city of the plain, the sweet knowledge was withheld from him that by the light of the christian virtue that shone from him even in his great fall, jules st.-ange arose, and went to his father an honest man. jean-ah poquelin. in the first decade of the present century, when the newly established american government was the most hateful thing in louisiana--when the creoles were still kicking at such vile innovations as the trial by jury, american dances, anti-smuggling laws, and the printing of the governor's proclamation in english--when the anglo-american flood that was presently to burst in a crevasse of immigration upon the delta had thus far been felt only as slippery seepage which made the creole tremble for his footing--there stood, a short distance above what is now canal street, and considerably back from the line of villas which fringed the river-bank on tchoupitoulas road, an old colonial plantation-house half in ruin. it stood aloof from civilization, the tracts that had once been its indigo fields given over to their first noxious wildness, and grown up into one of the horridest marshes within a circuit of fifty miles. the house was of heavy cypress, lifted up on pillars, grim, solid, and spiritless, its massive build a strong reminder of days still earlier, when every man had been his own peace officer and the insurrection of the blacks a daily contingency. its dark, weatherbeaten roof and sides were hoisted up above the jungly plain in a distracted way, like a gigantic ammunition-wagon stuck in the mud and abandoned by some retreating army. around it was a dense growth of low water willows, with half a hundred sorts of thorny or fetid bushes, savage strangers alike to the "language of flowers" and to the botanist's greek. they were hung with countless strands of discolored and prickly smilax, and the impassable mud below bristled with _chevaux de frise_ of the dwarf palmetto. two lone forest-trees, dead cypresses, stood in the centre of the marsh, dotted with roosting vultures. the shallow strips of water were hid by myriads of aquatic plants, under whose coarse and spiritless flowers, could one have seen it, was a harbor of reptiles, great and small, to make one shudder to the end of his days. the house was on a slightly raised spot, the levee of a draining canal. the waters of this canal did not run; they crawled, and were full of big, ravening fish and alligators, that held it against all comers. such was the home of old jean marie poquelin, once an opulent indigo planter, standing high in the esteem of his small, proud circle of exclusively male acquaintances in the old city; now a hermit, alike shunned by and shunning all who had ever known him. "the last of his line," said the gossips. his father lies under the floor of the st. louis cathedral, with the wife of his youth on one side, and the wife of his old age on the other. old jean visits the spot daily. his half-brother--alas! there was a mystery; no one knew what had become of the gentle, young half brother, more than thirty years his junior, whom once he seemed so fondly to love, but who, seven years ago, had disappeared suddenly, once for all, and left no clew of his fate. they had seemed to live so happily in each other's love. no father, mother, wife to either, no kindred upon earth. the elder a bold, frank, impetuous, chivalric adventurer; the younger a gentle, studious, book-loving recluse; they lived upon the ancestral estate like mated birds, one always on the wing, the other always in the nest. there was no trait in jean marie poquelin, said the old gossips, for which he was so well known among his few friends as his apparent fondness for his "little brother." "jacques said this," and "jacques said that;" he "would leave this or that, or any thing to jacques," for "jacques was a scholar," and "jacques was good," or "wise," or "just," or "far-sighted," as the nature of the case required; and "he should ask jacques as soon as he got home," since jacques was never elsewhere to be seen. it was between the roving character of the one brother, and the bookishness of the other, that the estate fell into decay. jean marie, generous gentleman, gambled the slaves away one by one, until none was left, man or woman, but one old african mute. the indigo-fields and vats of louisiana had been generally abandoned as unremunerative. certain enterprising men had substituted the culture of sugar; but while the recluse was too apathetic to take so active a course, the other saw larger, and, at time, equally respectable profits, first in smuggling, and later in the african slave-trade. what harm could he see in it? the whole people said it was vitally necessary, and to minister to a vital public necessity,--good enough, certainly, and so he laid up many a doubloon, that made him none the worse in the public regard. one day old jean marie was about to start upon a voyage that was to be longer, much longer, than any that he had yet made. jacques had begged him hard for many days not to go, but he laughed him off, and finally said, kissing him: "_adieu, 'tit frère_." "no," said jacques, "i shall go with you." they left the old hulk of a house in the sole care of the african mute, and went away to the guinea coast together. two years after, old poquelin came home without his vessel. he must have arrived at his house by night. no one saw him come. no one saw "his little brother;" rumor whispered that he, too, had returned, but he had never been seen again. a dark suspicion fell upon the old slave-trader. no matter that the few kept the many reminded of the tenderness that had ever marked his bearing to the missing man. the many shook their heads. "you know he has a quick and fearful temper;" and "why does he cover his loss with mystery?" "grief would out with the truth." "but," said the charitable few, "look in his face; see that expression of true humanity." the many did look in his face, and, as he looked in theirs, he read the silent question: "where is thy brother abel?" the few were silenced, his former friends died off, and the name of jean marie poquelin became a symbol of witchery, devilish crime, and hideous nursery fictions. the man and his house were alike shunned. the snipe and duck hunters forsook the marsh, and the wood-cutters abandoned the canal. sometimes the hardier boys who ventured out there snake-shooting heard a slow thumping of oar-locks on the canal. they would look at each other for a moment half in consternation, half in glee, then rush from their sport in wanton haste to assail with their gibes the unoffending, withered old man who, in rusty attire, sat in the stern of a skiff, rowed homeward by his white-headed african mute. "o jean-ah poquelin! o jean-ah! jean-ah poquelin!" it was not necessary to utter more than that. no hint of wickedness, deformity, or any physical or moral demerit; merely the name and tone of mockery: "oh, jean-ah poquelin!" and while they tumbled one over another in their needless haste to fly, he would rise carefully from his seat, while the aged mute, with downcast face, went on rowing, and rolling up his brown fist and extending it toward the urchins, would pour forth such an unholy broadside of french imprecation and invective as would all but craze them with delight. among both blacks and whites the house was the object of a thousand superstitions. every midnight they affirmed, the _feu follet_ came out of the marsh and ran in and out of the rooms, flashing from window to window. the story of some lads, whose words in ordinary statements were worthless, was generally credited, that the night they camped in the woods, rather than pass the place after dark, they saw, about sunset, every window blood-red, and on each of the four chimneys an owl sitting, which turned his head three times round, and moaned and laughed with a human voice. there was a bottomless well, everybody professed to know, beneath the sill of the big front door under the rotten veranda; whoever set his foot upon that threshold disappeared forever in the depth below. what wonder the marsh grew as wild as africa! take all the faubourg ste. marie, and half the ancient city, you would not find one graceless dare-devil reckless enough to pass within a hundred yards of the house after nightfall. * * * * * the alien races pouring into old new orleans began to find the few streets named for the bourbon princes too strait for them. the wheel of fortune, beginning to whirl, threw them off beyond the ancient corporation lines, and sowed civilization and even trade upon the lands of the graviers and girods. fields became roads, roads streets. everywhere the leveller was peering through his glass, rodsmen were whacking their way through willow-brakes and rose-hedges, and the sweating irishmen tossed the blue clay up with their long-handled shovels. "ha! that is all very well," quoth the jean-baptistes, fueling the reproach of an enterprise that asked neither co-operation nor advice of them, "but wait till they come yonder to jean poquelin's marsh; ha! ha! ha!" the supposed predicament so delighted them, that they put on a mock terror and whirled about in an assumed stampede, then caught their clasped hands between their knees in excess of mirth, and laughed till the tears ran; for whether the street-makers mired in the marsh, or contrived to cut through old "jean-ah's" property, either event would be joyful. meantime a line of tiny rods, with bits of white paper in their split tops, gradually extended its way straight through the haunted ground, and across the canal diagonally. "we shall fill that ditch," said the men in mud-boots, and brushed close along the chained and padlocked gate of the haunted mansion. ah, jean-ah poquelin, those were not creole boys, to be stampeded with a little hard swearing. he went to the governor. that official scanned the odd figure with no slight interest. jean poquelin was of short, broad frame, with a bronzed leonine face. his brow was ample and deeply furrowed. his eye, large and black, was bold and open like that of a war-horse, and his jaws shut together with the firmness of iron. he was dressed in a suit of attakapas cottonade, and his shirt unbuttoned and thrown back from the throat and bosom, sailor-wise, showed a herculean breast; hard and grizzled. there was no fierceness or defiance in his look, no harsh ungentleness, no symptom of his unlawful life or violent temper; but rather a peaceful and peaceable fearlessness. across the whole face, not marked in one or another feature, but as it were laid softly upon the countenance like an almost imperceptible veil, was the imprint of some great grief. a careless eye might easily overlook it, but, once seen, there it hung--faint, but unmistakable. the governor bowed. "_parlez-vous français_?" asked the figure. "i would rather talk english, if you can do so," said the governor. "my name, jean poquelin." "how can i serve you, mr. poquelin?" "my 'ouse is yond'; _dans le marais là-bas_." the governor bowed. "dat _marais_ billong to me." "yes, sir." "to me; jean poquelin; i hown 'im meself." "well, sir?" "he don't billong to you; i get him from me father." "that is perfectly true, mr. poquelin, as far as i am aware." "you want to make strit pass yond'?" "i do not know, sir; it is quite probable; but the city will indemnify you for any loss you may suffer--you will get paid, you understand." "strit can't pass dare." "you will have to see the municipal authorities about that, mr. poquelin." a bitter smile came upon the old man's face: "_pardon, monsieur_, you is not _le gouverneur_?" "yes." "_mais_, yes. you har _le gouverneur_--yes. veh-well. i come to you. i tell you, strit can't pass at me 'ouse." "but you will have to see"-- "i come to you. you is _le gouverneur_. i know not the new laws. i ham a fr-r-rench-a-man! fr-rench-a-man have something _aller au contraire_--he come at his _gouverneur_. i come at you. if me not had been bought from me king like _bossals_ in the hold time, ze king gof--france would-a-show _monsieur le gouverneur_ to take care his men to make strit in right places. _mais_, i know; we billong to _monsieur le président_. i want you do somesin for me, eh?" "what is it?" asked the patient governor. "i want you tell _monsieur le président_, strit--can't--pass--at--me--'ouse." "have a chair, mr. poquelin;" but the old man did not stir. the governor took a quill and wrote a line to a city official, introducing mr. poquelin, and asking for him every possible courtesy. he handed it to him, instructing him where to present it. "mr. poquelin," he said with a conciliatory smile, "tell me, is it your house that our creole citizens tell such odd stories about?" the old man glared sternly upon the speaker, and with immovable features said: "you don't see me trade some guinea nigga'?" "oh, no." "you don't see me make some smuggling" "no, sir; not at all." "but, i am jean marie poquelin. i mine me hown bizniss. dat all right? adieu." he put his hat on and withdrew. by and by he stood, letter in hand, before the person to whom it was addressed. this person employed an interpreter. "he says," said the interpreter to the officer, "he come to make you the fair warning how you muz not make the street pas' at his 'ouse." the officer remarked that "such impudence was refreshing;" but the experienced interpreter translated freely. "he says: 'why you don't want?'" said the interpreter. the old slave-trader answered at some length. "he says," said the interpreter, again turning to the officer, "the marass is a too unhealth' for peopl' to live." "but we expect to drain his old marsh; it's not going to be a marsh." "_il dit_"--the interpreter explained in french. the old man answered tersely. "he says the canal is a private," said the interpreter. "oh! _that_ old ditch; that's to be filled up. tell the old man we're going to fix him up nicely." translation being duly made, the man in power was amused to see a thunder-cloud gathering on the old man's face. "tell him," he added, "by the time we finish, there'll not be a ghost left in his shanty." the interpreter began to translate, but-- "_j' comprends, j' comprends_," said the old man, with an impatient gesture, and burst forth, pouring curses upon the united states, the president, the territory of orleans, congress, the governor and all his subordinates, striding out of the apartment as he cursed, while the object of his maledictions roared with merriment and rammed the floor with his foot. "why, it will make his old place worth ten dollars to one," said the official to the interpreter. "'tis not for de worse of de property," said the interpreter. "i should guess not," said the other, whittling his chair,--"seems to me as if some of these old creoles would liever live in a crawfish hole than to have a neighbor" "you know what make old jean poquelin make like that? i will tell you. you know"-- the interpreter was rolling a cigarette, and paused to light his tinder; then, as the smoke poured in a thick double stream from his nostrils, he said, in a solemn whisper: "he is a witch." "ho, ho, ho!" laughed the other. "you don't believe it? what you want to bet?" cried the interpreter, jerking himself half up and thrusting out one arm while he bared it of its coat-sleeve with the hand of the other. "what you want to bet?" "how do you know?" asked the official. "dass what i goin' to tell you. you know, one evening i was shooting some _grosbec_. i killed three, but i had trouble to fine them, it was becoming so dark. when i have them i start' to come home; then i got to pas' at jean poquelin's house." "ho, ho, ho!" laughed the other, throwing his leg over the arm of his chair. "wait," said the interpreter. "i come along slow, not making some noises; still, still"-- "and scared," said the smiling one. "_mais_, wait. i get all pas' the 'ouse. 'ah!' i say; 'all right!' then i see two thing' before! hah! i get as cold and humide, and shake like a leaf. you think it was nothing? there i see, so plain as can be (though it was making nearly dark), i see jean--marie--po-que-lin walkin' right in front, and right there beside of him was something like a man--but not a man--white like paint!--i dropp' on the grass from scared--they pass'; so sure as i live 'twas the ghos' of jacques poquelin, his brother!" "pooh!" said the listener. "i'll put my han' in the fire," said the interpreter. "but did you never think," asked the other, "that that might be jack poquelin, as you call him, alive and well, and for some cause hid away by his brother?" "but there har' no cause!" said the other, and the entrance of third parties changed the subject. some months passed and the street was opened. a canal was first dug through the marsh, the small one which passed so close to jean poquelin's house was filled, and the street, or rather a sunny road, just touched a corner of the old mansion's dooryard. the morass ran dry. its venomous denizens slipped away through the bulrushes; the cattle roaming freely upon its hardened surface trampled the superabundant undergrowth. the bellowing frogs croaked to westward. lilies and the flower-de-luce sprang up in the place of reeds; smilax and poison-oak gave way to the purple-plumed iron-weed and pink spiderwort; the bindweeds ran everywhere blooming as they ran, and on one of the dead cypresses a giant creeper hung its green burden of foliage and lifted its scarlet trumpets. sparrows and red-birds flitted through the bushes, and dewberries grew ripe beneath. over all these came a sweet, dry smell of salubrity which the place had not known since the sediments of the mississippi first lifted it from the sea. but its owner did not build. over the willow-brakes, and down the vista of the open street, bright new houses, some singly, some by ranks, were prying in upon the old man's privacy. they even settled down toward his southern side. first a wood-cutter's hut or two, then a market gardener's shanty, then a painted cottage, and all at once the faubourg had flanked and half surrounded him and his dried-up marsh. ah! then the common people began to hate him. "the old tyrant!" "you don't mean an old _tyrant_?" "well, then, why don't he build when the public need demands it? what does he live in that unneighborly way for?" "the old pirate!" "the old kidnapper!" how easily even the most ultra louisianians put on the imported virtues of the north when they could be brought to bear against the hermit. "there he goes, with the boys after him! ah! ha! ha! jean-ah poquelin! ah! jean-ah! aha! aha! jean-ah marie! jean-ah poquelin! the old villain!" how merrily the swarming américains echo the spirit of persecution! "the old fraud," they say--"pretends to live in a haunted house, does he? we'll tar and feather him some day. guess we can fix him." he cannot be rowed home along the old canal now; he walks. he has broken sadly of late, and the street urchins are ever at his heels. it is like the days when they cried: "go up, thou bald-head," and the old man now and then turns and delivers ineffectual curses. to the creoles--to the incoming lower class of superstitious germans, irish, sicilians, and others--he became an omen and embodiment of public and private ill-fortune. upon him all the vagaries of their superstitions gathered and grew. if a house caught fire, it was imputed to his machinations. did a woman go off in a fit, he had bewitched her. did a child stray off for an hour, the mother shivered with the apprehension that jean poquelin had offered him to strange gods. the house was the subject of every bad boy's invention who loved to contrive ghostly lies. "as long as that house stands we shall have bad luck. do you not see our pease and beans dying, our cabbages and lettuce going to seed and our gardens turning to dust, while every day you can see it raining in the woods? the rain will never pass old poquelin's house. he keeps a fetich. he has conjured the whole faubourg st. marie. and why, the old wretch? simply because our playful and innocent children call after him as he passes." a "building and improvement company," which had not yet got its charter, "but was going to," and which had not, indeed, any tangible capital yet, but "was going to have some," joined the "jean-ah poquelin" war. the haunted property would be such a capital site for a market-house! they sent a deputation to the old mansion to ask its occupant to sell. the deputation never got beyond the chained gate and a very barren interview with the african mute. the president of the board was then empowered (for he had studied french in pennsylvania and was considered qualified) to call and persuade m. poquelin to subscribe to the company's stock; but-- "fact is, gentlemen," he said at the next meeting, "it would take us at least twelve months to make mr. pokaleen understand the rather original features of our system, and he wouldn't subscribe when we'd done; besides, the only way to see him is to stop him on the street." there was a great laugh from the board; they couldn't help it. "better meet a bear robbed of her whelps," said one. "you're mistaken as to that," said the president. "i did meet him, and stopped him, and found him quite polite. but i could get no satisfaction from him; the fellow wouldn't talk in french, and when i spoke in english he hoisted his old shoulders up, and gave the same answer to every thing i said." "and that was--?" asked one or two, impatient of the pause. "that it 'don't worse w'ile?'" one of the board said: "mr. president, this market-house project, as i take it, is not altogether a selfish one; the community is to be benefited by it. we may feel that we are working in the public interest [the board smiled knowingly], if we employ all possible means to oust this old nuisance from among us. you may know that at the time the street was cut through, this old poquelann did all he could to prevent it. it was owing to a certain connection which i had with that affair that i heard a ghost story [smiles, followed by a sudden dignified check]--ghost story, which, of course, i am not going to relate; but i _may_ say that my profound conviction, arising from a prolonged study of that story, is, that this old villain, john poquelann, has his brother locked up in that old house. now, if this is so, and we can fix it on him, i merely _suggest_ that we can make the matter highly useful. i don't know," he added, beginning to sit down, "but that it is an action we owe to the community--hem!" "how do you propose to handle the subject?" asked the president. "i was thinking," said the speaker, "that, as a board of directors, it would be unadvisable for us to authorize any action involving trespass; but if you, for instance, mr. president, should, as it were, for mere curiosity, _request_ some one, as, for instance, our excellent secretary, simply as a personal favor, to look into the matter--this is merely a suggestion." the secretary smiled sufficiently to be understood that, while he certainly did not consider such preposterous service a part of his duties as secretary, he might, notwithstanding, accede to the president's request; and the board adjourned. little white, as the secretary was called, was a mild, kind-hearted little man, who, nevertheless, had no fear of any thing, unless it was the fear of being unkind. "i tell you frankly," he privately said to the president, "i go into this purely for reasons of my own." the next day, a little after nightfall, one might have descried this little man slipping along the rear fence of the poquelin place, preparatory to vaulting over into the rank, grass-grown yard, and bearing himself altogether more after the manner of a collector of rare chickens than according to the usage of secretaries. the picture presented to his eye was not calculated to enliven his mind. the old mansion stood out against the western sky, black and silent. one long, lurid pencil-stroke along a sky of slate was all that was left of daylight. no sign of life was apparent; no light at any window, unless it might have been on the side of the house hidden from view. no owls were on the chimneys, no dogs were in the yard. he entered the place, and ventured up behind a small cabin which stood apart from the house. through one of its many crannies he easily detected the african mute crouched before a flickering pine-knot, his head on his knees, fast asleep. he concluded to enter the mansion, and, with that view, stood and scanned it. the broad rear steps of the veranda would not serve him; he might meet some one midway. he was measuring, with his eye, the proportions of one of the pillars which supported it, and estimating the practicability of climbing it, when he heard a footstep. some one dragged a chair out toward the railing, then seemed to change his mind and began to pace the veranda, his footfalls resounding on the dry boards with singular loudness. little white drew a step backward, got the figure between himself and the sky, and at once recognized the short, broad-shouldered form of old jean poquelin. he sat down upon a billet of wood, and, to escape the stings of a whining cloud of mosquitoes, shrouded his face and neck in his handkerchief, leaving his eyes uncovered. he had sat there but a moment when he noticed a strange, sickening odor, faint, as if coming from a distance, but loathsome and horrid. whence could it come? not from the cabin; not from the marsh, for it was as dry as powder. it was not in the air; it seemed to come from the ground. rising up, he noticed, for the first time, a few steps before him a narrow footpath leading toward the house. he glanced down it--ha! right there was some one coming--ghostly white! quick as thought, and as noiselessly, he lay down at full length against the cabin. it was bold strategy, and yet, there was no denying it, little white felt that he was frightened. "it is not a ghost," he said to himself. "i _know_ it cannot be a ghost;" but the perspiration burst out at every pore, and the air seemed to thicken with heat. "it is a living man," he said in his thoughts. "i hear his footstep, and i hear old poquelin's footsteps, too, separately, over on the veranda. i am not discovered; the thing has passed; there is that odor again; what a smell of death! is it coming back? yes. it stops at the door of the cabin. is it peering in at the sleeping mute? it moves away. it is in the path again. now it is gone." he shuddered. "now, if i dare venture, the mystery is solved." he rose cautiously, close against the cabin, and peered along the path. the figure of a man, a presence if not a body--but whether clad in some white stuff or naked the darkness would not allow him to determine--had turned, and now, with a seeming painful gait, moved slowly from him. "great heaven! can it be that the dead do walk?" he withdrew again the hands which had gone to his eyes. the dreadful object passed between two pillars and under the house. he listened. there was a faint sound as of feet upon a staircase; then all was still except the measured tread of jean poquelin walking on the veranda, and the heavy respirations of the mute slumbering in the cabin. the little secretary was about to retreat; but as he looked once more toward the haunted louse a dim light appeared in the crack of a closed window, and presently old jean poquelin came, dragging his chair, and sat down close against the shining cranny. he spoke in a low, tender tone in the french tongue, making some inquiry. an answer came from within. was it the voice of a human? so unnatural was it--so hollow, so discordant, so unearthly--that the stealthy listener shuddered again from head to foot, and when something stirred in some bushes near by--though it may have been nothing more than a rat--and came scuttling through the grass, the little secretary actually turned and fled. as he left the enclosure he moved with bolder leisure through the bushes; yet now and then he spoke aloud: "oh, oh! i see, i understand!" and shut his eyes in his hands. how strange that henceforth little white was the champion of jean poquelin! in season and out of season--wherever a word was uttered against him--the secretary, with a quiet, aggressive force that instantly arrested gossip, demanded upon what authority the statement or conjecture was made; but as he did not condescend to explain his own remarkable attitude, it was not long before the disrelish and suspicion which had followed jean poquelin so many years fell also upon him. it was only the next evening but one after his adventure that he made himself a source of sullen amazement to one hundred and fifty boys, by ordering them to desist from their wanton hallooing. old jean poquelin, standing and shaking his cane, rolling out his long-drawn maledictions, paused and stared, then gave the secretary a courteous bow and started on. the boys, save one, from pure astonishment, ceased but a ruffianly little irish lad, more daring than any had yet been, threw a big hurtling clod, that struck old poquelin between the shoulders and burst like a shell. the enraged old man wheeled with uplifted staff to give chase to the scampering vagabond; and--he may have tripped, or he may not, but he fell full length. little white hastened to help him up, but he waved him off with a fierce imprecation and staggering to his feet resumed his way homeward. his lips were reddened with blood. little white was on his way to the meeting of the board. he would have given all he dared spend to have staid away, for he felt both too fierce and too tremulous to brook the criticisms that were likely to be made. "i can't help it, gentlemen; i can't help you to make a case against the old man, and i'm not going to." "we did not expect this disappointment, mr. white." "i can't help that, sir. no, sir; you had better not appoint any more investigations. somebody'll investigate himself into trouble. no, sir; it isn't a threat, it is only my advice, but i warn you that whoever takes the task in hand will rue it to his dying day--which may be hastened, too." the president expressed himself "surprised." "i don't care a rush," answered little white, wildly and foolishly. "i don't care a rush if you are, sir. no, my nerves are not disordered; my head's as clear as a bell. no, i'm _not_ excited." a director remarked that the secretary looked as though he had waked from a nightmare. "well, sir, if you want to know the fact, i have; and if you choose to cultivate old poquelin's society you can have one, too." "white," called a facetious member, but white did not notice. "white," he called again. "what?" demanded white, with a scowl. "did you see the ghost?" "yes, sir; i did," cried white, hitting the table, and handing the president a paper which brought the board to other business. the story got among the gossips that somebody (they were afraid to say little white) had been to the poquelin mansion by night and beheld something appalling. the rumor was but a shadow of the truth, magnified and distorted as is the manner of shadows. he had seen skeletons walking, and had barely escaped the clutches of one by making the sign of the cross. some madcap boys with an appetite for the horrible plucked up courage to venture through the dried marsh by the cattle-path, and come before the house at a spectral hour when the air was full of bats. something which they but half saw--half a sight was enough--sent them tearing back through the willow-brakes and acacia bushes to their homes, where they fairly dropped down, and cried: "was it white?" "no--yes--nearly so--we can't tell--but we saw it." and one could hardly doubt, to look at their ashen faces, that they had, whatever it was. "if that old rascal lived in the country we come from," said certain américains, "he'd have been tarred and feathered before now, wouldn't he, sanders?" "well, now he just would." "and we'd have rid him on a rail, wouldn't we?" "that's what i allow." "tell you what you _could_ do." they were talking to some rollicking creoles who had assumed an absolute necessity for doing _something_. "what is it you call this thing where an old man marries a young girl, and you come out with horns and"-- "_charivari_?" asked the creoles. "yes, that's it. why don't you shivaree him?" felicitous suggestion. little white, with his wife beside him, was sitting on their doorsteps on the sidewalk, as creole custom had taught them, looking toward the sunset. they had moved into the lately-opened street. the view was not attractive on the score of beauty. the houses were small and scattered, and across the flat commons, spite of the lofty tangle of weeds and bushes, and spite of the thickets of acacia, they needs must see the dismal old poquelin mansion, tilted awry and shutting out the declining sun. the moon, white and slender, was hanging the tip of its horn over one of the chimneys. "and you say," said the secretary, "the old black man has been going by here alone? patty, suppose old poquelin should be concocting some mischief; he don't lack provocation; the way that clod hit him the other day was enough to have killed him. why, patty, he dropped as quick as _that_! no wonder you haven't seen him. i wonder if they haven't heard something about him up at the drug-store. suppose i go and see." "do," said his wife. she sat alone for half an hour, watching that sudden going out of the day peculiar to the latitude. "that moon is ghost enough for one house," she said, as her husband returned. "it has gone right down the chimney." "patty," said little white, "the drug-clerk says the boys are going to shivaree old poquelin to-night. i'm going to try to stop it." "why, white," said his wife, "you'd better not. you'll get hurt." "no, i'll not." "yes, you will." "i'm going to sit out here until they come along. they're compelled to pass right by here." "why, white, it may be midnight before they start; you're not going to sit out here till then." "yes, i am." "well, you're very foolish," said mrs. white in an undertone, looking anxious, and tapping one of the steps with her foot. they sat a very long time talking over little family matters. "what's that?" at last said mrs. white. "that's the nine-o'clock gun," said white, and they relapsed into a long-sustained, drowsy silence. "patty, you'd better go in and go to bed," said he at last. "i'm not sleepy." "well, you're very foolish," quietly remarked little white, and again silence fell upon them. "patty, suppose i walk out to the old house and see if i can find out any thing." "suppose," said she, "you don't do any such--listen!" down the street arose a great hubbub. dogs and boys were howling and barking; men were laughing, shouting, groaning, and blowing horns, whooping, and clanking cow-bells, whinnying, and howling, and rattling pots and pans. "they are coming this way," said little white. "you had better go into the house, patty." "so had you." "no. i'm going to see if i can't stop them." "why, white!" "i'll be back in a minute," said white, and went toward the noise. in a few moments the little secretary met the mob. the pen hesitates on the word, for there is a respectable difference, measurable only on the scale of the half century, between a mob and a _charivari_. little white lifted his ineffectual voice. he faced the head of the disorderly column, and cast himself about as if he were made of wood and moved by the jerk of a string. he rushed to one who seemed, from the size and clatter of his tin pan, to be a leader. "_stop these fellows, bienvenu, stop them just a minute, till i tell them something_." bienvenu turned and brandished his instruments of discord in an imploring way to the crowd. they slackened their pace, two or three hushed their horns and joined the prayer of little white and bienvenu for silence. the throng halted. the hush was delicious. "bienvenu," said little white, "don't shivaree old poquelin to-night; he's"-- "my fwang," said the swaying bienvenu, "who tail you i goin' to chahivahi somebody, eh? yon sink bickause i make a little playfool wiz zis tin pan zat i am _dhonk_?" "oh, no, bienvenu, old fellow, you're all right. i was afraid you might not know that old poquelin was sick, you know, but you're not going there, are you?" "my fwang, i vay soy to tail you zat you ah dhonk as de dev'. i am _shem_ of you. i ham ze servan' of ze _publique_. zese _citoyens_ goin' to wickwest jean poquelin to give to the ursuline' two hondred fifty dolla'"-- "_hé quoi_!" cried a listener, "_cinq cent piastres, oui_!" "_oui_!" said bienvenu, "and if he wiffuse we make him some lit' _musique_; ta-ra ta!" he hoisted a merry hand and foot, then frowning, added: "old poquelin got no bizniz dhink s'much w'isky." "but, gentlemen," said little white, around whom a circle had gathered, "the old man is very sick." "my faith!" cried a tiny creole, "we did not make him to be sick. w'en we have say we going make _le charivari_, do you want that we hall tell a lie? my faith! 