Perish from the Earth

by Jonathan F. Putnam

  Two of the trappers who walked up the plank appeared to be father and son, carrying several dozen beaver pelts between them. The father wore a red-and-white-striped tunic and a conical hat with a red tuft, while the son, of twelve or fourteen years, wore a blue tunic and clenched a long-stemmed pipe amid his pelts. From the rusty color of the son’s complexion, it was clear the older man had adopted the blanket and taken up the wandering life of the Indians.

  Other items in North-western commerce came on board the War Eagle as well. A rider rode up on horseback, two more horses tethered behind the lead horse. Dismounting, he led all three horses into the cargo hold. Another man drove up in a large open wagon holding six Negroes. Stopping at the edge of the gangway, the man got out and shepherded his chattel onto the dock. They moved in a slow, awkward double line, chained together by twos, each slave carrying over his shoulder an old tow sack that likely contained all his worldly possessions. Their overseer drove them up the gangway, and they too disappeared into the belly of the steamer.

  Eventually, the new passengers and cargo were all in place, and we cut loose from the St. Louis levee and resumed navigation. A few hours later, I dug a set of formal clothes out of my saddlebags, dressed, and headed for supper. It was time to confront Captain Pound.

  The dining room for the cabin passengers was far more utilitarian than the War Eagle’s ornate salon. A single long, rectangular table stretched the length of the room, with barely any space around its edges for the officers and waiters to circulate. Plain candlesticks running down the center of the table provided illumination. Two dozen chairs were placed around the table; about half of these were occupied.

  As I took a few steps toward the table, I nearly collided with a singular man dressed in a black robe and brilliant purple cravat, with a lavender bonnet on his head. I gave a yelp of astonishment.

  “Avocat Daumier . . . I must say I’m surprised to find you on board.”

  The Frenchman gave me an elaborate bow of greeting and looked up cunningly. “But I am not surprised to find you, Monsieur Speed,” he said.

  “Ah.” I paused. “I thought your charge was limited to the levee at Alton.”

  “On the contrary, it extends to the investigation of any crime committed at or near the levee, including the murder of the planter Jones by the villain Bingham.” He gave a cough of self-satisfaction.

  “And your superior permits you to leave your post whenever the whim strikes?” I was not a little annoyed at Daumier’s appearance, which seemed likely to complicate my plans.

  “It is not whim but reason,” he replied serenely. “You may hope evidence showing the artist’s innocence resides aboard the ship, but I am certain it is further evidence of his guilt that lies about. If I am right, I need never again worry about the views of my superior.”

  “I suppose we shall see whose hunch proves correct,” I replied. I gestured toward several empty chairs at the common table. “Join me. If we are to be shipmates as well as friendly adversaries, I suppose we should get to know one another better.”

  Daumier bowed again and indicated for me to lead the way. An older woman with her back toward us was sitting at the table, unaccompanied, beside two empty chairs. When I asked her whether the seats were taken, she turned around.

  “Good evening, Mr. Speed,” Nanny Mae said with a smile. “I was hoping you’d join me.”

  “I wonder how Alton will manage without you,” I said. “Surely you are central to its daily life.”

  She gave a gravelly laugh. “The town will do just fine, I’m certain. Every now and again, even I must come out to see for myself some little piece of the world.”

  Avocat Daumier glided up behind me, and I began to introduce him to the old woman. But it was immediately clear the two were acquainted with each other, and not pleasantly so, as they gave each other cold nods and kept their distance. I sat down between them and cast about for a neutral topic of conversation.

  “What have you heard of the weather along the river?” I asked Nanny Mae.

  “I talked to one traveler from New Madrid and another arriving from Memphis just yesterday. And there was a delightful farmer’s wife from Vicksburg two days before that. I expect we’ll gain about three degrees on the thermometer for every hundred miles downriver.”

  “That will be a welcome change. Don’t you think, Avocat Daumier?”

  “What’s that?” asked the Frenchman, clearing his throat with great ceremony.

