That night we had a chase such as I had never before indulged in. The
aide-de-camp believed Frank Amory to be ill with fever:--delirium in
fact, but to my knowledge delirium was unusual as a first symptom of an
ordinary Southern fever. He might be feverish; might indeed be ill; but
that alone would not be apt to cause his extraordinary excitement. Two
or three officers at headquarters had remarked his strange manner and
absent-minded replies, said the aide, while he had been there early in
the evening, but at that time his face was pale rather than flushed.
At the stables on Magazine Street we again questioned the sergeant. "Did
the lieutenant appear to be under any strong excitement?" asked the
aide-de-camp, and the sergeant eyed him askance a moment as though he
misunderstood the drift of the question, seeing which I interposed,--
"The captain fears that Mr. Amory is seized with just such a fever as
that which prostrated Major Vinton." Whereat the sergeant looked
relieved, and answered,--
"I couldn't say, sir. He never spoke more than to order his horse and
then go off at a gallop. But two or three times lately at Sandbrook he
has done that,--taken his horse and gone off riding at the dead of
night. He may be ill, sir, but I couldn't say."
This news in some way strengthened my view of the case. The fact that he
had frequently or occasionally gone off in a similar manner went to
prove that the ailment was not a new bodily trouble. Knowing what I knew
and felt bound to keep to myself, it was not hard to determine that
mental perturbations, aggravated perhaps by recent fatigues and
excitements, were at the bottom of Amory's strange conduct. None the
less, however, I was eager to find and bring him back. He ought not to
be away from his command at such a time. Directing the sergeant to say
to Mr. Amory that we were in search of him and begged him to wait for us
on his return, the aide-de-camp and I hurried down the street; sought a
cab-stand; and, jumping into one of the light cabriolets that were then
a feature of the New Orleans streets, we drove rapidly down to Vinton's
quarters. I thought Amory might have galloped thither. A dim light was
burning in the sick-room, as we could see from the front. The door was
closed and locked, but I rang, and presently a servant came sleepily
through the hall and stared at me in mild stupefaction. "No. Mr. Amory
hadn't been there." I brushed past the darky and went noiselessly up
the stairs and tapped at Vinton's door. The nurse came and peered at me
through the inch-wide crack: not a whit more would he open the door lest
the night air should be wafted in.
"We fear that Lieutenant Amory is taken ill," I said in a low tone. "He
may come here to see his captain. Try and get him to lie down in Colonel
Summers's room until we get back, if he should come." The nurse nodded;
said that Vinton was sleeping quietly, and directed me to Harrod's door.
I knocked there, and it was opened in a moment.
"What! you, Brandon? Anything wrong?"
"We can't find Amory. He is on horseback and galloping around town all
by himself. They think at headquarters that he may be ill with fever
like Vinton. Mr. Parker and I are hunting for him. If he should come
here, get him into your room and make him lie down, will you?"
"Certainly I will. But, Brandon, had not I better go with you? Are you
sure he is ill? I thought him strange enough at Moreau's, but----"
"I cannot say what it is," I broke in, impatiently. "I must hurry off,
as he must be found as quickly as possible."
"With that I turned away and retraced my steps through the dimly-lighted
hall. Reaching the stairs I paused, for another door had softly opened,
and Pauline's voice, low-toned and anxious, was heard.
"Harrod, what is it?"
"Mr. Amory is ill, I'm afraid," was the reply, and I hurried back to the
street.
Rapidly we drove to the levee, and there at the depot found Major
Williams's sleeping battalion. The aide sprang out and accosted a
sentry. A sergeant came with a lantern and ushered the staff-officer in
among the snoring groups; for the men had thrown themselves in their
blankets upon the wooden flooring. Presently they reappeared, and with
them came Mr. Turpin, hurriedly adjusting his collar and cravat.
"Sheep always was a most excitable fellow," he was saying, "but this
beats me. He hasn't been here at all, and I've no idea where he can have
gone."
Leaving directions what was to be done in case he did appear, we drove
away up Canal Street. It was then nearly two o'clock, but there were
still loungers around the Clay statue; lights gleaming from one or two
"open-all-night" bars and from the cab-lanterns on St. Charles Street.
Our driver pulled up, and Mr. Parker sprang out and exchanged a few
words with a policeman. I could not hear, but saw that the latter
pointed up the street; and the aide came quickly back,--
"Drive on,--right out Canal, and keep a bright lookout for an officer on
horseback," were his orders, as we whirled away over the smooth
pavement.
