by John Brunner
“You do remember me!” Fernand flashed. “For a moment I was afraid…”
“I’d just made use of you to get away from those unpleasant men? Oh, I did! But I promise you, I well recall how kind you were on my first day in New Orleans. So were other people, of course. I was amazed, to tell the truth. I’d always been warned that in big cities…”
Immediately they were chatting as though since their first encounter each had kept an image of the other constantly in mind, and both were so accurate that they had thus become well acquainted. Besides, each had much to say and no one to say it to. On Fernand’s part, the pressure had built up because Eulalie showed no interest in his achievement as a pilot. At best she approved in offhand fashion, whereas what he desired was warm—fervent—praise.
In Fibby, Dorcas did at least have a confidante, but the older woman was resigned to the small world created for her by the Parburys, occasionally reminiscing with repugnance about life in plantation days or when she was seeking work for the first and only time. She had once had a husband; he had wanted children and she could not conceive, so he abandoned her and she found refuge tending James, who died so tragically. The first time Dorcas heard her tale, she was shaken to learn that a woman could be thrown out of her home for not having a child, as well as for having one…
Alarmed, she found herself on the verge of saying so, and bit back the words for fear there might be limits to this miraculous young man’s tolerance, that he might take offense at too frank an allusion to her past.
So far he had shown no sign. Instead, he was making disclosures of his own, as though it were the most natural thing in the world for two virtual strangers to exchange intimate secrets on a busy street. To be born of a mother en plaçage, lacking a legitimate claim on his father’s estate; to have jealous cousins and no means of countering their vicious but legal depredations—it was a trap that left no alternative but flight.
He had made good his escape, however. And one day he looked forward (how this escaped him, he dared not guess, for he had never before breathed a hint of it) to depositing the profits of a steamboat of his own at the Marocain bank, confident that neither of his cousins would be making as much as he was.
Here for Dorcas was the image of the Mississippi pilot as Prince Charming that she had been encouraged to believe in by Parbury.
Here for Fernand was the image he had clung to ever since the day he had looked on Dorcas’s face and known it for the loveliest in his personal world.
Yet neither could find the perfect words to match the perfect occasion. They chanced on a streetcar going in a convenient direction and telescoped their journey to a minimum. The rate at which time flowed away grew frantic. Essential things remained to be said: remained unsaid.
To have overruled captains aboard their own steamers, yet not to be able to find a proper opening or a proper phrase—! It galled Fernand. Because he had seen Dorcas’s eyes light up on recognizing him, he wanted the world of now to be absolutely other.
It declined to oblige. And what he wound up saying when they were walking along the very street, new-built, lined with handsome houses among lavish gardens, where he must take leave of her, was no more than this:
“Why Cherouen? What’s wrong with Malone, who has been so kind to you? Isn’t he a first-class doctor?”
“I like him very much!” declared Dorcas. “But, you see, Mrs. Parbury…” And she explained how her mistress’s condition grew worse by the week and Malone would not promise what she craved: a miraculous recovery.
Fernand thought for a while; then, as they drew abreast of their destination, he said, “Miracles do happen. One happened to us today, didn’t it? Perhaps Mrs. Parbury is right. Perhaps electricity and ozone will cure her… May I wait until you’ve seen Dr. Cherouen?”
She shook her head, smiling. “You’re very kind! But please don’t. I have no idea whether he’s at home, and if he isn’t I shall be obliged to stay indefinitely.”
“Then may I call on you at the Parburys’? Do say yes! You’re so beautiful I can hardly believe it!”
For a long moment Dorcas wondered whether, like the heroines of so many novels, she ought to refuse before there was any chance of Fernand being disappointed in her. Let him cherish for life a vision of her as flawless, wonderful; let her recall him as her gallant rescuer and let time restore her picture of him as a giant in strength instead of an ordinary man with—well, with a charming manner and a cajoling voice…
It was no use. She was not cast in the mold of heroines. She heard herself say in breathless tones, “That would make me very happy, sir!”
“Then I’ll try and make you as happy as you just made me!” Fernand exclaimed, doffing his hat and making as though to bow. But he canceled the movement and instead risked an embrace, aiming to kiss her on both cheeks.
He forgot his cane, which he had tucked under one arm.
Which fell to the ground with a clatter.
So interrupted, they found themselves gazing into each other’s eyes from a distance of three inches. And neither could help laughing and hugging hard.
There was a while during which the rest of the world seemed muted and dim and far away.
Suddenly Dorcas said, “Thank you for being real after all.”
And broke loose and headed up Cherouen’s driveway in a rush. It was almost as undignified as the hop-and-skip with which Fernand made his way back to the streetcar stop.
For at least five people aboard the Isaiah Plott it was also turning out to be a lovely day.
Arthur Gattry had been prepared for the opposite, even before Joel came scrambling on deck to the accompaniment of Louisette’s cries of welcome. But her rapid introduction set Arthur’s mind at rest immediately. While her cousin’s career might strike Louisette as romantic, in actuality it sounded more like a struggle to make ends meet. When making inquiries about the Moyne family, he had heard reference to Siskins fallen on hard times. Finding that Arthur was acquainted with Gordon, Joel was in seventh heaven. Sheer luck had ensured that he would now save his job.