'sfools!" "but you can shivaree somebody else," said desperate little white. "_oui_" cried bienvenu, "_et chahivahi_ jean-ah poquelin tomo'w!" "let us go to madame schneider!" cried two or three, and amid huzzas and confused cries, among which was heard a stentorian celtic call for drinks, the crowd again began to move. "_cent piastres pour l'hôpital de charité_!" "hurrah!" "one hongred dolla' for charity hospital!" "hurrah!" "whang!" went a tin pan, the crowd yelled, and pandemonium gaped again. they were off at a right angle. nodding, mrs. white looked at the mantle-clock. "well, if it isn't away after midnight." the hideous noise down street was passing beyond earshot. she raised a sash and listened. for a moment there was silence. some one came to the door. "is that you, white?" "yes." he entered. "i succeeded, patty." "did you?" said patty, joyfully. "yes. they've gone down to shivaree the old dutchwoman who married her step-daughter's sweetheart. they say she has got to pay a hundred dollars to the hospital before they stop." the couple retired, and mrs. white slumbered. she was awakened by her husband snapping the lid of his watch. "what time?" she asked. "half-past three. patty, i haven't slept a wink. those fellows are out yet. don't you hear them?" "why, white, they're coming this way!" "i know they are," said white, sliding out of bed and drawing on his clothes, "and they're coming fast. you'd better go away from that window, patty. my! what a clatter!" "here they are," said mrs. white, but her husband was gone. two or three hundred men and boys pass the place at a rapid walk straight down the broad, new street, toward the hated house of ghosts. the din was terrific. she saw little white at the head of the rabble brandishing his arms and trying in vain to make himself heard; but they only shook their heads laughing and hooting the louder, and so passed, bearing him on before them. swiftly they pass out from among the houses, away from the dim oil lamps of the street, out into the broad starlit commons, and enter the willowy jungles of the haunted ground. some hearts fail and their owners lag behind and turn back, suddenly remembering how near morning it is. but the most part push on, tearing the air with their clamor. down ahead of them in the long, thicket-darkened way there is--singularly enough--a faint, dancing light. it must be very near the old house; it is. it has stopped now. it is a lantern, and is under a well-known sapling which has grown up on the wayside since the canal was filled. now it swings mysteriously to and fro. a goodly number of the more ghost-fearing give up the sport; but a full hundred move forward at a run, doubling their devilish howling and banging. yes; it is a lantern, and there are two persons under the tree. the crowd draws near--drops into a walk; one of the two is the old african mute; he lifts the lantern up so that it shines on the other; the crowd recoils; there is a hush of all clangor, and all at once, with a cry of mingled fright and horror from every throat, the whole throng rushes back, dropping every thing, sweeping past little white and hurrying on, never stopping until the jungle is left behind, and then to find that not one in ten has seen the cause of the stampede, and not one of the tenth is certain what it was. there is one huge fellow among them who looks capable of any villany. he finds something to mount on, and, in the creole _patois_, calls a general halt. bienvenu sinks down, and, vainly trying to recline gracefully, resigns the leadership. the herd gather round the speaker; he assures them that they have been outraged. their right peaceably to traverse the public streets has been trampled upon. shall such encroachments be endured? it is now daybreak. let them go now by the open light of day and force a free passage of the public highway! a scattering consent was the response, and the crowd, thinned now and drowsy, straggled quietly down toward the old house. some drifted ahead, others sauntered behind, but every one, as he again neared the tree, came to a stand-still. little white sat upon a bank of turf on the opposite side of the way looking very stern and sad. to each new-comer he put the same question: "did you come here to go to old poquelin's?" "yes." "he's dead." and if the shocked hearer started away he would say: "don't go away." "why not?" "i want you to go to the funeral presently." if some louisianian, too loyal to dear france or spain to understand english, looked bewildered, some one would interpret for him; and presently they went. little white led the van, the crowd trooping after him down the middle of the way. the gate, that had never been seen before unchained, was open. stern little white stopped a short distance from it; the rabble stopped behind him. something was moving out from under the veranda. the many whisperers stretched upward to see. the african mute came very slowly toward the gate, leading by a cord in the nose a small brown bull, which was harnessed to a rude cart. on the flat body of the cart, under a black cloth, were seen the outlines of a long box. "hats off, gentlemen," said little white, as the box came in view, and the crowd silently uncovered. "gentlemen," said little white, "here come the last remains of jean marie poquelin, a better man, i'm afraid, with all his sins,--yes a better--a kinder man to his blood--a man of more self-forgetful goodness--than all of you put together will ever dare to be." there was a profound hush as the vehicle came creaking through the gate; but when it turned away from them toward the forest, those in front started suddenly. there was a backward rush, then all stood still again staring one way; for there, behind the bier, with eyes cast down and labored step, walked the living remains--all that was left--of little jacques poquelin, the long-hidden brother--a leper, as white as snow. dumb with horror, the cringing crowd gazed upon the walking death. they watched, in silent awe, the slow _cortége_ creep down the long, straight road and lessen on the view, until by and by it stopped where a wild, unfrequented path branched off into the undergrowth toward the rear of the ancient city. "they are going to the _terre aux lépreux_," said one in the crowd. the rest watched them in silence. the little bull was set free; the mute, with the strength of an ape, lifted the long box to his shoulder. for a moment more the mute and the leper stood in sight, while the former adjusted his heavy burden; then, without one backward glance upon the unkind human world, turning their faces toward the ridge in the depths of the swamp known as the leper's land, they stepped into the jungle, disappeared, and were never seen again. tite poulette. kristian koppig was a rosy-faced, beardless young dutchman. he was one of that army of gentlemen who, after the purchase of louisiana, swarmed from all parts of the commercial world, over the mountains of franco-spanish exclusiveness, like the goths over the pyrenees, and settled down in new orleans to pick up their fortunes, with the diligence of hungry pigeons. he may have been a german; the distinction was too fine for creole haste and disrelish. he made his home in a room with one dormer window looking out, and somewhat down, upon a building opposite, which still stands, flush with the street, a century old. its big, round-arched windows in a long, second-story row, are walled up, and two or three from time to time have had smaller windows let into them again, with odd little latticed peep-holes in their batten shutters. this had already been done when kristian koppig first began to look at them from his solitary dormer window. all the features of the building lead me to guess that it is a remnant of the old spanish barracks, whose extensive structure fell by government sale into private hands a long time ago. at the end toward the swamp a great, oriental-looking passage is left, with an arched entrance, and a pair of ponderous wooden doors. you look at it, and almost see count o'reilly's artillery come bumping and trundling out, and dash around into the ancient plaza to bang away at king st. charles's birthday. i do not know who lives there now. you might stand about on the opposite _banquette_ for weeks and never find out. i suppose it is a residence, for it does not look like one. that is the rule in that region. in the good old times of duels, and bagatelle-clubs, and theatre-balls, and cayetano's circus, kristian koppig rooming as described, there lived in the portion of this house, partly overhanging the archway, a palish handsome woman, by the name--or going by the name--of madame john. you would hardly have thought of her being "colored." though fading, she was still of very attractive countenance, fine, rather severe features, nearly straight hair carefully kept, and that vivid black eye so peculiar to her kind. her smile, which came and went with her talk, was sweet and exceedingly intelligent; and something told you, as you looked at her, that she was one who had had to learn a great deal in this troublesome life. "but!"--the creole lads in the street would say--"--her daughter!" and there would be lifting of arms, wringing of fingers, rolling of eyes, rounding of mouths, gaspings and clasping of hands. "so beautiful, beautiful, beautiful! white?--white like a water lily! white--like a magnolia!" applause would follow, and invocation of all the saints to witness. and she could sing. "sing?" (disdainfully)--"if a mocking-bird can _sing_! ha!" they could not tell just how old she was; they "would give her about seventeen." mother and daughter were very fond. the neighbors could hear them call each other pet names, and see them sitting together, sewing, talking happily to each other in the unceasing french way, and see them go out and come in together on their little tasks and errands. "'tite poulette," the daughter was called; she never went out alone. and who was this madame john? "why, you know!--she was"--said the wig-maker at the corner to kristian koppig--"i'll tell you. you know?--she was"--and the rest atomized off in a rasping whisper. she was the best yellow-fever nurse in a thousand yards round; but that is not what the wig-maker said. a block nearer the river stands a house altogether different from the remnant of old barracks. it is of frame, with a deep front gallery over which the roof extends. it has become a den of italians, who sell fuel by daylight, and by night are up to no telling what extent of deviltry. this was once the home of a gay gentleman, whose first name happened to be john. he was a member of the good children social club. as his parents lived with him, his wife would, according to custom, have been called madame john but he had no wife. his father died, then his mother; last of all, himself. as he is about to be off, in comes madame john, with 'tïte poulette, then an infant, on her arm. "zalli," said he, "i am going." she bowed her head, and wept. "you have been very faithful to me, zalli." she wept on. "nobody to take care of you now, zalli." zalli only went on weeping. "i want to give you this house, zalli; it is for you and the little one." an hour after, amid the sobs of madame john, she and the "little one" inherited the house, such as it was. with the fatal caution which characterizes ignorance, she sold the property and placed the proceeds in a bank, which made haste to fail. she put on widow's weeds, and wore them still when 'tite poulette "had seventeen," as the frantic lads would say. how they did chatter over her. quiet kristian koppig had never seen the like. he wrote to his mother, and told her so. a pretty fellow at the corner would suddenly double himself up with beckoning to a knot of chums; these would hasten up; recruits would come in from two or three other directions; as they reached the corner their countenances would quickly assume a genteel severity, and presently, with her mother, 'tite poulette would pass--tall, straight, lithe, her great black eyes made tender by their sweeping lashes, the faintest tint of color in her southern cheek, her form all grace, her carriage a wonder of simple dignity. the instant she was gone every tongue was let slip on the marvel of her beauty; but, though theirs were only the loose new orleans morals of over fifty years ago, their unleashed tongues never had attempted any greater liberty than to take up the pet name, 'tite poulette. and yet the mother was soon to be, as we shall discover, a paid dancer at the _salle de condé_. to zalli, of course, as to all "quadroon ladies," the festivities of the conde-street ball-room were familiar of old. there, in the happy days when dear monsieur john was young, and the eighteenth century old, she had often repaired under guard of her mother--dead now, alas!--and monsieur john would slip away from the dull play and dry society of théâtre d'orléans, and come around with his crowd of elegant friends; and through the long sweet hours of the ball she had danced, and laughed, and coquetted under her satin mask, even to the baffling and tormenting of that prince of gentlemen, dear monsieur john himself. no man of questionable blood dare set his foot within the door. many noble gentlemen were pleased to dance with her. colonel de ---- and general la ----: city councilmen and officers from the government house. there were no paid dancers then. every thing was decorously conducted indeed! every girl's mother was there, and the more discreet always left before there was too much drinking. yes, it was gay, gay!--but sometimes dangerous. ha! more times than a few had monsieur john knocked down some long-haired and long-knifed rowdy, and kicked the breath out of him for looking saucily at her; but that was like him, he was so brave and kind;--and he is gone! there was no room for widow's weeds there. so when she put these on, her glittering eyes never again looked through her pink and white mask, and she was glad of it; for never, never in her life had they so looked for anybody but her dear monsieur john, and now he was in heaven--so the priest said--and she was a sick-nurse. living was hard work; and, as madame john had been brought up tenderly, and had done what she could to rear her daughter in the same mistaken way, with, of course, no more education than the ladies in society got, they knew nothing beyond a little music and embroidery. they struggled as they could, faintly; now giving a few private dancing lessons, now dressing hair, but ever beat back by the steady detestation of their imperious patronesses; and, by and by, for want of that priceless worldly grace known among the flippant as "money-sense," these two poor children, born of misfortune and the complacent badness of the times, began to be in want. kristian koppig noticed from his dormer window one day a man standing at the big archway opposite, and clanking the brass knocker on the wicket that was in one of the doors. he was a smooth man, with his hair parted in the middle, and his cigarette poised on a tiny gold holder. he waited a moment, politely cursed the dust, knocked again, threw his slender sword-cane under his arm, and wiped the inside of his hat with his handkerchief. madame john held a parley with him at the wicket. 'tite poulette was nowhere seen. he stood at the gate while madame john went up-stairs. kristian koppig knew him. he knew him as one knows a snake. he was the manager of the _salle de condé_. presently madame john returned with a little bundle, and they hurried off together. and now what did this mean? why, by any one of ordinary acuteness the matter was easily understood, but, to tell the truth, kristian koppig was a trifle dull, and got the idea at once that some damage was being planned against 'tite poulette. it made the gentle dutchman miserable not to be minding his own business, and yet-- "but the woman certainly will not attempt"--said he to himself--"no, no! she cannot." not being able to guess what he meant, i cannot say whether she could or not. i know that next day kristian koppig, glancing eagerly over the "_ami des lois_," read an advertisement which he had always before skipped with a frown. it was headed, "_salle de condé_," and, being interpreted, signified that a new dance was to be introduced, the _danse de chinois_, and that _a young lady_ would follow it with the famous "_danse du shawl_." it was the sabbath. the young man watched the opposite window steadily and painfully from early in the afternoon until the moon shone bright; and from the time the moon shone bright until madame john!--joy!--madame john! and not 'tite poulette, stepped through the wicket, much dressed and well muffled, and hurried off toward the _rue condé_. madame john was the "young lady;" and the young man's mind, glad to return to its own unimpassioned affairs, relapsed into quietude. madame john danced beautifully. it had to be done. it brought some pay, and pay was bread; and every sunday evening, with a touch here and there of paint and powder, the mother danced the dance of the shawl, the daughter remaining at home alone. kristian koppig, simple, slow-thinking young dutchman, never noticing that he staid at home with his window darkened for the very purpose, would see her come to her window and look out with a little wild, alarmed look in her magnificent eyes, and go and come again, and again, until the mother, like a storm-driven bird, came panting home. two or three months went by. one night, on the mother's return, kristian koppig coming to his room nearly at the same moment, there was much earnest conversation, which he could see, but not hear. "'tite poulette," said madame john, "you are seventeen." "true, maman." "ah! my child, i see not how you are to meet the future." the voice trembled plaintively. "but how, maman?" "ah! you are not like others; no fortune, no pleasure, no friend." "maman!" "no, no;--i thank god for it; i am glad you are not; but you will be lonely, lonely, all your poor life long. there is no place in this world for us poor women. i wish that we were either white or black!"--and the tears, two "shining ones," stood in the poor quadroon's eyes. tha daughter stood up, her eyes flashing. "god made us, maman," she said with a gentle, but stately smile. "ha!" said the mother, her keen glance darting through her tears, "sin made _me_, yes." "no," said 'tite poulette, "god made us. he made us just as we are; not more white, not more black." "he made you, truly!" said zalli. "you are so beautiful; i believe it well." she reached and drew the fair form to a kneeling posture. "my sweet, white daughter!" now the tears were in the girl's eyes. "and could i be whiter than i am?" she asked. "oh, no, no! 'tite poulette," cried the other; "but if we were only _real white!_--both of us; so that some gentleman might come to see me and say 'madame john, i want your pretty little chick. she is so beautiful. i want to take her home. she is so good--i want her to be my wife.' oh, my child, my child, to see that i would give my life--i would give my soul! only you should take me along to be your servant. i walked behind two young men to-night; they ware coming home from their office; presently they began to talk about you." 'tite poulette's eyes flashed fire. "no, my child, they spoke only the best things one laughed a little at times and kept saying 'beware!' but the other--i prayed the virgin to bless him, he spoke such kind and noble words. such gentle pity; such a holy heart! 'may god defend her,' he said, _chérie_; he said, 'may god defend her, for i see no help for her.' the other one laughed and left him. he stopped in the door right across the street. ah, my child, do you blush? is that something to bring the rose to your cheek? many fine gentlemen at the ball ask me often, 'how is your daughter, madame john?'". the daughter's face was thrown into the mother's lap, not so well satisfied, now, with god's handiwork. ah, how she wept! sob, sob, sob; gasps and sighs and stifled ejaculations, her small right hand clinched and beating on her mother's knee; and the mother weeping over her. kristian koppig shut his window. nothing but a generous heart and a dutchman's phlegm could have done so at that moment. and even thou, kristian koppig!--for the window closed very slowly. he wrote to his mother, thus: "in this wicked city, i see none so fair as the poor girl who lives opposite me, and who, alas! though so fair, is one of those whom the taint of caste has cursed. she lives a lonely, innocent life in the midst of corruption, like the lilies i find here in the marshew, and i have great pity for her. 'god defend her,' i said to-night to a fellow clerk, 'i see no help for her.' i know there is a natural, and i think proper, horror of mixed blood (excuse the mention, sweet mother), and i feel it, too; and yet if she were in holland today, not one of a hundred suitors would detect the hidden blemish." in such strain this young man wrote on trying to demonstrate the utter impossibility of his ever loving the lovable unfortunate, until the midnight tolling of the cathedral clock sent him to bed. about the same hour zalli and 'tite poulette were kissing good-night. "'tite poulette, i want you to promise me one thing." "well, maman?" "if any gentleman should ever love you and ask you to marry,--not knowing, you know,--promise me you will not tell him you are not white." "it can never be," said 'tite poulette. "but if it should," said madame john pleadingly. "and break the law?" asked 'tite poulette, impatiently. "but the law is unjust," said the mother. "but it is the law!" "but you will not, dearie, will you?" "i would surely tell him!" said the daughter. when zalli, for some cause, went next morning to the window, she started. "'tite poulette!"--she called softly without moving. the daughter came. the young man, whose idea of propriety had actuated him to this display, was sitting in the dormer window, reading. mother and daughter bent a steady gaze at each other. it meant in french, "if he saw us last night!"-- "ah! dear," said the mother, her face beaming with fun-- "what can it be, maman?" "he speaks--oh! ha, ha!--he speaks--such miserable french!" it came to pass one morning at early dawn that zalli and 'tite poulette, going to mass, passed a café, just as--who should be coming out but monsieur, the manager of the _salle de condé_. he had not yet gone to bed. monsieur was astonished. he had a frenchman's eye for the beautiful, and certainly there the beautiful was. he had heard of madame john's daughter, and had hoped once to see her, but did not but could this be she? they disappeared within the cathedral. a sudden pang of piety moved him; he followed. 'tite poulette was already kneeling in the aisle. zalli, still in the vestibule, was just taking her hand from the font of holy-water. "madame john," whispered the manager. she courtesied. "madame john, that young lady--is she your daughter?" "she--she--is my daughter," said zalli, with somewhat of alarm in her face, which the manager misinterpreted. "i think not, madame john." he shook his head, smiling as one too wise to be fooled. "yes, monsieur, she is my daughter." "o no, madame john, it is only make-believe, i think." "i swear she is, monsieur de la rue." "is that possible?" pretending to waver, but convinced in his heart of hearts, by zalli's alarm, that she was lying. "but how? why does she not come to our ball-room with you?" zalli, trying to get away from him, shrugged and smiled. "each to his taste, monsieur; it pleases her not." she was escaping, but he followed one step more. "i shall come to see you, madame john." she whirled and attacked him with her eyes. "monsieur must not give himself the trouble!" she said, the eyes at the same time adding, "dare to come!" she turned again, and knelt to her devotions. the manager dipped in the font, crossed himself, and departed. several weeks went by, and m. de la rue had not accepted the fierce challenge of madame john's eyes. one or two sunday nights she had succeeded in avoiding him, though fulfilling her engagement in the _salle_; but by and by pay-day,--a saturday,--came round, and though the pay was ready, she was loath to go up to monsieur's little office. it was an afternoon in may. madame john came to her own room, and, with a sigh, sank into a chair. her eyes were wet. "did you go to his office, dear mother?" asked 'tite poulette. "i could not," she answered, dropping her face in her hands. "maman, he has seen me at the window!" "while i was gone?" cried the mother. "he passed on the other side of the street. he looked up purposely, and saw me." the speaker's cheeks were burning red. zalli wrung her hands. "it is nothing, mother; do not go near him." "but the pay, my child." "the pay matters not." "but he will bring it here; he wants the chance." that was the trouble, sure enough. about this time kristian koppig lost his position in the german importing house where, he had fondly told his mother, he was indispensable. "summer was coming on," the senior said, "and you see our young men are almost idle. yes, our engagement _was_ for a year, but ah--we could not foresee"--etc., etc., "besides" (attempting a parting flattery), "your father is a rich gentleman, and you can afford to take the summer easy. if we can ever be of any service to you," etc., etc. so the young dutchman spent the afternoons at his dormer window reading and glancing down at the little casement opposite, where a small, rude shelf had lately been put out, holding a row of cigar-boxes with wretched little botanical specimens in them trying to die. 'tite poulette was their gardener; and it was odd to see,--dry weather or wet,--how many waterings per day those plants could take. she never looked up from her task; but i know she performed it with that unacknowledged pleasure which all girls love and deny, that of being looked upon by noble eyes. on this peculiar saturday afternoon in may, kristian koppig had been witness of the distressful scene over the way. it occurred to 'tite poulette that such might be the case, and she stepped to the casement to shut it. as she did so, the marvellous delicacy of kristian koppig moved him to draw in one of his shutters. both young heads came out at one moment, while at the same instant-- "rap, rap, rap, rap, rap!" clanked the knocker on the wicket. the black eyes of the maiden and the blue over the way, from looking into each other for the first time in life, glanced down to the arched doorway upon monsieur the manager. then the black eyes disappeared within, and kristian koppig thought again, and re-opening his shutter, stood up at the window prepared to become a bold spectator of what might follow. but for a moment nothing followed. "trouble over there," thought the rosy dutchman, and waited. the manager waited too, rubbing his hat and brushing his clothes with the tips of his kidded fingers. "they do not wish to see him," slowly concluded the spectator. "rap, rap, rap, rap, rap!" quoth the knocker, and m. de la rue looked up around at the windows opposite and noticed the handsome young dutchman looking at him. "dutch!" said the manager softly, between his teeth. "he is staring at me," said kristian koppig to himself;--"but then i am staring at him, which accounts for it." a long pause, and then another long rapping. "they want him to go away," thought koppig. "knock hard!" suggested a street youngster, standing by. "rap, rap"--the manager had no sooner recommenced than several neighbors looked out of doors and windows. "very bad," thought our dutchman; "somebody should make him go off. i wonder what they will do." the manager stepped into the street, looked up at the closed window, returned to the knocker, and stood with it in his hand. "they are all gone out, monsieur," said the street-youngster. "you lie!" said the cynosure of neighboring eyes. "ah!" thought kristian koppig; "i will go down and ask him"--here his thoughts lost outline; he was only convinced that he had somewhat to say to him, and turned to go down stairs. in going he became a little vexed with himself because he could not help hurrying. he noticed, too, that his arm holding the stair-rail trembled in a silly way, whereas he was perfectly calm. precisely as he reached the street-door the manager raised the knocker; but the latch clicked and the wicket was drawn slightly ajar. inside could just be descried madame john. the manager bowed, smiled, talked, talked on, held money in his hand, bowed, smiled, talked on, flourished the money, smiled, bowed, talked on and plainly persisted in some intention to which madame john was steadfastly opposed. the window above, too,--it was kristian koppig who noticed that,--opened a wee bit, like the shell of a terrapin; presently the manager lifted his foot and put forward an arm, as though he would enter the gate by pushing, but as quick as gunpowder it clapped--in his face! you could hear the fleeing feet of zalli pounding up the staircase. as the panting mother re-entered her room, "see, maman," said 'tite poulette, peeping at the window, "the young gentleman from over the way has crossed!" "holy mary bless him!" said the mother. "i will go over," thought kristian koppig, "and ask him kindly if he is not making a mistake." "what are they doing, dear?" asked the mother, with clasped hands. "they are talking; the young man is tranquil, but 'sieur de la rue is very angry," whispered the daughter; and just then--pang! came a sharp, keen sound rattling up the walls on either side of the narrow way, and "aha!" and laughter and clapping of female hands from two or three windows. "oh! what a slap!" cried the girl, half in fright, half in glee, jerking herself back from the casement simultaneously with the report. but the "ahas" and laughter, and clapping of feminine hands, which still continued, came from another cause. 'tite poulette's rapid action had struck the slender cord that held up an end of her hanging garden, and the whole rank of cigar-boxes slid from their place, turned gracefully over as they shot through the air, and emptied themselves plump upon the head of the slapped manager. breathless, dirty, pale as whitewash, he gasped a threat to be heard from again, and, getting round the corner as quick as he could walk, left kristian koppig, standing motionless, the most astonished man in that street. "kristian koppig, kristian koppig," said greatheart to himself, slowly dragging up-stairs, "what a mischief you have done. one poor woman certainly to be robbed of her bitter wages, and another--so lovely!--put to the burning shame of being the subject of a street brawl! what will this silly neighborhood say? 'has the gentleman a heart as well as a hand?' 'is it jealousy?'" there he paused, afraid himself to answer the supposed query; and then--"oh! kristian koppig, you have been such a dunce!" "and i cannot apologize to them. who in this street would carry my note, and not wink and grin over it with low surmises? i cannot even make restitution. money? they would not dare receive it. oh! kristian koppig, why did you not mind your own business? is she any thing to you? do you love her? _of course not_! oh!--such a dunce!" the reader will eagerly admit that however faulty this young man's course of reasoning, his conclusion was correct. for mark what he did. he went to his room, which was already growing dark, shut his window, lighted his big dutch lamp, and sat down to write. "something _must_ be done," said he aloud, taking up his pen; "i will be calm and cool; i will be distant and brief; but--i shall have to be kind or i may offend. ah! i shall have to write in french; i forgot that; i write it so poorly, dunce that i am, when all my brothers and sisters speak it so well." he got out his french dictionary. two hours slipped by. he made a new pen, washed and refilled his inkstand, mended his "abominable!" chair, and after two hours more made another attempt, and another failure. "my head aches," said he, and lay down on his couch, the better to frame his phrases. he was awakened by the sabbath sunlight. the bells of the cathedral and the ursulines' chapel were ringing for high mass, and a mocking-bird, perching on a chimney-top above madame john's rooms, was carolling, whistling, mewing, chirping, screaming, and trilling with the ecstasy of a whole may in his throat. "oh! sleepy kristian koppig," was the young man's first thought, "--such a dunce!" madame john and daughter did not go to mass. the morning wore away, and their casement remained closed. "they are offended," said kristian koppig, leaving the house, and wandering up to the little protestant affair known as christ church. "no, possibly they are not," he said, returning and finding the shutters thrown back. by a sad accident, which mortified him extremely, he happened to see, late in the afternoon,--hardly conscious that he was looking across the street,--that madame john was--dressing. could it be that she was going to the _salle de condé_? he rushed to his table, and began to write. he had guessed aright. the wages were too precious to be lost. the manager had written her a note. he begged to assure her that he was a gentleman of the clearest cut. if he had made a mistake the previous afternoon, he was glad no unfortunate result had followed except his having been assaulted by a ruffian; that the _danse du shawl_ was promised in his advertisement, and he hoped madame john (whose wages were in hand waiting for her) would not fail to assist as usual. lastly, and delicately put, he expressed his conviction that mademoiselle was wise and discreet in declining to entertain gentlemen at her home. so, against much beseeching on the part of 'tite poulette, madame john was going to the ball-room. "maybe i can discover what 'sieur de la rue is planning against monsieur over the way," she said, knowing certainly the slap would not be forgiven; and the daughter, though tremblingly, at once withdrew her objections. the heavy young dutchman, now thoroughly electrified, was writing like mad. he wrote and tore up, wrote and tore up, lighted his lamp, started again, and at last signed his name. a letter by a dutchman in french!--what can be made of it in english? we will see: "madame and mademoiselle: "a stranger, seeking not to be acquainted, but seeing and admiring all days the goodness and high honor, begs to be pardoned of them for the mistakes, alas! of yesterday, and to make reparation and satisfaction in destroying the ornaments of the window, as well as the loss of compensation from monsieur the manager, with the enclosed bill of the _banque de la louisiane_ for fifty dollars ($ ). and, hoping they will seeing what he is meaning, remains, respectfully, "kristian koppig. "p.s.--madame must not go to the ball." he must bear the missive himself. he must speak in french. what should the words be? a moment of study--he has it, and is off down the long three-story stairway. at the same moment madame john stepped from the wicket, and glided off to the _salle de condé_, a trifle late. "i shall see madame john, of course," thought the young man, crushing a hope, and rattled the knocker. 'tite poulette sprang up from praying for her mother's safety. "what has she forgotten?" she asked herself, and hastened down. the wicket opened. the two innocents were stunned. "aw--aw"--said the pretty dutchman, "aw,"--blurted out something in virgin dutch, ... handed her the letter, and hurried down street. "alas! what have i done?" said the poor girl, bending over her candle, and bursting into tears that fell on the unopened letter. "and what shall i do! it may be wrong to open it--and worse not to." like her sex, she took the benefit of the doubt, and intensified her perplexity and misery by reading and misconstruing the all but unintelligible contents. what then? not only sobs and sighs, but moaning and beating of little fists together, and outcries of soul-felt agony stifled against the bedside, and temples pressed into knitted palms, because of one who "sought _not to be_ acquainted," but offered money--money!--in pity to a poor--shame on her for saying that!--a poor _nigresse_. and now our self-confessed dolt turned back from a half-hour's walk, concluding there might be an answer to his note. "surely madame john will appear this time." he knocked. the shutter stirred above, and something white came fluttering wildly down like a shot dove. it was his own letter containing the fifty-dollar bill. he bounded to the wicket, and softly but eagerly knocked again. "go away," said a trembling voice from above. "madame john?" said he; but the window closed, and he heard a step, the same step on the stair. step, step, every step one step deeper into his heart. 'tite poulette came to the closed door. "what will you?" said the voice within. "i--i--don't wish to see you. i wish to see madame john." "i must pray monsieur to go away. my mother is at the _salle de condé_." "at the ball!" kristian koppig strayed off, repeating the words for want of definite thought. all at once it occurred to him that at the ball he could make madame john's acquaintance with impunity. "was it courting sin to go?" by no means; he should, most likely, save a woman from trouble, and help the poor in their distress. behold kristian koppig standing on the floor of the _salle de condé_. a large hall, a blaze of lamps, a bewildering flutter of fans and floating robes, strains of music, columns of gay promenaders, a long row of turbaned mothers lining either wall, gentlemen of the portlier sort filling the recesses of the windows, whirling waltzers gliding here and there--smiles and grace, smiles and grace; all fair, orderly, elegant, bewitching. a young creole's laugh mayhap a little loud, and--truly there were many sword-canes. but neither grace nor foulness satisfied the eye of the zealous young dutchman. suddenly a muffled woman passed him, leaning on a gentleman's arm. it looked like--it must be, madame john. speak quick, kristian koppig; do not stop to notice the man! "madame john"--bowing--"i am your neighbor, kristian koppig." madame john bows low, and smiles--a ball-room smile, but is frightened, and her escort,--the manager,--drops her hand and slips away. "ah! monsieur," she whispers excitedly, "you will be killed if you stay here a moment. are you armed? no. take this." she tried to slip a dirk into his hands, but he would not have it. "oh, my dear young man, go! go quickly!" she plead, glancing furtively down the hall. "i wish you not to dance," said the young man. "i have danced already; i am going home. come; be quick! we will go together." she thrust her arm through his, and they hastened into the street. when a square had been passed there came a sound of men running behind them. "run, monsieur, run!" she cried, trying to drag him; but monsieur dutchman would not. "_run,_ monsieur! oh, my god! it is 'sieur"-- "_that_ for yesterday!" cried the manager, striking fiercely with his cane. kristian koppig's fist rolled him in the dirt. "_that_ for 'tite poulette!" cried another man dealing the dutchman a terrible blow from behind. "and _that_ for me!" hissed a third, thrusting at him with something bright. "_that_ for yesterday!" screamed the manager, bounding like a tiger; "that!" "that!" "ha!" then kristian koppig knew that he was stabbed. "that!" and "that!" and "that!" and the poor dutchman struck wildly here and there, grasped the air, shut his eyes, staggered, reeled, fell, rose half up, fell again for good, and they were kicking him and jumping on him. all at once they scampered. zalli had found the night-watch. "buz-z-z-z!" went a rattle. "buz-z-z-z!" went another. "pick him up." "is he alive?" "can't tell; hold him steady; lead the way, misses." "he's bleeding all over my breeches." "this way--here--around this corner." "this way now--only two squares more." "here we are." "rap-rap-rap!" on the old brass knocker. curses on the narrow wicket, more on the dark archway, more still on the twisting stairs. up at last and into the room. "easy, easy, push this under his head: never mind his boots!" so he lies--on 'tite poulette's own bed. the watch are gone. they pause under the corner lamp to count profits;--a single bill--_banque de la louisiane_, fifty dollars. providence is kind--tolerably so. break it at the "guillaume tell." "but did you ever hear any one scream like that girl did?" and there lies the young dutch neighbor. his money will not flutter back to him this time; nor will any voice behind a gate "beg monsieur to go away." o, woman!--that knows no enemy so terrible as man! come nigh, poor woman, you have nothing to fear. lay your strange, electric touch upon the chilly flesh; it strikes no eager mischief along the fainting veins. look your sweet looks upon the grimy face, and tenderly lay back the locks from the congested brows; no wicked misinterpretation lurks to bite your kindness. be motherly, be sisterly, fear nought. go, watch him by night; you may sleep at his feet and he will not stir. yet he lives, and shall live--may live to forget you, who knows? but for all that, be gentle and watchful; be womanlike, we ask no more; and god reward you! even while it was taking all the two women's strength to hold the door against death, the sick man himself laid a grief upon them. "mother," he said to madame john, quite a master of french in his delirium, "dear mother, fear not; trust your boy; fear nothing. i will not marry 'tite poulette; i cannot. she is fair, dear mother, but ah! she is not--don't you know, mother? don't you know? the race! the race! don't you know that she is jet black. isn't it?" the poor nurse nodded "yes," and gave a sleeping draught; but before the patient quite slept he started once and stared. "take her away,"--waving his hand--"take your beauty away. she is jet white. who could take a jet white wife? o, no, no, no, no!" next morning his brain was right. "madame," he weakly whispered, "i was delirious last night?" zalli shrugged. "only a very, very, wee, wee trifle of a bit." "and did i say something wrong or--foolish?" "o, no, no," she replied; "you only clasped your hands, so, and prayed, prayed all the time to the dear virgin." "to the virgin?" asked the dutchman, smiling incredulously. "and st. joseph--yes, indeed," she insisted; "you may strike me dead." and so, for politeness' sake, he tried to credit the invention, but grew suspicions instead. hard was the battle against death. nurses are sometimes amazons, and such were these. through the long, enervating summer, the contest lasted; but when at last the cool airs of october came stealing in at the bedside like long-banished little children, kristian koppig rose upon his elbow and smiled them a welcome. the physician, blessed man, was kind beyond measure; but said some inexplicable things, which zalli tried in vain to make him speak in an undertone. "if i knew monsieur john?" he said, "certainly! why, we were chums at school. and he left you so much as that, madame john? ah! my old friend john, always noble! and you had it all in that naughty bank? ah, well, madame john, it matters little. no, i shall not tell 'tite poulette. adieu." and another time:--"if i will let you tell me something? with pleasure, madame john. no, and not tell anybody, madame john. no, madame, not even 'tite poulette. what?"--a long whistle--"is that pos-si-ble?--and monsieur john knew it?--encouraged it?--eh, well, eh, well!--but--can i believe you, madame john? oh! you have monsieur john's sworn statement. ah! very good, truly, but--you _say_ you have it; but where is it? ah! to-morrow!" a sceptical shrug. "pardon me, madame john, i think perhaps, _perhaps_ you are telling the truth. "if i think you did right? certainly! what nature keeps back, accident sometimes gives, madame john; either is god's will. don't cry. 'stealing from the dead?' no! it was giving, yes! they are thanking you in heaven, madame john." kristian koppig, lying awake, but motionless and with closed eyes, hears in part, and, fancying he understands, rejoices with silent intensity. when the doctor is gone he calls zalli. "i give you a great deal of trouble, eh, madame john?" "no, no; you are no trouble at all. had you the yellow fever--ah! then!" she rolled her eyes to signify the superlative character of the tribulations attending yellow fever. "i had a lady and gentleman once--a spanish lady and gentleman, just off the ship; both sick at once with the fever--delirious--could not tell their names. nobody to help me but sometimes monsieur john! i never had such a time,--never before, never since,--as that time. four days and nights this head touched not a pillow." "and they died!" said kristian koppig. "the third night the gentleman went. poor senor! 