by Jon Clinch
Loading up the skiff he considers reporting the boy’s apparently tragic end to Thatcher or even the marshal, who might have been the one to have counterfeited the scene of the crime, but in the end he decides against it. Avoiding St. Petersburg altogether will be the best policy from this moment forward, lest he and the boy cross paths. When the time comes and he has established either a reliable source of income or some other more cunning means to obtain his due he will swoop in to recover the boy and his fortune, but meanwhile he will return to his place by the riverside in Lasseter and bide his time.
7
UPSTREAM IN A CLOUD of fog and memory steams the Santo Domingo, a sternwheeler bound for Rock Island from Vicksburg. Just how many years ago this is Finn could not say, although it is surely from a time before the boy Huck was so much as a dream. Yet at this very moment, poling northbound alone on the dark river, he can see the boat in his mind’s eye with so much alarming detail that she may as well be hurtling down upon him again just as she did on that night when everything changed.
THE Santo Domingo is huge and powerful and she churns upriver with the reckless outsize belligerence of an African elephant enraged. The cloud thrown up by her wheel obliterates the stars and looms upward as if she is intent upon vaporizing the river behind her and thereby emptying it as she goes, her transient purpose served and an end made to it, yet her silent steam engines let Finn’s ears ring with music played upon the main deck by a pair of black men who have made up a band with a fiddle and a banjo. They sit side by side on a fat bale of cotton, and the tune they play is a number so well known to him as to be as unremarkable as breathing.
Finn has been drinking, and now he is lazily adrift from Dixon’s place to the public wharf where he customarily ties up. The skiff finds the channel and he sets down his pole and permits himself to take a seat and then in his weariness and disorientation he lies down flat upon his back to watch the stars wheel overhead. He has done this before and drifted for hours downriver like a dead thing only to awaken in the morning aground on some midstream island or hung up on a log, his head afire and the full sun upon his face like a brand. As he lies and blinks and breathes he lets the music wash over him as if in a dream, as if he is making it up himself or at least imagining it, as if some secret door to the shared consciousness and tradition and history of the river and its men white and black and mingled has opened itself to him and this is what has emerged.
The music might be coming from some house downstream. But rather than rising up and reaching its peak and then diminishing again as he floats past, it swells in volume and increases in clarity and keeps on swelling and keeps on increasing long past the point that would suggest that he has come abreast of some riverbank musicale and is about to drift on past—until finally, at its loudest and most crystalline, it is shattered all at once by the noise of his skiff colliding with the prow of the Santo Domingo. He plummets through planking torn asunder and into deep black water where he finds nothing that he might cling to save the steamboat’s charging hull, which has established a powerful countercurrent of its own and now seems intent upon drawing him under and back toward the cruel blades of the paddlewheel.
“You there!” A voice godlike from above.
He gasps and sucks in breath and pushes off from the hull using both his legs, but try as he might he cannot force himself free of the churning water for the boat is moving too fast and the current is too strong. He threatens to become mere debris.
“You there!” The face hanging over the rail above him is closer than he imagined, and rather than gazing remotely down from some heroic elevation it is studying him fairly closely and with a certain grave amusement, as if his peril is merely a game for small stakes. “How about I get you a rope?”
“Your hand,” says Finn. “Reach.” For there is no time to spare and he has little faith that the man, should he vanish upon an errand, will return again at all.
His rescuer, his face a black vacancy against the stars, falls dutifully to his knees and reaches beneath the rail to take the hand that Finn offers up. If the crash has caused any alarm aboard the steamboat it has been but short-lived and minor, for when Finn climbs over the rail and leans gasping against it he observes that the fiddle and banjo music is still under way down here on the heavily laden main deck where there are but a few individuals loafing about, blacks exclusively, whispering among themselves in corners and promenading arm in arm around the stacked cargo and penned livestock as if they were guests upon the grandest ship of the line. Floating down from the dining room on the deck above comes the delicate chiming of silver and glassware, cushioned upon the low hum of dignified conversation.
“Why ain’t you tied up somewheres?”
“Running late, suh.”
With a nod of his head he acknowledges the river whose grip he has so narrowly escaped. “I’m obliged.”
“T’warn’t nothing.”
“Still.” Flatly and with a look that is almost a warning, for he is not one to give thanks lightly to a black man even for an act such as this one and he cannot abide the idea that his courtesy might be rebuffed.
“Happy to help, suh.”
