CHAPTER VII.
The steamer “Crescent” tugged and pulled at her moorings as if impatient of delay. It wanted two hours of sailing time. Down the gang-plank a strange figure sauntered, clad in buckskin breeches suspended by one strap over a flannel shirt open at the throat; high-topped boots confined the breeches at the knee; a battered hat was pushed back from a rubicand face, and about his waist a belt bristled with pistols and bowie knives. Warren smiled at the odd figure, then, with an exclamation of surprise, threw away his cigar and walked up to the newcomer.
“Mr. Maybee, of Erie?” he queried, holding out his hand.
The party addressed turned his round, smiling face in Maxwell’s direction, and after one searching glance that swept his countenance in every lineament, grasped the proffered hand in a mighty clasp.
“Dog my cats, ef it ain’t Mr. Maxwell! I’m pow’ful glad to meet you ag’in. How long you been here? Whar you bound?”
“I landed in New York just four weeks ago. Still on business for my firm.”
“I ‘spose it’s in order to look out fer adventures when you an’ me gits together. Remember the fus’ night we met? What a swingin’ ol’ time we had. Poor old White Eagle! Nary sound have I heard, Mr. Maxwell, since, of them unfortoonit children neither. Might a been swallered like Jonah by the whale fer all I know. I’m right chicken-hearted when I wake up at night, an’ think about the leetle gal, po’ pretty critter!”
“Mr. Maybee, I feel like a miserable cur whenever I think how supinely I have rested while such a horror was perpetrated—and yet I call myself a man! Your government cannot long survive under a system that thrusts free-born people into slavery as were those helpless children. May I have a word with you in private?”
“Hu—sh!” said Mr. Maybee, looking cautiously around, “them ar sentimen’s breathes pizen in this loorid atmosphere. Ef one of the galoots walkin’ about this deck was to hear you, you’d dance on air at the yard arm in about two minutes. Them’s dang’rous opinions to hold onto in free Ameriky,” replied Mr. Maybee with a sly twinkle in his eye. “See that pile o’ lumber out on the wharf? Well, that’s the best place I know on to have a leetle private conversation with a friend. The boat won’t start fer some time yet, an’ I can straddle one end o’ the pile an’ keep a sharp lookout for listeners.”
“There’ll be a war in this country in less than two years, I predict,” continued Maxwell, as they walked ashore.
“No need o’ waitin’ two years, mister; jes’ make it two months. The prelude to the war that’s comin’ was struck last fall when all Western Missouri poured into Kansas an’ took the ballot out of the hands of our citizens, sir. Eli Thayer’s teachin’ all the North to emigrate into bleedin’ Kansas an’ fight it out. That’s me, mister; I says to Ma’ Jane, my wife, ‘good-bye, Ma’ Jane, ef I don’t come back you’ll know I’ve gone in a good cause, but John Brown’s calling for volunteers an’ I’m boun’ to be in the fight.’ So, I’ve left her power of attorney, an’ the business all in her name, an’ here I am. It beats all nature how fightin’ jes’ grows on a man once he’s had a taste. Mr. Maxwell, do you know anythin’ about the transfiguration of souls that some college fellars advocates? Dad gum it, I believe mos’ of us must have been brutes once. Yes, sir, dogs an’ vicious hosses, an’ contrairy mulses an’ venomous repertiles. Yes, sir, there’s goin’ to be a fight, an’ I’m spilin’ to git in it.”
“Is it possible that matters are as critical as you say?”
“Critical! You may call ’em so, my boy. Six months ago I took up a claim outside o’ Lawrence. One mornin’, a fortnit later, twenty-eight men tied their hosses to the fence and one asked me: ‘Whar you from? East?’ ‘Yes,’ says I. ‘Then you’re a d——d abolitionist,’ another says politely. ‘Of course,’ says I, an’ in less than a half-hour the place was cleaned out, my shack burnt to the ground an’ my cattle driven off. Me an’ two or three of the boys put up a decent fight or I wouldn’t be sittin’ here talkin’ to you to-day. ’Tain’t their fault.”
“You amaze me, Mr. Maybee.”
“Do I?” queried the other with a grim smile. “Well here’s another nice leetle caper o’ theirs: Bud Wilson’s wife writ home to her folks in Massachusetts detailin’ some o’ the facts concernin’ the sackin’ o Osawatamie, an’ addin’ a few words in her own language in comments, etc., on certain actions o’ the Territory militia (Missouri roughs), an’ her folks let the newspapers have the whole story. My soul! The Rangers came over from this side under that devil, Bill Thomson, an’ one mornin’ when Bud was gone they went to the house an’ took his ol’ woman inter the woods an’ pulled her tongue out as far as possible an’ tide it to a sapling. Well, I won’t pain yer feelin’s by recountering the rest o’ the po’ critter’s sufferin’s, but they was the mos’ dreadfulles’ that you can imagine, until she mercifully gave up the ghos’ and ex-pired. How’s that strike you?”