'sieur john,--he did not know the harm,--gave him some coffee and toast! the fourth night it rained and turned cool, and just before day the poor lady"-- "died!" said koppig. zalli dropped her arms listlessly into her lap and her eyes ran brimful. "and left an infant!" said the dutchman, ready to shout with exultation. "ah! no, monsieur," said zalli. the invalid's heart sank like a stone. "madame john,"--his voice was all in a tremor,--"tell me the truth. is 'tite poulette your own child?" "ah-h-h, ha! ha! what foolishness! of course she is my child!" and madame gave vent to a true frenchwoman's laugh. it was too much for the sick man. in the pitiful weakness of his shattered nerves he turned his face into his pillow and wept like a child. zalli passed into the next room to hide her emotion. "maman, dear maman," said 'tite poulette, who had overheard nothing, but only saw the tears. "ah! my child, my child, my task--my task is too great--too great for me. let me go now--another time. go and watch at his bedside." "but, maman,"--for 'tite poulette was frightened,--"he needs no care now." "nay, but go, my child; i wish to be alone." the maiden stole in with averted eyes and tiptoed to the window--_that window_. the patient, already a man again, gazed at her till she could feel the gaze. he turned his eyes from her a moment to gather resolution. and now, stout heart, farewell; a word or two of friendly parting--nothing more. "'tite poulette." the slender figure at the window turned and came to the bedside. "i believe i owe my life to you," he said. she looked down meekly, the color rising in her cheek. "i must arrange to be moved across the street tomorrow, on a litter." she did not stir or speak. "and i must now thank you, sweet nurse, for your care. sweet nurse! sweet nurse!" she shook her head in protestation. "heaven bless you, 'tite poulette!" her face sank lower. "god has made you very beautiful, tite poulette!" she stirred not. he reached, and gently took her little hand, and as he drew her one step nearer, a tear fell from her long lashes. from the next room, zalli, with a face of agonized suspense, gazed upon the pair, undiscovered. the young man lifted the hand to lay it upon his lips, when, with a mild, firm force, it was drawn away, yet still rested in his own upon the bedside, like some weak thing snared, that could only not get free. "thou wilt not have my love, 'tite poulette?" no answer. "thou wilt not, beautiful?" "cannot!" was all that she could utter, and upon their clasped hands the tears ran down. "thou wrong'st me, 'tite poulette. thou dost not trust me; thou fearest the kiss may loosen the hands. but i tell thee nay. i have struggled hard, even to this hour, against love, but i yield me now; i yield; i am his unconditioned prisoner forever. god forbid that i ask aught but that you will be my wife." still the maiden moved not, looked not up, only rained down tears. "shall it not be, 'tite poulette?" he tried in vain to draw her. "'tite poulette?" so tenderly he called! and then she spoke. "it is against the law." "it is not!" cried zalli, seizing her round the waist and dragging her forward. "take her! she is thine. i have robbed god long enough. here are the sworn papers--here! take her; she is as white as snow--so! take her, kiss her; mary be praised! i never had a child--she is the spaniard's daughter!" 'sieur george. in the heart of new orleans stands a large four-story brick building, that has so stood for about three-quarters of a century. its rooms are rented to a class of persons occupying them simply for lack of activity to find better and cheaper quarters elsewhere. with its gray stucco peeling off in broad patches, it has a solemn look of gentility in rags, and stands, or, as it were, hangs, about the corner of two ancient streets, like a faded fop who pretends to be looking for employment. under its main archway is a dingy apothecary-shop. on one street is the bazaar of a _modiste en robes et chapeaux_ and other humble shops; on the other, the immense batten doors with gratings over the lintels, barred and bolted with masses of cobwebbed iron, like the door of a donjon, are overhung by a creaking sign (left by the sheriff), on which is faintly discernible the mention of wines and liquors. a peep through one of the shops reveals a square court within, hung with many lines of wet clothes, its sides hugged by rotten staircases that seem vainly trying to clamber out of the rubbish. the neighborhood is one long since given up to fifth-rate shops, whose masters and mistresses display such enticing mottoes as "_au gagne petit!_" innumerable children swarm about, and, by some charm of the place, are not run over, but obstruct the sidewalks playing their clamorous games. the building is a thing of many windows, where passably good-looking women appear and disappear, clad in cotton gowns, watering little outside shelves of flowers and cacti, or hanging canaries' cages. their husbands are keepers in wine-warehouses, rent-collectors for the agents of old frenchmen who have been laid up to dry in paris, custom-house supernumeraries and court-clerks' deputies (for your second-rate creole is a great seeker for little offices). a decaying cornice hangs over, dropping bits of mortar on passers below, like a boy at a boarding-house. the landlord is one kookoo, an ancient creole of doubtful purity of blood, who in his landlordly old age takes all suggestions of repairs as personal insults. he was but a stripling when his father left him this inheritance, and has grown old and wrinkled and brown, a sort of periodically animate mummy, in the business. he smokes cascarilla, wears velveteen, and is as punctual as an executioner. to kookoo's venerable property a certain old man used for many years to come every evening, stumbling through the groups of prattling children who frolicked about in the early moonlight--whose name no one knew, but whom all the neighbors designated by the title of 'sieur george. it was his wont to be seen taking a straight--too straight--course toward his home, never careening to right or left, but now forcing himself slowly forward, as though there were a high gale in front, and now scudding briskly ahead at a ridiculous little dog-trot, as if there were a tornado behind. he would go up the main staircase very carefully, sometimes stopping half-way up for thirty or forty minutes' doze, but getting to the landing eventually, and tramping into his room in the second story, with no little elation to find it still there. were it not for these slight symptoms of potations, he was such a one as you would pick out of a thousand for a miser. a year or two ago he suddenly disappeared. a great many years ago, when the old house was still new, a young man with no baggage save a small hair-trunk, came and took the room i have mentioned and another adjoining. he supposed he might stay fifty days--and he staid fifty years and over. this was a very fashionable neighborhood, and he kept the rooms on that account month after month. but when he had been here about a year something happened to him, so it was rumored, that greatly changed the tenor of his life; and from that time on there began to appear in him and to accumulate upon each other in a manner which became the profound study of kookoo, the symptoms of a decay, whose cause baffled the landlord's limited powers of conjecture for well-nigh half a century. hints of a duel, of a reason warped, of disinheritance, and many other unauthorized rumors, fluttered up and floated off, while he became recluse, and, some say, began incidentally to betray the unmanly habit which we have already noticed. his neighbors would have continued neighborly had he allowed them, but he never let himself be understood, and _les américains_ are very droll anyhow; so, as they could do nothing else, they cut him. so exclusive he became that (though it may have been for economy) he never admitted even a housemaid, but kept his apartments himself. only the merry serenaders, who in those times used to sing under the balconies, would now and then give him a crumb of their feast for pure fun's sake; and after a while, because they could not find out his full name, called him, at hazard, george--but always prefixing monsieur. afterward, when he began to be careless in his dress, and the fashion of serenading had passed away, the commoner people dared to shorten the title to "'sieur george." many seasons came and went. the city changed like a growing boy; gentility and fashion went uptown, but 'sieur george still retained his rooms. every one knew him slightly, and bowed, but no one seemed to know him well, unless it were a brace or so of those convivial fellows in regulation-blue at little fort st. charles. he often came home late, with one of these on either arm, all singing different tunes and stopping at every twenty steps to tell secrets. but by and by the fort was demolished, church and goverment property melted down under the warm demand for building-lots, the city spread like a ringworm,--and one day 'sieur george steps out of the old house in full regimentals! the creole neighbors rush bareheaded into the middle of the street, as though there were an earthquake or a chimney on fire. what to do or say or think they do not know; they are at their wits' ends, therefore well-nigh happy. however, there is a german blacksmith's shop near by, and they watch to see what _jacob_ will do. jacob steps into the street with every eye upon him; he approaches monsieur--he addresses to him a few remarks--they shake hands--they engage in some conversation--monsieur places his hand on his sword!--now monsieur passes. the populace crowd around the blacksmith, children clap their hands softly and jump up and down on tiptoes of expectation--'sieur george is going to the war in mexico! "ah!" says a little girl in the throng, '"sieur george's two rooms will be empty; i find that very droll." the landlord,--this same kookoo,--is in the group. he hurls himself into the house and up the stairs. "fifteen years pass since he have been in those room!" he arrives at the door--it is shut--"it is lock!" in short, further investigation revealed that a youngish lady in black, who had been seen by several neighbors to enter the house, but had not, of course, been suspected of such remarkable intentions, had, in company with a middle-aged slave-woman, taken these two rooms, and now, at the slightly-opened door, proffered a month's rent in advance. what could a landlord do but smile? yet there was a pretext left "the rooms must need repairs?"--"no, sir; he could look in and see." joy! he looked in. all was neatness. the floor unbroken, the walls cracked but a little, and the cracks closed with new plaster, no doubt by the jealous hand of 'sieur george himself kookoo's eyes swept sharply round the two apartments. the furniture was all there. moreover, there was monsieur's little hair-trunk. he should not soon forget that trunk. one day, fifteen years or more before, he had taken hold of that trunk to assist monsieur to arrange his apartment, and monsieur had drawn his fist back and cried to him to "drop it!" _mais!_ there it was, looking very suspicious in kookoo's eyes, and the lady's domestic, as tidy as a yellow-bird, went and sat on it. could that trunk contain treasure? it might, for madame wanted to shut the door, and, in fact, did so. the lady was quite handsome--had been more so, but was still young--spoke the beautiful language, and kept, in the inner room, her discreet and taciturn mulattress, a tall, straight woman, with a fierce eye, but called by the young creoles of the neighborhood "confound' good lookin'." among _les américaines_, where the new neighbor always expects to be called upon by the older residents, this lady might have made friends in spite of being as reserved as 'sieur george; but the reverse being the creole custom, and she being well pleased to keep her own company, chose mystery rather than society. the poor landlord was sorely troubled; it must not that any thing _de trop_ take place in his house. he watched the two rooms narrowly, but without result, save to find that madame plied her needle for pay, spent her money for little else besides harpstrings, and took good care of the little trunk of monsieur. this espionage was a good turn to the mistress and maid, for when kookoo announced that all was proper, no more was said by outsiders. their landlord never got but one question answered by the middle-aged maid: "madame, he feared, was a litt' bit embarrass' _pour_ money, eh?" "_non_; mademoiselle [mademoiselle, you notice!] had some property, but did not want to eat it up." sometimes lady-friends came, in very elegant private carriages, to see her, and one or two seemed to beg her--but in vain--to go away with them; but these gradually dropped off, until lady and servant were alone in the world. and so years, and the mexican war, went by. the volunteers came home; peace reigned, and the city went on spreading up and down the land; but 'sieur george did not return. it overran the country like cocoa-grass. fields, roads, woodlands, that were once 'sieur george's places of retreat from mankind, were covered all over with little one-story houses in the "old third," and fine residences and gardens up in "lafayette." streets went slicing like a butcher's knife, through old colonial estates, whose first masters never dreamed of the city reaching them,--and 'sieur george was still away. the four-story brick got old and ugly, and the surroundings dim and dreamy. theatres, processions, dry-goods stores, government establishments, banks, hotels, and all spirit of enterprise were gone to canal street and beyond, and the very beggars were gone with them. the little trunk got very old and bald, and still its owner lingered; still the lady, somewhat the worse for lapse of time, looked from the balcony-window in the brief southern twilights, and the maid every morning shook a worn rug or two over the dangerous-looking railing; and yet neither had made friends or enemies. the two rooms, from having been stingily kept at first, were needing repairs half the time, and the occupants were often moving, now into one, now back into the other; yet the hair-trunk was seen only by glimpses, the landlord, to his infinite chagrin, always being a little too late in offering his services, the women, whether it was light or heavy, having already moved it. he thought it significant. late one day of a most bitter winter,--that season when, to the ecstatic amazement of a whole city-full of children, snow covered the streets ankle-deep,--there came a soft tap on the corridor-door of this pair of rooms. the lady opened it, and beheld a tall, lank, iron-gray man, a total stranger, standing behind--monsieur george! both men were weather-beaten, scarred, and tattered. across 'sieur george's crown, leaving a long, bare streak through his white hair, was the souvenir of a mexican sabre. the landlord had accompanied them to the door: it was a magnificent opportunity. mademoiselle asked them all in, and tried to furnish a seat to each; but failing, 'sieur george went straight across the room and _sat on the hair-trunk_. the action was so conspicuous, the landlord laid it up in his penetrative mind. 'sieur george was quiet, or, as it appeared, quieted. the mulattress stood near him, and to her he addressed, in an undertone, most of the little he said, leaving mademoiselle to his companion. the stranger was a warm talker, and seemed to please the lady from the first; but if he pleased, nothing else did. kookoo, intensely curious, sought some pretext for staying, but found none. they were, altogether, an uncongenial company. the lady seemed to think kookoo had no business there; 'sieur george seemed to think the same concerning his companion; and the few words between mademoiselle and 'sieur george were cool enough. the maid appeared nearly satisfied, but could not avoid casting an anxious eye at times upon her mistress. naturally the visit was short. the next day but one the two gentlemen came again in better attire. 'sieur george evidently disliked his companion, yet would not rid himself of him. the stranger was a gesticulating, stagy fellow, much monsieur's junior, an incessant talker in creole-french, always excited on small matters and unable to appreciate a great one. once, as they were leaving, kookoo,--accidents will happen,--was under the stairs. as they began to descend the tall man was speaking: "--better to bury it,"--the startled landlord heard him say, and held his breath, thinking of the trunk; but no more was uttered. a week later they came again. a week later they came again. a week later they came yet again! the landlord's eyes began to open. there must be a courtship in progress. it was very plain now why 'sieur george had wished not to be accompanied by the rail gentleman; but since his visits had become regular and frequent, it was equally plain why he did not get rid of him;--because it would not look well to be going and coming too often alone. maybe it was only this tender passion that the tall man had thought "better to bury." lately there often came sounds of gay conversation from the first of the two rooms, which had been turned into a parlor; and as, week after week, the friends came down-stairs, the tall man was always in high spirits and anxious to embrace 'sieur george, who,--"sly dog," thought the landlord,--would try to look grave, and only smiled in an embarrassed way. "ah! monsieur, you tink to be varry conning; _mais_ you not so conning as kookoo, no;" and the inquisitive little man would shake his head and smile, and shake his head again, as a man has a perfect right to do under the conviction that he has been for twenty years baffled by a riddle and is learning to read it at last; he had guessed what was in 'sieur george's head, he would by and by guess what was in the trunk. a few months passed quickly away, and it became apparent to every eye in or about the ancient mansion that the landlord's guess was not so bad; in fact, that mademoiselle was to be married. on a certain rainy spring afternoon, a single hired hack drove up to the main entrance of the old house, and after some little bustle and the gathering of a crowd of damp children about the big doorway, 'sieur george, muffled in a newly-repaired overcoat, jumped out and went up-stairs. a moment later he re-appeared, leading mademoiselle, wreathed and veiled, down the stairway. very fair was mademoiselle still. her beauty was mature,--fully ripe,--maybe a little too much so, but only a little; and as she came down with the ravishing odor of bridal flowers floating about her, she seemed the garlanded victim of a pagan sacrifice. the mulattress in holiday gear followed behind. the landlord owed a duty to the community. he arrested the maid on the last step: "your mistress, she goin' _pour marier_ 'sieur george? it make me glad, glad, glad!" "marry 'sieur george? non, monsieur." "non? not marrie 'sieur george? _mais comment_?" "she's going to marry the tall gentleman." "_diable!_ ze long gentyman!"--with his hands upon his forehead, he watched the carriage trundle away. it passed out of sight through the rain; he turned to enter the house, and all at once tottered under the weight of a tremendous thought--they had left the trunk! he hurled himself up-stairs as he had done seven years before, but again--"ah, bah!!"--the door was locked, and not a picayune of rent due. late that night a small square man, in a wet overcoat, fumbled his way into the damp entrance of the house, stumbled up the cracking stairs, unlocked, after many languid efforts, the door of the two rooms, and falling over the hair-trunk, slept until the morning sunbeams climbed over the balcony and in at the window, and shone full on the back of his head. old kookoo, passing the door just then, was surprised to find it slightly ajar--pushed it open silently, and saw, within, 'sieur george in the act of rising from his knees beside the mysterious trunk! he had come back to be once more the tenant of the two rooms. 'sieur george, for the second time, was a changed man--changed from bad to worse; from being retired and reticent, he had come, by reason of advancing years, or mayhap that which had left the terrible scar on his face, to be garrulous. when, once in a while, employment sought him (for he never sought employment), whatever remuneration he received went its way for something that left him dingy and threadbare. he now made a lively acquaintance with his landlord, as, indeed, with every soul in the neighborhood, and told all his adventures in mexican prisons and cuban cities; including full details of the hardships and perils experienced jointly with the "long gentleman" who had married mademoiselle, and who was no mexican or cuban, but a genuine louisianian. "it was he that fancied me," he said, "not i him; but once he had fallen in love with me i hadn't the force to cast him off. how madame ever should have liked him was one of those woman's freaks that a man mustn't expect to understand. he was no more fit for her than rags are fit for a queen; and i could have choked his head off the night he hugged me round the neck and told me what a suicide she had committed. but other fine women are committing that same folly every day, only they don't wait until they're thirty-four or five to do it.--'why don't i like him?' well, for one reason, he's a drunkard!" here kookoo, whose imperfect knowledge of english prevented his intelligent reception of the story, would laugh as if the joke came in just at this point. however, with all monsieur's prattle, he never dropped a word about the man he had been before he went away; and the great hair-trunk puzzle was still the same puzzle, growing greater every day. thus the two rooms had been the scene of some events quite queer, if not really strange; but the queerest that ever they presented, i guess, was 'sieur george coming in there one day, crying like a little child, and bearing in his arms an infant--a girl--the lovely offspring of the drunkard whom he so detested, and poor, robbed, spirit-broken and now dead madame. he took good care of the orphan, for orphan she was very soon. the long gentleman was pulled out of the old basin one morning, and 'sieur george identified the body at the trémé station. he never hired a nurse--the father had sold the lady's maid quite out of sight; so he brought her through all the little ills and around all the sharp corners of baby-life and childhood, without a human hand to help him, until one evening, having persistently shut his eyes to it for weeks and months, like one trying to sleep in the sunshine, he awoke to the realization that she was a woman. it was a smoky one in november, the first cool day of autumn. the sunset was dimmed by the smoke of burning prairies, the air was full of the ashes of grass and reeds, ragged urchins were lugging home sticks of cordwood, and when a bit of coal fell from a cart in front of kookoo's old house, a child was boxed half across the street and robbed of the booty by a _blanchisseuse de fin_ from over the way. the old man came home quite steady. he mounted the stairs smartly without stopping to rest, went with a step unusually light and quiet to his chamber and sat by the window opening upon the rusty balcony. it was a small room, sadly changed from what it had been in old times; but then so was 'sieur george. close and dark it was, the walls stained with dampness and the ceiling full of bald places that showed the lathing. the furniture was cheap and meagre, including conspicuously the small, curious-looking hair-trunk. the floor was of wide slabs fastened down with spikes, and sloping up and down in one or two broad undulations, as if they had drifted far enough down the current of time to feel the tide-swell. however, the floor was clean, the bed well made, the cypress table in place, and the musty smell of the walls partly neutralized by a geranium on the window-sill. he so coming in and sitting down, an unseen person called from the room adjoining (of which, also, he was still the rentee), to know if he were he, and being answered in the affirmative, said, "papa george guess who was here to-day?" "kookoo, for the rent?" "yes, but he will not come back." "no? why not?" "because you will not pay him." "no? and why not?" "because i have paid him." "impossible! where did you get the money?" "cannot guess?--mother nativity." "what, not for embroidery?" "no? and why not? _mais oui!_"--saying which, and with a pleasant laugh, the speaker entered the room. she was a girl of sixteen or thereabout, very beautiful, with very black hair and eyes. a face and form more entirely out of place you could not have found in the whole city. she sat herself at his feet, and, with her interlocked hands upon his knee, and her face, full of childish innocence mingled with womanly wisdom, turned to his, appeared for a time to take principal part in a conversation which, of course, could not be overheard in the corridor outside. whatever was said, she presently rose, he opened his arms, and she sat on his knee and kissed him. this done, there was a silence, both smiling pensively and gazing out over the rotten balcony into the street. after a while she started up, saying something about the change of weather, and, slipping away, thrust a match between the bars of the grate. the old man turned about to the fire, and she from her little room brought a low sewing-chair and sat beside him, laying her head on his knee, and he stroking her brow with his brown palm. and then, in an altered--a low, sad tone--he began a monotonous recital. thus they sat, he talking very steadily and she listening, until all the neighborhood was wrapped in slumber,--all the neighbors, but not kookoo. kookoo in his old age had become a great eavesdropper; his ear and eye took turns at the keyhole that night, for he tells things that were not intended for outside hearers. he heard the girl sobbing, and the old man saying, "but you must go now. you cannot stay with me safely or decently, much as i wish it. the lord only knows how i'm to bear it, or where you're to go; but he's your lord, child, and he'll make a place for you. i was your grandfather's death; i frittered your poor, dead mother's fortune away: let that be the last damage i do. "i have always meant everything for the best," he added half in soliloquy. from all kookoo could gather, he must have been telling her the very story just recounted. she had dropped quite to the floor, hiding her face in her hands, and was saying between her sobs, "i cannot go, papa george; oh, papa george, i cannot go!" just then 'sieur george, kaving kept a good resolution all day, was encouraged by the orphan's pitiful tones to contemplate the most senseless act he ever attempted to commit. he said to the sobbing girl that she was not of his blood; that she was nothing to him by natural ties; that his covenant was with her grandsire to care for his offspring; and though it had been poorly kept, it might be breaking it worse than ever to turn her out upon ever so kind a world. "i have tried to be good to you all these years. when i took you, a wee little baby, i took you for better or worse. i intended to do well by you all your childhood-days, and to do best at last. i thought surely we should be living well by this time, and you could choose from a world full of homes and a world full of friends. "i don't see how i missed it!" here he paused a moment in meditation, and presently resumed with some suddenness: "i thought that education, far better than mother nativity has given you, should have afforded your sweet charms a noble setting; that good mothers and sisters would be wanting to count you into their families, and that the blossom of a happy womanhood would open perfect and full of sweetness. "i would have given my life for it. i did give it, such as it was; but it was a very poor concern, i know--my life--and not enough to buy any good thing. "i have had a thought of something, but i'm afraid to tell it. it didn't come to me to-day or yesterday; it has beset me a long time--for months." the girl gazed into the embers, listening intensely. "and oh! dearie, if i could only get you to think the same way, you might stay with me then." "how long?" she asked, without stirring. "oh, is long as heaven should let us. but there is only one chance," he said, as it were feeling his way. "only one way for us to stay together. do you understand me?" she looked up at the old man with a glance of painful inquiry. "if you could be--my wife, dearie?" she uttered a low, distressful cry, and, gliding swiftly into her room, for the first time in her young life turned the key between them. and the old man sat and wept. then kookoo, peering through the keyhole, saw that they had been looking into the little trunk. the lid was up, but the back was toward the door, and he could see no more than if it had been closed. he stooped and stared into the aperture until his dry old knees were ready to crack. it seemed as if 'sieur george was stone, only stone couldn't weep like that. every separate bone in his neck was hot with pain. he would have given ten dollars--ten sweet dollars!--to have seen 'sieur george get up and turn that trunk around. there! 'sieur george rose up--what a face! he started toward the bed, and as he came to the trunk he paused, looked at it, muttered something about "ruin," and something about "fortune," kicked the lid down and threw himself across the bed. small profit to old kookoo that he went to his own couch; sleep was not for the little landlord. for well-nigh half a century he had suspected his tenant of having a treasure hidden in his house, and to-night he had heard his own admission that in the little trunk was a fortune. kookoo had never felt so poor in all his days before. he felt a creole's anger, too, that a tenant should be the holder of wealth while his landlord suffered poverty. and he knew very well, too, did kookoo, what the tenant would do. if he did not know what he kept in the trunk, he knew what he kept behind it, and he knew he would take enough of it to-night to make him sleep soundly. no one would ever have supposed kookoo capable of a crime. he was too fearfully impressed with the extra-hazardous risks of dishonesty; he was old, too, and weak, and, besides all, intensely a coward. nevertheless, while it was yet two or three hours before daybreak, the sleep-forsaken little man arose, shuffled into his garments, and in his stocking-feet sought the corridor leading to 'sieur george's apartment. the november night, as it often does in that region, had grown warm and clear; the stars were sparkling like diamonds pendent in the deep blue heavens, and at every window and lattice and cranny the broad, bright moon poured down its glittering beams upon the hoary-headed thief, as he crept along the mouldering galleries and down the ancient corridor that led to 'sieur george's chamber. 'sieur george's door, though ever so slowly opened, protested with a loud creak. the landlord, wet with cold sweat from head to foot, and shaking till the floor trembled, paused for several minutes, and then entered the moon-lit apartment. the tenant, lying as if he had not moved, was sleeping heavily. and now the poor coward trembled so, that to kneel before the trunk, without falling, he did not know how. twice, thrice, he was near tumbling headlong. he became as cold as ice. but the sleeper stirred, and the thought of losing his opportunity strung his nerves up in an instant. he went softly down upon his knees, laid his hands upon the lid, lifted it, and let in the intense moonlight. the trunk was full, full, crowded down and running over full, of the tickets of the havana lottery! a little after daybreak, kookoo from his window saw the orphan, pausing on the corner. she stood for a moment, and then dove into the dense fog which had floated in from the river, and disappeared. he never saw her again. but her lord is taking care of her. once only she has seen 'sieur george. she had been in the belvedere of the house which she now calls home, looking down upon the outspread city. far away southward and westward the great river glistened in the sunset. along its sweeping bends the chimneys of a smoking commerce, the magazines of surplus wealth, the gardens of the opulent, the steeples of a hundred sanctuaries and thousands on thousands of mansions and hovels covered the fertile birthright arpents which 'sieur george, in his fifty years' stay, had seen tricked away from dull colonial esaus by their blue-eyed brethren of the north. nearer by she looked upon the forlornly silent region of lowly dwellings, neglected by legislation and shunned by all lovers of comfort, that once had been the smiling fields of her own grandsire's broad plantation; and but a little way off, trudging across the marshy commons, her eye caught sight of 'sieur george following the sunset out upon the prairies to find a night's rest in the high grass. she turned at once, gathered the skirt of her pink calico uniform, and, watching her steps through her tears, descended the steep winding-stair to her frequent kneeling-place under the fragrant candles of the chapel-altar in mother nativity's asylum. 'sieur george is houseless. he cannot find the orphan. mother nativity seems to know nothing of her. if he could find her now, and could get from her the use of ten dollars for but three days, he knows a combination which would repair all the past; it could not fail, he--thinks. but he cannot find her, and the letters he writes--all containing the one scheme--disappear in the mail-box, and there's an end. madame dÉlicieuse just adjoining the old café de poésie on the corner, stood the little one-story, yellow-washed tenement of dr. mossy, with its two glass doors protected by batten shutters, and its low, weed-grown tile roof sloping out over the sidewalk. you were very likely to find the doctor in, for he was a great student and rather negligent of his business--as business. he was a small, sedate, creole gentleman of thirty or more, with a young-old face and manner that provoked instant admiration. he would receive you--be you who you may--in a mild, candid manner, looking into your face with his deep blue eyes, and re-assuring you with a modest, amiable smile, very sweet and rare on a man's mouth. to be frank, the doctor's little establishment was dusty and disorderly--very. it was curious to see the jars, and jars, and jars. in them were serpents and hideous fishes and precious specimens of many sorts. there were stuffed birds on broken perches; and dried lizards, and eels, and little alligators, and old skulls with their crowns sawed off, and ten thousand odd scraps of writing-paper strewn with crumbs of lonely lunches, and interspersed with long-lost spatulas and rust-eaten lancets. all new orleans, at least all creole new orleans, knew, and yet did not know, the dear little doctor. so gentle, so kind, so skilful, so patient, so lenient; so careless of the rich and so attentive to the poor; a man, all in all, such as, should you once love him, you would love him forever. so very learned, too, but with apparently no idea of how to _show himself_ to his social profit,--two features much more smiled at than respected, not to say admired, by a people remote from the seats of learning, and spending most of their esteem upon animal heroisms and exterior display. "alas!" said his wealthy acquaintances, "what a pity; when he might as well be rich." "yes, his father has plenty." "certainly, and gives it freely. but intends his son shall see none of it." "his son? you dare not so much as mention him." "well, well, how strange! but they can never agree--not even upon their name. is not that droll?--a man named general villivicencio, and his son, dr. mossy!" "oh, that is nothing; it is only that the doctor drops the _de villivicencio_." "drops the _de villivicencio?_ but i think the _de villivicencio_ drops him, ho, ho, ho,--_diable!_" next to the residence of good dr. mossy towered the narrow, red-brick-front mansion of young madame délicieuse, firm friend at once and always of those two antipodes, general villivicencio and dr. mossy. its dark, covered carriage-way was ever rumbling, and, with nightfall, its drawing-rooms always sent forth a luxurious light from the lace-curtained windows of the second-story balconies. it was one of the sights of the rue royale to see by night its tall, narrow outline reaching high up toward the stars, with all its windows aglow. the madame had had some tastes of human experience; had been betrothed at sixteen (to a man she did not love, "being at that time a fool," as she said); one summer day at noon had been a bride, and at sundown--a widow. accidental discharge of the tipsy bridegroom's own pistol. pass it by! it left but one lasting effect on her, a special detestation of quarrels and weapons. the little maidens whom poor parentage has doomed to sit upon street door-sills and nurse their infant brothers have a game of "choosing" the beautiful ladies who sweep by along the pavement; but in rue royale there was no choosing; every little damsel must own madame délicieuse or nobody, and as that richly adorned and regal favorite of old general villivicencio came along they would lift their big, bold eyes away up to her face and pour forth their admiration in a universal--"ah-h-h-h!" but, mark you, she was good madame délicieuse as well as fair madame délicieuse: her principles, however, not constructed in the austere anglo-saxon style, exactly (what need, with the lattice of the confessional not a stone's throw off?). her kind offices and beneficent schemes were almost as famous as general villivicencio's splendid alms; if she could at times do what the infantile washington said he could not, why, no doubt she and her friends generally looked upon it as a mere question of enterprise. she had charms, too, of intellect--albeit not such a sinner against time and place as to be an "educated woman"--charms that, even in a plainer person, would have brought down the half of new orleans upon one knee, with both hands on the left side. _she_ had the _whole_ city at her feet, and, with the fine tact which was the perfection of her character, kept it there contented. madame was, in short, one of the kind that gracefully wrest from society the prerogative of doing as they please, and had gone even to such extravagant lengths as driving out in the _américain_ faubourg, learning the english tongue, talking national politics, and similar freaks whereby she provoked the unbounded worship of her less audacious lady friends. in the centre of the cluster of creole beauties which everywhere gathered about her, and, most of all, in those incomparable companies which assembled in her own splendid drawing-rooms, she was always queen lily. her house, her drawing-rooms, etc.; for the little brown aunt who lived with her was a mere piece of curious furniture. there was this notable charm about madame délicieuse, she improved by comparison. she never looked so grand as when, hanging on general villivicencio's arm at some gorgeous ball, these two bore down on you like a royal barge lashed to a ship-of-the-line. she never looked so like her sweet name, as when she seated her prettiest lady adorers close around her, and got them all a-laughing. of the two balconies which overhung the _banquette_ on the front of the délicieuse house, one was a small affair, and the other a deeper and broader one, from which madame and her ladies were wont upon gala days to wave handkerchiefs and cast flowers to the friends in the processions. there they gathered one eighth of january morning to see the military display. it was a bright blue day, and the group that quite filled the balcony had laid wrappings aside, as all flower-buds are apt to do on such creole january days, and shone resplendent in spring attire. the sight-seers passing below looked up by hundreds and smiled at the ladies' eager twitter, as, flirting in humming-bird fashion from one subject to another, they laughed away the half-hours waiting for the pageant. by and by they fell a-listening, for madame délicieuse had begun a narrative concerning dr. mossy. she sat somewhat above her listeners, her elbow on the arm of her chair, and her plump white hand waving now and then in graceful gesture, they silently attending with eyes full of laughter and lips starting apart. "_vous savez_," she said (they conversed in french of course), "you know it is now long that dr. mossy and his father have been in disaccord. indeed, when have they not differed? for, when mossy was but a little boy, his father thought it hard that he was not a rowdy. he switched him once because he would not play with his toy gun and drum. he was not so high when his father wished to send him to paris to enter the french army; but he would not go. we used to play often together on the _banquette_--for i am not so very many years younger than he, no indeed--and, if i wanted some fun, i had only to pull his hair and run into the house; he would cry, and monsieur papa would come out with his hand spread open and"-- madame gave her hand a malicious little sweep, and joined heartily in the laugh which followed. "that was when they lived over the way. but wait! you shall see: i have something. this evening the general"-- the houses of rue royale gave a start and rattled their windows. in the long, irregular line of balconies the beauty of the city rose up. then the houses jumped again and the windows rattled; madame steps inside the window and gives a message which the housemaid smiles at in receiving. as she turns the houses shake again, and now again; and now there comes a distant strain of trumpets, and by and by the drums and bayonets and clattering hoofs, and plumes and dancing banners; far down the long street stretch out the shining ranks of gallant men, and the fluttering, over-leaning swarms of ladies shower down their sweet favors and wave their countless welcomes. in the front, towering above his captains, rides general villivicencio, veteran of - , and, with the gracious pomp of the old-time gentleman, lifts his cocked hat, and bows, and bows. madame délicieuse's balcony was a perfect maze of waving kerchiefs. the general looked up for the woman of all women; she was not there. but he remembered the other balcony, the smaller one, and cast his glance onward to it. there he saw madame and one other person only. a small blue-eyed, broad-browed, scholarly-looking man whom the arch lady had lured from his pen by means of a mock professional summons, and who now stood beside her, a smile of pleasure playing on his lips and about his eyes. "_vite!