After leaving George Clinton, Samuel Dickson went at once to the residence of his brother Joshua.
The sun was still high in the heavens when he reached the settlement; his brother was in sight, galloping towards him.
"Come along," he cried, shaking hands; "I was so impatient to see you, I really could not wait any longer."
"I hope there is nothing wrong, brother," said Samuel.
"Nothing at all. Everything is going for the best."
"I am glad to hear it. I was rather uneasy."
"I am sorry to hear that. But why are you so late?"
"I had to go on a small journey. There was no hurry."
"You are wrong, Sam. But here you are, and all is well. But had you come sooner it would have been better."
"Well, here I am, so out with the news."
"I have to speak of important things, and I have to ask your advice, who are wisdom itself."
"Awfully wise," cried Samuel, laughing, "when in the end I only carry out all your insane ideas."
"True! But still you were generally right. The fact is, if you speak words of wisdom, and then act a little the other way, it is simply out of love for me. I know it, my brother. I am not ungrateful, and love you dearly."
"I don't doubt your affection. But you alarm me."
"Why?" said Joshua, laughing.
"Whenever you talk like this, I smell a rat, in the shape of some awful scheme, some diabolical plot."
"I see you are not to be easily deceived," said Joshua; "but come in, let us eat, and then talk. The matter of which I wish to speak is of general interest."
"As you will; but still I am monstrously afraid."
"I know you are a great coward," cried Joshua.
At this moment they reached the house, alighted, and, giving the horses to the servants, entered the parlour, escorted by Dardar, who had come to meet them.
The two ladies received Samuel cordially.
"Here he is at last, Susan," said her husband.
"He has been anxious about you all day," cried Susan.
"Then he has some mad scheme. But we shall see presently. Good evening, Diana, my dear. You look well."
"A truce to compliments," cried Joshua; "to supper."
They now entered the dining room, where the whole household was collected, men, women, and children. Of course, enormous quantities of meat, bread, and vegetables adorned the board. The repast was truly Homeric.
After dinner the servants retired, and the ladies would have done the same, but Joshua detained them.
The ladies seated themselves with a rather uneasy glance. He poured out a stiff glass for himself and brother and drank his off.
"Thank heaven!" he began, "We are now solidly established in our new dwelling, and it is time to speak of business."
"Hilloa! Talk business now? It is late. Why can we not put off our business arrangements until tomorrow?"
"You forget, my brother, I sent for you on purpose—"
"I remember—well, go on, I am at your orders."
"Harry, have you obeyed my orders?" asked Joshua.
"Yes, father," replied the young man.
"All right," continued the squatter, refilling his glass. "Your health, all of you. In an hour, I'm off."
"Off!" cried the ladies, in great alarm.
"Hem!" said Samuel; "If you are not satisfied here, I am."
"I don't want to drag you into my affairs," replied Joshua, coolly. "But I shall not be long away. It is only a journey."
"I thought," exclaimed Samuel, "he was as mad as ever; will you explain the object of this journey or exploration?"
"One which you will highly approve, my brother," he went on. "I desire to open up commercial relations."
"Very good idea. But what is your precise motive?"
"I have said enough. I think my object serious."
"Well, if you have no more to say, stop at home."
"Will you tell me why?" asked Joshua.
"Because your voyage is utterly useless. All the information you can desire to obtain I can give you in ten minutes."
"You!" cried Joshua, wildly.
"Certainly!" said Samuel, modestly; "I can, and will do so, if you will be good enough to listen to me."
"I shall only be too happy. Still I don't understand!"
"That is unnecessary. You must know that I have obtained my information from hunters and redskins."
"Hunters! Redskins!" cried Joshua.
"Don't you know they swarm about here? I never go out without meeting some of them. So I say stop at home."
"Explain yourself, brother," said Joshua, sulkily.
"Well, you think yourself very far from all white folk. You are very much mistaken. Learn, then, that though we are in the centre of the most warlike tribes of Indians, you have new forts not very far off, including a fur station."
"Can it be possible?" exclaimed Joshua.
"And my friend and brother, are you aware what magnificent river runs at your own door? The Missouri!"
Joshua bowed his head on his chest and was silent, while Samuel rubbed his hands and smiled slyly.
"What do you think of the information?" he said at last.
"If you are certain of what you say, it is excellent."
"Then you give up the idea of your journey?"
"Certainly not. Admitting that all you tell me be true, it is of the highest importance for me to visit the fur station and all other settlements above and below us on the river, in order to become friendly, and prevent rivalry."
"What rivalry?" half screamed Samuel.
"Any that might arise. Of course they will soon know all about me and might interrupt my commercial speculations."
"A fool will have his own way," cried his brother.
"Abuse is not argument, my brother," said Joshua.
"I apologise; but you are determined to go. I see you are; then heaven protect all in your absence."
"Will you take no advice?" ventured Susan.
"I have made up my mind," he replied; "I never alter."
"But, father," cried Diana, "what are we to do during your absence? You leave us wholly undefended."
"Silence, daughter," said the squatter, smiling; "don't be so tragical. I do not leave you undefended, as you say. Your uncle will watch over you. Your brother Henry commands in my absence. You have a fort. What more is wanted?"
"How do you mean to travel?" asked Susan.
"In the boat I launched today, with Sam, Jack, and two servants. I do not take away many defenders."
"But you are not here to lead."
"That is enough," he cried; "I have decided. Besides, it would be absurd not to visit my new neighbourhood."
No more was said. The squatter was escorted by all to the riverside. He bade them all adieu, kissed his wife and daughter, shook hands with his brother, gave his son Henry some last directions, entered the boat, and was off in a very few minutes, whistling "Yankee Doodle," perhaps in reality to hide his strong emotion from his two sons.
We now visit a beautiful gold-sanded strand on the right banks of the Missouri, about fifty miles from the new settlement in Moose Deer Valley, and about equidistant from the strong fort already established by the fur company.
This strand, which was only reached by a narrow defile between two perpendicular mountains, was exactly opposite an island of which it was impossible to make out the dimensions, which, however, were very considerable.
