She was as stealthy as she could be, but still she woke Lydia. One of Lydia’s cheeks was creased from the folds in the bedding. Her eyelids were heavy and hung at half-mast. She appeared to recognize Adelaide, although Adelaide couldn’t have said exactly what about her face or eyes communicated this recognition. But she wasn’t mistaken, because Lydia hummed at her, eight notes in sequence from the song Adelaide had been singing earlier. Twas there a-as the-e blackbird. The last note went sharp, but Adelaide was touched. This was the most responsive Lydia had ever been to her. ‘I won’t let you hang, Lydia,’ she promised, slipping the weapons into her dress pocket. ‘Lydia Palmer. I wouldn’t take you back if that were going to happen to you.’ No woman had been hanged yet in California, although Laura D. Fair had come pretty close. There simply weren’t enough women on the West Coast to be wasting them in this way.
Adelaide thought she had dealt fairly deftly with B.J. and his Chinese companion. She was no longer concerned that they could stop her. And there was no reason to worry that Harold would be any more of a problem. It was just that he was the third obstacle to appear unexpectedly on board the Pumpkin. Adelaide had a sort of fairy-tale foreboding about the number three. Three wishes. Three dragons. Three tasks. One, spin a handful of straw into gold. Two, spin two handfuls of straw into gold. Three, spin a roomful of straw into gold. Do it by morning and the king will marry you. Fail and the king will have you killed. And then, the creators of that particular fairy tale would have you believe, the girl had a happy marriage and a reasonable sex life with that murderous, avaricious bully until some dwarf stole her son. If this was the best love could do in the fairy tales, it was no wonder love in the real world was a bit of a disappointment.
The Pumpkin’s whistle sounded three blasts. Adelaide found that her hands were shaking.
She tried to calm herself by making plans. Adelaide had always been a forward-looking person. So, when the trial was over, she would take Lydia with her on the lecture circuit. People would come to see Lydia and stay to hear Adelaide. Adelaide would dress Lydia just as she was dressed now: modest, nothing tasteless or exploitative. A locket, perhaps. Adelaide heard someone running in the corridor past her door. Followed by someone else.
Of course, Lydia would not be expected to perform in any way. Or even to appear if this were difficult for her. Absolutely no more Wild Woman shows. But she probably wouldn’t mind merely sitting to the side of the stage with a nurse to care for her. A nurse could be paid for out of the proceeds of the lectures. No expense would be spared in Adelaide’s efforts to restore Lydia to sanity or to keep her safe and comfortable. Shouts at the end of the corridor. Here! Where? There! Stop! Stop!
Adelaide stood up and turned her back on Lydia, pulling up her dress to substitute a clean menstrual rag. She tried to find a way to dispose discreetly of the used one. The little cabin did not have many hiding holes, but a recent newspaper lay folded on a board that had been hammered into the cabin wall as a desktop. Adelaide tore away a section on the Modoc Indian’s murder of General Canby and dropped the little packet beside the bed, telling herself she would deal with it better later. She wiped her hands on her inside hem and sat beside Lydia again, cross-legged in the space between Lydia’s feet and underneath her own coat. Once she was seated, she became very tired. Body tired only. Her mind still hopped from thing to thing to thing. Modocs, her mind said briefly. Seabeck. Her mind created a funny picture of B.J. and Purdy at the bridge with their hair blown all about by the wind and their mouths open. Someday, her mind said, with no explanation. San Francisco. Menstrual rags (a thought directed at her body with some contempt). Harold. Harold. Footsteps raced back through the corridor.
Just let me lie down, her body asked nicely. Two minutes. Give me two minutes. It’s been a long day. It had been a long night. Sleeping in chairs. Climbing in trees. Sailing in sloops. Sky, land, water. The full ticket. Just let me sleep a little. Adelaide yawned. Her mind and body were always wanting different things. It was pretty much a permanent condition. Probably this wasn’t true only of her. Probably everyone felt this way.
One blast from the Pumpkin’s whistle. Was this an all clear? Had Harold finally been brought to bay? ‘Harold is here,’ she told Lydia, who yawned back. ‘Now, why do you suppose he’s come?’ And why hadn’t Harold declared himself as the manager of the Alaskan Wild Woman? Why had he tried to hide? Just how much did he really know about Lydia?
