CHAPTER VI.
SQUIRE FISHLEY.
Ham was quick-tempered, and I hoped he would get over the vindictivefeelings which he manifested towards me. At the same time, I could nothelp thinking that he was fully in earnest when he told me I had notseen the end of it. Of Ham's moral attributes the least said would bethe soonest mended. Certainly he was not a young man of high and noblepurposes, like Charley Woodworth, the minister's son. Captain Fishleyhimself, as I had heard Clarence say, and as I knew from what I had seenand heard myself, was given to low cunning and overreaching. If he couldmake a dollar, he made it, and did not stand much upon the order of hismaking it.
I cannot say that he put prairie sand into the sugar, or put an ouncebullet into the side of the scale which contained the goods; but somepeople accused him of these things, and from what I knew of the man Icould not believe that he was above such deeds. Ham was an apt scholar,and improved upon the precept and example of his father. I had heard himbrag of cheating the customers, of mean tricks put upon the inexperienceof women and children. If he had been a young man of high moralpurposes, I might have hoped that we had seen the end of our quarrel.
I could not help thinking of this subject during the rest of my ride toRiverport, and I could not get rid of a certain undefined dread ofconsequences in the future. I criticise Ham and his father in the lightof my own after experience rather than from any settled opinions which Ihad at the time; and I don't wish it to be understood that I was anybetter myself than I ought to be. I had no very distinct aspirationsafter goodness and truth. My character had not been formed. My dearlittle sister was my guide and Mentor. If I did wrong, she wept andprayed for me; and I am sure she saved me from many an evil deed by thesweet influence of her pure and holy life. If I had drank in more ofher gentle spirit, the scene between Ham and myself could not havetranspired.
I reached the post-office in Riverport, and took the mail-bag forTorrentville into the wagon, leaving the one I had brought down. Then Idrove to the hotel, and inquired for Squire Fishley. The landlord toldme that he was engaged with a party of gentlemen in a private room.Fortunately I was in no hurry, for I could not think of disturbing aperson of so much consequence as Squire Fishley. I never reached homewith the mail till nine o'clock, and the bag was not opened till thenext morning, when sorting the mail was Ham's first business. I droveDarky into a shed, and amused myself by looking around the premises.
I walked about for half an hour, and then asked the landlord to tellSquire Fishley that I was waiting to take him up to his brother's. I wastold that my passenger was just going down to the boat to see somefriends off, and directed to put the squire's trunk into the wagon, anddrive down to the steamboat landing. The landlord conducted me into theentry, and there, for the first time, I saw the captain's brother. Hewould have been a good-looking man under ordinary circumstances, but hewas as boozy as an owl!
I was astonished, shocked, at this spectacle; for, unlike politicians ingeneral, Squire Fishley had made his reputation, and his politicalcapital, on his high moral and religious character. I had often heardwhat a good man the distinguished senator was, and I was horrified atseeing him drunk. With unsteady gestures, and in maudlin tones, hepointed out his trunk to me, and I put it into the wagon. I did not seehim again till he reached the steamboat landing. He went on board withtwo other gentlemen, and was absent another half hour.
The bell of the steamer rang furiously for the start, and I began to beafraid that my passenger's devotion to his friends would lead him toaccompany them down the river. I went up into the cabin, and found himtaking a "parting drink" with them. I told him the boat was juststarting; he hastily shook hands with his companions, and accompanied medown to the plank. I crossed it, and had hardly touched the shorebefore I heard a splash behind me. I turned, and saw that Squire Fishleyhad toppled into the river. His last dram appeared to be the ounce thathad broken the camel's back.
I saw the current bear him under the guards of the boat, where, in thedarkness, he was lost to my view. I ran, followed by a dozen idlers, tothe stern of the boat, and presently the helpless tippler appearedagain. A raft of floating logs lay just below the steamer. I cast offthe up-stream end of one of them, and the current swung it out in theriver. Leaping astride it, I pushed off, just in time to intercept theunfortunate senator, who had sense enough left to grasp it.
"Hold on tight, squire!" I cried to him.
I worked along the log to the place where he was, and assured myselfthat he had a secure hold. Beyond keeping myself afloat, I was ashelpless as he was, for I could not do anything to guide or propel ourclumsy bark. We had disappeared from the view of the people on shore,for the night was, as Captain Fishley had predicted, very dark.
