by John Brunner
Reports from the losing boat were that much less effective.
But in his heart of hearts he mainly wanted to leave the one that carried Arthur.
The miles rolled by, more slowly than by day, but at a respectable rate nonetheless. Here the river had shortened its course and names commemorated the fact: New Cutoff, Old River, Old River Lake—one of the countless sloughs, known in river dialect as “slooze,” where stagnant water now offered breeding grounds for mosquitoes. They were coming into yellow-fever country. Few diseases since the Black Death had had the privilege of undoing the creation of a city, but that fate befell Memphis when an epidemic hit.
Memphis was for tomorrow night, though; midnight or the small hours, according to what the Mississippi allowed.
Of course, there was a chance that all records would be broken again during the daylight run. Memphis by eleven was at least a possibility. As she lightened, the Nonpareil grew harder to handle, requiring maximum use of her chain wagon and losing perceptible ground. But even she, when Phisick Island loomed—memorial to the discovery of a healing herb—was comfortably ahead of her own previous best and “ticking along,” as Brian Roy declared exultantly, “like a railroad watch!”
This was not a popular image among steamboaters; he made the remark precisely once.
Why, though—why—Caesar kept puzzling, had Woodley not made the same arrangements for refueling as the Atchafalaya’s? He himself was of course busy manhandling the reversing gear or running from gauge to valve to stopcock with wrench in hand, all the time the Nonpareil was rounding to her wharf, collecting her coal flats, swinging out into the current again. But reports came to him. The black deckhands were shyly proud of the fact that there was one of their own working as a full engineer, even though he was compelled to sleep like them on piles of sacking, while the black waiters and tenders found means to slip him food and drink and talk about Mam’zelle Josephine.
If indeed this was the actual person. Caesar wondered why, if so, she had chosen to be aboard the trailing boat…
But the charm he had bought from her was gradually receding, like the memory of Tandy and his children. Now he was baffled to the point of frustration by the contrast between the speed with which the Atchafalaya coaled up on the run and the slow, painful process the Nonpareil was constrained to.
There were black-owned steamer lines around Louisiana. Would they be interested in someone who came to them and said he had seen the high-speed method in operation and could copy it?
Caesar guessed not. His cousins (for he could not call them brothers, being much lighter in color than himself and referred to as Creoles, not Negroes) were in his view far too concerned to imitate the proven successes of the whites rather than the risky innovations that ensured white supremacy.
But his mind was too weary, and his body too fatigued, to pursue thoughts as deep as those. In the engineroom, quite apart from the grudging compliment he had been paid earlier by Roy, he was now earning an occasional pat on the back from Corkran and even Steeples when the noise was too great for speech.
That must suffice.
He tumbled on to his improvised couch and was asleep before the Nonpareil, half an hour in arrears against the leading boat, swung into Spanish Moss Bend.
Greenville was noisy! Here, instead of staying up late, people had gone to bed and risen early in full possession of their faculties, which included pistols and fireworks. Much of them had been expended on the Atchafalaya, but enough remained to make the racket that greeted the Nonpareil impossible to sleep through.
Groggy, resplendent in his silk robe, Matthew made his way down the cabin in search of coffee for his employer. One or two deck passengers had sneaked into the cabin during the night, and as they were causing no trouble, Whitworth had let them be. However, since people would be appearing for breakfast shortly, he had decided to return and rout them out. This was how he came upon Matthew in the wan light ahead of dawn.
Clearing his throat, he said, “Say, Mr. Rust!”
Unaccustomed to being addressed so formally, especially by this of all people, Matthew blinked at him.
“Can I help you?”
“Well… Well, Mr. Gordon is asking for coffee!”
A snap of the fingers; a drowsy black man roused to duty; a salver, jug, and cups and bowls.
“I guess we could use a little of that,” Whitworth said heartily, and poured two cupfuls at the bar before letting the tender deliver the rest to Gordon’s stateroom.
