Inthe water, struggling for his own or another's life, a man's stock in trade consists mainly of breath. Without that he can't do much, and generally he fails for the want of it; not when life deserts him, but when he might, by an economical use of it, have been able to save himself. I had been in the water enough to learn this lesson, and to be competent to advise all my young friends, in the moment of peril, to refrain from useless and unreasonable struggling, for that wastes the breath, and fritters away the strength.
I held on at the raft till I had recovered my breath, and felt strong enough to make another effort; for I found that my own life and that of my charge were to depend principally on my own exertions. Sim was willing, but he was stupid; andI was afraid that some blunder of his would yet lose me the battle.
I brought the helpless girl on my arm so that she could take hold of the raft, but she seemed not to have the power to do so.
"Sim, mind what you are about now!" I called to my help.
"I will, Buck! What shall I do?" stuttered he.
"Lie down on the platform so that you can reach the girl."
He obeyed, and held out his great paws towards my helpless burden. I raised her up a little, and he grasped her under the arms. He was as strong as an ox; and raising her a little way, he turned over, and then lifted her clear from the water, but dragging her up as roughly as though she had been a log of wood. I needed no help myself, and was on the raft almost as soon as the girl. She was utterly exhausted, and unable to hold up her head. Sim and I carried her into the house. We laid her in Sim's bunk, and Flora was as tender with her as though she had been a baby.
"Hookie!" exclaimed Sim, staring at the sufferer,with his mouth open wide enough to take in a canal boat. "Is she dead?"
"No—not dead!" replied Flora, as she lifted the wet locks from her face, and gently rubbed her temples. "What shall we do for her, Buckland?"
"She is chilled with the cold, and worn out with fear and exertion."
"I shall be better soon," said the girl, faintly. "I feel better now. Let me rest a moment."
"Give her some hot tea," suggested Flora.
The tea-pot was on the stove, and I prepared a cup of tea for her. She drank it, and the effect was good.
"I feel better; but I am so cold!" said she.
Flora and I consulted what it was best to do, and we finally decided that her wet clothing must be removed. I carried her into my sister's room, and laid her on a blanket. I then closed up the shutters of the outer room, replenished the fire, and left Flora to do the rest. The stove would heat the house as hot as an oven when the windows and doors were closed.
Sim was now at the steering oar, where I joinedhim. Except the fragments of the wreck which floated on the river, there was no vestige of the terrible calamity in sight.
"Do you think she will die?" asked Sim, looking as anxious as though the girl had been one of our own party.
"No; she is better now. She will be all right in a day or two."
"Who is she?" asked he, opening his mouth and his eyes to express his wonder.
"I don't know—how should I?"
"Didn't she tell you?"
"No—she isn't able to talk much yet. She hasn't said ten words."
"Didn't she tell you who she was?"
Sim asked silly questions, and I had not always the patience to answer him, especially when he had asked the same ones half a dozen times. I had as much curiosity as he had to know who and what the young lady was, and I was impatient to hear from Flora. As she did not call me, I was satisfied her patient was doing well. It was quite dark now, and I was walking rapidly up and down the raft, tokeep myself warm, for I had had no opportunity to change my wet clothes for dry ones.
"Buckland!" called the soft voice of Flora, "You may come in now."
"How is the girl?" I asked.
"She is nicely now. I have rubbed her, put dry clothes upon her, and covered her up with blankets in my bed. She wants to see you."
I followed Flora into her room. The stranger, with the exception of her head, was buried in the blankets, and by the dim light of the lantern I saw as pretty a face as it ever had been my good fortune to behold before. I had hardly seen her until now; certainly my first impressions of her features and expression were derived from this observation, rather than from any former one. She had a very mild, soft blue eye; but she looked quite sad and troubled.
"I wish to tell you how grateful I am to you for saving my life," said she. "I shall never forget your kindness, and I hope I may be able to do something more for you."
"O, never mind that," I replied. "That's all right. I'm glad I had a chance to do as I did."
"You are a brave and noble young man, and you saved my life. It may do for you to forget it, but it will not do for me to do so."
"I won't complain if you do;" and as all heroes say under similar circumstances, I told her I had only done my duty.
"Yet I almost wish you had not saved me," she added, with a shudder, as her eyes suddenly filled with tears.
"Why so?" I asked, though I had not much difficulty in reading the cause of her sadness.
"My mother! O, my mother!" cried she, in agony.
Poor girl! I wanted to cry with her. Flora threw her arms around her neck, and wept with her.
"Your mother was in the steamer—was she?" I added.
"She was—and lost."
"Perhaps not," I suggested.
"O, I know she was."
"Probably some were saved."
"I dare not hope so," sobbed she, uncovering hereyes, and glancing at me. "I was sitting clear back, as far as I could get, looking into the water, when this terrible thing happened. I was thrown into the river by the shock, or I jumped in—I don't know which. I caught hold of that stick, but I did not know what I was doing."
"But where was your mother?" I asked. "She may have been equally fortunate."
"The boat was racing with another, and Mr. Spear asked my mother to go forward, and see the furnaces under the boilers, which, he said, were red hot. I was reading a book, and did not want to go. In two or three minutes after they went, the boiler burst. My mother must have been very near the furnaces when the explosion took place."
"Who was Mr. Spear?"
"He was the gentleman who was taking charge of us."
"But it is possible that your mother was saved."
"I wish I knew!" she exclaimed, with tremulous emotion. "Can't you ascertain? I shall be so grateful to you!"
