"You must know the banks of the river," said Klesko. "They will tell you how to run your boat further downstream. For instance, how high would you judge the western bank yonder to be?"
"How do I know?" asked Christopher. "It's a half mile away, if it's an inch."
Klesko shook his head. "You're a tad young to be needin' spectacles."
"I don't need spectacles! There's nothing wrong with my eyesight."
"Must be something wrong, because you cain't tell how high yonder bank stands above the danged river."
"And you can?"
"Course I can. That's a six-foot bank. Last year about this time it was nine feet high. Now what does that tell you?"
"The river is running high for this time of year."
"Is she rising or falling?"
"Rising. There's a lot of driftwood about."
Klesko nodded. "The river has risen, on account of that rain we had last week. But you'll see driftwood awhile after the river's stopped risin'. She's fallin' now. You can see the high watermark on the bank."
"I can scarcely see the bank," said Christopher, thoroughly disgusted, and squinting so hard his eyes hurt.
"Surely you can see that point up ahead. See the cypress on the tip? The water is just over the knees. Make a note of that, boy. That's mighty all-fired important. It tells me there's eight feet of water in the chute down yonder at Cat Island."
"Cat Island?" Christopher saw no island downriver. "Where is that?"
"We'll pass it in the morning."
"You mean to tell me that by looking at those cypress trees you can calculate how much water there is in a chute thirty miles downstream?"
"Now you're gettin' the hang of it," said Klesko, pleased with his pupil's progress. "You don't ordinarily run chutes with the river fallin' unless you're just plain tired of livin'. But we'll have just enough water to do her in the morning."
"I see," said Christopher dubiously.
"Good. You must know the river, boy. You got to learn to read the banks. There'll be half a hundred chutes twixt us and New Orleans, and if the river rises a foot from where it is now we'll be able to run ten of 'em. Rises another foot, and we'll take another ten without breakin' a sweat. But if she falls another foot, there aren't six we'll be able to take, and you've got to know, and be dead certain of your facts, on account of that once you start through a chute there ain't no turnin' back, and if you get caught you might as well start clearin' and plowin' right there, 'cause you could be stuck there till winter."
The river's beauty did not fail to impress Christopher. On both sides the river was hemmed in by unbroken forest, with an occasional opening where some hardy soul had carved out a clearing for his cabin. In the mornings a dense fog often clung to the river like cotton, dissipating slowly as the sun rose. But dusk was his favorite time, when the river turned blood red, then gold in the middle distance, and finally indigo blue at its furthest reaches.
They did not travel at night, opting instead to secure the broadhorn to shore in a likely looking place. The river was entirely too perilous at night. Many a small craft had been rammed and sunk by steamboats, and of course not even Klesko could "read" the river in the dark. The horses were taken ashore and allowed to graze on a long tether. If there was some daylight yet lingering, Nathaniel would go hunting. Sometimes Christopher or O'Connor would accompany him. Shortly after dinner everyone would turn in, exhausted from a long day's labors, and knowing that at first light they would be riding the river again.
As their twelfth day on the Mississippi drew to a close, they put to shore on the near side of a wooded point. After supper, Christopher checked on the horses. He was shocked to discover that one of the thoroughbred mares had slipped its tether, and he hurried back to camp to inform the others.
"I'll find her," he promised, taking up his rifle.
"You ought not to go alone into these woods after dark," admonished Rebecca.
"I'll go with you," said O'Connor, rising from his place at the campfire.
"It's my fault she's gone," said Christopher. He was upset with himself, and spoke brusquely. "I tethered the horses. Napoleon said that for every major defeat there is a major culprit, and in this case it's me. She can't have wandered far. I don't need any help."
Rebecca threw a worried glance at Nathaniel.
"He'll be fine," said the frontiersman, adding another chunk of wood to the blaze. "He knows to fire a shot if he gets into trouble."
Christopher realized early on in his search that he would have to rely on his ears to lead him to the errant thoroughbred. Moonrise was an hour away, and it was so dark in the woods he could scarcely see his hand in front of his face. The underbrush was devilishly thick, and he couldn't help but make a lot of noise passing through it. But he figured that applied to the mare, too.
Before long he thought he heard the horse, and worked his way in the direction of the sound, pausing often to listen for another so as to get his bearings. But he didn't hear anything else for a while except for the sawing of the locusts and the murmur of the great river. When he reached what he thought was the general vicinity of that first sound he waited for a long time, thoroughly frustrated, before hearing another—a rustling sound, a large creature blundering through the brush—and now it was far off to his left. This is impossible, he thought, but he refused to turn back, to give up. He had told the others in no uncertain terms that he didn't need help in finding the wayward horse, and by God he was going to do it himself if the task took all night.
So, swearing under his breath, he struggled to make his way through the brush that tore at his clothes, stumbling over exposed roots and into holes, making for the sound, and when he got there he heard something crashing through the brush straight ahead, so close it startled him, but still he couldn't see anything. Resigned by now to chasing the damned invisible horse through the woods until dawn, he plunged ahead. It occurred to him, belatedly, that maybe it wasn't the mare he was chasing, but a bear or panther. He could still hear the river to his left, and took some consolation from the knowledge that at least he would be able to find his way back to the broadhorn as long as he knew where the river was. Of course, I might be halfway to Natchez by daybreak.