“How is your boss, anyhow?” he demanded.
Matthew gave a thin smile. “Got a head like a bear’s, as usual.”
“Still having trouble getting money from home, is he?”
“Oh, yes! He thought he’d figured out a way around the problem—he planned to have the money sent to Paris first, then transferred here. But now there’s talk of war between France and Prussia, so that’s fallen through too.” Sipping his coffee, Matthew looked and sounded puzzled: why was Whitworth suddenly being polite? The older man hastened to offer a plausible explanation.
“Say, I guess I been rough on you once or twice, ain’t I?”
Another uncertain smile.
“Well”—with a shrug—“it comes of the way I’ve always earned my living. I’ve had it pretty tough. Not had much time for fancy things like books and writing. I guess you can get to look down on people because of that, think because they couldn’t hold their end up in a fight they can’t amount to much. But I was talking with Mr. Siskin, and he’s kind of a regular fellow. I guess if you go on in your line, you could wind up like him one day, hm? I mean, like writing in the newspapers and all?”
“It’s one of the things I’d certainly like to try,” Matthew admitted cautiously. “I’ve been hoping to talk to Mr. Siskin about it, but he’s always so busy, of course.”
“Grab him this morning, then,” Whitworth advised. “Our next regular coaling stop is Helena, and we’ll be there around four or five o’clock. Less he wants to pitch something overside at Napoleon, I guess he’ll have time to spare before his next report.”
He drained his coffee. “By the way,” he added, “I think I got something of yours. Didn’t you leave your book lying about, the one with pictures of the way they dress in Scotland?”
“Why, yes!” Matthew exclaimed. “I’ve been hunting high and low!”
“I put it in a safe place; no need to worry. Right now I’m kind of busy, but I’ll give it to you later, okay?”
“I wish I might have it right now,” Matthew ventured.
“Sorry, boy. I’m on duty. But I’ll get it back to you, never fear.”
He strode away, leaving Matthew biting his lip. He was more puzzled than ever and now considerably worried. Why had he been fool enough to leave a slip of paper in the book, marking the page that revealed a secret worth, if his guess was right, hundreds of dollars? There was no call to remind himself of the place. The discovery was burned into his memory in letters of fire.
But there was nothing he could do about it. At least, he consoled himself, the mate was unlikely to take more than a passing interest in the book.
As for Whitworth, an idea had come to him that was buzzing and buzzing around in his head and at every pass seemed more attractive.
It had not been given to him many times in his life to be tempted of the devil.
But there were those who would have said that this was when it happened to him beyond a peradventure.
Beside her laver when she woke, Josephine discovered a bunch of flowers filched from a display intended for the cabin, and a little heap of sweet cakes, candy, and fresh fruit.
It was an offering.
For the first time in longer than she could remember it seemed less than unbearable to face the morning without the aid of hemp or laudanum.
She made obeisance to her dark lord in consequence.
Then she went in search of her half-brother and found him sick enough to be condemned to bed.
A littl
e after dawn Gordon emerged for breakfast. But he made it clear with scowls and grunts that he was in no mood to renew the acquaintanceships of yesterday.
Nobody was surprised. The news this morning was bad enough to cast a general gloom. The Atchafalaya had improved her lead, adding to it the minutes gained by her quicker coaling. Was today to be a story of staring wistfully after her receding smoke?
It felt very much like it.
In an attempt to lighten the mood, Manuel entered the cabin and sat down at its piano, tinkling out popular tunes. Since he was self-taught, his harmonies would have caused Gaston to cringe, and indeed some of the more musically inclined passengers moved ostentatiously away as soon as they had finished breakfast.
But so did those who were not musical at all. Gordon was one. Having snapped several times at Matthew, he finally walked out and took station on the afterdeck to light his first cigar of the day. Whitworth, who cared no more for music than did the financier, seized his chance.
“Mr. Gordon!”—in a low voice.
“What the hell is it now?”
