by John Brunner
Or was his impatience due to awareness of impending death?
Last night…
He had still not come to grips with himself after that extraordinary, terrifying experience. Josephine had kept on moaning and gasping in a deep throaty voice; what few recognizable words emerged were not English but a kind of French, which thanks to his time in Europe he sometimes understood despite the thick, slurred accent. She had spoken, after a fashion, of medicine, and good luck, and charms, and powers unknown to Christian people, and he had had the sense of being caught up in a process far beyond his conscious control.
Today he was wondering whether it had all been illusion. If so, he hoped he might never enjoy such another.
“Auberon!”
A commanding voice at his side. He turned and found Hugo brandishing one of the papers that had been brought aboard; Stella a pace behind; Arthur in the background, scowling.
“Auberon, you’ve got to use your good offices to prevent Joel libeling Arthur! Here’s a paper reprinting a slanderous story, and it’s obviously his work even though it isn’t credited! Arthur was all set to call him out, but we’ve persuaded him it would be better to seek an apology. Of course, we know how much you care for Louisette, and so do we all, and I’m sure you’re aware that if it had lain in our power we would never have permitted Arthur to act as he did at Baton Rouge, but you must understand that—”
And so on. Doubtless including reasons why he didn’t go ashore at the next port and try to make good his ill-treatment of his bride…
My sister.
The words continued. Auberon paid no attention. He was suddenly launched on a voyage of self-discovery.
During his time in Europe he had thought of Louisette as his one solid link with the idyllic past he had left behind when he quit childhood. To her he had addressed his sentimental letters, enshrining the affection he wished he could have lavished on his parents. Those he had written to Joel had been couched in what he had learned to regard as “grown-up” terms: a trifle cynical, a touch boastful, and above all detached from anything that might be construed as honest feeling.
Because he was trying to run away from all such emotions as of the day he first coughed blood?
No; it went deeper and hurt more cruelly, because those who had bought and sold slaves were accustomed to regard their children too as investments more than as human beings. Joel had said as much in some of his letters, but Auberon had dismissed it as due to bitterness after his father’s stupid speculations in black livestock. And, since his return, Louisette had said more or less the same kind of thing. Now he was coming to accept that they were right. If he had not been packed off to Europe…
Well, at least when he died he would leave behind a younger brother, in good health as far as he knew, fit to be heir to the Moyne fortune because he was dutiful and obedient and industrious. Let his parents be content with one out of three!
But, in spite of all, he would rather it had been two out of three. He would rather Louisette had married someone—though lacking riches—who was capable, and sensible, and levelheaded, and ambitious: someone, in short, who could have made life fun for her.
Someone not like Arthur Gattry, who was ambitious—yes!—but also selfish, and slothful, and a drunkard. Someone, as it were, more like Joel.
Cousin or not, poverty-stricken or not (by the standards of the Moynes and those like them), Joel was a better man.
Auberon grew aware that there was a silence about him. He had been challenged. He was to mend his fences with Arthur, for the sake of future peace.
But his thinking had one more stage to go. He had to work beyond “someone like Joel” and reach—
It hit him with blinding force, and when he had the chance to take stock of the inspiration, it proved incredibly simple:
Someone like me.
Which explained last night to perfection. It ought to have been…
Not my half-sister. My full sister.
As though the prospect of premature death had held up a mirror to him, one in which he might view his life entire without distortion or the hope of self-deception, Auberon saw everything about him in a cold and pitiless light. Those who stood near, the cabin of the Nonpareil, the landscape visible beyond the windows, receded to an illimitable distance. He wondered with what hint of detachment remained to him whether he was running a fever, and if so whether he should call on the nurse who had so kindly tended him before, and remembered she was Josephine, so that was impossible.
Therefore he must go to his grave without care, and he might as well begin now.
