Waking Up The Wrong Passenger
by
In “comparing notes” with a travelled friend, I glean from his stock of information, gathered South-west, a few incidents in the life of a somewhat extensively famed Boston panoramic artist–one of which incidents, at least, is worth rehearsing. Some years ago, the South-west was beset by an organized coalition of desperadoes, whose daring outrages kept travellers and the dwellers in the Mississippi valley in continual fear and anxiety. “Running niggers” was one of the most popular and profitable branches of the business pursuits of these gentlemen freebooters, and, next to horse-stealing, was the most practised.
At length, the citizens “measured swords” with the freebooters, or land pirates, more properly; forming themselves into committees, the citizens opened Court and practised Judge Lynch’s code upon a multitude of just occasions. At the time of which we write, Mill’s Point, on the Mississippi, was no great shakes of a town, but a spot where a very considerable amount of whiskey was drank, and a corresponding quantity of crime and desperate doings were enacted; indeed, some of the worst scenes in Southern Kentucky’s tragic dramas were performed there. It so fell out, that some of the land pirates had been actively engaged in levying upon the negroes and mules around Mill’s Point, and the protective committee were on the alert to capture and administer the law upon these fellows. It was discovered, one evening, as the shades of a black and rather tempestuous night were closing upon the mighty “father of waters” and his ancient banks, that a mysterious voyageur, or sort of piratical vidette, was seen in his light canoe, hugging the shore, either for shelter or some insidious purpose.
The canoe and its navigator were diligently watched; but the coming storm and darkness soon closed observation, and the parties noticing the transaction hurried forward to the Point, and announced one or more of the land pirates in the neighborhood! Of course, the town–of some four houses, six “groceries,” a store and blacksmithery–was aroused, indignant! Impatient for a victim, the posse comitatus “fired up,” armed to the teeth with pistol, bludgeon, blunderbuss, gun, bowie-knife, and–whiskey, started up the river to reconnoitre and intercept the pirate and his crew.
Each nook and corner along shore, for some three miles, was carefully–as much so as the darkness would admit–scoured. The Storm-King rode by, the stars again twinkled in the azure-arched heavens, and soon, too, the bright silver moon beamed forth, and suddenly one of the vigilant committee espies the land-pirate and his canoe noiselessly floating down the rapid stream! No time was to be lost; the committee man, rather pleased with the fact of his being the first to make the discovery, apprised a comrade, and the two hurried back to the Point, to get a canoe and start out to capture the enemy. The canoe was obtained, three courageous men, armed to the teeth, as the saying goes, paddled off, and indeed they had not far to paddle, for right ahead they saw the mysterious canoe of the enemy! Where was the pirate? Asleep! Lying down in his frail vessel; either asleep, or “playing possum.” At all events, the Mills-Pointers gave the enemy but a brief period to sleep or act; for, dashing alongside, a brawny arm seized the victim in the strange canoe by the breast and throat, with such a rush and fierceness that both canoes were upon the apex of “swamping.”
“Don’t move! Don’t budge an inch, or you’re a case for eels, you thief!”
“Make catfish bait of him at once!” yelled the second.
“Don’t move,” cried the third, “don’t move, you possum, or you’re giblets, instanter!”
But these injunctions scarcely seemed necessary, for, even had the captive been so inclined, he neither possessed the power nor opportunity to move a limb.