The Rifle Rangers | Page 9

mighty grist o' venturin', I
heern; beats Injun fightin' all holler, an' yur jest the beaver I'd 'spect to
find in that 'ar dam. Why don't you go?"
"So I purposed long since, and wrote on to Washington for a
commission; but the government seems to have forgotten me."
"Dod rot the government! git a commission for yourself."

"How?" I asked.
"Jine us, an' be illected--thet's how."
This had crossed my mind before; but, believing myself a stranger
among these volunteers, I had given up the idea. Once joined, he who
failed in being elected an officer was fated to shoulder a firelock. It was
neck or nothing then. Lincoln set things in a new light. They were
strangers to each other, he affirmed, and my chances of being elected
would therefore be as good as any man's.
"I'll tell yur what it is," said he; "yur kin turn with me ter the rendevooz,
an' see for yurself; but if ye'll only jine, an' licker freely, I'll lay a pack
o' beaver agin the skin of a mink that they'll illect ye captain of the
company."
"Even a lieutenancy," I interposed.
"Ne'er a bit of it, cap. Go the big figger. 'Tain't more nor yur entitled to.
I kin git yur a good heist among some hunters thet's thur; but thar's a
buffalo drove o' them parleyvoos, an' a feller among 'em, one of these
hyur creeholes, that's been a-showin' off and fencin' with a pair of
skewers from mornin' till night. I'd be dog-gone glad to see the starch
taken out o' that feller."
I took my resolution. In half an hour after I was standing in a large hall
or armoury. It was the rendezvous of the volunteers, nearly all of whom
were present; and perhaps a more variegated assemblage was never
grouped together. Every nationality seemed to have its representative;
and for variety of language the company might have rivalled the
masons of Babel.
Near the head of the room was a table, upon which lay a large
parchment, covered with signatures. I added mine to the list. In the act I
had staked my liberty. It was an oath.
"These are my rivals--the candidates for office," thought I, looking at a
group who stood near the table. They were men of better appearance

than the hoi polloi. Some of them already affected a half-undress
uniform, and most wore forage-caps with glazed covers, and army
buttons over the ears.
"Ha! Clayley!" said I, recognising an old acquaintance. This was a
young cotton-planter--a free, dashing spirit,--who had sacrificed a
fortune at the shrines of Momus and Bacchus.
"Why, Haller, old fellow! glad to see you. How have you been? Think
of going with us?"
"Yes, I have signed. Who is that man?"
"He's a Creole; his name is Dubrosc."
It was a face purely Norman, and one that would halt the wandering
eye in any collection. Of oval outline, framed by a profusion of black
hair, wavy and perfumed. A round black eye, spanned by brows
arching and glossy. Whiskers that belonged rather to the chin, leaving
bare the jawbone, expressive of firmness and resolve. Firm thin lips,
handsomely moustached; when parted, displaying teeth well set and of
dazzling whiteness. A face that might be called beautiful; and yet its
beauty was of that negative order which we admire in the serpent and
the pard. The smile was cynical; the eye cold, yet bright; but the
brightness was altogether animal--more the light of instinct than
intellect. A face that presented in its expression a strange admixture of
the lovely and the hideous--physically fair, morally dark--beautiful, yet
brutal!
From some undefinable cause, I at once conceived for this man a
strange feeling of dislike. It was he of whom Lincoln had spoken, and
who was likely to be my rival for the captaincy. Was it this that
rendered him repulsive? No. There was a cause beyond. In him I
recognised one of those abandoned natures who shrink from all honest
labour, and live upon the sacrificial fondness of some weak being who
has been enslaved by their personal attractions. There are many such. I
have met them in the jardins of Paris; in the casinos of London; in the
cafes of Havanna, and the "quadroon" balls of New

Orleans--everywhere in the crowded haunts of the world. I have met
them with an instinct of loathing--an instinct of antagonism.
"The fellow is likely to be our captain," whispered Clayley, noticing
that I observed the man with more than ordinary attention. "By the
way," continued he, "I don't half like it. I believe he's an infernal
scoundrel."
"Such are my impressions. But if that be his character, how can he be
elected?"
"Oh! no one here knows another; and this fellow is a splendid