“I know how to stop the Atchafalaya.”
“What kind of nonsense are you talking, man?”
“I mean exactly what I say.” Whitworth moved confidentially close, producing and lighting one of his own panatelas. Now that he had actually broached his idea, his course seemed plain. And if he had gauged Gordon correctly, this was the one person on board who would make a cold-blooded judgment of the possibilities. Financiers were notoriously ruthless. Everybody said so. Whitworth had never met one before, but so far the Scotsman had matched their reputation.
“Matthew says you didn’t get your funds from home yet,” he continued.
“Damned little rapscallion! What business does he have talking about my affairs?”
“I asked with the best intentions, sir,” Whitworth said placatingly. “I mean, it’s no secret—is it?—that if we don’t win, a lot of money will be lost. Not only yours, but Captain Woodley’s, Captain Parbury’s… even mine.”
Gordon found the end of his cigar coming apart and spat flakes of tobacco to leeward; there was a brisk breeze this morning, and the new sunlight lay brilliant on the water. But this part of the Mississippi, around Catfish Bend and Cypress Bend and Bolivar, though broad, was so serpentine that boats doubling back and forth along it had no chance to display their full speed. Merely to look at such a sequence of bends conveyed to the lay watcher all the frustration felt by the pilot of a trailing boat as its rival piled on the coal. That was why Whitworth had chosen to approach Gordon now. Later, in the straight reaches above Island 74—past Victoria, Scrub Grass Bayou, Concordia and Laconia—they would be making good headway and able to believe that, if fortune smiled, they might catch the Atchafalaya while she was struggling through Horse Shoe Bend.
But by then the Nonpareil would be light again, and less manageable. Gordon was primed and ready to listen.
Whitworth sighed with private relief as, from within the cabin, a ragged chorus announced that some people at least were cheerful enough to join in a song at this hour of the morning. That reduced the risk of their being interrupted.
Which would be disastrous.
“Come to the point!” Gordon invited.
Covertly, after making sure they were unobserved, Whitworth drew from his coat a light-brown cylinder and displayed it between his hands.
“Do you know what this is, sir?”
“For a moment I thought you were going to offer me a better cigar than this damned thing!” Gordon retorted, as he found the end of his coming apart altogether. “No—what?”
“Did you ever hear of a firm called Mowbray’s, in North Adams, Massachusetts?”
One could almost hear Gordon searching his memory, as a gambler might riffle through a deck of cards to spot the marked ones.
“I believe I did,” he said after a pause. “Powdermakers, aren’t they?”
“They went beyond that,” Whitworth said. “This here”—he made the cylinder vanish again into his pocket—“is their very latest. Mica powder. Stabilizes nitroglycerine like nothing else—better than rendrock, better than dynamite.”
“What in the world are you doing with it, then?”
“I had a stroke of luck. During my last refreshment in New Orleans I fell in with someone from back east who’d come out here to let monopoly contracts on behalf of Mowbray’s. Had with him a caseful of demonstration samples. But he took sick and couldn’t pay his doctor bills. Decided he was too ill to go ahead with the deal. So I paid the doctor and took the stuff in exchange. I’m thinking of quitting the river, you see. I figure up around St. Louis, and further west, there’s going to be a lot of call for this kind of thing—blasting out railroad tunnels, for example.”
“So?” Gordon said. But his expression indicated he had already leaped to the same conclusion as Whitworth.
“So if someone left the boat at Memphis and rode the L & N to Milan and then the Mobile & Ohio to Cairo, he could be there ahead of the Atchafalaya. If we haven’t overtaken her by then, of course.”
There was a period of silence, except for the singing from the cabin and the inevitable noise of the engines and paddlewheels. Now and then a bird took fright.
Then, before Gordon could speak again, there was a commotion. They had come in sight of a sternwheeler towboat sluggishly butting a dozen barges upstream, so now there was going to be further delay.
“I know the woodyard where the Atchafalaya will refuel,” Whitworth pressed. “Same one we always use!”
