Dead Water (16 page)

“We may not have to worry about them leaving the boat,” said January softly. “But I saw Mrs. Fischer as she looked down at us turning the capstan—I saw the look in her eyes. We're not safe.”

Though it would have been pleasant to linger in the bath, he was mindful of his responsibilities to friendship. He got out promptly, while the water was still hot, so that Hannibal could bathe as well. The fiddler looked haggard, as if he, too, had not slept after their shared vigil outside the Majestic Hotel the previous night; January could only be thankful that when the boat snagged up on Horsehead Bar, Hannibal hadn't attempted to look for him on shore.

Still, the fiddler took his violin with him when he went to supper, and a few minutes later a porter appeared, to lug away the bath. January supposed he should go down and scrounge his usual supper from Eli, to share with Rose. But weariness overwhelmed him. He rolled up in his blanket with one of the spare bed-pillows under his head, and slept, hearing through the black-velvet weight of exhaustion the soft clang of the
Silver Moon
's bell, and the voices of the slaves, singing on the promenade below.

Follow the Drinkin' Gourd, follow the Drinkin' Gourd,
There's an old man 'cross the river gonna carry you to freedom,
Follow the Drinkin' Gourd.

In his dreams he saw Mary, with her child on her hip, a lonely figure walking back across that weedy field to the dogtrot cabin under the grilling sun. Saw Julie, weeping in Rose's arms—
What'm I gonna do?
—and the backs of the two slaves who'd shoved on the capstan-bar ahead of him, knotted with whip-scars as if sections of fishing-nets were embedded under the skin. In his dream he tried to explain to them,
I'm traveling on this boat to get my money back, so that I can be free.

And in his dream a man chained to the wall of the promenade deck, a man who had his father's face with its tribal scars, said gently,
You already free, Ben.

No,
thought January, waking to gaze into the darkness of that tiny stateroom,
I am not free.

What time it was he couldn't guess. Not very late, since Hannibal had not returned—even in pitchy dark he would have been able to hear the fiddler's breathing. The floor beneath him vibrated with the shaking of the engine; the night smelled of the wet straw matting where the bath-water had dripped on it, and of fog.

Flickers of yellow light, tiny and dim but vivid as stars in the complete dark of the stateroom, outlined the louvers of the door. The cautious rattle of metal, a minute scratching, nothing like the sound of a key. A gash of light opened vertically, the pierced glow of a shuttered dark-lantern, wreaths of fog trailing around it and everything behind it lost in blackness.

January sat up, raised a hand against the light. “Rose?”

The door slammed shut. Footfalls retreated down the promenade. January scrambled to his feet, fumbled the blanket around his waist, tripped over the portmanteau that Hannibal had left sticking out from under the bunk, and by the time he pulled open the stateroom door, there was nothing outside but utter blackness, and the smell of the river and of fog. From the bow end of the boat a voice called out, “Quarter twain! Quarter twain!” monotonous as the creak of a branch in wind.

January thought,
Not another damn bar,
and returned to the stateroom floor to sleep.

He thought again,
I am not free. Nor is Rose, nor will our children be.

Then it was misty daylight.

And still.

ANOTHER
bar? Or the same one?

Hannibal's bunk was empty, but his fiddle lay in its case on the chair, and the blankets had been rumpled. January dressed, and strode aft to look for Rose.

Half the passengers on the boat seemed to be gathered at the stern ends of both the lower and upper promenades, leaning over the rails. They seemed to be craning to look at the paddle, which hung still and glistening in the warm gray vapors that seemed to hold the boat locked.
We hit a snag,
thought January,
and damaged the paddle
. . . .

Now we'll be stuck here until Christmas and his boys arrive
. . . .

Why hadn't the jolt of it waked him?

He picked Rose's white tignon from the crowd, close to the rails on the port side, talking to the Roberson ladies'-maid—who slept on her mistress's stateroom floor and almost never came downstairs—and Colonel Davis's valet, Jim Pemberton. January hurried down the stairway and made toward her—she caught sight of him and turned, reaching out. She looked shaken and sick.