"That policeman says he saw a young officer gallop out this way not ten
minutes ago, and he's been wondering ever since what was going on. He
walked up as far as Dryades Street to find out, thinking he might have
stopped at the State-House; but all is quiet there, and the patrols told
him the officer went on out Canal, riding like mad."
Evidently, then, Mars had stopped somewhere or had ridden elsewhere
before going out towards the swamps. We peered eagerly up and down the
dimly-lighted cross-streets as we whirled rapidly past them. The lamps
along the broad thoroughfare grew infrequent; the street was deserted.
Once in a while we passed a carriage-load of revellers returning from
the shell road and a supper at the "Lake End." Well out towards the
stables of the street-railway we caught sight of another policeman;
hauled up, and hailed him with anxious questioning. No, he had seen no
officer on horseback; his beat lay along Canal Street, but he had "taken
a turn through a side street after a couple of s'picious-lookin'
parties," and might have been gone four or five minutes. Crack! went the
whip, and we pushed ahead. Gas-lamps now became few and far between;
open stretches of level turf or prairie were visible here and there
between the houses or garden-walls; the moonlight was tempered and
shrouded by low-hanging clouds, and surrounding objects were only dimly
seen. Still we whirled ahead over the smooth-beaten road, and at last
drove rapidly between the high walls of the silent cities of the dead
that bounded the highway near the crossing of the canal. Two or three
loungers were hanging about the dimly-lighted portico of a saloon. Mr.
Parker sprang out and made some rapid inquiries, then hurried back to
the cab.
"He crossed here nearly half an hour ago,--went right on over the
bridge," he exclaimed, as he sprang in and told the driver to whip up.
"Turn to the right," he added. "Drive towards Lake End. It's the only
place he can have gone." And in a moment more the wheels were whirring
over the level track; a dense hedgerow of swamp undergrowth on our left;
the dark waters of the canal on our right.
We passed two or three roadside hostelries, whose enticing lights still
lured the belated or the dissipated into the ready bars. Mr. Parker
scanned them as we drove ahead.
"He never drinks a drop, I hear, and it's no use looking for him there."
Nevertheless, our driver suddenly pulled up in front of a lamp-lighted
entrance. "There's a couple of buggies and a horse in under that shed,"
said he.
The aide-de-camp jumped out and stepped briskly off in the direction
indicated by the driver's hand. Our cab again pulled up. Presently he
emerged from the darkness of the shed.
"It isn't Amory's horse. It's a Louisiana pony," said he. "Wait one
moment and I'll see who's inside."
With that he sprang up the steps and walked rapidly towards the glass
doorways of the bar.
He was in civilian dress except for the forage-cap, which he had hastily
picked up when we left the office. Its gold cord and crossed sabres
gleamed under the lamp as he sharply turned the door-knob and entered
the room. Even without that cap I by this time would have known his
profession; he had that quick, springy, nervous walk and erect carriage
so marked among the younger West-Pointers. My eyes followed him until he
disappeared; so apparently did others.
From the farther end of the gallery two dark forms rose from a sitting
posture, and one of them came tiptoeing along towards the doorway. Our
cab had halted near the steps at the end opposite them, and, despite our
lights, the stealthily-moving figure seemed to pay no attention to us.
Before I had time to conjecture what his object could be, the man
crouched before the door, his hat pulled low over his forehead, and
peered eagerly through the glass. Then he turned his head; gave a low
whistle, and, almost at a run, the second figure, in slouch hat like the
first and with overcoat pulled well up about his ears, hurried to his
side; stooped; peered through, and shook his head.
"Drive up there, quick!" I said. And, as hoof and wheel crunched through
the gravel, the pair drew suddenly back; sprang noiselessly down the
steps and in among the shrubbery out of my sight. Almost at the same
instant Mr. Parker reappeared; took his seat beside me, and, before I
could interpose, called out, "Drive on,--Lake End." And away we went,
leaving the mysterious strangers in the dusk behind us.
"Amory has not been seen there, nor beyond. There are two young sports
in there who came in from Lake End half an hour ago, but they are both
pretty full. The barkeeper said there were two more gentlemen who came
out from town with another buggy earlier, but they had gone outside."
"I saw them," answered I, "and they are bad characters of some kind.
They stole up on tiptoe and peered after you as you went in, then sprang
back out of sight as you came out. I wanted to tell you about them. They
seemed waiting or watching for somebody."
"Gamblers or 'cappers' probably. Fellows who lie in wait for drunken
men with money and steer them into their dens,--fleece them, you know.
The streets are full of them day and night."
"Yes; but these men wore slouch hats and overcoats that muffled their
faces, and they watched you so oddly. Why did they leap back as you came
out?"
"That was odd," said Mr. Parker, thoughtfully. "Could you see nothing of
their faces?"
