by John Brunner
“He came here looking for something to invest in. He likes transportation. He used to be a railroad man back in Scotland. He thinks the steamer will be competitive with the railroads for at least another twenty years. And when he saw the Atchafalaya he was instantly consumed by the ambition of surpassing her.” A note of awe crept into his voice. “Here’s something strange. Often and often I’ve seen that phrase in novels and histories and thought of it as license on the writer’s part. But today I witnessed the event. I saw Gordon transformed by a decision reached on the spur of the moment.”
By now the pressroom staff were hanging on his every word. “So what happened?” one of them demanded.
“I carried him to the Pilots’ Guild as soon as our boat docked—”
“What boat?” Graves rapped.
“We were making an excursion aboard the Plott. It’s all in my notes.” Cigar between teeth, Joel clapped his hands to one pocket after another, failed to locate them, and gave a shrug.
“Never mind! It’s in my head, which is what counts. As I was trying to say, I took him to the Guild parlor, thinking Parbury would be there, but we missed him by an hour. He had gone to dine at Martineau’s with a bunch of other rivermen.
“There we were told he had not arrived and was not expected, but just as we were leaving we ran across Captain Woodley. A lucky chance made me inquire whether he had seen Parbury. Yes, he had, at Griswold’s, only a quarter hour before, and he was certain the captain intended to continue to the restaurant.
“By this time Gordon was like a man in the grip of fever. Nothing would satisfy him but that Woodley accept his invitation to dine while awaiting Parbury. And what Woodley could tell him about the model of the new Nonpareil served only to fire his imagination further.
“But—and this was really rather funny!” Joel tried his cigar one more time with conscious theatricality, knowing how engrossed he had made his audience; finding it beyond hope, he threw the butt into the nearest cuspidor.
“Somehow,” he resumed, “we had omitted to mention that Parbury is blind. Both Woodley and I had talked in glowing terms of his skill as a pilot, and Gordon had taken it for granted he would be chief pilot and nominally master of the boat he was constructing in his mind’s eye.
“So he was considerably shook up when Parbury was led to join us, and from the look on his face as he watched the mess the old man was making with his food, I judged the project must fall through. I can imagine Gordon’s enthusiasms dying as quickly as they kindle. But by this time Woodley had had a good deal to drink, and suddenly he thumped the table and said he longed to see a steamer that would run out Drew’s, and he would sell his own boat and put the proceeds towards the new Nonpareil.
“Parbury almost wept at that, and clasped his hand and explained to Gordon how Woodley provided dolls’ furniture for his model, and Gordon insisted on seeing this famous model, and the second he laid eyes on it he was in raptures. I left them to it, with people like Dermot Hogan and Colin Trumbull pleading—I swear, pleading!—for the chance to pilot her on her maiden voyage! I never saw the like before! And if they fit her out as lavishly as they’ve been promising, then she won’t cost a stiver less than a quarter million!”
After long hesitation Graves reached a decision.
“Bring me a chase,” he ordered. “No need to waste time by writing all this down—I’ll compose it directly in type. Anything to add, Siskin?”
Suddenly weary, Joel reached to the wall for support.
“I did pick up another story,” he muttered. “There’s going to be a society wedding. But I guess you better hadn’t print that. Far’s I can make out, not even the bridegroom knows about it yet.”
NOT SINCE THE ECLIPSE
1ST MARCH 1870
“No other steamer, not even the far-famed Eclipse, could vie with her in size, capacity, burthen or cost. Everything about her is on the grandest and most magnificent scale, while nothing has been omitted that science or money could furnish, in making her the most complete steamer for passengers and business combined, that has ever yet been seen on our Southwestern highway.”
—New Orleans Times, April 15, 1865; quoted by Leonard V. Huber in Advertisements of Lower Mississippi River Steamboats 1812–1920
Humming “The Water is Wide” and having occasional recourse to the banister rail, Hamish Gordon made his way up to his hotel suite. Though accounted the finest in Cincinnati, “Queen City of the West,” this six-storey edifice belonged to the pre-elevator age, and clients lodged on its upper floors were to be pitied.
