The Missourian

by Eugene P. Lyle

  CHAPTER V

  THE STORM CENTRE

  "God forbid I should be so bold as to press to heaven in my young days." --_Titus Andronicus._

  The feathering buckets of the paddle wheels began to turn; and _LaLuz_, long, low, narrow, and a racer, moved noiselessly out into thebay. A few yards only, and the loungers on the wharf could neither seenor hear her. Except for the muffled binnacle light, there was neither aray nor a spark. The anthracite gave almost no smoke. The hull, hardlythree feet above water amidships, was "Union color," and invisible atnight. The waves slipped over her like oil, without the sound of asplash, almost without breaking. She glided along more and more swiftly.The silent engines betrayed no hint of their power, though breathing aforce to drive a vessel five times as large.

  There were many entrances to the bay, and Murguia had had his steamerbuilt of light draft especially, to profit by any outlet offering leastdanger from the vigilant patrol outside. The skipper had already chosenhis course. Because of the gale, he calculated that the blockaders wouldget a considerable offing, lest they flounder mid the shoal watersinshore. He knew too, even if it were not so dark, that a long, foamyline of surf curtained the bay from any watchful eye on the open sea. Bythe time she reached the beach channels, _La Luz_ had full speedon. Then, knifing the higher and higher waves, she made a dash for it.

  For a slender steamer, and in such weather, the risk was desperate. Theskipper hoped that the blockaders would never credit him with quite theinsanity of it. He held the wheel himself, while beside him hiskeenest-sighted quartermaster stood guard with a glass. The agitatedowner was there also, huddled in his black shawl, but the binocularsglued to his eyes trembled so that he could hardly have seen afull-rigged armada in broad daylight.

  Suddenly the quartermaster touched the skipper's arm under the shroudedbinnacle. "I s'y sir," he whispered excitedly, "they're--_there!_There, anchored at the inshore station, just off the bar! My eye, buthain't they beastly idiots? They'll smash to pieces."

  The skipper looked and Murguia tried to look. But they saw nothing.Except for the booming of the surf, they might have been on a landlesssea, alone in the black night. Don Anastasio was shaking at such a ratethat his two companions in the dark wheelhouse were conscious of it. Hecursed the quartermaster for a pessimist. The skipper, though, was braveenough to believe.

  "We're expected, that's gospel," he muttered. But he did not change hiscourse, for he knew that on his other side there was a second fleet,tugging at drift leads off the entrance to the main ship channel. It wasnear hopeless, but he meant to dart between the two.

  "Now for a reception as 'ull touch us to the quick, as Loo-ee Sixteenthsaid----" The skipper cut himself short. "Aye, aye, sir," he cried,"they've spied us!"

  "They haven't!" groaned Murguia. "How could they?"

  "'T'aint important now, sir, how they could. There might be a gleam inour wake. But any'ow they 'ave."

  They had indeed. Less than a mile to port there suddenly appeared twored lights, two sullen eyeballs of fire. Then, a rocket cleft thedarkness, its slant proclaiming the fugitive's course. Hurriedly the_Luz's_ quartermaster sent up a rocket also, but in the oppositedirection. It was useless. A third rocket from the signaling blockadercontradicted him.

  "We're bein' chased," announced the skipper. "One of 'em 'as slipped herchain and got off."

  As _La Luz_ had gained the open, the skipper let his quartermastertake the wheel. "'Old her to the wind, lad," he cautioned. "A beam sea'ud swamp us." Next he whistled down to the engine room. They were tostoke with turpentine and cotton. At once Murguia began to fidget. "It,it will make smoke," he whined.

  "An' steam. We're seen a'ready, ain't we, sir?"

  "But it costs more."

  "Not if it clears us. Soft coal 'ud seem bloomin' expensive, sir, if wegot over'auled."

  The race was on. In smooth water it would scarcely have been one. Butthe boiling fury cut knots from the steamer's speed, while the Federalssent after her only their sailing vessels, which with all canvas spreadbent low to the chase. They had, however, used up time to unreef; andwith the terrific rolling they would not dare cast loose a gun.

  When morning dawned thickly behind the leaden sky, the three men in thewheelhouse made out a top-gallant sail against the horizon. "By noon,"said the skipper, "the beggars 'ull 'ave us."

