Front matter

THE

ISLAND PIRATE.

A TALE OF THE MISSISSIPPI.

BY CAPTAIN MAYNE REID,

AUTHOR OF "BLUE DICK," "SCALP HUNTERS," ETC.

NEW YORK:

BEADLE AND ADAMS, PUBLISHERS,

98 WILLIAM STREET.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1874, by

BEADLE AND ADAMS,

In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.

(P. N. No. 10.)

THE ISLAND PIRATE.

CHAPTER I.

A PAYING PRISON.

Many long years have elapsed since I first set foot in the valley of the Mississippi. I had strayed thither a young and enthusiastic traveler, with scarce any other aim than adventure.

I soon discovered that I had got into the very ground where such a taste could be gratified. Amid scenes of softness or sublimity, or tranquil solitude or stirring life—amid varied types of nationality, and strange contrasts of character—scarce a day passed without its incident, nor week wanting in some episode worthy of remembrance. Many of them have at least proved worthy of mine; and I now look back upon them with that romantic interest by which the past often reflects itself in the mirror of memory.

That I am about to record is of a mixed character—a drama in which there are scenes of pain as well as pleasure—both of real occurrence.

Whether interesting or no, they may be deemed improbable; though not by those who have studied the social characteristics of the Mississippi valley at the period to which they refer—before the "Far West" had commenced receding from the great river, and its settlements had refused to give shelter to those outcasts of society, who own no law but that of the lex talionis, and no lawyer but Lynch.

Unlike most travelers through Mississippian territory, I entered it from the south—by the mouth of its main river—making my first station in the city of New Orleans.

It was late in the spring when I arrived there. And soon after the red cross, beginning to show itself on the doors of the humbler dwellings that lay "swampward," warned me of the presence of that terrible epidemic, which there annually decimated the ranks of such strangers as were compelled to make their summer sojourn in the place.

Taking the hint, I bade a temporary adieu to New Orleans, intending to return to it after the first frost in the "fall."

Straying northward, here and there halting as chance or caprice directed, I was at length carried into the Ohio and up the Cumberland river to the capital of Tennessee.

By this time the forest foliage had become tinged with red, and the leaf was beginning to fall. My stay, therefore, in the "City of Rocks," though pleasant, was not prolonged; and I made preparations for leaving it: not by a steamboat, as I had come, but on horseback—a mode of traveling I much preferred, as, in fact, the only one by which such a country can be properly seen.

With a stout roadster between my thighs, and a valise buckled to the croup behind me, I took the Franklin "pike," leading southward from the city.

I contemplated a long ride—so long, that were I to state the distance, it might test the credulity of my reader; as it did that of a traveler, who shortly after overtook me.

I had made some three miles along the dusty pike, and was nearly opposite a large pile of building, standing to the right of the road, when the traveler in question came gliding alongside.

He was upon a "pacer," and could soon have passed me; but instead of doing so, he checked his steed into a walk, and rode by my side. Glancing toward him, I saw that he was a young man, dressed in white linen coat and trowsers, with well-fitting boots upon his feet, and a Panama hat upon his head.

"A planter," was my reflection, "or the son of one;" for he did not appear to be over twenty years of age.

"The Penitentiary!" he said, seeing that my eyes were fixed upon the building. "You've been in there, I suppose?"

The question sounded so odd, that my first impulse was to answer it with a laugh, which I did; though with no idea that it had been put through any discourtesy.

My interrogator, perceiving the droll interpretation his speech permitted, joined me in the laugh.

"Pardon me!" he said, apologizing. "Of course you know what I mean. I take you to be a stranger in these parts, and supposed you might like to know something of this State fortress of ours."

"A thousand thanks!" I rejoined. "You are right. I am a traveler, and as such not without curiosity. The State Penitentiary you say it is. I shall feel very much indebted to you for any information you may think proper to give me about it."

"Suppose you go with me inside? I know the governor, and can get admittance. It will be worth your while, if only to see Murrell."

"Murrell—who is he?"

"Oh! that of itself would tell you to be a stranger to Tennessee; else you would have heard of him. Murrell is the great pirate and robber of the Mississippi—long notorious upon the roads and rivers. He has committed scores of murders, it is said; and several have been proved against him. For all that, he is in for only ten years, and has already served six of them. Would you like to have a look at him?"

"By all means."

"Come along, then!"

With this my new acquaintance wheeled his horse into the avenue leading up to the gate of the State Prison, whither, without another word, I followed him.

We were admitted, and courteously conducted through what appeared far more like a vast manufacturing establishment than a place of penal imprisonment; a manufactory, too, comprising almost every trade known to the necessities of civilization. I there saw hatters, tailors, shoemakers and carpenters; spinners and weavers, bakers and blacksmiths; all busy at their respective employments. Among the last-mentioned I saw the murderer Murrell—and through the coal grime on his face, I could see the countenance of a man that by no means belied his terrible reputation.

His history was given me on the spot. By trade, originally, a blacksmith—the calling to which, like Vulcan, he was now condemned—he had forsaken it for the more profitable profession of piracy—not upon the high seas, as the term might seem to imply, but upon the rivers of the Mississippi valley—especially the great stream itself—his prey, instead of ships, being the "keels" and flat-boats descending, cargo-laden, to New Orleans, or their crews, returning along the up-river roads, and carrying the cash obtained for their commodities.

Murrell had been hard to catch, and harder still to convict. His confederates could be counted by the score—among them merchants, planters, justices of the peace, and even clergymen! The result was that he was sentenced to ten years in the Penitentiary, against at least ten times the number of highway robberies, and perhaps twice the count in horrid assassinations!

I shall never forget the disgust with which I contemplated this fiend in human shape. Not for long. I was only too glad to get out of the blacksmiths' shop, and lay my leg once more over the saddle.

But in that visit to the Tennessee State Prison, I became acquainted with some facts that in part compensated for its unpleasantness.

I there learned that crime may become its own cure; that the industry proceeding from it may be so applied as to remove its cause, or at all events to release the State from taxation!

This fact, first discovered in the Tennessee Penitentiary, did not so much strike me at the time. I was then but a careless student in the science of political economy.

Only in later years did I fully understand a statistic so astounding. Would that the bungling jailers of other and older States could comprehend its importance!

CHAPTER II.

A COURTEOUS INVITATION.

"Where are you riding to?" was the question asked by my new acquaintance, as we once more entered upon the pike.

"To New Orleans."

"Not on horseback?"

"On horseback."

"Why, it is a thousand miles. It will take you at least a month. You could get there by boat in a week."

"I know it."

"Oh! you have some object then in going by the road? Perhaps commercial?"

My fellow-traveler's eye rested for a moment on my valise, but evidently unsatisfied. It did not look much like the pack of a peddler.

"No," I said, in answer to his interrogatory. "Unfortunately for me, I am not able to offer such a substantial excuse for my journey."

"Well," he rejoined, "I know it's common enough to travel on horseback across to Memphis, when the water is low in the Cumberland, and there may not be a boat; but to ride all the way to New Orleans—that's a different affair. Do you really mean it?"

"I do."

"Excuse me for appearing inquisitive. It's a privilege we Western people assume to ourselves. I only asked because it seems so odd for any one to undertake such a tedious journey."

"You are perfectly welcome to know my reason for undertaking it. I have made the up-journey from New Orleans to Nashville by boat, and for all I have learnt by it, I might as well have been stopping at the "St. Charles Hotel," at one end, or the "Nashville Inn" at the other. My object is to see something of the interior of your country; and this is not to be accomplished on board a noisy steamboat."

"Ah! Now I perceive. No doubt you are right. As a stranger to our country—"

"How can you tell that?" I asked, abruptly interrupting him.

"Oh! that is easily told," was the prompt reply. "For instance, the odd article strapped on the crupper of your saddle."

"Ah! The valise."

"Valise you call it? Here we only use the saddle-bags."

"I know it. I prefer the valise, as you see. I acknowledge your saddle-bags may be more convenient; but they are also more heating to the horse, and for that reason I incline to stick to my valise."

"Ha! I perceive you are a true traveler; and since you say you are journeying only to see the country, you can not be much pressed for time. I have made you acquainted with the inside of a Tennessee prison. I hope you will permit me to introduce you to something not quite so gloomy—a Tennessee cotton plantation. Perhaps you have not yet visited one?"

"It is very kind of you," I replied, more than ever impressed with the courtesy of my new acquaintance. "In truth, I have never seen a cotton plantation in my life."

"Well, if you will place yourself under my guidance, I shall be most happy to show you mine, or my father's I should rather call it. It is not one of the largest, nor do we have cotton plantations in such perfection as you will see them further south—in Alabama and Mississippi. We are here on the northern edge of the cotton-growing climate, and the plants sometimes suffer from the frosts. Ours, however, will enable you to form some idea of one of the chief sources of Tennessee wealth; and I shall have much pleasure in taking you over it."

I accepted the invitation. It was, indeed, furnishing me with an opportunity I had intended seeking; for although, further south, I had made some acquaintance with sugar and tobacco plantations, I was yet ignorant of the mode by which the great commercial staple of the Southern States is produced and prepared for the market.

I could not help repeating my thanks for such kindness shown to a stranger—as I expressed it.

