THE ADJUDICATION
A dismal sight enough was presented when finally a few half-hearted
torches were pressed into use to produce a scant illumination.
What had been a commonplace scene now was become one of tragedy.
The bank of this willow-covered island had assumed the appearance
of a hostile shore. Combat, collision, war had taken the place of
recent peace and silence. The night seemed ominous, as though not
even these incidents were more than the beginning of others yet
more serious soon to come.
Out of the confusion at last there might have been heard the voice
of Dunwody, calling again for Jamieson. There was work for the
surgeon when the dead and injured of both sides at last were
brought aboard the little steamer and ranged in a ghastly common
row along the narrow deck. "Take care of them, Jamieson," said
Dunwody shortly. He himself leaned against the rail.
"You're hurt yourself, Dunwody," exclaimed Jamieson, the blood
dripping from his fingers when he half rose. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing--I got a nick in my leg, I think, but I'm all right. See
to the others."
Jamieson bent over the body of young Desha, who had been first to
suffer here on the debated ground of Missouri. He had been shot
through the upper body and had died with little suffering. Of the
assailing party two others also were beyond aid, one a young
planter who had joined the party some miles back beyond St.
Genevieve, the other a sallow example of the "poor white trash" who
made a certain part of the population of the lower country. Of
these both were shot through the head, and death did not at once
relieve them. They both lay groaning dully. Jamieson passed them
swiftly by. The tally showed that of the Missourians three had
been killed, four badly wounded, besides the slight wound of
Dunwody and that of a planter by the name of Sanders, who had been
shot through the arm.
Of the boat party, smaller in the first place though well armed,
the loss had been slightly less. Two men had been killed outright
and three others badly wounded, of these one, probably, fatally
hurt. To all of these Jamieson ministered as best he might. The
deck was wet with blood. Silent and saddened spectators, the
attacking party stood ranged along the rail on the side next to the
shore. On the opposite side were the sullen defenders.
Carlisle, the leader of the boat party, stood silent, with lips
tightly compressed, not far from where Dunwody leaned against the
rail. He made no comment on the scene and was apparently not
unused to such spectacles. Occasionally he bent over, the better
to observe the results of the surgeon's work, but he ventured no
comment and indulged in no recriminations. His slight but erect
figure was military now in its formality. His face was not
handsome, but the straight eyes showed fearless. The brow was
strong, the nose straight and firm. Once he removed his
"wideawake" hat and passed a hand through the heavy tangle of his
reddish hair. The face was that of a fanatic. It was later not
unknown in yet bloodier fighting.
The night faded after all, at last. Along the level of the water's
surface came some glints from the eastern sky. The horizon paled
slightly. At last a haggard dawn came to light the scene. The
shadows of the willow flat opened, and there lay exposed what now
was a coast possessed by embattled forces.
"Captain," began Dunwody at last, turning to the commander of the
boat forces. "We will be leaving before long. As to you, you will
have to turn back. You will take your boat down-stream, if you
please."
"It's not as I please," rejoined the other. "You order us back
from our journey at your own peril."
"Why argue the matter?" said Dunwody dully. "It would do no good.
We're as much in earnest as you are about it, and we have beaten
you. You belong to the army, but these are not enlisted men, and
you're not carrying out any orders."
"That part of the argument is plain," rejoined the young officer.
"But you are mistaken if you think you can order me. I'm an
officer, and I'm on my own way, and I am, therefore, under orders.
I was following a prisoner late in my charge when I fell in with
this party bound up the river, to the Kansas front."
"The courts may take all that up. This is Missouri soil."
"It's no case for courts," answered the other sternly. "This will
come before the court of God Himself."
A bitter smile played over the face of the Missourian. "You
preach. Yet you yourself are lawless as the worst law-breakers.
Who made our laws--you, or the whole people of this country? And
if God is your court, why did you have no better aid to-night.
It's the long arm wins. You see, we will fight."
"That I agree. It's force that wins, but not brute force. You
will see."
"Argument!" exclaimed Dunwody. "The answer is here at our
feet--it's in blood."
"So be it then!" said the other solemnly. "If it means war, let it
be war. I admit that we have a fugitive slave on board--a young
woman--I suppose that was the excuse for your attack."
"It was the cause of it; and we intend to take her," answered
Dunwody. "We didn't intend to use violence unless it was
necessary. But as to you, will you take your boat below and out of
this country?"
"I will not."
