by John Brunner
The shouting of odds beset Joel’s ears as he arrived on the wharf fronting the Mississippi, having traversed the one fronting the Ohio on his way from the railroad depot and found it effectively deserted, apart from a few grumbling watchmen who complained about being paid to stay put when the action was elsewhere. Whenever he heard someone backing the Nonpareil, he found himself wondering against his will whether that person was party to the secret of the attempted wrecking.
Had Whitworth brought a second stick of explosive with him? Surely not! Yet why else would people be laying out good money to back the losing boat?
He comforted himself with the assurance that he had treated the cardboard tube with utmost care, emptied it as though he were handling a baby, left no trace of his intervention.
But it had come as no surprise at all when he was told that the Thrale had put out from shore long before Whitworth could have caught up with her.
So where was Whitworth now?
Logically his target must be the coal yard, and—as it turned out—everyone knew where that was, and whom it belonged to: a certain Mr. Frobisher… who had been in receipt of so many cabled messages today, from both Drew and Woodley, that it was right on his river frontage that the missing telegraph boys were playing hookey.
Joel smiled a private smile, and kept on searching.
Among Mr. Frobisher’s prized possessions was a steam tug, generally used to break up barge clusters of which some must continue downriver and some be transferred to the opposite one of the upper rivers. Today she was assigned to deliver coal flats by pairs, and there they were lashed together, waiting.
It would be tough luck on the trailing boat if the tug was still occupied with the leader when she arrived.
Joel got the yardmaster to point out Frobisher: a heavyset man, grimy from head to toe. So were all those who worked here among high piles of shiny coal.
“Oh, Christ! Not another of you!” was his reaction to the journalist’s approach.
“I’m sorry, but what do you mean?”
“Well, everybody and his uncle wants to ride my flats today! Even a couple of goddamn’ pilots!” He pointed; on the wharf stood two men sporting silk hats and diamond studs as though bound for some high-class party or society dinner.
Putting together scraps of information garnered during his time aboard the Nonpareil, Joel said acutely, “Ah! I guess that will be Mr. Smith and Mr. Tacy.”
“You know them?” Frobisher growled. “I wish you’d tell ‘em I don’t approve of having my barges used for transportation of anything but the coal I’m paid for! But you’re not bound for the same boat as they are, right?”
“No! I have this telegram to deliver to Mr. Drew, of the Atchafalaya!”
Frobisher gave a short laugh. “Hiring real men, are they, at the telegraph office? Well, I guess they need to. Seeing how many delivery boys didn’t go back for more, but stayed right here on the levee, I’ve been wondering whether there may not be cables awaiting me which ain’t got through yet. Ah, to the devil with it! You just stand by. At least you’re the only guy lined up for the Atchafalaya. For the Nonpareil we got three already.”
“Would the other be her second mate, a Mr. Whitworth?” Joel ventured.
“Could be,” Frobisher allowed. “A cable said to expect someone with a name like that, though I guess it got muddled in transmission.”
“I know Mr. Whitworth also,” Joel declared, scanning the wharf. He stiffened. “Yes, there he comes now!”
With a touch of his hat to the two pilots, whom he engaged in conversation.
“I’ll call him over and present him to you,” Joel said on the spur of the moment. “I guess—in fact I’ll bet—he will ask which of these flats are reserved for the Atchafalaya.”
Frobisher shrugged. “Whichever boat gets here first will have the ones lying furthest from shore.”
“Figures,” Joel said dryly, and strode toward Whitworth.
Who was not entirely overjoyed to be accosted, but presented Joel to Smith and Tacy with tolerable politeness.
“And what do you make of the Nonpareil’s chances?” Joel inquired, whisking out notebook and pencil and becoming all reporter again.
They exchanged glances, Tacy said at length, “Slim. But far from nonexistent.”
“Oh, very far from that!” Whitworth said with enthusiasm. He seemed to be even more tense and edgy than he had been on the train. Small wonder…
Instead of continuing to a full-scale interview, Joel contented himself with half a dozen notes, then turned to Whitworth.
