"False world, thou ly'st; thou canst not lend
The least delight;
Thy favors cannot gain a friend,
They are so slight." FRANCIS QUARLES.
The traveller on the Mississippi observes with interest the innumerable
islands which dot the river, and relieve the monotony of the scenery.
These islands are, for the most part, covered with a luxurious growth of
cotton-wood trees. They have generally been formed by what are
technically called cut-offs, or new channels, from the main land. The
mighty torrent, scorning its own well-beaten track, ploughs a way
through the country, and returns to its channel miles below, opening at
once a new path for the voyager upon its tide. The portion of land thus
separated from the main shore is often subdivided by the action of the
waters into several smaller islands. These islets are, however, oftener
seen in isolated positions, varying in area from a few square rods to
several acres. A remarkable feature of these islands is their
_locomotive_ powers,--for, strange as it may seem, they annually take a
step down stream! Observation has shown a change of position almost
incredible.
The river, continually wearing upon the up-river side of the island,
washes the sands and soil to the lower side. Thus, the situation of the
island is actually changed. The fact is clearly shown by the singular
configuration of the mass of trees growing upon them. The wood on the
upstream side of the island is of the largest size; while that on the
down-stream side begins at the mere shrub, and, by a regular gradation
in height, like a pair of stairs, increases to the altitude of the
full-grown tree. Each successive year places a new layer of soil upon
the lower side, in which the young tree takes root; and the growth of
each year is distinctly visible to the traveller as he ascends the
river.
On one of these islands, above Vicksburg, was located a neat cottage.
The island differed in many respects from others. Its area might have
been eight or ten acres. On one side of it was a narrow, but deep
stream, which, entering from the broad river, described a semi circle,
and returned its waters on the same side. On three sides, except at the
mouths of the little stream, the island was rendered inaccessible by the
high banks, while on the fourth side the shrubs grew so luxuriantly as
to be impervious, save to the most resolute visitor. From the high banks
which walled it in the surface of the island sloped gradually towards a
common centre, through which rushed the little stream.
This little island had probably been a part of the main land; the river
had forced its way through a valley, and, by degrees, had worn down the
high land on either side, till they formed the precipices which now
frowned on the visitor. The little stream had, perhaps, once been a
meandering rivulet,--part of one which emptied into the river on the
opposite side.
On one of the sloping sides of the interior was situated the cottage. It
was small in size, containing but four rooms and an attic, and was
neatly painted white. Its location in the valley concealed it from the
main land, and from the traveller upon the river. It was accessible only
by means of the stream, which rolled by within a few rods of the door. A
cow grazed in the woods, which had been partly cleared of under-brush,
and had the appearance of a park grove. Near the house a plot of land
had been reduced to a state of cultivation, upon which an old negro
servant managed to raise vegetables sufficient for the use of the
family.
The interior of the cottage was neatly furnished, though with none of
the gaudy trappings of fashion. Everything was plain and useful. On the
side fronting the stream, which served the inmates as a highway, were
two rooms,--a library, which was also the sitting-room, and a sleeping
apartment. The library was far the most substantial and
comfortable-looking room in the house, inasmuch as it was abundantly
supplied with modern and classical lore. In the middle was a large
writing-desk, upon which lay sundry manuscripts, apparently the last
labor of the occupant. The books and papers were all arranged with
scrupulous neatness and method.
The two rooms in the rear were the dining-room and another sleeping
apartment, while the attic was occupied by the old negro and his
wife,--the property of the proprietor, and his only attendants upon the
island. Back of the house, as is the custom of the South, was a small
building used as a kitchen. Near it was another building, appropriated
to the use of the cow aforesaid.
In the stream in front of the cottage, fastened to a tree on the bank,
was a beautifully-modelled sail-boat, which was worthy to rank with the
miniature yachts of our large cities. She was schooner-rigged, with a
small cabin forward. Her masts, by an ingenious contrivance, could be
lowered down aft, and, by means of a rope attached to the fore-top, and
running through a block on the bowsprit, could be instantly restored to
their original upright position. This arrangement the owner found
necessary, on account of the overhanging trees, which nearly concealed
the two openings of the stream into the river.
On the night of the Chalmetta's terrible disaster, a man wrapped in a
camlet cloak left the cottage, and approached the landing-place. In one
hand he carried a glass lantern, and in the other a double-barrelled
gun. Descending the steps to the rude pier of logs, he drew the boat
in-shore and seated himself in the stern-sheets. Unloosing the
stern-line, which alone held her, the boat was borne on by the rapid
stream. The helm the occupant handled with a masterly skill, and in a
moment the little bark swept through the half-hid opening into the broad
river. Placing the helm amid-ships, the man went forward, and, pulling
the proper line, brought the masts to their upright position. He then
inserted the iron keys which kept them in their place, and hoisted the
sails. By this time the boat had drifted to the lower extremity of the
island; so, bracing her sharp up, he stood away across the river.
Tacking before he reached the swift channel, which flowed close in
shore, he laid the boat's course up the stream. The wind was blowing
fresh, and, notwithstanding the contending force of the current, the
boat careened to her task, and made very good progress through the
water. While the gallant little bark pursues her way, we will introduce
her skipper to the reader.
