The Guerilla Chief, and Other Tales

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 circumstance 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 passed 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 glass, 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 glass 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?”

“Massoury 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 circumstance! 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 versâ. 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 glass 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.

The riddle had assumed a new character, and had become altogether more difficult of solution. “What,” I repeated to myself, “can Madame Dardonville have to do on a Cincinatti boat? Surely there is something astray?”

It did not appear exactly en règle, for the lady to leave Saint Louis in the expectation of a visit from her New Orleans friends; but I presumed she had sent a second despatch, which had not been received. Moreover, she was going down to them, and it mattered less about their coming up for her. These were my first reflections after seeing her upon the down-river boat, and until I had heard the talk of the two pilots. Now, however, circumstances had a different appearance. On the Missouri Belle she could not be going to New Orleans, but to Cincinatti. Did she expect us to follow her there? and for what end? Perhaps she would only go as far as the Ohio mouth, in this boat, and there wait for another, coming down the Ohio river? This method of getting from Saint Louis to New Orleans was common enough, when there did not chance to be a boat going direct. The large hotel at Cairo offered a temporary sojourn for such passengers. But why should Madame Dardonville adopt this roundabout method, and especially at such a time?

A score of conjectures passed through my mind, all ending idly. The only one at all satisfactory, was that, perhaps, I had been in an error from the very beginning. Perhaps, after all, I had neither seen Madame Dardonville nor her daughter; but two ladies who very much resembled them! It was not the first equivoque I had experienced; and this should have rendered me less confident of the evidence of my senses. Notwithstanding these reflections, however, I could not convince myself that I was in error.

So long, therefore, as there was the slightest doubt, I felt that it would be imprudent to communicate my suspicions to my travelling companions. It could serve no good purpose; and would only render them uneasy, as I was myself, – in all likelihood, much more so. Ere long we should all know the truth; and should it prove that I was mistaken, I would have the satisfaction of having saved my friends from unnecessary pain, and myself from ridicule.

Though I joined them the moment after, I gave neither of them the slightest hint of what I had seen or suspected.

Story 2, Chapter XIV

No One on the Watch

It was ten o’clock on the following day, when the Sultana snorting under a full head of steam, brought us within sight of the “Mound City,” so called from certain Indian tumuli, that here form a conspicuous feature on the banks of the mighty river.

Long before reaching our destination, my travelling companions and I had ascended to the hurricane-deck; and we were straining our eyes to catch sight, not of the spires and cupolas that overtop the town, but of a building that had for all of us a far greater interest – a white cottage or villa, with green Venetians – the villa Dardonville. As it stood conspicuously near the western bank of the river, and we knew that it was visible from the level of the water, we expected soon to be gratified with a view of it, especially, as we were now nearly opposite to it. A skirting of oak woods appeared alone to conceal it; and, as the boat forged ahead, we gazed eagerly into the vista that was gradually opening beyond them.

Slowly and gently, as if by the passage of a panoramic picture, the villa was disclosed to our view; and my companions hailed its appearance with exclamations of delight. Visions of a happy meeting with old dear friends, of sumptuous hospitality, of free rural enjoyments, of many pleasurable incidents, were before the minds of both; and as for Luis, the sight of that pretty homestead could not fail to call up emotions of a still more thrilling kind.

Though I had myself seen the villa before, and from the water, it was a new sight to both my friends. It was, in fact, a new house, and had been built by Dardonville on retiring from business. On Luis’s last visit to Saint Louis, the family was residing in the city. It was shortly after, that they had removed to the charming abode on the bluff.

My friends were enthusiastic in their praises of the pretty mansion. They admired its style of architecture, its smooth sloping lawn, its shrubberies; in short, both were in the mood for admiring.

As the boat arrived directly in front of it, and the house came fully into view, it did not strike me as presenting so hospitable an appearance: in fact, an observer, knowing nothing of its inmates, would have given it a character altogether different. The front door was shut close; and so, too, were the Venetian shutters, every one of them. Even the gate of the verandah railings appeared to be latched and locked. There was no life, human or animal, stirring about the place; not a creature to be seen. There was no smoke issuing from the chimneys, not a film. The place had the appearance of being uninhabited, deserted!

My companions could not help noticing this, though without having any suspicion that the house might be empty.

Why are the windows closed? and on such a beautiful morning?

I could only make answer to this pertinent query, by observing that the house faced eastward; and the sun might be too strong at that hour.

“Parbleu!” exclaimed Adele, “I feel cold enough; you see, I shiver? For my part, I should open every blind, and admit all the sun I could get. I shall do so, as soon as we get there.”

