"Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell;
Then shrieked the timid, and stood still the brave;
Then some leaped overboard with dreadful yell,
As eager to anticipate their grave." BYRON.
We left the Chalmetta in a situation which demands explanation.
Emily retired to her state-room on that dreadful night entirely relieved
from the distressing anticipations which had before oppressed her. Her
name and her home were virtually restored to her. The foul stain upon
the honor of her father had been removed. Doubt and fear scarcely
disturbed her; the battle yet to be fought seemed but a trifle. Maxwell
had said her uncle was left at a wood-yard. This was strange. It looked
not like an accident, but the doing of the wily attorney; and perhaps
Jaspar had voluntarily withdrawn; perhaps her uncle had made _her_ the
reward of Maxwell's silence. But these reflections were now robbed of
their bitterness. She felt that in Henry Carroll she had a sufficient
protection.
She retired to her state-room with a light heart, and even Maxwell's
villanous designs were forgotten as she revelled in the bright hopes
before her. She knew nothing of the foul plot which had been concocted
for her abduction. She knew not that Henry Carroll was then watching
over her. In blissful ignorance of the danger that hovered near her, she
sunk into the quiet sleep of innocence.
After midnight her slumbers were disturbed by the unusual creaking of
the boat, and the hasty puffs of steam from the escape-pipes. She
awoke, and was at once sensible of the immense pressure to which the
boilers were subjected. Awhile she lay and listened to the ominous
sounds which indicated the danger of the boat; then, much alarmed, she
rose and dressed herself. For nearly an hour she sat in the darkness of
the room, during which time the danger seemed momentarily to increase,
until, no longer able to endure such agonizing suspense, she was about
to leave the room. At this moment Vernon was about to enter, when the
explosion took place.
The forward part of the Chalmetta was completely torn in pieces. The
gentlemen's cabin was lifted from its supports, and torn into fragments.
The unfortunate occupants of berths in this part of the boat were either
instantly killed or severely wounded. The ladies' cabin, being at a
greater distance from the immediate scene of the explosion, had not
suffered so severely. Although torn from its position, and shattered by
the shock, it had proved fatal to but a few of its occupants, who had
been crushed by falling timbers. The hull of the boat was not injured by
the explosion, but before those who had escaped a sudden death could
recover their disordered faculties, the flames began to ascend from the
wreck of the cabin, which had been precipitated upon the furnaces.
The scene surpassed description. The groans of the wounded and scalded,
the shrieks of those who were on the boat, expecting every moment to be
carried down in her, mingled in wild confusion on the midnight air.
Fortunately the passengers were mostly soldiers, accustomed to scenes of
horror, who immediately turned their attention to the extinguishing of
the flames. The Flatfoot, No. 3, approached within a short distance of
the wreck, and a line was passed from her to the bow of the Chalmetta.
Her passengers and crew were humanely assisting in rescuing those who
had jumped or been thrown overboard in the disaster.
By the aid of a fire-engine on board of the Flatfoot, which had
approached near enough to render it available, the flames were
extinguished. It was ascertained that the Chalmetta had received no
serious damage in her hull; and as all the survivors had been picked up,
the Flatfoot took her in tow, and proceeded up the river.
Emily had been stunned by the explosion, and ere she could recover,
Vernon, with a strong arm, bore her to the main deck. The boat was
lowered into the water, and, before the passengers, or the petrified
watch in the hold, could regain their self-possession, it was impelled
by the strong arm of Vernon, and the ruffian who had been hired for the
purpose, far astern of the wreck.
The main deck was enveloped in clouds of steam, so that, when Vernon had
handed Emily down, the movement could not be seen by Hatchie and his
friends in the hold. In another instant the wreck of the cabins came
tumbling down.
Hatchie, understanding at once the nature of the calamity, made his way,
as well as he was able, through the shattered ruins to the stern, where
he discovered that the boat was gone. The flames from the forward part
of the boat now enabled him to discover the abductors of Emily rowing
down the river. Leaping into the water, he seized a door, which was
floating near him, and thus enabled to sustain himself with tolerable
ease, he swam after them.
