THE COMMITTEE ADJOURNS.
“Why now, blow, wind; swell, billow; and swim, bark!
The storm is up, and all is on the hazard.”—_Shakspeare._
Vance’s plan was to escape down the river in his little steam-tug, and
join some one of the blockading fleet of the United States, either at
Pass à l’Outre or at the Balize. The unexpected accession of two
fellow-fugitives led him to postpone his departure from the St. Charles
to nine o’clock. His own and Kenrick’s baggage had been providently put
on board the Artful Dodger the day before. Winslow, in order not to
jeopard any of the proceedings, had accepted Vance’s offer to get from
the latter’s supply whatever articles of apparel he might need.
At ten minutes before nine, the four fugitives met in Vance’s room.
Vance and Onslow grasped each other by the hand. That silent pressure
conveyed to each more than words could ever have told. The sympathy
between them was at once profound and complete.
“The negro who is to drive us,” said Vance, “is the man to whom your
father confided his last messages.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Onslow; “let me be with him. Let me learn from him all I
can!”
Vance told him he should ride on the outside with Peek. Then turning to
Winslow, he said: “Those white locks of yours are somewhat too
conspicuous. Do me the favor to hide them under this black wig.”
The disguise was promptly carried into effect. At nine o’clock Vance put
his head out of the window. A rain-storm had set in, but he could see by
the gas-lights the glistening top of a carriage, and he could hear the
stamping of horses.
“All right,” said he. “Peek is punctually on the spot. Does that
carpet-bag contain all your baggage, Mr. Onslow?”
“Yes, and I can dispense with even this, if you desire it.”
“You have learnt one of the first arts of the soldier, I see,” said
Vance. “There can be no harm in your taking that amount. Now let me
frankly tell you what I conceive to be our chief, if not our only
hazard. My venerable friend, here, Winslow, was compelled, a few hours
since, in the discharge of his duty, to give very dire offence to Mr.
Carberry Ratcliff, of whom we all have heard. Knowing the man as I do, I
am of opinion that his first step on parting with our friend would be to
put spies on his track, with the view of preventing his departure or
concealment. Mr. Winslow thinks Ratcliff could not have had time to do
this. Perhaps; but there’s a chance my venerable friend is mistaken, and
against that contingency I wish to be on my guard. You see I take in my
hand this lasso, and this small cylindrical piece of wood, padded with
india-rubber at either end. Three of us, I presume, have revolvers; but
I hope we shall have no present use for them. You, Mr. Winslow, will go
first and enter the carriage; Kenrick and I will follow at ten or a
dozen paces, and you, Onslow, will bring up the rear. In your soldier’s
overcoat, and with your carpet-bag, it will be supposed you are merely
going out to pass the night at the armory.”
While this conversation was going on, Peek had dismounted from the
driver’s seat. He had taken the precaution to cover both the horses and
the carriage with oil-cloth, apparently as a protection against the
rain, but really to prevent an identification. No sooner had his feet
touched the side-walk, than a man carrying a bludgeon stepped up to him
and said, “Whose turn-out have you here, darkey?”
“Dis am massa’s turn-out, an’ nobody else’s, sure,” said Peek,
disguising his voice.
“Well, who’s massa?”
“Massa’s de owner ob dis carriage. Thar, yer’v got it. So dry up, ole
feller!”
The inquirer tried to roll up the oil-cloth to get a sight of the panel.
Peek interposed, telling him to stand off. The man raised his bludgeon
and threatened to strike. Peek’s first impulse was to disarm him and
choke him into silence, but, fearing the least noise might bring other
officers to the spot, he prudently abstained. Just at this moment,
Winslow issued from the side door of the hotel, and was about to enter
the carriage, when the detective who had succeeded in rolling up the
covering of the panel till he could see the coat-of-arms, politely
stopped the old man, and begged permission to look at him closely by the
gaslight, remarking that he had orders from head-quarters to arrest a
certain suspected party.
“Pooh! Everybody in New Orleans knows me,” said Winslow.
“I can’t help that, sir,” said the detective, laying his hand on the old
man’s shoulder, “I must insist on your letting—”
Before the speaker could finish his sentence, his arms were pinioned
from behind by a lasso, and he was jerked back so as to lose his
balance. But one articulation escaped from his lips, and that was half
smothered in his throat. “O’Gorman!” he cried, calling to one of his
companions; but before he could repeat the cry, a gag was inserted in
his mouth, and he was lifted into the carriage and there held with a
power that speedily taught him how useless was resistance.
