Perish from the Earth

by Jonathan F. Putnam

  “Then my family needs the money you promised,” I pressed ahead. “All of it. Three thousand a month.”

  The gleam of Pound’s smile faded from his sun-blistered face. “I fear we are destined to repeat our prior conversation,” he said. “I cannot give you what I do not have. I’ve already conveyed my best offer. If you wish to decline the offer and relieve me of my duties—fine. I shall gladly turn over control of the rudder to you and disembark at the next wooding yard. More than gladly, if it will shield me from further intercourse with that nasty little foreigner.” He gestured to where Daumier had been sitting.

  “I’ll take a look at your books of account, then.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me. I’d like to examine your ledgers, income and expenses. I command you to turn those documents over to me.”

  Pound lifted his fingers from his belly, where they’d been resting, stretched them wide, and then settled them down again. His fight for self-control was palpable.

  “I doubt you could make heads or tails of them, son,” he said, summoning his obnoxious smile again.

  “I’ve run a general store in Springfield for three years. I know exactly what I’m looking for. I’ll take them, please.” I held out my hand.

  Pound shifted in his chair. He seemed to reach an internal decision and loosed a put-upon sigh. “Tomorrow morning, after second bells,” he said. “Come back then. I’ll have them organized for you. You can spend as long as you want with them, because there’s nothing to see beyond what I’ve told you. No one would be happier than I to see greater income.” He shrugged. “But the river only gives what it gives.”

  “Can’t you increase your tariffs?” I said. “For passengers and cargo both. Perhaps agree with the other packet captains on this stretch of the river to raise all your rates in tandem. You’re near full up on this trip, I know, so I don’t understand how you can be losing money.”

  “An aberration, one of the last steamings of the season. With the Panic undermining Western commerce, we’ll be lowering our rates before we raise them.”

  “But—”

  “Let me give you an actual example, young Speed, since you seem intent on becoming my purser. Last year, the War Eagle transported three hundred sixty-nine slaves during our eight runs south. At twelve dollars a head, that’s good cargo for us. This year, we’ve made nine runs, but we haven’t carried fifty bondsmen in total.” Pound wrenched open one of the drawers of his desk and took out a sheet covered with figures, which he consulted briefly. “Forty-seven, to be exact.”

  “But I saw a driver bring six aboard just now in St. Louis.”

  Pound scowled. “The first large gang we’ve had all fall. Hardly enough to save the year. The figures do not lie. You’ll see for yourself tomorrow.”

  I decided not to insist upon the records immediately. I was confident I’d be able to tell if he altered them overnight. Despite our mutual enmity, I desired to remain on tolerable terms with the captain. I had the feeling the only thing worse than a smoldering hostility with Pound would be an open flame.

  Pound waved his ringed fingers as if dismissing me, but I didn’t move. Instead, I said, “When’s the last time you saw Jones, on the night of the monte?”

  Pound clicked his tongue dismissively. “Not you too. What possible interest could you have in the ghost of a dead man floating in the river?”

  I was certain we hadn’t revealed this detail to Pound. “How do you know he was found floating in the river?”

  Pound heard the accusation in my voice, and one end of his fat upper lip curled. “Where else could it have been? I know the body wasn’t found aboard the ship.”

  “Answer my questions or I’ll tell Daumier he can interrogate you to his heart’s content. On special orders of the owner of the War Eagle.”

  Pound’s scowl deepened. “Is this really how Judge Speed wants his boy spending his time?” he asked in a gravelly whine.

  “It’s your choice. Either answer the questions from me or from Daumier.”

  After a moment, he nodded almost imperceptibly.

  “When did you last see Jones that night?” I repeated.

  “Same time you did. When Hector took him from the salon.”

  “Why didn’t Hector tie him to his bed, like you’d ordered?”

  “I don’t know what you mean. I’m certain he followed my orders. Always does.”