Not that he had been relegated to such remote accommodation.
He had been lionized in this city so boastful of its new suspension bridge, so smug behind its levee crowned with huge posts used to moor steamers when high water lifted them practically level with the warehouse roofs. Nonetheless he looked forward to leaving, for he found the atmosphere slow and provincial compared to New Orleans. He would say good-bye forever when the Nonpareil made her maiden voyage, next week at latest, sooner if her trials went well tomorrow—no, today, he corrected himself, remembering it was already half past midnight.
This evening he had brought his endeavors to a climax with a lavish dinner at which he had toasted the boat, her owners, her builders, and the crew carefully recruited for her during the winter. In the course of his speech he had even obliged Parbury to compound their outstanding differences, by making careful and always indirect allusion to the disputes which—everybody knew—had punctuated their association so far. There had been a time around the turn of the year when each was blaming the other for mistakes that threatened to wreck the undertaking. Fortunately from Gordon’s point of view, Parbury had intemperately published his accusations; his partners had been more circumspect. Now the boat was finally ready, albeit months overdue, Gordon had suggested to the company it was time for all such insults to be withdrawn, and in the general bonhomie Parbury could not refuse without seeming ungracious.
After his professions of camaraderie, Gordon felt free to disregard Parbury’s views on their last and longest-standing disagreement: a triviality that had been allowed to balloon into a matter of principle.
From the start journalists had compared the Nonpareil to the Eclipse, and the latter had carried a fine quadrille band; surviving advertisements attested the fact. Parbury, though, was opposed to “wasting” money on musicians, while Gordon’s opinion was that whatever railroads could not offer must be exploited to the utmost.
Lately, as though conscious that his dogmatism was absurd, Parbury had refrained from mentioning the matter. And after tonight, Gordon told himself, there was nothing to stop him telegraphing the Nonpareil’s agents at New Orleans, Oliver Knight & Co., instructing them to hire a band and have it standing by on the wharf to publicize her arrival.
Doubtless Parbury would rebuke him for extravagance, but in a short time the results would speak for themselves, Gordon was sure. He maintained that advertising and publicity were the Jachin and Boaz of success in business. So a nice loud band would attract attention and pay for itself.
Naturally there were cases where blatancy was inappropriate. Sometimes, woman-like, fame was best courted by being shunned for a while… as he had demonstrated on reaching New Orleans. He had refused to talk to the first reporters who showed up, aware that if he did so he would be forgotten in a few days. By biding his time, then yielding unexpectedly to Joel, he had ensured lasting notoriety, because from that moment on everybody felt flattered by acquaintance with this mystery man. The Marocain brothers had gone so far as to bribe him into patronizing their bank; at least they had sent him a couple of expensive gifts, and the implication was clear.
When he had eventually deigned to visit their establishment, they had practically begged him to let them handle the financing of the Nonpareil.
Not for the first time he chuckled at his own ingenuity, and thrust his key into the door of his suite.
“What the de’il—?”
Gordon bit off the words as he entered the middle room of the three-room suite, which he was using as an office. He had taken it for granted that Matthew would be in bed in the room on the right. Instead, here he was in nightshirt and slippers, head slumped among a scatter of documents and obviously fast asleep.
Now what was this fool playing at? Gordon took a stride toward the table, intending to shake Matthew awake. His foot brushed a sheet of paper fallen to the carpet, a private letter in a formal copybook hand. Automatically he picked it up. It was so brief, he read it at a glance.
My dear Nephew,
Against your impending Birthday I write to convey my good wishes and trust the speed of modern Railroads will bring my note to hand before the date. I will not write at length, for you do not do so any more. You offer the excuse, Mr. Gordon allows you little leisure. I advance the same reason but citing my Clientele.
Your aff’nate Uncle Ray
“Oh, you’re back, sir. Didn’t hear you come in. Did it all go off okay?”
