ON BOARD THE _ADVENTURER_
The captain turned rather sharply away, and I was thrust through an
open cabin door by the grasp of the mate before I could really sense
the true meaning of this unexpected news. Mapes paused long enough to
gruffly indicate a coarse suit of clothes draped over a stool, and was
about to retire without further words, when I recovered sufficiently
from the shock to halt him with a question.
"I suppose you saw those people picked up from the keel-boat?"
"Sure; helped pull 'em aboard. A damned queer combination, if you ask
me; two nigger wenches, Joe Kirby, an' a deputy sheriff from down Saint
Louee way."
"Two women, you say? both negresses?"
"Well, thet whut Joe sed they wus, an' I reckon he knew; an' neither ov
'em put up a holler whin he sed it. However one ov 'em looked ez white
as enybody I ever saw. The deputy he tol' ther same story--sed they
wus both slaves thet Kirby got frum an ol' plantation down below; som'
French name, it wus. Seems like the two wenches hed run away, an' the
deputy hed caught 'em, an' wus a takin' 'em back. Kirby cum 'long ter
help, bein' as how they belonged ter him."
"You knew Kirby then?"
"Hell, ov course. Thar ain't many river men who don't, I reckon. What
is it to you?"
"Nothing; it sounds like a strange story, that's all. I want to get
this wet stuff off, and will be out on deck presently."
I was shivering with the cold, and lost no time shifting into the warm,
dry clothing provided, spreading out my own soaked garments over the
edge of the lower bunk, but careful first to remove my packet of
private papers, which, wrapped securely in oiled silk, were not even
damp. It was a typical steamer bunkhouse in which I found myself,
evidently the abiding place of some one of the boat's petty officers,
exceedingly cramped as to space, containing two narrow berths, a stool
and a washstand, but with ample air and light. The slats across the
window permitted me a view of the river, and the low-lying shore
beyond, past which we were slowly moving. The sun was just rising
above the eastern horizon, and the water reflected a purple tinge.
With no desire to return immediately to the deck, I seated myself on
the stool to consider the situation.
Fate had played a strange trick, and I knew not how best to turn it to
advantage. One thing only was clear; whatever was to be accomplished,
I would have to do it alone--nowhere could I turn for help. In the
first place Kirby undoubtedly had the law with him, and besides was
among friends--those who would naturally believe him, and were loyal to
the institution of slavery. The very fact that this was a Memphis boat
we were on precluded any possibility that the crew would sympathize
with a nigger-stealer. Nor could I anticipate any assistance from
without. Steamboats were few and far between on these northern waters,
and at this time, if the report of war was true, everything afloat
would be headed up stream, laden with troops and provisions. That the
report was true I had no doubt. The probability of an outbreak was
known before I left Fort Armstrong; the crisis had come earlier than
expected, that was all.
This, then, was the situation--through an odd intervention of
Providence here we were all together on this steamer, which was
steadily churning its way northward, every turn of the wheel bearing us
deeper into the wilderness. The chances were that we should thus be
aboard for several days; certainly until we encountered some other boat
bound down stream, which would accept us as passengers. Meanwhile what
should I do? How escape observation? How reach Rene, without
encountering Kirby? The answer was not an easy one. The deputy would
not know me, for I had never been seen by him. Kirby believed me dead,
yet might recognize me in spite of that conviction if we met face to
face. Still, would he? The daring hope that he might not came to me
in a flash. Might it not be possible to so disguise myself as to
become unnoticeable? I sprang up to stare at my features in the small
mirror hanging over the washstand. The face which confronted me in
surprise was almost a strange one even to my eyes. Instead of the
smart young soldier, smoothly shaven, with closely-trimmed hair, and
rather carefully attired, as I had appeared on board the _Warrior_, the
glass reflected a bearded face, the skin visibly roughened and reddened
by exposure, the hair ragged and uncombed. Even to my view there
remained scarcely a familiar feature--the lack of razor and shears, the
exposure to sun and water, the days of sickness and neglect, had all
helped to transform me into a totally different-appearing person from
what I had formerly been; the officer and gentleman had, by the mystery
of environment, been changed into the outward semblance of a river
roustabout. Nor was this all. The new character was emphasized by the
clothes I wore--far too large to fit, also the texture and color, not
to mention the dirt and grease, speaking loudly of a rough life, and
the vicissitudes of poverty. The metamorphosis was complete; so
complete that I laughed aloud, assured by that one glance that the
gambler, confident that I was dead, would never by any possibility
recognize me in this guise, or while habilitated in such nondescript
garments. Unless some happening should expose me, some occurrence
arouse suspicion, I felt convinced of my ability to even slouch past
him on deck unobserved, and unrecognized.