  There was no hint of guile in Pound’s fleshy face. Either the captain was even better at lying than I gave him credit for, or he didn’t realize Jones had been untied in his cabin. Or, I considered, Bingham had lied to Lincoln and me on this score.

  “Can you think of any member of your crew who might have had a dispute with Jones?” I asked. “He’d been on board since you steamed out of Commerce. Perhaps he’d gotten cross-ways with someone.”

  “If you’re suggesting one of my crew was involved in the death, I’m certain you’re wrong. They’ve been with me for years. They’re all honest men—as honest as the job permits, at least.”

  Despite my intense dislike for the man, I found myself again admiring his loyalty. “Bingham told us you, he, and Jones all met at a gathering at Roman Hall, near Commerce. How did you come to be present there?”

  I thought I saw Pound’s eyes twitch, but he said only, “I was invited.”

  “How do you know Jacques Roman?”

  “I can’t see how that’s any business of yours. But if you don’t understand the value to a steamboat captain of cultivating relationships with families of importance who live near the river, then you’re even more ignorant of the world than I thought.”

  I ignored the jibe. “If we could prove that this artist fellow Bingham had nothing to do with Jones’s death, what would you believe happened to him?”

  “In that case, I’d say Jones took his own life,” Pound replied without hesitation. “When he realized he had no chance of regaining his fortune, he decided he couldn’t stand the shame of facing his family again. So he threw himself into the river. Can’t say I blame him.”

  “It could be,” I said. “When Jones was taken from the room, he was shouting about ‘knowing the truth’ and threatening to expose it. Remember? What truth do you suppose he was talking about?”

  “I’m certain no one but the man himself knew his mind. Whatever the cause of his blather, it died with him.”

  This was, I feared, the case. Then I had another idea. “What about Jones’s belongings? His trunks or such like?”

  “What about them?”

  “They must have remained on board. Unless his killer took the trouble of throwing them into the river as well.” My excitement grew as I thought more about the idea. “Which cabin was he in?” I added, half out of my chair. “I’ll search it at once. Maybe he left some type of clue behind.”

  Pound shook his head. “If there was anything, it’s gone by now. At the terminus of each run, I have one of the roustabouts sweep through the cabins, and the deck too, and clear out anything that’s been abandoned. I have to. Otherwise, the ship would become a floating attic story of rubbish.”

  “Where’d you turn around on that last run?” I asked, sitting back down. “Did you make it all the way up to the Rock Island Rapids?”

  Pound scowled and shook his head. “Some idiot foundered his steamer on the Des Moines Rapids, right in the middle of the channel. Stuck, broadside, at a thirty-degree angle. Made the whole river north of there completely impassible. We turned around early—it’s why we got back to Alton a day early.”

  The Des Moines Rapids and the Rock Island Rapids were the two great impediments to navigation on the Upper Mississippi. Comprised of narrow, rocky passageways and shifting sand shoals, they were treacherous at any time of year and, depending on the water level of the river, often impassible for the packet steamers.

  “We had to put in at Keokuk, in the heart of the Half-Breed Tract,” Pound continued. “Any passengers who were hoping to go farther north had to do s
o by cart or horse. Or on foot. Assuming they weren’t scalped first.” He laughed harshly. The tract was a preserve established by Congress for the benefit of the families of white fathers and native Fox and Sac mothers.

  “Which of your men cleared out the ship at Keokuk?” I asked.

  “It would have been one of the roustabouts from the Keokuk levee, a half-breed most likely,” said Pound. “If anything of value was left behind, it was picked clean long before the baggage reached the scavengers waiting on the shore.”

  I pulled the sketch of the hook-nosed man from my pocket and showed it to the ship captain. “Ever seen this man before?”

  Pound’s features were suddenly as still as a jutting rock face. He breathed slowly through his mouth. “Where’d you get that picture?” he demanded.

  “Bingham made it for me. He said the fellow was aboard the ship the night Jones was killed. I think he later got off in Alton and immediately boarded a southbound steamer. You recognize him?”

