Vain vigil it proved. I shall not tire the reader with details.
Suffice it to say, that we kept watch till morning's dawn; and then,
profiting by the daylight, sought out a more convenient post of
observation, where we continued our surveillance--watching and sleeping
in turn. Throughout the following day, and into the second, was our
vigil extended: until no longer able to hope against hope, we agreed
finally to abandon it. But for one circumstance, we might have felt
surprise at the result. We were both convinced that we had reached the
river's mouth in good time: since, by our calculations, the canoe could
not possibly have "headed" us. But for the same circumstance, we might
have believed, that they had not yet come down the Obion; and perhaps
would have remained at our post a day longer.
The explanation is this: On the first night of our watch, a few hours
after having taken my station in the tree, a fog had suddenly arisen
upon the rivers, shrouding the channels of both. It was the _white
fog_--a well-known phenomenon of the Mississippi--that often extends its
dangerous drapery over the bosom of the "Father of Waters:" a thing of
dread, even to the skilled pilots who navigate this mighty stream. On
that particular night, the fog lay low upon the water: so that in my
position near the top of the tree I was entirely clear of its vapoury
disc; and could look down upon its soft filmy cumuli floating gently
over the surface--white and luminous under the silvery moonlight. The
moon was still shining brightly; and both sky and forest could be seen
as clearly as ever. The water-surface alone was hidden from my sight--
the very thing I was most anxious to observe. As if by some envious
demon of the flood, this curtain seemed to have been drawn: for, just as
the fog had fairly unfurled itself, I fancied I could hear the dipping
of a paddle at no great distance off in the channel of the stream.
Moreover, gazing intently into the mist--as yet thin and filmy--I
fancied I saw a long dark object upon the surface, with the silhouettes
of human forms outlined above it--just as of a canoe _en profile_ with
passengers in it. I even noted the number of the upright forms: three
of them--which exactly corresponded to that of the party we were
expecting. So certain was I at the moment, of seeing all this, that I
need not have shouted to assure myself. Excited with over-eagerness, I
did so; and hailed the canoe in hopes of obtaining an answer. My
summons produced not the desired effect. On the contrary, it seemed to
still the slight plashing I had heard; and, before the echoes of my
voice died upon the air, the dark objects had glided out of sight--
having passed under thick masses of the floating vapour. Over and over,
I repeated my summons--each time changing the form of speech, and each
time with like fruitless effect! The only answer I received was from
the blue heron, that, startled by my shouts, rose screaming out of the
fog, and flapped her broad wings close to my perch upon the tree.
Whether the forms I had seen were real--or only apparitions conjured up
by my excited brain--they vouchsafed no reply; and, in truth, in the
very next moment, I inclined to the belief that my senses had been
deceiving me!
From that time, my comrade and I were uncertain; and this, uncertainty
will explain the absence of our surprise at not seeing the canoe, and
why we waited no longer for its coming. The most probable conjectures
were that it had passed us in the fog; that the apparition was real; and
they that occupied the canoe were now far-away on the Mississippi--no
longer trusting to such a frail craft, but passengers on one of the
numerous steam-boats, that by night as by day, and in opposite
directions, we had seen passing the mouth of the Obion.
In all likelihood, then, the fugitives were now beyond the limits of
Tennessee; and we felt sufficiently assured of this. But the more
important point remained undetermined--whether they had gone northward
or southward--whether by the routes of the Missouri or those of the
Arkansas? Upon this question we were as undecided as ever. At that
season of the year, the probabilities were in favour of the southern
route; but it depended on whether the emigrants intended to proceed at
once across the plains, or wait for the return of spring. I knew,
moreover, that the Mormons had their own "trains," and ways of
travelling; and that several new routes or "trails" had been discovered
during the preceding year, by military explorers, emigrants for Oregon
and California, and by the Mormons themselves. This knowledge only
complicated the question, leaving us in hopeless doubt and indecision.
Thus unresolved, it would have been absurd to proceed further. Our only
hope lay in returning to Swampville. And whence this hope? What was to
be expected in Swampville? Who was there in that village of golden
dreams to guide me upon the track of my lost love? No one--no human
being. The index of my expectation was not a living thing, but a
letter! Assuredly, I had not forgotten that promise, so simply yet
sweetly expressed: "If I thought you would like to know where we are
gone, I would write to you;" and again: "If you will allow me, I will
send a letter to Swampville, _from the first place we come to_, to tell
you where we are going." Oh! that I could have told her how much I
"would like to know," and how freely she had my permission to write!
Alas! that was impossible. But the contingencies troubled me not much;
I was full of hope that she would waive them. Communicating this hope
to my companion, we rode back to Swampville: with the design of laying
siege to the post-office, until it should surrender up to us the
promised epistle.