Dead water

One never knew, with les blankittes, thought January.

Even if one hadn't—almost certainly—witnessed murder last night.

“Tell me about last night.”

'Rodus sighed. “I wish I could, sir. Believe me, I asked among the boys here if they heard anything. That poor buckra's got to gone in the water someplace. But I swear to you last night was quiet. We tells stories some, like we always does—I thought I'd split laughin' over one old guy told 'bout the three mice in the barroom—an' sang some, just to keep our spirits up in the dark. Sound carries funny in the fog, as you'll know, sir. We heard voices now an' then from above, when folks went along to their cabins, but we didn't hear no shoutin' nor angry voices. Not like there'd been a fight or nuthin'.”

“You lyin' nigger.” Gleet's rawhide riding-crop lashed out like a lizard's tongue, striking 'Rodus on the muscle of his bare arm. The slave flinched, his dark eyes going to Cain for an instant, then back to the deck, where all good slaves' eyes belonged. “Colonel Davis talked to every man on the bow-deck an' to his own man that was sleepin' just aft of you lot, an' they saw nor heard shit. So it got to be one of you that did it—one of you, or one of the bitches over the other side of the boat. Now, you tell what you saw or I'll thrash the skin off every one of you.”

“You treat your own niggers as you please, Ned.” Cain removed his cigar from his mouth and blew a thread of smoke like an unspoken line of scorn. “Myself, I ain't fixin' to try and explain no hashed-up backs to buyers in Memphis. What the hell would Weems be doin' down here, anyway? He was your milk-and-water Abolitionist: he'd cry big tears about niggers bein' treated bad, but he didn't want to be around 'em.”

At the threat of beating, January had watched the faces of the men, especially the two boys Lam and Jeremiah. He saw not only the fear there, but the way they'd all, even the members of Gleet's coffle, turned toward 'Rodus, as if for some sign. As if last night—January could almost see it in his mind—'Rodus had said, You all keep silent, and leave the talking to me.

Davis, of course, had looked back to Cain and Gleet during the altercation. As white men, they were the ones who had the power to do or change things. It was their words that mattered. Turning back to 'Rodus, he said, “As you say, 'Rodus, Mr. Weems has to have gone into the water somewhere. If he fell—or was thrown—from the promenade deck overhead, he would have made a considerable splash.”

“It's what I thought myself, sir,” agreed the slave. “But here with the engine-room so close, an' the paddle threshin' so loud, you don't hear much and that's a fact.”

“I thought I'd heard smooth customers teaching girls' school,” remarked Rose softly as Thu came past them from the stern stairway and made his way along to the three white men. “But I think he takes the biscuit for butter not melting in his mouth.”

Whatever Thu told them, in a voice too quiet to carry, Gleet, Cain, and Davis turned and headed for the bow. The steward lingered for a moment to exchange a word with 'Rodus before coming back along the promenade to the stairway at the stern, and January saw again, in the rainy grayness, the steward's narrow, almost girlish face settle into age and strength when relaxed from its habitual cheerful smile. Face-to-face there was no mistaking the resemblance.

January glanced down at Rose, and met her eyes, which had followed his gaze. She raised her eyebrows: “Is that my imagination?” she asked, and January shook his head. “Do you think Cain knows?”

“He'd have to be a fool not to notice how alike they look,” answered January. “And whatever else he is, Jubal Cain isn't a fool. Any other white man, it's even odds whether they'd see it or not—their color's so different, and it always shocks me how little blankittes notice. But it might explain why, on a dark and foggy night, Cain made sure he wasn't alone when he came down to see that his slaves were fed.”

“Could a slave kill a white man walking by?” asked Rose as they retreated through the passway to the port-side promenade. The rain had stopped entirely; the paddle was moving slowly as the banks closed in around the Silver Moon, overhanging boughs of oak and tupelo scraping hard on the sides. As January had feared, closed in by the trees the damp heat was ghastly, and away from the main channel of the river the air swarmed with mosquitoes and gnats. “Those chains aren't very long—they have to turn around and lean out to the extent of their arms to relieve their bowels over the river. And that iron must be extremely heavy.”

Rose, January realized, had never worn chains.

“You'd be surprised what you can do,” he said softly, “if you're really frightened, or really angry.”

“But would any of them have been that frightened of—or angry at—Weems? He was a thief, and a blackmailer, but not, as far as I've ever heard, a man of violence. I can't imagine anyone wasting his time trying to blackmail a slave. Not one who has no useful information about a current master, like these. Weems was an Abolitionist, too, at least a milk-and-water one. Why would any of the slaves have attacked him?”

January shook his head. “But they saw something. And two things happened last night: Weems's murder, and Julie's escape.”

“Julie.” Rose's mouth hardened into a thin line of anger.

“Did you see her go?”

“No,” From the bow January could hear the leadsman's shouts: “Half one! Half one! Quarter less twain . . .” And hoped that Levi Christmas and his boys had passed them in the night and were at present somewhere on the other side of Hitchins' Point. Looking up, he saw the planter Lockhart at the stern rail of the boiler-deck, rifle in the crook of his arm, silhouetted against the hot summer sky.

“It was dark as Egypt, as they say—you know how fog seems to drink up light, and there wasn't any too much from the deck lantern to begin with. Sophie and Julie came down to share supper with me, after they got their respective mistresses ready for dinner—Julie was just shaking over the prospect of being sold to Gleet.”

She ducked as a willow-branch swept over the deck, spattering her with leftover rain. Behind them the paddle slowed, water slithering from its bucket-boards, and the monotonous voice of the leadsman chanted, “Quarter one . . . quarter one . . .”

The thick trees seemed to absorb the sound.

“Mark one.”

“I don't think she's stopped crying since we left Vicksburg,” Rose went on. “And that nasty little hussy Skippen boxed her ears for it. Julie spoke of running away, but was terrified—naturally—of being beaten if she were caught