I drew back hastily, but in silence, eager to get away before the sheriff and his deputy should return to their seats by the porch rail. My original plan of warning the women of the house of their peril was blocked, completely overturned by the presence of these men. The situation had thus been rendered more complicated, more difficult to solve, and I could only act on impulse, or as guided by these new conditions. Beyond all question, those I had hoped to serve were already aware of their position—someone had reached them before me—and two, at least, were already in hiding. Why the third, the one most deeply involved, had failed to accompany the others, could not be comprehended. The mystery only made my present task more difficult. Could the others have fled and deliberately left her to her fate? Had some mistake been made? or had some accident led to their absence, and her falling into the inhuman clutches of Kirby? Why should Delia, the slave, disappear in company with Eloise, the free, and leave her own daughter Rene behind to face a situation more terrible than death? I could not answer these questions; but, whatever the cause, the result had been the complete overthrow of the gambler's carefully prepared plans. Not that I believed he would hesitate for long, law or no law; but Donaldson, the sheriff, refused to be a party to any openly illegal act, and this would for the present tie the fellow's hands. Not until Miss Eloise was found and duly served with the eviction papers would Donaldson consent to take possession of a single slave. This might still give me time for action.
Kirby, angry and baffled, could rave and threaten; but to no end. Whether this condition of affairs had been attained as a result of legal advice, or through a mere accident, made no difference; the present inability to reach the daughter of the Judge—the legal heiress to his estate—completely blocked the conspiracy. Yet Kirby was not the kind to surrender without a fight, and a desperate one; all that was savagely brutal in the man had been aroused by this check. The very sound of his voice indicated his intention—he proposed to drive, with a whip if necessary, the helpless girl in his power to a full confession. She was his slave, his chattel, and, under the influence of ungoverned passion, he was capable of any degree of cruelty to attain his end. I knew—seemed to realize—all this in an instant, and as swiftly decided to risk life if need be in her defense. There was at that moment no thought in my mind of her stain of negro blood; she was not a slave to me, but merely a woman helpless and alone, fronting dishonor and degradation.
I slipped along in the shadow of the house, without definite plan of action, but with a firm purpose to act. The side door I knew to be securely locked, yet, first of all, it was essential that I attain to the interior. But one means to this end occurred to me—the unshaded window through which the glow of light continued to stream. I found I could reach the edge of the balcony with extended fingers, and drew myself slowly up, until I clung to the railing, with feet finding precarious support on the outer rim. This was accomplished noiselessly, and, from the vantage point thus obtained, I was enabled to survey a large portion of the room. The illumination came from a chandelier pendent from the center of the high ceiling, but only one lamp had been lighted, and the apartment was so large that both ends and sides remained in partial shadow. It might have been originally intended as either a sitting room or library, for there were bookcases against the walls, and a large writing table, holding books and writing material, stood directly beneath the chandelier, while on the sofa in one corner reposed a bit of women's sewing, where it had apparently been hastily dropped. A fireplace, black and gloomy, evidently unused for some time, yawned in a side wall, and above it hung a rifle and powder horn.
I clambered over the rail, assured by this first glance that the room was empty, and succeeded in lifting the heavy sash a few inches without any disturbing noise. Then it stuck, and, even as I ventured to exert my strength to greater extent to force it upward, the single door directly opposite, evidently leading into the hall, was flung violently open, and I sank back out of view, yet instantly aware that the first party to enter was Joe Kirby.
Without venturing to lift my eyes to the level of the opening, I could nevertheless imagine his movements, while the sound of his voice when he spoke was as distinct as though I stood beside him. He strode forward to the table, striking the wooden top angrily with his fist and knocking something crashing to the floor.
"You know where she is, don't you?" he asked, in the same threatening tone he had used without.
"Of course I do; didn't I help put her there?" It was Carver who replied, standing in the open doorway.
"Then bring the hussy in here. By God! I'll make the wench talk, if I have to choke it out of her; she'll learn what it means to be a nigger."
The door closed, and Kirby strode across to the fireplace, muttering to himself, and stood there, an arm on the mantel, nervously stirring up the dead ashes with one foot. Plainly enough the events of the night had overcome all his boasted self-control, his gambler's coolness, and the real underlying brutality of his nature demanded expression. He yearned to crush, and hurt something—something that would cringe before him. I ventured to raise my head cautiously, so as to gain a glimpse of the man, and was surprised to note the change in his face. It was as though he had removed a mask. Heretofore, always holding the winning hand, and able to sneer at opposition, he had always in my presence assumed an air of cold bravado, insolent and sarcastic; but now, baffled in his plans, checkmated by a girl, and believing himself unobserved, the gambler had given way to his true nature, both expression and manner exhibiting a temper beyond control.
