IT WAS a night like the pit. The rain fell steadily. Now and then a gust of wind rattled the shutters, and the tavern sign, painted with the features of George the Third, now damaged by musket-balls and with the eyes burned out, creaked.
The tavern sat on the bank of the Ohio. Below lay the river and the long, flat island, where the ill-starred Blennerhasset had set up his feudal tenure. Flood water covered the island and spread everywhere-a vast sea of yellow that enveloped the meadow-lands and plucked at the fringe of the forest.
The scenes in the tavern were in striking contrast. The place boomed with mirth, shouts of laughter, ribald tales and songs. The whole crew of the Eldorado of New Orleans banqueted in the guest-room of the tavern. This was the open room for the public. Beyond it and facing the river was the guest-room for the gentry, with its floor scrubbed with sand, its high-boy in veneered mahogany, its polished andirons and its various pretensions to a hostelry of substance.
At a table in this room, unmindful of the bedlam beyond him, a man sat reading a pamphlet. He leaned over on the table, between two tall brass candlesticks, his elbows on the board, his thumb marking the page. He had the dress and manner of a gentleman-excellent cloth in his coat, a rich stock and imported linen. On the table sat a top hat of the time, and in the corner by the driftwood fire was a portmanteau with silver buckles, strapped up as for a journey. The man was under forty, his features regular and clean-cut; his dark brows joined above eyes big and blue and wholly out of place in the olive skin.
Now and then he got up, went over to the window and looked out, but he was unable to see anything, for the rain continued and the puffs of wind. He seemed disturbed and uneasy. He drummed on the sill with his fingers, and then, with a glance at his portmanteau, returned to his chair between the two big tallow candles.
From time to time the tavern-keeper looked in at the door with some servile inquiry. This interruption annoyed the guest.
"Damme, man," he said, "are you forever at the door?"
"Shall I give the crew rum, sir?" the landlord asked.
"No," replied the man; "I will not pay your extortions for imported liquor."
"They wish it, sir."
The man looked up from his pamphlet
"They wish it, eh," he said with nice enunciation. "Well, Mr. Castoe, I do not!"
The soft voice dwelt on the "Mr. Castoe" with ironical emphasis. The mobile upper lip, shadowed with a silken mustache, lifted along the teeth with a curious feline menace.
The man was hardly over his table before the door opened again. He turned abruptly, like a panther, but when he saw who stood in the door, he arose with a formal courtesy.
"You are a day early, Abner," he said. "Are the Virginia wagons in for their salt and iron?"
"They will arrive tomorrow," replied my uncle; "the roads are washed out with the rains."
The man looked at my uncle, his hat and his greatcoat splashed with mud.
"How did you come?" he asked.
"Along the river," replied my uncle, "I thought to find you on the Eldorado."
"On the Eldorado!" cried the man. "On such a night, when the Tavern of George the Third has a log fire and kegs in the cellar!"
My uncle entered, closed the door, took off his greatcoat and hat, and sat down by the hearth.
"The boat looked deserted," he said.
"To the last nigger," said the man. "I could not take the comforts of the tavern and deny them to the crew."
My uncle warmed his hands over the snapping fire.
"A considerate heart, Byrd," he said, with some deliberation, "is a fine quality in a man. But how about the owners of your cargo, and the company that insures your boat?"
"The cargo, Abner," replied the man, "is in Benton's warehouse, unloaded for your wagons. The boat is tied up in the backwater. No log can strike it."
He paused and stroked his clean-cut, aristocratic jaw.
"The journey down from Fort Pitt was damnable," he added, "-miles of flood water, yellow and running with an accursed current. It was no pleasure voyage, believe me, Abner. There was the current running logs, and when we got in near the shore, the settlers fired on us. A careless desperado, your settler, Abner!"
"More careless, Byrd, do you think," replied my uncle, "than the river captain who overturns the half-submerged cabins with the wash of his boat?"
"The river," said the man, "is the steamboat's highway."
"And the cabin," replied my uncle, "is the settler's home."
"One would think," said Byrd, "that this home was a palace and the swamp land a garden of the Hesperides, and your settler a King of the Golden Mountains. My stacks are full of bullet holes."
My uncle was thoughtful by the fire.
"This thing will run into a river war," he said. "There will be violence and murder done."
"A war, eh!" echoed the man. "I had not thought of that, and yet, I had but now an ultimatum. When we swung in tonight, a big backwoodsman came out in a canoe and delivered an oration. I have forgotten the periods, Abner, but he would burn me at the stake, I think, and send the boat to Satan, unless I dropped down the river and came in below the settlement."
He paused and stroked his jaw again with that curious gesture.
