Dead water

The two friends regarded one another in silence. Then January said, “I won't have you die for the sake of my money.”

“He might not kill me,” said Hannibal.

“Pigs might fly,” added Rose in a tone of helpful sarcasm. “If you do not flee with us now, we shall be obliged to drag you into the river by force, you know.”

“I shall cling to the rail and scream,” replied Hannibal.

Rose started to speak, then closed her mouth with a whisper of released breath. January set the valise down on the bunk. Outside on the promenade, Dorothea Roberson's voice pleaded tearfully, “. . . Surely they cannot delay us further! We have nothing to do with this terrible muddle. . . .”

“You two have saved my life more than once,” said Hannibal into the cicada-ridden quiet that followed. “And I have been able to do nothing—literally nothing—except express my undying gratitude, entertaining as far as it goes but of as little use as anything else I've managed to produce in the course of my misspent life. Our flight—and the concomitant relinquishment of the chase—is almost certainly the intent of this little badger-game, whether it was La Pecheresse who forged those notes or Molloy himself. And I rather resent the automatic assumption,” he added, “that I will turn tail.”

“I'm not going to be like the lady in the ballad,” said January, “who throws her glove into the lion's den simply to see if her suitor loves her enough to fetch it out. No love, quoth he, but vanity / Sets love a task like that.”

“He may not kill me,” repeated Hannibal. “Depending on the sheriff's views on dueling, Molloy runs the risk of being taken off the Silver Moon himself if he does—Is dueling illegal in Mississippi? Or anywhere in the South? All he has to do is miss once—then even if I miss my shot, which I almost certainly will, it is up to me, not him, to demand a second round. But I won't let you lose all that you've worked for because I haven't the courage to stand still for one shot which may not even hit me.”

A brisk knock: to Hannibal's “Ine!” Davis appeared, followed by Gleet, both of whom stopped on the threshold in surprise to see not only January, but Rose in the stateroom. In the thin line of Davis's lips—and the twitch in his face—January read disapproval. A man's valet is one thing, but the presence of that valet's sweetheart as well bordered on willing fraternization with people of color that ill became the gentleman Hannibal was striving to personate.

“Mr. Byrne was able to provide us with a pair of pistols,” said Davis as Rose departed with a curtsy and a smile. “Do these meet with your approval?” He held out a rosewood case containing a pair of silver-mounted Mantons—from somewhere on the promenade little Neil Tredgold's voice whooped triumphantly, “Bang! You're dead!”

Hannibal's mouth flinched under his mustache, but he said steadily, “They do, thank you.”

“The encounter itself will take place on the bank of the river,” continued Davis. “There is a clearing there about thirty yards in length, just this side of Hitchins' Chute. The ground is level and the surrounding trees are thick enough to prevent the sun from giving especial advantage to one or the other. However, the encounter will take place as soon as it is light enough to see, so direct sunlight itself should be no issue. Ben, will you accompany the shore party as surgeon?”

January inclined his head. Gleet objected, “Mr. Molloy's not gonna want no nigger pokin' around, if Sefton should happen to wing him,” and Davis regarded him with cold blue eyes and demanded, “You have an alternative candidate?”

Gleet didn't, but retired nevertheless to consult his principal on the subject, and Hannibal spent most of the remainder of the night writing out a true account of Weems's theft, Granville's instructions, and the status of January and Rose, both legally and vis-a-vis the Bank of Louisiana, “in case worse comes to worst.” January, descending to the galley in quest of coffee, found, as he had suspected, the rest of the boat in a state of milling excitement, the deck-passengers already staking out positions along the rail of the upper-deck promenade to watch, and laying bets as to the outcome. Even the deck-hands were betting—one of them asked January what Hannibal's experience of dueling had been and he was hard-pressed not to throw the man overboard. As he passed the engine-room door he heard the crew cursing as they dumped steam and probed the glowing amber maws of the furnaces to draw out the fires once again.

“That Molloy, he come down to the engine-room for a couple planks to make hisself a target,” said Eli as he poured out coffee for January from the pot on the iron spider above the flames in the box of sand. “He say he gonna shoot at playin' cards, to put his eye in.” And even as he spoke, from overhead came the bellow of a pistol.

January felt in his coat for Hannibal's flask—not that the fiddler didn't almost certainly have a spare in his luggage somewhere. He only hoped Hannibal's nerves were sufficient to get him through the night without recourse to an anodyne that wouldn't help his aim any the following morning.

“According to Jim,” said Rose when January encountered her on the promenade outside, “a note saying, You are betrayed—Miss S has gone to Sefton's room was tucked under the coffee-cup that Thucydides carried up to Molloy in the pilot-house at ten. I haven't located Thu to check this, but I've certainly seen the note, which Jim retrieved from the pilot-house floor. The paper looks like that in the writing-desks of both the Saloon and the Ladies' Parlor, and the ink seems identical to that of the note purporting to be from Hannibal to Theodora. Cissy brought the blotting-paper from the Ladies' Parlor for me just now, and there's nothing on it that matches. . . .”

“Which means only that Mrs. Fischer—or Molloy, or whoever arranged this trap—worked in his or her room.” January set the small tray of coffee-cup and miniature pot down on top of one of the crates that had been left on the deck after the great Investigation that morning: it was labeled Triple-Refined Sugar and destined for Giron's Confectionery in Lexington, Kentucky. “I wonder if Sophie could be prevailed upon to check Mrs. Fischer's waste- basket? How often does Thu empty them? I wonder.”

“Daily, but it's been a most confused day.” She flinched at another pistol-shot from the Saloon. “The one in Hannibal's stateroom hadn't been emptied. I'll see if I can get Sophie to check. Mrs. Fischer has returned to the Parlor, with the other ladies, to discuss the fate of That Man. . . .”

“Are they laying bets?” asked January with savage irony, and Rose laid a hand on his arm.

He sighed, hearing the rage in his own voice, and shook his head.

“Evidence of a trap won't help Hannibal tomorrow . . . good Heavens, this morning, I should say. . . .” Rose glanced through the window of the galley beside her, at the big box-clock that hung on the wall in the corner. “But whatever we find will strengthen our case when we get to Mayersville.”