by John Brunner
Besides, there was a term he had heard during discussions about steamer racing: a fighting pilot. He wanted to be one of those.
So why should a little problem like a strained rudder post handicap him? Coolly and reflectively he started to reassess his situation from basic principles.
The Nonpareil was bound to try overtaking in the same way as before: cutting across the inside of a bend against the faster current but covering a shorter distance. What she had been unable to do when Drew sent her aground, she could very probably do now the Atchafalaya was compelled to tread gently.
And she was fast. With increasing nervousness he watched her closing the gap for the second time today: lean, elegant, almost composed-looking in her gaudy gold-and-white livery. Beside her the Atchafalaya appeared dowdy, wearing the signs of age from stem to stern.
All that apart, the two of them were amazingly well matched, as though some supernal balance had been struck in advance: so much gain for higher pressure, but so much for wider buckets; so much for a more slender hull, but so much for energy not wasted on making pretty fountains at the bow…
And to think the Nonpareil had been designed by a blind man!
But she labored under one great disadvantage: having a master who was not himself a pilot. Fernand drew a deep breath, having just realized there was a possible way out of his predicament.
It all depended, though, on whether the oncoming boat was the Annie Hampton or the Red Swan. For the latter was a line boat, owned by an anonymous group of businessmen, while the former was the personal property of a man who, like Drew, had worked his way up from the bottom.
Tensely he searched the gaps in the trees for hints to her identity, and as for the first time he caught a clear view he crossed himself and muttered a prayer of thanks. The collars on her chimneys were blue, not red. It was the Annie.
But she was already laying off into slack water, on his side of the bend, prepared to waste time in order to give the passengers a treat by letting them watch the racing steamers thunder by. That was exactly what Fernand was most afraid of. With her weakened rudder post the Atchafalaya could not cut across the Nonpareil’s bows, and here the river was too wide for her wake to affect her pursuer.
Urgently he reached for the whistle lever and sounded one long blast: the signal that he wanted to pass starboard to starboard.
For an agonizing moment there was no reply from the Annie; then, somehow inquiringly, she returned a double blast—why not larboard?
Deliberately Fernand sounded another long blast, and after a pause another, and then another still. Any pilot on the river could read that language: “I am coming ahead in the slack water at all costs!”
Since this was normal practice when two steamers met, the pilot of the Annie had no choice but to comply, unless he was willing to risk a collision or ground his boat.
She was, though, older and slower than the racing steamers, and it took a heartbreakingly long time before, with a resigned single whistle, she put about and made for her proper course.
Now all depended on the reaction of the Nonpareil.
Sweat was running into Fernand’s eyes; he wiped it angrily with his sleeve as, taking care not to put too much load on the rudder, he brought the Atchafalaya’s head gently around and into the next short reach, leading between New Carthage and Palmyra—where, as ever, the crowds had turned out to watch, and many of them had taken to boats that constituted a hazard to navigation. Needing no orders, though, Chalker and Sexton had mustered their polemen, and Gross was back shouting the standard warning that their pilot would not slow for other traffic.
But any moment now there was the terrible sharp bend before Killacranka Landing, where the boat must be put about in not much more than her own length to head toward Island 105, where there was another bend—this time to larboard—of more than a right angle.
Fernand reached for the speaking tube.
“Dutch! I got to put her through the Killacranka bend on wheels and let the rudder drag. Stand by to give me a dead stop on the starboard wheel!”
“You going to take her through full ahead on the larboard?” Dutch shouted back.
“The Nonpareil’s breathing our smoke, and I can’t swear the Annie H. will cross her nose in time!”
“The Annie—? Say, I got it! I heard you whistle, but I guessed it must be for the crazy fools putting out in boats from Palmyra! I’ll send Walt out on the guards and watch for trouble, but so long as he says you’re not apt to tear the wheel loose, you got what you want!”
Hearing that, a great calm came over Fernand. He had set the boat up as best he knew how. What happened now was up to fate.