"I will try," I replied. "We are not more thanten miles from the place where the accident happened, and I can return."
"O, I wish you would!"
"Do you wish to return?" I asked.
"She cannot go to-night," interposed Flora. "She is all worn out."
"I do not feel able to go," added the poor girl; "and I do not wish to go unless my mother is saved."
"What is your mother's name?"
"Mrs. Goodridge."
"And yours?"
"Emily Goodridge."
"Where do you live?"
"In New Orleans. My father is a merchant there. I have been sick, and the doctor said I must go to the North; but my mother—"
She could say no more, for her sobs choked her utterance. I assured her I would do all I could to ascertain the fate of her mother. I went into the other room, and changed my clothes, and wrote down the names which Emily gave me, so that I need not forget them. After assuring myself thateverything was right in the house, I went out and hoisted the sail. Taking the steering oar, I ran the raft up to the shore on the Missouri side, as the wind was favorable in that direction. I secured the craft in the strongest manner, in order to make sure that she did not go adrift during the night.
I knew there was a village not far above, for I had seen the lights of it through the window as I was talking to Emily. I went on shore, and walked about a mile, which brought me to the place. I went into a store that I found open on the levee, and inquired of the keeper in what manner I could get to Cairo. He told me I could only go by a steamboat, and that I might have to wait an hour, or a couple of days, for one. But, while I was talking with him, a man came in and said there was a boat coming up the river. The person who brought this pleasing intelligence was rough looking, and I offered him a dollar if he would put me on board of her. He accepted my proposition so good-naturedly that I concluded the boat was coming up to the town; but she did not, and he put me into a bateau, and pulled off to her. At first she would not stop.
"Great news!" I shouted, at the top of my lungs.
Curiosity did what good-nature would not, and the boat stopped her wheels long enough for me to jump on her deck.
"What do you mean by great news?" demanded a gentleman, who, I soon found, was the captain. "Did you say that to make me stop the boat? If you did, I'll heave you overboard."
"No, sir; I did not," I replied, with becoming promptness after the threat he had used.
"What's your great news, then?" demanded he.
"Do you know what two steamers went up the river about two or three hours ago?" I asked.
"Certainly I do—the River Queen No. 4 and the Centurion. They passed me this morning. But what's your news, boy?"
"The Centurion blew up about seven o'clock, as she was going into the Ohio River."
"The Centurion!" exclaimed he.
"Yes, sir."
"Is that so, or are you making up this story?"
"It is true, sir. I saved a young lady who was a passenger. I left her below this village, and Iwant to go up and find out whether her mother was lost, or not."
"What is her name?"
"Emily Goodridge."
"Goodridge? Do you know her father's name?"
I looked at my paper, and found the name was Edward F. Goodridge.
"He is one of the heaviest merchants in New Orleans," added the captain, thoughtfully.
My news proved to be all I had represented it, and I was plied with questions which I could not answer, by the passengers interested in the fate of those on board of the unfortunate steamer. I could only tell them that the boat had been blown all to pieces, and that there was plenty of assistance at hand to save those who were thrown into the water.
In less than an hour my news was fully confirmed on the arrival of the steamer at Cairo. We were informed that the River Queen No. 4 was still there, with the survivors of the disaster on board, and I hastened to find her.
Therewas no difficulty, in finding the River Queen No. 4, for she was the centre of a circle of melancholy interest, and a crowd of people had gathered on the levee to hear the latest tidings of woe from her cabin, now changed into a hospital. I care not to dwell upon the sad scene which greeted my vision as I went on board of her, nor to describe the horror with which I glanced at the long row of ghastly corpses which had been taken from the water.
It was a sickening sight, and terrible were the groans and the wailings of the sufferers which resounded through the boat. I learned that the captain of the ill-fated steamer was among the dead. If it had not been so, an hour in the midst of this horrible din of sighs, and wails, and groans wouldhave been an all-sufficient punishment, if he had a human heart in his bosom, for the base crime of sacrificing those precious lives to the stupid rivalry of the hour.
The officers and passengers had been engaged in making up lists of the wounded and the dead. Among the latter I found the name of Mrs. Goodridge and Mr. Spear. I shuddered as I realized that the worst fears of Emily were confirmed. I informed the clerk of the boat that I had saved one of the passengers, and her name was stricken from the list of the dead, and added to that of the living.
I learned that the body of Mrs. Goodridge had been recovered, and that friends on board of the steamer would take charge of it. There was nothing more for me to do, and I fled, sick at heart, from the awful spectacle. I went to a small hotel near the landing, and though I slept heavily, awake or in my slumber, the scenes of death and woe I had beheld still haunted my mind. I took an early breakfast, and then endeavored to find a boat bound down the river. There was none in Cairo thatwould start that day, and it might be several days before I could obtain a passage. I could not think of prolonging the agonizing suspense of our passenger on the raft, or of leaving the two females to the care of so heavy a thinker as Sim Gwynn. If a squall or a sudden rise of the river occurred, my assistant would be helpless; and if the raft broke loose, he would not have wit enough to bring it up to the shore again.
I walked up and down the levee, thinking what I should do. I could not charter a steamer, and there was no conveyance on the other side of the Mississippi. While I was thus fretting at the delay, I came to a yard where boats were kept for sale. Most of them were for the use of steamers, and were far beyond my means; but I found a second-hand skiff, which I purchased for ten dollars, including in the price a pair of good oars. It would be a handy thing to have on the raft, and if I had had it when I first saw poor Emily Goodridge in the water, I could have saved her without any difficulty.