I think we floated half a mile down the river, and I heard personsshouting far above us, in boats. We were approaching a bend in thestream, where I hoped the current would set us near enough to the shoreto enable me to effect a landing. Just then the steamer came puffingalong; but her course took her some distance from us. She passed us, andin the swell caused by her wheels we were tossed up and down, and I wasafraid the squire would be shaken from his hold. I grasped him by thecollar with one hand, and kept him in position till the commotion of thewater had partially subsided.
But the swell did us a good turn, for it drove the log towards theshore, at the bend of the stream, and I found that I could touch bottom.With a hold for my feet, I pushed the timber towards the bank till oneend of it grounded. I then helped the squire to walk up the shoalingbeach, out of the river. Cold water is the natural enemy of ardentspirits, and in this instance it had gained a partial victory over itsfoe, for the squire was nearly sobered by his bath.
"This is bad--very bad!" said my passenger, when he had shaken some ofthe water from his garments.
"I know it is, Squire Fishley; but we have got over the worst of it," Ireplied.
"I'm afraid not, boy. I shall never get over the disgrace of it," headded, with a shudder--partly from cold, I judged, and partly from adread of consequences.
"Nobody will know anything about it if you don't tell of it. When youfell in, I heard a dozen people ask who you were, and nobody couldtell."
"Don't let any one see me, boy," pleaded he, as we heard the voices ofpeople moving down the bank of the river in search of the unfortunate.
I knew just where we were, and I conducted him to an old lumber shed,some distance from the bank of the river, where I left him to go for thehorse and wagon. I avoided the people who were searching for theunfortunate, and found Darky just where I had hitched him, at thesteamboat landing. I was not very uncomfortable, for I had not been allover into the water. I drove down to the lumber shed, took the squirein, and headed towards home. The senator was shivering with cold,though fortunately it was a very warm day for the season, and he did notabsolutely suffer.
It had been cloudy and threatening rain all the afternoon and evening,and before we reached the main road it began to pour in torrents. I hadan oil-cloth, which I put over the trunk and the mail. Under ordinarycircumstances, a seven-mile ride in such a heavy rain would have been agreat misfortune; but, as both of us had been in the river, it did notmake much difference to us. I had no umbrella; and it would have done nogood if I had, the wind was so fresh, and the storm so driving. If wehad not been wet in the beginning, we should have been soaked to theskin long before we reached Torrentville.
The squire suffered so much from cold that I advised him to get out,take hold of the back of the wagon, and walk or run a mile or so to warmup his blood. He took my advice, and improved his condition very much.But the cold was by no means the greatest of his troubles. Remorse, or,more likely, the fear of discovery, disturbed him more.
"Boy, what is your name?" asked he, after he had walked his mile, andwas able to speak without shivering.
"John Buckland Bradford, sir; but the folks all call me Buck."
"You seem to be a very smart boy, Buck, and you have done me a good turnto-night, which I
shall never forget."
"I'm glad I helped you, sir. I would have done as much as that foranybody."
"It is bad, very bad," added he, apparently thinking of theconsequences.
"I know it is, sir. That was a pretty narrow plank on the steamboat."
"It wasn't the narrow plank," he replied, bitterly.
"I suppose you had been taking a little too much," I added, willing tohelp him out.
"Did you think I was intoxicated?"
"I don't know much about it, but I did think so."
"I would rather give a thousand dollars than have it known that I dranktoo much and fell into the river. The story would ruin me, and spoil allmy prospects."
Squire Fishley was a stranger in Riverport. He had not been toTorrentville since I lived with the captain, and I was sure no one knewwho it was that had fallen into the river. I comforted him, and assuredhim it would be all right.
"If your friends on board of the steamer don't expose you, no one elsewill," I continued.
"They will not; they are going to New Orleans, and will not return formonths. If you should happen to say anything to my brother or hisfamily--"
"I will not breathe it," I interposed.
"I will do something handsome for you, Buck, and be your best friend."
"I don't mind that," I replied.
"I am not in the habit of drinking ardent spirits, or even wine, toexcess, when I am at home, though I don't belong to the temperancesociety," said he. "I didn't take much, and my friends would not let meoff. I don't know that I ever was really intoxicated before in my life."
"It is a bad habit."
"But it is not my habit, and I mean to stop drinking entirely," hereplied, earnestly; and I could not help thinking how humiliating itmust be for a great man like him to confess his folly to such a poor boyas I was.
"We are nearly home now, sir," said I, after we had ridden a while insilence.
"You will remember your promise--won't you, Buck?"
"Certainly I will, sir."
"Take this," he added, crowding something into my hand.
"What is it, sir?" I asked.
"No matter now; it may help your memory."
It was a little roll of wet paper, and I thrust it into my pocket as Idrove into the yard.