by John Brunner
Whose present day successor forced himself to gather his wits and think about his mother on the seat opposite.
Past forty, she was still beautiful. Dressed entirely in black with jet and agate for her only jewelry, she was even more striking because her superb cheekbones were thrown into high relief. If only those dark limpid eyes weren’t fixed on nowhere; those slim fingers telling a rosary of dull black beads; those broad lovely lips moving as she recited something which was plainly not an Ave Maria or any other prayer permissible to the devout…
Could an evil spirit be taking Eulalie Lamenthe in charge? Or was it just that in the grief she felt at losing first her own man, then his brother whom she had loved next of all, she was temporarily disturbed…?
Fernand licked his lips. There had been other times in his life when he had asked direct questions. Why not now? With seeming irrelevance it came back to him how Hosea Drew had condensed a whole world of implications into the single word: “Uncle?”
Very well, then. He leaned forward and inquired: “Is this for the repose of—?”
Which was the point where, he later thought, he was made adult.
For years he had striven to think of his mother as a person with her own concerns, her own problems, her own failings—the last being the hardest for him to grasp, as for any child. He had fought to disabuse himself of the notion that his older relatives lived on a plane he could never attain to, because they were informed, capable, possessed of money and knowing how to generate more. On the day of his father’s funeral he had sensed for the first time a link between the cathedral and the offices of Marocain’s, bankers and pawnbrokers to… et cetera. Perhaps the word office itself constituted a clue?
And just as he was thinking: have the money-changers taken over my life’s temple?—
“Not for the repose of anybody,” said his mother in a tone like poison masked by honey. “That they may not sleep!”
“Who?”
“Eugene,” his mother replied, telling another bead on her rosary, which was none of the usual kind, for at one end it terminated in crossed bones, at the other in a miniature skull. “And Richard. And their women!”
“Oh, maman…!” But Fernand’s voice expired. For from the moment when Edouard had begun to show interest in his nephew rather than his sons—which could be dated precisely by Hosea Drew’s return to New Orleans—Eugene and Richard had treated him and his mother with blatant hostility. Eulalie was convinced they had been complicit in the near-failure of the family bank. Within a day of Drew’s visit the firm’s biggest depositor, Andrew Moyne, had called in his credit; a dozen had followed his example. Eulalie swore the brothers were behind the scare. But that wasn’t rational. Apart from the absurdity of imagining that such a greedy pair would risk their inheritance, neither in Fernand’s view was competent to manipulate a money market even on so small a scale. (But it was politic to keep such opinions to himself.)
No, it made better sense to believe that the story of Drew’s unsatisfied demand for cash had been magnified into a panicky rumor about insolvency. After all, Mrs. Moyne had been present at the time.
At all events the crisis had been weathered. Not comfortably. Drew’s draft might have been presented at exactly the wrong moment. Miraculously, however, one shipyard after another declined to tender for the new Atchafalaya. When a contractor was at long last found, the bank was again on an even keel.
More than once, closeted with his uncle to examine the day’s mail and hoping against hope that that bill would not be among it for honoring, Fernand had said wonderingly, “I never dreamed I might one day feel grateful to Langston Barber!”
“I advise you not to talk harshly about gamblers,” the old banker would say. “You’re not required to approve of them, but you should not despise them either. Why, I recall how…”
And business would be forgotten for the next ten minutes while he recounted an episode from his youth. The more stories he heard, the more Fernand chafed at having to pass his life in subservience to his cousins, denied all chance of rising higher than some nominal status such as senior clerk.
But he had breathed no word of dissatisfaction to his uncle. The strain was telling on Edouard by this time, and in the end he was obliged to retire, leaving the firm’s direction to his sons… and nephew, jointly. That was his specific wish. He was repeating it on his deathbed and must by then have believed that his instructions had been implemented. But he had neglected to have them incorporated in his will.
Fernand said nothing about the petty slights Eugene in particular was visiting on him, nor about the way his mother’s allowance and his own salary—both reduced at the time when the bank was in danger of failing—had been left at the new, lower figures, though his cousins were being extremely generous to themselves. He dared not speak up, partly for fear of making the old man’s last days miserable, but far more because of a threat blandly uttered by Eugene: that if he insisted on his rights the world would get to hear about ceremonies his mother was conducting in the company of a one-eyed man who claimed he had been trained as a witch doctor.
And that way lay appalling risk of scandal. Half the folk of the city either practiced or at any rate believed in the magic which ran like a psychological undertow through all levels of society. For the most part it was harmless enough, providing an outlet for ill temper that might otherwise be expressed with gun or knife. Every now and then, however, there were hints of something deeper, something darker. Only a dozen years before, a grand exposé had rocked the city: ladies of good family who first applied to Dr. John or Marie Laveau for nothing more than a luck-charm had wound up making sacrifice to Damballah the snake god on St. John’s Eve, and dancing naked along with his blackest devotees. Fernand well recalled how his mother had tried to keep newspaper accounts of the affair away from him, because a cousin of theirs was involved, Athalie Lamenthe whom he had never met.