I had but a moment in which to observe this new exhibit of the man's personality, for almost immediately Carver flung the door of the room open, and Kirby swung impatiently about to face the entrance. Except for a possibility of thus attracting the attention of the newcomer, I was in no special danger of being detected by those within. Nevertheless I sank lower, with eyes barely above the edge of the sill, eager to witness this meeting, and especially interested in gaining a first view of their prisoner. Carver thrust her forward, but remained himself blocking the doorway. I use the word thrust, for I noted the grip of his hand on her arm, yet in truth she instantly stepped forward herself, her bearing in no way devoid of pride and dignity, her head held erect, her eyes fearlessly seeking the face of Kirby. Their glances met, and she advanced to the table, the light of the swinging lamp full upon her. The impression she made is with me yet. Hers was a refined, patrician face, crowned by a wealth of dark hair. Indignant eyes of hazel brown, shadowed by long lashes, brightened a face whitened by intense emotion, and brought into agreeable contrast flushed cheeks, and red, scornful lips. A dimpled chin, a round, full throat, and the figure of young womanhood, slender and yet softly curved, altogether formed a picture so entrancing as to never again desert my imagination. With one bound my heart went out to her in sympathy, in admiration, in full and complete surrender. Yet, even in that instant, the knowledge of the truth, in all its unspeakable horror, assailed me—this girl, this proud, beautiful girl, was a slave; within her veins a cursed drop of negro blood stained her with dishonor, made of her a chattel; and the sneering brute she faced was by law her master. My hands clinched in the agony of the thought, the knowledge of my own impotence. Yet all this was but the flash of an instant. Before I could change posture, almost before I could draw fresh breath, her voice, trembling slightly with an emotion she was unable wholly to suppress, yet sounding clear as a bell, addressed the man confronting her.
"May I ask, sir, what this outrage means? I presume you are responsible for the insolence of this fellow who brought me here?"
Kirby laughed, but not altogether at ease.
"Well, not altogether," he answered, "as his methods are entirely his own. I merely told him to go after you."
"For what purpose?"
"So pretty a girl should not ask that. Carver, close the door, and wait outside."
I could mark the quick rise and fall of her bosom, And the look of fear she was unable to disguise. Yet not a limb moved as the door closed, nor did the glance of those brown eyes waver.
"You are not the same man I met here before," she began doubtfully. "He said he was connected with the sheriff's office. Who are you?"
"My name is Kirby; the sheriff is here under my orders."
"Kirby!—the—the gambler?"
"Well I play cards occasionally, and you have probably heard of me before. Even if you never had until tonight, it is pretty safe to bet that you do now. Donaldson, or his man, told you, so there is no use of my mincing matters any, nor of your pretence at ignorance."
"I know," she admitted, "that you won this property at cards, and have now come to take possession. Is that what you mean?"
"That, at least, is part of it," and he took a step toward her, his thin lips twisted into a smile. "But not all. Perhaps Donaldson failed to tell you the rest, and left me to break the news. Well, it won't hurt me any. Not only this plantation is mine, but every nigger on it as well. You are Rene Beaucaire?"
"Yes," she replied, slowly, almost under her breath, and hesitating ever so slightly, "I am Rene Beaucaire."
"And you don't know what that means, I suppose?" he insisted, savagely, angered by her coolness. "Perhaps the sheriff did not explain this. Yet, by God! I believe you do know. Someone spread the word before we ever got up here—that damn lawyer Haines likely enough. That is why the others have disappeared; why they have hidden themselves away. Who was it?"
"I cannot answer."
"Oh, I reckon you can. Why did they run off and leave you here?"
"I cannot answer."
"Damn you, stop that! Don't try any of your fine airs on me. Do you know who and what you are?"
She rested one hand on the table in support, and I could note the nervous trembling of the fingers, yet her low voice remained strangely firm.
"I know," she said distinctly, "I am no longer a free white woman; I am a negro, and a slave."
"Oh, so you know that, do you? Then you must also be aware that you are my property. Perhaps it will be well for you to remember this in answering my questions. Now tell me who informed you of all this?"
"I cannot answer."
"Cannot! You mean you will not. Well, young woman, I'll find means to make you, for I have handled your kind before. Drop this dignity business, and remember you are a slave, talking to your master. It will be better for you, if you do. Where is Eloise Beaucaire?"
"Why do you seek to find her? There is no slave blood in her veins."
"To serve the necessary papers, of course."
He spoke incautiously, urged on by his temper, and I marked how quickly her face brightened at this intelligence.
"To serve papers! They must be served then before—before you can take possession? That is what I understood the sheriff to say."
"Why, of course—the law requires that form."
"Then I am not really your slave—yet?" her voice deepening with earnestness and understanding. "Oh, so that is how it is—even if I am a negro, I do not belong to you until those papers have been served. If you touch me now you break the law. I may not be free, but I am free from you. Good God! but I am glad to know that!"
"And damn little good it is going to do you," he growled. "I was a fool to let you know that; but just the same you are here in my power, and I care mighty little what the law says. Sheriff, or no sheriff, my beauty, you are going to St. Louis with me tonight; so I advise you to keep a grip on that tongue of yours. Do you think I am going to be foiled altogether by a technical point of law? Then, by God! you don't know Joe Kirby. Possession is the main thing, and I have you where you can't get away. You hear me?"