Enlisting Louisette’s support, he persuaded Arthur to present them, and let go with a barrage of questions which Gordon answered readily. Yes, he had naturally heard of the Macrae affair; no, he was unacquainted with the details because he had been fortunate enough to resist the scoundrel’s blandishments; he was in the States because, thanks to the depredations of the Sassenachs…
Arthur seized the chance to slip the steward a dollar, whereupon three black tenders cleaned up this section of the deck so rapidly that when Louisette next glanced around she blinked in disbelief.
“This Gordon is the man nobody can get to talk about himself?” Arthur murmured in her ear.
“You heard Joel say so,” she whispered back.
“Then none of those who tried before can have possessed your charm—or your inside information, for that matter. I’m most impressed!”
Eyes sparkling at the compliment, she returned, still in a soft tone, “Oh, Father believes girls should be educated in financial matters for fear they might marry men who want to cheat them of their fortune.”
“Very wise! Ah… was your father badly hit by the collapse of Scottish Timber?”
“He got off lightly, compared to some. Even so, if he could lay hands on that crook Macrae, I think there might be murder done!” She gave an exaggerated shudder.
“Well, we can leave this interrogation to your cousin—he’s an expert, I’m sure. Let’s go view the liners. Two are on maiden voyages, and the papers say they’re most impressive.”
“Oh, they are! My brother came in today on the Franche-Comté!” She offered her hand for him to help her to her feet, and he retained it for longer than was needful, but she raised no whit of an objection.
Walking along the deck, she said thoughtfully, “You must meet Auberon. You’d get on well. In fact you sometimes remind me of him.”
“You like him a lot, I guess?” Arthur ventured.
&
nbsp; “Oh, sure! He’s much more fun than most of the boys I know.”
Distant in time Arthur felt he could hear wedding bells. But it was too soon to mention them. He contented himself by saying, “If I remind you of someone you like, I’m overjoyed… Oh, look! There’s the Franche-Comté!”
He had remembered to slip a pair of opera glasses into his pocket. Handing them to Louisette reinforced her view of him as a man of intelligence and forethought. All was going splendidly after all.
Especially because, while she was studying the liners, he was able to take a surreptitious swig from his flask of whiskey.
Hamish Gordon was in his element. One hand brandishing a fat cigar, the other with its thumb hooked in the armhole of his vest, he was holding forth in response to Joel’s prompting about international trade in the post bellum context, with particular stress on the perfidy of the English. Already more than a dozen other passengers had gathered with the frank intention of eavesdropping.
Meantime the Plott was leisurely picking her way between the wharves of downtown New Orleans. Excursions of this sort began with a circuit of the ocean port, where some of the finest ships in the world lay at anchor.
By the time the Plott turned back, the passengers would be thinking about the midday meal—and what better point at which to slot it into the schedule than while returning past sights already seen? The afternoon would be devoted to a slow struggle against the current, affording an opportunity to view the changes that recent development had brought about in Jefferson and Carrollton on ground that until lately had been no-man’s-land.
At evening there would be a fast return to base.
The arrangement met, Gordon declared, with his full approval, and so did the steamers plying this great river. What a difference a few score vessels of the Mississippi type—modified for local conditions, since they would have to venture into open water—would have made to the Highlands and islands whence he hailed! What trade they could have opened up! What markets there were in the south for Scottish produce! All this and more he expounded to Joel, whose flying shorthand covered page after page, to the visible envy of Matthew, who stood by with his own notebook but made no attempt to imitate him.
“Are there no steamers among the Scotch islands, then, sir?” Joel asked.
“Certainly there are a few. But the lairds treat them as private conveyances. Since the crofters are being evicted from their lands, the only use the ordinary person makes of them is when they carry him away for the last time!” Snorting, Gordon discovered his cigar was out; he tossed it aside and produced another, and half a dozen bystanders offered him a light.
“Mr. Gordon, as you doubtless know, few businessmen any longer show interest in the prospects of the steamboat. I gather you’re an exception.”
Amid a cloud of dense smoke Gordon was seen to nod.
“Because you plan to have some constructed and relieve the plight of your fellow countrymen?”
Gordon sighed heavily. “Out of the question, to my muckle regret. I’ve decided to abandon my homeland for ever. Such is the rapacity of the English, even a man in my position can be driven away like a humble fisherman and forced to seek a new life beyond the ocean.”
There were listeners with Scottish ancestry; that remark was greeted with a rumble of approval.
“Sir, this year has seen the liquidation of the great Atlantic and Mississippi Steamship Company,” Joel persisted. “Why then your optimism about steamers?”
With a wave of dismissal Gordon said, “From my study of the case, the directors had only their poor judgment to blame.”
“Yes, sir, perhaps that may be so, but does not the railroad have unsurpassable advantages? It’s faster, it can follow more direct routes, a train of more or fewer cars can be assembled according to need, it’s more nearly independent of weather apart from heavy snow—”
“All of what you say is true,” Gordon interrupted. “But these are not the only factors. I set out westward from New York aboard one of your country’s finest railway trains. Within a short time I found it cramped, unstable, and unreliable. I had the good sense to leave the railway at Cincinnati and thereafter enjoyed a progress in luxury down the Ohio and Mississippi all the way to New Orleans.