"Well, sir," was the reply, accompanied by a significant smile, "I have been, perhaps, taking an unfair advantage of you. You are not altogether such a stranger to me, though I only know you through another."

"Another! Who?"

"If I am not mistaken, you made the up-river voyage about a month ago, in the steamer Sultana?"

"I did."

"Do you remember one of your fellow-passengers—a young lady, by name Miss Woodley?"

It is not likely I should have forgotten Miss Woodley, nor would any other who had ever seen her—to say nothing of having voyaged nearly a thousand miles in the same boat with her. She had come on board at a landing below Vicksburg on the Mississippi—a brother having brought her to the landing. Thence she had traveled alone to Nashville—changing boats, as I had myself, at the mouth of the Cumberland river. But if alone, she was not neglected. Both on the Sultana and the smaller steamer, she had been the cynosure of many an eye, and the theme of many a sigh. Half a score of her fellow-passengers thought the journey too short; and I decline to say that I was not one of the number.

I had been honored with an introduction given me by the captain of the Sultana; but the beautiful Cornelia Woodley was so surrounded by admirers that I had found but slight opportunity of cultivating her acquaintance.

On leaving the boat at Nashville, I had bidden adieu, with but faint hopes of ever seeing her again. Her home was fifty miles from the capital of Tennessee. She had communicated this much, but of course without extending an invitation.

With this explanation the reader will not be surprised that the name of Miss Woodley, pronounced by my new acquaintance, caused me to turn round in my saddle, and regard him with renewed interest.

"Certainly," I said, "I traveled on the same boat with Miss Woodley."

"I thought so," was the prompt rejoinder. "I could tell it was you from the description she gave me. I saw you as you rode out of town, and made haste to follow."

This kind of talk required explanation. In what relationship did my new acquaintance stand to my fair fellow-voyager? Was the young planter only a neighbor, whose intimacy had procured him the information detailed? I did not relish the conjecture of his being her lover. He was too good-looking to make the thought palatable. I preferred the fancy that he might be a brother. Before I could ask, I had the answer indirectly.

"I'm so glad you're going our way. I'm sure my sister will be most happy to see you."

"Oh! You are the brother of Miss Woodley then?"

"One of them. There are two of us. I am the youngest of the lot. Henry, who is the oldest, don't live with us here. He has a plantation in Mississippi, below Vicksburg. That's where my sister has been. She spends her winters with him, and only comes to Tennessee for the summer months."

I felt secretly glad that the summer months had not yet quite passed away.

We rode on; from this time calling each other by name, and conversing as if we had been old acquaintances. More than ever did I long to become initiated into the economy of a cotton plantation.

CHAPTER III.

NAT BRADLEY.

I had been for some time expecting to see my guide strike into one of those side gates, sparsely appearing along the pike, and which I knew, by the pretentious piers of hewn post-oak, to be the entrances to some dwelling or plantation.

"How far is it to your father's place?" I asked, in a careless way, so as to conceal my impatience.

"Oh! a long way yet," was the discouraging reply. "At least forty miles. We can not reach it to-night. We must sleep in Columbia."

"Beyond Columbia it is?"

"A long way beyond. There's no cotton land on this side worth cultivating. It lies too far north, and the frost, as I've told you, often kills the young plants. Father's plantation is a good ways from the road, on one of the creeks that run into Duck river. It's capital soil for cotton, only that we have a long way to haul it to a steamboat landing. This year we intend sending the crop to New Orleans on a flat. Father's got an idea it will pay, and the boat's being built. You see, the creek runs right through our plantation, and it's wide enough to get a flat through to the Duck. Once there, it's only to float down to the Tennessee and into the Ohio—then on to the Mississippi. We never did it before, but some of our neighbors have tried it, and they say it pays. Of course you know, after the crop's gathered the niggers haven't much to do, and half a dozen of them, with one or two of the regular river boatmen, can navigate a flat without much expense. By steamboat there's heavy freight charges just now; besides the hauling before you can get it aboard. There's no landing nearer our plantation than twenty miles, and with bad roads at that. We make a hundred and fifty bales every year, and as a team can only take four at a time, you can tell what a tedious affair it is. With a flat we can load right on our own land, close to the cotton-press."

I had become so interested in these details of cotton planting that I had almost ceased to think of that other attraction which I expected to find upon the plantation.

It was something so original, so American-like, a crop raised in the very heart of a continent—amid forest-clad slopes apparently inaccessible—to be thus transported from the spot on which it was grown to a market more than a thousand miles distant, not by ship or steam, or the intervention of any kind of carrier to share the profits of transportation, but transported by the agriculturist who had grown it—going, as it were, direct from the producer to the consumer!

Absorbed in the contemplation of this curious problem in political economy—important as curious—I had for the time forgotten the traveling companion who had suggested it.

I was aroused from my reverie by hearing him exchange a salutation with some one who had met us on the road. On looking up I saw it was a horseman going in the opposite direction. He, too, had the appearance of a traveler, his horse dimmed with dust and dry sweat, with a pair of swollen saddle-bags protruding behind his thighs.

He was a young man—apparently twenty-five—though with a countenance whose expression told of an experience far beyond his age—a circumstance by no means rare in the region of the South-west.

By his dress he would also have been taken for a planter; although it was unlike that worn by young Woodley. Like him, he had a Panama hat; but instead of white linen, his coat was a blouse of sky-blue cottonade, plaited and close-buttoned over the breast, while his trowsers were of the same stuff and color. It was, in fact, the dress of the Louisianian creole, adopted by many Americans who have migrated to lands on the lower Mississippi.

"Well, Walt! Been to Nashville?" was the speech he had addressed to my companion, as they reined up their horses in the middle of the road.

"Nat Bradley!" exclaimed the young planter, evidently under some surprise, which might be caused by an unexpected encounter.

"Yes, Nat Bradley it is."

"Who'd have looked for you here? Where have you been?"

"Only out to take a squint at the old place. Mighty glad I got shet of it. You're all a set of fools for staying in Tennessee. Talk of growin' cotton up here! Mississippi's the place for that. Why, the meanest nigger on my plant can make two bales to your one."

"I've heard you have been having great success. My brother has written to say so."

"Has he, indeed? Well, it's a wonder he don't give up his corn-growing and try the cotton too. For my part I go in for the weed that fetches the ready cash—twenty cents to the pound. You've a good crop this year, haven't you?"

"I believe it is."

"How many bales are you countin' on?"

"Father thinks there will be nearly two hundred."

"D——d handsome crop, if you can only get it safe to market. I've heard out on Duck you intend flatting it."

"Yes; we are building a boat for that purpose."

"Best way in the world. Far the best. No expense, no hauling, no freight charges of any kind. Besides, the steamers are eternally getting blown up. There's half a score of them bu'st their boilers last season. Recommend me to the good old-fashioned flat. I always send my truck to Orleans that way, and would do so even if I could tumble the bales into a steamboat right off the plantation press. Last flat I sent down fetched me as lumber enough to pay all the expenses of takin' it there. Come straight from Nashville?"

"Yes."

"Know if there's any boat about starting for below?"

"I haven't heard."

"Hope there is. I want to get down to Mississip. I only run up for a little business I had in Nash, and thought when so near, I might as well run out and have a look at the old diggin's on the Duck. Corneel's out there, ain't she?"

"Yes. My sister is with us."

"Of course I didn't see her, as your old man and I hain't been on the square ever since that—you know—. D——d hot, ain't it?"

The last remark appeared to be by way of changing the subject, which I could see was not at all agreeable to my young companion.

"Very hot," was the assenting reply.

"The sooner we get out of it the better. You're bound straight for home, I suppose?"

"Straight."

The emphasis on the "you're," with a look cast toward me, was evidently meant to draw out a different answer; while in the glance, quick and furtive as it was, I could read in Nat Bradley's mind a sentiment hostile to myself.

"Well!" he exclaimed, turning to conceal his dissatisfaction, "I'm off, Woodley. Hope to see you some day in Mississippi. Good-by!"

And with another sullen side-look at me, which I did not fail to return, Nat Bradley struck the spur into his sweating horse, and went clattering off along the turnpike toward Nashville.

CHAPTER IV.

A QUEER CHARACTER.

The impression produced upon me by this encounter was far from agreeable. It was, in truth, of the very opposite character. There was something in the style of the man we had met—both in his speech and demeanor—that provoked a feeling of indignation, as almost necessary to self-respect; and I had felt this from the moment of meeting him. Though neither word nor nod had passed between us, there was that in his regard which told me of an instinctive antagonism in our natures, and that he also felt it as I. I could see that he was what, in the Southern States, is termed a "bully." Its broad arrow was upon him—unmistakably impressed on his countenance, as well as in the way in which he carried himself. There was a swagger that seemed intended to conceal the award. For all that, there was something in the rounded stoop of his shoulders, and the short, thick neck, that bespoke a courage sufficient for crime, and it did not require the butt of a pistol, protruding from his breast pocket, nor the hilt of a bowie-knife, shining among his shirt-ruffles, to tell that he was ready to use either weapon upon slight provocation, or perhaps without any at all.

It was the sight of these ugly insignia, carried so ostentatiously, that had produced my first feeling of aversion—soon strengthened, however, by the bantering tone in which he talked to my young companion, who appeared to treat him with more civility than he deserved.

