MISS Helena Emory had her artichoke for luncheon, and judging from my own, my boy John never had prepared a better, good as he was with artichokes; but we ate apart, the ladies not coming to our table. It was late afternoon before I saw Helena again, once more come on deck. She was sitting in a steamer chair with her face leaning against her hand, and looking out across the water at the passing shipping. She sat motionless a long time, the whole droop of her figure, the poise of her tender curved chin, wistful and unhappy, although she said no word. For myself, I did not accost her. I, too, looked up and down the great river, not knowing at what moment some discerning eye might spy us out, and I longed for nothing so much as that night or Peterson would come.
He did come at last, late in the afternoon, on an outbound train, and he hurried aboard as rapidly as he might. The first thing he did was to hand me a copy of an afternoon paper. I opened it eagerly enough, already well assured of what news it might carry.
On the front page, under a large, black head, was a despatch from Baton Rouge relaying other despatches received at that point, from many points between Plaquimine and Bayou Sara. These, in short, told the story of the most high-handed attempt at river piracy known in recent years. The private yacht of Calvin Davidson, a wealthy northern business man, on his way South for the winter, had been seized by a band of masked ruffians, who boarded her while the yacht’s owner was temporarily absent on important business in the city of Natchez. These ruffians, abandoning their own boat, had at once gone on down-stream. They had been hailed by officers of Baton Rouge, acting under advice by wire from Mr. Davidson, on his way down from Natchez. The robber band had paid no attention to the officers of the law, but had continued their course. In some way the stolen craft had mysteriously disappeared that afternoon and night, nor had any word of her yet been received from points as far south as Plaquimine. A bottle thrown overboard by one of the prisoners taken on the yacht contained a message to Mr. Davidson, with the request that he should meet the sender at New Orleans; but there was no signature to the note.
Many mysterious circumstances surrounded this sensational piece of piracy, according to the journalistic view-point. On board the Belle Helène were two ladies, the beautiful young heiress, Miss Helena Emory, well known in northern social circles, and her aunt, Mrs. Lucinda Daniver, widow of the late Commodore Daniver, United States Navy. Mr. Davidson himself was unable to assign any reason for this bold act of this abduction, although he feared the worst for the comfort or even the safety of the two ladies, whose fate at this writing remained unknown. The greatest mystery surrounded the identity of the leader of this bold deed, whose name Mr. Davidson could not imagine. He was reported to suspect that these same river pirates, earlier in the day, attacked and perhaps made away with a friend of his whose name is not yet given. A cigarette case was found in the abandoned boat, which Mr. Davidson thought looked somewhat familiar to him, although he could not say as to its ownership. He could and did aver positively, however, that a photograph in a leather case on the abandoned boat was a portrait of none other than Miss Helena Emory, one of the captives made away with by the river ruffians. Mr. Davidson could assign no explanation of these circumstances.
Later despatches received at Baton Rouge, so the New Orleans journal said, might or might not clear up the mystery of the stolen yacht’s disappearance, although the senders seemed much excited. One story from a down-river point, brought in by an excited negro, told of a dozen bottles found floating in the bayou. The negro, however, had broken them all open, and declared they had contained nothing but bits of paper, which he had thrown away. He also told a wild story that the plantation store at Hamlin’s Landing, on Bayou Henry, had been looted in broad daylight, by a young man and a boy, apparently members of the pirate crew. The younger of the two ruffians was masked, and on being asked for pay for gasoline, refused it at the point of his weapons, declaring that pirates never paid.
While no attention should be paid to rumors such as the latter, the despatches went on to say, it was obvious that a most high-handed outrage had been perpetrated. It was supposed that the swift yacht had been hurried forward, and had passed New Orleans in the night. Once out of the river, and among the shallow bays of the Gulf Coast, the ruffians might, perhaps, for some time evade pursuit, just as did the craft of Jean Lafitte, himself, a century ago. Meantime, only the greatest anxiety could pervade the hearts of the friends of these ladies thus placed in the power of ruthless bandits. Such an outrage upon civilization could, of course, occur only under the administration of the Republican party. The journal therefore hoped:—and so forth, and so forth.
“Peterson,” said I, after digesting this interesting information, “you’ve read this. What have you to say?”
Peterson was more despondent even than was his wont. “It looks mighty bad, Mr. Harry,” said he, “and I don’t profess to understand it.”
“Did you order the supplies?”
“Oh, yes, but they may forget to send them after all.”