  He was a small pert man, was the skipper, with a sharp face, an edge tohis voice, and two little points of eyes that glowed. Salt water had notdrenched his dry cockney speech, and he was a gamin of the sea and askeen to its gammon ways as in boyhood he had been to those of pubsaround the old Bow Bells.

  Don Anastasio heard the verdict with a shudder. Given the nature of theman, his mortal fear was the dreadfullest torture that could be devised.The game little cockney peered into his distorted face, and wondered.Never was there a more pitiful coward, and yet the craven had passedthrough the same agony full twenty times during the last few years.Murguia knew nothing of the noble motives which make a man stronger thanterror, but he did know a miser's passion. He begrudged even thecostlier fuel that was their hope of safety.

  "Your non-payin' guest, sir," said the skipper, pointing downward."'Spose he wants to buy them 'ere smokestacks?"

  The trooper had appeared on deck. He was clinging to a cleat in the railwith a landsman's awkwardness and with the cunning object of proving tothe ship that he wasn't to be surprised off his feet another time. Heswayed grandly, generously, for'ard and aft, like a metronome set at alarge, sweeping rhythm. Every billow shot a flood from stern to bow, andswished past his boots, but he was heedless of that. His head was thrownback, a head of stubborn black curling tufts, and he seemed absorbed inthe _Luz's_ two funnels. They gave out little smoke now, for withdaylight the skipper had changed to anthracite again, in the forlornhope of hiding their trail. But it had lessened their steam pressure,and in a short time, the skipper feared, the pursuer would make themout, hull and all.

  A moment later the passenger climbed into the wheelhouse. "Lookhere--Mur--Murgie," he said, "for a seven-hundred-dollar rate that wasa toler'ble unsteady cabin I had last night; restless, sort of. It'smighty curious, but something's been acting up inside of me, and I can'tseem to make out _what_ it is!" As he spoke, he glanced inquiringlyfrom owner to skipper. He might have been another Panurge envying theplanter of cabbages who had one foot on solid earth and the other notfar away. He looked pale.

  It afforded Don Anastasio little satisfaction to find a young man notmore than twenty-two or three. Without his great coat the Southernerproved lithe rather than stocky. There was even an elusive angulareffect to him. Yet the night before he had looked as wide and imposingas the general of an army. His cheeks were smooth, but they were tightand hard and brown from the weathering of sun and blizzard. His featureshad that decisive cleanliness of line which makes for strong beauty in aman. Evidently nature had molded them boyishly soft and refined atfirst, but in the hardening of life, of a life such as his, they hadbecome rugged. Most of all, the face was unmistakably American. Thelarge mouth had that dry, whimsical set, and that sensitiveness totwitching at the corners, which foretells a smile. The brown eyessparkled quietly, and contour and expression generally were those whichone may find on a Missourian, or a Texan, or on a man from Montana, oreven on a New Yorker born; but never, anywhere, except on an American.Whatever is said to the contrary, the new Western race in its fusing ofmany old ones has certainly produced not one but several peculiarlyAmerican types, and Driscoll's was American. It was most so because ithad humor, virility, and the optimism that drives back despair and holdsforth hope for all races of men.

  Murguia was right, his passenger seemed a boy. But war and four years ofhardest riding had meant more of age than lagging peace could ever hold.Sometimes there flitted across the lad's face a vague melancholy, butbeing all things rather than self-inspecting, he could never quitelocate the trouble, and would shake himself out of it with a sort ofcomical wonder.
Bitterness had even touched him the night before, as itdid many another Southerner on the eve of the Surrender. Yet the boypart in him made such moods rare, and only passing at their worst. Onthe other hand the same boy-part gave a vigor and a lustre to hisoccupation, though that occupation was--fighting. He knew no other, andin that the young animal worked off excess of animal life with arefreshing gusto. Even his comrades, of desperado stripe that they were,had dubbed him the Storm Centre. And so he was, in every tempest ofarms. The very joy of living--in killing, alas!--always flung him trueto the centre. But once there, he was like a calm and busy workman, andhad as little self consciousness of the thing--of the gallantry and theheroism--as the prosiest blacksmith. He had grown into a man ofdangerous fibre, but he was less aware of it than of his muscles.