He had it in mind to say, “This drunken fool named Arthur Gattry who seduced my sister into marrying him and has betrayed her daily since the wedding, whom I ordered ashore to look after her and who has failed in his marital duty at every port on the river, as witness his continuing presence: him I want to kill. Him I want to see pierced with my pistol’s ball through not his chest but his belly, where a child is carried by a woman. Where, for all I know, he sowed the seed of my beloved sister’s death, for we have had no news of her.”
And that was particularly galling, since cables and telegrams could always be brought aboard even a racing steamer.
They were not, however, still waiting for him to speak. Instead Hugo was saying, “Look, Auberon! Stella and I both agree that since their marriage Louisette has treated Arthur abominably! He had no faintest intention of bringing her on this trip, only she insisted until she was blue in the face, and his only choice was to give in. How was he to know the strain would prove so dangerous?”
At that point Auberon was set to explode.
But realized with a terrifying premonition that he could not do so into words, only into a violent cough. He felt it gathering at the base of his breastbone: that familiar hideous tightness which would become liquid in a moment, as though he were about to drown.
He had to get away.
Rising from his seat, he brushed Hugo aside with one hand while seizing his handkerchief with the other, and blindly fled from the cabin.
Hugo came after him, calling. He quickened his pace, wanting not to be near anyone he knew when the paroxysm overtook him. He had hoped to keep his illness secret for far, far longer. He still dared hope that Hugo and Stella might believe it was only Arthur’s blow which made his blood spurt before. If they saw him in this predicament…
But abreast of the midships stairs leading to the main deck he was convulsed, and reached for support, and found none. Of a sudden he was half scrambling, half tumbling, while an unbiddable racking cough flooded the handkerchief—which he managed to keep over his nose and mouth—with red.
A strong hand caught and steadied him, saved him from falling, urged him to the side of the guards, let him be until the spasm was over and he was able to ball up the saturated cloth and fling it into the water.
“Thanks,” he muttered, not knowing whom he was obliged to.
“That’s okay, sir,” said a familiar voice. “My captain when I first signed up with the Union Army—he had the same trouble.”
Blinking away tears, Auberon glanced sidelong. Of course: Caesar, stripped to a filthy undershirt and greasy canvas pants and giving a gap-toothed grin.
“I just come out for a breath of air,” he said, half in explanation, half in apology, as perhaps for laying uninvited hands on a white man’s arm.
“How—how are things in the engineroom?” was all Auberon could think of to reply.
“Mighty near as bad as they pear to be for you, sir. You take to your bed and call on Mam’zelle Josephine again!”
No surprise in that, Auberon thought. News of how she had tended him before must be all over the boat.
“I guess I might just do that,” he muttered, and with a further word of thanks turned back the way he had come.
“Auberon!” Hugo exclaimed, hastening down the stairs to confront him, with a frantic Stella behind and Arthur lagging but following. “Auberon, I say! Are you okay, old fel
low?”
A final ooze of blood invaded Auberon’s throat. He hawked and with considerable theatrical deliberation spat at Hugo’s feet. The red embedded in the clear sputum was like the twisting thread of color in an opal.
He thrust by before they had a chance to recover from the shock and betook himself to his stateroom to finish last night’s brandy.
Caesar, uncomprehending, watched him go, watched the others trail in his wake, arguing in low but vehement tones, and then was recalled to duty by a shout.
At least it wasn’t yet another steam leak he was wanted for.
“Know what this boat of yours reminds me of?” Zeke Barfoot said.
Those nearby looked at him: Woodley, Gordon, Hogan, Matthew, grouped on the forward end of the boiler deck. The air was full of reproaches. Had this man not actually run the Nonpareil into a mudbank? What excuse did he have to offer?
Also Parbury, who stood among them like Banquo’s ghost, half turned his black-barred face.
“What the hell are you talking about?” rasped Gordon.
“She’s the newer of the boats,” Barfoot said. “She may in principle be the faster. But she ain’t the tougher. I had that proved to me last time I held her wheel.”
Woodley seemed about to say something, but a rap on his shin from Parbury’s cane prevented it.