Lights shone like will-o'-the-wisps in a fog; the island, which was thickly wooded, communicated with the mainland by means of a dangerous ford, full of holes and whirlpools. It was too dangerous to be adventured in by any but those who knew it. The island, moreover, was guarded by two eminences overlooking the ford, and which commanded the approach against any enemy if well defended. On the other side the island was inaccessible.
This island was the refuge, the fortress of the terrible outlaws of the Missouri, with whom we have made acquaintance.
Originally it had been selected by the Government as an outpost, but the partisans had first taken it and made it impregnable.
As the outlaws rarely interfered with citizens of the United States, generally very poor in those regions, the Government, well aware of its impotence to dislodge the pirates, pretended to look upon them as irregular troops doing service.
But the outlaws knew that if the authorities only had the chance they would be exterminated.
But that part of America was little peopled, and few except trappers and wanderers knew anything of its capacities. The outlaws, therefore, to a certain extent, were pretty certain of impunity for all their actions for the time.
A hundred horsemen were camped on the strand of which we have spoken; their horses were picketed near their fodder, around the campfires numerous groups were talking or sleeping, while on every hand walked sentinels.
In a hut composed of whittled boughs and mud, a man sat on a buffalo's head, consulting papers from a large pocketbook. Another man stood respectfully by him, awaiting his orders. The first man was Captain Tom Mitchell, the other was Camotte.
A sentinel kept guard in front of the cabin.
It was about four o'clock in the morning. The stars were beginning to pale in the sky, the sky was covered by fleecy white clouds. Day was at hand; a fog rose from the river, and covered the camp as with a funeral pall. It was cold.
"I say," cried Tom, "I am frozen. Are you asleep, Camotte?"
"No, my lord."
"Then shove some wood on the fire, it's nearly out."
Camotte threw on some dry wood, which flared up.
"Something like," said Mitchell; "and now let us talk, Camotte. By the way, I may as well ask you, are you very tired?"
"I am never too tired to serve you, Excellency," said the other.
"I knew you would say that," cried Mitchell; "true, I saved your life twice, but we have been quits long ago."
"And yet I want to ask a favour."
"Anything, except leave me," replied Tom Mitchell.
"Never; it is something else. It is simply this; don't, your lordship, give me such another mission. Whatever you may think, my master," cried Camotte, warmly, "it is not pleasant to play the part of a traitor and scoundrel."
"I think you did it very cleverly," laughed Tom; "there, you are an old fool. Whom else could I trust? Having settled that very important fact, any news on the island?"
"Evening Dew frets. You should send her home—all the more that it makes some people talk," he added.
"Who has dared?" said Tom Mitchell, frowning.
"Stewart. But don't worry; I settled him by blowing his brains out, and no one else has since made an observation."
"All right. What about the river?"
"Five men went down in a canoe yesterday. It was the squatter of the valley, his two sons, and black servants."
"Where on earth could he be going to?" mused Tom.
"Well, we can find out by stopping him on his return."
"I'll see about it. Anything else?"
"Hum! You have had Major Ardenwood's letter asking an interview today? Oh, yes! There are some Frenchmen at the fort, at all events, one of them. Still I am aware that three strangers will accompany the major."
"Whom did you send out to inquire?"
"Tête de Plume. I could not send Versenca; in the first place, because he was drunk; secondly, because I don't like him."
Then, after a pause, Tom whispered to Camotte, who listened with deep and almost religious attention.
"And now," said Tom, "that you understand me, away."
Camotte went out. The worthy Mexican was the devoted friend, the alter ego, and moreover the lieutenant of Tom Mitchell, who wholly confided in him. Despite of events we have described before, Camotte was worthy of his trust.
The chief of the outlaws quietly made some alterations in his toilette, which was a little out of order from his long journey. He had just come off a distant expedition. The booty had been at once transferred to the island.
Having done this he drew the curtain that served as a door.
The camp no longer looked the same. The fire was out. The two eminences were guarded by sharpshooters. A detachment of twenty men guarded the entrance to the defile. The rest of the troop were ready to mount at a sign.
Tom Mitchell looked about him with an air of satisfaction. Camotte had executed all his orders faithfully.
At this moment the sun rose. It was like a theatrical scene. Light fell suddenly upon everything.
"Oh!" cried the captain as a bugle sounded in the distance from the defile, "I was just in time."
He stood erect in front of his hut, leaning on his cavalry sword, and waited with sublime tranquillity.
After some few words had passed, four strangers, one in the uniform of a major of the American army, came out from the defile, led by Camotte, who walked respectfully in front of them, and made their way in the direction of the captain.
"Good day, Captain Mitchell," said the major.
"You did me the honour to write," observed Mitchell.
"Well, I have some important business to talk about; but first allow me to present to you these two gentlemen. They are French, and consequently I cannot pronounce their names. Oh, I assure you they are worthy gentlemen."
And the fat major laughed heartily.
The captain bowed to the two Frenchmen without speaking. One was a man of about fifty, still young, and with apparently polished manners and rather haughty mien; the other, much younger, was bronzed by the sun, strong, and rather rough.
"This gentleman," continued the major, "is our own countryman, Mr. Stoneweld, of Boston city."
"I think you know me," observed the apoplectic speaker.
"Who does not know Master Stoneweld, of the house of Stoneweld, Errard, and Co., the richest shipowner in all Boston?"
The stout man smiled with an air of satisfaction.
"It seems you know one another," cried the major. "I am glad of it, because everything will go smoothly."
"How so?" cried Tom Mitchell.
"My dear captain, these gentlemen want you; they came to me for that purpose. Certainly their business must indeed be of an important character," he added, "to induce them to make such an awful journey, lasting over a month."
"It must be serious business," said the captain.
"The two French gentlemen bring letters from the Home Secretary."
"Indeed!"
"And Master Stoneweld one from General Jackson," added the major, "So now I expect you will do the best you can."
"Have no fear."
"Of course not, though I know you are rather hot at times. As for myself, I am choked with fog and hoarseness," he added.
"I am at the orders of these gentlemen," replied the captain. "I shall be happy to do all in my power for them."
