The Guerilla Chief Part 30

Abaft of the _Missouri Belle_, and in the little gangway that encircles the ladies' cabin, I had caught sight of a group of three persons, standing outside one of the state-room doors. Of the ident.i.ty of these persons I could not be mistaken--though the sight was sufficient to stagger my belief. Of two I was sure: for the light shone more fairly upon them. The third only remained unrecognised--the darkness hindering my view of this individual--and, but for a horrid suspicion that flashed into my brain at the moment, I should not have thought of even guessing at his ident.i.ty.

The two that I had recognised were women--ladies. They were Madame Dardonville and her daughter Olympe. The third was a man, who stood sufficiently near them to come under the same light--the glare of the _Sultana's_ fires--but the unexpected presence of the ladies so astounded me, that I did not see _him_ till too late to distinguish either his form or face. I only saw that it was a man--nothing more; but, for all that, a painful suspicion--a presentiment of some horrid evil--took immediate possession of my soul; and I became at once imbued with the idea that my friends were in danger.

Gladly would I have adopted the belief that there was some error; and that what I had seen was a fancy--a vision of the brain. Certainly the glimpse I had of those fair faces--especially of the beautiful countenance of Olympe--was short and evanescent as any dream could have been; but it was too real. I saw her face well enough to recognise it-- well enough even to note its expression, which I fancied to be more sad than smiling. Beyond a doubt the widow and her daughter had pa.s.sed us in the _Missouri Belle_--strange though the circ.u.mstance might and did appear to me at the moment.

And what, after all, was there strange in it? Could it not be easily explained? Her affairs may have been set tied earlier than she expected--they should have been arranged by that time--and, without waiting for De Hauteroche, she may have formed the resolution to travel without him. The journey from Saint Louis to New Orleans is accounted nothing; and in all parts of the States ladies are accustomed to travel alone, and may do so with perfect safety and convenience.

But, then, they were _not_ alone--at least they did not appear to be.

There was the man--_the man_!

Some friend, perhaps, of the family? Some distant relative or retainer?

Perhaps, only a domestic?

Could I have believed this, I should have escaped that feeling of uneasiness that was every moment growing upon me; but I could not.

Something seemed to tell me, that the man I had seen was neither relative nor friend--but an _enemy_. Something seemed to whisper his name--_Monsieur Jacques Despard_.

Story 2, Chapter XIII.

THE TWO PILOTS.

My suspicions were only vague and ill-defined. I had the presentiment of an evil--but what evil? Even admitting that the man who accompanied Madame Dardonville and her daughter, was the swindler Despard--what injury could they receive from his presence? But what reason had I to think it was he? Not the least. Indeed, upon reflection, I could not myself imagine what had brought this man into my mind: though that might be accounted for--since the forgery, of which we more than suspected him, was one of the first things to be inquired into, on our arrival in Saint Louis--and there we should be in the morning.

There was little reason, however, in all this, to connect him with the presence of the ladies on board the _Missouri Belle_; and the more I reflected on the matter, the more improbable did it appear.

The circ.u.mstance of meeting Madame Dardonville on her way downward, was certainly strange enough--especially when I remembered her letter. In that she had distinctly arranged that we should come up for her; and had stated her intention to travel back by the _Sultana_. Had she written again, and once more altered the arrangement? It had been her original design, as appeared by her second letter--to have gone to New Orleans at an earlier date; but some business, connected with the administration of her estate, had delayed her. Was this cause of detention unexpectedly removed? and had she, in consequence, started southward, without waiting for the _Sultana_? Perhaps she had written a third letter, which had not reached New Orleans at the time of our leaving it?

All these were probabilities--or rather possibilities--that pa.s.sed through my mind; but, viewing them in their most favourable aspect, they failed to satisfy me. I could not help suspecting that there was a mystery--that there was something wrong.

The pilot was at his post inside his little cabin of gla.s.s, silent as is his wont. I would have entered into conversation with him; but just at that moment his second appeared, coming out of the pilot's cabin, and rubbing his eyes to get them open for his work. A bell had just announced the hour of change, and the second was about to enter on his turn of duty. The ceremony was simple; and consisted in the old pilot handing over the spokes to the one that relieved him, and then squeezing himself out of the gla.s.s house. A little conversation followed before the relieved officer retired to his "bunk." Seated within ear-shot, I could not help overhearing it. "Durnation dark--whar are we anyhow?"

"Jest below _Shirt-tail_ bend--thar's the bluff."

"Durn me! if I can see a steim. I couldn't see a white hoss at the eend of my nose this minnit. I reckon I'll be runnin' the old boat into the bank, if it don't clear a bit."

