by John Brunner
And which Josephine had been on, his right arm since his army days.
It was unbearable. He turned blindly back into the cabin. There was no tender at the bar, nor a waiter or steward to be seen. All had turned out to aid the Atchafalaya’s stricken rival.
For a moment he was set to shout with rage; he changed his mind and went behind the bar and found a glass and tipped it full of whiskey. Gulping it down made him feel better. He did it again.
When he was found, much later, he was lying across the bar in a pool of vomit. Those who were ordered to drag him away spat on him before they did so.
They had been expecting him to help the hurt.
Eulalie Lamenthe was in her element. Healing she understood, and desired skill in it more than the power which came with Athalie’s inheritance; perhaps, she later reasoned, that was why Damballah spared her the fate he had reserved for Josephine. She confiscated sheets and towels and set the laundresses to tearing bandages; she commandeered grease from the kitchen by way of salve; she found cord to bind the limbs that leaked the lifeblood of the injured. Men gazed on her with astonishment, for she was beautiful: a tyrant on the instant, but such a woman as no man would dare defy.
The sight of her ablaze with energy made Fernand choke on his own emotions, resolving to remeet her when the trip was done and try to preserve this new and admirable version of his mother. But there was someone who must claim his prior attention; where was Dorcas?
He found her at the after end of the cabin, weeping while Cherouen was boozing at the bar.
Regretting the obligation when he was needed on deck, Fernand spared time to comfort her, and shortly forced her to admit why she was so upset.
Eulalie had taught her that a child in the womb could be affected by what its mother saw, and adduced as a case in point the newspaper reports she had seen about some woman in danger of losing her baby being carried ashore from the Nonpareil—whose husband, moreover, had cruelly ignored her plight. For such an infant Eulalie predicted a disastrous fate.
So Dorcas was afraid to look at the victims, let alone help them, for fear her offspring might be born deformed.
A chill ran down Fernand’s spine. He too had been told that story, ever since childhood, and the way he was currently feeling about his mother, he was inclined to credit it.
But that was for the future; there were present screams ringing in his ears. So he steeled himself and summoned a black laundress who much resented being ordered to keep Dorcas company but obeyed because all the colored people on the river admired and respected the first colored pilot.
And went outside again, to a vision of hell.
Hung over most abominably, so that in paradoxical fashion the cool water in which he was wading up to his waist, and sometimes his shoulders, was comforting, Arthur struggled to drag one victim after another up on shore. He was weeping as he drove himself on. The shock of having the boat blow up had terrified him; his alcohol-dazed conscience, revived yesterday but successfully repressed, had been blasted into full life… or at least he had been reminded of mortality.
All the more when the third of the victims he helped to rescue gave a gasp, and a quiver, and was abruptly dead.
He glanced around for someone else to aid, and remembered with horror that at best these efforts of his were only an act of penitence, for he would not find Auberon alive.
At the edge of consciousness a rational idea fought to claim attention: he could slip away into those concealing trees, he could forget himself and his identity, he could adopt an alias and escape the consequences of his deeds—leave behind his wife, and his baby if it had survived, and head westward, never again to see the Springs who had promised they would have him put on trial for murder…
There was such chaos around the wreck of the Nonpareil, it would not be hard to evade attention. By now the bank resembled a casualty station during the war, and because both the Atchafalaya and the Lothair were in earshot there was a distracting racket. Like a mutinous slave, he could have cut and run.
But, while he was still struggling in a post-alcoholic fog, he heard his name called. He turned. There was Hugo, soaked from head to foot, bearing a great blue bruise across one cheek. All else forgotten, he shouted, “Have you seen Stella? The blast knocked me over! I don’t know what became of her!”
It occurred to Arthur that if he rescued his friend’s wife, Hugo might perhaps not bear witness in a court of law about his shooting of Auberon.