"Spoken like a man," said the major in a fidgety way. "But this seems hardly the place for a serious conversation."
"I am sorry for it," replied Tom Mitchell coldly. "I was not told until the last minute, and you must take me in the rough."
"Why not go over to the island?" suggested the major. "I dare say we should be more at our ease—eh, captain?"
"I am sorry, major, but it would take too much time. Besides, I have already provided refreshments here, if you will accept."
"With the greatest of pleasure," cried the major, coughing behind his hand; "and yet these gentlemen have important matters to discuss, very important matters," he added, complacently.
"What matter, major? Breakfast first, business afterwards."
"As you will," said the major, following him into the hut.
By the orders of Camotte, during this conversation a very copious breakfast had been prepared. It was almost wholly composed of venison; but flanking the solids were a number of long-necked bottles that at once showed their Bordeaux and Burgundian origin, to say nothing of some brands of Champagne so dear to Americans.
The major was so delighted that he said "Hum!" no less than three times, and then spoke to the outlaw chief.
"Let them say what they like," he cried, "you are a man."
"I am proud to hear it," cried Tom. "Let us be seated."
The Frenchmen had hitherto said nothing. The elder now spoke. As the captain invited them to commence breakfast, he said:
"Above all, sir, allow me to observe that before commencing business you offer us bread and salt."
"You are my guests, gentlemen," said the captain, gravely; "you are under the safeguard of my honour, that is enough."
"The major has indicated that we each wish to see you alone."
"Which means?" asked the outlaw.
"That I desire, as these conversations may probably be of very long duration, to see you quite alone," he added.
"Sit down and eat," replied the outlaw. "After the repast you and your companions will follow me to the island. Once more, are you not satisfied?"
"Of course," cried the major; "if not, I go bail for you."
"Thank you, major; and now eat, drink, and be merry."
The ice once broken, through the instrumentality of the Burgundy, Bordeaux, and Champagne, all went on swimmingly.
Major Ardenwood, who, perhaps, alone of all those present had nothing to conceal, and who was naturally a bon vivant, did all in his power to make himself the convivial leader of this improvised party, composed of so many various elements. He was warmly supported by the captain, who showed all the best qualities of a true amphitrion, and treated his guests with a generosity and courtesy which quite charmed them.
Of course not a word was said of the object for which they had met. In fact, the subject was carefully avoided.
The major was the first to rise.
"The best of friends," he said, "must part. I am wanted at the fort, and with your permission will retire."
"I thought," observed the captain of the outlaws, "your intention was to wait for these gentlemen here."
"No; on reflection," replied the major, laughing, "I should only be in their way. I will wait at the fort."
"I will escort them myself," said Tom Mitchell.
"That will be the better plan," continued the major. "Thanks for your hospitality. The wines were excellent."
"I will send you a few baskets, major."
"Many thanks," cried the American, shaking hands, and then departing under the guidance of Camotte.
"We can now go to the island," said the captain.
"On foot, on horseback, or do we swim?" said the young Frenchman.
"You will see. Follow me, gentlemen," replied Tom.
They did so, and found a boat ready for their reception. On the invitation of the captain they all seated themselves.
"Now, gentlemen," said Tom Mitchell, with a smile, "you must pardon me, but I must blindfold you. Fear nothing," he added, as he saw them start. "It is the custom. No stranger has ever entered the island in any other way. Besides, you are not obliged; only if you refuse you must return."
"Do as you like," cried the elder Frenchman.
Some men who held pocket handkerchiefs now approached, and deftly bound their eyes. The boat then started. In a few minutes they felt the boat strike against another shore, and received a slight shock as it did so.
"Don't touch your bands," cried the captain; "wait a while."
They were then lifted up with every precaution by several men, who soon put them down, removing the bandages.
Looking round, they found themselves in a vast chamber, furnished with every regard to comfort and elegance.
The captain was alone, the men having left.
"Welcome, gentlemen," he said. "I hope the frank and cordial hospitality I shall offer you will make you excuse this precaution."
The strangers merely bowed.
"I need not remind you, gentlemen," continued Tom Mitchell, "that you are at home; but, in order not to detain you any longer than is absolutely necessary, let us to business. Will you follow me, sir, first?"
This was said to the younger Frenchman. As he spoke he opened a door and the two passed out together.
The two other strangers remained alone. The Frenchman, with a frown, began to walk up and down whistling; the American sat down.
As soon as Tom Mitchell had the other alone, he cried—
"Sir, tell me at once if I am mistaken."
"I see you have a good memory," replied the other, "and yet it is a very long time ago since we met."
"Then I am not mistaken?" cried Tom Mitchell.
"Monsieur Maillard, my name is Pierre Durand."
"Who saved the life of myself and father," said Tom, shaking him by the hand, "even though you knew—"
"I knew that your father an hour before had sat as president of the grim tribunal of the Abbaye," replied the young Frenchman. "I knew the intense hatred which was felt towards you; still, I drew you more dead than alive from the river."
"You did more—you hid us and helped us to escape."
"It was tit for tat; your father once saved my life."
"But you paid your debt with usury. When I parted from you at New York—I was sixteen then—I said, 'Whatever happens, my life, my fortune, my honour is at your disposal.' I am ready to fulfil my promise, so speak."
"I knew you would do all in your power," said Pierre Durand; "therefore I have come. How is your father?"
"He has become an Indian, and wholly broken with everything in the shape of civilisation," said Tom.
"Is he happy?" asked Durand.
"Yes. He was a man of conviction. His faults—his crimes if you like—during the Reign of Terror were caused by his extreme sincerity. In that time of awful and terrible commotion," continued Tom, "he acted wholly conscientiously."
"I believe it, and therefore do not presume to be his judge. I am but a weak and ordinary man," cried Durand; "when the time comes God will judge these Titans of the revolution according to their merits and convictions."
"Doubtless. I shall let him know of your coming; but why?"
"A question of life and death in connection with my best friend, a man I love as a brother," cried Durand.
"Say no more. An express shall start at once."
"Have you received any letters signed 'An old friend'?"
"Many! I presume, then, that you are that friend; but why not avow yourself?"
