Dead water

—of disappointment, and of terror.

January descended the ladder, waded through the stinking tug of the Mississippi current, and back to shore.

Only the faintest wisps of smoke rose from the Silver Moon's stacks when he crossed the muddy landing to the boat. The big stern wheel was still, its upper surfaces dry under the grilling noon sun. Tremendous activity surged around the engine-room door on the bow-deck, and January could hear Molloy cursing.

“I refuse to allow you to let that man speak so in your presence!” Mrs. Tredgold's strident voice soared over the hubbub. “Let alone in mine! If there is damage to one of the boilers, I refuse to continue on this boat. . . .”

“Darling, I swear to you . . .”

Coming up the landing-stage, January could see Mr. Tredgold sweating and wringing his hands as he pleaded with his wife in the engine-room doorway.

“Every inch of the engine was checked before the voyage began! You know I would never let my family journey on an unsafe boat! Now, whoever it was who told you that one of the boilers was faulty could not possibly have known such a thing—”

“She said in her note that she was ‘walking out' with one of the engineers. But her handwriting is that of a lady.” Mrs. Tredgold thrust a piece of notepaper under her spouse's nose. Though not nearly close enough to study it, January felt almost certain that he would have recognized the hand.

“What happened?” he asked Mr. Lundy, who was leaning against one of the pilasters of the promenade arcade near-by.

The former pilot's lips tightened under his white-streaked mustache. “Some woman put a note under Mrs. Tredgold's door, claiming an assistant engineer had told her one of the boilers was faulty, and like to blow.”

All around them the anxious chatter of the deck-passengers covered their words. The Irish and Germans were trying vainly to grasp the nature of the danger, holding their children close and glancing at Tredgold as if debating whether or not to ask for their money back and take another boat, the Kaintucks speculating about how one could tell if the boilers were about to blow and trading tales of similar catastrophes: “I was comin' downstream on a raft and we was but thirty feet from the Queen of Sheba when she blew, this huge spurt of fire come flamin' out frontwise from her bow, then like the whole top of the boat ripped off with boards go sailin' up a hunnert feet in the air in shoots of flame. . . .

“Now it's true the boilers on this boat are American-made, which are likelier to split than the English, owin' to poorer-quality iron,” Lundy told January. “But if a boiler's faulty, nine times out of ten you can't tell by lookin' at it, unless it's a seam starting to give. Mostly you can't tell even by the sound of the steam, or by the shake of the engine, or the feel of the boat when she makes speed. But Mrs. Tredgold won't hear of goin' on until they been checked.” He nodded at the stout garnet-red form that nearly filled the engine-room door. “And she's standin' there until they're all checked in front of her eyes. I reckon if a woman's got her children on board I can understand her fears, and the wife of an owner will have heard more than her share about boiler explosions.”

Tredgold turned from the tugging questions of a German woman to his wife's resolute profile—Mrs. Tredgold averted her face from him and called out in a voice like a parrot's “Cissy! Cissy, you keep those children where I can see them! Don't you let them go ashore!”

“We won't be goin' nowhere till nearly supper-time, given how long it'll take 'em to get up steam again,” added Lundy in his soft, humming voice. “Mr. Roberson and his family already went back to their visit with Colonel Quitman, and Colonel Davis has gone on to more visits, and God help Tredgold now when he tries to get his deck- hands out of the saloons . . . they'll be mostly too drunk to walk. Of course Gleet's taken his whole coffle up to the Imperial Hotel to try to drum up buyers. . . .”

Lundy glanced behind him at the men still chained to the starboard promenade, and Jubal Cain walking slowly along the rail before them, scanning the landing with his chilly amber gaze. “If it wasn't a woman's hand on the note, I'd suspect Gleet planned the whole thing, to give him time to peddle his wares in town.”

“As it turns out, it's just as well, sir,” said January diffidently. “My master's in trouble in town. Some gentleman”—It would be worse than useless, he knew, to set a hue and cry against Weems until he had evidence —“gave the sheriff the idea my master was a slave-stealer, and they put us both in jail. . . .”

Lundy's eyes narrowed sharply, and January went on. “A gentleman named Mr. Christmas got me out, and claimed he was with the Underground Railway. A churchman, he was. . . .”

“Churchman, my arse,” said the former pilot. “And you had the brains not to go with him? Let me shake your hand, my friend. Levi Christmas is one of the worst scoundrels on the river. For years he'd hold camp revival meetings, and preach so well, not a soul in the tent noticed when his friends went out and stole every horse outside. Lately—since there's been talk of the Underground Railway—he's gone into slave-stealing, promising the poor souls he's going to raise money for them by the old sale-and-escape game, then killing them to keep their mouths shut after he's collected four or five thousand dollars with their help. I'm surprised he let you get away.”

January was a bit surprised, too—and a bit disappointed. He'd have enjoyed beating the tar out of Levi Christmas. It was as he'd guessed, but the confirmation raised a wave of burning rage in him.

“I didn't know that, sir,” he said when he realized how long he'd been silent, and what his expression must look like. He wished he had dragged poor young Bobby out of the Stump instead of simply giving him a choice that the boy was clearly unfit to make. He took a deep breath, trying to keep his voice from cracking. “I told him I couldn't forsake my master. He must have figured he'd need me to consent to play his game, because he pressed me, but didn't try to use force. But my master's still in jail. . . .”

“I'll take care of that.” Lundy straightened up and groped for his cane. “You stay on board here, Ben. No sense taking chances on things getting any more complicated than they are. It's that weasel Rees, I bet . . . he makes a fair-enough living off bribes, he'll end up as sheriff himself one day, and God help the town then. You don't happen to know,” he added with a sharp sidelong look up at January, “who accused your master of slave-stealing, or why?”

And though Lundy tried to cover it with a casual tone, January thought there was a note of deeper and more intent concern in his voice than the query seemed to warrant.

“No, sir, I don't. I thank you for taking care of it—you're sure I can't go and help you in some way?”

“Just get me a cab if you'd be so kind.”