A little while later he saw the flicker of torches up ahead through the trees and, very faintly, voices raised. Curious, he moved closer, assuming that other river travelers had camped on the western bank. He calculated that he was well south of the wooded point, which explained why these torches were not visible from the spot where the broadhorn was moored. How far had he come from his own camp? At least half a mile, perhaps more.
As he drew nearer he saw a flatboat run up on shore in a shallow inlet ringed by cypress trees festooned with Spanish moss. One of the trees was festooned with something else—a man, hanging upside down, tied at the ankles. He was stripped naked, and two men were torturing him, jabbing at his face, groin, buttocks, and feet with their torches. All the hair had been singed off the man's face, which was transformed into a charred, grotesque mask. The man writhed each time the flames seared his flesh. Terrible grunting sounds emerged from his ruined mouth.
A hideous scream set every one of Christopher's already frayed nerve endings aflame. Looking in the direction of the sound, he saw another pair of men, one holding a pig, the other cutting the animal's throat. Here and there lay several more pigs, each being butchered by another man. And there—there on the bank near the flatboat, lay a young boy, dead.
Christopher realized then that the man being tortured had to be Krueger, the farmer he had met at Cully's Landing, the one who was taking a cargo of tobacco and pigs downriver to sell. Yes, it was Krueger, though even his own mother wouldn't recognize him now. And the dead boy was his son, age fifteen.
River pirates!
Christopher's blood ran cold. His first, almost overwhelming impulse was to run. He had to warn the others. Yet he hesitated—feeling as though it was wrong to leave Krueger like this. But what could he do? He counted e
leven pirates—there were others on the flatboat, looking for loot. They were a rough-looking lot, too. Bearded, filthy, armed to the teeth. Human vultures. Sadistic bastards. Why were they torturing Krueger? Why didn't they just kill him and be done with it? Christopher looked at the rifle in his hands. One shot, an act of mercy, and then he could run for it. The pirates would never find him in the night-shrouded woods. But he was scared. He had never been so scared in his life. The sheer brutality of these men shook him to the core.
One of the pirates left the flatboat and approached the two who were taking such delight in torturing Krueger.
"We can't find anything on the boat," he said. "Has he told you anything?"
"I don't think he's got no gold or bank notes stashed, Mr. Morrell."
Morrell. The name sent electric jolts of fear through Christopher. The King of the River Pirates himself. The Reverend Devil in the flesh!
Morrell squatted in front of Krueger and studied what was left of the man's face.
"You've ruined his mouth. He couldn't tell you anything if he wanted to."
"He was cussin' us," said one of the torturers. "So Frenchy stuck the torch in his mouth."
"You're a damned idiot, Frenchy," said Morrell. He rose and turned away, saying, "Kill him."
The one named Frenchy took a cane knife from his belt and cut Krueger open from scrotum to sternum.
Christopher shut his eyes to the grisly scene.
Something came crashing through the brush behind him. With a strangled cry, Christopher rolled over and triggered the rifle, shooting blindly. He glimpsed one of Krueger's pigs in the muzzle flash. The pig shrieked and fell, shot through the head.
Christopher scrambled to his feet and ran for his life.
Over the rasping of the breath in his throat and the pounding of blood in his ears he heard the shouts of the river pirates. Plunging through the woods, he didn't look back, running for all he was worth, falling several times, and the last time he fell twisting his ankle on a root, so that when he stood and tried to put his weight on the ankle it gave way, and he went down again, despair clutching at his heart. He listened hard, trying to subdue his own hard breathing so that he could hear something.
But there was nothing to hear. The woods were quiet. Christopher dared to hope that the river pirates had given up the pursuit. In fact, he couldn't be certain they had come after him at all. Maybe the rifle shot had sent them packing.
Christopher tenderly felt his ankle. It was already swelling. He lurched to his feet and tried to use his rifle as a crutch. He hobbled a few more yards, then realized he could no longer hear the murmur of the river. Panic gripped him. He was lost! Why was the night so dark? A moment later, for the first time, he heard thunder, distant rolling thunder, and he knew there would be no moon tonight. Which way to go? If he chose wrongly . . .
But he couldn't stay put and wait for dawn. He had to warn the others. Had they heard the rifle shot? If so, they were probably out looking for him. What if they ran into the pirates instead? No, he couldn't sit still and wait out the night. He had to keep moving.
He had gone another fifty yards, slow and painful going, when he heard something rustling in the brush. Another one of Krueger's pigs? That damned mare? Nathaniel? One of Morrell's cutthroats? Christopher froze, waiting with bated breath, straining his eyes in a futile attempt to see in the pitch black night.
The shadows seemed to move—he saw the movement out of the corner of his eye, and turned just as something very hard and heavy hit him in the back of the head. White light exploded behind his eyes and he fell. Semi conscious, he groped for the pistol in his belt. Then he caught a glimpse of a leering, bearded face with yellow teeth, saw the club rise and fall, and in another bright flash of pain he was gone.
