Mignon (25 page)

“Leave her out, if you don’t mind.”

“All right. She has her troubles, though.”

“... What troubles?”

“Death. She was in a funeral procession.”

“When was this, Sandy?”

“Today. The
Forest Rose
had to heave to and idle in the current while this hearse went over the draw, a little bunch of people following along behind. It was kind of pathetic, at that. No horses now, you know—at least available to the Rebs. Pulling the hearse was Mr. Landry on one side of the tongue, with a rope harness hooked to one singletree, that fellow Burke to the other. She kind of brought up the rear, in that black dress she wears, looking damned cute, with the wind whipping her bottom.”

“I said leave her out!
And
her bottom!”

“Bill, you’re still stuck on that girl.”

“I’m not. I hope never to see her again. But—”

“You are. If you weren’t, you’d be the first to tell me that bottom is all mine, if I can manage to get it. Well, I’d love to, I own, if it weren’t—”

“You want a puck on the jaw?”

“... Who died, do you have any idea?”

“What do I care who died?”

“I’m just curious, that’s all.”

Two days later it was done, and we’d succeeded only too well. We’d got a rise all right, five feet of it at least, reaching back to the head of the falls, and enough, you’d have thought, for the
Great Eastern
to turn around in. Still the Navy wanted more depth, and as no bracket could possibly hold out there near the middle, we put six cribs in, like the ones on the other side, and the Navy filled them with stone. But even that wasn’t enough, and the Navy drove pilings, in threes braced with planks, and hauled four barges up that they moored to the pilings with hawsers. The water rose still more, until you stood there holding your breath, watching the whole thing shake from the pressure backed up behind it and its own will to float, knowing as you did that something had to give. The whole Army started to yell that now was the time, or never, that the Navy had to come down. They built a fire, a great thing of pine logs that blazed to the sky from the burning resin, so it looked like a scene from hell. The idea was to give light for the boats to come down by, but still nothing happened, and word came through the woods that the Navy didn’t have steam. That was the last straw, and the yells began to sound ugly.

Still, I was done, and the captain was, and we were stretched out by his fire, sipping some coffee he had, when suddenly Sandy was there. By then, the Navy or anything like it had kind of a rat-poison look, so the welcome he got from the captain was not of a rousing kind. But when he came up with the news, and made it pretty curt, that the reason no boats could come down was “this insane fire you’ve built, that has blinded all our pilots,” it kind of quenched the discussion, and I could feel Sandy out, as I thought he had stuff on his mind. “Bill,” he said when the captain subsided, “this may be nothing at all—a mare’s nest pure and simple. But I keep thinking about it.”

“Go on,” I said. “Shoot.”

“My boat,” he began, “the
Neosho
, is moored to the right bank up there—and of course we don’t keep a lookout posted. Just the same, a seaman was there, in the pilothouse polishing brass, when he saw a skiff upstream—a joeboat, they call it. Square-ended thing that seemed to be drifting down. Then he didn’t see it, that’s all.”

“You mean it disappeared?”

“That’s it. It was there, and then it wasn’t there.”

“Could have grounded. Maybe bushes hid it.”

“Maybe. Maybe.”

“What did your skipper say?”

“Told the boy thanks.”

“Well, that’s not much of a help.”

“Bill, I can’t shake it out of my head, the threats that man made, your friend Mr. Landry, as we left that day—and he wasn’t just talking to talk;
he meant something
. And he has some motive, I gathered, for wanting this dam to go out?”

“Just a million dollars is all.”

“That’s in cotton, up at Shreveport?”

“That he can grab with Burke as godpappy.”

“Providing, Bill, that the Navy doesn’t get out, and the Army, to save its face, marches upriver again, ’stead of down?”

“Which
I
say we should do,” said the captain.

“Now you’ve got it,” I said.

“Then Mr. Landry,” said Sandy, “if he had a skiff, if he brought one down on a tether, if he hauled it into the bushes and had it there tonight, he could fill it with powder, couldn’t he? And start it drifting down? To explode it against our dam?”

“That danger,” said the Captain, “occurred to
me
.”

“At least he could try,” I said.

“Still,” said Sandy, “where would he get powder?”

“
Out of his store!
” I yelped, jumping up.