Emily, on recovering from the shock, found herself reclining on the
shoulder of a man in an open boat. The first impulse of her pious heart
was to return thanks to the Almighty preserver that she had been rescued
from a terrible death. Her thoughts then turned to her deliverer, for
such she supposed was the person in the boat with her. Who was he? Was
it Henry Carroll? She hoped it was. She raised her head from the
position in which Maxwell had placed it, and endeavored to distinguish
his features; but the darkness defeated her wish.
"Fear nothing, lady; you are safe," said Maxwell.
The voice was like the knell of doom. It grated harshly upon her ears,
and gave rise to a thousand fears in her timid heart.
"Thank God, I am safe!" said she, after a pause.
"And I thank God I have been the means of preserving you," replied
Maxwell, willing to render the terrible calamity an accessory to his
crime.
"But why do you go this way?" asked Emily, as she saw the Flatfoot
approach the wreck.
"I only wish to convey you from the scene of danger."
"Then why not go to that steamer?"
"Probably she is by this time converted into a hospital for the
sufferers. I would not shock your delicate nerves with such a scene of
woe and misery as will be on board of her."
"May we not render some assistance?"
"No doubt there are more assistants than can labor to advantage now."
Emily was silent, but not satisfied. Her fears in some measure subsided,
when, about two miles below the scene of the disaster, Maxwell ordered
the boat to be put in at a wood-yard. The attorney was all gentleness,
and assisted her to the cabin of Jerry Swinger, the owner of the
wood-yard.
Hatchie had been able, by severe exertion, to keep within hearing of the
splashing oars. The current fortunately carried him near the wood-yard,
and, aided by the sounds he heard at the cabin, and by the boat which he
saw, he concluded the party had landed there. Letting go the door, a few
vigorous strokes brought him to the shore. Approaching the cabin, he
satisfied himself that his mistress had taken shelter there. Concealing
himself in the woods, he awaited with much anxiety the next movement of
the attorney. In the morning he heard the noise at the cabin, and had
been the means of saving his mistress from a calamity far more dreadful
than death itself.
On the evening of the day of the explosion, an elderly gentleman sat in
a private apartment of one of the principal hotels in Vicksburg,
attentively reading an "Extra," in which the particulars of the disaster
were detailed. He read, with little apparent interest, the account,
until he came to the names of "Saved, Killed, Wounded and Missing." An
expression of the deepest anxiety settled upon his countenance. He
finished reading the list of survivors, and a transient feeling of
satisfaction was visible on his face. When in the list of the "missing"
he read the name of "Miss Dumont, Antoine De Guy and Henry Carroll," a
smile as of glutted revenge and malignant hatred dispelled the cloud of
anxiety which had before brooded over his features. Throwing down the
sheet, he drank off a glass of brandy, which had been waiting his
pleasure on the table. The potion was not insignificant in quantity or
strength, and the wry face he made did not add to the amiability of his
expression. As the dose permeated his brain, and produced that agreeable
lightness which is the first phase of intoxication, he rubbed his hands
with childish delight, and half muttered an expression of pleasure.
Suddenly his countenance assumed its former lowering aspect, his brows
knit, and his lips compressed.
"Missing!" muttered he. "What the devil does _missing_ mean? What can it
mean but dead, defunct, gone to a better world, as the canting
hypocrites say?"
But we will not attempt to record the muttered soliloquy of the
gentleman,--Jaspar Dumont, who had reached Vicksburg that day, from the
wood-yard where we left him. It was too profane, too sacrilegious, to
stain our page.
Grasping the bell-rope with a sudden energy, as though a new thought had
struck him, he gave it a violent pull, which brought to his presence a
black waiter.
"Has the Dragon returned?" asked Jaspar.
"Yes, sar, jus got in, Massa."
"Is there any person in the house who went up in her?"
"Yes, massa, one gemman in de office."
"Who is he?"
"Massa--massa--" and the darkey scratched his head, to stimulate his
memory, which act instantly brought the name to his mind.
"Massa _Lousey_."
"Mister what, you black scoundrel!"
"Yes, sar,--Massa Lousey; dat's de name."
"Lousey?" repeated Jaspar.
"Stop bit," said the waiter, a new idea penetrating his cranium. "Dar
Lousey, dat's de name, for sartin."
"Dalhousie," responded Jaspar. "Give my compliments to Mr. Dalhousie,
and ask him to oblige me with a few moments' conversation in this room."
