Hatchie, the Guardian Slave Part 21

On one of the sloping sides of the interior was situated the cottage. It was small in size, containing but four rooms and an attic, and was neatly painted white. Its location in the valley concealed it from the main land, and from the traveller upon the river. It was accessible only by means of the stream, which rolled by within a few rods of the door. A cow grazed in the woods, which had been partly cleared of under-brush, and had the appearance of a park grove. Near the house a plot of land had been reduced to a state of cultivation, upon which an old negro servant managed to raise vegetables sufficient for the use of the family.

The interior of the cottage was neatly furnished, though with none of the gaudy trappings of fas.h.i.+on. Everything was plain and useful. On the side fronting the stream, which served the inmates as a highway, were two rooms,--a library, which was also the sitting-room, and a sleeping apartment. The library was far the most substantial and comfortable-looking room in the house, inasmuch as it was abundantly supplied with modern and cla.s.sical lore. In the middle was a large writing-desk, upon which lay sundry ma.n.u.scripts, apparently the last labor of the occupant. The books and papers were all arranged with scrupulous neatness and method.

The two rooms in the rear were the dining-room and another sleeping apartment, while the attic was occupied by the old negro and his wife,--the property of the proprietor, and his only attendants upon the island. Back of the house, as is the custom of the South, was a small building used as a kitchen. Near it was another building, appropriated to the use of the cow aforesaid.

In the stream in front of the cottage, fastened to a tree on the bank, was a beautifully-modelled sail-boat, which was worthy to rank with the miniature yachts of our large cities. She was schooner-rigged, with a small cabin forward. Her masts, by an ingenious contrivance, could be lowered down aft, and, by means of a rope attached to the fore-top, and running through a block on the bowsprit, could be instantly restored to their original upright position. This arrangement the owner found necessary, on account of the overhanging trees, which nearly concealed the two openings of the stream into the river.

On the night of the Chalmetta's terrible disaster, a man wrapped in a camlet cloak left the cottage, and approached the landing-place. In one hand he carried a gla.s.s lantern, and in the other a double-barrelled gun. Descending the steps to the rude pier of logs, he drew the boat in-sh.o.r.e and seated himself in the stern-sheets. Unloosing the stern-line, which alone held her, the boat was borne on by the rapid stream. The helm the occupant handled with a masterly skill, and in a moment the little bark swept through the half-hid opening into the broad river. Placing the helm amid-s.h.i.+ps, the man went forward, and, pulling the proper line, brought the masts to their upright position. He then inserted the iron keys which kept them in their place, and hoisted the sails. By this time the boat had drifted to the lower extremity of the island; so, bracing her sharp up, he stood away across the river.

Tacking before he reached the swift channel, which flowed close in sh.o.r.e, he laid the boat's course up the stream. The wind was blowing fresh, and, notwithstanding the contending force of the current, the boat careened to her task, and made very good progress through the water. While the gallant little bark pursues her way, we will introduce her skipper to the reader.

Dr. Vaudelier was about fifty years of age. He was descended from one of the old French families of Louisiana; and had been, for nearly thirty years, a practising physician in the city of New Orleans, during which time he had acc.u.mulated a very handsome fortune. At the age of twenty-five he had been married to a lady, whose only recommendations were her personal beauty and her fas.h.i.+onable accomplishments. Her vanity had disgusted him, and her uncontrollable temper had embittered to its very dregs the cup of his existence. Being naturally of a gloomy and melancholy temperament, this unfortunate union had rendered his life almost insupportable. Domestic happiness, to which he had looked forward with high-wrought antic.i.p.ations, proved, in his case, to have no foundation.

He was disappointed. His dream of home and its blessings faded away, and was supplanted by a terrible reality. He grew more and more melancholy.

But there was a solace, which saved him from absolute misery. Two children--a boy and a girl--blessed his otherwise unhallowed union. The education of these children was the only joy his home afforded; but even this to his misanthropic mind could not compensate for his matrimonial disappointment.

Years pa.s.sed away; the son was sent to college, from which, to the anguish of his father, he was expelled for gross misconduct. The young man returned to New Orleans, and became one of the most dissolute and abandoned characters of the city. Dr. Vaudelier disowned him, and sunk the deeper in his melancholy.