  “Nanny Mae says it’ll be progressively warmer as we steam down the river.”

  “Is that so?” He picked up the knife set before him and scrutinized it with elaborate interest. “Can you inquire if she thinks we’ll encounter precipitation?”

  “Why don’t you ask her yourself?” My two eating companions were not thirty-six inches apart, and the room was not particularly noisy. But the avocat was lost in his own reflection in the knife blade and seemed not to hear me. With a sigh, I turned back to Nanny Mae—who affected not to have heard the inquiry—and put it to her.

  We continued in this manner for some time. Daumier and Nanny Mae refused to speak directly to each other, so I was constantly having to act as an intermediary, repeating the one’s words to the other and then back again. It quickly became tiresome. A liveried waiter dropped bowls of vegetable soup in front of us, but I barely had the chance to drink any of mine.

  At least, I thought, the soup won’t go to waste. Any food not consumed here by the cabin passengers would soon reappear below on the deck, where the rabble of passengers who could not afford a cabin passage would be huddled together with no partitions other than what they could arrange by draping blankets around their stacked belongings. Any deck passenger who paid an extra twenty-five cents could vie for his or her share of scraps from the cabin meals; otherwise, the unfortunate souls would have to subsist on boiled potatoes, crackers, and dried meat.

  Before long, the soup bowls were removed and the waiter began placing in the center of the table platters heaped with beefsteak, fowls, pigeon fricassee and ragout, potatoes, rice, and corn. I was determined to eat my fair share this time. First Nanny Mae and then Daumier put to me an inquiry meant for the other, but I ignored them both and focused on serving myself an extra portion.

  There was a rustling noise behind me. Nanny Mae looked over my shoulder, and a smile creased her weathered face.

  “There you are, dear. I was beginning to wonder whether you were coming to supper. Mr. Speed, let me please introduce you to my traveling companion. My niece.”

  I rose and turned to find my sister, beaming. Keeping my expression mild, I offered her my hand. “I’m Speed, Joshua Speed. Pleased to be at your service.”

  “Miss Martha Bell,” she replied, giving a half curtsy. There was the faintest merry twinkle in the corner of her eyes, a declaration of victory she’d well earned. Martha was wearing a long velvet gown of royal blue with a lace bodice that made her look much older than seventeen. Plainly she had packed her bags in Springfield with full confidence she would, in fact, board the ship.

  “Miss Bell,” I repeated, smiling inwardly.

  It was her middle name, a family name among the Speeds, and an easy one for her and me to keep straight. I turned and introduced her to Daumier. The Frenchman nodded vaguely, but he was cleaning a strand of pigeon meat from his teeth with a toothpick and seemed thoroughly uninterested in Nanny Mae’s niece. Good, I thought. Let’s do everything we can to keep it that way. Indeed, Daumier’s unwelcome appearance made clear the benefit of Martha’s plan to travel in disguise.

  “How generous of you to bring your niece along on your journey,” I said once we were all settled and had dug into the platters of food.

  “It is she who is doing me the favor,” the old woman responded, patting Martha familiarly on the shoulder. “I can’t get around quite as well as I used to. My niece will be a great comfort to me.”

  Nanny Mae’s face was straight as the shaft of a Red Man’s arrow. Even her liver spo
ts looked serene. I made a note never to sit down next to her at the whist table.

  The door to the dining room opened with a crash, and the giant crewman Hector ducked into the room. His eyes immediately fell on me, and they widened. After a moment’s hesitation, he withdrew into the corridor, shutting the door more quietly behind him.

  I turned back to my sister and asked, “Do you visit your Aunt Nanny often?”

  “All too infrequently, I fear.” Martha gave a dramatic sigh. “I spend most of my time at home feeling like a young damsel of olden times, shut up within an enchanted castle. My dear father, for all his noble generosity and overweening affection, sometimes appears to me to be my jailer.”

  I bit my lower lip to suppress a smile.

  Daumier waved his knife around impatiently and murmured to himself.