“My God!” exclaimed Warren, shuddering with horror.
“Here’s another: These same Kickapoo Rangers, Bill Thomson captaing, marched to Leavenworth an’ took Capt. R. P. Brown (no relation to Capt. John Brown) prisoner, he surrenderin’ himself and men on certain conditions. Immejuntly the terms of that surrender was violated. One young feller was knocked down, an’ a Ranger was goin’ to cut him with his hatchet (Thomson has ’em all carry hatchets so as to skulp the foe like Injuns do), and Capt. Brown prevented him. After that they re—moved the Captaing up to Easton an’ put him in a separate buildin’ away from his men. Then the devils rushed on him an’ beat him to the floor an’ cut him in the head with their hatchets, one wound bein’ many inches long an’ enterin’ the brain. The gallant Captaing was at the mercy of his enemies then, an’ they jumped on him an’ kicked him. Desperately wounded, he still lived; an’ as they kicked him, he said, ‘Don’t abuse me; it is useless; I am dying.’ Then one of the wretches—Bill himself—leaned over the posterate man an’ squirted terbacco juice into his eyes. Them’s our leetle ways o’ doin’ things in free Ameriky, Mr. Britisher, when other folks talks too free or dares to have opinions o’ thar own without askin’ our permission to so think contrairy agin us. Yes, sir, I’m a John Brown man. I go with Brown because I can do as I please—more in-dependent-like—than as if I was with Jim Lane, ’though I’ll low Lane’s gittin’ in some fine work, an’ we’ll swing Kansas inter line as a free State quicker’n scat when we git down to bisiness. It’s these things brings me on this side noysterin’ roun’ lookin’ fer em-ployment.”
“I’m a pretty good shot, Mr. Maybee, and after I finish this matter for the firm, I should like nothing better than to put myself and my pistols at the disposal of Mr. Brown,” said Warren sternly, with flashing eyes.
Mr. Maybee ejected a small stream of tobacco juice from his mouth and smoothed the end of the board he was whittling, to his entire satisfaction, before replying.
“Volunteers is ac-ceptable, certainly, ef they brings weapins and ammunition. This is goin’ to be no child’s play. The oppersite party is strong in cussedness; on our side, we know we’re right, an’ we’ve made up our minds to die right on the spot, but never to yield. Still, we’re not advertisin’ our idees on the housetops, my friend; di-plomacy, says I an’ all of us, is an ef-fectooal weapin’ in many cases, therefore I advocate that we perceed to di-plomate—kin’ o’ play ’roun’ a spell, an’ feel the t’other side. I’ll consider it an honor to nesheate you any time you feel too sot, into the ranks of the Free Soilers, John Brown, captaing. Now, what’s the business you wanted to lay befo’ me?”
Thoroughly aroused by Maybee’s words and trembling with excitement, Warren briefly related his unexpected meeting with Judah, and the peril of the captives. Mr. Maybee listened in amazement, chewing and spitting tobacco juice like an automaton in his excitement, with many ejaculations of surprise: “Sho now! Want ter know!” “That ar Thomson, too! Dad gum ’im fer an onery skunk! I’ve jes’ got to kill ’im; can’t help it! He hung three of our best men down to Oscaloosa two weeks ago, tortured ’em fus’ tho’. Cu’rous how things does happen in this sinful wurl!”
“They mus’ be rescued right off! right off!” he said, when Warren had finished. “We must git ’em on the Underground railroad this night. You go with the boat an’ I’ll cut across country an’ com—moonicate with Parson Steward. We’ve got a good hour’s start of the vessel, an’ there’ll be sand-bars to cross,—an’,—O Lord, ef we’d only git such a thunder storm as we had the night White Eagle was murdered, it’d be the makin’ of this expe—dition. It’s been threat’ning all afternoon. Lord, let her come.”
Briefly they arranged their plans.
“Tell Judah to git Thomson drunk; put somethin’ in the liquor, if necess’ry, then git ashore somehow at Weston. I’ll meet you there with hosses an’ we’ll put fer Steward’s shack. Ef once he gits the gal in his clutches, even Bill Thomson won’t git her agin.”
With hurried good-byes the men separated, Mr. Maybee going up the wharf at a swift gait. Warren went aboard the steamer and seated himself in a secluded corner to watch for Judah and mature his plans.