"Yes, sar;" and the waiter retired, muttering, "Dar Lousey."
The Dragon was a small steamer, which had been sent, on the intelligence
of a "blow up," to obtain the particulars for the press, and render
assistance to the survivors. Dalhousie was a transient visitor at the
hotel, and, with many others, had gone in the Dragon to gratify his
curiosity.
"Sorry to trouble you, sir," said Jaspar, as the gentleman entered the
apartment; "but I am much interested in the fate of several persons who
were passengers on board the Chalmetta."
"No trouble, Mr. Dumont, I am extremely happy to serve you," replied
Dalhousie, whose obsequious manners were ample evidence of his
sincerity.
"My niece was on board of her," continued Jaspar, "and I see her name in
the list of missing."
"Your _niece_!" replied Dalhousie, emphasizing the latter word. He had a
few days before come from New Orleans, and had there heard of the
startling developments in the Dumont family.
"No matter," returned Jaspar, sharply; "she went by the name of Dumont.
Did you find any bodies?"
"We picked up the remains of six men and two females."
"Can you describe the females? How were they dressed?" asked Jaspar, in
an excited manner.
"One was dressed in black. The other had on a common calico."
"But the one in black,--describe her,--her hair,--was she tall or
short?" interrupted Jaspar, hurriedly.
"Her hair was in curls. She was apparently about twenty-six or seven,
and rather short in stature."
"Curls," muttered Jaspar; "she has not worn curls since the colonel
died. She may have put them on again to please that infernal Captain
Carroll. Twenty-six years old, you think?"
"She may have been younger. Her features were terribly mangled," and Mr.
Dalhousie cast a penetrating glance at Jaspar, as though he would read
out the beatings of his black heart.
Jaspar considered again the description, and, though it did not
correspond to his niece's, his anxiety had contributed to warp his
judgment. He was very willing to believe the Chalmetta's fatal disaster
had forever removed the only obstacle to the gratification of his
ambition, and the only source of future insecurity. He paced the room,
muttering, in his abstraction, sundry broken phrases.
Dalhousie watched him, and endeavored to obtain the purport of his
disjointed soliloquy. A stranger, without some strong motive, could
scarcely have had so much interest in him as he appeared to have.
"Had she any jewels--ornaments of any kind?" asked Dalhousie, after the
silence had grown disagreeable to him.
"She had," replied Jaspar, stopping suddenly in his perambulation of the
room, and speaking with an eagerness which betrayed his anxiety to
obtain more evidence. "Were any found upon her person?"
"You are a man of honor, Mr. Dumont, and, if I disclose to you a
thoughtless indiscretion of my own, you will not, of course, expose
me?" said Dalhousie, with, hesitation, and apparent want of confidence.
"Of course not," replied Jaspar, impatiently. "What has this to do with
the matter?"
"Did your niece wear a ring?"
"Yes, a mourning ring."
"Do you know the ring? Could you identify it?"
"Certainly," replied Jaspar, who remembered having seen an ornament of
this description on the finger of Emily.
"Will you describe it to me, if you please?"
But Jaspar had reckoned without his host. The details of a piece of
jewelry were matters entirely foreign to his taste. However, he
succeeded in giving a description, which, from its general terms, might
have applied to one mourning ring as well as another.
"Is this the one?" asked Dalhousie, with an anxiety which he could
scarcely conceal, as he produced a ring.
"That _is_ it," replied Jaspar, confidently; and the jewel did bear some
resemblance to that worn by Emily.
"But where did you obtain this?"
"I must insist on the most inviolable secrecy."
"Certainly, certainly," said Jaspar, eagerly.
"I will disclose the particulars only on the condition that you pledge
yourself never to reveal my agency in the matter; for it would
compromise my character."
"Very well. I pledge you my honor," replied Jaspar, impatiently. "You
took it from the corpse of the lady in black."
"I did, and you must be aware that such an act would subject me to
inconvenience, if known."
"Don't be alarmed; your secret is safe."
"But are you sure this is the ring worn by your niece?"
"It looks like it;" but Jaspar was perplexed with a doubt. He bethought
himself that it was only in a casual glance he had observed Emily's
ring. He had never examined it, and, after all, this might not be the
one. There was certainly nothing strange in any lady dressed in black
wearing a mourning ring. Again he turned the ring over and over, and
scrutinized it closely. His finger touched a spring, and the plate flew
up, disclosing a small lock of gray hair, twined around the single
letter D.