And as they both stared, I told them: “Out of stock that he kept on hand to sell for blasting stumps! Now we know who died! It was as many kegs of powder as would fit in a nailed-up coffin. Captain, have I your permission to scout these woods with Sandy?”

“I’ll scout them with you, Cresap.”

H
E BELTED HIMSELF FOR DUTY
with a Colt sidearm he had, a .44 six in a holster. Then, so I needn’t carry a musket, he called a lieutenant and borrowed a sidearm for me, another Colt in a holster. Then he called the supply sergeant and had a lantern brought, the regular Army bull’s-eye, but didn’t light it yet. All that took a half-hour or so, and it was half past eight at least, when he, Sandy, and I started out to look for our skiff. By that time, we each knew the woods like the back of our hand, yet it was suddenly strange, especially in the light of the fire, which made everything a glare of dancing light or else a dancing shadow. But what got Sandy was the few sentries we met. “It makes my blood run cold,” he said one time; “bivouacs everywhere, thousands of men around putting this dam in, and hardly one on duty to guard it from destruction.” But the captain wasn’t impressed. “You know what a sentry means?” he asked Sandy sourly. “He’s not like a fencepost or mailbox that you put there and then forget about. He’s a man, who does a two and six, and it takes a guard to post him, four men and a corporal, a special place to sleep him, and a mess squad to feed him. Who has that many men, and who takes that much trouble?”

They both had a case, I thought, but it was too dark and the going much too rough for me to get into the discussion. We pressed on to the place where the skiff had been seen, a spot across from the
Neosho
, which was lit, with banjos banging on deck, to the wreck of the steamer
Woodford
. We saw nothing, not even the ghost of a skiff, and had to start on back. We went several hundred yards and then had to cross a bridge over a little stream called, I believe, Rock Creek, that ran down to the river from the high ground known as Spanish Hill. And as we started over, my nose caught something I couldn’t mistake. It was the sweetish, heavy smell of perique smoking tobacco, and I knew of course who used that. I whispered to Captain Seymour to stay where he was but to get his lantern lit. Then I told Sandy to take one side of the stream while I took the other, and comb it down to the river. But the captain, being armed, reversed me, taking one bank of the stream while Sandy handled the light. We crept along, having perhaps two hundred feet to cover from the bridge to the river. Up in the trees it was light, as the glare from the fire flickered, but down in the stream bed, in under the bank, it was dark as pitch. And then all of a sudden, sounding almost in my ear, he said very quietly: “Skiff’s here. I can hear the water slapping her.”

“River’s right there,” I said.

“Gregg! Bring your lantern!
Now!
”

“Aye, sir!” called Sandy. “Coming, lit.”

He must have already lit it, because now he shot its beam, and there was the skiff on a sandbank, her painter made fast to a bush. But there too, staring at me, were two tremendous eyes in a pale, beautiful face. In a thicket nearby Mr. Landry and Burke were crouching, but what froze the blood in my veins was the realization that here with this fatal evidence was Mignon.

“Well there it is, a floating torpedo.”

The captain almost whispered it, at the same time covering the prisoners; then, as Sandy held the light, we all three crept closer to look. It was the usual square-end joeboat, with four kegs up near one end, held with wire two-and-two. Each had a cork in the bung, with a copper cap in the cork. Leading out over the end, set in a screwed-on oarlock, was an outrigger thing made of fishing pole, and wired to that were four prongs, thin rods made of iron, that led to the copper caps. Controlling the pole was a spring, also bound on with wire, of the kind used in store scales. In the other end of the boat was a pile of chain attached by a heavy staple, apparently meant as a drag once the craft was started down, to hold it on its course, and especially to keep the business end pointed to the dam. “Quite a contrivance,” said the captain. “No wonder they took all night getting it wired up.” And then: “Lieutenant Gregg, I’m not organized to guard this bunch tonight—and besides it could happen that if something goes wrong at the dam I’ll need every man I have. Could you take them up to your boat?”

“I can hail and ask for orders,” said Sandy.

And then, as he still stared at the skiff: “But it does seem to me that before we talk about
them
, we ought to dismantle this mine. It’s dangerous, even sitting here.”

“
We
ought to? They
have
to, you mean.”