“I want to hear this,” the blind man said in a soft but dangerous voice. “Please continue, Mr. Barfoot.”
Matthew suppressed a murmur of astonishment and went on feigning attention, more out of habit than because he expected to be called to account after tomorrow.
“Brings to my mind,” Barfoot said after a pause, “a cathedral I once read about in Europe. It was to be lighter and more graceful than any seen before. And would have been, ‘cept they were too ambitious. There was this little sinking of the ground because the foundations weren’t as solid as they wanted, and down came the mighty tower and its spire!” He paralleled the crash with a folding downward gesture of his arm.
“What the hell are you talking about—cathedrals?” Woodley barked.
“What he means, sir”—this unexpectedly from Matthew—“is that the Nonpareil resembles that cathedral, when the masons overestimated their skill. This boat is fragile, made so in the quest for lightness. But, like the ground sinking, the river is testing her and finding her wanting.”
Barfoot bent an approving gaze on him. “You take my drift, young man!” he rumbled. “She’s too light! She takes to running off too easily! Her speed has been bought at far too great a cost!”
“You’re saying that because you found you couldn’t handle her!” Gordon accused.
“Oh, don’t worry—it won’t happen twice. Not now I know her vices!”
All eyes flicked instantly to Parbury, expecting him to erupt in fury at this condemnation of his masterpiece.
To their amazement he said nothing, but lifted his cane and tap-tapped away, bound to rejoin Trumbull in the pilothouse.
Impenitent of the offense he had caused, Barfoot said, “When have you ordered your coal at Cairo?”
Woodley pulled himself together, as from a great distance and many directions. He said, scowling, “Between five and six. And beyond there, you’ll see what she can really do to win the race!”
“Oh, sure! With me, and Tom Tacy, and Joe Smith as well—I contacted them both, made sure they’d join me, for no man cares to look a fool and sign aboard a losing boat without doing all he can to prevent it!—with all of us, and all respect to you, Dermot, naturally, we stand as good a chance of beating Drew as ever we did. Otherwise I’d not have come.”
“But I canceled—” Woodley began. Barfoot cut him short.
“Ain’t you glad I’m here after all? Dermot is, and Colin. Not because I hold any special love for you, Captain”—with a curl of his lip—“but because Joe and Tom and I and lots of others think it time Drew was cut down to size, that’s all. For once your first idea was right, and I guess Dermot would be ready to admit it now.”
He added, “I did kinda think, though, that this would be the boat to do the job. Now I’ve held her wheel, I’m not so sure.”
Conscious that in some subtle fashion his claim to authority had once again been undermined, Woodley made to say something else, but Gordon caught his arm and gave a meaning headshake. The captain shrugged and turned away.
Over his shoulder he said, “Fight it out between you who has the helm when we coal at Cairo. Just make sure it goes quicker than ever before! Every minute gained improves our chances!”
And he too stormed off.
Placatingly Barfoot offered to those remaining, “At least this race has shown up her weaknesses, hm? They can be put right if she’s overhauled this winter. And she’s a handsome vessel, I’ll admit.”
“Looks don’t count worth a damn!” Hogan snapped. “But I wouldn’t have signed my contract without being sure she was a worthy contender!”
“Worthy contender!” echoed Barfoot, and there was more than a trace of mockery in his voice. “Coming second in a race of two—what do they call that at Metairie?”
It occurred to Matthew that if Gordon lost as much on this defeat as he suspected was probable, he might not be able to extort the severance pay he was looking forward to. The notion was depressing. He barely noticed when Barfoot, as he passed, tapped him on the shoulder and said, “You’re smart! I guess Mr. Gordon don’t know how lucky he is.”
Right.
Mr. Gordon, to the best of Matthew’s knowledge and belief, did not realize how narrow his successive escapes had been so far.
If only Joel hadn’t left the boat and gone ahead…
But on his own he was going to work it out and bring off the coup he had so long planned.