"I could not."
"If all you tell me in those letters be true, it is an odious and infamous action," cried Tom Mitchell.
"I know it is, and I have counted on you and your father to see that justice be done," continued Durand.
"Count on me," said Tom. "I have seen your friend, and though he does not like me, he won my heart at once."
"He will change his mind."
"But what can my father do in the matter?"
"Everything. You must now understand, my friend, that if I have abandoned my ship in New York to the care of my mate, if I, who hate dry land, have started on a journey through the desert, it must be for powerful reasons."
"Doubtless. May I ask what they are?"
"Because, my friend, here in there is his most implacable, most ruthless foe," cried Durand.
"Here!" exclaimed Tom.
"Yes—here, in this island, in that room," replied Pierre Durand, pointing to the one they had left.
"Are you sure of his identity?" asked Mitchell.
"I have watched him for five years, followed in his track, known every movement he has made," said Durand.
"And he does not know you?" cried Tom.
"He knows me very well. He came over in my ship; we are the best of friends; he tried to buy me over."
"This is incredible," observed the outlaw.
"Yet true. I am his confidante, his devoted servant; I enter into all his views, and he counts on me as a slave."
Both young men burst out laughing.
"Then you have come from New York together?"
"Not at all. We met at the fort two days ago, and as I am no longer disguised," said Pierre Durand, "despite all his cunning, he knew me not."
"Well, the matter is settled," said Tom Mitchell, in a whisper; "we have our man here; he shall never leave."
"My friend," said Pierre Durand, gravely, "that is not the game we have to play. He is as slippery as an eel."
"I don't think, if I made up my mind," said the outlaw chief, with a sinister smile, "he would ever escape me."
"Well, there is a time for everything. In the first place, learn his projects, so that we may unmask him. This will be all the more easy," said the sea captain, "in that we know who he is, while he is ignorant of our designs."
"There is one thing worth mentioning," said the outlaw; "I, too, know him well. He will be rather surprised presently."
"Be careful. One word might put him on his guard."
"Is not my whole life passed," continued the outlaw, sadly, "in outdoing others in cunning and diplomacy?"
"True. I leave, then, everything to you."
"And now learn, my friend, that you are free as air, and absolute master of my domains," he added, laughing. Then he picked three flowers, and placing them in his buttonhole, said, "This will give you free passage everywhere you like. Now for your two travelling companions. But follow me."
He opened a door opposite that by which they had entered, and, crossing several apartments, at last came to a room which overlooked a charming and elegant garden.
"Here you are at home," he said; "come, go, do just as you like. At the end of the garden you will find a door opening on the woods. We shall dine at six. Be back by that time, and you will find the table laid here. We can then explain all."
With these words the outlaw left his friend.
As soon as he had returned to his private room, Tom Mitchell, or Maillard, son of the terrible judge of the Reign of Terror, sat down before a table, wrote a few lines, sealed the letter carefully, and then struck a gong.
At once Camotte appeared and took the letter.
"Send this letter to my father by express," he said; "let him kill his horse, but let me have the answer."
"He shall be gone in five minutes."
"And now," continued Tom Mitchell, with a sarcastic smile, "send that fat American in here."
Camotte bowed and retired. Next moment the great American shipowner came in puffing and blowing.
"Sit down, sir," said Tom Mitchell.
The fat man obeyed with a grunt.
"I think it rather hard that a man like me—"
"Pardon me," said the captain, coldly; "allow me to remark, before you go any further, that I have no need of you, and did not send for you. You it is who, in the company of several other gentlemen, have come to me. All of you have, I dare say, serious reasons for taking this extraordinary step. I have in no way solicited the honour. All I can do is to listen to each in his turn. I have seen one and settled with him; if you have anything to say to me, speak."
This speech, pronounced in a clear, bold tone, not unmixed with sarcasm, at once, as if by enchantment, calmed the irritation of the fat man. At all events, it compelled him to dissimulate it. After, therefore, mopping his head and face several times with a pocket handkerchief, and coughing once or twice behind his hand, he spoke—
"I was angry, sir," he said, "and own it freely."
"Be pleased, sir, to come at once to business," continued Tom Mitchell; "another person waits."
"You are, I believe, well acquainted with me?"
"I have known you a long time," remarked Tom.
"Sir, I have a nephew; he is the son of my wife's brother," began the other, "a very near relative."
"Well, sir?"
"This nephew, though a charming youth," cried Stoneweld, "is mad, utterly, hopelessly mad, sir."
"Really, sir," said the captain, "and have you come all this way to tell me this piece of news?"
"Pardon me, sir. When I say that he is mad, I believe I exaggerate. I should rather say that his intense folly has taken the form of monomania. This charming young man, as I have the honour to tell you, is in love, sir."
"A very natural matter at his age."
"But, sir," cried the shipowner, "he is in love with a young person in no way suited to his station."
"Perhaps he does not think so."
"Of course, sir, it is not his opinion. But it is mine. I am a serious man; I feel a great interest in him. Now that his father is dead I am his legal guardian—though he repudiates me. Now, sir, would you believe it," cried the fat man, "I had arranged with his aunt, my wife, the most delicious marriage for him with a young girl—I may as well be frank, a niece of my own?"
"And he wouldn't have her," said Tom.
"No, sir, he actually would not have her. Do you understand such folly on his part?" cried the other.
"Well, it is strange. But what have I to do with it?"
"I will explain if you will allow me."
"I really should feel much obliged," urged Tom.
"After refusing contemptuously this eligible alliance, which united every condition of age and fortune and position, what did the fool do? Excuse me if in my anger I speak thus of a nephew I love. One fine morning, without saying a word to anybody, he left his business to a partner, and started off, sir—what for?"
"Well, how can I say?" asked Tom.
"In pursuit of this wretched girl without family or fortune, whose parents had emigrated to the Indian frontier."
"Oh, oh!" said the captain, who began to feel interested, and who listened with a gloomy frown.
"Yes, sir," said the fat man, too wrapped up in his narrative to notice the other's looks, "so that my nephew must be somewhere here about this neighbourhood, looking after his beauty, neglecting his affairs and fortune Tor a girl he will certainly never marry."