Just before the last bell rang Thomson came aboard with his slaves. Even the rude passengers were moved by the beauty of the slave girl. Every soft curve of her waist and supple body was followed by the close-fitting cotton gown; her hair, worn short since captivity, clustered in a rich, ravelled plume about her brows and neck; the soft, gazelle-like eyes were large with anxiety, but her step was firm, and she bore herself like a young princess as she crossed the deck to go below. The girlish figure appealed to Warren’s tender heart. He was used to the society of famous beauties in the proudest court of the Old World; he had flirted and danced with them in the abandonment of happy youthful hours, and more than one lovely girl had been smitten with his frank, good-looking boyish face and honest, manly bearing, but never before had his heart contracted and thrilled as it did now under the one appealing glance thrown hurriedly and timidly in his direction by the young slave girl.
Scarcely were they under way when the threatening storm was upon them. It began in a dreary drizzle with occasional mutterings of thunder.
Warren noticed that Judah was seated on the deck in the slave-pen next an airshaft, and he concluded to find the cabin communication with the shaft and reach Judah by it.
The night fell fast. Maxwell hid himself in his stateroom before supper, having made the pleasing discovery that a port-hole in his stateroom opened directly beside Judah’s seat on the deck. A note was easily slipped to the slave telling him of Mr. Maybee’s plan, and asking what was the best course to pursue, then he sat there in the darkness waiting a movement on Judah’s part, assured that his fertile brain would find a plan of escape.
In the cabin Thomson was the center of a congenial set of kindred spirits, young Virginians, going back to St. Louis after a campaign against the Free Soilers. They were reciting the glories of the expedition,—singing, shouting and making night hideous. Their favorite song ended in an uproarious chorus:
You Yankees tremble, andAbolitionists fall;Our motto is, Southern RightsFor all!
You Yankees tremble, andAbolitionists fall;Our motto is, Southern RightsFor all!
You Yankees tremble, andAbolitionists fall;Our motto is, Southern RightsFor all!
You Yankees tremble, and
Abolitionists fall;
Our motto is, Southern Rights
For all!
One of their number had been fatally shot in a quarrel at an hotel in Kansas City; they were carrying the body home, and had ordered the coffin brought in and placed in the center of the cabin, where, as they said, the poor fellow might have the comfort of witnessing one more good time even though beyond the possibility of joining in it.
In the gambling and drinking bout that followed, Thomson was the most reckless, and soon he, and the rest of the party, was stretched upon the floor, on tables, and lounges in a drunken stupor from which nothing could arouse them. The few women passengers were fastened in their staterooms.
Warren took his saddle-bags in his hand, and stole out upon the deck, picking his way in disgust among the bestial party blocking his path. Half-way to Weston they had struck upon a sand-bar and there they hung, shuddering and groaning in the teeth of the storm.
He seated himself near the railing. The rolling thunder mingled with the hoarse shouting of the officers and the answering cries of the crew. There were flashes of lightning at intervals. Presently a soft touch fell on his arm. He turned and saw Judah crouching in the shadow of a mast.
“They won’t be off this bar before morning. I’m going to drop a boat over the side the next heavy crash that comes. Winona is waiting just back of you. It’ll take nerve, but it is the only way. We must be silent and careful.”
The soft murmur ended, and once more Maxwell was alone. He had noticed the small boats standing along the sides of the vessel as he came aboard in the afternoon, but had not thought of utilizing them for the purpose of rescue. His heart beat to suffocation, his nerves were strung to their utmost tension. A soft hand stole into his; he pressed it convulsively, instinctively knowing that it was Winona, but they exchanged no words.
There came a deafening crash. The bolt struck a capstan, knocking down the first mate and glancing off into the sea. Surely God was with them. Simultaneously with the crash there was a faint splash in the water, but the vivid lightning flash that followed revealed nothing. There came a lull in the storm but confusion reigned on the vessel; no one thought of the slaves. “Now!” came a warning whisper. In an instant Warren grasped the girl about the waist, swung her clear of the railing and held her suspended by the wrists over the black, boiling flood. “All right; let her drop!” came in another whisper. Warren let go his hold and listened with bated breath for the result. There came another faint splash, a grating sound as the foaming waves carried the little craft against the wooden ribs of the steamer. Then silence.
Judah, standing upright in the boat, caught Winona in his arms as deftly as a ball is caught and tossed from one player to another. His Indian training in managing canoes made him fearless now, and his giant strength served him well.
“All right; come ahead,” came to Warren’s listening ears. He dropped his saddle-bags, instantly following them; he let himself down hand over hand, then swung clear and landed lightly in the center of the frail craft, steadied by the giant black. Silently the little party rested in the shadow of the great hull until another lightning flash had passed, then each man settled an oar in the rowlocks, and Judah pushed off into the night.