by John Brunner
Her pilots, then? Many pilots did wager on much inferior steamers. Some had even been known to bet against themselves—but that had been a great scandal long ago, well before the war. Organizations like the Pilots’ Guild existed now to prevent such corruption.
Parbury? Oh, anything he said about the Nonpareil was automatically suspect!
Some other of her officers? But report held that they were backing her, if at all, with petty sums.
Could Gordon have stirred up such a wave of support? Hardly! River people, while polite in public, were contemptuous of his notions about steamboating.
No, none of these answers fitted the case. Yet, if it were the boat’s own qualities that had drawn so many people to back her, why was she earning less than older, slower boats, almost as though shippers and passengers were treating her as above their station? Parbury wasn’t that much hated! Nor was Woodley!
Joel turned once more to the galley proof beside him. Running his finger down advertisements for insurance and excursions and missing freight, he eventually came on two items, one above the other:
FOR LOUISVILLE. The magnificent passenger steamer Atchafalaya (Capt. H. Drew) leaves today at 5 p.m. for Louisville and is receiving for all landings on the Mississippi and Ohio. Messrs. E. Motley, R. Wills, D. Grant, clerks. The Atchafalaya has splendid accommodations for passengers with competent officers.
FOR ST. LOUIS. The new and very fast passenger steamer Nonpareil is receiving as above and leaves at 5 p.m. I. McNab, S.G. Iliff, clerks. Superior accommodations with polite obliging officers. Competitive rates for all freight. C. Woodley, Master.
Seeing that the Nonpareil was no longer inviting goods for any but her ultimate destination called back vividly the sound of Auberon saying, at the start of Drew’s record-breaking run to St. Louis, “That settles it!”
Against such vigorous denials? It could be. It looked as though Woodley—or Parbury—was determined to force a speed trial at least as far as Cairo. For the purposes of the gamblers, that might suffice. How could Drew evade the challenge? By claiming that his “card” was to be taken literally? But that would be on a par with the ancient trick, played by many losing boats, of tying up to some way landing and putting ashore an empty barrel, thereby entailing “unavoidable” delay.
Anyhow, would the customers tolerate that let-out? Not in a million years. Thanks to a whispering campaign, for which Auberon might conceivably be responsible, more and more stress was being laid on the fact that the Atchafalaya was the older boat, and her long reign must naturally end.
Sheer repetition had built up a pressure of its own, moreover. Probably for every person who had read the captains’ disclaimers, there were a hundred who had been assured by word of mouth that a race was inevitable. Which counted for more—being in control, or the wave of public expectation? Joel’s mind remained obstinately poised between the two.
Oh, this trade of journalism, this creating of ephemera that today might conjure up a grand sensation, but tomorrow would be used to light the fire—it was all a far cry from his boyhood ambition of becoming a great poet…
“Siskin!” Graves shouted again. “I want your copy and I want it now!”
Abruptly he reached a conclusion. For her record run the Atchafalaya had been stripped to bare essentials. If and when Drew and Barber resigned themselves to Woodley’s challenge, they would no doubt go to even greater trouble than before to ensure their boat would run as fast as possible. But such preparations took time. This morning, when he spoke with Drew, there had been no sign of them. Therefore there would be no race tomorrow.
The logic satisfied him. He was able to deliver his article, make for home, and sleep unworried until morning.
AS UNAVOIDABLE AS WAR OR WEATHER
30TH JUNE TO 4TH JULY 1870
“From their first appearance upon the Mississippi, riverboats raced often and fiercely… Sweating firemen fed their furnaces to almost incandescent heat with pitch pine and sides of rancid bacon. Then, sometimes the water level in a boiler sagged below the danger point and the intolerable compression of steam drove out a rust-weakened patch of iron shell or a loose rivet with a sudden explosion like that of dynamite. The other racked boilers exploded in turn, sundering the timbers of the hull and shattering into toothpicks the cabin overhead. Again and again, at the very moment of victory, a winner blew up and foundered, scalding and drowning both crew and passengers.”
—Manly Wade Wellman,
Fastest on the River
Huge and hollow, a place of brown English tile, pillars that bore no load, and draped derivatives of classical statuary, the Grammont mansion in St. Louis resounded at dawn to the loudest noise it had heard since the sick children were confined to bed.
First the mistress of the house screamed and smashed things. Then, more quietly but with no less violence, she uttered curses, especially against Dr. Larzenac.
And finally, when she was hoarse, she issued orders.
From daybreak onward New Orleans was baked by the sun and belabored by a hot dusty wind. It was no weather to walk abroad unless one must, especially in fashionable garb: high hats and long coats, embroidered vests and heavy boots for men; long skirts and long gloves, bonnets and bulging bustles for women who could afford to dress in style.
Yet, as though one were to break a pot of honey near an ants’ nest, the population of the city seemed to reach a common decision: they would swarm along the wharves and levees. Ten, a hundred times as many denials would not have shaken the conviction of the public that there was bound to be a steamboat race.
