by John Brunner
Grinning, Steeples shook his head. “She’s tighter’n an old maid’s—” he began, and suddenly remembered who he was talking to.
But Gordon chuckled, and with relief the three engineers exchanged smiles.
“Where’s Williams?” the financier went on.
From gloomy sternward recesses Williams emerged looking as pleased as his colleagues.
“Looks like she’s set to go!” he declared.
“Then tell Mr. Hogan we’re ready to cast off,” Gordon said. “Matthew, come on deck with me.”
The chill of the morning had relented, and along with it the traces of mist that earlier had shrouded the water. The crowd of spectators was half as large again; many cheered on spotting Gordon.
Down below, steam was fed to the engines, and they sighed like a giant who, from the moment of setting about his lifetime’s task, felt bored with it but by divine decree was not permitted to experience anger.
At the opening of the steam cocks, twin pitmans answered the thrust of the pistons. Huge as trunks of trees—which they had been until they were shaped and bound with iron—they leaned on the cranks that drove the axles that turned the wheels… which were marginally less than forty-three feet in diameter by substantially over fifteen feet wide, and fitted with two-foot slabs of solid wood that were still called buckets in memory of the watermills of an earlier day. Gray water became brown foam. Trumbull leaned out of the pilothouse and waved. Fore and aft, deckhands singled off the mooring cables. A ragged cheer went up from the onlookers.
At this hour there was little activity along the Cincinnati waterfront. Anything that moved, even a rowboat, was apt to attract attention.
Maybe it was that motion marked an end to the drab immobility of winter, a return of circulation to the numb limbs of the continent. Maybe it was that some aboriginal process of the kind which led humanity to invent gods and goddesses for spring struck chords in the watchers’ minds. It made no odds. The sight of the colossal steamer taking to her natural element was enough to justify anybody’s admiration. It was less like a baby being born than the bursting into view of the tremendous creature that the prophets knew: Leviathan.
At this season the Ohio still ran gently, not yet boosted by the northern thaws that shortly would enlarge it into spate. Light on the water as a settled swan, the Nonpareil sidled toward midstream and steadied there, wheels dipping leisurely to hold her level with the shipyard.
She was handsome. All the onlookers were agreed about that. But would she—could she or any other steamer—match the expectations of her owner?
The time had come to find out. Smoke belched from her chimneys; Hogan had rung bells for slow ahead and slow astern on opposite wheels, and down below the hands were wrestling with the larboard reversing gear. With briskness due to novelty the job was over in double-quick time, and the boat proceeded to put about in scarcely more than her own length.
Another cheer acknowledged the feat. But it was no mere circus trick. It was a way of testing rudder and wheels both at once.
Hogan repeated the maneuver in the opposite sense. Then he had to signal stand by, for another steamer came plodding up the reach, the elderly J.W. Carey.
As she passed she whistled a greeting, and the Nonpareil registered another first in her existence when she replied. Her own whistle was of peculiar sweetness, like a songbird’s. This newcomer already possessed an unmistakable badge of identity even before her cutwater had cast up its first plume of spray.
The engineers had examined every pipe and every joint. There was no suspicion of a leak. When the bell sounded for half ahead on both, they were prepared for it, and the pistons ceased shadowboxing with their cylinders and began to jab and pound. The wheels’ noise grew loud enough to be heard in the engine room: no longer separate splashing sounds, but a cataract-like rush.
At least the racket would be less overpowering when she was fully loaded… but then, of course, her pistons would be punching.
Cork-buoyant as she yet was, she bobbed in most undignified fashion when the Carey’s wake reached her, causing Gordon to curse and clutch the rail, and Matthew to wonder whether he should have come aboard at all, and the crew to rush about securing loose items. But that was due to her exceptional construction. Stowey himself had stated that he had never before been invited to build a boat so light in relation to her size. She was certain, he maintained, to skim the water at unprecedented speed.
