Perish from the Earth

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Perish from the Earth Page 13

by Jonathan F. Putnam


  I shook my head frantically. “That man in the sketch I showed you—the one you called your old adversary—I just spied him aboard the Vicksburg. We’ve got to go after that ship at once.”

  Interest flickered in Pound’s eyes. But he said, “The problem is, we’re plumb out of wood, as you can see. No wood means no fire. No fire means no steam. As a steamboat”—he paused as one would with a small schoolboy to see if he was following a piece of elementary logic—“we need steam. I don’t suppose your papa bothered to teach you any of this before he sent you off on this frolic, did he?”

  “Well, we’ve got some now,” I said, gesturing at the two small stacks of logs that had begun to grow on either side of the boilers. “Surely that’s enough for us to overtake the Vicksburg. That’s all that matters. Give the order to cut loose.”

  Pound rubbed his eyes with his pudgy hands. “That’s not enough wood to feed the furnace for an hour. We burn through forty cords a day. This room”—he waved his arms around it—“holds forty-six and a quarter cords. When it’s full we’ll leave.”

  “But can’t you wait—”

  “No, we can’t wait for the next wood-yard. It’s on past New Madrid. We won’t get there ‘til tomorrow afternoon. If we don’t leave here with a full supply of fuel for the boilers, we’ll end up drifting down the river without power. Subject to the whim of the current. When we hit a rock and sink to the bottom of the channel, I’ll let you write to your father to explain his boat’s fate. If you manage to get off before we sink, that is.”

  I took a deep breath to steady myself. “Load your wood. But will you agree, as soon as you’re full up, you’ll order your firemen to raise the steam as high as it’ll go so we can run down the Vicksburg?”

  “What happens if we catch this fellow?” asked Pound.

  “If I can prove he was involved in Jones’s death, then he’ll go on trial himself. At the least, he’ll end up with a long stretch in prison. Put to death, potentially.”

  In truth, I thought this scenario a little farfetched, but I figured it was the way to engage the captain’s interest. Indeed, his fleshy face seemed alert to the prospect of such a decisive defeat of his mysterious adversary.

  “I was told you fancied yourself one of the fastest navigators on the river,” I added for good measure.

  “The fastest,” said Pound.

  “Terrific. The fastest. You’ve given the Vicksburg a head start. Now let’s see how quickly you can catch her.”

  Pound smiled broadly. The gleam of his golden teeth matched the one in his eyes. “That,” he said, “is one order I will take from you, young Speed.”

  CHAPTER 16

  The wooders had been loading all the while that Pound and I argued. A new man in the never-ending procession staggered into the storage room every five seconds, each one balancing on each shoulder logs measuring about four feet in length and a foot in diameter.

  Having secured Pound’s agreement to run down the hook-nosed man, I lent my help to the effort. Two narrow planks had been leaned from the main deck to the dock, and I raced down the outbound plank and into the wood-yard. I loaded a log onto my shoulder, swayed under its weight, then added another to my opposite one. Then I lurched toward the ship and managed to make it up the inbound gangway and into the woodshed.

  There I dumped my load and leaned against the stack of logs, panting and trying to pick a jagged splinter out of my palm. A broad-shouldered German came up behind me, two logs wrapped in each massive forearm, and yelled for me to get out of his way. I did so an instant before his logs crashed down where I’d been standing. I followed him back to the wood-yard, vowing to stay behind him in line this time.

  With about four dozen men from the crew and the deck comprising the hauling brigade, the storage room quickly filled with fuel. After I had made a couple of trips, the captain yelled that every man needed to bring aboard only one more load and we’d be full up. I lugged my share and then climbed the three flights of stairs back to the forecastle, sweat dripping from my brow.

  Martha and Nanny Mae were still among the crowd on the top deck taking in the scene when I returned, and my sister glanced over with curiosity.