He was still sufficiently frightened of him, though, to look away reflexively across the river. The Atchafalaya was dealing with those who had managed to read the bank; the Lothair had gone past and was now rounding to and dropping a kedge to steady her in the channel without using her wheels, for there was much floating debris and some of it was people. One indistinct object was the same color as the dress Stella had been wearing.
Everything else banished from his mind but the slender chance of evading prosecution, Arthur struck out after it, heedless of the cries that followed him.
But the current was strong, and when he discovered it was only a bale of cloth after all, he looked around, and realized he had swum beyond his power to return, and though he shouted and cursed and shed his clothes and did his utmost, he was exhausted before the Lothair’s yawl could reach him, and sank at last to become the newest of the Mississippi’s countless human offerings. When his lungs were full with water, it no longer seemed to matter that his bets, which he had banked on to make a fortune and finance his family, had been lost with the Nonpareil.
Aboard the Atchafalaya Barber, who was also much concerned with winning bets, fumed and fretted and swore vengeance on Drew, until he realized that even Jones and Cuffy were looking askance on him. He forced himself to calm down; then he began to think about the capital to be made out of the publicity which would surely follow the Atchafalaya’s errand of mercy. Little by little he began to feel cheerful again.
He said, “Jones, do you think that if I conceded my half of the Atchafalaya to Drew anyhow, it might be a gesture people would appreciate?”
And Jones glanced at Cuffy, and the latter said wearily, “Boss, you have to ask?”
Whereupon both turned away to gaze toward the ruin of the Nonpareil, and Barber felt the blood rush hot into his cheeks.
In consequence he decided to make his decision about his wagers, especially the one with Drew, public as soon as they arrived at St. Louis… and to as many reporters as possible, in the hope that their papers would then offer favorable advertising rates for the Limousin. The Intelligencer certainly ought to!
Though he was sorry now he had admitted his touch of Africa to Joel.
It would be impolitic to let, for instance, Cuffy try to treat him as an equal.
How right Dorcas had been to want to shut herself away from these horrors! They were such as Fernand had only been told about, by veterans of the war: there was a man limping along with a great burnt patch on the left leg of his pants—and on the skin below; there was another retching and moaning for some invisible injury, who clutched his ribs every time he tried to draw breath; yonder was another with his head wrapped in a scarlet mask from a scalp wound, asking weakly whether he was blind, for blood had run down and filled his eyes…
But ever and again he found himself glancing toward the saddest victim of this tragedy: the Nonpareil.
She smoldered in the shallows like a ghastly parody of some seabeast’s skeleton, the frames of her wheels disposed on either side of her carcass-like fin bones, her boilers, piping and engines, ash-encrusted, revealed like that beast’s vital organs to a harsh and pitiless sky. Some smoke was still rising, but only where her pilothouse had foundered, adding a last supply of fuel to the blaze.
Fernand looked about him for someone who might share his emotion at the sight of this grand vessel’s fate, and recognized Joel gazing toward her and muttering, “Obe! My cousin, my best friend! Obe, where are you?”
Fernand put his arm around the repo
rter.
“Maybe he’ll be among the next batch to come on board,” he whispered. “Let’s look out for him.”
Shiny-eyed, Joel glanced at his comforter. “Yes,” he said in a thick voice. “Yes, that’s a fine idea. I guess.”
Now here came Gordon almost unrecognizable, cursing those who had built the Nonpareil, who had done precisely what they were told and paid to do, no more, no less; and after him, bemoaning the fact that because the steamer had been racing there would not even be any payment from the insurers: Woodley. Out of habit other casualties from his steamer made way for him. Out of habit he did not thank them.
At Fernand’s side a voice said softly, “The paths of glory lead but to the grave… but this is no time for recriminations, is it?”
Having left the pilothouse in care of Tyburn, here was Drew, cap square on head, carriage erect, the conscious victor of a race that now could never be decided. Advancing toward Woodley, he held out his hand.
“Captain!” he exclaimed. “I know and you know—either of us would gladly have lost our match, rather than lose a splendid boat like yours! Come aboard! We’ll dress your wounds and put a stateroom at your disposal!”
