Chapter Forty Four.The Houma.I had not much longer to remain on the wharf-boat. The hoarse barking of a ’scape-pipe fell upon my ear and shortly after the fires of a steamboat furnace appeared, glittering red upon the stream. Then was heard the crashing plunging sound of the paddle-wheels as they beat the brown water, and then the ringing of the bell, and the shouts of command passing from captain to mate, and from mate to “deck hands,” and in five minutes after, the “Houma”—Red River-boat,—lay side by side with the old “Sultana.”I stepped aboard, threw my luggage over the guard, and, climbing up-stairs, seated myself under the awning.Ten minutes of apparent confusion—the quick trampling of feet over the decks and staging—half-a-dozen passengers hastening ashore—others hurrying in the opposite direction—the screeching of the steam—the rattling of huge fire-logs thrust endways up the furnace—at intervals the loud words of command—a peal of laughter at some rude jest, or the murmur of voices in the sadder accents of adieu. Ten minutes of these sights and sounds, and again was heard the ringing of the large bell—the signal that the boat was about to continue her course.I had flung myself into a chair that stood beside one of the awning-posts, and close to the guards. From my position I commanded a view of the gangway, the staging-plank, and the contiguous wharf-boat, which I had just left.I was looking listlessly on what was passing below, taking note of nothing in particular. If I had a special thought in my mind the subject of it was not there, and the thought itself caused me to turn my eyes away from the busy groups and bend them downward along the left bank of the river. Perhaps a sigh was the concomitant of these occasional glances; but in the intervals between, my mind dwelt upon nothing in particular, and the forms that hurried to and fro impressed me only as shadows.This apathy was suddenly interrupted. My eyes, by pure accident, fell upon two figures whose movements at once excited my attention. They stood upon the deck of the wharf-boat—not near the stage-plank, where the torch cast its glare over the hurrying passengers, but in a remote corner under the shadow of the awning. I could see them only in an obscure light,—in fact, could scarce make out their forms, shrouded as they were in dark cloaks—but the attitudes in which they stood, the fact of their keeping thus apart in the most obscure quarter of the boat, the apparent earnestness with which they were conversing—all led me to conjecture that they were lovers. My heart, guided by the sweet instinct of love, at once accepted this explanation, and looked for no other.“Yes—lovers! how happy! No—perhaps not so happy—it is aparting! Some youth who makes a trip down to the city—perhaps some young clerk or merchant, who goes to spend his winter there. What of that? He will return in spring, again to press those delicate fingers, again to fold that fair form in his arms, again to speak those tender words that will sound all the sweeter after the long interval of silence.“Happy youth! happy girl! Light is the misery of a parting like yours! How easy to endure when compared with that violent separation which I have experienced! Aurore!—Aurore!—Would that you were free! Would that you were some high-born dame! Not that I should love you the more—impossible—but then might I boldly woo, and freely win. Then I might hope—but now, alas! this horrid gulf—this social abyss that yawns between us. Well! it cannot separate souls. Our love shall bridge it—Ha!”“Hilloa, Mister! What’s gwine wrong? Anybody fell overboard!”I heeded not the rude interrogatory. A deeper pang absorbed my soul, forcing from me the wild exclamation that had given the speaker cause.The two forms parted—with a mutual pressure of the hand, with a kiss they parted! The young man hastened across the staging. I did not observe his face, as he passed under the light. I had taken no notice ofhim, my eyes by some strange fascination remaining fixed uponher. I was curious to observe howshewould act in this final moment of leave-taking.The planks were drawn aboard. The signal-bell sounded. I could perceive that we were moving away.At this moment the shrouded form of the lady glided forward into the light. She was advancing to catch a farewell glance of her lover. A few steps brought her to the edge of the wharf-boat, where the torch was glaring. Her hood-like gun-bonnet was thrown back. The light fell full upon her face, glistened along the undulating masses of black hair that shrouded her temples, and danced in her glorious eyes. Good God! they were the eyes ofAurore!No wonder I uttered the wild ejaculation—“It is she!”“What?—a female! overboard, do you say? Where? Where?”The man was evidently in earnest. My soliloquy had been loud enough to reach his ears.He believed it to be a reply to his previous question, and my excited manner confirmed him in the belief that a woman had actually fallen into the river!His questions and exclamations were overheard and repeated in the voices of others who stood near. Like wildfire an alarm ran through the boat. Passengers rushed from the cabins, along the guards, and out to the front awning, and mingled their hurried interrogatories, “Who? What? Where?” A loud voice cried out—“Some one overboard! A woman! it’s a woman!”Knowing the cause of this ridiculous alarm, I gave no heed to it. My mind was occupied with a far different matter. The first shock of a hideous passion absorbed my whole soul, and I paid no attention to what was going on around me.I had scarce recognised the face, when the boat rounding up-stream brought the angle of the cabin between it and me. I rushed forward, as far as the gangway. I was too late:—the wheel-house obstructed the view. I did not halt, but ran on, directing myself towards the top of the wheel-house. Passengers in their excitement were rushing along the guards. They hindered my progress, and it was some time before I could climb up the wheel-house, and stand upon its rounded roof. I did so at length, but too late. The boat had forged several hundred yards into the stream. I could see the wharf-boat with its glaring lights. I could even see human forms standing along its deck, but I could no longer distinguish that one that my eyes were in search of.Disappointed I stepped on to the hurricane-deck, which was almost a continuation of the roof of the wheel-house. There I could be alone, and commune with my now bitter thoughts.I was not to have that luxury just then. Shouts, the trampling of heavy boots bounding over the planks, and the pattering of lighter feet, sounded in my ears; and next moment a stream of passengers, male and female, came pouring up the sides of the wheel-house.“That’s the gentleman—that’s him!” cried a voice.In another instant the excited throng was around me, several inquiring at once—“Who’s overboard? Who? Where?”Of course I saw that these interrogatories were meant for me. I saw, too, that an answer was necessary to allay their ludicrous alarm.“Ladies and gentlemen!” I said, “there is no one overboard that I am aware of. Why do you askme?”“Hilloa, Mister!” cried the cause of all this confusion, “didn’t you tell me—?”“I told you nothing.”“But didn’t I ask you if thar wan’t some one overboard?”“You did.”“And you said in reply—”“I said nothing in reply.”“Darned if you didn’t! you said ‘Thar she is!’ or, ‘It was she!’ or something o’ that sort.”I turned towards the speaker, who I perceived was rather losing credit with his auditory.“Mister!” said I, imitating his tone, “it is evident you have never heard of the man who grew immensely rich by minding his own business.”My remark settled the affair. It was received by a yell of laughter, that completely discomfited my meddling antagonist, who, after some little swaggering and loud talk, at length went below to the “bar” to soothe his mortified spirit with a “gin-sling.”The others dropped away one by one, and dispersed themselves through the various cabins and saloons; and I found myself once more the sole occupant of the hurricane-deck.
I had not much longer to remain on the wharf-boat. The hoarse barking of a ’scape-pipe fell upon my ear and shortly after the fires of a steamboat furnace appeared, glittering red upon the stream. Then was heard the crashing plunging sound of the paddle-wheels as they beat the brown water, and then the ringing of the bell, and the shouts of command passing from captain to mate, and from mate to “deck hands,” and in five minutes after, the “Houma”—Red River-boat,—lay side by side with the old “Sultana.”
I stepped aboard, threw my luggage over the guard, and, climbing up-stairs, seated myself under the awning.
Ten minutes of apparent confusion—the quick trampling of feet over the decks and staging—half-a-dozen passengers hastening ashore—others hurrying in the opposite direction—the screeching of the steam—the rattling of huge fire-logs thrust endways up the furnace—at intervals the loud words of command—a peal of laughter at some rude jest, or the murmur of voices in the sadder accents of adieu. Ten minutes of these sights and sounds, and again was heard the ringing of the large bell—the signal that the boat was about to continue her course.
I had flung myself into a chair that stood beside one of the awning-posts, and close to the guards. From my position I commanded a view of the gangway, the staging-plank, and the contiguous wharf-boat, which I had just left.
I was looking listlessly on what was passing below, taking note of nothing in particular. If I had a special thought in my mind the subject of it was not there, and the thought itself caused me to turn my eyes away from the busy groups and bend them downward along the left bank of the river. Perhaps a sigh was the concomitant of these occasional glances; but in the intervals between, my mind dwelt upon nothing in particular, and the forms that hurried to and fro impressed me only as shadows.
This apathy was suddenly interrupted. My eyes, by pure accident, fell upon two figures whose movements at once excited my attention. They stood upon the deck of the wharf-boat—not near the stage-plank, where the torch cast its glare over the hurrying passengers, but in a remote corner under the shadow of the awning. I could see them only in an obscure light,—in fact, could scarce make out their forms, shrouded as they were in dark cloaks—but the attitudes in which they stood, the fact of their keeping thus apart in the most obscure quarter of the boat, the apparent earnestness with which they were conversing—all led me to conjecture that they were lovers. My heart, guided by the sweet instinct of love, at once accepted this explanation, and looked for no other.
“Yes—lovers! how happy! No—perhaps not so happy—it is aparting! Some youth who makes a trip down to the city—perhaps some young clerk or merchant, who goes to spend his winter there. What of that? He will return in spring, again to press those delicate fingers, again to fold that fair form in his arms, again to speak those tender words that will sound all the sweeter after the long interval of silence.
“Happy youth! happy girl! Light is the misery of a parting like yours! How easy to endure when compared with that violent separation which I have experienced! Aurore!—Aurore!—Would that you were free! Would that you were some high-born dame! Not that I should love you the more—impossible—but then might I boldly woo, and freely win. Then I might hope—but now, alas! this horrid gulf—this social abyss that yawns between us. Well! it cannot separate souls. Our love shall bridge it—Ha!”
“Hilloa, Mister! What’s gwine wrong? Anybody fell overboard!”
I heeded not the rude interrogatory. A deeper pang absorbed my soul, forcing from me the wild exclamation that had given the speaker cause.
The two forms parted—with a mutual pressure of the hand, with a kiss they parted! The young man hastened across the staging. I did not observe his face, as he passed under the light. I had taken no notice ofhim, my eyes by some strange fascination remaining fixed uponher. I was curious to observe howshewould act in this final moment of leave-taking.
The planks were drawn aboard. The signal-bell sounded. I could perceive that we were moving away.
At this moment the shrouded form of the lady glided forward into the light. She was advancing to catch a farewell glance of her lover. A few steps brought her to the edge of the wharf-boat, where the torch was glaring. Her hood-like gun-bonnet was thrown back. The light fell full upon her face, glistened along the undulating masses of black hair that shrouded her temples, and danced in her glorious eyes. Good God! they were the eyes ofAurore!
No wonder I uttered the wild ejaculation—
“It is she!”
“What?—a female! overboard, do you say? Where? Where?”
The man was evidently in earnest. My soliloquy had been loud enough to reach his ears.
He believed it to be a reply to his previous question, and my excited manner confirmed him in the belief that a woman had actually fallen into the river!
His questions and exclamations were overheard and repeated in the voices of others who stood near. Like wildfire an alarm ran through the boat. Passengers rushed from the cabins, along the guards, and out to the front awning, and mingled their hurried interrogatories, “Who? What? Where?” A loud voice cried out—
“Some one overboard! A woman! it’s a woman!”