Here was evidence of the truth Edouard Marocain had been at pains to din into Fernand: on its way through the world, money exerts as much force as a mighty river. What had begun as a freshet of funds wagered among people who had been at the Limousin on Mardi Gras had grown, here fed by a quarrel, there by an old grudge, somewhere else by vanity and the wish to appear party to secret information. Now there was not an exchange nor coffeehouse where $75 could not get you $100 that the Atchafalaya would beat the Nonpareil.
And there was no shortage of takers, either way.
Among the poorer people of the city—the “emancipated” blacks, who in sad truth were sometimes worse off than in slavery days, and the French and Italians and Spanish and Portuguese, who headed for the south of the country as automatically as Swedes and Germans headed for the north—betting was just as rife. Black roustabouts who had never learned to read, so that when toting cargo ashore they had to follow colored flags instead of written signs, were nonetheless able to figure odds in their heads and keep book with a knife and wooden tally. Newly arrived foreigners who had as yet not learned the language managed quite as well in their own way. The sides to be taken were furnished ready-made. Apart from older versus newer, and record holder versus challenger, opinion had other lines to polarize along. Some blacks wanted Drew to win because he had trained Fernand, or because he had refused to put his boat at the disposal of the Confederate army. Some, by contrast, wanted to oppose not him but Barber, because the rumor Fernand had heard long ago—about returning ex-slaves to their former master—still haunted his path.
Likewise some immigrants preferred to back the Nonpareil on account of her French name, and others because, every time she arrived or left port, the band she carried gave a free performance.
Nor was New Orleans the sole city to be galvanized by the prospect of a race to set alongside the classic contests of antebellum days. Almost every paper from St. Louis to the Gulf, save a few whose proprietors were taking a moral stand—more against gambling than on behalf of passengers whose lives might be at risk—had reprinted the ringing slogan disseminated by the Associated Press, its author unknown but suspected of being right here in New Orleans: “Win or burst, sink or swim, survive or perish, Blucher or Sunset, Drew against Woodley, the Atchafalaya versus the Nonpareil!”
All of a sudden people at Baton Rouge and Natchez, Vicksburg and Greenville, Bolivar and Napoleon and Helena a
nd Memphis, and scores of other places scarcely large enough to figure in Conclin’s Guide, had realized that, if there was to be a race, it would now be possible to work out roughly when the boats would pass. Like an epidemic of fever, heady excitement spread north along the Mississippi, and calculations of probable arrival times vied with calculations of odds.
Inevitably, though, interest was keenest at New Orleans, for the boats themselves were here. This fact dawning on sensation seekers, they moved in the direction of the river. Some never came in sight of the water; some, determined not to miss the spectacle, bribed watchmen to let them into warehouses with high windows, or persuaded strangers to invite them up to balconies and roofs. A handful of daring youths scrambled onto the dome of the St. Charles Hotel. This was the happening of the day. For the first time ever, there was no audience at the Grand Philharmonic Hall for the matinee performance, and the newer, smarter Academy of Music on St. Charles experienced its worst day since its recent much-heralded opening. Dancing, roller-skating, cycling—all the city’s favored pastimes lost their fans.
Seizing their opportunity, excursion-boat owners announced special trips to begin at three or four o’clock, so that passengers could view the steamers when well under way. Tickets were a dollar each. They were eagerly snapped up.
Also the city’s peddlers made a killing, selling cool drinks, pralines and mirlitons, po’boys and red beans and rice.
Last evening, at the regular hour for quitting port, the Mary Crayford, for Natchez, and the Jedediah Sprague, for Baton Rouge, had been delayed by mechanical faults. There had been complaints from their passengers.
Today the boats’ respective masters were amazed by petitions that they remain here until five in order not to miss the departure of the racing steamers.
Both refused, for there was perishable freight to be considered. But it took much argument to convince the petitioners that they would enjoy a grander spectacle at a later stage.
It was as though a sense of history in the making had descended on the city—on the state—on the river.
About mid-morning a messenger brought Louisette a note from Auberon. Reading it made her eyes sparkle. Not looking up, she said to her husband, “Arthur dear, don’t you find the heat and the dry wind unbearable?”
There was something in her tone that made Arthur nervous. He took a generous swig of sazerac before countering, “So?”
“I’d like to go for a trip on the river.”
“Very well, if you wish. Where to?”
“North. A long way north. And on a luxury steamer. I’d prefer the Nonpareil.”
There was a dead pause. Eventually he said, “Is that note from your brother?”
“Well—yes.”
“But I’m your husband. And you know perfectly well the Nonpareil is going to race. And in your condition—”
He advanced the point in a tone of finality. Having got his bride pregnant immediately—with more enjoyment than he had expected, but less than he looked forward to from a girl at the Limousin—he felt he had for the time being discharged his marital responsibilities, and had more or less resumed his bachelor existence.
At that she flared up. “My condition? It’s only been three months—not even that! And certainly for the next year and probably for ages afterwards, I’m going to be treated like some rheumaticky old crone and fed on mush and promises, and first I’m going to look like a barrel and then I’m going to be hog-tied to a noisy smelly digestive tract with a loud noise at one end and no sense of responsibility at the other! I want a final fling! And—”
Struck by a sudden thought, she leaned forward.