More than all, the free, familiar way in which he spoke of the young planter's sister—which the latter did not appear to relish—this and the glances given to myself, had prepared me for a very surly conversation, had one been commenced between us. Indeed, had the interview lasted much longer, with the interchange of a few more such looks, the bad blood between us would have found expression in speech. As it was, we parted in mutual dislike, on both sides as clearly understood as though it had been spoken.

"Who is your swearing friend?" I asked, knowing that the question so put was not likely to give offense.

"Not much friend of mine."

"Nor of your father's, I should say?"

"Father can't bear the sight of him."

"An old acquaintance, I suppose? He appears to be familiar with your affairs."

I was thinking more of the mode in which he had spoken of Miss Woodley than of any thing else. The remark made about not having seen her, had jarred upon my ear. Why should he have said this at all? And why had the brother appeared to dislike it?

"Oh, yes. He is an old acquaintance," replied the young planter; "and ought to know a good deal of our affairs—at least until lately. I may say we were brought up together. His plantation adjoined ours—what once was his. That's what he meant by saying he was out to have a look at the old place."

"It is no longer his, you say?"

"No, the land now belongs to us."

"Oh, indeed!"

"Yes. Nat has been what in Tennessee we call a "wild blood," if not something worse. He never would keep straight, nor stay among his own sort. He was always given to queer company—among the poor white trash, and what between spending money at their cock-fights, 'quarter-races,' and 'candy-pullings,' he soon went through what was left of his father's plantation. It wasn't much, as his father before him was a good deal given the same way. The place came to the hammer; and, as it adjoined ours, my father bought it, along with some of the niggers. They tell queer stories about Nat, these same darkies. If only half be true, the less one knows of him the better. I only wonder that my brother gives him the encouragement he does."

"Your brother?"

"Yes. His plantation in Mississippi is not far from that you've heard Bradley speak of, where he can grow such crops of cotton. He appears to be getting rich again. My brother says so in his letters. Nearly a hundred niggers, and always a pocket full of money. How he got the start nobody can tell; but I think one might find out if they were to frequent the gambling-houses of New Orleans. Brother says he goes down there every winter, stays only a short time, and comes back to his plantation loaded down with dollars. Last year he bought no less than fifty field hands for his plantation. You've been to Orleans, you say?"

"I have."

"A terrible place for gambling, ain't it?"

"You are quite right."

"No doubt that explains how Mr. Nat Bradley started his new plantation. If it's 'poker' they play, there's not many will stand a chance with him. He had the name here when a boy, of beating even his father's own niggers at it."

"What! was he accustomed to play with them?"

"With any one who had a 'bit' to bet upon the game. That was before he went away. He was poor enough then, for he hung about here long after he had lost the plantation—cock-fighting, drinking, quarreling—some say worse. So, stranger, after what I've told you, you won't wonder at my being a little cool with Nat Bradley, though he has been my school-fellow."

"On the contrary, I think you act very properly in keeping him at a distance."

"I wish brother Henry would do the same."

"What reason have you for thinking he does not?"

"Oh! plenty of reason. Henry receives him at his house, and he has even the impudence to talk to 'Corneel,' as you have heard him call my sister. Down in Mississippi State they have queer ways. As you may know, most of the Choctaw lands there, were settled by 'speculators,' and they're not very particular as to what a man is, so long as he makes money. Brother's an easy sort of fellow, and don't much mind what kind he goes with, if he can only get his fill of hunting. It was nothing else he moved to the Mississippi for; though he don't like to own to it. We see only a stray bear upon Duck, and deer are getting scarce, while both are still plenty in the canebrakes of the Mississippi bottom. But come, sir, you'll no doubt think me an inhospitable traveling companion; and our horses will have a sorry opinion of both of us. Here's old Spicer's tavern, where we stand some chance of getting a dinner, and in the cool of the evening we can ride on to Columbia."

We dismounted under the swing sign of the "Lafayette Hotel;" and, after a little "sweetening," prevailed upon Major Spicer—a Tennessee tavern-keeper would not be of inferior grade—to consent that one of his darkies should take care of our horses, and that we ourselves might partake of the hospitality of the Lafayette Hotel—consisting of sweet potatoes and "pone" bread—fried pork and apple "sass," with a stirrup cup of peach-brandy, to strengthen us for continuing our journey.

CHAPTER V.

PLANTATION LIFE.

There are not many chapters in my life's experience that I can look back upon with more satisfaction than that which records my stay upon a Tennessee cotton plantation. With me it has ever been a pleasure to study the ways and sources of production, more especially those relating to the great staples, that not only interest, but influence the conduct of mankind. And perhaps none to a greater extent than that which, when fabricated, forms one of the most important items of our clothing—the plant Gossypium, lately relied upon to control a great national revolution.

I was shown its glaucous wool-covered seeds, the mode of sowing it, the way by which its young shoots were kept clear of weeds—the plant as it appeared in its snow-white flower, and afterward, when the bursting capsule displays the equally white staple, giving still greater delight to the planter's eye—then the gathering, the "picking" of those seeds, so tenacious as to require the machinery of the "gin;" and, lastly, the packing and "pressing" of the bales, which makes them ready for the dray, the flat, the steamboat, or the ship—ready for transport to the remotest parts of the earth.

All this I learnt from Walter Woodley, his fair sister supervising the lesson.

I remember it well, though it would be more a wonder if I had forgotten it.

Far was I from thinking it tedious. I could have undergone it twice over; stayed to study its details for a second season, and another crop; but, chance guest that I was, I could no longer intrude even upon Tennesseean hospitality, and I prepared to take my departure.

I had spent ten days on the plantation; and, although in the retrospect I see only sunshine, I can also remember that at the time there was just the suspicion of a shadow.

In the happy house of Squire Woodley, no stranger would have looked for a "skeleton;" and yet I suspected that there was one. It was only a suspicion, but strong enough to give me pain.

I had not forgotten Nat Bradley, or the free and easy fashion in which he had talked of the affairs of the family. I had not forgotten the confident tone in which he had alluded to "Corneel."

Several times during my stay, the name of this gentleman had come up in conversation. With regard to the hostility which his father entertained for him, Walter had spoken the truth. There could be no mistaking that, to judge from the terms the old gentleman employed when speaking of the "scoundrel," as he plainly called Bradley; and it was clear to me that the squire knew something to Nat Bradley's discredit—more than he thought prudent to communicate to the younger members of his family.

Neither of these took any pains to defend their old school fellow; for in childhood's days, according to backwoods custom, he had been the school companion of both. Neither ever attempted to speak a word in his favor. Walter even indorsed the sentiments of his father, while Miss Woodley was silent; but once or twice I fancied I could perceive in that silence some trace of embarrassment, and a desire on her part to escape from discussing the question. Could it be that there was some untold and secret history between this beautiful girl and that bold blackguard, Bradley? The thought pained me as a stranger—it pained me still more as my acquaintance with Miss Woodley assumed the familiarity of friendship.

True, it was only my own imagining; but this was strengthened by an incident that occurred previous to my leaving the plantation, and which in my mind had a sinister signification.

I had been several times down to the creek where the flat-boat was being built—that craft that was to carry the cotton crop more than a thousand miles to market. I could not help taking an interest in this native specimen of naval architecture—a sort of Noah's ark of the Western waters. It was being constructed under the superintendence of a white man, a flat-boat builder by profession.

This person—whose name I had ascertained to be Bill Black—was assisted by a second individual, a white man like himself, who was a regular "Mississippi boatman."

The other "builders" were all black, the carpenters and common hands of the plantation, some of whom were afterward to act as "hands," in the navigation of the craft.

I had taken considerable interest in this ark's construction, though the Tennessee Noah, Mr. Bill Black, seemed anything but inclined to initiate me into the mysteries of his ship-yard. Several times that I had visited it alone, he had treated me with scant civility; and I had set him down as a morose brute. His acolyte, Stinger, was equally uncivil.

The demeanor of these men would have given me a very low opinion of what are called the "white trash" of Tennessee, but I learnt incidentally that neither belonged to the place.

They were, in fact, "boatmen," whose home was here to-day, there to-morrow—wherever a chance of employment might turn up.

One evening Walter Woodley was absent when wanted by his sister for some purpose that required his presence upon the premises. Several messengers had been sent forth to find him.

Fancying he might be down at the creek, where the flat-builders were employed, and having nothing better to do, I sauntered in that direction to summon him. The place was half a mile from the house, and on the land formerly possessed by the Bradleys.

On reaching it, I found no one in the "ship-yard." It was after sunset, and the workmen, both white and black, were gone away for the night. I could see their tools stored in the shed.

As I had come on the wrong track to find the missing man, there was no reason for my hurrying home.

"He has got there by this time," was my reflection; and lighting a cigar, I strolled slowly back toward the house.

I had not gone far before discovering that speed would have been impossible had I wished making it. The path for the most part ran through a tract of woodland—huge trees thickly set—the heavy bottom timber of the creek. The twilight I had left behind me in the cleared space about the boat-yard, was no longer visible. Under the trees it was dark as the inside of a cave, only a little illuminated by the phosphorescent coruscation of the fire-flies, or "lightning-bugs," as the Tennesseeans term them.