_" said madame, as the father's eyes met the son's. dr. mossy lifted his arm and cast a bouquet of roses. a girl in the crowd bounded forward, caught it in the air, and, blushing, handed it to the plumed giant. he bowed low, first to the girl, then to the balcony above; and then, with a responsive smile, tossed up two splendid kisses, one to madame, and one, it seemed-- "for what was that cheer?" "why, did you not see? general villivicencio cast a kiss to his son." the staff of general villivicencio were a faithful few who had not bowed the knee to any abomination of the américains, nor sworn deceitfully to any species of compromise; their beloved city was presently to pass into the throes of an election, and this band, heroically unconscious of their feebleness, putting their trust in "re-actions" and like delusions, resolved to make one more stand for the traditions of their fathers. it was concerning this that madame délicieuse was incidentally about to speak when interrupted by the boom of cannon; they had promised to meet at her house that evening. they met. with very little discussion or delay (for their minds were made up beforehand), it was decided to announce in the french-english newspaper that, at a meeting of leading citizens, it had been thought consonant with the public interest to place before the people the name of general hercule mossy de villivicencio. no explanation was considered necessary. all had been done in strict accordance with time-honored customs, and if any one did not know it it was his own fault. no eulogium was to follow, no editorial indorsement. the two announcements were destined to stand next morning, one on the english side and one on the french, in severe simplicity, to be greeted with profound gratification by a few old gentlemen in blue cottonade, and by roars of laughter from a rampant majority. as the junto were departing, sparkling madame délicieuse detained the general at the head of the stairs that descended into the tiled carriage-way, to wish she was a man, that she might vote for him. "but, general," she said, "had i not a beautiful bouquet of ladies on my balcony this morning?" the general replied, with majestic gallantry, that "it was as magnificent as could be expected with the central rose wanting." and so madame was disappointed, for she was trying to force the general to mention his son. "i will bear this no longer; he shall not rest," she had said to her little aunt, "until he has either kissed his son or quarrelled with him." to which the aunt had answered that, "_coûte que coûte_, she need not cry about it;" nor did she. though the general's compliment had foiled her thrust, she answered gayly to the effect that enough was enough; "but, ah! general," dropping her voice to an undertone, "if you had heard what some of those rosebuds said of you!" the old general pricked up like a country beau. madame laughed to herself, "monsieur peacock, i have thee;" but aloud she said gravely: "come into the drawing-room, if you please, and seat yourself. you must be greatly fatigued." the friends who waited below overheard the invitation. "_au revoir, général_," said they. "_au revoir, messieurs,_" he answered, and followed the lady. "general," said she, as if her heart were overflowing, "you have been spoken against. please sit down." "is that true, madame?" "yes, general." she sank into a luxurious chair. "a lady said to-day--but you will be angry with me, general." "with you, madame? that is not possible." "i do not love to make revelations, general; but when a noble friend is evil spoken of"--she leaned her brow upon her thumb and forefinger, and looked pensively at her slipper's toe peeping out at the edge of her skirt on the rich carpet--"one's heart gets very big." "madame, you are an angel! but what said she, madame?" "well, general, i have to tell you the whole truth, if you will not be angry. we were all speaking at once of handsome men. she said to me: 'well, madame délicieuse, you may say what you will of general villivicencio, and i suppose it is true; but everybody knows'--pardon me, general, but just so she said--'all the world knows he treats his son very badly.'" "it is not true," said the general. "if i wasn't angry!" said madame, making a pretty fist. 'how can that be?' i said. 'well,' she said, 'mamma says he has been angry with his son for fifteen years.' 'but what did his son do?' i said. 'nothing,' said she. '_ma foi_,' i said, 'me, i too would be angry if my son had done nothing for fifteen years'--ho, ho, ho!" "it is not true," said the general. the old general cleared his throat, and smiled as by compulsion. "you know, general," said madame, looking distressed, "it was nothing to joke about, but i had to say so, because i did not know what your son had done, nor did i wish to hear any thing against one who has the honor to call you his father." she paused a moment to let the flattery take effect, and then proceeded: "but then another lady said to me; she said, 'for shame, clarisse, to laugh at good dr. mossy; nobody--neither general villivicencio, neither any other, has a right to be angry against that noble, gentle, kind, brave'"-- "brave!" said the general, with a touch of irony. "so she said," answered madame délicieuse, "and i asked her, 'how brave?' 'brave?' she said, 'why, braver than _any soldier_, in tending the small-pox, the cholera, the fevers, and all those horrible things. me, i saw his father once run from a snake; i think _he_ wouldn't fight the small-pox--my faith!' she said, 'they say that dr. mossy does all that and never wears a scapula!--and does it nine hundred and ninety-nine times in a thousand for nothing! _is_ that brave, madame délicieuse, or is it not?'--and, general,--what could i say?" madame dropped her palms on either side of her spreading robes and waited pleadingly for an answer. there was no sound but the drumming of the general's fingers on his sword-hilt. madame resumed: "i said, 'i do not deny that mossy is a noble gentleman;'--i had to say that, had i not, general?" "certainly, madame," said the general, "my son is a gentleman, yes." "'but,' i said, 'he should not make monsieur, his father, angry.'" "true," said the general, eagerly. "but that lady said: 'monsieur, his father, makes himself angry,' she said. 'do you know, madame, why his father is angry so long?' another lady says, 'i know!' 'for what?' said i. 'because he refused to become a soldier; mamma told me that.' 'it cannot be!' i said." the general flushed. madame saw it, but relentlessly continued: "'_mais oui_,' said that lady. 'what!' i said, 'think you general villivicencio will not rather be the very man most certain to respect a son who has the courage to be his own master? oh, what does he want with a poor fool of a son who will do only as he says? you think he will love him less for healing instead of killing? mesdemoiselles, you do not know that noble soldier!'" the noble soldier glowed, and bowed his acknowledgments in a dubious, half remonstrative way, as if madame might be producing material for her next confession, as, indeed, she diligently was doing; but she went straight on once more, as a surgeon would. "but that other lady said: 'no, madame, no, ladies, but i am going to tell you why monsieur, the general, is angry with his son.' 'very well, why?'--'why? it is just--because--he is--a little man!'" general villivicencio stood straight up. "ah! mon ami," cried the lady, rising excitedly, "i have wounded you and made you angry, with my silly revelations. pardon me, my friend. those were foolish girls, and, anyhow, they admired you. they said you looked glorious--grand--at the head of the procession." now, all at once, the general felt the tremendous fatigues of the day; there was a wild, swimming, whirling sensation in his head that forced him to let his eyelids sink down; yet, just there, in the midst of his painful bewilderment, he realized with ecstatic complacency that the most martial-looking man in louisiana was standing in his spurs with the hand of louisiana's queenliest woman laid tenderly on his arm. "i am a wretched tattler!" said she. "ah! no, madame, you are my dearest friend, yes.' "well, anyhow, i called them fools. 'ah! innocent creatures,' i said, 'think you a man of his sense and goodness, giving his thousands to the sick and afflicted, will cease to love his only son because he is not big like a horse or quarrelsome like a dog? no, ladies, there is a great reason which none of you know.' 'well, well,' they cried, 'tell it; he has need of a very good reason; tell it now.' 'my ladies,' i said, 'i must not'--for, general, for all the world i knew not a reason why you should be angry against your son; you know, general, you have never told me." the beauty again laid her hand on his arm and gazed, with round-eyed simplicity, into his sombre countenance. for an instant her witchery had almost conquered. "nay, madame, some day i shall tell you; i have more than one burden _here_. but let me ask you to be seated, for i have a question, also, for you, which i have longed to ask. it lies heavily upon my heart; i must ask it now. a matter of so great importance"-- madame's little brown aunt gave a faint cough from a dim corner of the room. "'tis a beautiful night," she remarked, and stepped out on the balcony. then the general asked his question. it was a very long question, or, maybe, repeated twice or thrice; for it was fully ten minutes before he moved out of the room, saying good-evening. ah! old general villivicencio. the most martial-looking man in louisiana! but what would the people, the people who cheered in the morning, have said, to see the fair queen délicieuse at the top of the stair, sweetly bowing you down into the starlight,--humbled, crestfallen, rejected! the campaign opened. the villivicencio ticket was read in french and english with the very different sentiments already noted. in the exchange, about the courts, among the "banks," there was lively talking concerning its intrinsic excellence and extrinsic chances. the young gentlemen who stood about the doors of the so-called "coffee-houses" talked with a frantic energy alarming to any stranger, and just when you would have expected to see them jump and bite large mouthfuls out of each other's face, they would turn and enter the door, talking on in the same furious manner, and, walking up to the bar, click their glasses to the success of the villivicencio ticket. sundry swarthy and wrinkled remnants of an earlier generation were still more enthusiastic. there was to be a happy renaissance; a purging out of yankee ideas; a blessed home-coming of those good old bourbon morals and manners which yankee notions had expatriated. in the cheerfulness of their anticipations they even went the length of throwing their feet high in air, thus indicating how the villivicencio ticket was going to give "doze américains" the kick under the nose. in the three or four weeks which followed, the general gathered a surfeit of adulation, notwithstanding which he was constantly and with pain imagining a confused chatter of ladies, and when he shut his eyes with annoyance, there was madame délicieuse standing, and saying, "i knew not a reason why you should be angry against your son," gazing in his face with hardened simplicity, and then--that last scene on the stairs wherein he seemed still to be descending, down, down. madame herself was keeping good her resolution. "now or never," she said, "a reconciliation or a quarrel." when the general, to keep up appearances, called again, she so moved him with an account of certain kindly speeches of her own invention, which she imputed to dr. mossy, that he promised to call and see his son; "perhaps;" "pretty soon;" "probably." dr. mossy, sitting one february morning among his specimens and books of reference, finishing a thrilling chapter on the cuticle, too absorbed to hear a door open, suddenly realized that something was in his light, and, looking up, beheld general villivicencio standing over him. breathing a pleased sigh, he put down his pen, and, rising on tiptoe, laid his hand upon his father's shoulder, and lifting his lips like a little wife, kissed him. "be seated, papa," he said, offering his own chair, and perching on the desk. the general took it, and, clearing his throat, gazed around upon the jars and jars with their little adams and eves in zoölogical gardens. "is all going well, papa?" finally asked dr. mossy. "yes." then there was a long pause. "'tis a beautiful day," said the son. "very beautiful," rejoined the father. "i thought there would have been a rain, but it has cleared off," said the son. "yes," responded the father, and drummed on the desk. "does it appear to be turning cool?" asked the son. "no; it does not appear to be turning cool at all," was the answer. "h'm 'm!" said dr. mossy. "hem!" said general villivicencio. dr. mossy, not realizing his own action, stole a glance at his manuscript. "i am interrupting you," said the general, quickly, and rose. "no, no! pardon me; be seated; it gives me great pleasure to--i did not know what i was doing. it is the work with which i fill my leisure moments." so the general settled down again, and father and son sat very close to each other--in a bodily sense; spiritually they were many miles apart. the general's finger-ends, softly tapping the desk, had the sound of far-away drums. "the city--it is healthy?" asked the general. "did you ask me if"--said the little doctor, starting and looking up. "the city--it has not much sickness at present?" repeated the father. "no, yes--not much," said mossy, and, with utter unconsciousness, leaned down upon his elbow and supplied an omitted word to the manuscript. the general was on his feet as if by the touch of a spring. "i must go!" "ah! no, papa," said the son. "but, yes, i must." "but wait, papa, i had just now something to speak of"-- "well?" said the general, standing with his hand on the door, and with rather a dark countenance. dr. mossy touched his fingers to his forehead, trying to remember. "i fear i have--ah! i rejoice to see your name before the public, dear papa, and at the head of the ticket." the general's displeasure sank down like an eagle's feathers. he smiled thankfully, and bowed. "my friends compelled me," he said. "they think you will be elected?" "they will not doubt it. but what think you, my son?" now the son had a conviction which it would have been madness to express, so he only said: "they could not elect one more faithful." the general bowed solemnly. "perhaps the people will think so; my friends believe they will." "your friends who have used your name should help you as much as they can, papa," said the doctor. "myself, i should like to assist you, papa, if i could." "a-bah!" said the pleased father, incredulously. "but, yes," said the son. a thrill of delight filled the general's frame. _this_ was like a son. "thank you, my son! i thank you much. ah, mossy, my dear boy, you make me happy!" "but," added mossy, realizing with a tremor how far he had gone, "i see not how it is possible." the general's chin dropped. "not being a public man," continued the doctor; "unless, indeed, my pen--you might enlist my pen." he paused with a smile of bashful inquiry. the general stood aghast for a moment, and then caught the idea. "certainly! cer-tain-ly! ha, ha, ha!"--backing out of the door--"certainly! ah! mossy, you are right, to be sure; to make a complete world we must have swords _and_ pens. well, my son, '_au revoir;_' no, i cannot stay--i will return. i hasten to tell my friends that the pen of dr. mossy is on our side! adieu, dear son." standing outside on the _banquette_ he bowed--not to dr. mossy, but to the balcony of the big red-brick front--a most sunshiny smile, and departed. the very next morning, as if fate had ordered it, the villivicencio ticket was attacked--ambushed, as it were, from behind the américain newspaper. the onslaught was--at least general villivicencio said it was--absolutely ruffianly. never had all the lofty courtesies and formalities of chivalric contest been so completely ignored. poisoned balls--at least personal epithets--were used. the general himself was called "antiquated!" the friends who had nominated him, they were positively sneered at; dubbed "fossils," "old ladies," and their caucus termed "irresponsible"--thunder and lightning! gentlemen of honor to be termed "not responsible!" it was asserted that the nomination was made secretly, in a private house, by two or three unauthorized harum-scarums (that touched the very bone) who had with more caution than propriety withheld their names. the article was headed, "the crayfish-eaters' ticket." it continued further to say that, had not the publication of this ticket been regarded as a dull hoax, it would not have been suffered to pass for two weeks unchallenged, and that it was now high time the universal wish should be realized in its withdrawal. among the earliest readers of this production was the young madame. she first enjoyed a quiet gleeful smile over it, and then called: "ninide, here, take this down to dr. mossy--stop." she marked the communication heavily with her gold pencil. "no answer; he need not return it." about the same hour, and in a neighboring street, one of the "not responsibles" knocked on the villivicencio castle gate. the general invited him into his bedroom. with a short and strictly profane harangue the visitor produced the offensive newspaper, and was about to begin reading, when one of those loud nasal blasts, so peculiar to the gaul, resounded at the gate, and another "not responsible" entered, more excited, if possible, than the first. several minutes were spent in exchanging fierce sentiments and slapping the palm of the left hand rapidly with the back of the right. presently there was a pause for breath. "alphonse, proceed to read," said the general, sitting up in bed. "de crayfish-eaters' ticket"--began alphonse; but a third rapping at the gate interrupted him, and a third "irresponsible" re-enforced their number, talking loudly and wildly to the waiting-man as he came up the hall. finally, alphonse read the article. little by little the incensed gentlemen gave it a hearing, now two words and now three, interrupting it to rip out long, rasping maledictions, and wag their forefingers at each other as they strode ferociously about the apartment. as alphonse reached the close, and dashed the paper to the floor, the whole quartet, in terrific unison, cried for the blood of the editor. but hereupon the general spoke with authority. "no, messieurs," he said, buttoning his dressing-gown, savagely, "you shall not fight him. i forbid it--you shall not!" "but," cried the three at once, "one of us must fight, and you--you cannot; if _you_ fight our cause is lost! the candidate must not fight." "hah-h! messieurs," cried the hero, beating his breast and lifting his eyes, "_grace au ciel_. i have a son. yes, my beloved friends, a son who shall call the villain out and make him pay for his impudence with blood, or eat his words in to-morrow morning's paper. heaven be thanked that gave me a son for this occasion! i shall see him at once--as soon as i can dress." "we will go with you." "no, gentlemen, let me see my son alone. i can meet you at maspero's in two hours. adieu, my dear friends." he was resolved. "_au, revoir,_," said the dear friends. shortly after, cane in hand, general villivicencio moved with an ireful stride up the _banquette_ of rue royale. just as he passed the red-brick front one of the batten shutters opened the faintest bit, and a certain pair of lovely eyes looked after him, without any of that round simplicity which we have before discovered in them. as he half turned to knock at his son's door he glanced at this very shutter, but it was as tightly closed as though the house were an enchanted palace. dr. mossy's door, on the contrary, swung ajar when he knocked, and the general entered. "well, my son, have you seen that newspaper? no, i think not. i _see_ you have not, since your cheeks are not red with shame and anger." dr. mossy looked up with astonishment from the desk where he sat writing. "what is that, papa?" "my faith! mossy, is it possible you have not heard of the attack upon me, which has surprised and exasperated the city this morning?" "no," said dr. mossy, with still greater surprise, and laying his hand on the arm of his chair. his father put on a dying look. "my soul!" at that moment his glance fell upon the paper which had been sent in by madame délicieuse. "but, mossy, my son," he screamed, "_there_ it is!" striking it rapidly with one finger--"there! there! there! read it! it calls me 'not responsible!' 'not responsible' it calls me! read! read!" "but, papa," said the quiet little doctor, rising, and accepting the crumpled paper thrust at him, "i have read this. if this is it, well, then, already i am preparing to respond to it." the general seized him violently, and, spreading a suffocating kiss on his face, sealed it with an affectionate oath. "ah, mossy, my boy, you are glorious! you had begun already to write! you are glorious! read to me what you have written, my son." the doctor took up a bit of manuscript, and resuming his chair, began: "messrs. editors: on your journal of this morning"-- "eh! how! you have not written it in english, is it, son?" "but, yes, papa." "'tis a vile tongue," said the general; "but, if it is necessary--proceed." "messrs. editors: on your journal of this morning is published an editorial article upon the villivicencio ticket, which is plentiful and abundant with mistakes. who is the author or writer of the above said editorial article your correspondent does at present ignore, but doubts not he is one who, hasty to form an opinion, will yet, however, make his assent to the correction of some errors and mistakes which"-- "bah!" cried the general. dr. mossy looked up, blushing crimson. "bah!" cried the general, still more forcibly. "bêtise!" "how?" asked the gentle son. "'tis all nonsent!" cried the general, bursting into english. "hall you 'ave to say is: ''sieur editeurs! i want you s'all give de nem of de indignan' scoundrel who meek some lies on you' paper about mon père et ses amis!" "ah-h!" said dr. mossy, in a tone of derision and anger. his father gazed at him in mute astonishment. he stood beside his disorderly little desk, his small form drawn up, a hand thrust into his breast, and that look of invincibility in his eyes such as blue eyes sometimes surprise us with. "you want me to fight," he said. "my faith!" gasped the general, loosening in all his joints. "i believe--you may cut me in pieces if i do not believe you were going to reason it out in the newspaper! fight? if i want you to fight? upon my soul, i believe you do not want to fight!" "no," said mossy. "my god!" whispered the general. his heart seemed to break. "yes," said the steadily gazing doctor, his lips trembling as he opened them. "yes, your god. i am afraid"-- "afraid!" gasped the general. "yes," rang out the doctor, "afraid; afraid! god forbid that i should not be afraid. but i will tell you what i do not fear--i do not fear to call your affairs of honor--murder!" "my son!" cried the father. "i retract," cried the son; "consider it unsaid. i will never reproach my father." "it is well," said the father. "i was wrong. it is my quarrel. i go to settle it myself." dr. mossy moved quickly between his father and the door. general villivicencio stood before him utterly bowed down. "what will you?" sadly demanded the old man. "papa," said the son, with much tenderness, "i cannot permit you. fifteen years we were strangers, and yesterday were friends. you must not leave me so. i will even settle this quarrel for you. you must let me. i am pledged to your service." the peace-loving little doctor did not mean "to settle," but "to adjust." he felt in an instant that he was misunderstood; yet, as quiet people are apt to do, though not wishing to deceive, he let the misinterpretation stand. in his embarrassment he did not know with absolute certainty what he should do himself. the father's face--he thought of but one way to settle a quarrel--began instantly to brighten. "i would myself do it," he said, apologetically, "but my friends forbid it." "and so do i," said the doctor, "but i will go myself now, and will not return until all is finished. give me the paper." "my son, i do not wish to compel you." there was something acid in the doctor's smile as he answered: "no; but give me the paper, if you please." the general handed it. "papa," said the son, "you must wait here for my return." "but i have an appointment at maspero's at"-- "i will call and make excuse for you," said the son. "well," consented the almost happy father, "go, my son; i will stay. but if some of your sick shall call?" "sit quiet," said the son. "they will think no one is here." and the general noticed that the dust lay so thick on the panes that a person outside would have to put his face close to the glass to see within. in the course of half an hour the doctor had reached the newspaper office, thrice addressed himself to the wrong person, finally found the courteous editor, and easily convinced him that his father had been imposed upon; but when dr. mossy went farther, and asked which one of the talented editorial staff had written the article: "you see, doctor," said the editor--"just step into my private office a moment." they went in together. the next minute saw dr. mossy departing hurriedly from the place, while the editor complacently resumed his pen, assured that he would not return. general villivicencio sat and waited among the serpents and innocents. his spirits began to droop again. revolving mossy's words, he could not escape the fear that possibly, after all, his son might compromise the villivicencio honor in the interests of peace. not that he preferred to put his son's life in jeopardy; he would not object to an adjustment, provided the enemy should beg for it. but if not, whom would his son select to perform those friendly offices indispensable in polite quarrels? some half-priest, half-woman? some spectacled book-worm? he suffered. the monotony of his passive task was relieved by one or two callers who had the sagacity (or bad manners) to peer through the dirty glass, and then open the door, to whom, half rising from his chair, he answered, with a polite smile, that the doctor was out, nor could he say how long he might be absent. still the time dragged painfully, and he began at length to wonder why mossy did not return. there came a rap at the glass door different from all the raps that had forerun it--a fearless, but gentle, dignified, graceful rap; and the general, before he looked round, felt in all his veins that it came from the young madame. yes, there was her glorious outline thrown side wise upon the glass. he hastened and threw open the door, bending low at the same instant, and extending his hand. she extended hers also, but not to take his. with a calm dexterity that took the general's breath, she reached between him and the door, and closed it. "what is the matter?" anxiously asked the general--for her face, in spite of its smile, was severe. "general," she began, ignoring his inquiry--and, with all her creole bows, smiles, and insinuating phrases, the severity of her countenance but partially waned--"i came to see my physician--your son. ah! general, when i find you reconciled to your son, it makes me think i am in heaven. you will let me say so? you will not be offended with the old playmate of your son?" she gave him no time to answer. "he is out, i think, is he not? but i am glad of it. it gives us occasion to rejoice together over his many merits. for you know, general, in all the years of your estrangement, mossy had no friend like myself. i am proud to tell you so now; is it not so?" the general was so taken aback that, when he had thanked her in a mechanical way, he could say nothing else. she seemed to fall for a little while into a sad meditation that embarrassed him beyond measure. but as he opened his mouth to speak, she resumed: "nobody knew him so well as i; though i, poor me, i could not altogether understand him; for look you, general, he was--what do you think?--_a great man_!--nothing less." "how?" asked the general, not knowing what else to respond. "you never dreamed of that, eh?" continued the lady. "but, of course not; nobody did but me. some of those américains, i suppose, knew it; but who would ever ask them? here in royal street, in new orleans, where we people know nothing and care nothing but for meat, drink, and pleasure, he was only dr. mossy, who gave pills. my faith! general, no wonder you were disappointed in your son, for you thought the same. ah! yes, you did! but why did you not ask me, his old playmate? i knew better. i could have told you how your little son stood head and shoulders above the crowd. i could have told you some things too wonderful to believe. i could have told you that his name was known and honored in the scientific schools of paris, of london, of germany! yes! i could have shown you"--she warmed as she proceeded--"i could have shown you letters (i begged them of him), written as between brother and brother, from the foremost men of science and discovery!" she stood up, her eyes flashing with excitement. "but why did you never tell me?" cried the general. "he never would allow me--but you--why did you not ask me? i will tell you; you were too proud to mention your son. but he had pride to match yours--ha!--achieving all--every thing--with an assumed name! 'let me tell your father,' i implored him; but--'let him find me out,' he said, and you never found him out. ah! there he was fine. he would not, he said, though only for your sake, re-enter your affections as any thing more or less than just--your son. ha!" and so she went on. twenty times the old general was astonished anew, twenty times was angry or alarmed enough to cry out, but twenty times she would not be interrupted. once he attempted to laugh, but again her hand commanded silence. "behold, monsieur, all these dusty specimens, these revolting fragments. how have you blushed to know that our idle people laugh in their sleeves at these things! how have you blushed--and you his father! but why did you not ask me? i could have told you: 'sir, your son is not an apothecary; not one of these ugly things but has helped him on in the glorious path of discovery; discovery, general--your son--known in europe as a scientific discoverer!' ah-h! the blind people say, 'how is that, that general villivicencio should be dissatisfied with his son? he is a good man, and a good doctor, only a little careless, that's all.' but _you_ were more blind still, for you shut your eyes tight like this; when, had you searched for his virtues as you did for his faults, you, too, might have known before it was too late what nobility, what beauty, what strength, were in the character of your poor, poor son!" "just heaven! madame, you shall not speak of my son as of one dead and buried! but, if you have some bad news"-- "your son took your quarrel on his hands, eh?" "i believe so--i think"-- "well; i saw him an hour ago in search of your slanderer!" "he must find him!" said the general, plucking up. "but if the search is already over," slowly responded madame. the father looked one instant in her face, then rose with an exclamation: "where is my son? what has happened? do you think i am a child, to be trifled with--a horse to be teased? tell me of my son!" madame was stricken with genuine anguish. "take your chair," she begged; "wait; listen; take your chair." "never!" cried the general; "i am going to find my son--my god! madame, you have _locked this door_! what are you, that you should treat me so? give me, this instant"-- "oh! monsieur, i beseech you to take your chair, and i will tell you all. you can do nothing now. listen! suppose you should rush out and find that your son had played the coward at last! sit down and"-- "ah! madame, this is play!" cried the distracted man. "but no; it is not play. sit down; i want to ask you something." he sank down and she stood over him, anguish and triumph strangely mingled in her beautiful face. "general, tell me true; did you not force this quarrel into your son's hand? i _know_ he would not choose to have it. did you not do it to test his courage, because all these fifteen years you have made yourself a fool with the fear that he became a student only to escape being a soldier? did you not?" her eyes looked him through and through. "and if i did?" demanded he with faint defiance. "yes! and if he has made dreadful haste and proved his courage?" asked she. "well, then,"--the general straightened up triumphantly--"then he is my son!" he beat the desk. "and heir to your wealth, for example?" "certainly." the lady bowed in solemn mockery. "it will make him a magnificent funeral!" the father bounded up and stood speechless, trembling from head to foot. madame looked straight in his eye. "your son has met the writer of that article." "where?" the old man's lips tried to ask. "suddenly, unexpectedly, in a passage-way." "my god! and the villain"-- "lives!" cried madame. he rushed to the door, forgetting that it was locked. "give me that key!" he cried, wrenched at the knob, turned away bewildered, turned again toward it, and again away; and at every step and turn he cried, "oh! my son, my son! i have killed my son! oh! mossy, my son, my little boy! oh! my son, my son!" madame buried her face in her hands and sobbed aloud. then the father hushed his cries and stood for a moment before her. "give me the key, clarisse, let me go." she rose and laid her face on his shoulder. "what is it, clarisse?" asked he. "your son and i were ten years betrothed." "oh, my child!" "because, being disinherited, he would not be me husband." "alas! would to god i had known it! oh! mossy, my son." "oh! monsieur," cried the lady, clasping her hands, "forgive me--mourn no more--your son is unharmed! i wrote the article--i am your recanting slanderer! your son is hunting for me now. i told my aunt to misdirect him. i slipped by him unseen in the carriage-way." the wild old general, having already staggered back and rushed forward again, would have seized her in his arms, had not the little doctor himself at that instant violently rattled the door and shook his finger at them playfully as he peered through the glass. "behold!" said madame, attempting a smile: "open to your son; here is the key." she sank into a chair. father and son leaped into each other's arms; then turned to madame: "ah! thou lovely mischief-maker"-- she had fainted away. "ah! well, keep out of the way, if you please, papa," said dr. mossy, as madame presently reopened her eyes; "no wonder you fainted; you have finished some hard work--see; here; no; clarisse, dear, take this." father and son stood side by side, tenderly regarding her as she revived. "now, papa, you may kiss her; she is quite herself again, already." "my daughter!" said the stately general; "this--is my son's ransom; and, with this,--i withdraw the villivicencio ticket." "you shall not," exclaimed the laughing lady, throwing her arms about his neck. "but, yes!" he insisted; "my faith! you will at least allow me to remove my dead from the field." "but, certainly;" said the son; "see, clarisse, here is madame, your aunt, asking us all into the house. let us go." the group passed out into the rue royale, dr. mossy shutting the door behind them. the sky was blue, the air was soft and balmy, and on the sweet south breeze, to which the old general bared his grateful brow, floated a ravishing odor of-- "ah! what is it?" the veteran asked of the younger pair, seeing the little aunt glance at them with a playful smile. madame délicieuse for almost the first time in her life, and dr. mossy for the thousandth--blushed. it was the odor of orange-blossoms. [frontispiece: "ask your sister," she replied. "it was her plan."] louisiana by frances hodgson burnett author of "haworth's," "that lass o' lowrie's," etc. new york charles scribner's sons and broadway copyright by frances hodgson burnett, . (_all rights reserved._) trow's printing and bookbinding co., - east th st., new york. contents. chapter i. louisiana chapter ii. worth chapter iii. "he is different" chapter iv. a new type chapter v. "i have hurt you" chapter vi. the road to the right chapter vii. "she aint yere" chapter viii. "nothing has hurt you" chapter ix. "don't ye, louisianny?" chapter x. the great world chapter xi. a rusty nail chapter xii. "mebbe" chapter xiii. a new plan chapter xiv. confessions chapter xv. "ianthy!" chapter xvi. "don't do no one a onjestice" chapter xvii. a leaf chapter xviii. "he knew that i loved you" louisiana. chapter i. louisiana. olivia ferrol leaned back in her chair, her hands folded upon her lap. people passed and repassed her as they promenaded the long "gallery," as it was called; they passed in couples, in trios; they talked with unnecessary loudness, they laughed at their own and each other's jokes; they flirted, they sentimentalized, they criticised each other, but none of them showed any special interest in olivia ferrol, nor did miss ferrol, on her part, show much interest in them. she had been at oakvale springs for two weeks. she was alone, out of her element, and knew nobody. the fact that she was a new yorker, and had never before been so far south, was rather against her. on her arrival she had been glanced over and commented upon with candor. "she is a yankee," said the pretty and remarkably youthful-looking mother of an apparently grown-up family from new orleans. "you can see it." and though the remark was not meant to be exactly severe, olivia felt that it was very severe, indeed, under existing circumstances. she heard it as she was giving her orders for breakfast to her own particular jet-black and highly excitable waiter, and she felt guilty at once and blushed, hastily taking a sip of ice-water to conceal her confusion. when she went upstairs afterward she wrote a very interesting letter to her brother in new york, and tried to make an analysis of her sentiments for his edification. "you advised me to come here because it would be novel as well as beneficial," she wrote. "and it certainly is novel. i think i feel like a pariah--a little. i am aware that even the best bred and most intelligent of them, hearing that i have always lived in new york, will privately regret it if they like me and remember it if they dislike me. good-natured and warm-hearted as they seem among themselves, i am sure it will be i who will have to make the advances--if advances are made--and i must be very amiable, indeed, if i intend that they shall like me." but she had not been well enough at first to be in the humor to make the advances, and consequently had not found her position an exciting one. she had looked on until she had been able to rouse herself to some pretty active likes and dislikes, but she knew no one. she felt this afternoon as if this mild recreation of looking on had begun rather to pall upon her, and she drew out her watch, glancing at it with a little yawn. "it is five o'clock," she said. "very soon the band will make its appearance, and it will bray until the stages come in. yes, there it is!" the musical combination to which she referred was composed of six or seven gentlemen of color who played upon brazen instruments, each in different keys and different time. three times a day they collected on a rustic kiosk upon the lawn and played divers popular airs with an intensity, fervor, and muscular power worthy of a better cause. they straggled up as she spoke, took their places and began, and before they had played many minutes the most exciting event of the day occurred, as it always did somewhere about this hour. in the midst of the gem of their collection was heard the rattle of wheels and the crack of whips, and through the rapturous shouts of the juvenile guests, the two venerable, rickety stages dashed up with a lumbering flourish, and a spasmodic pretense of excitement, calculated to deceive only the feeblest mind. at the end of the gallery they checked themselves in their mad career, the drivers making strenuous efforts to restrain the impetuosity of the four steeds whose harness rattled against their ribs with an unpleasant bony sound. half a dozen waiters rushed forward, the doors were flung open, the steps let down with a bang, the band brayed insanely, and the passengers alighted.