by John Brunner
“Fascinating!” Dorcas breathed. “You’ve spoken of such matters before, but seeing it in reality is very different!”
Fernand preened, quite forgetting that these were the two who had completely overlooked his brilliant coup of yesterday. Eulalie smiled a private smile. She had been instructing Dorcas in the art of humoring a man, and the girl was proving an apt pupil.
Beaming, Fernand caught Dorcas’s hand and pressed it to his lips for a second, then let go but continued gazing into her eyes.
“So you don’t feel your prospective husband has chosen a métier beneath him?” he suggested.
“Why should you think for a moment—?”
He cut her short. “Maman, have there not been times when you said I’d made a grave mistake?”
His voice was full of unspoken apologies for their past quarrels about signs and charms and symbols and the performance of rituals he did not believe in… though it was clear that if the same subject arose again, the same things would be said.
“As Dorcas says,” murmured Eulalie, “seeing the reality makes a vast difference.”
She was rather proud of the ambiguity she introduced into that polite reply, like a conjurer distracting his audience.
“Tell us about this part of the river,” Dorcas urged. “That is, if you can spare the time.”
“Well, perhaps another minute or two…”
Whereupon, for much longer than a minute, he expounded on today’s run: the flat and boring country they must pass through, where the Mississippi wandered in such a random manner that sometimes a steamer would be heading literally straight for her point of departure; the impending fate of Napoleon, a proud city with a courthouse and a theatre and a Marine hospital and its own newspapers and a thriving river trade, destined to disappear unless a miracle overtook it, thanks to the ceaseless shifting of the river in its bed, for the very land it stood on shrank, winter by winter, and it must ultimately be laid low as efficiently as by an earthquake; the promise of their first sight of high ground since Ellis Cliffs at Helena, and the change in the river’s character up there; the indescribable contrast between the broad plains of the lower river country and the rough and rocky upper reaches; the menace of the Devil’s Race Ground and the Grand Chain, and all the graveyards of wrecked steamboats that littered their course to St. Louis…
“And you,” said Eulalie, “keep claiming your profession isn’t dangerous!”
He was late arriving in the pilothouse for the first time in his career. Tyburn gave him a long keen look, which made him feel grateful that Drew was still making a tour of inspection.
“I figure you’re pleased at how well your fiancée is getting on with your mother, hm?”
“How in the—? No, don’t tell me. You can read me like the face of the water, ain’t that so?” Fernand grinned. “I got her. Anything special you need to tell me?”
“Only that women can be trickier than the Mississippi. But I guess right now you don’t want to hear about that.”
“I sure as hell believe they’re unpredictable.” Fernand shook his head, making a tiny adjustment of the helm as he began to feel the current. “Any more trouble with that rudder post, by the way?”
“Josh did a perfect job on it. Rock-solid now.”
But Tyburn still did not make to leave the pilothouse. He said after a pause, “Something else is eating on you.”
“I guess so,” Fernand sighed. “Way I hear it, the groomsman at a wedding has to be a bachelor, right?”
“It’s customary,” Tyburn agreed.
“Think I dare ask the captain?”
Tyburn stared for a long moment. Then he gave a snort like a safety valve blowing off.
“Why the hell not? Why should he go to his grave without being asked at least once? But I warn you of one thing.”
“What?”
“You know this sister-in-law of his. They’re very close. And she’s sick. Don’t try and fix the day until she’s better. If she ever is better.”
“You think it might be that bad?”
“I know it is. I’ve tripped with Drew since before you met him, remember, and this is the first time I’ve seen him trying to cut time for the sake of cutting time. And it’s not just because he’s bet his half of the boat against Barber.”
“I thought—”
“I’m sure you did. Just take my word for it. His sister-in-law’s health is preying on his mind, a fact which, if you weren’t so starry-eyed about your girl, you’d have spotted of your own accord.”
Tyburn stumped ponderously away. And on the stairs met Drew and exchanged greetings, while Fernand bit his lip and struggled manfully to bear in mind that however much he was involved with Dorcas—and the idea of showing off his piloting skills by running narrow chutes had crossed his mind—his first obligation must be to the boat and all the hopes and fears that rode with her.
To Gaston’s mingled amazement and delight, there was a sort of structure about this trip that closely paralleled the form he had had in mind for his tone poem about the Mississippi. The frenzy of departure—the silence of night—rapid initial progress punctuated by coaling or meeting another vessel—now a long, adagio section that would represent a full third of the entire elapsed time, when such sounds as bird cries and the chanting of the deckhands might conveniently be allowed scope…
Oh, it was all falling patly into place in his head. He was covering sheet after sheet of paper with scribbled melodic lines, to the extent that he feared he must go beg more pages from the clerks. Who had, as it happened, been much more courteous to him than the other officers or even passengers. He fretted a little about the lack of attention paid him as a composer at work on a major concert piece, but he had spent enough of his life among strangers to accept that there would be periods of neglect.
If only he could force himself to pay attention to the duty laid upon him by the Grammonts! He ought to be converting the notes pouring through his head into solemn settings of the mass, or at least into slow marches and requiems.