In this light boat I embarked at nine o'clock.The raft was ten or twelve miles below Cairo; but the swift current would speed me on my way with little labor at the oars. I pulled steadily, and with just power enough to give me steerage-way; and when I reached the raft, I found I had made the passage in little more than two hours.
"Hookie!" ejaculated Sim, with a stupid stare, as I ran the skiff up to the raft.
"Catch the painter!" I called, throwing him the rope.
"I hain't seen no painter," he replied, staring around him, and letting the rope run off the raft, and the skiff go adrift.
I pulled up to the raft again, and succeeded in making my deck hand understand that he was to hold on to the rope attached to the boat.
"Where did you get that boat?"
"Catch hold, and haul it up," I replied; for I seldom found it practicable to answer Sim's questions.
"Did you find this boat?" he asked when he had pulled it up on the platform.
"No; how is the girl we saved?"
"Did you make this boat?"
"No; I bought it; gave ten dollars for it. How is the girl?"
"O, she's sick! Leastwise, she ain't very well, and didn't sleep much."
I did not suppose she had slept very well; for one with such a fearful anxiety on her mind must have suffered intensely during the long night. I hastened into the house, and found dear Flora making some tea for her patient. I surmised that the poor child had also spent a sleepless night, for she looked pale and ill herself, and I trembled for her welfare, devoted and self-sacrificing as she was in the presence of the heavy woe of her charge.
"How is Emily?" I asked.
"She is very sick, I fear," replied poor Flora, sadly, for she seemed to make her patient's sufferings her own. "She has hardly closed her eyes during the night."
"And you have not slept yourself, Flora."
"No, I have not. The poor girl has talked about her mother all night long. What news do you bring, Buckland?"
"I hardly dare to speak it," I replied, in a whisper.
"It can be no worse that her fears. She is already reconciled to the worst," added my sister, with a sympathetic tear.
"Flora," moaned Emily.
The devoted little nurse hastened to her patient. I had not the courage to follow her, and face the torrent of woe which my news must carry to her aching heart. Perhaps it was cowardly in me, but I could not help it. I stood at the door and listened.
"Your brother has come. I heard his voice," said Emily, in a tone convulsed with emotion.
"He has come, dear," replied Flora; and I heard her kiss the grief-stricken maiden.
"You have no good news to tell me. I know you haven't," wailed the sufferer. "I did not expect any. I knew she was—"
And then I heard her sob. She was calmer than I had anticipated, and I ventured to go into the room. My heart was in my throat as I gazed upon her pale face and hollow eyes. She wept bitterly, as I confirmed her worst fears; and Flora, with her arm twined around the poor girl's neck, wept withher, and frequently kissed her. As gently and tenderly as I could I told her the sad truth, and assured her that kind friends had taken charge of her mother's remains.
I left her with Flora then, for she was the best comforter. As I put on my working clothes in the adjoining room, I heard my sweet sister speaking to her the tenderest of pious consolations. She breathed the name of Jesus in her ear, and pointed her to the Rock of Ages for hope, for the joy which this world cannot give and cannot take away. Great rough fellow as I was, I wept with them; for never had my heart been so deeply touched before.
On the platform I found Sim, still employed in examining the skiff I had purchased, apparently filled with astonishment that a little thing like that had borne me safely down the river for ten miles. He wanted to ask more questions about it; but I told him to cast off the fasts, and in a few moments we were again borne on by the current of the Father of Waters. The day was bright and pleasant, and a fresh wind from the north-west was blowing. I hoisted the sail and trimmed it, andtaking my place at the steering oar, I brooded over the bitter lot of my passenger. I pitied her, and loved her for her misfortunes.
As the raft continued on its way, I began to consider what should be done with her. She was quite sick, and the rough house on the raft was not a suitable place for her. But she had no friends nearer than New Orleans. I asked myself whether I ought not to abandon the raft, and take passage in a steamboat; but I had not money enough to pay the passages of the party, and I was obliged to answer the question in the negative. But I could pay Emily's fare, and place her in charge of the officers of some boat. I concluded to adopt this course at the first large town we reached, where a steamer would be likely to make a landing.
The poor girl was unable to sit up during the day; indeed, she was so ill that I began to be alarmed about her. After dinner, I insisted that Flora should lie down on my bed, and obtain the rest she so much needed, while I sat with the patient. My poor sister was all worn out, and she slept till dark. Thanks to the gentle ministrationsof Flora, Emily was quite calm, but she could not sleep. She talked to me of her mother all the time, and I became almost a woman myself in my efforts to console her.
I told her that I proposed to send her to New Orleans by the first steamer I could find which was bound there. To my surprise, she strongly objected, declaring that Flora was an angel, and she would not leave her. She said she was very comfortable on the raft, and that she was much happier there than she should be in a steamboat; and she trembled when she uttered the word. I told her that her father would be very anxious about her, and she finally decided to write a letter to him, informing him that she was in the hands of good friends, on her way home.
Flora was much refreshed by the sleep she had obtained, and sat up till midnight with Emily. I made a bed for her on the floor by the side of her patient, and in the morning I found that both of them had rested well during the latter part of the night. Sim and I kept the raft going all night, as usual. The next day I mailed Emily's letter to herfather. The physical condition of the poor sufferer did not yet begin to improve, and Flora was unremitting in her efforts to help her. I was very much surprised to find that the devoted nurse did not sink under her exertions. But the patient slept tolerably well at night, and I relieved my sister during part of the day.
