Miss Helena Emory had her artichoke for luncheon, and judging from my
own, my boy John never had prepared a better, good as he was with
artichokes; but we ate apart, the ladies not coming to our table. It
was late afternoon before I saw Helena again, once more come on deck.
She was sitting in a steamer chair with her face leaning against her
hand, and looking out across the water at the passing shipping. She
sat motionless a long time, the whole droop of her figure, the poise
of her tender curved chin, wistful and unhappy, although she said no
word. For myself, I did not accost her. I, too, looked up and down the
great river, not knowing at what moment some discerning eye might spy
us out, and I longed for nothing so much as that night or Peterson
would come.
He did come at last, late in the afternoon, on an outbound train, and
he hurried aboard as rapidly as he might. The first thing he did was
to hand me a copy of an afternoon paper. I opened it eagerly enough,
already well assured of what news it might carry.
On the front page, under a large, black head, was a despatch from
Baton Rouge relaying other despatches received at that point, from
many points between Plaquimine and Bayou Sara. These, in short, told
the story of the most high-handed attempt at river piracy known in
recent years. The private yacht of Calvin Davidson, a wealthy northern
business man, on his way South for the winter, had been seized by a
band of masked ruffians, who boarded her while the yacht's owner was
temporarily absent on important business in the city of Natchez. These
ruffians, abandoning their own boat, had at once gone on down-stream.
They had been hailed by officers of Baton Rouge, acting under advice
by wire from Mr. Davidson, on his way down from Natchez. The robber
band had paid no attention to the officers of the law, but had
continued their course. In some way the stolen craft had mysteriously
disappeared that afternoon and night, nor had any word of her yet been
received from points as far south as Plaquimine. A bottle thrown
overboard by one of the prisoners taken on the yacht contained a
message to Mr. Davidson, with the request that he should meet the
sender at New Orleans; but there was no signature to the note.
Many mysterious circumstances surrounded this sensational piece of
piracy, according to the journalistic view-point. On board the Belle
Helène were two ladies, the beautiful young heiress, Miss Helena
Emory, well known in northern social circles, and her aunt, Mrs.
Lucinda Daniver, widow of the late Commodore Daniver, United States
Navy. Mr. Davidson himself was unable to assign any reason for this
bold act of this abduction, although he feared the worst for the
comfort or even the safety of the two ladies, whose fate at this
writing remained unknown. The greatest mystery surrounded the identity
of the leader of this bold deed, whose name Mr. Davidson could not
imagine. He was reported to suspect that these same river pirates,
earlier in the day, attacked and perhaps made away with a friend of
his whose name is not yet given. A cigarette case was found in the
abandoned boat, which Mr. Davidson thought looked somewhat familiar to
him, although he could not say as to its ownership. He could and did
aver positively, however, that a photograph in a leather case on the
abandoned boat was a portrait of none other than Miss Helena Emory,
one of the captives made away with by the river ruffians. Mr. Davidson
could assign no explanation of these circumstances.