The Strollers

The energy now applied to the hempen strand sent the ferry many feet from the shore out into the river, where the current was much swifter than usual, owing to the heavy rainfalls. The horses on the great cumbersome craft were snorting with terror.

Crack! pish! One of the men on the shore used his revolver.

“An illogical and foolish way to collect debts, that!” grumbled the manager, tugging at the rope. “If they kill us, how can we requite them for our obligations?”

The river was unusually high and the current set the boat, heavily loaded, tugging at the rope. However, it resisted the strain and soon the craft grated on the sand and the party disembarked, safe from constable and bailiff in the brave, blue grass country. Only one mishap occurred, and that to Adonis, who, in his haste, fell into the shallow water. He was as disconsolate as the young hero Minerva threw into the sea to wrest him from the love of Eucharis. But in this case, Eucharis (Kate) laughed immoderately at his discomfiture.

As Barnes was not sure of the road, the strollers camped upon the bank. The river murmured a seductive cradle-song to the rushes, and, on the shore, from the dark and ominous background, came the deeper voice of the pines.

Constance, who had been unusually quiet and thoughtful, gradually recovered her spirits.

“Here, Mrs. Adams, is your tippet,” she said with a merry smile, taking a bit of lace from her dress.

“Thank you, my dear; I wouldn’t have lost it for anything!” said the old lady, effusively, while Barnes muttered something beneath his breath.

The soldier, who had dismissed the manager’s thanks somewhat abruptly, occupied himself arranging the cushions from the chariot on the grass. Suddenly Mrs. Adams noticed a crimson stain on his shoulder.

“Sir!” she exclaimed, in the voice of the heroine of “Oriana,” “you are wounded!”

“It is nothing, Madam!” he replied.

Stripping off his coat, Barnes found the wound was, indeed, but slight, the flesh having just been pierced.

“How romantic!” gushed Susan. “He stood in front of Constance when the firing began. Now, no one thought of poor me. On the contrary, if I am not mistaken, Mr. Hawkes discreetly stood behind me.”

“Jokes reflecting upon one’s honor are in bad taste,” gravely retorted the melancholy actor.

“Indeed, I thought it no jest at the time!” replied the other.

“Mistress Susan, your tongue is dangerous!”

“Mr. Hawkes, your courage will never lead you into danger!”

“Nay,” he began, angrily, “this is a serious offense–”

“On the contrary,” she said, laughing, “it is a question of defense.”

“There is no arguing with a woman,” he grumbled. “She always takes refuge in her tongue.”

“While you, Mr. Hawkes, take refuge–”

But the other arose indignantly and strode into the gloom. Meanwhile Barnes, while dressing the injury, discovered near the cut an old scar thoroughly healed, but so large and jagged it attracted his attention.

“That hurt was another matter,” said he, touching it.

Was it the manager’s fingers or his words caused Saint-Prosper to wince? “Yes, it was another matter,” he replied, hurriedly. “An Arab spear–or something of the kind!”

“Tell us about it,” prattled Susan. “You have never told us anything about Africa. It seems a forbidden subject.”

“Perhaps he has a wife in Tangiers, or Cairo,” laughed Kate.

“He was wed in Amsterdam,
Again in far Siam,

And after this

Sought triple bliss
And married in Hindustan,”

sang Susan.

The soldier made some evasive response to this raillery and then became silent. Soon quiet prevailed in the encampment; only out of the recesses of the forest came the menacing howl of a vagabond wolf.

“Such,” says Barnes in his notebook, “is the true history of an adventure which created some talk at the time. A perilous, regrettable business at best, but we acted according to our light and were enabled thereafter to requite our obligations, which could not have been done had they seized the properties, poor garments of players’ pomp; tools whereby we earned our meager livelihood. If, after this explanation, anyone still has aught of criticism, I must needs be silent, not controverting his censure.

“With some amusement I learned that our notable belligerent, Mr. Gough, was well-nigh reduced to the same predicament as that in which we found ourselves. He could not complain of his audiences, and the Band of Hope gained many recruits by his coming, but, through some misapprehension, the customary collections were overlooked. The last night of the lecture, the chairman of the evening, at the conclusion of the address, arose and said: ‘I move we thank Mr. Gough for his eloquent effort and then adjourn.’

“The motion prevailed, and the gathering was about to disperse when the platform bludgeon-man held them with a gesture. ‘Will you kindly put your thanks in writing, that I may offer it for my hotel bill,’ said he.

“But for this quick wit and the gathering’s response to the appeal he would have been in the same boat with us, or rather, on the same boat–the old hand ferry! Subsequently, he became a speaker of foreign and national repute, but at that time he might have traveled from Scarboro’ to Land’s End without attracting a passing glance.”

