by John Brunner
“You don’t believe there is such a thing? I thought you were in love with this girl of yours!”
“I am, sir!”
“Then why in tarnation won’t you accept that this dry old stick of a steamboat master can feel something of the same kind? If I lose Susannah, half my reason for living will go with her!”
“Sir, I understand that! All the times you’ve talked of her, and her children, right here in this pilothouse—”
“And if I’ve opened my heart so much, why can’t you recognize that I’m afraid for her, since everything is going far too well?”
“Because there’s no rational link between—”
“Rational! What’s rational about the thrill that great poetry sends down your spine? What’s rational about loving somebody? If I were to be rational about what you’re letting yourself in for, I’d say all kinds of cruel things, like what sort of a wife will Dorcas make for a pilot, with her background in domestic service? Don’t lose your temper. I’m making the points a devil’s advocate must make, and in my heart I don’t believe them. I frankly envy what comes into your face when you talk of your intended. It’s something that has passed me by. In spite of which!”—with sudden fierceness. “In spite of which I do know there is much of Jacob in me! Equally irrational and equally real!”
“Is there something you want me to do, sir?” Fernand ventured after reflection.
“I think there is. Call me a fool, if you like. But Jacob left his print on me, and he believed in such things. You too have talked in this pilothouse about private matters.”
Fernand sensed what was coming, and his heart sank.
“How vastly making a bet on something that is dear to him may change a man,” Drew muttered, more to himself. “But I do all the time feel so afraid that my best may not, unaided, be enough—just as with Susannah. My care, my support, my affection… Yet she is dying, and I may not bring this doctor to her in time, and even if I do he may fail in his treatment, which most other doctors scorn… Your mother!”
“Yes, Captain. My mother.”
“She believes, and many others also believe, that she has power to affect the kind of luck that gamblers trust in.”
The words emerged with terrible difficulty. Fernand could only stare at Drew, incredulous that he should have uttered them.
“You want my mother to make charms to protect the success of the boat?”
“I guess it comes down to that.”
Fernand shook his head. For the moment he had no idea what to say. True, he was afraid of what Eulalie might be saying to Dorcas tête-à-tête. It would be a great advantage to have her embroiled with Drew instead. But even so…
“What do you expect me to do? I mean right now.”
“Ask whether she will talk to me, that’s all. Then go and get some rest yourself. I want you sharp as a needle when you next take the wheel!”
“The captain never needs to ask permission to speak with a passenger!”
“She is a little more than a passenger.”
“Very well.”
As he descended the steps from the pilothouse, Fernand’s mind was in turmoil. Who would ever have thought that Drew was prey to such superstitions?
Truly he must be falling under the influence of his dead half-brother!
He wished he might consult with Tyburn, but it was out of the question. Who else might wield influence over Drew? Motley or Wills? But they would mock and probably not understand why at all costs the captain must be humored. Dutch—? No, for Drew would order him straight back to rest or work.
Maybe the doctor, Cherouen, for all his faults might prove helpful. Fernand stared around. He was on the boiler deck ahead of the cabin. Evening had brought its usual plague of mosquitoes, and everybody had moved inside, including Dorcas, Cherouen, and his mother. Cherouen was talking to them very affably at a table much closer to midships than they had previously ventured, and was standing them wine and mineral water; the bottles were on the table, and several glasses.
And Dorcas was sparkling like the water.
Just as he was about to fling open the cabin door and march in, something caught his eye. He glanced up. On the right of the lintel was a brownish trace.
He looked at it for a few heartbeats. Then he set off in search of more. He found them with no difficulty.
Ten minutes later, not having spoken to either his mother or his fiancée, he returned to the pilothouse.
At that precise juncture Drew was swinging the boat’s bows past Battle Island, with the little town of Peyton dead ahead. Fernand waited until they were on course. Then he said, “About that date with my mother…”
Drew looked embarrassed beyond description. He said, “It was in the heat of the moment. I wish I hadn’t opened my mouth.”
