A line of ten men with the cordelle was attached to each boat to pull it up the stream, and at the same time ten more on each boat planted the great pole at the bow, and then, pushing on it, walked back to the stern, lifted it out of the soft mud, carried it forward to the bow, planted it again in the mud, and, pushing mightily, again walked back to the stern. In this way we made great progress. We moved as fast as the ten men on shore carrying the cordelle could walk, and the men at the pole lightened their load so greatly, they were able to walk at a good round pace.
So it was not yet quite noon when the white walls of Mulberry House came in view, the blue smoke curling from its chimneys giving promise of good cheer awaiting us. The men at the cordelle walked faster, the men at the pole pushed harder, and, there being here a chance to use them, two great sweep-oars were fastened in the rowlocks, and, four men at each oar, we went forward at such a gait that the water curled back from our prow in two foaming streams, and before many minutes we were running our nose into the bank at the foot of Mulberry Hill.
Down the bank came a long line of men and boys, chiefly negroes, shouting in every key, and running to catch the ropes our crew were throwing them, and tying us fast to big stumps left standing on the bank for that purpose.
Foremost to step foot on board was young John O'Fallon, running first to greet his uncle William, whom next to his uncle General Clarke he thought the greatest man on earth, and then coming to greet me, whom he called "cousin" in his kindly Southern fashion, for I could not claim to be kin. He was a bright, engaging lad of twelve or thirteen, "with the manners of a chevalier of France," I said laughingly to mademoiselle, when my captain was bringing him up to present to her. She was greatly taken with him at once, and as for him, 'twas a case of love at first sight, and he took full possession of her, giving me small chance to help her off the boat or up the hill.
At the top of the hill, Aunt Fanny, as his mother always insisted I should call her, was waiting for us. She kissed me on each cheek and called me "my boy" in a manner that made me feel very young indeed. Much as I loved her, I could have wished that in mademoiselle's presence she had treated me as one too old for such gracious liberties. But mademoiselle seemed not to notice her greeting to me; she had eyes only for the beautiful and charming woman and her manly little son. Indeed, I felt so much left out in the cold (for, after the manner of women, the two instantly made violent love to each other) that I was not sorry to find letters awaiting me from my uncle, inclosing letters from home that required my instant attention. When I had read them I knew not whether to be sorry or glad. I had fully intended to make no stay at all at Mulberry Hill, but go on at once to my uncle's; but now that there was no chance left me,—that marching orders I dared not disobey ordered me East at once,—I realized that lurking in the depths of my heart had been a secret hope that something would happen to delay me longer in mademoiselle's society.
I was at once busy with preparations for a more hasty departure than I had expected, so that I saw neither Mrs. O'Fallon nor mademoiselle again until we were seated at the long table in the great dining-room overlooking the river, which here makes a wide and graceful sweep to the south. The warm winter sun was flooding the room through its many windows, lighting up the table with its brave show of silver and glass and snowy linen, and by its cheery glow warming all hearts and setting all tongues free, so that there was a pleasant confusion of talk, such as a hostess dearly loves. It was a bright and happy scene, and every face was smiling and every heart was gay save one; for I could not hope that mademoiselle's bright smile and beaming glance disguised another aching heart.
I was seated at Mrs. O'Fallon's left hand; a Mr. Thruston, whom I had never met, but who was evidently paying earnest court to the charming widow, was on her right; and mademoiselle was almost at the other end of the long table, between Captain Clarke and young John—about as far from me as possible, which, since it was to be our last meal together, I felt to be a distinct grievance. But as no one was to blame but Aunt Fanny, and she had set me beside her to do me honor, I could not well find fault.
It was in response to her asking me to show some little courtesy to Mr. Thruston after dinner (I do not now recall what) that I told her I must set out on my journey as soon after dinner as I could start. Her short, sharp exclamation of surprise and displeasure caught the attention of all the table.
"Brother William, do you hear that?" she called to my captain. "Our kinsman leaves us immediately."
Aunt Fanny spoke with her knife poised in air. A noble great bird, a wild turkey, was on the platter before her, oozing a rich brown gravy from every pore. With a deftness I have never seen equaled, she had been separating joints and carving great slices of the rich dark meat, sending savory odors steaming up into my nostrils. Now, as she paused in her work to make her announcement, there arose instantly a chorus of remonstrances, loudest from young John and his younger brother Ben. I answered them modestly, I hoped, looking at everybody except mademoiselle, who yet, I saw distinctly, turned very pale, then red, then pale again.