THE STORY OF ELSIE CLARK
The next two hours dragged dreadfully slow, in spite of my pretense at
steady work, and the fact that my thoughts were continuously occupied.
The shores past which we glided were low and monotonous, while the
river was but a tawny sweep of unoccupied water. We were already well
above the region of white settlements, in a land beautiful, but
uncultivated. The upper deck remained practically deserted, and I was
encouraged to observe, by glancing through the skylight, that a
stubborn game of poker was being indulged in at the cabin table below.
The amount of stakes visible, as well as some of the language reaching
me, accounted for the absence of passengers outside, even those not
playing circling the table in interest. The deputy, however, was not
among these, and occasionally he wandered up the ladder, and patrolled
the deck, although making no effort to invade the locked stateroom.
Apparently he was merely performing a duty assigned him by Kirby, but
possessed no fear that his prisoners would escape. The last time he
appeared more at ease, and sat down on a stool close to the rail,
smoking his pipe, and staring out glumly at the water. His position
was within a foot or two of the closed door, and I ventured to work my
passage along the front of the cabin, hoping to attract his attention.
Perhaps he was lonely, for he finally observed me in my humble
capacity, and broke the silence with a question.
"Hav' yer ever bin up this way afore?"
I paused in my work, and straightened up stiffly.
"Onct," making the fault in pronunciation prominent.
"Wal', how fur is it then, ter thet damn Yellow Banks?"
"I dunno 'sackly in miles," I acknowledged doubtfully. "Everything
looks just 'bout alike 'long yere," and I took a squint at the bank, as
though endeavoring a guess. "I reckon maybe it'll be 'bout twenty-four
hours' steamin' yet--morn'n thet, likely, if we got ter tie up much
'long shore. Are yer goin' fer ter jine the army?"
"Whut, me jine the army?" he laughed as though at a good joke. "Hell,
no; I'm a sorter sheriff down Saint Louee way, an' all I want fer ter
do now is just git back thar as fast as God Almighty'll let me."
"I see, yer a headin' in the wrong direction. I reckon yer mus' be one
o' them parties whut we done yanked outer thet keel-boat down river
las' night, aint yer?"
"I reckon I wus; whut of it?"
"Nuthin' 'tall; 'tain't no manner o' 'count ter me, fur as thet goes,"
and I got down on my knees again to resume scrubbing. "All I wus goin'
fer ter ask yer wus--wan't thar a couple o' womin 'long with ye?
Whut's becom' o' them? I ain't seed hide ner hair ov either since they
cum aboard."
I did not glance around, yet knew that Tim spat over the rail, and
stroked his chin-beard reflectively, after looking hard at me.
"They'se both of 'em niggers," he said, evidently persuaded my question
was prompted only by curiosity. "They belong ter Joe Kirby, an' we got
'em locked up."
"That's whut yer way up yere fur, hey? Goin' ter take 'em back down
river ter Saint Louee, I reckon?"
"Furst boat thet cums 'long. They skipped out night afore las', but we
cotched 'em all right. Yer goin' back on this steamer?"
"Not me; I'm goin' fer ter enlist whin we git ter Yellow Banks. Thar's
a heap more fun in thet, then steam-boatin'."
We continued to talk back and forth for some time but to little
purpose, although I endeavored to lead the conversation so as to learn
more definitely the exact situation of the two prisoners. Whether Tim
was naturally cautious, or had been warned against talking with
strangers by Kirby, I do not know, but, in spite of all my efforts, he
certainly proved extremely close-mouthed, except when we drifted upon
other topics in which I felt no interest. He was not suspicious of me,
however, and lingered on in his seat beside the rail, expectorating
into the running water below, until Mapes suddenly appeared on deck,
and compelled me to resume work. The two disappeared together, seeking
a friendly drink at the bar, leaving me alone, and industriously
employed in brightening up the front of the cabin. I was still engaged
at this labor, not sorry to be left alone, when a cautious whisper,
sounding almost at my very ear, caused me to glance up quickly,
startled at the unexpected sound. I could perceive nothing, although I
instantly felt convinced that whispering voice had issued from between
the narrow slats defending the small stateroom window. No one was in
sight along the deck, and the rag I was wielding hung limp in my hand.
