CHAPTER XXIII.

THE PLANTER’S MANSION.

The cellar into which Jack had entered appeared to be the storehouse of the plantation; for it was half filled with boxes and barrels, crates and cases, with demijohns, jugs, and canisters. In one corner, there was a small room partitioned off from the rest of the space, which our hero concluded was the depository for eatables, and for which reason he was very desirous of exploring it; for it will be remembered that the action had been commenced on board the Middy just as the hands were piped to dinner. Jack had eaten nothing since morning; and, as boys at his age are constitutionally predisposed to be hungry, he was now, in the middle of the afternoon, almost in a suffering condition.

He tried the door of the room in the corner of the cellar; but, to his grief, it was locked. Jack could not help thinking what a villainously bad practice it was to keep the pantry locked; but if he had considered the number of working negroes on the place, whose diet consisted of a peck of corn and a small allowance of bacon per week, he would have been satisfied with the wisdom of the arrangement, and, for the sake of the negroes aforesaid, have been content to remain hungry for the present.

As he could not find anything to eat, or even to drink,--for the demijohns and jugs were either empty or filled with oil and vinegar,--he was obliged to stow himself away among the boxes and barrels, to wait for a more convenient season to emerge from the gloom of his hiding-place. He was alone, and there was nothing to disturb his meditations. Of course, he could not help reviewing the incidents of the afternoon, and wondering how many of his companions had been killed, wounded, and captured. As he had no data upon which to base his calculations, his conclusions were not particularly satisfactory. He was almost certain, however, that Mr. Hayswell was a prisoner; but he contented himself with the thought that he was no great loss to the Government, after his mismanagement of the affair of the boat-party.

For the want of something better to do, in the gloom and silence of the cellar, he went to sleep; as almost any sailor is apt to do, when he has nothing to busy his hands or occupy his mind. He is “broke of his rest,” as the elderly ladies in the country say; and it is just as natural for him to go to sleep as it is for him to “splice the main-brace.” Jack went to sleep. He had not eaten anything to give him the nightmare, and his bed was hard, cold, and uncomfortable. His position was rather cramped; and these things, combined, caused him to dream.

An old horse, thin, spavined, and afflicted with the heaves, covered all over with stars and bars, slowly came round, and began making stern-way till his heels were within reach of the dreamer. He thought it was about time to retire, but found himself unable to move. The old horse deliberately raised his heels, and kicked him in the head. He tried to cry out, and tried to beat a retreat; both of which, for some mysterious reason, he was unable to do. The dilapidated old nag continued to pound away till his head seemed to be mashed to a jelly, and, when it appeared to him that the end of all things had come, he waked up in a violent perspiration, trembling from head to foot with the agony he had endured during his slumbers.

It was dark as Egypt; but there was no old horse present. He felt around him, and the boxes and barrels among which he had stowed himself recalled his bewildered senses, and informed him where he was. He rubbed his eyes, and renewed the vision which had just faded from his consciousness. The old horse was, without doubt, the Southern Confederacy; a fact sufficiently certified by the stars and bars he wore. Jack could not help laughing at the sorry figure of the miserable creature; but, when he thought what awful blows the typical beast had given him, he concluded that the Confederacy, though a one-horse affair, was not to be despised.

Jack had seen a dream-book on board the Harrisburg; but what the significance of dreaming about horses, and especially about such a miserable beast as that which had occupied his slumbering mind, might be, he could not tell. In truth, he had not much faith in dreams; yet he could hardly escape the conclusion, that such a remarkable vision must mean something. If not actually a captive in the hands of the rebels, he was certainly in a fair way of becoming such; and he was afraid the dream foreshadowed his own fate in the hands of the enemy: but he hoped, if he was doomed to a rebel prison, that the old horse would not kick quite so hard as he had in his dream.

It was very dark in the cellar now; and Jack groped his way out from the boxes and barrels which had concealed him, and felt his way in the direction of the door by which he had entered. It was closed, locked, and the key removed. He could not open it by any art or device of his fertile ingenuity; and it was patent to him that his retreat by the door was cut off. But there must be, according to the natural rule of architecture, some means of getting into the cellar other than the outside of the house. This was a comfortable reflection; and he groped about the dark place till he found the stairs leading to the entry above.

As a matter of precaution, he seated himself on the first step, and, while he was listening for any sounds which might reach him from the rooms above, loaded the two barrels of his pistol which had been discharged at the rebels. There were footsteps to be heard in one of the rooms over him; but the entry was apparently unoccupied. When the pistol had been prepared for use, he cautiously ascended the steps, opened the door, and passed into the principal hall of the mansion.

The front door was now before him. On each side of it, there was a room opening into the hall. Jack’s intention was to pass out of the house by the main entrance; but, unfortunately, one of the doors at the side of it was open. The room was lighted, and there were persons in it engaged in conversation. It was not safe to run the gauntlet of this open door; and Jack was obliged to seek a passage in some other direction, or wait till the parlor-door should be closed.

To facilitate the ease and silence of his movements, our hero slipped off his shoes; and, tying them together by the strings, secured them in his belt. Thus prepared, he commenced exploring the premises. There was a door in the rear of the house; but this was locked, and the key removed. Adjoining the two front rooms, there were two other rooms; one of which Jack concluded, from the pleasant odors saluting him in that direction, was the dining-room. He looked in at the key-hole. The room was lighted, and the table seemed to be in readiness for the family. There were no servants present; and Jack concluded that they had gone to the cook-house, which in the Southern States, our readers are aware, is usually located at some little distance from the mansion.