This was what Hogan now set out to prove. Running down stream was for later, when it came time to find out how she handled when her wheels had to be used for braking. In the whole career of a riverboat there might be no more than a week when that was necessary, but that week might see her run aground or sunk.
First, however, it was essential to establish what she could do against the current. At least, if something broke while heading up, she could drift back to the shipyard by herself.
Ears fiercely tuned to every clue the world of sound could offer, Parbury recognized the bell for full ahead. He flung open the door of the pilothouse and hastened down the steps beyond. Fearing he might fall, Trumbull made to help, but Hogan checked him with a gesture.
“Colin! He wouldn’t thank you!”
Trumbull looked briefly at a loss.
“He built a model of this boat, didn’t he?”
“Well—sure!”
“Don’t you believe he’s walked every inch of her in his imagination?”
Trumbull stared at the black-garbed figure making for the forward end of the hurricane deck. The wind whipped his coat tails and threatened to carry off his hat.
But his attitude conveyed that he was waiting for something—
And here it came! For the first time the cutwater created its intended fountain, and a graceful arc of sparkling water rose from the bow. None of it fell on deck; yet Parbury responded, turning to right and left as though to relish the difference in noise due to the spray.
Nodding, Trumbull said, “I see what you mean. Must be a hell of a thing, to have your dreams come true.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
Trumbull shot a keen glance at his companion.
“Too light?”
“You noticed it too?” Hogan countered.
“I can’t be sure,” was Trumbull’s pointed answer, and Hogan promptly relinquished the wheel.
“Well?” he said when the other pilot had had a chance to take her measure.
For a further half-minute there was no reply. Trumbull was staring to his left, gaze fixed on two tall buildings which from here appeared to be moving one behind the other. Hogan forebore to press his question; he knew what Trumbull was doing, even though this particular pair of landmarks was unfamiliar to him.
“I make it eighteen knots,” Trumbull announced at last.
Hogan nodded. “Reckon she’ll make twenty when she’s shook down?”
“I reckon she’s unquestionably fast.”
“But—?”
“But kind of skittish. Like a horse that got spooked in the breaking.”
Hogan nodded again. “Better under load,” he suggested.
“Sure to be. Anyhow, her list could always be trimmed with a chain wagon.” He meant a wheeled cart loaded with heavy weights, which could be drawn from one side to the other to correct a list.
“And the Atchafalaya…” Hogan spread his hands.
“She’s an old boat now. Machinery wears out. Planks and keelsons warp and iron rusts. Are you going to sign for a year?”
“I guess I shall. You?”
“I didn’t hear that any better boat was building.”
Agreed on that score, they relaxed a fraction. Trumbull pointed at Parbury.
“Say, Dermot! Which of us is going to break the news?”
“He knows. He felt the sheer she took off the Carey.”
“Yeah. But did Gordon?”
“He was never aboard a light boat before.”
They exchanged grins, perfectly understanding one anot
her.
“How much longer should we run up the reach?”
“Oh, far’s you like. Give the folks on shore a show. All good for business. And signal every boat we meet. I like her whistle.”
“Me too… I guess we got ourselves a berth.”
“Sure. But there’s just one thing.”
Trumbull glanced around sharply. “Something you know that I don’t?”
“Could be. I reckon we may have problems with Woodley.”
“Wouldn’t be surprised. But anything particular?”
“He’s a great man for specializing. Thinks boats would keep better time if they hired pilots section by section during a trip.”
Scornfully Trumbull said, “It’s been tried! Hell, there ain’t enough pilots on the river to sit on their asses waiting for a—a specialized trip!”
“I can’t help wondering,” Hogan said meditatively, “whether you didn’t hear remarks like that the first time they put a boat into the Cairo-Louisville trade, stead of running through. Or the New Orleans–Natchez trade, come to that.”
“Not the same thing,” Trumbull retorted. “Natchez was the end of the Natchez Trace. It was natural to set goods afloat from there on down—”
“And how is a railroad different from the Natchez Trace in what it does?”