She had not moved, although her form had straightened, and her hand no longer rested on the table. Kirby had stepped close in front of her, his eyes glowing with anger, his evident intention being to thus frighten the girl into compliance with his wishes, but her eyes, defiant and unafraid, looked him squarely in the face.
"I certainly hear," she replied calmly. "Your voice is sufficiently distinct. I am a slave, I suppose, and in your power; but I despise you, hate you—and you are not going to take me to St. Louis tonight."
"What can stop me?"
"That I am not obliged to tell you, sir."
"But what will prevent? The sheriff? Puh! a few dollars will take care of him. The Judge is a friend of mine."
"It is not the sheriff—nor the Judge; I place reliance on no friend of yours."
He grasped at her arm, but she stepped back quickly enough to avoid contact, and the red lips were pressed together in a thin line of determination. Kirby could not have seen what I did, or if he did see, failed to attach the same significance to the action. Her hand had suddenly disappeared within the folds of her skirt; but the angry man, apparently blinded by the violence of his passion, his eagerness to crush her spirit, thought only that she counted on outside aid for deliverance.
"You silly little fool," he snapped, his moustache bristling. "Why, what could you do to stop me? I could break your neck with one hand. So you imagine someone is going to save you. Well, who will it be? Those yokels down at the Landing? Haines, the lawyer? You have a surprise up your sleeve for me, I suppose! Hell! it makes me laugh; but you might as well have your lesson now, as any other time. Come here, you wench!"
He caught her arm this time, brutally jerking her toward him, but as instantly staggered backward, grasping at the table, the flash of anger in his eyes changing to a look of startled surprise. A pistol was leveled full in his face, the polished black barrel shining ominously in the light of the overhead lamp.
"Now perhaps you know what I mean," she said. "If you dare to touch me I will kill you like a dog. That is no threat; it is true as God's gospel," and the very tone of her voice carried conviction. "You say I am a slave—your slave! That may be so, but you will never possess me—never! Life means nothing to me any more, and I never expect to go out of this house alive; I do not even care to. So I am not afraid of you. Do you know why? Probably not, for men of your kind would be unable to understand. It is because I would rather die than have your dirty hand touch me—a thousand times rather. Do not drop your arms, you low-lived cur, for you have never been nearer death in all your miserable life than you are now. God knows I want to kill you; it is the one desire of my heart at this moment to rid the earth of such a beast. But I'll give you one chance—just one. Don't you dare call out, or answer me. Do what I say. Now step back—back along the table; that's it, a step at a time. Oh, I knew you were a cowardly bully. Go on—yes, clear to that window; don't lower those hands an inch until I say you may. I am a slave—yes, but I am also a Beaucaire. Now reach behind you, and pull up the sash—pull it up higher than that."
Her eyes dilated with sudden astonishment and terror. She had caught sight of me, emerging from the black shadow just behind her victim. Kirby also perceived the quick change in the face fronting him, read its expression of fright, and sought to twist his head so as to learn the truth. Yet before he could accomplish this, or his lips could give utterance to a sound, my hands closed on his throat, crushing him down to the sill, and throttling him into silence between the vise of my fingers.
It proved to be a short, sharp struggle, from the first the advantage altogether with me. Kirby, jerked from off his feet from behind, his head forced down against the wooden sill, with throat gripped remorselessly in my clutch, could give utterance to no outcry, nor effectively exert his strength to break free. I throttled the very breath out of him, knowing that I must conquer then and there, silently, and with no thought of mercy. I was battling for her life, and my own. This was no time for compassion, nor had I the slightest wish to spare the man. With all the oldtime dislike in my heart, all the hatred aroused by what I had overheard, I closed down on his throat, rejoicing to see the purple of his flesh turn into a sickening black, as he fought desperately for breath, and as he lost consciousness, and ceased from struggle. I was conscious of a pang in my wounded shoulder, yet it seemed to rob me of no strength, but only added to my ferocity. The fellow rested limp in my hands. I believed I had killed him, and the belief was a joy, as I tossed the helpless body aside on the floor, and stepped through the open window into the room. Dead! he was better off dead.
I stood above him, staring down into the upturned face. It was breathless, mottled, hideously ugly, to all appearances the face of a dead man, but it brought to me no sense of remorse. The cur—"the unspeakable cur." In my heart I hoped he was dead, and in a sudden feeling of utter contempt, I struck the inert body with my foot. Then, as my eyes lifted, they encountered those of the girl. She had drawn back to the table, startled out of all reserve by this sudden apparition, unable to comprehend. Doubt, questioning, fright found expression in her face. The pistol yet remained clasped in her hand, while she stared at me as though a ghost confronted her.
"Who—who are you?" she managed to gasp, in a voice which barely reached my ears. "My God! who—who sent you here?"
"It must have been God," I answered, realizing instantly that I needed to make all clear in a word. "I came only to help you, and was just in time—no doubt God sent me."
"To help me? You came here to help me? But how could that be? I—I never saw you before—who are you?"