Kenrick made Peek and Onslow acquainted, and these two sprang on to the
driver’s seat. The rest of the party took their places inside.
“Down! down!” cried Peek, thrusting Onslow down on his knees and
starting the horses. The next moment a pistol was discharged, and there
was the whiz of a bullet over their heads. But the horses had now found
out what was wanted of them, and they showed their blood by trotting at
a two-fifty speed along St. Charles Street.
Peek was an accomplished driver. That very afternoon he had learnt where
the steam-tug lay, and had gone over the route in order to be sure of no
obstructions. He now at first took a direction away from the river to
deceive pursuit. Then winding through several obscure streets, he came
upon the avenue running parallel with the Levee, and proceeded for
nearly two miles till he drew near that part of the river where the
Artful Dodger, with steam all up, was moored against the extensive
embankment, from the top of which you can look down on the floor of the
Crescent City, lying several feet below the river’s level.
The rain continued to pour furiously, each drop swelling to the size of
a big arrow-head before reaching the earth. It was not unusual to see
carriages driven at great speed through the streets during such an
elementary turmoil: else the policemen or soldiers would have tried to
stop Peek in his headlong career. Probably they had most of them got
under some shelter, and did not care to come out to expose themselves to
a drenching. On and on rolled the carriage. The rain seemed to drown all
noises, so that the occupants could not tell whether or no there was a
trampling of horses in pursuit.
As the carriage passed on to a macadamized section of the road, “Tell
me,” said Onslow, “what happened after my father gave you the letter?”
“I hardly had time to conceal it,” replied Peek, “when six of the
ruffians entered the room, and I was ordered out. I pleaded hard to
stay, but ’ was no use. The house was entirely surrounded by armed men,
ready to shoot down any one attempting to escape. Your father had
enjoined it upon me that I should leave him to die rather than myself
run the risk of not reaching you with his letter and his messages.”
“_Did_ he?” cried Onslow. “Was he, then, more anxious that I should know
all, than that he himself should escape?”
“He feared life more than death after what had happened,” said Peek.
“The six ruffians tried to get out of him words to implicate certain
supposed Union men in the neighborhood; but he would tell no secrets. He
obstinately resisted their orders and threats, and at last their leader,
in a rage, thrust his sword into the old man’s lungs. The wound did not
immediately kill; but the loss of blood seemed likely to make him faint.
Fearing he would balk them in their last revenge, the ruffians dragged
him out to a tree and hung him.”
“Did you see it done?”
“I saw him the moment after it was done. I had been trying to satisfy
myself that there was no life in your mother’s body; and it was not till
I heard the shouts of the crowd that I learnt what was going on below. I
ran out, but your father was already dead. He died, I learnt, without a
struggle, much to the disappointment of the Rebels.”
“And my mother,” asked Onslow. “Was there any hope?”
“None whatever, sir. She was undoubtedly dead.”
“Peek, you have a claim upon me henceforth. At present I’ve but little
money with me, but what I have you must take.”
“Not a penny, sir! You’ll need it more than I. Mr. Vance and Mr. Winslow
have supplied me with ten times as much as I shall require.”
Onslow said no more. For the first time in his life he felt that a negro
could be a gentleman and his equal.
“Peek,” said he, “you may refuse my money, but you must not refuse my
friendship and respect. Promise me you will seek me if I can ever aid
you. Nay, promise me you will visit me when you can.”
“That I do cheerfully, sir. Here we are close by the steam-tug.”
Peek pulled up the horses, and he and Onslow jumped to the ground. The
door was opened, and those inside got out. The detective, who was the
principal man of his order in New Orleans (Myers himself), and whose
mortification at being overreached by a non-professional person was
extreme, made a desperate effort to escape. Vance was ready for it. He
simply twisted the lasso till Myers cried out with pain and promised to
submit. Then pitching him on board the steam-tug, Vance left him under
the guard of Kenrick and the Captain. Winslow followed them on board;
and Vance, turning to Peek, said: “Now, Peek, drive for dear life, and
take back your horses. Our danger is almost over; but yours is just
beginning.”
“Never fear for me, Mr. Vance. I could leave the horses and run, in case
of need. Do not forget the telegraph wires.”
“Well thought of, Peek! Farewell!”
They interchanged a quick, strong grasp of the hand, and Peek jumped on
the box and drove off.