“I know it.” And then adrip like a river spirit made flesh and risen up to pursue some antique unfathomable errand of its own choosing, he turns and makes for the stairway. Up he climbs to the second deck, where candles and the reflections of candles glimmer like fireflies in the dining room and the smell of food is nearly overwhelming in its variety and power. He feels completely himself, recovered from his adventure and fully sobered by it, and it does not occur to him to wonder what these fine white ladies and gentlemen must think of this wet shambling creature passing by so close to their tables. He takes note of the bar with its gleaming bottles rank upon rank and thinks that he will demand from the captain the run of it as part of his restitution. The stairway to the upper deck is narrow and has a turning midway along and gives directly onto the texas and he climbs it as if he has done so a thousand times before. He opens the door to the pilothouse without so much as rapping upon it and admits himself into a small high room with a panoramic view of the river, dominated by a great oaken wheel and a compass housed in a brass binnacle and occupied by two dignified gentlemen and a single black girl of perhaps sixteen who looks as if she would prefer to vanish into the deep shadows if only she could.
“Ahoy there,” says the younger and more sociable of the two men, as if he is greeting a paying customer. He is as tall as Finn and more heavily padded, dressed in a brilliant white uniform that he has recently had custom-made to his measurements. The other is taller still, rail-thin and narrow-beaked, with an intense riverbound gaze that neither sees Finn nor cares to, and the thoughtless way that he wears his threadbare uniform indicates his disdain for anything about the Santo Domingo other than her absolute safety. “Captain Parkinson,” says the first man, thrusting out a meaty hand.
“Name’s Finn.” Taking it.
“Good God, man.” Stricken by his visitant’s damp handshake he takes the man’s elbow with his left hand, which he works up along the dripping shirtsleeve to his shoulder. “Where have you been?”
“Minding my own business.” His eye falls upon the girl.
“You didn’t go overboard.”
“Not until your boat rammed me, I didn’t.”
“No,” says the captain, his look incredulous.
“Yes sir. I’m lucky to be alive.”
“I should say.”
“Lost my skiff.”
“You have my word we’ll.”
“I know it. That and more.”
“You have my word we’ll make you whole, however much it requires.” Whether the captain is clarifying his offer or expanding it or merely finishing his thought for the love of hearing himself speak is unknowable. “Thank God you’re no worse for wear.”
“Thank Him and the nigger that pulled me out, too.”
“He works in mysterious ways.”
“Suit yo
urself,” says Finn with a sly look. “I come up here to see how a blind man pilots a steamboat.”
The pilot slides a glance toward Finn and then returns his steady gaze to the moonlit river.
“Mr. Franklin here is the best man on the line.”
“Is he now.”
“Without a doubt.”
“Too bad about his license.”
Even this does not perturb the implacable pilot Franklin, for he has either heard worse before or placed his entire trust in Captain Parkinson or given up on the world of men for some other reason altogether.
“Accidents happen.”
“I mention my pap’s the judge in Adams County?”
“Did I mention that we operate under maritime law?”
“Still.”
“Justice will be done, Mr. Finn. Have no fear.”
“I won’t.”
“Were I at liberty to do so, I would write you a check at this very moment.”
“I’d be obliged.” He looks at the girl for a minute and wonders exactly how impressed she is by his handling of the situation. “Too bad you ain’t at liberty.”
“Not tonight I’m not. No.”
“I reckon we can make it up somehow.”
“I’ll need your particulars.”
“I know it.” The river drifts past in the dark. Finn wonders how long the steamboat line will take to correct its error and considers just how long he might be able to wait and figures that the two time frames are not much alike.
“Offhand, what do you guess your skiff was worth?”
“Can’t say.”
Parkinson studies the man closely, for he guesses that fate has served him up not some unsophisticated bully but a cunning negotiator unwilling to show his hand.
“Can’t say,” Finn continues, “on account of I stole it.”
“Is that so?”
“Hell yes. When you’re about ready to steal me another’n to replace it, you let me know.”
The pilot Franklin slides a look toward Finn once more but this time with the faintest of smiles atwitch at the corner of his mouth.
“Mr. Finn, what do you say we visit the medicine chest and resolve our differences like gentlemen?”
“Whyn’t you send the girl down.”
“That won’t be possible.”
“I like it up here.”
“It’s against regulations.”
Which gives Finn an idea. “Franklin ought to have a little something, too. Send the girl down and she can get enough for everybody.”
Parkinson lowers his voice. “Let’s just the three of us go. You and me and the girl.”
“I go wherever the captain goes.” Her voice is surprisingly deep and soft and round, not unpleasant to Finn’s ears or anyone’s.
“Wherever he goes?” His mind leaps.
“Yes sir.”
“All right. Come watch him buy a man some whiskey.”
TO FINN’S SURPRISE, Parkinson is not much of a drinking man. The captain sits clutching his glass as if it contains the purest poison, or as if he has learned that the universe radiates out from it and he intends by this action to remain pegged in one spot rather than risk spinning off into eternity.
