What of the fleet of boats coming up the river? What of the towns below? “And my poor Barbe!” cried Madame Renaud. “Why, they would be almost home, unless the boats were swept to destruction. Only a miracle could have saved them. And oh, then, where are they?” True. The waters had subsided so much it would be safe to go in search of them. There were several coves less infested now with pirates than formerly, where boats sometimes put in to avoid the storms. Colonel Chouteau at once had two boats made ready and stored with provisions, in case of a rescue of any voyagers. Then some trading fleets ventured from St. Charles. All along the shores on both sides were marks of devastation. Great chasms had been created here, and there mounds of broken trees and tons of river mud deposited over them. Gaboret Island began to show its head, but it had been swept clean. The farther down the river went, the more appalling had been the destruction. The fate of the towns below they could only guess at, but the news came presently. Cahokia had been nearly swept out of existence. Part of Kaskaskia, the oldest part built on the river bluff, had been torn away by the resistless force. People were flying hither and thither, having lost their all. André Valbonais had headed the rescuing party—if, indeed, there was anything to rescue. The mighty river had gone back to its normal state; the banks, encrusted with yellow mud, were drying in the sun. They found curious changes. Two of the little coves were filled with _débris_ and gave no indication of sheltering any travellers. They passed the Miramec River with no sign. That, too, had all its banks submerged, and the tough grasses and reeds were just rearing their heads. On again, here was quite a bluff. Just around the turn had been a noted pirate resort, broken up two or three times; at the last time with the cost of a number of lives. “Do you suppose it will be safe?” queried the captain. “There may be Indians in hiding.” Valbonais reconnoitred awhile. “Up above there is the smoke of a fire,” he said. “And I think I see a boat just beyond the turn. Get your arms, men, and be ready to back out if we are in danger.” They crept on cautiously. Now they could see two boats drawn up on a ledge. Farther up there was a cluster of men. “They are not pirates, surely. They would have some scouts stationed if they were.” “They are making signs. Oh, no, they are neither Indians nor pirates,” and the captain dug the pole in the soft bank, impelling the boat up a yard or two. And then he heard a joyful cry, which he answered by an encouraging greeting through the horn he carried. It was, indeed, the stranded voyagers. The captain of the fleet came running down the winding path. He was a Spaniard, quite well known in St. Louis, Dessous by name.