“Why now, blow, wind; swell, billow; and swim, bark!
The storm is up, and all is on the hazard.”—Shakspeare.
Vance’s plan was to escape down the river in his little steam-tug, and join some one of the blockading fleet of the United States, either at Pass à l’Outre or at the Balize. The unexpected accession of two fellow-fugitives led him to postpone his departure from the St. Charles to nine o’clock. His own and Kenrick’s baggage had been providently put on board the Artful Dodger the day before. Winslow, in order not to jeopard any of the proceedings, had accepted Vance’s offer to get from the latter’s supply whatever articles of apparel he might need.
At ten minutes before nine, the four fugitives met in Vance’s room. Vance and Onslow grasped each other by the hand. That silent pressure conveyed to each more than words could ever have told. The sympathy between them was at once profound and complete.
“The negro who is to drive us,” said Vance, “is the man to whom your father confided his last messages.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Onslow; “let me be with him. Let me learn from him all I can!”
Vance told him he should ride on the outside with Peek. Then turning to Winslow, he said: “Those white locks of yours are somewhat too conspicuous. Do me the favor to hide them under this black wig.”
The disguise was promptly carried into effect. At nine o’clock Vance put his head out of the window. A rain-storm had set in, but he could see by the gas-lights the glistening top of a carriage, and he could hear the stamping of horses.
“All right,” said he. “Peek is punctually on the spot. Does that carpet-bag contain all your baggage, Mr. Onslow?”
“Yes, and I can dispense with even this, if you desire it.”