But the girl--Rene? And so this was how I had appeared to her. No
wonder she questioned me; doubted my first explanation. The thought
that my personal appearance was so disreputable had never occurred to
me before, and even then, staring into that glass, I could scarcely
bring myself to acknowledge the truth. I had first approached her
confident that my appearance as a gentleman would awaken her trust; I
had felt myself to be a most presentable young man in whom she must
instantly repose faith. Yet, this had not been true at all--instead I
came to her with the outward bearing of a worthless vagabond, a
stubble-bearded outcast. And yet she had trusted me; would trust me
again. More; she could never be deceived, or fail to recognize my
presence aboard if she had the freedom of the deck. Kirby might be
deceived, but not Rene. Still she was a woman of quick wit; once
recovered from her first surprise at thus encountering me, neither by
word or look would she ever betray her knowledge. If I could only plan
to meet with her first alone, the peril of her recognition would not be
extreme.
But I must also figure upon the other woman. Who could she be? Not
Eloise Beaucaire surely, for the mate had only mentioned one of the two
as being sufficiently white to be noticeable. That one would surely be
Rene, and it was scarcely probable that Eloise, with no drop of negro
blood in her veins, could appear colored. Perhaps this second woman
was Delia, the quadroon mother. But if so, how did she chance to fall
alone into Kirby's clutches? Was she aboard the keel-boat, locked
below in the cabin, when it rammed into us? If she had been captured
at Shrunk's camp during their murderous raid, what had become of her
companion? Where was Eloise Beaucaire? The harder I sought to
straighten out this mystery the more involved it became. I knew so
little of the facts, there was nothing I could argue from. All that
remained was for me to go forward blindly, trusting implicitly to the
god of luck.
With every additional glance at the face reflected by the mirror, my
confidence strengthened in the ability to encounter Kirby, and pass
unrecognized. Convinced as he undoubtedly was of my death beneath the
black waters of the river he could not possibly imagine my presence
aboard the _Adventurer_, while my personal appearance was so utterly
changed as to suggest to his mind no thought of familiarity. The
conditions were all in my favor. I was smiling grimly at this conceit,
well pleased at the chance thus afforded me, when the stateroom door
was suddenly flung open, and the hairy face of the mate thrust within.
"I reckon yer better tote them wet duds down ter the boiler room," he
said, gruffly, "an' then git sum grub. Likely 'nough yer wound't mind
eatin' a bit. Be yer a river man?"
"I've never worked on a steamboat, if that is what you mean."
"No; well I reckoned not, but the captain he thought maybe yer had. I
tol' him yer didn't talk like no steamer hand. Howsumever we're
almightly short o' help aboard, an' maybe yer'd like a job ter help pay
yer way?"
My fingers involuntarily closed on some loose gold pieces in my pocket,
but a sudden thought halted me. Why not? In what better way could I
escape discovery? As an employe of the boat I could go about the decks
unsuspected, and unnoticed. Kirby would never give me a second
thought, or glance, while the opportunity thus afforded of speaking to
Rene, and being of service to her, would be immeasurably increased. I
withdrew my hand, swiftly deciding my course of action.
"I suppose I might as well earn a bit," I admitted, hesitatingly.
"Only I had about decided I'd enlist, if the war was still going on
when we got up there."
"That'll be all right. We'll keep yer busy til' then, enyhow. Go on
down below now, an' eat, an' when yer git through, climb up the ladder,
an' report ter me. What'll I call yer?"
"Steve."
"Steve--hey; sorter handy man, ain't yer?"
"Well, I've done a little of everything in my time. I'm not afraid to
work."
During most of the remaining hours of the morning the mate kept me
employed below, in company with a number of others of the crew, in
sorting over the miscellaneous cargo, which had evidently been very
hastily loaded. I began to think that I had made a wrong choice, and
that, in the guise of a passenger, with the freedom of the upper decks,
my chances for observation would have been decidedly better. The work
was hard, and dirty, and, after a few hours of it, I must have looked
my assumed part to perfection. However, it was now too late to assert
myself, and I could only trust blindly to Fate to furnish me with the
information I needed. Mapes merely glanced in upon us occasionally,
leaving the overseeing of the gang to a squatty, red-faced white man,
whose profanity never ceased. There were ten of us in the gang,
several being negroes, and I was unable to extract any information of
value from those I attempted to converse with. One had assisted in
rescuing the party from the wrecked keel-boat, and had seen the two
women, as they came aboard under the glare of a torch, but his
description of their appearance was far from clear, and as to what had
become of them since, he knew nothing.
As we worked in the heat and dirt below, the steamer steadily plowed
its way up stream, meeting with no vessel bound down, or even a
drifting barge; nor did I perceive the slightest sign of any settlement
along the banks. Our course ran zig-zag from shore to shore in an
endeavor to follow the main channel, and progress was slow, the
wheelsman evidently not being well acquainted with the stream. The cry
of a leadsman forward was almost constant. Once we tied up against the
western bank for nearly an hour to remove a bit of driftwood from the
wheel, and I heard voices speaking above on the upper deck as though
passengers were grouped along the rail. I obtained no glimpse of
these, however, although one of the negroes informed me that there were
several army officers on board. The possibility that some of these
might recognize me was not a pleasant thought. I saw nothing of the
captain, but heard him shouting orders to the men engaged tinkering at
the paddle-wheel. The overseer gave me a hat which added little to my
personal appearance, and by the time we were called to knock off for
the noon meal, I was thoroughly tired, and disgusted, feeling as much a
roustabout as I certainly looked.