No matter how he strove to inspire himself with melancholy, though, from the fate of the vanished or vanishing towns they passed—he had high hopes of Napoleon, in view of its name—he was unable.
Never in his entire existence, not even crossing the Atlantic, had he experienced such vivacity, such liveliness, such a sense of drive and purpose. Even though, since dawn, the smoke of the Nonpareil had been well astern, while other steamers and towboats and excursion boats had punctuated the progress of the Atchafalaya—even though he was assured that the fortunes of the race might at any moment be reversed, he still felt a thrill pass through his frame as he watched the officers, especially the captain and pilots, going about their business with the dedication of a conductor directing a great orchestra. And it would be a great one, were all the participants musicians! Gaston had made inquiries of those officers who were in a position to spend time gossiping with passengers, and had learned that altogether there were more than a hundred crew aboard, down to laundresses and barbers… for the sound but ironical reason that it was cheaper to hold them on the strength than let them go and risk not finding a replacement. And the same held good for the Nonpareil.
How like the predicament of an impresario whose programs might call for a harpist, or a second tympanist—or a performer on any of a dozen unusual instruments—when finalizing a series of concerts in order that the advertisements be sent to the printers in good time!
Not that Gaston had ever operated on that heady level… but he had heard about similar problems at his conservatoire in France.
And that entailed another, alarming consequence. Suppose what he composed for the funeral at St. Louis were to require musicians who did not exist!
Straining his ears, he could make out at the limit of audibility the Nonpareil’s orchestra, announcing her presence with all the force of her bandsmen’s collective lungs. Hereabouts the river doubled back on itself yet again, so that only a headland intervened bet
ween the antagonists; besides, the country was so empty there was little noise to compete.
All of a sudden, illogically, Gaston found himself wishing he were aboard the same boat as that unschooled Mexican. He at least had nourishment to sustain him: a band, physical people to play instruments, the chance of actualizing what went through his head.
What had Gaston to make do with? There was a piano in the cabin, certainly, and last night he had ventured to sit at it for a while, but people kept pestering him to play popular tunes when all he wanted was to try over a few of his more striking inspirations in the hope of rendering them gloomier and more funereal. The same would doubtless happen today, and he had been advised, or rather warned, against attempting anything of the kind tomorrow; it would be Sunday, when pastimes such as piano playing were regarded as improper by many of the people on board, unless it was to accompany divine service… and even that was considered daring, inasmuch as the instrument lacked the dignity of the harmonium.
Oh, well: he must simply trust to luck. On his arrival he must at once interview all available musicians, find out what they were capable of, sit up all night if necessary preparing scores adapted to their skills, choosing the most solemn themes and incorporating, perhaps, a few well-known hymns. A woman like Mrs. Grammont was bound to have her own favorites.
He could do it all right. But the prospect reminded him of the chores he had been called on to perform at the Grand Philharmonic Hall, which he had expected to leave behind for good.
The Nonpareil’s gamble on making an extra coaling stop at Napoleon was paying off in far better handling. One could almost hear a mechanical sigh of relief from the steamer as she swung into the broad reaches of the afternoon. Here she could again exploit the extra power of her high-pressure cylinders, and her cutwater threw up its fountain for the first time in far too many miles.
Still, though, there seemed little prospect of overtaking.
Parbury had left the pilothouse and resumed his favorite station near the bow. By now the passengers knew better than to pester him; his acid tongue had delivered many a rebuff since the start of the trip. But Joel decided this was too good an opportunity to miss. The old man’s personal comments would perfectly round off the dispatch he planned to send ashore at Helena.
If only he had known in time about the unscheduled stop! But Matthew had been bombarding him with questions about becoming a reporter, a job for which he was plainly unqualified, and…
Well, it was too late to worry about that now. At all events, here was the person he needed most to talk to.
As he drew close, he realized something had changed about Parbury’s appearance. The heat was stifling and the sun’s glare off the water dazzled him for a moment, so that he could only make out the gaunt profile. It called to mind an Indian chief, defeated by the wiles of the white man, yet defiant to the last. Strip away the coat and pants and boots, garb him in war paint and buckskin… Joel nodded, deciding to use that image in his report.
But the thought of war paint explained what the change was. Instead of the gaudy silk bandanna Dorcas had given him, he had reverted to a plain black bandage.
Small wonder.
He coughed discreetly, as he came within arm’s reach. In a gruff voice Parbury said, “Yes, Mr. Siskin? What is it?”
Briefly Joel was surprised, then realized a blind man must doubtless learn to recognize people’s footfalls.
“I’d value your opinion about the progress of the race,” he said after a pause.
“Say that in my view the Nonpareil has had more than her share of misfortune,” Parbury snapped, and clamped his jaw tight.
But while Joel was casting about for a way to provoke further comment, he suddenly heaved a sigh and shook his head.
“Perhaps,” he murmured half-inaudibly, “I’m not talking about the boat, but about myself.”
Joel was prompt to pick up his cue.