  "JOHN DINWIDDIE DRISCOLL--THE MISSOURIAN""His cheeks were smooth, but they were tight and hard and brown fromthe weathering of sun and blizzard"]

  Various items on the _Luz_ struck the trooper as amusing. Therewas the incongruity of his seven-hundred-dollar cabin, the secession ofhis stomach from the tranquillity of the federal body organic, andfinally, this running away from somebody. But he quickly perceived thatthe last was serious enough. The skipper lowered his glasses, and shookhis perky head a number of times. "_Who_ said life was all beer andskittles?" he demanded defiantly, and glared at Driscoll as though_he_ had. But getting no answer, he seemed mollified, as thoughthis proved that the man who _had_ said it was an imbecile.Murguia, by the way, had come to hate no truth more soulfully than thepalpable shortcoming of life in the matter of beer and skittles. And nowit was borne in upon him again, for the skipper announced, definitelyand with an oath, that they'd have to begin throwing the cargooverboard.

  Poor Don Anastasio behaved like a man insane. He wrung his hands. Heprotested stoutly, then incoherently. He whined. He glared vengefully atthe dread sail on the horizon, and then he shrank from it, as from aflaming sword. And as it grew larger, his eyeballs rounded and driedinto smaller discs. But at once he would remember his darling cottonthat must go to the waves, and the beady eyes swam again in moisture,like greenish peas in a sickly broth. Avarice and terror in discordplayed on the creature as the gale through the whimpering cordage.

  "No 'elp for it, sir," said the skipper, bridling like a bantam. "Didn'tI try to save _my_ cargo, off Savannah, and didn't I lose my sloopto boot? Didn't I now, sir?--Poor old girl, mebby she's our chaser out'ere this very minute."

  "Try--try more turpentine," said Murguia weakly.

  "Yes, or salt bacon, sir, or cognac, or the woodwork, or any blarstedthing I see fit, sir!" The little skipper hit out each item with a stepdownward to the deck, and five minutes later Murguia groaned, for baleafter bale came tumbling out of the hold. Then over they began to go,the first, the second, the third, and another, and another, and aftereach went a moan from Anastasio. He leaned through the window to see onetossing in the waves, then suffered a next pang to see the next followafter. It was an excruciating cumulus of grief. The trooper regarded himquizzically. Destruction of merely worldly goods had become routine forhim. He returned to his contemplation of the two funnels.

  The skipper came back, dripping with pray. "The wind's changin'," hesaid, "and that'll beat down the sea some."

  "Reckon they'll get us?" Driscoll asked.

  Murguia took the query as an aggravation of woe, and he turnedwrathfully on the trooper. "Don't you see we're busy?"

  "I see you're very damn sullen, _gra_-cious me!--Reckon they will,captain?"

  "We'll be eatin' a United States of America supper, chained, sir."

  "Now look here," said Driscoll plaintively, "_I_ don't want to getcaught."

  "But I hope as you'll bide with us, sir?"

  "Still, I was just thinking--now that smoke----"

  "And I'm a thinkin' you don't see much smoke. We're keepin' out o' sightas long as God'll let us."

  "But, Captain, why not smoke up--big? Just wait now--this ain't any ofmy regiment, I know that--but listen a minute anyway. Well, once ortwice when we were in a fix, in camp, say, and we knew more visitorswere coming than was convenient, w'y, we'd just light the campfires sothey would smoke, and then--meantime--we'd light out too. Old Indiantrick, you know."

  The skipper was first impatient. But as that did no good, he cockedhimself for a laugh. Then his mouth puckered to a brisk attention, andat the last word he jumped to his feet. "Damme!" he said, and wentthumping down the steps again. He splashed through the water on deck,minding the stiff wind not at all, and dived into the engine-room.

  "Soft coal!" gasped Murguia with relief.

  It was pouring from the stacks in dense black clouds.

  The captain returned. "We'll try to save the rest o' that 'ere cotton,sir," he said.

  He looked out at the trembling smoke that betrayed their course sorashly, and from there back to the pursuer on the horizon. He waited alittle longer, carefully calculating; then sent an order down the tubeto the engineer. The dampers were shut off, and the fuel was changed toanthracite. Soon the smoke went down, and a hazy invisible stream puffedfrom the funnels instead. The _Luz_ swung at right angles to herformer course. The paddles threshed hopefully, and on she sped, leavingno track. The skipper gazed back at the lowering line, which endedabruptly on their port and trailed off toward the horizon with atelegraphy of deceit for the distant sail.