  Pound stared at the drawing again. “I know him, all right.”

  I felt my heart start to beat faster. “Who is he?”

  “An old adversary of mine. I didn’t know he was aboard. Lucky for him I didn’t.”

  “An old adversary—in what way? A rival captain? Someone you knew in civilian life? And what’s his name?”

  Pound crossed his arms across his massive belly. “Just because your daddy owns this boat doesn’t give you license to pry into my personal dealings,” he said. “It’s time for you to be running along.”

  One of the candles on Pound’s desk had been reduced to a stump. I had plenty of other questions for the captain, but I wanted to examine his books first. I would do that tomorrow and then make another hard run at him. I felt sure I wasn’t getting the truth from him yet—not the whole truth, at least.

  “I’ll take my leave for tonight,” I said, getting to my feet. “I’ll be back at second bells tomorrow. You should know I plan to remain on board until we settle the payment issue for my father. And the questions surrounding Jones’s death. All the way to Memphis, and farther if need be.”

  “In that case, this will be a most unpleasant journey,” Pound replied as I reached for the door handle. “For both of us.”

  CHAPTER 14

  I proceeded directly to the salon. As I pushed through the doors, I was greeted by a familiar tableau. Once again the ornate chandelier was ablaze with candles. Once again the gambler sat at his slim Regency table, surrounded by a cheering group of players and onlookers. Once again the Barkeep and the Actress were in their places, alert to the appearance of men in need of the succor each offered.

  Martha and Nanny Mae were sitting on a red velvet sofa along the far edge of the room. Martha was reading intently from some little book of fiction, her eyes squinting to make the best of the candlelight thrown off by the chandelier. Nanny Mae was spread out opposite her, a tidy pile of knitting in her lap. The old woman’s head was thrown back onto the rim of the couch, and she was snoring gently.

  Feeling in need of a drink after my encounter with Pound, I decided to start with the Barkeep. But when I was within ten feet of him, I felt an unwelcome presence at my side.

  “What did the captain tell you, Speed?” hissed Daumier.

  “Why, he confessed to the crime himself. It took me only a minute or two of questioning before he admitted the truth. I trust Bingham will be released by sunrise.”

  Daumier shrank back, horrified, until he realized I was joking.

  “Go ahead and amuse yourself,” he said, quickly recovering his wits. “I’ve no doubt you and that odious man shared a laugh at my expense. But I shall claim my full measure of satisfaction in the end.”

  “I’m getting a drink. Want one?”

  “This one time it wouldn’t hurt, I suppose.” Daumier made to follow me, but I put my hand on his shoulder and said, “Let me. You’ll have time to reciprocate later on the voyage, I don’t doubt.”

  Momentarily freed from my shadow, I approached the bar stand. “Two brandy smashes,” I said. “And make one of them a double. What’s your name, friend?”

  “Gentry. Jules Gentry.” He was a few years older than me, with a low forehead and a neatly trimmed beard. He was wearing a pressed white shirt under a buttoned brown vest, while a wide-brimmed straw hat sat atop his head.

  “Nice to meet you, Gentry. I’m Speed. I was aboard on the last run upriver—the night that planter, Jones, lost big at the monte.”

  “I remember. You were in the captain’s company, I believe.”

  I nodded, thinking Martha had been right that my earlier voyage had eliminated my ability to question the crew without them knowing who I was. “During that run,” I said, “did you notice any interplay between Jones and the artist, Bingham?”

  “The fellow you’re with was asking me the same thing earlier,” Gentry said, nodding over my shoulder toward Daumier. “What’s it to the both of you?”

  “Jones was murdered, and Bingham has been arrested. I think he’s been wrongly accused, and I am trying to prove it.” I put several extra silver coins on Gentry’s stand.

  Gentry nodded as if he had been expecting both my explanation and my offer of remuneration. “They ended up drinking together pretty much every evening,” he said. “They knew each other well—seemed to be friendly enemies, if you will.”

