The White Rose of Memphis

“Do not know; wish I did.”

“I’ll give a hundred dollars to know who she is.”

“I’ll go you halves,” says Ivanhoe.

George III. and Ivanhoe were not the only ones who wanted to know who was personating the Scottish queen. It seemed to be a general desire among the male maskers to know who she was. It is hard to say what caused this general wish to know who she was. It might have been caused by a combination of circumstances. There appeared to be a desire on the part of the gentlemen to get near her. Was it the soft, sweet melody of her voice, or was it the queen-like grace of her movements? Perhaps it was the profusion of golden hair that fell, unconfined, beneath the quaint crown of sparkling jewels that graced her brow; or it may have been the little provoking, pretty foot that now and then made its appearance as she floated like a fairy over the floor. When she took her seat at the piano, and began to sing, while the rich, sweet voice rose until the saloon seemed to be filled with soul-stirring music, curiosity went up to fever heat, and George III. would have given his kingdom to know who she was. Ingomar, the Barbarian Chief, with his long, shaggy whiskers, stood near the queen, turning the music sheets as the song progressed, and occasionally stooping to whisper something in her ear, which she answered with a nod and a smile. As soon as the song was ended the knight of Ivanhoe requested Ingomar to present him to the queen. Ingomar in a low whisper asked her permission to present the knight of Ivanhoe, which was promptly granted.

“I have the honor, your Majesty, to present my distinguished and honorable friend, Sir Knight of Ivanhoe.” A graceful bow and the queen held out her little white hand, which Ivanhoe pressed to his lips.

“Sir Knight, we are delighted to know you. Shall we have the pleasure of your presence during our excursion to New Orleans?”

“I am profoundly grateful for your Majesty’s condescension, and shall be overjoyed at the privilege of making one of the party.”

“To-morrow being the first day of May, our festivities will commence, and it is our royal pleasure, sir knight, that you shall attach yourself to our court during the trip.”

“I cannot find language, my dear madame, to express my gratitude for the distinguished honor you confer upon me.”

“Partners for a quadrille,” rang through the saloon as the band struck up a lively tune. George III., the Duke of Wellington and Napoleon all made a dash toward the queen at once, each one anxious to secure her as a partner, but with a low bow and a sweet smile she turned to Ivanhoe, took his arm, and was soon gliding through the dance. The British King appeared to take his discomfiture rather hard, while Wellington looked somewhat chop-fallen; but Napoleon proposed that their sorrow should all be drowned in a bowl of punch, which was agreed to, and the trio marched to the bar to commence the drowning process.

“Devilish provoking,” muttered George III.

“What’s provoking?” says Wellington.

“That mysterious piece of humanity styling herself queen of Scots. I shall always hate masquerade balls after this. I don’t think they are respectable at all.”

“Come, come, your royal highness, you should not surrender at the first repulse; Ivanhoe has only gained a temporary triumph, and if you will come to the charge again with a brave heart, you may yet compel victory to perch on your banner.”

“Ingomar had a monopoly until Ivanhoe leaped into the arena and carried off the prize, and I advise you to show a bold front. Strategy won’t win in battles of love. If you expect to win, don’t attempt to make a flank movement, but come boldly up to the front. Remember that ‘faint heart never won fair lady.’”

“I don’t want to win a fair lady, or any other kind of lady, until I know who she is.”

“I guess you will find that out to-morrow, for she is going to New Orleans.”

“True, but I learn that she means to make the entire trip incog.”

“Impossible, sir, impossible; how can she remain on this boat two or three weeks without being recognized by some one?”

“That’s the question to be settled hereafter; she will have to play the game very cautiously, if she prevents me from finding out who she is. By the by, do you know who that savage-looking fellow is who personates Ingomar?”

“No, but you may be sure the queen knows him; did you notice how affectionately she leans on his arm, and how close she puts her mouth to his ear when she speaks to him?”

“Yes, to be sure I did; but she is now playing the same game on Ivanhoe.”

“Who the deuce is Ivanhoe?”

“I don’t know that either, and without meaning any discourtesy to you, I beg to say that I don’t care a copper to know who he is.”

“I hear that it is the intention of Ingomar and Ivanhoe to imitate the example of the queen by making the trip incog.”

“By all means let them do it; and I suggest that we three do the same, and keep our names concealed from them, and we shall have rare sport. Don’t you know that the ladies will die of curiosity if we conceal our names? Let us form a combination against them, look and talk mysteriously, and my word for it, propositions will be made for a treaty looking to a general disclosure of names and the discarding of masks.”

“Capital idea, my lord, and you may depend upon my hearty co-operation. As soon as the boat leaves the wharf to-morrow let the war begin.”

“Perhaps the captain will object to passengers going in disguise all the time.”