Rain coated the porthole. Adelaide listened to the sound of the engine, paddle buckets, whistles, and steam. Everything working to its own rhythm. Pumpkin, Pumpkin, Pumpkin, the engine said. The steamer rocked. The door was safely locked. Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater, Adelaide thought sleepily. Had a wife and couldn’t keep her. Locked her in a pumpkin shell. And there he kept her very well. An insidious, ugly little rhyme that made her mind skip like a stone over water, back to harems and across to keyholes. The captain’s cabin was as small as a cell. There was only the one tiny window. She reminded herself that she was protecting Lydia, not imprisoning her. She was rescuing Lydia. What would have happened to Lydia if Adelaide had not come along? She only wanted to help. Adelaide leaned against the wall of the cabin, closing her eyes.
Someone knocked on the door. ‘Mrs Byrd?’ Captain Wescott stood outside. Adelaide looked at her watch. Seven o’clock. Time for dinner and then the dock at Tacoma. Soon she and Lydia would be sailing to San Francisco, or they would not be. ‘Mrs Byrd,’ said Captain Wescott, ‘I’m afraid I must trouble you again.’
‘What is it?’ asked Adelaide, ready to be alarmed, but not alarmed yet, still sleepy, quite hungry. Perhaps the Chinese man’s condition had taken a turn for the worse.
‘This is rather difficult. Please open the door so that we can talk.’
‘What about?’ Adelaide didn’t like the tone of his voice. Behind the forced gallantry, a new awkwardness. An embarrassment.
‘Please open the door.’
Harold must have revealed himself and demanded Lydia. Adelaide tried to think what to do. She sat up, patting her hair into place. ‘Has that madman been captured?’ she asked, stressing the mad before the man in hopes of discrediting any claims Harold might make.
‘No. Not yet. Soon.’ But there were whispers outside. Captain Wescott was not alone. Adelaide rose and went to the door. She knelt beside it, putting her ear to the keyhole, trying to hear.
Captain Wescott spoke. ‘We are conducting a thorough search. We would like all the passengers to gather together in the passenger cabin until we are finished. For their own safety.’
‘We’re safer here,’ said Adelaide. ‘But thank you.’
More whispers. Adelaide heard her name. Her real name, the name she had signed onto the steamer’s register for Lydia. She slid one hand down the bubbled white paint of the cabin door. She tried to look through the keyhole. A round blue eye looked back. It blinked. Adelaide jumped to her feet. ‘She’s in there!’ Emmaline said excitedly. ‘I can see her.’
‘Mrs Byrd, you must open the door. We must search my cabin. Indeed, we’ve looked everywhere else.’
‘Really,’ said Adelaide in amazement. What was she being accused of now? ‘There is no one here but me and my companion. Who is very ill. I do assure you. Your quarters are too small for me to be mistaken.’
‘I was suspicious the moment she demanded a private cabin.’ Adelaide identified Mrs Maynard’s voice, whispering, but loudly enough to be heard over the engine, loudly enough to slip through the brass keyhole.
‘Mrs Byrd, you must open the door,’ the captain said.
Adelaide looked at the porthole. Far too small for her hips. Far too small for Lydia. And anyway, where would she go next? She retrieved the veil and pinned it into Lydia’s hair. Lydia’s nose made a large bump in the middle of the veil. The black net clung to her face and dipped into her nostrils when she inhaled. It waved like a flag when she exhaled. ‘Please,’ Adelaide said to Lydia. ‘Just for a few minutes.’ Lydia removed the veil at once, pul
ling at the pins so she lost some of her hair. Adelaide replaced the veil. Lydia removed it. Adelaide replaced it, catching Lydia’s hands and lacing the fingers together. Lydia struggled away from her, freeing her hands, batting the veil onto the floor.
‘Mrs Byrd, you must open the door.’ Adelaide pulled her coat tighter around Lydia’s chin. She pushed Lydia until Lydia rolled onto her side with her back to the door. ‘Mrs Byrd.’ Adelaide glanced back at Lydia, whose face, at least temporarily, could not be seen. She fitted the key to the keyhole and turned it. The doorknob rotated. Captain Wescott opened the door. His splendid uniform was untarnished, but his face was slightly red. He stood there holding his hat. Emmaline’s hands were clasped together under her chin in excitement. She had evidently been pressed against the keyhole. There was a keyhole shape on her cheek and she stumbled forward into the room when the door swung open. Mrs Maynard hovered in the corridor behind.
