by John Brunner
He picked one up and held it to the lamp, and a thrill of dismay ran through him. It was a printed prospectus headed with the name of a firm called Geo. M. Mowbray, in North Adams, Massachusetts.
And it boasted about the finest available explosives for earth moving and mining.
A moment later he was rushing out the door again, the document clutched tight in his hand. He checked in mid-stride as he remembered the lamp—and what a fool, to leave a burning lamp unattended right next to the stuff!
Then he hurried off in search of the captain.
The train from Memphis to Milan was due to leave shortly before one A.M.: a string of mixed freight and passenger cars timed to connect with a long-distance train on the Mobile and Ohio, which had left New Orleans long after the Atchafalaya and Nonpareil, yet would overtake them in the course of tomorrow and, if schedules were met, allow Joel to be on the Cairo wharfboat when the Atchafalaya picked up her coal flats next evening. Truly the epoch of the steamboat was at its end!
Joel had failed to locate Whitworth when it came time to board the train, but he lingered in the certainty that he must turn up sooner or later.
And there he was! Wasn’t he?
No, this man, in much the same clothing and carrying much the same kind of bag, lacked that characteristic moustache—
Yet, he smiled reflexively on showing his ticket, displaying the same gap in his lower teeth. That was Whitworth.
“Hello!” Joel said, with a cordiality he didn’t feel. “What are you doing here?”
Whitworth’s features froze for a second; then he gave a shrug and scrambled up the steps into the rearmost passenger car.
“Got to overtake the Nonpareil,” he said over his shoulder as he preceded Joel in search of usable seats. The depredations of the war had been mostly rectified on trains like this one; however, bored passengers could not be prevented from carving initials on the woodwork or slashing cushions in the first class. Moreover some cars stank in testimony to people who could not wait until the next stop before relieving themselves.
Whitworth seemed hopeful of losing Joel; the latter was equally determined to keep up with him. When they came upon four vacant seats together, they stopped, and Whitworth sighed as he dropped his bag.
“Goddamned fool, that Woodley! Know what he did? Cabled extra pilots to come and join us on the way, then changed his mind and didn’t make sure it was in good enough time, so when we hit Memphis he told me to run ashore and find the first of ‘em—man called Barfoot—and tell him the deal was off. Wasn’t looking forward to it, I can testify! Heard he’s a mean devil if he’s crossed! But he warn’t there!”
Shrug.
“So here I am stranded and got to catch up the best I can. I guess you’re doing pretty much the same, hm? Hoping to be at Cairo before the Nonpareil? Even before the Atchafalaya?”
Stony-faced, Joel disregarded that last red herring and made himself as comfortable as might be. There was a pause full of shouting baggage loaders and the occasional hiss of steam, while he pondered whether to tell Whitworth he had passed within arm’s length of Barfoot.
But it seemed probable he already knew.
At any rate he was muttering, “I’m going to catch hell from Woodley when he sees me again, and it ain’t fair!”
“Oh, forget it,” Joel suggested. “At least it means we’ll be company for each other on this leg of the trip. Though I guess I ought to say I tend to sleep more than you do.”
“Who told you I don’t sleep much?” Whitworth demanded, settling down in his seat but keeping one hand protectively on the bag beside him. A black porter came by, carrying the heavy bags of another, portly, puffing passenger, and hoped to set down his load here; meeting scowls, he proceeded reluctantly into the next car.
“I’m a reporter, remember? Keep my eyes and ears open!” Joel gave a disarming smile. “Say, I took the precaution of picking up a bottle of whiskey before I quit the boat.”
“I don’t care much for hard liquor,” Whitworth muttered.
“Ah, come on! It’s going to be a long dull trip! I guess you could bend your rule a little? Or sit and watch me put the lot away, if you like!” Joel opened his bag to reveal the bottle and, as the porter came by in the other direction, caught his sleeve.
“Say, I guess you could find us a pitcher of water and a couple of glasses, couldn’t you?” In the same moment making a tip vanish into the ready brown hand—he hoped Abner Graves would keep his word to underwrite his expenses.