Then from astern began a series of angry blasts on the Nonpareil’s whistle, and he relaxed a fraction and allowed himself to grin.
Madly waving and cheering, the passengers on the Atchafalaya and the Annie Hampton saluted each other as the two boats crossed and passed. A few people were afraid they were coming too close; one might have tossed a biscuit from deck to deck.
It was safe enough, however. The moment the smaller and lighter boat caught the bow sheer from the larger, she was automatically carried farther over into the deep channel, and therefore into the very path the Nonpareil had hoped to follow. Hence the frantic whistling.
In a straight reach free of islands and towheads there need have been no problem. Hereabouts, though, the Annie was within her rights, and no hearing of the Pilots’ Guild would have ruled otherwise. She went on blasting the signal to pass starboard to starboard, and the Nonpareil was forced to yield and swing over to the New Carthage side, to precisely that area of water where the Atchafalaya’s wake could once again delay her.
Fernand delightedly pictured the frustration in her pilothouse.
“Just exactly what I’d have done,” said Drew quietly.
Fernand started; he hadn’t realized the captain was awake.
“Carry on,” Drew added before the younger man could answer. “You got the makings of a fighting pilot. Always thought you did.”
There was no time to preen over the compliment. Here came the Killacranka bend. Dead stop on starboard—now!
The wheel complained, but took the strain.
And there was no way of gaining advantage in the next short reach, to Island 105, and before the Atchafalaya had to make her next turn, Diamond came sweating and weary to report completion of repairs.
Triumphant, Fernand showed the Nonpareil a clean pair of wheels past Island 104, then Warrenton, where he finally met the Red Swan and Judson Clegg, then into Diamond Bend. He felt that virtue had gone out of him and left him weak, but he also felt immensely proud of himself.
Now ahead loomed Vicksburg, where they were both to refuel. Drew took the wheel, and this time the coaling went without flaw, gaining a few more precious minutes. Then Tyburn took over, and Fernand had the chance to rest.
They were one day and about half an hour into the four-day race. At Vicksburg they were three hundred and ninety-five miles from New Orleans. They were making better than sixteen miles an hour.
Every record for the distance had been smashed.
“God damn him for a stupid fool!” Woodley raged in the pilothouse of the Nonpareil as the Annie Hampton slid by in the deep channel with her cheering passengers sublimely unaware of the setback their boat had caused. “Has Drew bought him? Why didn’t he just go aground on the outside of the bend until we were safely past?”
“I know the captain of the Annie,” Parbury said stonily. “He’s a member of our Guild.” He paused long enough to let the reproach rankle in the ears of Woodley, who was not. “You wouldn’t have to buy him. And what happened was not of his choosing.”
“What do you mean?” Woodley snapped.
“Ask Mr. Trumbull,” Parbury said. Only a faint tremor in his voice had thus far betrayed the enormous effort it was costing him to accept this new disappointment, so close to the watery grave of his old boat. He made his way out; shortly he was to be se
en in his favorite position on the foredeck, where the spray from the cutwater could just touch his face.
Sighing as the door swung to, Trumbull said, “He’s right, Captain. That Lamenthe is smarter than most people give him credit for. I don’t know if Drew taught him that trick or he figured it out for himself, but he was within his rights. You can’t oblige another boat to go aground to suit your convenience.”
“I wish our toy cannon could sink her, then!” Woodley barked. “When’s our next chance to overtake?”
Trumbull shrugged. “Dark’s coming on,” he muttered. “It won’t be until tomorrow.”
“Thank you very much!” Woodley exclaimed, and stormed out.
Trumbull scowled after him; then concentrated—and not without success—on making up time lost by their slower coaling.
A breeze had sprung up and it was cooler now, but most of the passengers were still in the cabin, where Barber was continuing to spend lavishly on refreshments for his guests, some of whom he had never met before. Cherouen was taking full advantage.