  “Ah, Miss Bell,” I said as I regained my breath, “I think you’re in for a treat. I was down below helping with the wooding and I overheard Captain Pound say he’s determined to show us how fast this tub of his can go.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Apparently he and the captain of the ship that was at the yard just before us have a wager with each other. Who can go the farthest before nightfall? Captain Pound has five dollars on the War Eagle, and once he described his maximum speed, I told him I’d throw my own fiver into the pot. Don’t think it will take us long to run down that sorry barge.”

  “I wonder whether that’s wise,” murmured Nanny Mae. A few other cabin passengers had overheard our exchange, though none but the old woman seemed concerned about the prospect of a race.

  “Wise or not, it’s the course Pound is set upon.”

  Soon we saw two mates weighing the anchor. The smoke escaping from the War Eagle’s stacks high above us, which had been thin white wisps while we were docked at the yard, started streaming out. The great wheel at the back of the ship groaned as it lurched into motion, and we pulled away from the pier.

  All this was familiar from our prior departures from shore. But this time, the dull whine of the wheel did not settle into a consistent tone as we reached the river’s center channel; instead, it continued to escalate in pitch, higher and higher. We ploughed down the river. The wind began whipping past, lifting off the top hats of two gentlemen standing near me, who were forced to race to corral them before they blew into the waters below.

  All around us, the cabin passengers exchanged glances of exhilaration—some part of the human animal is irresistibly drawn to speed—tinged with fear. The latter emotion was understandable too, as no one aboard could be ignorant of the great toll, daily reported in the newspapers, caused by steamboats blowing apart at excessive speeds. Indeed, as we rounded a bend in the river, we came upon the wreck of a steamer lying in the shallows near the eastern shore, only its pilot house and a portion of its forecastle visible above the lapping waters. We gave it a wide berth and shot past. If any of the gentlemen on the forecastle reconsidered their enthusiasm for the race at the sight of the wreck, they did not voice it aloud.

  The throb of the engines became a part of us. The deck boards began to wobble and then to rattle. We came upon a large flock of swans bobbing in the river, and they barely had time to scatter to the winds before we rushed through their grounds. We shot past a small island in the river so fast it was hard to believe the island was not sprinting upstream in opposition to us.

  How well did Captain Pound and his engineer know the precise upper limits of the steam gauge? That was the question occupying our minds.

  We rounded one bend in the river and then another, and still we had not caught sight of the Vicksburg. I felt my eyes misting over and saw, looking skyward, a vapor of steam pouring out of the stacks and drifting down to the deck. The raging inferno in the boilers below was producing so much steam that not all of it could be directed toward the wheel. There was an undercurrent of sweetness in the mist, like a forest glade right after dawn, and I realized the firemen must be flinging extra resin onto the blaze to increase its heat.

  With the pop of a small explosion, a spark shot out of one of the stacks and blew skyward. And then another. A whoop of excitement arose from the passengers as pieces of black soot fell to the deck.

  “Surely this is too fast, Mr. Speed,” said my sister, yelling to be heard over the cacophony of the engines and the wheel and the belching stacks. “Shouldn’t you tell the captain to blanket his fires?”

  “He’s got confidence in the old girl, and so do I,” I shouted back.

  There was a look of real fear in Martha’s eyes, but it wouldn’t be long now. We would overtake the Vicksburg at any minute. As s
oon as we did, I would instruct Pound to cut in front of her and dampen his engines in order to guide the smaller ship to shore. Then I’d be able to detain the hook-nosed man and learn his mysterious game.

  At that moment, we rounded another turn in the great river and saw our quarry ahead. A great cheer went up, and looking down over the railing, I saw the main lined with deck passengers in full thrall. They were cheering on Pound with unrestrained glee, the quest for speed unleavened, in their case, by any concern about the ship blowing apart. The deck knew the thrill of speed and little else.

  We closed the gap on the Vicksburg quickly, but when we were still some two hundred yards distant, our progress slowed precipitously. Looking at the Vicksburg’s single stack, now belching smoke, I realized that her firemen had suddenly doubled their own efforts. Belatedly apprised of the race in which he had been entered, the Vicksburg’s captain was doing his best to win it. I admired the spirit of the man, but I felt confident it would come to naught.