This last in a barely heard mutter. Fernand disregarded it.
“You don’t need to worry,” he said, and walked forward to where he could hold out something for Drew to look at without sparing more than a fraction of his attention. It was a cockerel’s foot stained with dry blood.
In the same moment he slammed the crucifix down on the forward windowsill.
“You don’t need to worry,” he said again. “From stem to stern this boat is littered with luck charms and magic symbols! And that son of a bitch Cherouen, who makes no secret of his contempt for anybody with a trace of black blood, is plying Dorcas and my mother with all the wine the bar can supply!”
The moment the words were out he was ashamed of them, knowing they could scarcely be true; the mineral water would be on the table at his mother’s insistence, and the mix in her and Dorcas’s glasses would be no stronger than what he had been given as a Sunday treat during his teens.
How, though—how—could they possibly be talking with Cherouen on such friendly terms? When Dorcas held him to blame for half her troubles with the Parburys, all her problems with Adèle?
“If that’s worrying you,” Drew said, “go sort him out! I don’t want anything preying on your mind when you stand your next watch. Meantime, let me work out my problems—and that’s an order!”
In the other’s voice Fernand could hear the rest of the reasons why he was taking the wheel. It was serving for a penance.
As he left, he dropped the cock’s foot in the cuspidor.
Fernand took several deep breaths on his way back to the cabin, wondering whether he should try and force Cherouen away, and if so, how. But by the time he entered the cabin the doctor was at Barber’s table near the bar, and someone was breaking out a deck of cards. Dorcas and Eulalie were once more by themselves.
Calming but still on edge, he joined them.
“Didn’t I see you talking to Dr. Cherouen when I passed by earlier on business for the captain?” He added the last few words to justify not having come before.
“He apologized to me!” Dorcas exclaimed excitedly.
“What?”
“He was very charming,” Eulalie supplied. “He sent over a bottle of wine with his compliments, and before I had time to return it—which I suppose I should have done—he came himself to explain the reason. He said he had recognized Dorcas, and remembered her, and would always be sorry that pressure of work prevented him from taking on Mrs. Parbury as a patient.”
Fernand stared blankly. “But,” he said at length to Dorcas, “you always told me it wasn’t pressure of work at all, but the fact that Parbury couldn’t afford his fees. He went right ahead taking on richer people. You told me so several times!”
She looked uncomfortable. “Yes, but while he was talking I remembered that I heard about that mostly from Dr. Malone, and Dr. Cherouen says orthodox doctors are afraid of his new methods because they’re so successful.”
“He also inquired whether, having left Mr. Parbury, Dorcas was looking for another post, because if so, he would give her training as a nurse, with a view to taking over from this Miss Var who has deserted him in time of need.” Eulalie sipped delicately from her glass; it did indeed
contain, as Fernand had suspected, far more water than wine. “Of course I explained there was an understanding between you two, and he said he would send a wedding present and promised that if need be he would offer medical advice whenever you like.”
“Upon his return from St. Louis, naturally,” Dorcas concluded.
For a long moment Fernand sat rock-still. Then he shook his head.
“I met a few hypocrites in my life,” he said bitterly, “but I guess Cherouen could give the others cards and spades. Maman, I always thought you had your ear to the ground among—among our people. Don’t you know how Cherouen sends out Mam’zelle Josephine to pick up pretty underripe yellow girls on the pretext of training them as nurses, uses ‘em, and turns ‘em back on the street if they do something as inconvenient as getting pregnant?” His voice grew heated, though he kept it too low for anybody else to hear.
But partway through his diatribe Eulalie’s expression had altered completely. Now she leaned forward, dismayed.
“Did you say ‘Mam’zelle Josephine’?”
“That’s what everybody calls the Var woman. Why?”
“How long have you known about this?”—fiercely.
“Why, since last fall, I guess,” Fernand said, taken aback. “But it’s common knowledge!”