The death of his wife left him alone with his daughter; and if the fatal influence of past years could have been removed, perhaps he might have been a happy man. The daughter was a beautiful girl, and promised to realize all the fond expectations of her father. Her daily education and method of life, as directed by her father, were better calculated to fit her for the occupancy of a nun's cell than for rational society.

About five years previous to the time of our story, the solemn quiet of Dr. Vaudelier's dwelling was disturbed by the arrival of a young French gentleman, bearing letters of introduction to the misanthropic physician. This gentleman was delighted with the daughter of his host, and she experienced a before unknown pleasure in his society. The doctor was, to some extent, obliged to abandon the "pleasures of melancholy,"

and accompany the young couple into the world.

This intimacy between the young persons rapidly ripened into love. Dr.

Vaudelier's inquiries into the character and circ.u.mstances of the young gentleman were not satisfactory, and he refused to sanction the union.

Perhaps he was influenced more in this decision by the dread of parting with his daughter than by any other motive. The father's refusal was followed by the elopement of the young couple,--an act which blasted the only remaining hope of the misanthrope. His heart was too sensitive to endure the shock.

Reduced to the depths of despair, suicide presented itself as the only effectual remedy for his misfortunes. But the church, to whose rites and promises he yielded the most devoted reverence, doomed the suicide to eternal woe!

Society, into which for a brief period he had allowed himself to be enticed, was ten-fold more distasteful to him than before. He could not endure even that which the practice of his profession demanded. The great city seemed a pandemonium, and he resolved to escape from its hated scenes.

He travelled up the river in search of seclusion, and accidentally had noticed the island upon which he afterwards fixed his residence.

His abode upon the island was not entirely unknown to the inhabitants of his vicinity; yet they seldom troubled him with their presence. Steamers and flat-boats continually pa.s.sed his little domain; yet the traveller knew not that it was occupied by human beings.

Dr. Vaudelier's pursuits were of the most simple nature. He read and wrote nearly the whole day, and in the evening,--often at the dead of night,--he would unmoor his yacht, and stem the tide of the mighty river. His chief happiness was in communion with nature. His solitary habits had completely estranged him from society; and he chose the night for his lonely excursions on the river, to avoid the presence of man.

Dr. Vaudelier was a benevolent man; and his benevolence was still his friend. It kept his heart from corroding, or becoming entirely cold. His professional services he freely gave to the poor "squatter," woodman and boatman, whenever he could learn that they were needed. The old negro made frequent visits to the sh.o.r.e to procure provisions and other necessaries, and informed his master if any of his indigent neighbors needed his aid. Dr. Vaudelier, as far as he was known, was regarded with profound respect and affection, and none were disposed to disturb his privacy when it was understood that entire seclusion was his desire.

Dr. Vaudelier reclined on the cus.h.i.+ons in the stern-sheets of his boat.

With an abstracted mind he gazed upon the gloomy outlines of the sh.o.r.e.

Nature in this sombre dress seemed in unison with the gloom of his own soul. Scarcely conscious of his actions, he managed the boat with the most consummate skill, avoiding the unseen shoal and the unfavorable current, but still never allowing the sails to s.h.i.+ver. Far ahead of him he descried the blazing chimneys of a steamer. It was night, and he was secure from the prying gaze or the rude hail of the voyagers.

His reflections were gloomy. He reviewed his earlier years. He thought of his affectionate daughter, who had promised to be the stay of his declining years, perhaps at that moment a wanderer and an outcast. He had heard nothing of her since her departure. He had made no effort to ascertain her fate. He considered his whole course of conduct to her, the nature of the education he had imparted to her, the example he had set for her imitation. His reflections were not altogether satisfactory, and kindled a few compunctious thoughts. The blame had not been all on the side of the daughter. His misanthropic character was the origin of some part of it.

Thus he mused, and thus dawned upon his mind the first gleams of repentance. His melancholy temperament had caused the loss of his daughter; and, for the time, it grew repugnant. He felt that he was not living the life his Maker intended he should live.