Adelaide heard Lydia’s body shifting on the bed. Emmaline’s eyes widened. Adelaide blocked her at the doorway. ‘Perhaps now you can explain this intrusion, Captain Wescott?’ she said icily. ‘Although I doubt very much that your explanation will satisfy me.’
‘I do apologize.’ Captain Wescott would not look at her. ‘Mrs Maynard believes you have a man inside the cabin. Of course, she is mistaken. If we may just see your companion?’
‘I recognized you.’ Mrs Maynard’s voice was shrill and certain. ‘And I went straight to the captain. Who showed me the ship’s register. You’re not Mrs Byrd. You’re not even married. You’re Miss Adelaide Dixon. The suffragist. I heard you speak once in Boston on a topic I will not even allow to pass my lips.’
‘Trollops,’ said Emmaline. The ears of her bow had started to droop and the ends of her hair had started to snarl. A bit of blue stain marked the corner of her mouth. Adelaide thought she looked better this way.
Captain Wescott’s face betrayed shock. He leaned down to correct Emmaline. ‘The fair but frail,’ he suggested stiffly.
‘Exactly,’ said Mrs Maynard. Her brown hair was coming loose and strayed about her temples. The corner of Adelaide’s own handkerchief showed in the bosom of her dress. ‘Miss Dixon. A trollop by any other name. And since you are Adelaide Dixon, your companion cannot possibly be. I was suspicious the moment I saw your companion. No woman walks like that. Not a womanly walk. Not a womanly voice. I know a man when I see one, even if he’s wearing pannier and a veil. You have concealed your identity in order to frolic with a man right under our noses in the captain’s own cabin. Don’t try to deny it, Miss Dixon.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Adelaide said and she really didn’t. ‘I am being accused of smuggling on board in Port Gamble a man who was later pulled onto the Pumpkin clinging to a canoe?’
‘The Lotta White.’ Captain Wescott corrected her. ‘You’re not being accused of anything, Mrs Byrd. I am merely asking you for access to my own cabin.’ He brushed the top of his hat with the side of one hand and adjusted an epaulet, apparently still unable to look at her. ‘Possibly you’ve never heard of Jimmy Jones, skipper on the Jenny Jones?’ He paused to let Adelaide agree that she did not know of this man. Adelaide refused to give him the satisfaction.
After an awkward moment, the captain continued anyway. ‘Well, I wouldn’t expect a lady from the East to know of him, but he’s rather famous in these parts. Jimmy was thrown into prison in Victoria for debt and his schooner was seized. She was a flea-ridden vessel, but all he had. He caught up with his creditors and the Jenny Jones in dock at Steilacoom. He’d escaped from prison by dressing as a woman. All the riggings – bustles, bonnets, and veils. I’m sure he looked a picture. But he stole back his own ship while the crew was ashore and made it all the way to Mexico. You tell a steamship captain in these parts there’s a man dressed as a woman on board his ship and he’s just as likely to believe you.’
‘Are you quite finished?’ Adelaide asked. ‘Because the point I was making is that the man arrived after my companion and I were already settled into the cabin. Your story is as preposterous as it is irrelevant.’
‘It’s not preposterous. It’s absolutely true,’ said the captain. ‘Jimmy’s a lecturer now, like you. I’ve heard him myself. Or at least he was a lecturer until he spoke at Seabeck. Just before his speech, one of the local wags gave him a drink. Jimmy was never known to turn down a free drink. Only this one was doctored with ipecac and cascara. The mill towns take their entertainment rough, as I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you, Mrs Byrd, if you are, in fact, Miss Dixon.’
‘The point I am making . . .’ Adelaide began again, speaking slowly since no one here with the possible exception of Emmaline appeared acute enough to follow her otherwise. But she was not able to finish. Mrs Maynard snapped her sentence in two.
‘Oh, you’re very cunning,’ Mrs Maynard conceded. Fury had blotched her cheeks and made her voice shake. ‘I noticed that at your lecture. Always an answer for everything. I told Captain Wescott not to underestimate your cunning. But the truth is, if you’ve got nothing to hide, you’ve no reason not to let the captain search his own cabin. Do you?’