--"one, two, three, four," counted olivia ferrol, mechanically, as the first vehicle unburdened itself. and then, as the door of the second was opened: "one--only one: and a very young one, too. dear me! poor girl!" this exclamation might naturally have fallen from any quick-sighted and sympathetic person. the solitary passenger of the second stage stood among the crowd, hesitating, and plainly overwhelmed with timorousness. three waiters were wrestling with an ugly shawl, a dreadful shining valise, and a painted wooden trunk, such as is seen in country stores. in their enthusiastic desire to dispose creditably of these articles they temporarily forgot the owner, who, after one desperate, timid glance at them, looked round her in vain for succor. she was very pretty and very young and very ill-dressed--her costume a bucolic travesty on prevailing modes. she did not know where to go, and no one thought of showing her; the loungers about the office stared at her; she began to turn pale with embarrassment and timidity. olivia ferrol left her chair and crossed the gallery. she spoke to a servant a little sharply: "why not show the young lady into the parlor?" she said. the girl heard, and looked at her helplessly, but with gratitude. the waiter darted forward with hospitable rapture. "dis yeah's de way, miss," he said, "right inter de 'ception-room. foller me, ma'am." olivia returned to her seat. people were regarding her with curiosity, but she was entirely oblivious of the fact. "that is one of them," she was saying, mentally. "that is one of them, and a very interesting type it is, too." to render the peculiarities of this young woman clearer, it may be well to reveal here something of her past life and surroundings. her father had been a literary man, her mother an illustrator of books and magazine articles. from her earliest childhood she had been surrounded by men and women of artistic or literary occupations, some who were drudges, some who were geniuses, some who balanced between the two extremes, and she had unconsciously learned the tricks of the trade. she had been used to people who continually had their eyes open to anything peculiar and interesting in human nature, who were enraptured by the discovery of new types of men, women, and emotions. since she had been left an orphan she had lived with her brother, who had been reporter, editor, contributor, critic, one after the other, until at last he had established a very enviable reputation as a brilliant, practical young fellow, who knew his business, and had a fine career open to him. so it was natural that, having become interested in the general friendly fashion of dissecting and studying every scrap of human nature within reach, she had followed more illustrious examples, and had become very critical upon the subject of "types" herself. during her sojourn at oakvale she had studied the north carolinian mountaineer "type" with the enthusiasm of an amateur. she had talked to the women in sunbonnets who brought fruit to the hotel, and sat on the steps and floor of the galleries awaiting the advent of customers with a composure only to be equaled by the calmness of the noble savage; she had walked and driven over the mountain roads, stopping at wayside houses and entering into conversation with the owners until she had become comparatively well known, even in the space of a fortnight, and she had taken notes for her brother until she had roused him to sharing her own interest in her discoveries. "i am sure you will find a great deal of material here," she wrote to him. "you see how i have fallen a victim to that dreadful habit of looking at everything in the light of material. a man is no longer a man--he is 'material'; sorrow is not sorrow, joy is not joy--it is 'material.' there is something rather ghoulish in it. i wonder if anatomists look at people's bodies as we do at their minds, and if to them every one is a 'subject.' at present i am interested in a species of girl i have discovered. sometimes she belongs to the better class--the farmers, who have a great deal of land and who are the rich men of the community,--sometimes she lives in a log cabin with a mother who smokes and chews tobacco, but in either case she is a surprise and a mystery. she is always pretty, she is occasionally beautiful, and in spite of her house, her people, her education or want of it, she is instinctively a refined and delicately susceptible young person. she has always been to some common school, where she has written compositions on sentimental or touching subjects, and when she belongs to the better class she takes a fashion magazine and tries to make her dresses like those of the ladies in the colored plates, and, i may add, frequently fails. i could write a volume about her, but i wont. when your vacation arrives, come and see for yourself." it was of this class miss ferrol was thinking when she said: "that is one of them, and a very interesting type it is, too." when she went in to the dining-room to partake of the six o'clock supper, she glanced about her in search of the new arrival, but she had not yet appeared. a few minutes later, however, she entered. she came in slowly, looking straight before her, and trying very hard to appear at ease. she was prettier than before, and worse dressed. she wore a blue, much-ruffled muslin and a wide collar made of imitation lace. she had tucked her sleeves up to her elbow with a band and bow of black velvet, and her round, smooth young arms were adorable. she looked for a vacant place, and, seeing none, stopped short, as if she did not know what to do. then some magnetic attraction drew her eye to olivia ferrol's. after a moment's pause, she moved timidly toward her. "i--i wish a waiter would come," she faltered. at that moment one on the wing stopped in obedience to a gesture of miss ferrol's--a delicate, authoritative movement of the head. "give this young lady that chair opposite me," she said. the chair was drawn out with a flourish, the girl was seated, and the bill of fare was placed in her hands. "thank you," she said, in a low, astonished voice. olivia smiled. "that waiter is my own special and peculiar property," she said, "and i rather pride myself on him." but her guest scarcely seemed to comprehend her pleasantry. she looked somewhat awkward. "i--don't know much about waiters," she ventured. "i'm not used to them, and i suppose they know it. i never was at a hotel before." "you will soon get used to them," returned miss ferrol. the girl fixed her eyes upon her with a questioning appeal. they were the loveliest eyes she had ever seen, miss ferrol thought--large-irised, and with wonderful long lashes fringing them and curling upward, giving them a tender, very wide-open look. she seemed suddenly to gain courage, and also to feel it her duty to account for herself. "i shouldn't have come here alone if i could have got father to come with me," she revealed. "but he wouldn't come. he said it wasn't the place for him. i haven't been very well since mother died, and he thought i'd better try the springs awhile. i don't think i shall like it." "i don't like it," replied miss ferrol, candidly, "but i dare say you will when you know people." the girl glanced rapidly and furtively over the crowded room, and then her eyes fell. "i shall never know them," she said, in a depressed undertone. in secret miss ferrol felt a conviction that she was right; she had not been presented under the right auspices. "it is rather clever and sensitive in her to find it out so quickly," she thought. "some girls would be more sanguine, and be led into blunders." they progressed pretty well during the meal. when it was over, and miss ferrol rose, she became conscious that her companion was troubled by some new difficulty, and a second thought suggested to her what its nature was. "are you going to your room?" she asked. "i don't know," said the girl, with the look of helpless appeal again. "i don't know where else to go. i don't like to go out there" (signifying the gallery) "alone." "why not come with me?" said miss ferrol. "then we can promenade together." "ah!" she said, with a little gasp of relief and gratitude. "don't you mind?" "on the contrary, i shall be very glad of your society," miss ferrol answered. "i am alone, too." so they went out together and wandered slowly from one end of the starlit gallery to the other, winding their way through the crowd that promenaded, and, upon the whole, finding it rather pleasant. "i shall have to take care of her," miss ferrol was deciding; "but i do not think i shall mind the trouble." the thing that touched her most was the girl's innocent trust in her sincerity--her taking for granted that this stranger, who had been polite to her, had been so not for worldly good breeding's sake, but from true friendliness and extreme generosity of nature. her first shyness conquered, she related her whole history with the unreserve of a child. her father was a farmer, and she had always lived with him on his farm. he had been too fond of her to allow her to leave home, and she had never been "away to school." "he has made a pet of me at home," she said. "i was the only one that lived to be over eight years old. i am the eleventh. ten died before i was born, and it made father and mother worry a good deal over me--and father was worse than mother. he said the time never seemed to come when he could spare me. he is very good and kind--is father," she added, in a hurried, soft-voiced way. "he's rough, but he's very good and kind." before they parted for the night miss ferrol had the whole genealogical tree by heart. they were an amazingly prolific family, it seemed. there was uncle josiah, who had ten children, uncle leander, who had fifteen, aunt amanda, who had twelve, and aunt nervy, whose belongings comprised three sets of twins and an unlimited supply of odd numbers. they went upstairs together and parted at miss ferrol's door, their rooms being near each other. the girl held out her hand. "good-night!" she said. "i'm so thankful i've got to know you." her eyes looked bigger and wider-open than ever; she smiled, showing her even, sound, little white teeth. under the bright light of the lamp the freckles the day betrayed on her smooth skin were not to be seen. "dear me!" thought miss ferrol. "how startlingly pretty, in spite of the cotton lace and the dreadful polonaise!" she touched her lightly on the shoulder. "why, you are as tall as i am!" she said. "yes," the girl replied, depressedly; "but i'm twice as broad." "oh no--no such thing." and then, with a delicate glance down over her, she said--"it is your dress that makes you fancy so. perhaps your dressmaker does not understand your figure,"--as if such a failing was the most natural and simple thing in the world, and needed only the slightest rectifying. "i have no dressmaker," the girl answered. "i make my things myself. perhaps that is it." "it is a little dangerous, it is true," replied miss ferrol. "i have been bold enough to try it myself, and i never succeeded. i could give you the address of a very thorough woman if you lived in new york." "but i don't live there, you see. i wish i did. i never shall, though. father could never spare me." another slight pause ensued, during which she looked admiringly at miss ferrol. then she said "good-night" again, and turned away. but before she had crossed the corridor she stopped. "i never told you my name," she said. miss ferrol naturally expected she would announce it at once, but she did not. an air of embarrassment fell upon her. she seemed almost averse to speaking. "well," said miss ferrol, smiling, "what is it?" she did not raise her eyes from the carpet as she replied, unsteadily: "it's louisiana." miss ferrol answered her very composedly: "the name of the state?" "yes. father came from there." "but you did not tell me your surname." "oh! that is rogers. you--you didn't laugh. i thought you would." "at the first name?" replied miss ferrol. "oh no. it is unusual--but names often are. and louise is pretty." "so it is," she said, brightening. "i never thought of that. i hate louisa. they will call it 'lowizy,' or 'lousyanny.' i could sign myself louise, couldn't i?" "yes," miss ferrol replied. and then her _protégée_ said "good-night" for the third time, and disappeared. chapter ii. worth. she presented herself at the bed-room door with a timid knock the next morning before breakfast, evidently expecting to be taken charge of. miss ferrol felt sure she would appear, and had, indeed, dressed herself in momentary expectation of hearing the knock. when she heard it she opened the door at once. "i am glad to see you," she said. "i thought you might come." a slight expression of surprise showed itself in the girl's eyes. it had never occurred to her that she might not come. "oh, yes," she replied. "i never could go down alone when there was any one who would go with me." there was something on her mind, miss ferrol fancied, and presently it burst forth in a confidential inquiry. "is this dress very short-waisted?" she asked, with great earnestness. merciful delicacy stood in the way of miss ferrol's telling her how short-waisted it was, and how it maltreated her beautiful young body. "it is rather short-waisted, it is true." "perhaps," the girl went on, with a touch of guileless melancholy, "i am naturally this shape." here, it must be confessed, miss ferrol forgot herself for the moment, and expressed her indignation with undue fervor. "perish the thought!" she exclaimed. "why, child! your figure is a hundred times better than mine." louisiana wore for a moment a look of absolute fright. "oh, no!" she cried. "oh, no. your figure is magnificent." "magnificent!" echoed miss ferrol, giving way to her enthusiasm, and indulging in figures of speech. "don't you see that i am thin--absolutely thin. but my things fit me, and my dressmaker understands me. if you were dressed as i am,"--pausing to look her over from head to foot--"ah!" she exclaimed, pathetically, "how i should like to see you in some of my clothes!" a tender chord was touched. a gentle sadness, aroused by this instance of wasted opportunities, rested upon her. but instantaneously she brightened, seemingly without any particular cause. a brilliant idea had occurred to her. but she did not reveal it. "i will wait," she thought, "until she is more at her ease with me." she really was more at her ease already. just this one little scrap of conversation had done that. she became almost affectionate in a shy way before they reached the dining-room. "i want to ask you something," she said, as they neared the door. "what is it?" she held miss ferrol back with a light clasp on her arm. her air was quite tragic in a small way. "please say 'louise,' when you speak to me," she said. "never say 'miss louisiana'--never--never!" "no, i shall never say 'miss louisiana,'" her companion answered. "how would you like 'miss rogers?'" "i would rather have 'louise,'" she said, disappointedly. "well," returned miss ferrol, "'louise' let it be." and "louise" it was thenceforward. if she had not been so pretty, so innocent, and so affectionate and humble a young creature, she might have been troublesome at times (it occurred to olivia ferrol), she clung so pertinaciously to their chance acquaintanceship; she was so helpless and desolate if left to herself, and so inordinately glad to be taken in hand again. she made no new friends,--which was perhaps natural enough, after all. she had nothing in common with the young women who played ten-pins and croquet and rode out in parties with their cavaliers. she was not of them, and understood them as little as they understood her. she knew very well that they regarded her with scornful tolerance when they were of the ill-natured class, and with ill-subdued wonder when they were amiable. she could not play ten-pins or croquet, nor could she dance. "what are the men kneeling down for, and why do they keep stopping to put on those queer little caps and things?" she whispered to miss ferrol one night. "they are trying to dance a german," replied miss ferrol, "and the man who is leading them only knows one figure." as for the riding, she had been used to riding all her life; but no one asked her to join them, and if they had done so she would have been too wise,--unsophisticated as she was,--to accept the invitation. so where miss ferrol was seen she was seen also, and she was never so happy as when she was invited into her protector's room and allowed to spend the morning or evening there. she would have been content to sit there forever and listen to miss ferrol's graphic description of life in the great world: the names of celebrated personages made small impression upon her. it was revealed gradually to miss ferrol that she had private doubts as to the actual existence of some of them, and the rest she had never heard of before. "you never read 'the scarlet letter?'" asked her instructress upon one occasion. she flushed guiltily. "no," she answered. "nor--nor any of the others." miss ferrol gazed at her silently for a few moments. then she asked her a question in a low voice, specially mellowed, so that it might not alarm her. "do you know who john stuart mill is?" she said. "no," she replied from the dust of humiliation. "have you never heard--just _heard_--of ruskin?" "no." "nor of michael angelo?" "n-no--ye-es, i think so--perhaps, but i don't know what he did." "do you," she continued, very slowly, "do--you--know--anything--about--worth?" "no, nothing." her questioner clasped her hands with repressed emotion. "oh," she cried, "how--how you have been neglected!" she was really depressed, but her _protégée_ was so much more deeply so that she felt it her duty to contain herself and return to cheerfulness. "never mind," she said. "i will tell you all i know about them, and,"--after a pause for speculative thought upon the subject,--"by-the-by, it isn't much, and i will lend you some books to read, and give you a list of some you must persuade your father to buy for you, and you will be all right. it is rather dreadful not to know the names of people and things; but, after all, i think there are very few people who--ahem!" she was checked here by rigid conscientious scruples. if she was to train this young mind in the path of learning and literature, she must place before her a higher standard of merit than the somewhat shady and slipshod one her eagerness had almost betrayed her into upholding. she had heard people talk of "standards" and "ideals," and when she was kept to the point and in regulation working order, she could be very eloquent upon these subjects herself. "you will have to work very seriously," she remarked, rather incongruously and with a rapid change of position. "if you wish to--to acquire anything, you must read conscientiously and--and with a purpose." she was rather proud of that last clause. "must i?" inquired louise, humbly. "i should like to--if i knew where to begin. who was worth? was he a poet?" miss ferrol acquired a fine, high color very suddenly. "oh," she answered, with some uneasiness, "you--you have no need to begin with worth. he doesn't matter so much--really." "i thought," miss rogers said meekly, "that you were more troubled about my not having read what he wrote, than about my not knowing any of the others." "oh, no. you see--the fact is, he--he never wrote anything." "what did he do?" she asked, anxious for information. "he--it isn't 'did,' it is 'does.' he--makes dresses." "dresses!" this single word, but no exclamation point could express its tone of wild amazement. "yes." "a man!" "yes." there was a dead silence. it was embarrassing at first. then the amazement of the unsophisticated one began to calm itself; it gradually died down, and became another emotion, merging itself into interest. "does"--guilelessly she inquired--"he make nice ones?" "nice!" echoed miss ferrol. "they are works of art! i have got three in my trunk." "o-o h!" sighed louisiana. "oh, dear!" miss ferrol rose from her chair. "i will show them to you," she said. "i--i should like you to try them on." "to try them on!" ejaculated the child in an awe-stricken tone. "me?" "yes," said miss ferrol, unlocking the trunk and throwing back the lid. "i have been wanting to see you in them since the first day you came." she took them out and laid them upon the bed on their trays. louise got up from the floor and approaching, reverently stood near them. there was a cream-colored evening-dress of soft, thick, close-clinging silk of some antique-modern sort; it had golden fringe, and golden flowers embroidered upon it. "look at that," said miss ferrol, softly--even religiously. she made a mysterious, majestic gesture. "come here," she said. "you must put it on." louise shrank back a pace. "i--oh! i daren't," she cried. "it is too beautiful!" "come here," repeated miss ferrol. she obeyed timorously, and gave herself into the hands of her controller. she was so timid and excited that she trembled all the time her toilette was being performed for her. miss ferrol went through this service with the manner of a priestess officiating at an altar. she laced up the back of the dress with the slender, golden cords; she arranged the antique drapery which wound itself around in close swathing folds. there was not the shadow of a wrinkle from shoulder to hem: the lovely young figure was revealed in all its beauty of outline. there were no sleeves at all, there was not very much bodice, but there was a great deal of effect, and this, it is to be supposed, was the object. "walk across the floor," commanded miss ferrol. louisiana obeyed her. "do it again," said miss ferrol. having been obeyed for the second time, her hands fell together. her attitude and expression could be said to be significant only of rapture. "i said so!" she cried. "i said so! you might have been born in new york!" it was a grand climax. louisiana felt it to the depths of her reverent young heart. but she could not believe it. she was sure that it was too sublime to be true. she shook her head in deprecation. "it is no exaggeration," said miss ferrol, with renewed fervor. "laurence himself, if he were not told that you had lived here, would never guess it. i should like to try you on him." "who--is he?" inquired louisiana. "is he a writer, too?" "well, yes,--but not exactly like the others. he is my brother." it was two hours before this episode ended. only at the sounding of the second bell did louisiana escape to her room to prepare for dinner. miss ferrol began to replace the dresses in her trunk. she performed her task in an abstracted mood. when she had completed it she stood upright and paused a moment, with quite a startled air. "dear me!" she exclaimed. "i--actually forgot about ruskin!" chapter iii. "he is different." the same evening, as they sat on one of the seats upon the lawn, miss ferrol became aware several times that louisiana was regarding her with more than ordinary interest. she sat with her hands folded upon her lap, her eyes fixed on her face, and her pretty mouth actually a little open. "what are you thinking of?" olivia asked, at length. the girl started, and recovered herself with an effort. "i--well, i was thinking about--authors," she stammered. "any particular author?" inquired olivia, "or authors as a class?" "about your brother being one. i never thought i should see any one who knew an author--and you are related to one!" her companion's smile was significant of immense experience. it was plain that she was so accustomed to living on terms of intimacy with any number of authors that she could afford to feel indifferent about them. "my dear," she said, amiably, "they are not in the least different from other people." it sounded something like blasphemy. "not different!" cried louisiana. "oh, surely, they must be! isn't--isn't your brother different?" miss ferrol stopped to think. she was very fond of her brother. privately she considered him the literary man of his day. she was simply disgusted when she heard experienced critics only calling him "clever" and "brilliant" instead of "great" and "world-moving." "yes," she replied at length, "he is different." "i thought he must be," said louisiana, with a sigh of relief. "you are, you know." "am i?" returned olivia. "thank you. but i am not an author--at least,"--she added, guiltily, "nothing i have written has ever been published." "oh, why not?" exclaimed louisiana. "why not?" she repeated, dubiously and thoughtfully. and then, knitting her brows, she said, "i don't know why not." "i am sure if you have ever written anything, it ought to have been published," protested her adorer. "_i_ thought so," said miss ferrol. "but--but _they_ didn't." "they?" echoed louisiana. "who are 'they?'" "the editors," she replied, in a rather gloomy manner. "there is a great deal of wire-pulling, and favoritism, and--even envy and malice, of which those outside know nothing. you wouldn't understand it if i should tell you about it." for a few moments she wore quite a fell expression, and gloom reigned. she gave her head a little shake. "they regret it afterward," she remarked,--"frequently." from which louisiana gathered that it was the editors who were so overwhelmed, and she could not help sympathizing with them in secret. there was something in the picture of their unavailing remorse which touched her, despite her knowledge of the patent fact that they deserved it and could expect nothing better. she was quite glad when olivia brightened up, as she did presently. "laurence is handsomer than most of them, and has a more distinguished air," she said. "he is very charming. people always say so." "i wish i could see him," ventured louisiana. "you will see him if you stay here much longer," replied miss ferrol. "it is quite likely he will come to oakvale." for a moment louisiana fluttered and turned pale with pleasure, but as suddenly she drooped. "i forgot," she faltered. "you will have to be with him always, and i shall have no one. he won't want me." olivia sat and looked at her with deepening interest. she was thinking again of a certain whimsical idea which had beset her several times since she had attired her _protégée_ in the cream-colored robe. "louise," she said, in a low, mysterious tone, "how would you like to wear dresses like mine all the rest of the time you are here?" the child stared at her blankly. "i haven't got any," she gasped. "no," said miss ferrol, with deliberation, "but _i_ have." she rose from her seat, dropping her mysterious air and smiling encouragingly. "come with me to my room," she said. "i want to talk to you." if she had ordered her to follow her to the stake it is not at all unlikely that louisiana would have obeyed. she got up meekly, smiling, too, and feeling sure something very interesting was going to happen. she did not understand in the least, but she was quite tractable. and after they had reached the room and shut themselves in, she found that it _was_ something very interesting which was to happen. "you remember what i said to you this morning?" miss ferrol suggested. "you said so many things." "oh, but you cannot have forgotten this particular thing. i said you looked as if you had been born in new york." louisiana remembered with a glow of rapture. "oh, yes," she answered. "and i said laurence himself would not know, if he was not told, that you had lived all your life here."' "yes." "and i said i should like to try you on him." "yes." miss ferrol kept her eyes fixed on her and watched her closely. "i have been thinking of it all the morning," she added. "i should like to try you on him." louisiana was silent a moment. then she spoke, hesitatingly: "do you mean that i should pretend----," she began. "oh, no," interrupted miss ferrol. "not pretend either one thing or the other. only let me dress you as i choose, and then take care that you say nothing whatever about your past life. you will have to be rather quiet, perhaps, and let him talk. he will like that, of course--men always do--and then you will learn a great many things from him." "it will be--a very strange thing to do," said louisiana. "it will be a very interesting thing," answered olivia, her enthusiasm increasing. "how he will admire you!" louisiana indulged in one of her blushes. "have you a picture of him?" "yes. why?" she asked, in some surprise. "because i should like to see his face." "do you think," miss ferrol said, in further bewilderment, "that you might not like him?" "i think he might not like me." "not like you!" cried miss ferrol. "you! he will think you are divine--when you are dressed as i shall dress you." she went to her trunk and produced the picture. it was not a photograph, but a little crayon head--the head of a handsome man, whose expression was a singular combination of dreaminess and alertness. it was a fascinating face. "one of his friends did it," said miss ferrol. "his friends are very fond of him and admire his good looks very much. they protest against his being photographed. they like to sketch him. they are always making 'studies' of his head. what do you think of him?" louisiana hesitated. "he is different," she said at last. "i thought he would be." she gave the picture back to miss ferrol, who replaced it in her trunk. she sat for a few seconds looking down at the carpet and apparently seeing very little. then she looked up at her companion, who was suddenly a little embarrassed at finding her receive her whimsical planning so seriously. she herself had not thought of it as being serious at all. it would be interesting and amusing, and would prove her theory. "i will do what you want me to do," said louisiana. "then," said miss ferrol, wondering at an unexpected sense of discomfort in herself, "i will dress you for supper now. you must begin to wear the things, so that you may get used to them." chapter iv. a new type. when the two entered the supper-room together a little commotion was caused by their arrival. at first the supple young figure in violet and gray was not recognized. it was not the figure people had been used to, it seemed so tall and slenderly round. the reddish-brown hair was combed high and made into soft puffs; it made the pretty head seem more delicately shaped, and showed how white and graceful the back of the slender neck was. it was several minutes before the problem was solved. then a sharp young woman exclaimed, _sotto voce_: "it's the little country-girl, in new clothes--in clothes that fit. would you believe it?" "don't look at your plate so steadily," whispered miss ferrol. "lean back and fan yourself as if you did not hear. you must never show that you hear things." "i shall be obliged to give her a few hints now and then," she had said to herself beforehand. "but i feel sure when she once catches the cue she will take it." it really seemed as if she did, too. she had looked at herself long and steadily after she had been dressed, and when she turned away from the glass she held her head a trifle more erect, and her cheeks had reddened. perhaps what she had recognized in the reflection she had seen had taught her a lesson. but she said nothing. in a few days olivia herself was surprised at the progress she had made. sanguine as she was, she had not been quite prepared for the change which had taken place in her. she had felt sure it would be necessary to teach her to control her emotions, but suddenly she seemed to have learned to control them without being told to do so; she was no longer demonstrative of her affection, she no longer asked innocent questions, nor did she ever speak of her family. her reserve was puzzling to olivia. "you are very clever," she said to her one day, the words breaking from her in spite of herself, after she had sat regarding her in silence for a few minutes. "you are even cleverer than i thought you were, louise." "was that very clever?" the girl asked. "yes, it was," olivia answered, "but not so clever as you are proving yourself." but louisiana did not smile or blush, as she had expected she would. she sat very quietly, showing neither pleasure nor shyness, and seeming for a moment or so to be absorbed in thought. in the evening when the stages came in they were sitting on the front gallery together. as the old rattletraps bumped and swung themselves up the gravel drive, olivia bent forward to obtain a better view of the passengers. "he ought to be among them," she said. louisiana laid her hand on her arm. "who is that sitting with the driver?" she asked, as the second vehicle passed them. "isn't that----" "to be sure it is!" exclaimed miss ferrol. she would have left her seat, but she found herself detained. her companion had grasped her wrist. "wait a minute!" she said. "don't leave me! oh--i wish i had not done it!" miss ferrol turned and stared at her in amazement. she spoke in her old, uncontrolled, childish fashion. she was pale, and her eyes were dilated. "what is the matter?" said miss ferrol, hurriedly, when she found her voice. "is it that you really don't like the idea? if you don't, there is no need of our carrying it out. it was only nonsense--i beg your pardon for not seeing that it disturbed you. perhaps, after all, it was very bad taste in me----" but she was not allowed to finish her sentence. as suddenly as it had altered before, louisiana's expression altered again. she rose to her feet with a strange little smile. she looked into miss ferrol's astonished face steadily and calmly. "your brother has seen you and is coming toward us," she said. "i will leave you. we shall see each other again at supper." and with a little bow she moved away with an air of composure which left her instructress stunned. she could scarcely recover her equilibrium sufficiently to greet her brother decently when he reached her side. she had never been so thoroughly at sea in her life. after she had gone to her room that night, her brother came and knocked at the door. when she opened it and let him in he walked to a chair and threw himself into it, wearing a rather excited look. "olivia," he began at once, "what a bewildering girl!" olivia sat down opposite to him, with a composed smile. "miss rogers, of course?" she said. "of course," he echoed. and then, after a pause of two or three seconds, he added, in the tone he had used before: "what a delightfully mysterious girl!" "mysterious!" repeated olivia. "there is no other word for it! she has such an adorable face, she looks so young, and she says so little." and then, with serious delight, he added: "it is a new type!" olivia began to laugh. "why are you laughing?" he demanded. "because i was so sure you would say that," she answered. "i was waiting for it." "but it is true," he replied, quite vehemently. "i never saw anything like her before. i look at her great soft eyes and i catch glimpses of expression which don't seem to belong to the rest of her. when i see her eyes i could fancy for a moment that she had been brought up in a convent or had lived a very simple, isolated life, but when she speaks and moves i am bewildered. i want to hear her talk, but she says so little. she does not even dance. i suppose her relatives are serious people. i dare say you have not heard much of them from her. her reserve is so extraordinary in a girl. i wonder how old she is?" "nineteen, i think." "i thought so. i never saw anything prettier than her quiet way when i asked her to dance with me. she said, simply, 'i do not dance. i have never learned.' it was as if she had never thought of it as being an unusual thing." he talked of her all the time he remained in the room. olivia had never seen him so interested before. "the fascination is that she seems to be two creatures at once," he said. "and one of them is stronger than the other and will break out and reveal itself one day. i begin by feeling i do not understand her, and that is the most interesting of all beginnings, i long to discover which of the two creatures is the real one." when he was going away he stopped suddenly to say: "how was it you never mentioned her in your letters? i can't understand that." "i wanted you to see her for yourself," olivia answered. "i thought i would wait." "well," he said, after thinking a moment, "i am glad, after all, that you did." chapter v. "i have hurt you." from the day of his arrival a new life began for louisiana. she was no longer an obscure and unconsidered young person. suddenly, and for the first time in her life, she found herself vested with a marvellous power. it was a power girls of a different class from her own are vested with from the beginning of their lives. they are used to it and regard it as their birthright. louisiana was not used to it. there had been nothing like it attending her position as "that purty gal o' rogerses." she was accustomed to the admiration of men she was indifferent to--men who wore short-waisted blue-jean coats, and turned upon their elbows to stare at her as she sat in the little white frame church. after making an effort to cultivate her acquaintance, they generally went away disconcerted. "she's mighty still," they said. "she haint got nothin' to say. seems like thar aint much to her--but she's powerful purty though." this was nothing like her present experience. she began slowly to realize that she was a little like a young queen now. here was a man such as she had never spoken to before, who was always ready to endeavor to his utmost to please her: who, without any tendency toward sentimental nonsense, was plainly the happier for her presence and favor. what could be more assiduous and gallant than the every-day behavior of the well-bred, thoroughly experienced young man of the period toward the young beauty who for the moment reigns over his fancy! it need only be over his fancy; there is no necessity that the impression should be any deeper. his suavity, his chivalric air, his ready wit in her service, are all that could be desired. when louisiana awakened to the fact that all this homage was rendered to her as being only the natural result of her girlish beauty--as if it was the simplest thing in the world, and a state of affairs which must have existed from the first--she experienced a sense of terror. just at the very first she would have been glad to escape from it and sink into her old obscurity. "it does not belong to me," she said to herself. "it belongs to some one else--to the girl he thinks i am. i am not that girl, though; i will remember that." but in a few days she calmed down. she told herself that she always did remember, but she ceased to feel frightened and was more at ease. she never talked very much, but she became more familiar with the subjects she heard discussed. one morning she went to olivia's room and asked her for the address of a bookseller. "i want to send for some books and--and magazines," she said, confusedly. "i wish you--if you would tell me what to send for. father will give me the money if i ask him for it." olivia sat down and made a list. it was along list, comprising the best periodicals of the day and several standard books. when she handed it to her she regarded her with curiosity. "you mean to read them all?" she asked. "isn't it time that i should?" replied her pupil. "well--it is a good plan," returned olivia, rather absently. truth to tell, she was more puzzled every day. she had begun to be quite sure that something had happened. it seemed as if a slight coldness existed between herself and her whilom adorer. the simplicity of her enthusiasm was gone. her affection had changed as her outward bearing. it was a better regulated and less noticeable emotion. once or twice olivia fancied she had seen the girl looking at her even sadly, as if she felt, for the moment, a sense of some loss. "perhaps it was very clumsy in me," she used to say to herself. "perhaps i don't understand her, after all." but she could not help looking on with interest. she had never before seen laurence enjoy himself so thoroughly. he had been working very hard during the past year, and was ready for his holiday. he found the utter idleness, which was the chief feature of the place, a good thing. there was no town or village within