“I promised to introduce you to Mr. Frobisher, who had a cable warning of your arrival. He’s over there by the flats. It won’t take a minute.”
“Oh, if that’s him,” Whitworth said promptly, “no need for you to take the trouble. You carry on talking and I’ll announce myself. Gentlemen!”—with another tap on his hat brim.
Accordingly Joel reopened his notebook and put some more questions to the pilots, concerning the amount of water in the upper river, the possibility of fog, and suchlike matters, which they were willing enough to answer. He only scrawled their replies, though. Most of his attention was on Whitworth.
Who stood chatting to Frobisher until a heaven-sent opportunity arose. A shabby black man with an urgent message hurried from the direction of the shed that served as the coal yard’s office. Scowling, Frobisher excused himself.
Thinking he was unobserved, Whitworth promptly set down his carpetbag and opened it as though needing to take something from it: another box of panatelas, as it transpired. To get at it, he lifted the pine log out very quickly and set it down on the riverward side of the bag, effectively concealed from view save to the hands aboard the waiting barges. Rising, closing the bag again, he contrived to kick against the chunk of wood as though it had been there all the time. Pretending to be surprised, he made to knock it into the water, then pantomimed second thoughts, picked it up, and thrust it among the piled-up coal on the nearer of the leading pair of flats. Then he was heading this way again.
Joel felt no pity for him after that.
Nor, curiously, any hatred either. Rather, he was experiencing the calm triumph of a chess player who has watched his opponent blunder into a well-planned trap.
Hastily he said to Smith and Tacy, “Gentlemen, you’ve been most obliging, and I’m sure my editor would wish me to mark the fact! Since I’m afraid it may well be quite some while before the Nonpareil arrives, why don’t you take Mr. Whitworth and get yourselves all some refreshment?” He produced some coins and made them jingle in his hand.
Tacy, who was small and wiry and stern-faced, bridled at the offer, but Smith—plump, bluff, ruddy-cheeked—grinned and said, “So neither of us cares for Whitworth much! I’m not proud, though, and one day I hope to be rich!”
Heart pounding, Joel waited until the three of them were making their way up to the nearest of the temporary coffee stalls that had appeared to cater for the crowds of sightseers. Then he hurried toward the coal flats.
And was too late to recover the log. The tug sounded her whistle; the men aboard the barges jumped to answer it; and, catching sight of him, Frobisher shouted, “You’ll be left behind if you aren’t quick!”
Bag in hand, Joel leaped from the whaft and almost lost his footing when the tug leaned into her load like a horse taking a cart’s weight on the traces. A high-piled box of coal spilled half its contents, covering the spot where the log was hidden. He stared in dismay, wondering whether he must burrow in search of it. Maybe one of the hands would help. Did he have enough cash to tip somebody? Frantically he fished in his pockets and discovered he had given all his change to Smith and Tacy.
Fatalistically Joel realized that unless he did actually grub for that log, the only proof of his charge against Whitworth consisted of the sludge in his pocket safe, and who was to say he hadn’t put the stuff there himself?
But here came the Atchafalaya in plain sight, whistle howling! Roars of appla
use and thunderous explosions welcomed her, and at once his last chance of retrieving the log was snatched from him. Perhaps if he talked to the chief fireman on the steamer and told him to watch out for one large chunk of wood…? But it would be covered in coal dust, indistinguishable from the rest of the fuel.
No, he must trust to luck and common sense.
Nonetheless it was with a frisson of terror that he made his way forward on the coal flat, shouting at the overseer that he had cleared this ride with Mr. Frobisher and brandishing the telegram in its envelope addressed in a florid copperplate hand to Captain Drew, c/o Str. Atchafalaya.
The overseer was plainly less than delighted to have him along; however, he swallowed his annoyance and merely ordered Joel to “git on board fastern’n a nigger after watermillions, else you’ll find a coal box in the seat of your britches!”
