One of the data, upon which I relied, was that incidentally furnished me by the pilot of the Sultana. He had stated, during our short conversation, that the Missouri Belle would reach Cincinatti in less than four days—in all about four days from the time she had taken her departure from Saint Louis. Monsieur Gardette had confirmed this statement: it agreed with his own information. About four days was the usual time in making such a journey. The boat had the start of us about three quarters of a day. True she had a longer route to go—by more than a hundred miles—but then her progress would be continuous, night and day, at a speed of at least ten miles an hour; while we must rest and sleep. Could we have ridden three days and nights without stopping, we might have headed her. This, however, was a physical impossibility, or nearly akin to it. I believe my companion would have attempted it, had I not restrained him. I had still hoped that we might arrive in time; and, by making one hundred miles a day, we might calculate on so doing. Three days would thus bring us to Cincinatti; and I knew that the steamer could not arrive before.
It proved a long, hard ride; and, I need scarcely add, that it was not a merry one. It required all my efforts to cheer my companion, who sometimes sank into the most profound melancholy—varied at intervals by a passionate outburst of anger, as he reflected upon the villainous outrage, of which himself and those he held dearest had been made the victims. There was still hope, however; and that had its effect in restoring his spirits to an occasional calmness.
It was a long, weary ride; and occupied the greater part of both night and day. Many a poor steed was left along our route, with just strength to return to his stable. We scarcely took rest or sleep; but, saddling fresh horses, we pressed on. The road seemed interminable, notwithstanding the rate at which we travelled; and many miles of it we passed over, asleep in our saddles!
Our journey ended at length; but notwithstanding all our exertions, we had not made good our programme. It was the fourth day when we caught sight of the spires of Cincinatti—near the evening. No more weary eyes than ours ever looked upon the walls of a city. But the prospect of success awakened us to fresh energy; and we rode briskly onward and entered the streets.
The “Henry House” was upon our way, and it was the only hotel—at least, the one where such a party would be certain to stop. We halted and made inquiries. They had not been there: though other passengers by the Missouri Belle were in the house. The boat, then, had arrived!
We were preparing to hasten on board; but it was not necessary.
“Strangers,” said the hotel keeper, pointing to a gentleman who stood near, “if you wish to inquire about any passengers by the Missouri Belle, that is the captain himself.”
“Yes,” freely answered the latter, in reply to our inquiries, “two ladies and a gentleman—Madame Dardonville, of Saint Louis—I know the lady—and her daughter. The gentleman I do not know—a young lawyer from New Orleans, I believe.”
“At what hotel have they stopped?”