"Very well, then, we'll take you from your own boat, and we'll make
her pay the penalty."
"By what right?"
"By the right of the long arm, since you insist."
"You would make us prisoners--without any process of law whatever!"
"You can thresh that out in your own courts later, if you like,"
said Dunwody. "Meantime, we'll see if I can't find a place that
will hold you."
"Jamieson," he called out an instant later; "Clayton; come here.
Take the roll of these men," he went on. "If any of them want to
drop the thing at this point and go back, let them give parole.
They'll have to agree to leave and never come back here again."
"That's an outrage!" broke out the northern leader. "You and your
band of ruffians--you talk as though you owned this state, as
though this river weren't made as a highway of this continent.
Don't you know that not even a river can be owned by an entire
state?"
"We own this part of it to-day," rejoined Dunwody simply. "This is
our judiciary. These are our legislators whom you see." He
slapped his rifle stock, touched a revolver butt at his belt. "You
left the highway when you tied up to our shores. The temper of my
men is such that you are lucky to have a parole offered to you.
You deserve not the treatment of soldiers, but of spies. You
disgrace your uniform. These men are only fools. But what do they
say, Clayton?" he demanded turning to the latter as he finally
returned.
"They consider the expedition at an end," returned the Judge.
"Three of them want to go on home to St. Louis. Yates yonder is
in favor of hanging them all. The boys are bitter about losing
Desha."
Dunwody looked the young leader calmly in the face. "You hear,"
said he. "But you shall see that we are not such ruffians at
heart, in spite of all. It's my intention to conclude this matter
as decently as possible."
"The others are willing to return," continued Judge Clayton. "They
want to know what their captain intends."
"Their captain does not intend to surrender," rejoined the latter
fearlessly. "Let those desert who like."
"I am with you, Captain," quietly said a tall young man, of German
accent, who had been foremost in the fighting.
[Illustration: "I am with you, Captain."]
"Good, Lieutenant Kammerer, I knew you'd stick," commented the
leader.
"As to the boat, Judge Clayton," resumed Dunwody, "what shall we do
with her?"
"Burned boats tell no tales," here called out young Yates
sententiously.
"You hear," said Dunwody. "My men are not children."
"It's piracy, that's all," rejoined the young leader,
"Not in the least, sir," broke in Judge Clayton. "We'll burn her
here, tied to this bank on Missouri soil. The river fell during
the night--some inches in all--she's hard aground on the shore."
"Fall in, men!" commanded Dunwody suddenly. "Jamieson, fix up my
leg, the best you can. It'll have to take its chances, for we're
in a hurry. About the paroled men, get them in the rowboats and
set them loose. Get your crippled men off the boat at once,
Jamieson. This couple of prisoners I am going to take home with
me. The rest can go.
"But there's one thing we've forgotten--where's that girl?" He
turned to the northern leader.
"She's below, in the cabin."
"Go get her, Clayton," commanded Dunwody. "We'll have to be quick
now."
Clayton found his way down the narrow companionway and in the
darkness of the unlighted lower deck fumbled for the lock of the
cabin. When he threw open the door he found the interior dimly
lighted by the low window. At first he could make out nothing, but
at last got a glimpse of a figure at the farther side of the little
room. "Who's there!" he demanded, weapon ready.
There was no answer, but slowly, wearily, with unspeakable sadness
in every gesture, there rose the figure of the girl Lily, around
whose fortunes had centered all these turbulent scenes.
In the confusion which followed, no one had a clear conception of
all the events which concluded this tragic encounter. Dunwody,
Jamieson and Clayton cleared the men from the decks of the boat.
The wounded hobbled to a place of shelter. The dead were laid out
in a long and ghastly row at the edge of the willow grove.
Meantime, busy hands brought dried brush and piled it up against
the side of the boat as she lay against the bank, the leader in
this being the Honorable William Jones, who now mysteriously
reappeared, after a temporary absence which had not been noted.
The faint light of a match showed in the dim dawn. There came a
puff of smoke or so, a tiny crackling. A denser burst of smoke
pierced through the light flames. Soon the fire settled to its
work, eating in even against the damp planking of the boat. The
drier railings caught, the deck floors, the sides of the cabin. In
half an hour the _Helen Bell_, early border transport, was a mass
of flames. In a quarter-hour more, her stacks had fallen overboard
and the hulk lay consumed half to the water-line.
[Illustration: Soon the fire settled to its work.]