Knowing the cause of this ridiculous alarm, I gave no heed to it. My mind was occupied with a far different matter. The first shock of a hideous passion absorbed my whole soul, and I paid no attention to what was going on around me.
I had scarce recognised the face, when the boat rounding up-stream brought the angle of the cabin between it and me. I rushed forward, as far as the gangway. I was too late:—the wheel-house obstructed the view. I did not halt, but ran on, directing myself towards the top of the wheel-house. Passengers in their excitement were rushing along the guards. They hindered my progress, and it was some time before I could climb up the wheel-house, and stand upon its rounded roof. I did so at length, but too late. The boat had forged several hundred yards into the stream. I could see the wharf-boat with its glaring lights. I could even see human forms standing along its deck, but I could no longer distinguish that one that my eyes were in search of.
Disappointed I stepped on to the hurricane-deck, which was almost a continuation of the roof of the wheel-house. There I could be alone, and commune with my now bitter thoughts.
I was not to have that luxury just then. Shouts, the trampling of heavy boots bounding over the planks, and the pattering of lighter feet, sounded in my ears; and next moment a stream of passengers, male and female, came pouring up the sides of the wheel-house.
“That’s the gentleman—that’s him!” cried a voice.
In another instant the excited throng was around me, several inquiring at once—
“Who’s overboard? Who? Where?”
Of course I saw that these interrogatories were meant for me. I saw, too, that an answer was necessary to allay their ludicrous alarm.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” I said, “there is no one overboard that I am aware of. Why do you askme?”
“Hilloa, Mister!” cried the cause of all this confusion, “didn’t you tell me—?”
“I told you nothing.”
“But didn’t I ask you if thar wan’t some one overboard?”
“You did.”
“And you said in reply—”
“I said nothing in reply.”
“Darned if you didn’t! you said ‘Thar she is!’ or, ‘It was she!’ or something o’ that sort.”
I turned towards the speaker, who I perceived was rather losing credit with his auditory.
“Mister!” said I, imitating his tone, “it is evident you have never heard of the man who grew immensely rich by minding his own business.”
My remark settled the affair. It was received by a yell of laughter, that completely discomfited my meddling antagonist, who, after some little swaggering and loud talk, at length went below to the “bar” to soothe his mortified spirit with a “gin-sling.”
The others dropped away one by one, and dispersed themselves through the various cabins and saloons; and I found myself once more the sole occupant of the hurricane-deck.
Chapter Forty Five.Jealousy.Have you ever loved in humble life? some fair young girl, whose lot was among the lowly, but whose brilliant beauty in your eyes annihilated all social inequalities? Love levels all distinctions, is an adage old as the hills. It brings down the proud heart, and teaches condescension to the haughty spirit; but its tendency is to elevate, to ennoble. It does not make a peasant of the prince, but a prince of the peasant.Behold the object of your adoration engaged in her ordinary duties! She fetches a jar of water from the well. Barefoot she treads the well-known path. Those nude pellucid feet are fairer in their nakedness than the most delicatechaussureof silk and satin. The wreaths and pearl circlets, the pins of gold and drupes of coral, the costliestcoiffuresof the dress circle,—all seem plain and poor compared with the glossynegligéof those bright tresses. The earthen jar sits upon her head with the grace of a golden coronet—every attitude is theposeof a statue, a study for a sculptor; and the coarse garment that drapes that form is in your eyes more becoming than a robe of richest velvet. You care not for that. You are not thinking of the casket, but of the pearl it conceals.She disappears within the cottage—her humble home. Humble? In your eyes no longer humble; that little kitchen, with its wooden chairs, and scoured dresser, its deal shelf, with mugs, cups, and willow-pattern plates, its lime-washed walls and cheap prints of the red soldier and the blue sailor—that little museum of thepenatesof the poor, is now filled with a light that renders it more brilliant than the gilded saloons of wealth and fashion. That cottage with its low roof, and woodbine trellis, has become a palace. The light of love has transformed it! A paradise you are forbidden to enter. Yes, with all your wealth and power, your fine looks and your titles of distinction, your superfine cloth and bright lacquered boots, mayhap you dare not enter there.And oh! how you envy those who dare!—how you envy the spruce apprentice, and the lout in the smock who cracks his whip, and whistles with as muchnonchalanceas if he was between the handles of his plough! as though the awe of that fair presence should not freeze his lips to stone!Gauchéthat he is, how you envy him hisopportunities! how you could slaughter him for those sweet smiles that appear to be lavished upon him!There maybe no meaning in those smiles. They may be the expressions of good-nature of simple friendship, perhaps of a little coquetry. For all that, you cannot behold them without envy—withoutsuspicionIf there be a meaning—if they be the smiles of love—if the heart of that simple girl has made its lodgement either upon the young apprentice or him of the smock—then are you fated to the bitterest pang that human breast can know. It is not jealousy of the ordinary kind. It is far more painful. Wounded vanity adds a poison to the sting. Oh! it is hard to bear!A pang of this nature I suffered, as I paced that high platform. Fortunately they had left me alone. The feelings that worked within me could not be concealed. My looks and wild gestures must have betrayed them. I should have been a subject for satire and laughter. But I was alone. The pilot in his glass-box did not notice me. His back was towards me, and his keen eye, bent steadily upon the water, was too busy with logs and sand-bars, and snags and sawyers, to take note of my delirium.ItwasAurore! Of that I had no doubt whatever. Her face was not to be mistaken for any other. There was none like it—none so lovely—alas! too fatally fair.Who couldhebe? Some young spark of the town? Some clerk in one of the stores? a young planter? who? Maybe—and with this thought came that bitter pang—one of her own proscribed race—a young man of “colour”—a mulatto—a quadroon—a slave! Ha! to be rivalled by a slave!—worse than rivalled.—Infamous coquette! Why had I yielded to her fascinations? Why had I mistaken her craft fornaïvété?—her falsehood for truth?Who couldhebe? I should search the boat till I found him. Unfortunately I had taken no marks, either of his face or his dress. My eyes had remained fixed upon her after their parting. In the shadow I had seen him only indistinctly; and as he passed under the lights I saw him not. How preposterous then to think of looking for him! I could not recognise him in such a crowd.I went below, and wandered through the cabins, under the front awning, and along the guard-ways. I scanned every face with an eagerness that to some must have appeared impertinence. Wherever one was young and handsome, he was an object of my scrutiny and jealousy. There were several such among the male passengers; and I endeavoured to distinguish those who had come aboard at Bringiers. There were some young men who appeared as if they had lately shipped, themselves, but I had no clue to guide me, and I failed to find my rival.In the chagrin of disappointment I returned once more to the roof; but I had hardly reached it, when a new thought came into my mind. I remembered that the slaves of the plantation were to be sent down to the city by the first boat. Were they not travelling by that very one? I had seen a crowd of blacks—men, women, and children—hastily driven aboard. I had paid but little heed to such a common spectacle—one that may be witnessed daily, hourly. I had not thought of it, that those might be the slaves of the plantation Besançon!If they were, then indeed there might still be hope; Aurore had not gone with them—but what of that? Though, like them, only a slave, it was not probable she would have been forced to herd with them upon the deck. But she had not come aboard! The staging had been already taken in, as I recognised her on the wharf-boat. On the supposition that the slaves of Besançon were aboard, my heart felt relieved. I was filled with a hope that all might yet be well.Why? you may ask. I answer—simply because the thought occurred to me, that the youth, who so tenderly parted from Aurore,might be a brother, or some near relative. I had not heard of such relationship. It might be so, however; and my heart, reacting from its hour of keen anguish, was eager to relieve itself by any hypothesis.I could not endure doubt longer; and turning on my heel, I hastened below. Down the kleets of the wheel-house, along the guard-way, then down the main stairs to the boiler-deck. Threading my way among bags of maize and hogsheads of sugar, now stooping under the great axle, now climbing over huge cotton-bales, I reached the after-part of the lower deck, usually appropriated to the “deck passengers”—the poor immigrants of Ireland and Germany, who here huddle miscellaneously with the swarthy bondsmen of the South.As I had hoped, there were they,—those black but friendly faces,—every one of them. Old Zip, and Aunt Chloe, and the little Chloe; Hannibal, the new coachman, and Caesar and Pompey, and all,—all on their way to the dreaded mart.I had halted a second or two before approaching them. The light was in my favour, and I saw them before discovering my presence. There were no signs of mirth in that sable group. I heard no laughter, no light revelry, as was their wont to indulge in in days gone by, among their little cabins in the quarter. A deep melancholy had taken possession of the features of all. Gloom was in every glance. Even the children, usually reckless of the unknown future, seemed impressed with the same sentiment. They rolled not about, tumbling over each other. They played not at all. They sat without stirring, and silent. Even they, poor infant helots, knew enough to fear for their dark future,—to shudder at the prospect of the slave-market.All were downcast. No wonder. They had been used to kind treatment. They might pass to a hard taskmaster. Not one of them knew where in another day should be his home—what sort of tyrant should be his lord. But that was not all. Still worse. Friends, they were going to be parted; relatives, they would be torn asunder—perhaps never to meet more. Husband looked upon wife, brother upon sister, father upon child, mother upon infant, with dread in the heart and agony in the eye.It was painful to gaze upon this sorrowing group, to contemplate the suffering, the mental anguish that spoke plainly in every face; to think of the wrongs which one man can legally put upon another—the deep sinful wrongs, the outrage of every human principle. Oh, it was terribly painful to look on that picture!It was some relief to me to know that my presence threw at least a momentary light over its shade. Smiles chased away the sombre shadows as I appeared, and joyous exclamations hailed me. Had I been their saviour, I could not have met a more eager welcome.Amidst their fervid ejaculations I could distinguish earnest appeals that I would buy them—that I would become their master—mingled with zealous protestations of service and devotion. Alas! they knew not how heavily at that moment the price of one of their number lay upon my heart.I strove to be gay, to cheer them with words of consolation. I rather needed to be myself consoled.During this while my eyes were busy. I scanned the faces of all. There was light enough glimmering from two oil-lamps to enable me to do so. Several were young mulattoes. Upon these my glance rested, one after the other. How my heart throbbed in this examination! It triumphed at length. Surely there was no face there thatshecould love? Were they all present? Yes, all—so Scipio said; all but Aurore.“And Aurore?” I asked; “have you heard any more of her?”“No, mass’; ’blieve ’Rore gone to de city. She go by de road in a carriage—not by de boat, some ob de folks say daat, I b’lieve.”This was strange enough. Taking the black aside—“Tell me, Scipio,” I asked, “has Aurore any relative among you?—any brother, or sister, or cousin?”“No, mass’, ne’er a one. Golly, mass’! ’Rore she near white as missa ’Génie all de rest be black, or leas’wise yeller! ’Rore she quaderoom, yeller folks all mulatto—no kin to ’Rore—no.”I was perplexed and puzzled. My former doubts came crowding back upon me. My jealousy returned.Scipio could not clear up the mystery. His answer to other questions which I put to him gave me no solution to it; and I returned up-stairs with a heart that suffered under the pressure of disappointment.The only reflection from which I drew comfort was, that I might have been mistaken. Perhaps, after all, it wasnotAurore!
Have you ever loved in humble life? some fair young girl, whose lot was among the lowly, but whose brilliant beauty in your eyes annihilated all social inequalities? Love levels all distinctions, is an adage old as the hills. It brings down the proud heart, and teaches condescension to the haughty spirit; but its tendency is to elevate, to ennoble. It does not make a peasant of the prince, but a prince of the peasant.