twenty miles, newspapers were a day or two old when they arrived, there were very few books to be found, and there was absolutely no excitement. at night the band brayed in the empty-looking ball-room, and a few very young couples danced, in a desultory fashion and without any ceremony. the primitive, domesticated slowness of the place was charming. most of the guests had come from the far south at the beginning of the season and would remain until the close of it; so they had had time to become familiar with each other and to throw aside restraint. "there is nothing to distract one," ferrol said, "nothing to rouse one, nothing to inspire one--nothing! it is delicious! why didn't i know of it before?" he had plenty of time to study his sister's friend. she rode and walked with him and olivia when they made their excursions, she listened while he read aloud to them as he lay on the grass in a quiet corner of the grounds. he thought her natural reserve held her from expressing her opinion on what he read very freely; it certainly did not occur to him that she was beginning her literary education under his guidance. he could see that the things which pleased him most were not lost upon her. her face told him that. one moonlight night, as they sat on an upper gallery, he began to speak of the novelty of the aspect of the country as it presented itself to an outsider who saw it for the first time. "it is a new life, and a new people," he said. "and, by the way, olivia, where is the new species of young woman i was to see--the daughter of the people who does not belong to her sphere?" he turned to louisiana. "have you ever seen her?" he asked. "i must confess to a dubiousness on the subject." before he could add another word louisiana turned upon him. he could see her face clearly in the moonlight. it was white, and her eyes were dilated and full of fire. "why do you speak in that way?" she cried. "as if--as if such people were so far beneath you. what right have you----" she stopped suddenly. laurence ferrol was gazing at her in amazement. she rose from her seat, trembling. "i will go away a little," she said. "i beg your pardon--and miss ferrol's." she turned her back upon them and went away. ferrol sat holding her little round, white-feather fan helplessly, and staring after her until she disappeared. it was several seconds before the silence was broken. it was he who broke it. "i don't know what it means," he said, in a low voice. "i don't know what i have done!" in a little while he got up and began to roam aimlessly about the gallery. he strolled from one end to the other with his hands thrust in his coat pockets. olivia, who had remained seated, knew that he was waiting in hopes that louisiana would return. he had been walking to and fro, looking as miserable as possible, for about half an hour, when at last she saw him pause and turn half round before the open door of an upper corridor leading out upon the verandah. a black figure stood revealed against the inside light. it was louisiana, and, after hesitating a moment, she moved slowly forward. she had not recovered her color, but her manner was perfectly quiet. "i am glad you did not go away," she said. ferrol had only stood still at first, waiting her pleasure, but the instant she spoke he made a quick step toward her. "i should have felt it a very hard thing not to have seen you again before i slept," he said. she made no reply, and they walked together in silence until they reached the opposite end of the gallery. "miss ferrol has gone in," she said then. he turned to look and saw that such was the case. suddenly, for some reason best known to herself, olivia had disappeared from the scene. louisiana leaned against one of the slender, supporting pillars of the gallery. she did not look at ferrol, but at the blackness of the mountains rising before them. ferrol could not look away from her. "if you had not come out again," he said, after a pause, "i think i should have remained here, baying at the moon, all night." then, as she made no reply, he began to pour himself forth quite recklessly. "i cannot quite understand how i hurt you," he said. "it seemed to me that i must have hurt you, but even while i don't understand, there are no words abject enough to express what i feel now and have felt during the last half hour. if i only dared ask you to tell me----" she stopped him. "i can't tell you," she said. "but it is not your fault--it is nothing you could have understood--it is my fault--all my fault, and--i deserve it." he was terribly discouraged. "i am bewildered," he said. "i am very unhappy." she turned her pretty, pale face round to him swiftly. "it is not you who need be unhappy," she exclaimed. "it is i!" the next instant she had checked herself again, just as she had done before. "let us talk of something else," she said, coldly. "it will not be easy for me to do so," he answered, "but i will try." before olivia went to bed she had a visit from her. she received her with some embarrassment, it must be confessed. day by day she felt less at ease with her and more deeply self-convicted of some blundering,--which, to a young woman of her temperament, was a sharp penalty. louisiana would not sit down. she revealed her purpose in coming at once. "i want to ask you to make me a promise," she said, "and i want to ask your pardon." "don't do that," said olivia. "i want you to promise that you will not tell your brother the truth until you have left here and are at home. i shall go away very soon. i am tired of what i have been doing. it is different from what you meant it to be. but you must promise that if you stay after i have gone--as of course you will--you will not tell him. my home is only a few miles away. you might be tempted, after thinking it over, to come and see me--and i should not like it. i want it all to stop here--i mean my part of it. i don't want to know the rest." olivia had never felt so helpless in her life. she had neither self-poise, nor tact, nor any other daring quality left. "i wish," she faltered, gazing at the girl quite pathetically, "i wish we had never begun it." "so do i," said louisiana. "do you promise?" "y-yes. i would promise anything. i--i have hurt your feelings," she confessed, in an outbreak. she was destined to receive a fresh shock. all at once the girl was metamorphosed again. it was her old ignorant, sweet, simple self who stood there, with trembling lips and dilated eyes. "yes, you have!" she cried. "yes, you have!" and she burst into tears and turned about and ran out of the room. chapter vi. the road to the right. the morning after, ferrol heard an announcement which came upon him like a clap of thunder. after breakfast, as they walked about the grounds, olivia, who had seemed to be in an abstracted mood, said, without any preface: "miss rogers returns home to-morrow." laurence stopped short in the middle of the path. "to-morrow!" he exclaimed. "oh, no." he glanced across at louisiana with an anxious face. "yes," she said, "i am going home." "to new york?" "i do not live in new york." she spoke quite simply, but the words were a shock to him. they embarrassed him. there was no coldness in her manner, no displeasure in her tone, but, of course, he understood that it would be worse than tactless to inquire further. was it possible that she did not care that he should know where she lived? there seemed no other construction to be placed upon her words. he flushed a little, and for a few minutes looked rather gloomy, though he quickly recovered himself afterward and changed the subject with creditable readiness. "did not you tell me she lived in new york?" he asked olivia, the first time they were alone together. "no," olivia answered, a trifle sharply. "why new york, more than another place?" "for no reason whatever,--really," he returned, more bewildered than ever. "there was no reason why i should choose new york, only when i spoke to her of certain places there, she--she----" he paused and thought the matter over carefully before finishing his sentence. he ended it at last in a singular manner. "she said nothing," he said. "it is actually true--now i think of it--she said nothing whatever!" "and because she said nothing whatever----" began olivia. he drew his hand across his forehead with a puzzled gesture. "i fancied she _looked_ as if she knew," he said, slowly. "i am sure she looked as if she knew what i was talking about--as if she knew the places, i mean. it is very queer! there seems no reason in it. why shouldn't she wish us to know where she lives?" "i--i must confess," cried olivia, "that i am getting a little tired of her." it was treacherous and vicious, and she knew it was; but her guilty conscience and her increasing sense of having bungled drove her to desperation. if she had not promised to keep the truth to herself, she would have been only too glad to unburden herself. it was so stupid, after all, and she had only herself to blame. laurence drew a long breath. "you can not be tired of _her_!" he said. "that is impossible. she takes firmer hold upon one every hour." this was certainly true, as far as he was concerned. he was often even surprised at his own enthusiasm. he had seen so many pretty women that it was almost inconsistent that he should be so much moved by the prettiness of one charming creature, and particularly one who spoke so little, who, after all, was--but there he always found himself at a full stop. he could not say what she was, he did not know yet; really, he seemed no nearer the solution of the mystery than he had been at first. there lay the fascination. he felt so sure there was an immense deal for him to discover, if he could only discover it. he had an ideal in his mind, and this ideal, he felt confident, was the real creature, if he could only see her. during the episode on the upper gallery he fancied he had caught a glimpse of what was to be revealed. the sudden passion on her pale young face, the fire in her eyes, were what he had dreamed of. if he had not been possessed of courage and an honest faith in himself, born of a goodly amount of success, he would have been far more depressed than he was. she was going away, and had not encouraged him to look forward to their meeting again. "i own it is rather bad to look at," he said to himself, "if one quite believed that fate would serve one such an ill turn. she never played me such a trick, however, and i won't believe she will. i shall see her again--sometime. it will turn out fairly enough, surely." so with this consolation he supported himself. there was one day left and he meant to make the best of it. it was to be spent in driving to a certain mountain, about ten miles distant. all tourists who were possessed of sufficient energy made this excursion as a matter of duty, if from no more enthusiastic motive. a strong, light carriage and a pair of horses were kept in the hotel stables for the express purpose of conveying guests to this special point. this vehicle ferrol had engaged the day before, and as matters had developed he had cause to congratulate himself upon the fact. he said to louisiana what he had before said to himself: "we have one day left, and we will make the best of it." olivia, who stood upon the gallery before which the carriage had been drawn up, glanced at louisiana furtively. on her part she felt privately that it would be rather hard to make the best of it. she wished that it was well over. but louisiana did not return her glance. she was looking at ferrol and the horses. she had done something new this morning. she had laid aside her borrowed splendor and attired herself in one of her own dresses, which she had had the boldness to remodel. she had seized a hint from some one of olivia's possessions, and had given her costume a pretty air of primitive simplicity. it was a plain white lawn, with a little frilled cape or fichu which crossed upon her breast, and was knotted loosely behind. she had a black velvet ribbon around her lithe waist, a rose in her bosom where the fichu crossed, and a broad gainsborough hat upon her head. one was reminded somewhat of the picturesque young woman of the good old colony times. ferrol, at least, when he first caught sight of her, was reminded of pictures he had seen of them. there was no trace of her last night's fire in her manner. she was quieter than usual through the first part of the drive. she was gentle to submissiveness to olivia. there was something even tender in her voice once or twice when she addressed her. laurence noticed it, and accounted for it naturally enough. "she is really fonder of her than she has seemed," he thought, "and she is sorry that their parting is so near." he was just arriving at this conclusion when louisiana touched his arm. "don't take that road," she said. he drew up his horses and looked at her with surprise. there were two roads before them, and he had been upon the point of taking the one to the right. "but it is the only road to take," he continued. "the other does not lead to the mountain. i was told to be sure to take the road to the right hand." "it is a mistake," she said, in a disturbed tone. "the left-hand road leads to the mountain, too--at least, we can reach it by striking the wagon-road through the woods. i--yes, i am sure of it." "but this is the better road. is there any reason why you prefer the other? could you pilot us? if you can----" he stopped and looked at her appealingly. he was ready to do anything she wished, but the necessity for his yielding had passed. her face assumed a set look. "i can't," she answered. "take the road to the right. why not?" chapter vii. "she aint yere." ferrol was obliged to admit when they turned their faces homeward that the day was hardly a success, after all. olivia had not been at her best, for some reason or other, and from the moment they had taken the right-hand road louisiana had been wholly incomprehensible. in her quietest mood she had never worn a cold air before; to-day she had been cold and unresponsive. it had struck him that she was absorbed in thinking of something which was quite beyond him. she was plainly not thinking of him, nor of olivia, nor of the journey they were making. during the drive she had sat with her hands folded upon her lap, her eyes fixed straight before her. she had paid no attention to the scenery, only rousing herself to call their attention to one object. this object was a house they passed--the rambling, low-roofed white house of some well-to-do farmer. it was set upon a small hill and had a long front porch, mottled with blue and white paint in a sanguine attempt at imitating variegated marble. she burst into a low laugh when she saw it. "look at that," she said. "that is one of the finest houses in the country. the man who owns it is counted a rich man among his neighbors." ferrol put up his eye-glasses to examine it. (it is to be deplored that he was a trifle near-sighted.) "by george!" he said. "that is an idea, isn't it, that marble business! i wonder who did it? do you know the man who lives there?" "i have heard of him," she answered, "from several people. he is a namesake of mine. his name is rogers." when they returned to their carriage, after a ramble up the mountain-side, they became conscious that the sky had suddenly darkened. ferrol looked up, and his face assumed a rather serious expression. "if either of you is weather-wise," he said, "i wish you would tell me what that cloud means. you have been among the mountains longer than i have." louisiana glanced upward quickly. "it means a storm," she said, "and a heavy one. we shall be drenched in half an hour." ferrol looked at her white dress and the little frilled fichu, which was her sole protection. "oh, but that won't do!" he exclaimed. "what insanity in me not to think of umbrellas!" "umbrellas!" echoed louisiana. "if we had each six umbrellas they could not save us. we may as well get into the carriage. we are only losing time." they were just getting in when an idea struck ferrol which caused him to utter an exclamation of ecstatic relief. "why," he cried, "there is that house we passed! get in quickly. we can reach there in twenty minutes." louisiana had her foot upon the step. she stopped short and turned to face him. she changed from red to white and from white to red again, as if with actual terror. "there!" she exclaimed. "there!" "yes," he answered. "we can reach there in time to save ourselves. is there any objection to our going,--in the last extremity?" for a second they looked into each other's eyes, and then she turned and sprang into the carriage. she laughed aloud. "oh, no," she said. "go there! it will be a nice place to stay--and the people will amuse you. go there." they reached the house in a quarter of an hour instead of twenty minutes. they had driven fast and kept ahead of the storm, but when they drew up before the picket fence the clouds were black and the thunder was rolling behind them. it was louisiana who got out first. she led the way up the path to the house and mounted the steps of the variegated porch. she did not knock at the door, which stood open, but, somewhat to fermi's amazement, walked at once into the front room, which was plainly the room of state. not to put too fine a point upon it, it was a hideous room. the ceiling was so low that ferrol felt as if he must knock his head against it; it was papered--ceiling and all--with paper of an unwholesome yellow enlivened with large blue flowers; there was a bedstead in one corner, and the walls were ornamented with colored lithographs of moon-faced houris, with round eyes and round, red cheeks, and wearing low-necked dresses, and flowers in their bosoms, and bright yellow gold necklaces. these works of art were the first things which caught ferrol's eye, and he went slowly up to the most remarkable, and stood before it, regarding it with mingled wonderment and awe. he turned from it after a few seconds to look at louisiana, who stood near him, and he beheld what seemed to him a phenomenon. he had never seen her blush before as other women blush--now she was blushing, burning red from chin to brow. "there--there is no one in this part of the house," she said. "i--i know more of these people than you do. i will go and try to find some one." she was gone before he could interpose. not that he would have interposed, perhaps. somehow--without knowing why--he felt as if she did know more of the situation than he did--almost as if she were, in a manner, doing the honors for the time being. she crossed the passage with a quick, uneven step, and made her way, as if well used to the place, into the kitchen at the back of the house. a stout negro woman stood at a table, filling a pan with newly made biscuits. her back was toward the door and she did not see who entered. "aunt cassandry," the girl began, when the woman turned toward her. "who's dar?" she exclaimed. "lor', honey, how ye skeert me! i aint no c'sandry." the face she turned was a strange one, and it showed no sign of recognition of her visitor. it was an odd thing that the sight of her unfamiliar face should have been a shock to louisiana; but it was a shock. she put her hand to her side. "where is my--where is mr. rogers?" she asked. "i want to see him." "out on de back po'ch, honey, right now. dar he goes!" the girl heard him, and flew out to meet him. her heart was throbbing hard, and she was drawing quick, short breaths. "father!" she cried. "father! don't go in the house!" and she caught him by both shoulders and drew him round. he did not know her at first in her fanciful-simple dress and her gainsborough hat. he was not used to that style of thing, believing that it belonged rather to the world of pictures. he stared at her. then he broke out with an exclamation, "lo-rd! louisianny!" she kept her eyes on his face. they were feverishly bright, and her cheeks were hot. she laughed hysterically. "don't speak loud," she said. "there are some strange people in the house, and--and i want to tell you something." he was a slow man, and it took him some time to grasp the fact that she was really before him in the flesh. he said, again: "lord, louisianny!" adding, cheerfully, "how ye've serprised me!" then he took in afresh the change in her dress. there was a pile of stove-wood stacked on the porch to be ready for use, and he sat down on it to look at her. "why, ye've got a new dress on!" he said. "thet thar's what made ye look sorter curis. i hardly knowed ye." then he remembered what she had said on first seeing him. "why don't ye want me to go in the house?" he asked. "what sort o' folks air they?" "they came with me from the springs," she answered; "and--and i want to--to play a joke on them." she put her hands up to her burning cheeks, and stood so. "a joke on 'em?" he repeated. "yes," she said, speaking very fast. "they don't know i live here, they think i came from some city,--they took the notion themselves,--and i want to let them think so until we go away from the house. it will be such a good joke." she tried to laugh, but broke off in the middle of a harsh sound. her father, with one copperas-colored leg crossed over the other, was chewing his tobacco slowly, after the manner of a ruminating animal, while he watched her. "don't you see?" she asked. "wa-al, no," he answered. "not rightly." she actually assumed a kind of spectral gayety. "i never thought of it until i saw it was not cassandry who was in the kitchen," she said. "the woman who is there didn't know me, and it came into my mind that--that we might play off on them," using the phraseology to which he was the most accustomed. "waal, we mought," he admitted, with a speculative deliberateness. "thet's so. we mought--if thar was any use in it." "it's only for a joke," she persisted, hurriedly. "thet's so," he repeated. "thet's so." he got up slowly and rather lumberingly from his seat and dusted the chips from his copperas-colored legs. "hev ye ben enjyin' yerself, louisianny?" he asked. "yes," she answered. "never better." "ye must hev," he returned, "or ye wouldn't be in sperrits to play jokes." then he changed his tone so suddenly that she was startled. "what do ye want me to do?" he asked. she put her hand on his shoulder and tried to laugh again. "to pretend you don't know me--to pretend i have never been here before. that's joke enough, isn't it? they will think so when i tell them the truth. you slow old father! why don't you laugh?" "p'r'aps," he said, "it's on account o' me bein' slow, louisianny. mebbe i shall begin arter a while." "don't begin at the wrong time," she said, still keeping up her feverish laugh, "or you'll spoil it all. now come along in and--and pretend you don't know me," she continued, drawing him forward by the arm. "they might suspect something if we stay so long. all you've got to do is to pretend you don't know me." "that's so, louisianny," with a kindly glance downward at her excited face as he followed her out. "thar aint no call fur me to do nothin' else, is there--just pretend i don't know ye?" it was wonderful how well he did it, too. when she preceded him into the room the girl was quivering with excitement. he might break down, and it would be all over in a second. but she looked ferrol boldly in the face when she made her first speech. "this is the gentleman of the house," she said. "i found him on the back porch. he had just come in. he has been kind enough to say we may stay until the storm is over." "oh, yes," said he hospitably, "stay an' welcome. ye aint the first as has stopped over. storms come up sorter suddent, an' we haint the kind as turns folks away." ferrol thanked him, olivia joining in with a murmur of gratitude. they were very much indebted to him for his hospitality; they considered themselves very fortunate. their host received their protestations with much equanimity. "if ye'd like to set out on the front porch and watch the storm come up," he said, "thar's seats thar. or would ye druther set here? women-folks is gen'rally fond o' settin' in-doors whar thar's a parlor." but they preferred the porch, and followed him out upon it. having seen them seated, he took a chair himself. it was a split-seated chair, painted green, and he tilted it back against a pillar of the porch and applied himself to the full enjoyment of a position more remarkable for ease than elegance. ferrol regarded him with stealthy rapture, and drank in every word he uttered. "this," he had exclaimed delightedly to olivia, in private--"why, this is delightful! these are the people we have read of. i scarcely believed in them before. i would not have missed it for the world!" "in gin'ral, now," their entertainer proceeded, "wimmin-folk is fonder o' settin' in parlors. my wife was powerful sot on her parlor. she wasn't never satisfied till she hed one an' hed it fixed up to her notion. she was allers tradin' fur picters fur it. she tuk a heap o' pride in her picters. she allers had it in her mind that her little gal should have a showy parlor when she growed up." "you have a daughter?" said ferrol. their host hitched his chair a little to one side. he bent forward to expectorate, and then answered with his eyes fixed upon some distant point toward the mountains. "wa-al, yes," he said; "but she aint yere, louisianny aint." miss ferrol gave a little start, and immediately made an effort to appear entirely at ease. "did you say," asked ferrol, "that your daughter's name was----" "louisianny," promptly. "i come from thar." louisiana got up and walked to the opposite end of the porch. "the storm will be upon us in a few minutes," she said. "it is beginning to rain now. come and look at this cloud driving over the mountain-top." ferrol rose and went to her. he stood for a moment looking at the cloud, but plainly not thinking of it. "his daughter's name is louisiana," he said, in an undertone. "louisiana! isn't that delicious?" suddenly, even as he spoke, a new idea occurred to him. "why," he exclaimed, "your name is louise, isn't it? i think olivia said so." "yes," she answered, "my name is louise." "how should you have liked it," he inquired, absent-mindedly, "if it had been louisiana?" she answered him with a hard coolness which it startled him afterward to remember. "how would you have liked it?" she said. they were driven back just then by the rain, which began to beat in upon their end of the porch. they were obliged to return to olivia and mr. rogers, who were engaged in an animated conversation. the fact was that, in her momentary excitement, olivia had plunged into conversation as a refuge. she had suddenly poured forth a stream of remark and query which had the effect of spurring up her companion to a like exhibition of frankness. he had been asking questions, too. "she's ben tellin' me," he said, as ferrol approached, "thet you're a littery man, an' write fur the papers--novel-stories, an' pomes an' things. i never seen one before--not as i know on." "i wonder why not!" remarked ferrol. "we are plentiful enough." "air ye now?" he asked reflectively. "i had an idee thar was only one on ye now an' ag'in--jest now an' ag'in." he paused there to shake his head. "i've often wondered how ye could do it," he said, "_i_ couldn't. thar's some as thinks they could if they tried, but i wa'n't never thataway--i wa'n't never thataway. i haint no idee i could do it, not if i tried ever so. seems to me," he went on, with the air of making an announcement of so novel a nature that he must present it modestly, "seems to me, now, as if them as does it must hev a kinder gift fur'it, now. lord! i couldn't write a novel. i wouldn't know whar to begin." "it is difficult to decide where," said ferrol. he did not smile at all. his manner was perfect--so full of interest, indeed, that mr. rogers quite warmed and expanded under it. "the scenes on 'em all, now, bein' mostly laid in bagdad, would be agin me, if nothin' else war," he proceeded. "being laid----?" queried ferrol. "in bagdad or--wa-al, furrin parts tharabouts. ye see i couldn't tell nothin' much about no place but north ca'liny, an' folks wouldn't buy it." "but why not?" exclaimed ferrol. "why, lord bless ye!" he said, hilariously, "they'd know it wa'n't true. they'd say in a minnit: 'why, thar's thet fool rogers ben a writin' a pack o' lies thet aint a word on it true. thar aint no castles in hamilton county, an' thar aint no folks like these yere. it just aint so! i 'lowed thet thar was the reason the novel-writers allers writ about things a-happenin' in bagdad. ye kin say most anythin' ye like about bagdad an' no one cayn't contradict ye." "i don't seem to remember many novels of--of that particular description," remarked ferrol, in a rather low voice. "perhaps my memory----" "ye don't?" he queried, in much surprise. "waal now, jest you notice an' see if it aint so. i haint read many novels myself. i haint read but one----" "oh!" interposed ferrol. "and it was a story of life in bagdad." "yes; an' i've heard tell of others as was the same. hance claiborn, now, he was a-tellen me of one." he checked himself to speak to the negro woman who had presented herself at a room door. "we're a-comin', nancy," he said, with an air of good-fellowship. "now, ladies an' gentlemen," he added, rising from his chair, "walk in an' have some supper." ferrol and olivia rose with some hesitation. "you are very kind," they said. "we did not intend to give you trouble." "trouble!" he replied, as if scarcely comprehending. "this yere aint no trouble. ye haint ben in north ca'liny before, hev ye?" he continued, good-naturedly. "we're bound to hev ye eat, if ye stay with us long enough. we wouldn't let ye go 'way without eatin', bless ye. we aint that kind. walk straight in." he led them into a long, low room, half kitchen, half dining-room. it was not so ugly as the room of state, because it was entirely unadorned. its ceiled walls were painted brown and stained with many a winter's smoke. the pine table was spread with a clean homespun cloth and heaped with well-cooked, appetizing food. "if ye can put up with country fare, ye'll not find it so bad," said the host. "nancy prides herself on her way o' doin' things." there never was more kindly hospitality, ferrol thought. the simple generosity which made them favored guests at once warmed and touched him. he glanced across at louisiana to see if she was not as much pleased as he was himself. but the food upon her plate remained almost untouched. there was a strange look on her face; she was deadly pale and her downcast eyes shone under their lashes. she did not look at their host at all; it struck ferrol that she avoided looking at him with a strong effort. her pallor made him anxious. "you are not well," he said to her. "you do not look well at all." their host started and turned toward her. "why, no ye aint!" he exclaimed, quite tremulously. "lord, no! ye cayn't be. ye haint no color. what--what's the trouble, lou--lord! i was gwine to call ye louisianny, an'--she aint yere, louisianny aint." he ended with a nervous laugh. "i'm used to takin' a heap o' care on her," he said. "i've lost ten on 'em, an' she's all that's left me, an'--an' i think a heap on her. i--i wish she was yere. ye musn't git sick, ma'am." the girl got up hurriedly. "i am not sick, really," she said. "the thunder--i have a little headache. i will go out on to the porch. it's clearing up now. the fresh air will do me good." the old man rose, too, with rather a flurried manner. "if louisianny was yere," he faltered, "she could give ye something to help ye. camphire now--sperrits of camphire--let me git ye some." "no--no," said the girl. "no, thank you." and she slipped out of the door and was gone. mr. rogers sat down again with a sigh. "i wish she'd let me git her some," he said, wistfully. "i know how it is with young critters like that. they're dele-cate," anxiously. "lord, they're dele-cate. they'd oughter hev' their mothers round 'em. i know how it is with louisianny." a cloud seemed to settle upon him. he rubbed his grizzled chin with his hand again and again, glancing at the open door as he did it. it was evident that his heart was outside with the girl who was like "louisianny." chapter viii. "nothing has hurt you." the storm was quite over, and the sun was setting in flames of gold when the meal was ended and they went out on the porch again. mr. rogers had scarcely recovered himself, but he had made an effort to do so, and had so far succeeded as to begin to describe the nature of the one novel he had read. still, he had rubbed his chin and kept his eye uneasily on the door all the time he had been talking. "it was about a frenchman," he said, seriously, "an' his name was--frankoyse--f-r-a-n-c-o-i-s, frankoyse. thet thar's a french name, aint it? me an' ianthy 'lowed it was common to the country. it don't belong yere, frankoyse don't, an' it's got a furrin sound." "it--yes, it is a french name," assented ferrol. a few minutes afterward they went out. louisiana stood at the end of the porch, leaning against a wooden pillar and twisting an arm around it. "are ye better?" mr. rogers asked. "i am goin' to 'tend to my stock, an' if ye aint, mebbe the camphire--sperrits of camphire----" "i don't need it," she answered. "i am quite well." so he went away and left them, promising to return shortly and "gear up their critters" for them that they might go on their way. when he was gone, there was a silence of a few seconds which ferrol could not exactly account for. almost for the first time in his manhood, he did not know what to say. gradually there had settled upon him the conviction that something had gone very wrong indeed, that there was something mysterious and complicated at work, that somehow he himself was involved, and that his position was at once a most singular and delicate one. it was several moments before he could decide that his best plan seemed to be to try to conceal his bewilderment and appear at ease. and, very naturally, the speech he chose to begin with was the most unlucky he could have hit upon. "he is charming," he said. "what a lovable old fellow! what a delicious old fellow! he has been telling me about the novel. it is the story of a frenchman, and his name--try to guess his name." but louisiana did not try. "you couldn't guess it," he went on. "it is better than all the rest. his name was--frankoyse." that instant she turned round. she was shaking all over like a leaf. "good heavens!" flashed through his mind. "this is a climax! _this_ is the real creature!" "don't laugh again!" she cried. "don't dare to laugh! i wont bear it! he is my father!" for a second or so he had not the breath to speak. "your father!" he said, when he found his voice. "_your_ father! _yours!_" "yes," she answered, "mine. this is my home. i have lived here all my life--my name is louisiana. you have laughed at me too!" it was the real creature, indeed, whom he saw. she burst into passionate tears. "do you think that i kept up this pretense to-day because i was ashamed of him?" she said. "do you think i did it because i did not love him--and respect him--and think him better than all the rest of the world? it was because i loved him so much that i did it--because i knew so well that you would say to each other that he was not like me--that he was rougher, and that it was a wonder i belonged to him. it is a wonder i belong to him! i am not worthy to kiss his shoes. i have been ashamed--i have been bad enough for that, but not bad enough to be ashamed of him. i thought at first it would be better to let you believe what you would--that it would soon be over, and we should never see each other again, but i did not think that i should have to sit by and see you laugh because he does not know the world as you do--because he has always lived his simple, good life in one simple, country place." ferrol had grown as pale as she was herself. he groaned aloud. "oh!" he cried, "what shall i say to you? for heaven's sake try to understand that it is not at him i have laughed, but----" "he has never been away from home," she broke in. "he has worked too hard to have time to read, and--" she stopped and dropped her hands with a gesture of unutterable pride. "why should i tell you that?" she said. "it sounds as if i were apologizing for him, and there is no need that i should." "if i could understand," began ferrol,--"if i could realize----" "ask your sister," she replied. "it was her plan. i--i" (with a little sob) "am only her experiment." olivia came forward, looking wholly subdued. her eyes were wet, too. "it is true," she said. "it is all my fault." "may i ask you to explain?" said ferrol, rather sternly. "i suppose some of this has been for my benefit." "don't speak in that tone," said olivia. "it is bad enough as it is. i--i never was so wretched in my life. i never dreamed of its turning out in this way. she was so pretty and gentle and quick to take a hint, and--i wanted to try the experiment--to see if you would guess at the truth. i--i had a theory, and i was so much interested that--i forgot to--to think of her very much. i did not think she would care." louisiana broke in. "yes," she said, her eyes bright with pain, "she forgot. i was very fond of her, and i knew so very little that she forgot to think of me. i was only a kind of plaything--but i was too proud to remind her. i thought it would be soon over, and i knew how ignorant i was. i was afraid to trust my feelings at first. i thought perhaps--it was vanity, and i ought to crush it down. i was very fond of her." "oh!" cried olivia, piteously, "don't say 'was,' louise!" "don't say 'louise,'" was the reply. "say 'louisiana.' i am not ashamed of it now. i want mr. ferrol to hear it." "i have nothing to say in self-defense," laurence replied, hopelessly. "there is nothing for any of us to say but good-by," said louisiana. "we shall never see each other again. it is all over between us. you will go your way and i shall go mine. i shall stay here to-night. you must drive back to the springs without me. i ought never to have gone there." laurence threw himself into a chair and sat shading his face with his hand. he stared from under it at the shining wet grass and leaves. even yet he scarcely believed that all this was true. he felt as if he were walking in a dream. the worst of it was this desperate feeling that there was nothing for him to say. there was a long silence, but at last louisiana left her place and came and stood before him. "i am going to meet my father," she said. "i persuaded him that i was only playing a joke. he thought it was one of my fancies, and he helped me out because i asked him to do it. i am going to tell him that i have told you the truth. he wont know why i did it. i will make it easy for you. i shall not see you again. good-by." ferrol's misery got the better of him. "i can't bear this!" he cried, springing up. "i can't, indeed." she drew back. "why not?" she said. "nothing has hurt _you_." the simple coldness of her manner was very hard upon him, indeed. "you think i have no right to complain," he answered, "and yet see how you send me away! you speak as if you did not intend to let me see you again----" "no," she interposed, "you shall not see me again. why should you? ask your sister to tell you how ignorant i am. she knows. why should you come here? there would always be as much to laugh at as there has been to-day. go where you need not laugh. this is not the place for you. good-by!" then he knew he need say no more. she spoke with a child's passion and with a woman's proud obstinacy. then she turned to olivia. he was thrilled to the heart as he watched her while she did it. her eyes were full of tears, but she had put both her hands behind her. "good-by," she said. olivia broke down altogether. "is that the way you are going to say good-by?" she cried. "i did not think you were so hard. if i had meant any harm--but i didn't--and you look as if you never would forgive me." "i may some time," answered the girl. "i don't yet. i did not think i was so hard, either." her hands fell at her sides and she stood trembling a second. all at once she had broken down, too. "i loved you," she said; "but you did not love me." and then she turned away and walked slowly into the house. it was almost half an hour before their host came to them with the news that their carriage was ready. he looked rather "off color" himself and wore a wearied air, but he was very uncommunicative. "louisianny 'lowed she'd go to bed an' sleep off her headache, instead of goin' back to the springs," he said. "i'll be thar in a day or two to 'tend to her bill an' the rest on it. i 'low the waters haint done her much good. she aint at herself rightly. i knowed she wasn't when she was so notionate this evenin'. she aint notionate when she's at herself." "we are much indebted to you for your kindness," said ferrol, when he took the reins. "oh, thet aint nothin'. you're welcome. you'd hev hed a better time if louisianny had been at herself. good-by to ye. ye'll hev plenty of moonlight