“From the viewpoint of a passenger, I can assert that steamers are superior. A great factor in their favor, too, is that so many American cities have grown up on rivers precisely because of the existence of steamers, and when Nature has furnished a highway free of toll and open to all, it cannot but be unprofitable to prefer a mode of conveyance which calls for a road to be laboriously made out of expensive iron. And one thing more, which for me outweighs the rest.”
He leaned forward to tap Joel on the knee, as though they were closeted in private instead of being the cynosure of forty fascinated excursionists. “Throughout this century the progress of invention has assured more and more of the inhabitants of this globe of an easier life. The chores which, as I recall from my own humble childhood, made the daily round a misery—from churning butter to doing the family wash—have one by one benefited from those who have devised machinery to lighten the load.
“What shall it profit us if we neglect the blessing our extra leisure has bestowed? Are we now to make our lives more burdensome than before by insisting that we adjust to the pace made possible by modern machines? Are we to fit ourselves to their Procrustean measure, so that what we have thus far gained will be lost again? While it’s fine and wonderful to cross the ocean in high style, independent of the wind, it’s the reverse to travel from one handsome city to another in cars more suitable for freight or cattle than for humans. Compare the discomfort of eating on the railway, having to balance a hamper on your knees if the other places are taken, with the convenience of dining in the cabin of a steamer. One is like an old stage coach; the other like a drawing room. Coming from a lowly background as I do, I greatly fear that, instead of our liberation from drudgery being allowed to continue until it affects the class on whose efforts all our fortunes must ultimately depend, it will be at some point cut short, and instead of their lives being rendered insupportable by sweeping and scrubbing and the cost of bread, our descendants will be made miserable by machines that govern every instant of their time, demanding that it be filled!”
Obviously impressed, Joel flipped to the next page.
“So the Mississippi steamboat is in the class of machine you would approve of?”
“On the basis of my acquaintance with such vessels, yes. It’s an astonishing feat to carry such huge cargoes on a draft which in Europe would be considered adequate for a rowboat!”
“There’s a saying among river people,” Joel ventured, “that you must always keep a barrel of beer on board.”
Gordon blinked at him. “I understand most large steamers boast a well-stocked bar, and—”
“No, sir. It’s so that when the river’s low you can float her on the foam. They tell of a pilot who made seven miles on a gallon keg.”
Gordon broke into peals of laughter. He rounded on Matthew. “That’s capital—capital! Boy, note it down!”
“Mr. Gordon,” Joel said thoughtfully when the financier had recovered from his mirth, “I believe this to be the first interview you’ve granted since reaching New Orleans. May I ask why?”
“Isn’t the answer obvious? Wouldn’t a man be foolish to go on record in a foreign city before he’d taken time to look it over?”
Joel narrowly avoided clapping himself on the forehead.
Obvious!
The steam whistle let go an echoing blast and the pilot put over the helm. The Plott had reached the downstream end of her trip. Waiters with little gongs appeared to announce that meals would shortly be served in the cabin.
Heaving himself to his feet, Gordon said, “Do me the honor of joining me for luncheon. And perhaps you’d also invite the charming young lady who was with you before—your cousin, did you say?”
“Yes, Miss Moyne. But…” Joel hesitated.<
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“But Mr. Gattry would not care to be separated from her? Then bring ‘em both along. Make up a party. I’m sure we’ll pass a most agreeable time together.”
Her encounter with Fernand had so affected Dorcas that until she had rung the bell at its front door she scarcely registered the contrast between the house she had come to and the home of her employer.
Then, chillingly, the magnitude of the property impinged on her: a broad driveway where two carriages were waiting; a pillared portico with marble steps; a sudden alarming transformation at top-storey level where a gallery from the French Quarter, complete with elaborate ironwork, seemed to have been elevated as by a gigantic flood to heights where it did not properly belong; a conservatory to which fat steam pipes led…
Dorcas trembled. This felt less like one house than several.
Still, she comforted herself, if Cherouen could afford such a palace, he might be as clever as he claimed. She hoped so. In the grip of pain Mrs. Parbury sometimes grew unbearable, finding fault with everything and visiting revenge on everybody around her for imagined slights.
“Yes?”
Dorcas started. The door had opened. Before her stood a striking mulatto woman with strong facial bones and large capable hands. She wore a costume Dorcas had never seen the like of: a blue cotton dress, long-sleeved but short-skirted, not touching her ankles; black stockings and black square-toed shoes; a wide apron, a collar, cuffs, and a square cap, all of white linen starched until one could imagine it breaking like china.
“Yes?” she said again with a touch of impatience.
“Is the doctor at home?” Dorcas forced out.
“I am Miss Var, Dr. Cherouen’s principal nurse. You may explain your business to me.”
Silenced, Dorcas handed over the letter she carried. Having read it, Nurse Var stood back.
“Come in and wait. The doctor is very busy, but there is some chance, I guess, he could attend your mistress. I’ll inquire as soon as he is free.”