Behold the object of your adoration engaged in her ordinary duties! She fetches a jar of water from the well. Barefoot she treads the well-known path. Those nude pellucid feet are fairer in their nakedness than the most delicatechaussureof silk and satin. The wreaths and pearl circlets, the pins of gold and drupes of coral, the costliestcoiffuresof the dress circle,—all seem plain and poor compared with the glossynegligéof those bright tresses. The earthen jar sits upon her head with the grace of a golden coronet—every attitude is theposeof a statue, a study for a sculptor; and the coarse garment that drapes that form is in your eyes more becoming than a robe of richest velvet. You care not for that. You are not thinking of the casket, but of the pearl it conceals.
She disappears within the cottage—her humble home. Humble? In your eyes no longer humble; that little kitchen, with its wooden chairs, and scoured dresser, its deal shelf, with mugs, cups, and willow-pattern plates, its lime-washed walls and cheap prints of the red soldier and the blue sailor—that little museum of thepenatesof the poor, is now filled with a light that renders it more brilliant than the gilded saloons of wealth and fashion. That cottage with its low roof, and woodbine trellis, has become a palace. The light of love has transformed it! A paradise you are forbidden to enter. Yes, with all your wealth and power, your fine looks and your titles of distinction, your superfine cloth and bright lacquered boots, mayhap you dare not enter there.
And oh! how you envy those who dare!—how you envy the spruce apprentice, and the lout in the smock who cracks his whip, and whistles with as muchnonchalanceas if he was between the handles of his plough! as though the awe of that fair presence should not freeze his lips to stone!Gauchéthat he is, how you envy him hisopportunities! how you could slaughter him for those sweet smiles that appear to be lavished upon him!
There maybe no meaning in those smiles. They may be the expressions of good-nature of simple friendship, perhaps of a little coquetry. For all that, you cannot behold them without envy—withoutsuspicionIf there be a meaning—if they be the smiles of love—if the heart of that simple girl has made its lodgement either upon the young apprentice or him of the smock—then are you fated to the bitterest pang that human breast can know. It is not jealousy of the ordinary kind. It is far more painful. Wounded vanity adds a poison to the sting. Oh! it is hard to bear!
A pang of this nature I suffered, as I paced that high platform. Fortunately they had left me alone. The feelings that worked within me could not be concealed. My looks and wild gestures must have betrayed them. I should have been a subject for satire and laughter. But I was alone. The pilot in his glass-box did not notice me. His back was towards me, and his keen eye, bent steadily upon the water, was too busy with logs and sand-bars, and snags and sawyers, to take note of my delirium.
ItwasAurore! Of that I had no doubt whatever. Her face was not to be mistaken for any other. There was none like it—none so lovely—alas! too fatally fair.
Who couldhebe? Some young spark of the town? Some clerk in one of the stores? a young planter? who? Maybe—and with this thought came that bitter pang—one of her own proscribed race—a young man of “colour”—a mulatto—a quadroon—a slave! Ha! to be rivalled by a slave!—worse than rivalled.—Infamous coquette! Why had I yielded to her fascinations? Why had I mistaken her craft fornaïvété?—her falsehood for truth?
Who couldhebe? I should search the boat till I found him. Unfortunately I had taken no marks, either of his face or his dress. My eyes had remained fixed upon her after their parting. In the shadow I had seen him only indistinctly; and as he passed under the lights I saw him not. How preposterous then to think of looking for him! I could not recognise him in such a crowd.
I went below, and wandered through the cabins, under the front awning, and along the guard-ways. I scanned every face with an eagerness that to some must have appeared impertinence. Wherever one was young and handsome, he was an object of my scrutiny and jealousy. There were several such among the male passengers; and I endeavoured to distinguish those who had come aboard at Bringiers. There were some young men who appeared as if they had lately shipped, themselves, but I had no clue to guide me, and I failed to find my rival.
In the chagrin of disappointment I returned once more to the roof; but I had hardly reached it, when a new thought came into my mind. I remembered that the slaves of the plantation were to be sent down to the city by the first boat. Were they not travelling by that very one? I had seen a crowd of blacks—men, women, and children—hastily driven aboard. I had paid but little heed to such a common spectacle—one that may be witnessed daily, hourly. I had not thought of it, that those might be the slaves of the plantation Besançon!
If they were, then indeed there might still be hope; Aurore had not gone with them—but what of that? Though, like them, only a slave, it was not probable she would have been forced to herd with them upon the deck. But she had not come aboard! The staging had been already taken in, as I recognised her on the wharf-boat. On the supposition that the slaves of Besançon were aboard, my heart felt relieved. I was filled with a hope that all might yet be well.
Why? you may ask. I answer—simply because the thought occurred to me, that the youth, who so tenderly parted from Aurore,might be a brother, or some near relative. I had not heard of such relationship. It might be so, however; and my heart, reacting from its hour of keen anguish, was eager to relieve itself by any hypothesis.
I could not endure doubt longer; and turning on my heel, I hastened below. Down the kleets of the wheel-house, along the guard-way, then down the main stairs to the boiler-deck. Threading my way among bags of maize and hogsheads of sugar, now stooping under the great axle, now climbing over huge cotton-bales, I reached the after-part of the lower deck, usually appropriated to the “deck passengers”—the poor immigrants of Ireland and Germany, who here huddle miscellaneously with the swarthy bondsmen of the South.
As I had hoped, there were they,—those black but friendly faces,—every one of them. Old Zip, and Aunt Chloe, and the little Chloe; Hannibal, the new coachman, and Caesar and Pompey, and all,—all on their way to the dreaded mart.
I had halted a second or two before approaching them. The light was in my favour, and I saw them before discovering my presence. There were no signs of mirth in that sable group. I heard no laughter, no light revelry, as was their wont to indulge in in days gone by, among their little cabins in the quarter. A deep melancholy had taken possession of the features of all. Gloom was in every glance. Even the children, usually reckless of the unknown future, seemed impressed with the same sentiment. They rolled not about, tumbling over each other. They played not at all. They sat without stirring, and silent. Even they, poor infant helots, knew enough to fear for their dark future,—to shudder at the prospect of the slave-market.
All were downcast. No wonder. They had been used to kind treatment. They might pass to a hard taskmaster. Not one of them knew where in another day should be his home—what sort of tyrant should be his lord. But that was not all. Still worse. Friends, they were going to be parted; relatives, they would be torn asunder—perhaps never to meet more. Husband looked upon wife, brother upon sister, father upon child, mother upon infant, with dread in the heart and agony in the eye.
It was painful to gaze upon this sorrowing group, to contemplate the suffering, the mental anguish that spoke plainly in every face; to think of the wrongs which one man can legally put upon another—the deep sinful wrongs, the outrage of every human principle. Oh, it was terribly painful to look on that picture!
It was some relief to me to know that my presence threw at least a momentary light over its shade. Smiles chased away the sombre shadows as I appeared, and joyous exclamations hailed me. Had I been their saviour, I could not have met a more eager welcome.
Amidst their fervid ejaculations I could distinguish earnest appeals that I would buy them—that I would become their master—mingled with zealous protestations of service and devotion. Alas! they knew not how heavily at that moment the price of one of their number lay upon my heart.
I strove to be gay, to cheer them with words of consolation. I rather needed to be myself consoled.
During this while my eyes were busy. I scanned the faces of all. There was light enough glimmering from two oil-lamps to enable me to do so. Several were young mulattoes. Upon these my glance rested, one after the other. How my heart throbbed in this examination! It triumphed at length. Surely there was no face there thatshecould love? Were they all present? Yes, all—so Scipio said; all but Aurore.
“And Aurore?” I asked; “have you heard any more of her?”
“No, mass’; ’blieve ’Rore gone to de city. She go by de road in a carriage—not by de boat, some ob de folks say daat, I b’lieve.”
This was strange enough. Taking the black aside—
“Tell me, Scipio,” I asked, “has Aurore any relative among you?—any brother, or sister, or cousin?”
“No, mass’, ne’er a one. Golly, mass’! ’Rore she near white as missa ’Génie all de rest be black, or leas’wise yeller! ’Rore she quaderoom, yeller folks all mulatto—no kin to ’Rore—no.”
I was perplexed and puzzled. My former doubts came crowding back upon me. My jealousy returned.
Scipio could not clear up the mystery. His answer to other questions which I put to him gave me no solution to it; and I returned up-stairs with a heart that suffered under the pressure of disappointment.
The only reflection from which I drew comfort was, that I might have been mistaken. Perhaps, after all, it wasnotAurore!