Instead of guiding me, these animated torches, with their fitful, unsteady sparkle, only rendered the track more deceptive, and I was compelled to proceed with circumspection, now groping my way among the tree-trunks, and now stooping to make sure of the path, by the glow of my cigar.

CHAPTER VI.

TWO STRANGE TALKERS.

I had got about half-way to the plantation-house, and nearly clear of the timber, when I heard voices, as of two men engaged in conversation. This it turned out to be—two men upon the same path I myself trod, but coming from the opposite direction.

By the time I had made this observation, they were close up to me.

They appeared to be making way faster than I—no doubt from being more familiar with the track. Though within less than a score of yards, I could not distinguish their figures, nor they mine, so deep was the obscurity of the place.

I was about to call out, so that we might not run foul of one another, when I recognized one of their voices. It was that of the uncivil boat-builder, Black. The other should be his assistant, Stinger?

Not caring for an encounter with these men—even so much as to saluting them—I stepped aside, intending to let them pass without making my presence known. It was easily done in the darkness, by gliding behind a tree.

"You think ther'll be two hundred bales, Bill?"

"Darned close on it. The old un's had an all-fired fine crop."

"So much the better. See you make the boat big enough to carry it. Don't let a bale be left behind."

"Yer kin trust me for that. She'll take every bale of it."

"Good. If neatly managed, it'll be one of the finest hauls—. Don't you smell tobacco?"

"Darned if I don't!"

"Somebody's been smoking here! A cigar too. Like enough that strange fellow, or Walt Woodley himself. They've been this way—not a great while ago neither."

For a short time there was silence, and I could tell that the two men had stopped in their track, and were listening.

Now, less than ever, did I care to accost Mr. Bill Black and his companion, who was not Stinger, though who I could not guess. And yet the voice did not seem altogether unfamiliar. I fancied I had heard it before!

I stood still as the tree-trunks around me, and equally motionless. I had already taken the cigar from my teeth, and held it with the coal between my fingers.

I was in hopes of hearing something more said, for there was just a taint of mystery in the nature of the dialogue to which I had commenced listening. Who could the man be that took such an interest in the bulk of the flat-boat, and the shipment of Squire Woodley's cotton?

Perhaps the overseer of the plantation?

This was a man I had only spoken to once or twice, but with whose voice I was not enough familiar, to account for the fancy of my having heard it before.

I was forced to be satisfied with the conjecture, for the two men no longer conversed aloud, but in a tone so low, I could not make out what they said.

After standing a few seconds to satisfy themselves that they were alone on the path, they moved on again, and were soon entirely out of my hearing.

As I continued toward the house, I could not help dwelling upon the incident, trifling as it might appear. The voice of the second speaker still kept vibrating in my ear, although it otherwise defied identification. I did not feel convinced of its being that of the overseer.

On reaching the plantation-house I had evidence to the contrary. The man was there himself, standing by the gate! He could not have got to the ground before me.

I found Walter Woodley at home, and related to him the scraps of conversation I had overheard.

"Some of our neighbors," he said, with a careless laugh, "who take this interest in our affairs, though I can not tell which of them I am to thank for being such a well-wisher. Ah! I fancy I can explain it. We propose to allow a percentage on every bale that reaches New Orleans without getting wet or otherwise damaged. Likely enough it's some friend of Black, the boatman, who's been congratulating him on his chance of making a good thing of it.

"By the way," continued the young planter, changing the subject, "I've been down by Neal's ferry since dinner, and who do you suppose I should see crossing there?"

"How should I know, being a perfect stranger to everybody around you?"

"Ah! true. But you've seen him; and heard us talk of him. Nat Bradley."

"Nat Bradley! He here? I thought he said he was going down the river."

"He did; but for all that he's here again."

"For what purpose?" I asked, inspired by an unpleasant thought.

"Heaven only knows. He didn't seem too well pleased at seeing me. I suppose he fancied I might think it strange, after his telling us he was off for Mississippi. He explained, by saying, there was no boat at Nashville ready to start. Now that I know not to be true; for I've heard elsewhere that there was one went down about ten days ago—just in time for him to have gone by her. He's a queer fellow; and it's hard to say what he's dodging about here for. He told me he was on the way to a nigger trader's near the Tennessee shoals, who'd got some hands to sell, and as he'd heard they could be had cheap, he was going to buy some of them. From there he intended riding across to Memphis, and taking boat for below. He must be making money, somehow, as he talked of buying no less than twenty of the trader's lot."

While listening to this long explanation, I imagined I had obtained a cue as to the voice I had heard in conversation with Bill Black, the boatman. It was the same that had jarred so disagreeably on my ear, while pronouncing the name "Corneel."

I stated my suspicion to the young planter.

"Like enough," was his reply, "though I didn't know he was acquainted with Black, nor can I see what difference it should make to him about our having a large crop, or how we get it to market."

Neither could I; and it was just this that continued to mystify me, long after we had ceased to converse on the subject.

Strange enough, no one of the neighborhood had either seen or heard of Nat Bradley's reappearance on the place.

During the three days that intervened before my departure from the plantation, I had not failed to make inquiries—of course in an indirect manner—but no one knew of a second visit of Nat Bradley. His first I had frequently heard spoken of. There was nothing strange in it. On the contrary, it was but natural that a man of broken fortune, once more rebuilt, should return to his native place, to receive the congratulations of his friends, as well as to triumph over his enemies.

His second visit made in such secrecy—and with a falsehood for its excuse—must have had some object of a less honest kind.

I could not help thinking so; and more than once, the thought returned to distress me.

CHAPTER VII.

A HUNTING PLANTER.

Notwithstanding my reluctance to leave the Tennessean plantation, the event could no longer be delayed. I could bear the thought with greater equanimity that I had hope soon again to see my fair instructress in the statistics of cotton-planting.

"On my journey through the Mississippi State, I must call on her brother Henry. His plantation was not much out of my way. He could give me such sport, hunting bears and deer and panther, shooting swans, egrets and eagles. She herself would be going down soon—perhaps Walter too. Would I not stay till they came?"

Who would have declined such an invitation? Not I. My difficulty was to conceal an eagerness in its acceptance. I promised to pay this visit to the hunting brother; and provided with the proper credentials of introduction, I bade adieu to my Tennesseean acquaintances, and once more set my face for the South.

I had long since left behind me the region of turnpikes, and my route lay over roads where the hoof struck only on the softly-turfed surface of the earth. Now and then it coincided with the old "Natchez trace"—that once much-traveled highway, on which Murrell had committed many of his murders.

In due time—and with only those slight mischances which form rather the charms of travel—I reached the Mississippi plantation, and presented my letters of introduction to the proprietor. I was received with all the warmth of Western hospitality. Indeed, by my new host, Henry Woodley, credentials would scarce have been called for. Sufficient for him to know that I was fond of hunting, to have insured me a warm reception. With the addition of such introduction as I carried, it was only made the warmer; and I was received with as much zeal as if, instead of that pretty epistle from his sister, I had brought one from the old squire containing a check for a thousand dollars.

I was not long upon the plantation of Mr. Henry Woodley, till I could tell that this last would not have been unwelcome. Here every thing was different from the old homestead in Tennessee.

Instead of a handsome "frame house," well filled with furniture that approached the fashionable, I was introduced to a dwelling of a less pretentious kind. It was a large log-cabin, comfortable enough, but with no claim to architectural style. It stood inside of an inclosure of rude rail fence, overshadowed by trees and surrounded by a shrubbery of magnolias, osage orange, and other fair forms of vegetation, just as the forest had furnished them. At the back were the cooking quarters, standing apart; beyond them the stabling, and to one side a group of negro-cabins at some distance from the dwelling. Despite the primitive rudeness of the place, there was that picturesqueness that is pleasing to the eye.

There were, withal, sufficient signs to insure comfort, and a kennel close by containing a score of stag-hounds—some of them showing scars that could only have been made by the claws of bear or panther—promised something more—that sport of which their proprietor was so passionately fond—the grand chase.

It was for this, in truth, that Henry Woodley had selected his new home; for this consented, year after year, to endure the summer heats, and breathe the miasma of the Mississippi swamps—not to make a fortune in the culture of cotton and tobacco. His corn-growing was intended only to feed the horses in his stable, as well as the hogs required for the sustenance of the negro-quarters and the kennel.

Henry Woodley was not the only man I had met who, under the pretense of being a planter, passed three-fourths of his time in the chase—his farming being only a pleasant fiction—a pretext, to escape from the charge—even the self-accusation—of having nothing to do! Hundreds of such characters there are in the Mississippi valley.

Inside, as without, you had evidence of the house being a true hunter's home. In the vast open porch, with its adjoining gallery, you were surrounded by trophies of the chase—horns, skins and claws, suspended alongside a miscellaneous assortment of guns and riding-gear, nets, traps, and fishing-tackle.

Soon after my arrival, my host commenced initiating me into the ways of a Southern sportsman's life; and ere long I was introduced to the different kinds of chase practiced upon the Mississippi.

In less than a month I had collected, on my own account, most of those trophies that fall to the lot of a Mississippi hunter. Among them were skins of the black bear, the red puma or "painter" of the backwoodsmen, the spotted lynx—better known by the name of "wild-cat"—wolves, black and gray, with raccoons, opossums, skunks, swamp rabbits, and other four-footed "varmints." In my collection were the antlers of the Virginia stag, the scaly skin of the alligator, as also the singular gar-fish, or shark of the South-western waters.

