“Well, I guess it ain't much of a place, it warn't when I left it. This is how it happened,” he continued, squinting hard at Benson. “A good while back, I guess long enough before you was born, young man, old Captain Whipple built a schooner at Marietta, and took her down the Ohio and Mississippi to New Orleans. I shipped with him as cook's boy. At New Orleans he picked up a cargo of cotton for England, all but me of the crew going home by up river flat boats. In England we got a cargo for St. Petersburg, Russia; but when we reached there, the port officers seized the schooner; they said the papers were forged, that there warn't no such port as Marietta. The captain swore his papers were legal, and that Marietta was a port of clearance. 'You're a most awful liar,' said the Russian officer, with his tongue in his cheek. 'You're a benighted foreigner,' said the captain, 'or else you'd have heard of Marietta, which it's in the State of Ohio.' 'Where's that?' said the Russian. 'Well, I'm damned,' said the captain, 'never heard of Ohio? Never heard of Marietta, Ohio?' 'Never,' said the Russian. 'Extraordinary!' says the captain. 'And I pity you, for that's where I come from. Fetch me a map of the United States of America, and you can tell your grandchildren when you get to having them, that you've looked on the finest country God Almighty ever dared leave out of doors over night!' So they fetched him a map of America, and he found the mouth of the Mississippi, and Coursed up it with his thumb to the mouth of the Ohio, and up that to the mouth of the Muskingum. 'And there you have it!' said the captain. 'That's Marietta—Marietta, Ohio, and my Port of clearance.'.rdquo; The seafaring man from Styles Cross Roads chuckled softly. “That was my first voyage; and there's thirty years between my leaving and my going back; but when I came ashore at New Orleans off my last voyage, I made up my mind I'd make a clean run home.”
Thus happily launched on what might be termed a flood of narrative, he imparted to Benson a variety of information touching the countries and places he had visited. From time to time he even attempted conversation with the dark man opposite; but the latter's manner rebuked such advances, and he ended by confining his remarks to the lawyer, whose courtesy was unfailing.
The miles grew up behind them, the stage stopping now and again to change horses. There was dinner and supper; and they came to a stand at last in front of the tavern where they were to pass the night.
Drawn up in the dusty road before it, were a score or more of great freight wagons. From strange pens came the lowing of cattle; the bleat of sheep. Indoors the bar was thronged with teamsters and drovers, Some of these men Benson knew, and they had known Stephen and Bushrod Landray, and he stopped to shake hands with them, and to answer their eager questions.
He was up betimes the next day, and was soon swinging forward again on the last stage of his journey. His two companions of the day before still kept him company; the sea-faring man from Styles Cross Roads, as communicative as ever, the other reserved and silent. But about midmorning the latter turned abruptly to Benson to say:
“I observe, sir,” and his manner was precise and formal, “I observe, sir, that you appear to have come some distance. If I mistake not I saw you on the boat up from Cincinnati? May I be so bold as to ask if you are going much further?”
“No, fortunately; I am almost at my journey's end. Benson is my destination,” answered the lawyer.
“Oh, indeed? That is my destination, also.”
Benson inclined his head. There was a long silence. The coach stopped at a wayside tavern; and the sailor, after shaking Benson warmly by the hand, left it, to finish his journey across the State by other means.
The dark man watched the rolling figure of the sea-faring man, as he disappeared through the tavern door, then he cleared his throat.