It was a magnificent gesture, and two or three who stood around began to clap.
But of a sudden Gordon caught at his companion’s arm, eyes wide and wild, and whispered something in his ear. Woodley blanched and they both incontinently turned tail, striving to push past those who were wearily dragging up the stage.
“What the hell is biting on those two?” Drew rasped.
“I can tell you,” Joel said, pale-faced, producing his pocket safe. Striding after the pair, who were making no headway, he caught Woodley’s arm.
“Captain! Why are you so determined to get away from the Atchafalaya?”
Visibly in shock, his forehead pearled with sweat, Woodley hesitated, then muttered, “Damned if I’ll take the hospitality of a traitor like Drew!”
Gordon was paying no attention; like a maddened beast he was trying to claw his way back to shore. At a nod from Drew, Sexton stepped forward to restrain him.
“I don’t believe you!” Joel declared. “It’s because you think she’s going to explode! Well, she’s not! I found Whitworth’s stick of mica powder and I emptied it and threw the stuff away except for this bit here, which is enough evidence to hang you, and Gordon too! Stateroom? Stateroom?” He rounded on Drew. “You’d do better to put ‘em in handcuffs!”
There was a long dead pause. Even the moaning of the injured seemed to recede to a great distance, while Gordon and Woodley stood statue still, guilt eloquent in every line of their posture.
Finally Drew heaved a sigh.
“I would not have wished it to end like this,” he muttered. “But you’re right, Mr. Siskin. Not for what they tried to do to me, but the threat they posed to my passengers and crew, we must arrest them. Mr. Chalker, bring sufficient rope.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Woodley cried hysterically. “It was all Whitworth’s idea—”
Abruptly and horribly aware of what had escaped him, he bit down on his lower lip so hard he made it bleed.
In a little while they were led away, and Joel said to Fernand privately, “Was it not Whitworth who…?”
“Got blown overboard? I think so. I had my glasses trained, but of course it was so quick… Oh, never mind. We still haven’t found your cousin, have we?”
So they resumed their tour of the Atchafalaya’s decks, littered now with the injured and the dying. Smoke from the Nonpareil was blowing this way, carrying with it sparks like the disease germs Cherouen was so contemptuous of. They were promptly stamped out by people less incredulous about infection. By this time—and Fernand marveled to see it—the river was aswarm, not only with the rowboats and sailboats, which had been quickest on the scene, but with steam launches too, while the Lothair must have beaten her own best time by a tremendous margin, to be here already!
Where had so many people, so many vessels, come from so swiftly?
And then it occurred to him to consult his watch, and he realized it was no miracle after all. It was almost two hours since the fire began, and time had melted like ice in sunshine.
With the realization came awareness of how tired he was; he ached in every limb and joint and he could scarcely feel his feet. But the task was not yet over. Following the distraught Joel, he located the Nonpareil’s pilots: Hogan, with a broken arm; Tacy, with severe burns; Barfoot, with a burned leg and many abrasions; Smith, with a hand that was one great blister, like a boxing glove; and Trumbull who had suffered countless cuts and bruises but was able to grin and say they had got off lightly.
When, a few minutes later, Fernand reported to Drew that all five of them had been on the opposite side of the Nonpareil from the explosion, and though all hurt were all alive, the captain heaved a deep sigh.
“You know,” he said meditatively, “I have had a family after all—two families, in fact. I guess I’m stuck with those nephews of mine in the regular way of kinship, but there ain’t a one among ‘em I’d exchange for you, or any goddamned pilot on this river. They’re like a bunch of cousins; now and then they—we fight, but when push comes to shove…”
He clapped Fernand on the shoulder, shaking his head, and concluded: “Ain’t it crazy, though, that kinfolk should come most to know each other at funerals?”
“It’s the way of the world,” said Fernand. “It was at a funeral I first came to know myself.”