BOOK II

DESTINY AND THE MARIONETTES

CHAPTER I

THE FASTIDIOUS MARQUIS

Through the land of the strapping, thick-ribbed pioneers of Kentucky the strollers bent their course–a country where towns and hamlets were rapidly springing up in the smiling valleys or on the fertile hillsides; where new families dropping in, and old ones obeying the injunction to be “fruitful and multiply” had so swelled the population that the region, but a short time before sparsely settled, now teemed with a sturdy people. To Barnes’ satisfaction, many of the roads were all that could have been wished for, the turnpike system of the center of the state reflecting unbounded credit upon its builders.

If a people may be judged by its highways, Kentucky, thus early, with its macadamized roads deserved a prominent place in the sisterhood of states. Moreover, while mindful always of her own internal advancement, she persistently maintained an ever-watchful eye and closest scrutiny on the parental government and the acts of congress. “Give a Kentuckian a plug of tobacco and a political antagonist and he will spend a comfortable day where’er he may be,” has been happily said. It was this hardy, horse-raising, tobacco-growing community which had given the peerless Clay to the administrative councils of the country; it was this rugged cattle-breeding, whisky-distilling people which had offered the fearless Zach Taylor to spread the country’s renown on the martial field.

What sunny memories were woven in that pilgrimage for the strollers! Remembrance of the corn-husking festivities, and the lads who, having found the red ears, kissed the lasses of their choice; of the dancing that followed–double-shuffle, Kentucky heel-tap, pigeon wing or Arkansas hoe-down! And mingling with the remembrance of such pleasing diversions were the yet more satisfying recollections of large audiences, generous-minded people and substantial rewards, well-won; rewards which enabled them shortly afterward to pay by post the landlord from whom they had fled.

Down the Father of Waters a month or so after their flight into the blue grass country steamed the packet bearing the company of players, leaving behind them the Chariot of the Muses.

At the time of their voyage down the Mississippi “the science of piloting was not a thing of the dead and pathetic past,” and wonderful accounts were written of the autocrats of the wheel and the characteristics of the ever-changing, ever-capricious river. “Accidents!” says an early steamboat captain. “Oh, sometimes we run foul of a snag or sawyer, occasionally collapse a boiler and blow up sky-high. We get used to these little matters and don’t mind them.”

None of these trifling incidents was experienced by the players, however, who thereby lost, according to the Munchausens of the period, half of the pleasure and excitement of the trip. In fact, nothing more stirring than taking on wood from a flatboat alongside, or throwing a plank ashore for a passenger, varied the monotony of the hour, and, approaching their destination, the last day on the “floating palace” dawned serenely, uneventfully.

The gray of early morn became suffused with red, like the flush of life on a pallid cheek. Arrows of light shot out above the trees; an expectant hush pervaded the forest. Inside the cabin a sleepy negro began the formidable task of sweeping. This duty completed, he shook a bell, which feature of his daily occupation the darky entered into with diabolical energy, and soon the ear-rending discord brought the passengers on deck. But hot cornbread, steaks and steaming coffee speedily restored that equanimity of temper disturbed by the morning’s clangorous summons.

Breakfast over, some of the gentlemen repaired to the boiler deck for the enjoyment of cigars, the ladies surrounded the piano in the cabin, while a gambler busied himself in getting into the good graces of a young fellow who was seeing the world. Less lonely became the shores, as the boat, panting as if from long exertion, steamed on. Carrolton and Lafayette were left behind. Now along the banks stretched the showy houses and slave plantations of the sugar planters; and soon, from the deck of the boat, the dome of the St. Charles and the cathedral towers loomed against the sky.

Beyond a mile or so of muddy water and a formidable fleet of old hulks, disreputable barges and “small fry broad-horns,” lay Algiers, graceless itself as the uninviting foreground; looking out contemplatively from its squalor at the inspiring view of Nouvelle Orleans, with the freighters, granaries and steamboats, three stories high, floating past; comparing its own inertia–if a city can be presumed capable of such edifying consciousness!–with the aspect of the busy levee, where cotton bales, sugar hogsheads, molasses casks, tobacco, hemp and other staple articles of the South, formed, as it were, a bulwark, or fortification of peace, for the habitations behind it. Such was the external appearance–suggestive of commerce–of that little center whose social and bohemian life was yet more interesting than its mercantile features.

At that period the city boasted of its Addison of letters–since forgotten; its Feu-de-joie, the peerless dancer, whose beauty had fired the Duke Gambade to that extravagant conduct which made the recipient of those marked attentions the talk of the town; its Roscius of the drama; its irresistible ingenue, the lovely, little Fantoccini; and its theatrical carpet-knight, M. Grimacier, whose intrigue with the stately and, heretofore, saintly Madame Etalage had, it was said later, much to do with the unhappy taking-off of that ostentatious and haughty lady. It had Mlle. Affettuoso, songstress, with, it is true, an occasional break in her trill; and, last, but not least, that general friend of mankind, more puissant, powerful and necessary than all the nightingales, butterflies, or men of letters–who, nevertheless, are well enough in their places!–Tortier, the only Tortier, who carried the art de cuisine to ravishing perfection, whose ragouts were sonnets in sauce and whose fricassees nothing less than idyls!