Chapter 17
When he came to, Christopher did not understand at first what had happened to him. A moment passed before his vision cleared, and the first thing he saw was the chest and forelegs of a horse—upside down. It took him a moment to come to the realization that he was the one who was upside down, not the horse. Lifting his head, he saw that his hands and feet were bound, wrists and ankles lashed so tightly that he had lost all feeling in his extremities. He was tied to a pole which was secured at either end to the saddles of two men on horseback. His last conscious thought was that it was morning—then he passed out again.
Regaining consciousness a second time, he found himself bound to a stout pole, his hands tied to an iron ring at the top of the post. It was early in the afternoon—the sun was blazing down from a burnished sky. His head felt as though it were going to explode. He was naked, and his flesh was not only painfully scorched by the sun, but further tormented by the bite of ants and the sting of mosquitoes.
A village stood before him—a collection of ramshackle hovels, erected in no apparent order. There were no streets, no rhyme or reason to the place at all. A few scraggly trees, and beyond the shacks lay the canebrake, an impenetrable wall of cane standing ten feet high, and seeming to stretch on into infinity. The trees marked the progress of a turgid stream. He assumed that this water source was one of the main reasons the village had been located here.
As for the denizens of this filthy, desolate, godforsaken place—they were everywhere. Christopher had never in his life seen such a motley crew. Dirty, naked children played in the dirt between the shanties. Women washed clothes in the stream, or toiled over cookfires built out in front of their hovels. Twenty or so men were collected in the space between two shacks. By the sound of it, a game of chance was under way. Suddenly, voices soared in anger, curses were flung, and the crowd parted as two men locked in hand-to-hand combat, knives flashing in the sunlight, rolled across the hardpack. No one attempted to intervene. On the contrary, the others cheered the combatants on, and hasty wagers were made as to the eventual winner of the struggle.
The fight was of short duration. A blade struck deep. Blood spewed in a scarlet geyser from a slashed throat and the dying man's bootheels drummed against the earth. The victor rose and spat upon his victim before returning to the game. Another man nudged the corpse experimentally with the toe of his boot. Apparently satisfied that no life remained, he proceeded to relieve the dead man of his boots. Several more men took their cue and descended like vultures on their recently departed colleague. In a matter of minutes the corpse had been stripped clean. The carcass was left to lie in the dust. A yellow cur dog wandered over to sniff it, then went on its way.
Staring at the corpse, Christopher was struck by the enormity of his predicament. He was a prisoner of river pirates in their lair, and if there was such a place as a hell on earth this must surely be it. Here he would die. Of that he was already firmly convinced. It was just a matter of time, in a place where life was so cheap. He would never see his mother or Nathaniel—or Greta—again.
Two questions plagued him. Why was he still alive? And had his mother and the rest of his party escaped the clutches of these fiends?
It struck him as singularly odd that no one was paying him the slightest attention—and just as this occurred to him he let out a hoarse yowl of pain as he was stuck from behind without warning, the sharpened end of a stick thrust into his back near the kidney, hard enough to pierce his flesh and draw blood. A grimy-faced boy of ten or eleven years danced around the post, yipping in delight, brandishing the stick. When he jabbed at Christopher's groin, Christopher lashed out with a foot and kicked him head over heels into the dust. The boy got up and ran away, screaming as though he had been scalped.
Suddenly it seemed as though everyone in the village had stopped what they were doing to stare at him—and Christopher didn't like at all the way they were staring.
A woman appeared out of nowhere, running at him, yelling at the top of her lungs in Spanish. Christopher was intimately acquainted with French, thanks to his exhaustive study of that language while at West Point, but when it came to Spanish he was woefully ignorant. But he surmised that the woman was furious, and
when she paused thirty feet away to pick up a stone and hurl it at him he knew who she was mad at. He assumed that the boy he had kicked belonged to her. The stone glanced off the point of his shoulder. She looked around for another weapon. Seeing a pile of firewood, she snatched up a piece as big around as Christopher's forearm and started for him.
In no mood to endure more pain, Christopher yelled at her to keep her distance. But she didn't understand, or wouldn't listen, and kept coming. He kicked at her—his only defense—but she was quick, agile, and she eluded him, managed to hit him just above the knee with the stick. She circled around behind the post and landed a few more blows. A crowd was gathering, moving in closer to form a ring around the post to which Christopher was helplessly lashed, and they thought it was great sport, and cheered the woman on.
A blow to the head sent bright lights dancing across Christopher's eys, and he sagged, head lolling forward on his chest. He wasn't unconscious, but pretended to be, hoping that by playing possum he would escape further punishment. But the wrathful woman wasn't satisfied. She came around in front of him and raised the stick. He lashed out in desperation with a foot and kicked her squarely in the face, and she went down. The crowd cheered, thinking he had been intentionally devious, concocting a ruse to lure her into range, and they appreciated cunning subterfuge. Stunned, the woman lay in the dirt, drooling blood. When she raised her head to look up at Christopher there was such naked malice in her eyes that he knew she was going to kill him if she could.
Gone to Texas Page 17