Vance saw a telegraph-pole close by, the wires of which communicated
with the forts on the river below. Climbing to the top of it, he took
from his pocket a knife, having a file on one of its blades, and in half
a minute severed the wire, then tied it by a string to the pole so that
the place of the disconnection might not be at once discovered.
The next moment he cast off the hawser and leaped on board the tug.
Everything was in readiness. Captain Payson was in his glory. The pipes
began to snort steam, the engines to move, and the little tug staggered
off into the river. Hardly were they ten rods from the levee, however,
when a carriage drove up, and a man issued from it who cried: “Boat
ahoy! Stop that boat! Every man of you shall be hung if you don’t stop
that boat.”
Captain Payson took up his speaking-trumpet, and replied: “Come and stop
it yourself, you blasted bawler!”
“By order of the Confederate authorities I call on you to stop that
boat,” screamed the officer.
“The Confederate authorities may go to hell!” returned old Payson.
The retort of the officer was lost in the mingled uproar of winds and
waves.
Confounded at the steam-tug’s defiance, the officer, O’Gorman by name,
stood for a minute gesticulating and calling out wildly, and then,
re-entering the carriage, told the driver to make his best speed to
Number 17 Diana Street.
Let us precede him by a few minutes and look in upon the select company
there assembled. In a stately apartment some dozen of the principal
Confederate managers sat in conclave. Prominent among them were
Ratcliff, and by his side his lawyer, Semmes, an attenuated figure,
sharp-faced and eager-eyed. Complacent, but inwardly cursing the
Rebellion, sat Robson with his little puffed eyes twinkling through
gold-rimmed spectacles, and his fat cheeks indicating good cheer. It was
with difficulty he could repress the sarcasms that constantly rose to
his lips. Wigman and Sanderson were of the company; and the rest of the
members were nearly all earnest Secessionists and gentlemen of position.
Ratcliff had communicated his grievances, and it had been decided to
send a messenger to bring Winslow before the conclave to answer certain
questions as to his disposition of the funds confided to him by the late
Mrs. Ratcliff. The messenger having returned once with the information
that Winslow was not at home, had been sent a second time with orders to
wait for him till ten o’clock.
It had been also resolved to summon Charles Kenrick before the conclave,
and an officer had been sent to the hotel for that purpose.
There was now a discussion as to Vance. Who knew him? No one intimately.
Several had a mere bowing acquaintance with him. Ratcliff could not
remember that he had ever seen him. Had Vance contributed to the cause?
Yes. He had paid a thousand dollars for the relief of the suffering at
the hospital. Did anybody know what he was worth? A cotton-broker
present knew of his making “thirty thousand dollars clean” in one
operation in the winter of 1858. Did he own any real estate in the city?
His name was not down in the published list of holders. If he owned any,
it was probably held under some other person’s name. Among tax-payers he
was rated at only fifty thousand dollars; but he might have an income
from property in other places, perhaps at the North, on which he ought
to pay his quota in this hour of common danger. It was decided to send
to see why Vance did not come; and a third officer was despatched to
find him.
“Does any one know,” asked Semmes, “whether Captain Onslow has yet got
the news of this terrible disaster to his family in Texas?”
“The intelligence has but just reached us at head-quarters,” replied Mr.
Ferrand, a wealthy Creole. “I hope it will not shake the Captain’s
loyalty to the good cause.”
“Why should it?” inquired Ratcliff.
“He must be a spooney to let it make any difference,” said Sanderson.
“Some people are so weak and prejudiced!” replied Robson. “Tell them the
good of the institution requires that their whole family should be
disembowelled, and they can’t see it. Tell them that though their sister
was outraged, yet ’ was in the holy cause of slavery, and it doesn’t
satisfy ’em. Such sordid souls, incapable of grand sacrifices, are too
common.”
“That’s a fact,” responded George Sanderson, who was getting thirsty,
and adhered to Robson as to the genius of good liquor.
“Old Onslow deserved his fate,” said Mr. Curry, a fiery little man,
resembling Vice-President Stephens.
“To be sure he deserved it!” returned Robson. “And so did that heretical
young girl, his daughter, deserve hers. Why, it’s asserted, on good
authority, that she had been heard to repeat Patrick Henry’s remark,
that slavery is inconsistent with the Christian religion!”
Mr. Polk, who, being related to a bishop, thought it was incumbent on
him to rebuke extreme sentiments, here mildly remarked: “We do not make
war on young girls and women. I’m sorry our friends in Texas should
resort to such violent practices.”