“Sir, no one could deny that you’ve deserved better of the fates!”
“Couldn’t they?” Parbury said. “Ah, but they do. Even my nearest and should-be dearest…”
He firmed both hands on the rail, setting his shoulders back. Now that the Nonpareil was rushing ahead under maximum power, the spray—which normally did no more than sprinkle this part of the deck—was thickening. Joel took care to shield his notebook.
But Parbury took pleasure in the flying droplets.
At length he said, “I don’t know why I’m going to talk to you… Oh! Yes, I do. It’s because you brought me face to face with my own past. Reminded me, in a moment of terrible adversity, that I have done things I need not be totally ashamed of… Speaking of being ashamed, though: I just realized I’ve been guilty of a sin of omission. I’ve taken no steps to find out how that brave black soldier is making out as an engineer.”
“Well!” Joel said crisply. “I spoke earlier to Mr. Roy, and he pronounced himself completely satisfied.”
“Ah, that’s good news. So it can’t be because of him that we’re lagging. I did wonder for a little. I guess that fool Hogan’s talk about the witch woman put it into my head.”
Sensing a lead, Joel said, “I haven’t heard Mr. Hogan mention that subject.”
“I’d hope not!” Parbury snapped. “I have no time for such superstitions! No more should he!”
“But talking about a witch,” Joel persisted, “was he referring to Miss Var?”
“I guess so”—reluctantly.
“In what connection?”
“If you don’t know, I’m not about to tell you!”
“I have noticed that the colored crew do seem very obsequious to her.”
“I reckon he saw the same and built some crazy private notion out of it. I wish she weren’t on board, anyhow. It was bad when she arrived with all that talk about wrecking the boat—”
“Sir, to give her her due, she did not actually say anything of the kind. My cousin misunderstood her; he and I have done our best to clear up the point.”
“Oh, a denial stands as much chance of overtaking a rumor as—as we do of running out the Atchafalaya!” Parbury retorted bitterly. “How far ahead is she now? Do you have field-glasses?”
“Just a telescope, sir. But I don’t need it. Her smoke can be plainly seen. According to what Mr. Trumbull told me when I last spoke with him, we’ve halved the distance.”
“Yes, I’d been told that!”—with a trace of impatience. “We’ll always do better in the straight reaches, but in the bends, with insufficient cargo for stability… Frankly, Mr. Siskin, when I devised this boat, I never expected her to be short of cargo! I imagined we’d be turning freight away on every trip. Is it not ironical that we should have taken on fuel merely to serve as ballast?”
“May I quote that, sir?”
“You may not, and if you print it I’ll deny it! I take you to be an honest reporter, unlike some, for otherwise I’d not have let you come aboard.”
“I’m immensely grateful that you did!” Joel assured him, making no reference to his intended departure by rail from Memphis.
“And so you should be. But so should I be to you.”
“How’s that, sir?”
Parbury pondered a long while before answering. Of all the people in the world he might talk to, was not a reporter the last he ought to choose?
And yet it was a very special debt he owed this man. As he was coming aboard on Thursday evening, he had been on the verge of making a complete fool of himself. But for the intervention of this Siskin, by now he might be mocked all over the boat—hell, all over the river!—as the idiot who lost his head over a servant girl.
It was unbefitting for one who might properly be called a hero to behave in such a childish fashion.
Almost without realizing he had put thoughts into words, he said, “I guess it should be enough for any man to see his greatest dream come true. It’s too much to ask for another as well.”
He fell silent anew. Joel, sensing he had more to say, ventured, “Do
you refer, sir, to the tragic loss of your son?”
“You’re too damned smart for your own good,” Parbury said, but his tone was resigned. “But—oh, the hell with you and your tricky tongue! Yes, you figured it out. Even being aboard this magnificent boat which I dreamed of for so long… She is magnificent, isn’t she?”
“One of the finest spectacles the river has ever presented—elegant in all her lines, imposing, and as I can personally testify, a pleasure to travel on!”
“I’ll tell Mr. McNab to quote you next time he drafts a card for the press,” Parbury said with dry humor. “Even so, can you not imagine how much more complete my satisfaction would be were I in the company of…?”
His voice tailed off. Joel suggested, “Someone near and dear to you?”
“What else? Had my son lived, by now he would have been my apprentice. Sickness stole him, and then my wife also, in any sense that a woman is a wife… I oughtn’t to be talking this way.”
“I shut my notebook,” Joel said, suiting action to word. “I put away my pencil. But I promise you my deepest sympathy.”
Parbury sighed more heavily than before. “Yes, it’s a sad fate for a man to be cut off from his fellow human beings. Stranger though you are, you gave me back much courage when you spoke of my having suffered a hero’s wounds.”
“I gather,” Joel said delicately, “that you have been disappointed by someone else dear to you…?”
“Hah! Perhaps it was a blessing in disguise. But—well, was it altogether foolish of me to imagine that, lacking a wife in all but name, I might take a mistress? How many famous people in New Orleans were born of mothers in—in… what’s that damned French word they use?”