On the third day after the disaster, we passed Memphis; and I again urged Emily to take a steamer for her destination. She consented; but I found that she did so in order to save us the trouble she gave. When I assured her that we had no desire to get rid of her, she insisted upon completing the voyage on the raft. She could not bear to part with Flora, who had been both nurse and comforter to her in her affliction.
I made a landing at Memphis, and procured everything I could think of that would add to the comfort of Emily. She was very grateful to me, as well as to Flora, and I am free to say that I found my greatest happiness in caring for her and my sister; and all the more because they were so devoted to each other.
Day after day went by; and our course continued past Vicksburg, Natchez, Grand Gulf, Baton Rouge, till, on the thirteenth day from Cairo, and on the twenty-third from Torrentville, we came in sight of the spires of New Orleans.
The sun was just setting as we came abreast of the dense piles of houses. When we reached a place favorable for landing, I ran the raft up to the levee, and made it fast to a post.
Forthe week preceding the arrival of the raft, Emily Goodridge had been improving in health, though she was still quite feeble. She sat up part of the day, and spent an hour or two in the forenoon in the open air. As we approached the city, the excitement of being so near home buoyed her up, and seemed to give her an unnatural strength.
For my own part, I was in a whirl of excitement. The end of the voyage was a tremendous event in itself; but, as I thought of the astonishment of my brother when he should see Flora and me, and of the meeting between Mr. Goodridge and his daughter, I could hardly contain myself. The sights along the river, too, were sufficiently wonderful to keep my eyes wide open, and my heart leaping. For thefirst time in my life I saw a ship—hundreds of them, whose forest of masts and spars was as strange to me as though I had been transported to the centre of the Celestial Empire.
It seemed to me an age since I had left Torrentville; since, with bounding bosom, I had guided the raft down the creek to the Wisconsin. The events which had preceded our departure appeared to have occurred years ago, and to be dwarfed into littleness by the lapse of time. Captain Fishley, his wife, and Ham seemed almost like myths, so far removed were they from me by distance and time. I had almost forgotten that I had been charged with a base crime, and that I had fled to escape unpleasant consequences.
There was the great city of New Orleans spread out before me; and there, somewhere in the midst of its vast mass of heaving life, was my brother, and Flora's brother. I knew not where to look for him. But my first duty was to the poor girl, sick in body and sick at heart, who had voyaged down the river with us; who had made us feel enough of Christ's spirit to know that "it is more blessed to give than to receive."
Emily was in the chamber with Flora when Sim and I fastened the raft to the post. My fellow-laborer had already indulged in unnumbered "Hookies," and his eyes were set wide open by the wonders that surrounded us. I left him to stare, and to be stared at by the idlers on shore, and went into the house.
"Our journey is ended!" I exclaimed.
"And I am close to my father's house," added Emily, with convulsive emotion.
As I looked into her pale face, I could not help fearing that she was close to her Father's house in a higher sense than she meant the words—close to that "house of many mansions, eternal in the heavens;" for she seemed to have, in her weakness, but little hold upon this life.
"Where does your father live, Emily?" I asked.
"In Claiborne Street," she replied. "If you could get a carriage, I would like to go there at once."
"Do you feel able to ride in the carriage?"
"O, yes—to go home."
I went ashore, and soon found a carriage. I need hardly say that Emily's clothing was in very badcondition, though Flora had done what she could to improve it. Fortunately, it was nearly dark, and her appearance did not excite much attention. I could not permit her to go alone, and she insisted that Flora should accompany her. I left Sim in charge of the raft, with the promise to return soon. The carriage conveyed us to the number in Claiborne Street indicated by Emily. It was an elegant mansion, and I was abashed by the splendors that were presented to my view as I entered.
The coming of Emily created a sensation among the servants; but her father was not at home, though he was momentarily expected. Flora and I were conducted to a magnificent parlor, whose splendors exceeded anything of which I had ever dreamed. Emily went up stairs, to clothe herself properly before her father came. The poor girl wept bitterly as she entered the house which she had left three weeks before with her mother. The torrent of grief was renewed as she gazed again upon the familiar scenes which had always been so closely associated with the dear one who was gone.
A mulatto servant-man came into the room whereFlora and I were. He had just greeted his young mistress, and his eyes were still filled with tears.
"We have been expecting Miss Emily for several days," said he. "Her father has suffered everything on her account."
"I am sorry she was delayed, but she would not leave my sister," I replied.
"But how did she come? It was a very slow steamer," he added.
"It was not a steamer. Didn't she write to her father?"
"Yes; but she didn't say what she was coming in; only that she was with very good friends, and should be home in a week or ten days."
"She came on a raft."
"On a raft!" exclaimed the man. "Miss Emily?"
"It was her own choice. I tried to have her take a steamer; but she would not. But there was a house on the raft, and she had a good bed."
"Of course her father has felt very bad, and since the funeral he has fretted a great deal about her."
"Since what funeral?" I asked.
"Her mother's. Poor Mrs. Goodridge was brought down from Cairo, packed in ice, and the funeral was a week ago yesterday."
One of the many steamers which passed us on our way down the river had brought the remains of Emily's mother, and they had already been committed to their last resting-place.
