by John Brunner
For the crowds converging toward the river had become so dense, they were obstructing streetcars. Joel abandoned his and ran the final stretch, aware that one or other steamer might leave ahead of time, and by no means certain of boarding the Nonpareil. Graves had given him a retainer adequate for cabin passage, but he did not relish the prospect of making the trip without a razor or a change of socks, so he had stopped off at one of the many shops where sailors and riverboat crew pawned their belongings and forgot to reclaim them, acquiring some basic necessities and a worn carpetbag to put them in. This had cost him at worst ten minutes. He hoped it was not too much. It wasn’t.
He arrived at the wharf just as Parbury, stick in hand, was being helped from a landau by his servant Dorcas. A youth who looked vaguely familiar was attending to his baggage.
Among Joel’s most valuable stock-in-trade was a memory for faces. A moment’s reflection reminded him: that was the Nonpareil’s mud clerk. Logically, then, Parbury had been especially sent for. Time was running out!
He pushed his way toward the old captain, disregarding insults and once or twice dodging a blow. But his attempt to attract Parbury’s attention was forestalled. Someone else came charging down the Nonpareil’s stage. Him too Joel recognized: the boat’s chief engineer, Peter Corkran.
The flow of eager passengers had been doubly interrupted. A deckhand was coming down with a couple of shabby carpetbags. Two more followed, carrying a man who was plainly drunk. Some of the onlookers reacted with excitement, but Joel failed to get a clear sight of the toper’s face.
At all events he must be someone quite important.
Corkran and Parbury were engaged in anxious, low-voiced conversation. The mud clerk was summoning help with the bags; his signal was answered by a black man with a limp who also looked improbably familiar. But Joel had no attention to spare for him. He was wondering whether Dorcas might recall him from the Limousin. She was standing aside, glancing this way and that like a trapped animal.
A touch of reassurance, Joel reasoned, might be welcome. And she really was too pretty to be wasted on a blind man!
He was rehearsing a suitable opening line when something altogether unexpected happened.
Reaching for one of Parbury’s bags, the limping black man checked and turned.
“You say you need an engineer, suh?”
Instantly he clicked into place in Joel’s mind. Of course! This was the steam crane driver: Caesar something! He thrust forward, determined not to miss the answer.
Parbury glanced around, head cocked in the characteristic attitude of the blind.
“Who said that?”
“I did, suh!” Caesar stepped forward.
“You’re an engineer?”
“I sho’ly am!”
Corkran tried to break in. Parbury continued oblivious.
“You worked on a steamer before?”
“Nossuh! But I dare swear that’s about the only kind of steam engine I never worked on, saving the railroad kind. I got my learning in a sugarmill. Then I drove a steam crane right here on this wharf.”
“So why aren’t you doing that right now?” Corkran barked. And added to Parbury: “Don’t let him fool you, sir. He’s just a loudmouth nigger.”
“Shee-it! That man you done hauled ashore a minute back—!”
“Save your breath,” Corkran advised curtly. “If niggers was fit to do more than shovel coal, we’d have ‘em in the engineroom already.”
Flaring up, Caesar snapped, “Ain’t there one boat got ‘em in the pilothouse?”
“Now you mind your tongue!” Corkran blasted. “Quit wasting our time! No black man ever got a steamboat engineer’s license, and I’d lose mine if I hired someone unqualified! Get back to work, damn you!”
And he took Parbury’s arm to lead him away.
Joel hesitated a long moment. He had been raised by slaves, like most of his class and generation. Also he had retained a clear memory of how sad this man’s face had been when he said advertising for his lost wife and children had produced no result. He was constantly under the impression that a great debt remained to be discharged toward those who had served so many so faithfully, and that war had not been the right way to go about it.
His hesitation ended. “Mr. Corkran!”
The engineer glanced at him in surprise.
“Mr. Corkran, I reckon any man who could serve a twelve-pounder gun single-handed could be trusted with your valuable engines!”