"Nothing at all, except that the first man had a heavy dark moustache,
and was tall and stoutly built; the other seemed young and slight; his
face was hidden entirely."
The aide-de-camp leaned out and looked back along the dark road; then
drew in again.
"No use to look," he said. "Even if they were to follow I could not see;
their buggy has no lamps, our rig has to have them. Are you armed?"
"No; I never carry anything."
"Nor I, as a rule; yet had I thought we would come so far at this time
of night I would have brought my revolver. Not that any attack is to be
feared from those two unless there should be a crowd at their back;
otherwise we would be three to two."
"But they are armed, and we are not."
"They think we are, all the same. The average citizen hereabouts goes
prepared to shoot if he is on a night-prowl like this. I don't know why
I asked if you were armed."
Then for some distance we rattled along in silence. The clouds had grown
heavier; a few heavy rain-drops had pattered in on our faces, and the
night air was damp and raw. We passed one or two more dark houses, and
then came in view of the lights at Lake End. Here, despite the lateness
of the hour, one or two resorts seemed still to be open and patronized.
Directing the driver to turn towards the lights on the right, Mr. Parker
again sprang out, looked in the carriage-shed, then into the bar-room;
came out, crossed the way, and made a similar search in a neighboring
establishment. Then I saw him questioning a sleepy-looking stableman,
and then he came back to me. Perplexity and concern were mingled in his
face as he stood there looking up at me in the glare of our lamp.
"Nobody has been here on horseback since midnight. These are the only
places open since that hour, and now there are not more than half a
dozen people out here--roysterers after a late supper. Where could Amory
have gone? Do you suppose he knew his way back by Washington Avenue, and
had turned to the left instead of this way?"
"He is an entire stranger in New Orleans,--never was out here before in
his life,--and I don't know what to make of it."
He looked at his watch, retook his seat. "We must get back to the
bridge," said he. "Driver, stop at Gaston's,--where we were before,--and
go lively."
Now through the pattering rain we hurried on our return trip. We were
silent, plunged in thought and anxiety. In some way those two skulkers
at Gaston's had become connected in my mind with Amory's disappearance.
I could not shake off the impression, and, as though the same train of
thought were affecting my companion, he suddenly spoke,--
"You say that those men followed me as I went in, and sprang out into
the shrubbery as I came back?"
"Yes; as though to avoid being seen by you."
He took off his forage-cap and looked disgustedly at it a moment.
"Confound this thing! Why didn't I wear my hat?" he muttered; then
turned suddenly to me: "Mr. Brandon, when we get back to Gaston's let me
have your hat, will you? I would like to take another look in there, and
if you will stay in the cab, we will stop this side of the entrance, and
I'll go ahead on foot. Here, driver, hold up a moment."
Cabby reined in his horse and turned towards us in surprise. The
aide-de-camp sprang out in the rain and began working at the lamp.
"Don't put it out, sir; it's against orders," said the driver.
"Never you mind, driver; I'll be responsible for any row there may be
over it. There is reason for it, and a mighty good one. Douse that glim
on your side. That's right! Now go ahead, lively as you can, and stop
just this side of Gaston's."
Then for a while we pushed on in the darkness, and nobody spoke. Finally
the driver turned, saying that Gaston's lights were near at hand;
presently he reined up. Mr. Parker exchanged head-gear with me; pulled
the brim of my roomy black felt well down over his face; and, cautioning
us in a low tone to remain where we were, disappeared in the direction
of the lights.
It must have been long after three. I was tired and chilled. The driver
got out his gum coat and buttoned it around him. Five--ten minutes we
waited. No sound but the dismal patter of the rain. Full quarter of an
hour passed, it seemed to me, before I saw a lantern coming rapidly out
of the darkness in front, and presently Mr. Parker's voice was heard.
"Come on; drive slowly. Go right in to Gaston's," and, even as he spoke,
he swung in beside me. "Had Amory any money, do you know?" he asked,
before fairly taking his seat.
"No. Why?"
"There is something strange about this affair I cannot fathom. I've been
talking with Gaston and one of his men. They have been sitting up
waiting for us to get back. Those two footpads were up to some mischief,
and I'm afraid it was Amory they were after. You will hear in a moment.
Come into the bar," he said, as the cab stopped at the steps.
Another moment and Gaston himself had ushered us into a little room and
proceeded to tell his tale. We had no sooner left, he said, than those
gentlemen who came from town in the buggy after midnight re-entered the
bar, ordered drinks, and asked Gaston to join them. One was a big man,
with a heavy moustache, and deep-set eyes under very shaggy brows; he
was rather poorly dressed, and had no watch. The other was a young,
dark-eyed, handsome fellow, with dark moustache, stylish clothes, and a
fine gold watch, which he kept nervously looking at every moment or so.