“You’ve been betting on this race, haven’t you?”
“Well, it’s expected that one should,” he answered carelessly.
“And were you planning to see the outcome personally?”
“My dear, I—”
“Were you?”
“Well, Hugo had mentioned—”
“Hugo? What about Stella?”
“I don’t believe—”
“You don’t believe he’d mentioned it to her before mentioning it to you. How like a man! Well, I promise you, Arthur Gattry, you have not married a girl like Stella, who can be stored in a closet when you don’t want her around!”
Defeated, but muttering curses against Auberon, Arthur gave another sigh.
“Well, I guess we could perhaps—”
“Perhaps nothing! All my life I’ve heard about steamboat races and finally I have my chance to take part in one! You send directly to get a stateroom on the Nonpareil—and while you’re about it, make sure Hugo doesn’t come alone! If he leaves Stella at home I shall never speak to him again!”
“Modern marriage,” murmured Arthur under his breath.
“What did you say?”
“Ah… I was just wondering: what if all accommodation has been booked?”
“Auberon says it hasn’t,” she countered, triumphantly flourishing the note. “He got space for himself without any trouble, and hopes we can join him on board at four o’clock.”
Arthur drained his glass, not looking at her. After a moment he said, “Why didn’t you come straight out with it? Why that rigmarole about wanting to get away from the heat and dust?”
“I…” She hesitated. “I don’t really know. Except”—with a sudden reversion to her normal manner—“whatever I ask for, you always want to refuse, so I thought this time I’d make it impossible!”
“Not so modern after all,” Arthur muttered.
“What?”
“Nothing. I’ll go reserve that stateroom right away.”
At Cherouen’s house the doorbell rang. Alone in her room, Josephine Var gave a start of alarm. Her heart pounded and her mouth was dry. After a moment she had to sit down while a fit of giddiness passed.
Oh, this was so terrifying! Of all the foul tricks fate could play, was this not the worst: to be chief nurse to the most famous doctor in Louisiana and fall prey to a sickness neither she nor he could cure?
It had begun gradually, with numbness in her toes that spread to her ankles. Now her feet were actively painful. Her own remedies having no effect, last week she had revealed her plight to Cherouen.
Seeming excited at having her appeal for help; the doctor at once uttered reassurance; he had always maintained that electrotherapy was especially suitable for disorders of the nerves, whether inflammatory or neurasthenic. And put off his next patient so she could have treatment at once.
Neither that nor subsequent treatments had done any good. And now worse was happening. On the skin she had always been so proud of despite its recognizably mulatto shade, dark patches were appearing—the reverse of what she was trying for!
She barely suppressed a whimper.
On top of everything else, her sickness was now laying her open to attack on the psychic level. Eulalie had issued a challenge to her, to be taken up on St. John’s Eve. But she had been too unwell to leave the house that night.
Could her condition be due to ill-wishing? But why should Damballah make her vulnerable to it? Oh, if only Cherouen would get on about his afternoon rounds! She wanted peace to consult the omens.
Then, abruptly from the landing outside, the doctor’s voice raised in a shout: “Josephine! Where the devil are you? This is urgent!”
The door was flung open and he strode in, brandishing a cable message.
“At least the woman has sense, even if her husband doesn’t!” he exclaimed. “Listen to this! Philip died this morning Marie relapsing come immediately by fastest steamer bring all equipment fee and expenses guaranteed Amelia Grammont!”
Flushed with triumph, he looked for an immediate response.
But she felt detached from herself now the giddiness had passed. She said without intention, “You’ve been hoping one of the children would die, haven’t you? You were so angry when they sent for Dr. Larzenac, so cocksure that you could have done better… and here you can’t even cure your own nurse!�
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“Don’t take that tone with me!” he barked, and in the next moment relented. “I’m sorry. In the excitement of receiving this cable I forgot how unwell you are. I was going to ask you to accompany me. But in your present state—”
“I wouldn’t be too good an advertisement for your methods, is that it?” Wearily she forced herself to her feet. “But I’ll come, I’ll come. What do you want me to do?”
Prompt to forget his solicitude, he said, “I must apply to Mr. Barber, because it was through his offices that the Atchafalaya was made available for Larzenac. By a miracle she’s in port. Even though she’s advertised for Louisville, that needn’t be much of a problem. It was the same before… Are you sure you’re well enough to come?”
She mastered herself with vast effort. “Of course I am!” she snapped. “Anyhow, it’ll do me good to get away from this house for a while. I sometimes think there’s a miasma about places where sick people gather.”
“You’ll be arguing for the germ theory next!”
“I wouldn’t care what theory it was if I got back the feeling in my feet!”
At her fierceness Cherouen hesitated. He said finally, “Well, in spite of the tension it will entail, a river trip could do you good. I hope it will.”
“So do I… What are you planning to take?”
“Charlie and Elmer are seeing to the equipment.” He meant the gardener and coachman. “I want you to tell the patients to depend on their magnetic salves for two or three weeks. Say it’s to monitor the restoration of their natural recuperative powers.”
“Very well,” she sighed, and headed for the door.