But there was no sign of Dorcas or Eulalie.
Eventually Fernand spotted them sitting by themselves on the afterdeck. Wide-eyed, Dorcas was leaning forward across a white-painted table, hanging on the older woman’s words.
He had no chance to hear what they were talking about, though. As soon as she saw her son approaching, Eulalie jumped to her feet.
“Why, you poor boy!” she exclaimed. “You look worn out! You can’t have had any proper sleep since we left New Orleans!”
That was perfectly true, and Fernand was relieved that he wasn’t going to have to apologize for leaving them again in a few minutes. He kissed his mother perfunctorily on the cheek and embraced Dorcas—though she turned her mouth away—before slumping into a chair. To a waiter he said, “Bring me a sazerac and make it fierce! And for you?”—turning to his companions.
“Tea,” Eulalie said firmly. She had never grown used to her son drinking anything stronger than wine, and rarely did so herself. Dorcas gave a timid nod of agreement. The waiter hastened away.
“How is the race going?” Eulalie inquired after a pause.
Now was his opportunity to boast a little. Fernand gave a shrug.
“Very well, thanks to the good fortune that brought that other steamer along just at the proper moment. I was able to insist on her taking the usual downriver course, so she baffled the Nonpareil when she tried to overtake. Captain Drew was very pleased.”
“So we’re still well in the lead?” Eulalie pressed. And exchanged a secret glance with Dorcas, who smiled broadly.
It dawned on Fernand that something was amiss. Had these two actually not realized that the Nonpareil was trying to pass?
He put the question in so many words. For a few seconds they hesitated; then Eulalie said, “Well, we have been keeping to ourselves.”
“Nobody else told you?” Fernand demanded.
“As I said, we’ve been keeping to ourselves.”
Fernand glanced along the deck, anger burgeoning in his mind. How dare these people ostracize his mother and his wife-to-be when the outcome of the race, and the winning of their bets, depended on him?
But Eulalie laid a hand on his. “We’re getting properly acquainted—we don’t mind in the least. Do we, Dorcas, my dear?”
“Not at all!” Dorcas declared. “I only wish you’d introduced me to your mother sooner, Fernand. She’s perfectly charming!”
Some of the time, he glossed grayly. But he was too weary to argue. When the waiter returned, he gulped his cocktail and rose.
“Do please forgive me! I have to be back on duty in”—he checked his watch—“three and a half hours, and I need some rest.”
“Are you getting enough to eat?” Eulalie inquired solicitously.
“Oh, the texas tender brings anything we ask for from the kitchens. Don’t worry! Perhaps tomorrow, if all goes well, I can enjoy lunching with you.”
Bowing, he kissed each in turn, and tried and failed to master a gigantic yawn.
“What a profession!” Eulalie said, shaking her head. “To have to work four hours on, four off… It isn’t natural to the human frame!”
“Steamboats aren’t natural,” Fernand said more curtly than he had intended. “No more are ocean liners, or railroad trains—ploughs and harrows, come to that! Don’t fret about me, please. I love my job. I wouldn’t settle for any other.”
When he had gone, Eulalie said softly to Dorcas, “You see what I mean? He really believes it was just chance that brought the other steamer to the right place at the right time.”
Dorcas nodded. For her the afternoon had been a revelation. Eulalie had shared with her secrets such as she had never dreamed of.
“Please tell me more!” she begged. “How I wish I’d met you sooner! You could have taught me how to handle that monster Captain Parbury!”
Sunset and the light wind of evening saw the two boats threading their way through the bends upstream of Vicksburg, past Duckport and Millikinsville, past Pulhan’s Academy—lone outpost of learning in a wilderness—Campbellville and Terrapin Neck. Famous names alighted hereabout by sheer chance, like Brunswick and Transylvania, were intermingled with accidental, personal commemorations: Wilton’s Landing, Walker’s Island.