Trumbull sighed. “True enough. We’re in a fix. But I surely hope I don’t have to sweat out my dying days on one goddamn’ stretch of river. Might as well turn me into a machine.”
“They will, sooner or later.” Hogan gave a sour grin.
Trumbull nodded. “Still, just ‘cause you see what’s happening don’t mean you choose to go along with it. All them folks out there!” He waved at the crowd on the main Cincinnati landing. “Don’t you believe there’s one of ‘em who wants to make his living on a riverboat? Wouldn’t settle for a railroad or a grocery store, or even a cathouse?”
“I believe it! Just like I believe someone I never met wants to annex the moon. I hope he never makes it while I’m around. Think of seeing it turned red and green to advertise a dentifrice!”
“Ah, hell!” Trumbull launched an accurate gob of juice at the cuspidor. “That’s nothing to me. But what if they line the riverbanks with billboards?”
“Railroad company billboards!”
“They’re the worst kind!”
“Then take comfort in this,” Hogan said. “By that time they’ll have driven all us pilots crazy and there won’t be any steamers to advertise to.”
“Just catfish and gators?”
“You catch my drift.”
There was a pause. At last Hogan said, “How does she feel now?”
Trumbull pondered his words with care.
“If this is the boat Woodley wants to try out his scheme of specialist pilots…”
“Right,” Hogan said. “She’s one that calls for a pilot specialized in her, not in a particular stretch of river.”
Trumbull concurred, grinning. “Contrariwise, however—”
“What?”
“She makes me feel kind of like she could grow on me.”
“I feel the same,” Hogan said. “If you’ve no objection, I’ll take the helm again. I can’t imagine Parbury designing a bad boat. And look at him! He’s laughing. Laughing right out loud!”
Down below it was far too hot for anyone to shiver; the fireman feeding the Moloch maws of the furnaces were stripped to undershirts.
Yet Matthew shivered. Never before had he seen the fury of flame transmuted into such colossal power! Something that to him had been the escape from the lid of a kettle turned out to be stronger than a man, a horse, an elephant. To think such flimsy vapor could thrust aside those massy pistons…
More than a little envious of his employer’s knowledge, he struggled to make sense of the tangle of pipes that today must be inspected inch by inch. As soon as he thought he had one run of the steam lines figured out, he realized the pipe he meant to follow ran behind another and his eye had picked up the wrong branch where it reemerged.
Additionally there were gauges reflecting the condition of the engines and boilers. Some were tolerably simple, like the vertical glass tubes that showed the water level, but others that reported unbelievable heat and pressure on dials as impersonal as a public clock—they defied his imagination, and of course this was no moment to be putting questions. Accordingly he stood aside, one ear cocked for Gordon’s command to note down this or that comment in the daily journal which, Matthew now privately believed, was meant for comfort in old age rather than as a reference for current business.
Sometimes, on a good day, it was forgotten for hours at a time.
Now, though, was not such a juncture. In Gordon’s barking voice: “Matthew! Keep a careful record of this! Mr. Roy, be so good as to hand me the speaking tube for the pilothouse.”
With half his mind still trying to fathom the mystery of the engines, Matthew duly noted down the words.
“Mr. Hogan! As soon as we are clear of the city, look for a sandbank where you can run her aground without damage. I gather this is sometimes unavoidable.”
Tinny and faint the answer came.
“Sure it is! But it’s bad practice to do it deliberately, sir.”
Curtly: “And in my view even worse to carry out high-pressure tests within sight of human habitation!”
From the corner of his eye Matthew registered Corkran crossing himself.
Hogan performed the maneuver flawlessly. Having selected a suitable sandbar, he carried on a short distance upstream; then he put the Nonpareil about and sidled her into shallow water. Then he ordered both engines to stand by and let the current ground her bow as gently as a falling leaf. Matthew had taken hold of a stanchion, expecting the shock to knock him off balance. Everybody else, including Gordon, did no more than sway and flex their legs, leaving him crestfallen with embarrassment.
