CHAPTER XVI.

"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 It looked not like an accident, but the doing of the wily attorney; and perhaps Jaspar had voluntarily withdrawn; perhaps her uncle had made _her_ the reward of Maxwell's silence.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