Chapter 20

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.