Joel took the advice to heart and sprang on deck the instant the barges were secured. Cursing, the Atchafalaya’s deckhands let him pass at risk of being tipped overside.
Tom Chalker, the first mate, stood there shouting: “Yare now! Move yourselves! I want to see that coal warmed for the furnace because you rushed it on board so fast! (Who in thunderation are you?) Get a move on, you left-footed son of a slugabed and a balky mule! (Don’t interrupt, goddamn you!) Where did you leave your muscles, you limp apology for a week-old corpse? (Cap’n Drew’s in the pilothouse, where else? And won’t thank you for disturbing him, so you best not try!) I said hurry, you thrice-condemned sons of Belial! I didn’t say plant your shoes and wait for springtime! (Telegram? Show it to Mr. Motley and quit pestering me!) That’s more like it, you wet-draggled coonskin-bin-through-a-‘gator bunch of punkin ghosts!”
Meantime, miraculously, the coal was flowing on board at a rate it would have taken machines to better. Already the Atchafalaya was heading upriver at full speed again, and Cairo was receding into distance, and then both barges were empty and being cast off—the whole job of coaling having taken at most six minutes—and there was no sign of the Nonpareil.
Joel felt a shiver run down his spine, even as he realized that there were people gazing from the upper decks, among whom were a few he recognized and who recognized him: Cherouen, Barber, Dorcas, that strange Frenchman who had been directing the band at the Limousin last Mardi Gras…
But he had no attention to spare for them right now. He was simply aware that not even when he collected Larzenac from the Franche-Comté had Drew more splendidly exhibited the full-blown skills of a Mississippi pilot than during this refueling. He wished he had been able to witness the transfer of passengers to the Thrale, which doubtless would have been carried off with equal panache.
If this was typical of the standard Drew had now achieved, no wonder supporters of the rival boat were having to resort to trickery and maybe murder!
For the very last time he thought about being blown up. Then he wiped the notion firmly from his mind. That chunk of pine contained a cardboard tube stuck with two wooden plugs. At worst it would fizzle in the fire.
Now: where was Motley?
Glancing at the envelope that Joel proffered, Motley said in a gruff tone, “Sure, I’ll give it to the captain when he comes from the pilothouse.”
“I figured it might be urgent,” Joel suggested. “It had been waiting Lord knows how long for lack of anyone to bring it.”
“Yeah, I guess that’s a point,” Motley admitted. He glanced around and caught sight of David Grant.
“Call Mr. Drew by tube from the office,” he instructed. “Say this here gentleman fetched a telegram from St. Louis.”
David obeyed with alacrity, and the effect exceeded Joel’s best hopes. Half a minute later the pilothouse door flung open and here came Drew three steps at a time, staff and cap forgotten. With a bare nod to acknowledge Joel, he seized the envelope and ripped it open.
Joel started to explain how he had come into possession of the message and was ready to continue about Whitworth’s explosive, when he saw that Drew’s face had set in a rock-hard mask. Even his eyelids ceased to move as he stared into nowhere. Only his fingers seemed alive; they folded and refolded the telegram form.
The Atchafalaya had cleared Elk Island and was swinging into the terrifyingly shallow channel that wove past the Dog Tooth Islands before Drew spoke again, and then it was with his attention fixed on another place and time.
Under his breath he recited: “I that in heill was and gladness…”
From that Joel was able to judge the content of the message, and his heart sank. By his face, so did Motley’s.
Then Drew seemed to return from far away, and bent his gaze on Joel. Just a spark, no more, of animation remained in his eyes; he appeared very old of a sudden, and his voice creaked like the hull of a worn-out steamer on her way to the scrap yard.
“I can’t thank you for bringing me this news, Mr. Siskin. I would have given an arm and a leg not to receive it. But I guess I have to say I’m obliged by your courtesy, for otherwise I might have been in limbo overnight. I expect you’ll be making interviews for your newspaper now you’ve joined us? And one of them will be with Dr. Cherouen? Then do me one more favor. Wait on him at once and inform him that his attendance on my sister-in-law will not after all be required.”
