Were dumb animals ever guided by spirit influence? There were many curious facts showing that birds were sometimes used to convey impressions, apparently from higher intelligences. At sea, not long ago, a bird had flown repeatedly in the helmsman’s face, till the latter was induced to change his course. The consequence was, his encounter with a ship’s crew in a boat, who must have perished that night in the storm, had they not been picked up. There were also instances in which dogs would seem to have been the mere instruments of a super[super] and supercanine sagacity. But Victor plainly was not thus impressible. His instincts led him to his master, but beyond that point they would not or could not be made to exert themselves.
Had not Peek’s faith in the triumph of the right been large, he would have despaired of any help from the coming of the United States forces. For weeks the newspapers had teemed with paragraphs, some scientific and some rhetorical, showing that New Orleans must not and could not be taken. They all overflowed with bitterness toward the always “cowardly and base-born” Yankees. The Mayor of the city wrote, in the true magniloquent and grandiose style affected by the Rebel leaders: “As for hoisting any flag not of our own adoption, the man lives not in our midst whose hand and heart would not be paralyzed at the mere thought of such an act!”
A well-known physician, who had simply expressed the opinion that possibly the city might have to surrender, had been waited on by a Vigilance Committee and warned. Taking the hint, the man of rhubarb forthwith handed over a contribution of five hundred dollars, in expiation of his offence.
All at once the confident heart of Rebeldom was stunned by the news that two of the Yankee steamers had passed Forts Jackson and St. Philip. The great ram had been powerless to prevent it. Then followed the announcement that seven,—then thirteen,—then twenty,—then the whole of Farragut’s fleet, excepting the Varuna, were coming. Yes, the Hartford and the Brooklyn and the Mississippi and the Pensacola and the Richmond, and the Lord knew how many more, were on their way up the great river. They would soon be at English Bend; nay, they would soon be at the Levee, and have the haughty city entirely at their mercy!
No sooner was the terrible news confirmed than the Rebel authorities ordered the destruction of all the cotton-bales stored on the Levee. The rage, the bitterness, the anguish of the pro-slavery chiefs was indescribable. Several attempts were made to fire the city, and they would probably have succeeded, but for a timely fall of rain. On the landing of the United States forces, the frenzy of the Secessionists passed all bounds; and one poor fellow, a physician, was hung by them for simply telling a United States officer where to find the British Consulate.
But if some hearts were sick and crushed at the spectacle, there were many thousands in that great metropolis to whom the sight of the old flag carried a joy and exultation transcending the power of words to express; and one of these hearts beat under the black skin of Peek. Followed by Victor, he ran to the Levee where United States troops were landing, and there—O joy unspeakable!—standing on the upper deck of one of the smaller steamers, and almost one of the first persons he saw, was Mr. Vance.
Peek shouted his name, and Vance, leaping on shore, threw his arms impulsively round the brawny negro, and pressed him to his breast. Brief the time for explanations. In a few clear words, Peek made Vance comprehend the precise state of affairs, and in five minutes the latter, at the head of a couple of hundred soldiers, and with Peek walking at his side, was on his way to the jail. Victor, the bloodhound, evidently understood it all. He saw, at length, that he was going to carry his point.
Arrived at the jail, a large, square, whitewashed building, with barred windows, they encountered at the outer door three men smoking cigars. The foremost of them, a stern-looking, middle-aged man, with fierce, red whiskers, and who was in his shirt-sleeves, came forward, evidently boiling over with a wrath he was vainly trying to conceal, and asked what was wanted.
“There is a black man, Antoine Lafour, confined here. Produce him at once.”
“But, sir,” said the deputy, “this is altogether against civilized usage. This is a place for—”