Uncomprehending, Corkran blinked. Caesar reacted with amazement and a gap-toothed grin. But Parbury’s response was altogether different.
“You know this man, do you—whoever you are?”
“Joel Siskin, Captain. From the Intelligencer.”
“Oh, yes. I place you now.” But Parbury’s head was weaving back and forth, snake-fashion, as though scanning for some clue to Caesar’s identity. He went on, “A nigger? Served a field piece by himself? Is that the truth?” And clenched his hand on Corkran’s arm so tight the knuckles paled.
“Yes, Captain.”
“There wasn’t but one man in all the war did that,” said Parbury, half to himself. “Not that I got to hear of, anyway.” He spoke as though the racket of the waterfront had suddenly been removed to a great distance. “And if he’s the man he claims to be, he’ll answer questions only I can put. You!”—with abrupt force.
Caesar snapped to attention as though it had been Sergeant Tennice addressing him.
“What were you shooting at?”
“A steamer, suh!”
Parbury tensed. “How many times?”
“I didn’t help fire the first salvo, suh. One of the guns got stuck an’ I was set to chop it free. I guess that’s why I ‘scaped when everyone else got killed or wounded real bad.”
“How?”
“Shot from the steamer hit a hoss. She rear up an’ spill a limber in our campfire.”
“So that was it,” Parbury murmured. “And then you fired some shots by yourself?”
“Yessuh.” Caesar licked his lips. “Three. But I got hit in the leg. Left me with a limp like you see—uh—like the gentlemen with you can see. Couldn’t get off no more.”
“It was enough,” Parbury said softly, and tore away the silk from his ruined eyes. Few had seen the desolation of his face. The left orbit was a pit, covered in sunken shriveled skin; the right a mass of brown keloid, slightly shiny, as though the heat of the hell he had lived through had firmed it the way an iron stiffens starch.
He had never found out—had never dared ask—how it was he did not drown. But there had been coma on a muddy bank, and waking to knowledge of his loss…
Here was the man responsible. He had thought about such a meeting, long ago; he had thought of torments and punishments and sweet revenge.
But now he had stood at the bow of his masterpiece; he had heard the thump of her engines, been spattered with spray from her cutwater, held her wheel and steered her on an imaginary Mississippi, half memory and half dream.
And as he had felt even while it was raging: war is like the weather, unstoppable.
Moreover he was elated because a sweet-natured, affectionate young lady had consented to accompany him on his most memorable voyage. And she also, he had been informed, was “colored.”
Miles Parbury drew a deep breath.
“Mr. Corkran!”
“Yes, Captain?”—somewhat surprised.
“Set this man’s hand in mine! Black, white…” Parbury indicated his scars. “What difference does it make to anyone like me? The war’s been over long enough. Nigger or not, I salute him as a brave and clever soldier!”
Awkward, unwilling, but overwhelmed by the force of Parbury’s order, Corkran brought the hands together.
For a moment they squeezed; then they parted and Parbury was saying, “Take him aboard, Mr. Corkran! Check him out! If he knows what he claims, call him a striker to get around the license problem, but pay him an engineer’s wage. The laborer is worthy
of his hire!”
“But if Mr. Woodley—” Corkran countered, adopting the last available objection. Parbury cut him short.
“If Mr. Woodley could have designed the Nonpareil, he would have. He didn’t and I did. Stop wasting time!”
Corkran made to speak again but thought better of it. With a harsh nod to Caesar he led the way.
Joel, looking on, reflected that there was going to be a miniature war in the engineroom. All kinds of possible articles stemmed from this clash of personalities. Perhaps, after the race was over, he might make a short story of it, or even a poem…
But imagination was running away with him. He forced his attention back to the present. Someone else had been found to shift Parbury’s baggage, and young Anthony had returned to guide him. Joel seized his chance.
“Captain!”
“Yes, Mr.—uh—Siskin?”
“My editor has instructed me to cover the race from the Nonpareil. May I come with you?”