He turned to Landry and Burke, who hadn’t opened their mouths. “Hey you,” he roared, “get in this skiff and uncouple it. Disconnect this outrigger, and especially these prongs that lead to the caps.”

“Then—stand back,” said Mr. Landry.

“Don’t worry, we will.”

Then the captain noticed that Burke hadn’t moved. “You too,” he bellowed, waving the gun. “Get in there and help.”

“Me man, I’m not a mechanic,” said Burke.

“No? Then you’re learning, right now!”

“Disarm him first,” I warned.

“That’s right. I should have done it before.”

He slapped Landry for weapons, didn’t find any, made a half-hearted slap at her. Then he turned to Burke. If Burke made a swipe at his gun I can’t rightly say. It seemed to me that he did, and I opened my mouth to yell. It must have seemed so to the captain, and he fired, and Burke pitched into the stream, lying there in a heap, water rippling over his head. She screamed and started to whisper. “Speak louder!” I snarled. “He can’t hear you!” Then I could have cut my tongue out; she was praying, in French.

“That’s not so good,” growled the captain.

No one said anything, and for some moments the chill settled down, with her still whispering, the river lapping the boat, the stream purling at Burke. And then, in a half-hysterical way, the captain turned on Mr. Landry, yelling: “Didn’t you hear me? Start dismantling, I said!”

“I’m sorry, it can’t be done.”

“You’re telling
me
what can be done?”

“You want to be blown sky-high?”

Mr. Landry wasn’t fazed at the gun the Captain was waving, and seemed scientifically interested in explaining what must be done: The torpedo couldn’t be touched; it would have to be exploded. “I’ll be glad to show you why,” he said, wading into the stream. But he didn’t point to the kegs, or approach the outrigger end of the skiff. Instead, he picked up the chain, and with a tremendous kick, sent the skiff into Red River. I saw the flash, I heard the report, I suppose I glimpsed Mr. Landry falling over beside Burke. But all I could really think of was that dreadful, destructive thing that was plunging down on our dam, her kegs connected up, her drag chain keeping her headed. I didn’t wait to know who was killed, but went splashing into the river, fighting my way waist-deep, trying to catch up, to grab the chain, to do anything to head off what was coming. Then, to my horror, in the glare of the fire ahead, I saw one end of the skiff rise on a sunken rock, and then I had my hands on the gunnel. Then I was wrestling it, trying to tip it over, to spill those kegs into the water before that outrigger hit something. At last I got a capsize and the danger was over. Then I was spinning, as the current swept me along, and then I broke into ten thousand pieces as my game leg hit a rock that was sticking up. I heard screams coming out of my mouth, and then heard nothing but a ringing in my ears. Then bushes touched my face, and the lantern was shining on me. A cutter was there by the bank, so close I could almost touch it, and seamen were standing around. Then I caught the smell of Russian Leather, and she pulled my head against her. “Speak to me, Willie!” she whispered. “Say something!”

“Yes,” I said. “I’m all right.”

“Kiss me.
Kiss me!
”

“... Kind of public for that, don’t you think?”

“Willie! They’re fixing to do something to me, for what we tried with that boat! You may not see me again! Kiss me, tell me you love me!”

“You know I do, don’t you?”

Then we both kissed, sweet, long, and holy.

All during that, the captain held the lantern; he was soaking wet, so I knew who had got me out. When the seamen had put her in the cutter and shoved off for the other side, he half-carried me back to the bivouac and began bellowing for an ambulance to take me to the courthouse, “where you’ll be under a surgeon, who’ll put you in for discharge, unless I miss my guess, as I seriously doubt if you’ll be fit for duty any more.” But no ambulance came, and he stripped off my clothes, did the same for his own, and hung all our things on a line that he stretched between trees, where they’d get the heat of the fire. Then he wrapped me in a blanket, pulled one over himself, and sat there a while thinking. Then: “That girl,” he said, “what is she to you?”

“In all but name, my wife.”

“She’s in damned serious trouble.”

“She damned well knows it.”

“... Or she would be, except for you.”

“What have I got to do with it?”

“You destroyed the evidence against her.”

“Oh—you mean the skiff?”

“And powder and wiring and outrigger.”

“Well, what did you want me to do—let it go sailing downstream to blow the dam up so they’d have a case to hang her? What’s more important to the Navy, their boats or one poor girl’s neck?”