  “How far along the river are you traveling, Monsieur Daumier?” asked my sister. “I’m told the scenery is most enjoyable in the lower river valley, once we pass the Tennessee border.”

  “I am aboard for a matter of business,” he replied stiffly. “I fear I shall not have time for any viewing of the scenery.”

  “Oh? What type of business?” My sister looked at the Frenchman with round, wide eyes.

  “Official business.” He cleared his throat self-importantly. “That is all I am at liberty to say.”

  “How about you, Mr. Speed?” Martha continued brightly. “Are you and Monsieur Daumier in business together?”

  “In a manner of speaking, we are. At least, we’re after the same thing.” I gave Martha a warning look. “It’s probably best if nothing further is said.”

  Her eyebrows raised, Martha said to Daumier, “Il vous suit comme un chien à son maître.”

  My abilities in the French language were far inferior to my sister’s—I had spent the better part of Mademoiselle Viólaine’s lessons studying her alluring breasts through the loose white silk of her blouse rather than paying attention to her instruction—but I recalled enough to have the general sense that Martha had compared my pursuit of Daumier to a dog following his master.

  The Frenchman stared at my sister and smiled broadly. “Vous parlez très bien le français,” he replied, and he launched into an extended narration in the same tongue, the little lavender bonnet on his head bobbing excitedly.

  Martha and Daumier bantered back and forth in French, her fresh face and wide eyes alive with good humor while the Frenchman’s usually serious mien softened around the edges. I understood enough to comprehend that Martha was interrogating him about his background and relations, and I hoped desperately she would take care not to reveal too much of her own story in turn. Martha was sitting forward with evident great interest, and whenever Daumier attempted to make a clever remark, she would throw back her head and laugh girlishly.

  Emphatically shut out of their conversation, I turned back to Nanny Mae. She had been watching the scene closely. I wondered how much Martha had told her about the purpose of our trip aboard the War Eagle.

  “Your niece has a quick mind,” I said.

  The old woman nodded. There was no trace of amusement in her face. “And an independent spirit,” she said. “I knew she would be useful from the moment I first laid eyes on her.”

  Hector barged through the door again, this time accompanied by Captain Pound. They made for the far end of the table and started greeting the other diners one at a time. The captain shared a word or two with each traveler, sometimes slapping a man on his back when he made a joke, while Hector loomed over his shoulder. Eventually, they reached our end of the table.

  “A great pleasure to have you steam with us again, Mr. Speed,” Pound said, although his facial expression indicated just the opposite.

  I returned the greeting and introduced each of my companions. Pound exchanged bland pleasantries with Daumier and Nanny Mae, neither of whom he seemed to know. His eyes appeared to linger for an extra moment on Martha before greeting her, but perhaps my perception was faulty.

  “We need to talk,” I said to Pound. “Privately.”

  He sighed deeply. “Very well,” he said, gesturing with his ringed fingers in the general direction of his office.

  I pushed back my chair to follow him. Daumier shot up next to me. The lavender bonnet perched on his head barely came up to my shoulder. “I insist that I be present as well,” he said, alternately addressing me and the captain. “I am in charge of this investigation. I won’t allow you to meddle with potential witnesses.”

  “‘Investigation’?” said Pound, squinting at Daumier through his fleshy lids. “‘Witnesses’? Who did you say you were?”

  Before the Frenchman could answer, I held up my hand. There would be other times when I wanted to operate without Daumier’s interference, but it occurred to me that for now he might actually be helpful to my design.

  “Why don’t we proceed to your office,” I said. “Daumier and I can explain our business to you there.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Captain Richard Pound stared back and forth between Daumier and me from across his huge mahogany desk. His mouth was opened slightly, and his jowls hung limply. It was hard to tell which of us he was more unhappy to see.

  “You’re saying someone who once steamed aboard my ship has died?”

  “Has been murdered,” said Daumier.

  “That young planter, Jones,” I said. “The one who had the misfortune to encounter the gambler the night I was aboard.”

