The Lead of Honour — Background and Themes

I. Youth and Ambition II. The Captain’s Advice III. Juleps and Politics IV. A Gentleman of the Old School V. The House of the Spaniards

I. Pictures in the Fire II. The Opened Wound III. A Demand of Honour IV. His First Case V. Magnetism VI. To Be Hanged by the Neck until Dead VII. One Means of Escape VIII. The Captain’s Joke IX. A Promise for the Future

I. After Seven Years II. The Voice of the Past III. Mammy Dicey’s Story IV. Slaves for Stakes V. Candlelight VI. His Wedding Present VII. The Hour of the Wedding VIII. Orange Blossoms and Prison Bars IX. The Honourable Sargent Everett X. The Lead of Honour XI. A Road to Happiness XII. The Music of His Voice XIII. The Garden of Shadows

Beyond the gleam of the torch basket at the masthead, the bosom of the great Father of Waters widened into a sea, infinite in its solitude, desolately vast in the impending gloom of the purple night. An orange coloured moon hovered on the dark strip of the horizon; the hot breeze of a Southern August was stirring fitfully.

He was standing alone on the upper deck of the boat, looking straight before him with that intensity of gaze and purpose in his deep hazel eyes that our grandfathers tell us about—a wonderful expression in which the energy of his thoughts seemed to throw out a flamelike glow holding the observer spellbound and charmed into forgetfulness. He was young then, little over twenty, and his thin, slight figure, erect and full of simple dignity, was clothed in plain garments of black, relieved at the wrist bands with fine white linen and at the collar by a high stock whose pointed ends extended up beyond his chin. His face, delicately moulded and oval to perfection, had written upon it, in the freshness of its youth, all the hopes and desires and ambitions that remained with him to the end—for it seems that he never lost his youthful appreciation of life, nor knew what it meant to sink under disappointments. In his hand he carried a small cane which he used to aid him in walking and in standing firmly; for one leg was shrunken into a slight deformity.

On the intense, lonely stillness of the night the throbbing puffs of the engines seemed the voice of the great river—relentless, solemn, insistent. The tinkling of the pilot’s bell sounded intermittently from the engine-room; and monotonously reiterated, came the weird call of the leadsman as he sounded the depths of the uncertain channel.

"M-a-r-k eight! M-a-r-k eight! Quarter less eight!"

Sargent Everett turned away from the deepening gloom of the river, restless and impatient, now that his destination was so near. Three days, if all went well, would see him in the town he had chosen for the commencement of his career.

The leadsman’s call broke more harshly on the night. "Mark four! Mark four! Quarter—less—"

Suddenly the pulsing of the engines stopped and the boat drifted into the enveloping shadows of the shore. The branches of a tree swept the upper deck, leaving sprays of moss tangled in the railing. A bell crashed out a signal of alarm and the boat came to a full stop.

"Tie up and get out there and sound that channel, Jiggetts," came a sonorous voice from the lower deck. "I’m not a-countin’ on goin’ a-ground here to-night. God knows what this old river’s been up to since we passed up, two months ago."

Directly following the words, a huge line of rope went coiling through the air to the shore. Two negroes sprang after it, hastily wrapping it around a mammoth cottonwood tree that towered out of the darkness. A skiff shot out from the boat; two men at the oars, and one standing well forward recording the depth as they moved carefully along.

In a few minutes the boat became enveloped once more in the stillness of the night; the flare from the torch baskets at the masthead gleamed upon a shore of endless willows, a distant line of cypresses, a land where seemingly no explorer had yet penetrated. The call of the leadsman grew fainter and fainter, dying away at last to an echo.

"Mighty sorry to tie up." The Captain’s voice broke the stillness as he approached the young traveller, "but I reckon it’s better than runnin’ on one of them bars and restin’ there till another boat comes along and pulls us off. I reckon you’d rather run the chance, hey, just so’s you could get to the end of your travellin’. I know how you feel. You’re just itching to get there this minute and get to work—ain’t it the truth?"

The Captain, a rugged pioneer, known from one end of the river to the other, shoved his hands deep into his pockets and peered into the darkness.

"Yes, I want to get there, Captain. I’m impatient and restless and all that,—and yet," he hesitated, following the glance of the man beside him. "I believe I’ve fallen under the spell of this old river. At first it made me think of the ocean in its breadth and loneliness, but I see now that it is not the same at all. This wilderness of lowlands that we have been passing through for the last week makes it seem even more desolate and forsaken. Yet—in its very solitude one feels a certain nearness to God," he ended reflectively.

The old Captain’s eyes shifted from the black shore, deepening, as his gaze lingered on the broad expanse of water, into an expression much like that of a dog that gazes into the eyes of the master it worships.