I stood straight before her, my eyes meeting her own frankly. I had forgotten the dead body at my feet, the incidents of struggle, the pain of my own wound, comprehending only the supreme importance of compelling her to grasp the truth.
"There is no time now to explain all this, Miss Rene. You must accept the bare facts—will you?"
"Yes—I—I suppose I must."
"Then listen, for you must know that every moment we waste here in talk only makes escape more difficult. I tell you the simple truth. I am Steven Knox, an officer in the army. It chanced I was a passenger on the boat when Judge Beaucaire lost his life. I witnessed the game of cards this man won, and afterwards, when I protested, was attacked, and flung overboard into the river by Kirby here, and that fellow who is outside guarding the door. They believe me to be dead; but I managed to reach shore, and was taken care of by a negro—'Free Pete' he calls himself; do you know him?"
"Yes—oh, yes; he was one of the Carlton slaves." Her face brightened slightly in its bewilderment.
"Well, I knew enough of what was bound to occur to feel an interest, and tonight he brought me here for the purpose of warning you—you, your mother, and Eloise Beaucaire. He has his cart and mule out yonder; we intended to transport you across the river, and thus start you safely on the way to Canada."
"Then," she said slowly, seeming to catch at her breath, her voice trembling, "then it must be really true what these men say—Delia is my mother? I—I am a slave?"
"You did not really know. You were not warned by anyone before their arrival?"
"No, there was no warning. Did anyone in this neighborhood understand?"
"Haines the lawyer did. He furnished me with much of the information I possess. But I am the one puzzled now. If the truth was not known to any of you, how does it happen the others are gone?"
"So far as I am aware that is merely an accident. They walked over to the old Carlton place early this evening; there is sickness in the family, and they hoped to be of help. That is everything I know. They were to return two hours ago, for I was here all alone, except for the negroes in their quarters. I cannot conceive what has occurred—unless they have learned in some way of the trouble here."
"That must be the explanation; they have hidden themselves. And these men told you why they came?"
"The only one I saw at first did. He came in all alone and claimed to be a deputy sheriff. I was terribly frightened at first, and did not at all understand; but I questioned him and the man liked to talk. So he told me all he knew. Perhaps I should have thought he was crazy, only—only some things had occurred of late which led me to half suspect the truth before. I—I wouldn't believe it then, but—but I made him repeat everything he had heard. Horrible as it was, I—I wanted to know all."
"And you acknowledged to him that you were Rene Beaucaire?"
Her dark eyes flashed up into my face questioningly.
"Why—why, of course. I—I could not deny that, could I?"
"Perhaps not; yet if none of them knew you, and you had claimed to be Eloise, they would never have dared to hold you prisoner."
"I never once thought of that; the only thing which occurred to me was how I could best protect the others. My plan was to send them warning in some way. Still, now I am very glad I said I was Rene."
"Glad! why?"
"Because it seems it is Eloise they must find to serve their papers on. They dare not take away the slaves until this is done. As for me, I am nothing—nothing but a slave myself; is that not true?"
To look into her eyes, her face, and answer was a hard task, yet one I saw no way to evade.
"Yes; I am afraid it is true."
"And—and then Delia, the housekeeper, is actually my mother?"
"That is the story, as it has reached me."
She held tightly to the table for support, all the fresh color deserting her face, but the lips were firmly set and her head remained as proudly poised as ever above the round throat. Whatever might be the stain of alien blood in her veins, she was still a Beaucaire. Her eyes, filled with pain as they were, met mine unflinchingly.
"And—and knowing all this, convinced of its truth—that—that I am colored," she faltered, doubtfully. "You came here to help me?"
"I did; that can make no difference now."
"No difference! Why do you say that? Are you from the North, an Abolitionist?"
"No; at least I have never been called one or so thought of myself. I have never believed in slavery, yet I was born in a southern state. In this case I merely look upon you as a woman—as one of my own class. It—it does not seem as though I could ever consider you in any other way. You must believe this."
"Believe it! Why you and I are caught in the same net. I am a slave to be sold to the highest bidder; and you—you have killed a man to save me. Even if I was willing to remain and face my fate, I could not now, for that would mean you must suffer. And—and you have done this for me."
My eyes dropped to the upturned face of Kirby on which the rays of light rested. The flesh was no longer black and horrid, yet remained ghastly enough to increase my belief that the man was actually dead—had perished under my hand. He was not a pleasant sight to contemplate, flung as he had been in a shapeless heap, and the sight brought home to me anew the necessity of escape before those others of his party could learn what had occurred.
"From whatever reason the deed was done," I said, steadying my voice, "we must now face the consequences. As you say, it is true we both alike have reason to fear the law if caught. Flight is our only recourse. Will you go with me? Will you trust me?"
"Go—go with you? Where?"
"First across the river into Illinois; there is no possible safety here. Once over yonder we shall, at least, have time in which to think out the proper course, to plan what shall be best to do. In a way your danger is even more serious than mine. I have not been seen—even Kirby had no glimpse of my face—and might never be identified with the death of this man. But you will become a fugitive slave and could be hunted down anywhere this side of Canada."