  “An artist who was on your ship at the time has been arrested for the crime,” added Daumier. “Name of Bingham.”

  “There you go,” said Pound, nodding.

  “Except there’re questions about his guilt,” I said.

  Daumier began to respond, but Captain Pound held up a pudgy hand and wriggled his fingers. The light from the two tall candlesticks flanking his desk danced on the curved surfaces of his golden rings.

  “And you’ve come aboard my ship to convey these facts to me?” He snorted with disbelief. “You should have saved the fare. I assure you, I have not the slightest bit of interest. I don’t doubt I could fill my ship twice over with the shades of passengers of mine who have moved on to the next world. I greatly prefer to fill it with paying members of this world.”

  I held my tongue. I had a fair notion Daumier was about to do part of my work for me.

  Indeed, in his enthusiasm, the avocat was perched on the very edge of his chair. His smooth cheeks shone in the candlelight. “There’s been a murder committed aboard your ship,” he said. “I must interview every member of your crew, Monsieur Captain.”

  “What?”

  “Every member of the crew,” Daumier repeated. “Starting with yourself. We can proceed now, if you wish.”

  “Certainly not.” Pound stared back with an expression of profound disbelief.

  “Then we can arrange an interview appointment for tomorrow, if you’d prefer.”

  “I shall be busy running my ship tomorrow,” said Pound, giving a tug on the stretched fabric of his captain’s frockcoat, “as will the other members of my crew. None of them have time to spare for this diversion.”

  “But you must. They must. I must speak with all of them. To learn what they know of the murder. I am here to investigate a most serious crime.”

  “Investigate? But I thought you said you already have the villain locked up.”

  “We do,” the Frenchman said, nodding his head eagerly. “We do. But I seek additional proof of his guilt.”

  “Additional what?”

  “Proof of his guilt.”

  “What of his guilt?”

  “Proof!”

  Pound looked over at me helplessly. In his enthusiasm, Daumier was pronouncing the word like its French counterpart, which to the American ear sounded like he was swallowing nearly the whole sound.

  I held out my hands, palms up, and said, “I don’t have any idea what he’s talking about either.”

  Pound turned back to Daumier. “What’s your name aga
in?”

  “Avocat Dominique Daumier, constable of the levee police, chief investigator of the murder of Monsieur Jones.” Daumier thrust his thin chest forward.

  “Hector!” bellowed Pound.

  The man-mountain was inside the office with alacrity. Plainly he had been standing just outside the door, awaiting the command of his master.

  “Escort this man back to his cabin, Hector,” said Pound, pointing at Daumier. “And don’t answer any of his questions.”

  “You have no right to remove me,” protested Daumier as Hector grabbed his black cloak and started half-leading, half-dragging him toward the door. “This is my investigation. This is my jurisdiction.”

  “No one but me has jurisdiction aboard this ship,” Pound said with satisfaction. The giant crewman opened the door and pushed Daumier through.

  We listened to Hector’s heavy footsteps receding down the deck. It sounded as if Daumier was haranguing him in French the whole way.

  Pound sighed and fixed an unhappy gaze on me. “What cause have you, young Speed, to have brought this man to my threshold?”

  “I did no such thing,” I said. “I was just as surprised as you were to find him aboard. And his business is not my business. I’m here on another account.” I paused. “My family’s.”

  Pound did not respond but merely looked at me patiently, as a chess player watches an opponent whose forefinger rests on a game piece while he considers his next move. In the background, I could hear the low whine of the waterwheel thrashing the river.

  “I know you were lying to me about the cause of your shortfall,” I said. “I know there’s no Inspector of the Port in St. Louis. Or anywhere else, for that matter.”

  “Such an actual person, living and breathing?” Pound said. He grinned broadly; the gleam of his three golden teeth was particularly obnoxious. “Of course there’s not. Please tell me, as your father’s son, you did not understand me to be speaking in such base, literal terms. It’s an old river captain’s expression—a term for situations that are unavoidable, unexplainable.”