The carriage was trundling up Toulouse now, toward Rampart. At the far end of this street lay Congo Square. Come Sunday next, as every Sunday, a great crowd of former slaves would gather there to sing, beat drums, and dance.
Innocent enough on the surface. But if some force connected with it could drive his mother to cast spells and recite curses…
Abruptly the carriage pulled to a halt and the driver scrambled down to open the door.
Startled, Fernand realized they had been brought only as far as the first stop on the streetcar line that served their district.
“Were you not given the right address?” he demanded of the driver. “We live at—”
“This is as far as I was told to carry you, sir,” the man interrupted.
“Who told you?” Erupting from his seat in fury, Fernand almost knocked off his tall hat; but for that, he would have struck the driver.
The latter stepped back in alarm. “Why, my boss, sir! We have another funeral directly.”
“I bet it was Eugene!” Fernand raged. “Is there no end to his petty insults?”
“Calm yourself,” his mother said. “This is nothing compared to what they will try now your uncle is out of the way. But I am fighting to protect us, and we are in the right. Tip the driver; it is not his fault.”
Standing among the dense noontide crowds, the sun unbearable on his mourning black, Fernand felt his resolution harden. As the car they were waiting for hove in sight he turned to his mother.
“Maman, I’m afraid I must ask you to return unescorted. I have business to attend to.”
“Business?” She was instantly suspicious. “But the shop is closed today.”
“A different kind of business,” Fernand said grimly. “If all goes well, I need never see that damned shop again.”
“You’re going to do something foolish!”
“No, something very sensible. Something I should have done long ago.”
“What, then?”
“I’m not sure whether I can bring it off. But if I do, I swear you shall be the first to hear.”
“How long will Eugene and Richard let me survive in the firm? To the end of the year? I shall be lucky, then! No, I’d rather quit than give them the pleasure of driving me out.”
“Fernand, I just told you I am working to protect us!”
“Mother!” This time he said it formally, instead of using the intimate French term he had been brought up to. “Mother, I am of age. I am twenty-one. And in my view, if what I am intending is foolish, then what you are doing is crazy!”
Between them there was a long chill silence. In the world outside everything else continued, and the streetcar arrived with a grind of iron on iron.
At last she said, “I hear your father’s voice again in yours. He forbade me to dispute his judgment. He is dead and so is his brother. You are my last comfort.”
“I swear it is better my way—maman!”
“I hope so,” she said, climbing on the car. “I surely do!”
It distressed Fernand to offend his mother, but no matter how hard she tried she would never persuade him that her spells were a substitute for positive action such as Edouard would have approved! Consequently, as he strode along North Rampart toward Canal, his spirits lightened.
But his thoughts ran abruptly aground.
Ahead of him on the banquette was walking a petite dark girl wearing a plain brown dress and a hat in the style of three years ago. She was carrying a reticule and a hessian bag; the latter was so obviously too heavy for her that every few paces she was accosted by some lounger asking to help with it. She refused, not curtly. Very likely she could not afford a tip. Certainly she had the air of a stranger, for she earnestly scrutinized each building number and street name. Possibly, then, she suspected the bag would be stolen if she let an idler take it.
But she might accept assistance from someone more respectably dressed, such as himself. And really she needed it. Why, she was swaying as though about to faint!
And faint she did at the corner of Bienville. Fernand darted forward and was first at her side. Stooping on one knee, he experienced a violent shock.
This was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. Her hair a raven black, gathered in a knot on her neck—her hat had slipped aside, being held by a single pin. Her complexion had the olive flush of a quadroon, though her cheeks were pallid. Long, very dark lashes rested on those cheeks, fluttering as though she was aware her lids were closed but lacked control to raise them. He caught up her left hand—slim, with perfectly formed nails—and chafed it, feeling suddenly foolish, for he had really very little notion what to do when someone fell unconscious, and by now he was surrounded by a crowd of passers-by who assumed him knowledgeable because of his promptness. But at that point he was saved.
Descending from a smart imported sociable, a well-dressed man sporting red sidewhiskers called out, “Do you need help? I’m a doctor!”
Infinitely thankful, Fernand beckoned him. He strode over, his coachman—after securing the carriage—following with a black leather bag.
Briskly he felt the girl’s cheek, then her pulse; then he made to roll back one of her eyelids, but at that she flinched and looked up, licking her lips.
“What happened?” she said in a husky voice that sent a thrill like electricity through Fernand.
“You fainted,” the doctor said matter-of-factly. “And I’m prepared to guess why. When did you last eat a square meal?”
“Y-yesterday.”
“Hmph!” Magisterially the doctor twirled his left sidewhisker. “Are you sure you don’t mean last week? Who are you, anyway?”
“My name is Dorcas, sir—Dorcas Archer. I’m a stranger here.”
“What are you doing—seeking lodgings?”
“No, sir. I’m looking for work.”
“Then my advice is to find a place in someone’s kitchen, where you can enjoy a decent diet!” He made to rise.
And stopped dead in mid-movement. Following his gaze. Fernand saw, on the frayed cotton petticoat that her fall allowed to show under her skirt, a patch of red.