Upon which he turned away and, with heavy senile steps, ascended the stairs to the hurricane deck and then to his stateroom. Before he reached his destination, he crumpled and flung away the fateful paper.
A freak of the wind prevented it from blowing overside as he had intended. An alert deckhand caught it, and a roar from Motley ordered him to fetch it here at once! It was brought on the double, and—suddenly become companions in adversity—Joel and the chief clerk read it together.
MOTHER PASSED AWAY PEACEFULLY BLESSED YOU IN HER LAST MOMENTS
YOUR NEPHEW ELPHIN.
While they were still pondering the impact of this terrible news, they were interrupted by a shout.
Leaning over the texas rail, hands cupped around his mouth, Drew was bellowing at them.
“And tell Cherouen not to worry! In spite of all, we shall deliver him to St. Louis in time no other boat could beat!”
On the last word his voice broke, and he vanished in search of privacy for his grief, leaving Joel to wonder whom, if not the captain, he should tell about having saved the Atchafalaya from destruction.
Word of Susannah’s death spread throughout the boat as fast as fire taking hold, and brought misery for all.
Especially since Tyburn, who had the wheel after Drew relinquished it, was suddenly obliged to cut their speed. Those warnings about shallow water in the upper river had been only too accurate. The first proof consisted in a grinding of pebbly mud against the hull as he rounded to larboard past the Dog Tooth Islands. It was like the touch of terror on their naked souls. It caused no delay, but there remained Dog Tooth Bend, already in plain sight, and beyond it the stretch known for good reason as the Graveyard, and the Grand Chain—of rocks!—and Steersman’s Bend, near Thebes, so named because it called for expert navigation; and moreover night was falling. It was far from dark as yet, but the sun was close to the western horizon.
And though she had doubtless made worse time at her coaling than the Atchafalaya, as usual, the smoke from the Nonpareil could once more be plainly seen as she pulled away from Cairo, for despite the lay of the land—they were now clear of the great flood plain that made the lower river wander so—there was no intervening hill to blot out the sight of those vast plumes, like a war bonnet on an Indian chief.
And there was something about the view ahead that made Tyburn curse and rub his eyes and reach for his field glasses and curse again.
Mist among the treetops. Thickening. Even before sundown it might visit darkness on them by turning into out-and-out fog.
“Mr. Barber!”
“Why, Mr. Siskin! Came aboard at Cairo, did you? Satisfied the race is lost and won, I take it! Let’s drink to that, shall we? Sit down, sit down! Cuffy, bring more
champagne!”
Oddly nervous, Joel complied. There was something in the air, here in the Atchafalaya’s cabin—tension, hard to pin down. Perhaps it had something to do with the company Barber was keeping. There were scarcely any passengers left now, except a handful who wanted to see the race out for the excitement of it, and most of them were playing cards at the forward end of the room. Among that group he recognized Cherouen, who by the expression on his face was having poor luck. But the others at Barber’s table were Dorcas and Eulalie: prim, a little on edge because their host had invited them to sit so far along the cabin, now that the women’s section at the stern was otherwise empty. Nobody felt inclined to argue. Here, with his bodyguards at his back, he was as much in command of the situation as though he were at the Limousin. He did, after all, own half the boat.
Which was precisely why Joel had sought him out, needing to… give a warning? But the call for that was past.
To share his secret? That came closer. More precisely yet: to let his deed be known and—here he had to be brutally frank with himself—admired. It would be described fully in his next dispatch, to be sent ashore perhaps at Thebes, perhaps at Chester or St. Genevieve, depending on what sort of time the Atchafalaya made in this treacherously shallow upper river. But, of course, for the sake of modesty, he must ask Graves to have it rewritten in third person before lauding it in banner headlines. And it would all be very remote at the far end of a telegraph line. He wanted to see the impact of his story on someone else, face to face.
The champagne arrived and was poured only for Barber and himself. He realized belatedly that what he had taken for the same in glasses before the women was actually a mix of white wine and sparkling water.