Chapter Forty Six.A Scientific Julep.To drown care and sorrow men drink. The spirit of wine freely quaffed will master either bodily pain or mental suffering—for a time. There is no form of the one or phase of the other so difficult to subdue as the pang of jealousy. Wine must be deeply quaffed before that corroding poison can be washed free from the heart.But there is a partial relief in the wine-cup, and I sought it. I knew it to be only temporary, and that the sorrow would soon return. But even so—even a short respite was to be desired. I could bear my thoughts no longer.I am not brave in bearing pain. I have more than once intoxicated myself to deaden the pitiful pain of a toothache. By the same means I resolved to relieve the dire aching of my heart.The spirit of wine was nigh at hand, and might be imbibed in many forms.In one corner of the “smoking-saloon” was the “bar,” with its elegant adornments—its rows of decanters and bottles, with silver stoppers and labels its glasses, and lemons, and sugar-crushers—its bouquet of aromatic mint and fragrant pines—its bunches of straw tubes for “sucking” the “mint-julep,” the “sherry-cobbler,” or the “claret sangaree.”In the midst of thisentouragestood the “bar-keeper,” and in this individual do not picture to yourself some seedy personage of the waiter class, with bloodless cheeks and clammy skin, such as those monstrosities of an English hotel who give you a verydegoûtfor your dinner. On the contrary, behold anelegantof latest fashion—that is, the fashion of his country and class, the men of the river. He wears neither coat nor vest while in the exercise of his office, but his shirt will merit an observation. It is of the finest fabric of the Irish loom—too fine to be worn by those who have woven it—and no Bond Street furnishing-house could equal its “make up.”Gold buttons glance at the sleeves, and diamonds sparkle amid the profuse ruffles on the bosom. The collar is turned down over a black silk riband, knottedà la Byron; but a tropic sun has more to do with this fashion than any desire to imitate the sailor-poet. Over this shirt stretch silk braces elaborately needle-worked, and still further adorned by buckles of pure gold. A hat of the costly grass from the shores of the South Sea crowns his well-oiled locks, and thus you have the “bar-keeper of the boat.” His nether man need not be described. That is the unseen portion of his person, which is below the level of the bar. No cringing, smirking, obsequious counter-jumper he, but a dashing sprig, who, perhaps,ownshis bar and all its contents, and who holds his head as high as either the clerk or captain.As I approached this gentleman, he placed a glass upon the counter, and threw into it some broken fragments of ice. All this was done without a word having passed between us.I had no need to give an order. He saw in my eye the determination to drink.“Cobbler?”“No,” said I; “a mint-julep.”“Very well, I’ll mix you a julep that’ll set your teeth for you.”“Thank you. Just what I want.”The gentleman now placed side by side two glasses—tumblers of large size. Into one he put, first, a spoonful of crushed white sugar—then a slice of lemon—ditto of orange—next a few sprigs of green mint—after that a handful of broken ice, a gill of water, and, lastly, a large glass measure of cognac. This done, he lifted the glasses one in each hand, and poured the contents from one to the other so rapidly that ice, brandy, lemons, and all, seemed to be constantly suspended in the air, and oscillating between the glasses. The tumblers themselves at no time approached nearer than two feet from each other! This adroitness, peculiar to his craft, and only obtained after long practice, was evidently a source of professional pride. After some half-score of these revolutions the drink was permitted to rest in one glass, and was then set down upon the counter.There yet remained to be given the “finishing touch.” A thin slice of pine-apple was cut freshly from the fruit. This held between the finger and thumb was doubled over the edge of the glass, and then passed with an adroit sweep round the circumference.“That’s the latest Orleans touch,” remarked the bar-keeper with a smile, as he completed the manoeuvre.There was a double purpose in this little operation. The pine-apple not only cleared the glass of the grains of sugar and broken leaves of mint, but left its fragrant juice to mingle its aroma with the beverage.“The latest Orleans touch,” he repeated; “scientific style.”I nodded my assent.The julep was now “mixed”—which fact was made known to me by the glass being pushed a little nearer, across the marble surface of the counter.“Have a straw?” was the laconic inquiry.“Yes; thank you.”A joint of wheaten straw was plunged into the glass, and taking this between my lips I drew in large draughts of perhaps the most delicious of all intoxicating drinks—the mint-julep.The aromatic liquid had scarce passed my lips when I began to feel its effects. My pulse ceased its wild throbbing. My blood became cool, and flowed in a more gentle current through my veins, and my heart seemed to be bathing in the waters of Lethe. The relief was almost instantaneous, and I only wondered I had not thought of it before. Though still far from happy, I felt that I held in my hands what would soon make me so. Transitory that happiness might be, yet the reaction was welcome at the moment, and the prospect of it pleasant to my soul. I eagerly swallowed the inspiring beverage—swallowed it in large draughts, till the straw tube, rattling among the fragments of ice at the bottom of the glass, admonished me that the fluid was all gone.“Another, if you please!”“You liked it, I guess?”“Most excellent!”“Said so. I reckon, stranger, we can get up a mint-julep on board this here boat equal to either Saint Charles or Verandah, if not a leetle superior to either.”“A superb drink!”“We can mix a sherry-cobbler too, that ain’t hard to take.”“I have no doubt of it, but I’m not fond of sherry. I prefer this.”“You’re right. So do I. The pine-apple’s a new idea, but an improvement, I think.”“I think so too.”“Have a fresh straw?”“Thank you.”This young fellow was unusually civil. I fancied that his civility proceeded from my having eulogised his mint-juleps. It was not that, as I afterwards ascertained. These Western people are little accessible to cheap flattery. I owed his good opinion of me to a far different cause—the discomfiture I had put on the meddling passenger! I believe he had also learnt, that it was I who had chastised the Bully Larkin! Such “feats of arms” soon become known in the region of the Mississippi Valley, where strength and courage are qualities of high esteem. Hence, in the bar-keeper’s view, I was one who deserved a civil word; and thus talking together on the best of terms, I swallowed my second julep, and called upon him for a third, Aurore was for the moment forgotten, or when remembered, it was with less of bitterness. Now and then that parting scene came uppermost in my thoughts; but the pang that rose with it was each moment growing feebler, and easier to be endured.
To drown care and sorrow men drink. The spirit of wine freely quaffed will master either bodily pain or mental suffering—for a time. There is no form of the one or phase of the other so difficult to subdue as the pang of jealousy. Wine must be deeply quaffed before that corroding poison can be washed free from the heart.
But there is a partial relief in the wine-cup, and I sought it. I knew it to be only temporary, and that the sorrow would soon return. But even so—even a short respite was to be desired. I could bear my thoughts no longer.
I am not brave in bearing pain. I have more than once intoxicated myself to deaden the pitiful pain of a toothache. By the same means I resolved to relieve the dire aching of my heart.
The spirit of wine was nigh at hand, and might be imbibed in many forms.
In one corner of the “smoking-saloon” was the “bar,” with its elegant adornments—its rows of decanters and bottles, with silver stoppers and labels its glasses, and lemons, and sugar-crushers—its bouquet of aromatic mint and fragrant pines—its bunches of straw tubes for “sucking” the “mint-julep,” the “sherry-cobbler,” or the “claret sangaree.”
In the midst of thisentouragestood the “bar-keeper,” and in this individual do not picture to yourself some seedy personage of the waiter class, with bloodless cheeks and clammy skin, such as those monstrosities of an English hotel who give you a verydegoûtfor your dinner. On the contrary, behold anelegantof latest fashion—that is, the fashion of his country and class, the men of the river. He wears neither coat nor vest while in the exercise of his office, but his shirt will merit an observation. It is of the finest fabric of the Irish loom—too fine to be worn by those who have woven it—and no Bond Street furnishing-house could equal its “make up.”
Gold buttons glance at the sleeves, and diamonds sparkle amid the profuse ruffles on the bosom. The collar is turned down over a black silk riband, knottedà la Byron; but a tropic sun has more to do with this fashion than any desire to imitate the sailor-poet. Over this shirt stretch silk braces elaborately needle-worked, and still further adorned by buckles of pure gold. A hat of the costly grass from the shores of the South Sea crowns his well-oiled locks, and thus you have the “bar-keeper of the boat.” His nether man need not be described. That is the unseen portion of his person, which is below the level of the bar. No cringing, smirking, obsequious counter-jumper he, but a dashing sprig, who, perhaps,ownshis bar and all its contents, and who holds his head as high as either the clerk or captain.
As I approached this gentleman, he placed a glass upon the counter, and threw into it some broken fragments of ice. All this was done without a word having passed between us.
I had no need to give an order. He saw in my eye the determination to drink.
“Cobbler?”
“No,” said I; “a mint-julep.”
“Very well, I’ll mix you a julep that’ll set your teeth for you.”
“Thank you. Just what I want.”
The gentleman now placed side by side two glasses—tumblers of large size. Into one he put, first, a spoonful of crushed white sugar—then a slice of lemon—ditto of orange—next a few sprigs of green mint—after that a handful of broken ice, a gill of water, and, lastly, a large glass measure of cognac. This done, he lifted the glasses one in each hand, and poured the contents from one to the other so rapidly that ice, brandy, lemons, and all, seemed to be constantly suspended in the air, and oscillating between the glasses. The tumblers themselves at no time approached nearer than two feet from each other! This adroitness, peculiar to his craft, and only obtained after long practice, was evidently a source of professional pride. After some half-score of these revolutions the drink was permitted to rest in one glass, and was then set down upon the counter.
There yet remained to be given the “finishing touch.” A thin slice of pine-apple was cut freshly from the fruit. This held between the finger and thumb was doubled over the edge of the glass, and then passed with an adroit sweep round the circumference.
“That’s the latest Orleans touch,” remarked the bar-keeper with a smile, as he completed the manoeuvre.
There was a double purpose in this little operation. The pine-apple not only cleared the glass of the grains of sugar and broken leaves of mint, but left its fragrant juice to mingle its aroma with the beverage.
“The latest Orleans touch,” he repeated; “scientific style.”
I nodded my assent.
The julep was now “mixed”—which fact was made known to me by the glass being pushed a little nearer, across the marble surface of the counter.
“Have a straw?” was the laconic inquiry.
“Yes; thank you.”
A joint of wheaten straw was plunged into the glass, and taking this between my lips I drew in large draughts of perhaps the most delicious of all intoxicating drinks—the mint-julep.
The aromatic liquid had scarce passed my lips when I began to feel its effects. My pulse ceased its wild throbbing. My blood became cool, and flowed in a more gentle current through my veins, and my heart seemed to be bathing in the waters of Lethe. The relief was almost instantaneous, and I only wondered I had not thought of it before. Though still far from happy, I felt that I held in my hands what would soon make me so. Transitory that happiness might be, yet the reaction was welcome at the moment, and the prospect of it pleasant to my soul. I eagerly swallowed the inspiring beverage—swallowed it in large draughts, till the straw tube, rattling among the fragments of ice at the bottom of the glass, admonished me that the fluid was all gone.
“Another, if you please!”
“You liked it, I guess?”
“Most excellent!”
“Said so. I reckon, stranger, we can get up a mint-julep on board this here boat equal to either Saint Charles or Verandah, if not a leetle superior to either.”
“A superb drink!”
“We can mix a sherry-cobbler too, that ain’t hard to take.”
“I have no doubt of it, but I’m not fond of sherry. I prefer this.”
“You’re right. So do I. The pine-apple’s a new idea, but an improvement, I think.”
“I think so too.”
“Have a fresh straw?”
“Thank you.”
This young fellow was unusually civil. I fancied that his civility proceeded from my having eulogised his mint-juleps. It was not that, as I afterwards ascertained. These Western people are little accessible to cheap flattery. I owed his good opinion of me to a far different cause—the discomfiture I had put on the meddling passenger! I believe he had also learnt, that it was I who had chastised the Bully Larkin! Such “feats of arms” soon become known in the region of the Mississippi Valley, where strength and courage are qualities of high esteem. Hence, in the bar-keeper’s view, I was one who deserved a civil word; and thus talking together on the best of terms, I swallowed my second julep, and called upon him for a third, Aurore was for the moment forgotten, or when remembered, it was with less of bitterness. Now and then that parting scene came uppermost in my thoughts; but the pang that rose with it was each moment growing feebler, and easier to be endured.