His meditations were suddenly interrupted by a tremendous explosion, and he was at once satisfied that it proceeded from the steamer he had before observed. His supposition was soon verified by the flames he saw rising from the spot where he had last seen her. She was, he judged, at least three miles distant. His benevolent disposition, stimulated by the reflection, and, perhaps, by some unconscious resolution of the previous hour, prompted him to hasten to her relief. Leaving the helm, he took from the little cabin a stay-sail, and by the light of the lantern attached it to the lines and hoisted it. The lively little craft, feeling the additional impulse, careened till her gunnel was nearly submerged, and cut her way with increased velocity through the unfavorable current. Half an hour elapsed before he approached near enough to make out the condition of the shattered steamer. Another steamer lay as near to her as the flames, which had apparently been partly subdued, would permit. Men were busily engaged in throwing on water, and their efforts promised to be crowned with success, for the volume of flame was rapidly decreasing. A line was pa.s.sed from the bow of the Chalmetta to the Flatfoot, No. 3 (for these were the steamers), which enabled the latter to control the drift of the former. Dr.

Vaudelier was too far off, however, to form a very correct idea of the casualty.

Portions of the wreck were floating by him, and occasionally his boat struck against a timber or cask. While anxiously straining his vision, to ascertain further particulars of the disaster, he heard a faint cry close ahead of him. By the light of his lantern, which he had hung up by the foremast, to attract the eye of any sufferer who might need aid, he saw a man clinging to a barrel floating by him. Hastily letting go the halyards, the fore and main sails came down, the boat was put about, and Dr. Vaudelier, with much exertion, succeeded in saving the almost dying sufferer. Conveying him to the cabin, which was of sufficient size to contain two berths, he placed him upon one of them, and proceeded to ascertain his ailments. These, as far as he could discover them, consisted of a broken arm, a severe contusion of the head, and several severe scalds. The wounded man's endeavors to aid in his own rescue had been too violent, and on being placed in the berth he had fainted. After administering such relief as he was able, he returned to the stern-sheets, hoisted the sails, and the boat, which had been drifting down-stream, again approached the wreck.

The flames of the Chalmetta were now extinguished. Before the benevolent physician could reach her, the Flatfoot had taken her in tow, and both were rapidly leaving him. Further pursuit was useless; so, taking in the stay-sail, he put the boat about, and again turned his attention to the sufferer.

The boat's progress, a.s.sisted by the current, was very rapid, and she soon reached the island. The experienced eye of her manager discerned through the darkness the narrow opening of the little stream. Taking in the sails and lowering the masts, the little craft glided through the rivulet, and in less time than is taken to relate it was securely moored in front of the cottage. The old negro, bewildered by the unseasonable summons, a.s.sisted in conveying the wounded stranger to the cottage.

Dr. Vaudelier, after a more thorough examination of his patient than he had been able to make before, was pleased to find that his wounds, though serious, were not of a dangerous character. He set the broken arm, and, by the exercise of the great skill for which he had been distinguished, restored him to consciousness, and made sure his future recovery.

"Where is she? Is she safe?" murmured the sufferer, as his returning consciousness afforded a partial knowledge of his condition. "Where am I?"

"You are among friends, sir,--among friends. Do not distress yourself,"

replied the doctor, in a soothing tone.

"Where is she? Great G.o.d! what has become of her?" exclaimed the wounded man, with startling energy.

"You must be quiet, sir, or you will injure your arm," said Dr.

Vaudelier, mildly restraining the excited man.

"O, Emily, Emily!" groaned the sufferer. "Why did I leave you? Why did we not perish together?"

"Be calm, sir,--be calm! You have lost a friend in this terrible disaster?"

"I have. O that I could have died with her!"

"Are you sure she has perished?"

"She could scarcely have survived the explosion."

"Was she not in the ladies' cabin?"

"She was."

"Then probably she is safe. The ladies' cabin was thrown from its position; but it appeared to be comparatively but little shattered. The forward cabin was blown entirely in pieces."

"Thank G.o.d for this intelligence!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Henry Carroll,--for the reader has already discovered that it was he whom the doctor had rescued.

"Another steamer was close at hand, so that probably most of the ladies were saved, unless, as is often the case, they jumped overboard in their fright."

"Heaven protect her!" exclaimed Henry.

"But, sir, I must insist on perfect quiet. Your condition imperatively demands it. To-morrow everything shall be done to relieve your anxiety.

We shall then receive Vicksburg papers, which will contain the names of all who are lost."

"I will try to be quiet, but I cannot but be anxious till I know the whole truth."

Dr. Vaudelier again applied a soothing balm to the scalded portions of his body, and gave him a powerful narcotic, the effects of which were soon visible in a deep, troubled slumber.