“But la!” continued she, after a pause, “surely they expect us? and by the Sultana, too? You would think some one would be on the look out? They must certainly hear the blowing of our grand boat? And yet no one appears – not even a face at the windows! Come, M’amselle Olympe, this is barely kind of you.”

Adele endeavoured to disfigure her beautiful countenance with a slight grimace, expressive of chagrin; but the laugh that followed showed how little she was in earnest.

“It may be,” interposed Luis, “they are not astir yet: it is early.”

“Early, mon frère? it is ten o’clock!”

“True, it is that hour,” assented Luis, after consulting his watch.

“Besides, where is old Pluto? where Calypse and Chloe? Some of them should be abroad. At least, one of them might have been playing sentinel, I think?”

These were the familiar names of Madame Dardonville’s domestics, all known to myself.

“Ah!” exclaimed Adele, a new thought suggesting itself, “I fancy I can explain. Madame and Olympe are gone up to town, that’s it. Perhaps she knows that the boat is near: she may have heard it from below, and has driven up to the landing to meet us? Of course Pluto would be with her, and the others are busy in the house. That explains all. So we shall meet her at the landing. Well, that will be charming!”

I gave my assent to this explanation, though far from believing it to be the true one. The deserted appearance of the house was a new element of anxiety to me; and, combined with what I already knew, almost confirmed the terrible suspicion that had shaped itself in my imagination. Though straggling to conceal my real thoughts, it was with difficulty I succeeded in doing so. More than once my companions regarded me with inquiring looks: as though they observed a singularity in my bearing and behaviour.

With a sense of the keenest anxiety, I looked forward to the moment of our arrival: I did not indulge in much hope that Adele’s conjecture would prove correct.

Alas! it did not. As the boat was warped in, broadside to the wharf, I scanned the crowd with keen glances: not a group – scarcely an individual – escaped my observation. There were no ladies there – no Madame Dardonville, no Olympe! There were carriages, but not theirs. No private carriages were to be seen, only hackneys waiting for a fare from the boat.

I looked at Adele. There was a slight curl upon her pretty lip – this time really expressive of disappointment and chagrin.

“Perhaps they are up in the town?” I suggested, gently.

“Nay, Monsieur, they should be here. It is cruel of Olympe.”

“The Madame may have business?”

“N’importe pas.”

I saw by this that Adele was really offended. Perhaps she had been hearing too many encomiums upon Olympe’s beauty. It is not woman to like this; and least to be expected from a woman who is herself a beauty.

Nothing remained but to engage a hackney. This was the work of a moment; and, as our united luggage was not large, we were soon passing through the streets of Saint Louis. The Jehu had received his directions to drive to the Villa Dardonville. He knew the house, and we were soon carried beyond the suburbs in that direction.

We met people on the way. The faces of one or two of them were known to me. As the carriage was an open phaeton, we could all be seen. I observed the eyes of these people turn towards us with a strange expression: a look, as I thought, of astonishment! Luis appeared more especially to be the object of interest. As we were driving rapidly, however, no one spoke. If they had anything to say, there was no opportunity for them to say it. I do not know whether either of my companions observed this, nor might I have done so; but for the foreknowledge of which I was possessed.

We at length reached our destination. The phaeton being driven to the front, halted opposite the verandah. No one rushed out to greet us! no one opened the door!

“C’est drôle!” murmured Adele.

Luis stepped out of the carriage and knocked. A heavy foot was heard inside: some one coming along the hallway? There was heard the turning of a bolt, and then the rattle of a chain. Strange! the door has been locked!

It was opened at length, though slowly, and with some degree of caution; and then a round black face was presented to our view. It was the face of Pluto.

Story 2, Chapter XV

Pluto

The expression depicted on the countenance of the negro, told us at once that we were not expected. His lips stood apart, his eyes rolled in their sockets, till only the whites were visible, and he stood with both hands raised aloft in an attitude of astonishment!

“Why – wy – wy, mass’r Looey! war de dibbil hab you come from?”

“Why, Pluto, where should I have come from, but from home? – from New Orleans?”

“Aw! massr! don’t joke dis ole nigga. You know you hadn’t time to get down dar; you’d scarce time to get to the mouf ob de ’Hio.”

“The mouth of the Ohio?”

“Ya, massr! You know de Belle didn’t start till near night; an’ how could you a got dar? Golly, massr! hope dar’s nuffin wrong? wha’ did you leave missa and Ma’aselle ’Lympe?”

“Where did I leave your mistress and Mademoiselle Olympe! I have not seen either of them, since I last saw you, Pluto.”

“O Gorramighty! massr Looey, how you do run dis ole nigga, ’case he half blind. Hyaw! hyaw! hyaw!”