The ringing of the door-bell called the servant from us. We heard the heavy step of a man, as he went up stairs; but we did not witness the first interview between Emily and her father. They had much to say, and we did not see them for half an hour. When they entered the parlor together, both of them were tolerably calm; but the traces of tears were still visible in their eyes.
"Young man," said Mr. Goodridge, taking me by the hand, after Emily had introduced Flora and me by name, "I am indebted to you for the life of my child."
He wept, and could not utter what he evidently intended to say. My cheek burned, for in my sympathy for the poor girl and her father I had quite forgotten my hard swim after the disaster. Istammered some reply, and did not even then know what I was saying.
"Under God, you saved her; and I shall bless you as long as I live for the noble deed. It was hard to lose her who is gone; it would have been doubly hard to lose both of them."
"O, I don't think anything of what I did," I replied. "My poor little sister here has done a good deal more than I have for her."
Mr. Goodridge took the hand of Flora, and thanked her as he had thanked me. I told him the story of our voyage down the river after Emily joined us, as briefly as I could, giving my poor sister the credit for all her careful and devoted nursing of the invalid.
"I must go now, sir," I added, when the narrative was finished.
"Indeed, you must not," said the grateful father, decidedly.
"I left Sim Gwynn on the raft. He is rather simple, and I am afraid something will happen to him."
"Can't he leave the raft?"
"Not yet; my sister's clothes and other things are in the house."
He called the servant and ordered a carriage, saying he would go with me himself to the raft, and employ a man to take charge of it. We drove to the levee, where Mr. Goodridge sent for one of the porters in his warehouse, who was ordered to sleep on board, and see that nothing was stolen. Sim was directed to get into the carriage with us, and we went back to the house of the merchant.
"Hookie!" almost screamed Sim, as we entered the elegant mansion.
"Shut up, Sim! Don't open your mouth again!" I whispered to him.
"Hookie!" replied he, in a suppressed tone.
"Well, Buckland," said our host, when we were seated in the parlor,—Sim with his mouth open almost as wide as his eyes,—"I should like to know something more about you. You have only told me what occurred after you saved Emily. How happened you to be floating down the river on a raft?"
I told my story, from the day my father died,keeping back nothing except the matter relating to Squire Fishley's infirmity.
"And your brother is here in New Orleans?" said he.
"Yes, sir. He has gone into business here."
"What is his name?"
"Clarence Bradford."
"Bradford! I thought your name was Buckland."
"John Buckland Bradford, sir."
"I know your brother very well. He is the junior partner in the firm of Bent, La Motte, & Co. Their house is doing a fine business, too. I don't think we can find your brother to-night, but we will in the morning."
"He will be very much astonished to see us here."
"No doubt of it; but your coming was a blessing to me. I have three sons, but Emily is my only daughter, and the youngest child. She is my pet. She is in delicate health, and I tremble at the thought of losing her. You cannot understand what a service you have rendered me."
He was silent for several minutes, and I saw thetears starting in his eyes again. He was thinking of her who was lost, or her who was saved—of both, more likely.
"Shall you return to Torrentville again?" he asked, after walking across the room two or three times, apparently to quiet his emotions.
"No, sir, I think not."
"Wherever you go, young man, I shall be your friend, with my money and my influence."
"Thank you, sir."
"I will consult with your brother, to-morrow, in regard to what I can do to serve you best; but my gratitude shall have a substantial expression."
"O, sir, I don't ask anything for what I have done," I protested.
"You do not ask it; but that does not absolve me from doing something. But, to change the subject, I do not quite like to have you accused of robbing the mail."
"I didn't do it, sir."
"The gentleman who gave you the money ought to come forward and explain. If you didn't open the letter, you should not suffer a day for it. Iwill see your brother about that, too. It must be made right."
"I should be very glad to have it made right; but I can't tell who the man was that gave me the money."
He insisted, in very complimentary terms, that one who had done what I had could not be guilty of a crime, and that I must be cleared even from the suspicion of evil.
Sim and I slept on beds of down that night. The next morning Mr. Goodridge undertook to find Clarence. About the middle of the forenoon, while our raft party were all gathered in the parlor with the housekeeper, he was shown into the room. Not a word had been said to him as to the nature of the business upon which he was called, and his eyes opened almost as wide as Sim's when he saw Flora and me.
"Mydear little Flora!" exclaimed Clarence, as he glanced from me to her, after he entered the room.
He sprang to her chair, and embraced and kissed her. I perceived that he was winking rapidly, as though an unmanly weakness was getting possession of him.
"Buck!" he added, extending his hand to me, "what does all this mean? I supposed you were both in Torrentville."
"We are not. We couldn't stand it any longer," I replied.
"Stand what?" he demanded, sternly.
"The way that Captain Fishley's folks treated us."
"You don't mean to say they abused you!"
"That's just what I mean to say. I thought Ispoke plain enough in my letters for you to understand me."
"I had no idea that you were actually abused. Boys are always grumbling and complaining, and some of them think their lot is a great deal harder than it is. Flora didn't say anything in her letters; she didn't complain."
"She wouldn't have said anything if they had killed her," I replied. "I am not one of the grumbling sort, and I didn't say anything till they picked upon me so that I couldn't stand it. I was kept at home from school half the time to work; and then I was the old man's servant, the old woman's servant, and Ham's servant. I was kept on the jump by some of them all the time."
"But you were only to take care of the horse, and go for the mail every evening; and I thought you rather liked that," he added; and he wore a look of astonishment and indignation.