Chapter Forty Seven.A Game of Whist.In the centre of the smoking-saloon, there was a table, and around it some half-dozen men were seated. Other half-dozen stood behind these, looking over their shoulders. The attitudes of all, and their eager glances, suggested the nature of their occupation. The flouting of pasteboard, the chink of dollars, and the oft-recurring words of “ace,” “jack,” and “trump,” put it beyond a doubt that that occupation was gaming. “Euchre” was the game.Curious to observe this popular American game, I stepped up and stood watching the players. My friend who had raised the false alarm was one of them; but his back was towards me, and I remained for some time unseen by him.Some two or three of those who played were elegantly-dressed men. Their coats were of the finest cloth, their ruffles of the costliest cambric, and jewels sparkled in their shirt bosoms and glittered upon their fingers. These fingers, however, told a tale. They told plainly as words, that they to whom they belonged had not always been accustomed to such elegant adornment. Toilet soap had failed to soften the corrugated skin, and obliterate the abrasions—the souvenirs of toil.This was nothing. They might be gentlemen for all that. Birth is of slight consequence in the Far West. The plough-boy may become the President.Still there was an air about these men—an air I cannot describe, but which led me at the moment to doubt theirgentility. It was not from any swagger or assumption on their part. On the contrary, they appeared themost gentlemanlyindividuals around the table!They were certainly the most sedate and quiet. Perhaps it was this very sedateness—this polished reserve—that formed the spring of my suspicion. True gentlemen, bloods from Tennessee or Kentucky, young planters of the Mississippi coast, or French Creoles of Orleans, would have offered different characteristics. The cool complacency with which these individuals spoke and acted—no symptoms of perturbation as the trump was turned, no signs of ruffled temper when luck went against them—told two things; first, that they were men of the world, and, secondly, that they were not now playing their maiden game of “Euchre.” Beyond that I could form no judgment about them. They might be doctors, lawyers, or “gentlemen of elegant leisure”—a class by no means uncommon in the work-a-day world of America.At that time I was still too new to Far West society, to be able to distinguish its features. Besides, in the United States, and particularly in the western portion of the country, those peculiarities of dress and habit, which in the Old-World form, as it were, the landmarks of the professions, do not exist. You may meet the preacher wearing a blue coat and bright buttons; the judge with a green one; the doctor in a white linen jacket; and the baker in glossy black broadcloth from top to toe!Where every man assumes the right to be a gentleman, the costumes and badges of trade are studiously avoided. Even the tailor is undistinguishable in the mass of his “fellow-citizens.” The land of character-dresses lies farther to the south-west—Mexico is that land.I stood for some time watching the gamesters and the game. Had I not known something of the banking peculiarities of the West, I should have believed that they were gambling for enormous sums. At each man’s right elbow lay a huge pile of bank-notes, flanked by a few pieces of silver—dollars, halves, and quarters. Accustomed as my eyes had been to bank-notes of five pounds in value, the table would have presented to me a rich appearance, had I not known that these showy parallelograms of copper-plate and banking-paper, were mere “shin-plasters,” representing amounts that varied from the value of one dollar to that of six and a quarter cents! Notwithstanding, the bets were far from being low. Twenty, fifty, and even a hundred dollars, frequently changed hands in a single game.I perceived that the hero of the false alarm was one of the players. His back was towards me where I stood, and he was too much engrossed with his game to look around.In dress and general appearance he differed altogether from the rest. He wore a white beaver hat with broad brim, and a coat of great “jeans,” wide-sleeved and loose-bodied. He had the look of a well-to-do corn-farmer from Indiana or a pork-merchant from Cincinnati. Yet there was something in his manner that told you river-travelling was not new to him. It was not his first trip “down South.” Most probably the second supposition was the correct one—he was a dealer in hog-meat.One of the fine gentlemen I have described sat opposite to where I was standing. He appeared to be losing considerable sums, which the farmer or pork-merchant was winning. It proved that the luck of the cards was not in favour of the smartest-looking players—an inducement to other plain people to try a hand.I began to feel sympathy for the elegant gentleman, his losses were so severe. I could not help admiring the composure with which he bore them.At length he looked up, and scanned the faces of those who stood around. He seemed desirous of giving up the play. His eye met mine. He said, in a careless way—“Perhaps, stranger,youwish to take a hand? You may have my place if you do. I have no luck. I could not win under any circumstances to-night. I shall give up playing.”This appeal caused the rest of the players to turn their faces towards me, and among others the pork-dealer. I expected an ebullition of anger from this individual. I was disappointed. On the contrary, he hailed me in a friendly tone.“Hilloa, mister!” cried he, “I hope you an’t miffed at me?”“Not in the least,” I replied.“Fact, I meant no offence. Did think thar war a some ’un overboard. Dog-gone me, if I didn’t!”“Oh! I have taken no offence,” rejoined I; “to prove it, I ask you now to drink with me.”The juleps and the late reaction from bitter thought had rendered me of a jovial disposition. The free apology at once won my forgiveness.“Good as wheat!” assented the pork-dealer. “I’m your man; but, stranger, you must allow me to pay. You see, I’ve won a trifle here.Myright to pay for the drinks.”“Oh! I have no objection.”“Well, then, let’s all licker!Istand drinks all round. What say you, fellars?” A murmur of assent answered the interrogatory.“Good!” continued the speaker. “Hyar, bar-keeper! drinks for the crowd!”And so saying, he of the white-hat and jeans coat stepped forward to the bar, and placed a couple of dollars upon the counter. All who were near followed him, shouting each out the name of the beverage most to his liking in the various calls of “gin-sling,” “cocktail,” “cobbler,” “julep,” “brandy-smash,” and such-like interesting mixtures.In America men do not sit and sip their liquor, but drink standing.Running, one might say—for, be it hot or cold, mixed or “neat,” it is gone in a gulp, and then the drinkers retire to their chairs to smoke, chew, and wait for the fresh invitation, “Let’s all licker!”In a few seconds we had all liquored, and the players once more took their seats around the table.The gentleman who had proposed to me to become his successor did not return to his place. He had no luck, he again said, and would not play any more that night.Who would accept his place and his partner? I was appealed to.I thanked my new acquaintances, but the thing was impossible, as I had never played Euchre, and therefore knew nothing about the game, beyond the few points I had picked up while watching them.“That ar awkward,” said the pork-dealer. “Ain’t we nohow able to get up a set? Come, Mr Chorley—I believe that’s your name, sir?” (This was addressed to the gentleman who had risen.) “You ain’t a-goin’ to desart us that away? We can’t make up a game if you do?”“I should only lose if I played longer,” reiterated Chorley. “No,” continued he, “I won’t risk it.”“Perhaps this gentleman plays ‘whist,’” suggested another, alluding to me. “You’re an Englishman, sir, I believe. I never knew one of your countrymen who was not a good whist-player.”“True, I can play whist,” I replied carelessly.“Well, then, what say you all to a game of whist?” inquired the last speaker, glancing around the table.“Don’t know much about the game,” bluntly answered the pork-dealer. “Mout play it on a pinch rayther than spoil sport; but whoever hez me for a partner ’ll have to keep a sharp look-out for himself, I reckon.”“I guess you know the game as well as I do,” replied the one who had proposed it.“I hain’t played a rubber o’ whist for many a year, but if we can’t make up the set at Euchre, let’s try one.”“Oh! if you’re goin’ to play whist,” interposed the gentleman who had seceded from the game of Euchre—“if you’re going to play whist, I don’t mind taking a hand atthat—it may change my luck—and if this gentleman has no objection, I’d like him for my partner. As you say, sir, Englishmen are good whist-players. It’s their national game, I believe.”“Won’t be a fair match, Mr Chorley,” said the dealer in hog-meat; “but since you propose it, if Mr Hatcher here—your name, sir, I believe?”“Hatcher is my name,” replied the person addressed, the same who suggested whist.“If Mr Hatcher here,” continued white-hat, “has no objection to the arrangement, I’ll not back out. Doggoned, if I do!”“Oh! I don’t care,” said Hatcher, in a tone of reckless indifference, “anything to get up a game.”Now, I was never fond of gambling, either amateur or otherwise, but circumstances had made me a tolerable whist-player, and I knew there were few who could beat me at it. If my partner knew the game as well, I felt certain we could not be badly damaged; and according to all accounts he understood it well. This was the opinion of one or two of the bystanders, who whispered in my ear that he was a “whole team” at whist.Partly from the reckless mood I was in—partly that a secret purpose urged me on—a purpose which developed itself more strongly afterwards—and partly that I had been bantered, and, as it were, “cornered” into the thing, I consented to play—Chorley and IversusHatcher and the pork-merchant.We took our seats—partnersvis-à-vis—the cards were shuffled, cut, dealt, and the game began.
In the centre of the smoking-saloon, there was a table, and around it some half-dozen men were seated. Other half-dozen stood behind these, looking over their shoulders. The attitudes of all, and their eager glances, suggested the nature of their occupation. The flouting of pasteboard, the chink of dollars, and the oft-recurring words of “ace,” “jack,” and “trump,” put it beyond a doubt that that occupation was gaming. “Euchre” was the game.
Curious to observe this popular American game, I stepped up and stood watching the players. My friend who had raised the false alarm was one of them; but his back was towards me, and I remained for some time unseen by him.
Some two or three of those who played were elegantly-dressed men. Their coats were of the finest cloth, their ruffles of the costliest cambric, and jewels sparkled in their shirt bosoms and glittered upon their fingers. These fingers, however, told a tale. They told plainly as words, that they to whom they belonged had not always been accustomed to such elegant adornment. Toilet soap had failed to soften the corrugated skin, and obliterate the abrasions—the souvenirs of toil.
This was nothing. They might be gentlemen for all that. Birth is of slight consequence in the Far West. The plough-boy may become the President.
Still there was an air about these men—an air I cannot describe, but which led me at the moment to doubt theirgentility. It was not from any swagger or assumption on their part. On the contrary, they appeared themost gentlemanlyindividuals around the table!
They were certainly the most sedate and quiet. Perhaps it was this very sedateness—this polished reserve—that formed the spring of my suspicion. True gentlemen, bloods from Tennessee or Kentucky, young planters of the Mississippi coast, or French Creoles of Orleans, would have offered different characteristics. The cool complacency with which these individuals spoke and acted—no symptoms of perturbation as the trump was turned, no signs of ruffled temper when luck went against them—told two things; first, that they were men of the world, and, secondly, that they were not now playing their maiden game of “Euchre.” Beyond that I could form no judgment about them. They might be doctors, lawyers, or “gentlemen of elegant leisure”—a class by no means uncommon in the work-a-day world of America.
At that time I was still too new to Far West society, to be able to distinguish its features. Besides, in the United States, and particularly in the western portion of the country, those peculiarities of dress and habit, which in the Old-World form, as it were, the landmarks of the professions, do not exist. You may meet the preacher wearing a blue coat and bright buttons; the judge with a green one; the doctor in a white linen jacket; and the baker in glossy black broadcloth from top to toe!
Where every man assumes the right to be a gentleman, the costumes and badges of trade are studiously avoided. Even the tailor is undistinguishable in the mass of his “fellow-citizens.” The land of character-dresses lies farther to the south-west—Mexico is that land.
I stood for some time watching the gamesters and the game. Had I not known something of the banking peculiarities of the West, I should have believed that they were gambling for enormous sums. At each man’s right elbow lay a huge pile of bank-notes, flanked by a few pieces of silver—dollars, halves, and quarters. Accustomed as my eyes had been to bank-notes of five pounds in value, the table would have presented to me a rich appearance, had I not known that these showy parallelograms of copper-plate and banking-paper, were mere “shin-plasters,” representing amounts that varied from the value of one dollar to that of six and a quarter cents! Notwithstanding, the bets were far from being low. Twenty, fifty, and even a hundred dollars, frequently changed hands in a single game.
I perceived that the hero of the false alarm was one of the players. His back was towards me where I stood, and he was too much engrossed with his game to look around.
In dress and general appearance he differed altogether from the rest. He wore a white beaver hat with broad brim, and a coat of great “jeans,” wide-sleeved and loose-bodied. He had the look of a well-to-do corn-farmer from Indiana or a pork-merchant from Cincinnati. Yet there was something in his manner that told you river-travelling was not new to him. It was not his first trip “down South.” Most probably the second supposition was the correct one—he was a dealer in hog-meat.
One of the fine gentlemen I have described sat opposite to where I was standing. He appeared to be losing considerable sums, which the farmer or pork-merchant was winning. It proved that the luck of the cards was not in favour of the smartest-looking players—an inducement to other plain people to try a hand.
I began to feel sympathy for the elegant gentleman, his losses were so severe. I could not help admiring the composure with which he bore them.
At length he looked up, and scanned the faces of those who stood around. He seemed desirous of giving up the play. His eye met mine. He said, in a careless way—
“Perhaps, stranger,youwish to take a hand? You may have my place if you do. I have no luck. I could not win under any circumstances to-night. I shall give up playing.”
This appeal caused the rest of the players to turn their faces towards me, and among others the pork-dealer. I expected an ebullition of anger from this individual. I was disappointed. On the contrary, he hailed me in a friendly tone.
“Hilloa, mister!” cried he, “I hope you an’t miffed at me?”
“Not in the least,” I replied.
“Fact, I meant no offence. Did think thar war a some ’un overboard. Dog-gone me, if I didn’t!”