“Hm?” The blind man seemed distracted for some reason. “Why not? I know there are masters who won’t have journalists aboard, but the more they print in the papers about our victory, the better it will be for trade… Is Dorcas there? Miss Archer, I mean?”
Joel glanced about him. There was no sign of her. Anthony spoke up.
“I guess she went ahead, sir.”
“Then we’ll find her on board,” Parbury said with conviction—and, a second later, remembered he had doffed his bandanna.
“Mr. Siskin,” he muttered, “would you be so kind…?”
“Of course.” And Joel busied himself tying a neat bow.
“I have been told…” Parbury said, but the words trailed away.
“What, sir?” Joel prompted.
“I have been told I present a repulsive aspect without some form of bandage. Well?”
It was the most difficult question Joel had ever answered. But after only brief hesitation he was proud of what he was able to reply.
“That may be true, sir, to those who are ignorant of what you suffered in a great cause. But those who love their country may gaze unflinching on a hero’s wounds.”
“Well said,” Parbury murmured. “I’ll remember that. And because of it I’ll tell my officers to give you all possible assistance.”
“How are you feeling?” Tyburn asked Fernand over his shoulder. Of the entire crew of the Atchafalaya, which numbered more than a hundred, the pilots had least to do during the period prior to departure, and they were simply keeping out of the way in the pilothouse. Tyburn was scanning the crowd with field glasses; Fernand was reclining on the padded bench, beating time to the Nonpareil’s band.
He affected a debonair tone as he replied, “Pretty well, considering.”
“Never raced before, did you?”
“You know damn’ well,” was the nettled answer. “You?”
“Yeah, a couple times before the war. Once on the Reuben Corner when we beat the Tillotson to Natchez, and once on the Tomahawk when the Red Flower beat us to Vicksburg. It don’t feel so different while it’s going on. You’re just plain too busy to notice… Say, don’t I see your girl down there?”
Fernand started up. “Where?” he demanded. Tyburn yielded the glasses.
A pause; then: “The devil! You’re right! What in thunder brings her here now of all times…? Oh.” He had shifted his gaze toward the Nonpareil. “There’s Parbury going aboard. Guess she must have had to guide him as usual.”
“But she’s heading this way,” Tyburn murmured. “Tacking like a yawl in a thunderstorm. I figure you could do worse than mosey down and see what’s itching at her.”
There was an altercation in progress on the boiler deck. Cherouen was holding forth while Barber and Drew kept trying to interrupt. Motley stood by with a file of papers, visibly impatient, and several deckhands whose next job depended on the outcome were also listening. Seemingly overcome by the heat, Josephine was leaning on the guard rail.
As he descended, Fernand was pounced on by the captain and informed about the dispute. Cherouen was insisting that the steamer must leave now, although it was barely half past four. Quite apart from the fact that half an hour was likely to make little difference to the fate of the Grammont girl, Drew and Barber had forgivable reasons for disagreeing with him. To the latter what counted was that an early start would serve as grounds for people to cancel their wagers because one of the ill-defined rules had been broken. And the former was equally determined to do everything in strict form, because half his steamer was at stake.
Having summed up the situation, Fernand spoke with assurance that made Cherouen still angrier.
“Captain, you’re correct. I myself won’t run the risk of taking her out ahead of time. Up through Gretna Bend, Greenville Bend, clear past Carrollton, the water’s littered with small boats whose owners know five o’clock is when the big steamers come through. Right about now they’ll be moving out of our way. By the time we get up there we’ll have a clear run. If we started now we’d have to pick between them like a horse in a herd of hogs. We could lose as much time as we hoped to gain. And I’m sure Mr. Tyburn would agree.”
Without waiting for Cherouen’s attempted rebuttal, he pushed past. He had been spotted. Dorcas was waving to him.
That something was wrong became plain before he reached the foot of the stage. Slipping between yet more late-arriving passengers, he expected her to embrace him as usual, heedless of who might be looking on.