“No; he told me that the queen intended to make the entire trip in mask, and that the same privilege would be extended to all who desired to avail themselves of it.”

“Very good, very good; then the alliance, offensive and defensive, may be considered as ratified and confirmed.”

“Charge, Chester, charge! and on, Stanley on!” said Wellington, as he drew the cork from a fresh bottle of champagne.

“Screw your courage up to the sticking point, my gallant king, and with the emperor and duke at your back, move on the enemy, unfurl your banner, cry ‘havoc,’ and let slip the dogs of war. Confusion and discomfiture shall overwhelm our foes.”

“We must win the queen of Sheba to our side at all hazards, as I learn that she and her two maids of honor are going on the excursion.”

“That shall be your task, then – to secure her co-operation. See her at once, and if she will join us, we will have an easy victory.”

“You may depend on me for that,” said the counterfeit king, as he started on his recruiting expedition. “I’ll be back in a moment, and report progress. Meantime you and Napoleon mature the plan of the campaign during my absence.”

George III. soon returned with a favorable report: “Her Majesty presents her compliments to the emperor, and my lord the duke of Wellington, and will be much gratified to have them enrolled as permanent members of her festive court, which will be convened on the hurricane deck at eleven o’clock A. M. to-morrow.”

“Now you have her message verbatim,” said the king, as he dove both hands into his pockets, with a self-satisfied look. “Won’t we have rare sport? won’t we make the enemy die of curiosity? We must organize thoroughly, and make a systematic siege, and if we don’t capture the entire party before three days, take my hat and hang it on the tallest wave that rises behind the ‘White Rose of Memphis.’ We must seem to ignore the other party entirely – look and talk as if no such party were aboard; drop mysterious hints – about things that never were heard of, speak of love-making that we could tell more about if we would. Let all these hints be carelessly dropped in the hearing of some one of the other party, and you may be sure that they will sue for peace and union before we reach New Orleans. Should any one of the other party ask questions (which they will be sure to do) shake your head, look mysterious, shrug your shoulders, and heave a mournful sigh. Do you think the world ever produced a woman that could stand that? Would you believe it, the queen of Scots’ first maid of honor is now half dead to know who I am? Can’t I see how she has been watching me for the last hour? I’ll capture her the first thing to-morrow and employ her as a spy in the enemies’ camp.”

At last the ball ended, the guests departed, save those who had engaged passage for the grand excursion, and they had retired for the night, to dream of the sport to be enjoyed on the morrow, while Captain Quitman paced proudly on the hurricane deck, with heart swelling with satisfaction at the pecuniary prospects before him.

CHAPTER II

The eventful and long-looked-for day on which the “White Rose of Memphis” was to start on her first trip had come at last, and a mighty stir, indeed, did that day produce on and under the tall, romantic bluff in front of Memphis. The morning was delightful, the atmosphere pure and invigorating, the sweet odor of fresh spring flowers was on the breeze, mingling with the soft notes of music produced by the band from the hurricane deck. The stars and stripes floated gracefully from the flag-staff, dark clouds of black smoke rose from the chimneys, a white cloud of steam struggled up through the black smoke and disappeared far above, innumerable drays rattled along the pavement, carriages thundered over the rocky road, carriage drivers swore at dray drivers, dray drivers returned the compliment with interest, in language not of a religious nature, deck hands sung “Dixie,” cabin boys danced juber, chamber-maids darted hither and thither, apparently anxious to perform their duty, without the slightest conception of what that duty was. A villainous urchin, in the arms of his nurse, was making a heart-rending noise with a tin horn, and a passenger muttered something not taught at Sunday-school.

“Them’s my sentiments to a T,” said another man who had been annoyed with the tin horn.

As the hour drew near when the boat was to start the confusion increased. The pilot was at his wheel, the engineer was at his engine; Captain Quitman stood on the upper deck in front of the pilot house, looking happy, and feeling vastly important. Hundreds of men, women and children in holiday costumes stood on the bluff, shouting and waving white handkerchiefs to their friends on the boat. A mocking-bird in a cage on the boiler deck imitated every imaginable sound with his wonderful voice, while a parrot, perched on a pole near the clerk’s office, kept crying, “Let her rip! let her rip, Sam!”

“How much steam have you got, Tom?” cried the pilot through his speaking-tube.

“One sixty, sir, and still rising.”

“All right; blow off the mud valves and keep a good head; we must make a good run at the start.”

“Time’s up, Dave; let her go,” said the captain. “Run her up to the mouth of Wolf, make a turn to the left, and then let her come down with her best speed.”

“Let go the head line,” cried the mate.

“Draw in the stage,” says the captain.

“Go ahead on the larboard, and back on the starboard,” cried the pilot to the engineer.

“Go ahead on the steward, and back on the cook-house,” cries a mischievous little negro, who is dancing a jig in front of the pilot house.