“Oh! I have taken no offence,” rejoined I; “to prove it, I ask you now to drink with me.”
The juleps and the late reaction from bitter thought had rendered me of a jovial disposition. The free apology at once won my forgiveness.
“Good as wheat!” assented the pork-dealer. “I’m your man; but, stranger, you must allow me to pay. You see, I’ve won a trifle here.Myright to pay for the drinks.”
“Oh! I have no objection.”
“Well, then, let’s all licker!Istand drinks all round. What say you, fellars?” A murmur of assent answered the interrogatory.
“Good!” continued the speaker. “Hyar, bar-keeper! drinks for the crowd!”
And so saying, he of the white-hat and jeans coat stepped forward to the bar, and placed a couple of dollars upon the counter. All who were near followed him, shouting each out the name of the beverage most to his liking in the various calls of “gin-sling,” “cocktail,” “cobbler,” “julep,” “brandy-smash,” and such-like interesting mixtures.
In America men do not sit and sip their liquor, but drink standing.Running, one might say—for, be it hot or cold, mixed or “neat,” it is gone in a gulp, and then the drinkers retire to their chairs to smoke, chew, and wait for the fresh invitation, “Let’s all licker!”
In a few seconds we had all liquored, and the players once more took their seats around the table.
The gentleman who had proposed to me to become his successor did not return to his place. He had no luck, he again said, and would not play any more that night.
Who would accept his place and his partner? I was appealed to.
I thanked my new acquaintances, but the thing was impossible, as I had never played Euchre, and therefore knew nothing about the game, beyond the few points I had picked up while watching them.
“That ar awkward,” said the pork-dealer. “Ain’t we nohow able to get up a set? Come, Mr Chorley—I believe that’s your name, sir?” (This was addressed to the gentleman who had risen.) “You ain’t a-goin’ to desart us that away? We can’t make up a game if you do?”
“I should only lose if I played longer,” reiterated Chorley. “No,” continued he, “I won’t risk it.”
“Perhaps this gentleman plays ‘whist,’” suggested another, alluding to me. “You’re an Englishman, sir, I believe. I never knew one of your countrymen who was not a good whist-player.”
“True, I can play whist,” I replied carelessly.
“Well, then, what say you all to a game of whist?” inquired the last speaker, glancing around the table.
“Don’t know much about the game,” bluntly answered the pork-dealer. “Mout play it on a pinch rayther than spoil sport; but whoever hez me for a partner ’ll have to keep a sharp look-out for himself, I reckon.”
“I guess you know the game as well as I do,” replied the one who had proposed it.
“I hain’t played a rubber o’ whist for many a year, but if we can’t make up the set at Euchre, let’s try one.”
“Oh! if you’re goin’ to play whist,” interposed the gentleman who had seceded from the game of Euchre—“if you’re going to play whist, I don’t mind taking a hand atthat—it may change my luck—and if this gentleman has no objection, I’d like him for my partner. As you say, sir, Englishmen are good whist-players. It’s their national game, I believe.”
“Won’t be a fair match, Mr Chorley,” said the dealer in hog-meat; “but since you propose it, if Mr Hatcher here—your name, sir, I believe?”
“Hatcher is my name,” replied the person addressed, the same who suggested whist.
“If Mr Hatcher here,” continued white-hat, “has no objection to the arrangement, I’ll not back out. Doggoned, if I do!”
“Oh! I don’t care,” said Hatcher, in a tone of reckless indifference, “anything to get up a game.”
Now, I was never fond of gambling, either amateur or otherwise, but circumstances had made me a tolerable whist-player, and I knew there were few who could beat me at it. If my partner knew the game as well, I felt certain we could not be badly damaged; and according to all accounts he understood it well. This was the opinion of one or two of the bystanders, who whispered in my ear that he was a “whole team” at whist.
Partly from the reckless mood I was in—partly that a secret purpose urged me on—a purpose which developed itself more strongly afterwards—and partly that I had been bantered, and, as it were, “cornered” into the thing, I consented to play—Chorley and IversusHatcher and the pork-merchant.
We took our seats—partnersvis-à-vis—the cards were shuffled, cut, dealt, and the game began.
Chapter Forty Eight.The Game Interrupted.We played the first two or three games for low stakes—a dollar each. This was agreeable to the desire of Hatcher and the pork-merchant—who did not like to risk much as they had nearly forgotten the game. Both, however, made “hedge bets” freely against my partner, Chorley, and against any one who chose to take them up. These bets were on the turn-up, the colour, the “honours,” or the “odd trick.”My partner and I won the two first games, and rapidly. I noted several instances of bad play on the part of our opponent. I began to believe that they really were not a match for us. Chorley said so with an air of triumph, as though we were playing merely for the honour of the thing, and the stakes were of no consequence. After a while, as we won another game, he repeated the boast.The pork-dealer and his partner seemed to get a little nettled.“It’s the cards,” said the latter, with an air of pique.“Of coorse it’s the cards,” repeated white-hat. “Had nothing but darned rubbish since the game begun. Thar again!”“Bad cards again?” inquired his partner with a sombre countenance.“Bad as blazes! couldn’t win corn-shucks with ’em.”“Come, gentlemen!” cried my partner, Chorley; “not exactly fair that—no hints.”“Bah!” ejaculated the dealer. “Mout show you my hand, for that matter. Thar ain’t a trick in it.”We won again!Our adversaries, getting still more nettled at our success, now proposed doubling the stakes. This was agreed to, and another game played.Again Chorley and I were winners, and the pork-man asked his partner if he would double again. The latter consented after a little hesitation, as though he thought the amount too high. Of course we, the winners, could not object, and once more we “swept the shin-plasters,” as Chorley euphoniously expressed it.The stakes were again doubled, and possibly would have increased in the same ratio again and again had I not made a positive objection. I remembered the amount of cash I carried in my pocket, and knew that at such a rate, should fortune go against us, my purse would not hold out. I consented, however, to a stake of ten dollars each, and at this amount we continued the play.It was well we had not gone higher, for from this time fortune seemed to desert us. We lost almost every time, and at the rate of ten dollars a game. I felt my purse grow sensibly lighter. I was in a fair way of being “cleared out.”My partner, hitherto so cool, seemed to lose patience, at intervals anathematising the cards, and wishing he had never consented to a game of “nasty whist.” Whether it was this excitement that caused it I could not tell, but certainly he played badly—much worse than at the beginning. Several times he flung down his cards without thought or caution. It seemed as if his temper, ruffled at our repeated losses, rendered him careless, and even reckless, about the result. I was the more surprised at this, as but an hour before at Euchre I had seen him lose sums of double the amount apparently with the utmost indifference.We had not bad luck neither. Each hand our cards were good; and several times I felt certain we should have won, had my partner played his hand more skilfully. As it was, we continued to lose, until I felt satisfied that nearly half of my money was in the pockets of Hatcher and the pork-dealer.No doubt the whole of it would soon have found its way into the same receptacles, had not our game been suddenly, and somewhat mysteriously, interrupted.Some loud words were heard—apparently from the lower deck—followed by a double report, as of two pistols discharged in rapid succession, and the moment after a voice called out, “Great God! there’s a man shot!”The cards fell from our fingers—each seized his share of the stakes, springing to his feet as he did so; and then players, backers, lookers-on, and all, making for front and side entrances, rushedpell-mellout of the saloon.Some ran down stairs—some sprang up to the hurricane-deck—some took aft, others forward, all crying out “Who is it?” “Where is he?” “Who fired?” “Is he killed?” and a dozen like interrogatories, interrupted at intervals by the screams of the ladies in their cabins. The alarm of the “woman overboard” was nothing to this new scene of excitement and confusion. But what was most mysterious was the fact that no killed or wounded individual could be found, nor any one who had either fired a pistol or had seen one fired! no man had been shot, nor had any man shot him!What the deuce could it mean? Who had cried out that some one was shot? That no one could tell! Mystery, indeed. Lights were carried round into all the dark corners of the boat, but neither dead nor wounded, nor trace of blood, could be discovered; and at length men broke out in laughter, and stated their belief that the “hul thing was a hoax.” So declared the dealer in hog-meat, who seemed rather gratified that he no longer stood alone as a contriver of false alarms.
We played the first two or three games for low stakes—a dollar each. This was agreeable to the desire of Hatcher and the pork-merchant—who did not like to risk much as they had nearly forgotten the game. Both, however, made “hedge bets” freely against my partner, Chorley, and against any one who chose to take them up. These bets were on the turn-up, the colour, the “honours,” or the “odd trick.”
My partner and I won the two first games, and rapidly. I noted several instances of bad play on the part of our opponent. I began to believe that they really were not a match for us. Chorley said so with an air of triumph, as though we were playing merely for the honour of the thing, and the stakes were of no consequence. After a while, as we won another game, he repeated the boast.
The pork-dealer and his partner seemed to get a little nettled.
“It’s the cards,” said the latter, with an air of pique.
“Of coorse it’s the cards,” repeated white-hat. “Had nothing but darned rubbish since the game begun. Thar again!”
“Bad cards again?” inquired his partner with a sombre countenance.
“Bad as blazes! couldn’t win corn-shucks with ’em.”
“Come, gentlemen!” cried my partner, Chorley; “not exactly fair that—no hints.”
“Bah!” ejaculated the dealer. “Mout show you my hand, for that matter. Thar ain’t a trick in it.”
We won again!
Our adversaries, getting still more nettled at our success, now proposed doubling the stakes. This was agreed to, and another game played.
Again Chorley and I were winners, and the pork-man asked his partner if he would double again. The latter consented after a little hesitation, as though he thought the amount too high. Of course we, the winners, could not object, and once more we “swept the shin-plasters,” as Chorley euphoniously expressed it.
The stakes were again doubled, and possibly would have increased in the same ratio again and again had I not made a positive objection. I remembered the amount of cash I carried in my pocket, and knew that at such a rate, should fortune go against us, my purse would not hold out. I consented, however, to a stake of ten dollars each, and at this amount we continued the play.
It was well we had not gone higher, for from this time fortune seemed to desert us. We lost almost every time, and at the rate of ten dollars a game. I felt my purse grow sensibly lighter. I was in a fair way of being “cleared out.”
My partner, hitherto so cool, seemed to lose patience, at intervals anathematising the cards, and wishing he had never consented to a game of “nasty whist.” Whether it was this excitement that caused it I could not tell, but certainly he played badly—much worse than at the beginning. Several times he flung down his cards without thought or caution. It seemed as if his temper, ruffled at our repeated losses, rendered him careless, and even reckless, about the result. I was the more surprised at this, as but an hour before at Euchre I had seen him lose sums of double the amount apparently with the utmost indifference.
We had not bad luck neither. Each hand our cards were good; and several times I felt certain we should have won, had my partner played his hand more skilfully. As it was, we continued to lose, until I felt satisfied that nearly half of my money was in the pockets of Hatcher and the pork-dealer.
No doubt the whole of it would soon have found its way into the same receptacles, had not our game been suddenly, and somewhat mysteriously, interrupted.
Some loud words were heard—apparently from the lower deck—followed by a double report, as of two pistols discharged in rapid succession, and the moment after a voice called out, “Great God! there’s a man shot!”
The cards fell from our fingers—each seized his share of the stakes, springing to his feet as he did so; and then players, backers, lookers-on, and all, making for front and side entrances, rushedpell-mellout of the saloon.