The former did all the talking; the latter paid for everything they
ordered both before and after our visit. After a few ordinary remarks
the big man asked Gaston who the young officer was, and Gaston, knowing
him to be stationed in the city and having often seen him, gave his
name. Then they wanted to know who was with him in the cab, and "what
took him off so sudden." Gaston had seen nobody with him, but told them
unhesitatingly that Mr. Parker was in search of a friend,--an officer
who had ridden out on horseback. At this the men had looked suddenly at
one another, and very soon after had gone out, saying they believed they
would drive back, it looked like rain.
Five minutes afterwards, Louis, the hostler, came into the bar and asked
Gaston who those men were, and, on being told that they were strangers,
had replied, "Well, they're here for no good, and I'd like to follow
them up. They didn't see me out there in the dark, and were talking very
low and fast when they came for their buggy." We called Louis in and had
his story from his own lips. He had heard their talk, and it alarmed and
puzzled him. The big man was saying with an oath that some man they were
waiting for must be around there somewhere; he had come across the
bridge, for Gaston told them the officer said so. The little man was
excited, and had answered, "Well, we've got to tackle him; but don't you
drive into any light." With that and some more talk they had got into
the buggy and had driven rapidly off towards the Canal Street bridge.
"How long ago?" asked Mr. Parker.
"Full half an hour," was the answer.
"Then we had better start at once," said the aide to me. "What other
places are there near here that would be open now, Gaston?"
"None at all. I'd have been shut long ago but for this affair. There are
one or two saloons near the bridge and the Metairie track, but none
would be open this late."
Thanking them for their information, and promising to let them know if
anything resulted, we hurried out to the cab and told the driver to go
to the bridge. We were both more than anxious by this time, and were
unable to account for the strange proceedings in any satisfactory
manner.
The rain seemed to have held up for a few moments, and the veil of
clouds thrown over the face of the moon had perceptibly thinned, so that
a faint, wan light fell upon roadway, swamp, and canal. The lamps at the
crossing burned with a yellowish glare. No one was visible around the
bridge or the buildings at the city end,--no one from whom we could
obtain information as to the movements of Amory or of the two strangers.
"There are one or two places over here on the upper side I mean to have
a look at," said Mr. Parker, "and if no one is there, Amory must have
gone back to town."
We had turned to the right, towards Lake Pontchartrain, on coming out.
Now the driver was directed to go to the other side. Parker kept peering
out into the darkness, and presently the driver said,--
"I think there's a light in there at Gaffney's."
"Hold up, then," said the aide. "Now, Mr. Brandon, lend me your hat
again: I'm going to hunt through one or two sheds hereabouts for that
buggy. I may be gone ten or twelve minutes. You get the cab into this
little side alley here and wait. Those men will be on the watch for our
lamps if they are still here, but I can crawl up on them by keeping the
cab out of sight."
The side alley proved to be a lane leading through the tall hedge of
swampy vegetation. I could not see where it led to, but the driver said
it only ran out a few hundred feet to some barns that lay near the old
Metairie track. He drove in, however, and halted the cab close under the
hedge on one side. Too nervous to sit still, I got out and walked back
to the main road, where the buildings of Gaffney's place could be seen.
There was, as the driver had said, a dim light, but it seemed to be in
one of the rear rooms.
For five minutes all was silent. Then, far up the road, I thought I
heard the beat of horses' hoofs coming on at a jog-trot. Listening
intently, I soon was assured. Nothing could be seen along the dark
shadow of the hedgerow; the light was too feeble to point out objects in
the road; but every moment, more and more distinctly, I heard what I
felt certain to be a horse and buggy coming towards us. Then all of a
sudden the sound ceased.
The approach to Gaffney's was a semicircular sweep of shell road leading
from the main highway to the galleries of the saloon. There was
probably a distance of a hundred yards between the two entrances. I was
standing at the northern end. That buggy had evidently stopped at or
very near the other. I almost fancied I could see it. Now, had Parker
heard it coming? Waiting a moment more in breathless expectancy, I
suddenly heard, as though from the shrubbery in front of Gaffney's, low,
prolonged, and clear, a whistle. My nerves leaped with sudden start. The
same odd thrill of tremulous excitement seized me that had so mastered
me that strange night in the old plantation home at Sandbrook. It was
for all the world like the signal-whistle that had so roused me that
night, only very much softer. Could it have been from Mr. Parker?
