Chapter 3 - The Boy Hunters by Mayne Reid
The Prince’s Letter
It is a lovely morning in Spring as we approach their dwelling. We enter the lawn by a side-gate. We need not go into the house, for there is no one within doors. The weather is too fine for that, but they are all at home notwithstanding. They are in the lawn in front, and the verandah.
They are differently occupied. The Colonel himself is engaged feeding his pets. Hugot is helping him, and carries the basket containing their food.
You would call the Colonel a fine-looking man. His hair is as white as bleached flax. So, too, are his moustaches. He wears no beard. His face is cleanly shaved, showing a complexion bronzed and somewhat ruddy. The expression of his countenance is mild, though firm. He is much thinner than he has been in his time, on account of the amputation of his leg, which often produces this effect. His dress is simple. A jacket of yellow nankeen, a striped cotton shirt, with loose cottonade trousers of bright sky colour. A Panama hat, with very broad brim, shades his eyes from the sun, and his shirt is open at the throat, for the day is warm. Thus is the Colonel attired. Hugot is dressed after a somewhat similar fashion; but the material of his jacket and trousers is coarser, and his hat is of the common palmetto leaf.
Look at Basil, the oldest of the boys. He is at work fixing some straps to a hunting-saddle, that lies on the grass beside him. Basil is exactly seventeen years of age. He is a fine-looking lad, though not what you might call handsome. His face has a courageous expression, and his form betokens strength. His hair is straight, and black as jet. He is more like an Italian than either of his brothers. He is, in fact, the son of his father—a true Corsican. Basil is a “mighty hunter.” He is more fond of the chase than of aught else. He loves hunting for itself, and delights in its dangers. He has got beyond the age of bird-catching and squirrel shooting. His ambition is not now to be satisfied with anything less exciting than a panther, bear, or buffalo hunt.
How very unlike him is Lucien, the second in age! Unlike in almost everything. Lucien is delicately formed, with a light complexion and very fair hair. He is more like what his mother was, for she was fair-haired and blonde, as are many of her people—the Basques. Lucien is passionately fond of books and study. He is busy with a book just now in the verandah. He is a student of natural history in general, but botany and geology are his favourite sciences, and he has made considerable progress in both. He accompanies Basil on all hunting expeditions; but, in the midst of the most exciting chase, Lucien would leap down from his horse if a rare plant or flower, or an odd-looking rock, was to fall under his eye. Lucien talks but little—not half so much as most boys—but although habitually silent he possesses a rare good sense; and when he offers his advice upon any question, it is usually received with respect by the others. Such is the secret influence of intellect and education.
Next and last, we have François, a quick-witted, curly-haired urchin—merry to madness—cheerful at all times—changeable in his tastes and likings—versatile in talents—in short, more of a Frenchman than any of them. François is a great bird-catcher. He is at this moment engaged in repairing his nets; and his double-barrel shot gun, which he has just finished cleaning, rests beside him. François is a favourite with everybody, but a great pest to Hugot, upon whom he plays numerous tricks.
While the naturalist and his family were thus engaged, a loud booming noise was heard at some distance off, down the river. It somewhat resembled the regular firing of great guns, though the explosions sounded softer and more hollow.
“A steamboat!” cried François, whose ear first caught the sounds.
“Yes,” muttered Basil, “from New Orleans, I expect, and bound to Saint Louis.”
“No, brother,” said Lucien, quietly raising himself from his book. “She is an Ohio boat.”
“How can you tell that, Luce?” inquired François.
“From the sound of her ’scape, of course. I can distinguish the boat. She is the ‘Buck-eye’—mail-boat for Cincinnati.”
In a short time the white cloud of steam was seen ascending over the trees; and then the huge vessel came “bulging” around a bend of the river, cleaving the brown current as she went. She was soon opposite the lawn; and, sure enough, proved to be what Lucien had said she was—the mail-steamer “Buck-eye.” This was a triumph for Lucien, although he bore it with characteristic modesty.
The boat had not passed many minutes, when the loud screeching of her steam was heard in the direction of Point Coupée. They could tell from this that she was putting in at the landing.
“Hugot!” cried the Colonel, “their may be something for us. Go and see.”
Without waiting for further orders, Hugot started on his errand. He was a brisk walker, Hugot; and was back again in a trice. He brought with him a letter of goodly size and appearance.
“From Prince Lucien!” cried François, who was sure to have the first word in everything. “It is from the Prince, papa; I know the seal.”
“Quiet, François! quiet!” said his father, reprovingly; at the same time hobbling into the verandah, and calling for his spectacles.
The letter was soon opened, and perused.
“Hugot!” cried the Colonel, after he had finished reading it.
Hugot made no reply, but threw himself in front of his master, with his hand raised to his eyebrows à la militaire.
“Hugot, you must go to Saint Louis.”
“Bien, mon Colonel!”
“You must start by the first boat.”
“Très-bien, mon Colonel!”
“You must procure for me the skin of a white buffalo.”
“That will not be difficult, monsieur.”
“More difficult than you imagine, I fear.”
“With money, monsieur?”
“Ay, even with money, Hugot. Look you! It is a skin I want—not a robe—but a perfect skin with the head, feet, and all complete, and fit for stuffing.”
“Ah! mon Colonel! that is different.”
“Ah! you may say so. I fear it will be difficult, indeed,” soliloquised the Colonel, with a thoughtful air. “I very much doubt whether we can get it at all; but it must be had, cost what it may—ay, cost what it may.”
“I will do my best, Colonel.”
“Try at every fur-store in Saint Louis,—inquire among the hunters and trappers—you know where to find them. If these fail you, put an advertisement in the newspapers—advertise both in English and French. Go to Monsieur Choteau—anywhere. Spare no expense, but get me the skin.”
“Restez tranquille, mon Colonel; I shall do all that.”
“Make ready, then, to start. There may be a steamer going up before night. Hush! I hear one this very moment. It may be a Saint Louis boat.”
All stood for a moment silent and listening. The ’scape of another boat coming up the river could be heard plain enough.
“It is a Saint Louis boat,” said Lucien. “It is the ‘Belle of the West.’”
Lucien, who had a quick talent in that way, could tell, by the sound of their steam-pipe, almost every boat that plied upon the Mississippi. In half-an-hour the steamer hove in sight, and it was seen that he had again guessed correctly. It was a Saint Louis boat, and the “Belle of the West,” too!
Hugot had not many preparations to make; and before the boat had arrived opposite to the house, he had arranged everything—received some further instructions, with a purse of money, from his master—and was off to Point Coupée, to meet the steamer at the landing.