“I don’t remember nobody else!” exclaimed Hyde, jubilant at the thought of claiming one respectable man as an old acquaintance, and quite forgetting the fact that they had parted as foes. “Kunnle Blake, we must liquor together the fust chance we kn git. As for Peek, I don’t want to see a higher-toned gemmleman than Peek is, though he is blacker than my boot. Will you believe it, Kunnle? That ar nigger, findin’ as how I wuz out of money, arter Kunnle Vance had tuk me out of jail, what does he do but give me twenty dollars! In good greenbacks, too! None of your sham Confed’rate trash! Ef that ain’t bein’ a high-tone gemmleman, what is? He done it too in the most-er delicate manner,—off-hand, like a born prince.”
By this time the interlocutors had entered the billiard-room. After them came a colored man and a negro. One of these was Sam, the house-servant, the other Antoine, the owner of the dog. Immediately after them came Esha and Madame Josephine. They passed Ratcliff without noticing him, and went to Clara, and almost devoured her with their kisses.
No sooner had these two moved away in this terrible procession than an oldish lady, hanging coquettishly on the arm of a man somewhat younger than herself, of a rather red face, and highly dressed, entered the room, and, apparently too much absorbed in each other to notice Ratcliff, walked on until the lady, encountering Clara, rushed at her hysterically, and shrieking, “My own precious child!” fell into her arms in the most approved melodramatic style. This lady was Mrs. Gentry, who had recently retired from school-keeping with “something handsome,” which the Vigilance Committee had been trying to get hold of for Confederate wants, but which she had managed to withhold from their grasp, until that “blessed Butler” coming, relieved her fears, and secured her in her own. The gentleman attending her was Mr. Ripper, ex-auctioneer, who, in his mellow days, finding that Jordan was a hard road to travel, had concluded to sign the temperance pledge, reform, and take care of himself. With this view, what could he do better than find some staid, respectable woman, with “a little something of her own,” with whom he could join hands on the downhill of life? As luck would have it, he was introduced to Mrs. Gentry that very evening, and he was now paying his first devoirs.
After the appearance of this couple, steps heavy and slow were heard ascending the stairs into the billiard-room; and the next moment Mr. Winslow appeared, followed by Lawyer Semmes. And, bringing up the rear of the party, and presenting in himself a fitting climax to these stunning surprises, came a large and powerful negro in military rig, bearing a musket with bayonet fixed, and displaying a small United States flag. This man was Decazes, an escaped slave belonging to Ratcliff, and for whom he had offered a reward of five hundred dollars.
Ratcliff had half-risen from his chair, holding on to the arms with both hands for support. His countenance, laced by the leathern blows he had received, his left eye blue and swollen, every feature distorted with consternation, rage, and astonishment, he presented such a picture of baffled tyranny as photography alone could do justice to. Was it delirium,—was it some harrowing dream,—under which he was suffering? That flag! What did it mean?
“Semmes!” he exclaimed, “what has happened? Where do these Yankees come from?”
“Possible? Haven’t you heard the news?” returned the lawyer. “Farragut and Butler have possession of New Orleans. What have you been doing with yourself the last three days?”
“Butler?” exclaimed Ratcliff, astounded and incredulous,—“Picayune Butler?—the contemptible swell-head,—the pettifogging—”
Semmes walked away, as if choosing not to be implicated in any treasonable talk.
Suddenly recognizing Winslow, Ratcliff impotently shook his fists and darted at him an expression of malignant and vindictive hate.