"Then being with me would add to your danger."
"Whether it will or not counts nothing; I shall never let you go alone."
She pressed the palms of both her hands against her forehead as though in a motion of utter bewilderment.
"Oh, I cannot seem to realize," she exclaimed. "Everything is like a dream to me—impossible in its horror. This situation, is so terrible; it has come upon me so suddenly, I cannot decide, I cannot even comprehend what my duty is. You urge me to go away with you—alone?"
"I do; there is no other way left. You cannot remain here in the hands of these men; the result of such a step is too terrible to even contemplate. There are no means of determining where the others are—Delia and Miss Eloise. Perhaps they have had warning and fled already," I urged, desperately.
Her eyes were staring down at Kirby's body.
"Look, he—he is not dead," she sobbed, excitedly. "Did you see then, one of his limbs moved, and—and why he is beginning to gasp for breath."
"All the more reason why we should decide at once. If the fellow regains consciousness and lives, our danger will be all the greater."
"Yes, he would be merciless," her lips parted, her eyes eloquent of disgust and horror as she suddenly lifted them to my face. "I—I must not forget that I—I belong to him; I am his slave; he—he, that hideous thing there, can do anything he wishes with me—the law says he can." The indignant color mounted into her face. "He can sell me, or use me, or rent me; I am his chattel. Good God! think of it! Why, I am as white as he is, better educated, accustomed to every care, brought up to believe myself rich and happy—and now I belong to him; he owns me, body and soul." She paused suddenly, assailed by a new thought, a fresh consideration.
"Do you know the law?"
"I am no expert; what is it you would ask?"
"The truth of what they have told me. Is it so, is it the law that these men can take possession of nothing here until after Eloise has been found and their papers served upon her?"
"Yes, I believe it is," I said. "She is the legal heiress of Judge Beaucaire; the estate is hers by inheritance, as, I am told, there was no will. All this property, including the slaves, would legally remain in her possession until proper steps had been taken by others. Serving of the papers would be necessary. There is no doubt as to that—although, probably, after a certain length of time, the court might presume her dead and take other action to settle the estate."
"But not for several years?"
"No; I think I have heard how many, but have forgotten."
She drew a deep breath and stepped toward me, gazing straight into my face.
"I believe in you," she said firmly. "And I trust you. You look like a real man. You tell me you serve in the army—an officer?"
"A lieutenant of infantry."
She held out her hand and my own closed over it, the firm, warm clasp of her fingers sending a strange thrill through my whole body. An instant she looked directly into my eyes, down into the very soul of me, and what I read in the depths of her brown orbs could never find expression in words. I have thought of it often since—that great, dimly-lighted room, with the guard at the outer door; the inert, almost lifeless body huddled on the floor beside us, and Rene Beaucaire, her hand clasped in mine.
"Lieutenant Knox," she said softly, yet with a note of confidence in the low voice, "no woman was ever called upon to make a more important choice than this. Although I am a slave, now I am free to choose. I am going to trust you absolutely; there are reasons why I so decide which I cannot explain at this time. I have not known you long enough to venture that far. You must accept me just as I am—a runaway slave and a negress, but also a woman. Can you pledge such as I your word of honor—the word of a soldier and a gentleman?"
"I pledge it to you, Rene Beaucaire," I answered soberly.
"And I accept the pledge in all faith. From now on, whatever you say I will do."
I had but one immediate purpose in my mind—to escape from the house as quickly as possible, to attain Pete's cart at the edge of the woods and be several miles up the river, hidden away in some covert before daylight, leaving no trail behind. The first part of this hasty program would have to be carried out instantly, for any moment a suspicion might cause Carver to throw open the door leading into the hallway and expose our position. Kirby was already showing unmistakable symptoms of recovery, while those other men idling on the front porch might begin to wonder what was going on so long inside and proceed to investigate. By this time they must be nervously anxious to get away. Besides, it would prove decidedly to our advantage if I was not seen or recognized. The very mystery, the bewilderment as to who had so viciously attacked the gambler and then spirited away the girl, would serve to facilitate our escape. Theories as to how it had been accomplished would be endless and the pursuit delayed.
I stooped and removed a pistol from Kirby's pocket, dropping it, together with such ammunition as I could find, into one of my own. The man by this time was breathing heavily, although his eyes remained closed, and he still lay exactly as he had fallen.
"Keep your own weapon," I commanded her. "Hide it away in your dress. Now come with me."
She obeyed, uttering no word of objection, and stepping after me through the open window onto the narrow balcony without. I reached up and drew down the shade, leaving us in comparative darkness. The night was soundless and our eyes, straining to pierce the black void, were unable to detect any movement.
"You see nothing?" I whispered, touching her hand in encouragement. "No evidence of a guard anywhere?"
"No—the others must still be out in front waiting."
"There were only the four of them then?"
"So I understood. I was told they came up the river in a small keel-boat, operated by an engine, and that they anticipated no resistance. The engineer was left to watch the boat and be ready to depart down stream at any moment."