  Indeed, soon we were one hundred fifty yards from the stern of the Vicksburg, then one hundred, then seventy-five. We could see that ship’s passengers lining her decks and staring back at us, their monomaniacal pursuer. I scanned them eagerly for renewed sight of the hook-nosed man. Then I spotted him at the far end of the top deck, his spyglass to his eye again. If I didn’t know better, I would have sworn it was trained directly on me.

  A new obstacle arose in the middle of the river, and it approached fast. The river had been running beside a high limestone ridge, the tremendous rocks frowning down upon us like the battlements of some old castle. Suddenly the ridge made a sharp turn and cut across the river. As we hurtled toward the point of intersection, I saw there was an imposing limestone column directly in the center of the river, about fifty feet tall and the same around, with the river waters rushing past it on either side.

  “What’s that?” I shouted.

  Nanny Mae, who was standing beside Martha now and clutching her arm, nodded grimly. “The Grand Tower,” she said. “I don’t know . . .”

  The Vicksburg entered the rapids produced by the Grand Tower ten seconds ahead of us. The smaller ship was light and sat high on the waters. In an instant, she had been flung free of the falls, catapulted downriver like a bird riding a sudden gust of wind at its back.

  Just before we reached the rapids ourselves, a great groan arose from deep within the bowels of the War Eagle, and the ship shuddered as if Pound had belatedly reconsidered his speed. But it was too late. As large and powerful as she was, the War Eagle was not agile. As we came abreast of the tower, we scraped loudly against the river bottom. Pound must have increased his thrust in an attempt to get past the shallows, but the effect was that the ship shot through the gap and was hit broadside by the current rushing around the other side of the tower. The helmsman struggled for control, but the vessel was pushed by the surging waters into a low, long stretch of sand bordering the river bank.

  With a decisive jolt that shook the great boat, our downriver journey came to a sudden halt. I was flung face first toward the deck. The race, I realized an instant before my nose collided with the boards, had been lost.

  CHAPTER 17

  As I picked myself off the deck, I felt a trickle of blood running down my cheek. Ignoring it, I hurried over to where Martha and Nanny Mae had collapsed together in a heap. Remarkably, each had broken the other’s fall, and neither reported an injury. All around us, the other cabin passengers were taking inventory of themselves and their travel companions. A few bloodied noses and twisted ankles seemed the worst of the damage.

  A loud hissing sound rose from the engine room below. Suddenly a jet of hot water, accompanied by steam, shot out of the main pipe just aft of the stacks and fell on the rear of the forecastle in a considerable shower. The cabin passengers shouted and hurried to the other end of the deck, but no additional jets followed. Soon the boiler’s hiss had trailed away to a faint whistle, the call of a lovelorn thrush.

  “Capt’n assures me we’ll soon float loose,” said a hand as he circulated around the deck. “Shouldn’t be more than an hour or so.”

  Nanny Mae’s expression was skeptical. “You think it will take us a few hours?” I asked her when the hand had gone on.

  “A few days—if we’re lucky.”

  “But surely the current will keep at us,” said Martha.

  “The current’s the problem,” replied Nanny Mae. “When these steamers get stuck in the bars heading upriver, it’s no trouble. The current pushes them off in no time. But heading downstream, the river’s going to be pushing us farther and farther into the bar. This time of year, with the fall rains already come and gone, the ship could lie here until next spring.”

  Martha gasped and glanced at me. We could barely afford to lose the evening. But when the sun went down and came up, we remained stuck. I studied the bar from the forecastle in the morning light. It was thirty or forty feet across and extended for a half mile down the shoreline. Evidently the turbulence produced by the Grand Tower had thrown up sand and gravel that had accumulated here over the eons. I could only hope our rescue would come considerably more quickly.

  At midmorning, I spotted Captain Pound on the promenade, surrounded by a cluster of his crewman. The group was engaged in vigorous argument about the best way to free the vessel.

  “How much longer, Pound?” I called, striding over to his position.