“You mean at Cairo?”
“Sure!”
“How’s Woodley going to manage without his second mate?” Gordon asked acutely.
Whitworth hesitated. He said at length, “I guess I hadn’t figured out that kind of detail.”
“You might simply be lost overboard…” Gordon sucked a corner of his moustache into his mouth for a second. “No, that’s too complicated. But I guess some way could be worked out… What do you want?”
Whitworth relaxed. He said, “A stake to get me to Cairo and a piece of what you win.”
“They may declare all bets void if the Atchafalaya doesn’t make it to St. Louis.”
“Think they’d dare? Who’s to say it wasn’t a boiler explosion? Drew’s last boat was condemned by the inspectors!”
“What kind of a piece?”
After careful calculation: “A quarter!”
“Twenty per cent!”
“A quarter! Without me you don’t win anything.”
“A quarter if you come up with a foolproof scheme to explain your disappearance. A fifth if I work one out.”
“Done!”
“Good, that’s settled. When do we reach Memphis?”
“Late tonight. Eleven, maybe midnight. All depends.”
“Gives us plenty of time, then.”
“Yeah… I guess we can’t exactly appoint a stakeholder, hm?”
“We can’t tell anybody,” Gordon said, taking out another cigar—and then, on second thought, another still, which he offered to Whitworth. “Throw away that horrible object,” he added. “Have something fit to smoke.”
“You weren’t too pleased with the last one,” Whitworth observed pointedly, making no move to take the gift.
Gordon shrugged and put it away again. He said, “What made you approach me and not—well—Parbury?”
“I figure he wants his boat to win on merit and won’t do anything to help her along. Besides…” Whitworth hesitated a moment, then gave a wry grin. “Besides, I told him about that kerchief he’s been wearing.”
“I see,” Gordon muttered. “Well, about time somebody did. Why not Captain Woodley, though?”
“The way I work it out, only the person who stands to lose the most if we don’t get to St. Louis ahead of Drew would listen to me.”
“And you think that’s me?”
“It sure as hell ain’t me, sir. Like I said, I’m even going to have to ask you to stake
me to the train ride. And a little lagniappe with it. For expenses.”
The singers in the cabin had exhausted their repertoire of well-known chorus songs, and someone was trying to arouse enthusiasm for “The Old Rugged Cross,” as though in preparation for the prayer meeting that would inevitably be held tomorrow. It was not a great success, for the vigorously rhythmic bass Manuel beat out had more to do with the spirituals performed by the Negro crew than anything to be heard in a respectable church. More people were being driven away than attracted by the music. Time for this secretive conversation was running out.
Gordon shrugged and produced his billfold.
“If you don’t make it,” he said softly, “I shall swear on any number of Bibles that this discussion never took place. If you do, come back to me, and instead of hustling blasting powder, you can look forward to a steady job at two thousand a year, and your first year’s salary will be on account. Is that okay?”
“No,” Whitworth said boldly. “I already make two thousand, and I’m only a second mate after far too long. Double it.”
“I’ll double the down payment and put you in the way of what will make far more for you in the long run.”
“Promises don’t cut ice,” Whitworth said scornfully.
“Five thousand out of my winnings!”
“We agreed a quarter!”
“A fifth!”
The hymn died away. People began to emerge from the cabin.
“So the deal’s off, is it?” Whitworth said, and turned away with a shrug. If it had all ended there, he would not have been uncontent. To have had an international financier at his mercy for a few minutes was in itself an achievement.
But Gordon caught his arm.
“Damn you! If we don’t best ‘em I’ll lose a hundred thousand. I can’t let that much go! That stuff of yours—is it very powerful?”
“Not as much as dynamite. Far safer to handle, though.”
“It would make a convincing boiler explosion?”
“One would blow up the boiler directly above the furnace.”
“Would a lot of people be—uh—killed?” The last word emerged in a whisper.