"Who was it that spoke?" I ventured, the words barely audible.
"Ah did; the prisoner in the stateroom. Have both those men gone?"
"Yes; I am here alone. You are a woman? You are Rene Beaucaire?"
"No, Ah am not her; but Ah thought from the way yer questioned thet
brute, yer was interested. Ah know whar Rene Beaucaire is."
"You know? Tell me first, who you are?"
"Elsie Clark. Ah am a mulatto, a free negress. Ah bin helpin' Massa
Shrunk, an' a cookin' fer him. Yer know whut it wus whut happened down
thar?"
"I know part of it, at least--that Shrunk has been killed. I am not a
steamboatman. I was at Shrunk's cabin, and found the bodies. Tell me
exactly what occurred there."
"Whut's yer name?"
"Steven Knox; I am a soldier. Rene must have told you about me."
"No, sah; she never done tol' me nuthin'. Ah didn't much mor'n see her
enyhow, fur as thet goes."
"Not see her! Then she is not confined there with you?"
"Wiv me? Dar ain't nobody confined yer wiv me. Ah just ain't set eyes
on nobody since Ah done got on board, 'cept de cook. Ah reckon dem
white men aim fer ter tote me soufe, an' sell me fer a slave; dat's why
Ah's locked up yere dis way. But Ah sure does know whar dis yer Rene
Beaucaire wus."
"Where?"
"Wal', sah, it wus 'bout like dis. Long 'bout three o'clock in de
manning, ol' Bill Sikes cum up frum de lower pint, a drivin' his
kivered wagon, an' made Massa Shrunk git up out er bed fer ter git him
anodder team o' hosses. Den dey done routed me up fer ter hustle up
sum grub."
"Sikes; who is Sikes?"
"He lives down by de lower pike, Sah; he's an abolitionist, sah."
"Oh, I see; he and Shrunk worked together. He helped with the runaway
slaves."
"Yas, sah. Ah's bin called up thet way afore. So Ah just nat'larly
went ter work cookin', an' purty soon dey all ov 'em cum stragglin' in
ter de cabin fer ter eat. Dar was four ov 'em, sah," her voice a husky
whisper. "Bill Sikes, totin' a gun in his han', a free nigger whut dey
called Pete, an' two wimin. Furst like, bein' Ah wus right busy, Ah
didn't take no heed ov dere faces, fer dey wus all muffled 'round like;
but dey hed fer ter unwrap dem veils fore dey cud eat--tho' de Lord
knows dey didn't no one ov 'em eat much. De bigger one was a quadroon,
maybe 'bout forty years ol', an' de odder she wan't much more'n a gal;
an' dar wan't nuthin' ov de nigger 'bout her, 'cept it mought be de
hair, an' de eyes--dem was sure black 'nough. Ah just nat'larly felt
mighty sorry fer her, fer she done cried all de time, an' cudn't eat
nuthin'."
"You learned who they were? how they came there?"
"Course Ah did. Sikes he 'splained all 'bout 'em ter Massa Shrunk, an'
Ah heerd whut he sed. Ah wus a waitin' on 'em. Seems like, dey hed
run off frum de Beaucaire plantation, sumwhar down ribber on de
Missouri side, 'cause ol' Beaucaire hed died, an' dey wus goin' fer ter
be sold down soufe. De free nigger he wus helpin' fer ter git 'em away
in his boat. De way I heerd 'em tell, dey got snagged in de dark, an'
den drifted ashore at de lower pine. Wanderin' 'round, dey stumbled on
Sikes, an', soon as he heard de story, he just hitched up, an' drove
over whar we were. Took him 'bout three hours, Ah reckon, an' 'long de
road one ov his hosses wint lame."
"And--and what then?" I asked breathlessly, glancing about to assure
myself no one had appeared on deck, as she paused. "They got away?"