“You’ve known who Mam’zelle Josephine is for that long and you never told me?” Eulalie’s tone progressed from fierce to venomous.
“What’s so special about someone being called Josephine? There must be hundreds of them in New Orleans—thousands!” By now Fernand was alarmed; he had rarely seen such intensity in his mother’s face. Perhaps the last time had been coming away from Uncle Edouard’s funeral. He went on hastily, “Besides, it isn’t a pretty story, is it? Not the kind of thing I would ordinarily talk about in front of ladies! But what you said about Cherouen just made me mad!”
Eulalie didn’t answer. She snatched the wine bottle, slopped as much as she could into her near-empty glass, picked it up, and hurried away in the direction of her stateroom. Half a dozen people glanced after her in astonishment.
Fernand was rising to follow, when Dorcas caught his hand. “No, darling—don’t!” she implored. “I understand why she’s so upset!”
“Do you?” His voice was grating. “What kind of nonsense has she been filling your head with?”
“It isn’t nonsense!”
“I’ll be the judge of that! Come on, tell me!”
Her eyes brimmed instantly with tears, but he disregarded them; they came too pat to be genuine. “Tell me!” he repeated. “For one thing you’ve known Cherouen longer than I have! You were on your way to his house the second time we ever met, remember? And you met his nurse, didn’t you?”
“Yes, but I always thought of her as Miss Var!” Dorcas produced a handkerchief and dabbed her eyes. “I never connected her with Mam’zelle Josephine! Or I’d have said so!”
Fernand drew a deep breath. “I want the whole story,” he said. “Who is this mysterious Mam’zelle, and why is my mother so upset?”
Then it came tumbling out: all the talk about charms and magic and Damballah that Eulalie had been plying Dorcas with; the story about the rival who was determined to drive down the inheritor of Athalie’s secret knowledge; the evil enchantment laid on Fernand’s boats to turn him into an unknowing sacrifice; the mystery Josephine wove around herself; her refusal to appear at the place appointed on St. John’s Eve…
And Dorcas had heard of her before. Fibby had once appealed to her for medicine to relieve some condition she would not describe to Fernand; he deduced it to be a hemorrhage or vaginal discharge. It had worked.
But even Fibby did not know who Mam’zelle Josephine might be; she had dealt, as was the invariable custom, through an intermediary.
“So you see, you mustn’t call it nonsense!” Dorcas wound up pleadingly. “Dr. Cherouen told us only a few minutes ago that Miss Var is aboard the Nonpareil, and we’re still in the lead, so the danger must be fearful… Fernand?”
But Fernand had swiveled around in his chair. Spotting a waiter, he called the man over.
“Send Mr. Amboy to me!” he said harshly.
“Fernand, what are you going to do?”
“I’m going to show you what my mother’s nonsense counts for! You and—and everybody!” He had been on the brink of speaking Drew’s name, but he owed too much to his mentor for that. “I never paid Cherouen any mind until you told me what he’d done to you. Then I made inquiries. It didn’t occur to me to mention his filthy habits because I thought you were disgusted by him. Turns out you weren’t so disgusted after all, hm? But Dr. Malone will attend you and deliver our baby, not a phony like Cherouen! And my mother is just as much of a phony! If she thinks her revolting messes are as important in the running of a steamer as the skill of her pilots and officers, she has another think coming! Ah, here’s Lewis!”
He rose to his feet and confronted the elderly steward.
“A little while ago I noticed some dirty marks on the lintel of that door!” He pointed toward the forward end of the cabin. “I also saw others like it on the guards, at the foot of the stairs to the boiler deck, and at the bow and stern, and in several other places. I want them cleaned off right away! And if your men don’t get rid of them inside the hour, tell ‘em they’ll have the captain to argue with!”
His voice was loud enough to attract attention from most of the people in the cabin. He noticed one of the waiters crossing himself as the import of what he was saying sank in.
“I’m very sorry,” Amboy was muttering. “I guess I’ve just been too busy to notice—”
Fernand cut him short.