The porter, instantly beaming, nodded and disappeared.
“Now tell me, Whitworth,” Joel continued affably, “what’s your honest opinion about the race so far? Don’t you think I did the wise thing, quitting the Nonpareil? I mean, she seems to be fairly beaten by the Atchafalaya all the way so far—”
“Fairly?” Whitworth interrupted with a grimace. “What you call fair ain’t what I call fair!”
He touched his pockets in search of one of his usual panatelas and discovered he had none there. Snapping open his bag, he extracted a fresh box and offered it to Joel. The latter shook his head but produced matches.
“How do you mean?” he inquired.
And was treated to a positive rodomontade about proper practice during a race on the river, such that a listener might have taken Whitworth for a steamboat master instead of a lowly second mate at an advancing age.
Joel paid little attention. The diatribe had all the hallmarks of a rehearsed defense, like the excuse offered earlier about coming ashore to locate Barfoot.
Moreover he was preoccupied by another question.
Why in the world, he was wondering when the train departed amid a chug-chug-chuggachugga-chugging as the locomotive’s drive wheels slipped and gripped—why in the world should Whitworth have chosen to pack a bag if he believed he was only going as far as the wharf?
And why, if he did pack one, should he have wasted space on a log of pinewood?
Which had clearly been visible when the bag was opened.
When she fell asleep, Josephine felt that a spell had been worked: as though a channel in her mind had been opened which even the power of the god had not previously created. To her amazement the tingling in her fingers and toes had receded, not yet replaced by normal sensation, but at least reduced to bearable levels, while the hateful dark patches that had appeared on her skin were not so loathsome as to dismay her incredible, unexpected lover.
It was beyond doubt a very great magic, of a kind she had heard about and never conceived of as entering her own existence.
Conceived…?
The word had more than one meaning. But if that followed, such a child would be equipped to work miracles.
Later, however, she began to dream of being beaten with short brown sticks. A hideous sense of danger overcame her and she awoke moaning and at once began to draw on her clothes.
Rising sleepily on one elbow, Auberon whispered, “What are you doing? There’s nothing to be afraid of! You’ve been tending me as a nurse! You’ve given the kindest possible therapy to a dying man!”
“Danger!” she hissed between clenched teeth.
“What?” He sat upright now.
“I know you and Joel were mocking me when you brought me on board,” she asserted in a low but intense voice. “But I do have power, and something was coming through to me—something about a brown stick! And terrible danger!”
Around a yawn Auberon tried to chuckle. He said, “According to the modern theorists in Europe, if you dream of a brown stick… Well, you should have been dreaming of a pink one!”
She scowled at him, fastening her bodice with awkward rapidity.
Suddenly from above came a stamping of feet and a shout: “Captain! Captain, wake up!”
She gave a triumphant toss of her head and rushed out of the stateroom. Cursing, still more than half drunk, Auberon struggled into pants and slippers and a silk robe, and hastened after.
The noise was coming from the texas, where th
e officers’ quarters were located. He followed her up the narrow stairs as much by feel as by sight, and found they were not the only ones to have been aroused by Anthony, who stood at the captain’s door, thumping on it with one hand, brandishing a paper in the other. McNab and Iliff had both appeared in underwear, obviously furious, and a bewildered black man, presumably the texas tender, was hovering in the background.
Woodley’s door opened and he thrust his head out, barking, “What the hell do you want?”
“Captain, I found this in Mr. Whitworth’s room! Read it! And a caseful of explosives—rows of little brown tubes! Only not full! One is missing!”
By now Auberon had caught up to Josephine. She reached behind her and closed her fingers over his so tightly it was painful. He paid no attention. This was unbelievable! Had she truly seen it in a vision?
Or had she private knowledge more conventionally come by?
“Oh, I know all about that!” Woodley declared unexpectedly.
“What?” Not only Anthony, but Iliff and McNab and Auberon, took half a step closer.