Dr. Vaudelier was about fifty years of age. He was descended from one of
the old French families of Louisiana; and had been, for nearly thirty
years, a practising physician in the city of New Orleans, during which
time he had accumulated a very handsome fortune. At the age of
twenty-five he had been married to a lady, whose only recommendations
were her personal beauty and her fashionable accomplishments. Her vanity
had disgusted him, and her uncontrollable temper had embittered to its
very dregs the cup of his existence. Being naturally of a gloomy and
melancholy temperament, this unfortunate union had rendered his life
almost insupportable. Domestic happiness, to which he had looked forward
with high-wrought anticipations, proved, in his case, to have no
foundation.
He was disappointed. His dream of home and its blessings faded away, and
was supplanted by a terrible reality. He grew more and more melancholy.
But there was a solace, which saved him from absolute misery. Two
children--a boy and a girl--blessed his otherwise unhallowed union. The
education of these children was the only joy his home afforded; but
even this to his misanthropic mind could not compensate for his
matrimonial disappointment.
Years passed away; the son was sent to college, from which, to the
anguish of his father, he was expelled for gross misconduct. The young
man returned to New Orleans, and became one of the most dissolute and
abandoned characters of the city. Dr. Vaudelier disowned him, and sunk
the deeper in his melancholy.
The death of his wife left him alone with his daughter; and if the fatal
influence of past years could have been removed, perhaps he might have
been a happy man. The daughter was a beautiful girl, and promised to
realize all the fond expectations of her father. Her daily education and
method of life, as directed by her father, were better calculated to fit
her for the occupancy of a nun's cell than for rational society.
About five years previous to the time of our story, the solemn quiet of
Dr. Vaudelier's dwelling was disturbed by the arrival of a young French
gentleman, bearing letters of introduction to the misanthropic
physician. This gentleman was delighted with the daughter of his host,
and she experienced a before unknown pleasure in his society. The doctor
was, to some extent, obliged to abandon the "pleasures of melancholy,"
and accompany the young couple into the world.
This intimacy between the young persons rapidly ripened into love. Dr.
Vaudelier's inquiries into the character and circumstances of the young
gentleman were not satisfactory, and he refused to sanction the union.
Perhaps he was influenced more in this decision by the dread of parting
with his daughter than by any other motive. The father's refusal was
followed by the elopement of the young couple,--an act which blasted the
only remaining hope of the misanthrope. His heart was too sensitive to
endure the shock.
Reduced to the depths of despair, suicide presented itself as the only
effectual remedy for his misfortunes. But the church, to whose rites
and promises he yielded the most devoted reverence, doomed the suicide
to eternal woe!
Society, into which for a brief period he had allowed himself to be
enticed, was ten-fold more distasteful to him than before. He could not
endure even that which the practice of his profession demanded. The
great city seemed a pandemonium, and he resolved to escape from its
hated scenes.
He travelled up the river in search of seclusion, and accidentally had
noticed the island upon which he afterwards fixed his residence.
His abode upon the island was not entirely unknown to the inhabitants of
his vicinity; yet they seldom troubled him with their presence. Steamers
and flat-boats continually passed his little domain; yet the traveller
knew not that it was occupied by human beings.
Dr. Vaudelier's pursuits were of the most simple nature. He read and
wrote nearly the whole day, and in the evening,--often at the dead of
night,--he would unmoor his yacht, and stem the tide of the mighty
river. His chief happiness was in communion with nature. His solitary
habits had completely estranged him from society; and he chose the night
for his lonely excursions on the river, to avoid the presence of man.
Dr. Vaudelier was a benevolent man; and his benevolence was still his
friend. It kept his heart from corroding, or becoming entirely cold. His
professional services he freely gave to the poor "squatter," woodman and
boatman, whenever he could learn that they were needed. The old negro
made frequent visits to the shore to procure provisions and other
necessaries, and informed his master if any of his indigent neighbors
needed his aid. Dr. Vaudelier, as far as he was known, was regarded with
profound respect and affection, and none were disposed to disturb his
privacy when it was understood that entire seclusion was his desire.
Dr. Vaudelier reclined on the cushions in the stern-sheets of his boat.
With an abstracted mind he gazed upon the gloomy outlines of the shore.
Nature in this sombre dress seemed in unison with the gloom of his own
soul. Scarcely conscious of his actions, he managed the boat with the
most consummate skill, avoiding the unseen shoal and the unfavorable
current, but still never allowing the sails to shiver. Far ahead of him
he descried the blazing chimneys of a steamer. It was night, and he was
secure from the prying gaze or the rude hail of the voyagers.
His reflections were gloomy. He reviewed his earlier years. He thought
of his affectionate daughter, who had promised to be the stay of his
declining years, perhaps at that moment a wanderer and an outcast. He
had heard nothing of her since her departure. He had made no effort to
ascertain her fate. He considered his whole course of conduct to her,
the nature of the education he had imparted to her, the example he had
set for her imitation. His reflections were not altogether satisfactory,
and kindled a few compunctious thoughts. The blame had not been all on
the side of the daughter. His misanthropic character was the origin of
some part of it.