“Let us have no half-way measures!” exclaimed Robson. “We can’t check
feminine treason by sprinkling rose-water.”
“The rankest Abolitionists are among the women,” interposed Ratcliff.
“No doubt of it,” replied Robson. “Or if a woman isn’t an Abolitionist
herself, she may become the mother of one. An ounce of precaution is
worth a pound of cure.”
“Gentlemen,” said Mr. Polk, “I base my support of slavery on evangelical
principles, and they teach me to look upon rape and murder as crimes.”
“It will do very well for you and the bishops,” replied Robson, “to tell
the _hoi polloi_,—the people,—that slavery is evangelical; but here in
this snug little coterie, we mustn’t try to fool each other,—’ wouldn’t
be civil. We’ll take it for granted there are no greenhorns among us. We
can therefore afford to speak plainly. Slavery is based on the principle
that _might makes right_, and on no other.”
“That’s the talk,” said Ratcliff.
“That being the talk,” continued Robson, “let us face the music without
dodging. The object of this war is to make the slaveholding interest,
more than it has ever been before, the ruling interest of America; to
propagate, extend, and at the same time consolidate slavery; to take
away all governing power from the people and vest it in the hands of a
committee of slaveholders, who will regard the wealth and power of their
order as paramount to all other considerations and laws, human or
divine. I presume there’s nobody here who will deny this.”
“Is it quite prudent to make such declarations?” asked Mr. Polk, in a
deprecatory tone.
“Is there any one here, sir, you want to hoodwink?” returned Robson.
“O no, no!” replied Mr. Polk. “I presume we are all qualified to
understand the esoteric meaning of the Rebellion.”
“It is no longer esoteric,” said Robson. “The doctrine is openly
proclaimed. What says Spratt of South Carolina? What says Toombs? What
De Bow, Fitzhugh, Grayson, the Richmond papers, Trescott, Cobb? They are
openly in favor of an aristocracy, and against popular rights.”
Before any reply was made, there was a knock at the door, and Ratcliff
was called out. In three minutes he returned, his face distorted with
anger and excitement. “Gentlemen,” said he, “we are the victims of an
infernal Yankee trick. I have reason to believe that Winslow, aided
perhaps by other suspected parties, has made his escape this very night
in a little steam-tug that has been lying for some days in the river,
ready for a start.”
“Which way has it gone?” asked Semmes.
“Down the river. Probably to Pass à l’Outre.”
“Telegraph to the forts to intercept her,” said Semmes.
“A good idea!” exclaimed Ratcliff. “I’d do it at once.” He joined
O’Gorman outside, and the next moment a carriage was heard rolling over
the pavements.
“Gentlemen,” said Robson, “if we expect to see any of the parties we
have summoned here to-night, there is something so touching and amiable
in our credulity that I grieve to harshly dispel it. But let me say that
Mr. Kenrick would see us all in the profoundest depths before he would
put himself in our power or acknowledge our jurisdiction; Mr. Vance can
keep his own counsel and will not brook dictation, or I’m no judge of
physiognomy; Captain Onslow has a foolish sensitiveness which leads him
to resent murder and outrage when practised against his own family; and
as for old Winslow, he hasn’t lived seventy years not to know better
than to place himself within reach of a tiger’s claws. I think we may as
well adjourn, and muse over the mutability of human affairs.”
Before Robson’s proposition was carried into effect, an errand-boy from
the telegraph-office brought Semmes this letter:—
“The scoundrels have cut the telegraph wires, and we can’t communicate
with the forts. I leave here at once to engage a boat for the pursuit.
Shall go in her myself. You must do this one thing for me without
fail: Take up your abode at once, this very night, in my house, and
stay there till I come back. Use every possible precaution to prevent
another escape of that young person of whom I spoke to you. Do not let
her move a step out of doors without you or your agents know precisely
where she is. I shall hold you responsible for her security. I may not
be back for a day or two, in which case you must have my wife’s
interment properly attended to.
“Yours,
RATCLIFF.”
“I agree with Mr. Robson,” said Semmes, “that we may as well adjourn.
The telegraph wires are cut, and I should not wonder if all the summoned
parties were among the fugitives. Ratcliff pursues.”
The select assemblage broke up, and above the curses, freely uttered,
rang the sardonic laugh of Robson. “Two to one that Ratcliff doesn’t
catch them!” said he; but no one took up the bet, though it should be
remembered, in defence of Wigman and Sanderson, that they were too busy
in the liquor-closet to heed the offer.