Fighting a yawn, Matthew sat up.
Gordon did not look at him at once. Sometimes he thought he had never really had a childhood; certainly he had had none to leave such glowing memories as others claimed to cherish. When things went badly with his parents—which was most of the time—the bairns bore the brunt of their ill temper. He had been beaten regularly until he was old enough to hit back.
Being orphaned was no excuse for this soft boy to cower in the shelter of youth indefinitely! He might still look like a child, but it was high time he started acting like a man.
“Greensickness,” he said suddenly.
“I beg your pardon, sir?”
“I said greensickness! That’s what’s wrong with you!” Gordon doffed his hat and cape. As usual Matthew made to take them. Gordon checked him with a scowl.
“If I’d wanted a valet I’d have hired a valet! You’re my amanuensis—you’re meant to work with your head, not your hands.”
Matthew licked his lips. “I do, sir. To the best of my ability.”
“Then why didn’t you use your head and tell me you had a birthday due?”
“I—uh—I felt it a matter of purely private concern… sir.”
“You didn’t believe I meant what I’ve always said: I take a personal interest in the well-being of my employees?” Gordon’s tone was heavy with sarcasm. “When is this birthday, anyhow?”
Blushing now, Matthew muttered, “March first, sir.”
“You mean today!”
“I—I guess I do by now.” With a glance at a wall-clock.
“And how old does that make you?”
“N-nineteen.”
“Nineteen, hey? I was right, then. Greensickness, that’s what ails you! Here!” He fumbled in his vest pocket and produced a small key. “Yonder stands a tantalus. There’s Scotch whisky in the right-hand bottle. Pour two glasses and we’ll toast your anniversary.”
Taking the key reluctantly, Matthew said, “Sir, I’ve never partaken of strong liquor—”
“It’s time you did!” Gordon snapped. “And there’s no’ a finer introduction tae the glories o’ Bacchus than ma whusky! Dae as ye’re tell’t!”
During their travels there had been not a few occasions when Gordon’s accent reverted to the dialect of his youth. It was a storm warning. Trembling, Matthew made haste to obey.
This time, at least, he was fated to escape his master’s wrath. He filled the glasses to the prescribed height and set them down with correct ceremony. Satisfied, Gordon indicated he should resume his seat, lifted his drink, and said sententiously, “To your twentieth year!”
Hoping he was not obliged to gulp it at a draught, Matthew sipped the whisky and with relief found it pungent but not unbearable. He was even able to feign a nod of approval as he set his glass down again.
Which seemed to impress Gordon, for he said with near-cordiality, “Why did you decide to keep your watch night this way? Here I find you sitting up until all hours of a freezing night, poring over”—he reached for a sample of the documents—“last week’s expenditures, and the retainer paid to Mr. Hogan to make sure he’ll be here in time for the downriver trip, and an indent from Mr. Woodley, and a bill for a piano, and— Ach! Did I order you to do this?”
“No, sir!”
“Then why do it? To impress the night watchman, is that it?”
“Impress—? No, I swear it! It was just that I couldn’t sleep. So I thought it best to use the time.”
“And did you?”
Miserably Matthew shook his head.
“Greensickness, then,” Gordon repeated with satisfaction. Emptying his glass, he held it out for refilling. Matthew was prompt to comply.
And ventured as he relocked the tantalus, “Sir, you’ve said that more than once, and—”
“And you don’t understand what I mean by it,” Gordon cut in. “You only ever heard it applied to sickly girls. Is that right?”
Matthew hesitated. “I don’t believe,” he admitted at last, “I ever heard the term before. But of course I have been largely raised out of contact with young ladies. The Lord chose not to bless my parents with a daughter, as I’m sure I’ve told you. So…”
“You’ll have to grow out of it,” Gordon declared, exactly as though Matthew had not spoken. Glass cradled between clasped hands, he gave the clear impression of pondering a weighty subject.
Matthew nervously risked a second sip.