"How do you know, sir?"
"At all events I will do everything in my power to prevent it," cried the irate citizen of Boston.
"How will you set about it?"
"Sir, I have been told that you were the only man in these parts capable of arresting a fugitive."
"You do me too much honour."
"I have a number of unclosed accounts, needless to explain, with his father. Arrest the young man, sir!" cried the Bostonian; "Arrest him and place him safely in my hands, and the sum of one thousand guineas is yours."
As he spoke, the worthy shipowner pulled out an enormous pocketbook from his coat and opened it.
"Excuse me, sir," said the captain, "do not let us be in quite such a hurry. You have not quite finished."
"How so?" cried the American.
"You have forgotten," said the captain with simple frankness, "to tell me the name of your foolish nephew."
"George Clinton, sir, a very fine lad, though I say it."
"I know him," retorted the captain, coldly.
"You know him!" exclaimed the shipowner, "Then the affair is settled. You will have him arrested."
"Perhaps," said Tom Mitchell; "I will reflect on the affair, which is not so easy as you may suppose."
"To you, the chief of the outlaws?"
"George Clinton is not alone. He has many and powerful friends on the frontier."
"But I have plenty of money."
"I tell you, I will reflect. You will now return to the fort under escort. In two days you shall have my answer."
"But allow me to pay you a deposit," cried the other.
"Keep your money for the present," said Tom, and striking a gong, Camotte appeared as if by magic.
"But—" blustered the rich merchant.
"Not another word, sir. Wait patiently for my reply. I am your most obedient servant."
And led away by Camotte, the rich shipowner of Boston went out spluttering and perspiring as before.
"Now," said the captain to himself, with a sarcastic smile, "let us see what the other fellow is made of."
He went to the door, and, entering the cavern, bowed to the Frenchman, who was still walking up and down.
"Will you be good enough to come this way, Monsieur Hebrard," he said, with an engaging smile.
The Frenchman looked at him with astonishment, but on a repetition of the invitation went in.
The captain chuckled to himself at this evidence of the other's utter surprise and bewilderment.
It was as if he had scored one.
The two men looked at one another for some minutes in silence, just as two clever duelists might have done before venturing on the attack. But though each tried to read the other, their faces were like marble.
At a mute invitation from the outlaw, the stranger took a seat, and at once commenced the conversation.
"Sir," he said, "it is a matter of surprise, that you, a perfect stranger, should address me by a name—"
"Which is or has once been yours, monsieur," answered the outlaw chief, with freezing politeness.
"That is quite possible. I do not deny it. When one travels in foreign parts on important business, incognito—"
"Is adopted, I am aware, which only deceives fools and dupes," said the outlaw, speaking slowly.
"What do you mean, sir?" cried the other.
"I recollect a certain Count de Mas d'Azyr, an excellent gentleman of Languedoc, who had this mania."
The stranger shivered all over, and a lightning flash darted from beneath his dark and heavy eyebrows.
"Well," continued the outlaw, with imperturbable sang-froid, "his noble manners so thoroughly denounced him, despite the plebeian names he chose to assume, that he was compelled at the end of a few minutes to give up this absurd acting."
"Really, sir," cried the stranger, "I do not see the meaning or relevance of your allusions."
"I permit myself no allusions," said the outlaw, with the utmost suavity. "Very far from it. What matters it to me, I ask, whether you call yourself Hebrard, Count de Mas d'Azyr, Philippe de Salnam, Jean Lerou, or take any other alias?"
"Sir!" cried the other.
"Allow me, I pray, to conclude. In you I only recognise a person who is very warmly recommended to me, who has need of my services, and at whose disposition I therefore place myself at once—ready to serve him if possible," he continued; "at all events we can talk, and I should be glad to know in what way I can be of use."
"Sir," said the stranger, smiling, "you are agreeable and witty. I find that people make mistakes in their idea of you."
"I am obliged by your high consideration," continued the outlaw; "still this does not explain to me—"
"Who I am," cried the other, with feigned candour; "well, sir, considering you have mentioned so many names—"
"You allow, then, that I was right."
"Certainly; you were quite right," answered the other, quickly; "I therefore sincerely beg your pardon."
"It is not at all necessary."
"There is, however, one thing that I must confess puzzles me very much," continued the envoy.
"May I, without offence, ask what that is?"
"No offence. I should certainly be only too glad to have an explanation with you on the subject."
"If it depends upon me," the other said.
"It depends absolutely on you. I always thought I had a good memory. I believe myself to be a very good physiognomist, but really I have no recollection of you."
The outlaw burst into a roar of laughter.
"Which only proves," he added, when he recovered himself, "that I am much more clever at incognito than you."
"Which means—"
"That not only have we met, monsieur, but that we have carried on a long connection," said Tom.
"Many years ago?"
"Not at all, sir. I speak of very recent times, though I will allow that our acquaintance commenced long ago."
"You astonish me," said the Frenchman.
"The matter is very easily explained. We have found ourselves connected at different times, under four different names: I have told you yours, I will now tell mine. Do you remember Louis Querehard? Do you recollect François Magnaud, Paul Sambrun, and Pedro Lopez?"
"Perfectly," cried the other.
"Well, sir, those four individuals you now see present under the name of Tom Mitchell, your very humble servant; though," he added, with exquisite politeness, yet with a tint of irony, "I have several others available on occasion."
"Well, sir," cried the stranger, "you have indeed taken me in. I was a fool not to recognise you."
"Sir!" cried the outlaw.
"Let us call things by their names. It is by far the best plan. I am indeed not to be forgiven for being taken in like any novice. I deserve to be dismissed from the service of the Government which employs me, and which believes me to be worthy of credit, as possessing a certain amount of wit and diplomatic ability. Well, it is useless to discuss the matter any longer. Give me your hand, sir," he cried; "you are my master. We bear no malice."
"I only wanted to prove—" said the outlaw.
"That I was a fool—and I must say you have done so to my entire satisfaction," he added, in a tone of complete good humour. "But however unpleasant the shock is to my self-love, I am delighted at what has happened."
