The boat had reached a point a few miles above Marietta, when an
incident occurred to interrupt the resumed dialogue on the Spanish
question. A skiff was seen to push off from the Ohio shore, and move
rapidly in the direction of the flatboat, urged on by the long,
powerful oar-strokes of a man who, even in distant perspective,
appeared larger than life-size. Instead of hailing the crew of the
passing vessel, as was customary, the man gave no sign that he was
conscious of the existence of any other craft than his own
fast-gliding skiff. However, he steered straight for the boat, hove
alongside, sprang on board with surprising agility, and, having
fastened his light boat by a chain to a timber of the flat, stalked
deliberately to the stern where Captain Pierce was stationed with
steering-oar.
"I saw you coming down and I thought maybe you'd like to buy some
fresh fish. I've got a thirty-pound cat in the boat; I caught one last
week that weighed one hundred and three pound."
"Don't want any fish. Wouldn't take 'um as a gift."
"You're welcome not to, captain. I suppose a man has a right to hop on
board and ask a civil question. Whose boat is this, anyhow, and where
bound?"
No attention being paid to the question, the nonchalant intruder went
on: "What plunder are you loaded with? Salt or whiskey, or pork or
butter, I reckon? Or maybe you carry passengers? Is it a family of
emigrants? I see two chaps on the upper deck; who are they? What might
your name be, captain?"
The helmsman relieved his irritation by delivering a volley of oaths.
"You 'pear to be out of sorts, captain. Sour stomach, likely. Better
take a dose of saleratus."
Hearing a strange voice, the cook, who was the captain's trusted
confidant, came out. He was recognized by the ubiquitous Byle.
"Abe Sheldrake! as sure as ham is hog's flesh! Abe, if there's an
onrier man than you on earth, the bottomless pit is shaller."
The cook stood speechless, and the tall man sauntered leisurely
through the several apartments of the boat, calculating their
dimensions and inspecting the furniture, and pausing occasionally to
handle such articles as appealed to his curiosity. He passed through
the kitchen into the dining-room, and thence through both the
sleeping-chambers, finally emerging from a door at the bow of the
boat, after which he ascended to the roof, where he accosted Burr and
Arlington.
"How d'ye do? My name is Byle; Plutarch Byle--B-y-l-e. I can't call
your names, gents, but no matter. We all belong to the same human
race. I thought you might be a little bored-like with your own
talk--so long together you know--and I hopped on to cheer you up.
George Washington used to say to his nephew, 'Be courteous to all, but
intimate with few,' and George was half right. I admire a mannerly
man. How goes it?"
The familiarity of this overture puzzled, but did not offend the
travellers, who conceived that chance had thrown into their presence
an original whose company might afford them an hour's entertainment.
Arlington politely offered the visitor a chair.
"No, thank you, stranger. I've been setting in the skiff all day,
fishing, and I'd rather stand up and stretch my bones."
The gentlemen thought, when they saw Mr. Byle throw back his arms, and
gradually straighten up his towering body, that the length and
thickness of bone he had to stretch were extraordinary.
"I've got a lot of mussel shells in my boat for Mr. Blennerhatchet.
Would you like to see 'em? '_Union-idea_,' he says they are. He's a
queer customer, that Blennerhatchet."
"You know him then?" asked Burr.
"Know him! I know him like a book. I know him better than I do you. He
is not so good-looking as either of us, by ginger. I can't make out
why the Rose of Sharon ever took to a near-sighted United Irishman."
"The Rose of Sharon?"
"I mean his old woman--Mrs. B. She's a perfect lady. Pretty! Pretty
as a sassafras tree in October! I didn't just catch your names,
gentlemen. I like to call a man by his Christian name. It seems more
sociable. That's one thing I like about the French--sociability. They
go in for liberty, equality and brotherhood. But I don't take any
stock in their skeptical notions. I'd as soon eat poke-root and sleep
on pizen-vine as read Voltaire and Rousseau. Tom Payne is no better.
What's the latest news from Washington? Is Tom Jefferson going to make
war on Spain? It ain't war we want; it ain't more territory we want;
we need a closer union, and a strong tariff."
"You appear to be a politician, Mr. Pyle."
"Byle--B-y-l-e--Plutarch Byle, if you please. Yes, it's my notion
that every citizen ought to be a politician. I'm a John Jay
Federalist--a centralizer. Which side are you on?"
"I'm not concerned in politics at present. We are lawyers, not
politicians, Mr. Arlington and I."
"Arlington? That's not a bad name. Where do you hail from, Arlington?"
"From Richmond, Virginia," said the young man good humoredly. "This
gentleman is a citizen of New York."
"New York City? Porcupines and wildcats! You don't say! There's where
Alexander Hamilton lived--the greatest man that ever lived in these
United States, except Washington. I suppose there was a heap of
excitement in New York when Alexander Hamilton was killed--murdered,
I might say. Did you ever see Alexander Hamilton?"
Burr looked steadily into the eyes of the Great Inquisitive. "Yes," he
replied, "I was very well acquainted with Mr. Hamilton. He was a fine
man."
"You're right there, stranger! Give us your hand on that! I'm proud to
shake with a man who has seen Alexander Hamilton."
The enthusiastic Byle extended his prodigious palm and grasped the
delicate hand politely proffered him. Arlington looked on in
astonishment.
Burr, wincing at the vice-like grip of his new acquaintance, placidly
responded: "Yes, there are few men more worthy of esteem than was my
admirable friend Mr. Hamilton--whom I shot."
Byle was struck dumb. He could only open his cavernous mouth, and
gasp. His heavy hand relaxed its hold, and dropped as if paralyzed.
For a moment he stared at Arlington. Then he recovered his powers
sufficiently to articulate.
"You shot him? You--you aren't--?"
"Yes, I am Aaron Burr."
Plutarch Byle turned on his heel and with three strides carried his
leaning tower of a body to the edge of the deck. Scrambling
precipitately down the boat's side, he stumbled into his skiff, undid
the chain, grabbed his oars and fairly shot away, as if pursued by
flying pestilence. He directed his course northward and quickly ran
the bow of his skiff against the river bank. Then plunging his right
hand into the water, he rubbed and scrubbed it vigorously, using sand
for soap.
"Dog-fennel and skunk-cabbage! I don't believe there's water enough in
the Ohio River to take out the wicked smell of that murderer's hand!"