“Half crazed, rather, Pluto, I should fancy!”

“Craze, massr? law massr, no. But do tell, Massr Looey, whar be de ma’m an’ ma’aselle?”

“That is just the question I have to put to you. Where are they?”

“Lor, massr, how can I tell. Didn’t I drive you all ’board de boat yes’day noon, and sure massr, I han’t seed none ob you since den?”

“Drive us aboard the boat! drive who?”

“Why you, massr, an’ Missa Dardonville, and Ma’aselle ’Lympe.”

“Of what boat are you speaking?”

“De big boat for Cincinatti – da Massonry Belle, dey calls her.”

De Hauteroche turned towards me with a look expressive of stupified wonder.

“What!” he gasped out, “what can this fellow mean?”

“Answer me, Pluto,” said I, addressing myself to the domestic, “you say you drove your mistress and Mademoiselle to the boat – the Missouri Belle?”

“Ya, massr, dat for sarting.”

“And did they embark in her?”

“Sarting, massr, I seed um go off afore I leff de waff.”

“A gentleman accompanied them?”

“Ob coos, Massr Hoteroche ’companied dem.”

“Who said it was Monsieur De Hauteroche?”

“Ebbery body say so; but law, massr, dis chile aint blind. I see Massr Looey ma’seff; an’ sure he wa’ stayin’ at de house for more ’n a week. You’s only a playin’ possum wi’ de ole nigga? dat’s what you are a doin’.”

“Another word, Pluto! Did Madame tell you where she was going?”

“No, massr, not adzactly tell me, but I knows whar, for all dat. Hyaw, hyaw, hyaw!” and the darkie displayed his ivories in a broad grin, while a knowing look was exhibited in the corners of his great eyes.

“Where was it?” I asked, without heeding his ludicrous humour.

“Gorry, massr; p’raps Massr Looey, he no let me tell?” and the black turned an inquisitive look towards De Hauteroche.

“It is just what I desire you to do. For Heaven’s sake, man, do not delay! This is most mysterious.”

“Berry queer! Well, Massr Looey, since you’s no objection, I tell dis gemman and Missy Adele; but I thort dey know’d all ’bout it a’ready. Ob coorse we brak folk only knows what we’ve heerd. It may be true, an’ it mayent, for all dat.”

“Out with it, man!”

“Well, de folks all say dat Ma’aselle ’Lympe she go be marry to young Massr Looey; and dat dey all go de way to France to have de knot tied – all de way to France! hyaw! hyaw!”

“To France?”

“Yes, massr. De say young massr – hyaw – he have rich uncle dar – he die – he leave all to Massr Looey – hope him true Massr Looey – dat young massr he go to get de money, and den he marry Ma’aselle ’Lympe, and den dey all come back hyar.”

“And who has said all this?”

“Law, massr, ebbery body know ’im – ebbery body say so. ’Sides, I hear Massr Gardette, de banker, tell one gemman, day I drove massr to de bank. Golly, de big cheque missa did draw out dat berry day! She say ’twar for trabbelin ’spenses. Dar wa dollars ’nuf to a trabbled ’em all ober de world. But say, Massr Looey, why hab you come back? Sure missa an’ Ma’aselle ’Lympe are safe? Hope dar’s nuffin wrong, massr?”

De Hauteroche appeared stupified with amazement – absolutely petrified. Pluto might as well have addressed his inquiries to a stone.

To question the negro further would have been idle. Indeed, I was already in possession of sufficient data to determine the outlines of this mysterious affair – if not to make known the whole of its details. I was now convinced that a horrid crime was being committed – a base deception practised – of which Madame Dardonville and her daughter were the dupes and victims. In all likelihood, some one was personating Luis De Hauteroche; and, under this guise – and by some pretence about a legacy, as report declared – had induced Madame Dardonville to leave her home and make a journey to France! This part of the story might be true or not; but certain it was that the ladies had gone away in the company of some one who was personating Luis de Hauteroche. Whither they were gone, and with what intent, I could not determine; but I had little doubt as to who was their companion and betrayer: it was the sportsman, Despard.

I did not communicate my thoughts to either of my companions. I could see no object in doing so. Their hour of misery would arrive soon enough. I thought it better they should suffer an hour of mystery.

I knew that Monsieur Gardette was a friend of Madame Dardonville – a family friend, as such men are termed. It was probable, therefore, he could throw light on the matter. He had cashed a large cheque, it appeared, and must know something of the object for which it was drawn. Moreover, the affair of the lost bill of exchange was to be inquired after. Both objects could be accomplished at the same time.