"Good; that leaves us a clear passage. Now I am going to drop to the ground; it is not far below. Can you make it alone?"
"I have done so many a time."
We attained the solid earth almost together and in silence.
"Now let me guide you," she suggested, as I hesitated. "I know every inch of the way about here. Where is the negro waiting?"
"At the edge of the wood where the wagon road ends, beyond the slave quarters."
"Yes, I know; it will be safer for us to go around the garden."
She flitted forward, sure-footed, confident, and I followed as rapidly as possible through the darkness, barely keeping her dim figure in sight. We skirted the rear fence, and then the blacker shadow of the wood loomed up somber before us. Our feet stumbled over the ruts of a road and I seemed to vaguely recognize the spot as familiar. Yes, away off yonder was the distant gleam of the river reflecting the stars. This must be the very place where Pete and I had parted, but—where had the fellow gone? I caught at her sleeve, but as she paused and turned about, could scarcely discern the outlines of her face in the gloom.
"Here is where he was directed to wait," I explained, hurriedly. "Before I left he had turned his mule around under this very tree. I am sure I am not mistaken in the spot."
"Yet he is not here, and there is no sign of him. You left no other instructions except for him to remain until your return?"
"I think not—oh; yes, I did tell him if you women came without me, he was to drive you at once to the boat and leave me to follow the best way I could. Do you suppose it possible the others reached here and he has gone away with them?"
I felt a consciousness that her eyes were upon me, that she was endeavoring to gain a glimpse of my face.
"No, I can hardly imagine that. I—I do not know what to think. When I see you I believe all you say, but here in the darkness it is not the same. You—you are not deceiving me?"
"No; you must trust my word. This is unfortunate, but neither of us could venture back now. There is a pledge between us."
She stood silent and I strove by peering about to discover some marks of guidance, only to learn the uselessness of the effort. Even a slight advance brought no result, and it was with some difficulty I even succeeded in locating her again in the darkness—indeed, only the sound of her voice made me aware of her immediate presence.
"The negro's boat is some distance away, is it not?"
"Four miles, over the worst road I ever traveled." A sudden remembrance swept into my mind, bringing with it inspiration.
"Have you ever visited the mouth of Saunder's Creek? You have! How far away is that from here?"
"Not more than half a mile, it enters the river just below the Landing."
"And, if I understood you rightly," I urged, eagerly, "you said that these fellows left their keel-boat there; that it had been rigged up to run by steam, and had no guard aboard except the engineer; you are sure of this?"
"That was what the man who talked to me first said—the deputy sheriff. He boasted that they had the only keel-boat on the river equipped with an engine and had come up from St. Louis in two hours. The Sheriff had it fitted up to carry him back and forth between river towns. You—you think we could use that?"
"It seems to be all that is left us. I intend to make the effort, anyway. You had better show me the road."
I followed her closely, a mere shadow, as she silently led the way along the edge of the wood and back of the negro quarters. The path was narrow and apparently little used, extremely rough at first until we finally came out upon what was seemingly a well-built road descending to a lower level in the general direction of the river. The girl, however, was sufficiently familiar with her surroundings to advance rapidly even in the dark, and I managed to stumble blindly along after her at a pace which kept her in sight, comprehending the urgent need of haste. We crossed the front of the house, but at a distance enabling us to gain no glimpse of the two men who guarded the porch, or to even hear their voices. The only evidence of their presence there still was the dim glow of a pipe. Here we were cautious enough, slinking past in complete silence, watchful of where we placed our feet; but once beyond this point of danger I joined her more closely, and we continued down the sharp decline together side by side, exchanging a few words in whispers as she attempted to describe to me briefly the lay of the land about the mouth of the creek and where the boat probably rested, awaiting the return of its owners.
She made this sufficiently clear, answering my few questions promptly, so that I easily visioned the scene and felt confident of being able to safely approach the unsuspecting engineer and overcome any resistance before he should realize the possibility of attack. I was obliged to rely upon a guess at the time of night, yet surely it could not be long after twelve and there must yet remain hours of darkness amply sufficient for our purpose. With the boat once securely in our possession, the engineer compelled to serve, for I had no skill in that line, we could strike out directly for the opposite shore and creep along in its shadows past the sleeping town at the Landing until we attained the deserted waters above. By then we should practically be beyond immediate pursuit. Even if Carver or the sheriff discovered Kirby, any immediate chase by river would be impossible. Nothing was available for their use except a few rowboats at the Landing; they would know nothing as to whether we had gone up or down stream, while the coming of the early daylight would surely permit us to discover some place of concealment along the desolate Illinois shore. Desperate as the attempt undoubtedly was, the situation, as I considered it in all its details, brought me faith in our success and fresh encouragement to make the effort.