The one remaining question was the one that had just struck him: how to put in his claim before everyone else descended on Gordon like buzzards following a dying cow.
At precisely which point Gordon himself came over and gave a broad grin and spoke in a whisper.
“These pilots aren’t half as smart as they think they are, you know! Wait till we get above Cairo! If we don’t beat the Atchafalaya, you may hang my kilt for curtains and call me Sassenach!”
That being one of the foulest terms in his vocabulary—meaning, as it did, English—he left Matthew totally and indescribably confused.
Seconds later, as though to underline the contrast between reality and what one hoped for, Manuel’s band struck up on the foredeck, and the air rang with cheerful tunes.
It did nothing to strengthen the Nonpareil’s elegant, refined, beautiful—and fragile—hull.
For the first time it was truly dark inside the head of Miles Parbury.
Since his blindness there had always at least been flashes of remembered light. They had faded—as Dr. Malone had warned they would—but they had come back at irregular intervals, and especially since the start of the race they had been frequent and vivid, whether provoked by his rage at Dorcas’s desertion or by excitement at the way the Nonpareil responded when he struck her bell three times… which had cleansed his mind of hatred and resentment and made him grateful for the mercies still granted him.
Hearing Zeke Barfoot’s verdict on his darling, though, he had been seized with violent self-pity.
Bitterness came with the darkness. So did fatigue. He fumbled about him for a place to sit down, realizing with horror that for the first time ever he did not know exactly where he was aboard his own boat.
Then someone was at his side and guiding him and asking whether he might bring refreshment. A tender. By the voice a black tender. The accent made him think of Dorcas, and he didn’t want to think of Dorcas. He grunted no and leaned back, and the darkness that had begun with despair grew into the darkness of sleep.
Bringing with it dreams compounded not of images but of mere sensations: disappointment, regret, anger, futility. Now and again his limbs twitched, as he also experienced pain, violence, and resistance.
Eventually the shadow awareness of slumber developed into other and better forms, and when he moved he was feeling remembered skills; his legs responded to the shift of the deck as a rival boat shed her wash into his course; his arms hinted at the movements of a wheel controlling an even grander and finer vessel; until at last he was dramatizing within his skull the expected triumph of his beloved Nonpareil.
During all of which time they were preparing, at Cairo, a splendid reception for the Atchafalaya, of which it was rightly said by one observer, “There has not been such excitement at the meeting of the rivers since we shook and trembled at the echo of the batteries on Island Ten.”
Of a sudden the Luke S. Thrale came to life and put about for the lower river at high speed. The tension was now so tremendous, the sighs and gasps of the onlookers were like the soughing of a breeze in a forest. There still remained the best part of an hour before, on the most optimistic estimate, either of the racing boats could appear at Cairo, yet this event presaged their passage so vividly that many let off fireworks or gunshots.
The Thrale sped downstream and out of sight, heading for Island 1, beyond Birds Point and Fort Jefferson and the little town of Norfolk, ready to greet the Atchafalaya.
Smoke loomed in the distance as she came up past Columbus and Iron Banks and through Lucas Bend.
By which time there was more smoke on the skyline, and the day being Sunday, there were few vessels that might be emitting it. Surely the Nonpareil must still be in the race!
Even now they were placing bets as the cables hummed. Even now—and this was the marvel of it—the outcome seemed undecided, as garbled versions of what had happened to Walt Presslie reached the proponents of the Nonpareil, filtered through reprinted newspaper accounts that had been condensed and altered so that an editor might not be accused of stealing his contemporaries’ stories.
Even now the contention that the Nonpareil still stood a chance was making elderly folk who recalled great races of the past, remembered how over so long a stretch as that from New Orleans to St. Louis there had been at best one, with luck two, changes of the lead, anticlimaxing in a once-for-all contest somewhere in the straight reaches of the lower river—was making them come forth and pronounce oracular judgment: that never since the Eclipse beat the Shotwell to Louisville had a race been so close-run at the Cairo mark.