We succeeded in fishing up the bundles of cast bagging, that carried the Woodley mark; and, along with them, two other lots of older date, and bearing a different brand. One set of these was gone to rottenness and rags; on the other could still be deciphered a name and mark that led to its identification. It had covered the cotton of that missing boat belonging to the Arkansas planter, of which Henry Woodley had heard.
How many of these horrid tragedies had been enacted on the Devil's Island it was impossible to say, but certainly one every year. No wonder at planter Bradley becoming rapidly rich! No wonder at the Devil's Island being deemed a haunted spot, inspiring terror among the black-skinned creatures who had occasion to go near it. To many of them, its gloomy lagoon, or the swift current sweeping around it, had proved more destructive than the fancied demon of their superstitious fears.
We had no difficulty in making out the case clear against the pirates; but, although we proved them guilty of the double crime—robbery and murder—to say nothing of the attempt at assassinating myself—the severest sentence that could be obtained was penitentiary for life! There was no proof of their having murdered a white man!
Bradley did not submit long to his confinement. In less than a year afterward, I heard that he had put an end to his life.
As to Black, Stinger, and Croucher, for what I know to the contrary, all three may be still inside the strong walls of the Louisiana State prison, working out their tedious term of compulsory penitence.
I might turn to other themes, and describe scenes of a more tranquil character. But no doubt, by this time the reader is tired of my narrative. He will not care to listen to the oft-told tale, the old, old story, as it was told to Cornelia Woodley. Suffice it to say, that she listened to, liked it, and said "Yes."
THE END.