Later a great writer was to say of Fort Smith, Arkansas, that there was no fort there and the people had forgotten what Smith it was named after.
But here it was not the passage of time that undertook erasure. A single season’s shift in the course of the river might wipe out a settlement so completely, no one was left to speak its name save those puzzled pilots following the next spring rise who would mutter to the wheel, “This is where such-and-such a town used to stand.”
Its fragments might by then be drifting across the Gulf of Mexico.
Indeed, around mid-morning near the mouth of the Arkansas River they were scheduled to reach a place facing just that doom: the proudly named Napoleon which was being worn away by the river like wood under a carpenter’s plane.
The distance between the rivals remained more or less constant now. Where one had to slow, the other made up time; where one was checked by drifting mist, the other had clear skies.
Tallulah and Providence slid by, to the usual cheering, bonfires, and occasional fireworks. A little ahead of midnight the Atchafalaya passed Ashton above Island 92, but before she had reached Princeton, on the other bank, people were applauding the Nonpareil.
A little higher up, there were patches of deceptive shallowness where they had to send out leadsmen; then traditional cries resounded in the night—“Mark three! And a half twain! Ma-ark twain!”
At which they had to seek a deeper, safer course without even the assistance of the moon.
Meantime the passengers settled down to the wearing away of the night. A few still preferred to remain awake, though they could look forward to small distraction before the coaling stop at Greenville, around four o’clock. Some who had retired lay sleepless; Gaston was among them, his head ringing with the echo of the day’s noises.
Joel sat by himself in the cabin, struggling to compose his next report. But his mind was fractious. He was concerned about Auberon, who seemed feverish and kept muttering curses against Arthur. Moreover he was now more than half-convinced the Nonpareil would never overtake, so that if he were to cover the race properly he must take a train from Memphis to Cairo. But would Drew let him aboard the Atchafalaya?
Josephine lay sleeping for the first time in a long while without nightmares, as though separation from Cherouen was beneficial. But she dreamed, even though the dreams were not horrible enough to wake her. She had been danced attendance on all day by the black staff of the Nonpareil who let it be understood that, despite her efforts at secrecy, they knew who she was. She dreamed that tomorrow they would come to her and beg for the advantage of her powers to overtake the Atchafalaya, and that she would graciously deign to oblige.
Yet a shadowy figure l
oomed in her dream who wore a kerchief across his ruined eyes, and he was too like the image of a certain deity brought to life for her dreaming to be entirely pleasant.
Eulalie slept dreamlessly; she had concluded before she retired that her fears of defeat were illusory. Now she had met her son’s intended, she knew she was in arm’s reach of a far more important success: she was to have grandchildren, and her rule over Fernand would be continued by his wife. She was naïve; she was ignorant; she came from the Protestant background that laid far less emphasis on faith than did the Catholic; but even so…!
And if, as rumor said, Mam’zelle Josephine was to be identified with this nurse about whom Cherouen complained so constantly, then the charms she and Dorcas had put about the Atchafalaya should ensure victory. A new, young, enthusiastic disciple was notoriously valuable in such a case.
Dorcas, by contrast, was unable to sleep at all. She kept feeling the curve of her belly where a new life was growing. It had happened before, but then it had led to a disaster. This time—she had been so assured by her man’s mother, which amazed her—it was to lead to fortune, and delight, and achievement.
She grew frustrated after a while, touching her skin through cloth, and stripped herself as naked as when Fernand took her in the Limousin. After that her fingers strayed away from the swelling mound below her ribs and became very busy to the accompaniment of what were not exactly visions, but compounded more of recollected contact.
She wished with all her heart that Fernand could be here beside her.
After the race was won…
She moaned a little as she attained perfect visualization—except it wasn’t visual—of his hard sleek body over hers.
Langston Barber regretted only one thing about the day he had just passed: the fact that he was obliged to be polite to Cherouen, whose claims—both medical and personal—he had summed up, as he would those of anybody intending to bet against him.