“Ah! my pious friends,—still at it, I see!” exclaimed Robson, coming in
upon them. “You remind me of a French hymn I learnt in my youth:
‘Tous les méchants sont buveurs d’eau;
C’est bien prouvé par le déluge!’
Which, for Sanderson’s benefit, I will translate:
‘Who are the wicked? Why, water-drinkers!
The deluge proves it to all right thinkers.’”
Leaving the trio over their cups, let us follow the enraged Ratcliff in
his adventures subsequent to his letter to Semmes.
The Rebel was a boat armed with a one-hundred-pound rifled gun, and used
for occasional reconnoitring expeditions down the river. Ratcliff had no
difficulty in inducing the captain to put her on the chase; but an hour
was spent hunting up the engineer and getting ready. At last the Rebel
was started in pursuit. The rain had ceased, and the moon, bursting
occasionally from dark drifting clouds, shed a fitful light. Ratcliff
paced the deck, smoking cigars, and nursing his rage.
It was nearly sunrise before they reached Forts Jackson and St. Philip,
thirty-three miles above the Balize. Nothing could yet be seen of the
steam-tug; but there was a telltale pillar of smoke in the distance. “We
shall have her!” said Ratcliff, exultingly.
Following in the trail of the Rebel were numerous sea-gulls whom the
storm had driven up the river. The boat now entered that long canal-like
section where the great river flows between narrow banks, which,
including the swamps behind them, are each not more than two or three
hundred yards wide, running out into the Gulf of Mexico. Here and there
among the dead reeds and scattered willows a tall white crane might be
seen feeding. Over these narrow fringes of swampy land you could see the
dark-green waters of the Gulf just beginning to be incarnadined by the
rising sun. With the saltwater so near on either side that you could
shoot an arrow into it, you saw the river holding its way through the
same deep, unbroken channel, keeping unmixed its powerful body of fresh
water, except when hurricanes sweep the briny spray over these long
ribbons of land into the Mississippi.
Vance had abandoned his original intention of trying the Pass à l’Outre.
Having learned from a pilot that the Brooklyn, carrying the Stars and
Stripes, was cruising off the Southwest Pass, he resolved to steer in
that direction. But when within five miles of the head of the Passes,
one of those capricious fogs, not uncommon on the river, came down,
shrouding the banks on either side. The Artful Dodger crept along at an
abated speed through the sticky vapor. Soon the throb of a steamer close
in the rear could be distinctly heard. The Artful had but one gun, and
that was a 5-inch rifled one; but it could be run out over her after
bulwarks.
All at once the fog lifted, and the sun came out sharp and dazzling,
scattering the white banks of vapor. The Rebel might be seen not a third
of a mile off. A shot came from her as a signal to the Artful to heave
to. Vance ordered the Stars and Stripes to be run up, and the engines to
be reversed. The Rebel, as if astounded at the audacity of the act on
the part of her contemptible adversary, swayed a little in the current
so as to present a good part of her side. Vance saw his opportunity,
and, with the quickness of one accustomed to deadshots, decided on his
range. The next moment, and before the Rebel could recover herself, he
fired, the shock racking every joint in the little tug.
The effect of the shot was speedily visible and audible in the issuing
of steam and in cries of suffering on board the Rebel. The boiler had
been hit, and she was helpless. Vance fired a second shot, but this time
over her, as a summons for surrender. The confederate flag at once
disappeared. The next moment a small boat, containing half a dozen
persons, put out from the Rebel as if they intended to gain the bank and
escape among the low willows and dead reeds of the marshy deposits. But
before this could be done, two cutters bearing United States flags, were
seen to issue from a diminutive bayou in the neighborhood, and intercept
the boat, which was taken in tow by the larger cutter. The Artful Dodger
then steamed up to the disabled Rebel and took possession.
At the mouth of the Southwest Pass they met the Brooklyn. Vance went on
board, found in the Commodore an old acquaintance, and after recounting
the adventures of the last twelve hours, gave up the two steamers for
government use. It was then arranged that he and his companions should
take passage on board the store-ship Catawba, which was to sail for New
York within the hour; while all the persons captured on board the Rebel,
together with the detective carried off by Vance, should be detained as
prisoners and sent North in an armed steamer, to leave the next day.
“There’s one man,” said Vance,—“his name is Ratcliff,—who will try by
all possible arts and pleadings to get away. Hold on to him, Commodore,
as you would to a detected incendiary. ’T is all the requital I ask for
my little present to Uncle Sam.”