to see ye home." their long ride was a silent one. when they reached the end of it and olivia had been helped out of the carriage and stood in the moonlight upon the deserted gallery, where she had stood with louisiana in the morning, she looked very suitably miserable. "laurence," she said, "i don't exactly see why you should feel so very severe about it. i am sure i am as abject as any one could wish." he stood a moment in silence looking absently out on the moonlight-flooded lawn. everything was still and wore an air of desolation. "we won't talk about it," he said, at last, "but you have done me an ill-turn, olivia." chapter ix. "don't ye, louisianny?" as he said it, louisiana was at home in the house-room, sitting on a low chair at her father's knee and looking into the fire. she had not gone to bed. when he returned to the house her father had found her sitting here, and she had not left her place since. a wood fire had been lighted because the mountain air was cool after the rains, and she seemed to like to sit and watch it and think. mr. rogers himself was in a thoughtful mood. after leaving his departing guests he had settled down with some deliberation. he had closed the doors and brought forward his favorite wooden-backed, split-seated chair. then he had seated himself, and drawing forth his twist of tobacco had cut off a goodly "chaw." he moved slowly and wore a serious and somewhat abstracted air. afterward he tilted backward a little, crossed his legs, and proceeded to ruminate. "louisianny," he said, "louisianny, i'd like to hear the rights of it." she answered him in a low voice. "it is not worth telling," she said. "it was a very poor joke, after all." he gave her a quick side glance, rubbing his crossed legs slowly. "was it?" he remarked. "a poor one, after all? why, thet's bad." the quiet patience of his face was a study. he went on rubbing his leg even more slowly than before. "thet's bad," he said again. "now, what d'ye think was the trouble, louisianny?" "i made a mistake," she answered. "that was all." suddenly she turned to him and laid her folded arms on his knee and her face upon them, sobbing. "i oughtn't to have gone," she cried. "i ought to have stayed at home with you, father." his face flushed, and he was obliged to relieve his feelings by expectorating into the fire. "louisianny," he said, "i'd like to ask ye one question. was thar anybody thar as didn't--well, as didn't show ye respect--as was slighty or free or--or onconsiderate? fur instants, any littery man--jest for instants, now?" "no, no!" she answered. "they were very kind to me always." "don't be afeared to tell me, louisianny," he put it to her. "i only said 'fur instants,' havin' heern as littery men was sometimes--now an' again--thataway--now an' ag'in." "they were very good to me," she repeated, "always." "if they was," he returned, "i'm glad of it. i'm a-gittin' old, louisianny, an' i haint much health--dispepsy's what tells on a man," he went on deliberately. "but if thar'd a bin any one as hed done it, i'd hev hed to settle it with him--i'd hev hed to hev settled it with him--liver or no liver." he put his hand on her head and gave it a slow little rub, the wrong way, but tenderly. "i aint goin' to ask ye no more questions," he said, "exceptin' one. is thar anything ye'd like to hev done in the house--in the parlor, for instants, now--s'posin' we was to say in the parlor." "no, no," she cried. "let it stay as it is! let it all stay as it is!" "wa-al," he said, meditatively, "ye know thar aint no reason why it should, louisianny, if ye'd like to hev it fixed up more or different. if ye'd like a new paper--say a floweryer one--or a new set of cheers an' things. up to lawyer hoskin's i seen 'em with red seats to 'em, an' seemed like they did set things off sorter. if ye'd like to hev some, thar aint no reason why ye shouldn't. things has gone purty well with me, an'--an' thar aint none left but you, honey. lord!" he added, in a queer burst of tenderness. "why shouldn't ye hev things if ye want 'em?" "i don't want them," she protested. "i want nothing but you." for a moment there was a dead silence. he kept his eyes fixed on the fire. he seemed to be turning something over in his mind. but at last he spoke: "don't ye, louisianny?" he said. "no," she answered. "nothing." and she drew his hand under her cheek and kissed it. he took it very quietly. "ye've got a kind heart, louisianny," he said. "young folks gin'rally has, i think. it's sorter nat'ral, but lord! thar's other things besides us old folks, an' it's nat'ral as ye'd want 'em. thar's things as kin be altered, an' thar's things as cayn't. let's alter them as kin. if ye'd like a cupoly put on the house, or, say a coat of yaller-buff paint--sawyer's new house is yaller buff, an' it's mighty showy; or a organ or a pianny, or more dressin', ye shall have 'em. them's things as it aint too late to set right, an' ye shall hev 'em." but she only cried the more in a soft, hushed way. "oh, don't be so good to me," she said. "don't be so good and kind." he went on as quietly as before. "if--fur instants--it was me as was to be altered, louisianny, i'm afeared--i'm afeared we couldn't do it. i'm afeared as i've been let run too long--jest to put it that way. we mought hev done it if we'd hev begun airlier--say forty or fifty year back--but i'm afeared we couldn't do it now. not as i wouldn't be willin'--i wouldn't hev a thing agin it, an' i'd try my best--but it's late. thar's whar it is. if it was me as hed to be altered--made more moderner, an' to know more, an' to hev more style--i'm afeared thar'd be a heap o' trouble. style didn't never seem to come nat'ral to me, somehow. i'm one o' them things as cayn't be altered. let's alter them as kin." "i don't want you altered," she protested. "oh! why should i, when you are such a good father--such a dear father!" and there was a little silence again, and at the end of it he said, in a gentle, forbearing voice, just as he had said before: "don't ye, louisianny?" they sat silent again for some time afterward--indeed, but little more was said until they separated for the night. then, when she kissed him and clung for a moment round his neck, he suddenly roused himself from his prolonged reverie. "lord!" he said, quite cheerfully, "it caynt last long, at the longest, arter all--an' you're young yet, you're young." "what can't last long?" she asked, timidly. he looked into her eyes and smiled. "nothin'," he answered, "nothin' caynt. nothin' don't--an' you're young." and he was so far moved by his secret thought that he smoothed her hair from her forehead the wrong way again with a light touch, before he let her go. chapter x. the great world. the next morning he went to the springs. "i'll go an' settle up and bring ye your trunk an' things," he said. "mebbe i mayn't git back till to-morrer, so don't ye be oneasy. ef i feel tired when i git thar, i'll stay overnight." she did not think it likely he would stay. she had never known him to remain away from home during a night unless he had been compelled to do so by business. he had always been too childishly fond of his home to be happy away from it. he liked the routine he had been used to through forty years, the rising at daylight, the regular common duties he assumed as his share, his own seat on the hearth or porch and at table. "folks may be clever enough," he used to say. "they air clever, as a rule--but it don't come nat'ral to be away. thar aint nothin' like home an' home ways." but he did not return that night, or even the next morning. it was dusk the next evening before louisiana heard the buggy wheels on the road. she had been sitting on the porch and rose to greet him when he drove up and descended from his conveyence rather stiffly. "ye wasn't oneasy, was ye?" he asked. "no," she answered; "only it seemed strange to know you were away." "i haint done it but three times since me an' ianthy was married," he said. "two o' them times was conference to barnsville, an' one was when marcelly died." when he mounted the porch steps he looked up at her with a smile on his weather-beaten face. "was ye lonesome?" he asked. "i bet ye was." "a little," she replied. "not very." she gave him his chair against the wooden pillar, and watched him as he tilted back and balanced himself on its back legs. she saw something new and disturbed in his face and manner. it was as if the bit of outside life he had seen had left temporary traces upon him. she wondered very much how it had impressed him and what he was thinking about. and after a short time he told her. "ye must be lonesome," he said, "arter stayin' down thar. it's nat'ral. a body don't know until they see it theirselves. it's gay thar. lord, yes! it's gay, an' what suits young folks is to be gay." "some of the people who were there did not think it was gay," louisiana said, a little listlessly. "they were used to gayer places and they often called it dull, but it seemed very gay to me." "i shouldn't want it no gayer, myself," he returned, seriously. "not if i was young folks. thar must hev bin three hundred on 'em in thet thar dinin'-room. the names o' the vittles writ down on paper to pick an' choose from, an' fifty or sixty waiters flyin' round. an' the dressin'! i sot an' watched 'em as they come in. i sot an' watched 'em all day. thar was a heap o' cur'osities in the way of dressin' i never seen before. i went into the dancin'-room at night, too, an' sot thar a spell an' watched 'em. they played a play. some on 'em put little caps an' aperns on, an' rosettes an' fixin's. they sorter danced in it, an' they hed music while they was doin' it. it was purty, too, if a body could hev follered it out." "it is a dance they call the german," said louisiana, remembering with a pang the first night she had seen it, as she sat at her new friend's side. "german, is it?" he said, with evident satisfaction at making the discovery. "waal now, i ain't surprised. it hed a kinder dutch look to me--kinder dutch an' furrin." just then nancy announced that his supper was ready, and he went in, but on the threshold he stopped and spoke again: "them folks as was here," he said, "they'd gone. they started the next mornin' arter they was here. they live up north somewhars, an' they've went thar." after he had gone in, louisiana sat still for a little while. the moon was rising and she watched it until it climbed above the tree-tops and shone bright and clear. then one desperate little sob broke from her--only one, for she choked the next in its birth, and got up and turned toward the house and the room in which the kerosene lamp burned on the supper table. "i'll go an' talk to him," she said. "he likes to have me with him, and it will be better than sitting here." she went in and sat near him, resting her elbows upon the table and her chin on her hands, and tried to begin to talk. but it was not very easy. she found that she had a tendency to fall back in long silent pauses, in which she simply looked at him with sad, tender eyes. "i stopped at casey's as i came on," he said, at last. "thet thar was one thing as made me late. thar's--thar's somethin' i hed on my mind fur him to do fur me." "for casey to do?" she said. he poured his coffee into his saucer and answered with a heavy effort at speaking unconcernedly. "i'm agoin' to hev him fix the house," he said. she was going to ask him what he meant to have done, but he did not give her time. "ianthy an' me," he said, "we'd useder say we'd do it sometime, an' i'm agoin' to do it now. the rooms, now, they're low--whar they're not to say small, they're low an'--an' old-timey. thar aint no style to 'em. them rooms to the springs, now, they've got style to 'em. an' rooms kin be altered easy enough." he drank his coffee slowly, set his saucer down and went on with the same serious air of having broached an ordinary subject. "goin' to the springs has sorter started me off," he said. "seein' things diff'rent does start a man off. casey an' his men'll be here monday." "it seems so--sudden," louisiana said. she gave a slow, wondering glance at the old smoke-stained room. "i can hardly fancy it looking any other way than this. it wont be the same place at all." he glanced around, too, with a start. his glance was hurried and nervous. "why, no," he said, "it wont, but--it'll be stylisher. it'll be kinder onfamil'ar at first, but i dessay we shall get used to it--an' it'll be stylisher. an' style--whar thar's young folks, thet's what's wanted--style." she was so puzzled by his manner that she sat regarding him with wonder. but he went on talking steadily about his plans until the meal was over. he talked of them when they went back to the porch together and sat in the moonlight. he scarcely gave her an opportunity to speak. once or twice the idea vaguely occurred to her that for some reason he did not want her to talk. it was a relief to her only to be called upon to listen, but still she was puzzled. "when we git fixed up," he said, "ye kin hev your friends yere. thar's them folks, now, as was yere the other day from the springs--when we're fixed up ye mought invite 'em--next summer, fur instants. like as not i shall be away myself an'--ye'd hev room a plenty. ye wouldn't need me, ye see. an', lord! how it'd serprise 'em to come an' find ye all fixed." "i should never ask them," she cried, impetuously. "and--they wouldn't come if i did." "mebbe they would," he responded, gravely, "if ye was fixed up." "i don't want them," she said, passionately. "let them keep their place. i don't want them." "don't ye," he said, in his quiet voice. "don't ye, louisianny?" and he seemed to sink into a reverie and did not speak again for quite a long time. chapter xi. a rusty nail. on monday casey and his men came. louisiana and her father were at breakfast when they struck their first blow at the end of the house which was to be renovated first. the old man, hearing it, started violently--so violently that he almost upset the coffee at his elbow. he laughed a tremulous sort of laugh. "why, i'm narvous!" he said. "now, jest to think o' me a-bein' narvous!" "i suppose," said louisiana, "i am nervous as well. it made me start too. it had such a strange sound." "waal, now," he answered, "come to think on it, it hed--sorter. seems like it wasn't sca'cely nat'ral. p'r'aps that's it." neither of them ate much breakfast, and when the meal was over they went out together to look at the workmen. they were very busy tearing off weather-boarding and wrenching out nails. louisiana watched them with regretful eyes. in secret she was wishing that the low ceilings and painted walls might remain as they were. she had known them so long. "i am afraid he is doing it to please me," she thought. "he does not believe me when i say i don't want it altered. he would never have had it done for himself." her father had seated himself on a pile of plank. he was rubbing his crossed leg as usual, but his hand trembled slightly. "i druv them nails in myself," he said. "ianthy wasn't but nineteen. she'd set yere an' watch me. it was two or three months arter we was married. she was mighty proud on it when it was all done. little tom he was born in thet thar room. the rest on 'em was born in the front room, 'n' they all died thar. ianthy she died thar. i'd useder think i should----" he stopped and glanced suddenly at louisiana. he pulled himself up and smiled. "ye aint in the notion o' hevin' the cupoly," he said. "we kin hev it as soon as not--'n' seems ter me thar's a heap o' style to 'em." "anything that pleases you will please me, father," she said. he gave her a mild, cheerful look. "ye don't take much int'russ in it yet, do ye?" he said. "but ye will when it gits along kinder. lord! ye'll be as impatient as ianthy an' me war when it gits along." she tried to think she would, but without very much success. she lingered about for a while and at last went to her own room at the other end of the house and shut herself in. her trunk had been carried upstairs and set in its old place behind the door. she opened it and began to drag out the dresses and other adornments she had taken with her to the springs. there was the blue muslin. she threw it on the floor and dropped beside it, half sitting, half kneeling. she laughed quite savagely. "i thought it was very nice when i made it," she said. "i wonder how _she_ would like to wear it?" she pulled out one thing after another until the floor around her was strewn. then she got up and left them, and ran to the bed and threw herself into a chair beside it, hiding her face in the pillow. "oh, how dull it is, and how lonely!" she said. "what shall i do? what shall i do?" and while she sobbed she heard the blows upon the boards below. before she went down-stairs she replaced the things she had taken from the trunk. she packed them away neatly, and, having done it, turned the key upon them. "father," she said, at dinner, "there are some things upstairs i want to send to cousin jenny. i have done with them, and i think she'd like to have them." "dresses an' things, louisianny?" he said. "yes," she answered. "i shall not need them any more. i--don't care for them." "don't--" he began, but stopped short, and, lifting his glass, swallowed the rest of the sentence in a large glass of milk. "i'll tell leander to send fer it," he said afterward. "jenny'll be real sot up, i reckon. her pappy bein' so onfort'nit, she don't git much." he ate scarcely more dinner than breakfast, and spent the afternoon in wandering here and there among the workmen. sometimes he talked to them, and sometimes sat on his pile of plank and watched them in silence. once, when no one was looking, he stooped down and picked up a rusty nail which had fallen from its place in a piece of board. after holding it in his hand for a little he furtively thrust it into his pocket, and seemed to experience a sense of relief after he had done it. "ye don't do nothin' toward helpin' us, uncle elbert," said one of the young men. (every youngster within ten miles knew him as "uncle elbert.") "ye aint as smart as ye was when last ye built, air ye?" "no, boys," he answered, "i ain't. that's so. i aint as smart, an'," he added, rather hurriedly, "it'd sorter go agin me to holp ye at what ye're doin' now. not as i don't think it's time it was done, but--it'd sorter go ag'in me." when louisiana entered the house-room at dusk, she found him sitting by the fire, his body drooping forward, his head resting listlessly on his hand. "i've got a touch o' dyspepsy, louisianny," he said, "an' the knockin' hes kinder giv me a headache. i'll go to bed airly." chapter xii. "mebbe." she had been so full of her own sharp pain and humiliation during the first few days that perhaps she had not been so quick to see as she would otherwise have been, but the time soon came when she awakened to a bewildered sense of new and strange trouble. she scarcely knew when it was that she first began to fancy that some change had taken place in her father. it was a change she could not comprehend when she recognized its presence. it was no alteration of his old, slow, quiet faithfulness to her. he had never been so faithfully tender. the first thing which awakened her thought of change was his redoubled tenderness. she found that he watched her constantly, in a patient, anxious way. when they were together she often discovered that he kept his eyes fixed upon her when he thought she was not aware of his gaze. he seemed reluctant to leave her alone, and continually managed to be near her, and yet it grew upon her at last that the old, homely good-fellowship between them had somehow been broken in upon, and existed no longer. it was not that he loved her any less--she was sure of that; but she had lost something, without knowing when or how she had lost it, or even exactly what it was. but his anxiety to please her grew day by day. he hurried the men who were at work upon the house. "louisianny, she'll enjoy it when it's done," he said to them. "hurry up, boys, an' do yer plum best." she had been at home about two weeks when he began to drive over to the nearest depot every day at "train time." it was about three miles distant, and he went over for several days in his spring wagon. at first he said nothing of his reason for making the journey, but one morning, as he stood at his horses' heads, he said to louisiana, without turning to look at her, and affecting to be very busy with some portion of the harness: "i've ben expectin' of some things fer a day or so, an' they haint come. i wasn't sure when i oughter to look fer 'em--mebbe i've ben lookin' too soon--fer they haint come yet." "where were they to come from?" she asked. "from--from new york city." "from new york?" she echoed, trying to show an interest. "i did not know you sent there, father." "i haint never done it afore," he answered. "these yere things--mebbe they'll come to-day, an' then ye'll see 'em." she asked no further questions, fancying that he had been buying some adornments for the new rooms which were to be a surprise for her. after he had gone away she thought a little sadly of his kindness to her, and her unworthiness of it. at noon he came back and brought his prize with him. he drove up slowly with it behind him in the wagon--a large, shining, new trunk--quite as big and ponderous as any she had seen at the springs. he got down and came up to her as she stood on the porch. he put his hand on her shoulder. "i'll hev 'em took in an' ye kin look at 'em," he said. "it's some new things ye was a-needin'." she began to guess dimly at what he meant, but she followed the trunk into the house without speaking. when they set it down she stood near while her father fumbled for the key and found it, turned it in the lock and threw back the lid. "they're some things ye was a-needin'," he said. "i hope ye'll like 'em, honey." she did not know what it was in his voice, or his face, or his simple manner that moved her so, but she did not look at what he had brought at all--she ran to him and caught his arm, dropped her face on it, and burst into tears. "father--father!" she cried. "oh, father!" "look at 'em, louisianny," he persisted, gently, "an' see if they suit ye. thar aint no reason to cry, honey." the words checked her and made her feel uncertain and bewildered again. she stopped crying and looked up at him, wondering if her emotion troubled him, but he did not meet her eye, and only seemed anxious that she should see what he had brought. "i didn't tell ye all i hed in my mind when i went to the springs," he said. "i hed a notion i'd like to see fer myself how things was. i knowed ye'd hev an idee thet ye couldn't ask me fer the kind o' things ye wanted, an' i knowed _i_ knowed nothin' about what they was, so i ses to myself, 'i'll go an' stay a day an' watch and find out.' an' i went, an' i found out. thar was a young woman thar as was dressed purtier than any of 'em. an' she was clever an' friendly, an' i managed it so we got a-talkin'. she hed on a dress that took my fancy. it was mighty black an' thick--ye know it was cold after the rains--an' when we was talkin' i asked her if she mind a-tellin' me the name of it an' whar she'd bought it. an' she laughed some, an' said it was velvet, an' she'd got it to some store in new york city. an' i asked her if she'd write it down; i'd a little gal at home i wanted a dress off'n it fer--an' then, someways, we warmed up, an' i ses to her, 'she aint like me. if ye could see her ye'd never guess we was kin.' she hadn't never seen ye. she come the night ye left, but when i told her more about ye, she ses, 'i think i've heern on her. i heern she was very pretty.' an' i told her what i'd hed in my mind, an' it seemed like it took her fancy, an' she told me to get a paper an' pencil an' she'd tell me what to send fer an' whar to send. an' i sent fer 'em, an' thar they air." she could not tell him that they were things not fit for her to wear. she looked at the rolls of silk and the laces and feminine extras with a bewildered feeling. "they are beautiful things," she said. "i never thought of having such things for my own." "thar's no reason why ye shouldn't hev 'em," he said. "i'd oughter hev thought of 'em afore. do they suit ye, louisianny?" "i should be very hard to please if they didn't," she answered. "they are only too beautiful for--a girl like me." "they cayn't be that," he said, gravely. "i didn't see none no handsomer than you to the springs, louisianny, an' i ses to the lady as writ it all down fer me, i ses, 'what i want is fer her to hev what the best on 'em hev. i don't want nothin' no less than what she'd like to hev if she'd ben raised in new york or philadelphy city. thar aint no reason why she shouldn't hev it. out of eleven she's all that's left, an' she desarves it all. she's young an' handsome, and she desarves it all.'" "what did she say to that?" louisiana asked. he hesitated a moment before answering. "she looked at me kinder queer fer a minnit," he replied at length. "an' then she ses, 'she'd oughter be a very happy gal,' ses she, 'with such a father,' an' i ses, 'i 'low she is--mebbe.'" "only maybe?" said the girl, "only maybe, father?" she dropped the roll of silk she had been holding and went to him. she put her hand on his arm again and shook it a little, laughing in the same feverish fashion as when she had gone out to him on the porch on the day of her return. she had suddenly flushed up, and her eyes shone as he had seen them then. "only maybe," she said. "why should i be unhappy? there's no reason. look at me, with my fine house and my new things! there isn't any one happier in the world! there is nothing left for me to wish for. i have got too much!" a new mood seemed to have taken possession of her all at once. she scarcely gave him a chance to speak. she drew him to the trunk's side, and made him stand near while she took the things out one by one. she exclaimed and laughed over them as she drew them forth. she held the dress materials up to her waist and neck to see how the colors became her; she tried on laces and sacques and furbelows and the hats which were said to have come from paris. "what will they say when they see me at meeting in them?" she said. "brother horner will forget his sermons. there never were such things in bowersville before. i am almost afraid they will think i am putting on airs." when she reached a box of long kid gloves at the bottom, she burst into such a shrill laugh that her father was startled. there was a tone of false exhilaration about her which was not what he had expected. "see!" she cried, holding one of the longest pairs up, "eighteen buttons! and cream color! i can wear them with the cream-colored silk and cashmere at--at a festival!" when she had looked at everything, the rag carpet was strewn with her riches,--with fashionable dress materials, with rich and delicate colors, with a hundred feminine and pretty whims. "how could i help but be happy?" she said. "i am like a queen. i don't suppose queens have very much more, though we don't know much about queens, do we?" she hung round her father's neck and kissed him in a fervent, excited way. "you good old father!" she said, "you sweet old father!" he took one of her soft, supple hands and held it between both his brown and horny ones. "louisianny," he said, "i _'low _to make ye happy; ef the lord haint nothin' agin it, i _'low_ to do it!" he went out after that, and left her alone to set her things to rights; but when he had gone and closed the door, she did not touch them. she threw herself down flat upon the floor in the midst of them, her slender arms flung out, her eyes wide open and wild and dry. chapter xiii. a new plan. at last the day came when the house was finished and stood big and freshly painted and bare in the sun. late one afternoon in the indian summer, casey and his men, having bestowed their last touches, collected their belongings and went away, leaving it a lasting monument to their ability. inside, instead of the low ceilings, and painted wooden walls, there were high rooms and plaster and modern papering; outside, instead of the variegated piazza, was a substantial portico. the whole had been painted a warm gray, and casey considered his job a neat one and was proud of it. when they were all gone louisiana went out into the front yard to look at it. she stood in the grass and leaned against an apple-tree. it was near sunset, and both trees and grass were touched with a yellow glow so deep and mellow that it was almost a golden haze. now that the long-continued hammering and sawing was at an end and all traces of its accompaniments removed, the stillness seemed intense. there was not a breath of wind stirring, or the piping of a bird to be heard. the girl clasped her slender arms about the tree's trunk and rested her cheek against the rough bark. she looked up piteously. "i must try to get used to it," she said. "it is very much nicer--and i must try to get used to it." but the strangeness of it was very hard on her at first. when she looked at it she had a startled feeling--as if when she had expected to see an old friend she had found herself suddenly face to face with a stranger. her father had gone to bowersville early in the day, and she had been expecting his return for an hour or so. she left her place by the tree at length and went to the fence to watch for his coming down the road. but she waited in vain so long that she got tired again and wandered back to the house and around to the back to where a new barn and stable had been built, painted and ornamented in accordance with the most novel designs. there was no other such barn or stable in the country, and their fame was already wide-spread and of an enviable nature. as she approached these buildings louisiana glanced up and uttered an exclamation. her father was sitting upon the door-sill of the barn, and his horse was turned loose to graze upon the grass before him. "father," the girl cried, "i have been waiting for you. i thought you had not come." "i've been yere a right smart while, louisianny," he answered. "ye wasn't 'round when i come, an' so ye didn't see me, i reckon." he was pale, and spoke at first heavily and as if with an effort, but almost instantly he brightened. "i've jest ben a-settin' yere a-steddyin'," he said. "a man wants to see it a few times an' take it sorter gradual afore he kin do it jestice. a-lookin' at it from yere, now," with a wide sweep of his hand toward the improvements, "ye kin see how much style thar is to it. seems to me thet the--the mountains now, they look better. it--waal it kinder sets 'em off--it kinder sets 'em off." "it is very much prettier," she answered. "lord, yes! thar aint no comparison. i was jest a-settin' thinkin' thet anyone thet'd seed it as it was afore they'd not know it. ianthy, fer instants--ianthy she wouldn't sca'cely know it was home--thar's so much style to it." he suddenly stopped and rested against the door-lintel. he was pale again, though he kept up a stout air of good cheer. "lord!" he said, after a little pause, "it's a heap stylisher!" presently he bent down and picked up a twig which lay on the ground at his feet. he began to strip the leaves from it with careful slowness, and he kept his eyes fixed on it as he went on talking. "ye'll never guess who i've ben a-talkin' to to-day, an' what i've ben talkin' to 'em about." she put her hand on his knee caressingly. "tell me, father," she said. he laughed a jerky, high-pitched laugh. "i've ben talkin' to jedge powers," he said. "he's up yere from howelsville, a-runnin' fer senator. he's sot his mind on makin' it, too, an' he was a-tellin' me what his principles was. he--he's got a heap o' principles. an' he told me his wife an' family was a-goin' to europe. he was mighty sosherble--an' he said they was a-goin' to europe." he had stripped the last leaf from the twig and had begun upon the bark. just at this juncture it slipped from his hand and fell on the ground. he bent down again to pick it up. "louisianny," he said, "how--would ye like to go to europe?" she started back amazed, but she could not catch even a glimpse of his face, he was so busy with the twig. "i go to europe--i!" she said. "i don't--i never thought of it. it is not people like us who go to europe, father." "louisianny," he said, hurriedly, "what's agin it? thar aint nothin'--nothin'! it come in my mind when powers was a-tellin' me. i ses to myself, 'why, here's the very thing fer louisianny! travel an' furrin langwidges an' new ways o' doin'. it's what she'd oughter hed long ago.' an' powers he went on a-talkin' right while i was a-steddyin, an' he ses: 'whar's that pretty darter o' yourn thet we was so took with when we passed through hamilton last summer? why,' ses he,--he ses it hisself, louisianny,--'why don't ye send her to europe? let her go with my wife. she'll take care of her.' an' i stopped him right thar. 'do ye mean it, jedge?' i ses. 'yes,' ses he. 'why not? my wife an' daughter hev talked about her many a time, an' said how they'd like to see her agin. send her,' ses he. 'you're a rich man, an' ye kin afford it, squire, if ye will.' an' i ses, 'so i kin ef she'd like to go, an' what's more, i'm a-goin' to ask her ef she would--fer thar aint nothin' agin it--nothin'.'" he paused for a moment and turned to look at her. "thet's what i was steddyin' about mostly, louisianny," he said, "when i set yere afore ye come." she had been sitting beside him, and she sprang to her feet and stood before him. "father," she cried, "are you tired of me?" "tired of ye, louisianny?" he repeated. "tired of ye?" she flung out her hand with a wild gesture and burst into tears. "are you tired of me?" she said again. "don't you love me any more? don't you want me as you used to? could you do without me for months and months and know i was far away and couldn't come to you? no, you couldn't. you couldn't. i know that, though something--i don't know what--has come between us, and i feel it every minute, and most when you are kindest. is there nothing in the way of my going away--nothing? think again." "louisianny," he answered, "i cayn't think of nothin'--thet's partic'lar." she slipped down on her knee and threw herself on his breast, clinging to him with all her young strength. "are _you_ nothing?" she cried. "is all your love nothing? are all your beautiful, good thoughts for my happiness 'nothing'? is your loneliness nothing? shall i leave you here to live by yourself in the new home which is strange to you--after you have given up the old one you knew and loved for me? oh! what has made you think i have no heart, and no soul, and nothing to be grateful with? have i ever been bad and cruel and hard to you that you can think it?" she poured forth her love and grief and tender reproach on his breast with such innocent fervor that he could scarcely bear it. his eyes were wet too, and his furrowed, sunburnt cheeks, and his breath came short and fast while he held her close in his arms. "honey," he said, just as he had often spoken to her when she had been a little child, "louisianny, honey, no! no, never! i never hed a thought agin ye, not in my bottermost heart. did ye think it? lord, no! thar aint nothin' ye've never done in yer life that was meant to hurt or go agin me. ye never did go agin me. ye aint like me, honey; ye're kinder finer. ye was borned so. i seed it when ye was in yer cradle. i've said it to ianthy (an' sence ye're growed up i've said it more). thar's things ye'd oughter hev thet's diff'rent from what most of us wants--it's through you a-bein' so much finer. ye mustn't be so tender-hearted, honey, ye mustn't." she clung more closely to him and cried afresh, though more softly. "nothing shall take me away from you," she said, "ever again. i went away once, and it would have been better if i had stayed at home. the people did not want me. they meant to be good to me, and they liked me, but--they hurt me without knowing it, and it would have been better if i had stayed here. _you_ don't make me feel ashamed, and sad, and bitter. _you_ love me just as i am, and you would love me if i knew even less, and was more simple. let me stay with you! let us stay together always--always--always!" he let her cry her fill, holding her pretty head tenderly and soothing her as best he could. somehow he looked a little brighter himself, and not quite so pale as he had done when she found him sitting alone trying to do the new house "jestice." when at length they went in to supper it was almost dusk, and he had his arm still around her. he did not let her go until they sat down at the table, and then she brought her chair quite close to his, and while he ate looked at him often with her soft, wet eyes. chapter xiv. confessions. they had a long, quiet evening together afterward. they sat before the fire, and louisiana drew her low seat near him so that she could rest her head upon his knee. "it's almost like old times," she said. "let us pretend i never went away and that everything is as it used to be." "would ye like it to be thataway, louisianny?" he asked. she was going to say "yes," but she remembered the changes he had made to please her, and she turned her face and kissed the hand her cheek rested against. "you mustn't fancy i don't think the new house is beautiful," she said. "it isn't that i mean. what i would like to bring back is--is the feeling i used to have. that is all--nothing but the old feeling. and people can't always have the same feelings, can they? things change so as we get older." he looked at the crackling fire very hard for a minute. "thet's so," he said. "thet's so. things changes in gin'ral, an' feelin's, now, they're cur'us. thar's things as kin be altered an' things as cayn't--an' feelin's they cayn't. they're cur'us. ef ye hurt 'em, now, thar's money; it aint nowhar--it don't do no good. thar aint nothin' ye kin buy as 'll set 'em straight. ef--fer instants--money could buy back them feelin's of yourn--them as ye'd like to hev back--how ready an' willin' i'd be to trade fer' em! lord! how ready an' willin'! but it wont do it. thar's whar it is. when they're gone a body hez to larn to git along without 'em." and they sat silent again for some time, listening to the snapping of the dry wood burning in the great fire-place. when they spoke next it was of a different subject. "ef ye aint a-goin' to europe--" the old man began. "and i'm not, father," louisiana put in. "ef ye aint, we must set to work fixin' up right away. this mornin' i was a-layin' out to myself to let it stay tell ye come back an' then hev it all ready fer ye--cheers an' tables--an' sophias--an' merrors--an'--ile paintin's. i laid out to do it slow, louisianny, and take time, an' steddy a heap, an' to take advice from them es knows, afore i traded ary time. i 'lowed it'd be a heap better to take advice from them es knowed. brown, es owns the springs, i 'lowed to hev asked him, now,--he's used to furnishin' up an' knows whar to trade an' what to trade fer. the paintin's, now--i've heern it takes a heap o' experience to pick 'em, an' i aint hed no experience. i 'low i shouldn't know a good un when i seen it, now, them picters as was in the parlor--ye know more than i do, i dessay,--now, them picters," he said, a little uncertainly, "was they to say good, or--or only about middlin'?" she hesitated a second. "mother was fond of them," she broke out, in a burst of simple feeling. remembering how she had stood before the simpering, red-cheeked faces and hated them; how she had burned with shame before them, she was stricken with a bitter pang of remorse. "mother was fond of them," she said. "thet's so," he answered, simply. "thet's so, she was; an' you a-bein' so soft-hearted an' tender makes it sorter go agin ye to give in as they wasn't--what she took 'em fer. but ye see, thet--though it's nat'ral--it's nat'ral--don't make 'em good or bad, louisianny, an' lord! it don't harm _her_. 