THE TRAGEDY ON THE RIVER.
"HUSBAND, ar'n't you coming to get some rest? We've had a long journey,
and we've a great ways to go yet. And you know we land before morning.
You will be all tired out; and I can't sleep, I worry so about you."
It was a loving womanly voice that uttered this, and a pale, care-worn
face it was that peered through the little aperture over the state-room
door, the blue eyes glancing anxiously about for a glimpse of the
person addressed.
"Coming soon!" was the hearty response, though the tones sounded
strangely, borne on the night air along the dimly-lighted steamer.
"Wait till this steamboat passes."
And Mr. Willard kept his solitary lookout, spell-bound by the magic
of night, on the Mississippi. How varied and bewitching the scene!
Ploughing the liquid element was the monster leviathan, rushing,
thundering by, spouting fire, while star-like from the shore glimmered
the lamps of village, and city, and farm-house. Is it strange that Mr.
Willard lingered to gaze as if fascinated?
He was an affectionate, kind-hearted man, but impulsive, excitable,
and, when aroused, headstrong. He had inherited a small property from
his father, which, with his daily earnings, provided a snug home for
himself, wife, and three children, in a growing town in Maine.
His "lot" joined the old homestead where his wife was born, and well
contented was she to settle for life, as she supposed, by the side of
her parents, and among the scenes of her childhood and youth. With
reasonable frugality, her husband was able to maintain the family
respectably, and a mile away was the school-house and the village
church, so that the intellectual and religious training of the children
need not be neglected.
But Mr. Willard contracted the "western fever," and announced to his
wife his determination to sell their property, and start for the cheap,
rich lands of Minnesota. The announcement was to her as the tolling of
a funeral knell. And with gentle reasoning, she sought to change his
purpose.
"We are happy here," she tearfully said, "and have met with no
reverses. It is not necessary for us to go west, as is the case with
many. If we were suffering for the comforts of life, or likely thus to
suffer, I would not shrink from any change that promised an improvement
in our circumstances."
But the more he read, and thought, and argued, the stronger his wish
to emigrate; and, with a foreboding heart, the wife prepared for the
removal.
The pleasant cottage, with its productive vegetable garden and smiling
flower-beds, and the household effects, were sold. And the morning for
the departure of the Willards witnessed a sad sight.
The family had many friends who called to utter a last word to those
who that day were to leave them, never, perhaps, to return. Mr. Willard
and wife were both members of the church, and the pastor was there also
to add his blessing.
But when the aged father and mother came to say "good-by" to the
favorite daughter and the petted grandchildren, the old man bracing
himself tremblingly on his cane, while the tears flowed down his
furrowed cheeks, Walter Willard's conscience smote him for causing so
much sorrow. It was, however, too late to retreat, and the train soon
bore them from view.
The husband's ardent temperament quickly threw off depression. They
were now really on the way to the Great West—the Eldorado of his day
and night dreaming. Each hour the swift-winged cars were bringing him
nearer the goal of his hopes. The thought of this speedily swallowed
up parting regrets. How many acquaintances he made on the road!
What delightful chats with those going, like himself, towards the
setting sun! How companionable and confiding he became with his new
associates!—Informing them of his history, his plans, his expectations,
his means, his destination.
"Husband, is it safe to let those men know how much money you carry
with you?" the more prudent wife ventured to inquire.
But the caution was soon forgotten.
And now he was floating on the great river he had so longed to see. And
as the late hours wore on, with "his soul in his eyes," he continued
gazing at the ever-changing scenery.
It was a densely inhabited hive—that boat. But Sleep had long since
with velvet fingers closed the eyes of the jaded travellers. Not a
passenger was up save the enthusiastic Mr. Willard.
Not one? Who is that, past midnight, creeping stealthily by the berths
of the hard-breathing sleepers? Why moves he so noiselessly? Sometimes
he is motionless; then he skulks warily along: his manner, movements,
attitudes, show him to be one whose deeds are more of the night than of
the day.
And see, another figure. The two meet; they whisper together with rapid
and significant gestures. They part, and then reappear, approaching on
either hand the lone emigrant looking unsuspectingly off over the water.
Suddenly they clutch him by the throat; his arms are pinioned and mouth
gagged. Greedy fingers take his watch and money. There is a struggle,—a
heavy body goes overboard,—a splash, a gurgle—and all is still. The
prowlers separate, glide away, disappear.
Mrs. Willard awoke as if struck by a blow.
"Walter! Walter! Where are you?" she called. "Children, which of you
will go and find father? Perhaps he has dropped asleep in another part
of the boat."
"I'll go for him," answered thirteen-year-old Georgie; and, rubbing
open his eyes, he threaded the forsaken passages, repeating,—
"Father! Father!"
The lad approached the scene of the robbery just as the unhappy victim
was precipitated into the stream. In the darkness, he saw a confused
conflict, and the thrusting over the boat side of a dark body, and
heard the dull plunge. But hastening to the spot, all was silence and
vacancy.
Had he been dreaming? Was it illusion? All at once, his heart stood
still, for that form cast into the current, indistinctly outlined in
the starlight, looked like his father!
Overcome of terror, he hurried back to the state-room with
horror-blanched cheeks, unable to tell what he had seen. Then the
mother, hoping and fearing, clasping the son's hand, went forth to the
search.
One o'clock. Two o'clock. The porter knocks at the Willards'
state-room. The steamboat bell gives notice of a "Landing."
"Hurry!" says the porter to the lingering wife. "The boat stops only a
minute!"
"But where's my husband?" she asks, weeping, and calls distractedly,
"Husband! Husband!"
"Mother," the boy whispers, with white lips, "I saw two men throw
father into the river."
The boat grazes the rude pier. The plank is thrown out for the
passengers. The baggage is thrown ashore.
"Hurry! Ma'am, hurry!" reiterates the porter, seizing the arm of the
bewildered woman, and pushing her over the narrow crossing, which is
instantly withdrawn, and the steamer is off.
But what of the mother and children left in the damp twilight on that
strange shore? What of the husband and father?—For he comes not. What
of the money he had with him? The avails of the neat New England home,
with which he was to build up another home in the wilderness.
There stands the stricken group by their heaped up boxes and trunks, in
fright and agony. How different it might have been had the ill-fated
man considered his wife's happiness before adventuring west! Or if, on
the road, he had preserved the reticence of the discreet traveller!
And, O, what black deeds the darkness hides from every eye but One!