Instead she gazed at him with a hurt expression, clutching a carpetbag which, as soon as he had his wits about him, he took from her. He was overjoyed to see she was wearing the ring he had bought her. But the moment her hands were empty, she started twisting it nervously around and around.
“What’s the matter?” he demanded in a near-whisper. “Are you frightened about the race?” They had spoken about the dangers of racing more than once; she had undertaken to try to dissuade Parbury from the idea, and there had almost been a row…
She gave an empty shrug. “No. Not any more. You’ve got to take me with you.”
“What?”
“That’s what he wanted to do.” With a nod toward the Nonpareil. “Ordered me to come with him. I know why!”
A sudden cold horror bloomed in Fernand’s mind. He thought of all the times she had laughed about the old man’s ineffectual fumbling, which she tolerated because it made life simpler and brought her presents, and the objections he had only half made because he was forever afraid of offending this lovely girl whom he had met by a miracle.
“Has he—?” he began, and checked, not knowing how to phrase what he needed to ask. “Has he attacked you?”
“He would if I went on his boat! I only just managed to slip away. Fernand, you must take me with you!”
“But…!” In his head a clock was ticking: ten minutes remained until first bell, the single loud stroke that warned all who were not passengers to go ashore. By then at latest he must be back in the pilothouse, though Tyburn was scheduled to take her out.
“Where else am I to go?” Dorcas cried, and tears suddenly magnified her lustrous dark eyes. “I can’t go back there, and I don’t have much money and I don’t have any friends! All I have in the world is you, Fernand!”
She collapsed with her face buried against his shoulder, weeping bitterly, while amid the bustle a few people found time to glance at them incuriously. Such scenes were not uncommon on the waterfront.
For the space of three long breaths Dorcas wondered whether her gamble was after all going to come off. She could almost read Fernand’s mind, how he was weighing the pros and cons.
He had never heard of any pilot taking his girl aboard, married or unmarried, unless he owned the boat. Most steamers maintained an atmosphere of rigid propriety. Some forbade gambling, some were strictly temperance, though the majority tolerated both cards and liquor. But one point all agreed on: single women and single men were segregated, to the point that one pair of illicit lovers had b
een forced to marry before the captain, the enraged balance of the passengers declining to let the boat proceed if they did not.
And, being colored, Dorcas would be relegated to the “freedmen’s bureau,” and that was immediately adjacent to the officers’ staterooms. Their being so close would inevitably—
And the hell with it! thought Fernand exultantly. This was one of the few occasions in his life when he had held the whip hand. Drew had been favorably impressed when he met Dorcas; he might have reservations, but he was unlikely to refuse her passage point-blank—especially since if he did he would lose one of his pilots. And after the race he would be among the best-known pilots on the Mississippi, and the lingering disadvantage due to his color would fade away.
Taking her arm, he said, “Come on, then! It’s sort of irregular, but I can fix things with the captain.”
She resisted for a moment, gazing sadly at him.
“Fernand, if I’ve done wrong—”
“Parbury’s the one who’s done wrong,” he snapped. “And I want to rub his nose in the fact! After what he did to you—”
“Tried to do,” she corrected timorously.
“Bad enough! Come on, we have to hurry!”
“What does that damn’ nigger woman think she’s doing?” Gordon raged as the driver of the landau in which he and Matthew were arriving at the wharf had to rein his horses sharply because she ran across in front of them.
Matthew said nothing. The woman reminded him a little of his own mother; she had been dark and slender. They were perilously late in getting here, but that was Gordon’s fault. He had insisted on going via the St. Charles and collecting a mountain of baggage, muttering the while statements to the effect, “When the Nonpareil’s set some records, they’ll listen to me then!”
Matthew had not troubled to note the remarks in his journal. The regard he had had for his employer was fast vanishing. Gordon had been extravagant all the time he was failing to convince other people that his ideas for reforming river traffic were sound. Now the financial pressure was on, he was growing worse-tempered by the day. Even Matthew’s most ingenious devices were met with scorn, like buying his book about Highland costume.