"I did like it; but I had to work in the garden, feed the pigs, make the fires, do chores about the house, run of errands, and work in the store. I was kept busy from morning till night."
"That wasn't the bargain I made with them."
"I wouldn't have made any row about the work, if they hadn't treated me so meanly. Ham used me like a dog, and ordered me around as though I had been his nigger servant. It was 'Buck, do this,' and 'Buck, do that, and be quick about it.' It was 'Buck, black my boots,' in surly tones."
"Black his boots!" exclaimed Clarence.
"Yes, black his boots; and I was fool enough to do it until I found I only got kicked for minding. Mrs. Fishley used to snarl at me from morning till night. I never did anything right, and was never in the place where I ought to be. But, Clarence, I should have staid there, I suppose, till the time you named, if they had not abused Flora."
"Flora!" said he, knitting his brow, as he glanced at her.
I told him that our female tyrant had actually shaken her several times, to say nothing of the constant scolding to which she was subjected. He was indignant, and assured me, if he had supposed the case was half as bad as I had represented, he should have hastened to Torrentville and removed us atonce. He thought my complaints were simply boyish dissatisfaction, and the situation nothing more than simply unpleasant.
"But you haven't told the worst of the story," interposed Mr. Goodridge.
"I will tell that now, for it was the final cause of our leaving," I continued. "A certain gentleman, whose name I cannot mention, gave me one hundred dollars for something I did for him."
"Who was he?" asked Clarence.
"I can't tell you, or anybody, who he was. About this time Ham Fishley robbed a letter of forty dollars, and when the money was missed, he laid it to me."
"How do you know he did it?" demanded Clarence.
"I saw him do it. I saw him break the seal, take out the money, and burn the letter;" and I explained fully the circumstances. "Ham saw me counting my money, and his father wanted me to tell where I got it. I couldn't do that. They sent for a constable; but I took to the swamp. Now, I had either to tell where I got the money,—which Icouldn't do,—or go to jail. Instead of doing either, I took Flora on the raft with me, and came down the river."
"This is a very strange story, Buck; and I don't much blame Captain Fishley for not believing it," said Clarence. "Somebody gave you a hundred dollars, and you would not tell who, even to save yourself from going to jail. I can't blame him."
"Nor I either, so far as that was concerned; but I do blame Ham, for he knew very well that I did not rob the mail."
"But why can't you tell who gave you the money?"
"Because I promised not to do so, and because my telling would do an injury to the person who gave it to me."
"I don't like the looks of this thing, Buck," added Clarence, shaking his head.
"I know it don't look very well," I replied, rather sheepishly, for I realized that my brother had his suspicions.
"Why should a man give you a hundred dollars?"
"Because I saved his life," I answered, desperately.
"If you did, he ought to be the first one to give you the credit for the noble deed."
"There's the hitch."
"So I think," said my brother, shaking his head.
"Clarence, I know Buckland is honest and true," interposed Flora. "He is the best brother that ever was, and you mustn't think hard of him."
"Perhaps you know more about it than I do, Flora; but it looks bad for him. Why a man should give him a hundred dollars for saving his life, and then not be willing that he should mention his name, passes my comprehension."
"The gentleman had been drinking a little too much, and that was what made him fall into the water," I added, goaded on to reveal thus much by the doubts and suspicions of my brother.
"Well, that makes it a little more plausible," replied Clarence. "Was there no one present when the man fell overboard?"
"I shall not say any more about it, whether youbelieve it or not," I answered, rather indignantly. "I made a promise, and I intend to keep it."
"I am satisfied the young man is honest, Mr. Bradford," said the merchant.
"I know he is," added Emily, with an enthusiasm which was worth the testimony of all the others.
"After the noble deed he has done, after risking his life to save that of an entire stranger, as he did for my daughter, I know he is not capable of robbing the mail," continued Mr. Goodridge.
"Saved your daughter?" asked Clarence, with an inquiring look at Emily and her father.
Flora volunteered to tell the story of the events following the steamboat explosion, and my modesty will not permit me to set down the pleasant speeches which Emily added to the narrative.
"Well, Buck, I am willing to grant that you are a hero," said Clarence, good-naturedly; "and you have done things for which I should have been slow to give you the credit, if the facts were not fully attested by all these witnesses. So you have made a voyage from Torrentville to New Orleans on a raft?"
"I have, and brought Flora with me."
"You have proved yourself to be a smart boy, and I only wish you had left a better reputation behind you at Torrentville."
I thought this remark was a little harsh. I do not wish to say anything against my brother, but I was very much disappointed in the view which he took of the robbery question. I know that he valued reputation as the apple of his eye, and keenly felt that it was cowardice for an innocent person to run away from the appearance of evil. I know that he was very indignant at the treatment which the Fishleys had bestowed upon Flora and me; but he seemed to believe that I had exaggerated it, and that I had fled from Torrentville solely to escape the consequences of robbing the mail.
He was not satisfied with my conduct, and declared that my character must be cleared from all suspicion. The name he bore must not be tainted even by the appearance of a crime. He had been an honest man; his father had been an honest man; and he would rather have his brother sunk in the deepest depths of the Mississippi than that thestigma of a crime should be fastened upon him. I was awed and abashed by the dignity of his bearing and his speech.
"Buck, dare you go back to Torrentville?" he asked.
"I should only be thrown into jail if I went."
"No matter for that. Dare you trust to your own integrity for the final result?"
"I can't bring the gentleman into court to say that he gave me the money, which is the only thing against me."