"But for the creature's command," he added, "I would have made the detour. But when he threatened, I ran in as I liked and the creature got a ducking for his pains. His canoe went bottom upward, and if he had not been a man of oak, he would have gone himself to Satan."
"And what damage did you do?" inquired my uncle.
"Why, no damage, as it happened," said the man. "Some cabins swayed, but not one of them went over. I looked, Abner, for a skirmish in your war. There was more than one rifle at a window. If I were going to follow the river," he continued, "I would mount a six-pounder."
"You will quit the river, then," remarked my uncle.
"It is a dog's life, Abner," said the man. "To make a gain in these days of Yankee trading, the owner must travel with his boat. Captains are a trifle too susceptible to bribe. I do not mean gold-pieces, slipped into the hand, but the hospitalities of the shopkeeper. Your Yankee, Abner, sees no difference in men, or he will waive it for a sixpence in his till. The captain is banqueted at his house, and the cargo is put on short. One cannot sit in comfort at New Orleans and trade along the Ohio."
"Is one, then, so happy in New Orleans?" asked my uncle.
"In New Orleans, no," replied the man, "but New Orleans is not the world. The world is in Piccadilly, where one can live among his fellows like a gentleman, and see something of life-a Venetian dancer, ladies of fashion, and men who dice for something more than a trader's greasy shillings."
Byrd again got up and went to the window. The rain and gusts of wind continued. His anxiety seemed visibly to increase.
My uncle arose and stood with his back to the driftwood fire, his hands spread out to the flame. He glanced at Byrd and at the pamphlet on the table, and the firm muscles of his mouth hardened into an ironical smile.
"Mr. Evlyn Byrd," he said, "what do you read?" The man came back to the table. He sat down and crossed one elegant knee over the other.
"It is an essay by the Englishman, Mill," he said, "reprinted in the press that Benjamin Franklin set up at Philadelphia. I agree with Lord Fairfax where the estimable Benjamin is concerned: 'Damn his little maxims! They smack too much of New England!' But his press gives now and then an English thing worth while."
"And why is this English essay worth while?" asked my uncle.
"Because, Abner, in its ultimate conclusions, it is a justification of a gentleman's most interesting vice. 'Chance,' Mr. Mill demonstrates, 'is not only at the end of all our knowledge, but it is also at the beginning of all our postulates.' We begin with it, Abner, and we end with it. The structure of all our philosophy is laid down on the sills of chance and roofed over with the rafters of it."
"The Providence of God, then," said my uncle, "does not come into Mr. Mill's admirable essay."
Mr. Evlyn Byrd laughed. "It does not, Abner," he said. "Things happen in this world by chance, and this chance is no aide-de-camp of your God. It happens unconcernedly to all men. It has no rogue to ruin and no good churchman, pattering his prayers, to save. A man lays his plans according to the scope and grasp of his intelligence, and this chance comes by to help him or to harm him, as it may happen, with no concern about his little morals, and with no divine intent."
"And so you leave God out," said my uncle, with no comment.
"And why not, Abner?" replied the man. "Is there any place in this scheme of nature for His intervention? Why, sir, the intelligence of man that your Scriptures so despise can easily put His little plan of rewards and punishments out of joint. Not the good, Abner, but the intelligent, possess the earth. The man who sees on all sides of his plan, and hedges it about with wise precaution, brings it to success. Every day the foresight of men outwits your God."
My uncle lifted his chin above his wet stock. He looked at the window with the night banked behind it, and then down at the refined and elegant gentleman in the chair beside the table, and then at the strapped-up portmanteau in the corner. His great jaw moved out under the massive chin. From his face, from his manner, he seemed about to approach some business of vital import. Then, suddenly, from the room beyond there came a great boom of curses, a cry that the dice had fallen against a platter, a blow and a gust of obscenities and oaths.
My uncle extended his arm toward the room.
"Your gentleman's vice," he said; "eh, Mr. Byrd!"
The man put out a jeweled hand and snuffed the candles. "The vice, Abner, but not the gentlemen." Mr. Byrd flicked a bit of soot from his immaculate sleeve. Then he made a careless gesture.
"These beasts," he said, "are the scum of New Orleans. They would bring any practice into disrepute. One cannot illustrate a theory by such creatures. Gaming, Abner, is the diversion of a gentleman; it depends on chance, even as all trading does. The Bishop of London has been unable to point out wherein it is immoral."
"Then," said Abner, "the Bishop does little credit to his intelligence."
"It has been discussed in the coffee-houses of New Orleans," replied Mr. Byrd, "and no worthy objection found."
"I think I can give you one," replied my uncle.
