The Quadroon: Adventures in the Far West

He readily agreed to my proposal; and as it was now sunset, I made preparations for my departure from the lake.

A signal was agreed upon, so that when I should return to visit him, he could bring the pirogue to ferry me across; and this being arranged, we once more entered the canoe, and set out for the plantations.

We soon recrossed the lake; and, leaving the little boat safely moored by the fallen tree, started off through the woods. The path, with Gabriel for my guide, was now easy; and at intervals, as we went along, he directed my attention to certain blazes upon the trees, and other marks by which I should know it again.

In less than an hour after, we parted on the edge of the clearings – he going to some rendezvous already appointed – whilst I kept on to the village, the road to which now ran between parallel fences that rendered it impossible for me to go astray.

Chapter Forty

Hotel Gossip

It was yet early when I entered the village. I glided stealthily through the streets, desirous to avoid observation. Unfortunately I had to pass through the bar of the hotel in order to reach my room. It was just before the hour of supper, and the guests had assembled in the bar saloon and around the porch.

My tattered habiliments, in places stained with blood, and profusely soiled with mud, could not escape notice; nor did they. Men turned and gazed after me. Loiterers looked with eyes that expressed their astonishment. Some in the portico, and others in the bar, hailed me as I passed, asking me where I had been to. One cried out: “Hillow, mister! you’ve had a tussle with the cats: hain’t you?”

I did not make reply. I pushed on up-stairs, and found relief in the privacy of my chamber.

I had been badly torn by the bushes. My wounds needed dressing. I despatched a messenger for Reigart. Fortunately he was at home, and in a few minutes followed my messenger to the hotel. He entered my room, and stood staring at me with a look of surprise.

“My dear R – , where have you been?” he inquired at length.

“To the swamp.”

“And those wounds – your clothes torn – blood?”

“Thorn-scratches – that’s all.”

“But where have you been?”

“In the swamp.”

“In the swamp! but how came you to get such a mauling?”

“I have been bitten by a rattlesnake.”

“What! bitten by a rattlesnake? Do you speak seriously?”

“Quite true it is – but I have taken the antidote. I am cured.”

“Antidote! Cured! And what cure? who gave you an antidote?”

“A friend whom I met in the swamp!”

“A friend in the swamp!” exclaimed Reigart, his astonishment increasing.

I had almost forgotten the necessity of keeping my secret. I saw that I had spoken imprudently. Inquisitive eyes were peeping in at the door. Ears were listening to catch every sound.

Although the inhabitant of the Mississippi is by no means of a curious disposition —malgré the statements of gossiping tourists – the unexplained and forlorn appearance I presented on my return was enough to excite a degree of interest even among the most apathetic people; and a number of the guests of the hotel had gathered in the lobby around the door of my chamber, and were eagerly asking each other what had happened to me. I could overhear their conversation, though they did not know it.

“He’s been fightin’ a painter?” said one, interrogatively.

“A painter or a bar,” answered another.

“’Twur some desprit varmint anyhow – it hez left its mark on him, – that it hez.”

“It’s the same fellow that laid out Bully Bill: ain’t it?”

“The same,” replied some one.

“English, ain’t he?”

“Don’t know. He’s a Britisher, I believe. English, Irish, or Scotch, he’s a hull team an’ a cross dog under the wagon. By God! he laid out Bully Bill straight as a fence-rail, wi’ nothin’ but a bit o’ a whup, and then tuk Bill’s pistols away from him! Ha! ha! ha!”

“Jehosophat!”

“He’s jest a feller to whip his weight in wild-cats. He’s killed the catamount, I reckon.”

“No doubt he’s done that.”

I had supposed that my encounter with Bully Bill had made me enemies among his class. It was evident from the tone and tenor of their conversation that such was not the case. Though, perhaps, a little piqued that a stranger – a mere youth as I then was – should have conquered one of their bullies, these backwoodsmen are not intensely clannish, and Bully Bill was no favourite. Had I “whipped” him on any other grounds, I should have gained a positive popularity by the act. But in defence of a slave – and I a foreigner – a Britisher, too – that was a presumption not to be pardoned. That was the drawback on my victory, and henceforth I was likely to be a “marked man” in the neighbourhood.

These observations had served to amuse me while I was awaiting the arrival of Reigart, though, up to a certain point, I took but little interest in them. A remark that now reached my ears, however, suddenly changed the nature of my thoughts. It was this: —

“He’s after Miss Besançon, they say.”

I was now interested. I stepped to the door, and, placing my ear close to the keyhole, listened.

“I guess he’s arter the plantation,” said another; and the remark was followed by a significant laugh.

“Well, then,” rejoined a voice, in a more solemn and emphatic tone, “he’s after what he won’t get.”

“How? how?” demanded several.

“He may get thee lady, preehaps,” continued the same voice, in the same measured tones; “but not thee plantation.”

“How? What do you mean, Mr Moxley?” again demanded the chorus of voices.

“I mean what I say, gentlemen,” replied the solemn speaker; and then repeated again his former words in a like measured drawl. “He may get the lady, preehaps, but not thee plantation.”

“Oh! the report’s true, then?” said another voice, interrogatively. “Insolvent? Eh? Old Gayarre – ”

“Owns thee plantation.”

“And niggers?”

“Every skin o’ them; the sheriff will take possession to-morrow.”

A murmur of astonishment reached my ears. It was mingled with expressions of disapprobation or sympathy.