Shortly after, the booming recommenced; but the frequent ringing of the pilot's bell told that the boat was being brought in to the landing.
This is only true of the inferior class of boats, or where the passenger expected is supposed to be one worth consideration. There were few captains on the river that would not have laid to for a Woodley, and fewer still could they have told that the white signal was the kerchief of the fair Cornelia.
On our arrival at the landing, we found the boat, with staging-plank out and ready. It was no humble "stern-wheel" that had thus condescended; but the noble "Sultana," in whose luxuriant saloons we steamed toward the "Crescent City."
Before arriving at our destination, we had the satisfaction to know that the planter pirate did not precede us. On passing Point Coupee, we also passed a little steamboat, and left her pulling asthmatically behind us. Upon her paddle-boxes we could read the lettering, "Yazoo City."
Still more to the purpose, we saw standing upon the hurricane-deck the man who was causing us to make the improvised voyage—the planter pirate.
We saw him through the green jalousies of a "state-room," taking care he should not see us. Even then, the sight of any of our party, or his suspicion of our being aboard the Sultana, might have defeated our plans. We gave him no chance for either one or the other.
He was standing alone—abaft the pilot-house—apparently wrapt in contemplation. He may have been thinking of the future—of the disposal of his plunder. Or was his mind dwelling upon the past—upon the dark deeds which he had no doubt committed? It might be that his thoughts were still more bitterly occupied, with that fair being who stood by my side, and who now regarded him only with disgust.
I cared not to speculate on the past. I felt confident that between Nat Bradley and Cornelia Woodley there had been no compromise. Whatever there had been, enough to know that it was now over.
The big boat passed on, leaving the Yazoo City dancing like a waif in her wake. Behind the glass shed, that sheltered the pilot, Nat Bradley disappeared from my sight.