Some ran down stairs—some sprang up to the hurricane-deck—some took aft, others forward, all crying out “Who is it?” “Where is he?” “Who fired?” “Is he killed?” and a dozen like interrogatories, interrupted at intervals by the screams of the ladies in their cabins. The alarm of the “woman overboard” was nothing to this new scene of excitement and confusion. But what was most mysterious was the fact that no killed or wounded individual could be found, nor any one who had either fired a pistol or had seen one fired! no man had been shot, nor had any man shot him!
What the deuce could it mean? Who had cried out that some one was shot? That no one could tell! Mystery, indeed. Lights were carried round into all the dark corners of the boat, but neither dead nor wounded, nor trace of blood, could be discovered; and at length men broke out in laughter, and stated their belief that the “hul thing was a hoax.” So declared the dealer in hog-meat, who seemed rather gratified that he no longer stood alone as a contriver of false alarms.
Chapter Forty Nine.The Sportsmen of the Mississippi.Before things had reached this point, I had gained an explanation of the mysterious alarm. I alone knew it, along with the individual who had caused it.On hearing the shots, I had run forward under the front awning, and stood looking over the guards. I was looking down upon the boiler-deck—for it appeared to me that the loud words that preceded the reports had issued thence, though I also thought that the shots had been fired at some point nearer.Most of the people had gone out by the side entrances, and were standing over the gangways, so that I was alone in the darkness, or nearly so.I had not been many seconds in this situation, when some one glided alongside of me, and touched me on the arm. I turned and inquired who it was, and what was wanted. A voice answered me in French—“A friend, Monsieur, who wishes to do you a service.”“Ha, that voice! It was you, then, who called out—”“It was.”“And—”“I who fired the shots—precisely.”“There is no one killed, then?”“Not that I know of. My pistol was pointed to the sky—besides it was loaded blank.”“I’m glad of that, Monsieur; but for what purpose, may I ask, have you—”“Simply to doyoua service, as I have said.”“But how do you contemplate serving me by firing off pistols, and frightening the passengers of the boat out of their senses?”“Oh! as to that, there’s no harm done. They’ll soon got over their little alarm. I wanted to speak with you alone. I could think of no other device to separate you from your new acquaintances. The firing of my pistol was only aruseto effect that purpose. It has succeeded, you perceive.”“Ha! Monsieur, it was you then who whispered the word in my ear as I sat down to play?”“Yes; have I not prophesied truly?”“So far you have. It was you who stood opposite me in the corner of the saloon?”“It was I.”Let me explain these two last interrogatories. As I was about consenting to the game of whist, some one plucked my sleeve, and whispered in French—“Don’t play, Monsieur; you are certain to lose.”I turned in the direction of the speaker, and saw a young man just leaving my side; but was not certain whether it was he who had given this prudent counsel. As is known, I did not heed it.Again, while engaged in the game, I noticed this same young man standing in front of me, but in a distant and somewhat dark corner of the saloon. Notwithstanding the darkness, I saw that his eyes were bent upon me, as I played. This fact would have drawn my attention of itself, but there was also an expression in the face that at once fixed my interest; and, each time, while the cards were being dealt, I took the opportunity to turn my eyes upon this strange individual.He was a slender youth, under the medium height, and apparently scarce twenty years of age, but a melancholy tone that pervaded his countenance made him look a little older. His features were small, but finely chiselled—the nose and lips resembling more those of a woman. His cheek was almost colourless, and dark silky hair fell in profuse curls over his neck and shoulders; for such at that time was the Creole fashion. I felt certain the youth was a Creole, partly from his French cast of countenance, partly from the fashion and material of his dress, and partly because he spoke French—for I was under the impression it was he who had spoken to me. His costume was altogether of Creole fashion. He wore a blouse of brown linen—not after the mode of that famous garment as known in France—but as the Creole “hunting-shirt,” with plaited body and gracefully-gathered skirt. Its material, moreover,—the fine unbleached linen,—showed that the style was one of choice, not a mere necessary covering. His pantaloons were of the finest sky-bluecottonade—the produce of the looms of Opelousas. They were plaited very full below the waist, and open at the bottoms with rows of buttons to close them around the ankles when occasion required. There was no vest. Its place was supplied by ample frills of cambric lace, that puffed out over the breast. Thechaussureconsisted of gaiter-bootees of drab lasting-cloth, tipped with patent leather, and fastened over the front with a silk lace. A broad-brimmed Panama hat completed the dress, and gave the finishing touch to this truly Southern costume.There was nothingoutréabout either the shirt, the pantaloons, the head-dress, or foot-gear. All were in keeping—all were in a style that at that period was themodeupon the lower Mississippi. It was not, therefore, the dress of this youth that had arrested my attention. I had been in the habit of seeing such, every day. It could not be that. No—the dress had nothing to do with the interest which he had excited. Perhaps my regarding him as the author of the brief counsel that had been uttered in my ear had a little to do with it—but not all. Independent of that, there was something in the face itself that forcibly attracted my regard—so forcibly that I began to ponder whether I had ever seen it before. If there had been a better light, I might have resolved the doubt, but he stood in shadow, and I could not get a fair view of him.It was just about this time that I missed him from his station in the corner of the saloon, and a minute or two later were heard the shouts and shots from without.“And now, Monsieur, may I inquire why you wish to speak to me, and what you have to say?”I was beginning to feel annoyed at the interference of this young fellow. A man does not relish being suddenly pulled up from a game of whist; and not a bit the more that he has been losing at it.“Why I wish to speak to you is, because I feel an interest in you. What I have to say you shall hear.”“An interest in me! And pray, Sir, to what am I indebted for this interest?”“Is it not enough that you are a stranger likely to be plundered of your purse?—agreen-horn—”“How, Monsieur?”“Nay, do not be angry with me. That is the phrase which I have heard applied to you to-night by more than one of your new acquaintances. If you return to play with them, I think you will merit the title.”“Come, Monsieur, this is too bad: you interfere in a matter that does not concern you.”“True, it does not; but it concernsyou, and yet—ah!”I was about to leave this meddling youth, and hurry back to the game, when the strange melancholy tone of his voice caused me to hesitate, and remain by him a little longer.“Well,” I said, “you have not yet told me what you wished to say.”“Indeed, I have said already. I have told you not to play—that you would lose if you did. I repeat that counsel.”“True, I have lost a little, but it does not follow that fortune will be always on one side. It is rather my partner’s fault, who seems a bad player.”“Your partner, if I mistake not, is one of the best players on the river. I think I have seen that gentleman before.”“Ha! you know him them?”“Something of him—not much, but that much I know. Doyouknow him?”“Never saw him before to-night.”“Nor any of the others?”“They are all equally strangers to me.”“You are not aware, then, that you are playing withsportsmen?”“No, but I am very glad to hear it. I am something of a sportsman myself—as fond of dogs, horses, and guns, as any of the three, I warrant.”“Ha! Monsieur, you misapprehend. A sportsman in your country, and a sportsman in a Mississippi steamboat, are two very distinct things. Foxes, hares, and partridges, are the game of your sportsman. Greenhorns and their purses are the game of gentry like these.”“The men with whom I am playing, then, are—”“Professional gamblers—steamboat sharpers.”“Are you sure of this, Monsieur?”“Quite sure of it. Oh! I often travel up and down to New Orleans. I have seen them all before.”“But one of them has the look of a farmer or a merchant, as I thought—a pork-merchant from Cincinnati—his talk ran that way.”“Farmer—merchant, ha! ha! ha! a farmer without acres—a merchant without trade! Monsieur, that simply-dressed old fellow is said to be the ‘smartest’—that is the Yankee word—the smartest sportsman in the Mississippi valley, and such are not scarce, I trow.”“After all, they are strangers to each other, and one of them is my partner—I do not see how they can—”“Strangers to each other!” interrupted my new friend. “Since when have they become acquainted? I myself have seen the three in company, and at the same business, almost every time I have journeyed on the river. True, they talk to each other as if they had accidentally met. That is part of their arrangement for cheating such as you.”“So you believe they have actually been cheating me?”“Since the stakes have been raised to ten dollars they have.”“But how?”“Oh, it is very simple. Sometimes your partner designedly played the wrong card—”“Ha! I see now; I believe it.”“It did not need that though. Even had you had an honest partner, it would have been all the same in the end. Your opponents have a system of signals by which they can communicate to each other many facts—the sort of cards they hold,—the colour of the cards, their value, and so forth. You did not observe how they placed their fingers upon the edge of the table.Idid. One finger laid horizontally denoted one trump—two fingers placed in a similar manner, two trumps—three for three, and so on. A slight curving of the fingers told: how many of the trumps were honours; a certain movement of the thumbs bespoke an ace; and in this way each of your adversaries knew almost to a card what his partner had got. It needed not the third to bring about the desired result. As it was, there were seven knaves about the table—four in the cards, and three among the players.”“This is infamous!”“True, I would have admonished you of it sooner; but, of course, I could not find an opportunity. It would have been no slight danger for me to have told you openly, and exposed the rascals. Hence, theruseI have been compelled to adopt. These are no common swindlers. Any of the three would resent the slightest imputation upon their honour. Two of them are noted duellists. Most likely I should have been called out to-morrow and shot, and you would scarce have thanked me for my ‘interference.’”“My dear sir, I am exceedingly grateful to you. I am convinced that what you say is true. How would you have me act?”“Simply give up the game—let your losses go—you cannot recover them.”“But I am not disposed to be thus outraged and plundered with impunity. I shall try another game, watch them, and—”“No, you would be foolish to do so. I tell you, Monsieur, these men are noted duellists as well as black-legs, and possess courage. One of them, your partner, has given proof of it by having travelled over three hundred miles to fight with a gentleman who had slandered him, or rather had spoken the truth about him! He succeeded, moreover, in killing his man. I tell you, Monsieur, you can gain nothing by quarrelling with such men, except a fair chance of having a bullet through you. I know you are a stranger in our country. Be advised, then, and act as I have said. Leave them to their gains. It is late: Retire to your state-room, and think no more on what you have lost.”Whether it was the late excitement consequent upon the false alarm, or whether it was the strange development I had just listened to, aided by the cool river breeze, I know not; but the intoxication passed away, and my brain became clear. I doubted not for a moment that the young Creole had told me the truth. His manner as well as words, connected with the circumstances that had just transpired, produced full conviction.I felt impressed with a deep sense of gratitude to him for the service he had rendered, and at such risk to himself—for even therusehe had adopted might have had an awkward ending for him, had any one seen him fire off his pistols.Why had he acted thus? Why this interest in my affairs? Had he assigned the true reason? Was it a feeling of pure chivalry that had prompted him? I had heard of just such instances of noble nature among the Creole-French of Louisiana. Was this another illustration of that character?I say I was impressed with a deep sense of gratitude, and resolved to follow his advice.“I shall do as you say,” I replied, “on one condition.”“Name it, Monsieur.”“That you will give me your address, so that when we arrive in New Orleans, I may have the opportunity of renewing your acquaintance, and proving to you my gratitude.”“Alas, Monsieur! I have no address.”I felt embarrassed. The melancholy tone in which these words were uttered was not to be mistaken; some grief pressed heavily on that young and generous heart.It was not for me to inquire into its cause, least of all at that time; but my own secret sorrow enabled me to sympathise the more deeply with others, and I felt I stood beside one whose sky was far from serene. I felt embarrassed by his answer. It left me in a delicate position to make reply. I said at length—“Perhaps you will do me the favour to call upon me? I live at the Hotel Saint Luis.”“I shall do so with pleasure.”“To-morrow?”“To-morrow night.”“I shall stay at home for you.Bon soir, Monsieur.”We parted, each taking the way to his state-room.In ten minutes after I lay in my shelf-like bed, asleep; and in ten hours after I was drinking mycaféin the Hotel Saint Luis.