Birds, too, figured among my trophies, including a fine specimen of the wild turkey, whose weight, when shot, was thirty pounds in the scale. I had obtained also the tall American crane, the trumpeter swan, the curious snake-bird, the blue heron, the white egret, the scarlet ibis, and many other beautiful birds, obtainable on the banks and bayous of the lower Mississippi.

The king of all, however—the white-headed eagle—was still wanted to complete my museum. Several times I had seen this splendid bird soaring aloft, or winging his way across the river. But, like most of the falcon tribe, the white-headed eagle is shy of the approach of man; and I had never succeeded in getting a shot at one. All the more did I desire to add the eagle to my collection.

My host, eager to gratify me, caused inquiries to be made.

It ended in our hearing of a "roost" upon one of the islands, some twenty miles down the river, where a nest had been observed in the spring, and afterward the brood of birds—a single brace, along with their parents.

In the neighborhood of a nest where they have succeeded in bringing forth their young, the eagles can more easily be approached. Where they have been so long permitted to go undisturbed, their confidence becomes established. Knowing this, I determined on making an excursion to the island.

On this occasion I was to go without my host, accompanied only by one of his negroes, named "Jake." I had made several excursions so attended when the young planter was otherwise occupied—Jake and the skiff being always placed at my disposal.

The darky knew the island in question, though he had never landed upon it; and what I thought strange, did not seem to relish the idea of guiding me to the place! At other times he had shown the greatest eagerness to be my hunting companion, as it afforded him a pleasanter time than any other employment upon the plantation.

It would be a two hours' pull down-stream, and might take us twice that time to return—the river here running with a rapid current, especially in proximity to the island.

Perhaps it was the prospect of so much toil under a hot sun that was rendering Jake so reluctant; and with this explanation to myself, I followed my unwilling conductor to the skiff.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE WHITE-HEAD EAGLE.

We started a little after daylight; and as my skiffman had forewarned me, found the current exceedingly sharp, and not a little dangerous—especially as we approached the island.

What with snags, whirls and "sawyers," we had some difficulty in making land, and might not have succeeded, but for a large tree that had fallen over the bank and formed a sort of pier to which we were able to make fast the skiff. The tree was a gigantic cottonwood, whose weight had hindered the current from carrying it off.

Scrambling along the trunk, I at length succeeded in planting my foot upon terra firma.

The nest I supposed could not be far off, and by the directions given me, I could easily find it.

The darky did not seem inclined to go ashore, or otherwise assist me in the search. He made some excuse about taking care of the skiff, and in the skiff I left him.

I again thought his behavior strange, but made no objection to his remaining. In finding the eagles, the old negro could be of no particular service to me. The island did not appear to be of any great superficial extent. I could soon traverse it in every direction. If the birds were upon it, I should see or hear them, and in stalking them I would be better alone—my sable companion not being much of a sportsman.

Getting over the ground did not prove such an easy task. It was thickly studded with heavy timber—cottonwood, tulip-tree, and cypress; and between the trunks there was an undergrowth of palmettoes, in places almost impenetrable.

Although the sun was shining brightly—I had left it so outside the island—under the trees it resembled twilight. In addition to their own thick foliage, they were festooned with Spanish moss, that shut out the sky like a curtain.

I soon despaired of seeing any thing of the eagles. Looking overhead, I could not see the sky—much less any object depending upon its brightness for being made visible.

I began to think of going back to the river-bank; and had already stopped in my tracks, when I perceived a slender list of light stealing through the timber beyond. It might be that I had arrived near the other side of the island. In any case, it was worth while going on to see; and I proceeded toward the light.

It proved only an opening among the trees, where a gigantic deadwood, divested of its leaves, permitted the sunlight to descend upon the earth.

The tree, an enormous liriodendron, had been struck by lightning, and long since dead. The parasites, that would otherwise have been sustained by its sap, had perished along with it, and dropped from its branches, lay strewed upon the ground below. Its huge limbs, blanched and twigless, were stretched like skeleton arms toward the sky. Its main stem had been broken off near the summit; yet still overtopped the surrounding forest.

In the fork where the fracture had occurred, I could see a huge protuberance that did not seem part of the tree. It was a collection of dead sticks and branches, rudely wattled together, evidently the nest for which I was searching.

As I stood regarding it with upturned eyes, a strange sound came into my ears, almost filling them with its harsh intonations. I can compare it to nothing so near to what it seemed, as the filing of a huge frame saw, or the laugh of a maniac escaped from his keeper.

As I stood listening, it seemed to repeat itself in echoes as if the whole island had suddenly been converted into a pandemonium.

I was not dismayed. The sound was not unknown to me. I knew it to be the scream of the white-headed eagle.

I had just time to get my rifle ready for firing, when four of these grand birds—the parents and brood of which I had heard spoken—came sailing overhead. Their broad-spreading wings shadowed the patch of open ground as they soared majestically above the blighted tree.

I was in hopes that one or other of them would alight, and give me a chance of obtaining something like a fair shot. But in this I was disappointed. Even over their own nest they were shy. It had been long forsaken, and the first that uttered the cry had sprung up from it, alarmed by my presence below.

I waited for some time, but perceiving that they did not intend to alight, I determined to risk the chance of a flying shot. What would I not have given at that moment for a smooth-bore, loaded with "buck." Unfortunately I carried a rifle, with only a single bullet.

The four eagles continued to circle around the forsaken nest.

I observed that only two of the four had the white head and tail. The other two were of a uniform dusky brown. The former I knew to be the old birds with plumage matured.

Choosing the larger of these, I took aim and fired.

The eagle fell at my feet, crippled by a shot through the shoulder.

But I had not yet secured my prize, and on through the palmettoes I rushed after the wounded bird, that went screaming and fluttering before me.

More than a hundred yards was made in this way, when a blow from the butt of my rifle at length put an end to the scrambling chase, and the eagle was mine. It was the female, a fine bird, in perfect plumage.

By this the other three had gone clear off from the island, as I could tell by their screams heard dying away in the far distance.

CHAPTER IX.

THE "DEVIL'S ISLAND."

Proud of my achievement, I shouldered the prize, and started to return to the skiff.

I had not gone three steps, when I again stopped, to simply ask myself the way. I saw that I had lost it.

The chase after the wounded eagle, both tortuous and prolonged, had carried me out of sight of the deadwood as well as the light let down through its leafless branches. I was once more in the midst of a continuous twilight.

I looked for my tracks. Taking time and pains, I might have discovered and retraced them. But the spread-fans of the palmettoes quite covered the ground, and I had not the patience to put them aside for such exploration. I supposed the island to be of only some forty or fifty acres in extent; and, by keeping straight on in any direction, I must soon come to its edge. Following this, would in time bring me to the skiff.

Taking a straight shoot through the underwood, I walked briskly on, and, as I expected, soon saw the sunlight gleaming before me.

There was an opening with water; but, as I drew near to it, I could see it was not the river, but a sort of lagoon or pool of stagnant water.

I kept for a short distance along its edge, and discovered that it communicated with a "bayou" that appeared to lead out into the river.

I fancied that it would take me the wrong way, and was turning to make a traverse in the opposite direction, when something down under the bank caught my eye. I first took it for a floating log; but on closer scrutiny it proved to be an old canoe of the kind known as a "dug-out."

It was moored to the root of one of the great cypresses that overshadowed the water. It was partially concealed by the outstretched fronds of the palmettoes that grew around the root of the cypress.

On seeing the dug-out, I supposed there was some other party upon the island; but, stepping down and examining it, I saw that its rude hawser of twisted grape-vine must have been holding it there for months. Some worthless, worn-out craft, abandoned, perhaps forgotten.

While making this reflection, my eye wandered to the opposite side of the pool. There I observed other signs of human presence, though not recent. There was a little spot of cleared ground, above a high bank that looked as if it had been used for a landing. Fragments of coarse canvas, such as is used for cotton "bagging," were strewn over it, and there were the ashes of an old fire.

I thought it strange to see such relics in that solitary place, and walked away, wondering what could have taken them there.

My speculations, however, were soon interrupted by the necessity of finding my way back to the skiff, which proved more difficult than I had expected.

Not till I had wandered about for a full half-hour, and scratched my skin among the sharp spikes of the palmettoes, did I succeed in reaching my place of debarkation, and then only by shouting myself hoarse, and getting a responsive shout from the skiffman.

"I's glad, massa, you got safe 'board 'gen," said he, as I stepped into the boat.

"Why?" I asked, wondering at the remark as well as the alacrity with which the darky pulled away from the cottonwood.

"Kase I t'ink dat 'ere island a dangersome place."

"Dangerous place! In what way?"

"Doan' no, massa, doan' no. But folks do say de debbil hab been see'd an' heerd dar ob nights. One ob Mass' Bradley's black people tole me so. Mass' Bradley's plantation not far off on toder side, but none o' dem niggas ebba goes on dat island. Nob'dy else ebba go dar. Sartin shoo de place am ha'nted."

I could now comprehend why my companion had shown such aversion to accompany me in my excursion.

I could not help smiling at his superstition, though I was not a little chagrined at his not having sooner confided it to me, so that I might have made a more careful exploration of the interesting locality.

