Chapter 19

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.