The Devil's Own: A Romance of the Black Hawk WarParrish, Randall
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The Devil's Own: A Romance of the Black Hawk War
Parrish, Randall
Black Hawk War, 1832 -- Fiction
This, then, was the situation--through an odd intervention of
Providence here we were all together on this steamer, which was
steadily churning its way northward, every turn of the wheel bearing us
deeper into the wilderness. The chances were that we should thus be
aboard for several days; certainly until we encountered some other boat
bound down stream, which would accept us as passengers. Meanwhile what
should I do? How escape observation? How reach Rene, without
encountering Kirby? The answer was not an easy one. The deputy would
not know me, for I had never been seen by him. Kirby believed me dead,
yet might recognize me in spite of that conviction if we met face to
face. Still, would he? The daring hope that he might not came to me
in a flash. Might it not be possible to so disguise myself as to
become unnoticeable? I sprang up to stare at my features in the small
mirror hanging over the washstand. The face which confronted me in
surprise was almost a strange one even to my eyes. Instead of the
smart young soldier, smoothly shaven, with closely-trimmed hair, and
rather carefully attired, as I had appeared on board the _Warrior_, the
glass reflected a bearded face, the skin visibly roughened and reddened
by exposure, the hair ragged and uncombed. Even to my view there
remained scarcely a familiar feature--the lack of razor and shears, the
exposure to sun and water, the days of sickness and neglect, had all
helped to transform me into a totally different-appearing person from
what I had formerly been; the officer and gentleman had, by the mystery
of environment, been changed into the outward semblance of a river
roustabout. Nor was this all. The new character was emphasized by the
clothes I wore--far too large to fit, also the texture and color, not
to mention the dirt and grease, speaking loudly of a rough life, and
the vicissitudes of poverty. The metamorphosis was complete; so
complete that I laughed aloud, assured by that one glance that the
gambler, confident that I was dead, would never by any possibility
recognize me in this guise, or while habilitated in such nondescript
garments. Unless some happening should expose me, some occurrence
arouse suspicion, I felt convinced of my ability to even slouch past
him on deck unobserved, and unrecognized.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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