“He shall be safe in Fort Lafayette before the month is out,” replied
the Commodore. “I’ll take your word for it, Vance, that he isn’t to be
trusted.”
“One word more, Commodore. My crew on board the little tug are all good
men and true. Old Skipper Payson, whom you see yonder, goes into this
fight, not for wages, but for love. He has but one fault!”
“What’s that? Drinks, I suppose!”
“No. He’s a terrible Abolitionist.”
“So much the better! We shall all be Abolitionists before this war is
ended. ’T is the only way to end it.”
“Good, my Commodore! Such sentiments from men in your position will do
as much as rifled cannon for the cause.”
“More, Mr. Vance, more! And now duty calls me off. Your men, sir, shall
be provided for. Good by.”
Vance and the Commodore shook hands and parted. Vance was rowed back to
the Artful Dodger. On his way, looking through his opera-glass, he could
see Ratcliff in the cutter, gnawing his rage, and looking the
incarnation of chagrin.
The Catawba was making her toilet ready for a start. She lay at a short
distance from the Artful. Vance, Winslow, Kenrick, and Onslow went on
board, where the orders of the Commodore had secured for them excellent
accommodations. Before noon a northeasterly breeze had sprung up, and
they took their leave of the mouths of the Mississippi.
Ratcliff no sooner touched the deck of the Brooklyn, than, conquering
with an effort his haughtiness, he took off his hat, and, approaching
the Commodore, asked for an interview.
The Commodore was an old weather-beaten sailor, not far from his
threescore and ten years. He kept no “circumlocution office” on board
his ship, and as he valued his time, he could not tolerate any tortuous
delays in coming to the point.
“Commodore,” said Ratcliff, “’t is important I should have a few words
with you immediately.”
“Well, sir, be quick about it.”
“Commodore, I have long known you by reputation as a man of honor. I
have often heard Commodore Tatnall—”
“The damned old traitor! Well sir?”
“I beg pardon; I supposed you and Tatnall were intimate.”
“So we were! Loved him once as my own brother. He and I and Percival
have had many a jolly time together. But now, damn him! The man who
could trample on the old flag that had protected and honored and
enriched him all his life is no better than a beast. So damn him! Don’t
let me hear his name again.”
“I beg pardon, Commodore. As I was saying, we know you to be a
gentleman—”
“Stop! I’m an officer in the United States service. That’s the only
capacity I shall allow you to address me in. Your salvy compliments make
me sick. What do you want?”
“It’s necessary I should return at once to New Orleans.”
“Indeed! How do you propose to get there?”
“When you hear my story, you’ll give me the facilities.”
“Don’t flatter yourself. I shall do no such thing.”
“But, Commodore, I came out in pursuit of an unfaithful agent, who was
running off with my property.”
“Hark you, sir, when you speak in those terms of Simon Winslow, you lie,
and deserve the cat.”
Ratcliff grew purple in the struggle to suppress an outburst of wrath.
But, after nearly a minute of silence, he said: “Commodore, my wife died
only a few hours ago. Her unburied remains lie in my house. Surely
you’ll let me return to attend her funeral. You’ll not be so cruel as to
refuse me.”
“Pah! Does your dead wife need your care any more than my live wife
needs mine? ’T is your infernal treason keeps me here. Can you count the
broken hearts and ruined constitutions you have already made,—the
thousands you have sent to untimely graves,—in this attempt to carry out
your beastly nigger-breeding, slavery-spreading speculation? And now you
presume to whine because I’ll not let you slip back to hatch more
treason, under the pretence that you want to go to a funeral! As if you
hadn’t made funerals enough already in the land! Curse your impudence,
sir! Be thankful I don’t string you up to the yard-arm. Here, Mr.
Buttons, see that this fellow is placed among the prisoners and strictly
guarded. I hold you responsible for him, sir!”
The Commodore turned on his heel and left Ratcliff panting with an
intolerable fury that he dared not vent. Big drops of perspiration came
out on his face. The Midshipman, playfully addressed as Mr. Buttons, was
a very stern-looking gentleman, of the name of Adams, who wore on his
coat a very conspicuous row of buttons, and whose fourteenth birthday
had been celebrated one week before. Motioning to Ratcliff, and frowning
imperiously, he stamped his foot and exclaimed, “Follow me!” The
slave-lord, with an internal half-smothered groan of rage and despair,
saw that there was no help, and obeyed.