At the same moment January saw behind her that what he'd originally thought was a scrap of moss snagged in the paddle was in fact a piece of green and yellow cloth, soaked with water and river mud.

A man's cravat.

“What is it?”

“Weems.”

“What's he done?” So much for Hannibal's theory about what the pair of thieves were likely to do.

“He hasn't done anything,” said Rose. “His body was found this morning, snagged up in the paddle.”

TWELVE

“Murderer!” Diana Fischer swung around from the stern rail where she stood and stabbed a finger at January. Her rich contralto voice cut through the eager chatter of the deck-hands, deck-passengers, and servants all crowded around.

“Ask him where he was last night, and what orders his master gave him! Ask him why he followed this boat with such determination! Why he returned to re-board it, if not to accomplish his master's fell design!”

I followed this boat with such determination because I didn't want to be sold by slave-stealers in Texas,
thought January, but he had better sense than to say so. He could see by the faces of the male passengers surrounding Mrs. Fischer that his sassing a white lady would not help the situation.

Instead, he assumed the most shocked and innocent expression of which he was capable, fell back a pace, and looked to Mr. Tredgold as if Mrs. Fischer did not exist. “Sir, where is my master?”

“Your master is locked up!” Mrs. Fischer stepped in front of Tredgold while the harried little man was still drawing breath to reply. “Where he belongs, and you with him, you Othello! You bloody-handed villain, with a heart as black as your hide! Oh!” She clapped her hand to her forehead and staggered back into Mr. Tredgold's arms. “Oh, that my
hope
of salvation should be rent from me by such
monsters
as these!”

Mrs. Tredgold rushed to Mrs. Fischer's side, elbowed her husband out of the way, and put her arms around the afflicted lady, who had, January noticed, had time to get her corsets and dress on—a somber confection of blue and white—but whose thick waves of raven hair still lay tumbled over her shoulders like an opera heroine's in a mad-scene. Mrs. Tredgold snapped at her husband, “Have this man locked up!”

“Now, dearest, nothing's been—”

“Thu!” bellowed Mrs. Tredgold. “Eli! Take this man and—”

“Why don't you come on up to the Saloon, where your master is?” said Mr. Lundy's buzzing monotone, and a shaky hand was laid on January's arm. “There's nothing more to see down here.”

January glanced at Rose, who nodded slightly, with an expression of calm—she had been on the deck longer than he, and perceived herself in no danger. As he followed the former pilot up the steps, January glanced back at the paddle again. It was undamaged, human bone and flesh being less fibrous and tough than waterlogged tree-stumps. Beyond that it was impossible to see anything, if there was anything to see—only what was immediately obvious. That nobody could have fallen accidentally over the elbow-high railings that surrounded the entire deck.

Ned Gleet thrust past January and Lundy on the stairway to the boiler-deck, almost knocking the fragile former pilot over the rail. At the bow end of the promenade, Molloy held Theodora Skippen pressed to the wall beside the door of the Ladies' Parlor: “Sold her?” he was saying, his voice hoarse with fury. “God damn it, girl, is that all you can do with the things a man buys you? What else that I paid for have you turned into cash?”

“Darling,” Miss Skippen whispered, raising her hands supplicatingly against his broad blue-clad chest, “darling, let me explain!” She gazed up into his blotchy face, her soft blond curls cascading over her shoulders—like Mrs. Fischer, she appeared to have gotten herself mostly dressed when the alarm went up at the finding of the body. “Oh, my beloved, it was a matter of most tragic
urgency. . . .”

January would have been deeply interested to hear Miss Skippen's explanation for selling Julie—which Molloy appeared to have just heard of. He would have bet any amount of money that the tale of tragic urgency she was about to relate had nothing to do with large sums owed to Levi Christmas.

Hannibal sat at one of the card-tables in the saloon, drinking opium-laced sherry out of a wineglass. Without the warm glow of the oil-lamps the Saloon had the shadowy atmosphere of a cave. Nick and Thu were laying out plates and silverware on the buffet, and the scent of coffee filled the air. Colonel Davis was just dropping sugar into a cup—he glanced up as January's huge form blotted the light from the short hallway to the outside, and nodded as Lundy escorted him in.