Before things had reached this point, I had gained an explanation of the mysterious alarm. I alone knew it, along with the individual who had caused it.
On hearing the shots, I had run forward under the front awning, and stood looking over the guards. I was looking down upon the boiler-deck—for it appeared to me that the loud words that preceded the reports had issued thence, though I also thought that the shots had been fired at some point nearer.
Most of the people had gone out by the side entrances, and were standing over the gangways, so that I was alone in the darkness, or nearly so.
I had not been many seconds in this situation, when some one glided alongside of me, and touched me on the arm. I turned and inquired who it was, and what was wanted. A voice answered me in French—
“A friend, Monsieur, who wishes to do you a service.”
“Ha, that voice! It was you, then, who called out—”
“It was.”
“And—”
“I who fired the shots—precisely.”
“There is no one killed, then?”
“Not that I know of. My pistol was pointed to the sky—besides it was loaded blank.”
“I’m glad of that, Monsieur; but for what purpose, may I ask, have you—”
“Simply to doyoua service, as I have said.”
“But how do you contemplate serving me by firing off pistols, and frightening the passengers of the boat out of their senses?”
“Oh! as to that, there’s no harm done. They’ll soon got over their little alarm. I wanted to speak with you alone. I could think of no other device to separate you from your new acquaintances. The firing of my pistol was only aruseto effect that purpose. It has succeeded, you perceive.”
“Ha! Monsieur, it was you then who whispered the word in my ear as I sat down to play?”
“Yes; have I not prophesied truly?”
“So far you have. It was you who stood opposite me in the corner of the saloon?”
“It was I.”
Let me explain these two last interrogatories. As I was about consenting to the game of whist, some one plucked my sleeve, and whispered in French—
“Don’t play, Monsieur; you are certain to lose.”
I turned in the direction of the speaker, and saw a young man just leaving my side; but was not certain whether it was he who had given this prudent counsel. As is known, I did not heed it.
Again, while engaged in the game, I noticed this same young man standing in front of me, but in a distant and somewhat dark corner of the saloon. Notwithstanding the darkness, I saw that his eyes were bent upon me, as I played. This fact would have drawn my attention of itself, but there was also an expression in the face that at once fixed my interest; and, each time, while the cards were being dealt, I took the opportunity to turn my eyes upon this strange individual.
He was a slender youth, under the medium height, and apparently scarce twenty years of age, but a melancholy tone that pervaded his countenance made him look a little older. His features were small, but finely chiselled—the nose and lips resembling more those of a woman. His cheek was almost colourless, and dark silky hair fell in profuse curls over his neck and shoulders; for such at that time was the Creole fashion. I felt certain the youth was a Creole, partly from his French cast of countenance, partly from the fashion and material of his dress, and partly because he spoke French—for I was under the impression it was he who had spoken to me. His costume was altogether of Creole fashion. He wore a blouse of brown linen—not after the mode of that famous garment as known in France—but as the Creole “hunting-shirt,” with plaited body and gracefully-gathered skirt. Its material, moreover,—the fine unbleached linen,—showed that the style was one of choice, not a mere necessary covering. His pantaloons were of the finest sky-bluecottonade—the produce of the looms of Opelousas. They were plaited very full below the waist, and open at the bottoms with rows of buttons to close them around the ankles when occasion required. There was no vest. Its place was supplied by ample frills of cambric lace, that puffed out over the breast. Thechaussureconsisted of gaiter-bootees of drab lasting-cloth, tipped with patent leather, and fastened over the front with a silk lace. A broad-brimmed Panama hat completed the dress, and gave the finishing touch to this truly Southern costume.
There was nothingoutréabout either the shirt, the pantaloons, the head-dress, or foot-gear. All were in keeping—all were in a style that at that period was themodeupon the lower Mississippi. It was not, therefore, the dress of this youth that had arrested my attention. I had been in the habit of seeing such, every day. It could not be that. No—the dress had nothing to do with the interest which he had excited. Perhaps my regarding him as the author of the brief counsel that had been uttered in my ear had a little to do with it—but not all. Independent of that, there was something in the face itself that forcibly attracted my regard—so forcibly that I began to ponder whether I had ever seen it before. If there had been a better light, I might have resolved the doubt, but he stood in shadow, and I could not get a fair view of him.
It was just about this time that I missed him from his station in the corner of the saloon, and a minute or two later were heard the shouts and shots from without.
“And now, Monsieur, may I inquire why you wish to speak to me, and what you have to say?”
I was beginning to feel annoyed at the interference of this young fellow. A man does not relish being suddenly pulled up from a game of whist; and not a bit the more that he has been losing at it.
“Why I wish to speak to you is, because I feel an interest in you. What I have to say you shall hear.”
“An interest in me! And pray, Sir, to what am I indebted for this interest?”
“Is it not enough that you are a stranger likely to be plundered of your purse?—agreen-horn—”
“How, Monsieur?”
“Nay, do not be angry with me. That is the phrase which I have heard applied to you to-night by more than one of your new acquaintances. If you return to play with them, I think you will merit the title.”
“Come, Monsieur, this is too bad: you interfere in a matter that does not concern you.”
“True, it does not; but it concernsyou, and yet—ah!”
I was about to leave this meddling youth, and hurry back to the game, when the strange melancholy tone of his voice caused me to hesitate, and remain by him a little longer.
“Well,” I said, “you have not yet told me what you wished to say.”
“Indeed, I have said already. I have told you not to play—that you would lose if you did. I repeat that counsel.”
“True, I have lost a little, but it does not follow that fortune will be always on one side. It is rather my partner’s fault, who seems a bad player.”
“Your partner, if I mistake not, is one of the best players on the river. I think I have seen that gentleman before.”
“Ha! you know him them?”
“Something of him—not much, but that much I know. Doyouknow him?”
“Never saw him before to-night.”
“Nor any of the others?”
“They are all equally strangers to me.”
“You are not aware, then, that you are playing withsportsmen?”
“No, but I am very glad to hear it. I am something of a sportsman myself—as fond of dogs, horses, and guns, as any of the three, I warrant.”
“Ha! Monsieur, you misapprehend. A sportsman in your country, and a sportsman in a Mississippi steamboat, are two very distinct things. Foxes, hares, and partridges, are the game of your sportsman. Greenhorns and their purses are the game of gentry like these.”
“The men with whom I am playing, then, are—”
“Professional gamblers—steamboat sharpers.”
“Are you sure of this, Monsieur?”
“Quite sure of it. Oh! I often travel up and down to New Orleans. I have seen them all before.”
“But one of them has the look of a farmer or a merchant, as I thought—a pork-merchant from Cincinnati—his talk ran that way.”
“Farmer—merchant, ha! ha! ha! a farmer without acres—a merchant without trade! Monsieur, that simply-dressed old fellow is said to be the ‘smartest’—that is the Yankee word—the smartest sportsman in the Mississippi valley, and such are not scarce, I trow.”
“After all, they are strangers to each other, and one of them is my partner—I do not see how they can—”
“Strangers to each other!” interrupted my new friend. “Since when have they become acquainted? I myself have seen the three in company, and at the same business, almost every time I have journeyed on the river. True, they talk to each other as if they had accidentally met. That is part of their arrangement for cheating such as you.”
“So you believe they have actually been cheating me?”
“Since the stakes have been raised to ten dollars they have.”
“But how?”
“Oh, it is very simple. Sometimes your partner designedly played the wrong card—”
“Ha! I see now; I believe it.”
“It did not need that though. Even had you had an honest partner, it would have been all the same in the end. Your opponents have a system of signals by which they can communicate to each other many facts—the sort of cards they hold,—the colour of the cards, their value, and so forth. You did not observe how they placed their fingers upon the edge of the table.Idid. One finger laid horizontally denoted one trump—two fingers placed in a similar manner, two trumps—three for three, and so on. A slight curving of the fingers told: how many of the trumps were honours; a certain movement of the thumbs bespoke an ace; and in this way each of your adversaries knew almost to a card what his partner had got. It needed not the third to bring about the desired result. As it was, there were seven knaves about the table—four in the cards, and three among the players.”
“This is infamous!”
“True, I would have admonished you of it sooner; but, of course, I could not find an opportunity. It would have been no slight danger for me to have told you openly, and exposed the rascals. Hence, theruseI have been compelled to adopt. These are no common swindlers. Any of the three would resent the slightest imputation upon their honour. Two of them are noted duellists. Most likely I should have been called out to-morrow and shot, and you would scarce have thanked me for my ‘interference.’”
“My dear sir, I am exceedingly grateful to you. I am convinced that what you say is true. How would you have me act?”
“Simply give up the game—let your losses go—you cannot recover them.”
“But I am not disposed to be thus outraged and plundered with impunity. I shall try another game, watch them, and—”
“No, you would be foolish to do so. I tell you, Monsieur, these men are noted duellists as well as black-legs, and possess courage. One of them, your partner, has given proof of it by having travelled over three hundred miles to fight with a gentleman who had slandered him, or rather had spoken the truth about him! He succeeded, moreover, in killing his man. I tell you, Monsieur, you can gain nothing by quarrelling with such men, except a fair chance of having a bullet through you. I know you are a stranger in our country. Be advised, then, and act as I have said. Leave them to their gains. It is late: Retire to your state-room, and think no more on what you have lost.”
Whether it was the late excitement consequent upon the false alarm, or whether it was the strange development I had just listened to, aided by the cool river breeze, I know not; but the intoxication passed away, and my brain became clear. I doubted not for a moment that the young Creole had told me the truth. His manner as well as words, connected with the circumstances that had just transpired, produced full conviction.
I felt impressed with a deep sense of gratitude to him for the service he had rendered, and at such risk to himself—for even therusehe had adopted might have had an awkward ending for him, had any one seen him fire off his pistols.
Why had he acted thus? Why this interest in my affairs? Had he assigned the true reason? Was it a feeling of pure chivalry that had prompted him? I had heard of just such instances of noble nature among the Creole-French of Louisiana. Was this another illustration of that character?
I say I was impressed with a deep sense of gratitude, and resolved to follow his advice.
“I shall do as you say,” I replied, “on one condition.”
“Name it, Monsieur.”
“That you will give me your address, so that when we arrive in New Orleans, I may have the opportunity of renewing your acquaintance, and proving to you my gratitude.”
“Alas, Monsieur! I have no address.”
I felt embarrassed. The melancholy tone in which these words were uttered was not to be mistaken; some grief pressed heavily on that young and generous heart.
It was not for me to inquire into its cause, least of all at that time; but my own secret sorrow enabled me to sympathise the more deeply with others, and I felt I stood beside one whose sky was far from serene. I felt embarrassed by his answer. It left me in a delicate position to make reply. I said at length—
“Perhaps you will do me the favour to call upon me? I live at the Hotel Saint Luis.”
“I shall do so with pleasure.”
“To-morrow?”
“To-morrow night.”
“I shall stay at home for you.Bon soir, Monsieur.”
We parted, each taking the way to his state-room.
In ten minutes after I lay in my shelf-like bed, asleep; and in ten hours after I was drinking mycaféin the Hotel Saint Luis.