When I thought of the gloomy obscurity of its shadows, the deep, dark lagoon, that slept stagnant under its trees, the weird drapery of Spanish moss, that thickly festooned their branches, I did not so much wonder at the superstitious awe with which my sable-skinned companion had been led to regard it. It was just the kind of spot to be "haunted;" but no doubt the abandoned dug-out, and the other reliquiæ I had observed, had I taken time to examine them, would have given a clue to the "debbil," supposed by Jake and his colored acquaintance of the Bradley plantation, to have made it his abiding-place.

CHAPTER X.

THE ISLAND PLANTATION.

On the subject of the Bradley plantation—suggested no doubt by its proximity—my skiffman became communicative; and, during the long pull up-stream made me acquainted with some facts relating to the place, and its proprietor, that were, to say the least, a little curious.

Mr. Bradley's clearing was upon a large island, formed by a "shute" of the river on one side, and by an old channel, which the stream had long since abandoned. There was nothing singular about this. I had become already aware that there are several plantations so situated on the South-western rivers—where the house can only be reached by a ferry-boat, kept to communicate with the mainland.

For hundreds of miles on both banks of the river—more especially on the right—the bottom lands are scarred and seamed by a labyrinthine network of creeks, bayous, and lagoons, all old channels of the river, which the current in its caprice has long since forsaken, leaving them in deep, dark stagnation, or only moving sluggishly to and fro, during the season of floods.

On one of the tracts of land so insulated Mr. Bradley had "located," and there was nothing strange in it. What did seem strange to my informant was that "Mass' Bradley had come dar wif only two or t'ree darky at fuss; an' now he had amoss as many niggas as de old Squire Woodley in Tennessee; an' all dat in less'n no time. He was always a-buyin' new hands from de nigga dealers dat fetch 'em from up de country, tho' he nebba bo't any jess about dar. He bo't de wuss kind o' cusses, 's nobody else ked manage. He manage 'em, he do, dat same bossy Bradley. He nebba 'low'd one o' 'em to go off dat 'ere plantashun, cep'in' when he hab bizness; an' if dey 'teal off to any odder house, which dey sometime do by swimin' crosst de bayou in de night, den dey cotch it. Not offen dey try; dar's no odder place nearer dan Mass' Woodley's, an' dat's ten mile by de ribba, an' most twenty through de bottom! If dey ebba come dar, don't he fotch dem back, an' don't he larrup 'em! Gollys! he do make de darky squrm! He got an obaseeah who flog wuss dan de bery debbil hisself. Whugh!"

From what I had myself seen, I could believe all this of Nathaniel Bradley; and some other things equally to his discredit, of which the black skiffman forthwith informed me.

But I wanted to know of something that interested me much more—the relations that existed between this insulated cotton-planter and Jake's own master. I had learnt enough to know that they were intimate. I wished also to know why.

I knew enough of Mississippi planter society to know that character had little to do with social standing. The "chivalry" that had settled down on the late Choctaw lands was far from being without reproach. With it, riches, and a ready use of the revolver, were often the chief titles to respect; and Nat Bradley, bully as he was, would be just the man to "shine" in the society of Vicksburg and its environs—a town which only a few years before had actually been taken possession of by a score of ruffian "sportsmen." They had for weeks held carnival in its streets, insulting every citizen who dared to gainsay them.

It is true these "sportsmen" were in the end punished; but the old leaven still stayed; and at the time I write of, was almost rife as ever. What I had heard of Bradley, both in Tennessee and since, made him by no means an exceptional character—only a type of the Mississippian of that time.

It was the character of Henry Woodley that caused me to feel surprise at the association; for the latter so far from being of the bully class was altogether the opposite. Though living a life that might be almost termed rough, and associating in the chase with rough men, he was of a refined and sensitive nature—I might almost say timid. Keen hunter as he was, it may seem a contradiction; but such was in reality the fact.

Why should such a man find congeniality in the company of Nat Bradley?

To talk of my host and his affairs was a delicate subject, especially with his own slave. I should have avoided it, but for the interest I had begun to feel in one nearly related to him.

Thinking of her, I could not restrain myself, from that indirect questioning that might give me satisfaction.

"This Mr. Bradley don't appear to be much of a favorite of yours, Jake?"

"Nor nob'dy ess's, massa. All our darky hate um like de pisen-snake."

"Your white folks, though? They don't hate him?"

"Doan' know, massa. Not so shoo 'bout dat."

"For instance, your own master. He's a great friend of Mr. Bradley—is he not?"

"Ah, young Mass' Henry. He fr'en's wif ebberybody. He no kill a dam 'skeeter, ef it bite um on de nose; though he do like kill de b'ar, an' de painter, an' dem odder big varmint. Daat's diff'rent. Den he 'cited by de chase an' barkin' ob de dogs. Whugh! Don't he go changed when he hear de gowl o' de hown's? He arn't like de same indiwiddle."

"I know he's very fond of hunting, and hunters too; but Mr. Bradley never hunts, and your master appears very fond of him?"

"Maybe he am—maybe he ain't."

After making this ambiguous rejoinder, Jake leant industriously to his oars, and for some time remained silent.

Feeling perfectly satisfied that no son of Africa could terminate a dialogue, with such an unsatisfactory conclusion, I waited for him to resume speech.

I had not long to wait. Scarce a dozen strokes of the oar.

"Dar may be a reason, sar, why Mass' Henry show fr'en'ship you 'peak 'bout. Dar am many kewrious thing down hyar in de Massissippy State; an' maybe dat 'ere am one ob dem."

"Ah! you think the friendship is not real? There is something—"

"Behin' de bush. Dat dere is fo' sartin; an' dis nigger know it."

"Some influence, perhaps?"

"Yes, mass' 'tranger. Dar am inflooence."

"Of what kind?"

My heart beat quickly as I asked the question—audibly as I listened for the answer. I expected to hear something of Miss Woodley.

"Wal, massa," replied the skiffman, after a short while, apparently spent in cogitation, "I know you Mass' Henry's fr'end, an' doan' know why I shouldn't tell you all 'bout de bizness 'tween youn' Mass' Henry an' Boss Bradley."

"I am your master's friend," I said, to encourage him. "You may trust me, Jake."

"Wal, sar, it war jess dis: one day dey war out in de woods, on a big deer-drive. Dar war Mass' Henry hisself, an' Mass' Bradley—dat war de only day I ebba know him go huntin'—an dar war sebberal odder ob de planters 'bout hya, all huntin' togedder. De drive war oba, an dey'd all sot down to take a spell ob ress, an' eat de vittle dat de niggas hed brought in de wag'n. Den dey got to playin' cards, an' I's b'lieve it war de Boss Bradley dat fuss proposed dem. You know Mass' Henry nebber play, on de cards—dat am, he nebber play fo' money. But dey'd all been a-drinkin'—de hunters an' de planters—an' dar war mint-julep, an' claret sangaree, an' dat 'ere stuff like ginga-beer dey caa sham-pain. So dey all set too to de card-playin', Mass' Henry among de ress. Dey played poker, an' dey played a French game dey caa yuka, an' staked, golly! dey staked as high as a hundred dollar apiece! Ob coas' Mass' Henry knowin' jess nex to nuffin' 'bout de game—he war boun' to lose. Whugh! he did lose. Two thousan' dollars—ebbery red cent! an' who d'ye s'pose he lose 'em to?"

"Who?"

"Why, dat same Bossy Bradley. Ob coas' Mass' Henry hadn't no money on de groun', for who's agwine to be a-toatin' two thousan' dollars 'bout 'im? So he guv de planter Bradley his writin' fo' de amount—which dem call a purmissory note. Wal, dat 'ere note arn't been paid yet; an' it's de no-payment ob it dat make Mass' Henry 'pear sech fr'en's wi' mass' planter Bradley. Now, sar, ye's got de explication ob de whole sarcumstance."

"I hope it is the true one."

"What, massa! Why for you hope dat? You say you Mass' Henry fr'en'? Sure you no wish 'im two thousan' dollar debt to Bossy Bradley?"

It was not strange the negro should express surprise at my speech. I had answered mechanically, and without thought of the interpretation he might put upon it—thinking only of myself, and the relief his explanation had caused me.

It was now my turn to explain. I could not leave Jake in the belief that I was gratified to hear of his master's indebtedness.

"No, no!" I responded, endeavoring to explain away what I had said. "I merely meant that I hoped it was no worse. Two thousand dollars is not much—for a rich planter to pay."

"Lor', massa! It am a big heap, two thousan' dollar! Great big heap fo' young Mass' Henry. He nebba pay dat hisseff, till de ole squire die, an' leab um some ob dat 'ere plantashun in Tennessee. He no make money hyar like Bossy Bradley. Ah, Mass' Henry 'pend more'n he make. Dat dis chile am sure ob. Cuss dem cards, anyhow! Dey's de ruin ob ebberybody dat teches um, 'ceptin' de gammelin' sportsmen themselves. T'ank de Lor'! I hear Mass' Henry sw'a he nebba tech dem no more. Dat's one bit o' sattafacshun, it is."

Notwithstanding that I feared being thought too inquisitive, the intelligence displayed by my sable companion tempted me to inquire further.

"Does Mr. Bradley often visit your master?"