'taint what folks knows or what they don't know thet makes the good in 'em. ianthy she warn't to say 'complished, but i don't see how she could hev ben no better than she was--nor more calculated to wear well--in the p'int o' religion. not hevin' experience in ile paintin's aint what'd hurt her, nor make us think no less of her. it wouldn't hev hurt her when she was livin', an' lord! she's past it now--she's past it, ianthy is." he talked a good deal about his plans and of the things he meant to buy. he was quite eager in his questioning of her and showed such lavishness as went to her heart. "i want to leave ye well fixed," he said. "leave me?" she echoed. he made a hurried effort to soften the words. "i'd oughtn't to said it," he said. "it was kinder keerless. thet thar--it's a long way off--mebbe--an' i'd oughtn't to hev said it. it's a way old folks hev--but it's a bad way. things git to seem sorter near to 'em--an' ordinary." the whole day had been to louisiana a slow approach to a climax. sometimes when her father talked she could scarcely bear to look at his face as the firelight shone on it. so, when she had bidden him good-night at last and walked to the door leaving him standing upon the hearth watching her as she moved away, she turned round suddenly and faced him again, with her hand upon the latch. "father," she cried, "i want to tell you--i want to tell you----" "what?" he said. "what, louisianny?" she put her hand to her side and leaned against the door--a slender, piteous figure. "don't look at me kindly," she said. "i don't deserve it. i deserve nothing. i have been ashamed----" he stopped her, putting up his shaking hand and turning pale. "don't say nothin' as ye'll be sorry fer when ye feel better, louisianny," he said. "don't git carried away by yer feelin's into sayin' nothin' es is hard on yerself. don't ye do it, louisianny. thar aint no need fer it, honey. yer kinder wrought up, now, an' ye cayn't do yerself jestice." but she would not be restrained. "i _must_ tell you," she said. "it has been on my heart too long. i ought never to have gone away. everybody was different from us--and had new ways. i think they laughed at me, and it made me bad. i began to ponder over things until at last i hated myself and everything, and was ashamed that i had been content. when i told you i wanted to play a joke on the people who came here, it was not true. i wanted them to go away without knowing that this was my home. it was only a queer place, to be laughed at, to them, and i was ashamed of it, and bitter and angry. when they went into the parlor they laughed at it and at the pictures, and everything in it, and i stood by with my cheeks burning. when i saw a strange woman in the kitchen it flashed into my mind that i had no need to tell them that all these things that they laughed at had been round me all my life. they were not sneering at them--it was worse than that--they were only interested and amused and curious, and were not afraid to let me see. the--gentleman had been led by his sister to think i came from some city. he thought i was--was pretty and educated,--his equal, and i knew how amazed he would be and how he would say he could not believe that i had lived here, and wonder at me and talk me over. and i could not bear it. i only wanted him to go away without knowing, and never, never see me again!" remembering the pain and fever and humiliation of the past, and of that dreadful day above all, she burst into sobbing. "you did not think i was that bad, did you?" she said. "but i was! i was!" "louisianny," he said, huskily, "come yere. thar aint no need fer ye to blame yerself thataway. yer kinder wrought up." "don't be kind to me!" she said. "don't! i want to tell you all--every word! i was so bad and proud and angry that i meant to carry it out to the end, and tried to--only i was not quite bad enough for one thing, father--i was not bad enough to be ashamed of _you_, or to bear to sit by and see them cast a slight upon you. they didn't mean it for a slight--it was only their clever way of looking at things--but _i_ loved you. you were all i had left, and i knew you were better than they were a thousand times! did they think i would give your warm, good heart--your kind, faithful heart--for all they had learned, or for all they could ever learn? it killed me to see and hear them! and it seemed as if i was on fire. and i told them the truth--that you were _my_ father and that i loved you and was proud of you--that i might be ashamed of myself and all the rest, but not of you--never of you--for i wasn't worthy to kiss your feet!" for one moment her father watched her, his lips parted and trembling. it seemed as if he meant to try to speak, but could not. then his eyes fell with an humble, bewildered, questioning glance upon his feet, encased in their large, substantial brogans--the feet she had said she was not worthy to kiss. what he saw in them to touch him so it would be hard to tell--for he broke down utterly, put out his hand, groping to feel for his chair, fell into it with head bowed on his arm, and burst into sobbing too. she left her self-imposed exile in an instant, ran to him, and knelt down to lean against him. "oh!" she cried, "have i broken your heart? have i broken your heart? will god ever forgive me? i don't ask you to forgive me, father, for i don't deserve it." at first he could not speak, but he put his arm round her and drew her head up to his breast--and, with all the love and tenderness he had lavished upon her all her life, she had never known such love and tenderness as he expressed in this one movement. "louisianny," he said, brokenly, when he had found his voice, "it's you as should be a-forgivin' me." "i!" she exclaimed. he held her in his trembling arm so close that she felt his heart quivering. "to think," he almost whispered, "as i should not hev ben doin' ye jestice! to think as i didn't know ye well enough to do ye jestice! to think yer own father, thet's knowed ye all yer life, could hev give in to its bein' likely as ye wasn't--what he'd allers thought, an' what yer mother 'd thought, an' what ye was, honey." "i don't----" she began falteringly. "it's me as oughter be a-standin' agin the door," he said. "it's me! i knowed every word of the first part of what ye've told me, louisianny. i've been so sot on ye thet i've got into a kinder noticin' way with ye, an' i guessed it out. i seen it in yer face when ye stood thar tryin' to laugh on the porch while them people was a-waitin'. 'twa'n't no nat'ral gal's laugh ye laughed, and when ye thought i wasn't a-noticin' i was a-noticin' an' a-thinkin' all the time. but i seen more than was thar, honey, an' i didn't do ye jestice--an' i've ben punished fer it. it come agin me like a slungshot. i ses to myself, 'she's ashamed o' _me_! it's _me_ she's ashamed of--an' she wants to pass me off fer a stranger!'" the girl drew off from him a little and looked up into his face wonderingly. "you thought that!" she said. "and never told me--and humored me, and----" "i'd oughter knowed ye better," he said; "but i've suffered fer it, louisianny. i ses to myself, 'all the years thet we've ben sot on each other an' nussed each other through our little sick spells, an' keered fer each other, lies gone fer nothin'. she wants to pass me off fer a stranger.' not that i blamed ye, honey. lord! i knowed the difference betwixt us! _i_'d knowed it long afore you did. but somehow it warn't eggsakly what i looked fer an' it was kinder hard on me right at the start. an' then the folks went away an' ye didn't go with 'em, an' thar was somethin' workin' on ye as i knowed ye wasn't ready to tell me about. an' i sot an' steddied it over an' watched ye, an' i prayed some, an' i laid wake nights a-steddyin'. an' i made up my mind thet es i'd ben the cause o' trouble to ye i'd oughter try an' sorter balance the thing. i allers 'lowed parents hed a duty to their child'en. an' i ses, 'thar's some things thet kin be altered an' some thet cayn't. let's alter them es kin!'" she remembered the words well, and now she saw clearly the dreadful pain they had expressed; they cut her to her soul. "oh! father," she cried. "how could you?" "i'd oughter knowed ye better, louisianny," he repeated. "but i didn't. i ses, 'what money an' steddyin' an' watchin'll do fer her to make up, shell be done. i'll try to make up fer the wrong i've did her onwillin'ly--onwillin'ly.' an' i went to the springs an' i watched an' steddied thar, an' i come home an' i watched an' steddied thar--an' i hed the house fixed, an' i laid out to let ye go to europe--though what i'd heern o' the habits o' the people, an' the brigands an' sich, went powerful agin me makin' up my mind easy. an' i never lost sight nary minnit o' what i'd laid out fer to do--but i wasn't doin' ye jestice an' didn't suffer no more than i'd oughter. an' when ye stood up thar agen the door, honey, with yer tears a-streamin' an' yer eyes a-shinin', an' told me what ye'd felt an' what ye'd said about--wa'l," (delicately) "about thet thar as ye thought ye wasn't worthy to do, it set my blood a-tremblin' in my veins--an' my heart a-shakin' in my side, an' me a-goin' all over--an' i was struck all of a heap, an' knowed thet the lord hed ben better to me than i thought, an'--an' even when i was fondest on ye, an' proudest on ye, i hadn't done ye no sort o' jestice in the world--an' never could!" there was no danger of their misunderstanding each other again. when they were calmer they talked their trouble over simply and confidingly, holding nothing back. "when ye told me, louisianny," said her father, "that ye wanted nothin' but me, it kinder went agin me more than all the rest, fer i thinks, ses i to myself, 'it aint true, an' she must be a-gettin' sorter hardened to it, or she'd never said it.' i seemed like it was kinder onnecessary. lord! the onjestice i was a-doin' ye!" they bade each other good-night again, at last. "fer ye're a-lookin' pale," he said. "an' i've been kinder out o' sorts myself these last two or three weeks. my dyspepsy's bin back on me agin an' thet thar pain in my side's bin a-workin' on me. we must take keer o' ourselves, bein' es thar's on'y us two, an' we're so sot on each other." he went to the door with her and said his last words to her there. "i'm glad it come to-night," he said, in a grateful tone. "lord! how glad i am it come to-night! s'posin' somethin' hed happened to ary one of us an' the other hed ben left not a-knowin' how it was. i'm glad it didn't last no longer, louisianny." and so they parted for the night. chapter xv. "ianthy!" it was later than usual when louisiana awakened in the morning. she awakened suddenly and found herself listening to the singing of a bird on the tree near her window. its singing was so loud and shrill that it overpowered her and aroused her to a consciousness of fatigue and exhaustion. it seemed to her at first that no one was stirring in the house below, but after a few minutes she heard some one talking in her father's room--talking rapidly in monotonous tone. "i wonder who it is," she said, and lay back upon her pillow, feeling tired out and bewildered between the bird's shrill song and the strange voice. and then she heard heavy feet on the stairs and listened to them nervously until they reached her door and the door was pushed open unceremoniously. the negro woman nancy thrust her head into the room. "miss louisianny, honey," she said. "ye aint up yet?" "no." "ye'd better _git_ up, honey--an' come down stairs." but the girl made no movement. "why?" she asked, listlessly. "yer pappy, honey--he's sorter cur'us. he don't seem to be right well. he didn't seem to be quite at hisself when i went to light his fire. he----" louisiana sat upright in bed, her great coil of black hair tumbling over one shoulder and making her look even paler than she was. "father!" she said. "he was quite well late last night. it was after midnight when we went to bed, and he was well then." the woman began to fumble uneasily at the latch. "don't ye git skeered, chile," she said. "mebbe 'taint nothin'--but seemed to me like--like he didn't know me." louisiana was out of bed, standing upon the floor and dressing hurriedly. "he was well last night," she said, piteously. "only a few hours ago. he was well and talked to me and----" she stopped suddenly to listen to the voice down-stairs--a new and terrible thought flashing upon her. "who is with him?" she asked. "who is talking to him?" "thar aint no one with him," was the answer. "he's by hisself, honey." louisiana was buttoning her wrapper at the throat. such a tremor fell upon her that she could not finish what she was doing. she left the button unfastened and pushed past nancy and ran swiftly down the stairs, the woman following her. the door of her father's room stood open and the fire nancy had lighted burned and crackled merrily. mr. rogers was lying high upon his pillow, watching the blaze. his face was flushed and he had one hand upon his chest. he turned his eyes slowly upon louisiana as she entered and for a second or so regarded her wonderingly. then a change came upon him, his face lighted up--it seemed as if he saw all at once who had come to him. "ianthy!" he said. "i didn't sca'cely know ye! ye've bin gone so long! whar hev ye bin?" but even then she could not realize the truth. it was so short a time since he had bidden her good-night and kissed her at the door. "father!" she cried. "it is louisiana! father, look at me!" but he was looking at her, and yet he only smiled again. "it's bin such a long time, ianthy," he said. "sometimes i've thought ye wouldn't never come back at all." and when she fell upon her knees at the bedside, with a desolate cry of terror and anguish, he did not seem to hear it at all, but lay fondling her bent head and smiling still, and saying happily: "lord! i _am_ glad to see ye!" when the doctor came--he was a mountaineer like the rest of them, a rough good-natured fellow who had "read a course" with somebody and "'tended lectures in cincinnatty"--he could tell her easily enough what the trouble was. "pneumony," he said. "and pretty bad at that. he haint hed no health fer a right smart while. he haint never got over thet spell he hed last winter. this yere change in the weather's what's done it. he was a-complainin' to me the other day about thet thar old pain in his chist. things hes bin kinder 'cumylatin' on him." "he does not know me!" said louisiana. "he is very ill--he is very ill!" doctor hankins looked at his patient for a moment, dubiously. "wa-al, thet's so," he said, at length. "he's purty bad off--purty bad!" by night the house was full of visitors and volunteer nurses. the fact that "uncle elbert rogers was down with pneumony, an' louisianny thar without a soul anigh her" was enough to rouse sympathy and curiosity. aunt 'mandy, aunt ca'line and aunt 'nervy came up one after the other. "louisianny now, she aint nothin' but a young thing, an' don't know nothin'," they said. "an' elbert bein' sich nigh kin, it'd look powerful bad if we didn't go." they came in wagons or ricketty buggies and brought their favorite medicines and liniments with them in slab-sided, enamel-cloth valises. they took the patient under their charge, applied their nostrums and when they were not busy seemed to enjoy talking his symptoms over in low tones. they were very good to louisiana, relieving her of every responsibility in spite of herself, and shaking their heads at each other pityingly when her back was turned. "she never give him no trouble," they said. "she's got thet to hold to. an' they was powerful sot on her, both him an' ianthy. i've heern 'em say she allus was kinder tender an' easy to manage." their husbands came to "sit up" with them at night, and sat by the fire talking about their crops and the elections, and expectorating with regularity into the ashes. they tried to persuade louisiana to go to bed, but she would not go. "let me sit by him, if there is nothing else i can do," she said. "if he should come to himself for a minute he would know me if i was near him." in his delirium he seemed to have gone back to a time before her existence--the time when he was a young man and there was no one in the new house he had built, but himself and "ianthy." sometimes he fancied himself sitting by the fire on a winter's night and congratulating himself upon being there. "jest to think," he would say in a quiet, speculative voice, "that two year ago i didn't know ye--an' thar ye air, a-sittin' sewin', and the fire a-cracklin', an' the house all fixed. this yere's what i call solid comfort, ianthy--jest solid comfort!" once he wakened suddenly from a sleep and finding louisiana bending over him, drew her face down and kissed her. "i didn't know ye was so nigh, ianthy," he whispered. "lord! jest to think yer allers nigh an' thar cayn't nothin' separate us." the desolateness of so living a life outside his, was so terrible to the poor child who loved him, that at times she could not bear to remain in the room, but would go out into the yard and ramble about aimless and heart-broken, looking back now and then at the new, strange house, with a wild pang. "there will be nothing left if he leaves me," she said. "there will be nothing." and then she would hurry back, panting, and sit by him again, her eyes fastened upon his unconscious face, watching its every shade of expression and change. "she'll take it mighty hard," she heard aunt ca'line whisper one day, "ef----" and she put her hands to her ears and buried her face in the pillow, that she might not hear the rest. chapter xvi. "don't do no one a onjestice." he was not ill very long. toward the end of the second week the house was always full of visitors who came to sympathize and inquire and prescribe, and who, in many cases, came from their farms miles away attracted by the news that "uncle elbert rogers" was "mighty bad off." they came on horseback and in wagons or buggies--men in homespun, and women in sun-bonnets--and they hitched their horses at the fence and came into the house with an awkwardly subdued air, and stood in silence by the sick bed for a few minutes, and then rambled towards the hearth and talked in spectral whispers. "the old man's purty low," they always said, "he's purty low." and then they added among themselves that he had "allers bin mighty clever, an' a good neighbor." when she heard them speak of him in this manner, louisiana knew what it meant. she never left the room again after the first day that they spoke so, and came in bodies to look at him, and turn away and say that he had been good to them. the men never spoke to her after their first nod of greeting, and the women but rarely, but they often glanced hurriedly askance at her as she sat or stood by the sick man's pillow. somehow none of them had felt as if they were on very familiar terms with her, though they all spoke in a friendly way of her as being "a mighty purty, still, kind o' a harmless young critter." they thought, when they saw her pallor and the anguish in her eyes, that she was "takin' it powerful hard, an' no wonder," but they knew nothing of her desperate loneliness and terror. "uncle elbert he'll leave a plenty," they said in undertones. "she'll be well pervided fer, will louisianny." and they watched over their charge and nursed him faithfully, feeling not a little sad themselves as they remembered his simple good nature and neighborliness and the kindly prayers for which he had been noted in "meetin'." on the last day of the second week the doctor held a consultation with aunt 'nervy and aunt ca'line on the front porch before he went away, and when they re-entered the room they spoke in whispers even lower than before and moved about stealthily. the doctor himself rode away slowly and stopped at a house or so on the wayside, where he had no patients, to tell the inhabitants what he had told the head nurses. "we couldn't hev expected him to stay allers," he said, "but we'll miss him mightily. he haint a enemy in the county--nary one!" that afternoon when the sun was setting, the sick man wakened from a long, deep sleep. the first thing he saw was the bright pale-yellow of a tree out in the yard, which had changed color since he had seen it last. it was a golden tree now as it stood in the sun, its leaves rustling in a faint, chill wind. the next thing, he knew that there were people in the room who sat silent and all looked at him with kindly, even reverent, eyes. then he turned a little and saw his child, who bent towards him with dilated eyes and trembling, parted lips. a strange, vague memory of weary pain and dragging, uncertain days and nights came to him and he knew, and yet felt no fear. "louisianny!" he said. he could only speak in a whisper and tremulously. those who sat about him hushed their very breath. "lay yer head--on the piller--nigh me," he said. she laid it down and put her hand in his. the great tears were streaming down her face, but she said not a word. "i haint got long--honey," he faltered. "the lord--he'll keer--fer ye." then for a few minutes he lay breathing faintly, but with his eyes open and smiling as they rested on the golden foliage of the tree. "how yaller--it is!" he whispered. "like gold. ianthy was powerful--sot on it. it--kinder beckons." it seemed as if he could not move his eyes from it, and the pause that followed was so long that louisiana could bear it no longer, and she lifted her head and kissed him. "father!" she cried. "say something to _me_! say something to _me_!" it drew him back and he looked up into her eyes as she bent over him. "ye'll be happy--" he said, "afore long. i kinder--know. lord! how i've--loved ye, honey--an' ye've desarved it--all. don't ye--do no one--a onjestice." and then as she dropped her white face upon the pillow again he saw her no longer--nor the people, nor the room, but lay quite still with parted lips and eyes wide open, smiling still at the golden tree waving and beckoning in the wind. this he saw last of all, and seemed still to see even when some one came silently, though with tears, and laid a hand upon his eyes. chapter xvii. a leaf. there was a sunny old grave-yard half a mile from the town, where the people of bowersville laid their dead under the long grass and tangle of wild-creeping vines, and the whole country-side gathered there when they lowered the old man into his place at his wife's side. his neighbors sang his funeral hymn and performed the last offices for him with kindly hands, and when they turned away and left him there was not a man or woman of them who did not feel that they had lost a friend. they were very good to louisiana. aunt 'nervy and aunt ca'line deserted their families that they might stay with her until all was over, doing their best to give her comfort. it was aunt 'nervy who first thought of sending for the girl cousin to whom the trunkful of clothes had been given. "le's send for leander's jenny, ca'line," she said. "mebbe it'd help her some to hev a gal nigh her. gals kinder onderstands each other, an' jenny was allus powerful fond o' lowizyanny." so jenny was sent for and came. from her lowly position as one of the fifteen in an "onfort'nit" family she had adored and looked up to louisiana all her life. all the brightest days in her experience had been spent at uncle elbert's with her favorite cousin. but there was no brightness about the house now. when she arrived and was sent upstairs to the pretty new room louisiana occupied she found the girl lying upon the bed. she looked white and slender in her black dress; her hands were folded palm to palm under her check, and her eyes were wide open. jenny ran to her and knelt at her side. she kissed her and began to cry. "oh!" she sobbed, "somehow i didn't ever think i should come here and not find uncle elbert. it don't seem right--it makes it like a strange place." then louisiana broke into sobs, too. "it is a strange place!" she cried--"a strange place--a strange place! oh, if one old room was left--just one that i could go into and not feel so lonely!" but she had no sooner said it than she checked herself. "oh, i oughtn't to say that!" she cried. "i wont say it. he did it all for _me_, and i didn't deserve it." "yes, you did," said jenny, fondling her. "he was always saying what a good child you had been--and that you had never given him any trouble." "that was because he was so good," said louisiana. "no one else in the whole world was so good. and now he is gone, and i can never make him know how grateful i was and how i loved him." "he did know," said jenny. "no," returned louisiana. "it would have taken a long, long life to make him know all i felt, and now when i look back it seems as if we had been together such a little while. oh! i thought the last night we talked that there was a long life before us--that i should be old before he left me, and we should have had all those years together." after the return from the grave-yard there was a prolonged discussion held among the heads of the different branches of the family. they gathered at one end of the back porch and talked of louisiana, who sat before the log fire in her room upstairs. "she aint in the notion o' leavin' the place," said aunt 'nervy. "she cried powerful when i mentioned it to her, an' wouldn't hear to it. she says over an' over ag'in 'let me stay in the home he made for me, aunt ca'line.' i reckon she's a kind o' notion elbert 'lowed fur her to be yere when he was gone." "wa-al now," said uncle leander, "i reckon he did. he talked a heap on it when he was in a talkin' way. he's said to me 'i want things to be jest as she'd enjoy 'em most--when she's sorter lonesome, es she will be, mebbe.' seemed like he hed it in his mind es he warnt long fur this world. don't let us cross her in nothin'. _he_ never did. he was powerful tender on her, was elbert." "i seed marthy lureny nance this mornin'," put in aunt ca'line, "an' i told her to come up an' kinder overlook things. she haint with no one now, an' i dessay she'd like to stay an' keep house." "i don't see nothin' ag'in it," commented uncle steve, "if louisianny don't. she's a settled woman, an's bin married, an' haint no family to pester her sence nance is dead." "she was allers the through-goin' kind," said aunt 'nervy. "things 'll be well looked to--an' she thought a heap o' elbert. they was raised together." "s'pos'n ye was to go in an' speak to louisianny," suggested uncle steve. louisiana, being spoken to, was very tractable. she was willing to do anything asked of her but go away. "i should be very glad to have mrs. nance here, aunt minerva," she said. "she was always very kind, and father liked her. it won't be like having a strange face near me. please tell her i want her to come and that i hope she will try to feel as if she was at home." so marthy lureny nance came, and was formally installed in her position. she was a tall, strongly-built woman, with blue eyes, black hair, and thick black eyebrows. she wore, when she arrived, her best alpaca gown and a starched and frilled blue sun-bonnet. when she presented herself to louisiana she sat down before her, removed this sun-bonnet with a scientific flap and hung it on the back of her chair. "ye look mighty peak-ed, louisianny," she said. "mighty peak-ed." "i don't feel very well," louisiana answered, "but i suppose i shall be better after a while." "ye're takin' it powerful hard, louisianny," said mrs. nance, "an' i don't blame ye. i aint gwine to pester ye a-talkin'. i jest come to say i 'lowed to do my plum best by ye, an' ax ye whether ye liked hop yeast or salt risin'?" at the end of the week louisiana and mrs. nance were left to themselves. aunt 'nervy and aunt ca'line and the rest had returned to their respective homes, even jenny had gone back to bowersville where she boarded with a relation and went to school. the days after this seemed so long to louisiana that she often wondered how she lived through them. in the first passion of her sorrow she had not known how they passed, but now that all was silence and order in the house, and she was alone, she had nothing to do but to count the hours. there was no work for her, no one came in and out for whom she might invent some little labor of love; there was no one to watch for, no one to think of. she used to sit for hours at her window watching the leaves change their color day by day, and at last flutter down upon the grass at the least stir of wind. once she went out and picked up one of these leaves and taking it back to her room, shut it up in a book. "everything has happened to me since the day it was first a leaf," she said. "i have lived just as long as a leaf. that isn't long." when the trees were bare, she one day remembered the books she had sent for when at the springs, and she went to the place where she had put them, brought them out and tried to feel interested in them again. "i might learn a great deal," she said, "if i persevered. i have so much time." but she had not read many pages before the tears began to roll down her cheeks. "if he had lived," she said, "i might have read them to him and it would have pleased him so. i might have done it often if i had thought less about myself. he would have learned, too. he thought he was slow, but he would have learned, too, in a little while, and he would have been so proud." she was very like her father in the simple tenderness of her nature. she grieved with the hopeless passion of a child for the unconscious wrong she had done. it was as she sat trying to fix her mind upon these books that there came to her the first thought of a plan which was afterwards of some vague comfort to her. she had all the things which had furnished the old parlor taken into one of the unused rooms--the chairs and tables, the carpet, the ornaments and pictures. she spent a day in placing everything as she remembered it, doing all without letting any one assist her. after it was arranged she left the room, and locked the door taking the key with her. "no one shall go in but myself," she said. "it belongs to me more than all the rest." "i never knowed her to do nothin' notionate but thet," remarked mrs. nance, in speaking of it afterwards. "she's mighty still, an' sits an' grieves a heap, but she aint never notionate. thet was kinder notionate fer a gal to do. she sets store on 'em 'cos they was her pappy's an' her ma's, i reckon. it cayn't be nothin' else, fur they aint to say stylish, though they was allers good solid-appearin' things. the picters was the on'y things es was showy." "she's mighty pale an' slender sence her pappy died," said the listener. "wa-al, yes, she's kinder peak-ed," admitted mrs. nance. "she's kinder peak-ed, but she'll git over it. young folks allers does." but she did not get over it as soon as mrs. nance had expected, in view of her youth. the days seemed longer and lonelier to her as the winter advanced, though they were really so much shorter, and she had at last been able to read and think of what she read. when the snow was on the ground and she could not wander about the place she grew paler still. "louisianny," said mrs. nance, coming in upon her one day as she stood at the window, "ye're a-beginnin' to look like ye're aunt melissy." "am i?" answered louisiana. "she died when she was young, didn't she?" "she wasn't but nineteen," grimly. "she hed a kind o' love-scrape, an' when the feller married emmerline ruggles she jest give right in. they hed a quarrel, an' he was a sperrity kind o' thing an' merried emmerline when he was mad. he cut off his nose to spite his face, an' a nice time he hed of it when it was done. melissy was a pretty gal, but kinder consumpshony, an' she hedn't backbone enough to hold her up. she died eight or nine months after they'd quarreled. mebbe she'd hev died anyhow, but thet sorter hastened it up. when folks is consumpshony it don't take much to set 'em off." "i don't think i am 'consumpshony,'" said louisiana. "lord-a-massy, no!" briskly, "an' ye'd best not begin to think it. i wasn't a meanin' thet. ye've kinder got into a poor way steddyin' 'bout yere pappy, an' it's tellin' on ye. ye look as if thar wasn't a thing of ye--an' ye don't take no int'russ. ye'd oughter stir round more." "i'm going to 'stir round' a little as soon as jake brings the buggy up," said louisiana. "i'm going out." "whar?" "toward town." for a moment mrs. nance looked at her charge steadily, but at length her feelings were too much for her. she had been thinking this matter over for some time. "louisianny," she said, "you're a-gwine to the grave-yard, thet's whar ye're a-gwine an' thar aint no sense in it. young folks hedn't ought to hold on to trouble thataway--'taint nat'ral. they don't gin'rally. elbert 'd be ag'in it himself ef he knowed--an' i s'pose he does. like as not him an' ianthy's a-worryin' about it now, an' lord knows ef they air it'll spile all their enjoyment. kingdom come won't be nothin' to 'em if they're oneasy in their minds 'bout ye. now an' ag'in it's 'peared to me that mebbe harps an' crowns an' the company o' 'postles don't set a body up all in a minnit an' make 'em forgit their flesh an' blood an' nat'ral feelin's teetotally--an' it kinder troubles me to think o' elbert an' ianthy worryin' an' not havin' no pleasure. seems to me ef i was you i'd think it over an' try to cheer up an' take int'russ. jest think how keerful yer pappy an' ma was on ye an' how sot they was on hevin' ye well an' happy." louisiana turned toward her. her eyes were full of tears. "oh!" she whispered, "do you--do you think they know?" mrs. nance was scandalized. "know!" she echoed. "wa-al now, louisianny, ef i didn't know yer raisin', an' thet ye'd been brought up with members all yer life, it'd go ag'in me powerful to hear ye talk thetaway. ye _know_ they know, an' thet they'll take it hard, ef they aint changed mightily, but, changed or not, i guess thar's mighty few sperrits es haint sense enough to see yer a-grievin' more an' longer than's good fur ye." louisiana turned to her window again. she rested her forehead against the frame-work and looked out for a little while. but at last she spoke. "perhaps you are right," she said. "it is true it would have hurt them when they were here. i think--i'll try to--to be happier." "it's what'll please 'em best, if ye do, louisianny," commented mrs. nance. "i'll try," louisiana answered. "i will go out now--the cold air will do me good, and when i come back you will see that i am--better." "wa-al," advised mrs. nance, "ef ye go, mind ye put on a plenty--an' don't stay long." the excellent woman stood on the porch when the buggy was brought up, and having tucked the girl's wraps round her, watched her driven away. "mebbe me a-speakin's i did'll help her," she said. "seems like it kinder teched her an' sot her thinkin'. she was dretfle fond of her pappy an' she was allers a purty peaceable advise-takin' little thing--though she aint so little nuther. she's reel tall an' slim." chapter xviii. "he knew that i loved you." it was almost dark when the buggy returned. as jake drove up to the gate he bent forward to look at something. "thar's a critter hitched to the fence," he remarked. "'taint no critter from round yere. i never seen it afore." mrs. nance came out upon the porch to meet them. she was gently excited by an announcement she had to make. "louisianny," she said, "thar's a man in the settin'-room. he's a-waitin' to see ye. i asked him ef he hed anything to sell, an' he sed no he hedn't nothin'. he's purty _gen_-teel an' stylish, but not to say showy, an' he's polite sort o' manners." "has he been waiting long?" louisiana asked. "he's ben thar half a hour, an' i've hed the fire made up sence he come." louisiana removed her hat and cloak and gave them to mrs. nance. she did it rather slowly, and having done it, crossed the hall to the sitting-room door, opened it and went in. there was no light in the room but the light of the wood fire, but that was very bright. it was so bright that she had not taken two steps into the room before she saw clearly the face of the man who waited for her. it was laurence ferrol. she stopped short and her hands fell at her sides. her heart beat so fast that she could not speak. his heart beat fast, too, and it beat faster still when he noted her black dress and saw how pale and slight she looked in it. he advanced towards her and taking her hand in both his, led her to a chair. "i have startled you too much," he said. "don't make me feel that i was wrong to come. don't be angry with me." she let him seat her in the chair and then he stood before her and waited for her to speak. "it was rather--sudden," she said, "but i am not--angry." there was a silence of a few seconds, because he was so moved by the new look her face wore that he could not easily command his voice and words. "have you been ill?" he asked gently, at last. he saw that she made an effort to control herself and answer him quietly, but before she spoke she gave up even the effort. she did not try to conceal or wipe away the great tears that fell down her cheeks as she looked up at him. "no, i have not been ill," she said. "my father is dead." and as she uttered the last words her voice sank almost into a whisper. just for a breath's space they looked at each other and then she turned in her chair, laid her arm on the top of it and her face on her arm, with a simple helpless movement. "he has been dead three months," she whispered, weeping. his own eyes were dim as he watched her. he had not heard of this before. he walked to the other end of the room and back again twice. when he neared her the last time he stopped. "must i go away?" he asked unsteadily. "i feel as if i had no right here." but she did not tell him whether he must go or stay. "if i stay i must tell you why i came and why i could not remain away," he said. she still drooped against her chair and did not speak, and he drew still nearer to her. "it does not seem the right time," he said, "but i must tell you even if i go away at once afterwards. i have never been happy an hour since we parted that wretched day. i have never ceased to think of what i had begun to hope for. i felt that it was useless to ask for it then--i feel as if it was useless now, but i must ask for it. oh!" desperately, "how miserably i am saying it all! how weak it sounds!" in an instant he was kneeling on one knee at her side and had caught her hand and held it between both his own. "i'll say the simplest thing," he said. "i love you. everything is against me, but i love you and i am sure i shall never love another woman." he clasped her hand close and she did not draw it away. "won't you say a word to me?" he asked. "if you only tell me that this is the wrong time and that i must go away now, it will be better than some things you might say." she raised her face and let him see it. "no," she said, "it is not that it is the wrong time. it is a better time than any other, because i am so lonely and my trouble has made my heart softer than it was when i blamed you so. it is not that it is the wrong time, but-- "wait a minute," he broke in. "don't--don't do me an injustice!" he could not have said anything else so likely to reach her heart. she remembered the last faltering words she had heard as she bent over the pillow when the sun was shining on the golden tree with the wind waving its branches. "don't do no one a onjestice, honey--don't ye--do no one--a onjestice." "oh," she cried out, "he told me that i must not--he told me, before he died!" "what!" said ferrol. "he told you not to be unjust to _me_?" "it was you he meant," she answered. "he knew i had been hard to you--and he knew i----" she cowered down a little and ferrol folded her in his arms. "don't be hard to me again," he whispered. "i have been so unhappy--i love you so tenderly. did he know that you--speak to me, louise." she put her hand upon his shoulder. "he knew that i loved you," she said, with a little sob. she was a great favorite among her husband's friends in new york the next year. one of her chief attractions for them was that she was a "new type." they said that of her invariably when they delighted in her and told each other how gentle she was and how simple and sweet. the artists made "studies" of her, and adored her, and were enthusiastic over her beauty; while among the literary ones it was said, again and again, what a foundation she would be for a heroine of the order of those who love and suffer for love's sake and grow more adorable through their pain. but these, of course, were only the delightful imaginings of art, talked over among themselves, and louisiana did not hear of them. she was very happy and very busy. there was a gay joke current among them that she was a most tremendous book-worm, and that her literary knowledge was something for weak, ordinary mortals to quail before. the story went, that by some magic process she committed to memory the most appalling works half an hour after they were issued from the press, and that, secretly, laurence stood very much in awe of her and was constantly afraid of exposing his ignorance in her presence. it was certainly true that she read a great deal, and showed a wonderful aptness and memory, and that laurence's pride and delight in her were the strongest and tenderest feelings of his heart. almost every summer they spent in north carolina, filling their house with those of their friends who would most enjoy the simple quiet of the life they led. there were numberless pictures painted among them at such times and numberless new "types" discovered. "but you'd scarcely think," it was said sometimes, "that it is here that mrs. laurence is on her native heath." and though all the rest of the house was open, there was one room into which no one but laurence and louisiana ever went--a little room, with strange, ugly furniture in it, and bright-colored lithographs upon the walls. end. [transcriber's note: the source book for this text contained many punctuation and spelling variants, e.g. wont/won't, dont/don't, waal/wa'al/w'al, etc. all have been preserved as printed.]