"Have you told the person how you are situated, and of the charge against you?"
"No, I haven't seen him. He lives a hundred miles from Torrentville."
"I suppose so. Such witnesses are always a great way off when they are wanted," added my brother, with an ill-concealed sneer.
"I see that you think I am guilty, Clarence," I replied, wounded beyond measure at his severe conclusions.
"I confess that the affair looks to me like a trumped-up story."
"No, no, Clarence," interposed poor Flora, her eyes filled with tears, as she came to my chair and put her arm lovingly around my neck. "Dear Buckland, I know you are innocent!"
"So do I," exclaimed Emily.
"Hookie!" ejaculated Sim Gwynn, who had been sitting in silence, with his eyes and mouth wide open, but rather nervous when the battle seemed to be going against me.
I wanted to cry myself, for I felt that my brother was very hard upon me. While the others were reaching conclusions through their feelings alone, he was taking the common-sense view of the case. The facts were stubborn, as I had been obliged to acknowledge before; and all I could bring to attest my innocence was my simple word. But the conference was interrupted by the coming of the family physician, who had been sent for to see Emily. She and her father left the room.
Clarence went over the history of the robbery again; and the more he considered, the more dissatisfied he became with me. Dear Flora pleaded for a more gentle judgment, and told him how ill Ham and Mrs. Fishley treated me.
"I don't blame you for leaving the Fishleys," he added. "I blame myself for permitting you to remain there, after you complained of them; but I had just been taken into partnership with my employers, and I could not well be absent. But I do blame you for leaving them with a stain upon your character. Something must be done immediately. I will not permit them to think you are guilty, unless you are so. If you are guilty, you are no brother of mine."
"I am not guilty," I protested.
"Then you must prove it."
"I can't prove it."
"Are you willing to take your oath before God, in court, that you saw Ham Fishley take the money and burn the letter?"
"I am."
"Very well. Then you shall go to Torrentville, and face your accusers."
"I am willing to do what you think is best."
"I can't believe you are guilty of this crime; but you were foolish to run away from it."
"I will write to the person who gave me themoney, and he may do as he pleases about helping me out of the scrape."
"My business is nothing compared with this matter, and I will go with you. Now, where is this raft?"
He wished to see it, and Sim and I went with him to the levee.
Clarencecalled a dray, and had all Flora's things conveyed to the house he was fitting up as his residence. The raft and its apparatus he sold, and he gave me the money. This was the end of the craft which had brought us on our voyage of seventeen hundred and fifty miles. We returned to the house of Mr. Goodridge in the afternoon.
The physician had only repeated his advice that Emily must have a change of climate. Her father had already decided to accompany her to the North himself. Clarence declared that Flora must not stay in the city during the sickly season. He had been married a month before, and if we had remained in Torrentville, the letter he wrote to us just before the happy event would doubtless have reached us. It had been his plan to start for NewYork early in August, and to return to New Orleans by the way of the West in October, taking Flora and me with him. Our unexpected arrival changed his purpose. In the course of a week it was arranged that we should go to Torrentville at once, and Mr. Goodridge and his daughter were to accompany us.
Flora and I remained at the house of the merchant during our stay in the city, though we frequently saw my brother's wife. She soon became much attached to Flora; the gentle invalid was so patient and loving that she could not help it. If there had been no cloud hanging over me, I should have been very happy in the bright prospect before me; but I hoped, when we arrived at Torrentville, that Squire Fishley would find a way to extricate me from my dilemma.
"Buck," said Clarence to me, on the day before we started, "you begin life under brighter auspices than I did. Mr. Goodridge has just paid over to me the sum of ten thousand dollars, to be invested for you, and to be paid over to you when you are of age."
"Ten thousand dollars!" I exclaimed, amazed at the magnitude of the sum.
"And the same sum for Flora. Well, twenty thousand dollars is not much for him. He is a very rich man, and Emily is his pet. He has three sons; but all of them are bad boys, and all his hope in this world rests in his daughter. You are a lucky fellow, Buck."
"I didn't think of anything of this kind," I added, filled with wonder at my good fortune.
"I don't say you didn't deserve it; for, according to all accounts, you behaved well, and the girl would certainly have been drowned if you had not saved her. I am proud of you, Buck; but I wish you were well out of this Torrentville scrape."
That worried him; and, indeed, it worried me, after I had heard so much said about it. If I had understood the matter as well in the time of it as I did afterwards, doubtless I should not have trusted to flight for safety, but faced my accusers. My sudden departure could not have failed to confirm the suspicions of Captain Fishley, and probably Ham had made the best use of the circumstances.
The next day we went on board of a fine steamer bound to St. Louis. State-rooms had been engaged for the whole party, and I should be glad to tell the story of the journey if space would permit. We enjoyed it very much, and on the way I pointed out to my companions the various objects of interest connected with the slower voyage of the raft. At first Emily was timid on board of the steamer; but her father introduced the captain to her, and he assured her that the boilers were new, and that he never raced with other boats under any circumstances. She acquired confidence. Her health had improved a great deal, and she was able to sit up all day.
At St. Louis we took another steamer, and from that were transferred to a third, which went up the Wisconsin River. When we arrived at Riverport, I felt as though I was at home, though I dreaded to appear again in Torrentville. At St. Louis I had written a long letter to Squire Fishley, narrating all the facts of the robbery of the mail, and the charge against me. I assured him I should keep the promise I had made to him, if I had to die in jailfor doing so, and that he might do as he pleased about assisting me. I told him our party would be in Riverport by the 10th of June, and wished him to write me there, advising me what to do.