"Well, sar, dat depend—"

"On what?"

"On de seezun ob de y'ar."

"On the season of the year! You mean he comes at one time more than another?"

"Yes, sar; jess so."

Jake had ceased to be communicative, and required drawing.

"I suppose there are times when business requires him to be at your master's plantation?"

"Wal, ye see, dar's de summer seezun, he doan' come much den. I b'lieve him been only twice dis summer, an' de once you see um you'seff, sar. An dar's de winter seezun. Den Mass' Bradley go good deal down to de grand city—Orleans. So de folks say."

"That would leave him no time to visit your master's plantation."

"Ah, he find time fo' dat."

"But when?"

"Wal, sar, I tell you when; when mass'r's sister—Miss Corneel—come down to 'tay on de plantashun. Dat am de troof."

More than half prepared for the communication, it did not come with such a surprise. To conceal my thoughts from him who had made it, I said, with an air of carelessness—which cost me an effort:

"Perhaps he is Miss Woodley's sweetheart?"

"May be so, sar; may be so."

Though Jake's answer was not conclusive, I forbore to question him further. I had started a subject that was causing me pain; and further disclosures could only increase it.

After all, what was Miss Woodley to me? The interest I felt in her—was it more than friendship? Why should I interfere in an affair that did not concern me? Cornelia Woodley was no child; but an accomplished lady of several seasons' experience. If she chose to throw herself away upon this worthless man, why should I care? And if I did, what could I do to prevent it? Both she and her brother were strangers to me. I had no right to give counsel; nor would they be likely to accept it.

My best way would be to avoid even the desire for interference; and to do this I must forsake the society into which chance had accidentally thrown me. It was only to take horse, and continue my travels. It would be a complete change of programme; but the circumstances required it. The prospect of seeing Miss Woodley again, so pleasant on leaving Tennessee, I could now only contemplate with pain. The promise I had made could be easily broken. She would scarce care for my keeping it.

From these gloomy reflections I was startled by the voice of the skiffman.

"Talk ob de debbil," said he, "an' dat genlum shoo to be clost by. Dis time, howeber, we wa' talkin' ob de angel."

"An angel! What do you mean, Jake?"

"Look yonda, sar! What you see yonda?"

"I see a steamboat."

"Ya—jess so. An' in dat 'teamboat dar am a angel! Sartin shoo dar am."

"I don't understand you."

"Golly, mass'r! Doan' ye see dat de boat go stop at Mass' Woodley landin'?"

"Yes; I see that."

"Wal, what she go dar for but put some'dy 'shore. She take no freight from dar, kase we hab none to gub her. We make no cotton, nor no corn to spare from de plantashun. Shoo, den, she land some passager; an' sartin shoo dat passager am de young missa come down from ole Tennessee. Tole ye so, sar. Look! de boat shove off 'gin, an' you see 't am de Cherokee, one ob dem Cumberlan' boats dat run up to Nashville."

About the boat he was right. In ten minutes after she came booming past, almost swamping our eggshell of a skiff. I read upon her side the lettering "Cherokee."

I could not help looking with interest upon that splendid craft in whose gilded saloon had lately sat the woman then occupying my thoughts. But it was an interest clouded with apprehension.

On reaching Henry Woodley's house, I learned that his sister had arrived by the Cherokee, and Nat Bradley along with her!

CHAPTER XI.

HOSTILE GUESTS.

Yes, Nat Bradley had landed from the boat along with her, and was there at the house, apparently a welcome guest!

It was with difficulty I could conceal my chagrin, despite the silliness of my showing it.

I succeeded, however, determined next day to take leave of a hospitality that had hitherto given me pleasure, but henceforth could only cause pain.

Bradley did not stay for the night. He had come ashore there, because there was no landing-place on his own plantation. He had been up to Vicksburg on business, and had availed himself of the steamboat to return.

These particulars I gathered from his conversation with my host. I regarded them as plausible excuses. No doubt he had been up to Vicksburg; but not upon business. He had gone there to meet Cornelia Woodley, and accompany her back in the boat. Nothing could be clearer.

He took his leave, borrowing a horse from my host, and promising to bring him back on the morrow. Before that time I too determined upon being gone.

It was easier to talk of such a determination than to carry it out. It is not often that the singed moth succeeds in escaping from the candle, nor the bird from the serpent that allures it. And with either of these might my case be compared.

My proposal of departure was met by surprise on the part of my planter host. So abrupt! So unexpected! He would not hear of it. It would be such a disappointment to him. He had been organizing a grand hunt—the grandest we had yet had—a bear battue in the canebrakes of the Arkansas side, and all for my especial entertainment. Surely I would not disappoint him?

"You will not?" said his sister, as we were left for a moment alone.

I scarce knew what to say.

"Why do you leave us in such haste?"

Still less could I make answer to this question.

"It is very unkind of you," she continued to urge; "and not very gallant," added she, with a provoking pout. "You appear to have been contented here till I came. I shall think you are running away to avoid me."

There was truth in this, though not in the sense she intended.

I was on the eve of making reply—of reiterating my determination to depart—of telling her why I had taken it—perhaps of speaking some silly reproach.

I was prevented from making this fool of myself by a generosity I little deserved.

"Do stay!" she said, coming near, and almost entreating me. "My brother will be so vexed by your leaving us; and I too. If you go I shall always think it was my presence that had driven you away."

What could be the meaning of that speech? It made me feel that I was either a favored or a flattered man. If the first she who made it was an angel; if the second, a cruel coquette. In which category should I place Cornelia Woodley?

To discover this, was the object of my next remark, the rudeness of which can only be excused by the torture my suspicions were causing me.

"Not your presence, Miss Woodley," I said, "but that of one whose absence would no doubt cause you far greater regret than mine."

The surprise that leaped up into her great gazelle eyes was not unpleasing to me. There was something in it that spoke of innocence. At least, it was not coquetry.

"Of whom do you speak, sir?"

I hesitated to give the name. I may have been wronging her. In any case I had no right to interfere with her predilections. My speech had placed me in a dilemma, from which I would have been too happy to escape without further controversy. Fortunately there was a chance; by her brother at that moment reappearing, to renew his solicitations.

This time they were successful. The short conversation with his sister had caused a change in my sentiments. It had inspired me with fresh hope; under the whisperings of which I was easily persuaded to stay for the grand bear-hunt.

Next day, according to promise, Bradley brought back the horse—one of his negroes riding another.

I felt certain it was only an excuse, as the man could as well have returned the horse without him.

His own was unsaddled and stabled, which told of his intention to make a stay.

Thus brought together, we were necessarily introduced, and for the first time I exchanged speech with a man for whom I had felt an instinctive aversion.

Neither our salutes nor after-communications were cordial; but the presence of our host and his sister relieved us from the necessity of any direct conversation.

I saw that there was a black cloud upon his brow, whenever Miss Woodley appeared to take an interest in any thing I said.

Once I had caught his eye turned upon me with a scowl so sullen and malignant as almost to tempt me to take notice of it.

And yet it rather gratified me to think that he might be jealous.

The situation appeared to be irksome to all the party. Our host did not seem easy with two such ill-assorted guests, and his sister also showed signs of constraint.

Opportunely there came a relief.

My late skiffman, Jake, who had been scouting through the woods, brought in the report that "de pigeons war in clouds after de mas', up on de ridge among de beeches."

I was the only one present who did not clearly comprehend the announcement.

It was soon explained to me. The well-known migratory birds of America—the passenger-pigeons—had arrived among some beechwood that grew upon a ridge in the rear of the plantation. There making pause in their irregular flight, they were filling their crops with the scattered mast.

Small as was the game, and tame the sport of pigeon-shooting, it is one that can not be obtained every day, like the chase of the squirrel. The birds stay but a short time in any particular place—excepting in those grand roosts that are few and far between. Every one can not enjoy the sport of destroying them wholesale at their roosting-places; but in the autumn of the year, those who live in the neighborhood of beechen woods may have a chance to shoot them.

In a region where they but rarely show themselves, even the grand bear-hunter will not disdain to spend a day or two in popping away at pigeons.

Such a district was that in which lay the plantation of our host.

At the word "pigeons," Henry Woodley sprung to his gun, calling upon us to imitate his example.

We could not do otherwise than respond to the call, and all three started forth—our host, Bradley and myself.

Miss Woodley was, for the time, left alone.

CHAPTER XII.

THE PERILS OF PIGEON-SHOOTING.

I do not purpose to give a description of pigeon-shooting, as practiced in the backwoods of the West; though the sport has its peculiarities, some of which may be worth mentioning. It is not such a slaughter as has been represented, and the vast flocks—or "clouds," as the negro had called them—would lead one to conclude. This is true enough of the breeding-roosts, where the birds, inspired by the passion of love, or acting under the instincts of generation, appear to lose all sense of fear or self-preservation.

Elsewhere, and at other times, they become sufficiently shy; and though the gunner may always get within range of a single bird, or two or three, seated upon a branch, it requires both cover and careful stalking to obtain one of those wholesale shots poured into the thick of the flock and counting its score of victims. Almost invariably, when you are just upon the edge of shot-range, some old bird, wary from the last year's experience, gives the cue to the flock, that with a loud clapping of wings flits off to some other resting-place, a hundred yards further on through the woods.