"And what is your objection, Abner?" asked the man. "It has this objection, if no other," replied my uncle, "it encourages a hope of reward without labor, and it is this hope, Byrd, that fills the jail house with weak men, and sets strong ones to dangerous ventures."
He looked down at the man before him, and again his iron jaw moved.
"Byrd," he said, "under the wisdom of God, labor alone can save the world. It is everywhere before all benefits that we would enjoy. Every man must till the earth before he can eat of its fruits. He must fell the forest and let in the sun before his grain will ripen. He must spin and weave. And in his trading he must labor to carry his surplus stuff to foreign people, and to bring back what he needs from their abundance. Labor is the great condition of reward. And your gentleman's vice, Byrd, would annul it and overturn the world."
But the man was not listening to Abner's words. He was on his feet and again before the window. He had his jaw gathered into his hand. The man swore softly.
"What disturbs you, Byrd?" said my uncle.
He stood unmoving before the fire, his hands to the flame. The man turned quickly.
"It is the night, Abner-wind and driving rain. The devil has it!"
"The weather, Byrd," replied my uncle, "happens in your philosophy by chance, so be content with what it brings you, for this chance regards, as you tell me, no man's plans; neither the wise man nor the fool hath any favor of it."
"Nor the just nor the unjust, Abner."
My uncle looked down at the floor. He locked his great bronze fingers behind his massive back.
"And so you believe, Byrd," he said. "Well, I take issue with you. I think this thing you call 'chance' is the Providence of God, and I think it favors the just."
"Abner," cried the man, now turning from the window, "if you believe that, you believe it without proof."
"Why, no," replied my uncle; "I have got the proof on this very night."
He paused a moment; then he went on.
"I was riding with the Virginia wagons," he said, "on the journey here. It was my plan to come on slowly with them, arriving on the morrow. But these rains fell; the road on this side of the Hills was heavy; and I determined to leave the wagons and ride in tonight.
"Now, call this what you like-this unforeseen condition of the road, this change of plan. Call it 'chance,' Byrd!"
Again he paused and his big jaw tightened.
"But it is no chance, sir, nor any accidental happening that Madison of Virginia, Simon Carroll of Maryland and my brother Rufus are upright men, honorable in their dealings and fair before the world.
"Now, sir, if this chance, this chance of my coming on tonight before the Virginia wagons, this accidental happening, favored Madison, Simon Carroll and my brother Rufus as though with a direct and obvious intent, as though with a clear and preconceived design, you will allow it to me as a proof, or, at least, Mr. Evlyn Byrd, as a bit of evidence, as a sort of indisputable sign, that honorable men, men who deal fairly with their fellows, have some favor of these inscrutable events."
The man was listening now with a careful attention. He came away from the window and stood beside the table, his clenched fingers resting on the board. "What do you drive at, Abner?" he asked.
My uncle lifted his chin above the big wet stock.
"A proof of my contention, Byrd," he answered.
"But your story, Abner? What happened?"
My uncle looked down at the man.
"There is no hurry, Byrd," he said; "the night is but half advanced and you will not now go forward on your journey."
"My journey!" echoed the man. "What do you mean?"
"Why, this," replied my uncle: "that you would be setting out for Piccadilly, I imagine, and the dancing women, and the gentlemen who live by chance. But as you do not go now, we have ample leisure for our talk."
"Abner," cried Mr. Byrd, "what is this riddle?"
My uncle moved a little in his place before the fire.
"I left the Virginia wagons at midday," he went on; "night fell in the flatland; I could hardly get on; the mud was deep and the rains blew. The whole world was like the pit. It is a common belief that a horse can see on any night, however dark, but this belief is error, like that which attributes supernatural perception to the beast. My horse went into the trees and the fence; now and then there was a candle in a window, but it did not lighten the world; it served only to accentuate the darkness. It seemed impossible to go forward on a strange road, now flooded. I thought more than once to stop in at some settler's cabin. But mark you, Byrd, I came on. Why? I cannot say. 'Chance,' Mr. Evlyn Byrd, if you like. I would call it otherwise. But no matter."
He paused a moment, and then continued:
"I came in by the river. It was all dark like the kingdom of Satan. Then, suddenly, I saw a light and your boat tied up. This light seemed somewhere inside, and its flame puzzled me. I got down from my horse and went onto the steamboat. I found no one, but I found the light. It was a fire just gathering under way. A carpenter had been at work; he had left some shavings and bits of candle, and in this line of rubbish the fire had started."
The man sat down in his chair beside the two tallow candles.
"Fire!" he said. "Yes, there was a carpenter at work in my office cabin today. He left shavings, and perhaps bits of candle, it is likely. Was it in my office cabin?"
"Along the floor there," replied my uncle, "beginning to flame up."