The meal was served on an unplaned plank, the ends resting on kegs in
front of the boilers. The unwashed gang simply helped themselves, and
then retired to any convenient spot where they chose to eat. I
discovered a fairly comfortable seat on a cracker box, and was still
busily munching away on the coarse, poorly-cooked food, when Mapes,
prowling about, chanced to spy me among the shadows.
"Hullo; is that you, Steve?" he asked, gruffly. "Well, when yer git
done eatin' I got another job fer yer on deck. Yer hear me?"
I signified that I did, and indeed was even then quite ready to go, my
heart throbbing at this opportunity to survey other sections of the
boat. I followed him eagerly up the ladder, and ten minutes later was
busily employed with scrubbing brush, and a bucket of water, in an
endeavor to improve the outward appearance of the paint of the upper
deck. Nothing occurred about me for some time, the passengers being at
dinner in the main cabin. I could hear the rattle of dishes, together
with a murmur of conversation, and even found a partially opened
skylight through which I could look down, and distinguish a small
section of the table. Kirby was not within range of my vision, but
there were several officers in fatigue uniforms, none of their faces
familiar, together with one or two men in civilian dress, I judged
there were no women present, as I saw none, or heard any sound of a
feminine voice. The principal topic of conversation appeared to be in
connection with the war, and was largely monopolized by a red-faced
captain, who had once been a visitor in Black Hawk's camp, and who
loudly asserted that the gathering volunteers would prove utterly
useless in such a campaign, which must eventually be won by the
superiority of regular troops. A hot-headed civilian opposite him at
the table argued otherwise, claiming that the militia was largely
composed of old Indian fighters, who would give a good account of
themselves. The discussion became noisy, and apparently endless,
interesting me not at all. Once I detected Kirby's voice chime in
mockingly, but altogether the talk brought me no information, and
possessed little point.
I had moved away, and was engaged busily scraping at the dingy paint of
the pilot house, when a negro, evidently a cook from his dress, came up
from the lower deck, bearing a tray well-laden with food in one hand,
and disappeared aft. He did not even notice my presence, or glance
about, but I instantly shrank back out Of sight, for I became
immediately conscious that someone was closely following him. This
second man proved to be one of the fellows in civilian clothing I had
previously noticed at the table below, a tall, sallow individual,
attired in a suit of brown jeans, his lean, cracker face ornamented by
a grizzled bunch of chin-whiskers.
"Yer wait a minute thar, Jim," he called out, "'til I unlock that thar
dore. I ain't ther kind thet takes chances with no nigger."
I recognized the peculiar voice instantly, for I had listened to that
lazy drawl before while hidden in the darkness beneath the Beaucaire
veranda--the fellow was Tim, the deputy sheriff from St. Louis. The
negro rested his tray on the rail, while the white man fumbled through
his pockets for a key, finally locating it, and inserting the
instrument into the lock of the second cabin from the stern. It turned
hard, causing some delay, and a muttered curse, but finally yielded,
and the door was pushed partly ajar. I heard no words exchanged with
anyone within, but the negro pushed the tray forward without entering,
sliding it along the deck, while Tim, evidently satisfied that his
charges were quite safe, promptly reclosed and locked the door,
returning the key to the security of his pocket. After staring a
moment over the rail at the shore past which we were gliding, he
disappeared after the negro down the ladder. I was again alone on the
upper deck, except for the wheelsman in the pilot house, yet in that
broad daylight I hesitated to act on my first impulse. Eager as I
certainly was too make the poor girl aware of my presence on board, the
chance of being seen, and my purpose suspected by others, restrained
me. Besides, as yet, I had no plan of rescue; nothing to suggest.
Even as I hesitated, industriously scrubbing away at the paint, Kirby
and the captain appeared suddenly, pausing a moment at the head of the
ladder in friendly conversation. Parting at last, with a hearty laugh
over some joke exchanged between them, the latter ascended the steps to
the pilot house, while the gambler turned aft, still smiling, a cigar
between his lips. I managed to observe that he paused in front of the
second cabin, as though listening for some sound within, but made no
attempt to enter, passing on to the door beyond, which was unlocked.
He must have come to the upper deck on some special mission, for he was
out of my sight scarcely a moment, returning immediately to the deck
below. This occurrence merely served to make clearer in my mind the
probable situation--the after-cabin was undoubtedly occupied by Kirby,
perhaps in company with the deputy; while next to them, securely locked
away, and helpless to escape, were confined the two slave women. In
order to reach them I must operate under the cover of darkness, and my
only hope of being free to work, even then, lay in the faith that the
gambler might become so involved in a card game below as to forget his
caution. So far as Tim was concerned I felt perfectly capable of
outwitting him; but Kirby was dangerous.