Whether it was or no he would probably need me now. I crept into the
shadow of the hedgerow and, on tiptoe, hastened up the curve towards the
gallery. A dim figure was standing at the end of the house peering
towards the other entrance,--a figure that held out a warning hand, and
I stole noiselessly up beside it, my heart beating like a trip-hammer.
It was Parker.
"Quiet," he whispered; "I think we have treed our buggy friends."
"The buggy is out there on the road," I answered.
"It was, but that whistle will bring it in here. There stands the big
man just at the other end of the gallery. He cannot see us; he is
looking the other way. Follow me across into the shrubbery and we will
get up near him. I'm bound to hear what devilment they are up to."
With that he sprang lightly across. I followed; and, crouching
noiselessly along the soft grass, we stole through the low trees and
bushes until nearly opposite the southern end of the gallery. Almost at
the same instant the buggy came driving up the turn, and a voice uttered
an impatient "Whoa!"
"What have you seen?" queried the party in the buggy in a low, agitated
voice,--a voice I knew I had heard before, and instinctively reached
forth my hand and placed it on my companion's arm.
"Seen! Not a d--d thing. Your blue-bellied skunk has been too smart for
you, Cap. He not only hasn't come himself, but he's got his friends out
here on your track."
"He has come, I tell you," answered the first speaker. "You know
yourself they were asking for him at Gaston's, and that fellow at the
bridge told you he saw him ride across."
"Then where'd he go to?" said the other, sulkily and savagely. "No man
passed Gaston's on horseback, I can swear to that; and if he came at all
as far as the bridge, why didn't he come the rest of the way? Where did
he go? How did he get back? Are you sure you wrote plain directions?"
"Plain! Of course I did. I wrote turn towards the lake, to the south,
after crossing the bridge, and he'd find me; and so he would, d--n him!"
added the younger man between his teeth. His voice was growing more and
more familiar to me every moment in its sulky, peevish tones.
"But you said he was a stranger here. How was he to know where the lake
lay?"
"Suppose he didn't! I told him to turn south. Any man knows north from
south I reckon. Perhaps the white-livered sneak was a Yank at bottom,
and lost his nerve."
"Tain't likely. Not from what I seen of him. His kind don't scare so
d--d easy at yours, and he came out here to find you, you bet. Why
didn't you say turn to the right instead of south? Damfino which is
north or south here anyhow. How was he to know?"
"Don't be a fool!" said the other, impatiently, "everybody knows the
river runs north and south, and Canal Street runs out right angles to
the river, and you turn to the right to go to the lake. It must be
south."
Here I couldn't help nudging my neighbor, the aide, who was chuckling
with delight at this scientific statement.
"Well, by Gawd! you may know more 'bout it than I do; but when I got
off that boat yesterday morning up there by Julia Street, d--n me if the
sun wasn't rising in the west then,--over there across Algiers,--and if
the Yank is no better posted on the points of the compass than I am,
strikes me he's slipped out of your trap easy enough."
"You mean he's gone to the left--past here?" asked the other,
snarlingly.
"Just that. He's taken the turn to the left. None of these places this
side have been open since we came out; and seeing no one, he's kept on,
and probably got back to town some other way. Like enough he's in bed
and asleep by this time, and here we've been fooling away the whole
night."
Chilled as I was, trembling 'twixt cold and excitement, I was beginning
to enjoy this conversation hugely. More than that, both the aide and
myself were beginning to feel assured that Amory was safe.
"Then all we can do is go back," said the young man in the buggy, after
a moment of silence. "But I'll get that fellow yet," he added, with a
torrent of blasphemy. "Get in."
"Where's that flask of yours?" asked the man on the steps. "I want a
drink."
"Get in first and I'll give it to you."
Then we heard the creaking of the springs, and the dim, shadowy form of
the big man lumbered into the light vehicle. A gurgle and a long-drawn
"ah-h-h" followed, then,--
"Got a cigar?"
"Yes; but hadn't we better wait until we get back on Canal Street before
lighting them? We want to look out for those other fellows in that cab,
you know."
"Oh, d--n them! You can see their lamps half a mile off. Here, give us a
match."
Another minute and a feeble glare illuminated the dark interior. Pale
and blue at first, it speedily gained strength and lighting power.
Eagerly we scanned the two faces, now for one never-to-be-forgotten
instant revealed to our gaze. One lowering, heavy-browed, coarse, and
bearded; the other--ah, well I knew I had heard that voice, for there,
half muffled in the heavy coat, half shrouded by the slouching hat, were
the pale, clear-cut, dissipated features I had marked so keenly at
Sandbrook. It was the face of Ned Peyton.