  "You soldiers, colonel," he announced, "don't 'ave no monopoly on tricksand gammon, _I'm_ a thinkin'. But I s'y, w'at if you and me go downto my cabin and have a _noggin_?"

  * * * * *

  Thus _La Luz_ ran her last blockade, and came safely into port. Shereached Tampico some two days before the _Imperatrice Eugenie_.Whereupon Din Driscoll, as he was called anywhere off the muster roll,informed Don Anastasio that he would continue with him on into theinterior. And as seen already, Murguia humbly excused delay, though hisguest was not invited, not wanted, and cordially hated besides. Thatmeek smirk of Don Anastasio's was the absurdest thing in all psychology.

  Yet what perhaps aggravated the old man most was curiosity. He craved toknow the errand of his young despot. In the doorway of the Tampico mesonhe still hovered near, and ventured more questions.

  "How was it that, that _you_ happened to be sent, senor?" he asked.

  "Well now," observed the trooper, "there you go figuring it out that Iwas sent at all."

  "It must have been--uh, because you know Spanish. Are you a--a Texan,Senor Coronel?"

  "They raised me in Missouri," said the colonel. "But I learned to talkPan-American some on the Santa Fe trail. We had wagon trains out ofKansas City when I was a good sight younger."

  "I thought," said the old man suspiciously, "that perhaps you learned itwith Slaughter's army, along the Rio Grande. Slaughter, he's nearBrownsville yet, isn't he?"

  "Is he?"

  "With about twenty-five thousand men?"

  "Lord, I've clean forgot, not having counted 'em lately."

  "Where did you come from then, when you came to Mobile?"

  "W'y, as I remember, from Sand Spring, Missouri, near the Arkansasline."

  A more obscure crossroads may not exist anywhere, but its bare mentionhad a curious effect on the prying Don Anastasio. In the instant heseemed to cringe before his late passenger.

  "Then you--Your Mercy," he exclaimed, "belongs to Shelby's Brigade?"

  The Missourian nodded curtly. His questioner was extraordinarily wellinformed.

  "And, and how many men has Shelby at Sand Spring?"

  "Oh, millions. At least millions don't appear to stop 'em any."

  "But senor, how, how many Confederates are there altogether west of theMississippi?"

  Driscoll, though, had had enough. "Look here Murgie," he said, "if youkeep on crawling, you'll crawl up on a mongoose one of these days, and_those_ things have teeth."

  He might have gone further into natural history, but a sudden commotiondown the street interrupted. "It's a race!" he cried.
"No--Lordsake, ifthey ain't fighting!"

  He drew off his coat, took the pipe from his mouth, and shoved it intohis hip pocket, all with the air of a man who has smoked enough and mustbe getting to work. His brown eyes quickened. It was akin to thesatisfaction a merchant feels who scents an unexpected order. He wasready to deliver the goods instantly. His heavy boots went clatteringand his great spurs jangling, and soon he was stooping over two menrolling in the dust. But he straightened and thrust his hands into hispockets. He was disappointed. The unexpected order was a hoax. Thecombatants were one to one, and he could not fairly enter intocompetition. Then an unaccustomed method for getting into the biddingoccurred to him. He might be peacemaker. He leaned over again, toseparate them. Each long-fingered hand reached for a collar. Yet even ashe caught hold one of his prizes went limp in his grasp. He pulled outthe survivor, who proved to be a ragged Mexican with a knife. The otherwas a French sailor. Driscoll shook the native angrily, whereupon thelittle demon swung the knife with vicious intent. But Driscoll held himat arm's length, and the sweeps fell short, to the amazement and rage ofhis captive.

  "You miserable little chocolate-hided galoot, why couldn't you wait forme?"

  But the chocolate-hided only squirmed to get away. Driscoll glanced upthe street whence the two had come. At the next corner, before a cafe,he saw things more promising. A ranchero with a drawn revolver washolding off a young officer in sky-blue uniform, while around them aswarm of natives and ten or eleven sailors were circling uneasily, as ifwaiting for some sign to begin hostilities. The joy of battle dilatedthe trooper's nostrils.

  "W'y, here I've been wasting time on a smaller edition."

  So saying, he flung aside his prisoner; and in another minute he was thecentre of the main affair, and having an excellent time.