“I’ve misdiagnosed your condition, haven’t I, Dorcas?” the doctor said. “You need immediate treatment.”
“But I have no money, sir!” she moaned.
“We’ll worry about that later. You!”—to Fernand. “You’re a well-set-up young fellow. Think you can carry her as far as Hamel’s drugstore? It’s at the end of this block.”
“I think so,” Fernand said, astonished.
“Good. My coachman can bring her bag. Don’t try to bear your own weight, Dorcas—let the gentleman lift you.”
But he rebuked Fernand for his awkward posture.
“Lord, when are they going to start teaching anatomy in the schools which charge such fees and discharge such ignoramuses? Not with your legs apart! Feet together! Use your thighs!”
And in fact it was amazing how easily he raised her.
“Now follow me,” the doctor said, and set off at half a run.
The drugstore was a dim place whose walls were lined with labeled wooden drawers and, on high shelves, glass and china jars bearing the arcane abbreviations of the pharmacist’s profession. Behind a long dark counter two young men were busy, one rolling pills on a marble slab, the other sealing small white packages with red wax which he warmed at a blue gas flame.
Starting, the pill-roller exclaimed, “Why, Dr. Malone! What’s the matter? Has she been assaulted?”
“She’s hemorrhaging violently,” Malone said. “She may be miscarrying. Call Mrs. Hamel right away.”
Turning to Dorcas, whose head was lolling on Fernand’s shoulder, he assured her, “You’re in safe hands now, my dear. Mrs. Hamel is a midwife.”
Her only response was a whimper.
Shortly Mr. Hamel appeared from an inner room, a dry man of late middle age with gold-rimmed pince-nez. Behind him followed his wife, wiping her hands on a huckaback towel.
Grasping the situation, Hamel told Fernand to carry his burden around the counter and into the living room, where his wife spread an old blanket over a horsehair sofa. Fernand set the girl down with a sense of absurd reluctance. He was suddenly wondering whether he would ever see her again.
“Thanks for your help,” Malone said, doffing his coat. “But there’s no need to detain you longer. Be so kind as to tell my coachman to call on my next patient and say I shall be late, then return and pick me up.”
“Of course,” Fernand said, but lingered still.
“Pretty, isn’t she?” Malone murmured. “But what’s going to happen now won’t be. On your way!”
Shaken not by the reproof but by the impact this unknown girl had made on him, Fernand obeyed. And found it necessary to stop at a bar before continuing to his original destination.
That was the levee beyond Poydras.
He was an avid reader of the river column in any newspaper that came to hand. From the Intelligencer he had lately learned that the Atchafalaya was at New Orleans on schedule and loading for a trip to Louisville, to start tomorrow. That made it ninety per cent sure Drew would be on board. It was no secret that he used the suite Barber had provided at the Limousin as rarely as possible.
And that same article had reminded Fernand of a law enacted only last year, drafted by the Board of Supervising Inspectors of Steamboats.
For whom Drew doubtless had little affection. But it was a law, and it did have teeth.
Of course, there was always the chance he might not have to mention it…
“Captain, a Mr. Lamenthe wants to see you. Says it’s important. Says to mention the name of Marocain.”
Drew glanced up from bills of lading compiled by his senior clerks, Motley and Wills. The clerks’ office was the commercial heart of the Atchafalaya, as of any river steamer. The only place on board where Drew spent more waking time was in the pilothouse; even during a trip, when the passengers expected him to socialize, he was as likely as not to pass an off-watch ho
ur here.
Diffident in the doorway was the bringer of the message, junior clerk David Grant, who was eighteen and timid… especially when obliged to confront the captain, from whom he usually shied away like a light boat taking a sheer from a reef in shallow water. But the reason for his boldness became plain as he added, “Mr. Chalker sent me!”
Tom Chalker was the first mate. Of him it had been said that he could put the fear of God into a bloom of pig iron, for it had been through hellfire already and knew what he was talking about.
Objurgation was a knack young David was never likely to acquire. Still, he was conscientious and clever with figures. Drew straightened with a mutter of thanks to Wills and Motley. These days he looked more spruce than formerly; also he had become less gruff. The security of possessing his own boat still eluded him, but he could have hit on a worse partner than Barber, for the Hotel Limousin and the interactions of the gambling set were far more attractive to him than the vagaries of the river. So long as he could be left to his own devices, Drew was nearly happy. As nearly as it lay in his nature to be, perhaps.
If only Susannah… But that was not his fault.
By the same token, however, the recognition was gradually growing in him that had he not sacrificed everything else to the rehabilitation of his brother, he might by now have been the father of a boy like Elphin, talented and studious and dedicated to the Baptist ministry—to the delight of his mother, naturally. She had feared the “taint in the blood” of which so many people spoke so freely without evidence.
Every time he thought about children, however, the same image came unbidden to Drew’s mind. He saw again the gaunt figure of Parbury leaning on his wife for guidance and heard Tyburn’s voice utter the sickening news that their only child had died in his father’s absence.