From the very stern there resounded yet again Joel’s despairing cry: “Where’s Auberon?”
It was the last time. After that, dejectedly, he resumed his professional duties, listing the quick and the dead.
With all her pilots injured and her captain and her co-owner facing criminal charges, seniority among the survivors from the Nonpareil devolved on her chief clerk. His deputy Sam Iliff had sprained a knee in jumping overboard; more cautious, McNab had made a decorous descent of the stage and was well clear of the explosion. Relieved, he went about the Atchafalaya in search of those he needed to account for and found Anthony, still coughing from the smoke but otherwise intact. From Roy and Steeples, both of whom were scalded but would live, he heard about the death of Corkran, and doffed his hat for a moment before continuing his mission. Katzmann and Bates had been aft, and hurt by the explosion, but survived. There was no sign, though, of Burge, and eventually they were forced to conclude he too had not escaped.
Possibly his body was among the last to be brought on board. McNab headed for the foredeck.
And, as he approached, was amazed to hear music.
The last thing those of Manuel’s bandsmen who had salvaged their instruments wanted to do when they were brought aboard, shivering, was start playing again. But Vehm had been prodigal with liquor from the Atchafalaya’s bar, distributing brandy and whiskey by the cupful. A dose of that made the world seem less detestable.
And Gaston’s head was ringing with the solemn strains he had planned for the Grammont funeral. What it had taken to bring them into focus was this tragedy. With half his mind he was appalled at himself for capitalizing on disaster; with the rest, he welcomed the chance to hear what until now had been locked away in his imagination.
It was of course a far cry from the full score he was trying to work out, but he was amazed how quickly these bedraggled, untutored men picked up the parts he hummed over to them. He had never worked like this before, by ear alone, but within minutes he was ready to concede that it was faster than drilling the musicians at the Grand Philharmonic Hall through careful arrangements which half of them could not read anyway. This group seemed actually to be listening to what they were playing, and instead of dropping out when they came to a difficult passage, making the texture thin and sterile, took the trouble to fill out the harmonies—perhaps not always with academic precision, but nonetheless with innate feeling for a proper chordal progression.
Why had it taken a catastrophe to e
nlighten him concerning the talents of these people? They did not even need a rehearsal! The first time he signaled them to strike up, they played what they had been shown, near to note perfect!
Embarrassed, for he was standing where he knew Manuel had stood before, conducting them, he glanced around. And there was the little Mexican, grinning like a cat under his drooping moustache.
“Needs more trumpet!” he declared, and went to snatch one from the hands of a player who was too overcome by the experience he had undergone to keep his part.
“Yes, but you should be directing your own orchestra—”
A dismissive wave: “Ah, you are composer, sir! I’m only man who knows how to blow through here! Can’t even read the dots and lines. Maybe one day you teach me, ‘stà bueno? Right now we make grand sad music for the souls that went away.”
And, setting the trumpet to his lips, took his place in the front row, waiting for Gaston to premiere what later became the adagio section of his Mississippi Suite, a development of the preceding rubato entitled “The Steamboat Explosion.”
It emerged somber and majestic, and those in earshot removed their hats and stood to attention, as though listening to a national anthem.
Abruptly Gaston realized he could no longer see, but only hear, because his eyes were brimming full of tears.
“You may pull clear of the shore, Mr. Tyburn,” said Drew formally, having surveyed the bank and shallows with his glasses. “There’s nothing left for us to do here. Now we must get those poor devils to a hospital, and if they don’t make it, to a decent burial. Full speed ahead.”
All this Caesar had witnessed at a distance, hiding among the new saplings where he had found refuge. His face and guts alike twisted by bitterness at the way he had been treated, he thought at first only of how right he had been to run away. He sat, hunkered down behind a screen of branches, and with grim satisfaction watched as the Nonpareil caught fire and finally blew up. The river began to carry down traces of the wreck: first scraps of wood, then human beings. He saw one—two—three go by. They were already dead. He let them be.