"How so?" asked the outlaw, in the same tone.
"Because the ice is broken between us, and we can come to an understanding; the more readily," he added, "that the matters I have to speak of are the same as before."
"If that be so," said the outlaw, "we can easily come to terms."
"Is it not so? Now here is the affair in two words. The revolution is over in France. Beneath the hand of the mighty man of genius whose talent and patriotism have raised him to power, Government has recovered its strength, society begins to breathe, the nation is once more rising to its proper position amidst the people; New France has entire faith in the man whose every step has hitherto been marked by victory, which has definitively declared on his side."
"I presume," said the outlaw, quietly, "that you are speaking of the General Bonaparte."
"Of no other. This great, this extraordinary man has, with his mighty hand, put down the Jacobins and the mob, driving them back to their original nothingness. He has chained forever the awful hydra of revolution. You have, then, heard of him?"
"Most certainly," said the son of Maillard, coldly.
"I am glad to hear it. This great man, who is as mighty a politician as he is a successful general, has followed, while slightly modifying it, the line traced by the national convention of execrable memory with regard to the Spanish colonies."
"Sir," said the son of the regicide, "you are hard upon fallen men, upon vanquished enemies, who, if they were guilty of faults—of crimes if you will—did very great and glorious things, giving the first signal for social regeneration over the world."
"It is useless, sir," said the envoy, "to discuss that matter. My convictions are very strong."
"Well, sir, if that be so," replied the outlaw, "let us return to the General Bonaparte, and pray explain to me his new plans with regard to the Spanish possessions in America."
"They are no new plans," observed the envoy; "only the old ones modified to a certain extent."
"Modified in what way?"
"There are two capital points. In the first place he wishes a cordial and frank alliance with the President of the United States, who cordially approves the policy of the French Government, which will, in the end, be to the advantage of America. Then he has given extensive powers to numerous sure and accredited agents, who, though, are not openly known because of the temporary Franco-Spanish alliance. Large sums of money have been provided by means of which to overthrow that species of Chinese wall with which Spain has surrounded its frontiers, which none ever cross and return."
"Sir," said the outlaw, with a smile, "I have crossed them many a time and oft, and yet here I am."
"It is precisely because of that fact that I am here."
"Ah! Ah!" said the outlaw, with a laugh; "After all, despite your denials, you had seen through my incognito."
"Well, it is useless to deny it. I have long known you to be a man of heart and action. I also know that by means of your vast connections no one can more readily help us to revolutionise the colonies. Besides, you are a Frenchman."
"I am of no country," replied the other.
"What, then, do you call yourself?"
"An outlaw," answered the chief, "and king of this island," drily; "an outlaw, and nothing more."
"Well, be it so, sir. Still you are exactly the man I want. I have need, for the execution of my plans, for the carrying out of my projects, of a man who is bound by no locality, by no social consideration. In fact, an outlaw."
The other bowed ironically.
"Now are you disposed to be the man?"
"First," said Tom Mitchell, "let me know what you want of me. I will then give a decisive answer."
"Well, then," replied the envoy, "let us put diplomacy on one side, and speak frankly and openly."
The outlaw leaned back and assumed something like the attitude of a tiger about to spring.
"Sir," he said, with a most singular smile, "I was about to make the very same proposition."
"Very good," replied Monsieur Hebrard; "that shows that we are beginning to understand one another."
The captain bowed, without speaking.
"The Spanish colonies," continued M. Hebrard, "are already beginning to feel the germs of revolutionary fermentation. Some devoted and enterprising men, yourself among others, have gone into the cities and towns of Mexico."
"All this I know; a truce to flattery."
"They have seen the zealous patriots, who are, however, but ill prepared as yet for the revolution we ardently desire."
"Ill prepared indeed," cried Tom Mitchell.
"But overtopping all others is a man who has immense influence with the Indian races. You know him."
"Ah, ah!" exclaimed Tom; "You mean Dolores, the priest."
"I mean no other. He is the only man upon whom we can count. We must enter into serious relations with him."
"For what purpose?" asked the outlaw.
"In order that when the hour comes he may be ready to raise the standard of revolt," cried the other, "and ready to draw the population after him against Spanish despotism."
"Very good, sir. But it is a long way to Dolores, where lives the curé Hidalgo. The road is one of the most dangerous I know. I doubt if any agent, however clever, can reach him. Will you allow me to give you sincere advice?"
"Speak; I am deeply interested."
"My own opinion is that it would be much better to despatch a light vessel, schooner or brig, into the Gulf of Mexico. This vessel could cruise along the coast, and, when opportunity offered, land a confidential agent."
"You are quite right, sir," said the envoy, "I must say this means has been tried with success."
"Well, what then?"
"The secret was betrayed by a traitor; in consequence, the Spanish authorities are always on their guard."
"Hence you conclude—"
"That on reflection, and having experience as a guide, the difficult road you describe is the best."
"Hum!" said the outlaw, and relapsed into silence.
The real meaning, the interesting point, of this conversation, so long, had not been touched upon. The captain knew it well, and kept himself in reserve. M. Hebrard was for some time afraid to enter upon a frank and true explanation.
There was a deep silence; at last the captain determined to fire the train, if he were blown up.
"Then you think I must go by land," he said.
"There is no choice," responded Hebrard.
"The conditions?" remarked Tom.
"One hundred thousand francs, not in notes, but in golden ounces, stamped with the effigy of the King of Spain."
"That is tolerable, for a beginning."
"Then there will be as much more for the negotiations, or, as I see you hesitate, at first one hundred and fifty thousand."
"Why at first?" asked Tom.
"Because your mission will be divided into two distinct parts," replied the envoy, quietly.
"Let us thoroughly understand the first," continued the outlaw; "we will talk of the second presently."
"Another hundred thousand on your return with despatches," continued the diplomatist, warmly.
"Hum!" said Tom; "That makes—"
"Three hundred and fifty thousand francs (£14,000) for only the first part of your mission," said Hebrard.
"It is very liberal. Now for the second mission," said Tom Mitchell, watching the diplomatist with his wary eye.