“Yeah!” Woodley rubbed his eyes and yawned. “Seems he’s planning to quit the river after this trip, go into business on his own account with an agency for some company back east.” With sudden fierceness he added, “Think I’d have let explosives aboard my boat without being sure they were safe? This is none of your regular nitro that goes off at a touch—this is so stable you can hit it with a hammer!”
“But why is one of the tubes missing?” Anthony persisted.
“Hell, how should I know? Maybe he gave it to a prospective customer as a sample! We could ask him if the damned fool hadn’t walked straight past Barfoot without recognizing him and got stranded at Memphis! Now get the hell to sleep and leave me be!”
But as he was turning to shut his door, his eye fell on Auberon, standing behind Josephine on a lower step but tall enough to look over her shoulder.
More wakeful now, in better control of himself, he said resignedly, “Mr. Moyne, what can I do for you?”
Auberon’s mind raced. His drunkenness was fading; he was coming to be astonished at what he had done, and a little fearful. Making the boldest face he could, he improvised.
“Miss Var was kindly watching by me! You know about my—my illness!”
All eyes were on him, suspiciously: perhaps only because he and Josephine were passengers and this was officer country.
“Hearing the boy shout”—a nod at Anthony—“she thought of an emergency and came to see if she could help. I followed. I felt it unwise for a woman to go about the boat by herself at this hour.”
“When she came aboard, she was talking about danger and a stick!”
The unexpected interruption came from Hogan, out of shadow. There was a minimum of light here: one lamp glimmered at the end of the corridor; a trace more came from McNab’s room, reflected on its door.
“Hogan!” Woodley bristled. “You’re supposed to be on watch!”
“Oh, you beat me, Cap’n,” Hogan said wearily. “Zeke has the wheel.”
“You entrusted my boat to him without orders?” Woodley burst out.
“I thought they were your orders!” Hogan retorted. “Colin and I believed we could win the race without help. The sin of pride, I guess. Shame though it be to confess it, I was damned glad we had a relief pilot to hand over to! So I hollered ‘nuff. But I couldn’t stop thinking about what this here woman said—”
“Miss Var!” Auberon supplied quickly.
“Yeah. Her. Cap’n, what makes you so sure that missing stick of explosive isn’t still on board? After all, it’s Whitworth’s, and he’s jumped ship!”
Though the noise of the boat was still as loud as ever, this disturbance was enough to awaken more and more people, much as the emergency of Louisette had done. Matthew came up the stairs with a message from Gordon; the texas tender heard the bell that summoned him, and vanished, and returned in less than a minute with a message from Parbury, who was in the pilothouse with Barfoot, wanting to know what the hell was going on.
At the eye of the instant hurricane Anthony stood and trembled, feeling that, had he known what he was about, he would rather have risked being blown up.
Then finally Gordon appeared and shouted his opinion of the news Matthew had relayed.
“I did talk to Whitworth, damn it! I know what’s become of yon bluidy tube of powder! As well as meeting Barfoot on the wharf, he hoped to hand over a sample to some client he’d corresponded with! An if he’d planned tae quit, wad he no’ hae ta’en his stock-in-trade?”
That cooled the atmosphere instantly. The officers, still angry but much relieved, returned to their rooms; on his way McNab took the chance to tell Hogan what he thought of his superstitions. The pilot looked daggers but held his tongue.
“Come away,” Auberon whispered to Josephine, and she obeyed, moving like a puppet.
But as they were departing, Auberon caught an extraordinary exchange of glances between Gordon and Woodley: from the latter, as it were, quick thinking, and from the former, you may always rely on me.
How could a mere glance turn into words with such facility?
Despondent, Anthony made for his bed, knowing that in the morning he might look forward to the telling-off of his young life.
On the way back to their respective staterooms Gordon said to Matthew, “Boy, I’ve been giving thought to what may happen if the Nonpareil doesn’t win the race.”
Matthew looked at him vaguely; had they not all done so, at least for the past twenty-four hours?
“I want you to make some arrangements for us. Book railroad tickets from St. Louis, cable for hotel rooms back east.”
“But, sir, even if the Nonpareil does lose, surely she will continue to earn her keep? By the end of the trip everybody will at least have heard of her, won’t they?”
