I was shivering with the cold, and lost no time shifting into the warm, dry clothing provided, spreading out my own soaked garments over the edge of the lower bunk, but careful first to remove my packet of private papers, which, wrapped securely in oiled silk, were not even damp. It was a typical steamer bunkhouse in which I found myself, evidently the abiding place of some one of the boat's petty officers, exceedingly cramped as to space, containing two narrow berths, a stool and a washstand, but with ample air and light. The slats across the window permitted me a view of the river, and the low-lying shore beyond, past which we were slowly moving. The sun was just rising above the eastern horizon, and the water reflected a purple tinge. With no desire to return immediately to the deck, I seated myself on the stool to consider the situation. Fate had played a strange trick, and I knew not how best to turn it to advantage. One thing only was clear; whatever was to be accomplished, I would have to do it alone--nowhere could I turn for help. In the first place Kirby undoubtedly had the law with him, and besides was among friends--those who would naturally believe him, and were loyal to the institution of slavery. The very fact that this was a Memphis boat we were on precluded any possibility that the crew would sympathize with a nigger-stealer. Nor could I anticipate any assistance from without. Steamboats were few and far between on these northern waters, and at this time, if the report of war was true, everything afloat would be headed up stream, laden with troops and provisions. That the report was true I had no doubt. The probability of an outbreak was known before I left Fort Armstrong; the crisis had come earlier than expected, that was all.