  “You of all people should know better than to ask me,” he growled.

  “About the books, then, I—”

  “Have you got any ideas for floating us free?”

  “No, but—”

  “Then be off. For your family’s sake if nothing else. Every hour stuck in the bar is an hour we’re not generating revenue. Or haven’t you thought of that?” Pound turned back to his crew, shaking his head with anger, and they continued their discussion.

  A day passed and then another, and the bar only seemed to be tightening its grip. The marooned ship settled into a new routine. The ship’s band, three horns and a fiddle, played from sunup to sunset, a rousing melody that invariably tended toward a dirge as the sun got low. The cook did his best to keep his fare varied, although I knew his supplies must be dwindling without new ports from which to replenish. Meanwhile, far below us on the sandbar at the river’s edge, crewmen marched about with purpose and gazed determinedly at the intersection of hull, sand, and water.

  On the second morning, I went to Pound’s office. The same crewman as before was lingering about, and he didn’t challenge me when I said I needed to examine the books of account again. But after several more hours of study, I still had no notion of anything out of the ordinary beyond the payments to the “Inspector.” I resolved to interrogate the captain about them as soon as we were freed from the bar.

  Later that afternoon, I was back on the forecastle, watching another steamboat pass our sorry position. As they went by, the crew of the ship, a three-decked sidewinder named the Ben Franklin, hurled abuse at the sorry crew of the War Eagle for their navigational incompetence. Our crew shouted back as best they could, but by now the rejoinders had taken on a decidedly dejected tone.

  “Won’t one of them stop and take us on?” I asked Nanny Mae, who was standing near me and observing the same scene.

  The old woman shook her head. “Pound’s made too many enemies along the river for anyone to want to lend him a hand.”

  Something about her familiar tone made me turn. “Do you know the captain well?” I asked. They had appeared strangers in the dining room that first night.

  She seemed to stiffen, but her gravelly tone remained unchanged. “One comes to know a little of the river and its players, when one’s been around as long as I have.”

  I glanced about and saw no one else was within earshot. “I must say I was surprised to find you aboard. When I last saw you in the Franklin House, you looked as if wild horses couldn’t drag you from your perch.”

  “As I told Miss Bell,” she said, “I w
as happy for an excuse to visit my daughter in Mississippi. I haven’t seen her since she married that Quaker—an abominable, sanctimonious Abolitionist whom I cannot abide. But my time grows short, and I realized it wouldn’t do to go to my grave estranged from her.”

  “How long will you stay with her?”

  “As long as they’ll have me.”

  On the third day, a mate woke the cabin passengers at dawn to report the captain had ordered that all goods and persons be evacuated to the shore in an effort to raise the buoyancy of the ship. Two mates erected a narrow gangway fifteen feet above the marshy water. The purser gallantly volunteered to assist Nanny Mae off the ship, while Daumier offered his arm to my sister.

  When it came my turn to walk the plank to shore, I found myself directly in front of the barman, Gentry. He was struggling beneath the weight of a wooden cask nearly as wide around as was he.

  “Want any help?” I asked.

  “’Preciate it,” he grunted.

  I slung my saddlebags over my shoulder and, grasping one end of the cask, gingerly walked backward down the remainder of the plank. Once we got to the sandy ground of the shore, we proceeded to a canopy of cottonwood trees where the crew and merchants had begun to stack their wares.

  “Got another one?” I asked.

  “Six more. Come on.”

  “What’s in it for me?”

  “A free draught each night, once we resume navigation.”

  “If we resume.”

  Gentry laughed and gestured for me to follow him back to the ship. Since the gangway could only tolerate traffic in one direction at a time, we had to wait until there was a delay in the outward flow at the top of the plank to sprint up and collect our next load.

  Half an hour later, Gentry and I sat atop the pile of his casks beneath the tree canopy and watched the War Eagle continue to disgorge its contents. Two farmers were trying to get a large heifer to walk down the narrow plank. The men started yelling and hitting the animal’s rump, but this only enraged her, and she backed away, kicking out her hind legs as she did.

 

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