Tredgold and Mr. Souter followed, with a red-faced and seething Molloy bringing up the rear moments later.

“Have I the court's permission to point out how ridiculous that woman's accusation is?” inquired Hannibal quietly.

“This isn't a court, Mr. Sefton.” Colonel Davis returned to the card-table and sat down next to Hannibal. “You aren't being accused of anything.”

“My error. I was deceived by the outstretched finger and the shrieked words
There stands the murderer.
”

“Surely you must make allowances for the poor woman's shattered state of mind,” replied Souter, shocked. “I understand that she and Mr. Weems were affianced.”

“She has a point, though.” Molloy walked over to the bar and fished behind it for a whiskey-glass and bottle. His blue eyes sparkled still with malice and anger, but he kept his voice judicious and calm. “Your boy wouldn't have run over hill and dale to catch us up without a damn good reason to do so. Why not just turn himself over to the sheriff at Vicksburg and wait for you to come back and pick him up?”

“According to Mrs. Fischer,” said Tredgold, propping his spectacles with a nervous finger, “you, Mr. Sefton, are in the employ of business enemies of her—er—intended. She says you were sent to prevent him from reaching St. Louis and consummating the purchase of ten thousand acres of Indian lands which your employers—the Bank of Louisiana—also wish to own.”

“What?”
Hannibal set his wineglass down with a clack. “Who in their right mind would hire
me
to murder anyone?” He glanced across at January, asking for instructions, though they both knew that revealing the facts of the bank theft at this point would simply spread the information up and down the river like the plague.

“Mrs. Fischer says,” went on Tredgold with a hesitant cough, “that you have previously made the accusation—to the sheriff at Natchez—that her intended had stolen money from the Bank of Louisiana, and that you even had documents from one of the bank officials to back up this story.”

“You keep your money in the Bank of Louisiana, don't you, Kev?” put in Souter. “Any of this make sense to you?”

Molloy's brow creased in thought, and he sipped his whiskey with the air of a man piecing together what he knows. “Well, I know the bank directors have been trying for months to close some kind of Indian land deal, but it's none of my business.” He regarded the speechless Hannibal with half-shut eyes, a malicious smile curving one corner of his mouth beneath the red mustache. “I thought I recognized Mr. Sefton when he first came on board, and it might well be from the bank, now that I think of it. I seem to recall the Director has a secretary named Sefton, anyway.”

Through his own shock January had to admire the cleverness of the story.
We might as well tear up Granville's letters now,
he reflected. It would take a week or more for letters to reach New Orleans, in confirmation or denial, another week for them to return. . . .

If the story of the theft hadn't broken in the meantime and collapsed the bank anyway.

If Granville hadn't fled.

“It is nevertheless a precept of American law that a man is presumed innocent until proven guilty.” Colonel Davis's clear, sharp voice cut into the silence. “And I see no proof on one side or the other. Certainly there are no grounds to deprive anyone of their liberty, especially if the vessel makes no stops between here and Mayersville. I think it equally likely that the murder could have been done by that girl who disappeared. Our best course would be to proceed to Mayersville and turn this entire affair over to the Issaquena County sheriff.”

“But without the fares from the plantations between here and Mayersville . . .” began Tredgold, who was completely ignored.

Molloy shrugged, and tossed down the rest of his whiskey. “If you want to trust an Orangeman, it's no skin off my behind. Now, with your permission,
Captain
. . .” He bowed ironically to Tredgold. “Colonel, I'll be after gettin' this vessel under way.”

Tredgold and Davis followed Molloy to the door, where low-voiced conversation ensued. January fetched Hannibal a cup of coffee from the big porcelain urns, and a biscuit, at which the fiddler shook his head. Men were coming quietly into the Saloon, edging past the muttered convocation in the doorway and being careful not to look at Hannibal.

“What girl was he talking about?” asked January, standing at Hannibal's side as a good servant should. “What went on last night?”

