The island pirate, a tale of the Mississippi

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.