oughest among
the 'snags,' and many a whirlpool dashing around 'atween the bows of
the 'sawyers.' That's the spot you 're sure to see one of these young
sharks,--for the big chaps knows better than to look for their
wittals in dangerous places,--while the water is black, at times, with
alligators. Well, as I was sayin', out they rowed; and just as they
comes to this part of the stream, the black fellow gives a spring, and
drives both his heavy ironed feet bang through the flooring-plank of the
boat. It was past bailin'; they were half swamped before they could
ship their oars; the minute after, they were all struggling in the river
together. There were three besides the nigger; but he was the only one
ever touched land again. He was an Antigua chap, that same nigger; and
they knows sharks and caymans as we does dog-fish: but, for all that, he
was all bloody, and had lost part of one foot, when he got ashore."

"Why had he been captured? What had he done?" "What had n't he done!
That same black murdered more men as any six in these parts; he it
was burned down Che-coat's mill up at Brandy Cove, with all the people
fastened up within. Then he run away to the 'washings' at Guajaqualle,
where he killed Colonel Rixon, as was over the 'Placer.' He cut him in
two with a bowie-knife, and never a one guessed how it happened, as the
juguars had carried off two or three people from the 'washins '; but
the nigger got drunk one night, and began a-cuttin' down the young
hemlock-trees, and sayin', 'That's the way I mowed down Buckra'
Georgy,'--his name was George Rixon. Then he bolted, and was never seen
more. Ah, he was a down-hard 'un, that fellow Crick!"

"Crick,--Menelaus Crick!" said I, almost springing up with amazement as
I spoke.

"Just so. You 've heard enough of him 'fore now, I guess."

The skipper went on to talk about the negro's early exploits, and the
fearful life of crime which he had always pursued; but I heard little of
what he said. The remembrance of the man himself, bowed down with years
and suffering, was before me; and I thought how terribly murder is
expiated, even in those cases where the guilty man is believed to have
escaped. So is it; the dock, the dungeon, and the gallows can be mercies
in comparison with the self-torment of eternal fear, the terror of
companionship, or the awful hell of solitude! The scene at Anticosti and
the terrific night in the Lower Town of Quebec rose both together to
my mind, a