Thus he mused, and thus dawned upon his mind the first gleams of
repentance. His melancholy temperament had caused the loss of his
daughter; and, for the time, it grew repugnant. He felt that he was not
living the life his Maker intended he should live.
His meditations were suddenly interrupted by a tremendous explosion, and
he was at once satisfied that it proceeded from the steamer he had
before observed. His supposition was soon verified by the flames he saw
rising from the spot where he had last seen her. She was, he judged, at
least three miles distant. His benevolent disposition, stimulated by the
reflection, and, perhaps, by some unconscious resolution of the previous
hour, prompted him to hasten to her relief. Leaving the helm, he took
from the little cabin a stay-sail, and by the light of the lantern
attached it to the lines and hoisted it. The lively little craft,
feeling the additional impulse, careened till her gunnel was nearly
submerged, and cut her way with increased velocity through the
unfavorable current. Half an hour elapsed before he approached near
enough to make out the condition of the shattered steamer. Another
steamer lay as near to her as the flames, which had apparently been
partly subdued, would permit. Men were busily engaged in throwing on
water, and their efforts promised to be crowned with success, for the
volume of flame was rapidly decreasing. A line was passed from the bow
of the Chalmetta to the Flatfoot, No. 3 (for these were the steamers),
which enabled the latter to control the drift of the former. Dr.
Vaudelier was too far off, however, to form a very correct idea of the
casualty.
Portions of the wreck were floating by him, and occasionally his boat
struck against a timber or cask. While anxiously straining his vision,
to ascertain further particulars of the disaster, he heard a faint cry
close ahead of him. By the light of his lantern, which he had hung up by
the foremast, to attract the eye of any sufferer who might need aid, he
saw a man clinging to a barrel floating by him. Hastily letting go the
halyards, the fore and main sails came down, the boat was put about, and
Dr. Vaudelier, with much exertion, succeeded in saving the almost dying
sufferer. Conveying him to the cabin, which was of sufficient size to
contain two berths, he placed him upon one of them, and proceeded to
ascertain his ailments. These, as far as he could discover them,
consisted of a broken arm, a severe contusion of the head, and several
severe scalds. The wounded man's endeavors to aid in his own rescue had
been too violent, and on being placed in the berth he had fainted. After
administering such relief as he was able, he returned to the
stern-sheets, hoisted the sails, and the boat, which had been drifting
down-stream, again approached the wreck.
The flames of the Chalmetta were now extinguished. Before the benevolent
physician could reach her, the Flatfoot had taken her in tow, and both
were rapidly leaving him. Further pursuit was useless; so, taking in
the stay-sail, he put the boat about, and again turned his attention to
the sufferer.
The boat's progress, assisted by the current, was very rapid, and she
soon reached the island. The experienced eye of her manager discerned
through the darkness the narrow opening of the little stream. Taking in
the sails and lowering the masts, the little craft glided through the
rivulet, and in less time than is taken to relate it was securely moored
in front of the cottage. The old negro, bewildered by the unseasonable
summons, assisted in conveying the wounded stranger to the cottage.
Dr. Vaudelier, after a more thorough examination of his patient than he
had been able to make before, was pleased to find that his wounds,
though serious, were not of a dangerous character. He set the broken
arm, and, by the exercise of the great skill for which he had been
distinguished, restored him to consciousness, and made sure his future
recovery.
"Where is she? Is she safe?" murmured the sufferer, as his returning
consciousness afforded a partial knowledge of his condition. "Where am
I?"
"You are among friends, sir,--among friends. Do not distress yourself,"
replied the doctor, in a soothing tone.
"Where is she? Great God! what has become of her?" exclaimed the wounded
man, with startling energy.
"You must be quiet, sir, or you will injure your arm," said Dr.
Vaudelier, mildly restraining the excited man.
"O, Emily, Emily!" groaned the sufferer. "Why did I leave you? Why did
we not perish together?"
"Be calm, sir,--be calm! You have lost a friend in this terrible
disaster?"
"I have. O that I could have died with her!"
"Are you sure she has perished?"
"She could scarcely have survived the explosion."
"Was she not in the ladies' cabin?"
"She was."
"Then probably she is safe. The ladies' cabin was thrown from its
position; but it appeared to be comparatively but little shattered. The
forward cabin was blown entirely in pieces."
"Thank God for this intelligence!" ejaculated Henry Carroll,--for the
reader has already discovered that it was he whom the doctor had
rescued.
"Another steamer was close at hand, so that probably most of the ladies
were saved, unless, as is often the case, they jumped overboard in their
fright."
"Heaven protect her!" exclaimed Henry.
"But, sir, I must insist on perfect quiet. Your condition imperatively
demands it. To-morrow everything shall be done to relieve your anxiety.
We shall then receive Vicksburg papers, which will contain the names of
all who are lost."
"I will try to be quiet, but I cannot but be anxious till I know the
whole truth."
Dr. Vaudelier again applied a soothing balm to the scalded portions of
his body, and gave him a powerful narcotic, the effects of which were
soon visible in a deep, troubled slumber.