"We-ell, I reckon I’m sorter fond of it, too. When a feller’s lived with a thing fifty years he’s mighty likely to have some sorter feelin’ for it." His eyes twinkled as he continued, "Y’ know, sir, that old river always puts me in mind of a woman; it’s changing its mind all the time, it’s cantankerous—you can’t any more count on it than a bad penny, and when it takes a notion to change its channel, it just goes ahead and does it and don’t say a thing. Why, sir, haven’t I see it cut off ten miles in one place by goin’ straight through when it used to make a bend! I like it, though, just because it’s notionate and don’t bother about anybody. D’ you ever hear the old sayin’ that when the good Lord made it, He washed His hands in it and told it to go where it damn pleased? Well, sir," the old fellow threw back his head and let out a gust of laughter, "it’s been doin’ that pretty nigh ever since!"

He turned around as he ended so that he looked into the young man’s face, and in the moments of silence that followed, the mass of wrinkles about his eyes moved into an expression of half mirth, half sadness. He had liked the youngster, as he called him, since the moment he had come aboard at St. Louis and taken passage for the South. Something in Sargent Everett’s peculiarly winning manner, in his fresh good humour and manliness, or perhaps a sympathy for his deformity, had awakened an interest in the old boatman. What it was he did not stop to consider, but he liked the boy, and now that his long journey was nearing its end, he felt a pang of regret that was new to him. Looking into the bright, hopeful face before him, he thought that, after all, youth was the only period of life worth living.

"An’ so you’re another one of them fellers who’re comin’ down here to make their fortunes," he finally said, as if more in comment than in question.

The young fellow’s face brightened responsively.

"I hope it will be my fortune—but at present it is more a living I am seeking."

The Captain put out both hands, taking firm hold of the young fellow’s arms and looking squarely into his face.

"Then why in the devil did you come down here?" he said sharply. "It’s no place for the likes of you! You’re not the sort of youngster for this kind of rough life. Why didn’t you go to a big town, son? This country’s for pioneers."

The young fellow drew himself away, a look of pain flashing across his face.

"I’m not delicate," he said quickly. "I’m very strong. I was the best swimmer at college. You think because my leg is bad that I can’t do what other men have done! Give me time and I’ll show you!"

"I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, lad," the old fellow answered slowly, relighting the pipe which he held always in his mouth. "I know darned well you’ve got grit enough to pull you through, but why, of all places in this country, you should have chosen Natchez—kinder puzzles me. Haven’t you ever heerd about what they call ’Natchez-under-the-Hill?’ Why, sir, it’s the toughest hole on the river!"

"It was the offer I had that brought me, Captain. New England is crowded with school-teachers; there was nothing for me to do, and I had to work. My father was a sea captain, as I told you, and in the year 1812 he lost everything. Since then we have been very poor. I had to do something—and I had this offer down here."

The Captain drew at his pipe reflectively, letting the words of the young man die away on the stillness of the night.

"So you’re goin’ to be a school-teacher!" The words came so frankly full of disappointment that the young fellow laughed outright.

"Not always, I hope," he answered, still smiling. "As soon as I finish studying for the examinations, I hope to be admitted to the bar. Then I can practise law."

The Captain gave an expressive grunt.

"That’s worse yet—a lawyer—begad! Why, boy, what chance’ll you have in this hotbed of pioneers and adventurers that’s been flockin’ down here for the last fifteen years? Why, sir, with shin-plaster currency and rich cotton plantations and more slaves than they know what to do with, and gambling and drinking all the time—what can a youngster like you expect to do!" The old fellow’s head wagged doubtfully. "I’d a heap rather see you go all the way down to New ’leans with me and take a vessel back to where you come from than stop off in this here country," he added with another expressive grunt and a deep dig into his pockets.

"You think, then," the young fellow smiled with a courage that felt no dampening from the advice given. "You think I’m not fit to make my way in the community you describe?"

"Yes, sir, that’s exactly what I’m a-thinkin’. You’ve been brought up different from these folks and you haven’t the first inkling of the life down here. It’ll go powerful hard on you and I don’t see where the good’ll come in."

"Still you are bound to admit that it is a good place for a lawyer," the youth answered, unabashed.

"Ye-es, I grant you that. Natchez is only about fifty miles from Jackson, and I suppose your head’s already set on the Capitol. ’Tain’t what you’re goin’ to make out of it that’s a-worryin’ me—it’s what in the devil’s going to become of you, with that set of reckless spendthrifts. Ho, there, Jiggetts!" He sprang forward and peered down at the returning skiff. "How ’bout the channel?"

"All right, sir. We can make it safe. Same as when we came up," a voice answered out of the darkness.

"How ’bout wood—got enough?" the Captain called down to the engineer who stood on the lower deck.

"Plenty to get us to ole man Vick’s plantation, and I’m a-countin’ on bein’ thar to-morrow mornin’."

"Good! Let’s pull out and get ahead agin."

A little later the boat was pushing towards the middle stream, the shore dwindling on each side to a thin, black ribbon. The moon had risen well into the sky and was shedding its cold light over the glassy surface of the river; the deep puffs of the engines sent columns of black smoke far up into the clear heavens.