He knew that the real thing was coming now; he was satisfied of this from the other's uneasy manner.
"Hum!" said M. Hebrard, as if speaking to himself; "Three hundred and fifty thousand francs is a pretty sum."
"Well, for the first part of the mission which you have explained to me I don't say no. It is," he added, "a tough job, that I know. Still, nothing risk, nothing have. Now for the second part."
The diplomatist assumed an air of genial frankness that made the outlaw shudder. He was at once on his guard.
"The Spaniards, as I have said," observed M. Hebrard, jauntily, "are forever on the watch. No one, no matter what his position, is safe on the frontiers. To go in or out is simply impossible."
"Diable!" cried Tom; "What you say is not calculated to give me much confidence or hope."
"Excuse me, monsieur," said Hebrard, "we are playing a frank and open game, I do not desire in any way to conceal the dangers that may await you. I am only speaking in a general kind of way, certain that whatever obstacles occur you will be right."
All this was verbiage; M. Hebrard was evidently only trying some method of putting his real thoughts into words.
The outlaw, who expected what was coming, smiled.
"Unfortunately," said the diplomatist, who did not know what to say, "the real danger is not on the other side."
The outlaw started up.
"You may well be surprised; the danger is here."
"What do you mean?" cried the outlaw.
"I will explain myself, if you will allow me. Of course," said M. Hebrard, "the Spaniards are no more fools than we are."
"I was always of that opinion."
"They have started a countermine!"
"A countermine!" cried Tom. "What do you mean?"
"You will soon see. Knowing something of our designs, they have covered the American frontiers with spies."
"It is certainly very clever," said the outlaw.
"Very clever," said the diplomatist, in a husky voice; "but then, clever as they are, we know all about it, every detail."
"You do not mean to say so?" cried Tom Mitchell.
"Yes. And more than that, we know the chief of the whole gang of spies," added Hebrard. "And much more than that, we know all his secrets, cunning as he is."
"That is something," said Tom; "but now what you want is to catch him."
"Yes," said Hebrard, "that is the very thing; you yourself must see the necessity of catching him before you start."
"I should think so; it is as plain as running water; but," added Tom Mitchell, "it is not very easy to snap up such a rascal in the desert, which simply is as full of such rogues and vagabonds as an anthill is full of ants."
"Don't be uneasy on that point," cried Hebrard; "I shall easily put you on his track."
"All right. Then all we have to do is to catch him?"
"Exactly so," said the other, with a sigh.
"And you will pay for this capture?"
"Very heavily, my excellent friend."
"Oh! Oh! Then you are very anxious to secure him?"
"Yes," continued the other, gloomily; "dead or alive; it matters not. I should say, for information's sake, dead rather than alive."
"I like plain speaking. He is very much in your way?"
"Very much more than I can explain."
"And how much will you pay for this mission?"
"Alive, twenty-five thousand; dead, fifty thousand francs."
"It appears to me you prefer him dead. But never mind, give me the information. His name and address."
"He is a Frenchman, who has taken the name of Oliver. In appearance he is a hunter, a trapper, anything that comes uppermost. For greater safety he has connected himself with an Indian tribe, and is to be found about the Missouri."
"It is a very long way from the Mexican frontiers," observed the outlaw, in a coldly sarcastic voice.
"True. But the fellow is cunning; his safety requires him to be extremely cautious. Do you accept?"
"I accept on one condition," replied the other. "It is fully understood that he is to be dead, mind."
"No matter, so that we have him."
"Well, then, we are agreed on four hundred thousand francs (£16,000)? I shall want half down."
"I have the money in gold in my valises. I will pay it to you this evening," replied the envoy.
"And now that this is settled, you are in no hurry?"
"None whatever."
"Well, I know pretty well where to find the man you are in search of. I must say that, without suspecting the odious part he has been playing, I have on the several occasions we have met him felt the greatest repulsion."
"This is extraordinary."
"Well, you see, on the desert everybody knows everybody. But as I wish to make no mistake, to commit no error in so grave and important a matter, I should like you to be present at his arrest. Besides, it would be more regular."
"Hum!" cried the other, with a look of considerable annoyance; "The idea of further voyage in the desert—"
"Is not pleasant, I know," interrupted Tom; "but that is not necessary. You shall remain quietly here."
"Then I consent. When do you expect to catch him?"
"In less than a week, unless I am very unfortunate."
"Then I can wholly depend on you?" cried Hebrard.
"I swear to you on my honour that it will not be my fault if at the end of the time you are not face to face."
"I thank you in advance," said the envoy.
"There is nothing to be grateful for," replied the outlaw, with an odd expression and smile.
That same day, about nine o'clock in the evening, the outlaw was seated face to face with Captain Pierre Durand at a table covered with dishes, plates, and empty bottles, which testified to the appetite of the two men, and to the rude attack they had made upon everything in order to satisfy it.
The two men were now smoking excellent cigars, while sipping, like true amateurs, some mocha, served in real Japanese cups. Close at hand, in addition, were bottles containing every conceivable kind of liquors and spirits.
They had reached that precise period in the repast so prized by gourmets, when, the mind elevated and the brain excited by succulent food and generous libations, one feels a kind of happy state of being that is simply charming.
For one whole quarter of an hour neither of the two men had spoken or cared to speak.
It was the outlaw who first broke the charm.
"You are aware, my dear captain," he said, "that in half an hour I must leave you and be off."
"Excuse me," cried Pierre Durand, starting, "if I believe a single word of such a mad assertion."
"Yes, I am truly sorry to say, it is the exact fact. Doubtless you know as well as I do, business before all."
"I have not the remotest idea of interfering with your affairs," cried the sea captain, glumly.
"Then what do you mean?"
"That you are not going to leave me in the lurch."
"Still, when I tell you I must go," said the outlaw.
"All I mean is this, that if you go I go," cried Pierre.
"What! A night journey like this?" asked Tom.
"Night journey, day journey, it is all the same to me. I am an old sailor," growled Pierre Durand; "and every kind of locomotion is equally indifferent to me. Besides, I have known you a very long time, haven't I? And I know what sort of trade you carry on," he added.