"Along the floor!" repeated Mr. Byrd. "Then nothing in my cabin was burned? The wall desk, Abner, with the long mahogany drawer-it was not burned?"
He spoke with an eager interest.
"It was not burned," replied my uncle. "Did it contain things of value?"
"Of great value," returned the man.
"You leave, then, things of value strangely unprotected," replied my uncle. "The door was open."
"But not the desk, Abner. It was securely locked. I had that lock from Sheffield. No key would turn it but my own."
Byrd sat for some moments unmoving, his delicate hand fingering his chin, his lips parted. Then, as with an effort, he got back his genial manner.
"I thank you, Abner," he said. "You have saved my boat. And it was a strange coincidence that brought you there to do it."
Then he flung back in his big chair with a laugh.
"But your theory, Abner? This chance event does not support it. It is not the good or Christian that this coincidence has benefited. It is I, Abner, who am neither good nor Christian."
My uncle did not reply. His face remained set and reflective.
The rain beat on the window-pane, and the drunken feast went on in the room beyond him.
"Byrd," he said, "how do you think that fire was set? A half-burned cigar dropped by a careless hand, or an enemy?"
"An enemy, Abner," replied the man. "It will be the work of these damned settlers. Did not their envoy threaten if I should come in, to the peril of their cabins? I gave them no concern then, but I was wrong in that. I should have looked out for their venom. Still, they threaten with such ease and with no hand behind it that one comes, in time, to take no notice of their words."
He paused and looked up at the big man above him. "What do you think, Abner? Was the fire set?"
"One cannot tell from the burning rubbish," replied my uncle.
"But your opinion, Abner?" said the man. "What is your opinion?"
"The fire was set," replied my uncle.
Byrd got up at that, and his clenched hand crashed on the table.
"Then, by the kingdom of Satan, I will overturn every settler's cabin when the boat goes out tomorrow."
My uncle gave no attention to the man's violence.
"You would do wanton injury to innocent men," he said. 'The settlers did not fire your boat."
"How can you know that, Abner?"
My uncle changed. Vigor and energy and an iron will got into his body and his face.
"Byrd," he said, "we had an argument just now; let me recall it to your attention. You said 'chance' happened equally to all, and I that the Providence of God directs it. If I had failed to come on tonight, the boat would have burned. The settlers would have taken blame for it. And Madison of Virginia, Simon Carroll of Maryland and my brother Rufus, whose company at Baltimore insure your boat, would have met a loss they can ill afford."
His voice was hard and level like a sheet of light.
"Not you, Byrd, who, as you tell me, are neither good nor Christian, but these men, who are, would have settled for this loss. Is it the truth-eh, Mr. Evlyn Byrd?"
The man's big blue eyes widened in his olive skin.
"I should have claimed the insurance, of course, as I had the right to do," he said coldly, for he was not in fear. "But, Abner--"
"Precisely!" replied my uncle. "And now, Mr. Evlyn Byrd, let us go on. We had a further argument. You thought a man in his intelligence could outwit God. And, sir, you undertook to do it! With your crew drunken here, the boat deserted, the settlers to bear suspicion and your portmanteau packed up for your journey overland to Baltimore, you watched at that window to see the flames burst out."
The man's blue eyes-strange, incredible eyes in that olive skin-were now hard and expressionless as glass. His lips moved, and his hand crept up toward a bulging pocket of his satin waistcoat.
Grim, hard as iron, inevitable, my uncle went on:
"But you failed, Byrd! God outwitted you! When I put that fire out in the rubbish, the cabin was dark, and in the dark, Byrd, there, I saw a gleam of light shining through the keyhole of your wall desk-the desk that you alone can open, that you keep so securely locked. Three bits of candle were burning in that empty drawer."
The man's white hand approached the bulging pocket,
And my uncle's voice rang as over a plate of steel. "Outwit God!" he cried. "Why, Byrd, you had forgotten a thing that any schoolboy could have told you. You had forgotten that a bit of candle in a drawer, for lack of air, burns more slowly than a bit outside. Your pieces set to fire the rubbish were consumed, but your pieces set in that locked drawer to make sure-to outwit God, if, by chance, the others failed-were burning when I burst the lid off."
The man's nimble hand, lithe like a snake, whipped a derringer out of his bulging pocket.
But, quicker than that motion, quicker than light, quicker than the eye, my uncle was upon him. The derringer fell harmless to the floor. The bones of the man's slender fingers snapped in an iron palm. And my uncle's voice, big, echoing like a trumpet, rang above the storm and the drunken shouting:
"Outwit God! Why, Mr. Evlyn Byrd, you cannot outwit me, who am the feeblest of His creatures!"