I could easily understand the reason for this. He dare not expose her to the view of others, or permit her the slightest opportunity to appeal to them for rescue. Whether the man still believed her to be of negro blood, or not, the girl's unusual appearance would be certain to exercise more weight than his unsupported word—her refined, Caucasian face, the purity of her language, her simple story, would assuredly win an instant response from many of those on board. These waters were too far to the northward to be a safe hiding place for slave-hunters, and Kirby must be fully aware—knowing the characteristics of the river as he did—that his only security lay in keeping this woman in seclusion, carefully hidden away under lock and key, until he held her completely in his power, in a land where slavery was king. Then he could play the brute, but not here. I was convinced the man possessed brains and caution enough to deliberately choose this course—to do otherwise would mark him a fool, and that was not to be thought of. Even his reckless bravado would never drive him into an utterly unnecessary peril. All that he planned to accomplish later, could wait; but now his only purpose was to protect her from observation; to encourage his fellow-travelers to even forget that he had any slaves on board. There was a game of cards going on in the salon, in which he was participating, but Tim, not concerned in it, was wandering back and forth, up and down the ladder, watchful of every movement about the two decks, and making it extremely difficult for anyone to pass his guard. Satisfied as to this, and being intensely weary from my night without rest, and the hard work of the day, before I even realized the possibility, I fell sound asleep.
It was about the middle of the following afternoon when the Adventurer poked her blunt nose around a point of land, and came into full view of the squalid hamlet of Yellow Banks. A half-hour later we lay snuggled up against the shore, holding position amid several other boats made fast to stout trees, busily unloading, and their broad gangplanks stretching from forward deck to bank. All about was a scene of confusion and bustle, mud, and frontier desolation. Inspired by the ceaseless profanity of both mates, the roustabouts began unloading cargo at once, a steady stream of men, black and white, burdened with whatever load they could snatch up, moving on an endless run across the stiff plank, and up the low bank to the drier summit. It chanced to be my good fortune to escape this labor, having been detailed by Mapes to drag boxes, bales and barrels forward to where the hurrying bearers could grasp them more readily. This brought me close to the forward stairs, down which the departing passengers trooped, threading their insecure way among the trotting laborers, in an effort to get ashore.
All this deck was sufficiently unobstructed so as to afford me glimpses without, and for some distance along the bank; and it was not difficult for one with military training quickly to sense the situation, especially as I overheard much of the conversation between Mapes and the young lieutenant quartermaster who immediately came aboard. A more desolate, God-forsaken spot than Yellow Banks I never saw. It had been raining hard, and the slushy clay stuck to everything it touched; the men were bathed in it, their boots so clogged they could hardly walk, while what few horses I saw were yellow to their eyes. The passengers going ashore waded ankle deep the moment they stepped off the plank, and rushes and dried grass had been thrown on the ground to protect the cargo. Only three log houses were visible, miserable shacks, one of them a saloon, evidently doing a thriving business. In most cases it was impossible to distinguish the civilian inhabitants from their soldier guests. Reynolds' troops, all militia, and the greater part of them mounted, were an extremely sorry-looking lot—sturdy enough physically, of the pioneer type, but bearing little soldierly appearance, and utterly ignorant of discipline. They had been hastily gathered together at Beardstown, and, without drill, marched across country to this spot. Whatever of organization had been attempted was worked out en route, the men being practically without uniforms, tents, or even blankets, while the arms they bore represented every separate species ever invented. I saw them straggle past with long squirrel rifles, Hessian muskets, and even one fellow proudly bearing a silver-mounted derringer. The men had chosen officers from out their own ranks by popular election, and these exercised their authority very largely through physical prowess.
We had an excellent illustration of this soon after tying up at the landing. A tall, lank, ungainly officer, with a face so distinctively homely as to instantly attract my attention, led his company of men up the river bank, and ordered them to transport the pile of commissary stores from where they had been promiscuously thrown to a drier spot farther back. The officer was a captain, to judge from certain stripes of red cloth, sewed on the shoulders of his brown jean blouse, but his men were far from prompt in obeying his command, evidently having no taste for the job. One among them, apparently their ringleader in incipient mutiny, an upstanding bully with the jaw of a prize-fighter, took it upon himself openly to defy the officer, exclaiming profanely that he'd be damned if he ever enlisted to do nigger work. The others laughed, and joined in the revolt, until the captain unceremoniously flung off his blouse, thus divesting himself of every vestige of rank, and proceeded to enforce his authority. It was a battle royal, the soldiers crowding eagerly about, and yelling encouragement impartially first to one combatant, and then another.
"Kick him in the ribs, Sam!"
"Now, Abe, yer've got him—crack the damn cuss's neck."
"By golly! that's the way we do it in ol' Salem."
"He's got yer now, Jenkins, he's got yer now—good boy, Abe."
Exactly what occurred I could not see, but when the circle of wildly excited men finally broke apart, the big rebel was lying flat on his back in the yellow mud, and the irate officer was indicating every inclination to press him down out of sight.
"Hav' yer hed 'nough, Sam Jenkins?" he questioned, breathlessly. "Then, blame ye, say so."