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<SPAN name="chap38"></SPAN> <h3>Chapter Thirty Eight.</h3> <h4>The white Fog.</h4> <p>Vain vigil it proved. I shall not tire the reader with details. Suffice it to say, that we kept watch till morning’s dawn; and then, profiting by the daylight, sought out a more convenient post of observation, where we continued our surveillance—watching and sleeping in turn. Throughout the following day, and into the second, was our vigil extended: until no longer able to hope against hope, we agreed finally to abandon it. But for one circumstance, we might have felt surprise at the result. We were both convinced that we had reached the river’s mouth in good time: since, by our calculations, the canoe could not possibly have “headed” us. But for the same circumstance, we might have believed, that they had not yet come down the Obion; and perhaps would have remained at our post a day longer.</p> <p>The explanation is this: On the first night of our watch, a few hours after having taken my station in the tree, a fog had suddenly arisen upon the rivers, shrouding the channels of both. It was the <i>white fog</i>—a well-known phenomenon of the Mississippi—that often extends its dangerous drapery over the bosom of the “Father of Waters:” a thing of dread, even to the skilled pilots who navigate this mighty stream. On that particular night, the fog lay low upon the water: so that in my position near the top of the tree I was entirely clear of its vapoury disc; and could look down upon its soft filmy cumuli floating gently over the surface—white and luminous under the silvery moonlight. The moon was still shining brightly; and both sky and forest could be seen as clearly as ever. The water-surface alone was hidden from my sight—the very thing I was most anxious to observe. As if by some envious demon of the flood, this curtain seemed to have been drawn: for, just as the fog had fairly unfurled itself, I fancied I could hear the dipping of a paddle at no great distance off in the channel of the stream. Moreover, gazing intently into the mist—as yet thin and filmy—I fancied I saw a long dark object upon the surface, with the silhouettes of human forms outlined above it—just as of a canoe <i>en profile</i> with passengers in it. I even noted the number of the upright forms: three of them—which exactly corresponded to that of the party we were expecting. So certain was I at the moment, of seeing all this, that I need not have shouted to assure myself. Excited with over-eagerness, I did so; and hailed the canoe in hopes of obtaining an answer. My summons produced not the desired effect. On the contrary, it seemed to still the slight plashing I had heard; and, before the echoes of my voice died upon the air, the dark objects had glided out of sight—having passed under thick masses of the floating vapour. Over and over, I repeated my summons—each time changing the form of speech, and each time with like fruitless effect! The only answer I received was from the blue heron, that, startled by my shouts, rose screaming out of the fog, and flapped her broad wings close to my perch upon the tree. Whether the forms I had seen were real—or only apparitions conjured up by my excited brain—they vouchsafed no reply; and, in truth, in the very next moment, I inclined to the belief that my senses had been deceiving me!</p> <p>From that time, my comrade and I were uncertain; and this, uncertainty will explain the absence of our surprise at not seeing the canoe, and why we waited no longer for its coming. The most probable conjectures were that it had passed us in the fog; that the apparition was real; and they that occupied the canoe were now far-away on the Mississippi—no longer trusting to such a frail craft, but passengers on one of the numerous steam-boats, that by night as by day, and in opposite directions, we had seen passing the mouth of the Obion.</p> <p>In all likelihood, then, the fugitives were now beyond the limits of Tennessee; and we felt sufficiently assured of this. But the more important point remained undetermined—whether they had gone northward or southward—whether by the routes of the Missouri or those of the Arkansas? Upon this question we were as undecided as ever. At that season of the year, the probabilities were in favour of the southern route; but it depended on whether the emigrants intended to proceed at once across the plains, or wait for the return of spring. I knew, moreover, that the Mormons had their own “trains,” and ways of travelling; and that several new routes or “trails” had been discovered during the preceding year, by military explorers, emigrants for Oregon and California, and by the Mormons themselves. This knowledge only complicated the question, leaving us in hopeless doubt and indecision. Thus unresolved, it would have been absurd to proceed further. Our only hope lay in returning to Swampville. And whence this hope? What was to be expected in Swampville? Who was there in that village of golden dreams to guide me upon the track of my lost love? No one—no human being. The index of my expectation was not a living thing, but a letter! Assuredly, I had not forgotten that promise, so simply yet sweetly expressed: “If I thought you would like to know where we are gone, I would write to you;” and again: “If you will allow me, I will send a letter to Swampville, <i>from the first place we come to</i>, to tell you where we are going.” Oh! that I could have told her how much I “would like to know,” and how freely she had my permission to write! Alas! that was impossible. But the contingencies troubled me not much; I was full of hope that she would waive them. Communicating this hope to my companion, we rode back to Swampville: with the design of laying siege to the post-office, until it should surrender up to us the promised epistle.</p> <hr /></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div><br />

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