"Come over here, youngster," called the Captain from the forward deck, where he had settled himself into a chair, his feet elevated on the railing to the level of his head, the glow from his pipe gleaming full into his face. "Come over here and sit down. You ain’t sleepy, yet, I reckon—are you?"

From where they sat the forward part of the lower deck was in full view. Two torch baskets, filled with blazing pine, brilliantly illuminated that part of the boat. On both sides were piles of meal and corn, sacks of salt meat and barrels of flour, and two bales of cotton on their way to New Orleans, and thence to Boston by sea—the first bales of that season.

In the centre, where the light fell strongest, was a group of negroes; some lying full length in the deep sleep of exhaustion, others gathered in small circles from which came the sound of rattling dice. The twanging of a banjo and the sound of many shuffling feet floated out softly on the silent river.

When the young man had taken his seat beside the Captain, the old fellow laid his hand on his shoulder, almost affectionately.

"If you’re bent and determined on gettin’ off at Natchez," he began between short puffs at his pipe, "I’ve a mind to give you some advice. Want to hear it?"

"Of course I do, Captain," he answered quickly. "But I don’t want you to think I shall not succeed there. When a fellow is willing to work, and overflowing with energy and ambition, success is bound to come. I know it will come to me—I’m going to it. And if the fight is to be a difficult one, as you say," he added after a moment’s hesitation, "perhaps it will make me all the stronger for the struggle. You are not going to discourage me, Captain, no matter how wild or savage you paint this country. I am going to stop here."

The Captain’s heavy hand fell on the young man’s knee with a hearty slap, and for a moment he looked into the brave face before him yearningly.

"You’ve got the right spirit, lad. I’m mighty glad to see it, too. But y’ see I’m a powerful lot of years older than you—how many d’ I tell you t’other day?"

"We-ell, you see, forty-three years of experience is worth something, I’d let you know. I’ve seen this country almost from the beginning of the white settlements. I used to come down here on flat boats with my pa, way back in the days of the Revolution, and when we reached New ’leans, we’d go all the way back to Vincennes in wagons. Ugh! those were days for you! And nights, too, with panthers howling round our prairie schooners, and Indians tryin’ to slip up and scalp you ’most any time. Natchez belonged to the Spaniards then—you’ll see old Gayosa’s government house still standin’ there. But now, since Mississippi’s been let in as a State, it seems to me like ’most everybody’s been tryin’ to get down here. If many more of you Yankees come on down, we’ll soon be a populated country."

"Then you like Yankees—you do not think that will make me unpopular—down here?" the young fellow interrupted.

"Shucks! It ain’t where a man comes from." The old fellow uncrossed his legs and crossed them again. "It’s the man himself. That’s fust what I was about to tell you. If a man’s a good feller, then folks’ll treat him like one; but if he comes down here with a lot of bottled-up notions from that there cold country of yours, they’ll not have much use for him. And that’s where you’ve got to be precious careful. I tell you right now, if you make a hit at the start, it won’t take you long to win out. Go in for a good time, show ’em you’re a good feller, and take my word for it, they’ll think you’re a heap smarter than if you spend your time tryin’ to ram your book knowledge down their throats."

The young fellow remained silent, reflecting over the Captain’s advice. Through its crudities, he was beginning to see and appreciate the viewpoint of one whom experience had made a reader of human nature.

"At first, go easy, and take things as they come; don’t air your own opinions every chance you get; don’t strut around like some young lawyers I see, with a long face, and a head full of—what d’ you call that feller that wrote the big book?"

"Yes, sir, that’s the one. Don’t always be talkin’ about him and lookin’ as independent as a wood-sawyer’s clerk. You know exactly what I mean." The Captain tilted his chair to a more dangerous angle.

"If you’ll make yourself one of ’em, you’ll come out all right—I’ll bet my bottom dollar on that! For you’ve got a way with you, as the sayin’ goes, and that’s the principal thing a feller needs in this world."

"The only trouble is," the young man answered, smiling broadly, "that I have got some old-fashioned principles, as you call them, and convictions, too."

"Damn your convictions." The Captain’s chair came to the floor with a crash. "That’s what ruins more men than anything else—convictions! I say if you’ve got ’em, keep ’em to yourself—don’t let ’em out! Remember, you’re goin’ to a country where everything is wide open and you’ve got to be one of the boys—or you might just as well turn your head back to where you come from."

The young fellow laughed heartily. Edging his chair closer to the Captain, he watched the play of his features in the glow from his pipe. The thousand wrinkles about his eyes changed eloquently with the intenseness of his words. "Evidently you have decided that I am terribly solemn, Captain. But you are wrong," he said, still laughing easily. "I enjoy life, and a good time as much as anybody—perhaps more than most! Only I haven’t taken that enjoyment in gambling and drinking, which you seem to think so necessary."

For answer, the old man’s head shook doubtfully.