“If I’d tried to teach you about gambling,” Gordon sighed, “I’d maybe have had as little success as when I tried to teach you about women. Jis’ tak’ ma wurrd!”—with a flare-up of his customary temper. “In the morning I shall give you detailed instructions.”
“Are you thinking of reneging on your bets?”
The words were out before Matthew could stop them, and for a heartbeat he thought Gordon was going to hit him.
Then the financier contrived a smile. He said in a low, controlled voice, “Never insult me like that again! But if all my funds are still blockaded by the damned English, I must find ways and means to make good my debts of honor—must I not? And it appears that the steamer trade on the Mississippi does not return dividends big enough or soon enough. As the saying goes, I am overextended!”
He gave Matthew what he doubtless intended for a pat on the shoulder; it was more like a slap. Reeling a little, Matthew escaped into his room.
That settled it! He took up his precious book, which Whitworth had duly returned, and once more lovingly inspected the pages that detailed the bearing of Clan Macrae.
Clutching it, he was shortly fast asleep again. His dreams were full of money.
A drowsy black maid came to meet Auberon and Josephine when they returned to the cabin; with a private curse, for what he had stumbled into was growing more attractive by the minute—the decadent, romantic poets he had encountered in Europe had infected his mind with a taste for extreme experience that perfectly matched his view of himself as a tragic figure doomed before his time—he ceded care of Josephine, who by now was crying silently and staring into nowhere.
He would have argued but that he felt a coughing fit coming on, and he had no handkerchief.
For the most trivial of reasons, therefore, because he did not want to spoil his handsome silk robe, he left his half-sister in the maid’s charge and rushed back to his stateroom, where he saw blood pour into the laver, not red in this faint yellow glow but utterly black, as in a Poe story.
When he recovered, he found himself wondering whether in some arcane, absurd fashion he had not beaten the wiles
of Death, who was riding so close behind him.
Conceivably (and the word struck the same overtones in his mind as, unknown to him, it had earlier done in Josephine’s) he had seized a unique chance to perpetuate the Moynes.
Better this way than crossed with the foul strain of a swine like Arthur Gattry!
But he felt abominably weak, and had to fall on his bed and wrap the coverlets around him because he was also bitterly, incredibly cold on this hot night.
The race was taking its toll of the Nonpareil’s machinery. In order to match and, with luck, outdo the performance of the Atchafalaya’s forty-inch cylinders, when hers measured only thirty-four, she was having to rely entirely on higher pressure.
Which would have posed no problem had the piping, and the supports the piping rested on, and the unions and the valve packing and the rest, been of sufficiently heavy gauge. But Parbury’s quest for lightness had proved halfway to self-defeating because, instead of being built up to the standard the pressure called for, his boat had been built down to the minimum the Steamboat Inspectorate would allow. The boat was entirely legal—no contesting that—but her pipes, and presumably her boilers, which would have been admirably suited to the Atchafalaya’s 110 to the square inch, or even to 130, were showing signs of dangerous strain at 160.
Such at least was Caesar’s opinion after long and weary hours of nonstop hunting back and forth through the maze of steam connections.
He kept finding sources of potential trouble, and so did the other engineers. No longer did Steeples reproach him for taking a wrench to a union without orders; even he was grateful that he didn’t have to find out all the problems by himself.
Thus far they had not had to stop while a leaky joint was taken apart, but twice they had needed to snatch the chance offered by a tight bend, when the vessel was going ahead on one wheel with the other stopped to provide drag. It might take only a matter of minutes to “slack and pack” while no steam was being fed to one of the cylinders—a fast tug of the wrench on a hot brass nut, then an equally rapid winding of waxed hempen cord around the pipe, then a steam-tight joint made by putting a four-foot length of pipe over the wrench handle and leaning your full weight on it: tricky, and risking strippage of the screw threads, only possible with a well-drilled crew—but it terrified Caesar how easily minutes might become hours, were an unnoticed weakness somewhere else in the system to be turned into a wide-open crack by the haste and violence of the work.