The whole "gang," however, does not obey this signal of safety. Solitary birds here and there, in twos, threes, or half-a-dozen, remain irresolute upon the branches; and if you are contented to take aim at these, you may keep loading and firing, almost continuously.

For this reason they are not always pursued by shot-guns, some sportsmen preferring the rifle, these often showing the largest bag when the sport is over. They are sure of a bird to each shot, and as there are always some within range, there is no time wasted in idly following the flock.

It was so with a party whom we found on the ridge, young planters and others, who had preceded us there, having got word sooner than we, of the arrival of the pigeons. Some carried shot-guns, others were provided with the rifle. Among those provided with the latter, was Nat Bradley; who, as is usual with planters in riding about, had brought his gun along with him. I myself was armed with the same kind of weapon.

As in all cover-shooting, there is some danger in this sport, especially when the party is a large one; and at a season before the leaves have fallen from the trees. Each sportsman pursues his own course, without thinking of others; and, as the birds may be either upon the ground, the wing, or perched upon the lowermost branches, guns are not always pointed to the sky. With shot flying about, and now and then the bullet of a rifle, one might be excused for feeling a little nervous.

The sport was new to me, and I did not think of this danger, until the "z-zip" of a bullet passing close to my ear, admonished me that pigeon-shooting might prove any thing but a safe pastime.

So close had the thing come, that I felt the current of air sweeping across my cheek, and turning suddenly to the tree behind me, saw the fresh score where the ball had buried itself in the bark. At the same instant I heard the "spang" of the piece that had discharged it.

My first impulse was to proceed toward the incautious sportsman, and reproach him for his carelessness. I could not tell who it was. Some low pawpaws lay between, upon one of which I supposed the pigeon had perched, which had tempted the incautious shot.

The bullet seemed to have brought down its bird, for I had turned suddenly and saw that nothing flew away. All I could see was a blue puff of smoke, soaring up over the pawpaws.

In no very amiable humor, I proceeded toward the spot, but on reaching it I found no one upon whom to discharge my spleen. Guns were cracking in other parts of the wood, and I could see men moving about at the ends of long vistas, but not the man who had come so near shooting me!

It was altogether an odd circumstance, and I stopped to reflect upon it.

Was it carelessness on the part of one of my fellow-sportsmen; who, seeing what he had done, and ashamed of it, preferred sneaking away?

I might have thought so; but then, where was the pigeon? I had turned so quickly, that I must have seen it fall, or fly off.

I saw neither!

I now reached the pawpaw thicket. I could find no bird, either dead or wounded; but, while traversing about, I picked up the "patching" of the bullet. It was a piece of dressed doeskin.

There was nothing in this to guide me to the sportsman who had used it.

I now felt a growing desire to identify him; for the longer I reflected, the more I became convinced that the shot had not been accidental.

"The bullet!" thought I; "that may serve my purpose."

I returned to the tree in which it had buried itself; and, with my knife, carefully scooped it out of the bark.

It was of an unusual size for a hunting-rifle, about twenty to the pound. This would no doubt guide me to the gun from which it had been discharged.

Though the sportsmen were scattered through the woods, I took occasion to place myself in contact first with one, then the other, until I had got a glance at the caliber of their respective guns. There were five of them exclusive of Mr. Bradley.

Of these only two had rifles, both small bores, not larger than fifty to the pound.

From Bradley's rifle then had issued the bullet I had extracted from the tree; and, I now felt convinced that my own person was the "pigeon" at which it had been fired.

Without making known the circumstance, or stating my suspicions to any one, I reflected what would be best for me to do.

To charge the man with an attempt at murdering me, would seem so absurd. What motive could he have for such an atrocious act? We were perfect strangers to one another, with no quarrel between us, no circumstance to have given color to so serious an accusation. Supposing it proved to be Bradley's bullet, he would simply have to say that he fired it at a pigeon, and had not seen me. He might be reproached with negligence, but not accused of a crime, so monstrous as to appear improbable.

On the whole I thought it more prudent to keep my suspicions to myself, or communicate them only to my host on returning home.

Meanwhile I determined to make myself better acquainted with the bore of Mr. Bradley's rifle, and watch the direction in which it should be aimed. To do this it would be necessary to keep my eye upon him.

I now discovered that he was missing from among the sportsmen, nor was his gun any longer heard cracking through the woods.

Some one remarked this, and some one else added that it was not strange, as Nat Bradley cared nothing about shooting, and had likely gone home.

CHAPTER XIII.

REJECTED.

It is difficult to describe the thoughts at that moment passing through my mind, about Mr. Nat Bradley and his mysterious movements. I can well remember them as being black and bitter. More than ever was I enraged at the man, who, failing to become my assassin, appeared to be successful as my rival. I could no longer conceal from myself the deep interest I felt in Cornelia Woodley.

The disappearance of Bradley was easily explained. I did not need to hear that he had gone back to the house. It was but the echo of my own instinct, the moment he was missed from the sporting party. Miss Woodley would be alone. It was no wonder he should seek such an opportunity. No wonder either, that pigeon-shooting should no longer seem sport to me, and that I should determine on retiring from it.

Without communicating my intention to any one, I strayed from the ridge, and toward the plantation-house.

I went with irresolution, now hesitating whether I should interrupt a scene, the very thought of which maddened me, and where I would, no doubt, be deemed a most unwelcome intruder.

But the madness itself stimulated me to proceed; and, on I went, like one who despairingly offers himself upon the altar of destruction.

Close to the house of Henry Woodley there was a clump of low timber, that might have been likened to an orchard. It was not this, however, only the grove of indigenous trees already mentioned, that, being of an ornamental kind, had been left standing for show and shade. A fence had been thrown around them, and some slight attempts made to give them the character of a cultivated shrubbery. Walks had been traced out, and a rustic seat or two placed at intervals among these natural arbors.

The path leading from the beachwood ridge ran through the inclosure, and upon this I was returning. There was a set of "bars" separating it from the woods behind; most of these were down, as we had left them on going out. I had stepped silently over, and was proceeding on toward the house, when voices, heard in conversation, caused me to come to a stop. There were two of them, both easily recognized. The first I heard was that of Nat Bradley, loud enough for me to make out the words, as also to tell to whom they were addressed.

I was too much interested in what was being said to feel either shame or reluctance at playing eavesdropper.

"You've made up your mind to that?"

I was not in time to catch the beginning of the speech, which appeared to be in the form of an interrogation.

The answer proved it to have been one.

"I have," was the reply, in a female voice—like that of Miss Woodley.

"I suppose you think I'm not rich enough; you intend to marry some grand fellow with a fortune, who can show you off? That's why you refuse me."

"Permit me to tell you, Mr. Nat Bradley, it has nothing to do with my refusing you."

"Come, Corneel; speak the truth; if it be only that, I can promise you that I too—"

"You need not make promises, I have spoken the truth, and once for all, I tell you that it is no use your asking me again. I have said it once before, I now say it again; Nat Bradley, I can never be your wife."

There was an emphasis on the words that particularly pleased me.

A pause followed, and with a heart strangely palpitating I listened for the rejoinder.

It came in an accent half-agonized, half-angry.

"You won't, Corneel? you won't! Be it so. Then by heaven! you'll never be the wife of another man—or if you are, it will only be to become his widow. I swear by the Eternal, that if it cost me my life, I'll kill the man that marries you. Yes, the very day he makes you his bride. So now you may choose for yourself: either be my wife or some fool's widow. If I thought it was this fledgeless puppy that's staying with you, I wouldn't let it go that far. No, by—! I'd put an end to him before that sun should set. I'd—"

"Nat Bradley!" broke in the voice of the indignant girl. "Do you think I will listen to such a speech as you are addressing to me? You forget yourself, sir; or you forget me. Let me hear no more of it, or my brother shall be told of the liberty you are pleased to take in his absence."

To this speech I could hear no rejoinder, but instead, a rustling of female dress, and the sound of light footsteps passing away. I could tell that Miss Woodley had put an end to the interview by retiring toward the house.

For myself I felt contented enough to have gone back to the woods, and enjoyed pigeon-shooting for the rest of the day. But the word "puppy" rung in my ears, and alongside them was my cheeks, still tingling with that queer sensation I had experienced from the passage of the bullet.

I could not restrain myself from stepping round the tree that had hitherto concealed the speakers from my sight, and confronting the only one that remained upon the ground, Mr. Nat Bradley.

Had I been my own ghost—which he supposed I was—he could not have shown more surprise. I think now, as I thought then, that he was under the belief that he had killed me—and this may account for his consternation at seeing me. At all events the braggadocio to which he had been giving vent, seemed suddenly scared out of him; and he received me in a manner almost submissive.

"Mr. Bradley," I said, "will you have the goodness to let me look at your gun?"

"My gun!" he replied with an air of assumed surprise. "Oh! certainly; but why do you wish to see it?"

"Because I have a bullet here, that passed within less than an inch of my skull. I'm curious to know who came so near shooting me—by accident."

"My God! I hope it wasn't me."

"Well," I replied, after placing the bullet to the muzzle of his rifle, and satisfying myself it had come from no other, "I can only say that it was you who fired the shot, and let me caution you the next time you go pigeon-shooting to stick to the feathered game, and not select a 'fledgeless puppy' for your mark. I hope you understand me?"