surprised to see how 'nation polite he was to
me, all in a moment?" he continued, as his
little black eyes twinkled knowingly.

I smiled as I made answer that Captain
Hopkins was probably conciliated by the sight
of the Federal uniform. He certainly was not
equally bland to all comers, for, at Natchez
itself, he had somewhat roughly, on the plea of
"public necessity," repulsed a merchant captain
who came on board with a written requisition
for convoy. When I related this to my new
acquaintance, he laughed in a peculiar silent
manner, but with obvious enjoyment, and told
me how matters really stood. He, Dr. Amulius
Cook, was in charge of a string of four
barges or flat boats, laden with cotton, which
were lying at a place called Hautpré, five or
six miles lower down than Natchez. This
cotton had been part of the booty seized in a
late raid of the Federal troops in the country
traversed by the Big Black River, and to get it
safely conveyed to New Orleans, where it would
fetch an extremely high price, was the object of
its custodian.

"You see, mister," said the doctor, as he
slowly lighted his third cigar, " nothing riles
them rebel hounds like taking off their cotton
to market, and they burn every cent's worth as
soon as they hear we're coming to fetch it, by
reason of which prices rule awful high, and we
shall realise a most cruel profit, or my name
ain't 'Muly Cook, when we sell it on the mart,
in New Orleans city."

"We!" said I, somewhat bewildered. "I
beg your pardon, but did you not say the cotton
was government property?"

The storekeeper laughed again. "Britisher,"
said he, "you don't understand American ways,
you don't. We go ahead, we do, in Columbia
happy land. Now, I'll make all clear as a glass
of Taos whisky. See here; the cotton belongs
to Uncle Sam, of course, but sold it must be.
For that purpose, it is consigned to General
Butler's brother, who does a smart trade now,
on this cupful of yellow water we call the
Mississippi, and the general gives a pass to
permit its removal. Wall, sir, we've got to get
the bales to New Orleans, and that's no joke,
for there's more than one hornets' nest to pass,
and we want convoy. We wait till we find a
sensible skipper like Captain Hopkins, and we
make it worth his while to take us in tow, right
away down. Then the cotton's sold, and sold
at a profit that whips creation, and commissary
Butler, and storekeeper 'Muly Cook, and the
skipper of the Mohawk, and Uncle Sam, are all
the better for the dollars they share among 'em,
don't you see? But here we are at Hautpré."

Sure enough, the Mohawk came to a dead
stop in front of an insignificant little town,
with its quaint wooden church, its score or two
of small houses, bright with paint, or gleaming
white as lime could make them, the fac-simile
of many of the overgrown Creole villages that
stud the lower Mississippi. Beside the wharf of
this place lay four large-sized flat boats, lashed
together, and piled high with cotton bales in
their coarse coverings of yellowish gunny cloth.
These were apparently under the protection of
a small guard of negro soldiers in the blue
Federal uniform, who lolled about the untidy
decks in every attitude indicative of careless
repose, while a few boatmen, white and coloured,
also lounged beside the cargo. These were the
barges, with their precious freight, the value of
which war and devastation had raised to so high
a pitch, of which our new friend had spoken, and
the broad hints he had given me as to the
expected division of the profits of its sale, sufficed
to explain the cheerful promptness with which,
the captain of the Mohawk consented to encumber
himself with so unwieldy a charge. Tow-
ropes were soon made fast to the steamer's
stern and the broad prow of the leading flatboat,
and the armed vessel, tugging the laden
barges after her, snorted and puffed her way
sturdily but slowly down the river.

The rest of that morning's voyage was
uneventful. Twice, indeed, we were fired on as
we went past masked Confederate batteries
among the tall reeds and cane-brake of the
western shore, but the guns were mere six-
pound field-pieces, and the aim bad and unsteady,
and the Mohawk had merely to send a shower
of grape-shot hissing and spattering among the
green bushes of the bank, to drive away the
invisible enemy. Whether the grape harmed the
guerillas I cannot say, but the light round shot
directed against the Mohawk passed across her
bows without any effect, and in both cases we
escaped without so much as one casualty. And
of those dashing assaults which the Southerners
sometimes attempt by the help of canoes and
rafts, when opportunity serves, there was little
risk in this case. Five-and-thirty marines, fifty
sailors and officers, were on board the gunboat,
besides the coloured troops, perhaps a dozen in
number, who occupied the barges. And the
great guns of the Mohawk gave her an
incontestable superiority.

At Berryville, where we took in firewood in
the course of the afternoon, another passenger
came on board. This was a lady, splendidly
dressed, and attended by a black female servant,
who presented herself in virtue of a pass signed
by General Sturgis, and in which document all
naval and military functionaries were required to
protect and assist the bearer, Mrs. Gregg, wife
of Senator Gregg, then in Washington for the
service of his country. Captain Hopkins
growled a little at the first suggestion of a fresh
accession to our party in the little cabin, but
the order from General Sturgis was a formal
one, and the sturdy ex-boatswain was not exempt
from the almost superstitious reverence for
travelling womankind which his countrymen
entertain.

Mrs. Gregg, however, politically speaking,
threatened to prove a firebrand in our hitherto
tranquil society. She was fiercely loyal, and her
ardour for the " old flag" proved contagious,
none of the other Americans liking to be outdone
in verbal professions of attachment to the Union.
I never shall forget what a flashing look of scorn