"I will swear to it now," exclaimed Jaspar, in a tone which betrayed the
malicious joy he felt at the discovery. He was perfectly satisfied now
of the identity of the ring. It never occurred to him that D stood for
any other name than Dumont.
"This appears to be decisive evidence," replied Dalhousie. "Your
_niece_, then, must be the person brought down by the Dragon."
"Without doubt."
"As this matter, then, is settled to your satisfaction--"
"Sir!" exclaimed Jaspar.
"I beg your pardon," resumed Dalhousie, with a supercilious air; "I only
meant that your mind was satisfied--relieved from a painful anxiety."
"A very painful anxiety," replied Jaspar.
"I understand, sir, you own a large plantation."
"Well."
"Perhaps you need an overseer?"
Jaspar acknowledged that he did need an overseer.
"I should be happy to make an engagement with you," said the other, in
complaisant tones.
"I don't think you would suit me. You are too genteel, by half,"
returned Jaspar, bluntly.
"I have been in a better position, it is true. I was born in France, but
I understand the business."
"Did you ever manage a gang of niggers?"
After a little hesitation, Dalhousie replied that he had.
"We will talk of it some other time," said Jaspar, satisfied, from the
air and manner of the other, that his statement was false.
Dalhousie put on his hat, and, taking the mourning ring from the table,
was about to enfold it in a bit of paper.
"What are you about, sir?" exclaimed Jaspar, as he witnessed the act.
"The ring is my property, is it not?" said Dalhousie.
"Put it down, or, by heavens, I will expose your rascality in taking
it!"
"Do not be hasty, sir. I have not studied your looks, the last hour,
without profiting by them."
"What do you mean by that?" said Jaspar, a little startled.
"I mean that the death of your niece does not seem to be received with
that degree of sorrow which an uncle would naturally feel."
"_Fool_! she was not my niece!"
"Why are you so anxious to establish her decease?"
"Was I anxious?" said Jaspar, not knowing how far he might have betrayed
himself.
"Quite enough so to convince even the most indifferent observer that you
were extremely rejoiced at the event," replied Dalhousie, willing to
make out a strong case.
Jaspar did not reply, and it was plain Dalhousie's remarks had had their
effect.
"But, Mr. Dumont, I flatter myself I am a man of discretion. As you were
saying, you need an overseer," said Dalhousie, with a glance at Jaspar,
which conveyed more meaning than his words.
The glance was irresistible, and Jaspar engaged him at a liberal salary,
as well as his wife, who was to be the housekeeper at Bellevue.
Dalhousie was a needy man. His fortunes were on the descending scale.
Born in France, he had emigrated to this country, with the chimerical
hope of speedily making a fortune. He could not build up the coveted
temple stone by stone, but wished it to rise like a fairy castle. With
such views, he had wandered about the country with his wife (whom he had
married since his arrival), in search of the philosopher's stone. He
had several times engaged in subordinate capacities, but his impatient
hopes would not brook the distance between him and the goal. He had been
to New Orleans, but the city was almost deserted. On his arrival at
Vicksburg, Jaspar had been pointed out to him as a person who could
probably favor his wishes, and he had obtained an introduction to him.
Jaspar's thoughts and feelings he read. He discovered the nature of the
relations between the uncle and niece,--which required but little
sagacity, under the circumstances. Determined to profit by the knowledge
he had obtained, his first step was to satisfy Jaspar of the death of
Emily, of whom, in reality, he knew nothing. The initial letter of his
wife's name in the ring had suggested the means, and he had convinced
Jaspar as related. How Dalhousie's sense of moral rectitude would allow
him to use the deception, we will not say; but he seemed to tolerate the
idea that the great purpose he had in view would justify any little
peccadilloes he might commit in obtaining it.
He had gained his end, and taken the first step in the great road to
fortune; and he doubted not his future relations with Jaspar would
suggest a second.
The body of the deceased lady was claimed by Dalhousie, in behalf of
Jaspar, and interred in Vicksburg.
In company with the new overseer and his wife, Jaspar returned the next
day to Bellevue.