The outlaw kept his countenance.
"Of course, I shall not be surprised or scandalised at anything I see. All I know is that here I should be bored to death, having nothing to do. It would be a nice little change to join you in one of your filibustering expeditions."
All this was said in a joking kind of way that excluded all idea of giving offence.
"Well," said Tom Mitchell, smiling, "any way, you would find yourself utterly disappointed."
"How is that?"
"I am not going to plunder, but to restore. Of course I don't pretend it is my usual custom," said Tom.
"Very well," cried Pierre; "I think that will be much more funny. I should like to join in the good work."
"But, my friend—" urged the outlaw.
"There is no but about it. I am a Breton, that is to say, as obstinate as several mules," continued Pierre Durand; "and I mean to come, unless, indeed, you tell me that my demand is in reality offensive and intrusive."
"By no means," cried Tom; "come then. Who can resist anyone so obstinate as you are, my friend?"
"You are a delightful fellow. I am ready."
"Not quite; there are conditions; at least, one."
"Pray let me know what it is."
"You must profit by the few minutes that remain to us to disguise yourself, so as to be unrecognisable."
"To what purpose, in a country where nobody knows me?" cried Pierre Durand; "Will you tell me a reason?"
"That is my secret. Will you consent? That is right. Now go there, and you will find all things necessary."
Pierre Durand was about to leave the room, but the outlaw indicated where everything was ready.
"There is another favour I must ask of you."
"Go ahead, nothing surprises me," said the captain, who, with magnificent sang-froid had commenced his work.
"In case chance should bring us face to face with people we know," he said, earnestly, "you will still keep up your incognito, even if you happen to see among these the face of the friend whom you have travelled so far to see."
The captain, who was blacking his beard with soot and fat, having already darkened his eyebrows, gave a start.
"Will he be there?" he asked.
"I do not say so. It is more than probable that he will not be there. Still, I wish to exercise every precaution."
"Hum, still it appears very hard."
"Still, do you consent? Yes or no."
"I repeat what you just said. I suppose I must," said Pierre; "and as I see you are in earnest, I promise, on my honour."
"Enough; then make haste."
After rendering his features and countenance utterly unrecognisable, the captain threw off his outer clothes, and assumed the costume of a planter of the frontier.
"What languages do you speak?" asked Tom.
"Nearly all civilised ones as easily as I do French," replied Durand; "but, above all, English and Spanish."
"Very good," continued Tom; "then during our excursion I shall always call you Don José Remero."
"Don José Remero be it."
"You must recollect that you are a captain in the Spanish navy, fled from home after a fatal duel."
"All right," grinned Pierre.
"Do not forget to take weapons. I can strongly recommend this tison. It is a perfect and choice rapier," said Tom; "have this long and pointed knife in your right boot. You may want it when you least expect. Do you ride?"
"Like a centaur," laughed the Frenchman.
"I am very glad to hear it; and now secure this carbine and this pair of pistols," continued Tom.
"Why, I shall look like an arsenal."
"My friend, it is the custom of the country," said Tom; "no one thinks of travelling in any other way."
"One does at Rome as Rome does. I'm your man," cried Pierre, laughing; "what do you think of me?"
"Unrecognisable. I should not know you anywhere. You are clever; even your accent is changed."
"That is always the first thing to be thought of," said Pierre Durand; "and now what is the nature of the restitution?"
"We are going," replied the outlaw, with a smile, "to restore a young girl to her friends and relatives."
"A young girl?" cried Durand.
"Yes—a most charming and interesting maiden, whom I captured the other day. I can no longer resist her tender sorrow."
"Bah!" said the young sailor, with a grin.
"I swear to you, upon my honour," cried the outlaw, warmly, "that she has been treated with the most profound respect and even tenderness."
"Spoken like an honest man," said the captain, warmly. "But may I ask with what object you took her away?"
"I had a motive, which I fear me exists no longer. I even fear," he said, gloomily, "I have entered upon a bad speculation. But it is useless to discuss the matter anymore. Soon there shall be no mysteries for you. Be seated again."
"Why?" asked the captain, puzzled at all these mysteries.
"She comes, and it is rather important I should say a few words to her before we start on our journey."
"I am your humble servant to command."
Tom Mitchell struck a gong, and Camotte appeared.
"Have my orders been executed?" asked the outlaw.
"Yes, captain. The stranger is watched carefully, and yet without creating suspicion," replied the lieutenant.
"Where is he now?"
"In his own room."
"If tomorrow he asks after me," said Tom Mitchell, "you will give him the answer already agreed on."
"Yes, captain."
"What about the detachments?"
"Those have started within the hour, I shall start with the last as soon as the moon rises," replied Camotte.
"Remember," said Tom, thoughtfully, "that tomorrow morning at sunrise, if not before, you must be back."
"Be easy as to that, captain," said the other, significantly; "I shall not leave the island without a chief just now."
"Humph!" observed the captain, suspiciously, "Is there anything fresh in the air?"
"Nothing in appearance, much in reality."
"You can speak out here," said Tom Mitchell; "if you have anything to say, say it without hesitation."
"About an hour ago, when I was going my round," said the matter-of-fact and faithful Camotte, "I met that fellow Versenca at the water's edge; he was wet through, and had evidently been swimming. When he saw me he was utterly confounded, and then when I questioned him as to his conduct he gave me a lot of silly reasons a child of five would have seen through."
The captain reflected with a dark frown.
"Redouble your vigilance, my good Camotte," he said at last. "On the first suspicion arrest him until I come back."
"For greater safety, captain," replied Camotte, "I shall take him with me tonight, I can watch him."
"Mind he does not give you the slip. A traitor would be dangerous just now. He is as cunning as an opossum."
"I know it, but two can play at the same game."
"Good. I leave it to you. Have Black Athol and Goliath saddled for us, and Miss Lara for the prisoner, if safe."
"She is quite a lady's horse—an ambler. She will quite suit her rider," replied Camotte.
"Mind you," continued Tom, "let the three be harnessed for war—victuals, holsters, ammunition, and pistols."