"'Cept fer de free nigger, de rest ov 'em started cross kintry fer
Beardstown, sah. De nigger Pete, he didn't go, fer he'd made up his
min' fer ter git bac' hom' ter ol' Missurry de furst chanst he got. We
all ov us helped fer ter put 'em in de wagon, hid undeh a lot o' truck,
an' den Sikes he done drove 'em out thro' de bluffs. Ah done walked
wif de gal, an' she tol' mor' 'bout herself, an' whar she cum frum; an'
dat wus her name, sah."
"Her name? What name?"
"Rene Beaucaire; de quadroon woman, she wus her mother."
I could scarcely voice my surprise, the quick throbbing of my heart
threatening to choke me.
"She claimed that name? She actually told you she was Rene Beaucaire?"
"She sure did. Why? Wan't thet her name?"
"I do not know," I confessed. "I had supposed I had met such a person,
but if what you tell me is true, I was mistaken. Everything has become
confused. Perhaps I shall understand better, if you go on. What
happened after they left?"
"Why, we just went back ter bed, an' 'long 'bout daylight, I reckon,
sum fellars cum ashore off a steamboat, an' done broke inter de house;
muster bin a dozen, er mor', white men, a cussin' an' swearin', an'
sayin' dey wus a huntin' dem thar Beaucaire niggers. We never done
heerd 'em till dey bust in de dore. One ob dem he knocked me down, an'
den Ah saw Massa Shrunk kill one, afore dey got him. Ah don't know
just whut did cum ob de free nigger; Ah reckon maybe he run away.
Dar's a fellar on board yere whut killed Massa Shrunk; an' he's de same
one whut made me cum 'long wid him."
"You mean the deputy sheriff? the man with the chin-whiskers?"
"No, sah. Ah don't mean him. He wus thar all right, but Ah never saw
him hit nobody. It wus another fellar, a smooth-faced man, sorter tall
like, all dressed up, an' who never talks much."
"Kirby--Joe Kirby, a river gambler."
"Dat's de name--Kurby. Wal', he's de one whut wus lookin' fer dis yere
gal, Rene Beaucaire. He wanted her pow'ful bad. Dey hunted all 'round
fer ter git hol' her, cussin' an' threatenin', an' a haulin' me round;
but 'twan't no sorter use. So finally dey took me 'long ter a boat in
de crick--a keel-boat, run by steam. Most de odder men disappeared; Ah
never did know whar dey went, but dis yere Kurby, an' de man wif de
chin-whiskers, dey done shut me up in de cabin. Ah don't know much
whut did happen after dat, till 'bout de time de steamboat done hit us;
an' 'bout de next thing Ah wus yanked up yere on deck."
"But there was another woman on the keel-boat when it was sunk--a
prisoner also. Surely you must have seen her," I insisted.
"Ah saw her--yas," eagerly. "But Ah don't know who she wus, sah, nor
whar she ever cum frum."
"Then she is not there with you?"
"No, sah; Ah's yere all 'lone. Ah reckon, tho', she sure mus' be on
board sumwhar. All what Ah does know is, dat de gal called Rene
Beaucaire sure ain't on board; fer she, an' her mah, am at Beardstown
long fore dis, an' a headin' right smart for Canady; while Ah's headin'
fer down soufe. Ah's a free nigger, an' dey's kidnapped me. Ah's just
told yer all dis, Mister White Man, 'cause you's a frien' ob de
Beaucaires--yer wus, wusn't yer?"
"Yes," I said soberly, "I am; and, if I can find any chance to help
you, I am going to do it, Elsie. Be careful now; don't talk any
more--the captain is just coming out of the pilot house."
As greatly as this brief, hastily whispered conversation had served to
clear up certain puzzling matters in my mind, the total result of the
information thus imparted by Elsie Clark only rendered the situation
more complex and puzzling. Evidently the other prisoner had not been
confined on the upper deck, but had been more securely hidden away
below, where her presence on board would better escape detection. For
what purpose? A sinister one, beyond all doubt--the expression of a
vague fear in Kirby's heart that, through some accident, her identity
might be discovered, and his plans disarranged. I was beginning to
suspect I might not have rightly gauged those plans. The first
suspicion which assailed me was whether or not the man himself had
already determined that his prisoner was not merely a helpless slave in
his hands, to be dealt with as he pleased under the law, but a free
white woman. If so, and he still desired to keep control, he would
naturally guard her all the more closely from either speech, or contact
with others. His only safety would lie in such action. I had heard
him express boastingly his original design relative to both these
girls; I comprehended the part he intended Eloise Beaucaire to play in
his future, and realized that he cared more to gain possession of her,
to get her into his power, than he did to obtain control of the slave.