“I’m impressed!” Gordon exclaimed. “And I’ll make sure to tell Hogan so. Mr. Corkran, do you not have some such colloquial term as ‘daisy piloting’?”
Gravely, though with a hint of irony, the chief engineer returned, “I guess if you was to call Mr. Hogan a daisy pilot he would not feel offended.”
“Matthew, make a note of that,” Gordon instructed, and continued briskly. “Now are there any sign of leaks? Bad brazing? Faulty unions or stuffing boxes?”
All three engineers shook their heads.
“What about the other man—Steeples? Where’s he?”
Hearing his name, he emerged from shadow behind the starboard engine, carrying a wrench and wiping his face.
“Trouble?” Corkran called.
“Fixed it,” was the succinct response. “A badly packed gland.”
“Anything else?”
“Not so far’s I’ve seen. Her piping’s lighter than I’m used to for the pressure, and it was put up by a firm I never heard of before, but that’s been the way of it since the war.”
“So at design pressure she functions as intended,” Gordon said, and all the engineers affirmed it.
“Excellent. Now, Mr. Corkran, shut down your doctor pump and overload your safety valves.”
For a moment there was dead silence between them. It extended so far, now the rattle of rakes and shovels had ceased because the furnaces were no longer being fed, that Matthew could hear the slap of ripples on the hull.
Then Corkran turned slowly and gazed at the nearer of the twin pressure gauges. It was calibrated to 240 psi.
“She won’t bend that needle on its stop,” he said at last.
“I don’t intend to try,” Gordon retorted. “But—”
He broke off, as though abruptly reconsidering what he had had in mind to say.
“What?”—from Williams, taking a half-pace forward.
Matthew was sure this was the moment for public revelation of Gordon’s railroad background, a secret that, to his knowledge, the financier had so far shared only with him. It had been edited out of Joel’s article in the Intel
ligencer. But instead of making a frank avowal of his origins, he chose another course.
Gruffly he resumed, “I’ll never go into a speculation without twenty percent margin to cover me! No more would I trust an engine that won’t take twenty pounds over normal pressure!”
“Fair,” Corkran conceded, and the others relaxed along with him. “Brian, shut off the doctor like he says. Eb, get one of your hands to bring a fire rake to move the pea with.”
Gordon started and swung round.
Each of the Nonpareil’s eight boilers was fitted with a fusible plug below regular water level against the risk of overheating. The first had its own safety valve, for use exclusively when it was fired up by itself to drive the doctor engine and the bilge pumps. This was why there were dual steam gauges. Under normal conditions they gave identical readings, because the boilers were cross-connected to keep the water level constant and fed into a steam drum running transversely across their tops, on which was mounted the master safety valve. It was of the type known as a pea valve, which at a certain pressure would force a metal poppet out of its tightly machined seating and allow steam to escape. To control its blowing-off point, a lever with a protrusion on the underside lay across it, hinged at one end, free to move at the other, but there bearing a sliding weight like the load on a steelyard.
The weight for the Nonpareil had been carefully calculated; it now rested about halfway along its range of travel.
“Is there no way to adjust that pea without calling for a fire rake?” Gordon demanded.
“Sure,” Steeples said. “Send up a nigger on another nigger’s back—”
It had been intended for a joke; Gordon quenched the engineer’s flippancy with a glare.
“Before we leave for New Orleans, there will be a pole with a steel hook hanging on a bracket there!”—pointing at the nearest bulkhead—“so that nobody working in this engineroom need ever risk being scalded by a steam leak! Once I saw a man die that way, and I never want to see the like again!”
“Aboard a steamer, sir?” Corkran inquired.
“No. No, in a factory.” Gordon gave a kind of shake, like a dog emerging from water. “I never knew his name, but his skin peeled off like an onion’s. Get that rod made up. I’m amazed it isn’t standard equipment already.”