“How about the girl?” Finn hazards after a while. She stands behind the captain like his shadow, unmoving even in the tidal rise and fall of the dining room crowd. Her arms are soft and gray-black as ash and they hang before her as if she is a mere marionette, her hands belly up like fish deep in the single pocket of her apron. Her eyes are sleepy but she starts when Finn mentions her, picking out his words over the conversation like some kind of strange angular music or a coded message. Were he looking her way he would witness the automatic adjustment of her every molecule so as to focus her attention on that sonic space where his words live.
“She’s something,” says the captain.
“How much?”
“Not for sale.” Gripping his glass. “Not for sale, I’m afraid.”
“How about a loan?”
“That’s out of the question.”
“Between friends.” Raising his glass.
Rather than answering, Parkinson waves for the bottle and pours, taking some for himself to replenish what little he’s had.
“You owe me.”
From the kitchen door past the end of the bar comes a compact and whiteclad black man in a languid sort of hurry, a towel hung over one arm and a laden tray balanced on his upturned palm. His suit looks made for someone else and he looks made for other work entirely and he makes eye contact with the girl as he goes. Finn notices and turns his inquiring eye toward Parkinson.
“The father.”
“Ain’t that nice.”
The captain drinks. “He has aspirations.”
“I do love a nigger with ideas.” Tapping his glass for more whiskey, thinking on the father and the daughter. “No wonder you won’t part with her.”
“I can’t do it.”
“There was a pretty little nigger girl just the match of this one used to walk past my house when I was her age.”
The girl pricks up her ears and Finn can see her do it.
“This would have been in Adams County,” says the captain, filling space with remembered detail.
“That’s right. My pap said they was all just filthy beasts and we had to keep our distance or we’d be in for disease and eternal damnation and what all, but like I said she was a pretty one and I couldn’t see no harm in it.”
“I’ll bet.”
“I reckon we done it eight or ten times before we was through, and I’ll never forget it. A man don’t, no matter what they say.”
“No matter what.”
“And the only harm come of it was my pap made me sleep with the hogs for a month.”
“That can’t have been pleasant.”
“You’d be surprised. I’ve done it since, the weather gets cold enough and you’re out in it.”
“What became of the girl?”
“She passed on.”
“I see.” He pulls down the corners of his mouth, taps the rim of his glass with one finger. “And you? No eternal damnation?”
“Not yet.”
“Let that be a lesson.”
“Amen,” says Finn, raising his glass.
FINN GOES TO SLEEP in a secluded place on the main deck trusting that someone will wake him at the next scheduled stop, the farther upriver the better because the less chance there will be of anyone’s ever identifying the skiff that he will most certainly steal and bring home to replace his ruined one. His clothes are dry now and he is warm and deeply contented and thanks to the high quality of the Santo Domingo’s expensive whiskey he is free of the most severe and colorful consequences of his habit: He has neither vomited nor seen beasts that are visible only to him, and he folds his hands upon his chest like a dead man and closes his eyes with an easy and luxurious grace.
“I tell you, we can go no farther than Fort Granger.” The captain’s voice, hushed. “We require provisions. We require coal.”
“We’ve got sufficient.” A voice unknown to Finn, deep and resonant and with a touch of gravel.
“You’re mistaken.”
“Make it stretch.”
“Impossible. Besides, when the sun comes up and the passengers learn that we’ve passed Lasseter.”
“Explain it.”
“How do you propose I do that?”
“You’ll think of something.”
Unwillingly surfacing through a miasma of alcohol and sleep Finn hears these voices in the dark as if the speakers had taken up positions at his very elbow, and when he slits his eyes open just the least bit he discovers that they have. Rather than lie still and listen to their curious talk and risk being discovered he kicks out one leg with a spasmodic twitch and coughs theatrically and heaves over on his stomach with his cheek mashed into the deck. The speakers start and move away but not far. He sees as they go that there are three of them, the captain and the black man
from the dining room and his daughter.
“I mean to get to Iowa,” says the man, drawing forth from the breast of his formal white jacket a bowie knife of considerable scale.
The captain must have seen this object previously, for he is unmoved by its sudden appearance. “Illinois is just as good.”
“Not by me.”
“We’ve been steaming past it all night long.” He thrusts out an indicative hand, which startles the man and the girl both but they recover their composure and maintain their positions without incident.
“I don’t want Illinois.”
“Trust me.”
“I do.” Studying the starry gleam of the knifeblade in the darkness.
“I’ve made no attempt.”
“I know.”
“I’ve told no one.”
“I know it. Myself, I’ve told half the coloreds on your goddamn boat.” Whether or not he should be parting with this information is a strategic question unanswerable, but it seems to do him no immediate harm.
“Are they armed too?”