This knowledge helped me to understand the predicament which this
revelation put him into, and how desperately he would strive to retain
the upper hand. If, in very truth, she was Judge Beaucaire's white
daughter, and could gain communication with others of her class,
bringing to them proof of her identity, there would be real men enough
on board the _Adventurer_ to rally to her support. Those army officers
alone would be sufficient to overcome any friends Kirby might call
upon, and in that case the gambler's house of cards would fall
instantly into ruins. We were already sailing through free territory,
and even now he held on to his slaves rather through courtesy than law.
Once it was whispered that one of these slaves was white, the daughter
of a wealthy planter, stolen by force, the game would be up.
But would she ever proclaim her right to freedom? It seemed like a
strange question, and yet there remained a reason still for silence.
If she was indeed Eloise Beaucaire--and even as to this I was not as
yet wholly convinced--she had deliberately assumed to be Rene, doing so
for a specific purpose--that object being to afford the other an
opportunity for escape. She, conscious of her white blood, her
standing of respectability, had felt reasonably safe in this escapade;
had decided that no great harm could befall her through such a
masquerade for a few days. If worst came to worst she could openly
proclaim her name at any moment, assured of protection at the hands of
anyone present, and thus defy Kirby. I recalled to memory their
conversation, which I had overheard in the library at Beaucaire; and I
understood now what had easily led to all this--her belief, from
Kirby's own words, that nothing further could be done until the
necessary legal papers had been served on her in person. This faith,
coupled with the mysterious disappearance of Rene and the quadroon
mother, and her being mistaken for the absent girl, all led her
inevitably to the conclusion that she must continue to act out the part
assumed until those others were safe beyond pursuit. With quick wit
she had grasped this chance for service; had encouraged Kirby to
believe her the slave, and then, in sudden desperation, had been driven
into trusting me in an effort to keep out of his hands.
This theory seemed possible enough; yet what she might decide to do
now, under the stress of these new conditions, was no less a problem.
She possessed no knowledge regarding the others, such as I did. She
had no means of guessing that the two others had already actually
escaped, and were even then beyond the power of their pursuers. Her
one thought still would be the continuation of deceit, the insistence
that she was Rene. To do otherwise would defeat her purpose, make her
previous sacrifice useless. She must still fight silently for delay.
Why, she had not so much as trusted me. From the very beginning she
had encouraged me in the belief that she was a negress, never once
arousing the faintest suspicion in my mind. Not by the slip of the
tongue, or the glance of an eye, had she permitted either of us to
forget the barrier of race between. Nothing then, I was convinced,
short of death or disgrace, could ever compel her to confess the truth
yet. Kirby might suspect, might fear, but he had surely never learned
who she was from her lips--that she was Eloise Beaucaire.
And was she? Was the proof of her identity, as yet produced, the story
of Elsie Clark, sufficiently satisfactory to my own mind? It became
more so as I thought, as I remembered. Every link in the chain of
evidence seemed to fall noiselessly into its place, now that I compared
my own experience with the details furnished me by the mulatto girl.
No other conclusion appeared possible, or probable; no other solution
fully met the facts in the case. The conviction that this young woman
was white, educated, refined, the daughter of good blood--no fleeing
negress, cursed with the black stain of an alien race, a nameless
slave--brought to me a sudden joy in discovery I made no attempt to
conceal. "Eloise Beaucaire, Eloise Beaucaire"--the name repeated
itself on my lips, as though it were a refrain. I knew instantly what
it all meant--that some divine, mysterious hand had led from the very
hour of my leaving Fort Armstrong, and would continue to lead until the
will of God was done. It was not in the stars of Fate that such
villainy should succeed; such sacrifice as hers fail of its reward. I
might not know where to turn, or what to do; yet it was with far
lighter heart, a heart stimulated by new hope, the gleam of love, that
I faced the task before me.