The distance was covered far more quickly than I had anticipated. The road we followed was by now fairly visible beneath the faint star-gleam, and once we were below the bluff the broad expanse of river appeared at our left, a dim, flowing mystery, the opposite shore invisible. To our strained eyes it seemed an endless flood of surging water. Immediately about us, all remained dark and silent, the few trees lining the summit of the overhanging bluff assuming grotesque shapes, and occasionally startling us by their strange resemblance to human beings. Not even the moaning of wind through the branches broke the intense midnight stillness. I could feel her hand, grasping my sleeve, tremble from nervous tension.
"Saunder's Creek is just beyond that ridge—see," she whispered, causing me to pause. "I mean the darker line in front. This road we are on goes straight ahead, but we must turn off here in order to reach the mouth where the boat lies."
I stooped low, close to the earth, so as to better perceive any outline against the sky, and, with one hand shadowing my eyes, stared earnestly in the direction indicated.
"It will be over there, then. Kneel down here beside me a moment. There is a whisp of smoke yonder, curling up over the bank. I suppose it will be safe enough for us to venture that far?"
"Yes, unless the engineer has come ashore."
"Is there any path?"
"Not that I remember, but there are plenty of dead rushes along the side of the bank. It will be safe enough to go where we can look over."
We moved forward slowly, but this time I took the lead myself, bending low, and feeling carefully for footing in the wiry grass. The bank was not high, and once safely at its edge, we could peer out through the thick growth of rushes with little fear of being observed from below. The darkness, however, so shrouded everything, blending objects into shapeless shadows, that it required several moments before I could clearly determine the exact details. The mouth of the creek, a good-sized stream, was only a few yards away, and the boat, rather a larger craft than I had anticipated seeing, lay just off shore, with stern to the bank, as though prepared for instant departure. It was securely held in position by a rope, probably looped about a convenient stump, and my eyes were finally able to trace the outlines of the wheel by which it was propelled. Except for straggling rushes extending to the edge of the water, the space between was vacant, yet sufficiently mantled in darkness to enable one to creep forward unseen.
At first glance I could distinguish no sign of the boatman left in charge, but, even as I lay there, breathless and uncertain, he suddenly revealed his presence by lighting a lantern in the stern. The illumination was feeble enough, yet sufficient to expose to view the small, unprotected engine aft, and also the fact that all forward of the little cockpit in which it stood, the entire craft was decked over. The fellow was busily engaged in overhauling the machinery, leaning far forward, his body indistinct, the lantern swinging in one hand, with entire attention devoted to his task. Occasionally, as he lifted his head for some purpose, the dim radiance fell upon his face, revealing the unmistakable countenance of a mulatto, a fellow of medium size, broad of cheek with unusually full lips, and a fringe of whisker turning gray. Somehow this revelation that he was a negro, and not a white man, brought with it to me an additional confidence in success. I inclined my head and whispered in the girl's ear:
"You are not to move from here until I call. This is to be my part of the work, handling that lad. I am going now."
"He is colored, is he not, a slave?"
"We can only guess as to that. But he does not look to me like a hard proposition. If I can only reach the boat without being seen, the rest will be easy. Now is the proper time, while he is busy tinkering with the engine. You will stay here?"
"Yes, of course; I—I could be of no help."
She suddenly held out her hand, as though impelled to the action of some swift impulse, and the warm pressure of her fingers meant more than words. I could not see the expression on her face, yet knew the slender body was trembling nervously.
"Surely you are not afraid?"
"Oh, no; it is not that—I—I am all unstrung. You must not think of me, at all."
This was far easier said than done, however, for she was more in my mind as I crept forward than the indistinct figure below in the boat. It was becoming a constant struggle already—indeed, had been from the first—to hold her for what I actually knew her to be—negress, a slave, desperately seeking to escape from her master. The soft, refined voice, the choice use of language, the purity of her thought and expression, the girlish face as I had seen it under the light, all combined to continually blind me to the real truth. I could not even force myself to act toward her from any standpoint other than that of equality, or regard her as in any way removed from my most courteous consideration. I think it was equally hard for her to adapt her conduct to these new conditions. Accustomed all her life to respect, to admiration, to the courtesy of men, she could not stoop to the spirit of servitude. It was this effort to humble herself, to compel remembrance, which caused her to speak of herself so often as a slave.
These thoughts assailed, pursued me, as I crept cautiously down the steep bank, concealed by the shadows of the rushes. Yet in reality I remained intent enough upon my purpose. Although unable to wholly banish all memory of the young girl just left behind, I still realized the gravity of my task, and my eyes were watchful of the shrouded figure I was silently approaching. I drew nearer inch by inch, advancing so slowly, and snake-like, that not even the slightest sound of movement aroused suspicion. Apparently the fellow was engaged in oiling the machinery, for he had placed the lantern on deck, and held a long-spouted can in his fingers. His back remained toward me as I drew near the stern, and, consequently, I no longer had a glimpse of his face. The wooden wheel of the boat, a clumsy appearing apparatus, rested almost directly against the bank, where the water was evidently deep enough to float the vessel, and the single rope holding it in position was drawn taut from the pressure of the current. Waiting until the man was compelled to bend lower over his work, utterly unconscious of my presence, I straightened up, and, pistol in hand, stepped upon the wooden beam supporting the wheel. He must have heard this movement, for he lifted his head quickly, yet was even then too late; already I had gained the after-deck, and my weapon was on a level with his eyes.