“Skip the nonsense! Just get it done!”
And he strode away, leaving Dorcas staring after him in horror. A moment, and she too fled for the privacy of her stateroom.
This time there was nothing feigned about her tears.
By sundown on the Saturday, much more than half the distance lay behind the racing steamers. At the two-day mark, the Atchafalaya had been opposite the St. Francis River, some 710 miles from the start—not quite so far in advance of her previous record as some had hoped, yet still averaging almost fifteen to the hour despite reckoning in the slow progress of two nights. Now she was making the most of what daylight remained, dismissing Battle Island and Ship Island and Walnut Bend into the past.
Her crew were jubilant; her officers a little less so. For just ahead lay the Grand Cutoff, north of Island 54, and it would not yet be dark when they entered it, and the Nonpareil had consistently shown she was quicker in a straight reach.
Now here she came, freshly laden with coal, into a portion of the river ideally suited for yet one more attempt to overtake.
And what tricks could Drew play this time to prevent her? Repaired though it had been, the Atchafalaya’s rudder post could never stand the strain of such a broadside wave as he had unleashed before. Nor was there much hope of meeting another compliant downbound boat like the Annie Hampton; the imminence of Sunday had halved the traffic.
Above all, in the Grand Cutoff the channel was deep, and straight, and wide enough for two boats abreast in equal current.
Fernand had intended to obey Drew’s order to get some rest. It proved impossible. He took a cup of strong coffee at the bar and went wandering around the decks and guards, his brain seething. He had known it was possible to quarrel with someone you loved—indeed his uneasy coexistence with his mother was proof of it—but he had never imagined he would reduce Dorcas to tears. Before or after marrying her!
Still in this miserable frame of mind, he came upon Walt Presslie on the larboard guard.
“Wait!” he exclaimed. “How are you?”
The other gave a sour grin, indicating how the sleeve of his shirt had been cut away to make place for bandages. There was a spot the size of his palm where serum was soaking through.
“Reckon I’ll last out the race,” he said after a moment.
“Is Dr. Chero
uen looking after you?”
Walt spat over the side. “Well, he got a laundress to make up a fresh dressing twice a day. Don’t hurt too much any more, praise be.”
“I wish I’d known about that,” Fernand muttered.
“Didn’t hear you?” Walt countered. There was so much noise from the paddlewheel, one must speak loudly to be understood.
“Never mind!” Fernand said with a forced smile. “But what about the boat?” he went on. “Figure she’ll last out as well as you?”
“Why, she’s younger nor me!” Walt said. “Yes, she’ll make it. Didn’t see anything worse yet than the leak that wished this trouble on me. If she keeps going like she’s going, well win handsomely. That is, unless…” He hesitated; Fernand prompted him.
“Unless the Nonpareil can draw level when she’s riding low?”
Walt nodded, his expression worried. “That’s what Dutch has been saying—excuse me: Mr. Fonck. Says if she comes even with us into a good long straight reach, she’s bound to overtake.”
“Don’t you believe it!” Fernand said, clapping him on his uninjured shoulder. “Not so long as I or Mr. Tyburn or the captain hold the wheel! It’s true she’s very fast along the straight, but there are always means to stop another steamer overtaking. Were you ever in a race before?”
“No, never.”
Feigning a confidence he did not feel, Fernand declared, “Then trust to those who were! We’ll beat her yet!”
“I surely hope so.” Walt drew a final breath of fresh air and moved away. “I got to get back to work—sir.”
“Get along, then—and be sure to tell ‘em what I just told you!”
When the junior engineer had gone, Fernand realized he was feeling quite absurdly proud of himself. One well-told, well-intentioned lie…
But how to turn it into solid fact?
He hesitated a second, then made for the pilothouse again. He believed what he had said earlier—that Tyburn, better than almost anybody, could see the boat through the perils above Memphis.
Yet no chain of rocks posed half the threat to their hopes that the Nonpareil was going to offer inside half an hour.