The hungry intruder ventured to open the door, using extreme care in the operation. On the table, there were a pair of cold roast chickens, ham, bread, cake, and other nice things, which proved to be an unconquerable temptation to the unwelcome visitor. Without ceremony, he confiscated one of the chickens and a quantity of bread,--soft-tack, in the vernacular of the blue-jackets; and, his mouth watering at the savory anticipations the feast excited, he beat a hasty but well-conducted retreat.

As the hall was an exposed place, he thought of returning to the cellar to discuss this supply of viands; but, as he passed the door of the apartment opposite the dining-room, he glanced through the key-hole. It was not lighted; and, with the same care he had before used, he opened the door. It was a starlight evening, and sufficient light came through the windows to enable him to see that the room was the planter’s library. But he had hardly entered the apartment before he heard footsteps in the hall. Darting towards a door which he descried in the dim light, he opened it, and shut himself in, just as a person entered from the hall. It was as dark as Erebus in his new quarters; but Jack, after placing his pistols in a position for instant service, felt around him, and ascertained that he had taken refuge in a large closet, which contained stacks of old papers, pamphlets, and books. Hanging on one side were sundry articles of clothing; but our hero hoped they would not be wanted till he had departed. He had not dared to latch the door behind him, lest the noise should attract the attention of the person who had entered. Pushing it open a little, he found that the library had been lighted; and the servant who had performed this service was seated in an easy-chair, occupied with his own reflections. He was a sleek, well-fed negro, dressed like a gentleman; and apparently had no interest whatever in the “jubilee” for which the field-hands in the huts were impatiently praying.

The fellow was evidently waiting for the planter to finish his supper and take possession of the library. He sat there as composed and contented as though he had been the owner of the library. He was certainly unconscious that he was, just at that moment, very much in Jack’s way; for the latter wanted a chance to open the window, and jump out. Jack was provoked at the indifference of the gentlemanly servant, and even considered the propriety of giving him one of the bullets in his revolver: but he rejected this suggestion, as it would have been nothing less than murder; for the fellow was as harmless as he was fat and lazy.

Then he thought he would “appear” to the negro, and, in the confusion which ensued, escape by the front door; but, as this would subject him to a pursuit, he decided to remain quiet, even at the risk of having to stay in the closet till the planter had retired for the night. He concluded, after mature deliberation, that this would not be a very terrible calamity; for the old horse of his dreams could hardly reach him in that comfortable position. One thing, however, he regarded in the light of a calamity; and that was his empty, gnawing, rebellious stomach, which was protesting in its own eloquent language against the deprivations to which it had been cruelly subjected since seven-bells in the morning watch. Whatever happened, he was determined to attend to the claims of this discomfited organ.

Carefully pulling the door to, he detached a wing from the carcass of the chicken, and devoured it. The drumstick and second joint were next depleted of every edible particle; and, in due time, the disintegrated skeleton of the fowl lay in a heap upon a pile of pamphlets, stripped as clean as the buzzards could have picked it. The three large slices of bread also disappeared, and Jack felt better. Nothing was needed but a cup of tea or coffee to complete the feast. Perhaps the negro exquisite in the easy-chair thought there were rats in the planter’s closet when he heard the chicken-bones crack; but, luckily for Jack, he was too indolent to investigate the cause of the strange noises.

Our hero felt perfectly contented at this point of our narrative. I don’t think he would have cared a straw if the servant, or even the master, had opened the closet door when he had finished his supper; for there is something in a full stomach which inspires confidence. If it should ever be our lot to become a brigadier-general, we should never take our brigade into battle except upon a full stomach. Jack again pushed the door open a little, so that he could see into the library. Suddenly the sleek black rose from the easy-chair as though he had received a charge of electricity through his back-bone, and the planter with another gentleman entered the apartment. Of course, the colored gentleman retired.

“Have a cigar, Litchfield,” said the planter.

“Thank’e,” replied the guest; for such he appeared to be. “I always smoke when I get a chance.”

“Eh, Mr. Litchfield?” thought Jack, when he heard that voice, and recognized it as belonging to Lunsley, the pilot. “So you change your name as well as your colors.”

The gentlemen in the library talked about the Rebellion, and especially about the affair of the Middy: and Jack learned that the first-lieutenant and four of the men had been captured; that the others had escaped to the boat, and reached the steamer, which still lay at anchor off the earthwork.

“Well, I suppose it’s about time for me to start,” said Litchfield, _alias_ Lunsley, after they had conversed about the event for half an hour. “But I don’t quite understand the cotton matter yet.”

The planter then proceeded, after closing the hall-door, and declaring that no negro must hear a word about the business, to describe the place where a large steamer, loaded with cotton, was concealed in a bayou some miles above. He was afraid the Union gunboats would discover and appropriate the valuable cargo, or that the Confederate cotton-burners would destroy it. Between these two fires, he was terribly perplexed. He had chartered a steamer, and intended to run his cotton up the Red River, where it would be safe for the present. Lunsley agreed to pilot the boat up, and manage the enterprise.

“But it must be done to-night. That Yankee gunboat will have it in the morning, if you don’t,” said the planter.

“It shall be forty miles up the river before daylight,” replied the pilot.

“Perhaps not!” said Jack to himself, as the two gentlemen left the study.