On my arrival at Riverport I went to the post-office, and obtained the letter which was waiting for me. The senator wrote that he would meet me in Riverport as soon after the 10th of June as his business would permit. He thanked me very warmly for keeping his secret so well, and assured me I should not suffer for my fidelity to him.
This letter made me happy. I told Clarence that the gentleman who had given me the money was coming to my relief, and would be in Riverport within a few days. As the party were pleasantly situated at the hotel, it was decided to remain until the "mysterious personage," as Clarence called him, made his appearance. Then the awkward fact that when he did come he would be recognized, by my friends, as the tippler who had fallen overboard, would be disclosed; and I blamed myself for what I had said to them. I stated my dilemma to Clarence, and he placed the whole party under the seal of secrecy.
I had promised not to tell who had given me the money. I had not done so; but I had said enough to enable my friends to know who he was when the squire came. It was awkward, but I could not help it, though I blamed myself for saying even as much as I did.
Emily and I had become fast friends. Before we started from New Orleans, Clarence had dressed me up in a new suit of black clothes, and I flattered myself that I was not a bad-looking fellow. I was satisfied that Emily did not think I was an ill-favored young man. We had some pleasant walks at the places where we stopped.
I was very impatient for the arrival of Squire Fishley. I expected him the day after we reached Riverport; but he did not come. In the evening I went to the vicinity of the post-office, and had a view of Darky and the wagon; but it was driven by a strange boy, who had been employed to take my place. I did not care to be recognized by any one from Torrentville; but as this boy did not know me, I ventured to go up and pat my friend the black horse on the neck. The old fellow seemedto know me, and whether he enjoyed the interview or not, I am sure I did. While I was caressing the horse, the new boy came out of the office with the mail-bag in his hand. He looked curiously at me, and seemed to wonder how I happened to be on such good terms with his horse.
"What's the news up to Torrentville?" I asked.
"Nothing particular, as I know of," he replied, looking hard at me.
"Is Captain Fishley there now?"
"Yes."
"How's Ham?"
"First rate."
"How long have you driven the mail team?"
"Going on three weeks. You see the feller that drove it before robbed the mail, and had to run away."
"Did he? What became of him?"
"That's what puzzles 'em. They can't git no clew to him. He cleared about two months ago, and they hain't seen hide nor hair on him sence. Do you know him?"
"Know whom?" I asked, startled by this direct question.
"Buck Bradford, the feller that robbed the mail and run away."
"Why do you ask?"
"O, nothin'; only the postmaster here told me to tell Captain Fishley that a letter came here for Buck Bradford, and that a young feller took it out. You haven't seen nothin' on him—have you?"
I did not choose to answer this question, and I edged off, without making any reply. It appeared that I was generally known in Torrentville as the mail robber, who had run away to escape the consequences of his crime. The reflection galled me; but the day of redemption was at hand. I did not quite like it that the postmaster had sent word of my presence in Riverport to my tyrants; for I did not wish to be taken up before the arrival of my most important witness. I deemed it prudent, therefore, to keep out of sight to some extent, though I did not put myself out much about it.
Squire Fishley did not come on the second day after our arrival, to my very great disappointment, for I began to fear that I should be snapped up by some greedy constable. The keeper of the hotel,who did not recognize me in the trim suit I wore, had a very handsome keel boat, prettily painted, which he kept for the use of the pleasure travel frequenting his house. Sim and I had rowed our friends up and down the river in this boat, and I engaged it for the third day, as soon as I found that the senator was not a passenger on the down-river steamer. I intended to make a long excursion in her, as much to keep myself out of the way, as for the fun of it. I invited Emily and Flora to go, and they gladly accepted the invitation.
THE ARREST OF BUCK BRADFORD.—Page277.
After breakfast we embarked, with a plentiful supply of luncheon on board, for we did not mean to return till the middle of the afternoon. I proposed to go up the creek, and then up the branch to the swamp, where we had started on our long voyage upon the raft. Sim and I pulled cheerfully, and our passengers were delighted with the trip. We entered the gloomy swamp; but the river had fallen, so that its banks were no longer covered with water. I showed Emily the place where Sim and I had built the raft. We landed, and walked up the slope far enough for her to see the house and storeof the Fishleys. In the cool shade of the swamp we lunched, and enjoyed ourselves to the utmost. My fair companion was an interested listener, and wished to know every particular in regard to the raft, which had been the means of saving her life.
About three o'clock we started to return, and the passage was so pleasant that it seemed like a dream of fairy-land. I sat at the after oar, with Emily directly in front of me; and I am not altogether sure that this circumstance was not the origin of the fairy idea; at any rate, her presence enhanced the joy of the occasion. All went merry as a marriage bell till we reached a part of the river called the Ford.
At this stage of the river the water was not three feet deep; and, just as we were passing the shoalest part of the Ford, two men leaped into the water, and waded out to the boat. Sim and I were resting on our oars at the time, and so sudden was the movement that I had no time to get out of the way.
One of these men seized the boat, and the other, in whom I recognized Stevens, the constable fromTorrentville, grasped me by the collar, and dragged me out of the boat to the shore.
"We have got you at last," said the officer.
"Hookie!" shouted Sim, as he stood up in the boat gazing at me, with his eyes distended, and his mouth wide open.
My tyrants had me again.