A SINGULAR PROCEEDING.
Once among the branches, I felt myself safe from being seen. The
streamers of Spanish moss formed a festoonery around me thick enough to
have concealed an elephant. By keeping quiet there would be no danger
of my being detected, and I kept as still as a man may be expected to
who believes his life depends upon so slight a thing as the swishing of
a leaf, or the snapping of a twig.
I had not been twenty minutes on my perch before becoming convinced
that _my life_ hung upon just such a thread.
This conviction came not from any thing I heard; for still, as below, I
could only make out the murmur of the men's voices; but I was now able
to get sight of themselves.
One of the largest limbs of the cypress extended toward the lagoon,
beyond which there was an open list communicating with that over the
water. By creeping along this branch I believed I should have a view,
not only of the bayou, but of the boat.
With only one hand to help me, it seemed a difficult task, but under
the stimulus of something more than curiosity I attempted it. I
succeeded.
The bayou, the boat, the crew, came under my eyes.
Not the crew as I had noted it when taking my departure from Henry
Woodley's plantation, for the four negroes were not seen. I saw only
white men.
There were three of them. Two were Black and his confederate, Stinger.
The other, a man unknown to me, but whose physiognomy and general
appearance rendered him a fit associate for the two already named.
All these appeared busy as bees, though not occupied in the same
manner. I first saw Stinger, who was engaged on that end of the flat
where the steps led down into the caboose. He was scrubbing the
roof-boards and apparently, also, the slips, with a brush in hand and a
bucket standing beside him.
Crawling a little further along the branch, the other two came in
sight. There was a staging from the flat to the shore. It sloped down
to the bottom of a sort of doorway in the side of the boat. I could see
that a half-score cotton-bales had been rolled across it, and lay upon
the land. Among these Black, in his shirt-sleeves, and the strange man,
were busy.
The flat, after all, had met with an accident, and they were unloading
to prevent it from sinking. This was my first impression, and I began
to think there _had_ been a snag, and in some way or other I had been
mistaken about the whole business.
I no longer wondered at the boat having been brought up the bayou. I
only wondered at not seeing the negroes. There was not one of them
visible. They might be inside the boat, assisting to get out the
cotton. But then I should have heard their voices, or some noise they
must necessarily have made, and there was none. Where could they be?
I had not been long looking on before I discovered that Black and his
assistant were engaged in an operation that quite mystified me. As
I have said, they were busy among the cotton-bales. With inquiring
eyes I watched their proceedings. I saw the two take hold of a bale,
unloose the ropes that bound it, rip off the "bagging" from one of its
sides, and then stitch in its place another piece, after which the
binding-cords were readjusted.
For some time I was puzzled by this singular proceeding, and it was
only after a prolonged scrutiny that I could conjecture what it
meant. At length, however, I arrived at the elucidation, strange and
improbable as it appeared.
I observed that the pieces of canvas removed were from the sides that
carried the plantation-mark and the name of the owner. I could make
out the word "Woodley." On those that replaced them, which appeared
in other respects precisely similar, I saw that there was a different
mark, and a different name. In the large black lettering, I could read:
"N. BRADLEY."
Up to this moment all had been conjecture. It was so no longer. The
scheme became revealed to me, as by a flash of sudden sinister light.
From my perch in the cypress tree I was looking upon a scene of piracy
such as I had heard was far from being rare upon the Mississippi river.
The transaction was clear. The planter-pirates had taken possession of
the cotton-boat, and were making their plunder presentable for a safe
sale. That Bradley was at the back of it I had no doubt. His name going
upon the bales proved his participation, and something more--the chief
of the gang. He was not there himself, but I felt certain he had been
but a few minutes before. I could almost have sworn to hearing his
voice and that, too, giving directions to the others.
How had the capture been effected? My thoughts now reverted to the
negroes, who had composed the crew. With increased interest, I again
looked to see if they were upon the boat. If so they must be hidden
somewhere and holding themselves unusually silent.
My eyes wandered to the hatchway of the little cabin, in which I had
last seen them asleep. Were they asleep still, or in the slumber of
death?
My blood ran cold at the horrid suspicion--colder as I thought of its
probability.
There was no sign of any negro. Stinger was alone seen by the steps of
the caboose, still occupied with his scrubbing-brush.
My attention now became particularly directed to this man. What could
be his object in washing the rough planks forming the roof of a
flat-boat? Of what was he cleansing them? And why with such care? for
he was down upon his knees, devoting himself to the task with apparent
earnestness.
In seeking an explanation, my eye rested upon the "suds" chased to
and fro before his brush. I saw that they were of a crimson color, as
if tinged with blood! I saw this with astonishment, with trembling. I
remembered what I had heard in the night--that I had believed to be a
dream--the shot, and the shriek that succeeded.
Had both been real? Had murder been committed? And was Stinger engaged
in eliminating its traces?
The blacks were no longer upon the boat. Where were they? Was it their
blood I saw, and were their bodies at the bottom of the lagoon?
Horrid as were these suspicions, I could not help having them; and the
thought that they were true gradually becoming a conviction, kept me
quiet in the tree.