It certainly was a dark night. Some heavy clouds had drifted over the moon, and she was no longer visible.

"Oh, no fear," rejoined the other, "you ain't got the sleep out of your eyes, you'll see clearer by-'n-bye."

"Wal--it's to be hoped. Much dirt in the water?"

"A few--there's a putty considerable drift comin' down. That last spell o' wet has done it, I reckon. I han't seed many _sawyers_, but you'd better keep a sharp look-out. Thar's bound to be some o' 'em settled in the bend."

"I'll watch 'em--say, what boat was that?"

"_Ma.s.soury Belle_."

"Oh! she's in the Ohio trade now?"

"So I've heerd."

"I thought they wouldn't run her to Orleans agin. She aint the style for below."

"No, she wa'nt big enough. Old What's-his-name has bought her, and's goin' to run her reg'larly 'tween Saint Louis and Cinc'natti. She's jest the thing for that trade. Good night!"

Thus ended the dialogue; and, in a few seconds after, the retiring officer had entered one of the little boxes adjacent to the wheel-house, and shut himself up for the night.

Up to a certain point I had listened to this conversation with but little attention, and might not have noticed it at all, but for its quaint oddity. All at once, however, it became deeply interesting to me--at that point when it turned upon the _Missouri Belle_.

What could the man mean by the boat no longer running to Orleans? New Orleans, of course, he meant--for these men are perfect Lacons in conversation, and I understood the curtailment of the name. Was it possible the boat was not _then_ on her way to New Orleans? and was she bound round to Cincinatti?

If such were the case, the presence of Madame Dardonville on board of her, would indeed be a mysterious circ.u.mstance! For what purpose could _she_ be going to Cincinatti? and, least of all, at such a crisis--when she should be expecting her friends from the south?

Had I heard aright? Or had I properly interpreted what I had heard?

Beyond doubt the pilot's words were to the effect, that the boat was no longer to run to New Orleans, but from Saint Louis to Cincinatti, and of course _vice versa_. Perhaps he might mean prospectively? Was it some new arrangement of ownership, not yet completed?

The boat might be hereafter intended for the Ohio trade, but had not yet commenced running to Cincinatti: she might be making her final trip to New Orleans? Only this hypothesis could explain the puzzle.

It occurred to me that I might arrive at a more lucid understanding by an application to the occupant of the wheel-house--at all events he could interpret what I had just heard. I addressed myself him accordingly.

I had no fear of being snubbed. These Mississippi pilots are fine fellows, sometimes a little dry with curious intruders, but never rude, never impolite to a gentleman.

"Did I understand you to say that the boat we have just met--the _Missouri Belle_--is in the Ohio trade?"

"Wal, stranger, that's what I've heerd."

"That means that she is to run between Saint Louis and Cincinatti."

"Course it do."

"And do you think she is on her way to Cincinatti now?"

"Why, stranger, whar else 'ud she be goin'?"

"I thought she might be going down to New Orleans."

"Wal, she did run thar form'lly; but she's off that now. She's changed hands lately, and's been put on the other line, 'tween Saint Louis and Cinc'natti, which air a trade she'll suit for better. She wa'nt big enough for below; but bein' a light draught critter, she's jest the thing to get over the Falls."

"And you are certain she is now on the way to Cincinatti?"

"No, that I aint, stranger. She may be on top o' a durnation snag, or chuck up on a sand-bar at this minnit, for what I can tell. All I know for sartin is that she's boun' for Cinc'natti; and if nothin' happens her, she'll be thar in less 'n four days from now. Whether she breaks down, howsomever, air a question beyont my calkerlationa. She mout an'

she mout not."

With this sublime resignation to probabilities, the tall speaker in the gla.s.s house, evidently intended that the conversation should come to a close, for I observed that he bent his gaze more eagerly ahead, and seemed to direct his attention exclusively to the tiller. Perhaps the idea of the _Missouri Belle_ resting upon a snag or sand-bar, had suggested the probability of the _Sultana_ getting into a similar predicament, and stimulated him to increased caution in the performance of his duty.

Though I had succeeded in concealing my emotions from the steersman, it was not without an effort. The information he imparted was full of serious meaning; and augmented the feeling of uneasiness, from which I already suffered. Stronger than ever did I feel that presentiment of evil.

The statement of the pilot admitted of no interpretation but one. It was direct and point blank: that the _Missouri Belle_ was bound for Cincinatti. The man could have no motive for misleading me. Why should he? I had asked a simple question, without much show of interest or curiosity; he had answered it from pure politeness. There was not the slightest reason why he should make a misstatement; and I accepted what he had said as the truth.