  “Did you get the sense Jones bore a grudge against Bingham?”

  He shrugged. A shout of excitement arose from the gaming table behind us.

  “Or the other way around?” I pressed.

  “I think they had quite a past together,” Gentry said. “There was one night—this was a few days before the monte—when Jones started grumbling loudly that his life would never be the same again. Based on something the artist had done, it seemed. But Bingham laughed it off, and the next night they were back to drinking next to one another.”

  “What’s taking you so long?” said a French-accented voice from behind me. I gave a quick nod of thanks to Gentry and turned around.

  “Here, try this,” I said, handing Daumier the double smash. “I wanted to be sure the lad made it just right for you.” I raised my glass up to Daumier and drank deeply. He did the same, murmuring as he swallowed the sugary sweetness of the drink. “That is tasty,” he admitted.

  “Why are you so determined to see Bingham swing?” I asked. “What’s he ever done to you?”

  “I am determined to see justice done.”

  “If Bingham didn’t do it, it’s not justice to see him swing.”

  Daumier finished his drink, and I hurriedly arranged for Gentry to refill his glass. “I am determined,” Daumier said, taking another gulp, “to be free of my superintendent. Jones’s murder has been mine from the start. Bingham confessed under my questioning. When I see his conviction through to the gallows, the superintendent shall understand that I am capable of a far greater office than mere levee copper.”

  “But why take out those ambitions on Bingham?” I said. “Surely there’ll be another case in which to prove your mettle.”

  “I don’t want to wait for another case. Bingham’s confessed his guilt. I’ve got him in my grasp.” Daumier held up his hands, his smooth fingers spread wide, then closed them into tight fists.

  The hungering in Daumier’s manner was such that for an instant, I wondered whether he himself could be the murderer.

  “Let’s see what that miscreant Devol is up to,” I said. Daumier was near the bottom of his double smash again, and I procured another refill and led us toward the gaming table.

  The gambler had opened up the faro bank this night, and a group of players clamored in a boisterous semicircle around his table, placing their bets and watching to see if the cards turned matched them. We stood to the side as Devol blazed through the deck, seemingly winning more turns than a random shuffle would have predicted. Soon he called the turn and burned off the final cards in the deck. As he gathered up the cards in order to perform his shuffle, he
acknowledged our presence for the first time.

  “Am I never to be clear of the two of you?” he asked. “Unless you want to punt in this round, please stand back.”

  “I object to you lumping us together,” I said. “He’s the one who tried to have you locked up in Alton. I’m the one who freed you.”

  “Lincoln freed me,” said Devol, without looking up from his shuffle.

  “Then talk to me as a favor to Lincoln. It’s his client I’m trying to aid.”

  “Not with him in earshot. Time to place your bets,” he added to the group of players as he placed the reshuffled deck on the table and burned off the soda card.

  I stepped back as the players cast their initial checks onto the board. Daumier suddenly staggered into my shoulder, and I caught him before he fell onto the player in front of him. The Frenchman’s glass was empty yet again.

  “Are you feeling all right, Avocat?” I asked.

  “I think . . . perhaps . . . sit down,” he managed to slur out. “Tastes good . . . too good . . . that last one . . .”

  I grabbed his arm just before he toppled over. I found the steward flirting idly with the Actress, who was as yet unemployed this evening, and I handed Daumier over to his care. The steward agreed to take the Frenchman to his cabin and put him to bed.

  After Devol had blazed through his deck three more times, the shouts of victory coming from his players distinctly outnumbered by cries of defeat, he announced a break in the contest and gave a resigned nod in my direction.

  “Talking to you keeps me from my employment,” he said in his smooth voice. “As you’re in the captain’s company, I think you’d want me gainfully employed.”

  “I’ll get right to the nub. I’m looking into Jones’s death. I think you’re the most likely suspect. He tried to kill you, and you survived only because of Captain Pound’s intervention. You had no reason to think Pound would be around the next time Jones sought revenge. So you took matters into your own hands.”