‘This is a matter of principle. You wouldn’t understand.’ Adelaide regretted every moment of pity she had felt for young Mrs Maynard. Certainly she had faced charges such as these before. She expected the approbation of her own sex no more than she wanted the approval of men. Which was lucky since she never got either. But it was galling to remember that she had been comforting this woman only a short while ago. She heard herself adopting her public voice again. ‘I will set principle and dignity aside, Captain Wescott.’ She reached past the captain, brushing over Emmaline’s head, flattening one of her cat’s ear bows, to retrieve her handkerchief from Mrs Maynard’s bosom. She pulled it free with a snap. Mrs Maynard recoiled from her hand as if she expected Adelaide to strike her. Adelaide had not stopped speaking. ‘I see you are determined to look and that no appeal to courtesy or decency will dissuade you. When you have satisfied yourselves as to the injustice you do me, I will accept no apology. And I will entertain no further intrusions.’ She backed into the cabin, sweeping her skirts aside with one hand.
Lydia had rolled around, facing Captain Wescott, following him with her large dark eyes as he came into the room. She shifted onto her back, showing them all her famous profile. Adelaide could hardly breathe. ‘Has everyone seen enough?’ she asked.
Mrs Maynard crowded into the cabin behind the captain, who was behind Emmaline. One more person could not have fit into the tiny room. ‘It is a man,’ she insisted, but somewhat uncertainly.
‘I don’t think so.’ Captain Wescott also did not sound sure. He took a step forward to the bed, treading on Adelaide’s used menstrual rag. He bent over to look at it curiously, unwrapped it with the toe of his shoe. Adelaide was hot with embarrassment. The captain reddened like a boiled lobster. The Pumpkin’s whistle sounded on deck, a continuous blast like a teakettle. ‘Madam, I am deeply sorry.’ He straightened up and addressed Lydia. ‘The way we have disturbed you. In your condition. There is no excuse for it. I can only assure you I was concerned for the safety of my ship. And her passengers. And that I deeply regret this whole episode.’
‘She is a man,’ Mrs Maynard insisted, whispering through her teeth. ‘Look at her.’ But even as Mrs Maynard spoke, Captain Wescott took her arm and piloted her firmly through the door backward. She continued to accuse Adelaide as she retreated. ‘Doesn’t the Redpath agency handle your engagements? And isn’t Redpath’s business manager missing? Vanished with a great deal of money. I read it in the papers.’
‘I’m not with Redpath,’ Adelaide said. Of course, she was much too scandalous for the Redpath agency. ‘I handle my own career.’
Captain Wescott pushed Mrs Maynard farther out into the corridor. ‘Emmaline!’ Mrs Maynard called back. ‘Come away from there.’ Emmaline remained in the cabin, staring at Lydia. At the sound of her mother’s voice, she turned and smiled inexplicably at Adelaide. An unforced little g
irl’s smile. Perhaps slightly conspiritorial, but perhaps purer than that. Adelaide had always told herself that she didn’t want children. Such a bother. Such a responsibility. Far too bestial. She reached over and straightened Emmaline’s ribbons. The truth was that the prospect of child-bearing had always filled Adelaide with terror. It was painful to admit that she lacked the ordinary courage of her sex. But it would be even more cowardly not to face the truth of the matter.
‘Good-bye,’ said Emmaline. She ran away from Adelaide, her shoes tapping lightly and then more lightly down the corridor in the direction of the passenger cabin and her mother.
A crew member arrived just outside the cabin door. ‘There’s food missing from the galley,’ he reported to Captain Wescott. ‘Cheese and bread. And whiskey.’
A second crewman ran up from the other direction, shouting. ‘We spotted him up by the bridge!’ He reached the captain, paused to catch his breath. ‘He swung down the companionway and headed toward the stern. One of the passengers says he went back over the side. We can’t see anything in the wake.’
‘Search the stern,’ Captain Wescott said, sending the crewmen back off on a run. To Adelaide’s surprise, he did not follow. He stood there a moment, rotating his hat nervously in his hands. ‘The Columbia lost an Indian deckhand off the stern once,’ Captain Wescott offered. Adelaide was not interested and would not pretend that she was. ‘Nobody missed him. He was dragged in the wake for three days but was recovered when she docked in Olympia. Hungry, but otherwise fine.’ The more Adelaide refused to answer, the more embarrassed the captain seemed to become. Adelaide was still embarrassed herself, so this seemed only just. ‘Well,’ said Captain Wescott. ‘I had better go see to this.’ He put his hat on his head. ‘I am sorry, Mrs Byrd. I hope someday you’ll believe that.’ Adelaide closed the door.
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