“Elvira,” Gordon said at length. “Aye. She would be right for you… Nineteen and never tasted liquor! Never had a woman either, I’ll be bound! Or am I wrong? Sometimes you thin frail bairns excite their motherly feelings— Ah, I can read by your face my guess was right! That settles it, then. As soon as we return to New Orleans I’ll hold a birthday dinner for you. At the Limousin! And you’ll be a man by morning, an’ mebbe warth mair’n a wet coo-pat tae masel’ wha pays yir wages!”
He drained his glass. In a different voice, as though his personality had altered with the action, he said, “To bed with you. I’ve ordered breakfast at six o’clock. Today’s the day for the Nonpareil as well as you. Good night.”
Stowey & Vandersteen’s shipyard was a maze of lumber downstream of the main Cincinnati public landing. It was incredibly untidy, having as much rubbish as usable matériel scattered over its two-acre extent. During January and February this had largely been disguised by snow; with the thaw it was becoming sadly obvious again.
Yet it had proved possible to conjure out of this chaos a masterpiece of grace, elegance, luxury and speed. There she lay, moored a short distance from the slipway that had launched her empty hull—too many months ago!
But now at last she was fully fitted-out, except for final trimmings such as linen for the staterooms and liquor for the bar. And she looked magnificent. She measured better than three hundred feet from her rounded stern to her finely modeled bow, designed to create a plume of spray when she was under way. The tops of her chimneys were formed like coronets, as her predecessor’s had been, and these ornaments were barely less than a hundred feet above her waterline. She was more than forty-two feet broad, but in proportion to her length that was so negligible, she seemed pencil-slim. Boastfully tall letters spelled out her name on either wheelhouse, while her verge staff awaited the breaking-out of a pennant Gordon had had embroidered specially, which bore the steamer’s name translated into plain English: None is my equal!
Even at rest she was creating a sensation. A crowd had gathered despite the cold, and as Gordon advanced to meet the senior partner of the shipbuilding company, Albert Stowey, he was accosted by two men flourishing notebooks, clad almost identically in check ulsters and derby hats.
“Mr. Gordon!” the first one cried. “I’m from the Cincinnati Commercial! Are you going to race your boat against the Atchafalaya?”
Gordon halted in his tracks.
“What makes you think there will be any call for a race? Why shouldn’t the result be a foregone conclusion? Here’s t
he finest steamer that ever graced these waters! Well crewed and well commanded, why should she not outstrip all competition without the need to race?”
The second reporter broke in. “I’m here for the Memphis Avalanche, sir! Speaking of command: what made you appoint Mr. Woodley master of the new boat?”
“You probably know his qualifications better than I,” retorted Gordon. “Not only does he own a share in her—at last report he’s still the youngest riverman entitled to be called Captain. I’m impressed by precocious success. I made my fortune when I was younger than you are now!”
The man from the Avalanche bit his lip, giving his companion time to butt in.
“When will the public have a chance to judge your claims, Mr. Gordon?”
“Tomorrow or the next day, if her trials go well, as I’m convinced they will. Before departing for New Orleans, the Nonpareil will make an excursion trip, or two if there is enough demand. And I shall personally insist on journalists coming aboard free of charge on the first trip—to create demand for the second!”
Which provoked a ripple of laughter from the bystanders.
Placated for the time being, the pair withdrew, and Stowey led Gordon and Matthew—the latter trying to hide his yawns—along a winding path between heaps of wood and ironware, which ended at the stage linking the steamer with the shore.
Apart from hellos, no words were exchanged. Stowey had been very glib with his assurances when, after visiting a dozen yards without luck and growing impatient, Gordon and Parbury had investigated this one. Summer was nearly over by then, and while it was true that from Cincinnati down the Ohio and Mississippi were generally navigable eleven months of the year, winters hereabout—and upstream on both the Ohio and the other river that debouched here, the Licking—could be cruel. In February 1856 a rise in the Licking had vomited such a mass of ice that it sank eleven steamers and damaged many more; a year later another six were sunk by ice rushing down the Ohio.