"Don't move, or cry out!" I commanded, sternly. "Obey orders and you will not be hurt."
He shrank away, sinking upon the bench, his face upturned so that the light fell full upon it, for the instant too greatly surprised and frightened to give utterance to a sound. His mouth hung open, and his eyes stared at me.
"Who—who wus yer? Whatcha want yere?"
"I am asking questions, and you are answering them. Are you armed? All right, then; hand it over. Now put out that light."
He did exactly as I told him, moving as though paralyzed by fear, yet unable to resist.
"You are a negro—a slave?"
"Yas, sah; Ah's Massa Donaldson's boy frum Saint Louee."
"He is the sheriff?"
"Yas, sah—yas, sah. Whar is Massa Donaldson? Yer ain't done bin sent yere by him, I reckon. 'Pears like I never see yer afore."
"No, but he is quite safe. What is your name?"
"Sam, sah—just plain Sam."
"Well, Sam, I understand you are an engineer. Now it happens that I want to use this boat, and you are going to run it for me. Do you understand I am going to sit down here on the edge of this cockpit, and hold this loaded pistol just back of your ear. It might go off at any minute, and surely will if you make a false move or attempt to foul the engine. Any trick, and there is going to be a dead nigger overboard. I know enough about engines to tell if you play fair—so don't take any chances, boy."
"Ah—Ah—reckon as how I was goin' fer ter run her all right, sah; she's sum consid'ble contrary et times, sah, but Ah'll surely run her, if thar's eny run in her, sah. Ah ain't carryin' 'bout bein' no corpse."
"I thought not; you'd rather be a free nigger, perhaps? Well, Sam, if you will do this job all right for me tonight, I'll put you where the sheriff will never see hide nor hair of you again—no, not yet; wait a moment, there is another passenger."
She came instantly in answer to my low call, and, through the gloom, the startled negro watched her descend the bank, a mere moving shadow, yet with the outlines of a woman. I half believe he thought her a ghost, for I could hear him muttering inarticulately to himself. I dared not remove my eyes from the fellow, afraid that his very excess of fear might impel him to some reckless act, but I extended one hand across the side of the boat to her assistance.
"Take my hand, Rene," I said pleasantly to reassure her, "and come aboard. Yes, everything is all right. I've just promised Sam here a ticket for Canada."
I helped her across into the cockpit and seated her on the bench, but never venturing to remove my eyes from the negro. His actions, and whatever I was able to observe of the expression of his face, only served to convince me of his trustworthiness, yet I could take no chances.
"She's just a real, live woman, sah?" he managed to ejaculate, half in doubt. "She sure ain't no ghost, sah?"
"By no means, Sam; she is just as real as either you or I. Now listen, boy—you know what will happen to you after this, if Donaldson ever gets hold of you?"
"I 'spects Ah does, sah. He'd just nat'larly skin dis nigger alive, Ah reckon."
"Very well, then; it is up to you to get away, and I take it that you understand this river. Where is the main current along here?"
"From de p'int yonder, over ter de east shore."
"And the depth of water across from us? We are going to head up stream."
"Yas, sah; yer plannin' fer ter go nor'. Wal, sah, dars planty o' watah fer dis yere boat right now, wid de spring floods. Nothin' fer ter be a'feered of 'bout dat."
"That is good news. Now, Sam, I am going to cut this line, and I want you to steer straight across into the shadows of the Illinois shore. I believe you are going to play square, but, for the present, I'm going to take no chances with you. I am holding this pistol within a foot of your head, and your life means nothing to me if you try any trick. What is the speed of this boat up stream?"
"'Bout ten mile an hour, sah."
"Well, don't push her too hard at first, and run that engine as noiselessly as possible. Are you ready? Yes—then I'll cut loose."
I severed the line and we began to recede from the shore, cutting diagonally across the decidedly swift current. Once beyond the protection of the point the star-gleam revealed the sturdy rush of the waters, occasionally flecked with bubbles of foam. Sam handled the unwieldy craft with the skill of a practiced boatman and the laboring engine made far less racket than I had anticipated. Ahead, nothing was visible but the turbulent expanse of desolate water, the Illinois shore being still too far away for the eye to perceive through the darkness. Behind us the Missouri bluffs rose black, and fairly distinct against the sky, but dimming constantly as the expanse of water widened to our progress. Pistol in hand, and vigilant to every motion of the negro, my eyes swept along that vague shore line, catching nowhere a spark of light, nor any evidence that the steady chug of our engine had created alarm. The churning wheel flung white spray into the air, which glittered in the silver of the star-rays, and occasionally showered me with moisture. At last the western shore imperceptibly merged into the night shadows, and we were alone upon the mysterious bosom of the vast stream, tossed about in the full sweep of the current, yet moving steadily forward, and already safely beyond both sight and sound.