“What didn't?” The fiddler glanced up at him from dark-circled eyes. “It appears Julie escaped last night. Her shoes were found on the starboard promenade deck just before you came down. Gleet went storming up to Miss Skippen's stateroom to ascertain that, no, she wasn't there . . . Miss Skippen was sound asleep still and Gleet was damn lucky not to run into Molloy in her stateroom. Molloy had come down to get breakfast before going on watch at six, and was—according to Rose, anyway—on the stairs from the boiler-deck down to the kitchen when Jim started shouting.”

“Jim was the first one to see the body, then?”

Hannibal nodded. “He sleeps closest to the paddle, and got up before rosy-fingered Aurora even started
thinking
about spreading the light of dawn o'er meadow and lea. I suppose goddesses have to get their beauty-sleep sometime. It was still foggy then, and Jim thought the body might have been a clump of branches or debris; then he realized what it was and gave the alarm.”

“And when did you get down there?”

“Almost at once. Following the usual after-supper card game I wasn't sleepy, but didn't want to wake you by lighting a candle and reading—an unnecessary precaution, as it turned out, since you never stirred when Jim raised the alarm. I don't think you moved all night.”

“I did,” said January. “Or at least I think I did. . . .” It flashed across his mind that his nocturnal visitor might have been a dream, but he shook the thought away immediately. Rose might dream about waking up in the same room she'd gone to sleep in, but January knew himself better than that. “I'll tell you later.”

“
Nisi Dominus custodierit civitatem,
as the Psalmist says,
frustra vigilat qui custodit eam.
In any case I settled myself on a quiet corner of the bow-deck and played—in spite of the fog it was a relatively warm night. Later I came to bed, but I don't think I slept more than an hour or so before the alarm was raised. Do you think Weems might have encountered Julie as she was going overside, and Julie struck him to prevent him from giving the alarm?”

“She certainly could have,” said January thoughtfully. “She's a big girl—taller than Weems, and heavier. If she shoved or thrust him, he might have struck his head on a stanchion. Did the boat go over a bar at some time during the night?”

“Around eleven.” Hannibal glanced up at the clerestory windows that ranged around the top of the Saloon; the light dimmed and faded in them, warning of gathering clouds. Thunder muttered in the distance. “They barely scraped over. Does that make a difference?”

“Only that Weems must have gone overside sometime after that, or else his body would have been scraped off entirely. Where have they put the body?”

Hannibal, who had entirely too much imagination for his own good, looked slightly green at the image this conjured up, and said a little faintly, “In his stateroom.” He poured himself some more sherry. “Though whether Tredgold will let you have a look at it is . . .”

“Mr. Sefton.” Colonel Davis withdrew a morocco-leather memorandum-book from his pocket as he approached. “I understand you claim to have been playing the violin on deck after you left the Saloon?”

“At the time I hoped I wouldn't waken anyone,” sighed Hannibal. “Now I wish that I had. My man Benjamin has pointed out that Weems probably went overboard after we crossed over that bar at eleven—providing us with a
terminus ad quem,
anyway.”

“More than that.” The young planter consulted his notes, a nervous tic pulling sharply at the left side of his face. “According to Mr. Souter, the rudder was dragging and pulling shortly before midnight, as it does when it's picked up a branch. Mr. Molloy was just getting ready to come off watch when it happened, and cursed at it, Mr. Souter says. When Souter took over the wheel, he felt it, and whatever it was, it pulled loose in about an hour.”

January shivered. The man might well have ruined him—and hundreds of other investors—walking away without a thought to the lives he was wrecking. . . . But it was still a horrible way to die. Even in the deserts of Algeria, a thief would lose a hand, not his life.

“Mr. Weems left supper early,” Davis went on, glancing at Hannibal, whether for reaction or confirmation January could not guess. “Almost as soon as dessert was served . . .”

“And I stayed on,” pointed out Hannibal, “to entertain the company as usual after supper was over—not wishing to play the despot, I did not demand Ben accompany me after the day he'd had. If you recall, I was continuously in the Saloon from supper until well after midnight, engaged with either music or cards.”